Things don't start to feel anything close to real again for a few hours, after that.
For a long time, tucked into the lean line of Kurt's side and swaddled by piles of soft blankets as his body slowly regains heat, Blaine drifts on the edge of awareness. Cool, confident fingers drift over his chest, and along the side of his face, and knead his determinedly numb fingers in an attempt to rub some warmth back into them. His ability to focus slip-slides and blurs as his body and mind attempt to come to terms with what has just happened.
It's almost nice, like this. Pleasant and rewarding, even though he's achy and sore all over and the side of his neck and thigh are still quietly throbbing. It proves to be impossible to entirely lose track of where he is, though, despite the unreality of it. The sound of Kurt's voice does its best to keep him grounded in place, anchored to awareness. The high, clear sound of it is so close to his ear as it drifts and lilts with anecdotes and stories that Blaine can't quite pick out the details of, his mind trailing absently along the narratives.
As sweetly as Kurt holds him, however, the other boy proves to be ruthless with making sure that he stays awake. Every time Blaine's eyes begin to flutter properly closed, or his head slumps down a bit heavier against the pillows or Kurt's shoulder, he receives a hard pinch to the arm. Every time, the small chastisement proves enough to jolt him back from the brink of muzzy darkness. Every once and a while, too, Kurt interrupts his stream of speech to adjust their positions on the couch, or ask Blaine a question, or force a few more cookies and sips of sticky apple juice down his throat like someone who's just given blood at a clinic. The pinching reminders to stay awake even start to register as annoying, after a while. Irritating, because all Blaine wants to do is sleep and Kurt won't let him.
He had half-expected Kurt to get bored of him after a few minutes and let him sleep in peace, but it doesn't happen. Instead Kurt stays, holding him close and not showing even the slightest hint of impatience. His whole body is limber and relaxed against Blaine's, and he shows no sign of wanting to move any time soon.
After an indistinct amount of time, however, the world begins to clarify a bit at the edges. Solidifying and sharpening, coming back into focus. The thick haze of need to sleep starts to lift, and Blaine blinks himself back into awareness enough to attempt to sit up a little straighter against the cushions. Kurt makes a pleased noise at the back of his throat at that, effortlessly helping Blaine to sit up a bit taller. Blaine can see the room around him a little bit more from the new angle, glasses still perched awkwardly on his nose from having someone else put them on his face. He can see part of a wall, now, and the corner of a sleek-looking television set.
And as Blaine's mind becomes less and less foggy, Kurt's words start to shift from meaningless sounds to something much more comprehensible.
"... came across another when I was living in Chicago in the 1970s," says Kurt conversationally, stroking a hand down Blaine's side with idle little movements. He laughs, high and light. "Absolutely dreadful fashion sense, too. Constantly at least twenty years out of date. Honestly, I don't understand why it's so hard for some of us to keep up. Poodle skirts right in the middle of disco?" A scoffing noise, and Blaine can practically hear the rolling of his eyes even though Kurt's face is entirely outside his line of vision from his position curled against Kurt's chest. "Ugh." There is a little movement as Kurt shakes his head. "Anyways, after we'd scoped one another out, we decided to have a little... friendly competition." A tiny rumble as Kurt chuckles, and the smirk is apparent in his voice. "With regards to the local population."
It's about at this point that Blaine decides that, no, he would really rather not listen to any of this at all. Stiffening and skin crawling with a renewed discomfort, he focuses his attention instead on tuning out the chatter of Kurt's voice instead of tuning it in. This proves to be much more complicated now that he's swiftly gaining awareness again, however. He tries his best, though, letting his eyes glaze over as he stares at the walls and attempts to reduce Kurt's casual, horrific words to background noise.
Not too later, however, Kurt's chattering voice trails off – and Blaine nearly startles right out of his skin when he receives a hard, jabbing poke to the middle of his stomach.
"Hey," says Kurt's voice in his ear. Another poke, abrupt and tactless, to the same place on his middle. "Hey."
"M'awake," Blaine manages, blinking in confusion when the words come out slightly slurred.
"That's nice, Blaine," Kurt returns, sounding a little bit amused but mostly gently condescending. Another hard poke to the shoulder, and ow. Those jabs hurt. Blaine squirms to sit up higher in his grasp, and Kurt lets him. "Do you think you can stay awake if I leave you alone for a bit? I have go do something."
And this is all still so strange, and unhinged, and wrong. Because the way Kurt is talking to him... god, it's so ridiculous that it's almost funny. Blunt and upfront and ever-so-slightly playful, as though the situation is anything resembling normal.
"... 's'fine," Blaine mumbles after a pause, and he feels the soft press of cool lips press against his forehead. Kurt's hand slides under the collar of his t-shirt, and it's not strictly sexual as it presses against the flat of his chest. Just... touching. Reassuring, although Blaine can't be sure which of them Kurt is attempting to reassure.
"All right," Kurt murmurs fondly against his curls, giving Blaine's body one last squeeze before disentangling himself from the pile of limbs and blankets. He comes back into Blaine's vision properly for the first time in a long while as he tucks the covers back around him in the makeshift bed.
As he leans over him, quietly fussing over the way the blankets rumpled when he tries to tuck them underneath Blaine's sides, Kurt looks... calm. Almost normal except for how pale he is against the dark blue of his housecoat, and the otherworldly quality that Blaine had been so struck by that first night in the alley. There's a sweet, private little gleam of amusement in his eyes as he edges the covers back around Blaine's body, and all at once it occurs to Blaine how much of an invalid he's being made to feel like. As though Kurt thinks he isn't capable of anything at all.
"I'll be back in a minute," says Kurt, standing up straight and looking down at Blaine with his nose crinkling and his hands on his hips. He narrows his eyes. "No sleeping."
"Okay," says Blaine quietly in response, a strange numb feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.
Sending a small twist of a smile in his direction, Kurt turns and heads down the hallway back into what Blaine knows to be his bedroom.
And for the first time, Blaine has an opportunity to take in the room around him.
They're in an apartment, not a house. Now that the world has fallen back into place, that much is clear. Although it is at least twice the size of Blaine's cramped little place, there's no way the particular layout could conceivably belong to a freestanding home. The entire space speaks of the same understated modernity that had characterized Kurt's bedroom: minimal clutter, neutral cream walls, sleek dark flooring that shines as though it has been recently cleaned. All of the windows are covered up meticulously with the same dark film as in the bedroom, heavy dark curtains hanging attractively and unnecessarily on either side. As with the bedroom, the warm glow from several lamps gives the space a sense of forever-evening that makes it impossible to know what time it actually is. The living room is large, full of handsome couches and square bookshelves with bright red accents nestled amongst the sparse books and movies. Across from the couch that Blaine is currently lying on is an expansive, thin television mounted on the wall – and on the coffee table sits a basket full of decorative wicker balls next to a futuristic-looking remote. There is a hallway leading out that Blaine knows leads to Kurt's bedroom and the bathroom.
Craning his aching neck to see over the back of the couch, Blaine can see a closed door with no differentiating features – as well as an absolutely gorgeous kitchen. Glossy and contemporary, the cabinets are dark and topped with marble-looking counters. Everything is lined and accented with the metallic glint of chrome.
His mother would be beside herself to cook in a kitchen like that, he catches himself thinking – and his heart tightens and catches in his chest.
It's a beautiful apartment, and although Blaine has no idea which neighbourhood or even which borough of New York it's located in he can tell just by looking at it that it must cost a fortune. But aside from the quiet noises of movement coming from Kurt's own bedroom, the whole apartment is quiet and still in a way that makes him certain that no one else lives here.
And Blaine... doesn't really know exactly what he was expecting. Perhaps one of the covens described in some of the books of lore he had poured over so intensely; some kind of dark family to share in the sport and play that Kurt seems to enjoy so much. A community of immorality, and lavishness, and monstrosity like the kind he's read colourful myths about. But it's clear even at a glance that only Kurt himself occupies this space: that he keeps it clean, and neat, and nicely decorated.
Blaine wonders who the last person to see the inside of this apartment was.
He wonders if they're still alive.
From the depths of Blaine's memory, Kurt's words from the park bench are coming back to them. The ones that Kurt had whispered, his breath tickling teasingly over Blaine's lips, right before leaning in to kiss him for the very first time. Somehow, despite all the fear and time that has passed since then, Blaine can still hear them clearly in his mind as though they've been imprinted on the very material of his brain.
"Are you lonely, Blaine?" Kurt asks, quiet words and slow breath ghosting over Blaine's skin. He's so close now, only inches away, eyes dark and private. He trails his gaze from Blaine's eyes, down to his mouth, and back up again. "You don't have to be lonely."
For the very first time, it occurs to Blaine to wonder whether Kurt might just be lonely, too.
The sound of soft, padding footsteps is coming from down the hall, growing steadily louder as Kurt comes closer. Blaine knows for a fact that his hearing them is entirely intentional: he remembers all the times that Kurt had appeared without a sound outside his apartment door, announced by the dragging scratch of nails and cooing words and without a single footstep to indicate his arrival.
The fact that Kurt is intentionally allowing Blaine to hear his movements – that he has decided to let Blaine be reassured by knowing where he is, and when he's coming back, and what is happening around him – makes something uncomfortable and tight twist in the base of his stomach.
A few seconds later, Kurt steps back into the room. The blue housecoat is gone, as is the messy bedhead that had made him look so achingly, tragically young. Instead, he is dressed in a floaty sort of turtleneck shirt and a pair of jeans that are loose enough for Blaine to know that they constitute Kurt's idea of dressed-down. His formerly mousy-looking brown hair has been styled into something of a twisting sweep, and he smells strongly of hairspray.
Glancing over at the couch with a tight, wary expression as he comes into the room, Kurt relaxes as he sees that Blaine's eyes are still open. Something affectionate steals across the pale, sharp lines of his face; a smile tugging at the corner of his expressive mouth, a certain softness in his eyes. Blaine's neck and thigh ache and throb dully in reminder.
