Through the smoke and haze of the bar (which Kurt consented to go to under the condition that it be smoky, dingy and dimly lit – and the Silverlake Lounge definitely fits those three qualifications), Blaine watches Kurt.

While it seems a bit voyeuristic and even two steps towards stalkerish, he can't peel his eyes away; he is, simply put, transfixed by Kurt, whose lithe toned body is swaying in rhythm with the thumping beats of the in-house band.

Kurt may be dancing with some girls in tragic clothing who more than likely wore to be provocative and alluring but his eyes – his eyes are staring at Blaine, narrowed and hooded and blown dark with what Blaine can only assume is desire, flamed into existence by the sultry heat of the bar and the velvet smoothness of the lead singer's voice. Sweat has accumulated on Kurt's forehead, glimmering in the dim light of the bar but he doesn't seem to notice, so lost in the movement of his body.

Kurt's body continues to move, swaying and gyrating, as his eyes remain on Blaine. Despite his better judgment, Blaine licks his lips, appreciating the sight of Kurt completely loose and relaxed and uninhibited.

Kurt looks different like this, different from how Blaine has, up until this very moment, seen Kurt since the beginning of this – well, whatever this is between them, this not quite purchase but not quite complicit, mutual relationship. Kurt's hair is looser, still perfectly coiffed, yet short tendrils of his pompadour slip and fall, damp with sweat, along his forehead. Although Kurt is dressed in a pair of dark jeans, white button-up (he'd since untied his light-gray ascot, letting it drape around his neck to reveal the tantalizing hollow at the base of his neck), there is something dangerously alluring about the painted-on-tightness of his jeans and the way the fabric of his shirt hugs his trim torso and deceptively strong arms.

Sure, Blaine knows that Kurt is gorgeous, even with the jagged scars. But Kurt's real beauty, natural in its delicacy and subtlety, sneaks up on you. Kurt's beauty is in the sound of his laugh, the earned touch of his hand, and the warmth of his open, vulnerable gaze (again, proffered when earned).

But right now, right now Blaine is not cataloguing the charming eccentricities – like his proclivity for setting the table even if they're eating take-out or his absolute refusal to go one night without his complicated, rigorous moisturizing routine; rather Blaine is, instead, for the first time since that night at the masquerade ball, permitting himself to stare, to ogle: the toned, impossibly long lines of Kurt's legs, the round curvature of Kurt's ass so obscenely emphasized by those damn jeans, the slight plumpness of Kurt's bottom lip, which he keeps tugging between his teeth in a distinctly teasing manner.

Blaine is noticing the luminescence of Kurt's pale skin, the way Kurt's hips move in synchronized time with the beats of the song, all liquid and sashaying. And really, only Kurt, with only the skin of his neck and his forearms bare, can make such a display seem like total nudity. Before Blaine can consciously recognize the symptoms of want percolating in his veins, heat – sizzling and sharp and wild – settles in the pit of his stomach. With each swivel of Kurt's hips, his eyes burn, bright and hot, as his teeth sink deeper into his bottom lip.

Blaine swallows thickly, wishing for the all the world (and since when did he actually want to initiate such a thing because he hasn't want to initiate anything intimate with Kurt since the masquerade ball, before the damn contract?) to dip his tongue into that hollow, luxuriating in the salty taste of Kurt's skin and to be as far as way from this stupid fucking bar as possible.

This is certainly not what he expected to happen tonight.

In recent months, Blaine has become introduced to a new side of Kurt – open, willfully vulnerable and exposed, safely ensconced in the boundaries of their contract. Now that they are more acquainted with one another (if that's what you can call Kurt's crazy rules and iron-clad stipulations), Kurt seems to laugh quicker and longer and has blossomed, sweetly and passionately, into a man of imperfect perfection. He is talking about Kurt after all, so even as open as he appears, it is still tainted with reservation and careful negotiation.

