Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/147790.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Kurt_Hummel/Blaine_(Glee)
  Character:
      Kurt_Hummel, Blaine_(Glee)
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-01-03 Words: 3239
****** How to Break the Spell ******
by Lexie
Summary
     Kurt knows he should really get home after an entire afternoon spent
     at Blaine's house, but Blaine can be pretty persuasive when he puts
     his mind (and his guitar) to it.
"I really have to go," Kurt says, but it isn't very effective, given that he
has mumbled it while staring into Blaine's eyes.
"Come on. You can't stay a little longer?" Blaine wheedles, his feet under
Kurt's on the coffee table. It's a tempting offer. They've been watching movies
all afternoon, kissing when they feel like it but mostly actually watching;
commenting on choreography choices and groaning at terrible lines, and
sometimes singing while ending credits roll. The fire roaring in the fireplace
is very warm and Blaine's house is cozy and his parents are apparently -
- judging by the last phone call they got an hour ago -- still snowed in at the
airport in Denver, but Kurt is pretty sure his dad is going to have a second
heart attack if he stays in Westerville much longer.
"You've been saying that for four hours and I keep falling for it," Kurt says,
startling to disentangle their legs from each other.
"I know what'll convince you." Blaine leans over and picks his guitar up off
the floor. Kurt eyes him, wary and bemused, as Blaine puts the strap over his
head and lifts the guitar into his lap. He hits a couple of experimental
chords, then, grinning, sings to Kurt: "I really can't stay; baby, it's cold
outside." The first line is in a falsetto, and the second in Blaine's regular
smooth voice.
"Oh," says Kurt. "Yes. Woo me with mimicry and the Christmas song about
roofies. So romantic." He's trying to be properly scornful, but it's hard to
communicate disdain when he's also trying to suppress a smile. He hasn't gotten
used to the fact that he has someone to serenade him, yet.
"It's a nondenominational winter song," Blaine says, talking over the chords
that he's still strumming, "and you know you love it." He winks at Kurt like
the enormous cheeseball that he is, and Kurt snorts a laugh.
"I've..." sings Blaine in that high, high voice that sounds nothing like Kurt,
and then he lets that chord sit -- and sit -- and sit ... and then he re-strums
it again, all while looking expectantly at Kurt and leaning closer and closer
with the guitar. "Come on; I know you know this."
"...got to go 'way," Kurt sings, rolling his eyes like the tolerant boyfriend
he is, but he admittedly lights up when Blaine grins encouragingly at him.
"Baby, it's cold outside," Blaine croons, which does funny things to Kurt's
insides. It always does when Blaine sings.
They go through the whole song; Blaine hits a couple wrong chords and pulls wry
faces when he does, and at first Kurt is holding back laughter on every verse
as Blaine shoots him that mad grin of his. Kurt tries, mostly successfully, to
dodge Blaine's hands during the verse about his hair.
By mind if I move in closer? Kurt isn't laughing anymore; Blaine is practically
in his lap and their voices have lowered, along with the tempo of the song.
They're singing to each other from six inches away, and Kurt isn't entirely
sure how they finish it because they're both significantly more focused on
staring at each other than they are on musicianship.
Even with the inattention, their voices sound remarkable together harmonizing
on the final note -- and then the only sound is the crackling of the fireplace.
"If you've seriously got to go, it's oka--" says Blaine, which is when Kurt
leans in and shuts him up.
Blaine's smile curves against Kurt's lips. The press of Blaine's mouth is
familiar territory by now; so is the light scrape of stubble against Kurt's
chin and the feel of fingers in his hair, which Kurt has given up protesting
(and actually likes, though, as a point of pride, he will never admit it).
Blaine rests a hand on Kurt's waist and he can feel its warmth even through the
sharply-tailored McQueen knock-off shirt he's wearing; Kurt reaches out for him
and Blaine starts to shift in -- then he suddenly breaks off the kiss,
muttering something, and he says, "Hold on, hold on," and he pulls his guitar
strap off over his head, lifting the instrument out from between them.
With no distracting hands or mouths on him, Kurt remembers what he needs to do,
and he takes the opportunity to slip out of Blaine's grasp and head for the
front hallway, where his coat is hanging.
"--Kurt?" Blaine calls after him, questioning; Kurt doesn't glance back.
