Rating: M, babies. Don't read - iz mature.
He was in the cornfields again.
How he got there, he didn't know.
The whats, the whys, the whens weren't important; all that was important was that he had to run fast and hard away from him. He didn't know how it started, what he did to deserve to be hunted down like this... there was no time for coherent thought, no time to process a reason... who this man was who was intent on destroying him.
The man that seemed to be an arm's length from him just almost catching him. He was there behind him, always there - but his face, he couldn't see his face. It was just a man who meant him harm, meant to hurt him in unspeakable ways. A shadowy figure that was on his heels. No matter what direction Kurt went into, how fast he ran, he was always there right behind him ready to tackle him.
Kurt couldn't breathe as he went past the stalks. He shoved past them, running down a pre-made path afraid to divert into the nothingness. He felt too slow. It was like he was underwater and he trashed violently to get away, but felt floating, floating, floating. This couldn't happen like this. No no no no please not like this-
But his pursuer was almost upon him.
He felt himself being pushed down to the ground. He didn't know if he tripped or if he was caught. He was down. It was over. He lost.
When Kurt was flipped over he realized he was naked. Did he even have clothes on to start with? He panicked looking down at his pale skin that was covered with the start of morning dew. He knew he should feel cold but there was a startling warmth coming from his center that surprised him. That, and his enormous erection. He couldn't muster up the shame or embarrassment to hide himself with his hands and laid there with his stalker on top of him, straddling his chest.
The man was still a shadow, still unknowable. Kurt couldn't tell if it was the dark that shadowed his looks or the lack of moonlight (or that he just didn't want to see who it was.)
He felt a sense of panic. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He tried to rock him off but could barely move.
It was going so fast.
Now he was naked too with his own arousal to show off. Kurt couldn't bring himself to look away. The mood was changing. He wasn't feeling so scared anymore. His attacker was no longer an enemy but rather something interesting to examine. His body was smooth and thick, like other unmentionable parts of his. He was rather tall and stocky, but Kurt felt the muscle rippling above him and it drove him wild. Somehow (Kurt didn't know how) he was pushed off of him and Kurt quickly sat on him, putting his full weight on the man. He could've been pushed off but Kurt felt heavier suddenly and that weighed the man down.
He didn't struggle. He laid there, accepting his fate and the role reversal easily.
The tables had turned. Kurt was now in command. He felt a silky sneer come on his face (that wasn't the only thing that would come on his face.)
Kurt grabbed the man's wrists and bound them above his head. This boy was going to be his prisoner in more than one way. He leaned his face down, hovering his lips over his partner's, not kissing but reminding him of his new dominance. Then he changed directions, making the man gasp as Kurt stuck his tongue out and sucked the side of his jaw that met his neck. It was a tender, sensitive area (and the sharp moans proved it) that Kurt sensually tore apart. The bucking of the hips underneath him reminded him his tactics were working.
The voice that he couldn't quite place was begging for mercy, begging for release.
He would get it when Kurt saw fit. He smirked and went back to biting the boy's delicious skin. Yes, this tasted so good. Tugging and nibbling with his teeth, stretching it out and massaging it back in with his tongue.
Finally he had enough of that and moved lower, doing the same ministrations to his captive's nipples. As a tease, he bit down really hard on the nipple causing a groan to come out of his lover. He sat up, sitting on his lover's stomach which was hard and muscled.
You like that, don't you, Kurt said. Don't you, you dirty bitch.
Yes, the voice cried. Please. Please. I want-
I'll tell you what you want, when I want it.
His bottom rocked his lover's arousal, and Kurt bit his lip, loving the feel of it sliding against him. His lover groaned, his hands still bound in Kurt's grip. He wanted to touch him back, wanted to make him feel as good as he was feeling.
Please let me touch you, he begged.
No, Kurt snipped, smirking. I like you this way.
His lover bucked his hips and Kurt ground down on it. He saw the look in his lover's face even without seeing his face. It was absolute desire and lust. It was him that was causing these feelings - it was good little Kurt making him feel this way. He felt so bad and dirty but in the best way; Kurt reached down, imitating so many pornos he'd seen before, and grabbed his lover's tool, pumping it.
