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Connection (3/5 + Epilogue)

Title: Connection
Author: devonwood
Word Count: 35,100
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex. Mentions of homophobia, off-screen violence, and sexual assault relating to canon events between Kurt and Karofsky in NBK, as well as Blaine at Sadie Hawkins.

The full header and links to other chapters can be found in the Masterpost.

Chapter Three


I swear, you don’t realize how many words twenty-five thousand is until you sit down and do a word count and cry over the fact that you’ve been giving yourself carpal tunnel over two stupid idiot boys in love, and you’re only at fourteen thousand words with two months to go and an entire B plot to wrap up in a way you haven’t quite thought of yet. I was hoping to get more done over winter break, but I’ve been lucky to put my metaphorical pen to the metaphorical paper for more than two or three hundred words a day.


#i need a manicure. stat.

1 Notes Reblog [Heart]



partfalseparttrue said: I believe in you. Need me to prod you later? Or will you be busy with pre-Christmas festivities?

I’m not going to be in the Nativity scene at Grace Community Church, if that’s what you’re asking. I told my dad never again after I was eight and Gabriel and one of the cows made fun of my sheep outfit. They just didn’t understand the subtle art of bedazzled hoof mittens and cotton balls hot-glued to the back of a white suit. Amateurs.

#partfalseparttrue #i was a pretty cute sheep #you’re not getting pictures

3 Notes Reblog [Heart]



Fic Rec

I’ve never worked on a project as long as sparklingtheaterofexcess’s Chevon Big Bang before, and I must say, I have a newfound respect for anyone who has written or beta’ed something this long. I knew it would be difficult since I myself have never been able to manage something longer than a couple thousand words, but wow.

I’ve been rereading a lot of “the classics” over the hiatus because there isn’t a lot of new fic popping up (and this is my subtle hint that people should be writing more fic!) and I want to remember how much joy they brought me a couple years ago. But I’m looking at the word counts, and it’s like, my goodness! Thirty thousand, forty thousand-- you all are machines!

Anyway, today’s fic rec is one of my favorites, with a whopping 50k+ of beautiful words and emotions and feelings. Lay It All Down was written almost exactly two years ago, and it still brings a single tear to my eye (okay, and then quite a few more tears...) by the heartfelt ending. If you haven’t read this story yet, if you came to the fandom late, it is quite a treat. Devon and Chase break up, but before you say “too soon!”, the story is really about them finding love again and discovering each other when they’re forced to interact at the wedding of their two close friends. Even though we have learned a lot more about who Devon and Chase are as people since this fic was written, the characterization is still brilliant and spot-on, so you know the author has a wonderful handle on our two boys.

Everything is quiet and understated, yet beautiful, like fireflies swaying in time with breeze-rustled grass. There’s a wonderful scene in the middle where Devon opens his heart to Chase and explains the reasons for his side of the break up, and you just feel so many things for two soulmates who were a little dense and drifted apart. If When Chase and Devon get back together, I can only hope we get a reunion as sweet and tender and full of scorching hot sex as the one in Lay It All Down.

#fic rec #chevon for your bls

32 Notes Reblog [Heart]
sparklingtheaterofexcess: Ugh, the scene on the dock? Cracks my brittle heart every time.


Blaine pulls at his tie, loosening it so it slips down his neck and brushes against his skin where he’s undone the top two buttons of his Oxford dress shirt. The Warblers rehearsal room is stiflingly hot even with his jacket discarded over one of the leather couches, but the council seems determined to continue rehearsing even though the air conditioner is broken and they’ve been rehearsing for two hours like they have every other day this week and it’s only the first Friday back from winter break and all Blaine wants to do is eat cereal in his pajamas and watch reruns of Law and Order: SVU. He never thought he’d say it, but he even misses the chaotic mess of the King’s Island Christmas Spectacular--and that was three shows a day in a scratchy wool suit under hundred-degree stage lights and caked-on stage make up.

He also misses being on Tumblr during the downtime, as pathetic as that sounds, because the increased Warblers’ rehearsals are going to severely cut into the time Blaine can chat with Kurt. After nearly a month’s luxury of rolling out of bed and spending several hours on the computer before his shifts at King’s Island, Blaine’s forgotten how much real life tends to...suck...sometimes, especially when he trips over a Warbler in the second row while trying to pirouette and the Council politely berates the other boy for being in Blaine’s way.

The third time Blaine is a semi-tone sharp in the bridge of “Raise Your Glass,” Thad winces like Blaine had unleashed a banshee shriek and calls for a fifteen minute break and vocal rest to make sure the boys are in tip-top shape. As the others file out to the boys’ bathroom down the hall, Blaine hangs back to practice the step-pivot-pose he can’t quite nail in the second chorus. The harmony wraps around him as he glides across the floor, mimicking the dance with a phantom choir following his every step two feet behind. The parquet floor squeaks under his feet with each turn upstage. The choreography goes smoothly until Blaine pretends to pop into the line and then jump backwards towards center stage, at which point his feet get caught underneath his body and he rocks on his heels, nearly tumbling forward.

