Written for the Klaine Prompt Challenge. Kitty Kurt grew up on the streets, but when a law is passed mandating that hybrids need ID he is forced to try to tame up to someone. Begging for a place to stay is terrifying and humiliating but after one too many close calls with hybrid control, it’s better than capture. Blaine’s been worried about the hybrid, leaving him scraps in an alley, but he’s always just hissed and ran. When they make an arrangement to live together they both learn the difference between where you live and being home.
Thanks to my wonderful artist, hopelesslydevotedgleek.
About 10,000 words, 3 chapters, low rating, complete. On AO3 and Tumblr.
Being the blacksmith’s son doesn’t exactly give Kurt a lot of opportunities to put on nice clothes and dance, but then his friends sneak him into a royal ball for the prince’s 17th birthday for one night of fun. And for the first time in his life he gets to dance with a boy and flirt with a boy and just be himself - until he has to run off to get back home before his dad notices his absence. What he doesn’t know is that the boy he danced with was Prince Blaine himself, and that Blaine, who still believes Kurt to be nobility, leaves no stone unturned to find the wonderful boy he just can’t forget…
About 26,000 words, 7 chapters, low rating, complete. On AO3 (AntarcticBird
Title: East of the Sea
Author: littleredspaces
Beta: isthistoosubtlefordanica
Artist: hopelesslydevotedgleek
Pairing: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: age gap, character death, violence, blood, gore
Word Count: 48k
Summary: Lord of the Rings crossover: Blaine is only nineteen, but he's determined not to let that keep him in Rivendell while all around darkness rises and others are given perilous quests. When a chance for adventure comes he's quick to take it, even if it means travelling with Kurt, the elf most convinced Blaine's out of his depth. Perhaps Kurt isn't wrong.
Chapter 1: Hunter and Prey
For the first time in three days, Blaine considered that this may have been a mistake.
In the valley below, the shrill cry still echoed harshly off the trees. Blaine had never heard anything like it. He felt almost as though a sense of dread were rising out of the very stones to engulf him, and all around it was getting dark. Aranna backed away from the ledge warily, hooves smacking far too loudly on the loose slate. He quickly reached forward to stroke her, willing her not to make a sound. His fingers were numb against her hair.
They stood in silence a few long moments, until a damp wind shook through the pines, carrying the last of the cry away. Blaine let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He tugged his cloak forward, trying to tuck his hands beneath it while still holding Aranna’s reins. The sound had been more animal than human, but not like any animal Blaine had heard of. There had been a mournful quality to it, like some dying thing calling out a warning to others of its kind. It must be one of the black riders Elrond spoke of—Blaine was almost sure of it. Finally, he was getting close.
Artist: HopelesslyDevotedGleek
Author:TheRomanticNerd
Rating (art/fic if different):Pg13
Word Count: first chapter 2000 words
Warnings (if any): none
Fic Summary:Foxen splits up! A reliable source informed our blog not too long ago that the dynamic duo, our favorite same-sex couple, the wet dream inducing pair of Foxic and Kitten Boy are no longer working together to fight the evil at night and make manbabies at day! As thousands of fangirls cry into their pillows and write fan fiction to console themselves over this great tragedy (because who are we kidding, they were the prettiest couple since Brangelina got together), we pretend not to be one of them and continue to give you any news on the issue as it happens! Stay tuned!
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I am eternally grateful to Adrienna for her inspiring words and art :)
alianne truly is one of the fandom's most lovely writers. I just read her fic, (Im)possible, and it is AMAZING. Most definitely worth the read. (Also, I'm so glad that AO3 let's me save it as a PDF because I just want to read this fic over and over.) A shout out to hopelesslydevotedgleek for the companion art pieces!
Word Count: 6.4k (VERY, VERY INCOMPLETE, but you'll get some cute Klaine)
Warnings (if any): Violence, Sexual Harassment
Fic Summary: Foxtrot likes to take his revenge out on all the creeps of the world. The creeps that don't get that people aren't just playthings you can fuck. Along the way though, he'll start questioning his methods, and find that some things are more worth fighting for than others.
This AMAZING piece of art by Adrienna. I've always wanted to do a Nightbird piece, and this allowed me to do that. I'm so sorry that I wasn't able to write as much, but I hope you like what I have so far. I'd love to continue this in the future when I have more free time to focus on it and make it better. Thank you so so so much Adrienna for your patience with me.
PROLOGUE
The dark alley that Kurt turned into wasn’t his usual way home. Nor was it anyone else’s, for that matter. In Idlewild, it was understood that nobody took alleys. Alleys were trouble. Especially for people who were dressed like him – people who looked frail, defenseless… and expensive. But then again, maybe Kurt was looking for some trouble, some outlet to release the extra adrenaline he built up during a full day of rehearsal. He did, after all, wear his golden fox tooth brooch just for this walk.
