finefoxyladies: Did I stop?  No I just drove by. (Yo VIP Let's Kick It)
[personal profile] finefoxyladies

Their truce began in the summer, when Kurt returned from Dalton for break. He stopped by the Karofsky residence two or three days after arriving back home, his private school uniform replaced by his grease-monkey coveralls from the tire store.

Dave Karofsky answered the door, and his face underwent a series of transparent emotions in the span of three seconds: surprise, relief, suspicion, surprise again (after taking in the coveralls). His opening volley was an absolutely charming "What do you want?"

Kurt rolled several etiquette tips dipped in vinegar over in his mind before settling on his original plan to attempt to be supportive and kind. "I heard. I heard you came out and it was a huge mess, and that you quit the football team. I thought maybe, over the summer, I could..." and here was where Kurt ran into the wall he'd run into time and again when planning this visit: he didn't want to be friends with Karofsky exactly, and he wasn't exactly mentor material. He just...

"...I was thinking about your expression when we were all in the principal's office, about how maybe..." He looked at Karofsky, who looked puzzled and impatient. "Oh, never mind. Forget it." Descending the steps, he called over his shoulder, "And I still want that cake topper back."


Kurt was surprised when, three days later, the doorbell rang and his father came down the stairs into the basement with a concerned-yet-pissed off expression on his face. "Kurt, Dave Karofsky is here to see you."

Kurt looked up from Carol's copy--okay, Carol's copy purchased with his support and enthusiasm--of Us Weekly and said, "Really?"

Burt squinted, came down two more steps with a sort of thundering paternal emphasis, and said, "Really...did you go to his house this week? Alone?"

Closing the magazine reluctantly--he'd finally reached the Fashion Police section--Kurt said, "Yes. I thought I'd...reach out. He came out of the closet and..."

"Kurt, after all that happened last year? Are you out of your damn mind?" Concern was giving way to righteous parental grandstanding, and despite Kurt's own hesitations, he went in strong.

"Dad, you don't understand what it's..."

Wrong choice. "Don't understand? Don't understand? He threatened you more than once. He threatened to kill you."

"Dad, calm down, your heart..."

"'My heart' bullshit. Now you listen to me: we are both going up there and you are going to tell that boy that while you forgive him, you're not going to see him anymore. And don't roll your eyes at me either. Sometimes, kid, you are a mystery to me."

Kurt sighed petulantly, threw his magazine aside, and trudged up the stairs in front of his seething dad.

By the time they reached the front door, Karofsky was long gone, replaced by a porcelain cake topper.


There were several rounds of "You're out of your damn mind" vs. "You don't understand" at the Hummel household that evening, which covered two floors of the house and at least the entire yard in volume. Carol tried her smiling best to bring the Hummel men to see reason, but Kurt now felt cornered into being high on his own virtuousness and Burt had (in Kurt's opinion) descended into protective papa-bear madness and would not be deterred from making a huge Romeo-and-Juliet case out of something that really didn't deserve it.

Saying things like "huge Romeo-and-Juliet case out of something that really didn't deserve it" did not help matters. Burt's ensuing apoplexy forced Kurt into his final round of basement-door-slamming-and-locking.

It was a good thing Finn was at Quinn's house "playing Scrabble" (read: probably something disgusting). He probably would have made things worse by innocently and dopily admitting that it was he who had informed Kurt of the whole Karofsky incident in the first place.


Though eventually matters with his dad reached a sort of I-love-you-but-you're-so-frustrating-and-my-way-or-the-highway truce over the weekend, Kurt did not feel compelled to tell his dad he was going over to the Karofsky residence again. In fact, he lied about where he was going (to see Rachel after her rehearsal for the Lima Community Players production of Hello Dolly) (Kurt was still angry he missed out on auditions and still needed some time to sulk before taking Rachel up on her kind-hearted offer). He assured himself it was for both his own good as well as his father's own good.

Mostly his own good. He hated fighting with his dad and clearly Burt had no intention from budging from his position any time soon.

