Fic: "My Body Betrays Me," Chapter Two. Kurt/Karofsky, later Kurt/Blaine
So sorry about the long wait on this chapter, everyone! My friend Irene has been staying with Mr. Darling and myself from Korea for the last week and a half (!!!), which is super exciting because I haven't seen her in five years! As a result, it's been tricky to find a time to write incredibly depressing non-con fic anything lately. But here it is at last!
Title: "My Body Betrays Me" (Chapter Two: Kurt)
Author: emilianadarling
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: non-con/dub-con Kurt/Karofsky, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Vaguely explained magic, non-con, dub-con, angst, rimming, derogatory language, awful situations, manipulation, self-deluding, crack prompt gone serious.
Length: 9 for this chapter.
Spoilers: This is an AU, so not really.
Story Summary: Kurt’s been in a secret relationship with his roommate at Dalton for months. That would be fine... if he wanted any of it. If he could say no, and if Dave would listen. If he were with Blaine, his wonderful friend from the school’s glee club, instead.
Prompt: Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme. Kurt is magically compelled to follow orders. Dave takes advantage. Blaine just wants to make everything all right again.
Notes: I don't even know what to say. I'm so sorry. I blame the kinkmeme for putting ideas in my head.
Chapter One: Dave
The year Kurt turned six years old, he was enrolled at Lima’s public elementary school. The decision was not an easy one.
Burt, ever cautious and pragmatic, had been wary of sending his son into an environment where they had almost no way of monitoring him. His concern was valid; school would be the first time Kurt would be able to interact with children his age without parental supervision. Kurt was too young, he insisted, too defenceless against any bad orders without his parents around to defuse them. Burt was in favour of home schooling from the start.
It was Elizabeth who fought for elementary school, every inch as passionate and convicted as she was in every other facet of her life. She was adamant that Kurt deserved a proper childhood, that they owed it to their boy to give him a normal life in whatever ways they could.
The two of them clashed over the issue on and off for an entire year, furious whispered conversations growing more and more frequent as September approached until they were a practically daily occurrence. There were tears, and harsh words, and even a few shouting matches that Kurt had the misfortune to stumble in on. It was hard, seeing his parents fight that way - and, to make matters worse, about him. But there was never any hatred or spite in the arguments between his parents, even at their worst. Just concern, and anxiety, and a shared deep love for their son.
Elizabeth won out in the end. On the first of September, round face smattered with light freckles and clad in too-big overalls, six-year-old Kurt stepped into his very first classroom.
It went fairly well, at first. Kurt’s first grade teacher, Ms. Campbell, was a sweet-faced woman with dark hair and skin who wore pretty sweaters with sensible shoes and loved themed lessons. One week they would focus on China, the next on fossils, and the week after that on how plants grew. They learned how many inches were in a foot, where the United States was on a map, and how to read Go, Dog, Go and Sir Small and the Dragonfly. Although Kurt’s mother had already taken him past the first grade reading level, it was even more fun to discover stories with children his age than it was curled up in bed next to his mother, warm and safe as she helped him sound out the more complicated words.
However much fun school was, though, it never rendered the curse any less of a problem.
Although Burt and Elizabeth had coached him what felt like a million times on how to bend, reinterpret, and resist against orders, this did not save Kurt from awkward and hard-to-explain moments in class. Instructions as simple as “sing as loud as you can, everyone!” made Kurt belt out songs at a horrible wail that made the other students cover their ears until someone told him to stop, and being commanded to “sit at your desk and not make a sound” was enough to leave him a trembling mess from the exertion of trying to remain absolutely silent.
But these incidents were, for the most part, harmless. Easily explained away, no matter how much they made Kurt pout and stomp at his parents. No matter how much they made him cry with childish frustration at how awful it was that no one else was like him, how unfair it was that he couldn’t tell his classmates and Ms. Campbell what was wrong with him. On those evenings, Elizabeth would hold him close and stroke his hair while Burt gave his wife significant glances across the table.
It was all manageable.
Until the day Kurt went missing.
On that day, group of eight first graders stood in a cluster on the edge of the field. They were small and sedentary as whirls of older students ran around them. It was a cool day, cloudy with a light breeze and perfect for playing outside.
Kurt scuffed at the grass with his shoe. He would rather have been sitting on the steps reading, or on the jungle gym with his friend Peter. But someone had called at him to come over and play, and his feet had moved before he could even think about it.
“Okay, you all have to pick a place and hide there until I find you,” said Sarah, a bossy girl with thin blonde hair she wore in pigtails. She had a slight lisp, accentuated by the gap where she had already begun to lose her baby teeth.
“I don’t want to play hide and seek,” said Kurt petulantly. “I want to play on the jungle gym.” Reading wasn’t cool enough to get them to let him leave.
“Well, I’m in charge and I’m saying you play with us,” said Sarah haughtily, crossing her arms.
“Yeah, Kurt. Just play,” added James, a round boy with square glasses who did everything Sarah told him to. Kurt scowled, but didn’t say anything in response.
“’Kay,” continued Sarah. “When I say so, everyone runs to find the best hiding place. That means you too, Kurt. Go find the most secret hiding place and don’t make a sound. Stay there until I find you. Ready? One, two, three - go!”
They all ran. Sarah clamped her hands over her eyes and began to count to sixty. When the blonde girl finally reached one minute, she scampered off enthusiastically to find her classmates. By the time fifteen-minute afternoon recess was over, she had discovered four of the seven hiders - and when the bell rang, two of those still tucked away darted out of their hiding places to run back into the school building.
Half of the class went straight to music, and the other half continued on immediately to physical education in the gym. It wasn’t until forty-five minutes later, when they were all gathered back in the classroom with Ms. Campbell doing roll call, that anyone noticed Kurt had never come back.
As soon as Ms. Campbell noticed his absence, a call was put out over the intercom. The principle and office administration were quickly summoned, and the bathrooms, music room, and playground were checked. When a second intercom call was put through and Kurt still did not appear, the school’s office called Kurt’s parents - as well as the local police.
It wasn’t until long after the end of the school day that a police officer found Kurt. Curled into a ball and sobbing silently, tucked into a supposedly-locked outdoor tool shed where the janitor kept his rakes and mowers. He had dirt smudges on his cheeks, and was shaking so hard from the effort of remaining silent that the discovering officer at first assumed he had mild hypothermia. When he was taken back to his parents, his mother held him to her chest and sobbed helplessly, repeating senseless apologies over and over again as he clung to her shoulders. His father, seemingly not noticing the tears streaming down his own cheeks, rubbed Kurt’s back and repeated over and over that he was safe, safe now.
That night, long after the commotion had ended and he had been put to bed, Kurt woke thirsty and padded into the kitchen for a drink. A light was already on in the kitchen, its soft glow trickling into the hallway. When he got a little closer, Kurt froze at the sound of his mother’s voice. She sounded strained. Wrung-out.
“... my fault, all my fault. I never should have pushed him so young, Burt. I can’t... I can’t believe I hurt our boy so badly.”
“We’ve learned now.” His father’s voice, soft and comforting. Kurt snuck closer and peered around the corner to see his mother perched in a kitchen chair, hands twisting anxiously in her lap. His father standing behind her with a reassuring arm on her shoulders. “We know better now, Lizzy. No school, not until he’s old enough to find a way to get out of these scrapes on his own.”
Kurt’s heart felt as though it stuttered and stopped. No school? What about his friends, his classes? They were supposed to be covering the weather next week, and parts of a volcano the week after that.
The shed had been scary, certainly. Lonely and terrifying, yes. But Kurt couldn’t comprehend why it was such a big deal.
He leaned in, listening as hard as he could and squinting through the dim light. His mother was wringing her hands in her lap. Her face was swollen, puffy.
“I just... I just wanted him to give him a normal childhood, Burt. For as long as he could have one. Because it is my fault. It’s my family that gave him that... that...” Elizabeth’s voice shook. “Why didn’t I get it, Burt? Why does our boy have to suffer instead? It’s so unfair, and I hate it, and I just - I just want him to be happy.”
“He will be, Lizzy. He will.” Burt’s voice was reassuring and calm. He wrapped his arms around Elizabeth’s shoulders and tucked his face into her neck. Kurt couldn’t make out the next words he spoke, but they made his mother’s shoulders shake and a few tears leak out of her eyes.
“I just want my boy to be happy,” whispered Elizabeth, raw and sad and full of so many emotions Kurt just couldn't understand.
Those were the last words he heard before he turned and fled back into the darkened hallway, the water forgotten in his haste to return to the safety of his bed.
--
On Sunday evening the common room of Kurt’s residence building is sparsely occupied and subdued, especially considering the day. Even those students who have the opportunity to visit family and friends over the weekend are generally back and ready to socialize on the brink of a new week - or at least ready to cram through their neglected homework.
Today, however, the common room is practically empty. Its squashy, well-worn couches hold only a small smattering of boys. The secluded corner full of tables and chairs, generally monopolized by keeners and intense academics, boasts only one hunched figure. Surrounded by books and hunched slightly in his chair, Kurt Hummel perches on his chair in his lonesome corner of the room and stares at the full page of notes in front of him.
When Kurt had first started at Dalton, he was always among the flock of its students who left campus every weekend to visit loved ones. It had been practically a running joke among his fellow Warblers that the Hallowed Hummel-Hudson Friday Night Dinner must be far more exciting than whatever shenanigans they had planned, since Kurt was always so willing to say goodbye his friends for a few days in favour of driving back into Lima.
Kurt barely ever goes home on weekends, anymore. He’s only made it home twice since Dave - don’t call me by my last name, Kurt, it sounds so formal - discovered his secret. Both times he dared to head back to Lima, he left Dalton so brimming with what not to do instructions that seeing his father, stepmother, and stepbrother had almost been unbearable.
Don’t hint that anything’s wrong. Act normal. Don’t do anything you wouldn’t ordinarily do. Say you’re having fun at school. Just act happy. Leave as soon as possible, Kurt, I’ll miss you if you’re gone too long.
It was easier - less painful - to claim the need to study for midterms and essays without distraction. To beg off the weekly visits and miss his family so much it hurt, instead.
Besides, a few weeks ago Dave had ordered him to spend more time with him. Staying at Dalton on weekends is a way to satisfy the command without necessarily having to be alone with his roommate.
And so Kurt sits amid his stacks of textbooks on verb conjugation and chemical reactions, staring down at his spiral binder full of neatly hand-written notes, and tries to convince himself that he isn’t avoiding Dave Karofsky. Never mind the fact that over the past few months Kurt has been ordered not to spend more than a few hours’ worth of time with first one friend, and then another, and that after last night virtually all of the people he is even remotely friendly with in this building are now off-limits. Never mind that Jeff has been giving him strange looks from his place on the one of the couches all evening.
Never mind the fact that he wasn’t allowed to go home to his family. Never mind that, because of this, he has had so much free time over the past two days that he’s managed to review so thoroughly for his midterms that his head might explode if he reads one more paragraph.
