Title: One Million Invisible Lines
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex
Summary: Things work out. Eventually.
Warning: I'm going to go ahead and warn for unrepentant fluff with a side of schmoop.
Notes: This was written (mostly) before the last ep aired, and after a hellish internal debate I left the canon where it was, e.g., no 'I love you' moment, no Samcedes. Also: I am deeply, hugely indebted to Guylindaandelphaba on Tumblr for her amazing assistance—this story was about a millimeter from the scrap heap when she gave me the motivation I needed to finish and post it. She is why this story exists.
One Million Invisible Lines
In the beginning, Kurt's biggest fear about dating Blaine was that Blaine might move too quickly for him. After all, of the two of them, while Kurt might be more comfortable with 'gay' as something that he was, there was no question that Blaine was a hell of a lot more comfortable with 'gay' as something that he did—at least, from their conversation on the subject, Kurt felt quite sure that Blaine had done… gay things. Probably a bunch of gay things. Potentially a full, flag-flying panoply of extremely, deeply gay things.
Things that Kurt had never done. And things he was never going to ask Blaine about, for the simple reason that he never wanted to think about Blaine doing those things—unless it was with him. And even then, Kurt could only think about the two of them doing… things… in a very abstract, nonspecific way. Unless it was very late at night and he was safe in bed with the covers pulled up, with no one around to see his blushes, or any other… involuntary physical responses.
So it was a relief (and really, he scolded himself quite severely for ever doubting it, even for a second) that Blaine turned out to be such a perfect gentleman. Blaine was courteous, courtly, polite, and always, always respectful of Kurt's boundaries. It was a huge relief.
But time went on, and Blaine continued in the same mode—still courtly, still polite, and still endlessly, profoundly respectful of Kurt's boundaries—or rather, the place where Kurt's boundaries used to be, because after a while, they kind of… moved.
And therein lay the problem. They'd been on numerous dates, and they'd spent a great deal of time together even after Kurt transferred back to McKinley—but at the end of each night, each date, each visit, all Blaine did was hold his hand warmly for a few seconds, or hug him, and then lean in to kiss him—beautiful kisses; soft, sweet and tender—but chaste, and over far too quickly.
So in the beginning it was perfect, and then it was mildly puzzling, and then it was slightly frustrating, and then it was almost hurtful, and then it was gravely disappointing, and then it was a downright confounding nuisance—but Kurt was stuck with it. He was stuck with it because for the life of him he couldn't imagine going up to the boy who'd heard his confession about how his comfort level stopped right around the fingertip-touching stage and… propose that they start touching a lot more than fingertips.
He'd tried to talk to Blaine about it. He had. But his throat always locked up, because what was going on in his head was often something along the lines of Hey, Blaine, you've got an amazing ass—how about I grope it while you hump me?, and he just… somehow he just didn't think that struck the right tone.
None of what was going on in his head seemed to strike the right tone, actually. Kurt continually shocked himself with the kind of things that ran through his mind now that he was less frightened and more frustrated—apparently, he was a bit of a nympho underneath all the nervousness. Or despite the nervousness. Or in addition to the nervousness. He was a nervous nympho. Lucky him.
He wondered if Blaine liked nymphoes. He wondered if 'I'm crazy about you' translated to 'I want you to rip my shirt off'. He wondered if Blaine went to bed at night thinking about him—went to bed frustrated, all hot and tingly-achy, half-naked with his hair all messy and… God.
He was starting to think he might never know the answer to those questions. Or any of the other billion-and-one questions that had occurred to him since then. And that was… tragic, so deeply tragic. Not that he was trying to be dramatic—he didn't have to try; not when he was so clearly doomed to a life of frustration and uncertainty, followed by a bitter and unfulfilled death.
It was… maddening. The whole situation was maddening.
But he was stuck with it.
"Do you want some popcorn?"
Kurt looked up wide-eyed, startled out of his private thoughts as he stood by the theater concession stand, waiting for Blaine to come back from the bathroom—thoughts which were partly about wondering whether or not Blaine would hold his hand once they were safely ensconced in the dark of the theater, and partly about wondering why on earth snack packaging had to be so ridiculously… garish. "I beg your pardon?"
The boy behind the counter appeared to be about his age, tall and lanky with shaggy brown hair. He had a bit of acne across his forehead, huge, earnest sea-green eyes with long lashes, and what was probably a pouty, pretty mouth when he wasn't biting his bottom lip like that. "I mean… if you wanted some. Popcorn. I could… I'd give it to you."
Kurt blinked, wondering for one bizarre moment whether concession jockeys were now being paid on a strictly by-commission basis, but then he realized the guy was staring at him fixedly, hopefully—and had what was either the world's worst case of rosacea, or was blushing like crazy.
Holy crap—he was being hit on. By an extremely nervous cashier. Team gay for the win. Kurt swallowed, and felt himself start to blush. "Oh. Popcorn. I… thanks, but I don't really need any—"
"Or anything else," the guy behind the counter said, his voice breaking into a higher register halfway through. He cleared his throat. "Anything at all."
"Oh, uh. Thanks, but…" he floundered, and felt like an idiot for floundering. It wasn't like he needed to make an impression, after all, it was just—he just wasn't used to it. "Nothing, thank you. I'm, uh—"
"Can I please have your number?" the boy behind the counter blurted in a sudden rush, jumping a little as if he'd startled himself—at the exact moment that Blaine showed up.
Blaine seemed a bit taken aback, looking back and forth between Kurt and the boy behind the counter for a few seconds. Then his eyes narrowed, and he turned to Kurt and held out his hand. "Come on—I know you hate it when you miss the previews."
"What was that about?" Blaine asked, still holding his hand—right in public, right in the middle of a crowded theater lobby.
"No idea," Kurt said a little breathlessly, trailing along behind Blaine without a single look back. "He was just… there all of a sudden, trying to give me popcorn."
"Oh—is that what they're calling it now?" Blaine asked archly, squeezing his hand and smiling, his good humor evidently restored, but—he didn't let go.
He didn't let go when they sat down, either. He kept Kurt's hand, and then started… caressing it, using his thumb to trace small, gentle circles on Kurt's palm—Kurt's suddenly-sensitized, exquisitely tingling palm.
