Pilgrim - Glee - Karofsky/Kurt
Title: Pilgrim
Pairing: Karofsky/Kurt (gen-ish)
Word Count: 1836
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Consensual violence
A/N: Written for the "penance/punishment" square of my kink_bingo card.
Summary: Karofsky thinks that he deserves anything he has coming to him.
"You should hit me," Karofsky says, leaning against the hood of his car. His large fists are buried in the pockets of his jeans, and his shoulders hunch in like a shield. He won't look up. "It'd be right. Fair."
"You think punching you once is enough to make up for everything you've done?" Kurt asks. He looks up at Karofsky, standing at his side against the car. The rest of the lot is empty, carpeted with the trash that follows a high school football game. Streetlamps light their faces, a dull orange glow.
"I don't know." Karofsky shrugs. "You can do it more than once if you want."
"Karofsky," Kurt says, like a disappointed school-master. Karofsky's head hangs low. "It wouldn't help. Punching things isn't the answer: I thought we'd been over that already."
"I know, yeah." He scuffs his shoe against the ground, sending gravel skimming over to the kerb. "I thought it might make you feel better."
"Right." Kurt's eyes narrow and his head tilts; it's the kind of body language that usually means that Karofsky is about to get in trouble. "Is this about you?"
"What?"
"Do you want me to do it?" Kurt asks curiously. "Is that what this is about?"
"I've earned it, haven't I?"
Kurt gives a half-hum that isn't any kind of answer at all. "I know that you feel bad," he says. "You don't need to prove it."
Karofsky heaves a shrug, and looks away to his left across the empty lot. "Just an idea," he mutters. "Forget I said anything."
"I didn't say I wouldn't do it," Kurt says. "I just wanted to be clear. It's not for me."
Karofsky swallows. His tongue feels too large for his mouth; all of a sudden, the air around him is too hot and humid. "Yeah, we're clear," he says.
His heart races. He doesn't know what they're doing, but before he can try to work it out Kurt pushes himself away from the car. He flexes his arms, slim muscle under a bright yellow jacket, and Karofsky thinks, Probably couldn't even squash a fly...
Seconds later, Kurt's fist slams into his jaw and the metallic tang of blood floods through his mouth. Pain follows after a moment of numb delay. His hand shoots up to his jaw, cradling it. "Jesus Christ," he shouts - but shouting's not a good idea. It makes it worse.
Kurt shakes his hand, fingers outstretched, as if shaking away the pain of impact. His jaw is clenched into a tight line.
Karofsky presses his fingers against the tender side of his face, prodding at the area that will blossom into a dark bruise come morning. It feels hot beneath his fingertips.
"How was that?" Kurt asks. "Was that okay?"
"Where the hell did you learn to punch like that?" Karofsky can hear the punch-drunk slur in his words. His teeth feel like they are rattling around in his skull.
"My dad," Kurt says. "He thought I needed to know how to defend myself."
And, shit, he definitely can. Throwing a punch like that in the school corridors might have been enough to stop everyone in their tracks. More likely, Karofsky reflects, it would have gotten him beaten down by the entire team, a group of fists designed to put the little 'fag' back in his place.
Kurt places his hands on his hips and looks up at Karofsky, his eyes clear and bright as he watches him recover. "I'm going to go home now," Kurt says. "Are you okay?"
Karofsky gives a half-shrug, because he's not going to admit that his face hurts like hell; and he won't confess that it's made the tightness in his chest release, just a fraction.
*
"Oh, David," his dad sighs at the sight of the new bruise, peering at him over the top of his newspaper. "I told you already: no more fighting."
"I know, Dad," he says. "I'm sorry."
He can't stop touching it as he makes his way through dinner, small prods and pushes to make the ache return. It's sweeter than he could imagine.
He wonders, secretly, when he might get to wear another.
*
When he asks - and isn't that humiliating, having to ask, having to beg, having to put himself out there for inspection - Kurt says he'll meet him in the parking lot after his glee practice. Karofsky spends the rest of the day more distracted than usual, staring out of windows and missing most of what is said in class. The bruise on his face has almost faded by now. He misses it.
He stays in the shadows as Hudson, Berry and the others drift away from the school. They're laughing and humming together, and the sound of it grates on Karofsky's ears. They sound good, and he hates it; he hates that they sound happier in this forgettable moment than he has felt at any point in his entire life. The melodrama of it all threatens to swallow him whole.