He chose to walk slower than usual, confident of the turnout, but not wanting to miss it. He fixed the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder and pushed away the stray strands of chestnut hair that found rest on his forehead. And when he heard it, a faint but urgent rustling by the pile of trash bags that he just passed, Kurt couldn’t help the smirk that pulled against his lips.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he heard from behind him. It’s time for the face, then.
The men wasted next to no time, pinning Kurt to the dirty brick wall right beside the trash pile, a man on either side of him holding back a wrist and a shoulder, and the one with the knife staying in front of him, holding the blade to his throat. Amateurs, Kurt thought. They’re never much fun. But I guess they’ll have to do for tonight. At least they've got my shoulders… That’s something.
“How you doin’?” Knife asked, bringing his face closer to Kurt’s and breathing on his immaculate skin as his friends snickered on either side of him. Kurt would’ve broken his demeanor at the cheesy line if it weren’t for the foul breath that made it easy for him to keep the grimace on his face in tact.
“Answer me, pretty.” Knife cupped Kurt’s face with his free hand and squeezed, and Kurt struggled out of his grasp. A wide grin spread across Knife’s face.
“A struggler, eh?” There was a disgusting depth to Knife’s voice. “I like it. Look at this skin… so milky… so beautiful. Lemme see more of it, pretty.”
He eased the pressure off of Kurt’s neck and trailed the knife down Kurt’s torso. Painfully slowly, it grazed along his collarbone and the dip in the center of his chest. On its way down, the knife plucked at the buttons of Kurt’s shirt, and they bounced off one by one, slowly, but not completely, revealing Kurt’s bare torso. Kurt lost his expression, his eyes hardening instantly, his face growing redder, and he couldn’t stop the mutter that escaped his mouth.
“What’d you say, pretty lips?” Knife leaned in even closer, leaving Kurt gagging at the scent of his breath. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I fucking said,” he spat in Knife’s face, sending his head back a little, “the shirt’s Marc Jacobs, you fucking asshole.”
Kurt, still pinned by the arms, jumped up and wrapped his legs around the arm with the knife. He wedged his feet under Knife’s chin and twisted his head until his neck broke, causing him to fall down. The two idiots on his sides were still holding him up and he jumped again, straddling his legs and sending his boots toward the two, smashing both of their heads into the brick wall that he was pinned to. He landed softly on the ground as the two muggers collapsed with matching thuds. He gave each of them final kicks to the head, cracking their necks and leaving their heads at odd angles.
Taking in the sight of his night’s work, he dusted off his shirt, picking up the buttons that had fallen from it, planning on sewing them back on later.
“Inconsiderate,” he muttered.
Suddenly, he saw a bit of rubble slide down the wall in front of him, and he looked up. He squinted, but could only see the silhouette of a person crouching in the shadows on the roof of the building. A man, Kurt assumed from posture and what little build he could see. The man’s cape flowed with the wind, and he made minute changes to his genuflect, leaning on the hand that gripped the edge of the building. His face was angled perfectly away from the light, making it impossible for Kurt to make out any features. The man cocked his head curiously.
“Enjoying the view?” he called out to the figure. As Kurt took a step closer, the man quickly retreated into the shadows, and Kurt waited a minute or two for him to come back from hiding.
When he didn’t, Kurt stood there, confused, before deciding to go home. He picked up his bag and left the alley to walk his usual way home, immediately regretting the detour as he realized that beating up a few goons was not worth his Marc Jacobs.
CHAPTER ONE
“SLOPPY!!! You sloppy, filthy pigs! Again!” Dakota Stanley was a genius in a 4’8” body. He was also probably the most ruthless man in the theater industry. “I don’t care if that’s as far as your foot stretches. If I have to break your fucking ankles for me to see some beautifully pointed toes, I WILL NOT HESITATE TO BREAK YOUR FUCKING ANKLES! I DON’T CARE! Give me pretty, or get off my fucking stage! Do it again!”
Kurt absolutely adored him.
Dakota leaned back in his chair behind his director’s table as the music started again, and the class went through the motions of the piece, not one arm extension out of place, no pique a variant angle. The group moved as one across the stage, leaping and turning with the same magnitude and travelling through the wooden floor at precise speeds and distances, tightening the formation when needed, and performing the canon steps for a flawless ripple of movement. Dakota Stanley was a genius.
