Title is from the insert of Panic! At The Disco's A Fever You Can't Sweat Out.
Warnings are: bit of comeplay, the usual warnings that come with this 'verse.
TUMBLR IS THAT WAY
"Are you sure you're okay with ruining these—"
"Kurt, they're nylon and spandex, I can just wash them later—"
"They could stain and I really, really like this pair—"
"Kurt!" Blaine raises his voice and Kurt stops mid-sentence, embarrassed. He's kneeling over Blaine on Blaine's bed, running his thumb along the elastic of the dark gray panties Blaine's wearing. Blaine's skin is visible through the filigree and floral lace print, along with the shape of his balls and hardening cock. "Seriously, they'll be fine." He smiles and traces his fingers along the bump of Kurt's wrist. "And even if they aren't, well, it was for a good cause, right?"
Kurt's cheeks heat up and he laughs, nods. He honestly can't think of a better reason to ruin a pair of underwear, and so far their track record has been good: There's only been one intentional casualty and that was a pair of black panties with white lace trim that Kurt had ripped almost in half one day.
(—And god, what a good day that had been, Blaine bent over the couch in Kurt's living room because he'd been wearing the damn panties all day and he hadn't said anything, just unbuttoned his jeans and took Kurt's hand and let him feel the smooth silk-polyester blend, warm from Blaine's skin and arousal, and Kurt still isn't sure how they got lube or a condom, just remembers shoving Blaine's jeans down, pushing him against the couch until his ass was thrust out and somehow the panties had gotten ripped, the fabric in Kurt's hands and hanging limply off the rounded curve of Blaine's ass—)
"Besides," Blaine says offhandedly, bringing Kurt out of his thoughts, "I got these from Forever 21."
Kurt snorts. "They're most definitely ruined, then."
Blaine swats at Kurt's arm but doesn't bother to hide his grin. "Shut up," he says. "You'll miss them when they're gone."
"Only because of the wonderful things they do for your dick. And your ass." Kurt strokes pointedly over the hard, hot flesh of Blaine's cock, Blaine's body trembling underneath his thighs. He watches Blaine tip his head back and let out a sigh, watches the fluid movements of his torso as he responds to Kurt's touch, and it never ceases to be breathtaking, amazing the way Blaine's body arches and stretches, the skin flushing and prickling as Kurt trails his fingertips, his tongue, and maps out roads and canyons only they will ever know about.
This thing they have together, this trust and sense of ease, is something that Kurt treasures. He's the only one who will ever know the exact way Blaine's pupils dilate and his eyes darken, the way he looks when he's about to come and after he does, limp and sated and breathing as hard as a racehorse. He's the only one who will ever know about Blaine's collection, the only one who will ever be the recipient of impromptu modeling and lap dances after Blaine's tried on panty after garter after stocking, looking more and more unreal after each one.
Kurt leans down, rubs the fabric of his boxer-briefs over the fabric of Blaine's panties, presses dry lips to Blaine's cheek and then to his ear. He breathes out, "You have no idea how long I've wanted to come on your pretty little panties," and feels something twist up hot and dark and wanting inside him at the words finally spoken aloud.
Blaine lets out a broken sound that could be a moan or a whimper or just noise wrought out of him at the words, the hot breath fanning over his ear and the proximity of the body hovering over him, pressed down at just the right places. He jerks his hips up, rubs against Kurt's until they're both breathing a little heavier and his hands are pressed tight to the bare, warm skin of Kurt's shoulders.
"Fuck, Kurt," he says, and his words are tight, slightly strangled; he kisses Kurt hard and wet before pulling back again, running a hand through Kurt's hair like he can't help it, like it's grounding him and keeping him from floating away like out-of-control molecules.
He doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't need to. Kurt knows what he means, knows that the short sentence is an invitation, an opening, for Kurt to say whatever he sees fit. Kurt sits back on his heels, ignores the rub of cotton over the head of his aching dick, and surveys Blaine's prone form: the flush spread over his chest, nipples pebbled dark and small against his tan, olive skin and slightly defined muscles; the sparse dark hair over his chest, down the concave of his torso and abs to the waistband of the panties. The gray nylon and spandex blend is darker where the head strains, sticky with pre-come, and Kurt thinks about how easy it would be to push down the waistband and jerk Blaine off until he's coming with a cry and writhing in familiar pleasure.
"Someday I think I'll get used to how gorgeous you look like this," Kurt finds himself saying. Above them the ceiling fan circles lazily with a constant whoosh of air and rotating fan blades.
Blaine grins easily up at him, settling his hands low on Kurt's waist. His thumbs rub small circles and Kurt delights in the shiver the movements elicit. "What would be the fun in that, then? I like to constantly amaze you."
"Mm, you already do."
Blaine's hands slide forward, twin hot pressures until he's curving the fingers of his right around the shape of Kurt's cock, working slowly back and forth as he drags the cotton tortuously slow. Kurt feels his eyes flutter shut, feels his jaw slacken as he pushes into Blaine's hand with a tiny, breathed-out moan. "Oh, god."
He doesn't protest when Blaine begins to inch down the waistband of his underwear, doesn't say anything when he braces his hands on the headboard and lets Blaine slide them off a leg at a time.
