Warnings: For this part, implied assault/rape (no descriptions), brief smoking, prostitution.
Summary: Blaine is a hooker on the streets of New York, where as fate would have it, Kurt crosses his path (but not in the way you’d think…).
A/N: I got the premise for this from watching Les Mis, and also because I couldn’t get Lovely Ladies out of my head (which is also where the title comes from). I’m planning a couple parts to this, and there will definitely be sex later so. You can stick around for that if you choose.
Pride wasn’t something that Blaine had ever felt he had lost. He’d been kicked out of his home at seventeen, working the streets ever since, but he always kept a smile. It’s what got him customers in the first place. Blaine had confidence and a smile and an ass that wasn’t likely to quit any time soon. Sure, most people would look at him like he was the scum of the streets, nothing but trash in the bustle of New York, a cheap whore.
But Blaine would thank you to know that he was not cheap under any circumstance.
Maybe when he was new and still a fresh face in the game of soliciting, Blaine would admit that he had to start somewhere—everybody starts out with the skint ones, not willing to pay much for a little tap from a jittery newbie. But given a few months, and Blaine blew the top of off most of his customers and earned himself a better-than-decent rep.
Blaine was just innocent enough, just charming enough, just sexy enough, just talented enough to get the (blow) job done right, and it served him goddamn well. He had the assets and he had the drive, and that was all he needed.
“Hey sweetums, looking hot tonight.”
“Mmm, thank you Mr. Hitch. You’re looking like you need a little pick-me-up. How’d you like to hold-me-down?”
“Well, how could I refuse that offer? Hop in.”
He was efficient and quick, but not too quick. He had no problem getting more than one hit a night, though it wasn’t rare for a regular to drop enough cash to have him until daylight. Blaine certainly wasn’t complaining.
Blaine had definitely experienced his share of psychos—abusive drunks, men with strange complexes, and he’d had more than a couple knives skimming the fine hairs from his neck—but any dedicated street worker knew not to let it get to them. One night was bad, but that didn’t mean the next wouldn’t yield bank.
On an abnormally warm Friday in October, Blaine was feeling extra confident. He decked himself out in his sexiest black corset vest with white trim, his bright red leather skinny jeans, sturdy black docs, and eye makeup to beat the band and poised himself on his usual corner around six o’clock. The sun is barely setting, and the rush hour isn’t slowed to a complete halt any longer, but the workers have yet to get home. It was the prime time for prowling, luring in those sveltely suited business men with his siren’s call of visible youth and ferocity that Blaine effortlessly emanates nightly.
The telltale sight of a sleek black Mercedes maneuvering over to the curb has Blaine smirking with delight. When the tinted window glides down, Blaine can tell it’s not someone he’s had before, but he does get an eyeful of middle-aged, decently handsome, broadly built man, clearly on his way home from somewhere very well-paying if the crisp Armani suit isn’t lying to him.
And Armani never lies.
Blaine saunters seductively to the car, bending over obscenely to rest his forearms on the ledge of the window. The leather of his pants strains against his ass in a way that he knows is absolutely delicious for onlookers, sculpting him into a thing of pure sex that drops jaws and causes hands to twitch into fists to keep from grabbing. It’s force of habit, really, but if he accentuates it a bit more than usual, Blaine chalks it up to the peculiarly warm autumn air.
“Hey, sexy.” Blaine says, ensuring that his voice runs smooth and enticing. Blaine remembers very well being able to get men off with simply the dripping sex of his voice alone, and that’s something that he wears as a badge of honor. “It’s forty for a job. Eighty for a fuck. But only twenty-five if you just want to watch.”
The man stares, lust apparent in his wizened eyes as the wind whooshes past the bare, waxed skin of Blaine’s exposed chest. The deep voice from the man startles Blaine in a warm way, his pants tightening at the crotch. “I’ll give you a thousand. Get in.”
Blaine’s finely shaped eyebrows rise, peaking sharply with surprise. “Shit baby, you can have whatever you want with that load.” Blaine doesn’t waste any time pulling open the car door and hustling inside. A wad of bills is tossed into his lap as he situates himself, neatly folded in half. Blaine flips through quickly, and there is absolutely about a thousand in hundred dollar bills in his hands.
