Contingency.
Title: Contingency.
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Kurt/Karofsky, Kurt/Blaine.
Summary: Based on a glee_kink_meme prompt from spoileralert1 . Kurt and Karofsky make an agreement.
Spoilers: For 2x11.
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Kurt pulled his scarf-cashmere, red, Italian import, adorable-around his neck a little tighter. The night air was chilly enough that he could see his breath hanging in clouds. Carole put her hand on his knee and leaned in and said over the dull roar of the football field, “Kurt, sweetheart, do you need my coat?”
“No, Carole, I’m fine,” Kurt responded, rolling his eyes at Blaine, who chuckled at his other side and sipped his hot chocolate. Kurt allowed himself a brief smile, watching Blaine’s lips move as he blew on the drink, and then turned his attention back to the field. The halftime show was about to start, and, even though he wasn’t a New Direction-ite anymore, Kurt’s nerves were frayed. The team was getting pulverized, and even if they mustered all the moxie they could in their little underdog hearts, this halftime show was going to suck.
“Hey.” Kurt looked over at Blaine. “You worried?”
“A little.” He folded his hands in his lap. “I wish I were down there with them, to be perfectly honest. They need all the manpower they can get, what with half the football team gone.”
Blaine half-smiled. “Yeah, this game’s starting to look a little catastrophic.”
Kurt pursed his lips and was about to say something when he felt an insistent tug on the end of his scarf. Aghast, he turned to apprehend the tugger and found himself face-to-face with none other than Will Schuester. “Mr. Schuester? What-what are you doing up here?”
“Sorry, I had to run up here and tell you guys the good news,” he said breathlessly. “You looked just about as upset as I was.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the football field. Kurt leaned and looked: the football players, all in uniform, were crowded around Finn.
He squeaked and clapped his hands together. “This is wonderful! Are they coming back?”
“Yeah, we managed to talk them into it. I think everybody but Karofsky’s out there. It’s going to be a pretty-”
“Hold on.” Kurt looked down at the field, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Karofsky’s not going?”
“Uh, no. I don’t think he’s playing, either. It’s kind of sad, actually, he’s not half bad.” Catching glares from both Kurt and Blaine, Schuester held up his hands and said, “As a performer. As a performer.” Then, looking back towards the field, he added ruefully, “It really is too bad. I felt like I was getting through to that guy, and now I guess he’s decided he doesn’t care.”
“Yeah, I heard that from Rachel and Mercedes, too.” Kurt’s eyes scanned the Astroturf. Where was he hiding… Then, a glimpse of a beefy neck and sideburns on the sidelines. Kurt stood. “Hold on a second, Mr. Schuester. I think-I think I’m going to go give a pep talk. Or something. To rally the troops. I’ll be back in a few, Blaine.”
And then, ignoring their questioning looks, Kurt charged down the slick metal stairs, heading straight for that meathead. Maybe the team would be all right without one of their defenses, but this was a matter of principle. You didn’t just turn down an opportunity to sing with a glee club, especially not one like the New Directions. That was how Kurt was going to justify this to himself, at any rate. Personal history had nothing to do with it. He was just… staging an intervention.
Kurt reached Karofsky, who was staring out at the field with his hands in his pockets. Kurt ceremoniously flipped his scarf over his shoulder, inhaled sharply, and tapped Karofsky on the shoulder. He turned, saw Kurt, and went pale.
“What do you want?”
“Look, I don’t want to talk to you anymore than you want to talk to me. But I have something to say.” He looked around for someplace to conduct this intervention, and, seeing no other alternative, said, “Let’s go behind the bleachers. We’ll have some privacy there.” Half-hoping Karofsky would follow and half-hoping he wouldn’t, Kurt set off across the faux grass for the concave in back of the bleachers. Once there, he swiveled and looked at Karofsky, who shrunk away a bit.
Here, the noise coming from the stadium had faded to a dull thunder. Karofsky’s dark eyes looked around him warily. “What is this about?” he asked through tight lips, quietly, as if someone could possibly hear them. “I was kind of watching the game.” He seemed frightened to look at Kurt, as if by avoiding his gaze he could pretend that Kurt wasn’t there at all.
Kurt set his hand firmly on his hip and pointed one long digit at Karofsky. “I know. I was, too. But then, I’m not the team’s right guard, am I?”
Sighing and looking at the ground, Karofsky folded his arms across his broad chest. “If that’s what this is about, I’m just going to-”
“No, you’re not going to anything.” Trying to keep his voice from wavering, Kurt continued. “You know what you’re being right now, Karofsky? A pussy. You’re being a big, enormous, gigantic pussy.”
Karofsky’s jaw dropped unattractively. “Are you kidding me with this?”
“Nope. Not at all. In fact, I’ll shout it out for the world to hear!” Then, summoning all his breath, throwing his head back, and clenching his fists at his sides: “DAVID KAROFSKY IS A MOTHERFUCKING PUSSY!”
