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"It ends the same way every time," Kurt answers, soft and embarrassed, hands twisted into each other, eyes on the table between him and Dr. Anderson. "But the way it begins differs from dream to dream."
"Why don't you tell me about the dream you had last night, then?"
"Um, okay. I, uh. I was in a car in a parking lot outside of some kind of mall or shopping center or something. And he was just a random asshole. Some kind of--I dunno, thug kind of guy, mean, you know. White. Twenties, maybe? Nondescript baggy clothes. And he was teasing me, taunting me, moving around the outside of the car, knocking on the glass, trying the door handles. I don't recall the words he used; I just remember being scared out of my mind. Wanting him to leave me alone. Not trusting the door and window locks to hold."
"Was fear the only emotion you felt?" Dr. Anderson asks.
Kurt hesitates, feeling his cheeks warm. "No. Also excited. Like--the way that fear sometimes feels a little exciting? Like, adrenaline, I guess?" He wets his lips. "Um. And then--well, like in dreams--I was suddenly outside on the street. Dark, rainy, abandoned. Not sure how I got there. Lost, alone. And he found me. Pursued me. No one around, and I knew I couldn't get away. That's how it always is." He rubs his fingers together, left through right, right through left, obviously shaken. "Uh. But then it--like all the other times, it ends the same."
"And how is that, Kurt?" The doctor's expression betrays nothing but attentiveness.
"He um, he calls me names. To start. All kinds of slurs--slut, whore, pretty boy, fag. I mean, stuff that's specific to me but also stuff that's not? And--I've heard it all before. But when he says it I--I mean the whole time he's chasing me and shouting at me he's saying these things, and I--I'm just as turned on as I am scared. I don't understand it, I just--I should be disgusted by it, and I am, but only part of me is?"
"It's alright. You're safe here. Just keep talking to me, okay? I want to hear everything."
"Like every time, eventually, he catches me. It's inevitable. I'm never going to get away from him. And--it's almost reassuring? Knowing that. And when he catches me it's a relief, like I can stop fighting it, like no matter what he does to me it's better than when he's chasing me and I know I can't escape him but I still keep trying anyway. He, um."
"Go on." Dr. Anderson nods.
"He pushes me down onto my hands and knees. Calling me names. Taunting me with how he knows how much I'm going to love this. That I need it, deserve it, that it's all I'm good for. A part of me is almost--flattered by the things he says. I don't know why. He doesn't um, doesn't bother with anything gentle or--prepare me, he just--pushes my pants and underwear down. He opens his pants and he's--hard already, and I can feel him against my naked skin, and--I'm just as revolted as I am aroused. I can feel it, the nausea right alongside the thrill, my skin burning and crawling all at once. He doesn't put a condom on, and that makes me--so hard for him, I don't know why. He could have any number of diseases. He spits--he spits and that's all, just spit and my sweat, I know that wouldn't be anything but painful in real life, but in the dream it works--it's more than enough, actually; usually I feel wet. And he pushes into me, one thrust, that's all, he doesn't--he doesn't wait to see if I'm okay. He just fucks me. He puts his hands--one in my hair and one on my shoulder and he fucks me, like I was an inanimate object just there for his pleasure." Kurt is breathing heavily and shifting around by now, unable to look up. "Just kneeling there, feeling my body shake with his thrusts, it feels--like the ultimate release."
When he doesn't continue, Dr. Anderson stops to scribble some notes and then looks back up at him, expression no different than before. "Is there anything else, or does the dream end there?"
"It ended there last night. But uh, usually he--knowing that he's going to come in me, bare, like that, cues another long string of panic and arousal. I can feel him sweating and panting and ramming into me, and it--feels so good. And I know he's going to shoot in me and I know it's wrong but I have no control, I mean that's the overall theme here is that I literally cannot stop him from doing what he's doing, even though logically in the real world I would be able to fight him, to do something. But in the dream that's not even a possibility. So he--he comes in me, and I--love it and hate it at the same time, and it feels--I feel used and empty when it's over, but I also feel right, like--he was right about me?" Kurt twitches and stares at his hands in his lap. "I like when he calls me names, I like how he pushes me down, I like that he doesn't care about my pleasure, just his own, even though I do--take pleasure out of what he's doing. All of this is normal and safe when I dream, but not something that I can imagine enduring or enjoying in real life."
"Does he ever stay with you, or talk to you, when it's over?"
Kurt blinks, looking surprised. He's never thought of that before. "No," he answers. "No, it always ends right then and there. Is that important?"
"It could be," the doctor answers, smiling encouragingly.
"Look, am I--is something wrong with me, I mean, I've been talking for a half an hour and you haven't said anything."
"This is all about you, Kurt," Dr. Anderson answers, his huge hazel eyes latching onto Kurt's. "I just want to make sure that you have time to recall anything and everything." He shifts his pad and pen, then looks up again. "Is there anything else before I talk a little?"
"Um, no, that's--that's the gist of it."
