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Author: Layna
Title: Another Flavor of the Month
Series: Flavor of the Month
Pairing: Blaine/Kourt
Status: New, Complete
Rating: NC-17 for dubious consent and explicit flavor comparison
Archive: KCFC, Fox, please
Notes: Thanks to Hiper Bunny for letting Kourt out to play, and for
invaluable technical details. Thanks to Fox for her ever-perfect beta
artistry. Thanks to Kitten Rose for additional dialogue not used in
this edit, but very appropriate in its place
("nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnbgt"). Thanks to all who asked for more
Blaine!
The best place in the world, for me, is where I am right now, naked,
in bed, with Kourt. Exploring. Discovering things: the way all that
curly hair feels against my belly, the soft skin at the back of his
knees, the way he smells when he's hot. He's still new to me, and he's
just so... well. Kourt. I could just eat him.
But he won't let me, damn him: Every time I move down that way, he
pulls me up.
"You really don't want to do that."
"Why not? You don't like it?" I can't imagine someone not liking that,
but you have to allow for a certain amount of strangeness. Especially
with Kourt.
"No, no. I like it fine." He was splayed across the bed; now he folds
up, knees and elbows out. He's fidgeting, he's fooling with his hair.
"It's... the taste."
"I like the taste. I like it a lot." I get his fingers out of his
hair, kiss them, suck the tip of his forefinger into my mouth a
moment, just to show him... He pulls it out, goes back to fidgeting,
green eyes looking askance. Damn him.
"No, you don't understand. It's different."
"Everyone tastes a little bit different. I've tasted enough men to
know." And women too, with their sweet bold tender flowers, and they
taste good too, but I'm not mentioning that to Kourt; he's funny that
way.
"No. It's really different. Look... you know I'm not human."
"Yeah." And he'll endlessly agonize about that, sure, but I don't
consider it a problem. Not remotely. "So?"
"Well, I can do a pretty good job looking human. And I can feel
human."
"You can feel better." I nuzzle up against him, kiss the side of his
neck.
"Mmm. But I can't taste human. I'm what I am."
"I like what you are. And I like tasting different things. Let me?"
And I reach down, run a hand down his chest, and gods, that beautiful
erection, it's there for me, isn't it? All long and thick, the way I
like it.
"No. Maybe later." And then he's got me on my back, his long dark hair
hanging down around my face, and he just takes my breath away the way
he kisses, and I'm inclined let the whole subject go in favor of
enjoying the moment.
I don't know what woke me up this morning, so early that the sun's
just coming up over the beach, but a cool salt breeze is pushing the
curtains around, and Kourt's still asleep. He's flat on his back, hair
spread out over the pillow, sheets kicked off, with the sweet blank
innocence of the sleeping. Beautiful. If he were awake he'd argue with
me about that, but he's asleep and he can't say anything about it so I
can call him beautiful all I like. I sit up and watch him a moment.
He's deep in sleep, no question about that.
And look at that. He's hard.
That doesn't happen when he's asleep, not very often. It's part of the
way he's constructed: he has to move things around, get them into
place. He has to think about it to do it, so getting hard in his sleep
is sort of like talking in his sleep. I wonder what he's dreaming
about.
And then I think, he didn't say absolutely not. He said later. Right
now feels like later to me.
I love giving head. It's the simple joy of doing something I know I'm
good at. Some people say it's a submissive thing, going down, but for
me, it isn't remotely like that. I'm in control, in power, I'm doing
it all, and I love that I can reduce a strong man to pure helplessness
with just my lips, my tongue, and my throat. I love the sounds they
make, the way they move, they way they look. I love giving them that
gift, and watching them lose control, and when they come, it's
beautiful. And the taste. Men really do all taste a little bit
different, and I like every one I've tasted so far. There's a little
bit of worship in this, done right, and I am a religious man.
Oh, Kourt, let me.
I run my hand up the inside of his thigh, very lightly. He sighs,
stirs a little. Still asleep. Good. I kneel between his legs.
On some level I realize I'm doing sort of a risky thing. I've got a
trained killer in my bed, certainly the most dangerous person I'll
ever meet, and I'm not exactly sure how he might react if he's
startled awake. Best to start slowly, then, and hope that by the time
he's actually awake, I've convinced him.
I bend down and very lightly breathe on his cock, just warming it,
letting it know I'm there, getting it used to the idea. Oh, it's
beautiful, all right: deep rose color, lightly veined, big, with a
large head, ample balls. I haven't seen this one before, and I wonder
if it's someone he's known, or if he's made it up entirely. He mostly
bases them on real cocks, ones he's seen or touched; he goes for human
realism nearly all the time. I think of it as art, a sculpting of his
own flesh. He's made me mine, a few times, and it's a peculiar thing,
seeing it from a new angle, finding out what it feels like to the ones
I've fucked. This one definitely isn't mine, though -- longer, and a
little thicker. My breath on it is clearly welcome; it moves the
tiniest bit toward the source of warmth. Good.
