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Blaine's never been so happy to have an empty house in his life.
His parents will be out late attending one of his dad’s hospital’s bi-annual fundraising galas, and he’s so, so glad that he’s never given them a reason not to trust him before, because they’ve said that Kurt could come over for dinner.
Kurt’s not coming over for dinner.
Blaine’s flitting around the living room, trying to decide if the red and yellow roses he’s arranged in a vase on the piano are too much, and whether he should light candles or not, and if he should, whether they should be downstairs or up in his bedroom.
All of a sudden, the flowers seem corny, and he tables the candle dilemma, strides to the vase, takes it down and runs it to the kitchen. There.
He goes back out to think about the candles, but now the piano looks bare, and oh my god he just wants things to look perfect - is it that hard? Why is it so hard?
He puts the flowers back.
Before he can even start thinking about candles again, a knock on the door startles him and he streaks across the living room, skidding to a stop in front of the large mirror next to the entryway to check his hair before flinging the door open.
"Hi!" he says, too eager, too bright.
But Kurt's eager, too. Blaine doesn't even get a greeting, unless you count being pressed up against the wall and kissed into submission. Blaine supposes that he does.
"We have two hours," Kurt breathes. "Dad wants me home by nine-thirty. Which is – well, we don't have enough time to talk about how ludicrous that kind of curfew is for a seventeen-year-old, but – ludicrous, Blaine."
"Ludicrous," Blaine agrees, nodding his head. He doesn’t even care that Kurt hasn’t noticed the flowers. He's mesmerized. Kurt's in these jeans he's never seen before, jeans that do amazing things for his legs and his ass and his … ohhhhh, don't look there, Blaine.There are the jeans, and then there's the shirt, tighter than normal, open at the collar and two buttons down, showing off just enough chest to make Blaine want to see more, sleeves hugging his biceps in the most delicious of ways.
Please let us be on the same page tonight, he begs silently.
"Blaine? Did I lose you?" Kurt asks, cupping his cheek sweetly and staring into his eyes.
"No. No, I'm present and accounted for."
Blaine wants to die. Did he seriously just say that?
But Kurt just chuckles and tugs on his hand. "Wanna go upstairs?"
"Yes. Um. Yes – wait. Do you – can I get you something? Do you need a drink?"
"I want to kiss you," Kurt says, a little exasperated. "I can get a drink later. Unless –" he pauses, his face falling. "Did you actually want to eat dinner?"
"No!" Blaine practically coughs out. "No, not at – no. I've already eaten."
"Good." Kurt grins like a Cheshire cat. "Me too. Now. Your bedroom?"
“Bedroom, ho!”
Kurt gives him a strange look, and Blaine wants to crawl under the stairs and never come out. He's acting like a bumbling idiot for some reason, which is ridiculous, because they've been dating for months now, but – well, he does know the reason. He's nervous. Because he really, really wants more tonight. And he actually has the chance to have it, if Kurt's there too. God, please let Kurt be there too.
It sure seems like Kurt's there when they get to his bedroom, the place where they've studied together, where they've had Broadway sing-alongs and semi-private dance parties. It's a place they can be themselves without fear of judgment or consequences. But they've never been in his bedroom with no one else in the house before.
Not until tonight.
And Kurt must feel the tension in the air, too, because he's pressing Blaine against his closet door, working Blaine's mouth open with a hot tongue, and it takes nothing for him to have Blaine completely at his mercy.
"Oh, Kurt," he moans as the same tongue that worked into his mouth works down his neck, drawing warm-wet trails that quickly cool and make goosebumps rise on his skin. He's already hard in his jeans – Kurt's never this aggressive, has never been before, but it must be something about the empty house and the anticipation and – oh my god where is his hand going?
Kurt makes a little growly noise in his throat that Blaine's never heard before, and holy shit, he might actually die tonight.
"Kurt," he says, panting. "Kurt, wait –"
Kurt backs off immediately. "I'm sorry!" he squeaks, all the growl gone in an instant. "I – I don’t know what came over me –"
"No," Blaine says, and now his voice is lower. "I just – we should – talk. Right. Talk first. Kiss later."
Kurt nods, his head bobbing up and down like it's not quite fully attached to his body. "Talk. Right. Um."
"You – here. Sit on the bed. I'll – uh –" Blaine glances around his room. "Desk chair. I'll sit there," he says, straddling the chair so that it hides his ridiculous hard-on.
