Everybody Loves A Misanthrope
Pornspam: Klaine, NC-17, While We Two Keep Together

Klaine fluff—hope you enjoy. And that your blood sugar is stable…

Title: While We Two Keep Together

Author: Cimmerians

Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Kurt/Blaine

Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex

Word Count: 6,286

Summary: In which there is fluff and porn and feelings and absolutely nothing else.

Gratitude: to Alice and Aubrey and Jessica and Sara, for making me feel so, so much better about committing acts of radical fluffination.

Warning: This story requires insulin.


Thanksgiving was difficult for both of them—so many family obligations, so much time apart when all either one of them wanted to do was be together. When Kurt found himself excited about going back to school after the long weekend because Blaine would be home from his visit upstate, he sent off a text message (tapped out surreptitiously under the table in between bites of his Aunt Ida’s horribly, horribly dry turkey) that summed up his feelings on the subject: Miss you so much I want to cry.

He didn’t hear back and didn’t hear back, and he had just started to have serious pains in his stomach that were less about awful turkey and more about how he probably shouldn’t have said that (maybe he’d broken some kind of unspoken boyfriend code or something, but God, how was he supposed to know these things?) when his phone buzzed against his leg.

The capricious fates are kind—I’m coming home late tonight. See you tomorrow morning?

His smile was one part relief at not having actually transgressed against the boyfriend code, one part delight at the prospect of there being only a (relatively) short time before he could see Blaine again, and one part rueful amusement at the way his own heart got all wobbly-swoony over the fact that Blaine used words like ‘capricious’ in a damned text message.

So happy. Tomorrow yes. I’ll bring breakfast.


Blaine was rumpled and stubbly and corkscrew-haired and hellishly adorable in his pajamas and fuzzy robe, but the dark shadows under his eyes made Kurt reconsider his first instinct, which had been to hurl himself into Blaine’s arms, regardless of the numerous bags and boxes he was carrying. Instead, he put everything down carefully, then opened up his arms and caught Blaine when he sagged into them.

Blaine smelled sleepy. Also, delicious. Kurt closed his eyes. “Was it that bad?”

“About a thousand relatives asked me if I had a girlfriend yet,” Blaine murmured grumpily against his ear. “Which meant the same exact number of stern glances from my father, in case I’d forgotten his lecture about ‘need-to-know’, and his ‘expectations of inheritance’—which I hadn’t.”

Kurt held him a little tighter. “God. I’m so sorry, Blaine.” He rubbed Blaine’s back, solid and warm under the soft fabric. “Would it help if I gave your father burned waffles? Because I’ve got a waffle iron and a grudge, and I’m not afraid to use either of them—”

Blaine let him go. “What… you mean, now? No—they’re both still at my grandmother’s until Sunday. I pled homework, and came home alone.”

“Oh.” That… was unexpected. But wonderful. His face got hot, and it would have been mildly uncomfortable if he hadn’t seen Blaine blushing just as much, eye-to-eye with him for one blistering moment of intensity before they both looked away.

Blaine stuck his hands in the pockets of his robe, and cleared his throat quietly. “Uh. Does this mean I get extra waffles?”

Blaine’s eyes were downcast, and just looking at his dark lashes against his blushing cheeks was doing funny things to Kurt’s stomach. “All the waffles in the world, if you want them.”


He and Carole had put up some raspberry-orange flower jam back in June, and he still had one small, precious jar of it that he had carefully guarded from Finn’s predations (Finn would eat the stuff with a shovel, if allowed,) by hiding it behind his father’s stash of salt-free, low-calorie snacks. On the waffles with a dollop of crème fraiche it tasted wonderfully summery, as rich and tart and warm as berries off a bush in the sunshine. Blaine ate three waffles. Loaded.

“I think I’m going to die,” Blaine said mildly, holding his lower stomach. “But it’ll be a very happy and tasty death, so I think I’m okay with it.” He moved his empty plate carefully to one side, then gently collapsed facedown onto the table, sighing dramatically.

“More coffee?” Kurt asked, swirling the pot.

“God, yes.” Blaine held out his mug without even looking up, a man in the desert begging for water. Kurt giggled.

