Skank!Kurt and Badboy!Blaine. This one is rated M for language and sexual stuff.

Kurt strode up in front of Scandals, his two friends flanked at his sides. He ran his fingers through his styled hair, looking out at the cars passing by on the highway. He was only wearing a vest on top, accentuating his toned arms and lean chest; low-rising, black, skin-tight leather pants stuck to his legs, with his most ridiculous pair of knee-length boots finishing off the look. He readjusted the fake ID precariously sticking out of the waistband of his pants as he turned to fact the club, rolling the unlit cigarette between his lips.

Kurt didn't smoke, but he gave him an alluring look that attracted many. It also gave him the opportunity to explain why he held them in his mouth, unlit, which was so profound that it often got him laid: it's a metaphor, he told them, that I have the thing that can kill me right here in my mouth but I'm not giving it the power to kill. No one had yet recognized the John Green quote from the book that made Kurt cry for hours (yet he did not tell anyone that, ever; he had a reputation to uphold as the class skank), which somewhat upset Kurt, but he didn't mind because it made him sound cool and smart and hot. He silently thanked John Green every time it earned him another man, no matter how creepy it seemed.

"You think Cole's going to be in there?" Santana said, inquiring about Kurt's newest ex-boyfriend. She checked her nails, as if she were bored. Quinn looked at her, smoothing out her torn-up shirt a bit. Quinn was still going through her phase with the Skanks; Kurt wasn't sure how long it was going to last, but he was glad to have someone like her by his side to make him look like he had connections.

"Nah, he's probably still crying over me," he stated, confident in his response, "He should have known that a whore like me was going to drop him in a matter of days like Skrillex and the bass. I have needs, and he was just…boring." Kurt began to fiddle with his new ear piercing. "I think I'm feeling a softer guy, do you think there'll be any virgins? Virgins are always fun…"

Vroooom! The obnoxiously loud growl of a motorcycle nearly deafened Kurt, who turned around and watched it roar into the entrance of the parking lot with alacrity. He tried to catch a glimpse of the pretentious driver, but could hardly make him out in the dimly lit lot. The motorcycle pulled in a few spaces down from where Kurt, Santana, and Quinn were standing, so Kurt finally could get a better look at him. He slid off of the motorcycle, his back turned to Kurt, who shamelessly checked him out. The man was wearing the stereotypical leather-get up of a motorcyclist, black from head to toe, with a helmet covering his face and fingerless gloves giving him a grunge look. He locked the cycle and began to take off his helmet.

Kurt realized in that evanescent moment that maybe a softer guy wasn't exactly in the cards for that night.

"Let's go, Kurt," Santana grabbed his arm, tugging him alone. "I've got a test tomorrow that I can't fail, so let's get dancing, laid, and gone."

Kurt glanced one last time at the stranger, although he was fixed on finding him at some point that night, hoping to show him his own ride. He clasped his fingers around the cigarette that was leaving an awful taste in his mouth and placed it in his breast pocket, following Quinn and Santana into the club.

There was a short line to get in, as it seemed that the bouncers were fooling around a bit in the front. Kurt bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, impatiently tapping his leather-clad thighs with his long fingers. He just wanted to get in, find that motorcyclists for a nice, hard fuck, maybe get his number, and go. He felt himself get a little hard at the thought.

"Hey, you need something to calm you down?" A husky voice came from behind him, causing Kurt to start. He whirled around: it was the motorcyclist—without the helmet! He felt a swift kick to the lungs, knocking out all air from not only his chest, but his entire body. The man (man? Kurt wasn't sure—he seemed quite young up close) was beautiful, no matter the bad-boy vibes he radiated with. His black hair was lightly gelled, framing his perfectly-shaped face. His eyes were a deep, smoldering caramel, lined with black. Kurt never thought he'd be turned on by guy-liner. As the boy shifted, Kurt brought his gaze to the eyebrow ring now glinting in the light. Kurt fought to regain his composure.

"Maybe if you ditch that motorcycle to ride something else, yeah," he recovered quickly, biting his lip suggestively. The stranger pursed his own lips at the thought.

"Nice offer. I don't do guys who hold up the line, though," he added brusquely, nodding to the bouncers who were waiting on Kurt.

