Title: This Black Garden
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17 for m/m shenanigans and mild kink
Summary: Smut happens. And not much else
Author's notes: This was outlined, and part I written, a long time ago (right after the Christmas ep aired), when Blaine's (and Kurt's, for that matter) characterization was more open to, uh, radical interpretations. So… let's call it a post-Very Glee Christmas AU, I guess, because thar be some sharp departures from canon herein.
This Black Garden, Part I: Spring
"You think I'm cruel to you sometimes, don't you?"
Kurt jumped, and dropped his pencil. It was the second time Blaine had snuck up on him in as many days—it was like the guy was some kind of schoolboy-chic ninja or something. He grabbed his pencil before it rolled off the table and smiled automatically, but then he realized what Blaine had just said, and he froze. "Um. What?"
Blaine walked closer, hands in his pockets, smiling as kindly, as gently, as affectionately as ever. "The things I say to you, the things I do." He broke off, rocking on his toes a little with his head tilted. "The things I don't do." Kurt swallowed reflexively. "Sometimes you wonder if I'm being cruel. On purpose."
Kurt's mouth was open, but nothing came out. He shook his head, because that was just… ridiculous, only Blaine grinned like he knew better. "You're right—I am. But it's only because I think you're beautiful." He shrugged, casually. "I'll get over it. In time."
Kurt's ears burned, and his eyes felt hot. That was just about… everything he'd wanted to hear, right there, put right out there, only… not. "You," he said, and stopped to clear his throat because he couldn't even hear himself. "Did you say. You said." Beautiful, he thought. Couldn't say it. "Cruel. On purpose?"
Blaine's smile broadened, like he was delighted with Kurt's response. "Yes. I'm afraid I'm a bit… perverse, that way." His eyes glinted merrily. "In a couple of ways, actually."
Kurt's stomach went into a sudden freefall. "Oh." Oh. Well. That explained some things. And it was good information to have, since he couldn't even think about Blaine without… since he, since… "How perverse are you?" he asked, and then shut his mouth with a snap, because he hadn't intended to ask that at all.
Blaine leaned against the back of the couch, gazing at him fondly, almost indulgently. "Hm. Well. Do you really want to know?"
"I… yes," Kurt said, and goddamn his runaway mouth, because he hadn't meant to say that either. He put his pencil down, then picked it up again when he realized his hands were shaking. "Yes, I do." He should just staple his stupid mouth shut when he was around Blaine. That might work.
Blaine's eyes dropped to half-mast. Kurt suppressed a shiver. "All right. Why don't you meet me here tomorrow morning at eleven—"
"Here?" Kurt said—squeaked, practically. He swallowed, looking around. "The study room? Don't you mean… your room? Or, my room? I mean—fine, it's fine, but… it's not the most private place in the world, you know." He ran out of breath by the end, which wasn't much more than a whisper.
"No, it isn't," Blaine agreed cheerfully, and then turned and left the room. Whistling.
Kurt's pencil snapped in half in his hands.
He almost didn't go. He had a million thoughts, and at least twice that many feelings, none of which could be articulated without his ears glowing red and his stomach going all fluttery. It was a long day, followed by a very long, very sleepless night, followed by an utterly interminable morning.
But in the end, he went.
The study room was dominated by a heavy, polished oak desk, complete with a chair that could have doubled as a throne in a school production of Hamlet. And that was where Blaine was sitting when Kurt stepped quietly into the room, looking perfectly at ease in the surroundings, rising to greet him with one of those sweet, jovial smiles that now meant something oh-so-much-different from what they used to—but which nevertheless still made Kurt's heart do a quick, syncopated rumba in his chest.
"Kurt," Blaine said warmly, "you're here. I wasn't sure you would be."
"I wasn't either," Kurt answered, then bit his tongue.
But Blaine's smile only got wider. "Second thoughts, then? Can't say I blame you, really—"
"Are you going to hurt me?" Kurt asked, and almost choked.
Blaine studied him, his eyes wide and guileless. "If I said yes, would you want to leave?"
That was… a terrible question. A terrible, horrible and unanswerable question. But Blaine didn't seem to expect an answer. "How about this—you can leave, any time. You can walk away. You want to stop, everything stops. Will that suit?"
Kurt's face felt like it was on fire. All he could do was nod. He couldn't believe he was nodding, but he was.
Blaine nodded back. "Good. That's all settled, then." He stepped backwards, gesturing politely. "Under the desk, please."
Kurt swayed a bit on his feet. "Under. Under the desk?"
"So… we're going to… you plan to…" his breath snagged in his throat and he stopped.
Blaine came to him, close enough to touch, and cupped his chin. "Your mouth is sinful," he said softly, confidingly, like he was telling a secret. "I'd like to see if it lives up to all the promises it makes."
I've never, is what went through his head, but of course Blaine already knew that, and it didn't matter. Kurt's mouth tingled. Blaine was staring at it. Kurt moved on numb feet, and folded himself under the desk. He was almost hyperventilating.
Blaine settled himself in the chair, smiling down at him calmly, like they were talking in the caf and not… here, not… doing what they were about to do. "You'll be fine," Blaine said, and then Kurt couldn't look at his face anymore because Blaine's hands were unbuttoning his blazer, undoing his belt. Kurt's mouth flooded all at once, and he had to swallow and keep swallowing. His heart thumped hard. "I'll talk you through it," Blaine said, like it was some kind of fucking calculus problem or a fucking dance routine and not actual fucking sex and… God.
The ratcheting sound of Blaine's zipper seemed obscenely loud in the close confines under the desk. Everything seemed loud—his own breath, his own heart, the rustle of fabric as Blaine opened his trousers. Blaine wore boxers. They were very white. Blaine had a line of dark hair from his navel down to… down to… down to where Blaine was unexpectedly and alarmingly well-endowed. "Oh," Kurt said, and shifted a little on his knees, wondering how his mouth could feel shock-dry when it wouldn't stop watering.
