Blaine touches his bow tie to verify it still rests straight, runs one hand over his hair, and checks his reflection in the smeared glass panes of the door. Then he presses the buzzer near the building's entrance. It's a turn of the previous century brick warehouse with wide arched windows, cleaned up and converted into loft apartments—not the sort of place Blaine would normally consider within his rental budget. In his pocket is the clipping with the ad that caught his attention:
25yo SGM creative professional seeking interpersonally compatible SGM for unique roommate arrangement in spacious sunny Brooklyn loft near the Navy Yard. Rent highly negotiable. Must be DDF. Serious inquires only to email@example.com.
'Unique arrangement' and 'highly negotiable' had caught Blaine's attention. His quest for an affordable summer rental in New York both larger and better appointed than a rat-infested breadbox had him widening his search to include the long shots, no matter how far outside his budget they might initially seem.
He'd e-mailed a brief inquiry, including his budget and—if his budget were workable within the bounds of negotiable—a request for more information about the unique arrangement. Blaine gave a brief description of himself too: 21, heading into his third year as a musical theater student at NYADA. He wants to spend the summer in the city preparing for his classes in the fall instead of heading back to Ohio.
The response he got, from a man named Kurt Hummel, detailing the arrangement, was not remotely what Blaine expected. Instead of a greater share of household chores or cooking, Blaine received candid details of a very specific, very personal service in exchange for nominal rent. Blaine read Kurt's email ten times—along with some linked websites explaining the reasons for the requirements Kurt has due to a rare anxiety-related disorder that benefits from regular, intimate hands-on management.
The end of Kurt's email read, "My work is in fashion and fashion journalism and I've loved musical theater my whole life, so I think we could be a good fit as roommates. I keep a well-ordered clean space, and I'm very particular about keeping it that way. My neighbors are quiet, and my building doesn't allow pets. Will the latter be an issue? Probably not if you've been living in the NYADA dorms. Unless you have a goldfish, which I could probably accommodate.
"But I'm getting ahead of myself, I want to be clear that this is not an arrangement for casual recreational sex, but for reliable service in managing my condition. If you're not alarmed by the content of this email, please reply with a recent photograph and a little more about yourself. I've attached a photo of me taken last week so you can see I'm not a hideous troll."
There was a note after Kurt's signature: "P.S. I'm from Ohio too!"
It left Blaine smiling, and when Blaine finally summoned the gumption to open Kurt's photograph he found, no, Kurt was not a hideous troll.
Blaine then had sat on the bed in his dorm room with his laptop propped on his bent legs. He looked at Kurt’s e-mail side-by-side with his photograph for a few hours, caught between the strangeness of the situation and a surfacing of his own curiosity. And as he considered it, he found his curiosity morphing into desire. It settled a warm beckoning in his belly, and Blaine decided—impulsively, but not recklessly, he hoped—to indulge it. He wrote back to Kurt that evening, expressing his tentative interest in Kurt’s proposal. He attached a photo from his phone, one Sam had taken of him before his Spring showcase performance.
Less than an hour later, Blaine had a reply: a complimentary comment from Kurt on his photograph, including appreciation of his Brooks Brothers blazer and bow tie, and an invitation to come by, see the apartment, and meet in person the coming Sunday afternoon. Blaine wrote back promptly and said yes.
And now, here he is. The door buzzes and clicks unlocked. Blaine goes inside, walks past the bank of mail boxes and the caged door of the freight elevator to take the stairs. Sam's waiting for him at a nearby cafe. He's promised to text Blaine in twenty minutes to check in. Kurt seemed nice enough in email, but Blaine figures it's always wise to be safe. He and Sam are going to have lunch and check out the sights of the Navy Yard after.
When Blaine knocks, Kurt answers promptly, and—oh.
Blaine stands up straighter, and his heart skips its next beat. Kurt's photo is a poor representation of reality. He's more immediately striking in person, long-legged and slender with a sharp jaw and pretty features. His eyes are blue like sunlit ocean, his skin fair but for a faint scatter of freckles across his nose, and his thick chestnut hair is swept up in a glamorously disheveled pompadour. Blaine could write a sonnet.
