A/N: If anyone's still hanging around, you are amazing and infinite in your patience and I thank you. We're back up and running finally! More to come, hopefully very soon!

Someone had finally made the new servant aware of the indignity of slut duty.

Kurt was unceremoniously wrenched from the deepest, most restful sleep he'd had in months by an emphatic slam, the force of which rattled the very stones of the wall above his head and shattered the dream he'd been having, leaving him mentally clutching at impressions: warmth, comfort, contentment. His body moved instinctively, kicking his blanket aside before his brain managed to catch up. It was a strict rule that the duke's slut must never cover his nakedness in front of anyone, even a servant, even unwittingly, in his sleep. He was lower than everyone and so must abase himself before lord and scullery maid alike.

But the room was empty. The slam, apparently, a parting gesture. Cowardly, it seemed to Kurt. Slam and flee. Like the boys who used to taunt him back in Pluna, throwing insults then running, never giving him a chance to even silently accuse them. But at least his breakfast tray, kettle and pile of rags were all in their customary places and the fire was built up and burning cheerfully against the morning chill. Kurt fell back onto his thin pillow, pulled his blanket into place again, and lay under the sunbeam streaming in through his window while his startled heart slowed to a normal pace and his internal organs found their way back to where they belonged. He tried to grasp at the fading shadows of his dream but it would not be called back, so instead he watched dust motes swirl in the ray of sunlight and soon found himself smiling – actually smiling – at their lazy gyrations.

Smiling was the last thing he should be doing. He should be panicking. There were so many things he'd done, so many rules he'd broken – Gavin's, and more importantly in the end, his own. So many ways the choices he'd made could turn on him. He needed to be doing damage control, the slut's voice whispered from a corner of his brain. And it was right, he knew it was, but somehow in the heat and topsy-turvy excitement of the night before, the slut had been banished to the tiny corner of his head where Kurt usually lived and it was Kurt who was present, fully, for the first time in the gods knew how long, in the body that had belonged to so many people but him. The implications of that should terrify him – would terrify him, he was sure, as soon as the spell of last night wore off. But right now, as he lay contemplating the swoops and dips of shiny, weightless particles in the light and feeling the effects of his shock ebb away, the only thing Kurt could bring himself to feel was wonderful.

So wonderful, in fact, that he grinned even wider at the tiny dancers over his head and kicked his blanket away again. He reached his arms and legs in opposite directions, luxuriating in a joint-popping stretch. He felt impossibly loose; the iron bands of tension caused by months of physical and emotional stress had disappeared. There was no pain, anywhere, not in his neck or his hands, or his back, and, strangest of all, none between his legs. He had no awareness of his sex organs at all, nothing pulled or ached as he slid his legs apart and back together again. Was this how they'd always felt – before? He could barely remember. He'd forgotten, in the fierce heat and strain of the cycle of arousal and denial, that pain and weight and need weren't part of his normal physical state.

He needed to think, he knew he did. The slut was screaming at him, words like capitulation and collusion, shameless and lewd. But it was easy to ignore, muffled in its corner. Kurt didn't want to agonize over the whats and whys of what he'd done. He'd been dead too long, blank, nothing but a shell. His real self forced back into the tiny dark corner that was all he'd dared allow himself. Last night – last night Sebastian had thrown doors and windows open and let in light, heat and sensation. Kurt wasn't ready to go back to his prison. What he wanted was to feel, really feel, his skin prickle in the cool air, to wriggle his toes against the fabric of the mattress ticking and feel the light on his face while he had the chance. The brick wall of reality was going to slam into him eventually no matter what he did. This moment, now, was too precious to let go. After everything he'd been through, he deserved it.

Fuck you, he told the slut.

Then slowly but deliberately he lifted one hand – it trembled a little at his daring – and laid it flat against his belly.

