Drop The Hammer

'50's AU greaser!Kurt/square!Blaine (an old-fashioned spin on the badboy/nerd trend.)

Blaine pauses outside the wide open garage door of the local mechanic, Hummel & Sons hand painted on a piece of plywood on top of the squat gray building. Loud music pumps out from a radio in the back, set on a stack of old tires. The stench of cigarette smoke and motor oil permeates the air. He straightens out his shirt, flattens his hair, and checks the lay of his collar before stepping into the artificial light inside.

“Hello?” He calls. There’s a beaten-up, stripped and gutted old model T on blocks in the corner, a hulking engine sitting on the concrete floor like a pile of bones, and not a soul in sight. The music switches to something faster, a driving guitar riff and smoky vocals- something his parents would throw him out of the house for even considering.

Blaine calls out again, wandering behind a shelf teeming with parts, when a guy in a leather jacket with dark hair slicked severely on either side into a duck tail saunters up. “You lost?” He asks, cigarette dangling from his lips, another tucked behind his ear.

“Uh-” Blaine stumbles back into the open area of the garage, the guy following him with his arms crossed. “My- my father sent me to get a tune up, I- I don’t want any trouble.”

The guy snorts and narrows his eyes, tossing away the cigarette and stepping forward as Blaine continues to move back and back. Until he bumps into something.

“Watch it!” 

Or someone.

“Sorry.” Blaine spins around, this errand quickly turning into some bizarre nightmare, and stammers, “I didn’t-”

Then he stops short. Another guy, also in leather and cuffed jeans and a tight white shirt, tall and slight with a perfectly styled pompadour. He’s blue eyed and sharp-jawed, and Blaine’s throat goes dry for reasons he tries really hard not to think about.

Blaine attempts to speak, but only manages a sort of gurgle, blushing and then coughing into his fist. He flinches away as the boy lifts a hand, only to feel soft warmth on his arm, looks up to kind eyes and a gentle smile.

“Anderson? one o’clock appointment?” He says gently, and Blaine lets out a relieved gust of air.

“Yes, my father called? I’m Blaine.” He holds out his hand.

“Kurt. And that’s Puck.” A firm handshake, soft skin, and Blaine holds on for a beat too long just to feel their palms pressed together before yanking his hand away.

“Um- it’s out here,” he says, directing Kurt and his…friend? Puck. Out to his father’s car in the driveway, Kurt letting out a low whistle when they reach it.

“’51 Mercury Coupe, impressive.”

“Be a lot more impressive if it was souped-up and not being driven around by a square,” Puck mutters, leaning down and running a hand over the hood.

“Just for that Puck you get to rotate the tires and do the oil change,” Kurt snaps.

Puck grumbles as he gets in the car, slamming the heavy door so hard it makes Blaine wince and Kurt yell at Puck to be careful as it rumbles into the garage.

“Ignore him, he’s a trouble maker and a godless commie,” Kurt says. Blaine gapes at him, eyes wide until Kurt laughs and elbows him lightly in the ribs. “Lighten up. I’m kidding,” then leans in to whisper, “not really, though.” 

Blaine’s eyes flutter shut, his heart skipping out of rhythm at Kurt’s warm breath puffing across his skin, the press of his broad shoulder against Blaine’s, the fact that he smells incredible.

“Your brother?” Blaine asks, voice strained, stepping to the side as Puck opens the hood to start tinkering around with the engine.

“Oh no,” Kurt laughs. “I have a step-brother, though. We hired Puck because Finn’s busy planning his wedding. Married with a house in the suburbs by eighteen. Living the dream.” Kurt says dryly.

Blaine doesn’t know how to respond. That is the dream, isn’t it? It’s certainly what is expected of him. Maybe not by eighteen, but soon. A job in an office. A wife. A baby on the way. It’s right. Only it completely terrifies him. Why does that future feel so wrong?

