Title: "Until My Dying Breath" -- Chapter Two
Warnings: Vampire AU with all the unpleasantness that entails. Violence, sexualized violence, blood, grotesque descriptions, dark setting, fear, minor past character death. Warnings on a chapter by chapter basis.
Length: 9,000-ish for this chapter
Story Summary: On his way home from campus to his apartment on the Upper East Side, Blaine Anderson happens to come across a beautiful young man with bewitching blue eyes. It doesn’t take long, though, for everything Blaine thought was real to fall to pieces. For his world to dissolve into a twisted dance of fear and heat and blood.
Notes: Hello, lovely ones! :) It's three in the morning on a schoolnight, but I wanted to get this out to you all as soon as possible. It still feels a little bit surreal to be writing a vampire story, but I'm so happy that you all seem to be enjoying it so far! Do let me know what you think, and thank you so much for reading.
Also, my tumblr is here if anyone is interested! :D
Sprawled backwards on the hard pavement with his heart hammering rabbit-quick in his chest, all Blaine can do is stare with wide-blown eyes at Kurt standing a few feet away. The man’s body – his corpse, oh god, throat ripped out and wrists and neck snapped and dead dead dead dead dead – is slumped on the ground against the brick wall, Blaine knows, but he can’t look. Can’t take his eyes off Kurt-not-Kurt even for a second, because if he does he’ll be dead, Kurt will kill him, and he’s so scared that his whole body is numb with it.
Blaine tries to push himself backwards, digging the heels of his feet into the pavement and pushing off as he scrabbles back with his hands, but his body is clumsy and uncoordinated and he can’t seem to make his arms and legs work in tandem. His mind is spinning, whirling, because if even if he manages to stand and run away he’ll have to turn his back and the second he does he’ll be dead and played with and consumed. Like the man slumped in a pile a few feet away, the body a dark shadow on the ground.
In front of him, Kurt is standing with rigid posture and his face very, very still. His pale hands – the ones that had snapped the man’s neck like it was nothing, oh god – are raised slightly into the air beside him, palms forward, and even terrified out of his mind Blaine can see the careful way that he’s holding himself. Kurt’s expression looks strained, placating – and ever-so-slightly put upon, as though things haven’t panned out the way he was hoping. (Of course they haven’t, he was going to kill you on that bench and now he has to kill you like this and you’re dead, oh god, you’re dead. )
“Blaine,” says Kurt in a slow, wary tone – as though he is speaking to a small child.
Instead of calming him, however, the word has the exact opposite effect. A small, involuntary whine of fear escapes from Blaine’s throat as the monster – Kurt – addresses him by name. Entire body rigid and hard with terror, Blaine’s hand gropes blindly backward along the pavement until it encounters something long and thin, softer than concrete. It takes him a few seconds to realize what it is, but when he does it sends a tiny burst of courage through his chest. He wraps his hand around it, clenching tight.
“Blaine,” Kurt enunciates again, taking a slow and careful step forward. He’s looking right down at him, the whole of his lithe body strong and certain; there is still a smear of blood, bright red and shining, along the corner of his mouth. Blaine scrambles to his feet unsteadily, clutching the object tight in his hand. “Don’t be –”
But the rest of the words get cut off when Blaine grabs the strap with both hands, swings hard – and slams Kurt right in the face with his heavy book bag.
It collides with a loud crunch, the textbooks inside crashing into Kurt’s face as hard as Blaine can swing them. It’s probably the surprise of it more than anything that sends Kurt reeling backwards, but Blaine doesn’t wait to find out how much time he’s bought himself. He lets go of the strap and the bag goes crashing to the ground; he doesn’t even bother to look at it. The momentum of the swing already has him going, running running running as fast as he can in the opposite direction.
Blaine throws himself down the road, running harder than he ever has in his life. It doesn’t take long before his lungs are screaming at him, heart pounding and coat too heavy and awkward as he speeds down the darkened street. The frantic thump-thump-thump of his heart in his ears is all Blaine can hear as he throws himself around corners and down sidewalks as fast as he can possibly manage. Beneath him, his feet are numb and floating and completely detached from the rest of his field of perception; he can barely even feel it as they slam into the ground in a hard and frantic rhythm of terror. He has no real idea where he’s going, only away, and all he hopes is that his body can hold in there for just a few more seconds, for just a few more feet –
Any second now, he’ll feel the sharp crunch of a hand digging into his shoulder and tugging him backwards. Clawing at him and biting him open, pulling him into the shadows screaming and crying. He can practically feel it, the phantom pain of being tackled down and ripped apart and sliced into. It’s coming, it’s coming, he knows it is, can taste his own certainty that every moment is his last.
But the pain doesn’t come. Instead, he flings himself around another corner with his limbs feeling weak and shaky with fear – only to realize that this is his road. He must have been subconsciously retracing the route Kurt took him on for their walk, because his apartment building is right up ahead of him, he can see it.
Go go go get away so close, he thinks desperately fast in time with the throbbing of his heart, pushing himself harder as the building gets closer. The tiny part of his brain still clinging desperately to rationality makes him shove a hand inside his pocket and tug out his keys as he sprints, barely able to breathe as he attempts to determine by touch which one will unlock the main door. Almost there almost there almost there –
Blaine hits the glass doors full-on, slamming his shoulder hard from the momentum as he tries to unlock the door with shaking hands. For a terrifying moment, the bright flashes of jagged panic make his hands so numb that he almost drops the keys – but he doesn’t, holds on, manages to just barely get himself inside and throw the door closed after him. Dashes hard, can’t look back over his shoulder, not even for a second because if he does Kurt will be there. Right there in his wake with his face twisted up and horrific and nightmarish, speeding after Blaine to catch him and kill him and rip him open.