His lover cried out, speaking in tongues. It was a religious experience if Kurt ever believed in one. The power he held over this boy.. with one move he could make him twitch and sob and with another he could make him smile and gasp. It was absolutely brilliant. With a devious smile, he held himself up and guided his lover in him. His eyes popped open at the experience and then shut down immediately, his mouth becoming impossibly wide. There was no pain; only pure pleasure. Kurt could feel the throbbing inside of him and it gave him a jolt to feel something alive in him. He let go of his lover's wrists and slid his hands down his chest, leaning down as he began to rock more and more of it in him.
Yes... he hissed. Oh yes. That was what he wanted.
His lover's hands meekly went on Kurt's hips, almost afraid to touch him without permission but Kurt ground himself against the body, putting his hand on his lover's. Touch me, the action said. Do things to me. I want this. I want you.
His lover could read him and ran his hands up and down Kurt's body, playing with parts of him. While one hand toyed with a nipple the other hand wandered down south and introduced itself to his cock.
Kurt rode his nameless lover with a passion he only felt for music. Every time he went down, he would think of those high notes that only he could reach. When he went up, he would think of the applause. But feeling this man between his fingers somehow beat those experiences and made him feel so primal and real. Who was this stranger that was making him feel this way? He looked down, going faster in his actions. He tried to figure it out even as the passion, the red-hot love between his thighs was timing itself for release.
It was when he arched that final arch that unleashed a low satisfied moan that he realized whose face it was he was staring down at.
Whose eyes were bearing down into his soul.
He looked terrible.
He sat down in front of his vanity and eyed the dark circles. Tossing and turning was going to kill his youthful good looks (that is, if Dave Karofsky didn't first.) Then he noticed the marks around his neck were turning purple and cursed. And the bruise on his cheek was a hybrid child of green, yellow, and gray. He considered screaming to his father who was responsible if only for revenge for his appearance. He looked absolutely revolting.
If Dave Karofsky so much as glanced in his direction today, he was going to tear his head off with a dulled spork.
Kurt angrily rubbed the lotion between his hands, slapping it on his skin without the usual ceremony. He winced from the actions and proceeded to be a little more gentler, delving into his thoughts. That dream. That dream was-
He wasn't going to think about it.
He wasn't going to talk about it.
He certainly wasn't going to mull over it.
But the more that Kurt tried not to think about it and repress the hazy sandman-induced memories, the more he inadvertantly was thinking of it... and the last moment he could remember was Dave Karofsky's "orgasm" face. Kurt shuddered from that internal polaroid. Of all the things to have stuck in his mind, it was either that or Dave Karofsky's huge...
He blushed and quickly rubbed more lotion into his cheeks to justify why they were red.
This was madness. Sheer and utter Gaga-help-him madness. A part of him couldn't even process that last night even happened let alone all of the events of the past 24 hours, and that part would still be in disbelief if not for the huge amount of, ahem, physical evidence there to convince him.
After all, who would believe the ole "homophobic closeted bully jock rapes innocent gay victim repeatedly" story? He certainly wouldn't. He couldn't even believe Karofsky was gay up until the brute stole his first kiss from him (well, the first that counted anyhow.) Even now, the more his bully denied the obviously painful truth, the less convincing he became especially after these... recent attentions delivered to Kurt.
He rubbed lotion into his elbows and shoulders, going up to his neck. His fingers pressed gingerly against the bruises and love (hardly) marks. They weren't very noticeable... not if he put foundation on them. No, it should be fine. No one would ask questions. And a scarf would perfect cover up just in case.
He could make this work.
It was then that it hit him that he was going to go back to school to face his tormentor. To face the boy who not only came in him (dear Gaga) but on him. If Karofsky was trying to make up for lost time for repressing his gay side, he was sure making an impressive (but frightening) streak of it. Kurt put his head in his palms, shaking it slowly. What the hell was he thinking? He should've told his father the moment he was free of Karofsky, the moment that meathead got in his car. The moment his father picked up the phone to call the police. The moment that he insisted he knew best.
