DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title from "I've Never Told You What I Do For A Living" by My Chemical Romance.
Warnings are: graphic descriptions of death, minor descriptions of sex, and character death.

I don't usually participate in Klaine AU Fridays on Tumblr, but with the idea of serial killer!Klaine being a possibility, I knew I had to at least try.



The first cut is always the best; Kurt relishes in it, in the sharp slice of his blade through perfect skin, a mark like the first brushstroke of an idea sparked, a promise of so much more. He's no Pichot or Raphael—he can't create priceless impressionism on a human body. Still, though, he tries and tries and what he does end up with is always pretty and perfect.

Eventually the cuts are hidden, pooled over by thick, pungent red. It bubbles and darkens, spilling down over wrists and throats and chests. Cries quiet down to gurgles, to breathless, soft whimpers for mercy, pleases and stops. When the life finally fades away from the eyes, when the mouth goes slack and all that's left behind is a dull deadness, a body surrounded in blood and not a person surrounded in blood, that's when Kurt knows he's created his next masterpiece.

It should be a shame to see such pretty girls go, to see the bodies they'd worked so hard to achieve and maintain turn to tattered flesh, crisscrossed with curving blade marks, lines written like music along a hipbone, a thigh, but really, it's not. Like this they're becoming something more, something special. They're getting that fifteen minutes of fame they'd always wanted when their body and story turn up on the eleven o'clock news.

This one, Jayme, had been so easy to lure out, stumbling from alcohol on four-inch heels while giggling at everything that Kurt had said. He'd tucked her blonde hair behind her ears, smiled sweetly at her and kissed her forehead before looping an arm around her waist and directing her out of the club. Her perfume, too-strong and overwhelming, had filled his nostrils, and from then until they'd gotten to the abandoned warehouse by the docks Kurt had imagined masking it with the iron scent of blood, staining her see-through white top with a red so dark it was nearly black. He'd wanted to see what the ligaments and muscles on the insides of her wrists looked like with the skin peeled back, how white her bones would look among the red, the shrill screams of her voice echoing for the nobodies near the waterfront to hear.

He takes a step back and wipes off his brow with the back of his hand, smearing the droplets of red sprayed across his skin from the slit just over her jugular. It drips from the sharp black blade of his knife and falls to the cracked concrete floor at his feet with a steady drip-drip. His wrist aches from use, a dull throb-and-burn that settles deep, but it always signals a job well done, lets that overpowering rush recede to waiting until it all becomes too much again and his fingers yearn for the smooth grip of a handle, the give of skin around a sharp blade, and the fear that fills the room so thick it's barely breathable.

He doesn't have any sort of trademark, no card or certain cut of the skin, but he does have a type. He's not stupid: he knows people are looking for him, damning him and cursing his existence and wanting him just as dead as these girls. Kurt just smiles at the thought and rubs the pad of his thumb along the side of the blade, gathering up the cooling, sticky blood before letting it drip to the floor with the rest.

He feels in control like this, safe and aloof. His past is far behind him, left in a dusty town to rot, and sure, maybe he regrets what he's become; maybe he wishes he could have a normal life with a lucrative career, that he didn't have to sever every tie with every person he'd known before New York. But even if he'd done that he has a feeling that the pull and allure of the kill would be too much. It's always been in his blood; this need for revenge, to show everyone that Kurt Hummel can stand up for himself. He's not just a punching bag without feelings.

It's not a sickness, not a problem.

It's just another perfect Barbie flayed open for the world to see that everyone really is the same on the inside.


Blaine Anderson is the one thing that throws a wedge into everything Kurt's ever let himself believe.

Three days after Jayme and one day after the news explodes with reports of another body found, possibly the victim of the unnamed serial killer prowling New York by night, Kurt sits at a slightly-run-down bar nursing a Ketel One on the rocks. It's his own sad little way of celebrating, lackluster in fanfare and pizzazz but still good enough for him.

He's used to little or no mind being paid to him—it's been years since he's gotten proper attention and been to a gay bar where everyone's throwing down money to get him drinks—so when another body thunks down onto the worn barstool next to him Kurt's more than a little surprised.

He stays hunched over his glass but steals a look in his periphery; through it he can make out a tight navy blue cardigan with upturned red-and-white striped cuffs, an olive-skinned neck, and thick, dark hair kept short and slightly curly. The most he can make out about the man's face is that his chin is soft and round without a speck of stubble, his nose has a slight bump, and his eyelashes are ridiculously long.

