Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/922364.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Blaine_Anderson/Kurt_Hummel
  Character:
      Blaine_Anderson, Blaine's_Father_(Glee), Kurt_Hummel
  Additional Tags:
      Parent/Child_Incest, Molestation
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-12 Words: 3329
****** The Horror I Live ******
by endofadream
Summary
     Blaine Anderson appears perfect on the outside: perfect student,
     perfect son, perfect boyfriend. But everyone has their secrets, and
     Blaine's just goes a little darker and deeper and more blood-related
     than others'.
Notes
     Please heed the TRIGGER WARNINGS for rape and incest, sexual assault/
     abuse (see: child abuse), and homophobic slurs mixed in with slut-
     shaming. Like "At The End Of The World," this fic deals with some
     heavy issues and doesn't gloss over them. I encourage you to think
     twice about reading it before you do if there's a chance anything
     could be triggering. Also, please understand that I am not condoning
     or romanticizing behavior like this: I am merely taking my stance as
     a writer to create.
Blaine flops backwards onto his bed, his phone held to his ear as Kurt goes on
about the latest dramatic McKinley glee battle. He's not even sure what Kurt's
saying anymore—something about Mercedes and Rachel and a solo—but it doesn't
matter. Kurt's sweet, gentle voice in his ear is like home, and since Kurt had
left Dalton to transfer back Blaine's felt less and less like he actually has a
home. His stomach jolts uncomfortably, but he thins his lips, pushes the
thoughts away.
He smiles, closing his eyes and losing himself in the moment, in the knowledge
that the voice on the other line isn't just his friend anymore but his
boyfriend. A warm, happy little feeling runs through Blaine's body and he sighs
contentedly, fiddling with the button on his nightshirt. Kurt Hummel is his
boyfriend and they've kissed and Blaine actually feels like a teenage boy.
"…I don't know why Rachel thinks she has to have all the solos," Kurt huffs,
agitated. The sound of bottles being set down is faint in the background as
Kurt switches moisturizers. Blaine wonders what Kurt looks like doing his
nightly skincare routine, wonders how many different products he uses: he'd
considered asking, once, but even he knows that it's better sometimes just to
see for yourself.
"She's Rachel," Blaine responds, his voice slow and smooth and lazy with
exhaustion. It's his first weekend home from Dalton in almost a month, and the
Warblers practice they'd had right before he'd left—even though they hadn't
really needed one since they'd lost to McKinley: nursing homes don't really
care about exceptional harmonies and fancy footwork—had worn him out. "Doesn't
she think she's entitled to, like, everything?"
Kurt huffs, setting down a bottle with a louder thump. Blaine rolls over,
sandwiching the phone between his ear and the pillow as his arm gets tired.
Kurt probably has that cute little furrow between his brows right now, the one
he always gets when he's aggravated. "Maybe. But still! Mercedes has the voice
we need for this song and Rachel justdoesn't care, Blaine. She's my friend, but
it's driving me nuts."
Blaine rolls his eyes, sighs exaggeratedly—he knows it'll make Kurt smile, and
he's willing to bet that Kurt's begun to smile right now, his deliciously pink
lips curling shyly upwards as his eyes sparkle. "Girls, Kurt. Girls. This is
why we're not wired to like them—less drama. And a longer life span."
Kurt giggles, softly, and Blaine feels an eruption of a thousand tiny
butterflies wriggling and fluttering just behind his navel. He bites his lower
lip through a smile as Kurt says, "Way less drama."
He and Kurt may not have been friends for long, and may have been dating for
less, but Blaine feels like he's known Kurt all his life, like they just…go
together for a reason. He rolls over again, onto his stomach this time, and
kicks his feet up as he traces over the crisscrossed lines of his comforter.
His phone is warm against his cheek, and he sneaks a glance at the alarm clock
on his nightstand. "Oh, hey, by the way, I was wondering if you were free
tomorrow. So we could get…coffee. Or something."
Kurt lets out the tiniest of happy noises. "Blaine Anderson," he teases, voice
positively glowing with affection, "is this you asking me out on adate?"
Blaine smiles, feeling like his heart is swelling. How is he this lucky, to be
able to say that he's dating the perfect boy? Nearly every day feels like
something out of a dream, especially on the mornings when he wakes up to a text
from Kurt. "That depends. Are you going to say yes?"
