How do you document real life?


Hi, I'm Lauren!
(or rdm, if you prefer the shorter name with the longer story)

I'm 23, a university student and a self-confessed music nerd.

Here you'll find Glee, Disney, Sherlock, fic, musicals, pretty people, pretty things and my ramblings.
Oh and I have a tendency to overshare. Don't say I didn't warn you.


Blaine, age 17 (Timestamp Drabble Three) 

hedgerose:

The walls in the psych ward are blank.  They’re painted a neutral warm grey that’s probably supposed to be comforting but actually make the place feel too closed-in and constricting.

But that’s okay.  He doesn’t need anything, not right now.  His hands feel heavy and he’s okay with not moving them; he’s okay with not moving at all. 

It’s quiet here and no one’s asking him to do anything but talk with a psychologist (he doesn’t talk; words are more than he can do right now and his mouth feels loose, like if he started talking he wouldn’t be able to stop) and eat (drink) a few times a day.  It’s better than medical had been, in some ways, but worse in that he has to think about the Kyles. 

He doesn’t want to, but he’s told that he has to, and his mouth tastes like ashes and he can’t touch his own skin without feeling like he’s about to crack open and bleed.

He closes his eyes against the grey and doesn’t do anything at all.


posted 1 year ago with 20 notes - via hedgerose


give me therapy, i’m a walking travesty.

give me therapy, i’m a walking travesty.


posted 1 year ago with 293 notes - via blaineevanses

He forgot about Blaine D:


posted 1 year ago with -

misswonderheart:

misswonderheart:

certaintendencies:

lulz-chan:

certaintendencies:

au where Blaine is a wee little borrower who keeps stealing Kurt’s stylish buttons, using tiny scraps of fabric to make bow ties and hanging out on Kurt’s vanity because it ~smells nice

Look what you made me do.

OH MY GOD

OH MY G O D

;______________________________________________________; HE’S PERFECT 

OH GOD GIVE THIS TO ME

I just knew I’d start writing this. (Sorry that the intro is sad.)

Blaine still remembers the day his father came home with his hat in his hand, eyes cast down. “The woman has passed on.”

“The woman” was all his father ever called Elizabeth, but his eyes were red as if he’d been crying. Elizabeth had known about them, had always been kind. Blaine has many happy memories of sitting with his mother on Elizabeth’s dresser as she would fix her makeup or brush her hair. She had always been generous with food, and dispeled all of Burt’s notions about mice, to protect them from traps. Blaine’s known Elizabeth his whole life, and the idea that he’ll never see her again is just too big to make sense of right now.

His mother started to cry quietly; he wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t seen the tears on her face. “How are they?”

“Numb, I think. Eventually the boy will be inconsolable. The man has a hard time ahead of him.”

Blaine waits for a moment before slowly standing. “Mother, is it all right if I go sit outside?”

“Yes dear, just be careful,” she says absently. Father’s sitting with his arm around her shoulders, his face tipped against her hair.

Blaine takes his hat to keep up the pretense, but he heads straight for Kurt’s room. There’s a small opening in the corner by his bed, one they don’t use much because Blaine’s parents had been strict about keeping their presence secret from “the boy,” but Blaine squeezes his way through. He makes the long climb up to the windowsill and surveys the room from behind the curtain. Kurt is there, curled up on his bed around a teddy bear, his face pressed into its fur. By the soft rise and fall of his chest, Blaine thinks he’s asleep. He must be so tired, and so sad.

Blaine knows it’s dangerous, knows that he would probably be forbidden to go into the house for months if his father found out, but right now it doesn’t matter. Carefully, so carefully, Blaine lowers himself onto the bed and makes his way across the quilt — Elizabeth made this for him, she’s everywhere in this house, how are any of them going to live without her — until he’s right next to Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt hasn’t moved, and he still doesn’t as Blaine lowers himself to sit. Blaine wishes, for the first time in his life, that he was a big person. He wishes that he could hug Kurt, that he could pull him close and let him cry.

Blaine’s too small for that, but he leans against Kurt’s shoulder, hand splayed along the soft cotton of his shirt, and makes sure he’s not alone.


posted 2 years ago with 1,531 notes - via devonwood © certaintendencies

fallingdowntherabbbithole:

bethmai:

FULL PERFORMANCE

I’m dead.

oh

holy

FUCK


posted 2 years ago with 6,768 notes - via aliarslovestory