Glee!fic, Unscripted: July, July!
July, July!, an I'm-so-sorry-I-haven't-replied-to-comments-yet-sorry-sorry-;_; Unscripted short. My life is currently *barely* visible underneath a giant pile of work, two essays due, PhD applications and an upcoming Ancient Greek exam. So clearly this is the best use of my time. You know what, for my own sanity it so is ^^;
Disclaimer: Not mine, not even close.
Rating: I aimed for PG-13 and ended up more of an R. Fucksake Kurt eats a Popsicle, what am I meant to do about that?
Summary: No air con, no problem.
SMS received from Blaine:
You know when we thought this apartment was a good deal even w/o aircon?
SMS received from Blaine:
Mistake!
SMS received from Kurt:
We'll survive. Do you want me to pick anything up on the way home?
SMS received from Blaine:
I would like a cold-blooded circulatory system, please.
SMS received from Kurt:
You're not crammed in a train car with approx 10000 other people right now, so suck it up.
SMS received from Blaine:
I HAVE A PLAN!
SMS received from Kurt:
Blaine, what are you doing?
SMS received from Kurt:
Blaine, *what are you doing*?
SMS received from Kurt:
This had better not involve my stove.
SMS received from Kurt:
Blaine, this had BETTER NOT involve my stove.
SMS received from Kurt:
Or my bathroom.
SMS received from Kurt:
BLAINE.
SMS received from Blaine:
Technically *our* stove & bathroom. just saying.
SMS received from Kurt:
I am divorcing & dismembering you when I get home, what have you done??
*
Kurt boots the door open to get the desired slam, carrier bags of groceries swinging, face set in the determinedly grim expression that he knows scares his husband. He's expecting -
(An attempt to construct an air conditioning unit out of their microwave; some kind of crazy air-funnel system hooked up to the refrigerator; the sofa gone, replaced with a giant sofa-shaped block of ice; some kind of scooter-powered fanning device -?)
He's not expecting the coffee table on its side against the wall, and where it should sit, a child's paddling pool in school bus yellow, and Blaine in swimming trunks cooling his feet. He's wearing heart shaped sunglasses, slumped back on the sofa cushions, arms spread wide across the backrest, somehow managing to make the cramped lounge of their apartment look like an exclusive beach resort. His only response to Kurt stalking in is a far too pleased with himself little nod, and a broadening of his smile.
Kurt spends a moment just staring at him, breathing slowly through his nose, working the rationality of the anger out (apartment intact, husband still apparently six years old, nothing new to process). The blinds are closed against the glare of the sun and the heat in the apartment is dim and close, and the laptop is playing Billie Holiday, and Blaine's skin is such a very particular biscuit-gold, impossible not to notice against the blue of his trunks. That's why he manages to make this preposterous lounge-based pool party look classy. Ridiculous human being that he is, he still manages to look like a Ralph Lauren model wearing just Kurt's kilt, Santana's unstrapped high heels, and a lampshade on his head. Kurt has photographs to prove this.
Disgusting sweat is clamping Kurt's clothes to him, the heat makes them cling in ways he seriously never intended, and the air in the apartment is dark and still and stifling, and the rippling gleam of that paddling pool actually does look really good. Kurt lets his breath out on one last long sigh, empties the groceries into fridge and cupboards, then heads into their bedroom. After the quickest and coolest of showers he climbs into a pair of trunks, grabs an ice pop from the freezer on his way, and drops down next to Blaine on the sofa, sliding his feet underwater, light ribbons and breaks and their ankles seem to slant backwards. Smooth cool plastic underneath his curling toes, as he snaps the ice pop and offers half to Blaine, who pushes his sunglasses up to take it. "Thanks."
"Why the shades?" Kurt says, cracking the end of the ice with his teeth and then sucking delicately on the tip to encourage melting.
Blaine shrugs. "Just seemed to work. I had a whole theme going. Wish I hadn't left my ukelele in my locker."
Kurt licks at the first emerging syrup of the ice pop, and slides lower on the sofa to sink more of his shins into the pool. "Mm. I approve of this idea. Even though you are, and I'm sorry but I cannot state this politely, insane."
Blaine says, "Are you going to eat that whole thing like that?" and Kurt tilts his head, pausing his little administering licks to the tip of the ice pop, watches how Blaine's is still hovering in his hand without yet making it to his mouth, because he apparently can't think to look away from Kurt's tongue. Kurt licks his lips thoughtfully as he considers it - it's disgustingly hot, and sex on a night in their bed is out of the question until the humidity breaks - and then he shifts his grip around the ice pop's curved sides, thumb running suggestively up it, and says, "Yes." sucking just on the tip. "Unless you can suggest a better way to eat it."
"Your hand," Blaine says vaguely.
"Mm?"
