As far as ill-advised business choices go, buying an entire hotel sight unseen isn't the worst thing Corrigan’s ever done. Top five, maybe, but not the very worst. Granted, he's barely had time to tour even the common areas, too busy finalizing the deal and looking into various partnerships -- a couple above-board businesses and a few under-the-table ones he's connected with have expressed interest in having a discreet, comfortable place to conduct operations.
Even now, standing in the box-filled manager's office, he's half-hunched over his laptop, drafting out emails and memos and graphs. When the knock comes, Corrigan very nearly calls out that he's too busy to conduct interviews -- but he desperately needs staff. Reception, housekeeping, kitchen staff and wait staff and everything. He also needs a damn assistant to keep him from just torching the place for the insurance money. So he calls out a summons, distracted, barely looking up. At first.
The scent hits him first -- perfume, something fresh and bright and floral, cutting sweetly through the new paint smell that hangs heavy in the air. Corrigan pauses, glancing up, over the rims of the dark-rimmed glasses he only wears when he's too busy to put in contacts. The name rings a bell, of course, but he's too busy taking in the fitted blouse and slacks and the pretty face, framed by a couple loose tendrils of hair, to really register who this is.
...maybe he's been so focused on closing this deal that he's gone a long time without even looking at an attractive person, except through a screen. Maybe.
Clearing his throat, Corrigan straightens up a bit, pushing the thought away. "Interview. Right. Foe the...position." At this point he can't even remember which interview is for what. God, he needs an assistant.
It kinda feels like one of those dumb scenes in cliche romance movies where the characters lock eyes for the first time, and the music starts swelling, the background losing focus, everything moving in slow-mo like seeing a beautiful person makes time stop around them. It’s complete nonsense. Or at least, Kurt used to think that.
Because this guy is so gorgeous is knocks the air out of their lungs.
The previous owner had been what you’d expect—an aging doughy sleazy white guy with bad vision and worse breath—so Kurt had just sort of assumed the new owner would be much the same. Certainly not the most beautiful man they’d ever laid eyes on, statuesque and muscled, filling out his impeccably tailored suit in all the right places. He has the most intense eyes, gaze nothing short of arresting, and when he speaks—that gentle rumbling baritone makes shivers run up and down their spine.
Suddenly they’re very glad they decided on slacks instead of a skirt for this interview. Way easier to hide a boner in smart pants like these.
“Yeah, um— it said ‘receptionist’ on the thing, but I’ll take anything, if I’m honest,” they say, flashing their maybe-future-boss a lopsided grin full of braces. So much for professional. They really should try to channel some clean Freyja energy in here, so their dorky ass won’t get them in trouble. They really need this job.
Boldly, they step further inside and extend their hand for Molloy to take. “It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”
Corrigan’s thoughts are trying to puzzle out how someone so small, so delicate can still be mostly legs, so he doesn't respond to the handshake right away. Then there's the flash of braces and "I'll take anything" and it's only years of practicing a poker face that keeps him from smirking slowly and responding "oh yeah, I bet you will."
The hesitation is only a couple seconds, but it's so out of character that Corrigan is sure he comes across as short, rude even when he briefly shakes Kurt’s hand and immediately turns to start moving boxes. "Mmm, yes. Reception." The boxes are mostly files, old accounts that the previous owner never made digital, like it's the goddamn 1950s. Corrigan hefts a couple of them to make room in a chair, aware that he's definitely going to sweat through his dress shirt by the end of the day.
"Please, have a seat," he calls over his shoulder as he sets the boxes down, pulling off his suit jacket to try and alleviate the already-starting sweat. "You're one of the, ah -- permanent residents, if I remember correctly?" It had seemed like an odd way to run a business, but maybe that's why the previous owner -- nervous and fidgety and desperate to skip town -- had been so eager to sell. He'd told Corrigan something about the residents being an integral part of the hotel, but by that point the papers were already drafted and Corrigan just didn't care.
Now he's a little more curious. He'd expected the residents to be withdrawn, wary people down on their luck, needing a place to lie low. Kurt is bright and chipper and beaming, all big eyes and silky hair and legs. So he leans a hip against the desk, crossing his arms and prompting: "What's that like? Living here?"
Oh. Welp. Maybe their natural charms just won’t work on this guy. Look what a friendly tone and goofy grin got them: the most pointedly short handshake of their life. The interview hasn’t even started, and they’re already failing.
But that’s no reason to despair. Kurt is nothing if not adaptable, a chameleon—you have to be, in their line of work—so all they need here is a change of strategy. They sit down when asked, prompt and agreeable, back straight and ankles crossed, the very picture of a dutiful employee. They intend to answer every question he has with that same agreeable tone, with carefully constructed white lies, and kiss as much fucking ass as they need to.
They try to ignore how much they want to do that literally. Molloy sheds his suit jacket, and his shirt is damp and clinging and… well, he doesn’t exactly hurt to look at.
“Living at the Hotel, sir?” They have to tread carefully here. Suss out if Molloy actually knows what this place is. Was. Used to be. “Well, I can only speak for myself, but I find my residency here to be a brilliant arrangement for all parties. In exchange for room and board, I have duties I perform on the premises, and I do all my work from here. The stability this provides me has made me a motivated and high-achieving worker, who takes great pride in what they do and where they do it.”
See? Finally putting that damn college degree to good use. “Though of course, should the residency arrangement no longer be within the scope of projected operations, sir, I can assure you that my loyalty to this space remains solid. I… I really love working here.”
They're definitely good at following orders -- and Corrigan hates that his mind goes there first, thinking about his new potential employee in such a filthy context. Kurt just wants to remain employed, remained housed, and he's over here mentally calculating how long it'd take him to get them out of that blouse. He needs to get laid, badly, or he'll keep mentally perving over any cute doe-eyed person who calls him sir.
"Duties? Elaborate on that," Corrigan prompts, forcing himself to assume a less intimidating posture, one hand resting on the desk, the other reaching to loosen his tie a bit. It's too crowded with boxes for him to sit properly, and he's not about to make Kurt stand. "I'll admit I bought the place sight-unseen, so I don't know much beyond recent revenue stats and the desirable location."
And the recommendation of a psychic friend, who'd begged him to hire xer as a receptionist, but Corrigan isn't going to mention that. Besides, if Kurt ends up a better front-desk candidate, they'll take priority over Solstice, considering they already know the place.
Still...the thought of Kurt sitting behind the imposing oak desk, cheerful and bright and smiling openly at every patron makes an odd spark of something like...jealousy flare up in Corrigan’s chest. Which is ridiculous, he met them five minutes ago. He shouldn't be thinking about how much he enjoys their undivided, eager-to-please attention.
