Warnings; Underage alcohol and drug use, OOC, language, underage boys doing very adult things, future, AU, some more OOC, and oh, OOC. Really can't stress that enough.
I don't love this chapter, but I don't know what else to do with it, and I wanted to get going on the rest of it, so voila. It's a flashback, ladies and gentleman, so its in italics (except for the end) Let me know what you think.
Also, google "max adler shirtless with a puppy." I made it up off the top of my head, but it turns out there is in fact a picture of this. I can't stop thinking about him, I don't know why. I'm Max Ad-dicted-ler.
Santana turned 18 on a Wednesday, but her parents were out of town two weekends later, so that's when she hosted her birthday party. She invited the Glee club, the Cheerios, the football and basketball teams, and exactly no body else. She was the only one in the school with the power to not only scare people into not crashing, but the ones who were invited made sure they were there. The best parties were at Santana's, with copious amounts of alcohol, a hot tub and Noah Puckerman's famous brownies.
Kurt planned his outfit from the day he'd heard about it. Black, practically painted on leather pants, a white long sleeve shirt (also formfitting, and practically see through to boot) and a beautiful green and blue, hand dyed silk scarf Carole had found at an artist's market and given to him for Christmas, confirming his suspicion that his father couldn't have married a better woman.
He drove Mercedes, Finn, and Rachel, and they were all in a good mood. They sang with the radio, and he remembers glancing in the rearview to see Finn and Rachel holding hands. It altered his mood instantly, although he didn't let it on. Blaine had broken up with him just a few weeks earlier, and after a Pity-Me girls weekend of ice cream, bitchiness and tears, he refused to talk about it. Everyone else seemed to forget and stopped asking him how he was, and for the most part he was relieved. The less he talked about it, the less he had to think about it, and the less it had to hurt.
And then he'd catch someone else, happy and in love, and it would tear into him all over again.
Therefore, it was Finn and Rachel's handholding fault that the very first thing he did upon entering Santana's house was beeline for the varieties of drinks lined up on the kitchen counter. He went the Midori Sour route - the green and blue bottles matched his scarf beautifully.
A couple hours and many cups worth later, he noticed that Dave Karofsky was not wearing his customary jacket, just a black t-shirt. And for years afterwards, Kurt would always maintain to himself that it was Finn and Rachel's fault that instead of looking like a giant, shapeless lump of dumbass, the t-shirt made sure that Kurt knew that Karofsky had things like a waist. And a broad chest, and the kind of arms that a guy needed to hold another guy up against a wall and fuck him mercilessly. Not that Kurt had those kinds of thoughts about Karofsky. Of course, now that he knew it was possible, he WAS having those thoughts about Karofsky. And now that he WAS having those thoughts about Karofsky, he sure as hell was going to need another drink.
Two more sours and an hour later, he found himself upstairs. He'd headed up to use the bathroom, and then got lost trying to find the stairs. Opening a random door, he stumbled into a guest room, impeccably decorated, and amazingly empty. Santana's parties always had at least one epic hookup; normally he was tripping over couples by now. As it didn't hold A) Stairs, or B) someone to lead him towards the stairs, he turned to continue his search.
Karofsky was in the doorway, filling it with all his bulk and dark hair and Kurt really should have felt nervous, but he didn't.
"Where's your friend?" Karofsky asked quietly.
"Who knows?" Kurt shrugged. "I'm not his type, he says."
"Really? Hot and smart not his type?"
"Guess not." Kurt shrugged again, then looked up at Karofsky. Red rimmed eyes stared back; obviously he wasn't the only one hitting the bottle. "Did you just say something nice to me?"
Karofsky didn't answer, just took a step closer to Kurt, reaching out and stroking a lone finger down his scarf. When he got to the artfully frayed end, he wrapped his bulky finger in it -
Kurt could see what was going to happen next. Karofsky would pull him close, then lean down and take his mouth like he had that day in the locker room. His breath quickened as he anticipated it; as hard as he'd tried to get the memory of that heat out of his head, he hadn't been able to. He'd wake up shaking, replaying it in dreams, adding more intimate details until he wasn't entirely sure what really happened and what hadn't.
Any minute now, he'd be ravished all over again.
Any minute NOW.
Any minute now?
But the jock didn't move. Just kept staring at Kurt, fingers rubbing the silk slowly, waiting. His eyes weren't a watered down brown like Kurt had thought, they were more of a honey color, with a little green in them.
"Do you really think I'm hot? Or did you only kiss me because I'm the only gay guy you know?"
Karofsky nodded. Swallowed. "I - I really think you're hot.
