content warning: explicit smut

Chapter 10: Mercy

"Would you put some clothes on?"

"Why?" I counter, heading to the fridge. "Does my birthday suit offend you?"

Rachel quirks an eyebrow, her lips twitching up into a smile. "It doesn't offend me, I'm just saying that being naked in the kitchen is a bit unorthodox."

"Fuck your system," I deadpan with a pointed finger, and she laughs, one arm wrapped around her raised knee. She keeps eating her brunch, which is just some cereal and milk, so food-wise it's not brunch, but time-wise it is. I open my fridge to find some post-shower food, and I take in the shriveled red pepper, seven beer cans, three wine bottles, the champagne bottle, the half-finished vodka, and you'd think that with Rachel living here there'd be, I don't know, non-liquid food in the fridge.

"That's not breakfast," Rachel tells me when I take a beer.

"Oh, I know. It's alcohol."

She looks disapproving when I wink at her, but she laughs like I knew she would. "You're ridiculous these days."

It's a pretty good day to be ridiculous, all things considered. I'm crossing the living room when she calls after me to put some boxers on, for god's sake, and I oblige a bit grudgingly. Living with her is alright apart from her objecting to my nudity. I mean, we're both damn busy: I'm going around town to have a final drink with everyone before the band retreats from New York, and she's got four shows and six practice sessions every week. When she comes home exhausted, I'm just heading out to start my night. I still get to see her a hell of a lot more, and sometimes I stay at home and we talk about our favorite authors until four a.m. as she bakes muffins and I watch her baking muffins, then stick my finger into the dough, smoke cigarettes, tell her tour stories and drink wine.

And this is what it'd be like if we lived together.

I'm paying obscene amounts to get Rachel's apartment fixed in record time. This won't last long, our symbiosis. She said something about it being a good test for us. For the future. She probably means marriage, but I ignored her meaningful eyes and focused my energies on changing the subject.

The phone starts ringing in the living room, and I rush out with a dress shirt hanging on me, calling out, "I've got it!" when I hear the chair move in the kitchen. I make sure Rachel hasn't come out as I pick up the phone with a, "Hello?"

"Blaine, it's Sam."

Oh. Well, that makes life easier.

I put the phone between my shoulder and ear and start buttoning my shirt. "Hey, man, what's up?"

Sam starts asking about Bismarck again and what he should pack and what shouldn't he pack and if I want the twelve-string he's got since I prefer it to mine. He sounds stressed and confused, and soon says, "You wanna meet up for lunch? We could settle these things while we eat."

"Oh, uh." I turn my back towards the kitchen and look out the living room window instead. "I'm having lunch with Rachel today. Sorry. But we'll reschedule, right? I'll call you." I try to get my cuffs buttoned as I listen to him mumbling an unenthusiastic okay.

"Who's that?" Rachel asks from right behind me, and I start slightly as I swirl around and smile at her. I mouth 'Sam' as she grabs my wrists and attends to my cuffs for me.

"Okay, I'll see you later then," I say, putting the receiver down, now half-dressed with underwear and a shirt. Pretty good going. I brush my damp hair with both hands and say, "That was Sam. I'm meeting him for lunch."

Rachel frowns. "But it's my day off."

"I know, baby, I know. He's just freaking out about this Bismarck business." I walk to the bedroom to get the rest of my clothes on, and Rachel follows in her pajama shorts and baggy t-shirt. She crosses her arms and gives me this look, and I put a tie on, trying to decipher the signals she's clearly trying to send. "What?" I ask.

She shifts in place restlessly. "We just never spend any time together."

"What are we doing right now?"

"Blaine. That's not what I mean." She sighs dramatically. "You're leaving town next week, and I thought with me staying with you, we'd hang out more. Go to dinner or to the movies or just go out, but we don't." Her cheeks redden slightly, and I guess what she's about to say a second before she says it. "We haven't had sex since –"

"Hey. These fingers." I show my right hand and point at the long digits with my left hand. She got off quickly – clearly had some tension she needed to get rid of. And that was last night. Okay, two nights ago. Maybe three. Still. "I'm just busy. That's all." I grab my pants and pull them on, sliding a belt through the loops, and she nods like I'm right, clearly I'm right. It's not like I suddenly don't find her attractive. I just wear myself out fucking someone else. She doesn't know that, though, and she's beginning to wonder. I really need to fuck her before I leave for Bismarck. Maybe I could get Lauren to remind me.

"I'm gonna be late," I tell her, grab my suit jacket and peck her cheek. She's got the tired and sad look of a war widow. "I'll try to make it quick, alright?"

"Okay," she says, smiling at me with warm eyes.

I have every intention to take my time.

He's already standing in the corner of 7th Avenue and West 23rd Street, smoking a cigarette and looking at the traffic lights that hang over the street in their yellow boxes. He's wearing a leather jacket that I've seen Dave wear sometimes. It looks amazing on Kurt. He doesn't see me on the other side of the street as he seems focused on smoking, like he's taking pleasure in every delicious drag, every swirl of smoke. I'm in no hurry so I remain next to the New Yorkers who are waiting for the lights to change, and I watch him and his black bell jeans and the red, woolen scarf that I've seen so often and the way his hair is sticking out a bit on the left side and the way his lush lips attach themselves to the cigarette.

The lights change, the cars slow down. He looks around. He looks across. I use one finger to beckon him over. Here, boy. Right here.

He smiles to himself and joins the flow of people crossing 23rd Street, and I meet him by the blue post box on my side.

"You're late," he tells me.

"I'm right on time," I argue and nod down the street. He falls into step with me, casting a suspicious look my way. I grin. "Don't you trust me?"

"Never," he says, and I laugh. "So where are we going?"

"Not far at all," I say, the building already right ahead of us, the sign sticking out of the building, the letters vertical. I come to a stop under it, and he looks around, still clearly clueless. "We're here," I say and nod at the red-bricked building.

He leans backwards as he looks up to examine the facade. "Wait. You brought me to a hotel?" he asks disbelievingly. "The Chelsea Hotel? When you said you wanted to show me something, I was expecting more than your dick."

