Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/588280.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Sam_Evans/Kurt_Hummel
  Character:
      Sam_Evans, Kurt_Hummel, David_Karofsky, Mercedes_Jones
  Additional Tags:
      Infidelity, Writing_on_Skin, Possessive_Behavior
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-07-31 Words: 11460
****** Indelible ******
by Edwardina
Summary
     Kurt's secretly been helping Sam study, but after Karofsky returns
     something to him, he needs someone to confide in, and Sam happens to
     be there.
Notes
     Written for Kummer Summer. My prompt was this: "Sam sees someone
     flirting with Kurt. He becomes extremely possessive and takes a
     sharpie marker and writes all over Kurt - who is turned on by it."
     I really took the back way around this prompt. It rides close to S2
     canon, post-New York but before the end of the school year. However,
     there's no mention of Samcedes, and as per request, I dealt with
     Klaine as little as humanly possible.
     Thanks to Kate for looking this over for me.
Kurt bit his lip and glanced at Sam Evans, who was sitting two chairs away from
him in the McKinley cafeteria, furrowing his brow and idly poking his plastic
fork at a brick of dried-out lasagna. Sam had finished a limp salad from the
salad bar (no dressing), popped open his carton of milk, and given Mercedes his
piece of chocolate cake, which also looked disturbingly capable of being used
as a building block in some sort of fortress, its icing pasty like mortar.
"Sam, do you want my apple?" Kurt asked, voice low so he wouldn't interrupt the
flow of Mike and Tina's bi-weekly Asian couple's therapy.
Sam looked at him, looked down again, tilted his head and looked at the apple
as if resentful of its temptation, and said, "If you don't want it."
Kurt did not. He snagged the somewhat small specimen and waved it in front of
Mercedes. "Hand this to Sam."
Mercedes passed it on to Tina; she had absolutely no compunctions about
interrupting the continuous flow of arguments over what did and did not count
as a date. "Yo. Glee club does not count. Hand this to Sam."
"See? Mercedes is on my side. Glee club, so not a date," said Tina, holding out
the fruit in Sam's general direction with her eyes still locked combatively
with Mike's. Sam plucked it from her fingers and rubbed it briefly against his
chest, shining it on the worn plaid button-up he was wearing. He gave a tiny
half-smile to Kurt, and Kurt's heart raced.
"But it's the end of the year, all we do is hang and watch musicals. It's
basically a movie date," said Mike. "Back me up, here, Sam."
"Uhh. I don't know," said Sam, and bit into Kurt's apple.
"Kurt," said Tina. "Is watching Singin' In The Rain in glee club technically a
movie date?"
Before this year, Kurt would have said such a thing was absolutely not a date.
Being stuck somewhere, doing something mandatory together... his inner romantic
would have found the mere notion hugely lacking. Even though he had never been
on one, in his opinion a date consisted of two people going out for coffee or
dinner and then something else, like a shopping trip to the plaza to watch each
other try on sunglasses or at least seeing a movie of choice in an actual
theater. Something thoughtful and pre-planned, the more extravagant the better,
where the couple on the date only had eyes for each other and the rest of the
world fell away and a duet in two-part harmony shot through a soft lens would
send it into the stratosphere of classic romance. And it would all end with a
silhouetted good night kiss.
Now he wasn't so sure. For one thing, he was now all too aware that Sam
probably couldn't even afford to take anyone out. Watching musicals in glee
probably counted as a date with him; he was so busy with school and helping his
family and taking shifts at the pizza place that time with Sam was a precious
commodity. That idea made the time they spent sitting somewhat nearby each
other in glee during The Music Man all the more strangely exciting and
confusing, even if they didn't say a word to each other, let alone spend the
whole time canoodling like Tina and Mike or even just elbowing each other and
referring to each other by their respective last names like Puck and Lauren.
On that note, he couldn't tell whether what he and Sam were doing meant
anything at all to Sam – it couldn't, could it? To Sam, their study dates were
simply homework help.
To Kurt... well. It was getting confusing. The fact that Sam wasn't afraid to
be around him and sit on the same bed as him, bumping shoulders with him all
the time, meant a lot. He had never forgotten how Finn had obviously thought
Kurt was going to molest him at any given moment. That Sam didn't seem to think
it was weird to be around him alone or that sitting on a gay kid's bed would
make him gay said so much about him.
But the fact that when they were in school they barely spoke meant something,
too. They may have color-coded Sam's notes together, written an essay on
Jupiter's moons together, made him festive Spanish vocab flashcards together,
and watched funny YouTubes on Kurt's phone together, but they weren't...
together. Not in the way Kurt was supposed to be with Blaine and Sam had been
with Quinn and Santana.
They were friends, sure. But it didn't make sense, somehow. Kurt was pretty
sure that no straight guy would've kept on willingly coming back to his room to
climb up onto his bed with him, listen to him talk, and nearly fall asleep on
him while Kurt read his novel for English out loud for him.
Kurt paused, trying not to think about Mr. Heterosexuality licking apple juice
from around his mouth, then said with a prim authority, "It's a date if you
want it to be a date. When you get right down to it, a date is just spending
time together."
"I want it to be a date," Mike said lustily.
"Oh, Mike," swooned Tina, and Mercedes grabbed her by the arm before she could
lunge out of her seat and start sucking face with Mike right then and there.
"Not at the lunch table, you guys. We talked about this!"
"Sorry, I can't help it. I love you, Mike Chang," said the imprisoned Tina.
"I love you too. Are you going to finish your pizza?"
"No. I want you to have it."
"Aw, Tina."
"Ugh," groaned Mercedes, throwing down her bag of Funyuns. "For the record,
this is why Artie sits with the A/V club now. PDA is disgusting enough anyway,
but when people are eating, it's extra gross."
Kurt smiled at her sympathetically. He knew that Mercedes' best defense was a
good offense and that someday she'd meet some guy and fall in love and want to
hold his hand and kiss him goodbye before every class in the hallway just like
every other girl (or gay boy). He knew that she was just jealous but didn't
want anyone to realize she was and think she was pathetic. He'd been the same
way, only more hopeless.
His eyes roamed to Sam, whose own stare had wandered up and away towards the
clock on the cafeteria wall. It looked like he was staring off into
nothingness, like his mind was totally blank as he tapped Kurt's apple against
his lower lip and took another generous bite out of it with his overly-plump
mouth.
Don't, Kurt told himself, jerking his gaze sharply back down to his own tray.
"This lasagna is completely inedible," he said, shutting down that branch of
the conversation. Tina and Mike went on. "I read somewhere that the Ohio State
Penitentiary has better food than this, with which they nourish legions of
small-time meth dealers. I don't know why I got it."
"You're trippin'," provided Mercedes.
"I'm beyond trippin'. You have no idea," replied Kurt. "I think Dalton gave me
selective amnesia."
"Study dates aren't dates!" Tina erupted.
"Then why are they called study dates?" asked Mike.
"Oh my God," Kurt blurted, unable to keep his face from getting warm. "Speaking
of selective amnesia, didn't we just settle this?"
Sam spoke up, staring at the white pathway he'd bitten across his apple. "If
you're just friends, it's not a date, it's just, like... hanging out while you
study."
