![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fic: Possession is Nine-Tenths of the Law
Title: Possession is Nine-Tenths of the Law
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG
Characters: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson
Summary: It’s not like Kurt can blame the girls who try to flirt with Blaine. He's dreamy, he’s charming, he doesn’t always immediately come across as gayer than a Christmas tree, and if you spot him out of his uniform, he looks like he walked right off the set of a Cary Grant movie.
Count: 2079 words
Notes: For the anon on Tumblr who requested fic where Blaine is flirted with and Kurt gets jealous.
* * *
Kurt has almost gotten used to Blaine being hit on by girls.
It’s not like he can blame them; Blaine is dreamy, he’s charming, he doesn’t always immediately come across as gayer than a Christmas tree, and if you spot him out of his uniform, he looks like he walked right off the set of a Cary Grant movie.
That doesn’t mean that Kurt enjoys watching his boyfriend get swamped by giggling, eyelash-fluttering girls, or that he’s particularly kind about it now that he’s entitled to to shoo them off if he so chooses. It happens often enough, though (the girl who scooped their ice cream last week, the ticket taker at the movie theater, a swarm of pre-teens at Blaine’s most recent Sunday matinee performance), that Kurt’s control of his inner green-eyed monster is improving in leaps and bounds. This isn’t like when he’d had to stand back and watch Crawford girls fawn all over Blaine and flirt to within an inch of their lives, knowing that he couldn’t do the same. Now, Kurt can clear his throat and raise sardonic eyebrows, and Blaine will laugh and say, “Sorry, ladies; my date awaits” and then kiss Kurt senseless once they’re in private. Kurt went with that approach the first few times, until he realized that if he stood back and waited, Blaine would get rid of them himself, and that was even better.
Kurt spends so much of his life hearing no, no, not for you, no that there’s something tremendous about watching Blaine separate himself from his adoring fans at Six Flags. Not in so many words, he says: I’m not interested, you can’t have me, I wouldn’t be an option for you even if I was single (which I’m not, because I’m thrillingly in love with my boyfriend). There’s something addictive about hearing that said over and over again, even if Blaine is outwardly much more subtle and polite – if occasionally a little cheeky about it – than the messages that Kurt hears in his head.
It has become easy to view the flirting with smug benevolence. Kurt knows that he and Blaine are in it for the long haul, and he knows that no one, least of all the pretty redhead who tears their ticket stubs on their way to see Woody Allen’s new movie, is a threat to what they have.
That’s harder to remember, though, when he comes back from a post-show trip to the little boys’ room after the worst production of The Sound of Music ever, and finds the boy who’d played Rolf talking to Blaine. It’s not the talking that brings Kurt up short; it’s the fact that Rolf’s hand is on Blaine’s arm and he’s leaning in as he laughs, his eyes on Blaine’s mouth. It’s an absurdly transparent move, one that’s about as subtle as he had been onstage, where Liesl had not been the von Trapp who he’d shown real interest in. It had been entertaining in a trainwreck sort of way while ranting during intermission to a laughing Blaine about the unprofessionalism of the entire production, but now – Kurt can feel something cold curl up low in his stomach.
Rolf is broad-shouldered and conventionally handsome and appropriately Aryan-looking, with blond hair and eyes so blue that they have to be colored contacts. He says something and laughs again, Blaine joining in this time, and his teeth flash white and perfect against his tan. From the biographical sketch in the program, he’s a sports therapy major – whatever that means – at Rhodes State; Kurt is certain that he’s a frat boy, too. Way to break the stereotype.
There was a time when Kurt would have stalked across the lobby, spit a cutting remark, and tried to tug Blaine away while using as much physical contact as possible. Not fully over the impulse, he’s automatically constructing the perfect line in his head, something about being happy to see that Rolf has more chemistry with Kurt’s boyfriend than he did with Liesl, given that “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” had all the appeal of a funeral dirge. But instead, he finds himself momentarily frozen, watching and seeing how handsome they look together, and feeling a little sick.
Kurt takes a deep breath, straightens his summer scarf, and wades through a gaggle of von Trapp children and their unjustifiably-proud parents.
“There you are,” Blaine says, and the flirty tone and the smile that he turns on Kurt are, admittedly, reassuring. “This is Kurt. Kurt, this is Nathaniel; we were just talking about theme park performances.”
