This story is already posted, and is one chapter ahead on AO3 under the same title and author's name.
This fic is based off of the Drew/Emmett plot from the awesome show Queer as Folk. I see a lot of similarities between Peter Paige in the show and Chris Colfer, though Chris is definitly cuter. They both have the quirky smile, pixie ears, button nose and blue eyes. Their characters are also fairly similar, with the stay-true-to-yourself attitude, eccentric fashion sense and desire to be loved, so I'm able to pretty easily stay true to Emmett's role. Blaine and Drew however, couldn't be more different so I'm going to have to change a lot of his motivations.
Anyway, Blaine in this is a rookie cornerback for the NY Jets. I will say straight up that I know nothing about football, and my research consisted of googling 'short football positions' and going with the first website's suggestions. Apparently cornerbacks need to be fast and have good reflexes and can often be a bit smaller than the average player so. That's Blaine's position.
The house manages to somehow summarize everything that Kurt hates and what he loves about the mega-rich of New York City.
There's the pretense - in bucket loads. For example: the fifteen-foot marble pillars lining the arched entryway, the gaudy fountain sunk into the centre of the tiled hall in the form of a larger-than life Muse cradling a lyre and crowned in a halo of roses. Chubby little cherubs peek out of the flowing robes, jets of water shooting from their cupped hands. The muse -Aoidē if Kurt's hazy memories of his second year Mythology course were accurate- is slightly unconventional in her features. While the Muses are generally portrayed as figures of ideal Grecian feminin beauty, with light, curling hair pined back and soft, oval faces, this toga-clad woman had loose, straight hair and straight across bangs which would have been entirely unfashionable in Ancient Greece.
Of course Rachel Berry would commission a fountain carved with her face. The young broadway star has become infamous in the short span of her career as a level one diva, and utterly full of herself. But it's all thanks to this inflated ego, Kurt reminds himself as he tries to keep his wingtips from clicking so very loudly against the floor, that he is even here in the first place.
Reaching the end of the cavernous foyer, Kurt hesitates, glancing back at the rear end of the fountain, and beyond it the magnificently wrought elevator door which had carried him to be delivered unto this sanctum of sumptuousness. The gleaming cage had clanged shut behind him, but all he has to do is press the single button in the wall and it would return to restore him to the real world, thirty-nine stories below, where people like him went about their days and went home to their tiny, leaky apartments.
But Kurt hasn't gotten to where he is - poised to graduate from Nyada in the spring, interning for one of the most prestigious fashion magazines in the world, and now running his very own event-planning business with growing success - by being phased by a little showiness.
Beyond the foyer is a sprawling living space, the far wall made up entirely of full-length windows overlooking downtown, Stratton Island just visible in the distance. Kurt takes in the enormous fireplace in the middle of the room, the magnificent mural decorating the largest stretch of wall, the obviously imported rugs, vases and leather furniture. The last (and only) time he's been here the room had been packed with a hundred plus of the city's elite personalities, the buzz of conversation drowning out the pleasant trickle of the more tasteful water feature that flowed sedately down the wall behind the fully stocked bar counter. Now the room appears to be totally vacant, save for the centerpiece of the whole area, a beautiful golden birdcage that housed dozens of flittering birds.
It's ridiculously ostentatious, the cage positioned in front of the windows so that the sun, low in the sky, catches on the intertwining bars, sending a million tiny shards of light scattered over the walls, floor, and arched ceiling. But it also appeals to the hopeless romantic that resides not-so-deep in Kurt's heart. He paces closer, watching as an actual nightingale hops from one perch to another, trilling sweetly. He smiles, daring to slip a single finger into the cage, whistling softly to encourage the bird to come to him.
"They're Rachel's babies." The voice echoes from the short flight of steps that spills into the kitchen area. Kurt jumps back guiltily, only to stumble when his messenger bag tangles between his legs. He mentally curses himself for not making time to sew the strap shorter like he'd been meaning to since Finn gave it to him for Christmas. Bless the boy for trying but only his stepbrother would buy an unadjustable bag and forget that the general population was a full half-foot shorter than he.
