old enough to know better and young enough to not even care.
queer romantic body positive sex positive pro choice liberal feminist asexual. general hate free zone. my ask is always open.
i'm pretty sure the internet is making me exponentially more stupid.
this blog is (occasionally, without warning) very NSFW.
I AM NOT SPOILER FREE. so there's that.
and i've damn well earned this one: i'm one of those obnoxious blaine stans that your mom warned your about. (i didn't realise demanding equal representation made me obnoxious. but i'm often wrong about these things.)
mostly, this is glee, and the objectification of darren criss and chris colfer. other things you will find: doctor who, buffy the vampire slayer, supernatural, star trek, star wars, and (mostly) queer politics.
All the Fading Melodies
Kurt/Blaine | T | set within 4x04 “The Break Up” | angst, melodrama | Title from Shelley’s poem, “Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats” | Kurt cannot stay in bed with Blaine. | ~600 words
Extra warning: This is not a happy one.
Oh, gosh. I thought all the emotion I had in my for post-TBU fic was all wrung out. This found a few extra spots.
You know how what we want is what we can’t have from canon, and that’s Kurt’s voice in the mess of that whole time?
This feels so close to that.
Incredibly sad. Indelibly affecting.
Previously: [ 1:artist ]
Your Voice Inside Me
Kurt/Blaine | G | a missing moment from 4x09 “Swan Song” | melancholy WAFF | title from the lyrics to Pat Benatar’s “We Belong” | After he gets home from Sectionals, Blaine calls Kurt. | ~1,500 words
Klaine Advent prompt #2 - Belong
Oh my goodness. You have to be reading these if you are not. The atmosphere MQ creates in her fic is absolutely startlingly glorious, and I drown in it every single time.
I’m so glad you’re doing this challenge prompt adventure thing. Do it at your own pace. Keep doing them into February if that’s what it takes. Because they are GLORIOUS, you have no idea.
Go. Read. Enjoy. DROWN.
Kurt couldn’t believe that Blaine had never been skiing. With the strong LL Bean vibe coming from his entire family, he had just assumed that Blaine must have learned as a toddler and could swoosh down the slopes with the best of them. Determined to right this wrong, he planned a day trip to a mountain in the Catskills for a bright, sunny day in January.
The boys sleepily boarded the bus from NYC early in the morning, and dozed the whole way out, Blaine’s head on Kurt’s shoulder as they listened to Blaine’s ipod, one earbud in each of their ears. Kurt was pleased with their outfits – despite not having their own ski clothes, they had managed to borrow some decent supplies from friends at school. He thought Blaine looked particularly cute in a dark red jacket and black pants, although the colors did remind him a bit of the Cheerios.
klaine advent day 8 - human
a heathen hymn
as a matter of fair warning, this was a sort of twilight crossover because the idea of taking those 'vampires' and shoving them into a slightly murkier world amused me. no one actually dies, but it equally does not really have a happy ending. oops?
Kurt’s drunk the first time he realises what Blaine is, which is only to be expected, really. Blaine’ eyes are black, red-rimmed, his skin too pale in the gathering darkness, and Kurt – inebriated and leaning against Blaine’ rock-hard shoulder – grumbles hazily that his skin is too fucking cold to bear. Blaine suppresses a smile and bundles Kurt into the passenger side of his car, drives too fast and sits too still. Kurt watches him and his bright blue eyes show a glimmer of the intelligence that lies behind them. “What are you?” he asks, and Blaine glances at him, looks long and hard and, knowing Kurt won’t remember come daylight anyway, says, “A force of darkness.” Kurt frowns and shakes his head, goes to speak except the alcohol and the speed of the vehicle build in his throat instead. Blaine looks at him sharply and pulls the car to the side of the road, pushes Kurt onto the sidewalk before he can make a mess of the shiny interior of his brand new convertible.
Kurt braces his hands against the cold bricks of a building, drops his head between his shoulders as he draws air deep into his lungs, tries to clear the taste of vomit from his tongue, spits and catches his lip between his teeth as his head begins to pound. When he finally looks up, Kurt’s eyes are clearer and his voice is steadier, far more certain, and he says, “I know what you are.” Blaine says nothing, doesn’t even look at him, and Kurt slides back into the car, the low bucket seats enveloping him. He stares at Blaine’ face in impassive silence for a moment and says, softly, “I know what you are.”
“You don’t know anything, Kurt, you’re just very drunk.”
Kurt isn’t so easily dissuaded, though. He studies the road as it races away beneath the car, frowns to himself and then he says, “No. No, I think I know you now. You’re not even hu-” Blaine’ admonition for him to stop talking doesn’t even come out as words. It’s just a low growl deep in his throat, and Kurt’s jaw clicks shut.
I AM SO LEGITIMATELY CHEATING WITH TODAY’S PROMPT AND SO I’M PROBABLY NOT GOING TO TAG IT FOR THE ROUND UP BECAUSE IT’S NOT EVEN FINISHED…
Maybe I’ll tack and ending onto it.
But I’m totally taking a fic I never finished in a previous fandom and adapting the damn thing to fit.
FALALALALLA LA LA LA LAAAAA MERRY CHRISTMAS
Series Title: New York Minutes
Summary: Written for Klaine Advent 2013. Loosely-connected pieces following Kurt and Blaine as they finally share college life in New York. The boys aren’t living together (not yet), but they’re loving and learning all the same.
Word Count: 386
Blaine rolls open the loft door late one afternoon, causing Kurt to look up from his spot at the table, where he’d been passing the time with cards. Blaine’s got a look of mischief about him—he’s got his hands curled around the door like he’s hiding something, and Kurt tilts his head, curious.