"Okay." He smiles. "There's nothing wrong with you, Kurt. What you're experiencing is a rape fantasy, which--seemed strange at first, I'm sure, especially since you've never actually experienced sexual abuse of any kind. But it's actually a very common phenomena. You told me that you're a--" He glances at his pad. "--an editor at a fashion magazine? Is it a stressful job?"
"Yes, especially this time of year," Kurt answers.
"Okay. So you work in a fast-paced, stressful environment," he says, pausing to check his notes, "and you're in a managerial position that comes with a lot of responsibility." He steeples his hands. "Rape fantasy often manifests as a coping mechanism. It's not that you want to be raped; it's that you want to let someone else take control because you're overwhelmed by having to be in control all day long. The removal of choice in these dreams concurrent with the expression of sexual release--even though you are being raped in the dream, you are also experiencing sexual pleasure at the same time--is an expression of your need to let go of stress and indulge pent-up desire that you aren't currently allowing yourself to let go of or enjoy. Perhaps you have trouble relaxing when you go home? Perhaps you don't allow yourself to decompress on the weekends? Constantly checking email, voice mail, texts, talking to your subordinates and reporting to your superiors? Always thinking of work tasks and schedules, even when you don't have to?"
Kurt bites his lip. "That's--fairly accurate."
"When was the last time you had sex or any kind of sexual intimacy with another person?" he asks.
"It's been a while. With the Spring release I just haven't had time to date."
Dr. Anderson nods. "My general advice, Kurt, is to allow yourself to take time off of work. I don't mean vacation, because that is your choice and obviously not everyone can just decide to take time off of work. But--go home at the end of the day on time. Turn off your phone and your computer. Plan activities that are about taking care of yourself. A bath. A television show you've been meaning to catch up on. A good meal. Maybe see a movie, or spend time with a friend or family member. Take your mind off of work for however long you can, when you can. Give yourself the time you deserve to step back from stressful things."
"No dating advice for me, doc?" Kurt asks, smiling--he's a little less embarrassed now, and he can't help the cheeky remark. He's still nervous, and that's what he does when he's nervous.
Dr. Anderson smiles, and there's a sparkle in his eye that's not entirely impersonal. "That, I'm afraid, is up to you. Though I will say it is a very good idea." He glances away, licking his bottom lip. "Come see me in two weeks, and if that hasn't improved anything we'll discuss possibly putting you on a mild sleep aid. Keep track of what you do to relax, of what works and what doesn't, so we can discuss it next time."
Kurt nods. He feels--better, but also agitated, which he expects is normal. "I will. Thank you, Doctor Anderson."
They shake hands, smile at each other. And then his hour is up.
*
The treatment works like charm; Kurt takes Dr. Anderson's advice and makes time for himself in between crazy work schedule swings and the stressful dreams of battery and abuse fade over the course of several months. He sees the doctor only two or three times after that, each visit shorter than the last, and despite the fact that Kurt has developed a little crush on his handsome, helpful care provider, it all seems to go according to plan and their time together ends naturally.
The Summer season approaches and Kurt is able to approach his projects with a fresh eye and a clear mind, though he often thinks of Dr. Anderson late at night when his mind is buzzing with an idea for a new design or of a solution to an old problem, full of simple gratitude and a not so simple attraction.
It seems clichéd enough to run with indulgently, his little doctor's office fantasies; all of that leather and warm, dark, masculine mahogany, Dr. Anderson's clear hazel eyes and gelled curls above a come hither smile. The perfect fantasy to put him to sleep at night or while away a slow afternoon with.
He admits to it when he gets his drink on with the girls from down the hall, and they giggle and tease him and he blushes and rolls his eyes, because they get it but won't let it pass without ribbing him for it.
"You should've asked him out," one of them says.
"Oh god, like they're ever gay. It's not that easy," he replies. "Besides, I was his patient. So trashy."
*
Out of all the karaoke bars in New York City, Kurt and his friends wind up choosing the same one as Dr. Anderson and his friends on one warm June evening. It's a Friday. Kurt's tipsy and Dr. Anderson has just finished belting out a soulful P!nk song.
Being a little drunk, Kurt blurts immediately upon recognizing him, "Oh my god it's him."
It takes a few back and forth comments before one of his friends replies with, "The doctor?"
He nods before he realizes what a terrible idea confirming this information is, and before he knows it he's being shoved toward the bar by three sets of hands, and Dr. Anderson's eyes are swinging up to his.
"Kurt!" he gasps, mouth twitching wide with a grin. "How are you, geez, what a coincidence."
"Dr. Anderson, I presume." Kurt smiles brightly and they shake hands.
"Please, call me Blaine. I'm not your doctor anymore."
It's awkward until Kurt signals the bartender to refill whatever Blaine is drinking on him, and then they're having a perfectly normal--if slightly drunk--conversation about the bar, and how they both once dreamed of being performers, and how Kurt has been since he stopped his appointments.
Blaine is sickeningly charming.
By the end of the night they're sitting close enough so that their knees are slotted between each other's and their elbows almost touching on the bar top. Kurt has laughed so much and for so long that his sides hurt, and Blaine is even drunker than he is.
Everything is light and fractured and fuzzy, perfect in the way that drunken conversation with an almost stranger can be.
