juscallmelee prompted: I can’t remember if you wrote this before but could you please write something with the height and size difference between kurt and blaine when they are doing the dirty?
“You really get off on this, don’t you?” Blaine gasps, breathy, as Kurt grabs his thigh and hoists it up high around his waist.
Kurt kisses up Blaine’s neck, closing his eyes and dragging his tongue and tasting salt and soap. He grips tighter to Blaine’s denim-clad thigh, digs his nails in and feels the way the muscles tighten as Blaine pushes him closer. “What, you?”
Blaine chuckles, but it’s barely there, lost in a moan as his hands grip and hold at Kurt’s shoulders. He arches, head pushing against the door to the loft, and bites out, “No—uhn. Well, I hope so, but I meant—ah. Being able to hold me against the door like this.”
anonymous prompted: is there any way i could persuade you to write a fic in outside pov of kurt and blaine at a gay club in ny for whatever reason and they’re buzzed and fucking hot and oblivious to every single person that wants them in that club (and it’s a lot) because they’re so in love and focused on each other? i love your writing so so much and i’ve kind of always wanted to read something like this <3
Hunter Allen doesn’t usually frequent the NYC gay club scene, but somehow, surprisingly, a bitterly cold February night finds him at Malestrom nursing a beer and leaning against a railing that overlooks the floor. Even in his tightest jeans and nicest button-down (he’s here to drink, not to get laid—his boyfriend away for the weekend at his parents’ place is New Hampshire) he feels out of place, always the stupid country kid from southern Missouri even though he hasn’t stepped foot in that state for nearly five years now.
The dance floor below him is packed with gyrating bodies moving fluidly under the streaks of pink and purple from the lights overhead. The music is loud enough for Hunter to feel in his chest, shaking its way from the soles of his feet all the way up to his throat and heart like it’s a part of his blood now. Taking another drink, Hunter blinks and his eyes fall, almost as if pulled to, a couple that manages to stand out through the dense crowd.
anonymous prompted: ok so what if klaine meet when they’re in their mid-twenties in NY and they’re dating and as they’re learning about each other kurt is endeared amd confused about some of blaine’s habits like being really frugal and always giving his change to the homeless… and blaine eventually tells kurt that he was homeless when he was 18-20ish. hurt/comfort, current fluff with past blangst… guh. yes please.
(part of the alternate meeting ‘verse)
Love had come a lot later in life for Kurt Hummel than he would have liked—though when it finally did it was with such an amazing, perfect companion that Kurt thinks he doesn’t mind that he’d had to wait until he was twenty-six. After all, his high school goal had been to get married by thirty, and twenty-six gives him just enough time to meet it, or so the eternally optimistic romantic inside him says.
He’d met Blaine Anderson a few months ago at a bar, where he’d been avoiding his extremely drunk coworkers during an ill-advised karaoke night. He’d been hunched over the wide mouth of his martini glass, staring at the bright green appletini inside and wondering if he should’ve ordered something stronger, when the stool beside him had creaked as someone sat in it.
anonymous prompted: because awkward klaine is my favourite kind of klaine i would like to prompt: kurt and blaine are alone at kurt’s house and are in the middle of heated sex when burt and carole come home but the boys don’t notice until burt bursts through the door uwu (also i love you writing jeez give me your skills)
Kurt isn’t sure how much time they have, or if this was even a good idea, but trivial things like wondering how much longer they’re going to be alone don’t matter when Blaine sounds like that and pushes back like that, and god, looks like that, like every fantasy Kurt’s ever had (but won’t ever mention—at least not yet).
“Oh.” It slips out, breathy and high-pitched, and Kurt grips onto Blaine’s hips, spaces his knees a little wider on the bed. He thrusts shallowly back in, just for some friction, and Blaine moans, quiet, and arches up slightly.
“Yeah,” Blaine breathes, a little broken and deep. He pushes back again, their skin slapping together, and says, “God, Kurt, I—”
just a silly little fic of Kurt and Blaine kissing goodnight and Blaine doing the little foot-popping thing (^▽^)
Kurt stares up at Blaine’s house, his thumbs drumming on the steering wheel. The clock on his radio says 11:45, so they still have a few minutes before curfew, but Kurt doesn’t know what to do.
They’ve only been dating for a month or so (not like Kurt’s keeping track dutifully or anything), but Kurt is surprised at how unchanged their dynamic has been in that time. There are a few added bonuses—kissing and cuddling being one of them—but for the most part they’re still the close friends that they’ve been since that staircase.