"I-I'm sorry." Kurt manages to get out while regaining his composure, "I didn't think that anyone was in - the doorman who let me in thought that Miss Berry had left."
"And so she did." Blaine Anderson smiles, hands in his pocket as he takes the last three stairs in one bound. "But lucky for you, I'm taking a day in. So. Will you settle for second best?"
If Kurt didn't know better, if this was an exchange between strangers in a bar, he would have thought that he was being hit on. As if there was a world where a man like Blaine Anderson, gorgeous, charming, the NFLs favourite rookie, and the cornerback who'd seemingly come out of nowhere to lead the New York Jets to the Super Bowl.
Or so his father had told him when Kurt had called him last week to gush ecstatically about the gig he'd landed catering for a party who's guest list included only every single Broadway bigwig as well as a handful of producers and agents from the east coast. The only times Kurt paid any attention to professional spots was to collect talking points for debate with Tina over homoerotic undertones in mainstream media, and when his dad got excited about something and wanted to talk about it. Apparently Blaine Anderson was exciting enough to spend a good chunk of time enthusing over, especially so because he is one of the rare, good-ol' Ohio success stories.
Rich, famous, well-liked by fans, colleagues and media alike, men like Blaine Anderson were out of bounds. Kurt had gone to school with guys like that, the jocks, the golden boys. Sure Anderson had rocked the boat a little, unashamedly admitting on national television to having performed in his school's choir as a teenager, and that yes, he does have joint dance lessons with Rachel when he's in town.
"Um." Kurt says, not sure what he's supposed to say that that. "Yeah. I'm just here for my check and my supplies and I'll get out of your hair."
Anderson doesn't help dispel the surreal feeling when he responds by insisting that Kurt stay for a drink. He offers beer at first, of course, padding over to the industrial sized fridge, his bare feet whispering over the blood red tiles of the floor. He's dressed casually in flatteringly clingy track -pants and a Jets T-shirt that pulls tightly across his shoulders when he leans to rifle through the food for their drinks.
Kurt has never been much of a beer person, though he suffers through a bottle now and then during "bonding" with his dad and Finn. He doesn't even like the brand that Blaine hands him, but for the sake of politeness and also because he's a coward he takes the beverage without comment and sips it, trying to keep from grimacing.
"Here's your check." Blaine says, holding a folded piece of paper out between two fingers. "We had a service come in this morning to clean everything, so all of your stuff is washed and ready to go." He cocks his head toward the island counter where Kurt equipment has been polished to a shine and stacked neatly, waiting for him.
"Oh thank god." He can't help from moaning in relief, "That frees up my evening. You do not know the meaning of 'time consuming' until you've scraped Cherries Jubilee off of thirteen pans."
Blaine hums and leans his elbows back against the counter, allowing his shirt to rise up and allow a thin strip of tanned hip to peek into existence. The track pants hang low on his hips, no hint of underwear to be seen. Kurt's eyes trace the thin line of a vein over the jut of pelvis, across olive skin that has obviously been waxed smooth. He realizes that he's staring and rips his gaze away.
"Surely you have people to do that for you." Blaine is saying, an amused brow raised as if he'd noticed Kurt's moment of weakness. "I mean, it's your name on the business cards, and your hors d'oeuvres on the plates, it seems wrong that you should have to take care of the cleaning up as well."
"Oh gosh no." Kurt giggles nervously and fidgets with the paper slip in his hands. "I do basically everything. Mike and Sam, the waiters last night, are my brother's friends who only agreed to help me out once they heard that it was your party. I had a partner who helped me out with the food, but he backed out on me when he got a promotion at his other job."
"So it's just you." Blaine muses, taking a swig from his own beverage. "Just one multi-talented man behind the hottest event planning business in NYC. I'm impressed Mr Hummel."
"Hardly the hottest." Kurt is quick to amend, fighting the unattractive blush he can feel rising in his face. "I've had some good luck. But I'm just a broke college student really, and in this city, I'll need more than that to even stay on the radar."
"Oh, I'd say you definitely are the hottest." Blaine smirks over his bottle, hazel eyes taking an unmistakable trip down Kurt's body. "I'm sure you'll continue to...get lucky...for quite a few years yet."