Karofsky was in the yard, trudging behind a push mower, looking just like any other teen boy who'd been asked, then forced to do yard work: peevish and sullen. Kurt alighted from his Explorer and Dave hit the kill switch and snapped off his ear protectors. "What now?"

Somewhere, Kurt thought, Dorothy Parker's spirit was drinking a gimlet and drolly lamenting the missing member of her Algonquin Round Table. Jesus.

"Sorry about a few days ago," Kurt gritted, thinking of what Mercedes would say about Christian charity (then willfully ignoring what Mercedes had said about how Karofsky was getting what he deserved and how Karofsky was reaping as many Slushies as he sowed).

Karofsky shrugged. "You wanted it back. Now you have it back." He began to put the ear protectors back on and Kurt impatiently swatted them aside.

"While I appreciate this whole macho act you have going, bravo, et cetera, I don't have to use much imagination to know how hard it has been at school."

In response, Karofsky flung the ear protectors across the yard. Kurt thought to himself that Burt Hummel's lecture about how to treat tools and equipment would have come in handy right about now. "See, Hummel, that's where you're wrong. It's different for me. Your friends don't mind because they're all girls. All my friends were guys, guys who care about stuff like that, guys who don't think it's cute that I want to suck face with other guys. I lost everything. And my parents have these embarrassing supportive conversations with me that start off sounding nice and usually end with them wondering out loud if they should have had me take t-ball instead of ice skating when I was five."

Kurt listened in wonderment. It was the most words he'd ever heard Karofsky string together. He was so lost in the basic premise of Karofsky talking to him and being honest that Karofsky took the silence as an opportunity to snarl, "Now go away and leave me alone. I'm not a fucking charity case."

"I know you're..."

"And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was mean to you and pushed you around and creeped you out." The apology sounded sincere enough but for the volume level. The phrase "creeped you out," in particular, was stumbled over uncomfortably, which gave Kurt some hope for Karofsky's self-awareness and accountability.

Kurt shifted, unclasped his hands and committed to words about which he felt very ambivalent, despite anything he'd said to his dad: "Apology accepted." Then he added more honestly, "And I don't think you're a charity case. I just thought we could...talk...from time to time."

Looking out across the yard, squinting to locate the ear protectors, Karofsky said, "Just not at your house, right?"

Kurt half-smiled, half-grimaced. "I'm working on it."


That night, at home, Kurt received an e-mail from Blaine, who was spending the summer at some kind of Dalton summer camp/reunion of alumnae who had graduated thing. While they'd generally left the term as occasional makeout friends, Blaine didn't seem very interested in committing to any terms. Kurt's heart had been torn between wanting to appear cosmopolitan and carefree and what he really wanted, which is to call someone, particularly Blaine, boyfriend.

The e-mail was, basically, a kind and indirect break-up of a relationship that had never had a name and had never progressed beyond first base (well, there'd been some rounding the bases to second, if second for guys was shirts off and trying to get hands south of the equator, but he'd been tagged out every time) (boy, his dad would appreciate that he was thinking of all of this in baseball metaphors...maybe). Blaine had met an older boy and said that while he'd had fun during the school year, he wanted to return after the summer and be "just friends again" at school. Then there was a paragraph dedicated to said older boy and how mature he was, which was all the proof Kurt needed to know that shirts and pants had probably come off on a regular basis.

Naturally, Kurt was angry and disappointed, but it also felt like a little bit of a relief. While he liked Blaine, and he truly, truly wanted to get Blaine's shirt off or touch him, it hadn't been the fireworks factory Kurt had been expecting with a guy as cute-hot as that.

He indulged in a little crying, sighed, then dug around under his bed for the vintage beefcake mags April Rhodes had bequeathed him over a year ago. They weren't nearly as fun anymore, but hey, it was a Friday night and it was either this or touching himself inappropriately while watching a Mad Men rerun, which seems like an affront to the fine writers of Mad Men (but a rightful compliment to Jon Hamm, especially when he was in one of those white undershirts).


