"So, are we on for golf at the club on Friday?" Blaine asks, extending a hand for a shake.

"You know, I don't know how you managed to get me to go to that fancy club of yours, Anderson," Burt Hummel replies with a laugh, taking Blaine's hand and shaking it forcefully, "but yeah. I'll see you there."

“Great,” Blaine says, returning Burt's contagious laugh. But his laughter fades as he adopts a more subtle, smoother smile, and turns to address the teenage boy standing beside his father. "And will you finally be joining us?" Blaine asks, trying not to stare too deeply into the young man's eyes.

The boy swallows hard nonetheless, his mouth dropping open slightly, drawing the attention of Blaine's eyes immediately to his lips.

"Uh ..."

"Kurt has a date on Friday," Burt says, clapping a hand on his son's shoulder.

"In the afternoon?" Blaine asks, the focus of his gaze completely unchanged.

This time, Burt doesn't answer, waiting for his tongue-tied son to join the conversation.

"Uh … yeah.” Kurt winces at his own voice, which becomes unnaturally high and pitchy when he gets nervous. "We're going to play mini golf."

"Oh." Blaine rounds out the syllable, drawing it out, attempting to make his own plush lips Kurt’s focal point. "Well, doesn't Lima have any place that has glow-in-the-dark mini golf? It's so much more fun in the dark."

Blaine winks and Kurt swallows again. He struggles to answer, but a blissfully ignorant Burt butts in.

"We have one or two, but Kurt's got practice for a musical Friday night."

"Wow." Blaine looks from Burt back to Kurt, genuinely impressed. "I bet you're the lead, right? What with that incredible voice of yours."

Kurt blushes to his roots, his lips stuttering over words he isn't even saying out loud. "N-no," he manages finally. "I'm in … I’m in the chorus."

Blaine frowns, severely offended. "That's a shame." He puts a hand on Kurt's shoulder and squeezes gently. "It's sad that school of yours and their excuse of an arts program can't seem to recognize true talent." Blaine sneers at the word school, as if implying that McKinley isn’t one, at least not one up to Blaine’s caliber, but Kurt is more focused on the hand massaging his shoulder than the slight to his school. "Now, if you were attending Dalton …"

"Oh, Anderson, we talked about this," Burt interrupts. "That private school of yours is a little too rich for my blood."

"But I'm an alum," Blaine argues, turning his attention completely on Burt but leaving his hand to massage Kurt's shoulder. "One phone call and he'd been in for sure … on scholarship!" He turns an imploring eye back to Kurt, whose expression is stuck somewhere between ecstasy and terror. "They have a kick ass choir, Kurt. The Warblers. They're like rock stars, and I know they'd really appreciate a talent like yours."

"Oh …" Kurt’s at a loss to speak up amid all of Blaine's compliments, and that hand firmly kneading his shoulder, "I …"

"That's really nice of you," Burt says, pulling Kurt away and leading him towards his pick-up, "but we'd better head out now or we'll hit traffic."

"I see what you're doing," Blaine scolds his friend, "but we're not done talking about this."

"I'm sure we're not." Burt laughs, opening the passenger door and pushing Kurt inside. "This is only, what, the fiftieth time you've brought it up?"

"You'll see it my way eventually," Blaine insists when Burt slips into his seat. "I'm just trying to do what's best for our boy!"

Burt shakes his head, laughing at this ridiculous argument from his longtime friend, and starts up his truck. He backs down the drive with his head turned to look over his shoulder, which is why he doesn't notice the way Blaine stares longingly at Kurt as he pulls away … or the way Kurt stares back.

Blaine sighs as they drive away, his heart aching with every foot of distance they put between them and him.

Yup, he's going to hell.

Blaine might not have all his moral marbles in the same bag, but even he knows there are some things you don't do …

… and your best friend's seventeen-year-old son is one of those things - without a shadow of a doubt. That doesn't mean he hasn't thought about it. Maybe he is flattering himself in his older age, but he has a feeling that this boy likes him, too, with his flirty smiles and the way he blushes every time Blaine pays him even the slightest compliment.

