courtinsession | open post

You first, darling. Show me a little more.

No? What if I blow you there instead?

I'm going to kill you.

[He doesn't know how long he's been here. When he'd been led into the cramped motel room in the middle of God Only Knows Where and told to wait on the bed, the sun had still been up. There aren't any clocks or radios in here, the TV doesn't work, and from what he can see through the cracks in the blinds, it's been dark out for a while now. Nobody's come to check on him.

The door is locked from the outside. Of course it is. He had to try it, right? Although it's not like he would have anywhere to go if Caesar had been stupid enough to leave it unlocked. Even if Kurt hadn't run away from home, it's not like his family would take him back now. Everything considered, he's lucky Caesar took him in. The work is grueling and soul-crushing, sure, but at least he's fed and safe. Right?

Maybe not for much longer. Sometimes Caesar's boys go out for work and just... never return. Rumor has it they get sold off. As he sits there curled up against the headboard, hugging his legs to his chest, Kurt is starting to fear that's what's happening to him. He can only hope and pray that whoever walks through the door next isn't there to hurt him.]

You want me to wear a toga? Is that what I should gather from this conversation?

You slept with me a second time as ill-conceived revenge. Were you plotting to bite my dick off or something?

[This is all wrong.

You’re supposed to be happy on your wedding day, aren’t you? Or at the very least nervous. But as Kurt examines themself in the mirror comprising one wall of their woefully empty bridal suite, they don’t feel much of anything. Only a vague sense of apprehension, a quietly grim acceptance of how their life will be different in about three hours’ time.

Not that anything is going to change, really. Greg gets to call them his “husband” instead of his “fiancé” from now on. They’ll wear a gold ring in place of their silver one. And that’s about it.

Kurt sighs softly, aimlessly adjusting their tie for the fifth time, smoothing their suit down over their chest. At least Greg agreed to let them wear all white today. They may have put all their dresses and skirts and makeup and frilly lingerie away for the more conservatively masculine look Greg prefers, but some things are too important to give up. Their hair is still long, arranged in a simple updo pulled so tight it’ll give them a migraine, their nails are painted in an elegant French tip design, and they get to wear white on their wedding day. Little compromises. That’s what marriage is, right?

The sudden knock at the door brings them back down to earth. Weird. They don’t remember ordering room service. Maybe that comes standard for bridal suites in fancy hotels like this, even for guests without a bridal party. Tearing themself away from the resigned young man in the mirror, Kurt trudges over to the door and gently pulls it open.

For a moment that feels like it lasts forever, they’re too stunned to speak. His name escapes them in a wheeze:] Corrigan..?

[The countless formalities involved with each visit to the manor are always excruciating. They are so involved and take so long, the young Count Kurt Engelstedt always find themself squirming with impatience for them to end. Especially when their honored guest is Lord Corrigan Molloy.

Ever since their father—Gunnar Frederick Engelstedt III, Marquis of Himmel—remarried, he had been inviting many a beautiful honored guest to the manor, instructing his strange son to entertain them however they please. The young Count cannot be sure of their father's motives, but they do as they're told, suffering the company of merchants and viscounts and baronesses and military officials if only to escape their father's sour gaze for the day. Every last man and woman they host is insufferably boring. Beautiful, certainly, but so boring. Yet another chore added to their list of duties.

But not Lord Corrigan Molloy. After each of his visits, Kurt finds themself counting the days until his next, breathless with anticipation to see him again. If they could, they would abandon both name and title just to spend every day in his company, entertaining his every whim. Even now, as the welcoming proceedings start ramping down and the staff disperse to tend to their duties, Kurt can feel Lord Molloy's intense gaze on them, tracing every button and ruffle of their formal suit, knowing it hides the delicate undergarments of a lady. They feel his approval like sparks against their skin, a rush of heat and color flooding pale cheeks, a squeeze of anticipation in their muscles like the ropes he so loves to use.

When their father finally leaves Lord Molloy in their care, Kurt beams as they take him on a tour of the gardens, the polite distance between their bodies shrinking by the minute. By the time they step into the hedge maze, they have taken the Lord's hand in their own, grinning excitedly up at him, their free hand pulling their long hair free of its ribbon.]