"You're a dick," I argue and lead the way inside to the spacious reception. His steps are hesitant, but he follows, drawing in on himself like he wants to hide.

They greet me at the reception with "Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson," and I nod back. They don't take a second look at Kurt, and Kurt follows me aimlessly, looking around at the huge paintings on the yellow walls. We wait for the elevator to come down, and I need to remind myself that there's nothing suspicious about this. If there's something I've come to realize over the past few years, it's that people can't take one look at you and know your preferences.

Okay, taking that back. With some people you can. Take that Mason McCarthy for instance. I could sense it off him long before I knew it for a fact.

But the rest of us who aren't as obvious as Mason can remain in the dark. I've fucked men I never would have guessed were gay. They didn't look it or act like it or talk like it. There are no universal signs, and while Kurt can definitely act gay if he wants to, he seems to have grown past the era of wearing too short t-shirts and cocking his hips and showing off his incredible body. Now he just looks like a fucking handsome man. Nothing indicates that he's gay, so the two of us now stepping into the elevator together isn't suspicious to the outsiders. We could be friends or business partners or bandmates or cousins or brothers or pretty much anything in this world. It's not suspicious if we don't act like it is.

"Are we meeting someone?" he asks, looking above the elevator door where the floor numbers are lighting up as we get to each one.

"No," I say dismissively, and eventually the doors open to the seventh floor. "Come on." I nudge him with my elbow gently, now going through my pockets. The corridor floor is covered by a burgundy carpet, and our footsteps are barely audible as we approach the right door. I get out the bulky key ring that has the number engraved on it. "Honey," I say, unlocking the door, "we're home." I give the door a push.

Kurt looks beyond suspicious, but he steps into the living room, anyway. I like the suite almost more than my own apartment: everything is soft somehow, the wooden floor covered in red-shaded rugs, the big armchairs and couch looking inviting around the simple glass coffee table, the fireplace setting the mood despite the fact that it's been closed up, and above the mantel is a large, gold-framed mirror. It's trying to copy a French mansion we've never seen and never will with a handful of New York in the more modern designs. We've got a nice view, the yellow curtains framing the windows that show the tops of shorter buildings, and behind them more buildings, New York reaching out to all directions from where we are. Kurt stands in the middle of it all, turning to me with questioning eyes as I close the door, but not before I slip the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the other side.

"What is this place?"

"One of their suites," I tell him, walking to the bedroom door and pushing it open so that he can see the second room. The king-sized bed takes up most of the space that's decorated in reds, and a single stemmed rose lies on the pillows. I didn't leave it there, didn't ask for one to be put there, but it's a nice add-on, I think. They like having me here. Of course they do – one more musician to add to their long list.

"Okay, so you got us... a suite for the afternoon." He nods slowly like he can deal with that, still looking around the living room awkwardly.

"I got it for us indefinitely." I find what I'm looking for in my breast pocket and throw him the key. He catches it. "That's the second key. For you. We can come and go as we please."

His eyes are fixed on me. "What do you mean indefinitely?"

I smirk. "You wanted to keep fucking on floors, did you?" I unbutton my jacket and throw it on one of the armchairs. "You want a drink?" I ask as I go to the drinking cabinet. I pour us glasses of Scotch without waiting for an answer.

"Blaine. You –" He seems to be struggling to find the words, but then he just laughs. "My god. I can't believe you." He doesn't sound mad. Of course he isn't, now that we've got it figured out. Now that we're finally in tune with what's happening between us. I didn't tell Jeff about any of it, of course not, but maybe he sensed something as he started babbling on about first fights as milestones in relationships, although I still don't understand how that relates to anything.

The Chelsea Hotel is a good place for us. Firstly, with all the famous people they've had living here, the staff has learned to be discrete. And I'm not stupid either: officially the room – our room – is occupied and paid for by my blind company, Flagstaff Industries. Lauren's lawyers set the company up, and it's Flagstaff that owns my SoHo apartment, the cabin in Bismarck, eliminating my names from all the legal paperwork. That way fans can't track me down. Of course the staff at the hotel knows I'm here, but my name isn't on anything. And this room is ours for as long as we want it.

I hand him his drink, and he takes it to his lips. "You hungry?" I ask, nodding towards the phone on the side table. "Room service. You want pizza or strawberries or... I don't know, whipped cream..."

"Whipped cream, huh?" he asks with a knowing smirk, and I match his sly grin. An excited buzz has settled in my guts, and it's to do with this place. The suite is practically half of an apartment or a house: a bathroom, a living room and a bedroom. And it's ours.

Kurt throws his jacket on top of mine and goes over to sit down by the armchair by the window, looking out as he takes a sip of his drink. It's like he's feeling out the room. He slowly undoes the scarf around his neck, and I sit by the couch opposite the fireplace and watch him. Sirens sound from the world that somehow feels incredibly distant. His fingers curl around the glass, the golden liquid tilting towards him when he takes a sip. He looks at peace with the world, a small disbelieving smile on his lips. You don't get views like this in Brooklyn. I have never seen where he lives, but it's nothing like this, and we both know it.

"You don't have to do this," he then says and looks back at me. "It's a waste of money."

"I've got money to waste, and we've got nowhere else to go. Besides, you fucking love that view."

He laughs and smiles wide like he's been caught, but he looks like he belongs in this room and the world of champagne breakfasts, and if I can give him that, then I will. I gladly will.

He gets up reluctantly, like he's afraid the view will vanish if he doesn't keep an eye on it. "You don't have to spoil me." He sits on his knees on the couch next to me, staring at me. I cup the side of his face, my thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He doesn't realize how insignificant the room is when compared to what I'll get in return.

"I'm not trying to. I'm just... being practical. Now, if you want to get into spoiling, then I've also got your birthday present ready."

"No. No, I don't want anything," he instantly says. I open my mouth, but he takes my hand from his cheek, presses a kiss to my knuckles and says, "Thank you. But no."

