Oh hey look, I wrote some porn.

That's basically all this is, I promise. There's nothing else to it at all. So, enjoy.

Oh & I don't own them.


"Next!" Blaine shouted without looking up, his pen scribbling loudly on the page in front of him. There was a beat of silence and then a quiet cough. Someone shifted on the seat in front of him.

Fuck, she was still here?

"Santana! Next!" He yelled loudly, pressing the pen harder into the paper until the ink bled into misshapen spots.

There was a scuffle and the door slammed. Blaine didn't look up until two hands slapped themselves down on his desktop, and a furious Santana pushed her face close to his.

"It's not an audition Anderson, you didn't even talk to her."

"She was too blonde."

"Except," she hissed, lowering her voice dangerously, "She was a brunette. Fuck, did you even look at her?"

"Was she worth looking at?" He shrugged, leaning away from her face and back into his chair.

"I wouldn't kick her out of bed."

"Is there anyone you would?"

"Oh, besides yourself, you mean?"

They held each other's gaze for a frozen second, before Santana let out an exasperated laugh and settled herself on the edge of his desk. She took his hand in hers, and her voice dropped to a usually unheard tone of solemnity.

"Anderson, I know you are going to miss the fuck out of me, because come on, who wouldn't? But that doesn't mean you can be a fucking infant when it comes to replacing me, okay?" Her nails were digging hard into his palm by the end, and Blaine was gritting his teeth in pain as she clung on.

"After all," she continued, her voice reaching a sugary sweetness, "If you don't say yes to someone soon, you'll be left here with Berry. Do you remember what happens when Berry is left in charge of all the shit you can't be bothered to deal with?"

Blaine swallowed, fighting back a shudder at the memory of the one week of 2007 when Santana was off ill.

"She made my clients listen to clips of her own voice whilst they were on hold," he whispered. Santana leaned down closer until her dark eyes were all he could see.

"And…"

"She made me drink soy milk."

"And you don't want that to happen again, do you Anderson?"

It was probably written somewhere in the workplace rules that the head of a company shouldn't be scared stiff by his assistant, but whomever wrote that had clearly never had the misfortune to hire a terrifyingly beautiful Hispanic lesbian with a pregnant wife and a bad temper, as their secretary.

She surveyed him for a moment, before rolling her eyes and loosening the grip on his hands.

"Seriously Blaine. I know it's your call and I hate the idea of losing my desk to someone who will probably colour code and alphabetise everything, but you need to make a decision. I'm only here for another week."

Blaine let his head fall into her lap, and she stroked his hair absently.

"How was I ever unlucky enough to find the only female secretary in New York who wouldn't flirt with me, but who also manages to be the only non-pregnant working woman I have ever granted maternity leave to?"

"You're just special. Also I'm your best friend and no one else would be stupid enough to put up with you," she said, before pulling his head back up, "There's a thought. Why don't you just get a…non-female secretary?"

"Please San, now you're just being stupid. The boys who won't flirt with me will be late and disorganised, flirt obnoxiously with Berry while I'm trying to work, and have no idea what the concept of smart-casual work wear actually entails."

Santana plucked at his chin, squeezing his lips together and pouting, "Awh, baby. It's so hard being a rich, famous, successful, talented, and moderately good-looking business man in New York, isn't it? I don't know how you manage."

"Careful. I might start to think you actually like me," he said, wriggling from her grasp.

She wrinkled her nose and slipped off his desk, smoothing her skirt, "You're right. That was almost nice of me."

Blaine spun a pen between his fingers as she walked to the door, "Santana?"

She turned.

"Do you think you can find me a well-dressed, hard-working male who will not flirt with anyone, and is both professional and punctual?"

Something glinted in Santana's eyes that made a tiny part of Blaine want to run away and scream.

"Anderson, I know just the man."


"He's just a kid, Santana!"

"He's the same age as me!"

Blaine blinked, leaning closer to the file to re-read the date of birth, "Really…that's how old you are? I always – ow!"

