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fadagaskiTitle: Seachange
Author: Allocin
Fandom: Glee/The Little Mermaid AU
Wordcount: 3550
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Kurt/Blaine
Warnings: Dubcon (in that Kurt doesn't have the capacity to comprehend what's going on until it's already happened); purple prose (deliberate!).
Keywords: merfolk, Disney, AU, dubcon, hurt/comfort, body hair, mutism, handjobs
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor The Little Mermaid, nor their associated characters and plotlines. No profit is made from this work of fiction and no infringement intended. Please don't sue.
Summary: Merfolk, being half fish, reproduceasexually oviparously (fertilising their eggs outside of an incubating body). How does the little merman Kurt cope with his sudden human transformation, and all the weird quirks of a male teenage body?
A/N: I feel kind of dirty for having written this, but![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shei is solely (LOL!) to blame.
It was late, so late it was probably early. Blaine, one leg dangling over the balustrade around his balcony, watched the horizon for the coming dawn as his fingers strummed idle chords on his guitar. He had not seen his bed this night.
Somewhere in the palace behind him slept a boy with eyes as ever-changing as the sea. Blaine had sunk into their depths the moment he had seen them, but then the boy had opened his mouth ... and nothing had emerged.
Blaine had sworn his heart to his rescuer with the angel voice. He could not, would not fall for this boy and his ocean eyes. He left him to his servant Thad's tender care.
But try as he might, tired as he was, Blaine could not shake thoughts of the boy away. Even this, his nightly vigil teasing the same haunting melody from his guitar as had woken him from the depths of near-death, could not distract Blaine.
Dawn broke, the sun creeping its slow ascent over the Aegean. Behind him the palace began to stir. The boy would be awake soon. Blaine had a duty as host to break the night's fast with him. Perhaps they would go into the village today; if anyone should happen to recognise the mute boy, so much the better for Blaine. He would be out of the palace, out of Blaine's thoughts, and Blaine could continue his search for the voice of an angel.
"Sire," Wes called softly. "The boy is awake. Shall we dress you so that the morning meal can be served?"
Sighing, Blaine padded across the chilled flagstones to his bedroom to prepare – to be prepared, by his team of servants – for the day.
Manners dictated that Blaine should wait for his guest to join him at the table. It was difficult, however; for the first time since the shipwreck and his subsequent mysterious rescue, Blaine felt hungry. Famished, even. The salmon mousse was a delightful pink, and the kippers made his mouth water. His eyes wandered over the spread, and then to Wes standing at his side. He weighed his options, and then sighed, deflating. Sneaking a bite wasn't worth the passive aggressive wrath that would reign down upon him from his manservant.
Just as his stomach was beginning to gurgle at an inappropriate volume, Thad pushed open the door and led the boy in. He looked – stunning. Divine. The jet black of his tight pants made the sea green of his shirt all the more vibrant. As he approached, Blaine felt a distinctly different kind of hunger at the flash of a delicate collar bone and the long, flushed column of the boy's throat. Blaine licked his lips.
"Your seat, sir," Wes murmured, pulling out a chair for the boy. Blushing, he sat, hands folding in his lap. Blaine was entranced.
Until Wes gave him a sharp elbow to the shoulder and an even sharper look. "Oh!" Blaine sputtered, blushing himself. "Please. May I?" He gestured across the table. The boy blinked his ridiculous, perfect eyes at him. Blaine took that as a tentative yes, and began to serve little bits of food to the boy's plate. He didn't know what he liked, and couldn't really expect an answer from a mute. A little of everything would cover all bases, he thought, and was proud of his own logic.
The boy offered him a smile in thanks when the plate was put back before him, full to bursting. Blaine found himself grinning in response. He served himself and dug in, all too aware of the conch shell pink of the boy's perfect mouth as he ate, the gentle bob of his Adam's apple when he swallowed.
The boy rubbed at the side of his mouth, frowning, and then froze. His fingers stroked more slowly, once, twice. Suddenly he shunted back from the table, eyes wide and frightened.
"What's the matter?" Blaine asked, already half out of his seat. Tears filling his eyes, the boy crowded into Blaine's space, poking almost hysterically at the corner of his mouth.
Blaine peered closer.
"Spots," he said, and stared in bafflement at the boy. "They're just spots. It's fine."
The boy collapsed back into his seat. The flutter of his chest made his shirt roll like the ebb and flow of the tide.
"You've never had spots before?" Blaine asked. The boy shook his head. Biting his lip to keep from smiling, Blaine tilted his head so that the boy could see the line of his throat. "I get them down here, mostly." He drew his finger in a line, at the border of his stubble. "Not so much anymore, but when I was younger I could never get rid of them. You just have to leave them alone." He reached across for the boy's hand and squeezed. "They won't hurt you."
With a wobbly smile, the boy went back to his breakfast. Blaine could only hope the trip into town wouldn't be quite so melodramatic.
It was and it wasn't. There were no more panic attacks about spots. The boy shied away from the horses, but was intrigued by the wheels of the trap. Bridges were, apparently, fascinating constructions, but the first time the church bells chimed the hour had the boy scurrying for shelter in Blaine's arms.
