Title: Good For The Soul
Author: Aristide and Mairead Triste
Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex and mild kink
Summary: Claiming an identity is not always a simple process.
Warning: Mild kink, angst, other stuff (look, just don’t read it if you have triggers, okay? This is not a lighthearted, romantic romp. I’m not going to put out a detailed warning, but—if darker shades of fic are not your cuppa, you should probably give it a miss.)
Author’s Notes: I am indebted to Summer, for her fearlessness, kindness and hotness; to AubreyLi, for her generosity, wisdom, insight and grace; and to everyone who read this when it was whacked up into weird WIP chunks and told me I should keep going, for their intrepidity.
Dedication: This story is dedicated to Aubrey and her lovely, lovely brain.
Good For The Soul
By Aristide and Mairead Triste
“I’m sorry, Blaine.” Kurt was crying so hard he could barely talk. “I’m sorry, but… I just… I can’t see you any more. Please… just leave me alone.” There was more, so many more words that he needed to say—so many things he thought he’d have time to say that he’d never said, but he was choking and gasping and wet with tears and rain, his heart hurting so badly that all his joints ached in sympathy, and in the end it was all he could do to turn and run for the house, leaving Blaine standing there with that terrible, shocked look on his face, that terrible hurt look, the look that never would have been there if Kurt hadn’t been… who he was.
There were things that nobody knew about him. That nobody was supposed to know. Ever. He’d made it to seventeen intact—more or less intact, anyway, fortified with a carefully constructed set of limits, controls, barriers, all of which served to keep the parts of him that were acceptable at the forefront of his being, and keep the rest of it, the rest of him… away. He couldn’t get rid of those parts of himself permanently (not for lack of trying), but at least he’d found a way to keep them down, to stop them (mostly) from affecting who he was, who he wanted to be. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked. It had worked.
Until Blaine. Until Blaine with his sexy mouth and his smell and the dizzying hardness of his body, with his face that showed every shade of pleasure and desire so clearly it might as well have been written there, with his strong hands and his dark eyes and his… everything, everything about him. Every cell of him, it seemed, was a draw, a pull, the kind of pull that Kurt responded to—that all of him responded to. Even—especially—the parts he wished would just go the hell away.
Those parts weren’t going away. They were taking over. Those parts of him took Blaine’s hungry, passionate good-night kisses as an invitation to storm the walls he’d built with such care, an invitation to bulldoze right over everything that kept him safe, that kept him who he was, who he wanted—needed—to be. Blaine kissed him, held him, touched him, and suddenly all the barriers had been breached and the monster was loose, free and ravening and terrifyingly powerful, threatening… everything.
He’d managed, somehow, every time, to put himself back together afterwards, get everything back to where it needed to be. But it was hard and getting harder, and in every moment he felt the danger he was in, felt the dark and awful excitement that came from inside, felt himself teetering, toppling—it was only a matter of time. He knew it. He knew it all the way down to his core.
And so, even though it broke him in pieces to do it, even though it tore through him with the kind of pain that told him something vital and necessary had been ruptured, he had to go.
It was the only way.
In the beginning, there had been no dividing line. It was all one—limited, certainly, by his own limited knowledge, but whole. The man in his fantasies was a romantic hero who took him in his arms passionately after innumerable proofs of love and made him feel amazing (that was the limited part, because he was so young at the time he just had no idea what that would entail). It was all one. But knowledge seeped in, as it had a way of doing, and puberty came along like an earthquake, like a selfquake, and that was when the first cracks appeared, fault lines that were deep and led down to darkness.
The split happened quickly after that, his inner landscape sundered with horrifying speed. His romantic hero was still there, still imbued with the same qualities, only now the soft-focused embrace was… pallid, insipid, lacking the real fire that came from the parts of his brain that dove deep and stayed there, down in the dark.
Down in the dark was pure intensity, the pure power of pure powerlessness. Down there it wasn’t one man but many, and none of them were heroes, and none of what happened to him could be construed in any way as romantic. Down there he was an object, a toy, a collection of convenient holes for a dozen depersonalized, arrogant cocks, fucked and used and passed around like a party favor at a particularly bacchanalian frat hazing. Down there he was always wet, with tears and sweat and the come of random guys he didn’t even know, the ones who gathered and watched in a circle and jerked off on him lazily while he was used fore and aft, over and over until he was limp, wrecked, twitching.
Down there his only source of pride was that he didn’t get off on it (the ‘he’ in his fantasies, of course, not the he who thought these horrible, hurtful things while masturbating furiously). But then, Blaine. And then, him and Blaine. And then things cracked and fissured and all of a sudden Blaine was there, the one face out of a faceless mass, the only one not satisfied with simply using him but who was bent on the ultimate cruelty of making him come in front of everyone—an ultimate cruelty until he finally broke and gave in, only to be denied and made to beg for it.
