Kurt Hummel has to be the strangest boy at Dalton.

To start with, there's his beauty.  Blaine has never seen a boy like Kurt before.  His features are delicate, almost elfin, his style impeccable even when forced to make do with the standard Dalton uniform.  His eyes are deep, clear, fathomless pools of blue then-green then-grey, and his smile is always faint if he's smiling at all.

Blaine wants Kurt to smile.  He wants to drown in those eyes, get a rare glimpse inside, because no one gets close to Kurt, not really.  The other students either avoid him entirely or desperately pander for his favor.  As far as Blaine can tell, not a one of them has earned it yet.

Two weeks into the semester, Jeff—a friendly boy who has been trying to convince Blaine to join the school's acapella group, the Warblers—catches him staring.

“Word of advice?  You don't want to mess with Hummel.  He's a witch, and not a very nice one.”

It's rare enough that it should shock Blaine, but it doesn't. 

The thing is… he's pretty sure he's already fallen for Kurt, and magic has nothing to do with it.

*******

It takes him a week to work up the courage.  He doesn't know what compels him to do it when Kurt will most likely dismiss Blaine as he has so many others, but Blaine hasto try.  He has to have his chance.

Shoulders back, chin up, he approaches Kurt where he's reading alone at a table in the library.  “Kurt, hi!” he says cheerfully, and Kurt looks up at him, his expression indecipherable.  “Umm… I was wondering if maybe you were free on Saturday?  There's a concert at the—“

“Blaine,” Kurt cuts him off.  “You've been watching me a lot lately, haven't you?”

Blaine's mouth falls open, and he fumbles for a response.  “Well, I… that is… yes,” he admits finally, shoulders sagging in defeat.

“I've been watching you too.”

“I—oh.”

“You don't have to ask me out, sweetheart.  I mean… yes, certainly, I'd be happy to go out with you.  But what you're really wondering is if I'll be yours.”

“I—“

“The answer is yes, Blaine.  I'd love to be yours.”

“I—wow, really?” Blaine's cheeks are hot, and he can't quite get a grip on how he feels—giddy and utterly floored, but that doesn't fully capture it.

Kurt smiles at him.  He smiles.  “You should kiss me now,” he tells Blaine, as simply as if he were recommending a book. 

When Blaine's lips fall to his it's like magnetism, like the world aligning, and Blaine's not at all sure who Kurt is, but he knows that they belong.

*******

After that they're together, they're always together—eating in the dining hall, strolling across the grounds, making love in Kurt's single dorm room. 

Kurt is like no one Blaine has met before.  The other boys were right—he's cunning and ruthless and powerful, painfully socially awkward whenever he actually tries to interact, and he seems not to notice or to care.  But he's good to Blaine, better than anyone Blaine's ever known, and Blaine feels like he's flying every time Kurt holds his hand.

And then he transfers in.

Greg is tall and charming and handsome, a consummate gentleman, much like Blaine himself, and within a week he's cornering Blaine between classes with extra questions about their studies and talk of the latest Buckeye's victory and friendly inquiries into Blaine's weekend.  He never talks to Blaine around Kurt, and for a while Blaine thinks that he's flirting.

He couldn't be further from the truth.

At first it's “So Blaine, we're going out with some of the girls from Crawford Day this weekend… maybe you could come along, and we'll set you up.”

Then it's “I hate to say this, Blaine, but I heard something disturbing about Kurt yesterday, and I feel it's only fair that I warn you…”

Which morphs into “I know you feel like you have to love him, Blaine, but witchcraft can be a powerful thing… I'm sure there's a way to set you right again.  My girl's got a good friend that's looking for a prom date…”

The thing is that Greg is so nice about everything, and Blaine knows that he means well, and it's really hard to stand up for himself, for him and Kurt, in light of Greg's friendly, helpful demeanor.  And so he plays along, avoids the controversy, keeps everybody smiling on every side of the equation as he's always been able to do.

