Author: sun_and_rain
Rating: R
Summary: Kurt Hummel stopped being gorgeous, kind, and hilarious eight years ago, when a demon killed his crush. He's killed a few other things since then.
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, Supernatural, or beautiful Gershwin songs.
Warnings: mention of past character death, dark subject matter, sexual content, mention of past non-con and dub-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.

Just as a warning before you read this: I explore some complicated, dark stuff in this one. The characters have been through a lot, and their moral compass is a little skewed. It looks like this is could be a series of one-shots, though, so if you like it, there's a few more in my head I can churn out. If you haven't read And Streams of Rapture Drown My Soul, you'll probably be very confused. But you can try to read this anyway, if you want? As always, your reviews are ambrosia to me. Thank you for your support!


Here We May Lie An Endless Night


Spinning tornadoes tore at him with somehow-delicate fingers, like the faintly quiet remnants of those hands scraping down his thighs, a desperate palm dulled gentle by his lack of sensation that pulled his jaw forward as those lips kissed him like so many of his dreams and yet not at all like how they'd ever wanted—not like his dreams at all. And then it was gone—laying him wasted, collapsed in the center of the room

The body slumped against the wall and all he could do was stare at it and wait for the chest to move—but it never did and he lost himself waiting


"Looking for company?"

Kurt glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, biting the end of his pen and keeping his face angled toward his paper as he took stock of the boy. Black hair. Olive complexion. Brown-flecked green eyes.

Not too tall but—not short enough.

Then again, they had been sixteen. He might have been taller by now.

The boy shifted impatiently onto another foot.

Olive.

Too dark.

"Your deductive powers astound me," Kurt bit around his pen, focusing pointedly on the papers scattered all over the table. "Was it the lack of space for anyone to sit or the very specific choice of a corner table that gave me away?" He took the pen out of his mouth and underlined Evan Hudson.

"It was the tequila shot, actually," came the boy's warm baritenor. (Yes.) "You usually order something a little sweeter."

The pen stilled its movement. Kurt looked up, face carefully blank.

"Sorry?" he asked quietly.

The boy had moved Kurt's papers from the other chair onto the table, nonchalantly ruining Kurt's careful system of placement. He slid into the seat.

"You usually order sweeter?" he repeated, earnest in his delivery. (Yes.) "Like a white russian. A slow screw. You know, mixed drinks."

Kurt took another look at him. Green-brown, almost orange. Not quite hazel, but close. His voice was almost perfect.

He put down his pen.

"What's your name?"

A toothy grin. (Yes.) "Didn't think you'd recognize me." Kurt's heart leapt to his throat, and a pocket of breath took its place in his chest; waiting, expectant… "You're always looking at your papers whenever I'm behind the bar."

It deflated as it slid back down his esophagus, leaving a sour trail against his throat to taste as he swallowed.

"Oh," he voiced. "You're a bartender."

The boy mimed tilting a hat, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "Have been for the past two weeks you've come in here." There was something about his posture—a little too slouchy. Too knowingly sexy. Kurt raised an eyebrow.

"You can't be older than nineteen," he scoffed.

"You're one to talk," the boy smirked. (No.)"How old are you? Twenty?"

"Twenty-four."

Surprise visited the boy's face. "You're kidding," he said. Kurt rolled his eyes and went back to reading about Georgia.

"I'm older than I look," the boy suddenly said, voice low, and the air shifted. A foot wandered across the table and settled on Kurt's ankle. Kurt ignored it. "Would you like another drink?" It slid in slow, minute movements up and down his leg. No. "On the house."

Kurt moved his foot away.

"Not thirsty," he said bluntly. He didn't look up to see the boy's expression. "Maybe another time."

He frowned. He had no idea what possessed him to add that last sentence. Disquiet prickled the hairs on his arms and he looked up again. The boy's orange-green eyes (unusual color) were glowing hot, intense as they met Kurt's own. Kurt's tongue was sandpaper in his mouth.

"You just come to me when you are," he moved the thumb on Kurt's wrist in little circular strokes (when had that gotten there?!). It tickled pleasantly. Kurt opened his mouth to let out the breath suddenly clamoring to be free. "I'll get you something sweeter."

Layers upon layers inside of those eyes, and Kurt couldn't look away from them as those little movements still made circles around his pulse, something racing up his veins and heating him up from the touch. Orange-green.

Almost.

…Not tonight, Kurt. You don't deserve this one after letting it slip out of your grasp again. When you catch it tomorrow—maybe then.

