Dear Kurt, a Glee Fiction

I do not own Glee. Please review!

Dear Kurt,

I would like to set the record straight once and for all. You ARE a better singer than little miss whatsherface. Alright, well her name is Aurélie Coquette. I'm telling you this so you can go and rip out her vocal chords. That voice can and will give me nightmares. Wes tells me that if I wake up whimpering in the middle of the night he's making you come sing to me. Not that your voice would lull me to sleep of course. But apparently I've been mumbling some things in my sleep that were supposed to stay enclosed behind these lips of mine. Well, at least, I thought you should be the one to know how I feel about you before my best friends. Even still, everybody has found out about it by now. My French notebook has become quite the victim to a vicious tattooing of "j'adore Kurt" and "Mr. Blaine Hummel." David stole it from me one day while at my locker and taunted me. He held it high above my head, which we both sadly know isn't that hard to do, and said he was going to show it to you. Remind me to rid myself of tall best friends after winter break.

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Dear Kurt,

My English teacher is not pleased with you. Okay, not exactly you. More like me writing about you. We have entered the wonderful world of poetry this unit. Yesterday, she asked us to write a haiku. Would you like to read mine? Answer yes, because I'm typing it here anyways.

Kurt Hummel is not

My beau but he is very

Hot and amazing

And last week we learned all about cinquains. You're going to like this one.

Kurt

Adorable Courageous

Singing Kissing Licking

Enraptured, Addicted To Him

Hummel

It's a pity; I couldn't pick glasz for my color poem. I picked pink, because uh hullo, have you seen my sunglasses?

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Dear Kurt,

I feel obliged to tell you that David's birthday is next month. The Warblers plan on throwing a big surprise party (though considering we do it every year, it's not really a surprise as much as an expectation. Maybe not having a party would be more of a surprise. My God, have I gone on a parentheses rant?) for him. Since Christmas is only a few weeks prior it seems nonsensical to get him yet another present. I plan to sing him a song. I know he has this irrational distaste for Celine Dion. Would you do me the honors of helping me rile him up and push all of his buttons. I have recently sworn my revenge on him, for reasons not to be disclosed. There's this quaint duet by Paul Baillargeon and her called "Up Where we Belong." It even has a little French in there for you. Wes is always telling me to man up and 'do it' with you. Yes Kurt, I do mean that it. Quick, take a picture of yourself because I know your expression must be too cute for words right now. I know my face is turning twelve unique shades of red. But seriously, we could 'duet'. Get it? Ha, we would so totally rub it in all of their faces. Nobody would understand the pun behind it except for us! It'd be our little secret that we could share. Just you, me, and- way to ruin the moment Wes.

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Dear Kurt,

This is the fourth letter I've written you this morning. I can not get your voice out of my head. Or that testosterone fueled impromptu of ours. Gosh your lips looked delicious. I was so looking forward to singing that line to you. It's my own stupid fault it was cut out of the arrangement. I felt dreadfully uncomfortable with kissing that GIRL. Have you had a chance to listen to that Katy Perry remix, "I Kissed a Boy" on Youtube? If you have not been fortunate enough, I'd suggest minimizing this email and proceeding to the nearest web browser. It's a whole video dedicated to gays. Would it be wrong if I told you I pictured you and me in every one of those pictures? Yes, INCLUDING the ones with tongue. Do you have any idea how many midnight fantasies I have about those skin tight jeans of yours that I see far too little of now that you're in uniform? You look absolutely delectable. So many times, I've wanted to shove you up against the wall before lunch and feast on that pert mouth of yours. But then I remember that dastardly Karofsky and how he shoved you against lockers and how you didn't like it. Perhaps I could prod you into a pile of pillows instead. If only I'd follow my own advice and have COURAGE. Then I wouldn't be cuddling a Harry Potter teddy bear at night. I'd much rather have you entwined in my arms.

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Dear Kurt,

I didn't know you were a fan of Salt N Pepa. ; D

Love

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From

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Love, Blaine

P.S. I didn't know I was either. But after that performance honey, you can call me whipped.

(I'll call you mine.)

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