Everybody Loves A Misanthrope
Pornspam: Klaine AU, NC-17, Finding The Start of Us

WARNING above the cut: age disparity fic, teacher/student sex.

Title: Finding The Start of Us

Author: Cimmerians

Fandom/Pairing: Glee, Kurt/Blaine

Rating: NC-17 for m/m, age disparity, teacher/student sex, and some drug use

Word Count: 5,672

Summary: AU, Blaine is 36, Kurt is 17, Teacher/Student AU, DO NOT READ if such things do not appeal to you.

WARNINGS: see Summary and Rating.

Author’s notes: This is a gift for Heyblaine, who prompts right up my alley, so to speak.


“It totally figures.”

Blaine turned from the chalkboard he was erasing to see one of his new students (Hummerson? Humble?) standing in the doorway of the classroom with his arms crossed. “I beg your pardon?”

“It totally figures that the first other actual gay person I meet in this town turns out to be my teacher.”

It took him a few moments to realize that the boy was dead serious, sarcastic, and deeply upset all at the same time. His cheeks were bright crimson. “Uh… it’s Kurt, right?”

Kurt nodded, and stepped into the room, arms still crossed over his chest. “Mr. Anderson. You’re gay, aren’t you?”

Blaine hesitated, thinking of Figgins’ cool, half-suspicious assessment, the reserved brown eyes watching him sign his contract. “I… yes.” He took a deep breath. “But I’m not… I don’t generally advertise it. I guess I have a kind of don’t ask/don’t tell approach. I mean, I’m a teacher—”

“I’m not going to tell anyone.” Kurt came a step closer. His cheeks were still flushed, his eyes a myriad of colors, frank and wide. “Why did you tell me?”

Blaine met his gaze. “How old are you?”

Kurt blinked. “Seventeen.” He licked his lips. They were very pink, and looked very soft.

Blaine put the eraser down. “Well, Kurt, I told you because you did ask, and because I remember what it was like to be seventeen, and feel completely, totally alone. To feel like you’re the only one.” He reached out and patted Kurt’s shoulder, just once, briefly. “You’re not alone, and you’re not the only one.” He waited a moment. “Work hard, keep your grades up—you’ll get out, you can move on and do… anything, be anything you want to be.”

Kurt raised one eyebrow. “A lumberjack?”

Blaine tilted his head. “You want to be a lumberjack?”

Kurt blinked. “No. I just wanted to see if you would laugh.”

Blaine grinned. He couldn’t help it. “Nope. I think the lumberjacking world would be damn lucky to have you. Think of the boost to their panache quotient.”

Kurt inspected him narrowly, but it looked like he was trying not to smile. “You’re a little odd, aren’t you, Mr. Anderson?”

Blaine shrugged. “Don’t ask, don’t—”

“Insufferable,” Kurt said, pressing his lips together. He hoisted his book-bag higher on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. Both of them.”


But Kurt was already out the door, melting into the sea of students out in the hallway.

Blaine sighed, and picked up the eraser again.


There were two small rows of treadmills at the Lima Ironworks, and he’d chosen the back row because it was closest to the freeweights and he was already, sadly, exhausted—but it turned out to be a brilliant choice, because the guy running in front of him was… extremely motivational, if distracting: his body was strong and lithe but not bulky, with a beautiful, pert little ass and a tiny waist, broad shoulders and silky-looking brown hair and pale, luminous skin and a jawline that was—

Oh, God. That was Kurt Hummel.

“Hey, Mr. Anderson.” Kurt was flushed-pink and sweating, off the treadmill with a rolled towel hooked around his neck, and Blaine could feel the gears in his brain grinding, trying to unthink everything he’d just been thinking.

“Kurt.” He stepped off the treadmill—he couldn’t. Couldn’t do that and try to cope with this—this feeling like he’d somehow been caught jerking off, and by a student, over a student—“I didn’t, um, know you worked out here.”

Kurt’s smile was rueful. “Yes, well—there’s a slightly lower chance of my being thrown in a dumpster here, so…” he shrugged. “See you in class,” he added, moving towards the men’s locker room.

In class. Where part two of what-has-been-seen-cannot-be-unseen would unroll itself, where he would be required to lead a discussion on gerunds and not get distracted by the ridiculously pretty seventeen-year-old with the angel’s face and the tempting, succulent ass.

