Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/580294.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Sam_Evans/Kurt_Hummel
  Character:
      Kurt_Hummel, Sam_Evans, Finn_Hudson
  Additional Tags:
      Coda, Community:_kink_bingo, Worship, Infidelity
  Collections:
      Kink_Bingo_2010_(Round_Three)
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-05-14 Words: 6119
****** The Ground He Walks On ******
by Edwardina
Summary
     Later that night, Sam Evans bows before his queen.
Notes
     Takes place during Prom Queen. Written for kink_bingo, using the
     "worship" square. Amnesty!! Thanks so much to Nutkin and balefully
     for their support and for looking it over for me.
When Blaine dropped Kurt off at the end of the night, it was almost a let-down.
Okay, it was a really huge let-down. It wasn't like Kurt had been having
fantasies of losing his virginity after junior prom in a cookie-cutter room of
the Lima Holiday Inn. God, no. Gross. It wasn't on like that with him and
Blaine yet, anyway. They'd driven around for a little bit, until it was pushing
Kurt's 1 AM curfew, then finally pulled up in front of the Hummel-Hudson
residence, and Blaine had kissed him good night. It was a good, lengthy kiss,
but they were both so emotionally exhausted from the highs and lows of the
evening that it was... only a kiss. The sweeping teenage romance had kind of
gone out of the night halfway through it.
The lights were lit low in the living room, so Kurt steeled his spine, aware of
the plastic gold crown on his head and giving his scepter a nervous spin in his
fingers. His dad and Carole were probably waiting up for him, and after the
whole kilt thing, if they exhanged a single odd look about his unwanted but
given to him anyway prom queen crown, Kurt thought tears might start running
hot down his face again. He felt ashamed, embarrassed -- especially because he
couldn't just own it. Sure, he'd held his head up high through the rest of the
evening, and with his glee friends all around him and Blaine holding him for
dance after dance in front of the entire school, he'd found a zen with it all.
But now the let-down was kicking in.
Kurt let himself in through the front door quietly and turned to the living
room with a full confession of the whole story being reworded for minimum
damage in his head, but instead of his dad and stepmom sitting on the couch
waiting up for him, it was his stepbrother and Sam Evans.
Finn had a glass of milk in one hand (maybe it was warm -- he'd managed to turn
Finn on to that, at least, if not regular moisturizing or skinny jeans) and his
horribly kitschy blue bow tie from the tux rental place was hanging open around
his neck. He was too big for their plaid couch; his knees poked up even as he
just sat there, and his pants were officially in highwater territory. He looked
ridiculous.
Sam was sitting just where Blaine had been sitting the other day, and when Kurt
showed up in the doorway, he felt a sad emotional echo of twirling in his kilt
right on the spot and seeing his boyfriend shake his head. He was Gay
Braveheart. Sam just gave him a half-smile of greeting, looking even more out-
of-place than Finn did. Burt and Carole were nowhere in sight.
"Well, baby blue cummerbund, how was prom out in the parking lot?" Kurt asked
Finn uncharitably, sashaying into the living room.
"I could still kind of hear the music," shrugged Finn. He had shadows under his
eyes and looked tired and defeated. "I just waited around for Quinn, but she
must've gotten a ride from somebody else. She totally ditched me. I was still
out there when Rachel and Mercedes and Sam came out."
"Oh. Poor baby," said Kurt. He wasn't entirely unsympathetic, but Finn had
gotten himself into the whole mess, with Jesse and Quinn both.
"It's low," Sam said softly, seeming to try and offer a word of comfort, even
though Kurt knew Quinn was a huge sore spot between him and Finn. "She could've
at least texted you."
Finn tried to smile and failed, then hopped subjects.
"Sam told me about the prom queen thing. I'm so sorry, dude. I mean, I know you
have Blaine and all, and that's totally cool with me, but I should've been
there. To dance with you. You're the one who taught me how to dance. It
should've been me. Or someone else from McKinley. No offense to Blaine, but..."
