Fic Scene: Glee/Inception Fusion Insanity from the Tumblrs
I've never figured out, before, how tumblr winds up being responsible for the creation of so much fic -- until today! Here is a screencap from my tumblr to explain:
A couple of people responded to this with OH HELL YES, so when I couldn't sleep tonight and the idea was still trolling around in my brain, I decided to bang off a few words to share with you guys. XD I doubt this will ever go anywhere, but it's better than letting it gather theoretical dust on my hard drive, right? <3
And so, I present to you: "We Built Our Own World" -- a Glee/Inception fusion ficlet mini-scene! Kurt/Blaine implications. XD I hope this tides all you lovelies over for the short steadily lengthening fluff/smut fic I'm working on!
The back of his neck feeling flushed and sweaty from the heat of the sun, Puck walks down the well-worn paving stones of the Venetian street with as much conviction and self-assurance as he can muster. Everyone he passes in the streets is better dressed for the summer heat than he is; the men in light cargo shorts as the women flaunt their arms in well-made summer dresses. The suit is the only clothing he’d thought to bring, however. He hasn’t exactly planned for a long stay. This is either going to work or he’s going to be turned down flat, and staying a few more days won’t do anything to convince this man in particular.
He crosses a bridge over a canal, noting that there isn’t so much as a single tourist in this part of town despite the season. It doesn’t surprise him: the area isn’t nice as in designer watches and fashion districts, but it’s nothing if not authentically Italian. Puck is fairly sure that he could take a picture of this neighbourhood from any angle, slap in on a postcard, and make an easy buck.
When Puck turns the corner, it takes him all of one second to realize that Blaine’s leads about the forger’s current location were completely correct. Blaine’s the best point man around, it’s true, but he always seems to have an eerily accurate idea of this individual in particular’s global location no matter which little hidey-hole he tries to burrow into.
Kurt - just Kurt, no last name given - is unmistakable as he sits at one of the tables outside the cafe, legs immaculately crossed and his posture as ramrod-straight as always. The slender man is perched demurely on an attractive wicker chair strategically under a draped overhand so as to avoid direct sunlight. There’s a tiny ceramic cup of what Puck can only assume to be espresso on the table in front of him, as well as an unfolded newspaper. He looks up, the movement fluid in a way that makes him appear even more fey and delicate, and his eyes light up when he catches Puck’s eye.
“Darling,” Kurt purrs, uncrossing his legs and sitting up even straighter in his chair. He doesn’t sound even the slightest bit surprised to see him here, two continents away from where they last crossed paths four months ago, and Puck honestly doesn’t know if he’s been tipped off or if Kurt just expects to see anyone from his life at any given point in time no matter his physical location. “How absolutely fabulous. Whatever brings you to the floating city?”
“Kurt,” says Puck, nodding in greeting, as he lowers himself into the unoccupied chair.
“No Blaine?” asks Kurt, cocking an eyebrow and raising a delicate hand to flutter along the side of his face. It pulls up the sleeve of his expensive-looking dark purple button-up, exposing one of his thin wrists. Puck isn’t fooled. He’s seen this man take out four goons twice his size with only a table leg and a pocket knife - in real life, too, not even in a dream. Kurt pouts his bottom lip, giving Puck an exaggerated look. “Is he still trailing after you like a little lost puppy?”
“Blaine’s the best at what he does,” says Puck noncommittally, shifting anxiously in his seat to look over his shoulder. Something doesn’t feel quite right in this place. Something is off, but he can’t tell what.
“I never questioned his qualifications, only his common sense. Now.” Kurt leans in close, weaving his hands together and resting his chin on top of his fingers. “What brings you to my corner of the world?”
There’s no point in beating around the bush. The man in front of him is either going to be on board or laugh in his face, and if Mr. Wesley’s timeline is accurate they’re going to be needing to get their team assembled as quickly as possible if they’re going to have any hope in hell of pulling this off. Two images flash beneath Puck’s eyelids in quick succession. A beautiful fine-featured blonde woman cradling a baby in her arms. A seven-year-old girl looking over her shoulder in their old yard, but he glances away before he can see her face. Puck shoves it all down before he lets himself get lost in those dangerous, dangerous memories.
