On his sixteenth birthday, Blaine Anderson gets an IV hooked up to him and is assigned a therapist. While other kids are coveting their Fords and Hyundais and BMWs, Blaine is unconscious, dressed in a regulation hospital gown with white gauze wrapped around his wrists. His room is on the third floor.
this is based loosely off the novel Cut by Patricia McCormick and very heavily features themes and mentions of self-harm and eating disorders
Kurt’s just slid his underwear down, freeing his cock, and has his hand wrapped dry around it when the door opens and there’s an unfamiliar voice saying, “Dad?” A split-second later, then: “Oh.”
written because the lovely Katy prompted it: AU with Blaine as Cassandra July and Kurt as Rachel
“And that’s why I’m here to teach you.” The cane taps harder to the floor this time, sharp and echoing in the silence. “This is not just a class: it is a boot camp. Each and every one of you is going to see what dance is really about.”
Blaine sends them off into group stretches at the barre and Kurt does his best to ignore the sympathetic glances from a few of the girls next to him. He’s hurt, angry, but somehow, underneath it all, Kurt finds himself wondering if the lines in Blaine’s face soften at all when he comes.
Kurt had never thought it’d be so difficult to slide a ring onto a finger. In the movies it had seemed so simple; at his dad and Carole’s wedding, they’d done it with ease, hands trembling only in the slightest, a thick gold band going first, a more delicate gold band with three simple diamonds second, and that had been that. It’s just a simple motion, that final tether to the person who’s facing you and who’s waiting just as eagerly to begin a whole new life once the parting words are given and they step down onto the aisle.
But now, with Kurt at the altar, Kurt in front of everyone and Blaine standing in front of him, his hand trembles almost too much to get a good grip on the ring, and god, it would be absolutely terrible if he were to drop it right now, wouldn’t it? He swallows, feeling hot under the collar of his impeccably tailored dove-gray tuxedo, at the tips of his ears, and he doesn’t want to screw this up, not here, not now—
A hand is suddenly on his, dark-skinned and warm and familiar. Kurt lifts his head, blinks and stares into Blaine’s eyes, sees that they’re misted with tears and sparkling in the spring sun. Blaine doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to: Everything in Kurt relaxes, loosens, and he flips his hand, switches the positions and slowly, with finality, slides the ring past one knuckle, then the other, until his fingers meet warm skin and smooth palm. “With this ring I thee wed.”
Blaine’s hand is on his again, Kurt’s fingers splayed, and then the band’s brother is being slid down with just as much tenderness. Blaine brushes the tips of his fingers across Kurt’s knuckles before he lets go and Kurt’s hand falls to his side. The ring feels heavy, filled with promises and a future and everything he’s been seeing since he first looked into that pair of liquid-gold eyes nearly five years ago. Blaine’s voice is scratchy when he echoes the words asked of them by the minister. “With this ring I thee wed.”
Kurt thinks, and he feels a little dizzy, overwhelmed, I am so in love with this man.
When Blaine pulls him forward into their first married kiss, Kurt clutches a bit harder at Blaine’s shoulders than he needs to, grabbing onto the stiff material of his jacket as he feels a tear squeeze past his closed-tight eyes. Blaine’s hands are warm on his waist, grounding, and when they pull back to applause, Kurt places his hands on Blaine’s cheeks, feels the scratching promise of stubble, and smiles. A tear glitters its way down Blaine’s cheek and he’s grinning, eyes squinted and nose scrunched up, looking shy and elated and god, he’s my husband.
“Hello, Mr. Anderson-Hummel,” Kurt says, and he can’t help it: He shivers, pictures writing his name like this from now on, papers signed with Blaine’s loopy crawl and his scratchy cursive. Writing it on their future son or daughter’s lunchbox so it won’t get stolen. Signing the marriage license and buying brand new checks for the change.
Blaine laughs, broken and watery, and he slides a hand to the back of Kurt’s head, presses their foreheads together and says, “I love you, Mr. Anderson-Hummel.”
“God, Kurt, fuck, baby, please…Jesus, put it back in, put it back in—oh god.” Blaine’s voice is a broken, wrecked sob, loud and harsh and echoing in the room. He’s on hands and knees on the bed, thighs spread so wide they’re trembling, his cock and balls heavy and hanging between his legs. Kurt’s hands are tight on his hips, fingers bent to dig in slightly, and he keeps the head of his cock scant inches from Blaine’s quivering, lube-slick hole.
anonymous prompted: bp!Kurt being a babbling mess, talking and telling blaine what he wants and how he wants it ;)
“Blaine, Blaine, come on, fuck me. Oh my god—right there.” Kurt’s legs spread a little wider, one hand pressing hard to the back of Blaine’s head and the other clenching into the sheets. Blaine pauses in the slow, broad swipes of his tongue to lean back and blow cool air on the saliva-slick skin of Kurt’s pussy; Kurt presses his shoulders hard to the bed, tipping his head back and whining. “Just…oh, oh, yes.”
anonymous prompted: the moment that Blaine realizes that he /really/ likes marking Kurt
Blaine’s second-favorite thing about Kurt is his skin: the translucence, the way it darkens to a dusky pink flush at a moment’s notice, how it looks speckled and glittering with sweat when Kurt’s above him, around him, in him. He loves the freckles that multiply and scatter more across Kurt’s shoulders and back in the summer, the patterns across the bridge of his nose when they spend too many days outside together.
“Wow,” Kurt breathes as Blaine finally regains control and slumps down onto the bed, spent and breathing hard, tongue swiping out to wet his lower lip as he runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know you could come that hard.”
“Me, neither,” Blaine responds weakly, cracking his eyes open. “Sorry about the sheets. Guess I should’ve put down a towel or something. Jeez. Sex is messy.”
Kurt leans down, rubs the fabric of his boxer-briefs over the fabric of Blaine’s panties, presses dry lips to Blaine’s cheek and then to his ear. He breathes out, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to come on your pretty little panties,” and feels something twist up hot and dark and wanting inside him at the words finally spoken aloud.
I have not abandoned this ‘verse! this installment is short, sadly, but I’m planning on a bigger one involving something very cute ;)
Blaine’s panties are here and all previous parts of this ‘verse are here. warnings under the cut and, like usual, title taken from the inside cover of Panic! At The Disco’s A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out
He lives in his world of silence; he lives in his world of sound. When Kurt meets Blaine and finds out he’s different, he doesn’t run: he does everything he can to keep him in his life as they grow up. (aka the one where Blaine is deaf and he and Kurt meet as kids)
this fic has, obviously, already been posted over on FF.net, but for awhile I’ve been wanting to clean it up and bring it here where I feel like my fics have a better belonging. and I hate FF.net, soooo. enjoy!