DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy.
Warnings are: underage drinking, swearing, exhibitionism, blowjobs, handjobs. The title (aka quote) is what inspired this whole thing. And a need for new voyeur!ND fics.

Reviewers, you oughta make nectar 'cause you're so sweet.

Just a few notes: I know it's canon now that Quinn disappeared off the grid during the summer but I wrote most of this back toward the end of my own summer and don't feel like changing it sooo, hi, kind-of-AU! And I actually changed Blaine's age .. sigh.

TUMBLR IS THAT WAY
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It comes as a total surprise to Kurt when Rachel's next alcohol-fueled party actually turns out to be good.

It's only ten o'clock—at least Kurt thinks it is—and he's already well on his way to being really ridiculously drunk. Puck's in the corner mixing drinks, Lauren steadfast at his side, red plastic cup clutched in her hand as she watches him pick up and put down bottle after bottle. Mercedes is on the couch with Tina, looking happier than she has in the weeks since Sam abruptly left town.

Though the breakup had been understanding and mutual Kurt knows from plenty of sleepovers and late-night phone calls that she's hurting and he'd actually felt kind of bad mentioning all the sweet, romantic things he's done with Blaine. He's glad she's finally having fun now, even if it took a few plastic cups of whatever god-awful concoction Puck brewed up.

Quinn had deigned to come but arrived with a smile nonetheless. She's barely drank the whole night, though, instead hovering around the area where Finn and Rachel, now "on" again after a midsummer fight and breakup, are cuddling. Finn's sober but Rachel's had just enough to make her cling like a growth to Finn's side. Kurt suspects Quinn had come just to appear nice, and she does have her moments, but those are always few and far in between. If her hawk-eyed gaze on Finn is any indication she's scheming something that can't be good.

Kurt still doesn't see what all the girls see in his stepbrother. He'd gone through that phase, grew up and over it and now that the haze of lust and hormones is finally cleared from his eyes he sees Finn as he should have all along: dopey, a little slow, gives into peer pressure a little too easily, but nice and sweet and genuinely a good guy. Not dating material at all, in Kurt's eyes. Kurt's dating material had black, curly hair, wide hazel eyes and looked really, really good in those jeans that hugged his ass and thighs just right.

Kurt chooses to ignore Brittany's striptease and the lustful way Santana is eyeing her up; Artie and Mike are watching from a few feet away, cheering, and the music in the basement is too loud, beating its way deep into Kurt's skull and filling every crevice in his expensively-draped body, but nothing matters except Blaine's arm in his, the scent of his cologne, hair gel, and aftershave in his nostrils. All that matters is that Blaine is here, gorgeous, drunk, and finally all his unlike the last party at Rachel's house. Best of all, now that he doesn't have to impress Blaine he's let himself fall a little bit tipsy.

…And, all right, he's really drunk as well. He'd made it through one cup of a badly-made appletini and one cup of vodka and pink lemonade before the buzz had evolved into something heavier and more consuming, draping his mind in a pleasant fuzz. Blaine's had a beer or two mixed in with a disgustingly sweet Cosmo, and he's just about as steady on his feet as Kurt is. At this point Kurt wants to vacate the party and find an empty room in which he can kiss the alcohol out of Blaine's mouth and maybe, time allowing, fuck him into the sheets.

Nothing ever, ever goes his way, though, and just when he's turning to Blaine, eyes set to the highest smolder he can manage and a few choice words ready on his tongue to rile Blaine up, there's a commotion from the corner of the room, catching everyone's attention.

"Tequila!" Puck shouts from the makeshift "bar" (a few discarded cardboard boxes placed next to each other and littered with bottles, cups, a bowl of limes and a bowl of cherries) with a grin. "Who's up for body shots?" He brandishes a stout glass bottle and Kurt wonders how he managed to get all of this liquor. Surely he couldn't have been begging outside a liquor store for two nights like he'd said he had done.

No one really moves at first, all seemingly fairly content in their spots.

Lauren's the one who eggs it on. "Hummel!" she shouts, waving her arm and sloshing her drink. Kurt's eyes widen and his heart speeds up; he begins to edge towards the stairs, Blaine stumbling slightly next to him. "What about you and your boy?"

Fuck. "I don't think so—" Kurt starts, but Lauren's having none of it and the rejection only serves to push her further. She rounds on Blaine now.

"Anderson, would you or would you not like to have your boyfriend's tongue on you?"

Blaine turns red and clings to Kurt a little tighter. "Of course, but that's—"

"Then it's settled," Puck says, procuring a shaker of salt, a lime, and a shot glass filled to the brim with the dark-colored liquid that had been in the glass bottle. "Hummel, your tongue, Anderson's body."