Money makes Blaine hard. And right now, he’s practically keening with want.
“Good thing,” the man mutters, in clear response to what Blaine had remarked earlier, “Cause I intend to have a lot of fun with you.”
Blaine’s cheeks heat up in arousal, and he shamelessly kneads the heel of his hand over the bulge in his pants. “I’m yours, baby.” Blaine breathes, eyes growing heavy with well-practiced seduction, “Tonight I am so yours.”
“Ok sweetie, what is with the zombie act lately?”
Kurt jumps at his desk, startled by Isabelle’s sudden appearance while deep in thought about…well…things.
“Jesus, Isabelle, you really should warn a guy.” Kurt scolds, running a hand habitually down his shirt to smooth it out. “And I don’t know what you mean.”
Isabelle rolls her eyes, leaning against Kurt’s desk with a casual, yet predatory gaze that she only uses when she wants to extract information from someone. He should really get it through his head that nothing gets past Isabelle. “Oh, come on, Kurt. You’ve been dazed and zoned out all week. Don’t think I can’t see through that look like a cellophane dress, honey.” She insinuates, her bracelets jangling as her hand grips her hip. “Either your childhood dog died or you aren’t getting laid.”
“Isabelle!” Kurt protests with mild horror, but she smirks in reply to his reaction. Kurt huffs, deflating considerably into his chair and letting his arms hang lazily off of the armrests. “Ever since Adam hit the road running, I’ve barely gotten anything. And it’s just not enough to have sex. I need a boyfriend.” Kurt confesses, staring fixedly at the wood patterns in his desk.
The smell of Isabelle’s perfume intensifies, and he finds himself face to face with her as she leans down into his space. “It takes time, Kurt. Picking someone up off the street isn’t how you find a boyfriend.”
Kurt sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know, I know. But it just feels like I’ve exhausted my options.”
“This is New York, honey,” Isabelle trills, a bit melodically, “You’ve never exhausted your options.”
Kurt gives her a weak smile and nods. “You’re right. I just have to look a little harder.”
“That’s the spirit, sweetie. Now go home. You’ve been working yourself to the bone lately and you look like you need some ‘you time.’”
“You’re probably right.”
Isabelle grins goodheartedly. “I always am.”
Kurt sets out into the darkening chaos of the city, illuminated with lights and adventure and opportunity, and Kurt feels bone-tired. He knows he shouldn’t spend all of his time wishing he had someone to hold him in his bed every night, but he can’t really help it. He and Adam had been together for six months and he’d grown accustomed to a warm body behind him and kissing his neck, stroking his hip, sucking his—
No. He wasn’t thinking about that tonight. He knew if he got his mind on the track of sex, he’d end up bringing a stranger home, and that’s going against everything Isabelle had just instructed him. He had had enough of poor, unsatisfying fucks in the past months and he wasn’t looking forward to adding to the pile. He was done with bringing men home, especially on weekends like this where Rachel was back in Lima, spending time with her dads. Tonight would be for him, to recuperate and to maybe delve into that bottle of wine in the cupboard…
His train of thought is interrupted by the sound of crying, heart-breakingly helpless crying, in the near vicinity of where he’d just reached the steps of his apartment complex. From the proximity, Kurt would guess it as from the alleyway to the left of the building. He really shouldn’t think anything of it—this is New York after all, and people cried all the time. There were strange people out on the streets, and for all Kurt knew, it could be a psychopath trying to lure in possible victims.
Even still, he finds his feet moving towards the sound that is definitely coming from the alley, now that he’s closer. He spies a shadowy form, huddled on the ground, looking as if holding itself as the cries continue. Kurt clamps his eyes shut, trying to squeeze rational thought into his brain. This could be a crazy person. He is probably just a homeless guy. He could have a knife. He could be crying because he murdered his entire family and now the cops are after him.
…But what if he was just mugged? What if someone just threatened his life and he has nobody to talk to? What if he has nobody that cares about him? What if he is just waiting for someone to show him some kindness? What if he needs help?
Kurt curses his inner monologue as he steps into the alley tentatively, gripping the ends of his scarf as he does so. Upon getting closer, he can tell it is in fact a man, his arms wrapped around his legs and his head pressed into his knees. There’s a subtle shaking in his shoulders that matches up with the pitiful sound of his sobbing. Taking a deep breath, Kurt squeaks out something. “Um…excuse me? Are you ok?”