And all at once, three things occur to Blaine in rapid succession: he is hungry, he is thirsty, and he desperately has to use the bathroom. The ache in his stomach, the dryness in his mouth, the uncomfortable pressure on his bladder; all three things had been shoved aside for the past few hours by the haze of unreality. But now all three sensations are back with a vengeance. Absurdly, Blaine has never felt more human than he does now: weak and vulnerable, with a body that has to be maintained and fuelled and taken care of. That isn't frozen in time and effortlessly stunning, a living piece of art that never fades and never changes.
Cheeks heating up as Kurt moves closer, Blaine struggles to disentangle himself from the tightly tucked-in mound of sheets. Before he can get even half-way emerged, though, Kurt is across the room and at his side. His hand grips at Blaine's bare arm in a way that isn't painful, per se, just... uncompromising.
"What are you doing?" asks Kurt, tilting his head pointedly to one side and fixing Blaine with a stiff stare. His face is tense, and he one of his eyebrows raises up minutely. For a second, it occurs to Blaine to wonder if Kurt is actually concerned about how he's going to react. How he's going to take all this, now that he's waking; what he's going to say.
It's a ridiculous notion, but it wisps along the edges of his mind nonetheless.
"Nothing," says Blaine thickly, slowly moving his arm out of Kurt's grasp. Kurt lets his fingers loosen, lets his grip be tugged loose, and Blaine has no idea what this malleability means. He looks right up into Kurt's eyes, though, trying to look confident. He can't quite push away the illogical flush humiliation rising in his cheeks, though. For some reason, the fact that he's a human being – with all of the mundane, sordid little things that that entails – is almost embarrassing to him in this moment. "Just... bathroom."
"I'll help you," says Kurt smoothly. "Here."
He shifts, moving to hook his arms under Blaine's shoulders, and... no. No, no, no, no, no because that is just... that's too much. He already feels enough like a rag doll and an invalid and a cripple without Kurt helping him go to the bathroom, and this is his kidnapper, technically, and Blaine just... he can't. Even with everything Kurt's seen, everything Kurt's done to him today, this is just too much. Face burning, he tries his best to wriggle out of Kurt's solid arms.
"I don't –" Blaine starts, words choking in his throat. "You don't have to – I can do it myself, it's fine."
Around him, Kurt's arms stiffen. He pulls away after a brief moment, tilting his head to one side and giving Blaine a silently analyzing look that makes his thin brows draw together and his forehead wrinkle.
Something hot and uncomfortable twists at Blaine's insides as he sits on the receiving end of the look, and he genuinely has no idea whether Kurt is trying to be patronizing or whether it's unintentional. Maybe Kurt just has no idea how to handle a human being for anything longer than a few hours of heated touches and spilled blood, let alone someone who's injured that he intends to keep breathing. Blaine has a niggling suspicion that none of Kurt's string of pretty corpses has ever made it past a single encounter with him, and it's almost as though Kurt has forgotten what's embarrassing and what's acceptable when dealing with normal people for extended amounts of time.
After a considering pause, Kurt inclines his head in a small nod of acquiescence.
"All right," says Kurt quietly. His eyes flick down to Blaine's limbs, still tangled and snared in the mess of blankets. "Let me help you to the door, at least. I don't have to carry you," he rushes to explain as Blaine opens his mouth to say something. Now that Blaine is able to think in a straight line again, the idea of being slung up in Kurt's arms and deposited somewhere like an inanimate object is enough to get his hackles up. "I'll just... support you while you walk. Would that work?"
There is a pause while Blaine considers this alternative; his legs still feel a bit wobbly and sore from being in the same position for so long, and at least it wouldn't be as pathetic as being carried. He nods, irrationally thankful to be asked for permission for something to matter how small the matter might be. Kurt's pale face stretches into a pleased smile.
"Okay," Kurt nods, an understated grin tugging at his lips as he busies himself with methodically extracting Blaine's legs from the tangle of sheets and blankets. When they've all been pushed aside, he stands and extends a long-fingered hand, palm up, for Blaine to take.
And when Blaine reaches out to accept the hand, the coolness of Kurt's skin is only a little bit surprising to touch.
Kurt pulls him easily and smoothly to his feet, and when he puts weight on his legs Blaine's inner thigh screams and aches in protest. He stumbles slightly, the room lilting and lurching violently from standing up after spending so long sedentary on the makeshift bed, but Kurt holds him close and firm. Doesn't let him fall down, but doesn't just roll his eyes and nonchalantly pluck Blaine off his feet either. Instead, Kurt holds him solidly around the shoulder and keeps him standing until his head stops spinning and everything settles back into reality. After a few seconds, Blaine nods – and Kurt leads him slowly back into his bedroom.
They walk together like something out of a very strange three-legged race. Even though Blaine's legs feel prickly with sensation and his knees are far less sturdy than he would like after the shock of earlier's intense emotional release, he is still able to put one foot in front of the other as Kurt helps him quietly along. He focuses on one step at a time, one foot in front of the other as he regains control of his body enough to walk in a straight line.
When they pass through the bedroom, Blaine can see that the bed has been stripped. The sheets, stained dark brown-red with drying blood (his blood his blood oh Jesus), are piled in a corner, and Blaine has to look away quickly to suppress the wave of nausea that rolls over him. His eyes land instead on a fresh set of sheets, neatly folded and resting on a chair, that are clearly intended to replace the ones stained with his own blood. With the bedding gone from the bed, Blaine realizes that the mattress has been zipped up in a thick plastic casing. After a second of staring at the little smears of dried blood on the plastic cover, he realizes that it must be there to protect the mattress from getting bloodstained, and how very intensely and intricately Kurt has planned out so many of the details makes him feel momentarily lightheaded with discomfort.
When they reach the bathroom, its light still on from what happened in here before, Kurt waits for Blaine to reach up and take hold of the doorframe before he moves away. Trying to force his mind away from the pile of bloodstained sheets in the other room, Blaine grips at the doorframe with both hands in order to keep himself standing without Kurt's support.
But Kurt doesn't leave him there; not yet. Instead, he just keeps on giving Blaine that same look he gave him in the living room; the one that makes Blaine feel as though Kurt is pushing his skin aside and seeing what's underneath. As though Kurt is comprehending something important about him for the very first time. Blaine twists under the gaze, and Kurt tilts his head to one side before reaching up to run his fingertips very softly along Blaine's cheek.
"So stubborn," Kurt murmurs, quiet and affectionate and distant as his fingertips trail along Blaine's skin. Not sure what to say in response, Blaine remains silent as he clings to the wooden doorframe. Kurt's eyelashes are thick, and his fingertips are soft, and after a moment he leans in and brings their lips together in a quick kiss. The press of Kurt's lips against his is soft, and kind, and it makes the side of Blaine's neck throb with memories. But it doesn't even last long enough for Blaine's eyelids to flutter closed before Kurt is pulling away again, leaving Blaine blinking in the doorframe.
"Let me know if you need help walking back," Kurt instructs him sternly before turning around, heading back out to the living room, and leaving Blaine alone and shaky on his feet in the doorway.
As soon as the door is closed behind him, Blaine walks to the chrome-and-glass sink, grabs the fancy drinking cup off the edge, and promptly fills and consumes three full cups of tap water. His throat aches as he greedily and messily swallows the water down, his dry mouth and empty belly finally somewhat assuaged after so long without anything to ease them. He gasps wetly as he empties the third cup, one hand gripping hard at the glass counter as he savours the taste of cold water in his mouth, sliding down his throat in thick gulps. The refreshing, necessary chill of it brings him back to reality more properly than anything else has so far.
Not even daring to look at the mirror (to see what he looks like after everything, after giving up) or the shower (where everything was so hot and flushed and close but at least he knew what to expect), Blaine replaces the cup on the glass counter and stumbles over to use the toilet to relieve the aching pressure on his bladder.
When Blaine heads back to the sink to wash his hands, finally starting to feel like a person again instead of a heap of human needs, he cannot stop himself from looking into the mirror to see his own reflection.
The puncture wounds on his neck draw all of his attention, at first. They stand out sharply in the warm, glossy light and make something uncomfortable and blunt twinge inside. The two twin marks are stark and deep and raised against the skin, the skin around them raw and red. They're ugly, and unpleasant, and they strain and ache when he tilts his head to get a better look at them. Blaine can even see the faint shininess around the wound where Kurt applied the antibiotic ointment earlier. After a minute, Blaine's eyes trail up to take in the rest of his reflection.
Feeling dimly horrified, Blaine stares at the reflection that is practically unrecognizable as himself. Gone is the young man he always tried his best to embody, with the winning smile and the slicked-down hair who roamed the halls of Dalton and tried so hard to find a home in New York City. Instead, there is a small, rumpled boy staring back at him who looks very much unsteady on his feet. His hair is a wild mess, uneven from being washed and then shoved up against Kurt's chest while it dried. The glasses perched on his nose give him an air of disorganization, and his own pyjamas seem to hang a bit loose on his body. Although genetics have made it impossible for Blaine to actually be pale, per se, there is an unfamiliar lack of colour beneath his skin that makes him look weak and strained. The red marks stand out angrily against his neck.
They look like war wounds.
Except that Blaine isn't getting out of this alive.
He stares into his own hazel eyes reflected back at him for a long, long time before he flicks off the bathroom light and slowly heads back down the hall.
When he steps shakily back into the living room – he hadn't wanted to call out for assistance even though his thigh burns with every step and his head remains determinedly woozy – the entire common area is steeped in the warm, practical smells of food cooking. Stomach grumbling loudly, Blaine stands and blinks as he takes in the very bizarre sight of Kurt efficiently cutting red potatoes into quarters on a large wooden cutting board on the kitchen island. There is a pan on top of the stove full of softly simmering chopped onions growing slowly more and more translucent from the heat, the savoury smell filling up the air.