The next time he saw Karofsky, it was unplanned: they were both at the library and Kurt was, embarrassingly enough, returning a stack of Carol's Harlequin Romances (along with his dad's slightly less embarrassing General Norman Schwarzkopf autobiography). Karofsky was spinning a carousel of CDs disinterestedly.

"If you're looking for a musical, I can guarantee you I have them all." It was meant to be a little icebreaker or a joke, but it only made Karofsky frown darkly. "Kidding."

They stood together in silence for several moment, Kurt looking at Karofsky, Karofsky looking at the ground. Kurt tried again. "If you're bored, you could come over. My room is probably a little more entertaining than the Lima Public Library."

He quickly added, "My dad is at work until 6:00."

Karofsky shrugged. Kurt rolled his eyes, thought "We're back to this then?" to himself, and the two of them left the library.


Kurt set his iPod to a playlist he only half-ironically named CW Recommends, threw himself into one of his chairs, and let Karofsky wander around his bedroom. He was trying to feign a casual demeanor, but Kurt felt his skin prickling a little, both from guilt--sadly, his father's voice was never gone for too long from his own internal monologue--and from general nervousness of being alone in his own personal space with Karofsky, who had not said a word since they departed from the library together.

When Karofsky finally spoke, Kurt had cracked the pages of one of Santana's old Cosmos--they were, despite Tina's disapproving lectures about Bitch and Jezebel, tremendously educational--it was not anything he'd anticipated.

"When did you know?"

Yikes. Kurt was half-tempted to play dumb and shoot back, "Know what?" but he knew what Karofsky meant by "know." "Well...probably when I was watching Power Rangers mostly because I wanted to marry Jason Lee Scott."

"Which one was he?"

"The Red Ranger...the original Red Ranger."

"Oh."

Now Kurt was genuinely curious. "When did you know?"

The silence that followed passed from the thoughtful zone into the uncomfortable realization zone after what Kurt estimated was 45 seconds. "Never..."

"Do you remember that we had gym class together? In fifth grade?"

Kurt squinted at the past...which is, of course, what Karofsky saw when he turned to look at him from across the room for the first time that day. "I don't..."

"Yeah. Well."

Kurt swallowed, and it felt like the sound the gallon of saliva made filled the room. Without intending too, he thought about the sound Karofsky made when he kissed him, how it was the whimper of someone who'd been waiting quietly in suffering his whole life for that kiss.

As always, Kurt blushed. He did, however, manage to not touch his lips, which his fingers were itching to do for some reason.

When he looked up again, Karofsky was sitting on the couch a yard or two away, paging through magazines with a look of mild disgust on his face. Whether it was for the magazines or himself and his veiled admission, Kurt wasn't sure.

"I can go upstairs and grab my dad's Sports Illustrateds or ESPN Magazines. He's got, like, a million of them."

"Nah, I really want to know if Ryan Reynolds and Sandra Bullock are engaged."

Kurt smiled at the sarcasm in Karofsky's voice, but found he was grinding his back teeth a little as he did so. "Those aren't mine. They're my stepmother's."

"Right. And these are her Post-Its with alternate smart-ass comments here?" He flipped the magazine around to display Kurt's carefully arranged bon mots.

Kurt's blush flared up again. "Shut up."

Karofsky looked down at the magazine and began working his way backwards to the Ryan/Sandra article and smiled. "You shut up."


The next time, Karofsky brought his own iPod. With earbuds. Kurt half-heartedly offered to play it so that they both could hear it, but Karofsky politely (for him) declined. Kurt was sure to have the latest sports magazines downstairs this time around (along with an older one with Albert Pujols on the cover, because, frankly, Kurt really liked to look at Albert Pujols; he'd dug that particular issue out of the recycling several times), and Karofsky went right to them. Kurt chose not to participate in periodical review this time around, instead leafing through sheet music he'd acquired for Hello Dolly and sorrowfully thinking of how great he and Rachel would have sounded singing "It Only Takes a Moment," pointedly ignoring that he would have to kiss Rachel at the end of the song.

"I really am sorry."

This apology, as unexpected as the Big Question About When You Knew You Were Gay, was quiet, not loud, and truly regretful. Kurt felt the remorse through to his toes.

