Update 1/20/2013

This story is officially now BP!Kurt

(I have chosen this because the only way I can concentrate enough to continue the story is if I switch it to this. You don't have to like it, but this story will never get written otherwise.)


Rapist!Karofsky. The faint of heart be warned, there will be violent rape scenarios, scenes, insinuations, innuendos, bullying and tormenting. If you are sensitive to the subject, to emotional pain and anguish, or you can't stand seeing Kurt hurt. I would suggest not reading.

Blaine is removed all together from the story.

Kurt returns from Dalton early, Season 2. He was cuter in season 2 anyway. Eww his hair in season 3. Wtf.

By virtue of Rapist!Karofsky this story is obviously AU. I'm aware it's not cannon. I made Dave smarter and more sadistic than he ever was.)

Chapter Rating- [Rated M for:Strong Language, Violence, Rape Themes, Homophobic Insults, Sexual Themes]

When I looked at him, I felt that deep ache in the pit of my stomach, sulfurous and all consuming, the way you feel when you see something so absolutely fragile, so delicate that you are struck with the overwhelming desire to tear it apart, shatter it to a million pieces, and leave it crippled.

It's inexplicable, but then… I've always felt that way.

Everything that was beautiful had to be mine, and if it was someone else's it had to be broken.

But with him it's different; the feeling is deeper, lower, past my stomach. It lingers in my groin, warm and distracting. Sexual. Sometimes I know it. Other times I deny it. The idea of him whimpering, struggling, bruised, hurt and bleeding. Somehow the idea is so potent I can feel it… oh god, sometimes I can taste it.

He's such a little girl.

Every time I see his face, his fucking feminine face, and his fucking feminine gestures, I think to myself: The faggot piece of shit wants to be a girl, the fag aught to get treated like a little slutty girl. I bet he'd even look good in a plaid skirt, all trussed up, and blindfolded.

I was just drawn to his weakness, like a wasp to the sweet honey of his delicacy. I longed to own him. To have him.

There is something about Kurt that makes me want to beat him senseless, to take everything precious to him and fuck it all up, screw into the warmth of his body and just… just fuck. I bet that didn't even make me gay, the faggot was such a little bitch. All cute and petite. I wonder if he'd still strut if he knew what I wanted to do to him.

Up till now, all I could do was shove him, push him, brief, senseless, anyone could do that. What I really wanted was so much more… so much more… emotional, with feeling, with passion.

His sweet sad face, bleary confusion, teary eyes, something mingling with shock.

I would think about how hard he hit the locker later, imagine the bruises blossoming under his pale porcelain skin. I'd lick my lips, gather the scent of blood and find some place quiet and alone and satisfy myself on it. Pumping off a delicious climax to every time I shoved his pathetic body to that metal.

And every day I pushed him a little harder.

It is like pornography. Addictive. You see a little, and for a few days that is enough, but then you have to see a little more, and a little more… and before you know it your computer is full and your inbox is a disgusting heap of your darkest pleasures.

I thought I had it all. I thought I would have him for years… until I didn't.

My little muse, my perfect little song bird, he left me. He left me after a close call, after my suspension, and I came back to an empty school. Big, empty, and filled with emptier people.

I thought I would die. I thought I would go mad in the absence of his flirtatious smile and the girly tilt of his head… I thought he'd killed me, fucking cupid bringing down a dragon. I stopped eating. I couldn't see anyone, I could feel anything. I was no one… and I started running, I started lifting, I started hiding inside routines, inside normality, but on the inside… I thought of nothing else.

They were all fucking shocked when I lost the weight, when I lost my chins and redefined my jaw. I guess I could thank Kurt for that. For making me so fucking crazy I started up chain smoking. He probably wouldn't even recognize me, not now. The Coach loved me though, told me how proud she was of me, told me I finally got my life on track, when really… I was falling to bits.

Glad I fooled them.

But my problems were deeper, much deeper. I cleaned myself up, got damn fucking excellent grades, I made my exterior the perfect lie so that I could indulge myself on the inside. So that in my heart, I didn't have to lie.

And then… he was back…

I was completely unprepared.

My withdraw from him had been painful, agonizing, eternal, endless, with no relief in sight, and suddenly…

It was over.

my heart thundered in my chest when I saw him.