“Fuck my entire life,” he mumbled, and the soccer mom on the treadmill next to him gasped audibly.


When he rounded the corner, the group standing near the dumpster shifted slightly. A transparent move, one that might have fooled an idiot.

“Gentlemen,” he said calmly, making sure to look each of them in the eye. Marking faces. Giving no sign of the low rage boiling in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, hey, Mr. Anderson. Hummel’s just giving us some, uh—”

“Fashion advice—”

Half-stifled laughter. It stopped when he held up his hand. “Let him go.”

“Mr. Anderson, we weren’t—”

“Let him go.” Kurt collected his jacket from one boy, his bag from another, and was gone. Blaine looked at the rest of them—some defiant, some guilty, some bored, some angry. “I could give you all detention. I won’t, because I don’t trust you not to take out your frustration on the next poor kid unlucky enough to be near you. But I’ll tell you this: if I hear of this happening again, if I find out it happened again, I’ll see to it that each one of you is suspended, and I will personally explain to your parents precisely why, and why I am encouraging the parents of your victim to sue all of their asses for everything they own.”

Nobody looked bored now. One redheaded kid was frowning. “You can’t do that—”

“I can. I will. So don’t.” He nodded toward the building as the bell rang. “Now, get the hell out of my sight.”

In class, there was a flower on his desk. A folded note. Thank you. He swept them both into his desk drawer. “Open to chapter four, please. This will be on Friday’s quiz.”

He ignored the groans, ignored the fall sunshine slanting in through the windows, making Kurt glow like an incandescent beacon with solemn, ocean-deep eyes.


In the locker room, he was sitting on the long, wooden bench, the pleasant burn-and-ache in his muscles from lifting too much, running too long, wet from the shower and drying off and wondering where that music was coming from—the man across from him, pale and exquisite as if carved from marble, dropping his towel and the shock of dark hair framing a heavy, lovely cock. “Do you see?”

Kurt. Showing him. There. Right there, naked and unafraid. There was something that was important for him to remember, but he didn’t know what and honestly he couldn’t care, not when Kurt was straddling his sore legs and wrapping silky arms around his neck and coming close—perfect, perfect boy, the slide of skin under Blaine’s hands from his shoulderblades to his waist criminally smooth, and Kurt was moaning, so softly, moaning and riding him and oh, oh—

Blaine sat up in bed panting, choking a little on shame and trying not to come but he was already there, coming unwillingly and miserably and steeped in disgrace, guilty awful furtive pleasure and oh, Jesus, he really, really needed to get laid.


He was determined, absolutely determined—no real or imagined standards were going to intervene, no concerns about whether or not the guy read books or voted Democratic or had a wife and kids back home when he wasn’t trawling Scandals for hookups—Mr. Right was not necessary; Mr. Right-Now would do just fine.

Mr. Right-Now turned out to be a guy named Dan, dark-skinned and effete with tight locs and a close-trimmed beard, and a charmingly brazen sarcastic wit that made Blaine laugh despite himself. He was sinking joyfully, handing over drinks and relishing the brush of fingers, the arch of a delicately-shaped eyebrow, losing himself in warm, appreciative glances, anticipating dancing, anticipating kissing plush lips and fine-grained skin and the feel of a hard cock against his own—

“It’s okay, Princess,” a deep voice said over his shoulder. “Let’s just get you in the car, and you’ll be fine.”

He almost didn’t look—but he did. The speaker was a guy who was probably in his forties, hawk-faced with cold, amused eyes. The ‘Princess’… was Kurt, obviously extremely drunk, barely able to stand and hanging on to the guy’s neck. The guy was holding Kurt close with one hand, and groping his ass with the other. Blaine was up and blocking the way before he knew he meant to move.

“Mr. Anderson!” Kurt was brilliantly pink-cheeked even in the low light, his hair mussed and his clothing rumpled, he was smiling. “Hi!”

“Look, buddy,” the hawk-faced man said to him, looking mildly irritated. “You two can have a reunion later, okay? He’ll still be all kinds of happy to see you once I’m done with him, but I’m kind of on a schedule here—”

“What did you give him?” Blaine demanded, checking Kurt’s eyes quickly, the pulse in his neck, the flushed heat of his clenched jaw. “He’s not just drunk.”