He never touched himself. When he was forced to – for washing or to numb pain in icy water – it was cursory; fingertips covered in cloth, quickly, never letting himself think about the physical reality of the flesh that had become nothing more than a tool used to control or punish him. He never touched to feel; the thought had revolted him. But this morning revulsion was banished to the corner with the slut. He pressed his fingers into the soft skin of his abdomen, into the hard muscle underneath, and when no alarms claxoned within or without, he slid his hand down, along the outside of his thigh, just as unexpectedly muscled, then, with breath sticking in his throat, around to reach for the balls he wasn't sure were even there anymore.

The slut redoubled its volume but Kurt didn't care. His fingers found skin that was soft, weirdly loose and wrinkled. His balls felt too small and limp in his hand. He probed them, clinically, trying to remember if this was how they'd always been, when he was free. Emboldened, he moved his hand upward to cup his penis – not to arouse but just to feel it, soft and satiated and his. As he wrapped his fingers around the flaccid length, the abuse that had been heaped on this part of his body seemed as distant as the slut's muffled voice, like his dream, not quite real. How could he have been kidnapped and beaten and forced? It was absurd. No, what was real was the sunlight, and his own hands, warm despite their trembling, daring. What was real was cool air filling his lungs in cleansing rushes and tiny bits of dust above him, nothing but dirt, really, made beautiful by streaming golden light.

And Sebastian.

That wasn't true, not really. Kurt had to concede that point to the slut. Sebastian was less real than anything, fleeting as the motes of dust; gone as soon as the earth turned out of the sun's path leaving Kurt alone again. But Kurt wanted him to be real and this morning seemed to be all about wanting. So he held himself as Sebastian had held him and let it all come back: the gentleness of Sebastian's skilled hands and the dark thrill of the tongue that had coaxed Kurt's earth-shattering eruption from him. And as his cock began to swell under the memory Kurt didn't take his hand away, though he knew he should. Sebastian had touched him as if he was a real person. Someone who deserved pleasure and had a right to ask for it. Sebastian had made him, not an object, but a partner in a beautiful, haunting dance. Yes, Sebastian had led, and Kurt followed, but each needed the other to reach perfection.

While one hand held his now full-blown erection, the other wandered, following the paths that Sebastian's had taken over Kurt's body. The last time he had really, really touched himself, he realized, must have been back in Pluna, in his bed in the attic above the tailor shop, and in all the time between then and now his body had belonged to other people. But last night he'd taken it back. Taken, and then given, as if he had a right to dispose of it as he chose. He'd put himself in Sebastian's hands because he could, and because he'd wanted the things that Sebastian had promised.

Kurt held himself and sighed a deep and expiating breath that left him feeling even more relaxed. He'd given his body to Sebastian and, even more, he'd given his name. That had been, if anything, the greater release. The relief of naming himself, Kurt, and hearing Sebastian say it back to him, had eclipsed even the long-awaited orgasm. For months and months Kurt had only been the slut, keeping his own identity alive in the margins of his existence as a slave. But then Sebastian had whispered Kurt, like an appeal to a dormant god, invoking him, acknowledging and by acknowledgement validating his right to exist. Just one tiny word, spoken aloud, had summoned Kurt back from his self-imposed exile and made him real again. Kurt's penis gave a happy throb in the warmth of his hand, and though Kurt knew he should let go, he stroked instead, daringly, feeling his flesh respond to his own grip like a revelation. He was used to being hard, and in his nakedness having his erection on display for everyone, including himself, but still the size, the heft of it in his hand surprised him. He loosened his fist and slid it up and down the shaft, pulling back his foreskin to thumb around the glans, and a moan escaped his lips. It felt so good, owning himself, remembering one caress at a time how he liked to touch himself, how to make the sparks of pleasure ignite in his most sensitive places and kindle delicious heat in his core. He let the fire swell just a little, teasing with gentle fingers, relaxing into the mattress and closing his eyes to the dust ballet above him so he could float in the kind of pleasure he could only give himself.

The slut protested, but Sebastian was there, in his mind, whispering against his ear, drowning it out. So perfect, beautiful, made to be worshipped . . . And Kurt was. He was so much more worthy of worship than any of the cretins he'd been forced to serve since he was taken. He was worthy of Sebastian's worship and his own. They blended in his head – he touched himself with Sebastian's long-fingered hands, or maybe it was Sebastian touching him in new ways with Kurt's own hands – either way, it was perfect, he could almost feel the heat of Sebastian's body curled against his own, guiding him toward release.

