Glee fic: Kurt/?,
Woke up from my nap with this in my head, any Glee fans want to tell me if it's worth continuing.
Fandom: Glee
Characters; Kurt, Paul(OC), appearances by Anna WIntour, Andre Leon Talley, Carole and Mercedes
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1031
Summary: Kurt, NYC, a guy, and Vogue.
Waking up in a strange bed is disconcerting. Not that Kurt has any experience in that regard, this is his first. He has a dim memory of rough hands pushing him back, of chapped lips on his closed brows, a husky voice “go back to sleep, just a bathroom run”. Surely that was some time ago. All of it is very unlike him; the graduate student studio apartment, the grad student’s bed he is lying in, the guy himself. Not a sweet guy, not in words, but in other ways? Oh yeah.
He should have done this earlier, trusted. But long limbs, toned arms, sports loving men weren’t his usual, Sam and Finn attractions aside. He thought he’d go for another Blaine type, once he’d realized a few home truths and dumped the boy. A Blaine grown up, matured, was what he pictured. How could he envision anything else given his history? To his surprise others did the imagining for him. The football player from Yale (Thank you Quinn) who was brilliant at kissing; the NYU basketball player who was great with his hands (and not just on the court), but nothing had stuck, not that firts month. The second one there was this guy; football loving, baseball playing who just kept popping up, who hung in there until Kurt took the chance. Even then, there was no going home with, even if he had the time or energy to go home and do more than sleep.
Kurt wasn’t complaining, mind you. Not by a long shot. That was his rep and one he was proud of, he was the ‘good’ boy of Vogue interns. Not sucking up, he could still be bitchy, only somehow his loss of the NYADA dream and thinking of how if he’d been Carmen Thibadeux how he would have handle the audition, had curbed the sharp edges. Now his few remarks made their point but did not cut, did not damage, did not destroy. Plus, he was ambitious, and imaginative; those two combined could allow him to see what stress Anna Wintour was under. That empathy had gotten him favored status: a simple remark to one who had said “What a bitch.” Kurt had replied mildly, “She’s not a bitch, she has a mutli-million dollar business to run with the weight of being Conde Nasts’ flagship on her shoulders. Who do you think will take the heat and fall if the readership was to drop, go to some other publication. No one will care if it was a slip up of one of us, it’s all on her.” Kurt wanted his own magazine someday, could see himself in her shoes (not literally, those Gaga heels had been enough), could see past the facade to the responsibilites; it wasn't sucking up, his comment, it was the trruth as he saw it.
Somehow, he didn’t know by who, that remark must have gotten back to her, as all of the sudden in his 5th week he was designated to hold her fur, carry her coffee cup into closed door editorial meetings; something no other intern was allowed to attend. He did his considerable best to become invisible, only speaking when spoken to. That one of the times a question was asked, the meeting about a article/photo spread about clothes for real women, had resulted in Kurt saying. “I”ve seen those articles and they are all wrong. You get a woman with curves and still put her in the most cutting edge fashion so she looks ridiculous and the real woman reading the article automatically rejects the clothes. Who does that serve?”
Andre, at his snootiest, “The advertisers”
Kurt: “The designers who advertise would be better served by Vogue showing clothes from their collections that real women will buy. Real women don’t want to look like a page from Vogue, they want to look fashion forward but just enough that it doesn’t push past their comfort levels AND they want to look pretty AND like their best selves at the same time.”
Andre: “Its ‘fantasy, it sells.”
Kurt: “No it doesn’t. At some point when you realize that there is no chance of living the fantasy you start to resent it, reject it, look for another one. Is that what Vogue wants?”
At that point, someone had thanked him, dismissively, and went on to another point. However, not the next issue or the one after that, but the one after, Kurt got a assignment to create a sample web feature on that subject. With Carole and Cedes in mind, he went to work. The article was never posted, instead, he was assigned to work on it’s companion, one for the print version, the March issue. Next to the September issue (and Kurt had seen that movie, thank you very much) it was the most important. With that, his favored son status was assured. To celebrate he’d allowed his boyfriend, could Paul be called that, to take him to dinner, then to bed.
Surprisingly romantic. Paul didn’t coo words or sing love songs, but he held Kurt’s hand as they walked, making sure to walk on the outside of the pavement so Kurt was protected from the street. He held the door for Kurt, not because Kurt was a girl but because he was his date and that was courtesy. When they had to wait at the bar and some twink hinted he was hotter than Kurt, Paul shot him down in words that would make Burt blush. So, no, there were no love songs but who needed them when you had a guy who used actions instead of words and whose few words were not contradicted by his behavior. It was all very romantic in a different way. That had to be why he wasn’t minding lying in a ¾ sized bed, in a studio apartment with travel posters on the wall and a afghan covering a worn thriftshop (or garbage dump) chair and crates as tables. Not his style, yet he felt at home, safe and cosseted, even more so when Paul came in with bags and cups to find him still laying there.
“You didn’t have to go get breakfast, I would have been happy with Peanut Butter toast”
“And how did you know I have Peanut Butter here.”
“All college guys do,”: That wasn’t true, but Kurt was sure if Finn was in a dorm it was the one thing he would have stocked. “
“Creamy or Crunchy?”
“Creamy.”
“Two jars then, one of what you like and one for me.” And if that wasn’t romantic, he didn’t know what was.
