"I could walk out and leave you like this all night," Kurt mused - it wasn't a threat. If anything, he was as surprised by the notion as Blaine (who whined as if wounded, hips pressed hard against the mattress). All at once the power he was wielding occurred to him, and he tested the notion by saying it out loud, noting its weight on his tongue.
It was tempting.
But this was better.
The bar propped between Blaine's ankles, holding him open for Kurt to observe, was superfluous. Wholly unnecessary. If Kurt let him go, if he untied his hands from the headboard, he'd be in exactly the same position - face down, knees apart, ass in the air and begging for it.
Poor little lamb was insatiable. And Kurt knew all his tricks.
If Kurt refused to touch him he'd grind down into the blankets, squirming across them to uncover even a scrap of pleasure. But if Kurt so much as ghosted a touch or a toy near the curve of Blaine's ass, he'd go the other way, reaching up to absorb all that he could, try to take it in, then try to take it deeper.
Kurt did both, for now, to be sure that neither offered any relief. Blaine trying to press against the sheets made Kurt send a hand between his legs, where he thumbed the dense, hungry rim of his asshole, drawing him up from the bed. And he kept him there, never pressing harder, never satisfying the need to be filled up and spread over something, but never stopping, either; he suspended Blaine between wanting to buck at the sensation of a probing finger that refused to slip inside, and wanting to collapse on the bed where a solid surface might satisfy the ache in his cock for touch.
They both had to be patient. It was a slow build. Games like this took time to play. Took minute upon minute upon hot, terrible, hungry minute.
Kurt waited it out through the deep, sweet groans that sounded like they meant pain. He waited through the unsuccessful twisting Blaine did to try and satisfy both urges at once, though neither one would've ever been enough. He waited through what almost sounded like a soft, breathless sobbing, bubbling up in his throat when he said, "Kurt, in. Please, in."
"Not yet, baby," he answered, not disguising an affectionate giggle. "Not even close."
Pleading didn't move him from his course. Neither did the growl that his refusal ripped out of Blaine. Getting angry. That was much better than pleading. That meant Blaine wasn't having fun anymore - want turned to need. Literal, physical, furious need.
Still Kurt waited, applying the faintest pressure he could get away with, stroking across Blaine's hole and toying with the sensitive skin around it. He was serenely aware of how easy it would be to wind his free hand under Blaine's hips and relieve him, but still, still he waited, waited for God knows how long, until beads of sweat began to crown Blaine's forehead and shine between his shoulders. Until his mouth could only form the words 'please' and 'Kurt' and 'give it, give it, now,' near-silently.
Without warning, he withdrew his hand, and Blaine sagged back down, a bundle of frustrated gestures. He tugged uselessly at the ties around his wrists. Kurt even thought he saw the muscles in Blaine's backside flex, as though he were trying to close his legs; as though another second of being touched too little was impossible, and he wanted to hide from Kurt's deprivation and cruelty.
"I could get anything I wanted out of you right now," Kurt said, another revelation, another non-threat. He wasn't in Blaine's position. He wasn't being worn down, he wasn't tense all over. He had the capacity to enjoy himself and he wanted to indulge, to play with him.
First, it was jest, pure and simple.
"I could get you to surrender the Cavalli sweater you got at Neiman Marcus, spoiled little thing. I know you only bought it to show off. Strutting around like a show pony. I could get you to destroy your yellow pants, even - for the greater good."
Shaking shoulders and grunted disapproval were all he got from Blaine, who wanted much too much to be able to tolerate playfulness.
A firm hand started at Blaine's calf and worked its way up, tickling behind the knee to make him wriggle, groping at the thickness of his thigh to test its resistance, and finally cupping into the crevice he'd spent so long teasing.
The reaction it prompted from Blaine was nothing short of pitiful. Poor greedy thing sounded like he might cry.
"I could make you tell me every filthy thing you want from me, couldn't I? And not give you any of it. I could make you say my name over and over and over again just because I know you'd do it. Say my name, baby."
