“Blaine what – what're you doing?”

Blaine grins, off-center, curved dangerously. Nearing midnight, Kurt has lost count of how many vodka cranberries Blaine has consumed and can't quite remember when Blaine even started drinking in the first place. Kurt, for the most part, has been glued to Blaine's side, much to Blaine's chagrin. He just couldn't not touch Blaine; it'd been a week since they'd been intimate with one another and one day without Blaine's hands on his body is cruel and unusual punishment.

One week and it's been torture, slow and brutal and harsh.

But over the course of the night, Blaine's reciprocating touches became less tender and more – possessive. More intentionally insistent and demanding, more unforgiving with each inch of distance voluntarily or involuntarily created. It is not a stretch to think that there will be bruises on Kurt's hips later, which only fuels the fire simmering in his veins.

It pleases Kurt immensely that Blaine wants to touch him, be touched by Kurt in return. Yet it's unlike Blaine to touch this much, this desperately. It's unlike Blaine to touch with so much intention, like Kurt's body is some road map back to somewhere that exists only in Blaine's mind. Because there is something wrong – very, very wrong. There's no other explanation for this.

And it's the only explanation as to why Blaine never allows Kurt to look him in the eye.

Cut to two minutes later, and Kurt is being unceremoniously pushed into the guest bathroom of his penthouse. Blaine's hands expertly lock the door. His usually vibrant hazel eyes that melt into smooth, warm whiskey when he's happy and lovely ochre when annoyed are now nearly black, dangerously hungry and leering.

Kurt swallows thickly. Never has he seen Blaine's eyes look this dark, this furious with purpose. His body immediately caves, intricately bonded to his own arousal and libido.

“Turn around.”

Kurt flinches against the command. Blaine's voice is rough, scratchy and wrecked. His eyes are unapologetic and in movements that are both agonizingly slow and in warp speed, his hands grip Kurt's hips painfully.

“Blaine, seriously. What're you doing? Come on. You're violating your own contract stipulation of no public – ”

“Turn. Around.” Blaine growls. 

His voice drops into that tone – the one that brooks no room for negotiation, demands total, unquestioned compliance, heard only once before: they day of their contract negotiations. So Kurt does. He turns around and meets Blaine's gaze in the mirror reflection. It would be futile to fight this, end this. Blaine may have stipulated rules against public sex but with that look in his eyes, ferocious and ravenous and unrelenting, Kurt knows Blaine is too far gone to even care.

Loosening his tie, Blaine pulls it from around his neck and after crudely grabbing Kurt's wrists, ties it tightly in place behind Kurt's back. Kurt's heart jerks, skips a beat or two, or three. Very rarely does Blaine express dominance in any capacity through his own volition; moments of “dominance” generally are spurred on by a well-placed command from Kurt.

Yet this – this is new, excitingly, curiously, amazingly new. And incredibly hot.

Kurt's response to the feel of the tie biting into his wrists, the tangible fact of his bondage just pushes him further into his arousal, his need. Only once did he ever admit to Blaine that he wondered what it would be like to be dominated, to being taken, his will and agency stripped from his hands, literally and metaphorically. He whimpers, a pathetic mewl, which causes his lips to quiver when Blaine pushes, forcing Kurt to bend over and lay his torso over the cool marble countertop.

“That's it, Kurt. Good boy. Fuck Kurt, you in this suit, you look fucking good enough to eat, like that nigh I first saw you at the masquerade ball.” Blaine dictates strongly but brokenly, voice giving way to the thick velvet of his broken state.

“Blaine, um what – what're you going to do?”

Kurt knows – oh Kurt knows – what Blaine is going to do but he needs to ask, needs to hear Blaine say it. Saying it would make it real, make it palpable and alive. Sweat accumulates on Kurt's brow, the lights above the mirror suddenly stifling and so hot.

Blaine grins again, something predatory and swift. He doesn't mean to dominate Kurt; he means to conquer Kurt, to stake some sort of claim, a ruthless imperial assault that will leave no room for retreat, whether it's wanted or not. Kurt gulps. Blaine is still leering at him, like seeing Kurt bent over and hands restrained is the most erotic thing Blaine has ever encountered.

