This was written in response to the following prompt on GKM: Cooper is babysitting his little brother when two men break into their house and hold them hostage at gun point. One of the men gets bored and starts to touch Blaine, talking about how pretty and innocent he looks and threatening to rape him. Cooper offers himself instead of Blaine, but the men decide that either Cooper can fuck Blaine or they will. Cue Cooper feeling sick at having sex with his baby brother but still getting turned on and trying to make it good for Blaine, who cries and clings to Cooper the whole time.
It did not quite go according to prompt, but the warnings are real: INCEST, DUBCON/NONCON, ORAL, and BAREBACKING. Please don't read it any of that makes you uncomfortable.
Obviously, I do not own Glee.
"Call us if you need anything!"
"Yes mom. I am 22 – I think I can handle this." The Andersons have been leaving for over 45 minutes, the process continually delayed with reminders, "the emergency aid kit is in the bathroom," "don't forget to lock the door," and "if anything happens…"
Cooper leaned against the wall as he watched his father gently nudge his wife into a coat. He had been back from college for several days and had not yet adjusted to his mother's fretting. Blaine, who was exposed to daily dozes and developed immunity, sat in the living room, picking their entertainment-of-choice for the night as he scrolled through Netflix Instant Watch.
"Oh, and honey…"
"Mom! Blaine is 14! He is not a little kid, he does not technically even need a babysitter. We are going to be fine. Now, you go and enjoy the show, relax, order room service. When is the last time you had a night to yourselves? We are just going to watch some horrible action movie…
"Musical!" Blaine's voice rang through the hallway.
"Some horrible musical," Cooper amended with an indulgent smile, "and order pizza before we fall asleep on the couch."
Clarice Anderson seemed placated and accepted the handbag Cooper pushed into her hands. As the Andersons finally stepped onto their walkway, James mouthed an exaggerated "thank you" to his older son before closing the door.
The boys had the house to themselves.
"Pizza?" Cooper knew they reached the point where they either ate or nodded off, and since he had so little time to spend with his younger brother as it was, he was not about to let their time together go to waste on snoozing.
"Do places deliver at this hour?" Blaine yawned in the middle of a stretch. He reached to press pause in the middle of credits and looked over to check the time. "It's almost 11:00."
"Don't you worry your curly little head over that. Just decide what toppings you want."
While Cooper ordered their midnight snacks, Blaine straightened out their make-shift fort in the living room. When they were kids and Cooper was entrusted to babysit a much younger Blaine, they used to build enormous castles out of pillows, couch cushions, duvets, and anything else they could lug into the living room. Blaine would hide in the middle of it all, giggling and calling out to Cooper, who would bravely trespass on the Mage's land, overcoming unimaginable obstacles to rescue him. Blaine would squirm and erupt in laughter over Cooper's narration ("Oh, the dreaded Carpet of Paisley Lava! But I have the Ottoman of Power – fear not, young Blaine, you shall be rescued!"). The game would usually end when Blaine ran out of patience and jumped through the pillows, sending the castle flying through the living room.
Looking into that same living room now, it struck Cooper that they recreated their game in preparation for Movie Night without even noticing it. Couch cushions on the floor, pillows propped up against hard edges of furniture, fluffy comforters spread out like picnic blankets. And Blaine, focused, mature, clam Blaine straightening it up.
For some reason, the sight shot pain through Cooper's heart. Blaine was 14. He shouldn't care about how tidy the damn living room was. He missed the little boy he used to rescue from pillow castles. As much as Cooper knew that all kids grow up, he couldn't help but think that Blaine's childhood had been too short. Looking at him fussing over pillow arrangements, his face scrunched up in concentration disproportional to the task at hand, lower lip caught in mid-bite, Blaine looked much like a little girl trying on her mom's shoes and make up; the hat of gel, the button-up shirt, that loose cardigan and look of quiet perseverance make him look adult…too adult. Like a boy trying to play a man, but not knowing quite how.
Blaine, at 14, knew all too well that life was hard and unfair. Just last year, Blaine spent a week withdrawn, startled by every sound, his eyes blown wide in perpetual fear. One night at dinner, his shaking hands could not guide his fork until he laid it with a clatter on the table and said "I'm gay."
Cooper loved his parents. He did. But he could not accept how they treated his baby brother. Blaine's confession led to a lot of "are you sure?"s and "it is just a phase"s. Cooper had never understood it – it was not as if they were particularly religious. And Blaine was their son! After his parents came to accept that Blaine was sure, and it was not a phase, the topic never came up again in conversation. No one ever told Blaine that being gay was wrong, but no one ever told him that is was fine either. That it didn't matter, that his family loved and supported him unconditionally, that the gender of his future soulmate was irrelevant. Well, Cooper tried to tell him that, but Blaine's defenses had already gone up. But it was never too late to try to break through them.
"You ever kissed anybody?"
"What!" Blaine was so taken aback by the sudden interest in his non-existent love-life, he nearly dropped a pillow. "What? No, of course not."
