DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy.
Warnings are: suggestive tones, frottage, language. Some dark!demon!Blaine. Naive, desperate Kurt. Yes, Blaine is a Crossroads Demon, and yes, I did change a little bit and used some creative liberty. AU in which there was no gay bar and really sweet first-time sex, but they do end up in the backseat of a car.

Reviewers, ugh. God love ya.

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Kurt knows that it was a dumb decision in the first place.

Summoning a demon is one thing, but to make a deal with a Crossroads Demon, well… that decision is born out of pure desperation. And he's desperate. He's sick of being pushed around at school like he's not a person with feelings and an actively working central nervous system that registers pain quite well. He's long given up trying to fight back physically and makes his retaliation that of the verbal kind. Not quite as effective, but when he sees the confused looks of the jocks' faces he feels a sense of self-worth that in ten years he'll be in New York creating enviable designs and they'd still be here pandering for a decent job.

Usually things like that do the trick, but lately they just haven't been working and lately he's been sitting at his computer more and more, scrolling through endless, dark-colored websites searching for something, anything to help him out.

Which is what leads him to filling an old shoebox with yarrow, a black cat bone (that he doesn't even want to think about), a small glass vial of graveyard dirt, and a recent school photo of himself, and burying it as close to the middle as he can get at a deserted crossroads in the middle of the woods not far from his house. Patting the freshly-turned dirt once, he stands up and looks to the sky, then to the oil lamp he has resting on the ground at his feet.

He waits. It's unseasonably warm for November in Ohio; a light breeze ruffles the few leaves remaining on the branches and whips warm air around him as he looks at his surroundings. There's no noise save for his quick breathing and the blood rushing in his ears, no rustling in the underbrush, like the wildlife already knows the dumb, reckless thing he's done.

He counts to ten, holds his breath. Waits.

"Well hello there, handsome," a voice drawls from behind him, making him nearly jump out of his skin and his admittedly-practical tee-shirt-and-faded-jeans combo.

Kurt whirls around, lips parted and eyes wide, as he takes in the form of the man—no, the boy—standing at one of the forks of the crossroads like he's been here the whole time, like it's normal to just appear like that. The lamp casts a flickering yellow-orange glow around them, just enough to illuminate both of their bodies.

The boy is a little shorter than Kurt, with gelled-back dark hair and wide, round eyes that are a completely bottomless black that barely reflect the lamp's light; they're so dark Kurt feels like he could fall in and get trapped if he stares too long. The boy—demon—has on tight black jeans and a black button-up with the first two buttons undone. He looks so young and so effortlessly sexy that Kurt's having a hard time believing he's the real deal. "Kurt, right?" the demon asks, a flatness to his smooth voice like he's bored. "What can I do you for?"

Kurt swallows and tries not to get lost in the black holes this demon calls eyes. Though, if he recalls correctly from various seedy websites, those eyes should be red. "Aren't your eyes supposed to be red?" Kurt asks, unintentionally deflecting and unnerved at not knowing if he's being stared at or not, though he has a shivering feeling that what this demon is doing is leering.

"Ah," the demon says, a smirk turning up the corners of his lips, his teeth flashing large and white in the glow as he speaks, "not necessarily. Let's just say I'm… special and you should be considered lucky at drawing my name out of the lava pit that is Hell. Now, about why you summoned me."

"I need help," Kurt says, feeling slightly uneasy. "But this deal is special. Like—like you." His voice is shaking and his hands are shaking and his knees feel like they want to give out. He knows that this demon can sense all of this and immediately Kurt wishes that he'd delved a little more into this demonology business and actually looked up a bit more than he did. He'd brushed aside things called Devil's Traps and had blown right by salt and now he really, really wishes that he hadn't.

The demon is still smirking as he says, "And what exactly does this deal entail?"

"I need your help, specifically. It's… kids at school."

The demon circles Kurt, lips pursed and black eyes glittering. He reaches out a hand to stroke down Kurt's exposed forearm and Kurt can't hold back his shiver. "You are too cute," he coos, leaning close and breathing in like he's sniffing. "I don't get many like you. It's refreshing, actually, to see some baby-faced boy asking for school help instead of a loved one's soul or fame and vast fortune." He licks his lips and brushes aside a lock of hair on Kurt's forehead that, thanks to the wind, has fallen away from his carefully-styled coif. "What are these troubles, Kurt?"

