For iconicklaine’s brilliant Vegas Wedding!Klaine prompts. I couldn’t resist.

Kurt and Blaine are strangers, both in town as guests for separate weddings. The night before the weddings they meet in a bar, get tanked and then get hitched. Shenanigans, love at first sight, all the sexytimes.

Blaine would have noticed him anyway, he’s sure. A guy that gorgeous and poised and put together despite it being nearly 2am in the bar of a chaotic Vegas casino would catch Blaine’s eye regardless.

The fact that he’s wearing a tight black tank top with Bride’s Bitches written in sparkly gold letters, sipping a strawberry daiquiri as big as his head with what appears to be a penis-shaped straw, and swiveling his hips to the unceasing tempo of the techno music pulsing around them only draws Blaine’s gaze a little stronger.

Like, he cannot tear his eyes away. Then the guy notices Blaine noticing him, smirks and does this enticing little shoulder shimmy in Blaine’s direction and-

“Blainey!” Cooper drapes his heavy, sweaty body over Blaine’s shoulders and yells slurred and stupid and right into Blaine’s ear, “Stripper time, woo!”

Blaine looks back to the dark corner where Cooper’s bachelor party is still going strong, even after dinner and drinking and playing blackjack and roulette and more drinking and a burlesque show and poker and more drinking. He closes his eyes against the pulsing strobe lights, pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

“Okay,” he says, shoving Cooper off of him, gently but insistently, Cooper drunk is like a giant limp octopus with no sense of personal space. “Let me get another drink, I’ll be right there.”

Cooper hugs hims so hard he lifts Blaine up off the ground and Blaine just barely suppress the urge to kick him in the shins.

He orders a double whiskey on the rocks, and a Long Island iced tea after that and suddenly he feels much more charitable towards Cooper and his never-ending bachelor party.

“Hey there,” a voice says in his ear, a high, lilting melodious voice that feels like it’s twisting hot through his veins.

Blaine looks up from the ice cubes melting in his glass, and it’s the same guy he was ogling before, only up close, with pink cheeks and glassy blue eyes. “Hey you,” Blaine replies, because he somehow feels like an old friend that Blaine has fortuitously run into here at The Mirage.

The guy’s hips tick tick tick as he slides even closer; he’s warm and his body is loose in a way that’s much more appealing than Cooper’s lingering pushiness. He lifts the hand not holding his daiquiri and hooks a finger into Blaine collar. “I like your cute bow tie.”

Blaine drops his gaze. “I like your shirt.”

There’s a tense moment then where they just stare at each other with heat and promise, too close and edging on something dangerous, and then the guy snorts.

“Classy, right? I had a matching feather boa earlier, shame you missed it.”

Blaine grins. “That is a shame.”

His finger strokes up, over the knot of Blaine’s throat and tucking beneath his chin. Blaine angles his head up and the guy dips his down and-

“Kurt! Come play guess the condom flavor!” A tiny brunette in a pink tank top with the same sparkly letters, but announcing: I’m the Bride, Bitch bounces over, paws at him and squeals and bounces away again.

“That for you? Kurt?” Blaine says, ignoring the pounding of his heart and the disappointment of losing Kurt so soon after he’d found him. They both look over to the bachelorette party Kurt is being called back to, where the bride-to-be is rolling a bright purple condom onto a cucumber.

Kurt looks back at Blaine with something like raw, naked terror in his eyes. “Please kill me.”

Blaine laughs. “I know exactly how you feel.”

Kurt swallows down the rest of his drink and tips the empty cup in Blaine’s direction, wobbling a little on the spot when he says, “This is the fifth wedding I’ve been in this year and each one is more cliched and uninspired than the last. I never thought I would say this but- I hate weddings.”

“God, I know! Let’s see… Dogs as ring bearers…” Blaine starts.

“The Chicken Dance and My Heart Will Go On,” Kurt cuts in.

“Smashing cake in each other’s faces-”

“Photo slideshows-”

“Mini quiches,” Blaine groans.

“The mini quiches can stay,” Kurt says with a sharp jab to Blaine’s chest, “But none of the others will be in my wedding.”

