Chapter 2: Furious Release
The slam of the Blaine’s front door echoed like a gunshot in the quiet suburban night. Arthur didn’t wait for Mrs. Henderson this time. He didn't feel the stairs under his feet, just propelled himself upwards, driven by a primal energy that vibrated through his muscles, a toxic cocktail of revulsion, betrayal, and a terrifying, directionless lust screaming through his veins. Tarik’s final words – I didn’t give her a choice – echoed in the cavernous emptiness where his life used to be. Not abandoned. Violated. And he was the living, breathing result.
He burst into Blaine’s room without knocking. Blaine was pacing, phone in hand, worry etched deep on his face. He’d clearly been debating calling. He spun around, eyes widening at the sight of Arthur leaning against the doorframe, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat despite the cool night air. Arthur’s bright blue eyes weren't stormy now; they were wide, wild, almost feral, reflecting the harsh overhead light. The smell of adrenaline and desperate fear clung to him.
"Arty? Fuck, what happened? What did he do?" Blaine took a step forward, hand outstretched, instinctively wanting to ground his friend.
Arthur flinched back violently. "Don't," he rasped, the word scraping his throat raw. He pushed off the doorframe, pacing the small space like a cornered animal, his movements jerky, explosive. He couldn't sit. Couldn't be still. The images forced their way in – his father’s terrified plea, the implication behind those monstrous words, the sickening realization that his own existence was rooted in violence. His skin crawled. He felt filthy, tainted.
Blaine froze, watching, his own heart hammering. "Okay… okay. Just… talk to me. Please." He kept his voice low, calm, a lifeline in the maelstrom. "What did he say?"
Arthur stopped dead, facing Blaine. A humorless, broken sound escaped him. "Say?" He laughed, a harsh bark. "He didn't just lie, Blaine. He fucked her." The crude word exploded from him, laced with venom. "He… forced her. That's why she left. I’m not the son of a dead saint. I’m the fucking product of… of that." He gestured wildly, encompassing the unspeakable. "He made her. Made me." His voice cracked, raw agony warring with the fury that contorted his handsome features. "He fucking raped her." The word finally dropped, heavy and obscene, shattering the last vestiges of Arthur’s world.
Blaine’s breath hitched. Horror washed over his face, stark and immediate. "Oh my god, Arty…" He took another step, unable to stop himself. "Jesus Christ…"
"Don't!" Arthur roared, spinning away, slamming his fist against the wall. The framed poster of The Rolling Stones rattled violently. Pain shot up his arm, a welcome distraction from the internal chaos. "Don’t fucking pity me!" He whirled back, chest heaving, eyes blazing. That confusing, treacherous heat was back, amplified a thousandfold by the rage and shame, a desperate, animal need to feel something else, anything else, even pain, even degradation. His gaze locked onto Blaine. Saw the shock, the concern, the raw empathy in his dark eyes. Saw, too, the familiar warmth that had always been there, the secret longing Arthur had chosen to ignore. Right now, it wasn't warmth. It was fuel.
Arthur moved. Not thinking, just reacting. He crossed the small space in two strides. Before Blaine could react, Arthur grabbed the front of his t-shirt, bunched the fabric in one powerful fist, and slammed him back against the wall beside the window. The impact knocked a startled gasp from Blaine’s lungs.
"Arty—!" Blaine choked out, eyes wide with surprise, hands coming up instinctively to grip Arthur’s wrists, not to push away, but to steady himself.
Arthur didn't hesitate. The dam broke. All the rage at Tarik, the self-loathing, the terrifying confusion, the desperate, clawing need to obliterate thought – it surged through him, focused entirely on the body pressed against the wall. He crushed his mouth against Blaine's. It wasn't a kiss; it was an assault. Hard, bruising, teeth clashing. He forced his tongue past Blaine's startled lips, claiming, demanding, punishing. The taste was salt and fear and Blaine, a confusing anchor in the storm.
Blaine froze for a split second, stunned. Then, the secret years of longing ignited. A low groan vibrated in his chest, swallowed by Arthur’s mouth. His hands slid from Arthur’s wrists to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into the hard muscle beneath the damp t-shirt. He kissed back. Not gently. Not tenderly. With a matching, desperate hunger, meeting Arthur’s ferocity with his own suppressed fire. His hips ground forward instinctively, the hard ridge of his own erection pressing against Arthur’s thigh through their jeans.
Arthur ripped his mouth away, breathing ragged, eyes burning into Blaine’s. "Shut up," he growled, preempting any question, any protest. His hands were everywhere, rough, urgent. He yanked Blaine’s t-shirt up, over his head, tossing it aside. His own followed, muscles flexing in the dim light, caramel skin glistening. He fumbled with Blaine’s belt buckle, fingers clumsy with adrenaline-fueled need. The metallic clink was loud in the charged silence. The button popped. The zipper rasped down.
Blaine gasped, his head thudding back against the wall as Arthur shoved his jeans and boxers down in one rough motion, freeing his hard cock. Arthur’s gaze dropped, taking in the flushed, rigid length. A fresh wave of that confusing, consuming heat flared in his gut, drowning out everything else for a moment. He needed friction. Obliteration.
