A/N: The response I've had to this has been amazing so thank you so much for reading and enjoying it. There might be a slight lack of updates for the next week or so because I'm having University issues (big ones) and I need to sort my life out, so bear with me. But again, thank you for all of your ridiculously lovely reviews.
Blaine crawled into bed soon after posting the picture, bored of refreshing his blog over and over, waiting for a message or someone to like it, but after glancing up at his clock and seeing it was ticking on half past one in the morning he guessed that he wouldn't be noticed until morning, so he slid under his covers and starfished out with a happy sigh.
It took him a while to even contemplate shutting his eyes, too busy staring at the ceiling and savouring the hum of his body, ignoring the anxious twinge over people not liking his body and interest in his blog dwindling until he's back to square one, a lonely, sex craving virgin in Ohio, trying to find someone, anyone, who understands and will listen.
With a shake of his head, Blaine banishes that thought. He did this because he was asked and because he wanted to more than anything and he's felt accepted since he started this all, like he has friends even if they're strangers.
Casting one last glance over to his laptop, Blaine rolls over and his eyes slide shut, a smile gracing his face as he drifts into sleep.
Blaine wakes with a start, a hand flying down to palm over his erection as pictures of sweat and skin and writhing bodies are still fresh in his mind, making his back arch and his breath catch.
It takes him barely two minutes to finish, his hand sinking inside his pyjama pants and stroking, squeezing, harderfasterthere, until there's streaks of come across his hand, stretching between his fingers, and he laps at them slowly, wondering what someone else's come might taste like – sweeter? Bitter? Stickier than his own?
He lets his breathing even out and his body temperature to fall from a hundred to normal before he looks over to his laptop, screen still black and staring back at him from his desk, a whole world inside that has to have seen his picture by now.
It feels nothing like a chore for Blaine to get out of bed at that thought, slipping off his plain white tee that's damp with sweat and flopping into his desk chair, tapping impatiently at the trackpad on his laptop while it loads. When the screen comes to life he types in his password and clicks hurriedly at the internet icon, his blog loading as his second homepage and he tries to calm his racing heart before clicking on the tab and daring to look at the notes or his inbox.
His eyes flutter shut and he smiles, gooseflesh rising on his skin when he sees eight messages in his inbox and fifty notes on the picture. Opening his eyes again, now sparkling bright and happy in the glow of his screen, he taps over the notes icon and scrolls down, going past his picture and scrutinizing it on the way: quality still looks good, could've been a little brighter but he can see the faint definition on his stomach, the red flush of his cock and he thrills again, remembering how it felt to take the photo and let people see the body of the gay virgin who loves sex.
The notes underneath are anything but disappointing. Most are likes, thirty or more, but there's a fair few reblogs in there, some with added comments, one in particular that makes Blaine smirk: It looks like big things now come in small, hot packages.
Blaine's never been that bothered about his height. He knows he's not the tallest guy and he's pretty sure he's stopped growing and this is it, all five foot nine of him in his olive skinned glory, but others have picked on him for it. He's heard every insult in the book – hobbit, short stack, small fry* - but he's just shrugged them off because so what if he's small? Contrary to popular belief of high schoolers, being short doesn't mean he loses out anywhere else.
The jocks at school were the first to snort and jeer when Blaine started to undress for a shower after gym, telling him they'd be embarrassed if they were him to show what's got to be an unimpressive package, a virgin package. They'd all snapped their mouths shut and looked away wide-eyed and uncomfortable thirty seconds later when Blaine had slid his boxers off and walked to the showers, towel slung over his shoulder, bottle of shampoo being thrown between his hands and his impressive length on show for all to see.
Blaine wasn't huge or scary thick, but he'd seen enough of the other boys in the shower (he wasn't looking so much as looking away – the jocks were attractive, but Blaine had come to learn that straight boys were a little bit gross) to know he was larger than most and not what people expected from someone so compact. This comment on his photo has only added something to his pride that he's different, unusual, and while he's never believed it much in the past, he's desirable too.
He glances over the other notes, something he thinks is complete acceptance starting to bubble up inside, warming him from the heart outward and it settles and feels like it's going to stay as he goes to his inbox and grins, bouncing a little in his seat from the giddy feeling of I'm wanted, I'm hot, running through him.