“Shut up! Shut up!” he hissed back. “And what the fuck would you know about pussies anyway?”
Kurt glowered at him. “You’re such an ass. And you know what the sad part is? I heard that you’re good.”
“At football? Fuck yeah, I’m good.”
“I meant at performing, tubbo. Dancing, singing, the whole gay schtick.” He waved his arms around in the air. “People tell me that you’re not half bad at it. It’s too bad that you’re so caged up in your own body you don’t even know how to breathe like your own person.”
Kurt was in ecstasy; these words were bursting out of him like fireworks. He hadn’t even known he’d wanted to bitch Hamhock out this badly, but apparently he did. Karofsky just stood and stared mutely. “Because if you weren’t so caught up in this idea of yourself, of who you have to be, you might actually be a good person. You might not have gotten kicked out of school, and you might actually have friends other than a couple buds who never talk about anything but football and tits. You might be well-adjusted. You might have a boyfriend.”
“You shut up,” Karofsky said unevenly, dangerously. “You shut your faggot mouth, Hummel, or I swear to god-”
“And guess what, Karofsky? I’m glad you ran me out of McKinley. I’m glad. Do you think I miss you? I don’t. I couldn’t be happier at Dalton.” He was starting to lie a little bit, but who cared? It was hurting Karofsky, it was hurting him, and that’s what mattered now. Redemption. “You want to know what I’ve got at Dalton? I’ve got friends, friends who know what I am. I’ve got something to live for.”
He danced a little closer to Karofsky, who drew in a breath. “Stop it.”
“I’ve got a boyfriend. That’s right, I have a boyfriend, and he-”
“Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP-” Karofsky’s hands were forming fists. Kurt was stomping on eggshells now, but he didn’t care.
“-he’s a good fucking guy, unlike you, and if he were right guard right now, he’d man up and get out there and play. He’d play, and he’d sing, and he’d do what needs to be done. Because my boyfriend”-Kurt drew in a proud breath-“is a man. And you are nothing but a little, insignificant boy.”
Karofsky was trembling, and his ears were turning red. “I can’t stand you,” he growled.
Kurt smiled a sickly sort of smile, feeling a little dizzy now that his tirade was over. “I know,” he said, leaning against one of the metal posts. “I can’t stand you either. But honestly, your team needs you, and you can’t even be there for them. What good-”
“No, you be quiet.”
“Excuse me?” Kurt arched an eyebrow and stared, but Karofsky’s eyes, which had glazed over with terror and fury while Kurt shouted, blazed with a new determination that seemed a little anachronistic to the verbal beating he’d just been given.
“Shut the fuck up. I really hate you, and I hate that I’m doing this right now, but did you really come here to convince me to play, or what.”
Kurt looked around in disbelief. “Did you miss the last six minutes, or did I not say any of that out loud?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. I’m like a couple inches from pounding your brains in right here.” Kurt drew back a little, remembering himself. But Karofsky continued to glower at him. “You want me to play?”
Kurt sighed loudly. “Yes, Karofsky, I want you to play. Not for you. For the team.”
“Okay.”
“What?” He stood up a little. It definitely wasn’t supposed to be that easy.
“I said okay. I’ll do it.” Karofsky jammed his hands in his pockets and stared at Kurt with an expression that was turning into something like a smile.
Kurt turned his head to the side, not letting his eyes leave Karofsky’s unnerving gaze. “What do you…” he began slowly.
“I’ll play. Under one condition or whatever.” Karofsky’s eyes were steely and unmoving. Kurt swallowed.
“Like a contingency.”
“Sure. Like that.”
“Well, fine. Let’s hear it, then.”
“If we win the game… You have to have sex with me.”
There was silence between the two boys, but for the continuing hubbub from the field. Kurt blinked, once, twice. His mouth fell open. “I… What?”
Karofsky shrugged, looking a little irritated now. “If the team wins, I get to fuck you.”
“Oh, no. Nonono. That’s not-I’m not going to-”
“Fine, then! I won’t play!”
“Jesus christ.” Kurt rubbed his eyes. “This is a nightmare. I’m not letting you have sex with me. That’s out of the question. I-” He looked back up. Karofsky looked, bizarrely, kind of hurt, and looked down at his feet.
“It’s just one thing, Hummel,” he said almost inaudibly. “It’s not even that big of a deal. I mean, you fuck your boyfriend, right?”
Kurt had almost forgotten he’d called Blaine that. Whoops. “I-that’s-Karofsky-” He stared at him, at a loss for words. Did he honestly want Karofsky to play that badly, that he was considering this? He leaned back and looked upwards for a moment at the undersides of the bleachers. What was this about, anyway? Was this about the glee club and the team? Or was this just about Kurt?
