anonymous prompted: [gets down on my knees and begs] i need a 5.16 reaction fic where kurt and blaine watch porn and jerk off together and blaine comes on his stomach and kurt licks it off please oh please
Kurt can’t believe that they’re going to be doing this. He has no problem with watching porn, per se—thanks to his move to New York and then his and Blaine’s momentary separation he’s guilty of it, has watched enough to know his own likes and dislikes. And porn isn’t as bad as Kurt’s first few hesitant (and scarring) forays into it now that he knows where to look and what to avoid.
He shifts on Blaine’s bed, looks towards the door. They’d decided on Blaine’s place, because Sam and Mercedes are going to be gone all evening, and having an actual bedroom with an actual locking door seems prudent for their first time—god, watching porn together.
(928): Maybe we should try and tone it down a notch. The neighbors changed the name of their wifi network to “i can hear you having sex.”
“Oh, god, yeah, yeah—fuck, Kurt, right there—”
Kurt hoists Blaine’s legs higher, cants his hips up so the next slide of his cock goes deep and presses just right. Under him Blaine gasps, writhes, grabs at Kurt’s thigh and then at his own cock, working it fast just under the head. Kurt grunts, bites his lip and feels the skip of his heart in his chest as it begins to speed up.
“Fuck, oh fuck,” Blaine sobs, tipping his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. His jaw clenches, then relaxes, falling wide as he pants. His back arches, free hand twisting in the sheets; sweat gleams on his body, glittering as it catches the wan yellow light of their bedside lamp. Kurt thinks Blaine looks gorgeous, otherworldly, a plethora of other adjectives that Kurt’s lust-riddled brain can’t get across its wires. “Oh my god, oh my god.”
“You’re so stupid, you know that?”
Blaine’s voice sounds hollow to his ears as it echoes in the silent room. The heart monitor beeps, then, and Blaine looks over, stares at those little lines just to reassure himself that Kurt is alive, that he is okay—relatively speaking. That he isn’t reduced to another name in the paper, another sad story. At the thought Blaine’s stomach locks up, heart thudding painfully in his chest.
He takes Kurt’s hand, care of the IV. For a moment he stares at the blue-purple of the bruises on Kurt’s knuckles, how wrong they look against his perfect, pale skin. Blaine has never seen marks on Kurt of any kind unless he left them there, and these are so startlingly different from love bites and scratch marks that for a second Blaine almost loses it, can feel the huge, uncomfortable bubble of a sob clawing its way up his throat.
Mickey’s been scared before, practically runs on the feeling and isn’t sure how to function without it, figures he’d probably keel over or some shit from the lack of adrenaline-fueled motivation. But being scared of his dad’s fists and his open-ended, probable death threats, of what people will think when they know—which is jack shit, apparently, which Mickey still doesn’t understand—is nothing compared to this kind of fear that eats at his bones like a disease.
He stands in the doorway to his room, one hand on the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, and maybe it is; Mickey keeps swaying on his feet every time he tries to walk away, so he isn’t necessarily ruling it out.
when the two collide, it’s no coincidence—or a series of vignettes as Stella Anderson watches her son, Blaine Anderson, grow up.
Stella Anderson knows that her son Blaine is gay before he even starts kindergarten.
It begins with The Little Mermaid. Blaine is five and fully of lively, exhaustive energy, but when he sits down to watch this movie with Stella when he asks (which is at least once a week) he’s always quiet, rapt, leaning close towards the TV with his worn stuffed elephant clutched in his hand. He knows all the words to the songs, even tries to sing along, and though Blaine isn’t even in school yet Stella can see a budding performer there. He’s so different from Cooper, who is theatrically over-the-top; Blaine is subdued in ways that his brother will never be.
Stella watches Blaine fondly, itches to reach out and smooth back one of Blaine’s thick, errant dark curls but knows that he’ll squirm and swat her away and she’ll just laugh. Before Blaine she had never believed that you could love someone as much as you could love your own child.
They’re not even halfway to their bedroom when Kurt has Blaine’s shirt half-off; he’s chasing the familiar taste of Blaine’s lips with fervor, can still taste the faint acid burn of his vitriolic words from earlier on his own. It makes him clutch harder at Blaine, like he’s making sure he’s still real, and let out a gasping swear when Blaine ducks to his neck, bites down with a sharp pinch that he soothes with the slippery wetness of his tongue.