"What, refuse a chance to talk to my amazingly handsome schoolboy boyfriend
face-to-face after a long week apart?" Kurt asks, and Blaine imagines the
endless kaleidoscope of colors in Kurt's eyes, the intent way he'll look at
Blaine, like Blaine is the only person in the room. "I'd rather snip up my
favorite McQueen sweater."
Blaine laughs, loud and genuine. "Such seriousness coming from you, Mr.
Hummel."
"Just honesty," Kurt replies. His voice goes a little softer, a little more
intimate. "But I'm also serious. I'd love to get coffee with you, Blaine. I
miss you."
Blaine opens his mouth to answer, to say I've missed you too, so much, but
before he can there's a crash downstairs, followed by muffled swearing. The
light, warm feeling immediately leaves Blaine's body and is quickly replaced
with cold, heavy dread that hangs leaden in his stomach. His palms begin to
sweat, and even before he hears heavy lumbering steps ascend the stairs he's
panicking, Kurt's voice fading into the background as he sits up, looks wildly
around.
"I think we should—" Kurt's saying as Blaine's heart races, but he doesn't
really hear it, doesn't comprehend a word that Kurt's saying. He looks from his
closed door to the door of his en suite, wonders if he could hide in there and
lock the door until his dad sobered up, but he knows it'd be useless. For as
much of a heinous drunk as his dad is he's still strong and incredibly fit for
a man of his age, and Blaine knows he could bust down that door easily.
"Kurt, listen, I've got to go," Blaine says quickly as the handle on his door
begins to turn. His eyes widen, unblinking, and he swallows hard, clenching his
hand around his phone as he closes his eyes, forces back tears and forces his
voice to stay calm. "I'm sorry. I'll talk to you later."
He hangs up before Kurt can respond; he leans back quickly, tosses his phone
onto his nightstand, and rights himself on the bed just as the door swings
open.
William Anderson is a tall, strongly-built man of forty-five and from whom
Blaine did not get his height. Like Cooper, William's eyes are cornflower blue,
but tonight , rimmed in so much red as they are, they look, somehow, even
bluer. Blaine forces himself to look his dad in the face, raises his chin and
says, "Hi, Dad."
William's thick black hair is disheveled, and the collar of his button-up is
askew, the hem of it crinkled and hanging out of the waistband of his slacks.
Even from the doorway Blaine can smell tequila and whiskey, and he scrunches
his nose up. Maybe tonight will be one of those nights where William will get
bored and leave after a few minutes. Then Blaine could call Kurt back, pretend
for another half-hour that he's a normal teenage boy with a normal, happy home
life.
As William lurches towards the bed, though, lips pulled up into something akin
to a drunken, lusty sneer, Blaine's illusion comes shattering at his feet in a
thousand tiny crystals, along with both his heart and his hope.
Blaine turns his head, clenches his jaw as William drops heavily onto the bed
next to him. He stares steadfastly at the wall, hoping his father will get
bored and go away if he ignores him; when there's a large, rough hand on his
face he jerks, closing his eyes. He pretends that he's not here, that he's back
at Dalton and that's Kurt's hand on his face and Kurt's hand inching up the
smooth silk covering his upper thigh.
"Look at me," his dad slurs. When Blaine hesitates he demands, louder, "Look at
me, goddamn it!"
Reluctantly, Blaine twists to face his dad. He bites back his fear, his nausea,
tries to remind himself that one more of these things to go through means one
less in the future. He tries to imagine again that it's Kurt there, that it's
Kurt's hand on his face and Kurt's eyes looking at him like that.
But Kurt's hands are soft and Kurt's eyes are brighter, gentler, more beautiful
and less drunken. He looks at Blaine like the world revolves around him, not
like he's a…a piece of meat, or a warm mouth. Blaine can't fantasize his way
out of this anymore, and maybe that's what really hurts, this knowledge that
he's stuck, that he can't fucking do anything without being ripped from
everything that he knows. Without being taken away from Kurt.
"You're so beautiful," his dad murmurs softly, his eyes unfocused. His
fingertips trail over Blaine's mouth, then down his chin and towards his
throat. They pause on the buttons of Blaine's shirt, hesitate, but Blaine knows
that his dad won't want it off. He never does. "So…perfect."
Who am I tonight? Blaine almost asks out loud, thinks the words like poison
darts to his father's sick, twisted body. Your wife who left you, or your son?
When his dad's hand finally brushes the waistband of his pajama pants the panic
and instinct kick in and Blaine is shoving his dad's hand away, trying to move
up the bed as he pleads, desperate, "Not tonight, Dad, please. Kurt and I
just—"
Crack.