“He was just a little shy,” the guy said defensively. “But he—he said he wanted to have fun—”

“He’s underage,” Blaine gritted through his teeth, pulling on Kurt’s elbow until Kurt flowed into his arms, draping around his neck. The other man still had one of Kurt’s arms. “He’s underage and incapacitated by drugs you gave him, and that’s statutory rape, and unless you want to spend your next years in prison and the rest of your life on the sex offenders’ registry, you should let go. Now.”

The guy let go, shared a few choice words that Blaine completely ignored, then left. Blaine closed his eyes and exhaled, slowly. When he opened his eyes, Dan was standing there. “One of your students?”

“Yeah,” Blaine said, lifting his chin when Kurt tried to nuzzle his throat. “Sorry, I’ll need to—”

“I understand,” Dan said, taking a business card out of his wallet and tucking it into the front pocket of Blaine’s pants. “You’re cute, Blaine. And you’re a nice guy. Call me sometime.” And he was gone.

A nice guy. “You feel amazing,” Kurt breathed, rubbing up against him. “And you smell so good—”

“Stop that,” Blaine snapped, and leveraged Kurt out of the bar, practically carrying him by the time they reached his Volvo. “Jesus, Kurt—what were you thinking?”

“I was trying,” Kurt said slowly, attempting to run his hands through Blaine’s hair while Blaine got his seatbelt fastened. “Not to think. To stop thinking. Thinking sucks.” He giggled a little. “I think you should stop putting so much goop in your hair. It’s sexy-messy when it’s… when… you’re so sexy.”

He closed the door carefully, then circled the car and hesitated, his eyes closed, taking a few deep breaths before he opened his own door.

“I can’t go home,” Kurt was babbling, already in midstream and sliding around on the leather seat like he couldn’t hold still. “I told my dad I was spending the night with Mercedes, and I can’t—”

“Your father lets you spend the night at your girlfriend’s house?”

“Of course he—he knows, he knows about me, knows I’m not… oh God I feel funny.”

“I should probably take you to the hospital.”

“No—please—” a hand came out of the dark, squeezing his arm. “No, I’ll be fine, I’m just… tingly. Dizzy. I feel… can we make out?”

No.” He started the car, and groped behind his seat until he found an unopened bottle of water. “Drink this. Slowly.”

“Ummm, water.” Kurt was stroking the bottle, drinking and breathing and sighing, still sliding restlessly against the leather. “Can you turn on some music, please?”

MDMA and alcohol—hopefully nothing worse. He turned on the radio and concentrated on driving, ruthlessly ignoring the gasps and swallows and quiet moans from the passenger seat. “Your name is Blaine.”


“It’s pretty. Blaiiiiiiine.”

“Look, Kurt. Just—”

“Were you going to fuck that guy?”

Blaine almost drove off the road. “That’s enough—”

A soft, breathy moan. “Would you touch me? Just a little?”

Blaine squeezed the steering wheel. “Kurt, I am going to take you straight to the hospital if you don’t stop—”

“Okay, okay, no—no hospital. I just… I don’t usually ask, you know, but that place that stops me is gone, it’s just gone, and I—”

“Drink your water.”

He took Kurt to his house—undoubtedly an idiotic thing to do, but there wasn’t exactly an abundance of other options. “You’ll use my room,” he told Kurt, steering him by the shoulders. “There’s a bathroom and a bed—you should take a shower, drink some more water, and get some sleep.”

He was firm. He was resolute. He took a pillow and blanket from the hall closet and settled on the couch, then got up and turned on his stereo once he realized that even through the closed door he could hear soft moaning and the creaking of his ancient bedsprings and his name. He turned it up. Mrs. Landry from next door rang his cell and told him off about it—he was a teacher, he was supposed to be setting a good example; not carrying on like some kind of party animal—what was he thinking?

He turned the stereo off. At least it was quiet.


In the morning Kurt was pale and silent, grey-purple shadows under his eyes. “You’re going to feel like crap for a while,” Blaine told him, handing over a large glass of water and a mug of herbal tea. “And forgive me for saying so, but I sincerely hope you feel bad enough, for long enough, to convince you that last night was a really, really terrible idea.”

“I’m so sorry.” Curled up with his knees tucked under his chin Kurt might have been no more than fifteen, shadows and pain and regret in his face, a wounded bird. “I won’t ever… I’m not ever going to do that again.”

Blaine closed his eyes. The mental image of him comforting Kurt, holding him close and giving him a place to hide, creating a safe refuge for two, refused to be dispelled. “Good. Okay. I’ll hold you to it.”