She snatched the wad of pages away to smack him round the head with it, flicking her hair unnecessarily over her collar, "Well give or take a few years. We were at college together, and he proved to be enough of a goody-two shoes to put Little Miss Tights out there to shame. And he has a strict no fucking the boss policy. "

"Fine."

From what Blaine had read, Kurt Hummel was everything he needed. He was top of his class, with a dozen outstanding references that boasted of people skills, and over achiever, and he was more than qualified to sit behind Santana's desk for six months and answer phones.

And as long as he didn't swap Blaine's usual coffee order for some non-fat, dairy-free vegan and diet shit, then Blaine really didn't care by this point.

Three sharp raps on the door came six minutes before the ten o'clock obligatory interview, and Santana grinned and mouthed "Punctual!"

Blaine couldn't help but feel that she was a little too enthusiastic about this, but then the door swung open and Kurt Hummel walked in, and suddenly Blaine couldn't feel anything.

Except the burn off coffee on his tongue and then he was choking and spluttering the hot liquid over the papers on his desk, slamming the cup down to spill more over his fingers.

When he finally looked up with his eyes watering, Santana was frowning and quirking her eyebrows as though both amused and annoyed that her boss was so incompetent. Blaine felt a blush rising up his cheeks, and Santana cocked her head with a smirk.

"Now that you've finished looking like a dick, let me introduce you to Kurt Hummel. Kurt, this is Mr Anderson."

"Does he always forget to swallow?" Kurt said, and his voice was soft and teasing but one eyebrow was raised in faint disdain, and there was a hint of disinterest on his face.

"From what I've heard he's usually quite the expert," Santana said, and she was pressing her lips together to supress and grin, "I'll let you two get better acquainted." She ducked out of the door before Blaine could throw his stapler at her head.

Kurt Hummel lowered himself into the chair opposite Blaine, crossing one leg primly over the other and clasping his hands on top of them. He seemed thoroughly intrigued by the ceiling and Blaine wanted to use his distraction to rub the coffee stains from his tie, but he couldn't seem to rip his eyes away from the pale expanse of Kurt's throat.

"So…Kurt Hummel," Blaine said after clearing his throat a few times. Kurt's eyes flicked down to meet his, "What makes you think you would be right for this position?"

Kurt rolled his eyes and leaned forward.

"Okay, can we cut the crap Mr Anderson? I'm only here because I owe Tana a favour and she's going to owe me an even bigger one for agreeing to this. You need an assistant that is competent enough to collect your coffee and answer your phones and basically do whatever mundane tasks you can throw their way. I need the money and a good enough reference for when I apply to a real job and everyone in this city knows that you are one of the hardest people to work under, so I survive this for six months and then anyone will hire me."

Blaine could feel his mouth gaping unattractively, but he couldn't quite remember how to close it and Kurt was leaning in closer and closer with every word until their noses were almost touching and Blaine could smell a soft hint of vanilla.

"It's the perfect arrangement, don't you agree? You're getting yourself a competent secretary, and I don't even have to pretend I like you while I'm working here, because you're desperate enough to hire anyone at this point. Do we have ourselves a deal?"

Blaine's brain had gone numb, and he heard a voice that was almost his own mumbling "Deal," as Kurt stood and dusted down his pristine white shirt without the hint of a smile.

"Perfect."

Blaine stumbled from his chair in time to reach the door handle before Kurt, holding the door firmly closed as he proffered his hand.

"Welcome to the company, Kurt Hummel."

Kurt's face was unreadable as he took Blaine's hand and fuck his skin was soft, and Blaine didn't want to let go but it was suddenly a second too long to remain comfortable, and Kurt was jerking his hand from Blaine's grip, his expression darkening.

"Please stop calling me by my full name," he said, "It's annoying."

He was marching back down the corridor before Blaine could breathe again, and he was decidedly not watching the sway of Kurt's hips fade into the distance when his vision was rudely obstructed by a burgundy cardigan.

