A/N: So a little demon!Blaine prompt has been floating around. This is my shot at it. I'm not sure how long it'll go or anything, but I plan on making this the first fic I actually finish.

This is my interpretation of a demon. It's not a take on Supernatural's or anyone else's, except for the black eyes. Don't worry; you'll get to know all the intricacies of demonhood.

This bit is short, but it should pick up soon.

It threw him into the brick; it was cold and he could feel the rough stone through his thin jacket. It grabbed him, pinning him against the wall with two hands. Another came beside it. Blaine could hear them tinkering with something metal, something that sounded ominously sharp. They hissed at each other, speaking some sort of language that sounded a mix between snake's noises and Latin. He thought he could pick out a few words over the beating of his heart, though they were mangled, from his classes at Dalton. "Death," they hissed. "Death, life,"

Kurt was right. I never should have came.

It had seemed like a good idea; they always did. Right before something came and hit him in the face. Or punched him out, and held him pinned to a wall.

No one's going to find me. I'll stay here forever

He felt claws digging at his skin, ripping up his jacket sleeve. His arm shook from exposure to the temperature and drops of rain. His breath pounded in time with his heart, faster than he thought possible. I'm going to die, he thought. I'm going to die. I won't… He couldn't finish the last thought. He couldn't think of not…

A stabbing pain shot through his forearm, and he felt a liquid gush inside. A liquid that felt dark, slimy. They dropped him in a heap on the dirty cement. He was of no use to them now. They hissed in their language again, conversing.

Blaine was left, curled onto himself clutching his arm, as the memories attacked him. Memories of yesterday, of ten years ago, of a hundred years ago. Memories he had. Memories he couldn't have had. Memories. Always memories. He shook, trying to fight them off. Trying to expel them from his mind.

He managed to grab his phone out of his pocket, before the memories turned to pain. He slid it open, pressing the first button he could and hoping, praying, to get someone on speed dial. It rang, then rang again.

"Blaine? Blaine?"

When the voice received no answer, it got worried.

"Blaine? BLAINE?" Kurt screamed into the receiver.

He couldn't answer. The liquid inside his veins had turned to ice, then to acid. It scorched through his muscles, burning them, tearing them apart. He could only scream. Scream in agony, in pain, in loss.

Somewhere, he heard the voice crackle out before it became too much, and he blacked out.