Fic: Come Closer.
Spoilers: s03e01 I suppose. Nothing more.
Summary: Summer shenanigans on the couch. First time stuffs.
A/N: I'm going to say, tentatively, that this is part of the series with 'Trousers' which may amount to nothing but is kind of an attempt to look at 'first time' sex stuff for klaine over summer. Mostly in an effort to work out where my headcanon lies. The image of this has been in my head for hours. Thank you again to everyone who threw headcanons at me for the State of Sex. Obviously it was worth it because I have now written two fics. Yup Yup. This is also very much my new theory on The Red Pants and Blaine's song choice. Whatever. I love it.
Kurt flops down hard on the couch, back arching into the soft base, head nestled on a cushion, one leg bent up, one leg hanging down to the side; he feels like he could just fall asleep. It has been an epic day, a tumultuous day and now he just wants to close his eyes and laugh silently at the mayhem that is Santana Lopez.
Blaine laughs at him from the archway that leads into the lounge. Then footsteps, closer and when Kurt opens his eyes and stares up Blaine is there, over him, with hands on his hips, those devilish red pants that Kurt so loves and an arched eyebrow.
"Come here," Kurt mumbles, arms reaching up and towards him as he wriggles back to get more comfortable, wincing a little at a pang in his back. What a day.
Blaine just falls to his knees on the floor beside the couch, a hand resting over Kurt's heart in an instant, feeling like so much contact as it just lies there and feels. His other hand moves to Kurt's face, over a cheek and then fingers threading through his hair and angling him just a little so he can lean in and kiss.
Soft, tentative lips, just chaste and reassuring after all the drama.
But he smells of Blaine and feels like home and normal and perfect. They've gotten so good at kissing over the summer; Kurt has tried to keep count. He keeps a journal and he always tries to write them down. But there was that day where they drove out to nowhere and kissed a hundred times, maybe more. And the time on Kurt's bed where they kept stealing glances then touches of hands, then kisses to wrists and forearms and elbows and Kurt didn't know if they counted.
So many kisses.
And now Blaine, kneeling beside him and kissing quietly with that perfect mouth of his while they try to uncoil from a manic day. Burt will be around soon. Or Finn or Carole. Tonight was family dinner and Blaine was informally invited.
Blaine's tongue over his bottom lip. Feather light and back and forth. Not even asking, just happily caressing there. Back and forth.
But Kurt wants and opens his mouth and leans up onto his elbow, forcing Blaine back a little, fitting their mouths together and licking out, catching a lip and then teeth. God, who thought feeling the scrape of teeth on his tongue could be this hot?
And it's not just hot. It…does things to him. He didn't get it before Blaine. Not really. He jerked himself off and had crushes but he never had the in between of something hot and wriggling in his stomach, something electric or chemical or base spreading out through his fingertips and toes.
Now he gets it.
"Get up here," he whispers as he pulls his mouth back, the wet sound that his mouth so often makes when he stops kissing to talk sounding loud in his ears. He kind of likes it.
Blaine just chuckles and scrambles to his feet, then stands there deliberating, looking down at Kurt, where he's splayed with open arms and slickened lips. Bright eyes.
Huffing, Kurt beckons him down, grabs a hand and tugs and Blaine's falling, then catching, one knee either side of Kurt's hips, hands near his shoulders and staring down with a mock-questioning expression. Except it's a bit serious. They don't do much of this horizontally. Blaine's always thought he knew why but they never talked about it. He figured it just wasn't time yet.
And no, not now: waiting for Finn, Carole, Burt…
Apparently, it's time.
Kurt's fingers weave into his hair, twisting and tugging his mouth down into a kiss that's long and deep; all tongue and teeth on lips. Give and take and kind of a fight for dominance but long ago they decided without words they were happy to oscillate back and forth as they go. Blaine sucks hard on Kurt's lower lip and pulls back, looking him in the eye as he sinks lower, his arms sliding under Kurt's shoulders so he's resting on his elbows.
