Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts with a hand on the small of Blaine’s back. Warm, firm. Confident in that way only centuries of undead existence can teach. "Don't look like you're about to bolt," murmurs Kurt, leaning in close enough to breathe into Blaine’s hair. “You’ll tip them off that you’re food.”

Blaine laughs nervously, his palms sweaty, eyes scanning the crowd. “Pretty sure the heartbeat does that.”

The club is everything Blaine expected and infinitely more—a monument of shadows tucked under the city’s skin, hidden behind an unmarked door down a dead-end alley that smelled faintly of roses and petrichor. A single wrought-iron lantern burned above the entrance, flickering low, its flame the color of blood.

Moments ago, he was led down the stairwell winding downward in a slow spiral, lit by candles trapped in antique glass sconces. At the base of the stairs, a man in a perfectly tailored midnight suit opened a set of double doors made of carved mahogany and inlaid obsidian. He said nothing. He just bowed.

Bows? Blaine thought. Why did he bow?

And now that they’ve stepped inside? The air changes. It’s not a club. It’s a world. The walls are dark velvet and lacquered black paneling, and the floor beneath his shoes is a stunning dark cherrywood. There’s music pulsing a strange sort of electronic thudding, but orchestral. Cinematic in its scope. Like a requiem composed specifically to make your skin prickle.

And beyond that? A dream. A nightmare. A masterpiece.

The club opens like a secret garden after midnight—all vaulted arches and chandeliers made of cascading crystal and blackened bones. The ceiling stretches high and impossibly dark, pierced by shafts of flickering lights that seem to fall from nowhere. There are balconies and black velvet drapes, columns carved with snarling wolves, and something that might be a stained glass window made entirely of crimson glass. The scent is intoxicating: warm spices, aged timber, candle smoke, expensive oils, and perfume.

Blaine stares. And then half-whispers, “I think I just got kissed on the mouth by Dracula’s interior designer.”

Kurt barks a surprised laugh beside him, the sound utterly unbothered and amused. He’s in his element, sharp onyx suit with silver thread, dark black eyes with a faint halo of blue-green reminiscent of the sea, his hand still steady on Blaine’s lower back as if guiding him through a ballroom. He doesn’t look out of place here. He belongs to this place.

Blaine feels like he might’ve worn the wrong socks. Still, he leans into Kurt anyway, breathing in his vampire boyfriend’s scent that invariably grounds him; he always smells like fall: not pumpkin spice and cozy sweaters, but falling leaves, cracked leather of an old book by the fire, and the freshness of October wind. “I thought it’d be blood and neon,” Blaine murmurs. “This is—this is a museum that decided gothic sin was chic.”

“It’s not a club exactly,” Kurt replies, voice low, curving against the shell of Blaine’s ear. “It’s a haven.”

Blaine watches a waiter glide past, carrying a tray with two wineglasses filled with something dark and shimmering. The crowd is a slow-moving galaxy of silk and shadows, leather gloves and bare skin, obsidian eyes that glitter in the candlelight.

“How much of this is for show?” Blaine asks.

Kurt exhales the words into his ear, “All of it.”

Blaine shivers. “And how much of it is dangerous?”

“Also, all of it.”

Blaine inhales, eyes still wide, and clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s…great. Fine. Just checking.”

Kurt bends slightly, his mouth brushing just behind Blaine’s ear. “I brought you here to show you something.”

“Anxiety?”

Kurt huffs a small laugh and kisses his temple. “No, darling. History.”

“Oh god,” Blaine feels his knees go weak. The weight of that word rings through his soul. The deeper they go, the harder he squeezes Kurt’s hand.

They move through the club like vapor. Kurt doesn’t just walk, he glides, and everyone gets out of his way. Blaine is used to this by now—the effect Kurt has on humans. But to see the way vampires look at him: a relic, like royalty, like they want to kiss him or kill him or both.

Me? Blaine thinks. I’m just a guy in chinos and a really expensive sweater, clinging to his undead boyfriend’s hand like I’ve wandered into the wrong haunted house.

Still, he can feel the eyes on him. The humans stare with curiosity, and the vampires stare as if he could be their next meal. And it’s the exes—oh, definitely some of those in the mix—who stare like they want to rip him apart for daring to be the one Kurt chose.

And that does something to him. Unexpected. He stands a little straighter. The one Kurt chose.

"Shall we visit the VIP lounge?" Kurt purrs, already steering him toward a red rope at the back of the room.

“VIP?” Blaine repeats. “You have power here then?”

“I created this place,” Kurt says with a shrug. “It’s mine. My design, my music, my rules. I built it to be a haven, not a circus. Something worthy of what we are… and what we’ve survived.”

“Why do I suddenly feel honored to be shown your kingdom?”

Kurt doesn’t answer; he just kisses his temple as they arrive, and he nods subtly to a pair of hosts that are unmistakably vampire security, or, to put it another way, bouncers. The red velvet curtains hanging over two open doors part for them, revealing a room that somehow manages to be even darker and even more decadent. Couches line the walls—upholstered in leather and velvet. The lighting glows soft pink and amber, casting everything in a surreal warmth.

“You okay?” Kurt’s voice is quieter here..

Blaine nods. “Just—taking it in.” The VIP lounge isn’t a room; the only word Blaine can use to describe it is chamber. Octagonal, domed, walled in black velvet and wood paneling with thick golden tassels in every corner. The scent is more pronounced, the same spicy aroma from before, but there’s a hint of metallic and… blood, he realizes. It’s strong here, and the implications of that sit low in the chest.

And the people… Blaine takes one look around and knows: no one here is ordinary. 

These aren’t just vampires lounging in private decadence. They are elders. Power-drenched. Beautiful. Lethal. And then he feels it—a pair of eyes on him. He doesn’t know how he knows, exactly, but he does—like a shift in energy, like someone dragging velvet across bare skin.

Blaine turns and sees her.

