Fic -- Your Sins Into Me 2/5 (NC-17)
Title: Your Sins Into Me
Author: Emoryems
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Pretty much everything up to 2.14 is fair game.
Warnings: Explicit Non-Con, violence, homophobic slurs, language.
Word Count: 13,716
Summary: Karofsky’s assault went much further than anyone knew, and later, at Dalton, Kurt’s temporary roommate gets an unexpected glimpse into Kurt Hummel’s less-than-perfect life. Please read the warnings!
A/N: So, uh, this is my first time breaching the PG-13 rating, and I’m pretty nervous about this. Written for THIS prompt.
Let me know what you think? Con-crit is completely welcome, too.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
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Karofsky smells of sweat and Irish Spring soap.
Still squirming, trying to avoid the hand as it explores his body, Kurt’s chest heaves with sobs. They are harsh and a combination between angry and hysterical.
When the hand on his back drops away, Kurt feels some relief, but then he’s immediately confronted by how wrong he was, thinking that maybe Karofsky would back off, because there are two hands on his cheeks now, pulling them apart and squeezing.
“No! No, Karofsky!” Kurt attempts to straighten up, to pull away in any manner. The solid hit to the side of his head, the same side that had been hit before, sends him reeling sideways. For a few seconds everything goes dark.
When his vision returns, he’s slumped over the ledge, head pounding painfully. He groans softly, trying to focus on the tiles of the shower in front of him.
“You know,” says Karofsky, who’s still got one hand on him to hold him still, “this would go easier on you if you just quit struggling.”
“Fuck you, you Neanderthal,” Kurt slurs, blinking hard to maintain focus.
Kurt hears the sound of a zipper, and then the slide of clothes as Karofsky moves behind him, out of sight.
“Come on, Hummel, you can do better than that. Seriously, I’ve heard that one so many times that I’ve started to respond to it.” Karofsky steps up close behind Kurt’s body, wrapping an arm around his chest and pinching a nipple between his fingers. As he rolls the sensitive pebble around and plays with it, Karofsky licks at the junction of Kurt’s neck and shoulder, sucking and biting the flesh until it bruises.
Kurt is still squirming, twisting this way and that, but Karofsky isn’t budging, and his head is spinning so hard and fast that he is having trouble focusing. When his assailant gives an especially sharp bite and rubs against him, his hard dick grazing Kurt’s backside, the pale countertenor cries out. “No. Stop touching me. Please, just stop. Stop.”
Karofsky pants into his neck as he pulls away from where he has left a deeply purple bruise and blood-speckled bite marks. “Yeah, Hummel, keep moving. You’re gonna feel so good, so tight, I bet.”
Kurt stops squirming when he hears that, fear running his blood cold. This can’t be happening.
There is a quiet noise of a cap being popped open, and Kurt’s eyebrows knot together in confusion, and then Karofsky’s chest is pressed up against his back, making it hard to breathe.
“Just remember, fag, this is for my benefit, not yours.” A hand slips down between their bodies, between his legs, and a slick finger slides from behind his balls to press at his entrance.
As he feels this, Kurt kicks backward with a leg, trying to hit Karofsky; he manages to glance off of a leg, but he doesn’t have much leverage in this position, and he is soon right back where he’d been before.
A large hand slaps his ass, the smacking noise echoing in the empty locker room. “Do that again and I’ll shove it in dry,” Karofsky grunts into his ear as he kicks Kurt’s legs apart, making it even harder for him to move. The lower positioning of Kurt’s body lines his chest with the edge of the wall, causing him to arch his back outward, toward Karofsky.
The hand is back, finger pressing against him, and then into him, and all Kurt can do is shake his head back and forth, muttering a constant stream of, “No, no, no, God -- please stop, please.”
Kurt’s muscles tense around the intrusion, and it burns so horribly that Kurt’s breath is taken from him. When the finger pulls out and is quickly replaced by two covered in even more lube, Kurt tries to stop his muscles from clenching down, but it happens anyway, and he sobs loudly through the pain.