All the hair on Kurt's arms stood on end. Blaine's thumb rubbed gently in the curve between Kurt's palm and his wrist, and Kurt had to suppress a shiver. Then the lights went down and the previews started, and Kurt stared unseeing at the screen while Blaine… stroked him, through the previews, and through the movie, and at the end of everything Blaine smiled at him and said, "Great movie," and let him go with a tender, lingering touch.
"Oh, yes," Kurt said, although he hadn't seen a damn thing. He followed Blaine out of the theater with the whole left side of his body still tingling, and he thought—huh.
There was a new barista at the Lima Bean, a handsome Latino boy with huge, gorgeous brown eyes, and a discreet gold hoop in his shapely right ear. He knew Kurt's coffee order after the first time. He had a fantastic smile. And after Kurt smiled back at him, he dropped Kurt a wink when he and Blaine were collecting their drinks.
Blaine didn't say anything, but once they sat down Blaine actually put his hand just above Kurt's knee under the table and left it there, warm and strong and somehow comforting and dizzyingly sexy at the same time.
"Kurt. What is it?"
Kurt pressed his knees together hard, because they really wanted to shake. "What's what?"
Blaine squeezed him a little. "You're smiling like the proverbial cat."
"Oh." Kurt looked down, blushing. "I'm just… having a really good day."
There was a time, not that long ago, when Kurt thought he was very possibly the only gay person in Lima (with the possible exception of Mr. Ryerson—but the contemplation of Mr. Ryerson's gayness was enough to make him wish he were only gay person in Lima, so, no). But as it turned out, they'd all just been hiding, waiting for him to no longer be single so that they could pour out of the woodwork like there'd been a raid on an oversized birthday cake designed for Elton John.
"Ain't that the way," Mercedes said, shaking her head sadly as they strolled towards the cafeteria. "You get all coupled up, and eligible guys start hurling themselves at you. Happens every time."
"It does?" Kurt shifted his satchel on his shoulder. He was mildly resentful that this particular secret had never been imparted to him before.
"Mmm-hm. But hey—you get any cute ones hitting on you, you can always steer them my way."
He gave her a look. "I'm pretty sure they're all gay."
She shrugged, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I'm kinda used to it now."
Blaine, gentleman that he was, escorted him to the bar before going to put their names down for a table. Kurt glanced around quickly, made an internal, split-second calculation, then went to work on projecting an air of vulnerable, slightly self-conscious innocence (like flipping a switch, now—it got so, so much easier with practice). Sure enough, thirty seconds later, while Kurt was pretending to be absorbed with smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in his sweater, the man from the end of the bar approached him—nice suit, rumpled shirt, Armani tie, and a very expensive haircut that stood out a mile; obviously in town on business.
"Is this seat taken?"
Kurt looked appropriately startled at being spoken to. "I… um, no."
The guy sat down and held out a hand. "I'm Ben," he said casually, comfortably, his hand steady and dry when Kurt shook it.
"Well, Kurt. Nice to meet you. You here for the game?" Ben nodded at the screen suspended over the bar, where several oversized, sweaty men were doing something with a ball.
"Oh, no," Kurt said lightly, brushing a strategically unruly lock of hair aside with an amused smile. "I'm not really into sports."
"Mmm." Ben was staring at his mouth. Right at it. Intently. "Me neither. So, can I buy you a cocktail?"
"I'm—well, thank you, but I'm just going to my table—"
"Or dinner. I'd love to buy you dinner; let me buy you dinner—"
"Uh, Kurt?" Blaine said, suddenly there, stepping possessively close to him. "Are you… our table is ready, if you—"
"Of course," Kurt said, sliding off the barstool and taking the hand Blaine offered him, following docilely along.
Blaine kept craning back over his shoulder, glaring in the general direction of the bar until it was out of sight. "Someone you know?"
"Not in the slightest," Kurt said diffidently. "He just… came up and started talking to me. Very odd."
"Odd," Blaine echoed.
That night he pressed Kurt up against the side of his car and kissed him so passionately that Kurt swayed on his feet afterwards.
Okay, so it wasn't exactly fair, because Blaine was already kind of… touchy about the Gap. But the good-looking blond guy who emerged from behind the counter and approached Kurt directly, shooing away all other sales clerks, was too much temptation to resist.
"Far be it from me to try to improve upon perfection," he drawled, taking in Kurt's carefully selected ensemble with an appreciative eye. "But I really think… a few of the items in the new summer collection… on you? Captivating."
The guy introduced himself as Derek, and over the next half hour Kurt learned that he was absolutely fantastic at three things: talking about hideously bland off-the-rack clothing in such a way that you might think it was a sartorial triumph if you didn't know better, casually invading Kurt's personal space with a constant barrage of touches that could, theoretically at least, be classed as 'helpful', and pretending that Blaine didn't exist.
"I can't believe that guy," Blaine murmured when Derek strode off to find yet another armload of ridiculously drab and mundane clothing. "He's all over you."
"Hmm?" Kurt said, pretending to be utterly absorbed while turning from side to side in front of the triple-angled mirror—as if he would ever be caught dead in such an uninteresting outfit. "Yes, he's very helpful."
"Fondling you is helpful?" Blaine said moodily, flicking a stack of sweaters as if they had somehow offended him personally.
"Fond—oh, Blaine. No. I'm sure he's just doing his job."
"As what—a paid escort?" Blaine muttered it quietly enough that it was easy to pretend not to hear him.
In the end Kurt broke down and bought a pair of socks (which he planned to give to Finn the moment he got home, since he didn't want them infecting his own socks with their insipidity). Derek didn't seem to mind that half an hour of his time and effort had been wasted—he kept up a running stream of flirtatious patter that Kurt deflected deftly. It didn't even occur to Kurt until Derek was ringing up his purchase that buying socks at the Gap was perhaps not the most sensitive thing he could have done—not until Blaine's hands caught his biceps and tugged, hard. "Whoa, Blaine—"
Blaine kissed him fiercely, taking Kurt's mouth like he owned it, firm, delicious pressure that zinged through Kurt's nerves and prickled the hair on the back of his neck like a sudden shock. Kurt closed his eyes and tried to breathe, wondering vaguely where the world had gone—because it was just the two of them, nobody but them, mouth to mouth with Blaine's soft lips so wet and open and he could feel Blaine's desire for him, feel it like sunlight on his skin and oh, his knees were wobbly…
Except of course the world hadn't gone anywhere at all. It was still there when Blaine jerked away from him, still there when he opened his eyes and saw Blaine's dismayed, wide-eyed face. He was pretty sure that the sudden silence meant that Derek and everyone else in this particular store were staring at them, but that was far, far away, unimportant.