Paul? But I'm open to suggestions.
Fandom: Glee
Characters; Kurt, Paul(OC), appearances by Anna WIntour, Andre Leon Talley, Carole and Mercedes
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1031
Summary: Kurt, NYC, a guy, and Vogue.
Waking up in a strange bed is disconcerting. Not that Kurt has any experience in that regard, this is his first. He has a dim memory of rough hands pushing him back, of chapped lips on his closed brows, a husky voice “go back to sleep, just a bathroom run”. Surely that was some time ago. All of it is very unlike him; the graduate student studio apartment, the grad student’s bed he is lying in, the guy himself. Not a sweet guy, not in words, but in other ways? Oh yeah.
He should have done this earlier, trusted. But long limbs, toned arms, sports loving men weren’t his usual, Sam and Finn attractions aside. He thought he’d go for another Blaine type, once he’d realized a few home truths and dumped the boy. A Blaine grown up, matured, was what he pictured. How could he envision anything else given his history? To his surprise others did the imagining for him. The football player from Yale (Thank you Quinn) who was brilliant at kissing; the NYU basketball player who was great with his hands (and not just on the court), but nothing had stuck, not that firts month. The second one there was this guy; football loving, baseball playing who just kept popping up, who hung in there until Kurt took the chance. Even then, there was no going home with, even if he had the time or energy to go home and do more than sleep.
Kurt wasn’t complaining, mind you. Not by a long shot. That was his rep and one he was proud of, he was the ‘good’ boy of Vogue interns. Not sucking up, he could still be bitchy, only somehow his loss of the NYADA dream and thinking of how if he’d been Carmen Thibadeux how he would have handle the audition, had curbed the sharp edges. Now his few remarks made their point but did not cut, did not damage, did not destroy. Plus, he was ambitious, and imaginative; those two combined could allow him to see what stress Anna Wintour was under. That empathy had gotten him favored status: a simple remark to one who had said “What a bitch.” Kurt had replied mildly, “She’s not a bitch, she has a mutli-million dollar business to run with the weight of being Conde Nasts’ flagship on her shoulders. Who do you think will take the heat and fall if the readership was to drop, go to some other publication. No one will care if it was a slip up of one of us, it’s all on her.” Kurt wanted his own magazine someday, could see himself in her shoes (not literally, those Gaga heels had been enough), could see past the facade to the responsibilites; it wasn't sucking up, his comment, it was the trruth as he saw it.
Somehow, he didn’t know by who, that remark must have gotten back to her, as all of the sudden in his 5th week he was designated to hold her fur, carry her coffee cup into closed door editorial meetings; something no other intern was allowed to attend. He did his considerable best to become invisible, only speaking when spoken to. That one of the times a question was asked, the meeting about a article/photo spread about clothes for real women, had resulted in Kurt saying. “I”ve seen those articles and they are all wrong. You get a woman with curves and still put her in the most cutting edge fashion so she looks ridiculous and the real woman reading the article automatically rejects the clothes. Who does that serve?”
Andre, at his snootiest, “The advertisers”
Kurt: “The designers who advertise would be better served by Vogue showing clothes from their collections that real women will buy. Real women don’t want to look like a page from Vogue, they want to look fashion forward but just enough that it doesn’t push past their comfort levels AND they want to look pretty AND like their best selves at the same time.”
Andre: “Its ‘fantasy, it sells.”
Kurt: “No it doesn’t. At some point when you realize that there is no chance of living the fantasy you start to resent it, reject it, look for another one. Is that what Vogue wants?”
At that point, someone had thanked him, dismissively, and went on to another point. However, not the next issue or the one after that, but the one after, Kurt got a assignment to create a sample web feature on that subject. With Carole and Cedes in mind, he went to work. The article was never posted, instead, he was assigned to work on it’s companion, one for the print version, the March issue. Next to the September issue (and Kurt had seen that movie, thank you very much) it was the most important. With that, his favored son status was assured. To celebrate he’d allowed his boyfriend, could Paul be called that, to take him to dinner, then to bed.
Surprisingly romantic. Paul didn’t coo words or sing love songs, but he held Kurt’s hand as they walked, making sure to walk on the outside of the pavement so Kurt was protected from the street. He held the door for Kurt, not because Kurt was a girl but because he was his date and that was courtesy. When they had to wait at the bar and some twink hinted he was hotter than Kurt, Paul shot him down in words that would make Burt blush. So, no, there were no love songs but who needed them when you had a guy who used actions instead of words and whose few words were not contradicted by his behavior. It was all very romantic in a different way. That had to be why he wasn’t minding lying in a ¾ sized bed, in a studio apartment with travel posters on the wall and a afghan covering a worn thriftshop (or garbage dump) chair and crates as tables. Not his style, yet he felt at home, safe and cosseted, even more so when Paul came in with bags and cups to find him still laying there.
“You didn’t have to go get breakfast, I would have been happy with Peanut Butter toast”
“And how did you know I have Peanut Butter here.”
“All college guys do,”: That wasn’t true, but Kurt was sure if Finn was in a dorm it was the one thing he would have stocked. “
“Creamy or Crunchy?”
“Creamy.”
“Two jars then, one of what you like and one for me.” And if that wasn’t romantic, he didn’t know what was.
Paul? But I'm open to suggestions.