Chapter 9: The Cabin

Disclaimer: It would be nice to make money from this, but rest assured that I'm not. And I want to note that if I'd changed the final line of this chapter just a little (say, not including the last 4 words), the cliffhanger would have been infinitely more evil. :)

…please remind yourself of the warnings in Chapter 1.


At 3:51pm that Wednesday, many things were happening. Penelope was preparing a flier on David Karofsky to be distributed to local and state police. Officers rifled through his room, not seeing any drugs, but a few oddities. A cake topper. A crumpled scrap of silk. Quinn Fabray intoned the Lord's Prayer in her soft alto. Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid were still riding north in the helicopter. And Dave himself pulled into the driveway of his family's cabin, killing the engine.

He had a tin of Altoids in the car, and popped one in his mouth to cover the smell of the meatball sub he'd eaten on the drive. He picked up the bag with the other sub, a Veggie Delight. The girl at Subway told him it was really healthy, and he knew Kurt liked healthy shit.

As he opened the cabin door he heard Kurt screaming for help.

Cursing under his breath, he slammed the door shut, dropped the sandwich, and rushed into the bedroom. Kurt was still tied to the bed, but the wad of duct tape was lying useless on the bed next to him.

When he saw Dave, Kurt stopped yelling, "Help, I've been kidnapped!" and instead said urgently, "Let me go. Please, I won't press charges, I'll testify on your behalf—"

Dave slapped him across the face. "You're not doing anything for me."

He grabbed the dildo, and Kurt forced his gaze away from it to look into Dave's eyes and gasp, "Why did you bring me here? Karofsky—Dave—"

Dave shrugged and forced the sex toy into Kurt's mouth. Kurt's eyes were wide with panic and he seemed to be struggling to breathe around it. "It's your own fault," Dave told him. "I was fine with the duct tape. If you try to spit it out I'll tape it in place. And I brought you some food, but now I think I'll wait until you're behaving better." The dildo protruding from Kurt's mouth made him imagine Kurt giving him a blowjob. He wished he could demand one right now, but knew Kurt would probably try to bite him. The red mark from his hand stood out on Kurt's pale cheek.

For that matter, the hickeys he'd made on Kurt's neck earlier were stark on his white skin. He brushed them with his fingers, and Kurt shivered. Or maybe he was shivering from cold; Dave suddenly realized even he was a little chilly, and Kurt had been partly undressed and unable to move much for a few hours.

Still, Kurt had obviously been struggling while Dave was gone. Even with the padding on the restraints, the skin around his wrists was red. And his pants sat even lower on his hips. Karofsky tugged them down past Kurt's knees, admiring the long legs and light dusting of hair. That surprised him a little since he'd always imaged Kurt as hairless like a girl. It should have freaked him out, but it just turned him on more. He thought about taking the pants off completely, but he didn't want to risk untying Kurt's feet; he knew Kurt had a powerful kick. So he left the fabric tangled around Kurt's ankles.

Dave trailed his finger along the upper edge of Kurt's underwear and thought about taking it off too, but chickened out. He could always do that later, he told himself. He got a blanket from the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and spread it over Kurt.

As he undressed, Dave thought about what to do. He could fuck Kurt, of course. He wanted to and he knew he could. He could even make it good for Kurt.

But why would he want to make it good for Kurt? Kurt had done this to him; Kurt had broken him and ruined him. Any normal guy would be happy with his easy cheerleader girlfriend. Dave hadn't asked Kurt Hummel to worm his way into Dave's dreams. He could take Kurt down to the cellar where he'd taken the hookers.

He could make Kurt beg for forgiveness, even though Dave would never forgive him. He could punish Kurt, make him scream in pain.

But the Kurt in Dave's dreams wasn't pleading or crying. He was smiling, a sly quick smile for only Dave, and his clever fingers were tracing spirals of Dave's skin, and his body was arched in pleasure. In Dave's dreams, Kurt walked down the hallway with him, holding Dave's hand, and if anyone dared to say anything against them Kurt looked to Dave for protection. He curled into Dave's side on the couch with a movie or sleepily from the other side of Dave's bed.