Blaine grins at Kurt’s beautiful face and his sharp hips and his arms. It’s the alcohol, he knows it, but it’s bringing everything into such sharp focus, everything makes so much sense.

“What if-” Blaine says, looking around like he’s letting Kurt in on some state secret, “What if you just, did the opposite of all those cliches? Skip the awful bachelor parties and the boring ceremony and the cheesy reception, the long engagement and all that planning and just-”

“Went for it?” Kurt says breathlessly. It’s like he’s in Blaine head. Amazing.

“Yes,” Blaine says and nods and nods, realizes he’s still nodding and stops. “Yes.”

“Let’s do it,” Kurt says with a thunk of his giant cup on the bar. He grabs Blaine’s hand and starts to lead him away, then freezes abruptly. “Wait! I don’t know your name!” He seems to find this absurdly hilarious, doubling over with breathless laughter. Blaine laughs too, it’s pretty infectious.

“Blaine,” he finally manages.

“Oooh, Blaine.” Kurt tugs him away again. “Blaine Bowtie.”

Blaine tries to tell him that isn’t actually his last name, but he gets distracted by the way Kurt is manhandling him around the casino floor, long fingers gripping Blaine’s like an anchor while the rest of Blaine feels effervescent with happiness.

They discuss getting married in front of a waterfall or volcano or by Elvis, but each of these is deemed too obvious so they hit the strip and wander around in the night that’s still so hot the air shimmers at the edge of Blaine’s vision like a dream sequence. Or maybe it was that third shot of tequila he did off of Kurt’s taut, muscled stomach at Treasure Island.

Either way, he’s aware of being stupidly drunk, holding Kurt’s hands and saying I do at the urging of an officiant that Blaine is at least ninety-five percent sure is actually Gene Simmons, in full KISS costume.

Then he wakes up with a headache, a mouth that feels like a swamp and someone’s bare chest slowly rising and falling underneath his cheek. He sits up with a start, covers his mouth to stop a panicked rise of nausea, and looks around. This is not his hotel bed. This is not his hotel room. This is not even his hotel. Where the hell is he? Who the hell is that?

Why the hell is he naked?

Blaine yanks the sheets up higher over his waist, and that’s when he notices the marriage license on the nightstand. He lifts the corner, sick with dread, spots his name and Kurt’s name and the complimentary photo of he and Kurt kissing sloppily under a metal archway with a neon sign on top that reads Rock At Your Own Risk.  Everything starts to come back in flashes. Oh no. No no no. Oh god no.

“Did I marry KISS last night?” Kurt groans from the bed, voice gruff and dry and his face covered against the bright morning sun with his bare arms. Blaine remembers those arms.

“No, you married me.”

Kurt uncovers his face and squints at Blaine. “Well, that’s slightly better.”

“Thanks?” Blaine says, trying to take it as a compliment. God, his head is killing him. “Um. Okay. Let’s be rational about this. We can probably get it annulled pretty easily.”

“Right yeah. No big deal.” Kurt nods against his pillow and rubs his eyes. He sits and starts to get up, then frowns. “Wait, did we consummate?”

Blaine blushes, looking down at his lap. “I actually don’t remember anything after saying I do.”

Kurt shakes his head. “Me either.” He reaches over and pinches the covers hiding Blaine lap and starts to lift them.

“Hey!” Blaine says, scooting away.

“I just thought it might trigger my memory!” Kurt defends.

Blaine huffs, “Alright let me see yours then.” Kurt glares. “Thought so,” Blaine says.

Kurt drops his head into his hands and groans. “Rachel is getting married today and not only am I not there right now, I totally upstaged her and married some random stranger, she’s gonna lose it. My dad is gonna lose it, I-” He stops and looks up in panic, face drained of color, jumps up from the bed and runs to the bathroom.

Blaine tries to not notice his perfect, perky butt as he runs away too much. He turns on the clock radio to give Kurt some privacy while he hugs the toilet.

“Hey Kurt,” he calls after the toilet flushes and the tap runs. “Can we go get coffee and some aspirin and then panic?”

A pause, more water running and then, “Sure.”