That Kurt works in fashion is evident. He’s dressed in narrow trousers with a bold gray and white chevron pattern and a high collared short-sleeved shirt in sky blue pin-stripe. A colorful neckerchief is knotted snug at the base of his throat. It’s a polished look for a summer Sunday, and Blaine’s glad that he’s not the only one who may’ve dressed up.
And Blaine should be saying something, not simply standing there blinking in pleasure at the sight. At least, judging by the slow spread of Kurt's smile and the rise of his lovely eyebrows, Kurt's pleased by what he sees too.
"Hi!" Blaine extends his hand. "I'm Blaine."
"Kurt." Kurt takes Blaine's hand into a warm grip. "Obviously." His smile kinks flirtatiously, and his gaze flicks down the length of Blaine and back up to his face. "Come in, Blaine, please."
It's blessedly cooler in Kurt's apartment. Wide wooden Venetian blinds span the broad old warehouse windows; they’re angled to let in the light but keep the direct afternoon sun out. Ceiling fans spin lazily, suspended from the high angled ceiling. Exposed brick and steel i-beams are softened by a distressed wooden floor under a glossy layer of thick varnish. Kurt's decorated the airy living space in an eclectic mix of 1930's deco accented by exotic pieces of international traveler flare. On the dining table rests a shiny apple green sewing machine and an open laptop along with bolts of fabric and stacks of magazines, folios, and sketchbooks.
They make polite chitchat about Blaine's journey from Manhattan. Kurt gestures toward the seating area while he heads back toward the open kitchen. Blaine sets his satchel on the floor, slips his phone from his breast pocket to make sure the volume is on but low, and takes a seat on an elegant birch sofa. The lines of it, with its champagne velvet upholstery, look like something straight out of old Hollywood. The Persian rug spread at an angle on the wood floor is an intricately patterned maroon, ivory, and gold. Upon it, what appears to be a vintage Louis Vuitton steamer trunk serves as a coffee table. It's either genuine or an excellent reproduction. Living here would certainly be an upgrade from the NYADA dorms.
"I should tell you, I've never actually tried something like this before," Kurt says from the kitchen. In contrast to the rest of the living area, it’s entirely modern. The counters and the appliances are stainless steel, the cabinets sleek bamboo, and the backsplash a mosaic of glass tiles in soft blues and greens. A quintet of potted herbs squat on the wide island separating the cooking area from the living room. Kurt brings two cobalt blue bottles of chilled water back from the fridge. "Mostly, I've had boyfriends, and between boyfriends, a few generous friends and, uh—" Kurt grimaces before continuing, "willing strangers? Which is not ideal for me. I've been between boyfriends for a while now, so I'm trying something new." Kurt passes Blaine one of the bottles and sits in a leather armchair on the other side of the trunk.
"Thank you," Blaine says and he uncaps the water.
"Anyway," Kurt says, "my hope is to find an arrangement that's more reliable, less stressful, and mutually beneficial. My insurance doesn't cover hands-on sex therapy."
"It definitely sounds like a challenge," Blaine says, smiling politely. What might Kurt be thinking of him? What kind of person must he be to respond to such a proposition? "Um, for what it's worth," Blaine says, "I've never done anything like this before either. I've only had one serious boyfriend that ended in a painful break up. I went through a rough patch after that, some really unfortunate rebounds and other bad decisions. I put dating and romance on the back burner to focus on myself and my studies. I haven't really been with anyone for several months."
"Oh? No hook ups?"
"There were a few, through, uh, Grindr? A while ago now, but it's... none of them were encounters I'd care to repeat. It wasn't really my thing, not nearly as exciting as what I'd made up in my head."
Kurt nods and his smile turns sympathetic. "Yeah, I am definitely familiar with those small heartbreaks," he says. "Not that there's anything wrong with it, but I prefer—even with my issues—someone I'll still want to spend time with afterward. And someone who won't call me Kent or Carl during." Kurt's smile slants into a wry grin and there's a glint of humor in his eyes.
Blaine laughs. "Well, if you decide to offer me your spare room, I promise to remember your name, and I'll do my best to be worth spending time with after," he says, and then he closes his mouth, because that was maybe too much to say so soon. He's just got here. He shouldn't assume.
But Kurt is unfazed—seems pleased even. "So you are interested then?"