Kurt tips his head onto an upturned palm. He's just about to do something very silly like ask for Blaine's number or if he'd like to sing something with him on stage when Blaine glances at his cellphone and announces, "Oh, god, it's late. I don't mean to rush out on you but I really have to get home. I was supposed to leave hours ago."
Does he have a boyfriend to get home to? A husband? A wife? A dog?
"Damn, sorry, I didn't mean to keep you." He feels silly--of course Blaine wants to leave. Kurt has kept him for hours and he probably hadn't intended to linger so long with an ex-patient. "No need to tell me to look for your bill in the mail. I'm already prepared."
Blaine laughs, shrugging into a light jacket and tossing a few bills on the bar, more than enough to cover both of their drink tabs for the evening. "I wouldn't go that far, Kurt," he says, smiling.
"I'll see you here another time maybe?" Kurt asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. He wants to give Blaine an opening but he isn't quite comfortable enough to ask outright. He could be completely wrong about the chemistry between them.
There's a very strange beat of hesitation, Blaine's beautiful eyes going distant for a moment, but then he seems to steel himself against some internal struggle and blurts out, "I'd like that. Actually, uh. Why don't I call you to arrange it in advance so we can pick a song that won't embarrass us on stage?" he asks, smiling sweet and slow.
"Excellent idea," Kurt replies, relief written across his features.
They exchange numbers.
*
The karaoke thing never seems to happen, which Kurt finds ironic. Other things happen, though; things like lunch and coffee and movies and farmer's market trips. They don't talk much about their work or whether or not these get togethers are dates, and Kurt doesn't want to rush the arrival of that conversation; Blaine is just nice, not that much older than him and completely unpretentious.
And gorgeous. It's difficult to forget that part.
Eventually they do bring their two groups of friends together for alcohol-related socializing, but it always seems as if they end up in their own little world, chatting about their past or their likes and dislikes with rampant hand gestures and high-pitched laughter.
Kurt gets the knowing eye roll from his friends; Blaine gets the nudge to the side.
It's as if everyone else is more invested in the progress of their budding relationship than they are, which neither of them want to talk about. They're just having so much fun getting to know each other, surprised by the vast amount of things they have in common, including learning that they grew up not far from each other and somehow managed to never meet despite competing with each other at show choir competitions.
It isn't until Kurt watches Blaine go off to dance with another guy one evening that he realizes that maybe they haven't been specific enough with each other.
It's not that Kurt has assumed any possession over Blaine; it's that he hasn't unassumed any, either, and seeing Blaine openly act on that freedom unsettles him in a way that he hadn't been prepared for.
But it's more than that.
The guy is nothing special. Rather, it's the way that Blaine holds him by the back of his neck and grinds into him that sends something warm and wanting through Kurt's body. Blaine is probably the least intimidating person he's ever met, but the way that his whole body seems to be completely controlling his dance partner with nothing more than the press of a hand at the back of his neck is enthralling.
It's hot in the bar and Kurt clutches his sweating cocktail to his collarbone, letting the dripping condensation and cold bite take the edge off. His cheeks burn as he watches the taller man that Blaine is dancing with go loose and low against Blaine's body, knee nudging gently between Blaine's thighs.
It doesn't get dirty but it's not innocent, either, and by the time that Blaine comes back to him Kurt has downed three drinks in quick succession. The image won't stop replaying in his head; Blaine's fingers curling around the back of the other man's neck, tugging him down and in and keeping him there. Never letting go, never even allowing it as a possibility, a thing that the other man had seemed all too willing to allow.
Kurt swallows thickly.
"Hey, sorry," Blaine says, dabbing sweat off of his face and neck with a napkin.
"Not a problem," Kurt answers. "He was cute. Get his number?" He knows his voice is a little stiff; it's impossible to remain completely unaffected.
Blaine laughs, shakes his head; his cheeks are flushed and his curls springing loose from the gel over his forehead and into his eyes. He pushes the wayward strands back. If he's aware of Kurt's jealousy he doesn't show it. "I'm not really--that's about as far as that usually goes for me, I mean."
"Oh," Kurt replies, a hopeful note in his voice.
"Besides," Blaine goes on, nonplussed, "I've been with you all night and haven't danced with you. Where are my manners? I should've asked you first."
"I don't dance, as a rule," Kurt answers, flustered. Flattered, despite better judgment.
"Any particular reason?"
"The guys in here get kind of grabby," he answers. "It's not what I'm looking for."
"So we feel the same way, then," Blaine says, smiling.
"I guess so."
"In that case, would you like to dance with me, Kurt, in a non-groping fashion?" He bats his eyelashes as he says this, a little sly and a lot adorable.
Kurt laughs, taking his outstretched hand.
*
After that, Kurt abandons the quiet search for signs between them that things are progressing toward romance. It doesn't feel necessary, as so much of their friendship provides him with the sweet, affectionate interaction that he always looks for in a boyfriend, without all the messy sexual boundary crossing and awkwardness of morning after nudity.