"No cute boy in Algebra? No Warbler with a voice as sweet as honey?" Cooper pressed on, partially in an effort to tell Blaine that he loved and accepted him exactly as he was, and partially to provoke that deep, dark blush spilling across his brother's cheekbones.
"No." Blaine muttered into the floor. He glanced up from under his thick eyelashes, "But there is a boy in French II."
Cooper couldn't help let out an elated laugh. He felt dizzy – Blaine trusted him. He let him in. He wasn't too late.
"So tell me all about him. What's he like? How did you meet?" a cheery ding-dong of the doorbell interrupted his train of thought. Must be the pizza. "Hold that thought."
Cooper rushed to the front door, high on the feeling of brotherly love and the sense of accomplishment at getting Blaine to open up.
Yanking the door open for the delivery, he asked "How much do I owe you?"
He stares down the barrel of a gun.
"Shut up and walk back."
Cooper can't speak. He can't breathe. His head is swimming. All he can hear is his mom's voice saying, "if anything happens". And Blaine. Blaine is inside. He is in the living room.
Cooper bumps into a side table and nearly knocks over the vase.
"Don't!" The growl seems all the more dangerous mumbled through the fabric of a black mask. Cooper deliriously thinks it looks like the mouth of a dementor in those Harry Potter movies he used to watch with Blaine. Blaine.
"Please, take whatever you want, just…" just what? Don't kill us? Don't hurt Blaine? Don't touch him? Don't see him, don't notice him, just don't be here.
"Keep walking, kid." There is another man. They are both huge, and that is all Cooper can process. He has no idea how witnesses give statements to the police. His heart is beating so fast, it pumps air instead of blood and his head is floating in pure terror. He has no idea what they are wearing, how tall they are, what shape is their face. All he knows is that they are monstrous. And his every step deeper into the house leads them to Blaine.
"Cooper? Is that the pizza?" his brother's sweet, boyish voice cuts through Cooper's haze. "Don't eat it all in the hallway!"
Suddenly, the gun that had been a foot away from his face is now pressed into the back of his head as one of the men turns him violently toward the living room and leans into his body. "Make a sound, and your brain will decorate the walls."
The men are calm. Their footsteps sure and even on the hardwood. The man behind Cooper breathes slow and deep into his neck, while the other gazes with benign interest into the house. He looks like a potential buyer who stepped into a new property on the market. Curious, calculating, and mildly approving.
They round a corner and there is no way to turn back. Blaine stands in the middle of a clean, neat living room. His eyes grow wide, his mouth gapes in a shuddered breath, and he take a useless, meaningless step back.
Cooper's eyes search and lock on Blaine's. Cooper knows that they will get through this, that he will get them through this. Blaine trusts him, and that trust is like a superpower. Cooper rescued him from pillow castles; he will rescue him from this too. With that thought comes a conviction – their victory is inevitable. All Cooper needs to do now is figure out how.
"Well, ain't he pretty." The deep, cooing voice of a predator shakes Cooper out of his fantasy. He had forgotten all about the men, the gun. Now he watches one of the monsters approach his brother. Heavy footsteps grow dim as he steps onto the carpet.
Blaine backs up, releasing a tortured whimper as his shins hit the edge of the coffee table. His eyes track the path of a heavy hand as it reaches towards his face. A shuddered breath, a choked cry, a single tear and the hand presses to his cheek. "Yes, very pretty."
"Please," Cooper can't. He can't watch, he can't move. It feels like every molecule of his body is hurdling forward, squeezing into the space between Blaine and that hand, that thumb gently stroking his face, and this sensation of movement keeps him rooted in place. "Please, don't."
A hard slap on his back bends him over and sends him several steps into the living room. "Just get over there," the man behind him sounds impatient and exasperated. Cooper stumbles forward, pulled towards Blaine, but stops short of reaching him. Does he grab Blaine? Wrap him tight, make him bullet-proof with his own body? Pull him low, hidden under a mountain of pillows and throws, as Cooper battles this new and untested danger?
"Can you focus? Tape 'em up and get to work. We are not here to look at the pretty." He sounds annoyed and mocking as he throws a roll of duck-tape at his partner. It's a good sign. Let them take what they want; just stop touching Blaine.
"Just look at him. Like a little angel." The man can't take his eyes off Blaine, even as he twirls the roll in his hands. The cold shine in his eyes matches the gleam off his gun – steely, deadly. When his eyes linger too long on Blaine's lips, his partner mutters, "should have known better than to take a fag on a job…" before he snatches the duck-take back and sets to work taping Blaine's hands and mouth.
Blaine's face is already tracked with tears. He can't seem to decide whether he should resist, making aborted attempts to press further away, fall back and disappear into thin air. He freezes once his eyes lock on Cooper's; in this glance, in their gaze, they are connected and not alone. Together, they will survive.