Yet when Kurt thinks no one is looking, he is a masterpiece of complexity – pure wonderment, realized and actualized through his visceral surrender to the moments unfolding around him, by him. And Blaine has taken to watching Kurt further when Kurt thinks no one is looking.

But tonight – tonight Kurt knows Blaine is looking and is still looking.

And that's, perhaps, what Blaine hasn't expected most of all tonight: for Kurt to know, for Kurt to meet and match his watching with equal fervor and intensity.

After a full day's worth of begging Kurt to venture out (because Blaine seriously needed to get out), Blaine grabbed his car keys and ushered Kurt into the car before Kurt could change his mind. He promised Kurt some semblance of anonymity and obscurity so he mindlessly drove to the one place he knew Kurt's appearance would not be deemed unusual or stare-worthy. Kurt grumbled something unintelligible when Blaine managed to find a parking space, something about not being the “bar type” and “seriously Blaine,Silverlake? What's next? Skipping arm-in-arm across rainbow painted crosswalks in West Hollywood?

However, something clicked in Kurt the second they stepped into the thriving dive bar. Something seemed to crackle in the air like static electricity and he just – liquefied, sublimating his cool distance into sinuous curiosity.

Thus why they were now halfway to obliterated in Silverlake.

With his scars Kurt blends into the rough, rugged appearance of the other bar patrons yet his clothes, decadently fabulous and clearly designer, eyes follow him, as if trigged like motion detectors but only a few brave individuals approached Kurt to talk and to flirt. Kurt at first declined most offers to dance in favor of going shot-for-shot with Blaine – cheap tequila that saturated Kurt's veins and loosened his tight resolve, giggles and flirtatious retorts sliding easily from his lips three rounds in.

Now two hours later and sufficiently intoxicated, Kurt has since accepted an offer to dance with some guy named Toby, spending much of it in a flurry of light laughter and silly dance moves. But now, now with the music taking a rather heady turn, Kurt slides fluidly into sashaying hips and hotly gyrating movements. And then Kurt hooks his finger and motions for Blaine to join him.

Blaine moves from the shadows by the counter quicker than he'd like to consciously admit. He nods to Toby, who drifts back from Kurt, a knowing smirk quirking the corners of his lips. It really was only a matter of time before Blaine joined Kurt on the dance floor for the other patrons had seen them come in together.

Blaine's hands instinctively find placement on Kurt's hips as Blaine brings his lower body to straddle one of Kurt's long legs, their hips immediately finding a rhythm. Kurt encircles his arms around Blaine's shoulders, the last string of movements to bring their bodies flush against one another.

The music dulls to background noise as both Kurt and Blaine lose themselves in the feeling of sweat and heat and languid muscle. Their breathing is heavy, coming out in puffs and pants, as they continue to move with and against one another. Kinetic energy brews between them, anticipating and need working as an aphrodisiac. They'd only just really found their rhythm when Kurt leans in and whispers breathily into Blaine's ear —

“Follow me.”

Turning on his heel, Kurt takes Blaine's hand and leads him through the thick crowd of people on the tiny dance floor. Kurt hadn't intended to lead Blaine off the dance floor. Having overheard that the back alleyway of the bar is a great place for a quick hookup, not overly trafficked and a place well shrouded by large Dumpsters, Kurt shuffled the information into the back of his mind and laughed it off over another round of shots.

But then Kurt started dancing and Blaine started watching. And Kurt started watching in return.

The alcohol coupled with the velvety beats of the band's lead singer had Kurt's body buzzing, his nerves flaring and igniting with headiness, a potent hit of an increasingly addictive drug. If Kurt is to be totally honest with himself, he remains in a constant state of arousal when in Blaine's presence, senses so thoroughly saturated that he often struggles to breathe.

The longer they spend time together and the more he gets to know Blaine, the more his physical attractiveness gives way to intoxicating sexiness, a derivation of an innate beauty that constantly leaves Kurt flummoxed. There exists in Blaine a genuine sense of kindness that proliferates a vast capacity for loyalty and love.