Kurt jumped in his skin; Mercedes was jostling him. The lunch bell was still
ringing in his ears even though the actual bell had stopped what Kurt gathered
had to be a few seconds ago, because Mike was carrying away his and Tina's
lunch trays and Mercedes had stood and hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders.
Sam was standing there with the remainder of his apple clenched in his pretty
teeth almost delicately as he gathered up his U.S. History book and a spiral
that was coming apart at one end of its unreliable spine. Their trays were
already emptied and stacked.
"Hellooo," Mercedes was saying. "Kurt. Are you coming?"
"Yeah," Kurt said, hopping up quickly, the energy of the blush he felt coming
on propelling him like he could evade it if he only darted away from it
somehow.
"Are you ready for the quiz?" he heard Mercedes ask Sam.
Around the apple, Sam managed, "Pro'ly nah."
Kurt swooped his tray off the table and hustled to the nearby trash can. It was
big, a loud red plastic barrel with a McKinley logo sticker slapped on the
side. At Dalton the trash cans were the kind like at restaurants, with a
discreet door that said PUSH and a place for the tray on top. They had actual
silverware there, too.
"Didn't you study?"
Sam had the apple in his hand now. "Yeah, I studied some Tuesday and some at
the end of last period. I'm just really crappy at multiple choice."
"Aw, you'll do all right."
"Hope so. I really need to pull my grade up to a C for my report card."
"Let's go, you don't want to be late," Kurt said, hauling his book bag over his
shoulder. Sam led the way, the letter jacket he was still wearing around
despite the fact that it was late May making people move aside for him
automatically, and he and Mercedes followed in the wake a jock of Sam's status
warranted.
Karofsky, still wearing that red Bully Whips uniform in a defeated manner, was
waiting for him just outside the cafeteria, a black binder under his arm and
his walkie-talkie in hand. Sam and Mercedes both slowed, so Kurt did, too.
"Really. Still?" Mercedes asked lowly.
"Until Figgins takes them off my case," replied Kurt. "He and Santana walk me
to every other class, trading off custody of me like I'm the kid caught in
their ugly divorce."
"We can walk you to your next class," Sam said, pinning Kurt with so much eye
contact that Kurt felt fluttery.
"Don't be silly, it's all the way upstairs and you're right around the corner.
You should go on ahead. I don't mind Karofsky paying his dues," he said,
smiling and letting his head bob casually from side to side. It was a too-
casual nervous tic of his. "Go on. Go kick butt on your quiz."
"Let us know if this fool steps," said Mercedes loudly.
Sam and Karofsky stared each other down as Sam passed him by, though Mercedes
breezed by like a true diva.
Karofsky had really reeled it in since prom, most of the time just lumbering
silently around sans Azimio with an expression that made Kurt feel truly sorry
for him. It was sheer misery, pain and fear masked with self-loathing and a set
jaw. But for a second, locked in a blinking contest with Sam, that old sneer
touched his features and gave Kurt a cold feeling of dread in the pit of his
stomach. It lessened somewhat as he watched Sam stick the apple back in his
mouth mid-glare and continue on down the hall that way.
Kurt pushed past that old fear and held back a smile as he stopped in front of
Karofsky. "Hi."
"Call off your friends, Hummel," said Karofsky tightly, watching people filter
by in a jumble of backpacks and blurry faces.
Kurt ignored him. "So, I have European Lit next."
"I know," replied Karofsky, and pushed off the wall. "Let's go."
Most people had gotten used to the sight of the gay kid being escorted from
place to place and had all gotten over their various stages of grief over it,
but Kurt still heard things here and there. He'd heard some people saying he
thought he was so important and special since he won Prom Queen, and knew that
holding his head up high while he got body-guarded by the prom king in the hot
zones must've made them all think that was true. It wasn't that bad when
Santana was the one walking with him; everyone just thought she was his hag.
When Karofsky walked him through the halls, Kurt couldn't help but feel an
undercurrent of silent disgust in the form of looks too long and looks too
short.
European Lit was on the second floor, and if Kurt remembered right, it was out
of Karofsky's way. He had Chemistry back down on the first floor. Lunchtime was
considered a hot zone, though. It was mainly Karofsky that had made it so for
him, which made walking silently up the stairs with Karofsky trailing behind
him feel all the weirder.
As they neared Kurt's classroom, Karofsky said, as he always did, "Wait for me
after class."
"You know," ventured Kurt, turning on his heel, "you really don't have to keep
doing this –"
"What, is that Evans kid your new escort?" Karofsky spat.
"... No," Kurt managed, lightly enough. Now that he knew Karofsky snapped at
him without intent, that his bark was scarcely worse than his bite (which had
been effectively muzzled anyway), he managed to retain a lot more patience and
kindness in the hopes it would rub off. However, his head was spinning slightly
at the mere mention of Sam, as if Karofsky could see right through him. "I just
thought since your class is downstairs and over you might not want to come all
the way back up here just to take me downstairs again. Why don't I just meet
you halfway or something, if you're so intent on your duties?"
"I'm not slacking off," said Karofsky, affronted.
"It's not slacking. It's just that I'll come to you instead. It'll save us both
time," said Kurt. "If you wait for me, I'll meet you by the lab and you can
shuffle me off to Home Ec."
Karofsky looked to be thinking it over doubtfully. "You'll meet me."
"Yes. I will meet you," repeated Kurt.
"You won't blow me off."
It was a wonder that they were even having this exchange, as prolonged and
pained as it seemed to be.
"No. I won't blow you off, Dave."
"...Okay. You meet me outside the chem lab."
It was only after Kurt nodded and strolled into the classroom and Karofsky
turned from the doorway that Kurt allowed the blush he'd been holding back to
roll over him fully. It was even worse than he'd expected it to be, and he sank
into his desk and groped in his bookbag blindly for his annotated copy of The
Count of Monte Cristo as his face stung.
Quinn Fabray sat at the front of his row, which didn't help matters at all.
Even glancing at the back of her perfect blonde waves made him feel guilty
because he couldn't just be alone with his muddled, weird, crushy thoughts
about the boy who wasn't his boyfriend. The fact that Quinn had dated him for
half the year was an unpleasant recurring reminder of the reality that Sam
liked girls. Girls, and not him; Karofsky didn't have a gaydar or gay-ray
vision, he just didn't like Sam after the whole locker room confrontation
incident. Kurt was with Blaine and had no business thinking about other boys.
He and Sam were friends. Their study dates were not dates.
 
*
 
"You seem surprised," sang Kurt, watching Karofsky's hunch lift along with his
gaze as he descended the last of the stairs.
Kurt had spent the majority of European Lit just turning pages in his book.
Usually he reveled in the reading time; for him, it was relaxing, and until
he'd witnessed Sam's difficulties with it for himself, the ease of taking in
words and seeing everything clearly in his head was something he had taken for
granted. Now he appreciated it all the more. But he'd made no progress with The
Count –
"I told you I'd meet you. See?"
"Yeah," Karofsky grunted. He'd taken off his beret (Kurt didn't blame him;
berets were a little bit too fabulous for him), but at that point he slapped it
back on and adjusted it self-consciously. It was still crooked.
"Home Ec?" Kurt suggested briskly, leading the way.
It was only a short walk from the chem lab, as both of them were large rooms
with large sinks and counters and other special equipment and mirrored each
other on opposite ends of the hallway. It wasn't necessary for Karofsky to
escort him at all.
