Story: The Last Thing I Feel
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: There's a first time for everything…
Spoilers: up to NBK…
A/N: The author does not in any way condone bullying or any form of aggression towards homosexuals, or anyone else, for that matter.
Acknowledgment: Inspired by the hot and stunning piece of art pictured here, by the talented koschei_sigma (used with permission)
The Last Thing I Feel
Practice had been over for a while now and he's been watching, waiting for Karofsky to climb into that big, rusty Jeep of his and head home for dinner or the nearest all-you-can-eat buffet, whichever came first.
Kurt couldn't believe he'd left that framed picture of Blaine in his McKinley locker – he'd been so rushed that last day – but he had to get it back. He might have the real thing to moon over now, but he…well, he needed something to moon over at home…
But before he could go in and get it, the big porker had to be gone.
He couldn't chance running into Karofsky in the hallway, particularly not after getting him expelled last week. (Of course, he should be given brownie points for life for not outing Karofsky in front of his father and Principal Sylvester, but he doubted Karofsky saw it that way.)
Karofsky came lumbering across the parking lot – Kurt was sitting parked across the street from the school, behind handily shaded windows. He slung his duffel into the back of the Wrangler, stuffed his big body into the drivers' seat, and peeled out of there like he had hot dogs to inhale.
Taking a cautious look down the block, making sure the Jeep had turned at the traffic light, Kurt slipped from his SUV, crossed the street, and was up the stairs in an instant.
Maybe he'd lingered too long in the choir room, but he really missed his friends, missed the familiar scent of sheet music and plastic chairs (all the upholstery at Dalton was kept so clean, it practically squeaked when you sat on it…), and maybe he was lost in the memory of triumphant solos, exuberant dance moves, and Gaga outfits to die for, so when he finally got to his locker – his old lock was still on it! – maybe he could also be forgiven for not paying as close attention to his spider-sense as he should have…
"What are you doing here, Hummel? I thought you'd left to join the orgy at Dalton?" Karofsky's face, his angry, grimacing, intense face was just inches from his own, so close Kurt could smell the Juicy Fruit he just been chewing and the Life-Boy from the big jock's post-game shower.
Heart beating so fast he was amazed he didn't see his blazer lapel moving, Kurt tried to stare Karofsky down. "What're you doing here," he spat back, trying to keep his cool.
That wide face broken into an even wider grin. "You didn't see me double back after the light, did you? You shoulda waited that extra minute, Hummel." He leaned in closer, leered in closer. "I would have."
I would have…
"Y-you saw me there?" Kurt ran a hand through his hair, an attempt at nonchalance, but when he saw that hand shake, and saw Karofsky see it, too, he knew he was lost. "L-listen, Karofsky. Just l-leave me alone, okay? No one has to get in trouble here." The big jock's eyes crinkled as though this thought amused him. "You got what you wanted, didn't you? I left McKinley. I'm out of your sight."
He paused, thinking back on all the times the big jerk had yelled at him about his clothes or his hair or something he'd just said, as though Kurt's very presence offended him. After that freaksome kiss last week, there was little doubt why Karofsky wanted him gone, but why not let him go now. He'd won, hadn't he? Kurt had turned tail and run.
"If you hate me so much, why are you here in my face now? Why not let me finish what I came here to do and let me leave?" As he spoke, he gained strength…and Karofsky seemed to weaken.
"You think I hate you?" Karofsky's face was a struggle for control, anger and something Kurt would have sworn, on anyone else, would have been regret. "You think this has all been about hate?"
Kurt stood there blinking for a moment, at a loss for a response, and Karofsky took that opportunity to lean in closer, pin his body back against the bank of lockers – without even touching him – and lock eyes with Kurt. "The last thing I feel for you is hate, Hummel."
Lulled by the pleading tone in the big jock's voice, Kurt didn't react at first, and by the time he did, Karofsky was already kissing him, pressing him hard against the metal, fingers threaded through Kurt's hair. And this time, instead of being fueled by anger and desperation, Karofsky's kiss seemed to be tempered by some emotion Kurt was unable to name; sweeter and more gentle, but no less passionate, the kiss quickened his heart and though he should have been kicking and screaming, or at the very least, running, he was instead melting, against the lockers, against Karofsky's broad chest (his heart was beating harder than Kurt's was), against the insanity and impossibility of it all.
He'd come in here to retrieve a photo of his sweet-natured savior and instead found himself lost in the arms of his tormentor.
