Fic: I'm Fierce and I'm Feeling Mighty
Title: I'm Fierce and I'm Feeling Mighty
Author: louie x
Pairing: Kurt/Others
Word count: 1954
Rating: R
Summary: Sometimes validation can be found in the unlikeliest of places, wearing the unlikeliest of garments. Or hell, sometimes what a person needs is a hoard of leatherdaddies.
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Glee, nothing of the characters, it's all owned by proper copywrite holding companies and people. I'm just poking my finger into their delectable pie of wonderfulness.
A/N: HI GLEE, YOU CHEEKY MINX, I KIND OF MISSED YOU! I fully place the blame of this on this Rolling Stone picture yes you know the one :) Title is from 'Aphrodite' by Kylie Minogue.
A fake ID.
It's akin to being handed a platinum credit card, all of a sudden doors previously locked tight open, and opportunities arise.
Kurt used his pull both with the remaining footballers that still talked to him -hello, won games thanks to the high kicks that would make a Rockette jealous- and his more active Cheerio contacts, the laminated plastic is as good as heaven light in his opinion. Even though he has some terrible fake name -really, does he look like a Gregory? - It declares him to be a perky twenty-two as opposed to anything else that might raise eyebrows.
It's kind of cute how Finn gets awkwardly protective of him. They've been talking a bit more regularly since the whole 'faggy decor' argument, both deciding that Kurt was too important to freak out about but Finn was cool as long as Kurt kept himself cool. So, of course, that mean Kurt had to seek out distractions. Finn and his mother were under the same roof and mixing housing with emotional agida was only going to make him break out.
Kurt needs something else to focus on.
Who knew Ohio could actually handle a few instances of fun and excitement? Sure it involved a bit of driving, a bit of espionage sneaking his way around to Mercedes' house where he claimed a sleepover with her and Quinn and the new baby, but his dad would forgive him for the little white lies that kept Kurt sane. He just had to, otherwise Kurt was going to wallow away in the basement Gray Gardens style and head wraps just make Kurt look even more like some porcelain doll than usual. The babushka effect aside, he doesn't need that imagery even lurking in his head as an option let alone a possible future for himself.
He drives for a little over half an hour, going out alone by himself. The club is a nondescript building that has a pleasant neon glow to the blackened windows. For the fiftieth time that night, he wonders if he shouldn't of taken Mercedes and Quinn with him -the blond having redeemed herself to be kind of fantastic under his sexy lady's tutelage- because he is otherwise alone here.
Exhaling out his stress, he drives in, parks his car, and makes sure he has his ID tucked into his trouser pocket. Catching his reflection in the blacked out windows, Kurt wonders if he's gone too chic for a place that -god as soon as he walks in he almost runs out- is a straight up leather bar. Men, real men, stand about talking in huddles or dancing to the ambient pulsing sound of something that might be the new Kylie CD.
All eyes are on him and Kurt bites his lower lip. Chin up, he tells himself. Tilting his head back and putting on his best heroin chic model face, Kurt strides confidently to the bar. The man behind it walks right over to him; all smooth smiles beneath his short gray tinted almost army cut shaved short hair and his scruffy beard. He looks like a Pan from some Greek play in history class and Kurt sees his reflection behind the bar (cheeks flushed, skin pale, god he looks like a seven year old boy). Arguing against the tension in his stomach, the newness of the place, he orders an appletini.
The man just smiles and nods his head, eyes obviously taking their time in checking Kurt out before he goes to make the ordered drink. Kurt glances around and notices it's not just the bartender whose attention seems rather, ah, fixated. So used to those stares being ones of a threat, ones declaring a soon come trip to the dumpster or worse yet a fist in the gut or ripped clothes, Kurt feels waves of nerves bounce around in his body. His hands shake so he keeps them on his knees under the lip of the bar.
Returning with his bright green drink, the bartender just flashes him a sleepy sort of smile. "You're going to be eaten alive here, kid," he warns. Kurt's brows fly up, alarmed of course, but the bartender just laughs and leans in closer. His voice is low, this husk that declares him a MAN and not the boys that Kurt is usually surrounded by. "Just look around you," he says, furthering his point.
Kurt does risk a darting glance over his shoulder. Men wearing little more than leather pants and chest-bearing vests are all taking their time just checking him out. Men in tee shirts, in denim, in the clichéd biker gang sort of attire and Kurt admits he's a bit scared.
The bartender touches his arm, fingers brushing over the expensive material of his sweater. "Trust me, kid, you'll like it," and Kurt declares this man his fairy godfather without further ado.
The drink goes to his head relatively quickly. He probably should have taken more time in throwing it back but nerves plus the heady weight of the eyes upon his back required artificial courage. The second and third drinks are bought by admirers.
