just a twenty-year-old small-town girl who wishes that it was 1912 and she was on the Titanic. or that it was 1976 and she was in San Francisco rallying alongside Harvey Milk. obsessed with art, film, and great literature.
the fruit of my labors | answered queries | i am jack's creative ideas | scars & stories | bite your lip, pull me in
Passenger(s) on the RMS Titanic
based off of this fanart
Blaine’s keys jingle nervously in his hand as he walks through the front door of the vet’s, and he shudders to think that word, knows that there has to be some other way to phrase it because Kurt is just as human as Blaine is. But it’s still the vet’s, and there are still just as many full-blooded animals as there are hybrids in chairs with their owners. Kurt hates calling it that, too, hates how demeaning and demoralizing it sounds.
He steps up to the desk, smiles unfailingly politely at the woman sitting behind it. She catches his eye and giggles, flushing red and looking down at the keyboard before asking, breathy and a touch higher than her normal voice probably is, “How may I help you?”
“I’m here to pick up Kurt. He just had stitches yesterday,” Blaine says, winces again because he remembers watching Kurt get tangled in a forked branch on the tree in the backyard, remembers watching him fall. He shakes his head, hands over his card when the woman asks. His fingers tap absently on the countertop as he waits. On one of the chairs a young woman and her small poodle hybrid are talking in quiet voices. He can’t help but smile at them and think of his and Kurt’s easy rapport, how they’ve come a long way since Kurt was a skittish little thing Blaine had found by chance.
Kurt’s funeral is on a warm, sunny June day. he was only twenty-five years old.
“Blaine, man, hey—”
Another set of hands appears in the mirror, bigger and broader than Blaine’s own. They bat his away, and Blaine watches as they fall to his sides, trembling like desperate leaves on a bare branch. Those broader hands clumsily—but steadily—finish tying Blaine’s bowtie, and when it’s done Blaine nods, biting his lower lip. It’s a hair crooked, but he can’t find it in himself to really care.
“Thanks, Finn,” he says weakly, smoothing down the lapel of his suit. He looks over and gives him a flimsy tissue-paper of a smile. “I didn’t know you could tie bowties.”
“Devon’s asleep,” Kurt murmurs. He and Blaine are sitting on the couch, Blaine’s head against Kurt’s chest. Kurt keeps stroking over Blaine’s short hair, letting the thick softness of it rub against the pads of his fingers. He still can’t believe that this is happening, that Blaine is actually here again, real and so warm and solid next to him. His body feels heavier with muscle, perhaps weighed down even more with things that Kurt will never see or experience.
Blaine hums, closes his eyes. His hand traces over Kurt’s, fingers going over the mountain ridges of knuckles. “He’s beautiful.” His voice holds a slight tinge of pain, a tightness that Kurt finds impossible to overlook. He knows what Blaine’s thinking, what he isn’t telling him.
Kurt bends down, ignores the ache in the back of his neck as he presses a kiss to the top of Blaine’s head to soothe away the pain. “Just like his papa.”
watch the video before enjoying (slight nsfw).
“Are you ready to try this?”
“Baby, you know I was born ready.” Blaine’s tinny voice echoes in the emptiness of the hotel room Kurt’s staying in for his conference, and Kurt smiles at the blue glow of his laptop screen. He stares at the image of Blaine kneeling on their bed at home, thighs spread. Blaine has on only the tight black briefs, and he’s smiling, wide and easy. His hands trail absently along his thighs, fingers drumming against the skin. “C’mon, I’ve been half-hard all day thinking about this.”
Kurt shakes his head, laughs and rolls his eyes. “Of course you have.” He picks up his phone, stares at its screen. There are six buttons placed along the image of the underwear Blaine has on, and Kurt’s finger hovers over them as he wonders if he should tease or go straight for it.
at the end of the world—an alternate version of the shooting. the shooter, a man, gets into the choir room and singles out Blaine. with the threat of a gun, the club is forced to do nothing but watch helplessly.
(part one here)
(please heed: tw for mentions of rape)
~2,000k
Sirens, shrill and piercing, and loud voices, authoritative and commanding as they echo down the hallways. Sam is barely aware of them as he sits cross-legged on the floor beside Blaine, whose eyes have long since closed and who hasn’t said anything as time stretches on. He focuses on the rise and fall of Blaine’s shoulders, the serenity brought by his closed eyes. He wonders, again, what Blaine is thinking. He wonders, again, if he really wants to know.