Kurt doesn't look up as Blaine enters the room, his attention fixed firmly on the cutting board in front of him as he slices thick pieces of potato, handling the knife in his hands with business-like precision. He does, however, incline his head pointedly in a wordless gesture toward a large brown wing-back armchair that Blaine swears used to be against the far wall of the living room. It isn't there anymore, though; while Blaine was down the hall, Kurt apparently took the opportunity to drag the chair over to sit in the entrance of the kitchen. All of the blankets and sheets have been moved from the couch, as well; they now lie piled on top of the armchair.
The message is very clear and brooks absolutely no opposition. Feeling cold inside and still a little slow on his feet, Blaine walks over to the newly-positioned armchair and settles himself into it. The blankets are still pleasant to wrap around himself, actually; the tips of his fingers and toes are still determinedly cold. Now that he's had water and relieved himself, the only real thing Blaine can think about is how very hungry he is. His stomach grumble and twists when Kurt empties a small bowl of cut-up pork into the saucepan, the smell of browning meat making his mouth water.
"I hope you like stew," says Kurt airily, looking up at him for the first time now that Blaine is appropriately curled up in his designated seating area. Kurt quirks an eyebrow at him. "You're going to need to keep your strength up over the next little while. You're thin as a rake, Blaine, I swear. Have you even been feeding yourself these past weeks?" He tuts loudly as he grinds fresh pepper over the saucepan, shaking his head. "Luckily you have me to take care of you."
When Kurt places the pepper grinder back in place on the kitchen counter, he shoots Blaine a measured glare. "Don't even think about not eating out of some misguided sense of honour, by the way. I'd be very unimpressed."
"I wouldn't," Blaine admits, twisting his hands in the blankets wrapped around him.
It's true, too. Aside from the almost painful way his stomach growls and lurches at the smell of the food, the quiet fact of Kurt's victory is draped over the both of them like a physical presence. The fact that Kurt has won is utterly inescapable, now. It's over, and done, and he's already taken everything that Blaine could conceivably want to keep from him.
Even if the fact that Kurt is keeping him alive to play with makes Blaine feel knotted up and snapped apart, it doesn't change the reality of the situation. However long this lasts before Kurt decides to turn him, Blaine still has to comply with whatever Kurt wants in order to keep the people he loves from being hurt. Kurt sends him a satisfied little smile over his shoulder, clearly feeling the thrill of Blaine finally listening to his instructions without putting up a fight, and begins to chop away thick chunks of cabbage.
And Blaine has honestly never let himself think this far ahead. What happened in the bedroom, and afterward in the shower... that, at least, he had been expected. When Blaine surrendered himself and invited Kurt inside, he had done so complete with the unshakable knowledge that certain things were going to happen. It's not done yet, Blaine knows that; he'll be nursed back to health and bled and fucked out until Kurt gets bored of his taste or his heat or his fragile body. Even though the idea of being turned into something inhuman and wrong and not him makes Blaine feel cold and empty and dull inside, however, he had given himself over fully knowing it would happen. He knew when he opened the door that Kurt would drink from him, and that Kurt would fuck him; the other boy had never been particularly coy or subtle about any of those intentions during their long weeks of fear-filled conversations over the phone or through Blaine's apartment door.
But Blaine has never truly managed to get his head past the prospect of Kurt's teeth puncturing into his neck; has never let himself consider all of the in-between moments amid the pain and pleasure that Kurt has been promising him for weeks. Being held tight against Kurt's chest as they lie together on the couch, or Kurt cooking him dinner with the same focus and precision he pays to everything else. How the two of them would interact outside of those few anticipated factors.
It's surreal. Surreal and confusing and it makes his head hurt, because it's harder to remember that he isn't here of his own volition when everything is so normal. When Kurt is acting like the boy he met in the alley all those weeks ago and not the monster Blaine has seen him become.
"Do you even eat?" Blaine blurts out, eyes fixed on the cool, quick movements of Kurt's pale hands as he finishes chopping the cabbage. Kurt's hands freeze mid-motion, and at once Blaine is gripped with the immediate and irrational fear that what he said might be considered rude. "I mean... I don't know. When I was trying to... to research you," Blaine falters, feeling a sharp jab to his chest as he remembers elegant brown hands and steaming mugs of tea and piles upon piles of reference books. He lets out a little breath, wrenching himself forcibly back into the here and now. "... when I was trying to learn more about you, I mean. Everything seemed to be a bit... unclear on that."
But Kurt is laughing quietly, a little trill of a chuckle. He walks over purposefully to the refrigerator, opening it up and extracting a container of packaged broth. In the split second that the fridge door is open, Blaine catches sight of the very small and centralized amount of food amid the white expanse of its insides. His stomach twists, and he wonders how long that much food can last. When Kurt turns around, he is wearing a smile that stretches his lips wide.
"I don't eat," Kurt confirms amusedly, walking back to the patch of counter he's utilising and depositing the broth on top of it. He sends Blaine a wicked grin, blue eyes sparkling with something deeply private and slightly sly as he runs his eyes over Blaine's body. "Well," he says, his gaze sliding down to rest on the side of Blaine's neck. The wounds there pulse as Kurt stares at them, straddling the line between playful and serious. "I suppose you could say I've already eaten today, if you want to be precise about it."
The heat of a humiliated flush is creeping up Blaine's neck, into his cheeks. He blinks hard, forcing himself not to reach up and cover the exposed wound with his hands. Blaine can practically feel Kurt's eyes tracing over the rawness of the punctures, can practically feel him remembering what it was like to drink from Blaine for the first time.
And not the last, says a voice in the back of Blaine's head.
"But your kitchen," says Blaine, trying to break the moment. He looks up and catches Kurt's eyes; they look darker than usual, and it makes something tighten hot and wrong in the base of his spine. "It's... you've got pots, and pans, and food. You know how to cook."
Kurt sends him a look, stirring the meat and onions with a brand new-looking wooden spoon. "I can still remember the basics," he says dryly, arching an eyebrow. "My mom died when I was little, remember? I was always the one who did the cooking and cleaning while my dad was at work. It's a bit like riding a bicycle, cooking again." He stares down at the gently-simmering contents of the pan, wrinkling his nose. "Well. I might ask you to be the one to taste test this, though. It's... mmm, no, not really appealing to me."
But that doesn't answer everything. "What about the cookware?" asks Blaine, an insidious suspicion already growing in his mind. Kurt shrugs as he empties the contents of the pan into a large pot, not looking him in the eye.
"I knew you were going to be staying here, didn't I," says Kurt neutrally, voice slightly stiff as he adds the chopped-up cabbage to the stew pot. "I like to be prepared."
The words ring in Blaine's ears. He blinks, looking down at his lap it occurs to him again just how much Kurt has been anticipating and organizing to prepare for something that Blaine had been so, so desperate to escape from. The plastic sheets, the food in the fridge, the newly-purchased cooking implements. He wonders, for a moment, just how much food Kurt had decided to purchase; how long he's planning to keep Blaine the way he is.
For the first time, as well, it occurs to Blaine to wonder how it is that Kurt supports himself. He bites down on his lip, eyebrows furrowing as Kurt putters about the quietly chic kitchen as he gets everything ready to simmer. This is obviously an expensive apartment, for one thing. Blaine has never seen any evidence that Kurt has some kind of civilian job, not that he would be able to hold onto any kind of position that required him to make appearances during the daytime. How can Kurt afford to ruin expensive sheet sets as though they're nothing, and buy an entire kitchen set on a whim?
The idea of Kurt – beautiful and deadly, wrapped in fear and power and mercilessness, who is an actual creature out of a storybook – working as some kind of office drone to make ends meet is just too incomprehensibly ridiculous for Blaine to visualize. Besides, Kurt had spent so many of his nights in the past while stalking and harassing and terrorizing him that he couldn't possibly have had time to hold up an ordinary job in the meantime.
From what Blaine can tell, Kurt is just finishing the last touches for getting dinner ready to sit and cook on its own. He empties a container and a half's worth of broth into the pot, turns up the heat – and the homey smell of warming vegetable-filled broth begins to waft and spread throughout the house like a physical presence. It hits Blaine right in the chest like a blow, and his mouth falls open as memories rush to the forefront of his mind in the way that only the sense of smell can dredge up.
Tucked up in the chair, Blaine blinks hard as memories and sensation, smells and feelings all flood into his mind. Sitting in the kitchen of the house he grew up in, watching his mother ready stews and adobo while she chats happily about whatever would happen to come into her mind. The smell of broth, and the warmth from the oven, and the way she used to laugh with her whole body. The way she would wrap him in her arms whenever he was having a bad day.
And all at once, the phone conversation with his mom and dad – when he said goodbye to them, the first and last time he and his dad were ever going to understand each other, oh god – rushes up and catches him in the throat. It's still so fresh, and so painful; like pressing down hard on an open wound. Blaine's face feels suddenly so much hotter than the heat from the stove should warrant, and his throat clenches thickly. From the blocked windows in Kurt's apartment, Blaine has no idea what time or even what day it is. It could have been only a few hours ago that he said goodbye to them. Or maybe it's been over a day, or more than that; there's no way to tell.
They might even know that something is wrong by now. The realization makes his eyes sting hot for a moment, and he blinks hard against it as the world blurs.
In front of him, Kurt inhales deeply and freezes. When he turns to face Blaine, his brow is furrowed. "Hey," he says quietly, and only then does Blaine feel something wet and hot escape and slide pointlessly down his cheek.
And all at once, Kurt is right in front of him; kneeling in front of the armchair with a puzzled and apprehensive look on his perfect, angelic face. Leaning in close, Kurt leans up with a cool hand and swipes the tear away. As though to get rid of any physical manifestation of distress is enough to make it go away.
