fic: sound, not sight

~2,100k

He nudges Blaine’s door open with his foot and crosses the room, dropping Blaine to the bed with an oomph, a creak of springs and mattress, and a groaned “Kurt.” Turning and smiling to himself, he shuts the door with another creak of hinges and a whisper of wood against carpet. It closes with a finalized noise, the lock clicking in place, and through the wood Kurt’s gentle, cajoling words of “Sit up for me, sweetheart, and spread your legs” can be heard.

prompt from the Glee Kink Meme under the cut! I found this to be an interesting writing exercise and I couldn’t resist doing a little something else this week

——

Kurt throws Blaine over his shoulder, carries him to his room and locks the door. From that point on, the sex is all sound and no visuals, as if the readers are listening in from the other side.

Bonus if Kurt is completely casual and in control, even a bit quiet, but Blaine sounds loud and completely wrecked, moaning and screaming so that he can be heard throughout the whole house despite the closed doors. :D Thanks!

——

“I love you,” Blaine murmurs, lips just barely brushing Kurt’s. They’re pressed tightly together on the couch, legs twined and arms clutching and scraping against skin and shirts and jeans. Their harsh, heavy breathing fills the space as they kiss again, tongues curling and lips sliding wetly, teeth dragging along lips and chins to induce breathy moans. “I love you, Kurt. So, so much.”

 

Kurt hmms his agreement, pressing another peck to Blaine’s lips, then his chin, then his jaw and the tip of his nose. The brush of his hair tickles Blaine’s skin; the touch of his lips feels electric. This close, all they can smell is each other: sweat, cologne, shampoo and body wash. “Cooper’s gone, you know,” Kurt whispers, kissing down the line of Blaine’s throat to hear him groan and feel him tilt his head back, exposing his neck. “You don’t have to worry.”

 

“He’s never really gone,” Blaine replies, twisting his fingers into Kurt’s smooth hair. He hitches his leg higher against the back of the couch, wrapping his ankle around the back of Kurt’s thigh. “He still calls me all the time. And his photos and his stupid commercial are everywhere. And he’s all my parents have been talking about since he got off the plane last week and got back on yesterday—”

 

“Okay, no, shh,” Kurt says, sitting up.

 

Blaine makes a displeased noise and grabs at Kurt, propping himself up on his elbows. “No, come back, what are you doing?” he whines, pouting. “Kissing is really, really nice and you’re so good at it.”

 

Kurt tsks and smiles, grabbing one of Blaine’s hands and running his fingertips lightly against the palm, feeling Blaine giggle and squirm under him, red-bitten lips spread wide in a grin. “I’m going to make you forget all about your brother,” he says, bringing Blaine’s hand up to his mouth to press a kiss to the tender inside flesh. “We’re going to go upstairs and I’m going to make you forget your name, okay?”

 

Blaine swallows, his smile slipping away to fall into a parted-lip gape. His adam’s apple bobs as he nods silently. His eyes are wide, unblinking, and Kurt just continues to smile impishly down at him, darting the tip of his tongue out to trace delicate wet circles into the patch of skin he’s still paying attention to. Blaine lets out a quiet moan, eyes slipping halfway shut, and Kurt takes this as his cue to work his way out of the tangle of limbs and to the floor.

 

He tugs Blaine up with no resistance, and before Blaine is fully settled on his feet Kurt grabs him by the waist and hoists him up over his shoulder with a quiet grunt. Blaine squeals in surprise, clutching tightly at the back of Kurt’s shirt, which earns him a swat against his ass. Kurt can feel him half-hard against his chest as he wriggles and squeaks from the sudden slap.

 

Blaine is heavy but not too heavy and Kurt’s glad he’s been working on his arms a little more over the weeks, otherwise this would have been impossible. For a little guy Blaine is surprisingly sturdy and compact and a lot heavier than one would believe, though Kurt knows that all that weight comes from the muscles he likes tracing with his tongue and fingertips and drinking in with his eyes and, god, even coming on. “Kurt! Kurt, oh my god, what are you doing? Put me down!”

 

“We’re going upstairs,” Kurt repeats.

 

“You’re carrying me?”