Blaine had to lift his head from where he'd forced it into a pillow, gnashing at the fabric and smothering his complaints. He didn't spare a second in obeying. "Kurt, Kurt."
Kurt leaned his head back and closed his eyes, as if the sound alone could get him off. "Mm. One more time."
Shot nerves and a needy, straining cock made Blaine's answer sharper than intended, a bark, a profanity. "Kurt, Jesus."
"Tell me what you want, baby. And tell me nicely. I have all the time in the world."
The honesty Kurt handed him didn't seem to have occurred to Blaine yet. He played along in being tied up, he laughed and moaned and purred under Kurt's hand while they got started, he told him the things he liked to hear best (that Blaine was all his, that he didn't want to be anybody else's, that he wanted him, wanted him so bad), and he did all of it with the assumption of eventual sex.
The threat of enduring another minute of unsatisfied straining was too much to stand. Blood thrummed beat by beat in his cock and collected in his hands where he tugged at the rope around his wrists; he'd been reduced to nothing but his exhausted, desperate extremities.
In a slow push of skin grinding on skin, Kurt cupped around Blaine's ass and spread out from there, working toward his abdomen from behind. When his fingertips touched hipbone, he dug them in, rolled them, pressed their influence hard into every part of Blaine that suggested where he wanted Kurt's hand to go, without ever taking it there.
"Tell me," Kurt prompted him again.
"I want you to touch me," Blaine answered, tone combative, "just touch me, I want your hand on my cock, I want you to make me come, Kurt, want it so bad."
Kurt's fingertips grazed nearer the hard, pink strain between Blaine's legs, but refused to relieve him. He bucked his hips against Blaine's ass, teasing him with the empty impact. "I know my boy is greedier than that. And I know he can tell me what he wants much more nicely."
A whine, a puncture of sound, "Kurt."
"Is my boy greedy?" Fingers pressed deep into the tissue of his abdomen, rolling suggestively. Blaine struggled and groaned, but eventually confessed an obscene murmur of mmm-hmm, mmm-hmmmm.
"What does my boy want?"
"I don't, I need it, baby, need it bad, need you in me - fuck me, baby, please, please, please," and on and on, and on again, choked up by his own useless arousal.
Just a little longer, Kurt thought, and dropped his touch away. He fumbled for lubricant lost in the sheets, worked silently at oiling himself, tried not to sigh at the satisfaction. Blaine wasn't ready, not yet, not just yet. Couldn't let him hear, couldn't let him see.
A gaping moment of quiet, of getting nothing, of not being told he'd answered to Kurt's satisfaction, then: "Kurt, God damn it!"
That's better.
Kurt sent a fist to Blaine's hair, ripping into the stiff black and yanking, forcing his head up. The hand he'd slicked himself with guided his cock to the tight, teased hole in front of him, where he pressed in slow enough to watch Blaine tense, release, tense all over, slow enough that he could memorize the sucking accommodation of his body taking him in.
After he was buried deep, after Blaine's initial wail of strain and ache and relief faded out, his movements grew sharp and relentless. He fucked roughly into him, drunk on the vocal result of Blaine's over-stimulation and under-stimulation both at play; he was incoherent, whining and gasping and crying out pleas with no action attached to them. He laughed brilliantly, then yelped as if injured, and sputtered hopeless little invectives and demands over and over again, "God, oh God, fuck, fuck me, oh, too much, fuck, more."
The feeling of being filled up was enough to refine Blaine's focus to a single point of pleasure; he was aware of nothing as acutely as Kurt's cock inside him, as being shaped over it, as being plunged into and opened up and sucked out of. He heard only the sound of their skin meeting at the end of Kurt's enthusiastic thrusts, where sweat made the union itch and radiate heat. He forgot the ache in himself to get off, to be milked dry. Kurt let him forget. He let him eat up what he was given as if it were the only thing he'd ever feel again. He wanted the attention.
Blaine warned of his weariness in the slump of his shoulders, the release of tension on the ropes that held him, even in the shift from words to whimpers, but Kurt kept pace, gave him no respite, told him just once, sweetly, smiling, "You want it, baby, you begged me for it, you can take it."
