DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title from "w.a.m.s." by Fall Out Boy.
Warnings are: underage prostitution, facefucking, expletives, some schmoop at the end that I did not intend to put there when I started this.


The area was desolate, many of the buildings dilapidated and one falling level away from being condemned. The streets were littered with trash and dead leaves, the pavement cracked, potholes looming deep and damaging every so often. Chain-link fences fall into un-mown grass, rust, and vines twine up through the diamond-shape pattern. Sometimes there are gunshots, sometimes there are screams.

Along the side of the road groups of young boys, girls, loiter, some dressed in almost nothing, others looking like they may have taken a wrong turn and ended up on the street by happenstance. No matter the clothing, these underage and of-age kids leer at passing cars, cocking their hips and stepping forward into the grimy light of a yellow streetlamp to show potentials what they have to offer.

This part of town is far from his modest house, so he can't make the excuse that he'd accidentally taken a wrong turn. Once he'd skipped the street that would lead him to his own neighborhood he'd known that there was no going back. He'd turned off the radio, rolled up the windows, and held the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, anxiety eating away at his insides like acid.

Under last season's Armani suit, Kurt Hummel is quivering.

When he'd graduated high school he'd had small-town dreams of going to Broadway, making it big, owning that stage each and every night and captivating the hearts of millions with his voice and his emotion. In his dream life, his dream loft, he'd had a special glass shelf designed to hold his potential Tonys.

He made it one year in New York before the city got to him; the grime, the crappy apartment with cracking plaster, no hot water and neighbors that liked to have extremely loud sex nearly every night. He reasons that if he had had someone to go with he might have made it, but being on his own, in a whole new state, was frightening and he wasn't designed to handle it.

In the summer between his freshman and sophomore years he dropped out of NYU and moved back to Ohio to go to OSU. There he graduated nearly at the top of his class, and after pulling a few strings with people he had met over the years he gained his first real job as a freelance journalist. It had paid decently and paved the way for some better jobs and better articles, but it still didn't offer the kind of life that Kurt secretly would never stop wanting.

It was a far cry from the luxurious life of real designer clothes—not ones he'd had to sew himself or try to buy off of eBay using the money he'd earned at the garage—and adoring fans, but the Kurt Hummel of McKinley had grown up and changed. Some part of him still wanted to be a performer, would always want that life, but a larger, more realistic part of him had settled for doing something that he actually turned out to be surprisingly good at.

By a brick building that's three stories tall with broken windows and a boarded-up door, there stands a small group of guys at the corner, each dressed a little differently. Kurt eases his foot off of the gas and tries not to be too obvious, although in these parts no matter what you do, it's obvious.

Kurt doesn't get a good look at the other two, just sees flashes of brown and blonde hair, but the one in the middle is the one that stands out. He's shorter than the others, with short black hair. He's got on a baby blue v-neck that scoops lower than should be legal and a pair of relatively tight pants rolled up to a little above his ankle.

He doesn't seem like he's hustling, but when he stares at Kurt's car as it approaches, that same leer is there, the one that shouldn't be sexy but on this boy, with his large honey hazel eyes and full lips, it's downright sinful.

It's only for him that Kurt pulls to a stop by the curb and rolls his window down.

The boy says something unintelligible to the others, laughs, and begins to walk over to Kurt's car. He's still got the laugh lines on his face, making his eyes crinkle up adorably at the corners, and that feeling of guilt and I should not be doing this floods Kurt once again. How old is this kid? Sixteen? Seventeen? Is he going to be a cradle robber? He could go to prison for this.

Kurt's shaking a little by the time the boy rests his arm against the car door. Up close the boy is even cuter, smiling at some stranger in a car with a wide, easy grin like they've been friends for years. Kurt sees that he probably hasn't shaved in a day or two, sees that on his wrists are various beaded bracelets in varying colors and designs. Around his neck is a thin silver chain and dangling at the end is an empty birdcage pendant.