“Hello,” Kurt says, coolly polite, and doesn’t miss the way that “Nathaniel” flicks his eyes down to see how closely they’re standing together.
Kurt slides over til his shoulder is almost touching Blaine’s.
“Hey, man,” says Nathaniel with a quick smile, before turning back to Blaine. “Like I said, Disney’s totally the gold standard; you should call me–” Is he–? He is. He is reaching inside of his costume uniform jacket and pulling out some kind of a business card to hand to Blaine. “–If you ever want to compare notes.”
“That’s awesome; thank you,” Blaine says, sounding both genuine and earnest, and Kurt struggles to remind himself that that is Blaine’s default setting.
“No prob, no prob. Nice to meet you.” Nathaniel smiles vaguely in Kurt’s direction, then jogs after Captain von Trapp.
“Wow,” Kurt mouths, and Blaine shoots him a quizzical look as he slides their hands together and they head toward the exit.
“ ‘Wow’ what?”
“Where to even begin…” Kurt glances up at the ceiling, pretending to give it thought. “For starters, you just got hit on by a Nazi. A Nazi, Blaine.”
Blaine laughs, a cheerful, startled scoff, and then he confirms Kurt’s theory that he is dating the most oblivious boy in the midwest. “He wasn’t hitting on me; he was networking.”
“He wanted to network, all right – network in your pants,” Kurt says, both matter of fact and breezy (as well as wry). It’s an acquired skill.
“He wasn’t trying to get in my pants; he gave me a card—” Blaine lifts it in his free hand, and Kurt sees, in the same moment that he does, that it’s just a blank card with a handwritten phone number on it, “and he asked what kind of costumes we wear at Six Flags, and wow, he was totally hitting on me.”
“Like a piñata,” he tells him frankly, making a whack-whack motion with their joined hands, to illustrate. He’s trying not to take this too seriously (and, okay, it is a little funny that Rolf from The Sound of Music just handed Blaine his phone number; Kurt can appreciate the absurdity in that); he’s trying to sound light and easy, like he hadn’t felt something in him twist at seeing Blaine laugh with a handsome boy who looked old enough that he probably could walk into an R-rated movie without getting carded.
(Kurt always gets carded.)
Blaine peers at him, and then he does the head tilt that Kurt hates, both for how adorable it is and because it always means that Blaine has figured something out, usually something that Kurt didn’t necessarily want him to figure out. “Kurt, are you jealous?”
“No,” Kurt says defensively, and then, in a move that surely isn’t suspicious at all, he pointedly refuses to meet Blaine’s eyes.
“Kurt.” His name sounds a little wondering, a little surprised, and a little like Blaine is trying not to laugh. They’re in the parking lot now, surrounded by small knots of theater-goers talking by their cars and kids playing tag under the streetlights. It’s a beautiful night; the storms must have cleared up while they were inside the performance. There are crickets chirping and cicadas lazily buzzing from the grass and bushes at the edge of the parking lot, and Blaine is stopping and tugging Kurt’s hand until he stops, too, and turns to face him. Blaine’s face has gone terrifyingly earnest as he takes Kurt’s other hand. “I would never—”
“I know,” Kurt assures him, as fast as he’s physically able, squeezing his hands tight. “I know you wouldn’t. We’re not the New Directions; we’re above playing romantic partner musical chairs of infidelity.” Blaine’s mouth moves in just the barest suggestion of a smile; he still looks worried, his face drawn under the sickly light from the streetlamp. We’re always honest with each other, Kurt reminds himself, and he takes a deep breath and finishes, “I’m not actually concerned that you’re going to run away with the gayest Rolf in the history of Rolfs; I just – don’t like watching him ineffectually try to flirt with you.”
It sounds so stupid when he says it out loud. He can feel his face burning, and he really wants to break eye contact. But the amusement and the pity that he’s dreading never come.
Blaine says softly, “I’m sorry.”
He sighs and double-taps the key to remotely unlock the doors. A row down, the Navigator beeps and its lights flash. “You didn’t do anything to be sorry for, Blaine, unless being good-looking and naturally charming is a character flaw.”
