This fic has a strange little origin story. I came across a werewolf prompt on the kinkmeme, which is not something I would ordinarily think to fill. But the I started to wonder about the world such a story would have to be set in, how the relationships between the characters would have to be altered by pack dynamics in order for the prompt to work. And so - here we are!

The prompt in question is at .?thread=15031313#t15031313 if you want to check it out, but be warned that it contains spoilers for later in the story - the prompt itself only covers events that take place far later on. Also, I chose not to follow it exactly. So if you see something in the prompt that really squicks you, it might not even show up here! Just check the warnings before you read each chapter.

This fic is quite different from anything I would ordinarily write, so I'm very anxious to hear your feedback. Thanks so much for reading, guys. :)

The shove to the back of his shoulders – painful, and abrupt, and so hard Kurt can practically feel bruises forming right away – is completely unexpected. As a result, Kurt is unable to even raise his arms up to soften the blow when he is sent crashing into the wall. He hits the solid surface at an odd angle, head and right shoulder crashing into the drywall so hard he sees stars for a few moments. The bag he had been holding is sent tumbling to the ground, its contents scattering across the floor.

Head spinning and back throbbing in pain, it takes Kurt a moment to understand that someone is speaking. Their voice is angry, urgent.

"— coming in here, smelling the way you do, fucking flaunting it in front of everyone."

Realization dawns. Dave Karofsky.

"Drifting in and out like you own the place, wearing those fancy clothes, and I will show you, Hummel. You're practically begging one of us to take you away from Anderson and show you what it means to be claimed."

"David," says Kurt, long years of experience making it possible for his voice to remain calm, low. Non-aggressive. He pulls back ever-so-slowly from his place against the wall, whole body aching as he turns to face the brawny boy. Kurt is sure to keep his eyes trained firmly on the ground, however; in this moment, there is no way holding Dave's gaze can be seen as anything other than a challenge. He raises his hands into the air in an unmistakable display of surrender. "David, I need you to take a deep breath and step back from all this, okay. It's me – it's Kurt, you know me. You've known me for over a year now."

"Like I don't know who you are," seethes Dave, and Kurt is certain that if the taller boy were transformed, the hair would be standing up on his back. Kurt knows better than to raise his head to look. The floor of the foreclosed motel the pack has been living in is grubby: it has the ghosts of a thousand footprints embedded into is grain. "Willing to spread your legs and let him fuck you silly, aren't you? Bet you could handle a real wolf; you're sharp like glass, aren't you?"

"This isn't you," intones Kurt, interrupting the nonsensical onrush of words. "This is the moon in your blood. You're David Karofsky. You like following football and hockey on television. You like Frank Sinatra songs and bad science fiction movies." Dave takes a step closer, and for the first time Kurt feels a shock of real fear run up his body. He can't quite control the tremble in his voice when he continues. "Just – just let me get Puck, okay? Or –"

"No!" barks Dave, and Kurt can't stop himself from daring a glance upward between his eyelashes. Dave looks wild, practically vibrating with rage and ire and – and something else. Something primal and deep, full of fear and self-loathing. His teeth are bared, hands clenched into whitening fists. "No, Hummel. Not this fucking time. If Anderson isn't man enough –"

"David, please –"

All at once, Kurt's wind is knocked out of him as Dave darts forward with inhuman speed and pins him, hard, against the motel lobby wall by his raised wrists. His hands impact with a sickening crunch, and for a moment Kurt is sure he has broken something. Fear is pounding in his blood, hot and real and incapacitating, and he tries to force it down. Knows Dave can smell it rolling off of him in waves – knows that his own terror will probably make the larger boy's toes curl, his blood sing. When Dave leans into Kurt's neck and inhales deeply, he knows he is correct.

When Dave pulls away, Kurt cannot stop himself from looking up and meeting his gaze. His eyes... his eyes are completely bled through with sickly yellow, full of something primal and raw and visceral. They are more animal than man.

Dave is trembling.

"You can't even accept it," Dave breathes. "How normal you are. How fucking fragile." His eyes dart down to Kurt's mouth. "I could snap you like a twig," he whispers, before slamming his mouth against Kurt's.

It is hot, and hard, and unwanted: the force of it makes his head crack back into the wall. Kurt tries to struggle against the grip, but it is impossible to break free. Dave's hands hold him perfectly in place with more ease than any human being ever could, and there is literally no physical way to wrench himself out. Kurt can't breathe, repulsion washing through him as Dave forces his mouth open and forces his tongue inside, hands clenching tighter on Kurt's wrists, making the bones strain. He tries to cry out – to call for help, to beg some more, he doesn't even know – but he can't speak, can't move, can't breathe. Dave's teeth, still human but sharper than natural, graze across his bottom lip, drawing the barest hint of blood.

"Get off of him!"

The world shakes, and suddenly the force keeping Kurt upright, boxed in, is gone. He coughs, splutters, and slides down the wall until he is slumped ungracefully on the ground. The taste of blood is sharp and metallic in his mouth, and he instinctively seeks out every drop with his tongue and swallows it down before anyone can notice. When he is certain that he has removed every possible trace, he finally looks up at the scene in front of him.

Finn, Blaine, and Dave are circling each other in the motel entranceway. All three are moving slowly, warily, and human voices are drawn out into low, dangerous growls. Their lips are pulled back from their teeth, baring them in a way that promises violence. By all rights, this gesture should look silly on a human face; it doesn't. Instead, it looks ferocious: slightly unhinged and ready to kill. The sight makes Kurt's eyes widen and terror clutch at his chest.

"Break it up!" A loud, authoritative voice is bellowing from the direction of the staircase. Kurt looks, and sees Puck stomping down the stairs flanked by Sam and Santana. Their faces are hard. At the mere sound of his voice, all three of the circling men stop in their tracks. Practically simultaneously, all three of them straighten from their hunched, defensive positions into decidedly more human-like stances. Dave has the decency to look embarrassed.