What was he thinking?
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Kurt thought, gritting his teeth.
It wasn't just that he was doing this alone, by himself, like some rogue agent or lone cowboy. No, it was the fact he was covering up concrete evidence that would expel Karofsky from school and free him (and even land the idiot in juvie. Maybe even real prison.) He was helping Karofsky in some small way by keeping this all under wraps.
Kurt snapped the lid to his expensive lotion in agitation, wiggling in his vanity seat. He went to his closet, flipping through clothing distractedly.
There was no way he actually enjoyed that.
There was no way he wanted it (like Karofsky said into his ear so many times last night...) He closed his eyes, his groin tightening. Then he popped them open, grabbing a bunch of hangers out and tossing them haphazardly on the bed. NO! This was not happening to him.
What was wrong with him?
This couldn't be normal.
This couldn't actually be real.
A part of him wondered if he was still in his dream. What if he was always dreaming and this was just some nightmare he couldn't wake up from? Ha. Wouldn't that be a twist.
He pushed himself against the wardrobe, sliding down it. He heard his father upstairs, roaming around for breakfast and coffee. The air was thick with worry and tension. He could feel it even below. Burt was fretting like a mother hen and he was the ticking time bomb waiting to go off.
Why was this happening to him? All he wanted was a boyfriend. Was that so much to ask for? There were tears in his eyes and he gasped back a sob as he wiped away the pain with the palms of his hands. He wanted to feel love. He wanted affection. He wanted that romantic kiss. It was all ruined now. Who would want someone like him now? If Blaine knew... if Blaine really knew how weak and cowardly he really was...
He put his face between his knees.
He sniffled and frowned. Kurt Hummel was many things: accomplished soprano, iconic fashionista, dazzling star on the rise - but he was not one to self-pity. No one felt sorry for Kurt Hummel because he never felt sorry for himself. He was better than that.
He took a deep breath in, staring out into the nothing space. He wouldn't let this break him. What would that say about him? Hell, what would that say about Karofsky? That he won? (Strange enough, he felt a sense of deja vu the last time he felt like this hours prior...)
There would be rules and guidelines. More importantly, leverage. Kurt nodded, the realization uplifting. Yeah. Leverage. He had something against Karofsky that he didn't want known... of course, Kurt himself didn't want the truth public anymore than his bully did but he wouldn't take anymore abuse any longer than he had to. Today was the day he was going to take back the power, control that bastard, and tell him what's what.
He made his way to his clothing and picked out an outfit carefully. Even though the chances of being slushied were almost guaranteed today, he couldn't be pushed around. Not for being gay and certainly not for being someone's victim; as Gloria Gaynor put it, he would survive.
Even in sleep, Dave felt the pressure around him.
His rest was fitful and unwell as he tossed and turned on the hard floor in the small enclosure. How many times had he slept like this? Too many. His father mocked him a few times for his hiding place which made him feel all the more ashamed. He wasn't a man; he was less than for running away - always running away. He hated living this way, but there was no other choice. What else could he do? He had nothing else to depend on. It was just him and the closet - that was all that was there to protect him from the world. Protect him from his father. Since he was young, those hiding places were all that kept him sane before he even knew what sanity was. He couldn't, wouldn't break. Not like before. He was still strong, he was still David Karofsky, and no one, not even his father-not fucking Kurt Hummel-was going to take that away from him. Even as he thought this, he shook from the last visages of a nightmare he couldn't shake off.
Being held down.
He remembered the first time the thought occurred to him that what he was experiencing couldn't be normal (shouldn't be normal.) When the other fathers were with their sons, there was no shaky sense of fear in their eyes. There were no hesitant smiles. When there was laughter, it was not followed by a wince. It was only with David's father that this was the case.
He tried not to think about it too much. If he did, he just became even more angry and desperate than he already was. Instead, he focused on other things - ways to make his father somehow happy. Was it his grades? Was it his friends? Was he popular enough? It had to have been his fault somehow. He was doing something wrong; the fault was with David, not his perfect father. There was a poison in him, seeping out, and it was killing everyone around him. No one was safe. No one was pure once they touched him.