He barely even registers the four flights of stairs up – stairs in case of emergency, not the elevator, elevator traps you – doesn’t even register the breath clawing at his chest or the slam of his feet on the concrete steps in his frantic certainty that he’s not going fast enough, can’t be going fast enough.
Despite everything, Blaine somehow manages to speed down the hallway, unlock his apartment door, and fling himself inside. He throws himself against the closed door, pulling all three locks across with hands that are trembling so hard he can barely wrap his fingers around the metal slides. It’s not enough, he knows it’s not enough, watched Kurt snap someone apart with his bare hands and a door isn’t going to be able to stop him. If he tracked Blaine back here... if he can find out which apartment number is his...
I’m going to die. The realization is oddly absent, distant; and Blaine can’t focus on whether or not it will hurt or how Kurt will do it, because all that matters is that someone else knows. He reaches into his coat pocket and quickly dials 9-1-1 with unsteady fingers. There are bright strikes of pain going off in his muscles, in his head from where he struck it against the trash can, but none of it matters.
His thumb is just hovering over the ‘send’ button when something hard crashes into his front door. Blaine stumbles back, sweating hard and breath coming in shallow gulps as he stares at the door with wide eyes. There is a pause – before something pounds against the feeble wood.
“Blaine!” comes Kurt’s voice through the door, high and angry and barked out. He sounds furious, the beautiful musicality of his voice twisted up and strained. “Blaine, let me inside.” The fast pounding makes the whole door shake again; Kurt is slamming his hand against it, Blaine realizes, stepping back and watching in horror. Waiting for the door to collapse, to burst inwards in a shower of splinters. “Open the door! Invite me in, Blaine, tell me I can come in.”
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” asks an efficient-sounding woman’s voice in his ear.
“Police, please, I need the police,” Blaine rushes out, voice cracking, clutching the phone to his ear in a vice-grip. The words sounds high and frightened to his own ears.
“No. No, Blaine, don’t you dare,” Kurt shouts from outside the locked door, and another slam resonates through the wood. For a moment, Blaine is certain that he’ll wake people up – that people will come outside and see him – before he realizes that this is New York. All of his neighbours have probably heard far worse. They almost definitely know better than to poke their noses out during a loud and potentially dangerous hallway shouting match.
Why hasn’t the door given way yet? The thought is brief and distant, however, because the woman is asking him what his emergency is in that same calm, professional voice and he thinks she might have asked him a few times now. Can’t focus, can’t keep it all straight.
“There’s a man outside my door,” Blaine breathes into the phone, trying to keep his voice low. It doesn’t seem to work, though, because somehow Kurt can hear him from outside.
“Blaine,” comes Kurt’s voice from outside, except it is no longer raised in anger. He sounds eerily calm, certain. Measured and careful in controlled rage. “Blaine, if you bring police here, you know what I’ll do? I’ll go and wait outside and rip out their throats when they get here.”
The woman on the phone is asking him a question, but the bottom has dropped out of Blaine’s stomach with such speed and ferocity that he cannot comprehend the words anymore. The phone almost slips from his hand as he stares at the white-painted wood of the front door with unseeing eyes.
It’s such a thin barrier between him and Kurt. Between him and the monster who had absolutely no hesitation in killing a man tonight, in snapping his bones and sucking him empty. Blaine’s legs feel weak and spindly beneath him.
“You think I wouldn’t do it?” hisses Kurt’s voice, high and quick and cruel. An image of the man outside, slumped in an empty pile of bone and flesh on the street, flashes bright and hot in front of Blaine’s eyes. The ease with which Kurt had taken on someone three times his size with no trouble at all; the way his face had twisted up like that, oh god. “You think they can fight me? I’ll kill them, Blaine, I won’t even hesitate. And it will be your fault.”
“Sir?” the woman’s voice is asking him over phone’s speaker, voice low and professional despite the content of the conversation. “Sir, are you at liberty to speak? Can you tell me your address? ”
Mouth dry and suddenly hollow inside, Blaine licks his lips – and finally responds. “No,” he intones, voice sounding empty. “No, I’m – I apologize. I made a mistake. I’m sorry to waste your time.”
When Blaine presses his thumb down on the ‘end call’ button, it feels very much like signing his own death certificate. All at once, the unsteadiness of his own body hits him in a powerful way; how badly he’s shaking, sweat dripping down the back of his neck and stomach clenched so hard it hurts. He abruptly realizes that his legs are actually physically incapable of holding up his own weight as they buckle beneath him, sending him to his knees on the shiny false hardwood floors. His phone falls to the ground with a clatter.
“There’s my good boy,” hums Kurt sweetly from the other side of the door as Blaine kneels gasping on the ground. There is a hint of that coy, seductive lilt is back in his voice. It juxtaposes sharply against the long, terrible scrape of what can only be nails running down the doorframe. Drawn-out and whining, making Blaine wince.
“Now,” says Kurt quietly, and Blaine can practically envision the slow smile across his face. “Do the smart thing, Blaine, and invite me inside.”
