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26, Melbourne, Gleek, Klainer, Fic-writer...okay, Smut-writer. Scientist. Nerd. Lover. Fighter. Starkid. Whovian.

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Fic: Platonic (Chapter 5)

Fic: Platonic (Chapter 5/14+Epilogue)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: To be lost in amazement at the love and friendship and intimacy, unable to leave each other’s sight, is to be soul mates. These are people who pass their whole lives together. Except for Kurt and Blaine, they missed their first chance and by the time they get their second, perhaps it is simply meant to be…platonic.
Words: 10824/39432
A/N: For a full list of all the awesome people who helped out on this see Chapter One. 
I continue to be so pleased with the response to this, I really am a little overwhelmed by it! And now we begin to get into the good stuff and I would honestly advise anyone who has been waiting for this fic to get going, that you jump in now!!   

You can also read this on FF.net and my livejournal

Chapter One 
Chapter Two 
Chapter Three 
Chapter Four 

 Chapter Five

It is a last minute trip, truly last minute, and it comes up only because there’s a shop off Oxford Street that is suddenly available. Kurt has been wanting it forever, and he has to move fast. It’s only a month, but when he returns to New York, he has a third shop in the works and he is excitable and busier than ever.

For the month he is overseas though, every morning, Blaine wakes up to an email from Kurt, and every evening, Kurt sits down with a coffee, or a glass of wine, to an email from Blaine.

When Kurt gets back the emailing doesn’t stop and the texting starts to happen more and neither one of them makes any conscious effort to examine why or stop. It feels too easy, too nice, too much like something that was missing for so long but wasn’t really noticed until it was back.

~~*~~

It’s pouring rain outside, a mid-spring storm cracking the sky open with lightning and thunder that dulls the sound of New York to a background buzz. Blaine thinks it might be the last serious storm before summer sweeps in and makes everything hot and humid and he is enjoying it accordingly. A bottle of red wine he can’t really afford and his duvet waiting for him on the couch, along with a box of steaming noodles already open in his hand.

His phone vibrates on the coffee table and he glances at the clock —8pm on a Thursday—grumbling as he walks because this could only be work with a last minute emergency. It isn’t even meant to be his case.

Except it isn’t work. It’s Kurt, and as much as he has completely avoided acknowledging that in two months of basically becoming best friends they haven’t seen each other, they haven’t even spoken… it’s hard to deny when his phone is ringing and Kurt Hummel’s name is plastered over a stock photo of a daffodil.

He stops breathing for a second and hesitates, but even though he has got a mouthful of noodles and he’s not wearing any pants, he has to answer. He swallows hard as he says, “Hello?”

 

It’s weird for about sixty seconds, Kurt hesitates and then Blaine hesitates and then it’s inane questions about family and work that they’ve covered in emails. There’s a silence that stretches too long until Blaine coughs and says, “How about this storm?”

 
Kurt laughs then and Blaine’s toes curl in the rug on reflex, his heart stuttering because that laugh is just as melodic and breathless as ever. “Is this weird?” Kurt wonders aloud.

Laughing back at him, Blaine says, “Yeah, kind of.”

There’s silence, still awkward, but it feels good anyway. “I just thought you of all people would appreciate what happened at work today.”

“Oh.” Another beat. “What happened?”

And then they talk for hours. Blaine’s meal goes cold and Kurt wanders into his own kitchen and turns off the stove, deciding he doesn’t really need the soup.

It’s easier than emails because Blaine can hear the inflection of Kurt’s voice and Kurt can hear Blaine chuckle and they can both interrupt to ask questions and give opinions. They talk until 2 in the morning and then they hang up only because Blaine’s phone warns him he’s down to 5% battery.

~~*~~

There are more phone calls and less emails and neither one of them asks what exactly they’re doing, what exactly this is. A week after the first time Blaine calls Kurt, it is still the same back and forth, recounting their days and commenting on the most inane things just because they can.

Kurt tells a story about two of his models getting caught fornicating—that’s the word he uses and it makes Blaine laugh—in one of the janitor’s closets at a show. Kurt tells the story because he was so mortified he had yelled at them until his cheeks were hot and they were cowering and now he is wondering if he yelled too much.