Kurt has never had much luck with sex; the best experiences he's had have been perfunctory and fast, the worst have left him feeling vaguely unsatisfied and dirty all over. Whoever said that sex is easier between two men because they can just get off and part ways was a dirty rotten liar. It's been neither easy nor simple for him, and certainly never great. Frankly, he doesn't get what the big deal is, and he often wonders if there's something wrong with him.
He gets the side eye from his friends for not jumping on the chance to bag a doctor, but really that had never meant anything and they all know it. And despite the fact that Blaine essentially knows Kurt's darkest, most shocking secret, which should make relating easier, they have never discussed it. They've never discussed a single thing that came up during Kurt's sessions, and for that he is grateful. He'd rather they put that behind them than use it as a way to try to find intimacy with each other.
Sometimes he even forgets that Dr. Anderson is Blaine and vice versa. It's an odd detail to go missing along the way, but it helps their friendship along, so who is he to complain?
*
Blaine doesn't announce his birthday until it's over, which Kurt gives him no end of crap about until he relents and agrees to a dinner at their favorite Hungarian restaurant. They top off the evening with the consumption of several bottles of wine, then stagger out of the place at closing time clutching each other and waking up probably every resident in the adjoining buildings with loud singing.
They sing all the way to the nearest busy corner, in fact, and Blaine, clutching Kurt around the waist, face buried in Kurt's neck, hails them a cab.
Kurt's apartment is closer so he is the first to get dropped off, so drunk that he's hardly aware of how clingy Blaine is being. He gently untangles them, petting Blaine's face and hair in a gesture of adjustment that's more paternal than anything else, and Blaine giggles, biting at Kurt's searching fingers.
"This was more fun than my actual birthday party," he admits.
"Oh?"
"Way too many PhD-types," he adds, clinging to Kurt's arms.
"Honey?"
"Yeah?"
"I have to leave the cab now."
Blaine giggles. The cabbie is staring at them through the rear view mirror. "Okay. I love you. You're the best. Good night."
Kurt laughs, shaking his head as he walks backward onto the curb. "Good night, birthday boy."
*
His phone rings about an hour later, which freaks him out for several reasons: one, he's just about to pass out after a very haphazardly executed shower and two, there is no reason to get a call this late unless someone has died or is in jail. With his family and group of friends, both of these scenarios are highly likely.
Or unless someone is still drunk and feeling the birthday spirit, he thinks, as he looks at his phone and Blaine's face is the first thing he sees. God, he's exhausted. He hopes this will be quick, no matter how much he adores Blaine. He sprawls out and answers the call.
"Birthday time is over, sweetheart," he croons. "Daddy needs sleep. Okay?"
"I shouldn't've let you go home," comes Blaine's gently slurred voice.
Oh dear. Is he a morose holiday drinker? Is this going to be the first of many similar late night calls? Will New Year's Eve be an absolute fiasco?
"I'm fine," Kurt answers. His voice is a gravely mess. "I mean I feel like yesterday's reheated kebabs, but fine otherwise. You should pass out. I'm about to. I'm sure that it's going to be glorious."
"I didn't want to let you go home," Blaine answers.
Kurt realizes for the first time that his tone is absolutely dark, smooth and sinful and full of hitches.
"Blaine? Are you okay? Do you need me to--call someone, or...?"
"Do you ever just let--let people take care of you, Kurt? You're always so on. So prepared, so flawless, so guarded, closed up tight and--even when you have fun you never really let go."
Kurt flushes. His pulse jumps, ugly and insulted, against his throat. This is definitely not what he signed up for tonight and he can't help the vague defensive anger that's rising in response.
He doesn't let anyone talk to him like this, no matter how adorable they are.
"What are you getting at?" he asks, his tone not hiding how he feels.
"Sometimes I just want to crawl inside of your head and see what's going on," Blaine growls, low and dangerous.
The flush spills down the back of Kurt's neck. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know where this is going, and that bothers him more than anything else.
"Not supposed to talk about our sessions," Blaine goes on, oblivious. "But I feel like that's the only part of you I really get. The part of you that needed release so badly that you dreamed up someone forcing you--"
Kurt bites his lip. This is not something he wants to talk about. Not now, not like this, and maybe not at all.
He's embarrassed to admit that even though he isn't actively dreaming of being raped anymore, the memory of those dreams is the only thing that gets him off decently and consistently and he doesn't understand precisely why.
Blaine's voice is shakier, his breath coming in ragged pants, making the phone blow up with static and noise. "I'm not making--fun of you." He pauses, and Kurt can hear a rustle. "I'm--you drive me crazy. Your body. Your mind. Your heart."
Oh, god. Oh god.
"Blaine." He takes a breath, trying to settle on the best way to stop this before it goes too far. "You're drunk. No matter what--what you feel right now, this isn't the time to be discussing it."
"Not just that," Blaine answers, and he actually groans once before he goes on. "Baby, you have no idea--ever since that first session--I almost didn't make it to the end. I felt so guilty. You have no idea how badly I--I almost quit."
"What--what are you talking about?" Fear coils in Kurt's belly. Drunken confessions of attraction, even affection, he can deal with; combining that with discussing the circumstances under which they met unsettles him.
