misqueue: Blaine smiling at Kurt on stage after apologizing in 3x05 "The First Time" (glee - kurt/blaine - shared smile)
misqueue ([personal profile] misqueue) wrote2014-09-06 06:35 pm

[FIc] Songs that Voices Never Share

I finally managed to produce something again--by finishing an old reaction fic from season 3. It's pretty self indulgent.

Kurt/Blaine | Drama/Erotica | MA/NC-17 | comfort!sex, mild kink | After getting his rejection from NYADA, Kurt can't talk about it. Blaine doesn't need him to. Set after "In the World of Silence" around 3x22 "Goodbye", and continuing the conceit of following the development of Kurt & Blaine's relationship through the lens of their sexual relationship. | ~4,300

Also: [ AO3 ]

Kurt is sitting in the passenger seat of Blaine's car. They're just pulling into the driveway of Kurt's house. In his lap is the letter from NYADA, wrinkled from the sweat of his palms and the way he's been smoothing it over his thighs for most the the ride, trying to stroke out the wrinkles as if doing so will change the words, but it's only making it worse, and the texture of the paper beneath his fingers is starting to feel harsh and unfriendly. He clenches his hands into fists to make himself stop. Blaine turns off the engine.

They haven't talked. Kurt can't quite manage it. After he told Blaine, showed him the letter, saw the stunned disbelief in Blaine's eyes, the shine of his sympathy; Kurt feared nothing that came out his own mouth could possibly be good. Something akin to grief roils in his gut, and he fears if he tries to speak he's going to cry or scream. It's like he's shattering on the inside. Coming apart into fragments of defeat held together by the skin and shape of him and little else.

A warm weight alights upon Kurt's shoulder, Blaine's hand. "Hey," Blaine says quietly, and Kurt closes his eyes. He inhales, and then he exhales. He's going to have to tell his Dad. Not yet though. His Dad won't be home for a few hours; no one will be. So he can get out of the safe bubble of Blaine's car without walking straight into that particular trial. But, god, his Dad is going to be mad and disappointed and bewildered; and there will be nothing his Dad can do to fix this.

"Are you all right?" Blaine asks. An absurd question, because no, but Kurt knows what he means.

He swallows thickly, finds his voice frail and high. "I will be," he says, though he cannot make himself believe it. His will is what it is, insufficient to change reality, but enough to keep him hanging on until he can believe it again. He remembers a quote from somewhere, he doesn't remember where: 'It takes more courage to suffer than to die.' If that's true, then courage he's never been short on. He will get through this, be okay but not just yet. He opens his eyes and turns to face Blaine's concerned gaze. Gives him a smile that, from the inside, feels far too feeble to reassure, but it's all he can muster.

"Let's go inside," Blaine suggests.

Kurt nods. His body is leaden and foreign as he gets out of the car, retrieves his bag from the backseat, and makes his way to the front door. Numb fingers dig into his pocket for his key chain; he nearly drops it as he shuffles through the keys for the right one. Blaine's hand is warm at the small of his back, just touching: presence not pressure.

They go inside, and the clear afternoon sunlight of late Spring mocks Kurt's desire to hide or get lost, detach himself from the bitter bitter ache of disappointment that seals a fragile veneer over the greater terror of What Now?.

"Coffee?" Blaine asks.

Kurt shakes his head. His nerves don't need it. "Tea?" he suggests. Something sedative perhaps, so he can fall asleep, forget the day for a little while. "Chamomile?"

"Sure," Blaine says, hangs his coat up, sets his bag down, helps Kurt with his, and then takes Kurt's hand and heads to the kitchen, Kurt trailing an arm's length behind, focused on the warmth and strength of Blaine's hand around his, grateful for it in a way he rarely considers these days. It's easy to take for granted after this year and months of being together, but right now, it's like a miracle, Blaine's hand around his. He remembers the first time Blaine held his hand and led him anywhere. They'd known each other less than a minute. Kurt lets go reluctantly when they get to the kitchen.

Kurt sits at the island and watches Blaine fill the kettle and put it on the stove. The silence between them is at least comfortable, and, for that, Kurt is grateful. They trust each other enough within this crisis to simply be and let it settle. He knows eventually there will be questions and conversations, options to consider, decisions to make. Kurt knows however that goes that he will still want to leave, knows Blaine is still facing their time apart with a dread Kurt wishes he could soothe with something more than affirmations of love and promises of forever.

Blaine only speaks to ask which teapot he should use. ("The green one.") And if Kurt wants anything to eat. ("No, thank you, but help yourself.")

