misqueue: Blaine smiling at Kurt on stage after apologizing in 3x05 "The First Time" (glee - kurt/blaine - shared smile)
misqueue ([personal profile] misqueue) wrote2014-05-01 01:18 pm

[Fic] Like All Dreamers (Klaine advent prompt #12 loft)

Like All Dreamers

Kurt/Blaine | MA/NC-17 | Drama/Erotica | melancholy sweetness, sex | Set during 4x14 "I Do" | for klaineadvent prompt #12 loft | title from Duran Duran’s "Save a Prayer" | Blaine realizes Kurt still trusts him, at least this much. It's a start. | ~3,500 words

Assumes events of In the World of Silence (particularly chapter 12) but it should stand alone.



February 2013


Blaine stands near the punchbowl; it's where Kurt left him. Kurt's gone somewhere, excused himself some twenty minutes ago, but he said he'd be back soon. Asked Blaine to wait for him. Scattered heart-shaped confetti glitters pink on the beige patterned carpet beneath his feet: escapees from the earlier spill over the dance floor. Idly, Blaine sweeps the toe of his shoe across it, making it jump, one tiny heart sticks to the black leather.

The reception playlist is full of memories that don't feel entirely like his own, songs from when Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury were his age, but he knows them all. He's always loved the music from that time of strange sharpened fears and fragments of wild joy, like the terrible weight of one enhanced the other, made people more desperate to drown in the moments that shone so brightly.

Over the speakers, Simon Le Bon croons, "All alone ain't much fun / So you're looking for the thrill."

This one is a vivid burst of his own actual memory, sticky summer afternoons in the cul-de-sac, singing a song about a one night stand with his brother. He loved the song—had no idea what it was about at the time—but Cooper enjoyed how the girls of the neighborhood would flock to their performances. He remembers Cooper chiding him, "Come on, Squirt! Simon Le Bon was doing television commercials when he was your age. Smile! See how much they love you when you smile?" He'd been six at the time.

Blaine takes a sip of punch to break the catch of emotion in his throat.

Tina is dancing with Mike, Sam with Brittany. Other couples hold each other close, move together slowly in the spiraling melody of the music. The ache lodged in Blaine's chest is only partly loneliness, only partly spawned by old memory. More of it is bound in the present, more immediate pangs of the unexpected (but perhaps no less ephemeral than the song reflects) intimacy he and Kurt have shared today. That memory is fresh: Kurt kissing him in the car, the way Kurt had looked at him, and the things Kurt had said. Singing with Kurt tonight, too, all the space and hurt between them had floated away. Everything felt possible again on that stage.

"You don't have to dream it all, just live a day," the song tells him.

Blaine looks down at his cup of punch to keep his smile for himself. They may not be together, but Kurt still wants him. Everything may be impossible, far more than what he may hope for, but there are many degrees of something. And there's a lot of something still between them—possibly even some things that are brand new.

And it's then that Kurt's voice intrudes: "Hey," Kurt says, and Blaine looks up with a rush of heat to his face, as if Kurt's just caught him out and knows what's on his mind.

"Hi," Blaine says with what breath remains in his lungs. It's caught him a hundred different times today, every time he's looked: Kurt is lean, sharp and stunning in his meticulously tailored dinner suit. The drape and glitter of the chain at his throat beckons desire. The grace of his posture, one hand tucked into a trouser pocket, and the set of his shoulders weakens Blaine's knees but strengthens the beat of his heart.

Kurt tilts his head, and there's a gleam in his eyes and a promising kink in his smile when he asks, "Would you care to dance?"

Blaine smiles more brightly than Cooper ever taught him, with all of his heart on display for Kurt, so there can be no doubt: "I'd love to."

Kurt takes his hand and leads him onto the dance floor. Blaine keeps his grip firm around the warmth of Kurt's palm and the strength of his fingers. They weave between couples caught up in each other and the music, and Kurt turns to him. Then Blaine lets go, but only so Kurt may draw him near.

Being near Kurt like this, the whole length of their bodies brushing and sharing their heat as they sway together, the scent of Kurt's cologne, the pale line of his neck, it's a pull on Blaine as fundamental as gravity.

"And you wanted to dance so I asked you to dance / But fear is in your soul," sings Le Bon, and it's so powerful in coincidence, Blaine presses his cheek to Kurt's and says softly, "I'm not afraid." He feels the contraction of muscle that tells him Kurt is smiling, but Kurt doesn't reply, just dances with him.

Eventually, the reception playlist music falls into silence, and Blaine eases himself back half a step to see Finn and Rachel take the stage. They smile at each other, giddy and nervous, almost childlike in their awkward and earnest affection.

The piano starts, a resigned heaviness underlies a melancholy longing. Finn begins the song:


"I know it's late, I know you're weary. / I know your plans don't include me."


