Innocent Bystanders (R)
Title: Innocent Bystanders
Rating: R, for language and brief mentions of sexing
Word Count: 1,430
Spoilers: HAHAHAAHAHA - no.
Summary: Blaine and Kurt have moved in together, and some very important friends have OPINIONS
Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the products in this story. Except for the ones that I do, and they all live in my bathroom.
Blaine and Kurt had been living together for about a week when, one day, some small voices were heard chattering in their bathroom. One could be easily forgiven for not noticing them at first, but once they were noticed, it became rather difficult to tune out the chatter that ranged in tone from croaking, to squeaking, to sloppy gurgling, and even some rather interesting accents. If one listened really carefully, they could even be understood.
“I say, I say,” piped up a very posh sounding voice. “There’s no need for all of this chaos! We’ve all got our thoughts and opinions on the situation, and we need to work together if we’re going to make any progress!” The chattering began to die down, and soon, a plastic bottle containing an orange fluid and bearing a label that read The Olive Branch was seen hopping about the crowded bathtub shelf, fighting to gain a bit of free space amongst the tangle of various bottles and tubs with similar black labels. Little by little, the other bottles and pots all shuffled around to give Olive some room. “Right, then. So we’ve all got a bit used to having much more room to spread out, and this melding of our homes has caused a bit of bother, but for the sake of all involved, we must learn to make this new arrangement work.”
“Absotivelllllllyyyy!” slurred a similar bottle, filled with a dark brown fluid and bearing a label that read Cynthia Sylvia Stout, as it fell off of the wire basket that hung from the showerhead and rolled about the bottom of the tub. “We sssshhud lissen to Olive. Olive always knows whu’s best!” The distinct sound of a hiccup echoed against the tub’s walls, and Olive was heard to give an exasperated sigh.
“Could someone please help her up? It really is most distracting, the way she tends to do that.” Olive sighed and strove to regain her composure. “It’s not as if she’s really got much cause to be so inebriated all the time. It’s not as if her job is quite as hard as all that.”
At this, Cynthia gave a drunken shriek and spun around a few times before slowly propping herself up against the corner of the tub. “Ah’ll have yew knooooow, Olive, that taking care of Blaine’seses hairs is a vury, vuuuurrrrrry thankless job!”
The medicine chest popped open, and a small black pot labeled Goth Juice flung itself out with far more dramatic flair than one would normally expect from a small pot made of plastic (even one whose label declared it to contain a substance made from the tears of Robert Smith), landing just to the edge of the bathroom sink. “You want thankless?” the little pot wailed, “I’d like to see you attempt to serve as his styling aid! Every day, I beg the ancient ones that he’ll leave me to my resting, but no! He simply must gouge his fingers into me and force obscene amounts of me into his hair until it resembles latex sheeting more than hair. I can’t take it any more. I’m the three-hundred, fifthy-seventh incarnation he’s owned, and it’s just too much. Robert simply can not continue crying hard enough to keep up with demand!” It seems odd to imagine, but if someone were to have stumbled in at that moment, they’d have sworn that Gothy was posing dramatically with the back of one hand pressed softly against his forehead. If he had hands. Or a forehead, for that matter. “I only just managed to end it all, and convince them I should be discontinued, since I would rather shuffle off this mortal coil and cease to be than continue to be manhandled in such a disgraceful fashion as this!”
“Sweet fucking hell, Gothy,” grunted a bottle of viscous brown liquid bearing a label reading Sonic Death Monkey and sounding more than a little bit like Henry Rollins "don’t be such a goddamn drama queen. We’ve all got it kind of rough. Do you think it’s easy getting Kurt clean after a day at his dad’s shop?”
“Oh, Monkey,” chided Olive, “I know perfectly well what Mister Kurt’s washing needs are, and he finds me more than capable under most circumstances.”
“Yeah,” Monkey growled, “key word being ‘most,’ but he needs me to deal with getting axel grease and motor oil out of his knuckles and arm hair after a day in his dad’s shop. You get the easy ‘oh, Kurt just woke up and needs to wake up’ duties - I get the ‘Kurt just spent the entire day rebuilding carburetors and/or fucking Blaine’ levels of funk.”
“Yeah, well at least you’re used after they fuck,” sniped a small, almost black block from inside a metal tin. “I appear to exist only to help facilitate shower sex.”
“Wow, Snappy, you have it so hard. You get to slip around all over and between them while they get it on. How incredibly sad,” deadpanned a block of pale yellow soap resting beside the sink. “That’s got to be a lot harder than being manhandled after they relieve themselves. The smells that stick to those boys’ hands…they’re just not holy.”
“You know, guys,” said Monkey “I’m not usually one to agree with people, but I think Honey’s got kind of a point. That does sound kind of gross."
“Thanks, guys. It’s kind of a thankless job, but someone’s got to do it, I guess,” sighed Honey as she dug herself a little deeper into her dish.