He looked over at Karofsky, his eyes narrowing. He wasn’t that bad-looking of a boy, when you got right down to it. He was big. He was strong. And when he didn’t have such an angry look on his face, he looked a little bit like an actual person. And anyway, the score was so disparate that if McKinley won, Kurt would be sorely surprised.
And there had been a moment, once, when Karofsky looked at Kurt across a hallway, one of the rare times he didn’t slam him into a row of lockers-
“Fine.” Karofsky’s lips parted. “If that’s-” Kurt’s voice broke, and he looked away. “If that’s really what you want, then fine. I agree to your terms.”
“Shake on it?” Karofsky extended a hand, a half-mocking, half-gentle tone in his voice.
Suddenly remembering the way it felt to be pressed back into a row of lockers by just a glance and a finger, Kurt drew away in disgust. “I’m not going to touch you,” he spat.
Karofsky seemed cowed for a moment, looked down at the Astroturf, and then looked back up at Kurt. “Not yet, anyway.” And then he smiled, really smiled, and he took off in the direction of the field.
Kurt ran after him as fast as his legs would move, stopped by the end of the bleachers, and watched Karofsky run whooping out onto the field to join his zombie-fied cohorts. Kurt glared at him, grudgingly noticing the look of wild, wild joy on Karofsky’s face.
The halftime show happened, and it was fan-freaking-tastic. Kurt, who spent much of the song walking back up the stairs to his seat by Blaine and turning around to see what was happening on the field, could not have been more proud. And pissed off that he wasn’t down there. And, maybe, a little bit impressed every time he caught a glimpse of Karofsky.
But he crowded those thoughts out of his mind as soon as he sat down next to Blaine. “Hey, stranger,” Kurt said, trying to be charming.
“Hey, man! Where’ve you been? You missed an awesome show.” Blaine smiled, but his eyes looked worried.
“Oh, I saw it. I wouldn’t have missed that for the world. I was just, um, talking to Mercedes. We were… working some stuff out. She needed encouragement or whatever. You know her.”
“Right.” Blaine turned his face back towards the field, but his eyes stayed on Kurt.
“So, anyway, how is the game going? And don’t use too many big sports words, or I’m apt to get confused.”
He gestured his thermos towards the scoreboard. “Check it out. McKinley’s pulling ahead.”
“Say what?” Kurt looked. And, indeed, those giant white numbers were growing closer to each other. His lungs stopped moving all of a sudden. “Oh. That’s… that’s so great!”
“Mm-hmm.” They watched in semi-awkward silence for a while, until the echo of the word “brains” started to reverberate around the bleachers. At that point, Blaine grabbed Kurt’s arm-oh, joy, oh, momentary bliss-and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Look, Kurt, if you don’t want to tell me what you were doing, that’s fine, but why did that guy who used to push you around come running out from under the bleachers after you went down there?”
Kurt blushed a little and spoke quickly. “Okay, you caught me. I saw him down there, and Mercedes couldn’t help but start shouting at him, and I sort of… let him have it. Is that-all right?”
“Yeah, but, Kurt, you gotta be careful around that guy. He’s bad news. Somebody could get hurt.” Blaine looked at him meaningfully.
Kurt stared back, ill at ease. “I know.” There was a momentary silence, and then, just as the ball came into play again, Kurt had an idea and leaned in and said, “Blaine, do you like me?”
Another pause in which Blaine did nothing but stare bewilderedly back at Kurt, and then he said, “Do I have to answer now?”
The crowd roared, and Kurt looked back at Blaine, trying not to hit him. He looked away sharply. “No.”
“Kurt, did you see that?” crowed his father behind him. “They did it!”
Kurt looked up, his heart slamming against his chest. The McKinley players were screaming and hugging and thumping chests down on the field.
“Do you want to go say hi to your friends?” Carole asked.
Kurt stood up suddenly. “You know what,” he said, gazing out at the field, “I told Mercedes I’d spend the night over at her house after the game. Is that all right?”
“Uh, sure,” Burt replied. “But what about…?” He nodded towards Blaine.
“Oh, that’s all right,” Blaine said smoothly, standing up as well. “I can drive myself home. No bigs.”
“All right, well, it was nice to meet you, young man.” Burt shook Blaine’s hand, and then, winking at Kurt: “Have a fun time, kiddo.”
Kurt smiled a little, his eyes burning. “Yes, I will. Bye, Dad, bye, Carole. Bye, Blaine.” And with that, he took off down the bleachers, taking the steps two at a time. He almost slipped at the bottom, but caught himself. Without looking at the players on the field, he ran for the same area behind the bleachers.
It was dry down here, and quiet. He moved a little bit under the bleachers, where he could hear the shuffling sounds of the entire audience getting out of the seats and walking away. His heart was beating so fast he felt like he was going to throw up. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. It was going to be all right. Blaine didn’t want to be his boyfriend-or at least, not enough to know immediately, which was all that really mattered to Kurt, who would have said yes to Blaine in a heartbeat. Fine. Fine.