Try as Kurt might, he can't exactly stop the trickling of the crush that sprouted in his limbs, flooding his heart and rising and rising in the cavity of his chest until it is filled with warmth and softness. The knowledge that he and Blaine are not actually together restrains his crush, keeping it reined in and quelled to a point of a dull ache rather than the soaring heat of want-need-now.

Then the other night happened.

Then Blaine slid into bed next to Kurt and tiredly confessed that it all – Cooper's medical bills, his parents' refusal to help – feels like so much, too much and he just needs…out – at least for a little while and can he please, please, please re-up their contract? This too-much feeling, of course, includes Blaine's relationship with Sebastian and while Blaine, even now, is not altogether proud of his total submission to Kurt, Blaine really can't think of another option.

Kurt is his way out, his ticket to preserving something precious and sacred, even if Cooper doesn't see their relationship as such. Cooper is his brother and damnit, Blaine is going to make sure Cooper receives the absolute best care available to live, to thrive.

With that one confession, everything changed.

With that one confession, cleared of pretense or nuance, Kurt begins to feel the beginning burgeoning of love, sweet and low and deep, coat his nerves, steeping the darkest recesses of his heart. Love is not something Kurt is accustomed to feeling and he can't stop it and he's not entirely sure he wants to stop it.

It is essentially possible that his love would forever remain unrequited because even though Blaine wants to re-up their contract Kurt doesn't really know the reasons why Blaine wants to re-up, beyond those surrounding Cooper, but there's something more, something else simmering beneath the surface and that's what has Kurt spun out and confused. He just knows Blaine wants to re-up it, just knows that Blaine came to him, curling around Kurt's body to nuzzle his nose into the curve of Kurt's neck, to seek out more time, more them, more this. But Kurt doesn't care about the reasons, whatever they may be, for it is the first time since – well, ever, that the love he feels is good, solid and his. There is no one to exploit it, take advantage of it, or abuse it.

It startles Kurt how quickly, how deeply he falls in love with Blaine following Blaine's confession. It opens Kurt up in ways he is still discovering. It straps him to a rack and leaves him exposed and unlike any time before in his life, he doesn't so much mind the exposure.

Because loving Blaine, even secretly and from afar, fills a hole in his heart he's long believed will remain unfillable. Loving Blaine finishes the puzzle of his heart; the missing piece that he forced himself to believe was never even missing. It is just simply there and it makes him feel whole, connected – safe.

Then again, it shouldn't have startled Kurt how easy it is to fall in love with Blaine; it's part of Blaine's charm, Kurt surmises. Blaine makes everyone fall just a little bit in love with him but the other night Kurt didn't see Blaine Anderson, consummate gentlemen and dreamy piano player.

No, Kurt sees Blaine – insecure, confused, complexly simple and real.

So when Blaine suggests that they go out tonight to just get out and blow off some steam, Kurt finds himself acquiescing rather quickly. Of course he acquiesces, Blaine is hard to turn down when he employs those damn puppy-dog eyes and pout, but Kurt acquiesces with his bitchy bouts of petulance.

Now with the knowledge of the back alleyway burning Kurt's brain, he silently leads Blaine out the back exit and into the unseasonably chilly night air. He spins on his heel again and with a sly, mischievous smirk he palms Blaine's chest and pushes Blaine backwards until Blaine's back is flush against the brick wall of the bar.

Blaine's eyes widen. He is entirely unsure and wildly confused about what this is all about. Kurt is not impulsive. No, Kurt is almost solely the opposite of impulsive, finding comfort and control in planning, in the meticulous adherence to his impossibly high expectations and standards.

So this, whatever this is, is deliriously confusing.

“Kurt? What – what are – ” Blaine gulps, “you doing? Why are we out here?” He manages to ask through the heaviness of intoxication and the suddenly too-hot feel of Kurt's hands on his chest.

Kurt's smirk deepens and his eyes darken further as he whispers, “We're having fun, B. You told me we needed to blow off some steam. So I am.”