Puck calls Kurt over for assistance, and as Kurt slips off his leather jacket, revealing long toned arms and a broad chest; Blaine is pretty sure he has his answer. Kurt orders Puck to get a can of oil, shoving him away to open the cap and lean over the hood. Blaine’s eyes are glued to the the way Kurt is bent over the car, can’t look away no matter how much he tells himself to, every muscle in his body strained with the effort of holding himself back. 

“You want him.”

Blaine jumps, actually yelps and jumps, pressing a hand to his heart where it’s attempting to thump right out of his chest. “What? No.” Blaine hisses.

Puck shrugs, kicks the wooden wheeled creeper under the car. “It’s cool, man. I like stealing hood ornaments and setting mailboxes on fire.” Blaine tips his head, furrows his eyebrows. “I’m saying, we all have our vices.”

Puck slips under the car, leaving Blaine to blink after him in disbelief. Kurt walks back over, wiping his hands on a rag. “One of the best customizers around yet he can’t find an oil cap to save his life.”

“I can,” Blaine pipes up. He doesn’t know why, just that he feels so boring and young and uptight in his khakis and proper plaid button-down that his mother picked out, for heaven’s sake, and Kurt is smiling at him in his thin t-shirt and tight blue jeans, smudge of oil across a high cheekbone. 

Kurt listens to music that would make Blaine’s mother faint dead away and he probably smokes and he works on hot rods, and is possibly the most beautiful human being Blaine has ever seen, and oh god help him Puck is right. He does want him.

“You can…what?” Kurt nudges, stepping closer and snapping Blaine out of his thoughts.

“Change the oil. And the tires. I know my way around a car. My father just doesn’t trust me with it. That’s why I brought it here instead.”

Kurt looks him up and down, settles back on his heels. “You always do what your father tells you?”

Blaine’s eyes drop then, stares at Kurt’s smirking mouth and answers, “not always.”

Kurt looks away and scoffs a laugh. “Alright smooth talker, come to the office and we’ll settle your account while Puck here finishes up.”

He leads the way to a dim corner, then a musty closet sized office, desk and one chair taking up most of the space. They crowd in and when Kurt reaches around Blaine to close the door, Blaine’s breath hitches and he flushes hot all over. 

Kurt is pressed in so close to him, his knees brushing Blaine’s thighs as he hops up onto the desk. He stretches back to a drawer, shirt riding up to reveal a strip of fair skin, a dusting of dark hair. He sits up, smirks again when he catches Blaine staring. Kurt clicks a pen, reads off the paper in his other hand. “Same address?”


“We’ll just put it on your father’s account, then. Sign here.” He sets the paper on the desk, handing Blaine the pen, fingers lingering on Blaine’s wrist. Blaine wonders if he can feel the jackrabbit pace of his pulse there. “Unless you wanted me to add some side strips? Chop the roof? Swap the grill and paint it cherry red?”

Blaine stands back up, Kurt’s leg snug against his, swinging back and forth in the air. “Sure. And then I’ll just have to flee the country and change my name so my father never finds me again.”

“Hmm. As long as you take me with you,” Kurt leans back on his hands, tilts his head up so the long line of his neck stretches taut. “Don’t you ever get tired of playing it safe? Following the rules? Shouldn’t we be deciding for ourselves what we want, Blaine?”

Blaine feels like the edge of that cliff he’s been teetering on for years now, held back by expectations, by other people’s insistence on what his life should be, starts to crumble under his feet. But instead of falling, he leaps.

For one terrifying moment Kurt doesn’t move, lips pressed to Blaine’s stiffly, shocked. But just as Blaine is about to pull back and run far, far away; he grips Blaine’s shirt, yanks him forward, and kisses back.

