That makes approximately seventeen reported deaths in the space of a three day period…

“Fuck, Blaine! Yes! Yes…just…there! Right there!”

…terror plaguing this small, and once quiet, idyllic seaside town…

“God, Kurt! You’re so fucking hot!”

Officials refuse to speculate at this time…currently police say they have no substantial leads…

“Can’t you go faster, Blaine? Just…fucking…go faster!”

Signs point to multiple assailants with similar m.o.s, but whether they’re organized, working together, or lone copycats, it’s still too early to tell…

“Touch me, Blaine! Please, God, touch me…”

…at first thought to be some sort of wild animal…with entry wounds that appear identical, the victims completely drained of blood,  violently dismembered, a few of the bodies with the skin removed from their bones. Voluntary evacuations have been recommended for residents of the following communities…

“God, I wanna cum…”

…reminiscent to murders that have been occurring on and off along this stretch of the Eastern Seaboard for the past sixty years. Authorities from counties all over the country have reported similar incidences that coincide with a six-decade long consecutive timeline, which officials say may point to cult activity.

“Not yet, baby. I don’t want this to be over just yet…”

Some more popular theories have been labeled too bizarre to pursue…urban legend in nature…However, a number of conspiracy theorists suggest…

“How does that feel?” Blaine purrs, pushing into Kurt’s body deeper, harder, trying to ignite erogenous zones that went numb a long time ago.

“Good,” Kurt answers with a growl that ends off as a chuckle. “So good.” Tactilely, Kurt feels nothing despite his moaning and begging to the contrary. None of the nerve endings in his body fire anymore; not a single one responds to stimuli. Every system contained within Kurt’s and Blaine’s bodies has gone stagnant. But the two of them aren’t simply creatures of flesh and bones and teeth. They are the impossible, the living manifestation of death that feeds on live blood and dines on fear. The lust burning like a bonfire in Blaine’s eyes and the blood pooled in his mouth are all the sensation that Kurt needs. They bring with them heat, emotion, and the seeds of his climax.

They bring with them memory.

Blaine lingers over Kurt like a hyena at the kill and licks a clean stripe from his collarbone to his jaw. Blaine adores Kurt in the carnal sense. Of all the vampires Blaine has sired, and then later destroyed out of pure boredom, he sees Kurt as his masterpiece. By far, Kurt is Blaine’s most exquisite creation yet. He’s lean, ruthless, and with his Adonis figure bathed in their victims’ blood, God! He is fucking stunning. His body is drenched in it, sticky with it, coating every inch of granite-hard flesh.

Kurt, for one, likes to fantasize that in another life, that coagulated mess could be their sweat mingling from the two of them fucking so damn hard.

Blaine remembers Kurt in life. He was beautiful, even then – probably the first human that Blaine ever saw as beautiful since he himself was created.

Blaine’s own sire had been beautiful, too…before Blaine had turned on him and slain him.

Most vampires feel an intense loyalty to their makers.

Blaine felt loyalty to no one but himself.

But regardless of the beauty that Blaine could perceive in Kurt in his mortal form, Kurt was still frail in that sense that all humans are - that delicate, corruptible way that mortals find romantic.

The way that Blaine detests.

Blaine is not sure exactly when it happened, but somewhere along the line beyond his death and rebirth, he grew to loathe humans. He didn’t want for history to ever count him as having been one of them, so he hunted down and destroyed every photograph ever taken of him, every journal entry or newspaper article ever written about him.

Every person who ever admitted to knowing him.

He wanted nothing more to do with humans besides devour them.

Most vampires hunt and kill only for sustenance, quietly and on the sly. With the advent of social media, when a single click of a cell phone camera can transmit a picture across continents in seconds; where GPS software is available to everyone, and can pinpoint with laser accuracy someone’s exact location in even the most remote areas; it’s too risky to do more than travel in the shadows and feed as discreetly as possible.

For some ingenious vampires, killing innocents has become archaic, an unnecessary practice of a savage past. They devise underground raves, full moon parties, elaborate Halloween galas, even Gothic symphonies designed to lure the modern day “vampire enthusiasts” into the clutches of the hungry, all for the price of a “donation” to a local area blood bank. (Legend has it that the Red Cross has been run by vampires since its inception, hence the name “Red Cross”, in honor of the “King of Vampires”, Vlad III the Impaler, who brutalized his enemies while riding beneath the banner of the Holy Roman Emperor.)

