
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1366690.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Blaine_Anderson/Kurt_Hummel
  Character:
      Blaine_Anderson, Kurt_Hummel
  Additional Tags:
      Injury_Recovery, Underage_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-25 Words: 6396
****** Voluntary ******
by missbeizy
Summary
     Kurt comes home for Winter break and volunteers through an outreach
     program to spend time with Blaine Anderson while he recovers at home
     from being assaulted. Kurt is 19, Blaine is 15.
Notes
     Warnings: underage sex, references to assault (not explicit).
Kurt comes home for Winter break his freshman year, and the email from the
youth support group that he'd volunteered for during his junior and senior
years of high school is waiting for him when he turns his phone back on after
landing. He'd emailed them before midterms to let them know that he'd be home
and available for them—the holidays are a rough time for some of these kids,
and Kurt has been looking forward to coming home, but he's sure that he isn't
going to want to spend his whole break with his family, and volunteering will
be a great excuse to get him out of the house.
The sorts of teenagers he usually ends up with have sad stories: kids who are
being home-schooled because their school environments are abusive. He's only
had one or two assignments with teenagers who have actually been physically
bashed, and those usually entailed fist-fights or being shoved around, rather
like the ways that he had been in school, so he can not only relate to these
kids but offer them solid advice on how to cope with the results and move on
with their lives.
The profile attached to this email, however, is more severe than his usual.
Sheila, his contact, tells him that they've only put this one on his plate
because it's so local, just five minutes from his family's house, in the same
upscale development that Rachel's parents live in, with a young man who is six
months into a recovery from a severe assault. He's finally out of his casts and
splints but is still bedridden, and while his parents look into private schools
with strict no-bullying policies he's stuck at home. They think that he is
beginning to withdraw and would benefit from the company of someone who he can
really talk to, someone who isn't a doctor or a therapist or immediate family.
Kurt's nervous about it. This is more than he's used to. But it's
Christmastime, and if he'd spent six months recovering from having the crap
beat out of him, he'd start to go stir crazy, too. The email assures him that
the young man has received and is continuing to receive solid therapy, physical
and otherwise, and that his parents just want him to have a break from them
while they figure out what to do about school. They'd like him to spend a few
hours a day hanging out with the boy, talking, watching television, and helping
him with his meals—he still has trouble with his motor functions, and is
limited in what he can do while his body finishes healing.
The house is gorgeous, but Kurt knew it would be based on the address. Blaine
Anderson's parents are nice people, though they are a little more formal than
Kurt is used to. He can tell they are embarrassed and somewhat unsure, but they
seem to love their son and are very enthusiastic in greeting Kurt.
"We can't tell you what it means for Blaine to have another gay man to talk to
right now," his mother says, eyes misted over with tears. "We can only do so
much. He's a good boy, but I'm sure he's sick to death of us."
Kurt smiles politely and replies, "I'm sure it can't hurt. You made the right
decision, ma'am."
He goes into these meetings with few preconceived notions. He does whatever he
can to help these kids realize that there is life after bashing and bullying,
that the world isn't solely comprised of the sort of people and things that had
brought them to where they are right now. That there is hope, goodness, and
opportunities to be happy and healthy, despite it all.
But he walks into Blaine's bedroom, which has been converted to a half-hospital
room, and those round hazel eyes light up like candles in his direction, and
something in his belly twists like an elevator going down too fast. He isn't
prepared for the vitality in those eyes, especially not after what he's been
through.
His olive-toned complexion goes pink when they shake hands. "It's a pleasure to
make your acquaintance, Mr. Hummel," he says, and Kurt smiles. What kind of
teenager talks like that nowadays?
"Call me Kurt," he replies, sitting in the chair beside Blaine's bed that has
been set there for him.
"We'll just leave you two to get to know each other," Blaine's father says, and
they leave room.
Kurt takes in the room as politely as he can. It's obvious that they have money
to spare, but he doesn't let that mean anything in particular. He's glad that
they have the resources to make Blaine comfortable while he recovers.