He doesn’t.
When he closes his eyes, he can only see Blaine—brave, all the way up until the very end. When he lets himself think, he goes through every possible scenario where he could have helped instead of doing nothing. When he lets himself hear, it’s pleas and whimpers, nos and disgustingly animalistic grunts.
It’s December when Kurt gets the knock on the door. It’s snowing, and little flakes drift in to his house, swirl around his socked feet like playful creatures and melt onto the hardwood floor.
A hand, roughened from work and chapped from cold, presses something into Kurt’s slack palm. He’s still trying to process the words, the visit. He thinks he may be swaying, may have stopped breathing, but he doesn’t know, can only blink and stare.
The dog tags are cold in his palm, the metal of the chain clinking where it sways with movement like a pendulum’s. The words fade out, meld together into some unintelligible language that Kurt never wants to learn the music of.
you may want to read this first.
Olivia Reed’s favorite day of the week is unarguably Friday. Her kids, a bright-eyed group of six-year-olds, use show-and-tell day as a creative outlet for, well, whatever happens to be lying around their room, usually. Sometimes they’ll bring pets (with permission beforehand), sometimes they’ll bring toys. She once had a student pull up his sister, who was also in the class, and present her to the class as his “pet monkey.”
Today is a crisp day in mid-October. The sun is bright but the breeze is cool, and the leaves have just begun to change and fall. Littered around the windowsills of her classroom is all the intact leaves the kids could find yesterday—and there are a lot. She plans to dry them out over the weekend and bring them back for a project on Monday.
The kids chatter and clutch their toys and photographs and books to their chests as they settle into their semi-circle, Olivia at the head. She crosses her legs delicately, adjusting her skirt as it drapes across the stool. One child isn’t talking much—little Devon Hummel-Anderson distances himself slightly from the group, his wide golden eyes observing.
at the end of the world—an alternate version of the shooting. the shooter, a man, gets into the choir room and singles out Blaine. with the threat of a gun, the club is forced to do nothing but watch helplessly.
(please heed: tw for rape, slutshaming, heavy gun violence)
~3,100k
Sam huddles close to Blaine as the first doorknob of the choir room jiggles, then the other. Everyone’s holding their breath, and Sam feels the rush of adrenaline light up the tips of his fingers all the way down to his toes.
Blaine’s muscles flex as he clenches his hands and peers over the top of the piano before ducking back down. He looks over at the two teachers helplessly. “Do you think he can get in?”
Beside him, Mr. Schue shakes his head. His brows are furrowed, eyes wide and shining in the dim light offered from the windows high above them. “I don’t know, Blaine.”
Kurt’s POV—the sequel to this.
The sun is just beginning to set by the time Kurt and Rachel leave the movie theatre. It had felt good to unwind, just the two of them, for a few hours. They’ve both been stressed at NYADA, and Rachel has been agonizing over her audition so much that she’s begun to break out.
“Admit it,” he says, nudging her arm as they begin to walk down the street, “it felt nice to relax.”
Rachel, who had grumbled the entire way to the theatre, rolls her eyes and nods. “Kurt, I think we could be spending the day picking up trash in Central Park and I’d still enjoy it if it was with you.”
Kurt laughs, powering his phone on as he links his arm through Rachel’s. At least he’d gotten to spend a a couple hours stealing popcorn from Rachel’s bag and whispering in her ear about the poor choices the costume department had made. Though New York is still terrifying and huge at times, it feels smaller, homelier, when Rachel is around.
alexwishington mused: what if this episode was set last year and Kurt was the one that wasn’t in the room instead of Brittany
(because lbr I was thinking this since I heard the spoilers)
Gunshots. Blaine’s head whips up as everyone in the choir room startles, Rachel jumping next to him in her seat. Mr. Schue looks towards the door, his eyes widening, and when a second gunshot is fired he snaps into action, rushing towards the doors and locking them.
“Guys, quickly,” he says, urgent, as he turns around. There is real terror in his eyes, and Blaine’s stomach twists sharply as Brittany lets out a soft cry behind him. This isn’t a joke, isn’t some drill where everything is laid-back and laughable as they wait for Figgins to come on the intercom and drawl about what an amazing job McKinley did, that they can all return to class now like everything is normal.
There is thick, palpable, bitter, suffocating fear in the room as the echoing report of the gunshot repeats and repeats itself tinnily in their minds.