Blaine couldn't say with honesty that he minded.
They bought food for a picnic in the market, where Blaine made discreet, fruitless enquiries into the origins of the boy. No one recognised him. No one had heard of a mute living nearby; Blaine only just resisted the urge to point out that it would be difficult to hear a mute. The townsfolk and traders were genuinely sorry they couldn't help their beloved Prince on his quest.
At first he was disappointed at the lack of news, but as the day wore on the boy's intense delight at every new sight and smell and sound began to affect Blaine too. He would never look the same way at a pretty maid after seeing the boy holding a dress to himself and twirling it back and forth. Nor would he ever assume that shoes should be worn in matching pairs; it took a half hour of banter for the boy to stop pouting after he was scolded for rearranging all the shoes at the cobbler's stall.
By mid-afternoon Blaine was sweaty and hungry. He drove the trap out of town and into the meadows beyond. The boy danced though the flowers, kicking seeds into the air while Blaine unpacked their picnic. It was a beautiful day; he decided they would stay awhile, so he unhooked the horses. Once hobbled, they were happy to mill in the meadow, munching grass and talking to each other in that peculiar horse language.
"Come sit. Eat," Blaine called, throwing himself onto the blanket. The boy dropped to his knees beside him, grinning from ear to ear. A butterfly took flight and he watched it shimmer in the sun. Blaine watched him.
They both flushed when they caught each other's eye.
Eating was a chore in not looking. The boy had a way of savouring everything that passed through his lips with a look of such intense concentration it took Blaine's breath away. The way he licked crumbs from his fingers. The way his tongue swiped the last trace of fruit juice from his chin. Blaine's palms itched and his throat was perpetually dry.
Warmed through by more than just the sun, Blaine sat up and wriggled out of his sweaty shirt. The sea breeze was instantly cool on his skin and he sighed with pleasure. Much, much better.
A soft hand touched his chest.
Blaine blinked and looked down. The boy was – was touching him. Eyebrows furrowed, mouth wet and open, his hand stroked through the dark hairs curled on Blaine's chest. Blaine could barely breathe, pinned beneath the boy's scorching hand and intense eyes.
The hand pushed. Blaine slumped back with no resistance.
The boy's fingers wandered down his chest, following the line of dark hair. Blaine's belly tightened at the brush around his navel, but the finger moved on. Down it went, and Blaine hadn't realised how low his pants had slipped until the boy stopped at the border cutting off the hair trail. He teased along the edge, nothing but the slight scrape of a nail against tender skin.
The hand disappeared. Blaine blinked his eyes open – didn't remember closing them – and looked up at the boy, who was quickly unbuttoning his own shirt to slide off his arms. Blaine swallowed.
With one hand against his own chest mirroring the action, the boy repeated his trail, tracing Blaine's train of hair from the dip of his collarbone down his sternum to his navel until the band of his pants halted progress again.
Then the boy did it once more, a little firmer, his nails scratching over skin. His own lungs billowed like sails on a windy day, but Blaine still couldn't find his breath, forced to snatch what air he could between one stroke and the next.
The boy slid the flat of his palm up the side of Blaine's ribs to his shoulder and pushed. Again, Blaine offered no resistance, couldn't really. There was no lust on the boy's face, only intense curiosity, as if he had never seen a man's body before. Blaine lifted his arms, let them fall either side of his head. The boy blinked, fingers hesitating, and then they dipped down again, tracing the ticklish skin under Blaine's arm to the warm, damp pit.
Blaine had never been so conscious of his armpit before.
It tickled when the boy first stroked through the hair there. Blaine had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. The boy didn't notice, too focused on the motion of his fingers, tangling and tugging on the hair. His nails scratched again, and that felt good. Blaine shifted, hips lifting of their own accord before he could stop them. He was just so warm all over.
The boy glanced up at him through his lashes. Sitting back, he raised one arm up, trailing the fingers of his other hand through the sparse, sandy hair in the pit revealed. He frowned again, twisting his neck to see first his own body hair, then Blaine's. Huffing, he let his arms drop. His spine slouched.
It was over, then. Blaine stared at a few scudding clouds as he caught his breath and emphatically did not think of the furious heat pulsing in his pants.
"I wish I knew your name," he sighed, surprising himself. The boy brought his knees to his hairless chest and curled around them. Blaine sat up and tugged his damp shirt back on. He nudged the boy, waiting for the peek of an aquamarine eye before handing over the other shirt. "Maybe I can guess?" he said as the boy slipped his own shirt up his arms. The boy offered a wan smile, but he sat straighter, chin high again, as if to say, Try it.
Blaine grinned.
"Okay. Is it ... Martin?" Headshake no. "Christian." No. "Harold." No, and a scowl. "Okay, obviously not. Charles?" No. "Samuel." An eye roll. "Hey, I'm trying! I could just make up a name for you." The glare this generated could have boiled salt from seawater. "Timothy? Rupert? Michael?" No. No. No. Blaine tossed his hands in the air. "Well, I give up then. We'll just have to call you 'boy'."
