they're walking around in our place
katt | twenty-one | uk
i gave chris colfer llama shaped crisps and he asked if eating them was cannibalism
the sherlock to my john
the blaine to my sam
the aragorn to my arwen
the chris to my brian

Fic: Every Word, By Design

Summary: It’s menswear week on Project Runway and Blaine already hates it, until his model Kurt walks in, all pale skin and bright eyes.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,624

A/N: To cure my writers block and to fuel my current adoration for Project Runway, I wrote this. Title from Weightless by All Time Low.

Oh and links throughout for the outfits/bits of clothing mentioned, if you care to look.

- - -

Blaine hates this week. The moment the word “menswear” had left Tim’s mouth he’d groaned and slumped to the side, rolling his temple against Santana’s shoulder beside him. She shrugged him off, of course, and had her signature smirk on - the one that everyone’s afraid of because it means she’s got a damn good idea already that’s going to put everyone else to shame. Remembering that and glancing over at Santana’s fabric covered table, her pattern for her pants already cut from sheer black cotton and her shirt and blazer already made, he decides he despises this week.


He just can’t do menswear. It’s his biggest downfall and an embarrassment against the other talent in the room. Tina’s close behind, if not on level, with Santana’s pace and the consoling pat on the shoulder he gets from Sugar on the way past is no help at all because her suit looks gorgeous (black pants with a barely there pinstripe and the makings of a perfectly tailored white dress shirt). Blaine feels like a failure and huffs and grumbles at the swathes of fabric strewn over his table. He has the beginnings of something (he adores the black denim he chose for the pants and the jacket he plans to make looks good in his head) but, in the immortal words, he needs to make it work.


And he can do that, he thinks. Or hopes. He runs both hands over his face and feels a touch of a confidence boost when he sees Rachel having a minor fitting disaster in the corner, most of the cameras on her. He loves her and her designs are quirky yet brilliant, but today he needs someone else, anyone else, to fail. He turns back to his mannequin, his jeans already made and hanging from its form, and one corner of his mouth quirks up. They are fantastic jeans (skinny and button-flyed, a column of safety pins down the outside of each leg) and if his luck is in, the model he’s assigned will have the right shape for them.


His jacket needs a good frame too. He chose a tame light blue cotton that when formed into the clothing, he’ll embellish with six black buttons (three sets of two) down the front. It’ll be clean cut, causal yet elegant, and just imagining the end product makes him feel a little better. He has to get there first though, praying to all deities he can pull it off. He can make a ball gown with a click of his fingers and a cocktail dress from Hershey’s merchandise, but menswear seems like the biggest challenge of them all and as he smoothes out his blue fabric, fingers shaking less than they were five minutes ago, he thinks only of hard work, determination and the prize.


It helps a bit, but he’s still worried in the pit of his stomach, the tension lifting minutely with a smile when Tim comes in with the models. There’s a flurry of movement (and excitement on Blaine, Chandler and most of the girls behalves because jesus these men are lovely), a shuffling of cameramen and shouting of names from models and designers, each trying to find their respective person. Blaine hears his name in the bustle and throws his hand in the air with a “Blaine, here!” and whizzing around on his heels, only to stumble back into his table, a nervous laugh on his lips, praying the cameras haven’t caught it.


The model he’s been given is phenomenal. He didn’t expect much less than wonderful because whoever finds the models is exceptional at their job, but this man is beautiful beyond anything Blaine’s seen. He’s tall and lithe, pale skinned and blue-eyed and my god he must kill it on the runway. Blaine wonders what good karma brought him this man and then realizes he’s staring and saying nothing and he only has thirty minutes to fit his clothes.


"I, uh-" He clears his throat, starts again. "I’m Blaine."


The model smiles (sweet damn, his mouth is pretty) and says, “I know. I’m Kurt.”


"Hi," Blaine says, still staring, still gawping. He really should stop that because even Rachel’s noticed - he can see her smirking out of the corner of his eye. "Strip, please." He claps a hand over his mouth double quick and feels heat blooming in his cheeks and a camera on his face. "M’sorry," he says into his hand as Kurt laughs, his tiny (adorable) teeth peeking out.


"It’s fine. I’m under your orders anyway, so."