Kurt exits late, and comes to join him. Every step seems to make him bob on his feet, like he's skipping through a montage or moments away from breaking into a musical number.
"I wasn't sure if you were gonna come," Karofsky admits, embarrassed while Kurt scrutinises him under the electric glow of the street lighting.
Kurt shrugs with just one shoulder. "You asked," he says, like it's really that simple.
It's not; nothing ever is, not for him, but Kurt makes him think that maybe it could be. Kurt nods his head and gestures for Karofsky to follow him. He never really thinks twice about doing so, trudging in Kurt's wake like a tug-boat. He feels like a clumsy, loping giant next to Kurt.
They end up behind the dumpster, and Kurt checks one more time that Karofsky is sure about what they're doing before he makes a single move.
When he does move, it's like trying to keep track of lighting: his fist thumps into Karofsky's jaw quicker than he can track, causing fireworks to explode over the old nearly-healed bruise. The air thuds from his chest with a groan and he bends over, hand to his face.
Kurt pauses, checks if he's alright, asks if he wants another.
And, god, he does. His cock is already getting hard in his pants - would've been hard just from Kurt's company, never mind anything else - but it's not supposed to be like this. It's not supposed to be about him and his stupid-ass dick. It's supposed to hurt; it's supposed to rip him to shreds.
"Please," he says, head bowed.
There's no time to reconsider. Kurt gets him in the stomach this time, forcing the air from his body. Karofsky folds over and retches, tumbling to his knees. The tarmac is cold and hard beneath him, but he's hardly aware of anything other than the throbbing pain in his belly.
Kurt kneels down beside him, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. "Karofsky?" he says. "Dave? Are you alright?"
His name, his first name, it never sounds right coming from Kurt; he doesn't deserve to hear it. He doesn't deserve to have Kurt look at him as anything other than a monster.
Yet Kurt's hands are so gentle, so careful, as Kurt helps to ease him around into a sitting position. He brushes the backs of his fingers against Karofsky's cheeks, and with horror Karofsky realises that there are tears there, honest-to-god tears.
"Shit," he mutters. Kurt has seen him crying once already; too many times.
Kurt sits down beside him, both of them resting on the kerb next to the goddamn school dumpster, with Karofsky weeping like a kid with a stubbed toe. He feels like an idiot; he feels like he's dragging Kurt down with him. Again.
Soft lips touch his temple, light as a cloud, and Kurt runs his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Karofsky's neck. His eyes swim with sympathy: it's too much, all of it.
"I think you need someone to help you," Kurt says. He wraps his arms around his legs, pulling them to his chest, and rests his cheek on his knees. "And I don't think it should be me."
"I'm fine," Karofsky says, like he always does. Any second now, Kurt's gonna start telling him how much better life would be if he would just come out; he's heard it before. It's still bullshit.
"You got me to punch you because you feel so bad." Kurt smiles, and it's the sharpest thing that Karofsky has ever seen, as dangerous as jagged diamonds. "I'm so screwed up that I actually went along with it. I mean, god."
"Kurt - " Karofsky sighs, and shakes his head. His face and his stomach throb with a dull ache that will linger for days to come. He lowers his head to look at his hands, because he can't say this if he's looking at Kurt; he's bared himself to him too many times already. "You're really good to me." Out loud, it doesn't sound like as big of a confession as it feels.
Kurt mock-punches his arm, an echo of what he can really do. "Someone has to be, right?"
It's not true. Nobody has to be; he doesn't deserve it, not after everything he's done, but Kurt, fucking Kurt, is too much of a saint to even hate him. He can't stand it. He wants Kurt to rip him to pieces and leave him bleeding, too damaged to function. He wants Kurt to destroy him.
Maybe he has.
Whatever he was, whatever he used to be, that person is gone now. That's Kurt's fault. He killed who Karofsky used to be.
He still doesn't know how to thank him for that.
"C'mon," Kurt says, nudging his shoulder before he gets to his feet. He holds out a hand to help Karofsky get up too, but he doesn't keep holding it after he's up. Karofsky isn't stupid enough to delude himself into thinking that anything's going to happen here, ever, but -
It's enough. Kurt, his friendship and his care, it's more than enough. Walking, bruised and aching, at Kurt's side is like a pilgrimage: Karofsky has always been told that the world is brighter on the other side of high school.
