PACK
"The world's gone to the wolves. Lima's gone to the ghettos. And the new alpha at the Dalton School for Werewolves needs a sub." Klaine. MAJOR AU. OCs, OOC, slight D/s themes, attempted NON-CON, Language.
Disclaimer: Glee doesn't belong to me in any way, shape, or form.
A/N: This is a really AU fic where most of the Glee characters are werewolves. Since they've grown up in very different circumstances in this universe, I couldn't avoid some OOC, but I hope they're not too unfamiliar. Some characters are dark or villainous in this verse (not Kurt or Blaine). Please be gentle, this is my first fanfic :) Reviews much appreciated!
**Sorry for the lack of Blaine in this chapter. He'll take over the fic soon - this chapter is to set up the world, so some things may still be confusing. I'll try to world-build organically and hopefully things will make more sense later on.
**Second person POVs are only used in excerpts at some chapter beginnings. This is a third-person POV fic.
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Prologue
You were coloring the Valentino in your mom's Vogue when you heard it. The shock of breaking glass - maybe plates, maybe grandma's old ma-try-oshka dolls judging by your mom's shrieking - veered your marker out the lines. You hadn't done that since pre-school, but frantic rubbing only stained your finger pads red like that time mom asked you if you ate her cherry pie and you were so confident because you'd taken such care to clean your mouth and then you stuck out your hand for a pinky promise. Oops.
But mom hadn't stopped screaming. That was weird; dad wasn't even home to yell at. You dropped the markers and crept to the stairs with something like unease uncurling in your gut. The basement door was wide open but you couldn't see anything but the wall because this house was built all crappy, like dad said.
But you could hear it - a thumping. Like the furniture was crashing into the walls. Like a tornado was ripping through, though no one had told you anything about one. Like your heartbeat, now, because that was fear shuddering in the house and in you.
"Mom?...MOM?"
You couldn't make out what she was screaming, but you knew it was bad and you had to help her. You rushed up the stairs in twos and threes and there was the wall and there was the bathroom door and there was the living room and there was something fucking huge panting in the middle of it and it was crouched over the body of your mom. A body that was streaked in blood and crying and looking nothing like mom because it was all messed up and bleeding.
Something huge. Something snarling. You'd seen one of them before on the news.
You knew it couldn't be real, it didn't even turn up in your nightmares but Fox News said they were everywhere and there it was. Okay. Fuck. You knew you had to charge in and save your mom, find something, anything, to bash its brains out. Yeah it'd eat a nine-year-old boy for breakfast but that was your mom. That was your mom, and she was dying.
Your knees were still shaking when it turned around.
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You'd wake up later, much later, with wet clothes and blurry vision and an awful taste in your mouth.
You couldn't feel much. Just a bit numb, like a frozen piece of meat laid out to thaw. You could smell things though, a lot of things. You could smell blood and piss and lingering rain, the musk of damp skin and the hollow of pinecones; then bananas, green ones, old laundry (ew), microwaved plastic, burnt tin, tomato sauce, greasy fast food, sneakers and the streets they ran on. You could hear the buzz of a television turned low, distant cars, distant yelling, the clatter of silverware and plates and running water, footsteps on a metal staircase the floor below, a voice murmuring something like - "pack" - and that was the last, strangely soothing thing you heard before you sank back to sleep.
Chapter One: A Day in the Life of Kurt Hummel
The new kid was undeniably gorgeous. Straight, probably (okay, certainly, considering Kurt's past record with crushes), but you could never tell with men who paired their Levi's with AQVA pour homme. The jeans could go but there was always room for redemption with Bulgari.
Which was why Kurt was prepared to sacrifice his life for him.
"What is your problem, Karofsky?" He huffed - menacingly - and glowered at the huge football player, arms crossed tightly across his chest. This was probably a bad day to wear his new scarf, what with all its restraining and strangling possibilities. "Can't you even give the new kids a single day before tormenting them? Or is The Fury bored of us already?"
