Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title from "7-9 Legendary" by Fall Out Boy.
Warnings are: lustful!Blaine, Blaine angst (or Blaingst as some lovely Tumblr user said), phone sex, my I'm-not-leaving-this-computer-chair-'til-I'm-finished early morning writings.


The only secret that Blaine has ever kept from Kurt in the five months that they've been dating is his plan to transfer to McKinley once term starts in the fall. His grandparents live in Kurt's district and any excuse to not be in the same house as his father is worth the stretch of trouble it may be to achieve.

That had been one of the main reasons why he'd chosen Dalton in the first place. Room and board from September to June was like the Hogwarts that Blaine had never gotten. In that sea of impeccable blazers and bored rich kids Blaine could be who he was without fear of consequence. He didn't have to put up a front and pretend that he was anyone other than his true self.

For nine months out of the year, he was never asked if he had met a nice girl yet. He didn't have to bear witness to the curl of a lip as he chatted animatedly about some adorable boy he'd seen at the mall after school. He didn't have to see disappointment in eyes so similar to his while he's lain up in a hospital bed, black-eyed and cut-lipped, aching and tears shining wetly across his scraped cheeks, tracking their way down a cut jaw and a bruised windpipe where they had wrapped their fingers tight as they hit and hit and hit and caused so much pain.

He didn't have to hear the thinly-veiled contempt in his father's voice as he asked the nurse just how much this was all going to cost. Blaine didn't need it to be said out loud to know: there was no sympathy in this for him. He was nothing more than some stupid kid wasting money on hospital bills because he couldn't resist cavorting around with his abnormality and shoving it into other kids' faces.

He didn't need to hear what his father thought: he'd asked for this because he wasn't straight.

It was all his fault. He was broken and bleeding and scared, too scared, because he'd wanted to have fun, show everyone that he's just a kid too, like them.

He was a disappointment.

He'd transferred once his fractures healed and the swelling went down.

It had taken months of people dancing around him for fear of upsetting him further, months of him crying himself to sleep even though he'd promised to be strong, to not let anything bother him anymore. It had taken Wes those few months to approach the new transfer student with the drooped posture and on-edge set of shoulders. He'd heard him singing quietly one night in the common room, some melancholic song that tugged even at his heartstrings.

He'd asked Blaine to join the glee club. Blaine had tentatively said yes.

Blaine knows, with a little pang in his chest, that he'll miss the Warblers most of all. They had become his family in the two years that he'd gone there. He had matured at that school and in that club. He'd discovered how to accept himself; he'd been a lead soloist despite being only a junior. He'd finally met the reason he was planning to switch back to public school despite the poisons associated with it.

Kurt's made his usually-insufferable summer bearable. Kurt, with his upbeat attitude and easy smiles and lingering touches, was the happiness Blaine previously found only in song. His house offered the fussing Blaine had never been subject too but that clearly annoyed Kurt, and Carole hovering, asking if he'd been getting enough to eat, and would he like some ice cream touched him more than he'd probably ever admit.

As excited as Blaine was to transfer—and to surprise Kurt on the first day of school—a new school also meant a new glee club and a new dynamic. From what he'd seen at competition New Directions had their own way of going about things. Blaine's used to the rigidity of the Warblers, the need for fancy footwork and well-calculated turns. New Directions was all about showcasing individuality, using members' strengths and weaknesses to make the numbers work.

After scouring Google and YouTube for videos Blaine finally stumbled upon a blog run by some kid named Jacob Ben Israel. The media section hosted a few poor-quality videos of what Blaine could vaguely make out as McKinley's glee club. He smiles. Score.

Below the thumbnails the names of the songs being performed are in bold, white font. He scrolls past "4 Minutes" and "Vogue" (he was never a huge Madonna fan); cringes at "Tik Tok," contemplates "Push It" before ultimately deciding to skip that for now and maybe watch it later.

There are a few numbers done by what appear to be the cheerleaders, and while seemingly impressive, he skips those as well. He doesn't think that he'll be joining them any time soon, not with his stocky physique. The last video that he sees is "Toxic," and okay, he could totally go for this one because Britney is his girl, right behind Katy Perry and P!nk.

It's camera phone quality. The footage is grainy and a little shaky, but he can still see the stage and see the club and he thinks that he can maybe see Kurt somewhere in there as well. The lights dim and the music starts; Blaine gets an excited tingle somewhere behind his navel in anticipation.

The choreography is… surprisingly sexual, but not overtly so. He hadn't expected a stool choir or anything, nor had he expected dull choreography, but seeing the kids—and was that their teacher?—moving around like that, he's surprised that they had gotten away with it at all. The Warbler council would have never allowed something like that.