Because don’t avoid me, Kurt, fucking hell leaves a lot of wiggle room, if he looks at it the right way. He’s better at finding loopholes now that he ever was before; still can’t believe how easily he gave himself up to Dave all those months ago, handing himself over on a silver platter with barely a struggle at all. And if Kurt can convince himself that he still needs to stay here and study, he won’t have to go up to his bedroom at six o’clock with the rest of the night stretched out before him. Won’t have to go quite so soon to start the parade of humiliation and filth he cannot stop his feet from seeking out forever.
Won’t have to face the whole rest of the evening as Dave Karofsky’s thing.
When Kurt was smaller - eleven and twelve, and even for a few years afterward - he used to make a game out of it. Out of how long he could resist the compulsion that filled his body and left him weak and panting, wracked with pain and desperate for it to all be over, to just do whatever people told him to and make the hurting go away.
Simple, harmless commands like “say hello to your dad for me!” from the neighbour over the backyard fence were always the best fodder. He would smile and nod - then come inside the house, sit down on the floor, and wait. Wait for the creeping dizziness to fill his mind until the world would spin and twirl and tilt on its edge. For the sickness to come, waves of nausea that filled up his stomach and left him feeling as though insects were clawing at his insides. For the pain. Headaches so hard and strong they practically blinded him and the rapidly growing ache that flared inside his limbs and left him sweating, helpless. And all the while, listening to the voice chant inside his head:
Do it. Just do it, you have to. Do it do it doitdoitdoitdoit -
Sometimes the pain became too much, and he would give up the game in frustration. Throw in the towel, all the while promising himself that he would do better next time; would be stronger, more resolute.
Other times, his body would move seemingly without his permission to complete the task, like a marionette with invisible strings. One moment resisting with all his might, and the next moment watching his body fulfill the command as his mind sneered on in disgust.
In either event, testing the curse always ended the same way: in failure. There was no resisting, not really. There was only how long he could hold out before giving in. By all logic, the curse should have made him obedient. Malleable and suggestive, comfortable in the knowledge that he simply had no choice.
Instead, it made Kurt’s heart hard.
Sharp edges and sarcasm, contrary whenever possible and fighting all the while. Made him claw tooth and nail against following even the simplest of commands all through his adolescence. Made him dress to stand out, to be different despite what people thought or said to him. Being himself despite it all made everything more difficult, but at least he was trying. For every frantic phone call to his dad, to Finn, to anyone after some bully told him to go slit his wrists and frantic to have the order reversed, it was almost worth it. Because at least he wasn’t accepting it. Wasn’t throwing up his hands in defeat without a fight, letting those ignorant and hateful people control his life even with their great potential to do so.
Running away to Dalton had felt like a defeat, but it had at least provided some relief.
Until Dave found out, and Kurt’s most private and unthinkable nightmares came true in a single afternoon.
One of the few boys across the room laughs loudly, and Kurt blinks as the noise brings him back to the present. And all at once, Kurt realizes that he is sitting by himself at a desk, staring into space and grinding his teeth as he grips his pencil almost hard enough to break it, and that this isn’t actually normal behaviour. He should be reading, or jotting down notes, or something to justify staying here. Almost distantly, he begins to feel the sickness building up in his stomach; the desperate need to go up to his room pulling at every muscle of his body.
For the first few weeks after Dave found out about the curse, Kurt fought every one of his orders with everything he had. Railing against them until his head felt as though it was about to explode, finding loopholes and exploiting them at every opportunity, snarling and glaring through their time together until Dave commanded him not to. He clawed against the compulsion in his mind practically every second he was awake, mentally digging his heels into the ground and resisting every step of the way.
He’d been proud of himself, back then. Certain that there was some sort of way out, if only he fought hard enough. That he could out-think Dave, or find a way to run away, or finally find a way to resist the compulsion he’d spent his life imprisoned by.
Despite everything, when Dave finally took what he wanted there was nothing Kurt could do to stop it from happening.
There was no point in wasting his energy fighting it then, and there is no point in fighting it now. As soon as Kurt makes the decision to go upstairs, the pain disappears as though it was never there to begin with.
He takes his time tidying the books and gathering his pencils into their case before heading for the door, nodding awkwardly at Jeff’s half-wave from the couch. Ignoring him makes Kurt’s throat feel choked and raw: he likes Jeff. Likes his goofy smile, and his ridiculous puns, and the way he makes French conjugation almost funny. But it just can’t be avoided; Kurt has already used up his few hours of time with Jeff for this week.
Kurt climbs the stairs toward his and Dave’s room, feet heavy with resignation like a man heading for the gallows. And when he unlocks the dorm room door, Dave looks up from his bed and smiles warmly in greeting. The sight makes Kurt’s stomach clench.
“Hey, babe,” says Dave, eyes full of affection. He’s wearing a pair of old plaid pyjama pants and a plain white t-shirt, hair rumpled in a way that tells Kurt he hasn’t bothered to leave the dorm room today. Dave doesn’t have too many other friends, these days. “I just finished downloading that movie you wanted to watch - Burlesque, right? Feel up to watching?”
And Kurt has discovered that there is something even worse than the fact that Dave has essentially turned him into a toy for his own amusement. Worse than the way Dave invades his body and his mind every day, or the way he smiles and strokes Kurt’s arm with feeble delusion in his eyes, or the way he’s spent the past two months systematically cutting everyone and everything else out of Kurt’s life. More horrible than all of that is the fact that people can get used to anything. Because only heroes in storybooks can fight forever, can keep railing against impossible odds until their dying breath.
And Kurt simply cannot fight every battle anymore.
“Sure,” Kurt intones, because if he says ‘no’ he’ll only be ordered to. He goes to sit next to Dave on the bed, all the while feeling sick with shame and hating himself for the surrender. They watch the movie together, and Kurt doesn’t even flinch when Dave pulls him tight against his side and presses a soft kiss to his forehead.
No matter how helpless and empty it makes him feel.
--
On Monday afternoon, Kurt heads to the library during his free period. He’s careful to avoid eye contact with David (stay away from that guy, Kurt, he smiles at you way too much) and munches mechanically on an apple as he moves through the hall (this hunger strike thing is only hurting you; eat three meals day, Kurt, I’m serious).
There’s no point, no point at all, in actively trying to resist Dave’s orders - or even in trying to shy away from Dave at all. It would only make him suspicious, more likely to limit Kurt even further. Dave controls every known aspect of Kurt’s life, now. Every detail of who he spends time with, and when, and how.
Kurt walks into the library, heads to the very back of the main hall, and pushes the door to a tiny study room open. A compact boy with heavily slicked-down hair in a matching Dalton uniform is bent over the only table, surrounded by stacks of sheet music and compilation books. His dark eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, eyes fixed on what looks like an acapella version of some overly-current pop song. There is an empty chair across from him. At the sound of the door opening, the boy looks up - and smiles at Kurt in such a warm and welcoming way that, for a moment, he feels like a regular teenager again.
“Hey, Kurt,” grins Blaine, continuing to fix Kurt with that look. Caring and fond, like he’s the most special individual in the universe. “Ready to help me pick out songs for Regionals?”
“I most certainly am,” responds Kurt in most affluent tones, closing the door quietly behind him and moving to take the empty seat.
Dave might control every known aspect of Kurt’s life, but Kurt has been hiding Blaine for months.
--
“How about ‘Firework’?” asks Blaine twenty minutes later, holding up a piece of sheet music and waggling his thick eyebrows suggestively. “Bit of an earnest ballad to draw the judges in!”
Kurt raises an eyebrow, staring in disbelief at the offending song. “’Earnest ballad’? Good god. You’d honestly use any opportunity to sing atrocious Katy Perry songs, wouldn’t you?”
“Hey! I admire her as an artist and an icon.”
“It takes more autotune to get that girl on-key than it does for T-Pain, Blaine, I swear.” Kurt rolls his eyes, shuffling through the stack of music in front of him and feigning nonchalance. After a few moments he comes across a piece that makes him quickly stifle a snigger. “How about ‘You Can’t Stop the Beat’?” he asks, working hard to keep his face completely deadpan. “It’s catchy, high-energy, a real show-stopper... certain to wow those judges right into next week...”
The look of utter horror on Blaine’s face is enough to make the effort of keeping his face straight worthwhile.
“We can’t go to Regionals with Broadway, Kurt, it’s suicide!” exclaims Blaine, looking affronted. “We need something current, something catchy in order to...”
Blaine trails off as Kurt lets out a snort of laughter, clapping a pale hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. They are in a library, after all. Blaine’s expression softens.
“Yeah, yeah, make fun,” says Blaine, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a reluctant smile.
“Your obsession with Top 40 really is incredibly disturbing,” Kurt chuckles. When Blaine reaches across the discarded sheet music to brush his knuckles over Kurt’s fingers a moment later, the touch makes Kurt shiver in a way that is almost unthinkably pleasant.
He wonders, absently, if there’s something wrong with him for liking it when Blaine’s fingers skim against his own, or Blaine rests a hand casually on his shoulder. If it makes him even more broken, some kind of switch turned the wrong way in his brain. Because everything he’s ever seen about victims of... of what’s happening to him... makes him think he should probably hate being touched by anyone. Logically, Kurt should hate it. Should want to pull away.
He doesn’t, though. Instead, he just wants more of that easy friend-touching. Because when Blaine’s skin touches his, it almost makes him forget everything else in the world. Almost makes him forget Dave, and the shell of a person he’s turning Kurt into. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered word and burst of pleasure he doesn’t want chipping away at who he is until there’s barely nothing left.
Dave... Dave is jealous, and possessive, and controlling in the extreme. He knows Dave doesn’t want Kurt to have a life outside of him, not really. Wants Kurt at his beck and call, and so what if Kurt’s entire life has to be sacrificed to achieve that end?
But more disquieting than anything else is the way Dave tries so hard to make himself believe the lie he’s created. Even as he builds walls and cages Kurt in, Dave will do anything to believe that Kurt loves him back.
In Dave’s mind, Kurt is his boyfriend. And good boyfriends don’t outright tell one another they can’t have friends. It’s this bit of delusion that has allowed Kurt to cling to his furtive friendship with Blaine - even as everything else has been stripped away, piece by piece.
Thinking about his roommate - about everything Dave’s taken from him, everything he’s made Kurt’s body do and even forced him to enjoy - makes nausea swell up in Kurt’s stomach, twisting and anxious. Makes his skin crawl with dirt he can’t scrub away.
Kurt can only be with Blaine for a few hours a week at best, and even then only in the most tucked away corners of the school. But the time they do spend together... it makes Kurt feel human again, if only for a little while. Makes him feel practically normal; talking and joking and laughing with another boy his age, not worrying about what he’ll have to do in order to avoid being forbidden to text his stepbrother or being ordered to his knees at the next opportunity.