"Oh, well, this is a one-time thing. You'll be waiting in line for me to—"

"Quit it, Flirt, or the only thing you'll have pounded in your face is my fist," the guy threatened, his eyes narrowed. Kurt, taken aback by the rejection, turned to the bouncers and flashed his fake ID. They let him through, and he joined Santana and Quinn, who were waiting for him on the other side. He felt something bump into him, hard: the stranger marched past him, with Kurt's eyes glued to his ass before he disappeared in the crowd on the dance floor nearby.

"I think you pissed him off, Kurt," Quinn observed.

"No shit, Sherlock. Better luck next time, Hummel, you need to learn to shut your dirty, cum-filled mouth around those bad boys, or they'll do you in," Santana advised him, enthusiastically clapping him on the back, "and I don't need that to happen to my only club-going buddy. You don't count, Quinn, I still see you as little Miss Perfect-Even-Though-I'm-Actually-Really-Loco.

"All right, I'm off to find me a lady who'll let me shove my tongue down her throat for a bit; care to join me, Quinn, even though I just insulted you?"

"Let's go by the bar. I need to drink the night away," Quinn said, unfazed by Santana's typical decries. "Hummel, you better grind up that dance floor for me."

"Aye aye, Captain Fabray," Kurt mock-saluted her as she skipped away with Santana. He only had one thing on his mind, though—he needed to find that bad boy and convince him that maybe pounding something in his mouth wouldn't be such a bad idea—just not his fist. He felt a conflagration of desire burning within him. Kurt had never wanted someone this badly; he didn't know why, but he knew that he needed that stranger to at least touch him; just a slight brushing of hands would even suffice.

Kurt began to scavenge through the dance floor, the potent, fetid scent of sweat and alcohol causing him to crinkle his nose. The music pounded in his ears as he felt men dancing around him, some lightly touching him as a gesture to get him to dance. He even felt someone smack his ass; Kurt spun around and began to berate the offender, who was a blatantly inebriated middle-aged man.

"Hey! You're old enough to be my dad; that's fucking messed up! Go find some perv your own age. God," he spat, and returned to his search, hungrily rummaging through the jungle of people (why it was so busy on a Tuesday night, Kurt had no idea).

Again, he felt a pair of hands groping at his hips. Without even thinking, Kurt turned and blindly slapped the molester across the face. He felt metal scrape against his knuckle, and instantly regretted the hit right after he realized who it was.

"Oh God, I'm—I'm so sorry," he sputtered, heat rising to his cheeks. The stranger brought his hand to his cheek, giving Kurt an inquisitive look. Kurt stared back at him, feeling an awful churning sensation in his stomach, his mind speeding at a thousand miles per minute. He's going to beat me up, oh my God, please, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry that everyone wants to tap this…

The boy removed his hand, revealing an angry red handprint tattooed against his stubbly skin. Did I really hit him that hard? Kurt wondered.

"You've got spunk. I like that," the boy said lowly. Now before I start to feel the need to knock out all of those teeth in that gorgeous smile of yours, I want you to do me a favor."

"What's that?" Kurt tried to do his best to sound seductive, but the question still came out shaky and high-pitched. How is he doing this to me? Wait, he did threaten to punch me…but he did say that my smile is gorgeous, holy shit!

"I want you to dance with me." He said lowly; Kurt was more than happy to oblige. A new, ebullient beat began to thump from the speakers, matching the pace of Kurt's heart as he started to show off his best moves. He let the music flow through his veins as he advanced his body towards the man's. Kurt glanced up at the boy, who was ogling him, his eyes giving Kurt an unnerving, sultry look. While this turned Kurt on, he could feel himself losing his power. Kurt was used to being the one in control: it seemed that with just one look, the stranger could control everything within his sight.

"So, bad boy, why don't you tell me what your name is?" Kurt urged as he sidled up closer to him, desperately clinging onto the last threads of domination that were quickly slipping away. He planted his hands on the man's shoulders, gripping them as he returned the stare, attempting to match their impossible intensity.

"That, my friend, is confidential information, until you answer my question," he smirked at Kurt, grabbing at his hips and pressing his thumbs into Kurt's bare skin so firmly that Kurt was sure there'd be bruises the next day.

"And what might that be?" Kurt involuntarily licked his lips, rubbing his thigh against the motorcyclist, the small contact engulfing Kurt's being with a strong wave of cupidity that nearly sent him down to his knees.

"Which is what?" Kurt retorted, leaning in slightly. Their faces were just a few inches apart; Kurt had to cross his eyes slightly to keep the boy focused.

