A missing New Directions sleepover that took place the night before Nationals (a la Season 3).
Written for the lovely kurtsies, who prompted: “blaine sitting all snuggled up between kurt’s legs and falling asleep with his face tucked into kurt’s neck in front of like, all of new directions. and. and. and. cute. yes. *o*”
Upon reflection, Mr. Schuester probably should have realized that corralling sixteen teenagers into four hotel rooms was a recipe for disaster.
Anonymous prompted: AU where Kurt and Blaine live in the same apartment building and meet when Kurt accidentally gets some of Blaine’s mail. :)
Blaine is almost finished dressing, the material of his striped bow tie draped over his shoulders when he answers the insistent knocking at his apartment door.
It’s not the sweet old woman down the hall looking for her cat again, though, like Blaine expects it to be. It’s a ridiculously stunning guy who looks like he’s just walked off a runway, and Blaine only belatedly thinks to say, “Hi.”
"Hi! I’m your neighbor from down the hall, Kurt Hummel." He holds out his hand, and Blaine reaches for it, still struck by how gorgeous this guy is, his voice soft and high and his smile bright, a little mischievous. "You’re Blaine, right?"
"Um," Blaine says, his brain drawing a blank. Oh god, he is Blaine, right? “Of- of course.”
Kurt bites at his lip, still grinning. “You don’t seem too sure about that.”
Blaine huffs out a nervous laugh, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck when he feels himself flush. “Sorry, you kind of caught me off-guard. Would you like to come in?”
Characters: Kurt/Blaine, with a side order of Elliott and Santana
Summary: Two OSU boys, one last night before they leave for their second stage in college—NYC. Add one squad leader that has been on the edge of Kurt’s fantasies for two seasons.
On the field, he’s Starchild. Off the field, he’s simply Elliott.
On the dance floor? He’s a player in what might become the hottest night of Kurt and Blaine’s life.
Author’s Notes: This started as a reaction fic to 516? 5xx whatever that ended with Pumpin’ Blood. (Bad fan, I know.) And it stalled bc some other writing things popped up. You know, book things. So, there’s a little of that epi in here.
You do NOT need to have read Hold the Line to enjoy this. Quick summary? Kurt, Blaine—star trumpet players in high school. When we meet them here, they’ve been at Ohio State University and marching with their band for two years.
Thanks to buckeyegrrl for the quick read-through, as always.
"Go on. You know you want to." Blaine takes a step closer to Kurt and walks his fingers around his waist to pull him back even tighter. "You’ve been watching him all night."
The heat is sharp in the middle of the dance floor, strobe and multi-colored lights flashing off of Kurt’s faces, illuminating his clothes with a confetti of colors. Hot, beautiful bodies writhe around them, touch them. The beat of the driving bass gives rhythm as Blaine grinds his crotch to Kurt’s ass.
"I have—" Kurt’s breath stutters as Blaine swirls his hips in even closer. "I have not."
"You have. It’s hot." Blaine runs his tongue along the shell of Kurt’s ear and whispers, "He’s hot,” and slips his thumb into Kurt’s waistband, his hips not losing a beat against Kurt’s ass. “You’ve been curious since the day you met him.”
sassyblaien prompted: klaine at the grocery store and kurt is checking the fullness of a fruit he wants to buy and thinking about how a rather squishy one reminds him of blaine’s butt
It isn’t until he picks up the fourth or fifth avocado that Kurt realizes what he’s doing.
Or rather, he has both hands cupping and gently squeezing two particularly round avocados, testing for a little give but making sure they’re still firm enough that they’ll last a few days before going overripe, when Blaine leans in next to him and says, “Geez, get a room.”
Kurt startles, knocking into the avocado display and reaching out to steady a few of the fruits close to rolling off. He narrows his eyes in suspicion at Blaine’s delighted expression. “How long have you been standing there?”
"Long enough to see you groping and squeezing avocados in a way that’s weirdly similar to how you handle my butt," Blaine says, lowering his voice even though his grin just gets wider, more devious. "So how do they compare?"
Here’s a little ficlet that I wrote for the Interlude Press One Story Fic Project. It takes place in the same universe as my story Somewhere in the World, and will make more sense if you have read that first.
Many thanks to Emily for reading it over and being my perpetual cheerleader. :)
Blaine is on Cloud 9, Kurt plots various murders, and Olivier is not an actual demon
Blaine loves kids’ parties. When he was small, he would pester his parents for grander and more elaborate parties every year for his birthday. They usually caved. Cooper said it was because Blaine had more eyes than face, but he was just jealous that he’d never thought to have a cowboy themed costume rodeo roundup party until Blaine suggested it. And by then Cooper was sixteen and a little old for cowboys. But Blaine never really grew out of his party stage. He still secretly wished he could have a costume party or a bouncy castle on his birthday.