The man’s head darts up, alarmed. The first thing Kurt notices is that the man is…well, beautiful. True, there’s black gunk smeared down from his eyes and over his cheeks and his face is blotched from the tears and—yeah there’s definitely some bruising around his left eye, but he is undeniably beautiful. He had to be about Kurt’s age, early twenties, and there’s a fluffiness to the curls on his head that seem to have a mind of their own, judging by the state of them.
The next thing he notices is the clothes. Seeing the tight leather pants and what looks to be a corset, accompanied with doc martins, Kurt has quite a few insinuations about the man himself. Insinuations that he’s not so sure make him want to get to know this man if they are correct. The man’s grip on his legs tenses at Kurt’s presence, and his expression is undeniably guarded. And Kurt thinks that maybe, just maybe, this man could be as lonely as Kurt.
“Yeah, of course, I’m fine.” The man says thickly, wiping at one of his eyes and effectively smearing his makeup all the more. “What do you want?”
Kurt tugs on his lip with his teeth, wrapping his arms self-consciously and protectively around himself. “I’m sorry, I just heard crying and I wanted to make sure…” Kurt trails off, hearing how stupid he sounds now that he’s spoken out loud. “God, I’m sorry, you can just…I’ll go.” Kurt stumbles on his words, turning to scurry out of the alleyway.
But before he can get anywhere, the man shouts out weakly, “Wait!” Kurt spins around cautiously, eyes immediately falling to where the man is still curled up on the ground. “I’m sorry. I appreciate you…you know. That was really nice of you.” The man speaks softly, kindly, and sincerity rings in his words.
“You just sounded so sad and I don’t know what came over me.” Kurt confesses, shrugging slightly, attempting to relieve the anxious tension in his shoulders. “I figured something bad must have happened, or you’re absolutely psycho, to be sitting on the disgusting concrete in an alleyway.”
The man’s mouth breaks out into a soft smile, his eyes shooting downwards to stare at the ground. “Yeah, it is pretty fucking gross. But sometimes there are worse things than my fear of catching some disease.” He reveals, his voice giving way to whatever fear in question he’d hinted at.
Kurt nods with understanding, his head swiveling around to the street-side of the alley to try and get his bearings, and more importantly, try and figure out what the hell he is doing out here at night in New York with a complete stranger in a dark alley, who he has a pretty good hunch is no stranger to other strangers. This is material for a horror film, really, and Kurt had walked into it willingly. Yet, he can’t shake the feeling that this man isn’t dangerous. He seems sane enough, just very, very broken up about something. And Kurt can relate to that.
“What’s your name?” Kurt asks, retuning his gaze to the man who hadn’t moved his eyes from the pavement below him.
The man’s mouth twitches slightly, almost as if in shock, before speaking. “Blaine.”
“Kurt.” He steps forward and reaches out his hand for Blaine to shake. Blaine smiles, taking it with a gentle grip.
“Nice to meet you, Kurt.” Blaine wipes at his eyes one last time, sniffing his nose briefly.
“Pleasure is mine.” Kurt releases his hand and takes a breath. “So Blaine, am I allowed to ask what it is you’re upset about? You don’t have to tell me your whole life story, but if there’s anything I can do to help?” Kurt offers, scuffing the bottom of his shoe at the ground nervously.
Blaine breathes out a laugh, grinning. “It might be a little intense for you.”
“Are you a hooker?” The words spill out of Kurt’s mouth before he can stop them, and after they’re out he wishes he could scoop them all up and put them back in. He feels his face going red with embarrassment as Blaine laughs out loud.
“The politically correct term is ‘sex worker’ but yes. I am a hooker.” Blaine replies, more jovial than Kurt would expect from someone who just admitted to being a prostitute.
“Oh.” Kurt mutters, avoiding Blaine’s eyes. “I’m sorry, that was really rude.”
Blaine waves it off. “It’s fine. I’m not as ashamed of it as I should be. The only times I’m ashamed are nights like these.” Blaine shares, picking at a rip in his pants that Kurt deduces is a new addition, and not one that was self-induced for stylistic reasons.