The first time that particular fantasy unspooled in his head he didn’t even jerk off to it—he came untouched, clutching nothing but his pounding head as his body writhed in the sheets, so full of sensation and shame and dark erotic hunger that he had to stifle himself with a pillow so he wouldn’t wake the household. And the next day (a day, thankfully, when he didn’t even see Blaine,) he was continually on the brink—a deep breath would drag his undershirt across his nipples, crossing his legs would bring heat and unbearable pressure—and he’d be caught, suspended in a mesh of surrender and need, trying to keep his eyes from rolling up in his head, choking back the soft moans that wanted out of his throat. He brought himself off twice before school, then three more times between classes, again as soon as he got home, and right before dinner in the hopes that he could get through an hour without squirming in his chair—and still he went to bed early, using lotion and stroking lightly because of the chafing, over and over again until he passed out.
The day after that he did see Blaine, and at first it was a struggle not to just fold down onto his knees and offer up everything, which was bad enough on its own. But the next moment brought true horror, an agony of contrition when he looked into Blaine’s wide, lovely, innocent eyes—and felt like he’d violated him, violated them both, felt like he’d taken something precious and irreplaceable and… defiled it. He felt like a pervert, a rapist—almost a murderer. He couldn’t look at Blaine after that. Couldn’t look at him, and couldn’t stop wanting him, and couldn’t stop hating himself for all the awful things that he wanted.
He tried to fix it. He tried. He tried everything and anything. He clung to romance, to innocence, to purity and ideals and heroism and the basic respect human beings extended to each other when they weren’t behaving like depraved monsters.
He tried. He failed.
And so, he did what he had to do. The only option open to him, the only choice remaining. He left.
He spent the next three days in a grey, miserable haze, moving like a zombie through the motions of his life, only able to exert himself towards normalcy when it would save him from having to answer questions that he… could never answer. Would never answer. And the one bright thing in all the featureless grey was also the worst source of pain: if he’d ever had any doubts about Blaine’s feelings for him (and he did, despite Blaine’s effortlessly casual ‘I love you’; he had them in droves,) the passing days were more than enough to prove all his doubts groundless: Blaine called and texted and sent e-mails and called again and actually sent flowers and called some more—but all it really did in the end was sharpen his sense of what he’d lost, what his poisoned soul had cost him.
He didn’t read the texts or the e-mails. He didn’t listen to the messages. He spared himself that much.
It was a way to cope, a way to get by, and it was dreary and terrible but it was also the best he could do, and as a lifestyle it sucked but as a solution it worked quite well right up until he opened his door to a knock and found Blaine standing there on his doorstep, hands in his pockets and dark shadows under his eyes, looking almost as miserable as he felt himself. Kurt’s breath caught and his heart thumped hard in his chest, and oh, he was so gone, so far gone and he swallowed hard because the very last thing he needed was to start crying. He would do that later. In a minute. As soon as he got rid of… “Blaine, I can’t—what part of leave me alone don’t you understand—”
“I’m not going to ask you anything, Kurt,” Blaine said, his voice uncharacteristically scratchy. “I know… I get that you don’t want to talk. I’m not asking you to talk. I just… there are some things I need to tell you, some things I need to say, if you’ll… if you can listen. I just want to know if you’ll listen.”
No, he thought with the part of his brain that knew what it was doing. “Okay,” he said with the other part, the part that didn’t care how much it hurt or what he went through—the part that wanted what it wanted. The part that wanted Blaine, any way he could get him. “Come in.”
“I waited until today—tonight—on purpose,” Blaine said quietly, standing in the foyer. He made no move to come further into the house, or to remove his light jacket, or even to take his hands out of his pockets. “Because I thought it might be easier for you—”
It was. “And?”
“And Carole has her book club on Thursdays while your dad works the closing shift, and Rachel’s been texting me for three days about what she’s planning to wear on her date with Finn tonight, so…”
“I see. That’s… remarkable.”
Blaine’s face suddenly darkened. “Oh, God—I totally just creeped you out, didn’t I?”
“No.” One word, but it was almost a sob. He shook his head. “No, it’s… just say what you came to say.”
“Okay.” Blaine stared at the floor for a second, his mouth twisted a little. “I need to apologize to you, Kurt—I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
Kurt closed his eyes, rubbing his chest a little because that was… actually worse than what he’d expected. “Why?”
“Because I know—you told me, and I know, you’re shy and not comfortable with a lot of… with some things, and I did everything I could to read your signals, because I didn’t want to rush you, I wanted you to set whatever pace you needed—but obviously I read wrong, I suck at reading, or something got by me, but… whatever. I didn’t ask if… if you were okay. I could have asked—” he choked off the words and looked away for a moment, his throat working. “I could have asked, and then I wouldn’t have hurt you the way I did. I wouldn’t have hurt the person that I love the most in the worst… the worst way I could have hurt him—” that was as far as Blaine made it before he stopped, stopped cold and dropped his head down, swiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I’m just… I wish I’d asked. I should have asked.”
“Blaine,” he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move at all because if he moved even an inch he was going to be helpless not to go there, helpless not to grab Blaine and hold onto him as tightly as he could. “You didn’t rush me, you didn’t push me. You didn’t do… you didn’t do anything wrong. Not one thing.”
