You're walking away.

"Get out of here, you freak! I better not see you around here, or you bet I'll be reporting your sorry ass to jail!"

Loud. It's fucking loud. He's always fucking loud. You turn around, drop your bags and give him a mock bow and grin in what you hope is a charming manner. He fucking hates it, he fucking hates you. He snarls and throws his shoe at your retreating figure.

Now you're suddenly angry.

You're walking away again. This time your crisp white shirt's wrinkled. Stained. Ugh, you hate the color red. Fucking Tim. Why'd he have to be so goddamn loud? You hate when you have to teach people basic manners. You hate it. But alas, you got to do it. Even if you're favorite shirt gets ruined in the process.

You're fucking awesome, you think. An absolute fucking gentleman. You wonder what changed in Tim. You wanted to keep him around a bit more you realize. He was good.

You'll miss the way his pretty lips would wrap willingly around your cock. Wet, warm and enthusiastic. His fucking perfect ass, always so goddamn tight. How the fuck was it always tight? You're fucking pissed. It's hard to find a good fuck in this city. Especially someone who gives you a fucking rent free home.

You're in a shit mood and you decide to pamper yourself. You take off your fucked shirt in a dark alley and put on one of favorite shirt. Well, it's technically Tim's, but, you know he won't be needing clothes anytime soon. You walk into the most expensive looking hotel and get yourself a fucking room. With Tim's money, but, well there's a fee to learning good behavior.

The bellboy blushes at one sight of you and you can't really blame him. You are stunning. You wonder if it's your eyes, your legs or your lips. But, then again, everything about you is perfect. You think the bellboy's cute. But, it has been a long day and you're fucking tired. Maybe tomorrow, you tell yourself.

You're explosive. You're impulsive. You're a train wreck. You're fucking gorgeous.

The room is better than anything you've ever stayed in. The sheets are a pale, calming blue. Tim would say that about your eyes. He'd call his personal mirrors. Fucking idiot. Your eyes were not fucking blue.

Punch. Kick. Slam –

You smile as you recall Tim's bloodied face as you pounded his sorry head into the fucking wall of his pretentious dining room. You also recall fucking him into that same wall.

Your dick being equally hard on both occasions.

Fucking psycho.

You're stripped down to nothing but your socks when you open your bag to take out the stale, smelly shirt. You put it on as you lie down on the amazingly soft bed.

As you wrap your hands around your half hard cock, visions of the evening cloud your senses. With every scream, every plea – your hand moves faster and you moan louder.

You come in no time. Sated, you slip into deep slumber.

An ardent knocking on the door wakes you up.

"Just a sec!"

You quickly strip the shirt off, shove it under the bed; pull out a bathrobe from the closet and half stumble towards the door.

You open the door to a ravishing looking man and you have to hold onto something because you don't trust your weak, trembling knees.

He smiles at you, shy and honest; looking at you through long, fluttering eyelashes and fuck in that moment, you're a goner.

"Room service, sir. Is this a good time?"

God, even his voice makes you shiver.

"Yea sure, come on in!"

You sit down sipping your tea, pretending to read your morning paper while you stare at the boy's constantly moving figure; his delectable ass outlined in those rather offensive pants.

You gotta do something, you decide.

"I'm going for a bath." You announce as he turns around from where he's doing your bed and grins in acknowledgement.

It takes a millisecond for that grin to fade into complete astonishment as you drop down your robe and stand in nothing but your boxers.

You smirk at the gaping boy, as you notice his eyes turn dark. Well, definitely interested then.

You turn towards the bathroom and there's a deliberate, obvious sway in your walk as your hear a sharp swallow from behind you. Bingo.

When you come out the shower, you're regretfully alone. The room's fucking clean and your eyes immediately go the bed and you wonder how Mr. Sweet Ass must have reacted to the stiffness of the sheets.

You dress up in a fitted suit you've tailored yourself, spend a little extra time on your hair because well, there's an ass roaming around in the halls, that's just waiting to be fucked; and one thing's for sure – your dick should be the one in it.

You open the bedside drawer to collect your belongings and there a post it stuck right on your wallet.

I've stored my number into your mobile.
I'm hoping this wasn't too forward, and I'll be waiting for a call.
I really couldn't leave the room without trying something.
I mean, you're fucking beautiful.

- Blaine Anderson.

You quickly grab your phone from the drawer and browse through the contacts as a shit-eating grin takes over your face.

Blaine. Blaine. Blaine.

You have to stop yourself from squealing as you hit the call button and slightly tut as Eric Prydz's 'Call On Me' greets you on the other side.