Pushing a knee between Kurt's legs, Blaine signals for Kurt to spread them as wide as he can. Blaine starts at Kurt's ankles, palms flat, two long, slow slides up the long, toned length of Kurt's clothed legs. Kurt whines in protest when Blaine teasingly slips his hands to Kurt's inner thighs only to retract them, a well-placed smirk greeting Kurt in the mirror as Blaine stands upright.

“I'm going to do exactly what you think I'm going to do, Kurt. I'm going to fuck you so hard until the only thing you remember is my name. No safe word. You think you can handle that?” Blaine snarls heatedly in Kurt's ears.

Another whimper slips from Kurt lips, “Y – yes.”

Blaine yanks hard at Kurt's bound wrists, destroying any and all concentration Kurt is commandeering to stand upright. Kurt's legs ache, muscles screaming as he attempts to maintain some semblance of stability. The countertop does not provide much support and the sharp throb of hard arousal between his legs is excruciating.

Blaine yanks hard at Kurt's wrists again and demands, “Yes what?”

Oh wow. The combination of Kurt's on-fire muscles and Blaine's sudden domination shoves Kurt deeper into his arousal. Kurt relishes pain, just enough to urge his body to viscerally react, and the harsh yank which tightens the tie even more, acts as a counterpoint to the pleasure of Blaine's voice.

Kurt knows what Blaine wants – knows that giving it to Blaine abandons his own dominant nature. Giving in would mean surrender on his end. One word, one title would be the first tug on a dangling loose thread, causing the entire tapestry of their dynamic to begin unraveling. This may be exciting, a tantalizing new adventure, but Kurt is still a Dominant, still genetically wired to crave control and power, in and out of the bedroom. So Kurt remains purposely silent.

“Yes what, Kurt?

That tone again and another harsh tug. Nerves fraying, patience waning, and legs screaming for reprieve from this awkward position, Kurt squirms. His whole body is rebelling, unconsciously seeking freedom from the simple bondage restraint. Now nearing the possibility of being claimed, fucked hard against the countertop of his own guest bathroom, Kurt rebuffs because it was only a fantasy. It was only meant to endure as that – just a fantasy, never categorically labeled as a possibility.

Frustrated anger flares in Kurt's chest, seeping through the membranes of his cells. It takes up residence in the nuclei and he jerks again. Blaine expects this though, can read Kurt's barely contained fury, and twists, tightening the biting bind of the tie. Kurt gasps sharply. The pain is glorious. Blaine releases one hand to grab Kurt's coifed hair, tugging roughly in a quick, decisive yank.

Kurt moans despite the frustrated anger. If he expected Blaine to catch on, to take mercy on his frustrated anger, then Kurt is sorely mistaken because then Blaine twists the tie and yanks Kurt's hair back simultaneously, arching his neck up off the counter and back.

This has rapidly gotten out of hand. Why he is even letting this continue is beyond Kurt. Why he is even entertaining Blaine's obvious drunken determination is driving Kurt just as crazy as the feel of Blaine tugging on the makeshift wrist bondage.

Kurt hears himself say, “Y – yes Sir.”

Blaine grunts something unintelligible. Releasing Kurt's hair like a cast off piece of inconsequential material, Kurt's cheek falls unceremoniously back down onto the warming countertop. Blaine is pleased with Kurt's surrender that much Kurt knows as he feels Blaine unbuckle his belt, undo his zipper and shoves his pants down until they pool at his ankles, another makeshift restraint of Kurt's movements.

Legs spread and ass visible, Kurt has never felt so exposed, so terrifyingly vulnerable. Blaine pauses, for a moment, merely to look, to visually devour the sinful display he initiated. He doesn't know what has come over him, why the voracious need to claim Kurt, to fuck Kurt senseless arises in the onrush of blood to the straining tent in his pants. The pressure of wanting, of needing, seems to ratchet up the mounting tidal wave of take, take, take.

Cruel, Blaine would characterize his abrupt one-eighty, but that would undoubtedly piss Kurt off even more and he doesn't want to make Kurt even angrier because he knows he's angered Kurt; it's evident in the cool blue fire of Kurt's eyes, the tension in his restrained arms. But Blaine just wants right now, wants to fuck out the day's events and silence the cacophonous roar of responsibility and decorum ringing in his ears like white noise. The moment overwhelms Blaine, how much Kurt can't quite detect from Blaine's quivering frame, but his self-control is running away.

