Chapter Text
Guess mine is not the first heart broken
My eyes are not the first to cry
I'm not the first to know
There's just no getting over you
It starts off small. Like it always does. I’m watching Blaine onstage at Callbacks where he’s belting out a note that sends a ripple of cheers across the audience. Performing constantly has been one of his favorite things to do since he started at NYADA. He’s always loved the stage, the spotlight, the attention. I can’t blame him. I feel similarly. And he does an absolutely breathtaking job every time. As soon as Blaine opens his mouth, a hush falls over the crowd and they hold still as they can, but you can sense everyone buzzing with anticipation. He turns every audience into a group of unfortunate sailors, caught in the thrall of his siren’s song, powerless to escape. It’s like magic. I used to love being among them, victim to a voice that can light your body on fire. But I knew the siren behind the voice loved me above the rest, used his song to touch me more than anyone else.
You know I'm just a fool who's willing
To sit around and wait for you
But baby, can't you see there's nothing else for me to do?
I'm hopelessly devoted to you
I still love it, in between these little moments when my mind starts to wander. I’ve begun breaking free from the trance of his song and started to think about things I don’t want to. It’s as if I’ve become desensitized to the power of his voice. I never imagined that happening before. As I watch him on that stage, shadowy tendrils of doubt creep into me. I can’t help but wonder if he loves the stage more than me. He basks in the glow of the lights, the applause of the crowd each night we come here. He begs to come even more often, like he can’t get enough of it on top of the performances he does for classes at NYADA and for the showcases June puts together for him. He can never be satisfied.
But now there's nowhere to hide
Since you pushed my love aside
I'm out of my head
Hopelessly devoted to you
Hopelessly devoted to you
Hopelessly devoted to you
I’m proud of him, I am. I’m happy for him. But more often lately, whenever he steps onto a stage, my body doesn’t relax like it used to. Instead, my muscles tense up, sweat collects in my armpits. Even when I’m not actively worrying about Blaine, my body is. I find my eyes breaking contact with his, flitting throughout the audience, searching for anyone else he might be gazing at with the same love that’s supposed to be reserved for me. I watch each of their expressions, gauging how charmed they are by his smile, how much they swoon. Everyone becomes the competition. Everyone is a threat.
I know how bad that sounds. I know this is a problem. I’ve had a few issues with jealousy and distrust before, but those were more than warranted after he cheated. Being reminded of that fact definitely doesn’t help.
He cheated, he cheated, he cheated.
The memory pops up in the most unassuming moments. As if I could ever forget. But that was ages ago, about a year and a half now (not that I’m keeping track or anything), and we’re stronger than ever. We talked through it, I processed the whole thing, I got over it. I accepted the fact that it happened on the basis that it would never happen again because he loves me and only me above everything and everyone else. He’s told me so countless times. He proposed, we’re fiancés, for goodness’ sake! We’re going to get married. I decided to love and trust him through everything. So, why does it feel like these days I’m regressing? He’s committed to me entirely. He hasn’t had so much as a flirtation with another person. He accepts compliments like a gentleman when we’re together, then immediately turns to shower praise on me. He talks eagerly about our wedding nonstop. He’s picture perfect. Why am I still doubting him?
My head is saying, "Fool, forget him"
My heart is saying, "Don't let go
Hold on 'til the end"
And that's what I intend to do
I'm hopelessly devoted to you
I shake my head a bit, try to snap out of it. I want to support him. I need to support him. And I’ve got to get out of this funk. Maybe it’s the fact that the wedding is getting closer. Do all people get this nervous before their wedding?
But now there's nowhere to hide
Since you pushed my love aside
I'm out of my head
Hopelessly devoted to you
Hopelessly devoted to you
Hopelessly devoted to you
Blaine holds the last note of the song with closed eyes. The drummer taps a final beat, and the song ends. Everyone starts clapping furiously. Most get to their feet. Another standing ovation. Good for him, my mind comments sarcastically. I immediately chastise myself for the resentment. No need to get mean. It really was a beautiful song. He would’ve made a great Danny in the school musical. I suddenly wonder why he was never cast in the role—Blaine was always the favorite for male romantic leads at McKinley, and everywhere else.