There are a lot of things he shouldn't be thinking about Kurt right now.
Jesus Christ, he's loosening his tie now, positively looming over them where he's leaning against the desk, supporting his weight on one arm bulging with muscles. Kurt has done porn that starts exactly like this. Is he doing this on purpose? Or does he honestly have no concept of how attractive he looks right now?
At the very least, Molloy definitely has no concept of the Hotel's operations. They suppose this is both good and bad. Good in the sense that, should they be allowed to stay, they can continue their modeling work in secret. Bad in the sense that, should anyone narc, they could all get in a lot of trouble. Sure, most of the permanent residents here are classed as just adult entertainers, but plenty of them do take clients into their beds. And for as liberal as the state claims to be, sex work is still illegal in California.
But for right now, Molloy doesn't know anything, leaving Kurt with the freedom to control the narrative. And, in their humble opinion, there's no one in this building more qualified to represent the Hotel in a positive light than them.
"It depends, sir. We've operated with a rotating roster, each resident taking on duties dependent on skill and experience, and dividing responsibilities amongst ourselves," they say, prim and proper and professional with their hands resting delicately in their lap. "Some perform maintenance on the property, some handle client relations, some handle financial records. Housekeeping duties have been equally divided. By operating like this, with permanent residents having both individual and communal responsibilities rather than relying on temp hires, the Hotel has been able to significantly reduce its overheads and consistently turn a profit for several years, even with a reduced number of available beds. You've seen our stats. The numbers don't lie, sir."
For some reason, speaking to him like this while he towers over them makes Kurt's heart pound in their chest. It's thrilling. Someone who looks like them isn't typically expected to have their level of business acumen—and if Kurt loves doing anything, it's to defy expectations. "My personal duties have included business-to-business communications, online and grassroots marketing, direct client relations, and managing the laundry roster. I believe these experiences not only make me suited for the receptionist position as it stands today, but also prove my managerial capacity, which opens me up for professional development and growth within the company."
Corrigan is savvy enough to know there's a piece missing -- something that explains how the former owner could turn such a tidy profit, when many other businesses who provide hospitality services have gone under, but which also explains why the man was so desperate to sell and skip town. Kurt is eloquent and well-spoken, but they're giving away absolutely nothing. It's a rare talent, being able to seem ostensibly honest and transparent, but also so careful.
So Corrigan decides to be blunt. Fingers still hooked in his tie, he meets Kurt's eyes evenly. "You made a profit each year, yes, but it's been grossly mismanaged. I got this place for a song, and there weren't any provisions for the permanent residents in the contracts. If I'm going to take the risk of keeping you all on, I need to work closely with someone who understands this place, and how it can make money again."
He leans forward a bit, looming over Kurt, tone soft and serious. "I don't need a receptionist. I need an assistant to keep this place from going up in flames. Are you capable of that?"
Oh. When he goes all stern like that, leaning in, saying without words that he knows something about how the Hotel is run is fucky, Kurt feels a shiver go down the length of their spine. Intellectually, they know his words should frighten them. No provisions for the permanent residents. The Hotel is potentially a volatile money sink. It should scare them senseless, the thought of losing their job and potentially going to prison, if their secret is revealed.
But instead, all they can think about is what a compelling Dom this man would make. How easily they would surrender to him. There’s no hiding the flush of color over their cheeks.
“Yes,” they breathe, before they have the chance to reel themself in. It’s humiliating when it hits them, just how needy they sound. Clearing their throat, Kurt straightens up and tries to return to a somewhat professional headspace: “Yes, sir, I am. If I may be so bold, there’s no one more capable in the building than I am.”
They meet his gaze head-on, fighting through the blushing and the shivers, keeping their tone firm and serious to match Mr. Molloy’s. “I know all the ins and outs of this place, and how to improve it.” And how to keep their cam work a secret. “You won’t regret hiring me as your assistant, sir.”
The way Kurt looks and sounds saying yes sir should be fucking illegal. Corrigan likes to think he's a man of control, that he's able to keep even his most intense feelings under wraps, but his fingers actually flex against the desk with the urge to grab at that neat bun and tug Kurt onto their knees between his legs, or to slide past those plush, slightly-parted lips and into their mouth --
"I'm certainly counting on it," Corrigan says, straightening up, trying to hide his racing, filthy thoughts and overcorrecting into near-robotic detachment. No doubt his constant switching from cool and blunt to welcoming and warm is giving Kurt emotional whiplash. So he tries to strike a happy medium, rolling up his sleeves and nodding towards the door. "You could start with giving me a tour. Call it a working interview, hm?"
Anything to get out of the too-warm office, before Corrigan just bends Kurt over the desk and shows them exactly what sort of assistance he'd like them to be capable of.
It is giving emotional whiplash, but honestly? Kurt is more intrigued than ever. More tempted. The hot and cold makes images of punishments flash before their eyes, immediately soothed by praise, those huge twitching hands tenderly stroking their cheek left hot and throbbing after a vicious slap.
They welcome the sudden request—command, their filthy mind insists—as a distraction, something to pour their nervous needy energy into. It’s all they can do to rise calmly out of their seat, hands folded demurely at their front.
“I would be delighted, sir,” they say with a bright smile, braces peeking through. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the lobby and front offices, a-and introduce you to some of the residents. Right this way, sir…”
Each sir, in that bright eager voice settles in Corrigan’s stomach like a physical caress, building low and hot and pleasant. Even as he nods for Kurt to lead the way, his gaze is wandering, taking in the way their clothes fit, hugging their waist, their legs, their ass. The filthy, wicked part of Corrigan is insisting that has to be on purpose, that Kurt has to be fully aware of how appealing they are, of the low undercurrent of tension that's inevitably going to break.
And then what? This is Kurt's home, their work, their community all in one. If they offer themselves up to Corrigan, offer to do anything to make sure their place is secure, is he truly the kind of man to accept that offer? Would he give in to his indecent fantasies and tear those perfectly fitting slacks right off?
Yeah, Corrigan has to admit, barely noticing the lobby as they pass through it, eyes unmoving from their slow roving up and down Kurt. He probably would.
Of course, there's a business part of his mind making note of what needs to be upgraded -- new carpet, new paint, better computers at the front desk and more elegant furniture in the lobby, and so on. But that's only about 30% of his mind, if he's being honest. The rest is devoted to wondering if the cute freckles across Kurt's cheeks are elsewhere on their body, if the pretty blush stretches down their chest when they're really embarrassed or flustered. Then he's thinking about the many, many ways he can get them that flustered, and honestly it's a miracle he hasn't walked into a wall yet.
