"Nobody." Corrigan says it bluntly, letting himself be pulled forward -- letting himself be seduced, yet again, just like every cautionary tale had always said vampires would do. They'd use their allure, their devil-gifted powers to ensnare righteous, upstanding men and destroy them. That's what the Hunters believe, from the lowliest new recruit to whoever stands behind the organization and pulls the strings. There is no room for nuance, only the good and the evil, the light and the dark. The vampire and the hunter.
But here he is, pulled into Kurt's orbit once more, their body pressing to his, the shape familiar even beneath the layers of crinoline and starched fabric. He knows how they feel, when he holds them, when he fucks them, when he makes them scream. Corrigan's hand tightens, fingernails digging into the back of Kurt's neck, repeating: "Nobody in their right mind would miss that. But you aren't in your right mind, are you?"
And neither is he -- the dozens of shiny, healed scars littered up and down his arms and legs, scattered across the his torso, one or two placed cheekily on his ass or groin, can attest to that. Corrigan's never been bitten by a vampire in battle, never let one get close enough. He dusts them before that can ever happen, before they can get their teeth in him. But what he does with Kurt isn't quite a battle, even though he knows it should be. Kurt should be dead -- double dead, extra dead -- a thousand times over by now.
Yet here they are, pinned between Corrigan and the bar, looking up with those big, sweet, taunting eyes. Corrigan's other hand rises to cradle the other side of Kurt's neck, tilts their gaze upwards and leans in to murmur against their mouth: "You're absolutely fuckin' insane, and we both know it."
Oh, but Kurt loves getting their way. They practically purr as they feel Corrigan's body pressing against their own, boxing them in, his big hands getting firm and stern with them, nails digging into their cold skin. The silver tools he's carrying feel hot even through the layers of fabric covering them both, and it makes the vampire shudder with pleasure.
It's pretty fucked up, even by vampire standards, getting hard from the threat of weapons that could kill them so easily. But it's not just the thrill that gets them so excited, it's the control. For as many times as they've been bound and naked and vulnerable with this man, utterly overpowered and completely at his mercy, he's only ever used his silver for play. To brand them with his name, over and over and over. They belong to him just as much as he belongs to them. The constellations of bite marks covering him proves that.
Though they've been sorely tempted many times, they've never once used their venom on him. Only ever tasting him, sampling his blood like a fine wine. If they turned him, they'd kill all the fun.
"Mmmm, that's so funny. Something about pots and kettles," they croon, grinning up at him, arms twining around his neck. With his big body shielding their own, Kurt lets their fangs push out, a breath away from Corrigan's mouth. He still has the scar from where they'd bitten his bottom lip open, the first night they'd seen him after the war ended. Almost eighty years later, it still marks him as theirs. "So? Is this the part where you bring me in? Or do I have to cause a scene for the big, bad Hunter to put me in my place?"
When you have heightened abilities -- stronger, faster, better healing and recovery periods, better reactions -- it's normal to push yourself a bit farther, especially when it comes to...extracurricular activities. Corrigan knows other Hunters skydive or explore caves or learn various martial arts to push their bodies to the extreme. Far more just lean into the wild nightlife around them, visiting countless bars and clubs both to hunt vampires and to lose themselves in the booze and the drugs and the heat of so many bodies pressed together.
But Corrigan's pretty damn sure that no other Hunter seeks out that thrill, that rush of adrenaline by actually fucking a vampire. It's the butt of many jokes, usually about the mindless thralls that follow the leeches around, lost in their beautiful, irresistible aura of unholy power. Only hypnotized, helpless humans with no wills of their own go to bed with vamps. Except for Corrigan, who knows damn well how clear-minded he is. He'd need to be, to toy with Kurt's unique vulnerabilities the way he does. If he were even the slightest bit under thrall, he knows he wouldn't have been able to leave silvery gouges so deep even Kurt's rapid healing can't erase them. Silver is the one consistently accurate part of each story -- holy water only works if you truly believe in the power that had blessed it, the wood of a stake similarly just needs to be sturdy enough to pierce flesh, running water isn't an obstacle and there are workarounds for appearing in sunlight. But silver always knows, silver pierces through vampiric flesh like a deadly, searing blade, no matter what.
Corrigan knows. He's parted Kurt's flesh a thousand different ways, slid the tip of his silver-tipped stake down the line of their spine and watched them burn, dug his knife in deep enough to make them wail beneath him. He's bitten them back with silver through his tongue -- a particularly wild phase in the mid-70s, piercings everywhere he could get them -- and felt them shudder in pain and bliss. He knows that he could've killed them a thousand different times, that a too-careless movement of any of these weapons would've had them turning to dust in his arms.
But he hasn't. Just like Kurt's never let their venom touch him, never made that irrevocable change. They've teased it, of course, in those moments when they had the upper hand, when Corrigan's straining against thrice-forged iron manacled around his wrists, keeping him from lashing out. Kurt's sank into his lap, onto his cock, arms around his neck as they purr out how much they want to turn him, what a beautiful vampire he'd make. They've ridden him until they're gasping his name and biting at his neck and still, still not changing him. Not even then.