Until one weekend he goes out with the guys and Kurt for once decides to tag along, and Greg doesn't bother to hide his side-eyeing and looks of disapproval, and Kurt notices, and when they get back to the dorm Kurt demands that Blaine spill.

And so Blaine tells him—Greg wasn't trying to hurt anybody, not really, he just doesn't understand about the witch thing, about the gay thing, and if Kurt gives him a chance to explain all this to Greg, he's sure things will get better. 

Kurt nods and pulls Blaine close, kisses his lips and mouths the word mine against them, and Blaine knows it's going to be okay.

Except it isn't.

“Look, Blaine, you're a really great guy—that's why I've been trying so hard.  You deserve better than Kurt.  I know you can't see it, but the way you feel about him… he's forcing it, Blaine.  You wouldn't just naturally fall in love with him, not a guy like you.”

Blaine is beginning to feel a little irritated, beginning to see that maybe Greg is not such a good, well-meaning friend after all.  “Except I did fall in love with him, on my own, naturally.  I am that guy.  Kurt didn't make me gay, Greg.  It's the way I've always been.”

“Not a guy like you,” Greg repeats, shaking his head firmly.  “Look, Cynthia really took notice of you last weekend, why don't I just—”

“No,” Blaine says, cutting him off.  “I'm with Kurt, Greg.  I want to be with Kurt, not some girl.  If you're going to be my friend, you have to accept that.”

Greg shakes his head again.  “This is going to take some serious intervention,” he mutters to himself, as if Blaine isn't even there.  As if Greg hadn't even heard him.

“I'm sorry, Greg, but I'm out.  I'll see you in class.”

When Blaine gets back to Kurt's room, his boyfriend is seething.  Blaine sighs, sinking onto the bed.  “You heard, didn't you?”

Kurt stares out the window, his eyes piercing as ice, his fists clenched imperceptibly.  “Every word.”

“I wish you wouldn't do that, Kurt.  The guys would like you more if you wouldn't use your magic so often to—“

“Guys like Greg?  I don't need them Blaine; they're nothing to me.  You're all the company I need.”

“I know,” Blaine says, flushing with the praise, with the way Kurt's face gentles when he looks at Blaine.  “I know that, Kurt.  And I love that about you.  You make me feel so special.  I just wish that other people could see that sometimes.”

Kurt sighs, comes over to sit beside Blaine on the bed, brushes their lips softly together.  “I know it's hard for you, being with me.  I'm not a good person, Blaine.  I've been honest with you about that.  But you're… you're the only exception.”

“I know, Kurt,” Blaine tells him with equal sincerity.  “I love you.  I love the way you are, the way you are with me.”

“Then do something for me,” Kurt says, his eyes darker now but just as loving, boring into Blaine's.  “Bring him to me, Blaine.  He has to pay.”

Blaine stares down at the comforter, watching as his hand seeks and finds Kurt's own.  “I don't like it,” he says slowly, tangling their fingers.

“But you'll do it,” Kurt presses.

“But I'll do it.”

*******

Blaine watches as Kurt prepares himself, mesmerized, while Greg struggles, bound and gagged and his hands suspended from a rope and hook fixed to the ceiling.  Blaine has only seen Kurt like this once so far, and he has a feeling that this time will be far more intense.

Kurt's pale, naked body shimmers in the wedge of moonlight pouring in from under the curtain.  His hair falls softly over his brow, for once free of product.  It looks silly, Blaine thinks, but he can't help but find it beautiful.  Kurt lifts the heavy, silver pendant over his neck—the only thing he will wear for the foreseeable future—and he is ready.

He picks up a doll from the table carefully, stroking down its coarse, cloth back, and stands, approaching Greg and holding it out.  “Do you know what this is?” he asks.  “A voodoo doll.  I could use this, you know.  You have a lot to learn, Greg.  But I think perhaps a more… hands-on approach would be most beneficial.”