He shudders, because Kurt is so close. Only a few feet away, just separated by a few feet and a couple inches of wood, and Blaine is so utterly vulnerable. He doesn’t understand why Kurt doesn’t just force his way inside; what’s keeping him from breaking down the door and taking what he’s wanted from the beginning. No part of the night makes sense, nothing at all, and Blaine’s entire world – his entire reality – is coming crashing down around his ears.
“You... you threatened to kill the police,” says Blaine in a small voice, unable to move from his crumpled position on the ground.
Images are buzzing through his mind, hard and unforgiving and too fast to make sense of. Kurt’s beautiful face, twisted and distorted and wrecked until it wasn’t even human anymore. The man struggling against the wall, hands bent backward at unnatural angles and flopping uselessly as he tried in vain to fight back. The pink of Kurt’s tongue as it darted out and licked the blood from his own lips as he stared down at him with icy eyes.
Blaine chokes at the image, shaking his head hard. “You murdered that guy outside, you – you tore out his throat. What... what are y—?”
“What do you think?” purrs Kurt deliciously, and the high scrape of one nail down the wooden frame is loud in the silence.
There is a word, loud and clear in its unspoken certainty, on the tip of Blaine’s tongue. Fully formed and impossible, dancing at the corners of his mind. But he can’t say it out loud, can’t make it real, because it’s ridiculous. Impossible; children’s tales and Victorian romance novels and black and white movies, not here and now. Not him.
But there isn’t another explanation.
A musical, tinkling laugh drifts through the door.
“You know,” comes Kurt’s voice happily. “Don’t pretend.”
Blaine shudders – long and hard and through his whole body – but mentally bolsters himself. The lawyer-in-training part of his brain is collating and rationalizing hard and fast, wheels spinning in his mind. He tries to calm himself down with the only conclusion that makes any sense: for some reason beyond his comprehension, Blaine is safe in his apartment. He has to be. If Kurt could come inside, he would have done so already. Would have splattered Blaine’s blood across the floors and furniture and drapes, but he hasn’t. For some reason that he cannot wrap his head around, Blaine is safe so long as he stays inside.
So he might as well try to get some information out of the monster waiting at his door.
“Why me?” asks Blaine quickly, forcing the words out into the air. “What do you want from me?”
A low, pleasurable noise floats through the divider between them.
“Everything,” whispers Kurt. The word a drawn-out exhalation of heat and certainty, and it takes all Blaine has not to gag at the idea of what everything is to a monster like him. Kurt laughs again, chiming and sweet. “I had all these plans, you know. It was going to be romantic for you. Candles, and flowers. Whispered words as I took you to my bed and had you. And then, at that very special moment...” His voice cuts off into a hummed noise of pleasure. “It would have been perfect. Something to cherish. I’m very upset that it’s been spoiled.”
The words hit Blaine in the stomach with another blunted impact of revulsion – and, inexplicably, betrayal. He had been playing right into a trap, he realizes dully, comprehension making sickness twist in his stomach. Kurt had been playing him from the very start, leading him along like a lamb to slaughter. Worst of all, Blaine had been happy to follow Kurt wherever; to throw his hands up into the air and let that beautiful boy have whatever he wanted. It would have been easy. An image of himself, glassy-eyed and naked, staring up from blood-soaked sheets makes him recoil and cringe.
An image of the man from the street, twitching helplessly as Kurt’s teeth tore open his throat, comes into Blaine’s mind. That would have happened to him.
“You didn’t have to kill him,” says Blaine tonelessly, shaking his head in disgust. “That man outside – we could have walked away, you didn’t have to –”
“He insulted you.” Kurt’s voice is suddenly dangerous, low and hard and cold in a way that makes it feel as though Blaine’s heart is being squeezed by an icy grip. “He threatened you. Of course I had to kill him, Blaine, keep up.”
The laugh that escapes Blaine’s throat is ugly, hard. Unsteady in a way that belies how very close to passing out he feels. His knees feel sore from kneeling, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to stand if he tried. “So, what?” Blaine asks, bitterness and disbelief saturating the words. “Only you can kill me? That’s – that’s ridiculous.”
There is a deadly pause; Kurt doesn’t say anything in response to that for a long, long while. Silence seems to flare up in the absence of his voice; the buzzing of the fridge and the tick-tick-tick of the living room clock the only things to fill the void. He can hear the very light sound of his breathing just outside the door, however. It’s slow in a way that Blaine never really registered before. Drawn-out and unhurried even in excitement, eerily steady. Inhuman. There are a hundred signs that Blaine should have noticed before now.
Except... he had no reason to. No possible notion that anything like this could ever happen in real life, let alone in his life.
Finally, Kurt speaks. “I can hear you, you know,” he says, the sound of a single nail scraping down the door frame accompanying his words. He sounds contemplative. Quiet. “The blood pumping in your veins, the heart in your chest. I can smell you, too. Your fear. You’re so frightened the air is thick with it, Blaine, it’s intoxicating. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
Dull horror isn’t enough to make him speak. Blaine determinedly presses his lips together, staring down at the floor and clenching his hands on his thighs.
“You smell so good to me, Blaine. So good.” Kurt hums; it would be a pleasant sound if everything about this situation weren’t so wrong. “You can’t hide from me forever, you know. All it does is make me want you more.” There is a sliding sound, as though Kurt is stroking his hand over the flatness of the door. “Goodnight, beautiful thing. Sleep tight.”
And, just like that, Kurt is gone. No more too-slow breathing outside the door, no more scrapes of nails upon wood. There are no footsteps leading him away, either. Just... silence. As though the nightmare has broken.