And Kurt… He was Dakota’s star pupil – a prodigy with natural form and turnout, discovered when he was 18 and performed for his ballet recital back in Ohio. He didn’t know that his teachers had invited a scout from the academy whose eyes sparkled with greed as a hidden treasure presented itself right in front of him in the form of a dancing Kurt Hummel. After the performance, he was congratulated by the scout with an excited handshake, complimented on his attack, and offered a full scholarship to Idlewild Academy of Dance.
Kurt gleefully accepted, of course. He had always dreamed of a life in great, metropolitan Idlewild. This was his chance. And now, he was here.
At 21, Kurt was awarded soloist of the year in Idlewild Academy, leading man of the academy’s current Philip-centric adaptation of The Sleeping Beauty, and a shoe-in to be principal dancer at The Stanley Company once he graduated.
The dancers finished in final position, a chorus of slight panting and not a dry patch of skin in sight. They heard two claps, and they relaxed, some falling to the floor while others kept their arms above their heads to keep the breaths flowing. Kurt stood front and center and, only slightly ashamedly, felt fine, despite his extra kicks and leaps as soloist.
Dakota pondered for a second or two before rising up out of his chair.
“Mike Chang, you started your double pirouette a tenth of a second too late. Stop doubting yourself or I’ll start doubting your role in this production. Kitty Wilde, suck your goddamn stomach in. You’re being lifted. You’re giving poor Jake the hardest time with the way your stomach inflates. It throws him off balance and it makes you heavier. Dear god, the dip in your leotard for your belly button gets so big, I swear I can hear it whispering to me for help! Jake Puckerman, bulk the fuck up if you can’t lift her. This is both your fault. And Rachel Berry, every fucking time you do an arabesque, you point that index finger so far up to the ceiling- IT FUCKING STARES AT ME! Get that finger under control or, so help me, I will bring a pair of scissors tomorrow and cut it off!”
At the end of his rant, Dakota sat back in his chair and lit a banned cigarette, taking a few puffs and surveying the reactions of his students, which made Kurt look as well. Mike was going through the positions of his double pirouette, Kitty looked like she wanted to vomit, Jake was pinching his biceps, wondering what was wrong with them, and Rachel bended and extended her finger as if she was berating it.
Just what Dakota wants to see, Kurt thought as he smiled. Kurt understood that Dakota required 100% dedication from his students, and them being able to take criticism and trying to correct their mistakes instantly is what each and every one of them learned to do.
Dakota, ever stone-faced, killed his cigarette on the ashtray in front of him. “Ten-minute break,” he called.
Kurt jolted a little at the bustle the announcement created. Dakota Stanley hardly ever called break, let alone ten minutes. Everyone rushed off to their corners offstage and gulped down their entire water bottles while Kurt took the time for the break to block through his steps on the stage.
“Kurt,” he heard. He looked to Dakota who was motioning for him to approach, and he jogged down the steps to the aisle right beside his mentor.
“I want you to push your arabesque up 5 or 10 degrees.”
Kurt was pretty proud of his 15 degrees above 90, but he nodded anyway. He understood.
“Is that all, Dakota,” he asked politely.
“No, it isn’t.” Dakota stood up out of his chair and leaned on the side of the table in front of Kurt. “I told you last week to settle into the Donna May dressing room backstage. Have you? Do you have your things in there already?”
Kurt nodded. “Yes, Dakota.”
“I assume you have at least one formal outfit kept in your closet at all times in case something comes up?”
Kurt nodded.
“Good,” Dakota said, pleased, crossing his arms. “I want to present you to Geoffrey Anderson.”
Kurt’s eyes bulged out of their sockets and his grip on his own hands tightened behind his back. The words ‘Geoffrey Anderson’ were suddenly on constant loop in his mind.
“Geoffrey Anderson is one of our top investors, as you know.” Kurt nodded furiously. “He’s holding a gala dinner tonight at his mansion in Uptown Idlewild for all of his friends, and I’d like him to see what he’s investing in for the upcoming season.”
There was a tight pull in Kurt’s bladder, and he felt the sudden need to pee.
“So, right after rehearsal, I’m giving you 45 minutes to shower, prep, and then meet me in the lobby. We’ll leave for the Anderson mansion at 8. Understood?”
“Yes. Thank you, Dakota.”
“Okay, good,” Dakota said, waving his hand. “Now get going, your break’s almost up.”
xxxxxxxxxx
It was big… huge. Much more huge than Kurt ever thought it was. Kurt had only ever heard about it and seen it online. As soon as it was right in front of his face, his jaw dropped at the sheer size of it. It was much wider and stood taller than Kurt had thought it ever looked in the pictures.
The Anderson Mansion.
He looked out the window of the stalled town car, and tried examine more closely. The 40-foot walls had countless pillars and ogives stretching far to his right and left, a few lovely sets of arched windows resting between some of them, no towers, though, but there were three or four flying buttresses, more than Kurt thought he’d ever see in his lifetime, which caught him by surprise. It was grand, to say the least. The Grand Anderson Mansion… it had a nice ring to it.