Kurt hasn't let go of his hand, pulls him closer again, back into his arms, even as Blaine wonders at the apparent theme of the evening. It reveals itself to him as if by design—as if the universe itself is urging him onward. How can it feel so perfectly inevitable that he be exactly here in Kurt's arms just like this? The promise of them yet finding some respite and pleasure together rises in warm eddies beneath his skin. The possibility of a new beginning stubbornly lingers, a bright flash of hope aflutter in his chest.

He doesn't resist it. Slowly they move together, and slowly they come together, until Blaine's head rests upon Kurt's shoulder, Kurt's hands on the back of Blaine's ribs keep them pressed close, and Blaine can feel the response of both their bodies, and they are in accord. He turns his face toward Kurt's neck and inhales, exhales, closes his eyes, moves with Kurt, feels the heat between them intensify, feels how they both want.

Lifts his head to murmur softly near Kurt's ear. "I know we're not together, but whatever else we are, I'm still yours." He doesn't have to add, If you want me, because he knows Kurt does. Kurt does, and that's a glorious truth to hold.

Kurt's reply is a tightening of his arms around Blaine, and then he says, quietly but clearly, "I got us a room."

It's an echo of last Valentine's Day, another invocation of memory. Does Kurt intend it to be so? Blaine has to shut his eyes, center himself within Kurt's embrace before he can reply: "Let's go."

##

In the soft colors and warm light of the hotel room, the grip Kurt has on his tie keeps Blaine's lips pressed fast to Kurt's. Kurt's knuckles push the knot against the base of Blaine's throat, a tantalizing pressure that tangles around the root of his tongue, seems to hold it immobile. But Blaine has to speak to ask Kurt. He turns his head to free his mouth, drags his lips along Kurt's jawline, and Kurt's grip loosens, permits Blaine's movement. The not-quite stubble beneath Kurt's skin abrades his lips, makes them tingle. He wants to know if Kurt's thinking about it, wants Kurt to know he is. "Do you remember last Valentine's Day?" he asks, trailing soft breath against the fine texture of Kurt's throat. After everything, he still smells like home. Blaine presses his lips to the tender skin, kisses Kurt's pulse, drags his lips to the most sensitive places he knows, lingers in the dip below Kurt's ear, behind his jaw. Hooks his index and middle fingers in the loose chain on Kurt's bowtie. Tugs.

He feels the muscles contract in Kurt's throat, a reflexive spasm as his breath stops. Blaine lifts his head and dares to look. Kurt's looking right back at him. Below heavy eyelids, his gaze is deep with longing and memory.

"I remember," Kurt whispers, and there's a wisp of apprehension unmistakable in the quiet syllables.

Blaine smiles and slides his other hand along Kurt's jaw until his fingers are pushing into Kurt's hair behind his ear. "Me too," he says. Don't be afraid, he wants to say. You're so safe with me. Kurt's gaze is growing unfocused with desire, and Blaine wants to give Kurt everything he wants.

"Are you—?" Kurt starts and his breath falls away in a rush as he leans into Blaine's hand. "Is that what you want?" he asks. "Because I don't think I can—"

"No," Blaine says, and lets his fingers slip from the bowtie, to skip down to the buttons of Kurt's shirt, working them loose. "I just want to give you whatever you need. Please let me."

"Blaine," Kurt pleads, half entreaty, half something else.

"Come to bed with me?"

It's nothing so cliche as a movie scene after that. No trail of their clothes leading to the bed, the result of urgent fumbling desire. Kurt strips the comforter off the bed, folds it, and retrieves from his jacket a three-pack of condoms and a tube of KY, tosses them onto the bed (it was all he could get at the corner 7-11, he says, and that explains the twenty minute absence). Blaine takes Kurt's suit jacket, hangs it beside his in the closet and drapes his dress pants over the back of a chair along with Kurt's. There'll be no Prom: The Morning After wardrobe disaster.

But Blaine's still got his shirt and tie on when Kurt reaches for him and pushes him down to the bed. Blaine is breathless, lying on his back and Kurt is over him, dark-eyed and flushed and wondering. He sees Kurt's lust, and it's been so long and something he feared he wouldn't see again. Always hoped, but didn't dare expect. The naked desire in Kurt's gaze is all for him, all upon him. He sees it, and he wants to feed it in any way he can, wants it to consume him. Blaine says, "Yes" to whatever Kurt is asking. Kurt leans downs and kisses him, loosens his tie, unbuttons his shirt, pushes up his undershirt and kisses his chest, makes Blaine moan.

Kurt is quiet in a way he rarely has been in the past, and there's something clumsy and rough in the work of his hands, as if he's trying to be more gentle, but he doesn't remember Blaine's body entirely. He's all tight grips, sudden movement, and heavy hot gaze.