"So hard for me, baby." Blaine wets his lips, looking down then up, fixated on the slight bob of Kurt's flushed cock when he shifts on his knees to catch his balance. "Beautiful."
The words fall on Kurt's skin like warm spring rain, rejuvenating and with just the right amount of heat to make him shiver. Blaine is beautiful to him and he is beautiful to Blaine and everything fits so nicely, feels so right and perfect no matter what they're doing, and sometimes Kurt wants to bottle up this feeling, store it away for later when he needs it most.
"Such a good boy," Kurt says, the precursor to everything. He watches Blaine relax, his limbs tension-free against the bed, lines vanished from his forehead and the corners of his mouth. He sees the twitch of Blaine's cock strain against his panties, hears the happy sigh leave his lips. "Always so good for me, Blaine. Aren't you?"
"Yes," Blaine murmurs, lashes fluttering.
Kurt scoots down a little further until he's straddling Blaine's thighs. He can feel the strong muscle flex when Blaine moves. "That's my boy," he says softly. He raises his palm to his face, lips parting to allow his tongue to wet it before he thinks differently.
Blaine catches on, grabbing Kurt's hand and raising up on his elbows to lave his tongue hot and velvet-soft and damp along the smooth skin, taking care to trace the heart lines and the curve of each finger. He sucks Kurt's index and middle fingers into his mouth and Kurt's breath hitches, eyes fixated on the sight of Blaine looking up at him, of his tongue rolling over the knuckles until Blaine lets go with a soft pop.
Kurt's flushed and sweating and near panting by the time he gets his hand wrapped around his cock. His hips jerk forward immediately, the pleasure twining insistently at the pit of his stomach rearing up and flaring out. The twists of his fist make his toes curl and he can't help but grunt softly when he slides just right over the head of his cock.
The bed dips and creaks when Kurt moves, the frame shaking slightly with the increasing pace of his arm. His mouth drops open again and he lets it stay, lets his mouth and tongue cotton as he pants and succumbs to the tendrils of pleasure, the white-hot heat building and building with each swipe of his thumb over the head, each squeeze at the top and back down at the base.
"Yes, yes," Blaine murmurs, and Kurt's vaguely aware that he should be officiating it—it's how it usually goes—but this time he can't find the right words, can't form a coherent thought or sentence with the way Blaine is looking stretched under him, hooded-eyed and swollen-lipped and the epitome of sex. "God, Kurt, c'mon, come all over me, fuck, ruin these panties and make me yours."
Kurt hears a whine and recognizes it as his own after a few dazed seconds. His muscles burn their protest as his hand speeds up and he can feel Blaine's eyes on him, wide and unblinking and unguarded as he watches.
"That's it, yes, baby, let go and make me dirty. You're so beautiful, Kurt, so hot like this. I'm yours, Sir. I'm yours I'm yours I'm—"
Kurt's hips stutter forward as everything comes apart and his cock jerks as he begins to come in arcing pulses that drip off his fingertips, splatter over Blaine's sweat-slicked abdomen and collect on the blend of his panties in lines of darker gray highlighted with white. He gasps, unable to catch his breath, and shudders through the aftershocks, sluggishly moving his hand until the last bit drips off his fingers and onto the body below him.
"Oh fuck," he says in a voice pitched higher than normal. His eyes are wide when he looks down, meets Blaine's gaze for only a second before trailing his fingertips over Blaine's abdomen where the come has pooled near his navel, rubbing it in with a precise, wondrous touch before moving to brush his thumb over a line of come spread across Blaine's cock. At the slight touch Blaine tenses, tips his head back and moans, pushing his hips up as his cock twitches and he's coming hard, each pulse wringing a weaker-sounding noise out of him until he's spent and collapsing back onto the sheets.
Kurt feels shaky and weak-kneed when he collapses next to Blaine. "Still think you can salvage that pair?"
Blaine laughs and rolls over, eyes crinkled at the corners. He slings an arm across Kurt's chest and Kurt smiles, running the backs of his fingers along Blaine's side. "Not a chance. You've ruined me again, Kurt Hummel."
"I ruined a pair of three-dollar underwear." Kurt rolls his eyes and takes note of the way his heart thumps at the raw sentiment in Blaine's sated voice. "I'm just doing you a favor."
"You wound me."
"You love me."
"I love you."
"I love you." Kurt kisses Blaine softly, twisting to tangle his fingers in Blaine's hair. "Love you," he reiterates, like somehow he's forgotten it. He pecks a kiss to the tip of Blaine's nose, slides his hand over the damp fabric of Blaine's panties. His breath hitches when he feels the cooling slickness of his come mixed with Blaine's.
Blaine breathes out a laugh through his nose. "We're disgusting, aren't we?"
"Well, we are covered in come…."
Blaine rolls his eyes and flicks Kurt's shoulder. "Not what I meant, but you do have a point."
Kurt sits up and holds out his hand until Blaine takes it, an eyebrow raised in question. "To answer your question," Kurt says, "yes, we are disgustingly sappy. And yes, we are covered in come and sweat and a shower sounds really, really nice right now. You in or out?"
When Blaine presses Kurt against the slick shower wall ten minutes later, Kurt thinks he could appreciate getting dirty once in awhile if it always ends in this.