“Inception,” says Puck casually, leaning back in his chair. Kurt raises one fine eyebrow. “I know, I know. You’re probably thinking -”
“It’s best for everyone if you don’t try to assume you know what I’m thinking, actually,” says the man in front of him smoothly.
“Fuck, Kurt, I’m serious,” hisses Puck, leaning in closer. This already isn’t going as well as they’d hoped, and fuck if they don't need Kurt. He’s the best forger they know, no question of that, and the pool for their particular line of work is very small indeed. “We think we might actually stand a chance with this. We have a job lined up, too. A high-paying one.”
“It’s never been done.”
“Then we’ll be the first.”
A wicked smile comes over Kurt’s face. He leans in close in a way that would have once made Puck uncomfortable. He’s seen far, far too many things to be even slightly affected by a slight intrusion in his personal space anymore, however. “Despite my natural tendency to run towards scepticism,” murmurs Kurt flirtatiously, looking up into Puck’s eyes through his eyelashes, “I think our main problem right this second is the hired guns across the street.”
The words are like having a bucket of cold water poured over Puck’s head, but neither of them move. For all the world looking like he’s hitting on Puck outrageously, Kurt continues without taking a breath. “Three of them that I can see, definitely armed. I’ll trip them up, you make a run for it, and we’ll meet back here. If someone cares enough about this job to try to have you killed, Puckerman, I’m in.” He licks his lips, a slow smile spreading over his face. “In fifteen seconds, you’re going to want to run.”
Kurt winks, standing up and heading across the street. Puck can hear him say something in Italian in that high, unmistakable voice of his. When the fifteen seconds are up, Puck doesn’t hesitate - his feet hit the ground hard as he pushes up from the table and flies down the street with all the speed he can muster. There’s the sound of a loud crash behind him, but Puck throws himself around the corner and doesn’t look back.
A couple of people responded to this with OH HELL YES, so when I couldn't sleep tonight and the idea was still trolling around in my brain, I decided to bang off a few words to share with you guys. XD I doubt this will ever go anywhere, but it's better than letting it gather theoretical dust on my hard drive, right? <3
And so, I present to you: "We Built Our Own World" -- a Glee/Inception fusion ficlet mini-scene! Kurt/Blaine implications. XD I hope this tides all you lovelies over for the short steadily lengthening fluff/smut fic I'm working on!
The back of his neck feeling flushed and sweaty from the heat of the sun, Puck walks down the well-worn paving stones of the Venetian street with as much conviction and self-assurance as he can muster. Everyone he passes in the streets is better dressed for the summer heat than he is; the men in light cargo shorts as the women flaunt their arms in well-made summer dresses. The suit is the only clothing he’d thought to bring, however. He hasn’t exactly planned for a long stay. This is either going to work or he’s going to be turned down flat, and staying a few more days won’t do anything to convince this man in particular.
He crosses a bridge over a canal, noting that there isn’t so much as a single tourist in this part of town despite the season. It doesn’t surprise him: the area isn’t nice as in designer watches and fashion districts, but it’s nothing if not authentically Italian. Puck is fairly sure that he could take a picture of this neighbourhood from any angle, slap in on a postcard, and make an easy buck.
When Puck turns the corner, it takes him all of one second to realize that Blaine’s leads about the forger’s current location were completely correct. Blaine’s the best point man around, it’s true, but he always seems to have an eerily accurate idea of this individual in particular’s global location no matter which little hidey-hole he tries to burrow into.
