just because a television show doesn’t actively address a specific issue doesn’t mean they’re actively avoiding it either. you know what happens when you try to stuff every possible social debate under the sun into one show?
Kurt lifts his head from Blaine’s shoulder, brows raised in mild surprise. “I love you, too.” He smiles, a warm fluttery sensation spreading in his chest. “Is there a particular reason you just said that?”
Because Blaine really needs a ring, too. PG-13, 1199 words.
Kurt pulled out his phone and triple-checked that Blaine hadn’t sent him an “I’m gonna be early!” text in the past fifteen seconds, unlocking the screen with one hand as he stirred the gravy on the stovetop with the other. The potatoes were already boiled and mashed and the roast was in the oven, so he was doing well for time, but he didn’t want Blaine to surprise him before he could put the finishing touches on everything.
The night had to be perfect.
Finally, the gravy was cooked to perfection, so Kurt put a lid on it and turned the heat down. He ran off to their bedroom, stripping out of his chore-appropriate clothing at light speed and putting on his carefully planned dinner outfit – a close-fitting peach button-down with little threads of gold that glinted in the light, dark wheat-colored pants that hugged his ass to perfection, and a bow tie with tiny lightning bolts. Checking his back pocket to make sure there were no tell-tale lines, he hustled back out to the kitchen to make sure nothing had caught on fire in the scant amount of time he’d been gone.
“Breathe, Kurt,” he said quietly after making sure the food was okay. “It’s gonna be fine. You already know how this will turn out, for God’s sake.”
“I’m just an Ingrid super-fan that she let on stage! I used to wait outside for hours to see Ingrid. And now I’m on stage with her. How fucking weird is that? Do you wanna make pretty sounds?”—Darren Criss [x] (via jenndesq)
dude, being addicted to fanfiction is so weird. you stay in front of your computer for hours a day reading different versions of those same characters falling in love and fucking again, again, again and again. and yet, we’re looking for more, creating more, making fanarts because, apparently, nothing in the world is more fulfilling than fictional love, the love we cannot have. that’s either inspiring or unsettling. or both.
"Hey, are you playing too?" Blaine asks, nudging Kurt’s hip, and Kurt finds himself nodding even though he finds the idea of the game silly - something popular and risqué that kids love to play because of the smallest chance of finding their soulmates.
But it’s so hard to say no to Blaine. He’s only been at McKinley for three months but he’s already one of Kurt’s closest friends, and it didn’t take him long to figure out that Kurt’s completely weak when it comes to Blaine’s big, earnest eyes and his bright smile, the way his face lights up when he sees Kurt.
They’re teased, sometimes, for how close they are, but Kurt’s not about to let some neanderthal bullies ruin how important Blaine’s friendship is to him.
And besides, Kurt’s never thought about boys that way. Not really. Not until Blaine, anyway, but he reassures himself that it’s totally normal teenage curiosity to imagine how soft Blaine’s lips would feel on his own.
Huge, HUGE thanks to nineofhearts4 for being my beta and my friend. <3
“Wine? Check. Popcorn? Check. A slice of the most amazing cheesecake from the most amazing bakery in the neighbourhood? Check. And of course, a TiVo full of Pr- oh my god!”
A thud on his balcony startled Kurt enough that he threw his tray of food to the floor. After briefly lamenting the cheesecake, he remembered why he was freaked out in the first place and grabbed his bottle of wine for protection as he went to inspect the noise.
He felt a little ridiculous creeping over to the balcony and holding the wine bottle like it was a bat, but his dedication to TV crime dramas had taught him a thing or two about the dangers of living alone in New York City. It could be a murderer, or a drug lord, or the leader of the Russian mafia, or…“A… shoe?” Kurt gingerly stepped out onto the balcony and picked it up. It was a really nice shoe. No blood or scuffs or signs of struggle.
During his inspection, something hit him on the shoulder and clattered to the ground. “What the hell?” Kurt realized it was the other shoe and gasped. “I’ve had this dream before.”
“Oh thank god. Hello? Is there somebody down there?”