The initial conversation is easy—they have a lot in common. Despite the fact
that they hadn't attended the same middle or high schools, they are both local,
and it's easy to talk about the town, the environment, the people, and how hard
being gay in Lima has always been. Blaine seems effected by his experience but
is recovering well, and talks about wanting to get back to school, a new
school, and making new friends, with only a small quiver in his voice. He
evades from time to time, and Kurt tries to stick to topics that don't make him
go quiet.
The fact that they are both gay doesn't automatically mean that they were going
to hit it off; Kurt has met with many a teenager who'd wanted nothing to do
with his chatter about Vogue.com, or trashy reality television, or affordable
but effective moisturizing products. It just so happens that Blaine does, and
eats up everything that he says about his life in New York like a puppy let at
the kibble bowl for the first time. The fact that Kurt is living the life that
Blaine has always dreamed of having for himself makes their introduction an
instant success, and Kurt is relieved.
He emails Sheila and lets her know that it went well, and Sheila says that
Blaine had been equally enthusiastic to his parents about Kurt, and so they
schedule a three-day-a-week three-hour-a-day visiting schedule.
At first, Kurt is immune to the way that Blaine looks at him, beaming and eager
and affectionate. Blaine is not the first young man to look at him that way,
and Kurt is comfortable in the role that he is here to play. He's not bothered
by the little crushes that his kids often develop on him.
They watch movies. Kurt reads him passages from Vogue magazine. He helps Blaine
get through his meals without dropping things or making a mess, though Blaine
manages mostly on his own, despite his hands shaking and eventually cramping
up. Sometimes they listen to music—Blaine is especially fond of vintage vinyl
records—and sometimes they just talk. Sometimes Kurt just sits in the
comfortable armchair beside Blaine's bed and spaces out while Blaine watches
him or dozes off.
He has to admit, what had looked like a difficult assignment is turning out to
be one of the most comfortable ones that he has ever had. He likes Blaine. In
fact, he finds himself fantasizing about what it might have been like for him
had he had Blaine, or someone like him, during high school, or even growing up.
He imagines that they would have been very good friends. They might have even
been more than that.
One afternoon he wakes up from a brief nap to find Blaine watching him, head
tilted on his upright pillow, lips parted and eyes round and wet and so, so
sweet. Kurt expects him to say something silly like, you're so pretty when you
sleep.
Blaine says, "You snore. Did you know that?"
And he can't help but laugh. "Gee. Thanks."
"I think it's adorable. I think you're adorable," Blaine says, near
breathlessly.
Kurt smiles that polite, do-not-encourage smile that he has perfected over the
years. "That's very sweet of you to say. Thank you." He pauses, and then
decides to give a little. "You know, you're one of the nicest people I've hung
out with, doing this."
Blaine shifts in the bed. "I was pretty angry for a while there. Not so nice."
"You had the right to be as angry as you felt. No one should have to go through
what you were put through."
"Funny thing was, it never helped. Being angry, I mean. I just—decided to stop,
one day. But then I stopped talking about it, too, and that—that didn't help,
either."
"Do you like your therapist?"
Blaine nods. "He's nice. I mean, it's—good, I guess. But I kind of want to—I
dunno. I screamed a lot about never going back to school again, but now all I
want to do is go back to school. I guess I feel dumb now."
"Not at all," Kurt says, letting their eyes meet. "You're getting better. And
you should get back to school. Get straight A's. Sing solos. Show the world
that you don't intend to let it get you down. There's so much more out there,
Blaine, and so many people who would kill to prove that to you—you just have to
want it. Reach for it."
Blaine's eyes soften on his, and Kurt feels his cheeks warm.
What is it about this kid that makes his chest ache so badly? Is it that they
are so alike? He's only four years older than Blaine; it isn't as if relating
is impossible. But Blaine doesn't remind him of himself, not exactly, so it
isn't that sort of relation.
"Right now I'd settle for being able to eat a sandwich by myself," Blaine
admits, blushing, and chuckles under his breath as Kurt grins.
"Okay, well. I can't blame you there. It's got to be frustrating not to be able
to do for yourself."
"It's awful. I think I'm okay, I feel strong, and then everything just starts
to clench up and shake."