He sighed and dropped his shoulders. So this was like An Indecent Proposal, only without a Woody Harrelson. Fine. Woody was bad in that anyway. And sure, Karofsky was no Robert Redford, but-
Kurt heard footsteps. He ran a little bit in one direction, panicking, then paced back in the other, then hid as far back under the bleachers as he could fit. Mercedes walked past, one of her arms around Tina, laughing. Kurt bit his lip and waited for them to get far enough away, and then came creeping back out.
He dusted the grass off his pants, looked around, and then-struck by sudden inspiration-leaned back against one of the metal posts, twirling his scarf further around his neck and fluffing his hair a bit. If he was going to play Demi Moore, he was going to be damn good at it. He knew he was being a little melodramatic, but he didn’t care. The reason he wanted to go to Dalton wasn’t interested, and the reason he left McKinley was about to come back here and do unspeakable things to him. He had license to be a little melodramatic.
Leaning back against the pole, Kurt squared his shoulders, tilted up his chin, and waited. The sounds of the game winding down thumped and laughed and screamed in the background. He shivered a little and tried to slow his heart down. After several minutes had passed, he started to wonder if Karofsky had gotten the hint and knew where to come. He started to hum to himself a little to keep himself from lonely.
And then he heard heavy, running footsteps and pressed himself further back against the metal, swallowing deeply. Karofsky’s large, jersey-clad, helmeted self went to the spot behind the bleachers, looked around for Kurt, and then saw him underneath the stairs.
Kurt’s lips parted a little without meaning to. He lifted his chin in half-hearted defiance.
Karofsky came lumbering under the steps, pulling off his helmet and throwing it down on the turf. His face was red and his hair a sweaty mess, but he made no attempt to fix it. His face was alight with the glow of victory, and his eyes were blazing.
They stared at each other for a moment, the jock and the queer underneath the steel bleachers. Then Kurt’s teeth found his lip again, and Karofsky made a funny noise deep in his throat, and he came towards him and kissed him, kissed him, kissed him against the pole.
Kurt’s eyes closed unintentionally.
This was… well, it wasn’t nice, because Karofsky was sloppy with desire and covered in sweat, but it was something. Something more than Kurt had expected. He felt the metal pressing against his back and Karofsky’s wide, hot hands on his face, and it was almost kind of actually really goddamn pleasant. He kissed like a teenager, but he obviously wanted it, and needed it-needed Kurt.
Karofsky pulled back and looked at Kurt’s face for a moment with his eyes wide and then went back in, again and again and again, pressing kiss after kiss on Kurt’s mouth and his jaw and his cheek. One of his arms slid down to Kurt’s waist, and Kurt held fast to the steel for a moment, but then Karofsky tugged and Kurt fell against his chest and then Karofsky’s mouth was on his neck, and he was kissing and sucking and biting him.
And Kurt couldn’t help it, he couldn’t help it, he moaned, and the sweet aching sound hung in the air around them, and the bigger boy pressed him back against the pole again and ground his hips against Kurt’s, and fuck fuck fuck-Karofsky was hard, he was that kind of hard that happens suddenly and agonizingly and doesn’t go away. Kurt pressed his hips up against Karofsky’s, and Karofsky broke away from Kurt’s throat and groaned, “Fuck, Hummel…”
“Don’t, don’t stop…” Karofsky kept pressing himself against Kurt, rubbing their erections together, his lips open and panting. One of his hands crawled down Kurt’s back and grabbed a handful of his ass, squeezed it. Kurt gasped and clutched Karofsky tighter.
“You like that, huh?” Karofsky murmured into Kurt’s ear. “You like that…”
Kurt pulled back and looked at Karofsky, feeling like a slut, then nodded, leaned forward, and caught Karofsky’s lip between his teeth. Karofsky whimpered, and Kurt bit down a little, almost enough to draw blood. “Maybe we should take this somewhere else, hmm?” he whispered as he broke away. “I don’t want to get arrested.”
Karofsky’s eyes traveled down Kurt’s chest, followed by his hand, which hesitated a moment at Kurt’s waist, and then reached down to his crotch and stretched his hand over it, curiously. Kurt’s back arched a little, and he drew a quick breath. “This is so fucking crazy.” Karofsky’s voice was soft and wondering. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Mmm.” Sure, Karofsky was no Blaine, and he was a closeted dickhead, but there was something very sweet and pleasing about the way he was looking at Kurt right now. And anyway, if Karofsky was going to use him, why not use Karofsky right back?
“Sure, big guy.” Kurt smiled coquettishly. “Let’s take this back to your place.”
Karofsky laughed surprisedly at that, and then, realizing Kurt was serious, nodded, at first shy, and then eagerly. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s fucking do it.”
