A/N: So apparently I'm writing a Badboy!Blaine fic now? *shrugs*

I didn't mean to. I had every intention of sitting down and hashing out some other ideas and unfinished projects, but then I read Go Your Own Way by Zavocado and the plan completely changed. That fic is incredible and wouldn't leave me alone. So with all possible respect and admiration for that work, here's one of my own, inspired by the world Zavocado created and shared with us. And if you haven't read Go Your Own Way yet, do so! It will change your life!

A couple of notes about the timeline here. I have this set as Kurt transfers back to McKinley after his brief time at Dalton. In this version, Blaine was not a Warbler, or a student at Dalton at all, but rather a new kid who has shown up at McKinley during Kurt's time away. Now that Kurt is back, they have their first encounter. And that's all you need to know before reading. xo

Sex and Poetry: Chapter 1

Kurt's first week back at McKinley, for the most part, felt like coming home. There were still the occasional run-ins with Karofsky in the halls, but with Finn, Puck, Sam, and Mike constantly at his side and remaining vigilant against any violent provocations or incidents that might happen, Kurt didn't feel like he had much reason to worry. He didn't have the words to describe how much he'd missed his friends and these halls, despite what he had been through here. Dalton had been a necessary move, and he was grateful to have gone through these past several months without fear, but here, surrounded by a group of peers who loved him for all the ways he was unique, he really felt like himself. It was almost exactly the same as he remembered it.

Well, there was one thing that was different. One thing he had hardly been able to keep his eyes off of since he'd first glimpsed it a few minutes earlier. One person.

"Who is that?" Kurt asked Mercedes, his mouth full of pastry and his eyes trained on a guy across the McKinley High courtyard that he'd never seen before. They were sitting outside, splitting a cranberry scone and waiting for morning classes to start, and Kurt had completely forgotten how to chew and swallow once he'd spotted the unfamiliar figure several yards away. He was standing alone against one of the cement pillars, facing away from the crowd of kids and staring out into the empty field that neighbored the school. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips, and his expression was deep and guarded. His hands were shoved into the pockets of a leather jacket, he had a row of piercings in one ear, and his jeans were scuffed and worn. They were also hugging his body in all the right places, Kurt couldn't help but notice. Finally he seemed to remember the mechanics required for eating, and he swallowed his bite of scone loudly.

Sure, the strange guy's attire had badboy cliché written all over it, but the look was doing his small but muscular frame all kinds of favors. His dark coloring – olive skin, deep hazel eyes and unruly almost-black curls – only added to his appeal. Of course, knowing Kurt's luck, he was probably the type of guy who would take a swing at him just for looking in his direction.

"Who?" Mercedes looked up, following Kurt's gaze across the courtyard. The boy took one last drag on his cigarette before crushing the butt between his fingers and flicking it away, and he tilted his head back to blow the puff of smoke straight up into the air. Kurt swallowed hard. The stranger's throat was stretched appealingly, and Kurt was overcome with an unusual but not entirely unpleasant desire to run his tongue over it. He blushed crimson at the thought. What was wrong with him? Kurt Hummel simply did not think about doing things like that. Especially not with someone he had never even spoken to.

"Oh, him," Mercedes shook him from his train of thought, which was fine, because it had been chugging right along to somewhere that his mind definitely should not be while at school. The gutter.

Mercedes gave Kurt an annoyingly knowing smile, and he hoped the flush in his cheeks wasn't too obvious. "Pretty dreamy, huh?"

Kurt shrugged a shoulder noncommittally. "He might be. If he wasn't dressed like one of the T-Birds."

She laughed. "Now I know you think he's cute. It's only ever a good thing if someone reminds you of musical theater."

He rolled his eyes, but she was right. He was enthralled with the new addition to his high school scenery, completely unable to look away. But he still didn't have an answer. "Who is he, though?" he repeated, and Mercedes shrugged.

"I don't remember his name. He transferred here right after you left for Dalton. I think he's in our year; I have Physics class with him. But he hardly ever shows up and when he does he sits in the back of the room and doesn't talk."

"I never noticed him before now," Kurt said, and it really was a wonder, now he thought of it. The boy was, quite simply, the most gorgeous creature he had ever seen in his life. So obviously he would be straight. And probably a homophobic jerk, like most every other idiot male in Lima.

