Blaine huffs out a sigh as he plonks himself on the stool at the kitchen counter, finger tapping an anxious rhythm on the mottled granite. The whistle of the kettle feels like nails scraping down the insides of his skull. The staccato tap-tap-tap of his mother's stilettos on the tiled floor sounds like gunshots fired too close to his head.

Blaine hates the winter. He's cold. That bone-deep, aching kind of cold that makes him want to just stop walking in the middle of the New York sidewalk and breathe until he can get warm again, but luckily his self-preservation instinct is stronger than that...

The realisation stabs through you like a knife. You don't want to die. 4:18 REACTION FIC

Breathing. Blaine can hear breathing. Breathing that isn't his own. ZOMBIEAPOCALYPSE!KLAINE

"Excuse me, mister Blaine, but you're not very good at your scales." KID!KLAINE PIANO LESSONS

Kurt loves the fall. The lingering warmth in the air, memories from those lazy days of summer, but it's getting a little colder from the approaching winter. It's not as stifling as the summer heat can be – not that he doesn't like summer, lounging by the pool, Blaine in swim trunks rubbing sun lotion into his back – oh, he likes summer. But there's just something about the fall.

"I want everyone to see how proud I am of my brave, handsome, bushy-haired boyfriend." "Y-you think I'm … brave?" SPOILERS FOR PROM-A-SAURUS

Kurt Hummel had always been different. Blaine Anderson had always been the perfect son. A SOULMATE FIC