She’s seated alone in one of the alcoves, her body stretched long across the cushions like a cat. Her skin is dark, ageless, and gleaming with a hint of bronze beneath the candlelight. Her gown is navy, silk, almost black, with silver constellations embroidered across the bodice like a map. Her eyes are black as pitch, and they are fixed on him. 

Blaine tries to look away. He doesn’t succeed.

Kurt notices and steps closer behind Blaine, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind.

“Who is that?” Blaine murmurs.

“Madame Solenne,” Kurt answers, barely audible. “She was once Cleopatra’s advisor.” He knows she can hear him, but it’s nothing she doesn’t tell everyone she seduces to her couch. “But not just that. She was her confidante. Her lover. Her shadow at court. The one who taught her strategy and how to strip power from those unworthy of it.” He pauses, watching Blaine closely. “Some say they were carved from the same marble—one crowned in gold, the other in blood.”

“Why is she looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re mine,” Kurt says, nodding to her. Then adds, voice slipping into something amused yet unmistakably darker, laden with warning to anyone listening. “And because she’s wondering how I convinced someone like you to offer your throat to someone like me.”

Blaine’s pulse jumps. “I—uh,” he says eloquently, “I don’t usually get looked at like I’m the main course and the mesmerizing chandelier hung above the table.”

Kurt tugs him backward into his chest, so there’s no room between them. “You’re both here,” he says, brushing his lips against Blaine’s jaw. “And now they know it.”

Solenne tilts her head, slow and feline. She doesn’t smile. But she raises her glass slightly in their direction.

Blaine lifts his brows. “Did I just get the approval of a vampire queen?”

“You got assessed,” Kurt murmurs. “And found more than acceptable.”

Blaine turns his head slightly to try to look at him. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” Kurt says, kissing his forehead. “But I’m very aware of the room.” His hand slides lower on Blaine’s waist, almost possessively.

Blaine shifts, just slightly, pressing back into him, his heart is thudding in his chest as he looks back over at her hungry gaze. “What if I like being looked at like that?”

“Oh, sweetheart, I already know you, do,” Kurt hums against his neck. “Let them look.” He guides him toward a private alcove in the back, shadowed, extravagant, lit from above by a chandelier shaped like an open hand, jeweled fingers casting long, colorful shadows.

And waiting in the center, like a throne disguised as furniture, is a fainting couch. It’s extra wide—scandalously so—upholstered in deep garnet velvet that glows darkly in the light from the chandelier above. The armrest curves like a sculpted wave, perfect for draping, for reclining, for being admired or devoured. Gold filigree gleams along its carved legs.

Blaine lets out a slow breath, half-laughing. “I see you spared no expense on the furniture.”

Kurt leans close, lips brushing his ear. “I like to be comfortable.”

Blaine raises a brow. But he’s already sinking into the cushions, stretching out—not quite reclined, not quite upright, his legs folding lazily at the knee as he shifts to make room. It swallows him up in the best way as Kurt joins him, one leg on the floor, one knee resting beside Blaine’s hip, one arm draping over the back behind Blaine. The other skims down his chest. Their bodies curve together naturally, like they always have since the day they met. 

"Why did you bring me here?" Blaine asks finally, blinking at the soft glow of crystal sconces shaped like dripping candles. “Really.”

Kurt shifts closer. “Because you asked about my life before. And I wanted to show you.”

Blaine glances sideways at him with a small smile. “And you wanted to share this first? This place where I’m basically a martini in chinos?”

Kurt chuckles. “You’re more than that. You're mine. I wanted them to see that.”

Blaine stills. There’s something in his chest that flutters, sharp and electrifying with the implications of that. The sheer trust and pride.

“Oh,” he says, voice soft.

“Oh,” Kurt mimics, leaning in. “Didn’t we just establish that you like being shown off?”

“No,” Blaine says immediately. “I hate it.”

Kurt’s grin is all deceptively beautiful, meant to ensnare prey. “Liar.”

And then, slow as sunrise, he leans in and brushes his lips against Blaine’s neck. Just a ghost of a kiss. Blaine tilts, offering, before he even knows he’s doing it, and Kurt kisses him from collarbone to ear and back again, then inhales deeply over the throbbing vein. 

“Wait,” Blaine breathes. Across the room, he can see a woman in a silver corset dress reclining on one end of another alcove, feeding from a man who looks like he should be in a business meeting. “Are we doing this here?”

Kurt’s lips still against his skin. “Do you want to?”

Blaine swallows. His heart’s thudding in his ears now, too. He can hear music still—something with deep drums and glittery synths—but it feels very far away, with his pulse too loud. He turns, just enough to meet Kurt’s eyes. “Yes. God, yes.”

Kurt's whole body shifts. Less predator now. More… humble servant. The hand on Blaine’s chest slips down to his waist, anchoring. The other slides up, fingers brushing Blaine’s jaw, thumb resting against his cheekbone.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he says.

Blaine nods.

And then Kurt leans in, ever so slowly, with that inevitable grace he wears like a second skin. His hand cradles Blaine’s jaw, tilting it gently, reverently, exposing the long line of his throat. Blaine’s pulse flutters under the surface like a secret trying to escape. He brushes his lips along the vein just beneath his jaw, a whisper of contact, the barest pressure. Then again, a little firmer this time. Kissing the spot where his blood sings loudest.

Blaine exhales shakily and tries to swallow. 

Kurt hums against his skin, the sound low and vibrating. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs.

“I’m not,” Blaine lies.

Kurt smiles. “You are, darling.” Then his tongue laves over the pulse— tasting the skin, warm and clean and sharp with adrenaline. He lingers there, lips parted, breath hot. And then, slowly, deliberately, he licks a long, indulgent, languid line up the side of Blaine’s throat.

Blaine lets out a strangled sound that might be a gasp or a laugh or a whimper.

“You taste like anticipation,” Kurt whispers, lips brushing with every word.

Blaine’s fingers dig into the velvet cushion beneath them with one hand, the other at Kurt’s lower back.