Blaine huffs and feels his phone vibrate in his pocket just as he’s resetting himself to practice that move again. He pulls it from his pocket and slides the lock, revealing a new push notification from his Tumblr inbox. It’s from Kurt, like so many of his messages these days, and Blaine smiles softly as he peruses the fanmail.

My choir is doing a mash-up of “Thriller” and “Heads Will Roll” at a football game on Saturday dressed in full zombie regalia, but I’m not allowed to go with the no-contact contract (because of course the star running back doesn’t get kicked off the team for sexual assault, of course not). Surprisingly though, I am not upset at the loss. Do you know how difficult it is to get cornstarch and red food dye out of clothing??? Probably more difficult than *actual* blood.

No werewolves? And look on the bright side? In the event of an actual zombie apocalypse you could wear clothes from your favorite designers without having to pay for them.

As long as it happens a season away, I am fine with that. If the world ends with Versace’s fall line from this year I will offer my neck up to the first zombie, werewolf, or vampire that shows casual interest.

Blaine’s laughter echoes off the panelled walls of the senior commons, loud and boisterous in the otherwise empty room. He idly turns on one foot, slow and careful, bending his knees and ignoring proper form and technique while he taps out a reply to Kurt’s message. It should come as no surprise when he feels someone clear their throat and tap on his shoulder, but Blaine nearly drops his phone as he fumbles it in the air, startled and sliding back into awareness that more exists in this room than himself and, via his phone, Kurt.

“Warbler Blaine,” says Wes, frowning with his eyebrows pinched together like slanted rows of neatly mowed grass. “Might I have a word?”

Blaine nods, dread settling in his stomach like a dead weight. As Wes leads him to one of the couches pushed against the wall to create more rehearsal space, Blaine plots a detailed list of all the things he’s done wrong in rehearsal and the ways he can fix them, starting with the pas de chat he improvised poorly in the second verse.

“Is everything all right with you?” Wes asks once he’s perched primly on the edge of a chair like he’s about to take out a pad and start recording notes about Blaine’s condition. Sometimes Wes reminds Blaine more of a future psychiatrist than a future lawyer, and Blaine isn’t sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad.

Blaine sits on the couch and fiddles with the pillows for something to keep his hands busy, otherwise he’ll pull at the loose thread in his slacks that has been driving him crazy all day. “Yes, why?”

“You seem a little distracted lately,” Wes says, crossing one leg over the other at the knee. “I’ve noticed that you haven’t been giving one-hundred percent in rehearsals, and the other council members agree.”

Blaine bristles at the idea that the Warblers talk about him behind his back, especially the council who tend to hold themselves above the sort of gossip he’d been used to at his old school. It all boils down to Blaine not being good enough, whether from his sexuality or his soft shoe. For all they promote brotherhood and unity, they sure do a good job at singling out certain members of the group and giving them unfair expectations and crushing them under the weight of their own failure and burnt dreams. Or perhaps that’s just Blaine.

“Nothing’s wrong, I’ve just been texting with a friend that I spent a lot of time with over the break,” he says, which is close enough to the truth that Blaine doesn’t feel guilty lying about it.

“A fellow Dalton man should know not to text a Warbler in the middle of rehearsal,” Wes says, arching one eyebrow. “Especially so close to Regionals.”

Blaine shifts on the couch, rubbing his palms against his slacks as he resettles against the cushion. “He doesn’t go to Dalton, actually.”

“Oh?” Wes asks. “I was under the impression that you weren’t in contact with anyone from your old school. Been conversing with the enemy?”

The hairs on Blaine’s arms prickle as a wave of perturbation washes over him. He blinks at Wes for a long moment trying to gauge his body language, but Wes sits as stoic as ever, like a glass bird perched in a curio case. If this is a gentlemanly talk between friends instead of an interrogation or intervention, Blaine will eat his bowtie collection. What business is it of the Warblers whom he hangs out with? It’s not like they’re a cult of privileged, prep school boys who only hang out with each other. (He studiously ignores the voice of reason in his head he’s come to imagine as Kurt’s voice saying, “That’s exactly what they sound like, Blaine.”)

He clenches his fists into the fabric of his pants, quickly releasing it before they crinkle. “Not at all,” Blaine says, voice as even as he can make it, “though I wasn’t aware there was a strict ban on friendship outside our ranks.”

“Do you not remember the crisis of 1997,” Wes asks, “when two Warblers fell in love with a mezzo soprano rabblerouser from Crawford and it brought us to our downfall in a terrifying display of feminine wiles and intuition?”

“That’s not the same thing,” Blaine says, raising his hands a few inches from his thighs in a gesture of exasperation or silencing, he’s not sure. “Besides, I don’t even know if this guy lives in the same state. I met him online while talking about Sing.”

