Fulfilling an anon request. Klaine, sleepy morning sex. Enjoy!
They’ve slept in the same bed before. Once, before they were together. Three times since then, when expediency dictated leaving early from the same location—but those times had been constrained by parents and pajamas and the opportunity for nothing more than hushed, hurried mutual handjobs, careful not to let the bedsprings squeak, not to make a sound. Sweet and wonderful, but… limited.
But now it’s morning, the sky outside Kurt’s window flushed pink and gorgeous with the dawn, and there’s nobody in the house but them, nobody in the bed but them, nobody in the world but them, naked and warm and barely-awake. Blaine is pressed against his back, from the soft, moist breath stirring the hairs on the back of his neck down to where their legs and feet are sloppily tangled, real and hot and silky-scratchy and his. His Blaine. Nobody else.
Kurt stretches, a slow-unspooling explosion of pleasure in his brain. He’s hard. Aching. Leaking a little, rocking a little back into Blaine’s arms. Behind him Blaine makes a soft, almost purring sound, then there’s a quick, soft touch of tongue on the knob of bone at the top of his spine that makes Kurt gasp and push back harder, a ripple, undulating.
Waves. But no words. Soft waves, lapping, Blaine’s hands that know him now, hands he can fall into, can trust to catch him. Kurt closes his eyes, sighs when Blaine’s strong hand squeezes just above his knee, shifting his topmost leg forward. Stroking up his thigh to his hip, strong and gentle at the same time, sliding around to his ass, the skin there so sensitive that Kurt moans out loud, shivering.
Blaine loves his ass. No words, but—Kurt can feel it, Blaine’s touch there is both reverent and wanting, petting and then gripping hard and quiet gasps against the back of his neck—Blaine loves touching him there. Loves it. And Kurt loves it too. It’s tender and sweetly erotic and just naughty enough that it makes his closed eyes flutter open, pink-and-gold sunrise and his quiet, empty house and his sexy, sexy boyfriend softly groaning with desire.
He aches, now, when he wants Blaine to fuck him—feels an emptiness and a need that makes it almost impossible to keep still. So he doesn’t, slipping his upper leg further forward into cool sheets, churning his hips a little, aching and open and shamelessly wanting. His face is hot, cheeks furiously flushed, but he doesn’t let that stop him.
Blaine’s hands are hot, under the sheets, then gone when he stretches back towards the nightstand, then cool when they return, slick-slipping down the crack of his ass, wet and knowing, knowing where to touch, how to touch. There’s nobody in the world but them so Kurt can moan into his pillow, can give himself over to the practiced touch of those hands with perfect abandon. He fucks himself on Blaine’s fingers and Blaine teases him, like Blaine knows just where he aches and knows just how to almost-almost-almost fill it, but not quite. Not. Quite.
Kurt’s heart is racing, his throat dry with moaning, and this is part of that pleasure too—the tug-of-war between what his body demands and what his still-shy mind will admit to: it’s a seduction, he knows it, Blaine knows it, and they both love it, Kurt losing by inches, by degrees, struggling and losing, giving up and giving in, and it’s so good, so sweet, to lose.
Still no words. He’s begging with his body not his mouth, and Blaine is holding back, cruel with himself and dismissively casual when he shifts his own cock out of the way, it makes Kurt moan louder, ache harder, and Blaine’s fingers in him feel so good but not-enough, he can try as hard as he wants to come but he won’t because not-enough, please, no words but please, Blaine, silently, I need. I need. I need—the rhythm of it rocks through him, choking a little on all the words backed up in his throat.
The tip of Blaine’s cock is hot and hard, blunt pressure, teasing pleasure and it’s coming now, Blaine will make him wait but not too much longer and Kurt is moaning, rocking, wanting it all when Blaine just gives it to him one tiny bit at a time, spark and shock and then more, stretching—Blaine is big, and every time it’s like a miracle taking him in, something that couldn’t possibly work—until it does. It makes Kurt’s skin flush, makes sweat break out on the small of his back and his neck and his face, makes his hands shake, makes his breath catch, because Blaine is big and inside him and Kurt is falling, falling apart.
Blaine is groaning loudly, close to his ear—and that’s a problem, because Blaine’s groans are low and throaty and half-desperate and entirely erotic, and Kurt doesn’t usually get to hear them unfettered, and if he listens he’s going to come before they even get started. Kurt closes his eyes and holds on, feels the flow of things go from him to Blaine and back again, movements slow and lush and heavy with desire. It’s a pleasure beyond coming, all his nerves saturated with goodness and he wants to stay here, right here, with his body taken and surrendered and his beautiful, loving boyfriend fucking him so sweetly, one hand tight on his hip and the other arm under him and around, pressed tight against his chest, keeping him.
It’s morning. Outside, pink is rapidly losing to gold. Inside, Kurt is rapidly losing his own battle—it’s good but too good, Blaine knows just how to fuck him and just how to make him feel good and just how to tease him, loves teasing him, loves his ass and loves to make him come and come apart, and things are flowing between them so fast now, heat and hardness and Kurt grabs Blaine’s hand when it slips down to go for his cock because no—not yet, he’s going to fight, fight to the last second and then come only when he can’t-not any more.
Which… will be very soon. Blaine is fucking him and squeezing him and growling, desperate and rough against the back of his neck, scrape of teeth there making him shudder fiercely. Then the world swoops as Blaine moves onto him, sliding on top of him and flattening him into the shockingly cool sheets, knees between his own shoving his legs wide and that’s it—he’s coming and Blaine’s coming in him and the two of them are making a godawful racket and it’s better than anything has ever been, so good, his whole body is locked up and throbbing helplessly, coming so hard, Blaine’s cock pulsing in him wet and hard and hot, with Blaine gasping in his ear like he’s dying.
There’s a lot of soft humming, coming down, quietly agonized moans and soft giggling—from him, from Blaine, from both of them. Blaine pulls out and turns him over and kisses him deeply, and Kurt just came his fucking brains out but once he gets Blaine’s messy curls in his hands he kind of wants to do the whole thing all over again, only face-to-face so he can watch Blaine get off, watch Blaine come inside him—but when he pulls back Blaine is smiling, but his eyes are full, wet and full, tears welling.
“What’s wrong?” He runs his thumbs under Blaine’s eyes, swallowing the lump that comes up in his throat.
“Nothing,” Blaine whispers, and his voice sounds raw. “Right now? Not a thing in the world.”
Kurt’s heart cramps up a little. “Okay.” He pulls Blaine down, tucks Blaine into the curve of his neck and pets his curly head, blinking at the wetness dropping onto his skin. “It’s okay, Blaine.”
The first ray of sun breaks over the trees and washes into the room, washes over them, and Kurt closes his eyes, dazzled by brilliant pink light through his eyelids. He is safe and warm and whole and loved, and sometimes there are things neither one of them have words for yet, but as long as they both speak the language and they both understand, it’s okay.
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