In another world, Kurt thinks he might have fallen for Blaine harder than a tonne of bricks. Would have primped and preened for his attention, sighing at how gentlemanly and handsome and kind he is. Here and now, limited by don’t flirt with anyone else and be mine and Dave watching him carefully every time he interacts with another boy in public, all he can be is Blaine’s friend - but it’s enough. Blaine’s friendship keeps him sane. Makes him feel relaxed when every other moment of the day leaves him anxious and sickened and so very full of hate.
Blaine makes him feel safe, as though he can’t be hurt here. Not really. Not in the ways that count.
“Whatever, Broadway Boy,” grins Blaine, shaking his head. “Now quit your giggling and pass me my pencil, mister.”
Kurt doesn’t hesitate, quickly picking the pencil up and handing it over to his friend without any fight. While he used to resent any kind of order at all, these sorts of innocent commands don’t really bother him anymore. They aren’t intentionally cruel, at least. They aren’t made knowingly, to keep him boxed up trapped inside his own mind.
When Blaine’s fingers brush against his again as he hands over the pencil, Blaine doesn’t pull away. Instead, Blaine gives his hand a little squeeze.
“We miss you, you know,” says Blaine quietly, brow furrowed and dark eyes full of concern.
“What?” Kurt asks stupidly, jolted out of his own thoughts and back into the present with startled speed.
“The Warblers,” Blaine continues, before letting out a tired sigh. He pauses for a long moment. “Kurt... I know that you’ve had some hard times recently.”
Kurt winces at the reminder of the lie he was forced to tell Blaine when he first started missing practice two months ago, and told again when he stopped coming all together. I’m just... having a serious family crisis. No, I don’t want to talk about it. I just don’t have time for show choir right now, Blaine, I’m sorry.
He nods, looking down at the table between them.
“And believe me when I say that I understand: I’ve had my fair share of family conflict and tragedy in my life, too.” Blaine’s thumb is rubbing gentle circles into the back of Kurt’s hand. Careful and gentle. Supportive. It makes Kurt think of the way Dave strokes his hair when they lie in bed together at night, and his body tenses up against his will. Blaine doesn’t seem to notice.
“But Kurt... we’re your friends. And all we want is be here for you when you need us. All I want is to be here for you, and not just for forty minutes during your free period twice a week.” Blaine gives his hand a squeeze. “I want you to just let me in, Kurt. I want to help.”
“I know,” whispers Kurt, choking slightly on the words. Because he needs Blaine, needs him so much. But no matter how lovely and kind Blaine’s intentions might be, there is no way Kurt can physically make himself go to his friend for help.
If he could, he would cry and scream and beg for Blaine to help him. Would say help me, please help me. He’s making me, I can’t help it. I want to die when he touches me, I want to die and I can’t even kill myself, Blaine. I’m only ever myself when I’m with you, and I can’t even tell you how dead I feel all the time. Can only go through every day acting the part and hoping to hell he gets hit by a bus or falls down the stairs and I can finally leave.
But Dave’s orders leave no room for interpretation in that regard, and no matter how much Kurt wants to say the words they simply will not leave his mouth.
“Thank you,” he says instead, the words subdued and carefully spoken. “I’m not... I can’t, but... when I’m ready?”
“Of course,” says Blaine after a moment, pulling his hand away and giving Kurt an understanding look. “Whenever you want, Kurt. Any time.”
There’s a long pause. Kurt licks his lips, and after a few moments begins to shuffle through one of the stacks of sheet music.
“How about this one?” says Kurt at last, barely bothering to look at the title of the piece before he holds it up for Blaine to see. Blaine raises an eyebrow.
“’Good Life’ by Onerepublic?” Blaine hums appreciatively, taking the sheet music and squinting at the lines. “The background instrumentals could be really interesting in acapella, don’t you think?” He grins. “Kurt, this might actually work.”
“Whatever would you do without me?” Kurt asks, forcing his lips into a smile.
--
On Kurt’s way between the library and his next class, Dave comes up behind him in the hallway and claps a broad hand over Kurt’s shoulder.
His sudden appearance is like a freak change in weather after the comfort and safety of being with Blaine. Dave’s grip on his shoulder is unmistakable, and Kurt’s whole body tenses in horrible anticipation.
“Meet me in the dorm after class, dude!” Dave exclaims in a jovial tone of voice before grinning and heading off down another corridor. Kurt closes his eyes in the crowded hallway, the flow of students gently jostling him back and forth, and feels sick.
This is how Kurt winds up standing in their dorm room at 3:30 in the afternoon, forcing his hands not to twist in the fabric of his blazer as he waits for Dave to arrive.
Even though Kurt knows what Dave must want of him to have sought him out in public in such a way, he keeps his uniform on in its entirety while he waits. Shoes and all. The protection his clothes provide is non-existent, but the charade almost makes him feel better. He jumps when he hears footsteps outside the door, followed by a key being twisted in the lock before Dave pushes the door open.
“Hey,” says Dave, smiling as he closes the door behind him. “You came.”
You didn’t give me any choice.
“Yeah,” says Kurt in a stilted voice. His fingers itch with the need to move from his sides, but he keeps them stationary.
“C’mere,” says Dave, and Kurt holds his body as tense as he can to stop his feet from moving. Clenches his fists, squeezes his eyes shut and focusing his entire mind on holding still. His stomach clenches in pain, and after ten seconds the dizziness is so bad it feels as though the whole world is spinning. Pain flares up so badly that he loses concentration for a moment, and his legs almost move on their own accord before he stops them. If he can just hold on a little longer, stop himself from going going going you have to go to him go go go go go -
Before Kurt even realizes what has happened, the pain is over and the nausea is all gone and he is stepping forward into Dave Karofsky’s arms. Dave gently pulls Kurt against his chest and into a hug. As though nothing odd just happened. Kurt wants to cry, but his eyes stay determinedly dry.
Don’t cry about this anymore, baby, it’s okay. I’ve got you. Don’t cry.
There’s no point in resisting anymore. Kurt lets Dave hold him like that, Kurt’s face pressed into the crook of his neck and Dave’s arms wrapped around his shoulders. Dave isn’t that much taller than Kurt, but he’s broader. Larger, too, with well-defined arms and a small layer of softness along his midsection.
“How’s your day going, babe?” Dave murmurs, his breath tickling the shell of Kurt’s ear.
“Fine,” says Kurt, not bothering to elaborate. This is a formality Dave always enacts when they see each other, as though he cares at all what Kurt does when they aren’t together. Besides, he knows Dave well enough by now to realize that there is no avoiding what is about to happen. No stalling. “How’s yours?”
“Mmm, it was good. Went to the fitness centre for a bit before class. Had a pretty decent time in class.” Dave leans down and presses a soft kiss to Kurt’s neck. Kurt shudders. “I want to try something new,” murmurs Dave, pulling Kurt tight against him. “Say you want to try it.”
“I want to try it.”
“Good.”
Kurt is grateful for the wording. For the most part, Dave has stopped giving him commands that change the way he thinks or feels. Before, right after Dave discovered his secret and wasn’t censoring his commands at all, it had only taken him a few days to have a full break-down in front of the Dave. Sobbing and shrieking and begging, all dignity gone. Because with every ‘don’t be afraid’ and ‘don’t think about other guys that way’, Kurt could feel his mind breaking down. Neurons firing, making new connections, creating mental blocks and walls that violated his mind. Trapping him inside his head and changing who he was, unable to even think for himself. Rearranging his thoughts and feelings until they may as well have been someone else’s.
Dave had cooed, and held him close, and stroked his hair as Kurt cried and shivered in his arms - before telling him to think and feel exactly as he normally would. Kurt had sobbed in relief as his mind rearranged itself back into its ordinary state, and hadn’t even tried to push Dave away when he pressed painfully hard kisses against Kurt’s lips. After that, Dave had always been more careful with his wording, generally limiting himself to controlling Kurt’s actions instead of his emotions.
The ever-present ‘enjoy this’ is the exception to the rule.
Dave pulls back and reaches down to cradle Kurt’s cheek, tilting his face up so that Kurt has to look at him. Dave hisses in a quick breath when their eyes meet, hand tightening on Kurt’s face. Dave looks enraptured, his slightly rounded face flushed and a sweet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His thumb strokes over Kurt’s cheek.
“Kiss me,” he says. Kurt’s body responds before he can even think.
And no matter how much this happens, it feels like a betrayal every time. Because Dave has never given him a choice, but it’s still Kurt who leans up and presses their lips together. It is Kurt who initiates the contact, however much it makes his skin crawl. And if he were stronger, or smarter, or better... maybe he could find a way to stop it.
Groaning against his lips, Dave’s hand shifts from his cheek to the back of his neck. Holding him in place while he opens Kurt’s mouth with his own and slides his tongue inside. It’s an intrusion inside Kurt’s mouth, wet and needy, taking what Kurt has never offered. Dave’s fingers tighten in his hair, and Kurt can’t stop the small noise he makes into Dave’s mouth.
“Fuck, Kurt, you’re so gorgeous,” murmurs Dave, pulling back and pressing a kiss on Kurt’s cheek, his jaw, the tiny bit of pale neck revealed by his uniform. “Have to see you... let me undress you, kay...”
He reaches down and begins to unbutton Kurt’s blazer, thick fingers clumsy around the buttons. Every instinct in Kurt’s mind is screaming at him to pull away, to cross his arms across his chest. Instead, he stands stock-still as Dave peels off his school jacket and loosens his tie, pulling it over Kurt’s head in a rush. Dave intermittently leans forward to kiss him, murmuring sickly sweet words against his lips. Beautiful. Pretty. Mine.
When Dave gets to his button-up, every inch of pale skin revealed feels like a violation.
“Do your pants, babe,” says Dave, once his shirt falls to the floor in a crumpled pile of white fabric. Cold air stings Kurt’s naked chest, and the way Dave looks at him as he begins to unbutton his own blazer...
His expression is so loving that it makes Kurt feel physically ill.
Dave takes off his own clothes as Kurt slides off his shoes, his socks. As he unbuttons his trousers and lets them fall to the ground. The whole time, Dave holds his gaze; eyes full of frightening intensity and conviction as they undress. It’s only when Kurt reaches down to slide off his underwear that Dave’s eyes finally leave his face.
“Fuck...” Dave whispers, standing broad and thick and exposed in front of him. Kurt’s eyes dart down to Dave’s cock, thick and flushed and completely hard as it juts out from his body. He looks up at Dave’s eyes, dark with lust, which are fixed on Kurt’s exposed cock.
It’s completely flaccid.
Dave steps forward and trails a large hand down Kurt’s pale, narrow chest. Dave bites his lip, a hint of frustrated guilt furrowing his eyebrows, and a rush of panicked dread wells up in Kurt’s chest. The movement slightly frantic, Kurt reaches down and covers Dave’s hand in his own.
“David.” His own voice sounds high in the stillness of the room. “David, please, you don’t have to -”
“Shhh,” says Dave. “Shh, Kurt, it’s okay. You’re going to let me take care of you. And you’re going to enjoy it.”