Kurt perches on the edge of the bed, crossing his legs, so prim and proper, using his hand to fan himself and god Blaine just wants to jump on him and never stop kissing. Ever. Because Kurt's lips often taste like candy (suspiciously, he'd developed a severe lip balm habit right after Blaine kissed him that first time at Dalton) and Kurt's hands know exactly where to plant themselves to make Blaine feel safer and warmer than he's ever felt before, and when they kiss, Kurt makes these noises …
Talk. Right. He takes a deep breath. One of them has to be coherent, responsible, and the way Kurt's breathing over there, tugging at his collar, it doesn't look like it's going to be him.
"So – we have a little over two hours. There's … kind of a lot we can do in two hours," he starts, trying to keep the blush from rising in his cheeks. "We can just kiss. That's fine. I'm fine with – with just that. But if you –"
"Want more?" Kurt asks, turning red as a beet, and Blaine can't help but smile.
"Yeah. We can do that, too," he says, and there's a fondness to his voice that only comes out when his boyfriend's around. Kurt tends to have that effect on him, the one where he turns into a puddle of mush. Well. A horny puddle of mush.
"Okay. Um. Define 'more,' then."
"Well … um …" Blaine stammers, looking down at his floor. More can mean a lot of things. "I don't think I'm ready for –"
"Not everything." The words fly out of Kurt's mouth.
"No. Not everything. But – some things? Like … like, touching, maybe?"
He can almost see Kurt's pupils dilate. "Touching. Touching sounds good."
"You – you want to touch? Me?"
Kurt looks like he's on drugs, his eyes are so huge. There's hardly any blue left. "Oh my god you have no idea how much," he says, and that's the end of their talking, because Blaine can't keep his hands away any longer. He nearly falls on the floor getting out of the chair, and then he's on the bed, and they're kissing like they've never kissed before. The air is filled with their gasps, and Blaine's frantic to finish undoing the buttons on the front of Kurt's shirt.
"I love you," Kurt breathes into his shoulder. "God, Blaine, I love you so much …"
"Love you, too," Blaine says, then crashes his lips into Kurt's once more. His fingers won't cooperate; he almost pops a button off of Kurt's shirt before Kurt throws his hands away, does it himself, and then Blaine’s tugging the shirt off of Kurt's shoulders and he might not survive the night.
Kurt's skin is luscious. It's milky and pinky pale and smooth and it’s lightly dusted with freckles that Blaine wants to count and kiss. He wants to lick every inch of it. They have over two hours, still. He might actually do it.
But then his train of thought derails because Kurt's mouthing at his neck again, rucking his shirt up – why didn't he wear a button-down tonight? The neck of his polo is totally going to get caught on his head if Kurt pulls it off, and that is so not sexy – and tracing his fingers over Blaine's abs. Thank god I have abs.
"You're perfect," Kurt whispers, reverent and awed, and Blaine shakes his head, because Kurt is the one who deserves worship here. "Seriously, Blaine, my god I can't believe all this is just hiding under your clothes every day … how is that even fair?"
Blaine shrugs, embarrassed. He knows his body isn't awful, but he just doesn't see the appeal when he looks in the mirror. He's so small.
He cups Kurt's face in his hands to distract him from staring quite so much. He's not used to being under this much scrutiny – well, not this kind of scrutiny, at least.
"I love you," he says, his voice surprisingly soft and gentle for as hard as his dick is right now. "I love you so much, Kurt."
"I love you, too," Kurt gasps, his hand tracing the waistband of Blaine's jeans. "Can I – Blaine, please? I just want to feel you –"
"Please," Blaine moans, suddenly desperate for Kurt's hand around him. How many times has he rutted against his sheets to that very fantasy? And now it's about to happen, and he can barely breathe. Kurt pops the button of his jeans open, slides the zipper down like he's done it a hundred times, and Blaine lets out a low groan as the pressure of his fly runs right over his cock. He feels Kurt staring again and blushes crimson.
"I really like your underwear," Kurt says with a slightly wicked grin.
Blaine can't help but grin back. "Thanks," he says, glad he had the foresight to wear the black Calvin Klein briefs that he thinks make his ass look pretty good.
"…Can I …" Kurt's eyes are asking him, his fingers sliding across the skin just at the edge of the elastic.
"Yeah," Blaine breathes. He's never known how badly he needed this until this moment, needed to feel Kurt's fingers on his skin.