By the time the three newcomers reach the bottom of the stairs, Puck's eyes are flashing. Every muscle in his body is taut, ready to fight. There is a long pause as the alpha wolf drags his gaze over the room, taking in every detail. "What the fuck is going on here?" he says at last, enunciating every word carefully.

"It was Karofsky," rushes Blaine immediately, never taking his narrowed eyes off the boy who had so recently slammed his boyfriend up against a wall. Blaine's small, compact body is practically vibrating with pent-up fury. "He kissed Kurt, was trying to hurt him –"

"Hey!" shouts Dave. "It's not my fault if Anderson can't protect his own fucking property."

And that makes Kurt wince. Because, really, Dave is really going to regret that comment once the full moon is over and flaring hormones have faded away into aching muscles and tender, still-healing bones. Most of the time, Dave is nothing if not over-protective and kind towards Kurt.

But the day before the beginning of the full moon can be volatile for even the most collected of werewolves – and Dave has issues controlling his temper at the best of times. Regardless, the combination of the disparaging comments and kissing Kurt are most likely going to leave the larger boy mortified come next week.

The clamour of voices is starting to draw more onlookers. Tina and Mike are visible on the second floor, leaning over the banister to watch the scene below. Mercedes and Artie have wandered out, expressions curious, from a first floor hallway.

"Hey!" snarls Finn, glaring at the hulking boy in front of him. "That's my brother you're talking about!"

"Please," sneers Dave, lip twisting unpleasantly. "If you think that slip of a thing is still family now that you're so much more than human, Hudson, you're dreaming. He's a fucktoy at best, and dinner at worst."

"Don't you dare –!"

"Shut up, all of you!" Puck's roar brings silence over the room as effectively as flipping a switch. Behind him Santana's teeth are bared, her long dark hair hanging untamed around her face. "Now," he continues, body still a map of hard tension as he takes a deep breath and turns to face Kurt. "What are you doing here, Kurt? You know what day it is."

Kurt shudders involuntarily, still lying slumped against the wall. During the confrontation, he'd been concerned that drawing attention to himself getting up would up have been unnecessarily provocative. At this point, however, standing just seems awkward.

"I'm sorry, Puck," says Kurt. "I shouldn't have come. I was –"

"It's my fault," blurts Finn, taking a step toward the alpha. "Kurt called a few days ago to ask when he could come by next, and the pack was still planning a pre-moon hunting trip. So I told him he could bring the stuff and leave it here. But I forgot to tell him when the trip got cancelled, and –"

Puck raises his hand in a gesture that is far too old for his young face. Finn falls silent and takes a respectful step back. "Kurt, what were you bringing?"

Silently, Kurt gestures toward the overturned cloth bag. In the commotion, several packages have tumbled out, and one of them has been crushed underfoot. "Presents from our parents. It's... it's Finn's birthday."

Puck nods, and at the motion Blaine turns and strides purposefully over to Kurt, still slumped against the wall. Blaine crouches down, thick eyebrows drawn together in an expression of intense concern, and places a gentle hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Are you all right?" Blaine asks, and there is a hard note in his voice that lets Kurt know that the gesture is only mostly about making sure his boyfriend is okay. To a lesser extent, the words and physical contact are also intended to stake his claim.

Kurt nods, and Blaine easily pulls him one-handed into a standing position. Kurt lets it happen, puts up no resistance when Blaine proceeds to wrap a solid arm around Kurt's waist and angle him so that he is tucked into Blaine's side. It's all posturing, after all. Necessary.

Plus, the slight tickle of Blaine's flyaway curls against his nose and the warm certainty of his body is, admittedly, comforting. Safe.

"All right," says Puck at last, turning to face each of them in turn. "Kurt, don't listen when your dumbass brother tells you to do something you obviously shouldn't. You're smarter than that. Hudson, try to actually use that thing between your ears. Karofsky, lay the fuck off Anderson's human. Don't you dare look fucking coy," he adds at Dave's self-satisfied expression. "We're having words later. And Anderson?" Kurt feels Blaine tense beside him. "Let the boy go, he's made of sterner stuff than you think. You and I are talking. Now."

"But –!"

"He's here now, so he may as well stay the night as long as he doesn't leave your room. And I'll even have him escorted up to your there to wait for you, all right? And put someone at the door if it'll make you more comfortable. Regardless, you and I have a pressing concern to discuss. Immediately." Puck's eyes narrow. "That was not a suggestion, Anderson. Hummel, go."

Three years ago, when Finn Hudson was rushed to hospital after getting bitten by a wild dog while walking home from football practice, the doctors hadn't thought he would survive the night. Not because of the extent of his injuries; although the back of his left calf was reduced to stringy, half-eaten shreds, his screams had alerted a nearby neighbour. He had been rushed to hospital quickly enough that the blood loss had been fairly minimal, considering.

It was the fever that had them stumped. It was as though the bite had spread searing infection to every inch of Finn's body faster than scientifically possible. Finn burned. He thrashed, and sweated, and screamed strangled insanities no matter how much morphine and anaesthetic they pumped into his veins.

Once it was clear that the seventeen-year-old could not be forced to lose consciousness, the nurses had had to restrain him. Thick padded leather restraints, like something out of a medical horror film, approved by the attending doctor and strapped onto Finn's wrists and ankles after he flailed and struck a pretty blond nurse across the face. But even these were limited, ineffective; Finn simply continued to howl, and strain, and cry as though every bone in his body were on fire, every nerve shredded with agony.

The entire Trauma Ward was filled with the sound of Finn's screams for hours. Kurt, Carole, and Burt could hear him three hallways down; they huddled together in the waiting room, tears streaming down Kurt and Carole's faces. Burt was white as a sheet.

When a nervous-looking young doctor came to them a few hours in to inform the family that they had no idea what was wrong with their son, that he wasn't responding to anaesthesia, and that they weren't sure he would survive the night, Kurt's dad finally let out a choked sob – before gasping and clutching at his chest. They moved Burt to a chair as the young doctor scurried away, clinging to one another as Carole sobbed helplessly into her husband's shoulder.

