“Oh God, yes,” Kurt moans, Blaine's intense heat sliding over him, his lips and his tongue performing their magic over Kurt's hard cock, making him see stars, satellites dancing before his eyes. “Th-that's it. Don't—don't stop.”

“I won't,” Blaine whispers with a giggle, not at Kurt's begging – though that's one of his favorite parts about blowing his boyfriend – but this hint of taboo they've added, sitting in the backseat of Kurt's Navigator, parked at the curb right out front of Kurt's house. Every porch light is on and conceivably anyone inside could peek out the windows and see Kurt sitting upright in the seat (instead of lying down the way they usually do) with Blaine kneeling on the floor between his legs.

It's a carefully calculated taboo though, since the likelihood that anyone will actually look out the windows at this time of night is next to nil, but it's a start, and for Blaine, that's still a thrill.

“Yes!” Kurt moans loudly, sinking a little into the seat in full surrender to Blaine's mouth, his arms up over his head, hands grabbing hold of the seat back and digging in with his nails. He starts moving his hips, pumping up into Blaine's mouth, getting carried away by this moment of minor risk and the way Blaine has suddenly become a master overnight because of it. The Navigator might be shaking, bouncing back and forth - Kurt doesn't know. At this exact point in time, he doesn't care.

But unknown to him, somebody else does.

“Yes!” Kurt gasps, so close to cumming he can feel the tightness in his balls coincide sublimely with the sudden loss of blood to his brain. “Yes! Oh God, oh God, oh God…Oh shit!”

Blaine pulls off, planning on finishing Kurt with his hand, anxious to feel his boyfriend cum on his face.

Why not? They're already pushing boundaries. Why not add another? Blaine's in the mood to get a little dirty. Everything he's wearing is machine washable.

“Yes, baby,” he murmurs, licking up Kurt's shaft when his hand moves down to the base. “Cum for me. Be as loud as you want. I want to hear you.”

“No!” Kurt grunts, pulling away from Blaine's hand and his mouth. “Stop!”

“Wh-what?” Blaine asks, concerned, completely blind in the foot well. “Why? Did I hurt you?” Blaine looks on puzzled as Kurt hastily shoves his cock back in his pants. “What's going on?”

“It's my dad!” Kurt hisses, trying not to be too obvious. Little does he know that time is long gone. “Stay down!” Kurt glances up and his eyes lock with his father's, even thru the dark tint on the back windows. Burt frowns, pointing to his wrist - a silent message that Kurt is out past curfew and his absence has been noticed. But Kurt, fumbling with his pants, doesn't gesture back, doesn't acknowledge that he saw and understood. While Kurt goes over in his mind a list of things he intends to say to explain this situation, Burt storms off the porch, headed toward the Navigator.

“Shit!” Kurt leaps into panic mode. He was sure he'd be able to get out of the Navigator and head his dad off before he left the porch. If his dad finds out what they've been doing, he might stop his allowance. He might take away his Navigator…his baby.

He might forbid him from seeing Blaine.

“Kurt…” Blaine starts climbing to his feet, but Kurt puts a hand to the top of his head and pushes him sharply to the floor.

“No! Stay down! He's coming this way!”

“But…”

Kurt doesn't listen. He reaches down and tugs up on his zipper, making sure he's presentable in this way before his dad notices his fly down and his cock slapping Blaine in the face. He pulls up hard without paying attention and hears a horrible, tortured howl come from his crotch.

“Kur—oooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!”

From outside the vehicle, Burt stops in his tracks, his eyes going wide.

“Kurt?” he calls through the closed window from a few feet away. “What was that? What's wrong?”

“Oh my God! Blaine!” Kurt exclaims at the same time, and his father hears. By the way Kurt stares down at the floor with a look of horror on his face, his dad gets a pretty good idea what might have happened. After all, he was a teenager once, and though some of the finer details of that time might have gone fuzzy, parking out front of his girlfriend's house happens to be one of his clearer memories.

His footsteps slow. He isn't exactly prepared for this but he had better come to grips with it quick because he has the sinking feeling that he's going to need to drive someone to the hospital.

Burt walks up to Kurt's window, his shadow falling across Kurt's face and the backseat. Whatever Kurt's fussing with out of Burt's view, he stops. He turns to his father and stares.

And that's all they do – father and son stare at one another, both wearing different masks of a similar embarrassment on their faces while somewhere at Kurt's feet, a trapped Blaine's lip swells like a balloon.

“Dad, I…”

Kurt starts to explain, picking an item off his prepared list that might soothe the dread of this moment, but his father puts a hand up to stop him.

