AN: This is something I've been working on for a while, since I first read some of KeriLin's stuff over on Tumblr, which I cannot work very effectively, btw.
This has a student/teacher relationship that eventually becomes a baby/daddy relationship as well. I'll warn for specific chapters whatever comes up, but be aware that there will be explicit sex and some depressing themes.
He was four when his parents died, five when he got put with the McMichaels. They made him give away the Barbie Mommy gave him.
At age six, he got sent to a well-appreciated foster family. They were fundamentalist Southern Baptists. He had bruises all over his bottom and legs for days after he said Prince Eric was the most handsome man in the world.
He was seven when the Jacksons' got him. They had been nice, but then the economy really started going south and they couldn't afford to take care of kids that weren't their own. He remembers the mother crying when he had to leave. The father had even hugged him.
When he turned eight, an elderly couple offered to take him in. They weren't particularly fond of children, but they let him play with his Power Rangers his father had given him however he wanted, so long as he didn't talk while doing it and stayed in his room.
He was a very fashion-forward nine year old. Mr. Granger had made him play baseball and football. He used to have to play outside as soon as his homework was done, until dinner. Sometimes they locked the doors so he couldn't sneak back in during the day on the weekend. He was sunburnt a lot, but he was at least acting more like a boy, and that was what counted, right?
Ten years. He'd been alive for only ten years when his new brother had called him a fag. He'd been ten years and nine months when the bigger boy had tried to cut it into his arm.
Mr. Ryerson got him when he was eleven. After that, nobody wanted him.
Kurt rolled his eyes as he looked over his own file from the adoption agency. (Which he may or may not actually have stolen, but there is no way he's going to some new boarding school out in the middle of nowhere without knowing what the people there knew about him.) So what if nobody wanted him? Fuck them. He'd go to school, he'd do well, and he'd take care of himself. He'd be on Broadway, or perhaps design. He'd be one of those upper-class New Yorkers, the kind that are the centers of movies about having to choose between a jerky rich man and the cute firefighter. He'd like to think he'd be the kind of guy to choose the firefighter, but who knows? He's got two years before he's out of Dalton, and he knows from experience that two years can change a person until they're almost unrecognizable.
No matter what though, no matter who he ended up being or what he ended up doing, he'd get himself somewhere. He'd make sure he was taken care of.
Someone had to, after all.
He hadn't really wanted to be a teacher, but well, not too many people do. Lots of people become them, but it's very seldom that it's someone's first choice of profession. He'd wanted to be a football player when he was little. Everyone he knew then and most everyone he knows now look up to some player or another. He ended up being a bit small for the sport, small to the point that even kicker was a bit of a stretch.
After that it had been all about music. He forced himself to learn several instruments (He only really cared for the piano, but he had figured it would be best to be well-rounded.), practiced every day, and made sure he starred in anything and everything he could put on a college application that would prove he belonged in the spotlight.
Only it turned out that his father wasn't too keen on that idea. He'd figured he'd just ignore it (despite his father not keeping his opinion even remotely concealed), but then his mother had gotten sick and, well, he really didn't want to add to her stress.
So he became a teacher. It wasn't that bad, not really. He got to feel in charge for once, and he's pretty sure he'll end up with complete control over the musicals, spring and fall. (Mostly because none of the other teachers at Dalton particularly cared for theatre, and a little bit because he put in his request for the position three months early.) The best part though was unconventional, to say the least.
Kurt Hummel, angel in his own right. He was different then the other boys. He didn't keep an extra pencil in his wallet just so he'd have an excuse to flash bills and condoms. He didn't raise his hand aggressively to try and one-up everyone in the class. He didn't argue every point to try and best the teacher, and he didn't have a smarmy smirk when he turned in his assignments, like he just knew he'd get an A because of who his parents are. No, Kurt was different. Better.
Perfect.
Blaine had only had to reprimand him once in the three weeks he's been here.
Well, he didn't have to, but he was curious to see if he'd be indignant, or try to weasel his way out. Actually, he should probably apologize for that. Kurt had only shown up without his pen. It's not like the boy tried to hit on him.
He doubts he would have had a very sensible response to that either.