He was infected.
He opened his eyes. It was dark in the closet, but there was a crack of light underneath the door that reminded him that the day went on... and he was supposed to live it.
He put his head in his hands, ashamed at himself. He ran away from his father again - why did he think that could work this time? He was such an idiot. Such a stupid boy. Such a stupid extraordinary ordinary boy - he shook his head, trying to wake up. He slapped the side of his face, wincing. He ignored how sore his face felt, how irritated his eyes were when he blinked. He put a hand on the closet door, hesitant to open it. Then he did and stepped out.
His room was a mess. The entrance was still shut which was the only evidence that his father didn't get in (this time.) He felt embarrassed for himself to see the overreaction of piling everything in his room against a measly wooden door that his father could've taken apart had he really wanted. It was a sign that told him several things - his father would get him back eventually... and that he was a fool for thinking any amount of precaution would shield him from what he deserved.
Dutifully, he put his furniture back into place in his room. His back ached (in fact, his whole body hurt) and he did not feel like he had a whole lot of sleep. In the back of his mind, he remembered he had practice this morning but didn't know what time it was. He heard noises downstairs and tensed; what if his father was waiting for him, silent like a predator, ready to take him down once and for all?
You're just like your mother, his father's words echoed and tickled down his spine.
No control. No control whatsoever your actions and how you feel.
He tried to ignore the commentary as he picked up his clothes off the floor and stuffed them in the hamper. With each move of his muscles, the more frantic he became to try and bury Paul's voice. You're nothing the voice reminded him as he shoved his desk against the wall. You disappoint me it sighed as he righted the bed in a good angle, in a perfect angle. There's a spot, the voice hissed. Clean it. Wash it. Be pure, unstained. Don't be dirty.
God forbid if he was dirty.
There were tears coming down his face but he didn't pay them any mind. It was better for him just to ignore it. It was better for him to pretend it was okay. It was okay. It was okay. He let out a breath as his door became free and there was a moment when he tensed, as if his father would burst through like the boogey man. Nothing happened and he ventured out into the hallway. He could hear his father's voice downstairs as he talked into the phone. To who, David didn't know and didn't care - as long as it wasn't him.
He went into the bathroom and locked the door behind him, ruefully thinking that there wasn't much to barricade the door here. Ha. He looked in the mirror and groaned - he looked like such shit. No wonder Kurt pushed him away; how could anyone want him? He closed his eyes against the wetness. What a fucking pity party he was. Man up, Karofsky. Man up! He opened his eyes and saw the marks all over his neck. Lovebites from his unwilling lover. He narrowed his eyes, sneering. It was a sign that Kurt wanted it as much as he did no matter how hard he struggled. Couldn't Kurt see how much Dave struggled too? He didn't want this either. He never wanted to touch the boy again, to feel his soft skin against his, to taste those pretty luscious lips-
He ignored his painful erection. It was time to think with a different head.
He undressed, breathing through his nose (which still hurt, thanks a lot, Hummel) to control the pain in his ribs and stepped into the shower. Hot. That's what he needed. Something to burn him to remind him that he was still alive (then why did it feel like the opposite?)
He closed his eyes when the painful water hit his back and let out a deep exhale. It felt good to finally get clean. When was the last time he cleaned himself? He opened his eyes. Oh yeah. The last time he took a shower was with Kurt. He frowned. Well, not exactly with him but it was close enough to get him hard again. He groaned, his hand going to his loins. He never used to be this horny and when he did, it was easy enough to close his eyes and put it in some girl nearby. It helped boost his rep and satisfied him (at least, it used to). Then Hummel had to come along and ruin everything. All he could think was that boy. Even now when he tried desperately to think of tits and glossy pink lips, all he could see in his mind was that tight ass in those jeans bending over for him.