Blaine helps Kurt out of his shirt and undershirt, marvels at what just a month of NYADA dance class has done for Kurt's torso, lays an admiring hand upon Kurt's flat belly. "You look good," Blaine says, lets his fingers trip down to the waistband of Kurt's boxer briefs.

Quick smile, only a little bit self-conscious. "So do you," Kurt says, and then he's shifting his weight down again, kissing Blaine deeply, and grinding his pelvis against Blaine's.

The desire Blaine's kept so carefully wrapped up like a jagged edged stone in his chest, he lets it soften and expand, blossom as the heat of his arousal fills him, and Blaine breathes. He can breathe so easily like this. Kurt's hands on him are like magic, conjuring him back from the grayscale daydreams and fantasies he's been using to sustain himself in Kurt's absence. Kurt's dragging the little multicolored pieces of Blaine's hunger and ache from all the places Blaine's been carefully containing them. It thrills him—a sort of wild and giddy thing to embrace—how Kurt can elicit this much from him, so much, so deftly, and he's so desperate for it, for the relief Kurt gives him.

"What do you want?" he asks Kurt.

With a groan, Kurt shifts again, pushing himself up to straight arms and stilling his hips. "Want to come with you inside me," he says, and then adds, hand pressed to Blaine's chest. "But don't move. I want to take you like this."

"Oh," Blaine says, and he does have to move a little bit as Kurt rolls off him to strip his underpants off. Blaine yanks off his tie, tosses it toward the nightstand, wriggles out of his briefs, and is shrugging off his shirt when Kurt comes back to him, throwing one leg over Blaine's hips and dropping a condom to Blaine's chest while keeping the lube for himself. Blaine tears open the foil square and sheaths his cock in latex. Works his undershirt off over his head and watches Kurt reach back to slick himself up. Blaine watches and relishes the clench of Kurt's jaw, the twitch of muscle in his cheek, the shiver of his eyelashes as he preps himself.

He rests his hands on Kurt's thighs, rubs up and down the long, hard muscles, but refrains from touching Kurt's balls or cock, though they tempt. Kurt's brow furrows in concentration, and he sighs softly. "I haven't been with anyone else," Kurt says matter of factly. He tips his head back and rocks against his hand. He moves slowly, and reaches for the lube again.

Blaine stops himself from saying anything about Adam. Or asking. He has wondered, and Kurt's telling him now means what exactly? "I haven't either," he offers instead in exchange.

"It'd be okay if you had," Kurt says and his head rolls on his shoulders. He smiles tenderly down at Blaine. "But I'm glad you haven't."

"Me too," Blaine says. "On both counts."

"I'm telling you partly because, it's uh, been a while for me. Since August?"

"I'll go easy on you, I promise."

But Kurt shakes his head. "No. It's not going to be easy. Not tonight."

And what on Earth does that mean? Blaine doesn't get much time to contemplate it, since Kurt's pulling his hand free and reaching for a tissue to clean his fingers, and then he's slicking up Blaine's cock and positioning himself, holding Blaine's dick upright, angling it to press against his slickened hole. And Blaine swallows a whimper at the contact, for the way he feels Kurt's rim flex against him, the little muscle clenching and relaxing against head of his cock as Kurt hangs his head and breathes, deep and even, until the small spasms cease and Kurt can open around him.

Kurt presses down, crying out softly and grabbing at Blaine's forearms, and he's sinking, taking Blaine into such luxurious, stifling heat. "Oh god," Kurt mumbles, and he shudders hard, and then he pushes himself down more forcefully, the rest of the way, until the intimate connection binds them as completely as it can, and Blaine is consumed. The heavy hot pulse of Kurt's blood surrounds him.

Blaine closes his eyes, and steadies his breath, and he waits for Kurt to move. This is something they haven't done often, Kurt riding, because Kurt often cannot sustain it. Being fucked renders Kurt feeble and uncoordinated—which is endearing and hot and so very flattering—but it means that, in this position, neither of them can simply let go. It won't be easy, and maybe that's why.

"Oh, sweet fuck," Kurt whispers faintly, dragging himself up a short way, pushing back down, tentatively rolling his hips a little with it.

The friction and vise-tight grip of Kurt's ass is a brutal pleasure; Blaine only manages a pained sounding groan.

"Okay?" Kurt asks him.

Blaine nods and cracks his eyes open. "Oh, yeah... Jesus, you're perfect."

It's still a little awkward, at first. It's been a while for both of them, and they've done it like this infrequently enough that there's no rhythm or movement to recover, only something better to, hopefully, discover.

They end up with Blaine holding Kurt's ribs while Kurt's hands take the rest of his weight upon Blaine's shoulders, leaning over Blaine as he lifts himself up and forward with a corkscrew swivel of his hips, so smooth and fluid, like his spine is made of rubber, and then he pushes back sharp and straight.