"We have first names!" Kurt replies incredulously.

"And I'm sure you two make good use of them," Puck replies, forcing the shaker of salt into Kurt's hand. "Now lick your boyfriend."

This is one of the few instances where Kurt almost wishes that Puck would regress back to the way he was the beginning of sophomore year. It's sweet that he's grown up so much and now considers Kurt's "gay problems" as a branch of his own "stud problems," but then he does ridiculous things like this and Kurt really sort of wants to punch him. While he and Blaine aren't exactly celibate, they keep their sex life pretty tame most of the time. He's never exactly put anything like this high up on the list of things he wants to try.

This is weird this is weird this is weird Kurt keeps saying in his mind as he glares at Puck. He's never even kissed Blaine in front of his friends before—he believes strongly in keeping certain things private, not for modesty's sake but because both he and Blaine have gone through some horrendous shit just because they're gay—but now he's expected, and by everyone except Finn for obvious reasons, to lick him.

The sober side of him is saying that he'll regret it.

The drunken side is asking why they hadn't done this sooner.

The other members of the group seem to have taken notice as well: Brittany's down to her bra and hot pants, reminiscent of the first party, and is stepping off of the table gingerly, Santana magically appearing at her side, close enough that she could be twining around Brittany's lithe body. Quinn's feigning disinterest in the opposite corner but Kurt can see her glance occasionally, hopefully. Rachel's abandoned Finn and is swaying drunkenly on the spot a few feet away, Tina dragging Mike over and Mercedes following closely behind. Artie eventually joins the group, looking more than uncomfortable, with Finn not far behind and muttering something about "stepbrothers" and "not right."

"Kurt, you might as well," Blaine says, his eyes round with suggestion and clouded with drink. Kurt can't believe him. This isn't anything they'd ever discussed but it appears that Blaine wants this and Kurt's going to have no choice but to say yes or fall victim to another round of eunuch gay jokes. He huffs and glares, knowing the battle is already lost and Blaine looks too adorable sexy with his curls disheveled and his cheeks ruddy. Kurt grabs a lime wedge from the bowl on one of the cardboard boxes and places it between Blaine's waiting lips.

Blaine strips his shirt off, dropping it to the floor and oh. Kurt knows that look, that dark flush of his body. Blaine's turned on, trembling with the force of it, and without his shirt to semi-hide the button of his jeans his arousal is evident. Kurt swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, and before anyone can comment he's pushing Blaine to the floor, straddling his hips and taking the shot glass that's offered to him, placing it next to his thigh.

From below Blaine's navel to his solar plexus Kurt licks a long, wide, wet stripe, feeling the soft, dark hair bending against the grain along his tongue, the muscles fluttering underneath him. Blaine's hands clench over Kurt's wrists as he swallows a moan and tilts his head back to land with a soft thunk on the floor. Kurt straightens up, purposely settling a little harder than necessary on Blaine's lap just to feel him squirm, and carefully shakes a precise line of salt up the damp track.

When Blaine tries touching Kurt again Kurt sets the shaker down and grabs Blaine's wrists in his hands, pressing them above his head. "No touching," he says quietly when Blaine makes a whine that's lost in the thumpa-thumpa of the music and the lime still captured between his teeth. "Not unless I tell you to."

Kurt releases Blaine's hands, and when he sees that Blaine's not moving he leans down, flattening his tongue and laving it across the skin, tasting saliva and salt that's both the table kind he'd shook on there and the natural kind; Blaine's muscles ripple and flutter under his tongue as his abdomen undulates slightly up toward Kurt's mouth. His moan is lost in the lime and Kurt watches his eyes fall closed and his head tilt back toward the floor again. Kurt can feel the eyes of every single person in the room on him in this moment and it's… exhilarating, to say the least. He's got more power in his hands than he ever has because not only can he leave Blaine high and dry but he can also leave the rest of the group. He'd never, though. That'd be just cruel and counterproductive.

This is for Blaine, he tells himself, and it mainly is. This is for Blaine because he loves losing control and letting someone else take over. He'd had a front on for so long and over the summer—since Kurt arrived at Dalton the fall of his junior year, really—he'd finally let loose and told Kurt things he'd never told anyone before, starting with his mom and his dad and the beatings and the rejection and resentment. By the end of it he'd been sobbing into Kurt's shoulder and Kurt had made a split-second decision in that moment to do something he'd been dreaming about but had been too afraid to bring up.

