A CLEAN BREAK, Part 1/2
Written using lil_miss_choc's "Fic I Didn't Write" synopsis: AU. Puck and Kurt meet for the first time in a D/S bar. Puck is someone else's (Lauren's, perhaps), but has been brought there essentially as his dom's servant while she/he is out hunting for fresh meat, because she/he has bored of him but doesn't want to be without a sub while he/she searches for a new one.

Kurt (an unattached dom) sees Puck being badly treated, and tells him: "Yesterday I didn't know you; tomorrow you will be mine." Kurt tells Puck just how well he will be treated as Kurt's sub. After some persuasion, Puck's current dom notices and tries to intervene. Puck refuses to do as his dom says and leaves with Kurt. They both live smuttily ever after.

The second part (New Directions) will be coming soon!

Excerpt from Jeannette Walls' The Glass Castle:
"From the time the Joshua tree was a tiny sapling, it had been so beaten down by the whipping wind that, rather than trying to grow skyward, it had grown in the direction that the wind had pushed it. It existed now in a permanent state of windblownness, leaning over so far that it seemed ready to topple, although, in fact, its roots held it firmly in place."

Puck sprawls out on the stool, his shoulder blades resting on the bar behind him as he halfheartedly tries to spot Master out in the playing field. Under usual circumstances Puck's ass would be smarting faster than he could say "Yes, ma'am" for sitting anywhere higher than knee-level, but there isn't anything normal about tonight. It's like I'm Alice in Wonderland, Puck thinks with a learned numbness as he eyes his Master sizing up a meek little Oriental chick dressed in black spandex.

Wicked isn't as jam-packed as it usually is, but the "gaylezbar" is hosting one of its exclusive, infrequent Dom/Sub Nights. It's an invitation-only intimate affair meant to provide this particular community privacy, comfort, and protection. The bar's been given a slight makeover for ambiance, the lighting dimmed so clusters of flickering candles make iWicked/i look like a classy brothel or something. All Puck cares about is that he feels more at peace in this schmaltzy mood lighting, cloaked in the shadows as he waits for Master's drink.

He feels a strange tickle on the back of his neck, the unsettling sensation of being stared at. He is mostly used to the feeling—he gets plenty of weird looks when Master makes him wear his collar while they're out running errands—but there's something about the way this gaze in particular causes him to break out in a sweat and turn pinker than a blushing virgin. Puck's hand self-consciously flies to his Adam's apple, the pads of his fingertips instinctively expecting to meet leather. He feels a flurry of emotions—discomfort, shame, loneliness—when he brushes against his racing pulse point lurking just beneath the leather band. The collar Master had given him back when their relationship was still fresh and exciting wouldn't be around his neck much longer with the way she's been picking through the submissive crowd tonight.

Puck's melancholia is enough to keep him preoccupied as a patron subtly checks him out over the sugared rim of an obnoxiously colored drink. Puck straightens his posture as Master excuses herself from the throngs of submissive lipstick lesbians that have flocked around her, looking right through Puck as she approaches the bar.

"My drink," she commands in her usual no-nonsense manner, her blue eyes locked on the wall filled with various bottles of booze. Puck wordlessly takes Master's vodka cranberry from the bartender and slips it into Master's misleadingly delicate hand. She makes direct eye contact with Puck for the first time that night, but he almost wishes she hadn't. Nothing but business and ice meets his meek gaze before he dutifully lowers his eyes. "Quit slumping like that. It makes you look pregnant."

He straightens his spine, hope escaping him as her Mary Janes turn and disappear from his view. Puck feels another pang of pain, the high polish of Master's shoes reminding him of days gone by, back when he was permitted to hand-shine them before they went on outings. He is entertaining the notion of going against Master's no-alcohol command when someone slips into the barstool beside him. Puck swivels around so fast he nearly gets whiplash, locking eyes with a man who looks like he's made of porcelain, a delicate frame of soft yet pronounced angles. His eyes—blue, but more like summer skies than polar ice caps—are tastefully rimmed with a sensible amount of kohl, pretty and welcoming as they pan over Puck's frame. Puck's face catches fire as he subtly sucks in his gut, Master's comment freshly branded in his mind.