"I want you to tell me what an underage man like yourself is doing here, Kurt Hummel," he whispered in Kurt's ear, his teeth gazing his earlobe. Kurt felt chills run up and down his vertebrae at the mere touch. Then he realized what exactly he said.

"Wait, how—"

"I have many sources, babe." Suddenly he crashed his lips against Kurt's; Kurt opened his mouth in shock, and the man took it as an invitation to roughly shove his tongue down his throat. Kurt moaned against him, clasping the boy's face into his hands and returning the gesture with much enthusiasm. His teeth clinked with a small metal ball bearing: Kurt realized it was a tongue piercing. Stars exploded behind his closed eyelids as he walked his fingers into the boy's hair, entangling his fingers as best as he could in the gelled curls. Finally, after what felt like a millisecond and a million years in some strange way, the man gently broke off the kiss, glancing down first at Kurt's wet, swollen lips and then back up in his eyes.

"That's precisely why," Kurt answered the inquiry, feeling a little dazed. The boy promptly gathered Kurt into another kiss, even rougher than before.

"Sorry," he laughed after they surfaced for air again, "I just could not help myself. You're a little minx, you know that, right?" He snaked his hands up the back of Kurt's vest, his skin sending electric shocks throughout Kurt's nerves. Kurt lodged his fingers through the loopholes of the man's pants.

"Now it's my turn. What's your name?" Kurt drew their bodies even closer, earning a small groan from the stranger. Oh my God, how did I even manage to score this perfectly flawed guy…

"You'll see," That fucking smirk returned as he removed one of his hands from Kurt's back, reaching it into Kurt's breast pocket. He pulled out a small slip of paper that Kurt had never seen before.

"How…what did you do?"

"I reverse pick-pocketed you," His grin began to emulate that of the Cheshire Cat's; he unfolded the paper and pressed it into Kurt's hand. Kurt brought it to eye-level, reading a phone number and—

"Blaine Anderson,xx. Well. Nice to meet you, Blaine." Kurt looked up at him, his heart leaping into his throat.

"Whatever. Now, do you have a light?" Kurt was confused. Blaine had seemed so interested in him; he even gave him his number. Now all he cared about was smoking on the cigarette that he swindled from Kurt's pocket. That sounds kind of familiar, doesn't it, you skank, a small voice piped up in the back of his mind.

Wait, the cigarette! Kurt ignored the voice and hoped that this would work on Blaine.

"I don't smoke. You see, it's a metaphor. I put the killing thing in my mouth but—"

"—you're not giving it the power to kill." Kurt's mouth fell open. "Yes, I may look like a bad ass with a cold heart or whatever, but I read that book too. I cried." He admitted, shrugging it off like it was no big deal.

Kurt did the only thing he could think of: he kissed Blaine, initiating it for the first time, knocking the cigarette from his lips and sending it tumbling to the floor.

"I've never," he panted against Blaine's suddenly hungry lips, "met anyone who read that book. God, that's so…ugh," he was unable to complete his thought as he felt Blaine's hands grabbing at his thighs, running up and down higher and higher until—

Kurt backed him up into the nearby wall, running his hands all over every part of Blaine's body that he could reach. They were both in a state of euphoria, drunk just off of each other's beings. Kurt gasped as Blaine groped his ass, inadvertently rutting himself against the boy. Blaine's jacket sleeves were pushed up to the crooks of his elbows, showing off a plethora of fascinating tattoos inked in black against his skin.

"Why don't we blow this off," Blaine breathed, nodding his head towards the nearby bathroom while Kurt busied himself with biting his neck.

Kurt's heart fluttered at the words. This wasn't just any normal hook up, even though it appeared to be one. He brought his gaze up to meet Blaine's and nodded, giving him his best bedroom eyes. Blaine then grabbed his hand and led him to the room, excitement growing not just in their minds.

"Looks like Kurt got himself a guy," Santana commented to Quinn as she sipped her drink. They watched as Kurt and the strange motorcyclist skipped towards the bathroom. "Props to him. They were getting really handsy, though. That's not really Kurt's style, he likes to wait. Hm."

"Good for them. I bet he won't be able to walk tomorrow, based on how tight those guy's pants look against his—"

"Quinn, just shut up and kiss me. I'm bored, and the last thing I need is to hear your fucking cavity-worthy, sugar-coated voice."

~FIN~

A/N: Hope you liked it! You can find my my Day 1 fic, "I Love You", on my page/my tumblr championisjustatitle.