If he can get his head together, maybe he's even going to survive long enough to find that out for himself.
Pairing: Karofsky/Kurt (gen-ish)
Word Count: 1836
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Consensual violence
A/N: Written for the "penance/punishment" square of my kink_bingo card.
Summary: Karofsky thinks that he deserves anything he has coming to him.
"You should hit me," Karofsky says, leaning against the hood of his car. His large fists are buried in the pockets of his jeans, and his shoulders hunch in like a shield. He won't look up. "It'd be right. Fair."
"You think punching you once is enough to make up for everything you've done?" Kurt asks. He looks up at Karofsky, standing at his side against the car. The rest of the lot is empty, carpeted with the trash that follows a high school football game. Streetlamps light their faces, a dull orange glow.
"I don't know." Karofsky shrugs. "You can do it more than once if you want."
"Karofsky," Kurt says, like a disappointed school-master. Karofsky's head hangs low. "It wouldn't help. Punching things isn't the answer: I thought we'd been over that already."
"I know, yeah." He scuffs his shoe against the ground, sending gravel skimming over to the kerb. "I thought it might make you feel better."
"Right." Kurt's eyes narrow and his head tilts; it's the kind of body language that usually means that Karofsky is about to get in trouble. "Is this about you?"
"What?"
"Do you want me to do it?" Kurt asks curiously. "Is that what this is about?"
"I've earned it, haven't I?"
Kurt gives a half-hum that isn't any kind of answer at all. "I know that you feel bad," he says. "You don't need to prove it."
Karofsky heaves a shrug, and looks away to his left across the empty lot. "Just an idea," he mutters. "Forget I said anything."
"I didn't say I wouldn't do it," Kurt says. "I just wanted to be clear. It's not for me."
Karofsky swallows. His tongue feels too large for his mouth; all of a sudden, the air around him is too hot and humid. "Yeah, we're clear," he says.
His heart races. He doesn't know what they're doing, but before he can try to work it out Kurt pushes himself away from the car. He flexes his arms, slim muscle under a bright yellow jacket, and Karofsky thinks, Probably couldn't even squash a fly...
Seconds later, Kurt's fist slams into his jaw and the metallic tang of blood floods through his mouth. Pain follows after a moment of numb delay. His hand shoots up to his jaw, cradling it. "Jesus Christ," he shouts - but shouting's not a good idea. It makes it worse.
Kurt shakes his hand, fingers outstretched, as if shaking away the pain of impact. His jaw is clenched into a tight line.
Karofsky presses his fingers against the tender side of his face, prodding at the area that will blossom into a dark bruise come morning. It feels hot beneath his fingertips.
"How was that?" Kurt asks. "Was that okay?"
"Where the hell did you learn to punch like that?" Karofsky can hear the punch-drunk slur in his words. His teeth feel like they are rattling around in his skull.
"My dad," Kurt says. "He thought I needed to know how to defend myself."
And, shit, he definitely can. Throwing a punch like that in the school corridors might have been enough to stop everyone in their tracks. More likely, Karofsky reflects, it would have gotten him beaten down by the entire team, a group of fists designed to put the little 'fag' back in his place.
Kurt places his hands on his hips and looks up at Karofsky, his eyes clear and bright as he watches him recover. "I'm going to go home now," Kurt says. "Are you okay?"
Karofsky gives a half-shrug, because he's not going to admit that his face hurts like hell; and he won't confess that it's made the tightness in his chest release, just a fraction.
*
"Oh, David," his dad sighs at the sight of the new bruise, peering at him over the top of his newspaper. "I told you already: no more fighting."
"I know, Dad," he says. "I'm sorry."
He can't stop touching it as he makes his way through dinner, small prods and pushes to make the ache return. It's sweeter than he could imagine.
He wonders, secretly, when he might get to wear another.
*
When he asks - and isn't that humiliating, having to ask, having to beg, having to put himself out there for inspection - Kurt says he'll meet him in the parking lot after his glee practice. Karofsky spends the rest of the day more distracted than usual, staring out of windows and missing most of what is said in class. The bruise on his face has almost faded by now. He misses it.
He stays in the shadows as Hudson, Berry and the others drift away from the school. They're laughing and humming together, and the sound of it grates on Karofsky's ears. They sound good, and he hates it; he hates that they sound happier in this forgettable moment than he has felt at any point in his entire life. The melodrama of it all threatens to swallow him whole.