By morning, though, Finn had begun to respond to the medication. His fever went down, slowly, until eventually his screams subsided and he finally – finally – drifted into a drugged sleep. The actual wound, which had been somewhat ignored in favour of the boy's inexplicable resistance to all approved hospital painkillers and sedatives, actually looked much better than anticipated. An hour later, once Finn had been unquestionably stabilized, another nurse was sent to inform the family. It was the single most relieved and grateful Kurt Hummel had ever felt in his life. He'd had to sit down in order to avoid passing out from sheer disbelief and gratitude toward a deity he didn't believe in.

There had been more tears, after that. More fear. But eventually, two days later, they were allowed to take Finn home.

Burt had firmly put his foot down on keeping Finn in hospital for another week so that the doctors could attempt to understand the fever and the drug resistance – "he needs to be home now, resting, not being prodded by the same bunch of quacks that couldn't even keep him under to operate on" – and, for a while, Finn seemed to recover shockingly quickly. The night of blind agony was entirely gone from his memory, although the young man was embarrassed to hear how his shrieking cries had been heard by not only his family, but practically the entirety of Lima Memorial. Kurt had been relieved. No one deserved to feel the way Finn had sounded that night.

Finn's destroyed calf healed quicker than expected, the skin turning red and shiny much quicker than either Burt or Carole expected. Although the seventeen-year-old was devastated that he would likely have to get at least a partial prosthetic, his family's insistence that he was damn lucky to be alive kept him somewhat light-hearted. After a week, he and Kurt were back to playfully sniping at each other – if, on Kurt's part, somewhat cautiously and with kid-gloves on. He received twelve get-well cards from various school friends and relatives, as well as a bundle of flowers from the school administration. He was getting better.

At least, until two and a half weeks after the accident.

The fever came back, sudden and shocking, hotter and evidently more excruciating than ever. At five o'clock, they ate dinner as a family. By six o'clock, Carole was rubbing soothing circles into Finn's back as her son clung helplessly to the bowl of the toilet and vomited the meal feebly into its depths. By seven o'clock, Finn was reduced to writhing uncontrollably in his bed, wailing and thrashing and sobbing into his sheets. Burt and Carole were downstairs debating the best way to get their son into the car to transport him to the emergency room when the sun dipped below the horizon.

(Once, much later, Kurt had asked his brother what it felt like to transform. He'd expected a flip response – perhaps, "worse than being tackled on the field, dude," or "pretty much the worst thing ever". Something to make the situation they were in somehow less terribly dire than it was.

Instead, Finn had looked at him very seriously. He glanced away for a moment, brow furrowed, seeming to contemplate the question with great intensity.

Kurt knows now that every bone in the werewolf's body must fracture and break along dozens of points so that they can be remade, elongated or shortened. Every internal organ is liquefied; heart, kidneys, and lungs all ceasing to function before stretching into new shapes, new locations. The spinal cord snaps. Blood literally boils as the muscles all stretch and the skin melts. The vocal chords snap and the face shatters and distends, mouth open in a silent scream of agony.

And, for every second of this, the wolf is entirely aware. Entirely awake.

"I actually don't think there are words," Finn had finally said, and they had dropped the subject. Kurt had never asked again.)

On that day, Kurt had arrived home a few minutes after sunset, just as the moon was appearing gradually in the dusky sky. Clutching the prescription bag of painkillers he'd been frantically sent by his dad to refill at the pharmacy, he had stopped dead with his hand on the front doorknob at the sound of screaming coming from inside. Not Finn's voice; Carole and Burt's. Sounding hysterical and so, so frightened.

Later, he had no idea precisely what made him abandon the painkillers on the doorstep and dash into the garage to get his father's rifle. Something about the screams, most likely. Terrified when they should have been devastated; too frantic to be grief.

Kurt Hummel is many things. On that day, he was a good student, a biting sarcastic, a fashionista, a rather flamboyant homosexual. He was, and still remains, also a very, very good shot. It is thus an indication of how earth-shatteringly shocked he was to open the door and find his dad face-first on the ground with an enormous creature –a wolf, but wrong and twisted and terrible – slashing deep wounds across his shoulders – Carole had already been flung across the room, hand and torso bleeding profusely – that the shot he fired into the wolf's body missed the heart and instead lodged itself in the animal's shoulder.

The wolf had howled, agonized, before dropping to the ground and charging for the now-open door so quickly it was only a blur. When Kurt had called an ambulance, ensured both his parents were alive, and run upstairs to check on Finn and found only blood-soaked sheets and deep scratch-marks in the walls, he had suspected the worst.

He had not expected his step-brother to find him the next day, battered and beaten and his ruined calf fully healed. He had not expected Finn – dressed in poorly-fitting clothes and covered in earth – to fall apart, begging for his forgiveness and collapsing in a sobbing heap at his feet.

It is Artie who walks him up the two flights of stairs to 'Blaine's room': Room 306, one of the many ever-so-slightly slightly rundown rooms within the motel the pack is currently taking over. On the way up, Artie— dashing as ever with his lean, muscled body and gorgeous blue eyes – makes stilted small talk about the motel's history. Puck hasn't made it clear whether the fight downstairs will be made pack-wide knowledge yet, and thus the brown-haired boy steers clear from the most obvious conversation choice.

Instead Kurt learns all about how the Woods' Edge Motel went under in 1992, after the new highway was opened up and the ramshackle forest road its lies on suddenly became less appealing. The lack of attention paid toward this woodland road, which has been closed for 'eventual maintenance' for the past eight months, is the real reason they have set up base here for the next couple of months; the dozens of rooms are just a nice bonus.

It's not particularly interesting information, but Kurt tries his best to look engaged.

