Supernova

The music plays softly, dripping over and around the speakers like honey. Blaine doesn't know the artist, doesn't care, as he trails his finger around the rim of his champagne flute and meets Kurt's bright, bright eyes.

"Isn't the purpose of wine to, to drink it?" Kurt says, hissing as drops of cool, ruby-red liquid spill on to his chest. "This does seem rather... wasteful."

"Trust me," Blaine responds, cock twitching in his briefs. "Hands above your head."

Trust is implicit between them and Blaine smiles brightly at Kurt, seeing a mask of trust glimmering through Kurt's fa├žade. As Kurt shudders, curling his toes, Blaine reaches for a beige linen scarf, not one of Kurt's favorites, and fastens his boyfriend's hands against the headboard like a prayer. He trails his lips against Kurt's neck, whisper-cool with the ghost of sparkling red wine. Kurt whimpers. Blaine's tongue prickles as he flicks it against Kurt's neck, hard, his open mouth gasping against cool, damp skin.

Kurt arches his back, opens his eyes wider, and Blaine wants to place his palms over Kurt's body, over all of Kurt's body, touching his arms, his legs, his back, his everywhere. Instead, he sits back on his heels, licks his lips and reaches back into his glass. The tips of his fingers trail a billet through Kurt's wine-slick skin, forming mindless patterns around the strong, pale muscles of his thighs, which are trembling erratically against the crisp blue cotton sheets.

Blaine Anderson is a man who wants. He wants a lot of things, and he wants nothing more than to slide his swollen lips down Kurt's chest and taste Kurt, and the wine, and the salt and the sweat. It will be intoxicating, but good things come to those who wait, and so Blaine will wait, will make Kurt wait, even if it kills him.

It just might kill the both of them, but the ending will be spectacular.