Fanfic: Present Perfect - Kurt/Dave - "Triple" Shot
Story: Present 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 “Future (Im)Perfect” in which he learns that kissing Dave Karofsky is, apparently, all that and a bag of chips, and then some, and he is plenty pissed off about it…And now, the experiment continues…
Warning: Up to 2x14
A/N: The is, above all else, a Kurtofsky fic, so I ask that you go with it and just ignore actions that run counter to, say, the serious nature of just how horribly Dave treated Kurt (actions that I neither condone nor excuse); in this Kurtofskian worldview, it was always about love (and chemistry) and Dave was always a better person than he appeared to be on the surface. Also, in this particular ‘verse, I’m going for laffs because, well, it’s fun…
A/N#2: This started out as a ‘one-shot,’ that called for a ‘second shot’ (after many, many requests - thx!), that lead naturally to a ‘triple-shot,’ that now, appears to be, basically a series of one-shots. ;) If y’all are still feelin’ it after this one and I’m still feelin’ like there’s more story to tell, I’m just gonna give up and admit I’m writing a series and keep going… [To everyone who has commented - thx for the lov’n, you guys! ~ibs]
[Please ignore the horizontal lines you'll see later in the story. I had them in the Word draft, but now can't get rid of them... They are not divisional lines. Just so's you know. -ibs]
Present Perfect
- ibshafer
They say you have to kiss a lot of frogs.
It had been a month and Kurt had the chapped lips to prove it...
In spite of the slight tarnishing it had brought to his polished, pristine, sterling, reputation, Kurt had been more than happy when he realized, was in fact quite relieved to realize, that for all his sixteen years, for all his worldliness and innate sense of style, for all his understanding of the inner-workings of the minds of teenaged boys, he, Kurt, simply did not have a enough personal, directly applicable experience from which to draw a reasonable conclusion…
In other words, he hadn’t kissed enough frogs.
Not enough to know.
To know whether the Jello-kneed, fireworks-inducing, breathless, brainless, batshit heart-hammering reaction he’d felt when he’d stormed into the locker room, grabbed that loser by the towel and kissed him, was a response to some chemical directive, a cosmic decree (more like a cosmic joke!), or simply, say, just what happened when Kurt Hummel kissed somehow who was, say, four inches taller than himself, at, oh, say, 1:23 in the afternoon. On a Tuesday. In February.
Because seriously…
Karofsky?
Dave Karofsky?
How could that be possible?
Did the Big Man, if he believed in a Big Man, that is, really have that big a sense of humor?
Either Kurt accepted it, dealt with it, and steered clear of the big ape for the rest of his natural life…
…or he attempted to find out if it were really true.
While others would come to think of what followed as Kurt’s inexplicable and temporary descent into Dalton Academy slutdom, had they been paying closer attention they might have noticed the clip board and checklist that accompanied his hallway/classroom/choir room kissing ambushes, accoutrements that clearly designated his lip-chapping forays as research.
‘Seriously,’ he’d thought, returning yet another vase of clichéd roses, turning down yet another “hot” Saturday night date. ‘Did no one notice I was going in alphabetical order?
Since the Dalton student body was a veritable cornucopia of attractive gay boys, Kurt had had his work cut out for him with his simple compare/contrast study and while he wouldn’t lie, it had had its…stimulating moments, he was searching for something else, something that as each day passed proved to be more and more elusive.
He even, for the sake of science, revisited some of his past research, though to be fair, that particular experiment pre-dated the actual study. He was quite saddened by the confirmation this test resulted in, though; he had given it the old ‘this time the bells will ring’ college try, but, sadly, not only were there no bells ringing, he may have lost himself a friend…
‘“What is it with you New Directions kids,”’ Blaine had spat, mouth turned down in a very unattractive grimace as he roughly pushed Kurt away. ‘“First Rachel, who at least had a reason for it, and now you?!”’