The floor is hard and unyielding under his hipbones. The duck-tape stretches the skin of his face, contorts it into a deep grimace. The sticky glue keeps catching on the hairs of his wrists and that small, irrelevant pain keeps Cooper present. He can hear echoing footsteps radiating from the ceiling. The sound is a relief – it is a measure of distance between them and danger.
Blaine hasn't moved since the men pushed him to his knees after binding his hands. His eyes grow distant with every passing moment. One of the men is still nearby; Cooper hears the sound of falling books as he tears through the library. The brothers sit, broken and twisted; their bindings pull on their shoulder-blades and yank at their hearts. They don't know that both are chanting the same silent prayer for the ground to swallow them.
A chime. The door-bell. Cooper's heart races – the pizza delivery. Blaine's eyes pull sharply into focus, darting from the hallway to Cooper. Their breath comes fast and hard as their minds race at the possibility of rescue.
Blaine screams.
Cooper can barely hear him. They are inches away, and he can barely make out the muffled sound oozing from behind the tape.
Ding-dong. Hard knocking. There is a gun in Blaine's face and cold hard eyes. "Shut…the fuck…up." It is a whisper. But Blaine has lost control. He screeches, tearing up his throat, gargling with fear- it is the sound of a heart breaking.
The man grabs his failing body as Blaine bucks and twists. The man is three times Blaine's weight, but Blaine is exponentially more desperate. Cooper breaks out of his stupor and throws himself onto the coffee table, sending it across the hardwood floor with a clatter.
Though the cacophony of noise, he hears the sound of a gun being cocked. His blown pupils register the sight of Blaine, gun to his head and struggling to breathe against a strong forearm.
The delivery boy is getting impatient, "Delivery! You ordered pizza!" the ringing of the bell echoing throughout the house. Cooper wills the guy at the door to keep knocking, to call the police, to morph into Superman and knock the door down. Please, please, please, just don't give up. But the knocks are getting louder and rarer. The delivery boy puffs out, "Fucking assholes," which no one inside can hear, before turning away.
The house grows quiet.
"What the fuck was that?"
"Didn't you hear? Pizza delivery."
The man from upstairs appears in the living room. He is no longer the same calm, collected man who took charge of Cooper at the doorway. Fear grips him. He looks crazed.
"This little fucker here wouldn't shut up, like I asked him. Now, didn't I ask nicely?" the man behind Blaine eases the pressure against his throat but keeps his arms wrapped around him. The gun that was pressed against his temple now makes slow strokes against his face. "But did you hear? He screamed so nicely."
The sound of his voice, a sickly, slimy caress against Blaine's curls, hits Cooper in the chest. They were going to rape him.
No.
No. As Cooper looks at his baby brother, his face red and wet, he sees him broken, violated, empty. They will ravage him. They will destroy him.
Without realizing it, Cooper starts to flail. His body spasms in protest. He is mindless and empty save for one thought – he cannot let them rape him.
Heavy boots land in front of his face. With a pull on his hair, a hand twists his face to stare at the dark mask of a monster. "You have something to say?"
Cooper feels no pain as the man tears off the tape, splitting his lip. "Me. Take me."
In the silence, panting breaths wet Cooper's bleeding lip. All at once, both men let out boisterous, giddy laughter. "You hear that? This one is on offer!"
An unexpected calm settles over Cooper. This is going to turn out alright, after all. He figured it out; he found the key to saving Blaine. The thought "I will be raped" sweeps relief into his aching muscles. When he meets Blaine horrified gaze, he radiates peace. Acceptance.
Blaine sees it, reads it in his eyes. Tears well behind his lashes and spill across his cheeks. He shakes his head in staccato jerks; he looks as if he shivers.
"No. Look at him." The man's face nuzzles into Blaine's neck. "You think a twenty year old hipster can replace this blushing virgin. He even smells clean."
"All you fags are fucking creeps. You wanna go back a pedophile? Even a damn cockslut like you wont be able to stand after they're through with you."
"Who says I am gonna go back?" The man's hand sweeps Blaine's curls out of his eyes and trails across his jaw before collapsing into his lap. His huge palm, grotesque and alien, settles on Blaine's crotch. "Just imagine, that babyish dick, soft little balls. Like Easter Eggs. And his tight, pink asshole." A deep inhale. "God, it would squeeze so good." With every word, he takes a breath of Blaine, and with every breath, he settles deeper into fantasy, eyes fluttering against the onset of arousal.
"As I said, fucking creeps." The partner is more on-task. "We're here for a job. And it ain't him."
"I can multitask." The man yanks Blaine's legs apart and drops him back onto the rug. Blaine squeals in terror, squeezing his thighs shut, worming further from the man, twisting to his side, every muscle contracting as if he could contract into himself. Only his eyes are wide. Wide and unseeing, staring into a nightmare and unable to look away. The man's mass envelops him, pinning him to the ground. Cooper watches his brother disappear beneath his weight.
"What about this one?" The man points to Cooper. "He is pretty. It's a goddamn pretty fucking family." He laughs at his joke, and Cooper's sluggish brain generates a thought: I missed the punch-line.