It was his first time cooking in Blaine’s kitchen. The room was spacious and grand and beautifully appointed, and didn’t really help him curb his guilty habit of pretending (on those rare occasions when it was just the two of them in the Anderson house) that it was theirs—theirs, together, a home that belonged to them. He didn’t even have to do his normal mental redecorating to make the place look less like a museum—the kitchen was perfect. “I just realized there’s a slight possibility that I’m only dating you to gain access to this kitchen.”

One of Blaine’s hands waved vaguely. “As long as you use the kitchen to make waffles in, I’m okay with that as a foundation for earning your love.”

Blaine insisted on doing the clean-up. Kurt acquiesced after a token protest, and settled at the butcher-block table with the last of the coffee. Blaine left his robe and his pajama top draped over the kitchen chair he’d been sitting in, moving from counter to sink to table in only a v-neck t-shirt and his flannel pajama bottoms, his bare feet noiseless on the tile floor. Kurt tried not to stare, but it was ridiculously hard not to—Blaine seemed so… different, all his polish set aside and no veneer at all, just the strong, masculine lines of his body moving gracefully, the flex of an arm or the muscles of his back showing through thin fabric—

Blaine caught him staring, and grinned. Kurt blushed, fixed his gaze firmly on the steam rising from his coffee cup, and crossed his legs. When he looked back up Blaine was still smiling, smiling fondly at the soapy sponge in his hand, his cheeks pink. “I’ll be done soon.”

“Don’t hurry on my account,” Kurt drawled, which was just about as close as he could get to an admission without risking light-headedness.

He was a bit disappointed when Blaine put his top and robe back on afterwards, but when Blaine subsequently lit a fire in the living room fireplace and then drew Kurt down next to him on the couch in front of it, he let it go. Blaine was warm and close and hard-under-soft, and Kurt was so very comfortable, lulled by the quiet crackle of the fire and the faint scents of burning wood and raspberries and sleepy Blaine. Outside the picture window the sky was heavy, gunmetal grey, skeletal trees shedding the last of their leaves in the icy wind, but inside it was…

“Perfect,” Blaine sighed quietly against the curve of his neck.

Kurt closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

A light kiss just under his ear made him shiver. “I was talking about you.”

Kurt opened his eyes, as widely as possible. “Oh, so was I.”

Blaine chuckled. “God, I missed you.”

Kisses were different, now, in the wake of… of being together; different like being apart was different, like being alone together was different—there was so much more now, more to everything, every thought, every possibility, every moment. Blaine tasted like berries and cream, his mouth soft and sweet and decadent, paradoxically innocent and very-much-not at the same time. The scratch of his stubble made Kurt’s toes curl.

“Missed you too,” Kurt said when he came up for air. He moved a little and Blaine moved a little, this leg and that arm and shifting hips and gradually settling closer together until Blaine closed his eyes and rested his head against Kurt’s chest.

“Don’t let me doze off on you,” Blaine mumbled against his shirt.

Kurt petted his fuzzy-robe-covered shoulder, his own eyes drooping. “You’d better not.”

Five minutes later, they were both sound asleep.


Blaine was there, touching his face and kissing him lightly and smiling, his eyes bright and his hair wild. Kurt wondered what the hell Blaine was doing in his room until he realized where he was, shaking off the disorienting, head-swimmy feeling that always came from napping too long. “God, I—sorry, Blaine. I must have—”

“No, Kurt—it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s—hey, look—” he waved over towards the picture window. “Snow.”

“I… what?” He blinked several times, staring over Blaine’s shoulder. It was, indeed, snowing—the first snow of the year. And from the look of the ground, it had been going on for a while. “Huh.”

He thought of his dad and Carole, off on a round of family visits for the day—and at that exact moment, as if on cue, his phone rang. But before he could answer it Blaine reached out and caught his hand, leaning close to him. His eyes were huge, intense. “Kurt. Please don’t go.”


“Just… I’m not ready for you to go yet, okay?” His voice was a fast, quiet rush, words tumbling over themselves. “Please.”

