DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title from "Can't Stop" by Maroon 5.
Warnings are: self-pleasure (masturbation, if you wish to be crude), two boys who are too stupidly afraid to admit their feelings, mild swearing. This is a little AU because in this Blaine realises his feelings right away but doesn't act upon them and Kurt's trying to be ~subtle about the whole thing but we all know how Kurt and subtly go.

TUMBLR because I haven't done this yet :)
endofadream [.] tumblr [.] com

As always: reviewers, I love you. A whole lot. A looooooooot.


One month. One month ago Blaine Anderson first laid eyes upon Kurt Hummel and still his knees go weak whenever Kurt flashes that rare smile at him, whenever Kurt so much as looks at him with those blue-gray eyes that made the Caribbean look dull in comparison. Blaine can still recall that first coffee meeting, that glistening tear tracing its way down Kurt's cheek and the redness in his eyes as he asked and spoke and was embarrassed and alone.

Blaine remembers meeting him on the stairs, feeling his jaw drop slightly, remembers catching Kurt's eye more than once during the performance and how he'd seen that smile for the first time. Blaine could already tell that it was rusty, old like it hadn't been used in awhile, forced like Kurt had stopped allowing himself to be happy. He wasn't a student even though he said he was but Blaine played along for the sake of it.

Kurt Hummel is beautiful and maybe he hates that adjective, maybe he loves it. It's testament to how little Blaine knows about this boy from Lima. What he does know, though, is that he wants to be everything that he possibly can be: friend, mentor, protector, confidante… lover. Kurt reminds him of his own past, of the bullying and the aching that no one else understood.

Blaine had texted him courage; Kurt had transferred.

They're both cowards, in a way, but it's okay because Kurt is snarky and not as fragile as he had first appeared to be.

Watching his mouth curve around the rim of a coffee cup, watching that pink tongue catch a drop of latte on the corner of his lips, Blaine feels hot and cold all at once. Stretched too tight and too loose, breathing rapidly and unable to breathe at all. Under the uniform, under the naturally dark skin every single one of Blaine's sensors are running on overdrive, every capillary rushing with blood as his heart pounds a harsh staccato against his ribs.

He watches Kurt hook a pinky nail on the mouth of the coffee cup, curling in and sending the empty cup teetering for a few seconds. His own drink is forgotten, now lukewarm and past enjoying with the spices sunk to the bottom of the hazelnut-flavored drip, but he doesn't care. Kurt's scarf hugs his long neck in all the right ways and his eyes look like two diamonds against his skin when the sun shines in through the window.

He's lost track: is this their fourth coffee date? Third? Blaine doesn't know anything apart from how breathtaking Kurt always manages to be. He wants these to be real dates, wants to flirt with Kurt in real life instead of his mind. He hears himself talking about all the safe friend topics, but he sees himself batting his eyes and being coy, reaching across the table to cover Kurt's hand with his. He wants to lean over and kiss the mocha out of Kurt's mouth, taste coffee and chocolate and the biscotti they'd shared.

He doesn't, but he wants to.


One month ago Kurt Hummel met Blaine Anderson for the first time and now he still can't help but unconsciously flutter his eyelashes whenever Blaine speaks, asks him out for coffee, asks if he wants to study or even just go over the step-touch-step choreography for the newest number that they say is for Regionals or whatever but just ends up being performed once before being forgotten about when Blaine finds the next Top 40 hit. Just Blaine existing in general sends Kurt in a titillated frenzy and it's not healthy. Kurt wonders if Blaine knows that he's gleaned very little from all the studying they've been doing together. It's hard to focus on anything that isn't Blaine's perfect face and his perfect voice and what exactly does his body look like underneath that damned ever-present blazer?

Kurt has never felt this level of attraction before; it's almost terrifying. It's a lot different from Finn in the sense that he doesn't feel the urge to be manipulative, doesn't feel like he has to try hard to keep Blaine's attention. Blaine is out and proud and so very, very wise (at least to Kurt, who's never met anyone like him before) and Kurt wants to emulate that because although Blaine had run, he'd bettered himself in the end.

Kurt had run, too, but he'd run into the arms of safety and a mandatory outfit repeat five days a week, which is tolerable, all things considered.

He really, really likes when Blaine takes him out on coffee dates—and that's how Kurt firmly refers to them, dates, because Blaine always insists on paying and he makes so many damned innuendos alluding to them being a couple or at least two boys interested in each other and in the early stages of becoming a couple—and he really likes it when Blaine remembers his coffee order. He feels special and important and grins dumbly at the barista and the overpriced baked goods in the glass container until Blaine nudges his shoulder and hands him his hot cup.