That's right. Admirers. People -MEN- who wanted to get to know Kurt better because they thought he was beautiful and pristine, something to both rough up and put away wet while placing on a shelf to keep his white shoes from getting even the hint of a scuff upon them. He knows this much because the purchasers of said drinks sent their regards. One who said enough things to make Kurt's face hurt from how dark he was blushing, and the other making his stomach flutter at suddenly being the bell of the ball. If one could call a leather bar a ballroom; but to-may-to, to-mah-to, eye of the beholder and all that crap.
Kurt dances with a few of them. Well, more like Kurt is the well-dressed meat between men that Kurt is confident could lift him up with one hand without breaking a sweat.
He hears Sue's voice somewhere in his head, questioning if he'd ever kissed a boy or a girl before. He remembers the sweet taste of Brittany's lip-gloss and how she kissed softly but confidently. Kurt decides that, while he can blame it on the drink making the world that wonderful place it's become, to take some action for the sake of proving -not only Sue wrong- but a point to himself. He grabs the nearest, youngest looking guy and digs his hands into the flimsy undershirt the man is wearing while standing on tip-toe in order to kiss him. Their mouths miss at first and Kurt tastes the skin of the corner of his lips, the vaguely rough feel of stubble against his moisturized lips, and how the man laughs softly.
By the end of the night, Kurt has had more hands than he can count palming his ass or just downright smacking the red material to hear the crack of the impact. Sure, it might make him squirm in his seat tomorrow, but let everyone wonder just why the school's resident queen can't sit still. His sweater is draped over a light fixture behind the bar and his short-sleeved collared shirt clings to him in the way that seems to inspire arms to wrap around his waist to pull him close.
Phone numbers are written in pen up his left arm, various names beside numbers while words are whispered into his ears of just what might be promised to him. A man who looks old enough to be that Wilfred Brimley man from those diabetes commercials extended a particularly lurid offer that involved all sorts of knots and acts of bondage that Kurt just about fell over trying to imagine.
His fairy godfather fends off a few people when they get too handsy with little more than a shout of his loud voice. Kurt thanks him by getting onto the bar, stepping around drinks and streaks of condensation, and treats them to a song that brought him such amazing self-indulging catharsis. Rose's Turn has always been a favorite, a proper pacing, tossing around the room sort of release; but these men cheer and scream like Kurt is Cher putting on a one-night special performance. They adore him and Kurt's never felt more alive, more like himself, than taking a polite bow before a crowd of overly enthused leather bears.
Two am, last call, comes sooner than Kurt would like. He's become almost painfully popular with the attendees of the establishment. So much so, that he's relatively certain he is more vodka than man by this point, and for the first time wonders how he's going to get home. His fairy godfather pats his shoulder and asks if he's okay to drive. Kurt tells him sure, but thinks the sound comes out in more of a hissing slur. The man smiles and pats, not ruffles, Kurt's hair.
He stands outside, waiting for a taxi while the others drift off toward the lot in the back where they parked their cars. Home again, home again, going back to whatever lives they have when not at the 'Silver Stallion'. Kurt asks him, leaning against the bartender with his head against the man's shoulder, if the bar is named after him. The taller man chuckles and says that yeah, it was an ex's idea but spoke so highly about his prowess that he never bothered to change it.
Carefully putting Kurt back into his sweater, the bartender checks Kurt's ID one last time. He quirks a brow and Kurt is proud he has enough wits about him to attempt to not look ashamed or suspicious. The man laughs again, an arm around Kurt's shoulders as the cab pulls up to collect him. Apparently the drunk-ride-home isn't a rare occurrence from the establishment, as the bartender even knows the driver who rolls down the window enough to call one another on a first name basis. Kurt thinks he should pay attention, remembering this nice man who sends him home rather than letting him drive but just happily hums out a soft thanks.
He stands on tiptoe to give the man a polite kiss that turns into something more -teeth and tongue and hands involved- against the side of the car. The driver clears his throat and says that kind of thing means he'll charge the bartender extra. "Jailbait means a ten-percent surcharge you know," he teases the other man.
Kurt redirects the man to Mercedes' house once they're on the road. He sneaks in the side-door, feet dragging and his head feeling heavy, but he knows where her family hides the spare key -under a rock that kind of looks like James Dean, amusingly enough- and walks up to her room. He doesn't even bother to take off his shoes, just tumbling into her bed but only has a moment before she shoves him out of it and turns the lights on. Her hands unfurl from defensive fists to a surprised flailing that ushers him back into the bed next to her.
Only now toeing off his shoes, does Kurt settle against her side with his cheek against her shoulder. She asks him a million and one questions, of course, to which he hopes his mumbling replies are enough to serve as answers. He doesn't want to think about school the next day, that the last few outfits he left at her house for himself weren't right for his giddy mood, or how he'll have to scrub his arm raw to get all the numbers off his skin.