"Yeah, I think so? Your apartment is gorgeous, Kurt, and so are— That is, uh, I don't know how to say I find you attractive without it sounding creepy and opportunistic. Am I being creepy?"
"No, god, no, believe me, I've had enough experience that my creep-o-meter is a highly sensitive instrument. You, Blaine, are definitely not a creep, and I also find you attractive. You seem sweet. Some of the guys who answered my ad were demonstrably none of those things."
"Good to know. I can add that to my CV. Attractive and not a creep. Possibly sweet?"
Now Kurt laughs. "Did you want to see the room before you consider making any rash decisions?"
"I'd love to," Blaine says, and he winces at his own enthusiasm. He sets his water bottle on a sandstone coaster and stands with Kurt. Fortunately, Kurt still seems charmed as he leads Blaine back to where one end of the loft has been partitioned into two generously sized bedrooms and a single shared bathroom at the end of the hall. Kurt leads him into one of the bedrooms.
It's sparsely furnished, just a double bed made up with a gray striped bedspread, a small 3-drawer night stand, and a free standing clothes rack, which is half full of bagged clothing. Nothing adorns the walls and the tall arched window is dressed with plain calico curtains that filter the light into softness.
"Do you have much furniture of your own?" Kurt asks.
"Oh, not much, mostly just a chair and a keyboard," Blaine says. "I can get my parents to send my desk and dresser from home."
"Sure," Kurt says. "There's obviously room here for you to add your own touches. I have a spare floor lamp you could use, and maybe a bookshelf too? I know all the good flea markets in the city and the best antique shops upstate for good deals. I can help you find some good pieces if you want to shop for anything."
"That sounds like fun." Blaine says, and his phone dings. "Oh," he says, reaching into his pocket for it. Twenty minutes went quickly. "Excuse me, I need to check this, I'm meant to be meeting a friend for lunch."
Kurt nods and waits while Blaine replies to Sam. "He's nice and the apt is amazing," Blaine types. "Not sure how much longer, I'll text when I'm omw. If you don't hear from me in 40, pls call back."
"Sorry about that," Blaine says to Kurt.
"Don't be," Kurt says. "Do you have any other questions before you go? Personal or logistical?"
"Actually I was wondering about a couple things," Blaine says. "But I'm not sure what might be too personal?"
"If it's about sex, it's on the table, Blaine. This is a very personal arrangement, after all. Ask me anything."
Blaine chuckles and nods. "So, um, I'm guessing that masturbation doesn't work for you?"
"Ah," Kurt says, and he gestures for Blaine to precede him back into the hallway. "It helps sometimes? God knows I've relied on it enough in the past, but it rarely satisfies for long? It can aggravate the compulsion over time, so, I prefer sex with a partner rather than flying solo."
"Okay," Blaine says. "That, yeah, that makes sense to me." They head back to the living room. He presses his lips together and considers his next question. They pause to stand at the end of the hall, surveying the open space, and Blaine imagines himself living here. It feels good to imagine it. He also tries to imagine sex with Kurt, which his brain offers up as a sweaty breathless montage of unspecific naked writhing that makes him flush hot. He turns back to face to Kurt, and hopes his face isn't as red as it feels. "Can I ask you, uh, how often you need it to manage your, um—?"
Kurt leans against the corner of the white plastered wall. "How many times a day do I need sex?"
"Yes," Blaine says.
"Usually, at least four—including overnight. I haven't been able to sleep an uninterrupted eight hours since I was fifteen. Ideally, I try to keep a schedule, but it's not always that predictable—or practical. And sometimes I need to come more than once to get any relief. I don't have much of a refractory period." Kurt glances down at the end of it. It doesn't look like discomfort, but Blaine's got little frame of reference for this sort of conversation. Maybe Kurt's just waiting for Blaine, letting him decide.
"Okay," Blaine says slowly. Four times a day, including providing multiple orgasms on occasion is a lot, but not outside the realm of what he's capable of. He's young, has a healthy sex drive of his own. There was that weekend back during his senior year when he was with Sebastian. They must've gotten each other off a dozen times or more over the two days his parents were out of town. Kurt's sexy enough, Blaine can't imagine his own attraction or interest being a barrier. "I could keep up with that."
