As usual, Blaine was clad in class from tip-to-toe. His fashion managed to strike a tasteful balance between casual, everyday wear and sophisticated and smart style with an almost complete harmony.

On this particular day, walking into a cafe in the streets of busy New York City, Blaine wore a grape-colored polo with walnut-brown pants and matching bow-tie, with a brown satchel to fit. The polo was a good choice to match the weather; that kind of warm-yet-windy spring weather where its too stuffy to wear coats and cardigans, but too close to winter to wear splashes of sunshine coloring and many various nature themed outfits. So, subtle shades on light clothing was perfect in decorating Blaine's light physique with a high degree of class.

Because, really, Blaine was a classy person, and it's hard to dispute it. Sure, he has moments of weakness where he drops sophistication for knee-wobbling and tongue-twisting passion, like when met with the jaw-dropping, heart-melting sites that play around in his dreams; like Zac Efron, or a cronut.

But, really, Blaine's talents all seemed to conform on a perfect job for his New York experience; he worked for a local magazine writing journalism that usually fit into the category of 'fashion for the everyday clothes artist' or an article about the LGBTQ movement. Here, his academic prowess, social mastery and fashionable perfectionism made him a formidable journalist, and he was happy. He has his own office with his own desk, laptop and variety of stationary, as well as decent pay, a job that he found fulfilling and, above all, he managed to keep his integrity, dignity and morals intact (not, like his friends, working part-time in a singing diner or turning to shirtless modelling).

Finally at the front of the line at the cafe, Blaine ordered a coffee which had a name that did somersaults and various flips and tricks just to pronounce, and, as Blaine would normally do, he looked down his nose in a bourgeois sort of way, staring down at the cute barista's bum which jiggled as he filled the disposable cup. Due to the vast number of components of Blaine's adventurous drink, there was time for Blaine to respond to the buzzing that his phone made in his pant's pocket.

As he reached for it, a number of possibilities popped into his head. Was it an email from work giving him a new assignment, or perhaps it was a text from Rachel inviting him to a Broadway show; maybe somebody had just shared a funny cat picture. All of the thoughts that came to him were innocent, so, it came as a surprise, pleasant or otherwise, when he saw he had a notification from Grindr.

He checked to see if he was safe from prying eyes; the lady behind him was preoccupied with her baby, the barista was busy making the coffee which seemed to take longer and longer with each day he asked for it, and everybody else in the café was busy with their normal lives. Why would they be interested in whether Blaine had a booty-call or whatever this guy could be.

The picture to match the message, as with most boys on Grindr, was a picture from the next down, showing a torso rather than a face. The body was exactly Blaine's type - not muscly beyond realism, but not frail or skinny. The torso in question had small pecs, outlines of abs but also some realistic features; he was a person who cared about their body, but cared about other things more, probably his job, family, culture, that sort of thing.

There was a message, mostly just an address of a hotel that was close by.

Blaine could feel blood rush from his head, leaving him briefly dazed, before the pounding of his heart surged blood flow back up to his brain. His brain, still recovering from the blood flow episode, had only one function at the moment; staring at the headless boy on Blaine's phone.

Classy Blaine had just met another one of his moments of weakness. This boy was Blaine's latest cronut...and Blaine wanted a bite.

Adrenaline, in most cases, is stronger than rational thinking, and it took over Blaine like some some of black magic. The coffee, the barista's bum, the woman and her baby; it all meant nothing.

Blaine adjusted his bag and, leaving composure at the counter, pushed his way out of the cafe, leaving the coffee behind as he made his way onto the street.

He picked up the pace. Fast walking became jogging, which soon became sprinting, and the GPS of Blaine's mind was that one picture, which guided him around every corner, down each alley-way as he got closer and closer to the hotel room he needed to be at.

Reaching the lobby in an almost Olympic speed, he found his way to the elevator, rode it to the fifth or sixth floor, bounded down the corridor (thanking cheer-leading for his cardio) as he found the room he needed. He could read the number through the beads of sweat that fell from his forehead and over his eyes, but, confidant in his sight and in his excitement, tapped the door in a small beat with his knuckles.

He could hear a clattering on the other side of the door, and, with a click of the lock, the door crept open. It seemed an eternity between the door opening and the face of the headless torso to be revealed.

"Sebastian?"

I hope you like the introduction. Nothing much happens but it's setting the scene. The second chapter has a lot more action and story, including some sexually explicit content, so be warned.