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What's great about people is that, even as the times change, they don't. People may surround themselves with new baubles and toys, drape their forms in sparkly new costumes, invent new libations and drugs that make their blood taste funny, but at the end of it all, they all die the same. With that look of raw, breathless surprise still on their faces.
In the two hundred-some years Kurt has prowled the sunkissed coasts of three continents, they've gotten very good at reading people. Any vampire worth their figurative salt needs to be, if they want to make it to the next night. Learn, adapt, feed, survive. They've seen countless of their brethren fall to their own hubris, decades—if not centuries—of knowledge and skill snuffed out because they refused to make friends with a changing world.
Kurt, for their part, is thriving in modernity. No one bats an eye at the pale skin and long hair and piercing, haunting eyes anymore, nor at their unconventional mode of dress. If anything, the loud jewelry and ruffled blouses and criminally short pinafore dresses just seem to attract their ideal prey, who uncritically flock to them in dark, dingy LA nightclubs like moths to an open flame. It's all too easy to then lure said prey deeper into the backrooms of the club, or into the deserted alleyways behind the building, or back to Kurt's place with the promise of some alone time, while their prey remains blissfully unaware of their fate.
At the same time, Kurt must remain vigilant. Not even the early throes of hunger will lower their defenses, eyes too sharp and bright for this world constantly scanning the dimly lit room of the nightclub, committing each face to memory. Cataloging which ones would make for an easy snack, which ones would taste too bad to bother with, which ones could potentially overpower them.
Which ones they've seen before. Kurt's fangs may not be out, but there's still a demonic sharpness to their teasing grin as they lock eyes with the hunter. "Really, now? Gonna make me work for my breakfast again?"
In the two hundred-some years Kurt has prowled the sunkissed coasts of three continents, they've gotten very good at reading people. Any vampire worth their figurative salt needs to be, if they want to make it to the next night. Learn, adapt, feed, survive. They've seen countless of their brethren fall to their own hubris, decades—if not centuries—of knowledge and skill snuffed out because they refused to make friends with a changing world.
Kurt, for their part, is thriving in modernity. No one bats an eye at the pale skin and long hair and piercing, haunting eyes anymore, nor at their unconventional mode of dress. If anything, the loud jewelry and ruffled blouses and criminally short pinafore dresses just seem to attract their ideal prey, who uncritically flock to them in dark, dingy LA nightclubs like moths to an open flame. It's all too easy to then lure said prey deeper into the backrooms of the club, or into the deserted alleyways behind the building, or back to Kurt's place with the promise of some alone time, while their prey remains blissfully unaware of their fate.
At the same time, Kurt must remain vigilant. Not even the early throes of hunger will lower their defenses, eyes too sharp and bright for this world constantly scanning the dimly lit room of the nightclub, committing each face to memory. Cataloging which ones would make for an easy snack, which ones would taste too bad to bother with, which ones could potentially overpower them.
Which ones they've seen before. Kurt's fangs may not be out, but there's still a demonic sharpness to their teasing grin as they lock eyes with the hunter. "Really, now? Gonna make me work for my breakfast again?"
[They usually never get sick. But the one time they do (read: right now), they're utterly dead to the world.
Kurt complains weakly to no one, coughing into the stuffy air of their shitty apartment, curled up under their covers in the darkness. The only thing they've had energy for the past couple days is scrolling through Twitter. Not even a call or a post or a singular text.
It's the longest they've gone without seeing Corrigan since meeting him. He hasn't even texted. They huff at the thought. Stupid. They're stupid. The fever making them sniffle and tear up is stupid.]
Kurt complains weakly to no one, coughing into the stuffy air of their shitty apartment, curled up under their covers in the darkness. The only thing they've had energy for the past couple days is scrolling through Twitter. Not even a call or a post or a singular text.
It's the longest they've gone without seeing Corrigan since meeting him. He hasn't even texted. They huff at the thought. Stupid. They're stupid. The fever making them sniffle and tear up is stupid.]
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