“I… I’ll try.” Kurt cut himself off with difficulty, and flipped his phone open. “Hey dad. Everything okay?

“It’s fine, Kurt—Carole, watch that truck—” good, that meant Carole was driving, and his father was doing what Carole liked to call ‘risking his life through shotgun commentary’. “We’re heading home. Just wanted to make sure you knew about the snow—looks like it showed up early this year. You be careful on the road, okay?”

“I know. I… uh.” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “I’ve been invited to stay here, at Blaine’s.”

A moment of silence. Kurt got the distinct feeling his father was carefully choosing which questions not to ask. Blaine’s hand on his wrist was warm, so very warm. “You, uh… oh. You sure that’s okay with everyone there?”

Considering that ‘everyone there’ consisted of Blaine and himself, that wasn’t exactly difficult to determine. “Yeah, dad—like I said, I was invited.”

“Uh huh.” Another pause. A long one. Kurt bit his lip. “Well, I guess it’s okay for tonight—but be home by lunch tomorrow; your Aunt Mildred’s coming to visit, and she’ll want to see you.”

Kurt’s nose wrinkled automatically, and when he opened his eyes, Blaine was staring right at him, looking half-hopeful and half-fearful, and all of him so damn beautiful that Kurt’s heart did a double-gainer in his chest. “Okay, dad—I’ll be there.”

He hung up. He took a breath. “I can stay.”

Blaine reached out and took him by the shoulders, touching him lightly, as if making sure he was really there. “For the night? You’re staying the night?”

Kurt cursed the heat in his cheeks. “Yeah, unless… if it’s okay. I mean, I know you didn’t ask for that, or actually invite me to stay over, but I just thought—”

Blaine kissed him so fiercely that Kurt’s knees almost went out from under him. A hot, hungry, happy, grateful kiss, and it was just so easy to relax into Blaine’s arms, to slip his own arms around Blaine’s waist, to tilt his head until everything fit just so. Easy, but his heart was still racing—and it just didn’t seem fair, not even remotely fair, that all of his assumptions about how losing his virginity would somehow also magically do away with all of his shyness turned out to be so drastically wrong. “God—Blaine—”

“It’s like Christmas early,” Blaine breathed, staring at his mouth before his eyes flicked back up, brilliant and shining. “Let’s go play in the snow.”


Kurt ended up borrowing Blaine’s hat, Mrs. Anderson’s snow parka, and Mr. Anderson’s Sorel Caribou boots, which didn’t appear to have ever been worn. “Yeah,” Blaine said ruefully, lacing up his own boots. “Dad’s really motivated to own all the accoutrements—the full yuppie winter sports kit. But he’s… oof… not so enthusiastic about actually using any of it.”

That was a shame because the boots were wonderful, sure-footed and warm, and even slightly fashionable in a trust-fund-ski-bum kind of way. He and Blaine walked through the neighborhood with their gloved hands linked; the soft crunch of snow underfoot the loudest sound to be heard. The snowstorm had turned the afternoon as dark as early evening, and a surprising number of Blaine’s neighbors had their holiday decorations up already. It was beautiful and hushed and a little eerie, just the two of them out on the not-yet-ploughed streets, staring in at the twinkling lights and lit trees and cozy lives of people who seemed to Kurt to be somehow incredibly remote, distant from the two of them here out in the bleak weather. He wouldn’t have traded places with any of them for any amount of anything in the world.

“What do you want for Christmas, anyway?” he asked as the two of them rounded the corner.

Blaine’s gloved fingers squeezed his own. “Time with you, of course. Ribbons and bows optional.”

A fleeting mental image of Blaine wearing nothing but a giant, red bow made him giggle, made his numb cheeks glow hot. “Come on, Blaine. I’m serious.”

Blaine swung his arm up and spun Kurt under their joined hands, then again the opposite way. Kurt laughed and went with it, barely avoiding landing on his ass. “I’m perfectly serious,” Blaine said, his face perfectly serious. “It’s the thing that makes me most happy—so that’s what I want.”

