"Shh," he said softly, trailing small kisses down the crevice of a thigh. "You're so good for me. Do you want to come, baby?"

There was another soft whine above him, and he felt the muscles under his fingers flutter and tremble.

"Please-"

Kurt pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the soft curve of his belly, gently squeezing and stroking the heavy cock in his hand.

"I love you, you know," he whispered. "You're so beautiful. And you're mine."

"Yours," the voice agreed breathlessly. "Oh god- Ku-"

Kurt jolted awake in bed, torn from his dream and thrashing once against his sheets like he'd stepped off an invisible cliff.

He blinked at the plain white ceiling above, startled from the sudden rise to consciousness and the lingering heat in his veins. His hand flexed absently under the blankets, and he twitched at the sudden friction, realising he'd been palming himself though his pyjamas in his sleep.

With a groan, he rolled over and buried his face in his pillow, drawing it tight around his head with both arms as he fought to ignore the ache in his hips.

Every damn morning.

He resigned himself to the familiar unsatisfied feeling of being too hard and too shaky, coming off the scattered remains of the fantasy he kept tucked at the back of his mind. It's not like it didn't make sense. He was newly eighteen, his body had needs he wasn't fulfilling.

It didn't mean he had to like it.

Still, it was the same almost every day; the shudder-shock into consciousness, the lingering memories of someone who was his, someone he owned, open and pliant under his hands.

He was marked at sixteen, just like everybody got marked at sixteen, but he'd laughed it off the moment they'd finished the brand. It didn't matter what they said he was, what title or mark they gave him, he was still Kurt. He was still the same person, and a cuff around his wrist or the full dark star under the curve of his ear (proclaiming to the world that he was, in fact, Dominant) didn't change that.

It certainly hadn't stopped the jocks from throwing him into dumpsters or slamming him into lockers.

Still, he'd been relieved, to say the least, when they gave him his designation; being a Dom meant never falling under anyone's control. But it opened up a whole new world of worries and fears, a whole new world of expectations that he didn't ever want to have to meet.

He knew what he was meant to feel, what he was supposed to want, at his age. He should have been eagerly awaiting Alignment day, should have been aching for a Sub of his own. But the idea filled him with dread, more than anything else.

Kurt knew he didn't want a Sub. He wanted a boyfriend, not a living, breathing sex toy. He wanted someone to hold his hand, to curl up with in bed with and watch movies and eat popcorn, to hold on lonely nights. He wanted love.

His subconscious, however, seemed to have other ideas.

As he rolled over onto his back he sighed heavily, letting his head tilt against the pillow. Remnants of his dream scattered behind his eyelids with every blink, the memory of that taste on his tongue, the feeling of a warm, heavy cock in his hands, the beautiful sounds on the air. The feeling of control, of holding someone so close to the edge. You're mine.

His dick twitched in his pants, and he tensed slightly, throwing an exasperated look south.

"Are you done?"

You're talking to your penis, a voice in his head scolded him quietly.

With another groan, he dragged himself out of bed and padded quietly to the bathroom.

By the time he'd dressed and had breakfast, scooping up his keys and pushing through the front door, he knew he'd be early again. It didn't matter so much anymore; any fear of going back to McKinley High each day had ebbed away the moment he was marked.

The disbelief that had swept through the school at the revelation of his mark was fairly unsurprising; he knew everybody always made the same assumption the moment they met him. But the bullying had grown even worse after that - the jocks were exclusively Doms by nature, and they'd come to a consensus that Kurt's status was something of an insult.

You don't deserve to wear that mark, they'd said, so many times. No weak-ass fag like you will ever get a Sub.

He never quite had the nerve to turn and spit back that he didn't want one.

In truth, even after the brand, he'd never thought much about it. Consciously he didn't want to tie anybody down, control them and own them, just as much as he'd known pre-marking that he didn't ever want to be owned. The thought had made him shiver with discomfort every time it rose up in the back of his mind, the what-if, the fear of the chance they'd brand his neck with a hollow star.