"Bullies," Kurt replies, trying not to swoon at the tenderness falling from those perfectly plump lips; it's all an act, he's aware, and first and foremost this is a demon, a creature from Hell. In front of this demon his words sound silly and childish, like a kid explaining something meaningless to a grown-up and receiving only a polite smile and nod in return. He feels like a fool for doing this in the first place. He's all too aware of how easily he can be ripped apart, torn from the inside without a scratch on the outside. He knows exactly how powerful these beings are, how wicked and unforgiving they can be to humans who waste their time. What Kurt wants may be considered that, but if the deal goes through the demon will be bound to Kurt, rendering him unable to do anything but obey.

"Why do you need my help?" the demon finally asks, halting a few feet in front of Kurt and crossing his arms over his chest.

Kurt's answer is immediate, full of malice and darkness. "I want them to pay."

The demon grins, toothy and wide, and Kurt shivers. Delight is etched across every inch of the flawless face in front of him. "Now we're talking," the demon says. "If there's anything I love it's unnecessary violence."

"What's your name?" Kurt asks before he can stop himself. He likes being able to put names to faces, and if he's going to ask this demon to stay around for awhile he'd prefer to have a name and not just a noun or a pronoun. It's more formal and Kurt likes being able to pretend that this is just another boy, just a kid he'd met at the Lima Bean or in the public library, and not what it really is.

"Blaine," is the response, slow and careful like he's almost unwilling to give out this information. "And before you ask because I can see the curiosity crawling under your skin, yes, this is a borrowed body."

Kurt's heart thuds painfully as he imagines the poor boy trapped inside his own mind, if that's the case. "If I ask for your help," Kurt says, "what will you ask in return?"

"Nothing," Blaine replies. "Well, nothing except your soul in about, oh, say, ten years, give or take the circumstances."

His soul.

His soul.

Kurt's sort of expected it after looking up the information, but hearing the words fall from this demon's lips makes it much more real and frightening. He's not playing Bloody Mary in the mirror anymore (though, he reasons, if demons are real he's eternally grateful that he never played Bloody Mary in the first place) or trying to summon spirits with a candle and a few playing cards. This is happening and the price is a lot more than Kurt can handle.

Blaine wants the thing that makes him him. If he makes this deal tonight, he'll be forever indebted. Ten years from now, no matter what, if he's happily married or happily dating with a rapidly-expanding design business or Broadway career or whatever, something's going to come for him and he doesn't know what. Will it be ten years to this exact date? What if they cheat?

"We don't cheat," Blaine says. Kurt startles and looks at him: he's lazily scuffing his shoe against the dirt, tongue wetting his lips as he shoves his hands into his pockets. "I can read your thoughts," Blaine clarifies with a noncommittal shrug like Kurt isn't acutely aware of that now. "And no, demons don't cheat. At least, the decent ones don't." Kurt wants to laugh because decent? A demon? He'd been under the impression that if you came from the bowels of Hell all decency was burned out of you. "Once this deal is made you're invisibly bound until the Hellhounds come or you die unexpectedly."

Kurt bites his lip, swallows and looks to the sky, ignoring the last half of Blaine's explanation. He thinks, I'm sorry, and looks back down, locking eyes with Blaine and holding out his hand, trying to steady it and push himself through this. I need it, he tells himself. I need to be safe and if this is what it takes, so be it. "If you're willing to stick around and help me, then deal."

Blaine skips the middle ground and frames Kurt's face with his hands, leaning in and pressing his lips to Kurt's. They're soft and just as plump and damp as they look; Kurt wants to melt into the touch before he remembers: demon. "Deal," Blaine replies, his breath tickling Kurt's lips when he pulls away, eyes flickering to a soft honey hazel before inking up again like dark clouds covering the sky.

Kurt doesn't know what to say.

He's just made a deal with a demon.

He scratches his arm when he feels a tingle, a quick, almost nonexistent flash of prickling pain. Beside him Blaine's eyes flash again, back to that honey hazel where they stay, and he locks arms with Kurt's. Blaine says, in a voice that can only be described as bashful, "You're really cute. We both think so." All traces of superior demon are gone and Kurt imagines that this is what that boy whom Blaine is inhabiting must sound.

Kurt takes a deep breath and forces a strained smile, looking down to see wide eyes staring at him that look very much human. But it's not human. The thing on his arm is nothing short of evil and is bound to Kurt. He'll have to do whatever Kurt wants for ten years.

Kurt doesn't know what to think.

He grabs the lamp and the trowel he'd used to dig the hole and walks off, Blaine following closely.

Ten years.

It may be a dumb decision, but Kurt can't help but feel like he's actually done something right for a change.


It's frightening, if Kurt wants to be honest, to be a part of this. But with that fright comes a sick kind of thrill that sends shudders up and down Kurt's body, dilates his pupils and quickens his pulse.