Very, very gentle strokes, now, lightest finger-touches to his strong
thighs, the crisp dark curls surrounding that cock. I'm touching so
lightly, no harder than breath, and it's a lovely thing to see those
hips stir just the slightest bit, urging me to give him just a little
more. And I do.
The skin on a cock is the softest skin anywhere on a man's body, like
rose petals, like silk, like the idea of silk, but softer, and I run
two fingers up from the base of the cock Kourt's made this morning,
lightly, just feeling that softness stretched over such hardness. It's
what I love about that organ, maybe what's made me blithely pursue and
pleasure so many of them: that softness over hardness, that
contradiction and combination, that melody of textures. Kourt's rises
to my touch, like a cat that wants more petting, and I give it to him:
a little firmer stroke, with the palm of my hand.
And then my lips follow where my hand was stroking, softly, and then
my tongue, lightly, tasting: the salt of his overnight sweat, a hint
of the peppermint soap he likes, and just a little bit of myself, from
last night, to remind me of the delicious ache I'm feeling inside this
morning from my exquisitely enthusiastic Kourt. There's something else
there, too, that underlying taste of the man himself. I can't place
what it is, exactly; a subtly stronger version of what he tastes like
all over. Good.
I lick in earnest now, the shaft and the head, one hand delicately
fondling the heavy balls, the other exploring the place just above and
behind his cock. Most of his real sex organs, his gurden, that's
usually in his belly below his navel. It moves into his cock when he
makes an erection, but there's a bit of it that's always just there,
under the hair and skin, above the root. From the way he's reacted
when I've touched there before, I think it could be the most sensitive
part of all. Light touching is what's wanted there, and just a little
bit of pressure from my thumb brings a moan from him, still sleeping.
He likes this. I wonder again what he's dreaming about.
I take the head, with its softest skin of all, into my mouth now, and
work my tongue around it, swirling, wetting it good. It's big, this
cock Kourt has this morning, and this much of it fills my mouth, while
his hips roll just a little bit in his sleep, pushing, urging me to
take more of him into me, and he makes the most astonishing little
whimpering sound.
I take a deep breath, now, close my eyes, and swallow him whole, down
to the root, his balls against my chin. Gods, but this took me a
little while to learn to do, with sweet patient teachers who were
willing to wait until I overcame my gag reflex and learned to breath
through my nose. How women do it, with their small delicate mouths, I
don't know. I hold him there, still, a moment, that thick cock filling
my throat so full, the workings of it throbbing there, the smell of
him concentrated there in that curly hair that's pressed to my nose,
oh beautiful my Kourt. Then I swallow around it, once, and I know from
experience just how incredibly good that feels, the pull and squeeze
of a throat around a cock, and oh to give this to my lover is such
joy, and I do it again, and he makes a sound that could possibly be my
name in some language somewhere.
And suddenly there's his hand in my hair, and absolutely no question
at all: he's awake, he's conscious, and yes, he knows exactly what I'm
doing, and I have precisely one second to panic until that hand cups
the back of my head in the universal signal for "don't stop." Thank
you, gods.
I swallow again, and lay my hand flat against his belly there just
above that cock, just above my nose, and press that so-sensitive spot
firmly and gently, and swallow one more time, and from the sound he
makes then and the way his hips buck and the way his cock surges,
that's all it's going to take.
I pull back a little, just so that his come doesn't all go right down
my throat before I get a taste, because after all, curiosity about
that taste was what got me into this position, on my knees between
those legs of his, and my curiosity's well rewarded. Thick and sweet
and hot going down, warm in my belly, delicious spilling over my lips,
and Kourt was right. It is different. The flavor's strong, spicy,
like nothing I would have guessed, so very good, and he pulls me up in
his arms and I kiss him thoroughly to share it with him and show him
that I like his different taste, the way I like his different body,
the way I like the way he's nothing like anyone I've ever known. The
look of obvious relief on his face, once he's recovered enough to
express anything besides the obvious, is a fine thing to see.
He laughs when I ask him how long I have to wait before I can have
some more of that.
Years from now, when Kourt's sent off on missions that outweigh
protecting one person on one small world out here on the Rim, and I'm
waiting, worrying, and missing him fiercely, I'll be raiding the
kitchen for cloves.
-end-
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