"FUCK!" he screamed, his fist hitting the tile. "Fuck my life." He brought it back, holding it to his chest. He closed his eyes and turned to the showerhead, letting the water go down his face to hide his tears. He couldn't be this. He shouldn't be this.
He wasn't this.
His hand ached and he put his head against the wall. There were so many times (and this was no exception) when he wished it was easier. This pain on his heart everytime he woke up to another day was almost too much to bear. He was pretending to be something he wasn't and fucking up at it too. Another thing his father would point out that he couldn't do right.
But this wasn't his fault. He was okay up until...
...Up until that fag came along.
He sneered, his eyes opening with a sudden hatred. Everything was good until him. And then once he entered his life, that's when everything started to go to shit. The more Dave thought about it, the more he became convinced that yes, it was indeed Kurt Hummel's fault. In fact, Hummel always acted so much better than him. He probably got off on walking mental circles around him. Making him insane with those eyes of his. Those disapproving, deceitful eyes. Those eyes that dared him to cross the line, and well, guess what, he did. He crossed it. Now what was he going to do?
He was fucked now.
It was Kurt's fault. All his fault. And Kurt knew it. Kurt was doing this to him on purpose to get back at him. ...Probably telling at the Glee freaks about it. Telling them about how he made him fuck him. Laughing at him. Planning to ruin his life. And what did Dave get? Nothing. His life was over. All because he couldn't keep it in his pants. All because he saw those eyes and had to-... he let out an exhale, looking up.
Had to see himself in them.
Dave's life could've been normal.
He could've been normal.
But those eyes destroyed him.
He closed his own.
And now Dave was going to destroy him back.
She used to be pretty.
Now all that remained was the ghost of a carefree, dreamy smile in her face that was reanimated into something more forced and scared.
She looked at the dishes she was washing, mindful to make sure there were no scratches and chips. It had to be perfect. Or else...
Her eyes wandered to the doorway. Paul was still in his phone meeting. He was in one of his moods, too. It wasn't good. She carefully dried the dish, making sure no lint or water remained on the surface. The last thing she needed right now was a screw-up that could've been prevented. No, little mistakes were big mistakes. It was something she learned early on.
Above, she heard the shower go on and her eyes went briefly to the ceiling before retreating to the next dish, treating it with as much care as the one before. She heard everything last night from the bedroom. She knew better than to interrupt Paul when he was parenting. What did she know about boys or raising a son? Paul was the smart one. He was the one who finished school. She was the one who got pregnant before marriage at sixteen. She didn't even have her high school diploma; just another Lima Loser. Paul was asked to speak at conferences in New York and Boston. He was more important than her as he was fond of reminding her. She didn't know anything but how to cook and clean. He knew everything.
Still, her heart hurt when she heard Paul go after her little boy. She couldn't help him. David was all alone, no better off than she was. How could they protect themselves from someone who was their protector?
He taught him not to cry, just like how he taught her not to talk back. It was the right thing to do, she thought. The husband was in charge. The man was the role model. The father was the leader. And Paul was so smart, so accomplished. She admired him even before they were together; he was good-looking, forward-thinking, and knew just what to say in situations. She was always tongue-tied and embarrassed, with two left feet, always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. It was amazing that they ended up together. It was amazing he even bothered to stay in Lima with her given his ambitions.
She paused in her dishwashing and felt him behind her, watching. Her back became straighter, her posture more pronounced. Even her once-youthful face became taut with anticipation and anxiety.
"Has he come down yet?"
She shook her head, her eyes on the dish, examining it for flaws. There was a nick in the corner and she bit the side of her lip, something she did when she was nervous. A part of her hoped he wouldn't notice. She ran a finger across it, flinching when she cut herself. She dipped her hands in the dishwater.
"He's going to be late to school."
She offered no response.
Paul let out a sigh as he came behind her. She tensed. Paul never touched her unless he had to. She played with her cut underwater.
He put his hands on her aproned waist. "Breakfast was lovely, dear. But I think you should throw out the leftovers. David isn't going to be hungry for cold eggs."