Or maybe Blaine's wrong. Maybe he's turned into one of those creepy To Catch a Predator guys, and poor Kurt has no idea how to tell Blaine to fuck off and go away. He'll admit that he does tend to come on a bit strong, but when it comes to Kurt, Blaine doesn't seem to know how to turn it off. It's not that Blaine is desperate for ass. He’s definitely not one of those guys who let himself go in his forties. He can hit up any bar or any night club, any night of the week, and come home with his pick of one-night boyfriends, some of them not much older than Kurt.

But as with all of the hapless clichés that tend to trap a man like Blaine in its clutches - a man who has spent his life casually dating, a man who has never found the one - Kurt is different. He's smart and fun … and it doesn't help that he's gorgeous. Even at seventeen, Blaine knows this boy is not a heart breaker.

He's definitely a life-ruiner.

But Kurt has his whole future ahead of him, things he needs to try and do and experience and fail at, and it would be immensely selfish for Blaine to even entertain doing anything with him.

Besides, Burt isn’t just his friend. Blaine loves the man like a brother. Blaine was there when Burt's wife Elizabeth died. He saw how badly it broke him. And he knows Burt is completely devoted to his only son.

He also knows Burt has a shotgun, and best friend or not, he wouldn't think twice about shooting Blaine – not necessarily to kill, but to maim, to torture him slowly until dying is the only merciful option left.

But he wouldn’t give it. He’d leave Blaine on the ground to bleed out.

Blaine goes inside his house and retires to his room, ready to drink himself to sleep so he can get lost in his favorite, albeit completely taboo, fantasies of Kurt.

They usually start the same way.

Dream Kurt calls him in the middle of the night. The reason his subconscious mind supplies varies – his car breaks down, he's had a fight with his dad, he's done being a virgin and looking for a lay (that one’s his favorite). Tonight's reason - him and his quasi-boyfriend got into a fight, and the douchebag in question left Kurt on the side of the road.

Perfect.

In his dream, Blaine drives to the rescue, pulling up to a distraught Kurt in his midnight blue BMW. And it's raining to boot.

Nice touch, subconscious mind.

Kurt has his arms wrapped around his torso when he drops into the leather seat, soaking wet and sobbing softly.

"I'm s-s-sorry for calling s-s-so late," Kurt whimpers when Blaine reaches past him to close the car door, "but I didn't know w-what to d-do." Kurt sniffles. Blaine hands him a tissue. Kurt nods and whispers, "Thank you," before daintily blowing his nose.

"Why didn't you call your dad?" Blaine asks, considering whether he should put a comforting hand on Kurt's shoulder or keep his distance. He decides to keep his distance for now. Kurt looks pretty shaken up.

"B-because I sn-snuck out," Kurt explains. "He d-doesn't know I'm not home."

Blaine tsks, not intending to sound condescending, but when Kurt whimpers louder, he stops. Blaine watches Kurt in silence as the boy settles down, hiding his face behind his hands.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Blaine asks.

Kurt says nothing for a moment, then takes a breath in, preparing to speak.

"We were just supposed to go to the movies," Kurt explains, his chest heaving with the words, "but then he tried to … to force himself on me." New tears start down Kurt's cheeks and Blaine feels his heart twist in his chest. It's a strangely intense feeling for a dream, but then again, he puts all of himself into these fantasies. "I told him that I didn't want my first time to be in the back seat of a Prius. Then he … then he …" Kurt leans into his outbreak of sobs, resting his forehead on his knees.

“Then he what, Kurt?” Blaine asks, afraid that this boy succeeded, that he had hurt, possibly even raped Kurt before abandoning him to the night.

“He …” Kurt sniffles in. He holds himself tighter, but he can’t seem to get his shoulders to stop shaking. “He called me a cock tease. He said that if I wasn’t going to put out, then I should just get out! And he left me here!”

Blaine runs a hand down Kurt’s back, trying to offer some comfort without stepping over any lines, except now he finds that he has another problem – dream or not, there's a teenage boy out there that he's itching to kill.