Unsteadily, Blaine forces himself to his feet. He steps forward, presses an eye up nervously to the peep hole – but no one is there. It’s just an empty hallway.
When he pulls away from the door, however, it shifts strangely as his weight moves away. As though there is something heavy pressing it inward, just below his view.
Feeling as though a bucket of ice water has been poured over his head, Blaine hears a small whine escape from his throat. He doesn’t want to know what’s pressed up against the door from outside. Can’t look except he has to, curiosity horrific and giant-sized and straining at his mind. Awful images are pouring through his head: the corpses of his neighbours thrown up against his front door, the body of the man outside. Blaine has to know, he has to. Even if just for a split second.
Telling himself that there must be something other than two inches of wood keeping Kurt outside – because nothing makes any sense otherwise – Blaine steels himself. He bites down on his lip, tenses himself up as he unlocks the latches, and pulls the door open in one quick movement.
And his own book bag flumps over idly as the door moves inward, slumping into his apartment in an unremarkable pile of brown material. Blaine stares at it uncomprehendingly for a long moment before remembering. Using it to get away from Kurt in the street, smashing it across his face before leaving it abandoned on the sidewalk.
The realization of exactly how it made its way back to his apartment makes him feel weak in the knees.
The bag looks normal, and he can’t see anyone in the hall. Part of the strap has fallen just over the threshold to his apartment, too. With one great tug, he snags the strap and pulls the bag inside as quickly as he can before slamming the door shut with a too-loud bang. After re-locking the door, Blaine checks through the bag once, twice – but there is nothing different about it. Nothing tucked inside for him to find; no secret note or piece of body to discover within its pockets. It’s just his book bag, full of textbooks and notebooks and topped with his own jacket.
Feeling very small and very, very scared, Blaine collapses onto his couch, buries his face in his hands – and tries hard to not to fall to pieces.
It takes Blaine five minutes of silent panicking with his head buried in his hands – trying desperately hard to think think think think think come on – before he can even begin to work his way through the senseless horror of the evening and come up with any kind of useful idea. He strains his mind, eyes squeezed shut to ignore the innocent-looking book bag slumped on the floor, and shoves away the terror. It won’t help him now, not when he needs to figure this out.
When it finally occurs to Blaine what he needs to do, it’s so achingly obvious that he jolts his head away from his hands with a sharp inhalation of breath and mentally chastises himself for being so stupid.
Without wasting another moment, Blaine shucks off his heavy sweat-damp coat, flings it over the back of a chair, and stands up to do what needs to be done.
He’s trying to scare me, Blaine reassures himself in a determined rush, trying not to examine the knot of betraying terror that is still wrenching inside of him. Thick and solid; as though he’s swallowed something he shouldn’t have and now the weight of it is pressing at his insides. Trying to make me panic, but I won’t. Going to do the right thing, the smart thing. He can’t trick me into waiting in here like some helpless animal in a cage.
In high school, David had forcibly dragged both he and Wes through his ridiculous and months-long scary movie fixation. The both of them had grinned and rolled their eyes as they indulged in their friend’s peculiar obsession, but it was always hard not to get wrapped up in them once they were actually playing on the screen. The tension-filled music, the sudden shocks as things jumped out at the screen; the screams and yowls of the victims as they met their gruesome ends. It hadn’t helped that they’d always watched them in the basement of David’s house with the lights off, the three of them piled on a couch together and forgetting to eat their popcorn whenever the suspense began to build.
More than anything, though, Blaine remembers the mantra David would almost always begin to chant under his breath by the half-way mark. Rocking back and forth on the couch cushion next to him, staring at the screen in a mixture of alarm and frustration.
“Go to the police, you idiot, oh my god,” David would groan, throwing popcorn at the screen as Wes sent him dirty looks over Blaine’s head. “Why doesn’t anyone ever go to the damn police?”
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...
Hands only the slightest bit shaky with his newfound determination, Blaine leans over and plucks his discarded phone from off the fake hardwood floor. Because he knows what he needs to do. There are professionals out there who are much, much more qualified to deal with any of this than he is. The police will have guns, and tasers, and all the right know-how to put criminals like Kurt down. Blaine may be helpless inside his little prison of an apartment for now, but he can still reach out for help.
Kurt’s only bluffing, Blaine tells himself firmly. Trying to keep him scared and weak because he can’t get inside the apartment and he doesn’t want Blaine calling for backup. Because he knows he can be beaten. And the thought – the mere idea – of leaving Kurt free to roam around the city, killing other people as he likes, without even trying to report him... it makes Blaine feel sicker than he does already.
There’s only one of Kurt. They’ll have strength in numbers on their side, and weapons, and Kurt won’t stand a chance. The reason he had been furious at Blaine for trying to call them before is because they can take him down, they must be able to. They’re the police, they’ll know what to do. Blaine is so completely out of his depth, and that’s when you’re supposed to call in the people who know what they’re doing.
Without giving himself time to think about what he’s going to say, Blaine dials the three little numbers and hits ‘send’.
“Hello?” says Blaine, not even waiting for the operator to finish her sentence. He rushes out the words as confidently earnestly as he can, but the tremor is still apparent in his voice; it makes him sound wrung-out. Good, he thinks, that can only make things easier.
