DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title from "I'm Not A Thief, I'm A Treasure Hunter" by A Skylit Drive.
Warnings are: cockslut!Blaine, blowjobs, handjobs, intergluteal. Look, more PWP!
Reviewers, let's just say that if you went up to me at a bar and asked if I came there often, I would not get up and leave.
TUMBLR IS THAT WAY
endofadream [.] tumblr [.] com
So, all right, Blaine kind of loves cock.
He doesn't have much experience outside of seedy internet porn (there's no way it's that guy's first time) but he's a fairly bright guy, he likes to think, and getting that turned on by a completely-staged-yet-labeled-as-home-video circle jerk leaves plenty of room for interpretation, his hand shoved down his pajama pants notwithstanding.
It's an aesthetic thing, maybe, or some sort of inherent need to please, to see someone fall apart and reduced to basic, primal sounds like that because of him. He knows how his own cock feels in his hand, knows the ridges and veins and slight slope and curve. He knows the velvety smoothness of the head, the slick heat when it's resting in his palm, his fingers lax and unmoving. He knows the twitch, has seen the twitch, felt the pulsing and throbbing as he comes.
But that's his dick, not someone else's. Outside of the internet he doesn't know what another guy would look like when he comes, doesn't know the similarities and dissimilarities of another cock compared to his own, how it'd feel with his fingers wrapped tight and wrist snapping and flicking as he pumped. The angle would be different, he'd be jerking but wouldn't feel anything, like an out-of-body experience. He wants to be in control of someone's else orgasm, wants to be the reason they come or don't come.
He doesn't know what it'd taste like, if it'd just be normal skin or carry an undertone of something else. He doesn't know how heavy it'd weigh on his tongue and feel down his throat as he swallowed around it. He doesn't know what it'd be like to have a dick in his mouth while the other guy was coming, if he'd swallow or spit or let him come on his face or chest.
He wants to know what a cock would feel like between his cheeks, rubbing along the crease teasingly. He wonders about intergluteal sex and then wonders what it'd feel like to be stretched so wide that the pain is nothing but low, thrumming pleasure. He fantasizes about being on his back, his side, hands and knees, sitting on top and grabbing the headboard with a white-knuckled grip while he drove down and the hips below met halfway. He could never buy a vibrator or a dildo—his parents would know because they monitor his purchases—so he's settled for three lubed fingers, the carefully-slicked ridged handle of a hairbrush that makes him gasp and buck into the air or rut deep into the sheets.
He doesn't know any of this, but he's imagined.
And then he meets Kurt Hummel and everything changes.
Kurt, who was innocent as they came before they got together. Kurt, who's currently on his knees in front of Blaine, mouth stretched around his cock, jaw slack and one hand on the base, squeezing, the sides of fingers rubbing through coarse hair, his other hand rubbing his own cock through the jeans he still has on. He bobs his head, twists his hand, meets the circle of his lips. Kurt may be careful and precise, but the noises he makes are purposeful and nothing short of obscene. Blaine's only ever heard those slurping-sucking noises in porn, when it's abundant enthusiasm.
It's really probably because when the physical aspect of their relationship had started they'd both agreed on a "any fantasy can be brought up and we'll talk maturely about it" policy. Blaine's first one had been how much he liked noise: moaning, grunting, those straight-from-ears-to-groin cocksucking sounds, and god, Blaine has the best boyfriend ever. He just wishes that right now Kurt wasn't so into this because he has other things on his mind.
"Kurt," Blaine whimpers. "Kurt, Kurt."
Kurt slides off, eyebrow raised as he wipes off his mouth. His hand is still on Blaine and he jacks him slowly as he stares upward, steadfastly silent as he waits for Blaine to expound. All Blaine does is moan, hips jerking forward until Kurt stills the movement of his hand. "What, Blaine?" he asks.
He sounds exasperated but Blaine likes to think that he knows him better and that glint in his eye is all arousal and anticipation that's belied by the tone of his voice. Blaine's own voice catches in his throat like a fly to honey as pleasure seizes control when Kurt slides his hand up-down. "Ah, fuck," he swears, head tipping back. "Let me—let me suck you, Kurt. Please."