Then, finally, Kurt opens his mouth. His fangs graze first. A featherlight scrape. A warning. A promise.

Blaine goes still as his body breaks out in goosebumps and his heartbeat roars. And then gasps when Kurt sinks his fangs into his neck. The pain is sharp, absolutely consuming, like being caught in a blizzard mid-breath—but it fades fast, dissolving into heat, into ache, into unimaginable pleasure. His whole body arches, moaning and melting, his fingers flying to Kurt’s shoulders, clutching him closer.

Kurt whines against his throat low and wrecked, one hand cradling the back of Blaine’s head, the other gripping his waist like he’s grounding them both, pulling them into a reclining position, half on top of Blaine. 

Kurt drinks deeply. Blaine feels it—not just the pull at his throat, but the tug through his whole body, like something unraveling and rewinding all at once. Kurt’s lips are hot and wet against his skin, and every swallow sends a ripple through him, tilting him further into that floating, breathless space. The suction is intimate in a way that shouldn’t be heavenly but is. Blaine’s hips twitch forward involuntarily, his fingers flexing against the tense line of Kurt’s shoulders. Kurt’s grip on his waist tightens in response, thumb digging in just enough to comfort him. He groans again, resonant now, the sound vibrating into Blaine’s skin, and Blaine shudders, the noise drawing a breathy whimper from his throat.

It’s not rough, just intense. Deliberate. Kurt drinks until Blaine makes that sound that he knows all too well. And he pulls back, realizing how far gone he was, the edges of the room blurred, and he presses his tongue to seal the wound, breathing hard like he needs air and is the one who just gave something up. In a way, he did. Blaine’s blood sings to him, and it’s always difficult to stop. 

“Enjoy that, did you?” Blaine says breathlessly, his fingers playing with the hair at the base of Kurt’s neck. But shivers run through him that have nothing to do with the vampire on top of him, the air shifts like the moment of anticipation before a full eclipse of the sun. He’s dizzy-warm from the bite, heart a metronome under his ribs, but suddenly every thump feels deliberate. Not prey-panic, but power. All around them, vampires lounge like cats in windowsills, but none of them have a pulse thudding loud enough to sync with the bass of the music in the other room like he does. And no one here seems sure what he’ll do next.

Kurt notices the shift first. His palm, once resting possessively on Blaine’s thigh, twitches—an instinct to claim him, to mark him that he’s only half able to hide. The nuance is enlightening. Blaine sees the flicker of uncertainty in those dark eyes and feels a bright, reckless thrill.

Blaine has power here, too.

He stretches, slow and feline-like, purposely exposing the bite mark—a vivid bruise that will heal quickly now that it’s been sealed, but he knows is still there. A slow smile crests on his face when he can feel a drop that Kurt uncharacteristically missed that tracks down his throat. Without breaking eye contact, Blaine drags two fingers up, catches the bead, and presses them to his own mouth and licks the crimson with a small moan. Copper on his tongue.

Kurt’s pupils flare and grow even darker.

Blaine grins. Oh. That reaction is addictive. “I could,” he says, voice rougher than intended, “ask you to lick that off. But I kind of like making you watch.”

Kurt’s fangs, which had retracted, descend again with a soft, audible click over his teeth. “Blaine.”

The way Kurt says his name—low, warning, astonished—goes straight to Blaine’s spine. He rolls them over and swings one leg across and settles astride Kurt’s lap, weight sinking into the cradle of Kurt’s hips, feeling him hard, he moans, and smooths his hands up Kurt’s chest, feeling the marble firmness under the thin black silk of his shirt. “I’m the only heartbeat in this room that calls to you.” He taps two fingers over Kurt’s sternum. “And somehow now you’re the one trembling.”

A shiver ripples through Kurt that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with his oversensitive nervous system. “You taste like starlight and summer,” he murmurs, voice gone velvet-rough. His hands wrap around Blaine’s waist, stroking slow circles that promise patience and threaten surrender.

“What was this place before you bought it?” Blaine asks, tilting his head, pretending casual. Inside? He’s a tempest of desire, and this other feeling that is brewing.

“A textile warehouse. Then a bootlegger’s den.” Kurt reaches for one of Blaine’s hands and brings it to his mouth, brushing his lips against the pulse in Blaine’s wrist. “I liked the bones.”

“Mmh.” Blaine twirls a finger in Kurt’s hair, winding it around his finger, and then letting it go. “And how many people have you… entertained here?”

A flicker of fang against skin. “None since I met you.”

Blaine smirks at the gracious answer and hums, leaning forward until their noses almost touch. “Am I special because I’m yours, or am I yours because I’m special?”

“That sounds like a philosophical trap.”

“Maybe.” Blaine licks his lips—Kurt’s gaze tracks the motion with laser precision. “Answer anyway.”

Kurt’s hands tighten at his hips—subtle, possessive. “You’re special because you never forget you have teeth of your own.” He lets the words linger, then adds softly, “And because I love you.”

The simple confession, delivered in the epicenter of danger and decadence, lands like an arrow, no matter how many times he’s heard it before. Blaine’s heartbeat stumbles, then surges. He laughs—half-delighted and partially shaken—and cups Kurt’s face. “I love you, too. Show-off.”

“Me? You started it.”

“You did!” He rubs his fingers over the bite mark on his neck. “But I’m finishing it.” Blaine lifts Kurt’s hand, presses Kurt’s own wrist to parted lips, and bites “Fair’s fair.” He can never bite hard enough to break his skin, but it’s enough for teeth to indent pale flesh.

Kurt exhales something between a growl and a moan. “Careful, beloved. I might beg.”

“Begging could be fun,” Blaine whispers.

Around them, gossip hushes. The silver-corset vampire half-reclines like an amused spectator; her human toy looks scandalized. But Kurt’s gaze never leaves Blaine.

Blaine rolls his hips, testing, feeling the elegant control in Kurt’s body fight the instinct to take. It’s heady—like straddling storm clouds and daring lightning to strike.