“My god, Kurt, it’s just cement. No need to slobber all over the leather seats. Come on, we’re already late.” Dakota snapped his fingers, and the driver got out of his seat to open the door for Dakota and help him out of the car. He ran over to Kurt’s side to do the same.
“Thank you, Wesley,” Kurt said.
“Don’t mention it, Mr. Hummel.”
Kurt buttoned his suit jacket and hugged his trench coat closer to his body, following Dakota to the gigantic double doors in front of the mansion. Dakota pointed to a golden chain that hung from the ceiling to the side of the door. Kurt pulled on it, and it sprung right back up. Almost immediately after, a man in a butler’s uniform opened the door.
“Good evening, Mr. Stanley. We’ve been expecting you. May I take your coats, sir?”
“Hunter, where’s Geoffrey,” Dakota asked, handing Hunter his coat, and Kurt took the cue to do the same.
“He’s in the Grand Piano Room, Mr. Stanley.”
Dakota motioned for Kurt to come with him, and Hunter followed close behind as well. For a couple of minutes, the two maneuvered through the long hallways of the mansion, past antique picture frames and priceless pottery. They stopped at a set of large, beautifully carved wooden doors, through which they heard the muffled sounds of polite chatter and elite gossip.
Hunter stepped forward and knocked twice on the door. It was opened from the inside, and Kurt couldn’t help but let his jaw drop slightly again.
The ‘Grand Piano Room’ was, in actuality, a large ballroom with an elevated circular platform in the center that held the grand piano itself. The pianist moved rigidly through his slightly sub-par rendition of a Bach concerto, overly cautious of his tempo that it faltered every now and then. The oblivious attendees nodded and swayed anyway. The entire hall sparkled through chandeliers and earrings and glittered lip gloss and diamond-embedded wristwatches. Round tables in beautiful white tablecloths lined the walls as guests and socialites ate off of immaculate ceramic plates and silverware. If anything screamed luxury, it was the Anderson’s Grand Piano Room.
Kurt followed close behind Dakota as he waved and stopped to talk to a few, beautifully dressed men and women that Kurt was not as familiar with as he was with the designers they were wearing. That’s YSL, my god. Kurt shook their hands anyway.
The two weren’t up and about for long before Kurt saw Dakota’s eyes light up a little. He looked in the direction of Dakota’s determined gaze, and he saw a tall, well-built man in his mid-forties, with a blindingly white smile, walking over to them. The charming and winning smile of Geoffrey Anderson.
“Dakota!” Mr. Anderson exclaimed as Dakota offered his hand, which he only took to bring Dakota in for a hug. Kurt struggled to keep himself stone-faced as he saw the look of polite, but utter discomfort in Dakota’s eyes. Kurt imagined his mouth would be the same if he had seen it and it hadn’t been smothered by Mr. Anderson’s shoulder.
Mr. Anderson let go and Dakota plopped back down to the floor with a grunt, which is when Kurt realized that he was actually lifted up into the hug.
“Geoffrey,” Dakota said with a nod.
“Who’s this, Dakota?” Mr. Anderson smiled and motioned for Kurt to approach him, offering his hand.
“Kurt Hummel, sir,” Kurt introduced with a lower bow of his head than he planned, and he took Mr. Anderson’s hand, who laughed appreciatively.
“Oh, please. Call me Geoff,’” he winked.
“Geoffrey.” Dakota cleared his throat. “Kurt here is my star pupil at the academy, and is my lead in The Sleeping Beauty.” Geoff’s smile grew wider, and he put his hand on Kurt’s shoulder.
“Well, Kurt, I’m very excited to see you perform, then. Dakota’s only ever brought a handful of his students to my dinners, so you must be an amazing dancer. He must see a lot of potential in you.” Kurt blushed, not knowing how to reply and trying so desperately to keep his composure.
“Thank you so much, Mr.… uh, Geoff,” he replied, not quite looking him in the eye.
“You should meet my son! He’s also quite the dancer, but he decided not to attend IAD. For the love of me, I will never understand that. He would’ve done so well under Dakota. Well, anyway he’s doing very well at- oh, there he is!”
Kurt followed the shift in Geoffrey’s gaze to the main door of the room, and his breath caught. A young man entered the ballroom, dressed sharply in a burgundy suit that fit him like a dream and hugged his small waist and his strong calves. His hair was black and curly, but tamed and it sat wonderfully on his head. He had beautifully golden eyes that sparkled with a glowing grin that, while definitely inherited, seemed more genuine than his father’s. Taking him all in, Kurt almost didn’t realize that he was approaching, and that Kurt’s jaw dropped a little. He shut his lips immediately when he did.