But Kurt just smiles and Blaine smiles back and dives back in, kissing more, again and again and again as Kurt's hands work at his hair and pull his lips closer.
Though there's only so close lips can get to lips and Blaine takes the hint and slides his mouth across a cheek bone to press a messy kiss to the place where Kurt's jaw meets his neck, then a flick with his tongue at Kurt's earlobe—and he feels a bit silly for that, I mean, really—and then he tries to make up for it with a moaned "Kurt," and his mouth around the same earlobe, tugging, wetly, and Kurt's moaning back and it's shooting through him, hot and fast and everything.
Blaine feels the heat, perhaps a brush, of the arch of Kurt's hips under him. But feels the movement where his knees press close to his sides and he almost panics. But then Kurt's angling his mouth back to his and his hands are tugging harder in his hair and then pulling free.
Fingernails at his neck, then slipped under his arms, lips still desperate and playful and pressed against his, then hands on his back. Over the thin cotton of the polo he's wearing, hands spread large and insistent and kneading in time with a beat he refuses to recognise. And, fuck, Kurt just sucked on his tongue. Sucked hard and wet and…
Hands lower on his back, to the dip and the dimples at the base of his spine, tracing them out and then lower, light touches until both of Kurt's hands are resting over his ass and Blaine's breathless with the potential and the fear that's making his heart race—not just fear. And Kurt's still kissing him, keening into it and arching as his finger squeeze into Blaine's ass and then both hands grab and shift and….fuck, what to even call that?
Kurt's hands grab at the muscles beneath them and pull up and then down and, oh fuck, a little apart, just a little spread, and that's too new to think about but Blaine's groaning anyway, messy and sloppy into the mouth over his and there's spit, too wet, in the corners of his lips and he thinks it's Kurt's.
"Come closer," Kurt whispers, pulling his mouth back, for the first time in an age but whispering that and Blaine struggles not to just fall into him and…god this will be obvious if it happens now. Surely they should talk about it.
Blaine makes a desperate sound and pulls his mouth further back, away from the hot wet breath of the boy under him with hands on his ass and splayed out asking. He looks at him and tries to evaluate but his head's too full of need and want and stupid teenage chemicals that he can blame later. Right?
Slowly, eyes locked, hands shifting to Kurt's shoulders, just for contact as he keeps holding his chest up, he starts to slide his knees back. Hips aligning too easily, red thin pants against Kurt's black jeans and there are whispers of heat and pressure and then—
God that's Kurt's cock. He's unwaveringly sure of it. That press that's more stark than the surrounding heat of abdomen, hips, thighs, that touch, there. Blaine panics, just a second, can't believe this is happening now. This was meant to be special and talked about. He was meant to ease Kurt into these things. Ease himself into these things.
But then Kurt rocks up and Blaine sees stars and is suddenly madly scrambling to hold himself together because coming in his pants at this would be mortifying and too much more and, god, what would Kurt say. But Kurt rocks again and moans uselessly.
And Kurt must be able to feel him. If he can feel Kurt and they're aligned this well—
Kurt wriggles his hips, knees knocking Blaine's and Blaine feels the press of his cock shift from the crook of thigh and torso closer, then over, dicks pressing, catching, then rubbing and Kurt rocking his hips up in circles.
"Fuck," Blaine breathes out and Kurt freezes. And if nothing else, Blaine doesn't want that. "I can feel you…" he stutters out, because it's a mantra in his head. Better than, 'I'm going to come' or 'Fuck you're fucking…fuck,' he thinks.
He says, "Fuck, Kurt, that's…"
And Kurt giggles and lifts his head up and kisses him and wriggles his hips again. God he feels…Big? Hard? All the clichés? Blaine doesn't even care because mostly he feels there, under him, and all his and his hands are working his ass again, kneading and pulling him down again and again while they slide over each other.
And Kurt keeps kissing him, tongue deep in his mouth and lips quirked up because he's happy and whispering something meaningless but perfect. Blaine wants to warn him, tell him this is about to progress beyond and he pulls back.