He's just about to ask Kurt where the boy is, where can he go find this kid and beat him into unconsciousness, when Kurt pipes up, breaking through Blaine's fog of vengeance.

"Please, don't take me home," Kurt pleads. "I can't … I can't face my dad right now."

Blaine imagines his subconscious did that to move the dream along. Obviously, going on a tangent to beat up Kurt's asshole ex-boyfriend would be a total boner kill, so he'll bypass it for now and use it as fuel for other fantasies.

Sex with Kurt after avenging his honor could turn out to be hot as hell. But that can wait.

"I won't." Blaine continues to run his hand up and down Kurt's spine, stopping to knead tight muscles when he finds them. "You'll come home with me. You can spend the night in the guest room, and tomorrow we'll figure out what to tell your dad. How's that?"

Kurt doesn't have the strength to answer. He nods, lifting his head an inch from where it hides in his hands to give Blaine a weak, affirmative smile.

"Good." Dream Blaine puts his car into gear and heads for the highway, speeding back to his place. He doesn't remember the drive back to his house, but then again, he never does in these dreams. Kurt is simply sullen, quiet.

They don't talk since Kurt is completely heartbroken.

They get back to Blaine's place and things progress quickly from there – scenes jumping from one to the other like he's skipping through a DVD. He hands Kurt a towel and offers him a pair of pajamas. He leads him to the shower, biting his tongue to avoid saying something cheesy like offering to wash his back. Kurt reaches for the door knob, but then turns and rushes into Blaine's arms, wrapping himself up in his embrace and crying in earnest.

"Thank you, Blaine!" Blaine feels Kurt's voice more than he hears it from where Kurt has his head pressed into his shoulder. "I was so frightened …"

"It's all right, Kurt." Blaine places a small kiss to Kurt's temple without realizing it. He feels his heart melt when Kurt risks giving him a kiss back on his shoulder. Then Kurt hurries into the bathroom, shutting the door and turning on the shower water.

Fast forward again and Kurt is sitting in Blaine's lap, begging for a kiss, pleading with sweet, enticing words – "You can't imagine how long I've dreamt about this … how long I've wanted to kiss you … I know I'm only seventeen, but I want to be with you … I want you to be my first …"

Blaine, trying to be a gentleman, refuses – or at least prolongs the inevitable.

"No, Kurt … this isn't right … you're my best friend's son… I'm so much older than you … this will never work …"

Blaine doesn't believe any of the things he says (he might in real life, but he doesn't have to in these dreams), but putting Kurt off, making him beg for it, is part of what makes this fantasy so fucking hot.

And evil.

Then the time comes and Blaine gives in, letting Kurt kiss him, turning the tables and capturing his lips when Kurt fumbles with his immature, inexperienced technique. He gathers Kurt in his arms, lifting him in the air and carrying him to his bed … because why not? This is Blaine's fantasy. This is the only place where Blaine gets to have Kurt, so he'll indulge – pull out all the stops and jump all the sharks.

Blaine indulges when he undresses Kurt, one article of clothing at a time, peppering his skin with kisses – some soft and tender, some urgent and filthy. He indulges when he stares down at a naked Kurt. He stares until Kurt squirms, drinking in every inch of his creamy skin, his trim dancer's body, the chestnut tuft of hair surrounding his impressive cock that grows with every sweep of Blaine's eyes, already leaking at the tip.

Blaine leans forward to collect that tiny pearl of moisture on his tongue, and Kurt's pale skin goes immediately dark red.

He indulges when he flips Kurt over, carefully pulling Kurt's cheeks apart to reveal his rose-colored entrance and attack it with his tongue. He licks in circles with the tip and sucks at the delicate skin all around. Kurt's moans and cries are like music, filling Blaine's ears and urging him on, lighting every inch of his skin with a desire to be buried inside this angelic boy, and when that time comes – when he dreams he's pushing himself slowly into Kurt's body – it's like floating away to paradise.