Rachel was smiling too wide for Blaine to understand, and her mouth was moving so fast it was almost a blur before Blaine realised he should be listening.

"– the Rosenburg clients called and they wanted to reschedule their meeting for Tuesday, rather than Wednesday. Oh! And Santana said she was going home before you killed her, she'll see you Monday and that she loves you really, she promises."

Blaine held up his hand to staunch her unending verbal flow, and he would never quite understand her ability to talk constantly without seemingly any need for breath. She broke off with a smile.

"Berry, cancel the rest of my meetings for the day. I need to go home and jerk off."

Rachel's smile faltered slightly, confusion flitting across her face.

"I…um."

Blaine flashed her his most winning smile until she blushed, and turned to follow the trail of vanilla down the hall.


The next week passed in a flash of Santana avoiding him with a smirk every time he tried to corner her alone, or else walking Kurt through every task Blaine would ever call upon him for until he could do them backwards.

And then Santana was gone, and Blaine was left alone to bounce between a horrifyingly overbearing Rachel Berry, and a bitch-faced ice queen who, try as Blaine might, he could not find a single flaw in. Kurt did everything. He was on time and well dressed, with Blaine's correct coffee order and developing a rapport with some of Blaine's trickiest clients on his first day. Kurt could file papers and answer phone calls and had even struck up a friendship with Rachel, of all people.

But so far Kurt was perfect in everything he did, and Blaine could not for the life of him work out why that irritated him so much.

Of course, Santana could.

"Oh Blainey, you're upset because he's not flirting with you!"

"I – what? Firstly, don't call me that. Secondly, did I not specifically state that I wanted a secretary who wouldn't flirt with me?"

Santana just sat back on his couch with an unbearably smug look on her face, "Yes, you did. The flirting pissed you off when it was women, sure. But now you've got a gorgeous man who doesn't give a fuck and who has literally no flaws aside from the small fact that he isn't attracted to you."

Blaine opened his mouth to object.

And couldn't.

Santana took a gulp of her margarita and sighed.

"What do I do?" he said finally.

She shrugged, "Get drunk and make out with him at the Christmas Party?"

"But he's good Santana. He's actually good at this job, and I need him to stay being good while you're not here. And I sort of like having him around. He's funny when he thinks I'm not listening, and he makes Berry almost bearable."

Santana squinted at him, swallowing the rest of her drink and crashing the glass onto Blaine's antique coffee table so hard that he winced.

"You like him!"

Blaine felt his cheeks heat up, "I do not!"

"Oh my god, you so do!" She pounced on him, pinning him to the couch with frightening strength Blaine presumed was stemming from the countless drinks she had already consumed.

"San, he's hardly said two words to me since he started that aren't good morning Mr Anderson, and here's your coffee Mr Anderson, or will that be all Mr fucking Anderson."

Santana frowned.

"Okay, I added that last fucking in. He didn't really say that, but you get my point."

"So maybe you don't like him. Maybe you just watch and appreciate and stare at him creepily like something out of Twilight."

"I am not Edward Cullen, San."

"You've got the eyebrows for it."

Blaine ignored her, "And how did you even know that I stare at him. Sometimes. Occasionally, in a completely workplace appropriate way?"

"He is my friend too, Blaine. I have actually known him longer than I've known you and he tells me shit. Like what an asshole he thinks his boss is, and how he wants to buy me a present for every day I've had to put up with you."

Blaine let his head fall back on the cushions with a groan, and he ran his hands through his hair.

"Okay I know one thing. I am never telling you anything ever again."

Santana stuck her lower lip out, a trick she must have learned from Brittany but which didn't have quite the same effect as it did when Britt used it.

"But it's nachos and margarita night. We always tell each other stuff on nachos and margarita night," she whined.

"And another –" he cut her off unheeded, "I am going to ignore Kurt Hummel. He is going to ignore me, and we are going to ignore each other until he leaves and you come back and then everything will be back to normal. Yes?"