Blaine scrabbles for something to hold on to but there isn't anything. He's standing in the middle of the room, pants down to his ankles and shirt half-unbuttoned. It's been a couple of weeks since they've started this, progressing from clothed frottage to handjobs and blowjobs. Blaine's enthusiastic, Kurt is meticulous: the sure, calculating way he brings Blaine off with his mouth or hand trumps Blaine's sloppy sucking and twisting tongue.
Kurt continues to look up at him, silent, sweat gleaming faintly on his exposed torso, the clean lines of his shoulders and chest. Blaine's finding it hard to keep his composure: Kurt's flushed and the knees-splayed position he's in does nothing to hide his cock straining against his jeans, a hard line that Blaine wants to nuzzle, lick, suck, hold.
"Is there something you'd like to tell me, Blaine?"
Blaine's lips part, join together again and his eyes jump to Kurt's face. His brow furrows and Kurt is still holding his cock, Jesus. "Uh, what?"
"I understand that penises have their own… unique level of beauty," Kurt says, thumbing over the tip of Blaine's cock as if to drive his point home, "but you seem to be abnormally attached to them."
Blaine flushes, then, a deep scarlet that snakes its way down his neck. Kurt grins. "So that's what it is," he says.
"What what is?" Blaine asks innocently.
Kurt is still wearing that grin like it's a brand-new McQueen scarf. He wraps his lips around the head of Blaine's cock and sucks hard; Blaine lets out a strangled noise that comes somewhere between a yell and a moan. Kurt plays dirty and it's not fair. Kurt pulls off again, trailing the swell of his lower lip along the slit of Blaine's cock. When he leans back an almost-imperceptible strand of pre-come is stringing from his lip and fuck, Blaine's going to die from the barrage of stimuli soon. "You're a cockslut," Kurt says matter-of-factly.
Blaine groans at the words as they come out of Kurt's mouth and doesn't bother denying it because it's way too true. "Just let me blow you, Kurt," Blaine's saying, fisting a hand in Kurt's hair and tugging, trying to get him to stand up. "You can fuck my mouth, do whatever. Just let me taste you." He's hedging on desperate, horny and needy and wanting so badly.
Kurt pats Blaine's thigh and stands up when Blaine lets go of his hair. Blaine immediately drops to his knees and waits, mouth open and eyes hazy. He unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way, slides it off his arms and to a heap on the floor next to his thigh. Kurt hurriedly shucks his jeans and boxers, kicking both down and off, his cock bobbing with his movements, red and thick and long, begging, begging, begging to have Blaine's mouth wrapped around it.
"C'mere, sweetheart," he says, beckoning, and Blaine shuffles closer, braces his hands on Kurt's wiry thighs, rubbing his palms along smooth hair and skin, up from the hip and down toward the knee, nails digging on the journey back up; Kurt moans a little, just a small noise, and Blaine smiles. This close he can only smell Kurt, heady and masculine and overpowering, overwhelming and inviting him to just do.
Blaine licks the head, points his tongue and dips it into the slit to hear Kurt moan again, louder, and move his hips forward minutely. Without any precursor Blaine curls his lips over his teeth and slides down, down, tongue flat along the underside of Kurt's cock as he takes him in as deep as he can, stopping when the head hits the back of his throat and he makes a small, involuntary choking sound, backing off a little to wrap his hand around the base, grip tight as he twists. Kurt gasps, then, and his hands go to Blaine's curls, holding and waiting.
Blaine bobs his head, hollowing his cheeks when he slides up. He feels Kurt's arms move with him, feel his fingers tightening and scraping along his scalp, twining around his dark curls as he swirls his tongue over the head, then flattens it and licks broad stripes. He teases the underside, the sensitive bundle of nerves that has Kurt's hips snapping into Blaine's open mouth until he's moaning freely, primitive sounds that somehow manage to still sound almost bell-like.