The neanderthal whirled around from where he'd been hunkering over the new kid, his infamous fist twisting the boy's jacket in a death grip. A slow smile spread over his face. "Oh look, it's the school fag." With a shove into the lockers, he released the kid and rounded on Kurt, who noticed with annoyance that Karofsky had gotten even bigger and bulkier over the summer, rather like a katamari. (Kurt was proud of his own recent four-inch spurt and all, but it did give him the disconcerting ability to empathize with noodles.) "You got a new crush, fag?"
Karofsky thought he had a crush on every single male at school, including Principal Figgins. If Kurt didn't know better, he'd say the bully was paranoid. "Not really. Just a taste for routine - with a side helping of masochism."
"Yeah? And what's that? Queer," the bully growled, leaning close enough for Kurt to see his jaw twitching.
It was like homophobes' brains hit a stop sign at single syllables. With a haughty lift of his head, Kurt sighed primly, "I mean, neanderthal, that your customary slushie-ing has been disappointingly unreliable this year. You haven't even greeted me yet with a Lemon-Berry, much less a Blue Blizzard. And my back is horribly free of bruises. You're either losing your edge or cheating on me." With a pout.
Even Karofsky looked a bit surprised. Kurt didn't talk back. Most of the time, in fact, Kurt actually had a competent sense of self-preservation beneath the handmade couture (and the glitter, and the pink nail polish). It was probably the fever he'd been running since the weekend in all fairness.
"Okay Hummel, you've gone loco. But don't think that means I'll spare you, or your little faggoty friends. You're lucky I gotta impress the new coach so I ain't got the time to smack the punk out of you right now." With a final vague hunkering gesture like a gorilla slamming its fists on the floor, Karofsky stalked away, leaving Kurt staring in open-mouthed surprise at his retreating back.
"Huh. That was brave of you."
He'd forgotten about the new kid, but there he was, leaning casually against the lockers, as if a man-mountain hadn't just crushed him against them after threatening to introduce him to the portapotties out back. Most of Karofsky's victims would've been thoroughly cowed by now, but this one barely looked ruffled. In fact, he was sort of - grinning? Which didn't bode well for the mental state beneath that curly black hair.
"Um. Well, fortune favors the brave and all," Kurt's laugh was shaky in its relief. "Karofsky and I go a looong way back, sadly. He and Azimio pick on almost everyone, I'm just ~blessed~ with extra special attention." He rubbed a sweaty palm on his hips and reminded himself that it didn't matter if this kid had heard him being called fag and queer. "Aren't I lucky."
"So he's always been like that?" Curly-hair shook his head. "What an ass. I'm glad you stood up to him . . . it's just that you're so small, I was pretty frightened for you there. He does seem like a real coward though, you know the type - pick on the easy targets, then back down as soon as people push back." His voice had dropped deep and soft, as if he were comforting a small child.
A child. Well Kurt was pretty much the only were south of the north pole who didn't get the boost in strength and speed and all the fun stuff, but he wasn't a quivering little damsel in distress. In fact, wasn't he technically the white knight here? Yet that kid was standing there looking so serene and pretending to be frightened for Kurt when he couldn't even take care of himself.
That was pure McKinley male for you, the type that'd rather run over their grandmas than admit to fear. Or getting rescued by a gay guy.
But before his tongue could enlighten Mr. Man and quite possibly land him in trouble of the furry secrets variety, Kurt settled for an immaculate raised eyebrow. "Oh? You're not so . . . tall yourself."
The guy had the nerve to laugh like it was no big deal. "You got me there. Hummel, was it? My name's Blaine" - sticking out his hand, and Kurt was so caught off-guard he had to shake it.
"Kurt. Kurt Hummel."
"Cool. Well - I'll be seeing you around, Kurt."
It was a shame such a good-looking grin belonged to so arrogant a man. Kurt bet Blaine practiced it in the mirror every day, along with his 'come-hither face' and 'tough guy face' and a 'my dog ate my homework face' and those stupid eyebrow quirks that the jocks thought they were so clever for using as freshmen girl bait. If he were honest, someone like Blaine, good-looking, confident, wouldn't find it terribly hard to achieve a respectable level of popularity at McKinley. Then Karofsky wouldn't bully him any more, because Blaine was, annoyingly, right with that part - guys like Karofsky only picked on those with the scarlet letter stamped on them, whether it was newness or gayness or dorkiness or ugliness. The indefensible.