At this point the whole staff is going to see Corrigan eying Kurt like they're a tempting dessert he's about to devour, and if gossip here is anything like office gossip, soon everyone will know the new boss wants in the young employee's pants.
...somehow the thought makes Corrigan more smugly satisfied than anything else.
It's not just the whole staff. It's Kurt too. His eyes wander, and they notice.
It only makes sense. They make their living being observed, being a perpetual object of lechery, they know what being beheld feels like on their skin. Whether it's one pair of hungry eyes or hundreds, it matters little. Whenever they're observed, their bills end up paid.
In Mr. Molloy's case, it's just more literal than ever.
Knowing that he stares, that he likes what he sees—because they're also fine-tuned to pick up on that, whether the stares are appreciative or loathing—makes the young interviewee feel nervous, yes, but... also more confident. They like being the center of attention, being captivating. It makes them straighten up, makes their shoulders roll back, their chin tip up, their strides longer and more graceful, even in high heels. They try to keep an air of professionalism as they show Molloy the front desk, take him into offices and storage spaces, as they point out assets and weaknesses with the building's presentation like they're a goddamn real estate agent.
But they would be lying if they said their hips always swayed as confidently as this. As brazenly. Kurt is not below sleeping their way into a job, if it comes to that.
"... and while most of our guests only check in for a one-night stay, we do offer packages for weekends and longer," they chirp as they pass the front office section where keys and mail are sorted, currently staffed by a young woman with a shock of red-orange hair and a deep, deep cleavage straining against her full chest. "Ginger takes care of any incoming mail addressed to guests, and sees to their continued comfort during their extended stay. Don't you, Ginger?" they tease, grinning at their co-worker, winking playfully at her. They're feeling fun and flirty, okay? It wouldn't be appropriate to take that out on their future boss.
Ginger is probably doing a perfectly adequate job, and is very nice and friendly and pretty, standing and offering her hand to Corrigan to shake. And he responds on autopilot, shakes her hand, makes some comment about the weather, very polite and neutral. He's impressed he manages that, honestly.
Because as soon as Kurt had flashed that smile, all braces and perfectly applied lip gloss, the only emotion he'd felt was a hot, churning jealousy. They've been nothing but professional and cordial, as befits the interviewer/interviewee dynamic, and it wouldn't make any sense for them to wink or grin like that at Corrigan.
But he wants them to. He wants the full focus of every scrap of their attention, on him alone, and he wants to be able to enact extremely unprofessional punishments when they don't give it. He wants to be able to reach out, slide his fingers under the silky collar of Kurt's blouse and murmur a command to obey or he's going to bend them over Ginger's desk and let her watch them be disciplined.
God, he's been watching way too many niche kink streams. Corrigan considers momentarily whether he should let himself daydream about that instead, before putting the thought aside. His favorite streamer also has braces.
"I'd like to see the rooms," he says abruptly, reaching out -- on pure, thoughtless autopilot, that's all, not because he's thinking about a cute freckled streamer with an equally cheeky grin and long pretty hair -- and resting his hand against Kurt's lower back for a moment. Just to guide them, prompt the tour forward! That's all! Nevermind that it's so deeply unprofessional it'll be a miracle if he isn't sued for harassment.
...honestly being sued might be worth it, in exchange for Corrigan confirming that his hand fits almost perfectly between the subtle curves of Kurt's hips, across their spine, just above their ass. He could almost die happy, knowing that.
Oh, Kurt likes that. They shouldn't, they really shouldn't, but they do.
Mr. Molloy's hand is so big as it settles on their lower back, huge and warm through their blouse, fingers almost spanning from hip to hip, and their whole body stiffens at the touch before going soupy and hot, a wave of shivers racing through their body. From where she's sitting, Ginger can't quite see what's happening, where the new owner's hand settles—he could be squeezing Kurt's ass, for all she knows—but she immediately notices them going red. The grin she shoots them is damn near predatory.
"Have fun on the tour~" she coos, waving them off with one hand while the other reaches for her phone. Kurt can practically hear her acrylics clicking against the screen as she attacks the group chat with the new hot gossip:
Freyja beat us all to it.
Kurt, for their part, continues on with the tour as thorough and professional as ever, not commenting on the inappropriate touch from their superior. They certainly don't seem perturbed, if how they keep just a little closer to Molloy as they walk him down the hallway is any indication. They chirp and chatter about the different sizes of rooms they offer, the amenities and costs and overheads, while walking on sheer autopilot towards the only room they really have the key for. Their own.
"So, as you can see, sir, for being one of the standard rooms, it's still fairly spacious," Kurt says, beaming as they lead him inside, silently thankful they cleaned the place up earlier. Tripod and ringlight stuffed into the wardrobe, clamps and cuffs and dildos and harnesses and seventeen flavors of lube all safely stored in the box under their bed. The bed which they knelt on and cooed at the camera from just this last weekend, fingers curling into the bedspread as they lowered themself onto a formidable toy like it was nothing.
The bedspread they're currently petting with a neatly manicured hand, showing the quality of their linens to their new boss. "We take quality very seriously here. Medium-firm profile mattresses with quilted pillow tops, even in our standard rooms. No one leaves the Hotel disappointed, sir."
Part of Corrigan realizes that he should be at least a little concerned about the way hes already affected the rumor mill. No doubt the entire staff will know about his deeply unprofessional interest in Kurt within the hour.
But he can't bring himself to care, not when he has the full force of that sweet megawatt smile focused on him, not when he doesn't have to share Kurt's attention with anyone. All he feels now is triumphant.
So he nods along to the description of the amenities, the decor, satisfied that he can get by with just knowing the overall big picture. If he hires Kurt as an assistant, they can remember the specifics. If he hires Kurt as an assistant, he can require a dress code that involves pencil skirts and stilettos and --
That particular line of thought is interrupted by the sight of the room. It's a very nice room, clean and neat and decorated in a very neutral fashion. The wallpaper is cream-colored, the bedspread a basic floral print that must be repeated in thousands of hotels across the world. There's no reason that it should tug insistently at his memory, like he's seen it before. Maybe in a movie? A TV show? It looks like a stock photo of a hotel room. Why is it so familiar?
"What's the closet space like?" Corrigan asks, distracted, frowning at the unassuming bedspread and trying to remember.
Kurt stalwartly ignores the buzzing in their pocket, the group chat going bananas, messages of support and jealousy and teasing, both good-natured and not, flooding in throughout the tour. They can’t believe Ginger tattled. Kurt hasn’t even slept with the man yet! She could’ve at least waited until they had! Slut’s honor!