Kurt reaches for Blaine, and Blaine goes to him, sinking happily into the arms that wind possessively around his torso.  “Blaine and I love each other,” Kurt tells Greg, as if explaining something to a small child.  “Did he tell you that?  Let me show you, no magic.”

Kurt's hand trails down his stomach, gently rolling his balls, skimming over Blaine's length until he's whining, hot all over and fully hard, arching into Kurt's familiar touch because he can't help it.  It surprises him to find he likes this—the display of it, showing off the way Kurt can so easily take command of his body.

“Blaine loves this,” Kurt says, and Blaine finds it a struggle not to call out, at least nod his agreement, but this is Kurt's game, and he is a willing pawn.  “He loves the way I touch him.  Begs me for it.  Begs me to fuck him.  Do you know what that feels like, Greg?  Being fucked?”  Kurt grins, slow and devious, and Blaine's heart pounds faster in his chest.  “Why don't we let you find out?”

Kurt slithers away from Blaine's body, and it's all Blaine can do not to pull him back in, but he wants this too, wants to watch.  It's sick, what's about to happen—this should make him sick—but instead it makes his body tingle in anticipation, makes his toes curl and his blood sing.  Kurt like this is breathtaking. 

Kurt like this is magnificent.

Kurt asks for Blaine's help, and together they cut away Greg's clothes.  Greg whimpers behind the gag, eyes wild with panic, and Blaine looks into them for a minute—sending a little sympathy—before resuming the task at hand.  A part of him does feel bad, but this is Greg's own fault.  He should have listened.  He should have known when to stop.

When Greg is naked Kurt inches up against him, his rigid cock pressed into the cheek of Greg's ass; Greg cries out, and Blaine growls.  Kurt meets his eyes, reaches around Greg to cup his cheek.  “No worries, baby,” he soothes, grinding against Greg's flesh and leaning close to rasp into Greg's ear “I'm sorry that I can't fuck you myself, honey, but I belong to someone else.  But don't you worry.  There are other things we can use.” 

He pulls back, strides deliberately into Greg's line of sight as he surveys the room.  Finally his eyes land on his hairbrush, setting innocently on his desk, and he smiles as he strokes the wooden handle.  “I think this will do,” he says, picking it up and whirling around to look at Greg.  “What do you think?”

Greg moans, hands working furiously against his restraints, and Blaine can see a trickle of blood begin to roll down his wrist.  Kurt sees it too and coos.  “Now honey,” he tells Greg, “we'll get to that part later.”

Blaine watches as Kurt lubes the handle of the brush, eventually reads the question in Blaine's eyes and whispers “I want him to enjoy this, see what he's missing,” kissing Blaine fleetingly.  When he's finished he walks over to Greg, spreads his cheeks with no aplomb and shoves the object inside.  Greg's body spasms, his muscles shocking away from the pain, but Kurt just runs his fingers down Greg's back in mock comfort.  “There, there,” Kurt tells him, “I promise it gets better,” and he begins to fuck him.  Blaine can't tear his eyes away from the firm, steady movement of Kurt's arm.

“Blaine,” Kurt says suddenly, and Blaine looks to him immediately.  “It doesn't look like our guest is enjoying himself.  Why don't you give him a hand?”  He tilts his head towards Greg's flaccid cock and Blaine swallows thickly, obediently wraps his fingers around Greg's flesh.  Greg's eyes seek his own—panicked, pleading, tears rolling down his cheeks and soaking the gag.  Blaine's cock twitches, and he looks away.

Greg sobs louder as his cock begins to fill, and Blaine knows that Kurt's angling the brush perfectly—Kurt's good at these things—and only maybe ten minutes pass before Greg is spurting over Blaine's fist, making a mess of himself, and Kurt fucks him through it roughly, far past the point of oversensitivity.  Finally he withdrawals, kisses Blaine deeply before taking Greg's chin, forcing his gaze.  “See,” he tells Greg casually, “I told you you'd enjoy that.  Wash your hands, Blaine.”