"I'm fine with this right now," Kurt said slowly. "But I'll keep an eye out for you next time I'm in here."

A flicker of disappointment in those almost-hazel eyes.

A forced, secret-keeping smile.

Oh, this one was close.

"Here every night," the boy said, watching him hopefully.

Kurt fought a growing grin and focused back on his papers, hoping the boy would get the clue and leave him for now.

He might actually come back to this one.


He heard it still, sometimes, in the back of his mind. Judging him, mocking him, a poisonous voice that would never really disappear. Sometimes Kurt wondered if he wasn't still possessed.

He knew he wasn't. But, sometimes... it still felt like he was.


He was heartbreaking but also so, so gorgeous, and it wasn't fair that this was how he got to see him, that he couldn't think 'you're so gorgeous' anymore without feeling wrong because what was happening to him was so wrong and he would do anything to end this for him, anything to stop it from doing this to him, but he was paralyzed, watching in horror as it slowly broke him down and—and god, oh god, he was so fucking gorgeous like this


Kurt hurled the burnt-up knife at the wall as he charged through the door of his hotel room, hearing it thud satisfyingly into the plaster.

He regretted it almost immediately. (He'd have to pay for that when he checked out.) But the regret was soon swept under the tidal wave of pure, unadulterated hatred that boiled up his throat. So close. He had been so close, and it had slipped away like smoke through his fingers the minute he'd let his guard down.

("Give it up, Romeo; he's never coming back!")

Kurt wanted to scream. He wrenched the knife out of the hole in the wall and paced the corners of the room, nowhere to go and too much heat in his veins to stop moving. With a wild cry, he threw the knife again, snarling as it embedded itself deep into the wallpaper.

("He's gone. He left two centuries ago when I stripped his skin off of his body like tissue paper. No one's home inside those cute little eyes anymore, darlin'.")

He knew better, HE KNEW BETTER. He knew it would try to distract him, unbalance him, and he had been so close to killing it this time! He tugged out the knife again only to plunge it back in, angrily, viciously, violently dismembering the demon in his head.

("He cried for you the whole time I did it. Isn't that pathetic. 'Kurt, please… help me, Kurt. Save me, Kurt!' He was so sure you would get him out.")

Years of tracking, for nothing. For one more dead body to add to the trail of corpses that led Kurt to Middle of Nowhere, New England. All it took was one stupid little story and he lost his control, let it slip out of his trap with a cackling laugh and a taunting grin.

("Is that another power of love thing? It might be my favorite thing, that power of love. It made breaking him so easy.")

"Shut up," he hissed at the wall.

Wallpapered cuts and bruises from too many run-ins with his knife stared back at him.

Damnit. That was going to cost a lot.

"…What are you looking at?" he said tiredly.

The holes in the wall didn't reply.


He kept saying I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry Kurt, and he wanted to tell him shh, it's okay and he wanted to tell him I will never forgive you and most of all he wanted to tell him no don't, no please don't, please, don't you dare, please don't


"Your usual?"

"No, thank you." Kurt slapped the twenty onto the bar with excessive force.

"A scotch, then."

His hand aborted itself as it lifted from the table. Curious, Kurt looked up.

It was the boy again. Green-orange eyes that were almost-if-not-really amber, watching him with something Kurt almost would have called 'worry' if it wasn't also coupled with that wide and strangely-knowing smile he tended to sport whenever Kurt talked to him. Already placed neatly on the bar next to his twenty was a scotch on the rocks.

Kurt's anger bled away. He studied the beads of water glistening as they slid down the sides of the glass. He looked up and studied the beads of water glistening as they slid down the side of the boy's neck.

"Hot in here," he commented.

"Busy night," the boy grinned breathlessly. "If you stay, you'll be in for a treat."

He reached over to straighten Kurt's collar, and Kurt's eyebrows raised, a little incredulous at how hard this kid was selling. "Oh?" he asked. He probably would have been turned off by the boy in front of him if this one wasn't so close.

"It's Wednesday." And that was all he got out before a hulk of a man came up and rattled off an order that sent him flying around the bar like a worker bee in a hive. Setting the drinks on the table for the man, he winked, grinning roguishly at Kurt, before getting called down to the other side of the bar.

Kurt watched him work and settled in, more intrigued than ever about this boy. No, he hadn't killed the demon. But a night with this boy might be exactly what he needed to get back his drive.

The kid was so close, Kurt wouldn't even have to close his eyes.

"Stick around!" he heard the boy call to him. Fighting a grin, he brought the scotch up to his lips. It was sharp, stinging his throat with prickling glass on its way down.