For right now, they don’t have a choice but to let the texts and tags pour in. Molloy is inspecting their room, standing very close to them, a pinched look of concentration on his face. Kurt doesn’t want to miss a second of this by worrying about what some whores are saying about them.
“The closet space is excellent, sir,” they say, taking a couple steps to the wooden wardrobe. “We cleaned out a furniture manufacturer’s liquidation sale for these. Solid wood, lacquered, ornate but practical, space even for a floor-length nightgown.“
Their fingers close around the handle of the closet door, hesitating. “I would love to show you the interior, sir, but… um, this is actually my room?” The admission comes with a soft flush of color across their nose, spreading over their cheek. They grin, lopsided and embarrassed.
“I have all my stuff in here, and… if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to keep some things private.” Namely the fetish gear and shiny latex dresses and kinky leather harnesses that hang inside, alongside their streaming gear and more… elaborate sex toys. It’s kinda hard to store a Sybian.
The hesitancy, the soft blush is...strangely endearing. Corrigan blinks a couple times, then looks back around the room, this time with the knowledge that this is Kurt's home, such as it is. Now that he's looking, he can see little personal touches -- a bright tablecloth beneath the coffee maker, a prism hung in the window to catch the light. Obviously they'd cleaned up, to make the best impression, but the room seems...warmer now. Different.
"Of course, I'd never want to impose on your privacy, Kurt," Corrigan says, glancing back to meet their eyes -- for the first time all interview, actually. His hand softens on the pillow, absently stroking it a couple times, gently. A caress. "What sort of manager would I be if I did, hm?"
There's a pause, then Corrigan pulls his hand away from the bed, tucking it into his pocket. "Ah, I'll be staying in the penthouse suite, so you'll have to give me some pointers on hotel living. If you'd -- show me there, next? I had my luggage sent up, but I'll never find it without help."
They really like the way he says their name. There’s a softness in his voice when he does, something tender and warm, the same thing they see in his eyes—dark, endless, turning the color of molten honey in the sunlight through the window—when they finally lock with theirs, making their tummy do flips.
His fingers caress their pillow with that same soft warmth. Irrationally, Kurt wishes it was their face he was caressing instead. It’s a decidedly more innocent desire than they had for him when they entered the room.
“Certainly, sir,” they say, their smile brighter as they step away from the wardrobe, leaving their secrets behind. “The penthouse suite is particularly luxurious. We haven’t rented it out to guests ever, so only the previous owner touched it. I hope you’ll find it to your liking.”
When they pass him in order to open the door for him, Kurt shivers from just his presence, his warmth. They want that curious, caressing hand all over them.
Corrigan wrinkles his nose at the mention of the previous owner, following Kurt closely and mentally noting that they barely come up to his shoulder. He's a good few inches past six feet, but he's never felt quite as huge before. He's pretty sure his hand could fit all the way around Kurt’s throat without having to stretch.
Before he thinks better of it, Corrigan’s stopped close enough behind his slight, short maybe-employee that he can see the tiny loose curls at the nape of their neck, brushing the delicate notches of their spine, drawing his eye down beneath the silk. There's one loose strand that's come undone during the walk, and before he can stop himself, Corrigan’s reaching out, slowly hooking his finger beneath the silky lock and guiding it back up into place.
"I hope you deep-cleaned the suite after he left," he jokes, close enough that he can see Kurt’s freckled skin shiver at the heat of his breath. The world stops as he twines the loose strand of hair around the base of their bun, tucks in the end, then lowers his hand. Inside, Corrigan’s thrumming with hunger, with need, but he stays impassive as he steps past Kurt and out the door.
If his interest wasn't obvious before, it certainly is now. He barely glances at them the rest of the walk to the elevator, forcing himself to stay calm, detached. If they're not interested, if they don't try to initiate any more contact, he'll -- deal with it, somehow.
Probably by spending another cool $500 on a personal Freyja stream, but how he copes is his business, okay?
It feels like time itself stops around them. Everything just stops, the world halting dead in its tracks, as Molloy's hand gently tucking in that stray lock of Kurt's hair takes precedence. They feel like they can't breathe, too focused on Molloy's proximity, the brush of his fingers, his breath on their skin.
And then he steps away, leaving them shivering in his wake.
Kurt is intimately familiar with power play, with dominance and submission and eager compliance... in theory. They've only ever streamed that sort of dynamic, alone in the room they leave behind, only acting powerless for a captive audience while they remain completely in control. Even during their private shows, the expensive one-on-one packages they offer, Freyja is the one who submits and obeys. Kurt still controls the pace, the force, the camera.
There's only one customer who's ever made Kurt feel like this before, all liquid inside, wobbly and unsteady and desperate with need. They didn't think it was possible someone could make them feel like this in real life. But here he is, in the flesh, standing right beside them in the ascending elevator with a detached look on his face, while Kurt blushes and desperately clenches their thighs together. They feel completely out of control, and yet they've never been this hard. They've never felt so needy before, desperate for this man to touch them again.
What would Freyja do in this situation? "Say, sir... when we get to the penthouse, is there anything else I can help you with?" They pin him with a heated look, teething their lip, gazing up at him with equal parts hope and trepidation. They better have been reading him right. If this gamble doesn't pay off, then... "Any other... services I can provide?"
Corrigan is about to claim victory, about to lean forward and cradle Kurt’s pretty, blushing face in his hands and kiss them senseless, uncaring if there are security cameras or if anyone comes in and sees them, only focused on taking the prize he's so rightfully won. He's smiling slow and liquid and smug, eyes flicking down over Kurt’s flushed cheeks, their darkened eyes, their full lip caught between braced teeth --
-- and then it hits him. Not from the decor or the blankets or the wallpaper, not from the tone of voice or the slight lisp or the bright smile, but from that specific lip bite. A carefully framed camera, low music doing nothing to hide the obscene sounds of long lubed fingers working skillfully inside someone, of yielding silicone sliding inch by inch between shaky freckled thighs, the breathy moan when the streamer takes it all, right down to the hilt.
That lip bite, those braces, that voice -- "you like what you see, daddy?" And Corrigan with one hand on his dick and the other frantically typing yes, freyja, yes yes YES
In the real world, the elevator slides open, and Corrigan realizes he's been staring -- frowning, baffled, incredulous, putting it all together finally, finally. Part of him half-expects Kurt to realize at the same time, but that's ridiculous. southcalman only ever sends dick pics. There's no way they could recognize him, not unless he gets naked. Which is...something he'd been seriously considering until a moment ago.