“You love me,” Blaine repeats, quieter, tasting the words with this new feeling of power. “Enough to let me call shots in your playground?”

“Command me,” Kurt whispers back.

Blaine leans forward until his lips hover at Kurt’s ear. “Then—don’t move unless I say.”

Kurt actually stills: a perfect statue, supernatural discipline coiled.

Blaine sits straight again, soaking in the sight. King of the night, frozen at a single human’s whim. Every eye in the VIP lounge is locked on them now, though no one dares interrupt.

Blaine drags his fingertip along Kurt’s bottom lip. “Open.”

Kurt obeys, mouth parting, fangs gleaming. Blaine leans in and runs his finger along one sharp tip, slow and teasing. It pricks the pad with surgical precision—just a pinprick. A single drop wells up, dark and jewel-bright, catching the low amber light like garnet glass.

Kurt shudders but stays perfectly still, eyes locked on Blaine’s face, his chest no longer rising, as though even breathing Blaine’s scent right now would be too much.

Blaine watches him watch, then lifts the blood-pearled finger to his own mouth and sucks it clean—slow, deliberate, tongue flicking out to chase the warmth. His lips part around the digit, just a little obscene, grinding his ass over Kurt’s cock, and when he pulls his finger free from his own mouth with a soft pop, he’s flushed and smiling. “I’ve learned to like it,” he says, voice gone low and thick. “I like it better from you, though.”

Kurt’s eyes flutter, a tiny crack in his composure.

Blaine holds up his finger and presses on it, watching as another bead wells up. He slowly lowers it, his gaze focused, and draws the droplet lightly over Kurt’s lower lip, anointing him with it. Kurt can’t help but inhale and stutters over it. Blaine leans in, watching the blood bead once more. “Remember, don’t move,” he whispers, then, with wicked precision, he lets the last drop fall—right onto Kurt’s waiting tongue.

Blaine breathes, “Kiss me.”

Kurt moves like a snapped chain. One hand curls hard around Blaine’s waist, the other threading into his hair, and then their mouths crash together—open, messy, feral. The taste of blood is immediate, metallic, and intimate, intense with heat, sweetness, and want. Blaine moans into it, clutching at Kurt’s shoulders, grinding down without meaning to. Kurt groans back, kissing like he wants to consume, like there’s no one else in the world but this heartbeat, this mouth, this moment. Blaine kisses him back with everything he has inside of him. 

“Blaine!” Kurt murmurs against his lips. “Have mercy!”

“You’re immortal,” Blaine teases. “Deal with it.” But his smile softens. He brushes Kurt’s hair back and kisses his cheek. He then sits back up and holds up his finger. “Kiss it better?”

Kurt let’s out an exhaled laugh, and with two hands grabs Blaine’s wrist and sucks the digit into his mouth, laving the healing venom from his tongue over the tiny wound. “Better?” he says when he lets it go. 

“Much better.” Both of them laugh, giddy.

“Thought you’d faint,” Blaine says, leaning down to touch their foreheads. “You know. If you were capable.”

“I think I nearly did anyway,” Kurt replies, kissing his nose. “But I like this view too much.”

Someone across the room claps—slow, mocking. An elegantly dressed vampire stands, raising a crystal glass in a silent toast. Blaine feels Kurt tense and glances over.

“Friend of yours?” Blaine asks softly.

“Victor,” Kurt says, smiling ruefully. 

“Let me guess, there’s history there.” Blaine’s eyebrows lift, and when Kurt nods in confirmation, Blaine asks, “Is he going to cause trouble?”

“He wouldn’t dare.” There’s no mistaking the threat in the words that are not meant for Blaine, and then he wraps his arms tighter around him. “But if you want to rub it in—”

Blaine grins wickedly. “Oh, absolutely.” He twists in Kurt’s lap just enough to make eye contact with Victor, then turns and presses his lips to Kurt’s throat, right where a heartbeat would be and bites, lingering, sucking on it, moaning. Kurt’s answering growl rumbles through both of them.

Victor bows mock-graciously, defeated, and sits.

Blaine pulls back, biting his own smile. “That petty enough?”

“Utterly.” Kurt kisses him again, quick and grateful. “You okay, beloved?”

“Mmmm…yes.” He means it. He expected to feel dizzy or weak or weird after Kurt drank so much, and being surrounded by all of this, but instead, he feels invigorated. His limbs are loose, but his brain is buzzing. His chest is full of something he hasn’t quite named yet. Maybe it’s adrenaline. Or awe. Or—

His gaze drifts. Around the room. Around them.

The woman across the lounge is feeding again. Her partner is dazed, eyes half-lidded in rapture. 

He isn’t prey here. He’s an exception. He’s protected and adored by Kurt. That realization unfurls in him like heat...real and alarmingly thrilling. Delicious. It suddenly burns through him with alarming desire. 

He slides his gaze back to Kurt, who’s watching him carefully. Waiting.

“Blaine,” he says, voice low.

Blaine grinds his hips down. “It’s strange,” he says, thoughtful now, eyes sweeping over the lounge again. “They were all staring at me before, like I didn’t belong. Like I was…glass.”

“You’re not glass,” Kurt says instantly.

“I know,” Blaine murmurs. His hand trails down Kurt’s chest, lingering at his neck, playing with his collar. “You’ve always known that. But I think I’m just now catching up.”

Kurt’s eyes are locked on him—wild and reverent and just a little undone.

 Blaine’s never seen him like this. He’s usually always poised. Always two steps ahead. But now, with Blaine in his lap and no fear in his veins, it’s like Kurt’s lost all his carefully crafted pretenses.

Blaine grins. “I could do anything to you right now.”

Kurt laughs, but it cracks down the middle. “You could.”

Blaine leans forward, letting his breath ghost against Kurt’s ear. “And you'd let me.”

A pause. A heartbeat. “Yes,” Kurt whispers.

Blaine leans back just enough to meet his gaze. “Tell me something,” he says. “Something I’m not supposed to know.”