And then they fucking did it.
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Kurt/Karofsky, Kurt/Blaine.
Summary: Based on a glee_kink_meme prompt from spoileralert1 . Kurt and Karofsky make an agreement.
Spoilers: For 2x11.
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Kurt pulled his scarf-cashmere, red, Italian import, adorable-around his neck a little tighter. The night air was chilly enough that he could see his breath hanging in clouds. Carole put her hand on his knee and leaned in and said over the dull roar of the football field, “Kurt, sweetheart, do you need my coat?”
“No, Carole, I’m fine,” Kurt responded, rolling his eyes at Blaine, who chuckled at his other side and sipped his hot chocolate. Kurt allowed himself a brief smile, watching Blaine’s lips move as he blew on the drink, and then turned his attention back to the field. The halftime show was about to start, and, even though he wasn’t a New Direction-ite anymore, Kurt’s nerves were frayed. The team was getting pulverized, and even if they mustered all the moxie they could in their little underdog hearts, this halftime show was going to suck.
“Hey.” Kurt looked over at Blaine. “You worried?”
“A little.” He folded his hands in his lap. “I wish I were down there with them, to be perfectly honest. They need all the manpower they can get, what with half the football team gone.”
Blaine half-smiled. “Yeah, this game’s starting to look a little catastrophic.”
Kurt pursed his lips and was about to say something when he felt an insistent tug on the end of his scarf. Aghast, he turned to apprehend the tugger and found himself face-to-face with none other than Will Schuester. “Mr. Schuester? What-what are you doing up here?”
“Sorry, I had to run up here and tell you guys the good news,” he said breathlessly. “You looked just about as upset as I was.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the football field. Kurt leaned and looked: the football players, all in uniform, were crowded around Finn.
He squeaked and clapped his hands together. “This is wonderful! Are they coming back?”
“Yeah, we managed to talk them into it. I think everybody but Karofsky’s out there. It’s going to be a pretty-”
“Hold on.” Kurt looked down at the field, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Karofsky’s not going?”
“Uh, no. I don’t think he’s playing, either. It’s kind of sad, actually, he’s not half bad.” Catching glares from both Kurt and Blaine, Schuester held up his hands and said, “As a performer. As a performer.” Then, looking back towards the field, he added ruefully, “It really is too bad. I felt like I was getting through to that guy, and now I guess he’s decided he doesn’t care.”
“Yeah, I heard that from Rachel and Mercedes, too.” Kurt’s eyes scanned the Astroturf. Where was he hiding… Then, a glimpse of a beefy neck and sideburns on the sidelines. Kurt stood. “Hold on a second, Mr. Schuester. I think-I think I’m going to go give a pep talk. Or something. To rally the troops. I’ll be back in a few, Blaine.”
And then, ignoring their questioning looks, Kurt charged down the slick metal stairs, heading straight for that meathead. Maybe the team would be all right without one of their defenses, but this was a matter of principle. You didn’t just turn down an opportunity to sing with a glee club, especially not one like the New Directions. That was how Kurt was going to justify this to himself, at any rate. Personal history had nothing to do with it. He was just… staging an intervention.
Kurt reached Karofsky, who was staring out at the field with his hands in his pockets. Kurt ceremoniously flipped his scarf over his shoulder, inhaled sharply, and tapped Karofsky on the shoulder. He turned, saw Kurt, and went pale.
“What do you want?”
“Look, I don’t want to talk to you anymore than you want to talk to me. But I have something to say.” He looked around for someplace to conduct this intervention, and, seeing no other alternative, said, “Let’s go behind the bleachers. We’ll have some privacy there.” Half-hoping Karofsky would follow and half-hoping he wouldn’t, Kurt set off across the faux grass for the concave in back of the bleachers. Once there, he swiveled and looked at Karofsky, who shrunk away a bit.
Here, the noise coming from the stadium had faded to a dull thunder. Karofsky’s dark eyes looked around him warily. “What is this about?” he asked through tight lips, quietly, as if someone could possibly hear them. “I was kind of watching the game.” He seemed frightened to look at Kurt, as if by avoiding his gaze he could pretend that Kurt wasn’t there at all.
Kurt set his hand firmly on his hip and pointed one long digit at Karofsky. “I know. I was, too. But then, I’m not the team’s right guard, am I?”
Sighing and looking at the ground, Karofsky folded his arms across his broad chest. “If that’s what this is about, I’m just going to-”
“No, you’re not going to anything.” Trying to keep his voice from wavering, Kurt continued. “You know what you’re being right now, Karofsky? A pussy. You’re being a big, enormous, gigantic pussy.”
Karofsky’s jaw dropped unattractively. “Are you kidding me with this?”
“Nope. Not at all. In fact, I’ll shout it out for the world to hear!” Then, summoning all his breath, throwing his head back, and clenching his fists at his sides: “DAVID KAROFSKY IS A MOTHERFUCKING PUSSY!”