"The thing you do with your hand."
Kurt grins, and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "Eat your damn Popsicle and I'll think about it. I don't want them melting everywhere while we're -" He grins, and licks up the ice pop's plastic-sheathed side. "Busy."
Blaine makes a little whined noise, a noise that means, Unfair, drops his shades over his eyes again and shifts himself on the sofa. He clamps the ice pop in his mouth to suck a little sulkily, arms folded, while Kurt teases loose a chunk of ice and slips it between his lips, glancing across to catch Blaine's eye, over the top of his sunglasses; for a second, they look at each other entirely seriously.
Then they laugh until Kurt's head is in Blaine's lap just because he can't stay upright, and Blaine has to take the sunglasses off to wipe his eyes, making giddy, high little noises in the jolts of his giggles. Kurt wriggles his panting body into a more comfortable position, feet flat in the paddling pool, legs bent, lying on his back with his head resting on Blaine's thigh, smiling up at him around the ice pop hanging out of his mouth. The trunks are warm as Blaine's body against the back of his neck, as Kurt lifts a hand, plays the backs of his fingers over the skin of his leg. He slips the ice pop from his mouth with his free hand to say, "I don't know if we fail as grown-ups or if we are really incredibly inventively good at it."
Blaine combs his hair back off his forehead with his fingers, runs his thumb across Kurt's temple. "I think we rock it."
"There is a paddling pool on our living room floor."
"Yeah. No-one else has a paddling pool on their living room floor. See? We so win."
Kurt presses himself up on an elbow, ice pop bearing arm sliding around the back of Blaine's neck to guide him down; his kiss tastes of syrup and warm and Blaine.
"They'll melt," Blaine says.
Kurt aims for the kitchen sink; two clattering cracks of ice pops hitting home and he slithers to his knees in the paddling pool, cool pressure of water and smooth plastic, fingers curling possessively in Blaine's trunks. "There can be more Popsicles. There are not so many opportunities to do this in a paddling pool on our living room floor."
"We can make opportunities for it," Blaine says, fingers in Kurt's hair so tenderly cupping the back of his head, how does he manage to make Kurt sucking his dick into something that makes Kurt feel so, so loved? "That's what being a grown-up means. We decide what to do with our lives."
Kurt kisses the inside of his leg, pulls his trunks down. "I decided you. You're what I'm doing with my life."
Blaine scoots his hips so Kurt can get the trunks off him. "I decided you. You and paddling pools."
The laptop plays, Life can be so sweet, on the sunny side of the street.
In the dim of the apartment there's the lapping of water, and gentle happy laughter like the breeze.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not even close.
Rating: I aimed for PG-13 and ended up more of an R. Fucksake Kurt eats a Popsicle, what am I meant to do about that?
Summary: No air con, no problem.
SMS received from Blaine:
You know when we thought this apartment was a good deal even w/o aircon?
SMS received from Blaine:
Mistake!
SMS received from Kurt:
We'll survive. Do you want me to pick anything up on the way home?
SMS received from Blaine:
I would like a cold-blooded circulatory system, please.
SMS received from Kurt:
You're not crammed in a train car with approx 10000 other people right now, so suck it up.
SMS received from Blaine:
I HAVE A PLAN!
SMS received from Kurt:
Blaine, what are you doing?
SMS received from Kurt:
Blaine, *what are you doing*?
SMS received from Kurt:
This had better not involve my stove.
SMS received from Kurt:
Blaine, this had BETTER NOT involve my stove.
SMS received from Kurt:
Or my bathroom.
SMS received from Kurt:
BLAINE.
SMS received from Blaine:
Technically *our* stove & bathroom. just saying.
SMS received from Kurt:
I am divorcing & dismembering you when I get home, what have you done??
*
Kurt boots the door open to get the desired slam, carrier bags of groceries swinging, face set in the determinedly grim expression that he knows scares his husband. He's expecting -
(An attempt to construct an air conditioning unit out of their microwave; some kind of crazy air-funnel system hooked up to the refrigerator; the sofa gone, replaced with a giant sofa-shaped block of ice; some kind of scooter-powered fanning device -?)
He's not expecting the coffee table on its side against the wall, and where it should sit, a child's paddling pool in school bus yellow, and Blaine in swimming trunks cooling his feet. He's wearing heart shaped sunglasses, slumped back on the sofa cushions, arms spread wide across the backrest, somehow managing to make the cramped lounge of their apartment look like an exclusive beach resort. His only response to Kurt stalking in is a far too pleased with himself little nod, and a broadening of his smile.