“Just…tell me what's caught where,” he requests stoically.

Kurt swallows hard.

“Uh…it's Blaine's lip,” Kurt answers.

Burt nods, his expression blank. Kurt has never seen his father's face so unreadable. It's nearly as daunting as his not oft seen anger.

“Caught where?” Burt asks.

Kurt's body starts to shake, and with the shaking he hears Blaine whimper with pain. Kurt grabs a hold of the interior door handle to stop.

“In…uh…” His voice quivers uncontrollably as his dad waits for the answer. “In…my zipper.”

And that's the moment when Kurt Hummel died.

Or at least, he wishes he had.

Burt drops his head and takes off his cap, scrubbing a hand over his face, hiding both a grimace and the start of a nervous laugh.

Oh, God, why? Why now? Why tonight? Why ever? Of all the nightmares Burt Hummel has had regarding his son's blossoming into manhood, this has to be among the top ten.

But then he sees an opportunity. One he can't let go by. He couldn't rightfully call himself the father of a sexually-active teenage boy if he did.

“You know,” he says, raising his head and replacing his cap, “Carole's a nurse. I should just let her…”

“No!” Kurt and Blaine yell at the same time. Kurt covers his face when his dad's eyes shift downward toward the door, staring as if he can see Blaine cowering behind. “Don't call Carole, dad. Just…please,” Kurt pleads, “do something?”

Burt scratches the back of his neck, taking longer than necessary, knowing that the wait is killing the boys in the SUV. It probably won't teach them any kind of lesson, but it will be a story he can tell their kids one day – every holiday, every dinner, every time they visit for the rest of his life – so he wants to get some mileage out of it.

“I don't think we can get you out of those pants without ripping Anderson's lip off,” Burt comments, trying to make it sound as painful as possible, knowing both boys are a bit light when it comes to the subject of blood. “And I don't think I can cut the fly off those pants without taking something else important with it…” Burt sucks in a long breath through his teeth as Kurt becomes paler and paler by the second. “Yup, I best get you boys to the hospital.”

Kurt's mouth snaps open, but he closes it again. There's no use objecting. He knows his father's right. Regardless of how humiliating it's going to be going to the emergency room like this, it's a better option than waking Carole, and then possibly Finn, in which case everyone in McKinley would know by the morning.

“Alright,” Kurt says, groping around the seat beside him for his key fob and pressing the button to open the driver's side door. Burt makes it a point not to look too deep into the backseat as he climbs into the SUV.

“Hello, Blaine,” he says, reaching back blindly for Kurt to hand him the keys.

“Good evening, sir,” Blaine mumbles around his fat lip and Kurt's fly.

Burt shuts the door with a slam that shakes the whole vehicle, smiling with satisfaction at the muffled groans from the backseat.

“Oh, and Kurt? Blaine?”

“Yes, dad?” Kurt asks. Blaine mumbles something from the vicinity of Kurt's groin.

“You're both grounded. Two weeks after school at the shop. No excuses.”

“But, dad!” Burt glares back at Kurt through the rearview mirror and Kurt shudders, his argument already invalid without saying a single other word. He should consider himself grateful, he thinks in retrospect. Two weeks at the shop is light considering. “Uh… you-you can't ground Blaine,” he goes with instead. “He isn't your…”

Blaine raises his hand. Burt sees it and sighs       

“Yes, Blaine?”

“You're right,” Blaine sputters, drooling over the cut in his lip and hissing in pain. “I'm grounded, too.”

Burt smiles, reaching back again and patting Blaine hard on the back.

“Good boy, Blaine,” he says. “Good boy.”

Burt buckles himself in, starting to enjoy this moment more and more as his own discomfort bleeds away and the utter humor starts to sink in. He sticks Kurt's key in the ignition and switches the engine on, but before he puts the vehicle in gear he looks over his shoulder and says, “Now, I'm thinking this might be a good opportunity for some photographs…” He hears Kurt's mortified exhalation of air and almost loses it. “The three of us rarely get to spend any time together, and, I mean, yearbook's coming up…”

“Dad!” Kurt utters at the thought of a full page spread in the back of his senior yearbook from his dad, dedicated to him, that includes pictures of him in Glee club, as a Warbler, performing in the school musical, then nestled in somewhere between his official school portrait and a picture of him in his cap and gown, a snapshot from tonight, his face flushed red, ready to throw-up, with Blaine stuck on the floor between his knees, his lower lip the size of an old-school Buick.

“Ah, you're no fun,” Burt says with a chuckle, putting the Navigator into drive and pulling away from the curb. “Hold on, gentleman. It's going to be a bumpy ride.”