To say Kurt looked angry… well, he did, certainly, but not in the way Blaine would have expected. He looked stunningly lethal, face bleached bone white and eyes two narrow slits of deadly blue-grey, and right now the unfortunate target of that gaze felt every part of himself stand to attention at that. Wanted to feel just how much restraint was in those muscles, to feel the trembles, taste just how fucking pissed off he clearly was and--

            It took Blaine a moment to realize he’d been hit, and he could only blame that brief moment on his suddenly uncontrollable libido. But when he did, when the red hot pain flared up along his cheek, he did a second thing he wasn’t accustomed to doing. Blaine didn’t strike back.

            Not to say, of course, that he did nothing at all.

            He wrenched Kurt through the door and slammed it shut, the rage on Kurt’s face faltering, and he looked nothing but shocked when Blaine slammed him into the wall with a satisfying thunk. Blaine pressed tightly up against him, every nuance of his body language intended to threaten. Through the layers of clothes, Blaine felt Kurt’s body tremble. Whether from anger or sudden fear, he wasn’t sure.

            “Who the fuck,” Blaine finally hissed, drawing still closer, “do you think you are, to come up to my fucking doorstep and hit me?” Kurt gaped soundlessly, stunned into silence. “Because if you think that I’m some sort of goddamn gentleman, if you think I won’t hit a man who struck first back twice as hard, you’re wrong. Who the fuck do you think you are, Kurt?”

            Every line of their bodies was pressed together, and Blaine realized belatedly that there might be another reason for Kurt’s quiet as the man’s face steadily blush a dark pink. Blaine blinked, and then rolled his eyes.

            “Probably the only thing that saved you from a black eye,” he grumbled, feeling the hot, swollen part of him pound incessantly at his consciousness, a part Kurt was now undoubtedly aware of, “was how fucking hot you are when you’re pissed.”

            He backed off of Kurt, who blinked rapidly at him, breathing heavily. Sighing, Blaine rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palm. “So are you going to tell me what’s got your ovaries all in a twist over? Since this is apparently a rom com now.”

            Kurt didn’t say anything for a long moment, breathing hard and looking over-dramatically distraught. It was nearly endearing.

            Wordlessly Kurt then whipped out his phone, pulled something or another up on the screen, and shoved it towards Blaine.

            Glowering still, but interest piqued, Blaine took the phone off him. Kurt’s hand recoiled quickly, as if affronted by the idea of making contact, and Blaine rolled his eyes pointedly at him before looking at Kurt’s phone. A text conversation had been brought up. The recipient was a cell with a New York area code, and looking vaguely familiar. The very last text sent was of Blaine’s address, and a proposition that was almost tame compared to its predecessors. Want me to shut up? Come here and make me.

            Can your legs spread as wide as I think they can? It’s cool if not, on your knees if just as good.

            I looked, and I’m pretty sure you couldn’t even fit a thong under those poor excuses for jeans you were wearing. But it’d be awesome if you’d prove me wrong.

            And earlier was… oh wow, Blaine thought dazedly, pointedly ignoring Kurt’s increasingly violent replies to those messages.

            I’m sure I can get it out of you, baby. Can get it in you too. If you can take it.

            And they were all quite tame in comparison to, oh god Blaine wasn’t sure his tongue was long enough to reach that far…

            Ever been rimmed by a guy with a tongue piercing? Because I can get this thing all the way—

            Blaine stopped, his eyes darting to the phone number listed at the top, sudden realization like a slap to the face. He pulled his own phone out of the pocket of his sweats, and Kurt suddenly snatched his own back, already hissing, “I hope that you know my roommate’s friend is studying law at NYU and we’ve already corresponded. I’m fully prepared to press charges for assault, violation of privacy, stalking—“

            It was Blaine’s turn to push his phone at Kurt. Although he didn’t take it for a moment, Kurt did shut up long enough to look. Blaine has pulled up Santana’s contact information, and listen under her cell was—

            Kurt’s eyes darted from the phone in Blaine’s hand, back and forth. His face first went white, and then slowly pink, until even his ears were burning red.

