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shamelessly_mkpSUMMARY: Kurt has a really bad day, and sometimes it's the sub who takes care of the dom.
RATING: PG13/FRT (for kinkiness)
WARNINGS: Possibly not entirely SSC (Safe-Sane-and-Consensual) kink behavior, due to Kurt's state of mind, but definitely RACK (Risk-Aware-Consensual-Kink), at least in my opinion. Please let me know if you feel there are other things I should warn for or if this warning is not explicit enough!
NOTE: Second part not yet written, but this stands alone well enough, I think. I may need to do some research for the second part. I...may have made stupid mistakes in this first part because I learn things from a) fanfiction, b) books, and c) TV.
Will also be available on at the AO3, but not currently uploaded there.
“Goddamnit.”
Kurt slammed the door behind him and angrily started stripping off his coat and gloves. He could not believe this. The nerve of that woman - how dare she - he’d been fucking fantastic, anyone could see that, and she’d just dismissed him like he was nothing, just because he was a guy -
“Kurt?”
Blaine’s voice was tentative and sweet and soft and concerned and did absolutely nothing to calm Kurt down.
“It was supposed to be different here. It was supposed to be different,” he growled, throwing his coat on a nearby chair. He really should hang it up, but screw that, he didn’t care. “But no, it’s all the same. Kurt, you can’t sing that; Kurt, you can’t play that; you’re just not what we’re looking for, Kurt; we’re not some avant-garde production, Kurt; why are you so fucking flamboyant, Kurt; why can’t you just sing boy songs, Kurt--”
“Oh, Kurt.”
Blaine sounded impossibly sad as he stepped forward, hand outstretched to offer comfort.
Kurt didn’t take it. Instead he turned away, clenching his fists, trying so hard not to snap at his boyfriend, who was gentle and loving and just wanted to help but he was just so angry and all of him was wound so tight he thought he might just snap and send shrapnel flying and he didn’t know how to make it stop.
He felt more than heard Blaine come to a hesitant stop behind him. Kurt didn’t turn around, didn’t want to see the sympathy he knew would be writ large on his boyfriend’s face. After a moment, he heard Blaine sigh and then the retreating steps of his boyfriend fading down the hallway.
“Goddamnit.”
Kurt’s knuckles stung, and with a start he realized he’d punched the wall, who was he, Finn? and then Blaine was there again and Kurt found himself being ushered across the room and gently but firmly pushed into sitting down as Blaine examined his hand.
“There are two things you should never hit with a closed fist, Kurt.”
Kurt snorted. He couldn’t help it. “A wall being one, I take it? What’s the other?”
“A man’s face,” Blaine said absently, manipulating Kurt’s fingers one by one, which, ouch. Wait. What?
Blaine must have sensed his confusion, as he went on to elaborate: “You’re as likely to break your hand as you are to do anything else.” He let go of Kurt’s hand. “You’re okay, though. Just bruised. And your knuckles are going to sting for a few days - you hit the wall pretty hard.”
Kurt was still angry, so angry - practically thrumming with it - but his hand hurt and Blaine, who’d stepped away for a minute, was now back and kneeling at his feet and gently applying antiseptic to Kurt’s split knuckles, blowing on it to help it dry before starting to wrap Kurt’s hand in an ace bandage.
“You’ll want to leave the bandage off tonight, let it get some fresh air,” Blaine said quietly, not looking up from his self-appointed task, “But for right now it’s better to keep it wrapped, keep dirt from getting in. An infection isn’t likely, but just in case.”
“You’ve done this before,” Kurt observed as dryly as he could with his body still tense from adrenaline and at the back of his mind a helpless repetitious echo of hurt-shame-anger.
“Boxing,” his boyfriend reminded, raising Kurt’s now bandaged hand to his lips for a gentle kiss before setting it back down on Kurt’s lap. “What can I do, Kurt?” Blaine asked, looking up at him worriedly, and Kurt heard all the other questions he wasn’t asking as well: How do I fix this, how do I make it better, what do you need -
“You can’t do anything.” Kurt closed his eyes, tried to stem the electric hum buzzing through him. “I don’t know,” he revised his answer. “I just need- I don’t know what I need. I’m sorry. You probably should stay away from me for a bit. I can’t - I’m not going to be good company right now.”