Kurt is halfway through his mug of tea when Blaine touches him, fingertips at the side of his neck. "After this," Blaine says, his eyes soft. His fingers trace an arc up behind Kurt's ear to his hairline. "I want to take you upstairs and give you a back rub, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt smiles a little, turns, and leans into the kiss Blaine presses against his forehead as his fingers thread into Kurt's hair and cup the back of his skull. Kurt closes his eyes and breathes. "That sounds really nice."


Upstairs, Blaine helps him out of his waistcoat, tie, and shirt, and then coaxes him to lie down on his stomach. Blaine straddles his thighs, drizzles a handful of massage oil into his palms, and lays his hands, warm and smooth against Kurt's shoulders.

"I'm so tired," Kurt mumbles as Blaine shifts to put more of his weight behind his hands. It feels like the softness of Kurt's bed is about to swallow him up.

"You can fall asleep if you want," Blaine says, thumbs digging into the tension across Kurt's shoulders. It hurts in that jaw-slackening good way, and Kurt doesn't censor the groan that escapes his throat. "I'll stay with you," Blaine says. Kurt just nods.

It is relaxing, the even rhythm of Blaine's hands on his back as they work his muscles, turning stiffness and aches and knots into warm putty. Kurt lets himself drift in the warmth and cadence of his own breath, Blaine's hands, the shifting of Blaine's weight upon him. It's even as a metronome. The tea has made him drowsy, but sleep won't claim him, so he simply floats in the gray consciousness between sleep and wakefulness.

He loses track of time but starts coming back to himself when Blaine's hands get down to his lower back and his thumbs are pressing just beneath and behind his waistband, starting at his spine and then sliding opposite directions to his waist, before lightly dragging back and repeating the sweep. It rouses a curl of inquisitive desire in Kurt's belly, and that brings Kurt's awareness careening back. There's a bass pulse of blood coming slow and heavy between his legs. Kurt didn't expect this. He shifts, restless, growing hot, still a little disoriented. Works his tongue around his dry mouth so he can speak. "Blaine?"

"Still here," Blaine says and leans down to kiss Kurt's cheek. The firm warmth of Blaine's bare chest brushes against his back. He missed Blaine taking his own shirt off. Blaine kisses behind his ear, the nape of his neck. "Good?" he asks between kisses.

"Yeah," Kurt says. It's amazing that in this place of borderline despair, Blaine can still elicit this from him. He can be in this present place: loved and warm, growing warmer. Hotter, even, as Blaine's kisses turn languid and slow against his skin: seductive. It doesn't erase the awful sharp edged lump lodged in the base of his throat, but Blaine's touch is like his favorite fluffy robe when he's aching all over with the flu. It doesn't fix it, but the comfort is true."That feels so good," Kurt exhales, squirming against the bed seeking to soothe the ache building between his legs. Blaine's hands tighten, low on his waist, holding him still.

"I'm glad," Blaine says, kisses across his shoulder blade, each warm press against Kurt's skin a lingering caress of breath, a reminder that this too shall pass and on the other side of it, will still be them. Then he drags the velvet softness of his lips toward Kurt's spine and murmurs, "Sweetheart." His fingers loosen and drift around Kurt's waist toward his front, ticklish as they skate around his sides to nudge and press under to reach his belly, coming to lay flat just above his waistband, thumbs idly rubbing even more bright heat into Kurt's flesh.

Kurt can't move, even as Blaine's touch lights up his nerves, he's held immobile by his soul level exhaustion, held fast as if he's literally bound by it, and he's got nothing left in him to resist it. His heart has been cored out and the vacuum left by all that hope and expectation is like a singularity centered in his chest, a speck of infinitely dense loss dragging all his mass and energy into itself, crushing it down into nothing. Which is, even for him, rather melodramatic. He has had worse days; he will survive this.

So he concentrates on Blaine instead, as Blaine's lips leave his skin and one hand splays wide and presses up to lift Kurt's boneless weight enough for Blaine to get at Kurt's fly with his other hand.

"Yes, please," Kurt says, as Blaine's fingers work his belt and button free, bumping and digging into Kurt's belly in a way that's sending a fresh and pleasant trickle of want to pool in his gut. Kurt tries to get a hand or a knee beneath himself to push himself up for Blaine, but gravity is irresistible and heavy. But he wants this, the oblivion of Blaine's touch, his body. Wants to know he can still feel good in this moment. Wants to drown in it. He says something he's never said before, says it as Blaine's hand wriggles its way roughly, imperfectly beneath his waistband, as his fingers catch in Kurt's pubic hair: "Blaine... I need you." Blaine's short nails jab into tender flesh before his hand reaches its goal and he takes Kurt in a firm, hot grip. Kurt does find the impetus to rock into Blaine's hold with a soft groan.