Blaine's hand against his cheek was warm, and the strong fingers lacing into his hair at the back of his neck made him shiver. "Open up, Kurt," Blaine said, and Kurt's mouth opened on a gasp, and his eyes fluttered closed when he felt the tip of Blaine's cock brush his lower lip. Blaine was salty and clean, silk-skinned and smooth, and it was easy, really amazingly easy only then Blaine made a low noise, almost a growl. "Stop sucking."
Kurt stopped sucking, dizzy and turned-on and uncertain, because—he was pretty sure, he'd been pretty sure that was how it was supposed to go—
"That's not what I'm looking for," Blaine said, and there was a thumb caressing the hinge of his jaw, pressing. Kurt let his mouth fall open, and then he had everything he could handle, and then some. "Just take it, and stay open," Blaine said, working slowly but steadily into his mouth, and right on into his throat. "Stay open for me." Blaine sounded so soft, so gentle; it was hypnotic, mesmerizing, and even though he knew he should probably be freaking out right now, he couldn't. "I want to be in you," Blaine said huskily, and Kurt felt the words run right down his spine.
Kurt was hard, so hard he ached, and his nipples were peaked and tingling, chafed by the smooth cotton of his shirt, and his mouth was watering endlessly. "Your mouth is amazing," Blaine told him, and Kurt's toes curled inside his boots. "I'd like to stay in it for a long time." But there was more of Blaine and then even more, and Kurt's eyes were watering and he was right, right on the edge of choking and his throat kept trying to spasm—and it was just fucking ridiculous that none of that seemed to make any difference to the fact that he himself was so turned on he was shaking.
He squeezed his own knees fiercely, digging his fingers into his bones, and opened and opened and then he was there, all the way down on Blaine's cock, and it was shocking and hot and so, so hard to hang on, so hard not to choke, so hard to breathe, so hard not to come in his pants. He made a noise, a little noise; he couldn't help it.
"That's okay," Blaine said, and petted his head. "It's good—it lets me know you're working hard for me. You can suck, now—just a little, Kurt, gently—and use your tongue—not too much, not so much—like that, yes. Good. But don't move. Just stay right where you are."
He was going to die. Between the throbbing need in his groin and the ache in his jaw and his struggle to breathe and Blaine's sexy-husky voice in his ears, he was going to explode and then die. But he didn't—couldn't—give up, even though every second was a grim struggle. "You'll need to be quiet for a bit," Blaine said in a low, confidential whisper, and that was when Kurt heard the door open and he froze, his breath stopped, while he heard the semi-familiar voice of one of the lower classmen—Sawyer, he thought, or Ellington—come right into the room, asking Blaine some asinine question about… a history assignment?
Blaine answered at length, his voice steady and confident and friendly as ever, and Kurt went so hot he thought he was going to pass out, but he just kept sucking softly and sliding his tongue in small, gentle circles and staying very very quiet. It was impossible and insane but he was doing it, he was doing it, he was totally doing it but then his hips started to twitch, rhythmically, uncontrollably, and his spine arched, and his knees spread helplessly open and, God, he was going to come. There was no way around it. Blaine was calm and cool and fully together and also impressively well-versed in the sociopolitical ramifications of the industrial revolution, but Kurt was going to come in about two seconds and then—
"Don't," Blaine said, gripping his hair hard, and Kurt realized he must have missed the visitor leaving the room because Blaine was talking to him, right to him, and his body did some kind of seizure-spasm thing while he fought off everything his nerves were screaming for. "Not yet." Blaine's thumb traced a warm line below his watering right eye, then rubbed the wetness into his stretched upper lip. "Just be patient, Kurt."
Kurt was patient. Kurt lost himself and let time just slip by him, falling down some unimaginably dark rabbit hole and gone while he stayed open and struggled and groaned a little when he couldn't help it and didn't come. He was dizzy, and hot, and buzzing right down to his tenderest nerve, and he didn't really understand how he could feel like he couldn't stand another second when he never wanted this to end—but he did.
They were interrupted a few more times, but Kurt was used to it now and just stayed where he was, doing what he was doing, listening to Blaine's lovely voice and melting down a little on the inside, like everything in him was spreading out, filling him up, like he would simply float away if he didn't have Blaine's voice to anchor him.
"Kurt," Blaine said, and for the first time his voice was something more than tea-parlor cool. Blaine took his face in both hands, and Kurt's breath hitched hard, his hands jerking a little on his knees. "No," Blaine said, "don't move. Just… let me." Kurt let him. Blaine slid down in the chair for the first time and held Kurt's head hard, finally moving, actually moving, fucking his mouth with slow, deep strokes, one after the other and Kurt was shaking so hard he could hear the desk drawers rattling, waiting and sucking Blaine's cock as it slid in and out of his throat. He swallowed, and swallowed, and Blaine rocked into him for an endless, endless time before he slid one hand around to the back of Kurt's neck. "You can come when I do," he said, and Kurt kept himself carefully still while he cramped up around that, how much he needed, he wanted—
Blaine pulled him down hard, just two hard, desperate strokes before he moaned and came, his cock twitching and throbbing hard and Kurt rode it and let go and came like someone set off a thermonuclear explosion in him, all of him glowing like a sun and swallowing over and over, taking every drop, every bit he could get. He came for what felt like forever, hot tears down his cheeks and Blaine's salt-bitter taste in his mouth and he lost some of it because he couldn't stop crying out, muffled, choked little cries that he couldn't stop any more than he could stop himself from shaking.