"I can heat them up-" she started before she realized what he meant. She looked up into his eyes and looked away. The hot soapy water was burning her open wound - it felt preferable to this interaction between husband and wife. "Yes, of course."
His hands tightened on her waist almost painfully to remind her of certain things. "He can get something at school." It was said more to soothe her motherly nerves than anything else. David wouldn't eat until his father let him eat.
She nodded. It was better to be silent. Better to be seen and not heard. Better just to pretend.
He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek and she closed her eyes. "Good girl."
He walked away, and she heard him at the entrance. "I want dinner at six. Prepare something light and hearty. Make sure David is here." He said the last part loud so that way David would hear it upstairs. They both knew he was listening, and if he wasn't, she would just tell him herself. Then he closed the door with a slam, the only indication of his emotions. She knew it angered him that David was rebelling against his father but she knew it would happen sooner or later; she did the same thing when she was his age. But, then, she thought as she looked at the dishwater, at the perfect kitchen, at the immaculate magazine-cover surroundings - look where that got her.
Burt looked at the newspaper, rereading the line in an article about the game last night.
Gary Footman won't be returning to the Saddlebacks next season because of blah blah blah blah...
He wasn't really paying attention. His eyes went to the doorway, waiting for something to happen. He went over the scenario too many times in his head. A part of him was tempted not to let his son go to school today. Kurt was holding back something from him and it hurt him to know that his little boy not only distrusted him, but was protecting someone that wasn't worth protecting.
If Vera were here. If she was here, would any of this still be happening? He closed his eyes, irritation behind them. As much as he loved Carol (and god, he did) there was still that hole that even Carol would never fill for Kurt. He hoped she could replace Vera as a mother for his son but Kurt so far treated Carol more as a friend rather than a confident. He had walls up all around him. He couldn't let his guard down and trust.
Burt wanted to blame himself. Ever since he met Carol he was reminded of all the things he could've had since Vera died but was too scared to rediscover again. He was afraid of losing someone so special to him; losing Vera hurt... losing Carol would devastate him. And then he realized what was missing from his life: a family. He loved Kurt with all of his heart, and he knew his boy felt the same, but without a woman there, without the teasing, the laughter, it was just two men living together.
He wasn't a good father in that regard. A good father would've put the needs of his son before himself, but he was selfish and frightened.
And now he was paying the price with Kurt's silence and independence.
He was so young. Didn't he see how young he was? He didn't know any better. He wasn't in love. Love didn't treat someone terribly. Love wasn't a panicky feeling. Love was sweet. It was cooperation. It was a partnership of two equals. Love meant cherishing that person, not breaking them.
If he ever got a hold of that Blaine kid, Burt thought, sneering as he drank his coffee. Of course, Kurt took out all of the caffeinated and other fun products as per doctor's orders. It was a miracle he found those cookies. He could've really gone for a beer. That boy had no idea just how close he was to grabbing his jacket and assembling a search party for him. Eleven missed calls - lucky he didn't get twenty. Or fifty. Or a GPS tracker on his ankle.
He rubbed his temples. He was getting too old for this.
Wasn't he supposed to worry about a daughter doing things like this?
Just the thought of Kurt going back to that school with the maniac was putting him on edge. He didn't even sleep last night. All he did was lay on the couch watching Kurt's door. A paranoid part of him was worried that Kurt would sneak out or if that Blaine freak would try to break in and finish what he started. The less sleep he got, the more elaborate the plot became. He'd have to call the school and make sure Blaine stayed away from Kurt. Maybe even talk to Finn. Yeah. Finn would protect Kurt. He'd walk him to class, escort him to his car - and more importantly, hunt that Blaine kid down. No one messed with a Hummel and got away with it.
He was so lost in his planning that he failed to notice Kurt coming up to the kitchen and helping himself to a quick sip of orange juice and some carbs. Burt blinked when Kurt kissed him on the forehead, rushing past before Burt could grab onto him.
"-thanks for the toast, running late, bye-" he sang as he ran out.