“Yes, I need your help. There’s a monster out there who looks like a man. He’s thin and pretty and looks weak, but he killed a man in front of me tonight. Tore him to pieces with his bare hands. Don’t hang up, I – no, I don’t think he was on drugs, and I’m not prank calling you, I swear. He’s strong, stronger than you can imagine. Send people who know what they’re doing with weapons to East 82nd and 3rd; you’ll find the body of a Caucasian man with blood all over him, I promise. I – no, I can’t. I’m sorry, I. I have to go. Be careful.”
When he hangs up, cutting off the operator’s voice mid-word, Blaine stares at the screen of his phone for a long minute. There is a dull pang in his stomach; the knowledge that he’s done all he can possibly do weighing heavily on his insides. An anonymous tip had seemed safer than leaving his name, just in case, and he can’t be sure that Kurt is even the creature’s real name.
But it should be enough. They know now, at least. People other than him know, and will be on the lookout. Doing their jobs and keeping people safe.
Placing the phone onto the coffee table, Blaine lowers himself back slowly down onto the couch. His entire body is buzzing with dull anxiety; the room is floating with it, choking him. Blaine has no idea what to do now that he’s made the call; he feels numb and unreal, and going to calmly get ready for bed seems ridiculous after the horror of the evening.
And so he sits and waits in silent vigil on the couch, muscles tense and back straight, half expecting to hear that voice again at any moment. To hear Kurt, playful and sharp right outside his door. Taunting him with that beautiful voice of an angel that slides out from between those wicked lips.
But it’s been a long day, and it keeps catching up with him. The impossible has happened, nightmares have come to pass, and Blaine’s entire world has been turned upside down in the space of no time at all. Minutes pass as he sits there, on edge, but it takes so much energy, being afraid. Takes every ounce of concentration and focus to keep himself alert and ready. The fear is no longer hard and sharp, but viscous and fluid inside as it stirs gently inside of him. He leans back against the cushions, blinking hard.
He tries to stay awake; he really does. But exhaustion creeps insidiously as the fear still hums and rests in his stomach; dragging at his eyelids, pulling him down and stealing up on him as Blaine eventually closes his eyes and gets tugged under by the sluggish lurch of sleep.
Everything is hazy and warm and swirling around them in the dimness of the bedroom, shocking heat rising up in the base of Blaine’s stomach and making him keen helplessly against Kurt’s mouth as they kiss. Kurt’s hands tighten frantically in Blaine’s hair at the noise, pulling Blaine closer until their bodies are lined up deliciously right. It’s right after their third date, and Blaine’s whole body is buzzing with want as he presses back against the column of Kurt’s body. He had spent the entire walk back here reeling from the excitement at having Kurt invite him back to his apartment after the movie’s credits began to roll. Wondering if it meant what he thought it did, or if he was over-stepping himself.
Apparently, though, the invitation had meant exactly what he thought it did. From out of the corner of his eye, Blaine can see that the bedspread and heavy curtains of Kurt’s bedroom are a deep rich red that speaks of romance and closeness and intimate moments. The many tea candles dotted throughout the room flicker and dance, sending shadow and warm light across their bodies as they tangle together. He holds tight to Kurt’s forearms and lets himself be kissed, leaning up into it as his head swims and blurs.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Kurt rumbles against his lips, catching Blaine’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugging it, worrying at it. Blaine gives himself into the touch freely, whimpering at the hint of pain mixed with pleasure as his eyes flutter shut at the feeling of it. “Love the way you smell, Blaine, god. Want you so badly—”
“Do you want –?” murmurs Blaine, cutting off into a groan as Kurt moves his lips to Blaine’s neck. Sucking over pulse points and working the sensitive skin with a desperation that makes Blaine buck helplessly against him and slide his hands around to clutch at Kurt’s back. “I – we don’t have to, but if you want –”
Kurt bites down so hard it hurts, drawing Blaine out of the words before he can finish them. Blaine can feel his own breathing coming hard and fast and hot into the room, and it’s all he can do to fist his hands in the back of Kurt’s silky shirt and gasp.
“Let me,” Kurt growls, backing Blaine towards the bed with steps so quick it almost makes Blaine stumble backward. He clings to Kurt’s shoulders. “Please let me, Blaine, I need it. Need you, need to be inside you –”
“Oh, god,” says Blaine weakly, blood pounding hot and heated through his body. They haven’t done this before; haven’t done anything before except heated kisses in almost-public places after their few dates. Have never even had the chance to get one another off. By all rights, it should feel like too much. Except that Blaine is so hard it’s almost painful, and the idea of Kurt stretching him open and pressing inside, exposing him and filling him up in that oh-so-intimate way... “God, yes, please.”
The smirk that drags across Kurt’s lips is so self-satisfied and pleased that it should be insulting, but all Blaine can feel is the aching hunger of want. He wants this, needs this so badly; has ever since that day in the alley when he first looked into those bright blue eyes and fell. They’ve known each other for less than two weeks and it should be too soon – Blaine isn’t a prude, enjoys sex and getting off and being close with the boys that he dates. But he’s always waited at least a month before doing this with anyone, staved off the desperation with fingers and mouths and held on to make certain before jumping into anything.
But Kurt... god, Kurt is so much more than anyone Blaine’s ever dated. Than anyone Blaine’s ever known. Blaine wants to have everything with him, and there’s no way he can wait any longer when they can have this right now instead.
Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt’s shoulders and kisses him, and it doesn’t take long for Kurt to take control. Dragging their mouths together in a sloppy slide of lips and tongues and desperation. It feels as though Kurt is opening him up, learning him from the inside as his hands slide up the back of Blaine’s shirt. Running them along the heat of Blaine’s skin before dragging his nails over the expanse of his back in a gentle scrape, and the shock of the touch makes Blaine shiver and moan.