And he could, and he did, Kurt's greedy little glutton, taking everything he had to give and still holding his ass up for more when every other part of him wanted to surrender.
Kurt withdrew just before orgasm climbed through him, leaving Blaine empty and making tragic, hungry little sounds of disagreement (insatiable, insatiable little thing!), but Kurt stayed close, and he came pressed against the top of Blaine's ass, leaking hot and wet and white into the crack.
In the deaf, disjointed seconds after, when he was nothing but a small, shaking, satisfied young boy, he could only hang limply over Blaine, thumbing the trail he'd made and collecting it on his fingertips with his eyes closed. It was the dichotomy of Blaine's wasted panting against the needy groans made when he sucked air back into himself that woke Kurt back to the moment.
Ragged with effort, he asked, "That better, my boy? That what you needed?"
"Uh-huh," breathless and high.
"You're all mine, aren't you?"
"Uh-huh."
"Tell me."
"All yours," Blaine answered, "I'm all yours, always, all yours."
Kurt palmed deliberately at the mess he'd made, warm and thick, then snaked his hand around Blaine's waist and slicked his cock with it.
God, that noise. The ridiculous, helpless, perfect noise Blaine made when he finally got his way. It rang in Kurt's ears when he was alone, he could count on just its memory to make him hard a day or two after the fact.
"You know what that is?" Kurt asked, dragging pleasure from him in slow, slow strokes.
Blaine tried one more "uh-huh," but it was so obscene and drugged-sounding that Kurt barely heard.
"What is it," he prompted again, "what's got you all wet so I can get you off?"
Blaine couldn't answer fast enough, "Your come," unashamed and eager.
"Does that turn you on? My boy, my baby, does it feel good being slicked up by what you made me do? I'm all over you."
Blaine's hips jerked forward, fucking into Kurt's hand because there was no other way to tell him how good, good, good it all was, too good, how he couldn't stand it. He loved the sound of Kurt's voice, dry and airy, cirrus-fine, talking filth at him, and he'd waited so long to be touched.
"That's the greedy boy I know and love. More?" He sweetened the question with faster strokes, and Blaine sobbed out his hot, bleary-eyed compliance.
"Yes, more, more, mm."
Kurt obliged, tightening, quickening pace, then leaned across Blaine's back to make him support his weight even as his knees shook underneath him. "You want to do it real bad, don't you, baby? Think you've earned it? Think I should let you?"
They were never just one thing, Kurt and Blaine, Blaine and Kurt. Never just sexual partners, never just friends, never just a top, never just a bottom. They were playmates. They were pals. Even like this, sublimely powerless against Kurt's teasing, Blaine had the presence of mind to threaten warmly, "Kurt, I swear to God," and they laughed together, Blaine into a pant of exertion and Kurt right against Blaine's shoulder, soft and light.
Then it was quiet - as quiet as it could be, with the sliding sound of skin on skin and Blaine's sore-throated grunts.
Ticks and twitches and hard-curled toes told on him even before he said, "So close, Kurt, more, so close."
"Say it for me, greedy boy, tell me over and over, don't stop."
"Make me come, make me," Blaine pleaded, and again, "Please, yes, make me come, Kurt," and again, "Yes, I want it, I want to, make me come for you," even when it finally ripped through him, even when his whole body tightened against the spasm, still he told Kurt what he wanted to hear, roughened by the strain but audible and genuine.
"That's my boy." Kurt wrung him out until there was nothing left in him to give, not a word and a not a drop, then guided him forward to lay belly-down in the aftermath, cooling slowly under him. "My perfect greedy boy. Get what you wanted?"
Back heaving, lungs groping for air, Blaine nodded his head because it was all he had.
Kurt sat above him, smoothing out the tired, sweating muscles with suddenly gentle hands, but not untying him until he gave some indication that he was ready to be let go.
They stayed in that safe, adoring space a long while, saying nothing.
Almost.
"You're not getting anywhere near my Cavalli sweater."