It’s a clever front, and with a genuine portion of the take going to legitimate blood banks around the country, few people ever notice when a couple hundred pints of fresh blood goes astray, unaccounted for.

A few vampires still kill for the thrill. Like the ancient predators of old, they stalk their victims, toy with them, get their adrenaline pumping since many feel it adds flavor to the meal. But even those thrill junkies tend to stay out of the limelight.

Blaine, however, kills because he finds it fun. He doesn’t just stalk, he traumatizes. He gets to know his victims inside and out before he makes his move. He takes a bite and gets inside their heads. He controls them like puppets, forcing them to do unthinkable things.

And when he’s done playing, he doesn’t just murder his targets; he tears them apart piece by piece; obliterates their souls and then mutilates their bodies.

He drives them to insanity, keeps them locked in a state of inescapable agony until the very second their heart stops beating.

Hunting Kurt had been fun, too. Chasing him, tormenting him. Blaine spent months pursuing Kurt. He took away everything that Kurt loved – his father, his stepbrother, his friends, his future. And with every step, Blaine thought that Kurt would be an easy meal. But Kurt turned out to be the ultimate adversary. His outsides may have been soft, but on the inside, he had been hardened by the evils of humanity, bullied and threatened long before Blaine Anderson ever came along, and that made him strong. Determined. Ambitious. Kurt hated Blaine, but he didn’t fear him the way most mortals did, and in the end, when Kurt had nothing left to lose, he gave himself up to death willingly.

Enthusiastically, as a matter of fact.

The first thing Kurt did as an immortal, and much to Blaine’s unfettered glee, was to track down every human who had ever laid a hand on him, and tore their throats out.

Blaine had never been prouder…or more turned on.

Kurt had considered doing the same to Blaine, but he couldn’t. Now that he had changed, now that he no longer had a soul, there was something about Blaine that Kurt found irresistibly appealing.

Decades they’ve been together, and every day when the sun sets and the two of them emerge from slumber, Blaine contemplates whether today is the day he should tear Kurt limb from limb, burn his corpse, and find himself a new pupil…but he can’t. Kurt is more than a novelty or a plaything. Blaine has never found Kurt’s equal in anyone, no one who intrigues him the way Kurt does, no one who inspires his bloodlust.

It would be such a pity to do away with Kurt and discover there was no way he could replace him.

Kurt turns his attention to the five televisions going – basically the only thing beside their couch and their bed in their apartment – blaring the same news on five different stations. Images of the two-family house ten counties over that they had spent a leisurely evening in, the disfigured bodies they’d left, the bloodshed. Psychotic criminal masterminds the reporters call them. Ruthless, mindless, unpredictable murderers, laying siege, reigning terror.

Kurt rolls his eyes.

The overlapping voices, discordant to his acute hearing, are severely killing his buzz.

“For Christ’s sake, Blaine,” he groans, lifting his ass higher to aide Blaine’s assault, “turn that crap off.”

“No.” Blaine pouts in a way that could be considered cute even though the lip jutting out is oily and red. “They’re talking about us on the telly, love,” he says in an appalling cockney accent. It’s contrived. It’s ridiculous. It makes Kurt laugh.

Kurt has no idea what Blaine’s fascination with the reports of their carnage is. Ego, most likely. That’s who Blaine is – a lethal egotist. The news outlets never have anything new to say, but it seems to make Blaine hot. So Kurt whines and complains, he plays Blaine’s game, but in the end, he gives in. None of the pills Blaine throws at Kurt ever go down easy. Kurt is simply returning the favor.

If Kurt didn’t know better, and sometimes he thinks he doesn’t, he’d wonder what Blaine’s fascination with him is. He knows that Blaine never had any intention of keeping him alive. He told Kurt so in life; Kurt didn’t naïvely anticipate that that would change after death.

But he’s not stupid enough to ask.

Kurt may be immortal, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to be around forever. If some random Van Helsing wannabe doesn’t end up staking him out of dumb luck, then Blaine will get around to eventually.

It’s just a matter of time.

