So, sometimes I get bored some evenings or on journeys and I like to write little inconsequential things. I’m working on my longer stories at the moment but I like little breaks from the confines of their worlds and recently I’ve had a lot of people comment on how they like how I write their quieter/smaller moments (which is a little overwhelming for me. Too kind.) so I decided to start a sporadic little series of “missing secret moments” or as I like to call it… their “secret life of daydreams”. It’s all just a little bit of fun :)
I’ll tag them “fic: slod” and they’ll always be under my writing tag. Feel FREE to send me any prompts of teeny tiny little moments or things you want to see in my ask. Just begin the ask with “Prompt:”.
I hope you enjoy!
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NUMBER ONE: Head massage
Kurt squirmed, neck wiggling and twisting under Blaine’s insistent fingers. Blaine didn’t stop though, his hands practised at this now and no amount of Kurt-like complaining would work.
Not anymore.
“Do you understand how long it takes to get my hair to look like this?” Kurt whined, scratching word after word into the notebook before him on the bed, feet crossed neatly at the ankles as he lay on his stomach. Poetry analysis was thrilling – fascinating even – but the way Kurt’s hair curved ever so slightly against the elegant concave juncture of his neck was too distracting for the genius of complex imagery to take precedent. It was warm there – just above Kurt’s starched collar - and without a doubt the softest part of Kurt’s entire body.
Blaine knew. He’d explored a lot.
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I combined two in one because they fit perfectly. This was blissful to write :)
This one is for you Lucie, and you, lovely anon who provided the other half of the prompt :)
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Blaine stretches up, wincing as his back creaks and snaps in a way that surely can’t be healthy. After a long day of lugging boxes in minus temperatures, every joint feels frozen much like most of their belongings that are currently strewn in half opened boxes around their lounge.
Their lounge.
It still feels like a dream even though Blaine can reach out and touch their coffee table, their brand new sheets still in their packaging and their kitchen supplies, most of which Kurt has claimed immediately and begun to unpack into their newly cleaned kitchenette.
It’s then that Blaine’s eyes pause on a box of rather large and rather terrifying contraptions.
“Kurt?” he calls, laughing when he hears a clatter, a cursory mumbled swear word followed by a hum in response, “what’s this box of stuff? The big silver thing?”
In a flash, Kurt’s at the doorway. “Oh that,” he coos, taking a leap forward to cradle the contraption with both hands. “These are Carole’s old machines. This is a sausage machine and this is a bread maker. It’s old and wonderful.”
Blaine splutters out a laugh. “A bread maker?”
“Yes, Blaine. What’s so hilarious about that? It doesn’t just materialise in brightly coloured little bags, you know? Someone has to actually bake the stuff.”
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Hope this fits the bill, anon ;) Free writing is so much fun.
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Kurt’s eyes are on him like radars, flickering away as quick as a flash the second he’s caught staring. They’ve been studying for around an hour and Kurt’s written a whole three words and retraced their thickness at least twice. Blaine knows. He’s watched and counted.
“What?”
Kurt frowns, chewing the end of his pen. “What?”
“You,” Blaine laughs, fondly. “You’re distracted and quiet and it’s been approximately” – Blaine looks at the clock – “twenty minutes since you last complained about how uninventive Mr Schue’s Spanish assignments are. It’s a personal record.”
“Well, you’re clearly engrossed in your reading to be able to pay so much attention to me.” Kurt scowls playfully and returns back to his notepad, pen poised to begin but, again, nothing gets written. Blaine knows he’s tired. They’d almost fallen in the door after a vigorous dance session in preparation for Nationals but schooled themselves for a night of homework in the hope that they might have a whole day free for themselves.
Senior year sucks.
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