"Not that I'd expect you to come every time I need to," Kurt says. "Sometimes a hand job will do."
"Right," Blaine says, and his heart thumps harder at the thought of it. Specific words for what Kurt may want from him: the reason why he's here, ultimately. Potentially. To have sex with Kurt several times a day, and that includes—at the very least—giving him a hand job. It's not an unappealing thought.
Kurt smiles and tilts his head, peering at Blaine curiously. "So is this too weird yet?"
"No, it's—surprisingly enough—not too weird," Blaine reassures. "It's maybe exactly the right amount of weird for me." Blaine smiles. "I appreciate your frankness."
"Oh," Kurt says. "That reminds me, I have my most recent STD test results for you. I'm clean."
"I brought mine, as you asked. All clean here, too."
"Great," Kurt says, and their eyes catch and hold for a long moment. Heat grows in Kurt's gaze, and, as Blaine looks, he sees more: Kurt's sincere politeness fractured by a well-contained desperation. There's nothing threatening though, rather it tugs at Blaine, tempts him, makes him want to know it, find out how to ease it.
At least four times a day, Kurt said. Since he was fifteen. Blaine doesn't know how long it's been since Kurt's last orgasm, but he's willing to bet that whatever urge Kurt has to satisfy, it's present now and growing, because what they've been talking about isn't something abstract. Plus, it's been a while since Blaine's been intimate with anyone. Alluring as Kurt is, Blaine has to know if he can do this before he commits to anything. He moistens his lips before he speaks. "Would you like me to... do anything for you now? I could... audition?"
Kurt's mouth comes open with a sharp intake of breath. He blinks. "Are you saying you want to? Now?"
"I do," Blaine says. "I mean, if you do. I don't want to make a decision about this until I know we're compatible. Sexually. I need to know if I can give you what you need."
"Oh, god. Of course, Blaine. I should have thought of that. But I didn't want to presume or end up being a creep myself. I was going to take care of it after you left. But, um, that's... smart. Actually. So, yes, please. If you like." Kurt steps back into the hall, heading back toward the open door to the other bedroom.
Blaine follows, keeping his attention on Kurt. In the stifled low light of Kurt's room, Blaine can't make out much detail beyond dim furniture shapes and art on the walls. The window here is draped in black-out curtains to keep the heat of the sun out. There’s only a razor thin break between their hang. It strikes a bright broken blade across the bed and floor. But there's enough light coming in from the hall to illuminate Kurt clearly as he moves back and pauses to stand by the end of the bed. He pulls the hem of his shirt free of his waistband. His smile for Blaine is encouraging, but pinched with nervousness. His hands tremble.
Which makes it hard not to think about how many times Kurt's had to ask others for this, not just boyfriends, but friends and strangers. He wonders how many people would have taken advantage of him or been unkind. Blaine's unsure what he counts as. A friendly stranger? Some kind of personal sexual attendant? Certainly the latter if he does this right. He wants to do this right. For however it ends up, Blaine doesn't want to make any of it awkward for Kurt, and he definitely hopes to give him the satisfaction he needs. So Blaine rallies more confidence than he's strictly feeling. He moves in close enough to touch Kurt's upper arm with querying fingertips. "Tell me what you'd like me to do?"
"Right now," Kurt says as his fingers work shakily down his button placket and his biceps flex beneath Blaine's hand, "Anything that'll get the job done, so whatever you're most comfortable with will be fine."
"Okay," Blaine says. Kurt shrugs off his shirt, leaving him in just a thin white cotton tee that clings to his slim torso, his hands go to his belt, unfastening it with enough urgency, that Blaine makes his decision quickly. He drops to his knees, and gently slips his hands under Kurt's to take over unbuttoning the fly of Kurt's trousers. "Do you want to sit down or lie down?"
"No," Kurt says with a ragged exhale, "this works for me. May I touch your head?"
"Yeah," Blaine says, "Go ahead."
Without mussing it, Kurt smooths over his hair with both hands, and his fingertips come to rest, fanned across the back of Blaine's skull and neck. It feels nice—tantalizing—but Blaine keeps his attention on opening Kurt's pants and reaching into his underwear to draw out his cock. It’s just as lovely as the rest of him, and it’s so hot, already pulsing steel hard within the curl of Blaine’s hand. Blaine keeps breathing through his nervous arousal, tries to take care with himself and his reaction lest he be inappropriate in his enthusiasm. It has been a while, and the desire to put his mouth on Kurt is a restless hunger twisting up in his chest.