Kurt watches him talk, and really listens, and feels so sad for him. He knows
that Blaine has come a long way in physical therapy, but sometimes healing is
down to time and repetition, and there's only so much he can do along the way.
There is a heavy pause, and then Blaine confesses under his breath, "My mom
walked in on me trying to masturbate last week. I think I might actually never
feel anything down there again."
"Oh, god," Kurt blurts, and then laughs into the back of his hand, shoulders
shaking. His cheeks go hot. "Oh my god, Blaine, seriously?"
"Give me a break," he replies, red-faced but laughing, "I can't talk to anyone
about this but you!"
The fact that Blaine has cut ties with everyone at his old school and only has
his parents and a long-distance brother that he has a difficult relationship
with to talk to worries Kurt, but—he is here, and that counts. It isn't the
first time that a teenager who he's been working with has wanted to talk about
sex, either.
"I'm not, um, qualified to really advise you there, but have you, um—have you
tried like—just—" He stops, feeling overheated, all of the sudden.
Blaine is trying to do that thing where he looks disinterested but is in fact
very, very interested. "Tried—what?"
Guy-to-guy advice is much easier when the guy wanting the advice isn't the high
school boyfriend you wish you'd had, Kurt thinks.
"Like, rubbing? On the bed?" he says, fast and embarrassed and barely audible.
The blush on Blaine's cheeks rushes to his nose and ears and he looks away, his
eyelashes fanning across his cheeks. "Um. Yeah, uh—um, I have, still, the
hip—there's a fracture, it—it kind of, it hurts, still, sometimes."
"Oh," Kurt exhales, blinking rapidly. He forces his gaze to stay on Blaine's
face and not—go anywhere else, as it seems to suddenly want to do. "Oh,
that's—sorry."
He feels stupid. Also, vaguely turned on, which is a big fat fucking no, and
makes him want to leave to room, but—right now, that might not be the best
idea. He subtly adjusts himself beneath the magazine that's resting across his
lap.
Blaine's eyes, those gorgeous, currently frighteningly clear, hazel eyes, drag
across Kurt's face, his body, and back up again. He swallows, and licks out
across his bottom lip, and then plays nervously with the empty juice box on his
lunch tray.
The tension is so thick that Kurt can hardly breathe around it, and he doesn't
know what to do—he doesn't think he went far enough astray to cause this all by
himself, but Blaine makes him dumb. He likes Blaine so much that he often
forgets his place.
It eases by degrees as they begin to talk again, but Kurt has to admit that
it's never quite the same after that. Everything, from the way that Blaine
lights up every time he walks into the room, to the way that they skirt
innocent topics as if they were not-so-innocent, to Blaine's confession that
he's never been with a boy, to Kurt giving in and talking about the aborted
attempt at a boyfriend that he'd made with Adam, it all just becomes, and
stays, personal.
He can't shake it. They've connected, and it's only been a week, and it kind of
freaks him out.
 
*
 
Spending the holiday apart doesn't do much to distance them, either. They
resume their appointments the week after, and watching Blaine almost vibrate
out of bed with excitement at the stack of vintage records that Kurt had
rescued from his dad's basement as a last minute Christmas gift makes Kurt so
happy that he could burst.
They eat gingerbread and listen to music. Kurt migrates to the foot of Blaine's
bed without thinking about it, helping him rearrange his bedding so that he can
sit up next to the record player and change the records himself, with only
minor assistance.
He's always so careful around Blaine, physically, knowing how many injuries
he'd sustained, and how careful and slow his healing has been, so he's
surprised when Blaine pats the bed next to him.
"Come sit? It's okay, I don't mind."
Warning bells go off in Kurt's head, but he finds himself mentally muffling
them with pillows and doing as he's asked.
They sit side by side by the headboard, right next to the record player. Blaine
is having a good day—his pain levels are low and he looks happy, even managing
to sit forward a little, more relaxed in posture than Kurt has ever seen him.
For the first time, Kurt finds himself glancing warily at the door. He's sure
that Blaine's parents wouldn't much like him on Blaine's bed, at least not this
close to their son, and he feels guilty. He also feels like his pants don't
fit, but that—that he can't really do much about.