Kurt spends a moment just staring at him, breathing slowly through his nose, working the rationality of the anger out (apartment intact, husband still apparently six years old, nothing new to process). The blinds are closed against the glare of the sun and the heat in the apartment is dim and close, and the laptop is playing Billie Holiday, and Blaine's skin is such a very particular biscuit-gold, impossible not to notice against the blue of his trunks. That's why he manages to make this preposterous lounge-based pool party look classy. Ridiculous human being that he is, he still manages to look like a Ralph Lauren model wearing just Kurt's kilt, Santana's unstrapped high heels, and a lampshade on his head. Kurt has photographs to prove this.
Disgusting sweat is clamping Kurt's clothes to him, the heat makes them cling in ways he seriously never intended, and the air in the apartment is dark and still and stifling, and the rippling gleam of that paddling pool actually does look really good. Kurt lets his breath out on one last long sigh, empties the groceries into fridge and cupboards, then heads into their bedroom. After the quickest and coolest of showers he climbs into a pair of trunks, grabs an ice pop from the freezer on his way, and drops down next to Blaine on the sofa, sliding his feet underwater, light ribbons and breaks and their ankles seem to slant backwards. Smooth cool plastic underneath his curling toes, as he snaps the ice pop and offers half to Blaine, who pushes his sunglasses up to take it. "Thanks."
"Why the shades?" Kurt says, cracking the end of the ice with his teeth and then sucking delicately on the tip to encourage melting.
Blaine shrugs. "Just seemed to work. I had a whole theme going. Wish I hadn't left my ukelele in my locker."
Kurt licks at the first emerging syrup of the ice pop, and slides lower on the sofa to sink more of his shins into the pool. "Mm. I approve of this idea. Even though you are, and I'm sorry but I cannot state this politely, insane."
Blaine says, "Are you going to eat that whole thing like that?" and Kurt tilts his head, pausing his little administering licks to the tip of the ice pop, watches how Blaine's is still hovering in his hand without yet making it to his mouth, because he apparently can't think to look away from Kurt's tongue. Kurt licks his lips thoughtfully as he considers it - it's disgustingly hot, and sex on a night in their bed is out of the question until the humidity breaks - and then he shifts his grip around the ice pop's curved sides, thumb running suggestively up it, and says, "Yes." sucking just on the tip. "Unless you can suggest a better way to eat it."
"Your hand," Blaine says vaguely.
"Mm?"
"The thing you do with your hand."
Kurt grins, and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "Eat your damn Popsicle and I'll think about it. I don't want them melting everywhere while we're -" He grins, and licks up the ice pop's plastic-sheathed side. "Busy."
Blaine makes a little whined noise, a noise that means, Unfair, drops his shades over his eyes again and shifts himself on the sofa. He clamps the ice pop in his mouth to suck a little sulkily, arms folded, while Kurt teases loose a chunk of ice and slips it between his lips, glancing across to catch Blaine's eye, over the top of his sunglasses; for a second, they look at each other entirely seriously.
Then they laugh until Kurt's head is in Blaine's lap just because he can't stay upright, and Blaine has to take the sunglasses off to wipe his eyes, making giddy, high little noises in the jolts of his giggles. Kurt wriggles his panting body into a more comfortable position, feet flat in the paddling pool, legs bent, lying on his back with his head resting on Blaine's thigh, smiling up at him around the ice pop hanging out of his mouth. The trunks are warm as Blaine's body against the back of his neck, as Kurt lifts a hand, plays the backs of his fingers over the skin of his leg. He slips the ice pop from his mouth with his free hand to say, "I don't know if we fail as grown-ups or if we are really incredibly inventively good at it."
Blaine combs his hair back off his forehead with his fingers, runs his thumb across Kurt's temple. "I think we rock it."
"There is a paddling pool on our living room floor."
"Yeah. No-one else has a paddling pool on their living room floor. See? We so win."
Kurt presses himself up on an elbow, ice pop bearing arm sliding around the back of Blaine's neck to guide him down; his kiss tastes of syrup and warm and Blaine.
"They'll melt," Blaine says.
Kurt aims for the kitchen sink; two clattering cracks of ice pops hitting home and he slithers to his knees in the paddling pool, cool pressure of water and smooth plastic, fingers curling possessively in Blaine's trunks. "There can be more Popsicles. There are not so many opportunities to do this in a paddling pool on our living room floor."
"We can make opportunities for it," Blaine says, fingers in Kurt's hair so tenderly cupping the back of his head, how does he manage to make Kurt sucking his dick into something that makes Kurt feel so, so loved? "That's what being a grown-up means. We decide what to do with our lives."
Kurt kisses the inside of his leg, pulls his trunks down. "I decided you. You're what I'm doing with my life."
Blaine scoots his hips so Kurt can get the trunks off him. "I decided you. You and paddling pools."
The laptop plays, Life can be so sweet, on the sunny side of the street.
In the dim of the apartment there's the lapping of water, and gentle happy laughter like the breeze.