He recalls the dim lighting of his bedroom, Blaine's olive skin bare and lain out, tears still shining brightly on his face. In his mind he looks over the scarves tying Blaine's wrists to the headboard, looks down and down, past his cock, lying against his abdomen, to his surprisingly long, muscular legs spread just enough in silent invitation. He'd laid there, eyes red-rimmed, and hadn't moved, hadn't said a thing besides one small "please."

Kurt had never loved him more.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he grasps the shot glass with his middle finger and his thumb, bringing it to his lips and tossing it back, squeezing his eyes shut at the burn as it slides down his throat. Without hesitating he sets the glass down on the floor and presses his body flat against Blaine's, cradling the back of his head as he fishes the lime out of his mouth with a deft tongue, sucking on it and fighting back the sour bite.

Blaine slides his tongue into Kurt's mouth and moans freely, pressing his hips upwards to seek the hardness he knows will be there. Blaine tastes like too-sweet alcohol mixture and the heavy taste of beer, and in there is the hint of their shared lime, which Kurt spits out when he pulls back to catch his breath.

Kurt doesn't know if it's the tequila or the silent, tense, anxious turned-on feeling of the room but he suddenly wants Blaine, right here, and he doesn't care who sees.

"That was hot," someone says in awe, and when he looks up he sees that Tina's the one who spoke up. She's clinging tightly to Mike and her lips are parted slightly as she just stares.

Others murmur agreement and Kurt feels the flush heat up his cheeks as he sits back on Blaine's lap, hands tight on Blaine's waist. Santana says, "Who said you could stop, Porcelain?"

Blaine groans his agreement, shifting his hips and flexing his arms where he still keeps them obediently above his head.

"Who says I was gonna let any of you see anything?" Kurt snaps even though he so was.

"Because you're totally hot for it, Pinocchio," Santana snaps back, clinging onto Brittany's arm. "Are you going to deny your public?" She makes a grand gesture to the room with her free hand. No one seems grossed out (besides Finn, but that's a given) and Puck's even giving him an approving nod. Kurt really doesn't understand how it's all boiled down to this, this primal need to show everyone in the room just how well-trailed Blaine is.

Kurt decides that it's the tequila and the challenge burning through his veins that leads him to kiss Blaine messily with far too showy a display of tongue and far too loud of moans as he slowly rocks his hips down, dragging just enough to make Blaine's voice catch in his throat.

Blaine's jaw is summer-stubbly underneath Kurt's lips as he works his way down and around, teeth flashing and nipping at the tender flesh of an earlobe, tongue hot and wet on the sensitive patch of skin behind it that makes Blaine cant his hips up, pressing his bare chest to Kurt's still-clothed one with a guttural moan.

Kurt licks and nips his way down Blaine's chest, pauses and takes a few moments to tease each of his nipples in turn, laving his tongue in broad, hot stripes across both of them until they're dark and wet and pebbled. When he pulls back and blows cool air on the glistening skin Blaine bodily shivers, a strangled noise escaping his throat.

"You are such a fucking tease," Santana chimes in, breaking the room's silence. Rachel slurs something that sounds like it could either be encouragement or her just spouting off another awkward fact about her Two Gay Dads. Kurt hadn't even noticed that the music had stopped.

"Fuck off," he replies, rediscovering the trail he made earlier and tasting the faint remnants of salt as he tongues down the dark hairs. He hurriedly does his best to undo the button and zipper in his uncoordinated state, Blaine lifting his hips up enough and allowing Kurt to pull his jeans down to mid-thigh.

Blaine's wearing the forest green briefs that Kurt had picked out last time they went shopping; a little tingle of affection starts low in his navel and unfurls as he smiles, leaning down to nuzzle lovingly at the hot bulge in the fabric. Blaine lets out a breathless gasp, his cock visibly twitching inside his briefs and against Kurt's cheek, a new sensation that feels ridiculously hot and somehow dirty.

Slipping Blaine's briefs down should be a wake-up call; Blaine's cock resting against his abdomen, thick and hard and beginning to leak, should open his eyes, bring him back to his senses that their friends are hovering around, glassy-eyed and open-mouthed with too much alcohol running through their systems, waiting, barely breathing and blood thrumming through their veins.

All he does is bend down, licking a stripe from Blaine's balls to the head of his cock, following the ejaculatory vein and teasing the sensitive spot just underneath the head. Blaine gasps, hips lifting up slightly off the ground, one hand coming up to rest on Kurt's shoulder and Kurt can't even admonish him for breaking the no touching unless I tell you to rule. "Fuck," Blaine whimpers.

