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05 May 2012 @ 12:06 pm
Fic (Complete): The Muse (NC-17, Glee AU, Kurt/Blaine) 4/7  


There are sketchbooks everywhere around the room, along with charcoal sticks and sanguigna and graphite sticks and pastels and the sheets are such a mess


“How… how far can I… I don’t want to, um, hurt you—”

Blaine looked up through his lashes. “Kurt.” Kurt’s erection twitched hard in his hand, as if Blaine had addressed it directly. “You don’t have to worry about—look, you can just… fuck my mouth, okay?”

Kurt made a soft, choked-off noise, followed by a shocked-sounding groan when Blaine took him in. The fists in his hair seemed half-panicked at first, as if trying to hold him still, then they went lax. Then fingers wound into his curls, almost a caress, sweetly unconscious, tugging lightly in time with the moans from above. The fists came back slowly, little by little, hesitant at first, then a firmer grip, then tight and fierce when Kurt’s hips started to buck.

“Oh my God, Blaine—your mouth is… it’s like wet fire… suck me, make me—oh God—”

Blaine swallowed, listening with his heart cracking open to Kurt’s quiet, helpless cries, then reached down and brought himself off with two fast strokes, groaning with his mouth still full.

Kurt looked… debauched, splayed across the rumpled sea of the bed like a shipwreck survivor cast up on a beach. His chest was heaving. “Why did you—I want to—why—”

“Mmm,” Blaine said, scrubbing his hands off on the sheets and rolling over, stretching, reaching for a sketchbook. “Hold it right there, Kurt.”

Kurt put one hand over his eyes and laughed weakly. “Fucking crazy artist.”


A white bowl, filled with cherries, nestled into the white duvet, brilliant in the early afternoon sunlight. Kurt is on his stomach, fresh from the shower with his wet hair combed straight back and held in place with a blue bandana knotted on top of his head, waiting for his face to dry so he can add the next layer of moisturizer. He’s reading the Vogue that Blaine got him when he went to the market that morning, and eating the cherries that looked too good to resist, his knees bent and his ankles crossed and his toes pointed at the ceiling, absorbed and translucent in the sunlight, not paying the least bit of attention to Blaine or the constant skritch-scratch-skritch of pencil.


“Just… go easy, Kurt—remember; I’ve had… a lot more practice than—oh fucking hell.”

It would have been a singularly unlucky instance of timing, if he had followed up his little declaration of sexual maturity and experience by coming all over Kurt’s face—but God Kurt’s mouth was so pink and pretty and hot, his face so serious and intent, opening and taking Blaine in—soft, soft tongue and Blaine couldn’t help it—he almost lost it, right then and there.

He couldn’t stop groaning, couldn’t stop staring down at Kurt—lowered lashes, stretched lips and cheeks—and yes, he’d had his share of blowjobs, but he’d never had one that made him feel like he was melting from the inside out, one that made him shake ten seconds into it, one that made him grab the sheets and twist because the sweet, deep pleasure of it was undoing him on some vital level.

He let go of the sheets and took Kurt’s face gently in his hands, just touching, tracing, cupping the back of his head so lightly. Silky hair. Satiny mouth, killing him with softness, with newness, with tender and irresistible suction, and he didn’t even know he was going to come until he suddenly was, growling out a one-second warning and then coming on the next wet-slick-perfect slide over Kurt’s tongue, groaning and undone.

“You don’t even know, do you?” Kurt asked him, voice lower than usual, ragged, his hands shaky as he pushed Blaine down into the pillows after kissing him with fierce intensity. “You have no idea how fucking sexy you are.” Kurt straddled Blaine’s shoulders, his cock hard and red and dripping, aimed right at his mouth. “You’re so sexy when you come, Blaine…”

Blaine opened his mouth, still panting, groaning a little until Kurt cut him off in the very best way.


The Cambria house has no loft, so the largest spare bedroom serves as his studio when he’s here. It’s not as well-equipped as the studio in the city, but he’s added to it significantly on this trip, because he wants everything, everything he might need.

Kurt on the canvas is rose-pale in the sunlight, glowing out of the white rumpled bedding. The blue bandana and the red cherries are the brightest, most intense colors in the whole piece, and the pose—indolent and absorbed and utterly unselfconscious of nudity, with the crossed ankles and gorgeous bare bottom and the pointed, baby-pink toes on Kurt’s lovely, long feet that Blaine couldn’t paint without getting the most ridiculous, aching boner, Kurt’s lips to a lush, fleshy cherry with the stem in his fingers—it’s almost cheesecake, a framing of his masculinity that is completely unexpected, and oh God when it’s done Blaine almost jerks off right then and there.

“What’s it called?”

All-American Boy.”