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"I don't know why you still go to that school," Mercedes was still rambling by the time they made it to the food court. "You're stuck learning math and chemistry and they treat you like crap there. Oh and - hello, they hate us? So not fierce, Kurt. Panda Express?"
"I'm feeling pizza. I'm also feeling fat, so - hm, might as well go with the garlic broccoli or something." Kurt had to twist quickly to avoid the poke in his ribs. His descent from a bean pole was a running joke between them. They looked like Gorda y Flaco off that Mexican channel Santana always had on, just with less botox and hand gesturing. "Obviously, Mercedes, high fashion requires math. And chemistry. We have to measure things out and wrap them in periodic tables. And the degree's a requirement for college, you have to prove you can survive torture and meat surprise."
A snort. "College." The girl hummed under her breath as she mused over the pictures of disturbingly glossy food on the menu panel. "Wait. You're serious."
"It'd be nice to have a job."
"Honey, they'd kick you out soon as they find out! They skin us and wear us -"
"- and bitch about us in PETA ads. Those are totally unfounded rumors -"
"But you know they can't be havin' none of us, Kurt." Mercedes sighed and gave him the weary look of someone fighting a losing but obligatory battle with an immovable object. "Whatever. You'll get away with it. 'Talent -"
"- can't be oppressed,'" Kurt finished happily. "I'll take the special with the fried rice, thanks."
"Does Finn know yet?"
The Look was sufficient.
"I'm just sayin', I don't want you wasting time at Guantanamo and not get something outta it, y'know? Finn loves you and all, but he wouldn't drag the pack to New York for you. Hell he wouldn't even let us go to Cincinnati for the Skyline Chili." Mercedes' brow darkened at the memory of so cruel a rejection of Cincinnati's brightest attraction.
Finn was an easygoing alpha, his size dwarfing his temper, but his views on the fleshies were less than positive and Kurt had no doubt he'd flip if he got word of any of his own leaving to live in their world. That Kurt was attending one of their high schools was bad enough, but it was a safe space - as long as no one knew about the wolf thing - and Finn liked the idea of keeping him out of trouble (Finn always acted as if he'd be snatched any second, as if Kurt weren't already sixteen and a were - ok, a were with less of a corporal endowment than most when the moon was low, but still). Their pack was small but tight-knit and they were lucky enough that they'd carved out a niche in Lima where the larger packs didn't mind them, long as they kept their heads low. Anywhere outside the Midwest, they'd be swallowed up.
Kurt wasn't an idiot. If he was going to leave, he'd have to sneak out under his alpha's nose. "I know, I know. Puh-leeze. I'm a sophomore, Mercedes. Tom Cruise would out himself as an alien before I graduate at this rate. Anything can happen by then so I'm not going to worry Finn right now if I don't have to." He made a face at his sweet and sour pork. Every time he caught the flu everything tasted like burnt marshmallow.
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Mercedes had dropped the college thing by the time they'd started scouring Macy's half-off racks and Kurt was actually feeling sort of tired, so he ended up sitting by the boots while she shopped, which was pretty depressing. One had to blame it on Macy's recent obsession with Victorian pinks and greys. Sucked the soul right out of you.
He toyed with an ironic set of cat ears he'd picked up at the anime store and watched under half-lidded eyes the salesclerk who'd been shadowing them for the last quarter hour. The salesclerk was a skinny, stern-looking woman with an absurdly long neck who was really, really bad at this whole totally-not-stalking-the-customer business. She'd misplaced several sizes already and had taken up a very hush-hush, pointy-frowny conversation with another clerk.
Had they been to this Macy's recently? Department stores shared data on suspected werewolves but Kurt couldn't remember him or Mercedes shoplifting at the mall - they'd be kicked out at the entrance. Kurt never took anything bigger than a magazine but it was possible some of the smaller stores had found out and reported it to the police and they'd ended up on the registry. Suspected-class, serial offender.