The cup of pens and the invoice and what sounded like something made of metal and glass clatter to the floor as Blaine moves between Kurt’s legs, presses him down across the surface of the desk. Kurt’s mouth opens against his, tongue slipping in as Blaine responds with a gasp. He has no idea what he’s doing, he’s never done this with anyone, let alone a boy. But he wants to taste Kurt everywhere. He moves his mouth along Kurt’s neck, licks at the curve of bone below, sucks a mark into the skin.

Kurt clamps his legs around Blaine’s waist, pulls him down farther, and Blaine can feel the insistent press of him hard against his stomach. He’s dizzy and breathless, and pulls away to rest his head against Kurt’s shoulder.

“Kurt, I- I’ve never-”

“Me, either. Just. Can I?” Kurt wriggles a hand between them, tugs gently at the top button on Blaine’s pants. Blaine lifts up, braces himself on either side of Kurt’s head and nods.

Then Kurt’s hand is inside his briefs, wrapped around his cock and stroking gently, then twisting tighter, harder. Blaine’s hips twitch and jerk, thrusting into the circle of Kurt’s fingers.

“You feel so good, Blaine,” Kurt grits out. Blaine wants to reply. Wants to touch Kurt, to kiss him and tell him that he’s never felt so good, so right in his entire life; but everything is building so quickly. Kurt’s hand on him, how gorgeous he looks flushed and panting beneath him. How thrilling the whole thing is. It’s ecstasy; it’s a fire burning white hot through his veins, consuming him. Then he’s coming, groaning long and loud, ears ringing and arms giving out as he collapses on top of Kurt.

“Blaine, Blaine, Blaine,” Kurt chants, writhing against him. Blaine is too pleasure-drunk to do anything but kiss wherever he can reach; Kurt’s cheek, his temple, the jutting hinge of his jaw.

He finally manages to lift one arm, pressing his palm against Kurt’s length, can only vaguely reconcile the fact that he’s actually touching another boy and it’s amazing, rubbing up and down only a few times before Kurt cries out, arches, then slumps boneless across the desk.

They catch their breath, Blaine shyly taking an offered rag and removing his soiled shirt, down to only his undershirt, before tucking himself in and buttoning his pants. 

“I think you’re supposed to give me your letterman jacket now,” Kurt quips, fixing his hair back into swooping perfection. 

“Don’t have one,” Blaine replies. He looks up to see Kurt smiling widely, feels his own answering grin stretch across his face.

“Hmm. Share a malt? Sock hop?” Kurt slides off the desk, snagging a pair of oil stained coveralls from a hook on the back wall and shimmying out of his pants. Blaine looks away to give him privacy, but not before catching a glimpse of him bare-assed and bent at the waist.

“Anything you want,” Blaine answers, and means it.

“Oh, I like the sound of that.” Kurt zips up the coveralls, slinks back over. “I want to see you again,” he says more seriously, toying with the hem of Blaine’s T-shirt.

“I’d like that.” He wants to do nothing but see Kurt again, every day, for the rest of his life.

“Good. Come by tonight, I’ll be working on the hot rod, you can help. I’d like to see just how good you are with your hands.”

Kurt winks, then opens the door, a blast of a bluesy guitar riff wailing through the air. Puck gives him a knowing look as he hands over the keys, even though Blaine thought he was nailing the whole nonchalant facade. Though grinning like an idiot was probably a dead giveaway.

“I’ll see you tonight?” Blaine asks, opening the car door and leaning against the side.

“It’s a date,” Kurt says, running a hand down Blaine’s bare arm before humming and darting away to retrieve his leather jacket. He slips it over Blaine’s shoulders, helps him shrug it on before breathing, “Perfect.”

When Blaine pulls out of the driveway he punches the gas pedal, tires squealing and engine roaring. He feels free and reckless and brave, not even caring that his father will meticulously check the fuel gauge and find out that Blaine had been speeding. 

Blaine knows he’s been changed. That the future will look different for him from now on, now that he’s jumped, now that he’s flying. But for the the first time in a long time, he’s really looking forward to finding out what comes next.

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