Kurt, who was seating himself tiredly in the spot of honor that was Finn's
dad's moldy but comfortable old chair, blinked in total surprise.
"Oh," escaped his lips in a puff of air as he deflated in his seat. Somewhere
under the recent pain of the whole evening, he felt a genuine strain of warmth
for Finn. Part of it was just that he was truly touched by the sentiment, but
part of it was that somehow, he thought he might always have a crush on Finn,
and that old feeling still sometimes hit him out of nowhere, even if it only
disappeared again the minute he found Finn's sweatsocks balled up between the
couch cushions. "Thanks for the thought."
"I was going to step up," Sam said, shocking Kurt further. "I saw Blaine coming
for you, though. Didn't wanna cause a whole other scene like with that Jesse
guy."
Kurt felt the warmth in his chest push into his neck and face. And he was not
the kind of guy who could blush and have it go unnoticed -- hopefully, it just
looked like he was still fresh off the gym-slash-dance floor.
He didn't know whether this was all just pity, or what, but his blood still
wanted to rush at the idea of a seriously cute football player dancing with him
at the prom, hand on his waist and everything, unashamed to touch him in front
of everyone. Kurt hadn't forgotten the fact that Sam had gone to the mat with
Dave Karofsky a few months ago in his honor. He thought it must have been pure
territorial testosterone, but still, the new kid had been willing to do what no
one else in the glee club had been willing to do and stake his manly
quarterback reputation on defending a queer kid.
He managed, "That's very kind of you, Sam. But I wouldn't want to give anyone
any reason to hassle you. Anyway, you had more than enough dates to dance
with."
Sam smiled again, dumb and sweet, looking both pleased with himself over the
fact and sheepish.
"I think Mercedes and Rachel had fun, Jesse debacle aside," Kurt added. "I know
Mercedes really wanted to go, but it's hard to go to something like prom when
you're single and you don't know if anyone will dance with you. Lord knows I
never thought I'd have an actual date. I'm glad she didn't miss it."
"It was fun," Sam agreed, and nearly got an elbow in the face from Finn, who
was trying to stretch while he yawned and not getting as far as he would've
liked in that restrictive tuxedo jacket.
"I see your warm milk is kicking in," said Kurt, smiling.
After taking a minute to finish his big gawping yawn and leaning over at a
right angle to keep from giving the Rachel treatment to Sam's nose, Finn
sighed, "You know it, dude."
"You are seriously a gigantic five-year-old," Kurt told him as he heaved
himself up off the couch. "Remember to hang up your tux."
"I know..."
"I'm just saying," sang Kurt, waving his scepter like a conductor's baton, or
Mickey Mouse in Fantasia commanding a broom along. "You don't want to return it
all wrinkled!"
"I know, I knooow," Finn sang back over his shoulder, though it was more of a
grumpy moan. "I've worn suits before, man. I know."
"There's never been a suit quite like that before," Kurt teased, and turned his
smile onto Sam, who was just sitting there looking kind of like a shaggy puppy
with his obviously-dyed hair parted neatly at the side and swept over, too long
-- a departure from his usual Bieber style.
Kurt had noted in the same way he noted what everyone was wearing (and how) all
the time that Sam had been growing it out for some weeks. It was too long now
and needed some touching up, but Sam had clearly tried to make it look formal.
Nice. He'd combed it down flatter than usual, and even as Kurt gazed at him, he
reached up to self-consciously tuck a bit that wanted to curl up down behind
his ear again. Paired with the bolo tie that walked the thinnest line ever
between throwback-trendy and tasteless, he just looked funny. Cute, because he
was generally cute, but in desperate need of the pre-prom dry-run. It was too
late for that now, and also, Kurt didn't want to say anything about how Sam
could have worn just about any other tie and gotten some hair gel and gone a
little less Jed Clampett and a little more Don Draper. He knew the whole
ensemble probably wasn't Sam's first choice.