The sex scent of Kurt, so naked and close, intoxicates; inexorably it draws Blaine in to drag his nose and parted lips up the length of Kurt's cock, over the silky skin up to the head; he breathes out a soft moan and slips his tongue over as he kisses, catches a salty bead of precome. Kurt shivers and sighs and keeps petting carefully over his hair.
Still, Blaine has to remind himself, they're not making love. This is a service for Kurt. Blaine may enjoy himself, but the focus is Kurt's getting off. Blaine closes his lips around the smooth head of Kurt's cock and slips and curls his tongue along the underside.
Kurt's hands spasm against his scalp, and Blaine tugs his pants open wider and works them down Kurt's hips while he sucks Kurt's dick farther into his mouth. Steadily, he sinks down around the thick weight of it, opening his throat as best he can to take Kurt in deep, before reversing and sliding back up, with his tongue pressing and lingering where it's most sensitive, then sinking down again, exhaling with a moan as he goes. The twinge in his jaw reminds him that he's out of practice, but his body remembers how to do this.
"Oh, holy hell," Kurt says, and his whole body shudders gorgeously. "You’re good at this."
Kurt’s praise is a thrill. Blaine slides his hands around to Kurt's ass and up farther to the small of his back, flexing his fingers to encourage Kurt to move if he wants to. But Kurt's a perfect gentleman; he strokes only light encouragement over Blaine's hair, and keeps his hips still. The only demand he makes is a soft verbal request: "Faster, please?"
Blaine complies, and beneath his hands, the tension in Kurt's muscles builds rapidly; Kurt's breath rasps frantically. It's not long before Kurt's fingers are twitching in his hair and Kurt's gritting out, "I'm so close, oh— You don't have to swallow."
But Blaine just sucks harder and speeds up, digs his fingers into the top curve of Kurt's ass, and holds him deep and firm as his body seizes up and he comes.
Breathless, Blaine withdraws carefully and swallows. He makes sure to catch any lingering bursts of semen as he eases off, makes sure he leaves Kurt clean and shining.
"God," Kurt sighs. "Blaine, that was... god."
It takes a moment for Blaine to tamp down his own arousal and blink his head clear. He keeps his gaze lowered. The way his heartbeat hammers in his chest and aches at his groin, it hasn't been this hot for him for a while, just blowing another guy. Doing this for someone who's really into what he's doing, not just using him as a convenient and willing orifice? Which, to be fair, may be exactly what this is for Kurt, but the way Kurt's hands are still on him, petting and soothing, it feels like genuine appreciation and gratitude. Blaine's forgotten how good that feels.
Kurt laughs softly, drawing Blaine's attention up. "Thank you. That was amazing, the best blow job I've had in—let's just say, a while," Kurt says. He offers Blaine a hand up. "How about you, do you need anything?"
"I'll be fine, Kurt," Blaine says, smoothing his slacks down his thighs. He wants to reassure Kurt that he understands this isn't about his own pleasure. He's not simply using this meeting as an opportunity to get himself off. "Unless there's something more I can do for you?"
Kurt's bottom lip catches between his teeth and the look he gives Blaine is both intrigued and eager. "Then," he says, "If you're comfortable with it, I'd like to see your body, if I may?"
"Yeah, sure, of course," Blaine says, and he returns Kurt's smile. The request is absolutely reasonable, and Blaine's not modest enough to decline on principle. He even feels a little bit like showing off. Kurt's praise has him high with more than sexual arousal. It's been too long since anyone's looked at him like this. Blaine unknots his tie and unbuttons his shirt while Kurt sits on the edge of the bed and watches him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. His pants are still open, and Blaine can't help but notice his erection has not diminished at all.
Blaine slips off his shirt and pulls his undershirt over his head. Kurt scoots back onto the bed and stretches a hand out to flick on the bedside lamp. Then he turns his attention back to Blaine as Blaine unbuttons his pants.
