Knowing

A little ditty set after “All or Nothing.” PG. 

It’s after 11:00 when he finally makes it home, so he’s surprised to see his dad still up, watching the news; he usually gets the baseball scores from the early morning show. 

“Hey. Can’t sleep?”

“Waiting up for you, actually,” Burt says, muting the television.

Kurt plops down on the couch, lets his body relax for the first time that day. He sighs, hugs a pillow to his chest and says, “Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury got married today.”

“How’d that happen?”

“I don’t know. She’s got this anxiety thing, and maybe the big wedding was too much for her?”

“Makes sense, I guess. How’d Blaine do? I wish I could have been there,” Burt replies.

How did Blaine do? Amazing. Fantastic. He lit up the stage. “He was his usual rock star self. They won.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“I am. Of course I am.”

“Listen, kid—”

“Dad, just. I know, okay? I know.”

Burt leans forward, a small smile on his face. “Yeah? What do you know?”

“I know I’m kidding myself. I know that no matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to change how I feel. I know… I know I still love him.”

“Okay, then.”

Burt turns off the TV and stands up. He pats Kurt on the shoulder.

“That’s it?” Kurt asks. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“Pretty much. What else is there to say? It’s when we don’t know that we make stupid choices, when we’re unsure of their heart, and our own.”

Kurt sucks in a breath, sits up straight and turns to look Burt. “Dad, that’s—do you think that’s why he did it?”

“Yeah, well. You’d have to ask him. I’m gonna take my pill and head up. Don’t stay up too late,” Burt says, making his way for the kitchen.

Kurt stares at the ceiling, the floor, the tacky crocheted doily under a pile of magazines. It’s only a minute before he’s standing at the kitchen counter, hands in his pockets so he won’t twist them into knots.

“Does Blaine—does he know? Now?”

Burt swallows his pill, sets his glass down next to the sink. “Yeah, he knows.”

“For sure, this time? He knows for sure?”

“For sure, kid. He knows forever.”

It Ain't Easy Being Green

POV Blaine’s green workout shorts. A follow-up to the ficlet Riah dared me to write on election night, POV Kurt’s Tightest Pants. NC-17, around 900 words. Thank you to Mimsy for looking it over, and pushing me to post it.

Please don’t judge me. Seriously. This is some crazy shit.

It ain’t easy being green. One minute you’re rescued from a store in NoHo by a gorgeous model with a melodic voice, and then next thing you know you’re stuffed into a box and shipped all the way to Nowheresville, Ohio.

Figures. Two glorious days of being fondled by soft, strong, manicured hands—I knew it was too good to be true. I can still feel his index finger running along my back seam. Back and forth, back and forth, so slowly I ended up in a trance. The sound of his breath quickening until he was almost panting snapped me out of it, but damn, that was sexy as hell.

With all of the attention he lavished on me—trying me on and posing in front of the full-length mirror, letting me sleep under his pillow, spreading me flat on his bed as he mumbled something about “Blaine’s hot-as-fuck ass”—I thought for sure he’d keep me until next year’s line, but no.

If only I was a nice soft coral color, or even basic black (those bitches get so much tail, and they never even have to try). But green? Ugh. I’m so off-season it’s not even funny. I guess I should consider myself lucky to even make it off the rack.

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Lay Me Down

A post-reunion Klaine ficlet inspired by the song “The Art of Forgiveness” by Maria Mena, prompted by sociolab. Thank you to Mimsy for giving it a quick read.

Light R, around 1,300 words, mentions of infidelity. 

On the sixth day, Blaine stops waiting for things to fall into place and asks.

“Kurt? Why aren’t we having sex?”

They’re on Kurt’s bed—their bed—enjoying a roommate-free afternoon with nothing on the agenda. No boxes to unpack, no friends to meet up with, no forms to fill out. Blaine is wrapped tightly around Kurt, like he knows that any hint of tension will have Kurt moving away, standing up, stepping back.

Kurt can’t find the words, so Blaine continues.

“I know we’ve talked this to death, and I know you say you’ve forgiven me, that you love me, and you want me, but Kurt—you won’t even let me get your shirt off.”

Kurt whispers, “I know.” He tugs on Blaine’s arms, trying to get even a few inches of distance between them, but Blaine won’t budge.

“So tell me.”

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Yours, Long Past Summer's Reign

A not-to-distant future!Klaine ficlet. PG. Around 1,300 words. 

Thanks to Knits and Lex for looking it over. I’m trying to get my mojo back, and everyone in my corner—friends, and followers, and readers—has been so helpful. 

It was the ridiculous bouquet from Finn that finally tipped him off.  

Ever since the day after their summer reunion, Kurt had seemed averse to receiving flowers. Blaine had shown up at the Hummel’s door at 8:18am, roses in one hand and a Lima Bean coffee carrier in the other, just five hours after he’d kissed Kurt’s naked shoulder and slipped out of his bed. Kurt had taken one look at the giant bundle Blaine had created from four grocery store bouquets—three red, one yellow—frowned, and said, “Blaine, you shouldn’t have.”

At the time, Blaine assumed it was just the thing to say, like the clean, stylish girls in one of Carole’s favorite old movies who always said, “You shouldn’t have” after receiving a token of love from Rock Hudson, or Cary Grant, or Jimmy Stewart.

Three bouquets of roses later, all of which mysteriously disappeared, Blaine figured he really shouldn’t have.

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Of Ice Removal and Winter Trees

The morning Kurt lets go of a few things he doesn’t need anymore. Though Adam is present, this ficlet is all about Klaine. Inspired by the 30 seconds of local NY news my son let me watch today.