"It's a good thing we've got friends in high places," Arties says into the silence of the hallway as they reach Blaine's room. "Otherwise, we wouldn't be able to enjoy the little things. Like having internet access. Or electricity. Or running water."

Kurt forces out a laugh, then turns to face the other boy before heading into the room – only to find that Artie is looking right at him. There is a small, understanding look on his face as he claps Kurt on the shoulder with a broad hand. Artie then hands Kurt his cloth bag – he had insisted on carrying it up the stairs – and turns and walks down the hallway.

Sometimes, Kurt finds it very hard to believe that this is the same boy he'd seen in years-old Facebook photos from before he'd been bitten. Bespectacled, bean-stalk thin. His body seemingly forever-broken, legs dangling useless in front of his chair.

Shaking his head, Kurt twists the knob and pushes his way inside Blaine's room. There is no point in locking doors here; any member of the pack could easily break through such a flimsy barrier.

Once the door is closed, Kurt leans his back against it. Taking a deep breath, Kurt runs a hand through his hair and lets his gaze fall on his boyfriend's temporary home. It's looking more lived-in than the last time Kurt came to visit two weeks ago, but he can see that Blaine's duffel bag is still only half-unpacked, shoved into a corner. The pack is constantly on the move – it's safer that way, leaves less chance for discovery – and as a result they rarely stay in any one location longer than a few months. But the room is neat, and warm, and smells of Blaine in a deep and unmistakable way that makes Kurt's shoulders relax and some of the tension seep from his chest.

I need to shower, Kurt thinks, and heads for the bathroom. Not because of the ten hour drive, although that has not been kind to him; his skin feels sallow, clothes rumpled and unpleasant after the long trip. He needs to shower because of what day it is. Senses uncontrollably sharp, Blaine will almost certainly be reduced to a growling, jealous mess if he comes back from his meeting with the pack leader only to find Kurt reeking of Dave Karofsky. Although Kurt himself cannot smell the larger boy on him – sometimes human senses are useful like that – he can imagine the thick scent of another man's anger and desire coming off of him in sick, pungent waves.

When he gets into the bathroom, the first thing he notices is that his shirt is ruined. Four horizontal slashes have left the fabric of if shredded and dangling at his chest; he realizes that Dave must have swiped at him with near-moon sharpened nails when Blaine and Finn shoved him away. He feels more upset about the irreparable damage to his shirt than about the fact that he was a hair's breadth away from losing some skin, and wonders if that means he has been living around his brother's kind for too long.

After popping three Tylenol from the well-stocked medicine bag on the bathroom counter, Kurt strips his clothes, gets into the shower, and turns the water on so hot it leaves his skin flushing bright red. The shampoo, conditioner, and body wash are all scent-free, but Kurt knows they will serve their purpose. He pays special attention to his wrists, back, and face, scrubbing hard over those areas again and again until he's fairly certain the smell won't be offensively strong anymore. Once he's finished he turns off the water, towels off, and applies some of the scent-free moisturizer he'd left with Blaine after his last visit.

Kurt heads back into the other room and finds a t-shirt and a pair of jeans of Blaine's that don't look absolutely ridiculous on him. The jeans cut off slightly above his ankles, but the shirt is soft and comfortable. The clothes he had been wearing get tied off in a plastic bag and tossed into the laundry pile. Newly clean and dressed, Kurt settles down with Blaine's laptop on the queen-sized motel bed to wait for his boyfriend's return.

When the door finally creaks open and Blaine pokes his head inside twenty minutes later, Kurt quickly looks over to see what kind of mood Blaine is in. It is the day before the full moon, and werewolf emotions are genuinely volatile and hard to control as the pearly-white mark against the night sky becomes fuller, more tantalizing. It is entirely possible that Blaine might still be fuming, fierce and possessive after the run-in with Dave.

But Blaine shuts the door softly behind him, and Kurt can instantly see that his boyfriend looks more abashed than angry. His posture is apologetic, tentative – even slightly embarrassed. Kurt closes the computer (he'd only been on YouTube, anyways) and turns to smile at the curly-haired boy.

"Hey, you," says Kurt.

"Hey," says Blaine, padding gently across the bedroom floor and taking a seat next to Kurt on the bed. He isn't wearing any shoes, and there is an unsure expression on Blaine's face. When it is just the two of them, it is sometimes hard to remember that lying just beneath the soft-spoken, sweet exterior is a feral animal pining to be let loose. The shorter boy raises a hand to Kurt's face, carefully cradling his cheek. "Are you really okay?"

"Well," drawls Kurt, stretching out the word into an attempt at playfulness. "Aside from my Dolce and Gabana shirt now lying in tatters..." At Blaine's beseeching looks, he trails off. Dropping the light-hearted tone, Kurt reaches over and places a hand on his boyfriend's knee. "I'm really okay. Trust me when I say that I've honestly faced worse than a hormone-addled ex-football player."

"I know you have," says Blaine, a tiny smile pulling across his lips. His eyes only contain the slightest hint of yellow around the edges; the rest is their usual warm hazel. Blaine's hand strokes a trail of heat down Kurt's exposed neck, and the slighter boy leans into the inhuman warmth of Blaine's skin. The muscles are sore there, and the heat feels good against them. Blaine moves to rub Kurt's wrist, and the slender boy winces. Those will almost certainly bruise.

After a moment's silence, Blaine pulls his legs up and clambers fully onto the bed. He curls onto his side in a lying position; Kurt wordlessly puts the laptop on the floor and lies down in front of him, his back to Blaine's chest. Blaine curls a protective arm around Kurt's small waist, and the weight and heat of it is reassuring. Blaine's breath tickles the hairs on the back of Kurt's neck with every exhalation, and the heat of his body coiled all around him is soothing and familiar.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to pull him off sooner." Blaine's quiet voice whispers into his ear after a few minutes spent wrapped around each other. Their feet are twined together at the bottom of the bed, and Blaine's toes are absently brushing against Kurt's ankles. Kurt lets out a tired sigh.