Someone elbows me since they’re standing so close, and suddenly I remember to get up and applaud him, too. Stupid. I rise to my feet and clap as hard as I can. Someone in the audience whoops. I’m seated so far back that I can barely see Blaine’s face through the heads of those in front of me. I catch a glimpse of his forehead, a flash of his red bowtie. My mind immediately begs the question: is he looking for me? Or is he looking at someone else? Who is he looking at? Is he making some kind of meet-cute-love-at-first-sight connection with a gorgeous golden-haired boy with even better fashion sense than me who defies stereotypes by not only working part-time at Vogue but also playing for a local basketball team (so he and Blaine can connect over sports, too) in the front row of the audience who comes to all of his performances and has secretly been pining for him in all their classes at NYADA, waiting for the right moment to confess his love, and now it’s finally here that Blaine’s noticed him in the crowd, and then they—
“Thank you so much! That song was dedicated to Kurt. Kurt, where are you?”
My imagination skids to a halt. The golden-haired rival I just concocted disappears as everyone in the crowd turns around to face me. Most of them are my NYADA classmates who know me, us, at this point. I nearly blush. He hasn’t dedicated a song to me for a minute. I think that’s been bothering me, too, lately. Maybe he doesn’t love me as much as he used to? No, no. I’ve got to stop thinking like that. Am I so insecure that I need a daily dose of love songs to feel like my fiancé loves me? That’s pathetic. And it asks way too much of Blaine, even if he does love to sing all the time.
Now that everyone’s heads are turned toward me, they’ve cleared a path Red Sea-style so I can see Blaine onstage, skin glistening under the stage lights, dark hair slicked against his head, smiling down at me. Oh, he really is the cutest. He gestures for me to join him up onstage. I told him I didn’t want to sing tonight because I need to save my energy for dance midterms tomorrow. Hopefully he doesn’t want me to sing anyway.
I make my way through the open pathway the crowd has formed for me. He reaches a hand out toward me and I take it, letting him pull me up onto the stage. His palms are slightly sweaty. He must’ve been gripping the microphone hard as he sang. I admire his passion. I have to remind myself that the passion is for me. Even after all this time together, it still feels surreal.
“Kurt, the first time I sang this song was in high school for a Grease audition.”
Of course. I’m sure he auditioned for Danny—but with a Sandy song, how risky of him. I wish I could’ve seen it. But how did he not get the role? He ended up as Teen Angel with only one song.
“And then, as now, it was dedicated to you. But I couldn’t play the lead in a romance then because we weren’t together. And I sang that song because all I could think about was how I couldn’t imagine my life without you.”
His olive gaze rests so intensely on my face that my cheeks instantly grow hot. I never fully thought through how hard the break-up must have hit him. I only really had the capacity to feel my own emotions then, which were a bundle of what felt like world-ending fury, confusion, grief, and betrayal. I knew how sorry he was from the slew of texts and calls, but I wasn’t there to see him in the wake of it. If something prevents Blaine from performing, you know it’s serious. It’s a once in a blue moon occasion, like pigs flying or Santana giving a genuine compliment. This realization sends a pleasant squeezing sensation to my chest. I’m so important to him that he couldn’t perform because he missed me.
“And now, here we are, over a year later, and this song is still dedicated to you. I can’t imagine, I never even want to try to imagine my life without you, Kurt. And now I don’t have to since you’re my fiancé.” He steps closer and rubs his thumb across the ring on my finger. Warmth blooms in the wake of his touch. Someone in the crowd whistles.
“Kurt, you are the Sandy to my Danny. I love you so much more than any song could convey, and I can’t wait to be your husband.” He turns to the crowd and adds, “T-minus three months until the wedding!”
An explosion of cheers. The sounds of excitement smack into my ears like a tidal wave. I’m instantly underwater. It’s oddly unsettling to know all these people are so happy for us. It feels like the proposal all over again—all these people watching, drinking up our love. But that time, at least, many of them were friends and family. Here, most of these people are still strangers to me, acquaintances from NYADA and nothing more. Their eager applause and vulture-like stares only crush me inwards. It’s claustrophobic. I almost feel like a monkey in a zoo—all I did was move a few steps across my enclosure and the humans behind the glass are applauding me like I just invented sliced bread.
