“Perfect.” Kurt stretched and groaned, and scratched absently at his wrist while making a face at the gloomy morning. The weather forecast hadn't said anything about rain. Now he was going to have to completely rethink today’s outfit.

It wasn't until he was actually in his closet debating which jacket provided just the right combination of style and function that the itch flared up enough to pull his attention away from his immediate sartorial problems. His wrist was itching. His left wrist.

He held his arm up to the light in the closet, but there was nothing to see. His skin was as pale and unmarked as ever. But it was definitely prickling more than it should for a simple itch. Kurt had watched all of his friends go through this and he knew that the actual appearance of a readable name could and probably would take hours.

“Calm down. This could still be a false alarm,” he told his hammering heart. His heart didn't listen. Instead it made him reach up to the top shelf and root around until his fingers found the box that his father had given him on his thirteenth birthday. He took it down and went back to sit on the end of his bed and lift the lid.

Nestled in tissue paper, the dark brown leather of the cuff shone just as beautifully as it had the day it had been purchased. Kurt ran a finger over the silver buckle before lifting the cuff out of the box. The thought of finally getting to wear it made Kurt’s heart beat even faster. He sometimes felt like he’d been waiting forever. It wasn't unheard of to be unmarked at almost seventeen, but it was unusual. All of his friends had long since started sporting the cuffs, on their left or right wrists signifying dom or sub, that covered and kept private the names of their soulmates.

Another, stronger prickle under his skin made him jump so hard he almost dropped the cuff. He reached over and switched on the vanity light to inspect his wrist again. And then he saw it. His stomach did a flip-flop when he realized that tiny red welts were forming on his skin. This was it. This had to be it. He could wear the cuff and finally, finally, put an end to all the “Of course you don’t have a soulmate, Hummel, who’d want your freaky ass on your knees for them?” comments from the jocks. And his left wrist. Dominant, he thought smugly. Dominant. Which he’d always known. Despite everyone and their brother assuming he’d be a sub. He was dominant and he could wear his cuff to school and today was going to be a perfect day despite the havoc unexpected rain was wreaking on his wardrobe plans.

Except . . . well, who could forget the Jacob Ben Israel debacle of freshman year? People had literally fallen off chairs (Puck did it in math class) at the sight of Jacob, of all people, wearing a cuff before anyone else. On his left wrist. Giving his incredulous friends little peeks at the welts it covered. By lunch even the seniors were whispering about it. How the hell had little Jacob Ben Israel gotten his mark before anyone else in his class? And in what universe could he be considered dominant?

It turned out what Jacob had gotten was impetigo. He’d also shared it with several people who he’d allowed to touch his “mark.” The only thing worse than the treatment Jacob received when he returned to school, cuffless, after the lesions healed was the treatment he received eight months later when he came to school with the same leather cuff on his right wrist. Yeah, there was no way Kurt was putting that cuff on until he was really, really sure this was it.

But going to school without the cuff was a problem too. If this was it, well, soulmate names were private. Seeing someone’s mark was kind of intimate, like seeing them naked. You might have to show your mark to a doctor, or for some legal reason, but to have the name finally appear on his wrist in the middle of French class was something Kurt was not going to risk. He set the cuff carefully back in its tissue paper nest and settled the lid on top.

Okay, plan. He’d shower, do his normal morning routine, get dressed, and then if he still wasn't sure he’d just sit in his room and wait. Better to be late for school than have one more thing to be ridiculed for for the rest of his high school career.

But he didn't have to wait after all. By the time he was pushing his arms into the sleeves of his dark blue button-down the initial itching had changed to more of a deep almost pain and another inspection in his vanity light showed that more red welts were appearing and some of them were starting to arrange themselves into discernible letter shapes. There was definitely a d, and what looked like the beginnings of an n.

Kurt sat for a long moment just staring at those two little letters. This was really, really it. He was a dom, and somewhere in the world (the country? Ohio?) was a sub with Kurt’s name on his wrist. And even though he’d been waiting for this day since he was thirteen years old, now that it was here it felt a little overwhelming. Slipping the leather cuff over the welts and pulling the strap tight left him breathless.