"He probably hasn't been to class since you came back," Mercedes reasoned. "Like I said, he's almost never here."

Kurt hummed in response, still watching the boy closely, and it was as though the boy could sense him suddenly, even across the crowded courtyard. His head turned, his eyes locking onto Kurt's and a sly, crooked smile pulling at one side of his mouth. Almost as if he knew that Kurt had been looking at him and talking about him and thinking about him in ways he really should be ashamed of. He felt a rush of heat flooding his face, and looked down quickly, totally mortified to have been caught gaping at the mysterious stranger. He chanced another glance in his direction a moment later.

Dammit. The boy was still watching him, and now it was almost certainly obvious that Kurt had been staring. Kurt's stomach twisted up strangely in his abdomen as the kid's lips broke apart and he shot a cocky grin in his direction before pushing himself away from the pillar and squaring his shoulders, facing Kurt and practically lighting him on fire with his eyes. That confident, devilish smile stayed on his face, and it felt like a challenge, this look. As if the boy was daring him to break their eye contact first, or to do just the opposite. To stand up from the table he sat at with Mercedes and come to him.

He didn't have much time to ponder the stranger's apparent interest in him, however, because the morning bell was ringing, and the throng of students milling about in the courtyard rushed to gather books and scatter to first period. Kurt looked away as a particularly rowdy group bustled past him, knocking his bag onto the ground. He bent to retrieve it, and as he stood he looked back to the place where the other boy had been standing a second earlier, but he was gone. Kurt moved toward the steps, scanning the thinning crowd of students for him, but he didn't see the leather jacket or dark tangle of curls anywhere.

A set of fingers snapped in his face, and he started and looked around. Mercedes was half-grinning, half-glaring at him as she tried to get his attention. "C'mon, Kurt. The boy is pretty but he seems like he might be trouble and you won't see much of him anyway. His attendance record is probably about a 3%." She took his arm and the two of them walked off to their Civics class.

Kurt's thoughts were still racing, however, as he took his seat in the classroom and pulled out his textbook and notes. Of course he wasn't getting any ideas. Love did not come easily for gay teens in Ohio, and it especially did not come looking like that. Like James Dean. Or Marlon Brando. No. Kids who looked like that almost always wanted to shove kids who looked like Kurt into the pavement, not onto a mattress. They doled out bruises, not kisses.

No. Kurt was definitely not getting ideas.

But he was getting almost painfully bored in his classes. As happy as he was to be back in his old school and among his old friends, he'd forgotten how much of his time in class had to be spent daydreaming just to have something to pass the minutes. He had always been a good student, and now, after six months spent at a private school where the academic standards were astronomically high, his old classes felt like a breeze. He kept finishing papers and assigned reading with more than half of the class time left to go, and so he would sketch lazily until the next bell rang, scribbling together outfits from new purchases or various items on his eBay wish list.

Today was something of a different story. He was still whipping through classwork in record time and struggling to keep himself occupied while his peers seemed to wrack their brains for answers to easy questions. But now, as his pencil slid over the heavy paper in his sketchbook, his figures were distinctly altered. Instead of the lithe, thin forms he usually drew – modelled after his own – they were more compact and muscular. He was drawing clothing on them that he didn't own, would never even think of wearing. Fitted, basic vees and converse sneakers and yes, leather jackets. The lead of his pencil was wearing down more often, too, since he was rubbing so much of it into the paper as he drew dark curls of hair on the figures' heads. Their faces, usually oblong, featureless voids, were now coming to life, their expressions closed and dark. Kurt thought they were beautiful anyway.

It wasn't until lunchtime, as he sat at one of the long tables with the other members of New Directions, still moodily etching lines in his sketchbook, that he realized who he'd been drawing. Puck had settled onto the bench next to him and peered over his shoulder at the paper.

"Is that supposed to be Blaine Anderson?" he asked, and Kurt was pulled from his drawing by the question and the unfamiliar name.

"Who?" Kurt said, looking back down at the sketch and trying to see who Puck could be thinking of.

"That kid over there," Puck clarified, nodding to a corner table and taking a truly enormous bite of what the school lunchroom called a cheeseburger. Kurt looked around and then was trying to remember what it was his lungs were for. Something about oxygen, he thought. He was supposed to inhale air, whatever that was. Except that felt impossible when he was staring into what had to be the most perfect face that had ever been carved by the hand of God.