Kurt blinks. “About what?”

“About you. This place. About vampires. I don’t care.” His voice lowers. “I just want to know something more about you.”

Kurt closes his eyes for a second, like the moment physically weighs on him. When he opens them, they’re darker than before—not dangerous, but raw. “Terror makes the blood metallic and thin. Most new vampires think they like the chase, but the best blood? It’s from someone willing. Who offers it. That’s where the sweetness is.”

“Like mine?” Blaine asks, surprised.

“Yes. Like yours, beloved.”

Blaine slides his body back and lies on top of Kurt, still pressing his hips into his, kissing his neck. “Tell me something just about you now.” 

“I used to feed every Thursday,” Kurt says. “Before I met you. At the same hour and minute. No matter where I was.”

Blaine lifts his head to look at him. “You’re a creature of habit.”

“I was rigid almost to the point of boredom,” Kurt says. “It’s easy to confuse that with consistency.”

Blaine tilts his head. “And now?”

“I’m never bored. Ever.” His hands land lightly on Blaine’s thighs, fingers curling just slightly. “You’ve ruined me for predictability.”

Blaine’s smile turns wicked, and without a thought, he lunges his mouth down, purposely not being careful, and lets his lip graze over Kurt’s sharp teeth, drawing another drop of blood as he thrusts his hips down. 

Kurt growls. Actually growls the sound slipping between clenched teeth. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me today!” 

Blaine whines and brushes his lips back and forth and then pulls back to look at him with a barely blood-stained grin. “No,” he says, “For the first time, I think I do.”

Kurt exhales, slow and uneven, and Blaine feels it down his backbone. Feels the ache behind it. The want. Kurt’s pupils are huge and black, barely any blue anywhere to be found, a red ring rimming the irises from feeding earlier. There’s a flush rising under his skin—not blood, not exactly, it's venom and desire and goes so much deeper.. His lips have molecules of Blaine’s blood. The air between them is thick now, heavy with heat and something animal beneath it. Hunger in every sense of the word. “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” Kurt warns seriously.

Blaine lifts an eyebrow, voice rough. “Like what?”

“Like you want to be devoured.”

Blaine smiles—slow, irreverent, a little drunk on the heat. “Maybe I do.”

Kurt’s hands flex at his hips. His fangs are still visible, though his mouth is closed, and Blaine can feel every inch of him beneath him—the hardness of muscle, the tension of desire, the proof of what just happened between them not five seconds ago. He loves this, feeling Kurt’s body is humming against him like a live wire, and Blaine can feel it—the way he’s holding back. The way his hands twitch like he’s trying not to take everything. The way his jaw is clenched

Blaine leans in, mouth barely an inch from Kurt’s. “You could,” he whispers. “Right now.”

Kurt growls again. “Don’t tempt me.”

“But I am temptation,” Blaine says, voice a breath, a dare. “Isn’t that the whole point?”

Kurt’s hands slide down—firm, slow, and just shy of scandalous—his thumbs brushing under Blaine’s ass, fingers gripping tight. Looking at him, it’s reverent and ravenous all at once as if Blaine is a miracle. Like he’s an indulgence, Kurt hasn’t let himself take in full.

“You keep saying I don’t know what I’m doing,” Blaine murmurs. “But you’re the one falling apart.” He trails his lips up Kurt’s neck and jaw until they’re mouth-to-mouth again—barely brushing, breath hot and ragged between them. He can feel another tiny drop of blood pooling on his lip. “Is this what you wanted, bringing me here?” Blaine whispers. “Showing me off like some glittering little prize—only to find out I don’t want to be owned?”

Kurt’s eyes snap open—astute and hungry. Almost hurt. “No,” he breathes. “You don’t want to be owned.” He grips Blaine’s hair, not hard, just enough to proclaim and pull him to look into his eyes. “You want to be worshipped.”

Blaine’s breath hitches so fast it almost stings. “Is that a threat or a promise?” He shifts his weight grinding his hard cock and moans. Kurt’s head arches back with a sound that’s more growl than moan. Blaine leans down and presses a kiss to his neck, right where Kurt’s own pulse used to beat. 

Kurt doesn’t answer. He acts. Grabs his jaw to pull their lips flush, and crashes into him—fast, brutal, hungry. Blaine gasps into it, and Kurt swallows it whole. It’s hands, now, everywhere—Kurt gripping his waist, his thighs, one hand sliding under the hem of Blaine’s shirt, fingers skating across skin like he needs it, like he’s memorizing the shape of him.

Blaine arches into it—into him—mouth open and slick, matching heat for heat, like he’s trying to light a fire with nothing but friction and want. And oh, there’s so much want. They kiss for minutes that never seem to end until Kurt’s mouth leaves his for a second—just long enough to bite gently at Blaine’s throat, not drawing blood, just teeth and tongue and a groan that Blaine feels in his whole body.

Blaine gasps, hips twitching against him, and Kurt shudders.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, lips against Blaine’s skin, voice barely holding. I ache for you in places I didn’t know existed within me.

“No.” Blaine fists both hands in his hair, tugging his head back until their eyes meet. I never learned how to want quietly, not with you!

Just that. No apology. No hesitation.

Kurt snarls, and the kiss that follows is wrecked. Messy. Desperate. Hands scrabbling for skin, shirts half-riding up, and Blaine grinding on top of him like he’s lost in it now, like they’re orbiting the same collapsing star and there’s no way out without an explosion of energy. Blaine feels like he’s being pulled apart by the force of it, the heat, and wanting to surrender everything to it. Every nerve lit, every part of him aching and alive. And Kurt feels endless under him, mouth and hands and teeth and want.

They don’t hear the music. This isn’t a performance anymore. It’s a burn. It’s a feast.

It’s Blaine giving in and taking at the same time. Each kiss leaves echoes of fingerprints I never want to wash off from my soul!

And just when it feels like the world might tilt entirely, Kurt pulls back, eyes entirely black, jaw tight, and presses his forehead to Blaine’s.