Kurt’s cheeks could have melted a snowbank. “Blaine Anderson,” he chided softly, poking Blaine’s down-jacketed side with one gloved finger. “When you set out to be romantic, you don’t want anyone accusing you of half-measures, do you?” He looked around—the streets were deserted except for the two of them—so he pushed Blaine up against a lamp-post and kissed his icy mouth just to drive the point home.

“Do that again,” Blaine murmured, tugging at Kurt’s waist to pull him closer, his breath a white plume in the air, his eyes half-lidded.

“No,” Kurt said primly. “Tell me what you want for Christmas, or you’re getting socks.” Blaine snorted. Kurt continued on calmly. “Ugly, expensive socks, that you’ll have to wear because I’m your boyfriend and you love me, and your life will be terrible.”

Blaine laughed so hard he missed his footing and almost went head-first into a snow-draped hedge. Kurt caught him just in time.


Thanks to Blaine’s last-minute decision to attempt a snowball fight (the snow was too powdery and fine to stick together, but once Blaine had started it Kurt of course couldn’t let him win, and they had a pretty good time hurling powder at each other while laughing like a couple of idiots), and thanks to Kurt’s final victory celebration where he tried to give Blaine a snowhawk, the two of them were kind of a mess by the time they staggered back in the front door of the house.

“Blaine, wait,” Kurt managed, hopping on one foot while struggling with his snow-encrusted boot. “Your parents—these are nice floors—we can’t wreck their floors, we can’t wreck their house—”

“Our house,” Blaine said, crowding him up against the wall of the foyer, his eyes closed, his voice soft and husky and urgent. There was snow melting on his eyelashes. “Just… just for today, for tonight, okay? Our house. I’m pretending, I’ve been pretending.” He opened his eyes. “Pretend with me.”

Kurt swallowed hard. Then again. “I… okay. Our house.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t wreck our floors, Blaine.”

Blaine kissed him. Hard. “Of course not. I love our floors.”


They thawed out on the floor in front of the fire that Blaine had built up again, both of them huddled into one blanket. Blaine made them some kind of hot chocolate that involved cinnamon and cream and a stolen quantity of his dad’s rum, and it probably would have been very romantic except for how they had to keep a box of tissues handy to deal with two very runny noses and four watering eyes. They ended up tipsy and slumped against each other, blowing their noses and laughing so hard that Kurt’s stomach muscles ached.

“I’m not cold anymore,” Kurt declared finally, sliding off Blaine’s shoulder and down, setting his empty mug very carefully on the hearth before he rolled onto his back and stripped out of all his shirts at once, tossing the bundle towards the couch.

Blaine blinked at him, his wide grin slowly sobering. “Kurt.” He reached out and touched the side of Kurt’s neck with three warm fingers, tracing down to the dip between his collarbones, pressing gently until Kurt could feel his own heart beating against Blaine’s fingertips. “You look like art.”

Kurt felt himself flush hot, heat blooming on his skin down to his navel. “I’m pretty sure that’s the firelight.”

Blaine tilted his head and licked his lips. “I’m pretty sure it’s not.” He moved in slowly, so very slowly, as if he was afraid Kurt might bolt if he moved too quickly. Kurt closed his eyes and breathed in—everything, chocolate and rum and Blaine’s shampoo, warm skin, woodsmoke. When Blaine kissed him he moaned without meaning to, his exposed nipples tightening to hard, achy peaks, and he blushed so hard he could feel the blood pounding in his head.

“Blaine.” He was so dizzy, so light. He could hear his own heartbeat in his voice. “Bed—we should—”

“Oh, no,” Blaine pulled back enough to strip off his own shirt and undershirt, up on his knees above Kurt, impossibly far away, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight. When Blaine’s hands dropped to his own belt and undid it, opening his pants with slow, deliberate movements, Kurt’s mouth went dry. “Right here, okay? Just this. For now.”

‘This’ turned out to be both of them rolled up naked in the blanket like some kind of boyfriend burrito, kissing and kissing and kissing while Blaine stroked both of them at once. It was slow and hot and maddening and so, so good, and Kurt was drunk enough to not care at all about the amount of noise he made, or about the hungry way Blaine watched him respond between kisses, or the way his own body slipped gradually out of his control, bit by bit.

