A/N: Kurt/OC. A ficlet I wrote during Hurricane Sandy, 'cause I needed to do something while the power was out. Not nearly as literary or well-crafted as my other stuff, since I wrote this to relax, not to drive myself insane trying to nail down perfect metaphors. Still, I think it's fun/hot, at least. Love me some bitchy/flirty/drunk/sexy Kurt.
When Kurt had received the invitation he'd checked yes out of instinct, a desire to witness spectacle, romance, centerpieces. In an itchy tux stained with half of his third glass of champagne, he wishes he hadn't. Long draped tables with too much lace and green and orange bridesmaids' dresses and "Celebration" blaring on the loudspeakers. Fuck it all.
He is past a social buzz but not yet truly drunk, idling in the sweet spot that makes his world taste sour. Bitter and pensive, thoughts strike him like fever pains: Who the hell pairs lilies with roses? How the hell did that woman fit into that dress? (He wishes she hadn't; her skin reminds of him of pancake batter, and he feels nauseous enough already.) Where the hell is the waiter? (His glass isn't filling itself.) When the hell is this pep rally of a reception going to end? (He knows he could just leave. Maybe he will, dammit.) Why the hell hasn't he gotten laid in three months?
That last one he answers easily enough, but it doesn't stop the question from rising in him, over and over. The fact that the groom is named Eli isn't helping matters. Kurt knows the bride, Tasha, from work; he's met her new husband once or twice. The second most boring person Kurt's ever had the misfortune to talk to. He's the most boring person Kurt ever remembers talking to, but he figures any duller and he wouldn't have bothered remembering, so he keeps the first place slot open, just in case.
The ceremony fit the couple perfectly, short like her and bland like him. Kurt had been sure he was on his way to breaking his flawless crying-at-weddings streak until the best man's speech. Something about eternal love and an anecdote about a little girl crying in a library and a poem with rivers and circles in it. It made sense at the time. Trying to stifle the waterworks Kurt had squeaked like a sewer rat. Or worse - like a pubescent boy.
An arm with a bottle passes his circular table (empty save for him, thanks to a few well-placed dirty looks) and Kurt holds out his glass like a toll gate. "If you value your life, you will not stop pouring until I tell you to," he warns.
The man attached to the arm makes a noise - completely nondescript. Nothing like a sewer rat. Sort of like a boy. "Sorry," he apologizes, and the bottle turns upside down. "Empty."
The voice stirs something in Kurt's short-term memory, and he glances up. Best-man-tear-wizard is looking down at him. N-something. "Oh," Kurt says, blushing a little, but he can't bring himself to feel embarrassed. "Thought you were with catering."
"I'm flattered, but it takes skills beyond my own to dry out chicken so thoroughly." He turns the bottle rightside-up and readjusts his grip on the neck. "But let it not be said that I am a miserly man. If you'll hold off on my execution, I'll bring a refill in just a sec."
"It's fine," Kurt begins to insist.
"Sure sounded like it. Thirty seconds," N-something insists back. "Make it two minutes, I see my aunt over by the icebox and she'll have important jabs to make about Eli's new mother-in-law."
It's more like ten minutes, but at a little past 120 seconds Kurt catches him signaling two fingers in his direction apologetically, and again after the five-minute mark, apparently wrapped up in conversation with a petite blond girl who can only be Tasha's sister. Kurt thinks about thinking about leaving, but it's only to satisfy his dignity; N-something is kind of intriguing, and Kurt can't quite put his finger on why. Could it be his way with words? The slightly funny way he walks, putting too much weight on his left foot? The fact that he's mind-numbingly attractive? A mystery for the ages, surely. Anyway, Kurt doesn't mind watching his lips move.
When he does return he's brought a fresh bottle, as promised, and a second glass, too. "Mind?" he asks, filling Kurt's glass and pouring liberally into his own.
"Not at all."
"Good. I'm easily slighted," N-something says with a grin. "Eli told me he was thinking of offering the best man gig to his college buddy and I nearly took off his arm."
Kurt laughs uncomfortably. "Really."
