"This might take a while, babe – I don't want you getting bored," you say, but your tone is teasing – you know how he loves to watch you work. You're sitting at your desk, endeavouring to write a history essay, but you're not even sure of the topic, because he's sprawled across your bed, and his hair's all messy – triumphantly free of its usual gel prison, and he just looks so cute. He grins at you, and gestures at you to carry on, and you try, really you do, but you can feel the weight of his stare on you, and you shiver. When you look up, his warm, golden eyes are transfixed on you, and you bite your lip self-consciously.

"I like the way you do that," he muses, "the way you bite your lip. When you're concentrating, when you're nervous – it makes you look so … kissable." And you honestly can't comprehend the things this boy does to you – you're pretty sure your heart's stopped beating, and you're finding it difficult to breathe. He arches one perfectly formed eyebrow, innocently, as if to ask what the matter was. As if he didn't know the effect he had on you. You kind of want to glare at him, but you physically can't, so you settle for blowing a kiss, which he catches goofily and presses to his mouth, which makes your heart do crazy things all over again.

"There's no point," you sigh, exasperatedly, "I can't concentrate with you around!" but you soften it with a smile, and the returning one almost blinds you. "I'm just going downstairs to check on dinner … I would say 'make yourself comfortable', but you already have." And you smile down at him, ruffling through your old Vogues. You drop a kiss onto his forehead as you leave the room, and blush, smiling to yourself as you walk down the stairs. The look of love and adoration on his face when you do that never fails to amaze you. Lost in a daze of weekend outfits and Blaine, you adjust the temperature on the oven slightly. You dig out some salt from a cupboard, and something pink catches your eye. You grab the package and grin. Well, here's a way to get Blaine back for wasting another whole evening when you could have been doing homework – not that you're complaining, but your Dad's started to notice the slipping grades.

You bound back up the stairs and into your room, and you're about to present him with your surprise, but instead of being on the bed, where you expected him, he's over by your dresser, staring intently at a small object in his hands. The blood drains out of your face as he turns and olds it up to you, confusion and something else warring in his eyes.

"Uhh," you stutter, the words tripping over themselves in their desperation to get out, "I can explain – it's not what it looks like, I just-"

"Lipstick?" he asks, and he just looks bewildered, which is better than judging, or disgusted, you suppose. You open your mouth to babble some more, anything to stop him from thinking about it too hard, but then his face turns to a 'thinking very hard' face, so you know you're too late. If the situation was anything other than the current one, you'd probably laugh at the way his tongue sticks out when he thinks, just peeking around the corner of his mouth, but even that can't distract you now. Finally he looks like he's reached some sort of conclusion in his head, and he meets your cautious gaze. You're blushing furiously, but his smile gives you a little confidence. It's kind of embarrassing how it's more than a little amused, though. "So, do you …?" and he lets the question trail off, suggestively. You hate how lost you are in his eyes, because it means you can't look away as you nod, but then you're glad you didn't because you see them darken – ever so slightly, but unmistakably.

Your own glasz eyes widen in response, and then it's his turn to blush. And that's what gives you the confidence to do what you do next – his uncertainty. And suddenly, you're the one in control. So you stalk forwards and snatch the little tube from his grasp, allowing your hand to linger a little too long on his, and you stop in front of your floor-length mirror. With a practised hand, you twist it open, aggressively enough to make it suggestive, and purse your lips. You can see his reflection in the mirror, and it gives you a smug burst of satisfaction to see his lips slightly parted and his eyes glazed over, and he can't take them off you. You rub the stick over your pout with a precision which only comes with practice, staining them a dark maroon. A gasp slips through his lips as you turn around to face him, and he literally can't move as you slowly make your way towards him. You stop, inches away from his face, and you very deliberately press a kiss onto his cheek. His eyes dart to the mirror, and he lets out a tiny moan when he sees the shape of your lips stamped onto his face in lipstick.

You kiss a trail down his jaw, his throat, anywhere but his lips, and you can tell he's getting impatient, but you don't think he can think coherently enough to do anything about it. You suck a bruise into the juncture between his neck and his shoulder, growling as you see the blossoming bruise surrounded by the deep red of the lipstick. You're planning on teasing him some more – a lot more – but something snaps in him then, and he's grabbing your face and he's slamming your lips to his. It's wild and it's messy and it's sloppy and dirty and hot and damn if you don't love it.

Your hands are tangled in his hair and his are tangled in yours, and you can't find it in you to care that he's probably messed up your hairstyle, and that there's probably lipstick all over your cream Versace sweater – all you care about are his lips on yours and the spark of electricity that's dancing back and forth between the two of you.

Gradually, the kisses become less desperate, slower, sweeter, and soon you're just standing there, holding each other. That is, until he catches sight of his reflection again. He breaks out of your grasp and grabs your hand, dragging you over so you're both standing in from of the mirror. Your eyes widen too as you drink in the sight – the two of you are flushed and breathless, with ruffled clothes and bed hair, and dark maroon lipstick stains colour pretty much every visible surface of your skin. Your lips are kiss-swollen, and the hickey you left on his neck has bloomed beautifully, the ring of lipstick only adding to the colour. You meet each other's eyes in the mirror, and you both grin a little breathlessly.

"Well, that was …"

"Hot," he supplies, and you blush, back to your normal, shy self. It takes you a moment to collect your thoughts, but when you do, you say,

"We'd better get cleaned up before my Dad gets home," because there's a conversation you really don't want to have. He nods quickly – he doesn't want to have that conversation either – and stumbles into your bathroom. You walk over to your bed and sink into it, slowly. Something catches your eye on the floor and, since you're feeling pretty devious, you grab the pink packet and open it up.

A few minutes later, Blaine walks out of the bathroom, looking decidedly less dishevelled, but as soon as he sees you, he groans.

"Shit," he mutters, "are you trying to kill me?" And yes, yes you are. Because there you are, draped across your bed and in your hand sits a pack of cotton candy. Your finger is coated in the pink fluff, and you are licking said candy from it in a decidedly provocative fashion. You dip your finger into the packet again and scoop out a large blob. You look at him pointedly, before very slowly lifting your finger towards your mouth. Some kind of deep, gravelly noise is emitted from his throat, and it does unimaginable things to your body, and then suddenly he's in front of you, kneeling on the bed. He grabs you by the wrist and slides your finger into his own mouth. Oh, and it's hot and it's wet and just the image of him, eyes shut, sucking on your long finger like there's no tomorrow is enough to drive you crazy. Even when the sugary stickiness is long gone, he doesn't release your finger, and the little mewling noises he's making, sending vibrations up your arm, are making you literally shake with desire.

Just when you think you can't take it anymore, and are about to jump on him, you hear the sound of a key in the front door and heavy footsteps entering the house.

"Kurt?" you hear your Dad's voice call up the stairs, "you home?"

"Ye – eah," you shout back, as coherently as you can while Blaine is nipping at your digit. "Blaine," you whisper, "babe, you've got to stop! My Dad's home, Blaine, "and the last bit comes out as a groan, because he slips your finger out of his mouth with an obscene popping sound, and licks his lips smugly.

"Well, that's certainly a more entertaining way to eat cotton candy," he states, surprisingly calmly, considering the flush on his cheeks. "Well, your Dad's home, you know – you'd better go and get cleaned up." And he goes and sits at your desk in front of your forgotten history essay. "He's bound to wander what you've been up to to get yourself all sticky and covered in lipstick like that while I've just been doing my homework." And you stare at him incredulously, but he avoids your gaze, trying to look studiously at the papers on the desk. You grin wickedly,

"Well … I might need some help washing all of this off …" and, as you expected, he's up in a flash.