The rhythm was erratic and there wasn’t a lot of room to move, but for some reason that made everything better—slow enough to draw out and build pleasure until there was nothing else, constrained enough that there was nowhere to get away from it, no hiding from how good it felt or how much he wanted it or how much Blaine’s touch undid him, Blaine’s hand on him there, where he’d wanted it for so long.

“Blaine.” His voice was hoarse and husky and shaky, wrecked. “Are you close? I’m… I won’t last much longer.”

“I want to watch you,” Blaine whispered to him, and Kurt closed his eyes because he couldn’t decide if that was dirty or sweet or both, but whatever it was, it made him vibrate like a plucked guitar string. He arched his head back and groaned and came hard, shaking and clutching Blaine’s shoulders while his hips worked. “Kurt—” there was more, but it got lost between a gasp and a moan when Blaine came on him, hot wet streaks up his stomach and chest until they were glued together, kissing and trying to breathe and just—holding on.

“Oh, God,” Kurt said when he could, his chest still heaving, his skin still tingling right down to his toes. “You’re going to have to burn this blanket.”

Blaine was busy, kissing his neck and his ear and the top of his shoulder and basically everywhere that was within kissing distance. “No way. It’s our blanket. I’m having it bronzed.”

Jesus. Even his ass was sweating. “That’s… jeez. Seriously, Blaine—we’re disgusting.”

Blaine wiggled, sliding around on him. “I kind of love it.”

Kurt broke down into helpless giggles. “Oh my God—you’re such a boy.”

“Mmm. So are you. At least, you sure feel like one. Especially here—”



They kissed in the shower for a long, long time, swaying a little, leaning on each other. By the time they got out Kurt’s fingertips were pruny, but he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care.

Blaine kept touching him, almost petting him. “Sorry,” he said, stepping away reluctantly before attacking his hair with a towel. “It’s just… I spent so long pretending you stopped at the waist, it’s… kind of hard not to reach out and. You know. Now that I can.”

Kurt paused, peeking out from under his own towel. “You can.”

Blaine’s answering grin was self-conscious and bashful and also delighted, and made Kurt seriously consider tackling him to the floor.

He didn’t. But he could have.


“Are you hungry?”


“I should make us something.”

“Huh. Wouldn’t that mean we’d have to get up off this couch and stop making out?”

Blaine squinted. “…yes.”

“I’ll starve.”


“Tell me.”


“Blaine. Tell me.”


“Why not?”

“Because—it’s embarrassing, Kurt. I’m embarrassed. Because you’re asking about… they’re things I thought about when I was… before we… when I was by myself—”

“Blaine.” Kurt caught Blaine’s face, his blushing, blinking, stubbly, beautiful face, and held him, brushing reddened cheeks with his thumbs while he kissed him, softly. “You’re not by yourself anymore.”

In the end Blaine whispered to him with his face buried in the couch cushion under Kurt’s head, his words halting at first, then slowly shifting, becoming smoother, lower, more breathy. Kurt held him, as gently and reassuringly as he could, but as Blaine went on, reassurance changed to… something else, comfort eroded by the slow development of a keen erotic edge until they were rocking together, breathing heavily together, pulling at each other’s clothes and desperate.

It happened fast, with both of them shaking, too many arms and legs for the couch to fit so they wound up on the floor, and neither one of them was willing to wait so they went for it at the same time, both of them on their sides, Blaine’s cock in his mouth while Blaine swallowed him down. It was awkward and rushed, and there was way too much going on all at once but he couldn’t stop needing—only then they were there, locked into each other and into a groove—and suddenly everything worked perfectly. He was moaning. Sucking. Rocking into Blaine’s hot, wet mouth and loving Blaine’s hard, wet cock sliding over his tongue, and desperation dropped away because it was too sweet, too good to end it so soon.