“Shut up! Shut up!” he hissed back. “And what the fuck would you know about pussies anyway?”
Kurt glowered at him. “You’re such an ass. And you know what the sad part is? I heard that you’re good.”
“At football? Fuck yeah, I’m good.”
“I meant at performing, tubbo. Dancing, singing, the whole gay schtick.” He waved his arms around in the air. “People tell me that you’re not half bad at it. It’s too bad that you’re so caged up in your own body you don’t even know how to breathe like your own person.”
Kurt was in ecstasy; these words were bursting out of him like fireworks. He hadn’t even known he’d wanted to bitch Hamhock out this badly, but apparently he did. Karofsky just stood and stared mutely. “Because if you weren’t so caught up in this idea of yourself, of who you have to be, you might actually be a good person. You might not have gotten kicked out of school, and you might actually have friends other than a couple buds who never talk about anything but football and tits. You might be well-adjusted. You might have a boyfriend.”
“You shut up,” Karofsky said unevenly, dangerously. “You shut your faggot mouth, Hummel, or I swear to god-”
“And guess what, Karofsky? I’m glad you ran me out of McKinley. I’m glad. Do you think I miss you? I don’t. I couldn’t be happier at Dalton.” He was starting to lie a little bit, but who cared? It was hurting Karofsky, it was hurting him, and that’s what mattered now. Redemption. “You want to know what I’ve got at Dalton? I’ve got friends, friends who know what I am. I’ve got something to live for.”
He danced a little closer to Karofsky, who drew in a breath. “Stop it.”
“I’ve got a boyfriend. That’s right, I have a boyfriend, and he-”
“Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP-” Karofsky’s hands were forming fists. Kurt was stomping on eggshells now, but he didn’t care.
“-he’s a good fucking guy, unlike you, and if he were right guard right now, he’d man up and get out there and play. He’d play, and he’d sing, and he’d do what needs to be done. Because my boyfriend”-Kurt drew in a proud breath-“is a man. And you are nothing but a little, insignificant boy.”
Karofsky was trembling, and his ears were turning red. “I can’t stand you,” he growled.
Kurt smiled a sickly sort of smile, feeling a little dizzy now that his tirade was over. “I know,” he said, leaning against one of the metal posts. “I can’t stand you either. But honestly, your team needs you, and you can’t even be there for them. What good-”
“No, you be quiet.”
“Excuse me?” Kurt arched an eyebrow and stared, but Karofsky’s eyes, which had glazed over with terror and fury while Kurt shouted, blazed with a new determination that seemed a little anachronistic to the verbal beating he’d just been given.
“Shut the fuck up. I really hate you, and I hate that I’m doing this right now, but did you really come here to convince me to play, or what.”
Kurt looked around in disbelief. “Did you miss the last six minutes, or did I not say any of that out loud?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. I’m like a couple inches from pounding your brains in right here.” Kurt drew back a little, remembering himself. But Karofsky continued to glower at him. “You want me to play?”
Kurt sighed loudly. “Yes, Karofsky, I want you to play. Not for you. For the team.”
“Okay.”
“What?” He stood up a little. It definitely wasn’t supposed to be that easy.
“I said okay. I’ll do it.” Karofsky jammed his hands in his pockets and stared at Kurt with an expression that was turning into something like a smile.
Kurt turned his head to the side, not letting his eyes leave Karofsky’s unnerving gaze. “What do you…” he began slowly.
“I’ll play. Under one condition or whatever.” Karofsky’s eyes were steely and unmoving. Kurt swallowed.
“Like a contingency.”
“Sure. Like that.”
“Well, fine. Let’s hear it, then.”
“If we win the game… You have to have sex with me.”
There was silence between the two boys, but for the continuing hubbub from the field. Kurt blinked, once, twice. His mouth fell open. “I… What?”
Karofsky shrugged, looking a little irritated now. “If the team wins, I get to fuck you.”
“Oh, no. Nonono. That’s not-I’m not going to-”
“Fine, then! I won’t play!”
“Jesus christ.” Kurt rubbed his eyes. “This is a nightmare. I’m not letting you have sex with me. That’s out of the question. I-” He looked back up. Karofsky looked, bizarrely, kind of hurt, and looked down at his feet.
“It’s just one thing, Hummel,” he said almost inaudibly. “It’s not even that big of a deal. I mean, you fuck your boyfriend, right?”
Kurt had almost forgotten he’d called Blaine that. Whoops. “I-that’s-Karofsky-” He stared at him, at a loss for words. Did he honestly want Karofsky to play that badly, that he was considering this? He leaned back and looked upwards for a moment at the undersides of the bleachers. What was this about, anyway? Was this about the glee club and the team? Or was this just about Kurt?