The fire grew, slowly, into the vanguard of an orgasm and Kurt knew he couldn't – even in this new state of empowerment (denial, the slut hissed) he didn't dare – so he backed off to fingertips dancing over his tingling skin. It was hard to make himself let go, but when he finally did it wasn't with Gavin's disapproval in mind, but with Sebastian's promise. I have big plans for you tomorrow.

His cock, not at all pleased with the idea of waiting for Sebastian, throbbed a gentle protest at finding itself bereft of touch. But Kurt's hands weren't done. He ran his palms up his torso, feeling the hard muscular planes of his own body: his chest, broader than he remembered, the tiny nipples, tight with arousal, that Sebastian had teased, his arms, so much stronger than they'd been when he'd been taken. He flexed against his hands and could feel new ridges of muscle move under his skin. Where had they come from? Maybe the countless buckets of water he'd lugged up three flights of stairs had served a purpose beyond calming his desperate need.

His hands went still higher, up his neck, along his jaw to his cheekbones, feeling for changes. His fingers met unfamiliar shapes and angles and he wished, unexpectedly, forlornly, for a mirror. There were mirrors all over the castle, but he'd always carefully avoided even a glimpse of his naked self. And his room was empty of any decoration. Would he even recognize himself if he had a mirror, he wondered. He might be a completely different person; he had no way of knowing.

He tried to imagine what he must have looked like to Sebastian when he was spread out on the bed last night. Was he just as long and lean and sculpted with wiry muscle as the boys he'd always fantasized about? As Sebastian himself? It was strange to think that the Kurt he saw in his head might not be the same Kurt that Sebastian saw when he looked at him. Where was the soft, invisible boy who'd labored over needle and thread day in and day out in Master Neric's workshop? His hands moved back down to trace his pectoral muscles, then lower, over his flat abdomen again. Was he desirable? Could it be that the hungry looks he received from men and women alike were inspired by more than – as he'd always assumed – the submissive availability of the slut? He found the possibility equal parts intriguing and disturbing. And a little depressing. It would be perfect Kurt Hummel luck for him to finally grow into his sexuality just when there was no one that he cared to have appreciate it. Except Sebastian. Who was only temporary.

And on that less-than-cheerful thought Kurt opened his eyes. The sun had moved on in its morning journey – without illumination, the golden motes that had been dancing over his head had fallen back into invisibility. Fittingly, he supposed, because that was exactly what he needed to do. He reached for the rope hanging from the ceiling and pulled himself reluctantly up and out of bed.

But invisibility wasn't as easy for him to find as it was for the dust. Even as he washed, he kept feeling new things. When had his legs gotten so long? And his waist so small? And his ass so firm? He poured the warm water into the bowl and tried to glimpse his reflection in its surface, but the light in the room was too bright and the water only offered him blurred, distorted shadows.

He had just finished his last rinse and was reaching for the toasted bread on his breakfast tray when the bell above the door chimed in summons. It startled him – he had almost forgotten there was anything he needed to do today besides sit in his sunny room and wait for Sebastian – but instinct took over. He wolfed down a few bites of the bread, brushed away the crumbs, and without even thinking about it rushed to the door and pulled it open . . . then slammed it shut again with a cry that was too sudden and unexpected to stifle.

The brick wall slammed into him, punching the air out of his lungs, turning his knees to jelly so that he collapsed hard on the floor, pain biting where his hip bone collided with the stone. He'd known it would come, but he'd expected it to happen in the face of Gavin's wrath, or the threat of punishment for his disobedience, or the despair when he realized he had no idea what the fuck he was going to do when Sebastian left him. He'd never expected the simple act of opening his door to twist fear in his belly and fill his eyes with tears so that the bright room began to blur and go dark. It was always the thing Kurt never saw coming that blindsided him the most.

