AU: Badboy!Sebastian, Cheerio!Kurt

There's something in the way he moves. Something in the way his footsteps echo down the hallways that has people parting, maneuvering to let him pass. Begging him to walk past. They fear him, idolize him, love him, and hate him all at the same time in this strange mix of devotion and detestation.

Kurt doesn't. Kurt doesn't even notice that he even exists. Much. Just long enough to notice that his leather jacket is cliché and outdated. That his hair is stupid. And long enough to notice that the air of stale cigarette smoke he leaves behind him is disgusting and unattractive.

So Kurt tries to avoid his existence. He parks across the parking lot, takes a different route to and from Cheerio practice, and stays away from the back bleachers. Not that Kurt has ever met the guy. But he's repulsive and offensive from what he's heard, and Kurt just really has no desire to. Not to mention his reputation as a…promiscuous "flaming homosexual" at McKinley would do nothing but fuel gossip if they were seen anywhere within proximity of each other and that's not something Kurt needs. Especially after the Noah debacle.

Kurt's locker slams shut, a large hand resting against the cool metal as a firm body presses into his back. He's sure his heart has stopped beating, that or exploded, and his breath catches in his throat—useless either way if he doesn't have a heart anymore—when the hand along with its twin come to rest on his hips. They squeeze, pulling him back more securely against the body.

"Did you know red was my favorite color?" Lips tickle the shell of his ears as they form the words.

"I can't say that's something I go around keeping tabs on, no." The man ignores him, trailing his hands up and down Kurt's uniform clad thighs. He knows who it is, the smell of cigarette smoke in his nose tells him that much.

"And you go around in this damn uniform every day, teasing me, swaying your fucking ass in my face."

"I'm pretty sure my ass hasn't come anywhere near your face."

The laugh rumbles deep in his chest and against Kurt's back. "Not yet," he whispers, a filthy promise in Kurt's ear that has his face threatening to flush red with embarrassment and something else he refuses to identify.

Instead he shoves away, disentangling himself from the bastard's hold and spins around. "Is this something you normally do? Press strangers into lockers and molest them?"

Hands creep up from nowhere and grasp handfuls of Kurt's ass. "Only when they have asses like this one. Though I'd hardly call it molestation." Kurt pushes him away with a scowl.

"Personal boundaries, asshole. And still not the way you treat a perfect stranger. It's called manners."

"Sebastian."

Kurt lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Smythe. I figured you'd be more likely to let me grope you if you knew my name."

"Charming," Kurt deadpans, working his legs quickly in the opposite direction.

"What about you, babe? What's your name?"

"Not interested," he calls back down the hallway, "Feel free to look that up in the phonebook and call me sometime."

That night Kurt gets a text from a number he doesn't recognize. I hope you're not too disappointed, babe. Calling isn't really my thing.