"I swear to god, Anderson. Half the time it's like you're a child."

Blaine just threw an olive in the air to catch between his teeth and ignored her.


How Santana still managed to get herself a ticket to the office Christmas Party was beyond Blaine, and even more so was the fact that she cared enough to go when she spend the rest of the year complaining in his ear about how much she hated everyone.

Although he supposed if he had legs that looked that good in a dress that short, and a wife who was eight months pregnant and still looked as radiant as Brittany, then Blaine would want to show them off in front of people he hated, too.

"So Berry is still wearing tights and I think these one have snowflakes on them. So I think I'm gonna throw up. Look after Britt for me," Santana hissed in greeting, as she swanned through the door and deposited the blonde onto Blaine's arm.

Brittany smiled brightly and locked her fingers around his elbow as Santana vanished.

"Hi," she said, "I couldn't eat the grapes on the table."

"Okay. Why not?"

Brittany stared at him as though he was stupid, "Because they make wine from grapes. And I can't have wine because my baby might grow another head."

"Oh. Of course," Blaine swallowed whatever alcohol was still in his glass and turned to face her, "And how are you enjoying teaching?"

"The kids are really cool and really clever," she said, "Sometimes they teach me stuff."

Blaine was saved having to answer by the sight of Santana returning over Brittany's shoulder, her arm looped around the waist of an incredibly tipsy Kurt Hummel.

A tipsy Kurt Hummel in red leather pants that were so tight they could have been painted on and Blaine could see the flex and stretch of his thighs beneath the surface. His throat ran dry as Kurt tripped his way towards them, veering off away from Santana and towards the bar with a whispered word in her ear.

"Santana," Blaine warned, when she was close enough to hear and had kissed Brittany gently on the cheek, "What the fuck are you doing. You said you were going to throw up."

"I made a detour to your office and found a drunk secretary, so sue me," she said, wrapping an arm around Brittany's waist.

"You…you've made him all…" Blaine gestured frantically in Kurt's direction when all words failed him. Kurt's torso was wrapped in a strange black fabric that dipped and stuck to every contour of his body, and now he'd turned Blaine could see the lacing up the back, revealing a long strip of pale skin. Blaine suddenly felt the urge to sit down.

Santana rolled her eyes and beckoned him closer.

"If it helps," she whispered, "The clothes already belonged to him. I just encouraged the wearing of them."

Blaine turned to catch the movement of Kurt's throat as he swallowed a mouthful of the tall, bright pink cocktail in his hand.

"No Santana. That definitely does not help."

Maybe it was karma. Maybe it was god punishing him. Maybe this was the universe deciding that Blaine hadn't had enough reasons to hate his life, so it made him inexplicably attracted to the bratty secretary with a self-righteous God complex who worked –

Don't think it, don't think it, don't think it.

"Don't think what?" Rachel Berry asked loudly, confirming that yes, Blaine was sitting in the corner of his own Christmas party cradling a bottle of water and muttering aloud to himself, and dear god were those snowflakes on her tights?

"That Kurt works under me."

Rachel blinked at him, and followed his line of sight to where Kurt was weaving his way around the floor, fingers linked with Brittany's as she watched him trip and laugh and tumble his way through the guests and the songs.

"You know, you're not exactly subtle with your staring. Everyone here has noticed the way you watch him sometimes, and we have all come to the conclusion that it's either incredibly creepy or somewhat arousing."

Blaine turned to stare at her, and she raised her empty glass to draw attention to her blatant intoxication.

An arm hooked around Blaine's neck and tugged him up and away from the impending Rachel, into the throng of dancing co-workers.

"Seriously Anderson? You're over there having a drunken heart to heart with Berry, when you could be getting dirty with Hummel?" Santana shook her head and sighed.

"Sometimes your priorities in life confuse me. Now that boy did not get all dolled up in leather and faux-corsetry to have you ignore him for the sake of a girl. Now go find and get."