Blaine is just so—amazing. Sweet and vibrant and handsome, god, like, classical
movie handsome, with his Cary Grant hair and his compact body. Kurt has no idea
how he's managed to stay so fit while stuck in bed most of the time.
Unfortunately, Blaine catches him glancing at the door. Kurt only realizes just
how transparent the gesture had been when Blaine's hand tentatively finds his
on the bed.
"It's okay," he says, inching closer. "They won't come up."
"Blaine," Kurt begins, voice taking on that I-am-older-and-wiser-than-you tone
that Kurt normally hates. Also, it's not true in this case; he's being
extraordinarily immature at the moment.
"You drive me crazy," Blaine whispers.
He visibly gathers his courage and surges close, pressing their mouths
together.
It's wet. It's off-center. He tastes like gingerbread.
Kurt opens his mouth and moans, and kisses back gracelessly. His skin is on
fire and his mouth is tingling and his nerves are misfiring and shit fuck he is
screwed. He doesn't even realize that Blaine's jaw is in his hand until he
feels the vibration of Blaine's answering groan against his fingertips.
"Shit," he breathes, tearing their mouths apart with a wet smack. "Shit, shit—"
Blaine knows he's panicking. He takes the hand that's on his face and,
breathing heavily, drags it beneath the blankets and against the front of his
pajamas, where he's standing up, hard as a rock.
Kurt shudders. "B-Blaine, no."
"Please," he whimpers, hips shifting. "Please, please, please, I want you to
touch me."
"Your parents are—and we shouldn't—"
But his cock is literally throbbing under Kurt's fingers, and it feels
brilliant. It feels—like nothing ever has, not even the way that Adam had felt,
as experienced and lovely as he had been. It feels like fireworks under his
skin. It feels right.
"I can't do it by myself," Blaine whispers, undoing the drawstring on his pants
while Kurt's hand lies heavy and still over him. He takes Kurt's wrist and
guides Kurt's hand past the loosened waistband to touch him, naked and hot and
pulsing. "It's been so long. Please—if—if you want to, even just a little,
please—"
All it takes is one, slow stroke up the shaft, one little bead of pre-come
smearing across Kurt's fingers, one desperate moan and he's gone.
"Lie back a little," he says, and Blaine's body goes limp with relief on the
pillows. He doesn't know what to do with his face, so he leans in and kisses
Blaine's slack mouth, again and again, while underneath two layers of blankets
and one pair of flannel pajama bottoms he carefully, methodically, jerks Blaine
off.
A cock in his hand shouldn't feel like the boundaries of his body are giving
way to formless pleasure, but it does. He pants against Blaine's lips, sucking
kisses like air from them as he speeds up, the noise of his dry palm on
Blaine's swollen cock filling his ears. It's like a whisper, making his skin
hot and tight, making him feel as if he's free-falling. He can't even think.
Blaine trembles through it, his soft little belly heaving against Kurt's
forearm, and then surprises Kurt even farther by having the polity to say, "I'm
c-close," when he begins to tense. Kurt can't bring himself to care about how
fast this has been—he would have liked to take more time, but Blaine is falling
apart under him, pupils blown, face flushed, and his own desires seem
unimportant.
Blaine's skin is soft and he's—kind of hairy, and Kurt likes that more than
he'll ever admit, the thickness of it on Blaine's thighs and stomach, the
coarse wiry patches around his cock and balls.
"Oh, god," he moans, and Kurt feels his dick throb.
Kurt reaches over and snags a tissue from the box on the bedside table and
lowers it to where his hand is busy jacking up and down, and just as he
positions it over the swollen, damp head Blaine comes, biting down on Kurt's
shoulder to muffle the sobbing moan as his body twitches and he soaks the
tissue with pulse after pulse of thick release.
And then he begins to babble.
"I'm—oh, god, I can't believe I made you—I'm so gross, I'm usually, you know,
less—hairy, I wax religiously but it's just not possible since—and I didn't
shower this morning and, oh, god, Kurt, I am so, so sorry."