"No," N-something says, brow arched, amused. "You look a little too young to be Tasha's depressed uncle…"
"Kurt," Kurt offers with an abashed smile. "No, I know Tasha from work. I'm sorry, I know they said your name earlier…"
N-something smiles. "Maybe I'll make you guess." He spins his champagne glass between his fingers.
Kurt imbibes, and wipes his mouth with a napkin. He *does* enjoy games. "Mmm," he says, dully entertained. "Do I win something if I get it right?"
"You work with Tasha?" he confirms. "Clothes horse then, right? How about some gold threads? I promise not to take your firstborn."
Kurt gives him a look dancing between confused and disturbed until his lethargic wits register the allusion. "Oh," he says, embarrassed at being slow on the uptake, and more so at having no comeback.
N-something scratches his upper lip with his index finger. "Or not." He drinks deep. "Humor is the wrong tactic, I'm gathering?"
Kurt smirks shyly and swirls his champagne, watching bubbles catch the light. "Not necessarily." He looks back up. "Just a little dark, aren't you? First dismemberment, then mental illness, now kidnapping."
"Your glowing aura inspires me," N-something retorts. "Dare I ask what you're lamenting?"
"No, you daren't," Kurt assures. "Nate," he ventures.
"Not at all."
Kurt scowls. "How many guesses do I get?"
"The rhyme says three, isn't that right?" N-something begins a second glass, and helps Kurt to a fourth-and-a-half.
"I think that's three days," Kurt says, nodding a thanks.
"Well I guess I put the imp in impatient, then. Cheers," he says, and clinks their glasses.
"Cheers," Kurt says distractedly. "Nnnnnn…" he thinks aloud, as N-something's smile gnaws at him.
He's about to go with Neil when a passing woman with bugging eyes puts a hand on N-something's shoulder and asks him as she moves toward the dance floor, "Come on, Ethan, why aren't you dancing?"
Ethan's smile plummets. "…nnnnnEthan," Kurt finishes with an impish smile.
"Yeah you're a real psychic," Ethan mutters.
Kurt's smile turns a little smug. The last glass has greased a slippery slope inside him, and he's quickly sliding out of his brooding phase. "Maybe I am."
Ethan smirks. "Oh? And Nate and Nick were…?"
"Ah, of course." Ethan sips. "So, psychic, why are you sitting here alone, then? No minds worth reading?"
Kurt shrugs. "Why aren't you dancing?" he repeats.
Ethan grimaces, and watches Kurt appraisingly. After a moment he speaks. "I suppose I shouldn't say, to a friend of the bride."
This ought to be good. "Oh?" Kurt prompts.
"Oh," Ethan confirms.
"I won't tell," Kurt promises, fingers crossed under the table. He takes a large gulp and swirls it around his cheeks.
Ethan's eyes narrow in suspicion, and Kurt swallows with an innocent look. Eventually he confides, "Let's just say I'm not a huge fan of the new in-laws."
"Yeah, because Eli's such a catch," Kurt says, and immediately claps his hand over his mouth, eyes wide.
Ethan pulls his head back. "Excuse me?"
Kurt is frozen for a moment. Finally he moves his hand from his mouth and gets to work pulling his foot out. "I'm so sorry, that was awful - I'm sure he's lovely, that was rude."
"Yes," Ethan confirms, crossing his arms. "It was." He frowns.
Kurt feels heat behind his temples. He tries for a subject change: "You seemed to be getting on pretty well with Tasha's sister," Kurt suggests, well, suggestively.
Ethan frowns at him a moment longer, then uncrosses his arm, apparently deciding to forgive him the slip. "Yeah, well, she certainly seemed to think so."
"No. She was a little too eager to flaunt some T and A." He drinks.
Kurt keeps his fingers crossed, this time for luck. "Oh? Not interested?"
Ethan smirks. "I'm more of an A-no-T kind of guy."
"Me too," Kurt says, probably a little too quickly. Reign it in, for christ's sake.
Ethan gives a wide smile. "Finally," he says, almost cathartically, tilting his head back and lifting his glass to the ceiling. "I swear, for someone who works in fashion Tasha has a severe dearth of gay friends. They were supposed to be my silver lining."
Kurt feels penned-in excitement climbing the fences inside him. "Well," he says, finishing his glass, "silver lining reporting for duty."
