DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title from "Touch" by Clay Aiken.
Warnings are: glasses!kink, facials (I need to stop this), swearing, innocent!deviant!Kurt. I miss summer when I could crank out two stories a week :(

Reviewers, let me just say you all rock. In a thousand different ways. You make me work harder because I'm constantly having to impress you guys!

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One of the many perks about being in the same school now—besides lunch periods spent with knees brushing and hands held under the table, shy and in-love glances being tossed both ways as they laugh and eat and Kurt listens to Blaine tell stories about his previous public-school experiences—was that they now got off of school at the same time and were free to spend weekdays in Kurt's empty house, with Finn at practice, Burt working at the garage until five, and Carole oftentimes taking the day shift.

And an empty house holds a plethora of promises, teasing little tidbits of what Kurt and Blaine could be doing or not doing. And Blaine, all dapper-smiles and endless-energy Blaine, with his chivalry and willingness to cart Kurt's books anywhere even if Kurt's going to Advanced History (left side of the building) and Blaine's going to chemistry (right side, down the stairs and diagonal) is such a damned gentleman that most days they're not doing, instead chatting about schoolwork and glee.

Kurt doesn't mind it, really: he loves Blaine's little touches, his chaste kisses full of love and meaning and so powerful that Kurt feels weepy and weak when they're done and is always left wondering what, exactly, he'd done to snag this boy. Though they've advanced a few stages since the beginning of summer they're both still rather reticent sometimes to stray from kissing and groping most days because it's just not them; they both love getting off, especially when it's together and they can watch the other come apart, but they love the company hanging out alone provides more. No interruptions, no "door stays open" rule; just them and them alone, cuddling on the bed, doing homework, kissing and stroking, Blaine always remembering Kurt's fingertip comment. More than that, more than the look of absolute delight Kurt gets, he loves feeling the goosebumps rise up on Kurt's fair skin as he skims his fingers up and down, sideways and diagonal, knowing that he's the one responsible for eliciting these reactions.

It's not to say that they aren't comfortable with the carnal things, because they really are. Blaine's found out he loves sucking cock and Kurt's found out that his long, nimble fingers are perfect for wrapping around Blaine's thick girth as he jerks him off. Blaine also, apparently, has nothing against semen. The first time he'd pushed Kurt down on the bed and lowered his mouth over his cock, going as far as he could without gagging, Kurt was sure he'd ripped out a good-sized chunk of Blaine's hair trying to get him to pull off as he felt the first coils of orgasm teasing at him. When Kurt realized that Blaine wasn't going to he had come down his throat with a choked-off sound, watching Blaine swallow all of it without so much as a wince.

These are the things they could be doing today, but they're not.

School's at the third or fourth week mark right now, assignments starting to get a little harder and tests and quizzes coming more frequently. Blaine's acing all of his classes, a given considering Kurt knows first-hand how much Dalton cracks down academically, and by four he's already done with his homework, even the tricky College Algebra assignment Kurt's been struggling with for the past twenty minutes.

"This sucks," he exclaims exasperatedly, erasing another wrong summation and dropping his pencil to the smudged paper. "I've done this equation at least ten times and it still comes out wrong." He's at one more problem before he's done and he can't even get it right; it's so frustrating.

"Lemme see." Blaine stands up, pushing himself off of where he had been sitting cross-legged on Kurt's floor, flipping through Kurt's French textbook and occasionally throwing out badly-pronounced phrases for Kurt to correct in between problems. Kurt may fake exasperation but Blaine can see right through him and know that whenever his tongue curls around a tricky word and his voice rasps in his throat when he pronounces anything with an "R" in it he's smiling.

Blaine comes to stand next to Kurt's chair, leaning down and placing his palm flat on Kurt's desk for balance. Kurt's skin tingles like it always does at Blaine being so close, at his breath ghosting across his ear and his voice being so loud and there even when he speaks at a slightly-lower volume than normal.

"You need to take this"—he points to Kurt's hastily-scrawled "15"—"and bring it here." God, Blaine has beautiful hands. Smooth and yet roughened with years of instrument playing, the palms wide and always there to comfort, the veins crisscrossing the tops, teasing and inviting Kurt to trail his tongue along each one, press down and feel the skin indent, his blunt, well-cared-for nails that always feel amazing digging into Kurt's skin, raking through his hair and scratching along his scalp and the back of his neck.

