interlude: ridiculous…ly on

~2,300k

Before he knows it’s he’s fumbling on his nightstand for his phone, nearly ripping the charger out of the outlet in his haste. He unlocks it and goes straight for his camera, checking to make sure that the flash is on before propping himself up on his elbows, angling his phone to make sure everything from his chest down is visible.

A flash as he presses the button—he doesn’t even look over the photo before he’s drafting a message to Kurt, attaching the photo and adding ;) as an afterthought and sending it seconds later.



because I feel absolutely terrible taking over a month to get the next chapter of Blessed Objectivity (all parts can be found here) done, I decided to do this little interlude of sorts :) warnings under the cut and title, like always, is taken from the inside cover of Panic! At The Disco’s A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out

warnings are: sexting, masturbation, mild language

——

"Do you ever think about how we could be doing this face-to-face in just a few years instead of over the phone?" Blaine asks when he and Kurt are doing their usual nightly skin care regimen. He’s got his phone on speaker on his bathroom sink as he spreads moisturizer number three, a mineral-enriched moisture cream by Origins, over the apples of his cheeks and blends it in.

He receives no answer for a few seconds, just the clicking of various caps through the connection, and then, finally, Kurt says, his voice soft and wistful and slightly hesitant: “Yes.”

It makes Blaine smile, too, just thinking about it. Kurt’s nearly done with high school, he’s only got one more year; soon they can leave Lima in their rearview mirrors (except for holidays and other family- [or friend-] related exceptions) and get their own place in New York. Blaine doesn’t care if it’s a broom cupboard or a SoHo loft—as long as Kurt’s there, it’ll be home.

Kurt lets out a sigh on the other line, clicking the cap closed on what Blaine’s sure is his seventh and final bottle. They say nothing for maybe a minute or two as Blaine finishes up as well, screwing the lid closed on jar number four (Clinique) and picking his phone up to change in his bedroom. The silence stretches on, wears thin as Blaine pulls open a drawer and debates for a second.

Just as he’s sliding out of today’s boxer-briefs Kurt finally says, “I think about it a lot, actually. Living with you, I mean.”

Blaine’s smile widens until his cheeks begin to hurt and his heart feels pumped too-full with love, with admiration and an incessant need to feel close to this amazing, wonderful boy who’s just as smitten with Blaine as Blaine is with him. “Mm, is that so?” he teases, eyeing up his selection.

"Yup." Kurt’s voice is just as teasing, just as mirth-filled, and Blaine feels like he could soar when he and Kurt play this game. "I’m thinking about pets."

"A dog and a cat, right?"

Blaine waits for it—“A small dog,” Kurt says, right on cue. “His name would be Singer, in homage to your first dog that you got when you were four.”

"And the cat?"

Kurt’s good-natured eye roll is nearly tangible through the phone. “Dainty June, of course. She’ll be the perfect little tortoiseshell and she’ll put Singer in his place when he gets too excited.”

Blaine feels his chest tighten slightly as everything else tingles with a happiness he’d before thought impossible. “I really, really love you, darling,” he breathes, voice quieted to a murmur. The pet name is tacked on at the end, an afterthought, because Blaine knows how much Kurt smiles when Blaine calls him dear or darling, how much it makes his face light up and his touches to become more frequent, no matter where they are. It fits with his old-timey, gentlemanly charm, Kurt had said.

Unspoken, they had both agreed that the best way to describe it was married. It’s perfect, Blaine thinks, and it’s what he wants to be able to say in the future.

Kurt laughs on the other end and even through static, through speaker and a connection that cuts off the ends of his sentences sometimes, he sounds beautiful. Everything about him soothes Blaine to sleep at night and it’s ridiculous—maybe a little—how reliant Blaine is, but it doesn’t matter, not when he’s happier than he can ever recall.

He slides his underwear up his legs, runs a brush through his unruly curls (and makes a face in the mirror at the tangled nest on his head; he refuses any sort of deep-conditioning treatments from Kurt, saying gel is just easier to apply in the morning even if his scalp is sore each night from combing it out) and pulls back the corner of his comforter, sliding in and sighing happily as he pulls the heavy comforter back over him. He grabs his phone from his nightstand and switches off the speaker, bringing it back to his ear.