Blaine doesn’t seem to notice. He’s feeding off the crowd’s energy, smiling big enough that his eyes disappear into little crescents so all I can see are the fans of his dark eyelashes. He reminds me of a cherub when he smiles like this. Precious. He pulls me into a hug. Despite my muscle’s previous tension, I will them to relax. It’s hard when it’s in front of all these leering people. My knees are too stiff, and they nearly buckle as Blaine presses against me. My arms remain awkwardly at my sides, locked into place inside his embrace. The heat of his body suffocates me.
I catch a whiff of that raspberry hair gel—comfortingly sweet—but then body odor wafts into my nostrils, souring all my air. I try not to flinch away. Since when does Blaine smell like a middle school boy’s locker room? Gross. Revulsion overwhelms my senses. I remind myself that this is just what people smell like when they’ve spent a lot of physical energy. I’m sure I smell like this after going to the gym all the time. Blaine’s never commented on my body odor when I get back home after exercising. He always kisses me without complaint, compliments how I take care of my body, usually takes the opportunity to say something sexy about my muscles. What’s wrong with me? Why am I only paying attention to all these little bad things that are out of his control?
Blaine must sense my discomfort. Probably because I’m like a statue in his arms. He pulls away.
“Are you okay?”
I’m being stupid, I’m being weird. My gut twists itself into a knot that I don’t know how to untangle. I can’t name whatever it is I’m feeling, besides bad. No need to worry him. It doesn’t matter.
So I say, “I think I’m just hungry. I haven’t eaten since lunch today.”
Blaine’s eyes widen immediately. “Oh my God, Kurt, that was like eight hours ago.”
He rests his hand on the small of my back and guides me gently to the edge of the stage, then out the door as he calls out goodbyes to a few of his friends. My nostrils suck in as much fresh air as they can get—well, as fresh as the air can be in New York City. The wind has the musty edge of piss, but it’s better than inside the club.
Once we’re outside, Blaine slips his hand into my own. His skin is still a little moist, but the cool night air makes it more tolerable. I squeeze it.
“Thanks.”
“You gotta take care of yourself, Kurt.” He frowns a little.
“I know. I’m sorry to rush you away from the adoring crowds.”
He softens into a smile, then squeezes back.
“You are the only adoring crowd I need. Now, let’s get you a chicken salad wrap, stat.”
“I think I’d scale Mount Everest in a pair of unsensible heels for a good chicken salad wrap,” I joke.
He chuckles, baring his teeth for all of New York to see.
“I know.”
He does pay attention to the things I like. He does love me more than anything else.
He loves me more than anything else.
I hate that I have to keep reminding myself of this, because isn’t that obvious already? Then why can’t I believe it?
Once we’re back home, I call dibs on the shower immediately. He doesn’t fight me on it, collapsing onto the couch for what is probably some much-needed rest.
The shower is one of my few safe spaces these days, one of the only places where I can be totally alone. Ever since Blaine moved in, every room in this apartment has belonged to both of us. Nothing is mine and mine alone anymore. Which is fine. Mostly. I wanted to share everything with him, as did he. We both agreed we’re going to make it work this time. We’ve been through the whole living-together-in-less-than-ideal-circumstances-until-we-resent-each-other thing after he first moved to New York, and we are not doing it again. We will not fail again. And without Rachel or Brody or Sam or Santana, we finally don’t have a constant revolving cast of roommates. It’s finally just me and Blaine. It’s what I’ve always wanted, or what I thought I always wanted. But sharing a space with him and him alone has posed some challenges I hadn’t foreseen.
A week in, I walked in after class to find a punching bag hanging from a wall in the corner of the room. I dropped all of my books and nearly screamed. Blaine ran into the room, asked what was wrong.
“Why is there a punching bag in the middle of the dining room?” I practically screeched, trying to maintain my calm.
He glanced over at it like it was a friend in the room he’d been talking to and forgot to introduce to me.
“Oh, yeah that’s for my boxing practice.” He said it so casually, like it was nothing. It was just like when we were living together the first time and he started pre-planning that ugly workspace, then brought in that bedbug-infested couch without asking me first.
I didn’t even know what to say in response.
“How… why… what is it doing there?”
“Well, I figured since you have all the space in the walk-in closet for your clothes and your studio for your sewing mannequin and clothing design, I figured I needed a space for my own hobby, too.”
