FIC: Written (Kurt, Blaine) 1/2
Title: WRITTEN
Author: kosherrainbow
Rating: Mature
Characters/Pairings: Klaine
Spoilers: Possible for Season 3 Though any and all are purely unintentional
Warnings: though Kurt doesn't break skin or put himself in medical danger. I'm still warning for Self-Harm/Sel-Hate Triggers (of the Emotional type)
Disclaimer: Don't own Glee
Summary: All Kurt's flaws were staring from his reflection. Blaine is there to erase the lies.
Notes:
- A fill for THIS PROMPT at the glee_kink_meme
- This Part One of TWO
- For sake of story Blaine is at McKinley for senior year
Also a huge thank you to flower2bleed for this lovely piece of art
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The piercing cold sensation was nothing new. The sting., the sticky; been there, done that. The feeling that he had just been bitch-slapped by ice was something he had been used to over the last two years, and was the one fact about McKinley High Kurt Hummel had not particularly missed during his time spent at Dalton. Normally he could label their bullying as petty ignorance, normally he would simply let the hateful taunts and jeers roll off his soldier while whipping back verbally and relishing in their confused expression.
This time, however, he just stood there, he took it without a word. Because after today this was just it. It: the final straw, the icing on the cake, the tip of the iceberg, the breaking the camel's back; what Kurt could only hope was the finale in a long day of little attacks on his self-esteem.
First, this morning he'd pulled out the new pair jeans he had just bought over the weekend to find they didn't quite button as they had in the store. After that nothing else seemed to fit right. When he made it to the gas station to fill up his baby before school, he'd been called 'miss'. Coach Sylvester had announce loudly in the hall way that she would be changing his nickname from 'Porcelain' to 'Pear Hips' as his pale skin was no longer his most embarrassing feature. When he had shared this with the girls Santana, in her twisted concept of consoling him had ending up giving him a list of things he should look into changing as well. Just one thing, leading to another until Azimio had led the charge in the 'punish Hummel for turning Karofsky gay' campaign in which was unleashed another round of physical critiques while he was decorated in the blue raspberry corn syrup.
If there was a God...today Kurt Hummel was His favorite toilet, and He'd forgotten to flush.
When the jocks finally dispersed it was all Kurt could do just to make it his vehicle. Fully aware he was skipping Glee he was so desperate to make it stop, to be alone, he didn't care that he was driving home still sitting in his slush covered clothes.
On par with the rest of the day, the short drive home had never felt longer and to Kurt it felt like ages before he was able to (uncharacteristically) unceremoniously toss his bag into the corner of his room. However, being by himslef didn't offer quite the reprieve he had been hoping to achieve. No, being alone with the day repeating in his head only brought his own doubts to the surface and all it took was one glance at himself in the mirror, covered in blue drying chunks of gunk that it becomes suffocating. Desperate he claws his way out of his clothes, only just aware enough of what he was doing to still be careful on the off chance they could be salvaged.
He can see himself fully now, bare from head to toe looking back at himself; and he just knows: they were right. Out of motivation spurred by desperation and underlying anger he looks around for the right tool. His eyes land on his desk where the only weapon available are the markers neatly arranged in a cup next to the pencils on his desk. No longer merely a writing utensil, it is weapon enough for Kurt.
Sighing with resignation he uncaps the thick tube of black ink, snapping the cap to the butt of the marker before grasping hold of the bare, exposed skin of his left hip. With a firm, deliberate pressure he drags the triangular tip slowly over his newfound canvas as though he had every intention of leaving a permanent tatto behind.
He was careful not smudge the ink as he mirrored the same image, the same words on his right hip before he moved on to the rest of his body in no particular order of importance. It was all fair game; forehead, cheekbones, calves, the small of his back, his feet, his neck. Every single inch of his reachable skin had become subject to equal scrutiny; WIth no great flourish he finished the last letters across his inner thigh beforestepping back to take stock. His eyes combed equally slow over his reflections, finally able to process his new appearance. A thought flashed; his true appearnce. Finally, his eyes land on his face to be met, with some residual horror, his own smirk of smug bitterness.
Well, what its they say, the truth hurts?
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Continue to Part TWO
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Check Out My Other Stories HERE
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