"Hello?"

"Umm, Blaine?"

"Yeah. You're the guy from Room 521, aren't you?"

"Yea, yea- how did you -?"

"I'm not forgetting your voice anytime soon. Or anything about you for that matter. Umm, how about a name to go with all that? If you're okay, of course."

He's one smooth motherfucker, you'll give him that.

"Kurt Hummel." You answer, a smile playing on your lips.

"Kurt." He repeats and holy shit, your name sounds perfect on his lips. "You free tonight? There's this fairly good band playing at one of the clubs downtown, I'd love to take you if it sounds like your scene?"

You hum in agreement. "Sure. I'd love to, Blaine."

"Great. Meet you in the lobby at around 7?"

"Yea, yea- okay. I'll see you then, Mr. Anderson."

There's a slight chuckle on the other end. "Bye, Kurt."

It starts off fairly innocent all through dinner. Blaine takes you to a fancy Italian place and you have to bite your tongue to not ask, how?

But then, you've both had way too much to drink – both of you are wearing clothes too fucking tight – there's just this fucking tension in the air, choking you both.

You groan as he latches his lips onto your neck – licking, sucking, and biting. His hands stay firm on your ass, pulling you in and you moan evidently, obscenely as he grinds onto you. You're both rock hard and fuck you're going to come down your pants like a fucking teenager.

The fucking club is drowning in music but all you hear is him breathing, panting; impatient, almost animalistic.

You fist your fingers into his shirt, pulling him impossibly close as if to mold him into you.

"Get a room guys!"

Blaine laughs and pulls you out the club, his hands hot, all over you. There's just hormones and sex, and it's blinding you – just Blaine, Blaine – fuck.

You're both tripping, giggling – you're high – possessed.

After what seems to be an eternity, he's dragging you into an apocalypse struck looking building, slamming keys into the first door you see, and he almost throws you inside once it opens.

His tongue is heavy and wet and hot in your mouth, probing and exploring – claiming.

He's staring at you, eyes searching your face for something. Suddenly everything moves too quickly: you press further into him, your calloused hand around his hard, thick cock – you can fucking trace the goddamn veins.

He moans into your mouth and your cock twitches violently, painfully as you fist your fingers deep into his hair.

"Come on, sweetheart tell me … what is it that you need?" he whispers unlatching his hands from around you, his fingers fidgeting with your shirt buttons.

He's taking charge of the situation you think and well, that's a first. It's always been you pulling the strings, isn't it? You smirk and nibble roughly on his earlobe as he arches his neck to the side. "You, I want you. The question is how much are you willing to give?"

You kiss harder, more desperate – like on a drug – an addictive need.

Blaine's tearing apart his shirt and you can't help retract a bit, you like this shirt. But, the other boy just chuckles as he rips apart the shirt, swallowing your whine, crashing his mouth on yours.

"You want to know a secret, Kurt?"

You really, really don't want to talk, cause Blaine's fingers are swift and steady on your chest – and holy shit – there is nothing hotter, you cannot think – again it's just – Blaine, Blaine and Blaine.

He twists a nipple and your scream fills each corner in the house. "God, Blaine – Wha-?"

"I know."

"Know what?"

He growls impatiently and bites your lip and shit – there's that taste – copper, bitter – enticing. You can't help but reach your tongue out and lick– and fuck – you're on fire.

"Blood fucking turns you on doesn't it?"

You can only whimper.

"Fuck, that's hot."

You're pushing him onto the sofa, tasting his skin; pure flesh and sweat. It all seems too much – too little, it's overwhelming yet not enough. It's driving you crazy.

"I found the shirt. From under the bed. It's in my fucking closet, know that Kurt? Filling all my clothes with that scent – Is that even your blood? What'd you do Kurt? Fuck –"

"Stop fucking talking. Just, just –"

"I want to fuck you –"he says, and you've never done this before, but, with this man – you're fucking okay – for the first time, you want this.

You get off him, and his brows furrow in confusion.

You just smirk. "I'm going to wait here, and start by myself, alone – go in and wear the fucking shirt, the one you can't shut up about? Then come back and fuck – you have no idea how fucking tight I am, Anderson – and I want your fucking fingers in me – me riding you – "

He cut you off, kisses you open mouthed and dirty and rushes towards the bedroom.

You stagger on the couch, stroking your painfully hard dick – oh, you've never been this turned on –and, fuck isn't this interesting?

You're not the only freak around – and someone's thrown you a bone, 'cause the other one's illegally hot – and fuck Blaine Anderson's going to be the possible death of you.