And that's brilliant, for as long as Kurt can sustain it, but he's soon breathing hard and beginning to lose strength as his own pleasure mounts. When he falters in his struggle, Blaine takes over, feels how Kurt is fumbling and dazed, his eyes glazed bright, his mouth parted as if to speak, but his lips just tremble. His brow creases and he gasps as Blaine pulls him down and holds him flush and snug against him, doesn't let Kurt lift up again immediately. Kurt can seem so untouchable, fierce like he could survive anything. Sometimes Blaine believes it's true. Sometimes he forgets Kurt like this. Naked in his arms, stripped down to tender vulnerability, still, always maybe, a little bit afraid at first, when they make love like this: Blaine inside Kurt.

And, oh. It hits Blaine in a rush: Kurt still trusts him, at least this much, to surrender himself to Blaine, to trust him enough to touch so deeply.

"Kurt," Blaine says, blinking the burn of perspiration from his eyes. He is still worthy of this, the responsibility of bearing Kurt's fragile heart. And Kurt is looking back at him, wanting, wanting, wanting. More than just the sex? More than the friction and fill of Blaine inside him. Wanting... or asking for something?

"Tell me?" Blaine says softly.

"Just fuck me," Kurt says. "Please."

Blaine rolls them over, slows them down for a time. He feels abruptly more like an adult, like what's between them is more: older and more profound, substantial somehow. Real and fragile and terrible and beautiful and wounded and freshly healing and— They're doing this together. Together. And Blaine knows it's not just the sex, but this new thing between them: hurting and healing, fearing and trusting. Resisting and surrendering.

Kurt's fingers are twisted with his, too tight and sweaty, sweaty-slick skin and strong-thin bones, and Blaine looks into Kurt's eyes, and he knows. He knows it deeper than his own bones, deeper than his cells. This is it. He's fucked it up, fucked up so much worse than he'd ever expected to, and Kurt's forgiven him. He is, himself, maybe still a mess for it, hopeful and hopeless with steadfast devotion. And Kurt is—perhaps not a mess, but he's limited in his own ways, imperfect in ways that are perfectly Kurt, in ways that are simply human. And sometimes maybe Blaine cuts himself on Kurt's keen imperfect edges, but without those edges, Kurt wouldn't catch the light the way he does.

Blaine moves, and it feels so incomprehensibly good to be inside Kurt while he understands this. He wants it to last. There are no words he can summon to communicate his epiphany while his body is caught in the thrall of Kurt's. But he tries, not with words, but with touch and motion.

After Kurt comes, even more stunning than memory, lost to his ecstasy, Blaine holds off his own climax, for he loves the defenselessness of Kurt's oversensitivity, loves the way he gulps and shivers uncontrollably through it, the way his eyebrows pinch together and his eyes squeeze shut. How he whimpers and grabs at Blaine, trying to hold on through the unrelenting pleasure, how Blaine knows he likes to endure it, to find his way through to the other side.

But, "Still good?" Blaine asks, to be sure.

"Yeah, yeah," Kurt mumbles. "Oh my god. It's been so long, I— Fuck. I forgot."

And that, somehow, is more than Blaine himself can endure. His orgasm swamps him, much too fast, and he gasps through the bright shock of it. "Jesus," he mutters against Kurt's shoulder. The flash flood of pleasure recedes sluggishly down the length of his spine. He breathes in the humid space close to Kurt's body, doesn't move to withdraw immediately, though he should before the condom becomes a problem. But he doesn't want this to be over. Wants to stay here with Kurt for a little while longer.

The heaving of Kurt's chest slows, and his hand pets through the short sweat-soaked hair on the back of Blaine's head. Blaine pushes himself up and winces at the unavoidable disconnection from Kurt's body. He keeps his gaze lowered to Kurt's torso, the damp flush of his skin, the wet smear of ejaculate upon his belly. Blaine runs the pad of his thumb along the fine arch of bone at the base of Kurt's ribcage. Drags semen and sweat with his touch. Looks down further, to the heavy drape of Kurt's partially softened cock low on his belly.

"Hey," Kurt says, low and staticky; his fingers press into the tension at the base of Blaine's skull.

Blaine raises his attention and finds Kurt smiling, shallow but sincere. He replies, "Hi." Slides his hand down to rest just below Kurt's navel, a silent question.

Kurt bites his lip as his smile broadens, and he arches one eyebrow. Pushes his hips up until the head of his cock nudges the edge of Blaine's hand, an unmistakeable answer.

"Okay." Blaine grins and leans down to press his mouth to Kurt's, feels Kurt's lip come free of his teeth so he can meet Blaine's grin with an open, welcoming mouth. Blaine curls his fingers around Kurt's dick, feels it pulse in his hand, and he licks Kurt's pleased whimper from his eager tongue. A lightness swells his heart: they're definitely not finished.

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