Blaine’s body freezes when he realizes what he let slip. He turns his head minutely to catch Wes’ expression of surprise before he schools his face into casual concern.

“That sounds most unsafe, Warbler Blaine,” Wes says, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees, chin propped on the backs of his hands. “This friend could be a forty-year-old malfeasant only masquerading as a teenager. What do you know about him, anyway?”

Blaine knows that Kurt barks out laughter that sometimes attracts his father when Blaine types something funny into the doc and waits for Kurt to find it. He knows Kurt has his mother’s eyes, and he knows Kurt only appreciates the Harry Potter allusion to a certain point. He knows Kurt’s wardrobe is organized by season then color then material, which is a similar sorting pattern Blaine has for his weekend chinos and polo shirts. He knows that Kurt is rough on the outside and vulnerable on the inside, like an orange, or perhaps a prickly pear, and he knows that Kurt doesn’t let many people see what he’s shown Blaine in only a few months. He doesn’t know Kurt’s shoe size or his address or if his eyes crinkle when he smiles, but he knows that Kurt has seen and appreciated the soft, squishy parts of Blaine, too.

“I trust him,” Blaine says. He feels his phone vibrate with another notification, but leaves it in his pocket. “An online relationship takes a lot of trust.”

Wes’ eyebrows arch even farther into his hairline. “Relationship?”

“Friendship, same thing,” Blaine says, just as the other Warblers begin filing back into the room. He stumbles over his words. “We’re barely even friends, actually. We just talk about Sing, especially now that the new episodes are coming back next week.”

That lie stings from his stomach up to his chest like acid reflux, because Kurt is the very definition of the friends he always wanted at his old school and, even here, at Dalton, where his classmates seem interested only in his talents rather than his whole person. Would they have taken Blaine under their wings if he couldn’t sing?

“You are destined for great Warbler things, Blaine Anderson,” Wes says, seemingly non-sequitur as they stand and begin to rejoin the dignified horseplay happening in the entrance of the senior commons. “You could be on the council next year if you so desire, but sometimes being a leader means putting the interests of the group before the interests of the self.”

Blaine sighs inaudibly, but rolls his shoulders back and straightens the now-loosened tie around his neck. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be better from now on.”

Wes makes an expression that Blaine can’t quite decipher and squeezes his shoulders with both hands like a pre-game warm up. “I don’t want you to be better,” Wes says. “I just want you to be you.”

Blaine doesn’t mention how not-him the Dalton him really is. Instead, he launches into “Raise Your Glass” and tries to feel happy at the Warblers’ combined faces of relief when he finally nails the note in the bridge.



Anonymous asked: ♪ ♂

♪: Song you’ll dance to at your wedding?

As someone who has been planning his own wedding since he was two years old (though fortunately, someone whose color palette has become more refined than Barney purple and mustard yellow), I have thought about this one at great length, and I’m pretty sure it would be “Come What May” from Moulin Rouge. I can picture it: matching suits, some of those paper lanterns strung artfully through the trees, my head on his chiseled yet comfortable chest as we sway ‘round and ‘round and sing the lyrics softly to each other over the accompaniment of a hired orchestra (doves optional). The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to love and be loved in return.

♂: Hottest male celebrity?

Taylor Lautner. I can feel you judging me, Tumblr collective, but I wasn’t the only person to watch New Moon with the sound off, lbr.

#i watched it for the articles #memes

2 Notes Reblog [Heart]



Anonymous asked: ☻♫

☻- Favorite blogging position?

Reverse cowgirl. ;) (At my desk on my laptop usually. Or blogging on my phone, in which case I’m on my back with the phone over my face (and yes I have dropped it on my nose more than once)).

♪- Song you’ll dance to at your wedding?

Definitely “Come What May” from Moulin Rouge. Every time I watch that movie (about once a month, give or take how long I can go without looking at Ewan McGregor’s sculpted...face...) I think about how perfect it would be as a first dance song. It’s over the top romantic, yes, but what is more romantic than a wedding? The joining of two souls forever throughout eternity?? (ノ´ヮ´)ノ*:・゚✧

#and yes i am belting it in my room now #no shame

6 Notes Reblog [Heart]



sparklingtheaterofexcess asked: Well this is awkward.

We can’t both have the same first dance at our weddings! What a faux pas.


Unless it’s the same wedding? Are you proposing? ;)

#staaaaars may collide #sparklingtheaterofexcess

17 Notes Reblog [Heart]



sparklingtheaterofexcess asked: Like I would propose via the internet, tch. It’s sky writing over Central Park or bust.

I won’t say yes unless there’s a Sing flash mob involved, honey, you know that.

#sparklingtheaterofexcess #i just got an anon who thinks we’re dating lol

38 Notes Reblog [Heart]
sparklingtheaterofexcess said: That’s it, I’m breaking up with you.


Blaine laughs, feeling as bubbly and light as the third glass of Diet Coke he’d had in the last hour. His European History textbook and notecards are spread across his desk, and the Wikipedia article on Charlemagne (opened to the references section, of course) has been tabbed for a couple hours, but Blaine only manages to click on one link or type two sentences of his essay before he’s pulled back to Tumblr, and Kurt, and the beautiful things Kurt is writing in the Google Doc.