He tried hard not to come, but it was kind of a losing battle until Blaine’s trembling body and stilled hips told him Blaine was doing the same thing—and then everything shifted again. Kurt did everything he could to ignore the open-tight-wet-hot temptation of Blaine’s mouth on him while he focused on working his tongue and taking Blaine deeper into his throat, because he wasn’t going to lose it first; not this time. But there was just so much to try to ignore—Blaine’s low, urgent groans and the taste of him and his smooth skin and spicy smell and the muscles in his hips working and the hungry, sexy heat of his mouth—

In the end, he escalated. Two fingers in his own mouth and then around and softly, gently over Blaine’s hole, a light, teasing touch but it worked like a key in a lock because the next thing he knew Blaine was frantic, groaning so much he couldn’t really suck anymore and humping Kurt’s face with quick, sharp thrusts of his hips, giving him everything he could handle and then some.

Fuck—Kurt—” He’d never heard Blaine use that word before and he wasn’t ready for it; he almost came all over Blaine’s face but then he held back, held back. He pushed the tips of his fingers inside snug, throbbing heat and swallowed hard and Blaine made a noise like he was dying and came, came apart, shaking and fucking his mouth and gasping for air.

“Not fair,” Blaine said weakly afterwards, sprawled on the floor and so gorgeously debauched that Kurt’s heart as well as his cock ached just looking at him, the beautiful, naked, flushed entirety of him, dark eyes and swollen lips and the sheen of sweat on his throat. “You are… seriously… going to pay.”

Blaine held him down hard, hands tight on his hips pinning him to the floor while Blaine sucked him slowly, so slowly, sweet and light and a little sloppy and never-never-never quite enough for what he needed. Kurt moaned and spread and begged unashamedly, so turned on he was vibrating, fists tight in Blaine’s hair and working so hard for more—faster—deeper—only it was useless, Blaine apparently had a plan and was sticking to it, slow licks and soft sucking and teasing circles with his hot, smooth tongue, down over his balls and back up, down on his cock and back up, over and over until Kurt thought there was a distinct possibility that he might start crying.

Please—Blaine. Please-please-please—”

“Love you.”

“God—then stop… teasing me—”

“Love teasing you. Umm—”


“You know.” A soft lick. “What it does to me.” Gentle, rhythmic sucking and the sweet glide of tight lips, so good and then better and then perfect and—and then gone. “When you win.”

So there was nothing to be done, nothing he could do except give up—and that was awful and also wonderful, needing so much, floating and shaking and surrendered to Blaine’s touch. He closed his stinging eyes, and let his moans get softer and more plaintive and finally melt into quiet half-sobs, and he almost didn’t realize when Blaine finally let him move, moving with him and taking him deep and groaning again, only then he did and he held Blaine just so and fucked his mouth and came harder than he’d ever come in his life, burning up from the inside out, coming down Blaine’s throat and burning, burning, burning.


“We have to eat something.” Kiss.

“I know.” Kiss.

“My stomach sounds like a pack of feral wolves.” Kiss.

“I know.” Kiss. “I’ve been hoping they might bring down some large land-mammal, so we could eat some of it.” Kiss.

“God, I don’t want to let go of you.” Many kisses, a plethora of kisses, delicious kisses.

“We, uh. Could call for pizza.”


“And then kiss until it gets here.”

“Kurt. You’re a genius.” Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.




“I’m so full.”

“I’m going to die.”

“I’m dying with you.”

“That’s so sweet, Blaine. Sad, but sweet.”


“Deeply poignant.”

“Nearly operatic in its poignancy.”

“Hm. Now I’m trying to imagine an opera about two boys who die for love, sex, and pizza.”

“Sondheim would totally go there.”

Kurt laughed so hard he snorted.


They took a walk, slipping a little on the snow, hand in hand and bundled up like winterized toddlers. The stars were out, the air fragrant with cold snow and white pine and wood smoke from a hundred chimneys.

Blaine had the hood up on his parka, and all Kurt could see when he glanced over was a white plume of breath. He squeezed Blaine’s hand. “It’s been… a really good day.”

Blaine squeezed back. “The best day,” he agreed, but he sounded unexpectedly solemn.

Kurt linked their arms, resigning himself—if one of them went down, both of them would. “You okay?”

The plume of breath again, and a pause. “I wasn’t ready.”

