Chapter Text
The idea didn’t start with a grand vision of internet fame. It started because Santana Lopez was bored and desperately needed an outlet for her venom that wouldn’t further inflame her incendiary police record.
It was a late Tuesday afternoon when Santana barged into the Hummel home, her presence upending its fragile sunset peace. Carole looked up from the sofa and blinked, wondering how a cheerleader had appeared in her home like a demon rising from a crack in the earth. Finn screamed as he emerged from the kitchen, a post-dinner snack of several sandwiches clutched in his meat-hooks. Burt looked up from his Guns & Grills magazine with a raised eyebrow.
Santana sent him a sharp nod and a salute, then went on her way, pivoting around Finn’s lumbering frame with the grace of a ballerina.
“What just happened?” Carole asked. “Who was that? She’s from the glee club, right?”
“Evil,” whispered a horrified Finn. “The Lord of Hell just entered our home.”
Burt chuckled. “Naw, that’s just Santana. Same corporation, though.”
“You know her?” Finn hissed.
“Course. She’s Kurt’s best friend. Has been since third grade, when he kicked that little shit with the mohawk in the nuts for trying to look up her skirt.” Burt raised both brows. “You didn’t know?”
Finn’s mouth dropped open, and a half-masticated bologna and pickle sandwich fell to the floor.
“Why does she have a key?” Carole demanded. “She walked right in like she owned the place.”
Burt refrained from commenting that Santana had had a key since she was ten, and that Kurt had keys to the Lopez home; that was how childhood besties worked. Instead, he shrugged and looked back at his magazine. “Maybe she does. Kurt might have sold her the house. I don’t know.”
Carole stared. “What?”
“Kurt owns the house?” Finn asked with a gasp.
“We bought it with Suzanne’s trust money so I could put all my savings into the shop,” Burt said. “When she died, the house went to Kurt as part of Sue’s estate. So, yeah, he technically owns the house. Selling it to Santana just for kicks is something he’d do, but I’m sure he would have nailed her with the closing costs. Kurt doesn’t screw around when it comes to real estate.”
“What!” Carole and Finn thundered.
Burt shrugged again and covered his face with the magazine, dry-cackling behind it.
Santana smirked like a goblin as she stomped her way to the basement door, preparing herself to descend into the underworld. It always felt like coming home. She traipsed down the stairs and stopped dead in her tracks, blinking against the sheer, blinding intensity of the space.
Kurt’s basement bedroom was an all-white, minimalist sanctuary of high-end design, pristine linens, and not a mote of dust. Ceilings as high as his standards and cheekbones had been reinforced and soundproofed, allowing him to sing his heart out while not disturbing the rest of this family, whom Santana felt should get on their knees and feel blessed for being allowed to breathe his air.
Tucked away beneath the creaky floorboards of a standard Ohio home, Bestie’s Bedroom looked less like a teenage boy lived there, and more like a high-fashion asylum or a modern art gallery. She threw her bag to the ground and looked around with a new eye. “Oh, good. It still looks like an albino surgery suite in here. This is perfect.”
Kurt turned from his vanity and raised a chiseled brow. “Greetings, Belletrix. Why are you here? Did I miss a memo from Hell? And pick up that bag immediately; the imitation leather is scuffing my floorboards.”
She smirked, then her eyes zeroed in on what was in his hand. “Is that La Mer’s new firming cream with pearls? The one with a freshly-formulated proprietary collagen and peptide blend that blurs pores and erases mundane worries like diarrhea and Congress? How the hell did you get your precious paws on a prototype jar, you miserable Ewok? I will have answers!”
“Not with that attitude you won’t,” he replied. “I don’t know to whom you believe you are speaking, but adjust your tone before I release to the public your diary from fifth grade. Do you remember that one, Santana? With the poem you wrote about how Quinn’s hair was a sunshine waterfall of loveliness?”
“Go ahead," she said with a shrug, “and I’ll post that Polaroid of you and the Puckhole getting your mack on in seventh grade.”
“That would only embarrass him. Then everyone would know he tormented me for three years because I wouldn’t go steady with him.”
She pursed her lips. Her threats never worked on him. Annoying. “Damn.”