"I'm here," Blaine's voice is low, tattered at the edges. The hand holding Kurt up skids to his hip and squeezes, and Kurt tries to arch up, to give Blaine's other hand more room to stroke him. It's useless. His lower back twinges, and Blaine says, "Please, tell me, Kurt. What can I do for you? I'll do anything you want."

Kurt knows what he wants; the hollowness within him is a terrible, lonely thing. "Inside," Kurt grits out. "Please... want to feel you."

"Okay," Blaine says, a little breathless: nervous. "Okay." His hands move to Kurt's trousers, starts working them, along with Kurt's underwear, down his hips.

"Fill me up," Kurt says.

Kurt's pants are halfway down his thighs and his ass is bare when Blaine asks to clarify, says the words Kurt can't quite, "You want me to fuck you, Kurt? Or just...do you want my fingers?"

Kurt nods against his pillow, whispers, "Yes," and then, "Fuck me, please."

And Blaine doesn't ask, 'are you sure?' as Kurt fears he might. Blaine's always so careful and polite about fucking Kurt. Kurt doesn't need that right now, he just needs Blaine and Blaine's body inside his. Blaine's hands leave off Kurt's pants, leaving them just above Kurt's knees. His hands fall warm to Kurt's ass; they give a gentle squeeze. Kurt tries to spread his legs, but he can't very far, not more than a few inches. Blaine asks, "Do you want it like this?"

The riot of possibilities within that simple question is enough to make Kurt groan and flush hotter. He feels sweat prickling across his forehead, his belly, thighs: everywhere. He presses his hips down against his bedding for some relief, but the too yielding friction against his cock is nowhere near enough of what he requires. His thighs tremble against the unforgiving band of his trousers binding his legs as he tries to spread himself open for Blaine. "Just do it," he says. "However you want to."

"Okay," Blaine says, warmth in his voice, smoothing out the nervousness. His hands move down Kurt's thighs, pressing into the tension with his thumbs as they skid across Kurt's sweat damp skin.

Kurt squirms, unable to move the way he wants, digs his fingers into the mattress and tries to scoot up the bed, wriggling, trying to worm free of his trousers the way a snake sheds his skin. They don't budge.

Blaine's hands close around the backs of his thighs, pinning him to the bed. "Wait," Blaine says. "Can we do it with you like this? I mean, with your pants still..."

It's meant to be playful, Kurt's sure, but his brain doesn't process it it that way. "Like what exactly?" Kurt asks, his voice tight with apprehension, his heart thundering in his chest. Blaine's never asked to tie him up before, this seems like more than Blaine pinning his wrists down.

"With you sort of..." Blaine says—and then more gently, inquiringly even: "caught?"

And he is, and it's true in so many way, but this... "You have no idea how true that feels right now," Kurt says hoarsely. His cheeks burn with the fresh humiliation of failure. His eyes burn, too. Kurt hiccups a sob as tears well up in his eyes, blurring his vision. He shuts his eyes, squeezes out the tears to slide down his cheeks to his pillow.

"Oh, hey," Blaine says, releases his hold on Kurt's legs to lean down and tentatively touch his face. "I didn't mean— Are you—? Do you want me to—?"

Of course Blaine didn't, and of course Kurt isn't, but he doesn't want Blaine to stop or do anything differently, because this may be exactly what Kurt needs. It feels like it anyway; he wants to try at least. "No, this is perfect. I'm just really not. Please, I don't want to talk. Can you just do it?" Then Kurt makes himself say it clearly, unequivocally: "Fuck me until I can't remember why I'm sad."

"Yes, okay," Blaine says.

Kurt closes his eyes and breathes and waits. The mattress shifts as Blaine moves around. Kurt hears the vip of his zipper, the hushed passage of clothing across skin as Blaine finishes undressing. Then the mattress dips again and Blaine settles back over his legs. It's soothing, the comfortable sounds of intimacy, how trusting he feels, how drained and tired and patiently wanting this simple thing.

On his buttocks Blaine's hands are warm, but between them, the lube is cool. One hand holds him open, and Blaine's thumb circles bluntly over his hole, slick and firm, and Kurt concentrates on opening himself for Blaine, pushing hidden muscles to release and yield and welcome. He shudders when Blaine's thumb slides in. Is proud of himself at how easily it presses in deep.

"I'm good," Kurt says. "You don't have to— Just lube is fine."