            Kurt licked his lower lip, refused to meet Blaine’s eye.

            “So, your lawyer friend,” Blaine said coolly, taking back his cell phone and pocketing it. “What would he have to say about people showing at private residencies to commit unprovoked aggravated assault?”

            Kurt answered with another question. “Did you put her up to this?”

            Blaine tossed his hands in the air. “Are you fucking joking with me?”

            “Did you?”

            “No, you asshole, I didn’t. You know what.” Blaine rubbed at his eyes, the adrenaline wilting along with another part of him. “I don’t have to deal with this shit. Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

            When Kurt didn’t move, Blaine looked up, gestured angrily to the door, and snapped, “What are you waiting for, me to press charges too? Get out.”

            “I’msorry.”

            It was said so quickly that it took a moment to process. Blaine’s scowl dropped, and Kurt’s face got darker.

            Rolling his eyes hard and shifting his weight to and fro, like a boxer waiting for the next strike, Blaine snapped, “Fucking whatever,” because receiving apologies wasn’t something he was accustomed to. It was usually him that owed them.

            But Kurt wasn’t done. “I shouldn’t have hit you,” he said stiffly, maturely, like some sort of goddamn gentleman. “I apologize. That shouldn’t have happened,” he repeated. “It’s… been a long week.”

            It was a week half-hoping for Kurt to walk back through that door, it was a sexual itch he just couldn’t scratch, it was his chair so ready for that body but constantly being filled with the wrong people. Blaine could relate. “It really has been.”

            Kurt seemed to have nothing else to say. His eyes darted to the door, and Blaine realized that there was a golden opportunity right in front of him. Kurt was here, and apparently with enough time to spare to go around New York City assaulting people on false accusations. Perhaps he might be able to stay a little longer.

            “You’re not going to sashay over to Santana’s to slap her too, are you?”

            “No, I don’t think so. She’d actually manage a decent hit.”

            “Hey...”

            “How did she get my number?” Kurt interrupted, looking back to his phone and wincing at what he saw. Blaine smirked. Even for a city boy, some of those texts were downright obscene.

            “From Rachel, probably,” Blaine replied. “I heard Santana she’s been texting your friend.”

            Oh, and the anger was back. Ah, and so was something else. There was just something about that face contorted just so, the flush of color it brought to his face, the spark it lit in his eyes. But Blaine knew fairly well that there were other types of moods that could illicit the same sort of physical response. He opened his mouth to egg it on a little bit.

            ‘The hills are alive… with the sound of music…”

            Blaine started, and both of their attentions snap back towards the living room where the DVD player had apparently been set on pause for too long, causing the movie to start back up.

            “Is that…” Kurt squinted, craning to the side to look around Blaine at the screen. “Is that Moulin Rouge?”

            It was Blaine’s turn to blush now. He crossed his arms angrily, biting at his tongue piercing in annoyance. “So?”

            “You’re watching Moulin Rouge.”

            “So?” Blaine repeated empathetically. “You’ve got a problem with musicals? That’s rich from someone like you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so dramatic outside of…”

            Kurt cuts him off with a defensive, “I love Moulin Rouge,” as if Blaine was insulting him now, and it occurred to Blaine how very ridiculous it all was, how they were continuously backpedaling into each other and how that wasn’t getting Kurt anywhere closer to either the door or his bed.

            Blaine ran his hand through his hair again, and for the first time realized just how very undressed he was. His hair, more than likely, looked like a weave that had been run through a garbage disposal.

            It seemed that Kurt had simultaneously realized Blaine’s unkempt and rather naked state. Again, Blaine found himself wondering how Kurt saw him. Obviously Kurt had seen his neck tattoos, the perfectly proportioned bow tie that had hurt like such a bitch to get over his collarbone. But then were the others.