Santana didn’t pick up the bag. Instead, she threw herself onto his white chaise longue, crossing her legs at the ankle like the dainty lady she was. She had spent the last week watching early YouTube vloggers and analyzing the ecosystem, before then setting up a dummy account and mastering the metrics and algorithm. She knew she had the star power, the looks, and the sharpest tongue in Lima. Well, second sharpest, but there was no need to admit that aloud. She could absolutely do this.
Regrettably, however, not alone.
She could have asked Brittany. In fact, she had thought about it sincerely. Brittany was beautiful and hilarious, but her humor was pure surrealism; she lived in a world of magic, unicorns, and blissful synesthesia. If Santana put Brittany on camera, the comments would be full of anonymous internet trolls dissecting her appearance, intelligence, or just calling her weird. Brittany wouldn’t have cared in the slightest, but Santana knew the dark side of the internet would have made her go absolutely feral. She would spend twelve hours a day dox-hunting a twelve-year-old in Nebraska just for calling Brittany names, destroying her own sanity trying to protect a girl who didn't even understand why people were mean.
So, Brittany had to stay safely away. She needed a different partner in crime.
As awesome and as hot as Santana knew she was—and she was fire—she also knew she was a lot. Like, a lot. Kurt was, too, but less so when they were together. He managed to temper and smooth her rough edges, becoming softer and more protective himself, and she wasn’t as combative and defensive when he was nearby.
Holy shit.
She just realized she was Linus Van Pelt and Kurt was that fucking blanket. Embarrassing.
So, yeah, she needed Kurt for this. And that was okay, because Kurt was a ride-or-die and wouldn’t allow her to put herself on the internet and be an asshole. He actually cared about esoteric shit like ‘the big picture’ and ‘future employment opportunities.’ That’s one of the many reasons she loved his tight, dorkalicious ass.
But she knew he’d be a hard sell for this one, so the usual begging and pleading until he gave in to shut her up wouldn’t work. Neither would be appealing to his vanity; Kurt knew he was attractive, but he wasn’t all up his own ass because he hadn’t yet realized just how hot he really was. That was probably a good thing, otherwise he’d just be a gay Puck.
Well, gayer.
Because everyone but Puck knew that closet was glass.
She would eventually have to lure Kurt in with trickery and the promise of shiny objects.
The main premise, however, would be the opportunity to exercise his elite academic and intellectual muscles, for Kurt most prided himself on his intelligence. He wasn’t showy about it but, when asked, he could wax poetically and confidently about an insane range of completely unrelated topics. He also had an eidetic memory, so he could recall arcane and distant facts at the drop of a hat. He would then somehow mystically correlate them with almost any discussion at hand, and then spin great webs of syncretic bricolage through conceptual blending via systems thinking. Because Kurt was just a Big Gay Spider.
She knew this—not the Gay Spider thing, the Super Smart Thing—because she had hijacked his neurobehavioral assessment in third grade. She had peeked at Brittany’s too, because it was similar. They were both autistic, but Kurt also had Generalized Anxiety Disorder, because of Aunt Suzanne’s death; Social Anxiety Disorder because of the bullshit the Allen County Public School System had put him through; and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, hence the bedroom.
Brittany’s synesthesia and alexithymia made her autism manifest a unique inner world in which she thrived, where feelings showed up as physical colors, shapes, or sounds instead of clear words. In the waking world, however, Brittany was often unable to express her feelings as actual feelings, so instead of saying she was sad, she might say her chest was flushing red and cold, or that anger was loud and yellow. It could be very difficult to interpret and understand, let alone do something that might actually help.
Except for Kurt. He always understood Brittany, and she was the only person in the world, except possibly Uncle Burt, that Kurt would not only die to protect, but kill to avenge. He was also a trusted and experienced translator of Brittanyese. And that made Kurt Hummel very dear to Santana Lopez. The only reason she hadn’t yet comically murdered his tormenters was because the idea of her getting in trouble because of him distressed him. Literally. The one time she had casually mentioned running Karofsky over with her car until he was nothing but a stain and crooked teeth, Kurt had had a panic attack at the thought of her being arrested and taken away from him.