Blaine is meant to tell him they were being unprofessional. Instead, his voice just drops a little, quiet, conspiratorial: “Do you remember that time Finn walked in on us?” By this point, Blaine’s most of the way through a bottle of red, sipping at it as they talk, and the clink of the bottle on the glass again makes him wonder if he’s overstepping.

There is a moment of hesitation and Blaine thinks he hears Kurt’s breath catch and there’s a voice in his mind screaming for him to step back from this, that this is dangerous and could ruin whatever it is they’ve built up between them.

Then Kurt says, his own voice appropriately low, “That time at school? In the locker rooms?”

Shutting out the voice that begs, ‘Don’t,’ Blaine leans back into the sofa, his hand presses to his belly, hungry but warm and tight. Up over his chest as he shakes his head and replies, “No, the time before that.”

“Oh my god,” Kurt’s voice comes out breathless and high and Blaine can hear it. “When he came home from football practice early? And he walked in…” he trails off.

“That’s the one.” Blaine blushes at the memory. At least, he thinks it’s a blush. “You had me completely naked and your brother must have copped an eyeful.”

Kurt scoffs at him. “Finn has seen plenty of naked men before. I’m just not sure he was ready to see one that…” he trails off and then coughs. “That naked, I guess.” He pauses and Blaine can still hear him breathing. “It was gay sex Blaine.”

Blaine patently ignores his half-hard dick because that is creepy and a little bit confusing. He jokes, “Finn was so not ready for gay sex.”

“I don’t think my brother will ever be ready for gay sex,” Kurt laughs but his voice remains caught and high.

Blaine bites his lip for a moment. “That was the first time you sucked me off, wasn’t it?’

“Yeah,” breathless, why does he have to be breathless? “You made me,” Kurt accuses. “You begged.” Why does he have to sound like he’s remembering?

Blaine doesn’t mean to say it but he does: “Can you blame me?”

“You still really…” Kurt trails off, whatever he was going to say dying on his lips as he seems to realize what he’s talking about and with whom he is talking about it. “Wow,” he says, and then coughs to clear his throat. “This is really inappropriate, I’m sorry I—“

Cutting him off with a laugh, Blaine rakes a hand through his hair and stumbles over his words. “Yeah. But—I mean, it was, it is. But yeah.” Kurt is laughing at him, voice high and melodic again. “You taught me lot. About myself. I never thanked you for that.”  

Silence stretches and Blaine wonders if he’s being even more out of line now than he has been for the entire conversation.

“For our relationship?” Kurt asks.

“Yeah. It was… it was a highlight.”

Kurt all but whispers, “I’m glad,” and then, “Me too.”

There’s another stretched silence but they can hear each other breathing and would both swear they can hear each other smiling. Then Kurt makes his excuses and hangs up. 

That should be the end of it. It should actually be a good thing, a step in the right direction between two men who are fast becoming close but who need to lose some of the baggage from a long forgotten time. It was a decade ago! Blaine has had a dozen men since then, and if the glimpses into Kurt’s sex life are anything to go by, Kurt has had more than twice that.

That shouldn’t make him feel jealous. And it shouldn’t make him feel turned on. He thinks about Emma, one of the other attorneys in his office, one of his very good friends. They talk about sex stuff and relationship stuff, and it never turns him on.

He can only tell himself so many times it’s because she’s a woman and Kurt’s a very attractive gay man. Friends is all they are, and he has no right to be sitting there with tented sweat pants after less than a minute of anecdote that was more funny than sexy.

Sure, it was an anecdote about him, but it was ten years ago with his now-friend so, no. He presses the heel of his hand into his crotch, hoping to quell his erection, but only moans at how good it feels. He swallows the last of his wine and stares at a nothing point on the wall.  

It can’t really hurt, can it? Getting off now, with Kurt gone and alcohol in his blood and that perfectly imperfect memory of sloppy mouths and first-time blowjobs so fresh in his brain.

He has, in the past, indulged in fantasies about judges and colleagues and random men on the street. Guys at the gym and at the club and in restaurants. There have never been ramifications.

And he’s seen Kurt naked. He’s seen Kurt coming. He’s seen him wrapped around him and arching for him and getting him off.