The Kurt across from him at the coffee shop is sweet and funny and smart, younger looking with his hair damp and falling across his forehead, tank top turned inside out to hide the glittered lettering. Both of them smell like the lavender scented shampoo and conditioner from the hotel they’d crashed at. Blaine is sure he looks like absolute hell. Kurt looks pretty damn adorable.

“So, annulment.” Blaine sips his coffee. “Any idea how long that would take?”

“I was just wondering the same thing,” he pushes his blueberry cream cheese danish towards Blaine to share. Blaine’s favorite, not that Kurt would know that. Since they don’t actually know each other. “I have to get to Rachel soon so-” Kurt says as Blaine blurts,

“My brother is probably looking for me so-”

“It can wait?” Kurt says with a shy little grin.

“It can wait,” Blaine says, takes a bite of danish and feels warm all over.

Cooper’s wedding goes off with the expected amount of drama, and the reception is fun and only occasionally awkward. He does have to field a few questions about when he’ll get married and despite his best efforts to remain calm, cool, and collected, he responds with the same squeaky, weird laugh every time. Then finally Blaine is free.

He and Kurt meet for drinks. Blaine orders a ginger ale.

“Make that two,” Kurt says, slipping into the seat across. He’s gorgeous, Blaine may have been smashed last night, but he was right about that.

“How was the wedding?” Blaine says, poking his straw into the glass so bubbles race to the surface.

Kurt rolls his eyes, “Over.”

“I know the feeling,” Blaine says, a sense familiarity hitting him. Memories of Kurt’s loose grin, his voice husky in Blaine’s ear, his steady hands, his warm touch, his- “Oh,” Blaine says, and looks down with a smile.

“Oh what? Did you remember something?”

Blaine bites his lip, nods, “Yeah we uh- We did.”

“Did wh-” Kurt says, then leans back in his chair. “Oh. Well, refresh my memory then, because it’s still mostly being haunted by a Gene Simmons impersonator.”

Blaine swallows. Takes a sip of ginger ale. “We um. In the elevator. And then. Up against the door?” he looks around and says quieter, “Your uh. Hand.”

“Huh, you’d think I’d remember that.” He crosses his arms over his chest and works his jaw, staring at Blaine’s face and shoulders and chest and back up to, “Your mouth,” he says, face brightening like the light bulb finally switched on.

“Yeah,” Blaine says and squirms in his seat.

“Hmm, that’s right,” Kurt smiles to himself, eyes going a little dark and out of focus, then shakes his head. “Of all things, a KISS-themed wedding chapel. What were we thinking?”

Blaine laughs, “I think we were being edgy?”

“Ah,” Kurt says with a grin. “Alright, edgy husband, let’s figure out how to be exes shall we?”

It takes six weeks, all told, to get the paperwork started and signed, to get lawyers and pay fees. They both live in New York, turns out, and through it all they talk and text and meet up for coffee and dinner and even a couple shows. It’s too bad really, that they didn’t just meet like this, become friends and maybe something more, because Kurt is amazing and they’re sort of perfect together.

Blaine gets a phone call from the lawyer that they have to appear before a judge, an unnecessary pain in the ass, a cross country flight Blaine can’t afford and time off he doesn’t have. But at least he’s there with Kurt, who cracks jokes and comments on everyone’s outfits and makes the time in court fly by.

“How about some strawberry daiquiris and Long Island iced teas to celebrate our divorce?” Kurt says in the parking lot of the court house.

“Sounds perfect,” Blaine says.

They drink and dance and touch and flirt and the last thing Blaine remembers before waking up is standing in front of an Elvis impersonator. He opens his eyes to Kurt’s naked body sprawled across his naked body in a strange hotel room.

“Oh no, not again,” Blaine groans. His head is throbbing, his mouth tastes like death, and this time there is physical evidence of their second marriage being consummated. What the hell is wrong with them?

But Kurt just pats his belly under the sheet, yawns and mumbles sleepily, “Hey, at least we went traditional this time. Now shhh. Go back to sleep, I wanna cuddle my husband.”

Blaine figures he’s been married long enough now to know when he should shut up and do what his husband says, so he closes his eyes and holds Kurt tight. Later. They’ll figure it out later. For now being in Kurt’s arms feels like exactly where he’s meant to be.