wiseharry-deactivated20131103
But darling, I don’t care ©
Source: iclecolfer
klainernity-archive reblogged
in the corner of his eye Chris/Darren PG-13
So have a little thing for now, angst with a happyish ending. Around 2000 words.
Darren sways on his feet once he’s off the plane. Things look blurry and fuzzy, and everything feels like limp spaghetti, like the very act of lifting a hand would be an impossible feat. And he lets it feel that way for a few carefully metered out seconds before he takes a deep, burning breath and makes himself keep moving forward.
klainernity-archive reblogged
Do you have any idea what it’s like to feel something you just can’t articulate *
klainernity-archive reblogged
sevnthfolds-deactivated20210713
Although it hurts, I’ll be the first to say that I was wrong. Oh, I know I’m probably much too late, to try and apologize for my mistakes. {x}
#why would you#;___________________;#do you hate happiness#what the fuck i'm talking about what happiness#sometimes i just hate glee#even if i love it#i just#why#i'm so sad i'm gonna cry#otp: you've got to give a little take a little and let your poor heart break a little. that's the story of that's the glory of love.#kadam for bl idek man
klainernity-archive reblogged
LITERALLY EVERY SINGLE EUROPEAN IS YELLING AT THEIR TELEVISIONS “THIS IS WHAT I FUCKING WANT FROM EUROVISION”
aw fuck yes
klainernity-archive reblogged
The Hollywood Reporter cover shoot, January 22, 2011
wiseharry-deactivated20131103
Source: iclecolfer
klainernity-archive reblogged
1119999ffffffff-deactivated2017
klainernity-archive reblogged
radishfics
21. (Klaine Future Reunion Fic, spoilery kinda, PG-13)
It’s Blaine’s 21st birthday—the perfect time to hash things out.
AN: This is my “worst-case scenario” fic, where I took the idea that the writers will hold off on a reunion for as long as possible (speculation only!) and decided to just skip to the end. So it’s sad (I cried while writing it, which was very cathartic) but it has a happy ending if that’s what you’re here for.
xoxoxoxoxox
It’s Blaine’s twenty-first birthday, and he’s not going down without a fight. He’s been to ten bars at his last count, and he’s minutes away from closing the one he’s in now. It’s a small bar, narrow like most buildings in New York are, dark, quieter than he would’ve expected—perfect for talking while drinking. Which is what he’s doing, tucked into the booth in the furthest corner of the room, watching the bartender begin the task of shutting the place down. He’s exhausted, plastered, his hair is unkempt. There is no place he’d rather be.
“Last call,” the bartender says, with a pointed look in Blaine’s direction. Blaine leans into the shoulder next to him.
“I think he hates me,” Blaine whispers. The shoulder shakes with laughter.
“Nonsense,” Kurt trills gaily. “No one could hate you. It’s scientifically proven.”
“You did,” Blaine says, too drunk to regret re-opening the long-ignored wounds stitched together between them. Kurt gulps down the rest of his drink.