Kurt trails his hands lower, lower until his fingers hook around Blaine's belt. Blaine gulps again. He knows he should be protesting, doing something, anything to keep this from progressing but he just can't seem to. He can't gather up the words or the forbearance to step back from this moment. Kurt's touch is far too welcome after the time spent watching and dancing.

Oh God – Kurt's hands, delicate and soft yet strong and broad, feel so, so good and the way Kurt's looking at him through hooded, desire-blown eyes, as if Blaine is the only man in the world is too much in the way of delicious need.

“I um – I'm good. I drank. I danced. So we – we can go back now?”

Blaine really is trying to maintain some semblance of cool, calm and collected but Kurt is still looking at him through hooded eyes and fluttering eyelashes and that sound – oh holy hell, that sound echoing in his ears is definitely his zipper being undone.

Swallowing thickly, Blaine arches his neck back until his head rests against the wall. He can't take any more of Kurt's direct eye contact – electric and feverish. He can't possibly handle drowning in Kurt's eyes anymore. Because drowning means giving in. Because drowning means surrendering and surrendering means everything shifts, again. Because drowning means he wants this with Kurt.

And Blaine's not entirely sure he can handle that. Things are good with Kurt as they are. Things are predictable and they are solid. They are easy and swimmingly pleasant. And because of such, things are invigorating and refreshing and with Kurt, he's breathing again, fresh and full and unencumbered by weight and anxiety and life.

And yeah okay, he may have desperately pleaded to re-up the contract between them the other night but in that moment he meant to adhere to the one they'd established so many months ago – the one where Blaine didn't buckle under the careful choreography of Kurt's touch, or feel the fire of Kurt's kiss on his skin or yearn to be with Kurt, heart and soul and body all at once instead of shutting his mind down and letting the physical shell of his body come with pleasure.

Sex with Kurt is about fulfilling his end of the contract, even if he does notice the damn luminescence of Kurt's skin. It is not about the conflation of ravish, relish and reverent.

So why, why on Earth is he not stopping Kurt?

“Did you miss my not-so-subtle innuendo B?” Kurt whispers huskily, the end of his inquiry pitching into a mischievous lilt that tickles Blaine's skin and sends another round of heat, sharp and sizzling, to the pit of Blaine's stomach.

Blaine's mouth is suddenly bone dry and he can't seem to swallow naturally. When he feels Kurt press forwards to lick a wet, hot trail up the side of his neck and Kurt's lips close around the lobe of his ear, lightly biting and tugging, Blaine is sure he can feel every last molecule of Kurt's body.

As in every last fucking millimeter of Blaine's body is vibrating, thrumming with the insistent, niggling need burning him from the inside out.

Blaine's palms splay out on the wall behind him. If he touches Kurt, all bets are off. But if he stays just like this, flush against the wall, merely an innocent victim of Kurt's rather pornographic and erotic assault, then he really hasn't crossed a line, has he? Mind you, Blaine's not exactly fighting back or saying no in any capacity but for some reason the twisted logic enables him to keep his wits about him for a moment longer.

So Blaine says, which comes out as more of a whimper than anything else, “I um – I guess so. Kurt, please um – let's go back inside? Dance some more, maybe?”

Okay, that honestly did not come out in the way it sounded in his head.

Kurt leans back just far enough to catch Blaine's eye. And fuck, Kurt's fucking pouting, this adorable, sexy little pout that is scorchingly hot and shit if Blaine doesn't just want to take Kurt right then and there. He remembers this – the urgency to take as much of Kurt as he can get, recognizable as the lingering remains of the indescribable thirst he felt pressed against another wall, a mysteriously and handsomely masked Kurt kissing him with reckless abandon.

“But I want to play, Blaine. Don't you want to play with me?”

Kurt whispers this in that husky tone, all low and rough and gravelly and hell, if that's not the hottest fucking thing Blaine's ever heard because in all the other times they've “played” Kurt has never, not once, sounded like this.

How could Blaine deny Kurt anything when Kurt sounds like sex and sin incarnate?