Blaine looked shocked, his face pale, too pale. He blinked, and then his stunned expression shaded to hurt and his cheeks went red, his eyes bright, their lashes wet and matted. “Kurt,” he said throatily. “Then why would you… why did you… Jesus, Kurt. I don’t understand at all.”
“It’s me.” It’s not you, echoed through his mind—and was he really going to offer that tired old excuse up to Blaine, of all people? “I’m… I’m not… I tried to stop but I couldn’t—” and oh, that wasn’t what he meant to say, not at all, but it was like a dam had broken somewhere and he way, way too late to stop the disaster from happening. “I’m sorry for what I did, I’m sorry—”
“For what you—you mean, for breaking up with me?”
“That too. God—”
“Kurt,” Blaine took a step towards him, almost reaching out but jamming his hands back into his pockets at the last second—and now that made sense, that made total sense, of course, because Blaine thought that Kurt thought that Blaine was some kind of predatory monster… “Please. Tell me what you’re talking about?”
“I can’t.” He couldn’t. He was shaking and his teeth were chattering even though he wasn’t cold and his stomach was a roiling, gnarled mass of pain and shame and awfulness, and he just… “I can’t do it, Blaine. I can’t look you in the face and say… and say these things to you. I can’t.”
Blaine closed his eyes, rocking on his feet a little, his brows drawn low with a faint frown line between them. “I’m not going to push you, Kurt,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Not after the hell I’ve been through these past three days. But I just… I’m just trying to understand, I need to understand, because I was sure, I was so sure I’d done something terrible to you—”
“I’m a freak, in my head,” Kurt said through his teeth, almost hyperventilating. “Nobody knows but I think about sex… like, really fff… fucked-up sex… all the time, and I used to have it under control but then there was you and I wanted you and I thought about you and I tried to stop and I couldn’t and I am so ashamed—” that was as far as he got before he had to go, had to run, and he ran again, left Blaine standing there, staring after him openmouthed again, turned and ran for the stairs and stumbled up them clutching his stomach and then into his room and onto his bed with his face in the pillows, crying like he was never going to stop.
It took a long, long time for him to cry himself quiet, but eventually he did. He took one of his pillows and pressed it to his belly, curling up around it with a wad of tissues from his nightstand clutched in his fist, just in case he started up again—but no, he was wretched and horrified and felt kind of like he’d just committed verbal seppuku, but apparently he was done with the waterworks, for the moment. Once he was able to stop rocking in an agony of remembered shame he found to his surprise that he was amazingly sleepy, and his eyes were actually drifting shut when he heard a soft, tentative knock at his bedroom door.
It wasn’t the familiar knock of anyone in his family. His internal temperature shot up what felt like ten degrees in the space of seconds. “No, Blaine—go away. I can’t, I can’t—”
Blaine walked in. He just walked in. Kurt sat up and pulled his pillow over his face, hiding, shocked. He was more shocked when Blaine sat down on his bed directly behind him, leaning against him so they were back-to-back, his back warm and solid and there, comforting in an unbearable way. “Blaine, please—”
“I’m not here to ask you questions you can’t answer, Kurt,” he said, and his voice was low and shaky, less controlled than Kurt had ever heard it. “I’m here because… there’s some things I should… I want to tell you, if you’ll listen.” He shifted a little, broad shoulders settling and the back of his head just touching Kurt’s. “I sat down like this because… yeah, I get it, the things you can’t say to my face—I’ve got a few of my own, okay? And this way… we’re not face-to-face. But I’ll tell you—unless you don’t want to hear it. If you don’t, let me know and… I’ll go. I’ll just go.”
Kurt wanted to tell him to go—he ought to, because having him there was like fucking torture—but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything. He clutched his pillow to his face and tried to breathe normally, tried not to push against the shoulders touching his.
“You asked me, once, when I knew that I was gay.” There was a pause. “I told you that I was young, still in middle school, that I looked at one of the other boys and I just… knew. Well, that was… the nice version; the version I tell when people ask, the way you did. But it’s not the whole story, and it’s not really the truth.” Blaine sighed. “I’ve never told anyone the truth. Until now. I’d like… I want to tell you the truth. I owe you that much.”
Kurt waited. And waited. Then swallowed. “I’m listening.”
Blaine cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet it was hard to hear. “I went to boarding school, a small place, but… exclusive. Lots of rules. Lots of school pride. And the year I turned eleven, a new kid started—a scholarship kid, one of the two scholarship kids the school took each year. Henry never would have been able to afford to go there otherwise.”
Blaine shifted against him. “He had my attention from the first day of term. I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop looking at him, watching him, studying him, I… my skin would prickle whenever he walked into the room—and I had no idea why, no clue at all why he was so… compelling to me.”
Kurt squeezed his pillow. “But… you figured it out?”