            Along his left arm were thick hibiscus flowers done in haunting lilacs, busheled beneath leaves carved from cold iron. Trailing up the inside of his forearm was a broken black feather, the top corner of it disintegrating into tiny little blackbirds that flew in a great cloud up his arm, tiny little bodies intermingling among an assortment of other tattoos inked over the years before disappearing over his shoulder.

            His right arm had a long violin bow, starting at his wrist and terminating up near his arm pit. On the back of his forearm was something experimental, the only tattoo he’d ever gotten from Santana, and the only one Blaine had ever drawn. Scrawled down was the word MUSIC in a cryptic, gothic font that, when viewed from the other side, scrawled into DEATH. The two opposing sides of the coin. It was a spellbinding twist of lines and illusions and the finished product still causes Santana to preen whenever she caught sight of it.

            Across his right breast was a perfect blackbird, perched upon the hand of a clock. It was stamped over in ghostly hues of blue, greens and yellow, the eyes a startling shade of violet. A smaller bird was in flight behind it, taking flight behind its steadfast partner. Roman numerals settled beneath it, a countdown that trailed his ribcage, an eclectic collage of confusion and calm, flight and fight.

            Kurt’s eyes finally snapped up, and Blaine smirked slightly at having caught him staring. Now that it was hard. Kurt’s lips were parted slightly, his mouth such a pretty pale pink.  

“So, um, it isn’t that far in. The movie,” Blaine added at Kurt’s slightly confused look.  “I’m at, like, the green fairy part. I could rewind it.”

            “Oh, is this on VHS?” Wonderful, Kurt had regained his wits. Blaine missed the drooling.

            “Fuck you, do you wanna hang around and watch it or not?”

            Kurt was quiet for so long that Blaine took it as a passive-aggressive way of saying ‘no’, of course I’m not staying, and for Kurt to then walk right out. Probably for good this time. So it came as a great surprise when Kurt shed his coat, shoved it at Blaine who caught it just in time, and then strutted right past him and into the small living room.

            “Make yourself at home,” Blaine grumbled, hanging Kurt’s coat on the doorknob. If Kurt wasn’t going to act like a guest, he didn’t see why he should act like a host. He collapsed back on the couch, allowing Kurt to fiddle with the DVD player, and then let himself into the tiny kitchen to find himself a drink. As the opening previews rolled to a close, Kurt returned with a bottle of water and yet another frown on his face. “Your fridge is full of beer.”

            “I see you didn’t help yourself to that, too.”

            “Only beer.”

            “I swear to God, Hummel, shut up or I’m seriously kicking your ass out.”

            Muttering under his breath that Blaine was the one who’d invited him to stay, Kurt made his way back towards the couch. He hesitated for a moment, eyeing Blaine’s bare torso. Blaine arched an eyebrow at that, but Kurt didn’t comment on his state of undress as expected. He settled next to Blaine on the two-seater couch, a good foot of distance between them. He kept his eyes determinedly on the screen as the melancholy notes to the opening began.

            “Got a problem?” Blaine wheedled.

            “You barely have more than alcohol in your fridge,” Kurt reiterated, twisting the lid from his water bottle and taking a delicate sip. “I’m not the one with the problem here.”

            Blaine grinned hard, stretching a bit in his seat. His guest very pointedly did not look over. He wandered, as the movie began, if Kurt was the type to cry during these things.

            Luckily, Kurt wasn’t the type to talk through a movie, which Blaine absolutely detested. That wasn’t to say Blaine didn’t slip in a few jabs. Once they got to the At The Moulin Rouge number, Blaine had said to Kurt, grinning cheekily, ”Voulez vous couche avec moi?” Kurt had returned the proposition with an unimpressed look, and rattled off an answer in such rapid French that it made Blaine’s head spin. He was sure that whatever Kurt had said, it wasn’t complimentary. But his mind had already supplied him with a translation, although Blaine highly doubted they taught students words like those in college level French.