"I'm not walking out on you," he says, pulling his cell phone out of his coat
pocket. It's colder away from Blaine and the fireplace; Kurt peers out through
the frosted window and finds that the snow has already started, covering the
cars in a thin layer of powder.
When he walks back into the living room, Blaine is turned around with his arm
up on the back of the sofa, and he's looking at Kurt with no small bemusement.
Kurt wiggles his phone at him. "Unless you want him to show up on your
doorstep, I have to tell my dad I'm staying later than originally planned." He
pauses when he's still a few feet away, thumbs flying as he taps out a text.
staying at blaine's a little longer
"Your dad texts?" asks Blaine, sounding both amused and surprised.
"Eh," says Kurt noncommittally, which wins him a laugh. "I taught him how to
check his inbox, but he hates sending them. He says," he rolls his eyes fondly,
"God made thumbs the size they are for a reason, and that doesn't include
mashing tiny buttons."
be back by 10. He reads over the message, nods to himself in approval, then
hits send and swings around the couch, where Blaine holds out a hand to him.
Kurt smiles slowly at him and sets his phone on the coffee table, and he lets
Blaine draw him down. Blaine rests their foreheads together, the sides of their
noses brushing; Kurt doesn't have to see Blaine's mouth to know that he's
smiling, and it makes his stomach flip.
"I'm--" says Blaine, his voice low, and then Kurt's phone rings.
If Blaine hadn't pulled back quickly, Kurt probably would have cracked their
skulls together.
"Wow," says Blaine, as Kurt's phone continues to vibrate and blast the opening
bars to "Jack and Diane." "You weren't kidding about your dad not liking to
text."
Kurt is caught somewhere between laughter and mortification (mostly the latter)
as he lunges for his phone. "Dad!"
"Hey," says his dad's voice. "You do know it's snowing out there, right?"
Kurt settles back on the couch. "I have looked outside in the last three hours,
yes," he says, and it still feels weird -- not bad, just weird -- to be talking
to his dad while Blaine rests a hand on his knee. His dad has been amazingly
accepting of the whole boyfriend thing, but, at the same time, a little awkward
and very brusque. He successfully has Blaine afraid of him, anyway, which was,
Kurt suspects, his dad's whole plan from the start. "The storm isn't supposed
to pick up until midnight; I'll be home well before then."
"Well," says his dad, like he's trying to come up with reasons for this to be a
bad idea. "You sure you'll be good driving in it?"
"I have the Navigator, Dad," Kurt says. "It has four-wheel drive and you put
the snow tires on it with me yourself. It's better than a tank on ice. I'll be
careful."
"Okay, okay," his dad says gruffly. "If you change your mind, call me and I'll
come get you in the plow."
"Okay," says Kurt, smiling a little bit, then glancing over at Blaine, who's
watching him quietly, swiping his thumb back and forth across Kurt's knee.
"Home by 10," says Burt.
"Okay, Dad."
"By 10," he repeats, more emphatically.
"Bye, Dad," Kurt says, and his dad snorts something that sounds suspiciously
amused, if a little irritated, before saying bye.
"Is it weird if I kiss you right after you get off the phone with your dad?"
Blaine murmurs, nuzzling Kurt's cheek.
Kurt decides: "No."
Within five minutes, they're curled up together, Blaine pressed back against
the couch's armrest and Kurt sort of half kneeling over him and half in his
lap. They've made out plenty of times before, to the point where Kurt has a
solid idea of what it feels like to have someone else's erection press up
against your hip (life-changingly fantastic; that's what it feels like), but
they've never gone any farther than lying together and kissing (and maybe
squirming a little, because Kurt can't help that). He definitely, unequivocally
wants to go farther, but at the same time -- he's nervous. Cautious perusal of
gay porn on the internet is not at all the same thing as being alone in a house
with a boy who really likes him.
Blaine makes it hard to remember to be nervous. He's running his hand in a
long, lazy swoop up and down Kurt's back as they kiss. On the end of a stroke
up, Blaine rests his hand on the back of Kurt's neck and pulls his lips away.
Without even thinking about it, Kurt leans in after him.
"Whoa," Blaine says, catching Kurt's face in his hand. "Easy, tiger." Kurt
ordinarily puffs up when people laugh at him, but he knows Blaine doesn't mean
it; not in a bad way. It's hard to be properly irritated at somebody who's
smiling at you like that.
