Based on this prompt from the Glee Kink Meme.
Kurt eyes the slice of creme brulee chocolate cake Blaine’s nephew left sitting on the other side of the ten-top table. The chocolate ganache catches the lights strung in heavy swaths above the reception. Like it’s winking suggestively at him. Deviously sexy cake.
Abandoned for the dance floor, Kurt had polished off his own piece, and the last half of Blaine’s, at a speed indicative of his anxiety.
He does want to enjoy himself, and is doing his best to keep a joyful, vague smile on his face, but there is no escaping the looming fog of judgement that seems to rise from the entire well-dressed Anderson clan. This isn’t the first Anderson family function he’s had to survive, but it is the first destination wedding with an open bar, which means everyone is drinking, and no one is going anywhere. Including Kurt.
He bullies himself with thoughts of escaping to their suite at the top of the hill. Blaine had spoiled him rotten, as usual, and booked a room with their own private patio, lush with hydrangeas and hibiscus trees. They’d eaten breakfast together, just the two of them, watching the sun slowly light up the rolling vineyard below. Blaine had looked so handsome and relaxed, lounging in a big white robe, and for a while it felt like a real vacation.
A vacation, and not a trial of being pointedly uninvited from wine tastings (“Well if you’d brought a date over the legal drinking age, Blaine.”), and avoiding whispered gossip about them on lavender farm tours (“A twenty-nine year age difference means that technically, Blaine could be his grandfather.”), and being sat at the kids’ table for the rehearsal dinner. To be honest, Kurt didn’t mind that slight much, especially if it meant an evening away from Blaine’s parents’ permanently pinched faces.
But Blaine had been quietly furious. Kurt couldn’t hear them, but Blaine was wearing his unamused and unimpressed CFO face for Cooper’s wife, who looked to be badly acting innocent about the situation. Beautiful woman, terrible actress. Unsurprisingly, she hadn’t pursued her acting career after becoming an Anderson baby-maker. The long adults’ table had been reset during cocktails and Blaine had spent most of the evening with his hand on Kurt’s leg.
Kurt scuffs his chair over so the gorgeously huge centerpiece is blocking his view of the cake. Eating his feelings aren’t going to change them at this point. Maybe drinking his feelings. Blaine is usually pretty good at booting for Kurt, but he’s out on the dance floor too, M.C. duties over for the night, looking striking in his two-button Gucci suit, dancing with the bride.
“Oh, you so look like you could use this.” A Hendricks and tonic gets dropped in front of him, and Kurt grabs for it, swallowing half the tumbler before Dylan even manages to sit down beside him with his own drink.
“That obvious, huh?” he sighs, tipping the glass in thanks at Blaine’s son-in-law.
“Oh darling, you are forever our figurehead. Keep that beautiful chin up,” Thuan adds, sitting down on Kurt’s other side. He slides another drink at Kurt, winking.
“Figurehead?” Kurt asks, pulling the glass closer, pushing his scraped-clean cake plate out of the way.
“Our Scandel Figurehead, of course!” Thuan exclaims, pinching Kurt’s cheek. Kurt bats his hand away, but grins. No one can resist Blaine’s second son-in-law; he’s charm personified. He’ll basically tell a woman that she has no style, taste, or figure, but he’s such a cheerful, excitable, tsunami of gay that they’ll be begging to hag for him anyways.
“Ohhh, totally. Teenaged-intern-gold-digger trumps impotent-deadbeat-artist,” Dylan agrees, pointing to himself, “and ethnic-flamboyantly-gay-gossip-blogger,” he points to Thuan.
“Oh jeez, it does. Where’s my crown?” Kurt mutters, slamming the rest of his gin. He loves Dylan and Thuan, loves them like family, and because they are his bastion of safety during Anderson events.
No matter how much effort Blaine and his children put into including their partners, Kurt, Dylan and Thuan always stick out like socially unacceptable thumbs. It doesn’t matter that Thuan has a masters degree from Stanford, is a regular columnist for Vogue, and one of the most respected critics in the fashion industry. Or that Dylan is completing his Ph.d. as a designer-in-residence at the Guggenheim. Or that their spouses, Rudy and Lila Anderson, love and respect them. What matters is that Thuan is a loud’n’proud anti-WASP, and that Dylan makes about one-eighth of what Lila does.