"Hey – Hummel. Wait a second."
There was a quivery, urgent edge to the way Karofsky spoke that made Kurt stop
mid-stride.
"What?" he asked, on the edge of alarm, and watched Karofsky's jaw flex. He had
his hands stuffed into his shiny jacket's pockets, making Kurt suddenly notice
he was devoid of his binder and radio. It looked menacing. Kurt's shoulders
drew up tense.
Karofsky was still for a moment, then pulled one fist out and shoved it
forward. But it wasn't into Kurt's face or anything. He was holding something
in his exceptionally large fist.
"Here. Take it, okay. Here," he repeated, stepping forward carefully when Kurt
didn't move. "It's yours. Sorry I took it, okay. I'm just – sorry. So take it."
Kurt let out a short breath as the item in question dropped into his hand,
disconcertingly warm from being in Karofsky's jacket.
It was the cake topper he'd been dreamily keeping in his locker for wedding
inspiration and smiling at like a goon between classes. The last time he'd seen
it, it was pristine and Karofsky was shoving it into his pocket. Now the
bride's veil was all crumpled up. A couple of pearl beads were missing from her
lacy dress. It was just plastic – he'd upgraded to the max and splurged on a
set of unique hand-whittled wooden figurines befitting of the autumn decor that
his dad and Carole kept on display in the living room bookshelf now. It was way
better than this matronly-looking thing that, in retrospect, he couldn't
believe Karofsky had actually taken from him, let alone kept.
"Thank you," he said, the words feeling weird in his mouth to be saying right
then.
"Sorry," Karofsky whispered hollowly.
Kurt stared at the topper. The faces of the bride and groom probably would have
faded in color on their own in time, but the paint on them was almost gone
entirely. Maybe the topper had been handled a lot. He almost wanted to just
hand it back to Karofsky.
He didn't want this thing. He didn't want to look at it and remember that fear
he'd been living in when Karofsky had taken it from him in the first place. But
he sensed that telling Karofsky to just keep it or even just toss it would be
akin to not accepting the apology, and the tentative peace between them felt
too important to be careless with. So instead, Kurt tucked the topper into the
pocket of his cardigan and picked his words carefully.
"I'm glad you wanted to give it back to me. Don't keep beating yourself up,
okay? I forgive you and I want you to forgive you, too. You don't deserve to be
bullied by you any more than I did."
Karofsky just nodded tersely once, looking away, and after a few seconds of
looking like he was trying not to break into tears again, he reached out and
put his hand heavily on Kurt's shoulder. It wasn't a cruel touch, nor was it
long; Kurt was still a homo, after all, and this was still public. Students
were walking past them. It was like a clap on the shoulder that Karofsky held
just long enough to seem to draw strength from before he stalked abruptly away.
Mercedes and Sam were apparently literally right behind him, because Kurt
almost jumped at the two of them suddenly in his personal bubble.
"What was that?" Mercedes wanted to know when Karofsky had lumbered out of
earshot, into the mill of students.
"Did he say something to you?" Sam asked, voice deceptively calm. He was
watching the back of Karofsky like a hawk.
"No, not really," Kurt said hastily.
"All good?" Mercedes asked.
"Yes."
"Thank God." It was then that Mercedes stepped from Sam and Kurt realized she'd
had both arms wrapped around one of his. "I have had my fill of holding crazy
people back today. See you, crazy person number two. I got cupcakes to frost."
Kurt arched a brow. Sam didn't seem to know whether to look abashed or not as
Mercedes rounded the two of them and disappeared into the Home Ec room, and
Kurt's mouth slid open around nothing. He didn't know what exactly to say,
watching Sam reach across his own chest to grasp awkwardly over his bicep. It
seemed like Sam had been about to confront Karofsky again, but Kurt didn't know
whether that was actually so, if he should thank Sam or not – what if it wasn't
for him? Karofsky was bearding it up with Sam's ex-girlfriend, although he
didn't know if Sam realized it was a total sham or not.
"Uh... later," said Sam, stepping away. "Make good cupcakes."
"Wait, how did you do on your quiz?" asked Kurt. He was invested, seeing as how
he'd helped Sam highlight the salient points of his history chapter to study.
Sam flashed him not only one but two thumbs up and a sheepish smile, history
book awkwardly gripped under his elbow.
"You must've done your homework," said Kurt innocently.
 
*
 
"Okay, so now that we're alone, tell me more about your quiz," Kurt said later,
as he lead Sam upstairs to his light, sun-filled bedroom.
The upstairs had become his and Finn's domain, but Sam had been a staple
feature since late April, when his grades had started to slip to the point
where he'd be ineligible to go to Nationals with the glee club if he didn't
shape up quick. It was the first thing Kurt had found out, and after agreeing
not to mention it to anyone, he'd tried to meet up with Sam at least once a
week since to give him a hand. He'd only found out about everything else that
had happened with the Evans family in the following days, when Sam couldn't
seem to find any way to explain where some of his school stuff had gotten off
to and why he didn't have a computer to respond to Kurt's emails with anymore.
Despite how busy they both were, Kurt had upped the meetings to twice a week.
"It was fine. It was only half multiple choice, so I got most of those right.
Then we had to match dates to events and I got two of those mixed up. But I got
a 'good job' on my essay."
Kurt smiled. Sam's essays were so brief they barely counted as essays, and
sometimes he misspelled the same word three different ways in the same
paragraph. But Mr. Harrison was totally lenient on spelling, as long as he
could tell what was meant, and always appreciated effort.
"Awesome," he said, and meant it. "Keep that up and you might even pull a B for
the end of the year."
"That would be awesome," Sam agreed, shrugging his backpack off and taking a
seat on the edge of Kurt's bed.
Strictly speaking, he wasn't really supposed to have boys – or at least, Blaine
– in his room without telling his parents and leaving the door open a crack,
but Finn was home and Sam was straight, so Kurt shut the door behind them. He
had to ignore the feeling that he was doing something wrong every time he and
Sam were alone.
Sam whipped out the quiz to show to Kurt (he'd made an 82), and Kurt took it
with a smile, flipping to the second page to see where Mr. Harrison had written
in classic red, Good job.
"This looks really good, Sam. And you said you weren't prepared."
"I just never know if I've studied enough," said Sam.
"All that highlighting paid off handsomely," said Kurt, handing the paper back.
"I know teachers don't like it when kids write in books, but I say screw them
and keep highlighting. If it helps you, it'll help whoever has that book next
year."
Sam tucked the quiz away. "Well, I don't actually have a highlighter."
"Oh, right. We used mine. Don't worry, I've got plenty of highlighters."
Kurt strode to his bookshelf and pulled out a shiny black box that held mostly
pens and markers of different colors, including the aforementioned
highlighters. Every year, he got a variety of colors to use according to the
class or his mood. He even had a pen that had five different colors of ink in
it; a flick of a switched changed out which color was being used. Expressing
himself, even via school supplies, was kind of his poison. He had six different
colored Sharpies, and he hadn't used any of this stuff at Dalton. They were all
about black, blue, and red ink only. He doffed the lid and brought the box to
Sam, its contents rolling inside.
"You should take a couple with you."
"They smell good," Sam commented quizzically.
Kurt huffed in amusement. "That's because this box contained a cologne gift set
in its previous life."
Sam took the box from him and gave it an unsurreptitious sniff.
