nakeno: Still no title?
recrudescence: Inertial Propulsion
nakeno: I love you.
recrudescence: It works well enough.
recrudescence: Inertia is rather sexy...
nakeno: You always come up with titles that everyone else has to look up.
recrudescence: Everyone has their fallbacks. =)
nakeno: "I'll give you a title that you can't possibly comprehend! To dictionary.com, bitches!"
recrudescence: Inertia! Everyone knows inertia!
nakeno: I'm. kidding.
So, yeah. Watch my next fic have a title like Malacissation or Torpescence or something.
Title: Dynamic Tension
Pairing: Sam/Kurt, Sam/Quinn
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 2,875
Summary: Sam's all about comfort clothing, especially now that he doesn't have to wear a school uniform every single day.
Notes: Spoilers for 2.05. Inspired by a prompt from the glee_kink_meme about Kurt defiling Sam's costume.
There's this thing. And it's weird, because Sam can't figure out what it is, exactly. He didn't think twice about that Kurt kid barging in on him in the shower—all-male boarding school instills an impressive tolerance for disregarding personal space—but now that they're in rehearsal, it's like he's been clubbed over the head by an entire Pride parade.
It's even stranger because Kurt's wearing a raggedy suit, a bald cap, and has his face done up to look like he's been dead and buried for a month. He's writhing around with a feather duster in his hand. And Sam can't keep his eyes off him.
He remembers Quinn waving in front of his face and asking if he was stoned. He also remembers thinking that it would be totally in keeping with his new, cooler persona to say something suave and witty, but instead he'd just blinked at her and shaken his head. She'd drummed her neatly painted nails against his forehead and retorted, “Then why are you acting like you can't even hear me?” and he thinks he said something about his costume cutting off the circulation to his brain.
Which. Lame. Just plain lame.
She'd sighed and made some comment along the lines of what costume?, but she'd been smiling a little too. Sam's been noticing Quinn doesn't seem to mind it when he's lame. Not too much.
Kurt has a costume. A whole lot of costume, in fact. So Sam sort of figures he's jealous of that, and besides, it's freaking cold in the auditorium and here he is sitting backstage in nothing but what amounts a C3P0-themed full-body Speedo. And a little stage makeup. He doesn't know where this school finds these clothes and he doesn't want to ask.
If he can just get through the rest of the rehearsal, he can put some pants on and go home. Tomorrow, once everyone's dressed like regular people again, it'll all be smoothed over. No big deal.
It's almost half an hour later before he gets the chance. The shorts feel stupidly tight and Brittany kept telling him to hold still so she could check her reflection in his shirt, which was way weirder than anything else. Including him sneaking glances at Kurt, who was in pants at least as tight as his own shorts, not that Sam had been looking that closely. Or if he had been, it was only because he didn't see how Kurt could dance in them without any adverse effects whatsoever.
Because something else he's discovered about his shorts is that they rub.
Rachel's the one who gave them to him. She came across them in the drama club's costume closet when she was hunting for a Janet dress and thought they'd be perfect, and since she'd already taken them home and washed them and seemed so pleased with herself about it, he couldn't say no. Finn would hear about it if he did, anyway, and Sam's in no hurry to face another one of Finn's bizarre confrontations. Finn might just clap him on the back and tell him ugly shorts are part of a Glee Club rite of passage.
They're a little smaller than the kind of shorts he's used to wearing in public. Sam's all about comfort clothing, especially now that he doesn't have to wear a school uniform every single day. The waistband digs in and the front doesn't have enough give and he feels like his dick is on display even though he's got briefs underneath, but that's still annoying because he's normally a boxers guy.
The shirt, he got from Mike, who didn't elaborate.
When he skids into the bathroom to change, he doesn't expect company. The other guys' costumes are normal enough that all they have to do is nix a few accessories, grab their jackets, and hightail it home. Except Kurt. Of course. Even Kurt wouldn't want to be seen in public wearing full Riff Raff regalia, regardless of the fact that it actually works for him pretty well.
So of course Kurt's there. Riff Raff regalia and everything. Just standing by the sinks, an assortment of packets and bottles open in front of him on the counter. He's bending in towards his reflection and the only thing he's taken off is the jacket, which means the long coattails aren't in the way anymore and Sam has a very, very good view of just how closely those pants cling to his legs and ass.
Sam's staring. He knows it. And he'd stop if he could remember how to do anything else, like say hi.
“You've been staring at me,” says Kurt, and that snaps him out of it so effectively it's almost like dislocating his brain. Definitely preferable to dislocating his shoulder, but also more embarrassing.
“Sorry, man, I didn't mean—“
“You've been staring. At me.” The almost-pout on Kurt's face looks particularly odd with his half-removed makeup.