"I think…If you want—"
The front door flies open and Burt—god, why did it have to be Burt—walks through backwards, shopping bags in both hands, working to hold the door open as Carole follows with her hands full as well.
Blaine scrambles up and off, a hand through his hair and his eyes wide and terrified and more adrenaline than he wants flooding his blood.
"Boys?" Carole calls from where she's disappeared into the kitchen and then pokes her head around the corner for a second to say, "We thought you'd still be out?"
Kurt just breathes deep, he's flown up from the couch as well, hands smoothing his shirt, then his pants before casting an eye at the couch. Nothing looks amiss. "Big day," he calls back and watches as his dad re-emerges, doesn't quite look at him and disappears back out to the car.
"Do you want a hand with the shopping?" Kurt calls, voice surprisingly level but Blaine's hands suddenly hard on his hips making him skip an octave up on the last syllable. Kurt glares at him.
"Nope, got it all," Burt says as he moves back through to the kitchen, to where they can hear Carole opening and shutting cupboards, starting to put everything away.
Kurt turns on Blaine, brows low as he glares again and Blaine's fingers gingerly let go of where they're digging in and holding Kurt in front of him like he's a human shield.
"What?" Kurt hisses.
But Blaine just flushes redder, the back of a hand over his mouth trying to make it less obvious even though his lips look so swollen to Kurt. "I just need a minute," he mumbles. And Kurt's about to ask him more but Blaine's gaze shifts to the floor and Kurt's follows but hitches and he can't stop his breath from catching in a little gasp.
Kurt's still half-hard in his pants, barely obvious is tight black jeans and well fitted underwear, and he's calming down. But Blaine…Blaine looks to be still very, very, hard. And in bright red, perfectly fitted high waters it's so obvious. Kurt can see exactly the line of his cock pressing out against the fabric, firm and straining and making his mouth water. Big and hard against Blaine's left thigh and fuck.
"Blaine, you're staying for dinner?" Burt asks from the archway through to the kitchen.
Kurt spins with bright red cheeks but is smart enough to stay between his father and his boyfriend. "Yes. Yes he is."
Burt stares a second too long and then say, "Okay. It's chicken," and then turns and walks away.
When Kurt turns back Blaine's cheeks are even redder than his own. Almost redder than those pants. Fuck, he's still hard. Kurt can't stop thinking about it, looking at it. About everything else.
"I'm so, so sorry," Blaine babbles, hands clasping in front of his crotch. "Oh my god, this is so—"
Kurt cuts him off: "Shut up."
Blaine takes it the wrong way and Kurt wishes he could kiss him but he doesn't trust himself. "I'm so sorry, Kurt," Blaine tries again, wringing his hands together now.
Kurt just rolls his eyes. Fine, he can kiss him. Bad luck to his dad if he happens upon it. Just a kiss. Kurt pulls him in, fingers in the belt-loops of Blaine's pants and dragging him close and in and hard and fuck! That press of cock on cock, instant rutting and rubbing and little circles drawn by hips on instinct. It's amazing. And Kurt's tongue in Blaine's mouth, moving back and forth, thrusting in the dirtiest way he knows.
And then he pulls back and casts his eyes down at the tilt of Blaine's hips forward, the utterly tantalizing outline of him in that pants and the way it makes his stomach knot in the best way ever.
"We're going upstairs," he yells to his dad, never breaking eye contact with Blaine but putting meters between them as he moves towards the stairs.
Burt just yells back, "Dinner in an hour!" And Kurt waits for the demand to keep the door open.
"Door stays open."
He rolls his eyes, then he turns, cheeks flushed and feeling giddy and starts walking up the stairs, holds his breath and hopes that Blaine likes him bold because he's never been this forward, they've never done anything like this. But god, he wants. And then he hears footsteps behind him, scrambling, desperate footsteps and then an arm around his waist as he opens his bedroom door and hot breath on his neck.
"Okay," Blaine agrees, a lick to Kurt's neck.
And Kurt can only grin and respond, "Okay," back.