Author's Note: Response to a tumblr prompt. The original prompt was: After the breakup, everytime Blaine masturbates for Kurt in his imagination it starts off sweet and they're in love. But suddenly Kurt starts crying and begs, "No, please stop. Sorry." Blaine can't come for months.
He hadn't even thought about touching himself since the night with Eli.
Hadn't even dreamt of it.
But, like any other hormonal teenage boy, the urge eventually came and he hid away in his room, door locked tight, and let his mind drift away. The image that came to him immediately was something that he knew he probably shouldn't be thinking about anymore. Or, rather, someone. In fact, he'd purposely tried to drive it away, knowing full well that, No, you don't deserve to think about him like that, you fucked it all up. But trying to block it out now only intensified everything.
So, he lay down and trailed an eager hand down his stomach, arching into his own touch. A rush of heat crawled up into his cheeks and he let his eyes slip shut, focusing on the image of Kurt—sprawled out, naked, and wanting—in his mind. It had been weeks since he'd actually seen Kurt, but nothing could eradicate the version Blaine was envisioning now; he'd never looked as beautiful as he did the first time they opened themselves up completely to each other, clumsily claiming foreign territory as though they actually knew what they were doing.
This Kurt smiled at him, even spread his legs further apart, and touched his fingers to his lips in sensual anticipation. Blaine clamped his teeth down on his lower lip and let out a small whimper, his stomach fluttering wildly. "I need you," he imagined Kurt whispering in feigned bashfulness.
He slid his hand under the waistband of his boxers, already uncomfortably wet with pre-cum, and rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock. "Kurt," he murmured in a gravelly voice.
"Please, Blaine," imaginary Kurt breathed back. And, in his mind, Blaine eagerly obliged. As he worked his hand faster, the fragmented images presented themselves in a jumbled mess, jumping back and forth between Kurt touching himself and begging for Blaine, and Kurt's strangled moans as he bounced up and down on Blaine's lap.
"God, Kurt, I'm so—" Blaine gasped and arched his back, half writhing under his own touch. But something changed.
Kurt's face was no longer scrunched up in ecstasy. Instead, his cheeks were splotchy, eyes swollen and raw. He was crying.
"Stop, please, Blaine. I'm sorry, I can't do this—just stop," he sobbed and Blaine's eyes snapped open. He sat up, drawing in loud and sloppy gasps of air, and stared down at his trembling hand in disgust. The same hand that had touched the skin of another, someone who wasn't Kurt or himself. Even imaginary Kurt was tainted by his indiscretion. Blaine choked back a sob and quickly drew a blanket over himself, ashamed even in the barren wasteland of his bedroom.
It was a full month before the urge overtook him again. He'd just gotten off of the phone with Kurt, who greeted him with a "Happy Thanksgiving!" followed by "No, I don't hate you." Needless to say, Blaine flew four notches past thrilled and relieved when they finally disconnected. He felt the faint flutter of a lone butterfly's wings in the pit of his stomach, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of being half-hard just from hearing Kurt's voice again. He felt guilty throughout their phone call, but now that he was alone again he was definitely determined to do something about it.
He hastily locked his bedroom door, despite the fact that no one was ever home, and pressed his back to it. He wasn't in the mood to take things slow like last time. Oh no. He wanted to get off and do it as quickly as possible.
So, with some effort, he slid down red pants that clung so tightly to him they were more like a second layer of skin and plunged his hand into his boxers, fisting his cock with such intensity that it almost hurt more than helped. He tried to keep his mind blank, imagining only Kurt's encouraging voice and refusing to let himself put a face to it again.
"God, Blaine. Like that, yes," Kurt's voice rang in his ears, leaving him feeling disoriented. Blaine whimpered softly at the imagined wanting of his ex-lover, clenched his hand tighter around his cock and tried to envision it was Kurt's hand rather than his own. Despite moisturizing (with a little bronzer slipped in for the happy memory of Kurt's well intentioned gesture), his hands could never come close to the delicate texture of Kurt's. Blaine's were still calloused and dry with little spider web cracks along the sides of his palms to constantly remind him of the rest of his body: splintered, tiny fragments that only Kurt was able to keep in place.
"I don't trust you anymore," Kurt suddenly breathed into his ear with such sadness that Blaine could actually feel the remnants of his fragile heart being ground into dust. He immediately stopped thrusting into his hand—going completely soft in record's time—and kept his eyes shut as the phrase repeated itself in his head at different volumes, overlapping in daunting echoes until he had to bring both hands up to his ears to try to drown out the sound.
"I'm sorry," Blaine whispered. "Kurt, I'm so sorry."
But the only response Blaine received was gradual silence overtaking the room, save for his ragged breathing and strangled sobs.