He's gorgeous sneaks unbidden into Kurt's thoughts, lightning-fast and powerful. He punishes himself with a gulp of his drink, hissing and wincing as it goes down. The man looks over and Kurt pretends not to notice, swirls his glass instead to hear the ice clink together. Of all the seats in the bar, this guy had to come and sit next to him.

He wants to talk to you the same little voice says. That voice sounds too much like his sixteen-year-old self, the self that was tormented and bullied and pushed around until it all finally became too much, who was desperate and craved love more than life sometime. He sat next to you because he wants to get to know you.

Kurt could laugh. This man has no idea, no inkling whatsoever, about what he's getting himself into. All Kurt needs to do is finish his drink, pay, and get out. Go home to his impeccably-decorated broom cupboard of an apartment, sleep, and not let himself get tempted by a stranger in a bar.

"Hey." The voice is a shock as it breaks the silence; Kurt looks up automatically and immediately swears internally at letting his curiosity get the better of him. There's no going back now, so he turns on his stool and forces himself to look the man in the eyes—

—The eyes that happen to be nearly the exact shade of the whiskey in the tumbler the man is holding, and head-on he's even more gorgeous than Kurt could have imagined: those amber eyes, wide and expressive and understanding; dark, curly hair lightly gelled away from his forehead and temples; lashes so thick and dark that they sweep across his cheekbones when he blinks; and a smile that makes Kurt want to immediately smile back.

No, I can't. Just looking at this man makes Kurt's heart beat overtime, a powerful tattoo against his ribcage. It's dangerous, allowing himself to actually feel. He doesn't want someone else to see how fucked-up his mind has become over the years thanks to unrelenting torment throughout his public school life. He doesn't want to drag someone down with him.

Most of all, he doesn't want to deal with the mess it can all easily become.

So he says, out of stiff politeness, his voice as icy as the glass against his fingertips: "Hey."

The man's smile doesn't falter. "I'm Blaine. Blaine Anderson." He holds out his hand.

"Kurt…Hummel," Kurt says, hesitating before taking the offered hand and shaking it. It's okay to mention names, though he still pauses and stumbles. All of this feels too casual and intimate, too out of his comfort zone. Kurt doesn't have the best track record with people, especially since most of his encounters usually spend their time with his knife and not him.

"Kurt Hummel," Blaine says, letting the name roll slowly off his tongue as if he's tasting it like the drink in his hand. "I like it." He finishes it off with a saucy wink and Kurt feels like the floor's been pulled out from under him, his mouth suddenly too dry and his palms clammy.

"I—thanks," he says stupidly, blinking heavily. He shakes his head and resists the urge to smack himself. Blaine, for his part, looks amused. "What I mean was…Blaine's a—a nice name, too." He grits his teeth in frustration and knocks back the rest of his drink, squeezing his eyes shut against the burn. "I'm sorry. I'm not good at this." Please go away, please go away….

"It's okay." Blaine's voice is warm, understanding, and sweet like honey. Kurt thinks he could get trapped, and for once he finds himself not caring, the last vestiges of his reluctance being washed away with every sip of vodka. The residual warmth of the alcohol is still spreading through his chest and stomach and he's tempted to order another just to be a little more intoxicated for this. He hasn't had this kind of fun in way too long. "I haven't been 'on the scene' or whatever for awhile myself." Blaine makes a face and takes a drink. Kurt watches his throat work with fascination, imagining the point of his blade running along the fine lines and tendons, pressing enough to dent but not break the thin skin over his Adam's apple.

"Recent break-up?" Kurt guesses, running his index finger along the condensation of his glass.

Blaine nods. "It was almost five years. It's weird being single now, you know? Just me worrying about myself, not him as well."

Kurt barks out a laugh, thinks back to all the times he's had to worry about himself. "Tell me about it."

"What about you? You seem like the type to be seeing someone. Or at least you should be."

"Hardly." Kurt scoffs even as he feels his face heat up. He rests his chin on his palm and looks at Blaine, sees nothing but compassion and understanding in too-wide eyes that shimmer with the dim light of the bar. He gets the feeling that if he were to spill his life story now Blaine would be here to listen attentively and nod in all the right places. "I like to keep myself scarce."

"A loner, huh?"

Kurt's lips quirk into a half-smile. "You could say."