"I –"

"Go!" And she pushed him through the crowds so hard he stumbled onto Mike, who grinned and shoulder-bumped him into Quinn, who laughed and caught his arm, twirling him into Brittany, who steadied him and held him close and pointed his chin upwards until – oh fuck.

Kurt had swung himself onto the bar to a storm of cheers from the surrounding crowds. The music was loud and throbbing, and Kurt had his head thrown back and was raking his own nails across his chest as he swayed his hips. Blaine heard himself let out a groan, felt the tightness growing inside the confines of his jeans, the itching in his fingers as he just wanted to reach out and –

Kurt had fallen to his knees, rocking and grinding against the wooden bar top, dragging one hand through his hair. Those stupid leather pants were shining in the flickering lights, and the top was almost see-through under the glare, and it didn't even matter that Kurt was fully clothed and wasn't even touching him, because if he kept moving like that Blaine was going to explode regardless.

Kurt was moving faster, leaping to his feet and spinning with his arms raised and the sweat glinting off his skin, and Blaine saw him teeter just a little too far and found himself pushing through the crowd to catch him as Kurt fell from the bar.

He landed with a small, breathy noise that shot straight down Blaine's spine, and opened his eyes with a hiccoughing laugh. Kurt's eyes were bright and wild, and his body was small and soft against Blaine's with that incessant vanilla fragrance and a high blush on his cheekbones.

"Mr Anderson," Kurt lifted a hand to tap Blaine lightly on the nose, "So please you could drop in!" He broke off into a drunken giggle, and Blaine lowered him slowly until his feet were flat on the floor. Their bodies were still too close, and Blaine wanted to push him away and flee to the cold air outside where he couldn't feel Kurt against his skin.

"I think you're the one who did the dropping," Blaine said, trying to ignore the rising claustrophobia in his throat, the suffocating itch of wanting and needing and taking that was spreading through his system. Kurt was still tight against him, making no move to step backwards.

"I think someone's had a little too much," Santana sang, appearing from seemingly nowhere to fling her arms around them both, "I think someone should take someone else home."

Every inch of Kurt was aligned with Blaine, and slipped a thigh between Blaine's to press against where he was still hard inside his jeans.

"I think I would like that," Kurt whispered, moving in until his breath was hot against Blaine's cheek. Somehow, Blaine managed to nod.

Kurt was giggly and stumbling the entire way to the car, one arm winding its way around Blaine's waist to slip under his shirt and rub circles into his hipbone. The other hand played with Blaine's fingers, cupping and stroking and deftly spinning his own between them until it made Blaine dizzy.

He talked a lot, Blaine discovered. About his father and his friends, mentioning plans and fashion and singing, until it was a constant stream of speech that would put Rachel to shame, and Blaine phased most of it out and concentrating on keeping Kurt walking in a straight line.

" – And then there's you, and you're so…ugh."

"Wait," Blaine piped up, propping Kurt against the car to fish for the keys in his pocket "What was that? Go back to talking about me."

Kurt cupped his hands around Blaine's face until they were eye to eye.

"You're…you're everything Santana said you were. And that includes the bad things."

Blaine frowned, and somehow his hands had found their way to Kurt's hips, "I'm sincerely hoping there's a but on the end of that statement."

"But…" Kurt began, tailing off to brush his nose along Blaine's cheekbone, and his lips were there, and he was pliant and arching into Blaine's body beneath him.

"Get in the car, Kurt."

Kurt's eyes had fallen closed and he was biting his bottom lip with a grin as he folded himself into Blaine's car.

Blaine gripped the wheel with both hands, and between the drunk yet still gorgeous secretary on his left and the raging hard-on making itself known in his lap, wondered if there was any way he would make it home alive.

Getting to Kurt's flat wasn't a problem. After a few wrong turnings and the discovery that Kurt couldn't tell his left from his right when he'd had a few drinks, it was almost easy and the drive was over far too quickly for Blaine's liking.

