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lady-divine-writes · 6 years

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Klaine one-shot “Synced Up” (Rated NC17)

It's a morning of heartbreak for poor Kurt Hummel. After spending a magical night with a man he knows he's never going to see again, he loses his brand new phone. But things go from bad to worse when he discovers someone has found his phone ... and is taking pictures with it. (2345 words)

Notes: This is a variation of a K*urtbastian fic I wrote for an old Klaine Advent Drabble prompt 'cloud'. If you've read the original (Hidden in the Cloud) this one is completely different. But it's also inspired by real events (that didn't happen to me), Sex and the City, and, to a small degree, Cinderella xD

Read on AO3.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” Kurt grumbles as he storms off the elevator. He stomps down the hallway to his office and drops his bag on his desk, kicking his chair and the waste paper basket a la his stepbrother Finn Hudson as he goes.

“Language, Mr. Hummel,” Isabelle scolds playfully, following her cursing employee into his work space.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve lost my fu---” Kurt blows a breath between clenched teeth, stemming another tide of four-letter expletives. “I’ve lost my phone!”

“Oh, no!” Isabelle switches to serious mode, giving Kurt’s predicament the appropriate amount of gravitas considering how excited he was about upgrading. Kurt loved his new phone. He bought a Burberry case for it, spent the better part of one afternoon configuring it to perfection. Now three short days later it was already gone. “Do you have any idea where it might have disappeared to?” She watches Kurt root through his bag, pulling out the contents and laying them on his desk. She bites her bottom lip at some of them – an extra pair of underwear, balled up socks, a toothbrush, deodorant, a wad of condoms, and a bottle of lube that would choke a Rottweiler. She doesn’t know if he realizes what he’s revealing, if he’s just that comfortable around her, or so upset over the loss of his phone that he honestly doesn’t care.

Either way, Isabelle knows Kurt enough by now to know that he doesn’t normally carry those items in his bag.

Which means, despite losing his phone, someone got lucky last night.

“No.” Kurt shakes out his bag, sending the last scraps of old receipts and miscellaneous wrappers to the ground. When he reaches the bitter end with no phone in sight, he surveys the mess on his desk. “This is the seventh time I’ve been through my bag and nothing!”

“I just hope you lost it at home and not on the subway over here.” Isabelle sympathizes, but she’s also fishing for information on where her protégé spent his night.

Kurt plops down in his chair, holds his bag open at the edge of his desk with one hand, and sweeps his things back into it with the other. He doesn’t mention anything about the spare clothes or the condoms, but he doesn’t look embarrassed by them, either.

“Either way, there’s nothing I can do about it now.” Kurt closes his bag and shoves it against the wall.

The day is shot, and it’s only nine in the morning.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Isabelle offers, squeezing his shoulder.

He puts a hand over hers and pats it gently. “Thanks,” he says. “I will.” He flips open his laptop, preparing - albeit unenthusiastically - to get down to business. His computer comes out of hibernation, and already he has an alert in the bottom right-hand corner of his screen. Kurt glosses over it, but Isabelle notices.

“What’s that?” she asks, pointing a long, blush-painted nail at the tiny rectangular icon. Kurt’s gaze follows to the narrow box.

“That’s my Cloud alert. It shows up when my phone syncs to my computer,” he explains, positioning his cursor over it with a long, disappointed sigh. He clicks on it, and a larger box pops up. Kurt reads it, confused. “A new photo has been uploaded to my Cloud?”

Isabelle gasps. “That means someone has your phone!” she says, anxiously shaking Kurt’s shoulder. “And they’re taking pictures!”

“What the … no!” Kurt exclaims, opening his Cloud account to check. He knows this is his fault. How many times when he activated his phone did it ask him if he wanted a face recognition, pattern, password, pin, or some sort of swipe thing-y to unlock his phone, and he repeatedly pushed no? In fact, he was mildly offended that his phone would have so little faith in his ability to keep it safe. Obviously, the thing was right. “Oh, please be at home. Please just be Brian …” he mutters, praying that his phone slipped out of his pocket when he raced home to change and ran back out again, that it’s lying on the floor in his kitchen and that his cat took a selfie. Because if it’s not at home, it might be on the subway being violated by strangers. Or …

There’s only one other place he can think his phone might be. He doesn’t want to mention it, because he’s equal parts not entirely proud of it, and disappointed that he won’t get a repeat performance.