"You don't even know what it is!"

"And I'd rather not," he says. "Besides, my birthday's a month away, and I'm gonna be old, and I don't want to think about it."

"You're not gonna be old," I object, but he makes a sad face like he is. "You're gonna be twenty-six."

He grimaces. "You had to say it, didn't you? God. I mean, right now I'm bang on in the middle of my twenties. In a month's time, I'm leaning closer to thirty. And then I'll be more than a quarter of a century old, and then I'm gonna have this big crisis, like what am I going to do with my life? What is it all for? What does it mean? Will I ever accomplish anything?" His voice has turned into a melodramatic boom, and I put my glass down on the coffee table.

"Well, about that..." I start as he moves to sit on the couch properly, leaning into it and exaggerating a life-crisis sigh.

"At least Dave will always be older than me," he then says like it's slightly comforting him in his anguish.

I quirk an eyebrow. "How old is he?"

"Thirty-two. Will be thirty-three in December."

"Bullshit." He doesn't look thirty-two. That is old, never mind that I'll be twenty-seven this year. I'm seven months older than Kurt, not seven years. And Rachel, well, she's only about a year older than me, but I feel the difference with her. She's at that age where she wants to marry me. She wants me to consider us living together. She wants children. I can barely keep myself alive, let alone a helpless baby. But say two years, that's over seven hundred days of more life. Seven years, that's... Well, whatever the exact number may be, but that's two thousand days, well over. Dave has seen over two thousand more days than Kurt has, and that has got to put them in different places. If Rachel wants to settle down, so does Dave. Dave probably had it in mind when he met Kurt, thought 'Here he is. The guy I'll grow old with'. Rachel probably had the exact same thought about me.

And that's why Kurt and I are hiding in a room in the Chelsea Hotel. Because we're not like them, we're not... their kind. When I first met Kurt, I just wondered if he could lift a fucking amp and get his job done, hoping I'd make it through the day without a mental breakdown.

"What did you think of me when you first met me?" I now ask, not sure if I want to know the truth.

"Well," he says, finishing his Scotch. I lean into the couch with him. "I thought you were a conceited yet self-deprecating asshole, who also had really pretty eyes." He now turns to look at me, like he wants to see the eyes that he's talking about. "I thought you... didn't appreciate what you had. I thought you were disillusioned by your fame. I thought you had these amazing lips and I liked your smile, and I thought that no, Kurt, you cannot go around liking this man's smile, and then I just – Sometimes. Sometimes when you looked at me, it was like you saw everything." His voice fades out, and he smiles a little. "Yeah. Just like the way you're looking at me now."

He's not right. I can't see it all, but I'd want to. I'd really want to.

"And what do you think of me now?" My voice is quiet.

"Well, now..." He swallows hard. The atmosphere's turned serious in a way it never is with us. He leans in slightly. "Now I think you're a disillusioned rock star, who's conceited and self-deprecating, and also an amazing lay."

"Fuck off," I bite and shove him half-heartedly, and he laughs, and it's like the sound fills the room, making it ours. "I don't think I want to give you your birthday present anymore."

"Good. I don't want it."

"It was an amazing present..."

"Sure it was."

"The best present I've ever given anyone."

"I can only imagine," he muses, and since he's not about to crack, I do.

"Time." He looks confused, and I sit up properly. "I would've given you time. Two or three days. Studio time, I mean. I talked to Bob, and he could stick around for it, and you and Ian could go to the studio while we're in Bismarck and do that demo you wanted to do. In a proper studio."

"With Bob Johnston producing?" he laughs incredulously, but I only nod. Kurt's met Bob, so why's that a surprise? "Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Simon & Garfunkel and who knows who else Bob Johnston? Working on my demo? In a brand new studio?"

"Told you it would've been good," I say nonchalantly as the light in his eyes sparks up, his pupils widening as he pales. He's proud and stubborn, I know that, and he turned down my offer to call a few friends, get him some free studio time somewhere. I just have to make him an offer he can't refuse. He's not stupid. No one is that proud. "But I know, I know." I sigh dramatically. "You're not accepting my gift."

"No, I –"

"Say no more! Really! I know I stepped out of line and –"

"Blaine!"

" – you're a lone wolf, roaming the wilderness of this world alone, not accepting help from me or your primeval boyfriend, and I should know that by now and –"

He cuts me off with starving kisses, our lips bruising together as his hands rest on the sides of my neck, holding me in place. "I'll take it," he says. "Fuck, I'll take it, you stupid –"

Stupid what, I never find out, but he starts laughing against my lips, swearing heavily in disbelief.

And he sounds happy.

Lauren knows. I know that she knows and she probably knows that I know that she knows, but she probably doesn't fully know what she knows.

Our relationship comes down to Lauren not asking awkward questions but still making sure that I don't get in trouble. If I want something done, she makes sure that it happens, and she's taken Rachel's apartment's renovation to heart, making sure the contractors do a good job with half the time it'd normally take. She's organized the Bismarck trip, booked the flights, rented cars, and she looks anguished over the thought of losing touch with me for a few weeks, like she thinks I'll disappear during that time. It's not completely irrational for her to fear so.

But because she's perfect at what she does, she immediately makes the call when I tell her that Kurt Hummel is to have control of the studio to do as he pleases in my absence. Bob's already agreed to it, but I want to keep it quiet. If the guys hear about it, if Dave hears about it, there will be questions. Why am I helping out a guy that, as far as they know, is a random acquaintance?

It's what Lauren is thinking right now as we're in her office. She's hired a second in command person to deal with The Pips on the side, and she's got a personal assistant and a secretary and a few other people, and it's a company in its own right, and I walk in and get the doors opened for me, and then I'm opposite Lauren, who now knows. She always wanted to know.

"I saw Kurt play at an open mic night," I explain. "He's talented. I want to see what happens."

