Father Figure - Part 10
Title: Father Figure
Rating: Big, fat R.
Pairing: Blaine/Paul Karofsky, established Klaine.
Spoilers: Season 2 general. Assumed timeline is beginning of summer.
Summary:
Paul Karofsky thought he'd done right by his son, and watched him degenerate into a thug just the same. Blaine practically performed for his father's approval, but was given no love for the effort. When the two meet, they inflame each other's wounds, and try to lick them clean together.
Warning(s): Age difference (adult/minor), Daddy/boy dynamic, dub-con sex acts.
Word Count: 2.374 for this part.
Author's Note: This entire chapter consisted of me beating my head against the laptop and chanting, "Finally, finally, finally, finally."
Part 1 here.
Part 2 here.
Part 3 here.
Part 4 here.
Part 5 here.
Part 6 here.
Part 7 here.
Part 8 here.
Part 9 here.
It wasn’t until he’d knocked three times on Paul’s door that the potential for disaster dawned on Blaine. Someone else could’ve been visiting, he might be out of the house, he might not even want to see him after he’d spent so long freezing him away - there was no reason not to have called first, not to be even marginally clever about what he was doing.
By the time Paul answered, Blaine’s nerve was nearly gone, and seeing him again was nothing like Blaine expected it would be.
He expected to feel himself smiling too hard, or maybe for Paul to be angry. He expected that they would burst into conversation and catharsis, at the end of which everything would slide into place; simple, manageable, organized. He expected to be calmed by the sight of him like he’d been by the thought of his name. If he were calm, he’d behave like an adult, hear whatever wisdom Paul must’ve accepted about what they’d done together and accept it for the truth it had to be.
Instead, the catharsis was crippling, and Paul was so quiet. If he sent Blaine away, if he didn’t want him, after all this awful silence, after he’d let himself admit . . .
“What are you doing here?”
There was nothing malicious in the question, but nothing warm, either. It coughed up out of him, as if he’d swallowed it a month ago and had been waiting to let it out since then. Blaine didn’t trust his instincts enough to analyze the tone of voice Paul was using.
He couldn’t talk yet, not yet. Not until he was sure he wasn't going to be rejected. He couldn't know how his silence was tripping alarms in Paul's mind.
“I didn’t think - Blaine, I was worried about you. Are you alright?” A stupid question. Blaine’s face was red, his eyes swollen and dim, mouth a dark wet line.
Still, ‘worry’ was good enough for him. Worry wasn’t a reprimand, and it wasn’t a rejection. Worry was something.
Paul's name was a sad word when Blaine said it, a sad word reaching for a safe place to hide. When he said it again it was a sob, tired and chipped, punctuated with a collision of himself against Paul’s chest. His arms wrapped around, gripping where they landed, open-fingered palms pressing hard into the back of a thin gray sweater
Paul did not waste, neither time nor affection. He answered Blaine’s need with a hard grunt of relief and held him tight, then tighter, expelling with each breath four weeks of missing and misery and confusion and fear. It didn’t matter. Blaine crowded out concern and left only enough room to sag into the embrace and hang there with him, fingers in his hair, murmuring comforting noises near his paper-thin earlobe.
“Hey, hey. Sh, what’s the matter? Tell me what’s wrong.”
Blaine tucked his face into the hollow of Paul’s neck, back shuddering with sobs, but right now - and how could he say it? - right now, nothing was wrong. Right now, it just felt too good to be with him for Blaine to handle any other way.
Even without an explanation, Paul wouldn’t deny him the closeness he was so clearly, so shamelessly depending on.
What a vital component to fatherhood, dependence - needing. Paul hadn’t thought himself the type, when he was a younger man, to foster this kind of addiction. He did not need people to need him, back then.
He married and loved an independent woman, entertained the company of stoic, stable friends. Even Dave’s youthful reliance on him was something to tolerate rather than encourage. It was expected, it was necessary, but it was not necessary to him. So why, after years in that pattern, would Dave's sudden withdrawal from the family cause such complete ruin in Paul?