“Mr. Anderson?”

Blaine jumped a little. He’d started erasing the board when the bell rang and the class filed out, and he’d thought they had all gone. But Kurt was still there, second-row center in his customary spot, spectacularly coiffed and flawlessly dressed and (terrible to think, but Blaine had given up on trying to suppress it) desperately lovely, the tilt of his chin an invitation to nuzzle there, to bite.

He kept his face carefully neutral. “Yes, Kurt?”

“Are you lonely?”

It wasn’t the question he’d expected. And because of that, it wasn’t one he had adequate defenses against. “I… sometimes. Sometimes, I am.” He set down the eraser, brushed his hands off. He tried not to look like he felt, which was… naked.

Kurt got up from his desk and came to him, cheeks pink and eyes wide. His heartbeat was visible in the pale, hollowed dip of his throat. “I’m lonely.”


“Maybe we… we don’t have to be—”

“Kurt.” He kept his voice low, but sure. As much surety as he could summon. “I’m thirty-six years old. You’re seventeen. I’m your teacher. No.”

Kurt looked away, swallowing visibly. He nodded, his eyes over-bright. “Right. Okay. I just had to ask.” He looked back at Blaine, a line of pain between his brows, so pretty and so bruised that Blaine’s heart squeezed like a fist. “Do you hate me now?”

Blaine had to blink rapidly, drawing in a breath that stung. “No.” Stupid, it was a stupid thing to do, but he couldn’t stop himself—he reached out, adjusted one of Kurt’s lapels, brushing his fingers over silky fabric. “I’m never going to hate you, Kurt.”

Kurt’s head hung down. “I… okay.” He wiped his eyes with one hand and stepped back, and all at once Blaine could breathe again. “I’m going to hold you to that, Mr. Anderson.”


Faculty parties were horrible, horrible things. Blaine confidently expected his first WMHS faculty party to meet that standard—and it did, until he got around to asking Figgins why there was a banner that said Welcome Tammy Jean! stretched across one wall of his living room—then it got much worse.

“It’s a real coup for us at McKinley High, Blaine!” Figgins said. “Senator Tammy Jean Albertson herself will be here later after her fundraising prayer circle, to talk to us about the legislation she’s sponsoring—”

Albertson. “Wait a minute, the Albertson-Drier Bill? The bill to ban gay teachers?”

“You see, this is precisely the type of misinformation that we are all going to have to work hard to dispel,” Figgins answered solemnly, with one hand on Blaine’s shoulder. “It’s not a ban—”

“I’ve read the bill,” Blaine snapped. Figgins drew back. “They want all teachers to sign a ‘morality pledge’—including that they won’t have premarital sex, and are not a practicing homosexual, and won’t—”

“But these are things that all teachers and administrators should be in favor of, because it protects the children, Blaine! Of course we all want to protect the children—”

“It’s discrimination,” Blaine said, and his voice was steady but it still sounded so very far away, and his pulse was racing and… no. Just. No. “This… the bill would do nothing to protect children. All it would do is—”

“It would instill good Christian values,” Figgins said soothingly. “Which will help us stem the tide of all of the adolescent depravity, the teen lesbians and rainbow parties and this terrible sexy-texting that—”

“I have to go,” Blaine said, and he didn’t mean to say that, but what he’d really meant to say was locked tight in his throat, where it was going to stay. “I’ll see you on Monday, Principal Figgins. Please thank your wife for her hospitality.”

He turned and left.


He drove on autopilot—in the wrong direction. He drove aimlessly, mindlessly, until he suddenly realized he was far outside Lima, and far outside his knowledge of the surrounding areas. He pulled off the road and breathed for a few minutes, then turned the car around and drove back slowly, looking for familiarity, waiting to be calm.

He was calm when he pulled into his driveway, calm when he got out of the car, calm when he climbed the steps to his door—only then Kurt stepped out of the shadows, all in black from head-to-toe, and Blaine’s hand tightened on his keys until he could feel metal teeth digging into his palm. “Kurt.”

“I wanted to see you,” Kurt said, so quietly it was almost inaudible. “I’m sorry, I just… oh. What’s wrong? What happened?”

Blaine shuddered down to his bones, and all the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He hesitated, hesitated, then unlocked his front door and held it open, his palm whispering against the grain of the wood like it held a low electric charge.