Well. He didn't believe in God, but that boy was one beautiful cosmic coincidence. He was sitting alone – the other students seemed to want to stay as far away as possible – and he was staring at Kurt. Again. The smirk tripped over his lips once more as he caught Kurt's eye, and Kurt hurriedly turned back to Puck, mumbling something about the resemblance between his drawing and - what had Puck called him? Blaine? - being pure happenstance.

"Could have fooled me," Puck said, looking back and forth between the sketchbook and the kid whose name was apparently Blaine Anderson.

"Do you know that guy then?" Kurt couldn't help but ask. He knew he shouldn't wonder. Shouldn't be spending so much of his day thinking about someone he'd only glanced at for a few minutes that morning, but he felt a strange pull toward him, a tug like a hook caught in his chest.

Puck shrugged. "I know of him," he corrected. "And you know this is something I would normally only say about myself, but the dude's a badass." Kurt raised his eyebrows. From Puck, this was high praise indeed.

"He's a delinquent," Rachel said, overhearing their conversation and offering her two cents, as usual. "He got kicked out of his old school for fighting and landing two other students in the hospital."

"How do you know all that?" Mercedes asked, and Rachel gave a defensive little shrug.

"I did my research when he first transferred," she said, and everyone stared at her, including Finn, who looked as though he might be a tad bit jealous. Quinn elbowed him hard in the side, though, and he turned his attention back to his lunch as Rachel went on. "I just wanted to know if he had any sort of involvement in the drama or arts programs at his old school. I thought he might make a good addition to Glee Club if he did, but I didn't like what I found out, so I've steered clear."

"The boy is deluded," Santana added from farther down the table, and Kurt leaned forward to hear what she was going to add. It was embarrassing, this strong craving for intel on a complete and total stranger, and yet he was hanging on her every word. "I've offered to have sex with him about a dozen times and he just laughs at me. I even tried hitting on him in Spanish in case English wasn't his first language, and he still didn't go for it. He's never even tried to cop a feel." She sounded incredulous, as if this alone proved Blaine Anderson was clinically insane.

"Do you have some sort of quota you're trying to hit before graduation?" Sam asked her, and the two of them started bickering.

Kurt was amused by the familiar dynamics of his old group of friends, and, if he allowed himself a moment of brutal honesty, glad to hear that Santana's advances hadn't impressed Blaine. He managed to make it through the rest of the lunch hour by immersing himself in conversation with Tina and Mercedes about the number they'd been working on for New Directions. They all had their insecurities printed on t-shirts, and they were supposed to share them with the rest of the club at rehearsal today after school. The excitement of being back with all of his favorite people and the promise of performing a Lady Gaga number helped to keep his mind off the constant feeling that he was being watched. He was pretty sure this meant that the boy on the other side of the cafeteria was still staring at him, but he was determined not to check. He didn't want to be caught ogling him even one more time.

The bell rang signaling the end of lunch, and Kurt gathered up his things in a hurry, waved goodbye to his friends, and turned in the direction of his Literature class. This was one class he actually looked forward to. Not only was the teacher, Ms. Fox, one of his favories – she liked to put lyrics from the Beatles and Bob Dylan on the chalkboard, and she was energetic and passionate about her subject – but they were also due to start the poetry unit, and Kurt had been thrilled that he hadn't missed it during his time at Dalton.

He was turning the last corner into the English hall, already running through a list of poems he might like to read for the class, when he bumped into something solid and hard, and the pile of things he'd been carrying in his arms flew into the air, landing in a messy heap on the floor.

Blaine Anderson whirled around in front of him, looking jarred but ready for a fight. His eyes were bright and angry, and his arm was pulled back as if about to throw a punch. Kurt winced, the familiar wave of terror rushing through him as he waited for the inevitable blow to land. A moment later, he felt a hand make contact with his face, and his eyes snapped open, because the touch wasn't a strike. Or a slap. Or anything even remotely aggressive.