Kurt laughs delightedly, but only until Blaine catches him around the waist and pulls him down onto the floor. “Hey—don’t get paint in my hair, Blaine—oh. I… oh. Mmm.”


“No, Quinn, really—I’m fine. I just… needed some time away. To think.” Blaine winced a little, hoping that sounded reasonable. Lower down on the bed, Kurt reached out and lazily grabbed Blaine by the thing he’d been thinking with, snorting softly when Blaine shook his head and squirmed away. “Yeah, I’m working. No, you can’t see it yet. It’s not… ready. Of course—you’ll be the first. I promise.”

He was limp with conflicted guilt in the aftermath, until Kurt slid on top of him, kissing him softly. About ten minutes later he had Kurt stretched out on the bed, his eyes huge and a rosy sex-flush coloring his skin from the roots of his hair down to the red, blushing tip of his lubed, sheathed cock. Blaine worked himself down onto it slowly, carefully—Kurt was big, and it had been a while, but the sight of Kurt’s awed, stunned face, sinking into him—into anyone—for the first time, was so good, so sweet, so perfect, it was impossible to resist.

“Blaine.” Kurt bit his lip. “It’s… hot, you’re so hot, inside, and… oh, hey, I think I might be freaking out a little—”

“Do you want to stop?” He hoped Kurt didn’t want to stop.

“No—please, don’t stop; just… stay with me, okay?”

He took Kurt’s hands and guided them to his hips, bending down slowly, so slowly, lust pooling heavy in the pit of his stomach, throbbing in his cock, folding down for soft, tender kisses, covering Kurt’s gasping mouth until he moaned quietly, fingers curling and sinking into Blaine’s flexing muscles.

“Oh fuck—can I, Blaine, please—”

“Yeah… yes—anything, just—yes—”

Kurt had genius hips and a gorgeous cock and strong, silky arms that were perfect to hold on to, and really, Blaine meant to keep kissing him, keep reassuring him, but his own spine was rolling and he was moaning and his nerves were firing crazily, soaked with sweat and saturated with pleasure. He rose up, riding, and it was so deep and so good and he was vibrating from his ass to his nipples to his toes, his untouched cock twitching rhythmically.

“How—Blaine, how—” glazed, dazed look, hot and overwhelmed and aroused, pink tongue licking rosy lips. “How do I make you come?”

Ngrh,” Blaine said helpfully, and came hard, white streaks up Kurt’s belly and chest while he groaned and stroked himself through the last of it, shivering. Kurt gasped, closed his eyes, gasped again, and then cried out, high and soft, his hands fiercely tight on Blaine’s hips, pulling him down and coming in him, twitching and pushing deep until he slid his hands up to Blaine’s face and tugged him down, kissing and kissing and kissing him.


It’s the first full-frontal nude he’s done of Kurt, and it’s… distracting. There’s no sketch for this, for the frank and open sexuality, nearly a challenge to the eyes that take it in. No reference but the indelible marks left on his own heart and senses and memory of what it feels like in that moment when everything drops away except ecstasy, the tenderness and rut of it, the flush and flesh of desire. Soft, white skin, gripped and held—he paints it like he touches it, with awe and lust and gratitude.

My Ganymede?”


Kurt is quiet for a long time. His cheeks turn pink, and his eyelids droop a little. “That’s not an eagle.”


“It’s a dragon.”


“And… they’re fucking.”

“That’s… open to interpretation.”

A wry flash of blue, right at him. “No it isn’t.”

“Okay, yeah, no, it kind of isn’t.”

Kurt takes his hand, squeezes a little. “When are you gonna fuck me, Blaine?”

Blaine’s knees, Blaine’s heart, both undergo a woozy feeling of weakness. “Just give me a little time, Kurt, okay?”


Lube, lube, lube—way too much, probably, but he was nervous and Kurt kept gasping, face-down in the sheets with his legs spread and his hands clawing the sheets, and Blaine’s own hands weren’t exactly steady. He tucked Kurt’s balls up, very gently, then put his aching cock in the crease between Kurt’s thighs, and guided his legs closed. “Like… that, yes, perfect—”

Kurt whined softly. “I still don’t know why this is supposed to be such a—oh my God why does that feel so good?”

Blaine got one hand under Kurt and stroked him, slowly, in counterpoint to his thrusts between Kurt’s legs, the side of his fist bumping the head of his own cock on the downstroke. Kurt’s thighs were tight around him, muscular and satiny-smooth and so wet, and Blaine couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling back in his head, everything in him funneling down to pure need. He bit his lip and kept it slow, as torturously slow as he could stand it because if he didn’t, it would all be over.


“Not yet.” God, that was barely intelligible.

“Blaine—I need—”

“I know,” it was just a husk of his usual voice, a throaty whisper. “Just… hang on for me, okay?”