He didn’t turn the lights on. Inside with the door closed Kurt was only a dark shape against the white wall of the entryway. He could have been anybody. Blaine closed his eyes and took a deep breath—no, not anybody. Kurt. A soft, enticing, complicated scent. Kurt.

Blaine flipped the light switch. He watched Kurt’s pupils contract, saw his throat work as he swallowed. Kurt was breathing light and fast, incandescent shining out of all the black, his white hands spread against the wall by his sides, his face so naked, so perfect, an ache of beauty. Blaine licked his lips. “Kurt. Listen to me.” He put his own hands on Kurt’s shoulders, felt a shiver there, felt things skewing away from him, like standing in a heavy undertow. He stood his ground. “If you ever… if you need to talk about this, if you need to tell someone, you tell. Find someone you can talk to, no matter who it is, and talk to them. Do you understand me?”

“I… Blaine—”

“Tell me you understand.”

Kurt’s lips were rosy, half-open, his eyes wide. “I understand.”

Blaine hadn’t told his hands to move; they’d moved on their own, sliding up to cup Kurt’s face, criminally soft skin, flushed-warm cheeks under his thumbs. “Say my name again.”

“Blaine—” just a breath, a quiet susurrus barely enough to stir a feather, but Blaine let it pull him in, covered Kurt’s mouth with his own and tilted his head just so, working his way in slowly. Kurt moaned in his mouth and shivered under his touch, hands coming to rest on Blaine’s waist, a barely-felt presence. Kurt’s mouth was soft and wet and heartbreakingly inexperienced, tentative and new, half-eager and half-shocked and when Blaine pulled back Kurt swayed towards him, his eyes heavy-lidded, a riot of color in his cheeks.

“I… ah. Umm…”

“Come on,” Blaine said, as gently as he could manage, drawing Kurt after him into the dark.

He turned on the small lamp that sat on the desk in his bedroom, and looked up to find Kurt standing frozen, staring at him. “Are you okay?”

Kurt blinked, swallowed, and his hands flew through the air briefly, like birds. “Yes, I—yes, I just… don’t know what to do.”

“What do you want to do?”

A flutter of lashes. A lick of candy-red lips. “I… everything?”

“Okay. We’ll start with that.”

Blaine moved in, took Kurt by the waist and pulled him close, and the next kiss was hungry, holding nothing back, holding Kurt up when his knees gave out and he slumped in Blaine’s arms. Blaine steered him toward the bed and laid him down, straddled him and kissed him and swallowed his gasps for breath as Blaine worked him out of his jacket, his vest, his tight-fitted shirt, his undershirt.

Skin like silk, body like a tight-thrumming wire. Kurt was so… new, flushed all the way down to his sternum and shivering at the soft touch of lips or scrape of stubble on his neck, his ribs, his tight, pink nipples. Both of them moaned when he licked Kurt’s navel, and Blaine rose up onto his knees, stripped his own shirt and undershirt off with one pull, and tossed them aside.

“Oh my God,” Kurt said faintly, reaching out but not-quite touching him, hands hovering until Blaine took them in his own and put one on his waist, one on his chest. Kurt gasped like he’d been shocked, stroking lightly.

Blaine let Kurt explore, and used his thumbs and the drag of his chin and nips of his teeth and soft, gentle suction everywhere that was on offer until Kurt shuddered hard under him. “Blaine—”

He pulled back and popped the button on Kurt’s jeans, and heard Kurt’s breathing ratchet up until he was almost panting. Kurt had both fists dug into the bedding and his hips were restless, moving as if he couldn’t help it. His eyes were brilliant, blazing. Blaine stopped with his fingers tucked into the waistband. “Okay?”

Kurt nodded, shivered, and moaned a little when Blaine unzipped him and stripped him bare—pants, boxer-briefs and socks all gone in one pull. Naked, Kurt was exquisite, pearl-white except for his dark hair and hard, blood-flushed cock, innocently, sweetly pornographic; shy and aroused and irresistible. Blaine touched him everywhere, just lightly, and Kurt arched into his hands, writhing a little, pressing his head back into the pillows. “You… oh. You too, please?”

Blaine climbed off the bed to shuck his own pants, briefs and socks, and collected lube from his bedside drawer before he straddled Kurt again, using a generous handful on both of them as he pressed their cocks together, sliding both of them through his fist and working his hips. Kurt bucked and groaned loudly, his hands squeezing Blaine’s knees hard. “Blaine—”

“Too much?”

