The Killer in Me.
killer!Kurt drabble, wherein Kurt is strained to the breaking point by feeling consistently rejected, and forces Blaine to say he loves him at knifepoint. All potential squicks ought to be obvious in the summary.
"Stoppit," Blaine said, a rigid demand, undeterred by Kurt's threat. It was clear that a wire had crossed, somewhere, that the thin, throbbing membrane of logic had ruptured, but Kurt was still Kurt, and Kurt would not hurt him. Even if Blaine was afraid, it wasn't himself that he feared for.
He reached out his hands, ignoring, pretending, avoiding the knife tip directed at him, and framed Kurt's face with fingers outstretched.
"Look at me," he said, voice as cool as it ever was, so reliable, ready to solve everybody's problems.
Kurt tried to shake his head, stuck between disdain and affection, but Blaine held him still, and Kurt gave him what he wanted - he looked at him, looked him in the eye, heard what that reliable voice had to say. "Look at me. Stop it. This isn't you. Put it down. We're going to sit and talk, you and me, and we'll get you help. Okay? Put it down."
Of all things, it most offended the blue-eyed boy that Blaine wasn't intimidated, wasn't listening. Kurt was counting on his confidence, on this new surge of certainty in himself, to bring them together, where they belonged, without violence - he'd been so sure Blaine would take him seriously, because he was finally taking himself seriously.
Blaine was right. This wasn't who Kurt wanted to be, and he didn't want to hurt him. But he wouldn't have to hurt him if he'd just say it, if he'd just say what Kurt needed to hear!
A high, raw whine scraped out of his throat when it was obvious Blaine wouldn't comply without force. He cried, a tear or two shining on the blanched anxiety of his face, but stayed the course, and even ventured into a breathless, hopeless plea before striking. He didn't want to, god help them both, he didn't want to. Why was Blaine making him?
"Please," he said, "Say it. Tell me. Please." He could not have given him a more clear opportunity for peace between them. It was there, the chance to put things right, it was right in front of Blaine, all he had to do was take it. Kurt urged him quietly behind his eyes, say it, we'll be fine, everything will be better if you'll just say it.
Blaine's concern became a desperate breed of anger, hissing hot, paternal in tone. "Kurt, no. I'm not going to help you delude yourself, we're friends, that's it. I'm not, you hear me, not in love with you, I'm not."
Kurt heard him. He heard him, but heard himself more clearly, heard the hard "no" he echoed back, heard the impact of his forearms slapping Blaine's hands away, then tasted the dank, copper sting of outrage on his tongue, and lastly felt, felt with nerves as alive and unspoiled as an infant's the jerk forward that cut Blaine. He cut him. He stabbed him.
Blaine jerked back to escape the strike, but the wall held him, unmoved, and the blade tip swiped through his overshirt and into the pliant skin of his bicep. He watched Kurt withdraw, suspended between pain and disbelief, one hand cradling the injury on instinct, mouth muttering a soft, rueful swear.
"I told you," Kurt said.
Blaine replied quickly, more quickly than sense should've allowed, speaking for no other purpose than to pacify the rage of what was now a faceless, fairytale villain. "Okay," he said, swallowed, said it again, "Okay. Okay, just --"
"Don't you tell me to calm down," Kurt predicted, though he did just the same, compelled by anger's clean and righteous side-effects to clarity. "I told you. What I wanted was so simple, it's something everybody else gets, everybody else hears." He aimed his knife again, falling chest-over-chest to pin Blaine to the wall and leveling the blade with his proud, perfect jaw. "I'm tired of hearing it," he explained, a slow, weary sentence, "from my father, from my friends. I want to hear it from you."
Blaine's protectiveness had dissipated. He'd taken himself somewhere self-preserving and submitted, safety scattered by the shock of Kurt being able to cause him pain.
"Do you understand?," Kurt asked, less maliciously than hopefully, and Blaine responded a plaintive, "Yes," driven to obedience by the extreme circumstance.
"Say it. Please." He rested his forehead against Blaine's, just a few centimeters beneath him and perfectly positioned to cushion his upset.
His answer was a whisper, as if lowering his voice would lessen the perverse violation on his heart, "I love you."
Kurt's face instantly broke into the distinctive, welcoming smile Blaine was so familiar with, but he wasn't entirely satisfied. He pressed in with the knife's flat surface, scraping it in a razor's flick across the faint formation of youth's patchy stubble.
"Say my name."
As Kurt calmed, soothed by success, Blaine became more frantic - faded from a bad situation's stable caretaker to a victim struggling for the upper hand to this, a scared, sad boy feeling himself buckle, on his way to hysteria. He requested without hope, almost without sound, "Can we just, can you stop this? Can we stop this?"
Kurt threatened with a gesture, with pressure, digging, denying his own delight at the strangled sound to come from his captive when the sensitive skin around his throat's glands was nicked open, showing a bead of red for the trouble.
"I love you," he said again, "I love you, Kurt, I love you. Okay?"
Relief dropped onto Kurt like a weight and he sagged. It didn't matter - Blaine only thought he was lying, it was okay. He needed to hear him say it and he'd said it. Now they would be fine.
His head angled in brief request before taking Blaine's mouth in a kiss, sucking the fat, firm lower lip and instantly aroused by the shuddering resistance he felt underneath him. It felt like something else, something more special, something nervous yet wanting.
Blaine pushed his denial of Kurt's maliciousness higher all the time, insisting to comfort himself that this wasn't reality. The kiss set his stomach churning, but not so roughly as the the wonder of how far, how long, how much he'd take from him this way.