Kurt looked up. Karofsky had popped out only one earbud and was still looking at an ESPN Magazine, if only to not make eye contact with Kurt.

But Kurt was determined to be brave, and he kept watching Karofsky until Karofsky looked up with anxiety and what appeared to be a glimmer of moisture in his eyes.

And this time, Kurt almost entirely completely meant it when he said, "I know you are. I forgive you."

Karofsky nodded, looked back down at the magazine, sniffed a few times. Kurt returned to his brooding over the lost opportunity to be Cornelius


They watched WALL-E together the next time. Or Kurt watched WALL-E while Karofsky half-read magazines, half-watched WALL-E when the action scenes kicked in.

As the last round of "It Only Takes a Moment" kicked in, Kurt regretfully and bitterly said, "I should be singing this right now with Rachel Berry...which is a sentence I never thought I'd hear myself say, by the way."

"I went to that with my parents." Kurt was surprised that Karofsky did not say "What the hell?" which would have been a perfectly acceptable reaction to Kurt's non sequitur.

"Hello Dolly? Here in town?"

"Yeah." Karofsky flipped a page, but looked at Kurt out of the corner of his eye. "It sucked. The guy playing...that guy...not WALL-E, but the guy with the straw hat...forgot the words half-way into the song. Rachel Berry looked like she was going to murder him."

Kurt found himself unable to contain a smug smile. "That bad?"

Karofsky smirked a little and said, "Yup" in a bitchy-yet-butch overemphasized way that made Kurt snicker.

Onscreen, EVE and WALL-E held hands.


Karofsky discovered the GQ by accident. Kurt imagined he discarded it carelessly among the other magazines on the couch.

Kurt didn't really notice the attention Karofsky was giving it since their time together was usually not overly chatty. But the lack of page flipping became evident after about 15 minutes. Kurt leaned over from his US Weekly--he'd given up pretending and asked Carol to get a subscription--to see what had arrested his attention.

Oh, of course: the Dolce & Gabbana boys.

It was one of the usual ads: a mix of underwear models and vacant live-boy mannequins modeling suits. The one in the center of the photo was a tall, carelessly handsome type with blue eyes, puffy lips, and a swooping, carefully stacked coiffure.

At the risk of flattering himself, Kurt thought, that boy sure does have a type.

"You can take that home with you," he said kindly. "I'm done with it."

"Yeah?" Karofsky said with an alarming degree of excitement that he dialed back when he repeated, "Yeah?" a second time.

Kurt felt benevolent. Of course, it was easy to feel benevolent when the Albert Pujols Sports Illustrated was safely tucked away under his mattress with the April Rhodes Collection.


Later in the evening, after Karofsky went home, Kurt's mindset changed from benevolent to something more unfocused and confused. As he sat with Carol, Finn, and his dad at dinner, his mind kept wandering to Karofsky, at home with the Dolce & Gabbana boys, having what amounted to a self-hosted gay orgy. As he moved a tomato wedge back and forth and listlessly participated in his family's chit-chat, he thought about Karofsky's fixed attention. He wondered if Karofsky would wait until lights out before furtively reopening the pages, or if he--like any teen boy--immediately went home and locked himself in the bathroom.

He didn't know why he was so preoccupied with the idea, but after lights out in the Hummel household, with the idea of Karofsky, his hand slicked with lotion, furiously jerking off to the magazine that had almost exclusively been used to search out fashion trends, Kurt had a furtive private moment of his own under his comforter that night.


And in the shower the next morning.


Karofsky didn't come over again for several days. Then he and his dad and Carol and Finn went on a weekend trip to Cleveland to see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

On Monday, Kurt waited impatiently for Karofsky until lunchtime, then visited his dad at the tire store and helped out for the rest of the day. Burt was puzzled by Kurt's churlish attitude, but accepted it, and Kurt's unfocused, barely helpful help without comment.

On Tuesday, Kurt ate breakfast and said he was going to the mall for the day with Mercedes; instead, he hopped in his SUV and drove over to the Karofsky residence.