Kurt whimpered, shivering hard, squeezing his thighs tight-closed and humping into Blaine’s fist. Blaine’s eyes fluttered shut and he kept going, kept going, slow and steady and halfway insane but so toe-curlingly good, and he was moaning so loudly his head was vibrating but he didn’t care in the least—not with Kurt fishtailing under him, grinding back and then forward into his hand, sweat-wet, slick-wet; tight, clenched thighs and the wet peachskin slide of Kurt’s balls against the tip of his cock an absolutely delirious pleasure. It pulled him, dragged him out of his controlled rhythm and then there was only Kurt’s soft, needy cries and half-articulated begging, only the ride as his body took over and drove him harder, faster, using his knees to press Kurt’s legs even tighter together while he fucked between them.

Kurt came with a desperate, rough cry, coming hot and wet into Blaine’s hand—everything hot and wet, everything so good he had to let go, coming between Kurt’s silky thighs with a tortured, ecstatic groan.


It’s raining. As much as he loves the translucent glow of Kurt in the sunshine, Kurt in the rain is his favorite—the intimacy with the million secrets held by Kurt’s amazing face and lovely body are closer, more accessible, a private revelation just for him. He gorges his vision, looks and looks until his heart and head are full to bursting, still greedy for more. Kurt is relaxed and open, peaceful and composed—just a miracle of a person, calmly existing.

Artist and Model I is a frippery, really—his own leg makes it into the sketch, when Kurt decides that the state of Blaine’s toenails is an offence against decency, and gives him a pedicure. They both giggle through it, and Kurt paints Blaine’s refurbished toenails a lovely seashell pink, and Blaine thinks it looks awesome.

Artist and Model II is a chance occurrence—the closet door left open enough that the mirror hung there reflects the bed, showing Blaine a glimpse when he rolls Kurt over underneath him. It’s actually surprisingly difficult, drawing himself on top of Kurt, and he has to work hard to get it—in the end he settles for a waist-up sketch, Kurt’s hands laced behind Blaine’s neck, his own hand pushing the hair back from Kurt’s forehead, kissing with their eyes closed.

“So you do know how handsome you are,” Kurt says solemnly. Blaine cracks up.


It was raining, raining hard, and everything in the entire world that wasn’t the two of them seemed so very far away.

He sucked Kurt off slowly, gently, working the glans of Kurt’s wide cock into and out of his throat, over his tongue, swallowing slowly again and again until Kurt arched and pulled his hair and came, gasping.

Kurt facedown into the sheets, lax and boneless, a precious weight. He spread Kurt’s thighs slowly, gently, then licked his way down Kurt’s spine and further down, secret pink and vulnerable and tight, holding Kurt open and licking softly, teasing and tender, his heart hammering in his chest from the intimacy of that slick, sweet muscle around his tongue. Kurt moaned so softly, like a dove, moaned and gasped and spread his thighs wider, flushed all the way down to the small of his back, throwing off heat.

Blaine licked until Kurt pushed back on his tongue, until Kurt was hard again and rutting into the sheets, until his whole body rolled like a wave and came, high, soft, helpless noises and shaking, shaking—still moving, after, slowly, his hips slow-rolling like he was still coming, and Blaine licked until Kurt was limp and sweating, panting and utterly surrendered.

He turned Kurt over again—he looked almost asleep, heavy-eyed and sated with his wet, spent cock curled gently against his stomach. Condom, lube, and then he pushed Kurt’s knees up to his chest and went slowly, as slowly as he possibly could, moving deeper only when Kurt had stretched to take him. It took a long, long time before they were there, together, face to face, gazes locked—but Kurt’s eyes were open, and clear, and full of amazement.

“Does it feel good, inside me?” Only a whisper, a secret question just for the two of them.

Blaine nodded. He couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe.

“It’s… it’s okay, Blaine—I’m good. You feel good, you can—oh—”

Blaine just rocked, slowly, for a long time, feeling his way forward bit by bit—what made Kurt gasp, or shiver, or moan, what made the cock in his hand twitch and jerk and start to fill again. He pursued, seduced, and lost himself in the seduction—his senses were brimming-full and Kurt was everywhere, all around him, and they were sliding together, moving together, slow and endless.

There were kisses, patient and then indulgent and then needful, and he didn’t even notice the incremental change but all at once they were there, Kurt pushing into his hand and twisting into his thrusts with his head shoved far back into the pillows, hands fiercely tight on his shoulders.

“Fuck me, Blaine—right, right there oh God I’m gonna come—please—”

He felt Kurt come, throbbing in his hand and around his cock, and he let go with a deep, wrenching sob, burying his face in the sweat-slick curve of Kurt’s neck and crying out hoarsely, coming so hard his whole body cramped up, exquisite pain and pleasure and wave after wave that washed everything else away.