"Don't cry," says Kurt quietly, his clear voice tampered down with surprise and bewilderment. "You don't need to cry."
He sounds genuinely at a loss as to how to respond to the sudden change in mood. As though he honestly cannot think of a reason that Blaine could possibly be upset.
"... I'm never going to see my parents again," Blaine whispers, the words thick and heavy as he speaks the words into the air for the very first time. He knows this, already; has come to terms with what it would mean, trading in his life for theirs. But saying the words out loud brings the ache of it to the surface, touching a pressure point. Makes his eyes sting again, no matter how much he doesn't want them to.
Kurt's hand is still lingering along his hairline, drifting over the skin comfortingly.
"No," Kurt responds, straightforward and simple. His voice is high and clear in the stillness of the moment, and for a moment he sounds so very old despite the youth that slides over his skin like a mask. He gently tilts Blaine's face with his hand, guiding him so that he has nowhere to look except for right into Kurt's eyes. They are blue, and endless, and for the life of him Blaine cannot tell if there is any pity in their depths at all. "No, you won't."
It's... hard, hearing it like that. Stark and raw and so, so unforgiving. Blinking hard to force away the persistent stinging, Blaine attempts to incline his head ever so slightly downward to avoid the full brunt of Kurt's stare. But the pressure of Kurt's fingertips against Blaine's cheek increases. Almost imperceptibly at first, and then firmer when Blaine tries to look away in spite of it. Kurt is refusing to let him look away, looking into his eyes with an intensity almost bordering on manic.
For a second, and for the very first time since waking up in a strange bed with Kurt's arms wrapped around him like a loving cage, Blaine feels sudden and acute fear ripple through him. Squirming and twisting from underneath that look.
"Don't worry, Blaine," Kurt murmurs, unblinking and shaking his head the smallest amount back and forth as he speaks. His eyes are riveted to Blaine's own as he speaks, and each syllable is practically shivering with quiet intensity.
And slowly, very slowly, Kurt's fingers move downwards; sliding along Blaine's jaw and down to the side of his neck. Kurt's fingers circle the two twin wounds deliberately, his eyes leaving Blaine's for the first time to watch the movement of paler fingers along darker skin and raw red wounds. The touch shoots a little bursts of pain up Blaine's throat when Kurt's presses down, and Blaine sucks in a sharp breath.
A cold jolt of primal fear shoots up Blaine's spine, his legs feeling ever so slightly liquid and weak beneath him. He staunchly presses down the instinct to run because it's useless, pointless, wouldn't get him anywhere and he can't. Has to let Kurt to whatever he wants because it's over, he lost, and he can't risk anyone else's lives when his is already gone.
But instead of hurting him, Kurt is suddenly kissing him. Hard and hot, a crush of lips against lips as he presses right into Blaine's space. He worries Blaine's lower lip between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to avoid drawing blood and pressing his fingers into the puncture marks on Blaine's neck all at once. The twin pains make Blaine gasp wetly against Kurt's lips, and Kurt takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into Blaine's mouth. Claiming, taking, taking what he wants again and disregarding everything else.
By the time he pulls away, both of them are breathing heavily. Every nerve in Blaine's body is steeled and perched on the very edge.
"Don't worry," breathes Kurt against Blaine's mouth, ragged and convicted. His fingers ghost over the wounds once, twice, almost like a reassurance. "I promise you won't miss them, beautiful. You won't. Not once I make you like me."
And nothing Kurt could have possibly said could have hurt as much as that did.
"We're going to be so good," Kurt murmurs, seeming not to notice that Blaine's heart has fallen into the base of his stomach and everything is flashing white in front of his eyes. Doesn't notice the way everything feels suddenly so cold and wrong and soon, too soon, and he doesn't want to lose them to himself like that. Can't even think about it, can't even imagine it. His mom and dad, devastated and trying to find him and Blaine unable even to care.
It's a repulsive thought, and it makes him feel hollow and horrible so, so lost.
Without pause, Kurt moves down to mouth against the side of Blaine's throat where the skin is already broken. It makes Blaine's whole neck throb with renewed aching soreness, and he clutches his fingers into the loose material of Kurt's shirt.
"It won't be me, though," Blaine chokes out, sounding almost childish as the words sink and settle with horrible, horrible sadness in the pit of his stomach. He can't tell if the words are a denial, or a defence, or just something to fill the gaping space inside. His eyes are stinging, and he shakes his head and blinks hard against it. "It won't be me."
But Kurt just sucks hard, groaning helplessly around the wound.
"Of course it'll be you," says Kurt dismissively, licking a long strip along Blaine's neck. Blaine shivers at the empty reassurance, not even sure that Kurt heard what he'd said, and he can feel one of Kurt's hands working through the pile of blankets around Blaine's waist, worming its way through. It pushes the waistband of Blaine's pyjama pants down and takes him in hand without preamble, stroking hard and fast and tight in a way that makes Blaine whimper out loud.
"We're going to be so good, Blaine, you don't even know," Kurt murmurs nonsensically against Blaine's neck, the words muffled and sending sharp vibrations along the skin that bring up tiny ripples of pain. "So good. You're perfect, we're perfect, you just – you just can't tell yet." His hand tightens on Blaine's cock, pace slowing down into something determined and focused and intense. "So good," he says again, licking a long stripe up the puncture marks and making Blaine shudder.
And after a long, long pause that hangs in the air and fills him up, Blaine leans his head against the back of the armchair, closes his eyes – and surrenders into the touch. Lets his mind go purposefully blank as Kurt slowly and patiently gets him off, the stroking touch of his cool hand on his cock a constant reminder of exactly what Kurt is.
Because it feels good, and Kurt's hand is sure, and because part of him has always wanted this. Because Kurt isn't going to give him comfort, doesn't even know why Blaine could possibly want comfort, and so physical closeness is just going to have to be enough.
Because it is easier to let himself be touched and edged and drawn up into heat and slow, slow pleasure than it is to think about the way that this is all going to end. Easier than thinking about what Kurt wants from him, in the end: to twist and stretch Blaine out into a cold, heartless shell that looks like a person who wouldn't exist anymore.
When they're done, Kurt cleans the both of them up with a washcloth before serving Blaine a large bowl of steaming stew. The ladle shines as though it has never been used, and so does the silver spoon he takes out of the cutlery drawer with graceful fingers. He squeezes his way next to Blaine on the chair and feeds the stew to Blaine in small mouthfuls, sometimes blowing on the larger spoonfuls to cool them down. Blaine opens his mouth freely; lets Kurt hold him close, and nurture his body, and keep him alive long enough to play with.
He swallows the hot broth down, and lets Kurt stroke his hair, and tries not to think about what is going to happen once Kurt gets bored of this.
Over the next little while, it proves practically impossible for Blaine to keep any meaningful track of time. With the windows blacked out and an almost pointed lack of any kind of time-telling device around the apartment, the days blur together into an endless repeating slide of pain, and sex, and blood.
Blaine wonders if Kurt is trying to drive him insane, not letting him know what time it is or how long it's been.
He wonders if it's working.
The dreams keep coming, and they don't help. Hard and strong and achingly real, that part of Kurt that slithered beneath his skin and taken hold of his subconscious so long ago even more active and vibrant than before. The dreams bleed into reality, and reality bleeds back into the dreams until Blaine can barely differentiate between the two.
Even sleep provides no break from Kurt's soft words, or his cloying touches, or the sharp heated pleasure-pain of his teeth piercing through Blaine's skin.
It's all one endless stretch of time that just won't end, and the two of them float in this little hollowed-out space in utter isolation. Nothing can exist outside the walls of Kurt's apartment: not the people Blaine loves, or has lost, or the life he always thought he would have. Not the put-together, charming boy he used to be when the walls of Dalton surrounded him like an embrace, or the unburdened young man his father left him with their final conversation. The world ends at Kurt's door – or it does as far as Blaine is concerned. Thinking about outside is painful, and complicated, and there just isn't any point anymore.
After that first time (the bed, the blood, the heat of the water, the soft touch of Kurt's fingers trailing down his chest as they laid together on the couch afterward), Blaine knows without a doubt that there isn't any room for any more than the two of them here. Nothing beyond Kurt's teeth, and his nails, and his appetite, and the utter surrender that is all Blaine can muster anymore.
Blaine breaks down from the sheer uncertainty of it, a few days in. Unable to press it all down anymore, he shatters outwards after being fucked hard and drained deep and without any idea of how long his life is going to be this way. He breaks down with Kurt holding him close against his chest as though he's something precious, stroking loving hands through dark curls and whispering shhh, Blaine, it's fine, it's all fine now, I've got you against his skin. Holding him tight and close and innocently for long minutes – until Kurt's hand slides down lower and Blaine's hysterical tears turn into choked-out gasps of pleasure-pain, and it stops being sweet and innocent at all.
It doesn't stop. Not the intimacy, or the way Kurt looks at him, or the sharp drag of blood leaving his body as Kurt bites into his skin and sucks. None of it stops, although Kurt is at least careful not to drink deeply enough to actually make Blaine lose consciousness. He walks the line, though; he brings Blaine close to the edge of the precipice, leaves him reeling and spinning and weak by the time Kurt finally wrenches his mouth away. Leaves him gasping and dazed to the world, so very close to the blackness but just barely, barely held back.
Afterwards, Kurt always practically buzzes with content. He holds Blaine close, and whispers loving words of praise, and makes sure the bleeding stays under control. But far more than the pain of the cuts and punctures or the blood loss itself, Kurt breaks Blaine down with the affection in his eyes and the world-changing phenomena of Blaine's name on his lips. He drinks from Blaine whenever he feels like it, gorging himself on hot blood and never left wanting, and Kurt is always sure to sweetly nurse him back to awareness afterward.