Do you like it, My Lord? I've let it grow, j-just as you suggested I should. [They teethe gently at their lip, awaiting his response.] Do I look like a Lady yet?

Absolutely not.

[ She is stone faced, looking down at the costume that has been set out on the bed -- really, could it even be called that? There was hardly any fabric to it! Just barely enough to make it abundantly clear there was a Holstein cow pattern present. Then she saw the silver cow bell sitting a few inches away from the ludicrously tiny bikini and let out a disgusted sound. It wasn't the first time she'd find herself questioning why she was so enamored with this filthy man, and it wouldn't be the last.

Crossing her arms over her chest she felt her face heating up. She had actually been feeling especially insecure about her body lately, having only given birth to their twins a couple of months ago and still showing signs of the quite physically taxing pregnancy. Pregnancy weight, stretch marks, loose skin around her belly ... the last thing she could imagine wanting to wear was some bikini that would have been too small on her even before she'd been pregnant. What was he thinking?!]

I hope you kept the receipt.

This can't be happening. Why them? What have they ever done to deserve this?

Kurt has never hurt anyone. They're of the valley folk, kind and peaceful and devoted, hard workers, generous hosts, pious. They're friendly to each other, to travelers, to strangers, they offer what they have to their gods and are rewarded with healthy crops and healthy children (for the most part). They're good people. Kurt is a good person.

No doubt some of the valley folk find Kurt a little... strange. Their father was always an intensely private man, which only intensified after Kurt was born, largely isolating the little family on their farm. Some had their theories as to why—the mother either died or left or has been deathly ill for years within the little farmhouse, the child was sickly or ill-adjusted or malformed in some way—but it never went further than village gossip. For as strange as they were, whenever anyone saw the Engelstedt child out on the fields or down at the market, they seemed bright and friendly and as hard a worker as anyone else. What did it matter if they were a little strange? Flat-chested and narrow-hipped, but with long flowing hair and linen dresses and aprons, their voice high and lilting like a girl's. It didn't matter. They never hurt anyone.

And yet, here they were. Gagged and tightly bound to a cold stone slab in the dead of night, draped in humiliating silks and jewels and painted with runes smeared by their panicked thrashing, the flickering candlelight catching on a ritual knife held above their chest.

Everyone knew about the strange mountain folk. Everyone were told to be careful when traveling or hiking, to never venture off alone, to stick to known paths and stay firmly within the light. Who knew what such strange, frightening, old-fashioned folk as the mountain dwellers would do should they catch you unawares? Rob you? Hurt you? Snatch you? No, best just to leave them be. For many years, the villagers have been more than happy to do just that. As the mountain elder brings the knife down towards Kurt's heaving sternum, they finally understand why.

They're going to die here, an unwilling blood-sacrifice to some strange god, and they've done nothing to deserve it.

Kurt has never done a job interview before. Not really. Casting couches don’t count, they’re pretty sure.

But now that the Hotel—a discreet if wholly inaccurate name for “cam studio” and “live-in brothel”—has been sold, they don’t really have a choice. And if the new owner decides to do away with the whole sex-work angle and actually use the building as a hotel, Kurt would need a job even more, even as a housekeeper or concierge. Living in Los Angeles is expensive. Losing room and board at the Hotel would be devastating.

So they’re dressed to impress today, their thick long hair pinned into a tight bun, their silk blouse buttoned all the way up and tucked into a pair of pressed slacks. Smart, adult, professional—and stuffy, so far removed from their usual baby pink slut aesthetic. But you do what you have to for the job, right?

With a minute to spare, Kurt knocks on the door to the manager’s office, and as soon as they’re called, they swallow their pride and enter. “Mr. Molloy? I’m Kurt Engelstedt, I’m here for my interview?”

[Corrigan is a good ten minutes fashionably late, finally appearing in faded jeans, a white t-shirt and a silky open blazer. He looks casual, unhurried, dominant. The picture of an alpha.

He can smell Kyle the second he walks in -- less potent, considering he doesn't have the younger man currently bent over a couch arm and screaming his name.