They stayed close, afterwards, nestled together while the rain came down outside. Blaine stroked his thumb softly over Kurt’s left eyebrow, and then again. He swallowed, and Kurt blinked at him sleepily.

“Blaine. What is it?”

“I love you.” His voice was rough.

“I know. I love you too.”

“I have to go back to San Francisco.”

“I know.”

“I won’t go without you.”

“I know.”

“Are you ready?”



Three nights later, the nightmares started up again. Blaine was right there, Kurt in his arms, in his bed, and it was a matter of moments to wake him, hold him—but Kurt was sweaty and pale with dark circles of shock under his eyes, his hands shaking hard when Blaine brought him tea.

“I shouldn’t have brought you back here.”


“I wasn’t thinking. We can leave, in the morning. Go anywhere—back to Cambria, or, or anywhere—anywhere you want to go—”

“Blaine, stop. It’s not… it’s not because I’m here.”

That brought Blaine up short. “It’s not?”

“No.” Kurt looked at him, and Blaine’s heart cramped with terrible pain—he looked bruised, abused, like he’d been physically beaten. “I’m sorry, I know it’s… I know you want it to be something you can fix, but… it’s not.”

Blaine sat down on the bed, his stomach heavy and sick. “What… what can I do for you?”

Kurt smiled, a tired, pained smile. “Just… give me time. And keep loving me.”

Blaine sighed. The second thing he couldn’t help, and the first one felt almost impossible. “Okay.”


It wasn’t just screaming. The next night he woke up to find Kurt gone—the light in the second-floor bathroom was on, and behind the closed door he could hear gagging, retching. “Are you sick?”

“No.” Faint, but calm. Fatalistic. “Nightmare. Side-effect. Sometimes this happens. Go back to bed, Blaine.”

He made tea instead, and left the mug on the floor outside the bathroom. Then he went back to his room, and sat with his back against the headboard, lost in a grey, helpless haze until Kurt came back, chilly and pale, smelling like toothpaste and tea. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Kurt curled up in his arms, shivering faintly. “Just… want to sleep. With you.”

Kurt was asleep in what seemed to be a matter of moments, his face angelically smooth, only faint shadows under his eyes remaining. Blaine left the light on for the rest of the night, and held him, and kept watch.

The next day, he called Tina.


“I just… I don’t know what happened to him, and he won’t talk about it, and the nightmares—it’s every night, now, pretty much, and I just feel so goddamn helpless…”

Tina looked up from where she was arranging the giant bouquet of flowers he’d brought her. “You can’t make him talk if he’s not ready, Blaine. You’d only make it worse. If you’ve offered to listen, you’ve already done all you can do, as far as his history is concerned.”

“I know.” He did. That was why he hadn’t pushed. “But watching him go through… whatever he’s going through… and not being able to do anything about it is… it’s terrible.”

She looked at him frankly, twisting a peony stem in her fingers. “You know, Blaine, normally your taste in men is second only to Quinn’s for sheer awfulness—”


“I’m just saying—I’ve never seen you like this.” She fitted the peony into the vase. “And I know it’s hard for you, but… being in love comes with hard parts. Always. And I was starting to think that you might never get to know that—about the hard parts, or about the good ones. But you’re the only one who can decide whether or not it’s worth it.”

Blaine’s throat constricted, and he swallowed. “It’s worth it.”

“Okay, then. Good.”

She bent her head down to the peony and breathed in. He wanted to paint her, just like that—antique copper streaks in her blue-black hair, the old-fashioned flowers, elegance and intelligence and kindness in such abundance. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

She smiled a little, shaking her head. “You remember that time I completely flipped out because I’d been with Mike since high school?”

Blaine rubbed his face. “Oh—you mean the Trial Separation From Hell idea you came up with? The one where you crashed on my couch for a month—”

“I didn’t move off your couch for a month—”

“Not even to bathe. It was pretty intense.”

“Well, I was a mess. And you were amazing.”

“I did think about coming at you with a hose…”

“Anyway, I’ve owed you one, since then. Now I’m going to open up the lovely bottle of I’m-guilty-because-I’ve-been-neglecting-you wine you brought, and we can catch up. Okay?”

“Sounds good.”


The next day he took Quinn out, and remained staunchly by her side for an entire day of marathon shopping, followed by a trip to her favorite restaurant—one that actually required him to wear a jacket and tie.

“Okay, Blaine,” she said over her aperitif, “You can consider me officially softened up. Is this just an apology for being the world’s worst friend lately, or are you hiding something?”

His dismay must have shown on his face, because she put her glass down and leaned towards him over the table. “Oh my God, you are—”

He winced. “After lunch, okay?”

“I…” She looked away, blinking. When she looked back at him, her eyes were wide and frightened. “Blaine—you’re not dying are you?”