“Blaine!” Geoffrey brought him up for an equally intense hug, and an adorable chuckle came from Blaine. Oh no. “Where’ve you been? We’ve been stuck with this horrid pianist for over half an hour.”
“Sorry dad, I kinda got caught up.” Geoffrey reached up and wiped some smudged dirt off of Blaine’s face that Kurt miraculously hadn’t noticed before.
“Well, fine. Now, don’t be rude and greet our guests.”
“Of course! It’s always a privilege to see you here, Mr. Stanley.” He shook Dakota’s hand politely, and turned to Kurt.
“I’m-“
“Oh, I know who you are,” Blaine interrupted with a smile, causing Kurt to stutter and choke a little bit on his own spit.
“It’s fantastic to meet you, Kurt Hummel,” he continued, taking Kurt’s hand and shaking it with both of his. “I’m Blaine. I’m such a fan of yours. I was able to catch your understudy performance in Peter Pan. You danced with so much more abandon than the actual lead; it was so appropriate for Peter! And then you did your ponche straight into your jete, which was perfect, and I was so completely hooked. I’ve been following your performances ever since then, seriously. Soloist of the Year at Idlewild, wow. You’re opening The Sleeping Beauty next week right?” Blaine started taking slightly deeper breaths after his (quite collected) spiel, looking at Kurt expectantly with bright, excited eyes. Kurt could only nod, speechless.
“Wow, okay, I’m definitely marking that on my calendar, then. Would you like to sit?”
Kurt snapped out of staring at Blaine’s lips to find him pulling out a chair for Kurt, and in the corner of his eyes, Geoffrey walking a few paces away with Dakota. He couldn’t help but blush and sit as Blaine took the seat beside him.
“So,” Kurt said before clearing his throat. “Um, your dad says you’re a dancer?”
Blaine chuckled. “Uh yeah, I am. I’m doing pretty well at school. Not as well as you, of course,” he smiled. “I mean, we can’t all be trained by Dakota Stanley,” he said teasingly, elbowing Kurt’s arm lightly.
“Where do you attend classes?” Kurt asked, subconsciously tending to the spot that Blaine just elbowed, but only for the slight flutter that was left on his skin.
“Sylvester Academy.”
“Oh?” Kurt’s eyes lit up. “I hear so many great things about the contemporary program over there. I mean, I love Dakota, but I’d love to experience what they have there. It must be a blast. And Sue Sylvester isn’t an angel either.”
Blaine laughed out loud and bowed his head. “That’s an understatement. Still nothing compared to Dakota, though.”
“He is the best at what he does.”
“Very true.”
A different look passed through Blaine’s eyes as he looked at Kurt again. It was more curious and a little fonder then before, and Kurt found himself shifting in his seat under Blaine’s tender inspection.
There was an off beat in their silent conversation, and when Kurt was about to reach for the napkin that stood folded on the table to wipe his mouth even though they hadn’t been eating, Blaine took the opportunity to take Kurt’s hand and gently tug on it as he stood up.
“Dance with me?”
“Wha-,“ Kurt stammered, “no I… I can’t.”
“Kurt, we were just talking about our dancing backgrounds, don’t be stupid. Come on, dance with me!”
“But I don’t -“
Blaine’s pull got more forceful and Kurt was jolted out of his seat onto the small clearing of floor between the tables and the platform that could’ve been considered dance space. The pianist played a tune that he was obviously more comfortable with because the beats didn’t falter as much, and the tempo was slightly faster than Kurt would’ve liked. But Blaine’s eyes looked at him with a anyway, swaying a little closer to him than Kurt normally would’ve dared.
Blaine was having more fun with it, moving from side to side and nodding his head with a little more goofiness, urging Kurt to dance, and Kurt couldn’t help but laugh and unconsciously duck his head under Blaine’s chin because he was being so adorable.
“Come on,” Blaine said. “You can’t be embarrassed, you’re a performer!”
Kurt warmed up eventually, letting his feet and Blaine’s arms guide him through the little space they had for dancing. Much of the night went by in the same fashion – Blaine practically forcing Kurt to get out of his chair time and time again, swaying to faster, and slower songs, but always always dancing a bit closer to each other each time. They would take breaks and sit down to finally eat some dinner (which Kurt found himself practically moaning for). Kurt would duck his head at something Blaine said or did, and Blaine would laugh, loving the rosiness in Kurt’s cheeks and the way they round when he smiles.
“Let me blow you away right now,” Blaine said after Kurt bit into the most juicy piece of steamed chicken breast he’d ever encountered.