Not bad.


"I just have to."

"Kurt, buddy, you're not making any sense. A week ago, all you could talk about was New York. What happened?"

"I told you."

"Well, forgive me if I can't understand why my son would suddenly want to backpack around the country when he used to complain for hours about camping in the backyard."

"People change."

"That was last year."

"People can change in a year."

"Is this about Blaine?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"I was with you at that funeral, bud.

"I don't know what went on between you two. But I know you liked him. It's okay to miss him.

You don't have to run away from that."

"I'm not running away. I'm—

"It's just something I need to do, dad. Please."

"…You need to call me every night. Okay? You let me know you're okay—"

"Thank you!"

"—If you need this, then you need this. But when you get back, you're sitting down and you're deciding whether you want to go to college or not. You can't run forever, Kurt. You've got to let yourself live some, too."

"I know."

"I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."

"I will."


The night had just begun to break in, molding itself to Kurt's frame, when he finally discovered what the boy had meant. A karaoke machine had taken up residence on the little stage in the corner of the bar—an area Kurt had never noticed before—and a few of the wait staff and customers had come up to perform in Middle-Of-Nowhere New England's version of America's Got Talent. His bartender friend had gone up once or twice with a few fellow waiters to sing ridiculous versions of eighties' songs, and several kids from the local college were using the opportunity to showcase their sometimes-impressive pipes, but by far Kurt's favorite was a little old lady who kept coming up to sing Ella Fitzgerald.

"She used to be a chorus girl on Broadway," came someone's voice, and Kurt turned to find his boy leaning behind the bar, watching the stage with him. "Always brings down the house."

There was an airy tone of nostalgia to his words that mirrored that of the voice trapped in Kurt's throat. Memories of a choir room and a family he'd separated himself from long ago condensed in the air around him.

"You should sing something."

He blinked and turned to the boy. "What?"

"You should sing something. Get whatever's bugging you off your chest."

Kurt looked down at the scotch in his hands (his third). "Nah," he smiled tightly. "Not drunk enough for that." Sharp eyes pinned him. "You sing something."

The boy's look was calculating, almost challenging.

"Sure," he said softly.


It had been the worst suggestion Kurt had ever made.


"This one is for Sarah and her old chorus girls," the boy said as he took his place up by the mike, adjusting it slightly to be level with his lips. The karaoke track started, big band music rounding out the intro. And the boy began to sing.

"It's the wrong time and the wrong place.

Though your face is lovely, it's the wrong face.

It's not his face, but such a charming face, that it's alright with me…"

It wasn't that his voice sounded familiar, because it didn't. Kurt had never heard it before. It was just that it—like everything about him—was so close. And the way he was singing… Kurt's breath left him as the boy caressed the room with his words. A rush of heat filled him as the apparition before him met his eyes. The room was electric.

"You can't know how happy I am that we met; I'm strangely attracted to you. There's someone I'm trying so hard to forget-"

He wasglued to his seat as a searing, potent gaze captured him—

"Don't you want to forget someone, too?"


The bar erupted into scattered but enthusiastic applause.

Kurt ordered another scotch.


They slammed against the door, lips swallowing each other like the lights that got lost inside the night at sea. The boy fumbled with what sounded like keys (Kurt didn't care, wasn't looking), and the door fell open behind him as Kurt pushed him against it. They stumbled into the entranceway, Kurt slamming the door as he pulled off the boy's jacket.

"I knew it," the boy panted as he pulled away a little. "I knew you wanted me."

Kurt thrust his tongue in his mouth to shut him up.

"Mmph—wait—" Sighing, Kurt pulled away, fingers wrinkling the boy's t-shirt as he held onto his waist.

"What?"

"I just—I just want to do this right. Hold on." Shaking fingers came up to tuck a stray hair behind Kurt's ear, more gentle than they had any right being. A cold ear rested against Kurt's cheekbone as the boy crowded close, murmuring in his ear and walking him backwards to who-knew-where (Kurt didn't care, wasn't looking). Kurt busied himself feeling the hot skin under the boy's shirt. "Was it the song? Was that what it was?" Kurt's knees hit something hard, and he buckled, falling into a chair. The boy crowded over him, nudging himself between his legs. "Tell me what it was," he said, quiet and intense.

I don't even know your name, Kurt wanted to say, what the hell do you think it was. He doesn't, though. The boy's song taunts him with its lyrics. (They're not his lips, but they're such tempting lips—so it's alright with me.) "Yeah," he breathes instead, reaching for the button on the boy's pants. "It was the song."