Blaine took a deep breath. “I didn’t. I started out trying to be friends with him, but Henry wasn’t… all he cared about was making good grades and keeping his athletic scholarship, and he … he didn’t really respond to overtures—we had no similar experiences, or similar anything, really. He didn’t respond, and then he just ignored me—” Another breath. “He ignored me, and I resented it. As much and as fiercely as a confused eleven-year-old can resent something, I resented it. And him.”
There was a longer pause. Much longer. “Blaine?”
“This is harder than I thought it would be,” Blaine murmured, his voice thick. “Can you… will you hold my hand?”
Kurt found Blaine’s right hand with his left. Blaine laced their fingers together and squeezed, and Kurt closed his eyes when his heart rattled in his chest like it was trying to escape.
“I… took out my resentment on him. I picked on him. I… encouraged others to do the same. I—I—I… God.”
Blaine was crying. Kurt didn’t need to see it to know. “You bullied him.”
“Yes. And eventually, he cried. In front of me, in front of my friends, in front of everyone who was there—most of his entire class. Just… full-on, full-out bawling. He fell apart.”
“Then, that night… I dreamed about it. About making him cry. And that was my first wet dream.”
Kurt opened his eyes. For the first time, it was hard not to see Blaine’s face. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” There was a long pause, and when Blaine started talking again, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “I felt horrible about it, about what I’d done, but I kept coming back to it, I couldn’t stop thinking about it over and over and within a week I had a whole elaborate fantasy worked out, where our bastard of a Headmaster found out about what I’d done, and, uh, made Henry punish me… paddle me. In front of the school. And that started out as a kind of repentance-fantasy, just a daydream, really, but…” Blaine choked a little. “But it didn’t stay that way.”
Blaine’s voice was heavy with shame and humiliation, and something deep in Kurt’s chest felt like it was actually vibrating, aching with familiarity. He squeezed Blaine’s hand. Just a little. Just the smallest bit. Blaine squeezed back. It was a long time before he spoke again. “So,” he said at last, softly, “that was my first sex-dream, and my first fantasy. And as bad as it was, it was actually pretty, um, tame, compared to some of the stuff that came after. It was like a door was suddenly open, and everything that came through it was just… I don’t know.”
Kurt bit his lip. He knew. Too well.
Blaine’s thumb rubbed over his knuckle, and Kurt had to suppress a shiver. “And all this happened right at the same time I finally realized I was gay, so… all of it got mixed together, and all I could think was that I must be a terrible person. A really, really terrible person. And that I was going straight to hell.”
Kurt blinked. “You’re… you mean, like, hell hell? You were religious?”
Blaine sighed. “I… yes. At the time, I was—I’d never been any other way. And the guilt was… God. It was…” he sighed. “Sinner. Outcast. Pariah—those words, and so many others, going through my head all the time—right there alongside all these images, thoughts, desires that I couldn’t shut off no matter how hard I tried—”
Kurt nodded. He didn’t mean to, but he did. He waited for Blaine to go on. When he didn’t, Kurt cleared his throat. “So… what happened? I mean… you seem so… normal.” he cut himself off there, because that was a hell of a thing to say, but Blaine just squeezed his hand again.
“That’s… yeah, Kurt, I think—I am normal. I just… didn’t know it at the time. I didn’t know it until I cut class one morning and took the Metro into the city to have it out. I wasn’t a Catholic, but I went to a Catholic school, and I got this idea stuck in my head that what I needed to do was confess—only not to my school chaplain, of course, but somewhere… some place where nobody knew me.”
Blaine’s head arched back, almost resting on Kurt’s shoulder. “I was so scared, Kurt. Terrified. I thought they were going to lock me up, or make me tell them who my parents were and have them lock me up, or… I don’t know. But the priest who heard my confession was just… bored. He was so ridiculously… casual about all of it, like he’d heard it a hundred, a thousand times before. He gave me a penance to do—and then told me I should spend more time playing sports.”
Kurt laughed, a short, helpless bark of horrified laughter. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah. Or, you know, not, because I walked out of there more or less an atheist. And… more or less at peace.”
Kurt shifted. “More or less?”
Blaine was quiet for a long time. “I’m not as brave as you, Kurt,” he said finally, squeezing Kurt’s fingers. “I know who I am, I just… sometimes I don’t feel very brave about it.” Blaine swallowed audibly. “But there are things that help—watching you, for one thing, the way you are who you are. That helps. And it helps to remember that I’m not the only guy around who thinks about stuff like… stuff I can’t talk about face-to-face.”
“No,” Kurt rasped. “You’re not.” He didn’t even realize how hard he was clutching Blaine’s hand until he heard him gasp. He pulled his hand away and took a deep, shaky breath, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, leaning hard against Blaine’s back. “You’re not, okay?”
Kurt rested his head on his knees, and closed his eyes. “It wasn’t always… I wasn’t always this way.” He spoke slowly, haltingly. “In the beginning, it was all romantic… really sweet—these really sweet thoughts and everything after that was kind of… fuzzy, because I didn’t know anything, didn’t know, really, what I was even thinking about.” He stopped to swallow, then started rocking a little, using the momentum to push himself through the times when he got stuck, the times when his inner voice was screaming at him that he should just shut up, shut up now, shut up right now before he ruined everything.