He was naked.

The corridor was full of people, more than usual, although maybe it was only the panic giving that impression, rushing to and fro like ants foraging for the winter and every single one of them was covered in fabric and buttons and ties with shoes on their feet and caps on their heads and skirts that swished to and fro – the rainbow of colors and textures danced in his memory behind his closed eyes – and he was naked.

And fuck, fuck, his fists clenched against the stones and he shivered with a cold he hadn't felt before because this was the reason. The reason he didn't touch his body as if it was part of him, the reason he didn't let himself feel things or desire things, because how was Kurt Hummel supposed to walk naked through that crowd? Because the flesh that had roused under his own hand, for his own pleasure, was now filling again with panic-fueled blood to appease his captor and how was he supposed to keep track of the difference? Submission, capitulation, they were all the same, it didn't matter what Sebastian said, give in to one give in to all and now he was naked, cold flesh on hard stone, and his breath scraped welts inside his lungs and the bell chimed again, insistent, above his door but he couldn't have moved if he'd tried.

And deep in the darkest corner of his head, the slut was laughing.

Kurt pressed his forehead hard against the stone floor. Preparation, he recited silently. Needle. Thimble. Bite. Break. Forestitch. Backstitch. He tried to force his breath into time with the chant but it stuck in his throat. With nothing left to separate Kurt Hummel from the slut, the stitches only reminded him more of who he was. They called back with gut-wrenching vividness the boy who'd covered his body in careful layers every morning like a soldier preparing for battle. The boy whose one defense had been stripped from him, literally, now groveling on the floor because everything he'd learned in the months since he was first dragged in front his new owner, cringing to cover his nakedness, had evaporated like water before the fire of Sebastian's fantasies. Let go, Sebastian had said, I'll catch you, but Sebastian couldn't catch him, not now, not when it really counted. There was nothing Sebastian could do to protect him.

Except . . .

Except at the very moment Sebastian's words echoed in his head, Kurt's breath found an opening through the aching tightness in his chest, just enough space to slide through and fill his lungs with air. And the air, cold like the stones of the floor, began to pull the edges of the room back into focus.

The bell chimed a third time and, desperate for anything that might get him on his feet, Kurt clung to the image of Sebastian. How his arms had felt wrapped around Kurt's waist and chest. The intensity of his eyes, every detail he could recreate in his mind's eye. The things he'd said, his words, the very tone of his voice.

You couldn't be more perfect if you tried.

It had been a challenge when Sebastian had said it; it had made Kurt want to rage. But now the sound of that gently mocking voice loosened Kurt's fists until his hands lay flat against the hard stone. The room gradually took shape around him and his breathing slowed and deepened even more. His muscles began to unlock – first wrists then forearms, shoulders then back. He pushed against the floor until he was kneeling upright. His hands twitched toward his genitals, still needing to cover, but he invoked the voice again – you couldn't be more perfect – and forced them to rest, still and open on his thighs.

It wasn't real, of course. Sebastian had no power, not outside this room. He was only a steward – a servant. An ambitious and successful servant, to be sure, but a servant nonetheless. He couldn't command the Duke of Eastreach. There was nothing he could protect Kurt from. But Kurt's body didn't seem to care about any of that. And if the illusion of Sebastian could give him the strength to face that hallway full of people, then he'd cling to even that tiny bit of help with everything he had. He reached for the door handle and pulled himself up to his feet. His knees trembled like a newborn calf's, but they held him, with a little help from the door. The thought of turning the handle made panic grip his throat again, but he kept Sebastian's face firmly in his mind's eye as he forced his breathing to slow, slow, until the crush loosened and movement seemed possible. Then he pulled the door slowly open.