"Hey, wait a minute!" Burt got up, lumbering after his nimble son only to find that Kurt was already in his car. He groaned. That boy was going to be the death of him. He grumbled, walking up to the car still in his socks and robe. Judging by Kurt's reaction, his son was only slightly mortified.
"Dad!" he hissed through the open window. "Get back in bed!" He looked around to see if anyone was watching. No one was even awake on their block.
He slid lower in his car seat, a hand covering the side of his face. This was so embarrassing. Burt was only starting his interrogation.
"Where you going off so early?"
"It's not early-"
Burt looked at his watch. "For christ's sake, it's not even six thirty yet."
The boy fidgeted in his seat. "I was gonna go talk to Coach Sue. I missed practice yesterday-" then he cut himself off, looking at his hands in his lap. "Early bird gets the worm, remember?"
"Right." Burt wasn't convinced. But he wasn't going to push Kurt; they both knew how successful of a trick that was.
"You shouldn't be driving," Burt said. "Come on, lemme drive you."
"Dad, you're supposed to be resting."
"And last time I checked, I was still the parent here."
"I'm not going to let you drive me in school when you're still sleeping on the couch." And Kurt's eyebrows arched up. "Especially when you're dressed like that."
Burt prepared a rebuttal but sighed. He really didn't have the energy to fight with Kurt so early and drive him to and fro school. As much as it pained him to admit it, he wasn't strong enough to protect his son. Not yet.
He stuck on his index finger at his son, wagging it like a well-meaning sitcom father. It would've been comical under different circumstances. "Remember: straight home, after school!"
"I know, Dad."
"I mean it. No clubs-"
"I know, Dad."
"I get it, Dad."
"And don't pretend you can't hear the phone, Kurt."
He was rewarded with a glare, replying with a well-meaning frown. A part of him realized something and he softened.
"Hey. About last night-"
"Can we not talk about it?"
"You simmer down, young man." Burt adjusted his hat, staring at his son. He couldn't see much on his face. Kurt had sunglasses on and a large scarf around his neck. It wasn't even that cold out; Burt knew what he was hiding. If he didn't see it for himself, he wouldn't have thought there was a huge bruise on his son's face. The wonders Kurt could do with make up... it almost made him smile until he remembered why he had to put on make up in the first place. "I got something to say before you go to school. Can you slow down for your old man?"
Kurt checked his attitude and sighed. The make up itched at his face and the side of his face throbbed slightly from contracting his face into a fake smile. "Sorry.. it's just.. I really got to get going."
Burt knew this was a defining moment. He knew that after last night the dangers were real; his son was in the line of fire, a target for some sick freak. He had to protect him the best he could and would; he would make up for his disappointments as a father. He would show Vera he was taking care of their little boy. "Kurt." He paused, looking into those blue eyes that matched his own. "I love you. Come back home in one piece, okay?"
Kurt exhaled and let a small smile grace his lips. It was slight enough to be noticed and not make him wince. For a moment he thought his father was going to go on some spiel on safety. He saw what when on in Burt's mind... the struggle, the decisions... why couldn't he see that he could take care of himself? Kurt nodded, turning on the engine. "Don't worry, I will. See you after school. Promise."
As Kurt drove off, Burt watched, hoping he would keep that promise... for both of their sakes.
Soundtrack for this chapter: "The Voice Within" and "I'm OK" by Christina Aguilera, "No One" by Alicia Keys, "Nicest Thing" by Kate Nash, "Super" by Say Hi To Your Mom .
Soooo sorry about the wait, my darlings. I was moving and then I was breaking up and then I was getting together with someone else and then working and GAH - all very dramatic and tumultuous. It was a very mini-drama indeed. I just want to say thank you to MrsYaoiManga, under spectra, SadisticFangirl, Boldlikeblack, and TheFirstMrsHummel for being ultra fan girls and checkin' up on me every now and then. You gals rock.
Few things: a lot of people were absolutely slapped with shock at how I portrayed Paul Karofsky. Babies, you ain't seen nothing yet. That was just an introduction - it very much gets worse for Dave Karofsky. Very much. You could call it karma, or you could say it's a process that needs to happen in order for the balance to right itself. Whatever! Kurt Hummel, Blaine, Azimio all get their kicks and giggles too. It's gonna be sweet.