But his was filled, coffee-stain brown and small, tucked behind his jawbone; the beautiful reminder that they could knock him down, or throw him around, but they could never own him. Now all they had were fists and words.

In the mornings, before the rush and the bell, the school was almost serene. The quiet halls, the bright posters and distant footfalls of the occasional early-comer betrayed the turbulence that came soon after the hour clicked over. He liked the buildings better this way, hollowed out and teeming with quiet ghosts; the bones of his so-far somewhat unpleasant adolescence stripped bare. He could almost forget the screech of running shoes on polished floors, the reason for the dent in the third locker from the left.

Almost.

He was curled up in a seat in the choir room, content to read his magazine and let the time slip by before school began, when he registered the faintest sense of being watched. His head jerked up, eyes darting around to try and catch whoever was there. The room was empty.

If he wasn't already looking, he wouldn't have caught it: a flash of red, a sleeve disappearing around the corner of the door. He straightened instantly and scooped up his bag, stuffing his magazine back in it and flipping the catch shut as he scrambled for the exit. The last thing he needed was for one of the neanderthals to find him on his own.

By the time the starting bell rang, his heartbeat had slowed, comforted by the sea of loud and chattering students as they gathered and dispersed again to the morning classes.

Come lunch he filled his tray and found an empty chair near his fellow Glee club members, sliding into his seat gracefully and crossing his legs.

"- but that's why we have it all planned out," Rachel was saying, waving her fork purposefully. "Down to the letter. It's going to be beautiful."

"What's that?" Kurt asked absently, focused on his salad.

"Finn's presentation," Rachel said, turning back to Mercedes. "I want to make it very public, very clear, he-"

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Kurt cut her off, eyes narrowed. A tiny thrill of panic rode up his spine. "Presentation?"

"Next week," Tina said, glancing between Kurt and the two girls. "Alignment day?"

Kurt boggled. "That's next week?"

"It's going to be very classy," Rachel went on, irritated that the focus had been pulled from her plans. "He'll come to me in the morning, in the hallway outside of the choir room right before the bell. I'll be dressed in classical black, elegantly perched on one of the seats, and he'll drop to his knees and hold out his hands and oh," she pressed a hand to her chest. "The whole school will be able to see his love and devotion to me."

Kurt's fork was lingering in the air with lettuce skewered on the end, and he dropped it back to his plate with a dull thud. "There goes my appetite."

"Kurt, don't be like that," Tina pleaded gently. "Some of us just - want it to be special, you know?"

Kurt blinked at her before he glanced quickly to Mercedes and Rachel, both of whom were avoiding eye contact.

"I'm guessing all three of you have plans for next week, then?"

"Mike and I are going to be quiet," Tina reassured him. "No big display, just the two of us."

"Sam's presenting at Glee club," Mercedes offered with a shrug. "He wanted to sing first."

"Of course he did," Kurt sighed, pushing his salad around.

"You never know," Rachel said, leaning in. "You keep yourself available, you stay sitting down, someone could come."

"Right," Kurt drawled, rolling his eyes. "Because clearly, every boy in this school has eyes for me. I'm just fighting them off over here."

"It'll happen, Kurt," Mercedes insisted.

"I don't want it to," he said simply.

Rachel gripped his arm, surprised. "What do you mean you don't want it to?"

"I mean," Kurt said, brow lifting as he folded his arms on the table. "I don't want a Sub. I want to finish school, and get good grades, and get out of this place. Go to New York, like we planned. Have a boyfriend, some day, but a Sub? No."

"We're not that bad," Tina mumbled.

"Oh, no," Kurt turned to her, holding out a hand in apology. "It's not - I don't mean it like that. I just... it's not for me."

"Kurt, I know how stubborn you can be," Mercedes began. "But there's someone out there who was meant for you. Who's yours. And when you find him, you'll change your mind. It might take awhile," she laughed, and the other girls chuckled with her, all too familiar with Kurt's stubborn streak. "But you will."