He lost a little time, then, and didn't open his eyes until he felt shockingly cool air on his skin—Blaine had hoisted him up from under the desk and pulled him astride his lap. Kurt didn't mean to collapse but he couldn't help it, he really couldn't help it, and Blaine didn't seem to mind, just pushed his hair back from his sweaty face and held him close and then—and then they were kissing, and for the first time he heard Blaine's breath catch, felt Blaine's muscles tense up.
Kurt froze, then pulled back, his vision still sparkly around the edges but clear enough to see the blush in Blaine's cheeks. "You didn't mean to kiss me," he said, his voice little more than a raw rasp of breath. "You didn't—"
Blaine looked away, swallowing. "I don't, usually," he said, his spine still stiffly upright. "I usually… I just don't."
"I'm not your usual," Kurt said, and leaned forward until their lips were an inch apart. "Did you… do you want to?"
Blaine was staring at his mouth again, but in a whole new way. "I… Kurt." Kurt licked his lips. Blaine kissed him, softly, very softly, a lingering, gentle caress, then pulled back fast. Kurt moaned a little.
"It's okay, Blaine," he said calmly, watching Blaine blush and swallow and shift in his seat. "I'll talk you through it."
This Black Garden, Part II: Summer
It seemed silly, now, when he thought about it—completely ridiculous; his harmless, idle daydreams of playing footsie in the cafeteria with Blaine, passing little love-notes in class, chaste kisses in the hallways before they separated after lunch (both of them with tidy stacks of books clutched in their arms—a post-Stonewall Norman Rockwell pastiche if there ever was one). All of that seemed… just fucking ridiculous, now.
"I don't have much time," Blaine breathed in his ear, sexy as ever even when standing in a shower stall with all his clothes on. "Fenstergreen's making me tutor again."
Blaine nosed along the side of Kurt's neck, and Kurt shivered. "What… what do you want?"
"Suck me while you jerk off," Blaine said, and Kurt was already sinking to his knees when Blaine lounged back with his shoulders against the tile and his hips thrust out. "Hard and fast, and leave your gym shorts on—just pull them down enough so they push up your balls." Blaine blinked down at him, smiling prettily and doing things to Kurt's insides. "And don't come on my shoes, please."
It was hard to complain. Blaine was sexy, and everything he did when they were together was hot as hell—Kurt had never come away from any engagement with his knees anything less than utterly wobbly from coming so hard—but. But. It wasn't… it was only some of what he wanted. Not all. Just some.
And sometimes, Kurt had to wonder whether or not 'some' might actually be worse to have than 'none'.
"You've never had a blowjob, have you?"
"You know I haven't." Entirely absurd, after everything they'd done together, he still couldn't stop blushing.
Blaine stared at him, that entranced-and-adorable look on his face, mischief sparking in his eyes. Kurt shivered. "Hmm. We should fix that."
Kurt's heart went double-time, and he swallowed reflexively. "You mean you… you want to—"
Blaine got close to his ear, and Kurt arched his neck helplessly. "I want," Blaine breathed, his voice low and sweet. "I want to watch."
Kurt closed his eyes.
"But… I mean. Who's going to, uh—"
Blaine shrugged and smiled at him, as if the issue was merely the smallest and least significant of details. "Whoever I tell to, of course." He kissed Kurt on the cheek, once, quickly. "Don't worry. I'll pick someone worthy of the honor."
Kurt had no idea who John Quinton was. And he had no idea why the pretty, fey blonde boy in his Statistics class always glared at him like Kurt had just set fire to his Burberry scarf collection. But eventually those two things came together, along with some other information, and… and he had to wonder, all over again, what the hell he thought he was doing.
"That guy?" Kurt asked, following Blaine's discreet head-nod, craning over his shoulder. "That's who you picked?" He turned back to Blaine. "You might want to re-think that. I don't know why, but I think he kind of hates me."
"Of course he does," Blaine said breezily, with a fond smile. "Before you came along, he was my favorite… divertissement." Blaine brushed off Kurt's shoulders and straightened his tie. "I'm far too fascinated with you to bother with him, now. But he's perfect for this."
Kurt blinked. "He's your ex."
Blaine rolled his eyes. "He's not—we never dated. Not one date. So he can't be." He put his arm around Kurt's shoulder and turned him, and both of them watched the blonde boy—John—walk into the chapel, head down and books pressed to his chest. "But he's not without his talents, and he'll do what I tell him to—and he has absolutely no reason to have any mercy on you at all." Blaine squeezed his shoulders. "He's perfect."
Kurt found John in the library, his head bowed studiously over a thick book, blonde fringe hanging down. He had a pencil in his hand, and the eraser end of it was in his mouth, caught between perfect white teeth and pillowy, rosy lips. Kurt flushed hot and almost turned away, but in the end he didn't. He cleared his throat quietly.
John looked up at him, and his wide green eyes went cold and narrow all at once. Kurt didn't waste any time. "Why are you doing this?" he asked quietly. "Why did you say yes?"
John looked him over, a bright blush staining his fair skin. "I don't see where that's any of your business," he said coolly. "It doesn't involve you."
Kurt actually laughed, a single surprised bark before he remembered where he was and suppressed it. "Actually, it kind of does."
John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Maybe I just want to help show him… maybe I just want him to know what a slut you are. Maybe then, he'll…" John trailed off, looking away with his lips pressed together. "I have nothing to say to you."
Kurt sighed. "Fine. Okay. I just… I just wanted you to know—I'm not… this isn't… this wasn't my idea."
He left it at that, and walked away.
Being naked in Blaine's wide bed was an exquisite, luxurious pleasure—or, it would have been, if not for the circumstances. Kurt swallowed. "I don't know… I don't think I'm ready for this."