“You're so fucking sexy like this Kurt,” Blaine rumbles breathlessly. “All mine to touch, to fuck, just like you agreed to in that stupid fucking contract. You're just going to take this, take me. I want you to feel me for days after this. Scream as loud and as much as you want but you will not come until I say so, do you understand?”

For good measure, Blaine grabs Kurt's hair again, wrapping it around his fingers, and yanks. Kurt yelps, not even remotely expecting that. Tears sting his eyes; the hair pulling hurts, acute and focused, tugging on the sensitive nerve endings of his scalp. Kurt sobs, something low and heavy with the weight of anticipation of Blaine's possession. Blaine aims to use Kurt's body, to take what he deems is his, only his – just like Kurt does with Blaine.

“Y – yes Sir, just please, shit please…” Kurt pleads, voice wracked and splintered.

Kurt continues to pull against the tie that binds his wrists, desperately seeking the tight burn, the hefty pressure of its bite.

“Please what?”

The sound of Blaine's belt unbuckling thunderously echoes in the dense air of the bathroom. Kurt wants to look, wants to see the rock-hard cock that he knows intimately well, with its tendency to curve slightly to the left, the thick vein on the underside pulse as blood continues to pool, to engorge the hot-to-the-touch muscle. But from his angle he can't quite gain the vantage point he desires, yet he can vividly imagine the swollen head, dripping pre-come accumulating and, in little bursts and surges, running down the length. His mouth maddeningly waters, the memory of Blaine's salty bitter taste vibrant on his tongue.

“Fuck me,” Kurt breathes, surprising himself just how much he wants this.

Blaine doesn't waste any time in fishing a tiny bottle of lube out of his pocket, uncapping it and lathering his index finger with some. Kurt hisses at the feel of the finger pushing in, his body immediately wishing to reject the invasion, no matter how much he wants Blaine's touch. He hardly, if ever, bottoms so while the feel of a finger inside him is not completely foreign, it is relatively familiar so he relaxes, allowing Blaine's finger to push past the rings of resistant muscle.

It burns, only slightly, giving way to subtle fullness. Another finger follows soon after, another volley of burn and pressurized fullness. Kurt moans, the pads of Blaine's nimble fingers brushing just right over the spongy surface of his prostate. The sharp burst of pleasure creates a struggle to breathe within Kurt. A third finger and now, now it's just enough, nearly enough pressurized fullness.

So Kurt demands, “Do it. Just fucking do it Blaine. Fuck me. Now.”

Blaine growls, annoyed with Kurt's demand, but coats his hardened length with lube nonetheless. And then he thrusts forward, one direct and expert snap of hips, sheathing himself entirely. Kurt's pained, surprised gasp ripples over Kurt's moan. Kurt's body, now craving the fullness that Blaine's cock promises and delivers, eagerly accepts Blaine's merciless assault, the hot folds of Kurt's body screaming as Blaine begins a relentless rhythm.

No matter how many times they've been intimate, nothing could have prepared Kurt for Blaine's version of dominance: coolly controlled, focused, savagely aggressive. Each thrust stretches and fills Kurt's body perfectly yet seems to rip him apart, piece-by-piece, a constant loop of devastatingly irresistible pleasure and pain.

It's his fault, Kurt reasons, giving Blaine standing permission to take, to have. Kurt is the one who'd made it clear that he would never say no to Blaine, never decline Blaine's needs; he is the one who encouraged Blaine to never apologize, to want, to claim, to be strict in his endeavors.

To be calculated and ruthless. Just like him.

Kurt's leg muscles continue to scream and tears born of effort to endure, to accept escape his eyes as Blaine moans behind him, hips persistent pistons that drive Blaine in, out, in, out, slamming Kurt's lower body harshly against the countertop edge. Blaine's voice is almost casual, relaxed even, only the ragged hitch in the back of his throat lending to a sandpapery rasp as an indication of his wayward arousal.

“That's it Kurt, just take it. Fuck Kurt, it's like you were made to be fucked by me, so greedy for me,” Blaine pants, emphasizing his words with snapping, vicious thrusts.