“And your hobby is… boxing?”
“Yeah!”
“Since when?”
“Since forever. Didn’t I tell you before? I took it up after I left my first high school when those bullies chased me out. I decided I was never going to be that powerless ever again.”
He must have told me this at some point. It was something too important not to have shared with me. But I have no memory of it. Did I forget? How could I forget something so big? Or maybe he never told me he boxed. And if he’d never told me, that meant he was hiding it from me. A secret. Why? I fought my doubts to pay attention to him as he continued.
“And I kept at it during my free time in Dalton, where I started the Fight Club—which I obviously can’t talk about—and I stayed with it during McKinley, too. I haven’t had the chance to practice since I moved to New York, though, and I started to miss it. It’s a great way to get your extra energy out or any pent-up aggression or rage.”
Something tightened in me then.
“And you have pent-up aggression and rage?”
He walked over to the punching bag and flicked it with his finger. It didn’t budge.
“No, not really. Not anymore. But it’s nice to have something to, like, hit when you get upset, you know? It’s a good outlet.”
Fear burbled in my stomach.
“You-you hit things when you’re upset?”
Blaine looked over at me then, an urgent worry in his face. I didn’t realize my voice had risen by nearly an octave. My brain suddenly started imagining things I didn’t want to, had never thought of before—Blaine hitting the punching bag, hitting the table, hitting me. SMACK! I could feel the imagined impact against my skin, so sudden and breathtaking that I actually flinched.
He crossed the room in a split second and put his hands on my arms gently. Always so gentle. Somehow he knew exactly what I was thinking—we’re telepathic like that sometimes. He lowered his voice to a near whisper in that way he does when things are serious, when he’s saying something meaningful.
“No, Kurt, I don’t hit things. I didn’t mean it like that—I worded that poorly. And I would never, ever hit you. You know that, right?”
He stared at me with those big puppy-dog eyes that could probably melt the ice caps faster than global warming. I tried not to tremble in his arms. My brain kept on telling me that he might do it anyway. It could happen. Even though Blaine never so much as raises his voice at me, my mind started crafting a scenario where I came home to find that he hadn’t done the dishes again, a regular occurrence at this point, and I scolded him. Then Blaine, so tired of my chastising and exhausted from sharing a space with me, started taking the ceramic plates and glasses and smashing them against the floor. One after another. They shattered. The sounds rang in my ears, sharp and violent.
“Kurt.”
I came out of my own head.
“I would never, never, ever do anything to hurt you. You’re the person I love most in the whole world. I’m always going to do my best to make you feel safe, okay?”
I met his eyes again. I was surprised to find so much of my own fear reflected in them. The sight of his tightly drawn eyebrows, the wilting of his lips, brought me back to what was real. I knew he would never hurt me. What I had just seen was little more than a nightmare—er, daymare—concocted by a moment of fear. A very graphic daymare, but a far-off fiction nonetheless. That could never happen—Blaine wouldn’t let it. I sensed his hands on my arms still, gripping me with the barest hint of desperation. He was holding back. He was restraining himself from holding me tighter even though he was concerned about me because he wanted to make me feel safe. Blaine’s touch is always soft when it needs to be. I love that.
I finally leaned into him, pressing the side of my head to his. He sighed with relief in response, wrapping his arms around me and resting his face on my shoulder. We stood there for a moment, leaning into one another. I put my arms around him.
“Sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I-I think I just got scared for a second. I know you’d never… I don’t know. That was weird. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize for anything, you know.”
I took in a big whiff of hair gel. Sweet.
“I love you,” I said.
I could hear and feel his pleased little “hmm” against my chest.
“I love you, too.”
We broke apart and he glanced past me, furrowing his brow in distaste.
“Now that I’m looking at it, the bag does look kind of weird right there.”
I glanced back over at it. It stuck out like a red welt in the middle of the tastefully decorated dining room.
“Yeah. Why did you put it there?”
“I honestly didn’t know where else to put it since we got rid of the curtains that gave the illusion of separate rooms. I guess I should’ve thought that through a little more.”
“Probably.” I was doing my best not to say I told you so.
“I wish you’d told me you wanted to practice boxing. You didn’t need to put a bag right in here. There are some places in the city where you could do that. You could get a membership and everything. There are gyms dedicated to it.”