It’s been a quick and eventful month, as January segued into February and the word count of Kurt’s Chevon Big Bang continued to increase at a rate that truly impressed Blaine, who had only managed a thousand words or two of drabbles in the same time frame. They’d chugged along and worked fairly well together, bouncing ideas from left to right, talking about everything from the fanfiction (Kurt: I still can’t think of a title! Blaine: Just use a Shakespeare quote. Or a lyric from Mumford and Sons. That’s what I do.), to their shared interests. There had been a couple of snafus along the way (Blaine: Kurt, you can’t have Chase crying more than once per chapter. That’s reaching Sing levels of absurdity.), but overall they fit together like two fandom-obsessed, teen boy peas desperate to get out of their Midwestern pod.

When Sing came back from its winter hiatus, Blaine hadn’t known what to expect from the fic, but if anything Kurt began to write faster--as though the thousands of words he produced would make up for the lackluster production of new episodes. And even when good Chevon-related spoilers arose around the wedding episode, Kurt refused to buy into them. “I’m not changing for anyone,” Kurt had said in a fanmail that Blaine saved in his inbox, “especially not for TPTB that think they can lure me back in with promises of filthy gay sex in the backseat of a hybrid sedan. We’ve been down that road before with unhappy results.” (Though Blaine deleted the next message, which simply said, “I’ve now blown up that picture of Chase’s hand on Devon’s butt to 500x its size and set it as my desktop background. Did no one tell the Brazilians to invest in a better megapixel camera???”)

There’s a Gchat message waiting for Blaine once he returns to the doc after skimming a Google Scholar article about the Magna Carta.

Kurt: You’re certainly in a mood tonight.
I like it.

Blaine: I’m happy.
Your rough draft is turned in and the artist claiming isn’t until tomorrow.
Realistically, you have the rest of the day off to celebrate making it this far.

Kurt: 1) There’s only a month left until this is due.
2) I am still like fifteen thousand words from the end, because apparently twenty-five thousand words was too few for my brain, of course.
3) I’m worried that an artist won’t pick my work and I’ll be last, just like I was every year when the boys were picking teams for kickball. :(
Also it’s two o’clock in the morning, “rest of the day” should be spent sleeping.

Blaine manages a haphazard glance at the cover of his history textbook, which has gathered a ring of condensation from the ice melting in his glass of pop. He wipes it away with his hand before it stains, frowning. That’s--well, that’s quite a lot of words. The piece is already towering at a whopping word count and Blaine knows there are still a couple chapters left, but for some reason he hadn’t quite thought about it in those terms. Still, it’s not like Kurt can just stop writing at twenty-five thousands words and call it a day, much as Blaine (and probably Kurt) would sometimes like him to. And it’s not like those fifteen thousand words are all happening tonight, anyway.

Blaine: Sleep is for the weak, and the uninvolved in fandom.
Besides, people are going to love your fic.
AUs are great and take a lot of skill, but what people really look to sink their teeth into is fix-it fic that ends up with their faves back together. And you’re providing that in spades.
The line about Chase reflecting on love while he listens to Devon shower down the hall is going to be quoted all over Tumblr, I know it.

Kurt: You always know what to say. :)

Blaine: That’s one of my jobs as beta. Grammar checker, cheerleader, and general pick-me-upper.
Also drill sergeant, when necessary.

Kurt: I’m going to need Drill Sergeant!Blaine in a minute if you keep distracting me.

Blaine’s about to type something sarcastic in response when a fic idea pops into his head that makes him metaphorically froth at the mouth in excitement. He can’t believe nobody in fandom has done a Chevon Cadet Kelly!AU. That needs to be rectified like, yesterday, and he makes a Tumblr post saying so before he replies to Kurt.

Blaine: Ooh, can you imagine Drill Sergeant!Chase and new recruit!Devon?
The uniform pants, the yelling, the sweaty and muddy obstacle course that makes him a man?

Don’t you have an essay to write?

Blaine: Spoilsport.

Kurt: You love it.

Blaine: Speaking of love...

Blaine hesitates, fingers poised over the keyboard while he waits for Kurt’s response. It seems to be taking a while, so he switches tabs to Spotify and starts putting together a romantic, mood-setting playlist that will get some action for Chase and Devon, at least. Maybe he’ll make a fanmix. He adds three Beatles songs before the notification noise from Gchat sounds in his headphones.

Kurt: ...Yes?

Blaine: Valentine’s Day is coming up, and I want to do something this year for a really special person since it’s one of my favorite, most lovely holidays.

Kurt: Do tell.

Blaine: Do you think it’s weird to write a fic for someone you barely even know?
I mean, someone you know from online but not in real life?