He sees Mike and Brittany, dancing as amazingly as ever. Brittany's singing vocal with a voice Blaine had honestly never expected and somehow even Finn manages to look good. Blaine is very, very impressed. Even their teacher—Mr. Schue, he remembers belatedly—isn't half-bad, dancing and vocal-wise.

Then the recorder changes angles and another person comes into focus, familiar, long-limbed and lithe.

Is that…? Blaine blinks, breath stopping and catching almost painfully on an inhale. His hand freezes on the mouse and static fills his ears, pushing the tinny noise of the video aside. He feels the familiar rush of blood south, the heat spreading throughout his body as his pupils dilate. He can only stare wordlessly at the screen.

So much for not overtly sexual.

That long-limbed, lithe familiar figure is Kurt. Kurt is there gyrating his hips and placing a hat strategically over his crotch, something Blaine wishes that he had the liberty of right now. Kurt's moving effortlessly and fluidly like he's made of smoke. He looks otherworldly and breathtakingly beautiful.

He's also oozing the sultry sex appeal that Blaine had been trying to get him to work on in February, the sexiness that Kurt was absolutely sure he didn't possess. It must have been a joke, Blaine thinks as he leans in closer to the computer screen, tongue wetting his lips and forearm digging painfully into the edge of the desk as he puts his weight on it, a really dumb joke.

Here he was, capturing Blaine's attention, demanding it like it was nothing. Like he was born to move like that, to stare like that, to look like that and think that there would be no consequences.

Blaine gasps, feeling his increasingly-interested dick press up against the zipper of his jeans. He shouldn't be feeling these things, not when Kurt is—was?—an innocent little thing that relied on romance and fluff, not heavy petting and nameless sex.

Hell, even he was never enamored with the idea of sex. It's a horrifyingly big step, especially to someone who's never had a boyfriend and who's managed to misconstrue two coffee dates into a blossoming romance.

His eyes widen further when he spots Kurt in the group's line-up, holding his hat out and thrusting into it, and oh. Oh my god. He suddenly really, really wants to be that hat, to be spread out underneath Kurt, to be on his hands and knees and begging.

Blaine may be a little pathetic, and he may be panting and lusting after his sweet, innocent boyfriend, and he may just be going to hell for liking this as much as he does. This was supposed to just be an insight into what he would expected in his new school pending his audition.

But Kurt… Kurt is up there in front of the whole goddamn school, biting his lip and holding two hats up to Mercedes's chest. Kurt is up there and so sexy with that come-hither look that Blaine can't help but be a bad boyfriend and press the heel of his palm to his clothed erection with a groan.

Fuck it.


I saw "Toxic."

Kurt receives Blaine's text late that night when he's sitting in front of his vanity going through the last stages of his moisturizing routine. When he's capped the last bottle and made sure it was all successfully rubbed into his skin he unlocks his phone and reads the message with a raised eyebrow.

Aren't you a little late on that?

No. I mean… I saw you guys doing it.

Kurt doesn't blink. Had Blaine been going through old numbers? How was he going through old numbers? There weren't videos of them; at least Kurt had thought that there weren't. Settling onto his bed, he stretches out and contemplates what to send. Staring at the beige ceiling, he chews on the inside of his lip as he taps out a reply.

Oh. I, uh, did you like it, then?

Fuck, kurt.

Kurt feels a little tingle of arousal and he tugs on the hem of his nightshirt. Blaine never swears. In the five months they've been dating Kurt's only heard him utter any form of curse word when they're making out and one of them manages to rub just so against the other. Usually those swears are at first low and rough with need before abruptly switching to apologetic and a little embarrassed.

Blaine? Kurt tentatively texts back.

You were so hot. I couldn't take my eyes off of you. You have no idea how badly i wanted to be that stupid lucky hat.

Well. This is… this is pleasantly new. Kurt can almost hear the growl in Blaine's voice, feel it reverberate in his chest. He wants to know exactly how much Blaine liked it. He wants to be told in marks and kisses and stinging touches.

He's never wanted anyone like he wants Blaine. Even from the first turn of a head, first glimpse into those large eyes that sparkled with a hope Kurt didn't possess yet, he's known. Maybe unconsciously or maybe he's just pushed it aside like Blaine did his feelings at first, but it's always been there.

That inkling is what gives Kurt that courage that Blaine is always texting him.

I want you to be that stupid lucky hat Kurt texts back with shaky fingers.

There's no going back now. Kurt doesn't want to go back. He hopes he doesn't have to.

When Kurt's phone vibrates this time it's a call. Swallowing and steeling himself, Kurt answers.