Kurt laughs, and silences him with a kiss. For the first time, they pull back
and stare at each other, and Kurt can't stop touching Blaine's face and hair,
can't stop pressing their mouths together. With every kiss, it feels better,
sweeter, easier.
"Shut up," he says, and puts his hand back down there, to stroke Blaine through
the oversensitive aftershocks, because he sort of can't stop himself. "Shut up
and enjoy the orgasm, honey."
"Gnh," Blaine says, twitching in his hand.
The next day, Blaine tells him to lock the door as soon as he arrives, and he
knows from a single, heated glance that this isn't going to be a one time
thing. Blaine isn't wearing a pajama top, and Kurt's brain is already buzzing
with desire before he even shrugs off his messenger bag.
"You didn't—yesterday, you didn't—I didn't return the favor."
Kurt swallows around the clamp of his windpipe. "That's not—I don't need
anything from you. I just—I helped you out, and that's—okay, it doesn't have to
be more than that."
"I want it to be more," Blaine confesses, and Kurt's eyes drop to his tight
little nipples, and he knows without needing to stare that Blaine is squeezing
himself beneath the covers. "I can't do much, but—maybe I could just—see, for
now?"
Fuck.
"You want me to jerk off in front of you?" Kurt babbles, voice breaking.
"If you—if you want to."
It's like falling sideways into a parallel dimension where pornographic acts
are made sweet by Blaine's temperament, where Kurt just—does things, like he's
some kind of expert on sex. He's undoing his skinny jeans before he can even
think about it, and lifting himself from the slit at the front of his briefs.
He's been half-hard just thinking about Blaine all morning; what's the point in
denying it?
"God, you are beautiful," Blaine sighs, and Kurt watches his hand move under
the covers. "You're—" He blushes. "You're so big, and you aren't even—all the
way—"
"Shit," Kurt moans, stroking himself with eyes half-lidded as Blaine talks.
Every day Blaine is usually in a different position on the bed when Kurt
arrives—his parents help him rotate every few hours—and today he's more or less
flat on his back, with a few pillows under his neck. Kurt watches him touch
himself until his hand gives him trouble and he has to stop. The chair is so
close to the bed that Kurt's knees touch it, and—there is something so
remarkably, filthily intimate about sitting there with Blaine watching his hand
move on his cock.
He gets there faster than he has in years, and fumbles for a tissue, only to
have Blaine lick his lips and say, "My mouth is fine. If you—if that might
work."
Kurt stops in mid-stroke, clamping down on the rising orgasm. "Jesus, you can't
say things like that, I—"
But he can tell how aroused Blaine is by the idea. He's humping against the
heavy blankets thrown over his body, panting softly, his face a tense map of
arousal.
"When you first starting visiting me," he says, eyes glued to Kurt's erection,
"I used to think about you just—undoing your pants, and—c-coming in my mouth."
He has to stop entirely; it's too much. The arousal is making him stupid,
making everything feel sharp and sloppy and uneven, and as soon as Blaine says
that he wants it, wants it like he's starving and it's food. His neediness is
contrasted perfectly by Blaine's sweetness and he wants it.
He feels confident as he stands, his cock jutting in front of him, Blaine's
beautiful, open face below him on the mattress. The way that Blaine's mouth
opens willingly makes him feel dizzy; he doesn't have to crouch, the bed is
very tall, and without any further consideration he feeds his cock into
Blaine's mouth.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he hisses, as the wet warmth closes around him. "I'm almost
there already."
Blaine sucks him like an eager virgin; wet and sloppy and full of teeth, but
he's too close to even mind. He pulls back, thumbs Blaine's jaw, presses his
lips until they spread, swollen and pink and so fucking wet, the perfect
circle, takes himself in hand and quickly strokes himself. He presses the head
against Blaine's lower lip, breathing sharply and heavily, knees shaking,
thighs trembling, unable to look away from the sight, and then Blaine's tongue
drags around the wide, fat crown, and he loses it, shoots strand after strand
of thick come into Blaine's waiting mouth.
His vision goes blurry, but not so blurry that he can't watch Blaine moaning,
sucking the head, swallowing his come with hungry gulps.