He frowned a little bit.
“I guess I just got so excited to finally have my own space. And I saw all the things you have here, and I wanted something of my own. This is my home, too.”
“Of course it is,” I responded. But I still didn’t want him punching a punching bag in here. It’d be horribly distracting for me if I was trying to get homework done, watch TV, cook, practice performing, or sleep. I’d hate to hear it during anything. I would much rather hear Blaine practicing piano instead. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to see Blaine in whatever state of mind motivated him to punch a bag.
“I’m just not sure if the loft is the best place to do that. It would definitely be distracting for me.”
“I would only practice when you’re not around,” he returned.
Maybe while I was working at the Spotlight Diner or when I was at NYADA it would be fine. Still, I hated the idea. The concept of Blaine being physically violent in the loft, even with me not there, made me think the entire space would be poisoned by it somehow. What if I came back at the wrong time while he was still punching the bag and he didn’t expel all his “pent-up aggression or rage”? What if he got mad at me for interrupting? What if he hit me instead of the bag?
“But think of the neighbors—they might make a fuss,” I added.
Blaine’s frown deepened. I didn’t want this to turn into a big argument like it did when he tried planning that workspace the first time around. And I definitely didn’t want an argument to turn into a fight to turn into him actually hurting me.
“I guess you’re right,” he conceded.
My body untensed, which I hadn’t realized it had been doing until my shoulders sunk. Good, he wasn’t going to fight me on it.
“We can take it down and find you one of those boxing gyms, alright?” I suggested.
He still seemed a little disappointed, but he relented with a nod. Afterward, we got him a membership for one of those gyms, and he started going once a week. The issue was dropped after that. He was happy, I was happy.
And yet, sometimes when he lets me know he’s going there, my brain replays that scenario again. The shouting, the smashing, the impact. Sometimes it’s the dishes, sometimes it’s my face. Always, the image hits in a sudden flash and leaves me winded like I’ve actually been hit. I try to comfort myself. I remind myself of reality:
He’d never hurt me, he’d never hurt me, he’d never hurt me.
Then I’ll text him, “I love you” to seal the deal. He always responds “I love you, too” within seconds—he’s always been a great texter.
I decide to add an extra little treat to dinner once he comes back from boxing just to make him feel more loved. Usually something with chocolate, his favorite. I’ll bake double chocolate brownies or homemade chocolate chip cookies or make hot chocolate or even a chocolate soufflé when I have the time. He asks if he’s forgotten a milestone, or if he’s done something special to deserve this. I tell him, “I just felt like something sweet tonight.” His own sweet tooth doesn’t make him question me. If he had ever pressed any more to know why, I don’t know what I would have told him. Probably that I love him. It’s the truth. At least, part of it.
Those are the types of things that have been happening ever since we moved in again in the beginning of February. First, we were in the honeymoon stage—we spent the first day in the loft picking a wedding date in May. I made him promise not to serve me breakfast in bed for more than a week. We had sex in every single room as loudly as we wanted because we finally didn’t have to worry about roommates.
But then things started getting real quickly. By that, I mean he started doing impulsive things like installing a punching bag without asking me. And I learned new things I either didn’t notice or ignored the first time we lived together: Blaine is horrible at remembering to do the dishes or recalling where he left his keys. He doesn’t seem to realize that our space needs to be cleaned, which is weird since his bedroom in Lima used to be so tidy. He also somehow unlearned how to cook. Sometimes I think he barely knows how to be independent. Are we backsliding? It feels like we’re trapped in this cycle—we move in together, we start off great, but then things start to head downhill, possibly for disaster. Maybe he should move out again? No. That’s a mean thought. Why am I being so mean? I’m a terrible partner—eager to kick him out a moment’s notice. What’s up with me?
The shower typically forces me to reflect on stuff like this. That’s likely why my showers have been getting longer and longer. There’s an itch in my brain I spend every day trying not to scratch, but as soon as I’m alone, the urge becomes unbearable—I have to scratch it, point out every possibility, every flaw in me, in him, in our relationship. Travel each unbeaten path. Over and over and over.
I love Blaine, I really do. I mean, we’re getting married—obviously, I love him. But do I love him enough? And does he love me enough? How do I gauge how much we love each other? How do I measure if our love can withstand anything? These are the questions I try to answer in the shower. And increasingly in spare moments throughout the day.