"Blaine," he said, his voice low.
Blaine looked down, his face flushed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "I'm sorry, Kurt," he said, shoving trembling hands into his pockets as he turned away. "I'll wait for you in the car."
Kurt followed as soon as he'd retrieved the rest of his purchases from where he'd stashed them behind the counter—but Blaine was already gone.
Dusk was deepening when Kurt stepped out of the main doors of the mall, and he had to pause for a moment, trying to remember where they'd parked. He found the car more by instinct than memory, and stowed his bags in the back seat before climbing into the front. Blaine had both arms crossed over the steering wheel, his head bowed, his eyes closed. "Kurt."
"Yes?" Kurt braced himself. Clearly, a breaking point had been reached, and there was an onslaught coming. He hoped it was the kind of onslaught that led to… well, the type of things that his inner nervous nympho had been obsessing about in two different directions.
"Do you… not want to be with me any more?"
Kurt's stomach lurched crazily. His mouth dropped open, but no sound came out until he shook himself and tried again. "Oh my God, Blaine—no. No."
He watched Blaine's shoulders relax a little, but when Blaine turned to him his brows were drawn low, his unhappiness so evident it was like a slap, or a slushie to the face. "Then why were you flirting with him like that? Right in front of me?"
Kurt swallowed. Disclosure hadn't been part of his plan, but the plan kind of went out the window when he looked at Blaine's face. "I… wasn't. Not really. I wasn't flirting with him, Blaine, you can't—you have to understand that. I would never—I mean, not in a way where I meant anything. I was just… uh, letting him. Flirt. With me."
Blaine peered at him through the growing darkness. "You let him flirt with you."
Kurt squirmed a little. "Yes. I… yes."
Blaine closed his eyes, rubbing his temples as if they hurt. "And that guy the other day—at the restaurant—"
"In the music store—"
"The waiter we had at—"
"The Lima Bean—"
"The movie theater—"
"That was an accident."
Blaine laughed, a terrible, sudden, sharply sad laugh. "Oh. I see. That one was an accident." He shook his head and opened his eyes. They were dark, fathomless. "Kurt… why? Why would you do something like that?"
Kurt's breath hitched in his chest and his heart went crazy, and that seemed like kind of an extreme response—except then he realized it was because his body already knew what his brain was just coming around to, which was a realization that he had to be honest, because Blaine was hurting and it was his fault and oh God, he was so ashamed… "Because it made you jealous. And when you get jealous, you… touch me. And…" he swallowed. "And I really wanted you to touch me."
Blaine looked at him, his mouth hanging open. "You… that's why? Because you wanted me to… you want…"
"I tried to ask, I did," Kurt said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I just… couldn't. So instead I… I'm sorry." He sighed. "I'm really sorry, Blaine. It was stupid, but I wasn't doing it to hurt you—"
"Kurt." Blaine leaned back in the driver's seat, staring out at the night. "You know, that first time, the first time we kissed…" his voice was rough, low, just barely audible. "I went to bed that night thinking… about you. Thinking about everything—everything that led to, that led up to that moment. And it was like I was seeing it all over again, only it was terrible, because all I could see was… how I must have hurt you—"
"No—Kurt. I need to say this, okay?" Blaine stared out through the windshield. He reached out and touched the steering wheel lightly, then his hand curled around it and squeezed. "So I decided… all I could really do to make it up to you was to… not do it again, not hurt you again. And I thought about some of what you'd told me, and so I promised myself that I… wouldn't push. Not ever. That I'd wait. That I'd wait for you to be ready."
"I just… Kurt, I feel like I have so much to make up for, to make up to you—"
"And the more time I spend with you, the more I think I—"
"I mean, I look at you sometimes, and I just, I just want to—"
"Blaine." Blaine finally looked at him. Kurt took a breath. "I forgive you." Another breath. "And I'm sorry." One more. "And… I'm ready."
Then Blaine was moving, close and closer and there were elbows and knees everywhere for a moment but then it all settled with Blaine straddling his lap, fists bunched in his shirtfront, kissing him like he'd been starving for it, like he was desperate. Kurt pressed back against the seat and Blaine's hands slid up his neck to the sides of his face and then into his hair, tilting him a little and kind of feasting on his bottom lip. Kurt made—some noise, something quiet and half-stunned and pleasured and helpless—and Blaine rocked against him, shivering.
"Kurt," Blaine breathed, those soft lips slipping over to his ear, sending a warm, tingly wave through him right down to his toes. "You'll tell me if I'm too—you have to tell me—"
"Don't stop touching me," Kurt managed, and felt something glow hot deep in his stomach when he skimmed his hands down Blaine's back and lower, lower, tight on his waist and then curving out and…
"Oh," both of them said at the same time, because Kurt's hands turned out to have a mind of their own and as soon as they settled over Blaine's round, muscular ass they pulled and then they were tight together, both of them hard, hard up against each other and just kind of… holding there, breathing the same breath and staring into each other's eyes and—so hard.
Kurt was straining up, with his hips and with his mouth, needing Blaine's lips on his again, only then there was light and Blaine yelped and Kurt squeaked and—someone with an obnoxiously bright flashlight banged on the window. Blaine scrambled off his lap and Kurt had a panicked moment where he looked down to make sure he was still dressed, because he'd felt extremely naked there for a moment. When he'd assured himself that he was covered, if not exactly… decent, he squinted out through the windshield at a mall security guard who looked a whole lot like Wilford Brimley.
"You kids get out of here," the guy yelled at them while Blaine got back in the driver's seat and dug for his keys. "Not on my shift, you don't—we have standards! This is a family place!"
"And eat your damn oatmeal," Kurt muttered half out of breath, and then Blaine started laughing like a crazed hyena as he drove them out of the lot. Kurt giggled, and then he snorted, and then the pair of them were practically howling, weaving down the deserted street because Blaine kept banging on the steering wheel. Kurt looked over at him, and caught a single, perfect and unforgettable mental image of Blaine, laughing hysterically with tears in his eyes, his clothing rumpled and his hair messy and sitting funny because… because obviously he didn't have enough room, and without any fanfare at all he felt something thump hard in his chest and he knew—without at all knowing how he knew—that someday in the future he would tell Blaine: that was it; that was the moment. That was the moment I knew I loved you with all my heart.