"Hello there," the gorgeous stranger greets with a voice that sounds like how Master's mink coat feels. A svelte and precisely manicured hand is produced out of thin air, his palm facing Puck. "I'm Kurt."

"Puck," he replies, going for a handshake only to have Kurt pull the back of Puck's chapped hand up to his lips for a kiss. His eyes never leave Pucks for a second, even as Puck snatches his arm away. Kurt slowly sits back up, looking neither irritated nor embarrassed at Puck's rebuff. He feels like he's being choked by a ball-gag, unable to speak as silence fills the air around them. Puck turns darker and darker with humiliation.

"You know," Kurt begins, voice light, "This is my third Dom/sub gathering and I've yet to find myself the right fit?" The words, spoken innocently enough, conjure thoughts so perverse that Puck has to shift in his chair to avoid making a bigger fool of himself. Kurt looks at him with grating omniscience, as if he's got Puck all figured out during the course of their two-minute relationship.

Not relationship, Puck chastises himself as he turns back to the bar counter, hand clenching around his glass of water. "That sucks," he replies trying to come off as dismissive. "I hope you find your Dom."

The suddenness of Kurt's laugh startles Puck, nearly causing him to spill water all over himself. "Oh, I'm not here scouting for a Dom." Puck nearly falls out of his seat for a second time when he turns back to face Kurt, whose eyes embody the atmosphere and the moniker of the club: a perfect blend of good and evil.

"You… you're a dominant?" He does his best not to come off as offensive, but he can't keep the surprise out of his tone.

"Duh," Kurt huffs, shooting Puck a charming half-smile. "I am the ringleader, I call the shots."

The sound of Kurt's singing covers Puck in goose-bumps. Master loves to sing as well but never did she sing to Puck, or make it sound as if she were making love to him with her voice alone. He feels more like he's ensconced in the intimacy of Wicked, sitting here with a man he's just met who seems hell-bent on making Puck squirm.

"So you here on business, pleasure… both?" It's crafted to sound conversational, but Puck catches the unspoken question in Kurt's inquiry.

"Business," Puck replies quietly, looking back to Master. They both sit and silently watch her tuck a lock of dark brown hair behind a pretty, doe-eyed girl's ear. The water Puck sips from his glass tastes just as off as he feels, watching the most important person in his life flirt with someone else.

"You know, I never much liked Quinn," Kurt says as he takes a sip of a fruity cocktail. "She's always looking for more, more, more."

"Don't talk about Master that way," Puck snaps a mite desperately, glaring daggers at Kurt who holds his hands out in apology.

"I meant no harm," Kurt insists. "All I'm saying is that she doesn't know what she has. She'll regret it when you're gone."

Puck sits back with wounded pride, feeling defective and lost in an ocean of confusing guilt. Overwhelmed, his mouth runs off on him. "What's wrong with me? I mean, am I a good sub? If I were good enough, I don't think she'd want a new one…"

Kurt covers Puck's knee with his perfect hand, perfect fingers skating over his pant leg in such a way that made Puck's entire body stand on end. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with you," Kurt says with a conviction that tightens his voice. It's as if Kurt is hurting right along with Puck, which is impossible, weird… and slightly comforting, if Puck is honest with himself.

Kurt leans forward in his seat, the movement tethering them closer together. "Yesterday I didn't know you; tomorrow you will be mine."

The promising nature Kurt exudes is palpable; it puts Puck's pulls in a tizzy as the hand softly squeezing his kneecap shoots wave after warm, rushing wave of perfection into his system. He feels cleansed, recharged, alive, like nothing else will matter if he moves just a bit closer, just a little more...

