and a wonderful spring to be sprung
"Stranger in a Strange Town" - Darren/Blaine

Darren is a 26 year old musician and Blaine is a 17 year old fanboy.  

Warnings: age difference, virgin!Blaine.

I am an idiot, Blaine thinks as he stands outside the small club, clutching his wool dress coat around himself.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.  He’d known about the tour for months.  He’d made plans with some nice sounding people that he’d found on the meet up forums—they hadn’t asked him too many questions about his age or his name, and that was enough to make him comfortable.  It was just a car ride, right?  Just a short three hour car ride, and it would be okay, and he had a cell phone and he had pepper spray.

It turns out that they were more interested in getting drunk and watching the opening act than anything else.  By the time Darren had taken the stage they’d been a mess, so unruly that Blaine hadn’t even been able to stand with them anymore.  He decided to enjoy the show by himself and meet up with them after.  

In typical Darren style, though, the show had run late, and even though the guys he’d driven up with had said they wanted to stay after and meet Darren, they were gone before Darren even made it out the back to sign autographs.

So he’s freezing, in a city he has no familiarity with, in a place he shouldn’t be (his parents are going to kill him), alone, and—and by the time he stops freaking out, he realizes that the crowd has dissipated and that Darren is gone.  

He has to call his folks, but he’s terrified of their reaction.  They’d told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t to go to some stupid concert in the middle of the not so nice part of a not so nice town, no questions asked, that is final, Blaine Anderson.

You don’t understand, he’d wanted to tell them.  When I got out of the hospital his music was the only thing that kept me from wishing the assholes who had beat me up had just kept going until—

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and clutches the cell phone in his pocket, turning it over and over and over nervously.  He is about ten seconds away from losing it completely, pacing holes into the sidewalk, when he turns and walks smack into someone coming the opposite way.

He puts up his hands at the last second, catching the man by the arm, and begins sputtering, “Oh, god, I am so sorry, I didn’t even—see you, so sorry.”

The man’s eyes tick to his wrist—he’s wearing an under-21 bracelet with the venue’s name stamped on the side. 

And that’s when Blaine realizes who he has almost knocked over.

"Oh," he breathes.

Darren Criss smiles at him.  He’s changed shirts since he went off stage, and he may have toweled off some of the sweat but he looks mostly the same—untamed curls, a scruffy half-beard, a ratty t-shirt and jeans hanging low on his hips.

"Enjoy the show?" he asks, smiling brightly.

Blaine stares.  He can’t make his mouth work.  Darren is still holding his wrist.

He’s rehearsed this speech at least a hundred times and yet now, standing in front of Darren, he has forgotten every word.

"Um," he says. "Uh." And then, when all else fails, "Thank you."

Darren raises an eyebrow. “You’re welcome?”

And then the gushing starts. “No, um, I—thank you for—sharing your talent with us.  Thank you for your songs and your—your message, and—everything.  I—” Oh god he is doing exactly what he promised himself he’d never do.

But Darren is smiling at him in the most genuine way possible and he says, “Aw, that’s really sweet.  Really.  It’s all my pleasure, trust me.  I’m glad you had a good time.”

Blaine shivers, feeling the temperature for the first time since Darren and he had bumped into one another.  He is making an ass out of himself and he knows from years of stalking celebrity encounters over the Internet that he is about two seconds away from this exchange being over and he’s said none of the things that he’d always wanted to say, not really.

"I have a car to catch," Darren says, smiling politely.

Oh god he is so nice, I want to die, Blaine thinks.

"That’s," he stammers, facing burning, feeling every inch the seventeen year old that he is. "Of course, I’m sorry if I got in the way, if I interrupted, I mean—"

"Did you want me to sign something or—a picture?"

"Oh, god, no," Blaine breathes. "I don’t need your signature and I—I’m a mess right now." His gelled hair is well into the needs-a-touch-up stage and he’s flushed pink and white with cold and his shirt is wrinkled and he thinks a pigeon may have relieved itself on his jacket at some point.

This makes Darren pause. “Are you here alone?”