Kurt looks over at Blaine sitting in the passenger seat, bites his lip and fidgets like he’s trying to fix his plum-colored button-up. He resolutely doesn’t say anything about how gorgeous Blaine’s profile looks in the moonlight, or how Kurt can still taste the sharp mint from Blaine’s ice cream if he licks his lips just right.
“Blaine?” Kurt asks, stepping into the loft and sliding the door shut with a clang. He unwraps his scarf, lets it dangle from his fingers as he tilts his head. It’s oddly silent, no noises or good-natured arguments, and for a moment Kurt wonders if Blaine left and went wherever everyone else is, but immediately Kurt nixes that idea. It’s their first Valentine’s Day together since Blaine moved in—there’s no way he’d just be gone, at least not without telling Kurt first.
Kurt’s just about to call out Blaine’s name again, in case he didn’t hear the first time, when he looks down and sees…”Rose petals?” he says, quizzically, noticing for the first time the object next to his boot. He sees them, now, a line of bloodred petals from the door of the loft to the half-closed door of the bathroom, and his lips twitching up, warmth blooming in his chest as he lets his scarf drop, then is coat after his fingers fumble with the buttons. Kurt follows the trail of petals, pushing the door open and saying, “Rose petals? Really?”
anonymous prompted: would you write something with bp!Blaine getting fucked in the ass while Kurt fingers his pussy? because you write the best bp!Blaine and it’d be soooo hot *___*
“Kurt.” Blaine’s voice is a plaintive whine, pitched high and stretched long. The muscles of his back shift under the afternoon light, glowing glistening gold through the sweat dotting his skin as he pushes back, dipping his chest low and his ass high. His fingers grip tight onto the sheets, and not for the first time does Kurt curse the excess gel in Blaine’s hair that makes it almost impossible to grab.
Kurt fucks back in with a grunt, closing his eyes and gripping onto the soft skin of Blaine’s hips instead. He’s close, has pretty much been this way since Blaine had dropped to his knees once they’d gotten to his room and pulled down Kurt’s pants, swallowing him down with an ease Kurt still isn’t sure how Blaine possesses.
alexwishington prompted: sleepy Kurt just nuzzling Blaine’s adorable little pooch and being cute and calling him a fiancé pillow uwuwuwuwuwu
“I never want to leave this bed ever again,” Kurt groans, sliding the curtain closed and collapsing on the bed just shy of Blaine’s feet. He buries his face in the comforter, groaning as every muscle, bone, and joint in his body seems to relax and settle, leaving him with a deep, constant ache. “I never want to go back to class ever again.” And he doesn’t, not with the way they’ve been running him ragged with finals and dance classes.
From the head of the bed Blaine lets out a sympathetic sound, a click of his tongue, and Kurt hears the faint thud of Blaine’s book shutting; then there’s a hand on the back of Kurt’s head, strong, sure fingers running through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Kurt groans again, shivering at the gooseflesh erupting over his skin. He wishes he had the energy to arch up, ask for more.
erotic exploration, adoration—after the engagement, Kurt and Blaine head back to Blaine’s house, where they rediscover their passion and love and talk about just what their forever together might mean.
the prose half of a very special fic/comic collab with the always-wonderful (and supremely talented) Gladys!
Blaine’s house is almost eerily silent compared to the life of the party back at Dalton; Kurt can hear their breaths, can hear the rush of his blood and the beat of his heart, the way it gets faster when Blaine’s hand touches here or his mouth goes there. This is the way that it has always been between them.
“Oh—” he gasps, hands fluttering up to Blaine’s hair when Blaine ghosts over Kurt’s collarbone with slick-smooth lips. Gooseflesh erupts in tiny prickles across the exposed expanse of Kurt’s skin. He’s acutely aware of how naked he is, how naked they both are: when Blaine leans down, kisses across Kurt’s chest, the hot-slick head of his heavy cock drags across Kurt’s abdomen, electric and exciting and so breathtakingly perfect.
sequel to this, aka the one where Blaine writes Kurt poetry.
By the time three o’clock rolls around Kurt is a nervous wreck. He wipes off tables that don’t need it, stacks and restacks cups for both iced coffees and regular ones. He glances at the clock every few minutes, his lips thinned, and a mass of apprehension, excitement, and nervousness twists over and over in his stomach. It would help if there were more people in right now to distract him, but it’s still an unusually slow day.
“I was gonna ask if you wanted to stay a little longer today,” Suzy says right at 2:59, “but I can tell you want to get out of here.” She raises an eyebrow and leans back against the counter, folding her arms across her chest. The appraising, calculating look in her eyes makes Kurt shrink back and pretend to adjust his nametag on his apron for the fifth time. “Where’s the fire?”