Blaine was silent and still, but his hands were warm on Kurt’s and Kurt could feel the press of Blaine’s forehead against his knee. When Blaine spoke, the exhaled air left a brief moist heat that quickly faded. “May I make you some warm milk?”
His voice was soft and diffident, and something about the way he’d requested, not suggested, he make Kurt his favorite comfort drink let some of the frenetic energy possessing Kurt drain away. “Please.”
When Blaine returned with a steaming mug, he strangely didn’t hand it to Kurt right away, instead carefully balancing it as he sank down to his knees before offering it up, eyes downcast.
Kurt slowly took the mug from him. He wasn’t quite sure what Blaine was doing - and now he had his hands resting on his thighs, palm up, just the way Kurt liked - but couldn’t deny the fact that every submissive act was little by little soothing away his inner turmoil. Not getting rid of the anger, no, nor the hurt, nor the stinging memory of the sheer humiliation of giving his all and being laughed at; but the sickening violence of the emotions was easing, fading away into calmer, more familiar pains.
“May I put away your things?” Blaine spoke up again, still soft and diffident and submissive.
“You may,” Kurt said, slowly and deliberately taking his first sip of the warm drink, consciously trying to calm himself further.
Kurt was nearly finished with his milk when Blaine returned, and much more settled (though every so often a surge of rage would reappear). Blaine knelt at his feet again, but this time his hands were uplifted in offering.
Kurt swallowed hard, almost choking at the sight of the cane resting on Blaine’s palms. He quickly set the mug down, discarding the remnants of his drink as unimportant. “Blaine, what-” Did Blaine seriously want to play? Right then?
“Please, Sir.”
Blaine’s voice was as soft and submissive as it had been before, but now it held an aching note of appeal.
“Honey, I don’t think now’s a good time.” Understatement. Kurt could not for the life of him understand why Blaine would be asking for this now, of all times. He’d been clearly trying so hard to make things better for Kurt, clearly understood how hard a time Kurt was having, so why would he be asking now? It couldn’t be selfishness - Kurt sometimes wished Blaine would be more selfish - but why Blaine would possibly think that Kurt was in a playing mood was beyond him. He was calmer now, yes, but still angry and tense and if earlier he’d felt like he might just explode out of his own skin, now he felt like he needed to run, dance, do something to keep himself there. So why--
Oh.
“Please, Sir,” Blaine said again, pleadingly.
“No,” Kurt said, shaking his head. “No way. Blaine, I can’t hit you when I’m angry. That’s abuse.”
“Not like this,” Blaine said firmly, finally looking up and locking eyes with Kurt but never moving from his submissive posture. “You need this.”
“I could hurt you.”
“No,” Blaine said. “You couldn’t.”
The certainty in those words made the breath catch in Kurt’s throat. Even now, after all this time, sometimes he just looked at Blaine and marveled that this beautiful, amazing, strong man was his, all his, that he would give Kurt everything he was without even the flicker of an eyelash -
“Please, Kurt.” Blaine never used Kurt’s name during a scene, not anymore, not since Kurt had had him tied down and on the verge of tears and Please, Sir had come out of Blaine’s mouth like they’d been ripped from his very soul. Sir meant Blaine was his, wholly and completely, his to own, to command, to care for.
Kurt meant they were equals. Kurt meant that this was Blaine, his boyfriend, asking for Kurt to beat him, offering up his body as a stage for Kurt to sing out his heart on, not Blaine, his beautiful, perfect, perfect sub asking his dominant to hurt him because that’s what he thought a good sub should do.
Kurt meant that Blaine knew Kurt wasn’t quite Sir at the moment, that he couldn’t be, and that he was offering this anyway.
Kurt meant he could say yes.