"Kind of smells like you."
"Oh, do I smell like Sharpie and Dior Homme?" joked Kurt. Then he realized it
was weird to ask a boy how he smelled, so he hopped subjects adeptly, rounding
the bed to seat himself on the other side of it. "What have you got coming up
tomorrow? Any tests?"
Sam blinked for a moment. "Uh..."
"Geometry?" asked Kurt, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling each tidy pale blue
sleeve up his forearm with practiced precision. There was a test every Friday
in every math class at McKinley.
"Yeah."
"Why don't you get started on that, and if you run into any issues, we'll see
if I can help. Then if we have time, we can do more Animal Farm."
"Cool," said Sam with a small sigh, setting the box of markers on the bedside
table beside him.
Sam's English grade was abysmal. He was always behind on reading, and Kurt knew
the errant-seeming good job he'd gotten on his history essay was hard-won,
because he'd witnessed firsthand that Sam's writing was a hot mess.
Kurt didn't know a ton about dyslexia, but from the times in glee that they'd
been learning group choreography, he'd noticed that Sam did some things
backwards. With extra help from Mike or Mr. Schue, Sam usually had it
forcefully nailed down in muscle memory by showtime, but they still tended to
stick him in back or to the side of the group if they could due to the
likelihood of his spins turning in the direction opposite of everyone else's.
The few times Kurt was able to coax him to read some of Animal Farm out loud,
Sam was halting at best, sometimes seeming to disregard punctuation entirely
and every now and then reversing a word but not noticing it no longer fitting
into the context of the sentence, he was concentrating so hard on just getting
through it. Reading out loud seemed to make him more far more nervous than
singing a solo in front of an audience at competition. Sam was clearly relieved
every time Kurt took the book from him and rewarded the effort by reading the
rest of the chapter to him. But despite all the little difficulties he seemed
to have in keeping things in order in his brain, Sam wasn't stupid. He had his
moments of charming naiveté, but he worked much harder than Finn, or anyone
else Kurt knew, just to keep up. He'd never backed down from reading out loud
for Kurt, even though it was a chore and obviously made him self-conscious.
Together they were getting him through Animal Farm at a pretty decent pace, and
it was probably the thing he enjoyed helping Sam with the most. Reading out
loud was like giving a little performance to an audience that was completely
rapt, even if that was due to scholastic distress.
Admittedly, Kurt also just had a soft spot for boys that were in obvious need
of his assistance.
Said boy toed his Converse off politely, leaving them by Kurt's bed as he
leaned back against the headboard with his math book on his knees. Kurt had set
aside The Count of Monte Cristo in effort to catch up with what he'd missed
reading in class, but the moment he looked at the cover, the heat of
embarrassment over Karofsky bringing up Sam rushed back to him.
Sam had said that hanging with someone on a study date didn't make it a date-
date, and since he and Kurt had regular Tuesday and Thursday study dates that
they kept so on the downlow they might as well have been government spies
digging a hole to China, Kurt couldn't help but feel Sam had been referring to
them when he'd said that.
It made a lump rise in his throat that he swallowed against forcefully.
Of course none of it meant anything to Sam. For all the glee club seemed to
think, Sam wasn't gay, so spending so much time with Kurt didn't mean anything
to him like it did with Blaine. And Kurt choosing to study with Sam over
driving out to Westerville to go on an actual date with his actual boyfriend
didn't mean anything to him. He wondered if Sam thought about that.
It wasn't that Kurt had ever deluded himself into believing that studying
together meant that he and Sam were more than friends. He'd learned his lesson
about crushing on straight boys with Finn. He had. Really. It was just that
Blaine was the only other guy he'd shared a bed with (even as friends, just
sitting around) since an ill-fated sleepover with a kid from Cub Scouts who had
rejected playing the emcee to Kurt's Miss America and also wouldn't go with the
intriguing storyline of the White Ranger and Black Ranger marrying in an
appropriately silver-themed wedding aided by tinfoil decor. It was heavy for
Kurt, sitting next to a boy in bed. He couldn't help his body's edgy response
every time Sam's elbow knocked into his arm or he looked over and realized he
was talking to a super cute blond boy who was relaxing on Kurt's bed of his own
volition.
Kurt reached for his Bio II book instead. He'd just have to wait until he was
alone to get with The Count.
"So what was up with Karofsky?"
Kurt nearly dropped his book. "What?"
"In the hall today. I saw him and thought he was pushing you, but I guess he
wasn't, 'cause Mercedes stopped me from going over."
So Sam had been about to confront him. Kurt warmed, his disappointment melting
away. What with all the ways he had Karofsky under his thumb now, he honestly
didn't need a protector... but it was still flattering that a guy like Sam
would step up for him without one second of hesitation.
He leaned over and pulled loose the laces of his shiny oxfords. "Nothing. He
was just apologizing."
"Really."
"Yeah. I don't know if he's serious, but... you know. He has issues," Kurt
said, as vaguely as he could. He abandoned his shoes by the side of the bed,
too. He was wearing silky pale blue dress socks with a gold and navy argyle
pattern shot through them. Sam wore the same kind of white gym socks with grey
toes and heels that Finn did. Their feet looked hilariously mismatched,
stretched out in front of them. "He's... trying, I guess."
"Well, Santana's got him bully whipped," said Sam, rather cleverly for him,
although the joke was rendered sad to Kurt. Sam was so out of the loop – not
just with Karofsky, but with Santana, too. He knew Sam couldn't possibly know
everything everyone else in glee took for granted about Brittany and Santana,
after a year of watching them link pinkies and cuddle during love songs. Sam
had only ever seen Brittany with Artie. It was just another one of those ways
in which he seemed a step behind everyone else.
Kurt gave him a little smile and watched Sam de-cap and re-cap Kurt's blue
Sharpie. Did Sam intend to do his geometry in Sharpie?
One side of Sam's mouth had taken on a tight downward curve. He muttered, "Who
knows, maybe she'll straighten him out."
"Yes, I'm sure that's the idea," allowed Kurt, trying not to actually laugh. He
didn't want to rain on Sam's nice guy parade by expressing his sincere doubt
that Santana and Karofsky would be waving rainbow flags anytime soon.
It was so tempting to let him into the loop, though. While neither Karofsky or
Santana deserved to be outed, it wasn't fair for Sam to go on thinking Santana
had dumped him for a hotter catch. Sam had taken a punch in the eye from that
guy. Gone after him. Like a wild animal – those were the words Mike had used.
"Sam," he said tentatively.
There was a click as Sam popped the lid back on the Sharpie and looked at him.
"If I tell you something," said Kurt, his own voice sounding thin in his ears,
"will you promise you won't tell anyone?"
Sam's brows lifted. His blond bangs were a shaggy mess over them.
"Sure."
"Like, really. No one," pressed Kurt. His pulse was pounding oddly in his
wrists, so he rubbed each with his thumbs.
"I promise," said Sam, simple and straight-forward.
"Okay. Just... I've only told one other person. And I know I probably shouldn't
tell you, but I want you to know... so you'll... know more."
Kurt took a moment; his thoughts were scrambled. Glancing at Sam, he saw that
Sam was looking at him in a determinedly steady way.
"You remember my parents' wedding?"
"Yeah. You transferred right after it."