And in no universe would it matter that Blaine Anderson cherishes and treats Kurt like a real partner. That they met and fell into a love so vast and so authentic that nothing could keep them from each other, not even a questionable age difference and distressingly different taste in music. (Blaine is, tragically, a child of the disco era.) All they see is Blaine’s mid-life crisis manifesting as an affair with a young, twinky Vogue intern.
Dylan gives Kurt a wincing smile of sympathy. “Hey, what’s your count?”
Kurt consults his phone. “Umm, since Easter, 5 ‘prostitute’ to 2 ‘son’. Oh, we've also got an ‘assistant’ on record. To be fair, I was holding both our coffees and my murse.” Blaine shakes his head every time Kurt makes note of people misjudging him for Kurt’s John/Father/Boss. Kurt maintains a spreadsheet.
“Ohhh! Was it that Marc Jacobs satchel he got you for Christmas?” Thuan squeals.
“Yes! So perfect, and the red lining is such a cute tease.”
“Stop!” Dylan pleads. “Save the shop-talk, you’re insulting my inner nudist.”
Kurt and Thuan share a look and then hide their unavoidably lude smiles in their gins; imagining Dylan naked will do that to a person. Any person. He’s basically walking marble perfection.
Kurt swallows and avoids looking at the open throat of Dylan’s dress shirt. “And what’s your count?”
“Man, a wedding? With an entire pew of Anderson great-aunts? The numbers blew up this week: 14 accusations of not doing my husbandly duty.” Dylan and Lila have been married for four years, which is apparently four years minus nine months too long to go childless.
Kurt chuckles. “Can’t you guys fake it for these things?”
“Forget it. I don’t want bratlets unless Thuan and Rudy give us Ben.”
Thuan smiles proudly. Ben really is the sweetest and most well-behaved toddler in LA. Also the best-dressed, which goes without saying. Thuan darts out a hand and tries pinching Kurt’s cheek again.
“Well, you'll be happy to know that Rudy hasn't called you a ‘scheming little whore’ once! Since the last time he did it. Publicly. In front of his father.”
“Ah, that's nice,” Kurt sighs. He knows that Rudy is just wildly protective of Blaine, but it still stings. Kurt doesn’t need Rudy’s, or anyone’s, approval. But it sure would be nice to have. “He did nod coolly at me in greeting yesterday. Your doing, I presume?”
“No, darling: yours. I don't think he'll ever fully understand it, but he is starting to accept that you’re in his father’s life, probably for good. And that's just because you're such a lovely young man and Blaine is lucky to have you.”
“Hear, hear!” Dylan says, squeezing Kurt’s shoulder.
“Aw, thanks you guys,” Kurt blushes. “You two make torture fun. And you give me alcohol.”
Dylan takes his hand back and waggles his perfect eyebrows. “I have a theory. The price we all pay for such good-looking significant others is the Anderson Family Crazy.” He holds out his glass in cheers. “Worth it?”
Kurt and Thuan clink their glasses to his. “Worth it,” they chant.
Blaine diligently dances with the rest of his nieces, and Kurt watches for glimpses of him on the dance floor as they chat.
It’s times like these when Kurt is especially hard-pressed identify the age gap that everyone else sees. Blaine is so happy and bright, the pride and love he has for his pretty little nieces making him look so youthful. But Kurt is biased; he adores the salt at Blaine’s temples, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles wide. They aren’t marks of age to Kurt, they’re just more pieces of the Blaine he loves as a whole. Also, they make him look dignified. Silver-foxy. Nothing wrong with that at all.
It’s one more Hendricks later when Blaine finally weaves his way back, his tie loosened, coat undone.
“You ate my cake,” he observes, putting his hands on Kurt’s shoulders, thumb rubbing lightly on Kurt’s bare neck. Kurt twists to look up at him, knows his smile is scrunching up his face unattractively. Doesn’t care.
“Why, I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Kurt Hummel and no cake is safe around me.”