It was...what was it, exactly? Kurt's heart was pounding as the hand cupped his cheek and then slid behind his neck, thumb resting at the hinge of his jaw and fingertips pushing into the nape so that Kurt was forced to tilit his head back. Blaine's expression was still burning, but the fury had turned into something more akin to desire, and he stared at Kurt's neck as though he was seriously considering taking a bite out of it. Kurt wrestled with muddied thoughts and tangled emotions and tried to figure out exactly how he should be reacting to this. To a stranger touching – caressing? – him in the hallway of his high school. What was he supposed to do? Or say? He seemed to remember that no or stop would be appropriate responses, but somehow he couldn't make the words leave his mouth.

One thing he knew for sure was that he shouldn't be enjoying this. Another thing he knew for sure was that he was.

Finally, his voice seemed to come back to him. Well, sort of. "I...I need to...get my stuff," he stuttered, and then immediately regretted speaking, because Blaine's hand released him, and a chill ran through him, the air in the hallway suddenly feeling much too cold against his bare neck. He couldn't move his body, only able to stare as Blaine stooped down to gather his scattered things.

A moment later he was sorely wishing he had done it himself, because Blaine was suddenly holding his sketchbook, still open to his recent drawings, which, it was undeniable, were based off the strange boy who had captured his attention so fully just a few hours ago. The rough, dark, handsome features matched him exactly, and this wasn't lost on Blaine. Not if the mocking grin that settled across his face was anything to go by.

"Not bad, baby," he said, and his voice was low, smooth, and warm. Not at all the voice Kurt expected from someone with calloused hands and several piercings in his face. The sardonic term of endearment was unexpected, too. There was amusement in his words, the corners of his mouth twitching as that damn smile danced on his lips, and he went on. "How 'bout I pose for you sometime? You know, without the jacket. Or the pants."

Kurt didn't have time to be shocked. He was too busy being humiliated. He snatched his things out of Blaine's hands just as a wave of students came down the hallway around them. Class was starting any minute, thank goodness, because he was blushing all the way to the roots of his hair and desperate to leave this boy's presence. "Don't flatter yourself," he hissed, fumbling with his sketchbook and slamming the cover shut. "Who says this is you? Do you think you're the only person alive who owns a leather jacket?"

Blaine laughed. "No," he said. "But I am the only thing you've been thinking about since this morning."

Kurt scoffed, annoyed that this cocky jackass had the nerve to assume such a thing, and even more annoyed that it was true. He stood there awkwardly staring at Blaine with his mouth opening and closing like some kind of mortified guppy, for the first time in his life completely incapable of formulating a snappy comeback. He would have settled in the meantime for any sentence or phrase that would have at least helped him appear to have his wits about him, but he couldn't think of one of those either.

The final bell saved him from looking foolish any longer. He crammed the stack of things he held into his bag and turned and stalked away quickly, relieved to finally be getting away from this kid who made him feel more flustered than he had ever been in his life, but nervous now that he was officially late to class. He pushed into the third room on the right hurriedly, and Ms. Fox glanced up from her spot at the front of the room, where she had already started taking attendance.

"There you are, Kurt," she said, not seeming at all peeved by his tardiness. "I was just about to mark you as absent."

"Sorry," he muttered, but she just waved a hand in the air, dismissing the apology.

"It's fine. Take a seat, please." Kurt let out a sigh of relief, but Ms. Fox wasn't finished speaking. "You too, Mr. Anderson. Long time, no see."

Kurt spun on the spot. Blaine was standing behind him in the doorway, still smirking and raising his eyebrows, maddeningly smug. Kurt swore silently as he turned and marched to his seat near the back of the room. He groaned as he realized it was one of only two empty seats in the entire class, and the second one was directly behind his. He was going to have to sit through this Lit class knowing that Blaine Anderson was staring at the back of his head for the entire hour. Why did they have to have this class together? Now what was typically his favorite part of the day was going to be unbearable.

His cheeks were still on fire as he slumped into his seat, and he glanced up at Blaine as he filed past him, trying for a hateful stare but probably failing, since the other boy's response was a cheeky little wink.

The next hour felt even more agonizingly long than the rest of Kurt's classes combined. But this time it wasn't because he was bored. Quite the opposite. He was working hard to focus on Ms. Fox's introduction to the poetry unit, but it was next to impossible when he kept having to bat away Blaine's fingers, which kept sneaking up and tracing behind Kurt's ears and through his hair. Occasionally he'd lean forward, whispering increasingly lewd comments to him and chuckling as he watched the blush spread across the back of Kurt's neck. And there was absolutely nothing Kurt could do about it without disrupting the entire class. They were the only ones seated in the back of the room, so Blaine was free to harass Kurt for the length of the entire period without anyone noticing. If someone had been paying attention, they would have thought Kurt was flapping wildly in the air at an especially persistent fly.