"O-oh?" Kurt stutters, and his face is completely aflame in a way that he knows makes him look like he's having a particularly ugly allergic reaction. He shuffles over to the right, lifting his plus-sized mixing bowl off the counter and pretending to examine the gleaming surface. Really he just wants to place the island between himself and the other man who continues to casually eye him like a piece of meat at a butcher. "I uh, hope so sir."
Blaine's smile widens and he shifts along so that they're on the same side of the kitchen. "Oh please don't call me that, we can't be that far apart in age, I'd imagine that I'm no mare than a year or two older than you."
"Younger." Kurt blurts, drawing from the bits he remembers from his father's summary of Blaine Anderson: a biography. "Er, I'm a year older than you s- Mr Anderson."
"Oh?" Just when Kurt had thought that grin couldn't get any bigger, he's proved wrong. "Well maybe I should be the one calling you sir. Would you like that?"
A twitch in Kurt's nether-regions seems to indicate that he would indeed like that quite a lot. He's immensely grateful that a late season cold-snap had forced him to wear his knee-length pea-coat today. "I, um, that's not necessary Mr Anderson. My name works just fine."
"Your name? That being Kurt correct? I can call you Kurt?" Kurt nods uneasily, fingers stroking the rim of the bowl, no doubt leaving fingerprints all over the clean surface that he'll have to wash off later. "Excellent then you must call me Blaine."
Shit. Well played. Kurt scrambled for a way to steer this exchange into less...tense waters. "My dad is a huge fan." He says, voice high even for him. "He's normally more of a college league guy but you've managed to shift his attention."
"I'm flattered." Blaine places his beer down next to the sink. "What about you, what's your team?"
"I, er, am not a football fan in general. I've just never really understood the appeal of three hours of full grown men in tight pants jumping all over each other. No offense."
"Not at all. Although I personally don't see what's not to like about that description of the sport." He actually honest to god winks, and Kurt has to remind himself not to gape like an idiot at the way his eyelashes fan over his cheek.
"I guess-" Kurt bites his lip, thoughts racing. Changing the topic had only brought them back to this, whatever this is, and he needed desperately to lighten the mood. "It's odd you know? For a sport with such a...an emphasis on masculinity it has an awful lot of hugging and ass-slapping. The way you play your Sunday afternoon games doesn't look all that different from how I play mine on Saturday nights. What's the deal with that?"
"Just friendly encouragement." Blaine replies evenly, clasping his hands behind his back with a loud clap. "It can get...intimidating to say the least, to have to spend every day getting pushed around by a pack of guys who weigh two-hundred plus pounds and could be mistaken for trees when they go for walks through the park. And with all the focus on winning and being champions, it's easy to lose sight of what is most important, the team. Those guys respond best to the physical, so this," and suddenly he's right beside Kurt, and his hand is planted firmly against his thigh, "is to re-establish the comrade."
"A-ah!" Kurt yelps, and then tries to cover it up with a noise of understanding. "T-that makes sense. I can s-see how it would get a little..." He gasps as the hand on his leg slides up and around to cup his ass. "Tense."
"Mm-hmm very." Blaine steps further into Kurt's space, walking him backward until his back hits the wall. Thankfully he removes his hand from where it had been gently kneading Kurt's buttock in order to plant both fists on either side of his head. "Especially for guys like me. Young. Short. Don't weigh as much as a motorcycle. I have a lot to make up for. But I'm stronger than most people would think. Here, feel my bicep."
Kurt feels like his eyes must be bugging right out of his head. He's certain that this has to be a joke. If he touches Blaine now any number of things could happen. It's true, Blaine is an unusually petit athlete, but Kurt has no doubt that he could still lay him out with little effort. "Go on." Blaine says, eyes intense and not even a foot away from Kurt's. "Feel my bicep Kurt."
Wearily, Kurt complies, trying futilely to keep from trembling when he lays his fingers lightly against the firm curve of Blaine's flexed arm. "It's hard." He squeaks, "Very hard, very nice arm. Yup, nice and strong definitely."
"Thanks." Blaine grins, then snatches Kurt's hand in his and jerks it down between their bodies and presses it firmly to his groin, pining it against the undeniable length of his erection through his track pants. "How about this?"
