fillin' fic prompts in the middle of the night like yeah~
Title: Hypothetically Speaking
Rating: NC-17 oh yeeaehhh
Spoilers: there is Blaine.
Warnings: phonesex!
Word Count: 2357
Summary: Fill for this at the prompting post! I may be slightly obsessed with them texting each other in fic, and I've kind of had "sexting/phonesex" on the back-burner for these two for a while, so when I saw how hungry people were for this at the prompt I was like "fuck it, I'm on duty, I have to be awake until 2 anyway. Let's do this."
It's getting pretty late. His dad went to bed half an hour ago. And Kurt's got...most of this French composition done, but who could work on a French composition when someone just posted this amazing YouTube video of Gaga's "Teeth" live in concert? (She goes sick crazy on this one. This settles it - next year Kurt will do anything it takes to get these freaking tickets, probably to include selling organs.) And so maybe before that he was making chicken salad to pack for lunch the next day. And maybe before that he was reorganizing his shoes to adjust for the steadily dropping Ohio temperatures. And okay, maybe Kurt is procrastinating, a little. But he can't really think of anything he would rather do less than this dumb French assignment, at least not along a rational spectrum. And he can think of a ton of things he'd rather do more.
He catches himself whirling his phone over and over itself against his desk, and, with a smile, thinks of one more.
To: Blaine <3
still awake?
From: Blaine <3
yeah, physics lab manual. kill me now
To: Blaine <3
and me with this french comp. it'll be a murder-suicide.
From: Blaine <3
how romantic.
Kurt chuckles. It's amazing how easily he and Blaine can get going like this, even when they're not face-to-face. Texting his boyfriend (boyfriend, boyfriend, Kurt still has to roll the new word over a couple of times in his brain every time he thinks it) should have been his go-to procrastination in the first place. He could keep this up for hours. What was he wasting his time on all that other stuff for?
(Not that Gaga was at all in any way a waste of time. The video's still playing and it's still getting more amazing, if that's even possible.)
To: Blaine <3
so here's food for thought....
From: Blaine <3
yeah? I'm hungry.
To: Blaine <3
if you could do any one thing in the world right now, what would you do?
Because Kurt, frankly, is bored out of his skull. If he could do anything right now it would be to set this French composition on fire, order two plane tickets to wherever Gaga is playing a live show right now, kidnap Blaine from Westerville and fly halfway around the world. And while he's at it, he'll take a lifetime supply wardrobe from Marc Jacobs and a pony. Blaine clearly doesn't have such elaborate fantasies because it takes him about half a second to reply back.
From: Blaine <3
fuck you
Oh.
Kurt reels, because they haven't - they never - well grilled cheesus on rye, it's only been official for about three weeks. They just had their first kiss the last time they were face-to-face. And that's. Wow. Wow.
(And yet some twisted part of Kurt's brain notices that it's not evoking the kind of deep-rooted shock-fright that a declaration like that should have. This part of his brain also alerts him to the deep dark inkling that Kurt may have sort of been thinking a little bit about this kind of since the first time Blaine sang the words let's go all the way tonight, and that a deep red flush is flaring up both high across his cheeks and further down around his neck inside his nightshirt, the very definition of hot under the collar. Also that the Gaga video is over and his phone is vibrating again.)
From: Blaine <3
OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD OH MY GOD KURT. NO KURT I CAN EXPLAIN. oh my god that was meant to go to wes, he's giving me shit because he finished the lab manual like forever ago and i've been trying to hit him up for answers
From: Blaine <3
and then i got the text from you and it must've overrode my reply or something and oh. my. god. i am so sorry. D:
Kurt sits, alone in his room which is now silent except for the white noise whirring from his laptop and the fan beside his bed, and thinks about how much more sense that makes. Blaine only uses emoticons when he's extra-flustered, so he knows the text is sincere, and Kurt can kind of picture the conversation Blaine must have been having with the way-more-studious of his two best friends - "what'd you get for section 2a?" "i got your mom for section 2a." "fuck you." He rocks back in his desk chair, eyes going unfocused at the words on his phone screen, and is, in part, relieved.