Kurt takes a long time to respond again. It’s possible that the internet connection is lagging with two people in the doc at the same time, especially since Blaine has two other docs open for school. While he waits, Blaine goes back to Tumblr and answers a few of the private messages he’d received while he’d been away, and one public one one asking Blaine’s favorite Devon outfit (he picks the seahorse cardigan from the season three finale, naturally).

When Blaine refreshes his Dashboard, he catches sight of the new, shiny, rounded number of his follower count, and while he says he doesn’t care about how many followers he has, it’s still nice to see a steadily increasing number that means someone, somewhere, thinks he’s worth hearing. He grins, rocking side to side in his chair like a happy dog wagging its tail, and flips back to the doc, more sure of his plan than ever with the latest developments.

Kurt: ...Not at all. Tis the season for large, romantic gestures--especially when they’re more meaningful than cheap Hallmark cards and un-sentimental teddy bears.

Blaine: That’s what I thought! I’m really appreciative of this person and what they represent, so I thought, how better to show that than with something I’m passionate about?
I mean, I’d like to serenade them, but I don’t want to show my face or my voice lest knowledgeable people from the show choir circuit find out who I am and harass me for Regionals information.

Blaine shudders. He can only imagine what some benevolent directors would plan if they found his Tumblr. Sheer horror, he’s sure. He’s seen some “secretly leaked” Youtube performances that were utterly terrifying, and one choir’s official Pinterest account has a board full of nothing but pictures of doe estrus.

Kurt: I’m sure they would absolutely adore a serenade. :) But if you feel so strongly about this person, and they return your affections, a fic dedicated to them will sing just as sweetly as you.

Blaine: Thank you, Kurt! I value your opinion on stuff like this.
I’m going to let you go because this essay isn’t going to write itself, no matter how much I would like it to.
Plus now I have this project to write, and I’d like to get it done before the weekend.
My dad’s planned out things every day, as if keeping me busy won’t give me enough time for a candlelit dinner with my boyfriend.

It had been Blaine’s fault--in the way that it wasn’t really his fault at all--for casually answering his dad’s question about his Valentine’s Day plans at dinner with a negative, but then tacking on, after a mouthful of polenta, that “most people my age go out on the weekend, anyway, because it’s a school night.” Not two hours later his dad had come up with a day trip that Blaine would have found exciting if he thought his father actually cared.

Blaine Not that I have any boyfriend. Or candles, for that matter.

Kurt: Or cooking ability. I remember the Great Mascarpone Debacle you posted about in December.
Good night, Blaine. Pleasant dreams. :)

Blaine: I thought we agreed never to speak of that again! It was a fluke, Mr. I-Perfected-Tiramisu-At-Ten!
Good night! Don’t let the fic bugs bite! :D

Once Kurt signs off the chat, Blaine closes the doc as well and stares at the nearly-empty one for his essay. He rolls his neck left, right, then cracks his shoulders and scoots back in his chair, ready to start his exceedingly brilliant paper on how Charlemagne’s crusade destroyed the might and majesty of ancient Rome.

...Well, after he disables StayFocused so he can watch a video of the Chase and Devon’s first kiss slowed down to half speed and magnified ten times its size.


The ninety minute drive to Hocking Hills State Park passes with Blaine mostly in silence as his father recounts his business partner’s latest debacle over the muted sounds of The Who on his Prius’ satellite radio.

In the morning, they hike Old Man’s Cave, a winding trail Blaine remembers from his childhood, one of the few family vacations he remembers from before Cooper left for Los Angeles. He’d been seven, which meant Cooper had been seventeen, about a year before he decided that fame and fortune were more important than leaving his little brother alone with their parents. They’d gone out during the summer, a hot, dry Ohio morning in which the caverns and trails were filled with tourists from all walks of life. Blaine remembers peering over the edge into Devil’s Bathtub, gazing into the endless, swirling water as Cooper held him by the back of his shirt so he could squint over the wall of rocks and down into the void. Cooper had let go of his shirt, just for a split second, and had laughed at Blaine’s blanched face and their mother’s indignant squawk and subsequent death-grasp on Blaine’s hand for the rest of the walk.

There’s none of that this time, though when Blaine and his father reach Devil’s Bathtub, he looks over the edge and takes a moment to remember the sensation of falling.

The trail is thick with tourists, though it is cold. Blaine’s jacket swishes back and forth with each step through permafrost on the ground. It’s not snowing, but the dirty cotton ball clouds in the air hang heavy with potential, ready to dump freezing rain on careless hikers without parkas. Blaine clutches his brown angora scarf tighter around his neck and burrows his nose into the warm, soft-smelling fabric. He walks a foot behind his father, the two of them slowly meandering through the caverns, squeezing between tight rocks that make Blaine glad he hadn’t opted for a larger jacket, and following the crowd up steps made of rock etched into the surface of the earth.