Normally, Kurt would have been much - much - MUCH more discriminating. But Blaine hadn't accused him of being hot when he dumped him. He'd accused him of being cold, distant, emotionally unattached. And the unfortunate truth of it was, he really was. He'd spent the past weeks trying to figure out why, when handed a walking dream such as Blaine, he couldn't work up the passion to keep him.
It wasn't like he was lacking in passion. After all, he hated Dave Karofsky, and that took all kinds of passion. And the alcohol made the leap from hate-passion to lust-passion simple. A way to prove that he wasn't made of ice. And also a way to get laid.
"Are you going to keep playing with my scarf or kiss me?" Courage, right? No one ever found out anything without asking the right questions.
The question got him a grin. "That depends. Are you going to let me this time?" Duh, yes, caveman. Why ask otherwise?
Kurt launched himself forward, probably knocking into Karofsky's nose but too lost in the sudden heat to notice. He would hate himself in the morning, probably, but after several months of kissing Blaine, he'd been forced to admit to himself that, while pleasant, his kisses didn't burn.
Karofsky's father must have had some weird kinks, because the boy radiated body heat like he was half furnace. Anywhere he touched Kurt - fingers, lips, tongue - left a wake of warmth. And he was touching him everywhere, hands roaming his back and sides, mouth on his neck. Kurt knew he should have been reciprocating, but he couldn't get his brain to communicate with his body. Instead, he just focused on not making too much noise. It didn't take long for him to get hard, the mixture of alcohol and being a teenage boy certainly not helping. Vaguely, he made a note in the back of his head that skin tight leather pants were extremely uncomfortable when one was sporting an erection.
Karofsky moved his mouth back to Kurt's. Big hands slid down his back and cupped his ass, and without warning Kurt was lifted several inches in the air. He gripped Karofsky's shoulders as a large thigh was pushed between his own, and then he was lowered. The resulting pressure and friction against his cock had him moaning loudly before he could stop himself. One of those hands moved into his hair, deepening their kiss and he wanted to scream. Instead, he pushed his hips up desperately, rubbing against Karofsky's leg. This time it wasn't him moaning. Kurt's eyes flew open at the deep rumble, not expecting to be so affected by a simple noise, but coupled with the dilated pupils and swollen lips in front of him, he got impossibly more turned on. He wanted to hear it again.
He moved his hand down Karofsky's shirt and bunched it in his fist, intent on getting the damn thing off. When Karofsky didn't seem to get the memo, he headed south, figuring that would do the trick. Two fingers under the waist of his jeans, rubbing against the soft skin of his hip, and what do you know, there was that moan again.
"Fuck, Kurt." Karofsky growled in a husky tone that sent sparks straight down his spine. His hips jutted forward more frantically, desperate. "So hot, so fucking hot." He dragged his tongue down Kurt's throat. "Want you so bad, baby, please." God, his voice like this was pure sex, there was no way he could say no. Actually, he couldn't form any words at all, just a series of whimpers and moans that Karofsky took as consent.
He found himself laid out on the bed, Karofsky's large frame crawling over him and mouth latching on to his collarbone. Hands skittered to the button on his pants, fumbling, until finally a popping noise as it gave way and the zipper ripped open. His cock sprang out - who wears underwear with leather pants? - and met with scratchy denim. Desperate to remedy the situation, Kurt slid his hands down the back of Karofsky's jeans and shoved them down as far as he could reach. He could feel heaviness of his erection pressing into his hip, thick and hot.
He was practically bucking now, so horny he couldn't even kiss properly, just latching on sloppily to whatever he could reach. "Please," he rasped out, needing something to happen and soon.
Fingers clenched in his hair but otherwise Karofsky made no motion. "Please," he tried again, humping at his leg again but a hand shot down to his thigh and kept him from moving.
"My name," a low growl in his ear, "Say it."
"Dave," he whimpered, "Dave, Dave, Dave, Da -" He practically shouted when Karofsky - Dave - lined up their cocks and - oh…
Three seconds. That's all it took for Kurt to arch his back and bite Dave's lip, nothing but white starbursts behind his eyelids as he rode out the strongest orgasm he'd ever had. He was dimly aware that Dave didn't last much longer, thrusting only a few more times until he tensed up, hips jerking frantically as he had his own release.
When it was over, Dave collapsed on to his back, panting. Kurt felt the loss of body heat and shivered. Before he could react, he was maneuvered until he was draped across Dave's chest. Sprawled across Santana's guest bed, his last thought before passing out was simple.
Shit.
SHIT.
Kurt's eyes sprang open, half expecting to find himself back in the guest room. It took him a few seconds to realize he was in his own bed, in Cleveland, and alone. It was a small comfort, though, when he realized it wasn't just sweat he was covered in.
Well, this was just great.