In part.
Because another part of him is still freaking thinking about it, because another part of him is about as far from relief as he could possibly get.
"There is something so, so wrong with you, Kurt Elizabeth," he mutters to himself, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it (it doesn't) and focusing back in on his phone to try and come up with some sort of witty response (he can't). He's finally decided on the ever-versatile "good to know" and, after what seems like an eternity, has his thumb hovering over the G of the touchscreen, when in his grasp the phone buzzes a third time.
From: Blaine <3
...hypothetically speaking
From: Blaine <3
if that HAD been my honest answer
Kurt drops the phone before he can figure out if Blaine left that intentionally open-ended or if he just hasn't gotten the third message yet. He has to drop it, because he has to steel himself against the rigid frame of his desk, sweating palms braced against the edge of it spread far to either side, head hunching down over his laptop keyboard, stars sort of flashing around behind his eyes. Because if this text means what Kurt thinks it means, Blaine is thinking about the same thing Kurt's thinking about and that. That is just. A whole lot to think about. It's one thing if Kurt ends up with a little bit of accidental fantasy fuel in his own head, locked up tight with the other little tidbits he's collected, telling no one. But it's another thing entirely if...this. It's clearly another thing entirely because Kurt's breath is suddenly coming faster and his heartbeat's not far behind and a loose, hot wave of something roils over him, and it's a good thirty seconds before he can rein it all in enough to pick his phone back up from the floor, where it apparently turned itself off on impact.
He turns it back on to one message, that just reads kurt?
blaine, he answers.
To: Blaine <3
blaine.
To: Blaine <3
blaine I think
To: Blaine <3
yes.
Y-E-S-period is now the hardest text Kurt has ever sent, and if that was that hard, he is terrified for what's going to happen when Blaine answers and expects a response in return. Fortunately, Kurt never has to figure that out, because with a tinkling crash of digitized Katy Perry, his phone is ringing.
"Blaine," Kurt murmurs, his voice cracking with...something. Embarrassment. Nerves. Lust. Who knows any more.
"Look I've never done this before," Blaine begins, getting it all out in a rush, and Kurt totally understands because Kurt is freaking out too and so Kurt just lets him, "but it's been kind of forever since I saw you face-to-face and I am so burnt out on these physics equations that I'm at the point where I'll probably end up saying 'I miss you exponentially more and more every second that we are apart' and I am sorry for the super-awkward that started all this but I'm kind of." He breathes. "Not sorry. At all."
And just like that, the low breathy frantic hot timbre to Blaine's voice makes the decision for him. "Me neither," Kurt says. "We are so totally about to have phone sex."
Blaine groans down the line and Kurt's nerves crackle over with something like thick wet electricity. "Oh my god you can't just say shit like that."
"Like what?" says Kurt, kind of frighteningly desperate to hear that noise agan. "Phone sex?" And oh, it's quieter and weaker but it's there, again, a back-alley caress into his ear.
"Get comfortable," Blaine says. "I can't promise this'll last very long - actually I can promise that it probably won't last very long - so you better enjoy the time you've got." He does this little laugh that's probably supposed to sound pathetic, self-deprecating. What it sounds like is delicious.
Kurt toes off his slippers and tears across the few feet or so between his desk chair and his bed, rolling into it on his back and cradling his phone between his ear and his shoulder, eager to have his hands free, already starting to imagine them as Blaine's own, squarer, stronger, rough-callused from his guitar, as he slides one up under the hem of his nightshirt and over the smooth skin of his own quivering stomach. This is Blaine's hand, he tells himself, and the thought of his boyfriend (boyfriend) ghosting his hot palm along Kurt's skin right here, where the slim faint trail of hair from his bellybutton downward is just sort of fanning outward, wrings a high nasal gasp from his throat and straight into the receiver.
"Kurt," moans Blaine, "Kurt what are you doing, what are you thinking that's making you sound like that - "
"You," says Kurt, reveling in blunt honesty. "Your hands, thick hands reaching down to touch me - "
"I will touch you all over," says Blaine dangerously. "Just please don't stop."