He held the knowledge close, no outward change at all. He was still laughing uncontrollably—from relief, from ridiculousness, from… everything, until Blaine finally pulled over to the side of the road and turned the engine off. Blaine reached for his hand before either of them were capable of speaking, and held him tight while they both caught their breath, lacing their fingers together.
"Spend the night with me," Blaine said, rubbing his thumb over Kurt's knuckles, staring at him, barely visible except for an outline, limned by a nearby streetlight.
Kurt's heart skipped a beat. "What… now? Where? I don't think I—"
"Friday night," Blaine said, squeezing his hand. "I'll… I'll get us a nice room. But we… we don't have to do anything, Kurt. I just… want some time with you."
"Friday night," Kurt said, squeezing back. "But… it's Saturday."
"I know." Blaine leaned over slowly, so slowly, and kissed him softly. "You're worth waiting for," he whispered.
Kurt ached when Blaine pulled back from him, tingling from his tender mouth right down to… to as far as he went. "Okay." He took a breath. "I… yes."
Blaine drove him home. Kurt thought he might end the evening with Blaine in his lap again, but no. Blaine looked at him for what felt like a long time, smiling just a little, then leaned over and cupped his face and kissed him until they were both gasping; luxurious, deep kisses that were slow, dizzying—and not at all chaste. Not in the least.
"Good night," he said at last, and tore himself away. Walking up to the house he kept a careful eye on his feet, because on the inside he was floating, swaying like a drunken sailor. He was very proud of himself for walking calmly and steadily towards the front door, his bag draped strategically in front of him, covering—if not a multitude of sins—at least one big… impropriety.
He kept his responses to his dad's questions about his date to a very nondescript minimum, only enough to allay the customary parental fears, and escaped to his room as soon as he could. He'd planned to take himself in hand (so to speak) the moment he stepped into the shower, if not sooner, but to his amazement he found that even though he wanted to—needed to—there was another part of him that wanted not to: a part that wanted to hang on to… everything, including the low buzz of delicious desire that had made itself at home under his skin and behind his eyes and in the pit of his stomach. So he showered—chastely—and then bundled himself into bed, every breath a tease of friction against his tingling skin until he fell asleep.
On Sunday he and Blaine took a long walk through the park—it was a lovely day, sunny but not too hot, with high, white clouds chasing each other through the overhead blue. There was a semi-sheltered nook in some boulder-sized rocks near the creek, and Kurt sat with his legs draped over Blaine's lap, watching the sunshine and dappled shade chase over Blaine's face, glinting off his curls. Blaine's hand on his leg slid up as they kissed, settling finally on his hip, right next to… to where Kurt ached so badly it felt like he was going to explode. He could feel Blaine against the back of his thigh, heat and hardness, and just the awareness of that made it impossible to keep still. Every time he shifted, Blaine gasped.
"Don't be," Blaine said in a dreamy, husky voice, his eyes half-lidded.
"Okay," Kurt said, and shifted again, slowly and deliberately. Blaine's eyes rolled up a little and he let out a soft, half-stifled moan. Kurt started giggling. Blaine's breath hitched, then he joined in.
"You're kind of evil," Blaine murmured in his ear, pulling him closer. "I like that about you."
When Kurt got home that night, dazed with sunshine and arousal and whatever variety of pure crack his heart was pumping out, he ran for the shower like he'd been slushied. But halfway through, leaning against the tile wall with the water beating down on him and his desperate erection sliding through his fist while he gasped and shivered from how good it was, he decided—no. No. So he stopped. Then he decided he was insane. Or masochistic. Or possibly both.
Then he decided he could live with that.
"What do you do? Usually?" He could ask, now—because he could handle the answer, because he needed the answer—and because they were on the phone and he was alone and in bed, so he didn't have to worry about keeping his face, or his blushes, under control.
"I… what? I'm sorry, Kurt, I'm not sure I understand what you—"
"I want… I want to know what you like. What you do. Usually." He pressed the side of his face into the coolness of his pillow, feeling heat build in his cheeks.
Blaine cleared his throat. "Um. Oh. I just… do what most guys do, I guess—"
"I'm not asking you about 'most guys', Blaine," Kurt said impatiently—really, Blaine picked the strangest times to go coy on him. "I'm asking about what you do. Usually. In this… under these circumstances."
"Uh. Normally I just… jerk off."
The heat in Kurt's face hit critical mass, and he swallowed. "Not that," he said, and swallowed again to get his voice back to normal. "I mean, of course you… we all do that—" except for him, lately. "I mean… with guys. What do you usually do with guys? What do you like?"
Blaine coughed a little. "Ah. I see. That's easy—I have no idea. I haven't… other than kissing, with… anyone other than you."
Kurt sat up in bed, fast. "You're a virgin?" Oh, that was almost a squeak.
"Yes," Blaine said, his voice heavy and self-conscious. "I thought… I thought you knew that."
"Uh, no." No. That was entirely unexpected, And also unexpectedly hot. He laid back down—floated back down with his nerves buzzing, assimilating this new perspective until something occurred to him that punctured his little happy balloon. He sat up again. "Wait. Blaine, wait a minute—I'm a virgin."
There was a short pause. "I… yeah, Kurt, I thought—assumed—you were."
"We can't both be virgins, Blaine."
There was a longer pause. "We… I don't think there's a maximum virgin threshold, Kurt—"
"If we're both virgins, doesn't that mean that our first time is going to be, um, awful and awkward and… not-good?"
"Well, I don't think it's a requirement—"
"Seriously, Kurt—stop worrying about it, okay? It'll be… whenever it happens, it'll be… I'm sure it'll be fine. I mean, it's not like we're in a rush, right?"
Kurt choked a little, quietly. He actually kind of was.
He saw Blaine on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. By Thursday, when Blaine kissed him goodnight and tugged him close and made a soft, vulnerable humming sound while sucking on his tongue, sliding strong, warm hands up and down his lower back, Kurt found himself perilously close to coming in his pants right then and there. Thursday night was an interminable, tortured haze of need and want and unfulfilled bone-deep craving. It was terrible, just terrible—and he wouldn't have given up a single second of it for anything.