The sound echoes in the room seconds before Blaine feels the stinging pain
blooming over his cheek as his head snaps sharply sideways. He lifts a hand up,
jaw dropped in surprise, and looks at his dad, sees pure, untainted rage there.
His hand is still raised, and instinctively Blaine shies away from it, hunches
down and curls in on himself. His dad has never hit him before. This has never
happened.
"Shut up," his dad snarls, lurching unsteadily forward. His hand goes to
Blaine's pajama pants again, and this time Blaine just closes his eyes, doesn't
try to fight him off. How much fight does his truly have left in him, anyway?
It's been four years—and four years is a long, soul-crushing time. "You're
gonna—gonna take what I give you and you're gonna like it."
Just like every other time, Blaine thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and fighting
back his terrified whimper as his dad's hand works its way down under Blaine's
underwear. He's learned that it's better not to struggle, better to just let
his dad do…it and let them both pretend the next day like it never happened.
Blaine swallows back his bile, tries not to breathe in his father's alcohol-
soaked breath. He wills himself not to concentrate on the steady feeling of his
father's hand even as, unable to fight his body's teenage reactions, he begins
to slowly get hard. It brings on a rush of revulsion, of self-loathing and
absolute worthlessness, and Blaine begins to sink in it, begins to drown as it
swallows him whole.
"Yeah, that's it," William murmurs, shifting to pull down Blaine's pants and
underwear with hands that don't seem to want to work right. Blaine puts up a
fight as they slide over his thighs and his knees and down his shins to the
floor, but it's half-hearted, lazy, and he watches his clothes fall to the
floor like he's looking through the eyes of another person.
He stares up at the ceiling, breathes, slowly, steadily, and counts his breaths
as a hand closes around him again and grips tight enough to make him wince
uncomfortably. "So…so beautiful. You're my precious, perfect little boy,
Blaine," William whispers, too-close to Blaine's cheek, "My good little boy."
Blaine blanches, feeling his face scrunch up as the rush of tears becomes
almost too much—but he can't cry, he can't. Crying is showing weakness, and
showing weakness only makes it worse. He's long past the stage of why me? now,
though sometimes he wishes that he were back there, where he could have someone
other than himself to blame, because by now it is all on him, on his stupid,
selfish need to stay here with his friends. He could live with Cooper in LA,
start a life there and let his dad be locked up for years while he tries his
best to forget all about Ohio.
But he doesn't. He can't. And he's stuck here, stuck with this, unable to leave
and unable to even do anything about it. All because he's a fucking coward and
throws up every time he thinks about going to the police, because going to the
police means letting everyone know what his father does, what he lets his
father do.
He turns his head away, grips hard onto the comforter as he forces a moan back.
He closes his eyes again, keeps them shut as the weight of the bed
redistributes and the light behind his eyes gets darker; his father hovers over
him, propped up on one hand as he murmurs phrases Blaine knows come from the
alcohol.
"Please," he begs weakly, turning his head to press his face into the pillow.
Even though he steels himself every single time, tells himself it's just one
more night, he can't deal with it, can't take it, and it all comes to a head.
It's like clockwork, and tonight is no different. "Dad, please just stop."
William just grunts, keeps moving, and Blaine can't hold back his gasp at the
too-hot shock of pleasure that runs through him. But no matter how hard he
tries, how hard he tells himself to be strong, he feels the tears slide down
his cheek, feels the sob bubbling up and bubbling up deep I n his chest.
"No, please," he whimpers, pushing futilely at his dad's hand. "Stop, no, I
don't want it, please…"
A rough hand pushes his legs apart, and Blaine sobs in humiliation, twisting
his upper body to press his face further into the pillows. William doesn't
often go this far, and the fear this time is nearly unbearable, suffocates
Blaine as he tries not to sob into thin, soft cotton. There's a hand, now, down
lower, and Blaine clenches his hands into fists, arches his back and shakes his
head into the pillow. No, no, this isn't happening, it can't be this isn't real
I need to wake up it needs to go away…
When William's hands grip hard onto his waist and flip him roughly over, Blaine
cries out, his shoulders shaking as he finally lets out a rough, dry sob that
echoes in his room, reverberates back to remind him that he's pathetic,
useless, defenseless and that, most importantly, he deserves this. "No, no, no,
stop—"
There's a hand pulling tightly on his hair, yanking his head roughly up from
the pillow, just as a hand connects hard and painful with his ass. He gasps,
quieting his sobs as pain flares electric from both ends and meets in the
middle. It sobers him, just a little, clears the fuzzed panic in his brain.