Without any further deliberation, but already anticipating the tell-tale twinge of guilt that makes the fantasy slip to some nameless, faceless man, Blaine slides his hands down and slips his pants to mid-thigh.

His cock is hard and red and it bounces from the confines of his underwear to lay heavy against his belly. There’s pre-come and an ache that usually takes him a few minutes to build up to. With his fingers wrapped tight around, he moans low and deep and lets his eyes flutter closed.

“You just had to bring up the sex, didn’t you?” he murmurs to himself, picturing Kurt. Long, lean, pale Kurt, naked and on his knees with wide blue eyes and his fist around Blaine’s cock.

Vision flickering he works his hand and tries to keep Kurt eighteen and inexperienced and his boyfriend. But it’s too difficult and, fighting the heat, he pulls his shirt over his head with his spare hand and twists his wrist expertly just below the head of his cock.

With two dozen different conquests under his belt, almost-thirty year old Kurt would be so very good at this, assuming he wanted to be. Blaine is sure Kurt could just lay himself out and get taken, let men come off the perfection of his body, the tightness and the fluidity that Blaine remembers too well.

He’s panting as he strokes, trying and not trying to imagine just how Kurt does this now. Naked and on his knees between Blaine’s legs and stroking him with deft, talented fingers and a wicked grin. Eyes that know and judge and calculate and are still so blue. Stubble. Blaine wonders if Kurt ever gives head with a few day’s growth and then he whines at the phantom rub of whiskers on the insides of his thighs as Kurt mouths over his balls.

Kurt’s hands—Blaine hasn’t had the chance to look at them in ten years but he will have slightly longer fingers, thinner and more nimble from too many hours with pencils and thread and a sewing machine. Callouses maybe, and long nails to punctuate the burn left by his scratching cheeks. Strong wrists.

“Oh god,” he mumbles, wishing he had lube and then curling over himself and letting saliva drip from his mouth to his dick, deciding very quickly that’s something he wants to see Kurt do for him. He wants, so desperately, to know whether the inside of Kurt’s mouth tastes the same.

He wants so much more.

He loses track of his own hands, just letting them pull and squeeze however feels good and closes his eyes and allows himself this one indulgent fantasy. He refuses to waste it. Skipping from Kurt’s hands on his dick to his mouth, fucked red and open and Kurt would be over the embarrassment of saliva and come dripping down his chin by now, he must be, and he’ll chase the wet sounds of flesh moving together instead of trying not to giggle. 

How many inches can Kurt take now? All of them? On his knees and with his own hand between his legs while he hollows his cheeks and watches Blaine’s face as he sinks all the way down and blocks his own throat. Blaine never got to experience that with Kurt, but now maybe dozens of other people have.

More.

Blaine would pull him up, onto his lap and fuck into him from below so hard. Have Kurt straddling his hips and riding him as they kissed until they were light headed and their orgasms took them by surprise.

Kurt on his hands and knees, getting fucked from behind hard enough that he ends up on his belly, the friction of the bed against his dick making him writhe and push back and beg. “Oh god, please Blaine, please. Like that, fuck me like that, Blaine.”

Coming when Blaine lets him and then going lax while Blaine doesn’t stop, twisting around just enough to capture Blaine’s mouth is a messy kiss and beg against his lips, “Come for me. Come inside me.”

Blaine moans, his hand moving hard, fast and desperate over his cock, fingers slipping down and toying with his hole, pushing saliva inside with just the barest press of his middle finger.

Kurt pushing him back against blue satin sheets in some nameless hotel and stretching him open on his fingers, making him beg and writhe just like he did the first time back in Ohio, on Blaine’s bed, except this time it would be on purpose. Finger after finger and kitten licks to the head of his cock and the crease of his thigh and watching him, knowing him so well he can read the angles of his body without even thinking about it.

Still stretching him out, and not just so he’s ready for Kurt to slide deep inside with one fluid thrust, but teasing him so when he does pull Blaine’s hips down the bed and fucks into him hard, Blaine comes with a surprised shout, dick untouched and pulsing as Kurt just kisses him through it and thrusts deeper and deeper.