"We'll see about that."

The conversation was cut off by a sudden flash of red and yellow in his peripheral vision, and he flinched on instinct, drawing both hands up to cover his face and duck away from the impending wave of ice.

When it didn't come, he paused, blinking. He shifted in his seat and looked up at the boy in surprise.

Kurt hadn't seen him before, at least, he couldn't remember seeing him. He was medium height, with dark, gelled-down hair, and huge tea-coloured eyes that looked … wait, was he scared?

Kurt likened him to a deer caught in headlights for a split second before he consciously registered the letterman jacket, and his expression dropped into a defensive glare.

"I hate to break it to you, but you walked all the way over here and forgot your slushie," he said, straightening in his seat defiantly.

The boy didn't move, wide-eyed and pinned to the spot. He swallowed audibly, and his lips parted for a moment before they slammed shut again.

"So the plan was to stare at me like some kind of stunned, oil slicked woodland animal?" Kurt asked, peering around to try and pinpoint the other jocks. They weren't there.

That's strange…

"N-no, I-"

"Spit it out," Kurt snapped, glaring.

The boy drew a sharp, ragged breath, pawing at his jacket helplessly for a moment as he backed up a step and his eyes fell. "I'm just, I wanted to -"

Kurt's brow lifted expectantly.

"I'm Blaine," he offered so quietly Kurt barely caught the words.

"Fascinating, but I'm fairly sure I won't be able to tell you apart from the other cavemen when you get together for your bi-weekly Kurt Hummel dumpster toss tomorrow."

"Th-that- no, I never," Blaine tried to offer up an explanation through staggered, nervous breaths, but Kurt cut him off.

"Do you actually have anything to throw at me today, or is this just checking in to make sure I'm in high spirits before the next round?"

"I should go," Blaine said softly, face screwing up as he stumbled backwards and took off across the cafeteria.

A few people stopped to watch him scurry away, glancing back to Kurt to see what all the fuss was about. Kurt simply turned back to the table, ignoring them.

He was two bites into his salad before he realised the others were staring. "What?" he said around a mouthful.

"I thought our periods were due at the end of the month," Mercedes teased.

"That was mean, Kurt," Tina scolded him quietly.

"He's a jock," Kurt said, exasperated. "He was probably one of the ones who tied me to the flag pole last week, you want me to make nice?"

"You didn't have to be so…" Tina's eyes fell to the table. "I mean, he just wanted to be friends, I think. He introduced himself."

"Blaine Anderson," Rachel said, nodding. "He transferred this year. He's on the swim team. Finn said he was nice."

"I don't care," Kurt said flatly. "At best, he was a diversion so the others could do something. None of them are here, and I personally do not want to know what they're up to."

Mercedes leaned in slightly. "Did you stop to think that maybe he was coming to talk to you because the others aren't here?"

Kurt froze, mouth wrapped around his fork. He blinked, and drew the lettuce off the tines to chew it thoughtfully. "No, why would he?"

"He wasn't bad looking," Tina insisted. "And what if he's gay?"

"He did have a lot of product in that hair of his," Mercedes added.

Kurt huffed in annoyance. "Yes, when every gay teen comes out they send us a congratulatory gift basket stuffed with hair product, a subscription to Vogue and tickets to Wicked."

"You know what I mean," Mercedes said, rolling her eyes.

"It doesn't matter," Kurt insisted as he clipped the lid back on his lunch. "They can try whatever they want, but they can't touch me. This is senior year. Alignment day or not, I'm getting out of here."

"Of course you are," Rachel said. "We are."

"Then can we stop making out like Alignment day is the beginning and the end of the universe, please?" He pulled himself up out of his seat, gathering his bag. "It's just a day."

"Kurt, what happens if someone does present to you?" Rachel asked carefully.