"I'm sure he's a creative individual," she says agreeingly, but that's not what she's really saying. She's saying, 'What aren't you telling me?' She's saying, 'Don't tell me it's what I think it is.' Ryder didn't care back in the day. He didn't care who I fucked as long as I was going on stage every night. Lauren isn't like that. She wants what she thinks is best for me. "You've been spending time with Kurt, then?" she says, a neutral approach if there ever was one.

I look to her door to make sure it's closed, and then I shift in my chair uncomfortably. "I'd prefer it if you just did as I asked."

"I will. Of course I will. It's just – studio time is expensive. He could even fit thirty studio hours into three days, and I just. I just want to make sure that... you don't feel pressured into..." She's trying to find the words, and I don't understand where she's going with this. "I mean that... um..." She looks perplexed.

I burst out laughing. "You think I'm being blackmailed?"

"I didn't say that! I'm just – just thinking. Because remember how back in... December. There was this artwork you wanted me to pick up from Dave's exhibition." She's tapping a pencil against a notepad, her shoulders tense. "I had it picked up and brought here. You're not one to buy paintings or anything of the sort, so I took a look at it, I admit that. I was curious. I almost forgot about the whole thing, but then a few weeks ago Dave came to the studio with his crew. And then the boy from the picture was there. Kurt. So if there is some... some incriminating evidence that's lying about, or..."

"Lauren. I adore you. You know that I do, so I mean no disrespect when I say that you've lost it." I lean back in my chair, pressing my fingertips together in my lap. "I have been spending time with him, you're right. And I want to keep spending time with him."

She hangs her head slightly, her lips a thin line. "You know we need to talk about this."

She's my manager. I know we need to talk about it. Be it Kurt or my sexuality or whatever she now sees as a threat. Nothing's changed over the past few years: any sexual deviation from my part will damage my career. Sure, some artists flaunt it. A few years back it was fashionable, even, because saying you fucked both sexes was a statement against the old ways and old ideals and old people. You fucked as a form of protest. Well, that age has passed. You're no longer a rebel, you're just a fag. And some musicians didn't mind connecting their sexuality to their music because their music was a form of sexual expression. They showed it on stage and in the lyrics and on the LP covers, sex, sex, sex, with anyone, any hole, because they were new and outrageous and breaking rules. They wanted to make parents cry. I could no longer do this, but not just because that era has passed. I couldn't do it because my music isn't sexual. It's not about me panting into the microphone about the filthy things I want to do. The Warblers wasn't about that, and my new music isn't about that. Being honest about my sexuality wouldn't boost my sales. No, it'd make sure no one bought my records again because who wants to know what serious message about life some cocksucker has? That's why I keep it private. That's why it has to remain a secret. But if I were smart, it'd be more private than it is. I'm telling my manager to give my lover special treatment. I'm pushing boundaries. It makes Lauren nervous.

"Isn't he dating Dave?" she then asks, voice uncertain like she's not entirely sure what's going on there.

"Yes, Lauren. Kurt is dating Dave."

She pales further but just nods. "Alright then." Another second, and she laughs. "God, it all makes sense now." She buries her face in her hands, the laughter muffled, and brown hair falls in front of her face like a silky curtain. "Fuck, Blaine, you could warn a girl." Her voice actually wavers on the last syllable. "We need to talk about this. We need to have a meeting and talk about this, and –"

"Hey," I stop her. "You're freaking out." She nods excessively like she knows, and it's like she's taking this personal for some reason.

"Who knows?"

"No one." She stares me down, and I clear my throat. "Well, Jeff kind of knows."

"Fuck me."

"Look, Jeff might be unpredictable, but he's loyal, okay? Loyal to me. Don't worry about him."

"It's my job to worry. Christ," she sighs, looking torn. I have never seen her like this – she's always in complete control, even that time that Jeff smacked her ass and she swirled around and slapped Jeff so hard that Jeff almost fell down. But we're a team. Lauren likes talking about that, using all kinds of war and army metaphors of 'us' and 'them', and how we can do anything as long as we work together. And I need her on this. Because I could keep Kurt confined in this small nook of my life, but I want more than that. I want him on tour. I want him in my bed. I want him drinking Scotch in hotel room armchairs, admiring the city skyline, and at some point it will take more than booking a room at the Chelsea Hotel to get that done. And that's why I need Lauren. That's why I'm including her.

My secrets need more room.

"Okay. So you and Kurt, and – and Jeff knows. Knew before I did," she adds bitterly. "But I'm okay with this. Just great..." She appears to have calmed down, and she pushes her hair back. She worries on her bottom lip and won't quite look me in the eye. "But I need to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest."

"Go on."

"Is it... a fleeting thing? Or is this a long-term thing?"

I think of Rachel and her hints of us moving in together, and I think of Kurt and Dave's anniversary, and then I think of him and me, and we never talk about the future, and we never talk about the past, and we fight like cats and dogs for no apparent reason, and he drives me insane, and he tells me I'm impossible, and we lie and we cheat and we fuck and we laugh.

I think of our hotel room, and how him being there for two hours made it feel more like home than any place I've ever been.

"It's a long-term thing," I tell Lauren.

"And we can trust him?"

"All the way."

"Well, then. Okay." She takes in a calming breath and opens her calendar. "Okay," she repeats. She scribbles something down. "Kurt will get the studio. We'll make sure to keep it under the radar, but I'll make sure he gets complimentary snacks and all of it. I'll take care of it, Blaine."

I stand up and take her hand. "Thank you," I say before leaning down and chivalrously kissing the back of her hand. She laughs and pulls her hand back. Her eyes sparkle, but she still looks like I've turned her world upside down. "Did we have any more business to cover?" I ask, and she shakes her head. "Well, in that case I'll be off. I need to pack for Bismarck."

"I'll come pick you up in the limo to take you to the airport."

"I'll be ready."

"No, you won't."

I glare at her. "I'll try, Mom."

"Thank you, son," she smiles, and I flip her off, making her grin. I decide to send her some flowers once I get home. She needs to know that I appreciate her, and I also need to emotionally blackmail her onto our side. We can't make an enemy out of her.

I'm at the door when she says, "Oh! There was one thing."