“I think you already have, but sure,” he replied after swallowing. He wiped his mouth and looked on curiously at Blaine, who got up out of his seat and walked over to the platform where the pianist halted. Blaine whispered in his ear, and took his place on the bench and tested out the keys before cracking his knuckles.
No way, Kurt thought. There is absolutely no way. Nope. No.
Blaine’s fingers drifted over the keys, playing the beginnings of a fairly up-tempo classical piece that Kurt didn’t recognize. Blaine moved and swayed with the position of his arms. His skin gathered in between his eyebrows in pure concentration and feeling, and his fingers moved with practice and precision over the blacks and ivories of the piano keys. Kurt’s breath caught when Blaine let his eyes drift closed. Blaine was an absolutely brilliant pianist, and Kurt didn’t know what to do with himself and this new bit of information.
After Blaine hit the final chords, the ballroom erupted in applause, and Kurt simply remained in his seat absolutely dumbfounded that he’s apparently spent the night dancing and conversing with a musical genius.
Blaine made his way back to their table, and took his seat beside Kurt.
“What did you think?”
Kurt wanted to hit him.
“As good with your fingers as you are with your feet?” Blaine chuckled that wonderful chuckle of his, bowing his head and then looking back up at Kurt with a grin. “Blaine. What in the world was that?”
“That was an original piece of mine.”
Kurt’s eyes grew wide, and he shut them at once, trying to regain his composure and control of his hand before he slapped the man in front of him. Blaine was an absolutely brilliant pianist…. and composer. Wonderful.
“Okay,” Kurt said with a huff. “You have to tell me all about that now.”
Blaine adjusted his sitting position and favored Kurt.
“Well, I guess it started when I was kid… I always loved the sound of pianos, so at around 10, I decided to teach myself how to play….”
xxxxxxxxxx
“Can I take you home, Kurt?”
The question took Kurt by surprise, and he didn’t realize how much time had passed since they picked the conversation back up a while back. It was nearing two in the morning, and majority of the guests had left the ballroom, save for a few stragglers that had a little too much champagne to dignify their full-length beaded gowns.
Kurt’s automatic instinct was to look around for Dakota and ask for his permission, but when he realized that Dakota had already left, there was nothing left to do except turn back to Blaine and choke out a “Yes. Sure. Uhuh.”
Blaine offered his elbow, which Kurt took with slightly giddy satisfaction, and they left the room, maneuvering through the long hallways of the Anderson mansion, passing by the front to retrieve their respective coats from Hunter, until they got to Blaine’s personal parking garage.
They entered and the lights turned on, revealing a perfectly polished, jet-black Lamorghini Murcielago. Its lights blinked and Blaine approached, opening the door on the passenger’s side. When Kurt didn’t approach, Blaine cocked his head to the side and silently questioned him.
“Where do you keep you Ferraris?” Kurt asked, laughing awkwardly.
“Florence.” Blaine smiled. “Are you coming?”
“Of-of course.” Kurt shook his head, walking briskly to the door opened for him. Entering the car, he settled into his leather seat, buckled in and waited for Blaine to do the same.
“You ready?”
“Mhmm.”
“Okay, let’s go.” Blaine raced through his driveway and out of the automated gates, and slowed down once he got to one of the main roads where cars never seemed to stop passing through.
They passed through the more rural parts of the city, with the flickering neon lights that took the shape of martini glasses and letters that spelled out cheesy bar names indicative of their specific gimmick (like Ringside Bar – featuring “midget wrestling”). They were eyed and heckled a little, and Blaine had to slow down even further to make sure he didn’t provoke any “accidents”. Looking around, they saw hooded men near alleys with Swiss Army knives and equally sharp grins.
“There’s been a lot less of those, lately,” Blaine said, nodding his head to Kurt’s side, which made him look at one of the men who was eyeing a girl in a tight mini skirt.
“They should be stopped for good,” Kurt said lowly, his blood simmering.
“I heard someone’s already trying to do just that.”
“What,” Kurt suddenly turned to Blaine, who kept wary of the streets.
“Huh? I mean that I heard there’s this guy going around in a full leather outfit with these little sword things and a foxtail on his belt, and he goes around killing people like that,” he said as he pointed to the man earlier, who was now walking towards the woman in the skirt. “It’s always the same stuff. Pocket knives, hoodies… but they’ll have stab wounds, or their heads will be smashed in… crazy stuff.”
Kurt squinted a little, his hands almost closing into fists.
“Where exactly did you hear all this?”
“Uh… the news. Radio. That stuff.”