“What have these two been pouring down you?” Blaine asks, eyeing their collection of highball glasses, empty but for cucumber slices and half-melted ice. Kurt wonders how flushed his cheeks are if Blaine has to ask.
“Just soda pop, Grandpa!” Thuan sings, winking dramatically. Blaine smiles.
“Oh, good. The morality police are out in full riot gear tonight.” He nods his chin to the other side of the dance floor, where the mother of the bride had strategically sat the more conservative attendees. “Therefore, how would you, and your guilty face,” - Kurt knew it - “like to dance?”
Kurt really wouldn’t. Though the evening is painfully romantic, all white lights and the perfume of thousands of white roses, he’d much rather stay here with people who don’t think Kurt is a plotting little enchantress and that Blaine has completely lost his senses.
But he can’t ever say no to Blaine’s earnest face, so he just holds a hand up to be pulled out of his chair.
The band is quite decent, of course. This is Cooper Anderson’s oldest daughter’s wedding. They strike up a sweet, soft version of You’ve Got the Love as Blaine swings Kurt onto the floor. Kurt puts his left hand on Blaine’s shoulder, broad and strong, lets Blaine lead, close and slow.
Kurt doesn’t look away from Blaine’s face to confirm, but it feels like they’re being watched, like the space around them is just a little wider than any other couples’, as though to get a better look at their crimes against everyone’s comfort.
“You’re incredible, you know that, right?” Blaine says, cupping his hand around Kurt’s waist, his palm settling in the dip of Kurt’s spine.
“For skulking around this beautiful wedding reception, avoiding your family and stealing cake? I do my best.”
Blaine laughs like it was kneed out of him, smile big and genuine. His eyes go glimmery and he cocks his head to the side.
“For coming. For being here with me tonight. For wearing pants that revealing.”
Kurt misses a step. “You don’t like them? I know they’re tight, but that’s the tailored look I was going-”
“No, shhh, stop, Kurt,” Blaine squeezes his hand. “They’re perfect. You’re perfect. Wear whatever your fashionable little heart desires.”
Kurt arches a brow. “Wear whatever I want because in the mind of your mother, I’ve already done enough damage by existing?”
Blaine does him the courtesy of not denying it. “This is my official challenge to you: say, do, or wear anything, and I will still be the luckiest man at this wedding.”
Kurt blinks, just barely resists kissing Blaine, and concentrates on his smiling mouth instead. “Challenge accepted. But you might have some competition from the groom for luckiest man here. He’s definitely getting some.”
“Please don’t remind me that my god-daughter is going to lose her virginity tonight.”
“Blaine, dear, she’s twenty-four and they’ve been living together for three years. I dare say that she’s-”
“Nope. Sweet and innocent. Forever my precious angel.”
Kurt snorts into Blaine’s shoulder. “Okay, you believe that. I won’t tell you about the honeymoon lingerie she was showing off then, either.”
Blaine groans, and pulls him in even closer as the beat changes, couples breaking up around them, people turning to dance in groups and circles. Kurt wraps both arms around Blaine’s neck, moves closer to his ear to be heard over the music. Blaine only has an inch on him on a good day, so it’s a perfect fit.
If he closes his eyes, they could be in a club back home in New York, dark and trancing, two bodies on the packed floor. He could move in closer, hitch up on Blaine’s thigh, grind and ride and arch back over Blaine’s arm, trusting his strength, Blaine’s hot mouth on his neck under the strobes.
To maintain a more family-friendly rating, he keeps his hips to himself and his eyes open and on Blaine, haloed by the soft lights.
“I’m...I’m glad I came. I don’t like it when you go away,” Kurt confesses into Blaine’s ear. Blaine traveling for work so much is just another drip into Kurt’s bucket of irrational insecurities about dating the CFO of Conde Nast. Who should, by all accounts, be reeling through the hottest models in the industry. Or the most successful and establish designers. Or the most cutting-edge and creative art directors. Or pretty much anyone who is not a bumbling, blushing junior production artist. Yet, here they are.
“Good. I don’t like leaving you,” Blaine returns thickly.
“And the food has been lovely.”
“My only wish is that you be well-fed.”
“Because I get cranky when I’m hungry?”