"Yeah?"

She studies her notes and then looks up. She points a finger at me. "Remember to have sex with your girlfriend."

"Oh, yeah! Thanks."

"Just doing my job," she says, even if her smile is slightly broken. "And you know this conversation isn't over."

I know that. I know.

The sheets persistently cling onto my slickened skin, but we slowly push them out of the way. My mouth feels worn out and sore, but I can't stop kissing him. All that exists right now is this hotel, this room, this bed. His imminent duties for the promotion company don't exist, and my trip to half across the country tomorrow morning doesn't exist. We ignore the hot death on our heels, but we don't forget it either.

"That was amazing," he groans again. My hands are in his damp hair, and I taste the sweat that has pooled on his upper lip. He's right. That was amazing. That just might have been the best we've ever had. I should go away more often if it equals sex marathons like this, but mostly I think Bismarck was a stupid idea. I can't say that to anyone anymore, not when I was the one who pushed it, but I wasn't in a good place when I made the decision. My fingers slide on his smooth, warm skin, and I have no idea how I'll be able to stand not being with him. I can't bring myself to say it. I'll be damned if I say it.

We're still coming down, but we're not rolling over for forty winks. Instead we're tangling together further, making out like teenagers, every touch electric. His mouth slides over mine, wet and hot, and he breathes out, "Want you."

Still. Even now.

"Fuck," I breathe out because it's so much, and it's not enough.

He doesn't know that Lauren knows, and I have no plans to tell him. He'd start worrying about it when I've got it all under control now. All under control except this – us on our sides, our hands slowly exploring. We keep tracing each other's features like we're not quite convinced it's real. His mouth moves to my neck where he bites down, and I let my head roll back, eyelids slipping shut. Our hips grind together, and all I know is his skin, his skin, his skin... Every time he speaks, every time he comes into the room, my eyes trace the way he moves. He's got me right where he wants me, but I hope he hasn't figured that out yet. His hand presses against my chest, his fingers digging in, and his teeth sink into my neck.

"Kurt, I've still got a date tonight," I say half-coherently, knowing that Rachel will notice a huge bruise on my neck if he leaves one there. That's why I always fuck her in the dark these days, in the dark and under the covers. Not out in the open like this, like our bed's a stage for the hotel bedroom to see.

"I know, I know," he says, breathing hard as he licks over where he just bit me. He sounds mournful, but mostly his voice is overtaken by lust. It sends shivers all over my body. His mouth moves to my collarbone, and I let myself fall into it, to the way he's trying to devour me. His hand slips down my side, shamelessly moving to my ass where he cups me, pulling me closer. Our cocks brush together, and we're not hard but we're not soft either. It feels good, being this close. "I had this dream about you," he says, his mouth now over my ear. He sucks on my earlobe, and I can't think through the haze of him and his touch. "A vivid dream. Woke up so hard."

I picture him waking up, hot and bothered, cock throbbing, my name on his lips. I tilt my head to find his lips. "What'd we do?" I ask, moving to lie on my back. He moves with me, his chest pressed to mine, our hips still moving for friction. The kisses are fiery and shameless. A veil of pleasure drapes over us, painting the world in blood red, though really that's just the bedroom curtains and the sheets, and I should know that but somehow I don't. My hand moves on his slick back, my nails dragging his skin. I feel each vertebrae moving, and I get even more lost in his touch.

"Fuck, you were," he says, both hands in my hair. Whatever it was, it's got him wild.

"Yeah?"

"You were on your back like this, and I was in you." His hand slips between my legs. I freeze. My guts tighten, and my throat seems to close off. "You felt so good..." His voice is husky, and his erection presses against my thigh. I feel hot all over. I've thought about it. It has cAndersoned my mind, but we're not going there again. He lifts his head, staring down at me with blown pupils. I don't know what he sees in my eyes, but he's quick to smile soothingly. "It was just a dream. I'm not saying that –"

"I know," I say, our lips meeting again. His finger moves up my perineum, not going further although it felt like he was going to, but now his finger moves over my balls and away from their brief exploration.

"I could ride you," he says. "We could... Although it'd be- God, you know it'd be so hot if you let me."

Something echoes in my head, a nearly identical memory. Him doing this exact same thing, coming on strong when he knows I'm vulnerable. The memories are all blurred. I remember his lips on the nape of my neck. Not being able to see him, but feeling him in me, feeling full. I remember the pain, the pleasure, and the way he kept pushing into me. It was impossible to catch my breath as my body trembled. I was so fucking sore afterwards. Had to walk down the street, knowing, feeling that I had gotten fucked. That I had let someone do that to me. Whenever I've allowed the memory to cross my mind, I've been on my own, close to orgasm, my thoughts jumbled and my cock in fist, and then when I was coming down, I told myself that that's not what I had been thinking about.

Pretending was a lot easier when he wasn't lying naked on top of me, his weight pinning me down. It's not something I should want. It's not something I should let him do to me again.

My lips brush against his Adam's apple, tasting the skin. I focus on not shaking. "Okay." Okay. Okay? God, I'm digging my own grave, but we can be quick about it, and I can forget afterwards, only remember it when I jerk off, need new memories of him inside me, fresher ones –

"Fuck," he groans, the single word coming deep from his chest, masculine and hot. He kisses me passionately, controlling the kiss like he's got it from here. He doesn't even double check or clarify that we're talking about the same thing. He just moves to lie between my legs that part to accommodate him.

"Missed doing this," he says, and my stomach churns. The sex itself from that night is a blur, but I remember the aftermath, cleaning myself off, standing in the shower with his come rolling down the backs of my thighs, just standing there, my back against the tiles because my legs were so weak, feeling like he'd marked me. The way he cut in a lot deeper than I had given him permission to, and then it all went wrong, all of it, and I never saw him again until I did. And now he wants back in. He doesn't know what he's asking.

