chic on the cheap

anonymous asked:

Hello~ May I prompt klaine in 'Are a singer and a blind person who falls in love with their voice' please? And then they meet and actually fall in love and all is right in the world :D

Anonymous said:I think I would die of pure squeals if you wrote: Klaine AU - Are a singer and a blind person who falls in love with their voice

Neooooww so cute

Klaine Bingo: Heart

“And this week, just like the past four weeks, Kurt Hummel’s third album, Unicorn, is topping the charts. To see the singer lead the charts with an album of covers, giving a new energy to old classics like Sinatra’s and the Beatles’ as well as more recent hits from Lady Gaga and Ke$ha, a new identity really, is truly a surprise.”

“I agree, Colin. I think Hummel’s usual targeted audience is showing an appreciation for oldies and goodies, beyond the studio expectation.”

“Precisely, Heather. And now, just for the kicks of it, let’s listen to the latest single from the album, Hummel’s duet with none other than Mercedes Jones, the cover of Madonna’s  Four Minutes.”

Blaine bites on his lower lip to keep himself from being too obvious as the song starts in his headphones.

His phone beeps in his pocket, and he stands up, unfolding his cane.

As much as he loves–adores, worships–Kurt Hummel and his voice, he still needs to get off the subway to get to work.

“Good morning Blaine,” Santana calls when he comes in through the back alley’s door. “Careful, the Motta croquembouche is on your left.”

Blaine takes a careful step to his right to avoid the left counter entirely. “Good morning boss.”

For the past two years, Blaine has been working for Santana’s event planning agency, “Boppidi-Boo”, and though they seemed to butthead on everything, they make for a powerful duo nowadays.

“Santana, I needed to talk to you about Puckerman’s napkins,” he says immediately, folding up his cane and putting his satchel on his desk.

“What about them?”

“He’s stealing from you.”

Blaine can actually feel the air swirling when Santana rushes to get next to him. “Speak.”

From his satchel, Blaine pulls out two napkins. “See, those,” he says, lifting one, “are the ones we initially ordered from him. Black Bengaline, high thread count. And those,” he lifts the other one, “are the ones he delivered for the Abrams-Cohen Chang engagement party.”

“I see no difference.”

Blaine unfolds then, running his fingers down both seams. “The thread count is completely different. One is high-class, smooth and chic, what you wanted and what represents your brand; the other is …”

“Cheap and irritating?”

“Exactly.”

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