With a brief mumbled response that's too unintelligible for even Corrigan to know what he means, he turns abruptly and starts down the hallway to the penthouse suite. Think, he needs to think...
Oh, what a rush. He looks towards them with that victorious look on his face, a smug hunger tugging at his lips, and Kurt just knows they’ll bend and break to his will tonight. They can feel it in their bones, sure as anything, can almost taste his breath on their lips as they wait for him to turn towards them, cradle their face in his hands, take them right here in the elevator car—
And it’s gone. As soon as that look came over him, it disappears. Like they imagined it. A trick of the light. Then, as soon as the doors open, he stalks away.
“Sir?” Their stomach sinks, heart plummeting, a cold flush of shame and regret spilling over their skin, leaving them shivering. He rejected them. No. God, no. How could they have been so stupid? They gambled their home, their livelihood, and they lost. All cause they were thinking with their dick instead of their head.
“Sir, p-please, I’m so sorry,” they hurry to say, panicked as they rush out of the elevator, following him, high heels making them even more unsteady. If they didn’t look pathetic and desperate before, they sure must now. “I don’t know what came over me, I— please, sir, just forget this ever happened. It was stupid, I was being stupid, i-it won’t happen again, I swear! Sir, I’m begging you, please—“
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."
The man reaches for them, and Kurt falls right into his arms, no hesitation. They shiver at the feeling of his hand gently caressing their face, flushed and blotchy with the early press of tears, his body firm and solid and warm pressed against theirs. Sure, it’s not the way they wanted to feel him, but they’ll happily take it.
Anything to not be out on their ass.
“Thank you, sir, th-thank you,” they breathe, shuddering as they will their breathing to slow, their pulse to ease. For a moment, they really felt like they ruined everything by coming onto him. In hindsight, they feel silly having done that—it’s wildly unprofessional, definitely sexual harassment—and they’re not discounting how lucky they are that Molloy is understanding, forgiving of their error.
That being said, it’s supremely hard to ignore how good it feels to be held by him, comforted by him. How their spine tingles deliciously as he calls them sugar. They hope he doesn’t feel it. They don’t need to be in more trouble right now. “I-I’m really sorry, sir, I know I shouldn’t have done that. I dunno why I… sir, I’m not usually like this…”
That must sound kinda funny, coming from Freyja of all people.
This close, Corrigan can smell Kurt's perfume, their shampoo, whatever gel or spray they'd put in their hair to keep it in place. They fit perfectly against him, just under his chin, like they were made to be there. Like he'd always imagined they would.
The revelation that Freyja is Kurt (or vice versa) is still buzzing in his head, but Corrigan also knows damn well that he'd be a fucking idiot to pass up the chance to get closer to the person who'd been the object of his desire for months now. They're still shaking against him, trying to calm down, and he tucks them closer and slowly smooths his big hand down their back.
"It's all right. You've had a lot of change recently, that's enough to make anyone stressed out." It's an easy out, and it'd be very kind and professional if Corrigan wasn't slowly tracing his fingers in little circles at the small of Kurt's back. He drops his voice a touch more and adds: "Or maybe I'm just that special. Hm?"
Then he steps away, this time slower, telegraphing that it isn't a rejection, isn't him trying to get away from them. He wants Kurt to follow. He wants to get them into that suite and never let them leave.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ohohoho mayhaps~
Even now, standing in the box-filled manager's office, he's half-hunched over his laptop, drafting out emails and memos and graphs. When the knock comes, Corrigan very nearly calls out that he's too busy to conduct interviews -- but he desperately needs staff. Reception, housekeeping, kitchen staff and wait staff and everything. He also needs a damn assistant to keep him from just torching the place for the insurance money. So he calls out a summons, distracted, barely looking up. At first.
The scent hits him first -- perfume, something fresh and bright and floral, cutting sweetly through the new paint smell that hangs heavy in the air. Corrigan pauses, glancing up, over the rims of the dark-rimmed glasses he only wears when he's too busy to put in contacts. The name rings a bell, of course, but he's too busy taking in the fitted blouse and slacks and the pretty face, framed by a couple loose tendrils of hair, to really register who this is.
...maybe he's been so focused on closing this deal that he's gone a long time without even looking at an attractive person, except through a screen. Maybe.
Clearing his throat, Corrigan straightens up a bit, pushing the thought away. "Interview. Right. Foe the...position." At this point he can't even remember which interview is for what. God, he needs an assistant.
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Because this guy is so gorgeous is knocks the air out of their lungs.
The previous owner had been what you’d expect—an aging doughy sleazy white guy with bad vision and worse breath—so Kurt had just sort of assumed the new owner would be much the same. Certainly not the most beautiful man they’d ever laid eyes on, statuesque and muscled, filling out his impeccably tailored suit in all the right places. He has the most intense eyes, gaze nothing short of arresting, and when he speaks—that gentle rumbling baritone makes shivers run up and down their spine.
Suddenly they’re very glad they decided on slacks instead of a skirt for this interview. Way easier to hide a boner in smart pants like these.
“Yeah, um— it said ‘receptionist’ on the thing, but I’ll take anything, if I’m honest,” they say, flashing their maybe-future-boss a lopsided grin full of braces. So much for professional. They really should try to channel some clean Freyja energy in here, so their dorky ass won’t get them in trouble. They really need this job.
Boldly, they step further inside and extend their hand for Molloy to take. “It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”
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The hesitation is only a couple seconds, but it's so out of character that Corrigan is sure he comes across as short, rude even when he briefly shakes Kurt’s hand and immediately turns to start moving boxes. "Mmm, yes. Reception." The boxes are mostly files, old accounts that the previous owner never made digital, like it's the goddamn 1950s. Corrigan hefts a couple of them to make room in a chair, aware that he's definitely going to sweat through his dress shirt by the end of the day.
"Please, have a seat," he calls over his shoulder as he sets the boxes down, pulling off his suit jacket to try and alleviate the already-starting sweat. "You're one of the, ah -- permanent residents, if I remember correctly?" It had seemed like an odd way to run a business, but maybe that's why the previous owner -- nervous and fidgety and desperate to skip town -- had been so eager to sell. He'd told Corrigan something about the residents being an integral part of the hotel, but by that point the papers were already drafted and Corrigan just didn't care.
Now he's a little more curious. He'd expected the residents to be withdrawn, wary people down on their luck, needing a place to lie low. Kurt is bright and chipper and beaming, all big eyes and silky hair and legs. So he leans a hip against the desk, crossing his arms and prompting: "What's that like? Living here?"