"So, Sam, I... like your tie," was what he did say. "Bold statement."
"Oh, yeah." Sam looked down at himself and grasped the two ends of the tie with
both hands, giving them a gentle tug. "It was my dad's. Think Springsteen," he
added, dipping his head in such a way that his hair slipped right back into his
eyes.
"All I know about Springsteen is that my favorite album was Born In the U.S.A.
because of his cute little blue-collar butt," said Kurt, and it was way, way
too gay a thing to say to anyone other than Blaine or one of his pajama party
girlfriends. Even in glee club he probably barely would've gotten away with it
-- with no lack of glee on his part, too. But he quickly tacked on,
"Springsteen's good! My dad likes him. He has that album on vinyl. I used to
pull it out of the box to look at it when I was about five or six. That was
probably a red flag right there. And I'm babbling. God, sorry. You're probably
sitting there like, 'Does he ever shut up? Hey, buddy! A crown doesn't mean you
have anything of import to say!'"
The whole thing ended in a bubbling trail of awkward laughter on Kurt's part as
Sam sat there looking uncertain, a smile Kurt had no idea how to read pulling
at the corners of his mouth and his eyes unblinking and -- what, incredulous?
Sam had one of the most unreadable faces Kurt had ever seen. There was always
something in his eyes that was a total mystery, and he spoke in such a low,
guarded monotone that it was sometimes hard to detect anything in that, and
hearing Sam sing was quite different than hearing him speak. It made Kurt feel
like he was epic social fail.
When he'd brought Sam a few things to wear at the motel where his family was
staying, he hadn't known what to say at all. And rarely was he rendered
completely speechless. He'd tried to find things that would fit Sam's frame -
- compared to Kurt he had much broader shoulders, but most of Kurt's stuff was
very slim-fitting and tailored (mostly by his own hand) or too... fuzzy, or
shiny, or studded. He'd only been able to find a couple of t-shirts that didn't
have stuff like OUI OUI J'ADORE PARIS stamped diagonally across them, some
plain white v-neck tees he'd accidentally gotten from American Apparel in a
size too big, and his Earth Day jacket. Sam had taken it all without a single
complaint or speck of doubt visible in his face and said, Thanks. I really
appreciate it.
And now, Sam was just gazing at him with that smile Kurt suspected was
unconscious or polite or bemused or something.
It hadn't really occurred to Kurt before just then that he hadn't even
questioned what Sam was doing there. He hadn't even said hello. And he had no
idea if Finn was coming back downstairs or what. He and Sam were just sitting
there in sudden silence.
"Do you need a ride home?" he offered politely.
Sam fiddled with the ends of his tie and blinked once. He sounded wary when he
spoke, or self-conscious. "Finn said I could stay the night."
"Oh! Okay. So are you on the floor in Finn's room or on the couch?"
"I dunno," said Sam, meeting his eyes reluctantly.
"The couch is far more comfortable," said Kurt, standing decisively and
pointing at Sam with his glittery scepter. "Did you bring anything to sleep
in?"
"Uh, no. I didn't really know I was going to stay over. I just wound up here
after we took Mercedes and Rachel home, and now it's so late, I don't want to
wake everybody in my family up by coming in and making a bunch of noise. My
parents really need the sleep."
Kurt laid the ridiculous scepter down on the coffee table. "I understand
completely. Don't you move. I'll bring you a pillow and some blankets."
"...Thanks," Sam said softly as Kurt headed for the linen closet by his dad's
room, which Carole now shared, so he made sure to be extra careful and quiet as
he pulled out a spare pillow, a slipcover for it, a thin knit blanket, and a
snowy white coverlet that he'd proudly kept spotless through his dad's entire
convalescence.
The crown on his head didn't feel quite so awkward or important right then, nor
did the kilt and jacket he'd spent two straight days Frankensteining with his
dutiful Brother sewing machine. Prom was over now. And it was just prom. Junior
prom. Not even senior prom.
