Warning: NC-17 sex, mild, romantic kink and public sex.
WARNING: NC-17 Kink. Do not read this if you are triggered by such things.
Kinky Klaine PWP #2: Not Appropriate For All Audiences
Gratitude: to Cass, for helping me navigate and pointing me north.
The wonderful thing about going to the movies with Blaine, Finn and Rachel was simply this: in the coin-toss contest to see who got to pick the movie, there was a three-out-of-four chance that the movie selected would be something decent.
The terrible thing about going to the movies with Blaine, Finn and Rachel was that sometimes Finn won the coin toss—and then they ended up in movies like this one: a movie Kurt couldn’t honestly even remember the title of, but which he’d personally decided to christen ‘Horror Sorority Blood Rampage of Naked Boobs’, purely in the interest of truth in nomenclature.
Sure, it was fine for Finn—four rows down in front of them because of course he wanted to be as close to the knives and meathooks and blood and boobs as possible—and even fine for Rachel, only visible as a tiny lump practically in Finn’s lap, peeking up from where she had her face buried in his chest whenever there was a lull; not that there were many of those. It was apparently also fine for Blaine, who looked mildly bored and mildly revolted.
It was not so fine for Kurt himself—but God help him, he was not going to curl up in a lump and jam his face into Blaine’s chest, no matter how much he might want to. Instead, he took his coat off the empty seat next to him and draped it over himself as if he were cold, the collar pulled halfway up his face—easy enough to duck into when the next rampage started.
Blaine turned to look at him. Kurt determinedly kept his eyes on the screen.
“Are you cold?” Just the faintest whisper.
“Fine now,” he whispered back, which wasn’t really an answer, but wasn’t a lie either. It would do.
“Kurt.” Still barely audible, but nevertheless Kurt’s head turned, slowly but inexorably.
Blaine’s eyes were wide and dark, aimed right at him. “I’m not a big fan of horror movies,” Kurt whispered, wondering why it felt so much like a confession—it wasn’t like Blaine didn’t already know that about him.
Blaine nodded thoughtfully, then frowned at the screen. Kurt went back to the mental tally he was keeping of all the offenses against nature, fashion and taste this movie was guilty of—and oh, look, now there were chainsaws, and shrieking, and disarticulated limbs—
He squeaked a little when he found a third hand under his coat, but it was just Blaine, staring straight ahead at the screen, one hand burrowed under the coat into Kurt’s lap, cupping his thigh.
Blaine’s hand felt warm, even through his jeans, and Kurt sighed a little. Trust Blaine to try to make it better for him, even though he hadn’t asked. Trust Blaine to… to…
Squeeze, and stroke, and fondle under the cover of Kurt’s coat, sliding ever-so-slowly up and over—and down between his legs.
“Blaine—” that wasn’t exactly quiet, but as it coincided with a crescendo of chainsaws and quite a few shrieks from other people in the theater, it didn’t matter much.
“Kurt.” Blaine’s voice was right in his ear, Blaine’s lips touching his ear, making him shiver. “Shh. You have to be quiet.”
Kurt glanced around quickly—they were alone in their row, but there were people two rows back and more people behind them, there were people everywhere behind them, not to mention Finn and Rachel in front of them, practically right in front of them—“Blaine, you can’t—”
“You don’t have to look at the screen,” Blaine’s voice whispered to him, calm and cool and collected, as if he weren’t rubbing his strong, warm palm slowly back-and-forth over the stirring bulge behind Kurt’s fly. “You can close your eyes, if you want.”
There was a series of horrified screams. Kurt only heard them dimly. “Blaine—”
“I want to touch you,” soft and slow in his ear, floating to him on barest breath, like a caress. “You feel so good to me, Kurt. So good…”
“Public—” Kurt breathed, high and quiet because there just didn’t seem to be enough air in the room, cavernous as it was. “Blaine—we’re in a public place—” he cut off with a soft gasp when Blaine flicked the button on his jeans open one-handed, then started slowly, torturously working down his zipper.
“That’s why you’re going to have to be quiet,” Blaine told him, sliding through folds of fabric and cupping him through his boxer-briefs and oh fuck he was getting hard, a terribly vulnerable feeling in a public place, but Blaine’s hand was hot and strong against him, cupping him and squeezing him and sliding down—“Kurt. Open your legs.”
Kurt shuddered like a racehorse, and his legs spread automatically. He slid down in his seat, his coat a solid drape stretched from his knees to his chin, hiding everything, hiding the way Blaine stroked his balls with slow, deliberate patience, then up to his cock again—criminally slow and indulgent, as if they were just stretched out on Blaine’s bed with the door closed and nobody home and hours to play around in and not… not… Kurt closed his eyes. God.