The corridor yawned before him like a chasm, still full of people. Definitely more than usual, rushing, some calling to each other as they passed, others focused intently on their tasks. None of them even spared a glance for his sudden appearance, but the added population made the crossing seem even more vast and impassable. Kurt called on Sebastian again, that mocking grin that had infuriated him but now bore him up. He pressed his back against his door and tried to remember what Sebastian had said he'd seen in Kurt that first day on the dais in the great hall. Dignity, he'd said. So much dignity. And strength. Kurt didn't feel at all dignified standing there naked with a half-hard dick, but if Sebastian had seen it and had believed it then maybe that would be enough. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, and imagined Sebastian behind him, watching, evaluating his performance. He took one step, then another, then turned and joined the stream of humanity flowing down the hallway. Just yesterday Kurt had walked this corridor with barely a thought for his nudity, but now he felt every inch of bare skin, utterly exposed and vulnerable, desperate for cover. His face burned – he was sure he was blushing from head to toe, but still no one spared him more than the most cursory attention, even as they passed close enough for a skirt or a sleeve to brush against him, making him shiver. They were used to the slut walking around naked. They had no idea that his whole world had been changed. For everyone else, today was no different from any other.

So one step at a time Kurt navigated his way up three doors and from one side of the corridor to the other, egged on, buoyed up, by Sebastian in his ear. He didn't question it; he didn't think about what he was doing; he kept his eyes on the door he needed, his mind on Sebastian's challenging gaze, and walked. The air tickled against his bare skin, leaving him feeling even more exposed. His cock was thick but not stiff yet, thank the gods. The weight of it swinging against his thighs was, Kurt assured himself, only apparent to him. No one was pointing or laughing – he'd honestly been a greater object of ridicule back in Pluna fully-clothed than he was here, naked, dodging hurrying servants on his way to receive the duke's morning eruption. He'd done this every day for half a year. Nothing had changed.

The door appeared before him sooner than he expected. Surprised, he had to put a hand on it to steady himself before he pulled the latch and opened it.

Inside the duke's apartment was a miniature version of the commotion in the hallway. Fewer people, but spurred to even greater hustle and bustle by their proximity to the duke himself. Kurt dropped gratefully to his knees on his pile of cushions and tried to calm his racing heart. Something was happening and that was good. Gavin busy with big events was Gavin without the time or inclination to abuse his slut. No one noticed Kurt in all the commotion. It was entirely possible no one would even realize he hadn't been there all along. His hands still wanted to twitch toward his penis, to protect it from prying eyes, but it was easier now to control them. If he could just buy a little time, enough to find his detachment again, to fix the mask of the slut in place and slip back into the shadows behind it. But the slut was hiding now, punishing him, perhaps; he searched but he couldn't find the core of calm he needed to regain his control. Too much was happening. Too much noise and motion, the door to the bedroom opening and closing, Reginald's face appearing in the opening, sharp eyes finding Kurt then disappearing again.

"SLUT!"

All the rushing servants froze at the duke's bellow. Silence slammed down on the room, so profound that Kurt was sure everyone could hear his heart slamming against his rib cage. As one, six pairs of eyes turned in Kurt's direction. His fists clenched tight against his thighs but he forced himself to keep breathing. He could do this. It was just like any other morning, he told himself as he stood, forcing his legs not to shake. A blow job, maybe some edging, then another boring day sitting alone waiting for Sebastian. Yes, he'd broken the most important rule of slutdom barely twelve hours ago, and he'd just now been wantonly pleasuring himself in his bed, but there was no way the duke could know about that. That wasn't anger in the duke's roar, he wasn't enraged because Kurt had been late or left a stain on Gavin's favorite chair or touched himself under golden rays of sunlight or erupted wildly into the mind-numbing bliss of a steward's mouth with an ecstatic force that felt like the world turning itself inside-out around him. This was nothing, he told himself; just another morning's duty.

Neither he nor the slut believed that for a second, but it was enough to get him on his feet.

The servants unfroze when Kurt stood, hurrying out of his path because they too understood the implications of the bellow and were anxious to dissociate themselves from anything involving the slut. Kurt moved quickly, but before he reached the door it swung open, fast, as if it had been shoved, and the Duchess of Eastreach herself sailed through it, head held high despite the pinched misery of her face, silken skirts rustling like tree branches in a gale. Startled, Kurt was too busy jumping out of her way to lower his head. As she came through the door and practically collided with him their eyes met, for the first time in all Kurt's months in the castle. For only the tiniest moment the duchess hesitated, some emotion darkening her expression. Kurt couldn't quite tell what it was – hatred? pity? – but it was intense enough that it held him still, frozen under her scrutiny for that one second, until she recovered her composure and processed past him and out the door, leaving nothing in her wake but the delicate scent of fresh flowers and Kurt's desperate wish that he could follow her.