It was infuriating, but unmistakable - the patch of burnt, hardened lack left behind him, that space where someone wanting Paul’s guidance should have been. He’d come to count on Dave looking up to him, and just like that, he was no longer his little boy's hero. He no longer had a little boy, he was nobody's Pops. Instead, he was just another face for Dave to glance at before grunting that he didn’t feel like coming to dinner.
Later, when Dave turned from solitude to outright defiance and an unpredictable temper, Paul exhausted himself trying to be the force behind his rehabilitation. It was one failure after another, and each one left this uncomfortable new truth about him more exposed than the last - he didn’t know how not to be needed, anymore.
What an inconvenient time for him to have met Blaine. With just a few more months of adjustment, this might never have happened.
He kept on just the same with his soothing, subtle sounds, leaving messages of comfort and encouragement in Blaine’s ear. And when he allowed a moment of quiet, he pressed a closed-lipped kiss into Blaine’s temple. He didn't know why.
Seconds later, another.
The third landed just below the ear he’d been whispering in. The fourth was a faint suction on his cheek. Each one gave Paul something different to feel and consider, each one played a role in enticing his recklessness, in leading him lower.
He pulled Blaine’s face from his shoulder with both hands, watched it leave behind the hurt of the day and transition into something else. His expression was curious, wondering, then certain and hungry. Paul took barely a second to decipher the change before dropping a fifth kiss onto his lips, prying at them, urging them open, breaking through and tasting, tasting, licking into the affection he’d rejected a month ago.
There were things to be learned about Paul in the way that he kissed. He lead naturally - his tongue slid forward first and wrestled the other into helpless, slack-jawed submission. He enjoyed a mannered kind of teasing, pulling a plump bit of Blaine’s lip between his teeth to tug when drawing away. He liked, better than anything, to swallow up sounds from his partner. Whenever Blaine whined his satisfaction, flush against Paul’s mouth, Paul would smile. He’d smile an interruption between them, baring his teeth, before plunging in again to tear loose another.
Blaine bit back frantically at the combustive attention Paul gave. To finally have it left him useless to any function that was not kissing, or being kissed.
“Here,” Paul demanded when he broke them apart, “Come here,” guttural, firm. He clutched and pulled and guided, removing Blaine from his doorstep and into the house, where hurried jerks crashed Blaine against the closed door, all four hands eagerly pawing at any part of each other they could reach; the curve of Blaine’s arms, the front of Paul’s sweater, fistfuls of soft, silver hair, fistfuls of black.
They were partners in contrast, each representing what the other was not. Blaine lifted a lean leg to hook around Paul in needful reciprocity, limbs spry and agile, his grasshopper body always humming with action, all quick, nervous gestures and a face that shifted like sand.
Paul, against him, weighting him, was barrel-solid, sound as stone. He was thickness and substance, experience and wisdom, colored in wine and aged as precisely.
When their mouths tore free to take in air, Blaine caught sight of a faintly wrinkled hand in motion slipping under his shirt. Paul exposed a patch of youthful, resilient skin where the touch crept higher, and Blaine’s eye could identify the way their complexions varied, how different Paul was, how much older, more sturdy, more worn.
He choked on a sound of pitiful arousal, arching forward to meet Paul’s curious fingers, and Paul read the invitation as if it were spoken. His decades of experience with sex collided with Blaine’s comparative lack, and instinct drove him in to suck a fresh kiss from the hollow of Blaine’s neck while exploring the skin beneath his shirt.
Kurt hadn’t learned to answer his gestures that way, not yet. That was all it took, that arch, for Paul to press his fingertips in and force them in four firm lines up Blaine’s ribcage. He read the response to that, as well, when Blaine bit his bottom lip and churned out a growl; he liked, he wanted, Paul gave. His fingers collapsed to pull a drag of knuckle over Blaine’s breast, catching at a single nipple before dropping down to the vulnerable softness of belly.
“More,” Blaine asked.
“Where,” Paul murmured, just below his ear. “Show me where.”
He offered up his hand for direction, voice reverently low, and Blaine circled his wrist to pull it back to his body. He nudged open his shirt a second time, guiding Paul’s touch, palm flat, underneath it.