The boy rubbed his fingers over his throat, glance flickering up to Blaine's face again. He opened his mouth.
Air came out.
"What?" Blaine leaned in closer.
"K-."
"Something beginning with K?"
The boy nodded, beaming, and pulled Blaine so close his breath tickled Blaine's ear.
"K-t."
"K-t. Kut. Kut?" The boy shook his head, frantic now. "Okay, okay," Blaine soothed. "Say it again."
"K----t." Well that was definitely an exaggeration of the middle vowel. Blaine frowned in thought.
"Kuuut. Kuuhht. Kuuurrrt." Two hands clenched on his forearm tight. The boy nodded with tears brimming in his eyes. "Kurt? Your name is Kurt?"
Kurt burst into heaving, voiceless sobs and pitched into Blaine's chest. "Kurt. Your name is Kurt. I know it now. Kurt. Kurt." Blaine stroked Kurt's back and tried to stop his heart from falling.
Not long after, they packed up to go back to the palace. Kurt stood feeding apples to the horses while Blaine fixed them to the trap, and then they were off, leaving the meadow and all its beauty behind.
They had a light dinner that evening, little more than oysters washed down with fizzy wine. Blaine enjoyed watching the flush of alcohol suffusing Kurt's pale skin, and may possibly have giggled when Kurt retired for the night, wobbling out of the room like a landlubber at sea.
Blaine went to his room not long after. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he could actually sleep. Wes left the door to the balcony open so that the soothing sounds of the tide could filter in, and doused the lights with a murmured, "Good night, sire."
Blaine sank against his pillows with a deep, heartfelt sigh. Today had been a good day, the best day he had had in ages. And it was all thanks to Kurt, with his strange innocence and intense fascination. He wondered, one hand idly tracing the path Kurt's fingers had taken in the meadow, what adventure Kurt would show him tomorrow.
The idle hand became less idle. Blaine had been half-hard all evening; just the memory of Kurt's exploratory touches was enough to rouse his interest. It was, he thought, distasteful and ungallant to be thinking of a sweet, innocent boy like Kurt while his hand crept beneath the covers to slide under the waistband of his sleep pants. But no one would know, least of all Kurt.
His fingers were sailor-rough, not soft like Kurt's, when he wrapped them around his shaft. Blaine groaned, eyes fluttering shut. His other hand drifted down his chest and back up again, recalling Kurt's fleeting touches even as he pumped his cock once. Too dry, too rough. He pulled his hand out to lick over the palm when the door to his bedroom swung in. Blaine scowled. He was ready to snap at the next person who appeared around the corner.
No one did.
"Hello?" Blaine called. "Anyone there?"
Kurt's head peeked around the lip of the wall.
"Kurt!" Blaine hurriedly gathered all his covers together over his lap and kept his hands firmly on his knees. He wished suddenly that he had a nightshirt on. "What's the matter?"
Kurt sniffled.
"Hey, hey. Don't cry. Come here." Blaine beckoned Kurt over. Kurt danced from foot to foot for a few agonising seconds before he hurried to Blaine's bed and clambered on, burying himself in Blaine's arms. He was trembling. "Hey, shush. It's okay." With one arm wrapped tightly around Kurt's shaking shoulders, Blaine rubbed his callused hand up and down Kurt's arm. "Come on, Kurt. Talk to me."
That earned a wet, undignified snort and a red-rimmed glare from Kurt. Blaine grinned bashfully at him. "Okay, I know. But you have to give me a clue. I want to help. Let me help."
Sniffling and wiping tears from his cheeks, Kurt sat up. He left a wet patch on Blaine's chest that prickled in the sea breeze through the open balcony door. Kurt trembled more violently, fresh tears trickling down his face. His hands clenched spasmodically in his nightshirt. "Kurt," Blaine soothed, cupping his cheek to stroke away the line of tears with his thumb. "It's okay. I'm here. I'll help you."
Kurt nodded once, firmed his jaw, and yanked the hem of his nightshirt up to his waist.
Blaine's mouth fell open. He knew his eyes were wide as whirlpools but he couldn't help staring. Kurt's cock, there for Blaine to drink in. It was beautiful, thick and smooth and so dark it looked painful.
Blaine glanced up at Kurt's face. It probably was painful. Kurt looked desperate, teeth sinking into his lower lip, the black of his pupils swallowing up all but a thin rim of sea green. His whole body shook like a mast in a storm. He sobbed once when he met Blaine's gaze.
"Kurt," Blaine whispered. "Is this – Haven't you – Don't you know what to do?" Kurt's head whipped from side to side, a frantic no, and he sobbed again.
This – This wasn't just desperate. This wasn't Kurt coming to Blaine on lust and a prayer. This was – Kurt was scared. Honestly, truthfully scared. He glanced down at his own erection, blanched and looked away. Blaine's heart ached in his chest, even as his palms itched.
"Shush, shush. Kurt. Don't worry. It's fine. It's – It's normal." Kurt shot him a disbelieving look. Blaine offered him a small smile. "It is. I – I get like this too." Not as utterly terrified, Blaine thought to himself. It had always been a pretty simple thing to overcome. "Just – You just need to touch it."