Blaine’s still panting, lips kiss-bitten, hips rocking subtly like he can’t help himself, and whines, wondering why they stopped before he realizes people are watching them, and Kurt is holding him like a cataclysm he's about to unleash.

Something shifts in Kurt’s eyes—not just hunger now, but unimaginable power. Cold and hot at once. He lifts his chin, gaze slicing toward the far end of the VIP lounge, where a few bodies still linger. Without removing his hands from Blaine, without even raising his voice, Kurt says:

“Out.”

Blaine is taken aback by the single word. Not shouted or barked. Just spoken—with the weight of centuries behind it.

There’s no protest. No hesitation. The woman in silver startles, eyes widening. Her partner rises quickly, half-dazed. One man stumbles slightly as he gets to his feet, already backing away. The few vampires and their toys who’d stayed to watch begin to file out, silently, swiftly, like shadows scurrying at daybreak.

One of the bouncers—massive, pale, eyes like steel—steps inside just long enough to shut the double doors behind them with a thud. It echoes. Final.

And then? 

Blessed silence.

Just the sound of their breathing. The charged air between them. The way Blaine’s heart is thumping like it’s fighting to break through his ribs. He looks at Kurt, who hasn’t moved. Who’s still holding him with iron and fire. “You really just—”

“Yes,” Kurt says. His hands slide up Blaine’s thighs like a blessing. “No one else gets to see you like this.”

Blaine shivers. “Like what?”

“This wrecked,” Kurt whispers, mouth at Blaine’s jaw. “This powerful. This fucking mine.” And then he moves. Rolling them over, effortlessly, lying half way on top of him across the velvet couch, their legs tangling again. Your scent lives on my mind even when we’re apart. He gazes in wonder where Blaine’s shirt is lifted, like it’s the first time he’s ever seen that skin all over again. “Tell me what you desire,” Kurt whispers. “And I’ll give it to you.”

Blaine swallows, only able to utter, “Everything.” 

Kurt moans feral and barely restrained—and he dives. The kiss is brutal and open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth, their bodies grinding with reckless abandon. His hands are seeking, under Blaine’s shirt, along his ribs, gripping his waist like he might come apart if he doesn’t hold on. I watch you like you’re the only light left in the room.

Blaine arches, moaning into his mouth, nails digging into Kurt’s shoulders. “Damn—”

Kurt kisses him, mouth blazing a path along Blaine’s throat, nipping where the bite mark still lingers. Blaine writhes, gasping, and Kurt groans into his skin. “You taste like a tempest,” he murmurs. “Like heat, and salt, humidity, and warmth. Like everything I ever wanted when I still remembered what it meant to want.”

Blaine’s eyes flutter, hands trembling as they push Kurt’s jacket off his shoulders, greedy for more. More skin. More mouth. More Kurt. Blaine’s trembling fingers undo the buttons on Kurt’s shirt and tug it off. 

And then it’s his turn. Kurt slides his sweater off, unhurriedly, then his polo underneath, mouth dragging down his chest, tongue flicking at a nipple just to hear the spirited gasp it earns. His hands are so sure, so good, like they were made to touch his body. Blaine claws at his back. “Kurt—”

“I’m here, beloved.” Kurt mouths at his sternum, lips moving against his skin with reverence, smiling when Blaine shivers. “I’m going to give you everything. Right here. Right now.”

Blaine looks up at him, flushed and open and wild-eyed, his chest rises in shallow, desperate breaths as Kurt hovers over him—shirtless now, pale skin lit by the glow of the chandeliers. There’s a deep need in his eyes, yes, but something else too: love.

He kisses down Blaine’s chest again, slower this time, trailing his tongue along the centerline like a path he’s walked before and still can’t believe he gets to tread. Blaine shudders, his back arching slightly off the velvet, his thighs spreading to make room for Kurt’s body without even thinking.

“Don’t stop,” Blaine breathes.

“Promise I won’t.” Kurt’s voice is darker now, threadbare restraint. His hands skim along Blaine’s waist, then beneath the waistband of his chinos. Blaine huffs out a breath—halfway between a laugh and a gasp—kicking off his shoes, and lifts his hips, letting Kurt tug them down with his underwear. When they finally hit the floor, Kurt pulls back just enough to take in the sight of him, flushed, naked, writhing in shadowlight. His cock, hard, leaking, begging silently to be touched. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs.

Blaine huffs again, trying to scoff, but it turns into a moan as Kurt dips again, kissing down the sharp bone of his hip, then lower, dragging his lips slowly along his inner thigh, letting the anticipation ache.

Blaine’s hands drag up Kurt’s back. “You’re torturing me on purpose.”

“No, darling,” Kurt says, smiling against his skin. “I’m worshipping you. Want to savor you.” Then he’s there—mouth hot and obscene on Blaine’s cock, no teasing now. He takes him in deep, greedy, possessive, tongue massaging the throbbing vein. I want you pressed against every version of me I’ve ever been.

Blaine chokes out a sound, eyes flying open, one hand shooting into Kurt’s hair and pulling. 

Kurt moans around him, and Blaine feels it like fire in his bones. Everything melts. There is only mouth and breath and heat, the velvet couch beneath them, Kurt’s hands on Blaine’s thighs, holding him open, holding him still. His tongue moves in rhythms—cruel and glorious—and Blaine is lost to it. He’s panting now, gasping broken words that might be Kurt’s name, or curses, or prayers. He’s not sure. He doesn’t care.

Kurt pulls back just enough to speak, voice steeped with want. “Want to taste you, please.”

Blaine breaks at the sound, the desperation, and gasps again when his lover’s mouth is hot around him, sucking, moaning, begging in that way only he knows how. Ecstasy rushes through him, alacritous and searing, pulses of light bursting behind his eyelids, his whole body tensing then releasing. He moans Kurt’s name so loud it’s a wonder the sound doesn’t vibrate the crystal on the chandeliers.