Kurt had first gone after the jocks, the football Neanderthals and the puckheads, and Blaine had been all too happy to rough them up a little, slam and hold them to the locker room wall without moving until they begged and cried. They'd been scared, so scared, Blaine had said with relish, eyes glossing over to black in the safety of Kurt's room. To Burt, Blaine was just a friend from school, the new transfer kid from out of state. To Kurt, he was a demon. His demon.

Kurt doesn't know when it begins to happen, but gradually he sees past the cold, cruel attitude, the lust for blood and pain, and finds a softer side. When Kurt kisses him for the first time since the deal Blaine responds quickly, hands gentle on Kurt's face, his neck, in his hair (by now he knows the Rules of Kurt's Hair and follows them without complaint). When Kurt says that he may have begun to like Blaine, Blaine just smiles and kisses the back of Kurt's hand like it's completely normal. He looks every bit the seventeen-year-old he's playing.

Maybe it is. Maybe it's everything else that isn't normal.

"You may be under contract," Blaine says one night when they're laying in Kurt's room, the wood floor hard under their backs, hands touching but not holding and fingers twitching every so often, "but I do like you. A lot."

"Is that you," Kurt says, "or the defenseless body you've taken over?" His words are harsh but his tone isn't: it's lazy, thick like molasses or cold syrup. By now, he doesn't care about that boy because he has Blaine.

"A little bit of both, actually," Blaine replies.

Kurt hums in agreement and rolls over to give Blaine a chaste kiss that quickly turns into tangled limbs and sore shoulders, wet lips and angry, swollen red marks on collarbones. Kurt could quite possibly be in love with a demon and he's okay with it. Hell, he's more than okay—he's safe.

And that's how it blooms because deep down Blaine does care, too. He cares about Kurt's well-being and he wants to make him happy. Being under contract isn't easy, but he'll take it in stride and do his best to please this pretty boy that's been practically thrown in his lap.

And then, in ten years, they'll be together, really together forever in a sense that they can't truly be up here with Kurt being human.

It's a funny thing, emotions. Feelings. Blaine isn't used to having them, hasn't had them since he died, but Kurt is bringing up so many things from his past that it's dizzying and he doesn't know what to do with himself when his heart speeds up or his palms sweat and he wants Kurt so badly that he physically aches from it.

They kiss and grope and finally fuck one blissful January afternoon, Blaine riding Kurt like his very existence depends on it, the bed shaking so hard it's a miracle it doesn't fall apart. They come and Blaine screams just because he can, just because the house is empty and he feels alive again.

This is how they begin the second half of Kurt's senior year.


Kurt loves having a protector, but sometimes Blaine takes it way too far.

Tonight they're just out having fun. Spring is just around the corner, that telltale warm breeze swirling and ghosting around everywhere, tantalizing promises of things yet to come. The days lengthen gradually, the birds begin to come back. Sprouts push up through the winter-hard ground, reaching towards the warm sunlight.

Kurt graduates in a few months' time and he plans to leave Lima behind except for holidays and the occasional weekend visit. He's been chattering animatedly about New York for weeks now, Blaine listening intently and smiling whenever possible. Puck decides to take New Directions out to a local dive where IDs are rarely checked and Kurt only goes because these are his friends and he honestly doesn't know when he'll see most of them again after graduation.

He and Blaine end up making out in a corner for a half-hour, untouched drinks sitting on the table and music pulsing through their bodies. Blaine pulls away, Kurt's bottom lip still firmly between his teeth before he releases with a wet sound and Kurt groans, surging forward to pull Blaine into another bruising kiss, their lips barely touching when their tongues meet. Kurt's never felt so filthy, so debauched as he does when Blaine kisses him like this.

When they pull away Kurt can see that Blaine's eyes are black in the dim light of the bar. His lips are swollen and slick with their combined saliva, perspiration shining on his forehead and along his hairline. He looks so delicious and fuckable that Kurt wants to leave right now.

He plans on it, too, before some nameless asshole approaches their table and spits on it.

Blaine is up in a flash, lips pulled back and teeth bared. His fists are clenched at his sides and Kurt doesn't even have time to get up and pull him back before Nameless Asshole is suddenly flung to the floor with a loud enough sound that those around him stop what they're doing and stare open-mouthed.

"Blaine!" Kurt hisses, grabbing onto his shoulder. "Are you crazy? You know people can't find out about you."