Kurt can try, though. "What?" he demands breathlessly.
"You know we can stop anytime, right?" Blaine reaches up and brushes Kurt's
carefully sculpted bang back. "I mean -- I really just wanted to get a little
more time with you; makeouts weren't actually the goal when I tried to sing you
into staying. --Not," he finishes, "that I'm complaining. I am so not
complaining."
Kurt ducks his head, letting his temple lightly brush Blaine's cheek. "You
certainly sound like you're complaining," he replies archly.
"Kurt, seriously," says Blaine, though it's hard to take him entirely seriously
when he's sliding down under Kurt even as he says it, "if you get uncomfortable
at any point, just tell me." He has a hand braced on Kurt's chest, and Kurt has
a pretty good idea that Blaine is not going to let him lean in until he has
answered.
Kurt rolls his eyes but smiles faintly, shifting his weight so he can drape
himself across Blaine. "I will," he promises. Blaine smiles back and lowers his
hand from Kurt's chest, wrapping that arm around Kurt's waist.
What start out as long, slow, gentle kisses, stroking each other's backs and
faces, don't stay that way for more than a few minutes. Kisses deepen and
Blaine opens his legs to let Kurt settle more comfortably between them and Kurt
starts, barely recognizing the breathy sound as his own voice; his hips buck
instinctively down against Blaine, and Blaine's laugh turns into something
sharper.
Kurt is made aware of the fact that his mouth has been hanging open when Blaine
angles up and kisses him, wet and warm and Kurt can't not respond to that with
another helpless grind. Blaine groans into his mouth, pushing back against him;
Kurt can feel their erections rubbing through layers and layers of clothes. He
curls his hands harder into Blaine's shirt and is rewarded by Blaine tightening
his arms around him; not to the point where it's painful or anything, but it's
very, very firm, like Blaine doesn't want to let him go.
"Wait," says Blaine, suddenly laughing, "wait, wait," and he's squirming and
trying to shift positions, which is when Kurt realizes that they've been
gradually pushing Blaine up the couch until his head is jammed up against the
armrest.
Kurt scrambles back, though Blaine catches hold of his belt (vintage Versace)
before he can get very far. "Sorry."
"This -- isn't working," says Blaine, as he sits up, and Kurt gives a puff of a
laugh and shakes his head in agreement.
Which is how Kurt winds up pinned under Blaine's warm weight in a hastily-
constructed cocoon of blankets on the floor, a few feet in front of the
fireplace.
His hands slide restlessly along the back of Blaine's T-shirt, his head tipped
back, as Blaine leaves wet trails up his throat; very gently kisses his jaw and
then makes his way up to Kurt's ear, where he just breathes, hot and a little
shaky, for several long seconds before he lightly tugs Kurt's earlobe between
his teeth.
Kurt squirms under him. "Oh my God," he gasps, strained, as Blaine makes a
tiny, aborted movement against him. His skinny jeans were tight even before
there was a boy on top of him; now they're killing him. He's pretty sure he's
going to die right here on the floor of Blaine's living room.
"I thought you don't believe in the guy." Kurt can hear Blaine's grin in that
out of breath murmur against his ear, and in retaliation, he digs his fingers
into his shoulder. Blaine kisses the corner of his eye, the side of his mouth,
and he pushes his thigh between Kurt's legs.
Kurt dimly hopes the sound that escapes him didn't sound too much like a
whimper. He can hear his own breath rasping in his ears and he needs more
pressure, immediately, and Blaine seems to get that; his whole body is shifting
on top of Kurt, thigh sliding up and down, pushing hard against his aching
cock. He's hiding sloppy kisses just under the collar of Kurt's shirt, uneven
breaths huffing against Kurt's skin and a very hard bulge pressing against
Kurt's leg as they rock together. Kurt wonders dazedly if this is real, if he
actually has a hot guy on top of him grinding against him and doing the kind of
stuff that he has been using as fantasy fodder for years, and then Blaine's
teeth catch on his shoulder as he moans, and Kurt remembers: it's real.
Kurt may not know what he's doing, but this is automatic. He jerkily thrusts up
against Blaine's thigh again and again, movements shallow and sharp and
desperate. His entire body feels like a tuning fork that has just been struck,
tension pooling low and his legs shaking. His hands are trembling, too; he
scrabbles at Blaine and tries to hide his face in his warm shoulder, panting
and shivering. Blaine murmurs something reassuring in his ear and fits his hand
down between them – no small feat, considering how tensely Kurt has locked his
legs around Blaine's thigh – and gives him two hard rubs with the heel of his
hand, and that's enough; Kurt comes with a startled, muffled cry.