 

Kurt rolls his eyes and makes for the stairs, Blaine clutching at the back of his shirt still like he’ll fall to his death if he doesn’t. “What does it look like?”

 

“You’re carrying me upstairs,” Blaine repeats dumbly, voice a little strained from the pressure on his stomach. “You’re actually—oh.”

 

“Turn-on for you, isn’t it?” Kurt asks sweetly, voice deepening to a low, rumbling purr. He clutches the back of Blaine’s thigh, digs in with his nails, and Blaine moans softly against his back. “You never knew I was this strong.”

 

Strength is Blaine’s favorite thing about the sex they have when they let go—the first time Kurt had pushed him up against the wall and hoisted him up until Blaine had no choice but to wrap his legs around Kurt’s waist he’d come before belts had even been unbuckled. It had also been the first time Kurt had ever seen Blaine really let go, seen the desperate crease of his brow as he squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back against the wall with a painful-sounding thud. He’d heard Blaine moan, heard his grunts as he fucked into him, but he’d never heard Blaine whine like he had then.

 

They’re at the top of the stairs now, Blaine’s door in sight just down the hall. Kurt hitches him higher over his shoulder and swats his ass again when Blaine starts squirming and nearly upsets his balance. His cock digs in harder, searing hot against Kurt’s chest, and he realizes with a jolt that Blaine really is getting off on this.

 

He nudges Blaine’s door open with his foot and crosses the room, dropping Blaine to the bed with an oomph, a creak of springs and mattress, and a groaned “Kurt.” Turning and smiling to himself, he shuts the door with another creak of hinges and a whisper of wood against carpet. It closes with a finalized noise, the lock clicking in place, and through the wood Kurt’s gentle, cajoling words of “Sit up for me, sweetheart, and spread your legs” can be heard.

 

The rustle of clothes, the slick sliding of lips as they both part and come back together, are the only sounds to be heard for a few minutes. There are quiet words and shuddered breaths, drawn-out vowels of their names spoken in heated air. The soft sucking sound of lips working over skin, presumably a neck or collarbone, then a gasp as that tongue trails down to circle a nipple into full hardness.

 

“Let me suck your cock, Blaine.”

 

A hitched sob and a yes followed by a stretched-thin inhale of air between teeth.

 

Downstairs, the clock on the mantle chimes over to three, a trio of metallic bongs signaling the hour as the floor creaks and the house settles. Faintly, paired moans can be heard from behind Blaine’s door, down the hall and to the right. Low, unintelligible murmurs float down the stairs, twisting and twining their way to fill every inch of the otherwise-quiet house like a phantasmal presence.

 

“Kurt, baby, please…”

 

“Patience, Blaine.”

 

“Just fucking—ahohmygod.”

 

In the kitchen, just inside the laundry room door, the Andersons’ Pomeranian stirs, padding into the kitchen with the gentle click-click of nails on the hardwood floor. She sniffs under the counter at long-forgotten food scraps and noses at her water bowl, which she finds empty with only a few drops clinging to the curving metal sides.

 

A loud, gasping moan slices through the silence of the house. It echoes, sidles its way through the vents, hangs up stagnant at the ceiling. Another follows, bringing with it the vision of arching backs and held breath. “Fuck, Kurt, oh yes.”

 

“Ready for another?”

 

“Just fuck me, please. Please. I want your cock.”

 

Patience, Blaine. What did I say?”

 

A low whine. “Patience. But, Kurt—”

 

“Uh-uh. Wait.”

 

The dog makes her own snuffling whine in the kitchen and follows the sounds up the stairs one-by-one until she’s stopped outside Blaine’s door. A cap clicks open from inside the room, followed by quiet groans and the slick sound of flesh-over-flesh. The sheets rustle and the bed creaks until Kurt asks, “Are you ready?”

 

And Blaine replies, nothing but urgency in his voice, “Yes, of course.”

 

The bed creaks again, followed by the telltale sounds of kissing. Hushed “I love you”s fill the silence with the heavy, sticky weight of their meaning, dripping saccharine and promise and absolute truth. The dog chooses this time to whine, scratching at the door, and immediately the sounds inside the room cease.

 

“What was that?”