“Huh.” Kurt nodded, thinking quick. “Is that the same guy that everyone’s been talking about lately? That ‘mysterious caped crusader’ jumping over buildings…”
“Nah, this guy seems different. It’s like he has some kind of personal vendetta against these kind of men.” Kurt’s fists closed completely. “Sometimes, he keeps them alive on purpose. The ones that live go on the air sometimes, saying that leather dude does it as a warning to everyone. They say that he calls himself Foxtrot. Can you believe that?”
“Yeah, weird.” Kurt grew quiet, and Blaine couldn’t help but notice. He took his hand off of the stick shift and covered Kurt’s balled up fist.
“You can relax now, you know.” Blaine said, trying to soothe Kurt.
“Huh?”
“We’re in the clear? No more goons and neon.” Kurt looked around, and he was right. They had passed the area, and were nearing Kurt’s place.
“Oh. Uh, thanks. Sorry I just get... nervous,” Kurt avoided.
“No problem. Aaaaand,” Blaine slowed down to a stop in front of Kurt’s apartment building, “We’re here.”
“Thanks Blaine.” Before Kurt even reached for his door handle, Blaine shot up out of his driver’s seat and rounded the car to open the door for Kurt. “Well, what a gentleman,” Kurt said with a smirk in his tone, comfortable enough to tease.
“I do my best.” Blaine shrugged and smiled. “Let me walk you to your unit.” Blaine clicked the button on his keychain and locked the car. Kurt automatically took Blaine’s elbow and the two walked up the stairs together to the 3rd floor.
“This is me. 305.” Kurt turned to Blaine and they faced each other in front of Kurt’s door. “Thank you for bringing me home.” Blaine waved it off.
“Nah, it’s no problem. I’m really glad you came to the dinner tonight. It was a real treat for me, and yeah… That’s kind of why I wanted to bring you home. And I, uh…” Blaine cleared his throat. He leaned in quickly and gave Kurt a sweet peck on the cheek. “I really wanted to do that.” Kurt’s eyes widened, and he touched the part of his cheek that had been kissed. He needed to look anywhere besides Blaine’s eyes or lips.
“Thanks again, Blaine.” He swiftly unlocked his door and rushed inside, closing the door on Blaine and leaning against it, biting against the collar of his coat to keep down the squeal that would’ve accompanied the huge grin on his face.
Knock, knock
“Uh, Kurt?” Blaine called through the door.
“Yeah?”
“…was… that okay?”
“That was very okay, Blaine.” Kurt heard a relieved sigh through the door, and a soft thud that landed on wood slightly under the level of his head.
“Good. That’s… great.”
“It is.”
“Do you wanna…” Blaine called again and cleared his throat, “do you maybe wanna get dinner with me some time?” Kurt’s eyebrows shot up.
“Of course! Friday okay? No rehearsal,” he shouted through the door with a little more volume than he had intended.
Just then, a few loud thuds came from the wall directly beside Kurt.
“IT’S TWO THIRTY IN THE MORNING YOU FUCKIN’ PIECES OF SHIT! KEEP IT DOWN!” Kurt then heard the sound of retreating footsteps to what he assumed was the grumpy man’s bedroom, and the muffled sound of a slamming door.
“Oops,” Kurt said in mock-guilt.
“Listen,” Blaine whispered through the crack of the door, “Friday sounds great. I’ll just get your number from dad or Mr. Stanley, okay? I should probably get going, I don’t wanna wake anymore neighbors up tonight.”
“Okay,” Kurt whispered back. “Sounds great. I’ll see you on Friday then. I absolutely can’t wait, Blaine. Take care.”
“See you, Kurt. Bye”
Kurt pushed his ear up to the door and listened to make sure that the coast was clear, and that Blaine’s footsteps had completely disappeared before he barged out of his apartment and knocked furiously on the door of the apartment next to his. As soon as the door flew open, and the stubby, grumpy-looking man with an overgrown mustache and a sloppy looking pajama set emerged, and let out an annoyed “WHAT?”, Kurt swung his fist toward him and it landed on his nose, sending the man a few feet back, falling on his back and groaning in pain, holding his broken nose.
“If you ever ruin a moment for me like that again,” Kurt seethed, “I will slice off your fucking fingers, do you understand?”
The man nodded helplessly.
“Good.” Kurt slammed the door closed and went back into his apartment, giddy with excitement for his date on Friday.
CHAPTER TWO
It was 6:28pm on Friday, and Kurt was very near the restaurant that he talked with Blaine about, and it sounded like it had some amazing French food at a really good restaurant, so Kurt decided to dress it up just a bit. Maybe it could even get him a ride home from Blaine.
He was a couple of blocks away when it started to rain, and Kurt sighed, mentally berating himself for not bringing an umbrella, before he ran to the nearest awning, a bread shop just a building ahead, to take shelter. He stayed under the cover, trying to wipe stray rain droplets off of his new shirt before they sunk into the fabric, and he looked ahead and watched the rain slowly getting stronger.