"Stoppit," Blaine said, a rigid demand, undeterred by Kurt's threat. It was clear that a wire had crossed, somewhere, that the thin, throbbing membrane of logic had ruptured, but Kurt was still Kurt, and Kurt would not hurt him. Even if Blaine was afraid, it wasn't himself that he feared for.
He reached out his hands, ignoring, pretending, avoiding the knife tip directed at him, and framed Kurt's face with fingers outstretched.
"Look at me," he said, voice as cool as it ever was, so reliable, ready to solve everybody's problems.
Kurt tried to shake his head, stuck between disdain and affection, but Blaine held him still, and Kurt gave him what he wanted - he looked at him, looked him in the eye, heard what that reliable voice had to say. "Look at me. Stop it. This isn't you. Put it down. We're going to sit and talk, you and me, and we'll get you help. Okay? Put it down."
Of all things, it most offended the blue-eyed boy that Blaine wasn't intimidated, wasn't listening. Kurt was counting on his confidence, on this new surge of certainty in himself, to bring them together, where they belonged, without violence - he'd been so sure Blaine would take him seriously, because he was finally taking himself seriously.
Blaine was right. This wasn't who Kurt wanted to be, and he didn't want to hurt him. But he wouldn't have to hurt him if he'd just say it, if he'd just say what Kurt needed to hear!
A high, raw whine scraped out of his throat when it was obvious Blaine wouldn't comply without force. He cried, a tear or two shining on the blanched anxiety of his face, but stayed the course, and even ventured into a breathless, hopeless plea before striking. He didn't want to, god help them both, he didn't want to. Why was Blaine making him?
"Please," he said, "Say it. Tell me. Please." He could not have given him a more clear opportunity for peace between them. It was there, the chance to put things right, it was right in front of Blaine, all he had to do was take it. Kurt urged him quietly behind his eyes, say it, we'll be fine, everything will be better if you'll just say it.
Blaine's concern became a desperate breed of anger, hissing hot, paternal in tone. "Kurt, no. I'm not going to help you delude yourself, we're friends, that's it. I'm not, you hear me, not in love with you, I'm not."
Kurt heard him. He heard him, but heard himself more clearly, heard the hard "no" he echoed back, heard the impact of his forearms slapping Blaine's hands away, then tasted the dank, copper sting of outrage on his tongue, and lastly felt, felt with nerves as alive and unspoiled as an infant's the jerk forward that cut Blaine. He cut him. He stabbed him.
Blaine jerked back to escape the strike, but the wall held him, unmoved, and the blade tip swiped through his overshirt and into the pliant skin of his bicep. He watched Kurt withdraw, suspended between pain and disbelief, one hand cradling the injury on instinct, mouth muttering a soft, rueful swear.
"I told you," Kurt said.
Blaine replied quickly, more quickly than sense should've allowed, speaking for no other purpose than to pacify the rage of what was now a faceless, fairytale villain. "Okay," he said, swallowed, said it again, "Okay. Okay, just --"
"Don't you tell me to calm down," Kurt predicted, though he did just the same, compelled by anger's clean and righteous side-effects to clarity. "I told you. What I wanted was so simple, it's something everybody else gets, everybody else hears." He aimed his knife again, falling chest-over-chest to pin Blaine to the wall and leveling the blade with his proud, perfect jaw. "I'm tired of hearing it," he explained, a slow, weary sentence, "from my father, from my friends. I want to hear it from you."
Blaine's protectiveness had dissipated. He'd taken himself somewhere self-preserving and submitted, safety scattered by the shock of Kurt being able to cause him pain.
"Do you understand?," Kurt asked, less maliciously than hopefully, and Blaine responded a plaintive, "Yes," driven to obedience by the extreme circumstance.
"Say it. Please." He rested his forehead against Blaine's, just a few centimeters beneath him and perfectly positioned to cushion his upset.
His answer was a whisper, as if lowering his voice would lessen the perverse violation on his heart, "I love you."
Kurt's face instantly broke into the distinctive, welcoming smile Blaine was so familiar with, but he wasn't entirely satisfied. He pressed in with the knife's flat surface, scraping it in a razor's flick across the faint formation of youth's patchy stubble.
"Say my name."
As Kurt calmed, soothed by success, Blaine became more frantic - faded from a bad situation's stable caretaker to a victim struggling for the upper hand to this, a scared, sad boy feeling himself buckle, on his way to hysteria. He requested without hope, almost without sound, "Can we just, can you stop this? Can we stop this?"
Kurt threatened with a gesture, with pressure, digging, denying his own delight at the strangled sound to come from his captive when the sensitive skin around his throat's glands was nicked open, showing a bead of red for the trouble.
"I love you," he said again, "I love you, Kurt, I love you. Okay?"
Relief dropped onto Kurt like a weight and he sagged. It didn't matter - Blaine only thought he was lying, it was okay. He needed to hear him say it and he'd said it. Now they would be fine.
His head angled in brief request before taking Blaine's mouth in a kiss, sucking the fat, firm lower lip and instantly aroused by the shuddering resistance he felt underneath him. It felt like something else, something more special, something nervous yet wanting.
Blaine pushed his denial of Kurt's maliciousness higher all the time, insisting to comfort himself that this wasn't reality. The kiss set his stomach churning, but not so roughly as the the wonder of how far, how long, how much he'd take from him this way.