“For…” Kurt swallowed hard. He clutched Blaine’s arm without thinking. “You mean, you weren’t ready for—”

“Oh—no. No, no—I was ready for that, everything, God, yes, was I ready. I meant… I mean, I wasn’t ready to be away from you.”


“I mean, I didn’t see you the day before Thanksgiving, the first day in… in a long, long time that I hadn’t seen you, and it sucked, but I just kept doing what I was supposed to do, and I figured it would suck for a while and then I’d find a way to get used to it, find a way to handle it, at least—”


“But I didn’t. I didn’t and it just got worse and it hurt, not being with you, and then the next day it was even worse, and I kept thinking—Monday, I have to make it to Monday, how can I possibly make it to Monday—”

Blaine stopped him right in the middle of the deserted, frozen street and reached for him, pulling him close, icy-cold gloves cupping his cheeks. “And I never would have said anything, because I didn’t want to be scary or weird or presumptuous—”

“You’re not… Blaine. You can—”

“I didn’t know that being in love with you was going to be like this.”

Kurt blinked. Blaine’s eyes were only visible as faint glints far back in the depths of his parka hood. “It’s okay, Blaine.” Kurt lifted his own hands and put them over Blaine’s on either side of his face, holding them together. “It’s okay.”

Blaine licked his lips. “It’s okay if I kind of… need you?” He was shivering, either from cold or… or something else. “I just need to know it’s okay for me to need you.”

Kurt kissed him, his arms tight around Blaine’s trembling shoulders in the clear and frozen night, feeling as if the two of them were only tiny specks under the brilliant, wheeling stars. “Come to bed with me,” he whispered when he pulled back from Blaine’s mouth. “Come to bed and show me—show me how much.”


In Blaine’s warm, soft bed he felt like an offering, like a conduit, as if his body was somehow the medium through which the two of them were speaking. He took everything Blaine gave him, naked to everything, every caress, every touch, every look. It wasn’t the time for shyness or for holding back, so when Blaine kissed his neck and his nipples and his navel and the inside of his thigh and the back of his knee and the sensitive curve of his instep, he took it, his hands stretched up high above his head and twisting there, grabbing handfuls of the pillow and hanging on while he gasped for air.

Blaine was absorbed, intent, the look on his face solemn and near-worshipful as he touched and explored and tasted everything. Kurt let his hips roll and his head toss, let his legs spread and his stomach flutter with deep, low moans, let everything move him, move through him, and through everything he kept coming back to Blaine, coming back to soft, sweet kisses that were a caesura, a hold, a brief pause before the next stretch.

It was a stretch—of his body, of his heart, of everything. To stay open, stay naked, to dig his bare feet into Blaine’s sheets for purchase while he rode Blaine’s fingers, working himself open while Blaine watched him. Blaine’s other hand was around his own cock, not stroking but squeezing hard at the root, and Kurt couldn’t stop looking back and forth between Blaine’s hand strangling his own erection and Blaine biting his own lip, pain for his pain—but it wasn’t, not for him, not painful, just—intense. Just wanting. Just needing. More.

Blaine was panting harshly and shivering by the time he finally came into Kurt’s arms, and Kurt wrapped him up, wrapped him up tight and kissed him before he reached down for Blaine’s lubed, sheathed cock. Both of them watched, an unexpected moment of added intimacy with their heads pressed together, watching. Kurt kissed Blaine’s temple and then looked back down—his own hand so pale around Blaine’s flushed-dark shaft, guiding and sliding and not-quite-right and trying again and—there. They looked up at the same time, Blaine’s gasp capturing Kurt’s sigh, transfixed, their eyes locked as their bodies settled into each other.

More stretch, slow, and somehow heavy and delicate at the same time; Blaine was so careful, so careful with him. Kurt’s cock twitched hard, aching. “I won’t break, Blaine.”

“I might,” Blaine answered. He was sweating and shaking, and the look on his face, the raw-nerve excruciating ecstasy there made Kurt’s breath catch in his throat.

Kurt slid one hand up the back of Blaine’s neck, holding tight, silky curls around his fingers while Blaine sank into him, moved in him, slow rocking that turned to thrusting and then went deeper, harder, and a jolt ran through his body that he felt to the roots of his hair. He moaned, and Blaine gasped.