"I don't care if the brat's third in line to fucking god-hood!" Gavin shouted, presumably for the benefit of the duchess. "The Duke of Eastreach rides out for no one! And where the fuck have you been?!"

The last was for Kurt, pulling his attention back to the doorway where the duke himself was glowering, half-dressed. He wore an elegant doublet on top and sleeping trousers on the bottom in a display that would have been comical if it wasn't for his dark eyes glinting dangerously, or the scowl twisting his heavy lips. Kurt knew better than to respond. He wasn't sure he'd be able to make his voice work anyhow, even if he tried. There was no calm inside him; the slut had fled. Whatever was about to happen, Kurt Hummel was facing it alone. Gavin was blocking the doorway so he fell to his knees where he was, lowering himself prostrate in his best show of abject submission.

"Get your ass in here!"

Kurt lifted his head in time to see the broad, velvet-clad back retreat. He didn't dare stand, so as humiliating as it was with all the servants watching, he crawled the few feet over the threshold of the bedchamber then pressed his face again to the floor. Gavin loved to see him cringing. He could only hope it would be enough.

Over his head there was rustling.

"Leave it," the duke growled.

"But your grace, they'll be here . . ." Reginald was practically pleading.

"Render's balls! Does no one in this fucking house obey me any more?!"

"Not at all, your grace, but think . . ."

"Out!" The word was sharp as a sword; Kurt felt it pierce him through the chest. Feet scuffled past his head, as if Gavin was dragging his valet to the door. "And no one comes in until I say."

The valet wasn't going to wait to be told a third time. "Of course, your grace," came the obsequious response, then he fled the room to join the other servants in relative safety beyond.

From the floor Kurt heard the door slam. Then, nothing, but the harsh scraping sound of the duke breathing.

Kurt tried not to breathe. He tried not to exist. He longed for his room, his hard mattress, Sebastian's warm body. He was too close to all of this; he realized too late that he hadn't set the mask of the slut aside, he'd smashed it in pieces the moment he'd spoken his name, in his room, in this place. He didn't understand anything that was happening, not the duke's anger or the duchess's accusing eyes, and couldn't protect himself in even the most rudimentary way. He had no anchor anymore. The slightest breeze could blow him away. And Gavin was a hurricane.

"You're very lucky today slut," Gavin finally said, in a voice that implied the exact opposite. "In half an hour this place is going to be fucking crawling with fucking royalty which means you," a hand landed heavy on Kurt's head, fisting into his hair and pulling him up from the floor to face Gavin's avid eyes, "will have to wait for your punishment until I have time to devote myself to it." Crouching low in front of Kurt, the duke drew out the last words in a threatening growl and Kurt's muscles turned to jelly, leaving the hand in his hair the only thing holding him up and the sharp pain of it the only thing keeping him gasping for breath.

Gavin stood and pulled again at Kurt's hair, forcing him straighter, dragging an unwilling cry from his throat. "Kneel up properly and serve me, slut."

The room was spinning around Kurt. His scalp burned where Gavin's fingers had abused it and his cock ached and throbbed its need to please. But the only thing his brain seemed able to understand was punishment. He felt untethered from the floor, the duke, reality. The word echoed in his brain accompanied by the duchess's glare and he struggled to orient himself and find the right way up but everything was twisted and unrecognizable.