“Oh, Hummel, I was right. You’re so tight; gonna feel amazing,” Karofsky murmurs, leaving rough nips and bites across his back and neck. “I can’t wait to be in here.” He punctuates his words with a hard thrust of his fingers, scissoring them forcefully.
Kurt, by this time, has tuned out a lot of what Karofsky is saying, trying instead to focus on the tiles in his vision. He can remember when he talked to Sam, told him he was free, right here just a few weeks ago.
Groaning when the fingers pull from his body, Kurt flinches as a hand travels down across his stomach to his abdomen where it rests for a while, and then reaches down to tug at the top of his pubic hairs.
“I always imagined you’d shave these,” Karofsky says, and proceeds to wrap his hand around Kurt’s soft penis.
“Let go,” Kurt demands. “Don’t - don’t!”
Karofsky’s hand is wandering around his privates, fingers rolling Kurt’s balls and caressing his dick, leaving nothing untouched, nothing unsullied. “Nothing, Hummel? You know, I thought you’d enjoy getting some action.”
“Don’t you even say that,” Kurt says, his voice low, but filled with passion and bile. “I don’t want you touching me.”
“Uh huh,” says Karofsky. “That’s unfortunate.” His voice betrays the words, and Kurt can hear no remorse seeping through. “The way you practically beg for this, shaking your ass around at all of us, it makes me think you’ve been planning to seduce me.”
“No!” he yells in response, jerking in Karofsky’s hands.
“Yeah,” Karofsky continues, “I bet you planned everything. To make this happen.” Karofsky’s lips travel over his jaw, dipping to mouth at the corner of Kurt’s lips. “You’re nothing but a dirty little cock slut.”
Karofsky pulls back, one of his hands dropping from Kurt’s body.
The crinkling of a packet opening, and the shifting of Karofsky’s body, tell Kurt more than seeing what he’s doing could, and a heavy weight catches his chest. “Don’t,” he whimpers, “don’t, no, don’t, please. I don’t - I don’t want this.”
Karofsky shoves him forward to bend over the wall with one hand, clenching his fingers in the material of Kurt’s shirt where it is bunched. “When are you going to realize,” he says, “that I don’t care what you say you want?”
Kurt feels the blunt tip of Karofsky’s dick as it presses up against him, feels as the larger boy uses a hand to guide himself into place. And then it’s pressure; hard, steady pressure that burns and aches and is just so wrong.
Cries of pain, half bitten off as Kurt tries to muffle them, are escaping his throat, pulled out involuntarily as the hard cock presses into him. His body is taunt, all of his muscles tensed to the point that his toes are curled and his back is arched, trying to stop the pain. To get away from Karofsky.
“Shit,” Karofsky gasps, and then thrusts forward, pressing himself inside of Kurt in one powerful movement.
Kurt gasps, and then gags at the pain. It’s intense, horrible and vile, not sharp like breaking a bone, but throbbing, burning and all-encompassing. It thrums through his whole body, and God, he just wants it to stop.
The boy behind him is grunting harshly, breath grazing over Kurt’s shoulders and neck, as he pushes forward and pulls back at a fast pace. Kurt can do nothing but take it, pinned down and exhausted, in pain and head spinning. He feels like he might throw up.
Karofsky sets a fast pace, thrusting hard in and out of Kurt’s body, and Kurt feels the rough brick of the wall against his chest leaving scratch marks and bruises as he is pushed up against it again and again. He’s muttering a mantra of “no, no, no, no” as he is rocked, violated.
At a particularly harsh thrust, Kurt yells out, “Stop!” Karofsky just groans and does it again, eliciting cry after cry.
Kurt doesn’t know how long it goes on for, but the tears are coming steady, and he’s breathing in jagged sobs of air, begging the boy behind him to stop.