“You went with me to shop for shoes, Blaine. Shoes. And you didn’t complain once. Are you dying?”

“No!” He took a breath. “No, I’m not dying. But you might kill me.”

He bought her a coffee afterwards, sat her down on a bench in Union Square, and told her—he was tired of talking around it, tired of lying to her, and she deserved the truth from him. Quinn pitched a fit, then lectured him for half an hour, issued several dire warnings, cried, and then demanded to see the paintings.

Letting her look at them was terrifying, an exercise in vulnerability and self-torture, and finally he just stood by the railing and faced the other way, waiting for her to be through. It took a long, long time. In the end, he turned around only because he heard her crying again.


“Shut up, Blaine! I’m mad at you.” She dug in her bag for tissues and blew her nose. “You weren’t kidding, you’re actually—you’re actually in love.” She shook her head. “You’re in love and I’m jealous as hell and I’m happy for you but still really mad and then there’s these—” waving a hand around the room, “…these, and they’re the best work you’ve ever done and I can’t show them to anyone without ruining your career and I’m just… really mad.”

He walked towards her and wrapped her up. She punched him a little and then gave in, letting him hold her, resting her head on his chest. “I’m sorry, Quinn.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m sorry you’re upset.”

“That’s just because—” she paused to blow her nose again. “—you know I’m going to make you pay, sooner or later.”

“Probably sooner.”

Definitely sooner. Jerk.”



“Blaine. Are you sketching my ass?”

“Um. Yes?”

“The ass you just fucked for half an hour?”

“Uh… it’s not… just your ass I’m doing. I mean. I’m doing parts of your thighs, too—”

He wasn’t quite sure what that noise was that Kurt was making. It turned out to be snickering. “Should I stop?”

A wink of blue when Kurt craned over his shoulder to give him a look, and then his thighs slid a little further apart. “God, no. Pervert.”

He called the painting Rosebud. Kurt laughed so hard he folded down crosslegged onto the floor, hanging onto Blaine’s knee and wheezing.


Two days later, Kurt came home from one of his trips to the library (or, as he called it, ‘continuing education’), and went to his room without saying anything. He was lying on his bed, fully dressed but with his boots off, his eyes closed.


“Yes.” He didn’t move.

“You okay?”

“I… had a bad day.” His voice was husked and hollow, and Blaine went to him without even thinking about it, climbing into bed with him and pulling him close.

“What’s the matter?”

Kurt curled into him, one hand resting softly against his chest. “I just… feel like I’m losing.”

“Losing… what?”

Kurt’s thumb traced an arc, just over his heart. “Everything.”

Blaine touched the shell of his ear, the invisible fuzz there. “Well, you have me.”

Kurt’s hand clenched, bunching his shirt. “Blaine. This could… all be gone tomorrow. I could be gone tomorrow.”

“No.” His arms locked up on their own. “That… no.” He bit his lip, fighting against the need to ask. And losing. “Kurt. Please. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Kurt just shook his head faintly, his eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”

Anger and frustration and sadness and—none of that was anything he ever wanted to take out on Kurt, so he kissed him instead, on his neck and his smooth cheek and then on his soft, pretty mouth, stripping him out of his clothes bit by bit until he was naked and hard and his face had mostly lost that pained, worried look. He kept it simple, kept it slow, shed his own clothes and then rocked them together, letting Kurt hide in the curve of his neck. He followed each hitch of breath or soft moan with endless, patient touches and kisses until Kurt pressed up against him and came, slow and sweet and irresistible, and he went over the edge himself with his heart full and his head clamoring at him to do something, do something—before it was too late.

They slept in Kurt’s bed that night. When the morning finally arrived and Kurt started to stir, Blaine kissed him on the forehead and slipped away, answering Kurt’s muzzy, garbled interrogative with the whispered answer that he had errands to do.

He showered, dressed, and left the house before Kurt was up, and waited until he was in the car before he called his lawyer.


Sebastian blinked, leaned back in his chair, and regarded Blaine with cool disapproval. “It’s simple, Blaine. Give him some money, and a plane ticket to anywhere he wants to go. May I suggest Thailand? He’d probably make a killing.”

“I’m not trying to get rid of him, Sebastian—”

“That’s because you have all the self-preservation instincts of a lemming with a martyr complex.”

“I’m trying to… I need to help him.”

The look Sebastian gave him was knife-sharp, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “As your attorney, I earnestly advise you to yank your head out of your nicely-cushioned ass, and get rid of him before the lure of a Diane Sawyer interview and a tell-all quickie paperback takes hold.”

“He’s not like that. Not at all.”

“You don’t even know him!” Sebastian leaned forward. “You said it yourself—you don’t know anything about him—”

“I know he’s not like that.”