Sam sets his backpack on the floor with a thud. “I said I was sorry. It won't happen again, okay?” He goes about yanking the shiny tank top over his head and Kurt's watching him in the mirror, kind of guardedly, like he's waiting to see if Sam flips at him. He doesn't. Sam works out, thinks he takes pretty decent care of himself, and things like this just mean he's doing a good job.
But Kurt doesn't seem upset. “If I'd spent the last hour gaping at you like that, it would've been grounds for a restraining order. So I hear.” Sighing, dabbing the makeup off one of his eyebrows. “It must be nice, being in the closet where you can salivate in any guy's general direction and not have them think anything of it.”
“Come on, there was not saliva involved. Or a closet.”
And he's about to try and play the whole thing off by claiming if there was any drooling, it was only because he's been watching what he eats on account of having to wear that stupid shirt and those even stupider shorts. But then Kurt looks at him with one kohl-ringed eye and one clean one. It's like Sam can see the real person peeking out of the character. “How unfortunate.”
Sam has nothing to say to that, lame or not. He crouches to riffle through his bag for a normal shirt, which basically means he's on eye level with Kurt's ass. Should he choose to look at it. He doesn't.
“So,” Kurt says, “speaking of saliva, how are things with Quinn?”
It's not the best segue in the world, but he'll take it.
“Fine. She's great.” He's dating a girl who looks breathtaking to begin with and just so happens to be involved with extracurricular activities that have some pretty hot uniforms. It's kind of cool. If it weren't for Kurt and his physics-defying pants, he would've been giving Quinn and her maid ensemble his full attention. “Why?”
Kurt shrugs. There's eyeliner or something smudged in the hollow of his throat and under his collarbones, deepening the shadows there. Which is cool, in a creepy way, and yet another thing Sam's eyes keep returning to. “No reason. She's a big fan of celibacy and we've all seen what happens when she gets with guys who don't share the same values.” He starts undoing his tie. “You're staring at me again.”
He is. Sam shuffles in towards the mirror, shirt in hand, and pretends to pay extra close attention to smoothing down his hair. “Yeah. About that.” He doesn't plan on just bursting out the question that's been nagging at him all through rehearsal, but it happens anyway. “How do you even walk in pants that tight? They're not, like, leggings in disguise, right?”
Kurt looks pleased, smiling genuinely through his Riff Raff facade. “It's all about knowing one's measurements and which fabrics blend, breathe, and move the best. And never, ever accepting sartorial suggestions from Rachel Berry.”
He touches Sam's C3P0 shorts of doom, grimacing, and Sam's breath hisses in. “These? Are polyester nylon horribleness of the clearance-bin variety. They don't breathe, they don't flatter, and they're probably incredibly flammable.”
He's looking at Sam expectantly, but Sam has no clue what kind of answer he's supposed to give, not while Kurt's hand is still on his thigh and that gold cloth is a little too taut for comfort. “...thank you?”
“That's saying something, since I find it very difficult to believe there are many things that look unflattering on you.” He sounds shy. It's nothing at all like the way he'd been when he was twirling and contorting onstage. His teeth glance over his bottom lip, and Sam can't help noticing that his mouth is very pink and very close. “So. You're welcome.”
And if he's hard, it's not from being touched over the clothes by a boy. Not exclusively, anyway. It's from wearing clothes that are a little too tight and from having a hand veryvery close to where he's never had any hand but his own and from being a horny teenager whose body betrays him at the least appropriate times. He catches Kurt's eye and doesn't say no when that hand goes lower, finding the shape of him through the shorts. Lightly, deliberately, and it's too little contact while at the same time being too much because he has a girlfriend. He shouldn't be doing anything to mess that up, not while he has Quinn's affections and a Facebook wall full of congratulations from jealous friends from back home.
There's no superiority on Kurt's face when Sam's hips rock forward; he looks almost awed, and Sam figures it stands to reason that he's never actually had occasion to touch another guy like this before.
Their eyes meet a second time, and Kurt looks away first. One cheek blushing pink, the other still pallid with greasepaint. “Sorry.”
“No, no, it's cool. You...it's cool.” Sam has one hand up, opening and closing, at a loss. He catches sight of himself in the mirror, spooked and awkward and half-naked, and quickly looks away. His fingers brush the lank hair of Kurt's wig. “I don't want you thinking I have a problem with you.”
“I told Mercedes you couldn't be straight.” He looks so proud of himself Sam feels like he really shouldn't be raining on his parade, but he can't let these kinds of assumptions go around.
“Right, except for I kind of am.”
“You don't sound too sure,” Kurt says, and he's close enough that Sam can inhale the crisp, minty scent of whatever he'd been using to scrub off his makeup. It's a nice enough smell, even if it's not at all like Quinn, and Sam's cock is trapped in his briefs, which he hates wearing because they constrict, and the shorts are still on and Kurt won't stop touching him through the slippery fabric. But that might also be because his own hand is on top of Kurt's smaller one and pushing down.
