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Marked

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What the hell was I thinking, telling Aidan to mark me like this? Jamie stares at himself in he mirror, a series of hickeys emulating a collar, his nipples marked in the same fashion, and bruises blossomed just above his pelvic bones, finger shaped and giving the distinct impression he was facing whoever fucked him - because, let’s be real, these are not the kinds of marks you get when you’re the one doing the fucking.

Without knocking, Sam and Tristan enter Jamie’s section of the hotel suite and unavoidably get an eyeful of what Aidan had done to him the night before. Sam covers his mouth, averts his eyes, and tries not to laugh - which he’s mostly successful with. Tristan, on the other hand, makes no such attempts.

“Jesus Christ, I hope it was consensual at least!”

“Oh fuck off,” Jamie huffs. He grabs up his shirt and pulls it on.

“Your ass as bad off as the rest of you?” Tristan grins.

“Oh fuck off!” But this time he smiles, nearly blushes.

“Guys, come on, I’ve got more insight into my brother’s sex life than anyone should ever have,” Sam interjects.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Tristan moves on easily. “You’re not gonna go out there like that, are you? It’s obscene.”

“Most of our songs are obscene. I’m sure my raving fangirls will be fine.” Jamie’s really not planning on going out there shirtless tonight, but he still doesn’t like being pushed into it by someone else. “I’m the frontman, I decide how we present ourselves.”

Tristan rolls his eyes, and before he can shoot back some snark, Sam interjects again.

“It might help, actually. I mean, they’re all gonna be wishful-thinking it, making up a story in their head about how you let one of them do all that.”

Somehow that idea makes him even more uncomfortable. It’s only been a few months, but already he can’t stand the idea of anyone thinking anyone other than his lover has claim over him. “It wasn’t, it was Aidan.” He doesn’t know why he had the compulsion to say that, it’s not like there was any doubt within this room.

“Obviously,” Sam replies, tone flat. “If you don’t want your girls thinking it was one of them, you’d probably do best to stay covered up.”

Jamie sighs heavily. “Yeah, fine, whatever. Can we get in the damn car now?” He walks out, mind buzzing, this whole thing turning out so much differently than his lust-drunk head was telling him it would.

When they reach the venue, he hasn’t eased a bit, and even through setup and sound check, the nervousness and insecurity continue to sink in. It’ll be suspicious if you keep it on. Sam is right, they’ll all think it was one of them. You can’t just say his name, you can’t out him. Are you even sure you want to out yourself? Why do you even care about any of this?

He damn-near chain smokes in the hours leading up to the concert, trying so hard to relax, let his mind re-focus on the performance, but the pain around his neck, the slight swelling making the ring through his nipple feel especially large, it’s all impossible to forget.

Finally, they're all queuing up backstage. The lights dim, the girls scream, and Sam shoves his back to remind him to get on stage. When the lights come back on, he’s center stage and fucking finally, the reality of his godhood comes flooding in. Three songs in, every insecurity he had is gone, and he feels like a fool for ever trying to cover himself. Danny’s marks were literally made to be shown off. Between songs he strips out of his shirt and tosses it into the crowd, every mark visible now, even the ones over his hips thanks to the low-rise jeans.

When he comes back to the microphone, in all his glory, he declares simply, “This one goes out to my boyfriend.”

 

As he takes her in his arms again,
She slowly pulls him in whispers Always Forever.
Digging her manicured and pointed
claws deeper into his skin.
He knows there's nothing better than this.

Sweat, blood, between the sheets.
Fuck what you heard.
Or you'll never sleep.
And then their bodies interlock as
one, he's wrapped around her neck,
but I know she's gonna get done.