Sometimes, Kurt leans close and drags a lust-sharpened nail along Blaine's wrist, lapping at the wet heat that pours out; or he'll dig his teeth into Blaine's shoulder and groan as he swallows messily around it. A few times, the sharp pain of fangs piercing into flesh even wakes Blaine up in the middle of the night; Kurt's arms no longer wrapped possessively around his middle but holding him down as he drinks covetously from whatever limb or swathe of skin is closest.
The first time, the happy ease of a thirst well-slaked stretches out over at least a few of days before Kurt wants to drink from him again. But the time after, Blaine thinks, the satisfaction doesn't last quite as long. And the time after that, the where Kurt is full and sated is a little bit shorter still.
Every time Kurt drinks from him, Kurt seems to grow hungry and itchy with want just that little bit sooner, and sooner. As though he can't drink deeply enough even when he leaves Blaine dizzy and weak and well-fucked; as though now that he can have drink from Blaine whenever he wants, it would take more and more to leave him satisfied. Before too long, Blaine's body is a mottled map of cuts and punctures and scrapes and tears.
For the most part, the pet names vanish with an all-at-once abruptness that makes Blaine's head spin. The pretty things and beautiful things that had haunted his dreams and coiled from Kurt's lips like a seduction, a poison – they almost disappear altogether after that first day, and the shower, and Blaine's name on Kurt's lips as Kurt had buried himself in Blaine's body and breathed. As though the cloying terms of proprietary, dehumanizing endearment had been an element of the chase, not the possession. As though they aren't necessary anymore, with Blaine in Kurt's arms instead of behind an immovable barrier.
As though Kurt has nothing to prove, anymore. And no one to scare.
Instead, Kurt calls Blaine by his name – and that almost makes it worse. It turns Blaine's own name into some kind of title; almost a signifier of importance that goes far beyond the word's simple meaning. Twisting the single familiar syllable into something insidious, and personal; into a sound that, at times, Blaine can barely recognize. Whether Kurt says the word with a soft smile, or a smirking grin, or moans it into Blaine's neck in the middle of grinding deep into his ass, it doesn't matter. He calls Blaine by his name as though it's important, as though it's everything, and itpractically turns Blaine's name into a pet name in and of itself.
The way Kurt says it, too. As though the word holds hidden depths that Blaine himself isn't privy to; as though there is something about who Blaine is that only Kurt can understand, and perceive, and see.
Blaine still feels like a thing, most of the time.
Even though Kurt doesn't call him one outright anymore.
The in-between parts don't stop happening, either.
Showers and meals and sleeping and talking, and all of it still so surreal and incomprehensible to him. All of the elements and aspects that Blaine never even considered when he handed himself over, only they constitute the majority of their time, really. And they never stop shocking him, even as his body grows more worn-out and weakened as time goes by. Even as Blaine feels almost delirious with how overwhelming and restricted it all is, being kept this way. Like a pet, and a lover, and a treasure all at once.
Kurt even leaves the apartment, sometimes. Gives Blaine a kiss on the lips and walks out the door to go buy groceries, or go to get the mail. Sometimes, he doesn't even articulate what he intends to do outside the four walls that constitute Blaine's reality; just walks out into what Blaine can only assume to be the night without more than a brief goodbye.
The only thing that Blaine knows for sure that Kurt isn't doing out there is feeding, and that's only because Kurt had reassured him of it one time between drinking down large gulps over blood from Blaine's waist. You don't think I'm still having other people, do you, Blaine? and don't need any of them when I have you and god, you taste so good; you're amazing, Blaine, can't believe you're all mine as Blaine had arched and whined and clenched down on the stabbing pain of it all.
But no matter what his business in the outside world might be, Kurt always, always leaves the door unlocked behind him when he goes. Leaves Blaine sitting in the apartment, theoretically free to try to get away.
The first time, Blaine assumes that it's some kind of a test. That Kurt must be waiting outside to see if he'll make a run for it, or is yearning for the heated pulse of the chase again while he tracks Blaine down and hunts him throughout the city.
It's the only moment where Blaine seriously wonders whether Kurt knows him half as well as he thinks he does. Because Blaine understands, now, with bone-deep certainty that there simply there isn't any point in trying to escape. Any chance he ever had to get out of this only ever existed in his head; no matter his own stupid, human delusions, Kurt has him in Blaine palm of his hand since the first moment they met. If he runs, Kurt will find him. Will slaughter the people Blaine loves and smile while he does it, and make Blaine pay for even considering the possibility of escape.
He waits patiently for Kurt to return home, instead. He doesn't even get close to the door.
After the third, fourth, fifth time it happens, however, Blaine starts to wonder whether or not Kurt leaving him alone is any kind of test at all; that maybe Kurt simply has utter faith that Blaine won't try to get away from anymore. He has no idea which theory is more unsettling.
Other times, however, Blaine can almost forget himself in the strangeness of the entire situation.
"Are you... sewing?" asks Blaine in quiet disbelief, forgetting himself in his surprise as he cranes his neck to see into the space that had always previously been blocked off by a closed door. Until now, he had always assumed that he door concealed nothing more than some kind of storage closet. But instead of brooms and cleaning supplies or boxes or books, there is instead a whole room now visible through the opened doorway. He can see Kurt, dressed impeccably in a tailored plaid jacket and hunched delicately over a sewing machine, his eyes narrowed and fixed on the fabric he is carefully feeding under the pumping needle.
Eyelids heavy with sleep and the cut on his shoulder (and arm, and thigh, and the swell of his ass and the back of his neck, and all over his body peppered like little sigils of ownership) throbbing softly, Blaine blinks at the very unexpected sight.
The thump-thump-thump-thump-thump of the sewing machine is what woke him up from his nap in the first place. (At least, he's fairly sure that it was a nap; it's hard to tell because the windows are covered right up and the lamps always cast the same light over the room and for all Blaine knows he could have been lying here asleep for quite number of hours.) For a moment, he wonders if he might be dreaming – until he comes to the conclusion that seeing Kurt, the creature out of a nightmare who had haunted and tormented and tortured him for so long, actually physically sewing is too strange and unreal for his mind to concoct on its own. He almost wants to laugh out loud at the sight.
"Everyone has to make a living somehow," says Kurt with a smirk, raising both eyebrows and looking over in Blaine's direction with an amused look on his angelic face. He adjusts the position of the fabric, turning his attention back to the work at hand as he carefully nudges it under the needle. The machine is so loud that he has to almost shout slightly in order to be heard. "I wanted to welcome you properly, of course, but I really do have to make this deadline. No matter how long I'm around, the postage system remains painfully slow." He huffs slightly. "It's very disappointing."
"This is what you do?" asks Blaine, still feeling a bit fuzzy and slow. His shoulder burns and twinges when he moves to adjust himself so that he's sitting higher, and when he glances over at it he sees that the cut Kurt had suckled from so eagerly a few hours ago has been wrapped in gauze. Kurt nods, his eyes still fixed on the work in front of him.
"Mmmmm," Kurt hums, finishing off the seam and cutting the threads. His voice is still raised slightly so that Blaine can hear him from the other room. "I'm the... well. What is it you call it when someone writes something and then it's credited to someone else? A ghost author?" He shrugs. "It's something like that." He lets out a high chuckle, and there's a little bit of noise as Kurt gathers up a few items and then practically prances out into the living room to join him. Kurt lowers himself gracefully onto the floor next to the end of the couch Blaine is curled up against, depositing a few sheets of paper right onto Blaine's lap with something gleeful in his eyes.
Obediently, Blaine looks over the pile of papers in front of him.
The first is a swooping, gorgeous sketch drawn in thin black ink lines. It's of a man, elegant and poised, decked out in a handsome jacket with a very interesting piece of detailing on the shoulders as well as some formfitting trousers. There are a few swatches of fabric pinned to the paper: one in a heavy cream denim, the other a rich green that feels like cotton. When Blaine flips over the page, he sees that the piece of paper beneath it contains an identical sketch – but this time, there are little handwritten notes and arrows drawn all over the margins. Bronze button for the fly and will want to show with unbuttoned collared shirt with no tie and be careful with the fit over the shoulders. When Blaine flips through, he sees this pattern repeats itself throughout the stack; menswear, women's wear, there doesn't seem to be a solid pattern.
"There's this designer," Kurt begins emphatically, his head resting lazily on Blaine's thigh as he gushes. Kurt is still thrumming happily from drinking his fill earlier, energy rolling off of him in thick waves as he speaks. And as sick as that should make Blaine feel, knowing what caused it, his giddiness is still practically contagious. "Not untalented, per se," he continues, cocking his head to one side, "but not nearly enough zing to make it on his own. So a few decades ago, I contacted him and we made a little deal. I send him my designs, as well as the occasional mock up. He remains the public front for the company, and in exchange for a hefty chunk of the profits no one ever has to know about his lacklustre abilities." Kurt shrugs, a touch of what is clearly old bitterness making his lips thin and his voice tighten. "It's his name on the brand, of course. But sadly, my... inability to participate in the public eye makes it impossible for me to branch out on my own."
"I don't know that many designers," Blaine admits, feeling slightly embarrassed about it as he flips through more of the pages. They're good designs – really good, actually – but he can't truly put his finger on the elements that make them so exceptional.
When he was younger, Blaine had assumed that a natural part of being gay was to be interested in high fashion. And he had tried; he really had. He had purchased Vogue with the best of them for a few years, and attempted to keep up with the who's who of the fashion world. But his own personal style had always been somewhat unconventional; almost retro, really, too old for him and nothing approaching cutting edge. Once he moved to New York, he had realized how unnecessary it was for him involve himself in that aspect of gay culture considering the kinds of men he tended to attract.
Next to him, Kurt lets out an amused laugh. "I wouldn't worry," he says slowly, smirking slightly as he leans into Blaine's side and lets out a little melancholy sigh. "You'd recognize the name if you heard it." He tugs Blaine's arm over and presses a kiss against the gauze, practically purring with his stomach warm and full with blood.