This is normal, right?
“Hey.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at Blaine’s voice. The shower curtain pulls away, exposing me and revealing him. I almost yelp at the surprise intrusion. But then the cry cuts off in my throat as I suck in a breath at the sight of him, completely naked and smiling all doe-eyed at me. His skin practically glows golden, as if he were made of sunlight.
“Blaine.”
“Hi,” he smirks with feigned innocence.
“What are you doing?”
He steps into the shower with me, and my eyes eagerly drove over his form: his smooth, hairless pecs; the lean muscle of his arms and legs; the small, round swell of his belly; the bulge of his cock. I can feel my cheeks heating up, even against the pelting hot water of the shower. Funny how you can live with a person, sleep in the same bed as them, have sex with them even, and still get excited to see them without any clothes on. Will it always be like this? What if it’s not one day? How soon will that be?
“You were kind of taking a while, and I couldn’t wait any longer.”
Is this a complaint? Is he upset with me? I was wondering when or if he would comment on my long showers. I hope this doesn’t turn into another argument.
“Oh?” is all I say. Stupid.
“Plus, I wanted to do this.”
He leans forward and presses his lips to my lower neck—my sweet spot. He doesn’t even give me a moment to prepare. So impatient. His tongue is already exploring my neck. So greedy. Thoughts leave my head. I lean back against the tile wall, trying to remember what the hell I was thinking about before he came in here. The heat of the water surrounds us in a thick veil of humidity. All I can sense are the warmth of everything around me and his tongue working on my skin. I’m getting hard already. It’s so hot and wet in here. Blaine sucks on my neck, running his hands down the sides of my waist to rest on my hips. He begins massaging my ass. A little thrill of pleasure races down my spine.
He starts kissing down the length of my neck, sinking his tongue into my jugular notch. I close my eyes as he laps at the base of my throat. He drags his tongue slowly across my skin, like he’s enjoying the taste. And then he’s trailing kisses down my chest, my abs, my hips. His lips are light like a feather’s caress over my skin. The brief, repetitive touch becomes more and more teasing as I grow more rigid. He moves down to my groin, mouth growing hungrier, his kisses growing longer as he increases the contact between his satin-soft lips and the hardness of my lower stomach. His hands move toward the base of my cock. The cogs in my brain start to turn.
Wait. Something wants me to stop. I can feel the hardness dissipating, the heat in my groin cooling down. Wait, come back. I desperately try to hold onto it, wrestling with whatever part of me is already putting out the fire inside. Part of me wants to keep going, but part of me wants to stop. I step away from him for a second, pushing him off. I need to recall what I was thinking about before he came in here. My brain short-circuited at the sight of him, but what was it… Oh! I was trying to gauge how much we love each other. I guess sex would be a good measure of that? Well, he’s trying to have sex with me right now. That proves how much he loves me, how much he wants me. Good.
He loves me more than anything else.
But here I am, instead of being in the moment with him, trying to measure our love through sex. Our relationship has never been based solely on sex, anyway. Sure, we do it often and it’s great, but that’s not a good measure of the entirety of our love.
What am I thinking? My skin burns from the hot water. I can feel Blaine’s gaze on me. Automatically, I shake my head as if I can physically shake the thoughts out.
“Uh, Kurt, what’s going on?” Blaine asks.
I realize I must look absolutely insane, shoving my fiancé off me in the shower as he’s about to suck me off, then shaking my head like a dog with fleas.
“Nothing,” I respond.
Then, to stop him from asking any more questions and to prove that I can in fact live in the moment, I press my mouth onto his. He makes a little surprised noise that deepens into a satisfied murmur. His body against mine is sleek and wet, with water or sweat, I can’t tell. It doesn’t matter now that we’re in the shower—the steady slap of the water hitting the floor, the rising heat, and the humidity enveloping us help distract me from thinking of anything else.
