“Well, well, well, who do we have here?”
Blaine watches the silhouetted curve of the intruder’s broad shoulders hunch, stiffen, and the small silver shaft of moonlight illuminates the stretch and shine of tight black latex as the intruder lowers the leg lifted onto the windowsill and turns around, revealing pale skin and carefully-carved features; a lithe body and strong, muscled thighs all encased in slickly-shining skintight black tucked into knee-high black boots.
“Good evening, Mr. Anderson,” Kurt Hummel says lightly. In his fist is clutched a black velvet satchel, and in it, Blaine knows, are several of his most precious valuables. “Wasn’t expecting to see you already.”
“I do live here.” Blaine pushes himself off the door frame, uncrosses his arms, and steps forward toward Kurt. He flicks on the lamp beside the window as he goes, and suddenly the room is awash in artificial yellow light. Kurt watches closely, following Blaine’s every move with brightly glittering blue eyes, and though this is hardly close to the first time they’ve met under such circumstances Blaine can see suspicion etched heavily onto the pale skin of Kurt’s face offered below his heavy black mask. They’re both fond of the game, and Blaine supposes that makes their rapport easier.
“Good evening to you, my dear cat burglar,” Blaine replies, lips twitching as he fails to suppress a grin. A hand comes down, fingers brushing first against the swell of carefully-styled hair before they’re moving over the soft material of the black ears perched atop Kurt’s head. “These are a nice touch. Very edgy. You’re making yourself into quite the literal character, aren’t you, Kurt?”
“If they can make fox tails come into fashion,” Kurt says haughtily, lifting his chin and allowing the undertones of light and shadow and catch and play over the sharp and curve of his chin and jaw. The look immediately softens into something more daring, more intimate, and he saunters closer, hips swaying hypnotically beneath skintight latex. The click of his boots echoes on the wood in the great openness of the room. “Do you like?” he whispers, reaching up and flicking one. “I thought you might.” His hand comes down, brushes over Blaine’s cheek, and Blaine shivers in the wake of butter-soft leather gloves.
“Mmm,” Blaine says, grabbing Kurt’s hand; he goes for the other one, then, grasping onto the thick gold string of the satchel. Its weight is heavy, and he knows that his grandmother’s jewels are probably in there, along with his own watch. “I think they’re lovely. But I like my valuables that you have in your hand here more.”
Kurt pouts, and Blaine can see his eyes flash. “Well, that’s too bad.” Kurt’s voice lowers, roughens until it’s almost a purr, and he bats his eyelashes as he gently works the satchel back out of Blaine’s grasp with a dexterity that should be frustrating, and would be if Kurt’s lips weren’t so close. “I’m a bad kitty, and bad kitties like shiny, precious, expensive objects.”
He presses his lips to the shell of Blaine’s ear, and Blaine shivers, eyes fluttering closed and hands coming down to rest on Kurt’s hips above the bulge of his belt. He breathes out, hand on Blaine’s face, “Do you like bad kitties, Mr. Anderson?”
Blaine swallows in a gulp, pulls back and sees Kurt staring at him with heavily-lidded eyes, mouth lush and pink and dropped slightly open in a rare display of open vulnerability, of natural human affliction and reaction. He rests his hand on Kurt’s cheek in a mirror, brushes his fingers over the heavy cloth of Kurt’s mask. “Only one.”
When Kurt kisses him, Blaine feels it from the top of his head to his toes, an electric tingling that ignites his body, jump-starts his heart and races his pulse. Kurt presses close, the latex of his bodysuit slick and skin-warmed under Blaine’s hands, and as soon as he’s there he’s gone, a whisper of wind and a faint breath of cologne.
Blaine blinks, shakes his head, and turns. Kurt’s standing in the arch of the window frame, the white curtains billowing around him in the breeze. He’s still clutching Blaine’s satchel, and the smirk on his face is one-sided, pretty, and teasing. The moonlight silhouettes him completely, and, faintly, Blaine catches “Meow” before Kurt’s jumping, disappearing into the night and leaving a lingering presence that will stay long after Blaine’s closed the window and re-coded the wall safe.