With all that, it was a pretty profound shock when Friday heralded the return (with reinforcements) of his nervousness. It first set in when he paid an early-morning visit to a drugstore that was comfortably far from both home and school—he had some supplies, but not enough. Given the way he'd been holding out on himself, not anywhere near enough: he found himself seriously considering whether or not he should pick up a rain slicker while he was at it—or maybe a tarp. At the counter he panicked, because his shopping basket was brimming and good God he'd gone overboard, so far overboard—and a nugget of corollary wisdom occurred to him about how you should never shop for groceries when you were starving—but it was too late; a clerk with the world's most bored expression on her face was waiting to ring him up.
"Hi," he said brightly and far too loudly. Several explanations and justifications flashed through his mind at lightning speed, but 'my teacher sent me shopping for our sex-ed class' lacked the ring of truth, while 'I'm singlehandedly mounting a crusade against teen pregnancy' seemed open to all kinds of interpretations, and 'my boyfriend just got out of prison' was just… wrong. "Just these, please," he said meekly, and his basket hit the conveyor belt with a solid thump.
"Sure you got enough?" she asked dryly. He actually had a moment where he eyed his purchases with alarm, wondering if she might be right, before he caught himself.
"Oh, you know those Baptist tent revivals," he said by way of revenge, gathering up his bags.
He waved cheerily at the clerk as he walked out the door, pretending not to notice the way she was clutching the tiny gold cross pinned to her smock. At least she didn't look bored anymore.
He spent the day vacillating wildly between muscle-weakening anticipation and stomach-fluttering panic, and by the time the automatic doors obediently slid open for him as he walked into the Wingate lobby, he had kind of resolved into a combo of weak flutteriness—the worst of both worlds. When his phone buzzed, he jumped like he'd been goosed.
The text from Blaine read: All checked in. Top floor suite 535. Waiting for you.
He was still staring at the message, wandering dreamily through the lobby towards the elevator, when the phone buzzed in his hand. No pressure! Just want time with you.
It buzzed again as soon as he pressed the 'up' button. I think I'm a little nervous.
The one he got as he stepped off the elevator onto the fifth floor stopped him cold. I haven't told you I love you yet, but I do.
He stood there staring down at his phone until it buzzed again. In a text message. I told you in a text message. God.
That got him moving again. He made two wrong turns and had to backtrack, forcing himself to actually read the signs posted about which rooms were to the left and which were to the right. His phone buzzed again. Would you be willing to believe the preceding were sent by my way-less-cool twin? I would consider it a benevolent humanitarian act.
Then he was laughing, and then he was there, and then Blaine opened the door, blushing—
And then the door closed behind him, and there was nothing in the whole world but the two of them.
Kurt let go of the pull-handle on his overnight case, and didn't look away from Blaine when it toppled over, thumping to the floor. "I love you too." He could hear his heartbeat in his voice.
Blaine closed his eyes and rocked a little on his feet. "Kurt—I don't want you to think I told you that because you're here, or because I… so that you would… because I would never—"
"Put your hands on me," Kurt said, his breath high and tight in his throat while his heart pounded out of control. "Do it now."
Blaine looked at him openmouthed, frozen—then reached out slowly, so slowly, his hand moving in slow motion until it touched his chest—then everything speeded way, way up and Blaine was gone, down on his knees on the carpet. Kurt slumped back against the wall, gasping when Blaine attacked his belt-buckle, a low, soft whine of need coming out of—one of them, both of them, he couldn't tell. He was already hard by the time Blaine reached into his boxer-briefs.
Blaine's mouth on him was so sudden: shocking, even though he saw it coming. He cried out when Blaine took him in, and his hips jerked once, hard, before he pressed them against the wall. He arched his head back, far back with his lips dropping open on a moan, staring at the ceiling because Blaine's mouth on him was inexpert and clumsy but insanely, savagely good—hot, wet, hungry—and if he watched Blaine with his lashes down and fanning across his cheeks and his pretty mouth so open and stretched he was going to just… lose it.
Oh, but… he was going to lose it anyway. He was already losing control, shaking so hard he felt like he was vibrating, trying to stay still, trying not to arch into Blaine's amazing, sweet mouth, both hands curled into fists and tucked behind the small of his back so he wouldn't grab Blaine by the hair and do something… something he shouldn't do. "Blaine," he was choking, holding back, and Blaine was choking, sucking him down, his mouth his mouth his mouth was so good—"stop. Stop. Stop. Blaine—I'm…" Pure desperation freed him, right on the edge. He let his hands go to Blaine's hair and pulled, pulled him off and then held Blaine's damp face close to his stomach while he jerked and shivered and moaned and came, sliding down the wall and tilting, slipping sideways, thumping to the ground with Blaine's head still clutched in his hands.
Blaine was gasping, pressed hard against him and rocking a little, and with a lurch of dismayed horror Kurt realized that he'd just come all over Blaine's hair—and also the side of his face and his shoulder and his ear and—Kurt buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God. Blaine. I'm… I'm so sorry."
The bottom fell out of his stomach when he thought Blaine was crying, but when they rolled apart he saw that Blaine was actually laughing hysterically, so hard he was making almost no noise at all. "Oh, fine," Kurt said, and it sounded pissy and bitchy but also wobbly and weak and like he'd just come his fucking brains out, so he started laughing because… because he couldn't not.
"Maybe… maybe you had a point," Blaine wheezed, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and making halfhearted swipes at his face. "About the two virgins thing."
That wasn't funny. At all. Kurt laughed so hard he snorted, then yanked the handkerchief out of Blaine's feebly-scrubbing hands and did a proper job of cleaning him up. Blaine just kept laughing. He laughed until Kurt leaned over him to make sure he'd gotten it all—then he stopped, staring at Kurt, his eyes going solemn and dark and huge all at once. "Kurt," he said quietly. "Hi."
"Hi." Kurt kissed him, light at first and then deeper. Blaine's mouth tasted like something that Kurt realized was sex—and then all the hair stood up on the back of his neck, and his nipples tightened to sensitive, achy peaks and his dick—which he only just now realized was… exposed, utterly—twitched and started to stir. He reached out and clutched Blaine's shirt as they kissed, and slid his hand slowly downwards until Blaine suddenly, unexpectedly stopped him.
"Sorry," Blaine said, blushing all over again, and Kurt looked down and realized that there was a wet spot on the front of Blaine's trousers—a really, really huge wet spot. "I just… couldn't help it. You were… so sexy and I couldn't—I was waiting, I haven't… uh… all week and I just couldn't stop myself—"
Kurt almost said something, but then he didn't. He kissed Blaine's soft-wet mouth again instead. "Blaine, it's okay," he said when he pulled back. "Like you said, it's not like we're in a rush." Then he realized what he'd just said, and what they'd just done, and giggled a little.