 

Another low whine from the dog, followed by a sharp yip, and Blaine sighs heavily.

 

“It’s just Penny. C’mon, Kurt, stop teasing. If you’re going to rub your dick between my ass all day I’ll just roll over and save you the trouble of a condom.”

 

A sharp slap, a palm hitting skin, and then two different huffs of laughter: one amused and one annoyed but bordering on amused. “Blaine, your dog is listening. It’s ­weird.”

 

Kurt, it’s just my dog. She’ll get bored and go away.” Then, softer, “Please, baby. I thought you were going to make me forget my name.”

 

“Mm.” Kissing again, wetter and noisier this time, and Kurt murmurs, “I’m going to take care of you, okay? I’m going to make you feel so good, honey.”

 

Penny whines again, jumping up to scratch at the door, but her cries are drowned out by Blaine’s long, low moan. The bed creaks a little louder, underneath it the soft slap of skin-on-skin again. Blaine’s moans hitch up a step before falling back down.

 

“Oh. Oh, fuck. Oh my god, Kurt, yes, there.”

 

When Blaine lets out a particularly desperate moan Penny yips once more and turns to trot back downstairs, retreating back into the laundry room once she realizes no attention is going to be paid to her. The refrigerator’s compressor kicks in with a gentle hum, and not long after it comes to start-and-rattle of the air conditioning.

 

Blaine’s hitching, grunting whines echo through the house like there’s no door on his room at all. Kurt’s noises and murmurs are few and far in-between and are composed of mainly encouraging words and praises mixed in with the occasional moan.

 

“That’s good, yes. Take it, baby, take it. You’re such a good boy, Blaine. I love it when you’re loud for me, honey. Love knowing that you’re getting off because of me.”

 

The bed shifts, headboard thudding against the wall, and there’s a moment of situating and rustling of sheets before the slap of sweat-slicked skin-on-skin rings out again and then Blaine is screaming, crying out Kurt’s name and a mix of unintelligible words.

 

“Yes! Ooh, fuck, Kurt, right there. Fuck me, oh god, fuck me.”

 

“I—am—fucking you.”

 

Blaine groans. “Harder. Please. I need you, oh shit.”

 

“So—needy,” Kurt grunts. His voice is strained and a touch higher than normal. “You feel so good around me, Blaine.”

 

Blaine matches Kurt’s grunt, moaning then as the desperate slapping grows quicker. His voice is hitched when he speaks, cracking and stilted as he struggles to form words. “Make me come, Kurt, god.”

 

“Gonna make you come so hard,” Kurt murmurs. “C’mon, baby, let go. Come for me.”

 

Blaine swears, moans, and muffles a scream. “Oh, oh god. Oh fuck, oh, fuck. Gonna come, Kurt… I—ah—”

 

Penny snuffles from her perch in her bed in the laundry room. The refrigerator’s compressor kicks off and the clock over the mantle makes a gentle tick as it hits the half-hour mark. The neighbor’s dog barks from behind its fence, four times in rapid succession. Penny’s ears twitch but she stays curled up in a ball.

 

Blaine screams.

 

The headboard hits louder against the wall for a few seconds, a dull, repetitive thudthudthud that ends with Kurt’s long, quiet groan that mixes with the reverberating ends of Blaine’s ripped-from-the-throat scream to settle heavily over the interior of the quiet house.

 

They kiss, the slick sound of lips sliding languidly together. Breath is slowly caught, and finally Blaine laughs, a quiet, tired sound, and Kurt’s amused voice asks “What?”

 

“I think you broke me.”

 

A gentle swat and a soft yelp and Kurt’s the one laughing now, a high, musical note. “I think you mean I broke your ass.”

 

“No,” Blaine replies, and his face doesn’t need to be seen to know that he’s smiling easily, comfortably. “I think just all of me.”

 

“C’mere,” Kurt says. “I wanna cuddle with you.”

 

“I love you.”

 

Shuffling as sheets are moved and pulled back, and then the gentle smack of lips against lips or cheeks. “I love you, too.”

 

The house, voyeuristic in its presence but unassuming, unknowing through all the things it’s been present for over the years, sighs out its own content as the clock continues to tick.


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