He didn’t shut up.
When he was done, when all the (excruciating, terrible) words trailed off to silence, he finally stopped rocking. He sat still, his eyes closed and his cheeks wet, something like a cool rush of wind blowing through his head because he’d said it, he’d said all of it, he’d actually told another living being exactly how much of a freak he really was—
“Would you… will you be my boyfriend again?”
His stomach curled up, and his whole body curled with it. “You… you still want me, after that? Now that you know?”
He heard Blaine take a deep breath. “I… Kurt. More than ever. What I know is… that you’re absolutely precious to me, and I love you so much. I love everything about you—”
There was a messy, uncoordinated scramble trying to grab Blaine, and both of them nearly fell off the bed at one point or another, but he ended up curled on his side with his head in Blaine’s lap, his hot, wet face pressed hard against Blaine’s stomach. He cried quietly but steadily, no sobbing, and Blaine put an arm around his shoulders and petted his hair and just held onto him, held him close, touching him like touching him was touching something sacred.
Everything was different, after that. The next time he saw Blaine (in company, when Blaine came over with Rachel for dinner-and-movie night), he opened the door and let Rachel pass by after a quick, Chanel-scented hug, then just stood there, staring into Blaine’s eyes.
Neither one of them said a word, but all the hair on his body prickled, and Kurt felt terribly aware of every inch of his skin, as if he were standing there naked.
“Hi,” he said, softly.
“Hi, Kurt,” Blaine said, also soft, and it was… weird, so weird, like the air between them was charged with… something, something heavy and mysterious and unknown—unknown until Blaine stepped forward and hugged him, and Kurt gasped when hot desire flooded him, thudding home in the pit of his stomach like a solid weight. He shuddered.
“Oh my God—” Blaine whispered in his ear.
Kurt was shaking. “I have to let go, my father’s here, I have to—”
Blaine let go and stepped back, and Kurt stepped forward before he forcibly stopped himself. Blaine cleared his throat and looked away, thrusting his hands in his pockets. Kurt did the same.
“Um… It’s going to be a long night,” Kurt murmured.
“Uh-huh,” Blaine said, blushing.
Two days later Blaine took him out to a movie he didn’t see (even though he picked it), then took him out to a dinner that featured food he didn’t remember anything about other than how fucking sexy Blaine looked eating it. They walked out into the street afterwards, and Blaine turned to him. “Do you want coffee?” he asked, nodding down the block, and Kurt grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the alley that ran between the restaurant and the disreputable-looking bar next door.
Blaine got the idea with gratifying speed, shoving him up against the dirty brick wall about halfway down the alley and kissing him hard. Kurt sighed, grit and various unknown slippery substances squeaking under his boots. The environment was pretty much the opposite of romantic, but honestly it didn’t feel that way—it felt fucking amazing, and his heart was just as full and achy as… as some other parts of him.
Blaine cupped him there and he cried out softly, a stupid, stupid thing to do when they were essentially in public but he couldn’t help it, he couldn’t—then Blaine’s other hand pressed hard over his mouth, turning his head to the side. Kurt closed his eyes until Blaine leaned in and went for his neck, biting and sucking. Kurt grabbed Blaine’s shirtfront and held on as best he could, making helpless but thankfully quiet noises through his nose and bucking desperately into Blaine’s hand, stretching out his neck for more, more, electric arcs of pain and so much goodness streaking through him back and forth like a closed circuit.
Blaine growled softly, licked and then bit him just under the ear and Kurt came hard, almost screaming under the muffle of Blaine’s hand, unable to stop himself from shoving forward over and over in the most embarrassingly desperate way until he was limp, held up against the wall only by the pressure of Blaine’s body against his.
He was gasping way too loudly when Blaine took his hand away from his mouth, but Blaine kissed him immediately, cutting off his air and sucking his tongue and he was dizzy, so, so dizzy, and he didn’t even really mean to do what he did but it happened anyway as soon as Blaine leaned back—he went to his knees, then shivered at the sudden awareness of what it looked like, doing that under these circumstances. He was wondering how to tell Blaine that it didn’t mean what it looked like he meant, only then he realized that he was still hard and shaking, spreading his thighs wide—because he meant it—he meant exactly and precisely what it looked like he meant—so he reached for Blaine’s belt buckle.
“Oh God, Kurt,” Blaine stared down at him, barely visible in the little light that managed to filter through from the street. He looked dazed.
“You have to stay quiet,” Kurt said, undoing Blaine’s pants with trembling hands. At that moment he stopped being so shocked by his own behavior, and started contemplating various ways he could make staying quiet as difficult as possible. His heart lurched when he tugged Blaine’s boxer-briefs down just enough and reached in, something like pain deep in his chest to take that part of Blaine into his hands. It was hard and curved and cut and beautiful and he wanted it, his mouth flooding suddenly, all of his senses alive.