The boys hands encircle his own and move them behind Kurt's back for—some reason (Kurt didn't care, wasn't looking). He kissed him, deeply, deeper and more passionately than Kurt had ever been kissed before, and he—

The click of a lock and the feeling of cold, cold metal around his wrists shocks Kurt's mind out of its steam. Eyes flying wide open, he tugged against the—handcuffs?!—and jerked back from the kiss to find—

Black black black.

Black eyes.

His stomach plunged to the floor and his heart jumped to his throat. It couldn't have tricked him like that. It couldn't have dared to trick him like that, Jesus Christ, he was going to kill that son of a bitch—

And then it hits him.

The eyes, the hair, the skin, the singing, the—the everything. The so close.

He couldn't believe he hadn't even entertained it as a possibility, it seemed too far away and too impossible to imagine, but… it had to be.

He was so close.


"Blaine."

The boy looked at him, surprise shifting his eyes back green-orange. Kurt wondered for a brief, disappointing moment if he had been wrong—if this boy was a monster, or the demon, or—

"You would figure it out." The boy's eyes held a humor in them that was painfully familiar. A waterfall of relief crashed down Kurt's back, leaving him limp with the force of it. It was him. It was Blaine, he had found him, it was Blaine. His mouth couldn't figure out if it was going to open in shock or smile in wonder, so it did neither.

Blaine's grin was too much teeth. "How long has it been?"

"Eight years."

The boy nodded. Blaine nodded.

"Felt longer," he said softly. Kurt knew. He had heard stories from demons of how long it took for a minute to pass in the pit, each second winding its sluggish way into the other. One hundred twenty years in hell for each year passed on earth.

"Nine centuries." It slipped out before he thought to be gentle. The words blunted themselves against the boy's sharp grin.

"I don't remember you being so good at math," he teased. Kurt said nothing.

Blaine's eyes raked over him like he hadn't spent days seducing him into this chair.

"You've changed," he said suddenly.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, shifting purposely against the metal around his wrists and looking pointedly at the body of the boy Blaine was inhabiting.

"So have you."

Blaine's eyes sparkled.

"Of course I've changed," he cried brightly. "I've been through hell!" His laughter crawled down Kurt's neck and settled sourly in the pit of his stomach. "What's your excuse? It's too bad you weren't a hunter when all of this started. Would have saved us both a lot of trouble."

Kurt's teeth clenched together.

Blaine's smile dropped. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said softly, moving closer. "Don't feel guilty about it, Kurt, it wasn't your fault. I don't blame you. I blame my parents."

His eyes filmed as Blaine lifted a gentle hand to his cheek. Then suddenly, like the flash of a camera, Blaine's expression crinkled into a shark's smile.

"Sorry, that's a lie, I do blame you," he stabbed with manic glee. "Few thousand years in hell, and you blame everybody. I even blame myself. Everyone's to blame. No one is innocent. Wasn't there a song that went like that?"

"I've been looking for you for so long," Kurt began, but Blaine sung over him.

"God save all your sinners, save your blackest sheep…"

"You've been following me," he insisted. "Watching me. I know you have, don't pretend."

"Sold his soul, sold his soul, sold his soul to..."

"You picked him because he looks like you, didn't you? You wanted me to know."

"Do you remember Puck trying to pull that one off?" Blaine interrupted, and for one shining second he sounded exactly he had eight years ago. "God, that was painful. Prepared me for hell, and I mean that in the nicest way possible."

Kurt shook his head.

"What are you doing here, Blaine?"

Blaine adjusted the collar of Kurt's shirt, toying with the buttons.

"Revenge," he announced. Then, seconds later: "Masochism." He unbuttoned the first button on Kurt's shirt and added, "Fun. Take your pick."

"You're insane," Kurt realized. It toppled down his chest like an anvil, sinking him into the seat of the chair. A tiny voice in the back of his head sung out 'too late, you lost him.' It sounded suspiciously like the demon.

"Yeah, well," Blaine began flippantly, "torture will do that do that to you."

Kurt felt like he had been smacked.

Someone was laughing. "God, Kurt, learn how to take a joke, would you? Are you really that torn up about it?" Harsh hands untucked his shirt from his pants, and began unbuttoning the rest of the buttons. Part of him wanted to pull away (now wasn't the time, not now that they'd finally reunited), but a stronger part was leaning into Blaine's hands, every fantasy reunion scene playing in widescreen surround sound in his mind's eye. "Okay, tell you what: redo. Let's change it up." Blaine straddled his hips, an unsettling playfulness to his movements. "You can go to hell this time, and I'll be the demon."