Blaine looks torn between being touched and really flattered, and wanting to correct him. He settles for a gentle snort, and then he glances over his shoulder and says, “Come on, come here,” and before Kurt is entirely certain of what is going on, he has been pulled over to the car and bundled into the backseat, Blaine climbing in behind him. He shuts the door and then turns toward Kurt, balanced on his knees, and he cups his face in both hands.
“I love you,” Blaine says, and before Kurt can say it back, he keeps going, “and you don’t have anything to be jealous about; I don’t want to be with anyone but you, and that’s still going to be true after we move to New York and meet queer guys who aren’t violent closeted bullies or dressed like Hitler Youth.” Kurt glances down and shuts his eyes and huffs a silent breath of laughter, and then Blaine tilts his chin back up. When he opens his eyes, Blaine is watching him, his expression warm. “You’re incredible, Kurt; every time I think I know everything about you, you amaze me with something new, and – I–” Blaine is always better with songs than with words, but this is tongue-tied even by his own sorry standards. Kurt’s face is warm (Kurt’s everything is warm; where did Blaine Anderson even come from? how is he in his life?); he reaches up and curls a hand loosely around Blaine’s wrist.
“And I’m going to be really, really jealous when guys flirt with you all the time in New York,” Blaine finally manages to finish, since whatever thought he was trying to articulate clearly didn’t make it out of his mouth. Kurt lifts an eyebrow and Blaine repeats firmly: “All the time.”
Kurt considers the darkness and the tinted windows. He rests both hands on Blaine’s knees and he asks, “How jealous?” with a carefully tilted head and upswing to his voice, which he can hear go breathy and higher.
For someone who can be so oblivious at times, Blaine is remarkably good at picking up on Kurt’s ‘let’s make out now’ signals. Which, granted, aren’t subtle. “Wildly,” he promises, leaning in and pressing the curve of his smile against Kurt’s, and then they stop talking.
When he takes Blaine home at the end of the night, they have to give each other a once-over in the driveway to make sure that sweaters and hair and scarves have been put back to rights before either of them goes home to their parents. The goodbye kiss goes on long enough that someone inside noisily slams a window shut in an obvious bid to remind them of curfews and other people’s awareness of the fact that they’ve been standing on the front porch for at least ten minutes.
Kurt is smiling as he swings back to his car; he smiles even more after he finds the crumpled business card tucked into his cupholder.
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG
Characters: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson
Summary: It’s not like Kurt can blame the girls who try to flirt with Blaine. He's dreamy, he’s charming, he doesn’t always immediately come across as gayer than a Christmas tree, and if you spot him out of his uniform, he looks like he walked right off the set of a Cary Grant movie.
Count: 2079 words
Notes: For the anon on Tumblr who requested fic where Blaine is flirted with and Kurt gets jealous.
* * *
Kurt has almost gotten used to Blaine being hit on by girls.
It’s not like he can blame them; Blaine is dreamy, he’s charming, he doesn’t always immediately come across as gayer than a Christmas tree, and if you spot him out of his uniform, he looks like he walked right off the set of a Cary Grant movie.
That doesn’t mean that Kurt enjoys watching his boyfriend get swamped by giggling, eyelash-fluttering girls, or that he’s particularly kind about it now that he’s entitled to to shoo them off if he so chooses. It happens often enough, though (the girl who scooped their ice cream last week, the ticket taker at the movie theater, a swarm of pre-teens at Blaine’s most recent Sunday matinee performance), that Kurt’s control of his inner green-eyed monster is improving in leaps and bounds. This isn’t like when he’d had to stand back and watch Crawford girls fawn all over Blaine and flirt to within an inch of their lives, knowing that he couldn’t do the same. Now, Kurt can clear his throat and raise sardonic eyebrows, and Blaine will laugh and say, “Sorry, ladies; my date awaits” and then kiss Kurt senseless once they’re in private. Kurt went with that approach the first few times, until he realized that if he stood back and waited, Blaine would get rid of them himself, and that was even better.
Kurt spends so much of his life hearing no, no, not for you, no that there’s something tremendous about watching Blaine separate himself from his adoring fans at Six Flags. Not in so many words, he says: I’m not interested, you can’t have me, I wouldn’t be an option for you even if I was single (which I’m not, because I’m thrillingly in love with my boyfriend). There’s something addictive about hearing that said over and over again, even if Blaine is outwardly much more subtle and polite – if occasionally a little cheeky about it – than the messages that Kurt hears in his head.