And it's all so funny, and sweet, and makes Blaine smile automatically before his brain catches up with him. Before what the fuck is wrong with you and how can you be okay with this bludgeon him across the face like a slap, and the smile hangs empty and hollow on his face like the ghost of a feeling.
Blaine wakes up in drifting lilts of sensation that steal along the edges of his mind, slipping into his dreams and coaxing him into reality in slow pulls until awareness begins to solidify like an image clarifying. The little sensations pull him awake; the gentle press of dry lips against his shoulder, the heat of someone's breath tickling the hairs at the back of his neck, the soothing touch a hand rubbing calming circles into the bare skin of his ass beneath the sheets.
When Blaine breathes in deep and smells Kurt, all around him like a blanket and an embrace, the familiarity of the smell makes any tension in his body ebb away into easy looseness and relaxation. He sighs into the pillow, sleepy and happy and with the beginnings of an erection already pressing into the mattress. And when he presses back easily into the touches, Blaine can hear Kurt make a quietly pleased noise above him.
There is the shifting of weight as Kurt moves closer, pressing his naked body right up against him so that his stomach is right up against Blaine's back. The movement nestles Kurt's cock, hard and wanting and the skin of it so soft, right into the cleft of Blaine's ass. Kurt loves his ass; loves the fullness of it, the curve and fleshiness of the cheeks that is so very different from his own. Loves to dig his nails into it, to knead the muscles and spread his cheeks and grip it as he drags Blaine up and down on his cock. A small, low noise of pleasure escapes from Blaine's throat at the touch, his eyes fluttering open.
They're in Kurt's bedroom, warmly lit as always, wrapped up together in the sheets of the bed. Blaine's body is sore and worn out, hurting in dozens of places but tingling for Kurt's touch all over. Kurt presses another kiss against Blaine's neck, this one longer and more lingering, and he can feel his cock hardening from morning wood to a full, eager erection.
"Morning," says Blaine sleepily, the sound turning into a satisfied little groan when Kurt slides his hand away from the flesh of Blaine's ass, tickling along the jut of his hip, and wraps it dexterously around Blaine's needy cock. The touch sends a little fissure of pleasure along Blaine's spine, even though Kurt doesn't immediately start to jerk him off. Just holds him close like this instead, hand wrapped around him and the pressure of his body so close an unspoken promise between them.
"Good morning to you, too," says Kurt, and the coy smile in his voice is enough to make Blaine grin sleepily even though Kurt can't see. Can probably smell him, though; can smell his happiness, his contentedness. The whole room is probably swimming with the heavy smell of Blaine's arousal, and the thought of that is enough to make Blaine shiver with pleasure and press his ass back against the hardness of Kurt's cock. He knows how much Kurt likes how warm he is, after all; how the heat of his body makes Kurt want to press inside and be warmed and held by that incredible, human heat.
Kurt lets out a blissful little noise at the instinctual movement, burrowing into Blaine's neck and breathing in deep. Inhaling the smell of Blaine's blood flowing beneath delicate skin, sliding his tongue against the pulse point. Almost certainly remembering the last time he fed, yesterday morning. Something hot and pleased curls and jolts in Blaine's stomach at the thought of it.
"Want you," Kurt groans, squeezing Blaine's cock. The words are loud in Blaine's ear, the vibrations tickling along the still-healing wounds on his neck – and the breathy desperation of his tone make Blaine groan right back as he remembers all of the things the two of them have done together after Kurt has expressed that particular sentiment. The time Kurt pulled him up by the hips and slid his tongue along the crack of Blaine's ass, teasing him as Blaine fisted his hands in the sheets and arched up and whined for it until Kurt finally pushed his tongue inside, past the ring of muscle. Sucking and circling and fucking him with his tongue for what had seemed like forever until Blaine had finally come with a broken, strangled cry and spilled over Kurt's hand. Or the time Blaine had crawled over Kurt's body and taken his cock in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard as Kurt's hand twisted in his curls and he'd chanted praise and encouragement before finally coming, hot and bitter, into Blaine's mouth.
Even though Blaine is awake now, the world is still beautifully indistinct as a haze of lust slides around him. Kurt moves so that Blaine is lying on his back, clamouring on top of him with speed bourn of frantic neediness. Careful to keep at least some of his weight on his elbows in the way Blaine never has to do in return, Kurt settles on top of him, looking down at Blaine as though seeing something impossible and incredible.
And god, Kurt is so, so beautiful like this. Lying on top of him, all naked skin and staring down at Blaine with almost the same raw intensity as when he's hungry and wanting and desperate to feed. Pale and sharp and inhumanly splendid, there is power running through every slender, strong line of Kurt's body. He is captivating, and dangerous – and Blaine feels so very, very high on the fact that he doesn't feel unsafe at all. Just protected, and cared for, and powerful in some strange way. Because Kurt is uncontainable, but Blaine can still have some kind of control over him.
When Kurt leans down and kisses him, Blaine kisses back with heady enthusiasm. The taste of their thick morning mouths fades into the background after a few moments, and all that is left is the sliding demand of Kurt's mouth as it slides against his own. After only a few minutes Kurt impatiently grinds his hips down, mouth still sealed over Blaine's, making their cocks slide together roughly. The movement of it sends sparks of pleasure jolting up Blaine's spine, and his mouth falls open wider in a soundless gasp that Kurt swallows down greedily. He reaches up to grip at Kurt's ass, tight and round and muscled and masculine, as he returns the favour and grinds up as hard as he can in return.
They rock and grind like that, bodies sliding together in a raw and open undulation of imprecise pleasure. The heat in the base of Blaine's stomach is growing, spreading, making the hairs on his arms prickle and raise with anticipation even as he groans out loud into Kurt's hot, perfect mouth. Every movement makes a dozen little cuts and punctures all over Blaine's body ache and throb deliciously, little tokens of Kurt as they burn sweetly. Reminders of how good he can be for Kurt, of how he can satisfy him more than any pretty cold little corpse from his past.
Kurt pulls away gasping after a few minutes, pressing sloppy kisses against the side of Blaine's mouth. His whole body is a ball of tension, thrumming with want. His eyes are dark, heavily lidded but untainted by any flush of red.
"More," says Kurt, mouth wet from kissing as he presses it up against Blaine's cheek and breathes in deep. Their hips are rolling together faster, harder, but even though Blaine's body is coiling pleasantly it doesn't seem to be enough for Kurt. "I want more."
"Okay," Blaine gasps, his head falling back as he grips Kurt's ass and grids their cocks together hard. He even starts to move away, to reach over to get the lube from the bedside drawer when the too-tight clench of Kurt's hand closing over his wrist stops him. He blinks up at Kurt, who is staring down at him with a needy, knowing smile curved over his mouth.
"Not like that," says Kurt, the grin on his face turning wicked and confidential. And slowly, anticipation and excitement buzzing in every line of his body, Kurt moves Blaine's hand back to his own ass – and guides Blaine's fingers to his hole. It's slick.
Blaine's eyes fly wide open, and he stares up at Kurt in amazement. Kurt stares back, his gaze intense and purposeful as he holds Blaine's hand in place. Even from the quickest of touches, Blaine would have been able to tell the slide of lube against skin. It's a familiar sensation, and he's become even better acquainted with during his time here. Hardly able to believe it, Blaine presses his finger experimentally against Kurt's rim. His finger slides in easily to the first knuckle despite the awkward angle, and he realizes that Kurt must have stretched and slicked himself ready while Blaine was still sleeping.
"Fuck," Blaine mutters weakly, and his eyes must be wide as saucers but Kurt just keeps looking at him as though he's something incredible, practically purring when his finger slips inside and clenching around the tip of the digit. "You want -?" Blaine asks, stilted with shock and buzzing need. This is something they've never done; something that Blaine's never been certain he could ask for. But Kurt just leans down and kisses him hungrily, rolling his hips and choking out a breathy little gasp.
"I want everything from you," Kurt growls, biting down hard on Blaine's lower lip. "I told you that," he breathes, finally letting go of Blaine's hand. Licking his lips and feeling flushed from low excitement, Blaine reaches a little farther over Kurt's body and pushes his finger ever-so-slightly deeper into the tight, slippery hole. It goes in easily, but almost immediately Kurt wrenches his hand away.
Without a second's pause, he snags both of Blaine's wrists and slams them on the mattress above his head. Kneeling over Blaine's prone body and pinning his arms down, Kurt leans down and kisses him rough and dirty. All teeth and tongue and sliding pressure, and his grip is uncomfortably tight and clenching around the delicate bones of Blaine's wrists. But Blaine knows that Kurt isn't angry; just eager, and determined, and wanting. He kisses back, groaning lightly into Kurt's mouth and not attempting to break free of the pin. He wouldn't be able to, even if he wanted to.
"Don't need that," says Kurt quickly, voice sounding strangled and higher than usual. He loosens his grip on Blaine's wrists, seeming to abruptly realize how crushing his grip had been before. Blaine lets out a grateful little sigh, but doesn't take his eyes off of Kurt on top of him. Beautiful and powerful, desperate and needy. His hair is messy, and there is the smallest hint of an uncommon flush growing in his cheeks. He lets go of Blaine's wrists, leaning over to pluck up the bottle of lube from where it had been buried and concealed in a mound of sheets.
Moving himself far enough down to sit on Blaine's thighs in order to expose his cock and balls to the air, Kurt pours a long squeeze of lube onto his graceful, pale hand before wrapping it around Blaine's cock, fully hard and wanting so badly to be buried inside. The coolness of his fingers is cancelled out by the warming fluid, and Blaine hisses at how good Kurt's slippery, focused hand feels as it strokes purposefully over him. Not trying to be pleasurable, just trying to get him ready, and Kurt's eyes are fixed on Blaine's thick, dark cock as his foreskin slides over the head. Blaine hasn't moved his hands from their position above his head just in case Kurt doesn't want him to, but his toes curl and his whole body tightens as Kurt slicks him up and stares at him hungrily.
