#blaine-devanderson

“This isn’t very good.”  Blaine looks at the non-Starbucks cup in his hand like it offends him.  The espresso is a shade too bitter, as though a careless or thoughtless barista let it sit in the shot glasses ten seconds too long.  And the milk tastes just this side of over-steamed.  It’s got a flat, waxy taste that sits filmy on Blaine’s tongue.

“Of course not, dear,” Kurt says with an adoring little grin. “You didn’t make it.”

Blaine watches as Kurt carefully sets his own cup down on the table.  The thick swirl of whipped cream on top wobbles slightly.  Kurt had somehow managed to convince the young barista behind the bar to give him his drink without a lid so he could have extra whipped cream on his nonfat hot chocolate.  That’s not quite true; Blaine knows exactly how Kurt got what he wanted.

The barista at the little café just around the corner from the Met is almost a kid, maybe nineteen, with a soft face and artfully tousled hair.  He’d blushed and stammered his greeting when Kurt stepped up to the counter to place their orders.  Blaine can’t really blame the kid; he remembers well what it was like to see Kurt Hummel for the first time.  This tall, gorgeous man with that pale skin, bright eyes, and swept back hair.  The length of his body wrapped in the clothes he’d made for himself.  How his mere presence demanded attention.  Blaine remembers how he couldn’t look away after he first laid eyes on Kurt, and hasn’t since.

Kurt had blinked prettily at the young barista and asked so sweetly if he might possibly get extra whipped cream and no lid on his drink. 

The barista had gone so pink Blaine was worried he’d never return to his proper color.  And he was pretty sure they could have gotten their drinks for free if Blaine hadn’t stepped up and put some cash down.  He’d tipped the poor kid a little extra, knowing the rest of his day was going to be consumed with thoughts of the mysterious, beautiful customer he was probably never going to see again.

“How’s yours?” Blaine asks.

He watches as Kurt dips his finger into the whipped cream and scoops up a thick dollop of it.  Blaine can feel his breath catch and his belly tighten as Kurt brings that finger to his mouth.  He slowly licks the cream off, wet pink tongue darting out for the taste of it before he slides his finger between his lips and sucks the rest of the sweet cream off.  Kurt’s eyes close and his lashes flutter as his throat works.  Blaine shifts restlessly as his cock surges against his fly.  He wants to loosen the scarf around his suddenly too warm neck. His cheeks feel hot.

“Mmm, delicious.”  Kurt’s eyes are dark on Blaine’s, his pupils gone wide.  He’s teasing, flirting, and Blaine knows it.  Under the table, a foot nudges against his.

“Kurt,” Blaine says.  His voice sounds scratchy to his own ears, a little choked.

“What?”  Kurt blinks, a slow sweep of his eyelashes.  His finger, still shiny with spit, is sliding along the rim of the cup and Blaine can’t decide where he wants to look the most.  The finger, the pulse in the notch of Kurt’s bared throat, or the flash of his tongue when he licks his lips.

“You’re molesting that whipped cream.”  Blaine knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that tongue.  His body remembers.

“Just trying to get the full experience of it.”

“Well,” Blaine prompts.  He’s desperate to pull focus from the growing ache in his groin, the heat in his belly.  The middle of the café around the way from a museum is not the place to get hard.  “How is it?”

A sly smile curves Kurt’s lips and his eyes are absolutely sparkling.  Blaine is caught and held fast.  Like he always is.