When Karofsky finally broke away, both of them breathless, Kurt shivered and fought for words, finally managing to find a few. "W-why did you do that?" He shook his head. "Why do you keep doing that?"
Karofsky just grinned, leaning in to run his nose up the column of Kurt's neck, which did nothing to help the shivering. "I've given up, Hummel." Lips behind Kurt's ear, lobe between his teeth. "I've stopped trying to fight it. I was okay while you were gone, mostly," a pause as he ran a big hand down Kurt's blue and red striped Dalton tie. "But seeing you parked out front, seeing you here now, I just don't want to fight it anymore."
Why aren't you running? Is this what you want?
He thought about beautiful Blaine, sweet and wise and out of reach.
What are you doing? Put your knee in his groin and go find Blaine. Convince him you're what he needs, not whatever-that-guy's-name-is.
Karofsky's fingers fumbling with his belt buckle, Kurt's abdominal muscles jumping at the feel of heat through his starched white shirt.
You need a nice guy. A guy who'll respect you. A guy who'll-
Karofsky had found his target – because you didn't stop him! – and Kurt hissed through clenched teeth, shocked by how hot those fingers were.
He opened his eyes for a moment and found Karofsky's eyes locked on his, all trace of anger gone from his face, replaced by hunger and heat and—
"Oh, god!" Kurt gasped. The pressure of those fingers, sped by his own need – how did I get hard so fast? – was all-consuming. He closed his eyes, lost himself to the rhythm, felt Karofsky's hot breath on his face, against his lips, andwondered vaguely why he wasn't kissing him.
When he leaned forward, trying for contact, Karofsky pressed his wrist against the hollow of Kurt's throat, not hard, but enough to get the message across.
Kurt opened his eyes again, found Karofsky watching him intently and with such longing, even while his hand slid, slick, against Kurt's desire, and Kurt seemed to understand that this…this is what Karofsky wanted right now.
To touch him.
And to watch.
As if reading his thoughts, the big jock just nodded, and so Kurt closed his eyes, contenting himself with the proximity – and the pleasure of that big hand doing things to him he would never have imagined saintly Blaine could even know…
As the pace sped up, they were both breathing harshly, Karofsky from his efforts, Kurt from his impending release, and Kurt began to shake, eyes fluttering open. That's when he saw it – something in Karofsky's expression, intense, heated, sprung – and he knew his wouldn't be the only release…
So close to the precipice that he no longer cared, he leaned the inch that separated them and kissed Karofsky, sliding his tongue against the big jock's, thrilled at Karofsky's answering moan.
Seconds later he was shuddering against him, face cradled against Karofsky's chest, riding out the waves, every so often a spasm or a whimper.
"Now do you get it," Karofsky whispered into his hair.
Kurt couldn't speak yet, just nodded, then shivered when he felt warm lips against his neck.
"Don't go back to Dalton. Stay here." Karofsky pulled away, his face pleading. "I promise not to push you around anymore. If we can have this." He shifted once, pressing himself against Kurt.
Shit, he's so hard!
"I'm not ready…I'm not ready to...what do you call it?"
Drowsy and still coming down from the high, Kurt just smiled, amused, when at any other time, he wouldn't have spit back his response. "'Come out.'"
Karofsky grimaced, apparently not ready to even say the word. "…That, but I'm ready to be with you, if," his nervous eyes were expectant. "if you can forgive me for being such an asshole before…"
Kurt leaned back against the lockers. "Well, I'm not sure about that last bit, but…but I think I'm okay with the rest of it."
Karofsky's mouth slid into an easy grin and for the first time, Kurt could see the human in there. He felt his heart skip for a second; who knew Neanderthal's could have such sweet smiles?
"So, you'll come back to school?" The grin was suddenly all kinds of puppy-dog expectant. Those big hands were smoothing Kurt's shirt into his trousers, closing his zipper, buckling his belt; big hands that so recently were employed in activities less …savory.
"Well…I'll think about it."
Karofsky looked up, tugging at Kurt's belt as he did.
"You'll "think" about it?"
Looking down to inspect himself for a moment, hooking a finger to quickly remedy Karofsky's faulty buttoning, Kurt just shrugged.
"You should see my dry cleaning bill. My dad makes me work it off in…" He shuddered. "…yardwork…"
ship: karofsky/kurt author: ibshafer fic: one-shot