They pause for a moment in the gift shop, Blaine’s father taking a work phone call while Blaine peruses the tacky souvenirs and t-shirts and keychains like “Tight Squeeze At Old Man’s Cave.” He purchases a postcard with a picture of Devil’s Bathtub and stuffs it in the inside pocket of his jacket along with a stick of rock candy--blue, the same he remembers licking sticky-sweet the last time he was here.

“There’s still plenty of daylight left,” his father says upon reentering the gift shop, his phone stuffed haphazardly in his jacket. “Want to get in Cantwell Cliffs as well? I’ve heard it’s supposed to be nice this time of year.”

Blaine’s never been there, only the tourist location of Old Man’s Cave, but the pictures in the gift shop make it seem picturesque yet challenging. While part of him wants to get back to his computer and check Tumblr, he does admit that this day with his father has been fun, with only minimal veiled comments about father-son bonding experiences and relearning one another. With the sun high in the sky and the weather warm for February yet still not what Blaine would consider warm, Blaine doesn’t see a reason not to continue the excursion. Maybe, he hopes, his father will cut him some slack for a few weeks.

They stop at a gas station along the way to pick up chicken salad sandwiches for lunch, and Blaine munches happily on his while he checks Tumblr for updates during the seventeen-mile drive to the other side of the state park. There are spoilers for a prom episode that make Blaine roll his eyes over a song choice that will no doubt have absolutely no connection to his OTP, but he reblogs them anyway because at least it is some sort of news relating to Chase and Devon, albeit separately. Since the show had come back in January, there’d been a distinct lack of Chevon as a couple, only weird moments by the actors that could be interpreted as break-up sadness or indigestion or just about any other type of emotion because that storyline seems to have been dropped after the hiatus. Blaine is happy about Devon’s increased screen time, but he can’t help thinking it’s partially at Chase’s expense--even if he doesn’t like thinking in those terms and would certainly never post those opinions on his blog. Kurt would understand, but the rest of Tumblr probably wouldn’t.



Rewatching the break up scene over and over again for fic research. This is the fifth circle of hell. >:|

On the bright side, I've now been assigned an artist for the Chevon Big Bang! I'm looking forward to working with them, though this means the due date looms ever closer and I feel like I'm no closer to the end than I was when I typed the very first word (which is "The," for the curious-minded).

5 Notes Reblog [Heart]


Blaine clicks the like button and reblogs a photoset of Chase’s yellow outfits in season two before his father pulls into the parking lot of Cantwell Cliffs. The trail is more deserted than Old Man’s Cave, lacking the appeal of family-friendliness, and with most other hikers taking part in the Couple’s Hike later that evening at Ash Cave. It’s nice though, quiet, with Blaine’s feet crunching through brittle frozen grass and dirt as they make their way along the hiking trail.

“We should do stuff like this more often,” his father says once they reach the halfway point of the trail. He pauses, turning to look at Blaine. “We used to, when you were a kid.”

“We didn’t do a lot of hiking, dad,” Blaine says, though he knows what his father meant.

“We don’t talk any more.”

There are a lot of things Blaine wants to say: about how they talk but they don’t communicate, talking past each other like two people shouting into the wind in opposite directions; about how Blaine would love to talk to his father about a whole host of things like Buckeyes games and the Rachmaninoff piece he’s struggling with on piano and the cute barista he saw last week who definitely didn’t accidentally give Blaine a venti instead of a grande; about Blaine’s ambitions of performing, like his brother yet so unlike him; and about how Blaine is at his happiest when singing or writing or doing anything where his emotions aren’t bottled inside. But he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “I’m sorry,” and shoves his hands into his coat.

His father fills the silence again like in the car, talking at Blaine rather than to him or with him, while Blaine trudges down the path and continues scrolling through Tumblr for more spoilers, but mostly for messages from Kurt. They’d been talking in the morning about the direction of chapter three and how it relates to what Kurt had already written of chapter four, and Blaine is anxious for Kurt’s response to his questions. But his inbox remains empty.

Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine spots a thicket not covered by a layer of frost, with a few early wildflowers peeking through the dense brown and green. It’s quietly breathtaking in a subtle yet sophisticated way, and Blaine can’t help but think of Kurt when he steps closer to get a better look. He peeks over at his father, still slowly ambling down the path, making sure he isn’t paying attention. Even though his father would probably give him an eyeroll or at least a sad yet condescending look by being effeminate enough to appreciate the beauty of nature, Blaine takes out his phone and snaps a picture of the wildflowers against the stark background, anyway.  .

Blaine steps back into line with his father with a quick half jog, scrolling through Instagram to find the best filter that makes the flowers pop. He crossposts the photo to Tumblr and tags it with Kurt’s url, knowing he would appreciate the duality of hard and soft, winter and spring. Only after opening the Tumblr app to verify that the image posted does he notice the banner at the top of his screen warning Blaine his data has reached 50% usage for the month. He hears his father’s text notification and winces, knowing that the message on his father’s phone says the same thing.