On the whole, the day passed faster than Kurt expected. His family had been surprised and delighted when he came to breakfast with the cuff wrapped around his wrist. Carole had beamed at him and promised to enroll him in dom classes as soon as possible; Finn had shaken Kurt’s hand with a ridiculously formal “Welcome to the club, old man!” then winked and said “I guess we both surprised ‘em!” waving his own cuffed right arm. His father had tried unsuccessfully to hide the tears that started in his eyes, but he’d also pulled Kurt aside right before the boys left to ask him if he was really, really sure this was it. When Kurt assured him that he was already seeing letters, Burt had to hide his face again.

His friends were all gratifyingly excited; although the universal astonishment that he was a dom had started to grate on him by lunch time. Oddly enough, only Santana had been unsurprised, dismissing everyone’s exclaiming with a simple, “Please. I know an alpha bitch when I see one.” The hardest part had been trying to concentrate on lessons while resisting the temptation to peek under his cuff to check on the progress of the name. But by and large the day moved quickly, he enjoyed all the attention, and the football crowd was remarkably silent on the addition to his personal wardrobe. Maybe they were simply too stunned to react.

Before he knew it he was back home that afternoon, locked safe in his bedroom, pulling open the buckle on the cuff. This time the red welted letters were easy to read.

Blaine Anderson.

The first thing Kurt felt was a twinge of relief that it was actually a boy’s name. He hadn't really expected a girl – Miss Pillsbury had assured him that since he was gay his soulmate would be as well – but there were stories . . . well, you just never knew what kind of tricks fate would play.

The second thought was that it was a beautiful name.

Blaine Anderson.

Very elegant. Kurt was sure he’d have loved his soulmate even if his name was Hugo or Clyde, but it was nice to have such a lovely name on his wrist.

Blaine Anderson.

His soulmate. His sub. The person whose welfare he would someday be responsible for. He stroked his fingers over the raised lines of the welts and wondered where Blaine Anderson was at that exact moment. Was he stroking Kurt’s name on his own wrist? Or maybe it hadn't appeared quite yet. Although, Kurt’s mark had appeared so late that even if Blaine was younger he may have already had his for some time. It was strange to think that at this moment, somewhere, another boy – Blaine – might be staring at Kurt’s name on his own wrist and wondering all the same things about him.

Blaine Anderson had, in fact, been contemplating the name on his own right wrist since it had appeared when he was thirteen and a half. In other words, for almost fourteen years – literally half his life. It wasn't unheard of to get your mark at such a young age, but it was certainly unusual. He hadn't even had a cuff; he’d been late for school that day because his mom had to make an emergency trip to the mall. He was so young that he hadn't really come to terms with the fact that he was gay, much less a sub, so the name “Kurt Hummel” on his right wrist had turned his world upside-down in more ways than one.

He wasn't sure whether the appearance of the name spurred the sense of submissiveness he began to feel or if it would have happened eventually in any case. Before Kurt Hummel, Blaine’s masturbatory fantasies had been pretty teenager generic. But after, he found himself imagining Kurt’s voice whispering in his ear, giving instruction, telling him how fast to stroke himself, where to touch, when to come. It was new and darkly thrilling and Blaine couldn't wait for Kurt to make an appearance in the real world.

Everyone seemed to think that getting his mark so early meant he would meet his soulmate early as well, but months and years went by with no sign of Kurt Hummel. When he started his freshman year at James Madison High School he searched every club sign-up sheet, every sports roster, even spent hours in the library going over previous yearbooks looking for the name. But Kurt Hummel wasn't a student at Madison.

Later Blaine was positive he’d find Kurt at Dalton Academy. Dalton was his haven from bullying and homophobia and surely it was for other boys as well, Kurt included. But while he was there Dalton remained entirely Kurt-less.

He tried internet searches and even visited some “Find Your Soulmate” sites, to no avail. For a while he told himself it was because he’d been marked so early. Even if Kurt was a year or two older, it was absolutely possible that he just hadn't been marked yet. But eventually even that hope faded.