"What about him?" The man makes no effort to hide his annoyance. Fixing his partner a condescending glare he asks, "Why would I fuck his loose hole when I have an untouched angel in my arms?"
"No, he could fuck 'im."
Cooper holds in the urge to vomit before his mind registers the sentence. His body feels limp and useless. They…they want him…Blaine! His brother's molten amber eyes stare into his. They are full of light and life. A deep breath rockets through Cooper's body; his lungs burn from lack of air, the oxygen charring his throat. It's not the end. While there is life in those eyes, it is not the end.
"His brother? Damn, and you call me a creep." The man rolls off Blaine and settles with his back against the couch. His position gives a clear view of his tented pants, and Cooper's mind flashes with an image of his cock, huge and grey, decaying but hard – nothing about his man is human. He digs around his pockets, looking perfectly at ease. Can rapists and pedophiles be comfortable? Do they feel like us, can they experience comfort? Cooper's delirium is interrupted by the click and swish of an ignited lighter. The man brings a cigarette to his mouth and takes a deep inhale of poison.
"You know, that is a mighty fine idea. Two pretty boys, fucking for our pleasure." Another dose of nicotine. "Mighty fine idea. Sure would help with this little problem." He laughs as he palms himself through his pants, readjusting his monstrous length against the inseam. Flicking ashes onto the rug, he leans across to Blaine's taped mouth and rips off the gag. "What do you think, baby-boy? Would you like my" his points to his crotch, "or big brother's dick to rip your asshole?"
Blaine. His baby brother. The boy who loves musicals, sleeps with a stuffed dragon, and has a crush on a boy in French II. He looks lost. Bewildered. The area around his mouth is red from the duck-tape and his cheeks are swollen from salty tears. Dilated pupils consume the irises of his eyes just as terror consumes his body.
"Hey, sweetheart, did you hear me? I said, you want my cock or your big brother's?" the man nudges Blaine's shin with his boot.
"Cooper."
It is a whisper, a whimper. Cooper knows it has nothing to do with the question. Blaine is just trying to hold on, grasp at anything familiar that exists outside the scope of this demented night. But a part of him feels sick relief. They will not touch him. They will not hurt him. His mind still cannot process, "But I will."
"Well, that settles it. So it'll be a show." The man closest to Cooper grabs him below his arm and shoves him to his feet. They wobble, unstable and unsure. Cooper wants to think that they are unwilling to move forward, closer to the task of raping Blaine. But they stumble on.
"So this is how it's gonna to work. You fuck, you live." The man drops Cooper to his knees in front of Blaine. There are fresh tears in Cooper's eyes. "You don't…well, we already got what we came for. It's gonna be no sweat off my back to put a bullet in either one of you. Just keep your hands where we can see 'em." With that, he pulls a knife and cuts through Cooper's bindings. His hands settle at his sides. They feel leaden, as if they were already full of sin.
The man rolls Blaine to his side to cut the duck-tape. Blaine lunges into Cooper's chest, his body melting in Cooper's arm. He is bawling, slobbering into Cooper's shirt, fevered with relief. "I'm sorry! I am so sorry!" and Cooper cracks.
"No, shhhhh, no, don't say that. You've done nothing wrong. Nothing. You are so good. So brave. Stay with me, just stay with me." Cooper has said those same words a million times. When Blaine accidently broke a piano key and tried to hide it by gluing the piano shut. When he stole Cooper's fencing jacket and put a giant stain on it in pomegranate juice. When he cried himself to sleep the night he came out to their parents. Blaine never apologized – he crucified himself. The boy felt everything with his whole heart, and regret was no exception. Now, Blaine sobbed apologies because he did not know what else to say.
The men sprawl across the couch. The one who had been touching Blaine all night extinguishes his cigarette against the couch before reaching to his zipper. Deftly, he pops the button and a sharp zzzzzzzz lets him reach into his pants. His boxers are already wet from sweat and arousal. The unleashed scent of musk, cloying and heavy, settles like slime. When he yanks his cock through the flap, Cooper feels betrayal. The cock is flesh and blood. It's human.
"Let's get movin'" Cooper twists his head to see the other man already fisting a half-hard length of flesh.
A gasp from somewhere near his clavicle brings Cooper's attention back down to the small, clinging body wrapped around his chest. Blaine's eyes are blown, his breathing shaky. He had never seen another man's cock. Because he is 14, and he is a child, and what was Cooper thinking trying to convince his mother otherwise. Cooper lifts his hand to Blaine's face. The touch brings Blaine's eyes straight to Cooper's, and his face relaxes at the familiar sight. "Focus on me. They are not here. You are with me and we will get through this together." Blaine gives a jerky nod, and tries to smile. It looks tortured on a face so swollen.
"Let's go!" a boot lands on Cooper's side. They are impatient, and Cooper cannot let them take matters into their own hands. Bracing himself with a steadying hand on Blaine's right cheek, he leans in.
Blaine's breathing stutters. His lips part in surprise. But he does not lean back. On a long exhale that brushes against Cooper's lips, his rigid back gives way and he sways forward. Their lips touch.