So he doesn't fear that flash of fangs now, hands going tighter, bruising on Kurt's face, their throat. "You know damn well this whole place is too high to notice, even if I dusted you right here. I could fuck you open on a stake and they wouldn't even turn to watch." Corrigan leans down, face dark and dangerous and hungry: "Doesn't mean they'll get to, though. Bathroom, now." He's yanking them along without giving them a chance to react. The crowd parts, by virtue of Corrigan's sheer bulk, his impassability. Nobody turns to watch, just as he'd predicted, though.
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Date: 2024-01-21 02:48 am (UTC)But here he is, pulled into Kurt's orbit once more, their body pressing to his, the shape familiar even beneath the layers of crinoline and starched fabric. He knows how they feel, when he holds them, when he fucks them, when he makes them scream. Corrigan's hand tightens, fingernails digging into the back of Kurt's neck, repeating: "Nobody in their right mind would miss that. But you aren't in your right mind, are you?"
And neither is he -- the dozens of shiny, healed scars littered up and down his arms and legs, scattered across the his torso, one or two placed cheekily on his ass or groin, can attest to that. Corrigan's never been bitten by a vampire in battle, never let one get close enough. He dusts them before that can ever happen, before they can get their teeth in him. But what he does with Kurt isn't quite a battle, even though he knows it should be. Kurt should be dead -- double dead, extra dead -- a thousand times over by now.
Yet here they are, pinned between Corrigan and the bar, looking up with those big, sweet, taunting eyes. Corrigan's other hand rises to cradle the other side of Kurt's neck, tilts their gaze upwards and leans in to murmur against their mouth: "You're absolutely fuckin' insane, and we both know it."
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Date: 2024-01-21 03:36 am (UTC)It's pretty fucked up, even by vampire standards, getting hard from the threat of weapons that could kill them so easily. But it's not just the thrill that gets them so excited, it's the control. For as many times as they've been bound and naked and vulnerable with this man, utterly overpowered and completely at his mercy, he's only ever used his silver for play. To brand them with his name, over and over and over. They belong to him just as much as he belongs to them. The constellations of bite marks covering him proves that.
Though they've been sorely tempted many times, they've never once used their venom on him. Only ever tasting him, sampling his blood like a fine wine. If they turned him, they'd kill all the fun.
"Mmmm, that's so funny. Something about pots and kettles," they croon, grinning up at him, arms twining around his neck. With his big body shielding their own, Kurt lets their fangs push out, a breath away from Corrigan's mouth. He still has the scar from where they'd bitten his bottom lip open, the first night they'd seen him after the war ended. Almost eighty years later, it still marks him as theirs. "So? Is this the part where you bring me in? Or do I have to cause a scene for the big, bad Hunter to put me in my place?"
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Date: 2024-01-21 09:39 pm (UTC)But Corrigan's pretty damn sure that no other Hunter seeks out that thrill, that rush of adrenaline by actually fucking a vampire. It's the butt of many jokes, usually about the mindless thralls that follow the leeches around, lost in their beautiful, irresistible aura of unholy power. Only hypnotized, helpless humans with no wills of their own go to bed with vamps. Except for Corrigan, who knows damn well how clear-minded he is. He'd need to be, to toy with Kurt's unique vulnerabilities the way he does. If he were even the slightest bit under thrall, he knows he wouldn't have been able to leave silvery gouges so deep even Kurt's rapid healing can't erase them. Silver is the one consistently accurate part of each story -- holy water only works if you truly believe in the power that had blessed it, the wood of a stake similarly just needs to be sturdy enough to pierce flesh, running water isn't an obstacle and there are workarounds for appearing in sunlight. But silver always knows, silver pierces through vampiric flesh like a deadly, searing blade, no matter what.
Corrigan knows. He's parted Kurt's flesh a thousand different ways, slid the tip of his silver-tipped stake down the line of their spine and watched them burn, dug his knife in deep enough to make them wail beneath him. He's bitten them back with silver through his tongue -- a particularly wild phase in the mid-70s, piercings everywhere he could get them -- and felt them shudder in pain and bliss. He knows that he could've killed them a thousand different times, that a too-careless movement of any of these weapons would've had them turning to dust in his arms.
But he hasn't. Just like Kurt's never let their venom touch him, never made that irrevocable change. They've teased it, of course, in those moments when they had the upper hand, when Corrigan's straining against thrice-forged iron manacled around his wrists, keeping him from lashing out. Kurt's sank into his lap, onto his cock, arms around his neck as they purr out how much they want to turn him, what a beautiful vampire he'd make. They've ridden him until they're gasping his name and biting at his neck and still, still not changing him. Not even then.
So he doesn't fear that flash of fangs now, hands going tighter, bruising on Kurt's face, their throat. "You know damn well this whole place is too high to notice, even if I dusted you right here. I could fuck you open on a stake and they wouldn't even turn to watch." Corrigan leans down, face dark and dangerous and hungry: "Doesn't mean they'll get to, though. Bathroom, now." He's yanking them along without giving them a chance to react. The crowd parts, by virtue of Corrigan's sheer bulk, his impassability. Nobody turns to watch, just as he'd predicted, though.