"Hello, handsome," the boys says in a smooth voice, timbre low and dark and playful. One corner of his lips quirks upwards a little more, pulling at the muscles and crinkling his golden skin further. "What'll it be? Do you want me to jerk you off? Suck you off? Or do you just want to lay me on your bed and fuck me until my ass is raw, Mr. Successful Businessman?"

Kurt swallows and wishes that his cock wasn't taking such an interest in the filthy words coming out of this young boy's mouth. Jesus, he's probably still in high school and he's talking in a way that Kurt, even through his various hook-ups and few random boyfriends, has very rarely experienced and had enjoyed even less, but somehow it seems so right, so natural, coming out of this kid's mouth.

He opens his mouth to say that he's made a wrong turn, that this was a bad idea and shouldn't this kid go out and finish school so that he can go to college and make something of himself? It's always more dangerous for the pretty ones.

Instead, what comes out is, "I'm not a businessman." Yeah, like that was what needed to be cleared up. He probably thinks that Kurt is some kind of closetcase with a wife he doesn't love and kids he adores but didn't really want in the first place.

The boy's eyebrows rise up a little in amusement but he doesn't say anything more, just puts more of his body weight on the car door and cocks his hip out. Kurt sighs and unlocks the passenger door, motioning for the kid to get in.

With a sashaying walk that draws Kurt's attention to the boy's lovely ass, he walks in front of the car and opens the door before sliding smoothly in. Kurt takes a deep breath, pushing his hair off of his forehead in thought, and adjusts the rearview mirror to have something to do with his hands, because if he doesn't those hands are going to touch every inch of this boy's body until he's memorized each curve and muscle.

"How much?" Kurt asks and winces internally. This is really happening. I'm really doing this. I've become so desperate that I need to pay for sex instead of finding myself a suitable boyfriend.

"Depends on what you want to do," the boy replies cheekily, but his tone goes from playful to serious almost immediately afterwards when he continues. "Hundred for penetrative sex, fifty for everything else unless you're going to get kinky. Then it's extra." He swivels his head and Kurt feels like the boy's staring at his soul when he fixes him with that intense hazel gaze. Either he nods his head almost imperceptibly in approval or Kurt's seeing things.

"Is it..." Kurt pauses, wondering if it's appropriate to ask, but the kid is still silent in the passenger seat, expression neutral as he waits for Kurt to finish. "I was just wondering... What's your name?"

The kid grins and laughs a little shortly but doesn't seem offended or angry, which Kurt takes as a plus. It's probably really not an uncommon request; Kurt can't be the only john to want to know the name of the kid they're picking up. "My name's Blaine. That's all you need to know."

Blaine. It's a nice name. "Kurt," Kurt says quickly. "I'm Kurt." He adds, almost like he can't stop his mouth from moving, "Why are you doing this?" He can't put a finger on why he feels somewhat of an attachment to this kid, this Blaine that showed up out of nowhere with a devil-may-care attitude and far too pretty lips, hair, eyes, smile.

Blaine's answer holds a definite tone of anger, his eyes seeming to spark in the dimness of the car. His friends are still standing on the corner, looking perplexedly at Kurt's still-immobile car. "I like cock, okay? Any shape or form, in my mouth or up my ass or in my hand, I want it. And I like money. So the two kind of go hand-in-hand."

Kurt blinks, mouth dropped slightly in surprise at the harsh bluntness of the words. Blaine's jaw is set, arms folded tightly across his torso as he stares out the windshield. Kurt's struck a nerve, he can tell, so he shifts the car into drive and says, "I'm taking you back to my house. I want you to suck me off and then I'm going to kiss you. Then I'll drive you back here."

Kurt's never really been a forceful person, but he's also never been the type of guy to pick up hustling teenagers off the street.

Blaine doesn't say anything else and neither does Kurt.