“Nuh… no. Please. That’s… umm—”

He kept it slow, stroke and swivel and the sweet, liquid slide of his own cock dragging across Kurt’s, a drawn-out tease of sensation meant to tantalize more than anything else, but despite all that it wasn’t long before Kurt was shaking, his breath hitching in his chest and his hips jerking, his face gone deep red. “Blaine, I’m… oh, I can’t—”

“It’s okay, Kurt,” Blaine breathed softly, sliding his free hand up Kurt’s tensed, trembling arm. “Go ahead, whenever you want. It’s okay.”

Struggle, as clear as the glow of heat where their bodies were pressed together. Kurt tossed his head, his eyes fluttered closed and then snapped open, he bit his lip and clawed Blaine’s knees a little and then pushed into Blaine’s hand, turning his head away and crying out softly, helplessly, his cock throbbing rhythmically while he came all over both of them, streaks of white on his stomach and chest and up to the hollow of his throat. Blaine eased him through it, slowing his strokes to a languid, indulgent touch, something deep at the core of him burning white-hot at the sight of Kurt undone and covered in come and glossed with sweat, a debauched angel.


“Oh, God.” Kurt reached for him, but his arms fell, limp, to the duvet. “Kiss me, please?”

Blaine licked up Kurt’s body with slow deliberation, one long, steady trail through salt-bitter drops before he devoured Kurt’s mouth, and swallowed. Kurt had his shoulders, shaking hands clinging to him, soft moans and he was still hard, hard when Blaine ground them together, tight little circles and sliding on lube and sweat and come, and Kurt couldn’t seem to stop gasping.

Blaine rolled them over, got both his legs between Kurt’s and gently pried them open, then more lube and more kisses, soft kisses, tender kisses while he stroked his lubed fingers from the top of the cleft of Kurt’s ass on down—slow and easy, letting Kurt move as he pleased. Kurt went still, suspended but not rigid, and their mouths were open and touching but held there, just sharing breath, quiet and a pervasive sense of something sacred as he slid his fingers over Kurt’s faintly twitching hole.

Kurt moaned, so softly, and rolled his hips a little. Blaine kissed him and stroked more firmly, circling there, so wet and hot and Kurt’s thighs flexed around his, squeezing in. Kurt groaned when Blaine pressed back, pressed him open, spread him wide and then dipped inside him, just the smallest touch, a taste, a tease.

Kurt was still. They were both quiet, breathing mouth to mouth. They were quiet until Blaine slipped in just the very tips of two fingers, then Kurt gasped sharply, his cock jerked against Blaine’s stomach and he made some low, subvocal noise, half-interrogatory and half-shocked. He buried his face in the curve of Blaine’s neck, and Blaine cupped him and spread him and kept working him open, going deeper and adding fingers until Kurt was rocking, arching up and then pressing down, moaning in Blaine’s ear like he couldn’t stop.

Blaine—oh, oh, ohh—”

Three fingers, deep, and Kurt was riding his hand and shaking like he was coming apart. “You can come, Kurt.”

“I… I don’t… that’s… oh God, right there—” Kurt’s body was wonderfully lithe, rolling from shoulders to hips while he spread and gasped and came on Blaine’s stomach, hot and shuddering and clinging close, squeezing tight around Blaine’s fingers.

In the aftermath Kurt’s mouth was silky-wet and sweetly lax, heaving gently for breath between kisses. Blaine rolled Kurt over again and spread him out, touching and tasting everything he could. He parted Kurt’s thighs and pushed them up, licking him from the crack of his ass to the tip of his cock and back down again, his mouth watering and his own balls throbbing heavily. Kurt felt so good in his hands, heavy-limbed and peach-skinned, moaning and surrendered and utterly undone.

Kurt’s hips churned when Blaine licked his ass, and Kurt spread wide, holding his own knees apart, thrashing gently on Blaine’s tongue. Blaine worked three fingers back into Kurt’s ass and then went down on him, and soft, stunned noises spiraled up and up, high, tender cries that Blaine could feel everywhere. He pulled back slowly, catching Kurt’s hands in his own when they reached for him, walking forward on his knees until he straddled Kurt’s chest. Kurt’s eyes were luminous and hazy, sparking when Blaine folded the pillow under his head double to tilt him up to the right angle.