Blaine let out a choked-off moan when Kurt took him into his mouth, and Kurt hummed, rubbing over his own renewed erection as he swallowed over and over, working Blaine into his mouth, as much as he could take and then more—because he wanted all of it, he wanted—
“Fuck,” Blaine said quietly, his voice shaking. “Kurt—your mouth—God—”
It was a strange juxtaposition: on the one hand, he was on his knees in a filthy alley sucking cock, and that sent a perverse thrill through every nerve he had; but on the other hand and at the same time he was loving Blaine so much for giving him this, for being inside him, his mouth and Blaine’s cock the sweetest, most tender connection he could imagine, intimate and reverent and… yes, deeply romantic.
Blaine cupped the back of his head and fucked him, gently at first and then harder, and Kurt was on fire everywhere so he undid his own pants in desperation, pushing into his fist and sucking and resting his head against Blaine’s palm and opening up and swallowing, working his tongue against the underside of Blaine’s cock. He felt the two of them click into a groove, a shared harmony of ecstasy, and then he just closed his eyes and listened to Blaine’s half-stifled, throaty groans, each one resonating at the base of his spine and spreading out, and he was so full, so full of everything…
He slowed his strokes on himself when he got too close, but that just made it harder, made him shake more and want more and he couldn’t stop himself from making soft little broken noises of need, and in the end he just held his erection in one unmoving hand while Blaine curled fingers into his hair and angled him and fucked all the way into his mouth, in and out of his throat until his eyes watered.
“Kurt—it’s too good, I can’t—I’m gonna come—”
Kurt grunted helplessly, his own hips shimmying as he grabbed for Blaine, afraid he might pull out. But Blaine just caught his hands and laced their fingers together and then pressed Kurt’s hands and Kurt’s body back against the wall, holding him fixed and motionless and fucking him and making him take it, almost choking him with the sudden rush of salty-bitter wetness. Kurt swallowed and locked his spine and came on nothing at all, sucking hard and moaning and falling apart, drinking Blaine down, his heart blazing a conflagration in his chest.
Blaine ended up on his knees too, cupping Kurt’s face and kissing him over and over again, deep, hot kisses interrupted by sudden gasps for air. He clung to Kurt woozily, swaying like a drunk, and Kurt steadied him as best he could, given that he felt as weak as a kitten.
“Are you okay oh God Kurt tell me you’re—” Kurt shut Blaine up through the simple expedient of kissing him again.
“I’m fine,” he said breathlessly, once he pulled back. “I’m good, I’m… oh fuck your dick is so pretty—”
And then they were both laughing, actually laughing and hanging onto each other and still kissing and Kurt wiped wetness away from under Blaine’s eyes and pulled him close and kissed him on the very top of his bowed, curly head.
Of course, it wasn’t that easy. It couldn’t be. His high lasted right up until Blaine dropped him off, right up until he let himself silently into the dark, quiet house, sneaking upstairs with more than his usual care—
Which he had to do because he was filthy, he was a mess, and all at once he locked up, frozen between the fourth and fifth steps while a small, quiet interior voice asked him calmly what his father would think if he saw him like this, covered in dribbles of come with his knees black and his boots muddy, his lips swollen and a giant bite-mark on the side of his neck, clothes disheveled and looking very much like he’d just been gang-banged by a pack of bikers. Kurt took a shocked, hurt breath, holding his chest, and let his head drop down, shame so sudden and heavy on him that he swayed on his feet a little.
Fear of being caught was the only thing that got him moving. He crept up one step at a time, his heart going at a gallop until he’d locked himself in his room and stripped out of his clothes, stashing them guiltily in a duffel bag that Finn had accidentally left in his room after they unpacked from Nationals. He stood there naked for a moment, his toes curling into the carpet and his eyes closed. It was too late to take a shower—he’d wake the house if he did, and possibly prompt some uncomfortable questions that he never ever wanted to answer.
He looked at his bed, but his bed looked… different, like it was the bed that belonged to the person he’d been this morning, not the person he was now. His bed looked… too clean. Too clean for him. In the end he wrapped himself up in a blanket that he could easily wash, then turned off the lights and sank into his armchair with a sigh, curling himself up into the smallest space possible. He closed his eyes and tried not to think, tried not to wonder how something that had seemed so purely and perfectly right just one short hour ago could seem so terribly wrong now.
“You own bowling shoes?”
“Of course I do,” Kurt said primly. “My dad likes to bowl. Sometimes I join him. You don’t think I’m going to wear rented shoes, do you?”
“The horror,” Blaine said dryly. “So… do you have your own ball, too?”
“No, but that’s why antimicrobial wipes were invented. So—are you in?”
“I’m… sure, of course. A double date with Finn and Rachel at the bowling alley? How could I possibly refuse?”
Kurt sighed, and held the phone closer to his ear while he leaned against his dresser. “Why do I sense your tongue somewhere near the vicinity of your cheek?”
There was a brief silence, then Blaine cleared his throat. “Kurt. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Kurt said breezily. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well…” Blaine spoke slowly. “I just… you haven’t been able to make it on any of the dates I’ve asked you on, and now out of the blue you want to go bowling with Finn and Rachel—”
“What’s wrong with bowling with Finn and Rachel?”
