Author: sun_and_rain
Rating: R
Summary: Kurt Hummel is gorgeous, kind, hilarious, and completely, utterly unattainable. Blaine should stay away from him. Someone could get hurt.
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, Supernatural, or beautiful Gershwin songs.
Warnings: character death, sexual content, non-con, bastardization of Supernatural lore
A/N: Inspired by tumblr's demon!Klaine gifs and "FRAGMENT: Supposed to be an Epithalamium of Francis Ravaillac and Charlotte Cordé" by Shelley.

This is just a little something to get me back into fic. It came about because I missed writing Blaine's POV, and I wanted to try something different. To be more specific… I kind of wanted to try writing something intense and scary and sexy. (Ha ha ha… insert self-deprecating comment here) I hope you guys enjoy this, as repentence for my long and drawn-out absence from fic! (Don't forget to go to part 2)

And Streams Of Rapture Drown My Soul

Kurt Hummel was gorgeous, kind, hilarious, bitingly sarcastic, and completely, utterly unattainable.

These were things Blaine knew to be inherently true—they were written on the many scattered, crumpled papers he'd torn out of his notebooks every night when going over his class notes for the day. Kurt was in half of his classes, and Blaine liked to list the reasons why he couldn't make a move along the red line drawn perpendicularly against the many greys of his college-lined paper. In fact, it was one of the dominating features of his class-time; Kurt would sit there, amazing and impossible and tantalizing, and Blaine would very firmly grip his pen and start writing.

1. Too busy. Blaine had no time for a boyfriend. With glee club, his tendency to pick up jobs at local theme parks, and his parents' high standards concerning academics, a boyfriend would only complicate his life. And he really didn't need it to be any more complicated than it already was.

2. Burt Hummel.The few times Blaine had met Burt Hummel, he'd been amazed and simultaneously terrified. His relationship with his son was something Blaine could only ever hope to have with his own father—and Burt kindly extended that same compassion to all of Kurt's friends. He was also incredibly intimidating when he wanted to be, and Blaine didn't want to give him a reason to go out and buy a shotgun.

3. Dad.

… That one was self-explanatory.

4. You're

"Class is over, Cary Grant." Blaine recoiled and slammed his notebook shut, heart pounding. Oh crap. Oh crap. Please don't let him have seen that. He looked up just in time to see Kurt leaving through the doorway of the mostly empty classroom.
Relief pulled the energy from his bones and his eyes closed briefly with the swiftness of its passing.

4. You're going to die one day.

The notebook went into the back pocket of his messenger bag, the pen into the front. Holding tightly to the strap, he headed out the door to fourth period. AP Geometry and Physics, and then lunch—the next time he saw Kurt. And no glee club today; that made things easier. Today would be an easy day.


"I know, mom," he called calmly as he dead-bolted the door. "'Watch the salt lines.'" (They were unbroken, as usual.) He hung his bag on the hook in the closet and walked into the kitchen, stealing an orange from the bowl on the counter.

"Save some room for dinner," his mother cautioned from behind her mountains of paperwork. Blaine glanced down at the iPad in front of her but, as usual, nothing on it made any sense to him.

"You're busy today," he commented as he peeled. "Did something come up?"

"An anomaly in the system," his mother replied, absent-mindedly circling a newspaper article in front of her with a red sharpie. "Your father is working late tonight," she added. Blaine watched her carefully, before turning back to the orange. His family was secretive and strange, he knew—his parents spoke to him in code phrases and passwords he knew no cipher for. They had been doing it for as long as he remembered—probably before he had been born—and even though he suspected certain things, he had never questioned them about it. CIA, Homeland Security, X-Files… it was probably better he didn't know. He liked the world the way he saw it, and those kinds of jobs viewed it through a different filter.

He placed the plate of sliced-up orange next to his mother's elbow. "Eat something," he whispered to her before slipping out the door to his room. He heard no reply, but he didn't expect one—hopefully she'd notice the orange before it staled.

He entered his room and collapsed ungracefully onto his bed, ready to lie there forever.

And then the strident tones of Barbara Streisand filled his room. Blaine groaned.