"I thought I told you to shut the fuck up," William snarls, his voice low and
threateningly dangerous. "I know you fucking want it, you fucking whore. Don't
even try and lie to me."
I don't. I don't, please, I don't want this. I never do.
"So you're gonna take it. You're gonna take it and you're gonna fucking like
it."
Blaine shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't have anything too
say. He's letting his mind drift off, go to happier places, places that aren't
here and now and this. He closes his eyes, can faintly still hear music, can
feel movement. There's a sharp pain, a dull burn, but Blaine's mind still
drifts, anchored to thoughts of Kurt, of the coffee date that they have
tomorrow. He's back in Dalton, in the safety of his own dorm. In this world,
this never happens.
Kurt's kissing him now, slow and shy and sweet, and Blaine is smiling,
flushing. He loves kissing Kurt and holding Kurt's hand. He feels safe when
he's with Kurt. Kurt can protect him, take him away—
The dull pain flares up, burns sharper, hotter, and Blaine lets out an
involuntary pained scream; there's another blow to the side of his face, open-
palmed and harder, and then he's being hoisted onto all fours, his brain
unfocused and his ears still ringing with the impact.
"You don't want the neighbors to hear you, do you?" William hisses with his
whiskey-soaked breath. Blaine cries outright, now, overwhelmed by too much all
at once as hands grip his waist tighter, hold him still and that heavy weight
settles deep as his body screams its protest. "You don't want them to see what
a sick faggot whore you are, do you?"
Blaine sobs, shaking his head. He closes his eyes as a tear rolls down the
bridge of his noise, drops off the tip and to the bed. It hurts, god it always
does, like he's being ripped apart from the inside out, and he grips hard
enough to the sheets that he's surprised he isn't ripping holes straight
through them.
It'll be over soon. It always is. It has to be.
He doesn't open his eyes, is afraid to see what's actually happening, because
if he can't see it, then it's not happening, right? It's all just a bad dream,
and he'll wake up and his mom will still be there to hold him and tell him that
it'll be all right. It's all his imagination, this pain-this unwanted, horrible
sensation, these sounds.
He wants to clap his hands over his ears, drown out his father's grunts and
harsh, barbed words behind him. He bites hard on his lip when there's a press
just right, a sharp slap of skin, and his back bows with pleasure; he tastes
the coppery tang of blood as his dick gives a twitch between his legs and his
father laughs, mocking and awful.
It's not real it's not it's not it's not—
Yes it is it's happening and you're letting it you sick fuck—
Worthless—
Whore—
Blaine whimpers when nails dig into his hips, pull him back and make him cry
out at the pressure. He sets his jaw, hears his dad say, "Yeah, just like
that—fucking take it. This is what you like, right? Feeling someone's dick
inside you?"
He feels it, that rushing, swelling tide, and he can't stop it, cries out, "No,
no, I don't want to come, please, no—" even as his body succumbs. He sobs out
his moans, dropping to his elbows and burying his face in the pillows as he
shakes, feels the sting of slapping skin on his exposed ass; and then,
suddenly, it's over and his body is dropping limp to the bed. He doesn't even
bother with humiliation now, doesn't try to cover himself up as he hears his
dad stumble out of the room. There is no energy, no fight, left in him. It's
like he's a shell, an empty nothing.
The sheets are cold under his abdomen, and there's a leaking wetness on the
inside of his thigh, but he doesn't think about that, doesn't dwell on what he
knows it is: instead he lets his mind go black, hovers in the sweet space of
nothingness, of nonexistence, until his phone vibrates on his nightstand.
After a second's debate he pushes himself up, ignores the screaming protests of
his body, and reaches for it with tear-blurred eyes and shaky hand. Kurt's name
and picture are on the screen, and for a moment Blaine feels his face contort
as he lets out another deep, pained sob—then, as quickly as he can from years
of practice, of pretending like everything is perfect, he wipes his eyes,
clears his throat and takes a few deep breaths. He throws the sheet over his
lap, pastes a wide, fake smile on his face, and answers the call with the
positivity and pep of Blaine Anderson, Dalton Academy Warbler, someone who can
look at himself in the mirror and not see a boy who's just as big of a pathetic
monster as his father is.
"Hey, Kurt! Sorry I had to leave so suddenly. My dad came home."
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