Title is from "The Ghost Of You" by My Chemical Romance.

Please heed the trigger warning: mentions of rape.

HELLO AGAIN. Like I promised on my Tumblr, I've begun a series of oneshots in this 'verse that will jump around in time and vary in length while detailing on certain aspects of Blaine's recovery. I'm not sure how many of these there will be, but with anonymous prompts and my own ideas it's a fair amount! uwu

ateotw prompt #1: what about the first time blaine tries to have sex with kurt but ends up not being able to get through with it? maybe it can be set in a time after he's able to have makeout/cuddling sessions with and sometimes he can feel kurt's hard but physically restraining himself not to push blaine

Tumblr is here (endofadream)

Summer swells up hot and sweltering in New York in a way that it doesn't in Ohio. It's Blaine's first here, and, in a way, it's Kurt's first, too, which lights something pleasantly warm in Blaine's belly. It helps him relate, having this thing that he and Kurt can fully experience together. His therapist says that's good. Blaine still isn't sure.

But he has made progress in the last couple of months, which his therapist and Kurt say is good. He keeps it in his notebook: every setback, every progression, every realization. Since he'd left Ohio last month after graduation his setbacks have been less and less. It gives him hope, helps something warm and bright and promising peek through the suffocating, sticky blackness.

He and Kurt have been working at this, spending long weeks working up to unexpected touches (Blaine often still flinches, but the nauseating panic doesn't rise up, choking, in his throat anymore), cuddling (some days are easier than others, depending on where Blaine's head is at, if he's taken his meds, if he can distinguish memory from reality), and kissing. Being away from it all, starting fresh and new and on his own, helps, but there are still some days when Blaine just can't get out of bed, when he can't stop crying and remembering and hating himself. Those days are the hardest of all.

Kissing is a hurdle they'd passed early and fairly easily. Blaine's always loved it, remembering slow, lazy days spent at his house or Kurt's learning each other, memorizing each other, loving each other. Things like this Blaine holds on to, keeps it close to his heart and savors its invisible flavor on his tongue. Things like this, Blaine feels safe.

This hot summer afternoon, weeks before class starts, finds Blaine sprawled out on their bed, Kurt hovering carefully above him. Today is a good day, one of the best Blaine's had in weeks, and Kurt lets him set the pace after a quiet, hesitant, "You're sure?"

When Blaine says yes, grabs Kurt's waist and rolls them over, he sees nothing but proud admiration in Kurt's eyes. Blaine taking initiative is still rare—the responsibility scares him, triggers things he's both felt and hasn't felt in a greasy, slippery churning tide—but each positive day in his journal, each day where he can say things might be okay again spurs him on. He wants to get better. He wants to love Kurt like he used to. His therapist says taking initiative is good, healing, that it will help him realize that he's in control of his life and the things that happen in it.

Kurt moans into his mouth, kisses back a little harder when Blaine squeezes his waist, arches up slightly and drags his tongue across Kurt's lower lip. A rush fills Blaine, spreading from head to toe. He's hard, aching in his jeans, and his head is spinning, unfocused with lust. It's still a little scary sometimes, going past that line from innocent kissing to full-on making out with the intent to go further. Blaine's felt it, afternoons when they've both let themselves go a little further than intended—Kurt hard against his hip or thigh, the way Kurt will immediately pull back when he realizes what's happening.

It's confusing, both wanting and not wanting it. The first time it had happened, before they'd set serious boundaries for sessions like this, Blaine had panicked, his mind flashing strobe-light quick with images and emotions.

Since then Kurt has been careful, and Blaine has been grateful for the cool-off periods, the reassuring periods when Kurt would ask him questions, are you okay and do we need to stop; now, though, he's warring with frustration. He wants to go further, wants to push all of this aside and just be normal again. He feels the restraint, sees it in Kurt's eyes, the tightness of his jaw and the rigidity of his body. He hears it in Kurt's inhales, in the way he cuts kisses off in the middle like he's trying not to—what? Push Blaine? It's what Blaine wants—needs.

And Blaine says it today, breaking the kiss with a slick sucking sound to breathe deep into the silken skin of Kurt's cheek, his hand tangling in Kurt's hair, tightening like Kurt's his anchor and the bed is the riptide about to drag him away: "I want to go further."

Immediately Kurt is still, tensing, his breath sucked in sharply and held there, second after second after second, until he finally releases it in a whoosh. He moves away, looks at Blaine with rounded blue eyes, asking, and Blaine nods. His heart is pounding furiously against his ribcage.

"Are…are you…sure?" Kurt asks slowly. The hesitation between the words is like he isn't sure what to say, isn't sure where to go. Kurt, out of everyone else, out of his mom and his dad and his therapist, can tell when Blaine is lying. Maybe it's been like this since the incident before Blaine had finally decided to get better; maybe it's been longer than that. Who knows?

Blaine nods again, bites his lip. He lets go of Kurt's hair, slides his hands down the familiar broad planes of Kurt's back to the slim taper of his waist. He holds on to familiar warmth, knows that if he were to seek upward right now he'd find Kurt full and hard and aching in his jeans.

"I want this," Blaine whispers. He's terrified, but he's also excited. Long ago he'd accepted that his old self was gone, that it was up to his new self, his damaged self, to build a chrysalis and transform. This is another step, another tiny fissure in what's preventing him from becoming that new person. The idea of bare skin, of vulnerability, makes the edges of his mind fuzz static with panic, but he pushes himself through it like he's pushed himself through every other hurdle. This is with Kurt. For Kurt. And for himself. "I—I do, Kurt. I really do. I'm…I'm ready."