Suddenly Blaine's hand is on Kurt's, warm and large and unbelievably soft. Kurt's lips part in surprise, and when he looks up Blaine's face is much, much closer than before. "You're too pretty to be alone," he says softly, lowering his voice so the bartender cleaning mugs with a dirty rag can't hear. He speaks like he has a solution, a be-all to end-all of Kurt's woes.

"I—," Kurt starts, finding himself unable to finish the sentence. Blaine's eyes search his and Kurt feels nauseous with the sudden wave of want, the emotions he's pushed aside for so many years suddenly too much and at-the-surface. He's absolutely aching to, wants to take this man to his apartment and fuck him stupid like any sane person would, but he can't get attached. There's a reason he hasn't put himself out there for so long.

(His heart and stomach alternate doing flips when Blaine so much as blinks at him and that can't be good, can only mean that attachment and then burgeoning feelings and no no no no.)

"Say yes." Blaine drops his voice, letting the fingertips of his other hand skim gently over the sharp lines of Kurt's jaw. His voice is like a Siren's song to Kurt, beautiful and holding everything he needs and wants. "Please, Kurt. Just say yes."

"Yes." It slips from his lips before he can stop it; Blaine's eyes light up and then he's off his stool, tugging at Kurt's hand. It's cute, endearing, and Kurt finds himself laughing before he can stop it, the wide smile on his face different—it's real for once, not faked.

Kurt gets off his own stool in a daze, slapping down a five or a ten or a twenty—he doesn't know. All he knows is that Blaine's fingers are fitted through his and he feels like he's a teenager again hooked on love and the promise of a bright future. He's barely talked to Blaine a half-hour; he should be more reluctant.

But he feels the familiar ache in his groin, the sparks that fade and ebb the longer Kurt lets himself dwell on the notion of what they're going to do, and he knows that giving in is just what he needs, that a release in blood isn't quite the same as a release with another willing partner.

Briefly he hopes there isn't anything incriminating out in his apartment.


Once they're finally inside Kurt's apartment, the door latched carelessly shut, Blaine kisses him hard, bunching the thin material of Kurt's simple layering v-neck in his hands as he tugs up, exposes Kurt's heated skin to the chilled air of the apartment.

"Jesus, fuck," Kurt breathes, grabbing hard onto Blaine's ass through his jeans as he nips roughly at his jaw. Blaine moans, grabs Kurt's waist and pulls him close.

The heat of Blaine's cock is maddening against his own, and before Kurt can stop himself he's backing Blaine past the doorway and into his bedroom, pushing him down hard onto the bed with an oomph before straddling his hips.

"Gonna make you feel so good," he growls, deftly undoing the buttons of Blaine's cardigan and then those on his simple white dress shirt. Somewhere between the door and now Blaine had gotten his bowtie off-good; it means less work, less time Blaine with his stupidly perfect body and smile and personality can be in Kurt's apartment, too-near precious, dark secrets. "God, Blaine, I'm going to fuck you so hard."

"Yes, yes," Blaine whimpers, his forehead creased as he lets out a high moan. Kurt pushes the fabric off, letting it pool at Blaine's sides, and rakes his nails lightly down Blaine's chest, starting from his sternum and ending at the waistband of his jeans. The muscles of Blaine's abdomen twitch, his nipples pebbling when he arches his back slightly and moans. "Kurt, please."

Kurt follows the white-red lines of his nails with his tongue, holding himself up with one hand while using the other to rub and squeeze Blaine over his jeans until he's desperate, begging and panting and twisting his fingers roughly into Kurt's hair.

When they're naked and Blaine's worked-open and slick with the glisten of lube, Kurt wastes no time in pushing in; he's rewarded with the sharp snap upward of Blaine's back, the cry that starts out loud before fading out into a ragged pant.

The natural nighttime light of the city falls through the window behind Kurt's bed, illuminating Blaine's body in faint blue-white, and Kurt doesn't slow the pace of his hips, uses Blaine's grunts and uh uhs to spur him on. He can't help but dwell on beautiful, gorgeous, so willing and trusting and naive even as Blaine tugs him down for a messy, off-center kiss, his body vibrating with every movement and his broken voice extolling Kurt's very existence.

Blaine comes before Kurt, his hand on his cock and his neck stretched back. It doesn't take much more for Kurt to come into the condom Blaine had—thankfully—been carrying with him, his eyes fluttering shut and his voice caught deep in his throat.

