Vampire!Kurt: The Sweet Flowers Of Elysium
this is something of a vampire!kurt drabble, which probably belongs after the next instalmlent (which should be coming soon), I just needed to release this bunny from my brain, so I could get on with the important stuff i.e. prep. And guess what? You get Kurt pov, you lucky people.
Currently unbeta'ed
The Sweet Flowers Of Elysium
Kurt's dreaming. And he dreams of those fields now devoid of both life and death, trapped in a stasis of destruction, their masters and victims both gone, and only the field left as a bitter monument to death.
All things die. It's just that most things are not faced with the indignity of having to walk around afterward. Like him. Like the monsters in the field, with their sharp teeth still flashing in the moonlight beneath their coating of gore. Like, yet unalike. What Kurt cannot understand, is why he is not like them. Theirs was, in a way, an enviable existence, no doubts just the certainty of appetite and the thrill of the kill. They do not gulp at the blood of rabbits feeling at once ecstatic and sick. Or at least, they did not, they are no more, released into the dark beyond being that was once his longed-for destination. And whither now? He does not know, he is willing to let Logan take the lead. He knows that Logan knows more of such matters than he ever lets on and is willing to be led by him to wherever he pleases. Somehow, that stirs feelings that Kurt thought denied to the dead, what use do the dead have of what one priest he knew called sexual generation? And yet, he knows that he is beyond god now, that the touch, the presence of the Good Father would burn him now, as surely as his erstwhile cousins in the field burned, and if so, clearly he is beyond God's rules entirely. He is just desire, he is just unrestrained feeling, and yet, what makes him different from the dark creatures in the field?
He can see a poppy growing among the grey corn, a flash of red that brings memories not his own of sodden fields and swallowing mud and flowers like tears of blood marking the graves of friend and foe alike. And he reaches out for the flower, and the moment he grasps it, it turns to dust. He should not be surprised. But what catches him is the blood scent of the dust, and at once he is back in the tower struggling against a firm, dead hardness of cold muscle, struggling as the breath leaves his body, and his blood begins to trickle. And then, he falls back, and there is only dust, dust smelling attractively-insidiously of long-dried blood, and then he recognises the scent as almost his own, and he tries to retch and cannot and his only thought...
...is to flee. And he is awake once more. And alone.
Currently unbeta'ed
The Sweet Flowers Of Elysium
Kurt's dreaming. And he dreams of those fields now devoid of both life and death, trapped in a stasis of destruction, their masters and victims both gone, and only the field left as a bitter monument to death.
All things die. It's just that most things are not faced with the indignity of having to walk around afterward. Like him. Like the monsters in the field, with their sharp teeth still flashing in the moonlight beneath their coating of gore. Like, yet unalike. What Kurt cannot understand, is why he is not like them. Theirs was, in a way, an enviable existence, no doubts just the certainty of appetite and the thrill of the kill. They do not gulp at the blood of rabbits feeling at once ecstatic and sick. Or at least, they did not, they are no more, released into the dark beyond being that was once his longed-for destination. And whither now? He does not know, he is willing to let Logan take the lead. He knows that Logan knows more of such matters than he ever lets on and is willing to be led by him to wherever he pleases. Somehow, that stirs feelings that Kurt thought denied to the dead, what use do the dead have of what one priest he knew called sexual generation? And yet, he knows that he is beyond god now, that the touch, the presence of the Good Father would burn him now, as surely as his erstwhile cousins in the field burned, and if so, clearly he is beyond God's rules entirely. He is just desire, he is just unrestrained feeling, and yet, what makes him different from the dark creatures in the field?
He can see a poppy growing among the grey corn, a flash of red that brings memories not his own of sodden fields and swallowing mud and flowers like tears of blood marking the graves of friend and foe alike. And he reaches out for the flower, and the moment he grasps it, it turns to dust. He should not be surprised. But what catches him is the blood scent of the dust, and at once he is back in the tower struggling against a firm, dead hardness of cold muscle, struggling as the breath leaves his body, and his blood begins to trickle. And then, he falls back, and there is only dust, dust smelling attractively-insidiously of long-dried blood, and then he recognises the scent as almost his own, and he tries to retch and cannot and his only thought...
...is to flee. And he is awake once more. And alone.