Blaine blinked at him. "Well, not now," he said, and then looked down. "Uh. Actually, I'm kind of in a rush for a shower. Or a bath." He pulled his pants away from his groin. "Gah. It's all… squelchy."
Kurt supposed it was essentially callous of him to giggle harder at that, but it wasn't like he could help it.
The suite had an oversized whirlpool tub, and Kurt was so entranced by it that he actually missed the fact that Blaine was taking his clothes off until he finished sprinkling in a judicious selection of the salts and bath oils and bubble bombs he'd brought from home, and turned around to find Blaine watching him with a half-bemused, half-embarrassed look on his face, entirely naked.
"Oh," Kurt said, staring, totally unable to stop staring, and even the fucking roots of his hair felt hot, because Blaine. Was. Naked. "I—your arms—"
Blaine looked down at his arms, turning them over, then back up at Kurt. "Problem?"
"No," Kurt said, his voice soft and, to his own ears, ridiculously high. "I just… I'd seen your arms. Most of them. I, uh, extrapolated the rest. Mentally. And I… obviously my extrapolator is broken, because… God, I want to lick you everywhere—" He stopped and bit his lip and forced himself to look away, because the nervous part of him had gotten knocked sprawling by the stampeding nympho at the end, there.
But when he looked back (when his eyes were dragged back, was really more like it), Blaine was just staring at him, his eyes focused, intense. "Your hands, your neck, your knees," he said.
"What I've been extrapolating from."
"Oh." Kurt's cheeks burned.
"Will you take a bath with me?"
"Oh." Kurt pulled in a deep breath. "Okay."
They started out at opposite ends of the tub, and Kurt was glad for the hot water as a convenient excuse for his hectic flush and the stipple of sweat on his upper lip. But even though he'd stripped quickly and ducked into the tub and under the bubbles as fast as he could, he hadn't missed the look Blaine gave him—a look that had weight, a look he could feel on his skin.
And then they were settled, sitting facing each other across a sea of fragrant foam, both of them with their arms around their knees. Blaine was staring at him, and it was wonderful and terrible all at once, the silence almost deafening except for the quiet lap of the water.
"So," Kurt said when he couldn't stand it any more. "These bath salts, they're—"
"You're fucking perfect," Blaine said softly, and Kurt gasped. All his thoughts seemed to have been driven clean out of his head in one swoop, because—Blaine didn't use words like that. He somehow hadn't thought Blaine was capable of using words like that.
When Blaine reached out to him he didn't hesitate, but took Blaine's hand and let himself be pulled through the deep water, uncurling slowly while Blaine stretched out under him, eventually coming to rest with Blaine's chest under his and everything else under that, floating and weightless and Blaine's face only a scant inch away, no more.
"Will you please kiss me?" Blaine murmured to him, eyelashes wet and matted from the humidity and his lips temptingly open, licked glossy-pink and Kurt tilted a little and went for it, softly devouring with a shock of pleasure that ran right through him and down to the soles of his feet. He was hard. Blaine was hard. But the tub was deep enough that their bodies touched only lightly, just the slightest, most frictionless tease. He moaned, and Blaine jerked, and water sloshed over the edge of the tub, now overfull with both of them lying down in it.
He kissed Blaine for a long, lost time, feeding on kisses, on gasps and soft, choked-off sounds as they slipped against each other and floated, Blaine's strong hands slick down his hot back. Everything was light, so smooth and effortless and light, and then something would catch, a tiny spark—Blaine's cock surging against his own in a sudden sweet press between their bodies, the tight ache of hard nipples catching against each other—and in the absence of direct stimulation such small touches became huge, deep and intense, enough to make them both shiver and cry out.
When Blaine started moaning Kurt felt it in his balls, each soft sound something that worked its way inside him, spreading out like ripples, waves (like water), filling everything. He was full, he was empty. He was lapped in pleasure and heat, he was saturated with aching need. He sped up little by little, no harder but faster, sliding on top of Blaine and the bright, sparking moments of intensity came faster, ticking like a metronome. He was hot. So hot.
"I'm… I'll come if you don't stop."
"Oh." He slowed down, slow and easy, so easy, and pulled back enough to see Blaine's face, flushed and wet and almost pained. Blaine's bottom lip was quivering, and he stared at it, mesmerized. "I don't want to stop," Kurt said dreamily, arching his back because he needed more room, more space in his body for how good this felt. "Blaine—"
He sank down a little, pressing gently, rocking them together. "Tell me—tell me you don't want me to stop."
"Don't want… you… to stop." Blaine was churning under him, shaking, squeezing his waist.
"Tell me you want… oh… more—"
"Please—" Slosh of water and a low, deep groan, almost a growl. "More. Please."
"You want me—"
"—to make you come."
"Yeah—yes. Please. Kurt. Fuck—"
Blaine's hands slid down to his hips and pulled hard, an explosion of intensity after such a long tease, and Kurt's hips bucked helplessly, circling, grinding them together while he stifled Blaine's open, groaning mouth with his own. It went very fast after that, soaking up the feel of Blaine rutting against him, surging and squeezing and almost there, getting off hard and fast and it wasn't what he expected but Blaine's sharp cry tipped him over and then they were both coming—coming and almost drowning, because with nobody paying attention to keeping them propped up they both slid underwater. They surfaced gasping, clinging to each other and Kurt arched his head back and rode out the last sweet waves, holding tight because the feeling of Blaine coming in his arms was something he wanted to keep forever.
They kissed for a long time afterwards, slow and sweet, everything close and hazy and luxurious. "Blaine."
Blaine blinked at him, looking waterlogged and pleasure-soaked. "Kurt."
"We need a shower, after this bath."
"Mmm." Blaine kissed him deeply, softly. "That was amazing."
"Of course it was—we're not virgins any more."
Blaine gave him a look. As oversensitive as he was, Kurt's dick twitched in response. "Not all parts of us, anyway."
By the time they got out of the shower, Kurt had despaired of his fingers and toes ever unpruning. He slathered himself with a quality emollient, and had just pulled his robe out of his case when Blaine stopped him with one hand on his wrist. "Are you cold? Because—I could turn the heat up. If you were."
"No," Kurt said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Blaine's, because below that Blaine was still really, really naked.