"O-oh my god!" Kurt shudders, weakly pulling agains the other man's grip. Blaine only shoves closer, so that their bodies are completely flush, trapping their hands between them. "Y-yes that's h-hard too. V-very hard indeed."
"Yeah? And nice? It it...nice as well Kurt?" Blaine breathes moistly right into Kurt's ear. And why must his body always betray him? Kurt's hips twitched forward into the warmth of Blaine's body against his, cock filling out his briefs embarrassingly fast.
"I-ah! W-what about Rachel?" He gasps as wet lips meet his jaw, nipping at the skin playfully. Fuck but Blaine's body was nice, was magnificent rubbing up over their twined fingers, humping roughly against him. And it had been so long, so very long since he'd had more than his own fist in the shower. Between striving to convince Isabelle to find him a paying position, putting together his final project, and preparing for last night's soirée...fuck. The soirée that was held to announce the engagement of one of his idols to this man who's thigh he is currently riding...
"Rachel is out with her co-stars, dancing the night away." Blaine growls and scrapes his teeth down the tendon in the side of Kurt's throat. There are fingers under the back of Kurt's coat, pulling his shirt out of his pants.
"B-but you're getting married! I-I don't understand-"
The hand keeping Kurt's arm trapped is suddenly gone, same with the mouth at his neck, and Blaine wiggles his fingers in the air. Kurt blinks at the appendage, more specifically, at the second finger from the left, conspicuously lacking the thick, diamond-studded band that had been one half of last night's main attraction. "There's nothing to understand gorgeous." The man murmurs, sliding his hands down Kurt's arms, grabbing him firmly and spinning him to face the wall. "I'm going to fuck you."
"O-oh. Nhg." The fingers return, flipping up the back of his jacket, curling over the waistband of his jeans and underwear and yanking them bodily down to his knees. "Ah! He moans as those fingers slide confidently between the cheeks of his ass, pressing against his anus and rubbing deliciously. Suddenly all moral objections seem pathetic and superfluous.
This kitchen is the kind of thing that Kurt loves about the mega-rich of New York City. The sleek, gleaming lines of stainless steal make his mouth water with all the possible dishes he could create, the perfect blend between utility and beauty. Functionality meets fashion. It's the kind of balance that Kurt wishes that the rest of the world would follow. The birdcage, the fountain, the pillars, all pretty but useless shows of wealth. But the custom-made, one of a kind food processor that is sent clattering to the imported hardwood when Kurt grapples for purchase while Blaine plows into him, actually has a practical, delectable purpose.
It's a reminder that these privileged few, the sliver of the population's pie-chart, are people too. No matter how hard they try to forget it, to hide their humanity from the lesser citizens behind masks of opulence and indifference, they are still anchored to the real world by things like hunger. They still stock their fridges with gross beer, still cheat on their partners with random strangers, still give in and let their passions drive them to fuck an unsuspecting caterer into oblivion.
"God Kurt." Blaine grunts into the nape of Kurt's neck, "So tight, so perfect." And drives deeper yet, fingers like vices on his hips.
"Fuck." Kurt whimpers, stroking himself off furiously with one hand. Jeez they don't joke about the stamina. They'd been going at it for twenty minutes now; Kurt knows because he's been glancing up at the clock, paranoid about Rachel, Blaine's fucking fiancée coming home and seeing this.
"Stop looking." Blaine rumbles so that Kurt can feel it down his entire body. "Nobody's coming. We have all the time in the world." He bats Kurt's hand off his dick and takes over, squeezing almost to the point of pain, and slows down the pace of his thrusts. Kurt sobs in frustration and chases Blaine's hand, seeking the rhythm that will bring him to the release that's so close he can taste it.
"Please." He gasps, reaching behind him to grasp for Blaine's forearm, digging his nails into the flexing muscles. "Oh please harder. I need to- I need-"
"I'll give you what you need." The other man pants raggedly, plastering a lightly-stubbled cheek against his shoulder. "I'll take care of you baby, I'll make you feel so good. Just hold on...for just...a little...longer..."
