Badboy!Blaine for the darling Sofia Michelle, with a bonus Cherrio!Kurt :D It's definitely been a while.
Hope you enjoy!
No Questions Asked
There's a rule to smoking under the bleachers: no questions.
No questions are to be asked, none to be answered. No "why are you here", "who are you", "what happened to your face". The only valid question is "got a light".
So when Mr. Straight-A student, Perfect at Everything, Head-Cheerio Kurt Hummel starts appearing regularly under the bleacher with a cigarette in hand, Blaine asks no questions. He just accepts his presence there and keeps his nose tucked safely in his own business.
It's a Tuesday morning, and he's skipping History. The teacher is boring, and he can study better on his own; so he's lounging on the ratty couch, lazily smoking, scrolling through Instagram.
It's still pretty chilly at this hour, but his leather jacket is thick and the back of the couch blocks the wind just enough that he's cocooned in a little nest of warmth.
Blaine's growing drowsy; he sets his phone on his chest and closes his eyes…
"Somebody didn't get his beauty sleep."
Blaine jerks awake and sits up so quickly that his phone slides off his chest and lands on the cement floor.
Kurt Hummel is standing over him, smirking.
"Scared the fuck out me, Hummel. Where did your manners go?" There's a dead cigarette between his fingers, and he drops it onto the floor before picking up his phone to make sure it's unscathed.
"I thought there was a rule about not asking questions down here, hmm?" says Kurt and sits down on the other side of the couch.
"Fuck off," Blaine says and gives him the finger.
"By the way, I really wouldn't recommend sleeping here like that. Makes you more vulnerable than you think. Plus, I'm pretty sure when Quinn was having sex with her girlfriend, it was on that side of the couch."
Blaine shudders in disgust and shifts away from the end of the couch.
Kurt grins, pulling a cigarette out of the backpack on the floor. "See, got you to sit closer to me."
Blaine narrows his eyes at him, lying back down. "The fuck is your deal?"
"No questions." He rummages through his backpack, and then sighs. "You got a light?" he asks, sticking the cigarette between his lips. It's ridiculously erotic, the sight of his red lips wrapped around the white cigarette. Blaine swallows.
"Yeah," he says, and gets the light out of his pocket. Kurt doesn't make any move to take it, just angles his chin towards Blaine, expecting him to light the cigarette for him. Blaine does, even though it takes him a few tries to actually work the lighter.
Once his cigarette is lit, Kurt inhales the smoke- his lips pucker around it deliciously- and leans back. "Thanks."
Blaine just stares at him, completely unabashed, while he smokes.
"Go back to sleep, Anderson," he says.
Blaine raises an eyebrow.
"You don't have to keep staring at me like I'm an Andrew Christian model, just go to sleep. I'll keep watch."
Blaine crosses his arms over his chest, but doesn't do much else. He closes his eyes and utters, "Better not wake up with some sharpie on my face."
Kurt says something, but Blaine is already dozing off. He falls asleep warm, almost too-aware of Kurt's weight by his feet.
He's woken up by the ruthless bell, alone, and his phone buzzes in his hand.
The message is from a contact he's sure he didn't have before- Kurt, accompanied by a winking emoji.
If you wanna get out of this hellhole for the afternoon…
"Fuck."
He texts back instantly.
Meet you in the parking lot. Don't get caught.