"I love you, too," Kurt practically sings back. Blaine guesses that Kurt’s smiling as well now, lips stretched wide so his dimples appear, his blue-gray-green-everything eyes sparkling and shining with a happiness only Blaine ever gets to see. “And I’ll see you in the morning, okay, sweetie?”

"Mmm," Blaine hums back, sliding his eyes closed and losing himself in Kurt’s voice. "I love you. Sweet dreams."

"You, too," Kurt responds, his voice soft. "Goodnight."

“‘Night,” Blaine says, pressing the end button on his phone. He sets it back on his nightstand, rolling over to grab his charger from the drawer and plug that in, then his phone. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, drumming his fingertips on his chest through the comforter.

He shifts slightly, wriggling his hips, and the material of the light-gray panties he’d slid on rub against his cock, a perfect-friction slide of cotton blend. He can’t help the small moan that slips past his lips, nor can he help the hand snaking under the covers to rub broad-palmed over himself, the heat beginning to rush and pool so quickly Blaine’s immobile to it, held captive as his cock swells and stiffens under his touch, the familiar haze of lust inching at the edges of his conscious mind as the temperature under the covers begins to rise steadily.

He thinks of Kurt: of his lips, his hands, those eyes that darken like the sky before a promising storm. He thinks of Kurt’s body weight pressing him down, holding him; thinks of the complete and absolute trust he bestows upon Kurt for this, how Kurt’s the only one who’s seen his collection, who knows. All the usual things that flit across his mind come and go, bright flashes of muscle and flexing tendon, noise and the sharp pleasure-pain of someone—Kurt—entering him.

A curling of his fingers and he’s grabbing onto the length of his cock through the fabric, feeling the pulse and twitch as he tightens and loosens his grip, moving from the bulge of his balls to the hard line of the shaft. His legs twitch, bend slightly, and he tilts his head back without a second thought, moaning quietly to the darkened ceiling.

He pushes the covers hurriedly down, sighing when the cool air of his room hits his overheated skin. He thumbs over the head of his cock through his panties, feels the damp stickiness of pre-come cling to the head. Looking down he sees a darkening wet spot, sees the obscene bulge of his cock stretching the material, lifting it up away from his body until the swollen head of his cock is nearly peeking out from the waistband. He moans, feels filthy and raunchy and perfect, that rush that he always gets when he slides on a pair of panties or pulls up a pair of stockings.

Before he knows it’s he’s fumbling on his nightstand for his phone, nearly ripping the charger out of the outlet in his haste. He unlocks it and goes straight for his camera, checking to make sure that the flash is on before propping himself up on his elbows, angling his phone to make sure everything from his chest down is visible.

A flash as he presses the button—he doesn’t even look over the photo before he’s drafting a message to Kurt, attaching the photo and adding ;) as an afterthought and sending it seconds later.

He settles back against his pillow, rubbing his knuckles now over the hot length of his cock, breathing out the occasional pant as he waits for Kurt’s reply. When his phone lights up just as he’s inching the waistband of his panties down he immediately snatches it up from the mattress, unlocking it with one hand before heading straight to the messages. His hips twitch up with the teasing, featherlight touch of his hand.

To Blaine (11:45pm):
You can’t be serious right now. Please tell me you’re not serious.

To Blaine (11:46pm):
As if I already didn’t want to crawl into bed with you enough. Jesus, Blaine. I want to make you moan.

A reply requires the use of two hands; Blaine groans out his displeasure but moves his hand anyway, squinting at the brightness of his screen and quickly tapping away at the buttons.

To Kurt (11:47pm):
Fuck. I’m so hard right now

He leaves it at that, drops his phone screen-down on his bed and pushes his panties to mid-thigh, bending his legs at the knee. The urge to reply to Kurt’s messages, to give in and call him, is overwhelming, but he holds back, wanting to surprise Kurt, send him photos when it’s something they hardly ever do. He licks the palm of his hand, too far gone to care about lube, to want to spend time getting it out when that time could be spent jerking off instead.

He wraps his fist around his cock with a low moan, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. He closes his eyes, breathes deep and lets the darkness of his imagination take over as he slides from base to head, thumbing into the slit.