Paul wanted, somewhere, struggling, to deny himself access, to deny Blaine’s misguided requests. He’d been proud before Blaine, stiff and stoic, impenetrable and reliant on morality. This was not moral. He was aware of the empty space where guilt should’ve been, the place guilt had been for the past thirty days, but no matter how hard he willed it back to him now, it resisted. He let Blaine lead him.
First, he lead up - up, up and up, helping Paul peel the shirt’s fabric over his shoulders and past his head until it could be discarded, leaving only a naked chest behind - then, he lead out.
Out, to the swell of a ribcage accommodating gasps of pleasure. Out, toward the place where Blaine’s natural nudity smudged into a faint, golden tan. Following Blaine, Paul made journeymen of his fingertips, drawing strings of affection with them from one end of a proud little collarbone to the other, groping over rounded shoulders, circling a young, tight throat as it swallowed.
Blaine took him to all of these places, responding in groans and writhing against the door, gluttonous in his satisfaction with skin on his skin, but he was still hungry; no touch was enough. This was an antidote, the first cold spread of cream over a burn - his whole body had been waterlogged with unhappiness for so long, and finally, finally, one certain stroke at a time, all of the ache was being extracted.
He asked again, “More, more,” and pulled Paul’s wrist down into his lap, forming his palm over the shape of his crotch through denim.
It was intimate enough and so unexpected that Paul could jerk free of the accommodating denial Blaine thrust him into.
“Stop,” he said, a wire word that prodded into Blaine and made him freeze. It rarely occurred to him that Paul was someone he could disobey. Still, his fingers twitched where they rested in Paul’s hair, and his eyes were shut to enjoy the scenery he fantasized until he could be touched again.
“We’ve been where we are,” Paul opened. “You ran out of here.”
“I’m sorry,” Blaine batted back immediately, mistaking the reminder for admonishment.
Paul worked just as quickly to assure him otherwise, but managed, at first, only a stiff and certain, “No, no.”
He wanted to amend the misconception by maintaining that most, if not all, of the fault rested with him, but without having talked it over, without knowing how Blaine felt or what he’d been thinking all this time, it was a rough-paved and guilt-ridden road to navigate. How could he correct what he hadn’t even heard?
“Has anything changed?” he chose at last, pressing a thumb into the peachskin dampness of Blaine’s cheek. “I won’t watch you leave that way a second time, Blaine. Before we go any further, you have to tell me what changed.”
It was a rule Paul applied only to Blaine. His admission that more of this was to come under the proper circumstances was battled with immediate denial, compressed with a swallow.
“Tomorrow,” Blaine promised, nipping forward to catch another kiss.
Paul maneuvered away, heard Blaine whine his displeasure, but steadied him with hands gripped tight around his shoulders.
“Talk to me, Blaine.”
It was all he could do to look Paul in the face when he explained himself. Every part of him staggered and swayed in the dumb, drunk pitch of his arousal. He tried to pretend maturity, but his voice was little more than a pleading mewl. He was not prepared for conversation.
“I don’t want to talk tonight, I can’t talk anymore. I’m so sick of hearing myself, I’m sick of it, I just want this, just for now, and we can talk tomorrow. I promise we can talk tomorrow. I won’t leave. I promise I won’t leave.”
As he spoke, his fingers crept across Paul’s chest, gathering knots of fabric and squeezing comfort out of them. He could feel the way Paul sagged under the effort of trying to deny him.
Paul’s demand was weary, coming to Blaine’s ear as a gruff pant of air, the result of admitting defeat; “Don’t make promises to me, Blaine.”
That was all the concession Blaine needed, and all the argument Paul could put up.
“Take me upstairs?”
“I will,” Paul said, then looked, in seconds, at war with himself, scaling Blaine’s arms and face with the tips of his fingers while simultaneously trying not to. “But,” he dictated, steadying the touch at the back of Blaine’s head and holding his attention where he wanted it; forward, “don’t, don’t do that to me again. Okay, Blaine? Ever.”
Blaine answered with the rapid-fire eagerness of being given a second chance, “Never,” and bit his tongue when he felt the urge to swear it. Paul wouldn't approve. “Never again, take me upstairs.”
This time, he didn’t make Blaine go alone. This time, relying on the sturdiness of the door to lift him off his feet, he slung Blaine’s legs around himself and carried him, tucked tight and breathing deeply, to his room.