They were still staring at each other. “Blaine.”


“Does it feel good?”

“Oh fuck,” Blaine said, almost sobbed, his mouth open and his eyes locked on Kurt’s and his head nodding, nodding. “God, yes. Yes.”


“I want—” Blaine broke off, swallowing, whispering the rest in a soft, husky rasp. “I want to make you come.”

A dozen possibilities suggested themselves, but in the end there was only one choice that was right for him, for that moment. Blaine slowed down and Kurt moved, shifted, curving his spine and lifting his hips and resettling his legs until the next gentle thrust made him gasp, made his cock bounce against his stomach. “There. Right there. Blaine—”

Blaine’s eyes were huge. “Yeah?”

Oh. Yeah. Yes.”

Perfect—it was perfect. Sweat sprang out on his skin, and his legs tightened and his stomach fluttered fast and his nipples hardened—and he didn’t, didn’t close his eyes, although it was so good he almost couldn’t stand it. Holding on, he was holding on, cupping Blaine’s face in his hands. The pad of his thumb was exquisitely sensitive, moist with Blaine’s breath and sweat, brushing across his lower lip over and over while Blaine fucked him so perfectly, and Kurt shuddered while his body tried to take in way too much goodness at once.

“Kurt.” Blaine’s eyes were hazy, full of light, his face flushed dark. “Kurt, you feel… it’s too good. I’m gonna come.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, I’m… yes.”

He locked his hands behind Blaine’s neck, lacing his fingers together and using the leverage to lift his hips, taking more and more, overloading his already saturated nerves. Then there were no more words because both of them were moaning, Blaine softly, Kurt louder, eye to eye and unbearably close and Blaine’s face looked like he was in pain, a wounded, agonized look that was still so beautiful—Blaine was so beautiful. Their moans layered over each other and they were moving together and then they were coming together—face-to-face with Blaine fucking him while he shot all over both of them, Blaine coming in him while he came on Blaine’s cock—and then Blaine finally, finally kissed him, a wet-hot-amazed-grateful-oh-my-God-I-love-you-kiss, and Kurt finally, finally closed his eyes.


He fell asleep before Blaine did, but when he woke in the middle of the night Blaine was awake, head propped on his hand and staring at him, smiling gently.

“Everything okay?” Kurt asked, and cleared his throat. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” Blaine whispered, lowering his head to the pillow and pulling him close, wrapping him up. “Everything’s… good, it’s really good, I just… I like looking at you.” He brushed Kurt’s hair off his forehead with one finger. “I really like sleeping with you.”

“Me, too,” Kurt whispered back, snuggling in, his eyelids already drooping. “Especially when we both sleep. Good night, Blaine.”

A soft kiss on his forehead. “Good night, Kurt.” A breath. “Kurt?”

Kurt smiled, but didn’t open his eyes. “Yeah?”

“In the morning, will you make me more waffles? Before… before you go?”

Kurt wound his arm around Blaine’s neck and pulled his face close. “I’m never leaving you,” he breathed, and kissed Blaine’s mouth softly. “And—yes. All the waffles in the world, if you want them.”

Another soft, soft kiss. “I want them.”

“Then they’re yours.”


Author’s Endnotes: there are certain stories that I still go back to, even years (or in some cases, decades) after reading them for the first time: stories I turn to when I’m stressed or worried, stories I can sink into and live there for a little while, and forget my troubles while I’m there—stories that have become a solace and haven to me. I’ve been trying to write one of those for a billionty years, but I never quite make it. This was another attempt at writing one. It didn’t make it, but it was a sweet escape anyway, and really fun to write. Thanks for bearing with me while I keep chasing my holy grail.

I’m dedicating this to Yayponies and Epanaphoric. Yayponies because she’s sitting on one of those holy grail stories and someday, I hope, she’ll write it, and Epanaphoric because if I ever actually do develop the skill to comfort to someone with fic, I would try to do so for her.

The title is thieved from Walt Whitman’s poem Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.

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    The snow made me want to re-read this story for the zillionth time. One of my faves. :)
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