"Puck?" Master's voice is like a cold, harsh jet of water that wakes him out of a deep trance, metaphorically pulling him up by the scruff of his neck with its controlled anger. His eyes are wide and he knows he has to look like a moron with his mouth hanging wide open. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

Puck doesn't know what to say; he's gobsmacked into speechlessness. Kurt saves him from further mortification as he turns to face Quinn, hand never leaving Puck's thigh. "Quinn. You're looking lovely as usual. That knock-off Vera Wang is working wonders for your complexion."

"You're looking underage as ever, Kurtie," Quinn replies, saccharine-sweet. "May I ask what you're doing molesting my sub?"

"Oh, Puck belongs to you? Sorry, I thought he was available, considering how much schmoozing you're doing out on the floor."

Puck follows each verbal attack and countermeasure with awe; no one ever dares to face off with his Master, but Kurt's got the sharpest tongue Puck's ever heard. The conversation doesn't last much longer, and Quinn looks like she would much rather slap Kurt across the face as she grabs Puck's shoulder. "C'mon, Puck. Let's get out of here, I'm tired."

Puck, in an unusual bout of defiance, shakes himself free of Quinn's iron grip. "Go on without me. It's not like you need me, anyway," he snaps. Quinn looks shocked for all of a couple seconds before her face contorts into an ugly scowl. Puck prides himself in staying strong, not flinching even as Quinn goes to smack him.

Her hand never gets the chance to strike Puck, warded off by a pissed-off Kurt. "Don't you dare," he hisses, sounding every bit the dominant male. Puck's entire being thrums with heat at the weight of the situation.

"I just wanted my collar back, retard," Quinn replies in flimsy defense, going for Puck's neck. Puck watches with no small amount of surprise as Kurt steps aside, eyes like flint as he watches Quinn slip the collar off of Puck's neck, sparing Puck one long last glare before she turns and exits Wicked.

Kurt's posture never deflates, not even after Quinn's gone. His eyes are still glinting with anger as he turns back to Puck. "I'm sorry, but your ex-Master's a bitch." Puck says nothing as Kurt sits back down beside him. "Now where were we?"

"Thank you," Puck breathes with a voice that's embarrassingly shaky and small. He can't believe any of this; it's as if he had dreamt up the entire exchange and he's still asleep in his bed beside Mas—Quinn's bed.

Kurt brushes the compliment off as if it were nothing. "No biggie, sweetheart. Now tell me a bit about yourself, hmm?" Puck exhales, unable to reply. He closes his eyes as he slowly severs ties with Quinn in his soul. He revels in the aching sensations as Kurt's hand finds Puck's, squeezing his fingers with soothing, tourniquet-like strength. "Would you like to head back to my place?"

Puck prickles at the suggestiveness of the request, about to call Kurt out for mistaking him as a whore, but Kurt soothes his ruffled feathers. "I just want to talk, that's it. I swear on all that is couture," Kurt says with a small smile.

Kurt looks so genuine in that moment, and Puck can't help but fall for his act. "You'd better," he mutters weakly. "I'm not putting out or anything."

"I don't want you to," Kurt says. "Not just yet." Puck can't help himself; he breathes out a soft moan at the promise heavy in Kurt's tone. "Tomorrow, Puck," Kurt breathes into his ear. "…Tomorrow will come soon enough. But you need time to heal if you're ever going to be mine. For now, let's just talk." He again offers his hand, an opportunity presenting itself to Puck in the form of a beautiful, surprising man.

He takes a chance and puts his hand in Kurt's, lacing their fingers together. "Okay," he breathes. "That sounds… yeah."

Kurt smiles at Puck like he's the moon and the sun, like he's perfection exemplified and heaven on earth. For the first time in ages, without a master wrapped around his neck, Puck feels complete.

"It's the Joshua tree's struggle that gives it its beauty."