Rating: Big, fat R.
Pairing: Blaine/Paul Karofsky, established Klaine.
Spoilers: Season 2 general. Assumed timeline is beginning of summer.
Summary:
Paul Karofsky thought he'd done right by his son, and watched him degenerate into a thug just the same. Blaine practically performed for his father's approval, but was given no love for the effort. When the two meet, they inflame each other's wounds, and try to lick them clean together.
Warning(s): Age difference (adult/minor), Daddy/boy dynamic, dub-con sex acts.
Word Count: 2.374 for this part.
Author's Note: This entire chapter consisted of me beating my head against the laptop and chanting, "Finally, finally, finally, finally."
Part 1 here.
Part 2 here.
Part 3 here.
Part 4 here.
Part 5 here.
Part 6 here.
Part 7 here.
Part 8 here.
Part 9 here.
It wasn’t until he’d knocked three times on Paul’s door that the potential for disaster dawned on Blaine. Someone else could’ve been visiting, he might be out of the house, he might not even want to see him after he’d spent so long freezing him away - there was no reason not to have called first, not to be even marginally clever about what he was doing.
By the time Paul answered, Blaine’s nerve was nearly gone, and seeing him again was nothing like Blaine expected it would be.
He expected to feel himself smiling too hard, or maybe for Paul to be angry. He expected that they would burst into conversation and catharsis, at the end of which everything would slide into place; simple, manageable, organized. He expected to be calmed by the sight of him like he’d been by the thought of his name. If he were calm, he’d behave like an adult, hear whatever wisdom Paul must’ve accepted about what they’d done together and accept it for the truth it had to be.
Instead, the catharsis was crippling, and Paul was so quiet. If he sent Blaine away, if he didn’t want him, after all this awful silence, after he’d let himself admit . . .
“What are you doing here?”
There was nothing malicious in the question, but nothing warm, either. It coughed up out of him, as if he’d swallowed it a month ago and had been waiting to let it out since then. Blaine didn’t trust his instincts enough to analyze the tone of voice Paul was using.
He couldn’t talk yet, not yet. Not until he was sure he wasn't going to be rejected. He couldn't know how his silence was tripping alarms in Paul's mind.
“I didn’t think - Blaine, I was worried about you. Are you alright?” A stupid question. Blaine’s face was red, his eyes swollen and dim, mouth a dark wet line.
Still, ‘worry’ was good enough for him. Worry wasn’t a reprimand, and it wasn’t a rejection. Worry was something.
Paul's name was a sad word when Blaine said it, a sad word reaching for a safe place to hide. When he said it again it was a sob, tired and chipped, punctuated with a collision of himself against Paul’s chest. His arms wrapped around, gripping where they landed, open-fingered palms pressing hard into the back of a thin gray sweater
Paul did not waste, neither time nor affection. He answered Blaine’s need with a hard grunt of relief and held him tight, then tighter, expelling with each breath four weeks of missing and misery and confusion and fear. It didn’t matter. Blaine crowded out concern and left only enough room to sag into the embrace and hang there with him, fingers in his hair, murmuring comforting noises near his paper-thin earlobe.
“Hey, hey. Sh, what’s the matter? Tell me what’s wrong.”
Blaine tucked his face into the hollow of Paul’s neck, back shuddering with sobs, but right now - and how could he say it? - right now, nothing was wrong. Right now, it just felt too good to be with him for Blaine to handle any other way.
Even without an explanation, Paul wouldn’t deny him the closeness he was so clearly, so shamelessly depending on.
What a vital component to fatherhood, dependence - needing. Paul hadn’t thought himself the type, when he was a younger man, to foster this kind of addiction. He did not need people to need him, back then.
He married and loved an independent woman, entertained the company of stoic, stable friends. Even Dave’s youthful reliance on him was something to tolerate rather than encourage. It was expected, it was necessary, but it was not necessary to him. So why, after years in that pattern, would Dave's sudden withdrawal from the family cause such complete ruin in Paul?
It was infuriating, but unmistakable - the patch of burnt, hardened lack left behind him, that space where someone wanting Paul’s guidance should have been. He’d come to count on Dave looking up to him, and just like that, he was no longer his little boy's hero. He no longer had a little boy, he was nobody's Pops. Instead, he was just another face for Dave to glance at before grunting that he didn’t feel like coming to dinner.