He moves downwards, wet kisses on my chest. He traces my nipples with his tongue, waiting for them to erect, and then sucking on them when they do. I've never really considered them to be an erogenous zone, but they are. They are when he puts his mind to it. His hands have taken a firm hold of my waist, commanding, and I lie still and try to breathe. My skin feels sensitive wherever he touches it, and his lips leave a trail of tingling sensations that make my cock hard like we haven't fucked in weeks.

"You should hurry up before I change my mind," I rasp, licking my lips.

He stops and looks up at me, his eyes dark. "Did I say that you could speak?"

There's a moment, a lull, almost, when the nerves and the horror and the want – the deep, liquid want – all meet, and his words hit home in a way they haven't, in a way they wouldn't otherwise, and a chill runs up my spine. "No."

"No. Exactly."

He doesn't make me apologize. He has mercy.

His fingers seem to shake, but he takes a firmer hold, but this is getting to him too, it must be. He just hides it well.

He resumes his journey down, his mouth moving over my ribs to my stomach, teeth scraping the skin. I feel him smile there – wicked, cruel, accomplished – while my heart races and blood pounds in my ears, and every cell of my body is tuned differently now, hyper-sensitive. His tongue twirls in my belly button, causing me to gasp, and when his sinful mouth reaches my hipbones, he says, "God, you're so skinny." The bones are jutting out, I know that, and it must turn him on if the attention he gives my hipbones is anything to go by.

He places a wet kiss to the head of my cock without warning, tongue swirling as he holds the base, and I muffle a groan as I jerk violently. He pulls back, and a strand of saliva stretches between his lower lip and my cock, or maybe it's pre-come, I can't be sure, but he groans, leans back in and laps at my slit. I bite on my tongue – god, fuck, god, it's good – but he told me not to speak.

Before it can develop into a proper blowjob, his mouth runs down my length, his tongue licking over my balls as he pushes my legs apart. A small protest erupts in my brain, a sharp no, don't, but his hands are firm, fingers pressing into the soft skin of my inner thighs, and I want to open up to him. Let him do as he pleases.

"Okay. Okay, Christ," I mumble quietly, trying to calm down. I place one hand over my eyes like then I don't have to see or know, and the beige ceiling disappears from view. I bite on my lower lip until it hurts. And his mouth, his stupid fucking mouth, is there, kissing just below my balls where the skin is so sensitive, like he knows exactly what to do. How to drive me insane. He pushes my legs up, bending them over my stomach, and I let him.

Jeff's words echo in my head – bet Kurt can be a good boy. Yeah, he can. He loves just that, but it's clear that once in a long while he wants to swap places. What Jeff didn't know and what I'd never own up to is me being able to get off on Kurt deciding to be a bad boy instead.

His hands take firm holds of my ass cheeks, and he spreads them apart. It's the most exposing thing I've ever felt in my life. His hot breath washes over the skin, and then his mouth makes contact. I jerk and hiss and fight back a slutty moan. His tongue slowly moves over my hole in broad licks, and he groans. His fingers press hard into my flesh. This isn't new. This I've made some guys do for me – I've braced myself against walls, jerking off, letting them eat me out, but no fingers, just their tongue, I made that damn clear, my body thrumming with a talented mouth on me, calling them the most derogative terms to make sure that they knew something was wrong with them, not me, not even if I was the one making them do it. That was that. This is this, and this is different, because he's not some anonymous guy, and he's going to do a lot more to me than this, and he knows I want it. Lust is pooling in my guts, my cock throbbing.

He pulls back for air, the puffs hitting the wet skin and making my back arch, my spine curving on its own accord.

"Someone's enjoying themselves," he notes, a smug tone to his words, and my face feels hot. I do enjoy this. I do, I do, so what?

So nothing, it seems, as he moves to bite down on my cheek, like he wants to leave a mark on my ass instead of my neck. Knowing him, he probably does. He sucks in skin, and that's gonna leave a mark, that's going to be a reminder, and his thumb presses against my hole and rubs in the saliva that he left there. My muscles contract, but he keeps rubbing gently, not trying to force anything. I relax into it, waves of heat running over me when he touches me there.

He pulls back and blows air on the piece of skin he just attacked, and it feels sore but he licks over it soothingly, travelling back to take over teasing my entrance instead. His lips rub against me, and he's kissing me there, slow and deliberate and full of want. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, tight, tight, and it makes it even easier to concentrate on his mouth on me, makes the sounds I'm making louder to my own ears: the gasps, the hushed moans, the erratic breathing. And he hears all of it.

"God, you're so hot like this," he says, and I let out the dirtiest moan when he kisses my hole. Then his tongue stiffens, and he pushes into me.

"Kurt, you fucking cunt," I hiss involuntarily, biting my hand and making sure to keep my eyes closed. My other hand is in my hair, pulling on my hair painfully. My body reacts to the intrusion, muscles contracting, my stomach feeling wet where the head of my cock rests, and it's good, it feels so fucking good. His fingers dig into my cheeks, a clear 'be quiet' as he keeps going, but I can't keep quiet, my hand falling from my mouth, and I can't stop moaning and gasping as he begins fucking me with his tongue. He eats me out with perfect precision, and I can't stay in control of myself. It's hard to keep a grip on reality, and the ceiling, fuck, the ceiling is beige and the curtains are red, and my body doesn't even feel like my body because I'm not familiar with this, I'm not used to this, and it's wrecking me.

He pulls back momentarily, long enough for me to miss his mouth, but then it's back. His tongue is back with a finger that he's pushed into me, and my muscles grip on the single digit. It feels like penetration, proper penetration, and something about it feels so overwhelmingly satisfying that I'm ashamed of the pleasured groan I let out. Fingering myself is never the same, never as good, and it's not something I have ever done frequently, not enough to get used to the sensation. He's sliding the finger in and out, and I tell myself to relax.

"That's right, just let go," he says. "That's a good boy..."

My cock gets even harder, like getting compliments means that much, like his words turn me on. But god, it feels good, too good, and I'm on my best behavior for him to get more. My armor's in the corner, my back's arched in surrender, and he knows it.