"And the boy you're wearing?" Kurt bit back.

"He's the understudy."

Fingers slid their way up the inside of Kurt's thighs, pooling heat in the pit of his stomach as they slipped insidiously toward his hips. Lips brushed his ear and Kurt shivered as a tickle of air teased his skin. "Just give it to me, Kurt," Blaine's voice was a caress, terrifyingly seductive. "Give me your soul."

The air shuddered as Kurt tried to take it in.

"Don't do this," he murmured.

"I think you skipped a couple of lines."

"You're better than this."

"I don't think so, no." Blaine's palms moved in slow drags against Kurt's thighs—up, and back, and up, and back, and Kurt's arms tensed.

"Why?" he ground out.

"Because I'm a demon, and you're a hunter. And every atom of my existence just wants to fuck you over." The hands tightened into fists against the hollows of his hips, pulling at his jeans painfully, and Kurt's eyelids fluttered. "And I mean that in every possible sense of the phrase."

"You're not a demon," he protested, trying to clear the lust fogging his brain long enough to let himself think. Stop it, Hummel. Get a grip. "You're Blaine."

"The two are not mutually exclusive," Blaine laughed in his ear. "You really think they'd let me out otherwise?" His lips moved down to hover over Kurt's, and Kurt jerked his head to the side before they could meet. Blaine paused. Kurt hitched a breath as those lips attached themselves to his neck instead, biting lightly. He shrugged sharply to dislodge them.

Blaine pulled back, eyes flashing a strange betrayal so quickly Kurt swore he had imagined it. The hands tracing his hips stilled.

"…You're kind of failing in the role-play department," Blaine told him bluntly. "And here I thought you liked foreplay."

"Guess it's just not my thing," Kurt said warily. "Sorry to be a disappointment."

That shark-sharp smile snapped back on.

"No worries, we'll just start over," Blaine said, voice unnaturally bright. He held out a hand. "Hi Kurt, I'm Blaine. I'm a demon. I'm here for your soul."

Kurt ignored the hand, not amused. His bound wrists shifted against the wood of the chair pointedly. His captor's eyes crinkled with unexpected, actual humor.

Kurt couldn't keep up.

"What do you want?" he asked, baffled.

"Pretty sure I just told you."

"My soul?" Kurt fought the incredulous laugh threatening to bubble out of his throat. "I don't believe you. What do you want?"

Blaine's eyes were ten thousand emotions.

"To kill you."

It was said in the blankest tone, all emotion absent from the phrase, and yet the words sliced into his heart with the precision of a finely-honed razor. Oh. Kurt bit his tongue, feeling stupid. He hadn't considered that. But of course. Of course Blaine would hate him for what had happened. Didn't that make sense?

More sense than the twisted Orpheus and Eurydice plotline he'd woven for them in his head. God, he'd been so naïve. Hadn't he learned anything in the past eight years?

(He cried for you the whole time I did it. He was so sure you would get him out.)

"So do it," he heard himself saying.

He was steeled, ready for a strike—but Blaine was still. The manic energy from before had dissipated into the air, and instead he was just… looking. His hands were stilled, and he didn't move for ages, spending slow minutes (centuries) drinking in Kurt's form. Then, gradually… carefully, as if he might break… his hands came up to cradle Kurt's face.

"You were so beautiful to me," he said gently. Immense sadness and longing painted his face pale, his eyes liquid with sweetness. "You were like an angel. Sent to me from heaven." His thumb gently stroked Kurt's cheek. "Sent to save me."

Kurt's mouth was open as if he was going to speak, but for the life of him he had no words to say. Blaine leaned in, intimately resting his forehead against Kurt's.

Something dark fell over him.

"How many times have you had sex?" he asked, voice suddenly low. Kurt's eyes narrowed.

"Why do you—"

"Did you ever think about it?" he interrupted, voice growing rough. "Sit in your room and jerk yourself off?"

Kurt felt like he'd been skinned, suddenly too painfully raw and exposed. "What?" it slipped out.

"You did," Blaine growled a half-laugh, his air fluttering across Kurt's cheeks. Kurt tensed. "You thought about it all the time." His fingers picked up their journey down Kurt's pelvis, now purposeful and focused. Kurt shifted backward until his back dug into the edge of the chair, but Blaine's fingers only followed him. "You still think about it," Blaine continued as his nails raked up Kurt's inner thighs. "How hot it was. How much you wanted it to be you and not him."