            Blaine noticed something else about Kurt for the first time, besides his abilities to insult Blaine fluently in more than one language. His ears were… pointy. Ears weren’t generally something he’d pay close attention to, but there they were. His nose had a cute up tilt to it. Initially Blaine had thought it snobbish, but it fit in so well with the rest of his face. There were almost feminine angles to his face, but something about the sturdy set of his cheekbones, of his eyebrows, was undeniably masculine.

            There was a point in the movie when Blaine shifted forward a bit and Kurt caught a peek of his bare back. He’d sneered, made a comment about how of course Blaine would have wings, and Blaine retaliated by snagging the remote off of him. He’d paused the movie and threatened to turn it off and physically remove Kurt from his apartment if he wouldn’t shut up. In a move of daring, Kurt lunged over Blaine’s lap to make a grab for the remote, and it was only the shock of having Kurt’s ass barely half a foot from his face that granted Kurt the victory. And he was a horrible winner, smirking like the imp he was and tucking it safely under the aforementioned ass.

            Blaine heartily disagreed about the presumption that this would in any way stop him.

            But Blaine let him win this one, simply because Kurt didn’t move away after that. He waited for Kurt to return to his end of the couch, but he never did. Blaine could feel the warm of him through his clothes, and despite being shirtless, the room was beginning to feel oddly warm. When Come What May began, Blaine’s prediction came true. A few furtive glances saw Kurt’s eyes get glassy and pink, and he was blinking rather hard. After fiddling his tongue ring behind his teeth for a few moments of long deliberation Blaine finally shifted, and in the most clichéd moved he’d ever conceived of doing, pressed his arm around the back of Kurt’s shoulders.

            Kurt didn’t look at him. Nor did he move away, or give any indication he felt Blaine’s little half hug. He just continued blinking hard against the tears, and sunk a little lower in the couch, and leaned slightly into Blaine’s chest.

            They stayed that way for the rest of the film.

            When the movie had finished, and Blaine had lost the argument to just order in Chinese for lunch in favor of Kurt fixing them something, it was nearing two o’ clock. Blaine was lounging on the couch, watching Kurt once again make himself at home in the kitchen. He was going through the cabinets and fridge, bemoaning the state of it. They hadn’t really gotten beyond small talk since the movie concluded. Nothing Blaine wanted to talk about, anyway. He still hadn’t put on a shirt, and Kurt’s eyes constantly darted to his torso, his arms, his bare neck. Blaine thought about what Kurt thought of his tattoos and also, not for the first time, what Kurt’s problem with them was in the first place. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be an issue for him now.

            Watching Kurt burrow through the cabinets, Blaine had another epiphany. Kurt had shed his vest when he’d taken a trip to the bathroom, and Blaine could see how neatly his shirt was tucked into his pants. Kurt was all long, lean lines. He wore a high collar, but nothing that couldn’t be nudged aside a bit. This was probably the least amount of layers Blaine had ever seen him in, and his thoughts careened to slightly more dangerous territory.

            Perhaps Blaine’s plan has worked out, in unexpected ways. Kurt was showing no signs of going anywhere anytime soon. And somehow, someway, he’d ended up here, without the assistance of either alcohol or coffee.

            Somehow, without his putting in much actual effort, Blaine’s plan had worked out in a very convenient way. This time, there was no possible way Blaine had read the signs wrong. Kurt had certainly made himself comfortable, shedding layers and shedding armor in Blaine’s own living room. Had cracking a few teasing grins. Fuck, had practically crawled into Blaine’s lap. And then stayed there.

            If that wasn’t a clear indicator, Blaine didn’t know what was.

            Blaine made himself quiet as he stepped behind Kurt, who was still bemoaning the state of Blaine’s cupboards under his breath. “Find anything yet?”

            Kurt jumped, and then started again upon seeing how close Blaine was standing. “What?”