"Okay." Blaine drags his thumb so slowly, pressing down and rubbing a little as he starts to withdraw. It makes a hot shock arc up Kurt's spine, and the friction of it makes Kurt's hips twitch with the urge to press back for another gorgeously slow stroke. Kurt groans and pinches his eyes shut.

"I could make you come so fast just like this," Blaine says as he pushes back in with tantalizing pressure, pulls back with a delicious tug of resistance. His tone is more observant than suggestive. "So hard."

"I know," Kurt mumbles. "You can."

"I don't want to," Blaine says, and Kurt shivers as his thumb finally pulls free entirely. He leans over Kurt and speaks with his breath ruffling the hair behind Kurt's ear and his cock bumping against the back of Kurt's thigh. "I want it to take a long time, long enough that you can forget your day."

"Okay," Kurt says; it's often hard to last very long once Blaine is doing anything to his ass, but— "I'll try."

"I'll try, too," Blaine says, warm. "So I want to do something a little differently? We'll tell each other when we get close?"

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"And then we'll slow down... or pause when either of us is close? See how long we can last together?"

Kurt cracks an eye open and manages a smile. "Sounds like fun."

"That's the spirit," Blaine says, and Kurt catches a flash of his grin in his peripheral vision.

Then Blaine shifts up and his cock is right there, the hot silky shaft of it dragging along Kurt's sensitive cleft. Blaine rocks his hips and presses, nestling it between Kurt's cheeks and settling his chest upon Kurt's upper back. He kisses the side of Kurt's neck, his shoulder, and he reaches down to fumble between them, shifting and nudging and guiding his cock down to find where Kurt opens. Being under Blaine's care and body like this feels so good, safe and sheltered.

There's no futher hesitation or query to verify Kurt's readiness. Blaine just pushes in: one implacable steady thrust—strong but not rough. The sudden aching wide stretch of it burns fiercely all the way down to Kurt's curling toes and tensing calf muscles. Blaine moves inside him with such force, Kurt whimpers. His heart throbs up hard in his throat and he's panting around it already, desperate to feel everything—all of it—right fucking now. His nerves shimmer bright, flooding him with heat so fast, just from the thick slide in. "Oh my god," he groans, a miserable, desperate sound and—despite his best intentions for self-control—his hips tip back greedily. "Blaine, I'm... oh, fuck. I'm so... ah... I'm not going to last."

Blaine grunts an incoherent acknowledgment and doesn't budge. He holds Kurt with tight fingers, and his breath puffs hot and fast against Kurt's skin, and Kurt's body is clenching around Blaine's cock like its begging, hungry and impatient. "God, You're so tight, Kurt," Blaine whispers brokenly. "I don't think I can move."

"No, no. No. Please move. Blaine... I need you to, oh. Just... ugh... fuck me." He squirms, trying to find purchase to get the full measure of friction he's craving, but between the trap of his trousers and Blaine's weight, all he can do is twist beneath Blaine uselessly. It's as hot as it is frustrating, being at Blaine's mercy.

"Try to relax,"Blaine says with an amused puff of breath.

"Blaine," Kurt complains. "Oh my god, I need it, need you to."

"Let me take care of you," Blaine says. "Unless..." His fingers loosen. "Kurt?"


A pause, then cautiously Blaine says, "You know you can use our safeword if you need to, right? I don't want to push you to do it this way if you don't actually want it."

"Oh," Kurt says, and he blinks his eyes open as some of his frantic urgency bleeds away. It hadn't even occurred to him that this was how they were playing right now. He speaks more softly, seriously. "I don't need to do that."

"No? But I need to be sure you want this. You're not just humoring me."

"No, I'm not." Kurt shuts his eyes again and turns his face into his pillow. "I want it. You can... push me. I want you to." He's less sure of his next choice of words, but he's sure of the sentiment. "Take me over, Blaine."

"Yeah, I will, Kurt. I'll take good care of you."

After that it's easy. Kurt turns his attention to releasing the tension from his muscles, his body has adjusted, and Blaine begins moving. Blaine takes them both to the verge several times. Leaves them hanging right there, panting and reeling and aching to tip over into release. But not letting go, just waiting, breathing, slowly relaxing again and coming down.

"Okay?" Blaine asks each time, increasingly raggedly. "Still okay?"

"Yeah," Kurt says. "Keep going."

And Blaine freshens up the lube and starts fucking him again until one of them gasps, "Close," and everything shudders to a halt for an unmeasurable span of heartbeats and breath and tenderly spoken endearments. Kurt floats, lets Blaine take him and guide him through the ebb and flow of sensation like his own personal oarsman.