"Don't tell me not to live, I've simply go to!" Barbara insisted. His hand shot out of its own accord to answer, turning off the ring.

"Hey, what's up?" he would have said, had he been answering a phone with any normal human being on the other end.

"BLAINE-have-you-heard-about-the-BOYWHODISAPPEARED-during-SCHOOL-today-I-just-got-home-and-I'm-watching-the-news-and-I-can't-believe-NOONENOTICED-he-was-GONE-I-mean—" was what he got instead.

"Whoa, Rachel, slow down!" he laughed. "I didn't get any of that. What's going on?"

"A boy disappeared from school today," Rachel declared with an appropriate amount of pathos, and the air chilled. A pang of dread dropped into his stomach. "He's in my Spanish class, and I never even noticed he wasn't there!"

"You mean he left?" he asked, sitting up slowly. "What do you mean by 'disappeared'?"

"I mean disappeared, Blaine." Invisible fingernails scraped lightly down his neck, and Blaine shivered involuntarily as he glanced around his room. "One minute he was there, and the next, no one knew where he went. They don't know if he's run away, or if he was kidnapped, or what happened at all, it's all just speculation, but he was in my Spanish class, Blaine, and I didn't even notice! I feel like such a horrible person!"

"Rachel, there are twenty-eight kids in your Spanish class," Blaine said vaguely as his eyes lit upon his window. Cautiously, he got up off the bed, walking slowly over to the glass pane.

"Twenty-seven. Kyle Connors dropped out."

"Twenty-seven…" Blaine repeated, reaching out to touch the pane. His fingers came back red. His heart shuddered thumping rhythms against his chest, deafening against his ears and drowning out all other sound as he stared at the huge, unfamiliar sign spray-painted against the glass—still wet.

4. You're going to die one day.

"…ne, you… not help… the least," Rachel's admonitions floated muffled warnings above his ear. The sign glared bold and red back at him.

"Rachel, I'm sorry, I have to call you back," he breathed. He hung up before she could reply and let the phone drop from his hand.
The sign burned into his eyes as he stood there, unable to move.

"What is that?"

"It means protection, buddy. Your mom and I are protecting you. You're not allowed to touch this, okay?"


"And the salt lines, Blaine. What do we do with salt lines?"


"Blaine Cameron Anderson, what do we do with salt lines?"

"We don't touch them."

"No, honey, what do we do with salt lines?"

"… We… put them on the doors every night?"


"And… the windows."

"And we don't talk to strangers."


"We'll only be gone for a little while, bud. Don't let anybody in the house unless it's us."

"And only if we say the secret password. Okay, baby?"


"We'll be back soon. We love you."

"Don't touch the circle."

Blaine sat quietly by his breakfast as his father entered the kitchen.

"Are you leaving?" he asked. His father paused. Blaine watched as he smoothed the tie he had been knotting against his shirt.
"What gave you that impression?" his father asked lightly. Blaine turned back to his bowl of cereal, swirling the milk around with his spoon.

"The symbol you painted on my window. It means protection."

His father watched him with sad eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, Blaine," he announced. "Neither is your mother. We'll be right here."

Blaine gave him a smile because that's what his father needed him to give. In the back of his mind, though, he couldn't help but think that the reason they weren't leaving was because whatever was wrong had come to them.

Rachel attacked him the next day. "Brett," she huffed importantly at him as he walked to his locker. "That was his name. Kurt said he had him in his English class and he immediately noticed he was gone because of the lack of compulsive hand-washing around him." Blaine stuffed his books into his locker, ears prickling at Kurt's name. "Which is a very rude thing to say anyway, you know Kurt, but I was particularly offended on Brett's behalf. My dads always taught me to never speak ill of the dead, and—"

"Whoa, hold on. Dead?" His Physics book tumbled over Connexions Françaiseand sprawled unceremoniously onto the linoleum floor. Blaine bent to pick it up, and froze as he brushed against much-too-familiar hands.