More like Mercedes had been seen with Santana and Puck, the itchy-fingers extraordinaire. Kurt made a face. You couldn't really complain about stereotypes when you weren't exactly defying them. He had to be extra careful because Lima was small enough that his name dropped outside their usual ghettos could find its way into the principal's office (and then he'd be in legal trouble for concealment and endangerment of other students or something ridiculously Glenn Beck like that) - but some of his packmates had no such qualms. Santana was probably even sympathetic to the ferals.
Puck would rag about the injustice of a store clerk narrowing her eyes at their every move, but then he'd slip a bottle of No. 5 (if he had the taste, which was doubtful). Obviously not all werewolves were thieves or gangsters, but you couldn't blame the fleshies for the stink-eye or the private security when up against a bunch of streetkids who wore human skin but could flatten most grown men - even the little wolfgirls - and run like Lindsay Lohan from a sandwich. They could slip through the cracks of the city with ease, running black-market supply lines for TVs and laptops and drugs. With the moon in ascendancy they'd lose their heads - start petty fights, kill over slights perceived, ransack the restaurant when the steak wasn't cooked to order. Full moon they'd lose their humanity.
It still wasn't fair, though. Kurt wasn't like Mercedes wasn't like Finn wasn't like Puck or Brittany or that homeless guy who sat on their steps and wrote songs about library cards and world peace. He didn't start fights. He finished his homework on time. He gave a crap about things other than food and water and fucking, which was pretty good for any 16-year-old boy. And he always, always used his cage on full moon nights, like every other were he knew. Not just because he didn't want a bullet through the head if he got outside, but because if he bit and turned someone like the ferals were always doing, he wouldn't forgive himself. Yeah the petty shoplifting didn't make him feel so glam but they couldn't help it sometimes, not when the suggestion of employing a werewolf made most people reach for their guns and start handing out flyers for the Minutemen. Those people thought they were all terrorists, conspiring to raise a secret army to take over America and the free world, and the scary thing was that THEY ALL LOOK LIKE YOU so you couldn't trust your neighbor or your spouse or your mailman because they were all infiltrating your children's schools and converting your kids into things that shouldn't exist. Things that were an abomination to God. (Which was funny, coming from people who wore overalls.)
Well, Kurt did plan to raise some terror - in the fashion world. You couldn't take the politics people too seriously. Most humans weren't that crazy, and New York was pretty liberal so he figured he just needed to survive McKinley and Lima and escape somehow. The pack was great and he didn't mind other werewolves in general, but werewolves just didn't do fashion. Lima didn't do fashion. (Lima didn't do gay people in general.) Maybe there was a little pack of fashionistas in New York and maybe they all draped themselves in happy gay rainbows or something, he had to hope. Sorry, Finn, Mercedes, but there is NO way I'm going to finish a Lima loser.
Mercedes was ready to go by now and following her through the cosmetics section was an exercise in self-restraint. Too much nose-wrinkling would give him a permanent snout - an unforgivable waste of rare beauty - but the collision of so many perfumes was harrowing. (He was proud of who he was, screw what Santana said, but he hated that part about being a werewolf sometimes. If brown were a smell . . .)
He liked the lights though, the bright glass displays, the little mirrors (where he waved back at his stunning visage, like Princess Di obliging the masses), the bourgeois jewelry, the photobrushed models with their wide and open and empty eyes. It wasn't New York, not by a long shot, but it was practically Marie Claire compared to where he lived (Redneck Daily? Small-time Gangbangers Ohio?).
"Mercedes. Wait." They were near the exit but he dropped back to the Dior stalls. Under the gaze of the stern-faced salesclerk, he dipped his hand into the free samples and took a big handful and took another big handful, and another, and one more, and shoved them one by one into his messenger bag.
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The apartment was in a minor uproar when they got back.
Finn, wrapped like a mummy, blinking open-mouthed at the ears on Kurt's head: "See, that's why everyone thinks you're a sub."
"You're not escaping the inquisition, Finn." Hands on the hips, eyebrow arched, neko ears askew - Kurt was more than ready for battle. "You and I both know that fashion doesn't compromise. The real question is: how in the world did you manage to get shanked? Even Puck's found Jewishness and stayed out of trouble this year."