Blaine's lips are coated with a sheen of salt. Cooper can taste it on his breath, can feel it clinging to his lips and bind them in a kiss. Blaine doesn't move, and somewhere in Cooper's mind he realizes that his brother does not know how. He breaks the kiss but does not move away. As he whispers, "Close your eyes and just keep breathing." Cooper's lips continuously brush past Blaine's. Cooper watches Blaine's eyelids droop until his eyelashes tangle before leaning in again. He sweeps his tongue across Blaine's lips, brushes away the salt, the tears, the pain. Unlike Blaine, he has kissed before, and he anticipates Blaine's grasping inhale. His tongue darts in, opening Blaine. They share a breath as Cooper pushes himself closer.
Blaine mouth is warm and moist. His teeth are sharp and even. As Cooper brushes against his tongue, it darts away, deeper into Blaine's mouth, away from contact. Blaine wills it to respond. He reaches out, unpracticed and unsure, until the very tip of his tongue bumps into Cooper's. The muscle is pulled too taunt and Cooper flashbacks to an image of Blaine at the age of two, when he explored the world through the tip of his tongue, dragging everything into his mouth, from toys to rocks. Banishing the thought, Cooper massages Blaine, coaxing him to relax. Their mouths meld, their lips stretch, and their noses bump as they move. The kiss deepens and takes shape. A helpless moan revibrates between them, and Cooper's eyes spring open to stare at Blaine. His baby brother moaned around his tongue. Blaine moaned into his first kiss.
A feeling sweeps through Cooper. He cannot name it, but it fills his heart. He has just taken Blaine's first kiss. He is the first man to make his brother moan, the first man to guide him on their tongue. He took that. And he is about to take so much more. A rattled gasp breaks their kiss and Cooper feels tears run down his face. Blaine's eyes drift open (so close, so big), before he blinks them clear. Cooper cannot control his breathing; it comes in gasps but brings no oxygen to his lungs. He feels the edge of panic, hysteria bubbling in his veins.
There is a warm and steady hand laid on his cheek. His brother's curls tickle his nose. There is a weight across his body and it is warm and heavy, like an anchor. It calms the panic. When his eyes focus and his muscles start to obey, his arms come to grasp at Blaine's back, one hand tangled in the wisps of hair at the base of his neck.
"It's OK. It is all going to be OK." Blaine voice pours into Cooper's ears. It's steady and assured. Cooper has to close his eyes.
Blaine pulls back. His eyes are lucid and completely calm as he reaches one hand to Cooper's shirt. And slowly pops the button.
His hands are steady as he moves down Cooper's chest. He has the same look of concentration on his face – eyebrows draws, lip caught behind the row of teeth that Cooper's tongue now knows too well, that he had straightening out the cushions. Once the last button squeezes through its peg, Blaine's gaze dashes to Cooper's face. His hands hesitate for just a moment before reaching forward; his palms are dry and slightly cold as they trace Cooper's arms. Two fingers catch the hem of Cooper's cotton tee before they tremble. Blaine's forehead scrunches in frustration, his lips drawn tight as his jaw clenches. Cooper sees pure, raw will guide Blaine's hand onward. He fists the shirt until the fabric stretches and his hand turns white.
A deep and heartfelt pride sweeps into Cooper as his face relaxes and he takes a breath. Blaine's a survivor. Even now, in this dark hell, he is himself. In a realm where consent is irrelevant and impossible to give or take, he finds a way to exercise free will. Cooper's hand envelops Blaine's and with a soft squeeze, Blaine's muscles release their hold. There is so much to say, "I love you," "I know what you are trying to do, and I am so proud," and "if only I could be so strong;" Cooper's eyes say it all.
Cooper lets Blaine's hand fall to his side and reaches to pull the undershirt across his body. It is time to step up. He grabs the hand hanging limply at Blaine's side and guides it slowly to his bare chest. The palm is flat, but still too small to cover his pectoral. When he lets go, Blaine presses into the muscle and begins to trace its lines. His fingers catch on a nipple that stiffened in the chill and his face lights up in wonder. When he raises his glance to meet Cooper's eyes, he has a smile curving the edges of his lips.
They meet half way, pressing their lips together in a sure and eager kiss. Blaine's mouth falls open in invitation that Cooper cannot wait to take. Their tongues retrace each together, no longer strangers but good friends. Blaine feels the cold before he processes the hands pushing at his shirt. He breaks the kiss long enough to lift his hands, but then he's back, pressing into Cooper's warmth and losing himself in his heat. When they both moan, neither pulls back.
Cooper helps Blaine into his lap. His hands trace Blaine' ribs beneath the smooth skin of his back, tread through the soft curls at his scalp, and let their bodies tangle. Blaine can't quite time his breathing and breaks away to gulp at air; his eyes are shut, his body vibrates. There is no stopping, not now, when they have gone so far. Cooper rocks Blaine back onto his palms, which cup Blaine's ass, and guides him to the floor. He presses desperate kisses into Blaine's neck, tonguing at the natural pool of his clavicle, keeps moving down his chest as Blaine twists and rolls into his hands. He hopes that it's enough, enough to overload Blaine's senses until he can get at his pants.