"He was found dead in a backyard in Westerville this morning," an angel's voice informed him. Blaine straightened up and (don't you dare stare at him, Blaine Anderson, don't you fucking dare) lost himself in crystal-blue eyes as Kurt handed him his Physics book. Blaine was staring, idiot belatedly took it from him. "They're searching the house that owns the backyard, but they haven't found any conclusive evidence. And I think this goes without saying, but had I known he was dead when we were talking last night, Rachel, I would have been a little more sensitive. I do have tact."

The implication in that sentence being that Rachel didn't.Blaine hid a smile and moved to put the Physics book back into his locker, desperately hoping Rachel hadn't caught the underhanded insult. The bell rang as he slammed the locker shut.

"I'll see you in glee club, Blaine," Rachel stressed, walking proudly past Kurt without another word. Oh, dear. Apparently she had. He was going to have to work some interference during lunch if he wanted to spare New Directions the joy of another inappropriately appropriate presentation of her feelings in song. Shaking his head ruefully, he turned to go to class—and stopped when he found Kurt still standing there, looking at him.

Blaine blinked, his heart speeding through the minutes of the moment on fast-forward.

"We have Lit together," Kurt told him, hyper-confident and all the more adorably shy because of it. "I thought maybe we could walk together?"

1. Too busy.

Kurt's eyes were wide with hope, and gorgeous even in the greenish florescent lighting of the hallway. His lips parted slightly, waiting for something—for Blaine—to say—

2. Burt Hummel.

What harm could a little walk be?

3. Da—

Blaine swallowed back his list and let it dissolve in his stomach, its absence fizzing back up into his throat, tickling his nose, his eyes, his cheeks. He grinned.

"I'd love to," he said. Kurt smiled back, breathtaking. The whole walk to class, their knuckles brushed.

4. You're going to die one day.

Kurt and Blaine walked to class every day that week. Even to the ones they didn't share.

"Who is 'Rachel'?"


"Rachel? Your mom and I ran into her and her father at the supermarket. She says 'hi'."

"She's—a friend."

"We've talked about friends, Blaine."

"It's nothing serious. We're in the same math class. We have a few common interests."

"Blaine, if you like this girl—"

"So now I can't have friends?"

"It's not that you can't have friends. You just have to be careful. Anyone who gets close to you could be a threat—or be hurt. I'm just trying to protect you."

"You're sending me to public high school, where social standing is everything. You don't want me to stand out, but you don't want me to do poorly. You don't want me to feel lonely, but you don't want me to get close to anyone. I don't understand what you want me to do."

"I want you to be safe."

"You don't want me to die, you mean."

"I'll break it off with Rachel."

"No. Invite her and her parents to dinner."

"… Thank you."

"But you can't get involved too deeply, Blaine. Anyone you love could be used against you. They could get hurt. This isn't a joke. Light friendships are fine, but you're to avoid anything deeper like the plague. At least until we can be positive you're safe. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"I was thinking something classic, old-school," Kurt told him without preamble the minute Mr. Schue bid them to work. Blaine frantically pushed down against the swelling balloon rising in his chest as Kurt grabbed his hand and pulled him to the piano. "You've got a Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra vibe that will be absolutely incredible with my voice. I was thinking a Cole Porter or a Gershwin, what do you think?"

Blaine was too busy watching Kurt to remember what the question was.

"Blaine?" Kurt asked. He drew himself up, eyes shuttering cold. "You can choose another partner if you'd prefer."

"No!" Blaine jumped. "No, Kurt, I'd love to do a duet with you!"—overkill; don't be so earnest—"I was just thinking… maybe, Can't Take That Away From Me? It's one of my favorites…" he trailed off at Kurt's expression.

"My mother used to love that song," Kurt told him quietly. His face softened. "I'd love to sing that." Blaine couldn't stop the smile from splitting across his face.

"Great," he enthused. Kurt huffed a laugh and the moment was effectively broken.

"Great," Kurt repeated with a Cheshire smile. He took a breath and, when he let it out, it was as if he'd let all his troubles out with it. Blaine watched, enthralled, as Kurt straightened up and placed his fingers on the piano keys, looking suddenly lighter. That would be a neat trick to learn—to let everything seep out of him like that.