Blaine huffs a breath, and looks down and smiles nervously. “Um, I—wasn’t.  But I am now.” He looks down the street. “I was going to try and figure out the bus schedule, but I—”

Something in Darren’s eyes shifts, almost imperceptibly. “I have plenty of hotel space if you want to crash.  I know that’s a totally creepy offer, but—well, you did come to see me after all, right?  I’m not like, a complete stranger.”

"I know you better than I know the random guys that I drove here with, I think," Blaine breathes, in awe.  

He lets himself look Darren up and down as he does when he stares at photos, or the way he’d stared when Darren had been on stage behind his guitar, bending into the microphone as if driven by some invisible, erratic force.  Self-possessed and magical.  Now, he just looks like—a good looking guy.

Blaine is so completely numb to the situation that it’s only when he’s entering the hotel lobby that he processes what has happened.

The car ride with Darren and several members of his team.  The way that Darren’s thigh had been crushed up against his in the backseat of the car.  The car had smelled like cigarettes and sweat.  Darren had joked with his friends all the way there, in a tired but post-performance buzz sort of way.  They’d thrust tour swag at him and Darren had looked embarrassed.

It’s funny.  He’d always fantasized about something like this happening to him, but now that it is he can’t seem to hold on to any of it in a coherent, narrative-style type of way.  It’s happening but it’s not happening.  Moments slip by like water droplets across a pane of glass, individuality and permanence lost as they combine to form rivulets, and in the end they’ve formed nothing more than a featureless collective.

Darren is just a person; a small, incredibly sexy, and slightly manic person who was nice enough to take pity on a kid from Lima, Ohio who did not plan his sneaky concert experience as he should have.

"Tired?" Darren asks him as they walk into the hotel bar.  His team settles at the bar while Darren steers him to a booth at the back.

"I’m so tired that I’m painfully awake," Blaine answers, fiddling with his Diet Coke.

"In that case," Darren says, sweetly, "Tell me about yourself."

They spend the next hour going from small talk to long stories; Blaine starts by explaining where he’s from and how he got to the concert, despite his parent’s wishes.  He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s embarrassed and guilty about lying to them.  He tells Darren about his bashing in high school, and the hospital stay, and the depression that followed.  He tells Darren that the music had saved his life, had given him a reason to get up every day, that the message of loving yourself and that it’s okay and can only get better were the only things that made sense to him at the time.  

As they talk, they get closer.  Darren is sweet and open-faced, but he’s also incredibly tactile and focused, and as he drinks his hands begin to linger, first on Blaine’s fingers and then on his arm and then around his shoulder.

And then he says, “Let me get you a drink.  I think you deserve one.”

"Okay," Blaine says, unsure but equally unwilling to refuse.  Darren doesn’t even ask him what he wants, but comes back with something fruity and sharp and that’s okay, that’s—not too scary looking.

He drinks several of them, and by the time he realizes he might want to stop he’s already a little drunk.  He leans into Darren’s arm and it slides from his shoulder to around his neck, and suddenly he’s slipping sideways against Darren’s body, his cheek finding a home on Darren’s neck.

"I probably should not have let you have those last two," Darren says, a little slow and jerky because he is also pretty drunk at this point.

"Feels fuzzy," Blaine breathes.  He knows that his cheeks are red and his eyes huge and watery.  He doesn’t feel sick but he does feel stupid.  

“‘S’okay,” Darren says, laughing. “That’s good.  Don’t throw up on me, that would be—not good.  Look.  We’re gonna sober up, okay?  Water.  No more fruity—no more drinks.”

"Okay," Blaine replies, cuddling up to Darren’s side. "God, you are hot." 

He said that out loud.  Shit.

Darren giggles, throat moving against Blaine’s cheek. “Oh, man.  You are drunk.”

"Nope," Blaine insists.  He is still saying things out loud.  Why? "Always think that.  Always.  So hot." 

"You’re adorable."

He sits up a little, turning his face into Darren’s stubble-scratchy throat. “‘M’not just adorable.”

Darren tugs his bow tie. “Adorable.”