"Yes, yes, yes," Blaine's dream lover pants as Blaine moves deep inside him, pulling out slowly and then pushing in again. Blaine looks down at this magnificent boy – his back arching, his shoulders tensing, his legs quivering with every drag of Blaine's cock. Blaine scratches his nails over the swell of the boy's cheeks - pale, untouched skin beneath his fingertips and a virgin ass tight around him … it's so incredibly real that he can almost convince himself it is if not for the phenobarbital he took and the two glasses of whiskey he drank before bed.

That'll make it all the more pathetic when he wakes up in the morning, the sheets sliding off the mattress from where he’s rutted them so hard they actually pulled off the bed, stained and stiff with his own dried cum.

But right now isn't the time for reality. Now is the time for losing his mind in this dream he's made for himself – the perfect dream.

The perfect trap really, since it's going to sting like hell when it's gone.

He feels Kurt stiffen, hears him mewl like a cat as his hips stutter, hears his cries of lustful abandon as he cums, barely able to keep himself upright long enough for Blaine to finish. Blaine holds Kurt's hips up, keeps his ass locked against his body so that he can fill him up, cradled in this boy's heat until he has nothing left.

Blaine smiles – he can feel the smile on his face as he sleeps – as he leans over to kiss down Kurt's trembling back.

"How was that, my darling?" he whispers, knowing what the answer will be.

It's always the same, and Blaine loves to hear it.

"Th-that … that was … oh my God!" Dream Kurt loses all ability to speak, collapsing on the bed and rolling on his back to look up into Blaine's satisfied face. Kurt rolls his head left and right as he grasps for something to say. "That was better than I dreamed it would be!"

“I’m glad it was good for you.” Blaine kisses Kurt, tucking the boy beneath the blankets and chuckling privately at the irony.

***

It has to be close to noon when Blaine opens his eyes. He doesn’t know for sure, and he refuses to check. He can only take so much pathetic at one time, and knowing he slept in so late after a night of fake debauchery would tip those scales. He groans, his throat dry, his voice a painful rasp. He doesn't want to wake up, even if his stomach is growling so loudly it sounds like a freight train because he knows what's waiting for him.

Nothing. He's alone, surrounded by the evidence of his own wretched and shameful crutch – his sordid fantasies of a seventeen-year-old boy who Blaine is determined, now more than ever, would do his best to stay fifty feet away from Blaine at all times, no restraining order required.

Like it or not, Blaine is nothing but a fucking perv. Terrific sex dream or no, there's no excuse for exploiting an innocent boy.

He decides once and for all that he's going to make it his mission to forget all about Kurt and find a nice, stable, halfway decent man his own age to obsess over, starting today.

It’s a good plan. A mature plan. A positive plan.

And it makes him want to vomit.

But no more than the realization that he isn't as alone as he originally thought.

This time, his phenomenal sex dream wasn't just a dream.

Blaine hears a contented sigh that makes his blood turn to pure ice. He turns away from his bedside table where his clock, his phone, his car keys, and his single phenobarbital lie beside a full tumbler of whiskey. Blaine prays quietly that it’s not who he thinks it is, that it’s someone else, someone older, some anonymous man who Blaine can shower, dress, and shoo away, but whose presence in his bed won’t completely ruin his life.

But it doesn’t seem as if luck is on his side … or ever will be again after today.

Because lying beside him, underneath wrinkled sheets and in this room that reeks of sex is Kurt – asleep, with mussed hair, a smile on his lips, and grotesque marks purpling on his neck.

“Oh my God …” Blaine's breath catches in his throat as he fights his gummed-up brain to remember what exactly happened.

He did dream about doing all those things with Kurt, the way he normally does, but that didn't mean they hadn't happened.

He was reliving the events of the night.

Blaine had retired with his pill and his whiskey, but he took a shower first, and by the time he got out, his phone was ringing.

It was Kurt, crying, ditched on the side of the road.

Blaine went to pick him up and then …

Jesus fucking Christ!

Blaine starts to hyperventilate, his entire body shaking.

He can't even find a way to be happy about having the most amazing night of his adult life …

… because the minute Burt finds out, he's as good as dead.