Kurt - just Kurt, no last name given - is unmistakable as he sits at one of the tables outside the cafe, legs immaculately crossed and his posture as ramrod-straight as always. The slender man is perched demurely on an attractive wicker chair strategically under a draped overhand so as to avoid direct sunlight. There’s a tiny ceramic cup of what Puck can only assume to be espresso on the table in front of him, as well as an unfolded newspaper. He looks up, the movement fluid in a way that makes him appear even more fey and delicate, and his eyes light up when he catches Puck’s eye.
“Darling,” Kurt purrs, uncrossing his legs and sitting up even straighter in his chair. He doesn’t sound even the slightest bit surprised to see him here, two continents away from where they last crossed paths four months ago, and Puck honestly doesn’t know if he’s been tipped off or if Kurt just expects to see anyone from his life at any given point in time no matter his physical location. “How absolutely fabulous. Whatever brings you to the floating city?”
“Kurt,” says Puck, nodding in greeting, as he lowers himself into the unoccupied chair.
“No Blaine?” asks Kurt, cocking an eyebrow and raising a delicate hand to flutter along the side of his face. It pulls up the sleeve of his expensive-looking dark purple button-up, exposing one of his thin wrists. Puck isn’t fooled. He’s seen this man take out four goons twice his size with only a table leg and a pocket knife - in real life, too, not even in a dream. Kurt pouts his bottom lip, giving Puck an exaggerated look. “Is he still trailing after you like a little lost puppy?”
“Blaine’s the best at what he does,” says Puck noncommittally, shifting anxiously in his seat to look over his shoulder. Something doesn’t feel quite right in this place. Something is off, but he can’t tell what.
“I never questioned his qualifications, only his common sense. Now.” Kurt leans in close, weaving his hands together and resting his chin on top of his fingers. “What brings you to my corner of the world?”
There’s no point in beating around the bush. The man in front of him is either going to be on board or laugh in his face, and if Mr. Wesley’s timeline is accurate they’re going to be needing to get their team assembled as quickly as possible if they’re going to have any hope in hell of pulling this off. Two images flash beneath Puck’s eyelids in quick succession. A beautiful fine-featured blonde woman cradling a baby in her arms. A seven-year-old girl looking over her shoulder in their old yard, but he glances away before he can see her face. Puck shoves it all down before he lets himself get lost in those dangerous, dangerous memories.
“Inception,” says Puck casually, leaning back in his chair. Kurt raises one fine eyebrow. “I know, I know. You’re probably thinking -”
“It’s best for everyone if you don’t try to assume you know what I’m thinking, actually,” says the man in front of him smoothly.
“Fuck, Kurt, I’m serious,” hisses Puck, leaning in closer. This already isn’t going as well as they’d hoped, and fuck if they don't need Kurt. He’s the best forger they know, no question of that, and the pool for their particular line of work is very small indeed. “We think we might actually stand a chance with this. We have a job lined up, too. A high-paying one.”
“It’s never been done.”
“Then we’ll be the first.”
A wicked smile comes over Kurt’s face. He leans in close in a way that would have once made Puck uncomfortable. He’s seen far, far too many things to be even slightly affected by a slight intrusion in his personal space anymore, however. “Despite my natural tendency to run towards scepticism,” murmurs Kurt flirtatiously, looking up into Puck’s eyes through his eyelashes, “I think our main problem right this second is the hired guns across the street.”
The words are like having a bucket of cold water poured over Puck’s head, but neither of them move. For all the world looking like he’s hitting on Puck outrageously, Kurt continues without taking a breath. “Three of them that I can see, definitely armed. I’ll trip them up, you make a run for it, and we’ll meet back here. If someone cares enough about this job to try to have you killed, Puckerman, I’m in.” He licks his lips, a slow smile spreading over his face. “In fifteen seconds, you’re going to want to run.”
Kurt winks, standing up and heading across the street. Puck can hear him say something in Italian in that high, unmistakable voice of his. When the fifteen seconds are up, Puck doesn’t hesitate - his feet hit the ground hard as he pushes up from the table and flies down the street with all the speed he can muster. There’s the sound of a loud crash behind him, but Puck throws himself around the corner and doesn’t look back.