He looked over at Karofsky, his eyes narrowing. He wasn’t that bad-looking of a boy, when you got right down to it. He was big. He was strong. And when he didn’t have such an angry look on his face, he looked a little bit like an actual person. And anyway, the score was so disparate that if McKinley won, Kurt would be sorely surprised.
And there had been a moment, once, when Karofsky looked at Kurt across a hallway, one of the rare times he didn’t slam him into a row of lockers-
“Fine.” Karofsky’s lips parted. “If that’s-” Kurt’s voice broke, and he looked away. “If that’s really what you want, then fine. I agree to your terms.”
“Shake on it?” Karofsky extended a hand, a half-mocking, half-gentle tone in his voice.
Suddenly remembering the way it felt to be pressed back into a row of lockers by just a glance and a finger, Kurt drew away in disgust. “I’m not going to touch you,” he spat.
Karofsky seemed cowed for a moment, looked down at the Astroturf, and then looked back up at Kurt. “Not yet, anyway.” And then he smiled, really smiled, and he took off in the direction of the field.
Kurt ran after him as fast as his legs would move, stopped by the end of the bleachers, and watched Karofsky run whooping out onto the field to join his zombie-fied cohorts. Kurt glared at him, grudgingly noticing the look of wild, wild joy on Karofsky’s face.
The halftime show happened, and it was fan-freaking-tastic. Kurt, who spent much of the song walking back up the stairs to his seat by Blaine and turning around to see what was happening on the field, could not have been more proud. And pissed off that he wasn’t down there. And, maybe, a little bit impressed every time he caught a glimpse of Karofsky.
But he crowded those thoughts out of his mind as soon as he sat down next to Blaine. “Hey, stranger,” Kurt said, trying to be charming.
“Hey, man! Where’ve you been? You missed an awesome show.” Blaine smiled, but his eyes looked worried.
“Oh, I saw it. I wouldn’t have missed that for the world. I was just, um, talking to Mercedes. We were… working some stuff out. She needed encouragement or whatever. You know her.”
“Right.” Blaine turned his face back towards the field, but his eyes stayed on Kurt.
“So, anyway, how is the game going? And don’t use too many big sports words, or I’m apt to get confused.”
He gestured his thermos towards the scoreboard. “Check it out. McKinley’s pulling ahead.”
“Say what?” Kurt looked. And, indeed, those giant white numbers were growing closer to each other. His lungs stopped moving all of a sudden. “Oh. That’s… that’s so great!”
“Mm-hmm.” They watched in semi-awkward silence for a while, until the echo of the word “brains” started to reverberate around the bleachers. At that point, Blaine grabbed Kurt’s arm-oh, joy, oh, momentary bliss-and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Look, Kurt, if you don’t want to tell me what you were doing, that’s fine, but why did that guy who used to push you around come running out from under the bleachers after you went down there?”
Kurt blushed a little and spoke quickly. “Okay, you caught me. I saw him down there, and Mercedes couldn’t help but start shouting at him, and I sort of… let him have it. Is that-all right?”
“Yeah, but, Kurt, you gotta be careful around that guy. He’s bad news. Somebody could get hurt.” Blaine looked at him meaningfully.
Kurt stared back, ill at ease. “I know.” There was a momentary silence, and then, just as the ball came into play again, Kurt had an idea and leaned in and said, “Blaine, do you like me?”
Another pause in which Blaine did nothing but stare bewilderedly back at Kurt, and then he said, “Do I have to answer now?”
The crowd roared, and Kurt looked back at Blaine, trying not to hit him. He looked away sharply. “No.”
“Kurt, did you see that?” crowed his father behind him. “They did it!”
Kurt looked up, his heart slamming against his chest. The McKinley players were screaming and hugging and thumping chests down on the field.
“Do you want to go say hi to your friends?” Carole asked.
Kurt stood up suddenly. “You know what,” he said, gazing out at the field, “I told Mercedes I’d spend the night over at her house after the game. Is that all right?”
“Uh, sure,” Burt replied. “But what about…?” He nodded towards Blaine.
“Oh, that’s all right,” Blaine said smoothly, standing up as well. “I can drive myself home. No bigs.”
“All right, well, it was nice to meet you, young man.” Burt shook Blaine’s hand, and then, winking at Kurt: “Have a fun time, kiddo.”
Kurt smiled a little, his eyes burning. “Yes, I will. Bye, Dad, bye, Carole. Bye, Blaine.” And with that, he took off down the bleachers, taking the steps two at a time. He almost slipped at the bottom, but caught himself. Without looking at the players on the field, he ran for the same area behind the bleachers.
It was dry down here, and quiet. He moved a little bit under the bleachers, where he could hear the shuffling sounds of the entire audience getting out of the seats and walking away. His heart was beating so fast he felt like he was going to throw up. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. It was going to be all right. Blaine didn’t want to be his boyfriend-or at least, not enough to know immediately, which was all that really mattered to Kurt, who would have said yes to Blaine in a heartbeat. Fine. Fine.