Blaine swallowed. "Could you… would you maybe… leave the robe. Off?"
Kurt looked down at himself, just once, quickly. "I'm… you want me to… walk around nude?"
Blaine smiled a little. With his hair all damp and tousled and that smile, Kurt kind of didn't need to look below the neck to feel his blood rushing south. "Walk around, lie around, sit around, dance around, pose around—whatever. I'm not picky." He gently, slowly pried the robe from Kurt's nerveless fingers, and tossed it over a chair. "I like looking at you. I've been waiting… wanting… to look at you."
"Fun times at the nudist colony," Kurt said lightly, more lightly than he felt, because… because apparently, as he had only just now this moment realized, clothes meant more to him than fashion.
"It's just us here, Kurt," Blaine said, touching the side of his face softly, tenderly. "Just the two of us."
"I know," Kurt said, turning his cheek into Blaine's palm. "But I guess every colony's got to start somewhere."
As it turned out the robe was of some use anyway, because after a couple hours of lounging and talking and light making out and canoodling and laughing, both of their stomachs started to make indecorous noises. Blaine ordered food from the Japanese restaurant down the block (one that Kurt had never been to, that nobody he knew other than Blaine had ever been to), and when the knock came Blaine snagged his robe and belted it shut before he opened the door, while Kurt huddled under the duvet, blushing even though the bed wasn't visible from the entryway.
In a day full of revelations, one of the most amazing was this: it turned out that Kurt loved being naked. Loved it. For the first hour it was awkward, uncomfortable, and nerve-wracking, but after that it changed. It wasn't that he forgot he was naked—he didn't, not for a second—but the fact that he had no armor, nothing to hide behind became… oddly freeing, liberating, and sweetly intimate, kind of… romantic.
Blaine brought a giant tray of everything to the bed, and Kurt tried all of it. His favorite was something that turned out to be spicy squid, his second favorite eel, and he was very glad he hadn't let Blaine tell him what anything was until after he'd tried it. Blaine fed him bits and gave him hot wasabi kisses and swiped a drop of soy sauce off his lip with his thumb, sucking it clean afterwards and making Kurt's stomach do fluttery things that were definitely not (he hoped) because of the octopus he'd sampled.
"I'm honestly not sure what my dad would be more horrified by—that you invited me to stay at a hotel with you, or that you fed me squid and I loved it. The bait comments would be unending."
Blaine looked up at him through his lashes. "Your dad is amazing," he said quietly before stripping a pod of edamame with his teeth. "Don't sell him short."
Kurt leaned back against the pillows. "I don't, it's just… reflex. I'm not about to… I can't take him for granted. Not ever again."
Blaine moved the tray to the round table in the corner of the room. "What… where did you tell him you were going?"
Kurt shrugged. "Sleepover at Mercedes' house with her and Rachel. Mercedes gave me what had to be the world's most knowing smirk when I asked her, but… she'll cover for me."
Blaine stretched back out on the bed on his stomach and shook his head, grinning. "So you told your dad you were going to spend the night with two girls, and that's just fine—"
Kurt grinned back. "Well, that's only because he knows the chances that I'd wildly hump either of them are… dramatically low."
"Mmm." Blaine's eyebrows quirked. "Speaking of which…"
Kurt curled up on his side and widened his eyes innocently. "You want me to wildly hump you?"
Blaine's cheeks flushed red, and he swallowed. "I… yes. But only if… if that's something you want to do."
Kidding. He'd been kidding. Kurt sat up. "Uh… Blaine. Don't you mean… the other way around?"
Blaine's lashes lowered and his blush deepened. "If that's… if you'd rather. Or—or anything, Kurt, I just… I thought I'd ask." He took a breath. "I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask."
Kurt moved towards him slowly, dreamily. "And you're asking because… that's what you want?"
Blaine nodded, and buried his face in the duvet. The tips of his ears were pink.
Kurt got up off the bed and went to his case, his thoughts running through a catalogue of new images that made it very clear that he'd been mistaken if he thought he was done being nervous. He unpacked onto the nightstand, mindlessly setting out box after box after bottle after tube until he heard Blaine clear his throat. Blaine was sitting up on the bed crosslegged, staring at the collection with wide, almost-shocked eyes. "Kurt?"
Kurt swiveled back and looked at the sheer amount of what he'd unpacked, and then it was his turn to blush. "Yeah, I… kind of went overboard. I just… wanted to make sure we had enough."
Blaine cracked up, and Kurt almost protested—he'd been nervous, dammit—but then he looked from where Blaine had slumped down onto his side back to the ridiculous profusion of items on the nightstand, and the next thing he knew he was giggling hysterically, flopping down onto the bed next to Blaine and just letting it all go.
"I don't know whether to thank you for the tribute to my imagined stamina, or…" Blaine trailed off, breaking down.
"Or what?" Kurt wheezed.
Blaine wiped his eyes. "Or give you the world's most disappointing reality check."
Kurt stared over at Blaine, looking anywhere—everywhere—he wanted to, and in the space of two breaths he was erect again. "I'm not… I don't think I could be disappointed, Blaine," he said softly. "Not in you, anyway."
Blaine sobered, blinking at him. "You're… are you nervous?"
"Kurt. You'll be fine," Blaine put a hand on his chest, warm and reassuring. "It'll be fine."
It was fine—amazing, actually, rather than 'fine'—right up until he had Blaine under him with Blaine's thighs locked around his waist and Blaine's hands tight on his shoulders and Blaine's body all around him, silky skin over hard muscle and so, so sexy. It was fine until he realized that, despite the condom, and despite the long, slow time he'd spent opening Blaine up with his fingers, Blaine was tight on a level he'd never expected or imagined, and he was two inches in and gasping and shaking and trying—so hard—not to lose it.
"It's okay," Blaine told him, his voice hazy, almost slurred. "It's… you feel good, Kurt."
"Tight," he managed, and buried his face in the pillow next to Blaine's head. "You're really… so tight… how—doesn't it hurt?"
Blaine's head arched back. "God. No. Feels. Really—" his hips lifted, and Blaine gasped while Kurt groaned. "—good. So good. You… didn't you ever… have you tried…?"
"Nuh-uh," and with his face hidden there was nobody to witness his blush, but it seemed he could still hear it, somehow, in his voice. "I never did, I… too embarrassed, too scared, I… no."
