You're absolutely terrified. You haven't been this scared since Karovsky left your life. Dodgeball. You can't believe that Finn would be stupid enough to antagonise Santana to the extent that dodgeball was the only way to resolve it. Well, actually … Finn is pretty stupid … but that doesn't detract from your terror. A few other little things spring into your mind, like how the sports kit really doesn't flatter your slim figure, and how you hope your hair looks okay under that stupid sweatband, but none of it distracts from the fear. You're trembling slightly and you feel a little sick …

And then Blaine Anderson walks out of the boys' locker room.

And you don't even remember your own name, let alone remember to be scared. Because the sports kit isn't unflattering on him. On the contrary, in fact, the red shirt which is so baggy on you clings to his perfectly toned form, emphasising the muscles in his chest and his arms. Oh and thoseshorts! Earlier, you'd been cursing how they were far too short to be decent and how they made your legs look like pale little sticks, but now you've never been more grateful for them. Because Blaine's thighs are practically busting out of them, and they're so tight on him that they don't leave much to imagination at all. You're eyes are so fixated down there that he has to tap you on the shoulder twice before you look up at him.

"Kurt, honey, how're you feeling? You don't have to do this, you know – I'm sure the others would understand…" and you just stare at him blankly. It takes you a moment too long to realise that he must have interpreted your flushed cheeks and shaking as fear. Which is funny, really, because you'd forgotten completely about being scared, because Blaine in those shorts just made everything better.

"N-no, it's okay. Really, I'm fine," and you try to sound convincing, but it doesn't work because the thought of the two of you in the locker rooms after the game, with Blaine dripping with sweat and oh-so-slowly peeling off those shorts … And you don't even register what look Blaine gives you before he's turning around in response to Finn's call. You bite your lip in anticipation of what his ass will look like with that black material hugging it so tightly, and a sharp intake of breath accompanies your smug realisation that your visualisations were nothing compared to the real thing.

"Kurt! Kurt, come on! We're about to start!" and somehow you end up in formation right behind Blaine. Not that you're complaining. And it's not like you were going to be any help in the match anyway, so you just relax and enjoy the view. And now you're kind of glad that the shorts are so loose on you – at least your, ahem, arousal wouldn't be so obvious. Because a sweaty Blaine throwing himself around in tighttight clothes and playing with such aggression was basically a super-massive turn-on … until you got hit in the face.

Blaine was by your side instantly, helping you up, asking if you were alright, but the only thing you could think of is how you wished you could be an observer to the scene, just so you could see Blaine from the other side – you're pretty sure his ass would be practically ripping the seams as he bent over. Poor Blaine was so worried by your dazed expression that he insisted you sit on the bench for the rest of the game, which was totally fine by you, so you found a good spot and glued your eyes to him.

#~#~#

"It's okay, Blaine – you played well," you chirp, trying erase the morose expression of the defeated which has fixed itself on his face.
"Yeah, but we lost. We could've won, I know we could-"
"It's fine, darling, it doesn't matter."
"It does though – Santana's going to be unbearable!"
"Don't worry about her – she's not your problem."
"But I could've got her, if only I'd aimed that one ball a little higher…"
"Stop beating yourself up about it, babe," and he looked like he was going to reply with another 'it was all my fault' lament, so you decided to take evasive action. Brushing his sweat-damp curls out of the way, you position your lips close to his ear and whisper, "Well, I thought you lookedhot." His gulp is audible, but he can't reply beyond a splutter. "Furthermore," you continue in the same sultry tone of voice, "my scheming has worked out perfectly , and I've kept you out here long enough that the locker room should be empty by now …" you let the sentence trail off suggestively, leaving the rest up to his imagination as you drag him towards the doors.

You burst in and you've slammed him up against the lockers already, not even bothering to check if the room is in fact empty. To be honest, you're beyond caring now. So you pin his wrists above his head and you look him right in the eye. "I've been dying to rip those shorts off you all afternoon," you growl, and you see him shiver as your hot breath fans across his face. His eyes are wide, his breath coming in uneven little gasps. "Now, don't move," you command, smirking to see that he keeps his arms held up as you remove your grip. You hold the eye contact as you lean in close and almost touch your lips to his, but pull away at the last second. You lean your body up against his, ghosting your lips along his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat, never giving him the satisfaction of a proper kiss. You can feel him getting impatient beneath you, wriggling against your weight, but you can tell he's enjoying it by the noises he's making and the fact that he hasn't moved his hands.

You finger the hem of his shirt, allowing yourself to play with the skin of his stomach. "This shirt just has to go," say as you pull it up over his head, enjoying the way it sticks to the sweat on his skin. You lean in and lap the salty droplets, moaning as he writhes beneath you. Working your way down his body, you end up on your knees, licking your lips in anticipation as you gaze as his shorts. "You know, it should be illegal for you to wear shorts like these," and the hitch in his breathing might have been a chuckle, but he's panting too hard for you to be able to tell. You reach for the waistband, planning on savouring the moment, when,

"Oh, god, guys! What the hell! I'm going to need to bleach my brain now!" and suddenly Puck's there and he's yelling, and you're so not in the mood to deal with him right now. "Locker room sex? That's quite kinky – I'm actually quite impressed. I thought you guys would've been pretty tame, but-"

"Puck?" and your voice is like ice. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I … um … left my jacket …"
"Take it. Then get out." And as soon as he's gone, you turn back to a half-naked, very turned-on, insanely embarrassed Blaine. "Now," you say, your voice back to low and seductive, "Where were we?"