The third of my passion!Klaine one-shots.

After Something Went Down In The Tent & Acrylic

Inspiration came from a friend who wanted to see a fierce Kurt going all "head boss in charge" over Blaine.

It's not particularly fierce, but maybe I'll get to that point someday.

Enjoy!

"Where's this from?"

Blaine runs his fingers across Kurt's new scarf, feeling it slip like water between his fingers.

"It's Alexander McQueen. New collection."

Both boys smile at each other, across the piles of books and papers strewn across Blaine's bed. Blaine understands what this means now, the Blaine who still can't tell his chiffon from his cotton but gets the significance of each designer's name – the ones Kurt likes, the ones Kurt doesn't, the one's whose spring/summer collections were an abomination one year and brilliant the next. It all bears some small significance to him.

"Want to try? It's your colour. It'll look great on you!"

Blaine can't refuse Kurt's smile, the one where the curvature of his mouth is slightly uneven and seems almost awkward, but with that little glint of glass in his eyes.

"Fine. Sure. Go on then."

Blaine reaches towards Kurt to unwind the scarf from around his neck, to release Eve from her passion, but Kurt pushes him away, pushes him a little too hard so he falls backwards and knocks over a stack of homework.

"Hey! What was that for?" he asks through a laugh, which Kurt echoes, none too subtly pouncing over from his corner of the bed to kneel over Blaine. Both are giggling like children, Blaine puzzled, Kurt greedy.

"My turn now." Kurt's face is right next to Blaine's, his words flowing smoothly between his throat and Blaine's ear under the shade of a low whisper.

Deftly, Kurt untangles his scarf and starts to twist it around Blaine's wrists, suspended above his head, before knotting them and rethreading around the posts of the bed.

Blaine struggles, but not for long.

Once he's certain that Blaine is as secure as he could be, Kurt stand up, sweeps away all their work quickly, and pushes the duvet onto the floor. They're not going to need it.

He can't read Blaine's face as he sits back down on the side of the bed. It's full of some kind of intense emotion, or a mixture of emotions just waiting to be set free, but Kurt can't pick out any in particular. Maybe when they're released, one by one like little butterflies, he'll understand what Blaine's feeling.

When their lips meet, it's slow and awkward and tentative because neither really knows what they're doing in this reversal of roles. Kurt's hands are at Blaine's collar and are undoing the buttons quickly. Blaine wants to watch, wants to see how Kurt's sculpted hands uncover him, little by little, but he can't.

"Oops, I forgot about the sleeves."

"Untie me?" Blaine's still not sure about this whole Kurt-taking-charge thing.

"Nope. I know what your plan is. You're going to get your hands free, flip me over quickly and put me where you are."

"Right in one," Blaine smirks, resignedly.

"I'll just leave them. For now, anyway."

Now Blaine's the one open, exposed, vulnerable beneath Kurt's steady grip. Kurt's on all fours over him, hands on his shoulders, seemingly deciding what to do next; he's biting his lip slightly and staring away from Blaine's face, just to the side of his head.

"What are you going to do to me?"

"I'm still trying to decide that."

"Kiss me while you make up your mind?"

And Kurt hates to give in, not while he's the one in control, but he does. Blaine's leading Kurt, desperately trying to show him that he should have the power while Kurt fights against him, threading his fingers through Blaine's hair and squeezing his sides tightly with his knees.

When they break apart, Blaine's smile is triumphant.

"No need to look so pleased with yourself. Wait here. Not that you could go anywhere anyway."

Kurt leaves Blaine smirking on the bed.

And when Kurt returns, nothing's changes about him. He's not wearing anything new, carrying anything new. Just same old vanilla Kurt.

Blaine knows he can do better.

But he should have known Kurt would have something up his sleeve. Literally. Pockets? Too obvious.

It's a pen. A plain black biro, the tip glinting slightly, a flash down one edge underneath the light.

"I always have a spare." Blaine's puzzled. What on earth is Kurt going to do with a pen? "Now, shut your eyes."

He obliges, still a little bewildered.

Now it's Kurt's turn to really take a look at Blaine properly. His body is better-built than his own, thicker and slightly more developed. His frame is a lot more angular than Kurt's and his torso is just showing the very faint etches of muscle. The blushes of a fading bruise lie just below his left shoulder, purple and blooming against the otherwise pale skin. He runs the tip of his finger over it, noticing how Blaine's breath suddenly becomes more rapid, although neither says anything.

Quickly, Kurt walks round the end of the bed to the other side, clambers over the mattress and kneels beside Blaine, whose mouth is slightly open to release his breaths. Kurt brushes the folds of Blaine's shirt away from his shoulder, leans over and slowly runs his tongue over the bruise before kissing it. Blaine breaths out stress and tension, falling back into the mattress and relaxation.

"You like that?"

"Mm."

And carefully, Kurt swings his leg over Blaine's and leans into his shoulder, just gently breathing down Blaine's neck. Blaine's eyelashes flutter, displaying a taste of hazel before it's snatched away again. Now Kurt's hands are starting to be thread amongst Blaine's tangles, taking in the scent of deodorant and hair gel and cosmetics and the beginnings of sweat and breathing it back out onto him mingled with heat. Blaine breathes deeper, his back starting to arch more upwards with his exhale.

Then Kurt slowly brushes his mouth upwards, from Blaine's sturdy collarbone to his sturdy jaw line, leaving a slight shine under the light. Blaine's face is rough; he's missed a shave, unusually. But he smiles as Kurt pulls away.