"God, Blaine," Kurt moans. "My little cockslut." The words come out stilted and a little rushed, like Kurt hadn't meant to say them but they had merely slipped out. Either way, Blaine's okay with it as his own cock gives a jump and he moans appreciatively, the vibrations zigzagging up through Kurt's body to curl and lick at his nerve endings.
Blaine slides his lips off, saliva and pre-come stringing and his breath coming in pants, unmeasured and wild. "Yes," he says, jerking Kurt off. "Yes, Kurt." He pauses, gets a wild idea and says it before he can really think about it, the taste of Kurt still hot and present on his tongue, down his throat. "Fuck my ass, please."
Kurt's eyes widen and he freezes. "I—Blaine, we're not ready for that. I thought we discussed this." His voice is trembling slightly, wavering and getting steadily higher in ways that have nothing to do with Blaine's slow, careful strokes.
"No, no, not that," Blaine says, instantly wanting to hit himself for being so crude and brush and unspecific. "Intergluteal. That's what—what I mean."
He's not sure if Kurt knows what it is, but Kurt isn't dumb. He looks at Blaine with doe eyes, unblinking like an owl, mouth parted and wet and kissable. "Seriously?" he asks, like he needs confirmation. Blaine nods his head, reins in his excitement and simply says, "Yes."
He follows it up with, "I know we're not ready for actual sex, and I totally respect that." He slides his hand up the length of Kurt's cock, thumbs the head to hear Kurt whine. "But we agreed that any and all fantasies are on the table. We said we'd always be honest and never hold back."
Kurt yanks Blaine up and kisses him, hard and fast with a little too much tongue and teeth, his desperate way of showing Blaine that he's ready, yes, he wants. He presses against him, grinds, and their cocks slide against each other, over their abdomens and pressing too-sticky; they let out a collective groan and clutch at shoulders, necks.
"Bed," Kurt says, licking a stripe up Blaine's neck, taking his earlobe between his teeth and tugging.
Blaine's bed is a few feet away, a huge and imposing king-sized with a slotted headboard made of stained oak. They fall onto the mocha-colored duvet, limbs tangling and skin rubbing together, slickened by sweat. Blaine breaks away for a second to grab one of his pillows, a plain white one that he uses to sleep on. The other decorative pillows he throws to the floor with a quick sweep of his arm.
"On your stomach," Kurt says, pressing one final kiss to Blaine's lips and propping himself up on his elbow to look down at his boyfriend. Blaine complies, flipping over and resting his hips on the pillow he'd placed there. Heat swells and surges, his heartbeat quickening in anticipation. His head is pressed to his crossed arms, turned sideways so he can breathe and barely make out quick flashes of Kurt moving behind him. He's filled too much with excitement to be embarrassed at being so powerlessly on display, and it's Kurt so it doesn't matter.
He feels it when Kurt straddles his thighs, feels the weight and presence and anticipation emanating off of both of them. He feels Kurt's hands ghost along his sides, gasps and groans when Kurt squeezes his cheeks, separates for a second and pushes back in tightly.
He hears slick skin-on-skin as Kurt strokes over himself a few times, feels his thighs and whole body quake. Their combined breath is hitched and broken, anticipating and high like they're barely containing themselves, and finally, finally, Kurt is separating Blaine's cheeks again and sliding his cock into the divide, slick and hot and so, so hard against Blaine's skin.
Instantly Blaine arches back, pushing, and then Kurt's palms are on his cheeks, pushing in around his cock and then he's thrusting, oh god he's thrusting.
Blaine's voice is caught deep in his throat, stuck as Kurt thrusts slowly, like he's testing. Blaine wonders what it looks like, what Kurt's cock looks like sliding between his ass, head appearing and disappearing, red and shiny with pre-come leaking out of the slit, the pre-come Blaine can feel leaking onto his skin.
"Fuck," he says, the word cracked and frayed as he pushes up, then down, rutting his cock against the pillow, the drag of fabric sweet against him. "Jesus, shit, this is what it feels like." He can feel the ridge, feel Kurt's balls dragging against the swell of his ass and it's fantastic. The grip of Kurt's fingers is almost too tight, too much, stretching the skin and his nails leaving crescent marks, but it's not like Blaine honestly cares at this moment. It feels good, the slide tingling and right there; it's more sensitive than Blaine thought anything could ever be. He jerks with every catch of the ridge of Kurt's cock.