Kurt always watches Blaine on these dates; he doesn't miss how Blaine licks his coffee stirrer before discarding it in the trash, doesn't miss the faint working on his jaw as he tongues over the plastic, nor does he miss the adorable look of concentration he gets when he's shaking in cinnamon and vanilla and chocolate. Kurt also never missed how nice Blaine's hands are, how they look holding the black plastic lid that the Lima Bean offers and how they'd look holding something else, fingers curved just right…

Kurt wants to kiss him, he always does, but he holds back. It's only fair because he's still a little afraid.


In December, when everything is hushed by thick blankets of snow and night falls long before dinnertime, Kurt appreciates Dalton's many working fireplaces in their many extravagant common rooms. The panes of the windows are piled with flakes, frost forming on the glass, but seated at a heavy mahogany table in a surprisingly cushy chair, all Kurt feels is warmth.

In December, Kurt isn't scared anymore. The painful memories of the locker room have faded somewhat to the background, and while they do sometimes resurface and sting badly and cause him to be afraid to be touched all over again, he's gotten over them for the most part. He wants to kiss Blaine, that's something that will never go away, but now it's more active and far more predominant in his daily thoughts.

Kurt doesn't know if Blaine is conscious of his heavy flirty eye contact nearly every rehearsal. It doesn't matter the song, the choreography, who's present (which would never be a factor anyway, since Blaine loves his audience and even when they're performing with him the Warblers may as well be an audience) or whether Blaine even feels that way or not, somehow hazel always meets blue and Kurt always forgets his harmony, stumbles over whatever ridiculous dance move he's doing, and blushes furiously.

Blaine just kind of has that effect on people, he deduces.

It's only for his benefit, Kurt knows, because he has yet to see anyone else act like a complete idiot just because Blaine Anderson looked their way.

He wants to ask. The questions burn the tip of his tongue and he's almost always bursting with the urge to know the truth: is Blaine interested in him or is he just an incorrigible flirt? He's scared he's blowing this all out of proportion, that he's just a love-hungry teenage boy who's met his first (out) gay kid that just so happens to be extremely attractive and blurs the lines way too often. He doesn't want this to all just be in his head; he wants it to be real. He wants a kiss that doesn't taste of self-loathing and fear. He wants a kiss that's passionate, yet soft, and he wants hands cupping his jaw with intent, not to force him not to pull back.

Kurt sighs and looks down at the notebooks and textbook sprawled open on the table in front of him.

Words don't describe his hatred for Algebra 2; no matter how much he stares at the numbers in the textbook they remain just that: numbers, numbers that should be on price tags and not in stupid high school textbooks. He sighs again, a little more annoyed this time, and scribbles down what he hopes is the right answer to the equation he's been working on for almost ten minutes, not counting the time he had spaced out. The next equation is just as daunting with just as many confusing number sequences, and suddenly Kurt is daydreaming about the kind of math it would take to get Blaine naked and in his small twin-size bed.

Subtracting annoying fellow Warblers and adding a plea to talk about upcoming song choices alone equals phase one. Adding one pair of lips plus another pair of lips equals definite interest. Definite interest equals some form of clothing being shed. Subtract a few shirts and pairs of pants and re-add definite interest into the equation and that equals… phase two and jackpot.

It wasn't perfect math, not by any means whatsoever, but it was a lot more interesting than anything the book had written down. Now all he envisions are not-friend-like images of Blaine and he ends up clapping a hand to his mouth to stop the moan that's threatening to crawl out.

Maybe he should head back to his own dorm.


December is Blaine's favorite month. He loves Christmas—as much as he can at least, with his father—snow, and wearing his favorite gray-and-red scarf. December is also quiet, the whole world hushed and stilled and dead as cold takes over. It's peaceful and serene and beautiful in so many ways. He loves fireplaces and he especially loves fireplaces when they illuminate Kurt's cheekbones like they're doing now.

He stands outside the common room, hands in the pockets of his uniform trousers, but he doesn't speak. Kurt seems to engrossed in whatever subject he's over-studying now to notice another presence and Blaine takes this time to just stare and memorize: the perfect pink bow of Kurt's lips, the way he purses his lips and rubs at his temple when he's concentrating or frustrated, how his soft, slender hands grip the pencil.

It's a Friday night but there's too much snow on the ground for any of the boys to do anything besides snowball fights and Blaine's been here long enough to know to avoid those. He'd been in search of Kurt since he disappeared after dinnertime, intent on inviting him to his dorm to watch a movie on his laptop, but now that he's found him he's not so sure he wants to go through with those plans.

The feelings Blaine's having are ridiculous and cumbersome. He can't so much as glance in the general vicinity of where Kurt is without his stomach tying an impressive fisherman's knot, his palms sweating, and his tongue doing a damn good impression of that knot whenever he tries to get out I really like you, Kurt. Like, like like you.

All Kurt needs is a black leather chaise, a Native American-inspired throw blanket and tighter-fitting pants to turn this private-school setting into a Ralph Lauren ad.