He may have left it at the apartment he stayed at last night.

An apartment not his own.

The apartment of a man he met at a bar, and then went home with.

A man he agreed to a one-night stand with before he realized – after dinner, drinks, and a lengthy conversation about school, work, books, movies, musicals, and future aspirations - this was a man he wouldn’t mind seeing again … a lot.

And the sex …

Kurt had heard of toe curling sex before, but had yet to experience it.

Ever since he moved to New York, he’s been waiting for his Sex and the City moment. He figured that, working for Vogue, it would come eventually. But five years had gone by, and not even so much as a pivotal Jimmy Choo sale.

Last night, he took a chance at going to the grand opening of a piano bar in The Village, some tackily decorated, wannabe “gin joint” with an obnoxious name to boot – Tramp Stamp Granny’s. He figured he’d do a write up on it for Vogue, that way he could get away with charging his drinks to his business account.

A foot through the door, he’d already decided he wasn’t going to enjoy himself.

But he saw a guy sitting alone, and they had a moment. The man bought him a drink, then he asked Kurt to dance. Kurt didn’t think it would turn into anything.

He was wrong.

He’d always pictured himself as a Carrie, and last night, he found his Mr. Big.

Kurt shakes his thoughts of the man from his mind. No use crying over spilt milk, or however that saying applies.

They agreed to one night, and that’s all he’s going to get. They hadn’t even exchanged numbers.

Which makes it fitting that Kurt lost his phone.

Kurt opens the picture.

No such luck on it being his cat.

It’s a picture of a hand (tres originale) wearing a black leather glove, and holding a parchment wrapped pastry - a cronut, he believes. Kurt has yet to try one since they became the newest, hottest trend in “expanding one’s bottom line”, not even when Vogue posted a review and Dominique Ansel, the chef who created them, sent seven dozen to the office. Too many carbs, too much sugar, too many empty calories. Yes, they smelled amazing, and yes, Kurt wept as he watched each and every one walk out the door with not a single bite of their flaky deliciousness entering his mouth.

He didn’t regret his decision to abstain, however, when he slipped into his Armani trousers later that night and they were a cinch to button.

But God, does it look good!

His stomach thinks so, too, because it growls loudly, reminding Kurt that he has yet to break into his morning bottle of kombucha.

“I know, right?” Isabelle agrees, putting a hand over her own groaning tummy.

Another alert box comes up on the screen and Kurt clicks it. A second picture opens, this time of a random Lord Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.

“Awww,” Isabelle coos, leaning closer to the screen. “Cute puppy!”

“Yeah,” Kurt scoffs. “At least we know that the jerk who has my phone saw a dog today. Lucky him.”

A third alert box appears. Kurt stabs at his mouse pad to open it. He wants to be bitter, wants to be completely furious that this man, whoever he is, is having the day of his life in New York, and taunting the hell out of him with it, but the next image takes him aback.

It’s of the same gloved hand, but this time, holding a beautiful red rose.

Kurt examines the picture thoroughly, hoping to find out where this stranger is. But the frame is focused entirely on the opened flower, the gloved hand a blur in the background. To the right and left, up and down, not an inch of scenery can he see.

“Are you sure you don’t know who has your phone?” Isabelle asks, a secret smile on her lips, wondering if the underwear, the toothbrush, and the condoms might have something to do with the mystery man taking pictures with Kurt’s phone. “Because it seems to me like he might be flirting with you.

“I … wha---?” Another box pops up before Kurt can come up with an answer, and he opens it quickly. It’s a difficult image to decipher at first - the same gloved hand, index finger pointed, but the object hanging off it doesn’t register.

Until it does, and Kurt x’s out of the image in a snap.

Isabelle snickers. “Was that a pair of handcu---?”

“I know who has my phone,” Kurt interrupts, eyes wide as his boss doubles over with laughter.

