Title: That Damn Dress
Author: Adriana Adurens (drikadas)
Beta: niblettk - thanks a lot for your work!
Rating: nc-17 ? There's no sex scenes.
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Kurt Hummel, OC, Kurt/OC one-sided
Genre: Angst, I think
Warning: homophobic language and behavior
Spoilers: There's that new character from 2.01 but if you blink you miss it
Disclaimer: not mine
Author Notes: made to fill my own prompt here (yeah, I know, pathetic) but it went completely different from what I was thinking, mostly because of this fanfic by oh_you_dork. Hope he/she doesn't mind it. ;)
Summary: There are also those so deep in their closets that they themselves don’t even realize; couldn’t recognize their own desires and needs, even with it parading with big lights and annoying honks right under their noses.
Word Count: 1879
It all starts as a silly thing, really.
Kurt is the only out and proud gay at McKinley High, but you can’t really expect for him to be the only gay. Surely there are others, carefully hidden in their closets; torn with envy at Hummel’s courage or pity at his stupidity. There are also those so deep in their closets that they themselves don’t even realize; couldn’t recognize their own desires and needs, even with it parading with big lights and annoying honks right under their noses.
Take this jock, for example. He’s laughing with his friends at Hummel’s new pink shirt. He’s been staring quite intently when the fag strips off said pink shirt, and another two after that – how he managed not to look fat with that many layers on is beyond… Oh, he has such a narrow waist. And… his nipples are pink.
You see, a guy can’t know he wants to tap that when his own brain, after years of prejudice and malice introduced to him by his parents, his friends and Lima society, gives him the only response that can possibly be right just as Hummel is unbuttoning his designer jeans – how many buttons does a pair of jeans need again?
“Get out of my way, fag. Nobody wants to know how turned on you are,” he says gruffly. As he passes, he pushes the fairy against his locker door, passing him to greet his friends at the other side of the room.
One day, lazing around his house, he sees his sister and mom throwing away some things.
“But it still looks so good on you, honey!” his mom whines, placing a frilly white dress in front of his sister, “You look so cute in it.”
All she gets is a roll of eyes and the usual bored answer, “That’s the point, mom! I don’t want to look cute. I’m already a woman!”
“You’re only fourteen!”
His sister sighs dramatically, grabbing the dress from his mother’s hands and tossing it away with other clothes and toys in a box tagged “kiddy stuff.”
Now can you explain him thinking how much that fag at school would love to wear something like his sister’s dress? He thinks of how good it would look against that pale pink skin, but quickly dismisses that train of thought – even though he dreams of it that night.
Before going to school the next day, he goes through his sister’s kiddy box and stuffs the white thing under his books, in the bottom of his backpack. He can’t stop thinking about Hummel wearing the damned dress. He thinks, brilliantly, that it’s just another amazing prank waiting to happen.
For some reason he can’t bring the subject up with his friends. He goes to and from classes, walking with the other jocks like he always does. It’s just that his hand seems to make its way to the bottom of his backpack, rubbing the roughened, old material there.
Every time he sees Hummel, his hand finds its way to that spot in his backpack. He can feel it burning under his fingertips, like the dress is impatiently waiting to be around that lithe body.
He goes home somehow disappointed with himself.
That night, he dreams about Hummel wearing the dress again. Kurt’s alone in one of McKinley’s hallways, wearing the dress like he has every fucking right to, like he owns the school and has control over every pitiful soul who attends. Then he starts walking – no, not just walking. He’s like a model on a runway.
Suddenly, Hummel is right in front of him, and it would be impossible in anything but a dream, and he’s barefoot and beautiful, smiling like he does only to that bunch of geeks in the Glee Club. He’s smiling and accepting and his hands are pulling that damned dress up, and up, and…
He wakes up and can’t ignore his hard-on. He tries to fight it, but even thinking about his grandpa crapping in his pants doesn’t help. Maybe I shouldn’t fight it, but work with it, he thinks, trying to focus his unhelpful brain on girls with nice boobs and cheerleaders with tiny skirts.
After the fifth time those skirts turn into white dresses and those boobs into tiny pink nipples on a flat chest, he gives up. Grabbing his backpack, he practically tears the dress from underneath all his things, holding the soft fabric against his cock.
He doesn’t think anything at all between the first hard strokes and he’s glad for that. But it only takes one moment, only one thought – thanks to his traitorous mind – of a barefoot Hummel pulling that dress up his pale, firm legs, and he’s done.
In his blissful state, he wonders briefly if he could ever orgasm like that again. Holding the dress close to his chest, the thought of coming on his sister’s dress is more disturbing than the prospect of using the fag to masturbate again. But he’s sleeping within seconds and figures he can fret over it in the morning.