Kurt's always been about performing and his last year of high school is coming up way too soon, those nine months to be just a stupid teenager dwindling far too quickly for his liking even though he wants to get the hell out of here. He's barely done anything since freshman year (not counting his disastrous display of public drunkenness his sophomore year) and certainly nothing of this caliber. He really has nothing to lose; all the kids here have been friends for years and have bonded over the good times, the bad times, and the absolutely ridiculous times, and he's maybe becoming a little more daring since gaining his actual first real boyfriend, found out that he's actually pretty good at getting Blaine off with his mouth, although that may just be the hormones and the fact that Blaine absolutely loses it whenever Kurt gets on his knees and stretches his mouth wide or does anything sex-related.

Kurt takes the head of Blaine's cock in his mouth, tongue dipping into the slit, teasing, fist a tight suction at the base as he twists his wrist, half-dry slide up to meet the tight circle of his lips and back down to nestle against the soft curls. Blaine moans, low and wanton, thighs tensing and relaxing as Kurt takes him a little deeper before backing off, afraid to set off his gag reflex in front of all of their friends.

All of their friends who are avidly watching right now, completely silent and utterly transfixed. Gag reflex be damned, tonight is all about breaking limits.

This deepthroating thing: he's been practicing but he's still not quite there and now he wants to be. If he's going to put on a goddamn show he's going to pull out all the stops. Making Blaine mewl and writhe and clench his nails into his calloused palms just isn't enough for this session.

Kurt tucks his thumb of his left hand underneath his fingers, pulling it tight to his palm and squeezing with his fingerssomething he'd read about onlineas he takes a deep breath and sinks lower onto Blaine's cock, choking a little but maintaining most of his composure as he goes down as far as he dares to.

"Kurt," Blaine gasps, over and over and over. The muscles in his thigh are straining underneath Kurt's palm as Kurt swallows around him, throat muscles contracting, squeezing as he breathes harshly through his nose. "Jesus, why do you have to do this now…"

Kurt pulls off with a raised brow, thumb still tucked tight to his palm and saliva working its way in clear trails along his reddened lips and down his chin. "Oh, I'm sorry, would you like me to stop?"

Blaine looks absolutely horrified. "Oh my god, no, Kurt, don't." He lowers his voice, his eyes guarded as he looks around like his jeans aren't half off and the waistband of his briefs are pulled down enough to only free his cock, like their friends aren't watching and haven't been for awhile now. "I just don't want them to know, you know…"

"That you're a cockslut?"

Kurt is mean when he's drunk, Blaine's decided. He's mean and a cocktease and this so isn't fair. "That," Blaine says in a small voice, squirming slightly.

"Shh, just be quiet and let me take care of you," Kurt coos, bracing himself on one arm as he wraps the other back around Blaine's cock, feeling him hot and heavy and pulsing against the soft, pale skin of his palm, so dark and red and gorgeous as it slides through his fist, Blaine's soft moans and occasional grunts the only noise besides skin-on-skin.

Kurt watches as Blaine's face twists up, relaxes, repeats, tongue darting out to wet his lips as his mouth hangs open, brows furrowed and forehead creased as his head tilts back, hands clenching at nothing as his hips thrust up into Kurt's grip and he breathes little noises, soft grunts and ohs and yeses as Kurt grips him tighter, jerks him faster, still straddling his hips and still propped up on one arm.

"You can come," Kurt says softly. It's tender and unlike everything else that has been said and done tonight, a little cajoling remark that sets Blaine off.

Blaine squirms a little, back arching and bowing, hands running through his own hair as he moans loud and long and impossibly high as he finally lets go, streaking over his stomach and Kurt's fist, body shuddering and jerking as Kurt works him through his orgasm.

Blaine slumps to the floor with a sigh, eyes half-closed as Kurt wipes his hand off on Blaine's jeans before tucking him back in his briefs. He ignores his own cock throbbing in his too-tight jeans and stands, wobbling a little with a combination of alcohol and endorphins.

"Damn," Puck's saying. "Didn't know you had it in you, Kurt."

"Seriously," Mike agrees, looking at Tina who's chatting with Mercedes like nothing ever happened. He doesn't say anything else but Kurt knows what he's thinking and a weird sort of pride warms his face, blooms in his chest as he realizes that there's actual jealousy in the room right now.

Instead, he shrugs, looking over his shoulder at Blaine who's still sprawled out, streaks of drying come arching across his torso. He doesn't appear to want to move at all but Kurt knows just what'll give him the motivation. "He keeps me young," he replies.

In the morning, Kurt knows he'll regret this.

For now, he needs to somehow drag Blaine upstairs and think about that bed and those sheets a little more seriously.