Blaine petted his hair and smiled at him sweetly. "You'll be fine," he said, touching the tip of Kurt's nose with one finger. "You look beautiful."
Blaine was wearing only a low-slung pair of loose cotton pants, and Kurt had to wonder all over again whether he would have gone along with any of this if Blaine hadn't been so deeply, effortlessly sexy. "You're beautiful," he said softly, sliding the palm of his hand down Blaine's amazing, sculpted chest and stomach. "Couldn't we… wouldn't you rather just… we could—"
"I want this," Blaine told him earnestly, looking deep into his eyes, eloquent and tender and lovely. "I want you to do this with me. For me."
Kurt would have liked to think that he would have kept pushing, but a knock at the door made it a moot point. "Come in," Blaine called, and John opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him, his eyes bright and hot and full of… something that was definitely not happy-shiny thoughts. "Right on time, John—thank you. Lock the door, please."
John locked the door and turned back around, but Kurt didn't see any more than that because Blaine's finger tilted his chin up, up, and Blaine slid one arm under his neck and pulled him close. "Just look at me," Blaine whispered to him, his eyes dark and gorgeous and unfathomably hot. "Stay right here. This is all that matters. Just you, and me."
"You and me," Kurt whispered back, but then that illusion was shattered when Kurt felt cool, smooth hands on his calves, sliding slowly up. He gasped, and closed his eyes.
"As we discussed, John," Blaine said, his tone politely convivial. "Nothing above the waist, and leave his ass alone. Everything else is fair game."
Kurt squirmed—he couldn't help it. He'd been hard when it was just the two of them, but now he was just about as un-aroused as he'd ever been in his life, cold and hot by turns with his stomach in knots and his skin prickling everywhere. "Stop that," Blaine chided him, cupping his chin. "Look at me."
Kurt opened his eyes just as his cock was enclosed in sudden, shocking wet heat. He gasped, and almost sat up, but Blaine had him by the shoulders and pushed him flat, holding him down. "Take it," Blaine said to him quietly, his voice a sexy, husky purr. "Take it, Kurt. Just… let it happen."
He was erect in seconds, no more cold at all but just hot-hot-hot, flushed hot and tingling everywhere and dizzy and Blaine's eyes watching him were like more heat on his skin, and there was a mouth on his cock, and he could not stop panting. "Ohh."
"Mmm," Blaine said, as if in agreement, then came closer, closer, lips sliding around to his supersensitive ear. "John's a talented boy," Blaine whispered to him, a warm rush stirring his hair, making him shiver. "He thinks if he can make you come screaming and begging like a little whore, I'll get over you."
"I… I—" he had to stop, had to have more air, because John was sucking the hell out of him, deep-throating and using his tongue and dragging his nails down the insides of his thighs and—fucking hell… "You wouldn't, you won't—"
"Kurt," Blaine said, and Kurt's heart lurched sideways at the raw tenderness, almost sadness, in his voice. "I'm not going to lie to you. I wanted… I want this. But watching another man touch you, make you feel good, is… it's not exactly easy for me."
"We can stop," Kurt said, only then John switched to using his hand on Kurt's cock while sucking gently on his balls, and Kurt's whole body jerked helplessly while his legs spread wider open—he didn't want them to, he just… couldn't help it.
"We're not stopping," Blaine whispered to him, a strong hand hard on his chest, pressing him down into the mattress. "Not now. You… you like it."
Kurt shook his head, but his hips wouldn't stop moving, and Blaine holding him down was only making him hotter. "You do," right in his ear, and Kurt closed his eyes. "Of course you do—it feels good, doesn't it? Tight and hot and wet, and you could just grab him and fuck his mouth hard until you got off—he'd let you, you know, he wants it. He wants you to come right down his throat—"
"Not. Helping," Kurt managed, shaking hard. He grabbed for Blaine before his hands could get any stupid ideas. But then John went back to sucking him and pressed—something, a knuckle? A thumb?—up behind his balls, rubbing in smooth, delicious circles, and Kurt had no words left. Every fucking nerve ending he had was going off at once, and he was flat-out right on the edge of coming, right there right there and he bit his own tongue hard to give himself something else to focus on but that was a mistake, because the bright, sharp pain was indistinguishable from the intense throb and flutter of bright, sharp pleasure, and he stopped himself from coming only through a fierce and terrible struggle that he barely, barely won.
He went limp (everywhere except where it counted), wet with sweat and shaking, and just… gave up. He didn't try to control his cries but just let them come, let John do anything and everything he wanted and surrendered to all of it, and focused all that was left of his energy and his will on not going over the edge. It was like torture—like his body had moved somewhere beyond coming, had gone right on past the point and out to the other side, only there was no relief, no release, just this desperate, awful need that felt like it would never be satisfied. He laid in Blaine's arms with his eyes closed and his mouth open, glad for the first time ever that Blaine almost never kissed him, because if that had happened it all would have been over in an instant.
"God, Kurt," Blaine said, and Kurt opened his heavy eyelids just enough to see Blaine watching him avidly, hungrily, the heat in his eyes burning like a flame. "You're amazing." He looked down Kurt's body, then back up. "Is it good?"
"Yes," Kurt panted softly, broken down to honesty, then moaned again, his hips arching.
"You like it?"
"Feels so good." Kurt's head tossed on the pillow.
"You're going to come." It wasn't a question.
"No." He was shaking, shaking endlessly, his chest heaving for breath.
"You'll have to." Blaine stroked his cheek gently, lovingly. It sizzled across his nerves like a tongue. You will."
He thought for one panicked second that Blaine was going to kiss him, but Blaine went for his ear instead. "Fuck his mouth, Kurt," Kurt's hips started to buck hard, and John groaned below him and swallowed and swallowed and took all of him, eager and wet and hot and sucking rhythmically and… Kurt tried to stop and couldn't.