“Did one of your…your…did someone attack you?” Kurt stutters out, trying hard not to offend him and not knowing what the correct term was for a sex worker’s…work.
Blaine nods, and Kurt can see his lip trembling the slightest bit. “Yeah. Yeah, I was attacked.”
Kurt’s mind races, and all he can think is, You said you wouldn’t bring anyone home, Kurt. This is a fucking prostitute for God’s sake. That is the last kind of guy you should be bringing home.
Kurt can’t even explain his motivation when the words come out of his mouth. “Look, if you wanna come in for a little while, I live right here. You can clean up, compose yourself, whatever you need.”
Blaine’s eyes brighten considerably, and Kurt has to admit that it’s adorable. “Really? That would be so great. Thank you.” Kurt gives his hand and Blaine pulls himself up, brushing off his ass and holding onto Kurt’s hand a bit too long for Kurt to be comfortable. When their eyes meet, their hands immediately drop, and Kurt wraps it back around his waist.
“It’s…I’m just right here…” Kurt mumbles, indicating to the building but keeping his eyes on the ground as he walks out of the alley, knowing Blaine is following by the sound of his footsteps behind him.
Every rational thought inside Kurt is screaming against it, but he leads on, and he can’t seem to stop, even as he unlocks and slides open the door to his loft, letting Blaine inside with a small, “Come on in.”
“Do you have a light?”
The man, Kurt, is jerked out of his thoughts as Blaine speaks, tearing his eyes away from the stories of stairwell below them. Kurt eyes the cigarette between Blaine’s fingers and hesitates.
“Um…yeah, hold on.” Kurt hauls himself up from the fire escape and heads back inside. Blaine, freshly cleaned and his face devoid of the night’s memories but for the purpling bruise below his eye, slips the cigarette into his mouth, jostling it up and down between his teeth as he waits for Kurt to return.
The metallic sound of boots on the fire escape signals Kurt’s arrival, and Blaine twitches the corner of his mouth into a half-smile. He mumbles out a brief “thanks” as he takes the matchbook from Kurt’s hand. The box is about half empty, Blaine figures from all of the scented candles that are positioned around Kurt’s tastefully decorated loft. He strikes one up and lights the cigarette, shaking out the flame before letting the spent match drop down the levels of the escape. He hands the matches back to Kurt but he shakes his head resolutely.
“You keep them.”
Blaine smiles again, tucking them in his pocket with another expression of gratitude. He takes a long drag, letting the smoke settle into his lungs before gracefully releasing it in a jet stream into the crisp night air. “Do you want one?” Blaine asks, realizing how selfish that would be not to offer this man who had been so kind to him the friendly gesture of a cigarette.
“I don’t smoke.” Kurt utters, and Blaine nods in understanding, part of him grateful that Kurt wouldn’t take offense. “Thank you, though.” Kurt tacks on.
Blaine simply nods again, taking another drag and tapping out the ashes on the ledge of the stairwell. The silence between them is almost numbing, but Blaine really doesn’t know what to say. He’s exhausted the amount of “thank yous” you can give a person for what Kurt had done, but he’s not so sure Kurt wants to hear the full extent of his graphic night, either.
Blaine’s down to the butt of his light when Kurt finally speaks. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
Blaine shrugs, grinding out his cigarette and dropping the butt to follow the matchstick. “It’s really not as bad as I made it look.”
“You have a bruise on your face and your clothes are all torn. I would say yes, it was pretty bad.” Kurt objects lightly.
“Ok, well it’s not bad in comparison to others I’ve had. We’ll put it that way.”
“Then why do you do it? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“The money’s good.” Blaine tells. “Money’s great, actually.” Blaine grins, tapping his finger at the metal webbing of the stairwell floor. “Guy who did this to me paid me a thousand bucks.” Blaine says, indicating to his current state. “Everybody gets a few psychos. It’s just part of the job.”
“But you’re risking your life every day.” Kurt says, his eyes widening in what Blaine thinks is…compassion?
“Yeah, so do firefighters. So do cops. So do military men. I just happen to get a lot of sex out of it. Not the worst way to go let me tell you.” Blaine chuckles, pulling his legs inwards to sit cross-legged.
Kurt eyes him warily, and there seems to be a constant question in his eyes. “So you really enjoy what you do?”