With inhuman speed, Kurt pulls away from the kiss and slides the shirt up over Blaine’s head. Throwing it on the ground and leaning in to press hard, fast kisses against Blaine’s lips as he reaches down and begins working at the buttons of his fly. Blaine’s own hands clench in mid air for a long moment before he regains his senses enough amid the swirl and heat of the touches to reach out begin to fumble with the buttons of Kurt’s shirt.
They undress one another fast and rushed, too focused on mouths and hands and touch to be elegant or restrained. Kurt is more out of breath than Blaine has ever seen him before, looking wild-eyed and dishevelled every time he pulls away long enough for Blaine to get a look at him. His light skin is warmed and heated in the dim light as clothes are stripped away, and more and more of that beautiful paleness gets exposed.
There is a franticness to Kurt’s every touch and look and gesture that Blaine has never seen in him before; every time they’ve spent time together, Kurt has practically been the epitome of cool composure and control. It makes Blaine’s stomach twist deliciously with the heat of being wanted.
It doesn’t take long before they’re both undressed and Kurt’s hands are running over his chest and wrapping around his shoulders as though trying to memorize him. And Kurt naked is... oh, god, he’s perfection. Every line of his body is streamed and sharp, and his cock is dusky and elegant and beautiful just like the rest of him. Hot breath coming in short pants, Blaine reaches down between them to wrap a hand around Kurt’s erection. Squeezing at him experimentally, making Kurt groan and buck and suddenly the world jerks around them and Blaine’s back is colliding hard with something soft and firm.
He groans as he realizes that Kurt has shoved him onto the bed and climbed on top with wicked speed, grinding their hips together and making Blaine throw his head back and clutch at the sheets as he sucks in air and bucks his hips back.
“Yes,” says Kurt, dark and heated and private as they writhe together on the bed. “Yes, that’s right. Going to be so good, okay?”
“Please,” Blaine gasps out, leaning up to kiss Kurt but mostly pressing his lips against the corner of Kurt’s mouth. The slide of their bodies so perfect and male, all friction and shocks of sharp heat sparking up his spine.
Kurt pulls away, and Blaine tries to follow – to make Kurt feel good, to wrap his lips around Kurt’s cock and swallow deep and drive him crazy. But Kurt wordlessly presses a hand to his chest and shoves him back onto the bed with a short growl, eyes heated and with his hair coming loose and unstyled around his ears.
“Can’t wait,” says Kurt heatedly, that beautiful voice low and commanding with finality. “Can’t wait anymore.”
Everything is going so quickly – so much in no time at all like it’s barely even real. Blaine opens his mouth to speak, but the words catch in his throat. “Okay,” he says instead, nodding helplessly and feeling the flush of desperation spread over his face. “Okay.”
Without another word, Kurt reaches over to the bedside drawer. He opens it and plucks out a small container of lube, and the rush of need Blaine feels when he sees it makes him squirm. His hole feels sensitive and exposed already with the anticipation, of knowing what’s going to come next. Everything is shuddery and jagged and exposed, and they haven’t even started yet.
Uncapping the bottle, Kurt squeezes a large dollop of liquid onto his fingers and deposits the container back on the bedside table. Without breaking Blaine’s gaze, eyes hot and primal, he shifts himself down so that he’s kneeling between his legs, pushes Blaine’s knees up – and reaches down to press a finger against Blaine’s entrance.
It’s been a while since he’s done this, and Blaine hisses at the touch before his body remembers what it feels like. But it’s only a second before the touch shifts from surprising to hot and teasing – not enough, just a hint – and when Kurt’s finger begins to press inside, he’s already groaning and pressing back into the pressure.
“You’ve done this before,” says Kurt quietly, pushing the first finger inside of him. Slowly and surely but with minimal resistance, because Blaine’s body recognizes this touch. Knows what comes next, how good it can feel. He nods feebly, eyes squeezed shut and breathing hard at the welcome intrusion. Even one finger feels big inside after so long without, the stretch and press of it so lovely inside.
“Eyes open,” Kurt warns in a dark voice, and Blaine wrenches his eyes wide. Kurt is looking down at him hungrily as he slides his finger in and out – and then crooks it, making white hot pleasure flash in front of Blaine’s eyes, and he groans and twists with it still pressed inside. Kurt slides his finger over that special place teasingly, tauntingly for a little while. Coaxing little noises out of Blaine’s throat as he presses himself back against, drawing it out for long enough to have him whining – before pulling back and adding another. Blaine groans at the perfect stretch, pressing his ass back into the touch.
“Know how to take my fingers so well, Blaine,” says Kurt, blue eyes dark and flashing as he begins to slide them in and out. He cocks his head to one side. “How many people have seen you like this? Open and exposed and so desperate for it?”
“I – I don’t –” Blaine’s words are cut off into a hard groan as Kurt begins to rock his fingers in earnest.
“Was their touch as good as mine, beautiful thing?” One hand on Blaine’s hip as he works up a hard rhythm, making Blaine’s toes curl. “As special?”
“No – no one like you, Kurt, please.” The words are true, more true than Blaine can believe, and he has no idea why he ever bothered with anyone else when there was Kurt out there somewhere, so much better than anything else. Smirking, Kurt pulls back and presses a third finger inside, and Blaine can’t stop himself from shouting out loud. It’s not enough lube, and too much too fast, but that just makes it better. Kurt’s fingers burn and stretch and slide inside of him, driving him halfway mad.