The change is instantaneous. Kurt chokes out a half-cry as he feels his mind fog with sudden desire, the world around him fading out of focus before quickly settling back in again. But warmer, softer. Everything is so different, all of a sudden. He can feel his mind rearranging, blocking, changing thought patterns and sensory perception until his head is clogged with want and need and God, Dave and he can’t remember why he didn’t want this in the first place.
“Fuck,” Kurt exhales, body feeling suddenly flushed. His cock hardens rapidly when Dave reaches down and strokes it, confident and in control. Kurt mewls at the sudden sensation, reaching his arms up around Dave’s neck to support himself as the Dave begins to jack him off. Every twist of his wrist sends sparks of electricity up Kurt’s spine, makes pleasure twist through him. Raw and real and so much.
You don’t want this.
“God, you’re beautiful like this,” Dave hums against his skin, squeezing Kurt’s cock in the most delicious way as he moves his hand over it. “All mine, Kurt, yeah?”
Kurt can’t speak, can only groan and buck his hips into Dave’s hand and cling to him for support through the pleasure.
You hate this, you fucking whore.
“Go lie down on the bed, Kurt,” says Dave, pulling away and leaving Kurt panting. “I want to try something now.”
“Okay,” Kurt chokes out, obediently turning and going over to sit on the edge Dave’s bed before pushing himself back into a lying position, cock hard and throbbing with the need to be touched. Dave follows him there, climbing onto the end of the bed and kneeling between Kurt’s legs. He catches Kurt’s eyes, licks his lips - before leaning down to take Kurt’s cock into his mouth.
Kurt lets out a choked gasp, one hand flying up to cover his face and the other tangling into the bedsheets. His legs fall open of their own accord at the warm slide of Dave’s mouth, wet and hot and amazing as it moves over his cock. Gentle hands come up to grip Kurt’s hips, stopping him from thrusting wantonly up into the sensation. And all the while Kurt can feel Dave bobbing up and down, tongue sliding along the underside and swirling over the head in a way that makes Kurt groan out loud.
But even through the haze of delirious pleasure, something (you don’t want this) is niggling at the back of Kurt’s mind. Because there is nothing new about this. Dave loves the power of being able to take Kurt apart with pleasure, of making Kurt feel so good he can barely speak. And giving Kurt head is one of his favourite methods.
Fucking slut, spreading your legs like this.
When Dave’s mouth comes away with a wet little pop, lips swollen and a streak of saliva running down his chin, it makes Kurt whine at the absence. Gently, Dave pulls at Kurt’s hips to guide him into flipping onto his knees. Kurt does so immediately, ass in the air and entrance exposed. He thinks he knows what to expect - but when Kurt reaches a hand out to the bedside table for the small container of lube, Dave slaps his hand away.
Instead, Dave grips his ass and spreads his cheeks - and a wet, determined tongue slides around the puckered skin of Kurt’s entrance.
The shock of the sensation is enough to make Kurt shout out loud. It jolts him out of his haze of want and desperate desire to think oh god, he’s never done this; never wanted this from me. I hate it, I hate it, don’t want his tongue like that oh god, make it stop make it stop make it stop -
- before the fog settles over his mind again. He arches up into the touch, groaning like a whore and fisting his hands in the bedsheets. The saliva is beginning to grow cold in the air, so sensitive. Dave chuckles behind him.
“Thought you might like this,” says Dave, sounding slightly out of breath, before spreading Kurt’s cheeks wide and licking a stripe along Kurt’s hole. Kurt hears himself moan high and clear into the room.
When Dave’s tongue actually pushes into him, past the ring of muscle and into Kurt’s body, it’s such a violation that Kurt’s throat grows thick and his eyes begin to sting despite how good he’s being forced to feel. His body wants to thrust back into the delicious wetness of Dave’s tongue, but disgust and self-hatred are dancing at the edges of his mind. This had never been something he wanted to try, even if he got a proper boyfriend. The idea had always been so repulsive, so unthinkable to him that it had made him wrinkle his nose and shake his head in disdain.
Instead, Kurt’s arms give out with the pleasure of it; he buries his burning face into his arms, ass in the air. His pretty cries and moans echo in the room as he arches up into the sensation of Dave’s tongue moving inside of him. Pushing and sliding, a wriggling wetness where it doesn’t belong.
Make him stop make him stop make him stop...
Eventually, Dave pulls away. When his tongue slips out, it makes Kurt groan for reasons he can’t fully understand. Dave slides his tongue once more over him before sitting back on his heels and wiping a hand at his mouth.
“God, that’s a weird angle.” He slides a broad hand along Kurt’s back, trying to be reassuring. “You enjoy that, Kurt?”
No.
“Yeah,” gasps Kurt, head still buried in his arms. His breath grows even more hot and ragged when he feels Dave reach over to grab the container of lube. Kurt hears a bottle uncap, a squeeze of liquid onto skin - and fingers, two at least, press at his entrance. Blunt and demanding, an unimaginable intrusion pressing inside. His mind wants to clench, to get them out - but his body welcomes them in. Pushing back onto the pressure as they forcefully slide inside.
“God, you were made for this,” groans Dave, his fingers pushing against the resistance of his body until they’re completely inside. “You love it, don’t you? You love it when I shove my fingers into you. Feels so good, doesn’t it Kurt.”
As if for emphasis, Dave crooks his fingers and begins to rock them gently. Kurt sobs in pleasure, real tears gathering at his eyes -- the order not to cry never seems to work when he's like this, with his mind fogged with need and Dave buried inside of him and his body physically can't help it -- and falling onto the sheets below. Slowly, Dave begins to slide the fingers in and out, Kurt’s body catching and dragging at them as they move inside of him. And, god, the pleasure’s almost too much - too intense, and Kurt needs Dave to touch his cock. Needs to come so badly it aches.
“Tell me how good it feels,” Dave grunts, and by the way his voice is ragged and worn Kurt knows he must be touching himself as well.
“So good, Dave, p-please...” Kurt hears himself say in a choked voice.
Dave slides another slick finger in alongside the others. Kurt wails. It’s impossible, how good it all feels. The fingers are stretching him out, and it hurts, and all his body wants is more.
You’re disgusting.
The fingers, now trembling, slide out - but the emptiness doesn’t last long. After only a few moments, there’s a blunter pressure there instead. Dave’s cock, slick with lube, pressing against him.
He pushes inside, and it’s too much. Splitting him apart as Dave slides slowly in, gripping his hips tight to hold him in place. It hurts, but his brain turns the pain into pleasure that makes him try to push back. To bring Dave in faster, harder. But the hands hold him firm, and Dave moves at his own pace until finally - finally - he’s completely inside. Kurt feels so full, full to the brim. Stretched out around Dave’s cock and it’s unbelievable.
“Tell me,” commands Dave, and he begins to set up a hard rhythm. Gripping Kurt’s hips and choosing the pace, and Kurt can only get what Dave chooses to give him. Taking what he wants from Kurt’s body. Taking, taking, taking.
“Fuck,” hisses Kurt, burying his face and clenching his hands in the sheets as Dave’s cock slides in and out. Hard, and fast, and too much. “It’s so much, Dave and so b-big inside me. So full, Jesus Christ, Dave -”
“No,” says Dave, voice sounding strangled and panting hard. He takes one hand off Kurt’s hip and reaches around to stroke Kurt’s cock in time with his thrusts. Pleasure flashes even brighter behind Kurt’s eyelids, sparking up his spine. Making his toes curl and a whine grow in his throat. “Tell me... tell me that you l-love me.”
His thrusts are growing harder now, faster, and Kurt can barely think. There’s a voice in the back of his mind recoiling in disgust, but he can’t remember why when everything feels so good.
“I love you,” Kurt manages. Dave pounds into him a few more times before slamming in and stilling, choking to stifle a shout as he comes, and Kurt can feel something hot and wet inside. He whimpers pathetically as Dave shudders through his orgasm, himself still hard and unsatisfied, leaning back onto Dave’s softening cock and making Dave inhale sharply.
Dave shudders one last time before pulling out sharply. A whine begins to build up in Kurt’s throat, but almost immediately Dave replaces his cock with at least three fingers and shoves them into his body with such force the breath is knocked out of Kurt’s lungs. Dave’s other hand starts moving again on Kurt’s cock, squeezing tight and jerking incredibly fast as the fingers pump inside. Ruthless, and hard, and liquid pleasure is bursting through Kurt’s body. Sparking harder and harder with every thrust to that ohgodsogood spot inside of him, pressing his face into the sheets and wailing as he comes over Dave’s hand. Crying out into the room and clinging to the bed as Dave’s fingers fuck him through it, wringing every last little bit of pleasure possible as he shudders and groans.
His mind blurs through the orgasm, blissed out and writhing through the very last of the shocks and loving every touch and stroke and thrust.
And all at once, the fog lifts from Kurt’s mind.
He hears himself, moaning like a whore and sobbing into the night, but the pleasure is only an empty echo of what it was before. The fingers inside him hurt so fucking much without the pleasure to dull the burn, an intrusion that his body wants to push out right this instant. He’s oversensitive and raw, every twitch of Dave’s fingers making him ache and twitch and want to get away. All he can think about is getting them out, about the disgusting slickness inside of him and everything it means. His whole body hurts from staying in this position far too long, arms trembling and back sore from straining. The world is blurry, so Kurt blinks - and tears fall down his cheeks.
The fingers slide out slowly and carefully, but all Kurt can manage is a hiss of pain. He feels empty. Empty and used, like something you own. Everything - every suppressed emotion, every bit of pain his mind converted to pleasure, every self-hating thought and wave of disgust - come flooding up to the surface at once. Kurt can’t help but gasp, too, at the sudden hatred that flares up inside of him; burning and sickened and choking him with its ferocity.
Not for Dave, though; for himself. For letting himself be used, and violated, and so easily broken.
Kurt lets out a tiny choke, and all at once Dave is scooping him up into his arms. Holding Kurt in his lap like a doll, making gentle sweet noises and stroking a hand through Kurt’s sweat-soaked hair. Kurt buries his face in Dave’s neck and breathes. In and out. In and out.
Don’t let him see you cry.
“It’s okay, babe, you did so well.” Dave presses a kiss to Kurt’s forehead. Gentle and caring, and everything about this is just so wrong. “My Kurt.”
Kurt breathes, and shakes, and hates his body for doing this to him. For betraying him like this, like always, when he needs the most to be strong and sure. He hates Dave, hates himself, hates his mind for making him enjoy this.
For enjoying his own rape.
There is nothing safe about being curled up in the arms of Dave Karofsky, but it’s the best that he’s going to get. Kurt is exhausted, and furious, and hates himself so much it makes his stomach roil.
Absurdly, his last thought as he drifts to sleep is one of gratitude. Gratitude that, even as Dave forces his body to respond, this is another day where he hasn’t done what Kurt’s been terrified of all along. Because at the very least, telling Kurt to enjoy what they do together is temporary. Short-term. He can be himself, after Dave finishes with him for the night.
But if Dave orders Kurt to fall in love with him...
He’ll never let me go.