"Let them," Blaine snarls, jerking Kurt's hand off and stalking over to where the guy is still pinned to the grimy floor, thrashing against the invisible hold Blaine has him in. No one's really paying attention anymore, most probably used to drunken bar brawls, but there's no way they aren't wondering how some guy well over six foot is being pinned to the ground by a teenage boy who's barely over the 5'5 mark.

Kurt hangs back, worrying on his lower lip as Blaine crouches down and speaks in hushed tones. It's clear that the invisible hold is gone but Nameless Asshole stays right where he is.

Blaine finally stands up after what seems like forever and walks back over to Kurt, cocky, self-assured smirk fully in place, and Kurt loses it.

He drags Blaine outside, out in the parking lot next to Kurt's car. He's never been so furious before, so scared. Not for Blaine, he says, but for them. It was one thing to be reckless enough to makeout in the corner of a very-much-straight bar, but it's a whole other thing when one's boyfriend is a demon and none of the usual rules apply to him.

It ends up with the car door to Kurt's backseat being open and Blaine sitting half-in and half-out, confusion furrowing his brow as he stares at Kurt without saying a word. After Kurt catches his breath Blaine speaks. "Why are you yelling at me?" The words are innocent enough, and Blaine genuinely looks confused, like he doesn't believe that he's done anything wrong.

"Why?" Kurt asks, incredulous. He's so close to pulling his hair out. He wants to shake Blaine, ask him if he gets it, gets what they're doing, any of it, the dating, the sex, the fucking deal, is wrong and abnormal and Kurt's so fucking addicted that it's not even funny. He's scared of his feelings. He's scared of what's going to happen in ten years. He's scared of leaving home no matter how much he hates it.

He'd just wanted one night where he could pretend that he had a normal, human boyfriend. "I'm yelling because you were reckless, Blaine. You were so close to killing that guy in front of everyone and then what would have happened, huh?" Anger ignites in the air, electric sparks that crackle and fizz between them.

Blaine's eyes flash over to pitch black, that deep-down nothingness of an old well. "Do you know what I am?" he continues on a growl, words rough like gravel and barbed like a rose's thorns. "I could fuck you up. I could slam you to the ground right here and rip out your insides without even batting an eyelash. I can make you bleed on the inside, make it bubble from your lips and your eyes, make you feel the worst agony you've ever felt in your life, all without leaving a scratch on your pretty pale skin. I may make people bleed for you, but that doesn't mean that I can't return the favor."

"You wouldn't," Kurt says, but he knows that's not true. He'd been the one who'd gone to the crossroads and summoned Blaine and made the deal in the first place. He's the one keeping Blaine here on a leash, at his every beck and call no matter the circumstance. He's also not exactly unprepared: he now has enough knowledge about Devil's Traps and exorcism spells to keep Blaine in check, as well as a whole lot of salt hidden in his basement. Blaine can kill, maim, harm, even just frighten if Kurt so wishes and no one can say anything because demons don't exist, right? No one lucky enough to live could convince anyone that a boy with eyes as black as coal had done this.

Kurt's in love with him, with the danger that comes with all this. But whether he's in love with the vessel of this lost seventeen-year-old boy or whether he's in love with the actual demon isn't clear, and that's what frightens him. Every day he plays with fire, but he craves it, wants and needs it like he needs air and the throw rugs from Ralph Lauren's latest Home collection. When Blaine's eyes flash over from that perfect honey-gold to endless oblivion, it's a rush he's never felt before.

"Why do you need me?" Blaine hisses, fingers clenching on the doorframe of the car. Kurt watches the aluminum dent slightly under the pressure and can't bring himself to worry about the shape of his car. "Am I just here to fuck over anyone who gets in your way?"

"I'm pretty sure that's why I made the deal in the first place," Kurt says with an eyebrow raised, his hand on his hip like he's not talking to a demon.

"You're seriously lucky that both I and this stupid meat puppet find you ridiculously hot," Blaine replies, voice still dark and commanding and so, so silky smooth, beckoning like a Siren's call. He runs his tongue over his lips and curls a finger in Kurt's direction. He smirks and narrows his eyes, black catching and sparkling in the gritty lamplight, sending spikes of pleasure and sheer want coursing through Kurt's body. "Now come here and let this old demon show you a good time."

They squish together in the back of Kurt's Navigator, bodies pressed too-close and too-far. Blaine's mouth is hot and wet on Kurt's neck, down his exposed collarbone and chest. His moans rumble, deep and rough, in the small space and immediately the air between them starts to heat up, get sticky-humid. Kurt braces a foot on the floor and folds one up on the bench, sandwiching himself between Blaine's thighs, one wrapped around his waist and the other pushed up against Kurt's on the back of the seat.