Blaine keeps his hands on the tie, tugging and pulling in counter-successions of his thrusts, which wrench tiny breathless whimpers from Kurt's throat. Kurt senselessly moans, forcing his legs to remain standing, to last just a little bit longer. He lungs struggle to catch the air to draw breaths in but they don't last long, being released in a barely conscious muttered litany of “Please, please, please, oh please, please, please.”

It's desperate sounding, Kurt knows, but he needs – he needs so much, that release, that sweet ecstasy of relief because it's like Blaine is consuming him. His control is slipping and Blaine's thrusts, if possible, only seem to cant upwards in speed, in brutality. Undergoing new sensations and a new rotation of pleasure, pain, pain, pleasure, pleasurable pain, and painfully pleasurable, Kurt aches for his orgasm.

His knees are weakening and as Blaine continues to tighten the tie, the added inducement of euphoric pain tormenting every nerve, every fiber of Kurt's body. Bliss swells in his chest when Blaine murmurs, “Not yet. Don't come. Not yet. Stay with me. So close, just stay – stay with me.”

Kurt closes his eyes, not needing to actually look at anything because the outer edges of his peripheral vision have turned fuzzy, blurring the distinctive colors of the interior into an indecipherable blob. He leans more on the counter, letting the heaviness of his pleasure-wracked body seep into the hot marble. He searches for something, anything to focus on so he can stave off the throbbing need to come, but nothing works because Blaine continues relentlessly, pounding deep and hard in his rapacious pursuit of his own release, of staking his own claim on Kurt, powerfully and possessively.

Everything hurts now, and it's right there, just a few more thrusts until Kurt reaches it, grasping for it despite Kurt's command of “Don't Kurt! Don't you dare fucking come. Disobey and I'll stop.”

And, oh, oh! That wasn't in Kurt's head. Blaine actually said that. The words, scrambled and fragmented, bounce around in Kurt's head. He can do this. He can hold off, can keep himself from tipping over the precipice despite the creeping rise of his release inching ever so closer from each purposeful snap of Blaine's hips. Kurt wants to obey Blaine, to give over and surrender all agency to Blaine – in this moment,only this moment because this is the hottest sex he's had in quite some time – yet the building pressure of his need torments him, threatening to burst.

Blaine slows, drawing out the gorgeous slide of his cock against the overly sensitive internal flesh of Kurt's quivering body. Kurt knows that this is an abnormal event. Blaine is merely acting out some sort of frustration purge. Lengthening his thrusts, Blaine carries Kurt closer to the ledge, and oh, oh this is what Blaine means by beautiful nothingness, by the abstract, incomprehensible edges of surrender because with each perfectly timed moan, he's close – not to coming (although that, too, is dangerously close) but to some form of submission.

No more begging, no more straining, no more focusing on no, no, no, but zeroing in on the slip and slide, the drift that ripples along his screaming nerve endings. Intense and fiery, Blaine's thrusts are punctuated with Kurt's gradual sinking – he is bound for Blaine's control, for Blaine's pleasure; Kurt aches and continues to breathlessly whimper and moan for Blaine; it's all for Blaine, just Blaine.

Blaine somehow needs Kurt to understand, to let go, to submit, to get it. It's his twisted, gnarled version of sustenance and Kurt yearns to keep Blaine nourished and healthy, to be exactly what Blaine needs, consciously or not, at any given moment of the day.

“So fucking tight Kurt, almost there, hold on just a little longer,” Blaine coaxes, hips once again picking up speed, tipping his moans into breathless sobs.

Kurt's riding the edge, so dangerously close, and his body burns, his legs throb, the hyper-sensitive flesh of his prostate stinging, raw and abused from Blaine's violent claiming. Kurt wants it, ravenously craves that liberating oblivion he's watched Blaine acquire so many times prior but never thought he'd desire or encounter, not like this anyway.

But Blaine has Kurt right where he wants him, an incoherent, sobbing mess of debauched hunger, and each thrust now is reward and punishment, perfectly delivered pleasure and pain.

“Now Kurt!” Blaine cries. “Come now!”

So Kurt does and the entire world explodes.

Reality disperses and disappears; Kurt's immediate universe reduced to individual fragments, his chest tight from the spasming breaths still clinging to his lungs; his close-to-buckling knees; his screaming sobs of yes, yes, yes; slick sweat dampening his skin and his dress; and the impossibly heavy, unimaginable euphoria flooding his body and all that is seemingly left is the melted remnants of reality, a chaotic swirl of liquefied nerves, bones and muscle.