Sebastian’s lips were pressed together in a hard line, and he turned his head away, staring at the wall as if he were wondering if he’d get anywhere yelling in that direction.

Blaine thought about saying something more, then thought better of it. Sebastian was mercenary and ruthless and often a total callous prick, but Blaine would never deny that he was a tenacious, resourceful, smart callous prick, and a fantastic lawyer. The first day (the first hour) they met they’d had a massive fight about whether or not Blaine should give up creative control in order to maximize his percentage of the net, after which they had charged, athletic, spectacularly superficial sex, after which Blaine had half-guiltily suggested that they keep things on a professional level.

“Whatever you say, Rembrandt,” Sebastian had drawled lazily, shrugging, shooting a tied-off condom in the general direction of Blaine’s trashcan. “We need to talk merchandising—those fuckers want to yank you off the tit of the biggest cash cow in the whole barn, and I’m going to hand them their dicks instead.” Blaine had been simultaneously horrified and amused.

Now Sebastian turned back to him, the pampered, well-groomed, aggressive force of him completely collected, focused like a laser. Blaine had seen him do the same thing during negotiations—Sebastian in take-no-prisoners mode. “Blaine. Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair and tilted his head. “You really love pretending you’re just this charming, eccentric artist who lives in a creepy house with enough creepy toys to qualify for an episode of hoarders, but you have been responsible for one of the top-selling books each year for the past seven years, and one of the top-grossing movies for the last four—you are an industry, Blaine, and so far you’ve been pretty fucking lucky that nobody seems to care much that you’re gayer than Maurice Sendak and politically to the left of Rachel Maddow. But if they find out you’re fucking a sixteen-year-old boy, that’s it—they’ll burn your books, ban your movies—and probably lock you up for several years.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, Sebastian.”

“I don’t give a shit what you know—I care about getting you to think. Because I care about your career, even if you don’t.”

A corner of Blaine’s mouth twitched. “I’m sorry, I must have missed the memo where you told me you were working for Disney instead of me.”

“I do work for you, you idiot—I represent your best interests. And this is not in your best interests, Blaine.”

Blaine shook his head, and stood up. “Look, if you won’t do this, I’ll go find someone else who will—”

“Oh no—no-no-no, I’m not letting you expose yourself more than you already have. Sit down, Blaine.”

Blaine sat down.

Sebastian sighed, and rubbed both hands over his face. “Are you sure you won’t listen to reason?”

Blaine shrugged. “I have to help him. I have to try.”

“Okay.” Sebastian opened his desk drawer and retrieved a pill bottle, shaking some into his hand and dry-swallowing them. Aspirin, or possibly Quaaludes—with Sebastian, you never knew. “You want me to find out about him. About what happened to him—why he’s running, who he’s running from. And you want me to fix it.”

“Yes. If that… if it’s possible.”

“And you don’t want me to talk to him.”

Blaine shook his head. “He can’t know. He can’t know anything about it.”

Sebastian picked up a horribly-expensive-looking pen from his desk, twirling it through his fingers. “And the ‘fixing it’ part? How exactly do you propose—”

“When you get that far, we can talk about it—there’s a reason I came to you, you know.”

“And here I thought you were just a gift from the ulcer-fairy.” Sebastian tossed the pen down, leaned back, and laced his fingers behind his head. “No notes on this, I think—just tell me what you know.”

Blaine took a deep breath, and started talking.


He felt guilty as soon as he left Sebastian’s office. He was still convinced he’d done the right thing, but nevertheless his skin felt too tight and it was hard to breathe and his chest felt cramped and awful, and he couldn’t go home.

So he went to Saks instead, and indulged himself by looking for beautiful things for Kurt—sweaters and vests and cardigans and fitted shirts and skinny jeans and bondage shorts; silks and cashmere and fine, thin wools; skin care and hair care and lotions that smelled like an herb garden to his untutored nose. Suspenders. Ties. Buckles and belts. Hats, hats, hats. Brooches and watch chains and wallet chains. A new leather satchel. Short boots and tall boots and boots with tassels and zippers and rivets. Pretty things. Wild things. Luxurious and lovely things, with Kurt floating, omnipresent and vivid down to the smallest detail, in all of them.

Afterwards, a revelation: he finally understood shopping therapy. Quinn would be so pleased.

He carried the boxes (and wow, okay, there were kind of a lot of them, maybe he’d gone a tad overboard) up to Kurt’s room in three trips, and left everything stacked on the desk. Then he went to the kitchen, made coffee, and started the prepwork for roast lamb with rosemary demi-glace, new potatoes and blanched sugar snap peas. It was the most complicated thing he knew how to make—so naturally, it was also Kurt’s favorite.