"Do you like anal?" Kurt asks, quietly and a little breathless, with his gaze ticking down to Blaine's cock as it bounces free of Blaine's underwear, flushed dark, blood heavy and thick. Kurt's lips part.
"I do," Blaine says, and he wraps a loose fist around his shaft, slides down to show himself to Kurt.
"Preference?" Kurt asks, unblinking as he stares at Blaine's dick.
"I like it both ways," Blaine says, and he lets go of himself before he ends up stroking himself in indulgence of his own vanity. This shouldn't be as hot as it is; it should be a little weird, right? But the way Kurt's looking at him, like Blaine might just be the solution to all his problems, is mind-numbingly compelling. And the question itself summons up such wonderful possibilities.
Kurt exhales a relieved sound. "Versatile, good. Me too. It helps to have options, I find." Then he glances back up to Blaine's face. "May I see your ass?"
"Yes," Blaine says. Slowly he turns his back to Kurt, but looks over his shoulder at him.
"Um, may I please touch you?" Kurt asks; he slides across the bed and stands.
"Yes," Blaine says, and he watches Kurt approach him, the intention in Kurt's gaze simmers under Blaine's skin.
When Kurt gets close enough to touch he looks down, and then both of his hands are reverent on Blaine's backside. It's more intimate than Blaine was expecting—or more sooner, he amends—but certainly welcome. He shivers as Kurt's thumbs slide inward to gently tug his cheeks apart. Kurt's breath stirs the fine hairs on the side of Blaine's neck. "Would you bend over for me, please, Blaine?" he asks, low and hot and sweet.
The words and the confident desire with which Kurt says them send another shiver up Blaine's spine. "Oh god, yes, okay," Blaine whispers, because he’s pretty sure he knows where this is headed. Then he turns forward, takes a step, and bends over, finding a hand hold on the back of the chair at Kurt's vanity. He doesn't look up to catch his reflection in its mirror. Instead he closes his eyes and breathes. Kurt's hands hold him open and Blaine can feel the weight of his attention, knows exactly where it's focused. He steps his feet apart and dips his spine down to push his ass up. "Do you want to fuck me now, Kurt?" he asks, soft enough that it's both invitation and plea. Wants Kurt to know he’s both willing and wanting. "Show me what it'll be like? Find out if I'll be good for you?"
A long pause follows wherein Kurt alternates the motion of his thumbs, stroking the tender skin between Blaine's buttocks. "May I?"
"Yes," Blaine says, and part of him is aware that, even if this doesn't result in him coming to live with Kurt, this may well remain one of the most erotic moments of his life. He wants it so badly. He hopes Kurt does too. "I really want you to."
"I definitely want to," Kurt says, and he lets go of Blaine. "Please, stay... just like that?"
Kurt rummages in his nightstand behind Blaine, and Blaine doesn't look, just holds himself patient and ready for Kurt. His skin prickles for want of contact, and he imagines he can feel the eddies in the room's air billow and compress with Kurt's proximity to him. And then blessedly, Kurt is back, touching his sacrum with a light hand.
Prep is thorough. Kurt works into him with two skillful fingers and plenty of lube, and when Blaine's about ready to pass out from the unfulfilled craving for more, and his throat is scratchy from gasping out harsh needful whimpers, Kurt pulls his fingers free and replaces them with his latex covered cock.
Kurt presses in, three easy pushes that stretch Blaine's body right to the perfect verge of too much. It has him lifting up to his toes, calves straining. "Jesus," Blaine says as the sensation ripples up his nerves and scatters over his skin. It's been so long, and the fit and fill of Kurt's cock is glorious. Better than any memory he has of previous lovers.
"Okay?" Kurt asks between panting breaths, not moving except to rub up Blaine's spine with one hand while securing his hip with the other. "It's not too much?"
"Mmm, no," Blaine says; his body trembles with eager welcome. "You feel fantastic. It's perfect."
"I think I like you," Kurt says, "Blaine." And he pulls back, pushes in, nice even strokes, not too fast, and the friction sizzles along Blaine's nerves right up to his scalp. "I want to make this good for you, too," Kurt says, "as often as I can." He works his cock in and out of Blaine's ass with the attentive concentration of someone who's familiar with being on the other end of the transaction. His thrusts shorten and tighten, and Blaine’s pleasure grows.