The reprimand wasn't overly rude. He'd just firmly stated that Kurt needed to pay more attention when he prepared for class, and that he expected more of him in the future, because how else did the boy plan on securing a future at all?
Kurt's face was stony, but his eyes had gleamed a bit when Blaine spoke of his future, however brief the comment had been. He hoped he hadn't upset him by singling him out (Oblivious as he can often be, he knows that anyone without brand new shoes is set to be looked down upon in a school like this.), but it feels like his eyes got that slight mist for some other reason he couldn't place.
He doesn't really know, maybe he was just embarrassed. He wants to be able to know, though, to be able to take one look at Kurt's face and know what's going on inside that mind.
It's a good mind, too, almost depressingly cynical, but borderline brilliant all the same. He has to be cynical and brilliant, because every essay, every paper is exactly the opposite of the take everyone else has on the subject, and it's presented nearly perfectly.
Blaine's relatively sure he does it on purpose. It's like he refuses to be another carbon copy Dalton boy. He respects that. He wants to know that.
So he will. He was a Dalton boy once-one of the most respectable-and he's accustomed to getting exactly what he wants. The bell rings and he shuffles papers, stealing a quick glance at Kurt, furiously trying to jot down whatever thought he was having quickly enough to make sure he didn't end up at the end of the lunch line.
"Mr. Hummel, stay after please." He continues to shuffle through random papers, pretending he isn't watching Kurt out of the corner of his eye. Pretending doesn't make it true, though, and he frowns a bit when he notices how stiff Kurt gets. He shouldn't feel nervous. (Or perhaps he should. His teacher had just asked him to stay after for no apparent reason, to be fair.)
"Is there a problem? Sir?"
Blaine looks up at him for a moment. Then he stands himself, and grabs a nearby chair, dragging it to the side of his desk.
"Please take a seat."
Kurt does so, and Blaine smiles down at him. He likes this better. It makes Kurt look little, more vulnerable.
He briefly acknowledges that he shouldn't think like that.
"Am I in trouble?"
Blaine thinks it's supposed to be snarky, but it sounds more nervous. Even Kurt realizes.
"No," he answers honestly. He's being creepy, he knows he is, but Kurt's just right there, looking so sweet-
"Then why am I still here?"
"That's no way to talk to a teacher, Kurt," he frowns. "I know that some of these boys can't understand the concept of respect, but you do."
The boy blushes, ducking his head.
"I'm sorry."
"It's alright," Blaine answers quickly, because honestly, Kurt's not the one being inappropriate. "I was just concerned," he licks his lips, because they suddenly seem so dry, "about your grades."
Kurt looks up at him, his eyes cold.
"I have a ninety-six in here. Isn't that good enough?"
His tone is harsh and guarded. Blaine wants to hold him until those walls crumble and this boy feels comfortable enough to get off the offensive.
"Kurt," he says softly, "You're my top student." The boy looks up at him, surprised and more than a bit curious.
"Really?"
It's another one of those statements that's supposed to be confident and biting, but comes out hopeful. Kurt's mask is back up in a split-second, him raising an eyebrow and leaning back in his seat to appear more indifferent. Blaine smiles at him anyway, because he saw.
"You, Kurt Hummel, are one of the brightest boys with the most potential that's come through this school in a while. You're at the top of my class because you deserve to be. But I grade fair, and your other teachers, well….." he trails off, looking closely to see if Kurt gets it.
"They aren't like you."
He smiles at Kurt, watches him get angry.
"It's a hierarchy here at Dalton, Kurt. You have to have connections to get anywhere."
Kurt looks up at him with a tired exasperation mixed with some traces of disbelief, small slivers of hope he hadn't wanted to have shattering.
"I don't have anyone, Mr. Anderson," he says angrily. "What do you expect me to do, exactly?"
Blaine puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. It feels so right to touch him.
"Meet me here after school every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I'll tutor you." He squeezes the boy's shoulder, nodding. "I can get you through this."
For the first time ever, Blaine sees his student give a genuine smile.
AN: Tell me what you think. Anon is on, since this might not be something you want your internet friends to know you're reading. I hope people like this, and don't flame just because you don't like the kink. (I don't know if people actually do that, but other people warn for it, so...yeah.)