“Oh my god you’re making that,” was Kurt’s opening salvo when he breezed in, rosy-cheeked and achingly innocent in his prep school camouflage. “Okay, just—I need to change, and then I’ll be right down to help. Do not touch the cornstarch, Blaine—I know the demi-glace gives you fits, but you don’t have to resort to brutality. I’ll be right back.”

He gave Kurt a few minutes, then went upstairs. Kurt had opened only one of the boxes—a soft blue-grey Gucci angora sweater, fuzzy and fine and made to fit snugly, the material draping softly over Kurt’s outstretched hands. It was very pretty. On Kurt, Blaine thought, it would be heartstopping.

Kurt looked at him, at the towering pile of boxes, at the sweater in his hands, and back to him again. “Why?”

Blaine leaned against the doorjamb. “You… won’t let me help you,” he said—and that much was true. “So I did the only thing I could think of.” True as well. He left it at that.

Kurt laid the sweater back into the box like he was tucking a baby in for the night, then came to Blaine, winding both arms around his neck. “You’re completely ridiculous,” he said earnestly. “And if you buy out half of Saks every time I have a bad day, you’re going to go broke.”

Blaine smiled, and took Kurt’s trim little waist in his hands, pressing the curve of muscle under schoolboy wool. “You’ll still love me when I’m a pauper, though, right?”

Kurt’s eyelashes fluttered, and he kissed Blaine gently, his eyes huge and solemn. “I’ll always look back on our time together with great fondness—”

Kurt was still snickering when Blaine picked him up, tossed him on the bed, and landed on top of him.


The boots were army-style, brandless, the oldest, most worn ones Kurt seemed to own. Loose-laced and worn with slouchy black socks, his legs looked so long and muscular in them—bare legs, because other than the boots the only thing Kurt had on was a strappy undershirt that was so thin and diaphanous that the peaked pink of his nipples were clearly visible through it. If Blaine licked there, if he wet down the soft cotton with his mouth, it would melt and cling to those hard points and God

“Blaine.” Kurt’s voice was throaty and low. “You can’t look at me like that and expect me to keep still. Come over here.”

“I’m almost done.” He’d brought an antique brocade chaise up to the loft because sometimes Kurt liked to watch him paint, and he wanted Kurt to have something better than the sprung-seat, lumpy armchair. But the loft was hot and Kurt was only marginally clothed, ankles crossed as he lounged on the chaise, the cowlick at the front of his hair curling aggressively forward, streaked magenta today, sexy punk badass boy. Blaine had to have it, so he abandoned Artist and Model III where it was, and picked up a sketch pad.

Collarbone, deltoid, clavicle—powerful and delicate and masculine, so hard to capture that combination, but it was the key, it was everything. The shirt had ridden up, and he would never get enough of drawing Kurt’s waist and stomach, he’d drawn it a thousand times and every time it did something to him, made some part of him melt and come apart and just want to crawl forward on his hands and knees and put his mouth there. The scratch of the pencil faded to a faint, barely-there whisper when he drew tight nipples under ribbed cotton, striving for the tease that was far more sexual than even straightforward nudity would have been.

Kurt was watching him. Kurt was hard, and watching him, and stroking himself lightly, negligently, almost lazily—white, smooth hand on his own flushed-red cock, lips parted to breathe and his cheeks starting to glow, shyness but no shame. It was like a kick to the chest, a heavy, sudden rush that sank into his balls and weakened his knees. “Kurt…”

Kurt licked his lips, stretching languorously, his hips flexing, pushing into his own hand. “In a contest between… your drawing hand, and—mmm—the hand I jerk off with, who do you think would win?”

Blaine’s pencil rattled when it hit the floor.


In the painting, Kurt had his far knee bent, his curled fingers barely holding his half-hard cock, his other arm behind his head, hanging off the side of the chaise. Crimson-streaked hair and lowered lashes and softly-parted lips, with the boots and the shirt it was pornographic and sweet and boyishly fierce, strong and vulnerable at once, and when it was done, Blaine found it almost impossible to look away from. Kurt was vital, vibrant, immediate, the image leaping off the canvas, sensual and contradictory. The chaise was a layer back, half-blurred with age and time. The backdrop was blurriest of all, black and sepia, steps and columns and the mellow glow of gaslamps burning.

“St. James’ Theatre,” he said to Kurt’s interrogatory look. “I mean—you know, when it existed.”

“And the painting?”

Feasting With Panthers.”

“Of course it is.” Kurt slid an arm around his waist and leaned his head on Blaine’s shoulder. “I think Oscar Wilde would approve.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’d approve of you,” Blaine answered dryly, yelping a little when Kurt noogied him in the side.


Get him out of your house Blaine.

The text stared up at him from the screen of his phone, and Blaine went back into his bedroom and closed the door, cutting off the sound of the piano.


Thirty seconds later, he sent another one: why?

He sat there until Sebastian answered him.