Kurt had just closed the closet door and slipped the cover onto the pillow when
he turned and saw that Sam had stood and shed his jacket. He just clutched it
awkwardly in his hands for a long few seconds, then decided to fold it -- well,
wad it -- up as small as possible and put it next to the stack of aging TV
Guide magazines. The scepter and all the homey clutter decor Kurt and Carole
had shopped for together was taking up most of the table. Kurt watched him
slide the bolo tie up and off over his head, ruffling up some of that bottle-
blond hair, and put it deliberately on top of his jacket. The white button-up
was apparently next, tugged casually out of the suit pants, and Sam's head
ducked low as he unbuttoned it.
Kurt's heart thumped audibly in his ears for the second time that night.
He really didn't mean to just stand there and watch Sam undress, but something
in Kurt was plucked by the sight and could only quiver helplessly in response.
He was over Finn doffing his clothes -- he was so clumsy at it, and had been so
obviously self-conscious at the mere idea of undressing with Kurt around that
now, even if Finn was shameless (which he wasn't; he never went around the
house shirtless), Kurt would've refused to look at him out of spite and pride.
And during his brief stint on the football team, Kurt had made sure to keep his
profile so low in the locker room that he may as well have been a ghost. A
ghost in a wonderfully soft white terrycloth robe. Anyway, he'd never peeked at
anyone while they undressed or walked around being all heterosexually naked
around other guys or stood in the shower with droplets of water rolling down
their bodies, ignoring the lingering guilty temptation like the friggin' patron
saint of hoping not to get punched in both eyes and/or shut up in one of the
stank old lockers. But Sam wasn't looking suspiciously his way over one
shoulder, watching out for gay eyes on his bare skin. He was just shrugging the
shirt off, shoulder blades rolling gently, accidentally pulling the sleeves
inside-out in the process and then standing there shirtless in Kurt's living
room, fixing each one. His waist was perfect, tiny but thickly corded with
visible muscle. Even in clothes that didn't fit him quite right, his body was
amazing.
Well, it wasn't like Kurt hadn't marched up to him while he was butt-naked in
the shower or already witnessed that stupidly sick Adonis body in completely
indecent skin-tight gold shorts.
He marched back over, no big deal, and laid the pillow on the end of the couch.
"I'll get a hanger for your suit," he said, and Sam looked down, hair slipping
into his face. He looked like a little boy in some way, even though he was
broad and just that inch or two taller than Kurt.
"Thanks," he repeated, with the same funny half-smile. Then he turned and took
the blankets from beneath Kurt's arm. They were very close together there for a
second.
Kilt bouncing against his knees, Kurt trotted up the stairs to his room, where
he knew he had a couple of decent hangers he could spare, and when he came back
down, Sam was simply sitting on the couch again, this time just in his briefs
and one of the white American Apparel t-shirts from the package Kurt had given
him. He was hunched over just enough to where he looked like an Abercrombie and
Fitch model, like Kurt could've taken a snapshot of him on his phone, sent it
into IMG, and gotten Sam a job in New York in like a week.
Some part of him hurt.
He knew he'd been repressing everything he felt about guys his whole life -
- and that Sam wasn't the first guy he'd ever thought to be so heartbreakingly
beautiful and oh-for-sure-gay (that was probably Jude Law) -- but everything
about Sam he'd been actively, enthusiastically ignoring since the duets drama
seemed to creep up on him just then.
It was uncanny, how he had forcefully forgotten or blurred out Sam's face in
his mind. With the possibility that the only other definitely-gay, definitely-
out boy he'd ever met might somehow one day return his feelings, Kurt had
simply made himself unsee just how completely cute Sam Evans actually was. It
was as if without imbibing alcohol at all, he'd been drunk at Rachel's party
too, and had forgotten Sam had been there because all that mattered was Blaine.