"Oh my god, that was amazing," he moans, and Kurt collapses into his chair.
This is quite possibly the dumbest thing that he has ever done.
The next day, Blaine is lying on his stomach when he arrives, and he locks the
door without needing to be asked, and within two minutes he's kneeling beside
the bed, his tongue in Blaine's mouth as they awkwardly kiss through the
strange arrangement of limbs that Blaine's recovering health requires.
They kiss, and Blaine humps the mattress until his pelvis starts to hurt. This
doesn't stop Kurt from sitting up on the edge of the bed to stroke his naked
back, to massage the edge of his hips to stroke the ache until it eases. Blaine
is watching him from where his cheek is resting on folded arms, over his
shoulder.
"I can't—do anything with a lot of movement or stress on my pelvis," he
confesses, cheeks flushed red.
"I know, honey. I don't want to hurt you."
He kneels sideways and starts gently kissing the back of Blaine's neck, the
thick, delicious rise of his shoulders, down the length of his spine to the
swell of his gorgeous, round ass, where he dares to bite down on the curves,
just to make Blaine laugh.
"Can I take these off?" he asks, nibbling along the elastic waistband. Blaine's
back is a map of blood-flushed skin and goosebumps, and despite his earlier
bravado Kurt can tell that now that they are actually being intimate he is
nervous. He has scars that Kurt has never seen, and he isn't comfortable with
his inability to groom as well as he used to before he was injured. Kurt can
tell that he bathed this morning, and wonders if that had been anticipatory.
"Um. Wh-what do you want to do?"
"Make you feel good. What can I say; today's position is very inspiring." He
smiles into the sweet curve of Blaine's back, nuzzles just there against the
curve of his cheeks.
"Oh," Blaine moans, shifting under his mouth. "That's, um."
He squeezes the plump cheeks that he has found increasingly more irresistible
with each passing day, pressing them together and then tugging them apart, the
waistband of Blaine's pajama bottoms inching down to tantalizingly expose the
crack of his ass.
Burning all over, Kurt kisses the spot, digs his fingernails into the fleshy
mounds and breathes hot over Blaine's skin, "God, I want to taste you."
"Okay," Blaine whimpers.
It takes every bit of restraint Kurt has to roll the pajamas and underwear off
of his legs without rushing, without having him lift to far up, without jarring
his bad ankle or the healing gash on his calf. Kurt manages to work a single
pillow under his hips, then, with the gentlest of easing, and finally he's
comfortable, displayed like a gourmet meal, those fat, round cheeks quivering
under Kurt's fingers.
"You are gorgeous," he says, gently spreading Blaine open.
He doesn't actually comment on the hairy factor driving him insane with
lust—Blaine is just as hairy on his ass and between his cheeks as he is on his
legs, and Kurt's mouth waters as he gets to kiss those plush cheeks, until
Blaine is breathing heavily and shifting under him, and only then does he nose
in between, drag the tip of his tongue from his sacrum to the pillow of his
balls.
"Oh my god," Blaine moans.
"Mm, that's it, honey," he murmurs, kissing the hot, musky skin, feeling the
hair beneath his lips and god, the heat of him is insane.
He takes his time, kissing and licking slow, even stripes, until Blaine's brown
pucker is clenching and unclenching, and then he stops to kiss it, hard,
pressing deep, and flicks his tongue tip in eager, jabbing licks, eyes drifting
shut from the pleasure of it.
"Kurt, god, K-Kurt."
He draws back, keeps Blaine spread with his thumbs as he digs his tongue into
the furled little hole until it gives way—Blaine's ass spasms around his tongue
once or twice before he licks inside. He can feel Blaine's body go tense with
surprise, and he closes his lips in a hard, sucking kiss around the rim while
licking deeper with the shaft of his tongue.
"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," Blaine chants, pelvis jerking.
"Wanna come?" Kurt asks, feeling between Blaine's body and the pillow with his
left hand. "Wanna come around my tongue, sweetheart?"