Come kissed off Blaine’s belly and into his mouth and Kurt bent over him, fucking into him, deep and slow and languid until Blaine stops shivering with the over-stimulation and telling him it’s too much and pleading for a break and his voice starts breaking over the words—

Keep going. Don’t stop. Fuck me. Don’t ever stop.

He’s saying those words and he’s saying them loud and clear in his empty apartment and panting for breath, his hips fucking up off the couch into his hand and a finger inside him, a placeholder for so much more, but god it all feels so fucking good.

He stumbles onto the memory, so stark, and Kurt’s voice crashes through reality, whispered so close to his ear just like the last time they fucked, back in Ohio, thinking it was nothing special, just another chance to get off together.

“Come for me.”

And Blaine strains, hips twisting and sweat dripping from his temple to his chin, lips bitten red and eyes squeezed shut as he imagines Kurt all over him, inside him, his, and comes saying his name. “Kurt, Kurt, Kurt.” It twists through him, hot and reckless and the pulse of electricity down his spine, in his blood, makes him gasp and arch higher.

Watching as his cock throbs in his hand and he spills in white streaks that stretch high up his belly and onto his chest, his ass clenching and rocking into it as he shoots over his fingers and drips white through the coarse dark hair at the base of his dick. He holds onto the delicious heat of it for as long as he can, taut and breathless and begging the feeling to never end, chasing the images of someone naked and perfect and so utterly not his until Kurt disappears and he collapses back onto the couch with a sigh.

He still doesn’t quite feel guilty. And he doesn’t think he should. He loved Kurt once and tonight there were mutual thanks for everything they’d shared. Kurt will never know and there’s no harm done and, as he starts to smile, he thinks that may well have been one of the best orgasms he’s had in a long time.

He stretches, feeling his muscles tense and unknot and his skin feel too tight and wonderful all at once. Rocking to his feet, grinning and feeling blissed out, he pads barefoot to the bathroom to wipe the come from his chest.

Once he’s done that, still grinning at how good his orgasm was, he walks back out into the lounge. He hears the vibration of his phone. It’s late now, too late for Kurt to be calling and by the time he is standing over the coffee table he’s convinced himself it will be work.

It’s Kurt.

And now there is guilt, just a jolt of it right up through him. He has that irrational thought of ‘Oh god what if he knows?’ and then he shakes it off.

He flicks his phone to answer and does his best to sound normal. “Hi Kurt.”

Kurt’s voice comes back to him, quiet and intense, just his name, just, “Blaine.”

They miss a beat and Blaine can’t quite bring himself to ask why Kurt would be calling him after midnight when they only hung up an hour before. Then there’s another missed beat and Blaine’s about to call his name and make sure the line hasn’t dropped out.

“Do you ever think of me?”

Blaine’s mind flashes hot and fast to every single fantasy that has flickered behind his eyes in the last hour. The visions and tastes and smells, and hardly any of it means anything really, because he doesn’t know Kurt anymore and it can’t be what Kurt means. He rolls the phrase over in his mind once, twice, trying to dissect what Kurt is asking.  

Do you ever think of me?

He says, “Of course,” without really meaning to.

He thinks he hears Kurt suck in a breath a little too quickly. Not quite a gasp, but something. And then Kurt laughs, light and happy.

“It’s so ridiculous that we still haven’t actually managed to catch up in person,” Kurt says. “I would like to.”

Eyes falling closed, Blaine tries to imagine Kurt right now. Comfortable in pyjamas and lounging somewhere in his apartment, calling him and wanting to meet up.

“If you’d still like to?” Kurt’s question interrupts his thoughts.

“Yeah.”

Then Kurt starts to ramble, suddenly nervous it seems. “I just mean we could try. If you’re not too busy. And I’m not too busy. We could try,” he clears his throat. “We could try being friends.”

Blaine’s mind is somewhere else and his heart is beating too fast. He doesn’t mean to ask, but he so, so does. “Do you want to come over for dinner?”

A/N: Does that count as a cliffhanger? I’m never quite sure. Also: yay porn, right? Never have I ever written proper solo-anyone! So this was weird for me. Hope you enjoyed it, thank you so, so much for all the reblogs/likes/messages/reviews/whatever! It is all making me so happy that I wrote this!