Kurt looked revolted.
"No, it's good," Blaine assured him. "It feels amazing. I – Do you trust me?" Cautiously, Kurt nodded. Blaine smiled again. "Give me your hand." Kurt did, the nightshirt dropping slightly. Even with Blaine guiding him, his palm to the back of Kurt's hand, there was resistance in the wiry muscle of Kurt's arm, like a compass repelled from true north. "Just relax. Let me," Blaine whispered into Kurt's ear. Goosebumps shivered across Kurt's neck.
When he wrapped Kurt's hand around his cock, Kurt's head arched back. His throat worked like he was trying to make sound, some kind of keening wail, but nothing came out but harsh panting breaths.
"Easy, easy," Blaine soothed. Their hands moved together, down and up, not tight enough to offer anything but torment. Kurt's head thrashed along the cradle of Blaine's arm. Blaine watched, utterly enthralled, as Kurt's cock vanished and reappeared in the web of their hands. Without conscious thought, his thumb smeared across the eye, slick with precome.
Kurt thrust up and choked on air.
"Shush, it's okay. I've got you. Come on." Blaine leaned back against the pillows. For a panicked moment Kurt flailed, fingers digging in to Blaine's arm like he thought Blaine would abandon him like this. "I'm here. Lean back," Blaine murmured. Kurt did, shaking all over, his body a furnace against Blaine's prickling skin.
Blaine rewrapped their hands around Kurt's cock and squeezed. Judging by the flutter of his pulse in his neck and the desperate wheeze of his lungs, Blaine thought Kurt needed this to be over. "Come on."
Their hands moved, building speed quickly, stripping Kurt's shaft with only precome and sweat to ease the way. Kurt kept gasping, kept choking on air, mouth shaping words he couldn't voice, lips stretching wide around screams without sound. Feet flat on the bed, Kurt thrust up into their combined fists, desperate jerks of his hips as they pumped him faster and faster. His eyes squeezed tight shut, his face flushed lobster red. He smelt deliciously of salt and sex and man, wafting through Blaine's room like a sea breeze Blaine never wanted to shut out. Blaine ran his nose along Kurt's hairline to his ear, and whispered, "Let go. Just come, it's okay. I've got you. Let go."
And he did, like a tidal wave breaking over shore. Blaine's arm would have finger-shaped bruises from the grip Kurt held. His chest would bear a perfect ring where Kurt tossed his head and sunk his teeth into flesh. His cock pulsed and pulsed, long pearly strings shooting over their hands, across Blaine's wrist and over Kurt's nightshirt.
After a moment suspended, Kurt went boneless. He slumped back against the pillows, lungs still heaving for breath. Blaine gently untangled their fingers. There was come over the back of his hand. He tongued some of it off, salty and bitter, feeling a shiver down in his groin. He was so hard it hurt, his cock throbbing in his sleep pants. He wanted so badly to cover Kurt's body with his own and rock to completion.
Kurt's hand traced up the length of his arm to grip his wrist. Blaine was struck dumb as Kurt drew Blaine's hand to his mouth and licked his own come from Blaine's fingers, his tongue tracing little circles through the creases of Blaine's knuckles.
Blaine curled in on a bitten-off moan and came so hard in his sleep pants he blacked out.
He came to, slumped half over Kurt, who was stroking a hand through Blaine's hair. Blinking, Blaine propped himself with an elbow on his pillows. Kurt seemed ... calm. Baffled and bewildered too, but - at peace with whatever had just happened. His face shiny with past tears, he smiled sweetly up at Blaine and Blaine thought ...
I've been looking for you forever.
Kurt closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep with a satisfied sigh. Blaine longed to kiss him, but he would wait.
He had waited this long for his heart to fall, one more day wouldn't matter.
Author: Allocin
Fandom: Glee/The Little Mermaid AU
Wordcount: 3550
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Kurt/Blaine
Warnings: Dubcon (in that Kurt doesn't have the capacity to comprehend what's going on until it's already happened); purple prose (deliberate!).
Keywords: merfolk, Disney, AU, dubcon, hurt/comfort, body hair, mutism, handjobs
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor The Little Mermaid, nor their associated characters and plotlines. No profit is made from this work of fiction and no infringement intended. Please don't sue.
Summary: Merfolk, being half fish, reproduce
A/N: I feel kind of dirty for having written this, but
shei is solely (LOL!) to blame.It was late, so late it was probably early. Blaine, one leg dangling over the balustrade around his balcony, watched the horizon for the coming dawn as his fingers strummed idle chords on his guitar. He had not seen his bed this night.
Somewhere in the palace behind him slept a boy with eyes as ever-changing as the sea. Blaine had sunk into their depths the moment he had seen them, but then the boy had opened his mouth ... and nothing had emerged.
Blaine had sworn his heart to his rescuer with the angel voice. He could not, would not fall for this boy and his ocean eyes. He left him to his servant Thad's tender care.