He's not sure where to go next, so decides to pick up the pen from his side and clicks it idly for a few moments. He closes it, runs the cold tip along Blaine's clavicle to the response of a low, steady expiration of breath, kisses the centre of his throat, then opens it again, poised, a dart waiting to strike.

Kurt applies the pen to the top of Blaine's chest and begins to swirl it, forming a copperplatian S, but the distribution of ink is uneven, and all that's left is an indentation that seems more painful than it really is. He clambers off the bed and begins to rummage around between the papers on the floor.

"What're you doing?"

"Trying something else."

Blaine's eyes are open when Kurt appears above the edge of the bed again.

"Shut them again? Please?" It's not meant to be a question, but it still seems like such. But Blaine still does as he's told.

Kurt reassumes his position over Blaine and removes the lid again from his new weapon, an equally stylish blue marker pen. He traces over the previous line, now only an echo, and begins to write more.

He's not sure where he's going or what he's doing. His thoughts are being channelled through his blood, flowing down the veins in his arm, to his wrist, to his fingertips and out through the pen in ink. Blaine's chest is soon to become his sea of words, an ocean being filled with water and the deep dark depths of romantic emotion. Every so often, he pauses before releasing the plug again, new surges coursing through him.

As he starts to write further down, decorating Blaine's chest with meanders and rolling curlicues, he notices how Blaine's hips curl upwards more. There's more movement with each breath, and even his skin is becoming hotter. And Kurt knows that he's the cause of it, the one with complete control over Blaine's body for once in his life and wow, did it feel good!

Finally, he forms the last word along the bridge of Blaine's hips, where the skin seems to be stretched slightly tighter, pulled apart to breaking point on his bones. One last line, in uneven capitals.

He sits up and surveys his work. The lines of his writing are slightly unbalanced, the ends of each line going in all different directions. The margins aren't aligned and a little of the ink is starting to leak around the edges of his words like tears, but it's still beautiful. Beautiful like him. Beautiful like Blaine. Almost as beautiful as him and Blaine together.

Blaine's sensed that he's finished, and his eyes are open once again. He sits up, straining against the scarf but cannot read the words.

"Read it for me?"

"It's a poem. For you."

"Yeah. Read it to me?" Blaine's voice is somewhat strained, sounding care-worn far beyond his few years.

Kurt takes a deep breath and starts, keeping his eyes fixed on his own words, reading his own feelings rather than Blaine's.

"Don't tell me that you love me.

Your shredded scraps of words are useless;

Say no more than what they spell.

Volere, cupere, optare.

Incende mihi cordis.

Set alight the fire to burn my heart away

And call upon the ribboned earthen spirits.

Touch the broken beauty of the human mind and soul.

Try and put the shards of glass back together again, only using sellotape.

You cannot do it fully, but maybe one day you will.

Hold it. Feel your creation.

Imperfection.

Perfection."

Blaine's face is illegible. He starts trying to say something, but it's silenced by the soft crush of Kurt's lips upon his own. Their chests touch, their heartbeats radiate heat and warmth and sheer passion. When they break, Kurt quickly reaches over and frees Blaine's wrists. His arms ache like he's been lifting weights, although he had done nothing.

And Kurt rolls Blaine over onto his side with him, so both are equals but Kurt's still leading him, although Blaine fights back, but this loss of power is so hard to come back from that he knows he'll never succeed. Kurt's cold hand is around his neck; the other is working its way down his back, around the gently sloping hill and valley of his spine and then going further, catching on the waistline of his jeans and then even more downwards, around every angle of his body. As he reaches Blaine's thigh, Blaine's knee begins to bend into a sharp right angle, dragging against Kurt's shin, folding up across his knee and resting on Kurt's own thigh. A delicate moan passes between them, neither really sure who formed it and neither wanting to own up to it.

Despite the awkwardness and the pull of tension between them, there's something warm and beautifully heartbreaking about this moment.

Both smile when they end the kiss, Blaine leaning into Kurt's shoulder, Kurt breathing softly down the back of Blaine's neck again as he slowly brings his hand back up, as Blaine draws into him at his touch and the rigidity fills and leaves his body , elastic to Kurt who smiles, slightly smug, at the knowledge of his own dominance.

"I don't think you know how beautiful you are, Blaine."

He doesn't know how to respond, finally settling on, "that poem – was amazing," to break the silence.

Kurt notices that his shoulder is becoming damp and breaks apart from the embrace. Tears are running down Blaine's cheeks, working their way through each crack and crevasse and line in his face.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" Kurt's not sure what to do even more than ever, so he tries to hug Blaine again and places one hand on the back of his neck just in case he falls.

"I – I never thought anyone would feel like this about me."

Now Kurt is stunned into silence.

"You kn-know my parents aren't very s-supportive of me, not a-accepting. And I – I h-hated it. I f-felt worthless and...and...I..."

Kurt hates to see Blaine cry. His body shakes as though every movement will break him.

It's a strange thing to witness: someone's walls breaking down before them, being powerless to stop them; to see what lies behind a facade of confidence and singing lead and courage.

He knows that whatever comes out of his mouth next is going to be horribly clichéd, but he's going to try.

"Blaine, these past few weeks with you – everything we've done, how close we've gotten; I wouldn't change that for anything. I wouldn't change you for anything. No, not anything, that makes me sound like I have a fence fetish or something, but anyone."

Blaine smiles and it seems fractured, but genuine.

"I just –,"he begins, but Kurt presses a finger to his lips, silencing him. His eyes fall, ashamed.

Kurt plants a soft kiss on Blaine's drenched forehead and just holds him for a while, lying together on a mattress stained with sweat and salt and tears and the ghosts of passion.

"Forever yours, Blaine," Kurt whispers tenderly in his ear.