A/N: This is a re-write.
It's the pants that do it.
Those skin tight pants Kurt decided to wear tonight.
Blaine can usually ignore his urges, push aside his fantasies and put up a strong front until they get home, but those pants - sumptuous brocade, crimson on black, with peekaboo sides at the hips - are his kryptonite. A secret weapon Kurt created to turn him on, seduce him without words, stoke the fires of every dirty dream he's ever had of worshipping Kurt's ass – kissing his beautiful hole; fingering him so deep his toes cramp from curling; making love to him up against a wall, with his legs wrapped around Blaine's waist, holding on tight while Blaine takes his time, reminding Kurt through rough strokes and soft kisses how smoking hot he is.
And the kicker - the bear trap around the balls that makes Blaine insufferably hard - is that Kurt doesn't even seem to realize he's doing it. If he was intentionally teasing Blaine, wearing fuck me pants and wiggling his ass at inopportune times to see Blaine tent his Armani slacks, Blaine might see it as a challenge and be able to deflect him. But Kurt - working the room, talking to journalists and posing for photogs, laughing over private jokes with other designers and a few influential buyers - doesn't seem to have a clue how much Blaine is suffering, how tightly he's closed his jacket in front of his crotch, how desperately he's clinging to his flute of champagne as if it's the single last unwinding thread of his sanity. He's finally forced to hide behind a planter to obscure his erection when Kurt drops his pen and bends over thoughtlessly to retrieve it.
Kurt actually designed and made this particular pair of torture-inducing slacks, so they're tailored to him. They hug every one of his subtle curves, accentuates that gorgeous, taut, tomato backside that Blaine's been dying to take a bite out of.
Blaine figures he can withstand the pain, travel from ficus to ficus when he needs to make his way across the room, endure in silence until the evening winds down to a close, and then beg his boyfriend to put him out of his misery.
He replaces his champagne flute security blanket with his iPhone and checks the time.
10:53.
These parties usually go till around two in the morning.
Jesus Christ, he's never going to make it!
He breathes in, sucks in a double-lung full of air, and blows it slowly out, ignoring the way his dick bobs when he does, the poor guy assuming that some sort of action is coming his way if Blaine needs more oxygen. Blaine figures if he just stands still, if he doesn't breathe, doesn't think, stares off into space with a not-too creepy but unengaging smile on his face, he should be fine. He'll survive. He'll make it through.
Suddenly, a band enters the room. They set up on stage, and music starts. Kurt, never one to sit out on a Gloria Estefan cover band, joins the tipsy masses on the dance floor, letting the rhythm of a mock Miami Sound Machine claim another willing victim. Of course, being true to their lineage, the first song they play is Conga. There Kurt goes, shaking his luscious rump, and Blaine almost drops to his knees.
Good God! he moans inside his head. That thing has a mind of its own! It moves separate from his body, and when Kurt thrusts his hips up, Blaine knows that they have to leave … now!
Blaine gauges the distance between his current potted plant and the next in his head, planning a route from pottery to table to cluster of drunk dancers, all the way to his boyfriend. When he has every inch of it mapped out, he makes a break for it, hoping that his current route takes him far enough away from Isabelle Wright's table to keep him from getting cornered by Kurt's shrewd boss.
She's a friendly enough woman, but she can also sense an untimely boner a mile away.
There's a tense second when Blaine almost gets caught up in the throes of an impromptu Conga line, but he muscles his way through, taking hold of Kurt's arm. God! He's so hot from dancing and thrusting and shaking his ass that he's sweating through his Versace shirt, and he doesn't even seem to care.
"We have to go," Blaine says, pulling Kurt urgently by the elbow.
"What? Why?" Kurt pouts, his protruding lower lip begging to be bitten. "We're having such a good time!"
We? Blaine thinks. Not entirely …
"It's … uh … an emergency." Blaine looks around the room for anyplace closer than home where they can possibly do the deed – a bathroom, a coat closet, maybe the kitchen? Okay, Kurt would never consent to having sex in a hotel kitchen …
"Oh." Kurt glances down at the phone in Blaine's hand, confused. "Did you get a call or something?"
"Uh … no …" Blaine fumbles as he leads his boyfriend away from the prying ears and eyes of admirers trying to coax Kurt back onto the dance floor. "It's just … there's something uber important we need to do."
Kurt's nose scrunches as he struggles to understand.
"Our Uber driver sent you a text?" Kurt asks, having difficulty hearing Blaine over a sudden surge of trumpets blaring.
"No, I …" Blaine looks left and right, leaning in to talk into Kurt's ear. "I'm having a personal issue that I really need you to help me with." Blaine opens his jacket, revealing his covered crotch, and motions down to it with significant sweeps of his eyes. But with darkness between them, Kurt sees nothing amiss.
"Did you rip your pants?" Kurt asks. "Do you need me to sew it up for you? Because I think that Chase might have …"
"Kurt!" Blaine whimpers, hoping to find a way to get him to understand without having to say it out loud. They're at a party for Kurt's work. Kurt is in line for a promotion. He needs to make as stellar an impression on the higher-ups as possible. This job is very important to him. This isn't Blaine's world. If Blaine makes an ass out of himself, he doesn't need to worry too much because he never has to come back and face anybody at Vogue again.
But Kurt … he can't ruin this for Kurt.
"Yes, Blaine?"
"I'm having" - Blaine does manage to come up with one thing. It's lame, inspired by a conversation a long time past (like high school past), but he hopes it works – "a code blue emergency."
Kurt's forehead wrinkles but he relaxes, the smile on his face becoming wider. "What?" He chuckles. "What's that?"
"Kurt …" Blaine shifts on his feet, trying to readjust himself without grabbing his dick, the chafing of his head against the waistband of his underwear becoming intolerable. But Kurt mistakes what he's doing for dancing and loops his arms over Blaine's shoulders.
"Aw, Blaine. If you wanted to dance with me, all you had to do was ask," Kurt purrs as the next song starts. The beat is racy, the perfect opportunity to tango, but Blaine is reluctant to move outside of the two foot square he's claimed on this section of the floor. Kurt seems content to sway in place with his boyfriend, but with no clue as to his current predicament, he grinds against him. The first brush of Kurt's crotch against Blaine's aching member makes Blaine see stars. He grabs Kurt's biceps and puts a few inches between them.
"Kurt …"
"Blaine …" Kurt giggles nervously at the strain on his boyfriend's face. "Wh-what's going on? You can tell me."
"Kurt, I'm trying …"
"Blaine?"
"Kurt …"
"Blaine! Just spit it out!"
"Kurt!" Blaine forces the words through clenched teeth until he's almost yelling. "Your … urgh! Your ass looks hot in those pants, I have a raging boner, and we need to find a place to go have sex … now!"
Kurt's smile drops. Then his whole face drops. But, unfortunately for Blaine, that does nothing to kill his erection. In fact, the perfect 'o' shape of Kurt's lips makes his throbbing hard-on that much harder.
Luckily for Blaine, nothing major or earth shattering happens after his revelation. The music doesn't stop with his voice rising over the crowd to announce to all those gathered that he has a hankering for filthy sex with his gorgeous boyfriend. A few people close by take a collective step away, snickering behind their hands, and Isabelle Wright appears out of nowhere - in a puff of smoke in Blaine's opinion. She takes Kurt and Blaine by the arm and leads them toward the door of the ballroom.
"Uh, sweetie. A word, please?"
Oh great! Blaine thinks. She's kicking us out. Kurt's boss is kicking us out. He's going to lose his job, he's going to lose everything. He's going to sink into a dark pit of depression, and it'll be all my fault … and on a less sympathetic note, I'm never getting laid again. Better start liking the color blue, Blainey, because as of tonight, your balls are going to be that color till you die.
They stop at the door, Kurt looking at Blaine with pale, frantic worry; Blaine looking at Kurt with an apologetic frown; and Isabelle looking at both of them with cunning eyes and a wide, toothy grin.
Blaine decides he has to do something. He has to save Kurt's job at all costs. It's not Kurt's fault his boyfriend's dick has no filter, and that he blurted that remark out in front of every important person in the fashion world. If Isabelle kicks him out, fine. Makes an example of him? Okay.
But not Kurt.
"I am so sorry, Ms. Wright," Blaine begins. Begging seems to be his only way out of this, even if it's to the wrong person. "I didn't mean to …"
"Tut-tut-tut." She cuts him off with a gesture of her hand like a mouth closing.
Blaine's lips shut tight.
Kurt goes white.
Isabelle practically cackles.
She reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out something that looks like a credit card.
No, Blaine realizes. Not a credit card. A key card.
And in that moment, he sees a bright end to the tunnel that has been his never-ending blue balls.
That's why Kurt calls her his fabulous fairy godmother! She grants wishes on the spot.
"Just so you know, Vogue has a suite in this hotel for that sort of thing," she informs them. "All you need to do is tell me and you're free to use the room until someone else … needs it."
Blaine attempts to save face, tugging at the hem of his jacket and standing up straight while Kurt, with his jaw to the floor, hasn't caught up yet. Blaine calmly slides the key card from between Isabelle's matte black stiletto nails. "That's … good to know."
"Thanks?" Kurt says, mildly disturbed, stumbling over his feet when his overanxious boyfriend yanks him away.
"Oh, and guys – if you see any red blinking lights, just ignore them," Isabelle says, waving those dangerous nails with exaggerated nonchalance. She winks at Blaine. It stops him for a step, but then he shrugs, grabs Kurt's wrist, and leads him away.
"Wha-? Isabelle …" Kurt starts, but Blaine yells, "Will do!" and races out the door.