            “To cook,” Blaine clarified. His kitchen was tiny, but blockaded by the hooked counter, leaving only a few feet worth of entryway behind Blaine. He took a deliberate step forward, shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweats. His fingers found a little foil package. While he certainly wasn’t planning on taking Kurt right there in the kitchen, the coincidence tickled his sense of humor.

            Kurt eyed him, his intelligent eyes oddly blank for a moment before saying, “Well I should have expected it from the state of your fridge, but there’s hardly anything of substance in here to do anything with. What on earth do you survive off of?”

            “Take out,” Blaine answered shortly, amused as Kurt rambled on a bit.

            “That figures. That’s disgusting, you know, not to mention phenomenally expensive, I’m sure. You have Rice-a-Roni and Cup Ramen, Blaine, are you paying ode to your old undergraduate days?”

            “Never went to college,” Blaine said nonchalantly, not moving closer but standing firm in place, eyebrow cocked in interest. So Kurt rambled when he was nervous. How endearing.

            “Of course not, I suppose you hardly need to prove you have any brains to do what you do.”

            They were moving back into dangerous waters, where Blaine got more angry than horny and nothing productive for his sex life would come of that. Kurt had turned his back on Blaine to search back through the cabinets. It was a mistake Blaine was just awful enough to take advantage of.

            In two strides, he cornered Kurt into the crook of the countertop. Kurt’s hands froze where they were on the cabinet doors. Blaine pressed gently, but with intent, against his back and hips. Every part of cool, icy Kurt was warm. Who would have known? Blaine used one arm to cage Kurt in. With his free hand, he drew a long line up Kurt’s tense arm, up and to his shoulder. He cupped the warm junction of shoulder and neck, and inched his face closer until his nose was pressed to Kurt’s hairline. He smelled like cologne, hairspray, and something like ginger.

            “You never did tell me why you hate tattoos so much,” Blaine whispered, making sure every word gusted warm breath over Kurt’s neck. Kurt’s body trembled a bit, then, and Blaine grinned slightly in triumph, pushing closer. And oh, his ass was right there, Blaine was pressing in, he could feel it…

            Ducking his head a little lower so as to brush his lips against the skin as he spoke, Blaine murmured, “I don’t think you’d look half bad with a tattoo. I meant what I said before.” Kurt wasn’t responding, and Blaine pressed closer still, using his hand to drag Kurt’s collar down slightly. He stroked it with his thumb, then a few fingertips, scratching the skin ever so lightly with his nails. The skin was pale and smooth, like silk beneath his lips as Blaine whispered, “Just a small one. Something that you’d have to work to get at and see.” The first kiss was more of a bite, a brush of lips before Blaine nipped lightly at the taught skin. Kurt jolted again, and his hands trembled where they remained fastened to the cabinet door.

            “Just a small one,” Blaine promised, “something only you would know was there.” He kissed him, then, right below the hairline and Blaine inhaled sharply. There was ginger and also honey, something warm and spicy and clean. Tentatively he darted a tongue out to taste, and Kurt definitely jumped then. Blaine licked at him again, and then latched his lips along the wet skin to suck ever so lightly. He rocked them a bit, just a gentle push of their bodies side to side, and his hand returned to Kurt’s shoulder. Down his quivering arm until he reached Kurt’s side, and then he reached Kurt’s side. It didn’t take much to place his hand over Kurt’s taught stomach and press gently but firmly, pulling Kurt’s own body closer to his own.

            His mouth seemed to have a mind of his own. Kurt was quiet as the back of his neck quickly became damp and hot from Blaine’s attentions. Blaine pushed at him rhythmically, sucking in tandem with the rock of his body. He bit harder, and kept his teeth there as he sucked. Kurt was so silent, his body jumping and jolting slightly. Blaine’s hand abandoned its spot on his stomach, trailed a little lower to his abdomen, down until he felt a belt buckle, leather saturated with warmth and so ready to be tugged free.

            Kurt’s hand slid from the cupboard, finally, and he straightened against Blaine’s body. Blaine pressed his hand over the buckle, his fingers dipping lower to find the catch.