He sighed and dropped his shoulders. So this was like An Indecent Proposal, only without a Woody Harrelson. Fine. Woody was bad in that anyway. And sure, Karofsky was no Robert Redford, but-
Kurt heard footsteps. He ran a little bit in one direction, panicking, then paced back in the other, then hid as far back under the bleachers as he could fit. Mercedes walked past, one of her arms around Tina, laughing. Kurt bit his lip and waited for them to get far enough away, and then came creeping back out.
He dusted the grass off his pants, looked around, and then-struck by sudden inspiration-leaned back against one of the metal posts, twirling his scarf further around his neck and fluffing his hair a bit. If he was going to play Demi Moore, he was going to be damn good at it. He knew he was being a little melodramatic, but he didn’t care. The reason he wanted to go to Dalton wasn’t interested, and the reason he left McKinley was about to come back here and do unspeakable things to him. He had license to be a little melodramatic.
Leaning back against the pole, Kurt squared his shoulders, tilted up his chin, and waited. The sounds of the game winding down thumped and laughed and screamed in the background. He shivered a little and tried to slow his heart down. After several minutes had passed, he started to wonder if Karofsky had gotten the hint and knew where to come. He started to hum to himself a little to keep himself from lonely.
And then he heard heavy, running footsteps and pressed himself further back against the metal, swallowing deeply. Karofsky’s large, jersey-clad, helmeted self went to the spot behind the bleachers, looked around for Kurt, and then saw him underneath the stairs.
Kurt’s lips parted a little without meaning to. He lifted his chin in half-hearted defiance.
Karofsky came lumbering under the steps, pulling off his helmet and throwing it down on the turf. His face was red and his hair a sweaty mess, but he made no attempt to fix it. His face was alight with the glow of victory, and his eyes were blazing.
They stared at each other for a moment, the jock and the queer underneath the steel bleachers. Then Kurt’s teeth found his lip again, and Karofsky made a funny noise deep in his throat, and he came towards him and kissed him, kissed him, kissed him against the pole.
Kurt’s eyes closed unintentionally.
This was… well, it wasn’t nice, because Karofsky was sloppy with desire and covered in sweat, but it was something. Something more than Kurt had expected. He felt the metal pressing against his back and Karofsky’s wide, hot hands on his face, and it was almost kind of actually really goddamn pleasant. He kissed like a teenager, but he obviously wanted it, and needed it-needed Kurt.
Karofsky pulled back and looked at Kurt’s face for a moment with his eyes wide and then went back in, again and again and again, pressing kiss after kiss on Kurt’s mouth and his jaw and his cheek. One of his arms slid down to Kurt’s waist, and Kurt held fast to the steel for a moment, but then Karofsky tugged and Kurt fell against his chest and then Karofsky’s mouth was on his neck, and he was kissing and sucking and biting him.
And Kurt couldn’t help it, he couldn’t help it, he moaned, and the sweet aching sound hung in the air around them, and the bigger boy pressed him back against the pole again and ground his hips against Kurt’s, and fuck fuck fuck-Karofsky was hard, he was that kind of hard that happens suddenly and agonizingly and doesn’t go away. Kurt pressed his hips up against Karofsky’s, and Karofsky broke away from Kurt’s throat and groaned, “Fuck, Hummel…”
“Don’t, don’t stop…” Karofsky kept pressing himself against Kurt, rubbing their erections together, his lips open and panting. One of his hands crawled down Kurt’s back and grabbed a handful of his ass, squeezed it. Kurt gasped and clutched Karofsky tighter.
“You like that, huh?” Karofsky murmured into Kurt’s ear. “You like that…”
Kurt pulled back and looked at Karofsky, feeling like a slut, then nodded, leaned forward, and caught Karofsky’s lip between his teeth. Karofsky whimpered, and Kurt bit down a little, almost enough to draw blood. “Maybe we should take this somewhere else, hmm?” he whispered as he broke away. “I don’t want to get arrested.”
Karofsky’s eyes traveled down Kurt’s chest, followed by his hand, which hesitated a moment at Kurt’s waist, and then reached down to his crotch and stretched his hand over it, curiously. Kurt’s back arched a little, and he drew a quick breath. “This is so fucking crazy.” Karofsky’s voice was soft and wondering. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Mmm.” Sure, Karofsky was no Blaine, and he was a closeted dickhead, but there was something very sweet and pleasing about the way he was looking at Kurt right now. And anyway, if Karofsky was going to use him, why not use Karofsky right back?
“Sure, big guy.” Kurt smiled coquettishly. “Let’s take this back to your place.”
Karofsky laughed surprisedly at that, and then, realizing Kurt was serious, nodded, at first shy, and then eagerly. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s fucking do it.”
And then they fucking did it.