“Nothing, Kurt, nothing’s wrong with it. It just seems a little…” Blaine paused, and took a deep breath. “Like, maybe, you sort of don’t want to be alone with me.”
It wasn’t sort of like that. It was exactly, precisely like that. “That’s just silly, Blaine.”
“Did I hurt you? When I—”
“Of course not,” Kurt said quickly, cutting him off. “I’m fine. We’re fine. We’ll bowl. You’ll love it. It’ll be charmingly bourgeois.”
He was fine until he hugged Blaine hello at the bowling alley. He closed his eyes and breathed in—and then his knees threatened to go right out from under him, because just the smell of Blaine’s neck and hair made his mouth water, made his face get hot and his nipples tighten to stiff, achy points. “Hi,” Blaine said in his ear, and Kurt bit his lip because he could feel Blaine wanting him—desire coming off him like heat baking up off blacktop in the middle of July.
“Hi,” he said quietly, and oh, his heart was cutting itself in pieces all over again, sweat springing out everywhere on his body. The blood in his veins felt hungry. His face was on fire.
And he was in so much trouble.
He made small talk. He joined in exultation or raillery as the game demanded. He had a long conversation with Rachel about the best strategies for winning Nationals next year (until they both noticed how pink-cheeked and quiet Finn had gotten, at which point they both changed the subject). He let Finn coach him and correct his form, even though he’d probably been bowling longer than Finn had (being that he’d been a member of the Pin Monkeys baby bowler league at age five, before he’d rebelled against the tacky shirts and told his dad he wanted to quit). He smiled and shook his head over Blaine’s utter lack of bowling skills, and cheered him on when he and Rachel decided to have a least-amount-of-gutterballs competition, with the loser buying the nachos.
He did the best he could to behave like a normal, rational person, like a person who was on an enjoyable, if absurd, double date. And after two frames he really thought he was going to make it, right up until Blaine came back to the group loaded down with the nachos of penitence and tried to feed him one.
“You should eat this,” Blaine told him in a low, flirty voice, holding out a cheese-covered chip. “It’s revolting, and also delicious. An unbeatable combination.”
“C’mon, Kurt,” Blaine said quietly, his eyes teasing, mischievous, and so fucking sexy that Kurt’s heart thudded hard in his chest. “Sometimes it’s good to give in to temptation, don’t you think?”
“I…” need your cock would have been the last of that sentence if he hadn’t bitten his own tongue. “Excuse me. Bathroom.”
He ran cold water over his wrists, and ignored the fairly disgusting surroundings to splash his face with shaking hands. Then he had to prop himself against the sink for a while, his eyes closed so as to avoid any contact with the depraved, red-faced, sweaty stranger in the mirror. He was hot. He was weak. He was coming apart at the seams—everything on top was bowling and boyfriend and sweet, romantically-tinged kitsch, but that felt like only the thinnest and most friable fabric, a feeble and ineffectual modesty drape covering… everything else, everything heavy-knotted and thick and tied to him right down to his core. Use me. Take me. Make me dirty. Make me—
There was a quick, polite rap on the door. “Kurt… are you okay? You’ve been gone a while, and I just thought—”
Kurt flipped the deadbolt, hauled Blaine inside, and re-bolted the door. “I’m fine,” he said, his hands working open and snapping closed to fists, his palms itching like crazy.
Blaine’s eyes were wide, a faint frown line between them. “You… are you sick? You look kind of—”
Kurt got him by the front of his cardigan and kissed him hard, two stumbling steps until he had Blaine up against the door, feeding on his spicy mouth, whining softly. He spread his legs a little, already hard, shuddering when he felt an answering hardness stir against his groin. “Sick,” he said brokenly, licking Blaine’s bottom lip and sighing. “I… yeah. I think I am.”
“Kurt.” Blaine had both hands on his face, his open mouth gasping, his eyes wide, welling just a little. “Kurt—I thought I hurt you. I thought… you’d never let me touch you again—”
“Fucking touch me,” Kurt said, something deep in his brain exploding when he took one of Blaine’s hands off his face and put it where he wanted it, where he needed it, where he ached. “It’s all I can think about—you… touching me. Doing things to me. Blaine—” He still had his hand over Blaine’s, pressing hard against his erection and arching helplessly, his knees wobbly, his breath hectic.
“Kurt,” Blaine growled against his lips, cupping and rubbing and squeezing him almost-too-hard and just-fucking-perfect. “You look… Jesus.” Blaine pushed away from the door and took Kurt in his arms, holding him, turning him, grabbing him by the back of the neck and bending him down. Kurt braced his forearms on the sink and rested his hot, sweaty face on them, locking his knees when they shook too hard, when Blaine snugged up behind him and reached around, undoing belt, button and zip with ease. Blaine left his jeans and boxer-briefs stretched at mid-thigh level, and Kurt bit his own forearm when the cool air caressed his hot, damp skin, when Blaine scraped blunt fingernails up his exposed hips.