Kurt couldn't stop for anything by now, much less an incentive that sounds so incredible, the thought of Blaine stroking over his chest, his stomach, the oversensitive expanse of his high inner thigh. By the time Kurt curls his hand (Blaine's hand) slick and loose around his cock, barely needing to touch its hot hardness to get enough sensation working to drive him insane, he's panting audibly, quick debauched-sounding noises he tries not to think too hard about out of mortification. He focuses instead on Blaine's own sweet little cries of pleasure, and on bringing himself to the edge, hot for it in ways he didn't know he could even be hot, pajamas twisted under him as he sweats and writhes into the sheets. He'll get so damnably close but the edge will stay just out of his reach, and he'll redouble his efforts, imagining what Blaine must be doing, fisting himself just as frantic and wishing it were Kurt, and then imagining himself actually doing whatever Blaine must be imagining him doing even though he doesn't even know what that is, per se, and the whole thing loops into this elaborate erotic construction that hinges on thrusting hips and dripping skin.
Then suddenly, there's this perfect moment where he's reaching out toward the edge again, and right when he's so close he can taste it (and he can, beaded sweat rolling down past his slack-parted lips) is right when Blaine chokes out a high broken cry of "ahh, Kurt!" and then that is just. That is it. Kurt comes harder than he ever has, across his hand and his pajamas and his sheets, keening out his completion into the phone and then listening, entranced, as Blaine does the same.
The haze that follows distracts Kurt into thinking about all sorts of stray semi-irrelevant things, like how this is only the third time he's ever gotten off because of Blaine, or how thankful he is for the extra set of sheets he keeps under his bed, or how he's definitely not going to be able to finish that French composition now. And then, belatedly, about how his call is still running, and Blaine is still at the other end of the line, probably just as lost. And probably, like Kurt, loving every minute of it.
"That was," Kurt begins, breathing heavy but steady at last.
"That was," Blaine agrees.
Kurt bites his lip, a little, stumped. Because like. What do you say?
Fortunately for him Blaine has always been a babbler. "So like I realized I never really answered your question."
"What?"
"From earlier. About if I could do anything."
"Oh," says Kurt. "Yeah?"
"I think I'd like to retroactively say that my answer to your question is 'find a time machine and go back and relive the past six minutes,'" says Blaine. "Or possibly to kiss you."
And Kurt smiles, just a little, a genuine, peaceful, chaste sort of smile. Kissing sounds amazing right now.
"I vote option B," he says. "As soon as possible, anyway, since right this second seems kind of out of the question."
"Done," says Blaine. "I need to see you tomorrow. It's Friday, I've just got study hall and then Warblers practice in the afternoon, I'll duck out early and pick you up from school."
"If French and physics don't kill us first."
"Riiiight." Blaine laughs, a little, and it's just so sweet and natural and amazing a thing to do, so light-hearted in the face of all the awkward tension, that Kurt laughs too.
"I'll see you then, then?"
"Then then," Kurt teases.
"...Night, Kurt."
"Goodnight."
"Night."
"Goodnight, Blaine," says Kurt, and he wipes his hand off enough to hang up, because Blaine is terrible at it.
The other hand he leaves messy for a moment, though, struck with a terrible, fabulous idea. Leaning as hard into the pillows as he can and stretching far, far out with his other arm, Kurt tentatively slips one soiled finger between his own lips, fans the others out as alluringly as possible and snaps a photo of himself on his phone, checking to make sure it doesn't look too horrible (well, relatively speaking, because how fabulous and yet how terrible) before sending it off to Blaine, the caption riddled through with teasing deja vu.
To: Blaine <3
food for thought?
(Because this is the most sexual thing he and Blaine have ever done, and obviously, both of them are going to have to think on it pretty hard, and what it means for the already tricky kind of relationship they've struck up here in Homophobia, Ohio. And yet some twisted part of Kurt's brain is already cataloguing away every growl, every gasp, every beautiful fleeting image of Blaine he collected tonight, and eagerly awaiting the moment when they can hopefully, probably, please do more.)
Blaine, of course, is too smart for his own good, and seems to have gotten similar ideas.