Kurt stays with him through it all, his mouth soft on his skin, and his hands never leaving him. Each gasp writes your name behind my ribs.

When Blaine finally collapses back against the cushions, boneless and buzzing, Kurt rises—the heat still burning through him and kisses him. Blaine tastes himself on his tongue and moans, kissing him back, tangled and wrecked and so full of love he could drown in it. There is nothing left of me but the places you kissed.

When they finally part, Blaine is breathless and shining with sweat and afterglow. Kurt holds him, and they stay like that for a moment, Blaine’s heart still beating out the rhythm of want and wonder. 

Kurt kisses the hollow of Blaine’s throat. His hands remain steady where they cradle Blaine—one at the nape of his neck, one curled around his waist—but internally, everything else about him feels like it’s vibrating apart.

Blaine strokes a hand through Kurt’s hair, fingers gently combing back stray strands. “You okay?”

Kurt nods, it’s barely movement he still wants so much more, and his restraint his costing him energy.

“Good,” Blaine murmurs, voice like cool wind across a fevered skin. “My turn.” He shifts, moving carefully off Kurt’s lap, and presses two fingers under his chin to tilt his face up. Kurt’s pupils are still blown, his lips parted, flushed from kissing and blood. He looks ravaged. Unmade.

Blaine falls to his knees and kisses up Kurt’s thighs. Kurt lets himself be guided, reclining along the plush of the couch, legs still planted, arms slack. It’s rare to see him like this, unguarded. Rare, and so beautiful it aches. Blaine undoes the button on his pants, then the zipper. “I want to see you lose it,” Blaine whispers. “I want you to come apart the way I just did. I want your knees weak. I want you saying my name like it’s the only word left in the world.”

Kurt’s only response is a strangled groan, shivering, fangs flashing for just a second before he lets his eyes flutter shut.

Blaine spreads his palms over Kurt’s hips, thumbs dragging slowly along hipbones.

“Let me take care of you now,” Blaine murmurs, looking up through his lashes. He mouths along the waistband of Kurt’s slacks, warm breath ghosting over skin. His hands work with slow confidence, undoing the fly, easing fabric down over hips, revealing inch by inch of something utterly, devastatingly stunning. He’s never been shy about telling Kurt how perfect he thinks his long thick cock is. He takes his time. Kisses, sucks, and touches with long, steady strokes that leave Kurt shaking. Every part of you I touch becomes a place I never want to leave.

It’s not about control. It’s about devotion. About making Kurt feel like his—claimed not by bite or blood or centuries-old vows, but by care and his unwavering love. By a heart that beats faster for him, hands that don’t flinch, and a mouth that knows every place to linger. His tongue creates a synergy of friction, moaning at the hint of venom on his taste buds. The sound of you unraveling is my melody. He moans around him, uses his hand to help support what doesn’t fit in his mouth, squeezes and massages his balls with his other hand, eliciting moans. 

And when Kurt finally breaks, hips stuttering, voice raw, a long, shattered whisper cry of Blaine’s name—it’s with a kind of reverence that echoes through the structure of the room. You are the only thought that survives the hunger!

Blaine crawls up his body, slow and soft, pressing kisses to Kurt’s jaw, his cheek, his lips. He cups Kurt’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “Kurt…” he whispers. “Just like that. Stay with me.”

Kurt barely nods. He looks overwhelmed. Like he forgot his name and only just remembered it on Blaine’s lips. I crave your voice like nothing else exists.

Blaine presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes, still catching his own breath. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Always.” And Kurt—eternal, untouchable, deadly—lets himself be held. I want to live beneath your skin, in your mouth, behind your eyes, encircled by your bones.

Blaine shifts again after a minute, lying down on his side next to him, wrapping an arm around Kurt’s waist, pressing his cheek to his chest, listening to the soft hush of nothingness where a heartbeat should be. 

“Do you miss it?”

Kurt’s fingers drift into his hair, slowly, like he’s trying not to wake a dream. “The heartbeat?”

Blaine nods against him, cheek pressed to Kurt’s chest, where no rhythm answers back.

“Sometimes,” he says finally. “Not for what it was. But for what it meant.”

Blaine lifts his head slightly, enough to glance up at him. “What did it mean?”

Kurt stares at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, then looks at Blaine. “It meant I could panic. It meant I could run too fast and feel it pounding. That I could hold someone close and feel life next to my own. With urgency and… presence.”

Blaine traces a faint line across his ribs, his voice almost sad. “You don’t feel my presence now?”

“I do,” Kurt says. “Oh, sweetheart, I do. I meant… my own…” He pauses, searching. “It feels sometimes that I live in a painting. Everything is still and luminous. Beautiful, but frozen. And then you—” his gaze drops, locking onto Blaine’s face, voice thickening, “—you walk in with sound. With warmth. With all the little human imperfections that make time matter.”

Blaine’s heartbeat is suddenly loud in his own ears, as if it’s trying to beat enough for both of them.

Kurt rolls Blaine just enough that he can lay his hand flat over Blaine’s chest, right where the rhythm is strongest. “This? I used to think it was just biology. Just a reminder of mortality. But with you…” He leans forward and brushes his lips against Blaine’s temple. “With you, every beat feels like a line of poetry, a song of vitality, warmth, and the secrets of life.”

Blaine exhales, something raw and full blooming in his chest. He laughs softly, a little broken. “That’s really unfair, you know. Saying beautiful things like that while I’m post-orgasm and emotionally compromised.”

Kurt smiles, slow and aching. “Maybe it will sink deeper and take root.”

Blaine shifts up just enough to kiss him; it’s tender and full of gratitude. “I love you,” he whispers into Kurt’s mouth. 

Kurt presses their foreheads together, eyes closed. “I know you do, beloved. That is something I can feel deeply, heart or no heart. I love you, too. So much. And I always will.”

“Always?” Blaine’s voice cracks. “That’s a very long time.”

“Maybe. But it will never be long enough.”