“Shame on you, Kurt!”

“Shame on me why!?”

“You weren’t going to tell me about your friend with the metal jewelry?”

“Maybe. Eventually. Yes. I just …”

The phone on Kurt’s desk rings, and they both go silent. Kurt and Isabelle look at it in confusion, as if it’s never rung before. From the light blinking on the panel, he knows that whoever it is didn’t call his line directly, but had to be transferred by the receptionist. Most of the people who call his office are looking for Isabelle, so they know his extension.

Which makes the caller on line 8 an enigma.

Kurt reaches across his desk for the receiver and answers it.

“Kurt Hummel’s office. Kurt speaking.”

“Blaine Anderson,” a smooth, newly familiar voice informs him. “From the bar last night?”

Kurt grins. Okay, a cat selfie would have been adorable, but this outcome is so much better! “I remember you.”

“I found your phone.”

The sound of that voice, coupled with the last picture Blaine sent, makes Kurt blush all over. “I can see that.”

“I’m heading your way to deliver it, if that’s alright.”

Isabelle, sitting on the corner of Kurt’s desk and eagerly listening in, squeezes his shoulder again, nearly digging her fingernails straight through his shirt in her excitement.

“Thank you. You’re a life saver.”

“I was originally going to hold it hostage in the hopes of convincing you to have dinner with me, but I figured an important Vogue employee such as yourself might need his phone.”

Kurt fist pumps the air. Isabelle offers him a mimed high-five, then discreetly tiptoes out the door.

She’ll let him have his privacy.

She can grill him about how his missing phone relates to his night out - and that pair of handcuffs - another time.

“And you would be right,” Kurt says. Once Isabelle’s out of earshot, he adds, “But I thought you said you only do one-night stands?”

“So did you.”

“True.” Kurt bites his cheek. This could go one of two ways. He’s hoping it’s a way that leads to a second date with this interesting, gorgeous guy. “But, you know, it’s not a hard-and-fast rule. I’ve been kind of re-thinking it.”

“I have to admit, so was I.” Blaine chuckles. He has the kind of laugh Kurt can feel. It reaches through the phone, finds it way under his skin. “Maybe we can talk about it. Do you have time for a bite? I’m carrying a cronut that’s been calling your name.”

“Has it now?”

Blaine’s mention of a bite has Kurt’s toes curling again. If he remembers correctly, Blaine left him with a bite mark last night, somewhere in the vicinity of his left upper thigh.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, his voice low. “We seem to have that in common.”

Kurt bites his lips together hard to keep from squealing and making an ass out of himself. “I think I may have a few moments … for the sake of that poor cronut.”

“Hmm. Just for the cronut?”

“That, and to thank you for returning my phone.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Possibly turning our one-night stand into a one-night, one-morning, with-the-possibility-of-dinner-later stand?”

“That’s … uh … kind of a long title.”

“I thought of that,” Kurt says, his attention pulled by the sound of the elevator down the hall pinging as it stops on his floor. “Shortening it might not get my message across. And I wanted to be very clear.”

“That makes sense. Well, a morning stand with the certainty of dinner later it is then,” Blaine says, and God! Kurt can hear his voice coming from the hallway!

“Sounds like a date.” Kurt plants his feet flat on the floor to keep from leaping out of his seat the second Blaine walks in. He has to maintain some illusion of cool, calm, and collected, even if he’s vibrating like a teenager in heat. To that end, he turns his chair, putting the back to the door. His desk chair has a high back. Faced this way, no one can even tell if he’s in the room or not.

Yup. Now he’s the picture of total nonchalance. What a brilliant plan.

Before he can change his mind, spin his chair back around and find a more natural way to sit, he hears the door to his office shut with a soft click. Footsteps stop behind his chair. His cell phone materializes on the desk in front of him, followed by a white paper pastry bag, that beautiful red rose … and Blaine’s silver handcuffs.

A strong hand caresses his arm. Warm lips dance over his jaw, Blaine’s cheeky grin undeniable.

“I can hardly wait.”

#klaine #klaine fanfiction #klaine fic rec #Frankie writes

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