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But that’s no reason to despair. Kurt is nothing if not adaptable, a chameleon—you have to be, in their line of work—so all they need here is a change of strategy. They sit down when asked, prompt and agreeable, back straight and ankles crossed, the very picture of a dutiful employee. They intend to answer every question he has with that same agreeable tone, with carefully constructed white lies, and kiss as much fucking ass as they need to.
They try to ignore how much they want to do that literally. Molloy sheds his suit jacket, and his shirt is damp and clinging and… well, he doesn’t exactly hurt to look at.
“Living at the Hotel, sir?” They have to tread carefully here. Suss out if Molloy actually knows what this place is. Was. Used to be. “Well, I can only speak for myself, but I find my residency here to be a brilliant arrangement for all parties. In exchange for room and board, I have duties I perform on the premises, and I do all my work from here. The stability this provides me has made me a motivated and high-achieving worker, who takes great pride in what they do and where they do it.”
See? Finally putting that damn college degree to good use. “Though of course, should the residency arrangement no longer be within the scope of projected operations, sir, I can assure you that my loyalty to this space remains solid. I… I really love working here.”
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"Duties? Elaborate on that," Corrigan prompts, forcing himself to assume a less intimidating posture, one hand resting on the desk, the other reaching to loosen his tie a bit. It's too crowded with boxes for him to sit properly, and he's not about to make Kurt stand. "I'll admit I bought the place sight-unseen, so I don't know much beyond recent revenue stats and the desirable location."
And the recommendation of a psychic friend, who'd begged him to hire xer as a receptionist, but Corrigan isn't going to mention that. Besides, if Kurt ends up a better front-desk candidate, they'll take priority over Solstice, considering they already know the place.
Still...the thought of Kurt sitting behind the imposing oak desk, cheerful and bright and smiling openly at every patron makes an odd spark of something like...jealousy flare up in Corrigan’s chest. Which is ridiculous, he met them five minutes ago. He shouldn't be thinking about how much he enjoys their undivided, eager-to-please attention.
There are a lot of things he shouldn't be thinking about Kurt right now.
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At the very least, Molloy definitely has no concept of the Hotel's operations. They suppose this is both good and bad. Good in the sense that, should they be allowed to stay, they can continue their modeling work in secret. Bad in the sense that, should anyone narc, they could all get in a lot of trouble. Sure, most of the permanent residents here are classed as just adult entertainers, but plenty of them do take clients into their beds. And for as liberal as the state claims to be, sex work is still illegal in California.
But for right now, Molloy doesn't know anything, leaving Kurt with the freedom to control the narrative. And, in their humble opinion, there's no one in this building more qualified to represent the Hotel in a positive light than them.
"It depends, sir. We've operated with a rotating roster, each resident taking on duties dependent on skill and experience, and dividing responsibilities amongst ourselves," they say, prim and proper and professional with their hands resting delicately in their lap. "Some perform maintenance on the property, some handle client relations, some handle financial records. Housekeeping duties have been equally divided. By operating like this, with permanent residents having both individual and communal responsibilities rather than relying on temp hires, the Hotel has been able to significantly reduce its overheads and consistently turn a profit for several years, even with a reduced number of available beds. You've seen our stats. The numbers don't lie, sir."
For some reason, speaking to him like this while he towers over them makes Kurt's heart pound in their chest. It's thrilling. Someone who looks like them isn't typically expected to have their level of business acumen—and if Kurt loves doing anything, it's to defy expectations. "My personal duties have included business-to-business communications, online and grassroots marketing, direct client relations, and managing the laundry roster. I believe these experiences not only make me suited for the receptionist position as it stands today, but also prove my managerial capacity, which opens me up for professional development and growth within the company."
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So Corrigan decides to be blunt. Fingers still hooked in his tie, he meets Kurt's eyes evenly. "You made a profit each year, yes, but it's been grossly mismanaged. I got this place for a song, and there weren't any provisions for the permanent residents in the contracts. If I'm going to take the risk of keeping you all on, I need to work closely with someone who understands this place, and how it can make money again."
He leans forward a bit, looming over Kurt, tone soft and serious. "I don't need a receptionist. I need an assistant to keep this place from going up in flames. Are you capable of that?"
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But instead, all they can think about is what a compelling Dom this man would make. How easily they would surrender to him. There’s no hiding the flush of color over their cheeks.
“Yes,” they breathe, before they have the chance to reel themself in. It’s humiliating when it hits them, just how needy they sound. Clearing their throat, Kurt straightens up and tries to return to a somewhat professional headspace: “Yes, sir, I am. If I may be so bold, there’s no one more capable in the building than I am.”
They meet his gaze head-on, fighting through the blushing and the shivers, keeping their tone firm and serious to match Mr. Molloy’s. “I know all the ins and outs of this place, and how to improve it.” And how to keep their cam work a secret. “You won’t regret hiring me as your assistant, sir.”
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"I'm certainly counting on it," Corrigan says, straightening up, trying to hide his racing, filthy thoughts and overcorrecting into near-robotic detachment. No doubt his constant switching from cool and blunt to welcoming and warm is giving Kurt emotional whiplash. So he tries to strike a happy medium, rolling up his sleeves and nodding towards the door. "You could start with giving me a tour. Call it a working interview, hm?"
Anything to get out of the too-warm office, before Corrigan just bends Kurt over the desk and shows them exactly what sort of assistance he'd like them to be capable of.
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They welcome the sudden request—command, their filthy mind insists—as a distraction, something to pour their nervous needy energy into. It’s all they can do to rise calmly out of their seat, hands folded demurely at their front.
“I would be delighted, sir,” they say with a bright smile, braces peeking through. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the lobby and front offices, a-and introduce you to some of the residents. Right this way, sir…”
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And then what? This is Kurt's home, their work, their community all in one. If they offer themselves up to Corrigan, offer to do anything to make sure their place is secure, is he truly the kind of man to accept that offer? Would he give in to his indecent fantasies and tear those perfectly fitting slacks right off?
Yeah, Corrigan has to admit, barely noticing the lobby as they pass through it, eyes unmoving from their slow roving up and down Kurt. He probably would.
Of course, there's a business part of his mind making note of what needs to be upgraded -- new carpet, new paint, better computers at the front desk and more elegant furniture in the lobby, and so on. But that's only about 30% of his mind, if he's being honest. The rest is devoted to wondering if the cute freckles across Kurt's cheeks are elsewhere on their body, if the pretty blush stretches down their chest when they're really embarrassed or flustered. Then he's thinking about the many, many ways he can get them that flustered, and honestly it's a miracle he hasn't walked into a wall yet.
At this point the whole staff is going to see Corrigan eying Kurt like they're a tempting dessert he's about to devour, and if gossip here is anything like office gossip, soon everyone will know the new boss wants in the young employee's pants.