He could swear he meant to do something else, something less encouraging, and now it's just pressure on top of pressure and Sam's wriggling into the contact even though the shorts are number one on his hate list right now and he just wants to strip them off. “Ohcrap, okay, look, this...I...ah.” Kurt's fingers curl and his entire body floods with heat and shock and things he shouldn't want.
Shouldn't. Not this way. Messing around is one thing, you do what you have to in order to take the edge off, everyone knows that, but he can't screw up things with Quinn by letting Kurt bring him off in a bathroom.
He steps back immediately and Sam breathes. “Oh, I know.” Spreading his hands, mouth half-lifted in a smile. “We never mention this again, right? That's not going to be a issue for me. Just think of it as a fashion consultation. Anyone can tell you I do those in bathrooms all the time.”
“Um.” There's no hiding his erection, not in this outfit, and the tip of his cock is smearing wetness and heat against his skin. That and he's still trying to work out whether he just got propositioned.
Kurt clears things up for him without missing a beat. “Is that okay?” His hands are still in those fingerless gloves and it feels sort of strange when he lays one against the center of Sam's chest. He's thinking about how now would be a good time to pull on his shirt, but then he's getting kissed by a guy who still looks like Riff Raff, just a barely-there skimming of lips against his own, and that shirt ends up being abandoned beside one of the sinks.
The counter's edge is digging into his back, and when he scrambles for purchase it results in one of Kurt's containers getting knocked to the floor, but Kurt doesn't even open his eyes. “That sounds like my astringent. Don't worry, it's closed,” like it's the kind of thing someone would actually worry about at a time like this, or ever, so Sam just shuts him up in the only way he can think to do it.
The kissing is terrible, full of teeth knocking together and Kurt's apologizing, “I never...” with a sheepish little laugh.
“Me too, no big deal.”
Kurt snorting, Sam clarifying, “With a guy,” and he almost can't say it at all because Kurt's hand is hot and smooth, he can tell even through the fabric, and when one leg slides between his he shoves down against it and feels a shiver rake through him.
“And you went to boarding school with how many other boys? That's so not fair.”
“Boarding school in real life is a lot different from boarding school in gay porn.”
“Do you still have the uniform?” Cheekily, riding his thigh up a little more against Sam's groin. Sam gasps. “Or the porn?”
“Yeah, you wish, man. But then Kurt's placing one hand between his legs and squeezing him there and yeah, talking just isn't gonna work anymore.
“You...like that?” Sounding surprised at what he feels and how Sam responds, which is strictly in the nonverbal region now.
Okay, so he's not doing this with a girl, but he can almost imagine that's not the case. Here with the counter at his back, legs spreading, and Kurt's hand pressed flat between them, the heel of it rubbing firm and steady rightthere. There's not a whole lot of technique involved, but it's not going to take much, all things considered. Kurt's fingers are on his chest again, making him jump, and Kurt sounds feminine and shocked at his ear when Sam's hand splays at his lower back, hard enough to feel the heat of his skin through his shirt. The fingers of his other hand go slipping through long blond hair—he's making out with a dude in a bald cap, what the hell is his life coming to?—to bring his face up and it's not like kissing Quinn at all.
Kurt kisses like he doesn't know what he's doing but wants to learn as much as he can at once, whereas Quinn has it down to an art form, and he's making quiet needy little noises and wriggling against him. Lips finding the pulse point on his neck as his fingers find a nipple and curiously toy with it, pausing when Sam's voice decides to come back long enough for him to utter something that's a cross between Klingon and a squawk. Kurt ducking, passing his mouth there, licking, sucking a bit, concentrating so hard and letting out these sighs that are high-pitched and quivery, and Sam has never been on the giving or receiving end of anything quite like it.
He doesn't think he's going to be giving these shorts back to Rachel. God, he hopes she doesn't ask about that. “Oh, hey, I...I...”
Teeth gritting, hips bucking against him, over in a flash. His reflection looks guiltily at him and Kurt is sighing about having to do laundry when he gets home.
“Another thing about these,” gesturing at his pants, “is that underwear just gets in the way sometimes.”
Sam pauses in the midst of reaching for his shirt. “Wait, so...you've got nothing...seriously?”
Kurt gives him a look that's somewhere between pitying and affectionate. Then he brightens. “That reminds me.” His fingers hook under the elastic of Sam's shorts, drawing them down just a few inches.
He's so not prepared to go there. “Whoa, wait a minute!” But instead of pulling them completely off, Kurt just looks at him and laughs.
Sam's more confused than ever now, which is really saying something, and he's ready to ask what the hell that was about, but Kurt just bounces once on the balls of his feet and nods. Snapping the shorts back into place and smiling triumphantly.
“I knew you weren't a natural blond.”