Yet.

Corrigan smiles at the sight of Kyle, weaving through the crowd and reaching out to place a hand at the small of the omega's back. The gesture is possessive, claiming.]

I like this color on you.

The strength of a pack lies with the leader. That's one thing most -- if not all -- wolves know well. Sometimes the leader is chosen naturally, by simply being the oldest or wisest one present. Other times it's hereditary, a parent turning the title over to their child and so on and so forth. Still other times, it's chosen by proving you're the strongest, the most powerful.

Corrigan had been chosen that way. As his pack grew, he proved again and again he was the best leader, the best strategist, the best at hunting and running and hiding and fighting. There was no larger clan banner for himself and the other loners he picked up along the way, no protection of a codified territory, just the few of them in an old cabin they'd found and fixed up, sheltering against the wind and snow and cold of a handful of winters in the mountains. And for a while, that had been enough -- Corrigan and his brothers, his family, his pack.

Lately, though, he can sense the tension building, the cracks starting to form. He can feel, like any good leader should, how there are frustrations and pent-up stress without outlets, showing in more frequent fighting, more sulking and brooding, more splintering off into sub-factions. That's normal, in a pack. But it's also a sign that a group of six werewolf men need something to unify them, a common focus, something to fight for, instead of against each other. Someone to help relieve all that pent-up tension.

So: Corrigan leads them to the edge of the forest, close enough to see the human settlement, for a particular kind of hunt. The six of them settle down in the bushes and they wait. There are six, and that's a good amount.

But seven would be better.

Define "cool". Tramp stamp? Ass tat? Location us important.

It is. Especially when you know how to use it.

That's a good question. I can't decide which is funnier, so whatever one is.

Nobody fakes it with me. I've got stamina for days and kinks nobody's even heard of.

Baby.

Two more days. That's it. Then I'm flying home and I'm not leaving you again. It's fucking miserable here without you.

[ one | two | three ]

New York, hm? That's easy. I'll fly you out tomorrow if you want.

[Oh, the saddest little burrito there ever was. Corry chuckles a little, helping Iggy sit up enough to sip at the water.]

You're not dumb, baby. You're sick. [A pause, and he presses his lips together in deep thought.] I suppose I just -- dislike the idea of you being here alone with nobody to help.

[Honestly, Iggy always looks good to Corry, and therefore he always looks good, because Corry is always right, obviously. The little video is almost torturous, making him think of all that he's missed and missing, and making him seriously consider just quitting his job.

He doesn't return the favor -- not yet. Iggy has to earn it.] Good for a start. But don't be shy. This shouldn't be too easy for you.

Babe, I have kinks you've never even heard of.

I don't generally base my sexy outfit choices on logic.

I suppose it'll do. If you think you can ride me without us getting caught.

Flattery will get you everywhere, darling.

It's hard work, being pregnant. Not that Kurt actually does any work, per say—the pack barely lets them anymore, swooping in to take any dishes or laundry or cooking herbs out of their hands despite all their protests—but they're still kept plenty busy. The more their body changes and swells with Alpha's pup, the less they're able or allowed to do on their own. Some days, they require constant attention.

Every day, that's exactly what they get.

Kurt can barely go a minute without someone's hands on them. Whether it's Corrigan caressing their rounded stomach, Leo teasing the pert swell of their tits, Naseer massaging all their tender achy spots, they're always surrounded by touch, crowded with affection and love. Even after months of pregnancy—and months of pack bonding before that—it still feels surreal. Their mates are all so attentive, so doting, insisting Kurt not lift a finger until the baby is born. All five of them make sure every day that their little human mate stays fed and cleaned and rested...and satisfied.

Which is easier said than done. Pregnancy has made them ravenous, their body always eager and ready to take one or two or all of their mates at once. Kurt is so sensitive now, even the slightest touch gets them all shivery and hot—and they're never not being touched. Thankfully, the pack is more than eager to provide, affected just as badly by all the pregnancy hormones as they are. They'll take turns leisurely fucking them while wrapped up in soft, warm furs, enjoying the tight squeeze of their throat while they come their brains out, savagely pounding them until they scream with pleasure, knotting their plush ass for hours at a time. The wolves don't let them go empty for long.