From: Blaine <3
yeah, I'm hungry.
Rating: NC-17 oh yeeaehhh
Spoilers: there is Blaine.
Warnings: phonesex!
Word Count: 2357
Summary: Fill for this at the prompting post! I may be slightly obsessed with them texting each other in fic, and I've kind of had "sexting/phonesex" on the back-burner for these two for a while, so when I saw how hungry people were for this at the prompt I was like "fuck it, I'm on duty, I have to be awake until 2 anyway. Let's do this."
It's getting pretty late. His dad went to bed half an hour ago. And Kurt's got...most of this French composition done, but who could work on a French composition when someone just posted this amazing YouTube video of Gaga's "Teeth" live in concert? (She goes sick crazy on this one. This settles it - next year Kurt will do anything it takes to get these freaking tickets, probably to include selling organs.) And so maybe before that he was making chicken salad to pack for lunch the next day. And maybe before that he was reorganizing his shoes to adjust for the steadily dropping Ohio temperatures. And okay, maybe Kurt is procrastinating, a little. But he can't really think of anything he would rather do less than this dumb French assignment, at least not along a rational spectrum. And he can think of a ton of things he'd rather do more.
He catches himself whirling his phone over and over itself against his desk, and, with a smile, thinks of one more.
To: Blaine <3
still awake?
From: Blaine <3
yeah, physics lab manual. kill me now
To: Blaine <3
and me with this french comp. it'll be a murder-suicide.
From: Blaine <3
how romantic.
Kurt chuckles. It's amazing how easily he and Blaine can get going like this, even when they're not face-to-face. Texting his boyfriend (boyfriend, boyfriend, Kurt still has to roll the new word over a couple of times in his brain every time he thinks it) should have been his go-to procrastination in the first place. He could keep this up for hours. What was he wasting his time on all that other stuff for?
(Not that Gaga was at all in any way a waste of time. The video's still playing and it's still getting more amazing, if that's even possible.)
To: Blaine <3
so here's food for thought....
From: Blaine <3
yeah? I'm hungry.
To: Blaine <3
if you could do any one thing in the world right now, what would you do?
Because Kurt, frankly, is bored out of his skull. If he could do anything right now it would be to set this French composition on fire, order two plane tickets to wherever Gaga is playing a live show right now, kidnap Blaine from Westerville and fly halfway around the world. And while he's at it, he'll take a lifetime supply wardrobe from Marc Jacobs and a pony. Blaine clearly doesn't have such elaborate fantasies because it takes him about half a second to reply back.
From: Blaine <3
fuck you
Oh.
Kurt reels, because they haven't - they never - well grilled cheesus on rye, it's only been official for about three weeks. They just had their first kiss the last time they were face-to-face. And that's. Wow. Wow.
(And yet some twisted part of Kurt's brain notices that it's not evoking the kind of deep-rooted shock-fright that a declaration like that should have. This part of his brain also alerts him to the deep dark inkling that Kurt may have sort of been thinking a little bit about this kind of since the first time Blaine sang the words let's go all the way tonight, and that a deep red flush is flaring up both high across his cheeks and further down around his neck inside his nightshirt, the very definition of hot under the collar. Also that the Gaga video is over and his phone is vibrating again.)
From: Blaine <3
OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD OH MY GOD KURT. NO KURT I CAN EXPLAIN. oh my god that was meant to go to wes, he's giving me shit because he finished the lab manual like forever ago and i've been trying to hit him up for answers
From: Blaine <3
and then i got the text from you and it must've overrode my reply or something and oh. my. god. i am so sorry. D:
Kurt sits, alone in his room which is now silent except for the white noise whirring from his laptop and the fan beside his bed, and thinks about how much more sense that makes. Blaine only uses emoticons when he's extra-flustered, so he knows the text is sincere, and Kurt can kind of picture the conversation Blaine must have been having with the way-more-studious of his two best friends - "what'd you get for section 2a?" "i got your mom for section 2a." "fuck you." He rocks back in his desk chair, eyes going unfocused at the words on his phone screen, and is, in part, relieved.
In part.