It's awkward, but he manages to wedge his hand in between Blaine's cock and the
pillow, and god, it's soaked with wet spots already, and Blaine has hardly
moved.
"Please, please, need to, need to, god, squeeze me, just—touch, just, please—"
Kurt fists him in a sort of backwards jerk, cups the shaft as well as part of
his balls, and lets him gently hump down as he resumes sucking at Blaine's rim
and shifting his tongue in and out of his slippery, tight hole at the same
time. He comes moments later, ass and thighs and pucker clenching in the most
delicious way; Kurt can feel his balls cinch and release, can feel the flood of
come soak the pillow under his hips, and he makes gorgeous, breathless noises
as he lets go.
He kneels up over Blaine. "Okay? No pain?"
"A little bit, but, I'm okay, I just—need to be still."
He looks amazing there on the bed, sweat slick on his lower back, shoulders
rushed with blood, his hair a puffy, frizzy mess where it's rebelled against
the gel that his mother helps him put on every morning. His ass is glorious,
shining with spit and swollen up around its wrinkled rim.
Kurt unbuttons his pants and straddles Blaine's thighs without putting any
weight on them, panting as he wrangles himself out of his underwear. He needs
to come, badly.
"Can I," he groans out, squeezing his fist up the shaft of his cock, "god, can
I come on you?"
"Yes, yes, god, yes."
It takes a dozen tugs, and his eyes go blind for a second, but he manages to
streak Blaine's ass and lower back and pretty little hole, and he can't resist
rocking down and in, fucking his cock between those dirty cheeks, smearing his
come into Blaine's skin and feeling the hot, spastic clench of those lush
cheeks around his dick.
"Oh my god, your ass is ridiculous," he moans, stopping. He can't do that
without hurting Blaine and he knows it.
He cleans Blaine off with a warm washcloth and helps him back into his pajamas.
 
*
 
At some point, they do actually begin to speak again. To watch movies and
listen to music and share lunch trays. But Kurt's break is almost over, and
they are both suddenly and completely ravenous for each other. Kurt had thought
that Blaine's recovery might make indulging impossible, but they always seem to
find a way.
The first orgasm is usually rushed—Blaine is either half-naked and half-hard by
the time he arrives, or even starts without him, so that all Kurt has to do is
get between his thighs and take him in hand and he's spurting, and then they
have time for a second go around, usually an hour or so before Kurt leaves.
One afternoon Kurt has Blaine's cock in his mouth for a change, gently easing
the squeeze of his cheeks and lips down again, and again, and again, not
wanting to put too much pressure on his pelvis, and the need to go carefully,
to go slow and angle his mouth just right, makes it even more amazing than the
blowjobs that he's given in the past. It's almost—glacial, the pace that he
uses to work Blaine's dick in his mouth, and it's so intense when he spasms and
comes, belly heaving, thigh muscles rippling, sobbing into the pillow he slams
over his face to drown out his cries.
They've almost been walked in on twice, now, and Kurt is as terrified as he is
aroused.
He gently lets Blaine out of his mouth with a wet slurp, throbbing everywhere.
He wants more. But it will have to wait.
The next day he arrives prepared, condoms and lubricant of his own choosing in
his bag. Blaine's parents have been especially attentive, but he can't stop
himself; he needs to get closer to Blaine. They only have a few days left.
When he fishes the condoms and lubricant out, Blaine's eyes go wide.
He rushes to say, "They're for you. I—I think if I—-I can sort of, sit up over
you?" And then he backtracks, "If—you want to—fuck me." He's been thinking
about it all week and now that he says it like that he realizes that maybe
Blaine isn't ready—until Blaine's eyes go even darker and he pushes the
blankets off of his legs—he's already naked underneath.
"I—please, yes," he says.
Kurt strips off his clothes as he kisses Blaine hungrily, trying not to press
against anything sensitive, but it's so difficult to not just—take. He pants
into every wet pass, fumbling with the condom strip to get one detached, with
the lubricant bottle to get the cap to unstick; he's seeing white, he's so
turned on. It's been ages since he's been with a man to this degree of
intimacy, and his ass is already clenching, it feels so empty, and his jaw
knows all too well how thick Blaine's cock is, how fat that head, how good it's
going to feel to push against it and have it slide in—
He straddles Blaine's hips, then goes up on the balls of his feet, crouching
frog-style as he applies a dab of lubricant to his hole, and a slightly larger
dab to Blaine's latex-clad cock. He palms Blaine's soft belly, all the way to
his nipples, flushed and needy as he steadies Blaine below him.