"Don't be. It's my own fault. I knew I probably shouldn't risk coming even if no one were home, but..." Kurt thinks of the crumpled packages strewn across the motel entranceway. One of had contained a set of DVDs – The Blind Side, Remember the Titans, Run Fatboy Run. He hopes that hadn't been one of the ones crushed underfoot. "But it was his birthday. And Carole was just... yeah." Kurt shakes his head minutely, and then lets out a small laugh. "You'd think that after three years, I'd know by now to trust my instincts around you guys."

Blaine presses a kiss to the back of Kurt's neck. It's meant to be comforting, but they haven't seen each other for two weeks. Instead, the gentle touch of lips against sensitive skin makes Kurt inhale sharply and a spike of heat rush between his legs.

"You do know that, love," says Blaine. "Your brother can just be extraordinarily dim sometimes." Kurt knows that his boyfriend can smell the beginning of his arousal, but Blaine makes no indication that he notices. Instead, he continues to speak in that calm, quiet voice of his. It's a courtesy; one of many they've had to work out in the two years they've been together. "How are Burt and Carole doing?" continues Blaine, and Kurt's heart sinks.

"They're... as fine as they can be, I suppose. They miss him. I think it breaks their hearts every time I leave them to come stay with you guys for a few days, or a week. When I come home I can always see the unasked questions in their eyes. It kills them to be left behind." Blaine's arm squeezes Kurt's waist, and Kurt smiles. "I think they're still absurdly grateful that I'm back in their lives at all, though, so that's something. And Carole's really good at writing with her left hand now."

"That's good," says Blaine, and Kurt moves so that their bodies are pressed even closer together.

Mostly, Kurt thinks, Burt and Carole are frightened of making Kurt leave again. Of saying the wrong thing, or pushing too hard for news of Finn, or asking too many questions that Kurt can't answer. They are terrified that Kurt will suddenly take off, disappearing into the night the way both he and Finn did three years ago.

The day after Burt and Carole had been viciously attacked in their own living room, both of the parents stabilized but unconscious in Lima Memorial, Finn and Kurt had fled town in Burt's truck. The absence of knapsacks' worth of clothes and Burt's rifle was all that was left for them to find at home. Leaving only a pair of notes on each of their hospital beds had been cruel, but necessary. Kurt hadn't returned home for eight months.

Finn never did.

Burt and Carole had already lost one son: they would do anything in their power to avoid driving Kurt away.

"I'm fairly certain I'm going to eviscerate Karofsky, though." Blaine's voice is light, but there is an undertone of seriousness that makes Kurt roll his eyes.

"Blaine, you know it wasn't Dave's fault. Not really. It's the day before the full moon; his hormones must have been going crazy. He wasn't actually trying to hurt me. This isn't another Jesse St. James situation." The arm around Kurt's middle tightens, and he mentally slaps himself in the forehead. Way to find the worst possible time to bring up that incident, Hummel.

"Plus," Kurt continues staunchly. "Anything you do to him will be small potatoes compared to how embarrassed he's going to feel after the full moon." Kurt laughs, a high clear sound in the quiet room. "I mean, not only did he attack a higher-ranking pack member's human: he was actually fired up enough to kiss a man. I'm sure by next week everyone will be on him for being so moon-crazed he couldn't even go after the right gender."

There is a pause. Then Blaine lets out a small laugh. "Of course. Yeah. You're... probably right."

He can feel the weight of Blaine's arm unfurl from around his waist. Then Blaine's hand is on his shoulder, gently guiding him into a change of position. Kurt follows easily, willingly. After a moment's adjustment, they are lying face to face on top of the rough motel sheets. Blaine reaches up and cards a hand through Kurt's damp, unstyled hair; any decent product smells too strongly for the pack, and whenever Kurt comes to stay he forces himself to leave it lying flat and boring.

"I'm not actually angry at Karofsky," admits Blaine reluctantly, looking Kurt straight in the eye. His fingers brush through the damp strands of Kurt's hair. Blaine's curls are long and untamed, a dark contrast against the sterile white of the bed linens. The hint of yellow edging along his eyes is captivating. "I'm angry with myself. It just... it tears me up that I can't be around to keep you safe all the time."

The words make Kurt's lips thin, and Blaine's hand shifts to his exposed throat. "I know you don't like to admit it," Blaine continues, voice subdued and faraway as he begins to drag two fingernails ever-so-lightly over the skin of Kurt's throat. "But you're so... brittle, Kurt. At least compared to us. So breakable. You could get hit by a car, or tracked down by another wolf, or... or I don't know, trip and fall. And that would be the end. You'd be gone. And that's... that's so scary to me." His boyfriend's words are full of something raw and real, bitter honesty and genuine fear.

"One day you can turn me," says Kurt, inhaling at the touch along his neck. "You know I'm not ready yet, but... one day."

"Mmm," murmurs Blaine, as though he hasn't heard anything Kurt's just said.

His boyfriend's nails are more elongated, sharper than usual: they always are the day before the change. Even the feather-light touch as they skim along Kurt's skin is just a fraction of added pressure away from being enough to slice, to tear. To draw blood.

Kurt's heart rate remains slow, and constant, and calm. The pressure against his neck is no danger; Blaine would never do anything to hurt him. But there is a suspicion growing at the back of his mind at Blaine's words, a certainty filling up his entire body with low-burning dread. Carefully, delicately, Kurt reaches up and stills Blaine's arm. His boyfriend pulls the appendage away, and all at once the hint of sharpness along his throat is gone. Blaine looks at him, confused.

"Blaine, what did you and Puck talk about?"

That his eyes dart quickly away is indication enough that Kurt isn't going to like the answer. Blaine's body jerks abruptly, as if to wanting to bolt: long experience has given Blaine an extremely well-developed fight or flight reflex. However, a hand on his arm is enough to keep him in place. Physically, there is no way that Kurt could restrain Blaine from doing anything he wanted. The gesture, however, is enough. Blaine sighs and lets the slighter boy guide him back down onto the bed.