Kurt had himself wound pretty tight with righteous indignation by the time he reached the screen door. He had a speech prepared about how he hoped Dave and his newly adopted glossy gay polygamous collective would be very happy together and that he hoped they all enjoyed his scintillating conversation. He pounded his fist against the door the way his dad had done on his bedroom door numerous times throughout the course of his preteen and teen years.

Karofsky opened the door, took in Kurt's pinched mouth and glowing, butane-flame eyes, and said, "Hey."

Kurt flattened his eyebrows and leaned against the door. "Hey?" he snotted.

The ensuing silence made Kurt realize how awkward it may have been for Karofsky to hang out all alone in secret with (again, not to flatter himself too much) a living embodiment of Teen GQ Dolce & Gabbana. And then as Karofsky picked his eyes up off his shoes and looked at Kurt a second time, his pupils started to slowly dilate. Kurt felt like the waves of aggravation and expectation may have clued Karofsky in to how Kurt had occupied his time lately.

The blushing started. In particular, Kurt replayed the fourth time he'd masturbated to the idea of Karofsky and that magazine, where Kurt had put himself physically in the room, watching from the doorway.

"Okay. So. Good seeing you. I have to go." Kurt readjusted his briefcase, turned on his heel, and marched down the sidewalk. He heard Karofsky call, "Hummel! Get back here!"

The burr of frustration in Karofsky's voice stirred something in Kurt's guts as he turned the ignition and peeled out.


Kurt turned it over in his head that night (and managed to avoid self-abuse, feeling someone should throw a parade in his honor for his self-restraint).

Slowly, he began to formulate a plan.


The plan hadn't quite come together before Karofsky came around midweek. But Kurt was fine with that, because Karofsky made him feel better by having a insolent scene of his own.

"What is your problem?" Kurt was grateful that football practice had started again; otherwise, this would have made for an awkward post-breakfast scene with him and Karofsky and Finn.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kurt replied. He heard himself be both prissy and unconvincing.

Karofsky was temporarily derailed. A miracle, thought Kurt. His dad or Finn or Mercedes would have pounced on that in a minute.

"But," Kurt started helpful, "if you mean the scene at your house the other day where I knocked like a spazz and then drove away, I suppose my problem is that you stopped visiting the minute you got to have your way with my GQ."

Karofsky blushed an immediate brick red. Kurt fought a smile but basked in the feeling of satisfaction for a moment or two before continuing. "I at least hope you had the decency to move along to the Armani ad. It's so much more tasteful."

Mottled and increasingly miserable-looking, Karofsky sputtered, "I don't know why you care. We barely even hang out. I just take up space in your house when your dad isn't around."

That arrow wasn't a bull's-eye, but it landed somewhere on the target. "I thought we were...getting along."

"Well, we're not friends, and I'm not a project, so I'll get your stupid fucking magazine so you can go back to your little lair and..."

Kurt grabbed his wrist, spent several seconds being distracted by the way Dave's chest was heaving under his tee shirt, then said, "We can talk more. I just kind of thought you didn't..." Kurt paused to discard his original ending of "...have anything to say" and reversed course. "I got used to having you around. I liked it."

Mentally, he added, "Also, I am ridiculous and am jealous of a magazine." Then "Oh, my God, I jerked off thinking about you. That's an awkward shift in circumstance, right?"

Karofsky was looking at Kurt's hand. Kurt watched as Karofsky's other arm twitched. His fingers brushed against Kurt's other hand for a millisecond, and Kurt's heart started hammering like...a hammer.

"Why did you cover for me? That day with Figgins and Mr. Schuester and...your dad?"

Unexpected depth and internal monologue: that seemed to be Karofsky through and through.

"Um, I guess...I don't know, you looked at me and it was like...I just remember feeling that way about my dad...knowing. And even though you had been a total creep, it wouldn't have been right to do it that way...out you to your parents then when you weren't ready."

Another millisecond of fingers brushing his other wrist happened. Kurt found himself licking his lips, which was perverse.