"Don't." He tried to sound firm, but the end of the word caught in his breath as Blaine suddenly grabbed him over his zipper. He squeezed, and Kurt's stomach skipped.

"Does it make you feel dirty? Powerful?" Blaine's voice glided over his skin, pulling at the hairs at his neck and forming goosebumps as he whispered impishly: "What a naughty little secret."

"Blaine—" A palm, pressing hard into his crotch. Kurt gasped.

"There are moments you remember. Sharp." A rolling press of the hand. "Heady." Another. "Hungry images." Kurt's hips moved up to chase the friction as it rolled a third time, visions of hot nightmares coming unbidden to his mind with every word that tripped off Blaine's tongue. "That surrender… it never fails to send you over."

"I…"

"You dream about it. About me."

"Yes," he gasped, rolling his hips into the pressure as Blaine pressed harder.

"Because you like to be in control. Kurt."

"Yes."

"You like the rush it gives you. That intoxicating feeling of power over something." Blaine's voice was breathy and hot, his lips ghosting over Kurt's jaw, his neck, his collarbone. Kurt shivered as it coated his eyes in tears. Stop, stop finding this hot. This isn't some wet dream—get a hold of yourself! "You've never really had that in your life," Blaine continued, dissecting his body and reading aloud the secrets he found buried in his tissue to anyone who could hear. "You love it. It's why you kill things, why you pick up cute little boys in bars—cute little boys who look like me."

Kurt choked down air. "I do it so I remember it," he panted as Blaine bit painfully down the line of his neck. "So I never forget what happened—what that thing did to you—so I always—I a-always know why I'm hunting it!"

"Recreating it in your bed every night," Blaine growled, his grip turning painful. "Is that what turns you on, Kurt?"

"You," Kurt confessed. "I just want them to be you."

"We're doing this part wrong, aren't we?" Blaine said suddenly. He unzipped Kurt's jeans and slipped his hand inside. "I'm sorry." Kurt head flew back and he cried out as Blaine gripped him with a hand like branded iron. "Why don't we switch places? You can tie me up, fuck me into the chair like you want."

He stroked him in quick, fast rhythm to words that were already setting him on fire, and Kurt bucked against him.

"Ah—!"

"Fuck me until I can't think." Hard. "Fuck me until all I can do is give in." Yes. "Let you take, and take, and take. That's what you want, isn't it?" He could see it so clearly behind the red of his eyelids: the way Blaine's lips would slacken, his arms grow weak—his body a sculpture of surrender. Just like that night—but better, but with Kurt, giving everything he had to Kurt, all that love, that passion, that soul, to Kurt, where it belonged, whom he had granted it to in the first place. Nothing forced or taken or twisted or wrong, just given, just giving everything to each other, and that breathtaking submission, all for Kurt and YES YES YES.

"Shit!" it exploded out of him, and Kurt struggled against the metal tying his hands together, needing to get away, needing to touch, needing to do something! And Blaine was right there, right there, locked onto his eyes like he was reading his mind, like nothing existed but Kurt's eyes, and he was so close to him it hurt.

"It's sick," he said lowly. Kurt flinched. "You're sick, Kurt."

There was too much in his face: hurt, anger, tenderness, longing. Kurt trembled, shook, hips canting up and muscles clenching as that hand kept up its rhythm and what was this? The same lips that spewed venom soothed the bruises caused by the teeth they hid, and Kurt couldn't read it, couldn't put it together. Kind touches and angry clawing and sweet looks and hateful words. He didn't understand what Blaine wanted, what he was trying to do. What was he trying to do?

"Why are you here?" he breathed.

"I told you."

"No." Kurt panted. He tried to pull away, restraining himself with what felt like inhuman strength even as a groan of protest slid out of his teeth. Blaine let go of him as if he had never held him captive, the frantic stroking suddenly and conspicuously absent. Kurt caught Blaine's eyes and hooked in.

"Why are you here?" he asked, purposeful.

Too many thoughts crowded the orange-green of his gaze.

And then his eyes shifted black.

Kurt's stomach plunged as hands tore into his hair and wrenched his head back painfully, and Blaine's mouth stole his so thoroughly Kurt couldn't breathe. He bucked against the chair, hearing it scrape against the wood of the floor as it jerked across it.

"MMnph—!"

Blaine's hand were claws, and they hurt as the nails dug angrily into his scalp, his teeth biting violently into Kurt's lips and Kurt felt it when they penetrated the flesh of his bottom lip and found blood. He couldn't catch a breath, and then Blaine's lips and teeth released him and he gasped in air.