Because another part of him is still freaking thinking about it, because another part of him is about as far from relief as he could possibly get.
"There is something so, so wrong with you, Kurt Elizabeth," he mutters to himself, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it (it doesn't) and focusing back in on his phone to try and come up with some sort of witty response (he can't). He's finally decided on the ever-versatile "good to know" and, after what seems like an eternity, has his thumb hovering over the G of the touchscreen, when in his grasp the phone buzzes a third time.
From: Blaine <3
...hypothetically speaking
From: Blaine <3
if that HAD been my honest answer
Kurt drops the phone before he can figure out if Blaine left that intentionally open-ended or if he just hasn't gotten the third message yet. He has to drop it, because he has to steel himself against the rigid frame of his desk, sweating palms braced against the edge of it spread far to either side, head hunching down over his laptop keyboard, stars sort of flashing around behind his eyes. Because if this text means what Kurt thinks it means, Blaine is thinking about the same thing Kurt's thinking about and that. That is just. A whole lot to think about. It's one thing if Kurt ends up with a little bit of accidental fantasy fuel in his own head, locked up tight with the other little tidbits he's collected, telling no one. But it's another thing entirely if...this. It's clearly another thing entirely because Kurt's breath is suddenly coming faster and his heartbeat's not far behind and a loose, hot wave of something roils over him, and it's a good thirty seconds before he can rein it all in enough to pick his phone back up from the floor, where it apparently turned itself off on impact.
He turns it back on to one message, that just reads kurt?
blaine, he answers.
To: Blaine <3
blaine.
To: Blaine <3
blaine I think
To: Blaine <3
yes.
Y-E-S-period is now the hardest text Kurt has ever sent, and if that was that hard, he is terrified for what's going to happen when Blaine answers and expects a response in return. Fortunately, Kurt never has to figure that out, because with a tinkling crash of digitized Katy Perry, his phone is ringing.
"Blaine," Kurt murmurs, his voice cracking with...something. Embarrassment. Nerves. Lust. Who knows any more.
"Look I've never done this before," Blaine begins, getting it all out in a rush, and Kurt totally understands because Kurt is freaking out too and so Kurt just lets him, "but it's been kind of forever since I saw you face-to-face and I am so burnt out on these physics equations that I'm at the point where I'll probably end up saying 'I miss you exponentially more and more every second that we are apart' and I am sorry for the super-awkward that started all this but I'm kind of." He breathes. "Not sorry. At all."
And just like that, the low breathy frantic hot timbre to Blaine's voice makes the decision for him. "Me neither," Kurt says. "We are so totally about to have phone sex."
Blaine groans down the line and Kurt's nerves crackle over with something like thick wet electricity. "Oh my god you can't just say shit like that."
"Like what?" says Kurt, kind of frighteningly desperate to hear that noise agan. "Phone sex?" And oh, it's quieter and weaker but it's there, again, a back-alley caress into his ear.
"Get comfortable," Blaine says. "I can't promise this'll last very long - actually I can promise that it probably won't last very long - so you better enjoy the time you've got." He does this little laugh that's probably supposed to sound pathetic, self-deprecating. What it sounds like is delicious.
Kurt toes off his slippers and tears across the few feet or so between his desk chair and his bed, rolling into it on his back and cradling his phone between his ear and his shoulder, eager to have his hands free, already starting to imagine them as Blaine's own, squarer, stronger, rough-callused from his guitar, as he slides one up under the hem of his nightshirt and over the smooth skin of his own quivering stomach. This is Blaine's hand, he tells himself, and the thought of his boyfriend (boyfriend) ghosting his hot palm along Kurt's skin right here, where the slim faint trail of hair from his bellybutton downward is just sort of fanning outward, wrings a high nasal gasp from his throat and straight into the receiver.
"Kurt," moans Blaine, "Kurt what are you doing, what are you thinking that's making you sound like that - "
"You," says Kurt, reveling in blunt honesty. "Your hands, thick hands reaching down to touch me - "
"I will touch you all over," says Blaine dangerously. "Just please don't stop."