Without even looking to see where it lands amid the sheets and covers, Kurt tosses the closed bottle away. He climbs back into place, kneeling over Blaine's prone body and raising himself up as he takes Blaine's cock in hand and positions it against his entrance. And Blaine barely even has time to marvel at the fact that he's been awake for only a few minutes, and he's getting this, and it's so fucking hot he can barely breathe before he feels the tight slickness of Kurt's hole, everything slippery with lube and stretching around him as Kurt lowers down and pushes himself onto Blaine's cock, his body opening up and spreading around the thickness of it.
"Fuck," Blaine gasps, his head falling backward onto the mattress as the tip of his cock is swallowed up by the still-warm heat of Kurt's body. At almost the exact same time Kurt lets out a low, hissed "yes" above him, his eyes fluttering closed as he inches himself down lower and lower onto Blaine's cock. It feels amazing; tight an engulfing, Kurt controlling the speed and angle and Blaine just lying back and letting Kurt fuck himself on his cock. Groaning, Kurt grips at Blaine's chest as he sinks down, nails human and clipped short as they dig into Blaine's skin, and he looks so utterly debauched like this. Shameless and desperate, pale swathes of skin and lean muscles as his body lets him inside. Kurt is so tight all around him, pushing down quickly like he needs it right now, and everything is pressure and slickness and perfect as Blaine finally bottoms out.
"You're so hot," Kurt groans, clenching and squeezing around him, and Blaine whines pitifully at how fucking good that feels. Kurt's voice is high and wrecked, and the way his thin body is shaking and straining with Blaine's cock buried inside of him disguises and obscures just how dangerous he is. It makes the heat twist and clench in Blaine's belly anyways, though, knowing just how ruthless this man can be. How vicious, and brutal, and so very beautiful as he finds another way of taking what belongs to him.
"Please," Blaine whimpers, because Kurt is squeezing around him so nice and all he can do is beg and plead for more. He's helpless like this, pinned down and gripped tight in the best possible way.
Kurt rocks experimentally, one of his elegant hands coming up to rub at his own throat. His hair is messy, sweaty, and he looks so beautiful that Blaine can't breathe. "So hot inside me, Blaine, god," says Kurt, opening his eyes and staring down at Blaine with wanton intensity. "You burn, fuck. So good."
And before Blaine can figure out what that means, Kurt's whole body draws up. The muscles in his legs tighten and squeeze, and his mouth falls open as Kurt begins to move. Hard and fast, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm as he snaps himself up and slams himself down on Blaine's cock. It feels so fucking right, being buried in Kurt this way – just as good as being fucked, but different, a whole different set of nerves bursting and flaring with every motion. It's been so long since Blaine's done this, but he doesn't have to worry about doing anything wrong because Kurt is completely, utterly in control. Taking what he wants and giving Blaine exactly what he needs, just like always, the slide and tug of his body squeezing Blaine just right as he rides him hard into the mattress.
"Perfect," Kurt groans, grinding himself down viscously and making Blaine moan. "So fucking perfect, Blaine. Love when you're like this."
"Like wha—" Blaine tries to ask, but then Kurt is doing some kind of rolling thing with his hips that makes him see stars, the slip-slide of lube and the clench of muscles around his cock so perfect, and oh fuck, for a second all Blaine can think about is focusing on is not coming right there and then.
Everything is hot and hard, unforgiving and growing pressure as Kurt fucks himself on Blaine's cock. The muscles in Kurt's legs are straining, a rare hot flush creeping up his chest and into his cheeks as he rides him, and he looks so discomposed. The pooling heat in Blaine's stomach is spreading, uncoiling and twisting and making his vision blur. Every time Kurt slams himself down, a hot zap of pleasure jolts up Blaine's spine. His skin is hot and flushed and slick with sweat despite the fact that all he's doing is lying on his back and watching this gorgeous, perfect, dangerous man ride him hard, and Blaine blinks away the sweat that catches in his eyelashes.
When Blaine dares to bring a hand up to rest along Kurt's hips he receives a keening moan of pleasure in response, and after a second he's resting both hands along Kurt's slender waist. Not guiding him, or pulling him down; just holding him as he thrusts back up as best he can. Trying to give Kurt everything, let him have everything, not holding anything back.
"There's no one else like you," Kurt gasps, his mouth hanging open as his movement begins to grow more erratic, uneven. "Oh my god, Blaine –" He chokes out a frantic, straining moan, leaning forward to change the angle and practically whimpering.
And everything is building up, getting stronger and closer as Kurt's ass clenches and slides around him. Blaine is just trying to focus on lasting long enough for Kurt to get there when Kurt abruptly grabs one of Blaine's hands from around his waist in a vicelike grip, drags it up to his mouth – and punctures the pad of his index finger with a single sharpened fang.
"Ah!" chokes Blaine, the movement of his hips stuttering and slowing as pain jolts and sears up his arm. Cutting and sharp and Kurt doesn't even stop, doesn't even slow down as he pulls Blaine's finger into his mouth and sucks. But the pain isn't the only thing that throbs from the cut because, god, it feels so good. The dragging pull of blood leaving his body, the ache of the broken skin, the light-headed swirl of everything around him – Blaine moans, and bites down on his lip, and practically wails as liquid pleasure twists through his whole body at the proof of how much Kurt wants him; how much Kurt needs him.
Kurt's eyes roll back in his head as he groans around the digit, swallowing down the blood that comes out as he fucks himself down hard and fast, the movement growing frenzied as he reaches up to jerk his own cock once, twice –
And Kurt's coming with a groan that vibrates across Blaine's throbbing finger, grinding his hips down as his cock pulses and spurts all over his hand, his stomach. Rocking himself through it and sucking at the small amount of blood from Blaine's finger like it's a fucking lifeline, his back arching and eyes closing in delight as his orgasm rolls through him. He doesn't stop moving, either. Keeps fucking himself up and down, up and down, the dragging clench of his spasming body bringing Blaine closer, holding him on the edge with his whole body tensed and rigid. Kurt sucks at his finger and Blaine grinds up into him, their bodies squeezing together and tightening up before everything releases and bursts and pushes over the edge. Before he's coming, hard and desperate and overwhelming, coming deep inside Kurt's ass as the other boy grinds his ass down and moans in obvious delight at the feeling of Blaine coming inside of him.
Blaine's head swims, and his whole arm pulses like a heartbeat, and Kurt is practically purring with satisfaction above him as the world settles back into place around the both of them. As Kurt clenches cruelly around his softening cock and makes him groan piteously through the aftershocks, his fingers trailing gratefully over Kurt's side. As Kurt pulls himself off, and settles down next to him on the bed, pulling Blaine into his arms and the world keeps going, everything keeps happening, it doesn't cut off or end abruptly and this doesn't make sense and –
And that is when Blaine realizes, with a shaking, sinking horror that spreads through his body and makes his stomach plummet, that he isn't dreaming.
Telling the difference between reality and the dreams has never been more difficult, in these past weeks that Kurt has kept him here. A few times, Blaine has even got the two actively mixed up. And the sudden sharp awareness that this is reality hits him hard. All at once, and almost with the same shocking jolt as waking suddenly from a dream feels like. Except that what just happened did not take place in a dream, or a nightmare, or a fantasy.
Tucked into Kurt's shoulder with the other boy humming and loose-limbed next to him, the creeping mortification dawns as Blaine it fully dawns on Blaine that what they did just happened. Right here, right now. It has consequences, and implications, and the way he acted –
"Mmmm, wakey wakey," murmurs Kurt affectionately next to him, kissing him on the forehead. Blaine's whole body is still thrumming and singing with his orgasm, but his body has gone rigid and his eyes are wide. Blaine's face is hot with humiliation as his mind works over everything he just said, just did. The begging, and the desperation, and the coiling heat at the way Kurt had sucked at the wound on his finger, oh god –
"I love it when you get confused like this," says Kurt softly next to him, pulling Blaine closer and letting out a happy, satisfied sigh. He hums in pleasure, stroking his hands over the bare skin of Blaine's back. "That was so good, Blaine. So good."
Blaine lies there, wrapped in the tight embrace of Kurt's arms as their naked skin slides together. Feeling dull, and empty, and resigned as the world keeps moving. As everything stays the same, and doesn't fade away, and the two of them keep on existing.
Days pass. Weeks, definitely, although Blaine can't be sure of the exact amount of time. Not with no clocks on the walls and no windows to see the sun and all the appliances flashing zeroes in bright green letters that don't tell him anything.
But the time in between feedings keeps getting progressively smaller and smaller, the wrench of Kurt's mouth away from his wounds more and more reluctant as time goes by. And there's nothing Blaine can do but wait as his nerves get more and more frayed, his body growing weaker by the day. It becomes hard to reciprocate Kurt's touches, even when Blaine wants to. The hard taxing of his body, of his mind makes him less able to take care of himself, all of the vibrancy and life draining from his veins in slow, steady increments.
And Kurt's purring satisfaction dries up sooner and sooner, his need to drink and gorge himself coming up stronger each time.
Every time Kurt drinks from him, the time it takes for him to move from loving caring worshipful to going to fucking take you gets shorter, and shorter, until it takes less than a day before Kurt is twitching and clawing at his skin again. Before he drinks deep and makes Blaine even weaker, and more exhausted, and more at a loss of what to do, and what to say, and what to be.
Everything turns to nerves, and restlessness, and waiting. Horrible, sick waiting for a conclusion that is inevitable; waiting out every moment of respite knowing that it can only be spoiled even as Blaine clings desperately to the praise and tenderness. And Kurt hungers, and drinks, and is satisfied until he isn't and it all repeats over again.
It's a cycle, but not an endless one.
It can't last forever.