Dave got the knife and he got the lube and some condoms, and he looked between them. In the end he put them both on the bedside table and got into bed, plastering his body against Kurt's—and wow, Kurt was really cold, he might have hypothermia or something—and wrapping his arms around Kurt. Dave was naked and Kurt had his underwear and undershirt but nothing else, and Dave could feel the tension in Kurt's body, and the tiny tremors running through him. It was probably the cold.

The restraints had enough give for Dave to turn Kurt on his side and spoon him properly. His erection pressed against the back of Kurt's thigh, and Dave felt his hips trying to thrust forward, but not in a frantic or hurried way. Kurt's skin was as smooth as Dave had imagined, and his hair was as soft. Dave inhaled deeply and started kissing the smooth curve of Kurt's neck again, ignoring the muffled whimpering.

After a while Kurt started to feel warmer again, even though the trembling didn't stop. It felt like he fit perfectly within Dave's arms, like a missing puzzle piece. Dave imagined the future, being in New York because he knew Kurt wanted to end up there, and he wasn't sure what their jobs were or how they'd gotten there, but they stayed liked this awhile every morning when they woke, close against each other.

Dave pressed even closer, slipping one of his feet between Kurt's legs. His erection was flush against the thin fabric of Kurt's underwear, and he gave into it, grunting as he thrust against Kurt's unmoving body and gasping "Kurt" as he came. He knew he should clean them both off but he felt tired and sated and warm, and he held Kurt so tightly he could feel Kurt breathing, the rise and fall of his lungs, his rapidly beating heart. He nuzzled his head against Kurt's and drifted to sleep.


Pounding at the door. Voices shouting, "FBI! Open up!" Then a crash.

Kurt didn't understand any of it. Karofsky must have. He jolted up. A jerk, and Kurt's hands weren't tied to the bed, though they were still tied to each other. Karofsky wrapped an arm around Kurt's back as he sat up, forcing Kurt up with him and pulling Kurt onto his lap. He was hard again, and Kurt tried to squirm away, but Karofsky's grip around him was like iron, one hand holding Kurt's wrists to his chest, pressing their torsos together. The other hand… Kurt felt something touch the front of his neck and knew it was the knife. "Don't move," Karofsky breathed into his hair, and then the bedroom door swung open and cops started to rush into the room.

"Don't come any closer!" Karofsky warned, and they stopped. Only two had made it fully into the room, a black man first, nearly level with the bed, and a white man just inside the doorway. They were both holding guns at ready. They were probably pointed at Karofsky's head but given their position it felt like they were pointed straight at Kurt.

Kurt could only imagine how he must look to them. The blanket had tumbled to their waists when they sat up; the cops probably thought he was naked under it. Once Kurt thought that, it was the only thing his brain had room for. He wanted desperately to tell them it wasn't like that, that he hadn't—that Karofsky hadn't—but he couldn't talk, the dildo…. His chest heaved as he started to hyperventilate. He couldn't understand what anyone was saying, and there was a knife to his throat, and everything was a dull roar.


"Get out of here!" David Karofsky snarled, face half-hidden behind his hostage.

Morgan's finger was steady over the trigger. "We both know that's not going to happen."

"Get out or I'll kill him!"

"Like you killed all those women?" Reid asked from the doorway.

"You think I won't? I will! This is all his fault anyway!" Karofsky shook Hummel for emphasis, slightly cutting Hummel in his agitation. For his part, Hummel would not be able to work with them and twist away at an opportune moment; his eyes were glassy and he was limp in Karofsky's grasp. He was obviously in shock. But he was alive, and Morgan intended for him to stay that way.

"What's his fault?" Morgan asked.

"I'll—I'll kill him on three if you don't get out! One—"

"You know we can't."

"Two…."

"Even if we did…"

"Three!"

"…everyone will know."

Karofsky's hand twitched over the blade. Morgan still didn't have a clear shot. "Everyone will know what?"

Morgan could see how afraid Karofsky was. He was a big kid, could pass as an adult even, but in that moment Morgan could clearly see his youth, his uncertainty and insecurities. He understood the warring impulses that had tangled together sex and violence. Morgan saw it all, and said coldly, "Everyone will know you're gay."

Karofsky sobbed, a choked sound, and it was 50-50 whether he'd cut his victim's throat or loosen his hold enough for Morgan to take a shot.

"I'm not!" Karofsky insisted, and twisted his wrist, the blade flashing as it cut into his own neck.