Feeling sore and filthy and defeated, Kurt closes his eyes as Dave strokes his hair and whispers kind words into his ear.
He falls into an uneasy sleep, Dave’s arms wrap around him like a cage.
Chapter Three: Blaine
Title: "My Body Betrays Me" (Chapter Two: Kurt)
Author: emilianadarling
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: non-con/dub-con Kurt/Karofsky, Kurt/Blaine
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Vaguely explained magic, non-con, dub-con, angst, rimming, derogatory language, awful situations, manipulation, self-deluding, crack prompt gone serious.
Length: 9 for this chapter.
Spoilers: This is an AU, so not really.
Story Summary: Kurt’s been in a secret relationship with his roommate at Dalton for months. That would be fine... if he wanted any of it. If he could say no, and if Dave would listen. If he were with Blaine, his wonderful friend from the school’s glee club, instead.
Prompt: Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme. Kurt is magically compelled to follow orders. Dave takes advantage. Blaine just wants to make everything all right again.
Notes: I don't even know what to say. I'm so sorry. I blame the kinkmeme for putting ideas in my head.
Chapter One: Dave
The year Kurt turned six years old, he was enrolled at Lima’s public elementary school. The decision was not an easy one.
Burt, ever cautious and pragmatic, had been wary of sending his son into an environment where they had almost no way of monitoring him. His concern was valid; school would be the first time Kurt would be able to interact with children his age without parental supervision. Kurt was too young, he insisted, too defenceless against any bad orders without his parents around to defuse them. Burt was in favour of home schooling from the start.
It was Elizabeth who fought for elementary school, every inch as passionate and convicted as she was in every other facet of her life. She was adamant that Kurt deserved a proper childhood, that they owed it to their boy to give him a normal life in whatever ways they could.
The two of them clashed over the issue on and off for an entire year, furious whispered conversations growing more and more frequent as September approached until they were a practically daily occurrence. There were tears, and harsh words, and even a few shouting matches that Kurt had the misfortune to stumble in on. It was hard, seeing his parents fight that way - and, to make matters worse, about him. But there was never any hatred or spite in the arguments between his parents, even at their worst. Just concern, and anxiety, and a shared deep love for their son.
Elizabeth won out in the end. On the first of September, round face smattered with light freckles and clad in too-big overalls, six-year-old Kurt stepped into his very first classroom.
It went fairly well, at first. Kurt’s first grade teacher, Ms. Campbell, was a sweet-faced woman with dark hair and skin who wore pretty sweaters with sensible shoes and loved themed lessons. One week they would focus on China, the next on fossils, and the week after that on how plants grew. They learned how many inches were in a foot, where the United States was on a map, and how to read Go, Dog, Go and Sir Small and the Dragonfly. Although Kurt’s mother had already taken him past the first grade reading level, it was even more fun to discover stories with children his age than it was curled up in bed next to his mother, warm and safe as she helped him sound out the more complicated words.
However much fun school was, though, it never rendered the curse any less of a problem.
Although Burt and Elizabeth had coached him what felt like a million times on how to bend, reinterpret, and resist against orders, this did not save Kurt from awkward and hard-to-explain moments in class. Instructions as simple as “sing as loud as you can, everyone!” made Kurt belt out songs at a horrible wail that made the other students cover their ears until someone told him to stop, and being commanded to “sit at your desk and not make a sound” was enough to leave him a trembling mess from the exertion of trying to remain absolutely silent.
But these incidents were, for the most part, harmless. Easily explained away, no matter how much they made Kurt pout and stomp at his parents. No matter how much they made him cry with childish frustration at how awful it was that no one else was like him, how unfair it was that he couldn’t tell his classmates and Ms. Campbell what was wrong with him. On those evenings, Elizabeth would hold him close and stroke his hair while Burt gave his wife significant glances across the table.
It was all manageable.
Until the day Kurt went missing.
On that day, group of eight first graders stood in a cluster on the edge of the field. They were small and sedentary as whirls of older students ran around them. It was a cool day, cloudy with a light breeze and perfect for playing outside.
Kurt scuffed at the grass with his shoe. He would rather have been sitting on the steps reading, or on the jungle gym with his friend Peter. But someone had called at him to come over and play, and his feet had moved before he could even think about it.
“Okay, you all have to pick a place and hide there until I find you,” said Sarah, a bossy girl with thin blonde hair she wore in pigtails. She had a slight lisp, accentuated by the gap where she had already begun to lose her baby teeth.
“I don’t want to play hide and seek,” said Kurt petulantly. “I want to play on the jungle gym.” Reading wasn’t cool enough to get them to let him leave.
“Well, I’m in charge and I’m saying you play with us,” said Sarah haughtily, crossing her arms.
“Yeah, Kurt. Just play,” added James, a round boy with square glasses who did everything Sarah told him to. Kurt scowled, but didn’t say anything in response.
“’Kay,” continued Sarah. “When I say so, everyone runs to find the best hiding place. That means you too, Kurt. Go find the most secret hiding place and don’t make a sound. Stay there until I find you. Ready? One, two, three - go!”
They all ran. Sarah clamped her hands over her eyes and began to count to sixty. When the blonde girl finally reached one minute, she scampered off enthusiastically to find her classmates. By the time fifteen-minute afternoon recess was over, she had discovered four of the seven hiders - and when the bell rang, two of those still tucked away darted out of their hiding places to run back into the school building.
Half of the class went straight to music, and the other half continued on immediately to physical education in the gym. It wasn’t until forty-five minutes later, when they were all gathered back in the classroom with Ms. Campbell doing roll call, that anyone noticed Kurt had never come back.
As soon as Ms. Campbell noticed his absence, a call was put out over the intercom. The principle and office administration were quickly summoned, and the bathrooms, music room, and playground were checked. When a second intercom call was put through and Kurt still did not appear, the school’s office called Kurt’s parents - as well as the local police.
It wasn’t until long after the end of the school day that a police officer found Kurt. Curled into a ball and sobbing silently, tucked into a supposedly-locked outdoor tool shed where the janitor kept his rakes and mowers. He had dirt smudges on his cheeks, and was shaking so hard from the effort of remaining silent that the discovering officer at first assumed he had mild hypothermia. When he was taken back to his parents, his mother held him to her chest and sobbed helplessly, repeating senseless apologies over and over again as he clung to her shoulders. His father, seemingly not noticing the tears streaming down his own cheeks, rubbed Kurt’s back and repeated over and over that he was safe, safe now.
That night, long after the commotion had ended and he had been put to bed, Kurt woke thirsty and padded into the kitchen for a drink. A light was already on in the kitchen, its soft glow trickling into the hallway. When he got a little closer, Kurt froze at the sound of his mother’s voice. She sounded strained. Wrung-out.
“... my fault, all my fault. I never should have pushed him so young, Burt. I can’t... I can’t believe I hurt our boy so badly.”
“We’ve learned now.” His father’s voice, soft and comforting. Kurt snuck closer and peered around the corner to see his mother perched in a kitchen chair, hands twisting anxiously in her lap. His father standing behind her with a reassuring arm on her shoulders. “We know better now, Lizzy. No school, not until he’s old enough to find a way to get out of these scrapes on his own.”
Kurt’s heart felt as though it stuttered and stopped. No school? What about his friends, his classes? They were supposed to be covering the weather next week, and parts of a volcano the week after that.
The shed had been scary, certainly. Lonely and terrifying, yes. But Kurt couldn’t comprehend why it was such a big deal.
He leaned in, listening as hard as he could and squinting through the dim light. His mother was wringing her hands in her lap. Her face was swollen, puffy.
“I just... I just wanted him to give him a normal childhood, Burt. For as long as he could have one. Because it is my fault. It’s my family that gave him that... that...” Elizabeth’s voice shook. “Why didn’t I get it, Burt? Why does our boy have to suffer instead? It’s so unfair, and I hate it, and I just - I just want him to be happy.”
“He will be, Lizzy. He will.” Burt’s voice was reassuring and calm. He wrapped his arms around Elizabeth’s shoulders and tucked his face into her neck. Kurt couldn’t make out the next words he spoke, but they made his mother’s shoulders shake and a few tears leak out of her eyes.
“I just want my boy to be happy,” whispered Elizabeth, raw and sad and full of so many emotions Kurt just couldn't understand.
Those were the last words he heard before he turned and fled back into the darkened hallway, the water forgotten in his haste to return to the safety of his bed.
--
On Sunday evening the common room of Kurt’s residence building is sparsely occupied and subdued, especially considering the day. Even those students who have the opportunity to visit family and friends over the weekend are generally back and ready to socialize on the brink of a new week - or at least ready to cram through their neglected homework.
Today, however, the common room is practically empty. Its squashy, well-worn couches hold only a small smattering of boys. The secluded corner full of tables and chairs, generally monopolized by keeners and intense academics, boasts only one hunched figure. Surrounded by books and hunched slightly in his chair, Kurt Hummel perches on his chair in his lonesome corner of the room and stares at the full page of notes in front of him.
When Kurt had first started at Dalton, he was always among the flock of its students who left campus every weekend to visit loved ones. It had been practically a running joke among his fellow Warblers that the Hallowed Hummel-Hudson Friday Night Dinner must be far more exciting than whatever shenanigans they had planned, since Kurt was always so willing to say goodbye his friends for a few days in favour of driving back into Lima.
Kurt barely ever goes home on weekends, anymore. He’s only made it home twice since Dave - don’t call me by my last name, Kurt, it sounds so formal - discovered his secret. Both times he dared to head back to Lima, he left Dalton so brimming with what not to do instructions that seeing his father, stepmother, and stepbrother had almost been unbearable.
Don’t hint that anything’s wrong. Act normal. Don’t do anything you wouldn’t ordinarily do. Say you’re having fun at school. Just act happy. Leave as soon as possible, Kurt, I’ll miss you if you’re gone too long.
It was easier - less painful - to claim the need to study for midterms and essays without distraction. To beg off the weekly visits and miss his family so much it hurt, instead.
Besides, a few weeks ago Dave had ordered him to spend more time with him. Staying at Dalton on weekends is a way to satisfy the command without necessarily having to be alone with his roommate.
And so Kurt sits amid his stacks of textbooks on verb conjugation and chemical reactions, staring down at his spiral binder full of neatly hand-written notes, and tries to convince himself that he isn’t avoiding Dave Karofsky. Never mind the fact that over the past few months Kurt has been ordered not to spend more than a few hours’ worth of time with first one friend, and then another, and that after last night virtually all of the people he is even remotely friendly with in this building are now off-limits. Never mind that Jeff has been giving him strange looks from his place on the one of the couches all evening.
Never mind the fact that he wasn’t allowed to go home to his family. Never mind that, because of this, he has had so much free time over the past two days that he’s managed to review so thoroughly for his midterms that his head might explode if he reads one more paragraph.