The kind of kid you don’t think he is? He is.

Not even a ripple of dismay (or belief) in him, he was pleased to note. Proof?

Not yet. Soon. But send him away NOW.

Blaine shook his head. No. Nice try.

Goddamit Blaine

…and that was all.


Blaine was sweating, facedown in the sheets and moaning endlessly, in freefall because it was the first time he’d stopped being careful, the first time he’d stopped trying to take care of Kurt and let Kurt take care of him instead, rough fingers on his hips and strong legs pushing his thighs apart and deep, arching thrusts inside him right where he ached and needed the most. Sweat and unstoppable pleasure spiraling and Kurt read him perfectly, read him and moved him and opened him up and took him—and there was no holding back from all of that, no way to hold back from coming hard, his hands clenched in the sheets and Kurt’s hands clenched on his hips and he was throbbing, rocking, groaning and getting off while Kurt came in him, gasping in his ear, pulsing in counterpoint with his own contracting muscles.

There was barely a pause for breath, barely time to sigh and stretch his cramped leg before Kurt eased out of him, and when he looked over his shoulder he saw Kurt stripping off the condom, tossing it, and then opening another one, sliding it down over his still-hard cock with his face flushed bright and his hair a mess, so ridiculously hot that Blaine’s spent dick twinged and tried to be sixteen again. Kurt glanced up as he reached for the lube, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Let’s hear it for no refractory period.”

Blaine tried to say something, but it didn’t work out too well. Kurt climbed between his legs and sank into him with a deep, soft, pleasured sigh, and Blaine groaned embarrassingly loudly, his legs already aching and spreading and quivering a little.

God, Blaine—you are so fucking sexy when you take it—I might go for three.”

Blaine made a sound that he tried to stifle in the pillows, and Kurt hitched in breath and huffed out laughter that slid straight into moaning, fucking him with long, smooth twists of his hips that made Blaine sweat and gasp and bite his lip, freefalling all over again.


Kurt ate maybe two bites of dinner, and since it was sole, and he liked sole, and the sauce Blaine had come up with was lemon-tarragon, and Kurt also liked those things, it called for some form of comment. “Another bad day?”

“No, I… no.” He put his fork down, leaning back in his chair. “I just… for the past few days, when I’ve gone out, I’ve thought someone was following me. And I know it’s probably just me being paranoid, but…” he shrugged. “Maybe not. I just don’t know what to do about it—not yet.”

Blaine put his own fork down. “What… following you?”

“Yeah—don’t go all problem-solver on me, Blaine—it’s nothing I can’t handle, and I shouldn’t have even mentioned it because I can’t really—”

“I know,” Blaine said, having already decided exactly what the problem was and precisely how to solve it. “You can’t talk about it.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry, Kurt.”

Someone was going to be sorry. But not Kurt. Not if he could help it.


“You’re having him followed.”

Silence on the other end of the line. Then a tsk. “Well. That’s the last time I outsource labor to that particular individual—”

“Send me a bill, Sebastian. This is over.”


“No. Send the bill. Pad it extravagantly, I don’t care—I’ll pay it. But stop, right now. I’m calling it off. It was a bad idea, and I never should have talked to you about it in the first place—”

“He’s not who you think he is, Blaine.” Sebastian’s voice was calm. “He’s bad news.”

Blaine closed his eyes. “You know what? I don’t care who he was, or what he’s done or had to do in order to get where he is now. I care about who he is now, nothing else, and nothing is going to make me stop loving him.”

“Oh, spoken like a true idiot, Blaine! You can’t possibly—”

“’Bye, Sebastian,” Blaine said calmly, and hung up.


He’d dealt with his post-talking-to-Sebastian guilt by shopping it away, surprisingly successfully, so it really made no sense why his post-sending-Sebastian-packing guilt was proving to be such a bitch.

But it was. Blaine sat on the chaise and stared at the still-unfinished Artist and Model III, cursing his lack of focus and a whole host of other things while he was at it.

“What is it, Blaine?” Kurt, at the top of the stairs, probably shocked to his core to find Blaine up here without a brush in his hand.

Blaine just shook his head, and pressed his lips together when Kurt straddled his lap and slid soft, warm arms around his neck.

“It’s nothing, it’s… I’m having a hard time painting, that’s all.” Technically, true. Still, he felt sick to his stomach saying it. He couldn’t meet Kurt’s eyes; for the first time ever, he couldn’t, and when Kurt tugged him close he went, resting his head on Kurt’s chest, needing the comfort of the hand sliding over the back of his neck even though he didn’t feel like he deserved it.

“It’s okay, Blaine,” Kurt whispered to the top of his head, planting a kiss there before resting his cheek on it. “If you decide you want to talk about it, I’m here. I’ll listen.”

Blaine closed his eyes.