"I liked it, Kurt," Blaine breathes brokenly. "It turned me on, the thought of you allowing someone to push you on your knees and fuck you. The thought of all your composure and confidence and armor just wrecked by someone making you take it. Giving you what you needed, even cloaked in a rape invented by your own mind, even then, I--barely made it until you left, jerked off at my desk without even unzipping my pants, hadn't come that hard in years."
Kurt realizes that he's shaking. Reliving the fantasy doesn't disgust him anymore--it's his own mind conjuring these ideas, after all, and not as the result of abuse or actual forced experience; it's just the way that his brain had manifested the need to de-stress his life. What Blaine taught him was that he needed to take the reigns of his own day to day and manage himself better. It had been a good lesson. It had worked.
But he's been getting off on the memory those dreams ever since; that he can't deny.
"Are--are you--right now, Blaine?" He can't even say the words, he's so overwhelmed.
"I'm sorry," Blaine gasps, and yes, he is, Kurt can hear the rhythmic shuffle clearly now.
Oh my god.
"I wanted--I don't want that for you, not that, of course not, I--I wanted to--take that back for you, rename it, reshape it, I--" He breaks off for a long time, and then comes back into the hot, heavy silence, whimpering, "Wanted to make it about reclaiming your own power, about letting someone guide you back to that place, where even the fantasy of being forced could make you--strong. Realize that it was never about rape, that the part of you that wanted it was just as valid as any other part of you, that needing someone to take control is okay, it doesn't have to be forced, it doesn't have to hurt you or infect you or weaken you, it can just be--about embracing yourself through submission. It can be loving. It can be everything. I wanted to be that person, wanted it so badly that it hurt."
Kurt's mind is a blank throb of arousal. He's stiff in his briefs, overheating under the covers and breathing heavily, but the feeling is distant and more to do with Blaine obviously masturbating over the phone than anything else. Mostly he just feels paralyzed and overwhelmed by the information that Blaine is feeding him, and powerfully excited by the fact that there's more to this than he originally thought.
All of the sudden their entire friendship feels as if it's been nothing but a preamble to what they're doing right now. The scariest part of all is that it doesn't feel wrong. It feels right.
"I don't--I mean, I understand what you're saying, but I don't--what do you want me to do?" He can cope with a lot of things, but not knowing which action to take leaves him breathless.
There's another long pause and then Blaine exhales, "If you ask me that now--"
The fact that this is over the phone makes Kurt bold. If he doesn't like it, he can just hang up. "Tell me," he says, eyes sliding shut, hips settling on the bed. The excitement is overcoming the fear, and the attention paid to his own arousal increases as a result. "Tell me what to do, please."
"God," Blaine gasps. "Tell me the things you didn't, when you spoke about your dreams in my office. The details you were ashamed of. I want to know."
Kurt inhales sharply.
The sensation that lashes down his body at that leaves him breathless. Blaine is right; there had been many things that he'd left out or only briefly described because it had been embarrassing. But the most embarrassing thing of all is something he'd never even alluded to.
"The sex--the rape in the dream--" He inhales again, hips churning just once before he forces them to still. His cock is wet at the tip, damp against his underwear. "It's the best sex I've ever had." His eyes fill with tears. "I'm not a virgin, but I don't think I've ever enjoyed sex with another person as much as I enjoyed getting off to those fantasies."
"Oh, god, honey," Blaine whines. "It's okay. It's okay. There is nothing wrong with you."
"Blaine," Kurt whimpers, feeling his cock throb on his belly. "What are we doing?"
"Tell me more."
"I--I liked the fear of being pursued against my will. Because I think I always knew it wasn't really--against my will. I could just--the illusion was there, strong enough that it might as well have been real. I liked that, I felt protected by it. I liked the way his taunting made me feel dirty and used because all of that led up to being taken and I wanted that so badly--the filthy stuff, it got me off, it got me off so hard--"
"Keep talking. Please. Kurt--"
He wants to touch himself, but something in the tone of Blaine's voice keeps him from doing it. "All I wanted in the dream was to be fucked until it hurt. I wanted him to make me feel so I wouldn't have to let myself feel. Because--I don't know if I knew how to feel. To let myself. To let someone in. To trust someone enough to do that to my body. I just wanted it. His dick in me. His come in me. His hands on my skin. He wouldn't let me hide. He would make me enjoy it. I could enjoy it because he took away my power to resist." He licks his lips to wet them, unable to stop his pelvis from rocking now. He rubs his cock against the cinch of his underwear, breathing heavily. "Blaine. Blaine, I'm so hard."
"So proud of you, telling me all this," Blaine answers, sounding so much more sober than he had twenty minutes ago. "So fucking proud of you, trusting me like this."
Kurt whimpers; the praise makes his cock pulse, and he can feel the wet spot at the front of his underwear grow wetter. "Scared. I'm--a little--I've never done anything like this."
"I'm here," Blaine whispers.