His fiancee actually wiggles his eyebrows, then enters the loft, taking a spot just to the side of the entryway. When Blaine sweeps his arm as if to welcome someone (or something) inside, Kurt’s first response is, Ooh, a surprise! and for some reason, puppy?
It’s no puppy.
It’s … it’s … it’s Sam, but it’s no absolutely not Sam.
What are words again? Kurt wonders, and he’s vaguely aware he’s gaping.
Because Sam has clearly been allowed to keep some of his runway things. His hair, which lately looks rather sloppy in Kurt’s opinion, is swept back off his face and up, and it’s just right and full of sheen, making his jaw seem more chiseled.
He’s wearing Moschino, and Kurt smiles to himself because he owns a piece or two, but this ensemble Sam is wearing is electric: lightning bolts are literally all over the slim-fit trousers, and the simple white shirt, black tie and excellently-tailored jacket are the perfect complement. The Sam from McKinley—the one who once wore gold lamé shorts—has nothing on this Sam, who’s stunning and glorious.
Kurt’s now smiling dopily at the other boy, who still seems to be carrying himself as if he’s on the runway—he’s stern and more … structured.
When Kurt finally glances over at Blaine he does a double-take, because Blaine is looking at his friend with pride, yes, but his fiancee is practically swooning. And seeing that is a gift, Kurt thinks—it’s another side of Blaine he doesn’t get to see, not from this vantage point.
And it’s suddenly a lot warmer in the loft.
Kurt finally finds words again. “Sam … show us your catwalk. You know, if you don’t mind?”
Sam’s about to speak, but suddenly Blaine loudly shushes him, so he closes his mouth and turns, and walks across the floor not at all like Sam, and Kurt and Blaine stand there listening to the swish of the trousers as lightning strikes each corner of the loft.
The Morning After
(700 words) This one is PG-13 I guess
“I may never feel human again,” Kurt groaned as he rolled over in the bed. On the pillow beside him where his fiancé’s head should be were two feet—one bare and one in a red and green argyle sock. “Blaine, why are you in the bed upside down?”
“To be honest,” Blaine said as he flipped the comforter from over his face, “I don’t really remember how I got home much less in bed. How much champagne did we drink last night?”
“God only knows. Enough to make my head feel three feet thick, evidently. You know what they say, ‘Ain’t no party like a vogue dot com party.’”
“No one says that.”
“Ohhhh,” Kurt groaned again as he sat up on the edge of the bed. “Coffee. Must have coffee.”
“And something greasy. Definitely need some greasy food,” Blaine said as he slowly rolled over to watch Kurt rise from the bed. “Um, Kurt, why are you wearing red lace panties?”
“What the hell?” Kurt gasped as he looked down at the frilly underwear barely containing his morning erection. “Blaine?”
Blaine lifted the comforter and looked down at his crotch. “Well, I appear to have lost mine completely.”
‘How did I….where did these…quick, what do you remember from last night?”
“Let’s see. We arrived at the party. We ate some hors d’oeuvres. Drank some champagne. You introduced me to Anna. Then more champagne. I definitely danced with Isabelle.”
“Yes. Your tango was quite the hit.”
“Then you and Isabelle wanted to show me the Vogue Designer’s Closet. That’s where it starts getting fuzzy.”
Kurt walked over to his vanity and sat down in front of the mirror. Placing his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, he groaned again. “Yes. I had you try on that Tom Ford tux. Then you put me in that Gautier leather kilt.”
“Oh, yeah. That I remember well,” Blaine said with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Ow. Even my eyebrows hurt.”
“Concentrate, Blaine!” Kurt snapped.
“Ok. Isabelle wanted to try on the Givenchy gown.”
“Right. Right. And I told her she had on a pretty bra.”
“And she said if you liked the bra you should see…”
“Oh, shit! Blaine!” Kurt’s head shot up in horror. Staring at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror he could see his lower lip trembling. “Am I wearing my boss’ panties?”
“Kurt, you’d never fit in her clothes. She’s tiny.”
“Then where did these things come from?” Kurt glanced down toward his crotch and noticed a stack of black and white images on the edge of the vanity. Picking up the top page, he saw his own face somewhat squished and captured mid laugh. “Did we Xerox my face?”
“What?” Blaine asked as he climbed out of the bed, scratched his naked rear and walked over to stand behind Kurt. Kurt flipped to the next page and found an image of Blaine’s face similarly squished and smiling. “It appears I did too. Are there more?”
“Well, here is Isabelle’s face,” Kurt said as he flipped to the next image. “And next we have…oh my god.”
“Kurt, that’s your ass!”
“How do you know it’s my ass?”
“I could pick that ass out of a police line-up. Oh look, another ass!”
“That hairy mongrel is definitely yours.”
“You realize the next page could be Isabelle’s ass. Think long and hard before you turn that page.”
“I have to. She saw me try on these panties, evidently! I need some blackmail of my own!”
Turning to the next page, Kurt found a note written in a familiar script.
Thank you and Blaine for making this year’s Christmas party the most fun I’ve ever had at one of these things. The limo I am sending you home in is an extra Christmas gift from me! Since we missed the official party pictures while in the Designer’s Closet, I thought you could use some souvenirs! Call me after you sober up so we can discuss what is and isn’t an appropriate use of office equipment. ; ) Also, remember that any clothing removed from the Vogue closets for personal use should be thoroughly cleaned before return. See, I told you no man could resist something red and lacy. Call me tonight! I want all the horny details!