"Fuck me into the wall." Blaine's words are slurred but unmistakable as his arms circle Kurt's waist from behind and he stumbles after him into their apartment, Kurt's key finally managing to slip into the keyhole.
He says it again, louder: "Fuck me. Into the wall."
Kurt's tipsy himself and dropping the keys, kicking shut the door and forgetting to lock it as his hips sway and he stalks off for the kitchen. "Blaine," he calls over his shoulder, all sing-song and liquid sex. A hiccup at the end doing nothing to ruin the moment.
Blaine bounces after him on unsteady feet and skids around the corner.
Kurt just stares at him, one eyebrow arched, one corner of his mouth quirked. "You get so horny when you get drunk," he points out, then drinks greedily from the bottle of water he's pulled from the fridge.
Blaine nods.
"You don't get drunk often though," Kurt ponders.
Blaine shakes his head.
They stare for a while and eventually Kurt offers the water, sober enough to know water now might help them in the morning. Blaine drinks but it slicks down his throat and wets the collar of his shirt.
"Because of 'Scandals'?" Kurt asks.
Blaine stares at him, the horniness disappearing for a second and then it's back. He nods.
Kurt's head tilts. "Sweet," he says.
Then he's crowding him back against the counter, pushing his hips back until Blaine scrambling up, almost falling off, sitting there, legs spread and wrapping his limbs around Kurt as he kisses him hard and with tequila and vodka and rum and vanilla mixing between their mouths.
"Fuck me," Blaine begs again.
Kurt manages to get Blaine's pants undone, his own somehow, Blaine doesn't know, around his ankles already and oh, yes, Kurt's hard. Then hard against hard, cock against cock, and Kurt's hands, somehow Blaine knows peripherally—where the fuck did his jeans go?—their tongues too deep in each other's mouths, sweat and spit slicking on chins and necks, Blaine knows Kurt's fingers are on him.
Inside him and he feels it.
Maybe Kurt's too drunk to prep him properly, maybe he just decides not-quite-enough is okay. He's sober enough to have pulled lube out of Blaine's back-pocket.
God, they're such deviants at 22.
Then Kurt's inside him and there's no wall to be fucked into because Blaine's on the kitchen counter and he's pouting, mumbling, "Wall," because he wants bruises up his back tomorrow. "Wall," he demands.
And Kurt gathers him in long strong arms, Blaine's legs locking around his waist, Kurt's cock buried deep and Kurt spins him around, into the godforsaken wall and starts fucking into him hard.
Blaine grins and lets his head loll back, lets Kurt's mouth go to work across one collarbone and then the other, back up his chin to take from his mouth and his hips fucking him hard and fast and Blaine can hardly register it. Keeps grinning into the kiss.
He's making noise but not really knowing it, realizing it when he hears it echoing back to him, listing to Kurt's breaths instead, feeling his hips hit against his body instead of feeling the cock inside him until he does and he spasms, swearing something filthy and earning a look from Kurt.
"Shut up," Kurt hisses through giggles.
It's 2 am and they've had enough complaints from the neighbors in the last month.
"Come," Kurt tells him, hips harder, faster, cock impossibly big and deep inside him.
Blaine starts assembling a semi-witty slurred retort but the words die on his lips when he feels his cock throb and he has to bite down on Kurt's lip to hold back.
"Blaine, come," Kurt tries again.
And Blaine does. His body falls against the wall, taut and tight and then limber and useless, ankles unlooping as come slides down Kurt's stomach in drips and Blaine stares, not quite sure how he got there but feeling the aftershocks ripple through him as proof as Kurt's cock pounding into him doesn't falter.
Blaine watches the come slick between them, watches it still white and sliding down the head of his cock, bobbing as Kurt moans hard into him. Then Kurt's fingers, too-rough over his cock and up into Blaine's mouth, two fingers pressing deep and around his tongue, making him taste himself. Blaine's eyes shut before he can think and he sucks, swallows and lets his teeth catch at Kurt's fingers on a moan.
Then Kurt's fucking up harder, border-line pain, certainly too much and Blaine's moan gets overridden by a roar from Kurt as he holds himself deep and desperate and comes as hard as he can remember. Oh god, he hopes he remembers.
His legs ache from holding the weight of both of them and Blaine's fidgeting to get away but Kurt snaps, "Wait," and Blaine does.
Their breathing levels until Kurt hiccups again and Blaine giggles and that's enough, Kurt disentangles them and holds Blaine's hips against the wall so he can slide out and Blaine's feet can find the floorboards again.
Their foreheads meet, as is so often the case and they smile desperately, drunkenly at each other. And that's new.
"You know I forgave you for Scandals a very long time ago, right?" Kurt asks.
Blaine nods and kisses his bottom lip.
"Bed?" Kurt asks and Blaine nods into his neck.
A sigh and they should separate but when Kurt's hands creep back, over Blaine's ass, Blaine doesn't protest; a shiver just darts up his spine. Kurt's hands down the small of his back, the crack of his ass and two fingers of his right hand dipping in deep to where Blaine's still stretched open and feeling him squeeze around him.
Deep as he can and spreading and dragging his fingers out, hot, wet come on them, spilling and painted up the crack of Blaine's ass and maybe, Kurt's not sure, dripped onto the floor.
Blaine groans and Kurt mutters, "Dirty," into his ear.
"I like it," Blaine mumbles, after a moment, pressing his ass further into Kurt's hands and making Kurt grin.
"Next weekend?" Kurt says, sounding hopeful.
Blaine positively purrs. "More clubbing," he tells him. "Definitely if it means more of this." He thinks. "Maybe just this even. Tomorrow's Sunday," he sounds tired and his eyes are closed, ass still rocking back into Kurt's hands but mouth nuzzling at his cheek. "Sunday night in?"