"Ah, you do remember," murmured Kurt, surprised, and fished into his bookbag
for the sorry-looking cake topper. "Well, while I was planning it, I kept this
in my locker, and one day, Karofsky came along and took it from me." He held
out the little figurines, and Sam took them curiously. "It was... scarier than
it sounds. Just the way he made me feel like I couldn't have anything at all
that he didn't hover over like some gargoyle or – take from me. I haven't
thought about it in months. I didn't even know he kept it. But he just gave it
back to me today, for some reason."
"When he apologized?" Sam asked observantly.
"Yes."
He watched Sam's mouth flatten as he turned the cake topper over in his hand.
It didn't sound like a big deal, Kurt knew, unless you had already been
conditioned to be terrified.
"That's not the secret. Although you are the only person I've told about the
cake topper thing," said Kurt, and accepted the trinket when Sam handed it back
to him. "A few weeks before that, I... confronted him, I guess. He shoved me
into the lockers, which he did every other day, and I was trying to be
proactive and... brave, so I ran after him and started yelling at him in the
locker room. I don't even remember what I said. I was just so pissed off, I was
probably yelling out everything I could think of. Anyway, I was yelling, he was
yelling; we were up in each other's faces and I thought, 'this is it, he's
going to beat the crap out of me,' but instead, he – he kissed me."
The words came out in a weak breath. Kurt hadn't said them out loud in a long
time.
"Karofsky?" Sam asked, as if Kurt had forgotten to include some third person in
the story.
"Yes. Karofsky kissed me."
Kurt hazarded another glance at Sam, but Sam had looked away. Kurt supposed all
this was awkward to be telling a straight guy. He hurried on.
"I pushed him away and he ran off. I was kind of in shock about it, so I called
Blaine. I'd just met him, but he was the only other gay guy I knew, and it
was... the only thing I could think to do. I didn't want to tell a teacher – I
mean, I didn't know if any teacher would believe me or understand where this
was coming from. Like, what popular jock would kiss the gay kid? And I didn't
want to tell anybody from glee. It was honestly embarrassing, and I also... I
didn't know if any of you guys would care. So Blaine drove to McKinley to try
and talk to him. It, uh, didn't go well."
Sam's eyes were narrowed, but it seemed to be in concentration. "Do you think
Karofsky's gay?"
Kurt's heart was beating triple-time. He was very close to having an out-of-
body experience, nearly seeing himself sitting there next to Sam confessing
everything in an unexpected rush.
"Yes. I mean, I think so. But if he is, he doesn't want to admit it, and even
though I'm telling you what happened right now, I don't believe in outing
anyone. So, Sam, please don't tell anyone about this. It's Dave's choice if he
wants to be straight, gay, closeted, one of those people into Muppets. I just
want you to know that I'm pretty sure Santana has him pegged. I think she's
dating him to control him, because that's the kind of girl Santana is. She
didn't break up with you because you did anything wrong."
"She didn't break up with me at all," said Sam distantly.
"Wait, what do you mean?"
"Well, she dumped me, she just didn't tell me she had. She got up and told the
glee club she was in love with him or whatever. So I found out along with
everybody else, I guess."
"Oh. That sucks, Sam. I'm sorry," Kurt offered lamely, though he was relieved
to hear that Santana wasn't dating Karofsky and Sam at the same time or
something. "I hear that's how they roll in Lima Heights. Love 'em and leave
'em."
Sam let out a sharp puff of breath. "He kissed you?"
A blush jumped painfully into Kurt's face. It seemed like an awkward lurch
backwards in the conversation, but maybe Sam was just now getting it.
"Yes," he whispered, watching Sam's mouth draw tight and then twist. He
couldn't put his finger on Sam's tone of voice or expression; he looked sort of
sick and put out at the same time. At a loss, Kurt guessed, "Does that gross
you out?"
Off popped the Sharpie cap. "Yeah. But I mean, it's because of Karofsky, not
you."
"I know. He's not my type, either," said Kurt jokingly.
"Does he like you, or something?" Sam asked, snapping the cap on and off the
marker.
"I really don't know..."
"But he kissed you."
"I – yeah," said Kurt, feeling a guilty flush of pleasure that Sam seemed to be
realizing that it was a big deal. When he'd told Blaine, Blaine had just patted
him and bought him a pity lunch, and Kurt had felt stupid for dwelling on that
aspect of the whole ordeal. After all, he'd let Brittany kiss him last year, so
even though it hadn't meant anything to him, didn't that count in some
extremely technical way as his first kiss? It was not a whole lot better than
his tormentor planting one on him. He added softly, more for his own relief
than Sam's benefit, "It was my first kiss. You know. From a boy. When I'm
sixty, my real first kiss will still have been from Dave Karofsky."
Sam looked at him, then, and said, "That sucks," in a sheepish, winded kind of
way.
Before Kurt could think of a suitable rejoinder, Sam had wrapped slender
fingers around Kurt's bared forearm.
"Gimme your hand," he whispered, and gave a gentle tug to Kurt's right arm.
Kurt let him pull it over, skin tingling weirdly as he rested the back of his
hand benignly on Sam's leg.
"What...?" he began, but Sam didn't answer, except to hunch over his arm, press
the tip of the blue Sharpie to the clean, ivory-pale skin of Kurt's arm and
draw two short parallel lines there on the inside of his arm. It might've been
just because they were touching and Kurt wasn't beyond soaking in the strange
attention, but he didn't fuss or knock Sam away as he drew two more lines. The
tip of the marker tickled. A curl of ink that became a 6 followed the number
sign.
Kurt couldn't help his breaths coming faster; they moved his chest noticeably,
so he tried to bite them back. Sam could probably feel his heartbeat pounding
in his veins, since he was holding Kurt's arm in place.
"You have a boyfriend now, right?" asked Sam casually. "That Dalton guy
everybody thought you were cheating on with me?"
"Yes," managed Kurt.
"Has he kissed you?"
"Yeah. Yes. We kiss."
Sam traced a shape onto his skin. Kurt thought for a moment he was going to put
down the number 8, but when Sam stopped, it looked more like a 5. A lower-case
a followed, and Kurt flushed what he was pretty sure had to be a deep wine-red.
Sure enough, Sam put down an m. Sam had written his name onto Kurt's arm. And
#6 – that was Sam's number on the football team.
"Are you giving me your autograph?" Kurt asked, his voice sitting in its
highest register out of surprise.
"Yep," said Sam, breaking into a satisfied smile.
"Oh, really?" he said daringly. "What else are you going to write? 'Best of
luck'? 'Reach for the stars'? You have to have a decent autograph. I've
practiced mine since I learned cursive and I have very high standards."
"You get a heart," said Sam with a grin, and drew an uneven excuse for a heart
in blue indelible ink. It looked oddly boyish, which was actually so cute Kurt
was nearly taken aback by it. "Sorry, it's bad. I can't draw." Sam went over
the lopsided lines, trying to make them more even but just staining more skin
blue.
"It's very sweet," Kurt whispered, his real heart palpitating like crazy.