The next day, he’s late for school. (You try washing a sticky and gross white dress with only shampoo during your shower and then come back to talk to him about his lateness.) He left the dress drying in his bedroom window, behind the curtains. The window was high enough that no one could see it from the ground, and it faced the backyard, so it was just a matter of locking his bedroom door – it’s not something he hasn’t done before, what with his annoying sister around – and he could go to school in peace.
He misses the feeling of the dress near his hand. He’s extra mean to Hummel for the dream and the best orgasm he ever had. He can’t explain his logic, even to himself, but it feels good to tuck his arms under the fag’s armpits and watch him disappear beneath the black plastic bags. So there.
Back at home, he ignores his mother inquiry about his locked door and goes straight to his room. The dress is completely dry and he gets a wire hanger to hang it, facing him, in the closet. He fights really hard to not see the irony in it but his cock is already hard and, minutes later, he’s so satisfied with himself that he can’t muster the energy to care.
If he can’t stop thinking about Hummel in that damn dress, he rationalizes, maybe seeing it firsthand will make him normal again. Determined, he goes again to school with the dress in the bottom of his backpack.
“Hey, check it out,” he calls a couple of his friends over, pulling the soft, if somewhat creased, fabric out to show them.
Smirking, one of them digs, “What? You wanna dress up?”
“No, dumbass,” he punches the guy’s shoulder, “My sister was throwing things away the other day… I thought maybe we could recycle this one.” He tilts his head at Hummel, who’s walking arm in arm with that black chick again, “The faggot likes guys? I think we should make him feel like a proper girl, then.”
They love it. They can barely hold themselves together as the fag and the black chick walk past them, somewhat suspicious but grateful there weren’t cruel jokes thrown at them this time.
The others get to Hummel without him.
His cell phone blinks with a new message from one of the guys. “We got the fag. Room 308A.” Somehow this news doesn’t make him happy. He feels something cold turning in his stomach, just thinking of Hummel alone with his friends. They didn’t have the right to…
Wasn’t everything going according to plan? Why should he care if he isn’t the one who got the fag? Why would he want to hold the fag down while others get to strip him? Why would he need to feel how smooth Hummel’s pale pink skin really is?
Faking a stomach pain he doesn’t really need to fake, he runs to the appointed room, throwing open the door with a loud bang.
“Shit!” one guy hisses, the fear turning to relief as he sees who it is, “Damn it! Try being a little louder next time?”
Hummel is being held down by two guys. He’s trashing and kicking all he can, but big guys like them don’t have a problem holding someone small like him. His hair is in complete disarray and, under one big hand, his cheeks are flushed red under the effort he’s putting into breaking free.
The third guy is taking Hummel’s clothes off; his boots and socks are already off and they’re trying to get to his pants.
It’s like having a Sue Sylvester screaming into his head to man up and get going because this fairy won’t be naked voluntarily. He pushes the unnecessary third guy away from Kurt and begins pulling, stretching – even ripping when it won’t submit to his will – all the clothes from that sinful body.
When he’s done, panting and smiling, he sees that Hummel is crying silently, limp against his friend’s grip. And how can that freak have abnormally beautiful eyes even while crying? All of him is beautiful; a sight worth all the trouble.
He gets closer: he needs to see Hummel in detail. Every sweat drop, every fine hair, every pore.
“Don’t worry. We’ll make you feel like a real girl.”
And when they’re finished, they drop him in the middle of the hall, right before the bell. Hummel’s feet touch the ground, the jock releases his body, and then hundreds of teenagers are filling the corridors.
At first, nobody realizes what’s happening until someone bumps into Hummel and then they stop and stare, everybody stopping until the hallway is filled with students standing in stunned silence, watching a boy in a girly dress, barefoot and trembling.
The jock isn’t near him anymore. He keeps walking with his friends without looking back, away from the “crime scene.” He wishes he had stayed.
Later, they hear that Hummel wasn’t crying, not anymore. People say he was flushed red, alright, but from anger. He’d shouted at Finn, who’d only tried to help him, and almost punched Puck, who made some comment about his “fine legs.” Apparently, he even slapped Sam when asked if he was wearing panties or briefs.
Only when Mercedes came running and swept Kurt away to the girl’s bathroom with a heavy looking bag did he calm down.
He didn’t know what to feel. Happy? Frustrated? He settled for a sense of fulfillment: a sour sense of fulfillment. He doesn’t have the dress with him anymore but he will always have the image of a naked, trembling and crying Hummel burned beneath his eyelids.
It will help him at night.
During the day, he stays the same: throwing slurs at the faggot, grabbing him with a little too much force to hurt at the dumpsters, punching him on rare, but perfect, occasions.
By night, he dreams of fucking Hummel.
Until, rumor has it, Hummel has a boyfriend. Then, he starts dreaming of making love to Kurt. He cries silently through the night, thinking about what he did and what he can never have.
- Fic de Glee: That Damn Dress