"No matter what I just wanted him to use my body," Kurt goes on, writhing on the bed now, skin feverish and pulse racing. "So much of what I do during the day is verbal, and for once I just wanted my body to be all there was. I wanted a man to know that without me needing to tell him; it's why I never talk much in the dream. Sometimes I whimper and beg for him to stop, but most of the time I just cry, and I'm never sure whether it's because of fear or relief or both."
"So good, so good for me," Blaine pants. Kurt can tell that he's close to losing it.
"Please," Kurt begs, "please, I want to touch myself."
"Oh my god you haven't been--"
"N-no, I--you didn't say."
"Oh god," Blaine sobs, and Kurt hears him go over the edge, lose all of his control at nothing more than the implication that Kurt had been holding back for him out of instinct. When it's over and he's gasping for air, Kurt lets one hand down along his stomach.
"Blaine?"
"So fucking perfect," Blaine whispers. "Want you to come for me, baby, put your hand between your legs, it's okay. Don't think about it. Just touch. Want you to think of me every time you get off to that fantasy, want you to remember my voice, okay?"
The permission makes everything very clear; Kurt grasps the swollen shaft of his cock with a whimper, spreading his legs on the bed. It only takes a dozen or so pulls before he's spurting wet over his fingers, one finger hastily pressed up inside of himself, the memory of Blaine's orgasm over the phone the only thing on his mind when it happens, followed by a relief so pure that it makes white pop behind his eyelids.
He blacks out for about ten seconds, and when he comes to Blaine is whispering nonsense in his ear.
"I'm okay," he answers, unsure of the question but very sure of his state of being. "It's okay. I'm--okay."
"I'm going to stay on the line until you fall asleep, okay? Just put the phone to your ear."
Kurt is feeling fuzzy already, so it's not a chore to do as he's asked, eyelids dipping.
He falls asleep to the soft hum of Blaine singing to him and doesn't dream.
*
He wakes up itchy, covered in dried come with his cellphone almost dead on the pillow beside his cheek.
He's not sure whether to blame the wine or what had happened between he and Blaine for the hangover, but he thanks a god he doesn't believe in for Saturdays and spends most of the morning sucking black coffee, ignoring texts from his friends, and half-drowning himself in the bathtub until he feels like something that was once human again.
He isn't quite sure what to do.
What if Blaine forgets the entire conversation? Worse: what if he remembers it?
Kurt doesn't even fully understand what kind of exchange it had been. It wasn't just sexual. It wasn't just a power play. It was both, and neither, and in the light of day he's just so confused.
He works out a little at home, takes another shower, marathons a few episodes of House Hunters, and just as he's getting ready to go out for some painless window shopping, someone knocks on his door.
It's Blaine, standing there in slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie, and looking as if the world had been officially declared flat sometime in the middle of the night.
"We swapped scarves in the taxi," he says, cheeks pink.
Kurt is wearing boxers and a t-shirt and his hair is standing up in ten different directions. He inhales, and then exhales, "Hi."
They stare at each other, the air between them snapping with sudden tension.
Blaine's eyes drift lightly over Kurt's attire--or lack thereof--and land finally on his flushed face. "I wasn't dreaming."
Kurt's mouth tries to smile and frown at the same time. "No. No, you weren't."
Blaine shudders and his eyelids dip. "Kurt, I--if I've ruined our friendship with this--"
And that is just too much.
Something inside of Kurt snaps. He closes the distance between them, puts his hands on either side of Blaine's jaw and kisses him, swallowing the shocked exhale that spills between their lips.
Blaine groans, wraps his hands around Kurt's shoulder blades and drags him close. Despite the slight height difference in his favor Kurt feels so small against Blaine, and begins to shake as the kiss drags on too long. He pulls away with rough twist, eyelids fluttering shut.
"I don't understand, not--everything," he says, breathing warm over Blaine's slack, wet mouth. "But I want you. I've wanted you since the day you pointedly did not give me dating advice."
Blaine laughs, overwhelmed and giddy. "God, me too. Last night--last night was good, for you? It's what you wanted?"
"Needed," Kurt answers. "What I needed."
"I have a one o'clock appointment slot free today," Blaine says, clutching his waist. "Come see me?"
Blushing, Kurt agrees.
*
It's not as if he's a patient, and Blaine's practice is private, but he still feels weird sliding past the receptionist who's going off duty as he arrives. He's not sure what to expect, but nothing inside of Blaine's office is different--desk, chairs, couch, plants, books, degrees, all the same.
Blaine is sitting on the edge of his desk wearing the same clothes he'd had on this morning, only his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his hair isn't quite as controlled (humidity is cruel, as they both know).
Kurt doesn't know exactly what kind of actions are called for in these situations. He has terrible fears of Blaine asking him to do something ridiculous like kneel or take all his clothes off or call him Master, none of which Kurt is comfortable with the idea of right now.
They stand there, staring at each other as if the distance between them is the only thing keeping them from rushing at each other. Just looking at Blaine is enough to make Kurt's body ache for more contact.
"I remember every word I said last night," Blaine says, by way of greeting. "I want you to know that."
"I do, too," he answers, voice very high-pitched. He clears his throat, shaking hands clasped in front of his body.