“Because you get cranky when you’re hungry,” Blaine confirms with a laugh, giving Kurt’s (trim, thank you) waist a squeeze.
“I like Sonoma, too. Not the location I’d pick for my wedding, but it’s got some charm.”
Blaine hums deep in his chest; Kurt can feel it everywhere they touch.
“Your wedding,” he says, too casually. He leans back, tries to catch Kurt’s eyes.
“Well, I mean, I’ve always planned- I mean, if I got married, I would- hypothetically our- I mean, when-“ Kurt just stops, eyes on the shoulder of Blaine’s suit jacket. Resumes swaying with the beat.
Smooth, Hummel. If he could redo the last ten seconds of his life, he would have smirked saucily at Blaine and said, “Yes, my fabulous Disneyland wedding, probably Snow White themed, you’re welcome to crash it in costume.” And they could have laughed and laughed and then gone to the bar for more gin. As it is, he can feel the heat from his face reflecting off of Blaine’s cheek. His forehead may as well be glowing like a neon sign that reads, “Dumb Naive Kid.”
Thankfully, Blaine, in all his patient glory, doesn’t press him to clarify. Maybe just doesn’t want to encourage Kurt’s presumptive fantasies about his dream wedding. Which has featured Blaine in a one-button mohair Brioni tuxedo ever since the day Kurt had been called up to the Conde Nast executive floor to fit him for one.
Blaine pulls him out of his brooding pool of cringing regret with a question.
“You remember our third date?”
“Third date by your count or by my count?”
“By my count.”
“Oh, so our eleventh date.” It had taken Blaine a while. “We…oh! Of course! We went to that performance art show and you got hit in the face with a small Japanese woman. One of the best nights of my life,” he adds sarcastically.
“I was still trying to impress you.”
“Well, Scott Disick was there too, so it worked, mostly.”
“Anyways, I had a bloody nose, a black eye, and zero dignity left. But I forgot about all of it because I was entranced by the way you ripped into that Andy Warhol wannabe like a particularly articulate jungle cat.”
“Someone had to defend both you and art in general,” Kurt chuckles, remembering how desperate Blaine had looked, hand over his nose, pulling at Kurt’s sleeve, inching for the exit. He’d been humiliated, but he’d still let Kurt come back to his townhouse. Let Kurt clean him up and make an ice pack and do impressions of Blaine’s surprise when he’d been hit. Blaine was still making him stay in a guest bedroom back then, but Kurt had snuck into Blaine’s bed, kissing Blaine’s swollen face every once in a while as they’d whispered on a pillow together for hours.
“It was the first time I’d ever seen you really angry. It was a sight to behold. And it was also when I knew.”
Blaine leans back, unhooks his arms from around Kurt to cup Kurt’s warm cheek. He makes sure that Kurt is looking at him, digs his big hazel eyes in deep, eyebrows furrowed.
“That you’re the one.”
“Oh,” Kurt breathes, when his body comes back online. Blaine doesn’t declare anything without meaning it. He’s built a career out of being charismatic, but he’s never been anything less than sincere to Kurt. So Kurt believes him. Besides, Kurt knew within five minutes of polite banter, on his knees, hemming Blaine’s tuxedo pants, that Blaine was The One. No one else could ever compare, no one else comes close.
Blaine thumbs over the apple of his cheek, puts his hand back on Kurt’s waist and smiles self-deprecatingly.
“I’ve done the whole marriage thing. And aside from the gay factor - stop giggling - the biggest reason it didn’t work out is because we were so young. Twenty-one years old, and looking back, I can’t believe I kept myself clothed and sheltered, let alone had the audacity to start a family.”
Reassurances bubble up in Kurt’s throat, ready to spew all over Blaine’s warnings. He may only be eighteen, but he knows what he wants, came out of the womb knowing what he wants. But he lets Blaine chew up whatever he has to say next, is still fluttering uselessly with the knowledge that he’s Blaine Anderson’s one.
“I would have asked you to marry me on our third date-”
“Eleventh date,” Kurt whispers, dazed. Marry me.