"You are... making it good," Blaine says. "You feel so good." Blaine shivers at the precise heavy press of Kurt's cock, how each drive in rouses such gorgeous twinges of electricity to climb his spine and make heat wind up deliciously tight in his belly. "Kurt," Blaine says. "It's so good."
"Can you come?" Kurt asks. "Like this?"
"Yes," Blaine says, "God, yes."
And he does, eventually, ecstatically, with Kurt's hands brutally tight on his hips and Kurt's cock grinding out a deep push-pulling rhythm in his ass.
"Still okay?" Kurt asks when the last of Blaine's climax shakes through him, and Kurt's ridden it out without coming himself.
"Yeah," Blaine says. "You can—just take whatever else you need."
"Fuck," Kurt says, "Just... hold on." His fingers flex over Blaine's hipbones; Kurt pulls back and then drives in hard, picking up with long, fast strokes that rock Blaine forward, nearly buckling his knees. Blaine grips the back of the chair in aching fists, grits his teeth, and shoves back to meet Kurt.
Kurt makes an ungodly sound when he comes, and he slumps, folding over Blaine's back, sweaty and gasping, his hips jerking and thrusting weakly through the aftershocks. "Oh my god," he mumbles against Blaine's spine. And then he laughs, equal parts relieved and happy. "You are most welcome to that room."
"Hey," Blaine says and he gives Sam a little wave as he enters the sun-washed cafe. He sits down opposite him at the tile topped table by the window. His iron chair has a leg out of alignment; it wobbles when he sits. He crosses his legs and shifts upon the hard seat to take the direct pressure of his ass. He’s not sore, but he still feels tender with how thoroughly Kurt worked him over.
"I was just about to call you when I got your text," Sam says.
"Sorry about that," Blaine says. "I kind of lost track of the time." Blaine pulls his bag over his head and puts it at his feet and then reaches for the carafe of water on the table to fill his glass.
He flicks his attention back to Sam, who's now staring at him with a tiny smile tugging the corner of his lips. "You had sex with him," Sam says.
"What?" Blaine asks, too loudly, then he runs a hand over his hair, verifies it's still neat, and leans forward to ask more quietly, "Do I smell of it or something?"
"I knew it." Sam nods with a smug smile. "I owe myself five bucks."
"Sam." Blaine laughs.
"Tell me I'm wrong."
"I can't," Blaine says, and a waitress brings them menus and takes away Sam's empty glass. Once she's gone, Blaine asks, "How can you tell?"
"I don't know, man, you just get this glow." Sam spreads and waggles the fingers of both hands either side of his head to illustrate. Bizarro jazz hands.
Blaine raises an eyebrow. "I get a glow?"
Sam nods again.
"Whatever you say," Blaine says, and he scans the menu. Decides on a pear, walnut, and gorgonzola salad.
"He didn't make you or anything though, right?" Sam asks.
"No, of course not. It was my idea actually. I wanted to be sure I could, you know? That I'd enjoy it with him. It wouldn't be fair otherwise."
"And judging by your glow." Sam makes the hand gesture again, and Blaine rolls his eyes. "You did enjoy it."
"Yes, I did," Blaine says, unfolding his napkin and smoothing it over his lap; he can't stop the grin stealing over his lips. "Quite a lot."
"I don't need details," Sam says, returning his grin. "So does this mean you'll be doing it? Moving in with this guy and doing the do to pay your rent?"
"You make it sound so seedy. It's really not like that."
"Okay, what's it like then?"
"He's not some pervert trying to take advantage of me. He's a nice, interesting and intelligent—and, yes, very attractive—guy who happens to have some unusual health requirements. And an amazing apartment. He said he got it the first year he was in the city, like six years ago? It was before the area really took off, and he's still got the place for the same lease agreement. He's done a lot of the renovations himself."
"And you like him too, right, not just the apartment?"
"I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't," Blaine says, and Sam seems to accept it.
"When do you move in?"
"This coming Saturday," Blaine says. "Kurt suggested we start with a trial rent-free first week, before my time at the dorms has expired."
"I'll give you a hand with the moving," Sam says. "I really want to meet this guy. He must be something special to have you smiling like that."
"Thanks, Sam," Blaine says. "This seems like it could maybe be a good thing?"