...somehow the thought makes Corrigan more smugly satisfied than anything else.
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It only makes sense. They make their living being observed, being a perpetual object of lechery, they know what being beheld feels like on their skin. Whether it's one pair of hungry eyes or hundreds, it matters little. Whenever they're observed, their bills end up paid.
In Mr. Molloy's case, it's just more literal than ever.
Knowing that he stares, that he likes what he sees—because they're also fine-tuned to pick up on that, whether the stares are appreciative or loathing—makes the young interviewee feel nervous, yes, but... also more confident. They like being the center of attention, being captivating. It makes them straighten up, makes their shoulders roll back, their chin tip up, their strides longer and more graceful, even in high heels. They try to keep an air of professionalism as they show Molloy the front desk, take him into offices and storage spaces, as they point out assets and weaknesses with the building's presentation like they're a goddamn real estate agent.
But they would be lying if they said their hips always swayed as confidently as this. As brazenly. Kurt is not below sleeping their way into a job, if it comes to that.
"... and while most of our guests only check in for a one-night stay, we do offer packages for weekends and longer," they chirp as they pass the front office section where keys and mail are sorted, currently staffed by a young woman with a shock of red-orange hair and a deep, deep cleavage straining against her full chest. "Ginger takes care of any incoming mail addressed to guests, and sees to their continued comfort during their extended stay. Don't you, Ginger?" they tease, grinning at their co-worker, winking playfully at her. They're feeling fun and flirty, okay? It wouldn't be appropriate to take that out on their future boss.
Besides, they definitely want to gloat.
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Because as soon as Kurt had flashed that smile, all braces and perfectly applied lip gloss, the only emotion he'd felt was a hot, churning jealousy. They've been nothing but professional and cordial, as befits the interviewer/interviewee dynamic, and it wouldn't make any sense for them to wink or grin like that at Corrigan.
But he wants them to. He wants the full focus of every scrap of their attention, on him alone, and he wants to be able to enact extremely unprofessional punishments when they don't give it. He wants to be able to reach out, slide his fingers under the silky collar of Kurt's blouse and murmur a command to obey or he's going to bend them over Ginger's desk and let her watch them be disciplined.
God, he's been watching way too many niche kink streams. Corrigan considers momentarily whether he should let himself daydream about that instead, before putting the thought aside. His favorite streamer also has braces.
"I'd like to see the rooms," he says abruptly, reaching out -- on pure, thoughtless autopilot, that's all, not because he's thinking about a cute freckled streamer with an equally cheeky grin and long pretty hair -- and resting his hand against Kurt's lower back for a moment. Just to guide them, prompt the tour forward! That's all! Nevermind that it's so deeply unprofessional it'll be a miracle if he isn't sued for harassment.
...honestly being sued might be worth it, in exchange for Corrigan confirming that his hand fits almost perfectly between the subtle curves of Kurt's hips, across their spine, just above their ass. He could almost die happy, knowing that.
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Oh, Kurt likes that. They shouldn't, they really shouldn't, but they do.
Mr. Molloy's hand is so big as it settles on their lower back, huge and warm through their blouse, fingers almost spanning from hip to hip, and their whole body stiffens at the touch before going soupy and hot, a wave of shivers racing through their body. From where she's sitting, Ginger can't quite see what's happening, where the new owner's hand settles—he could be squeezing Kurt's ass, for all she knows—but she immediately notices them going red. The grin she shoots them is damn near predatory.
"Have fun on the tour~" she coos, waving them off with one hand while the other reaches for her phone. Kurt can practically hear her acrylics clicking against the screen as she attacks the group chat with the new hot gossip:
Freyja beat us all to it.
Kurt, for their part, continues on with the tour as thorough and professional as ever, not commenting on the inappropriate touch from their superior. They certainly don't seem perturbed, if how they keep just a little closer to Molloy as they walk him down the hallway is any indication. They chirp and chatter about the different sizes of rooms they offer, the amenities and costs and overheads, while walking on sheer autopilot towards the only room they really have the key for. Their own.
"So, as you can see, sir, for being one of the standard rooms, it's still fairly spacious," Kurt says, beaming as they lead him inside, silently thankful they cleaned the place up earlier. Tripod and ringlight stuffed into the wardrobe, clamps and cuffs and dildos and harnesses and seventeen flavors of lube all safely stored in the box under their bed. The bed which they knelt on and cooed at the camera from just this last weekend, fingers curling into the bedspread as they lowered themself onto a formidable toy like it was nothing.
The bedspread they're currently petting with a neatly manicured hand, showing the quality of their linens to their new boss. "We take quality very seriously here. Medium-firm profile mattresses with quilted pillow tops, even in our standard rooms. No one leaves the Hotel disappointed, sir."
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But he can't bring himself to care, not when he has the full force of that sweet megawatt smile focused on him, not when he doesn't have to share Kurt's attention with anyone. All he feels now is triumphant.
So he nods along to the description of the amenities, the decor, satisfied that he can get by with just knowing the overall big picture. If he hires Kurt as an assistant, they can remember the specifics. If he hires Kurt as an assistant, he can require a dress code that involves pencil skirts and stilettos and --
That particular line of thought is interrupted by the sight of the room. It's a very nice room, clean and neat and decorated in a very neutral fashion. The wallpaper is cream-colored, the bedspread a basic floral print that must be repeated in thousands of hotels across the world. There's no reason that it should tug insistently at his memory, like he's seen it before. Maybe in a movie? A TV show? It looks like a stock photo of a hotel room. Why is it so familiar?
"What's the closet space like?" Corrigan asks, distracted, frowning at the unassuming bedspread and trying to remember.
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For right now, they don’t have a choice but to let the texts and tags pour in. Molloy is inspecting their room, standing very close to them, a pinched look of concentration on his face. Kurt doesn’t want to miss a second of this by worrying about what some whores are saying about them.
“The closet space is excellent, sir,” they say, taking a couple steps to the wooden wardrobe. “We cleaned out a furniture manufacturer’s liquidation sale for these. Solid wood, lacquered, ornate but practical, space even for a floor-length nightgown.“
Their fingers close around the handle of the closet door, hesitating. “I would love to show you the interior, sir, but… um, this is actually my room?” The admission comes with a soft flush of color across their nose, spreading over their cheek. They grin, lopsided and embarrassed.
“I have all my stuff in here, and… if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to keep some things private.” Namely the fetish gear and shiny latex dresses and kinky leather harnesses that hang inside, alongside their streaming gear and more… elaborate sex toys. It’s kinda hard to store a Sybian.