But since time means so little to Kurt now, he chooses not to worry about it.

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” Blaine moans, licking the blood spatter from Kurt’s throat. “Have you always been this gorgeous, or does red just look insanely good on you?”

“Duh. I’ve always looked fabulous in red,” Kurt answers, and he did – with his pale, alabaster skin; his chestnut hair and its auburn highlights; and his eyes, a complicated brew of blue and grey, with the subtlest hint of cognac circling the iris that threw off red undertones in all of their glory. In his past life, Kurt owned a wardrobe full of designer McQueen outfits, much of them printed with the coveted skull motif, and most of them red. Red was such a fortifying shade. It gave him strength, made him feel confident. It had played such a huge role in his life.

His mother’s favorite color was red - the exact same shade, she often joked, as Hester Prynne’s iconic letter ‘A’.

His father planted several red Forever Young and Wanted Hearts rose bushes in their yard after she passed, in her memory.

The spirit colors of his middle school and high school were both red.

But he never realized how significant that color would become after his death.

“Well, I love it,” Blaine whispers, grinning with fangs bared, nipping along the line of Kurt’s jaw.

“But do you love me?” Kurt asks, and even with the amount of sarcasm he puts into his saccharin tone, it’s an honest question. Whatever withering bloom of his forgotten humanity still exists inside Kurt’s head, struggling day after day to find the sun, wants to know that Blaine harbors something close to affection for him. Kurt had been a hopeless romantic in life. It was the only thing he carried with him into death. And being several decades younger than Blaine, there’s a part of him deep inside that still remembers it.

Blaine sputters a laugh, and that part of Kurt, hanging on these past few years for dear life inside his chest, crumbles.

“Love,” Blaine grunts with disgust. “What is love? Flimsy, adolescent tripe. Hearts and flowers and cards and poetry and garbage. Mortal garbage. It’s disgusting. It means nothing to us, Kurt. We’re Gods! We don’t need something as insignificant as love.”

“Of course. How dumb of me.” Kurt turns his face away towards the TVs and their frantic, overlapping chatter, the grating noise of them less harsh than the sting of that rejection.

“That’s right, baby. That’s what we have, right there on that screen. Power. Just look at it,” Blaine encourages, watching Kurt stare blankly at the TVs as if the two of them had silently agreed on something. “Those puny humans fear us. They’re nothing. A dime a dozen. Disposable. They hold love in such high regard and what are they really, Kurt? Huh?”

“What?” Kurt asks flatly, not sure that he cares at this point.

“Cat-tle,” Blaine says, enunciating the syllables with razor sharp significance. He increases a pace that has grown tiresome to Kurt, who would rather crawl out from underneath his maker and wash away the day in a hot shower…alone. “They. Are. All. Cattle. And in their feeble minds they believe that love (he spits the word off to the side like a piece of rotten meat) is the greatest thing on Earth.”

“Right,” Kurt grumbles, wishing he could exchange his current position with that of a hole in the floor. A narrow hole.  “The weak and feeble humans..." He sighs, growing annoyed at Blaine’s griping, his deflecting the actual question that Kurt asked.

Kurt doesn’t expect Blaine to change gears, doesn’t expect him to suddenly notice the shift in Kurt’s tone, or the drop in his enthusiasm. But Blaine does. He pinches Kurt’s chin, turning Kurt’s eyes away from the screens and settling them on his face.

“Kurt, what I have for you goes so much deeper than love.”

Kurt cocks a brow and scoffs. “Really?” he says unimpressed, unconvinced, wondering how Blaine would even know considering he doesn’t seem to remember any desire from his human existence beyond feeding and fucking. “And what’s that?”

Blaine runs a hand through Kurt’s hair with surprising tenderness, rubs the blood-stained tips of their noses together. He breathes in, as if drawing the essence of Kurt into his fossilized lungs.

“Kurt, you’re the only person on this whole Godforsaken planet so far that I don’t want to rip to shreds every fucking time I look at you.”

Kurt gasps. His sour expression softens. His eyes go wide.

“Oh, Blaine” - Kurt lifts up, hovering within reach of his lover’s mouth, preparing for another overindulgent kiss, one that would make him breathless if he had any breath to lose - “I think that might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”