Also - apparently my fanfic rocks the proverbial Kurtofsky shipping boat. Whoops. My bad.
This is what I have to say (BEWARE LONG UNCOMFORTABLE RANT AHEAD):
Yes. This fanfic is well written. Thank you for everyone who notes this and compliments me; it means the world to me to hear that all the time.
But guess what? It's also not everyone's cup of tea because of the content. It has really, really difficult concepts like love sometimes being an obsessive, dangerous, terrible, destructive force. It has abuse. It has rape. It has hate. It has terrible, terrible things.
It has beings being forced on other beings, even though I gray the area with how it's presented.
So I know some people want to stick up for the story and say "Well, you gotta read the whole thing before you judge" and yeah, you sort of do, but I think it's within everyone's right to go "yeeaah not for me" and just move on. If they attacked the story and made a thing of it, then the proper thing for that is a debate - and then the person attacking it really needs to know what they're talking about. Then they'd have to read it. But if it's someone who is clearly uncomfortable with rape or child abuse or homophobia, then it's their prerogative to just go "no, thank you."
I'm a survivor of rape. I know other people who have been raped. It really fucked them over, just like it fucked me over. It's not fun or hot or exciting to actually have the reality; you want that person to stop hurting you, but they keep hurting you in the worst way possible. It ruins you for the next partner, the next LOVING gentle partner who has to be so patient with you and to literally walk a minefield of emotions and feelings to avoid hurting you. You become a bundle of contradictions where you like something but it makes you feel dirty and upset and panicky. Like, for instance I used love rough sex but every time I have it now, I keep thinking about the one time I wanted him (my rapist) to stop, and he didn't. I think about it every day. Every day. I am not kidding you. Every single day. I'm trying to portray that in Kurt - he thinks about it every day, just like he probably thinks about the kiss every day. It stays with him; it changed him; it opened doors that were closed before. It expanded his personality and his thoughts and his mind, whether he likes it or not.
This is a reality. I'm not writing this to piss anyone off or to say "hey, take this lightly" - if anything, this is me coming to terms with my own experiences. The shameful thing is, there are women and men who fantasize about rape. It doesn't mean they want it to happen or they like the painful reality... it's just a kink. For me, I'm trying to own it, trying take it back in my control because I've been hurt irreparably emotionally and mentally by my own rape ... I look at David and go, "Who are you? What makes you tick? Why are you doing these things?" and then I look at Kurt and go, "You're not superior to David. You've got your own faults. What if you were like me and were ashamed of these feelings? How would you feel if no one understood you? Would you lay awake at night and cry quietly because you didn't know what to do?"
In a way, Dave Karofsky is better than most in that he stops pushing Kurt when Kurt has a limit. I wanted to show that he doesn't just "take" something; there's always a lead up and a warning - almost like foreplay where Kurt is only saying no as a formality. Sure, it gets rather dirty and almost unbearable to watch and believe me, there have been scenes where I literally spend just days thinking about "how do I write that" "I can't write that" "how can I post that" and then expect all of this hate to come pouring down on me. But I never wanted Kurt to melt in love with Dave; that's not the story I'm writing. The story I'm writing is where Dave realizes things about himself just like Kurt realizes things about himself. And then they hopefully become better people because of it.
So just in case a person accuses me of not being sensitive to victims of rape (because guess what, I have never felt like a survivor. I've always felt like a victim even years after it happened to me) this is to clear up the matter: I may not be a lot of things, but I definitely do know both sides of the story I'm presenting.
David's actions are truly opening a pandora's box, just like my own rape experience was a pandora's box.
Just giving my two cents there. Thought you should know where I stand. I wrote more in my brand new tumblr (colouredrose) so if you want to hear more, feel free to go downtown!
Anyway, enough awkwardness. :) Lookin' forward to the next chapter!
Good fanfic to check out: Not So Simple by TessisaMess (on livejournal).
And one last thing: Thanks for reading.