Blaine nods, “Yeah, I actually really do. I mean, how much fun is it to dress all sexy and watch men drop trou for you while thrusting money in your hand? It’s like a constant thrill, every night. You never know who’s gonna bite today. Sometimes literally.” Blaine throws out, winking at Kurt with a smirk.
“I guess when you make it sound like that.” Kurt says, still seeming a little anxious.
“Kurt, if I’m making you uncomfortable, just let me know.” Blaine assuages. “You’ve been incredibly gracious and the least I can do is to tone down the sex talk. I know not everybody is comfortable with sex.”
“I’m very comfortable with sex, thank you very much.” Kurt protests, mildly offended.
Blaine’s eyes widen, his hands flying up in defense. “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry. I wasn’t insinuating that you were…I mean hell, that would be a fucking travesty if a guy like you wasn’t being appreciated.”
A blush rises in Kurt’s cheeks as Blaine’s words. “I’m really not that much of a catch.”
“Oh, screw that, you’re a fucking sex god, Kurt. And I swear to god, that’s not just hooker talk.” Blaine asserts in utter honesty.
Kurt’s cheeks only grow redder at Blaine’s admission, and something about that makes Blaine feel really warm inside. Not just with arousal, but with a feeling that he’s maybe lifting this boy’s spirits. That’s practically his entire chosen profession, making men feel better about themselves. Giving them power.
“Well, if you must know, I’m not ‘being appreciated’ as you so delicately put it. I haven’t gotten laid in over a month. And I haven’t had a good one in…god I don’t even know.” Kurt replies, almost with fatigue. Blaine can relate, of course, he knows what it’s like to not get a proper fucking for an extended period of time. Being a prostitute, it’s sort of hit and miss every night.
Blaine sees the opportunity, and he takes it. He doesn’t know if Kurt would be interested, but he can definitely try, and he has no doubt in his mind that it would be good.
“I mean, I’d love to repay you, Kurt.” Blaine lets drip, thrusting himself forward onto his hands and knees, crawling slowly towards Kurt, trying not to intimidate and going for more propositioning, but he can’t deny how much he wants to show Kurt a good time.
Kurt’s eyes bulge in shock, watching as Blaine prowls forward with a willing look. “Blaine, I don’t…” Kurt places a hand on his shoulder and Blaine freezes where he is. “Look, you’re very attractive and I’m sure you’re very talented, but I’m just not really looking for anything tonight. I’m sorry.” Kurt expresses.
“No, no, it’s no problem!” Blaine answers hurriedly, pushing himself back up to sit on his legs to a more non-threatening position, “I was just offering, I promise.” Kurt’s breathing has gone a little heavy, probably in panic, and that’s entirely Blaine’s fault. “I’m so sorry, I swear that’s not why I came up here with you. I truly am grateful for your hospitality. That’s just my usual reaction to returning favors.” Blaine informs.
Kurt nods quickly, allowing his breath to slow down. “Yeah, no, I just. I’m not interested in…” Kurt gesticulates randomly, but Blaine gets the gist.
“You don’t want to be fucked by a whore, that’s fine.” Blaine laughs, trying to lighten the air. Kurt doesn’t seem quite at ease, however, and Blaine decides that he’s probably overstayed his welcome. “I should go. Thank you so much for everything.” Blaine says, standing up.
“You don’t have to go.” Kurt says, looking up at him with an expression of longing. “I mean, it’s really dark out. If you want, you can just go home in the morning.”
Blaine smiles. “Kurt, I thrive in the nighttime. It’s really not a problem. But thank you. Hopefully I’ll see you around.” Noting the look of regret on Kurt’s face, Blaine adds, “Why don’t you I give you my number?”
Kurt agrees readily, tugging his phone out of his jacket pocket and handing it to Blaine. He types in his number quickly, smirking as he enters his name as “Blaine Swallows” and hands Kurt back his phone.
“If you ever are looking for a good time, Kurt, give me a call. Any time, any day.”
Kurt nods. “Yeah, of course. Take care of yourself, Blaine.”
Blaine grins and knocks two fingers against his forehead in a salute as he clambers back into the loft and out the sliding door. He’d be willing to bet his life that Kurt watched his ass until the door shut behind him.