Blaine heads into the en-suite bathroom, grateful for a moment to escape, and when he comes back Kurt is waiting for him, holding a knife.  “Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, pulling Blaine close, and Blaine nods, burying his head in the crook of Kurt's neck and breathing him in.  Kurt's hand reaches between them to stroke Blaine's half-hard cock; his lips tease at Blaine's ear and he whispers sweetly “now the real fun starts.”  He kisses Blaine gently then moves away, returning to Greg.

“What do you think,” he says to no one in particular, tracing patterns across Greg's skin with the tip of the blade, “a tribute, maybe?  It would be fitting.”  He hums to himself, then sets to work.

Greg's chest is nearly hairless, and he makes a beautiful canvas.  Blaine watches Kurt carefully carve his own name above Greg's right pec, but when he starts on the B Blaine is overcome with it—what a lovely picture his artist makes, lost to his work with glittering eyes and a blissful smile—and Blaine goes to him, wraps his arms around Kurt's waist and presses close against his back, and Kurt pauses to press a kiss to Blaine's cheek. 

When it's finished Blaine is captivated; he can't help but reach out to touch the dripping crimson letters.

Kurt & Blaine, Eternally

Kurt beams at him, dips his fingers in the blood himself and paints a heart around Blaine's face.  “Beautiful,” he breathes as if transfixed, staring into Blaine's eyes, and Blaine kisses him soundly, pecks his nose when they break apart, and Kurt giggles.  “Decorate me, Blaine,” he pleads. 

Blaine steps back to consider him, reaches for more blood, and together their hands begin to paint a masterpiece, each making a canvas of their lover's body.

The blood is hot and thick.  It feels like power, smeared against him, and it contrasts perfectly with Kurt's pale, glowing skin, transforms him from something gorgeous to something almost ethereal.  They lose themselves in it, in each other, their bodies stirring to life until there is less and less space between them, more heat, and Blaine rocks into it, wanting.

Kurt pulls away, his eyes dancing, and gestures to Greg, who Blaine notices for the first time is unconscious.  “We should make him watch, Blaine,” Kurt says eagerly.  “We should let him see how in love we are.”

Blaine nods, his heart caught in his throat, and with a single glance from Kurt, Greg is startling awake.  Kurt goes to him—Blaine whines at the loss—and strokes his face with a bloody hand.  “Welcome back, honey.  Blaine and I thought we'd give you a show before the end.  How does that sound?”

Greg barely responds, his eyes vacant, and Kurt reaches again for the doll, also grabbing a piece of string.

“This is how we're going to play it,” Kurt tells him almost kindly, twining the string carefully around the poppet's neck.  He pulls it tight, and Greg's face goes tense, his hands suddenly twisting again, probably trying to get at his throat.  “This should give you about an hour, honey.  Enough time to see the show.  And then you'll get to rest.”

He lets the doll fall to the floor and goes to the bed, stretching languidly on the white satin sheets, marring them with streaks of red.  “Come on, Blaine,” he says, locking eyes with his lover.  “I'm so worked up.  Come and take me.”

It's like a siren call, and even if Blaine wasn't hopelessly, desperately in love with Kurt, he knows he would go to him still.  Kurt's body is laid out for him like an offering, his pale skin stained by Blaine's own hand, glowing in the moonlight.  His eyes radiate lust, adoration; his aura radiates power.

Blaine climbs on top of him, covers him, takes Kurt's lips with his own as he reaches to the nightstand for lube, but Kurt catches his arm, pouting.  “It's taken care of, baby.  Don't make me wait.  Need you to fill me up.”  Blaine growls, running his hands along the delicate skin of Kurt's inner arms until he traps his wrists, settles between Kurt's tilted, searching hips and fucks inside.