"Kurt," Blaine says, amusement coloring his voice. "You've been staring at my hand for a couple minutes now. Unless I've suddenly sprouted Peter Pettigrew's or something, it should be normal. What's up?"

Kurt blinks and tears his eyes away, following Blaine's instructions and, thank god, the rest of the problem falls together. He makes a triumphant noise and shuts his notebook, throwing his pencil down and smoothing his hair back as he leans back in his chair. "I'm fine," he says, taking Blaine's hand in his and kissing the back, feeling the sparse hairs tickle his lips. "Thanks for helping me out. I was getting so frustrated."

Blaine grins, that excited "I'm doing something awesome for you" grin that makes the tendons in his neck stand out and shows off his ridiculously perfect teeth. "I'm glad that I'm better than you in at least one subject," he says, bumping their shoulders together. "It's so nice to be needed for once." He sighs dramatically and Kurt scoffs, smacking him on the shoulder while he does his best to ignore the butterflies inching their way further up his abdomen.

"You're ridiculous," Kurt says, nothing but affection in his words.

Blaine rubs his eye absently with his free hand a few times and blinks once, a look of discomfort immediately washing over his face as he continues to blink. "Damn it," he mutters, slipping his hand out of Kurt's—no, Kurt thinks forlornly—and heading over to his bag, fishing around in it for a few seconds before walking into Kurt's en suite bathroom and throwing a quick "be right back" over his shoulder, something clutched in his upstage hand, obscured enough that Kurt won't know what it is without asking outright.

Kurt raises an eyebrow and crosses his arm over his chest as he watches the door close.

When Blaine comes out a minute or so later, looking more relaxed, the first thing Kurt zeros in on are the red jeans Blaine's wearing, the very same from the amazing (beautiful, unreal, howthefuckdidthishappentome) day when Blaine sang his love for everyone in the courtyard to hear. This time Blaine pairs them with a soft gray v-neck and black oxfords and somehow Kurt's managed to loosen Blaine's strict hair gel policy so that the curls tumble around his face and forehead, their darkness bringing out the gold-green hazel of Blaine's eyes.

Eyes. That's when he notices it.

Instead of immediately staring into Blaine's eyes like he's wont to do now that he can he's met with the glare of natural light on glass and he starts for a second, peering close and narrowing his eyes as he realizes that Blaine is wearing glasses. Glasses with a thin, rectangle-shaped frame, just simple black and nothing gaudy and fancy or even with a blatant designer logo like Kurt would go for if he ever had to wear them.

Blaine's glasses are just the run-of-the-mill, stereotypical kind so Kurt doesn't get why he's so turned on by this. Why the way they slide a little down Blaine's nose as he lowers his head is erotic and new and so inviting, why seeing his boyfriend wearing something millions of people wear everyday makes his skin prickle and his groin to twinge in the most delicious of ways.

Blaine looks at him and smiles lazily, stepping back over to his bag to drop what Kurt now realizes is a glasses case down into it. He turns around and raises a hand to his face to push the frames up his nose from where they'd slid down and upon noticing Kurt's open-mouthed stare he says as way of explanation, "Ripped my contact lens and I didn't think to bring a spare."

"You—you wear glasses?" Kurt splutters. He already feels his face heating up.

Blaine arches a brow. "Yeah. Didn't I tell you?"

Kurt vehemently shakes his head. "N-no."

"Well." Blaine shrugs like it's nothing. "I do. I have since I was in middle school."

Kurt feels dizzy. They're just glasses, he keeps telling himself. Just a simple pair that Blaine needs to see with, just like the contacts he apparently wears. If anything, they're a huge inconvenience. But glasses open up a whole new host of things: librarian, teacher, sexy prep school boy who studies a lot but is struggling a bit and Kurt's his absolute last hope to tutor him so that he can get an A on his calculus exam.

He'll never, ever admit it, but he's maybe roamed the dregs of the internet for porn since he and Blaine decided to go further in their relationship towards the end of the summer. Purely for educational purposes, of course; the last thing he wants to do is look like an idiot in front of Blaine because Blaine is a natural and perfect and even though they'd equally stumbled through first handjobs and blowjobs together, not quite in tune yet with what the other liked or the right ways to grip and how tightly to suck, Kurt had still felt a need to impress him.