Then there was basically an all-out war between Kurt and his body and he was trying—he was trying to get away, not meaning to at all, but it was too much, it was way way way too much and he couldn't take it any more and he couldn't stop, but then Blaine had him hard, a bruising grip on his shoulders squeezing and bearing him down into the bed, trapped. Kurt gasped once, twice, and then cried out softly and helplessly when he came, thrashing in Blaine's hands, spilling out and out into the hungry mouth sucking him with tears burning his eyes, his heart pounding endlessly.
His whole body was tingling, so limp and glad and grateful and sad—and that must have been why, the only reason he could think of that when Blaine finally let go of his shoulders and he could move he reached down, curling his fingers into John's hair—silky-soft and damp with sweat—curled and touched and held there, almost petting, and he looked down for the first time and John was staring right at him, his eyes and mouth wet and no hate left in him, just something that looked… a lot… like longing.
"John," Kurt said, quietly. "I'm sorry." There was a moment, a second between them, when they looked at each other and knew each other, just a split-second of empathy before John looked away, wiping his mouth with one shaking hand and pulling back, staring only at Blaine.
"You can go, John," Blaine said coolly, his voice as calm as if they'd all been doing nothing more than debating whether or not it would rain that afternoon.
John left the bed and went to the door but stopped there, one hand on the lock before he turned back around. "Blaine." His voice was nothing more than a rasp.
"Get out," Blaine said, staring at Kurt. His eyes were huge and hot and dark. Kurt tried to look away, and couldn't. The click of the closing door seemed very loud.
Blaine was on him a second later, holding him down with both hands on his wrists and surging against him, rough and urgent, only to back away, yanking at the drawstring of his pants. "Turn over," Blaine said, his voice almost a growl.
Kurt turned over, as fast as he could with his muscles not really ready to cooperate with any plan more active than collapsing in a pile. "Blaine—"
"Quiet," Blaine said, and shoved his thighs apart, then moved in—a hot weight on his back and a tight grip on his wrists, and as exhausted as he was Kurt felt his heart speed up because—this, he'd been waiting for this, even with… everything, and he wanted it, he wanted it so, so much.
Blaine's face came close to his where his head was turned on the pillow, and Kurt lifted up—spread and arched his ass and nearly snapped his neck twisting back far enough to take Blaine's mouth with his own. Blaine did growl then, and bit him a little, but Kurt only gasped and opened further, sucking gently on Blaine's tongue and rocking, all of him open.
"Kurt," Blaine said, sounding stunned and kind of wounded and maybe a little lost, and Kurt waited and waited but… nothing, there was nothing, as if Blaine had gone as far as he could, and was stuck there. Raw, harsh gasps for breath in his ear and he could feel Blaine shaking, but that was all.
Kurt turned over again, taking Blaine in his arms and holding him close, wrapping all around him. "I've got you, Blaine," he breathed, and Blaine pressed his face into the curve of Kurt's neck and stayed there, grinding into him hard, sliding on the sweat between their bodies.
"Come with me," Blaine said, muffled but audible. "I need you to—Kurt. With me."
Kurt groaned softly—it was too soon, way too soon, but it was Blaine and he could feel the waves of need, of want, coming off of Blaine like it was heat or sweat, and he responded, of course he did. Too soon or not, he was hard and desperate and rocking up against Blaine's hard stomach and begging to come before long, and Blaine was moaning so deep and dark in his ear that it was hard, actually hard to wait until Blaine squeezed his thighs and told him—now.
Blaine came to rest mostly under him afterwards, stroking his back over and over and it was—wonderful, sweet and soothing and lovely, the two of them so close in the humid darkness, but maybe it was too soothing, because eventually, perhaps inevitably, he fell asleep.
He was alone when he woke up, the empty side of the bed tidied and perfect, as if nobody else had ever been there at all. Kurt sighed, the heavy sigh of a person who is already so very tired, and has just realized that they still have a long, long way to go.
This Black Garden, Part III: Harvest
When he couldn't stand it any more he actually cut his morning classes at Dalton, sneaking out like a thief, and then sneaking into McKinley like a trespasser. But apparently he should have called ahead, because Mercedes was out sick, and Rachel had gone with her dads somewhere, and Quinn and Santana and Brittany were at a cheerleading meet, and Tina and Mike and Artie were at some academic decathlon thing… and according to a highly incensed Coach Beiste, Finn and Sam were cutting class together and couldn't be found.
Which was how he ended up hanging out under the bleachers with Puck.
Puck seemed actually glad to see him, and hospitably offered to share the 64-ounce bottle of Miller Genuine Draft he'd smuggled into school in his jacket, (he didn't have a backpack, he said, since backpacks were for people who needed to carry things like books). The bottle was warm, but Puck testified that it didn't make any difference—a statement Kurt was not at all inclined to doubt after he tried some, as he firmly believed that no degree of frosty coldness could possibly make that particular beverage any less vile.
But it was… nice, and Puck's stories about everyone were hysterical (even—or perhaps especially—the ones that weren't meant to be). So, between the beer and the stories and the strange, comic-book-like myopia of suddenly seeing the world through Puck-colored glasses, Kurt actually answered truthfully when Puck finally got around to asking him why he was there.
"I just… needed to talk," Kurt said, gazing up through the slats of the bleachers into slices of bright, blameless blue. "Or, I needed someone to listen. I don't know."
"Listen to what?" Puck eyed him. "Dude. You're not gonna start singing showtunes, are you?"