"I can give you the magazine back." Karofsky was leaning forward slightly. Kurt, temporarily forgetting the elaborate plan, started to lean forward too.

But the plan won out. "I don't want it. Thanks anyway." He swallowed hard and tried to access some kind of airy, cluelessly self-involved impression of Rachel Berry (or, if he was brutally honest, himself). "Besides, I find the upcoming fall lines really boring. And did you read that piece on Kanye West? Sooooo over."

Karofsky froze a bit in puzzlement, then tipped himself back outside onto the front step. "I think Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is awesome."

Kurt dropped his wrist. "Also, I like to think of my room as a salon, not a lair."

Rolling his eyes, Karofsky said, "I bet you do: the Enlightenment by way of US Weekly."

Momentarily taken aback by this sudden burst of European history from a guy he used to think was second to Finn in brain-cell count, Kurt sniped, "What is it with you and US Weekly? They have the best red carpet coverage and...stop rolling your eyes."

They shared a moment of amiable silence, which faded into a muted buzzing aura of hormones and portent.

"Well, I'd better go. My dad thinks I'm picking up milk and eggs." Karofsky's hand slid down the door frame, and Kurt could barely feel his legs for a moment.

"Okay. Nice...seeing you." He thought about, then thought better of, adding, "Enjoy the magazine."


Kurt had never snuck out before. It felt very much like a parody of adolescence, but in the way he had laid out his plan, this needed a certain amount of dramatic impact to work, and playing it out during one of the regular midday visit to Kurt's salon-lair wouldn't have the same effect.

He parked his SUV a few blocks from the Karofsky residence and made his way out in front of the house. He called Karofsky's cell (they had traded numbers about two weeks into their summer truce but had never ever texted or called one another).

Dave picked up after three rings with a confused "Hello?"

"I'm outside. Where is your bedroom?" God bless the boring-ass architect who invented ranch-style homes, Kurt thought to himself.

"What? Outside the house now?"

"Yes. Open your window so I can get in."

There was a pause. "My room is pretty trashed."

Kurt tapped his foot against the pavement impatiently. "I'll keep my comments to myself. I promise."

Across the lawn, he heard a latch snap and a window and screen slide open and headed around the side of the house to where Karofsky's arm waved to him.

Kurt grabbed hold and stepped into the room, careful to protect the work of art that was his hair.

By the weak light given off by a bedside lamp, Karofsky took in a fully composed Teen GQ model: carefully tailored suit, skinny tie, polished shoes and (though Karofsky couldn't see it yet) one of three pairs of Dolce & Gabbana underwear that Kurt Hummel owned.

After giving Dave a moment to run his eyes up, down, and over him several times, Kurt meticulously picked his way across the teenage wasteland of Karofsky's room and casually model-leaned back on the bed, allowing himself time to look at Bedtime Dave: washed face, close-cropped Brillo hair slightly askew, blue tee and cotton pajama pants.

Whispering furiously, Dave asked the most rational question: "What are you doing here? Looking like that?"

It had taken Kurt some time to work out an answer in his mind over the past week that was casually clever and seductive yet not too hoity-toity. But looking at Dave's biceps, then his thin cotton pants, then his biceps again had him a little turned around. So what Kurt managed to verbalize was "I want to do...stuff."

It was comforting to know that at Kurt's most awkward and stupid, Karofsky not only understood him, but reacted in a non-stupid manner: he cleared the collection of litter on his bedroom floor in two long strides--I guess when you lay the landmines, you know the landscape, Kurt thought judgmentally--and stood in front of Kurt, put his hand out and said, "You've got to go home. Your dad will be so pissed if he finds out, and I'm pretty sure this time around he will kick my ass for real."

"He won't miss me. My lair is a basement, remember?"

Kurt could make out that now-familiar brick-red flush creeping across Karofsky's face. Casually clever and seductive: check and mate.

He added, for good measure, though his bravado faded out at the end of the sentence: "Now stop whispering at me and do something."