It has become easy to view the flirting with smug benevolence. Kurt knows that he and Blaine are in it for the long haul, and he knows that no one, least of all the pretty redhead who tears their ticket stubs on their way to see Woody Allen’s new movie, is a threat to what they have.
That’s harder to remember, though, when he comes back from a post-show trip to the little boys’ room after the worst production of The Sound of Music ever, and finds the boy who’d played Rolf talking to Blaine. It’s not the talking that brings Kurt up short; it’s the fact that Rolf’s hand is on Blaine’s arm and he’s leaning in as he laughs, his eyes on Blaine’s mouth. It’s an absurdly transparent move, one that’s about as subtle as he had been onstage, where Liesl had not been the von Trapp who he’d shown real interest in. It had been entertaining in a trainwreck sort of way while ranting during intermission to a laughing Blaine about the unprofessionalism of the entire production, but now – Kurt can feel something cold curl up low in his stomach.
Rolf is broad-shouldered and conventionally handsome and appropriately Aryan-looking, with blond hair and eyes so blue that they have to be colored contacts. He says something and laughs again, Blaine joining in this time, and his teeth flash white and perfect against his tan. From the biographical sketch in the program, he’s a sports therapy major – whatever that means – at Rhodes State; Kurt is certain that he’s a frat boy, too. Way to break the stereotype.
There was a time when Kurt would have stalked across the lobby, spit a cutting remark, and tried to tug Blaine away while using as much physical contact as possible. Not fully over the impulse, he’s automatically constructing the perfect line in his head, something about being happy to see that Rolf has more chemistry with Kurt’s boyfriend than he did with Liesl, given that “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” had all the appeal of a funeral dirge. But instead, he finds himself momentarily frozen, watching and seeing how handsome they look together, and feeling a little sick.
Kurt takes a deep breath, straightens his summer scarf, and wades through a gaggle of von Trapp children and their unjustifiably-proud parents.
“There you are,” Blaine says, and the flirty tone and the smile that he turns on Kurt are, admittedly, reassuring. “This is Kurt. Kurt, this is Nathaniel; we were just talking about theme park performances.”
“Hello,” Kurt says, coolly polite, and doesn’t miss the way that “Nathaniel” flicks his eyes down to see how closely they’re standing together.
Kurt slides over til his shoulder is almost touching Blaine’s.
“Hey, man,” says Nathaniel with a quick smile, before turning back to Blaine. “Like I said, Disney’s totally the gold standard; you should call me–” Is he–? He is. He is reaching inside of his costume uniform jacket and pulling out some kind of a business card to hand to Blaine. “–If you ever want to compare notes.”
“That’s awesome; thank you,” Blaine says, sounding both genuine and earnest, and Kurt struggles to remind himself that that is Blaine’s default setting.
“No prob, no prob. Nice to meet you.” Nathaniel smiles vaguely in Kurt’s direction, then jogs after Captain von Trapp.
“Wow,” Kurt mouths, and Blaine shoots him a quizzical look as he slides their hands together and they head toward the exit.
“ ‘Wow’ what?”
“Where to even begin…” Kurt glances up at the ceiling, pretending to give it thought. “For starters, you just got hit on by a Nazi. A Nazi, Blaine.”
Blaine laughs, a cheerful, startled scoff, and then he confirms Kurt’s theory that he is dating the most oblivious boy in the midwest. “He wasn’t hitting on me; he was networking.”
“He wanted to network, all right – network in your pants,” Kurt says, both matter of fact and breezy (as well as wry). It’s an acquired skill.
“He wasn’t trying to get in my pants; he gave me a card—” Blaine lifts it in his free hand, and Kurt sees, in the same moment that he does, that it’s just a blank card with a handwritten phone number on it, “and he asked what kind of costumes we wear at Six Flags, and wow, he was totally hitting on me.”
“Like a piñata,” he tells him frankly, making a whack-whack motion with their joined hands, to illustrate. He’s trying not to take this too seriously (and, okay, it is a little funny that Rolf from The Sound of Music just handed Blaine his phone number; Kurt can appreciate the absurdity in that); he’s trying to sound light and easy, like he hadn’t felt something in him twist at seeing Blaine laugh with a handsome boy who looked old enough that he probably could walk into an R-rated movie without getting carded.
(Kurt always gets carded.)