When Karofsky’s hands come to rest on his hips, fingers digging into the dips of his pelvic bones, Kurt winces and tries to ride it out. The big hands are clenching so tight that Kurt feels like they will cut into him, and they are starting to pull Kurt’s body back into the thrusts, filling the room with the sound of slapping flesh.
The smell of sweat, of Karofsky, is almost suffocating him, and Kurt wishes that he could shut down his mind, just go away. But everything is clear, from the hands on his hips to the little details about the room, such as the cracked tile five over and three up in the shower stall, and it’s like his brain is capturing the entire event in exacting detail.
Karofsky’s movements speed up, and he is panting and groaning, using Kurt’s body roughly.
Kurt doesn’t know when his cries had tapered off, but all he can hear is the sound of Karofsky’s movements, of Karofsky’s pleasure.
Clenching his teeth tightly together and squeezing his eyes shut, Kurt’s mouth pulls back in a pained grimace - Karofsky has picked up speed even more, slamming into him fast and with no rhythm. This goes on for twenty, thirty thrusts, and then Karofsky grunts and moves in close, moulding his body to Kurt’s back. With one final push, the large teen sinks his teeth into Kurt’s neck, clenching as he climaxes.
Kurt’s feet slide, unbalanced, as he is shoved so his legs and chest lay flush with the wall, the hands falling from his hips to run up and down his thighs. Karofsky has stilled, leaning his weight into Kurt’s back and pressing the air from his lungs with his weight. Kurt’s head is still ringing from the strikes and tears have streaked down his face. He can feel them in the dip of his collarbones and down the centre of his chest.
“If you tell anyone about this - even that little prep-school bitch - I’ll kill you. I’ll find you wherever you go and slit your fucking throat. And don’t think I’ll leave your family alone, either,” Karofsky says, running a finger over the side of Kurt’s face as he leans away, fingers grazing the bite marks he’s left. “You won’t need to wait for another heart attack to plan your daddy’s funeral.”
Kurt sobs, voice hoarse and choked.
“And besides,” whispers the other boy, a hand trailing down Kurt’s shuddering chest to pinch at abused nipples, “no one will believe you. You’re nothing more than a little slut. You practically begged for it.”
Kurt’s shaking his head, denial and revulsion washing through him like waves. “No. No, you’re wrong.”
“I’m not,” says Karofsky, pulling back and out of Kurt’s body.
Kurt lets out a cry at the feeling of Karofsky slipping from his tender hole, the muscles clenching in pain. The heavy weight that has kept him pinned is removed and Kurt’s legs give out, causing him to slam into the ground, hands caught beneath his body.
“You walk around in your fancy clothes, in skirts. You’ve been begging for this all along, for someone to bend you over and fuck you good.” Karofsky pulls up his boxers and then his jeans, zipping them up while he looks down at Kurt with a little smirk on his lips.
Shirt and jacket in place, fully clothed, Karofsky kneels down next to Kurt, and reaches a hand out, which Kurt flinches away from, grabbing the injured boy’s bound wrists. As he unties the knots, not careful in the least not to jerk the bruised appendages, Karofsky leers at Kurt. “Such a good little slut.”
When he’s done and thrown the tie off to the side, Karofsky stands, saying, “Just remember, fag; you tell anyone, and you’ll regret it.”
Kurt shivers as Karofsky runs his eyes once more over his body, lingering as he gets lower, and then turns and walks away. As he reaches the door, Karofsky turns and says, “See you tomorrow, Hummel.” And then he’s gone.
Kurt is sobbing in near silence as he lies on the floor. There are so many points of pain on his body that he doesn’t know which is the worst.
He feels dirty.
There have been times in Kurt’s life when he’s done something, like lied to his dad, and felt wrong after. He felt that way when he had kissed Brittany, felt like something wasn’t right, like he was doused in guilt. In shame.
This is so much worse. The fear and the pain are auxiliary to this feeling; it crawls under his skin and makes his stomach writhe. It is disgust and shame and some unknown itch combined, coating him inside and out.