Blaine continues to stare. "I've wanted you for so long. And not just in the way I had you last night. I--I love everything about you." He steps closer. "With those sessions between us, I thought I'd never be able to admit--I thought you'd be so disgusted by my reaction that you'd never want to speak to me again, much less--"
Kurt chews his bottom lip to keep the noise from rising in his throat. Blaine is so very wrong about that that it's almost painful.
The more Blaine speaks, the more unstable Kurt feels, as if what he's saying isn't necessary, and the tension between them is making Kurt want to shout or sing or sit down and close his eyes before he does either of those things. He doesn't want to talk about it like this, and not out of a desire to avoid it; this just isn't the way he needs to approach the topic.
"Don't," he says, finally, raising a hand. "I--we don't have to talk about it. I think--I think we're both very much on the same page. At least right now."
Blaine nods, eyes burning into Kurt's as he gently backs Kurt up against the door and kisses him. "God, Kurt, I just want--so much." He kisses him again, and again, drawing sweet little sighs from his mouth and carefully lifting his arms by the wrist and pinning them above his head.
Kurt whimpers, opening his mouth hungrily. The feel of Blaine's hard fingers pinning his wrists shoots through him like a direct stroke along his cock; he's never felt that kind of immediacy from foreplay before and it takes him by surprise.
They make out against the door until they can't breathe evenly and then Kurt pulls back, allowing Blaine's mouth to blaze a trail down his throat instead, still holding his wrists in place. He's warm beneath his clothes and wriggling just a little, eyes rolled back into his head.
Making out has never felt like this before.
When Blaine comes back up and begins sucking and nuzzling below Kurt's ear, Kurt breathes out before he can even stop the word, "Please."
"Are you sure? I don't want to rush--"
"Until we--do that, I won't be able to stop thinking about it. I need to know you like that, I need you, right now, and then later, later we can--"
Blaine, panting, pushes Kurt a little harder against the door. "Shh. I understand. How...?"
"Fuck me on the couch," he answers, staring over at the leather recliner where he'd shared so much of himself with Dr. Anderson. "I don't--I don't want you to be gentle or go slow."
"I know," Blaine answers, voice rough. "Go kneel for me, hands on the headrest."
Kurt shivers. He shakes the entire time that it takes for him to arrange himself, still clothed, on the springy leather cushions. If this is anything like the way he wants it, the way he'd confessed it to Blaine, they won't be doing much talking. He feels dizzy. His entire body is vibrating in tune with the execution of Blaine's command, and the focus feels amazing. It's like being drunk, almost.
"Close your eyes," Blaine says from across the room. "Don't move your hands from the headrest. Good." Rustling, and the squeak of the couch as Blaine kneels behind him. Kurt can hear him undo his belt, can smell and hear the creak of the leather and the zing of the zipper.
God, the way that feels, Blaine's warmth and solidity behind him, the press of cloth all up and down his back and thighs; he's already trembling and Blaine hasn't even touched him.
"Please," he murmurs.
Blaine's fingers pluck his jeans open. He whimpers. "Already hard for me?" Kurt nods. "Good boy. If I do something you don't like I want you to tell me 'red'. Slow down, 'yellow'. If you can't speak, tap my hand three times. Okay?" Kurt nods again. "After this I'm not going to make you say or do anything unless you request it." He kisses the back of Kurt's neck; Kurt feels the reverberation of his own trembling through the touch.
Kurt is so turned on that he isn't sure if he ever knew what arousal was until now.
Blaine rolls his jeans and underwear down around his thighs, and that's when the gentleness stops. He smears lubricant along his cock and down and over Kurt's exposed, aching pucker, but that's all he gives; the next thing Kurt feels is the blunt press of the head of his cock and the circle of his arms around his waist.
God. God, it feels so good, to just get that, the hard press of another man's cock against his hole without anything else; no hand on his dick, no kisses, only the needy, demanding surge of male flesh between his cheeks.
He doesn't have to talk. He doesn't have to make noises to gratify his partner's efforts. He doesn't have to express desire or approval. His only job is to be taken and derive pleasure from whatever Blaine is willing to give him. It's everything he's ever wanted but never had the language to ask for.
Blaine makes him wait just a little, circling his slick pucker with the latex-clad head of his cock to spread the lubricant in lazily patterns. The pressure is incredible, but what makes it so good is how badly he wants it.
He feels something inside of him crack.
"Fuck me," he begs.
"Going to make you feel it," Blaine replies, pressing forward.
"Please."
"Going to take you so hard." Blaine surges up, pushing the length of his cock inside in one smooth thrust. His hands slide atop Kurt's, pushing them down, holding him in place as he pulls back and then slams forward again.
Kurt sobs, breathing out and relaxing around the intrusion. It hurts. It feels good. He wants both of those sensations to continue. He keeps his eyes closed, letting nothing but the freedom of being taken care of flood his chest cavity, twine with his needy heartbeat as Blaine fucks him. At first the sensation of being open is strange, vaguely uncomfortable; and then it's just warm and full, and then it's good, the plunge of Blaine's cock up inside of him, twisting down into pleasure as the moments go by.