Instead, I pay attention to Blaine’s body against my own. The smoothness of his chest; the pointed edges of his collarbone that remind me of a bird; his muscled legs covered in a fine layer of hair; his cock pushed against my hips. I can feel him getting harder, growing desperate. He starts to grind against me, asking for more. I run my hands down his sides like he did mine, sink my fingers into his wonderfully thick ass, and slide my tongue into his mouth. He cups my face, runs his hands through my hair. The sensation simultaneously soothes and arouses. We devour each other for a few moments, and God, it feels good. He’s soft and warm and wet in all the right places. I wish I could always feel like this. Waves of sickly sweet warmth course through my veins, down, down, down, until I feel myself getting hard again. Blaine’s hands are following it down. He wraps his palm around my cock.
For some reason, this stops me again. He’s always giving me pleasure, prioritizing my needs. What if I haven’t been prioritizing his enough? He always gives, barely receives. He says he’s fine with that, but how can I know for sure? I’m not inside his head. He might be hiding his true desires from me just to make me feel better. I can’t have that. I don’t want his needs to go on unfulfilled, leading to him suffering in silence, leading to him not communicating with me, leading to us drifting apart, leading to him seeking pleasure elsewhere, leading to him getting his needs fulfilled by someone else, leading to our relationship ending. That can’t happen. I need to hold onto him. I need to prove I’m a good fiancé. I need to prove that I’m the only one who can give him what he wants.
I take his cock in my hand and start to coax him with massaging fingers. I break our kiss and trail my tongue down his neck, his chest, his stomach. I slow down when I reach his hips, but it’s too late. I can’t stop now.
“Kurt?” Blaine asks, a little confused, so in tune with everything I’m doing.
“I’ve got it,” I assure him.
“Hold on. I thought you didn’t like giving blowjobs. Remember last time?”
Of course I remember last time. It’s the only other time I did it: his birthday the summer before I left for New York. I figured out then that I don’t really like sucking dick all that much. Being on my knees sucked, having a penis in my mouth felt weirdly gross even if it was Blaine’s, I wasn’t sure what to do with my tongue even after I’d studied up on what to do, but the worst part was that cum tasted like sewage water.
I hadn’t expected any of that. I’d been working up the courage and building anticipation in my head for months beforehand like it would be the best birthday gift I could ever bestow on him. I’d been too squeamish to do it the first time he suggested it, so we decided not to until I was ready. But then Blaine never asked me again after that, and I never brought it up either, so we just never got around to it. I still didn’t feel quite ready that day, but I felt guilty for not even trying after so long. It felt like something I was supposed to do, should have already mastered. Isn’t that the most basic thing you’re supposed to know? If Blaine could do it, why couldn’t I? Based on his reactions when he did it for me, I thought it’d be mind-blowingly good for the both of us.
Overall, the experience was a sensory nightmare. Maybe if he’d worn a condom it would’ve solved some of my problems, but I’ve never worn one when he blows me, and he’s never asked me to, so I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Even though he came and told me I was amazing, I only felt disgusted and awful about myself. Strangely… violated, even though I was the one who asked to do it. I’d never felt that way with Blaine before, which only sent me into a panic over what was wrong with me. I couldn’t exactly convey to him the extent of those emotions at the time. I felt I was letting him down or betraying him somehow. It was his birthday, after all. I only wanted to make him feel special, loved.
But then he kept asking me how I felt, if I was okay, those hazel eyes searching because he always knows when something’s wrong, and I just burst into tears. Instantly, he held me and apologized profusely and promised me we never had to do it again. It took him a week to forgive himself, even though I told him it wasn’t his fault. And it took me even longer to forgive myself for ruining his birthday, though he assured me I didn’t. We haven’t tried it again since.
But maybe it will be different now. I want to make him happy. I need to make him happy.
“I remember last time. But this is a new time.”
I don’t give him a moment to doubt me before taking him inside my mouth. He sucks in a breath, looking up at the ceiling.
“Fuck, Kurt,” he mumbles in that whispering voice that usually gives me goosebumps.
I wish I had goosebumps now. I try not to concentrate on the sensations of his cock in my mouth, instead focusing on the hellfire shower water pelting against my skin. I try to disappear into the sounds of the droplets smacking against the tile floor even as I press and drag my tongue against him. From the base to tip, I maintain a rhythm that’s steady. He groans, and that makes me feel a bit more relieved that I might be doing a decent job. But I don’t want to do decent. I want to do exceptional. I can’t have him feeling like his needs aren’t met and then running off to screw someone else like he did before. So, I try to do what he always does for me and swallow him down.