Sam's smile faded, and he glanced up at Kurt with hooded eyes. He looked for a
moment like he wasn't sure where he was or what he was doing with his hand
wrapped around Kurt's arm, like some spell was about to break, but Kurt didn't
move, except for his breaths making his chest rise and fall in shallow,
desperate pulls. He looked at Sam's eyes, at his ridiculously curvacious
Cupid's bow and shaggy blond locks swept over his forehead, and Sam looked back
hazily, a somewhat skittish edge of uncertainty in his shoulders. When it
became apparent to him that Kurt wasn't going to move or say anything, Sam
abruptly reached, Sharpie poised, toward Kurt's blank left arm, leaning over
Kurt's lap.
Oh, God, Sam smelled like a boy. Like school and Tide and Old Spice deodorant
and clean, earnest sweat and cheap shampoo. Somewhere under all that, too, was
the sharp chemical smell of permanent ink, both unpleasant and satisfying, and
it all hit Kurt at once. He inhaled deeply, blinking through a heavy flush of
intensity and arousal and trying to focus as Sam attacked the clean slate of
his arm, writing big and bold something he recognized right away, this time.
E-v-a-n-s.
The S of it trailed dangerously close to Kurt's palm, sidling along a vein that
was standing out embarrassingly with how heavily Kurt's pulse was racing. The
word was drawn so big it roamed down his entire forearm, from the rolled-up
cuff of his shirt in the crook of his elbow to his wrist. Just looking at Sam's
name all over both his arms was enough to make him stiffen in his jeans and go
red in the face with shame.
Jeez, if he'd known he was going to be letting Sam write his name all over him
in Sharpie, he wouldn't have worn skinny jeans. There was no possible way Sam
could miss him getting hard from this – and Sam was going to flip. He was going
to laugh and leave awkwardly and that would be the end of Tuesday/Thursday
study dates, and oh my God, Kurt was predatory.
Kurt kept still, alarm at his own horniness and how obvious it was ringing in
his ears, as Sam leaned back, huffed out a big breath, and flicked his gaze to
Kurt's again. A moment later, he was putting the Sharpie between his lips,
holding it between them as he reached out and worked open the topmost button on
Kurt's shirt, just beneath the knot of his white bowtie. The rest came to him
faster, fingers surprisingly adept, and he was down to where Kurt's shirt was
tucked into his jeans before Kurt could fully process it. Kurt gripped tight at
Sam's knee with the hand that had been casually sitting there on his thigh and
tried not to lose consciousness or something as Sam pushed his shirt open. He
was wearing a thin ribbed white undershirt beneath, but Sam didn't seem
deterred. He tangled fingers into it and yanked it right up Kurt's stomach, and
Kurt twisted to help him, out of his mind because it hardly seemed real.
He was so hard, so turned on he couldn't breathe right. Couldn't Sam see it?
His white jeans were straining in a tight curve, hugging his hard-on, and he
could feel Sam's body heat on his bared skin.
A strain of self-consciousness made its way through him at the fact that Sam
was seeing his bare chest like this, even though that was so stupid; it wasn't
a big deal for guys to be shirtless. He'd seen Sam pretty close to naked in the
locker room. Kurt wasn't the type to go around with his shirt off, though. He
was pale and his nipples were baby pink and he didn't have even a small
percentage of the muscle tone Sam did and he didn't know if Sam was the type to
care about that – he didn't know if it mattered at all or what Sam was thinking
–
There was a wet noise as Sam snagged the Sharpie from his own mouth and bent
over Kurt with purpose.
He started tracing out a word over Kurt's stomach, and it tickled, but only in
a way that made Kurt's skin goosebump and his dick strain helplessly harder.
"What are you writing?" he managed, though it was barely breath.
"'Trouty Mouth,'" Sam replied, prompt. "Will your boyfriend see it?"
Kurt's belly pulled in sensitively. "No."
"Will Karofsky see it?"
"No!" gasped Kurt.
"Still," said Sam, in his broad monotone. "I don't see anyone else's name all
over you."
"Sam," Kurt huffed. "Do you not – I don't know if you realize what you're
doing..."
Sam looked up at him in an almost plaintive way, eyes big and serious.
"Getting you hard?"
Kurt's face could not have burned redder. Confusion and a fresh push of arousal
swept through him, making him dizzy. He tried not to breathe as hard as he was,
but it made his vision swim to try and tamp it down.
Sam said, "It's cool. I've seen dudes hard before."
"What?" was all Kurt could get out in a breath. Was this for real? Was Sam
really gay? After all the denying and cheerleader-dating and plaid-wearing?
"Unbutton these," said Sam lowly, snagging his index finger into a belt loop on
Kurt's jeans.
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah. Let me see," Sam coaxed, and Kurt blinked up at his ceiling in utter
shock.
Never in a million years would he have guessed that this was going to happen to
him. Not this way. Not with ostensibly-straight Sam Evans and not with Kurt's
hard-on the subject of his interest.
He wondered for a split second if he should even do this, if it was really
wrong, like really wrong, and also stupid – but years of beaten-back desires
and curiosities were overriding his logic centers in a massive coup. Sam was a
tall, beautiful football player who dated girls, and his friend, and all they
did together was homework... This was not supposed to be happening. It felt
like he was moving in a dream as he lifted his fingers to his fly and opened it
slowly.
The Sharpie was back in Sam's mouth. Unbelievably strong hands tugged Kurt's
jeans down by the waist, and a momentary sensation of how utterly wrong it was
to have his pants down next to a boy in bed gripped Kurt. His thighs were bare
on his sheets before he knew it, jeans caught above his knees, and his dick was
tenting his pristine white boxer-briefs. Sam was looking at it, pulling at the
elastic of his boxers until he had them down, too, and had Kurt shivering in
the open air, naked save some blue Sharpie scribblings from his ribs to his
thighs. His voice felt stuck in his throat; he just stared at Sam looking at
him... looking at his dick, flushed pink and arching needily. It walked some
fine line between humiliating and so hot he could barely cope, that Sam was
seeing him so naked and so hard. He didn't know exactly how he compared to the
other guys Sam apparently had seen, but he was glad a certain amount of
manscaping had been a habit of his pretty much since he'd gotten pubes. Wait,
what if that was weird?
Sam's hand grazed his thigh, raising every hair on Kurt's body and making a
gasp tear from his chest.
It seemed both ridiculous and amazing as Sam took the Sharpie in hand again,
the gray plastic casing shining wetly where it had been in his mouth, and
slowly began to write on him some more. This time it was on his strangely
tender, newly-exposed hipbone, and it made Kurt swoon so hard his eyes wouldn't
stay open to see what Sam was writing. He felt it tickle of the tip moving over
his skin, felt the momentary wetness of the ink before it dried there on him,
felt the warm tease of Sam's knuckles against him as he wrote.
Kurt's mouth fell open as he felt the heat of Sam's hand passing over his dick,
not touching it but so close he could literally feel the warmth of his skin so
near it. Then Sam continued writing on his other hip.
Kurt didn't even care what he was writing, only that he was still doing it.
Even if it was super weird and Sam just backed off and told him he could pull
his pants up again, it was still the hottest thing that had ever happened to
him, letting another boy see his body and write all over it as if filling in a
space that was prefaced with This Book Belongs To.
And it was true, what he'd said... no one would ever see it. Not Blaine. Not
Karofsky. Not anyone but the two of them. He felt suddenly bonded with Sam in a
way he'd never felt with anybody else before.
Sam began to draw on his thigh; Kurt finally jerked his head up to try and
look. He could see blue lettering on his terribly white hips but apparently
didn't have enough blood in his brain to read it upside-down. After a heated
few seconds of letting his eyes dart between the words and Sam's face – which
was sunburn-red in comparison to Kurt's skin – he read on one hip, was here.