"God, I could fuck you like this," Kurt says in awe, a groan following his words as he shifts, changes angles slightly. He releases his hold a little for more give and slides his cock down until he's just barely brushing Blaine's hole. He pushes forward, only a light stuttering of the hips that nudges the puckered ring but makes Blaine jolt more severely than before, ripping a guttural, wanton moan from his throat as he pushes back against the blunt slickness. "On your stomach with nowhere to go."
For someone so careful, so measured and cool and collected, Kurt has a surprisingly filthy mouth when it comes to them fooling around. Blaine always jokes that, should New York prove to be a bust next year, he could easily make a living being a phone sex operator. Kurt always swats him on the arm and flushes scarlet, prompting Blaine to add but only if you're my phone sex operator. It's going to be lonely here without you.
They don't want to cry, so they don't, but sadness wells like a dam that's ready to burst.
Blaine ruts down against the pillow again, lifting himself up on his elbows as he turns his head. He turns as much as his back will allow, straining, and groans aloud at the sight of Kurt so flushed and disheveled, hair askew and eyes bright and wild. He looks down, down the expanse of his back and stretched skin, watches with rapt attention as Kurt thrusts forward, then draws back. There's a smear on the dimples above Blaine's ass, glinting in the light of the room; it's pre-come and Blaine wishes that he was Mr. Fantastic so that he could reach back and just taste.
"God, I love you," he says, means every single word, moans as Kurt keeps moving.
"Now, now," Kurt chastises, sentence hitching at the end as Blaine tightens his muscles, drawing in more friction, "I'd prefer if you said you loved me."
Blaine laughs, a short, sharp bark of a noise. He turns forward, drops his chin to his chest and breathes, breathes, pushing against the pillow as Kurt's cock slides between his ass, less measured and more rough now. Behind him Kurt hitches a breath that sounds almost like it's a sob and he's choking out, "Oh, god, Blaine, gonna come."
Blaine wiggles in anticipation, pushing his legs even closer together and raising his ass into the air, wordlessly begging. Blaine doesn't look back but Kurt slides free and before he can complain Kurt's hand is sliding between his cheeks, down the divide to brush over his hole before he's rubbing against his perineum. Blaine yelps, whines, pushes against Kurt's hand and the pillow underneath him. He hears the sound of Kurt stroking himself, fast and probably a little rough, and then Kurt's moaning, low like he always does when he's about to come, and Blaine feels warmth splash on his lumbar region, a little further up his spine and he can't hold back his gasp.
"Fuck," he says, "fuck, oh, shit."
Because his boyfriend just came on him. And this is, god, it's new.
And then Kurt's hand is under him, insistent on his stomach, and Blaine carefully brings himself to his hands and knees. He shakes, trembles and concentrates on his breathing. His cock hangs heavy and too-hard between his legs, aching and he wants to come, and he must say this out loud because now Kurt's laughing and his fingers are swiping along Blaine's back.
He brings his hand to Blaine's mouth, fingers brushing against his lips; Blaine opens and Kurt slides his fingers in and Blaine moans, licks around the digits to catch every trace of come.
Kurt's murmuring to him, little things he can barely here, and he brings a hand under him to grasp his cock. Blaine melts into the touch, pulls back so that Kurt's fingers fall free of his mouth and he can gasp, "Oh yes, yes, please. Let me come." Pleasure swirls in him, around him, controlling and intoxicating. His toes curl just from the gentle touch of smooth palm and long fingers, back going taut as he drives into the source of friction.
It doesn't take two strokes before he thrusting into Kurt's grasp and coming with a keening cry over Kurt's hand and his sheets.
"So, all right," Kurt says after a minute or two in which Blaine moves his pillow onto the wet spot and collapses on top of it on his stomach, "what else do you have to tell me?'
Blaine looks up at him and grins wickedly. "I suppose you'll just have to wait and see."
Kurt kisses him.