The worst part was that aside from coming from a boy he'd had only one conversation with – and an unpleasant one, at that – the soft brush of fingertips trailing over his skin felt very, very good. No matter how loudly the logical part of his brain screamed that this was highly inappropriate, unwanted attention, he couldn't help but feel a small rush of satisfaction every time Blaine's hands reached out to touch him. Which was why it was taking him longer and longer to shrug him off each time it happened. By the end of class, Kurt had been allowing Blaine to touch him for six straight minutes, his head lolling around on his shoulders, completely giving in. But then the bell rang, and Kurt jumped so violently in his seat that Blaine's blunt fingernails dug into his skin painfully. He let out a loud gasp at the sting, and Ms. Fox turned to look at him as the rest of the class scooted out of their chairs and headed for the door.

"Everything all right, Mr. Hummel?" she asked him, narrowing her eyes at Blaine, who had yanked his hand away as soon as she looked over.

"Yes, fine," Kurt mumbled, but the sharp twinge of pain on his neck had shaken him out of his stupor, and everything was definitely not all right. He had just sat in the back of his favorite class, not paying a lick of attention to the teacher and letting a boy he barely knew whisper to him about things he usually wouldn't even think about while he was alone. What the hell was happening to him?

Thankfully, he was saved from further confusing interactions by Ms. Fox, who asked to speak to Blaine for a moment after class. Kurt took the opportuniy to dart from the room, practically sprinting to his next class and hoping against hope that Blaine wouldn't be in it. The bell rang for the start of fifth period five minutes later, and Kurt was relieved to see that he had gotten his wish. Blaine hadn't entered the classroom, so he must have been in a different class. Probably Physics, since he knew that was where Mercedes was, and she had said Blaine was in her class. He wouldn't have to fend off any more attention this hour. Which was a good thing. It was. So why did he also feel a tiny stab of disappointment?

Kurt didn't so much as glimpse Blaine for the rest of the school day, and while that was sort of what he'd wanted, he couldn't help but grow even more uncertain about what the boy's interest in him had meant. He wanted to know. Was Blaine just taunting him? Teasing him because he knew he was gay, and hadn't had anyone pay him that kind of attention in his entire life? Trying to get a rise out of him? Kurt didn't know, and even more frustrating, couldn't just go up to him and ask. He barely knew the kid, and this was McKinley, not Dalton. If Blaine was as much trouble as everyone seemed to think, it might not be a good idea to corner him and try to find out if this was all just one big practical joke, or if maybe Blaine felt as much of a draw to him as he did to Blaine.

He couldn't help but be reminded of Karofsky as he thought. The last thing he needed was to have another bully threatening his life mere days after he'd finally convinced his dad it was safe for him to return to public school. No. It would be best just to shrug everything off and see it for what it was. A game.

When it was finally time for Glee Club two hours later, Kurt almost skipped to the auditorium, excited to sing and dance with his old choir for the first time since he'd come back to New Directions. He'd spent his time with the Warblers harmonizing and swaying behind all the senior members of the council, so he figured this would be a refreshing change of pace.

And he was right. It felt good to be a part of a group that wasn't so obsessed with uniformity, that celebrated its members for what made them all different. Because that was often the best part of a person, wasn't it? What set him apart.

He and his friends were laughing together on their way to the parking lot after rehearsal, admiring each other's t-shirts and excitedly discussing Nationals, when they passed by the boys' locker room, and something gave Kurt pause.

He hadn't been in that room for several months. Since he'd run after Karofsky and gotten pulled into that horrifying kiss. He felt a strange urge to walk in, take a look around, face up to the moment that had caused him to run away from McKinley in the first place. Try to overcome it somehow.

"Are you coming, Kurt?" Finn asked him from down the hall, turning to see why his stepbrother had stopped walking with them.

Kurt took a deep breath. He had to do this. "In a minute," he answered, watching as Finn shrugged and continued down the hall. He took a step toward the locker room door, clutching the strap of his messenger bag a little tighter, then bit the bullet entirely. He strode into the room, making it all the way to the line of sinks before he stopped. He looked around. Right there, right by those lockers, Karofsky had taken what was supposed to be one of the most beautiful memories of his life and turned it into a nightmare.