A blurred dash of blonde hair from across the street caught his attention. He saw the head of hair being dragged into an alley by a dark grey sweater, and Kurt sprung into action.
He ran to the side of the bread shop into the alley and hid behind a dumpster, stripping off his clothes, revealing his leather disguise underneath. He put on his mask, ears, and signature foxtail, and stuffed his regular clothes into his satchel as neatly, but as quickly as possible before he ran straight into the alley across the street where he saw the two people disappear into.
The girl was pinned to the wall, her screams barely audible above the now-pouring rain. Her skirt was gathered up on her waist, and the man in the grey sweater had his hands all over her legs. He ran up to them and punched the man at the side of his head.
“Run!” he yelled at the woman, who took the cue and ran out of the alley with her bag, furiously pulling her skirt down and shouting Thank You’s at Kurt.
Kurt wasted no time in removing the sai swords from his belt and walking over to the unconscious body lying on the ground.
“Fucking filth,” he said before squatting down, surveying his body with disgust, and slitting the man’s throat.
As he fixed his swords in his belt and started to walk back to where he had stashed his clothes, he heard wet rubble slide down the brick wall beside him, and he looked up to catch a glimpse of a by-now very familiar looking caped crusader on the roof before he disappeared. You’re not getting away this time, Kurt thought, and he expertly climbed up to the fire escape and ran up the stairs, leaping and skipping 3 or 4 steps at a time.
The man must have heard him a little late because of the rain because Kurt caught him on the roof only just nearing the edge of the building, wanting to jump over to the next. Kurt immediately took out his rope and threw it at the man, catching his arms just as he lifted them, and he halted his jump.
“Hey,” Kurt called out above the noise of the rain, in a practiced lower pitch than his normal speaking voice. “Who are you?”
The man turned around, and Kurt was caught by surprise. He had a leaner build than Kurt initially thought since all he ever saw of this man’s body was a shadow of a cloaked person. His hair was slicked to the side but was started to loosen because of the rain and it became wavier. The man’s brown eyes looked straight back at him, determined but afraid, and were slightly off-putting - like they weren’t natural.
“I asked for your name,” he said, walking closer and raising a sword to the man’s throat when he didn’t reply.
“Nightbird.” The man’s voice was gruff, another surprise. Kurt raised an eyebrow.
“Nightbird?” Kurt smirked.
“Better than Foxtrot.” The smirk left Kurt’s face and he pressed the tip of his sword against Nightbird’s skin.
“Listen, creep. I know you’ve been following me.”
“Observing.”
“WHATEVER. I should kill you right now.” Kurt was mere inches away, his sword now pressed against Nightbird’s chest. “Although I might miss my shadow that’s been following me on my little escapades for months.”
“I’m not the enemy, Foxtrot.” Nightbird’s voice raised a little, turning into something almost recognizable, but dismissible.”
“You may not be, but you get on my nerves.”
“Can I go? I’m actually late for something.” The question took Kurt completely off-guard. The conversation had taken a sudden casual turn, and Kurt had absolutely no clue how to respond to such a request. And then it dawned on him.
“What time is it?”
“It must be close to 7,” Nightbird replied. Kurt closed his eyes in frustration. This can wait, then.
“Fine. Luckily for you, I’m late for something as well.” Kurt lowered his swords, and Nightbird looked on at him, narrowing his eyes, curiously observing Kurt’s face. Kurt started to feel uncomfortable and backed away.
“You better watch yourself, creep.” With that, Kurt ran back to the side of the building, and launched himself down the slippery fire escape and across the street into the alley where his clothes waited for him. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t quite place, but he dismissed it as hunger.
xxxxxxxxxx
Kurt had just been seated (at the table under Blaine Anderson) and given a glass of water. He was looking through the menu when the door of the restaurant opened and rang the bell that hung on top. Kurt looked up and saw a fairly wet, curly-haired boy, shaking his wet coat and shrugging it off, giving it to an attendee before looking around and spotting Kurt. The two smiled widely at each other, and Blaine brisk-walked to his table, giving Kurt a hug when he stood up to greet Blaine.
“Hey,” Blaine said. “Sorry I’m late… traffic. Did you wait too long?” They both took their seats, and a waiter immediately filled a glass of water for Blaine.
“No, no, not at all. I actually just got here around five, ten minutes ago.” Kurt smiled and took a sip of his water.
“Okay that’s good. So. Are you ready?” Blaine rubbed his hands together, and raised one, signaling a waiter. “Because I’m looking forward to an amazing beef stew here that my friends told me about.”