Or maybe no pants…

Blaine blanches a little and shakes his head almost at the same time that Kurt does while he erases an answer. This boy, no matter how amazing he always manages to look, had been sexually assaulted a little more than a month ago; he'd had his first kiss stolen from him, he'd been threatened with death, landing him here and into Blaine's (metaphorical) arms and he's fantasizing about him? It's not right, not at all.

But that's what makes it amazing, Blaine thinks with lament. The whole you-can't-touch-me aspect of it. And Blaine wants to touch, wants to run his hands over every inch of that pale skin that he can; he wants to find out what makes Kurt tick and keen and moan and want more. Blaine wants to be able to give him all that pleasure and more because he really, truly cares about him and he only wants the best.

He's just a boy, after all, just a teenager faced with the first object of his desire and no one can blame him for thinking these thoughts. So far he's been doing almost too well with hiding everything under his bubbly persona, but he can only stretch so far. He's almost to his breaking point and right now, with the way Kurt is stretching, cracking his back against the hard back of the chair, arms rigid and clasped together behind his head, neck tilted back to allow the light to play on the contours of his throat, the bumps and ridges of his Adam's apple highlighted in yellow-orange, he's about to snap.

Blaine swallows and does his best not to make any embarrassing noises to attract Kurt's attention.

That'd be awesome, though; just let him notice me standing here, flushed and half-hard

His dorm. Yeah, he should head back to his dorm.



Kurt's almost embarrassed by the wheedling way Blaine's name rolls off his tongue when he's not even here, how high and thin his voice is already. He'd barely shut and locked the door to his dorm before the blazer was sliding off his shoulders and falling with a muted thump to the ground. Laying on his back on his bed, gaze focused on the ceiling, he draws his bottom lip into his mouth, teeth clamping down as he palms his cock through his slacks, pushing up into the pressure slightly.

His eyes slip closed and suddenly it's not his hand but Blaine's large palm, warm and guitar-calloused, undoing the zipper of his slacks, pushing them down his thighs to pool at his feet, cupping him through his briefs and rubbing the rough pad of his thumb along the hardening outline of his cock.

Kurt unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall open and rest at his sides. He runs a hand from his neck down his chest, paying attention to one nipple and then the other until they're both pebbled and he arches into each touch with a gasp, his eyes fluttering shut. He imagines Blaine kneeling at the food of the bed, watching with those wide eyes, color darkened with lust and blown pupils, hand rubbing at his cock through his boxers.

He wonders what Blaine would be like, if he'd be domineering and take over, letting Kurt lie back and succumb to pleasure, or if he'd be gentle, taking the time to learn every inch of Kurt's body before letting him come. He wonders how Blaine kisses, if it's tentative and dry or desperate and wet.

He wonders, unashamedly, what Blaine tastes like; how salty his skin would be, if it'd taste like residual soap or cologne or just Blaine, the way he's heard countless people say in movies and books and television, that hint of masculinity that Kurt finds so attractive. How his cock would feel in his mouth, sitting on his tongue. Would it be thicker than his own in his hand? Longer?

Kurt lifts his hips and slides his briefs down his legs, kicking them and his slacks off. Once his legs are free he spreads his legs, bending them at the knee as he takes his cock in his hand, rubbing his thumb along the smooth head with a low groan. It's still a little dry, and he hasn't been hard long enough to have enough pre-come to use as lube, but it enhances the fantasy.

He starts slow, just a few strokes along the length with a twist at the base and at the head, enough to arch up into it and dry his lips and cotton his mouth with his short pants of breath. Gradually, the more arousal takes over and floods his limbs, he speeds up, turns rougher and thrusts his hips into the loose circle of his fist. His eyes are still closed and his legs are still folded up and spread.

He's still a little tentative about sex, and though now, alone in his room with the lights off and his imagination at his disposal, he's absolutely sure that the next time he sees Blaine he's going to kiss him breathless, once the endorphins wear off he'll return to that same shaky-embarrassed feeling he always gets after he comes. He hasn't fingered himself yet, too nervous and with never enough alone time, but the older he gets and the more he sees the world the less he wants it for himself.

He wants… he wants Blaine to be the one. He wants his fingers inside of Blaine, deep and rough and seeking, making him squirm and beg and flush. Kurt wants his cock inside of Blaine, pushing in as deep as he can go and making him come so hard he can't speak. Kurt rubs the side of his thumb along the sensitive spot under the head of his cock, letting out a breathy cry, and imagines.

Would he want Blaine on his back? Or maybe on all fours, spread wide and on display. Maybe… maybe Kurt could be on his back and Blaine could be on his lap, raised up on his thighs as he holds onto the headboard with one hand, the other desperately fisting his cock as he rides Kurt hard, skin slapping skin and his eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a continuous moan.