"I am a stalker," Blaine blurts.  He suddenly needs to confess and is not sure where the urge has come from, but his mouth is moving anyway. "Oh god I am a stalker, that’s why I know you’re hot, there are like pictures and video and I have looked at everything I am so sorry, I am—a stalker, why are you being nice to me?"

"Oh my god no more alcohol, you’re a wreck, dude," Darren replies, making his bow tie dance with little funny jerking motions. "Deep breath.  It’s okay.  You seem cool to me."

"I’m a loser," Blaine admits, chest hitching. "But that’s okay.  You won’t remember me tomorrow so that’s very, very okay."

"Hey," Darren says, elbow going tight around the back of Blaine’s neck. "You are not a loser.  And I will remember you.  I will.  I so will.  Hey, come on.  Let’s go upstairs.  I need a fucking shower."

"Okay."

But what he really thinks is “oh my god what am I doing?”.  He isn’t sad to leave the bar—Darren’s friends seem nice but they are all way too drunk for him to deal with and even though he knows logically that he doesn’t know Darren at least he knows of him, and he’s so nice that it’s hard to not latch on.  Blaine is sad that he will never be able to tell the Internet about this because Darren is just as awesome as everyone thinks he is.

He sits on the small couch in Darren’s hotel room while Darren showers, feeling wobbly and weird and drunk.  He isn’t sure if things around him are rocking in wavy kind of way or if that’s just him.  He—is very hot, all of the sudden.  The heat in the room is definitely blasting.

He shrugs out of his wool coat and scarf and then undoes his bow tie and loosens the top two buttons on his shirt.  He pushes off his shoes and collapses back onto the couch, sighing in relief.  God, that’s better.

Darren comes out of the bathroom not long after.  He’s wearing a pair of boxer shorts.  And nothing else.

He stops and stares at Blaine sprawled out on the couch just as Blaine stares at him standing there half-naked, all wet curls and water droplets peppering his heat-flushed skin.  There is a sharp, instant flare of connection between them, and Blaine’s heart leaps into his throat.

Oh.  Oh, god.

Blaine is an idiot.  He is an idiot sitting there in a cardigan and slacks and stripy socks, and he probably looks ten years old and his own personal hero is staring at him wearing almost nothing and oh god his belly, his belly and his chest and his shoulders and his legs how is Blaine supposed to cope with his legs?

Darren works his folded up towel over his shoulders just once and then tosses it onto the floor, still staring.

"I can sleep here," Blaine says, breathless with nameless anticipation. "That would be fine."

"Fucking adorable," Darren sighs.  He flops down onto the sofa beside Blaine, scrubbing at his eyes and face for a moment as if the vigorous motion is enough to clear his thoughts.  It doesn’t seem to work—he’s still buzzed and obviously worked up, fingers jostling and muscles twitching as if he just can’t calm down.

"Takes a while to um, relax after performing, I guess, huh?" Small talk.  You can do this, Blaine.  You are the master of polite conversation.

"You have no idea." He is so close on the couch, warm and smelling like generic hotel soap, one arm already around the back of Blaine’s shoulders on the edge of the couch. "Did you want to shower?" He leans in and sniffs. "Raspberry.  Hm." 

He is right there and Blaine has no clue what to do.

Blaine turns his head a little. “Um, yeah, I’m sure it looks—awful by now, I should—wash it out or—wet and restyle it again.” Darren is breathing warm and slow across his cheek.  

Panicking now.

Oh god.  Oh god, oh god, please please please—

Their noses brush and Blaine feels all the breath flee his lungs. “Oh.”

"If this is not okay," Darren sighs, pressing their foreheads together, "please feel free to punch me in the balls."

So of course Blaine is laughing hysterically when Darren kisses him, an implosion of breath and he sort of chokes, but Darren doesn’t pull away, he just palms Blaine’s jaw and pulls him in and—

Darren Criss’ tongue is in his mouth.

Oh god, oh shit, oh fuck.

He doesn’t so much kiss back as let his mouth spasmodically mimic the gesture, fingers flailing for purchase on Darren’s damp, wide shoulders.