When it ends, it doesn't happen with the burst of violence and feeling that Blaine has almost been expecting. It doesn't come to pass with the crashing bangs of struggle, or heaving sobs of emotion. Back when Blaine was still out in the world, trying in useless desperation to keep himself alive and away from the monster with the cruel grin stalking him in the shadows, Blaine had always imagined that he would go down fighting. Straining and resisting until his dying breath, clinging to life with all of the will and force in his possession.
But when everything breaks, Blaine is too weak and exhausted and drained, so drained, to really put up much of a fight.
By about a month into his stay in Kurt's home, Blaine is little more than a shadow of his old self. Once healthy and strong, his body has grown so feeble that it's hard to even move around the apartment on his own volition. The too-frequent losses of blood and his body's inability to produce enough to replace it have rendered him almost constantly nauseated and frequently sick to his stomach. Beneath the ever-present darker pigment of his skin, Blaine's skin is underlain with a lack of colour; his whole body is a map of little cuts and punctures and wounds that stand out harshly against it. His legs waver beneath him when he walks, and even with his glasses on the world has taken on a blurred, drifting quality that doesn't seem to want to go away. No matter how much Kurt turns up the heat in the apartment, Blaine can't get rid of the frigid chill that grips at his joints and makes his stomach feel hollow.
He doesn't even look like himself, when he looks in the mirror. Wilted curls and cold, sweaty skin and clothes that hang off of him as though they were made for someone else.
On this particular day, Blaine blinks awake to an empty bed that feels cold and stoic and lonesome around him. It isn't too unusual for him to wake up alone; sometimes Kurt goes out to run errands, and Blaine has been sleeping an absurd number of hours per day as his body frantically attempts to rest for long enough to make itself better again. Fruitlessly, of course; Kurt always gets hungry again before he can fully recover.
But for some reason, today Blaine wakes up with a persistent buzz of anxiety already thrumming at the edges of his mind; he comes back into the real world from dreams of spiking heat and loving touches with apprehension already threaded through him. He tries to ignore it: his emotions have been unpredictable since his very first day here, after all. But he can't seem to shake the continual niggling unease.
It gets worse once he struggles to his feet, uses the washroom, changes into a loose-fitting sweater and comfortable pants, and heads out into the living room. As he walks down the hallway, Blaine moves with the flat of his palm pressed against the wall for support the whole time, and his knees are in constant danger of buckling beneath his weight. And when he emerges, the anxiety twining along the edge of his mind is immediately amplified as though someone has cranked up a knob.
Kurt has one the most infectious personalities of anyone Blaine has ever met. When Kurt is pleased, the whole room lights up; his good mood spreads, and everything feels gleeful and safe and protected. If Kurt is happy, he practically vibrates with it. It's one of the reasons that being here is so hard; seeing Kurt smile makes Blaine's lips automatically pull into one as well and it's so, so hard to make himself remember why he should feel upset and angry and violated instead.
But when Kurt is in a bad mood, his irritation spreads to everything like a disease. Everything about him is expressive, his emotions painted over his posture and face as clearly as though they were written out in flashing letters. And when Blaine walks into the main room of the apartment, Kurt's whole body is coiled up tight with strain that makes Blaine's skin prickle and his nerves stand on edge.
His back to Blaine, Kurt's spine is ramrod straight as he cooks what looks like some kind of pasta and clangs down pots and pans with unnecessary vehemence. He doesn't even turn to look at Blaine when he comes into the room, even though his amplified senses mean that he has doubtless heard him enter. When he turns his face, Blaine can see that there is an iciness to his expression; his lips are pulled thin, jaw set with some hidden strain.
Immediately, Blaine can feel increased apprehension seep into his skin like cold air. He shivers, wincing when Kurt slams a bowl full of pasta and pesto on the counter in front of him without even looking at in his direction.
It gets worse throughout the day, the horrible tension of it crackling and building as the hours pass and Kurt studiously avoids him. Shuts himself up in his sewing room instead, thumping and clattering around as Blaine tries to distract himself with a book that he can barely remember the title of. Tries to ignore how unusual this is. Because when Kurt is hungry, he eats. He takes and claims and possesses without hesitation – and he never, ever avoids Blaine like this. Is always keen to show him attention, even if it's just pulling him onto his lap or stroking his hands through his hair. The sudden change makes Blaine feel sick with apprehension. Every time he opens his mouth to speak, he thinks better of it. After a little while, he even starts to feel upset with himself; feels as though he's done something wrong, needs to apologize, but he doesn't know what to apologize for.
And after a few hours, the door to the sewing room is thrown open with a loud crash that makes Blaine's whole body jump in his chair. And when he looks up, he sees that Kurt is standing in the doorway. His already-sharp features seem exaggerated, somehow; narrowed in and focused. There is rigidity and tension straining in every line of Kurt's lean body, and his hands are shaking as he stares at Blaine with something uncontrolled and burning in his eyes.
"Hungry," Kurt growls, low and dangerous, something wild about the tightness in his body. His eyes are darkening, red seeping in to stain the blue, and when then he's already stalking toward Blaine with speed and frantic purpose in every step. When he gets to the chair Blaine is in, he drops to his knees and immediately starts yanking Blaine's sweater roughly over his head. "Hungry, so hungry, you make me so hungry. Let me, let me have this, need it –"
"Okay," says Blaine, more of an acknowledgement than consent, almost glad for something to break the awful, sickly tension. It will be fine, and Kurt will feel better after this, and everything can go back to usual. His arm gets wrenched the wrong way as Kurt pulls the sweater off with such force that he can hear one of the seams splitting.
And then it's off, thrown across the room, and Blaine's arms are exposed to the cold of the air as his t-shirt-clad torso is revealed. But he barely has time to the cold before Kurt is already grabbing at his wrist, pulling it up so that the paler flesh of the underside is exposed – and crashing his mouth against his forearm, teeth slicing through skin as he bites down hard and begins to suck, brutally hard and wanton as he digs his teeth in with such ferocity that Blaine has to bite back a scream.
He gasps and chokes at the sudden stretching burst of pain instead, and the slicing sting and drag of it is usually too familiar by now for it to wrench any yells out of him anymore. Blaine bites down on his lip and lets his head fall foreword, a cold sweat already gathering at his temple as the suction of Kurt's mouth pulls greedily at his the wound. Swallowing the blood down covetously, without any elegance or pacing; groaning around the burst of blood that floods into his mouth and practically attacking him for more.
Kurt's angelic, beautiful face is twisted up and awful as he sucks down hard, and the pain of it flares angrily in Blaine's arm. It's almost a shock without the cushion of orgasm to distract him, but Kurt is way too far past desperate to bring either of them off at this point. His body is almost able to tune out the pain of it, after a moment; he can feel the sharp, hot tug in the base of his stomach instead as something uncoils and surrenders into the brutality of the touch. He squeezes his eyes shut, focusing hard on not wrenching his arm away from the overwhelming roughness of the sensation.
He'll be happy after he drinks, thinks Blaine frantically, his free hand clenching on the arm of the chair so hard his knuckles start to ache. Horrible nausea twists in his stomach as he loses even more blood – so much more than he should be losing, god, it shocks him sometimes that he's still standing – and keeps his arm still, expecting Kurt to pull away like he always does after about this much time.
But Kurt doesn't pull away. Keeps his mouth clamped around the wound, redoubling the pressure and sucking so hard that Blaine's hand is starting to go numb. The world jolts and spins, and panic is starting to grip at Blaine's chest. He gives his arm an experimental tug – Kurt usually lets him get away, when he does that, because sometimes he gets overeager but he doesn't actually want Blaine to pass out – but Kurt doesn't let him go. Growls instead, animalistic as he grips Blaine's wrist so hard it feels as though the bone is bending and sucks harder and oh, god, it hurts.
"Kurt –!" Blaine exclaims, trying to shove him away weakly with his free hand as searing, horrible pain starts shooting up and down his arm. "Kurt, stop it, you're – you're hurting me –"
With one final groan, Kurt finally tears himself away from Blaine's arm. Panting and hard, bright red blood smeared around his lips and his eyes closed heavily as he breathes. Blaine chokes out a shuddery breath, looking down at the underside of his arm with something like numb shock. The skin is frayed and split, so much more than the clean double punctures Kurt usually leaves, and Blaine slumps back against the chair as he gasps for air and tries to make the world stop spinning around him.
A long, long moment hangs between them like a pendulum. Kurt is dragging in gasps of air as though he's drowning, still clutching at Blaine's wrist. He's staring at the shredded skin of Blaine's arm, fixating on the bright red gathering weakly at the surface.
And this is where Kurt, sated and happy and contented and full, will pull Blaine into his arms and whispers praising words into his curls. He'll pick Blaine up and carry him over to the couch, or the bed, and apply antibiotic ointment and bandages to the wound as he murmurs apologies for being too rough. They'll watch a movie together; one of the old ones that Kurt likes, filled with romance and music and exaggerated emotion. This is where things reset, and go back, and become something that Blaine knows how to deal with. He looks up through his thick eyelashes, waiting for the shift that will inevitably come and bring them back to familiar territory.
But when Kurt looks up, Blaine's blood runs cold.
Kurt's eyes are still blown through with red. Murky and sickly and there's no blue at all, and panic flares up sudden and horrible in Blaine's chest as he stares at the monster who has been gone for so long. Back, back again, and they've finally reached the breaking point and this is the end.
"It's not enough," he hears Kurt mutter under his breath, shaking his head back and forth as his eyes trail down Blaine's face. Slowly, slowly sliding over his cheek, the jut of his jaw – and coming to rest on the exposed flesh of Blaine's neck. He licks his lips, swiping his tongue over and swallowing down the remaining smears of Blaine's blood absently as he keeps on looking, delicately tilting his head to one side. His expression is entirely unreadable, inhuman like this with his eyes bled through and wrong and awful.
Kurt blinks, and the whites of his sharpened teeth are suddenly visible in the low light of the room.
"It isn't enough anymore."