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1. Kurt's wrists.
It's not long after they begin dating that Blaine starts to realize his obsession with Kurt's wrists.
He's not sure what it is exactly about them at first; maybe, perhaps, it's the fact that they're a natural extension of Kurt's incredibly slender hands-- long, thin, nimble fingers that slide between and twine with Blaine's faultlessly, like perfectly connecting cogs on a clock. The distinct weight of them, the pale softness of the skin that covers them brushing against Blaine's own, even the way the ridges in their palms fit together-- they're all details Blaine learns like a second nature from the minute he impulsively takes Kurt's hand and leads him down the hallway to the Senior commons at Dalton.
Many of the stages in their relationship open and close with the clasp of their hands. That blissful, unprecedented run down the hallway with someone who, at the time, was a virtual stranger, but never quite felt like it. His hand atop Kurt's on the oak table, inches from a miniature, bedazzled casket and moving intuitively, three steps ahead of his brain and tethering them in a language that spoke without the hesitation of nerves and blushing teenage awkwardness. The complement of their contrasting hands wrapped together, over Kurt's heart (just like the song), squeezing tightly with forgiveness and affection, then surety, confession, and breathless anticipation.
So, his affinity for the lovely, tender curve just above those beautiful hands really shouldn't come as too much of a surprise, he supposes.
He's not sure exactly when it starts, but if he has to pin it back to a specific moment he thinks it might be a blistering hot Wednesday afternoon during their first summer together as boyfriends.
The cool, air conditioned shade of the Lima mall provides a relaxing refuge to get lost in, and they spend what feels like an endless amount of days wandering through stores together. Kurt stands out like a vivid spill of bright, colorful paint against the bleak backdrop of everything and everyone else and at the particular moment he's rambling, animated and shaking with excitement and nearly out of breath about some limited time sale on shoes.
Blaine wants to kiss him so badly his chest clenches with it. Kurt's cheeks are bright pink, blue eyes crystal clear and outrageously wide, and he's so gorgeous Blaine doesn't know why he would ever bother looking at anything else.
But when Blaine doesn't respond after a minute, enraptured by the boy in front of him, Kurt seems to come back down to reality, shrinking in a little on himself and looking around at random passersby self-consciously, before glancing over at Blaine.
"What? I'm-I'm sorry, they're just shoes, I shouldn't--"
If they were anywhere else, Blaine would kiss him senseless, and he almost pushes him against the T-Mobile kiosk to do so right then and there. But the bigotry of Midwest Ohio never lurks too far away, and their safety is something they both make a point to prioritize in public.
So he does the next best thing he can think of-- he wraps his fingers around Kurt's slim wrist, brushing over the delicate veins as he pulls his hand away from his side and squeezes it lovingly. Then, very quickly, he brings his wrist to his lips and drops a kiss to the thin skin, smelling of sweet vanilla and so soft under Blaine's lips he could melt, before he smiles in a way he's sure makes him look like nothing but a hopeless, love-sick fool.
"Let's go look at those shoes, yeah?"
And Kurt's resulting smile, bitten between teeth and wide enough to bring out his dimple, is all the reason Blaine could ever need to start a habit of kissing him there whenever Kurt's nervous or upset or even just to further fuel his happiness when he's elated, stroking his thumb there absentmindedly as they snuggle together on the couch, across the center console as they drive, for the fleeting moments when they pass each other in the hallway between classes, and squeezing gently whenever he simply wants to say: I love you.
2. The inside of Kurt's right thigh.
Kurt has a dark, tear drop shaped birthmark on the inside of his right thigh that Blaine is embarrassed to admit he stares for nearly thirty seconds at, in awed silence, the first time he sees him naked.
He just doesn't expect it to be there, large and striking against Kurt's pale skin (the inside of his thigh has to be the lightest, fairest place on his whole body, Blaine thinks, an assumption that is swiftly proven incorrect when Kurt turns around), and he almost feels like he's found an extremely rare, hidden treasure that nobody else in the world knows about, something secretive and magnificent that he's stumbled across and somehow been fortunate enough to have the privilege of seeing.
Kurt's face burns scarlet when Blaine reaches forward to brush his fingers reverently over it, sensitive and ticklish, tracing the curved shape.
"It's a birthmark," he whispers in explanation, and Blaine gazes up at him, at his beautiful blue eyes and unsure face, pale chest heaving unsteadily.
"It's beautiful," Blaine breathes, so quiet and hushed he barely hears himself say it, but Kurt's breath hitches, so he thinks he must have understood. Before he can even think about it, Blaine's laying down between Kurt's strong, creamy thighs so he's directly in front of the birthmark. "You're so beautiful, Kurt."
The knowledge that Blaine is the first person to ever see this spot on Kurt's body, to discover it like he's uncovering gold, to gaze upon it and establish it as a special, tucked away spot for this moment that belongs only to the two of them, nobody else, has not failed to make itself known in Blaine's mind, and he brings his lips forward to kiss it slowly, mouthing over the mark in soft, feather light kisses that have Kurt squirming against him. Kurt's hand grapples against his shoulder, digs into him for support, and Blaine smiles up at him before kissing the mark again.