Honestly, if Blaine gives in just this little bit, he wouldn't really be changing things all that much, right? After this, he can just go straight back to keeping his increasing desire for Kurt's kiss, Kurt's touch secret, reined in and clamped down? After this, he can return to his real reasons for re-upping their contract, Cooper's continued medical care without consequence, right?

Right.

Of course Blaine's silent debate with himself doesn't account for Kurt's careful perusal and assessment of Blaine's facial expression. Kurt smirks, victory gleaming in his eyes, and then the too-fast, too-slow action of him sliding to him knees and peering up at Blaine through veiled eyelashes.

Blaine immediately moans. This – oh God, this is what Kurt meant by blowing off steam.

Kurt's fingers are back fumbling with Blaine's belt and zipper until his pants are opened and slung low on his hips; the chilly breeze of the late night air trickles over the exposed skin of his stomach, letting him know that yes, yes this is definitely happening. Kurt is definitely on his knees in the dank, dark, gross back alleyway of a dive bar and peering up at Blaine, that delectable smirk quirking the corner of Kurt's mouth.

Blaine is already half-hard as it is. That much happened back in the bar watching Kurt dance, the discomfort of which only increasing when they danced together. But the sheer weight of anticipation has the blood rushing at breakneck speeds to his groin and he can't stop the twitching of his dick in his boxer-briefs.

Kurt presses forward and trails the tip of his nose along Blaine's length, hardened and aching, through the fabric of his briefs. Blaine whimpers, outright whimpers and Kurt? Kurt chuckles, smugly amused by the responses he's drawing from Blaine without so much as doing anything other than actively teasing.

“For someone who only just a minute ago wanted to return to the dance floor you, you seem quite…eager for this. Are you eager, B?” Kurt prompts headily.

Blaine moans again, a thick cloying whimper roughed by desperate need, released from the very back of his throat. The whiplash currently fogging his brain about this rapid turn of events leaves him floating aimlessly. This man, sexy and sultry and so deliciously, intoxicatingly in control of his words and actions, is still very much Kurt, but this Kurt, this side of Kurt, is impossibly breathtaking.

He wants this Kurt and in realizing that truth emerges in the strangest of places, he hears himself beg, “Eager, yes, yep, yes, yes, oh God yes Kurt, please, please, do something, anything…”

Kurt smirks one more time and before Blaine can even begin to process anything further, Kurt's fingers, nimble and expert, slide the hardened length of Blaine from his briefs and slides his mouth down over Blaine in one wet, obscene movement. Blaine is immediately sucked into the white-hot, slick, tightness of Kurt's talented, glorious mouth.

Blaine's hips buck automatically but Kurt seems to predict that for one of his hands move up to hold Blaine's hip firmly in place. The other hand lowers to wrap around Blaine, moving in a counter-rhythm to his mouth. A moan, deep and dangerously low, slips from Blaine's lips while his eyes nearly roll back into his head.

Ohgodohgodohgod.

Blaine dares to peer down and flushes with nothing short of rampant desire. Kurt's head bobs in the most delightful of rhythms, his mouth sucking, sucking, sucking, taking Blaine in, in, in until the tip of his cock touches the back of Kurt's throat. Kurt moans right then, a light trickle of a moan that hums and vibrates along every inch of sensitive flesh currently encased in the wet hot heat of Kurt's mouth.

Kurt's fist continues to work counter to his mouth and by now, Blaine is panting, willfully trying not to buck his hips too fast, too forcefully. Seemingly setting the pace for Blaine, Kurt edges Blaine closer and closer to the precipice of release yet he keeps Blaine teetering on the precipice by sliding off him with a sloppy smacking pop before flattening his tongue and trailing it up the vein on the underside of Blaine length.

Retracting his fist, Kurt returns to sucking, this time a little harder, a little more fervently, saliva pooling in the corners of his mouth. Blaine swears he's never seeing anything more erotic than the sight of Kurt just sucking and taking him with his mouth, pulling half-moan, half-whimpers from the back of his throat over and over again.

