and a wonderful spring to be sprung
"Uninhibited" - Kurt/Blaine

For gingeritt, as requested.  ;)

Warnings for: drunk sex (totally consensual though), possessive!Blaine, bottom!Kurt.

Kurt dabbles in alcohol again in college, but only after Blaine moves to New York.  They aren’t attending the same school but they do live together and have mutual friends, so as a couple they brave the bar scene and find ways to make it fun. 

Discovery number one is that Kurt is an affectionate, horny drunk.  Blaine isn’t surprised in the least.  Kurt has always been the quieter one when it comes to both sex and sexual behavior in general.  He doesn’t really like to talk about what he wants, he doesn’t vocalize much, and he’s more comfortable being in control in the bedroom simply because he’d rather do and show than ask and tell.

For the most part, Blaine is fine with this; he’s a babbler in bed, and he can get incredibly needy, and he loves being taken care of, so it’s not really a stretch to see why Kurt’s behavior isn’t an issue for either of them.

Except for when Kurt gets drunk.  Hell, even tipsy he is more open; he has no qualms about revealing his inner cuddlebug, and a few drinks after that he’s clinging to Blaine’s neck and whispering in his ear.

 

Kurt drunk two years ago had been a silly thing; but now, substantially more grown, wide-shouldered and slim-faced Kurt is all red nose and ears and cheeks and sweat shining across his forehead and a tongue softly lapping at Blaine’s earlobe, fully aware of the power of his own sexuality.

They’d discussed intoxication and boundaries when they’d moved in together; Kurt had told Blaine that as long as they were alone, at home, and used protection as they always do, that Blaine could indulge Kurt’s drunken requests as he saw fit.

Kurt is rapidly approaching drunk tonight.  They’re at one of the bars that is very popular among the students of Blaine’s college, but it’s just a regular bar, nothing special.

This doesn’t meant that they don’t get hit on a lot.  Kurt has been flirted with by a bartender, three separate patrons, and the lead guitarist of the band that had been doing covers on stage just an hour ago.

Blaine is used to Kurt drawing focus, and knows that it’s harmless.  But there is a limit.  Kurt is gregarious when he drinks, and sometimes he doesn’t notice how enamored people are becoming of him until they’re halfway to sneaking a kiss or a grope or passing over a phone number, and Blaine has to intervene.  Kurt still has no idea how hot he is, how much he stands out in a crowd of average faces; he still doesn’t understand that half the time he’s being hit on.

Blaine has only had one beer, so he’s sober enough to notice that the guitarist with the tattoos and wild hair that Kurt would never approach or talk to sober is about five minutes away from sliding his hand up Kurt’s thigh.

He slices through the crowd (there are benefits to being so compact) and comes up behind Kurt, sliding one arm around his waist and the other up and over his shoulder to slant down the front of his chest. 

"Ready to go home, baby?" he says, and watches the musician frown.

"Mm," Kurt hums drunkenly. "Yeah.  It was—lovely to meet you."

Ten minutes later Blaine can’t even remember the guy’s face, but his cheeks are humming with blood.  He doesn’t have to play the jealous boyfriend often, but when he does the role sticks to him like glue.

Kurt stokes the fire by keeping him on edge all the way home (it’s only a few blocks and they are on foot, but it feels like miles); his hand is either around Blaine’s waist, pawing at the skin between his pants and shirt, or in Blaine’s hair, or his arms around Blaine’s neck as he kisses him sideways.  They practically fall up the stairs because Kurt won’t let him go.

Blaine would normally help him change and shove him into bed, but tonight the moment that the door is closed he finds himself pushing Kurt against it.

Kurt’s face is a wash of drunken arousal.  Where he would normally flip them around, or growl something to change the mood, or even tell Blaine that he isn’t up for anything but falling dead asleep, tonight he just stands there, eyelids dipping lazily, nose and ears bright red with cold and drunkenness.

Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt’s waist, sliding his palms flat and wide up Kurt’s back.  He pulls Kurt’s shirt from the hem of Kurt’s pants.  He uses his hips to rock Kurt back into the door. “You have no idea how many of those guys back there wanted to go home with you tonight, do you?  Even the ones that knew we were there together?”

Kurt licks his lips.  His breath reeks of alcohol. “Don’t care,” he groans.  Their lips are almost touching, but Blaine doesn’t kiss him.

"Why not?"

"Don’t want anyone else."

Blaine thrusts again, driving their pelvises together. “Because you’re mine.”

"I’m—"

He thrusts again, interrupting Kurt with one hand between his legs. “You’re mine.”

Kurt gasps.  His pupils are blown and his lips are red from all of the biting, licking, and fruity drinks.  Blaine stares at that pretty mouth, possessiveness raging through his veins like blood.

"Want you to fuck me," Kurt blurts.  He breathes in sharply when Blaine squeezes his cock and balls in one hand, hard.