Because don’t avoid me, Kurt, fucking hell leaves a lot of wiggle room, if he looks at it the right way. He’s better at finding loopholes now that he ever was before; still can’t believe how easily he gave himself up to Dave all those months ago, handing himself over on a silver platter with barely a struggle at all. And if Kurt can convince himself that he still needs to stay here and study, he won’t have to go up to his bedroom at six o’clock with the rest of the night stretched out before him. Won’t have to go quite so soon to start the parade of humiliation and filth he cannot stop his feet from seeking out forever.
Won’t have to face the whole rest of the evening as Dave Karofsky’s thing.
When Kurt was smaller - eleven and twelve, and even for a few years afterward - he used to make a game out of it. Out of how long he could resist the compulsion that filled his body and left him weak and panting, wracked with pain and desperate for it to all be over, to just do whatever people told him to and make the hurting go away.
Simple, harmless commands like “say hello to your dad for me!” from the neighbour over the backyard fence were always the best fodder. He would smile and nod - then come inside the house, sit down on the floor, and wait. Wait for the creeping dizziness to fill his mind until the world would spin and twirl and tilt on its edge. For the sickness to come, waves of nausea that filled up his stomach and left him feeling as though insects were clawing at his insides. For the pain. Headaches so hard and strong they practically blinded him and the rapidly growing ache that flared inside his limbs and left him sweating, helpless. And all the while, listening to the voice chant inside his head:
Do it. Just do it, you have to. Do it do it doitdoitdoitdoit -
Sometimes the pain became too much, and he would give up the game in frustration. Throw in the towel, all the while promising himself that he would do better next time; would be stronger, more resolute.
Other times, his body would move seemingly without his permission to complete the task, like a marionette with invisible strings. One moment resisting with all his might, and the next moment watching his body fulfill the command as his mind sneered on in disgust.
In either event, testing the curse always ended the same way: in failure. There was no resisting, not really. There was only how long he could hold out before giving in. By all logic, the curse should have made him obedient. Malleable and suggestive, comfortable in the knowledge that he simply had no choice.
Instead, it made Kurt’s heart hard.
Sharp edges and sarcasm, contrary whenever possible and fighting all the while. Made him claw tooth and nail against following even the simplest of commands all through his adolescence. Made him dress to stand out, to be different despite what people thought or said to him. Being himself despite it all made everything more difficult, but at least he was trying. For every frantic phone call to his dad, to Finn, to anyone after some bully told him to go slit his wrists and frantic to have the order reversed, it was almost worth it. Because at least he wasn’t accepting it. Wasn’t throwing up his hands in defeat without a fight, letting those ignorant and hateful people control his life even with their great potential to do so.
Running away to Dalton had felt like a defeat, but it had at least provided some relief.
Until Dave found out, and Kurt’s most private and unthinkable nightmares came true in a single afternoon.
One of the few boys across the room laughs loudly, and Kurt blinks as the noise brings him back to the present. And all at once, Kurt realizes that he is sitting by himself at a desk, staring into space and grinding his teeth as he grips his pencil almost hard enough to break it, and that this isn’t actually normal behaviour. He should be reading, or jotting down notes, or something to justify staying here. Almost distantly, he begins to feel the sickness building up in his stomach; the desperate need to go up to his room pulling at every muscle of his body.
For the first few weeks after Dave found out about the curse, Kurt fought every one of his orders with everything he had. Railing against them until his head felt as though it was about to explode, finding loopholes and exploiting them at every opportunity, snarling and glaring through their time together until Dave commanded him not to. He clawed against the compulsion in his mind practically every second he was awake, mentally digging his heels into the ground and resisting every step of the way.
He’d been proud of himself, back then. Certain that there was some sort of way out, if only he fought hard enough. That he could out-think Dave, or find a way to run away, or finally find a way to resist the compulsion he’d spent his life imprisoned by.
Despite everything, when Dave finally took what he wanted there was nothing Kurt could do to stop it from happening.
There was no point in wasting his energy fighting it then, and there is no point in fighting it now. As soon as Kurt makes the decision to go upstairs, the pain disappears as though it was never there to begin with.
He takes his time tidying the books and gathering his pencils into their case before heading for the door, nodding awkwardly at Jeff’s half-wave from the couch. Ignoring him makes Kurt’s throat feel choked and raw: he likes Jeff. Likes his goofy smile, and his ridiculous puns, and the way he makes French conjugation almost funny. But it just can’t be avoided; Kurt has already used up his few hours of time with Jeff for this week.
Kurt climbs the stairs toward his and Dave’s room, feet heavy with resignation like a man heading for the gallows. And when he unlocks the dorm room door, Dave looks up from his bed and smiles warmly in greeting. The sight makes Kurt’s stomach clench.
“Hey, babe,” says Dave, eyes full of affection. He’s wearing a pair of old plaid pyjama pants and a plain white t-shirt, hair rumpled in a way that tells Kurt he hasn’t bothered to leave the dorm room today. Dave doesn’t have too many other friends, these days. “I just finished downloading that movie you wanted to watch - Burlesque, right? Feel up to watching?”
And Kurt has discovered that there is something even worse than the fact that Dave has essentially turned him into a toy for his own amusement. Worse than the way Dave invades his body and his mind every day, or the way he smiles and strokes Kurt’s arm with feeble delusion in his eyes, or the way he’s spent the past two months systematically cutting everyone and everything else out of Kurt’s life. More horrible than all of that is the fact that people can get used to anything. Because only heroes in storybooks can fight forever, can keep railing against impossible odds until their dying breath.
And Kurt simply cannot fight every battle anymore.
“Sure,” Kurt intones, because if he says ‘no’ he’ll only be ordered to. He goes to sit next to Dave on the bed, all the while feeling sick with shame and hating himself for the surrender. They watch the movie together, and Kurt doesn’t even flinch when Dave pulls him tight against his side and presses a soft kiss to his forehead.
No matter how helpless and empty it makes him feel.
--
On Monday afternoon, Kurt heads to the library during his free period. He’s careful to avoid eye contact with David (stay away from that guy, Kurt, he smiles at you way too much) and munches mechanically on an apple as he moves through the hall (this hunger strike thing is only hurting you; eat three meals day, Kurt, I’m serious).
There’s no point, no point at all, in actively trying to resist Dave’s orders - or even in trying to shy away from Dave at all. It would only make him suspicious, more likely to limit Kurt even further. Dave controls every known aspect of Kurt’s life, now. Every detail of who he spends time with, and when, and how.
Kurt walks into the library, heads to the very back of the main hall, and pushes the door to a tiny study room open. A compact boy with heavily slicked-down hair in a matching Dalton uniform is bent over the only table, surrounded by stacks of sheet music and compilation books. His dark eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, eyes fixed on what looks like an acapella version of some overly-current pop song. There is an empty chair across from him. At the sound of the door opening, the boy looks up - and smiles at Kurt in such a warm and welcoming way that, for a moment, he feels like a regular teenager again.
“Hey, Kurt,” grins Blaine, continuing to fix Kurt with that look. Caring and fond, like he’s the most special individual in the universe. “Ready to help me pick out songs for Regionals?”
“I most certainly am,” responds Kurt in most affluent tones, closing the door quietly behind him and moving to take the empty seat.
Dave might control every known aspect of Kurt’s life, but Kurt has been hiding Blaine for months.
--
“How about ‘Firework’?” asks Blaine twenty minutes later, holding up a piece of sheet music and waggling his thick eyebrows suggestively. “Bit of an earnest ballad to draw the judges in!”
Kurt raises an eyebrow, staring in disbelief at the offending song. “’Earnest ballad’? Good god. You’d honestly use any opportunity to sing atrocious Katy Perry songs, wouldn’t you?”
“Hey! I admire her as an artist and an icon.”
“It takes more autotune to get that girl on-key than it does for T-Pain, Blaine, I swear.” Kurt rolls his eyes, shuffling through the stack of music in front of him and feigning nonchalance. After a few moments he comes across a piece that makes him quickly stifle a snigger. “How about ‘You Can’t Stop the Beat’?” he asks, working hard to keep his face completely deadpan. “It’s catchy, high-energy, a real show-stopper... certain to wow those judges right into next week...”
The look of utter horror on Blaine’s face is enough to make the effort of keeping his face straight worthwhile.
“We can’t go to Regionals with Broadway, Kurt, it’s suicide!” exclaims Blaine, looking affronted. “We need something current, something catchy in order to...”
Blaine trails off as Kurt lets out a snort of laughter, clapping a pale hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. They are in a library, after all. Blaine’s expression softens.
“Yeah, yeah, make fun,” says Blaine, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a reluctant smile.
“Your obsession with Top 40 really is incredibly disturbing,” Kurt chuckles. When Blaine reaches across the discarded sheet music to brush his knuckles over Kurt’s fingers a moment later, the touch makes Kurt shiver in a way that is almost unthinkably pleasant.
He wonders, absently, if there’s something wrong with him for liking it when Blaine’s fingers skim against his own, or Blaine rests a hand casually on his shoulder. If it makes him even more broken, some kind of switch turned the wrong way in his brain. Because everything he’s ever seen about victims of... of what’s happening to him... makes him think he should probably hate being touched by anyone. Logically, Kurt should hate it. Should want to pull away.
He doesn’t, though. Instead, he just wants more of that easy friend-touching. Because when Blaine’s skin touches his, it almost makes him forget everything else in the world. Almost makes him forget Dave, and the shell of a person he’s turning Kurt into. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered word and burst of pleasure he doesn’t want chipping away at who he is until there’s barely nothing left.
Dave... Dave is jealous, and possessive, and controlling in the extreme. He knows Dave doesn’t want Kurt to have a life outside of him, not really. Wants Kurt at his beck and call, and so what if Kurt’s entire life has to be sacrificed to achieve that end?
But more disquieting than anything else is the way Dave tries so hard to make himself believe the lie he’s created. Even as he builds walls and cages Kurt in, Dave will do anything to believe that Kurt loves him back.
In Dave’s mind, Kurt is his boyfriend. And good boyfriends don’t outright tell one another they can’t have friends. It’s this bit of delusion that has allowed Kurt to cling to his furtive friendship with Blaine - even as everything else has been stripped away, piece by piece.
Thinking about his roommate - about everything Dave’s taken from him, everything he’s made Kurt’s body do and even forced him to enjoy - makes nausea swell up in Kurt’s stomach, twisting and anxious. Makes his skin crawl with dirt he can’t scrub away.
Kurt can only be with Blaine for a few hours a week at best, and even then only in the most tucked away corners of the school. But the time they do spend together... it makes Kurt feel human again, if only for a little while. Makes him feel practically normal; talking and joking and laughing with another boy his age, not worrying about what he’ll have to do in order to avoid being forbidden to text his stepbrother or being ordered to his knees at the next opportunity.
In another world, Kurt thinks he might have fallen for Blaine harder than a tonne of bricks. Would have primped and preened for his attention, sighing at how gentlemanly and handsome and kind he is. Here and now, limited by don’t flirt with anyone else and be mine and Dave watching him carefully every time he interacts with another boy in public, all he can be is Blaine’s friend - but it’s enough. Blaine’s friendship keeps him sane. Makes him feel relaxed when every other moment of the day leaves him anxious and sickened and so very full of hate.