What am I even doing here?
Blaine glanced around Kurt and Rachel's apartment. They had just come back from ice-skating, both rosy cheeked and winded, and Kurt was bustling about the kitchen making coffee. He was glad to be back, glad to actually be able to see Kurt and, if Kurt allowed it, reach out and touch him—but he still felt undeserving of it all. Burt had insisted Blaine come with him after finding out Blaine would be alone on Christmas while his parents flew out to California to visit Cooper. Blaine blamed Sam for—most likely—being the one to relay the message to Burt, but, somewhere very deep down, he was relieved to not have to spend Christmas on his own this year. No matter how awkward it felt being in New York with the Hummels.
"Two sugars, is it?" Kurt's attention was fixed on a mug as he poured coffee for Blaine.
"You know my coffee order," Blaine breathed softly into the open air, reminiscing fondly. Kurt didn't turn to face him, but Blaine noticed a polite smile as he unwrapped two packets of sugar and poured them in. "So where did your dad disappear to?"
"He didn't say," Kurt slid the mug across the counter towards Blaine. "Just that he'd meet us back here."
Blaine nodded and picked up the mug with trembling hands, still red and raw and far too stiff from the December air.
"Are you still cold? Jesus, your hands. Come here, give them to me," Kurt frowned and abandoned his own cup of coffee for the moment. Blaine placed his mug down and took a step towards Kurt, extending his hands. Kurt took one of Blaine's hands between both of his and rubbed heat into it before repeating the process with the other; Blaine's heart thumped so violently against his chest as he watched that he actually feared it might jump right out. And a mess like that just wouldn't do.
"Better?" Kurt let his hands linger for a moment.
"Better," Blaine replied in a scratchy voice. "Would it be okay if I," he cleared his throat and suddenly considered how weird it might be to follow through with his request. "Um, if I used your shower?"
"Yeah, of course. It's just to the right over there," Kurt pointed. "Towels are in the little cabinet."
Blaine took a few meager sips of coffee before heading into the bathroom. It had been so long since Kurt… touched him like that; he was almost embarrassed about being so turned on right now after such a brief, innocent exchange of body heat. His jeans felt too tight, his heart beat too fast, and his mind was relentless. He stripped as quickly as he could and twisted the faucets, jumping in too hastily to cold water. Even the icicles pelting his skin did nothing to deter him; he was so uncomfortably hard that it just hurt. He needed the release.
Despite his recent track record, he figured he'd attempt to get off anyways. The worse that could happen already had, and he braced himself for it again. He adjusted the water, humming relief when it quickly warmed up, and leaned back against the wall, sliding his hand over his cock. He couldn't take very long; Kurt would get suspicious if he was in for more than ten minutes.
His entire body trembled as he thrust into his hand, his arm ached terribly, but he persisted through it because, for the first time in months, he wasn't being tormented by visions of Kurt sobbing and begging him to stop. His orgasm hit him just as hard and fast, seeping out through every individual pore, coursing through every sensory nerve, and caused him to bite down on his lip with such force that he drew blood. Had it not been for the wall, he'd most likely have ended up on the floor.
As he took the next few minutes to compose himself enough to stand, guilt crept up on him and slammed him with the realization: you just jerked off in your ex-boyfriend's shower. He tried to stifle the thought as he stepped out and toweled off with haste, pulling on his previous outfit, before rejoining Kurt.
"Hey there," Kurt greeted him while unfolding a red, flannel blanket. "Still feeling cold? I thought we could maybe watch a movie until my dad gets back."
"Uh, sure," Blaine tried to keep the heat from staining his cheeks. But as they climbed onto Kurt's bed and draped the blanket over themselves, as Kurt popped Sweeney Todd into his laptop and accidentally brushed his arm against Blaine's, he knew he didn't stand a chance. He spent the majority of the film blushing guiltily and constantly side-eyeing the small gap of distance between them.
"Are you alright?" Kurt asked sometime in the middle of Epiphany.
"Just… glad I get to spend Christmas with my best friend," Blaine smothered his guilt, burying it deep beneath the surface where only he was able to access it when he needed the reality check. He wasn't lying; of course he was thrilled to be in Kurt's company, he was merely withholding the remainder of the cause of his strange behaviour.
"Best friend," Kurt parroted the phrase with what sounded like uncertainty and, for a split, horrifying, second, Blaine worried he'd chosen his words poorly. "I've missed you, best friend. I'm glad too."
Kurt turned and slid his arms around Blaine in an innocent embrace. Nevertheless, as Blaine squeezed his own affections, his eyes couldn't help but flit towards the direction of the bathroom door while a little radar relayed messages to "strengthen and rise" down south. It was going to be a long Christmas break, that much he knew for sure.