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.
Molloy really is so understanding. He pulls them close and tucks them safely against him, he gently shushes their worries away, he pets down the shivering length of their spine like they're a frightened cat, calming their raw nerves. He really doesn't have to do that. He's only known them for an hour, maybe two, he barely knows the first thing about them, and yet... he understands why they're so stressed.
They have had a lot of change recently. This sale has potentially disrupted their whole life. No wonder they're all out of sorts. They came onto their new boss, for crying out loud, before even getting hired!
Though it appears that particular faux pas wasn't as badly received as they feared. Because Molloy's voice dips down low, as low as his fingers on their body, and coaxes them to follow him into his suite.
Kurt's heart starts pounding again, their cheeks reddening once more, but it's not with shame this time. Embarrassment, yes, but excitement too. He still wants them. He did all along. Swallowing thickly, eyes glued adoringly to the man the whole time, Kurt follows right behind him through the doors to the penthouse suite, feeling more than hearing the door close behind them. It's a beautiful space, wide and open and inviting, exquisitely furnished with the very finest pieces the staff have collected over the years. Polished mahogany contrasted against sleek modern furniture, delicate art pieces thoughtfully placed, all leading the eye towards the enormous glass panes making up both the entirety of the south wall and the entrance to the spacious balcony, sunken jacuzzi and all. And the centerpiece of it all, the ornate emperor bed with the carved frame and neatly made cotton sateen sheets.
It truly is a wonder just how the previous owner was able to afford all this. Maybe the reason he had to sell is more obvious than they thought. But if they're being honest with themself, the economics of this place is much less important than the sight of Molloy before them, tall and imposing and breathtaking, framed by the light pouring in from the glass wall. They're still achingly hard in their slacks. "It's not a maybe, sir... Y-You really are that special," they breathe, unable to stop staring at him. Their freckled cheeks are red and hot. "No one's ever made me feel like this before, s-sir."
The suite is luxurious enough that Corrigan’s attention is momentarily swayed away from Kurt -- no small task, considering how magnetic they are like this, visibly turned on and still trembling. He takes in the bed, the furnishings, the bath, his suitcases lined up neatly beside the wall. The bed, again.
Then he crosses back to the door, behind Kurt, hand resting for a moment on the deadbolt. Any number of staff might have the room key, but once that bolt is locked, nobody's coming in or out without his permission. He knows that. Kurt knows that. They're at a turning point, the edge of something professionally ill-advised, but devastatingly tempting.
"You have the job, Kurt," Corrigan says softly, hand on the deadbolt, taking in the afternoon sun outlining their body, bringing out the gold and auburn lights in their hair. "Assistant or receptionist or anything else you wish. If that's all you need, you can go."
The room is big, but not so much so that Corrigan can't reach out, rest his hand on the back of Kurt’s neck, find their pulse with his thumb and press gently. "Anything from here on is purely...a personal investment. If that's what you want." He doesn't want them to agree to sleep with him to get or keep a job -- not this time. He wants to know it's their decision, their desire, powerful enough that money doesn't factor in at all.
He wants them, he's always wanted them, but he needs them to want him back.
They got the job. Whichever one they want. They didn’t even have to sleep their way into it.
And he still wants them.
Kurt’s eyes fall closed as the man’s big hand finds their neck, as he presses down on their pulse, their breath escaping them in a shuddering exhale. It feels so good. Molloy wields such a formidable power over them, and it feels so natural, not frightening, not overwhelming—especially since he gave them the job already, not requiring any services to make up his mind. He just dominates them naturally, effortlessly, making them melt into his touch.
They really really want him. They would have even without the job.
“Thank you so much, sir. I— I happily accept the position,” they say, unconsciously leaning back against him. They turn their head then, biting their lip, peering over their shoulder to look at him. That hunger and raw adoration is still in their eyes. “And… if you’ll have me, sir, I really want you.”
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.
He might as well have been forcing their gaze. Even with such a gentle grip, Molloy’s hold on them is firm like iron, impossible to resist. Kurt feels like if they look away, if they pull away from him right now, they’ll die.
Why would they want to pull away anyway, when his hard cock against their ass feels so good? They moan hungrily, arching into him without shame, their hand finding his where it rests over their stomach so they can press it harder into their yielding flesh. So they can guide it further down.
