Synthesizer ((OPEN))

[regnerbiorn]

There is a general consensus that drunken men at bars -- especially when they are the bartenders -- are bad news indeed. It takes one slip of the tongue to one unsuspecting woman, and all of the men in the bar will be on you with their knives and words that are even sharper. He supposed that's how he got the scars on his back, but he was hitting on -men- (because honestly feminine wiles were not charming, they were -gross-), and he had been getting over a bad breakup and wanted to be consoled in the form of some tight ass and swaying hips.

It's not like one could blame him, after all; but then again, he hadn't exactly loved his friend in the first place, and he didn't want to keep leading him on or whatever the fuck had happened. So he remained leaning on the counter where he was, letting the rag swipe idly over it and leaning on one elbow, surveying the samples he had tonight. He was a shameless flirt, that much anyone knew, but for once he felt like charming one specific person into bed, into his arms, and not just having a bunch of twinks fawining over him all night. He got hit on by bears sometimes.

That honestly scared the fuck out of him.

[beilschmidt]

Sometimes, Gilbert liked to be lost. Lost in music, lost in the swaying of his hips, lost in throwing his hands up in the air. He loved the pounding music in his ears and the feeling of sweat on his forehead and back. The feeling of warm bodies beside him, in synch and swaying beautifully and rhythmically. He arched his back and threw his hands up and danced with all his heart.

He often kept his eyes shut. But for some reason he decided to open them, and when he did, he met with a pair of blue ones. Beautiful blue ones, actually, the brightest he'd even seen, besides his brother's. And he looked curiously at them before softening his own gaze, inviting him to come over and join him.