It's hollow, almost, and his words trip and stumble over themselves, but there is inherent truth in them. There is honesty, desire, need. The idea of sex isn't as terrifying now as it was a few months ago.

He says, without intending to, "I want to show you how much I love you."

The words hold in the air of seconds, both of them silent until Blaine sees the faint shine of tears in Kurt's eyes; then Kurt is leaning down, claiming Blaine's mouth both hard and sweet at the same time. Wetness hits Blaine's cheek, slips down it.

Pulling back, Kurt presses the circle of his lips to Blaine's cheek, whispers, "I love you, too, Blaine. You're so brave, baby, and I love you so, so much."

Then they're both crying, clutching onto each other like the worlds is ending, like nothing matters more in this moment. Blaine doesn't know what's going to happen, how this is going to end, but he doesn't allow himself to dwell on it, doesn't allow himself to think as he kisses Kurt again, arching up as he pushes Kurt's hips down.

The hard press of Kurt's cock, almost forgotten after so long, sends jolting sparks rushing through Blaine's body; he gasps, letting out a sharp, surprised moan before Kurt is kissing him again.

Kurt's hand on Blaine's chest makes Blaine shiver, his cock twitching in his jeans. Next to his ear, lips slick and pliable, Kurt asks, "Is this still okay?" as his fingers go for the buttons, undoing each one slow-slow-slow, giving Blaine time to back out if he needs to.

"It's okay," Blaine gasps, nodding. He moans again, pushing past the slight hint of panic at the skim of Kurt's delicate fingers over his skin. This is okay. It's just Kurt. He can do this. He has to be able to do this.

Kurt kisses his cheek, then his neck, and soon Blaine's shift is sliding to his thighs, fluttering open and useless. He feels vulnerable, but with Kurt here—covering him, grounding him, protecting him—Blaine feels…okay.

"I'm gonna undo your pants now, okay, B?" Kurt asks, pressing another kiss to Blaine's cheek. His breathing is heavy, harsh, and it's like it's all around Blaine, cocooning him, covering him. Blaine twitches, his limbs moving involuntarily like they want to get his body away, but he grits his teeth, says okay and adds, in his mind, it's Kurt just Kurt calm down Blaine calm down it's okay.

Kurt's hand slides from Blaine's solar plexus, creeping slow, slow. Blaine feels gooseflesh rise on his skin, feels the nerves shoot and crawl out from under the soft pads of Kurt's (innocent this is Kurt it's nothing but innocent) fingers. The warm, pulsing desire begins to fade quickly as Kurt undoes Blaine's button, then his zipper.

I'm in New York. This is my boyfriend doing this to me. This is not McKinley, April 2013. This is New York, August 2013. I am safe. I am okay. Nothing will hurt me here.

Kurt's fingers just under his waistband, nails scratching lightly over trimmed pubic hair, his voice in Blaine's ear, "You're doing so well, honey. So good. That's it."

"God, that's it," the man groans, gripping hard to Blaine's hip with his free hand. Blaine bites his lip, another tear streaking down his red face, but he doesn't look away from Sam. His hands clench, nails scratching at the linoleum, but he keeps his mouth tightly shut even as strangled sound after strangled sound leaves his throat.

It happens quickly, suddenly, like lightning across the sky or the sweet nothingness of sleep: Blaine screams, no or get away or leave me alone, blinks, and then Kurt is on the floor and Blaine is curled up near the headboard, his knees drawn up and his body trembling violently. He thinks he might be sick. He thinks he might be—he doesn't even know what he might be anymore. There is nothing but muddling panic. How does he breathe? He's forgotten how to breathe. Is that him making those wet sucking sounds? Is that him crying?

"Blaine?"

Kurt's voice, gentle but also worried, terrified. Why is Kurt here? Kurt wasn't at McKinley. Kurt is supposed to be in New York.

"Blaine, calm down. It's me. It's Kurt. You're in New York. It's August, 2013. This is our apartment. We're the only two in here."

Blaine tries to suck in a sufficient breath, but it's impossible. There's a vice, cold and leaden, around his lungs. Vaguely he thinks he might be hyperventilating.

"Blaine, sweetheart, listen to me. You're okay. No one is trying to hurt you. It's just me. It's just Kurt. I love you."

Blaine isn't sure when he begins to calm down, when the panic begins to finally subside. The veil is gone, clearing his thoughts, and he can finally see the rumbled sheets, Kurt on the floor, his eyes huge and worried; he's aware of his own tears, of the way he's trembling.

Then he's spewing, slurred and fast and over-and-over, his body contracting as he hiccups, "I thought I was okay I thought I was I'm so sorry I'm so stupid I'm such a failure I thought I could do it for you I just wanted you to know how much I love you—"

The panic is seamlessly replaced with hysterics, with chest-deep sobs and a dull, flaring aching behind Blaine's eyes. He wraps his arms around his knees, feels his face contort as he cries, apologizes again and again.

The dip of the bed is hesitant, and a minute or two later Kurt's arms are around Blaine's shoulders. Instead of flinching, of running away, Blaine turns easily into that familiar embrace. He's okay now. Kurt is here. Kurt will make things better.

Kurt does, whispering and stroking over Blaine's hair, holding him close and rocking them as Blaine fights the images, the demons, the voices and the phantasmal pain. The idea of something, Kurt's saying (or maybe it's Blaine, he doesn't know anymore, just wants to sink deeper and deeper down into this blissful dark void of nothingness where his thoughts don't mass together in a high-speed clutter) is very different from the reality of it.

"Write it down," Kurt is saying, his palm broad and soothing over Blaine's heaving back. "You're going to have to write this down in your journal."

Like he can feel like, see it, the fissures in Blaine's glittering chrysalis fuse back together just a little bit more.