"I- yeah," Blaine concedes, rubbing at the back of his back of his neck and glancing around at his outfit - the jeans on the model, the jacket in various pieces on the workbench. "Can you actually undress though, please? I need to check the fit of the jeans and measure up the jacket against you." Good, Blaine. Back to work and professional is good.


Kurt simply nods before shucking off his jumper (which he’s bare and gloriously pale underneath) and popping open his jeans, slipping them down his legs with a little tugging at the bottom over his feet. Blaine fiddles with his work while Kurt goes, or at least pretends to, casting his eyes sideways more often than not where there’s so much gorgeous man on display. He hates how silly he’s being, fawning over a model who’s in this for the money and the promotion - he’s seen male models like this before (a perk of his industry), so he doesn’t see why now has to be different. So he chides himself, sucks in a deep breath of grounding air, and slips his jeans off the mannequin, handing them to Kurt.


"I was given your height when you were assigned and they’re fit to standard model size, maybe a little more snug." He eyes Kurt’s lean thighs and trim hips, manages not to linger too long on the curve of his ass in black boxer briefs (camera’s everywhere, Blaine). “They should be perfect for you actually.”


Kurt slips the jeans on with ease (they look painted on, so Blaine’s impressed with his skill) and does them up with no trouble. And Blaine was right - they’re perfect. Kurt’s legs look miles long - they did anyway, but not the point - and when he does a quick turn on the spot, Blaine thinks any sane human would zone in on Kurt’s ass because it’s got a beauty of it’s own, pert and high inside the denim.


"These are amazing!" Kurt grins, twisting his left leg on his toes, watching the safety pins glint. He looks up with wide, interested eyes. "What’s the jacket like?"


Blaine collects together the pieces of his jacket and grabs his sketch from across the table. He catches Santana’s eye before he settles back again and she winks and makes a crude gesture to which he rolls his eyes. He knows he’s in for a myriad of teasing later - she’ll never let him live this down: the biggest, most obvious crush of the series.


He looks back to his work, runs through the sketch and ideas with Kurt and giggles and blushes more than once at Kurt’s generous praise. He hopes now more than ever the cameras are elsewhere. A quick glance to the right tells him they are and he begins to hold sections of the jacket to Kurt’s torso, checking measurements and feeling ever better about his fate by the second. One half of his jacket is sewn already and he holds it for Kurt to put his arm through the sleeve and shrug it up over his shoulder, the blue a stark, lovely contrast to his skin. Blaine has to pointedly avoid staring at his nipples, though. It’s a challenge, but he succeeds and Kurt’s face is a distracting and happy as he takes off the half finished garment and claps excitedly.


"It’s going to be fabulous," Kurt beams and he dresses again, asks more questions about the outfit that Blaine happily answers, shy but glad his work is appreciated. He’s not ignored in this competition, per se – just not acknowledged as much as he’d like. He’s always felt like such a stereotype – gay and into fashion – and coming here was a breath of fresh air, a way to show he’s more than the norm, and he has been praised well by the judges, but to have someone gush over his designs so blatantly is a proud feeling (and Kurt is warm, smells good and god Blaine, try not to drool).


Kurt has to go all too soon though and Blaine doesn’t think too much on the pout Kurt gives and the disappointed huff. He needs to concentrate on his design, accentuate every curve of Kurt’s form and give his broad shoulders the definition they deserve – he can’t do that if he’s ogling and pondering the what if’s and could’ve beens, no matter how wonderful the images in his head are.


So he clears his throat, scratches at his temple and says, “I’ll uh, see you tomorrow then?”


“You will indeed,” Kurt grins, slinging his bag on his shoulder and straightening his clothes out.


Blaine offers him a smile as he goes and hopes the blush he can feel burning high on his cheeks isn’t obvious (but that’s unlikely under the lights and the scrutiny of the camera right next to him). Kurt returns it full force and joins the clamor of other models leaving the place, winking as he disappears out of the door and Blaine chokes on the sip of water he’d just taken, doubling over to avoid wetting his fabric.


Santana’s cackle follows him into the sewing room.

- - -

The Hershey’s dress is from Season four, designed by Rami Kashou.

Sequel this way wheeeeeeeee!

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