Rationally, he cannot be surprised to find Blaine hard under his hand. And yet his breath catches at the feel of him, hot and hard against the zipper. The boy is just a teen, of course he's hard, but Cooper can't help but rest his head on Blaine's chest in relief. He knows it doesn't make this right, but he is still grateful. His mouth sinks over Blaine's small, brown nipple just as his fingers quickly work his pants. Blaine's moan is slightly pained and strangled at every brush of his firm hand against his length. Since he can't do this twice, Cooper pushes both his pants and briefs in one long stroke. Now Blaine is bare.
As Cooper kneels over Blaine's body, his hungry eyes trace Blaine's jittery legs, protruding hipbones, fluttering abs and heaving chest. There is a tension in his body, a nervous energy that is part arousal part pure fear. It is the fear of young virgin, and Cooper helplessly feels a spike of molten heat as his body responds to this prostrated innocence. His hands fumble at the knot of his pant's drawstring. But now he is too shaky, the knot too tight. He can't will the tremor out of his hands and huffs a breath of frustration.
"Let me." Blaine rests against one elbow as he reaches for the knot. It slips easily under his sure fingers. The drawstring loose, the pants slip off Cooper's hips and his half-hard cock bounces slightly at the contractions of his nervous stomach. Blaine's eyes focus on its head before tracing its length down to the patch of stiff curls at its base. Shifting his weight, his hand comes forward to loosely wrap around Cooper's too-soft length. Kneeling over Blaine, Cooper can't forget how young he is, how small. He can't get hard. Despite the pounding of his heart, pumping arousal through his body, his mind keeps him limp.
Before Cooper can work himself into a panic, Blaine's grip grows strong as he looks up into Cooper's eyes. Taking permission from Cooper's gaze, he shifts his body closer, leaning in. His breath is warm and moist against the head and its length twitches in response. His fist steadies Cooper's cock as his mouth falls open and his lips rest at the slit. The inside of his lips is wet and moist. He's leaning in, but his jaw is still too tense; the edges of his teeth catch on the foreskin. Cooper winces with a short inhale and reaches a hand to Blaine's smooth jaw. Blaine quickly adjusts and lets his mouth fall open as he sinks deeper on Cooper's cock. He lets it rest against his tongue, discovering its texture and heady taste. On his way up, the cock grows turgid, and as he sinks again, it has a weight. The feeling of taking something into his body, something hot and heavy, makes him moan. It feels like conquest.
The soft vibration brings Cooper to full hardness. His hand lands on Blaine's temple as he pushes out of his mouth. Gripping the back of Blaine's head, he brings their lips together, tasting himself in their shared breath. Keeping Blaine pressed against him, Cooper braces on one arm to lay them down. His hands can't rest on Blaine's smooth skin. They keep moving, touching every crevice and unknown place. The curve of his ribs, the dip of his hips, the dimples at the base of his spine. When his hand grasps Blaine's cock, the boy arches high into his body, breaking the kiss to groan and roll his eyes. Cooper's hands are sure and practiced, the grip strong and strokes smooth. Seeing Blaine submitting to his touch, he is reminded of his responsibility. This boy is fresh and lost in new sensations. It's up to Cooper to bring him safely to the brink.
He knows what he must do, but the thought is so abhorrent that he takes a moment to steel his nerves. They need lube. But he must ask for it. He must break from Blaine long enough to recognize the men still sitting on the couch, to bring them into this with his request. He grips the back of Blaine head and pushes him against the hollow of his throat. He can't let Blaine watch, he can't remind him of why they are here. Wrapped in his arms, bathed in his heat, Blaine is protected.
"Lube."
"What?" The men have fallen into a fantasy of their own. It takes a moment for them to register what Cooper said.
"We need lube." He struggles to keep calm and presses Blaine's face closer, wraps him tighter.
One of the men gets to his feet as the other mutters "Just take 'im raw." Cooper hears the squealing of his teeth as his jaw clenches, but focuses on the sound of footsteps, light-switch, open drawers, moving trinkets, then silence. The man walks back and throws a bottle of body oil at Cooper's side. "That should work."
It's lavender. His mom bought it when she ran out of moisturizer. He thinks that it's from Trader Joe's because he has a vague recollection of thinking that it was a strange find in a grocery store. His hand hovers over the cap but struggles to move forward. It is not hesitation, but confusion that stops him – lube bottles have caps that pop. Slowly, as if moving through molasses, his nerve endings fire the message to twist instead.
The smell of lavender hits his nostrils. It smells like summer and his mom. The scent is so out-of-place, Cooper has to shake his head to clear it. Refocusing, he tips the bottle to test the oil; it is too thin over his fingers, but it is all they have. His face must register his disappointment because Blaine nods against his shoulder to catch his eyes. Cooper leans forward to place a chaste kiss against his lips "It's fine. We'll make it work."