The bitch had returned to this school because Dalton probably didn't allow him to wear his makeup or his corsets. They had a dress code, suites and ties, and boyish things he would never understand.

Who the fuck cares why he is back? It was just a reason. Something I didn't give two shits about, like I didn't care why he left… all I cared about was that he was gone. All I cared about was that he was back.

He was hurt, limping when I saw him, deeply wounded, bleeding all over the place. Leaving smearing trails of red wherever he walked. It wasn't physical, but when you are an obsessive son of a bitch you notice things, little looks and little gestures. He made me obsessive. He'd made me like this, compulsive, nervous, sick.

Princess Faggot had his heart broken. Probably by that other guy he was so desperate to get. The gay one, who likely passed him up for a REAL man.

Thank god… because he still looked so very, very sweet. Innocent. Pure.

I could even smell virginity still clinging to his clothes, the kind that little girls have when they wear around tiaras and pink frilly dresses and think life will be a fairytale forever. His undying rose was a little wilted, his entire frame weighed with rejection, but that was how I like him best.

He thought he is safe. He thought I'd forgotten him. Thought I had moved on. But I couldn't. I never would. I hated him, and when you hate someone you can't forget them… because hate and love are side by side, equal, powerful things that even I couldn't reckon with.

He devised routes through the hallways to avoid me, stopped using the dressing rooms, and stopped lingering anywhere without a Glee freak clinging to his arm.

He was my perfect princess locked in a perfect tower, he thought I would never find him, never reach him, never catch him… but I would. I could outrun him now, out draw him… the game was up. It was over.

I needed. I wanted. I would have.

I thought a lot, I thought too much. I didn't act enough. That had always been my problem. I'd looked like an idiot. I'd done everything wrong. Never again. I swore. Never again.

"Welcome back, lady face."

His expression alone was worth all that pain. He froze, halfway through pushing his bag into his locker. His skin went livid and pale, the color drained out of his complexion, even his sweet pouty lips became a pink rose color, and his gaze avoided me, flickering away up and down the hall.

"I'll tell the principal." He shot back quickly, not looking me in the face, rather… his blue gaze trembled and hovered at the level of my neck.

I wondered if his stomach twisted. Mmmn, I wondered if he felt sick.

"You won't tell anyone, trust me." I knew what I meant, I knew what I meant the moment I reached towards him and he retreated till his back was against his open locker door.

I knew the second his suddenly terrified body language sent heat gathering at my groin, I knew the moment I recognized it as arousal. I knew what I wanted.

I pressed a finger to his chest, leaned in nice and close, and I felt his breath quicken, warm spurts of air against my face, smelled like strawberry mint.

"You wouldn't dare." I circled my finger over his thin chest and smirked at him, pressed there, terrified. For all the good Dalton had done him. I traced my finger a tad lower.

God, I longed to let him know just what I wanted from him, a sweet passage inside him, so he could feel me… so he could always feel me.

I saw the tears well in his baby blue eyes. He was so vulnerable when he cried. If this hadn't been school, if I had caught him alone, in some other place… some other time. I knew what I would do. Sick fuck that I am. I didn't think I could control myself for much longer… I couldn't stand it. I needed him. I needed him SO bad…

"Please, don't… don't…" Kurt's chin dropped and his tears broke free to slide down his reddened cheeks. He quivered, and flinched against my touch, like a beaten puppy, pathetic. Unable to help himself.

A sense of warmth sparked down my body as I watched him try not to cry, pathetic, weak, pretty little thing.

Something snapped in me.

In that moment I hated myself, hated him, hated his fucking homosexual face.

I grabbed him under the chin and shoved his head back, slamming it against the locker with an audible crash of metal on skull.

The smaller boy's eyes squinted against the pain, his back arched and another tear streaked his cheek leaving a salty sweet trail against his soft skin. He slid down the locker in front of me with an audible gasp, his legs crumpling under him, in shock and horror, begging for mercy.

"Please, Karofsky… don't. I'm sorry… I'm sorry for you…"

Another wave of heat, I wanted to groan but I didn't. I didn't move either as he sank to the floor in front of me, a puppet with broken strings.

Fuck, what a perfect position for him. With his gaze cast to the floor, shaking.

Without thinking I reached down to him, ran my fingers through his brunette hair, pushing his head back forcefully. Back against the metal of the locker so I could see the feminine architecture of his beautiful face.