“Good,” Blaine mouthed in his ear. “Now… just. Stay. Quiet.” Kurt bit his lip, hard, because he almost whimpered when Blaine tugged the waistband of his briefs down, tucking it under his balls so they were pulled up, so everything was naked, naked and hard and on offer, naked and hard and oh. He was getting a loving, leisurely hand-job in the middle of a fucking public movie theater—and he was panting. He shouldn’t be panting.
“Quieter than that, Kurt.” Blaine’s thumb slipped over the leaking tip of his cock, sliding in the groove there, making him ache. Kurt tried to control his breathing, but it was so hard to do—everything Blaine was doing to him felt amazing; clear, distinct pleasure that made him want to roll his hips and drop his head back and groan—but he couldn’t, he could barely breathe. His chest was fluttering and his thighs were shaking and Blaine went on, kept on, kept stroking him slow, slow and patient and teasing him, his hand slick now, his grip tighter.
“Blaine.” He wasn’t loud, it was just a breath, not loud but desperate—even if his coat covered everything there was no way he could do this, no way he could feel this good in a room full of people and not have them know—
“You’re doing so well,” Blaine told him, lips to his ear again, and Kurt’s nipples turned to hard and hurtful little points immediately. “You’re so hot, and hard, and sexy—fuck, I’m so hard for you right now, Kurt. It’s so good to touch you; it’s so good to watch you, trying so hard to be quiet—does it feel good?”
Kurt just nodded, his eyes still closed, his lips pressed between his teeth. His legs spread a little more, and he let out a soft, shuddering breath. “So good—” just a whisper, but he sounded almost like he was crying. It was just Blaine’s hand—his bare hand, his bare, strong, naked hand—Kurt lost control of his hips a little, tiny circles and rocking and trying to keep his seat from creaking, trying not to breathe, brilliant blooms of color behind his closed eyes because he really needed a whole lot more oxygen than he was getting. He broke out in a sweat and pushed himself surreptitiously and silently into Blaine’s fist, shaking hard—
“Hold on,” Blaine breathed, and took his hand away. Kurt gasped, galvanized with shock, and his eyes flew open and he twitched hard—which certainly would have been noticed if it hadn’t coincided with a knife-wielding maniac popping up out of nowhere and a theater echoing with girlish, gleeful shrieks of terror. He turned to look at Blaine, his mouth hanging open. Blaine was twisted in his seat, digging something out of his back pocket. His eyes were wide and hot, avid and… teasing? “Looks like I might need my handkerchief,” Blaine whispered, then leaned close, so close their mouths were only an inch apart. “If you want me to make you come, that is.”
Kurt took a breath. Then another breath. He was burning, tingling, everywhere. “Blaine—”
“Do you?” Blaine was staring at him, at his open, silently gasping lips. “Do you want me to make you come, Kurt?”
“Yes.” No worries being too loud—it was just a word he mouthed, no air behind it.
“You want my hand on you,” Blaine whispered to him, huge eyes still taking him in, every breath and twitch.
“Yes,” he was melting, aching—he needed—“Yes.”
“Say it. Quietly.”
“I… want…” it was hard, so hard, but he was shaking, naked and needful under the drape of his coat. “I want your hand. On me. Touch me. Make me come, Blaine, please—”
Blaine slipped under Kurt’s coat with his hand and into Kurt’s mouth with his tongue at the same time, and Kurt moaned, full-out, embarrassingly-loud moaned, but Blaine’s mouth muzzled all sound and everything was hot-wet-airless and safe, it was safe to let his chest hitch with silent, desperate sobs while his hips pumped and Blaine stripped him ruthlessly, hard and tight and intense, only six delirious, demanding strokes before Kurt came so hard it felt like something in his head exploded, falling so far from himself that he just didn’t care who saw or who heard, so long as he could feel exactly like this.
Blaine gentled him down afterwards, giving him tiny sips of air then taking his mouth again, keeping him quiet, keeping him still. Kurt didn’t even remember Blaine putting him to rights, but when Blaine stripped the coat away from him he looked down in amazement—he was zipped and buttoned and free of stains, as perfect and pristine as he’d been when he sat down. There were no visual cues as to why his nerves were still thrumming and his balls were still buzzing and his head was so dizzy and happy and floaty and fine. He giggled a little, very softly, then snuggled up against Blaine’s chest and closed his eyes, easily ignoring the ear-splitting shrieks from the theater’s sound system.
“I’m pretty sure the movie will be over soon,” Blaine whispered, soft and close enough to make all the hair on his neck stand up.
Kurt wrapped his arm around Blaine’s waist, and sighed. “Too bad—I was just starting to really enjoy it.”
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