"I'll be Natalie Cole, and you—"

"Oh no," Blaine interrupted, grinning slyly. He scooted onto the piano bench, moving closer to Kurt than was really necessary, and set his fingers where Kurt's had just vacated in surprise. "If we're doing this song, we're doing it right. You be Ginger Rogers. I'll be Fred Astaire." He sent a wink that was probably gratuitous in Kurt's direction and settled down to play the song at the tempo it was meant to be played. He didn't think he was imagining Kurt's unceasing gaze.

His ceiling was covered in some kind of intricate design when he came home.

"Don't touch the circle."

He spent the first night tracing the lines of the marking with his eyes, pretending its presence wasn't the reason he couldn't even contemplate sleep.

The next night there was salt lining the mopboard of his room.

The next, his windows.

Then, a bowl of water with a rosary floating inside it, resting atop his desk.

Blaine held his breath; counted the lines of his room; held taut all the muscles of his body, terrified to move even an inch.

And then one night, Kurt called him. And they talked. And they kept talking, until they fell asleep together.

And on the nights Kurt fell asleep first, Fred Astaire started singing about hats and memory, and Kurt in glorious Ella Fitzgerald impression hummed a verse they'd doctored from previous duets, dancing into his dreams like Ginger Rogers.

The way you wear your hat
The way you sip your tea
The memory of all that
No, no, they can't take that away from me

The way your smile just beams
The way you sing off key
The way you haunt my dreams

Something was watching him. He could feel it. Something was outside his room, breathing loudly, watching him.

Don't. Touch. The circle.

The way you hold your knife, Blaine crooned to the room, but really only for Kurt.

The way we danced till three, Kurt replied, a coy smile on his face.

The way you changed my life, Blaine sang, and his heart lurched, and his stomach flipped, and not for the first time, he cursed himself for choosing this song. This had been a bad idea. This had been such a bad idea.

No, they can't take that away from—
Can't take that away from me.

Rachel grinned widest, applauded loudest of the group. Blaine knew she was thinking "Finally!" and probably something about her two gay dads, but he couldn't be so happy as to smile. He felt like the walls around him were pressing the air into compact gases. He couldn't catch his breath. He needed circles and salt lines and bowls of water with rosaries inside like floating lilies.

The minute Mr. Schue asked who was next, Blaine quietly slipped out of the room.

He didn't look in Kurt's direction once.

"Blaine," it whispered to him, an enticing caress. Blaine stared at it through the window, eyes locked on blacked-out whites. Neither blinked. Glass and salt and painted designs separating them, turning inches into insurmountable oceans.

"You can pretend to hide if you want," it murmured as if to a lover. "I don't care."

Blaine drowned in the dark depths of something not-from-here.

"We both know you're already mine."

He closed his eyes.

His parents forbid him from going to school, preferring he stay in the house. And then just in his room. His friends couldn't visit. His parents left home, too often and for too long, leaving him alone and trapped.

It watched him.

Rachel called him up every day, providing him with an update about all the crazy shenanigans McKinley kids were getting into. Occasionally, she'd call up with a story about another missing kid. There had been three more since Brett had been found dead two hours west of Lima.

"He doesn't talk much anymore, you know," Rachel told him once, and he didn't need to ask who she was talking about. "I know he misses you. You should call him."

Blaine hadn't talked to Kurt once since their duet performance.

4. You're going to die one day.

Ginger Rogers didn't sing in the Fred Astaire version of the song. She didn't even dance.

She just listened, crying.



Another pebble hit his window, scratching the glass, and Blaine got up to look.


It was Kurt, his racing blood told him, standing on the other side of the window and tossing pebbles against the pane. He tossed another just as Blaine moved forward, and Blaine flinched as it hit and cracked the pane right where his head was. He opened the window just enough to be heard.

"You're angry," he called.

"What gave you that idea?" Kurt's clipped words bit him. Blaine cringed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's complicated. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Little late for that."

Kurt moved up against the pane, pressing his hands flush against it. Blaine memorized the picture before slowly raising his own, placing them against the image of Kurt's. It was warm where his hands were—the red symbol his father had painted the only proof that they were not actually touching.

