I'm doing an advent thing! It will consist of these reaction drabbles, oneshots and chapters from stories I'm currently working on. Prompts are open, so feel free to ask me on Tumblr (I'm kurtthereisamoment on there too).
TW: contains self harm
The damn plastic won't break and hot, angry tears escape from Blaine's overfull eyes as he tries again to crack it open with his key.
Thinking back, he should have gotten a packet of replacement blades instead of disposable razors, but to be fair to him, he wasn't thinking straight at the time- he still isn't.
Blaine throws it onto the floor, and stomps on it with his heel, hard. It remains whole. He picks it up again, before positioning it right by the leg of his heavy, wooden desk. He manages to lift the desk up for a fraction of a second, long enough to slide the razor under the leg, before he drops it where it lands on the razor with a crack!
Blaine's hands shake as he pulls the blade out from the cracked plastic and he lays it on his palm, the silver glinting in the limited light.
Relationships are about trust.
He draws the blade across the flesh where his thumb joins his hand, inhaling at the sharp sting as blood beads in the light indentation.
Blaine lifts up his sweater to expose his hips, which the blade follows, a path of blood emerging milliseconds later. His skin was unmarred, but Blaine can still see the hickey that Kurt would always suck into the skin before he would unbuckle his pants. The hickey never faded, whenever Kurt could, he would suck at the red skin until it was purple again. Because Blaine was his.
And I don't trust you anymore.
And it doesn't even matter that the hickey isn't there anymore, because the spot is covered with angry red lines, pooling blood that trickles down his hips and soaks into the fabric of his pants.
He glances up in the mirror and looks at himself, a broken boy, sitting cross legged on his bedroom floor slicing his skin. And he laughs.
You're so fucked up, a voice in his head says, you've never even done this before and look at you. You sick freak.
Again, and again, he glides through his own skin, smooth and steady, like scissors through wrapping paper.
He's not sure how long he goes at it for, until his hips are burning and he can feel the sting. The pain catches up with him, and he grits his teeth as it becomes almost unbearable.
He looks down at himself and smiles.
The marks on his hips prove it; he's still Kurt's.
His phone buzzes, vibrating against the wood from his desk and he reaches up to get it, his hips screaming in protest.
He didn't want me to text you, but I just wanted to tell you to take care of yourself –Rachel
Blaine types out a reply, and leaves the phone next to him for the message to send.
Of course I will –Blaine