"Cheers," Ethan repeats, finishing his, too. "If you don't mind I'm going to hit on you something fierce now," he says, undoing his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. "Even if you do, but it'll probably last longer if you don't."
Kurt's stomach turns, mostly in the good way, as Ethan refills his glass. "You weren't already?" he asks wryly, lifting the champagne to his mouth for a sip.
"Pssht, no, that was all groundwork. No pick-up lines, no extravagant flattery. So is it hot in here, or is it just you?"
Kurt chokes on a laugh and alcohol burns his windpipe.
Thirty minutes later the bottle isn't all that's empty. Kurt's head is an amphitheater spacious and lit differently which each passing moment. "How come you're pretty," he asks Ethan with a little giggle.
Ethan strokes his chin. That means he's thinking, Kurt intuits. That's sort of funny. He giggles again. "Because of space."
"No because," he continues, "I'm serious," he chides, but giggles a little too. "Because light moves through space so fast, and that's why you can see me, is light, moving very fast. Shut up," he says, pushing Kurt's shoulder, because Kurt is giggling again.
"How come Eli's not as pretty, then?"
Ethan thinks again. He's a good thinker. "Time," he decides. "I'm younger by like. An amount of time."
That's probably profound. The music is loud, and Kurt's head sways to the beat. "Well if your the pretty one, why didn't Tasha marry you?"
"Because I'm gaaaay," Ethan says, and they both find that *hilarious*. Kurt nearly asphyxiates himself from laughter.
When they've calmed down, caught their breath, Kurt feels like a planet's core, like he has his own gravity. The world revolves around him. His chest holds loitering molecules that don't want him to move. Opening his mouth would take effort he doesn't feel like expending. He speaks with his eyes.
"You should kiss me," Ethan says after dozens of seconds have lost themselves to history.
Kurt squirms and looks around at the reception crowd, still teeming. "Nooo," he groans through a nervous smile. "Everyone would seeeee."
Ethan looks petulant, then bites his lip and does the chin-scratching thing again. Kurt giggles. Without warning Ethan's back straightens and Kurt flinches back, almost knocking the champagne bottle to the floor in the process; his lagging reflexes catch it at the last second. Ethan raises one finger, as though pointing to a lightbulb over his head, and then lifts a spoon with an evil smile, tapping his glass, which peels in the way glasses do. Other glasses take up the call, and soon the music dips briefly, and from his table near the back of the room Kurt watches heads swivel forward in ancipation. He flushes as he watches Ethan lean forward, in hi-def stupid-drunk slow motion, watches Ethan's eyes flurry closed, feels the cold touch of his lips, gazes at the back of his eyelids (when did he shut his eyes?) as the feeling leaves. He groans in its absence, a noise swallowed up by Maroon 5 as the music resumes with renewed vigor.
Ethan is saying something, but he's not listening. He's awash in a deluge like sloppy poetry, rivers and circles.
"I said that was nice," he hears, and feels breath on his cheek. His eyes pop open, and he feels like he's just woken up. Ethan's pulled himself closer, so that their chairs' legs are tangling.
"You're nice," Kurt counters, letting his finger fail the straight line test down Ethan's tie. He feels like his breath should be fogging from the chill of Ethan's lips.
A stray lock of hair teases Ethan's forehead. "I can be nicer," he says, voice full of brimstone.
Untoward forces win out over the dampening effects of the champagne, and Kurt unsubtly adjusts his position. "The clinking doesn't give us much time," he pouts, letting his head fall against Ethan's neck. He lifts his eyes up imploringly.
"You've got a cute on your face," Ethan says, rubbing his thumb in a circle on Kurt's cheek as though wiping away a bit of food. Kurt's tongue sneaks out and tags it - the briefest touch followed by a lightning retreat. Ethan glances to either side, leans his head back to see behind them (Kurt giggles nervously and lets his lips graze the exposed neck coyly) and then puts a finger over his lips. "Shh," he says devilishly, and ducks suddenly. Their heads knock together, and in the half-second it takes Kurt to reorient himself and get a hand to his forehead Ethan has vanished, is a ripple in the tablecloth and an empty chair. Kurt feels his chair being pulled flush with the table, and then fingers at his shoelaces. He giggles to himself, red-faced, stricken with anxiety and enraptured by the simple uncoiling of cotton loops. Cold hands climb the calves of his slacks and yank his socks down and off. His bare feet tickle in their sudden exposure and wicked thoughts tighten his beltline.
