The One Who Makes Me Sweat

The after-party is buzzing with life, raging loud and drunken in Santana's basement, Puck constantly cranking the sound system up until the beat shakes the walls and floors, the glass of the windows shaking with the force of the bass. No one seems to notice the damage they're risking to the house or the bottles and discarded wrappers they're slipping over, too busy dancing and chattering and laughing too loud, intoxicated by alcohol and overwhelming excitement and the thrum of the music in their bones and their own virile youth, spending the night young and wild and free in an empty dark house with lights flashing in hazy eye.

Santana whirls beneath David's arm, a smile stretching her crimson-painted lips wide, the light in her eyes composed of liquor rather than sheer happiness, her grin momentarily slipping each time she catches sight of Brittany, all pale limbs and flying hair on the makeshift dance floor, glowing and slender like a elf, while Artie wheels around her with a grin splitting his face, grabbing her hand and spinning her in against his wheelchair and back out again. Rachel sings along lazily with the songs, off-key and more often than not missing the tune, humming quietly as she sways tipsily in Jesse's arms, his grip on her rough and possessive as Finn looks over at them above Quinn's head, Quinn's gentle hands harsh as she yanks him down for a long kiss. Mike and Tina dance exuberantly alongside Sam and Mercedes, laughing and grabbing at hips and shoulders, bumping into each other and tripping over the hems of their dresses in their intoxicated states, giggling loud and overexcited in the relatively small space.

No one had expected Kurt to manhandle Blaine into a corner and kiss him hard and dirty, scrabbling to shed their jackets without a thought for the clothes. It was Puck who picked up the garments and hung them over the back of a chair, rubbing his cheek momentarily against the fabric like a child, swiping the crown balanced lopsidedly on Kurt's head from him and placing it on Lauren's hair, dragging the girl onto the floor with a crooked grin. Now, Kurt and Blaine are dancing with everyone else, but all over each other, Blaine's arms wound around Kurt's torso and hands resting spread on his thighs, finger digging possessively into his flesh through the notorious kilt, and Kurt's head tilted back against Blaine's shoulder as he grinds back against him, eyes closed and face flushed, whether from alcohol or the heat of fifteen people crammed into a small space or being pressed against Blaine like that, it's hard to tell.

Kurt's whimper is drowned by a raucous yell from Finn, Puck and Mike as Brittany climbs onto a table and starts to strip to the beat, immediately followed by yelps from the trio when their girlfriends slap them in reprimand. Blaine's fingers are quick and nimble as he undoes the top two buttons of Kurt's shirt and tugs the material aside to latch onto his collarbone, Kurt arching forward and shoving two fingers in his mouth to muffle a moan as Blaine's tongue and teeth work over the flesh, sucking a dark bruise into his skin, marking him in a way he rarely dares to. Alcohol buzzes through him, pleasant and fluttering and light, making him forget the consequences and the risks as Blaine's hands skim over and up his thighs, slipping beneath the waistband of his kilt and over the juts of his hipbones, twisting something deep and hot low in his stomach.

"Blaine," Kurt gasps out raggedly, chest heaving with each deep pull of air, jaw hanging slackly open as his hands grab behind him for any of Blaine he can reach, eyes fluttering shut at the sweet drag of Blaine inside him, steamy and secret between them, hidden by the veil of his kilt as Blaine wraps his arms more securely around him, tugging him back with a groan that rumbles deep in his chest, Kurt letting out a choked-back mewl at the change in angle.

"Keep quiet," Blaine whispers, the brush of his lips against Kurt's earlobe manifesting itself in a high desperate whine from Kurt, the beat of the music thrumming through their tangled bodies with the matched rhythm of their hips. "Do you want everyone to know what we're doing? This is just for us, Kurt. Only the two of us. No one else."

"I don't want anyone else," Kurt breaths out, voice rough and low, gravelly with sex and running with an undercurrent of constant drunken lust. "Just you. I don't need any more than this." He slides his fingers between Blaine's and pulls his hand up to his mouth, kissing over his palm, his knuckles, licking between each of his fingers and sucking on the fleshy pad of his thumb, biting roughly down to muffle a loud, lewd groan when Blaine slips a hand beneath his kilt and wraps it around his cock, adding volumes more to the pleasure already short-circuiting his mind, making his knees limp so he would collapse, noodle-limp, to the ground if Blaine's arm weren't holding him up.

Slipping a hand beneath Kurt's shirt, spreading his fingers wide and possessive over his stomach, Blaine looks over at the raging party as Kurt grinds back against him, wanton and needy in his soft groans and whimpers. No one appears to be paying any attention beyond a cursory glance to them, but for Karofsky. Santana is still twirling beneath his arm and around him, hips swaying and red lips smirking teasingly, but the boy's eyes are concentrated entirely on the arch of Kurt's chest and the swollen red of his wet, parted lips.

Blaine notices, how dark Karofsky's eyes are across the room and its swirling lights, how his gaze flickers down and up again. He tightens his arm around Kurt, pulls him back and pushes roughly into him, hard and unforgiving as Kurt shoves his fist into his mouth to muffle a shriek as Blaine shoves into him one more time and twists his fist just under the head of Kurt's cock, and that's it, Kurt comes with a howl muffled into his fingers, almost collapsing as Blaine pulls out of him, sated and ready to curl up in a corner with only Kurt's warmth as a blanket.

But first, he has to find a bathroom and clean them both up, and root through empty bedrooms to find something for them to wear, and a bed to cuddle and sleep in. He grabs a dazed Kurt's hands and tugs him out of the room, unnoticed by anyone but Karofsky. He holds the boy's gaze for a second too long, smirks and winks obviously, triumph soaring through his veins along with the aftershocks of his orgasm and the alcohol of the spiked punch.

Never let it be said that Blaine Anderson doesn't know how to chase away his competitors.