Kurt stared at her, pressing a hand to his chest and tilting his head. "Then I will personally buy the devil some snow shovels."

Mercedes laughed into her chicken as Kurt turned on his heel and swept away, shaking his head at the lunacy of it all.

Alignment day.

It didn't mean anything. It was just for show, just pomp and presentation, just a way for Doms to feel important. Every year, the over-eighteens would sit around like a pride of lions, preening, waiting for an over-sixteen Sub to come and present.

And when one did, it was usually organised in advance - nobody wanted that kind of humiliation. Nobody wanted to be turned away.

Still, there was something about watching a Sub fall down to their knees in front of a Dom, hold out their palms and rest them there, open and waiting to be accepted, that was almost beautiful. Kurt had seen enough alignments to know it could be loving. It could be sweet, and simple, and unadorned. Or it could be sexual, and loud, and as showy as possible.

The only thing he was certain of was that it would never happen to him.

He stuffed his books in his locker when he reached it, sighing to himself. It was better that way, really. He didn't need a Sub. He had his NYADA application, he had New York on the horizon. The rest was all just stepping stones to get there.

"Well if it isn't my favourite lady boy."

Kurt tensed at the sound of the familiar voice, turning and throwing a disinterested glance at the pack of red-jacket-clad boys behind him.

"What do you want?"

"What we want is for you to stop parading your little lady face around our hallway," Carter said, tilting his head. "But we'll settle for rearranging it."

"Oh, you're so clever," Kurt shot back. "I bet you could even turn that into a haiku."

"I'll haiku you."

"Gesundheit," Kurt said lightly, finishing up with his locker.

"What did you just call me?"

With another sigh, Kurt let his locker flip shut, turning around to face the proverbial music. "Can we get this over with, please?"

"Never forget, princess," Carter growled, leaning in. "We're always watching you."

"And you think I'm gay-"

He didn't get to finish his retort before he hit the locker full force, crumpling to the floor from the impact of Carter's shoulder and the steel behind him.

Their laughter peeled down the corridor as they shuffled away like a lumbering herd, high-fiving and jeering, and Kurt blinked for a moment while he waited for the ringing in his ears to die down.

When red flashed in his vision again he jerked back, his suspender buckles rapping on the lockers jarringly.

"No, no! I won't - it's me!"

He blinked at the huge, terrified hazel eyes staring down at him from under gelled curls.

"You again?" he groaned, narrowing his eyes.

"Are you alright?" Blaine asked, hands lingering in the air frantically, like he didn't know where to put them.

Kurt's gaze blurred and grew clear again, landing on the line of Blaine's neck. There was a small tan star, filled and just darker than Blaine's skin, resting behind his jaw. But there was something strange about it, Kurt realised as he peered through semi-focused eyes.

It was two different colours.

"Kurt?"

"M'fine," Kurt grumbled, shifting to sit up and find his feet.

Blaine held out his hand, eyes huge and desperate, alight with something that Kurt couldn't name. He felt his breath catch at that look; he'd never seen it before, on anyone. It was raw, and innocent, and slightly helpless in a way that left his chest hollow and aching.

He ignored the offered hand and pulled himself up to his feet, stubborn till the end.

"I'm fine," Kurt repeated, fixing Blaine with an impatient glare. "Well," he tilted his head, "go on then. Catch up to your friends, I know they've probably got a high five with your name on it."

Blaine shrank visibly, curling in on himself as his hand dropped limply to his side and flexed with a tremor. He stepped back, eyes darting down to the ground and up again one more time before he stumbled over his own feet and ran down the hall.

Kurt dusted himself off quickly, fighting down the prickles of doubt that had risen in his throat. No, he told himself. He was certain he was right.

The boy was a jock. He was on the swim team, he wore the jacket, it all meant the same thing.

But as he watched him disappear around the corner, Kurt couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, just for a split second and without so much as speaking a word, Blaine had almost begged to hold his hand.