He just smiles and kisses her cheek, promising to take her with him next time.
Author: louie x
Pairing: Kurt/Others
Word count: 1954
Rating: R
Summary: Sometimes validation can be found in the unlikeliest of places, wearing the unlikeliest of garments. Or hell, sometimes what a person needs is a hoard of leatherdaddies.
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Glee, nothing of the characters, it's all owned by proper copywrite holding companies and people. I'm just poking my finger into their delectable pie of wonderfulness.
A/N: HI GLEE, YOU CHEEKY MINX, I KIND OF MISSED YOU! I fully place the blame of this on this Rolling Stone picture yes you know the one :) Title is from 'Aphrodite' by Kylie Minogue.
A fake ID.
It's akin to being handed a platinum credit card, all of a sudden doors previously locked tight open, and opportunities arise.
Kurt used his pull both with the remaining footballers that still talked to him -hello, won games thanks to the high kicks that would make a Rockette jealous- and his more active Cheerio contacts, the laminated plastic is as good as heaven light in his opinion. Even though he has some terrible fake name -really, does he look like a Gregory? - It declares him to be a perky twenty-two as opposed to anything else that might raise eyebrows.
It's kind of cute how Finn gets awkwardly protective of him. They've been talking a bit more regularly since the whole 'faggy decor' argument, both deciding that Kurt was too important to freak out about but Finn was cool as long as Kurt kept himself cool. So, of course, that mean Kurt had to seek out distractions. Finn and his mother were under the same roof and mixing housing with emotional agida was only going to make him break out.
Kurt needs something else to focus on.
Who knew Ohio could actually handle a few instances of fun and excitement? Sure it involved a bit of driving, a bit of espionage sneaking his way around to Mercedes' house where he claimed a sleepover with her and Quinn and the new baby, but his dad would forgive him for the little white lies that kept Kurt sane. He just had to, otherwise Kurt was going to wallow away in the basement Gray Gardens style and head wraps just make Kurt look even more like some porcelain doll than usual. The babushka effect aside, he doesn't need that imagery even lurking in his head as an option let alone a possible future for himself.
He drives for a little over half an hour, going out alone by himself. The club is a nondescript building that has a pleasant neon glow to the blackened windows. For the fiftieth time that night, he wonders if he shouldn't of taken Mercedes and Quinn with him -the blond having redeemed herself to be kind of fantastic under his sexy lady's tutelage- because he is otherwise alone here.
Exhaling out his stress, he drives in, parks his car, and makes sure he has his ID tucked into his trouser pocket. Catching his reflection in the blacked out windows, Kurt wonders if he's gone too chic for a place that -god as soon as he walks in he almost runs out- is a straight up leather bar. Men, real men, stand about talking in huddles or dancing to the ambient pulsing sound of something that might be the new Kylie CD.
All eyes are on him and Kurt bites his lower lip. Chin up, he tells himself. Tilting his head back and putting on his best heroin chic model face, Kurt strides confidently to the bar. The man behind it walks right over to him; all smooth smiles beneath his short gray tinted almost army cut shaved short hair and his scruffy beard. He looks like a Pan from some Greek play in history class and Kurt sees his reflection behind the bar (cheeks flushed, skin pale, god he looks like a seven year old boy). Arguing against the tension in his stomach, the newness of the place, he orders an appletini.
The man just smiles and nods his head, eyes obviously taking their time in checking Kurt out before he goes to make the ordered drink. Kurt glances around and notices it's not just the bartender whose attention seems rather, ah, fixated. So used to those stares being ones of a threat, ones declaring a soon come trip to the dumpster or worse yet a fist in the gut or ripped clothes, Kurt feels waves of nerves bounce around in his body. His hands shake so he keeps them on his knees under the lip of the bar.
Returning with his bright green drink, the bartender just flashes him a sleepy sort of smile. "You're going to be eaten alive here, kid," he warns. Kurt's brows fly up, alarmed of course, but the bartender just laughs and leans in closer. His voice is low, this husk that declares him a MAN and not the boys that Kurt is usually surrounded by. "Just look around you," he says, furthering his point.
Kurt does risk a darting glance over his shoulder. Men wearing little more than leather pants and chest-bearing vests are all taking their time just checking him out. Men in tee shirts, in denim, in the clichéd biker gang sort of attire and Kurt admits he's a bit scared.
The bartender touches his arm, fingers brushing over the expensive material of his sweater. "Trust me, kid, you'll like it," and Kurt declares this man his fairy godfather without further ado.
The drink goes to his head relatively quickly. He probably should have taken more time in throwing it back but nerves plus the heady weight of the eyes upon his back required artificial courage. The second and third drinks are bought by admirers.