He settles on his knees between Blaine's legs. In the absence of Cooper's heat around his body, Blaine shivers and his muscles tense. "Shhhhh…no. Relax. Lean back and close your eyes." Blaine gives a shaky nod and drops back from his propped elbows onto his back. Cooper can't see his face, but the long exhale signals Blaine's eyes falling shut.
The bottle is mostly full, but Cooper remembers that the oil is thin. It may take a while to stretch Blaine enough for penetration. And he is a virgin. Damn. Cooper pours a good handful of oil and coats his fingers. Nudging Blaine's thighs, he leans closer to Blaine's body and reaches out.
His fingers make contact with Blaine's skin right under his balls. The skin is smooth and soft, flushed rosy pink and drawn slightly tight. With each gentle stroke, he reaches lower until his fingers pass across the whorl of skin at Blaine's entrance. Here, the skin is tougher and the muscle under it clenched tight. There are tiny, prickly hairs around its edge. Cooper takes the time to stroke it, feeling out new groves and memorizing the path from Blaine's crack to his perineum. Pulling back long enough to cover his fingers in a new coat of oil, he retraces the same path his fingers have taken a dozen times, but on the upstroke stops at Blaine's entrance and pushes in.
Blaine's moan pierces though his haze and Cooper's eyes jump from the sight of his finger, knuckle deep in Blaine's asshole, up his body to his arched torso. As Blaine pushes his spine back to the ground, he pushed himself deeper on Cooper's finger until it penetrates to Cooper's wrist. He is tight, unbelievably tight. Cooper feels exhausted and overwhelmed, resting his forehead on Blaine's hip. They both pant and quiver. Slowly, Cooper retracts his finger until just his nail rubs against Blaine's skin, then pushes in. Too tight, more oil. Pull out, recoat, back in. His heart is hammering in his chest, his blood pumps in his ears, and his cock twitches at every spasm of Blaine's body against his finger. But they need more. Blaine is so tight that Cooper's brain short-circuits on the thought that he will push his cock into that heat. Adding a second finger is terrifying, and no amount of oil could make this painless. Blaine's right leg contacts and he braces his heel against the pain. With a hiss and a slight shudder, he straightens his leg and widens the spread of his hips.
Three fingers deep, Cooper is beginning to lose control. His hips stutter against Blaine's thighs, smearing pre-cum on his brother's skin. Blaine's moans now melt together into a harmony and his hips move in tandem with Cooper's hand. Cooper knows that it is time. The hole is still far tighter than he'd like. He knows that it will hurt, but no amount of prep is going to make it better; the muscle is resilient (stubborn) and continues to flutter in short contractions in an attempt to regain its previous shape.
Blaine makes the decision for him. His wrist stills as a warm hand catches him. Blaine is leaning against one elbow, his pupils blown and his lips red and swollen. He has been biting them to catch his groans. His eyes hold a gleam of crazed desperation. "Please. Cooper, please." The dam breaks.
Cooper surges forward to meet Blaine in a sloppy kiss. His hands fumble for the bottle of oil for one last dose. Running a careless hand to coat his cock, he brings the head to rest against Blaine's entrance. His cock retraces the path his fingers memorized; along the crack, against the hole, until the head bumps into the swell of Blaine's balls. On every upstroke he pushes the head against Blaine's hole, but it's too tight. The head slips out. He wraps a strong hand in a tight fist right at the edge of his foreskin and guides his cock with increasing pressure. The head catches on the rim of Blaine's hole and Cooper freezes. Readjusting his angle, he shifts the pressure down and incrementally, guardedly, breathlessly, presses in.
It is surreal.
Blaine's muscles contract and flutter, squeezing so tight, Cooper feels them squeeze the air out of his lungs. "Oh god" Blaine's groan brings Cooper's eyes back to his face. He's flushed, a beautiful dark stain splashing against his cheeks. His throat is exposed as he strains and Cooper watches it work to swallow down his moans. Burying his nose in the scent of Blaine's sweat, he traces the ridges of his neck, the taunt muscles, the pulsing vein. Pulling his hips back, then sinking in, Cooper lets out a strained and tortured sound into Blaine's skin.
Blaine can't hold still. Waves of sensation crash against his body. He feels new, scrubbed raw until every nerve ending is exposed and saturated with awareness. His body undulates, rolling his hips, wrapping his leg around Cooper's hip, guiding his hands in a frantic exploration of Cooper's back. His mind hears music – it is the pounding of his blood. He does not hear his moans, but feels the vibrations of his throat. He does not feel his sweat, but he revels in the slick ease of movement.