“Okay?” Blaine asked, and Kurt nodded, licking his lips and blushing again, breathing fast through his open mouth.


Blaine held his aching cock with one hand and cupped Kurt’s face with the other, traced slick-red, open lips with the wet tip before he eased forward, cutting off Kurt’s low moan. He kept himself in check despite the wet, fierce heat and softness of Kurt’s mouth around him, feeding Kurt only a little at a time, and barely moving at all. It took a while for Kurt to figure out how to breathe, and Blaine stayed patient while he learned, thrusting shallowly and unable to look away from those sweet, pink lips stretched around him.

Kurt’s tongue was like wet velvet, slick and so, so soft, and once Kurt moaned and clutched his hips Blaine let go a little, fucking Kurt’s mouth deeper, slower, luxuriating in sweetness until he broke out in a sweat and couldn’t help groaning.

Kurt’s hands on him squeezed almost painfully tight, and Blaine pulled back. “Kurt?”

“Blaine, I’m…” Kurt swallowed and tossed his head, sliding over the sheets as if he couldn’t keep still. “It aches.”

Blaine slid down for a kiss and Kurt wound around him like a vine, arms and legs clinging, rubbing against him. Kisses deep and slow, Kurt’s hands in his hair and he had to strain to pull back enough to fish a condom out of his bedside drawer and roll it on. More lube, on him and on Kurt—and Kurt moaned brokenly when Blaine’s fingers slid inside him, twisting and rocking and squeezing Blaine’s waist with his fever-hot, muscular thighs.

Sinking in was like drowning by millimeters, Kurt gasping and holding onto him, and Blaine had to grab Kurt’s hips to keep him still, stop him from rocking up and taking too much too fast. He worked them together slowly, watching Kurt for any signs of pain but Kurt was just… open, open and wanting and sweating and tight, wet-tight-hot and they were both moaning until he caught Kurt’s mouth for another kiss.

It was too good, he was going to have to fight to make it last—but Kurt sobbed with pleasure when Blaine took him in hand and started stroking him, shaking and arching up and obviously already close, and Blaine set a faster pace accordingly, fucking Kurt and fisting him and kissing him, working his free arm under Kurt’s waist to pull them tight together.

“Just… hold off a little, if you can,” Blaine said between kisses, and Kurt bucked and shuddered and spread under him.

Can’t—that feels… so good—please—”

Satin-wet arms around his neck, hungry mouth, hard cock in his fist throbbing, tight flesh around him all flutter and squeeze, and in the end he gave up and pushed, fucking Kurt hard and fast, holding him close and working him expertly until Kurt’s body locked up and he came with one low, rough cry—and the rest got a little lost because Blaine gasped and twisted his hips and came himself, a roar in his ears and a wild hum deep in his chest while his nerves fired crazily, pouring himself out like he was never going to be able to stop.


Soft light. Quiet. And the very faint beginnings of the first stirrings of regret—until Kurt pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him, kissing him deeply with evident satisfaction.



“You’re a really good teacher.”

There was no way not to laugh at that—it was horrible, but there was no way not to. Kurt ducked into the curve of his neck and giggled, and Blaine stroked down Kurt’s sweaty back until he had a handful of his perfect, peachy ass, and then they were kissing again and still giggling, and Blaine felt weirdly, perversely young.

“Stay with me tonight?” he asked, squeezing lightly, lost in Kurt’s lovely eyes. “If you can find a way. If you want to.”

“I… really?” Kurt whispered, biting his bottom lip. “You want me to stay?”

That warm hum in his chest—it was still there. And he knew what it meant. And it was all too easy to think about a time in the future when he might curse himself for it, but for now there were candy-pink lips to kiss softly, and a sweet boy to wrap up in his arms. “I do. Very much.”

Kurt snuggled close, silky hair tickling Blaine’s forehead, one deliciously naked thigh stretched across his hips. “Okay. I’d love to.”

A quiet moment, and Kurt found Blaine’s hand without words, lacing their fingers together solemnly. A beginning. Blaine squeezed and Kurt squeezed back, and they lay in Blaine’s bed and looked into each other’s eyes, holding together while everything changed.


Author’s Endnotes: blah blah blah hifalutin splaining and writerly burdens no jk this is just a gratuitous pile of porn for Heyblaine J

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