That's right. Admirers. People -MEN- who wanted to get to know Kurt better because they thought he was beautiful and pristine, something to both rough up and put away wet while placing on a shelf to keep his white shoes from getting even the hint of a scuff upon them. He knows this much because the purchasers of said drinks sent their regards. One who said enough things to make Kurt's face hurt from how dark he was blushing, and the other making his stomach flutter at suddenly being the bell of the ball. If one could call a leather bar a ballroom; but to-may-to, to-mah-to, eye of the beholder and all that crap.
Kurt dances with a few of them. Well, more like Kurt is the well-dressed meat between men that Kurt is confident could lift him up with one hand without breaking a sweat.
He hears Sue's voice somewhere in his head, questioning if he'd ever kissed a boy or a girl before. He remembers the sweet taste of Brittany's lip-gloss and how she kissed softly but confidently. Kurt decides that, while he can blame it on the drink making the world that wonderful place it's become, to take some action for the sake of proving -not only Sue wrong- but a point to himself. He grabs the nearest, youngest looking guy and digs his hands into the flimsy undershirt the man is wearing while standing on tip-toe in order to kiss him. Their mouths miss at first and Kurt tastes the skin of the corner of his lips, the vaguely rough feel of stubble against his moisturized lips, and how the man laughs softly.
By the end of the night, Kurt has had more hands than he can count palming his ass or just downright smacking the red material to hear the crack of the impact. Sure, it might make him squirm in his seat tomorrow, but let everyone wonder just why the school's resident queen can't sit still. His sweater is draped over a light fixture behind the bar and his short-sleeved collared shirt clings to him in the way that seems to inspire arms to wrap around his waist to pull him close.
Phone numbers are written in pen up his left arm, various names beside numbers while words are whispered into his ears of just what might be promised to him. A man who looks old enough to be that Wilfred Brimley man from those diabetes commercials extended a particularly lurid offer that involved all sorts of knots and acts of bondage that Kurt just about fell over trying to imagine.
His fairy godfather fends off a few people when they get too handsy with little more than a shout of his loud voice. Kurt thanks him by getting onto the bar, stepping around drinks and streaks of condensation, and treats them to a song that brought him such amazing self-indulging catharsis. Rose's Turn has always been a favorite, a proper pacing, tossing around the room sort of release; but these men cheer and scream like Kurt is Cher putting on a one-night special performance. They adore him and Kurt's never felt more alive, more like himself, than taking a polite bow before a crowd of overly enthused leather bears.
Two am, last call, comes sooner than Kurt would like. He's become almost painfully popular with the attendees of the establishment. So much so, that he's relatively certain he is more vodka than man by this point, and for the first time wonders how he's going to get home. His fairy godfather pats his shoulder and asks if he's okay to drive. Kurt tells him sure, but thinks the sound comes out in more of a hissing slur. The man smiles and pats, not ruffles, Kurt's hair.
He stands outside, waiting for a taxi while the others drift off toward the lot in the back where they parked their cars. Home again, home again, going back to whatever lives they have when not at the 'Silver Stallion'. Kurt asks him, leaning against the bartender with his head against the man's shoulder, if the bar is named after him. The taller man chuckles and says that yeah, it was an ex's idea but spoke so highly about his prowess that he never bothered to change it.
Carefully putting Kurt back into his sweater, the bartender checks Kurt's ID one last time. He quirks a brow and Kurt is proud he has enough wits about him to attempt to not look ashamed or suspicious. The man laughs again, an arm around Kurt's shoulders as the cab pulls up to collect him. Apparently the drunk-ride-home isn't a rare occurrence from the establishment, as the bartender even knows the driver who rolls down the window enough to call one another on a first name basis. Kurt thinks he should pay attention, remembering this nice man who sends him home rather than letting him drive but just happily hums out a soft thanks.
He stands on tiptoe to give the man a polite kiss that turns into something more -teeth and tongue and hands involved- against the side of the car. The driver clears his throat and says that kind of thing means he'll charge the bartender extra. "Jailbait means a ten-percent surcharge you know," he teases the other man.
Kurt redirects the man to Mercedes' house once they're on the road. He sneaks in the side-door, feet dragging and his head feeling heavy, but he knows where her family hides the spare key -under a rock that kind of looks like James Dean, amusingly enough- and walks up to her room. He doesn't even bother to take off his shoes, just tumbling into her bed but only has a moment before she shoves him out of it and turns the lights on. Her hands unfurl from defensive fists to a surprised flailing that ushers him back into the bed next to her.
Only now toeing off his shoes, does Kurt settle against her side with his cheek against her shoulder. She asks him a million and one questions, of course, to which he hopes his mumbling replies are enough to serve as answers. He doesn't want to think about school the next day, that the last few outfits he left at her house for himself weren't right for his giddy mood, or how he'll have to scrub his arm raw to get all the numbers off his skin.
He just smiles and kisses her cheek, promising to take her with him next time.