Blaine peers at him, and then he does the head tilt that Kurt hates, both for how adorable it is and because it always means that Blaine has figured something out, usually something that Kurt didn’t necessarily want him to figure out. “Kurt, are you jealous?”
“No,” Kurt says defensively, and then, in a move that surely isn’t suspicious at all, he pointedly refuses to meet Blaine’s eyes.
“Kurt.” His name sounds a little wondering, a little surprised, and a little like Blaine is trying not to laugh. They’re in the parking lot now, surrounded by small knots of theater-goers talking by their cars and kids playing tag under the streetlights. It’s a beautiful night; the storms must have cleared up while they were inside the performance. There are crickets chirping and cicadas lazily buzzing from the grass and bushes at the edge of the parking lot, and Blaine is stopping and tugging Kurt’s hand until he stops, too, and turns to face him. Blaine’s face has gone terrifyingly earnest as he takes Kurt’s other hand. “I would never—”
“I know,” Kurt assures him, as fast as he’s physically able, squeezing his hands tight. “I know you wouldn’t. We’re not the New Directions; we’re above playing romantic partner musical chairs of infidelity.” Blaine’s mouth moves in just the barest suggestion of a smile; he still looks worried, his face drawn under the sickly light from the streetlamp. We’re always honest with each other, Kurt reminds himself, and he takes a deep breath and finishes, “I’m not actually concerned that you’re going to run away with the gayest Rolf in the history of Rolfs; I just – don’t like watching him ineffectually try to flirt with you.”
It sounds so stupid when he says it out loud. He can feel his face burning, and he really wants to break eye contact. But the amusement and the pity that he’s dreading never come.
Blaine says softly, “I’m sorry.”
He sighs and double-taps the key to remotely unlock the doors. A row down, the Navigator beeps and its lights flash. “You didn’t do anything to be sorry for, Blaine, unless being good-looking and naturally charming is a character flaw.”
Blaine looks torn between being touched and really flattered, and wanting to correct him. He settles for a gentle snort, and then he glances over his shoulder and says, “Come on, come here,” and before Kurt is entirely certain of what is going on, he has been pulled over to the car and bundled into the backseat, Blaine climbing in behind him. He shuts the door and then turns toward Kurt, balanced on his knees, and he cups his face in both hands.
“I love you,” Blaine says, and before Kurt can say it back, he keeps going, “and you don’t have anything to be jealous about; I don’t want to be with anyone but you, and that’s still going to be true after we move to New York and meet queer guys who aren’t violent closeted bullies or dressed like Hitler Youth.” Kurt glances down and shuts his eyes and huffs a silent breath of laughter, and then Blaine tilts his chin back up. When he opens his eyes, Blaine is watching him, his expression warm. “You’re incredible, Kurt; every time I think I know everything about you, you amaze me with something new, and – I–” Blaine is always better with songs than with words, but this is tongue-tied even by his own sorry standards. Kurt’s face is warm (Kurt’s everything is warm; where did Blaine Anderson even come from? how is he in his life?); he reaches up and curls a hand loosely around Blaine’s wrist.
“And I’m going to be really, really jealous when guys flirt with you all the time in New York,” Blaine finally manages to finish, since whatever thought he was trying to articulate clearly didn’t make it out of his mouth. Kurt lifts an eyebrow and Blaine repeats firmly: “All the time.”
Kurt considers the darkness and the tinted windows. He rests both hands on Blaine’s knees and he asks, “How jealous?” with a carefully tilted head and upswing to his voice, which he can hear go breathy and higher.
For someone who can be so oblivious at times, Blaine is remarkably good at picking up on Kurt’s ‘let’s make out now’ signals. Which, granted, aren’t subtle. “Wildly,” he promises, leaning in and pressing the curve of his smile against Kurt’s, and then they stop talking.
When he takes Blaine home at the end of the night, they have to give each other a once-over in the driveway to make sure that sweaters and hair and scarves have been put back to rights before either of them goes home to their parents. The goodbye kiss goes on long enough that someone inside noisily slams a window shut in an obvious bid to remind them of curfews and other people’s awareness of the fact that they’ve been standing on the front porch for at least ten minutes.
Kurt is smiling as he swings back to his car; he smiles even more after he finds the crumpled business card tucked into his cupholder.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Page 1 of 2