And Kurt just stares, watching his face with incredible focus. As though looking at something too captivating to possible be real. He sees Kurt inhale deeply through his nose a few times, shuddering hard as he makes hot pressure rack across Blaine’s body.
When Kurt yanks his fingers out, Blaine jerks and gasps at the sudden emptiness. It’s too much, he needs Kurt, needs to be filled so badly –
But even amid the heat of the moment, his whole body tenses and freezes as Kurt grips his thighs. As he positions himself to press inside – bareback, without a condom, and something important twinges in Blaine’s mind.
“Kurt,” he says breathily, shaking his head. He licks his lips. “Condom – we need –”
“Have you ever been with someone without one?” Kurt asks, voice calm except for the ragged edges as he squeezes his fingers into Blaine’s thighs. He only looks the slightest bit flushed, but Blaine can feel his whole body shaking with desperation.
“I – no, but –”
Kurt leans up to kiss him then, a hard press of mouths with his teeth biting down hard on Blaine’s lips. He has to press him back into the bed almost bent in half in order to reach, hands clenched tight on Blaine’s legs. It’s a claim, a punctuation, and when he pulls his face incrementally away and stares right into his eyes Blaine is breathing hard and glassy-eyed.
“Then we’re both safe,” says Kurt firmly, and Blaine almost wants to protest again but his eyes are blue and deep and captivating as he stares right back at Blaine, seeing inside of him and knowing and taking and having. He finally nods weakly, and when Kurt kisses him again Blaine can feel the grin pressed against his lips.
They separate after a moment, and Kurt positions himself again with another smear of lube to his cock. Blaine can feel him there, pressed big and blunt and hard against Blaine’s entrance. He’s never done this without a condom before and it’s nerve-wracking and strange to the touch, skin instead of the slippery slide of latex, but it’s Kurt and that somehow makes everything okay. And when Kurt begins to push inside, every other thought flies out of Blaine’s head at once.
“Fuck,” he hisses, head falling back onto the pillows as Kurt’s cock slowly inches inside. He feels so big, stretching Blaine open as he buries himself inside. Filling him up so perfect, so right, the paleness of his skin trembling in an obvious effort not to slam himself in all at once. “Kurt –”
Kurt takes a deep breath above him, pushing and pushing until he’s fully seated inside Blaine’s body, as deep as he can go. They’re all pressed up together, skin sliding with sweat, and he feels so big and real and the press and burn of it is all Blaine can experience.
When Kurt pulls out and then rocks back in again, it feels as though Blaine’s whole world is ending.
The shock of the slide is white hot and thrumming, his ass gripping and clenching at Kurt’s cock as the other boy pushes back inside again. In, out, working up a rhythm and pushing it harder. He fists his hands into the deep red sheets, head falling back and exposing his neck at the sudden heat of it; Kurt doesn’t for him to adjust or build up the speed slowly over time, just finds the pace he wants and takes. It’s rougher than Blaine usually likes it but so good, instinctual and base and ruthless in a way he’s never had with anyone else before, ever. He pushes back into it as best he can, but Kurt holds his legs firm; controlling the pace and speed as he takes his pleasure in Blaine’s body.
Above him, Kurt’s angelic face is twisted up into a picture of intensity and want as he rocks his hips, dragging in and out with practiced ease. He looks hungry as he stares down at Blaine’s face, raking his eyes over his lips and eyelashes and the flush of his cheeks as Blaine writhes and keens beneath him, making him feel even more bare to the world as he drags his eyes greedily over every feature. Everything is skin and need, and Blaine can’t even think for how impossible good the pressure of it is inside.
Every few strokes Kurt’s cock brushes against the place inside that sends electric shocks from Blaine’s spine to his fingertips, making him groan and whimper and gasp out meaningless words into the air. Kurt’s so big, so much, so perfect. Blaine tries desperately to rock his hips back into every thrust as Kurt starts to move faster – and groans, the stretch and slam amazing as Kurt begins to pound into him without pretence.
“You’re so good,” Kurt growls, hips slamming against him a Blaine squeezes and writhes beneath him. “So perfect. Can you come, Blaine? I want to see you come.”
It should be too soon, Blaine knows; but the tight coils of heat are already clenching in the base of his stomach. He whines in desperation as he nods, trying his best to keep his eyes open so he can keep watching he way Kurt looks as he fucks him. He’s beautiful, so beautiful it hurts as he watches Blaine with heated eyes. Kurt lets go of his thigh with one hand, reaches down between them – and Blaine keens as he wraps his hand around Blaine’s cock.
“That’s it,” whispers Kurt harshly, hand roughly jerking Blaine’s cock as he pounds into him. His eyes are dark, the red around the edges so hot and bright in the candle light. He licks his lips and leans in close. “Come on, Blaine.”
His hand is squeezing just right and the rhythm is so fast and unyielding and perfect, and Blaine can feel his whole body clenching as he starts to go over the edge. Eyes fluttering as liquid heat spreads through his whole body, clenching down hard around Kurt’s cock and spasming hard as his orgasm hits, bright and hot and so much. Kurt’s eyes flood with a deep red as Blaine jerks and gasps beneath him, coming so hard around the sweet pressure as Kurt presses his face into Blaine’s neck and –
— pain, real and sharp and slicing as Kurt’s teeth puncture deep into his neck. Blaine screams in shock, tries to pull away but Kurt’s too strong, holding him easily in place as he keeps fucking into him and tears his throat open. Sucking hard and it hurts, hurts so much as Kurt ruthlessly seals his mouth around the wound and drinks as he keeps on fucking him, his cock slamming in harder than ever but he can barely even feel it over the searing agony in his neck.