"I hate you," Blaine snarled, voice inhumanly deep and wild and blistering. "I hate you, I hate you so much—"

"No, you don't," Kurt wheezed, unable to stop the tremors running through his body. "Don't tell me that."

"I saw your eyes." Blaine's own were unforgiving black, and burning into him. "I saw them, Kurt, they followed me to hell. You were watching it all and you were loving it—"

"No!" Kurt shouted, horror filling his throat.

"—you were loving it!" Blaine repeated over him, loud and damning. "I saw you. And ever since, you've been picking up boys, trying to do it over—"

"No, that's not—!"

"—Don't tell me that's not what it is! I see you!" He was centuries of fire, wrath, agony, and there was nothing human to him anymore—voice, eyes, expression, body, everything screamed HELL in large, angry daggers of letters. Demon. "It was all I could think of, all those years I was down there: how I was going to kill you." It's nails dragged down Kurt's neck as it spoke, digging in and drawing blood and Kurt was stuck, tied to the chair and boxed in with no way to escape and his heart slammed too-fast against his ribs as freezing terror gripped him, any lingering arousal frozen over. "How I was going to make you feel what I felt, make you hate it, and you would look into my eyes and I would kill you."

It's eyes bore into him like hot spikes, and—

And as soon as it appeared, it was gone. No more hell. No more demon.

And Kurt could see him.

Blaine: sixteen, and scared, and angry, and betrayed. Blaine: so young, and hurt, and helpless. Blaine, spending centuries being tortured and broken and twisted until it was all he knew, planning and plotting a vengeance that he… would never carry out.

Kurt's lips parted as comprehension bloomed.

"So do it," he said.

Blaine's chest heaved with exertion. He didn't move.

"Do it," Kurt repeated.

The hands on his neck tightened, and Blaine's muscles tensed—but still, he didn't move.

"Make me hate it, Blaine," Kurt egged on, growing more confident with each continued minute of stillness. "Make me feel what you felt, and then kill me. Go ahead and do it."

He didn't.

"You can't," Kurt said softly, triumphantly. "You can't kill me, can you? Because you're still you, no matter what kind of torture they put you through. You cared about me so much that you put my safety above your own happiness. You stopped talking to me because you wanted to protect me, but it didn't work; it did the opposite. It chose me because it knew how much you cared about me, and instead of protecting me, you put me right in the middle of it all. I had to watch you die. I had to watch while it used my body to kill you. I had to watch while it raped you. And still, the last words you spoke, you spoke for me: 'I'm sorry.'"

Blaine's jaw clenched painfully.

Kurt wanted so badly to touch him.

"What do you want?" he breathed out the question helplessly.

The sweetest touches brushed over the cuts and bruises on his neck. A hand came up to push back his hair, and gentle fingers traced the lines and bags around his eyes.

"…Why did you do this to yourself?" Blaine asked quietly.

Kurt's stomach disappeared.

"I needed to find you," he said.

Blaine searched his eyes, expression unreadable.

"No, you didn't."

"I did," Kurt corrected. "I let it in, and it killed you."

"So, what? This was your punishment?" Blaine stroked his cheek again, and Kurt felt like he was going to break. "You ruined yourself. You had a life. You had a family. You were so… sweet. Perfect." Blaine leaned close and said into Kurt's mouth: "Look what you did to yourself."

The words entered and stuck in Kurt's throat. Kurt couldn't swallow them down.

"It killed you," he said weakly.

"He freed me."

"It tortured you," he insisted. "And it killed you."

"He was pretty tame compared to what followed, sweetheart."

Blaine was tender and intimate as he broke Kurt down, sharing air and space until Kurt didn't know who started where. He tried to move his head away but Blaine followed closely, lips always inches from his own as he breathed words into him that he couldn't stomach, couldn't keep inside, that built up in his body until they all threatened to pour out of him all at once.

"You did this to yourself for nothing."

He couldn't hear this. "No. I found you."

"Too late to save me." Stop it.

"I'm going to kill it. I'm going to kill it for you."

Blaine's eyes glinted, so close to him. "Good." The word was a caress.

Kurt trembled. "Please just tell me what you want," he whispered desperately.

Blaine's hands came to rest on either side of his face.

"…You."

The kiss was sweet; soft and lovely the way their first kiss should have been. But they weren't two teenagers experience the first stirrings of young love—they were so different now, they had done so much, and it quickly started to get hungry. Kurt flexed against the handcuffs as the embers of his earlier arousal flared, and Blaine started sucking on his tongue. Kurt wanted to laugh—if only those glee kids could see them now. A hunter and a demon. Well, a hunter, a demon, and a—UNDERSTUDY DID YOU FORGET ABOUT THE UNDERSTUDY YOU TWISTED FUCK—

"Wait—!" Kurt pulled back, but Blaine read his mind.