"Hey," Darren says, softly, thumbing his mouth. "Hey, it’s okay.  Shh.  Just—relax?"

He can feel his eyebrows rise and his face go red. “Please keep kissing me.” His eyelids flutter nervously.

"Excellent," Darren says, grinning, and does just that, drawing Blaine into his lap.

"Oh," Blaine gasps.

"Come here, let me—help you with that," Darren says, plucking open the buttons on Darren’s cardigan and shirt one by one.

"Oh god.  I am—I have no idea—"

Darren kisses hot and damp down the column of his throat and across his collarbone, pushing the shirts back off of his shoulders.  The half-drunken warmth of the touch shoots through Blaine, taking his spine unawares and sending delicious jolts of sensation across every inch of his body.

He lets his weight come down over Darren’s lap; there’s so much warm, hair-dusted skin pressing up against him that he can’t even begin to process it.  He gasps out his surprise when Darren slides an arm around his waist and pulls their bodies flush together.  

God, he is so—male, so hard, yet soft to the touch at the same time.

"Fuck," Darren hisses, grinding up against his leg. "Fuck, look at you."

"Clueless I am so clueless, oh god, are you sure—"

"You are perfect," he replies, one broad hand scraping down Blaine’s waxed chest and belly. "So fucking soft, god."  He undoes Blaine’s pants one-handed, thumbing the button and tugging the zipper down smoothly.  His fingers go hard around the bulge in between his legs and Blaine whimpers, unable to wrap his mind around this fantasy come to life.  Nothing makes sense.

"D-Darren," he breathes, twitching as Darren rubs him through his underwear. "Oh god so many times I—so many—"

"Yeah?" Darren asks, kissing his nipples, licking them, biting at them. "Tell me."

"So many times in private I—I couldn’t help it, you’re so—"

"Shit that’s hot," Darren answers, palming the now-defined shape of Blaine’s erection.

"Oh god."

"So hot." He tugs Blaine out of the underwear, shoving them down around his thighs.

"Oh, god," Blaine says, again, and again, the only words he can manage right now as Darren’s fist closes around him. "Please don’t, I—"

"Fuck, fuck," Darren whispers, stopping.

"N-no I just meant." Blushing, he stares down at Darren—at the tent in Darren’s boxers, eyes widening, oh god, is that a wet spot at the front, is he already that far gone for Blaine? "If you touch me right now I’m going to—all over myself."

Darren bites at his earlobe. “This is not the sound of me complaining if you wanted to touch me instead.”

Blaine’s mind is a wash of tingling red want.  He’s embarrassed beyond definition but also so turned on that nothing seems to matter but getting off, right now.  His mouth is scrubbed red from the friction of Darren’s beard, and he breathes out frantically over the abused skin as his mind races.

"I want to blow you," he gets out, the words foreign to him, stupid and overblown even as he spills them.  But the confession is honest, and brings him up hard inside Darren’s fist. "I want to blow you so badly."

Darren’s eyes go dark.  He works his free hand through the cracked planes of Blaine’s hair gel, but instead of pulling him in he pushes, pushes until Blaine is sliding off his lap, onto his knees on the carpet. “God.  Yes.  Come on, honey.  Show me what you want.”

Blaine throbs.  His cock actually jerks, drools a pearl of liquid down and over the head and onto the floor.  He bites his lip.  If he so much as presses against something—

So he doesn’t.  He tries not to hyperventilate as Darren’s beautiful body sprawls in front of him, knees going wide as he slides out of his boxers.  He is gorgeous—muscled but not in an obvious way, and soft in places that Blaine wants to put his mouth on more than anything in this world.  He’s a little hairy, but Blaine likes that, and—

His cock is bobbing there, flushed wine red at the tip.  It’s a perfectly lovely, average sized length, a little thick, and Blaine wants to taste every inch of it.  At the same time he wants to remember it all as visually as possible.  He wonders if Darren would be okay with him just staring a little longer.