In the light of Kurt's living room Blaine looks even younger than he did on the street. The uneasy feeling returns to Kurt's stomach as he hangs up his suit jacket on the rack by the door and Blaine stares at the collection of Vogues on the coffee table like he's contemplating whether or not to read any of them. Kurt thinks it'd be tacky to mention that he has an article in one or two of them.

Blaine's aura may still scream confidence, but he seems almost frightened and nervous just standing there, tapping his foot and fiddling with his necklace, his fingers twining over and over each other. He's jittery and it's making Kurt jittery and he honestly doesn't know what to do. This isn't like a normal houseguest that you can placate with cheese and a glass of wine.

Kurt doesn't even know the first thing about prostitute—oh god, that's what this kid is—etiquette, and he's torn between asking Blaine if he wants something to drink or directing him to the bedroom hastily.

Luckily Blaine strips off his shirt and Kurt's left wondering why he had waited this long to do anything in the first place. Blaine is gorgeous, with just the right amount of chest hair and muscle, and oh god, the deep V of his hips is just begging to have Kurt's mouth marking all over it.

Fuck the bedroom. Horizontal relations are so overrated, anyway.

"You're gorgeous," Kurt breathes, stepping forward to run his hands down Blaine's chest, feeling the soft hair under his fingertips, the bumps of his abs, the dip of his navel. The metal of his necklace is still cold when Kurt brushes against it, jostling it slightly. He can feel small tremors run through Blaine's body as he ghosts along the waistline of his jeans.

Without speaking Blaine drops to his knees, says, "I kind of need to see the money up front," and undoes the button and zip of Kurt's slacks. He's so businesslike and even though Kurt had always found his business classes incredibly boring, with a teacher like Blaine he's sure it could have been somewhat engaging and immensely distracting.

"Ah, um, wallet is in my—my back pocket," Kurt gasps, hands pressing down onto Blaine's shoulders. Keeping only his hot breath ghosting over Kurt's briefs, Blaine snakes a hand around, grabbing onto Kurt's ass pointedly and smirking at the resulting squeak, and extricates the plain black wallet, opening it up and fishing a fifty out of the flap. He looks so young but acts so experienced.

"How old are you?" Kurt says through a low moan as Blaine cups him through his briefs, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the head of his cock. He wishes his brain knew when to stop thinking and that his mouth knew when to shut up.

"Old enough to know how to do this," Blaine replies before pushing slacks and briefs down to Kurt's ankles and swallowing him down, throat muscles working around Kurt's cock as he slackens his jaw.

"Ahh—" Kurt's back arches and he digs his fingers into the smooth skin of Blaine's bare shoulders. Blaine hums something rhythmic, something that could be a bar of a song, but Kurt's too busy trying to not thrust up into his mouth to identify.

He's vaguely aware of a hand on his own, unlatching his fingers and when he looks down he sees Blaine's hand on top of his, directing it to the back of his head. He doesn't stop his bobbing and without words Kurt gets it, knows that Blaine must have sensed the unsure buck of his hips. Kurt grasps tightly onto surprisingly soft curls.

Blaine stills, one hand curling around Kurt's thigh as he waits. Biting his lip, Kurt moves his hips tentatively at first, speeding up only when Blaine moans appreciatively. He shouldn't be so worried about Blaine, not when he does this stuff at least once a night, not when he can swallow down a cock in one breath like he did, something that Kurt doesn't think he'll ever be able to do.

"You feel so good," Kurt murmurs, hips snapping forward. "So fantastic, Blaine."

Blaine only hums in response, leaning slightly back into Kurt's palm and Kurt can only watch the slick, fast slide of his cock in and out of Blaine's swollen mouth, the gleam of saliva down his chin. He thinks for a moment about warning Blaine when he feels the familiar early tendrils of orgasm creeping up on him; then Blaine's hand tightens on his thigh and he makes a contented little sound that sends Kurt over the edge with how at ease Blaine clearly was, how this was probably something akin to a Zen moment for him.

