Story: Future (Im)Perfect
Fandom: Glee
Author: ibshafer
Rating: R (language, sexual situations)
Character: Kurt/Dave…
Disclaimer: I don't own these people, they own themselves and are just nice enough to let me spin them around the page now and then.
Summary: Sequel to "Past Perfect" in which Kurt discovers that kissing Blaine might not be as perfect as he'd imagined, and that kissing might just have been ruined for him that closeted gay asshole, Dave Karofsky; taking a page from Rachel Berry and her Totally-Sober Blaine Experiment, Kurt decides to test out a theory…
Warning: Up to 2x14
Future (Im)Perfect
- ibshafer
Two weeks and he hadn't been able to get the idea out of his head.
Damn that asshole!
Clutching the steering wheel like it had just insulted him, Kurt grit his teeth, trying to keep his mind off of what he had convinced himself he hadto do.
If he hadn't gone to that damned party, he would have been sipping an expensive coffee beverage right now, secure in his happy delusionary dream, instead of driving to what was very likely to be his doom.
But he had to know…
He had thought that fortune had smiled on him that night; he would finally get his opportunity to show a compliant (and, okay, sleeping) Blaine that he, Kurt, was what Blaine needed; not some silly girl in a 70's nightmare dress, not some ridiculously tall doe-eyed, closeted retail clerk who clearly spent hours on his overtly tousled and "casual" style. No, it was he, Kurt, who was Blaine's true match in every way; he who was Blaine's gay equal.
And that propitious, and hopefully scandalous, undertaking was serendipitously made possible by the seemingly unrelated departure of Rachel Berry's dads on a week long Rosie O'Donnell Cruise to Nowhere.
He'd actually come to enjoy Rachel's company. She was as determinedly self-involved as he was and somehow he could respect that; they'd reached a point in their friendship where they acknowledged and applauded each other's talents. Yet the notion of a party at Rachel's house seemed ill-conceived and destined for failure. In small groups, Rachel could be tolerable and even fun, but in larger groups, her inner-Streisand came out (read: control freak) and she just couldn't help herself, which was sure to drive people for the exits. Still, the prospect of booze, (not for himself, mind you; he couldn't chance the loss of control – over his wardrobe, over his behavior, over his…bodily functions), and its effect on Blaine, who he suspected (quite rightly, it turned out) to be a sloppy drunk, was not something he could pass up. He saw the opportunity to play his recently acquired TeenGirlsandTheirDaddies dot com card with a suitably mortified, terminally blushing Finn and the rest, as they say, was easy…
The party had been borderline excruciating, rendered only just shy of it by the de-gelled, de-uniformed, stumbling, adorably giddy mess that wasa drunken Blaine Anderson. And then little Miss South Forks had spun that empty wine cooler bottle and it had landed on His Man…
Btw, how was it the Fates had determined that his spin should land on Brittany, who, hey, he'd kissed before and who also, hey, was a girl? Why couldn't he have gotten Blaine or, failing that, the luscious gourami-mouthed wonder that was Sam Evans, who, let's face it, had Blaine – and Santana – not been there, he would have been all over, because, hey, he still said that boy was too blond and too coiffed to be straight…
But no, Rachel had promised to rock Blaine Warbler's world and for the rest of the night, it had pretty much looked like she had.
How he ended up a third wheel when he was actually one half of that particular bicycle, he did not know, but when he finally peeled Miss Thang off of Blaine – they were mashing their monikers together into cute little pet names for each other – he'd needed Finn's none-too-thrilled help to haul Blaine up the stairs and stuff him, hollering, into the back of the car. ("Raine-Raine! Your Anderberry misses you!")
Blaine had fallen asleep crooning an old Beatle's tune, ("Something in the way SHE moves, attracts me like NO OTHER lover…") – even without alcohol, Kurt had had to stifle the urge to vomit – and was quietly whimpering as Finn carried his disheveled, Rachel-free self up to Kurt's bedroom. Finn had given him the evil eye as he'd closed the door, no doubt fully aware of Kurt's intentions (and his own inadvertent complicity – Burt was going to kill them both…) and Kurt once again thanked his lucky stars that he'd decided to check Finn's browsing history...
All went according to plan after that and Kurt had every reason to believe that this would end well – for both of them. Blaine was drunk, horny, and in his bed, and after observing them in action all night, Kurt knew he was a way better kisser than Rachel was. (From his brief tongue-tangling with Brittany last year, he'd learned more than just how very gay he was, he'd learned how to kiss…)
But it was the kiss itself that unsealed what he'd thought was already a sealed deal. (Blaine was in his bed, for cryin' out loud!) He had no doubt that Blaine knew what to do with his lips and tongue when faced with the corresponding parts of another, from the sounds La Berry was making tonight, he might even have known a bit more than her ex-kissing partner, Finn, but when Blaine's corresponding parts met Kurt's oh, so eager corresponding parts? Not so much…
Mind you, it wasn't a bad kiss and had Blaine actually been awake and, Kurt twinged with guilt for a moment, had he been complicit, he might have been more…involved, but…but something was clearly missing from their oral coupling here and consciousness wasn't the only thing.
What's the opposite of fireworks?
As he struggled vainly to make that kiss feel like more than it was, a portion of his brain that was clearly destined for dementia spit out a full-sensory memory that shook him to his core and left him gasping for air.
