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You Dance, I'll Hold Your Stuff.

You Dance, I'll Hold Your Stuff I'm Sam. I'm probably way older than you are. If the idea of someone over 35 being on Tumblr gives you the heebie-jeebies, don't follow me, m'kay? I'm a gay ftm guy who is composed entirely of rainbows, glitter, and optimistic cynicism. I like porn. I reblog eet on occasion. Glee owns my heart, as do Klaine, Chris Colfer, and Darren Criss. I'm a firm believer in "ship and let ship", so there will be no "my ____ is better than your ____" here. I write stuff. (Got a page with links and everything!). Not a spoiler-free blog, but I will tag spoilers appropriately. Also, NSFW stuff will appear. (I also say "fuck" a lot.) Old URL's include: Coffeeismyhigherpower and Christophercolferismyhigherpower. Currently, I'm riding high on Glasses!Chris--hence bespectacledcolfer.
Jun 24 '12

30-Day Writing Challenge: Prompt-Haze

Characters: ftm!Kurt Hummel, Blaine Anderson.

Rating:NC-17

Summary: Kurt is done. He’s tired of never being good enough.

Trigger Warnings: Rough sexual activity (consensual), flashbacks of name-calling and taunting, transphobia, homophobia.

A/N: Kurt uses words to describe his genitalia I think he’d be comfortable with. Your milage may vary.

He absolutely won’t cry. He won’t. Why this particular locker smash hurts any more than the hundreds he’s endured before—Kurt has no idea, but it does. Rubbing at his shoulder where he knows an angry, purple, bruise is forming under the well-pressed cotton of his dress shirt, Kurt suddenly understands.

It’s not the physical pain that smarts so much—it’s the mental. 

"Faggot"

Slam.

"Ladyboy".

Slam.

"Homo".

Slam.

"Freak".

Slam.

The epithets aren’t the worst part, Kurt can tune them out-most of the time. 

Small-minded, neanderthals—I’m better than you. Stronger than you. I’m getting out. You’ll be here forever, thoughts he’s had over and over. 

After years of sneered abuse, it’s become a sort of buzzing, irritating, soundtrack playing in the back of his mind. The words sound loudest in the middle of the night, when Kurt’s lying open-eyed, staring at the ceiling.

Kurt doesn’t believe the words have any truth to them. Except, when he does. 

Leaning against a cool, smooth, wall in McKinley’s halls-Kurt turns his head to place a cheek against it. Closing his eyes, his racing heartbeat slows momentarily as he lets the concrete surface support him. 

He has a hard time not believing the taunts today.

His hands shake, fingers tingle. The sound of an envelope ripped open resounds in his ears. It was his shot, his victory—his out.

Dear Mr. Hummel,

The New York Academy Of The Dramatic Arts receives hundreds of applications from talented individuals such as yourself each year, and we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you a slot in our program at this time…


Crisp words, printed on fancy card stock flash behind his eyes. There had been more written, but Kurt had taken in the most important piece of information the letter had held.

…we regret to inform you….unable to offer you a slot…


He hadn’t been good enough. Again. Each rejection in the past had stung, made Kurt doubt his abilities—but he’d pushed through. Continued to believe that he would, one day—a day when it counted, shine more brightly than the rest.

Dragging his eyes open again, slowly—Kurt feels numb. Students rush by, the end of the school year making them giddy with excitement. He’s pretty sure he’s never felt so adrift. Even when his Dad had been lying motionless in a grey hospital room, at least he felt vividly. Every thought, each breath, had been, “Please. Please. Please. Please. Don’t leave me. Please.”

His limbs feel too heavy, his hearing muted. Kurt’s stomach roils and gurgles and yells at-him shattering the quiet in his head. There is only one thought quietly playing like a mantra in there right now: Why not me?

Eventually, he pulls himself away from the wall, and begins his journey home. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone—doesn’t want to speak of his failure aloud. Not yet. It’s too big. Driving towards his house on auto-pilot, Kurt doesn’t feel real. It’s like he’s floating in a dream state—stuck between awful awareness and blissful ignorance.

He turns his cell phone off completely. It had vibrated enough times to let him know he was been sought after. Finn. Rachel. His Dad. 

Blaine.

Blaine doesn’t know. Unless Finn and Rachel have gotten news to him—he’s probably nervously waiting for news while stuck in some class or other.

It’s too big. Why not me? Why not me? Why not me?

Kurt enters the house mutely. Doesn’t call out to see if anyone else is about. He can’t make his mouth work. Dropping his messenger bag on the kitchen floor—he plods slowly up the wooden stairs, and into his room.

Why not me? Why not me?

He stands in front of the mirror on his dresser—quietly staring at his reflection. Some small part of him wishes the vision in front of him were ghastly, ugly, pieces of a jumbled man-woman. 

He sees what he always does instead. Hair, coiffed perfectly, clothing tailored and crisp—his shell.

Something cracks and breaks in his chest. Numb and heavy replaced by white-hot licks of fury and anger.

Why the fuck not me? 