Kurt doesn't think he has a little longer left in him, but Blaine proves him wrong, and they rock together for another ten minutes before Blaine gives up on restraint and fucks them both to orgasm.
"You know what?" Blaine says as Kurt is straightening his clothes. Freaking hell they hadn't even removed his coat, just pushed their pants to their ankles and went at it like animals. "You really should hire a dishwasher."
"I thought we already went through this." Kurt grumbles, attempting to get his hair back into some semblance of order, grateful that he'd gotten into the habit of carrying a travel-sized can of hairspray in case of emergencies. Granted, he hadn't had this sort of situation in mind. "Starving student-slash-intern here, I can barely afford to pay Mike and Sam and they work for half-salary because I have crazy dirt on both of them from all those 'guys nights' I dd-d."
"Well I have a feeling that your...luck is about to change." Blaine says casually, and stoops to pluck Kurt's check up from where it had fluttered to the floor at some point. "Because I've had time to rethink the size of your tip." He grabs a pen out of a drawer and makes a quick mark on the slip. "There, all fixed."
Kurt takes the check and very nearly sinks to the floor in shock. There's now an additional zero tacked onto the end of his payment. "I-I can't possibly accept this!" He squeaks, "It's way too much!"
Blaine shrugs, "What can I say? It was an awesome party."
"Is this because of the...the sex?" Kurt's ears burn just from saying it. But outrage pushes him to raise his chin and meet the other's eyes despite his mortification. "Is this...payment? To keep quiet?"
"No, come on Kurt. I told you, I was impressed by your services." At Kurt's incredulous scowl he rolls his eyes. "I was impressed by your party-planning services. You made Rachel's party everything she dreamed it could be and I'm grateful. If you can't accept it as a tip then consider it an advance for my wedding."
"For your-for your wedding!" Kurt clutches at the too-long strap of his bag, slung across his body. "You don't mean-"
"Well somebody has got to do it, why not you?" Blaine stretches, elbows hooked behind his disheveled head. "I know you'll do a great job. And if it gives you incentive for...discretion regarding today's events, then all the better." And the man has the nerve to wink playfully, and goddamn Kurt for the fluttering the look spurs in his gut.
He wants to decline, to turn up his nose, spin on his heel and storm out of the penthouse. But contrary to the foolish decisions he's already made today, he's not an idiot. Of his three passions; singing, fashion and event coordination, the latter was the one he'd had he least intention of pursuing. But he thinks of his father's wedding and the pure, unhindered joy that he'd felt when all of his hard work had come together. He thinks of Tina and Mike's wedding, of the countless birthday bashes he's overseen for his friends. If he did this wedding, he'd get no small amount of exposure; there'd be hundreds of celebrities there, always looking for new ways to throw their money about.
"Alright." Kurt says, "I'll do it. I'm in classes for another two weeks, but after that I can start planning whenever you need."
"Brilliant." Blaine beams, placing a hand in the small of Kurt's back he trots them both up through the main room and into the foyer. "Rach wants a fall ceremony anyway, something about the colour of the leave doing wonders for her complexion. We'll pay you far more than that there of course, after the wedding."
Kurt nods mutely, mind already going to all the things he can now afford. An assistant to help with the cooking, a few full-time waiters, maybe buy actual uniforms for them. He'll be able to shop at all the high-end delis and vegan shops that he'd always avoided before. New pots and pans, new mixers and steamers, maybe even a van to transport it all. And after the full payment he'll have more than enough to do all the work on his apartment that it needs, hell, once the gigs start flowing in he'll be able to buy a whole new place, a something with actual walls so that he doesn't have to listen to Santana's sexual escapades every night.
Blaine punches the call button and they wait for the elevator in silence. When the metal grates slide open Blaine turns with a grin. "Well Mr Hummel, I am certainly looking forward to working with you again." And offers his hand.
Kurt shakes it and fixes a polite smile in place, with all the practiced skills that four years of acting classes has graced him with. "And you Mr Anderson." He replies cooly, striding into the lift with as much dignity as he could muster with his thighs and ass already aching. "You have my information, I'll wait for your call."
"Yes." The other man murmurs, "Yes you do that. I'll be in touch." And then Kurt is being whisked downward and away, back to the real world where things make sense.