"You're so fucking hot," Blaine growls, nipping a rough mark into the pale skin of Kurt's neck. "I love it when you're angry."

Then hands grapple at clothes, Blaine clawing at Kurt's shirt in frustration until the sound of ripping fabric echoes in the car, causing a shocked, turned-on gasp before he's leaning up and taking a soft pink nipple into his mouth, biting and rolling it with his tongue until it's peaked and wet and dark. Kurt shivers when Blaine pulls back, blows cold air on it. "You ruined my shirt, asshole," he says, looking down at the tattered remains on what was once his favorite shirt, but he's more aroused than angry; Blaine had ripped the heavy cotton in half like it was wet paper.

Blaine kisses Kurt, ripping his shirt further until Kurt's torso is bare and scraps of lilac-colored fabric litter the floor of the Navigator. It's like he knows how much his strength turns Kurt on, and he probably does, Kurt reasons as he cups Blaine's jaw and breathes harshly through his nose. He fists Blaine's own shirt in his hands, wishing he could be as inhumanly strong. Without any clothing Blaine feels hotter, the buttons on his shirt colder than before.

Kurt pulls back, breathless, to stare at Blaine. His eyes are still black, as wide as ever, and his mouth is so swollen and slick that Kurt wants his cock between those lips now. The eyes, though. What had bothered Kurt the most at first was now the thing making him impossibly hard in his jeans and he ruts up against Blaine because he can, because this demon is all his.

When Blaine moans, the sound is as sweet as it is sultry. He closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cool leather, and moves his hips up, sliding his foot down Kurt's waist to lock behind his thigh. They grunt and groan and Kurt licks into Blaine's mouth, swallows his noises and tastes piss-like beer, the cheap shit they'd sold inside. Kurt braces his weight on one arm, tangles the fingers of his free hand in Blaine's carefully-gelled curls and tugs as hard as he can, jerking his head sideways as he kisses under Blaine's jaw, tastes sweat and aftershave, feels stubble brush rough against his soft lips and smooth chin.

Kurt can vaguely feel the rocking motion of his car, can see when he comes up for air that the windows are fogged. He can feel the sweat sliding down his face, gathering on his back and under his arms and on his chest. Blaine's hard, so hard and hot, against Kurt, and he wants to touch but he can't bring himself to let go of Blaine's hair. He kisses him wet and deep, sliding his tongue along Blaine's jawline, down his neck and to the hollow of his throat before pressing their mouths together again and biting as hard as he can at Blaine's lower lip. When he parts this time a string of saliva connects Blaine's lips to his and it should be disgusting but it's not.

"Fuck, gonna come, gonna come," Blaine chants, running his nails down the muscled planes of Kurt's back, zigzagging red lines trailing in the wake of his nails. Kurt hisses and arches down, grinding his cock into Blaine's, and he doesn't care as he comes into his pants with a low moan, hips jerking forward uselessly as his cock pulses in his jeans. Blaine follows a few seconds later, hands tight on Kurt's ass and pushing him closer as he ruts against him until his back is arching up off the seat, head back and eyes squeezed shut, the buckle of his belt cold against Kurt's overheated skin.

They slump together, sweaty and sated and dirty, maybe a little bit angry still. Their legs are still tangled and Kurt's lost most of the feeling in the one he has folded up against the seat. Blaine's eyes are shut, and when he blinks them blearily open Kurt notices that they're the warm hazel he's grown used to seeing. Blaine smiles at him, a small, understanding gesture, and holds out his arms. Kurt falls into them, snuggled against Blaine's chest and the rumpled fabric of his shirt.

"You owe me a shirt," he says against Blaine's chest after their breathing has evened. The car smells like sweat and sex and the smoke they'd picked up at the bar. Kurt loves it.

"You liked it," Blaine states. It's an observation and Kurt knows that he's all too right. "Face it: everything about me turns you on."

"Everything except your pigheadedness," Kurt says, voice slightly muffled by Blaine's shirt. "That usually just pisses me off."

Blaine laughs, the sound rumbling low in Kurt's ear. He runs his fingers through Kurt's sweat-dampened hair and says, "That's what I'm here for. To be pigheaded."

Kurt wonders briefly what life would have been like had he not made the deal. He'd probably still be just as lonely as he was before, if not more. Blaine may be a demon, may be a killer deep below, but to Kurt he means safe. He means protection. Here, in Blaine's arms, listening to the gentle rhythm of his heart and his even breathing, Kurt feels secure. He wants to stay that way forever.

His days are numbered, after all.