"He's a patient at the Lincoln Memorial Hospital," he said quickly. "Brain-dead."

Fuck. Yes. Blaine!

Kurt lunged for him, whimpering as Blaine met his lips just as passionately, sinking into him.

"He died two hours ago," he panted between kisses. "I think this technically makes you a necrophiliac."

"Shut up," Kurt breathed.

Blaine's hands were all over him, stroking and holding and scratching, and Kurt whined. "Let me touch you, fuck, let me touch you—" and the handcuffs rubbing his wrists raw snapped open without Blaine even touching them, and Kurt was pulling off Blaine's shirt, tugging into his hair, feeling every muscle and inch of skin he'd been craving for eight years, nine centuries, his whole life, fuck.

"Don't stop—" he gasped as they tackled zippers and buttons and clacked teeth. "Don't you dare stop."

Blaine didn't.


It let him feel his final kiss—soft, fervently probing lips and a tongue passionate and pushing desperate into his mouth. His eyes shone in broken fever—he had watched him unravel as it used his body to drive him to the edge, to torture and caress and drag out the yes, take it, please so horribly slowly from deep inside of him, wrapping strings around his limbs that it tugged and toyed with until finally he could only scream in forfeit into its mouth and let it play. It let him feel his surrender, though, and he was revolted, disgusted… ashamed of himself for finding the submission so intoxicating. It laughed at him even as he won, because he didn't, really. Both it and he knew to whom the soul was really given—but both it and he were entirely too aware of who kept it after.


A thousand tiny pins of light pierced his eyes through the veil of his eyelids, and Kurt blinked them open to find himself on a foreign bed (nothing new about that).

"I was going to leave while you slept, but I figured waking up next to a dead body was still mabacre enough to be traumatic for you."

Everything that happened last night rushed back into his brain, and Kurt's heart leapt as he turned to find Blaine next to him, laying sideways with his head propped on his fist and a roguish grin on his face. "Sorry we couldn't live out one of your fantasies last night," he said, somehow still looking just-fucked. "Maybe next time you can try to rape me." Not funny.

"Fuck you," Kurt spit out. "I don't have rape fantasies."

He blinked and Blaine was suddenly hovering over him, close and threatening. "Sure about that?" he taunted, rubbing his knee just so and hitching Kurt's breath. "You're a little more fucked up than you think you are, Kurt." His voice was low and seductive, and something began to spark up Kurt's abdomen.

"Look who's talking," Kurt breathed back. He reached to grab at Blaine's waist—but stopped when he realized one of his hands wasn't moving. Glancing up, a tell-tale shine brought his attention to the cool metal encircling his wrist. He was handcuffed to the bed.

His head snapped back around to look at Blaine, wary.

"I thought we played this game already."

"New game," Blaine said, his knee continuing its slow rubbing. Kurt tilted his hips into it. "Let's see how good of a hunter you are."

And then he was gone, off the bed, and Kurt was left unfinished.

The fucker.

"What?" Kurt pulled at the handcuffs as he sat himself up, tugging unsuccessfully and searching the room for Blaine. "Where are you going?"

Blaine came back to hover over the bed, just far enough away that Kurt couldn't reach him, now fully clothed and with a mischievous glint in his eye. "I don't know," he laughed, skipping back as Kurt's hand almost brushed him. "Kill some people, maim some things. That's what demons do, right?"

"Don't," Kurt said seriously.

"If you want to stop me, you'll have to find me," Blaine told him. "Come on, Kurt." He backed away, an unnerving confidence and that strange, knowingly-sexy slink shaping his body. His head tilted up in challenge, his lips parted in temptation. "Hunt me down."

His eyes flashed and just like that—before Kurt could say anything—he was gone.


It took Kurt forty minutes to find a pick small enough, and five minutes to crack the lock on the handcuffs.

It took him ten minutes after that to notice that the newspaper article placed strategically next to the bed was from Georgia, and not Middle Of Nowhere, New England. He looked at the headline. Five victims of strange animal attacks in the last two months.

Hunt me down, Blaine had said.

"Forever," Kurt murmured.


He shuddered once, violently, before slumping boneless against the wall. It took its time finishing the kiss, before finally letting go of his lips. Kurt could taste tears in the corners of his mouth.

He pretended they were his own.