A long moment of silence hangs between them as Blaine visibly attempts to find the right words to describe his conversation with the pack leader. He opens his mouth as if to speak a few times, always closing it before any words can be spoken. Eventually, he begins.

"It's not you. He... he was really clear about that, Kurt. Hell, you've been with the pack – in a manner of speaking, at least, off and on – for longer than I have." The words seem to physically pain Blaine to speak, and there is a sinking feeling in Kurt's stomach. "It's just that... there's been some talk. Finn is pretty much settled in now, what with him and Rachel, and Puck doesn't like having unnecessary conflict between pack members. Not that you're unnecessary, or – I don't mean – fuck, Kurt..." Blaine lets out a small noise of distress. "It's just that today, it was three pack members fighting each other like children over someone who is inherently an outsider. And... he thinks we need to find a solution."

Once upon a time, the blunt phrasing would have rendered Kurt into bristling, huffing flurry. Being called unnecessary, outsider – in another life, Kurt can imagine himself throwing a hissy fit to end all hissy fits in response. But after three years, Kurt understands pack culture possibly better than its own members. He is an outsider in this, a problem to be solved. Discussing his unusual situation in any other way was only sugar-coating.

Plus, some part of him has been expecting this decision for years. A human living with a werewolf pack, even on a discontinuous basis, was insanely rare. It caused problems, issues of secrecy. Fights. Conflict.

Kurt lets out a breath. "Okay. Okay, it's all right. I thought this might... but it doesn't really matter. They can't touch us, Blaine, or what we have. Not in the ways that matter. And Finn and I will manage. I don't want to be cut off from him, either. So... we'll work it out, okay?"

Blaine's lips tighten, and he nods. Reaches over and begins to stroke Kurt's arm, slow pets from shoulder to elbow and back again. Kurt knows that the contact is more for Blaine's sake than it is for his own.

"He gave us four choices," starts Blaine tentatively. "I'm not going to lie, Kurt, we fought about this. I don't see why your situation has to change just because some dumbass can't keep it in his pants. But Puck was pretty firm. Having you around, human and spoken for, but "unclaimed"?" Blaine momentarily stops the soft touches along Kurt's arm to raise his fingers in an air quote, and Kurt knows that the word is not his own. "Is going to have to change."

"Okay," says Kurt, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. "What are our choices?"

Blaine takes a deep breath. "The first is that I can leave the pack. Try going it alone."

Kurt stares at him. "That... really isn't an option, Blaine."

"It isn't," agrees Blaine, shaking his head sadly. "You know that I would if I could. They're my family, but I would leave them to be with you in a heartbeat. But I just... I can't handle the transformations alone yet. I haven't been... like this... for long enough. At least when we're all here together, we can control each other. It makes it bearable. Without that companionship, the wolf is..."

"Relentless. I know."

"I wouldn't be able to stop myself from killing." He shudders. "Even the transformations themselves are an issue. That pain..." Blaine raises his own hand into the air and stares at it for a long moment. Perhaps imagining it stretching, breaking. Claws bursting from underneath the nails. Skin viscous, coarse black hair sprouting from every pore. "Being with my brothers and sisters makes it survivable."

He doesn't say 'bearable', because no one can really bear pain like that. It can only be survived, screaming and wailing and begging for death.

Blaine shakes his head, lowers his hand back onto Kurt's shoulder. "I know that you don't want to hear this, Kurt. But if we had to, you and I... we could stop seeing each other."

"No."

"Kurt, we need to consider –"

"You know what? No. No, we don't," Kurt snaps. Blaine opens his mouth to speak, but Kurt keeps going. "Blaine, I want to be with you. In a forever kinda way, all right? And I know that this is the part in the – the werewolf handbook, or whatever, where you tell the sweet, innocent damsel that she should go lead a normal life. That it'll be safer, or easier." Kurt is babbling now, propped up on one elbow and words streaming out of his mouth unstoppably. "But Blaine: I'm not a little girl. I'm not innocent. And I'm already pretty fucking involved in all of this shit. Breaking up with you wouldn't make my brother any less a werewolf, okay?" He barks out a laugh, raising two fingers into air quotations. "'Normal' isn't an option for me anymore, Blaine."

The stunned expression on Blaine's face is enough to make Kurt embarrassed for his outburst, but not enough so to regret the words that have been pent up inside him, dying for release, for so long. Kurt is breathing faster now, feeling a flush rise in his cheeks from the unpolished confession in combination with his nearness to Blaine's heat-emanating skin.

Eventually his boyfriend's expression softens, something warm and deep and understanding coming into his eyes.

"All right," murmurs Blaine, and all at once Kurt needs to be closer to him. Blaine doesn't react with any surprise when the slighter boy scrambles on top of him, wrapping his arms around Blaine's neck and drawing his legs up as though being carried. On a normal person his weight would be uncomfortable. Blaine just scoots up into a sitting position and scoops Kurt up into his lap. Holds him close. "All right, love," he says again, and Kurt curls up tighter into him.

After a few moments, Blaine speaks again.

"The third option is for me to turn you." Neutral. Carefully dispassionate.

Kurt breathes a deep sigh into Blaine's shoulder. "That's... not ideal."

"I know."

In all of the fairytales, the taint of the wolf is most remembered for the dramatic nature of the monthly transformations. The unbearable pain, the uncontrollability. The unleashing of bloody violence against innocents. But on a practical, day-to-day basis, these difficulties are far surpassed by the changes lycanthropy wrecks in the other twenty-nine days of the month. The human wolf is blessed with improved strength, enhanced senses, and stronger instincts – but these are a curse as much as a gift. A heightened sense of smell makes it practically impossible for werewolves – especially young ones – to bear being around large groups of people without becoming overwhelmed, enraged. Increased aggressiveness in combination with perceiving human beings as either threat or prey generally results in bloodshed within a few days of the wolf trying to integrate back into human life. The lack of companionship of a pack is also enough to drive recently-turned wolves to madness; for the most part, human companionship simply does not compare.