"Oh." There was movement, Blaine's hands left his shoulders, and Kurt just hung on, fists clenched tight into the sheets, thinking about—anything, everything and anything that wasn't the exquisite tight heat squeezing the hell out of his cock. "Tell me if… you have to tell me."
"Tell you what?" Kurt asked, swallowing, sinking in and fuck, fuck, fuck—he wasn't going to make it, he was—
"If you don't like it. I'll stop." And then everything stopped, because Blaine had somehow managed to coat his fingers with lube, and his legs fell away to either side when he slid his hand down, gently down the crack of Kurt's ass and down more and deeper and—
"Oh." Kurt shuddered like a racehorse. "Oh."
Kurt sank in the rest of the way and he didn't even notice, not with Blaine's gentle fingers circling behind him, touching, sliding over bundles of nerves he'd never even known he had. He pulled his head up out of the pillow to arch back, and when Blaine's fingers slipped inside he twisted—and that's when everything changed. His cock jerked hard, but the tightness wasn't too much any more. It was just… perfect, delicious and irresistible, and he could move, forward into it and then back onto Blaine's fingers, back and forth, just a little but so good, so good in both directions and he never, ever, ever wanted it to stop.
"No." Blaine slid another finger inside him, and then Kurt couldn't talk any more.
He rocked for a long time, what seemed like an endless time, not even building towards anything because all he wanted was everything he had. He was sweating and he could feel his heartbeat all the way down to the tips of his toes and he was completely unable to stop the soft moans that poured out of him one after another, sounds that seemed completely inadequate to describe how devastatingly, mind-blowingly good it was to have Blaine inside and around him.
And even though it was slow, even though it was gentle, even though it was little circles and swivels and lingering strokes with his hips, Blaine was—Blaine seemed to be good with it, arching against him and shaking, stroking deeper into him and God—
"Blaine," breathless, just a rasp. "Can you come?"
"Going to," Blaine nodded and kept nodding, working under him, inside him. "Oh, yes, I—yeah…"
Kurt shifted a little and Blaine gasped, his free hand finding its way to Kurt's hair and pulling hard, a tiny ache of pain that blended in with the flood of pleasure and so Kurt did it again, drenched with sweat and working hard because he wanted it, needed it, needed to fuck Blaine until he came, needed to make him feel as good as he felt himself. Blaine seized up for a moment and then bucked hard, coming on his stomach, coming all over both of them and Kurt tossed his head back and thrust hard as Blaine throbbed around him, a crazy doubling sensation when he felt himself squeezing down on Blaine's fingers at the same time, insanely good, coming with what felt like his entire body, everything fluttering inside and out while he made high, helpless noises that sounded almost like he was crying.
He didn't know how long it took to come down afterwards, the time was lost in kisses and the tender awareness of slowly going soft, slowly slipping away from where they'd been so connected. Blaine kept petting him, clinging to him and kissing him with what seemed to be a ridiculous amount of gratitude, given how amazingly fantastic that had been for him—but he didn't object. He honestly didn't know if he could ever object to anything again, because the bone-deep contentment that spread through him felt like it would just go on forever.
"Why the hell am I so hungry?" Kurt murmured, fresh out of his second shower of the evening. The bed was littered with all the leftover takeout containers and most of the snacks from the minibar, plus assorted towels, and a variety of boxes and tubes from the nightstand that Blaine had been perusing.
"You burned a bunch of calories," Blaine said casually, shrugging, shoveling noodles into his mouth with a pair of chopsticks and very little regard for etiquette. Post-coital Blaine, it turned out, was far less formal a creature than regular Blaine. And far more earthy. Almost hedonistic. Kurt was kind of deeply in love with him.
Blaine gave him a look, letting his eyebrows do the work. "Maybe after we take the edge off, we can burn some more."
Kurt opened a bag of almond M&Ms, a forbidden favorite, and leaned back against the pillows, reveling in chocolate nirvana. "Mmm. What do you have in mind?"
Blaine put the empty noodle container onto the tray, and opened a bag of popcorn. "Um… Kurt—" He paused, smiling shyly, shaking his head. "I don't know if you noticed, but… last time was what I had in mind. Isn't it your turn to pick something?"
Kurt lunged forward and dug into the popcorn bag, retreating to the pillows with a handful before he answered. "I guess. But… I like what you pick." He put two pieces of popcorn into his mouth. White cheddar after chocolate, not a combination that seemed likely to work, but—God it was so delicious. "It seems a shame to stop you when you're on a roll," he said when he could. He stared at the white cheddar powder coating his hand. Where the popcorn used to be. Jesus. "I think I just figured out why people invented snacks."
He washed his hands at the minibar sink, and was in the middle of drying them when Blaine's arms came around his waist, lips close to his ear and some definite interest going on back there, from the feel of it. "I want to lick you," Blaine breathed in his ear, and Kurt wondered 'where' until Blaine's cock kind of poked him and he knew, all at once he knew exactly where, and he closed his eyes and swayed on his feet a little. "I want to lick you and push my tongue into you until… until you're desperate for me, and then I want to fuck you, as hard and fast as you can take it—"
Kurt's knees went out from under him but Blaine was right there, holding him up, bracing him against the counter. He turned just enough to see Blaine's face, and was surprised to see Blaine blushing deeply, looking like he was struggling to get the words out. And that changed things—because it wasn't seduction but confession, still just as hot but more than just hot: something Blaine trusted him with. Kurt's heart cramped in his chest, because under those circumstances it was pretty much the most romantic thing he'd ever heard.
"I… yes, Blaine," he said, and his head was swimming and his cock was so hard and his heart was doing a full orchestral number. "That sounds… just perfect."
It did. And as it turned out, it was.
Endnotes: The title is poached from the Dan Black song U + Me.
I have a sneaking suspicion that this is one of those stories where there's already a billionty stories just like it, and I'm just too lame to know that because I almost never read anything due to my insatiable scribbling addiction. If that is indeed the case, please just consider this as another facet in the gestalt, another tiddle winked into an already brimming cup. But I really wanted to write a story exploring the unexpected ways that love can deepen, and of course I also wanted to play with a whole host of other things (Kurt's nervous vs. nympho battles, plus dual virginities and shyness and parallels and budding sexual creativity,) so I wrote it anyway. Then I almost trashed it due to my doubts about fluff OD and my own lack of skill with this particular piece. Then Guylindaandelphaba rescued it. And now, you've read it—my sincere thanks to you for your time and attention!