Blaine makes him feel safe, as though he can’t be hurt here. Not really. Not in the ways that count.
“Whatever, Broadway Boy,” grins Blaine, shaking his head. “Now quit your giggling and pass me my pencil, mister.”
Kurt doesn’t hesitate, quickly picking the pencil up and handing it over to his friend without any fight. While he used to resent any kind of order at all, these sorts of innocent commands don’t really bother him anymore. They aren’t intentionally cruel, at least. They aren’t made knowingly, to keep him boxed up trapped inside his own mind.
When Blaine’s fingers brush against his again as he hands over the pencil, Blaine doesn’t pull away. Instead, Blaine gives his hand a little squeeze.
“We miss you, you know,” says Blaine quietly, brow furrowed and dark eyes full of concern.
“What?” Kurt asks stupidly, jolted out of his own thoughts and back into the present with startled speed.
“The Warblers,” Blaine continues, before letting out a tired sigh. He pauses for a long moment. “Kurt... I know that you’ve had some hard times recently.”
Kurt winces at the reminder of the lie he was forced to tell Blaine when he first started missing practice two months ago, and told again when he stopped coming all together. I’m just... having a serious family crisis. No, I don’t want to talk about it. I just don’t have time for show choir right now, Blaine, I’m sorry.
He nods, looking down at the table between them.
“And believe me when I say that I understand: I’ve had my fair share of family conflict and tragedy in my life, too.” Blaine’s thumb is rubbing gentle circles into the back of Kurt’s hand. Careful and gentle. Supportive. It makes Kurt think of the way Dave strokes his hair when they lie in bed together at night, and his body tenses up against his will. Blaine doesn’t seem to notice.
“But Kurt... we’re your friends. And all we want is be here for you when you need us. All I want is to be here for you, and not just for forty minutes during your free period twice a week.” Blaine gives his hand a squeeze. “I want you to just let me in, Kurt. I want to help.”
“I know,” whispers Kurt, choking slightly on the words. Because he needs Blaine, needs him so much. But no matter how lovely and kind Blaine’s intentions might be, there is no way Kurt can physically make himself go to his friend for help.
If he could, he would cry and scream and beg for Blaine to help him. Would say help me, please help me. He’s making me, I can’t help it. I want to die when he touches me, I want to die and I can’t even kill myself, Blaine. I’m only ever myself when I’m with you, and I can’t even tell you how dead I feel all the time. Can only go through every day acting the part and hoping to hell he gets hit by a bus or falls down the stairs and I can finally leave.
But Dave’s orders leave no room for interpretation in that regard, and no matter how much Kurt wants to say the words they simply will not leave his mouth.
“Thank you,” he says instead, the words subdued and carefully spoken. “I’m not... I can’t, but... when I’m ready?”
“Of course,” says Blaine after a moment, pulling his hand away and giving Kurt an understanding look. “Whenever you want, Kurt. Any time.”
There’s a long pause. Kurt licks his lips, and after a few moments begins to shuffle through one of the stacks of sheet music.
“How about this one?” says Kurt at last, barely bothering to look at the title of the piece before he holds it up for Blaine to see. Blaine raises an eyebrow.
“’Good Life’ by Onerepublic?” Blaine hums appreciatively, taking the sheet music and squinting at the lines. “The background instrumentals could be really interesting in acapella, don’t you think?” He grins. “Kurt, this might actually work.”
“Whatever would you do without me?” Kurt asks, forcing his lips into a smile.
--
On Kurt’s way between the library and his next class, Dave comes up behind him in the hallway and claps a broad hand over Kurt’s shoulder.
His sudden appearance is like a freak change in weather after the comfort and safety of being with Blaine. Dave’s grip on his shoulder is unmistakable, and Kurt’s whole body tenses in horrible anticipation.
“Meet me in the dorm after class, dude!” Dave exclaims in a jovial tone of voice before grinning and heading off down another corridor. Kurt closes his eyes in the crowded hallway, the flow of students gently jostling him back and forth, and feels sick.
This is how Kurt winds up standing in their dorm room at 3:30 in the afternoon, forcing his hands not to twist in the fabric of his blazer as he waits for Dave to arrive.
Even though Kurt knows what Dave must want of him to have sought him out in public in such a way, he keeps his uniform on in its entirety while he waits. Shoes and all. The protection his clothes provide is non-existent, but the charade almost makes him feel better. He jumps when he hears footsteps outside the door, followed by a key being twisted in the lock before Dave pushes the door open.
“Hey,” says Dave, smiling as he closes the door behind him. “You came.”
You didn’t give me any choice.
“Yeah,” says Kurt in a stilted voice. His fingers itch with the need to move from his sides, but he keeps them stationary.
“C’mere,” says Dave, and Kurt holds his body as tense as he can to stop his feet from moving. Clenches his fists, squeezes his eyes shut and focusing his entire mind on holding still. His stomach clenches in pain, and after ten seconds the dizziness is so bad it feels as though the whole world is spinning. Pain flares up so badly that he loses concentration for a moment, and his legs almost move on their own accord before he stops them. If he can just hold on a little longer, stop himself from going going going you have to go to him go go go go go -
Before Kurt even realizes what has happened, the pain is over and the nausea is all gone and he is stepping forward into Dave Karofsky’s arms. Dave gently pulls Kurt against his chest and into a hug. As though nothing odd just happened. Kurt wants to cry, but his eyes stay determinedly dry.
Don’t cry about this anymore, baby, it’s okay. I’ve got you. Don’t cry.
There’s no point in resisting anymore. Kurt lets Dave hold him like that, Kurt’s face pressed into the crook of his neck and Dave’s arms wrapped around his shoulders. Dave isn’t that much taller than Kurt, but he’s broader. Larger, too, with well-defined arms and a small layer of softness along his midsection.
“How’s your day going, babe?” Dave murmurs, his breath tickling the shell of Kurt’s ear.
“Fine,” says Kurt, not bothering to elaborate. This is a formality Dave always enacts when they see each other, as though he cares at all what Kurt does when they aren’t together. Besides, he knows Dave well enough by now to realize that there is no avoiding what is about to happen. No stalling. “How’s yours?”
“Mmm, it was good. Went to the fitness centre for a bit before class. Had a pretty decent time in class.” Dave leans down and presses a soft kiss to Kurt’s neck. Kurt shudders. “I want to try something new,” murmurs Dave, pulling Kurt tight against him. “Say you want to try it.”
“I want to try it.”
“Good.”
Kurt is grateful for the wording. For the most part, Dave has stopped giving him commands that change the way he thinks or feels. Before, right after Dave discovered his secret and wasn’t censoring his commands at all, it had only taken him a few days to have a full break-down in front of the Dave. Sobbing and shrieking and begging, all dignity gone. Because with every ‘don’t be afraid’ and ‘don’t think about other guys that way’, Kurt could feel his mind breaking down. Neurons firing, making new connections, creating mental blocks and walls that violated his mind. Trapping him inside his head and changing who he was, unable to even think for himself. Rearranging his thoughts and feelings until they may as well have been someone else’s.
Dave had cooed, and held him close, and stroked his hair as Kurt cried and shivered in his arms - before telling him to think and feel exactly as he normally would. Kurt had sobbed in relief as his mind rearranged itself back into its ordinary state, and hadn’t even tried to push Dave away when he pressed painfully hard kisses against Kurt’s lips. After that, Dave had always been more careful with his wording, generally limiting himself to controlling Kurt’s actions instead of his emotions.
The ever-present ‘enjoy this’ is the exception to the rule.
Dave pulls back and reaches down to cradle Kurt’s cheek, tilting his face up so that Kurt has to look at him. Dave hisses in a quick breath when their eyes meet, hand tightening on Kurt’s face. Dave looks enraptured, his slightly rounded face flushed and a sweet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His thumb strokes over Kurt’s cheek.
“Kiss me,” he says. Kurt’s body responds before he can even think.
And no matter how much this happens, it feels like a betrayal every time. Because Dave has never given him a choice, but it’s still Kurt who leans up and presses their lips together. It is Kurt who initiates the contact, however much it makes his skin crawl. And if he were stronger, or smarter, or better... maybe he could find a way to stop it.
Groaning against his lips, Dave’s hand shifts from his cheek to the back of his neck. Holding him in place while he opens Kurt’s mouth with his own and slides his tongue inside. It’s an intrusion inside Kurt’s mouth, wet and needy, taking what Kurt has never offered. Dave’s fingers tighten in his hair, and Kurt can’t stop the small noise he makes into Dave’s mouth.
“Fuck, Kurt, you’re so gorgeous,” murmurs Dave, pulling back and pressing a kiss on Kurt’s cheek, his jaw, the tiny bit of pale neck revealed by his uniform. “Have to see you... let me undress you, kay...”
He reaches down and begins to unbutton Kurt’s blazer, thick fingers clumsy around the buttons. Every instinct in Kurt’s mind is screaming at him to pull away, to cross his arms across his chest. Instead, he stands stock-still as Dave peels off his school jacket and loosens his tie, pulling it over Kurt’s head in a rush. Dave intermittently leans forward to kiss him, murmuring sickly sweet words against his lips. Beautiful. Pretty. Mine.
When Dave gets to his button-up, every inch of pale skin revealed feels like a violation.
“Do your pants, babe,” says Dave, once his shirt falls to the floor in a crumpled pile of white fabric. Cold air stings Kurt’s naked chest, and the way Dave looks at him as he begins to unbutton his own blazer...
His expression is so loving that it makes Kurt feel physically ill.
Dave takes off his own clothes as Kurt slides off his shoes, his socks. As he unbuttons his trousers and lets them fall to the ground. The whole time, Dave holds his gaze; eyes full of frightening intensity and conviction as they undress. It’s only when Kurt reaches down to slide off his underwear that Dave’s eyes finally leave his face.
“Fuck...” Dave whispers, standing broad and thick and exposed in front of him. Kurt’s eyes dart down to Dave’s cock, thick and flushed and completely hard as it juts out from his body. He looks up at Dave’s eyes, dark with lust, which are fixed on Kurt’s exposed cock.
It’s completely flaccid.
Dave steps forward and trails a large hand down Kurt’s pale, narrow chest. Dave bites his lip, a hint of frustrated guilt furrowing his eyebrows, and a rush of panicked dread wells up in Kurt’s chest. The movement slightly frantic, Kurt reaches down and covers Dave’s hand in his own.
“David.” His own voice sounds high in the stillness of the room. “David, please, you don’t have to -”
“Shhh,” says Dave. “Shh, Kurt, it’s okay. You’re going to let me take care of you. And you’re going to enjoy it.”
The change is instantaneous. Kurt chokes out a half-cry as he feels his mind fog with sudden desire, the world around him fading out of focus before quickly settling back in again. But warmer, softer. Everything is so different, all of a sudden. He can feel his mind rearranging, blocking, changing thought patterns and sensory perception until his head is clogged with want and need and God, Dave and he can’t remember why he didn’t want this in the first place.