Kurt couldn't stop for anything by now, much less an incentive that sounds so incredible, the thought of Blaine stroking over his chest, his stomach, the oversensitive expanse of his high inner thigh. By the time Kurt curls his hand (Blaine's hand) slick and loose around his cock, barely needing to touch its hot hardness to get enough sensation working to drive him insane, he's panting audibly, quick debauched-sounding noises he tries not to think too hard about out of mortification. He focuses instead on Blaine's own sweet little cries of pleasure, and on bringing himself to the edge, hot for it in ways he didn't know he could even be hot, pajamas twisted under him as he sweats and writhes into the sheets. He'll get so damnably close but the edge will stay just out of his reach, and he'll redouble his efforts, imagining what Blaine must be doing, fisting himself just as frantic and wishing it were Kurt, and then imagining himself actually doing whatever Blaine must be imagining him doing even though he doesn't even know what that is, per se, and the whole thing loops into this elaborate erotic construction that hinges on thrusting hips and dripping skin.
Then suddenly, there's this perfect moment where he's reaching out toward the edge again, and right when he's so close he can taste it (and he can, beaded sweat rolling down past his slack-parted lips) is right when Blaine chokes out a high broken cry of "ahh, Kurt!" and then that is just. That is it. Kurt comes harder than he ever has, across his hand and his pajamas and his sheets, keening out his completion into the phone and then listening, entranced, as Blaine does the same.
The haze that follows distracts Kurt into thinking about all sorts of stray semi-irrelevant things, like how this is only the third time he's ever gotten off because of Blaine, or how thankful he is for the extra set of sheets he keeps under his bed, or how he's definitely not going to be able to finish that French composition now. And then, belatedly, about how his call is still running, and Blaine is still at the other end of the line, probably just as lost. And probably, like Kurt, loving every minute of it.
"That was," Kurt begins, breathing heavy but steady at last.
"That was," Blaine agrees.
Kurt bites his lip, a little, stumped. Because like. What do you say?
Fortunately for him Blaine has always been a babbler. "So like I realized I never really answered your question."
"What?"
"From earlier. About if I could do anything."
"Oh," says Kurt. "Yeah?"
"I think I'd like to retroactively say that my answer to your question is 'find a time machine and go back and relive the past six minutes,'" says Blaine. "Or possibly to kiss you."
And Kurt smiles, just a little, a genuine, peaceful, chaste sort of smile. Kissing sounds amazing right now.
"I vote option B," he says. "As soon as possible, anyway, since right this second seems kind of out of the question."
"Done," says Blaine. "I need to see you tomorrow. It's Friday, I've just got study hall and then Warblers practice in the afternoon, I'll duck out early and pick you up from school."
"If French and physics don't kill us first."
"Riiiight." Blaine laughs, a little, and it's just so sweet and natural and amazing a thing to do, so light-hearted in the face of all the awkward tension, that Kurt laughs too.
"I'll see you then, then?"
"Then then," Kurt teases.
"...Night, Kurt."
"Goodnight."
"Night."
"Goodnight, Blaine," says Kurt, and he wipes his hand off enough to hang up, because Blaine is terrible at it.
The other hand he leaves messy for a moment, though, struck with a terrible, fabulous idea. Leaning as hard into the pillows as he can and stretching far, far out with his other arm, Kurt tentatively slips one soiled finger between his own lips, fans the others out as alluringly as possible and snaps a photo of himself on his phone, checking to make sure it doesn't look too horrible (well, relatively speaking, because how fabulous and yet how terrible) before sending it off to Blaine, the caption riddled through with teasing deja vu.
To: Blaine <3
food for thought?
(Because this is the most sexual thing he and Blaine have ever done, and obviously, both of them are going to have to think on it pretty hard, and what it means for the already tricky kind of relationship they've struck up here in Homophobia, Ohio. And yet some twisted part of Kurt's brain is already cataloguing away every growl, every gasp, every beautiful fleeting image of Blaine he collected tonight, and eagerly awaiting the moment when they can hopefully, probably, please do more.)
Blaine, of course, is too smart for his own good, and seems to have gotten similar ideas.
From: Blaine <3
yeah, I'm hungry.