"Feel so good, want you so much," he moans, rubbing the thick erection against
his ass. "God, you are so perfect. So beautiful, Blaine, never met anyone like
you, just want to make you feel good—"
"Oh my god, don't stop—"
It burns, sitting down all at once, especially since he has to keep his weight
off of Blaine at the end. Thankfully, Blaine isn't porn star big, just thick,
and Kurt savors the stretch the whole way down, stopping just short of Blaine's
pelvis, balancing on the balls of his feet and his hands braced on Blaine's
belly, nowhere near his ribs.
"Fuck," Kurt hisses, anus fluttering around the intrusion. "Fuck, you're wide.
God, fuck, yes, so good." He lifts, then falls, lifts, then falls, until the
burn is gone and it's just blunt pressure and his soft cheeks jiggling around
Blaine's cock.
"Could, could you," Blaine pants, "Turn—turn around, maybe? If you—move that
way, it'll feel better, I mean, for my—"
"Oh god, yeah, just—" He lifts, and turns carefully—that way, he can go down on
his knees without putting pressure on Blaine's pelvis in an upward motion,
and—oh. Blaine's hands, trembling, wrap around his cheeks as they sink down,
split in half by the shaft of his cock.
"God," Blaine moans, squeezing him. "God, that looks—amazing, oh god, move,
please."
It's an keen exercise in restraint, keeping his weight up and off Blaine, but
at least his ass can leverage against Blaine's belly, and he can just—fuck
himself, careful deep sinks of Blaine's cock inside of him, making him feel so
full and warm and open.
It's always hot in Blaine's room, and Kurt sweats through it, feeling the
moisture of sweat gather under his arms and down his back and neck. The careful
rhythm, gently working his ass up and down the shaft of Blaine's cock, is
hypnotic, and he falls into it, feeling his body loosen. His cock keeps
slapping against his belly so he takes it in hand, and leans the other on the
bed between Blaine's thighs, fucking himself back on Blaine's cock while Blaine
holds his ass in his shaking hands.
As always, there's noises from downstairs, making Kurt's heartbeat spike.
"Your mother has no sense of timing," he gasps, bouncing, clenching around the
cock inside of him.
"I'm going to come if you don't slow down," Blaine whines, toes curling.
"Oh, fuck, yes, come in me."
Blaine whines and lets go almost instantly, and Kurt can feel the base of his
cock pulse as he fills the condom, and Kurt just takes himself in hand and
jerks off all over the bed, pressing deep, pulsing around Blaine's shrinking
erection as he comes, white popping behind his eyelids.
They cuddle as best they can after cleaning up, and Blaine keeps laughing and
pressing his face into Kurt's shoulder.
When it's cooler and quieter, he says against Kurt's sweaty neck, "Wish I could
do half the things you do to me."
"Mm," Kurt hums, licking over Blaine's nipples, "you do plenty. And it's not as
if you're always going to be like this. You'll get better, and then—"
Blaine cards his fingers through Kurt's hair. "And then?"
Kurt freezes, halfway through saying, and then we can do everything. Because
he's flying back to New York on Sunday, and they both know it. Their chemistry
is off the charts, and despite the age gap Kurt has had more fun and things in
common with Blaine than he has any of his peers at NYADA.
He smiles, presses a kiss against Blaine's mouth, and takes Blaine's phone from
his bedside table. "And then, I give you my phone number. And we stay in touch.
And I visit you on breaks, and we—keep having fun, if you want, or we can be
friends, if you want, and when you're ready to head off to school—we'll see?"
"I feel like I should have known you sooner, Kurt Hummel," Blaine says,
smiling, as he takes his phone back.
"Who knows?" Kurt asks. "Maybe we can make up for lost time."
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