He knew vaguely via the typical gossip mill that Sam had defected from Team
Fabray and become Santana's boytoy for about thirty seconds, and he'd known
even before then and before he'd learned about the extent of the situation with
the Evans family that Sam had a job delivering pizzas, because Sam had been the
unfortunate one to deliver a tall stack of the things to Dalton after a nursing
home show one evening.
But somehow, he'd just put Sam on ignore almost completely, muted him in the
middle of his duet with Quinn so the stomachache he had about him and the whole
waste of excitement and harmony-planning of their winning duet would just go
away. He had kept it all from sticking in his head, kept the new kid at arm's
length, and at Dalton it had been easy; the most important thing was Blaine.
And kissing Blaine. And singing in his highest register with Blaine at
Regionals. And holding hands with him at Breadstix. And going with him to prom.
Cue the clatter of his dropped poker face. That beautiful blond jock was
sitting in his underwear right there on his couch.
God, he could do this. He'd functioned around Finn daily with a fair amount of
sanity most of last year and lived in the same house as him now. Even with a
crown proclaiming him a complete queen and kilt that gave a rather excellent
but admittedly feminine twirl, he wasn't Sandy Ryerson.
"Here we go. For your suit," he said, drawing Sam's glance.
"I can do it," Sam said, both hands clutching at the plaid couch cushions under
his bare thighs (oh, God, was he looking?) as he leaned forward.
"Just let me take care of it. It'll stop that nagging sensation I've got that
Finn's crying himself to sleep in his right now," said Kurt, picking up Sam's
dad's slacks and giving them a good shake to straighten them out.
Pocket change jingled and instantly jumped out everywhere, nickels and pennies
bouncing on the carpet, Sam's brown leather wallet slipping out of the back
pocket and landing between their feet. The stub of his prom ticket fluttered
out too, and Kurt saw a tube of ChapStick rolling under the coffee table.
"Oh, jeez," he blurted. "Sorry! I'm basically a total spaz tonight."
"'S okay," Sam huffed, clearly laughing at him, and unconsciously torturing his
stomach even more by slipping down onto his knees to reach for his wallet and
the various coins that he could see. His arms were long and sleekly muscled and
the white t-shirt was stretched slightly between the planes of his shoulders.
"Oh, God," moaned Kurt. "Sam, this night is just all over the place."
"Don't think of it like that," said Sam. "Look, I know it was rough on you. To
get up in front of everyone like that, and just act like you won it because it
belonged to you all along. But you did it, you owned it, and check you out now.
Prom Queen."
He smiled up at Kurt, depositing a handful of change on top of the coffee
table. It looked like a sincere smile, so Kurt smiled back.
"Yes," he said, with a gentle sarcasm that didn't dissipate their exchange.
"This title means a lot to me."
"It was all Quinn ever wanted," said Sam. "To win the crown and rule the
school. I totally thought she would win. Or maybe Zizes."
"Me too. Especially after the Lucy Caboosey scandal, I thought Quinn had it in
the bag. Everyone loves a good makeover, and she had the mother of all
makeovers." A thought suddenly struck him. "Who'd you vote for?"
"I wrote in for Mercedes."
"Ahh, Sam! That's so sweet. You're --" So gallant, Kurt wanted to say. Such a
gentleman. " -- like, the most perfect guy ever."
Sam exhaled a puff of laughter and looked down again quickly, and Kurt hastily
folded up the black dress slacks, which just felt like the early eighties to
the touch, too-slick, and threaded them through the hanger. He was borderline
nervous now, and wasn't sure why, except he was sure he was being too obvious
in some way and was sure he was babbling. It wasn't really right to feel
fluttery and like he might drop Sam's white dress shirt a million times as he
struggled to get it on the hanger, too. He had a real, live, actual boyfriend
now, so it was just karmically unsound to be unable to stop thinking about how
cute and sweet Sam was.