Kurt sees colour—only colour. Reds and whites and screaming blacks. He rips at his shirt, pulling the buttons roughly. One or two ping off—clattering on the wooden surface of the dresser as they fall.

Shirt gone, his binder appears. He claws at it—desperately wanting it off. He can’t breathe he can’t…

Why the fuck not me?

His nails dig into his chest, the sensation welcomed. It hurts Oh, god, it hurts. He wants it to. He wants the pain to help him get an answer.

Why?

Kurt’s flings his trousers at the wall, knocking photos askew. He wishes the glass frames had shattered.

His cock stirs in his underwear—giving him a momentary pause. He wrenches the cotton briefs down and off, kicking them away viciously.

Why?

Fully naked, Kurt looks into the mirror again. He’s flushed and panting and wrecked. Something compels him to slide over to his bedroom door, and slide the lock into place.

Anguish swirls around in his gut—in his blood. He wants to slough away all of his skin—tear it away to make it stop. Kurt pinches a nipple—flaccid and unprepared for the contact.

He gasps. This pain feels different. He strides back to his spot in front of the mirror. His chest is blotched with pink, his pinched nipple erect and straining.

The world becomes hazy around him—violent reds replaced by softer blues and smoky grays.

Defiantly, Kurt raises his head—and glares at his reflection. I am good enough. I am.

Plunging a sweaty hand down to his crotch, he pinches at his cock. It grows in his palm. He feels moisturel beginning to gather near his opening—slick wetness whispering of desire, desire for…what?

Kurt drags his nails over his thighs, leaving red welts there. He slaps at one mark, then another—hissing at the stinging heat. I’m good.

I’m good, sings the voice in his head. I’m good.

His heartbeat quickens, a steady “whooosh-thrum” echoing in his ear. Feeling pokes slowly into his fingertips. Kurt turns his back to his reflection, and considers himself with his head craned around to see.

His fingers clench and unclench at his side—Kurt wants more. 

More.

He wants to be back in himself, back to the searing reality of his quashed hopes. With a vise-tight grip, Kurt grabs his ass—pushing his neatly manicure nails into his skin as hard as he can. Blue-purple marks raise almost immediately. The surface is not broken, half-moons of crimson taunt.

So close. So close, he thinks.


Once again, Kurt turns and faces his reflected image in the mirror. Raising an arm, he grabs the forelock of his hair and pulls at at fiercely. It burns-his scalp tingling and throbbing in hot protest.

The pulsing burn races to his cock. Keeping one hand tight around the bunch of sweat-soaked brown strands, Kurt takes his other hand and takes a deep breath. On the exhale, he plunges two fingers into his pussy. The sudden movement makes him shudder and gasp.

As his hips thrust into his hand, his thoughts change. 

I can. I can. I can. 

A quiet knock at his door causes him to still immediately.

"Kurt? Hey…I saw your stuff downstairs…" calls a soft voice from in the hall.

Blaine.

The doorknob rattles slightly, the sound boring into Kurt’s ears.

"Kurt? Why is the door locked? Are you okay? Rachel texted me…" Blaine says to the closed door.

Kurt imagines Blaine’s hand pressed into the hard wood, reaching out to touch him in the only way he can.

His lips won’t work. He can’t respond aloud. Kurt walks over to the locked door, slides the latch, and cracks it open a tiny bit. It’s just enough to allow him to see a concerned hazel eye—a furrowed brow.

Kurt reaches a quivering hand through the small gap, and tugs Blaine inside. He closes the door firmly, and locks it again.

Blaine stands in the middle of the room—his eyes widening as he takes in Kurt’s naked form, the red marks peppering Kurt’s body. It’s then Kurt feels his chest heave and bright, molten, tears form in his eyes.

They don’t spill. Not yet.

Blaine rushes toward him, hands flailing, as if he doesn’t know where his touch might be welcomed first.

"Kurt? Honey…what?" Blaine mumbles.

Kurt holds up his hands, Blaine’s embrace just out of reach.

"Be with me." he croaks.

Blaine blinks, confounded. 

"Be with me. Touch me…touch me hard, please?” Kurt rasps.

"Kurt, I…you’re not okay. You’re…I’m here, talk to me?" Blaine pleads.

Kurt shakes his head vehemently, his hair flapping wildly. “No. I. Don’t have words.” he says.

Need. Need. Please? Need. croons the voice in his head.

Blaine softly places a palm on Kurt’s chest. “Kurt…I’m not sure that sex is a safe, good, idea right now.”

Kurt can’t. He cannot voice his need. 

"Do you love me?" he whispers.

Blaine keeps one hand on Kurt’s chest—and places the other on Kurt’s face.

"Always", he responds softly.

"Do you want me?" Kurt asks.

"Always." Blaine replies again.

Kurt closes his eyes, and leans into the soft touch on his face.

"Please. Be with me. Now." 

His request, barely audible, makes Blaine’s breath catch in his throat. Blaine guides Kurt to the yielding, welcoming surface of the bed, and gently pushes Kurt down.