"You're ridiculous," Blaine groans when the ringing ends. His voice is breathy and strung, syllables clipped and short and in between words Kurt can hear little breathy gasps. His stomach twists and he runs his fingers along the waistband of his lounge pants.

"Are you touching yourself?" Kurt asks, blurts really, and immediately flushes.

"Yes," is Blaine's answering groan. "Are you? Because you're awfully composed if you are."

"Why would I be? I'm the one you're getting off to; that'd be awkward," Kurt replies flippantly even though his cock agrees that there's no reason not to be touching himself right now, not with Blaine's voice already wrecked like it is.

"Humor me," Blaine says dryly, losing the last few syllables to a low moan.

Kurt's hand trails lower, rubbing across the smooth skin of his abdomen and resting in the dips between his hipbones. When his hand slips into his briefs and his fingers curl around the base of his cock he lets out an embarrassingly high moan. Blaine laughs softly on the other line.

"You were so sexy," Blaine says, taking control and for that Kurt is glad because he's suddenly incapable of doing anything other than pushing pajama bottoms and briefs down to his ankles before kicking them off the bed with a little noise. "Why did you always say you weren't?"

"I—I don't know," Kurt gasps as his hand slides up, thumb dragging across the smooth head before sliding back down to squeeze at the base. "I told you that I wasn't because I'm not."

"You were," Blaine says. "Oh my god, you were, Kurt. You are. I wanted to get down on my hands and knees for you in that instant. I wanted to beg you to fill me up, fuck me until I couldn't move."

The words trigger something in Kurt and he almost drops his phone where it's pressed tight to his ear, his fingers clutching onto it like it's his totem and this is a dream. "Jesus, Blaine," he murmurs. "I want to."

Blaine whimpers, a hint of a whine bubbling in the back of his throat, and then Kurt's imagining him spread across his spacious bed, legs splayed and skin flushed an almost-imperceptible red as his hand moves along the length of his cock, alternating between teasing and desperate.

Kurt sees Blaine's phone on the pillow next to his head, its backlight the only color in the otherwise-dark room. He sees his head dug deep into the pillow in bliss, dark curls fanned out and loose with sweat and maybe a pre-bed shower. He envisions Blaine's lips, bitten red, mouth parted slightly as he voices his pleasure, tongue an occasional pink flash as it wets his lips.

"Can you imagine how hot you'd look with your mouth stretched around my cock?" Kurt says before he can stop himself, hand sliding up, thumb catching the pre-come that's beading on the head of his cock. He slides down with a twist and his hips buck up slightly.

"I always do," Blaine admits. His voice sends thrills down Kurt's spine and he can feel his orgasm building already, imagines that he can feel Blaine's as well. "You have no idea what I imagine doing with you, doing to you."

Kurt moans, high and clear, and he bends his knees, feet flat on the bed as his hips lift up into the tight circle of his fist. "Blaine," Kurt whines. He hopes it's enough to get his message across.

"I'm close, too," Blaine pants, the connection crackling as he breathes into the speaker. "Come on, Kurt."

"I—I," Kurt breathes, muscles burning in his arm from the pace he's using. He can't get anything else out, not through his small moans and whimpers and shaky gasps.

"Imagine it's my hand," Blaine says with a breathless noise. "Imagine that I'm doing this to you. That it's my hand, my lips on your neck. You are so gorgeous, Kurt. Everything about you. I love you."

"Oh god, I love you too," Kurt says before coming with a choked-off moan, back arching off the bed and come splattering high on his chest as he jerks himself through the shocks.

Through the pleasant buzzing in his ears he hears Blaine groaning his name, voice dropping low and scratchy, before both lines are silent as they catch their breath. Kurt grins, embarrassed, and laughs shakily.

"Not the first time I had imagined," he says as he leans and gropes on his nightstand for tissues. "But I really liked it."

"Mhm," Blaine agrees, sated, and by now he's probably boneless, sinking deeper and deeper into his mattress until he's just disappeared. "Fantastic."

"Just curious," Kurt says when his breathing's returned to normal and his pants are pulled back up, tissues discarded in the trash can beside his bed, "why were you looking at old performance videos?"

On the other end of the line Blaine's eyes widen in an emotion that's the sister of horror and he says, blaming his post-orgasm haze on the shaky quality of his voice, "I stumbled across it in some weird blog. I was browsing show choir videos for choreography inspiration for Warbler numbers this year. It gets sort of old doing snaps and footwork all the time."

Kurt hums, like he's bought it and agrees, and Blaine sighs in relief. He's just getting ready to say his goodnights and curl up in the afterglow and sleep when Kurt says, "Glad you didn't watch 'Push It.' I can't believe that I thought a fanny pack was a good idea for that."

The fire in Blaine's stomach rekindles itself. Tomorrow was looking promising.