Blaine loves those jeans: the dark ones with the stylish, strategically placed rips in them. They’re Kurt’s sex jeans, as Blaine’s started to call them — only in his own head, of course. Blaine always notices when Kurt wears those jeans. They fit him perfectly, in all the right places — stretching deliciously across his thighs, his ass, but not obscenely tight like most of his other pants. It’s like those jeans hold a secret that only Blaine knows.
Whenever he sees Kurt wearing those jeans at school or on the weekends, Blaine can’t help but be transported back to opening night of West Side Story, when he’d nervously fumbled with the buttons and the zipper at the fly as they undressed each other for the first time. He’s gotten a lot better at undoing the closures by now.
Kurt wears those jeans when he comes home from college for his first break, in October of his freshman year. The first thing Blaine notices when he sees Kurt at the airport is his radiant smile, then his thinned-out face — the result of his rigorous schedule of dance classes and acting classes scattered across ten blocks of Manhattan. And then his jeans — those jeans, the ones he knows more intimately than any of Kurt’s countless articles of clothing.
Later that evening, after a frustratingly long welcome back dinner with Kurt’s family, Blaine takes Kurt for a ride “to get dessert.” He promptly parks on the side of a dark road leading out of town and they shift to the backseat, panting and grinding desperately, making up for a month and a half of no contact. Blaine palms Kurt through those jeans, his sex jeans. “I love these jeans,” Blaine moans against Kurt’s mouth as he strokes harder, faster, nearly making Kurt come before he feels Kurt’s hand wrap around his own to still his motions. “If you love these jeans, then dear god, please do not ruin them by making me come in them.” So he lets Kurt ditch those jeans, at least for now.
When Blaine moves to New York, and he and Kurt begin their lives in the smallest apartment either of them have ever seen — more like a room, with a “kitchen” against one wall and their bed lining the other — Kurt wears those jeans when he’s lounging at home between classes or on weekend errands, when they peruse the farmers market or grab lunch together in the park. By now, Kurt knows that Blaine calls them his sex jeans, and he makes sure to put an extra sway in his step when they’re walking through the crowded streets of New York, just to make it that much better when Blaine finally gets his hands on him when they get back home.
And put his hands on him, he does. Blaine is helpless to the pull of Kurt in those jeans — the Kurt who knows he turns Blaine on when he wears this particular item of clothing. Sometimes he takes them off — deftly unfastening and dragging them down Kurt’s legs — while other times he lets them tangle around his ankles, too focused on making Kurt moan to bother with removing them completely. And other times, he leaves them on: palming and mouthing at Kurt’s cock through the thick denim until he tumbles over the edge, like when they were high schoolers and so new to travel south of the equator that they didn’t get a chance to rid themselves of clothing before it all became too much.
Kurt wears those jeans the day they move into their new apartment three years later — this one a little bigger, a little more permanent. This place lets them paint a wall, and on the first day of their lease the two of them navigate around furniture draped with old sheets as they roll steely blue-gray paint onto the long wall of the living room.
“Aren’t you going to change your jeans?” Blaine asks as his eyes travel down below Kurt’s waist.
Kurt frowns down at his legs, shrugs a little. “These old things? I don’t mind if I get a little paint on them. I never wear them out anymore.”
When they finish painting, Blaine sets his roller down and stumbles over to Kurt, hooking his index fingers into the back pockets of those jeans. “Please promise me you’ll never get rid of these jeans?” he asks as he rubs circles over Kurt’s hip bones, the fabric under his thumbs worn soft from years of wash and wear.
Kurt smiles at him, a knowing smirk coupled with sparkling blue eyes. “Never,” he laughs. “I know how much you love when I wear them.”
“Second only to when you wear nothing,” Blaine says, pulling him flush against his waist by the two fingers still trapped between layers of denim.
They fall right there, laughing, onto the dropcloth laid over the wood floors of their new living room, surrounded by unpacked boxes and the musty smell of new paint and their strewn clothing; those jeans a pillow under Kurt’s head as they make love for the first time in their new apartment.
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