"No." Kurt took a breath. He was dizzy. He was probably drunk. He was undoubtedly desperate, and commensurately stupid. He'd meant to talk around the edges of it, set it up as a soft-focused series of hypotheticals—but that was when he thought of talking to Mercedes. Or Rachel. And when he'd been sober. "There are no showtunes equipped to deal with this situation—unless someone's penned a ditty called 'My boyfriend is freakishly obsessed with my ass, but he won't fuck me.'" Kurt sighed. "It's making me crazy."
He honestly wouldn't have been surprised if Puck had edged away, or gagged, or maybe yelled 'gross!' loud enough to bring a crowd of people running. But Puck did none of those things, just looked at him thoughtfully, nodding a little. "Is he scared?"
Kurt swallowed. "No. I don't think he's scared. He's not… it isn't exactly his first time at the rodeo, if you know what I mean."
Puck looked down, suddenly very absorbed by one of his cuticles. "That doesn't mean he's not scared," he said quietly, shrugging. "You know, if it's his first time, uh, at the rodeo with you."
Kurt stared at him. He almost said something, then he almost said something else. Then he realized that, at least for the moment, he had nothing to say to that.
Kurt was stretched out on his back in Blaine's bed, naked and flushed, both knees in the air and his arms above his head, hands holding tightly to the headboard—the surest way to make sure he didn't give in to the impulse to grab Blaine and… do something.
Blaine was busy, his mouth alternating back and forth between Kurt's peaked, rosy-raw nipples, and his right hand between Kurt's trembling thighs, two lubed fingers slipping over and around and around and almost—but not quite—into Kurt's throbbing, aching ass.
"I'm begging you—"
Blaine grinned. "I know. You're very good at it."
"I want. I want. God—"
A long, slow lick across Kurt's chafed nipple. "Does it ache?"
"Mmm. That's too bad."
Kurt ran one hand down his come-spattered stomach. "Why won't you fuck me?"
Blaine regarded him with cool amusement. "Really, Kurt. There's something you want, and yet I persist in cruelly denying you? I must be some kind of horrible, sadistic—"
"You want it."
Blaine's eyes sparked. "I beg your pardon?"
"You want to, Blaine. I know you do. You do. So why won't you?"
Blaine gave him a fond, indulgent look. "I promise you, Kurt; when I want to fuck you, I will."
Kurt rolled close to him, stroking one hand down the curve of his bicep. "Is it…" he hesitated, then plunged. "Are you afraid? Because I'd understand if you—"
Blaine pulled away from him and sat up, his brows drawn down, like the corners of his mouth. "You think I'm afraid to fuck you? Me? Do you have any idea how many guys I've—"
"None of them were me," Kurt insisted quietly, wrapping his arms around himself, his heart pounding. "They weren't… me."
Blaine looked away, staring at the wall, and time stretched out. It was quiet. Kurt could hear the thumping rush of his own heartbeat, the tick of Blaine's bedside clock. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.
Kurt expected anger, denial, recrimination. Instead, Blaine turned back to him with a look that was perfectly friendly—and about a million miles away. "Sorry, Kurt," he said casually, as nonchalantly as if he were apologizing for being five minutes late. "You're great, but… you're nothing special." He shook his head. "You're just another pretty boy with an itch."
Kurt took a breath. Then he took another breath. Then he got up off the bed and started putting his clothes on.
"No." It was strange—all the times he'd imagined this moment (and he had, especially over the past few weeks), he'd imagined himself crying—but his eyes were dry. His voice was calm. His hands held his pants perfectly steady as he stepped into them. "No, Blaine." He grabbed his shirt and shrugged into it. "You told me once, back at the beginning—if I want to stop, everything stops. Well—" he scooped up his socks and cardigan, and jammed his bare feet into his shoes. "I'm stopping. I'm done."
Blaine was back to staring at the wall, a faint and frozen-looking smile on his face. Kurt wanted to wait, wanted to hear what Blaine could possibly have to say for himself—but he didn't. He left the room, and was careful not to slam the door on his way out.
He made it three steps before he had to jam his cardigan against his mouth to quiet the sudden eruption of sobs that tore their way through his chest.
At Dalton, when you said 'sport', you meant rugby. And at Dalton, everybody played. Everybody. A broken limb would excuse you. A broken heart, not so much.
It was never going to be on Kurt's top-10 list (or even top-100) of favorite ways to spend an afternoon, but he'd worked hard to figure out the best way to support his team while avoiding those parts of the game that were most likely to end in severe injuries, and he'd had a reasonable amount of success. He did fine as long as he kept his wits about him, and as long as he stayed away from the type of heroism that made for great stories afterwards—a form of discipline that was actually quite easy for him.
Unfortunately, while it was easy enough to not be a hero, it was hard as hell to keep his mind in check. Blaine was on the opposing team, and Kurt couldn't even look at him. That didn't seem to matter, though, because he knew in every moment exactly where Blaine was, his presence prickling against Kurt's skin like the heat of a nearby fire. It had been almost two weeks since… what had happened, an endless, terrible two weeks, and Kurt was getting really tired of waiting for it to hurt less—it wasn't quite the trial to his patience that he'd expected. More like an exercise in futility.
So his mind was very much otherwise occupied when he heard his name called from the pitch, and he was stunned to realize that he suddenly—inexplicably—had possession of the ball. He stared at the ball in his hands while his brain started screaming at him to do something—pass backwards or kick, look for an opening, watch the flank and do not run because that way lies madness—only he was stuck, frozen, probably with the world's stupidest look on his face while Brian McRae (who was a very sweet, polite boy most of the time, but who took his rugby very seriously, and who was also a Senior and huge and kind of ridiculously muscular) hurtled towards him like an oncoming truck. And then it was too late to do much of anything. Other than say 'oof'. He distinctly remembered saying 'oof' before he went flying.