After looping it around the neck of the hanger, he slowly traced a finger over
braided black leather of Sam's bolo tie, trying to think clearly and speak
deliberately. With Blaine, he was used to speaking with honesty, courage -- but
talking to ostensibly straight boys was just fundamentally different in some
way. Dangerous. "Would you really have danced with me?"
Sam had successfully rescued his ChapStick, and at Kurt's question, he placed
it slowly and carefully upright on the coffee table, keeping his fingers steady
around its base and rotating the tube in them.
"Sure," he said lightly, his voice coming out much shyer than Kurt had
expected.
Kurt clutched the hanger with Sam's pants, shirt, and tie all tidily hanging
from it against his chest. "Really," he said, caught between dubiousness and
irrepressible hope. "In front of all those jerks at McKinley who would sooner
dump a slushie down your pants than witness you doing anything that might be
considered gay."
He saw Sam's jaw flex slightly as he stared at the ChapStick in front of him.
Sam didn't seem to know what to say for a second. Then --
"Yes. Unless you didn't want me to, or something. I think you're really cool,
Kurt."
Kurt's brows ratcheted up quicker than a jack under the frame of a '97 Pontiac,
and just kept going until he could feel his crown sliding on his hair.
"You do," he said, but it came out all breath and no voice.
"You know you're cool," Sam replied, looking up at him almost reproachfully.
"You're not like anyone else at that school. You're different. Not because
you're -- gay, but because you're... just really smart and, like, worldly. You
dress crazy, but it works on you, and you always look good and never dress just
like anybody else. Quinn says you speak French so good the teacher gives you
different homework than everybody else, and you won, like, some big thing for
the Cheerios last year with a Celine Dion medley sung all in French."
"Nationals," Kurt whispered. He felt glued to the spot as Sam reached out and
grasped one of the pleats of his kilt, which he'd carefully ironed and set
himself.
"And you're Prom Queen," he said simply.
Some stupid utterance wanted to make its way up and out Kurt's chest, but his
throat had almost shut itself completely. Sam glanced up at him with a smile,
but Kurt was frozen, heart thumping hard in his chest. He couldn't swallow away
the feelings that were close to choking him. He stared down at Sam, aware of
his own shoulders and chest heaving in his little tuxedo jacket with the
anxious breaths his lungs were sucking down.
Sam looked down again -- looked away awkwardly. His eyelashes were sandy. His
mouth was hanging open, full and pink, so pillowy-looking and curvy and overly-
generous, and Kurt watched as he shut it, pressed his lips together, and let
them twist crookedly. Then Sam looked up at him again. His eyes were so round
and light, and suddenly they weren't mysterious at all, but open and deep.
"You're also really cute."
His heart stopped. Kurt was pretty sure it just totally up and stopped. He
didn't know what was happening, what Sam was saying. Was this -- was Sam saying
he was -- gay, or -- was this more pity -- or -- did he feel indebted to Kurt
in some way -- or was he drunk --
Down there on his knees, Sam seemed to deflate suddenly, breathing out in a
harsh gust. "I shouldn't have said that."
"No!" Kurt managed to gasp, shaking his head. "It's okay! I -- you're really
cute, too. Obviously."
It sounded so lame coming out of his mouth, gripped with adrenaline, but it
made Sam's eyes flick up to his again and an absent but absolutely gut-
wrenchingly adorable smile pull at his mouth.
"I'm really confused," he confessed sheepishly.
"Why? What's going through your head?" Kurt asked, not above grasping
desperately for the line, if Sam was going to toss one at him like that.
"I kind of want to touch you. Maybe it's your kilt. I just want to touch your
legs," Sam replied, eyes still looking wide.
Kurt's knees wanted to buckle at the mere idea.
"You can," he said, almost casually, as if Sam had said he'd wanted to mess
with Finn's PlayStation. He was wearing pants, anyway, he thought vaguely. So
it was no big deal. Sam would probably come to his senses in a second and Kurt
could play the whole thing off as the both of them being tired and over-
excited.