Dave dropped his hand and then, to Kurt's surprise, dropped to his knees in front of him. Then he looked thoughtful for a moment, rose, walked to his bedroom door, locked it, and dropped to his knees again.

Then he slowly began to untie Kurt's left shoe. All the moisture in Kurt's mouth evaporated. His heart began to jackhammer and though he'd paid very little attention in his anatomy class, he was sure that somehow it had kicked into reverse mode and sent all the blood directly into his penis.

The right shoe was next, followed by a sock. Karofsky took Kurt's foot in one hand and caressed it, moved his fingers gently along the arch and back in an excruciatingly soothing pattern. Then after hypnotic seconds of the impromptu foot massage, those fingers snaked up under his trouser leg and slid along the fine hairs on his shin.

"Could I...have a drink of water?" Kurt murmured hoarsely. Karofsky jerked his thumb at the bedside table. Kurt took that as a sign he could drain the entire glass, which he started to do, but when Karofsky put his mouth around Kurt's big toe, he gagged and started coughing.

"Shhhhhhhhh!" Karofsky said, which sort of killed the mood.

"Sorry!" Kurt whispered. "But Jesus, are you trying to kill me?"

Karofsky looked first at Kurt's face, then at the crotch of Kurt's trousers, which were dramatically tented. As Kurt tried to finish his spluttering as silently as possible into his fist, Karofsky chose that moment to start undoing Kurt's belt.

It began to dawn on Kurt, in that moment, that this was really happening. He was taking his first very wobbly, no-longer-according-to-plan steps into Teenage Sex.

Karofsky looked terrified. Then he set the belt aside and unzipped Kurt's pants.

"Be careful. These are really, really expensive." Kurt's admonishment was strangled by the sensation of cool, climate-controlled air hitting his bare legs.

Terror was replaced by a sort of weary resignation that Kurt found amusing and sort of insulting at the same time. "Yes, Hummel, I'll be careful with your pants."

"And take my other sock off. I look ridiculous."

Karofsky looked from Kurt's black briefs to his sock and said, damn him, with an air of truly casually clever seductiveness (well, of the more obvious, less sophisticated variety), "You look fine to me."

Then, to continue showing off, Karofsky stripped the left sock, grabbed both of Kurt's ankles, and pulled him swiftly to the edge of the bed, putting Kurt flat on his back and unable to see the goings-on.

But who needs to see, thought Kurt, when you can hear the snap of the elastic band of your underwear folding down and feel the wet warmth of someone taking your hard-on into his mouth?

Santana's Cosmos always had helpful tips about blowjobs, but Kurt ruminated on Puck's unoriginal declaration that there is no such thing as a bad blowjob. Especially when it's your first, and the boy giving it to you has very recently brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth with some kind of tingly alcohol-based mouthwash. The bed creaked, Karofsky's mouth made truly lewd noises that Kurt swore everyone in the house must hear (except Karofsky had the radio on and, oh God, was that Delilah?! Please don't let her play a Celine Dion song while I'm getting a BJ, Kurt offered up to the music gods).

After a minute or so of generally awesome oral sex, Karofsky ran the tip of his tongue over the head of Kurt's penis, though, and, unprepared, Kurt bucked, emitting a stifled gasp-moan.

Karofsky's head popped into view for a moment and rather than glowering and shushing, as Kurt expected, he looked like the cat who ate the canary (no pun intended) (seriously).

Using Kurt's knees, he pulled him further over the edge of the bed, and Kurt propped himself up on his elbows and watched as Dave wrapped his hand around the base of Kurt's dick and duplicated his earlier tongue movement.

Kurt put a bare leg over Dave's shoulder, arched his back, and bit his lip.

And so it went, until after about eight or nine rounds of that game, Kurt began to make frantic staccato word noises: "I'm...it's...I can't...Jesus...help." He hoped that was enough notice that he was going to orgasm, which he did with what felt like a ferocity that was going to throw out at least one of his hips.

He flattened out on the bed, exhausted, and heard as Dave rustled around on his (disgusting) bedroom floor. There was the sound of a screw-top bottle opening and then an obscene spitting noise.