Later, when Dave turned from solitude to outright defiance and an unpredictable temper, Paul exhausted himself trying to be the force behind his rehabilitation. It was one failure after another, and each one left this uncomfortable new truth about him more exposed than the last - he didn’t know how not to be needed, anymore.
What an inconvenient time for him to have met Blaine. With just a few more months of adjustment, this might never have happened.
He kept on just the same with his soothing, subtle sounds, leaving messages of comfort and encouragement in Blaine’s ear. And when he allowed a moment of quiet, he pressed a closed-lipped kiss into Blaine’s temple. He didn't know why.
Seconds later, another.
The third landed just below the ear he’d been whispering in. The fourth was a faint suction on his cheek. Each one gave Paul something different to feel and consider, each one played a role in enticing his recklessness, in leading him lower.
He pulled Blaine’s face from his shoulder with both hands, watched it leave behind the hurt of the day and transition into something else. His expression was curious, wondering, then certain and hungry. Paul took barely a second to decipher the change before dropping a fifth kiss onto his lips, prying at them, urging them open, breaking through and tasting, tasting, licking into the affection he’d rejected a month ago.
There were things to be learned about Paul in the way that he kissed. He lead naturally - his tongue slid forward first and wrestled the other into helpless, slack-jawed submission. He enjoyed a mannered kind of teasing, pulling a plump bit of Blaine’s lip between his teeth to tug when drawing away. He liked, better than anything, to swallow up sounds from his partner. Whenever Blaine whined his satisfaction, flush against Paul’s mouth, Paul would smile. He’d smile an interruption between them, baring his teeth, before plunging in again to tear loose another.
Blaine bit back frantically at the combustive attention Paul gave. To finally have it left him useless to any function that was not kissing, or being kissed.
“Here,” Paul demanded when he broke them apart, “Come here,” guttural, firm. He clutched and pulled and guided, removing Blaine from his doorstep and into the house, where hurried jerks crashed Blaine against the closed door, all four hands eagerly pawing at any part of each other they could reach; the curve of Blaine’s arms, the front of Paul’s sweater, fistfuls of soft, silver hair, fistfuls of black.
They were partners in contrast, each representing what the other was not. Blaine lifted a lean leg to hook around Paul in needful reciprocity, limbs spry and agile, his grasshopper body always humming with action, all quick, nervous gestures and a face that shifted like sand.
Paul, against him, weighting him, was barrel-solid, sound as stone. He was thickness and substance, experience and wisdom, colored in wine and aged as precisely.
When their mouths tore free to take in air, Blaine caught sight of a faintly wrinkled hand in motion slipping under his shirt. Paul exposed a patch of youthful, resilient skin where the touch crept higher, and Blaine’s eye could identify the way their complexions varied, how different Paul was, how much older, more sturdy, more worn.
He choked on a sound of pitiful arousal, arching forward to meet Paul’s curious fingers, and Paul read the invitation as if it were spoken. His decades of experience with sex collided with Blaine’s comparative lack, and instinct drove him in to suck a fresh kiss from the hollow of Blaine’s neck while exploring the skin beneath his shirt.
Kurt hadn’t learned to answer his gestures that way, not yet. That was all it took, that arch, for Paul to press his fingertips in and force them in four firm lines up Blaine’s ribcage. He read the response to that, as well, when Blaine bit his bottom lip and churned out a growl; he liked, he wanted, Paul gave. His fingers collapsed to pull a drag of knuckle over Blaine’s breast, catching at a single nipple before dropping down to the vulnerable softness of belly.
“More,” Blaine asked.
“Where,” Paul murmured, just below his ear. “Show me where.”
He offered up his hand for direction, voice reverently low, and Blaine circled his wrist to pull it back to his body. He nudged open his shirt a second time, guiding Paul’s touch, palm flat, underneath it.
Paul wanted, somewhere, struggling, to deny himself access, to deny Blaine’s misguided requests. He’d been proud before Blaine, stiff and stoic, impenetrable and reliant on morality. This was not moral. He was aware of the empty space where guilt should’ve been, the place guilt had been for the past thirty days, but no matter how hard he willed it back to him now, it resisted. He let Blaine lead him.