“Oh my – oh fuck, fuck Kurt, that feels – oh shit, that feels so fucking good…”

Kurt moans around the length of him again and pulling off with another pop, he grins up Blaine before whispering, “Go ahead, B. Fuck my mouth.”

Blaine throws his head back against the wall, not caring that he may have just inadvertently given himself quite a sizeable bump for later because holy fuck – “Oh sweet fucking hell. Kurt, oh my fucking…oh God,” Blaine growls as Kurt sucks him back into his mouth.

Kurt can feel Blaine trembling with need. He can feel the escalating buildup in Blaine's muscles, tightening and tensing under his touch and his mouth. By accident a few blowjobs earlier, Kurt discovered that there is a certain sensitive patch of flesh just on the underside of Blaine's cock below the head that when Kurt presses the flat of his tongue against it, Blaine bucks involuntarily and his knees shake. So Kurt flattens his tongue and licks – languidly, smoothly, deliberately.

The heat pooling between his own legs is now increasingly hard to ignore but he's enjoying this – bringing about Blaine's pleasure – far too much to worry about his own arousal. There is something decidedly heady and addictive in bringing about someone else's pleasure, about being the one to unravel them completely, loosening their bones to jelly and causing their muscles to tremble and quake.

Blaine's close, Kurt knows Blaine's close so he relaxes his jaw and sheathes his teeth behind his lips. When Blaine feels this, he can no longer restrain himself and needing that release, needing that blazing white-hot explosion of yesyesyes, he bucks his hips forward and loses himself in the motions of fucking Kurt's mouth as Kurt directed.

Kurt takes Blaine in as far as he can with each thrust forward and he takes Blaine in earnest, humming every other thrust and it's no more than a handful more that Blaine pants out, “Oh fuck, Kurt I'm gonna…I'm gonna…”

But Kurt doesn't move. He tightens the suction of his mouth around Blaine and with one more thrust and the strategic placement of his fingers against Blaine's perineum, Blaine cries out, the blinding white-hot explosion entirely too much-too much-too much, his knees nearly buckling from the intensity of his orgasm. Blaine spills and spurts into the slick wetness of Kurt's mouth while he continues to suck Blaine through his release.

When Blaine's sufficiently sated, every last inch of him oversensitive from his orgasm, Kurt slips his mouth off before pressing a tender kiss to the wilting head of Blaine's cock, standing up and sweet fucking hell,licking his lips. Blaine is breathless and panting.

Kurt, meanwhile, remains thunderously silent as he readjusts Blaine's jeans, pulling them back up around Blaine's hips, zipping him up and in, and re-buckling his belt. But Kurt doesn't remove his hands; instead he curls his hands around Blaine's hips and nestles his legs in between Blaine's.

Spent and unable to consciously think about what to do next, Blaine reaches up to cup Kurt's face in his hands and brings Kurt forward, capturing Kurt's mouth in a deep kiss. He can taste the remnants of himself on Kurt's lips and tongue as Kurt allows his tongue entrance.

Under the first touch and kiss Blaine has ever initiated, another side of Kurt emerges – pliant, malleable in the wake of Blaine's unconsciously tender response. Kurt merely accepts Blaine's kiss and follows Blaine's lead, a complete role reversal from only moments before where Kurt dictated the pace, the rhythm and the outcome.

Once more, Blaine suffers a bit of whiplash and he can't not pull away from the kiss aching and needing and wanting – everything. He is so fucked. He knows that. To some degree, he's even accepted that following that mind-blowing orgasm but really, he is so totally, royally fucked.

Kurt pulls back with a soft smile, adjusting his clothes. He fastidiously tries to fix his now thoroughly ruined coif, and loosening his expression into that mischievous smirk and hooded gaze, he steps back from Blaine's space.

“See you back inside. Toby still owes me another round,” Kurt says melodically, a teasing lilt pitching his remark into groan-worthy territory.

Kurt disappears back into the bar without another word and yes, Blaine is definitely, totally, royally fucked.