Following the words on his stomach, it read Trouty Mouth was here. On his other
hip... he couldn't seem to read it. He was too hard, too close to losing it. He
had no idea what Sam was putting on his thigh, either.
Kurt's breath whimpered, and even though it was embarrassing when Sam paused
and looked up at his face, Kurt grabbed at the collar of his plaid button-up
and pulled him in. Sam blinked at him, balancing awkwardly on his elbow, and
Kurt lunged before he could chicken out or Sam could stick that Sharpie back in
his mouth. He didn't know if Sam was gay or straight or messing with him; Kurt
kissed him anyway, pressing his mouth to Sam's half demanding and half
questioning.
For a few heartbeats, Sam just seemed to accept it, still and remarkably
unperturbed. Then he pressed back tentatively, and Kurt's stomach dropped low,
his stiff dick twitching. Sam's mouth was overwhelmingly full and firm. He
gentled underneath it, and Sam broke from him. Their eyes met, and Kurt thought
he looked unsure.
"Kiss me," Kurt whispered fiercely, but was still somehow surprised when Sam
actually did, apparently responding to the plea as urgently as Kurt had given
it. He exhaled harshly when Kurt dared to touch his jaw and touched him back
after a moment, fingers (Sharpie threaded through them) gingerly resting on
Kurt's stomach.
Desperation seemed to bloom out like a supernova beneath Sam's hand; Kurt
scrabbled for his own dick and fisted it, somehow feeling ashamed and dirty and
liberated all at once. He could feel Sam's awareness of what he was doing in
the way his neck and shoulders tensed and a small puffed oh of breath escaped
the press of their mouths. Was it too much? Too gay?
Then Sam's hand crept lower, fingertips sliding over sensitive skin Kurt kept
fastidiously clean-shaven. Kurt's hips jumped from the shock of it. He let his
aching dick go and grabbed at Sam's hand. Sam fumbled with him, dropping the
Sharpie (it rolled into the low, taut sink of Kurt's stomach) and letting Kurt
help him get his fingers around Kurt's dick. It was clumsy, but Kurt was
dripping to come and someone else – a boy – was touching him. He squeezed his
fingers around Sam's encouragingly.
"God, Sam," he breathed, electrified, and Sam's touch went from awkward to
intent, stroking in a way that was totally knowing in the way only another guy
could be.
"You like that?" Sam asked, sounding pleased.
"No one's ever –" Kurt faltered, but felt too vulnerable to continue. He wasn't
exactly sure what he'd been saying in the first place – touched me there
before, maybe, or made me feel this way. Either way it was admitting too much.
It was kind of scary.
But Sam responded, in an unfamiliar high and young pitch, "Me neither."
Kurt clutched him into a kiss, excitement rattling him to the soul, and groped
inelegantly across Sam's impressively cut abs.
Sam didn't even wait to groan, and Kurt's breath caught in response. When Kurt
found his dick under the polite preppy button-up and t-shirt and relaxed fit
jeans, he found it oddly huge-feeling, like he couldn't even cover it with his
whole palm at once. Wow, Sam was bigger than him. Instead of being embarrassed,
though, Kurt was wildly intrigued, and so turned on he was edging dangerously.
God, just touching another boy's dick through his jeans was so hot he thought
he might die, but Sam was touching him back.
It swelled in him in about two seconds, the fact that all of it was happening,
and he suddenly wasn't in control of his own body at all – couldn't have held
back if he'd tried. He was coming so hard his spine was arching off the bed
without his permission, the Sharpie rolling, jizz shooting up through his dick
so rigid in Sam's grip and hitting his own stomach. It slid, heavy and wet and
hot, down the slope from his ribs to his navel.
Sam made a gutted noise, and Kurt came harder just hearing it, just smelling
Sam and feeling the heat and weight of his hard-on under the rough denim of his
jeans. His hips wracked, and Sam jacked him deliberately through it, urging out
pulse after pulse of come until Kurt had nothing left but was still endlessly
coming in waves of mingled embarrassment and arousal. Sam's knee hooked over
his thigh, pinning it down, and Kurt gasped in aftershock. God, he was coming
in front of Sam Evans. Sam had made him come.
When he could see somewhat in-focus again, Kurt lifted his head, his hair
brushing against Sam's, and looked at his own sucked-in stomach, the messy blue
scrawl of Trouty Mouth streaked over with shiny, slippery jizz. He was marked
up everywhere... and Sam's hand was still wrapped, slender and as strangely
pretty as the rest of him, around the base of his dick. He seemed to be just
holding it now. The Sharpie had fallen between them and left a random streak of
blue on Kurt's side.
With a shaky hand, Kurt snagged it and tossed it off the bed, uncapped, then
returned to give Sam's dick a tentative squeeze through his jeans. Body
stiffening, Sam let out a breath.
"I'll come," he whispered thickly. It sounded both threatening and fearful –
and unbelievably hot to hear a boy say to him – and Kurt suddenly wondered if
Sam was thinking of Beiste.
"Come," Kurt whispered back permissively. Sam's face flinched.
"I... have to wear these jeans till Saturday," he said, and Kurt watched his
throat work and realized he was desperately swallowing back the impending
creaming of his jeans. The answer seemed obvious.
"Don't come in them. Come on me," Kurt said, lids going heavy with the mere
idea. Sam moaned, low and involuntary. "I'm already covered in... Sharpie. If
you're gonna write your name all over me, you might as well come all over me
too –"
"God, Kurt," Sam let out sharply. Kurt abruptly felt sexier than he'd ever felt
in his life. It was so strange, to go from feeling uncertain and guilty for
just wanting to sit beside Sam in glee to feeling like he had Sam in the palm
of his hand.
Gently, Kurt unbuttoned Sam's jeans for him and whispered, "You want to, don't
you? You should let me watch."
"Dude... you're gonna – talk me off," Sam breathed in a rush. He awkwardly let
Kurt go and got his fly down. Kurt's gaze dropped from his expression to his
hips as Sam wiggled his jeans and briefs down, all tensed cut muscle. He caught
sight of a light happy trail that led to sparse, fawny hair around his dick and
was shocked at how hot he found it. He didn't like his own pubes (or really any
of the hair on his body below his nose) and kept them shaved low and then
trimmed. But Sam's body hair was lighter, almost golden-toned, and looked good
on him, natural and masculine. And Sam's dick was as hot as the rest of him,
slightly out of proportion and red like his mouth. It was actually pretty in
his own hand. Kurt stared openly; he'd never seen a guy touching himself
outside of a few x-tube clips he'd just shut down instead of finish. It seemed
so personal.
He looked up in time to see Sam suck on his own lower lip; he was looking down
at Kurt's body, just how Kurt had been looking at his.
"Let me," Kurt said, trying to sound reassuring but feeling more like he was
pleading for permission. His fingers tangled with Sam's briefly as they wrapped
around his fist and Sam backed off to let Kurt hold him – hold another boy's
cock for the first time.