"I'm fine, I'm fine. It's barely an inch, Lauren just went crazy with the tape," Finn muttered, throwing a not-so-subtle pleading look at Mercedes. "It doesn't even hurt."
"A guy still came at you with silver, Finn. He meant business."
"Weres are uptight, okay? We got the new Boss alpha in town, the assembly coming up, whatever - some mutts are getting all worked up and territorial and stuff. I told this guy to back off the Rhodes house for now 'cause of Quinn's heat but he flipped on me." He manfully patted the right side of his abdomen, where a jarringly reddish blot marred the white bandages and pale skin. "Think this is bad - oughta see the other guy."
"Mm-hmm," Santana nodded approvingly from where she was filing her nails. Somehow Finn getting injured translated into 'don't do the dishes'.
"He could go running to his alpha -"
"Who was more than happy to help. Me, that is," Finn grinned. "Don't worry about it, Kurt. No one's dumb enough to get in a pack war right now."
Kurt refrained from observing that "dumb enough" was likely to be Finn's epitaph. "So the Rhodes house is fine then?"
"Nah, we'll play it safe - new alpha, there'll be some new guys running around. We're switching to the Day's Inn off Lincoln."
"Hn. Enjoy the bedbugs. How's Quinn - still in the tub?"
Finn shrugged. "She's fine, we just need to head out by eight." Heats weren't supposed to be too bad (Quinn said it was basically a Viagra overdose, and it was a good thing she wasn't male or her dick would break off after forty hours of joy) but she was barely a year older than Kurt and still unused to them. They were fairly regular though, twice a year like clockwork, so the pack could plan in advance and not have something stupid happen like leave her out in public where the slightest shift in pheromones could alert other packs - or worse yet, leave her at the apartment and draw them there. That didn't stop the heats from being inconvenient - if they didn't have the Rhodes house, they'd be paying for hotels every year with half of them stuck outside to guard - but subs were rare and valuable and Finn cared about Quinn as a person anyways. It wasn't her fault the poachers and the other packs were always after her kind.
With Mercedes gone to check on her in the bathroom, Kurt fussed over the injured alpha some more (who really was milking it, the bastard, Kurt ended up making him a PBJ) before remembering to hand him the stash of perfume samples in his bag. Finn looked at him in surprise - what feminine products didn't freak Finn Hudson? - so Kurt rolled his eyes and added, "To throw off Quinn's scent. Trust me, drown her in this before you get out to the car and she'll smell like death and hopelessness. Or Mr Schu's hair."
"'Mr Schu'?"
Kurt shook his head. "Teacher."
"Where are you going?"
Finn could be so clingy sometimes. "Beauty sleep. My skin's protesting the weather."
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He woke up in the middle of the night with the sheets sticky and glued to his legs with sweat. He'd thrown them off his body but they didn't have air conditioning and the night was warm and his fever had apparently gotten worse. Damn.
(What werewolves even got sick, anyways? They were supposed to be immune to everything except silver and rabies. Kurt made a note to browse the internet with more skepticism.)
Sleep-weary limbs protested the movement but his body badly needed hydration. Judging by the ominous pinching in the back of his skull, Tylenol would be nice too but no one in this household got sick. Except him, obviously.
"Kurt? That you?"
"Finn?" He tried to peer through the gloom from the doorway. From the moonlight through the shutters he could make out the murky shapes of the coffee table and the futon, where a large figure was shifting upright. "You came back?"
"Yeah. Left Mike and Puck with Quinn. I kinda needed a nap." The figure stretched, yawning. "Why are you awake?"
"Shamefully, the flu. I'm running a temperature and my head feels like it just survived a Justin Bieber marathon." Padding his way through the piles of clothes and games systems to the kitchen, he groped for the water filter and scowled when it came out empty. Did anyone in this household care about hygiene? (He suspected Brittany drank out the toilet sometimes.)
"Sucks." To Kurt's surprise, Finn had gotten up and joined him, leaning his massively oversized frame against the doorway. "You don't smell sick though."
"I never smell like anything besides sunshine and roses and rainbow-maned unicorns, Finn."