But try as he might, tired as he was, Blaine could not shake thoughts of the boy away. Even this, his nightly vigil teasing the same haunting melody from his guitar as had woken him from the depths of near-death, could not distract Blaine.
Dawn broke, the sun creeping its slow ascent over the Aegean. Behind him the palace began to stir. The boy would be awake soon. Blaine had a duty as host to break the night's fast with him. Perhaps they would go into the village today; if anyone should happen to recognise the mute boy, so much the better for Blaine. He would be out of the palace, out of Blaine's thoughts, and Blaine could continue his search for the voice of an angel.
"Sire," Wes called softly. "The boy is awake. Shall we dress you so that the morning meal can be served?"
Sighing, Blaine padded across the chilled flagstones to his bedroom to prepare – to be prepared, by his team of servants – for the day.
Manners dictated that Blaine should wait for his guest to join him at the table. It was difficult, however; for the first time since the shipwreck and his subsequent mysterious rescue, Blaine felt hungry. Famished, even. The salmon mousse was a delightful pink, and the kippers made his mouth water. His eyes wandered over the spread, and then to Wes standing at his side. He weighed his options, and then sighed, deflating. Sneaking a bite wasn't worth the passive aggressive wrath that would reign down upon him from his manservant.
Just as his stomach was beginning to gurgle at an inappropriate volume, Thad pushed open the door and led the boy in. He looked – stunning. Divine. The jet black of his tight pants made the sea green of his shirt all the more vibrant. As he approached, Blaine felt a distinctly different kind of hunger at the flash of a delicate collar bone and the long, flushed column of the boy's throat. Blaine licked his lips.
"Your seat, sir," Wes murmured, pulling out a chair for the boy. Blushing, he sat, hands folding in his lap. Blaine was entranced.
Until Wes gave him a sharp elbow to the shoulder and an even sharper look. "Oh!" Blaine sputtered, blushing himself. "Please. May I?" He gestured across the table. The boy blinked his ridiculous, perfect eyes at him. Blaine took that as a tentative yes, and began to serve little bits of food to the boy's plate. He didn't know what he liked, and couldn't really expect an answer from a mute. A little of everything would cover all bases, he thought, and was proud of his own logic.
The boy offered him a smile in thanks when the plate was put back before him, full to bursting. Blaine found himself grinning in response. He served himself and dug in, all too aware of the conch shell pink of the boy's perfect mouth as he ate, the gentle bob of his Adam's apple when he swallowed.
The boy rubbed at the side of his mouth, frowning, and then froze. His fingers stroked more slowly, once, twice. Suddenly he shunted back from the table, eyes wide and frightened.
"What's the matter?" Blaine asked, already half out of his seat. Tears filling his eyes, the boy crowded into Blaine's space, poking almost hysterically at the corner of his mouth.
Blaine peered closer.
"Spots," he said, and stared in bafflement at the boy. "They're just spots. It's fine."
The boy collapsed back into his seat. The flutter of his chest made his shirt roll like the ebb and flow of the tide.
"You've never had spots before?" Blaine asked. The boy shook his head. Biting his lip to keep from smiling, Blaine tilted his head so that the boy could see the line of his throat. "I get them down here, mostly." He drew his finger in a line, at the border of his stubble. "Not so much anymore, but when I was younger I could never get rid of them. You just have to leave them alone." He reached across for the boy's hand and squeezed. "They won't hurt you."
With a wobbly smile, the boy went back to his breakfast. Blaine could only hope the trip into town wouldn't be quite so melodramatic.
It was and it wasn't. There were no more panic attacks about spots. The boy shied away from the horses, but was intrigued by the wheels of the trap. Bridges were, apparently, fascinating constructions, but the first time the church bells chimed the hour had the boy scurrying for shelter in Blaine's arms.
Blaine couldn't say with honesty that he minded.
They bought food for a picnic in the market, where Blaine made discreet, fruitless enquiries into the origins of the boy. No one recognised him. No one had heard of a mute living nearby; Blaine only just resisted the urge to point out that it would be difficult to hear a mute. The townsfolk and traders were genuinely sorry they couldn't help their beloved Prince on his quest.
At first he was disappointed at the lack of news, but as the day wore on the boy's intense delight at every new sight and smell and sound began to affect Blaine too. He would never look the same way at a pretty maid after seeing the boy holding a dress to himself and twirling it back and forth. Nor would he ever assume that shoes should be worn in matching pairs; it took a half hour of banter for the boy to stop pouting after he was scolded for rearranging all the shoes at the cobbler's stall.
By mid-afternoon Blaine was sweaty and hungry. He drove the trap out of town and into the meadows beyond. The boy danced though the flowers, kicking seeds into the air while Blaine unpacked their picnic. It was a beautiful day; he decided they would stay awhile, so he unhooked the horses. Once hobbled, they were happy to mill in the meadow, munching grass and talking to each other in that peculiar horse language.
"Come sit. Eat," Blaine called, throwing himself onto the blanket. The boy dropped to his knees beside him, grinning from ear to ear. A butterfly took flight and he watched it shimmer in the sun. Blaine watched him.
They both flushed when they caught each other's eye.