Because this was the difficult part.

"Are you coming up to say goodnight," Kurt asked, and his voice seemed to have dropped an octave and whether it was on purpose or not, Blaine didn't care.

"I don't think I should," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on a tree in the distance and determinedly not on the five fingers Kurt was tracing over his knee.

Kurt froze.

"What?"

"I think you should go upstairs and go to sleep. Alone."

There was a tense pause, and Blaine still didn't look at him because one look into those eyes and he would be gone.

"Fuck you, Anderson."

Kurt slammed the car door hard and Blaine winced, watching him stumble up the path and drop his key and pretending not to notice when Kurt rubbed a hand over his eyes.


Blaine screened calls from Santana all Christmas, coercing himself into listening to every voicemail she left, just in case Britt had actually gone into labour this time. More often than not she just screamed down the line in a violent mixture of Spanish and swearwords until the beep cut her off.

Honestly, it was hardly incentive for Blaine to pick up the phone when her name flashed up and Blaine was feeling guilty enough without her adding to it.

The first day back in January however, he managed to feel even worse.

Kurt was on time, as usual, marching into the office without knocking to slam a polystyrene cup onto Blaine's desk, before whirling unspeaking out the door.

Of course, to presume that Kurt would remain habitually professional was a rookie mistake on Blaine's part, and his first mouthful of coffee was stone cold.

And it didn't stop.

Kurt filed his nails during meetings, propping his boots up on the desk and yawning loudly. He cut off clients with bitchy remarks, split cranberry juice on the cream carpet and forgot to remind Blaine about an important meeting reschedule.

Towards the end of the day Blaine was furious, storming back from his meeting past a terrified Rachel and towards Kurt's desk.

"You. My office. Now."

Kurt rolled his eyes and swung himself out of the chair and through Blaine's door. It clicked shut behind them and Blaine sat down, breathing hard.

"Yes?"

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Kurt scoffed, leaning against the back of the chair opposite to meet Blaine's eyes.

"I thought it was obvious Mr Anderson. I'm being an annoying little fuck to try and hide the fact that I am both supremely pissed off, and immensely embarrassed about the events that occurred before Christmas."

Blaine fought the sudden urge to laugh that bubbled up through his anger, because fuck he hadn't actually expected Kurt to answer. He'd expected a bitchy and evasive comment that doubled as an insult.

"Kurt –"

"Oh no, I'm talking now." Kurt strode around the desk, pushing Blaine's chair back until he could situate himself between him and the desk. "I was practically throwing myself at you. And don't tell me you didn't want It as much as I did, fuck I felt how hard you were after watching me dance, okay? I've heard every-fucking-thing you told Santana, I saw every look you gave me and I give myself to you on a fucking gold platter and you turn me down?"

"I didn't want to take advantage of you!"

Kurt snorted, scowling, "Oh that's it, is it? You expect me to believe that?"

Something hard curled inside Blaine's chest, and he reached forwards to seize the front of Kurt's shirt and pull him forwards. "Listen to me. Just because I didn't want to fuck you when you were drunk out of your mind and probably wouldn't remember it in the morning, doesn't mean I don't want to fuck you."

There was a pause.

And then Kurt had thrown himself into Blaine's lap and crashed their mouths together so hard the chair bounced backwards and hit the wall. Blaine heard himself moan as Kurt licked his way into Blaine's mouth, and it was too wet and messy to be just kissing as Kurt's tongue fucked its way past his lips. Kurt was writhing and pressing down into Blaine's lap, tugging hard at his hair to wrench his head back and kiss him deeper and dirtier, and Blaine was lightheaded and couldn't breathe but didn't want to.