Kurt didn’t know whether to be grateful that Blaine had been too drunk that night to remember spending it in Kurt’s bed (and that Kurt had tried to seduce him) or very deeply wounded; Blaine remembered making out with Time Travel Barbie, but apparently, sharing a bed with a beautiful boy whom he ‘cared for very deeply’ wasn’t a memory-making event…
As the research continued, Kurt became desperate to find some other explanation for his response to that…that aberration in the McKinley locker room, to the way he lost rational thought and the way his body betrayed what his mind had become committed to believing - that Karofsky was the Antichrist. (Again, not that Kurt was a Believer; ‘antichrist’ was just the worst pejorative he could come up with short of calling him ‘Hitler in a Letterman Jacket’ which, frankly, just took too long to say…)
Was it just an anomaly? Had all the hormonal planets just aligned at that particular time? Had it just been some random hard-on?
Kurt actually liked that last possibility rather a lot.
Random. Riiight…
In his heart, he knew he would have to test that theory out and that doing so might just be dangerous and render some cherished garment unwearable or worse yet, forever alter the sheer perfection that was his profile, but he clearly had no choice. If he had confirmed that Blaine Anderson, sadly, wasn’t a bell-ringer, he at least had to, (‘deep breath, hold onto your lunch, Kurt’), confirm that Dave Karofsky, son of the Dark Lord Hades, was…
He couldn’t believe he was doing this.
Again.
Cutting classes and risking an A- was the least of his worries at this point. If he wasn’t on point with his approach to the behemoth, ready with metaphorical whip and chair to Karofsky’s boy-eating lion, this could end very, very badly for him. Pushing his GPA out of his mind, he focused on working himself up into a good mad.
That magical combination of pissed-off and more-pissed-off had really powered him through their last encounter, given him an upper hand he might not have had even with the element of surprise. Karofsky still had height and considerable lardy bulk on him (and here, Kurt ‘la-la-la-I-can’t-hear-you’d through the memory of how actually not lardy Karofsky had been when he’d been pressed up tight against him), and if Kurt was going to pull this latest experiment off successfully, he was going to have to overpower Karofsky in some way. If there was anything Kurt had an upper hand at it was at being loud and bitchy. ‘Loud’ and ‘bitchy’ were quite the winning combo in nearly any fight, but in this case, redirecting whatever misplaced, confused passion his body might throw into the mix into hatin’ on Karofsky could only work for him…
And, heck, if he ended up with another hard-on, well, that would only piss him off more…
Squealing into a serendipitously empty parking space close to the building - if he’d had to stalk his way over from the far lot he might have lost some steam on the way - he charged up the school steps, cast a quick glance at his watch (it was twenty minutes after one, again, but at least it wasn’t Tuesday), and stomped into the locker room, surprising the same pair of boys who jumped when they saw him and bolted past him out the door not even waiting to be told this time. Drawing power from the satisfaction of having…well, okay, of having terrorized a pair of innocent freshmen he would now have to go find and apologize to, it took Kurt a moment to realize he was actually alone in the locker room.
Kurt had never dealt with frustration well and at this stage of his…oh, fuck, even he couldn’t call it research anymore, his…his search for bells, he just hadn’t been prepared to drive all the way over here and not find that behemoth waiting for him in the locker room.
He had to be here! Wasn’t this where he lived?
Kicking the nearest locker with the full force of his frustration, he let loose a guttural wail, and growled out the source of his frustration.
“KAROFSKY!!!”
As luck would have it (luck?), said source was just coming of the showers, a towel once again draped around his broad shoulders and one also wrapped in a most dastardly fashion around his waist.
They saw each other at the same time, or rather, Dave saw Kurt a split second earlier and was unable to stifle the knee-jerk “oh, fuck,” that escaped his lips, thus drawing Kurt’s attention to him before he could retreat back into the relative safety of the showers…
“GREAT,” Kurt shouted, sounding not at all like he thought it was. “THERE you are!”
Karofsky looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself, though he seemed a little preoccupied with his towel, which, well, wasn’t very big…
“So, what - you’re stalking me now,” he growled, trying his best to looking intimidating in spite of being mostly naked.