Ohhh god... sometimes when he smiled… he looked he had no teeth, just a warm wet mouth. I bet it was perfect inside him, I bet it was beautiful and warm, I bet his tongue would take good care of my body, suck my need out of me.. sate my hunger for him.

My grip tightened on his dark locks and I my hips lurched forward instinctively at the very thought.

The look of horror on Kurt's face only made it sweeter as he feverishly tried to stand up. I gripped his harder and shoved him down, pushing on his head with the palms of my hands. Holding him there, a delicious perfect fantasy…

Finally… he was connecting the dots.

"Dave..." I'd never heard such panic in his voice, undeniable terror, real and consuming. His hands reached up and tried to pull mine off, his feet skidding on the smooth hall flooring.

I couldn't deny the smile that crept across my face, or the sensations it sent coursing through my body. Deep down… inside. Where it burned at my center. And he, he had a face full of those glorious sensations, and they made him flail at my knees. I shifted my hips closer to him, nice and lazily, pushing forward, keeping him from turning his face away. God... he was struggling now, trying to jerk his head out of my grip. "What's the matter, Hummel? Don't you like that? I bet you want that... yeah… you wanna suck that dick, don't you?"

"Kurt?" His Glee coach called his name from somewhere around the bend of the hall.

I let go and drew back, giving his hair a hard tug as I did so. His chin dipped forward and he panted for breath. Relief and horror mingling together on his deliciously pretty face. "Don't you tell, fag. Or I'll show you what little cunts do for their men."

The soprano was too stricken to wipe the tears from his pale face, too out of breath, to do anything more than stare after me as I turned, as I strode away down that long empty expanse of hall and turned a corner.

I was a tease… but then, he was a bitch.

I glanced back, taking in that cute little boy, shaking against the locker as he clambered to his feet, his hands pressing to his belly, holding in that shame, looking as though he were going to vomit all over the clean white tile.

Ohhh Kurt... please do. I'd watch how much you ached as you spilled that flamboyant pride all over the school hall, as it was replaced by humiliation... fear... and me. I'll fill you up you sweet little bitch. Hot. Warm. and White.

I'm not sure what he told his Glee coach, what he said to make the man believe he was alright. That nothing happened. That I was never there. Hummel lied very well. Hummel lied because he is a whore and he's too embarrassed to say I shoved my dick in his face.

Victims don't tell people, not really, not fully, and I don't understand why.

I'm not the victim.

If Kurt wanted to, the boy could have told someone, he could have gotten me suspended. AGAIN. But he didn't.

Cause he's a little bitch, his tail all tucked up between his smooth little thighs and he endured the fear, in his own pitiful way and never said a word.

Maybe he thought he deserved it. That if Dalton and that Blaine kid didn't want him. This was what he deserved. He did deserve it. But not because of Dalton, because he had a cunt mouth, and a bitchface and he's a faggot. That's why.

He asked for it too. In the few minutes before it happened. It was sick how he practically begged for it.

I thrummed my thumbs on the warn vinyl wheel of my car, felt a bead of nervous sweat roll down my temple. My heart pounded against my ribs.

Please, oh please, Kurt... come to me. I need you so bad.

I watched the doors to the high-school. That night, he had stayed late with his Glee club, surrounded himself with noisy uncaring friends… anything to make him forget what I had done to him, but he had to face it soon, because one by one they all left, till it was just him… him and that teacher of his... but Kurt's too ashamed to tell.

Inside, the two are were entrapped in some silent plea for communication. 'Walk out with me.' Kurt wanted to ask. 'Please tell me what's wrong' his teacher begged without words, but neither said a thing.

There was an exchange of awkward smiles and 'goodnights' that lingered in the air and grew stale after seconds of exposure.

Kurt hesitated in the hall, longing to turn around, run back to his Glee teacher, run back to the warmth of another human being, but his legs wouldn't work. His pride is killing him. He paused by the doors, and wrapped his turquoise jacket around his slender body.

He's mine. He knew he was mine. As he pushed open those glass doors and hurried out into the cold night he gave himself to me, throwing himself at my feet. I can sleep well, at last. I can sleep, after dreamless nights of anxious desire. I'm justified because he almost killed me, because he made me like this, he made me sick. He made me gay. He made me like him.

Here. Tonight. In this fucking parking lot, I'm going to take everything from him… and I'm gonna make him… just like me.