It's silly, really, because Blaine is just as scared about advancing the physicality of their relationship as Kurt is. At the end of the day they're still both just two boys very much in love and two boys who have never been touched so intimately and tenderly. November was a long time ago; things have changed since then.

Kurt's no longer scared and Blaine is no longer a two-dimensional character in a uniform. They've gotten to know each other. They've fallen in love. An exquisite summer tainted only with the back-of-the-mind knowledge that come September Blaine would be carted back off to Dalton and Kurt would be stuck in the cesspool that was McKinley had come and gone and somehow, by a twist of fate, Blaine's beside him for seven hours a day now, always ready with a smile or an anecdote or a gentle hand squeeze.

Maybe the glasses make Blaine seem smarter, sexier. Maybe it's because he also seems vulnerable for once, stricken with a common handicap that finally flaws his perfect appearance. Maybe, mostly, it's because of what Kurt had stumbled upon while prowling through the internet, something that he'd initially scoffed at and now, now he just can't get the image out of his head.

He's so, so bad and since when did he turn into this… this deviant?

Kurt grabs the front of Blaine's shirt, fisting the fabric in a white-knuckled grip as he pulls him close, closer, their bodies slotting together like they were made for each other. The kiss is searing and desperate and wet, Kurt prying Blaine's lips open with his tongue as he rests his fist on the space of skin and cloth over Blaine's heart, feelings its erratic beat against his skin.

The frame of Blaine's glasses digs into his cheek as he changes the angle, traces his tongue around the contours of Blaine's mouth before kissing along his jaw, his smooth cheek. Blaine moans, a tiny sound that means go and stop all at once, his hands moving to Kurt's waist, holding him steady as he grinds against him.

Kurt tucks his face into the smooth curve of Blaine's neck, skin warm under his lips as he licks, says, "Get on your knees."

Stunned silence for the barest of moments before Blaine is disentangling himself and doing just that, knees connecting with the carpet with a small thunk. He looks up at Kurt, rocking forward on his knees a little, and reaches up to take his glasses off.

Kurt's hand on his wrist stops him; with a shake of his head he says, "Leave them on."

Blaine sucks in a breath, draws his lower lip into his mouth to bite at it lightly with his teeth, and finally nods, hand dropping back to his lap. It's close to his groin and the aching hardness prominent there, but he makes no move to relieve himself just yet.

Phrases like "suck me off" and "jerk me off" still make Kurt blush and he isn't sure he can even think any other word besides "penis," let alone say it, and penis sounds horribly clinical and mood-ruining anyway. So he rarely thinks them, never says them, but he gets his point across in ways he knows how. It helps that Blaine is observant and not stupid and that his enthusiasm for everything bleeds into the bedroom as well.

Blaine also really likes nuzzling, whether it be into the curve of Kurt's neck, his chest, his hand, wherever he can find a space, he will. Turns out, nuzzling also feels really fantastic against Kurt's trapped cock, and coupled with Blaine's warm breath when he mouths over the bulge is almost enough to turn him either catatonic or into complete jelly.

Kurt lets out a moan and an involuntary thrust when Blaine slides a hand between his legs, rubbing against his balls before sliding back to squeeze at his ass. "You're gonna be the death of me, Blaine Anderson," he gasps, running his fingers through Blaine's hair. Hot puffs of air and staccato vibrations are against his dick when Blaine laughs and Kurt seriously is going to die if Blaine doesn't speed things along a little bit.

"Can't have that," Blaine replies with a little wink, hurriedly undoing the button and zipper of Kurt's jeans, tugging them down, briefs being pulled down a few seconds later as Kurt's cock springs free.

Blaine teases the head with little licks as he grips the base, tightening his fingers and pulling up slightly before sliding back down. Behind his glasses his eyes flutter shut; Kurt almost misses the dark brush of his lashes against his cheekbones, the way he'd watch Blaine's eyes move around behind the closed lids as if he was dreaming.

He slides down a little further, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard, tongue running along the vein and catching on the sensitive spot just under the ridge. Blaine links his hands loosely together behind Kurt's back, just above the swell of his ass, something he's always done and something that Kurt finds utterly adorable. The featherlight touches of Blaine's fingertips make Kurt jerk and shudder and dig his fingers harder into Blaine's shoulders.