Blaine finally sits up slightly with a small smile. They’ve had the conversation about turning him a thousand times and will probably have it a thousand more, so he ignores it for now. There is no easy answer, and instead, says, “I want to come back here.” 

Kurt’s grin turns instantly mischievous. “Yeah?”

“Mmm… Next time, I want to dance and have a fancy drink, toast you, and say something like ‘To velvet couches and outlandish chandeliers! To your very smitten silent heart, and your centuries-old ego.”

Kurt laughs, pulling him close again. “Drink. Dance. Reign with me.”

“Reign with you?” Blaine’s eyebrow shoots up. “Did I know that was on the table?”

“You do now. Reign with me.”

Blaine bites his lip to hold back a grin and walks two fingers up Kurt’s chest, looking up at him through his lashes again. “Is that a vampire’s way of proposing?”

Kurt’s eyes widen momentarily as if he hadn’t thought of it that way, and then he smiles so radiantly it takes Blaine’s breath away. "What if it was? Would you say yes?" 

Blaine blinks, stunned by the sudden shift in gravity; he’d been teasing, but Kurt certainly isn’t. “To reigning with you?”

“To being mine. Not just in blood and body,” Kurt says, brushing his fingertips against Blaine’s cheek, “but in name and nights like this. In centuries, if you’ll have them.”

Blaine stares at him for a few heartbeats—and then laughs, not unkind, but overwhelmed. “I… Are you asking me, or is this still hypothetical?”

“I’m really asking. Unless you’re about to say no, then I’m just asking you hypothetically.”

“I…” Blaine’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “Wait. Wait. Wait.” 

Kurt, who had been gazing at him like the stars themselves might agree to marry him, scrunches his eyebrows in concern, and his face falls. “Wait?”

“Hypothetically, if I’m saying yes to... all this—” Blaine makes a vague circle in the air, gesturing to the club, his still-thudding heart, and Kurt. “—I need some details first. Important ones.”

Kurt’s smile comes back, twitches wider. “Ask anything.”

“Okay. Number one,” Blaine says, holding up a finger, mock stern. “How many castles do you actually own? Be honest. One? Three? Seven? Is there one shaped like a skull?”

Kurt chuckles. “Two. One in Italy. One in a place I can’t say out loud without summoning something.”

Blaine’s brow shoots up, but he nods. “Acceptable. Second: Do I get a crown?”

“You will now.”

“Good.” Blaine’s on a roll, trying not to giggle. “Do I have to go to vampire council meetings? Because I refuse to wear a cravat.”

“You’d be exempt. On account of your attitude,” Kurt smirks, “and preference for bowties.”

“Perfect. Do we rule globally, or is this a micro-empire kind of situation? Like, just this club, and a dramatically themed Airbnb somewhere like Romania?”

Kurt looks amused. “Technically, I have influence across four continents. Most of New York is under my protection, but our power can absolutely include an over-the-top Airbnb or two if that gets you all hot and bothered, darling.”

Blaine’s eyes scrunch, thinking, and then brighten. “Do we have a treasury? Like a vampire fortune in diamonds and cursed gold and weird art you stole from Napoleon?”

“All the art was returned to its rightful owners. But yes, more wealth than you can even imagine.”

Blaine’s eyes widen at that, and his face turns red; his palms are tingly, but he clears his throat to carry on with the silliness. “Can I redecorate one of your houses?”

“Oh god. That’s pushing it, beloved. You may never touch any of my libraries, but yes, if one of our homes doesn’t please you, we can discuss changes.”

“That’s fair. Wait. How many homes do you have?”

“Let’s say…a dozen or so, not including the castles.”

“Huh.” Blaine leans in, trying to sound nonchalant. “Can our kingdom have Taco Tuesdays? At least until you turn me someday?”

Kurt looks up at him like he’s trying not to laugh, and rubs his fingers in circles on Blaine's back. “Taco Tuesdays is an absolute must.”

“Do I get diplomatic immunity for when I inevitably offend an elder?”

“You’ll be escorted out in a velvet chair and applauded for your candid bravery.”

Blaine taps his chin, pretending to think. “Hmmmm…. And how many exes will want to duel me?”

“At least four.”

“I’m gonna need a dagger then.”

“I’ll forge you one myself.”

“With big, gaudy, authentic jewels?”

“Of course. Only the best for you, darling.”

Blaine narrows his eyes, biting back his grin. “Final question: Do I have to stop teasing you in public, or is that part of the perks?”

Kurt's sharp teeth flash through a smile. “That’s why I chose you from the very beginning. All that courage, and wit wrapped up in songs and teasing and so much love.”

Blaine beams, wide and radiant, like his chest can’t hold it all. “Then yes, hypothetically,” he says even softer now. “I’ll reign with you. As long as you promise me it’s forever.”

“Forever,” Kurt whispers as he pulls him in. Their foreheads touch, and for another long moment, the music fades, the club disappears, and it’s just them. Vampire and heartbeat. Darkness and spark. Kurt is just looking at him. Like he’s something impossible and alive, and Kurt is remembering what true joy feels like.

“What?” Blaine says, cheeks flushed, eyes and smile luminous.

Kurt doesn’t answer right away. He just lifts a hand and brushes his thumb along Blaine’s jaw. His fingers curve behind his neck. “You,” Kurt murmurs, “are the most dangerous creature I’ve ever met. All that pure, innocent power inside you, optimism, hope, light.”

Blaine huffs a breath, trying to process the words as his heart races. But then Kurt leans in and kisses him. It’s sweet and lingering. A kiss that feels like it’s waited lifetimes to happen for them both. It tastes like them and love and everything they are and want to be for each other. Blaine melts into it, hands tight around Kurt’s waist, lips parting—inviting, offering, claiming right back.

When they part, Kurt keeps his forehead pressed to Blaine’s. His voice is barely audible over the beat of Blaine’s heart in their ears. “Our kingdom starts here.”

Blaine smiles, eyes fluttering shut. “Long may we reign.”