            Kurt turned slowly in place then, remaining bracketed by Blaine’s bare arms, causing his hand to slip loose from the belt. Blaine’s mouth followed the line of neck as Kurt switched position, and he licked hard at his Adam’s apple. His skin was clean, warm, and so absurdly soft. Softer than any man’s neck should be. He tasted underneath Kurt’s chin, bit gently at his jawline just to feel the muscles jump, lips dragging like a promise up and up, he opened his eyes…

            And stopped.

            Kurt was looking at Blaine with an expression he’d never seen before, and it was so carefully stoic he might not have been thinking anything at all. Pressed so tightly together, Blaine could feel Kurt’s complete lack of interest, and became very aware of just how much his own interest was showing. It felt like fire, like burning and insatiable tension, and Blaine’s body pressed closer even as those seldom used alarm bells in his head started to go off.

            There was a pregnant pause in which neither of them did anything. And then, as if inquiring after the time, Kurt asked, “What do you think you’re doing?” But as Blaine opened his mouth to answer, although with what not even he knew, Kurt cut across him in a whisper. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t care.”

            Blaine still couldn’t move away. His breathing picked up, and nothing in his body would cool down.

            “One of these days,” Kurt informed him calmly, “you’re going to mess with someone worse than me, and you’re finally going to get what you deserve for being such a selfish, heartless fuck up.”

            All of Blaine’s interest was promptly killed off faster than if he were to be doused with ice water.

            Kurt shoved him off violently, and Blaine’s lower back struck against the counter. “If you’ll excuse me, I have things I’d actually rather be doing right now,” Kurt said in strangled tones. His face looked like some forced sort of calm as he bypassed even the short trip to pick up his vest on the couch, going straight for the door, picking up his coat that he’d left hang on the doorknob.

            “Hey, okay, just wait,” Blaine begged after his back, following Kurt through. “For fuck’s sake, Kurt, that was stupid, I know I’m a dick, but just say ‘no’ but don’t go storming off like some sort of drama queen!” Kurt beat Blaine to the entryway.  Not even bothering to put on his coat, Kurt pushed through the door, attempting to close it tightly behind himself but Blaine caught his wrist in time. “Hey--”

            The door swung open, and Kurt swung around, and the look on his face caused Blaine to drop his wrist immediately. Expecting what quite frankly would be righteous anger, Blaine saw fear. And something he wasn’t quite used to seeing personally, although he recognized it all the same. Blaine didn’t get close enough to people to hurt them, and seeing it reflect on someone’s face left him so wrong-footed he felt hollow.

            Wrenching his wrist from Blaine’s slackened grip, Kurt once again left him hovering miserablebeneath the threshold. Either he’d missed spotting the elevator or he really didn’t trust the ones in Blaine’s apartment building, Kurt stormed through the double doors situated in in the opposite hall, his heels whipping out of sight. Blaine could hear them galloping down the stairs before the doors swung themselves shut, cutting off any noise.

            Blaine stood there for several long moments, anger already drained from him. He hadn’t even been mad. Defensive, most certainly. Uncomfortably guilty, definitely.

            …selfish, heartless fuck up.

            And in so many ways, hurt. Like Kurt’s words has stripped his skin like it was nothing more than paper, and then poured paint thinner over what he found there.

            His lips felt raw and buzzing. The warm was more muggy now than it was warm. He shut the door with a quiet click.

            On shaky legs Blaine stumbled over to the couch before collapsing down on it. But there was something hard beneath him. On instinct, he shifted himself up and tugged whatever had been left there.

            Kurt’s vest.

            Blaine ran his fingers over the smooth silver material. Feeling quite ridiculous, but wondering if he might be able to catch a whiff of Kurt’s cologne from it, he lifted it from the couch and found it strangely heavy. Frowning, Blaine spun it in his hands a bit to see the right side of it hanging heavily.

A quick search in the pockets discovered Kurt’s cell phone.