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Kurt sits in front of his mirror and just stares at himself for five minutes the next morning without moving. He glances down at his various array of concealers and—for the first time in his life, beauty products have failed him.

There is no freaking way that any of these are going to cover the veritable sea of hickeys that Blaine had created on his throat and neck and shoulders and chest yesterday. They range in size and depth but there are literally a dozen or more of them and they are everywhere and there is just no way.

Scarves. Scarves will save him, and a turtleneck, too, and—who cares if it’s April? The most important part is that he hides this because—oh, god, he—

He kind of likes it.

He—yeah, okay, he likes it.

Frowning, he reaches up and touches the largest, darkest one. It had been the first one Blaine had made without intending to. He presses it with a fingertip and a shiver races across his skin. He likes it; he likes the way it looks, the way it hurts when he touches it. It makes him remember the noise of Blaine sucking at his skin, the wet smear of saliva, and the sharp rush of pain as the blood vessels had broken.

He clamps his thighs around a sudden twinge in his dick and sighs. He has to go to school. He has to leave now before he gives into to the temptation to—relive last night, only solo.

“Kurt, do you know what time it is?” His dad lumbers down the stares. “You’re going to be—”

Kurt freezes, deer in the headlights.

“Jesus Christ, are you okay?” It takes two seconds for Burt to read Kurt’s expression and realize his mistake. His face twists up and goes red. “Do I need to have a talk with that kid?”

Kurt wants to die. He longs for death. Sweet merciful quiet death, safe from the way that his dad is looking at him right now, as if he could somehow see exactly how each hickey had been made.

Blaine’s mouth on his throat. Blaine’s fingernails scraping up his spine.

He blushes. “Um,” he says. “I’m—sorry. No. I, uh. No, we’re—you were not supposed to see this.”

Silence. “Uh. Okay then. Well. I guess you’re—that age. So. If you need to talk about—if something is going on that you don’t feel comfortable with you can—find me. If not we’ll just—call that done, okay?”

“Yes, please.” Kurt stares at his reflection, wide-eyed. “Please.”

At school, he falls into step next to Blaine and they walk toward Blaine’s locker. He’s wearing a turtleneck, two scarves, and he had covered most of the smaller marks with concealer but the original, dark one just won’t disappear. “My dad saw.”

Blaine trips. “Oh, god, I am sorry.”

Kurt leans his back against the locker next to Blaine’s, sighing. “You’ll have my therapist’s bill in the mail shortly.” He closes his eyes. “God, the look on his face.”

Blaine retrieves several books, then closes the locker door and leans against it, facing Kurt. “I am—really sorry. I mean, that your dad saw. I’m—not sorry that we did it.” He lowers his voice. “I liked it.”

Kurt watches him, cheeks going pink. “I did, too.”

Blaine peeks at his neck. He licks his bottom lip and leans in closer. “Show me?”

Kurt’s face goes from pink to red. “Now?”

“During lunch?”


The morning crawls by like molasses. He’s twitchy and anxious and horny and the third time that Santana sashes past him singing “Rope Burn” by Janet Jackson he is tempted to throw his History textbook at her fabulous hair.

This doesn’t stop him from meeting Blaine in a janitor’s closet instead of going to lunch, however.

“You know,” Blaine says, smiling and reaching for him. “You would have gotten less attention if you’d just—not layered up quite so much.”

“Layers,” Kurt replies, as if that explains everything.

“Layers,” Blaine agrees, grinning. He reaches over and untangles one scarf, then the second, and then he peels down the neck of the sweater, eyes going wide.

“I might as well just wipe this off,” Kurt mumbles, taking a wet nap from his bag and cleaning off the concealer. Blaine takes it from him mid-swipe and finishes cleaning the spots that Kurt can’t reach easily.

“God,” Blaine breathes, staring. It looks as if Kurt had been strangled. Or—you know, the better alternative.

“It’s gross, isn’t it?” Kurt pouts.

Blaine moans, pressing him back into a shelf. Several bottles of cleaning product clatter to the floor. “Fuck, Kurt,” he groans, and latches onto one of the marks and kisses it wetly.

“O-ohgod.” Kurt’s head falls back. He clutches the shelf behind him for balance as Blaine revisits every mark. “Been—touching them all day, I can’t stop. Feels so good. So good, being yours…”

“All mine,” Blaine growls, and thrusts them into the shelves, knocking over more items. “Oh my god stop talking and come here.” He grabs Kurt around the waist and kisses him.

“Touch them,” Kurt gasps, curling one leg around the back of Blaine’s knee. “Please?”

Blaine wraps one hand around the base of Kurt’s throat and squeezes, lining the pads of his fingers up against several of the marks. With his other hand he rubs Kurt’s cock through his pants. “Don’t have any time,” Blaine gasps. Kurt is already fully hard. “How fast can you…?”

“Pretty fast if you keep doing that,” Kurt whines, jerking his pants open with his left hand. Blaine’s hand sinks inside the parted fly and he gasps. The feel of Blaine’s fingers pressing the dull bruises that ring his neck and throat, the ache of them, the reminder that Blaine put them there, that Blaine had made him hurt, had marked him—he sobs.

Blaine pulls at his cock fast and rough. “Want another one?”

Kurt whimpers. “Yes.”

Blaine manages to find a clear swatch of skin and bites down, sucking the it hard between his lips until he feels Kurt buck with pain. This one is right below his left ear (nothing is going to hide that one and—Blaine kind of wants it that way).

Blaine scrapes his fingernails across Kurt’s collarbone, leaving red, raised marks. “Come on. Come for me.” He latches onto the fresh mark, drawing on it hard.

“Blaine,” Kurt sobs, and comes, feeling wet patches form where his come hits their clothing. “Oh, god.” He twitches with the aftershocks.

Blaine noses against the mark that he’s just made, heart pounding in his chest. “Okay, I—made that worse.”

Kurt pants. “Somehow, I don’t think it matters. Santana will find me wherever I go.”