"I love every single part of you," he tells him, and he does, with so much unadulterated affection it's nearly overwhelming, and Kurt looks a little overwhelmed and dazed himself by such a vulnerable admission, so Blaine tilts his head and kisses the skin of his wrist that's resting against his shoulder reassuringly.
Over the years, the birthmark becomes a landmark of familiarity for Blaine, like an essential, key destination on the road map of Kurt's body that he learns and memorizes and studies the ever changing flow of as if it's the most important thing he'll ever come to know. Often times he lingers there, after Kurt is spent and softening and lax around him, unblemished skin and sturdy muscle and always that beautiful mark, a proof of his creation, that Blaine is eternally grateful for. He'll rest his head against it as Kurt pets through his hair affectionately, kiss it with blissful lips, suck bloodspilt hickeys into it until Kurt's batting him away, and cherish it like a valuable possession.
"I don't get your fascination with it," Kurt will laugh down at him, tease him with a lilt of fond exasperation, to which Blaine just smiles, and kisses the mark again in response.
And perhaps it's the absence of a tear drop shaped birthmark that finally shatters through Blaine's lonely, despairing haze like the cracking of thin ice. When he gazes down at Eli's thighs and searches for it out of habit, instinct, comfort, only to find empty skin and a pulsing in his head like a catalysis that has finally kicked into his drugged limbs and he's pulling away, scrambling to get his clothes and brushing through his tangled hair in distress and realizing he's broken the one thing he cares more about than life itself, in a way he knows may very nearly be irreparable.
And years later, after heartache and heartbreak and the beauty of discovering what was once theirs and still is all over again, stronger and hard earned and balanced and mature, he looks up at his beautiful husband, twines their silver-banded fingers together, and kisses his birthmark just to watch him smile in sweet, loving reminiscence.
3. Kurt's hips
Blaine has to admit that some of his reasons for his infatuation with Kurt's hips are a little more self serving and indulgent than his love for Kurt's wrists.
Like the way Kurt's hips swivel with practiced ease as he rides him, and Blaine can do nothing but surrender to the wicked chase of Kurt pleasuring himself, uninhibited and unrestrained and so beautifully confident in his own skin as he bounces and writhes and moans, leaving Blaine speechless and captivated by the display.
Or the strength behind Kurt's narrow hips as he thrusts into Blaine relentlessly with precision and rhythm and a force that wipes all the concentration for any further description clean out of Blaine's pleasure addled mind.
But his enthusiasm for Kurt's hips (for Kurt's anything and everything) doesn't just arise during sex, and Blaine knows he wouldn't even have to be acquainted with the skillful, incredible way Kurt can move his hips during their more intimate moments to still notice and appreciate and admire their gracefulness.
There's something about the way his palm curves around Kurt's hip when he's nuzzling behind him in the mornings, leaning against his broad back sleepily as Kurt stands at the stove cooking breakfast and Blaine uses his concentration as an excuse to immobilize him for ten more minutes of vertical cuddling. Something about pulling Kurt towards him by his hips when he's pouting, or too focused on some trivial occurrence that's bothering him to notice Blaine's attempts to calm him down, hands wrapped around his hips and urging him forward until Blaine can snake his arms around him securely and hold him close as Kurt begins to relax, tension unwinding from his body.
Some sense of pride, or completion, or even just joyous contentment, at getting to settle a palm on Kurt's hip in the much more accepting streets of New York City, sometimes with deliberate intention, for that waiter who's flirting just a tad too much to see, or that single Mother who keeps eyeing him with interest to know, and sometimes, most times, when there's nobody else even bothering to notice them, because Blaine just can, because he loves him, because he can keep him close on the crowded subway and maintain some contact between them as Kurt's checking over their grocery list on his phone.
He loves the warmth of Kurt's skin there, the arch of his hip bones, the concave dip of his pelvis and taut pull of his stomach muscles just above. Loves the swish of his hips as he walks, sometimes subconscious, sometimes with fierce, knowing power. He loves the way they taper at the bottom of his broad chest and defined shoulders, how they fit into Blaine's hands, how they feel pressed against his own hips, how they shimmy and shake and twirl when Kurt dances happily, without a care in the world.
Most of all, he loves quiet, domestic moments, like the one before him, bundled in fur coats and scarves and gloves as they sip coffee and gaze at the wiry trees lining Bryant Park. It's almost Spring, still hellishly cold, but they haven't interrupted their Saturday morning dates through the park for five years, and they're not about to now.
Kurt's breath is blowing out in white, billowing puffs next to him, so Blaine wraps an arm around his hips, scoots him across the bench a little closer into his side so they can share more warmth. Kurt's free hand settles over his knee cap, squeezes it three times in succession to say I love you, and Blaine hums happily, turning his face toward the love of his life, smiling when Kurt's cold lips kiss his forehead chastely, then his lips slowly, deeply, and always, forever and ever, perfectly.