Kurt comes with a moan, his legs shaking as Blaine swallows before pulling back with a slight cough and working his jaw a few times as Kurt collects himself.

Every inch of his skin tingles, static crackling in his ears. In the back of his mind he remembers his plans of kissing the taste of his come out of Blaine's mouth, but his limbs don't want to seem to cooperate. He's only aware of his slacks and briefs tangled around his loafers, his tie and button-up still on and only slightly wrinkled. He feels filthy, like those fifty-year-old men that he knows prowls Blaine's streets.

He tries to tell himself that he's not one of them, that he'd picked this kid up because he was pretty and kind of charming in his own way and so young, and Kurt missed his own youth, missed his shattered dreams and expectations and thinking that not getting one crummy solo was the end of the world.

In a way, maybe Kurt is one of those men, but at the end of the day he still sort of cares about Blaine even though he's only known him for a short amount of time, most of which has been spent with Blaine's mouth on his cock.

Blaine's still on his knees, clearing his throat a little as he shifts uncomfortably. When Kurt sees the bulge in his jeans he's not too surprised; this may just be routine for Blaine, but it's still something that he would prefer off the clock.

"Want me to do anything for you?" Kurt asks, kicking off his shoes and slacks before pulling his briefs up. Blaine's eyes follow him as he unknots his tie and pops the buttons on his shirt.

"No," Blaine croaks and Kurt feels his cock trying desperately to get hard again. That throaty, raspy quality is because of him, because of what Blaine let him do. He let him punish his throat unapologetically, let him fuck his mouth and he'd been so still, so ready. Blaine's laugh carries a bit of that quality as he says bitterly, "No one pleases the whore, anyway. Not if they can help it."

Kurt flings his shirt and tie onto the couch, along with his slacks. He tugs on Blaine's arm, pulling until he's standing upright. It's then that Kurt notices that Blaine's a few inches shorter and is keeping his face down, looking at the pendant on his necklace.

"I promised you a kiss," Kurt says, "though it maybe wasn't 'promised,' more like stated." Blaine smiles, a quirk of the lips that comes and goes quickly. They meet halfway and Kurt forgoes his earlier plan, choosing to keep it chaste. Like this, he feels, tastes the real Blaine, the one who is scared and rejected and finds his entertainment in pleasing anonymous men.

The real Blaine, who never gets kissed at the end of a session, who never feels the passion and caring of someone's lips on his who wants something more than just pleasure. Maybe Kurt falls too easily or maybe this was just a trick of the light. Blaine is special and deserves to be treated that way.

Kurt rubs his nose against Blaine's cheekbone briefly when they part. Blaine's breaths are a little shaky, like his façade is cracking down quickly around him. When he speaks, it's nothing short of a confession. "I'm seventeen."

"It's okay," Kurt says, though they both know that it's not. This goes deeper than the illegal aspect of underage sex and prostitution. Blaine should be finishing up his junior year of high school, enjoying his last few years of adolescence and hanging out with his friends. He should be waiting for the right guy to be intimate with, to kiss and hold hands with. He should be applying to colleges soon and planning his future career.

"I feel trapped," Blaine confesses, a hand coming up to play with the pendant, pressing hard enough on the bars of the cage to leave dents in his fingertips. "I hate it here. I hate going to school. I hate my dad and his hatred of who I am." Kurt can see a few tears slip past Blaine's tightly-closed lids. "This is my way out."

Kurt takes Blaine's hand and squeezes it, bending down to pick up his discarded shirt. Blaine takes it and slides it on, mussing his hair up slightly, but now Kurt sees him for the seventeen-year-old boy that he is, not the cocky, confident hustler sashaying around abandoned street corners that he had been at first glance. "It's not always like this," Kurt murmurs.