Fortunately for Kurt, instinct was strong and his training so deeply embedded that even in his lost and frightened state he was ready when Gavin shoved down the sleeping trousers and pushed into his mouth. The thick cock met no opposition, sliding deep into Kurt's open throat, just as Kurt had slid into Sebastian's the night before. It was wrong in a way it never had been before, because for the first time Kurt knew exactly what Gavin felt, the hot, sucking pleasure that seemed too perfect to be real. He couldn't forget the sensation, each pump of Gavin's hips reminded him, and try as he might to force himself back to the here and now, the edges between reality and fantasy began to blur. Gavin thrust deep and pulled back; Sebastian's tongue danced over his cock head and into his sensitive slit; someone moaned that's right bitch, you do as I fucking say and someone else murmured little tailor Kurt against his searching flesh. Each slide of the cock in his mouth was his own into the mouth he longed for, hot and heavy, thick in his throat and soft all around him, and when the familiar heat began to build in his belly and balls and the harsh groaning above him rose to a climactic pitch, he couldn't bring himself to try to hold back, couldn't even remember why he should. The voice in his head was blending with the one in his ears until he couldn't tell them apart.

. . . yes, beautiful . . .

. . . telling me what I can't have . . .

. . . I think you've waited long enough . . .

"I'll show them who you fucking belong to."

Gavin's words cut through the haze in Kurt's head. Rough fingers gripped his jaw, lifting him, pressing nerve to bone until he gasped, and the cock in his mouth withdrew, still hard and throbbing like his own. He stared into the very slit that Sebastian had been teasing – or was it Kurt himself? – not understanding. Not understanding as Gavin's hand began to work it furiously, not understanding until the very last moment, when Gavin grunted, sharp and high like a wallowing pig. Until the hand on the cock stilled and the one on Kurt's jaw tightened even further.

He closed his eyes just in time.

The hot splashes on his face brought the real world crashing back into him like the Render's fist, crushing his looming orgasm. Revulsion twisted his stomach and he fought against the bile rising in his throat. In spurt after spurt Gavin's issue coated his cheeks, his chin, his lips. It dribbled down his neck, slowing and tickling as it congealed. A gobbet ran down the point of his chin, hung suspended for a long moment, then dropped to land with perfect aim on Kurt's still jutting cock.

Gavin exhaled a satisfied sigh. "Look at me, slut." The fingers pressing into either side of Kurt's jaw twisted, pulling his head from side to side with renewed pain.

Kurt slitted his eyes open, but thank the gods nothing wet or slimy dripped into them. Gavin stared down, not looking satiated at all. He looked hungry and intense, like a cat hard on the trail of some small doomed animal.

"That stays on all day, understand? It'll help you remember whose slut you are."

"Yes master." A whisper was all Kurt could manage.

"Now get your ass out of here."

"Yes master."

The fingers didn't let go of Kurt's jaw so he waited, still as he could manage, until finally they released him and busied themselves shoving the duke's wilting cock back into his sleeping trousers. As soon as there was room Kurt crawled carefully past the duke's bulk then stood and opened the door.

Reginald had been listening, of course. He recovered quickly, and slipped past Kurt with a sniff, too busy hiding his own indiscretion to react to the mess on Kurt's face. He was the only one, though. There was a small line of servants waiting to deliver items or messages to the duke and Kurt had to walk past them all to get to the relative safety of his corner. He didn't hesitate, but fled to the far side of the room and fell to his knees on the silken pillows, followed by shocked whispers and incredulous murmurs. He closed his eyes, his only defense against curious stares. The semen on his face was starting to tighten as it dried. His throat ached with backed-up tears and his scalp and jaw throbbed. He was going to have bruises where the duke had held him and he'd probably be punished for that, too. For forcing Gavin to mar his perfect skin. Some of the fear sitting on his chest tried to turn into laughter at that thought. Whatever was in store for him, Kurt had no doubt it was going to be worse than the dog, worse than blowing half the guard in the courtyard in the snow, worse than anything he'd endured so far. He was very thoroughly fucked.

And then the smell hit him.