Eating was a chore in not looking. The boy had a way of savouring everything that passed through his lips with a look of such intense concentration it took Blaine's breath away. The way he licked crumbs from his fingers. The way his tongue swiped the last trace of fruit juice from his chin. Blaine's palms itched and his throat was perpetually dry.
Warmed through by more than just the sun, Blaine sat up and wriggled out of his sweaty shirt. The sea breeze was instantly cool on his skin and he sighed with pleasure. Much, much better.
A soft hand touched his chest.
Blaine blinked and looked down. The boy was – was touching him. Eyebrows furrowed, mouth wet and open, his hand stroked through the dark hairs curled on Blaine's chest. Blaine could barely breathe, pinned beneath the boy's scorching hand and intense eyes.
The hand pushed. Blaine slumped back with no resistance.
The boy's fingers wandered down his chest, following the line of dark hair. Blaine's belly tightened at the brush around his navel, but the finger moved on. Down it went, and Blaine hadn't realised how low his pants had slipped until the boy stopped at the border cutting off the hair trail. He teased along the edge, nothing but the slight scrape of a nail against tender skin.
The hand disappeared. Blaine blinked his eyes open – didn't remember closing them – and looked up at the boy, who was quickly unbuttoning his own shirt to slide off his arms. Blaine swallowed.
With one hand against his own chest mirroring the action, the boy repeated his trail, tracing Blaine's train of hair from the dip of his collarbone down his sternum to his navel until the band of his pants halted progress again.
Then the boy did it once more, a little firmer, his nails scratching over skin. His own lungs billowed like sails on a windy day, but Blaine still couldn't find his breath, forced to snatch what air he could between one stroke and the next.
The boy slid the flat of his palm up the side of Blaine's ribs to his shoulder and pushed. Again, Blaine offered no resistance, couldn't really. There was no lust on the boy's face, only intense curiosity, as if he had never seen a man's body before. Blaine lifted his arms, let them fall either side of his head. The boy blinked, fingers hesitating, and then they dipped down again, tracing the ticklish skin under Blaine's arm to the warm, damp pit.
Blaine had never been so conscious of his armpit before.
It tickled when the boy first stroked through the hair there. Blaine had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. The boy didn't notice, too focused on the motion of his fingers, tangling and tugging on the hair. His nails scratched again, and that felt good. Blaine shifted, hips lifting of their own accord before he could stop them. He was just so warm all over.
The boy glanced up at him through his lashes. Sitting back, he raised one arm up, trailing the fingers of his other hand through the sparse, sandy hair in the pit revealed. He frowned again, twisting his neck to see first his own body hair, then Blaine's. Huffing, he let his arms drop. His spine slouched.
It was over, then. Blaine stared at a few scudding clouds as he caught his breath and emphatically did not think of the furious heat pulsing in his pants.
"I wish I knew your name," he sighed, surprising himself. The boy brought his knees to his hairless chest and curled around them. Blaine sat up and tugged his damp shirt back on. He nudged the boy, waiting for the peek of an aquamarine eye before handing over the other shirt. "Maybe I can guess?" he said as the boy slipped his own shirt up his arms. The boy offered a wan smile, but he sat straighter, chin high again, as if to say, Try it.
Blaine grinned.
"Okay. Is it ... Martin?" Headshake no. "Christian." No. "Harold." No, and a scowl. "Okay, obviously not. Charles?" No. "Samuel." An eye roll. "Hey, I'm trying! I could just make up a name for you." The glare this generated could have boiled salt from seawater. "Timothy? Rupert? Michael?" No. No. No. Blaine tossed his hands in the air. "Well, I give up then. We'll just have to call you 'boy'."
The boy rubbed his fingers over his throat, glance flickering up to Blaine's face again. He opened his mouth.
Air came out.
"What?" Blaine leaned in closer.
"K-."
"Something beginning with K?"
The boy nodded, beaming, and pulled Blaine so close his breath tickled Blaine's ear.
"K-t."
"K-t. Kut. Kut?" The boy shook his head, frantic now. "Okay, okay," Blaine soothed. "Say it again."
"K----t." Well that was definitely an exaggeration of the middle vowel. Blaine frowned in thought.
"Kuuut. Kuuhht. Kuuurrrt." Two hands clenched on his forearm tight. The boy nodded with tears brimming in his eyes. "Kurt? Your name is Kurt?"
Kurt burst into heaving, voiceless sobs and pitched into Blaine's chest. "Kurt. Your name is Kurt. I know it now. Kurt. Kurt." Blaine stroked Kurt's back and tried to stop his heart from falling.
Not long after, they packed up to go back to the palace. Kurt stood feeding apples to the horses while Blaine fixed them to the trap, and then they were off, leaving the meadow and all its beauty behind.
They had a light dinner that evening, little more than oysters washed down with fizzy wine. Blaine enjoyed watching the flush of alcohol suffusing Kurt's pale skin, and may possibly have giggled when Kurt retired for the night, wobbling out of the room like a landlubber at sea.