"I don't even know why I'm confiding in you," Blaine says as he pulls back, stepping away from Kurt. His eyes are steely, voice flat and cold. He's trying so hard to recoup for his moment of weakness. "You're just a john, like every other guy."

"I didn't use you," Kurt fires back, feathers ruffled. "I used you only when you signaled me to."

Blaine scrubs a hand over his face and sniffs, grabbing the crumpled fifty from the floor and shoving it in his jean pocket. "Whatever. Can you just take me back? Fifty dollars is kind of lame and the night is still young."

Kurt narrows his eyes but puts on a pair of yoga pants and a thin t-shirt, grabbing his keys and shoes and heading out the door. He hears Blaine behind him, sees him open and close the passenger door out of the corner of his eye but they don't speak. This time Kurt turns the radio on, the station tuned to his usual, a nice mix of Top Forty, classics, and R&B.

The DJ's smooth voice announces Matchbox 20, and the first strains of "3 AM" flow through the speakers. Kurt's always liked this song; it's mournful and beautiful and he'd once sung it in his old glee club for an assignment. It makes him feel a little old to realize that the song's been out for over a decade, and he wonders if this insolent, albeit semi-charming and cute, teenager sitting next to him even knows it.

When he hears a voice that's not Rob Thomas he glances over and sees Blaine leaning on the window, forehead pressed to the glass with the occasional streetlamp highlighting his face as he sings along. And he's good. Like, Kurt's heart palpitating for a bit good.

When the chorus hits up again Kurt quietly joins in, hearing the halt in Blaine's soft singing as he fumbles over the words in surprise before picking them back up, harmonizing with Kurt's voice as they sing a little louder, a little more confidently.

Kurt's stomach flutters like he's in high school all over again when the song ends. Blaine stays quiet, save for the occasional huff of breath or shuffling of feet, and it's all too soon that Kurt pulls up to the now-empty street corner where he had picked Blaine up only an hour or so ago. There's no one else around, not even Blaine's two friends.

Even though the car is parked neither move for a few minutes. Blaine's hand is on the handle of the door, fingers clenching as he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, like he's deciding. He angles his head and the light catches the strong curve of his neck, the jut of the tendon.

"Be safe," Kurt says as his way of parting words. That seems to snap Blaine out of whatever thoughts had consumed him and he nods curtly, unlatching his seatbelt and opening the door. It slams shut in a way that seems to signal the end of whatever it was that had gone on. It's final, almost too final, leaving Kurt to try and ignore the vice squeezing at his heart.

Kurt only half-watches as Blaine walks in front of his car. He feels guilty for not changing Blaine's mind, but he is, after all, doing everything on his own free will. Kurt couldn't be the one to change it. Still, it hurts a little, and if Kurt's going to go home and relive his old high school fantasies by singing along to Broadway classics at top volume into his hairbrush, staring at the glass shelf once reserved for future Tonys that now hosted several family photos instead, well, everyone has to cope somehow.

He's so engrossed in starting his car back up and listening to some new song by P!nk or whatever—he was never too good at the Top Forty aspect of this station; he'll forever still be a Broadway boy—that he almost misses the tentative knocking at his window.

Kurt looks over, a little startled, and sees that Blaine is standing there, looking sort of nervous and sheepish with his hands stuffed in his pockets and an awkward smile on his face. Kurt presses the button to roll down the window, and before it's made its full journey down Blaine is saying in a rush, the words jumbling together in their flurry of nervousness, "Anderson. It's Blaine Anderson."

He says, "Just so you know. In case I could give you a discount or something."

His mouth forms those words, but his eyes speak another story entirely.

Kurt smiles, says in return, "I'm Kurt Hummel and I'll be looking forward to that 'discount.'"

If Blaine seems to walk a bit straighter and smile a bit wider, no one will say anything. If Kurt always heads out to the bad part of town with his wallet loaded with fifties and hundreds and comes back with it still full, he doesn't even think about it.

If in a few months the corner is one boy short, it's no one else's damned business.