He felt overwhelmed suddenly, letting out a shaky breath and turning to one of the nearby sinks. He turned on the cold water and splashed it onto his face, trying to calm down. He was drying his face and had almost gotten ahold of himself when he heard someone speak to him.

"Hello, gorgeous."

Kurt whipped around at the sound of the voice; low, heated, and familiar. His first thought after the shock of realizing there was someone else in the locker room with him was that the guy had just unwittingly quoted Fanny Brice in Funny Girl. He would have found the fact humorous if he wasn't instinctively worried about being alone with someone here. He didn't have the most pleasant of histories with this room, after all.

He craned his neck around, trying to spot his company. "Who is it?" he called out, though of course he already knew. His eyes flicked about the rows of lockers, trying to spot a leather jacket lurking around a corner. He turned around and let out a small shout as he finally caught sight of the owner of the voice in the mirror. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest as he met that intense pair of hazel eyes, and he fought the urge to be thrilled by the fact that he was alone with one of the sexiest guys he'd ever laid eyes on. He had to remind himself silently and forcefully that Blaine Anderson – in the hooded leather jacket, arms crossed over his chest, dark curls falling messily around his ears and across his forehead, a smug smirk across those perfect lips – was an asshole. At least as far as he could tell.

Kurt took a deep, steadying breath and addressed him with as much fierceness as he could muster. "You scared me," he said bitterly, finding it near impossible to ignore the new kid's reflection in the mirror, but trying his damnedest anyway. Even without looking directly at him, he could sense the blazing gaze lingering on his back. He kept his eyes trained on the sink, determined not to meet the Blaine's stare with his own, because he knew his heart would pick up pace and his cheeks would flush if he had to try to keep his composure with those eyes on him.

Look down, look down, look down.

It was because of this repeated, obeyed mantra that he was so stunned a moment later, as a pair of hands grasped his waist and that deep, silky voice was suddenly in his ear. "I've been thinking about making you scream all day, baby," his breath was warm and smelled like nicotine, and Kurt accidentally breathed it in as he gasped at the fingers gripping his sides and the shocking words being whispered to him. He spun around, too surprised to do anything but stare in wide-eyed astonishment at the face that was now only inches from his own. That infuriating smirk was still painted on his lips as he spoke, his breath tickling Kurt's lips now. "Though I had more exciting ideas about how to do it."

Kurt sputtered, his eyes raking across the dark features in front of him. "Ex-excuse me?" He was at a loss. Was he being threatened? Propositioned? Assaulted? He couldn't tell. Kurt thought he saw lust in Blaine's eyes, but he couldn't be sure, because he'd never seen that look directed at him in his life. Not until today, anyway.

"You heard me," Blaine muttered, and his lips were moving towards Kurt's jaw, before he finally came to himself and pushed his palms against the firm chest so near his, shoving this arrogant kid several feet away and shooting him the nastiest look he could manage while his pulse raced and his skin tingled where Blaine's fingers had been holding him. Blaine only chuckled, which infuriated Kurt to no end.

"What on earth makes you think I'd be interested, you creep?" he spat, working very hard to pull himself together and find the quick, abrasive wit that he could usually count on at all times, but which had strangely abandoned him in what had to be the oddest few minutes of his life.

Blaine was taking a step toward him again, and Kurt expected him to try to reach for him, but instead he tucked his forefingers into the lapels of Kurt's plaid jacket and slowly pulled it open, grinning wolfishly as the words "LIKES BOYS" screamed from his t-shirt. "This shirt, for one," he said, and Kurt blushed and yanked it closed again as the other boy grinned. "The way you've been fucking me with your eyes since you first saw me, for another."

"I have not," Kurt practically yelled, hugging his jacket tight across his chest, feeling humiliated by his outfit now that the rest of the Glee Club wasn't there with him, proudly sporting their own custom shirts. Blaine seemed to sense his embarrassment, looking him in the eye intently as he stepped even closer, his hands planting themselves on either side of the sink at Kurt's back, effectively pinning him in place. He struggled willfully, but the arms holding him there were strong, and he couldn't budge.