Blaine’s hands are clawing weakly at Kurt’s chest, his arms, anything to get him away the terrified panic fills everything makes it impossible to think. But suddenly the other boy is strong and hard and sharp, holding him in place easily and making his head swim and he can’t get away –
The world is fading out around the edges, getting dimmer and weaker as Kurt bleeds him dry. He feels Kurt pound into him hard a last few times before stilling, hot wetness splashing inside as Kurt groans against his neck and sends vibrations through the bloody wound. He’s scared, so scared, but the world is getting smaller and darker and he can’t keep clinging to it anymore.
The last thing Blaine sees as his eyes slide closed is Kurt, pulling away from his neck – but it isn’t Kurt. There’s a monster there instead, face all wrong and twisted and horrible. Bright red eyes and the face all wrong, all wrong. Sharp teeth and blood dripping down its chin in messy streaks, grinning with a mouth that holds too many teeth and cocking its head before it shoves his face back into Blaine’s neck, bites down hard –
— before Blaine jerks awake on the couch with pain still throbbing in his neck and a scream on his lips, clutching at thin air with his heart pounding in his chest so hard he can barely breathe as he gasps and chokes and wet heat slides down his face.
His hand flies up to the side of his neck, knowing that it’s mangled and torn and stringy and wet with blood and sinew and flesh because he can feel it running down his neck, and it hurts so much and the world is spinning from blood loss and pain. But when the shuddering tips of his fingers actually make physical contact with his neck...
Nothing. The skin there is hot and slick sweat, but it is smooth and unbroken. There is no wound. No blood. The pain of it is still gouging twisting searing even as Blaine’s mind registers that he isn’t physically hurt. Not at all, not even a little. His body is shuddering with the post-orgasm twist that had been cut off abruptly by pain and horror, and there’s a dull ache between his legs. He gasps, and chokes, and clenches his hand in disbelief.
And slowly – gradually – it all begins to fade. Dimming at the edges, slipping through his fingers as he clutches at the side of his intact neck and breathes.
It must have been a dream, he tells himself. Just a dream – but more... real than any dream he’s ever had before in his life. So vivid he can still feel the sharpness of the pain even though he knows it to be false, can still see that monstrous parody of Kurt’s face leaning over him as though it’s a genuine memory.
Can still feel the tingle of killed pleasure, making him feel guilty and horrified and sick to his stomach.
Breathing hard and his whole body shaking, it occurs to him that he has been dreaming about Kurt every night since the night in the alley. The ones before now had been shockingly sharp and immersive, as well – he’d assumed it had been suppressed attraction and frustration at not being able to see the other boy again. But that...that had been tenfold as intense as the first few dreams, and so much more real.
Feeling profoundly unsettled and unsure of himself, Blaine slides a hand gratefully over the smoothness of his own neck one last time. He feels weak with relief.
It doesn’t last long, though, because the parts of last night that weren’t a dream are swiftly coming back to him as well. Blaine’s heart plummets into his stomach as it all comes back to him – the snapping bones, that monstrous face, the man twitching and shaking as blood bloomed from his neck, calling the police –
Calling the police.
Blaine knows intellectually that he’s just shaken up from the horror of the dream, but all at once Blaine needs to know. He scrabbles around desperately in search of the remote control, feeling tense and queasy with an anxiety over this that hadn’t been there last night. When he finally manages to locate the remote tucked between the cushions of the couch, he flicks on the television turns to the first local news channel he can think of with bated breath.
He stares at the screen, barely blinking, for long minutes as the two newscasters talk about sports, traffic, the weather. It isn’t the fastest way he can find out what he needs to know, but it’s all he can manage right now. His stomach is clenching hard, and Blaine has no idea whether he wants to hear something or doesn’t. He sits, and watches, and waits.
The tension in his posture is just beginning to relax – the tiniest hint of calming down from the frantic rush of fear upon waking – and he’s just about to flick the television set off and check the internet for information when the pretty blonde newscaster switches stories and his blood runs cold.
“... in other news, for those of you just tuning in: two NYPD officers were found murdered near the corner of East 82nd and 3rd in the small hours of the morning. Few details are available at this time, but the official statement has indicated that an anonymous tip brought them into the area. Gang violence is suspected. Shockingly, the bodies of both officers were partially exsanguinated upon discovery. The following image of a message discovered at the scene contains gruesome imagery, and is not appropriate for all viewers. ”
As the screen switches pictures, it feels as though the world is literally being tugged out from under him. Because there, in front of him, is a picture of writing smeared across concrete. The words are the sick brown of dried blood; the message has clearly been made by someone dipping their hands into it and painstakingly taking the time to craft each individual letter. It must have taken a great deal of time and patience to get the writing as smooth and well-formed as it is. And a great deal of blood.
DON’T TEST ME, PRETTY
The words of the newscasters consulting with some kind of expert over potential meanings of the message are drowned out by the cluttering smash as Blaine drops the remote onto the floor with unfeeling hands. He barely makes it to the trashcan in time before he’s retching, clinging to it through the full-body heaves as he vomits helplessly into it.