He stayed quiet when Blaine took him in hand, except for a soft gasp. Stayed quiet for the first, mind-numbing strokes as Blaine worked him, stayed quiet until he felt Blaine—Blaine’s bare, hard, silky cock—press up against the crack of his ass, shocking and hot, and then he moaned helplessly, rocking back.
“Shh.” Blaine’s free hand got him by the hair, pulled his head up so there was nowhere to look except in the mirror, reflecting his own flushed face and lust-blown eyes and Blaine behind him, his face focused and dark as he slid against the sweat-slick, tender skin above his suddenly-aching hole. “I got you, okay? You just… you need to stay quiet.”
He couldn’t stay quiet. He was twitching, throbbing everywhere, sliding into Blaine’s fist and back against his cock and it was heaven, pure fucking heaven, and the only thing that could have made it better was if Blaine actually went for it, put his cock in him and pushed into him and fucked him—he groaned loudly.
“Fuck—Kurt,” Blaine gasped and actually let go of him, ignoring his whimper and pulling a folded handkerchief out of his sagging pants pocket. “I’m sorry—”
“God—do it.” Kurt opened his mouth and let Blaine muffle him, fresh dry cotton sweet against his tongue, squeaking a little when he bit down on it.
“I love you so fucking much,” Blaine said in a low, rough voice, his eyes as dark and hot as well-banked coals, and then he was back where Kurt needed him, grinding against that tender strip of skin, rocking against him and jerking him off and Kurt was so, so grateful for the gag because the words and sounds pouring out of him were an unstoppable torrent, a litany of filthy, shameless begging and gratified animalistic noises of pleasure.
Blaine wasn’t holding his head up any more, one hand tight on his hip while the other stroked him, but nevertheless Kurt couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop watching Blaine get off, head rolling back and his eyes fluttering closed and the strong line of his throat when his mouth fell open to pant—and Kurt was suddenly there, shaking hard and jerking and right, right there, three seconds away from coming his fucking brains out—
“Not yet, okay?” Blaine whispered, and let go of Kurt’s outraged dick to clamp hard on his other hip. “Soon, really… really soon, I promise. I… ohh.”
Kurt just kept making muffled, high, lost noises through his nose, his knees gone and Blaine the only thing keeping him from sliding down onto the floor. His poor, neglected hole ached as much as his poor, neglected cock did, and he thought he was saying ‘please fuck me’ over and over but he couldn’t be sure—and he absolutely didn’t care.
Kurt watched while Blaine held him steady and humped him without fucking him, flushing the prettiest red across his cheekbones, sighing and panting quietly and going harder, faster until he was actually squeezing Kurt’s vulnerable flesh closed around himself and sliding through it, picking Kurt’s feet up off the floor with the force of his thrusts. Kurt moaned and choked a little and felt all the strength run right out of his muscles until Blaine shoved Kurt’s shirt up high between his shoulderblades and came all over his back, grunting softly. Kurt felt the first hot splash hit him and came so hard he screamed a little, boots drumming on the filthy tile floor as he twisted in Blaine’s grip and bucked and pumped into nothing, the empty ache in his ass a tortured pleasure, beating with his heart until he was spent.
He lost a chunk of time then, and when he properly came back to himself he was sitting on the sink with Blaine holding him up and kissing him deeply, the sodden handkerchief crumpled in his lap. He wrapped his shaking arms around Blaine’s neck and tilted his head, sucking on Blaine’s tongue, grateful and quiet and saturated with sleepy bliss. “Love you,” he whispered when Blaine pulled back from his mouth, nuzzling into the curve of Blaine’s neck.
“Kurt,” Blaine whispered in his ear, a shaky, passionate breath. “God, I, I just—”
“You guys in there?” Finn’s voice came through the door at the same time as a loud knock, and both of them jumped. “Everything okay?”
“Uh… sorry—nacho-related fashion emergency,” Kurt piped in a high, shaky voice. “Everything’s fine, Finn. We’ll be right out.”
“Uh. ‘kay. You, uh. Good luck with that.”
“Quick, smear some cheese on me,” Kurt breathed, rocking, and Blaine jammed his face into Kurt’s shirtfront and had some very quiet hysterics.
That night, Kurt sat in his armchair in his darkened room, naked except for a blanket. He’d turned the chair away from his bed, unable to even look at it, the way he was now. His phone sat neglected on the small table next to him, buzzing at intervals. He ignored it. He ignored it until he couldn’t ignore it any more, and then he reached over and turned it off without even looking at it.
He didn’t cry. He wanted to—regret and shame so palpable that he choked at every breath with how much he needed to—but there were no tears. He kept his dull gaze focused out the window at the stars, the same stars that used to seem… so romantic to him, the same stars he used to wish on, back when all his wishes were pure and innocent and didn’t at all involve begging to get fucked in a filthy bathroom in a bowling alley.
The stars used to be a constellation of endless promises. Now they seemed… aimed at him, cold, pitiless points of brightness that made him feel terribly exposed, when all he wanted to do was hide in the dark.
Part 2 here