He's soon got two fingers in me. The stretch burns, but then he crooks his fingers just right, and my mouth goes slack, and fuck, fuck, shit. "Oh god," I breathe helplessly, panting, trying to get oxygen in, but the air feels fiery and smells musky, and he licks around his fingers. The pleasure all comes from where he has breached me, making me unable to think. He keeps his fingers fucking me until I'm used to it, almost trembling as his fingers repeatedly press against my prostate.

Then his fingers have gone, and my muscles squeeze around nothing. I feel open and desperate, barely registering him pulling my legs apart. When I take in our surroundings, the room is draped in a red glow. He's sitting on his knees, and my feet have settled on the bed. He's not looking at me because he's pulling at the sheets, and he's flushed, his chest, his neck, and his lips look swollen and red, and his erection is curved upwards. God, I've made him so hard. He pushes hair from his forehead when he grabs the lube from somewhere in the sheets, and he pours the remains of the tube onto his palm. Then he looks at me. Then he stares me down. His eyes move from my face down to my chest and stomach, and I know what he sees: my flushed cock, my balls, and then my hole that he's stretched, wet with his spit, just waiting, and my heart beats so fast that it's like it wants to break away from my chest. What am I doing, what the hell am I –

"You look good," he says quietly. I close my eyes, not wanting to know. "You really do."

I nod quickly, not wanting him to look at me for too long, for him to memorize me like this. His lube-wet fingers push back into me, then, and I groan and spread my legs further to get more because god, that's so good. I'm lost. I'm so lost. His free hand takes a hold of the base of my cock, and he takes me into his mouth. I groan and take a hold of his hair because it helps, and all I can focus on is where his mouth is, where his fingers are, the way my body is tensing up from the pleasure of it. Sweat rolls down my neck, and there are hinges that hold a person together, holding me together, that are becoming unhinged. He's finger-fucking me and blowing me, and he's got me right where he wants me. He groans, taking more of my cock into his mouth, loving it.

"You're gonna make me come," I inform him helplessly, because every time his fingers push into me, a surge of pleasure flashes throughout my body and then flies back to the pit of my stomach. It's good, I don't want it to stop, but he won't want me to come yet, I know that much. I try to focus on it. Try to. "Kurt." He told me not to speak. My hips are moving slightly, trying to get more of his fingers, trying to get more of his mouth. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I breathe out, the pleasure overpowering me and winning the battle. "Kurt, I'm gonna fucking come," I groan, body trembling, and my head keeps pushing against the pillow under my head, messing up my hair, making me look like a fucking whore by the time we're done.

My muscles tighten around his fingers, and I'm right on the edge, and guttural groans rattle my chest as my eyes slip shut, and fuck, his fingers are in me, thick and long, pushing against my insides, his tongue is dragging along my shaft, and –

He pulls back just as I'm about to lose it, his fingers slipping out. "Fuck," I hiss, biting on my lower lip. My cheeks feel wet. My body jerks, overwhelmed and overworked.

"Hey," he says, voice rough, and it's his raspy blowjob voice that I recognize by now. A warm hand presses against my stomach, slowly moving in circles, and I try to breathe, so on edge that I feel like I'm about to break. "It's okay," he says, his fingers now dancing over my ribs. I try to respond or nod or something, but I only lick my lips, the bottom one swollen from me biting on it.

He doesn't waste time in moving over me, our cocks making contact as he settles between my legs. His mouth travels from my shoulder to my neck, angry bites, and his hands find mine, our fingers lacing together as he moves my arms over my head. He kisses me – I don't kiss him, no, I'm just taking whatever he decides to give, feeling too far gone to try and fight him, although a part of me is telling me to do just that. Fight him, fight him, but I did and it got me nowhere, nowhere except in this bed with him. He pins me down, using his weight as leverage, and my stomach gets smeared further when drops of pre-come land on it, our cocks pressed between our bodies. His tongue pushes in to meet mine, his head tilting for the perfect angle, and he's taking his time kissing me. I don't even realize he's positioning us, shifting his hips, until his cock slides between my legs where I'm open and ready, and he's got me yearning for it.

"Stay," he orders. His hands slide back down my arms. "Stay."

I feel dizzy. I nod. I'll stay. I'll keep still.

He reaches down between our bodies, taking his cock in his hand, and he kisses my chin. A drop of sweat rolls down to the tip of his nose, dropping onto me. I swear my heart is beating irregularly, a manic race and then just skipping four beats, and it's all him everywhere. He presses the tip of his cock against my hole, and the only reason that I know I can take him is because I've done it before. It doesn't seem to help me much because the head of his cock feels huge rubbing over me, spreading his pre-come, and my fingers find the barred headboard, taking firm holds of the bars, my body tense in anticipation. I spread my legs further.

He lifts my hips, and I let him because this is what he reduces me to. He groans at the further contact, and it sounds so dirty, and the swollen head of his cock is pressing against me. He pushes forward. My body resists, but he keeps the pressure constant until my muscles give way. I feel the exact moment my body opens up for him, and once he's got the head of his cock in me, it's easy. For him. He slides in deep, forcing me open.

Okay. Okay, not a good idea. No, this definitely wasn't your golden moment, Anderson, you stupid fucking cockslut.

He leans back over me, groaning, and I focus on not whimpering or hissing because he's bigger than I remembered – suppressed memories – and he's pushing me open, so fucking deep in me, making me feel so full, and I'm not used to this, being taken like this, letting anyone –

"Jesus," he groans, "you'd think no one's fucked you since."

My head rolls to the side, and I bite on my arm, anything to gag myself. You'd think that, yeah. You'd certainly think that.

Pain trickles up my spine from between my legs, a stinging throb, and the second wave is darker, another kind of throb – so full, so open, and with no escape, none whatsoever.