“-third official date. But I didn’t want to be the first error in your trial and error of love. You have so much life to live. You have so much to experience.” Blaine’s nostrils flair. “Don’t make that face at me, you will respect my ancient wisdom.”
Kurt dramatically seals his lips and makes bigs eyes at Blaine, urging him to continue. Marry me.
“I would have asked you a year ago...and I should have. Because I don’t think it matters.”
Kurt’s blood stills in his veins before rushing to his heart all at once. It doesn’t matter. Vows, rings, a piece of paper. They are nice-to-haves, but Kurt already knows that he’s in it for the long haul.
“So...are you asking me right now?”
Blaine gives him a grinchy look.
“I would never be so uncouth as to propose at a wedding. Who do you think you’re dating?”
“The most romantic and tactful man in New York?”
“Damn right. There will be a surprise proposal and you will love it.”
Kurt tries to bite his lip on the big dumb smile that’s exploding all over his face, but he can’t help it. They’re getting married. Blaine laughs as Kurt bounces up on his toes in a dance of delight and tightens his arms around Blaine’s neck.
“I want to kiss you right now,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to Blaine’s. When they’re this close, Blaine fills his entire field of view, the rest of the wedding guests just a colorful blur around them.
“I want to kiss you all the time,” Blaine whispers back, and does. It’s just a short, sweet, touch of their lips, but Kurt can feel the promise in it. It’s hardly a proper kiss anyways, since he can’t stop smiling like an idiot.
“So I have a pretty good chance of getting a ‘yes’?” Blaine teases.
Kurt rolls his eyes to the starry sky, pretends to consider it.
“I’ll need to see the ring first.”
Blaine snorts and drops him in a whooping dip. Kurt yelps, but comes back up laughing, lets Blaine spin him out and back again to his arms. They must look like drunk kids, but Kurt doesn’t care. He gets Blaine for good. And since the damage of making a spectacle of themselves is done, he cosies right up to Blaine, hands hooked behind his shoulders, face in his neck. Blaine holds him there, one hand behind his back, the other in the short hairs at the base of his skull.
“You know,” Kurt muses, “waiting is good, because now we can get the unsavory prenup business out of the way before you turn on the romance hose.”
“No,” Blaine says, going completely still. Kurt frowns and lifts his head. “No prenup. Absolutely not.”
“Blaine, dear, I need you to tap into that ancient wisdom of yours. Who knows what the future holds. Everyone should learn from your divorce, most of all you. You were a slave to alimony for years and it’s not like I’m ever going to leave you, ever, but I don’t want money to be a thing and a prenup just smooths-”
“I suppose I can just sit back and let Rudy talk you into-”
“Kurt, we’re not tainting this beautiful night with another money argument. What’s mine is yours. Now, and after we get married.” Blaine says ‘married’ so matter-of-factly, but it still makes Kurt’s stomach jump. Married. “Besides, if I lose everything I have, and I could - someone wise once told me we don’t know what the future holds - then what’s yours is mine too. Did you think about that risk?”
Kurt looks to the dance floor boards under their feet, toes at a fallen rose petal. When Blaine takes him out for dinner, it’s Michelin three-star restaurants. When Kurt takes him out for dinner, it’s pizza parlors in SoHo. When Blaine successfully negotiated the contract to subscribe Conde Nast publications over a dedicated Apple app, he’d flown them to Barcelona for the weekend to make up for the late nights. When Kurt had landed a full-time salaried position at Vogue, he’d treated Blaine to ice cream; splurged on waffle cones. Blaine’s wedding gift to Claire and her new husband was paying for their honeymoon to Bali. Kurt made the card.
Even though he basically lives in Blaine’s townhouse, and Rachel does too half the time, Kurt still pays rent on their loft in Brooklyn. At some point he’s going to let go of his stubborn belief that he can somehow provide what Blaine can without the lifetime of earning it. Maybe now is that time.
“What’s yours is half of the $2,334 I have in my savings account,” Kurt murmurs ruefully.
Blaine pulls him back, kisses his temple.
“Don’t think I’m not going to shamelessly mooch off your fame in the future too.”
“Fame for what?” Kurt asks.