Karofsky…
Angry, self-hating, Kurt-hating, driven, desperate, powerful, focused, passionate; fingers in his hair, tongue at his lips and beyond, rushing at him with the force of what felt like one mean ton of pent-up longing and desire.
And he'd moaned. Moaned…
It was a tiny sound, one that escaped from the back of the big jock's throat, but that barely audible sound of pleasure, desire, and surrender had said almost as much as the sloppy, overwhelming kiss did.
No matter that they'd been yelling at each other mere seconds before. No matter that Karofsky had almost literally been up his butt for months. (In retrospect, the irony had not amused Kurt in the least…) No matter (well, yes, matter, but for the purposes of comparison, no matter) that Karofsky had gone out of his way to make Kurt's life a literal living Hell.
That kiss was what it had all been about.
Here he had the guy of his gay dreams literally at his finger tips, a guy who would very likely thank him in the morning for opening his eyes to the catch that Kurt was, and all Kurt could think about was how hard he was having to work to convince said guy that he was what he needed.
The Asshole known as Karofsky, though in denial about his true nature to the Nth degree, seemed to have no question about who he should be kissing.
That one thought sickened Kurt, but it also frightened him to think that that asshole wanted him more than the Perfect Gay Boy did.
Taking a page from Rachel Berry's How Will I Know? book, though he was quite certain he would live to regret it, he decided that he needed to find out if that was true.
And he needed to do it while he was in a state of mind to compare, to double-check; not blindsided as he had been, surprised as all hell when his bully attached to Kurt's lips, driving all thought and reason from his head. Heneeded to know it was coming – so he could be prepared and properly process it.
And so he was cutting his later classes today (get over it! he was a straight-A student and he'd never skipped a class in his life!) and driving his trepidatious arse over to McKinnley to…to…
Oh, fuck! I'm here…
He hadn't given it much thought beforehand and now he just barreled down the hallway, amidst cries of "Was that…?", "Hummel's back and on a mission!", and "Kurt, what are you doing here? Wait!" (this last from Mercedes), until he got to the locker room. Spotting his target against a bank of lockers, he growled a commanding "Get out!" to the two other boys he found there (they were so stunned at Kurt's presence and his countenance, they complied without argument), and then he cornered the half-undressed Karofsky just as he was turning to see what the hell was going on…
Grabbing the ends of the damp towel that was draped around the big jock's neck, Kurt pulled Karofsky to him and before he could even get a word out, Kurt was kissing him with all the force his smaller frame could muster, which, for someone as passionate as Kurt, was considerable.
Maybe it was the shock of it, maybe he'd been hit in the head too hard a couple times that afternoon, but the King of D-Nile didn't try to get away. His lips seemed to accept Kurt's much softer ones without hesitation, though maybe that was the head injury talking, and when Kurt, breathless in his intent, still focused on his experiment, mind you, moved to deepen the kiss, Karofsky responded with the tiniest sound of surrender, slipping his fingers into Kurt's hair and holding on for dear life.
Dear life was what was running through Kurt's scrambled head, as well, because he was fairly certain that had the big jock not be so committed to clutching Kurt's head fast to his own, Kurt's knees, which were currently contemplating turning to Jell-o, would have failed him and he would most definitely have been on the floor. So desperate was he to not do this that when Karofsky pulled away for a second, ostensibly for air, Kurt yanked the towel harder, forcing their mouths (and his and Karofsky's bare, not-so-pudgy chest) together again – clearly, clearly for support.
This fast, furious, needful coming together, yes, with one member not complicit or forewarned (as a sleeping, drunken Blaine had not been), was so vastly different from that colorless, muzzy experience two weeks ago in his bed, they could hardly be compared as the same act.
Fuck!
Kurt was so pissed he could hardly breathe. (Though it might have been from Karofsky's tongue in his mouth…)
This was what he'd come here to find out, but this was notwhat he'd wanted to find out.
Wrenching himself away from the big jock, vaguely aware that Karofsky's nipples had been rock hard and pressing into his upper chest and suddenly very angry at himself for noticing that, he dropped the towel, pushed Karofsky back against the lockers with all the anger he could muster, which was considerable at his point, fixed that shocked and breathless face with what he hoped was a stony, icy glare, and spun on his heel.
"Fuck you, Karofsky!" he growled over his shoulder, not even looking to see if he was being followed.
He heard a rumbling, "Hummel? Kurt? Wait!" follow him out into the hallway, but he was out the door, fumbling his door open, and roaring from the parking lot before the big idiot could make it out the door. (He could see him, struggling into a t-shirt, bumbling down the school steps.)
He had no idea what he was going to do now, and damn, he must have gained weight because his pants were really feeling uncomfortably tight, he just knew he could never again go back to McKinley, no matter what.
Nope, not gonna happen.
Blaine was his perfect gay foil, the epitome of the sensitive and knowing gay lover, ill-advised and reconsidered forays into bisexuality aside, and Kurt would not let himself believe that that closeted asshole with his ridiculous wardrobe and Byzantine attitudes, could possibly mean more to him, …um, do more for him. In that way.
He just couldn't.
He'd be celibate before he'd give in to that.
Crap, he'd be straight!
Because fireworks or no, he was not giving in…
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