Kurt slides his hand between them, finds Blaine hot and straining already in his pants, and it makes arousal flash hot in his brain, fizzes and blackens his vision for half a second. Blaine whimpers against Kurt’s jaw when Kurt squeezes, rubbing over him firm and slow the way Blaine likes it; Blaine twitches against his palm and Kurt’s mouth waters as he imagines dropping to his knees, right here.
“Kurt.” Blaine gasps it, reverent and wrecked, and they pause, Blaine arching up onto his toes as he scrabbles at Kurt’s back, his hitched-up shirt that he crumples into his first as he reaches for more skin. They’re both lust-driven, animalistic, and Kurt loves every second of it.
anonymous prompted: omg i just thought of the cutest fic idea. there’s like a elderly couple who live on the same block or in the same building as the loft and one day blaine greets the old man and the old man’s like “nice outfit” and blaine realizes that he’s wearing practically the same thing as the old guy so that sparks his need for the “new york makeover” so he stops dressing like a 75 year old man
The Matneys across the hall are probably Kurt’s favorite people in Bushwick. Donald and Kim, ages seventy-two and seventy, respectfully, have been more than accommodating since Kurt and Rachel first moved in. Kim had helped them find reasonably-priced antique stores, secondhand shops, and places to eat; Donald, despite his age, has proved to still be rather apt at moving heavy furniture.
Kurt and Rachel practically owe their lives to them at this point. The Matneys never complain about the noise during rehearsals, and once a month they all (Santana included, now) try to get together for dinner. Kim makes a killer Coq au Vin that Kurt still hasn’t been able to get the recipe for (she says it’s an old family secret, but the way she winks has Kurt believing that he’ll get it someday).
anonymous prompted: You should write a fic about powerbottom!blaine being a /thing/
anonymous prompted: could u pretty please write blaine riding kurt based on the make out from this last ep?
“Blaine,” Kurt hisses, trying his best not to start laughing at the loud, unabashed groan that Blaine lets out, “be quiet.” He grips at Blaine’s hips, lifts himself up slightly off the bed as Blaine rocks down on his cock, head tossed back and hands flat on Kurt’s still-clothed chest. They’re both still mostly clothed, actually—their shirts are on, and Kurt’s pants are down to his ankles. Blaine’s are somewhere on the floor, lost and forgotten.
“Don’t care,” Blaine whines, swiveling his hips to grind, slow and languid, like their roommates aren’t thirty feet away in the kitchen with dinner almost on the table and only a flimsy, practically-transparent curtain separating them. “You feel so good.”
anonymous prompted: Can I prompt Klaine joining the mile high club? uwu I absolutely LOVE how you write them and I just got off a plane! <3
They’re somewhere over the North Atlantic when Blaine starts to get fidgety, shifting in his seat every few seconds and drumming his fingers on the shared console between him and Kurt.
Kurt looks up from his iPad, an eyebrow raised. “You okay?”
Blaine nods, drags his lower lip into his mouth. Kurt isn’t sold: Blaine has never been a nervous flyer before, so his inability to sit still and the stiffness of his body doesn’t make sense. He also keeps glancing down the aisle of the plane, like he’s looking or waiting for something.
anonymous prompted: Kurt and Blaine play the game Too hot, where they have to kiss without stopping and without touching, if one of them touches the other he loses. The winner gets to do whatever he wants to the loser aka Blaine could it be DS!Klaine please?
They start it because Kurt’s bored and a little keyed up and he can tell Blaine is, too—there are only so many issues of Vogue that they can go through together in an afternoon, and the way that the late afternoon sunlight is glowing on Blaine’s broad back and unfairly kissable neck isn’t doing anything to help. Not to mention that it’s been nearly four days since they’ve had the time—and the empty house—to fool around, and Kurt still is just a very weak teenage boy with an incredibly hot boyfriend.
Kurt had heard about it from Puck—which, god, should be enough to stop him before he starts—a few days ago, and the idea’s been rooted in his head ever since. He sits up, draws his lower lip between his teeth as he stares at the unwanted magazine in front of him. Shutting it, he drops it to the floor; Blaine looks up at the sudden noise, his eyes a little sleepy and startled.
“I have something I want to try,” Kurt says, trying not to let the little sliver of nervousness bouncing around in his stomach show.