Purple Toes, a Glee fiction

I do not own Glee. Prompts and reviews are always welcome!

Kurt stands at the edge of his bed. That's where he has a handcuffed boy sitting cross-legged. Each move is strictly calculated. Step to the right. Another two paces. He grabs his chin and tilts it towards him.

"Mister Anderson, you've been a very naughty boy." He lets his head fall out of his hand. It drops, but his eyes peer up to stay connected with Kurt's. His police baton sways threateningly. "Do you know what we do with boys like you?"

Blaine gulps. His chest constricts as his heart races. It's so hot, and sweat is dancing down his back despite the biting temperature outside.

Mmm, biting.

Blaine is turned on.

He finds his hands being lifted over his head. The cuffs chafe at his wrists. He's about to ask for them to be removed when he feels it.

What on earth is Kurt's tongue doing there?

And more importantly, why did he stop after just one swipe?

Kurt takes his hat off and places it atop Blaine's head. He pulls the brim over his eyes like a blindfold. The tongue returns to its rightful duty, scoping out the perimeter of his neck.

"Looks clean. But I'll have to do a much more thorough investigation." Kurt drops his hand to the seam of his shirt.

"Wouldn't this work better if I was uncuffed?" Blaine asks through the fabric of the shirt being yanked to his shoulders.

"We wouldn't want you to escape now would we?" Kurt tugs the shirt down to look at his face. There's a smirk across his face that Blaine wants to kiss away. The shirt once again covers his field of vision. He hears a key gliding into the hole. His wrist feels free.

Kurt takes his time investigating. Blaine mentally crosses his fingers that he never gets pulled over by a real cop. The last thing he needs is it going on record that he was aroused while getting frisked. And it'll all be Kurt Hummel's fault.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to remove your pants." Blaine lets his gaze follow Kurt's. They both stare at the button of his jeans. His fingers fumble under the close study.

"Excuse me officer, if I may." Kurt looks from his perusal of Blaine's knee. "But it appears you have committed a crime."

Kurt sits up. He lets his fingers continue to flitter about the knee. It tickles, and Blaine contains his laughter.

"Oh really?" He moves onto the opposite knee, giving it the same treatment.

"You stole that police outfit from the wardrobe department." The finger stops in its tracks. Blaine climbs over Kurt and collapses him to the bed.

"Are you going to punish me?" Kurt practically whimpers from below him. He wants right then to tear his clothes asunder. Instead he hovers over him and presses his lips to his ear.

"What kind of person would I be if I let a crime go unpunished?" He points to the police hat on his head. Kurt quirks his eyebrow. So this is what it's like on the other side of things.

He feels a breeze race up his torso. The police shirt is in a puddle on the ground. He pushes a hand against his predator. "Careful. I've got another two performances to go yet."

The movements at his waist are agonizingly slow and deliberate. He's ready to scream at him to hurry it up when he hears them drop to the ground. He smirks at the boy above him.

And then he wakes up.

.

Blaine feels the power of his drink running through his body. He tried to watch what he drank tonight. Last time he was drunk he kissed Rachel Berry. Now he was at a gay bar. It'd be even worse to kiss a complete stranger. A completely male stranger with beer on their breath. Or a drag queen. Or Sebastian.

No matter how he looked at it, tonight was not a good night to get drunk. Yet here he is, end of the night, being pushed into the backseat. He isn't going down without a fight. He grabs a handful of Kurt's shirt and drags him down with him.

Kurt squirms as he tries to get back up. A pair of arms weaves around him. He allows himself to be tugged back to the seat. Lips leave a sloppy kiss on his neck. Another is planted next to it. They make a constellation, remnants of drunken kisses resting along the line of his jaw. He struggles to get up. He was supposed to be responsible and drive them home.

The lips make way for teeth. They sink into his skin and he becomes limp. The keys land in the driver's seat up front. Kurt's shirt is soon to follow.

It's dark out, and Blaine begins to toy with the hem of own clothes. He's alone with the most wonderful boy in the world. Him and the homeless man gawking through the doorframe without any shame.

Why had he not closed the door?

He does so, nearly bashing the man's nose in. Once they are contained in their own personal bubble he fumbles for the waistband of Kurt's pants. And in that moment he thinks he must have been born an Alison, because right now he's sure he's in Wonderland.

With Kurt grinning like the Cheshire cat.

His head hits the ceiling as his body jolts from excitement. He opens his eyes to find himself in his own bed.

He lifts the covers and makes his way to the bathroom.

It was just a dream.

.

"Artie's having an after party at Breadstix. Would you accompany me?" Blaine is still feeling dizzy after the kiss. It's amazing how Kurt can do that to him. They're lips are no stranger to one another and yet each greeting feels like a new hello.

"No." Kurt looks certain. His mind is instructing his smitten smile to droop. But before his mouth can process the order, more words are coming at him. "I wanna go to your house."

He doesn't take time to think. His head is already nodding and he finds the strength to utter one word. "Okay."

The drive to the Anderson residence is quiet. The buzz of the radio plays in the background. It's some over synthesized hit, and Kurt reaches to turn it off. The car is then silent, and stays that way until they pull into the driveway.

Blaine walks around the car and opens Kurt's door for him. He offers a hand to help him out. It is graciously accepted. They close the door behind them and fish around for the house key. The house door opens with ease. There are no problems getting to the room. It's perfect and not awkward.

It's exactly what it's supposed to be.

Layers are peeled. Blaine in a tank and pants. Kurt in his jeans and a tee shirt and his white cotton socks. They could lay there for hours, staring, smiling. The way his finger lazily searches for nothing. He feels him exhale contentedly beneath his hand.

He had caused that.

A kiss landed on the tip of his nose. Blaine crouches forward and takes hold of the toe of the sock. It slides off. Its partner joins it on the floor. Cold purple toes are exposed to the air.

Blaine wraps his hands around the left foot and massages. The purple fades. He repeats the process on the other foot.

Kurt's toes flex. He beams down to Blaine, whose hands are working their way up around his ankle.

"No regrets, just love." His fingers glide over the denim. They stop at the edge of his shirt.

"Just love," Kurt agrees, and the shirt comes off.

He closes his eyes and reopens them. Blaine is still there, admiring his naked chest.

It's not a dream.