Kurt's face was a mosaic of feeling.

"I want to talk to you," he intoned, mellifluous and stifled through the glass. "I think we should talk."

Blaine sighed, breath frosting over the symbol. All he saw was earnest eyes, too blue and sincere and beautiful to be real. Kurt was much too expressive for his own good.

He slid up the window.


Kurt went to climb through, but paused. He glanced down at the line of salt on the sill with a raised eyebrow. Blaine smiled apologetically and cleared a section off for him.

"Complicated," Kurt repeated ironically as he clambered into the room, gracefully refraining from dirtying his designer jeans with kosher condiments (somehow. Blaine couldn't understand how he did it, but there was no arguing it was graceful).

"My family is, um," Blaine cast his eyes about his room, feeling more self-conscious than he had ever felt in his entire life.

"Strange?" Kurt finished for him, eyes probing. Blaine shrugged, blushing.

"Yeah," he said.

Kurt's eyes didn't leave him. Blaine supposed that was a good thing, because if he had decided to look around, he would have probably never spoken to Blaine again. Blaine cleared his throat and tried to pretend Kurt's gaze had no effect on his mental state.

"We can go downstairs if you want," he said, looking anywhere but at the unfairly beautiful boy next to him.

"I'm fine here," Kurt said. "Besides, Rachel told me you weren't allowed to have friends over."

"No," Blaine agreed. "My parents are out, though, so…"

Kurt sat on the bed, filling the room with the regality of his presence in a way solely his.

Okay then.

He took a breath and crossed his legs, and Blaine thought it was the most adorable thing he had ever seen. Kurt Hummel was on his bed. Despite the solemnity of the situation, he knew he was probably smiling like an idiot. Kurt looked at him intently and the giddiness drained away.

"I like you," he announced, stopping Blaine's heart and buckling Blaine's knees. Blaine put a hand up against the wall to ensure he didn't collapse to the ground, and stared.

"S-sorry?" he squeaked, eyes feeling impossibly wide.

"I like you," Kurt repeated hesitantly. He fidgeted with the bedspread for a second and glanced around the room. His eyes lit on the bowl of water, lingering a little before standing up. He looked back at Blaine. Moved closer. Blaine lost all memory and thought.

"You like me, too," Kurt continued. "Right? I've seen how you look at me. That can't be nothing."

"Kurt," Blaine breathed, "I… this isn't…"

"I don't see the problem," Kurt stopped in front of him, much too far away and yet much too close. Blaine had preferred him on the bed. (Blaine would prefer both of them on the bed, but—stop. Stop. You had a whole list, Blaine! What happened to the list?)
"I was going to go about this differently," Kurt said, eyes shining and frustrated. "But I honestly can't stand it anymore. We like each other. Why aren't we together?"

"I don't want to hurt you," Blaine blurted out, and he wanted to hit himself, but he couldn't stop talking long enough to do so. "I'm going to die soon,"—Kurt let out a small, shocked noise—"and you'll only get hurt if you fall in love with me." And that sounded pretentious and ridiculous, good job, Blaine. Kurt's eyes widened. "Not that you'll fall in love with me, or it's a guaranteed thing, or"—(rambling, Blaine)—"I can't hurt you like that," he said. Then: "I can't let myself hurt you like that." (still not digging out of that hole)"I don't want you to get hurt."

Kurt's expression was unreadable.

"What if I don't care?"

The words prodded against Blaine's lips, which opened without his permission to let them in. Blaine had to admit that was a very good question.

He couldn't answer Kurt.

So, he didn't.

He kissed him, instead.

The world was collapsing. He never imagined kissing would feel like this.

It felt like someone had hooked claws inside of his heart and tugged upward with a fishing line. Blaine choked on the strings and pulled away, but Kurt was on him the minute he'd gone, lips plundering his own, and again that tugging—

Blaine pressed against the wall. Kurt's lips moved to his temple, his ear, his neck—

"Stop," he rasped. "Kurt, stop!"

Kurt glanced up at him and his blacked-out, endless eyes punched out all breath from his lungs.


