God, it's so much better in person. On the streams, Freyja is always masked or blurred or with their face partially out of frame -- just to be safe, to protect their identity. Corrigan’s spent an embarrassing amount of time imagining them just like this, naked desire, not for a camera, not for a performance. But even his wildest fantasies can't come close to the reality of those eyes locked on his, that voice lowered just for his ears, that body pressed back against his own.

There's a click as Corrigan locks the door, sliding the deadbolt home, blocking out the rest of the world for as long as he can. For as long as Kurt's his. He keeps his hand cradling their chin, not forcing them to look at him, not yet, but making it difficult to turn away. But his free hand is sliding across their hip, over their stomach, pressing their body flush against his and revealing what the careful tailoring of his slacks had hidden this whole time-- he's just as hard as they are.

"I think you can ask better than that, sweetheart," he murmurs, slipping into that deep, drawling tone he's only ever used in the bedroom -- and, once or twice, though it slips his mind just then, on the private stream, too caught up in the moment to type, switching to voice for those few deliriously heady moments when he's about to come. He'd always figured Freyja would be too caught up in their own pleasure to register the exact sound of his voice.

But it's still a damn big risk to take, one Corrigan would never go near unless he was really, really horny.