Blaine's hands clutched desperately at Kurt's thighs, drawing him up closer and tighter until Kurt was rocking hard and fast into his lap. His mouth licked a trail down Blaine's throat, sucking under his ear and biting Blaine's collarbone until his throat cracked around a groan. Kurt's fingers were brushing lightly over his zipper, dipping past his waistband to stroke at the skin there before retreating. His hand palmed Blaine through his pants, pressing and rubbing down until Kurt's fingers were fumbling and then his hand was warm and damp against Blaine's skin. His tongue was still swirling red marks against Blaine's neck as his hand cupped his erection and –

The door rattled.

"Shit."

Blaine pushed Kurt off him, down and down until Kurt was crouched under his desk because there was no way in hell that scene wouldn't look suspicious. Blaine raked his chair forwards until he could feel Kurt between his knees and Rachel opened the door with a smile and an armful of papers.

"I was on my way out, and I thought I'd drop this off for you," she said.

"That was…um…considerate. Thank you Rachel."

She frowned slightly from the other side of his desk, "Are you okay? You never call me Rachel."

Blaine swallowed hard and tried to keep his face unmoving, but Kurt was tracing his fingertips lightly up and down the length of Blaine's cock under the desk.

"I'm...fine. Just, um…tired."

"You look a little flushed," she reached across to touch his forehead and Blaine jerked back as far as he could, but Kurt's hands had closed around his upper thighs and if he moved any further Rachel would see him.

"I'm fine!" Blaine's voice was almost a squeak and Kurt gripped his thighs tighter, digging his nails in like a warning. Blaine held Rachel's gaze, unblinking until his eyes watered, "I'm just a little…hot," he finished lamely.

"Do you want me to open a window for you –"

She moved to shift around the desk, and Blaine threw an arm up to stop her because if she did then Kurt would be in clear view.

"No –OH!"

Kurt sunk his head down to capture Blaine's cock between his lips, lowering his mouth until Blaine's head nudged the back of Kurt's throat, and his lame attempt at stopping Rachel ended in a shout. She jumped and narrowed her eyes at him.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm…fine," Blaine choked.

Kurt hadn't moved, just held himself around Blaine and swallowed so Blaine could feel the shifting convulsions of his throat, the soft press of Kurt's tongue to the base of his cock. Blaine couldn't move, couldn't thrust his hips upwards to spark the friction and pressure he needed and he was frozen with his hands gripping the edge of his desk.

"Well…here are the minutes from the meeting this afternoon. I had them copied and –"

"That's great!" Blaine gasped, "Thank you so-oh! So! Much."

And then Kurt moved, dragging his mouth upwards tantalisingly slowly and fuck that was worse than when he was still, it was movement and friction but so not enough, and there was a light scrape of teeth and a twisting heat as Kurt did something with his lips and mouth and tongue everywhere.

"Here's the file on the clients you're meeting with first thing Monday. Kurt left them on his desk, so I thought I'd –"

"Oh no. Yes! That's fine…that's Kurt, that's…um. Good!"

Rachel gave him a strange look, but flicked through the papers in her hands and Blaine chanced a glance downwards.

He immediately wished he hadn't.

Kurt was staring up at him, mouth stretched wide and lips shining and sticky, and fuck something surged deep within Blaine and his hips jerked slightly and every nerve in his body was burning and tingling. Kurt's hand was moving fast, just out of sight and Blaine nearly blacked out because Kurt was getting himself off on this, and Blaine couldn't come when he was inches away from Rachel Berry, of all people.

"You can leave the rest Rachel!" Blaine's voice was shrill, "I don't…need a fuck. Rundown. Have a really, really good weekend!"

"Okay…" She dropped the papers onto the desk and gave him a wan smile and wave, "You to Mr Anderson."

"Mhmm," Blaine managed a smile, gritting his teeth so hard his head pounded until the door closed with a snap.

Kurt pulled himself slowly off Blaine with an obscene noise, his mouth was raw and red as he smiled and Blaine pulled him hard to his feet and pressed him against the desk.

"You are so going to pay for that," he hissed in a low voice.

"Fuck, I hope so Mr Anderson."