Brittany had made it clear that when Kurt was upset, she got upset, and if Santana upset Kurt, Brittany would sadly have to make Santana pay for that, probably via Lord Tubbington. Santana wasn’t exactly sure how that would work, but she also didn’t want to find out. So Brittany and Santana held their respectively sad and furious tongues as they watched Kurt navigate McKinley on his own terms, as stupid and misguided as those were. He needed support, not pity or court dockets, so they complied.
One day, however …
Anywhore, Kurt was really smart; like, the kind you only see in a miniscule percentage of the population. He had a perfect GPA and had never scored less than an A in any class. Ever. He also aced every test and never opened a textbook except for looking up homework assignments. He had started taking concurrent courses at Windsor College as a high-school freshman, and would graduate and start college most likely as a sophomore or higher. Hell, he could have skipped high school altogether.
Sometimes Santana wished Uncle Burt had allowed Kurt to do that. Kurt had wanted it desperately, but Uncle Burt had worried about Kurt’s social development. By eighth grade, Kurt was already ostracized and ridiculed for being the shortest boy in class and so stereotypically gay. He sure as hell hadn’t wanted another four years of that level of hell, but Burt had insisted.
Personally, Santana thought Uncle Burt just hadn’t been ready to let Kurt go off to college, even though Kurt would have been so young that he would have had to live at home. But a more independent Kurt meant a Kurt who didn’t need his dad as much, and the Hummel men thrived on their codependence. It was better lately, with the addition of Carole and Finn to the household, but Santana knew that when Kurt was finally ready to leave, both he and his father would need immediate and extensive therapy for separation anxiety.
So, giving Kurt a new subject to explore in his nerdtastic way actually provided multiple benefits. First, it would be a fresh distraction from the old hell that was McKinley. Second, it would mean less time for Kurt to obsess over why Schue actively sought to thwart him while promoting a pygmy wretch with fingernails for vocal cords. Third, Brittany being able to watch Kurt on her phone or TV whenever she wanted would make her deliriously happy, which usually meant the sensation of tiny bunnies hopping on her head. Fourth, Kurt’s brilliance would actually ensure the success of what would otherwise probably be a total shitshow. And, finally, it would give Santana more time to spend with her best friend. Because she loved him or whatever.
Fuck off.
Santana cleared her throat, shaking off the sudden, terrifying brush with vulnerability before Kurt could detect it with his freaky emotional radar. She leaned back against the plush white cushions of the chaise, crossing her legs tighter.
"Alright, look, you evil leprechaun," she said, her voice reclaiming its steady, razor-sharp edge. "I’m going to throw a bone to that massive, concurrent-college-course brain of yours. We are starting a media project. Right here, in this blindingly white, pretentious void that I realize now must be what seeing inside Hudson’s head must look like. Shine a light in one ear and it comes out the other unobstructed."
"Absolutely not," Kurt said smoothly, closing his prototype La Mer jar with a definitive, structural snap before placing it exactly two millimeters away from his toner. He ignored the jab at his loveable, but willfully and aggressively ignorant brother. "As you so graciously pointed out, I have a perfect GPA to maintain, a strict ten-step evening skincare regimen to observe, and I spend my afternoons covered in grease at the garage. Furthermore, I am currently acting as a full-time minder to Finn Hudson in the outside world so he doesn't accidentally swallow his own tongue or walk into an open manhole.”
Because only he was allowed to poke fun at his brother. Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist. Touch your pearls and blow a kiss. Thank you, and gods bless.
“My schedule is a finely tuned Swiss watch, Santana. I don't have time for internet vanity."
"It's not vanity, Mephistopheloser. It's a structural analysis of cinematic culture," Santana said, leaning forward, dangling the academic carrot exactly where she knew he’d snap at it. "We’re going to review horror movies."
Kurt scoffed, finally turning his chair around completely to face her, his chiseled brow furrowing in genuine distaste. "Horror movies? Santana, why on earth would I willingly spend my limited free time watching fictional teenagers get slaughtered? I live a real-life horror movie every single day at school with stereotypes who have come alive to sing and dance. Slushies are the new chainsaw massacres, the football team is a roaming pack of drooling zombies, and the social hierarchy is a psychological thriller designed by a sadist, codename: Sue Sylvester. I have absolutely zero interest in the genre, let alone pursuing it off the books."
"Exactly! That is the entire algorithmic hook!" Santana’s eyes flashed with triumph as she stood up, stepping into his space. "You've never seen them. You’re completely untainted by the tropes. You don't know the cliches. You’re going to sit there with your pristine, over-engineered brain and react to the systems failure of these characters' survival instincts. While you judge their total lack of logic, you can dissect the wardrobe as representative art from their specific time periods."
Kurt paused, his defensive posture shifting almost imperceptibly. His analytical mind was already twitching. "The wardrobe?"
"You have an eidetic memory for fashion, Kurt. Don't play dumb with me," Santana pushed, a slow, goblin smirk creeping back onto her face. "You won't just see some screaming chick running from a guy in a rubber mask. You'll see her running in mid-century textile choices. You can talk about the costuming as a cultural statement—like how the 1970s final girls wore high-waisted raw denim as a symbol of second-wave feminist liberation. You can praise the pieces that hold up as high art, and completely eviscerate the trash blends. Meanwhile, I'll bring the pure, unadulterated venom for the dumb jocks who deserve to get axed while bitching about the unfulfilled expectation of cock shots that never happened. Seriously, why is it only ever tits? Not that I’m complaining too much, but I believe in equal exploitation of the private parts."
Kurt let out a dry, sophisticated laugh, though his fingers were already tapping rhythmically against his knee—a sure sign the Big Gay Spider was weaving a conceptual web. "Santana, please. Have you seen Rachel Berry’s tragic attempt at aura-farming on social media last month? The Broadway Berry Experience has a grand total of twelve views, and I am reasonably certain six of them are her refreshing the page while in a velvet track suit and eating gluten-free vegan bonbons. The chances of an algorithmic success are mathematically dismal. Why waste the cognitive output?"
“Rachel is a tryhard who wants a world of total strangers to love her because her fathers wouldn’t let her change her name to Barbra Junior," Santana said, her voice dropping, losing its performative malice as she looked around the soundproofed sanctuary he had built to keep the cruelties of Lima at bay. "I don't want people to love us, Kurt. I want a space where we dictate the rules. A space where nobody can throw a slushy at your face or call me a bitch without us having the final, crushing, monetized word. Rachel wants a theater-in-the-round. I’m offering you a digital fortress."
Kurt went still. He peered down at his immaculate vanity, then around the stark, blindingly white walls of the basement, which would actually serve well as backdrop. The diffuse lighting was already primed. Santana knew him too well. She knew that behind the perfect academic record and the flawless skin, he was just a terrified, hyper-vigilant boy trying to survive a town that wanted to crush him. She wasn't asking him to be an internet clown. She was offering him a shield.
With a sigh that was half-defeat and half-exhilaration, he reached out and picked up a sleek, monogrammed pen. "Fine, but I demand pure integrity. I promise not to Google, research, or read a single plot synopsis before the camera rolls. My perspective will remain completely untainted by internet consensus."
"Good," Santana smirked, pulling a Bleach notepad from her bag and slapping it onto his desk, "because the second you start sounding like a sweaty movie-geek with basement rash on Reddit, I’m canceling the project. I need your raw, unadulterated snobbery."
"Deal. However," Kurt leaned over her shoulder, his eyes skimming the casting credits she was writing down, his eyebrows shooting upward, "I am deeply confused by these cast lists. Is that ... Jamie Lee Curtis? And Johnny Depp? Kevin Bacon? George Clooney? Are you telling me these critically acclaimed and extremely white icons of cinema got their starts running away from masked psychopaths in low-budget gore-fests?"
"Welcome to Hollywood, Wonder Buns," Santana laughed, tapping her pen against the paper. "Before you get an Oscar, you usually have to get chopped up in a lake or stabbed in a sleeping bag. It’s a rite of passage for you Caucasoids. But the only actor you actually need to care about is the one who makes it to the very end of the movie. The survivor. She’s called the Final Girl."
Kurt paused, processing the term, synching it with his vast mental library. "The Final Girl. Explain, please."
"She’s the primary protagonist, though not necessarily the main character," Santana said, leaning back in the chair. "She’s usually the most observant, the smartest, and the one who doesn't get distracted by getting wasted or hooking up with a tool in a tool shed. While everyone else is busy being a total moron, she stays ready. She tries to warn them all, but no one listens. She’s just overreacting or is too dramatic. She watches her friends die, loses her mind, and then finds this hidden reservoir of absolute psycho-rage and weapons ability. She picks up the chainsaw or the machete, and she takes down the monster herself. She stands there at dawn, covered in blood, breathing heavily, completely indestructible."
Kurt’s eyes lit up with sudden, vivid understanding. A brilliant smile broke across his face.
"So she’s a diva," Kurt gasped softly, his eyes shining. "Santana, you’re describing a musical diva! It’s exactly like the eleventh-hour number in a Broadway show. She’s Patti LuPone in Evita, or Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall. She has endured the grueling, agonizing trials of the first two acts, her ensemble has completely fallen apart around her, and yet there she stands center stage. It’s the ultimate survival anthem—just with significantly more blood and hairspray."
Kurt stared down at the notepad, the term Final Girl echoing in his mind. He looked at Santana, who was watching him with an intense, unblinking focus. Suddenly, the systems-thinking in his brain clicked, and the analogy went deeper than Broadway. It hit him right in the chest, sharp and clear.
"Wait," Kurt whispered, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes locked onto hers. "It’s not just the divas, Santana. It’s us."
Santana paused, her pen hovering. "What do you mean?"
"Think about it," Kurt said, taking a step toward her, his posture radiating a sudden, fierce intensity. "McKinley is the ultimate slasher movie. Every single day, our classmates get picked off by the culture of this town. They lose their minds, they compromise their integrity, or they just become dead inside to fit in. Rachel suffocates under her own desperate need for applause. Finn is completely oblivious to the traps around him because it's easier than admitting he's set a few of them himself. Quinn is still an outcast because her pregnancy was a mirror that so terrified the other students, they can’t look at her anymore. Artie has become a borderline-incel because, despite having had two girlfriends, misogyny-core has more social currency than being a good man.”
She stared at him. She loved his mind, she really did, but she was very relieved not to have been included in that analysis. Sometimes she wondered, though not too hard or often, what Kurt really thought about all of them, their strange little group that sealed themselves behind the choir room door. She knew he and Artie had been very close before high school, when nerds united for safety and Kurt being gay hadn’t yet been a schoolyard suicide. She’d had no idea what, if anything, he’d ever thought of Quinn. She’d never seen them speak, really, though she often saw Quinn shooting him looks not meant to be seen by anyone else.
Even though he was her best friend, part of her really enjoyed that she didn’t know everything about him. She loved surprises, and his were usually good ones.
“The hockey team roams the halls like mindless killers, and the booster society might very well be pod people,” he continued, “but you and I? We are the hyper-vigilant one. We see every trap, call out warning, and then are blamed when everyone but us falls in. We tank the hits we can’t avoid and swallow the glass that chokes everyone else, but we don't change. We adapt. We build a fortress. We are the survivors, Santana. We are ... the Final Gays. Before all is said and done, we will burn that high school to the ground and then strut out over its ashes in fabulous couture boots as a rainbow soars high above us."
Santana stared up at him from the chair. For a second, the heavy, defensive armor she wore every single day completely dissolved. Her breath hitched. Kurt looked absolutely magnificent—resolute, terrifyingly smart, and completely untouchable.
But eminently fuckable.
Caught up in the sheer, intoxicating rush of his words, Santana stood. She stepped directly into his space, her eyes flashing with a raw, fierce affection. She grabbed his lapels, pulling him close until their noses were almost touching. For a split second, the line between platonic survival partners and total cosmic soulmates blurred so heavily that she leaned in, her lips a mere fraction of an inch from his.
Kurt didn't pull away. He just held her gaze, entirely understanding the depth of the emotion.
Then, she caught herself. She let out a sharp breath, a sudden smile, probably softer than she intended, breaking through the intensity as she patted his chest and stepped back. "Easy, Booster Gay. Don't ruin your facial structure. I'm a lady, and besides, you couldn't handle this much Puerto Rican heat anyway."
Kurt let out a gentle laugh, adjusting his vest with perfect composure. "The world isn't ready for that alliance, Medea. It would cause the globe to spin counterclockwise. And let's be entirely honest—if we ever did cross that line, the fruit of our taut, toned loins would undoubtedly be the antichrist. A stunningly gorgeous, impeccably dressed antichrist with a devastating side-eye, but the antichrist nonetheless."
Santana barked out a laugh, her sharp demeanor snapping right back into place. "Oh, absolutely. The world would stand zero chance against a kid with my rage, your brains, and and our combined hydration levels." She tapped her chin thoughtfully, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "But we're definitely keeping that idea in our back pocket as a failsafe, as we both believe in having options. If the YouTube algorithm ever dips, or if McKinley completely breaks us, we'll just unleash our demonic, high-fashion offspring on the tristate area.
"Now start outlining, you Precious Moments figurine," she said. “I know you know all about lighting and shadows and shit. And what we need to learn about cameras and microphones, you could read about and master within four hours. I can’t even imagine the Detailed Deficiency Dossier you must have compiled about Berry’s predictable internet failure.”
She then paused, her eyes narrowing as she recalled the final, crucial component of her master plan. She needed a catalyst. A shiny object so dazzling it would ensure Kurt stayed locked into this project long after the novelty of critiquing 1970s raw denim wore off.
And, hey, he had given in pretty easily and deserved a reward.
She needed Sam Evans.
Santana knew the two dorks had been crushing on each other for literal months, trapped in an agonizing cycle of mutual delusion where neither believed the other could possibly like them back. Because they were boys, and therefore idiots, they had somehow convinced themselves that they were just Really Close Friends who happened to share intense, lingering eye contact across the choir room and often didn’t realize they were holding hands. Bringing Sam into this media empire wasn't just an algorithmic strategy; it was a psychological intervention. It might actually force the issue, push them together, and finally put them both out of their misery.
More importantly, it would put Santana out of her misery. Watching their aw-shucks, small-town, sweeter-than-pecan-pie, nerd-and-jock Hallmark Hall of Fame romance unfold at a glacial pace was taking too fucking long. She was a woman of action, and she was tired of waiting for the credits to roll.
Besides, Sam was a certified stud. He was hunky in the exact razor-jawline way that Kurt was elegantly gorgeous. They were both completely otherworldly, and the gals, gays, and theys of the internet would absolutely tune in just to choke on the enormous cock of unresolved sexual tension radiating from the screen. Santana was willing to bet that before their first month was even out, Hevans would have their own dedicated shipping fandom, quickly followed by some really dodgy fanfiction on Archive of Our Own and trending hashtags on Always Twitter, Never X. It was a goldmine waiting to be tapped.
"Oh, and just one more little thing," she added, checking her manicure with practiced nonchalance. "Every good horror movie needs the perfect victim. Or at least some high-quality grade-A, farm-raised meat. I’m thinking we bring in Evans as our regular Very Special Guest Star."
Kurt stiffened, his fingers freezing on a speck of imaginary lint he was trying to pluck from his gabardine slacks. "Sam? Santana, what on earth does Sam know about cinematic theory or textile preservation? The boy's brain is ninety percent Avatar quotes and ten percent chocolate milk."
And his jockstrap is one-hundred percent fantasies of your perfectly pouty lips, Rainbow, she thought.
"Exactly, he's the perfect demographic control group," she said with a smirk, watching the faint, telltale blush creep up Kurt’s immaculate cheekbones. "He represents the casual, easily frightened viewer. Plus, he has those giant puppy-dog eyes that would look great on a thumbnail. Besides, Hot Lips actually does know a lot about film direction and production, just not for a wide swath of genres. Mostly superhero flicks and sci-fi. Him applying that lens to horror offers a line of discussion neither one of us currently possesses. He would be like a technical advisor. A really hot one. He also deserves a break from killing himself over his homework. So, what say you, Tink? Shall we make Evans our channel’s Star Search Spokesmodel?"
Kurt cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the alignment of his vanity mirrors. "Well... I suppose from a purely structural standpoint, having a contrasting archetype could elevate the comedic timing. And his impressions are oddly specific." He blushed. “And adorable.”
"Perfect," Santana chuckled, the goblin smirk returning in full force. "Then the Platinum Trio is officially born.” She held out her hand. “All aboard, Alabaster. We’re going viral."