Blaine went to his room not long after. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he could actually sleep. Wes left the door to the balcony open so that the soothing sounds of the tide could filter in, and doused the lights with a murmured, "Good night, sire."
Blaine sank against his pillows with a deep, heartfelt sigh. Today had been a good day, the best day he had had in ages. And it was all thanks to Kurt, with his strange innocence and intense fascination. He wondered, one hand idly tracing the path Kurt's fingers had taken in the meadow, what adventure Kurt would show him tomorrow.
The idle hand became less idle. Blaine had been half-hard all evening; just the memory of Kurt's exploratory touches was enough to rouse his interest. It was, he thought, distasteful and ungallant to be thinking of a sweet, innocent boy like Kurt while his hand crept beneath the covers to slide under the waistband of his sleep pants. But no one would know, least of all Kurt.
His fingers were sailor-rough, not soft like Kurt's, when he wrapped them around his shaft. Blaine groaned, eyes fluttering shut. His other hand drifted down his chest and back up again, recalling Kurt's fleeting touches even as he pumped his cock once. Too dry, too rough. He pulled his hand out to lick over the palm when the door to his bedroom swung in. Blaine scowled. He was ready to snap at the next person who appeared around the corner.
No one did.
"Hello?" Blaine called. "Anyone there?"
Kurt's head peeked around the lip of the wall.
"Kurt!" Blaine hurriedly gathered all his covers together over his lap and kept his hands firmly on his knees. He wished suddenly that he had a nightshirt on. "What's the matter?"
Kurt sniffled.
"Hey, hey. Don't cry. Come here." Blaine beckoned Kurt over. Kurt danced from foot to foot for a few agonising seconds before he hurried to Blaine's bed and clambered on, burying himself in Blaine's arms. He was trembling. "Hey, shush. It's okay." With one arm wrapped tightly around Kurt's shaking shoulders, Blaine rubbed his callused hand up and down Kurt's arm. "Come on, Kurt. Talk to me."
That earned a wet, undignified snort and a red-rimmed glare from Kurt. Blaine grinned bashfully at him. "Okay, I know. But you have to give me a clue. I want to help. Let me help."
Sniffling and wiping tears from his cheeks, Kurt sat up. He left a wet patch on Blaine's chest that prickled in the sea breeze through the open balcony door. Kurt trembled more violently, fresh tears trickling down his face. His hands clenched spasmodically in his nightshirt. "Kurt," Blaine soothed, cupping his cheek to stroke away the line of tears with his thumb. "It's okay. I'm here. I'll help you."
Kurt nodded once, firmed his jaw, and yanked the hem of his nightshirt up to his waist.
Blaine's mouth fell open. He knew his eyes were wide as whirlpools but he couldn't help staring. Kurt's cock, there for Blaine to drink in. It was beautiful, thick and smooth and so dark it looked painful.
Blaine glanced up at Kurt's face. It probably was painful. Kurt looked desperate, teeth sinking into his lower lip, the black of his pupils swallowing up all but a thin rim of sea green. His whole body shook like a mast in a storm. He sobbed once when he met Blaine's gaze.
"Kurt," Blaine whispered. "Is this – Haven't you – Don't you know what to do?" Kurt's head whipped from side to side, a frantic no, and he sobbed again.
This – This wasn't just desperate. This wasn't Kurt coming to Blaine on lust and a prayer. This was – Kurt was scared. Honestly, truthfully scared. He glanced down at his own erection, blanched and looked away. Blaine's heart ached in his chest, even as his palms itched.
"Shush, shush. Kurt. Don't worry. It's fine. It's – It's normal." Kurt shot him a disbelieving look. Blaine offered him a small smile. "It is. I – I get like this too." Not as utterly terrified, Blaine thought to himself. It had always been a pretty simple thing to overcome. "Just – You just need to touch it."
Kurt looked revolted.
"No, it's good," Blaine assured him. "It feels amazing. I – Do you trust me?" Cautiously, Kurt nodded. Blaine smiled again. "Give me your hand." Kurt did, the nightshirt dropping slightly. Even with Blaine guiding him, his palm to the back of Kurt's hand, there was resistance in the wiry muscle of Kurt's arm, like a compass repelled from true north. "Just relax. Let me," Blaine whispered into Kurt's ear. Goosebumps shivered across Kurt's neck.
When he wrapped Kurt's hand around his cock, Kurt's head arched back. His throat worked like he was trying to make sound, some kind of keening wail, but nothing came out but harsh panting breaths.
"Easy, easy," Blaine soothed. Their hands moved together, down and up, not tight enough to offer anything but torment. Kurt's head thrashed along the cradle of Blaine's arm. Blaine watched, utterly enthralled, as Kurt's cock vanished and reappeared in the web of their hands. Without conscious thought, his thumb smeared across the eye, slick with precome.
Kurt thrust up and choked on air.
"Shush, it's okay. I've got you. Come on." Blaine leaned back against the pillows. For a panicked moment Kurt flailed, fingers digging in to Blaine's arm like he thought Blaine would abandon him like this. "I'm here. Lean back," Blaine murmured. Kurt did, shaking all over, his body a furnace against Blaine's prickling skin.