“It’s okay, Honey, you provide them such a great service, and I know it really helps to brighten their auras to have you in their lives. You have such a sweet, pure spirit, and I just think you’re so great,” cooed a dreamy voice from the soapdish in the shower as a number of the others groaned.
“Thanks, Karma,”Honey snarked. “Your input is always so, so very helpful.”
“I just want everyone to see how beautiful and wonderful they are, and really rejoice in what important support we are to these two lovely young men,” the translucent orange block of soap sighed happily. “I feel very blessed to have the honor of helping Blaine cleanse his spirit after a long day, and I think it’s sad that so many of you are unhappy.”
“Blaine uses you to get rid of his crotch funk, not bring himself closer to bliss, Karma. Seriously, it’s not that big a deal,” Monkey griped. “You’re not exactly helping him achieve Nirvana or anything.”
Kamra gave a tiny sniff and swung herself to the side. “So much negativity in this room. It’s so sad you’re all so determined to be so unhappy.”
“Not to be rude,” the pot labeled Prince asked from his place beside Gothy “but is she always like this?”
The sad little pot’s voice was full of woe. “She was worse when Grass was still around. Those two never stopped giggling and singing Kumbaya.” Gothy sighed. “It actually made me wish Kurt stayed over more, because even if Shiny sparkles more than those awful Twilight creatures that try to call themselves vampires, at least he felt my pain.”
“You’re just jealous that I make Kurt’s hair so shiny and fantastic, while you just make Blaine’s look like it’s been varnished,” huffed the sparkly puck resting beside Olive on the shelf.
“Whatever, Sparkle Motion.”
“I told you not to call me that!”
“SILENCE!” Shouted Olive, attempting to regain control over the situation. “This isn’t helping! The point of this meeting was to try and come to some sort of understanding as to how to conduct ourselves in this new space without stepping on anyone’s toes. We simply won’t accomplish anything if we continue to resort to cheap shots and petty complaints.”
Suddenly, a shuffling sound was heard in the hallway. "Shut it, guys," hissed Monkey under his breath. "Someone's coming!"
Kurt slipped through the door and placed a shiny purple gift set on the vanity's counter as he called over his shoulder. "Thanks, Mercedes. Blaine and I have been kind of a rut with our products, so it'll be fun to try this!" As he slipped the door shut behind him, the shiny purple bottles and tubes in the tiny metallic purple bathtub turned to face the room at large.
"Watch it, bitches," a slippery chorus of voices in perfect unison hissed from behind their purple labels, "there's a new sheriff in town."
Truck Driving Schools
Rating: R, for language and brief mentions of sexing
Word Count: 1,430
Spoilers: HAHAHAAHAHA - no.
Summary: Blaine and Kurt have moved in together, and some very important friends have OPINIONS
Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the products in this story. Except for the ones that I do, and they all live in my bathroom.
Blaine and Kurt had been living together for about a week when, one day, some small voices were heard chattering in their bathroom. One could be easily forgiven for not noticing them at first, but once they were noticed, it became rather difficult to tune out the chatter that ranged in tone from croaking, to squeaking, to sloppy gurgling, and even some rather interesting accents. If one listened really carefully, they could even be understood.
“I say, I say,” piped up a very posh sounding voice. “There’s no need for all of this chaos! We’ve all got our thoughts and opinions on the situation, and we need to work together if we’re going to make any progress!” The chattering began to die down, and soon, a plastic bottle containing an orange fluid and bearing a label that read The Olive Branch was seen hopping about the crowded bathtub shelf, fighting to gain a bit of free space amongst the tangle of various bottles and tubs with similar black labels. Little by little, the other bottles and pots all shuffled around to give Olive some room. “Right, then. So we’ve all got a bit used to having much more room to spread out, and this melding of our homes has caused a bit of bother, but for the sake of all involved, we must learn to make this new arrangement work.”
“Absotivelllllllyyyy!” slurred a similar bottle, filled with a dark brown fluid and bearing a label that read Cynthia Sylvia Stout, as it fell off of the wire basket that hung from the showerhead and rolled about the bottom of the tub. “We sssshhud lissen to Olive. Olive always knows whu’s best!” The distinct sound of a hiccup echoed against the tub’s walls, and Olive was heard to give an exasperated sigh.
“Could someone please help her up? It really is most distracting, the way she tends to do that.” Olive sighed and strove to regain her composure. “It’s not as if she’s really got much cause to be so inebriated all the time. It’s not as if her job is quite as hard as all that.”
At this, Cynthia gave a drunken shriek and spun around a few times before slowly propping herself up against the corner of the tub. “Ah’ll have yew knooooow, Olive, that taking care of Blaine’seses hairs is a vury, vuuuurrrrrry thankless job!”