The circle. The circle, the open window, it had broken the circle! And the salt lines he had so stupidly—!

No, no, no, this wasn't fair, it couldn't be Kurt, it couldn't be!

Anyone you love could be used against you.

"How…?" It was a hoarse whisper. Kurt grinned, feral, and moved in to kiss him again. Blaine pushed him away.

"Oh come on, Blaine, don't be such a spoilsport. We were just getting started!" Kurt's hands came up to tangle in his hair, and Blaine took one, holding it tightly.

"How are you here? What did you do to Kurt?"

"I am Kurt."

"What did you do to him?"

Blaine moved, pushing forward in a parody of an attack as Kurt used his momentum to swing him around and throw him against the opposite side of the room. He hit the corner of the desk and the wind stole his breath.

"I didn't know you liked it rough!" Kurt laughed as he pinned him against the wall. "That changes things!" He leant down and captured Blaine's lips again, staring into Blaine's eyes with blue-green-gorgeous intensity and fuck, fuck, fuck, all Blaine could think was Kurt, Kurt was kissing him, yes please—

Kurt pulled away and Blaine couldn't hold himself up. He followed without thinking, his head falling against Kurt's shoulder as he fought to catch his breath. This wasn't what he had expected. Fuck, this wasn't what he had expected.

Kurt's hand cradled his jaw, lifting his head.

"What are you doing?" he asked, breathless.

"I'm killing you." Kurt moved those devastating lips to his ear. "Your parents made a deal once upon a time. It took me so long to find you. Sixteen is such a beautiful age, isn't it? Shh, it's okay," he kissed away tears and Blaine didn't even notice when he had started crying. "I make it fun for the ones I like. And I really like you, Blaine." Teeth nibbled on his lip and Blaine couldn't stop the noise that escaped him. "I don't get to do this often. But you look like you're hot for it," the words ghosted over his lips, a quiet caress. The muscles in his lower stomach jerked and Kurt let go. His forehead rested on a sweater.

"Kurt…" He strained to lift his head but it only rolled against Kurt's shoulder. Kurt's—not Kurt's—hand scratched up his arm, tangled in his hair. Kurt's mouth moved from his jaw to the hollow behind his ear. K—not Kurt. This wasn't Kurt. This wasn't—"What did you do to him?" he gasped.

A tongue tasted his vein and he felt something in his blood spark and rush in spiders' crawls down his body. He couldn't stop himself from groaning and suddenly his head was being pulled up and lips were covering his, tongue invading and stroking the inside of his mouth and Kurt… Kurt, this—this was—oh God… please…

Hands were roaming his back, pulling up his shirt and slipping under it, hot fingers mapping his every muscle, vein,scalding him and he had to kiss back, give—Kurt was sucking, now, devouring him with his lips and something wasconvulsing inside of him, being dragged, torn out of him and oh God, please—

It wasn't Kurt, this wasn't Kurt, Blaine, snap out of it!

He didn't have enough energy to pull back. He tried to move, but his head only flopped forward, buried in warm. His chest was heaving with the mere exertion of breathing, every exhale melting him further into the body pressed against him. He was so… tired

"What… did you… do to Kurt?" he asked, breathless. Another hand joined the one playing cartographer on his skin. Blaine felt his eyes drop, half-lidded. He couldn't find the strength the close his mouth.

"I am Kurt," soft fingers traced into him.

"No…" Blaine slurred into the cloth of Kurt's sweater. "You're…" Everything… "not…" Everything was…

He tried to move again and found himself resting against Kurt's neck—the skin painfully hot against his eyes, the bridge of his nose. He couldn't catch his breath—his balance… he couldn't…

"Some part of you thinks I am," Kurt breathed into his hair. Blaine shivered. "So I'm going to keep repeating it until you believe me."

"Why?" The word had to be dragged out of him. Everything took so… he couldn't…

"Because when you kiss me like you want to kiss him, you give me everything. And that's what I want from you, Blaine."—A fingertip at the base of his neck, lightly tickling as it traced an infinity. His eyes fell shut.—"Everything."