He reaches with one foot and finds the silk of Ethan's vest, the wings of his collar. Ethan's cheek brushes his ankle bone and his shoulder hefts his leg, and then Ethan's hands are rubbing against the front of his pants, tracing him carelessly, struggling to undo the clasp from awkward angles. Kurt arches his back and tries not to moan. He feels stupid and reckless, blissfully ignorant, uninhibited. He can hear nothing over the music, and yet he hears everything, somehow: the rushed fall of his zipper, Ethan's heavy breathing. His other foot tries to find Ethan's waist but is batted away.
Have it his way.
Ethan's hand is closer, miles away and an atom's width distant. He can feel the cold through his boxers, confident fingers teasing the last button, toying with it but not opening. The leg on Ethan's shoulder wraps around his nape in frustration, and Kurt feels the smile on Ethan's lips. It feels like - feels like - likethat, he thinks, breath hitching as Ethan presses forward to kiss at him through his boxers, hands forgoing the fastening and gripping at his waistband from both sides. Kurt can see his fingertips peeking out from beneath the tablecloth as he pulls.
The tug is so fierce that Kurt slips forward in his chair, but no one seems to notice, or if they do his concentration is too divided to care. It's followed by a second tug, and a third, and a fourth, and Kurt feels the back of Ethan's knuckles as he draws Kurt's pants down below his ass, to his knees (he shrugs Kurt's leg from his shoulder), off his feet. The chair lining is smooth against Kurt's bottom, and his dick brushes the underside of the tabletop as it springs free.
He's in something like disbelief as he feels Ethan's lips close around his head. He's a splitscreen. Above the waist he's a wedding guest, dressed to the nines and proper, if more than a bit tipsy; below, he's a lover, naked and lusting, in the mouth of a new friend. Ethan's tongue presses him with neither delicacy nor force, a heavy ghost. Kurt feels haunted, possessed - his hips thrust forward, but Ethan pulls back, and Kurt feels that smile again, around him this time, and he knows if Ethan would just take him a little deeper, or touch him at the base, or or or something he'd be making a mess of his throat by now.
Instead he feels a pull at his thigh - close, so close, a little higher, please - and another, more insistant this time. When Ethan pulls his mouth away Kurt understands, but doesn't want to; the feel of his length against Ethan's cheek, forehead, nose, is maddening. With disastrously impatient eyes he makes a cursory search for potential witnesses and then lets himself turn to liquid and slide forward.
The tablecloth is like a white curtain, and Ethan's the show. Muted light dapples his wrinkled vest and the long bulge in his trousers, and Kurt doesn't know where to let his hands go first. "Why," he demands, lunging forward (his head bumps the table; he could not possibly care less) to snare Ethan's tongue in his mouth, "did you stop?"
Bass pulses through the floor beneath them, struggling to keep pace with Kurt's heartbeats as Ethan makes out with him, desperately pulling at the buttons on Kurt's shirt (bottom to top, wrists grazing his length) before pawing ineffectually at the one holding Kurt's tie in place. "How're you, gonna fuck me, if you come in my mouth?" Ethan pants between clumsy kisses.
Kurt lets out a leopard's snarl and ruts against Ethan's dick, his hands knotting with Ethan's as they pull at his last button. Fuck it - Kurt can afford the fee on the rental. He wrips through it, and Ethan balls the shirt and throws it to the side. It billows the tablecloth but stays hidden. Kurt forgets his tie and instead unknots Ethan's, pulls open his collar to leave sharp impressions on the front of his neck. Ethan's hands are everywhere at once - on his back, in his hair, gripping his ass, sliding his saliva up and down Kurt's length. Kurt mouth finds his shoulder, his collarbone, his chest, as the black inserts that hold Ethan's shirt closed fall to the floor. An urge to feel silk takes Kurt, and he pushes Ethan back, keeping his head low as he straddles him, thrusting against Ethan's vest. Ethan's mouth falls open and Kurt fills them with his fingers, one at a time, while his free hand looses the vest and the shirt underneath. His tie sways against his chest.