“God, Blaine,” his father says after checking his text, shooting him a look and pausing until they walk side by side, like Blaine is heeling next to him. “It's only a week into our billing cycle. What do you even do on that phone?”

Make myself happy, Blaine thinks. “Just Sing stuff,” he says.

His father gives him a withering look. “I thought you stopped watching that show.”

Blaine had stopped watching it--at least, watching it in the family room, because he couldn’t stand his father’s comments about Chase and later, about Chase’s relationship with Devon. He’d taken to watching the show in his room with headphones instead, because then no one could bother him while he liveblogged and cooed over things like Devon’s Christmas present.

“No, I still do,” Blaine says. His father hums tunelessly, but Blaine hears disappointment in the melody and shrinks into his jacket.

“Well,” his father says, “I’m not paying for more data for the month, so maybe you should tone down the Sing stuff and focus more on your grades instead of a silly tv show.”

Blaine sighs, not bothering to mention how he only has an A- in one class, which will no doubt be an A anyway by the end of the quarter. “Yes, sir,” he says, turning off his cellular data before stowing his phone for the rest of the father-son bonding afternoon. That doesn’t stop him from planning the entire Valentine’s Day ficlet in his head while they finish the trail, though, drowning his father out with thoughts of two people who understand what love really means.



Title: Truly, Madly
Author: partfalseparttrue
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: approx. 4,230
Summary: In hindsight, Devon should have expected this outcome when he'd serenaded Chase on Valentine's Day. He should have remembered knee pads.
Author's Note: Set in s3. This is meant for all of you lovely people who have stuck with this blog since the beginning, but mainly for someone very special--my 1,500th follower! Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Chase lounges on the bed, legs crossed at the ankle as he casually flicks through an InStyle he'd picked up at the grocery store when they'd bought an IcyHot patch and, embarrassingly, another box of condoms from the same clerk who'd checked them out only a week and a half prior.

"It's not funny," Devon says, reentering from the bathroom in a pair of boxers and the IcyHot over his left knee. "We're never doing that in a bathroom again.”

“I told you it would be bad for your knees,” Chase says, the picture of nonchalance as he licks his pointer finger before turning the page of the magazine, “but you insisted you had to blow me right that very second.”

“You looked so good in those pants,” Devon whines, sitting gingerly on the bed before swinging his legs over. He fwumps back onto the pillow, hair puffing out behind his head. “I couldn’t resist.”

Chase closes his magazine and tosses it off the side of the bed before he leans over, straddling Devon’s waist, careful not to put any weight on Devon’s knees and thighs. “Let me make it up to you, baby,” he says, voice turning into a purr as he slowly runs the pads of his fingers up Devon’s quivering stomach.

Read More

#chevon #my fanfiction #guess who’s back...back again #sing for your bls

256 Notes Reblog [Heart]



Anonymous asked: are you and tumblr user partfalseparttrue dating???

Obviously not.

1 Note Reblog [Heart]


Blaine logs into Gchat later, more humiliated than he’s ever been in his life--and some of his lines in the show at King’s Island far surpassed corny and went straight into lame territory. He spent a couple hours offline earlier after he posted fic, never comfortable hanging around and watching whether or not the note count would rise, and then felt a hot sense of shame once he went to check how it was doing.

Kurt is signed in, but doesn’t seem to be writing anything new, just tweaking and re-working some edits Blaine made earlier to chapter four.

”Look,” Chase says, glancing at Devon next to him. His hair ruffles slightly in the cold breeze; a snowflake gets lands in one of his curls, and Chase longs to wipe it away. “I can’t forget what happened--”

“--I’m not asking you to forget,” Devon says. He reaches between them, wiggles one hand, fingers outstretched toward Chase’s own. “I’m going to live every day the rest of my life knowing I did that to you, and I’ll never be able to apologize enough to make that go away. I already accept that.”

“What do you want, then?” Chase asks, though he grabs Devon’s hand and squeezes tight, swings their arms together.

Devon squeezes back. “To show you I never stopped loving you,” he says. “To hear you never stopped loving me.”

Chase’s breath catches in his throat.

Kurt switches back and forth between ‘catches’ and ‘sticks’ in the last sentence before he backspaces the entire thing and rewrites the it entirely. So obviously, if he’s being that pedantic, he’s not in the writing zone.

Blaine: omg, you know that fic I posted earlier?

Kurt: Oh, I am aware.

Blaine frowns, double checking the notifications on the post. He doesn’t have a like or reblog from Kurt, and he starts to type out “Oh, because I didn’t see you comment on it” before he backspaces, realizing how presumptuous and BNF-y that sounds. Long ago, he swore he’d never be “that guy.”

Blaine: Right, well anyway, I wrote it for my 1,500th follower, assuming they were a Chevon fan, because what else do I post besides the occasional menswear and female pop stars from the early 2000’s? And I didn’t even think to check out their blog before I dedicated it to them.
Turns out.
They’re a spam blog with only a fake porn video for a post. :(
I feel so *embarrassed*!

