"Up, Blaine, up!" Kurt sighed to a snoozing Blaine, who was holding a faux Oscar tight to his body while sucking his thumb. He was curled around Kurt's ankles. As much as he wanted to punch the living daylights out of the boy sleeping on the floor (Kurt doubted whether he could do that), he couldn't help but want to pull him up by his collar and kiss the sober into him.
The members of New Directions were strewn throughout the grayscale room (as delightfully gay as Rachel's dads are, he still wanted to throttle them for the blank Oscar room. Why not a touch of gold?).
Lauren, Tina, Quinn, and Mike were nestled together on a small couch. Quinn had taken several pairs of glasses periodically during the night, and, currently, on her heart shaped face, she had Lauren's pair, Artie's pair, hot pink embellished cat eyes, and knockoff Juicy Couture.
Puck, Noah Puckerman, of all people, was cradling Artie's head to his chest and murmuring what sounded like Native American battle cries and Jewish hymns while Artie sobbed about his favorite movie of all time was Pocahantas because John Smith loved her, goddammit! He got shot for the dumb broad! Why did she hafta whore around with the Rolf?
Rachel was attempting to suspend herself from the ceiling by her ankles with silly string (Finn was trying to convince her it wasn't a good idea), and the whole company got a very lovely look at Rachel's big, white panties underneath her aquamarine nightgown.
Sam, Brittany, and Santana had their shirts pulled up (well, Brittany had discarded of her shirt long ago) and were comparing their abs. Santana started to cry when she learned that two blondes had harder abs than she did. In comfort, Sam began to coo Na'vi calls with Brittany providing harmony in quirky facts, such as "The Olympics were originally performed naked" and "Greek men used to have los sexy-times with the men to build their stamina" and, finally, "The elephant is the only mammal that can't jump!"
... And then there was Blaine.
Mr. Blaine Anderson was now rolling around near Kurt's feet as he took a seat on one of the many plush armchairs surrounding the large television. He was crooning a song from some unknown off-Broadway musical. "You seem at home on the court, you say that I've played around..."
Kurt looked at the boy at his feet, twisting and turning like a cat. He continued to sing, but now a different song. "ONE TWO THREE GOT MY BOYS AND GIRLS WE GONNA PARTY LIKE IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD - Kurt, boobie, come here, let me love you. Oh, yessss, Kurt, come closer, touch me, oh, YES, yes yes yes, I love it like that..."
Yet, Kurt hadn't touched him. Blaine was simply rolling around on the floor, resembling a certain Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge. Kurt wondered if he should be reciting poetry in a superbly awkward manner.
"Blaine, darling, please get up," Kurt pleaded. He knew he should be angry at the beautiful boy at his feet for kissing Rachel (Rachel! Of all people! Rachel Freakin' Berry!), but he couldn't resist the triangle eyebrows waggling up and down suggestively and his adorable little chin. The stubble wasn't helping, either.
"Ooooh, baaaaby, say that again..." Blaine purred. Kurt gulped as the drunk skunk inched his way up Kurt's leg while meowing and making cat noises.
"Er, um, no, Blaine, it's time for bed. Let's get you home..." He attempted to grab at the drunk's hands but Blaine sprang up and started patting Kurt's knees joyfully.
"Oh, Kurt! We're going to your house? Oh, boy, I want to see your room, baby, can I see your room and then make sweet, sweet, love to you all night and stain your virgin sheets?"
... Well.
Back the Gucci up.
Let's say that there is a radar for what Kurt was expecting. Say, one to fifteen. One being, "Kurt, how about you drop me off at my house?" and fifteen being, "Kurt, I would be positively jubilant if you can leave me here for the night so I may continue to get drunk."
What Blaine said was about a three hundred and ninety four.
He was still rolling on the floors, trying to tempt Kurt with his words, and he was babbling about "how cute and pure Kurt was and how his ass always looks like pure sex in his 7 Jeans" and Kurt was trying really, really hard to shut out Blaine's erotic babble and think of a plan.
"Wait!"
Blaine looked up.
"What is it, honey bear?"
Kurt decided to ignore that. "Well... You can come to my house."
"OH, KURT, ARE YOU GIVING ME PERMISSION TO SEX YOU U-"
"No, no, honey, I am not. We can sleep in my be-"
"YOUR BED, OH, I KNEW YOU WOULD WARM UP TO IT, YOUR SHEETS WILL BE STAINED WITH SPU-"
"No, Blaine! We can just sleep."
"...Well... Sleeping is okay. I suppose. Can we spoon?"
"... Yeah."
"Can I be the big spoon?"
"I hope you're not too horny."
"You will feel my rock hard boner against the small of your-"
Kurt was now finding it very difficult to ignore his neverending stream of porn. His crotch, however, was enjoying the fun. "No, Blaine, you horny little bitch."
Blaine gave him a crooked sort of smile.
"Come on, baby, let's go to my house. We can snuggle."
"Yay."