"You smell nice."
"Coming from the straightest man in Lima? I'm flattered." Kurt inspected his hello kitty mug. Then he paused. Then he turned. "Is this the point where you tell me you sold my Gucci boots to pay for penis enhancement surgery?"
Finn laughed. "No. No, Kurt. I guess, uh . . . I guess we haven't washed out all of Quinn's hormones or whatever yet. Seriously, Febreeze is crap." He slumped down on a chair.
Well. That was awkward. Kurt was aware that a sub in heat didn't just arouse herself but drove the (straight) males around them into a frenzy. The thought of Finn nursing a boner right now ventured into unthinkable territories. Truth to tell Kurt would volunteer to be Karofsky's punching bag before returning to that place again, that pathetic little fourteen-year-old place with all that hope and naivete and misplaced longing and gossamer for walls. Thank Gaga that had been crumpled to make way for the freedom of not caring. Of giving up.
He hadn't forgotten what Finn had called him.
"I've got, uh, Advil though. Or I think it's Advil. You said your head hurt, right?" Finn was rummaging around in his pockets. Finn's pockets were magical, like those hats that magicians had that churned out bunnies. Finn's pockets had no bottom and told a story about a dude who collected football cards and ate too much gum. Apparently they now produced little white bottles too.
Kurt arched a brow. "I know you're an aspiring kleptomaniac, Finn, but . . . why do you have Advil on you?"
With a rueful smile, Finn made a vague gesture at his bandaged abdomen.
"Ah. Thanks."
"Don't tell anyone."
Kurt popped two in his mouth and prayed that werewolf metabolisms didn't mess with drugs. Finn must have sneaked the bottle past Santana. She thought that showering with hot water emasculated his alpha-hood. (She thought eating non-pleading creatures emasculated his alpha-hood.) Finn was a constant disappointment to her.
She could think whatever the fuck she wanted. Kurt took a deep breath. "Listen, Finn . . . that assembly next week. I don't think it's a good idea. Practically every wolfman in Lima'll be there -"
"Seriously? What happened to begging me to take you?"
"Lots of available young males. Sounded nice in my head at the time. But if you think about it, it's not like this . . . 'Boss' alpha really matters to us. It'll be a waste of time and no one's going to notice if you're not there."
"Top dog changes, that's a big deal."
"Well he hasn't changed the cut has he? The last guy could've been Mel Gibson's real hair, for all we saw of him. It's just a party, Finn. And by party, I mean an excuse for a bunch of testosterone hounds to go out and get drunk and start moronic fights over their manhood." Kurt had a habit of tapping his fingers on the rims of drinks when annoyed. "Then the police show up and you end up dodging fat guys with guns. It's hell on your hair."
"Oh, come on. Look, Kurt - if you're worried about any fighting, with the gay thing and all - we got your back. And the alpha wouldn't let anyone start anything on his first day. Just don't be too . . ." Finn struggled, ". . out there." He added hastily, "I mean, a lot of guys already think you're a sub. That's seriously dangerous, man. Some of those lowlifes don't take no for an answer."
The gay thing. Leave it to Finn to think of that first. Kurt rubbed his temples. It's the same damn thing, silly. You don't see the swishing, he doesn't see the knife in his gut.
Finn was already backpedaling his way to the futon. "Trouble starts, we leave, ok? We'll have fun, man. Don't be a scaredy cat. Plus Puck's been ragging about this for days, you'll know he'll kill me if I get between him and getting laid." Yawning, he collapsed on the cushions and started snoring with such promptness that Kurt didn't get the chance to very bitchily enlighten him of the ways in which Kurt Hummel was not a frightened feline (gesticulating each point with his hello kitty mug, of course), but in which Finn was, in fact, the kind of dense idiot who could see the lines but never the spaces.
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Kurt was in a much better mood when he woke up the next afternoon. Namely, because it was the afternoon. "Oh, shi -"
"You missed school," Tina said helpfully, after he had gotten up and showered and coiffed and sat down to stare at his tea.