The ground and the sky swapped places a bunch of times, a long, endless, and almost graceful caesura before Kurt landed in an ungainly heap in the grass, all the wind knocked out of him.
He was fine. He was okay. He'd lost the ball but he was fine, and he planned to communicate that fact to anyone who cared to know—just as soon as he could breathe again. He laid where he was and tried to make his lungs work, waiting for the inevitable circle of anxious faces to form around him—but it never did. There was yelling, though; not the normal kind of rugby-game cheering, but real yelling, and that was wrong. They didn't yell like that at Dalton.
Kurt took a breath, and that unlocked everything and then he was whooping, gasping, his body tingling with shock as he sat up. The reason for the yelling was obvious, as was the reason for the lack of people gathered around to make sure he wasn't dead—namely, because Blaine had clearly lost his mind and was trying to beat the crap out of Brian McRae, despite the four guys struggling to hold him back, despite the fact that Brian was a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than Blaine was. Blaine didn't appear to care. And Brian was just standing there with his eyes wide and his hands up, looking shocked and mildly horrified. His nose was bleeding.
Then there was a sudden sharp, piercing trill of a whistle, and all at once there were teachers everywhere with towels and ice-packs and stern, pointing fingers, and Kurt saw one split second of the Headmaster marching Blaine off towards the main building before Dr. Gevray, his Chemistry teacher, knelt in front of him. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," Kurt said, his voice shaky. "Just got the wind knocked out of me." He peered over Dr. Gevray's wool-covered shoulder, but Blaine and the Headmaster were already out of sight. "What happened?"
"I have no idea," Dr. Gevray said, sounding quite mellow now that he'd ascertained that Kurt didn't have any stray bones poking out of his skin. "But it was very exciting—I mean. Unsportsmanlike." He shook his head. "Terrible. You're Dalton men, you know, not a bunch of wild beasts."
Kurt knew who was knocking before he even opened the door, which meant he had time to make his face behave. But it turned out that he had to keep working at it, because Blaine was pale and hollow-eyed, still in his rugby gear, with grass in his tousled hair. He had a scrape on his cheekbone, and a raw-looking split just off-center on his swollen bottom lip. Kurt took a breath, and was unable to stop himself from clutching his hands into fists—he'd been ready for pristine, aloof, buttoned-down Blaine. He'd had a hot bath and some tea and a couple hours to think, and he was as ready for that Blaine as it was possible to be—but the boy in his doorway, the boy who was messy and hurt and hurting and absolutely, visibly nervous—he wasn't ready for that. Not at all.
"Did you get suspended?" he heard himself ask, and on some level he was proud—it was a nice, neutral question. A reasonable question.
Blaine shook his head. "I got lectured, by… everybody, pretty much, and I had to apologize to Brian—which wasn't actually all that hard, since I owed it to him. But I think…" he trailed off, his throat working. "I think they went easy on me, because of… uh. The extenuating circumstances."
Kurt held his gaze level, carefully not reacting to Blaine's look, or words, or tone. It was an invitation. A bid to sidestep… everything. He wasn't going to accept it.
Blaine closed his eyes and actually slumped against the doorframe, his head hanging down. "I'm so, so sorry, Kurt," he said, not more than a raw whisper, but perfectly audible nevertheless.
Kurt's throat was tight. He felt hot, then cold, then hot all over again, and he kept one hand fisted into the clutched-together collar of his cotton shirt while he held the door open with the other. "Come in."
Blaine sat on his bed stiffly, like he was uncomfortable there, staring down at his interlaced fingers. Kurt debated whether or not it was a good idea to sit on the bed himself, but in the end practicality ruled—there wasn't anywhere else to sit.
"You know," Blaine said quietly, still not looking at him, "people… I guess it's easy for people to make assumptions about… me, people like me." He shrugged. "Assumptions about feelings—or… you know, a lack of them. Assumptions about behavior. About… everything." Blaine looked at him then, just for a second, a quick, pained flash, and then gone. "And, to be honest, Kurt, it never particularly bothered me. It's never been hard for me to… to… to be that guy. It's never been hard at all—" Blaine made a noise, but whether it was humor, pain, or a mixture of both, Kurt couldn't tell. "Until you." Blaine put both his hands over his face.
Kurt swallowed. "Blaine."
Blaine moved, slow at first and then faster, and Kurt got borne back into the bed when Blaine landed on top of him. He opened his mouth to object because he wasn't ready—there was more, there was so much he needed to say—but Blaine just seemed to be going for his ear, his face buried deep into the pillow beneath Kurt's head. "I'm in love with you," he whispered fiercely, a hot and jumbled rush in his ear, and Kurt twitched a little when Blaine thumped one fist into the pillow. "I think… I think you know that. I think you've known for a long time."
"No," Kurt said, his voice soft, a bit husky. "I haven't. I… wondered. I wasn't… I wasn't sure."
"Oh," Blaine said, and Kurt heard his breath hitch. "Well, then. Be sure." Blaine said it calmly enough, but the moment the words were out he started to shake. Hard.
Kurt closed his stinging eyes.
Having Blaine's fingers inside him—finally—was amazing, but as amazing as it was it had nothing on the way Blaine was staring at him, watching him gasp and shiver and clutch the sheets and spread wider and ride as best he could. Blaine's eyes were enormous, stark and solemn in his pale, bruised face, staring at him the way a man dying of thirst would stare at a stream of clear water.
"Blaine," he said, and then Blaine was over him, right over him and pulling his fingers out slowly, melting down onto him bit by bit, little by little until they were settled, both of them panting, shaking. Kurt got his legs up and around Blaine's waist and reached down to help—only Blaine was soft. Completely and totally soft—a state Kurt couldn't ever remember Blaine being in, before. It was a shock.