It's hard, demanding work. But Kurt has never been happier.

Despite the constant, vigilant attention from all five of them, Kurt still insists on doing some things alone. They seriously don't need help going to the bathroom just yet. If anything, they enjoy the rare moments of privacy it affords them, just getting to be alone with their thoughts. Just them and the baby.

They understand, of course. After the incident with Miles, Corrigan has been so careful not to leave Kurt unprotected, not even for a moment. They've all been so careful. But it's been months without a sighting at this point, and nothing ever came of the man's threats. It should be okay. Kurt's just right outside, right by the tree line, only ever gone for a minute or two. Nothing bad can happen to them in a minute or two.

Right?

(Danny was here for a few different reasons. For one, it was one of the few clubs in the area where the bartender looked away if someone decided to buy someone underage a drink. For another, the music was moderately good, and had a rotating set of DJs that were well-known in the area. He was mostly here for the latter. He was younger than most of them, but he was getting to know each of them slowly, considered at least half of them real friends, and he was hoping to just get his chance at a slot some day at the club.

Lastly, he just liked the club atmosphere. He always had and he always would. This one was a bit grungier than most, but it was surprisingly clean as far as seedy clubs went. The alcohol was pure and any drug deals only went on outside of the club, never inside the club, and everyone seemed to know to behave themselves.

Danny never really did that too well. He's dressed in a loose black shirt with a swirling imprint of Junji Ito's Tomie and her contorted faces on the front. He wore a pair of stylishly baggy gray cargo pants and black rip-off boots that looked maybe like Doc Martens under the dim club lighting. He was alone, as he often was, but he didn't mind. He had a tall, slender glass of some lemon-infused drink that some creep had bought him earlier, but the creep had lost interest once it was clear Danny had no intent on thanking him properly for the light buzz.

The black X on the back of his hand was smudged slightly, and he boldly held his cocktail with said hand. He was swaying effortlessly to the music, not too deep into the crowd, more along the edge, completely in his own world as he let himself just enjoy the pulsing beats and the technique of the DJ working the table. He's really feeling a specific song, arms raising up over his head, body effortlessly swaying to the beat, a flushed smile growing on his face. When the song ends, he bounces back over to the bar with his empty glass. He sidles up next to a tall, dark, handsome man and only spares him a parting glance before he waves for the bartender's attention.)

Can I just get a water please? Extra ice. (He was so thirsty. And he absolutely does not for even a second humor the idea that the guy next to him would look twice at him. Not when there were tons of gorgeous girls around and hotter, less complicated guys. So he hesitates and taps the seat he's leaning against.)

Do you mind if I sit here?

[When he'd returned from Prague, Corry had told himself he ought to start being careful. He usually didn't spend more than two or three nights with anyone; hadn't since he was a teenager himself. That was the best policy for remaining carefully detached, for not letting his guard down. The life he led wasn't one Corry would wish upon anyone, especially not someone so young and bright and full of potential.

And yet...a deeper, more selfish part of him rebelled at the idea of letting Danny go. He didn't want to. He enjoyed the young man's company, both in and out of bed, more than he had anyone's in years. So twice had become three times had become Corry messaging every couple of days, which was the direct opposite of casual.

Now, as always, he shoves the thought away, pausing in the middle of loading up his laptop and other documents to respond.] I certainly did, because I know how to be polite. See, I deserve the BEST reward for that, if nothing else. And yes. You should. By sitting on my face. That's how I'd like to be spoiled, for starters.

(Continued from here)

i don't think you've ever had to impress anyone your entire life :P (He's so onto you, Corry. Except not at all because he has no clue why Corry would ever feel like he had to impress Danny.)

barely. enough to keep my sisters fed in a not totally toxic way (Cheezits and Red Bull is practically fine dining, okay!)

wow. it's so sexy when you threaten others because of me. i mean that sincerely
it's hot

do they know it's the SAME someone or like
do they think it's rotating door of someones

for @moondregs

for @kyley_b