Blaine was too tired to move. To think. He tried to open his eyes, but they were too heavy. His mouth moved sluggishly—dry and hot and wantonly open… A hand tangled in his hair and pulled up his head. It lolled backwards.

Oh, please…

"You're going to die anyway," Kurt murmured. Through a sliver of blurred sight, Blaine could just make out his smile. "Kiss me like you want to kiss him."

Kurt pressed against him—thighs scorching against his, chest moving in tandem with his gasping breath, arms hot snakes up his shirt. Hips grinding slowly, deliberately into his and mouth teasingly open and so close.

His breath hitched.

Kurt's eyes danced.

So close.

"Come on, Blaine. As your last act of living. Kiss Kurt Hummel once… like you've always wanted to…" Kurt was so close. Warm. And Blaine was so cold…

Kurt's hand snaked up to cradle his jaw, his mouth inches away from Blaine's own.


"I promise to pass on the message," he painted like a secret against Blaine's lips.



No, he fucking well wouldn't.

Adrenaline flushed through him. Blaine pushed against the wall to propel himself forward, covering the imposter's mouth with his own in something violent, not a kiss but a possession, grabbing, pushing, invading as much skin as he could, and his other hand clawed for the basin with the rosary and he threw it.

The bastard cried out and jerked backwards, away, covering his mouth with a delicate hand that Blaine could see had blistered, red and vicious, steaming with drops of water. Blaine collapsed to the ground. He glared into wild, angry eyes, but his own anger was slightly undercut by the fact that he had to slump against the wall to even stay in a sitting position.

"Didn't think you had it in you, Anderson," the doppelganger snarled, voice venom. "Did I hit a sore spot?"

Blaine was unimpressed with the taunting. He attempted to convey that in a dispassionate expression worthy of Kurt's snarkiest, but it was hard to maintain such a vicious look when he was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

"Where's… Kurt?" he panted.

"He's right here!" the doppelganger hissed. "I'm inside him, honey! You hurt me, you hurt him!" His heart strangled in his chest. Liar. "The Kurt you know? All it took was a little nudge from me and all he could think about was you. And you…there are crushes and there are crushes, Blaine, and let me just thank you for making my job so much easier. You would give him your fucking house if he asked you to. You kept letting him in, until all the barriers broke and all I had to do was take over." Blaine's fingers slipped on the wall, trying and failing to find purchase, to hoist himself up into a somewhat respectable standing position.

"You …wanted me," he bit off. "But Brett… the other kids…"

"Your parents fall for the easiest traps. Notice how they are not in the house at this very opportune moment." Kurt glanced up at the ceiling. "Funny," he commented, gesturing to the circle that hung over the room. "Considering I'm more concerned with getting in then getting out."

It was like he was speaking in code. Blaine couldn't focus. Everything was hurting, and he felt like he had been torn up from the inside. Bits of him were missing. He… he couldn't… it hurt

"What are you doing to me?" he croaked. "What are you?"

"You don't remember the stories?" Kurt-but-not-Kurt looked shocked, and searched Blaine's face. Blaine didn't know what he saw there, but un-Kurt suddenly smirked, his body slinking slowly forward. Blaine's mind blanked out temporarily and all he could think was not fair. "Didn't your mommy tell you? Dad?"

"Tell me…" Blaine breathed, unease sliding thick and heavy down his spine. The hairs on his arms were electrified. Not-Kurt was getting too close.

"About the demon they met on the crossroads."

…Something jerked inside of him.

Something plunged.

Something hollowed him out.

Demon, Blaine mouthed emptily.

"Oh yes," Kurt continued airily, grinning Cheshire-sharp. "They sold you off to a demon, Blaine. I'm taking you with me to hell."

Blaine choked back the fear that rose in his throat. No. No. Please, no, he was just supposed to die, not go to hell, no. "They never thought they'd have a kid, that's the funniest part. They spent all these years protecting you from a deal they made. But I always collect. They should know that by now."

There wasn't enough air in the room. There wasn't enough space. And Kurt kept moving closer.

"Stay away," Blaine rasped, hands groping for something, for a weapon, for strength, anything.