Blaine spun him, pressing Kurt forwards over the desk and tugging his pants to pool around his ankles as Kurt wriggled out of his shirt. Blaine dropped his head to kiss against the base of his spine.

"Fuck. I don't have any –"

"Top drawer," Kurt whined, and his hips were making tiny movements between the desk and Blaine's thighs, "Do you really think Santana set this up without thinking of everything?"

Only Santana Lopez would find some way of secreting condoms and lube, tied with a giant red ribbon and sealed with a matching lipsticked kiss and the words have fun boys into Blaine's office.

"Remind me to thank her one day," Blaine murmured into the back of Kurt's neck, ripping the lube open to douse his fingers, ignoring the drops that splattered across the desk and Kurt's back. Kurt was gasping before Blaine entered him, and when Blaine hooked one arm under Kurt's leg to bend it onto the desk and curled his fingers, Kurt jerked and whimpered.

"Fuck, come on!" He moaned, reaching one arm back to pull Blaine flush against him, "I want you to fuck me, and you're really taking your time."

"I'm savouring a good thing," Blaine said, taking Kurt's earlobe into his mouth with a scrape of teeth, "And you need to learn a thing or two about patience."

"Fuck. Patience," Kurt hissed, tightening his hold on Blaine's hair until it stung, "I've been waiting for this since I first walked in that door."

Blaine ripped a condom open with his teeth, sliding it onto himself with one hand as the other reached around to close around Kurt.

"All that time?" He said, biting a mark into Kurt's shoulder and licking over it, moving his hand slowly, "Picturing me fucking you over this desk."

"And usually there was a whole lot less talking, and a lot more doing," Kurt snapped, each word disjointed and caught on a hitching breath as Blaine jerked his hand faster, shifting until the head of his cock was pressed against Kurt's hole. He pushed forwards, sliding inside inch by inch, until Kurt gave a frustrated groan and tugged Blaine's hair, pulling his face against Kurt's neck.

Blaine lowered himself, until Kurt's chest was pressed against the wood and Blaine filled him entirely, and there was a moment of stillness and gasping and adjustment.

Blaine rocked his hips, slow and tentative movements until Kurt whimpered his name and then the desk was tilting with each thrust, pens and files scattering to the floor as sweat rubbed their bodies slick and fast together.

Blaine knew he wasn't going to last, and each movement was more erratic than those before, until it was all he could do to keep touching and burning and fisting Kurt's cock. Their skin was slapping, hips crashing into thighs pressed against the wooden grain of the desk. Blaine's mouth panted against Kurt's hair, shouting and whispering his name over and over and over until he came with a cry.

Kurt whined his name when Blaine arched and stilled, pressing his own hips backwards to keep the friction going until he was sobbing, and Blaine was shuddering with oversensitivity but he worked Kurt's cock and bit between his shoulder blades and curled one hand into Kurt's hair and tug it hard until Kurt cried out his name.

Kurt slumped forwards, trapping Blaine's arm beneath him until Blaine had the sense and the strength to pull them both onto the desk and let Kurt curl into his chest.

"What was that you were saying about thanking Santana?" Kurt managed to say, his voice hoarse and dry and half muffled into Blaine's skin.

"Fuck. She can have anything she wants. She can have a castle. A unicorn, whatever," Blaine said, trailing his fingers across Kurt's sticky back.

"I could bake her a cake," Kurt considered seriously, drawing spirals on Blaine's chest. Blaine snorted with laughter.

"Saying what? You're a bitch, but thanks for inadvertently causing sex?"

Kurt attempted a shrug.

"Maybe we should wait until things are more stable. In case you'd forgotten, we don't have a very good track record of actually liking each other when we're either sober or fully-clothed."

Kurt propped himself up on his arms to study Blaine's face.

"Or we could just have sex again," he said, swooping down to kiss under Blaine's jaw, "But this time I get to fuck you."

Yeah, Blaine was definitely sending Santana a thank you card.


I hope you all had fun.

Come talk to me!