Blaine rewrapped their hands around Kurt's cock and squeezed. Judging by the flutter of his pulse in his neck and the desperate wheeze of his lungs, Blaine thought Kurt needed this to be over. "Come on."
Their hands moved, building speed quickly, stripping Kurt's shaft with only precome and sweat to ease the way. Kurt kept gasping, kept choking on air, mouth shaping words he couldn't voice, lips stretching wide around screams without sound. Feet flat on the bed, Kurt thrust up into their combined fists, desperate jerks of his hips as they pumped him faster and faster. His eyes squeezed tight shut, his face flushed lobster red. He smelt deliciously of salt and sex and man, wafting through Blaine's room like a sea breeze Blaine never wanted to shut out. Blaine ran his nose along Kurt's hairline to his ear, and whispered, "Let go. Just come, it's okay. I've got you. Let go."
And he did, like a tidal wave breaking over shore. Blaine's arm would have finger-shaped bruises from the grip Kurt held. His chest would bear a perfect ring where Kurt tossed his head and sunk his teeth into flesh. His cock pulsed and pulsed, long pearly strings shooting over their hands, across Blaine's wrist and over Kurt's nightshirt.
After a moment suspended, Kurt went boneless. He slumped back against the pillows, lungs still heaving for breath. Blaine gently untangled their fingers. There was come over the back of his hand. He tongued some of it off, salty and bitter, feeling a shiver down in his groin. He was so hard it hurt, his cock throbbing in his sleep pants. He wanted so badly to cover Kurt's body with his own and rock to completion.
Kurt's hand traced up the length of his arm to grip his wrist. Blaine was struck dumb as Kurt drew Blaine's hand to his mouth and licked his own come from Blaine's fingers, his tongue tracing little circles through the creases of Blaine's knuckles.
Blaine curled in on a bitten-off moan and came so hard in his sleep pants he blacked out.
He came to, slumped half over Kurt, who was stroking a hand through Blaine's hair. Blinking, Blaine propped himself with an elbow on his pillows. Kurt seemed ... calm. Baffled and bewildered too, but - at peace with whatever had just happened. His face shiny with past tears, he smiled sweetly up at Blaine and Blaine thought ...
I've been looking for you forever.
Kurt closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep with a satisfied sigh. Blaine longed to kiss him, but he would wait.
He had waited this long for his heart to fall, one more day wouldn't matter.
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no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 03:16 pm (UTC)Hahaha, anyway, this was really good. This was a really interesting take on the story and I loved it.
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Date: 2011-12-15 05:11 pm (UTC)lol
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Date: 2011-12-15 11:45 pm (UTC)I ... may have thought about this too much.
oh wow!
Date: 2011-12-15 03:31 pm (UTC)Re: oh wow!
Date: 2011-12-15 11:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 03:40 pm (UTC)Ugh, Blaine don't wait. Kiss him! You just gave the guy his first orgasm, for crying out loud!
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Date: 2011-12-15 11:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 03:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 11:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 05:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 11:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-16 01:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-16 08:26 am (UTC)Sex with fishtails would be really, really difficult.
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Date: 2011-12-16 06:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-17 03:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 06:03 pm (UTC)(I'm guessing you meant mermaid fertilization takes place outside the mother's body. Although parthenogenesis could explain an universes with only female mermaids, it doesn't fit the apparent genetic diversity of the Disney 'verse. Did I just write that?)
Is it silly that, even though I've known how this story goes (and been obsessed with it) since before I could read, I'm still in desperate need of a sequel?
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Date: 2011-12-15 11:51 pm (UTC)b) OMG you're as bad as the housemate! She berates me for bad physics. You berate me for bad biology. Is there no end to my suffering? LOL. (I tried to parse the science to normal-speak, and came up with: asexual reproduction in fish results in cloning).
c) I'm not planning on a sequel? But if anything springs to mind I'll let you know. :)
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Date: 2011-12-15 07:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 11:51 pm (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2011-12-15 07:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 11:52 pm (UTC)Now you have to come up with a sequel idea for me to write, LOL.
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Date: 2011-12-16 06:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-16 08:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-15 11:42 pm (UTC)And this was just... guh... perfect!
I'm gonna join the others and ask: Sequel?
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Date: 2011-12-15 11:53 pm (UTC)No sequel in mind, but if the muse (aka
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Date: 2011-12-16 07:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-16 08:32 am (UTC)Daaaaamn
Date: 2011-12-16 08:47 am (UTC)Re: Daaaaamn
Date: 2011-12-16 10:53 am (UTC)Glad you clicked despite the bad biology! :D
Re: Daaaaamn
Date: 2011-12-16 10:48 pm (UTC)Re: Daaaaamn
Date: 2011-12-17 02:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-16 09:44 pm (UTC)If you want to write more of this story I'm perfectly fine with that.
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Date: 2011-12-17 03:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-18 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-19 10:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-21 09:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-22 10:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-02 05:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-16 12:25 am (UTC)The most important message I learnt in class was: singing is a substitute for sex. Which is alarmingly applicable to Glee too ...