"Don't be shy, baby. I like boys, too," Blaine murmured, and Kurt could smell his cigarettes again as he leaned close, eying him with burning eyes and bringing an arm up to hold his cheek in a rough hand, swiping the pad of his thumb over Kurt's bottom lip. "Especially ones with pretty little mouths like yours."

Kurt stared, his mouth hanging open stupidly, the callouses he felt stroking over his cheek making him light-headed and dizzy. For some strange reason, he found himself wanting to lean into the touch, to close his eyes, to groan as Blaine's thumb tugged down on his lip slightly, slipping into his mouth and running over a few of his teeth.

But he came back to his senses almost at once, ducking away now that Blaine's arm had freed him in favor of touching his face. He was breathing heavily and trying to wrap his mind around the odd mix of arousal and anger clouding his thoughts, but then he glanced back at this guy he barely knew, who was laughing darkly and still looking like he wanted to devour him. Kurt's head was momentarily clear, his irritation winning out over the brief temptation to let Blaine Anderson put his hands wherever he wanted.

"What is with people at this school?" he shouted, gesturing wildly around the locker room. "Why is it every time I come in here a closet case wants to kiss me? The smell of sweat and dirty gym socks really doesn't do it for me. Feel free to spread the word." He shoved quickly past Blaine, knocking into his shoulder with a little more force than was necessary and grabbing his bag, making to storm out of the room without a backwards glance.

But a hand closed itself around his wrist before he could take two steps, and he turned around, waiting to resist another very forward advance. He was surprised to see a look of fury on Blaine's face, and now he was starting to feel afraid. He didn't know this guy. Had no idea what he might do now that Kurt had rejected and insulted him. Would he try to force things? To make Kurt do something he didn't want to?

"Who tried to kiss you?" Blaine growled at him, and his grip on Kurt's wrist was almost painful now. Kurt twisted it, trying and failing to wrench himself loose.

"Wh-what?" Kurt stammered. "You did."

"I know that," Blaine answered him, and the edge was still in his voice as he searched Kurt's face. "And I will. Soon. But who else?"

Kurt wasn't about to answer him. For one thing, what did he care? Was he trying to scope out who else at McKinley was gay, so he could corner them in the locker room too? At any rate, it wasn't Kurt's secret to divulge. When and how David Karofsky decided to come out was entirely up to him. He pursed his lips together stubbornly and stared back at Blaine with determination and probably also obvious fear, because the hold on his wrist slackened, and when he spoke again some of the ferocity was gone from his voice.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Blaine said, but Kurt wasn't so sure. There was still an almost crazed look of hunger in his eyes. "And I won't tell anyone else. But I want to know."

Kurt found himself unable to form a coherent thought, let alone open his mouth to speak, so he just shook his head vehemently instead. The next second, his body was backed into the cold metal lockers behind him, and Blaine's hand was once again tight on his arm, his eyes boring into him with angry impatience. His other hand was shoving into Kurt's hip, forcing him to be still against the wall of lockers, and his thumb had somehow slid underneath his t-shirt and was pressing onto Kurt's bare skin. The grip didn't hurt, but it was firm, and it was very clear to Kurt that these hands wouldn't be letting him go until Blaine got his answer. It felt exactly like a small flame was burning him where the thumb was touching him, but it was nothing compared to Blaine's eyes, which were fiery and furious and mere inches from his own.

"Tell me," he demanded, and he seemed so determined, so dangerous, his hazel eyes flashing and his hands strong and insistent, that Kurt heard the name trip out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"D-Dave Karofsky," he blurted out, and then was horrified. He should not have said that. Blaine looked, if anything, even angrier, and Kurt was certain he'd just made a huge mistake.

Blaine still didn't let go of him, but his grip was at once gentle, and the thumb resting on his skin underneath his shirt slid back and forth over his hip as his gaze softened. "Thank you," he said, only a breath away from Kurt's face. "I'll take care of it."

And then his hands were gone, and Kurt should have felt relieved, but instead he once again was feeling like the room was too cold, like Blaine had been protecting him from a chill in the air. He watched mutely and in shock as Blaine turned for the hallway and walked out of the room without even one more word.

I'll take care of it, he had said. What in the name of God did that mean? He didn't know, but he was sure of only one thing as he stood stock still where Blaine had held him against the lockers.

It wasn't going to be good.