A moan builds from a small, nearly-inaudible whine into a throaty, guttural noise. A twist of the wrist at the top, tightening at the base, and Blaine’s legs try to spread wider, his body giving in to the unyielding pleasure as he falls into muscle memory—all the times he’s spread his legs achingly wide as Kurt moves inside him, as he opens himself up and gives in.

He remembers the first time Kurt had seen him in lingerie: that dropped mouth, the wide eyes and loss of words—an oddity for Kurt Hummel. He remembers what it had led to then, all the other things it has led to in the past month or so. He pumps his hand faster, muscles starting to burn, but he ignores it, squeezes his eyes tighter and lets his jaw drop, each breath pushed out of him strangled and ragged.

“Oh, god,” he gasps, palming over the head of his cock to slick his twist-slide back down. His hips begin to buck up into his grip, fucking his cock through the tight circle of his fist. The elastic of his panties dig into the well-toned muscles of his thighs as he uses his free hand, the one that’s been clenching at the mattress, to run down the toned muscles of his abdomen, circle the base of his cock and press against the trimmed, coarse hair before sliding lower to his balls, lower still to brush against his hole. The familiar sparks of pure want crackle through him, making him ache and shiver for more, for what the press of those fingers will lead up to.

He lets the thumb of his other hand press hard against the sensitive spot just under the ridge on the underside of his cock; he shivers and whines at the sudden rush of pleasure, a fresh bead of pre-come pooling in the slit of his cock and sliding slowly down.

He lets his grip slacken, lets the throb of the veins winding around his cock become more noticeable as he glides his hand along the length, envisions that it’s Kurt doing the same thing. Kurt straddling him, working Blaine’s cock methodically as he leans down, whispers good boy and my sweet, gorgeous baby, such a slut.

Kurt on top of him, hand on his own cock, eyes hooded and dark and wanting as he works himself to the edge and over, coming with a lilting cry over the fabric of Blaine’s panties, the shape of his confined cock and oh god, that’s a thing for Blaine now, isn’t it?

Blaine whines, breath catching in his throat as the next stroke of his hand brings him that much closer to the edge; everything is pulled-taut, teetering. His balls are drawn up tight and every muscle, every ligament and tendon, are quivering, just waiting for that next stroke that could be the end. He tightens his grip momentarily, twisting a slick-dry stroke at the head, letting the sides of his fingers brush against the velvet-smooth damp skin. “Oh, fuck.”

Feet planted on the bed, thighs still trying to pull apart, Blaine angles his hips, tightens his fist, and thrusts up once, twice, the thick, roped veins along the length of his cock pulsing to the beat of his heart as he arches his back off the bed, toes curling, and starts to come with a high, wheedling cry, come splashing thick and heavy on his torso, down his fingers. A streak arches above his nipple as he writhes, working into his fist even as he begins to come down, whining as everything slowly cools, turns to numbness and static, a rushing in his ears as he collapses, sated, onto the sheets.

He gropes groggily for his phone, flipping it over. His hand is still on his softening cock, the last few dribbles of come seeping out and sliding down his fingers in thick, white globules. He has five messages—all from Kurt, and he’ll feel bad later about not answering—but right now everything is heavy-yet-liquefied, his bones turned into jelly as he sinks into his mattress. Another angling of the camera on his phone, making sure that it captures the come cooling high on his chest, the combined streaks and splatters on his torso and the strings still connected to the red, glistening head of his cock. His legs are still bent at the knee, panties still stretched tightly across his thighs as they splay open slightly. It’s debauched, filthy, and Blaine’s never felt sexier, more sure of himself.

The camera relays the photo (bent legs, spread with light gray panties stretched across tan, muscled thighs; a hand wrapped around a cock, come glistening thick and white on the head, on fingers and in the dark pubic hair at the base, more come collected in the dips of abdominal muscles, the dark circle of a still-peaked nipple) and he attaches it to Kurt’s last message (I hope you know I jerked off without you).

A small smile at the angry little words and Blaine lets go of his now-mostly-soft cock, licking his fingers clean with a soft moan because Kurt likes that, has always liked it, especially when Blaine licks Kurt’s fingers for him, and quickly types his own reply.

To Kurt (12:14am):
Oops, guess I did too

And now, to wait.


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