"There's so much that I want to do with my life, Blaine. Things that would be impossible if I turned." Kurt's voice is muffled to his own ears. "I want to perform on a stage in front of a thousand people. I want to sing and have people recognize my voice. If... if I have to, I will. Ever since we found the pack – ever since I found you, I've known that I'm going to be turned one day. In my head, it's the only ending. The conclusion at the end of the story." He lets out a shaky breath. "This would just be... a little bit earlier than I would like."

"You've already had to give up so much," whispers Blaine, and Kurt squeezes into him. "So much, and you deserve to have a life. A career, before..."

"Yeah," says Kurt, before the answer occurs to him. It is so obvious, so simple, that he cannot believe they haven't thought of it yet. "Blaine," he exclaims, pushing himself up on Blaine's shoulders so as to look him in the eyes. "Blaine, why don't we just mate?"

"How did you –?" blinks Blaine, surprise smoothing out his dark features. "That was Puck's fourth option," he continues, carefully neutral.

"It would solve everything." Kurt's voice is growing louder with excitement, words tumbling together in a flood of exhilaration. "We could do it next month, and then I wouldn't smell like a delectable treat to your everyone anymore; I'd smell like yours. I'd be claimed, so I could visit without causing any conflict. It would even help with the safety thing! Don't human mates heal a bit faster, don't get hurt as easily? And even if I encountered you while transformed, I wouldn't be a target. I'd be someone to protect."

"I don't think you're thinking this through." Blaine's voice is strained, looking up at Kurt with something so, so vulnerable in his eyes. "If we did this, I would never be able to let you go. We... we would be each other's for the rest of our lives, Kurt. Mating is forever."

"So are we," insists Kurt. "Plus, the pack isn't going to stay in Missouri forever. I won't always be able to drop everything and just make the ten hour drive. Eventually, you're going to head West. I can't think of a better way to keep us connected – isn't enhanced awareness of each another one of those whole mating-perks?"

"It is, but – I – how do you even know that?"

Kurt gives him a withering look. "Please. Like I decided I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you without doing any research at all. God, you can be silly sometimes."

The vulnerability has spread to Blaine's entire demeanour now; he is entirely too small and frail-looking for someone currently holding his boyfriend as though he were weightless. Blaine's untamed eyebrows are furrowed together.

"You've thought about this before?" There is a slight tremble in Blaine's voice, expression unreadable. "You... want to spend the rest of your life with me?"

"Of course I do," says Kurt, matter-of-factly, before a horrible idea occurs to him. He recoils, a sick feeling growing in his stomach. "Oh, God. You don't want to." Kurt's head swims in a haze of mortification and hurt. "You don't want me."

With such speed Kurt can't even comprehend the movement, he is shoved onto his back and slammed to the bed by an immovable force. Blaine is on top of him, breathing hard, the yellow spread once more to every corner of his eyes and crackling with possessive heat. Kurt's hands are pinned above his head in a pale imitation of the confrontation with Karofsky hours previous. But this time Kurt wants them there. Wants to feel Blaine's hands keep him in place, unrelenting and hard.

But not painful. Never painful. Even with the wolf just barely held back so close to the moon, Blaine would never hurt him.

"Of course I want you," growls Blaine, grinding their hips together viciously. Kurt groans; Blaine is hard, and oh, god, the heat of him. "I want you so badly it aches, Kurt, all the time. You're so fucking perfect. The way you look, the way you smell. Want to claim you. Make you mine, forever. No one else's."

"Yes," Kurt gasps, leaning into the touch as Blaine licks a long stripe up his neck.

"Can barely hold back. So hot, so beautiful. It hurts to look at you sometimes. Makes me want to..." Blaine trails off as his sharp teeth trail over Kurt's jugular, and Kurt moans. Blaine pulls back quickly, panting, and Kurt can still feel the hardness pressed against him.

"I want you to mate with me. I want you to be mine." says Blaine, and the words are so honest they make Kurt's heart hurt. The werewolf still has his hands pinned above his head, constrained and safe. "But I don't want to ruin your life, Kurt."

"You won't." Kurt is breathy, wanton. His entire body is trembling with want, the heat between his legs unbearable and desperate to be touched. Knowing it is unfair of him, he goes for the low blow. "Besides...can you really refuse me that kind of protection?"

And that's all it takes. Blaine's mouth slams against his own, hot and frantic and possessive. His tongue forces its way deep into Kurt's willing mouth, taking all that is offered and more. Kurt strains against Blaine's hand, his whole body thrumming with desire. Kurt's wrists ache, but that doesn't matter. He can feel Blaine's tongue worrying over the same sore patch on his lip, and after a moment he realizes that it is the same place Karofsky bit him earlier. The idea that Blaine is trying to erase Karofsky's touch, even subconsciously – and that Blaine must still be able to taste the blood – makes arousal spike within him, hot and hard. Kurt groans into Blaine's mouth, and Blaine grinds their hips together desperately.

"Mine," Blaine growls against his lips, and Kurt shudders helplessly. He can feel the pent-up strength lurking just beneath Blaine's skin; in his muscles, in his sinew, in his blood. Straining to bite, and tear, and mark. Kurt knows that just beneath the surface of Blaine's mind, the wolf wants to hold Kurt down slam into him without preparation, hard and fast. To make him howl, and whine, and cry out. Wants to make him sing in pain as he drags his claws across Kurt's pale chest and draws blood to lap up in long strokes of his tongue.

But they've done this before – rarely on the day before the full moon, true. But Blaine is still well-versed in the art of restraint. The curly-haired boy draws back, panting raggedly, and begins to remove his own clothes. Kurt takes the opportunity to quickly shuck his jeans and t-shirt: if he doesn't, Blaine won't be able to stop himself from tearing them off. He is just able to remove the jeans before Blaine is on him again, naked, pressing wet kisses with a hint of sharp teeth down Kurt's long body. Kurt's hands are already tangled weakly in the sheets by the time Blaine kisses his way down between his legs.