"You belong to me, Blaine. You've belonged to me ever since your daddy asked me to bring your mommy back to life. And now I've finally found you." Kurt reached out a delicate hand and stroked his cheek.

"Please," Blaine whispered. The demon straddled him.

"He's watching all of this, you know. He's awake. Inside here." Kurt's eyes burned into Blaine widened ones, and Blaine couldn't look away, suffocating, searching for Kurt inside those eyes—and they flickered, once, briefly, and he saw it.

Oh god. He was.

"He wants me to let you go." Kurt's hand traveled down his chest. Around his waist. And suddenly he was yanked toward the demon, enveloped by Kurt and he gasped as his aching muscles protested. "He keeps praying that I don't kill you. Who knows who he thinks he's talking to. Love makes you stupid, I guess. But I've been waiting for this moment for a very,"—sucking at his collarbone—"very,"—the juncture of his neck and shoulder—"very"—his earlobe and he whimpered as it shot through him like a lightning bolt—"long time. I'm not giving this up for the world." The demon ground down in his lap and Blaine shouted profanities as his eyes shot open. Fucking hell, this was not fair, this was not fair, fuck!

"Man, I haven't been able to play like this in a while. This is what's awesome about humanity: sex. Do you want to know what I love about sex?"

He picked up a rhythm, slow and torturous and Blaine drew in air like an asthmatic, hands spasming into fists against the floor because he couldn't touch Kurt when it wasn't really Kurt, when Kurt was inside watching, but not in control, when who knew what Kurt was going through, some other thing controlling his body and making him do things that—

Holy—! GOD!

He cried out, arching against the wall, against Kurt, fingers moving of their own accord to grab at Kurt's jeans, pull himcloser, claw down his thighs as—SHIT! SHIT!

"It brings that beautiful, glowing human soul right up to the surface. There—right there. Just underneath your skin, Blaine. So easy to just reach in and pull it out of you. Do you feel it?"

He shuddered, gasping. All that pain and all that pleasure, so much needyes, god, yes, yes, he felt it, he fucking felt it, yes!
"Kurt," he panted. "If you can hear me: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The demon quickened his pace, holding him tighter. Their faces were mere centimeters from each other, heat and breath and sweat mingling between them.

"I'll let go of him," he murmured into Blaine's mouth. "The minute I'm done with you. It'll all seem like one bad nightmare."

"Kurt, I'm so sorry," Blaine whimpered.

"It'll hurt less if you give it to me, Blaine. I can tear it out of you, but you won't feel a thing if you give it to me. I'll leave him alone. I'll leave your parents, your friends alone. I only came here for you." He trembled, his mind was blanking out, erasing. Please, yes, god, please, please, yes…

"Kurt," he breathed.

"Yes, that's it. Stop fighting me. Give me your soul." It was a caress down his spine. They moved faster, desperate, hungry. Harder. Harder. "Give yourself this. You'll be done, Blaine. No more protection circles. No more prisons made of salt. You'll be free."

He felt it this time, when the tears crept out of his eyes and slipped down his cheeks. Faster. Kurt's delicate fingers wiped them away and cradled his face. He ground down mercilessly as he moved his lips gently over Blaine's own and Blaine whined, breathing him in and looking up to see blue staring back down at him.

"I'm sorry," he told them.

He didn't blink as he tilted his chin up to capture the lips in front of him, staring into beautiful, beautiful blue–and he could pretend he was really kissing Kurt and not the demon—pouring all of his need and love and soul into the most incredible, complicated, amazing boy he had ever—

4. You're going to die one day.

He screamed, and Kurt swallowed the scream. He cried, and Kurt tasted the tears. He breathed out his soul, and Kurt breathed it into himself.

And all the while he kept staring into blue-green eyes, seeing them glistening in the light of his room like tears until he couldn't see anything anymore.

SOFT, my dearest angel stay,
Oh! you suck my soul away;
Suck on, suck on, I glow, I glow!
Tides of maddening passion roll,
And streams of rapture drown my soul.
Now give me one more billing kiss,
Let your lips now repeat the bliss,
Endless kisses steal my breath,

No life can equal such a death.