First, he lead up - up, up and up, helping Paul peel the shirt’s fabric over his shoulders and past his head until it could be discarded, leaving only a naked chest behind - then, he lead out.
Out, to the swell of a ribcage accommodating gasps of pleasure. Out, toward the place where Blaine’s natural nudity smudged into a faint, golden tan. Following Blaine, Paul made journeymen of his fingertips, drawing strings of affection with them from one end of a proud little collarbone to the other, groping over rounded shoulders, circling a young, tight throat as it swallowed.
Blaine took him to all of these places, responding in groans and writhing against the door, gluttonous in his satisfaction with skin on his skin, but he was still hungry; no touch was enough. This was an antidote, the first cold spread of cream over a burn - his whole body had been waterlogged with unhappiness for so long, and finally, finally, one certain stroke at a time, all of the ache was being extracted.
He asked again, “More, more,” and pulled Paul’s wrist down into his lap, forming his palm over the shape of his crotch through denim.
It was intimate enough and so unexpected that Paul could jerk free of the accommodating denial Blaine thrust him into.
“Stop,” he said, a wire word that prodded into Blaine and made him freeze. It rarely occurred to him that Paul was someone he could disobey. Still, his fingers twitched where they rested in Paul’s hair, and his eyes were shut to enjoy the scenery he fantasized until he could be touched again.
“We’ve been where we are,” Paul opened. “You ran out of here.”
“I’m sorry,” Blaine batted back immediately, mistaking the reminder for admonishment.
Paul worked just as quickly to assure him otherwise, but managed, at first, only a stiff and certain, “No, no.”
He wanted to amend the misconception by maintaining that most, if not all, of the fault rested with him, but without having talked it over, without knowing how Blaine felt or what he’d been thinking all this time, it was a rough-paved and guilt-ridden road to navigate. How could he correct what he hadn’t even heard?
“Has anything changed?” he chose at last, pressing a thumb into the peachskin dampness of Blaine’s cheek. “I won’t watch you leave that way a second time, Blaine. Before we go any further, you have to tell me what changed.”
It was a rule Paul applied only to Blaine. His admission that more of this was to come under the proper circumstances was battled with immediate denial, compressed with a swallow.
“Tomorrow,” Blaine promised, nipping forward to catch another kiss.
Paul maneuvered away, heard Blaine whine his displeasure, but steadied him with hands gripped tight around his shoulders.
“Talk to me, Blaine.”
It was all he could do to look Paul in the face when he explained himself. Every part of him staggered and swayed in the dumb, drunk pitch of his arousal. He tried to pretend maturity, but his voice was little more than a pleading mewl. He was not prepared for conversation.
“I don’t want to talk tonight, I can’t talk anymore. I’m so sick of hearing myself, I’m sick of it, I just want this, just for now, and we can talk tomorrow. I promise we can talk tomorrow. I won’t leave. I promise I won’t leave.”
As he spoke, his fingers crept across Paul’s chest, gathering knots of fabric and squeezing comfort out of them. He could feel the way Paul sagged under the effort of trying to deny him.
Paul’s demand was weary, coming to Blaine’s ear as a gruff pant of air, the result of admitting defeat; “Don’t make promises to me, Blaine.”
That was all the concession Blaine needed, and all the argument Paul could put up.
“Take me upstairs?”
“I will,” Paul said, then looked, in seconds, at war with himself, scaling Blaine’s arms and face with the tips of his fingers while simultaneously trying not to. “But,” he dictated, steadying the touch at the back of Blaine’s head and holding his attention where he wanted it; forward, “don’t, don’t do that to me again. Okay, Blaine? Ever.”
Blaine answered with the rapid-fire eagerness of being given a second chance, “Never,” and bit his tongue when he felt the urge to swear it. Paul wouldn't approve. “Never again, take me upstairs.”
This time, he didn’t make Blaine go alone. This time, relying on the sturdiness of the door to lift him off his feet, he slung Blaine’s legs around himself and carried him, tucked tight and breathing deeply, to his room.