“Oh, please,” Kurt huffed, but giving it a millisecond’s thought, he knew that’s how it looked. Giving it the rest of that second’s thought, he was embarrassed, but was too pumped from his stalk in from the parking lot and his frustrated growling a moment ago, the latter of which he was fairly certain he’d never done before, to care if it looked like he was stalking his bully or not. Seriously, would anyone blame him?
He was running on adrenaline now, not thinking as clearly as he would have if, well, if he’d been talking to anyone else, but if he was going to do this, he was damn well going to do it.
Just do it quickly - like a Band-aid!
He was trying to convince himself that this wasn’t a foregone conclusion, that he could get this over with quickly, prove the theory wrong (‘Please?!’) and be on his merry way, free to find Blaine and force that to work, but every second he hesitated, he noticed more and more things and they were the kinds of things that wreaked havoc with his resolve: the way random water droplets ran down the Neanderthal’s surprisingly solid chest; the way the flush from his cheeks ran down his powerful-looking neck and made that solid chest glow; the way that tiny towel so inadequately covered Karofsky’s aptly named “junk.”
Kurt was at an impasse, his fight-or-flight mechanisms sending conflicting messages to his feet and hands; unable to stand still, unwilling to move, Kurt kicked the nearest locker with all his might.
“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!!!”
Karofsky flinched, unsettling the towel as he did so, fumbling fingers pulling it tighter around his waist.
“Jesus, Hummel. Skip your Ritalin today?” The words were pure Karofsky, but the tone and the full-body flush said that Karofsky knew he was at a disadvantage. He looked like he desperately wanted to dress and get the hell outta Dodge, but was too afraid to move; fear for his ‘junk’ not withstanding, after Kurt’s sneak attack a month ago, Karofsky had to be wondering why Kurt was back again…
What am I doing?! This is crazy!!
He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. What was the point of this experiment again?
Was he hoping that when he kissed Karofsky today it would be different; he’d kiss the frog and it would stay a frog?
Or was there something in him that wanted to feel that…that way again?
Kurt was many things, things often in conflict with each other - dreamer, realist, obsessive/compulsive, pragmatist - but the backdrop against which all these other traits were set? Romantic. Kurt was a romantic. It was the OCD in him that wanted things perfect - the perfect moment, the perfect setting, the perfect boyfriend - but in the all-singing, all-dancing center of his heart - Kurt yearned for passion.
He wanted fireworks.
Bells ringing.
Jell-o knees.
But did he want that so badly he would risk life, limb, and a broken nose (or arm) to get it?
He was 17 years old. Wasn’t he just too young to be yearning for that kind of passion?
So what if Karofsky’s lips were the best thing since oil-free moisturizer and made Blaine Warbler’s seem but cold copies by comparison? So what if those big hands of his made you feel like you were being held fast for a reason as opposed to being held at a distance? So what if when Karofsky finally stopped back-pedaling he was more in that exact moment than anyone else Kurt had ever known, including Blaine?
And so what if Kurt could feel his knees getting weak all the way across the room?
Of course, Karofsky was getting none of the benefit of all this reflective internal monologue; he looked like he was about to bolt, potentially exposed junk be damned.
“You’re really starting to freak me out, Hummel. W-what the fuck are you doing here?!” Karofsky’s voice broke, the sound breaking Kurt’s inner impasse, re-routing the current from his useless brain, down to his feet, advancing him a step toward Karofsky.
“I think you know why I’m here, Karofsky.” Kurt’s voice was as low as he could muster, managing to sound dead serious despite its supernaturally high timbre, perhaps more so because of it.
“No…no, I don’t, Hummel,” he said vehemently and Kurt had no doubt Karofsky wanted to believe that.
That’s all right. You can hang on to that delusion for a little longer…
“Look, I saw you, Karofsky,” Kurt said, mind’s eye running through the vision of that big body, shaking in his rear view mirror, simultaneously waving frantically, struggling into a shirt, and stumbling down the stairs. “I know what pissed-off looks like on that big, dumb face of yours and that is not what it looked like that day.”
“And what day is that, Hummel?” It was an attempt at nonchalance, but being half-naked, bright red, and backed up against the wall, as it were, he just ended up looking like the scared little boy he was.
It was almost endearing, heartbreaking, really, and because of it, and the affect it was having on Kurt’s Mad, which was softening now at the edges, Kurt dialed back his tone.
What would have been shouted - shock value to aid that repeat kiss - was instead said in an almost whisper.
“The day I burst in here and kissed you.”
Forehead creasing, Karofsky started shaking his head, clearly not sure what to do with himself. “So, what - you--you think because I ran after you that I wanted you to,” he glanced to the hallway exit, his voice pinching off to a whisper as his head dipped lower. “…to kiss me.”
Yes, that’s exactly what I think…
Kurt had never been more sure of anything in his life.
“No, David,” Kurt said softly, a calm certainty overtaking him. “I knew it from the way you held on to me, your hands on my face and your fingers in my hair.” Eyes still fixed to Karofsky’s, he took a step closer. “I knew it from that little sound you made in the back of your throat.” Another step. “I knew it from the way you slipped your tongue into my mouth and the way you whimpered when I touched it with mine.” He was aware that his face was blazing as he took the last step. “And I knew it from the way your heart was hammering in your chest…because it was hammering as hard as mine was.”
Karofsky was dead silent, eyes not wavering from Kurt’s for a single moment, and as Kurt moved closer, the air between them hummed.
All at once, it was as if some epiphany were taking place inside David, his pinched face relaxing, worry leeching away into the air; Karofsky had stopped back-pedaling… His calm and certainty seemed to direct him as he closed the gap between them; nodding almost imperceptibly, he took the lapels of Kurt’s Dalton blazer and he drew Kurt to him.
Neither was surprised and nothing was stolen this time, but it was no less passionate.
It was the first time they had both knowingly, willingly done this - no sneak attacks, no surprises, no resistance - and their combined want made for a breathless display. Dave moaned in surrender as Kurt grabbed his face, slipping his fingers into Dave’s hair, curls soft and still damp, lips leaving frantic kisses on David’s open mouth, his jaw line, his bared throat. With a keening sigh - of relief, of release, of sheer joy - David slid his arms around Kurt’s slender back, molding Kurt’s body against his. Kurt felt himself enveloped by the heat of that big body, and the rhythm of Dave’s heart, hammering like a piston against his ribcage, sped his own.
Whoa…fireworks and ringing bells…
This was no generic Hollywood-screen kiss, no unisex, one-kiss-fits-all mashing together of lips on lips. This was something that could only exist between them, as improbable as it might have seemed, as much as they’d both denied it, fought it, struggled to forget it.
Once David crossed that line, allowed himself to accept what he was feeling, he gave himself over completely to it; he devoured Kurt, over swept him like the tide and all Kurt could do was hold on and try to match David, fury for fury. That it surpassed every other kiss in his research including their previous one, took Kurt quite by surprise. If he had thought himself ruined for all other kisses after David’s first feverish attempt, how would he ever go on now?
It was everything all those others, mere shadows of kisses, hadn’t been.
David’s lips and tongue were in constant, breathless motion; Kurt shivered as Dave’s tongue traced the lines of his neck, his teeth gently pulling at Kurt’s lower lip, his earlobe, the jut of his chin, and when Kurt thought he would melt, when he was aching for it, desperate for it, David’s lips were on his again, the kiss so deep Kurt forgot to breathe.
Unbelievably, endearingly, it was David’s knees that gave way first.
Kurt felt him buckle, felt Dave shift against the lockers and tighten his arms around Kurt’s back to steady himself, then use the wall of metal to guide them down. Kurt slid with him, partly to keep from breaking the kiss, partly because he had his own case of Jello-knees, until they were both kneeling, still holding on for dear life.
Panting, Dave pulled away.
“What…what are you doing to me,” he breathed, his forehead against Kurt’s as they both fought for air.