His grades were good enough (perfect, in fact) that he could miss a day or two and not suffer for it. He was still feeling feverish though, so it was probably best to drop by McKinley at the end of the school day and get his assignments for the next few days. The thought of going out in public with his pale skin glowing an unappealing shade of tomato made him wince, but he made do with a giant pair of sunglasses and a fairly tame cardigan ensemble that matched the wallpaper in his math classroom. Walking was so not fierce but Finn and the other males needed the car in case something happened with Quinn, so he set off through the west end for the bus, avoiding the smaller alleys where disturbing liquids would get on his loafers. This wasn't a real ghetto, there were fleshies living here but it wasn't exactly a gated community either and more than a few patrol cars sat balefully at every other corner. Public transport didn't run until you made it to the tamer areas of the city.
Along the way he tried not to think about Finn. (And the fact that Finn was very likely and enthusiastically engaging in sexual relations with Quinn this instant). Finn handled him like something that could only be touched with tweezers - a baby panda, or Herpes simplex. Then he'd remember that he was supposed to be treating Kurt like a dude, which would inevitably lead to a series of back thumps and unacceptable English that would have turned Kurt off straight men forever were it not for the indulging of his superiority complex. One of these days he'd tell Finn he didn't actually hate him, but he needed the right moment, such as on the alpha's deathbed whereupon Kurt could perform a miracle with his tears.
With his homework sorted and the direness of his flu impressed upon his teachers, Kurt sauntered out the halls of McKinley - Karofsky and Azimio were nowhere in sight, thankfully - and past the parking lot and empty soccer field with the rusty bleachers. The season must not have started yet, if there was no one there. Kurt didn't pay attention to sports if he could help it but sometimes the boys went shirtless, which was nice. (He was quite the expert on David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo, though his expertise pertained more to their abs and unfortunate hair choices than the teams they played for, or what they actually did.)
He didn't notice the man behind him until it was too late.
The blow from behind knocked him down with a sickening crunch. The pavement barely missed his cheek - he'd stopped the fall with his hands through instinct - but seared through the tender flesh of his palms and his knees hurt like crazy and his chest was getting slammed into the ground by the weight of his assailant on top. The fucker had to be huge, like a freaking dumptruck. "Ow! What the hell - !"
"Damn, fag. Knew something was off about you."
He'd know that voice anywhere.
Dave Fucking Karofsky.
Kurt tried to twist his head around but the man forced it back down with ease. The gravel bit into his skin, smashed his tongue into his teeth, painfully. "Karofsky! Are you insane -"
The football player pressed a warning grip against his throat, leaning in so close Kurt could feel the man's breath by his ear, damp and hot and disgusting. "You're the crazy one, Hummel. All this time - I never even suspected. You ain't a fag," he chuckled, leaning back to cock his head like a predator considering its prize. "You're a girl-bitch."
"A - a what?" Had Karofsky really cracked the loony bin and made off with the goods this time? "Look, Dave - lay off the roids, ok? No one has any idea what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't. Gotta keep that pussy fresh for your alpha, right. Lemme guess - he don't like to share?" To Kurt's horror, Karofsky pressed his nose into Kurt's neck and took a long and loud and leisurely sniff, right next to his ear. As if he weren't just smelling Kurt, but savoring him like a fine champagne. The fucking neanderthal. "Couldn't believe he let you outside, though. You're not even in full heat yet but I could smell you the instant you walked into McKinley."
"Oh, Lord -" Kurt took a deep breath and panicked a little at how insanely hard it was, with the way the man's weight was crushing his lungs and his delicate ribcage. "I'm not a sub, Karofsky. Yes, I do happen to be a werewolf. But a normal one - just gay. You've got this all wrong."
How did Karofsky even know about subs, anyway?
He tried to push up an elbow and found that he couldn't even twitch, he was so immobilized. Either Karofsky had really eaten his Wheaties for breakfast this summer, or -
It couldn't be.
The man's laugh made the hair on Kurt's skin crawl. "So I'm new and learning. Battin' by instinct. But you sure smell like a sub, 'cuz my dick's been bangin' on about it since the moment you walked in - and I'm no fag," he sneered, with a painful squeeze of the neck to stress his point.