“Yes, Blaine.  Fuck me.  Need you… feels so good…”

Kurt continues to babble as Blaine moves within him, fisting tight in Blaine's curls, and Kurt is Blaine's entire world, the grip of his body, the binds of his love.  When Blaine can't hold on anymore he cries out, screams his release into Kurt's shoulder, tears leaking down his face from the intensity.

“So good to me, baby.  We're going to have the whole world together, you'll see,” Kurt tells him, stroking through his hair and down his back as Blaine pulses weakly inside of him and stills.  Kurt is still hard, pressed hot against Blaine's belly, and Blaine kisses at Kurt's neck, pulls out to slither down Kurt's body, wants to taste him, sweat and blood and come and love…

Kurt gasps when Blaine withdraws, latching on tight to his ass, holding him in place.  “Not ready,” he says, “not ready to be apart from you yet.  Nothing can come between us, Blaine.  Love you too much…”

Blaine looks up at him then, sees the tears in his eyes, the same dark intensity twisted into love, carving forever into the very depths of Blaine's soul.  He leans up to kiss him, welcomes the plunge of Kurt's tongue into his mouth, pulls back gasping to lick the salt from his face.  Kurt's hand shifts between them, the other still gripping too-tight to Blaine's hip, and Kurt's fingers dip into his own body, withdraw sticky and dripping, and without warning he thrusts them hard into Blaine's ass.  Blaine screams, arching back onto Kurt's hand, feeding into it.  Somehow the pain makes him want Kurt even more.

“You should ride me, sweetheart, climb on up.  Wanna be inside you, fuck up into your ass, Blaine, want him to see it.  You're mine and I'm yours and they can't break us, Blaine.  They shouldn't try to break us apart.  I'll rip into them; I'll destroy them; they're so worthless and they can't even see it and it should just be you and me, Blaine; we should rule the world—“

“Shh,” Blaine soothes him, stroking Kurt's face and kissing him softly.  “They won't, Kurt.  They couldn't.  No one has the power to take you from me, okay?  Our love is… it's so strong.  Too much for me, sometimes.”

“Please Blaine please, need to be inside you, please can you just—“

More gentle kisses; Blaine crawls up on his knees, straddles Kurt, impales himself in one unsteady drop.  They moan as one, Blaine's head thrown back, Kurt's hands stroking frantically over his blood-streaked chest.

“Tell me Blaine.  Tell me you're mine.  Tell me you'll never leave me.”

“I couldn't, Kurt.  You… enthrall me.  So fucking beautiful.  Never wanted anything like you before… never loved anyone like you… you… fuck… take me, just keep me, could do this forever—“

“We will, Blaine.  We will.”

Kurt's thrusts are desperate, erratic; Blaine is hard again but it hardly registers; he just wants Kurt.  There's nothing like when Kurt's coming undone beneath him, because of him, this powerful creature, and Blaine still can't believe Kurt is just for him.  They were carved together, made to fit, and sometimes he thinks he might die from it, from everything he's feeling, but by Kurt's side he knows he can live forever.  It doesn't have to make sense.  Blaine doesn't understand it, so how could they expect the world to?

He knows his life will be filled with more of this: blood and death and darkness, and he should care, it should bother him, but next to Kurt everything else is small, negligible, and with eternity stretching before them no one else really matters; nothing matters but this, them together, no matter the cost, no matter what sacrifice fuels it.  Blaine will gladly slaughter the world if it makes Kurt happy.

Kurt cries out, hips stuttering, come shooting deep into Blaine's body, and Blaine watches his eyes roll back in his head, his face contort; he bends to kiss Kurt's sweaty brow.

A few feet away from them, Greg's body goes slack, lifeless, and Blaine doesn't notice, wouldn't even care.

*******

A student finds the body the next morning, strung up in a spare storage shed but otherwise blemish-free.  It might be ruled a suicide if not for the message, written in blood on the wall:

You can't touch us, or what we have.