Cooper knows it's coming. Senses it in the quickening of Blaine's heart-rate (he can feel it through his chest, he can taste it on his lips) and the longer, tighter contractions against his cock. But still, he is not prepared when Blaine's back arches, shoulders pressed into the ground, his heels dug deep into the rug. His throat works through a scream and his muscles shake and shudder. His orgasm is complete – it races from his balls up to his spine, radiating across every nerve, and explodes behind his eyelids. It rattles him, rushing through him like an earthquake, and keeps him suspended, tense and coiled. The release – it's beautiful. His eyes burst open, his jaw stretched wide, and then there's silence, and a splash of cum.
Stillness. Soft pants. Loose muscles, overworked and tired. Cooper cannot trust himself to move. He holds his body frozen, hanging on the edge of control and watches Blaine come down. His face is beautiful in rapture. Cooper traces his flushed cheeks and sharp jawline with a reverent hand. Letting his forehead fall on Blaine's shoulder, he starts to pull out.
Blaine moves too quickly for his aching muscles. Strong legs wrap confidently around Cooper's hips. They press him close, push him in, and don't let go. Cooper searches Blaine's face for any sign of what to do. Blaine's face is calm and open under his gaze. He does not blink, holds Cooper's eyes with unspoken intent: don't think, don't ask, don't speak, but do not stop.
The fierce determination in Blaine's eyes sets a hot flare through Cooper's veins. His hips push back against Blaine's legs, but then thrust back into his heat. Every time his hips pull away from Blaine's body, he pulls back farther, slips more of his cock out of Blaine's hole. His thrusts grow stronger, firmer, working his cock deep and powerful into Blaine's body. His moans catch in his throat and escape as strangled groans. Sweat drips from his wet curls to Blaine's trusting face. He feels his orgasm building at the base of his spine; his balls draw tight and slam against Blaine's skin in sharp slaps. His body moves easily into Blaine's. Faster, harder, deeper. A familiar sense of dread grips Cooper's heart; the orgasm hurls his body off a cliff. It is so strong, Cooper feels pain as every muscle tenses and his mind can't process the intense sensation. One thrust, one slap, and he buries himself as deep as he can go as he shoots cum into Blaine's accepting body.
As Cooper pants into Blaine's skin and struggles to regain function, Blaine runs soothing strokes along his back. Blaine's legs unlock and slide down Cooper's thighs. They rest against the back of Cooper's shin and lightly trace ovals into the sweat.
When Cooper feels strong enough to lift his body, he sees Blaine's face relaxed and peaceful. The boy is about to fall asleep. His breathing comes slow and deep as sweat cools on his brow. The sight is breathtaking and Cooper can't resist leaning in to press his lips to Blaine's curls.
Looking up, he sees the room is empty. There is drying cum on a blanket thrown over the edge of the couch and three cigarette stubs on the carpet. The house is oddly quiet. The air is fresh and cool – the door is open.
They cannot sleep here. Not in this room. His muscles groan and protest as he stumbles to his feet, but his body has new energy and purpose – he must get them upstairs. He fumbles back into his pants and ties a loose knot into the drawstring. Kneeling, he rolls Blaine into his hands and stands. Blaine curls into his side, wrapping one arm around his neck and burrowing his face into Cooper's shoulder. His breath tickles Cooper's skin, and Cooper feels a rush at the sensation. Blaine is alive. He's whole. He's in his arms. They made it through.
He walks around the couch, into the hallway, past a table with a vase that he had bumped early in the night. The doorway gapes into the crisp, black night until Cooper shoulders it shut. Moving slowly up the stairs, more for the sake of the sleeping boy in his arms than his aching muscles, he readjusts his hold to press Blaine closer to his chest. The rooms upstairs are overturned. Every door is open, and every room looks like a hurricane survivor. He walks to the second doorway on the right. Blaine's bedding is a mess and every inch of ground is covered with clothes and papers. Setting Blaine gently on the bed, he pulls some sheet music from under his head. Mindlessly, he grabs the first pair of pants he can find – they are sweats and slide easily over Blaine's hips. Climbing into Blaine's bed, he drags the comforter over their bodies. A deep exhaustion overtakes him. He feels Blaine press close and throw one arm over his chest. Closing his eyes, he falls asleep.
A scream startles them awake. Sunlight streams into the room and Cooper hears the sound of birds chirping before thumping footsteps rush upstairs.
Clarice Anderson tears through the house and throws the only closed door open. Air rushes into her lungs when she sees her boys in bed. A trembling hand presses into her lips as she cries out. James Anderson grips her shoulder in a painful squeeze, his eyes wide and mouth tense until Blaine lifts his head off Cooper's chest. Relief sweeps across his face. Clarice takes an uncertain step into the room before rushing across the floor to fall at the foot of the bed. She clutches at her boys, tears splashing down her cheek. She pulls away to look into their faces, presses her quivering hand into their cheeks - they are here, they are alive.
"Thank God! Oh, thank God you're alright."
Cooper's eyes catch Blaine's. There is a small smile playing on his face and a glimmer in his eyes, as if their shared experience were an inside joke. Cooper's eyes grow wide in amazement at Blaine's resilience. Pride and love tug at a corner of his lips and he returns Blaine's smirk.
"Yes, yes we are."