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"Of course, I'd never want to impose on your privacy, Kurt," Corrigan says, glancing back to meet their eyes -- for the first time all interview, actually. His hand softens on the pillow, absently stroking it a couple times, gently. A caress. "What sort of manager would I be if I did, hm?"
There's a pause, then Corrigan pulls his hand away from the bed, tucking it into his pocket. "Ah, I'll be staying in the penthouse suite, so you'll have to give me some pointers on hotel living. If you'd -- show me there, next? I had my luggage sent up, but I'll never find it without help."
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His fingers caress their pillow with that same soft warmth. Irrationally, Kurt wishes it was their face he was caressing instead. It’s a decidedly more innocent desire than they had for him when they entered the room.
“Certainly, sir,” they say, their smile brighter as they step away from the wardrobe, leaving their secrets behind. “The penthouse suite is particularly luxurious. We haven’t rented it out to guests ever, so only the previous owner touched it. I hope you’ll find it to your liking.”
When they pass him in order to open the door for him, Kurt shivers from just his presence, his warmth. They want that curious, caressing hand all over them.
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Before he thinks better of it, Corrigan’s stopped close enough behind his slight, short maybe-employee that he can see the tiny loose curls at the nape of their neck, brushing the delicate notches of their spine, drawing his eye down beneath the silk. There's one loose strand that's come undone during the walk, and before he can stop himself, Corrigan’s reaching out, slowly hooking his finger beneath the silky lock and guiding it back up into place.
"I hope you deep-cleaned the suite after he left," he jokes, close enough that he can see Kurt’s freckled skin shiver at the heat of his breath. The world stops as he twines the loose strand of hair around the base of their bun, tucks in the end, then lowers his hand. Inside, Corrigan’s thrumming with hunger, with need, but he stays impassive as he steps past Kurt and out the door.
If his interest wasn't obvious before, it certainly is now. He barely glances at them the rest of the walk to the elevator, forcing himself to stay calm, detached. If they're not interested, if they don't try to initiate any more contact, he'll -- deal with it, somehow.
Probably by spending another cool $500 on a personal Freyja stream, but how he copes is his business, okay?
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And then he steps away, leaving them shivering in his wake.
Kurt is intimately familiar with power play, with dominance and submission and eager compliance... in theory. They've only ever streamed that sort of dynamic, alone in the room they leave behind, only acting powerless for a captive audience while they remain completely in control. Even during their private shows, the expensive one-on-one packages they offer, Freyja is the one who submits and obeys. Kurt still controls the pace, the force, the camera.
There's only one customer who's ever made Kurt feel like this before, all liquid inside, wobbly and unsteady and desperate with need. They didn't think it was possible someone could make them feel like this in real life. But here he is, in the flesh, standing right beside them in the ascending elevator with a detached look on his face, while Kurt blushes and desperately clenches their thighs together. They feel completely out of control, and yet they've never been this hard. They've never felt so needy before, desperate for this man to touch them again.
What would Freyja do in this situation? "Say, sir... when we get to the penthouse, is there anything else I can help you with?" They pin him with a heated look, teething their lip, gazing up at him with equal parts hope and trepidation. They better have been reading him right. If this gamble doesn't pay off, then... "Any other... services I can provide?"
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-- and then it hits him. Not from the decor or the blankets or the wallpaper, not from the tone of voice or the slight lisp or the bright smile, but from that specific lip bite. A carefully framed camera, low music doing nothing to hide the obscene sounds of long lubed fingers working skillfully inside someone, of yielding silicone sliding inch by inch between shaky freckled thighs, the breathy moan when the streamer takes it all, right down to the hilt.
That lip bite, those braces, that voice -- "you like what you see, daddy?" And Corrigan with one hand on his dick and the other frantically typing yes, freyja, yes yes YES
In the real world, the elevator slides open, and Corrigan realizes he's been staring -- frowning, baffled, incredulous, putting it all together finally, finally. Part of him half-expects Kurt to realize at the same time, but that's ridiculous. southcalman only ever sends dick pics. There's no way they could recognize him, not unless he gets naked. Which is...something he'd been seriously considering until a moment ago.
With a brief mumbled response that's too unintelligible for even Corrigan to know what he means, he turns abruptly and starts down the hallway to the penthouse suite. Think, he needs to think...
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And it’s gone. As soon as that look came over him, it disappears. Like they imagined it. A trick of the light. Then, as soon as the doors open, he stalks away.
“Sir?” Their stomach sinks, heart plummeting, a cold flush of shame and regret spilling over their skin, leaving them shivering. He rejected them. No. God, no. How could they have been so stupid? They gambled their home, their livelihood, and they lost. All cause they were thinking with their dick instead of their head.
“Sir, p-please, I’m so sorry,” they hurry to say, panicked as they rush out of the elevator, following him, high heels making them even more unsteady. If they didn’t look pathetic and desperate before, they sure must now. “I don’t know what came over me, I— please, sir, just forget this ever happened. It was stupid, I was being stupid, i-it won’t happen again, I swear! Sir, I’m begging you, please—“
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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."
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Anything to not be out on their ass.
“Thank you, sir, th-thank you,” they breathe, shuddering as they will their breathing to slow, their pulse to ease. For a moment, they really felt like they ruined everything by coming onto him. In hindsight, they feel silly having done that—it’s wildly unprofessional, definitely sexual harassment—and they’re not discounting how lucky they are that Molloy is understanding, forgiving of their error.
That being said, it’s supremely hard to ignore how good it feels to be held by him, comforted by him. How their spine tingles deliciously as he calls them sugar. They hope he doesn’t feel it. They don’t need to be in more trouble right now. “I-I’m really sorry, sir, I know I shouldn’t have done that. I dunno why I… sir, I’m not usually like this…”
That must sound kinda funny, coming from Freyja of all people.
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The revelation that Freyja is Kurt (or vice versa) is still buzzing in his head, but Corrigan also knows damn well that he'd be a fucking idiot to pass up the chance to get closer to the person who'd been the object of his desire for months now. They're still shaking against him, trying to calm down, and he tucks them closer and slowly smooths his big hand down their back.
"It's all right. You've had a lot of change recently, that's enough to make anyone stressed out." It's an easy out, and it'd be very kind and professional if Corrigan wasn't slowly tracing his fingers in little circles at the small of Kurt's back. He drops his voice a touch more and adds: "Or maybe I'm just that special. Hm?"
Then he steps away, this time slower, telegraphing that it isn't a rejection, isn't him trying to get away from them. He wants Kurt to follow. He wants to get them into that suite and never let them leave.
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