~Let's find a bar so dark we forget who we are, where all the scars from nevers and maybes die~
Blaine stumbles in. It's not his first bar of the night by a long shot, and probably won't be his last – that is, if he can keep standing for long enough to get to another one. Staggering over to the bar, he orders with a shout, scanning the blurry room for nothing in particular, just enjoying the way the colours and the lights swirl into one another. He downs his shot, blinking at the head-rush, and jerks his head up too quickly at the touch of a hand on the small of his back. Hey there, pretty, want to dance? And suddenly he's amidst the mass of gyrating bodies, head and heart pulsating in time to the heavy bass. The man leans in close, hot breath at Blaine's ear. What's your name, pretty? Blaine leans into his touch. N-nothing. Nobody. It- it doesn't matter. The man looks at him appraisingly, and Blaine sees his eyes flash red then blue then green with the lights. Works for me.
Blaine feels like he hasn't danced in years, and even if he has, he doesn't think he's ever danced like this. This man, with the cool eyes and the smirking mouth and the really really tight jeans – it's nice. Blaine likes the way his hands wander down his body, listening to the appreciative sounds Blaine makes and responding appropriately – squeezing a little harder here, lingering a little longer there – as if Blaine's the only thing he can hear in this deafening room. He likes the way those red-blue-green eyes never leave his body, trailing down him like a touch – like Blaine's the only thing he can see in this dim room packed with bodies.
This is- I want- I want- Blaine's panting into the stranger's neck, rutting shamelessly against his palm, mewling as the man pulls him back. He meets his eyes. What is it, pretty? What do you want? Blaine can hardly see straight at this point, but he's not sure if it's the lust or the alcohol clouding his vision, making him see stars in the man's eyes. Please pleaseplease please and Blaine only hopes this stranger understands how much he wants him, needs him right now. It's okay, pretty, I know. I've got you. Come with me. Blaine obeys without question, allowing the man to bear most of his weight as he's dragged out into the biting night air.
Blaine whines at the cold, plaintively trying to burrow his way into the man's side. Come on, pretty – here – this is fine. Blaine blinks blearily up at him, not quite lucid enough to understand why they've stopped in a dank alleyway – all he knows is he wants this man. Kiss me, he gasps out, brokenly. With pleasure. And then the man is kissing him and kissing him and a part of Blaine's mind tells him he could die happily, here and now. It's not like anyone would care anyway, it adds, and Blaine throws himself into the kiss with more force. It's sloppy and messy and Blaine just can't get enough. Hey now, pretty, won't you tell me your name? Blaine just shakes his head, stumbling as a dizzy spell hits him. The man catches him, looking at him with something like satisfaction. That's okay, pretty – you don't have to be anyone with me.