"I’ve never, um," Blaine admits, eyes riveted.  His hand has found its way to Darren’s thigh and is sweeping nervously closer, but he—is terrified.  He’s so turned on that he is terrified.

Darren’s belly heaves with barely-suppressed excitement. “It’s okay, just—touch me, like this,” he says, taking Blaine’s hand and wrapping it around his cock. “Up and down, just squeeze me a little—” That part is easy; Blaine just strokes Darren the way he strokes himself. “Like that.” Darren’s head falls back for a moment, his corded up throat and chest flexing. “God, yes, just like that.”

Blaine’s mouth fills with saliva.  They seem to like the same speed and pressure, because it’s not long before Darren is panting and fucking up into the channel of his fist.  Hastily, Blaine removes his hand, spits into his palm, and then replaces it.

"Shit," Darren hisses.

"I like a little—"

"Me, too, oh, fuck yes."

When Darren isn’t looking, Blaine bends over his lap and licks the head of his cock experimentally.

"Blaine, shit."

Oh god say my name again, he thinks.

He licks again, and then kisses over the broad crown, salt spreading across his tongue as the flavor dissipates.  God, it tastes good.  He slides his mouth down around the head, suckling at it.  Darren bucks up and squeezes the back of his neck. 

"More?" Darren breathes throatily, rubbing the sensitive tip back and forth across Blaine’s parted, swollen lips. "Such a pretty mouth."

"What if I’m awful at it," he breathes, inhaling the thick scent of clean musk coming from Darren’s groin. "What if I—"

"You’ll be good, so good, just—here—" He holds the back of Blaine’s head and guides him down.  It’s just a couple of inches, but he whines and his hips stutter. "Fuck, your mouth.  Can’t even look at this, gonna shoot all over those lips."

Blaine’s cock throbs at the compliment. “Darren.  Darren, god, just—want more of you.”

"Yeah," Darren breathes, filthy and affectionate as Blaine’s mouth slides around the shaft of his thick cock. "Ohfuckyes just like that, feels good." His fingers twist around the hair at the nape of Blaine’s neck. "Good boy.  So good for me, take me so deep.  Lips like that just begging for a nice hard cock between them, hm?  Yeah.  Yeah, keep going."

It’s weird.  It is weird and delicious and hot and surging and he is going to come fucking the air because it is everything that he has ever fantasized about in the dark of his bedroom, one hand around himself and the other between his legs.

It passes just as the evening has, a blur of tiny snapshot moments full of sound and smell and movement, all strung together in a meaningless line.  It’s wet.  It’s too much.  He gags a few times.  It’s perfect.  He learns how to breathe out of his nose and relax his throat.  The first time that Darren slides close to it without him seizing up they both groan and bend closer together, the filthy wet sucking noise when Darren pulls out of his throat making them useless.

"Oh god, you are fucking amazing," Darren hisses, spit-soaked dick hovering just in front of Blaine’s lips.  

Blaine catches his breath, licking the taste off of his mouth.  He makes a decision and wraps his hand around Darren’s cock.  The saliva has already made it tacky, but friction is what Blaine is going for.  He jacks Darren, hard but slowly. “Do you want to?”

"Hnngh?"

Blaine blushes furiously, watching Darren through his eyelashes. “Want to come—all over my lips?”

"Oh, shit," Darren groans, and Blaine fists the head of his cock over and over and over and over, with great intent.  His stomach seizes up and then he comes messily, shooting across Blaine’s mouth and cheeks and chin.

Blaine licks his mouth clean, shivering at the odd, tangy flavor.  He’s—frozen, and a little overwhelmed.  He’s not sure if he wants to clean himself off on something, but he also isn’t sure about—licking all of that off, either.

"Come here," Darren murmurs huskily, drawing him back up onto the couch.  They kiss—it’s wet and so much better than before, and Blaine realizes that this is because he’s actually kissing back.  

Darren licks at the streaks of come on his face, and then they kiss and Blaine swallows some and Darren swallows the rest until there’s nothing left.  He’s quivering between his legs, and his cock is flush with his belly.  That had been—so hot.