"Yeah?" Blaine breathes, jerking Kurt’s belt open.  He doesn’t even want to finish; he grabs the dangling belt ends and drags Kurt over to the couch by them.  

Kurt almost never volunteers upfront to bottom; he’ll do it in the heat of the moment, but he just lacks the vulnerability that Blaine possesses to openly and constantly want it, to crave it.  It’s not so much a matter of sexual preference as it is a personality difference.  He just isn’t very good at letting go, at letting someone else take care of him, and taking it up the ass does require a certain comfort level to be pleasurable.

But tonight he’s as smooth as sin incarnate, his body lanky and loose like a cat’s, his long legs (fuck, so fucking long, they make Blaine lose his mind) peeled out of those skinny jeans, that soak-stained purple dress shirt tumbling off of his milky shoulders.  His eyes are dark and warm and his fingers confident as he undoes Blaine’s pants, never breaking eye contact.

"Fuck me," he breathes, again, sultry in a way that he almost never allows himself to be as he lies back on the couch and spreads his legs. "Don’t take anything off.  Just pull it out and fuck me," he says, rubbing Blaine’s cock through his underwear.

Kurt is still too drunk to even have a full erection, but Blaine knows from personal experience that there’s no point in waiting.  He’ll either catch up or the alcohol won’t let him; it’s happened to them many times before.

Blaine is typically all for the foreplay, but tonight his fingers are twitching for the lubricant and condoms before he can even think about kissing Kurt senseless or blowing him first or anything.  He rips open the condom with his teeth and puts it on even as he begins rubbing Kurt’s hole with his other hand.

Kurt hisses and reaches for him but he swats Kurt’s hands away. “Put them above your head.” Kurt’s eyes widen a little, but he does as he’s told, hugging the pillow just above his sweaty, mused hair.

It’s different from any of the times that Kurt has been under him before; he is languid, one leg slung over the back of the couch and one bent down toward the floor (fuck, so fucking long, what is he made of?), and Blaine falls between his thighs easily.  His hips lift off the cushions with uncharacteristic ease, and Blaine doesn’t wait; he pushes one and then two fingers inside of Kurt, hissing as the tightness clamps down around him. 

It’s heat, all heat and almost no resistance, and so fucking soft.  He doesn’t think that he’s ever felt Kurt give way so easily, and it makes his throbbing cock drip, the head leaving wet smears across Kurt’s inner thigh.  The drag of the soft hairs there drive Blaine crazy.

"Come on," Kurt whimpers. "Come on.”

He wants to hold back, but he can’t; he’s seeing red, and his body is pounding with the beat of a heart that won’t slow down, and eyes that can’t stop seeing the pale wash of long, sweet, pliant limbs under him.  He just wants to take.  He doesn’t often objectify Kurt, but the sweet, dark place between his legs is calling like it has a voice of its own.  

He pushes into Kurt without stopping, one long thrust that lifts Kurt’s pelvis off of the couch.  Kurt wraps one leg around his waist and keens, back arching.

"Fuck," he hisses, one hand wrapping around Blaine’s left ass cheek, fingernails digging in.  He pulls Blaine in deeper.

Blaine would normally stop and wait and check to see if Kurt’s okay.  Tonight, he just pulls out and slams back in, thrilling at the way that Kurt whines and clenches around him.  So fucking tight.  So hot inside.  So wet with lubricant that it’s almost like nothing to just start fucking him, hard and fast, wringing high-pitched noises and breathy gasps out of him.

He ignores Kurt’s cock entirely.  He just fucks him, rough and dirty, one hand twisting in his hair and the other holding up the weight of his own body.  He bends close as the tension winds between them, loving the way that Kurt’s warm, sweaty body feels against his clothed skin.  He keeps going, harder and fast, until all he can hear is the slap of cloth on skin and the wet, sucking slick of his cock forcing Kurt open again and again.  Kurt is sobbing softly against his throat, shaking.  

"Close," he groans, and Kurt’s other legs wraps around him.  He slides one hand down the bare, sweaty, smoothness of the back of one of those thighs, hitching it higher. "So fucking close.  Sweet little ass, so tight for me."

"All yours," Kurt gasps.

He comes, and it’s as sudden and sharp as a whiplash, white exploding behind his eyelids, toes curling inside of the shoes that he is still wearing.

"Shit," he curses, collapsing.  Kurt had never even gotten hard.  He feels like an asshole. "Sorry.  Sorry, that was—you didn’t even—"

"Wasn’t going to happen," Kurt breathes. "Too much sangria." 

"I was rough," Blaine adds, guilt creeping back.

Kurt is warm and naked and spread under him, lazy and spent.  He’s smiling and his hair is a mess and his thighs are still spread wide. “I liked it,” he says, as sweet as candy and red in the face—still drunk or embarrassed, Blaine can’t say. “I loved it, actually.”

Blaine flushes, burying his face in Kurt’s chest. 

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