Arthur didn't undress further. He shoved his own sweatpants and briefs down just enough to free his cock, thick and heavy, already leaking at the tip. He grabbed Blaine’s hips, fingers digging into the flesh, and hoisted him roughly. Blaine scrambled for purchase, wrapping his legs tightly around Arthur’s waist, his back pressed against the cool wall, feet dangling.
No words. No preparation beyond spit. Arthur spat into his palm, a crude gesture that sent a jolt through Blaine. He slicked the head of his cock roughly, then guided it between Blaine’s spread cheeks, finding the tight, resisting pucker of his hole.
"Arthur—" Blaine gasped, a flicker of pain and apprehension crossing his face. "Fuck, wait—"
Arthur didn't wait. The need was too vast, the self-destruction too imperative. He shoved forward, hard, burying himself in one brutal, tearing thrust. Blaine cried out, a sharp, choked sound, his body arching, fingers clawing at Arthur’s shoulders as the hot, impossible stretch burned through him. Arthur hissed, the searing tightness a counterpoint to the devastating pleasure, the raw physicality momentarily eclipsing the psychic horror.
"Fuck," Arthur groaned, head dropping onto Blaine’s shoulder, his hips already pistoning. He fucked hard, deep, each powerful thrust slamming Blaine against the wall with a dull thud. It was raw, angry, devoid of tenderness. A physical purge. He channeled every ounce of betrayal, every ounce of disgust at his father, at himself, into the relentless drive of his hips.
Blaine gritted his teeth against the initial burn, the pain gradually morphing into a white-hot, overwhelming sensation. He clung on, legs locked around Arthur’s waist, meeting each punishing thrust with a desperate grind of his own hips. His cock, trapped and leaking, rubbed against Arthur’s sweat-slicked abs. "Fuck… yes… harder," he panted, breath hitching, the words muffled against Arthur’s neck. "Use me… fuck… use it…"
Arthur growled, a low, animal sound in his chest. He hooked one arm tighter under Blaine’s thigh, angling him deeper, driving into him with brutal efficiency. The slap of skin on skin, their harsh, ragged breathing, Blaine’s choked gasps – it was a symphony of raw need and desperate catharsis. Arthur fucked like he was trying to exorcise a demon, to shatter his own bones, to become something else entirely. He buried his face in the crook of Blaine’s neck, biting down hard on the tendon there, tasting salt.
Blaine threw his head back, a ragged cry tearing from his throat as Arthur hit a spot deep inside that sent electric shocks through his core. "There! Fuck, Arthur, right fucking there!" His own climax roared towards him, unstoppable, a counterpoint to the violence of their coupling. His cock jerked violently between them, spilling hot streaks onto Arthur’s stomach and his own.
Feeling Blaine clench hard around him, the hot spill against his skin, tipped Arthur over the edge. With a guttural roar that sounded more like agony than pleasure, he slammed deep, burying himself to the hilt, and came. It felt less like release and more like a violent expulsion – thick, hot pulses jetting deep inside Blaine, a physical manifestation of the chaos consuming him. He shuddered violently, his whole body locking, teeth still clenched, pressing Blaine hard against the wall as if trying to fuse them together.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by their ragged gasps for air. The smell of sex and sweat filled the small room, thick and primal. Arthur stayed buried inside, forehead pressed against the wall beside Blaine’s head, his body trembling with aftershocks and the sheer exhaustion of emotional collapse. Blaine slumped against him, legs trembling where they still clung around Arthur’s waist, his own breath coming in shallow, shaky gulps. The Rolling Stones poster hung crookedly on the wall, frozen mid-shake.
Slowly, the physical world seeped back in. The bite mark on Blaine’s neck throbbed. The ache between his legs was sharp and insistent. The cooling mess on his stomach felt sticky and alien. He looked down at Arthur’s bowed head, the short black curls damp with sweat, the powerful shoulders still heaving. The anger, the wildness, seemed to have drained out of him, leaving a terrifying emptiness in its wake.
Gently, Blaine unwound his legs, wincing as his feet touched the floor. Arthur didn't move, still pinned against the wall by Arthur’s weight. Blaine carefully shifted, sliding out from the space between Arthur and the wall. Arthur finally pulled back, his cock slipping free with a slick sound that made Blaine flush. He stumbled a half-step, bracing himself against the wall, his back to Blaine. He looked down at his hands, still trembling. They felt like they belonged to someone else.
Blaine stood there, naked, feeling exposed and suddenly cold. He reached a hesitant hand towards Arthur’s bare shoulder. "Arty…"
Arthur flinched violently at the touch, whirling around. His blue eyes, when they met Blaine’s, were hollow. Not angry. Not confused. Just… vacant. Gutted. He looked past Blaine, through him, at the crumpled scholarship brochure that had fallen from his pocket onto Blaine’s floor earlier. The ticket out. The future. It lay there, a brightly colored promise in the wreckage of the present.
He didn't look at Blaine again. He just bent, pulled up his sweatpants with jerky, mechanical movements, wiped absently at the mess on his stomach with the back of his hand, and turned towards the door. The movement lacked all his usual athletic grace. He walked out of Blaine’s room without a word, leaving the door open wide behind him, the hollow echo of his footsteps on the stairs the only sound in the sudden, heavy silence. Blaine stood frozen, listening to the distant slam of the Henderson’s front door, the ache inside him deeper and more profound than any physical pain. The room smelled of violence and sex and a future that had just imploded.