It's like falling into the softest, most comfortable bed imaginable. He breathes softly, eyes drifting back in his head as Blaine's body rocking into his sets the pace of the lull. He floats atop that rhythm, weightless and anchorless, his fears and doubts dissolving in the mist of it. He has never felt this way before, but it's somehow like coming home after a long time away.
It feels so right. It feels so perfect.
Blaine's fingers lace with his. He knows that Blaine can feel the change in his body's resistance; he's gone so loose around Blaine's cock, letting him in deeper, the muscles of his thighs loosening. He's fairly sure that the only rigid thing about him right now is his cock, bouncing softly in front of him.
"That's it," Blaine whispers. "Let go for me, honey."
Kurt barely hears him. He doesn't even realize he's going under, and sweetly so, until he is, and all at once it feels like being awake through the perfect dream, fuzzy but still solid around him, the opposite of a night terror, real and unreal in the best possible way instead of the worst.
"Blaine," he whispers, delirious, seeing shapes and feeling movement and hearing noise but grasping none of it.
He has no way of knowing then that he's gone limp on his knees and elbows, that Blaine is the only thing keeping him upright, that his erection is smearing pre-come all over the leather in front of him. The only thing that matters is this soupy, endless cushion around his mind, bracketing his thoughts and feelings while his body takes its pleasure somewhere farther away, in ways that he has no control over.
Blaine is taking care of it. Blaine is taking care of him. He has nothing to worry about.
He listens to the distant slap of skin against skin as Blaine fucks him harder, faster, sending jolts of sensation through the mindless haze. He has no idea how long he's been down here, but he can tell that Blaine is close.
"Come in me," he breathes, lost to the rhythm of their bodies.
"Kurt," Blaine whimpers. His hand closes around Kurt's cock. He loses the thread again, sensation flooding his pelvis in waves.
Coming all over the leather recliner is what brings Kurt out of subspace.
It's like an orgasm in reverse, almost, tracing the action from climax back through escalation, and by the time he has reached the beginning of it he's fully aware again, aware of the sweat on his skin and the fact that they're still almost entirely clothed, Blaine's fingers tangled between his, Blaine's cock still buried deep inside of him.
Blaine comes with a soft gasp against the back of his neck; Kurt hardly feels it. He wonders if orgasms matter much at all when going under had felt as amazing as it had.
He blinks lazily, realizing only too late that he's shaking all over. "I feel weird."
"It's okay. You're still a little under. Just keep listening to my voice, okay?" He's reaching for something but not pulling away, which is good. Kurt feels as if the only thing keeping him conscious is the anchor of Blaine's touch. "Drink this." It's a juice box--apple cranberry--and Kurt latches on and sucks down the sugary liquid gratefully. As it settles in his belly his brain clears wonderfully.
"Thanks."
Blaine is still inside of him but slowly edges out as he softens, until Kurt is used to the empty feeling. He doesn't stay away for long--there's the soft drag of a moist towelette between Kurt's cheeks and along his thighs, and the gentle buttoning of Kurt's clothing, and then they're lying spooned together, Kurt's back to Blaine's chest, on the recliner, their fingers laced together.
Blaine kisses his jaw. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired. Safe. Don't go, okay?"
"I'm right here," Blaine replies. "Cold? Warm?"
"Comfortable," he says, cuddling back into Blaine's body. "So comfortable." He can feel Blaine smile against his skin.
"Sleep. When you wake up, we can talk, if you want."
He's already halfway there.
*
He wakes up to Blaine rolling on top of him, holding him down and kissing him awake.
"Mmm," he hums into the kiss, opening his mouth.
"With me?" Blaine asks.
"How long did I sleep?"
"An hour or so."
Kurt rolls a little, feeling his body aching and his back crack. Otherwise, he feels wonderful, and he tells Blaine so. "Hungry, though," he adds, and Blaine smiles and nuzzles into the space below his jaw.
"I ordered pizza, if that's okay. Good protein, good carbs, I figured you'd need something substantial."
"Sounds good," he answers, moving to sit up. "Give me a second?"
"Of course," Blaine says, sitting opposite him. There are lubricant stains all over the front of his pants and even though he'd buttoned up he hadn't put his belt back on. Kurt stares at it looped over the armrest of the recliner and blushes.
The memory of Blaine bending over his back and fucking him into a stupor is still so fresh.
They sit in silence for a short while and then he finally has the presence of mind to ask, "Is it like that every time? The--going under?"
"It can be," Blaine answers. "But not always. I think--I think you just really needed it. Sometimes that need isn't there. Sometimes it's there but less important."
He nods, feeling lazy and relaxed. "We're kind of doing this dating stuff in reverse."
Blaine smiles. "We have all the time in the world to explore. I just wanted to give you what you needed today. I wanted you to know that I--that I can meet your needs. I can, Kurt. I can give you whatever you need or want, any hour of the day. That's all I want to do."
Kurt blushes, tangling their fingers together. "Can we start with making each other happy for short periods of time over the course of the day?"
"I think I can manage that," Blaine answers, grinning.