He only barely registers that Blaine has come, the warm drip of the aftermath a reminder that he sought his relief while Kurt came apart at the seams, thrusting into Kurt's over-wracked body. The only thing Kurt is consciously aware of is the bite of the tie around his wrists and that only seems to push him higher, stretch him farther.

Half aware of it, Blaine wraps his arm around Kurt's waist, providing stability and support as the intensity of his orgasm begins to ebb. Kurt slowly descends back down his body only to find Blaine sliding them to the floor. He's thankful for Blaine's foresight because even without the explosive orgasm, he's sure his limbs wouldn't obey anyway.

How he manages, Kurt doesn't know, but he vaguely feels Blaine sit on the floor, positioning Kurt on his lap so he slumps against Blaine's chest, cheek finding its favorite spot just along his neckline. His hot breath tickles the flushed, sweaty skin and he reaches to undo the tie. Kurt mutely complies, head dizzy and fuzzy.

Unconscious mewls filter from Kurt's trembling lips. Blaine rubs his palm up and down, up and down Kurt's back in a therapeutic, relaxing motion, continuous and reassuring. He plants a series of butterfly kisses to Kurt's forehead, cradling him and waiting for the world to solidify for Kurt again. Blaine recognizes that familiar withdrawal in Kurt's eyes, the telltale cloud moving over blue irises only a few minutes into his relentless claiming of Kurt's body so he pushed Kurt deeper, harder, faster to ensure the liberation of something more, something under all the layers unseen.

Blaine feared Kurt might jolt out of it, frightened by the prospect of submission and vulnerability, but instead Kurt permitted him to continue, legs widening and lip tugged in between his teeth. This drastic, impulsive alteration of their contract didn't worry Kurt; rather he seemed to seek it out, race towards it, knowing Blaine was right there with him, helping him, guiding him into the wondrous realm of pure bliss.

Kurt is not under very long. Blaine senses Kurt's return when Kurt squirms against his body. He tilts his head down just enough to meet Kurt's first act, post-subspace: a thorough, deep kiss.

“That – that was amazing,” Kurt whispers disbelievingly against Blaine's lips.

Blaine smiles dopily and kisses Kurt again, this one sweet and chaste, “It was. I didn't think you'd ultimately let me fuck you like this but can't say that I'm not thrilled that you did.”

“Mmmm,” Kurt wordlessly assents. He gingerly toys with the buttons of Blaine's shirt, body still buzzing and sparking. “I've never come that hard before.”

Blaine starts to rub Kurt's back again, head leaning back against the countertop edge, wanting to prolong this alteration because while he usually wanted to be alone after sex with Kurt, to get over the dirt and shame of consenting so readily and of coming every time as Kurt procures his pleasure, this alteration allows for bouts of sweetness and fondness to emerge.

“Did I hurt you?” Blaine queries, a tinge of concern lacing his words.

Kurt leans up, fingers continuing to play with the buttons of Blaine's shirt. Kurt winces slightly as he responds, “A little but I like that. Where did that even come from?”

Lifting his hand, Blaine gently strokes the outline of Kurt's cheekbone, a delicate dance over flushed pale skin. Kurt sleepily smiles, nuzzling into the familiar touch.

“I wanted you so I took you,” Blaine answers simply.

It comes out so casual that it takes Kurt a minute to catch up, to process the words. Kurt narrows his eyes and stares, mouth parted. Something about Blaine's nonchalance and his answer sits uncomfortably with Kurt for it feels like something has changed, shifted in place like two tectonic plates sliding against one another, creating a fissure, a new topical element upon the surface of their geography. Weeks prior, the lines between them were drawn boldly, boundaries clearly and expressly defined.

But now? Now not so much.

Because this.

Because Blaine – and a tightly tied neck tie around wrists, and harsh, unforgiving thrusts into Kurt's pliant body: the undermining of their resolution, their whole understanding of who they are as contracted individuals relentlessly lambasted with perfectly positioned snaps of hips, the debris of which lies littered at their feet.

Kurt never does find out the real reasons behind Blaine's behavior in his guest bathroom.