Story: Curious Redux
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: Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between aggression and foreplay; at least, that's what Kurt was telling himself as he dashed after Karofsky's broad retreating back…
Warnings: sexual situations
A/N #1: The author does not in any way condone bullying or any form of aggression towards homosexuals, does not suggest that what follows here is what should have followed on the show, she just merely offers this alternative for the purposes of fangirl glee (pun intended). And also because it could have happened this way. Make no mistake, though, she does not forgive Karofsky. Not in the slightest.
A/N #2: Found this in the vaults, not sure why it never got posted here, but it was probably because I should it might be too graphic for this site… This was the first time I wrote Kurtofsky, before there was even a name for it… NOTE: There is no connection between this story and the story "Curious." Hope you enjoy! ~ibs
~ by ibshafer
He stood there watching the retreating bulk of Karofsky's broad back, too stunned to move, mouth still tingling from that sudden bruising, passionate kiss.
Even as the wheels turned, putting two and two together to make more than four ("he wants me? This has all been because he wants me?"), his feet were moving, too.
His better judgment was screaming, unbidden, in his ear to "STOP," and the back of his head, so recently having made contact with his locker, kept sending twinges of painful, humiliating memory to his brain, but his feet didn't care. Nor did his heart.
That one action, fueled by anger and desperation, had made it all amazingly clear and he understood, fully understood, the confusion that had inspired the other boy's aggression. It didn't make it okay, it most certainly did not make the bruises and humiliation okay, but he could understand what the boy was struggling with.
But most of all, Kurt had never been wanted before.
His heart, and apparently, his feet, just couldn't ignore that fact…
And that is what propelled him forward, fingers still at his lips, to follow that enormous bundle of angry confusion deeper into the locker room.
He found the line-backer in the bathroom, head and hands pressed up against the mirror, eyes closed and face wet with tears.
There were any number of things Kurt could have done at that point: he could have asked Karofsky to explain himself; asked him if he was alright; asked him what the meaning of that kiss had been.
But Kurt knew all of that already.
He could have silently offered the boy his handkerchief, without saying a word.
He could have stood against the wall and waited for the boy to notice he was there – let him make the next move when he was ready.
Or he could have thrown caution to the gale force wind, taken the bull by its considerable horns, tempted fate and the powers that be…and stumbled through any number of other appropriate clichés.
Which is what he knew in his heart he had to do.
Letting his shoulder bag fall at his feet, Kurt crossed the room, towards the shaking bulk of his tormentor, a towering hulk who had suddenly transformed into a misunderstood, frightened boy, and put his arms around that broad, shaking back, holding fast.
He might have been asking for a bloody nose, or worse, but his heart told him it was the right thing to do.
Karofsky's back stiffened at the contact, his focus so clearly inward that he hadn't noticed Kurt's arrival, but instead of throwing him off, throwing him to the ground, kicking the crap out of him, all of which Kurt would have expected, Karofsky spun around, gathering Kurt's smaller frame into his arms, pulling him close.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice stricken. "I'm so sorry."
Held fast in those massive arms, Kurt lost all reason.
He should have been angry.
He should have made him apologize for all the shame, the pain, and the humiliation.
He should have run like hell.
Instead, he pulled just far enough away to look up into that tormented face, whispered, "Talk later," and he kissed him.
He felt the slightest bit of resistance in Karofsky, the slightest hint of a backward step, and then with a sound in the back of his throat that was half whimpered defeat, half lush desire, Karofsky overtook Kurt, nearly pulled the boy off his feet, and like that, Kurt was spun around, back against the mirror, feeling the full force of the line backer's six foot two inch frame, his kiss a mix of awkward excitement and full-on, desperate lust.
Kurt was gasping for breath as Karofsky sucked at his trembling neck, hands fumbling inside Kurt's black sweater, pulling his neatly tucked grey print shirt out, finding skin, fingers splayed, a deep sound in his throat Kurt could actually feel, rumbling through that broad chest.
So intense, so frenzied, so powerful was the force of the other boy's desire, that Kurt was afraid he might be consumed by it, broken in some way. The hands grasping his tender back were moving closer and farther down and the sensation was making his head swim, but somehow he managed to squirm from the larger boy's hold, pulling himself away, albeit reluctantly, to put a couple feet's heady distance between them.
The pain and shame that registered immediately on Karofsky's face made Kurt feel a guilt he had never thought he could towards his tormentor, but then he was shaking his head, chest heaving as he fought for control and breath, hoping his expression was of some reassurance to the larger boy.
No, no, you're wrong…
He could feel his own desire, fueled by relief and abject, bare-naked curiosity, aching within him, straining against seams, coloring his cheeks, and before he could think better of it, before he could ask himself what the hell he thought he was doing, he was working at the belt at the waist of the other boy's jeans.