1,000 words, PG-13

Warnings: I seem to have a thing for wise OCs counseling our boys through heavy-handed metaphor. I will probably always have this thing, so proceed with caution. ;)

The last thing Kurt wants to do at 7am on a Monday morning is stand in a crowd of crazed tourists waiting for Al Roker to come out and tell them it will be another cold spring day on the East Coast.

He’d agreed to meet Adam and his sister Lara for an early breakfast before class, but when breakfast turned into hanging out with the sign-toting frenzy of newlyweds, and Jersey moms, and screaming kids on break, he’d begged off and made his way to the ice rink at Rockefeller Center to wait them out. Lara is sweet, like Adam, and she’s only in town until Tuesday night, but the sad fact is they’re just not fascinating enough to stomach the crowds at The Today Show.

He looks out over the rink, watching as a crew chips away at the ice. It seems like forever since he’d taken Blaine and his Dad to see the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, their hands warmed by decadent hot chocolate from Maison du Chocolat.

He sighs, scrolling back through the photos on his phone, past silly antics with Santana and Rachel and dozens of images documenting his budding relationship with Adam—the snowman they built on top of Adam’s building, Adam stuffing his face with madeleines at Bouchon Bakery, Kurt in a blue apron, covered in flour, the two of them smiling for a stranger who agreed to take their picture on the Promenade—until he finds the picture he most wants to see.

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4.14 episode reaction ficlet: The morning after the double-feature, Kurt packs and Burt talks. 

“Blaine’s downstairs,” Burt says, leaning against the doorjamb. 

“Thanks,” Kurt replies. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, picking his way through a box of hats. “I just have to… I left this knit hat behind when I moved, and I can’t find it.”

Burt glances at the open suitcase on the bed, the stack of laundry on the chair. “Thought you’d be ready by now.” 

“Yeah, well, I will be shortly.”

“You usually have your bags packed hours before you have to leave,” Burt presses. “Something up?”

“No.”

“You came in pretty late last night.”

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Short Straw

A 4.14 episode reaction fic, in which the New Directions argue about who is going to go tell Kurt and Blaine it’s time to stop making out and get out of the car.

1100+ words (R)

Thanks to Mimsy for the quick read-through.

———

“Come on. You know the drill,” Artie says waving everyone over.

“Let’s do Rock Paper Scissors Zombie!”

“Sam, no. It’s stupid. Zombies always win, and you always say ‘zombie,’ which means you always get out of it,” Tina replies.

“Did anyone grab straws?” Arties asked. He’s beyond annoyed: They have exactly 12 minutes until Mr. Schue shows up—barely enough time to break it up, let alone make them presentable again. No matter what, he is not giving up his last package of Shout pocket wipes for those assholes. Or his pants. Never. Again.

“I have some in my bra,” Brittany announces, one hand already down the front of her dress.

Rachel gasps. “In your—Brittany, what are you—?”

“Who cares what she’s got down there, or why? Everyone just grab a straw and let’s get this over with,” Mercedes grumbles. She knows she’s probably going to get the short straw. She almost always gets the short straw. She’d rather try her luck at Show Choir Trivia than pick a G.D. straw. Even when she practices at home, she seems to find the shorty on the very first try.

Artie snips the straws with the tiny scissors on his key chain, wraps a napkin around the base, and presents the cut pieces like a bouquet.

When Puck reaches for a straw, Rachel slaps his hand away. “You are on lifetime suspension.”

“Bullshit,” he argues.

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Oh What Fun It Is to Ride

Fill for Klaineadvent Prompt: Wall

Blaine’s back hits the wall again again again, each time punctuated by the sound of bells, bells, an entire symphony of bells.

He slams his hips down, still amazed that Kurt can hold him up, take the pressure of Blaine’s weight pushing down on him, hips rocking like a fucking porn star.

“You made… ah, ah, theretherethere… a Christmas wreath out of… yes fuck yes yes…”

Kurt grunts, unable to speak. He pushes in harder, then picks up the pace until Blaine is clinging to his shoulders with sweat-slick hands.

It’s the last thrust that does it. Kurt moans into Blaine’s neck just as the wreath falls off the wall, landing on top of their discarded clothes with a melodic rattle that is sure to wake up their entire floor.

Blaine laughs.

“What?” Kurt asks, stilling inside him.

“You made a wreath out of jingle bells.”

“You think it’s silly?” Kurt asks.

“No, it’s beautiful. Very festive,” Blaine says as he kisses Kurt’s shoulder. “Maybe we should hang it on a different wall, though, since we never seem to…”

“Yes. Yes, okay.” Kurt burrows into Blaine’s neck as he starts up again, fucking him slow until he gets him there again.

POV- Kurt's Tightest Pair of Pants

I hate New York. Ever since we moved here, I’ve been stuck in a wardrobe. It’s dark in here, and every time Kurt opens the doors he pulls out a different pair of pants. It’s never me. Even when his elegant fingers fondle my hems, twist around the button fly and press hard like he’s trying to mark himself with memory, he always leaves me behind.

I used to get so much action. I was his top pick for date night, his hands reaching for me straight away while he labored over his shirt, his boots, his belt, his hair. I was always a sure thing. 

I was a sure thing because the boyfriend LOVES me. I can still feel his strong hands as he gripped Kurt’s hips, thumbs pressing in, fingers slipping below the waistband. The boyfriend has a great ass, but he worshipped Kurt’s. He’d grab it, slap it, grip it with both hands as he held Kurt up against a wall, my stitching straining as Kurt wrapped his legs around the boyfriend’s waist. 

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