Luckily his husband had a nephew, since Blaine doubted he would ever have one of his own. Unless Cooper had some mystery children somewhere out there with killer smiles, jewel blue eyes and a penchant for dramatic pointing and winking at anything in a skirt. Blaine shudders at the very thought. But Kurt’s actual, non-pointing nephew is also a fan of birthdays and their parties. And Blaine has been enjoying this year’s in particular.
"Uncle Blaine, Uncle Blaine, come see this clown!" Olivier comes screaming from the other side of the park, face paint smeared to an indistinguishable mess of black and red and his hands full of animal shaped balloons. He stops abruptly at Blaine’s feet and waves a giraffe at him. "He can make anything. Auntie Snix asked him if he can make a lady place and he winked at her.”
Title: muscles better and nerves more
Word Count: 3000
Summary: A follow-up piece to this story, first published the day after The Break-Up aired.
It’s the summer, and they’re living together again. Bodies and hearts and relationships don’t heal in one long straight line - they heal in fits and starts, uneven and jagged.
Blaine is still here.
Author’s Note: This is inspired by a comment reminder that I had actually written that first piece way back then. I had always wanted to add Blaine’s piece to this story, it just took me a very long time to figure out what that was. Thanks to whisperyvoices for the reminder, and to istytehcrawk and stultiloquentia for wonderful (and rapid!) beta-reading.
An hour into the journey, Kurt had concluded that he must have had a spell of temporary insanity when he chose to take the bus all the way back to Ohio for the holidays. He could’ve flown, or taken the train, or had a band of eagles clutch him in their talons and carry him home. Anything would’ve been a better option than an entire day on a cramped, dirty bus, at the mercy of traffic congestion and idiots who decided that swerving out of control and crashing dramatically was worth the risk to check a text message.
He was cranky, admittedly. He had to lug his heavy bag on the subway to the Port Authority in the middle of the damn night to catch his godforsaken 11pm bus and he’d been running around all day long because he’d been putting off packing for a week. He couldn’t sleep now because his seat was uncomfortable, the ride was bumpy, and he was certain that the second he closed his eyes, someone would try to steal his backpack. He’d been landed with an aisle seat, so he didn’t even get to stare at the fascinating highway scenery, but at least it meant that he could twist around to stretch his legs out a little. The man in the window seat beside him had been snoring and drooling since the engine started, and Kurt didn’t particularly want to look at him.
Kurt, 11 years old, is off to Hogwarts. The first hurdle? Sorting.
my thoughts on which house Kurt belongs in - I won’t give away which one it is right now, though! Includes other characters and lots of Kurt/Blaine.
It wasn’t necessarily a surprise when Kurt received his Hogwarts letter; if it was a surprise at all, it was because he’s the first in his family to accept one, his mother having gone to Beauxbatons and his father being a Muggle with a fierce belief in non-magical solutions to things such as fixing cars. Kurt agrees with that principle in many cases, but magic is too alluring, too much a part of him to ignore even in the wake of his mom’s death three years ago - an accident, she had always enjoyed experimenting with enchantments but now Kurt wishes she had found some other hobby so she could have helped him during the trip to Diagon Alley (and so she could be his loving parent again).
Still, he has made it this far; he’s on the Hogwarts Express, whizzing away from the platform even as he watches the crowd of waving relatives fade into the distance.
"How do you accidentally do something like that?” ~5k
Blaine can tell by the grin on Sam’s mouth that he’s not going to like what comes out of it. It’s that strained smile that screams ‘awkward’ and, coupled with the way he had jumped up from the couch to his feet when Blaine entered the apartment, his whole demeanor radiates nothing but bad things. Instantly, the excuses for why Sam doesn’t have the money for his share of the rent (again) echo in Blaine’s mind, but he shoves those thoughts away before they make him queasy.
He sits his messenger bag in the armchair next to him, closes his eyes in plea as he says, “Please, Sam, if it’s bad news keep it to yourself, I’m too tired to-“
"Oh no no no, dude, nothing’s wrong."
Summary: One dish can change everything. Klaine meet-cute.
Word count: 2,000
Also on: AO3 | FF | S&C
A/N: Thanks to Brew and Mimsy for being my friends, but also for beta’ing this little ficlet. Also, thank you to everyone who has supported my writing, both in fandom and professionally over the last few years. I adore you all. This fic’s for you.
The air-conditioning hadn’t worked since Tuesday, and the temperature inside Hummel Antiques was stifling, to say the least. Kurt sat behind the counter on a rusty milk jug, fanning himself with the sleeve from an old Hank Williams LP, watching the seconds tick by on the German cuckoo clock that hung on the opposite wall. An oscillating fan buzzed noisily as it worked out his hairspray with each gusty pass.