He'd been too afraid, in the duke's chamber, to notice it. But now the stench of the duke's eruption filled his lungs. Everyone in the room must be able to smell it. The itch of it drying on his skin he could ignore, or pretend away, but the odor was inescapable. Kurt's stomach heaved even as tears pressed behind his eyelids but he forced them both back. He knew if he gave in to either of them he'd be lost. If he cried he'd vomit and if he vomited he was sure he never be able to keep from running screaming through the halls like a damned soul escaping the Render's tortures. He didn't know what the punishment would be for that but he was quite sure he wouldn't survive it. Not in any recognizable way. Although he was pretty sure survival wasn't really an option anymore, anyhow.

He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe; his cock throbbed and he couldn't even pretend it was only from fear. He'd wanted – wanted – there in the duke's chamber with the duke's cock in his throat. All these months, all the touching and teasing and he'd never ever let them make him want. Finding himself meant losing himself – he didn't understand it but he couldn't deny it. He needed space to work out how to be but there was no space. He needed to be alone but there was no alone. He needed to be free; he needed help but there was no one. No one in this entire gods-forsaken castle, maybe in the entire god-forsaken world, willing to look at him and see. A boy who'd only ever wanted to make beautiful things and live his life on his own terms. A man struggling to survive the unspeakable, day after exhausting day. No one but Kurt himself. And his seeing was the exact thing that doomed him.

He'd been on a path, a terrible path but at least he'd known which way to go. When dark and ugly things leapt out at him he'd held to that one road, head down, step after trudging step. Then Sebastian had appeared; not dark and ugly but beautiful and bright. He'd seen, perhaps, but in the seeing he'd pulled Kurt off his path, swept the path away, spun him in circles and left him foundering. He should have resisted more, he knew. He had no one to blame but himself. But really, was it so much to ask? To be looked at with compassion? To be touched gently? To be held by arms that slid around his waist and chest? To be pulled back into embrace, lips tracing the curve of his ear, a voice in worshipful whisper, you're so brave and strong, let go, let me . . .

Kurt didn't notice when Gavin left the suite, resplendent in his best court clothes, trailed by Reginald and all the waiting servants.

There would be punishment tomorrow, and after, some new existence, some person who wasn't him anymore. But before that there was Sebastian. Sebastian who found him beautiful in both resistance and submission. Sebastian who'd offered, asked, withheld, given, all in order to crash through Kurt's walls and make him feel again. Sebastian who was a mystery, a fantasy, with motives Kurt couldn't make out and lips Kurt longed to taste. Perhaps Sebastian was hastening Kurt's end, or perhaps Kurt had always been headed to this place. He couldn't have pretended forever. There was always going to be an end.

He didn't notice the servant leaving food on the little table, or that the smell of Gavin's semen eventually began to fade, or the sounds of reveling echoing up from the great hall below.

He let Sebastian hold him. He leaned into arms he'd felt too briefly and would have to give up much too soon. Hands caressed him. Lips pressed hot kisses across the back of his neck. He didn't think about tomorrow. There was no tomorrow. There was only tonight, and all the fantasies he'd treasured in his life before this. Muscled arms and endless legs and dark challenging eyes whose color eluded his every attempt to discover it. He didn't have to worry about his defenses because he had none. Tomorrow was coming and nothing he did would change that. Which meant he was free to do whatever he wanted.

Something shifted inside him at the thought. Nothing earth shaking. Just a tiny movement, an alignment. The shattered fragments of his old control stitching themselves back together but in a new way. Not blank, as he'd always tried to be, but full of changing color and light, reflecting and absorbing. If he was going to be destroyed, he could at least stand tall – his back straightened against Sebastian's imaginary arms as he thought it – like the Kurt Hummel he'd been before his life had been stolen. He could remember who he'd been and what he'd wanted. He could, for one night, see what his life might have been like if he'd been free to seek and choose.

When Reginald came in to light the lamps, he found Kurt kneeling straight as a board, arms wrapped around himself, eyes closed, with a mysterious smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. If the sight surprised him, he gave no indication. "You're dismissed," was all he said. Then he turned his back and busied himself with his matches. So he missed seeing Kurt rise from his pillows with a grace and dignity he had no business showing, naked as he was, and covered with spunk. And by the time he turned back around, the slut was gone.