Sam's hands carefully gripped around the backs of his knees just under his
kilt, nearly making Kurt sway there in front of him, and in that second, it all
hit Kurt, how damn sexy it was just to see Sam down on his knees like that. A
boy on his knees in front of another boy, a boy touching him... it was like a
wet dream. Kurt never even bothered to fantasize that a guy might be on his
knees like this in front of him someday. He thought maybe he'd like to be, but
never thought anyone would want to get down in front of him for any reason. He
focused on dreams of holding hands, kissing in the hallways at school in front
of everyone without care like normal, straight kids, words and tokens of
affection... not this. This was dirty.
This was all completely wrong and he knew it -- he had a boyfriend... Sam was
confused... and all he could think was that he was getting hard in his fancy
black trousers from it, and he'd never had an even remotely sexual experience
with Blaine before -- he'd never felt like this before. Like someone wanted to
touch him, and he could tell.
Sam's mouth dropped open, and Kurt could feel as well as see the way he was
breathing through it. His hands both slid, fingers longer and more delicate
than Kurt could have ever imagined or expected, carefully up the seams that led
up Kurt's thighs. He flushed, and Sam did too.
Okay, so the fact that he was wearing pants didn't make this any less sexual.
Oh, God.
He felt Sam's touch slide around the backs of his thighs and could barely stay
upright. Kurt let his hand shoot out to grip for balance on Sam's shoulder, the
suit he'd been in the process of hanging so neatly falling by the wayside and
slumping on its hanger there by the side of the couch. Sam leaned in as if to
help keep him up, his nose brushing the plaid covering the curve of Kurt's
hard-on, which was so obvious in his clingy skinnies.
To his utter surprise, Sam didn't rock back again, jolted back into reality. He
pushed his nose deliberately against it, nuzzling Kurt's cock, mouth following
in a rub.
"Sam," Kurt huffed sharply. This couldn't be happening. No one had ever touched
him there before, not on purpose.
Then Sam pushed the front of his kilt up.
It was indecent. Without being even slightly naked, Kurt was exposed, and Sam's
mouth was plush and gentle and -- huge, lipping at him through the stretchy
black material. Kurt could feel how wide it seemed to be able to open even
through his pants, and when Sam's hot breath soaked through the material, he
gasped and grabbed Sam's hair. It was softer than it looked, plenty shaggy
enough to really get his fingers into, and Sam whimpered responsively, like he
liked the feel of Kurt touching him back. His mouth closed around the knob of
Kurt's dick, vulnerable there just under his pocket, warm and sucking at him
right through his pants, and his hand curled its fingers into the waistband of
his kilt as he held up the front.
"Oh my God," Kurt mouthed, the words just barely forming in his breath. His
belly clenched sensitively as Sam rubbed his face right there in his crotch,
mouth alternately sliding along the increasingly stiffer spine of his erection
and kissing at it. It was unbearably arousing and sweet at the same time, and
he was scared of the idea of anything more because he just wasn't sure he could
handle the feeling, if it was this intense just to be touched through his pants
and underwear.
It was about five seconds after he allowed himself to grab another fistful of
Sam's bleach-blond hair and look down at the red flush of Sam's face and mouth
against his hard-on that he gasped in realization that it was happening, it was
too late --
He couldn't even say anything. He was coming in the adorable skinny pants he'd
bought especially for prom, unloading in them tremendously, dick pumping out
hot, mortifying gouts of come even as Sam held him around the back of his thigh
and sucked at him through them.
"Sam," he barely managed, the spike of unbelievable tension hitting him over
and over low in his stomach almost scaring him, it was so much more than he
ever made himself feel. He felt weak and light-headed, and the next thing he
knew, he was slumping against the back of the couch, his crown slipping
crookedly over his hair and his kilt totally askew. Sam had clearly moved him
by the hips, as his hands were sliding up around Kurt's waist, touching him
under his jacket and eliciting a huge shiver from him. His thighs felt shaky
and Sam was... strong. And much closer to naked than he was.