“I could ask you the same question,” Kurt responded, with only a hint of his usual snark. “I might also point out that you…” he broke off, punctuating the statement with a gentle poke at the bare skin of Dave’s chest, “started it that time wh-”
He didn’t get to finish because Dave was kissing him again, hands to Kurt’s face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
Sighing, Kurt leaned hard into him. He was on the verge of losing himself entirely to the sensation when certain realities became painfully clear: David’s towel seemed to be getting smaller…and someone could walk in on them at any moment.
Pulling away with an effort, a hand on that broad chest, he rested his forehead against Dave’s again, panted, “locker room!” then looked away quickly when he realized where he was looking - and that he was staring.
Whoa…
David seemed to come back to himself all at once, a hand back on the towel, eyes to the locker room door, face redder than red.
“We should…” he whispered breathlessly.
“Y-yeah,” Kurt finished for him. He stood shakily then with a hint of chivalry offered David a hand, which David, with surprising grace, took.
“Later…o-okay,” David rasped out, turned abruptly back to his locker and rifling through its contents, ostensibly to retrieve his clothing, but Kurt noticed he kept pulling things out and putting them back in, as though he couldn’t decide what he wanted to wear, which was ridiculous, because, well, one sports jersey pretty much looked like another, right? It wasn’t until Dave accidentally brushed his hips against the locker door and noticeably winced, that Kurt remembered.
Kurt wanted to touch him - in sympathy, in guilty complicity (‘thank god for long sweaters!’) - but didn’t think that was the best idea. He’d either make it worse, or loose control and want to make it…um, better… This was neither the time nor the place for that.
Despite what Dalton Academy’s gay population was no doubt thinking right now, Kurt wasn’t actually that kind of boy anyway…
“Well, I’ll…uh, I’ll talk to you later, then,” he said, as lightly as he could manage.
Dave nodded quickly without turning around and Kurt, now feeling like a total simp, played with the hem of his sweater a moment longer, then turned for the door.
“Okay, then… Bye…”
Am I really getting all goopy over Dave Karofsky?
He was almost out the door when Dave called after him.
“K-Kurt?”
The voice was so plaintive, it stopped Kurt dead in his tracks. He spun on his heel, barely suppressing the urge to grin like a fool.
He found Dave still turned away from him, but pivoted around on a surprisingly limber waist to look back towards him.
“Uh-huh?”
“I…um, if we’re gonna talk later…” He wide face was flushed again and there was the hint of a smile on his lips.
The affect was quite…arresting. Kurt realized he’d never actually seen Dave Karofsky smile before - not when it didn’t mean a slushie or a locker slam - and he shivered, awed by the effect it was having, not just on Dave’s aura, but on his own.
“Yes?” Kurt prompted Dave to continue with his traditional raised eyebrows, but it was the giddy toe-bounce that was a dead give-away and he struggled to calm it down.
“…I kinda need your phone number.” The smile had escaped his mouth to crinkle the corners of his eyes, but he was clearly trying to rein it in. Failing, but trying, which was also utterly endearing.
I can’t believe this is the same person…
Snagging a marker from the play board, Kurt grabbed Dave’s hand and carefully wrote his number down, then, deciding that evil was way more fun, he looked up sharply, caught Dave’s eye, and bent to blow the ink on Dave’s palm dry, grinning when he saw Dave swallow visibly.
With that, he was out the door and in the hallway.
A spring in his step and a song in his heart…
He laughed out loud.
Dave Karofsky?
Really?
And then he remembered the feeling of those strong hands in his hair, the heat of Dave’s lips on his neck, the way the big jock shivered when Kurt ran his hands over Dave’s smooth chest, and he laughed again.
Really.
Really-really.
In some tiny, more rational part of Kurt’s brain, he knew he still had some heavy thinking ahead of him. At least one of his inner voices (he seemed to have several) seemed incapable of uttering the name “Dave Karofsky” without slapping a question mark immediately after it, but for the time being, anyway, his heart was in control and his heart was singing (and telling the rest of him to shut the hell up) and what with the bells and the fireworks - and the violins (he wasn’t expecting the strings section!), he just couldn’t focus on anything else.
And so Kurt’s experiment had been a failure, but on the plus side, it would appear he had a boyfriend…
fini?