It's maybe the fourth time Blaine gets him close that Kurt feels his orgasm coming upon him with a sharper, more urgent ache. The muscles of his legs threaten to cramp with the tension. "Let me," Kurt says as the wave of it builds and he tries to relax into it, tries to find a way to ride it out without succumbing entirely. "Please... this time."

"One more," Blaine says as he stops, and the backwash of feeling shivers up Kurt's spine from deep in his ass.

Kurt groans and nods and sinks into his mattress. Then Blaine withdraws, slowly, swearing under his breath. Kurt feels turned inside out, vacant and empty. "Blaine—"

"Shh. I just want to turn you over."


"But first I need to..." Blaine pulls his pants down his legs and off. Kurt tries to be as cooperative as he can, but he feels terribly uncoordinated.

His body is heavy and slow, like in a dream, as Blaine guides him over with his hands. Sensation drifts and catches inside like glitter roused from everywhere Blaine's hands fall upon him, everywhere their skin touches one another's.

He's dazed, lying on his back with Blaine's hands under his ass, and his legs over Blaine's arms when Blaine pushes back in. The slide inside is so easy: heavy and warm and familiar, as if an integral missing piece has been fit back into place. Kurt gasps and arches his spine as the pleasure surges up again. And it's not only the friction and fill, it's Blaine. Blaine is his integral piece.

His cock aches, flushed dark as a fresh bruise and drooling on his belly. His balls are taut, the urge to come like a sharp tightening screw. The bedding is damp beneath him, and Blaine is huge inside him. Kurt can't contain it.

"Blaine," Kurt whispers, and wonders at all the things saying his name can mean.

"Go ahead," Blaine says, and he doesn't stop this time.

Kurt comes, a slow and heavy emptying of himself. He heaves a deep breath, cries out, bends like a strung bow, then spills and spills, gasps, and crumples.

Blaine gathers him up, folds his slack legs back, and keeps fucking him through the bright lingering tremors.

"I love you," Blaine says before he lets go, too, and comes deep within Kurt.

Blaine stays inside until he can't, holding Kurt close in the fading heat of their exertion. Even then, when it's physically impossible to keep together, Kurt tries to hold him inside longer. He whimpers at the loss of their connection, how irretrievable it seems in the moment. But he doesn't want to be sad about this. "I love you too," he exhales.

"Hey," Blaine prompts. His palm is warm and broad upon Kurt's forehead, wiping away the perspiration, and Kurt opens his eyes.

"Hi," Kurt says and he smiles wearily. Relieved exhaustion tugs darkly at his consciousness. "That was good," he mumbles with clumsy feeling lips. "Thank you."

Blaine's answering smile lights the honeyed brown of his eyes, then he bends close and kisses Kurt. Kisses him slow and shallow, tender yielding lips and tongue, and soft sweet sighs of contentment.

Then, "I'm going to go get us water," Blaine says. "And a washcloth."

"Sure," Kurt says. He stretches his naked limbs and watches Blaine get up. Admires the fit and function of his body as he moves, scooping up his discarded underwear and t-shirt. "No one's home," Kurt says. "Just use my robe."

"Okay," Blaine says.

While Blaine's gone, Kurt dozes off. He barely rouses as Blaine cleans him up and prompts him to shift so that he can pull the sheet up cover Kurt's naked body. He takes the bedspread down to the laundry, and gets a cotton blanket from Kurt's closet. Kurt reaches for the glass of water Blaine's set on the nightstand, summons enough energy to prop himself up to drink half of it in a few long swallows, then he collapses back to the bed. His whole body is loose and limp with profound release.

Blaine slides into bed beside him, pulling Kurt back to his chest and tucking his chin against the crown of Kurt's head. The afternoon light has grown soft and dim, and the clock says it's close to five o'clock. It's a terrible time for a nap—this is when he would normally start preparing dinner. But Kurt desperately wants to sleep, even though he knows he'll be waking back up to the same bad news. Even though someone needs to take care of dinner. He aches to stay in this little cocoon of Blaine's care for a little while longer, here beneath the cool weight of his bedding, in the fuzzy brained afterglow, while the house is quiet.

"Relax, Kurt, you can sleep," Blaine says. "No one will be home for another hour."

"But... dinner," Kurt mumbles.

"I'm taking care of you tonight," Blaine says. "I'll take care of dinner, too."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

And Blaine sounds so certain that Kurt gives in to his soft-bellied need to hear a greater reassurance from somewhere outside himself, from someone he can trust to mean it. "Everything is going to be okay, right?" Kurt asks. His own voice sounds childish and thin to his ears. Too vulnerable, too needful.

"It will be," Blaine says, and kisses his temple.

"Thank you," Kurt says, and he lets sleep take him.

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