Trembling, Kurt shifts stiffly and moans in pain as he pulls his arms around his middle, hugging as tight as he can. He tries to ignore the pain, just focusing on holding himself. It doesn’t work.
He doesn’t know how long it is before he shifts, before he can move without falling back down, but when he does it is in jerky, uncoordinated actions.
His shirt is still on, pulled halfway down but caught on his arms, which are so sore he can hardly lift his torso from the ground.
It takes more effort than it should to shrug his shirt back on, and his fingers tremble madly, making it nearly impossible to button it back up. When he finishes, he looks at the tie laying a few feet away, and immediately knows he’ll never wear it again.
His pants are by his feet where they were discarded, and he gets his feet beneath himself slowly, using the wall beside him to brace against. He pulls back like he’s been stung, though, when he realizes exactly what his hand is touching; what had just happened right up against that wall.
His pants are easier to get on then his shirt, and Kurt is in a haze as he finishes dressing and collects his bag, which he had lost when he’d first been propelled into the room.
The walk to his car, getting in and starting the engine, driving home; all of these things are a giant blur. He can’t remember any specific details and the thought that maybe he shouldn’t have driven goes through his mind, but is quickly laid aside. The next thing he knows he’s turning onto his street and approaching his house.
When Kurt reaches his house he parks, shuts off the engine, and then sits with his seat belt still on. His eyes are burning and his body is a mass of pain, but he feels numb. Disconnected. And yet his body is singing with tension, his stomach is roiling, and he can’t stop the tears. But, inside, in a way that transcends the physical, he feels nothing.
He knows, on some surface level, that he’s probably in shock. His body is hurting, and he’s exhausted, and he just wants to crawl into bed and never wake up again. But first he needs to shower. He needs to be clean.
The journey up to the door takes longer than it should, and Kurt’s fingers stumble and quake as he tries to fit his key into the lock of the door.
It is still early evening, and the house is empty and dark. Kurt doesn’t know if he wants to be relieved that his father isn’t home; in some way, one that is buried underneath the rest of his thoughts, he wants his dad to find him. He wants his father to grab him in his arms and hold him tight; he wants his dad to fix this.
When he gets to his room, Kurt shuts the door behind him, turning the lock and checking to make sure it’s in place.
He wanders across the room to his bed, where he flicks on a single lamp and just stands for a minute, feeling fine tremors shake him from head to toe, feeling the throbbing ache of many, many injuries.
Coming back to himself, Kurt closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath, and then reaches to undo the buttons of his shirt. Once he starts undressing, however, his fingers move swiftly, urgently, pulling the material from his body. He reaches his bathroom and steps inside, flicking on the light and squinting into the brightness as he bends over to pull off his pants and boxers, which causes a flair of pain to erupt in his lower back.
Once he’s fully undressed, he turns the shower on, leaving the hot water tap fully open, only adding enough cold to the stream so that it’s bearable. Just barely.
Over the next twenty minutes Kurt goes through the motions, washing his hair, once, twice, three times, scrubbing his body over and over again. He needs to get every crevasse, every place that could be dirty. He eventually drops the soap to the shower floor and just crumples downward, propping his back against the shower stall and curling his legs to his chest.
Sitting in the bottom of his shower with scalding hot water raining down on him, Kurt watches the water as it runs to the drain. Whenever he shifts slightly, feeling the burning aches of pain flair to life, he expects to see a streak of pink water join the clear torrent. But he doesn’t. He’s hurt, bruised, he feels disgusting and sick, but he’s not bleeding.
He knows that he should call his dad, get him to drive him to the hospital. But he can’t.
Every time he even considers telling someone he wants to scramble for his phone, hear his dad’s voice. But then the threats will echo in his mind, and it is almost as if Karofsky is in the room with him. And then his heart starts racing, and he can feel his throat constrict, his chest tighten. The tears will start bleeding from his eyes even faster. So he can’t; he can’t tell his dad. He can’t tell anyone.
Part Three