Kurt exits late, and comes to join him. Every step seems to make him bob on his feet, like he's skipping through a montage or moments away from breaking into a musical number.
"I wasn't sure if you were gonna come," Karofsky admits, embarrassed while Kurt scrutinises him under the electric glow of the street lighting.
Kurt shrugs with just one shoulder. "You asked," he says, like it's really that simple.
It's not; nothing ever is, not for him, but Kurt makes him think that maybe it could be. Kurt nods his head and gestures for Karofsky to follow him. He never really thinks twice about doing so, trudging in Kurt's wake like a tug-boat. He feels like a clumsy, loping giant next to Kurt.
They end up behind the dumpster, and Kurt checks one more time that Karofsky is sure about what they're doing before he makes a single move.
When he does move, it's like trying to keep track of lighting: his fist thumps into Karofsky's jaw quicker than he can track, causing fireworks to explode over the old nearly-healed bruise. The air thuds from his chest with a groan and he bends over, hand to his face.
Kurt pauses, checks if he's alright, asks if he wants another.
And, god, he does. His cock is already getting hard in his pants - would've been hard just from Kurt's company, never mind anything else - but it's not supposed to be like this. It's not supposed to be about him and his stupid-ass dick. It's supposed to hurt; it's supposed to rip him to shreds.
"Please," he says, head bowed.
There's no time to reconsider. Kurt gets him in the stomach this time, forcing the air from his body. Karofsky folds over and retches, tumbling to his knees. The tarmac is cold and hard beneath him, but he's hardly aware of anything other than the throbbing pain in his belly.
Kurt kneels down beside him, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. "Karofsky?" he says. "Dave? Are you alright?"
His name, his first name, it never sounds right coming from Kurt; he doesn't deserve to hear it. He doesn't deserve to have Kurt look at him as anything other than a monster.
Yet Kurt's hands are so gentle, so careful, as Kurt helps to ease him around into a sitting position. He brushes the backs of his fingers against Karofsky's cheeks, and with horror Karofsky realises that there are tears there, honest-to-god tears.
"Shit," he mutters. Kurt has seen him crying once already; too many times.
Kurt sits down beside him, both of them resting on the kerb next to the goddamn school dumpster, with Karofsky weeping like a kid with a stubbed toe. He feels like an idiot; he feels like he's dragging Kurt down with him. Again.
Soft lips touch his temple, light as a cloud, and Kurt runs his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Karofsky's neck. His eyes swim with sympathy: it's too much, all of it.
"I think you need someone to help you," Kurt says. He wraps his arms around his legs, pulling them to his chest, and rests his cheek on his knees. "And I don't think it should be me."
"I'm fine," Karofsky says, like he always does. Any second now, Kurt's gonna start telling him how much better life would be if he would just come out; he's heard it before. It's still bullshit.
"You got me to punch you because you feel so bad." Kurt smiles, and it's the sharpest thing that Karofsky has ever seen, as dangerous as jagged diamonds. "I'm so screwed up that I actually went along with it. I mean, god."
"Kurt - " Karofsky sighs, and shakes his head. His face and his stomach throb with a dull ache that will linger for days to come. He lowers his head to look at his hands, because he can't say this if he's looking at Kurt; he's bared himself to him too many times already. "You're really good to me." Out loud, it doesn't sound like as big of a confession as it feels.
Kurt mock-punches his arm, an echo of what he can really do. "Someone has to be, right?"
It's not true. Nobody has to be; he doesn't deserve it, not after everything he's done, but Kurt, fucking Kurt, is too much of a saint to even hate him. He can't stand it. He wants Kurt to rip him to pieces and leave him bleeding, too damaged to function. He wants Kurt to destroy him.
Maybe he has.
Whatever he was, whatever he used to be, that person is gone now. That's Kurt's fault. He killed who Karofsky used to be.
He still doesn't know how to thank him for that.
"C'mon," Kurt says, nudging his shoulder before he gets to his feet. He holds out a hand to help Karofsky get up too, but he doesn't keep holding it after he's up. Karofsky isn't stupid enough to delude himself into thinking that anything's going to happen here, ever, but -
It's enough. Kurt, his friendship and his care, it's more than enough. Walking, bruised and aching, at Kurt's side is like a pilgrimage: Karofsky has always been told that the world is brighter on the other side of high school.
If he can get his head together, maybe he's even going to survive long enough to find that out for himself.