"Could probably breathe on you and you’d come for me," Darren says, kissing Blaine just underneath the hinge of his jaw. "God, I want to fuck you."

"Oh.  Oh, please." Blaine’s mind explodes with images and jagged bursts of longing.

"Is that what you want?" he breathes, sliding his bare hands down Blaine’s back, pushing at the underwear and pants still caught around his knees until Blaine shifts and kicks them off.  His hands slide back up, warm and a little rough, palming Blaine’s bare, sweaty buttocks. "Gonna be good for me, huh, sweet boy, gonna spread those legs for me?  God, you’d be so tight, so fucking small around me."

Blaine whines, hips churning against Darren’s side. “Please.  Please please please.”

"Did you get off to that before?  Thinking about me fucking you open?"

"Yes," he gasps, unable to stop himself. "Yes, so many times, please."

"You’ll have to wait," he whispers, and his palm—his sweaty, perfect palm—cups just the head of Blaine’s aching cock.

"Oh god oh don’t—"

"You’ll have to get me hard again," Darren continues, pinching the swollen, tight crown.

"Darren."

He stops, grinning, and drags Blaine’s mouth back onto his.

They make out for what feels like hours and slowly, slowly, Darren perks up again.  

Blaine is underneath him now on the sofa, throat and shoulders covered in hickeys of varying colors and sizes.  He’s lost and regained his own erection at least twice, and he is so sensitive that it almost hurts.  He’s not even sure if he can come at this point, but none of that matters.  Nothing matters but getting Darren hard again.  Blaine has one hand around Darren’s dick and the other is scraping lines up and down his sweaty, long back.  It’s so sweet and slow, this climb back to active arousal, thick and syrupy and delicious, and Blaine just wants to drown in it.

Darren thrusts down against his hand and belly.  God, so much sweat between them.  Blaine can’t breathe; it’s so hot.

Their bodies grind to a slow, pulse-drive rhythm, and finally Darren fumbles for the lubricant tube and condom that he’d set on the floor beside them earlier.  

Blaine whines, hips churning. “Now?  Now can we…”

"Shh," Darren breathes against his throat, pushing his thighs apart. "Let me.  Just let me, okay?"

"Okay." Inside, he’s freaking out a little.  But he wants it.  He wants it so badly, that it doesn’t matter if it’s scary because—fuck.  It’s so close.

Darren rubs his balls and the skin behind them for a while, sucking still more marks into his bared throat, distracting him from where those fingers are creeping with the sharp, painful thrill of blood vessels bursting below his skin.  It works.

By the time that Darren’s lube-slick fingers start circling his asshole, he’s pretty far gone, floating on a haze of needy desire.  He feels so fucking empty all of the sudden.  He turns his face into Darren’s shoulder, and when a single finger twists sweetly into his body, he bites down hard.

Darren jerks. “Ungh,” he spits, rotating his wrist and working the finger out and back in, searching.

"Ohgod.  There, right there."

He can feel Darren’s grin against his neck. “Fuck, yes.”

"More, more, please, need—something—" He’s clamping down wildly, but it’s not enough.

Two fingers and it burns a little,and that’s better, something to move against, twist down around and he does, pelvis writhing softly, slowly, sweetly into the intrusion.  Still not the real thing, though.

Darren goes for three but Blaine twists away, gasping. “No.  No, just—”

"Ready for me?" His breath is close and hot. "God, want to be inside you so bad." His fingers scrabble over Blaine’s hips.

He has no idea if he’s ready, but it doesn’t matter.  He needs it.  He doesn’t say anything, just wraps his legs around Darren’s waist and stares up at him, eyes wide and pleading.  

Darren rips the foil packet open with his teeth and puts the condom on.

"God," Darren breathes, kissing him and rutting up between his legs. "Fuck, let me in, let me in, just like that, just—like that." He writhes, lube smearing everywhere, into place, and slowly, slowly nudges the head inside. "Fuck." The first ring of muscle gives way.

Blaine breathes through it, heart jack-hammering against his rib cage.  He is losing his virginity to Darren Criss.  Jesus Christ.