In the hazy afterglow of a much-needed release, Blaine murmurs something about staying over. Still thrumming and half-awake Kurt says something along the lines of yes before burrowing under the covers, Blaine following him. For the first time in a long while Kurt feels warm and safe and content and allows himself to feel only these things.

He dozes off to Blaine's arm wrapped around his waist.


When he wakes up, it's in a panic.

There's someone in his bed, someone naked and wrapped around him and snoring peacefully. Kurt isn't alone and he let Blaine say over. Someone he's known for less than six hours is naked and in his bed. The book where he keeps the names of his victims is in the nightstand by Blaine's side, and suddenly Kurt's heart is pounding overdrive, fear and paranoia settling heavy and suffocating over him.

What he swallows back at this tastes remarkably like bile.

He carefully climbs out of bed with dread settling heavy in his stomach and pinching behind his eyes, his mind still foggy with the unrelenting hold of sleep. As he walks into the kitchen he thinks about Blaine, about how he'd actually felt alive and not some made-up version in his head. This makes him hesitate, fingers wrapped around the handle of the drawer, but he knows it's impossible. Not with what he's done. He can't risk the idea that, if everything were to head south, there'd be someone out there who knew his face, his voice, his name and where he lived.

It has to be done.

The handle of the knife is cool and familiar in his palm as he treads as lightly as he can back into his bed, pausing at the doorframe before swallowing and forcing himself to move closer.

For the first time in years Kurt feels a tear slip down his face, its presence as odd and foreign as the turmoil going on in his head. Something is telling him this is all wrong, what he's been doing is wrong. The hand he holds the knife in shakes, trembles, and a painful wrenching in his chest makes him gasp softly, the sound choked midway into something akin to a sob.

It has to be done, he tells himself even as the words hit a sour, discordant note. You already went in too deep and this is the only way out.

It doesn't hurt any less, not when Blaine rolls over onto his back and sighs in his sleep, his lips curved up in the gentlest of smiles and the lines of his face smoothed out. The sheet's fallen to his waist, folded and bunched, and Kurt lets his eyes rove over smooth, tanned skin, remembers the memory of how that skin had felt under his fingers, his palms, how it'd tasted and how Blaine had moaned. He takes in the slight valley of Blaine's torso, the dip under his ribs and before his hipbones, the dark hair that gets thicker and coarser right where the sheet begins.

It was a mistake. Last night was a mistake branded into his memory, his bones, a mistake he's unable to take back. He can't take the time to dwell on the little things like love and pleasure; he can't, not with this simmering urge just under his skin, building and building until he can't stand it. Kurt had already made a pact with himself years ago that things would never get personal. No one would ever sleep over; no one would ever get into his heart.

But Blaine did. Blaine with his inviting smile, his honest eyes, his attentive way of listening and understanding. In another life, perhaps, Blaine would be perfect. There they could become something more, maybe get married and have a life. Blaine wormed his way into Kurt's heart with just one night and, for the first time since Kurt was a boy, he's scared.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice wobbling. I'm sorry. His eyes blur with tears and he grips the knife in both hands to hold it steady, slowly raising his arms.

Blaine stirs, snuffles and blinks open bleary eyes. His voice is scratchy, disoriented, when he mumbles, "Kurt?"

Kurt doesn't repeat his words; he doesn't need to. Instead, he takes a deep breath and brings the knife down as hard as he can. It lands in the center of Blaine's abdomen with that same satisfying thump that makes Kurt's skin prickle, that causes that fire to build and grow and flare up inside him, that makes him feel lightheaded from the rush. Blaine chokes on a gasp, jerks on the bed, and when Kurt twists the knife loose and brings it down again, this time just south of the first wound, the noise Blaine emits is wetter, more rattled. Red spills up over the gashes, thick and hot as it runs down his abdomen, pumped out with each fear-fueled heartbeat. Their eyes meet, and all Kurt can see in Blaine's is confusion, fear, hurt; Blaine's lips move but no sound comes out. Blood bubbles up, staining his teeth and gums before trickling out of his mouth. Blaine's gasping exhale produces a red-tinged bubble that slowly grows, and Kurt knows that once it pops Blaine will be dead, just a body, just a number.

(But he won't be remembered as one.)

I'm sorry, Kurt thinks as he brings the knife down once more, jerking the handle hard up-then-down, the flesh tearing in the wake of the sharp silver blade, red-black blood on his sheets, on Blaine's hands where he shakily presses trembling fingers to the gashes as he chokes low in his throat. God, Blaine, I'm so sorry.