“I don’t know. Stage, screen, fashion world - all I know is that Kurt Hummel will be a household name someday. And you’ll never get to enjoy the hoards of boys who will throw themselves at you because you’ll be stuck with my old ass.”
“Oh, that’s a good point...” Kurt hums slyly, even as his heart swells.
“I really need to watch my mouth until I get a ‘yes’ out of you, don’t I?” Blaine sighs, knocking his head gently against the side of Kurt’s.
“This conversation isn’t over, Blaine, dear,” Kurt warns him.
“You need both signatures on a prenup, Kurt. You’re never going to get mine.”
“Besides, it doesn’t matter. If I don’t have you, I won’t need money. I won’t need anything.”
Emboldened by Blaine’s words, by his kisses, by his steady hands on Kurt’s back, Kurt puts his lips to Blaine’s ear.
“I love you, Daddy.”
When they first started sleeping together, Kurt attempted to hide his lack of experience behind a porny approach. He hardly knew any better, his only resource being sloppy, unsatisfying, high school make-outs with Sebastian Smythe. Blaine would just shush him quiet, reassure him with worshipful hands and reverent kisses that Kurt didn’t have to do anything but be present, and there, and pleasure-hungry, for Blaine to find him sexy.
That had evolved over time, especially when Kurt had discovered Blaine’s dirty talk kink. It had not taken him long to capitalize off the reaction he got from whispering praise while Blaine worked him with his big cock. Praise would sometimes veer into encouragement territory, which somehow led them to kinky-as-shit land. Nothing got Blaine off faster than Kurt’s voice begging him to please, Daddy, please, deeper, it feels so good in me, pleeeease.
If anyone else heard them, it would have been humiliating. Damning. But between the two of them, it’s right. Just another demonstration of their love and trust that no one else would understand.
And if Kurt is honest, the thrill of it doesn’t hurt either. Looking around at everyone else on the dance floor, every one of them with an opinion on their relationship...if they only knew that in so many ways Kurt’s age doesn’t matter. And then in other ways, it makes it better.
Blaine groans softly. “Oh, little one, you are terrible. I can see my mother from here. You’re going to give your Daddy a limp.”
Kurt sways closer, pelvis-to-pelvis. “Take me back to the room please, Daddy?”
Blaine visibly takes three deep breathes, his cheeks going pink above his early-evening stubble. “Sweet baby, you can’t do this to me right now. Stop it.”
Kurt wiggles his hips minutely. Not enough to be seen, but Blaine will have definitely felt it pressed as close as he is. “Please, Daddy, I’m so hungry,” he whispers. “I want to suck you, I want to taste you, Daddy. I’ll eat up everything you give me, I promise.”
“Jesus fuck,” Blaine swears. He stills Kurt with one hand on his side, the other gripping the back of his neck. Breathes again, tickles Kurt’s cheek bone with his lashes as he blinks rapidly.
“Okay, baby. I’ll feed you. But you have to be a big boy and think of others. This is Claire’s night. We can go now and come back right away, or we can wait until the party is over.”
Kurt pouts a quiet whine. If he’s going to be forced to be mature about it, he knows that he wouldn’t be able to survive the rest of the reception with the taste of Blaine’s come in his mouth. He’d be a sweating, desperate mess, and would probably ruin Blaine’s life by slipping under a cloth-draped table and rubbing himself off on Blaine’s leg over and over, Blaine’s heavy balls in his mouth. Limitless good sex has really fucked up his propriety.
“I’ll wait, Daddy,” Kurt concedes. The ‘but you’re going to pay for this’ is unspoken but clearly understood when Kurt gracefully twists away from Blaine and shimmies over to where Dylan is dancing with his fanclub of young, female Anderson cousins. Fortunately, they are enchanted by Kurt too, and pull him into their jumping, arm-flailing tribute to ‘Call Me Maybe’.
Kurt throws a wink and a smirk back at his almost-fiance. Blaine is scowling indulgently at him, casually tugging his coat straight, Claire already wrapping around his arm, beautiful in her strapless white gown, hair escaping its feather fascinator.
Kurt’s smirk turns into a smile and he blows a kiss across the dance floor. Blaine’s eyes glow as he catches the kiss and puts his hand to his heart before turning to dance again.