The thing is, Corrigan knows how they beg -- as Freyja, at least. When Kurt is Freyja, their begging is a needy, pouty, whiny affair, punctuated by exaggerated pouting and huffing when they don't get their way. It starts out sweet, coquettish, then gradually ramps up into breathless, desperate moaning, their hair loose, their freckled skin slick with sweat, their hands knotted in the sheets as they plead for him to let them come. Corrigan knows exactly what that sounds like, down to the broken, sobbing sounds they make when he tells them no and pushes them to keep toying with their body for his enjoyment.

This is nothing like that. This is someone pleading for their home, their job, their whole life, genuine terror laced through every word. Corrigan’s already half-turning as soon as Kurt speaks in that shattered tone, and by the time they're stumbling forward, saying please again and again, he's already on his way back. He's not a monster, and only a monster would deny begging that genuine.

Besides he knows them -- or at least, as much as he can. He knows the way their persona slips a little right after they climax, the way they wrinkle their nose at the mess they've made of the bed. He knows that sometimes they giggle so hard they snort, and then berate him for making them do something so undignified. He knows that sometimes the stream time is up, and they let him have five more minutes watching them curled up and catching their breath, imagining he's stroking their hair and letting them fall asleep on his chest.

So of course Corrigan reaches out, let's his hands do just that, one cradling Kurt’s cheek, the other finding their arm, pulling them closer. He knows them. He cares about them.

"Hey, hey, shh, you're all right," he murmurs, thumbing over the anxious blush rising in their cheeks, tipping their face up. "You're okay, sugar, don't worry. I'm not gonna kick you out on the street, all right? Don't panic, you're just fine. It's fine. It's all okay."