And Blaine can’t even delete the mention in his fic header, because it’s already been reblogged by a couple hundred people. Thankfully no one else has pointed it out, but Blaine just knows there will be something in his inbox by morning. Does he make a post joking about it? Does he pretend he knew all along? He debates the merits of both while angrily deleting his Chevon Spotify playlist. There’s nothing romantic about a soul-sucking, commercial holiday like Valentine’s Day.

Kurt: Can I ask you something?

Blaine: Of course, Kurt. You know you can talk to me about anything.

Kurt: Okay, this is exactly what I’m talking about. You and I, we’re completely honest with each other, yeah? Or at least, as honest as two faceless people can be on the internet?
You know my name, my story, and I know yours, which is more than any of my friends in real life can say.
Was I not supposed to think that meant something?

Blaine: What do you mean?

Kurt: I thought the fic you were writing for someone special...
Was for me.

Blaine’s breath hitches. “Oh,” he says aloud, breaking the silence of his room for the first time all evening. He feels even more foolish than he had before. The normal deluge of words he feels when talking to Kurt dries into a trickle, tongue-tied from his brain to his fingers. He types several messages but they all seem inherently wrong, too full of meaning, not enough emotion.

Blaine: Oh. :(
Don’t ever for a second think you’re not special to me, Kurt.
I trust you more than I trust most people in my life.

Blaine doesn’t know for certain that Kurt is who he says he is--like Wes says, Blaine doesn’t know anything about Kurt other than what Kurt has told him. They’ve never Skyped, much as Blaine has thought about it after his bi-monthly five minute chats with Cooper. He’s sure Kurt is just intriguing as his words, but Blaine has no concrete proof. He doesn’t even have a cell phone number.

Still, he lays his soul bare. Whether it was luck that Kurt stumbled across his URL on an old Livejournal post, or an algorithmic string of data that predicted their meeting as one in a series of probable events in the online universe, or both, he may never know. But while Blaine doesn’t believe in a higher power, he believes in the power of human connection, which is just as strong, just as meaningful, just as resonant and brilliant and blinding on the internet as it is anywhere else.

He doesn’t know how to fix this one.

Blaine: I’ll write you a fic, I promise.

Kurt: It’s not about the fic, but I appreciate the offer.
I was just afraid I was reading more into this than you were.
But you’ve made yourself clear, so now I know where we stand. :)

Blaine bites his bottom lip. That...sort of sounds like Kurt doesn’t hate him any more, but judging tone on the internet is difficult without voice inflection and facial cues. What if Kurt is only pretending to :), when really he’s :(? Blaine doesn’t want to do anything to screw this up even further.

He toys with the hem of his shirt, pulling at a loose thread. Dithering, his mother would say.

Blaine: And that’s...still friends?

Kurt: I don’t think we could ever stop being friends, Tumblr User Blaine Partfalseparttrue.
Plus, people seemed to love your fic.
And at least you didn’t click on the video and get a virus.

A fuzzy warmth spreads through Blaine’s body from his fingertips down to the ends of his toes and back to the roots of his perfectly gelled hair. In his head, a blurry Kurt sits at his computer desk, waving his hand flippantly at Blaine’s silliness. They’re fine, and Blaine takes the first deep breath his body’s allowed in a few minutes.

Blaine: It’s a little suspicious when your info section is only one sentence and it’s in the Cyrillic alphabet.
And *you* didn’t love it, and you’re the only critic I care about.

Kurt: It was beautifully written, Blaine.

Blaine feels his face flush. It’s one thing when someone reblogs his posts with “fic rec” or “omg i can’t,” but it’s another thing to receive a direct compliment on his writing. Especially from someone like Kurt who creates beautiful prose in a seemingly effortless manner, like a butterfly that doesn’t know its wings can form hurricanes.

Blaine: Stop, you’re just saying that to make me feel better. :P

Kurt: I’m not, and you know I’m not.
You’re a lot better than you give yourself credit for.
I wish you could see that. <3

Blaine feels that fuzziness settle over his skin again, and he’s not quite sure what to do with the praise. To buy himself time, he rustles around in his backpack and finds the discarded pack of conversation hearts left over from his English class on Thursday. He shakes the box, closes his eyes, and dumps them onto his desk, picking one by random. When he opens his eyes, he reads the message on the front and smiles. “You’re Tops,” he says, and pops the candy into his mouth.

Blaine: I think I’m starting to. <3

Chapter Four


( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
Sep. 14th, 2013 06:14 pm (UTC)
oh its wonderful!!
Sep. 19th, 2013 12:32 am (UTC)
NGL, I've been wanting a Cadet Kelly Klaine AU for a while - mostly because the idea of Chris Colfer twirling bayonets is too awesome to resist. From our lips to fandom's ears!

Also...crying over Blaine and his dad.
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )