They Are Beautiful 1/1
Rating: R
Pairing/Character(s): Kurt, Blaine, Blaine/Kurt
Spoilers: none
Warnings: HUGE triggers for self-harm.
Word Count: 1,332
Summary: Kurt will be beautiful.
Author’s Disclaimer: I sometimes write about controversial and/or triggering subjects such as rape and suicide. Please, if you will be triggered, read the warnings. The opinions/topics written about do not necessarily reflect the author’s own thoughts (please understand that this is fiction - my own opinions and/or mindset DO NOT translate to every single character I write - the characters depicted are not perfect and they are not me).
A/N: PLEASE note the warnings. If you are worried about being triggered turn away. Please. And HI! :D I wrote something - yay? And I love you all. ♥
~*~
They move together like they have been doing this for years, hands wandering and lips pressing and tongues caressing.
Kurt’s bed is soft beneath them, and Blaine is pressed back into the pillows with his hair loose from its hold so that little curls splay outward, with Kurt leaning into his chest and busying his hands with Blaine’s nape.
One of Blaine’s hands, warm and rough and delicious against him, trails up his hip and to the hem of Kurt’s shirt, fingertips coming to just barely reach under the material. Kurt groans into Blaine’s mouth, pushing forward and begging for more with the language of his body, until Blaine slides his hand upward a few inches, skimming over the sensitive skin of Kurt’s side.
The electrical zing of contact, exciting like nothing Kurt has felt before, triggers a cascade of thoughts in Kurt’s mind.
Not even an inch above the tip of Blaine’s finger, where it is moving over his skin in gentle strokes, is something that he isn’t ready to share. The near contact is enough to fill him with excitement and with dread.
Pulling away from Blaine, lips cooling quickly at the loss of contact but still feeling hot and swollen, Kurt glances at his cell phone. “What time is it?” he asks.
Blaine looks a little disappointed, but he doesn’t look confused, and Kurt knows he doesn’t suspect anything is wrong. “I don’t know. It can’t have been that long.” He smirks a little and squeezes Kurt’s side one last time before slipping his hand from under Kurt’s shirt.
Relief rolling through him, Kurt pokes his phone and stares at the screen as it lights up. “Eight thirty. Your curfew is in an hour and a half.”
“Mmm,” Blaine responds, leaning forward to capture Kurt’s lips in a quick kiss. “I could happily kiss you until the end of time, you know?”
Kurt, laughing breathlessly, presses a quick succession of kisses to Blaine’s lips, using his teeth to nip at the swell of Blaine’s bottom lip before he pulls away. “I’m sure you could. But my father, when he decides to come up here and see what’s going on in about five minutes, will have something to say about that.”
Blaine’s lips twitch a little in amusement. “You’re such a buzzkill.” His eyes disengage from Kurt’s and trail down his face to stare at his lips.
“Mm hm,” Kurt hums. “And you love it.”
Blaine looks back up, a wider smile taking his face. “You know I do.”
One of Blaine’s hands comes up to grasp at Kurt’s and Kurt smiles at the other boy in genuine happiness.
They sit together, enjoying the closeness and just taking in the presence of the other until Blaine has to leave, stretching their time together for as long as possible.
Kurt watches from his front porch as Blaine’s tail lights fade into the blackness of the early evening, eyes lingering far after his boyfriend has passed from sight.
When he trudges back to his room, yelling a quick goodnight to his family as he goes, Kurt shuts his door firmly and locks the knob. He knows exactly what he needs to do.
He strips from his clothes slowly, folding every item before placing it on the edge of his bed, leaving only his underwear to cover his body. In the privacy of his room he relishes in the exposure and allows his hands to move over his upper legs and arms, feeling the contours.
There is a ritual to this, a certain way that this has evolved into so much more than just an act. It is choreographed as precisely as any ballet; instead of a pas de bourrée it is the weight of a small box pulled from deep within his closet, instead of a pirouette it’s the feel of cool steel in his palm, instead of a grand jeté it is the sharp slide into pale skin.
His actions as he moves, cold feet on a cold floor, are smooth and practiced and he doesn’t hesitate as he sits at his vanity, a small black box settled in front of him reverently. The latch is simple and doesn’t lock, silver plated and shining in the bright lighting of his room.
The cool metal is harsh under his fingers and Kurt licks his lips as he pulls the box open, lifting the lid away carefully and slowly. There, just under his hands, are the gleaming bodies of his tools.
Their lines, hard and curved and wicked-edged, flow from one end of the container to the other, contrasting the black velvet lining with their silver shine.
Kurt’s breath catches in his throat as he peruses them and the tension in his chest, like a fist squeezing his ribs and battering his heart, culminates as he reaches forward with minutely trembling fingers to delicately pluck one of the items from its resting place.
As his hand wraps around the handle and the weight settles in his palm, Kurt is filled with contentment. This has never felt wrong, not like the bare planes of his body, because he is making it right.
The place where he will start catches his eyes as it has done for days now, the bare and pale skin calling to him and glaring back at him. It isn’t right, it is missing something important, and Kurt knows exactly what to do.
His hands move with little thought, precise and confident in every way, until the end of the blade points to the starting line. When he presses down, fingers clenched on the handle of the scalpel so that it doesn’t stray from its path, not even a little, Kurt sucks in a stream of air. He fills his lungs until they burn and then slowly releases his breath from parted lips, dragging the blade across his skin as he empties he does.
The pain is sharp and it blossoms from the incision like ice through his veins, prickling over his leg and catching in his chest and neck. He can feel it throughout his entire body, overwhelming and not enough.
Blood wells up around the point of his scalpel and it warms his cool skin and tickles the thin hairs of his thigh as it trails downward. He is quick to collect the stream of crimson blood before it can drip to the floor, pressing a damp cloth to the inside of his thigh and holding it there.
The blood absorbs into the cloth quickly, pulling into the material in fast movements that decorates the material’s pattern with creeping lines of dark red, like vines reaching outward. There isn’t a lot of blood, not enough to do any damage, but every drop, every glimmering flow, is beautiful.
Kurt wishes he could cut more, cut deeper, but when he lets the urge become overpowering, all encompassing, it brings more than emotional and physical release. It brings questions.
It isn’t always easy hiding his marks, his art, and he wishes that they would be accepted. Because when he wears his long sleeves and his tight pants he can feel them just under the surface, wanting to be exposed, but he is too afraid, too cautious, to that that happen.
Kurt expertly wipes his blade of blood and places it on a piece of cloth for cleaning later. With his hands free, he takes a moment to admire his work, eyes roaming over his legs and torso hungrily.
Scars. So many of them, layered and ranging from fresh and red to silver and old, cover his skin in a pattern that cannot be discerned but which is perfect nonetheless.
They are beautiful. They are elegant and flowing; they cover his body like the most edgy of fashion and they feel like pure grace under his fingertips.
They make him beautiful.
He closes his eyes and runs his palm over his chest and sides, wishing, hoping, that Blaine would see them that way, too.
Pairing/Character(s): Kurt, Blaine, Blaine/Kurt
Spoilers: none
Warnings: HUGE triggers for self-harm.
Word Count: 1,332
Summary: Kurt will be beautiful.
Author’s Disclaimer: I sometimes write about controversial and/or triggering subjects such as rape and suicide. Please, if you will be triggered, read the warnings. The opinions/topics written about do not necessarily reflect the author’s own thoughts (please understand that this is fiction - my own opinions and/or mindset DO NOT translate to every single character I write - the characters depicted are not perfect and they are not me).
A/N: PLEASE note the warnings. If you are worried about being triggered turn away. Please. And HI! :D I wrote something - yay? And I love you all. ♥
~*~
They move together like they have been doing this for years, hands wandering and lips pressing and tongues caressing.
Kurt’s bed is soft beneath them, and Blaine is pressed back into the pillows with his hair loose from its hold so that little curls splay outward, with Kurt leaning into his chest and busying his hands with Blaine’s nape.
One of Blaine’s hands, warm and rough and delicious against him, trails up his hip and to the hem of Kurt’s shirt, fingertips coming to just barely reach under the material. Kurt groans into Blaine’s mouth, pushing forward and begging for more with the language of his body, until Blaine slides his hand upward a few inches, skimming over the sensitive skin of Kurt’s side.
The electrical zing of contact, exciting like nothing Kurt has felt before, triggers a cascade of thoughts in Kurt’s mind.
Not even an inch above the tip of Blaine’s finger, where it is moving over his skin in gentle strokes, is something that he isn’t ready to share. The near contact is enough to fill him with excitement and with dread.
Pulling away from Blaine, lips cooling quickly at the loss of contact but still feeling hot and swollen, Kurt glances at his cell phone. “What time is it?” he asks.
Blaine looks a little disappointed, but he doesn’t look confused, and Kurt knows he doesn’t suspect anything is wrong. “I don’t know. It can’t have been that long.” He smirks a little and squeezes Kurt’s side one last time before slipping his hand from under Kurt’s shirt.
Relief rolling through him, Kurt pokes his phone and stares at the screen as it lights up. “Eight thirty. Your curfew is in an hour and a half.”
“Mmm,” Blaine responds, leaning forward to capture Kurt’s lips in a quick kiss. “I could happily kiss you until the end of time, you know?”
Kurt, laughing breathlessly, presses a quick succession of kisses to Blaine’s lips, using his teeth to nip at the swell of Blaine’s bottom lip before he pulls away. “I’m sure you could. But my father, when he decides to come up here and see what’s going on in about five minutes, will have something to say about that.”
Blaine’s lips twitch a little in amusement. “You’re such a buzzkill.” His eyes disengage from Kurt’s and trail down his face to stare at his lips.
“Mm hm,” Kurt hums. “And you love it.”
Blaine looks back up, a wider smile taking his face. “You know I do.”
One of Blaine’s hands comes up to grasp at Kurt’s and Kurt smiles at the other boy in genuine happiness.
They sit together, enjoying the closeness and just taking in the presence of the other until Blaine has to leave, stretching their time together for as long as possible.
Kurt watches from his front porch as Blaine’s tail lights fade into the blackness of the early evening, eyes lingering far after his boyfriend has passed from sight.
When he trudges back to his room, yelling a quick goodnight to his family as he goes, Kurt shuts his door firmly and locks the knob. He knows exactly what he needs to do.
He strips from his clothes slowly, folding every item before placing it on the edge of his bed, leaving only his underwear to cover his body. In the privacy of his room he relishes in the exposure and allows his hands to move over his upper legs and arms, feeling the contours.
There is a ritual to this, a certain way that this has evolved into so much more than just an act. It is choreographed as precisely as any ballet; instead of a pas de bourrée it is the weight of a small box pulled from deep within his closet, instead of a pirouette it’s the feel of cool steel in his palm, instead of a grand jeté it is the sharp slide into pale skin.
His actions as he moves, cold feet on a cold floor, are smooth and practiced and he doesn’t hesitate as he sits at his vanity, a small black box settled in front of him reverently. The latch is simple and doesn’t lock, silver plated and shining in the bright lighting of his room.
The cool metal is harsh under his fingers and Kurt licks his lips as he pulls the box open, lifting the lid away carefully and slowly. There, just under his hands, are the gleaming bodies of his tools.
Their lines, hard and curved and wicked-edged, flow from one end of the container to the other, contrasting the black velvet lining with their silver shine.
Kurt’s breath catches in his throat as he peruses them and the tension in his chest, like a fist squeezing his ribs and battering his heart, culminates as he reaches forward with minutely trembling fingers to delicately pluck one of the items from its resting place.
As his hand wraps around the handle and the weight settles in his palm, Kurt is filled with contentment. This has never felt wrong, not like the bare planes of his body, because he is making it right.
The place where he will start catches his eyes as it has done for days now, the bare and pale skin calling to him and glaring back at him. It isn’t right, it is missing something important, and Kurt knows exactly what to do.
His hands move with little thought, precise and confident in every way, until the end of the blade points to the starting line. When he presses down, fingers clenched on the handle of the scalpel so that it doesn’t stray from its path, not even a little, Kurt sucks in a stream of air. He fills his lungs until they burn and then slowly releases his breath from parted lips, dragging the blade across his skin as he empties he does.
The pain is sharp and it blossoms from the incision like ice through his veins, prickling over his leg and catching in his chest and neck. He can feel it throughout his entire body, overwhelming and not enough.
Blood wells up around the point of his scalpel and it warms his cool skin and tickles the thin hairs of his thigh as it trails downward. He is quick to collect the stream of crimson blood before it can drip to the floor, pressing a damp cloth to the inside of his thigh and holding it there.
The blood absorbs into the cloth quickly, pulling into the material in fast movements that decorates the material’s pattern with creeping lines of dark red, like vines reaching outward. There isn’t a lot of blood, not enough to do any damage, but every drop, every glimmering flow, is beautiful.
Kurt wishes he could cut more, cut deeper, but when he lets the urge become overpowering, all encompassing, it brings more than emotional and physical release. It brings questions.
It isn’t always easy hiding his marks, his art, and he wishes that they would be accepted. Because when he wears his long sleeves and his tight pants he can feel them just under the surface, wanting to be exposed, but he is too afraid, too cautious, to that that happen.
Kurt expertly wipes his blade of blood and places it on a piece of cloth for cleaning later. With his hands free, he takes a moment to admire his work, eyes roaming over his legs and torso hungrily.
Scars. So many of them, layered and ranging from fresh and red to silver and old, cover his skin in a pattern that cannot be discerned but which is perfect nonetheless.
They are beautiful. They are elegant and flowing; they cover his body like the most edgy of fashion and they feel like pure grace under his fingertips.
They make him beautiful.
He closes his eyes and runs his palm over his chest and sides, wishing, hoping, that Blaine would see them that way, too.