While reality was disappointing him, Blaine’s fantasy life kept getting darker and richer. By the time he was doing his undergraduate work at OSU he always masturbated while kneeling, completely naked, on the hard floor of his tiny apartment. In his head Kurt was behind him, whispering instructions in his ear and making him edge himself over and over as he pleaded out loud to the empty room.

“Please. Please Kurt. I need it.”

Not yet, baby. You can take more. I know you can. Just a few more times.

And he’d stroke slower, dragging it out until he was aching with frustration and begging for release.

“Please. I've been so good. It’s too much, Kurt. Please.”

When he knew he couldn't take it any longer, when his knees were aching and tears were starting in his eyes, the Kurt in his head would finally relent.

So good, baby. I’m so proud of you. Five more strokes and you can come, Blaine. Long and slow, though. Show me what a perfect sub I have.

He’d draw out those last five strokes until he was practically sobbing, panting through his need.

“Thank you! God, thank you Kurt . . .”

His orgasm would rush through him like a tornado, shattering his body as he came in long, tearing spurts onto the weathered floorboards. He could almost feel Kurt’s arms tighten around him from behind, holding him together when the pleasure threatened to rip him apart. And later, after he’d cleaned up and crawled into bed, he would pretend Kurt was there with him. Wrapping him up in a warm, strong embrace. Cradling Blaine’s head on his broad chest. Murmuring beautiful words in his ear.

At college Blaine had attended every mixer, every rush party, introducing himself to as many men as he could. As soon as he was of age he went out every weekend, to club after club, searching. He would meet doms, go out with them, play with them sometimes. He needed to be dominated. He needed to be pushed. He told himself he was practicing. Getting ready. He never went out with the same man more than once.

They had told him in sub class, right after he’d been marked, how important it was not to get so caught up in the idea of your soulmate that you let life pass you by. The time of meeting, just like the name itself, was decided by fate; soulmates found each other when they were meant to and not before. But that didn't stop Blaine from looking and from pretending that every man he slept with was his Kurt. He dragged his fantasies from OSU to the much richer pastures of New York University. He refused to give up hope.

There were times when Blaine resented Kurt Hummel for not putting in an appearance sooner. He wasn't supposed to be exploring the depths of his submission all on his own. He needed his soulmate. It was Kurt’s job to push him further, take him deeper than he thought he could go and Blaine longed for the day that would happen. In the meantime, if they had to wait for each other, Blaine was going to make sure he was worth it. He would make himself as perfect as possible. Obedient. Controlled. So when Kurt finally claimed him he would be ready to fulfill whatever dark fantasies his dom had been jerking off to all these years.

He couldn't keep it up forever, though. The end came one night during his last year of graduate work at NYU, when he found himself kneeling on a bed, hands tied to the headboard, taking a vigorous paddling from some guy he wasn't remotely attracted to. He’d only gone home with him because the guy’s name was Curt and Blaine couldn't resist the opportunity to actually call out his soulmate's name. Kneeling there, with his ass stinging and the sweaty Curt grunting with effort above him, not turned on in the slightest, Blaine suddenly realized that he was spending so much of his life looking for, waiting for Kurt that he wasn't actually living it. It could be years before Kurt appeared. He’d enslaved himself to a fantasy and it was making him miserable. To sweaty Curt’s horror, he’d collapsed in desperate sobs mid-scene.

Of course, he’d safeworded, and sweaty Curt had turned out to be a pretty nice guy who kept his head together and talked Blaine through calming down, getting dressed, and getting a cab home.

Blaine knew he had to make some changes. It was time to stop chasing a fantasy. It was time to figure out who he was and what he wanted, instead of waiting for Kurt to figure those things out for him. The following Monday he’d called his advisor to talk about deferring his post-graduate admission (when had he decided he wanted to be a college professor anyhow?) and started making new plans. He’d go back to Ohio for a while. He just needed time to let things go. He had enough credit toward a teaching credential that he could register as a substitute and spend some time not thinking. Letting go of Kurt once and for all. Accepting that maybe in his case fate had made a mistake.