"I can't believe you're listening to Delilah," Kurt whispered, his arm over his eyes.

"Sometimes the stories are good," Dave said as he laid back beside Kurt. "Was that your first?"

"Yes. Hopefully not my last." Kurt felt Dave moving closer, then his hand in his hair.

There was a pause. "Uck. Jesus, what is this stuff?"

"Um, sculpting wax?" Kurt uncovered his eyes and found Dave looking at his hand with a sort of morbid distaste. "It's very high-quality and very expensive."

"And very gross. Oh, and your head is on my comforter. Great."

"I'll have you know that all the top stylists...oh, you know what? Never mind. Shut up about it. Like you have room to talk when you have God-knows-what kind of landfill going on in here."

Dave grabbed his arm playfully and shook him, whispering, "I thought you weren't going to say anything."

"I wasn't until you.." A mock struggle broke out for several seconds until their laughter started peaking beyond whisper levels. They spent a moment or two looking at each other. Then Kurt leaned over and kissed Dave square on the mouth.

That spurred a sort of silent battle of wills for who was going to be on top, which Kurt handily won as the individual who did not currently have a sensitive and massive hard-on that could be manipulated by a degree of squeezing and brisk rubbing.

"Take your shirt off," Kurt demanded.

Self-consciousness lit up Karofsky's features like an angst-powered lantern. "Why?"

"What do you mean why?"

Oh. The "chubby boys" comment.

Kurt rolled off and urged Dave to sit up. "Come on," he said. "I know you have chest hair. I want to see it."

He watched as an internal debate raged, but he won the day again.

And he was right: chest hair. Enough to tug on. Which he did.

"Ow," Karofsky said matter-of-factly.

Kurt gave him a scathing look meant to infer something about "ow" and lockers, which Karofsky was bright enough to pick up on. But Kurt didn't tug again, as much as he wanted to. Instead he laid his palms flat and ran a course over Dave's pectorals, brushing against the hard nubs of his nipples (which elicited quite the reaction) and then down over the treasure trail leading down into the waistband of Dave's pajama pants.

"Your hands are so soft," Karofsky said, unknowingly echoing Brittany.

"Moisturizer. We can do that some time when you visit." Kurt's hand wrapped around Dave. He stroked him a few times, thought to himself, then pulled his hand out.

Karofsky's eyes grew large with terrified frustration and watched as Kurt gathered all the saliva and residual wetness from his own dick and transferred it back underneath Dave's waistband.

"That's better," Kurt said, with the air of an inventor or a genius.

He worked that way for a while but grew frustrated with the resistance offered by the waistband and Dave's underwear, so together, they peeled both articles back and halfway down his thighs.

When Dave's face started to mottle and got a spectacular brick-red glow, Kurt grabbed a portion of sheet and held it over as Dave released with several deep, punctuating sighs.

Kurt laid back in the crook of Dave's arm--and if he didn't like the feeling of sculpting wax on his skin, he just had to lump it--and said, "I thought about you doing that. Jerking off."

"With your magazine, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I did." Karofsky started chuckling, and the bounce of his bicep against Kurt's face was glorious. "A lot."

Kurt smiled and as the laughter died down, he began to feel so tired. It was, after all, more physical activity than he'd had all summer.

Karofsky pulled his pants and shorts up, then murmured, "You can't sleep here, Hummel. You have to go."

WIth what he hoped was charming grumpiness, Kurt said, "Fine," and stood to put on the lower half of his outfit. As he bent over to grab his shoes and socks, Karofsky playfully and lightly slapped him on the ass.

"Don't start something you can't finish," Kurt started to say, but Karofsky's mouth cut him off. There was an earthy taste above the oral hygiene mintiness that Kurt realized was him tasting the remnants of the blow job. Also, he'd probably never be able to watch Giada on Food Network with Carol ever again without laughing himself stupid over the adjective "earthy."

They made out for a frenzied minute or so, then Kurt made his way back out the window.

"See you tomorrow?" he whispered up at Karofsky.

Before he clicked the screen into place, Dave whispered back, "Yup."
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