He heard Karofsky gasp in realization and felt his own heart skip a beat in his chest as he fumbled with the worn leather and brass buckle. The heat of him, even through the thick denim, was amazing and Kurt had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing in giddy glee.
He'd been downloading porn since Burt had wired the basement for Internet, but not even the massive archive of Corbin Fischer and Randy Blue files he had stashed on his hard drive could have prepared him for this – the smell of him, the heat, the heft. He was at once frightened and embarrassed – he'd never done this before – but nevertheless, undaunted.
Leaning forward, nose to soft cotton, he inhaled, drew the scent of musk and boy sweat deeply into his lungs, feeling his pulse quicken, and when he exhaled, open-mouthed and slow, like that pretty so-called "straight" boy in his favorite video did, he heard an answering moan of appreciation from above and felt fingers sink into the hair at the crown of his head. Encouraged, emboldened (even as he was on his knees, face pressed against the other boy's desire,) he laid the palm of a shaking hand against that same soft cotton, exerted just the slightest pressure, felt the heat beneath his hand increase, and with a glance to the face towering above him, to the wide-eyed, breathless, expression he met there, he slipped his fingers through the slit, felt soft skin and rigid heat, and with a moan of anticipation, drew him out into the light…
For a moment, he froze.
Faced with the reality of what he was clearly about to do, his mind went blank, the compendium of suave and provocative moves he'd been building for a hoped-for eventuality that included Finn Hudson (twinge of shame there), momentarily failing him, but then instinct – and no small amount of pure boy lust – took over and before he knew it, he was doing it, tasting the length of him, nosing through soft curls, tracing curves and depressions with the tip of a skittering tongue, his head filled with scent and texture and helpless pleas from above, moaning and hard as hell himself.
He spared a hand, drew it reluctantly from its accompanying massage, to unbutton and unzip, relieving his own unbearable pressure, and then he was back, slipping both hands inside denim, around and behind, to pull that big frame closer, closer, because he wasn't getting enough, couldn't get enough, needed more, needed—
The hands in his hair were pulling at him, seemingly frantic for him to pull away – but he wasn't done! – and he had a brief moment of panic, wondering if he was doing it wrong or if Karofsky had come to his senses and Kurt was in for a beating after all, but then he looked up, saw the agonized face above him, the boy's jaw slack, eyes glazed over with lust, and Kurt's fear was replaced with confusion. Why stop him now?
Fingers groped for his clothing, his shoulders, and he was being drawn to his feet, drawn into those powerful arms. He had a brief view of the wanton expression that had spread itself across Karofsky's broad, expressive face, and then that trembling mouth had found his again, claimed him, invaded him, possessed him utterly, and he felt the air escape him even as a massive hand took his smaller one and moved it back to the other boy's desire, then slipped itself into Kurt's own open trousers, found purchase, found fumbling, but eventual bliss.
Kurt moaned deeply into the kiss – no one had ever touched him before! – and it was answered by a surging, desperate sound that rumbled through the bigger boy's chest and, where he was pressed against the sensitive points in Kurt's own, it set them to vibrating.
They moved that way for several frantic minutes, writhing in each other's grasp, connected above and below, movements frantic, mouths awkward yet artistic, until the roaring in their ears and rush of blood in their veins overtook them, and then they were gasping against each other, hands sped and slick, Kurt's face buried in the hollow of the bigger boy's neck, a massive hand still deep in his hair. Holding each other they rode the wave out, every few seconds a nerve twitching or a tiny sound welling from a parched, but grateful throat.
The feeling of that big heartbeat slowing against his was intoxicating. He wanted to feel it against his lips, to taste the skin there, but he was too tired to move, too overcome with sensation, too drained from release.
And with the languor, came reality with its cold fearful fingers.
What did we do?
What does it mean?
This could still end very, very badly for him.
As if in answer, Karofsky was pulling away and Kurt braced himself for the blow, for the sneer and the anger, but when he looked up into the face above him, he saw only gratitude and relief.
Leaning forward, the boy kissed Kurt's forehead, whispered, "Thank you," kissed him quickly on the mouth, then pulled himself together – zipping, tucking – and headed for the door.
Kurt had a moment of stunned silence to wonder what he'd been thanked for and then Karofsky was back, pressing him back against the mirror, mouth and tongue on his again, briefly, then he was gone, leaving Kurt gasping and grinning and slightly less confused.
He didn't know what "it" meant, but he knew what it didn't mean…
His days of locker slams and slushies were over.
And if he played this just right, his nights of Corbin Fisher and pining for Finn Hudson were over, too.
Dave Karofsky, the neanderthal.
Would wonders never cease…