The first message is nothing particularly risqué or dirty, a simple You're charming, you're funny, you've got that under your clothes and you're a virgin! which makes Blaine's face heat a little because he can take a compliment of his body well (he works hard to stay fit and he knows from last night he's a show off) but it's compliments to his personality and self that knocks him, makes him fumble his words or duck away shyly if it happens in public (it's a rare occurrence, but embarrassing enough that he remembers it every time) because that's where most of the high school abuse stemmed from.
The moment Blaine understood he was gay, he was aware he was in for a hell of a ride through high school and it did cause him trouble – locker shoves, ridiculous insults – but he thinks that being polite, well dressed and well, a gentleman, made everything worse. Blaine was brought up well, taught how to use his manners and to never fight with his fists, to walk away and be the better man, but just because he's that way, doesn't mean everyone else is too. Especially not in Ohio.
He was bullied simply for being the way he was brought up and on top of that for being gay, so compliments haven't been forthcoming in his life, haven't been a regular thing that he's a perfected a thank you smile for, so when one comes along, even one written by a stranger in his inbox, he squirms and feels his cheeks heat up, sure that he's probably bright red and looks ridiculous.
It does seem a little different now though. As he reads through a couple more messages, both similar to the first but a little more dirty, he still gets the urge to write back and say, "I'm not charming, I'm not witty, my writing is awkward and rambled," but another part of him is beaming and his ego is swelling just a little (he indulges it because it's a rarity) because that's never been what people like him for, yet here they are praising his words, character and body, wanting to see more of his inner and outer self, anything they can.
So, yeah, Blaine's soaking this up, letting every word of want and lust sink into his mind and through his body, sparking through his heart in a wave of warmth and prickling down to his toes so he shudders and smiles.
He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders before looking at the next message, muscles lax and mind free, and his cock twitches as he reads, a twinge that makes Blaine gasp as he tries to get hard again so soon.
He doesn't know why it's this message that gets to him the most, I want to wrap you round me and hold you against a wall just to feel you writhe and flex with my cock inside you. You'd be beautiful, because there's others just like it, proposals and fantasies Blaine would never say no to fulfilling, but this one gets him panting and shutting his eyes, a reel of images on the backs of his eyelids of himself being held up, curled around a man who's strong but not muscly, bruising Blaine's shoulders as they rock against the wall with every thrust, screaming, gripping, moaning, and Blaine's hard again in seconds, eyes hazy when he opens them and clicks to reply.
He notices in his state, flushed, hot and aching, that the message isn't anonymous (the only one that isn't), from someone signed as 'highinthemiddle' and Blaine briefly looks at their picture, a black background with a white silhouette of a man's profile, and licks his lips and shifts in his chair, fingers hovering over the keys as he thinks of what to type.
He stares at the message for five minutes before he comes up with anything, writing I'd take it and scream as quick as he can, simple and to the point, his hands getting clammy and his heart pounding because this is the first time he's spoken directly to a reader of his blog. Up till now they've all been anonymous, nameless people and faceless usernames, just bodies he's seen in ecstasy, but now there's contact.
He doesn't know where this will go, it could end with his message and the person will go back to watching from afar, maybe post anonymously and like and reblog.
He doesn't know where he wants this to go. He's used the blog as a way to talk at people rather than tothem or with them and it's worked fine, made him happy, given him a place to vent, but with that simple sending of a message there's suddenly a link between a stranger who could be any age, any race, any person in a world of six billion.
Blaine thinks for a moment about how dangerous this could be, how much information this person could wean from him, then he stops because this is silly. He knows the dangers of the internet, has frequently had to free his computer from a virus from watching too much porn and clicking somewhere stupid in his sex haze, and talking to this person, whoever they are, will amount to nothing more than dirty messages, scrolling through each other's blogs and cybersex if Blaine is lucky.
And as Blaine types the username of the message sender into his search bar, their blog popping up full of text posts and pictures that have Blaine grabbing his cock for quick release, he really hopes he's lucky.
* My Dad and sister used to call me small fry when I was younger because I'm the smallest of three siblings, always will be (I'm 5ft4 and my brother and sister are 6ft).