"I'm sorry," Blaine whispered, but he didn't pull back. He squeezed Kurt's shoulders. "I don't think I… I'm sorry."
"Blaine," he said, and he honestly had no idea what to say, but apparently some part of him did, because he didn't stop there. "I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured, another shock because he hadn't meant to—hadn't known he was going to say that. "I won't hurt you. I love you. It's okay."
Blaine kissed him. But it wasn't Blaine's usual kiss, where it was like he was trying to get used to some strange Earth custom that he hadn't entirely made his mind up about yet—this was more like Blaine trying to eat his mouth. Kurt moaned and opened up, suddenly liquid and boneless and not needing anything more than to suck on Blaine's tongue, licking softly and tenderly at the salty, split place on his lip. Blaine gasped into his mouth, once and then again, and Kurt felt everything click into place just-so and then he and Blaine were both moaning because Blaine was hard and right there and pushing into him slowly, excruciatingly slowly, slow but steady and God all his nerves were firing off crazy messages at once, and it was so, so stupid, wanting to beg for more of what you were already being given, but Blaine's cock in him—even just a little—was fucking incredible—
"Kurt," Blaine said, sounding half-choked. He stopped moving. He didn't stop shaking.
"Sorry, Kurt, I'm… I'm gonna come—I'm sorry, but… you're so tight. Hot. Just. I can't—"
"Okay," He got his fingers laced behind Blaine's neck. "But stay in me, okay? Stay hard. Stay in me. Don't stop."
"I… yeah, you… fuck, Kurt—you feel so good—" Kurt held him, and Blaine didn't duck away. He groaned, and sank in just a little deeper and then came, his face caught somewhere between pain and ecstasy, his mouth open on a tortured gasp. Kurt soaked it up, every inch of him tingling, and every throb and twitch of muscle might as well have been his own.
Then they were kissing again, and Kurt felt half-drugged with need but there was no urgency, just a slow, dizzying ride as Blaine fucked him, giving him more and more until he had all of it, and for the first time it occurred to him that maybe it was a good thing that he and Blaine hadn't done this before, because he honestly didn't know if he'd have had the strength to walk away, if he'd known he was walking away from this.
Everything got a little hazy then, soft-hard humid pleasure and salty sweat and Blaine's groans were a kind of music and he was full, so full, and his heart was going like bright thunder. Blaine got both hands in his hair and pulled his head back and then Kurt couldn't stop moaning, soft, helpless sounds that poured out of him like they'd never end.
"I want… I want to fuck you forever."
Blaine's hips swiveled, and Kurt moaned loud enough to hurt his throat. "You… are you gonna come?"
"Oh God," Kurt shuddered. "So fucking hard…"
"Good." Blaine fucked him harder, and let go of his hair only to take his hands and stretch them up, up, pushing his wrists into the bed, holding him down. Then both of them were moving, slipping against each other and Kurt didn't even try not to work himself ruthlessly between Blaine's cock and the tight, slippery muscles of Blaine's stomach but just went for it, his whole body jerking and right on the edge, right on the very, very edge until Blaine squeezed his wrists and pounded into him and told him to come—and then he did, Blaine's deep groan of release echoing in his ears.
"We just had… normal sex."
"And… it was amazing."
When Kurt woke up, he felt sore in about a hundred different places, some of which he seemed to have only just discovered. He also felt… amazingly wonderful.
Blaine was watching him, a faint smile on his swollen, abused lips, his hair a rat's nest wreck. He was ridiculously appealing. "Hey."
Blaine reached out for his hand, lacing their fingers together. Kurt snuggled gladly into the curve of his arm, stretching luxuriously until his sore muscles pulled him up short. "Ow."
Blaine blinked at him. "Hurts?" Kurt whimpered theatrically, and Blaine kissed him on the forehead. "Sorry."
"S'okay," Kurt said mildly. "It's what I get for being double-teamed by you and Brian McRae on the same day." Blaine seemed to choke halfway through clearing his throat. Kurt peered at him. "And no, I am not trying to put ideas in your head. So just stop it."
Blaine's smile faltered, then faded a little. "I guess… you've had enough of that for a while."
Kurt eyed him. "Blaine. No." He struggled up to his knees and straddled Blaine, fists deep into the pillows on either side of his head. He sighed. "Okay, look. We're going to have a near-constant flood of extremely perverted sex—because we both like it, and because most of your ideas are marvelously inspired. Please note that I said 'most'. So… this just means that the next time you tell me you want to suspend me from the chandelier in the Headmaster's office and have me spanked by Brian McRae while you watch through a peephole and jerk off, I'm going to say 'No, Blaine.' And then you're going to say 'Okay, Kurt', and 'You're right, Kurt', and 'I love you with the bright, blazing passion of a thousand fiery suns, Kurt.' And then we're going to sneak into the locker-room showers and pretend that you're the strict disciplinarian rugby coach and I'm the anxious rookie, and have risky, semi-public sex like two nice, normal perverts."
Blaine blinked at him uncertainly for a moment, then burst out into sudden laughter. Kurt snorted companionably, and then they were both giggling and rocking together and hanging onto each other and then kissing a little, and it was just… so sweet.
Blaine caught him by surprise and rolled him over, grinding them together while his eyes twinkled mischievously. "You know, Kurt—that chandelier thing—I mean, now that you brought it up—"
Kurt thumped him on the chest. Hard.
Endnotes: I want to thank dear Emi for listening to my long, rambling rant about my need to resolve Blaine's character without pathologizing kinky sex, or the practitioners thereof (especially seeing as I am one of that particular tribe). Emi, I hope it helped you to understand why I couldn't give you the uber-angsty ending you wanted—and if not, I hope you'll forgive me anyway. I'm quite prepared to bribe you with cookies and porn.