Karofsky's penis didn't bear thinking about. "When did you turn?" Kurt whispered.
"Eh." The man - the werewolf - shrugged. "Over the summer. If I'd known someone as pathetic and lame as you were one, I probably would've rejected it. But," he grinned, and the look made Kurt's stomach curl, "I'm likin' it. I'm stronger. Faster. Way better at football. In fact I'm running with a pretty cool pack right now. . ." - he leaned in -
". . .and I think they'll like you. After I get my fun, of course."
"Karofsky, don't you dare," Kurt snarled. This was getting really, really bad and desperation was starting to sink in because the miserably thin fabric of his pants couldn't hide what was most definitely an erection, a very large erection, pressing on his ass. "My alpha will hunt you down and -!" It was all he could get out before the werewolf clamped a huge hand over his mouth, muzzling him.
"Couldn't care less. Our pack's stronger." Karofsky slid his other hand along the curve of Kurt's back, where the boy's slender waist arched into an ass that Karofsky noted was pleasingly round; like a girl's, except firmer. He should've thought of this earlier, actually - he was never a tits man but asses, yeah, asses got him going and Hummel's fit perfectly in his hand and he wouldn't even have to be gentle like he did with girls, all of whom would bitch and moan if he thrust too hard. He'd never convinced one to let him go anal either, so the thought now was really getting him excited.
Yeah that was mostly the pheromones talking, but he could get used to this. Hummel's scent was amazingly hot and heady and from behind he looked like a delicately-framed girl with a tiny waist and a nice, enticing gap between his thighs that was begging for a pounding. He could get behind that, Karofsky thought with a snigger. Fags were always begging for dick; subs were always ready for it. It was just his luck that Hummel was both, the bitch. He pushed the boy's soft cardigan and shirt up to his pits where it bunched like a crumpled bib, exposing skin as pale and smooth and untouched as baby's milk. "Fuck, Hummel -" he growled, burying his face in the small of the boy's back and inhaling. God, the bitch smelled so good. It was almost unnatural, the shockwave of pleasure that shuddered through him and his dick, just from a sniff. How he wanted to bite a line down the boy's spine, mark it with canine teeth, mark him as his . . . but his boner was practically weeping from pain and hunger. "Can't. Fucking. Wait -"
Kurt was dying bit by bit inside. Karofsky's caress was fake-gentle, like a lover, like a knife petting his skin, and it was filthy and disgusting and wrong. Everything was wrong. He was trapped under Karofsky's body with the man's baseball bat erection digging between his thighs, damp and feverish with sweat. He was paralyzed, unable to feel his wrists or fingers or heartbeat, breaking at the thought of the pain to come. The violation. The tearing. He was about to lose his first time behind the bleachers of a school he hated to a man he hated even more.
He'd never even had the guts to dream about a first time. Kisses. Texting. Keeping a boy's picture in his wallet and sighing with longing every time he looked.
He'd never even held a boy's hand.
If Karofsky had his way, took him back to his pack, flung him out for everyone to take like a whore - or a sub -
Tears stung at his eyes. I won't cry. He couldn't cry, not in front of Karofsky. Not even if the man was already so lost in sexual frenzy that Kurt couldn't tell who was whimpering more, he wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him break. He'd endure it, he'd survive it, he'd run. Not back to Finn and the others, no, he wouldn't endanger them - with Karofsky's pack after him no place in Lima would be safe and they already had such a good thing here, a real family, a safe home - but he'd run somewhere (or die trying) before becoming some pack's whore.
Far off in some distant universe he could feel the cool breeze raising goosebumps on his butt cheeks, the cold metal of a belt buckle casually discarded on his thigh, the rough tap of a calloused finger against a hole that was trembling in protest. Could hear Karofsky crooning something like the crazy rapist bastard he was, the hacking sound of him spitting on a palm, once, twice, the slicking sound of a dick being greased with strokes so measured it was as if he did this every Sunday.
Could hear a voice saying, "Sorry to bother you, Karofsky. Mind if I kill you?"
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Reviews much appreciated! :) I haven't read many Glee AUs before, so I'm curious as to what people think.