Too soon Kurt grasps at Blaine's hair, tugging gently and whispering for him to pull off. Blaine does, looking slightly put-off as he sits back on his heels and wipes the back of a hand across his mouth, collecting the saliva gathered there. His throat works as he swallows a few times, Kurt's eyes locked on the column and his adam's apple. He grips his cock, shuddering a little at the return of sensation when he's so close to the edge.

"Kurt," Blaine finally whines, eyes pleading and mouth dropping open again, as if waiting. "I always swallow for you, why did you—"

Blaine's sentence is cut off as Kurt strokes a few more times, grip tight and perfect, and comes with a high moan, streaking over Blaine's surprised face, and—yes—his glasses, little strings of come collecting on the lenses and dripping from the frame onto his cheek. Some lands in his hair, his eyebrows, the little "V" of skin available with his shirt.

From deep within Blaine's throat comes a broken noise as he lifts a hand to his face, touching his fingertip to one of the threads of semen, pressing in and dragging it down across his skin. It strings along for a few seconds before breaking when he pulls away.

"Kurt." When Blaine says his name this time his voice cracks, fades and peters out at the end. "Oh my god." A thin, barely-there string has fallen onto his top lip and his tongue darts out to draw it into his mouth. "Oh my god." His voice goes shrill and Kurt can't tell if it's a good shrill or a get the fuck out I never want to see you again shrill. Blaine doesn't move, doesn't blink or even appear to breathe. The come slips and slides down the contours of his face, the little bump on his nose and down to his lips, chin, jaw.

Kurt feels like he should apologize because Blaine's clothes aren't even off. His gray shirt is rucked up and wrinkled from being held in Kurt's hands and the front of those damn red jeans are raised, his still-hard cock pressing against the zipper.

Kurt tries to feel bad, and he does open his mouth to apologize, but all that comes out is an awed "I just came on your face. I just came on your—on your glasses."

"Yeah," Blaine replies in a whisper and Jesus fuck he has come on his face, on his nose and now he's pressing the heel of his hand hard onto the front of his jeans, rocking up into the pressure and hissing a little. Kurt looks deeper, the haze of arousal and orgasm slowly wearing off, and he can see that Blaine is absolutely sated and blissed-out. He loves this, Kurt realizes. He's not going to get pissed or run out. It's something completely new, something they hadn't discussed but had just happened, and he loves it.

Kurt's on his knees now, so fast he hasn't registered it yet, and he's grasping Blaine's shocked and aroused face in his hands, licking at the come on his skin. It's him, it should be gross and weird but it's only ridiculously hot, so much so that his cock tries valiantly to take interest again but only ends up twinging painfully as Kurt kisses Blaine, lips sliding together as they taste. Blaine grabs at Kurt's shoulders, digs in and whines, slotting a leg between Kurt's so that he's straddling his thigh, rutting helplessly against him as Kurt nips at his neck, the underside of his jaw and sucks a bruise that probably won't be able to be covered up without a lot of dark makeup or a borrowed ascot.

"You're so hot like this, Blaine," Kurt whispers as he clutches at his back, nose pressed against Blaine's sweet-smelling curls, Blaine moaning deeply as he drives his hips harder and harder against the strong muscles of Kurt's thigh. "I feel like—like I've marked you or something. Like you're mine."

"Always yours, always," Blaine growls and then he's coming, voice rising and falling with rapidity as he digs his nails into Kurt's back and arches, head lolling back onto his shoulders as pleasure ripples through him.

Kurt falls onto his back, dragging Blaine with him. "You're such a deadweight," he grumbles when Blaine sprawls out bonelessly on top of him, arms and legs starfished and tangled with Kurt's. Kurt extracts one arm and slides Blaine's glasses off his face from where they'd been skewed by Blaine's placement of his head on Kurt's chest.

"Your fault," Blaine murmurs, lifting his head up slightly and blinking blearily as he looks at Kurt inspecting his glasses. "You get to clean them, you know."

Kurt winks at him and gently touches the tip of his tongue to a lens, drawing it up the width. "Gladly, B."

"And you always said you weren't obsessed with Gossip Girl, you little liar."

Kurt nudges him and Blaine smiles, curling closer as he sighs happily.


Blaine saunters up to Kurt's locker in the morning, glasses perched on his nose and a little knowing smirk present on his lips; he leans against the locker bank, waiting for Kurt to close his own locker door and notice.

Kurt does.

They get as far as second period before an unoccupied boys bathroom is suddenly occupied for the remainder of the period.