It hurts, in a distant kind of way.  Mostly it’s just pressure, a lot of pressure, making his breathing stall and his dick throb.

He shakes and sighs when Darren pops past the second ring and then sinks fully inside, and the friction between their bellies is too much; he tries to shift away, but Darren goes deeper and then thrusts up and something just sparks and Blaine’s balls cinch up before he can gasp a warning.

He comes between them, pulsing wet, over and over, literally soaking the space between their chests, and Darren is gasping and laughing against his shoulder.

"Fuck, can feel you coming around me, god, you’re pulsing," he breathes, a little hysterical, as he pulls out and pushes back in, and it—that’s better, that’s—okay.  More lubricant.

"Fuck me," Blaine whines. "Fuck me, please."

"So hot," Darren whimpers, pushing his legs up and thrusting into him.

The chatter stops there, and Blaine is hungry for it; he wants to listen to the wet noise of their bodies coming together, he wants to feel every thrust, he wants to remember what it was like to be wrapped around Darren’s compact, tight body.  He’s not even sure if this is good, if this is the way it’s supposed to feel, but that doesn’t matter.  It’s happening, and he’ll remember it forever.

It seems to take an age, and that’s probably because of how close they still are to the last time that Darren came.  By the end they’re both overly sensitive and gasping, whining, twisting together to try and get there.  Blaine’s cock is half hard despite the fact that he knows he can’t come again so soon, and Darren is just wetness and hardness between his legs, frantically seeking that precipice.  He starts to shake at the shoulder when he gets close and Blaine wraps him up tighter, hitching his hips and situating his legs around the middle of his back.

"Come on," he whispers, licking Darren’s sweaty neck. "Come on.  You’re so close I can feel it, can feel you throbbing." Darren gasps, wet and high-pitched, and fucks him harder, faster, into the cushions. "Feel so good, feel so big inside me" He presses closer, fingers sliding down the backs of Blaine’s damp, clenched thighs, hauling them higher, steadier.  Darren is so open now that he doesn’t even feel the friction against his rim, which is swollen and aching. "Used to finger myself and pretend it was you, just like this," he babbles, rutting his half-hard cock against Darren’s belly. "Used to moan your name when I made myself come."

Darren comes spectacularly into the silence, trembling like a leaf, buried deep inside of Blaine’s body.  He gasps out a cry when it’s over, shoulders heaving forward, sweat everywhere.

"Oh, my god," he exhales, clutching Blaine. "Oh god."

Blaine stares up at the ceiling through a shock of Darren’s curls, quaking.  He feels like dancing and shouting and laughing, that had been so—amazing.

"Y’okay?" Darren breathes, kissing at his jaw. "Shit, I—fucked your neck up.  Whoa."

He laughs, eyes sliding lazily shut. “I am—fantastic.”

"God, was like—I dunno, so responsive, like—we were definitely on the same page, there."

Blaine nods blearily, just on the edge of wanting to close his eyes and drift off.  It must be at least two in the morning and he’s been up since six.  Darren slides out of him carefully and tosses the condom.

He writhes a little, clamping down around nothing. “Feels weird.”

"Sorry."

"No, I just—miss the—feeling full."

"Mm," Darren hums, pleased, and licks a stripe down Blaine’s arm. "God, you are a hairless little dude."

He laughs. “And you’re not.”

"I’m lucky if I remember to put pants on in the morning, much less maintain that level of manscaping."

"It’s hot," Blaine says, grinning. "It’s really hot."

"Please don’t tell everyone that I’m a wookie, okay?"

"Noted," he says, sighing out in satisfaction.  His eyelids dip.

"Sleepy?"

"God, how are you not dead to the world by now?" he answers, rubbing his hands up and down Darren’s back.

"Gonna be," Darren answers, yawning. "Bed?"

Blaine smiles, grasping a handful of wavy curls. “Bed.”

Not bad, as first concerts go.

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    reblogging to say: W T F ??? Isn’t this incest … kind of? Oh it’s SO Darrens fault this exists lol
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