His head, his body, all of him throbs with desire, but Kurt knows a chance for revenge when he sees it, and crawls back, pinning Ethan with a hand to his bare stomach. He flinches when he feels fabric and cold air on the ball of his foot and pulls it in, kneeling as best he can, and goes to work. Forcing one of Ethan's legs bent, he leans forward to rest his head against Ethan's hardness as he casually undoes Ethan's shoelaces, unraveling them carefully with shaking hands, one at a time. Ethan moans unmistakeably and humps Kurt's cheek. He feels the vibrations of the music through Ethan's hips in the troughs of his motions. With a sultry sigh Kurt finds the tip of him and drags his lips to the base, slowly, then up again. Ethan grips his hair, glides hands over his ears, dips fingers into his mouth.
Kurt pulls off his shoes and turns himself like a clock hand, so that his dick hangs gently against Ethan's navel as he sets himself to unhooking Ethan's pants. Ethan squeezes him, his ass, teases a finger near his entrance, and Kurt's hips straighten, push down, so that his length slides up Ethan's stomach, to his chest, his neck, just below his chin, leaving a thin wet trail behind. Kurt folds back Ethan's trousers and pushes them forward, down his legs, and moans as he feels a finger enter him. It takes every ounce of his willpower to retreat forward, pushing the slacks off Ethan's feet, taking his socks with them. He turns about again, and offers a starry-eyed Ethan a kiss before letting his tongue trace that same trail down his body to his boxers. Ethan's dick sticks forward, now, so Kurt has a harder time following it with his lips, but he does his best, until Ethan nearly shouts down at him "For fuck's sake Kurt" and he loses what little of his sense is left. He pulls the boxers off Ethan's legs and sucks him hard, once, twice, up and down, as far as he can go, and then rubs their lengths together, stroking both in one hand, swapping moisture, as he reaches underneath them to stretch Ethan with a pair of fingers. When he finally stops he can't tell if Ethan is moaning or if he is.
It's not romantic - he lines up and is in, a rough push that he has to try three separate times to get right - but it's the best feeling in the world. Kurt thrusts in deep as he can, and out, and in, and out, hands pressed hard to Ethan's chest, eyes glued to Ethan's, sweat stinging his eyes. Ethan's head rests on Kurt's boxers, his shoulder on his vest. He grips Ethan loosely with both hands but holds steady, and before long Ethan's thrusts are wild enough to push his length up and down in Kurt's hands. It can't be more than a minute before Kurt feels ready to come, and he pulls out, desperate to forestall the end, even if only for a moment. Ethan cranes his neck, breathing heavily, expression confused - and then he's on his stomach, his knees, and Kurt grins ferally, giggles wickedly. He enters him again, much deeper this time, thanks to the new position, his tie collecting sweat from Ethan's back. He's forced to bend uncomfortably to fit on his knees, but barely notices, as his thrusts fill their enclave with sighs and moans and the sound of skin connecting. He digs his palms into Ethan's ass and lets his thumbs graze his own shaft as it pulls in and out.
He comes with a noise very like a boy.
He looks at himself, still buried in Ethan, glazes over the red marks where his fingernails have made impressions in Ethan's skin. He reaches around without pulling out to give Ethan a few long tugs, rocking his hips until he feels hot liquid dirty his hand.
Kurt's boxers are soaked, and he's forced to roll up his sleeves, too, but there are no stains visible when the pair emerge, looking noticeably the worse for wear, to the start of a slow dance number and a significantly thinned crowd.
There is a great deal of breathing.
"Well," Kurt says eventually.
Ethan blows out air and nods dazedly. "Yeah," he agrees. His gaze floats around the room, to the head table, to Kurt, to the dance floor. He scratches his chin. Kurt smiles awkwardly.
"Want to dance?" Ethan asks.
Kurt's legs ache like he's run a mile, and his head is still swimming, forecasting rough waters ahead. He feels exhaustion inflate in him like a hot air balloon.
"Yes," he says, with a cautious smile.
They dance 1-2-3 even though the song calls for 4, under a slowly spinning mirrorball. A planet's core with its own gravity.
Ethan's arms feel good around him.