It felt strangely unlike holding his own, and yet completely familiar and
right. But even the gentle way Kurt palmed it, fingers light and reverent in
their loop around it as they stroked the hot skin that moved in a silken way
over the shaft, made Sam's body clench tightly. He knew then it wasn't going to
last long, this chance to have Sam in his hands, and tightened his grip so he
could feel how completely hard Sam's dick actually was. A clear dribble leaked
out of Sam's slit and dripped heavily to his slim hip, as if Kurt had squeezed
it out, and Sam let out a wincing breath, lip tugging till Kurt could see a
bared canine tooth.
"Don't hold back," Kurt said lowly. "I'm not some squeamish girl, I don't want
you to cool off – I want you to come. I want you to come on me –"
Sam's body curled, one knee planting between Kurt's, their hips grinding
together momentarily, and Kurt's breath caught. He knew Sam was coming before
it hit his skin. Sam sucked and hitched desperately for breath through his
clumsy lips and pretty teeth and choked in the back of his throat as he shot
off on Kurt's belly. Compared to the jizz already lukewarm and thickened in
Kurt's belly button it was so hot – hot from being inside Sam, which kind of
bent Kurt's brain – and somehow it was different than Kurt's, too. It was
pearlier, thinner, wetter, making Kurt's look stark white by comparison, and
there was so much. It felt like Sam was pinning him down and covering every
inch of his skin and all that blue ink in feverish spatters. It caught on
Kurt's knuckles, slid into his grip somehow. Kurt watched Sam's dick slip wetly
through his fingers for what felt like a long time, and Sam just let him touch
it, pump it slowly.
Finally, he lifted his chin and met Sam's eyes, which widened somewhat as he
looked at them. Kurt blinked rapidly, trying to get a handle on the situation
before the reality of it smacked Sam upside the head.
"That was... really cool," he panted.
Sam exhaled, an audible whoosh of tense breath escaping him.
"Did you like it?" Kurt asked bravely, trying to sound casual.
A smile tugged up one corner of Sam's mouth. "Yeah."
"Cool," managed Kurt. He watched Sam's eyes search his face and roam down his
body again, looking at how messed up he was – all the blue lettering that was
all over his arms, stomach, hips, and thigh and all their come sliding
together, his dick in Kurt's desirious grip – and then watched him slump back
onto both his elbows and stare at the ceiling. He took his hand back politely.
After a few moments, Sam's gaze flicked back to Kurt's face. "Do we have to do
homework today?"
"We can do whatever you want," Kurt replied, flirty.
Sam smiled, and Kurt raised a brow in surprise as Sam arched up and locked him
into a kiss with his immensely soft lips. They were just made for kissing, Kurt
realized, swooning. That's what Sam's "Born This Way" t-shirt should have said:
Amazing Kisser.
 
*
 
Friday's lunch period found Kurt dreamily messing with the bits of lettuce in
his salad.
He hadn't been able to concentrate all day. Walking next to Santana on his way
to AP Calculus, he'd floated happily. U.S. History had been a blur. Now, on the
other side of Mercedes, Sam was looking particularly distracting, sitting there
in his preppy little striped polo looking like some Olympian version of Dennis
the Menace with that sweep of blond hair over his forehead and sheepish smile
haunting his lips as he ate the apple Kurt had sent his way. The blue Sharpie
from Kurt's collection was hooked on the cover of his notebook.
Warm, steady flushes of arousal kept pushing their way through Kurt, so he knew
he was probably pink in the face and definitely hard in his tweed slacks under
the lunch table, but it felt so good to sit there knowing he was still covered
in everything Sam had written on him. It was proof it wasn't just some crazy
dream.
Kurt kind of hadn't even wanted to shower in case Sharpie wasn't as permanent
as one might think, but he had, of course, and while the royal blue ink had
faded somewhat under scrubbing, everything was still perfectly readable on his
skin. #6. A heart. Sam Evans. On his stomach, Trouty Mouth, and on his hip, was
here. On his thigh, Sam had drawn a smiley face. When Kurt had seen it in the
mirror, he'd straight-up laughed and said out loud, "Sam Evans, you dork."
The only thing he couldn't read was a random collection of letters Sam had put
on his left hip. It literally looked like one long text message typo, words
tapped out with fingers on the wrong keys. He'd spent a shameful amount of time
lying in his bed with his thumb hooked into his pajama pants, pulling them down
his hip so he could see the jumble of letters and wondering if Sam had
accidentally written something out of order, dyslexia catching up with him.
Maybe his handwriting was just that bad, or maybe the letters had blurred
together to look like other letters.
Now he was trying not to stare in Sam's direction, as he couldn't shake the
feeling that it was completely obvious that he and Sam had hooked up during
their Thursday non-study-non-date-date. If he hadn't worn long sleeves, the
whole cafeteria – the whole school – would be able to see Sam's name all over
him.
"Hm?" he asked in a disconnected hum. Mercedes was standing there talking to
him, and she rolled her eyes at him when he focused on her.
"Oh, Lord. Never mind. I know that twitterpated look. You're thinkin' about
your boy." She smiled at him and sang in her sweetly sarcastic way, "Go back to
your daydream. I'll ask Quinn if bangs are still in."
"Side-swept bangs for summer, Mercedes!" Kurt called.
Two seats away, Sam said, "Seriously? Am I in style?"
"Part your hair and you're Brad Pitt," said Kurt. Sam swiped a hand over his
hair, and Kurt almost spaced out again just watching him. The buzz of his phone
in his pocket saved him – it was a text from Blaine.
Coffee after school? ;)
Kurt took a steadying breath. He really didn't know what to think about stuff
with Blaine right then. Summer without a boyfriend was looming, and it
should've made him want to see said boyfriend all he could... but he found
himself looking toward Sam again, and laughing to himself. Sam had parted his
hair messily just with his fingers and was tucking down the long bits behind
his ears, or was trying to, anyway.
The bell rang while Kurt was trying to decide what to respond with, and he
looked up to see Sam standing beside him.
"Walk you to your check-point?" he asked.
Kurt put his phone away and stood deliberately, trying not to smile too big. He
shook his head, reaching up to gently tuck Sam's bangs back over his forehead.
He had grown extraordinarily fond of the shaggy Bieber cut.
"That depends."
"On what?" asked Sam, cocking his head and lifting a hand to help neaten his
hair. Kurt glanced around, but Mike and Tina had gone on without them, holding
hands.
"What did you write on my hip?" he responded, enjoying the way Sam's ears went
red. "I can't read it."
"It's Na'vi," said Sam. "Did you ever see Avatar?"
"No. Wait, what? The movie with blue aliens that takes place in Fern Gully?"
Sam took Kurt's tray from the table and took it to the trash for him, then said
with a patient grin, "Pandora."
"You wrote on me, in permanent ink – which is still all over me, by the way –
in some alien language?" Kurt asked, totally bemused.
"Do you want to know what I wrote?" Sam teased, taking Kurt's bag from where it
was slung over the back of his chair and handing it to him. Kurt eyed him, and
followed as Sam led him toward the cafeteria's open double doors. Karofsky was
staring at them, waiting for him.
"Okay, tell me," Kurt burst.
Sam leaned toward him, broad-shouldered, and murmured, "'Likes boys.'" He
stopped, then, because Kurt had stopped mid-step and was staring at him,
smiling knowingly. Sort of shyly, Sam said, "See you in glee?"
Smirking, Kurt batted his eyelashes and headed off toward Karofsky, shooting
over his shoulder, "Uh-huh. It's a date."
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