Kurt moves his hand faster now, grip a little tighter, and it's Blaine again as he closes his eyes, Blaine's dark skin and bright hazel eyes and pouty lips moving, urging him on as he pumps him quicker, thumb rubbing over the head and hand a little hesitant because he still doesn't know exactly what Kurt likes.

It's not-Blaine's voice in his ear, not-Blaine's breath against the side of his neck hedging, cajoling him, pushing him on as his tongue licks from his jaw to below his ear as his hand squeezes, jerks. "Come. Kurt, come on, come for me…" The timbre is low, words smoke-raspy and not-Blaine sounds so wrecked that Kurt really, really wants to know what real-Blaine sounds like when he's close, when he's falling over the edge.

With a long, high noise in the back of his throat Kurt does, hips bucking into his fist as he streaks over his stomach. He's alone as he slumps back onto his pillows.



Any lingering guilt has long since vanished, leaving Blaine free to moan Kurt's name to the ceiling.

Blaine doesn't bother locking the door and has to stumble to his bed, collapsing ungracefully onto it as he impatiently shucks the slacks he'd only gotten half-off in the short amount of time between getting inside the room and shutting the door. He doesn't know where his roommate is, he doesn't care and only hopes that he has the psychic sense enough not to come barging in any time in the next twenty minutes. He imagines Kurt's long, lithe body spread out on the bed, blue eyes wide and darkened with lust and inside his boxers Blaine's cock gives an enthusiastic twitch. He gasps.

Scratch that—a lot less than twenty minutes at this rate.

It's a lot more effort than Blaine would like to take off his blazer and unbutton his shirt but it's worth it when he collapses onto the covers, fully naked and hard cock leaking clear lines against the dark hair on his stomach. He stretches out, sighs and runs a hand through his gelled hair, imagining it's Kurt's lithe, nimble fingers scratching at his scalp and tugging the strands. He licks his lower lip, imagines it's Kurt's tongue asking permission and Blaine groans, the sound soft and small.

He shamelessly wants Kurt in every way possible: he wants his fingers, his cock, his tongue and his mouth. He wants to hold onto him and never let go, wants to stretch his mouth around Kurt's cock, suck him until he comes, and he wants Kurt fucking him. He wants to be stretched to the point where almost-unbearable pain turns to utter pleasure.

Blaine twists his hand loosely on the slide down and tightens on the slide up, running his free hand along the contours of his torso, trailing his fingers along the coarse hair at the base of his dick. He rubs his thumb along his perineum, letting out a strangled gasp, before cupping his balls, rolling them in his palm as he closes his eyes and loses himself in the familiar skin-against-skin sounds.

He doesn't feel bad about fantasizing about Kurt anymore, not when his pale skin is flushed with arousal and his eyes are that same dark blue Blaine had imagined they'd be. His fingers are long, palms soft and smooth, as he takes Blaine's cock in hand, teasing him with light, lingering touches until Blaine is whining, pushing into his hand and wanting more, more.

"Patience," not-Kurt says with a soft, amused laugh.

Blaine whines again, desperate for something, anything.

He doesn't expect not-Kurt's fingers pushing at his hole, index finger sliding in to the third knuckle. Blaine can't stop his back from arching up, his breath from catching in his throat. On his bed, alone in his dorm, Blaine's got one spit-slicked finger inside himself, just for the sensation, and he wants this and so much more; call him greedy, call him a cockslut, a Kurtslut, whatever, it's quintessentially him and he wants it. He removes the finger with a small jerk of his hips and a small noise from between his lips.

"Please, please," he begs to an empty room. "I'm yours, Kurt, just take me."

It could almost be embarrassing how close he is already, that he's already got heat ebbing and licking at his spine, his groin, but he's never felt this good, this complete before. Though it's all just a fantasy it seems real now, almost enough so that, if he were to open his eyes, Blaine feels, Kurt would be hovering over him, mouth red and cheeks and chest flushed almost the same color. Blaine wants to lick and bite and mark, gather the skin on Kurt's chest, his neck, between his teeth, tongue it and suck it until it purples. He wants Kurt to be his and he wants to be Kurt's.

Blaine stills his hand, slackens his grip just enough that he can slide his cock through the circle, slowly before speeding up. He hears not-Kurt's voice below him, somewhere around his neck as he licks an imaginary wet stripe down the center of his chest, scratches his nails through the hair, saying, "Fuck my fist, Blaine, come on. You can go harder than that. I'm not going to break."

Blaine groans, deep in his chest, head digging into the pillows and hips snapping up a few more times before he comes across his fist and abdomen.

He's alone in his room.

But he doesn't want to be.


Meet me in the common room tomorrow before lunch. I want to show you something that I finally found. I've been looking for it forever.