I feel him reach the back of my throat. He releases a surprised moan, loud and high-pitched for him. My gag reflex kicks in like a suppressed cough in the back of my throat. Too much. This is too much. Tears race to my eyes, blurring the edges of my vision. I think I might choke. I bob my head and start to suck. Faster, harder. I’m in a rush to see him satisfied, to know I can satisfy him. To get this over with.
Where is the air? I need air!
He reaches his hand down and runs it through my hair again but never pulls, just how he knows I like it. I try to enjoy the feeling of his fingers on my scalp, but there’s too much going on. How does he manage to do this without complaint? Does he hate doing this as much as I do right now and he’s just never told me? I hope not. Otherwise our relationship is in far worse a state than I thought. Could he keep something like that from me?
The urge to choke overwhelms my body, making me wobble on my my knees. My chest squeezes. I can’t breathe! Keep it together, Kurt. He can’t know how much I’m struggling to do this. I check to see if he’s watching, but his eyelids have dropped too far down for him to notice. I see his other hand gripping the shower cady, white-knuckled. At least he seems to be enjoying this. Or is he really? My mind insists he could be faking it for me.
“Kurt, you feel so good,” he cries, delirium in the edge of his voice.
He could be lying to me about that, too. What if he’s just putting on a performance to make me feel more confident in my ability to please him sexually? If anyone could pull off such an acting feat, it would be Blaine. Nausea swirls in my stomach.
My gag reflex suddenly overpowers me, and I have to pull back.
“Kurt, I’m gonna—”
But then he’s barreling into his climax, spilling entirely into my mouth. He moans loudly. His voice breaks into a crackling noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry, then rests into a little hum deep in his throat. It’s one of the most unique sounds I’ve ever heard, and I love to hear him make it. I love to make him make it.
However, I am completely unprepared for everything that seeps out of him, and I nearly choke on his cum as I pull off him. I remember how badly it tasted the first time and avoid breathing from my nose. I really do not want to swallow, but it would look terrible for me to just spit it all out in front of him, wouldn’t it? That would be rude. I can’t offend him. I just did this to prove how good of a partner I am. So I swallow once. Then again. I wait a moment after to take in air again. But as soon as I breathe through my nose, the acrid taste stays clogged behind my tongue. I nearly gag. How the hell does he do this with such enthusiasm? Is there something wrong with me?
Blaine sighs above me, breathing hard. I try to hide how disgusted I am by staring down at the drain as I wipe my mouth. Water circles around the dark hole in a mini whirlpool. I imagine disappearing inside it. Does this mean I don’t love Blaine as much as I should? I just sucked him off to prove my love, but I feel worse than ever.
His hand cups the side of my face, and he leans down to kiss me. All I want to do is gargle a bucketful of mouthwash. As soon as he pulls back, a little crinkle forms between his brows.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Yeah."
“I’m sorry, I should’ve asked how you were doing. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sorry I didn’t give you much warning when I came. It just kind of… happened fast.” He wrinkles his nose bashfully.
“It’s really fine.”
Blaine scrutinizes me for another moment, eyes soft and searching.
“Kurt?” he asks simply.
Can he see right through me? Does he know what I’m thinking? If he keeps looking at me with such direct tenderness I worry I’ll burst into tears again.
“I’m okay,” I state firmly.
He watches me for too long. I have to look away.
“Okay,” he says so quietly I can barely hear it over the water beating against the tile.
I smile, hopefully convincingly.
“Your turn?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. His hair has finally succumbed to the water and begun to spring back into dark ringlets. I want to reach up and take one between my fingers.
I’m tempted to say yes to his offer. But I desperately need to get this taste out of my mouth. And now all I can think about is if I’ll even be able to enjoy it given all the doubts that keep flying through my head whenever we get intimate. He may be offering to suck me off, but he might not enjoy doing it. In the span of this singular shower, it feels as though I’ve hurtled through the entirety of my emotional spectrum. I’m drained. I don’t think I even have the energy to perform pleasure for him.
“No, that was enough for me. I’m happy to see you happy.”
A question flashes across his face, but he doesn’t push me on it. I give him the best reassuring smile I can muster before stepping out of the shower and into the cold bathroom air.