The medicine chest popped open, and a small black pot labeled Goth Juice flung itself out with far more dramatic flair than one would normally expect from a small pot made of plastic (even one whose label declared it to contain a substance made from the tears of Robert Smith), landing just to the edge of the bathroom sink. “You want thankless?” the little pot wailed, “I’d like to see you attempt to serve as his styling aid! Every day, I beg the ancient ones that he’ll leave me to my resting, but no! He simply must gouge his fingers into me and force obscene amounts of me into his hair until it resembles latex sheeting more than hair. I can’t take it any more. I’m the three-hundred, fifthy-seventh incarnation he’s owned, and it’s just too much. Robert simply can not continue crying hard enough to keep up with demand!” It seems odd to imagine, but if someone were to have stumbled in at that moment, they’d have sworn that Gothy was posing dramatically with the back of one hand pressed softly against his forehead. If he had hands. Or a forehead, for that matter. “I only just managed to end it all, and convince them I should be discontinued, since I would rather shuffle off this mortal coil and cease to be than continue to be manhandled in such a disgraceful fashion as this!”
“Sweet fucking hell, Gothy,” grunted a bottle of viscous brown liquid bearing a label reading Sonic Death Monkey and sounding more than a little bit like Henry Rollins "don’t be such a goddamn drama queen. We’ve all got it kind of rough. Do you think it’s easy getting Kurt clean after a day at his dad’s shop?”
“Oh, Monkey,” chided Olive, “I know perfectly well what Mister Kurt’s washing needs are, and he finds me more than capable under most circumstances.”
“Yeah,” Monkey growled, “key word being ‘most,’ but he needs me to deal with getting axel grease and motor oil out of his knuckles and arm hair after a day in his dad’s shop. You get the easy ‘oh, Kurt just woke up and needs to wake up’ duties - I get the ‘Kurt just spent the entire day rebuilding carburetors and/or fucking Blaine’ levels of funk.”
“Yeah, well at least you’re used after they fuck,” sniped a small, almost black block from inside a metal tin. “I appear to exist only to help facilitate shower sex.”
“Wow, Snappy, you have it so hard. You get to slip around all over and between them while they get it on. How incredibly sad,” deadpanned a block of pale yellow soap resting beside the sink. “That’s got to be a lot harder than being manhandled after they relieve themselves. The smells that stick to those boys’ hands…they’re just not holy.”
“You know, guys,” said Monkey “I’m not usually one to agree with people, but I think Honey’s got kind of a point. That does sound kind of gross."
“Thanks, guys. It’s kind of a thankless job, but someone’s got to do it, I guess,” sighed Honey as she dug herself a little deeper into her dish.
“It’s okay, Honey, you provide them such a great service, and I know it really helps to brighten their auras to have you in their lives. You have such a sweet, pure spirit, and I just think you’re so great,” cooed a dreamy voice from the soapdish in the shower as a number of the others groaned.
“Thanks, Karma,”Honey snarked. “Your input is always so, so very helpful.”
“I just want everyone to see how beautiful and wonderful they are, and really rejoice in what important support we are to these two lovely young men,” the translucent orange block of soap sighed happily. “I feel very blessed to have the honor of helping Blaine cleanse his spirit after a long day, and I think it’s sad that so many of you are unhappy.”
“Blaine uses you to get rid of his crotch funk, not bring himself closer to bliss, Karma. Seriously, it’s not that big a deal,” Monkey griped. “You’re not exactly helping him achieve Nirvana or anything.”
Kamra gave a tiny sniff and swung herself to the side. “So much negativity in this room. It’s so sad you’re all so determined to be so unhappy.”
“Not to be rude,” the pot labeled Prince asked from his place beside Gothy “but is she always like this?”
The sad little pot’s voice was full of woe. “She was worse when Grass was still around. Those two never stopped giggling and singing Kumbaya.” Gothy sighed. “It actually made me wish Kurt stayed over more, because even if Shiny sparkles more than those awful Twilight creatures that try to call themselves vampires, at least he felt my pain.”
“You’re just jealous that I make Kurt’s hair so shiny and fantastic, while you just make Blaine’s look like it’s been varnished,” huffed the sparkly puck resting beside Olive on the shelf.
“Whatever, Sparkle Motion.”
“I told you not to call me that!”
“SILENCE!” Shouted Olive, attempting to regain control over the situation. “This isn’t helping! The point of this meeting was to try and come to some sort of understanding as to how to conduct ourselves in this new space without stepping on anyone’s toes. We simply won’t accomplish anything if we continue to resort to cheap shots and petty complaints.”
Suddenly, a shuffling sound was heard in the hallway. "Shut it, guys," hissed Monkey under his breath. "Someone's coming!"
Kurt slipped through the door and placed a shiny purple gift set on the vanity's counter as he called over his shoulder. "Thanks, Mercedes. Blaine and I have been kind of a rut with our products, so it'll be fun to try this!" As he slipped the door shut behind him, the shiny purple bottles and tubes in the tiny metallic purple bathtub turned to face the room at large.
"Watch it, bitches," a slippery chorus of voices in perfect unison hissed from behind their purple labels, "there's a new sheriff in town."
Truck Driving Schools