Blaine keeps moving with him for the last few pushes, then slows with him, then
stops. He threads his fingers through Kurt's hair, using his other hand to
stroke Kurt's arm, up and down, slow and repetitive and soothing. They're both
breathing hard and Kurt feels – good; great; amazing; floppy; bone-tired;
sweaty; sticky; disgusting. He should be much, much more concerned about the
state of his jeans, and probably much more embarrassed by the fact that they
didn't even come off before he got off, but he is warm and comfortable and he
just came because his boyfriend was touching him, and it's hard to get too
worked up about anything right now.
“You still with me?” Blaine asks, very quiet. Lips brush Kurt's temple.
“Hng,” says Kurt, and Blaine laughs and shifts backward. Kurt realizes
belatedly that Blaine is still rock-hard against his leg. He opens his eyes and
grabs ahold of Blaine's hip. Blaine's face is red from his hairline down past
the collar of his T-shirt, but he's smiling at him.
“You,” says Blaine, “look amazing,” and Kurt knows he means it. “I've never
seen such a dazed face on anyone who wasn't stoned out of his mind; where's
your phone--”
Kurt bats Blaine's hand down when he tries to reach for the iPhone on the
coffee table. “You're still hard,” he says, and if it comes out a little
accusatory, it's mostly because he doesn't want to sound like a prude and he
overdoes it.
“I noticed,” says Blaine, very wryly, and then he makes an incoherent sound and
his face screws up, because Kurt has just shifted under him. “I'm cool. Just –
give me a minute.” His eyes are shut. “Possibly alone. In the bathroom.”
Kurt swallows, and then he slowly, carefully trails a hand down Blaine's side,
letting it slide forward and between them, and Blaine's stomach hitches under
the fabric of his T-shirt – and then Blaine grabs his wrist very fast. “Whoa,”
he says. His voice has gone raspy. It's extremely hot. “Kurt. Hold on.” Kurt's
fingers flex under Blaine's hand, trapped between them until Blaine lets go and
pushes himself up on his hands and knees. “I don't want you to feel obligated
to do anything.” Blaine is staring down at him very seriously, which is a
little funny, given how kiss-swollen his mouth is and how flushed his face is.
“We can stop right here. It's totally fine.”
“What if I want to do something?” Kurt challenges.
Blaine is frowning. “I don't want to push you.”
Kurt doesn't often make use of his size advantage, but he decides that it's a
good idea in this particular case. He moves. Then, in his new position, he
says, “You're not pushing. You're the one who told me that I should stand up
for myself when I want something.”
“I can safely say that this is not what I had in mind when I said that,” says
Blaine, strained, now flat on his back under Kurt.
He laughs, settling his weight on his knees, and it fades into something a
whole lot more uncertain. “What do I--?”
Blaine's expression softens. “Well, for starters, you can kiss me,” he says, so
Kurt leans down and does that, and then he follows some shaky-but-reasonable
instructions and gives Blaine what has to be one of the worst, most tentative
hand jobs in recorded history. But Blaine doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he is
– really, really into it. It's unbelievable, having someone in front of Kurt
who he can reach out and touch as much as he'd like; who wants Kurt to touch
him, who laughs-while-he-swears and shivers (and almost kicks him) when Kurt
slides an experimental hand up the inside of his thigh.
Blaine groans Kurt's name when he comes; Kurt suspects that it wasn't
intentional and that he'd just been trying to give him some warning, but it
makes his chest feel tight all the same.
He considers his personal cleanliness options for several seconds, watching
Blaine catch his breath (Kurt feeling very fond and very flushed and only a
little awkward) and then he wipes his hand on Blaine's jeans. Blaine makes an
amused noise and reaches out for him; Kurt lets him tug him down until he's
lying beside him, both of them on their backs. Kurt turns his head toward
Blaine and finds that Blaine is already looking at him.
“I hope,” Blaine says gently, like this is going to be something very romantic,
and then his eyes flick down: “those aren't dry-clean only pants.”
Snorting, on the edge of a laugh, Kurt allows his forehead to fall against
Blaine's shoulder.
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