He kisses me hard, like no one's kissed me before, messy and heated, and his hips draw back. I feel every single inch of his cock in me, retreating before pushing back in, forcing me open again. And that. That feels so –

"Fuck, fuck, god, Jesus," I swear against his lips, and he says, "Yeah," voice overtaken by sex. Beneath the discomfort is a liquid sensation that is radiating through me. I hold onto the headboard like I'm hanging on for dear life, and fuck, fuck, fuck, this shouldn't feel like this. I'm not tensing up or shutting down. I'm relaxing into it, because I know I'll get more if I do, and I want more. I want to see what happens next.

His hands slide up my arms again, grabbing onto the flesh halfway. He keeps me pinned down as his hips start a slow rhythm. He breaks the kiss, supporting himself above me, his eyes wild and dark. My legs are spread wide, and he's snugly between them, and I can't get away from this, can't push him away when he's this close, and I can only let him in.

"Blaine," he manages, face flashing with pleasure. "Oh god, you feel so good right now."

So does he.

It's a sweaty, dirty affair, rippled with ecstasy when the pain subsides, and then all that's left is the pleasure of him fucking me. The hotel bed is a nice bed, meant for things far more graceful than this, something other than him on me, pinning me down, in me, but it's better than last time, which is worrying in itself because I liked it far more than I ever should have. He grips my shoulder with one hand, the other on my hip, and his breaths wash over my lips as he fucks me, the kissing sporadic and muddled because we can't focus on it.

"Come on," he says. "Move with me." His voice drops an octave, his mouth travelling to my ear. He thrusts in brutally deep, and I grip the headboard, willing myself not to groan. "Show me you want it," he whispers, but I can't, don't want to, because if I move too, it'll feel too good and then he'll know. I can barely handle letting him fuck me, let alone – "Blaine." It's a command. Fuck him, fuck him.

I feel the drag of his cock in me as he slides out, and when he pushes back in, I buck up my hips, meeting him halfway. We both stop and gasp, and greed suddenly bubbles in me as I let myself groan fully into the thick air of the room. His breathing hitched in a way it hasn't before, and I want to please him, want to trace the source of pleasure.

"We're good," he breathes shallowly, picking up the rhythm again, and I'm not sure if he's referring to our recovery from the sudden blinding pleasure or to the way in which our bodies work together, but it doesn't matter. I move one leg to hook over his waist, and he gets closer, pushes in deeper, and I thrust back against him, my upper body kept still as my arms ache, fingers firmly holding the bars, but I move my hips to get as much of him in me as I can.

It doesn't give me any of the control. He's fucking me, determining the depth and speed, and I take it all, start asking for more, hoping he'll oblige, and the thrusts are harder now, his cock pushing against my prostate and overwhelming me with pleasure.

"When you go," he says, and I nod, yeah, god, anything – faster, even faster now, oh god – "When you go, Blaine," he says, and it sounds like he's trying to make a point. He breaks off into a moan, swearing, and this is driving him insane too. "Just don't forget," he says, and his lips find mine, and I nod, breaking the rule and letting a hand come down to take a hold of the back of his head, deepening the kiss. "Promise," he gasps.

"I promise, fuck, I –" He puts more force into his thrusts, like he has barely even started and now has renewed vigor. My eyelids slip shut, his lips brushing mine. I try to hold on, pulling him closer. "Fuck me," I whisper, my neck and face feeling hot as the words leave my lips. "Kurt, please don't stop, don't –"

"Hand," he says, and yeah, of course. When I've obeyed and my hand is back above my head, he says, "You don't even know what you're doing to me, fucking hell."

My senses feel heightened, and my skin is radiating heat – the sex, the rational part that's humiliated, the irrational, winning part that doesn't care – and that's when I realize that he'll make me come. He will fuck my ass until I come from it, and at least the last time that didn't happen, at least then it wasn't his dick in me that got me off, but this time it will be, and I know it now. My body is getting more and more wired, like a clock being winded too tight, and as my muscles clench around him, I feel him even better, every single inch.

His hand moves from my hip to my cock, his long fingers wrapping around it firmly, and I choke on my breath. I wish he wouldn't do this, wouldn't push me this far, wouldn't make me. We're both covered in sheens of sweat, but my stomach feels wetter from where I've been leaking onto myself. Now his strokes are helped by the pre-come, and his fist loosens whenever he gets to the base, his grip tightening on the upstroke, like he's trying to milk it out of me. It's working, too, and I groan, "Harder, god, go harder –" and he does, fucking me deep and hard and jerking me off. I cling onto the bars, my back arching, and he muffles my moans with his mouth, like he's in such control, like he's not falling to pieces, like it's that easy for him.

He knows exactly when I'm about to tip over the edge because he breaks the hungry kisses and pulls back, pupils wide, eyes dark and taking me in, and I object to that, don't want him to watch me as he makes me come, but I'm too far gone to do anything about it. He's watching me, gripping my shoulder, fucking me, fucking me, his thumb brushing the head of my cock, and our eyes meet.

It all slips from view when I climax, and my muscles clench around his cock, and it makes me come harder. My hips jerk, I'm loud, loud enough to echo to the next room, nonsense, nonsense, every muscle, every cell, white flashes of pleasure, and then he groans, bites down on the sensitive spot below my left ear and spills inside me. I feel him, all of him, feel so wanted when he fills me up with his come. I knew it was just a facade, that he had no control either.

His lips find mine, our tongues meeting. Our hips still move, he's riding it out, still stroking my cock, and the come cools down on my stomach. He lets out guttural groans, all pleasure from his orgasm, a hint of awe in it. I come to a stop before he does, too spent and too sensitive to move. His thrusts are slow, slower, and then he stops moving.

My fingers are stiff when they loosen their hold of the headboard. I break the kiss, keep my eyes closed, try to catch my breath. Oh god. Oh fucking god.

His nose slides across my cheek. "So that was kind of amazing too."

I lick my lips and try to put words together to compile sentences that I could then say in a coherent fashion. He's kissing my jaw line, his hands sliding up my arms to my wrists where his thumbs press into the pulse points. He's cut right through again, deeper than before. "Fuck you," I say with as much bite as I can muster.

He laughs, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck. The time we're about to spend apart will get deep into my bones.