With Kurt reclined in front of him, Blaine fumbles with his tie, with his too-many-layers. His cock pulses in his jeans, and his heart hammers a mad beat in his chest. When his clothing lies in a limp puddle at his feet, Blaine climbs onto the bed.

"Kurt? I….." he tries. "Are you sure you want this? I don’t want to take advanta…"

Kurt sits up suddenly, and captures Blaine’s mouth with his own. Biting down on Blaine’s bottom lip with a surprising sharpness, he replies, “Please. Please. I want, Blaine.”

Blaine slides up Kurt’s torso, pressing their naked skin together. He gasps as his cock brushes against Kurt’s opening—amazed by the delicious sensation of slippery want already present.

Kurt moans. “Blaine.”

Fuck me. Fuck me. Hot. Need. You. I’m good. 

Blaine echoes Kurt’s sounds, breathing heavily.

"Blaine. In me. Get in me." Kurt begs.

Blaine pauses-confused, worried, consumed with so much desire to to the right thing. 

"Do we need a condom, Kurt?" Blaine pants.

Kurt’s mind clears. His brain springs to life. He knows what he wants.

"In my ass, Blaine. So, no. Just…now. Love, now."

Blaine reaches into Kurt’s bedside table drawer—fingers scrabbling for lube. Pushing aside reading glasses, and Kleenex packets—he withdraws his hand, victorious.

He starts to move slowly, coating his fingers carefully, but Kurt doesn’t want slow and careful.

Kurt tears the blue bottle from his grasp, and squirts a huge dollop into the crack of his ass. “Do it.” he commands.

Blaine complies. He grabs his straining cock in his hand and rubs the tip against Kurt’s asshole, gently sliding it up and down near the hot opening. Crinkled hair rasps against his sensitive dick flesh, and he barely has time to register the sensation before Kurt breaks in,

"Push deep. Now. Push hard." he orders.

"I…I don’t want to hurt you, baby…" Blaine mutters, "Give me a minute to warm you…"

Kurt takes matters into his own hands. Reaching for Blaine’s arms, he clasps Blaine’s biceps tightly, and flips him onto his back. Blaine stares, stunned as he takes in the sight of his wild-eyed boyfriend moving to straddle him.

"I don’t need warming…I just need…" Kurt sinks down onto Blaine’s length as he speaks, trailing off as the full, heady, heat of Blaine’s cock penetrates his ass.

Blaine can only groan and spasm as Kurt begins to slide up and down on his dick. God, it’s furnace hot—Kurt’s clenching hole. Kurt writhes unabashedly—his back arched, sweat flying from his brow.

It’s good. I’m good. I can be good. I’ll be better. He’ll help me. Love. Better.

Blaine grabs at Kurt’s hands, placing them on his heaving chest. “Kurt….I…oh my god…”

"I feel your heartbeat Blaine. I feel you. Oh, I feel you…." Kurt chants.

Kurt feels full. He feels alive. He fucking feels again. He roughly jabs two fingers into his mouth, wetting them messily, then plunges them deep inside himself. The combination of fullness and heat in his ass, and the stuttering catch of fingers in his pussy render him unable to think.

I don’t need to think. No thinking. Feeling. Feeling, his mind shouts.

Blaine’s gasps get louder and louder, his eyes widening with every shake and thrust. Kurt feels a buzzing rise though his gut—thrumming in his toes, in his heart, in his cock. His release is so close. So close.

Clenching as tightly as he can around Blaine’s cock, Kurt holds his breath, and waits for the crash of orgasm to wash over him. 

Blaine’s babbling nonsensically—garbled consonants and barely formed “I love you’s” issuing from his mouth. As their eyes lock on on another, they both come. They both shout. And quake. And bask in wide-eyed wonder at the sight of themselves.

Moments pass. Birds tweet outside Kurt’s bedroom window—the open curtains flutter in a soft early summer breeze.

Kurt breathes. His mind is blessedly silent. All he hears is sheets stirring, and the soft inhales and exhales of the boy beside him.

Blaine reaches for him first. He gathers Kurt into his arms, and places his head atop Kurt’s. 

Blaine gently kisses the top of Kurt’s head, and waits.

Kurt sighs. “I didn’t get in.” 

Kurt feels Blaine’s chest sink as he speaks.

"I know, love." Blaine says.

Hot droplets land on Blaine’s torso. They sting and itch as they move in small rivulets down his sides.

"I wasn’t good enough." Kurt whispers.

Blaine tightens his grip around the man he loves so impossibly much.

"You always good enough." he responds.

Kurt closes his eyes. I’m good. he thinks. This is good.

What am I going to do now?” Kurt murmurs—his eyes still closed.

Blaine cups the nape of Kurt’s neck with a steady, warm, hand.

"We’ll figure it out. Together. We’ll do it. We will." he says quietly, with conviction and strength.

As both boys let sleep drag them into oblivion, Kurt’s mind resonates with one final thought.

Together. We’ll do it. We will. This is good.






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