"Yeah, Kurt, please …" Kurt’s fingers slip inside the fabric and Blaine’s breath catches in his throat. He’s suddenly terrified - what if he’s weirdly malformed and has no idea? What if he hasn’t manscaped enough? What if Kurt is, like, twice as big as he is? But when Kurt's fist closes around him, his brain short-circuits and he almost swallows his tongue.
"Ohmygod," he grunts, his hips involuntarily thrusting up, and Kurt's jaw drops.
"Oh," Kurt says softly, and grips a little harder. "Like this?"
Blaine's going to lose it. He's going to lose his mind. His hand has never felt like this before. He's jerked off like a gazillion times in his short lifetime and he's never felt like this, not even the time when he got brave enough to slide his own finger into his ass.
"Oh shit, oh my god –" His fingers are twisting into the sheets, and he doesn't even want to know what his face looks like right now. Most of him doesn't care what his face looks like right now. "Fuck, Kurt," he whispers.
Kurt gasps. "Say that again," he says in a hollow voice.
Blaine's eyes pop open. Kurt's red-faced and a little slack-jawed, and looks pretty turned on himself. "What, fuck?" he asks. Kurt's eyes grow wide. Blaine grins. "Fuck."
Kurt sucks in a breath and dives forward, laving at Blaine's chest, and oh my god he's sucking on my nipple oh my god oh holy FUCK –
Goddammit.
He just came.
He just came, and it was amazing, but, like, embarrassingly fast and Kurt's looking at his hand, covered in come, and maybe going into some sort of shock because he's kind of pale, and –
Blaine slaps a hand over his face. "I'm so sorry," he groans. "I can't believe – Kurt, I can't believe this, I'm so sorry, I –"
"I did that. To you." Kurt interrupts him, his voice quiet and awestruck.
"I – yeah. You really did that to me." Blaine laughs, self-deprecating. He feels like the biggest idiot on earth. His boyfriend's never going to want to do that again.
"I – I just did that. To you." Come is dripping onto Blaine's sheets now.
"Yep."
Kurt looks from his hand to Blaine, where a wet spot has spread on his underwear, his limbs a little shaky. "You … does it always happen that fast?"
Blaine wants to die. He wants to dig a hole in his own floor and crawl inside it and never come out. He wants to bury himself alive. He needs a shovel, pronto. Maybe he can just knock himself out with it.
"Oh. That was the wrong thing to say, wasn't it?" Kurt asked, his own cheeks reddening. "I didn’t mean – I –"
"Kurt." Blaine tries to calm himself down. It's not the end of the world. It's not. It is. "I – no. I don't. Usually. Apparently … I don't know. Your hand is … not like mine."
Kurt snorts. Loudly. Then he claps a hand over his mouth – and it's the wrong hand, and he is clearly horrified because Blaine's come is on his face. Near his mouth.
Blaine can't help but laugh. He doesn't mean to, but the whole thing is just so ridiculous, and thank god they're best friends, because he'd never, ever, ever be getting kissed again if they weren't. And then Kurt's laughing, rubbing his face on Blaine's pillow ("You can wash your pillowcase, Blaine …") and Blaine's amazed, because Kurt's kissing him again.
"You'd better be glad I love you," Kurt says, making a disgusted little face at the pillow. "That might be fun somewhere down the road, but …"
Blaine's just glad there's a somewhere down the road to be talked about.
"I – do you want me to –" he stammers. He's being rude. It's rude to receive and not even offer to give – he doesn't have much experience, but he knows that's a basic tenant of sex etiquette, if there is such a thing.
Kurt blushes. "I don't know. I – can I go wash my hands first?"
"Your hands – of course you can, Kurt." Blaine sighs, cards a hand through his hair. "I'm so sorry I ruined this for you."
"Oh, Blaine, honey," Kurt says fondly, and that's new, that pet name. Blaine loves it, maybe more than he should. "You couldn't possibly do anything to ruin this. It was a little … surprising, that's all. And frankly, I'm flattered. I didn't know I had quite that strong of an effect on you."
Blaine blushes. "smynipples," he says in one rushed word.
"What?"
"My nipples," he says shyly. "They're … sensitive?"
Kurt's eyebrows raise to his hairline. "Noted."
Blaine grins. "Go wash your hands. We've still got like an hour and a half."
Kurt glances at the clock. “Well, well, well, Mr. Anderson, you appear to be correct. Maybe your little early arrival issue has its benefits, after all."