“Fuck,” Kurt exhales, body feeling suddenly flushed. His cock hardens rapidly when Dave reaches down and strokes it, confident and in control. Kurt mewls at the sudden sensation, reaching his arms up around Dave’s neck to support himself as the Dave begins to jack him off. Every twist of his wrist sends sparks of electricity up Kurt’s spine, makes pleasure twist through him. Raw and real and so much.
You don’t want this.
“God, you’re beautiful like this,” Dave hums against his skin, squeezing Kurt’s cock in the most delicious way as he moves his hand over it. “All mine, Kurt, yeah?”
Kurt can’t speak, can only groan and buck his hips into Dave’s hand and cling to him for support through the pleasure.
You hate this, you fucking whore.
“Go lie down on the bed, Kurt,” says Dave, pulling away and leaving Kurt panting. “I want to try something now.”
“Okay,” Kurt chokes out, obediently turning and going over to sit on the edge Dave’s bed before pushing himself back into a lying position, cock hard and throbbing with the need to be touched. Dave follows him there, climbing onto the end of the bed and kneeling between Kurt’s legs. He catches Kurt’s eyes, licks his lips - before leaning down to take Kurt’s cock into his mouth.
Kurt lets out a choked gasp, one hand flying up to cover his face and the other tangling into the bedsheets. His legs fall open of their own accord at the warm slide of Dave’s mouth, wet and hot and amazing as it moves over his cock. Gentle hands come up to grip Kurt’s hips, stopping him from thrusting wantonly up into the sensation. And all the while Kurt can feel Dave bobbing up and down, tongue sliding along the underside and swirling over the head in a way that makes Kurt groan out loud.
But even through the haze of delirious pleasure, something (you don’t want this) is niggling at the back of Kurt’s mind. Because there is nothing new about this. Dave loves the power of being able to take Kurt apart with pleasure, of making Kurt feel so good he can barely speak. And giving Kurt head is one of his favourite methods.
Fucking slut, spreading your legs like this.
When Dave’s mouth comes away with a wet little pop, lips swollen and a streak of saliva running down his chin, it makes Kurt whine at the absence. Gently, Dave pulls at Kurt’s hips to guide him into flipping onto his knees. Kurt does so immediately, ass in the air and entrance exposed. He thinks he knows what to expect - but when Kurt reaches a hand out to the bedside table for the small container of lube, Dave slaps his hand away.
Instead, Dave grips his ass and spreads his cheeks - and a wet, determined tongue slides around the puckered skin of Kurt’s entrance.
The shock of the sensation is enough to make Kurt shout out loud. It jolts him out of his haze of want and desperate desire to think oh god, he’s never done this; never wanted this from me. I hate it, I hate it, don’t want his tongue like that oh god, make it stop make it stop make it stop -
- before the fog settles over his mind again. He arches up into the touch, groaning like a whore and fisting his hands in the bedsheets. The saliva is beginning to grow cold in the air, so sensitive. Dave chuckles behind him.
“Thought you might like this,” says Dave, sounding slightly out of breath, before spreading Kurt’s cheeks wide and licking a stripe along Kurt’s hole. Kurt hears himself moan high and clear into the room.
When Dave’s tongue actually pushes into him, past the ring of muscle and into Kurt’s body, it’s such a violation that Kurt’s throat grows thick and his eyes begin to sting despite how good he’s being forced to feel. His body wants to thrust back into the delicious wetness of Dave’s tongue, but disgust and self-hatred are dancing at the edges of his mind. This had never been something he wanted to try, even if he got a proper boyfriend. The idea had always been so repulsive, so unthinkable to him that it had made him wrinkle his nose and shake his head in disdain.
Instead, Kurt’s arms give out with the pleasure of it; he buries his burning face into his arms, ass in the air. His pretty cries and moans echo in the room as he arches up into the sensation of Dave’s tongue moving inside of him. Pushing and sliding, a wriggling wetness where it doesn’t belong.
Make him stop make him stop make him stop...
Eventually, Dave pulls away. When his tongue slips out, it makes Kurt groan for reasons he can’t fully understand. Dave slides his tongue once more over him before sitting back on his heels and wiping a hand at his mouth.
“God, that’s a weird angle.” He slides a broad hand along Kurt’s back, trying to be reassuring. “You enjoy that, Kurt?”
No.
“Yeah,” gasps Kurt, head still buried in his arms. His breath grows even more hot and ragged when he feels Dave reach over to grab the container of lube. Kurt hears a bottle uncap, a squeeze of liquid onto skin - and fingers, two at least, press at his entrance. Blunt and demanding, an unimaginable intrusion pressing inside. His mind wants to clench, to get them out - but his body welcomes them in. Pushing back onto the pressure as they forcefully slide inside.
“God, you were made for this,” groans Dave, his fingers pushing against the resistance of his body until they’re completely inside. “You love it, don’t you? You love it when I shove my fingers into you. Feels so good, doesn’t it Kurt.”
As if for emphasis, Dave crooks his fingers and begins to rock them gently. Kurt sobs in pleasure, real tears gathering at his eyes -- the order not to cry never seems to work when he's like this, with his mind fogged with need and Dave buried inside of him and his body physically can't help it -- and falling onto the sheets below. Slowly, Dave begins to slide the fingers in and out, Kurt’s body catching and dragging at them as they move inside of him. And, god, the pleasure’s almost too much - too intense, and Kurt needs Dave to touch his cock. Needs to come so badly it aches.
“Tell me how good it feels,” Dave grunts, and by the way his voice is ragged and worn Kurt knows he must be touching himself as well.
“So good, Dave, p-please...” Kurt hears himself say in a choked voice.
Dave slides another slick finger in alongside the others. Kurt wails. It’s impossible, how good it all feels. The fingers are stretching him out, and it hurts, and all his body wants is more.
You’re disgusting.
The fingers, now trembling, slide out - but the emptiness doesn’t last long. After only a few moments, there’s a blunter pressure there instead. Dave’s cock, slick with lube, pressing against him.
He pushes inside, and it’s too much. Splitting him apart as Dave slides slowly in, gripping his hips tight to hold him in place. It hurts, but his brain turns the pain into pleasure that makes him try to push back. To bring Dave in faster, harder. But the hands hold him firm, and Dave moves at his own pace until finally - finally - he’s completely inside. Kurt feels so full, full to the brim. Stretched out around Dave’s cock and it’s unbelievable.
“Tell me,” commands Dave, and he begins to set up a hard rhythm. Gripping Kurt’s hips and choosing the pace, and Kurt can only get what Dave chooses to give him. Taking what he wants from Kurt’s body. Taking, taking, taking.
“Fuck,” hisses Kurt, burying his face and clenching his hands in the sheets as Dave’s cock slides in and out. Hard, and fast, and too much. “It’s so much, Dave and so b-big inside me. So full, Jesus Christ, Dave -”
“No,” says Dave, voice sounding strangled and panting hard. He takes one hand off Kurt’s hip and reaches around to stroke Kurt’s cock in time with his thrusts. Pleasure flashes even brighter behind Kurt’s eyelids, sparking up his spine. Making his toes curl and a whine grow in his throat. “Tell me... tell me that you l-love me.”
His thrusts are growing harder now, faster, and Kurt can barely think. There’s a voice in the back of his mind recoiling in disgust, but he can’t remember why when everything feels so good.
“I love you,” Kurt manages. Dave pounds into him a few more times before slamming in and stilling, choking to stifle a shout as he comes, and Kurt can feel something hot and wet inside. He whimpers pathetically as Dave shudders through his orgasm, himself still hard and unsatisfied, leaning back onto Dave’s softening cock and making Dave inhale sharply.
Dave shudders one last time before pulling out sharply. A whine begins to build up in Kurt’s throat, but almost immediately Dave replaces his cock with at least three fingers and shoves them into his body with such force the breath is knocked out of Kurt’s lungs. Dave’s other hand starts moving again on Kurt’s cock, squeezing tight and jerking incredibly fast as the fingers pump inside. Ruthless, and hard, and liquid pleasure is bursting through Kurt’s body. Sparking harder and harder with every thrust to that ohgodsogood spot inside of him, pressing his face into the sheets and wailing as he comes over Dave’s hand. Crying out into the room and clinging to the bed as Dave’s fingers fuck him through it, wringing every last little bit of pleasure possible as he shudders and groans.
His mind blurs through the orgasm, blissed out and writhing through the very last of the shocks and loving every touch and stroke and thrust.
And all at once, the fog lifts from Kurt’s mind.
He hears himself, moaning like a whore and sobbing into the night, but the pleasure is only an empty echo of what it was before. The fingers inside him hurt so fucking much without the pleasure to dull the burn, an intrusion that his body wants to push out right this instant. He’s oversensitive and raw, every twitch of Dave’s fingers making him ache and twitch and want to get away. All he can think about is getting them out, about the disgusting slickness inside of him and everything it means. His whole body hurts from staying in this position far too long, arms trembling and back sore from straining. The world is blurry, so Kurt blinks - and tears fall down his cheeks.
The fingers slide out slowly and carefully, but all Kurt can manage is a hiss of pain. He feels empty. Empty and used, like something you own. Everything - every suppressed emotion, every bit of pain his mind converted to pleasure, every self-hating thought and wave of disgust - come flooding up to the surface at once. Kurt can’t help but gasp, too, at the sudden hatred that flares up inside of him; burning and sickened and choking him with its ferocity.
Not for Dave, though; for himself. For letting himself be used, and violated, and so easily broken.
Kurt lets out a tiny choke, and all at once Dave is scooping him up into his arms. Holding Kurt in his lap like a doll, making gentle sweet noises and stroking a hand through Kurt’s sweat-soaked hair. Kurt buries his face in Dave’s neck and breathes. In and out. In and out.
Don’t let him see you cry.
“It’s okay, babe, you did so well.” Dave presses a kiss to Kurt’s forehead. Gentle and caring, and everything about this is just so wrong. “My Kurt.”
Kurt breathes, and shakes, and hates his body for doing this to him. For betraying him like this, like always, when he needs the most to be strong and sure. He hates Dave, hates himself, hates his mind for making him enjoy this.
For enjoying his own rape.
There is nothing safe about being curled up in the arms of Dave Karofsky, but it’s the best that he’s going to get. Kurt is exhausted, and furious, and hates himself so much it makes his stomach roil.
Absurdly, his last thought as he drifts to sleep is one of gratitude. Gratitude that, even as Dave forces his body to respond, this is another day where he hasn’t done what Kurt’s been terrified of all along. Because at the very least, telling Kurt to enjoy what they do together is temporary. Short-term. He can be himself, after Dave finishes with him for the night.
But if Dave orders Kurt to fall in love with him...
He’ll never let me go.
Feeling sore and filthy and defeated, Kurt closes his eyes as Dave strokes his hair and whispers kind words into his ear.
He falls into an uneasy sleep, Dave’s arms wrap around him like a cage.
Chapter Three: Blaine