"You okay?" Sam asked lowly, breathing just as hard as he was. Kurt had messed
up his hair and he looked red-faced and glassy-eyed. Kurt nodded automatically,
staring at him. He was still on his knees, face near Kurt's lap. Oh, God, this
was beyond inappropriate. If his dad woke up, there would be guilt and toast
and yet more guilt.
Sam's eyelids dropped, and Kurt panted, trying to catch his breath, watching as
Sam sucked his lower lip slowly and exhaled.
"You?" Kurt asked sensitively.
"Yeah," Sam said. His voice was so much lower than Kurt's. He took a deep
breath, and Kurt thought he looked nervous, or maybe regretful, but it was
getting difficult to read his expression again. Come to think of it, Kurt had
no idea if any of that had been half as earth-shatteringly exciting or sexy to
Sam as it had been to him. Hair slipped into Sam's eyes. "I'm sorry..."
"No," Kurt said again, cutting him off before either of them could start
feeling really awkward about any of it. This night had already been a serious
roller-coaster of emotions, and he felt so close to just giving in to the
trembling inside. "It's okay. All of this is really confusing. I get it. Can I
just... ask you one question?"
"I don't know what I am," Sam said automatically, answering the question Kurt
hadn't even intended to try and ask.
"Oh," he breathed. He wasn't sure what to make of that. He sort of thought you
were gay or you weren't. "Okay. Well..."
He took a pause; he was still rather uncoordinated and inexperienced at
initiating anything with Blaine. It still felt new to him to be kissed by
anyone and have it feel right. He definitely wasn't used to being around anyone
while there was jizz soaking through his undies. A blush tried to fight its way
into his face at the realization that he'd just come in front of someone else
for the first time in his life. Sam had dated Santana, so he was probably a
whole lot more experienced than Kurt, but still, realizing how huge that was in
comparison to more innocent touching gave him the courage to cup Sam's face
gingerly, though he wasn't sure if the gesture would be welcome or not. Sam
eyed him, blinking as Kurt pushed the hair hanging in his eye aside again.
"Then I guess my question is, can I kiss you? Keep in mind that you can't
really say no to royalty."
Sam looked increasingly wide-eyed. After an awkward pause, he laughed and said,
"Okay?"
Kurt didn't give him a second to reconsider. He leaned forward, bringing his
other hand up so he could cup both sides of Sam's face, and planted one on him,
his stomach swooping low as he did so. Sam's mouth was ridiculously plump and
pliant, and against his fingers he could feel a vague grit even though he was
sure Sam had shaved freshly before the dance, especially because he could smell
the aftershave, being this close. It smelled cheap and boyish, and Sam's hands
slid up his ribcage and around his back, slipping over his dress shirt but
under his jacket.
It was different than delicately swapping spit with Brittany, even though there
was a tube of ChapStick about two feet from them. It was different than
Karofsky laying one on him, even though Sam too wore a letterman jacket and was
bigger than him, more muscular and solid, strong. It was different than Blaine
because he didn't feel inferior or like he was continually trying to impress.
Sam was the one to open their mouths and deepen the kiss with a warm roll of
tongue. Oh my God, Kurt was probably going to come in his pants again.
They only parted when Sam moaned low and broke away. He had a near-pained
looking pull on his face and a red flush all the way down his neck to the v of
his tee's collar.
"I -- don't think it's the kilt," he managed.
"Oh, no?" Kurt panted, flirty. "Is it the crown? Maybe I should knight you
while you're down there."
Sam shook his head, bumping their noses together. "I think it's just you. I'm
about to lose it big-time just -- just doing this -- with you."
It was the most romantic thing Kurt had ever heard.
And this was definitely how prom night should have ended.
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