When he reaches Kurt's cock, Blaine licks a long stripe up the length before taking the whole thing into his mouth. Kurt lets out a keening cry as the impossible, incomprehensible heat of Blaine's mouth surrounds him. It's sloppy, desperate. Blaine laps at the tip to catch any trace of precome, tongue rolling around the sensitive head and making Kurt sob with pleasure.

Blaine is taking extra care of his teeth, but every so often they graze – barely perceptible, hardly even there and nowhere near hard enough to hurt – against the skin of Kurt's cock. It makes Kurt gasp and sharp warmth shoot up his spine; makes his stomach tighten and his toes curl. When it happens again, unbearable pleasure slams through Kurt's body and he has to jerk away to stop himself from coming.

"Please," he begs, so close he can feel his orgasm tingling at the tips of his fingers, just waiting to be released. Blaine's lips are reddened, swollen and wet with saliva. He looks up and meets Kurt's eyes from his position above his cock, and the look in his eyes is so animalistic, so raw, that it almost makes Kurt come right there. He nods and crawls up the bed, reaching over into the bedside table. Next to the standard-issue Bible in the drawer is a small container of lube, and Blaine squeezes a generous amount onto his fingers before returning.

Kurt spreads his legs for his boyfriend's touch, and the sight makes Blaine growl. He leans forward. His finger circles Kurt's tight entrance, swirling slippery lubricant around the sensitive skin, before finally pushing inside. The intrusion makes Kurt cry out; they haven't been together for two weeks, and the stretch of Blaine's finger inside of him is shocking. But a moment later Blaine crooks his finger ever-so-slightly, and Kurt is whimpering as Blaine rubs against that spot inside of him. It's unbearably good, and when Blaine adds another slippery finger Kurt groans and pushes back onto them.

Soon Blaine sets up a steady rhythm, fingers stretching him and making him moan, powerless against the burn and the searing waves of pleasure as Blaine brushes against the place inside of him again and again.

"So fucking beautiful," rumbles Blaine, voice low and uneven. He is so far from his usual gentlemanly self, undone and unconstrained by the closeness of the full moon. His other hand is moving on his own cock as he prepares Kurt, touching himself hard and fast. "You're going to moan when I fuck you, aren't you? Going to be so tight and good for me, Kurt."

Kurt nods, frenzied with sensation, the feeling growing inside him so strong, so much. Out of the corner of his eye he sees movement, feels the cool addition of more lube before letting out a choked whine as Blaine adds a third finger. It burns, but in a way that makes Kurt feel so full and wanted that he is almost crying.

"Going to be all mine by next month. Do you want that, Kurt? Do you want to be all mine – to do what I like with you, forever?"

"Yes," sobs Kurt. The stretch is so unbearably good, but he needs more. "Please, Blaine, I want it. I want you, I need you, please –"

All at once the fingers are gone, and Kurt wants to cry with how empty he feels – before a slick, blunt pressure is there, and Blaine's cock is pushing inside. Filling him up, unbearably hot and the heat so good as Blaine pushes deeper, deeper, until he is fully seated inside Kurt's body.

"Hands," growls Blaine, and Kurt's hands immediately fly above his head. Blaine reaches up and pins them with one hand, the other supporting his weight as he begins to fuck Kurt in earnest, hard and deep. Kurt moans, because the drag of Blaine's cock against his prostate is sweet, and good, and Blaine is making him so full, so wanted. So claimed.

Stars are bursting behind Kurt's eyelids every time Blaine thrusts into him, and pressure is building at the gathering at the base of his spine. Overwhelming and so fucking hot, the slippery heat of Blaine's cock moving inside him almost impossible to bear, and when Blaine releases Kurt's hands and reaches down to stroke his cock once, twice, Kurt can't hold back anymore. He comes, wailing, as Blaine's mouth slams over his own and devours the sounds in a mash of teeth, and lips, and tongue. It's bright, and hot, and his whole body is on fire as Blaine fucks him through his orgasm, leaving him trembling and weak. His prostate is over-sensitive now, and shocks of pleasure-pain make him moan into Blaine's mouth.

It doesn't take long for Blaine to come, growling, slamming into Kurt one last time so hard it makes him gasp. He stills, shaking, as he pulses liquid heat into Kurt's body. Blaine clenches with pleasure as he comes, and he lets out a needy sound that is so completely human that it makes Kurt's heart soar even as he is so exhausted he can barely move.

They stay that way for a long moment, panting, before Blaine slowly pulls out. It makes Kurt release a tiny noise at the sudden emptiness – and then Blaine is leaning up over their sticky bodies to kiss him again. Kurt kisses back, body thrumming with the pleasure of release, tongue lazily sliding against Blaine's.

When Blaine pulls away, there is a look of dazed worry on his face.

"You really meant what you said before?" he asks, and there is something so nakedly vulnerable in his voice that Kurt's heart breaks a little. He leans up to kiss the uncertainty away.

"Yes," he murmurs against Blaine's lips. "I did." The groan of pleasure and happiness his boyfriend releases into the kiss makes him grin despite the how utterly devastated and fatigued his body feels. He presses one last kiss to Blaine's lips before pulling back. "Now let's get cleaned up and go to bed."

"I love you," says Blaine, the words slightly non-sequitur and awkward. The difference his boyfriend now and in the throes of sex could not be more pronounced; Blaine is biting his lip nervously, real tenderness shining in his eyes. They're mostly hazel again.

Blaine is both of these people, and he is neither. He is the wolf, and he is the man. He is a combination of the two that makes Kurt groan, and sigh, and laugh. That makes him moan with pleasure and cry with happiness.

Kurt smiles and runs a hand through Blaine's soft, curly hair.

"I love you, too," he whispers back, and kisses Blaine on the forehead.