That guiding hand stills as soon as Molloy speaks. His voice and words are searingly hot, yes, but more than anything they’re… familiar. They can’t place it at first. Like they’re recalling an old song, or a dream someone else once had.
But then it hits them. Kurt realizes with a start why he sounds so familiar, exactly where they’ve heard that voice speak those words before, and their entire center of gravity flips.
“Wait… W-Wait, you’re…” Kurt stares up at him, slack jawed and wide eyed, shivering all over as a complete impossibility inexplicably becomes reality. “No fucking way.“
There's an extremely comical moment where Corrigan’s Cool Dom Persona slips a bit, and he just looks bewildered. Kurt's expression has gone from eagerly turned on to eagerly turned on and also stunned by -- something. Amusingly, Corrigan thinks he's so subtle and careful that while he's figured out who they are, there's no way they'd be able to do the same. Because he's an obvious master of disguise.
So he doesn't keep feeling Kurt up -- much as he wants to -- instead frowning a little and tilting his head to one side, like a bewildered bird. "No fucking way what?" He'd very much like to get back to the fun horny stuff, but this seems...important.
"You're Southcalman." Kurt looks utterly amazed as the pieces fall into place, as they place his voice and his words, cadence and all. There's no doubt in their mind whatsoever. If they're somehow mistaken, if this man somehow isn't the one they've been camming for over the last several months, Kurt has still struck gold, because they sound identical.
No one has ever captured Kurt's attention the way Southcalman has. The mysterious viewer quickly made himself known as a generous tipper, frequently buying private shows from them, but where he really shone was in the chat. His words were arresting, captivating, addicting. Soon, Kurt would find themself sulking if he didn't show up one night, or lamenting other users buying private shows, stealing time they could've been spending with Southcalman. For months, whenever they perform, they've pictured him.
Of course, it's hard to picture someone whose face you've never seen and whose voice you've barely heard. So getting to see him, hear him, feel him on their body in this moment is the wildest thrill. Yeah, they're probably outing themself as a cam model and sex worker to their boss—and he's only been their boss for two minutes—but they don't care. Kurt looks star-struck. "I recognize your voice, you're— you're in my chat all the time, I can't believe it's actually you! Holy shit!"
As if he would be confused about who they are, Kurt reaches up and pulls their bun loose, letting their hair tumble and spill heavily over their shoulders, over Molloy's hand still on their face. Their chest thrums with nerves and giddy excitement, tummy doing flips. "I-I'm Princess Freyja, sir."
The mention of his -- in retrospect, extremely boring and basic-- screen name has Corrigan wincing a little, embarrassed, about to laugh and try to explain himself. But Kurt's gazing up at him all starry-eyed and delighted and worshipful, practically bouncing up and down with excitement. They're just as excited that he's him as he is that they're...them.
And then he laughs genuinely, warmly, hands finding Kurt's hips to turn them around so he can look down properly into that giddy, grinning face. They're adorable like this, loose hair and big adoring eyes, giving up their big secret so easily, so trusting. Because Kurt knows him, like he knows them. And it makes something soft and tender in his chest acheI.
"Oh, baby, I know," he replies, hands finding their face again, cradling their flushed cheeks, gazing down at them. "I've known it was you since the second you smiled at me. I'd know that smile anywhere." He leans down, rests his forehead against theirs for a moment, closes his eyes. "I never thought I'd get -- this. Get you like this, in the flesh. Not have to share you with anyone else."
He knew, and he didn't tell them! He recognized them right away, and he just let them dither around and work themself up and make a total fool out of themself! Now that's edging. Talk about committing to the bit.
Kurt dissolves into soft giggles, letting the man turn them around and cradle them, holding them so close. They're alight with an embarrassed blush, excitement thrumming through them, smiling up at him with that same adoring starry-eyed expression. He says he's happy that he doesn't have to share them, and bizarrely, Kurt feels the same way, even though they've never really had to share Molloy with anyone before. It feels amazing, not having to divide their attention.
"Yeah? Have you been thinking about that a lot?" they ask, letting their arms snake around the man's neck, bolder and more playful, more comfortable with him now that they know who he is. "Getting to have me for real? You kept saying that during shows, but everyone just says stuff like that, ya know..."
God, they're gorgeous -- a fact Corrigan knew, but it's much more potent when he can feel them, smell them, when they fit so perfectly into his arms. Kurt reaches up, laces their arms around his neck and its the easiest thing in the world for Corrigan to lift them off the ground, backing up to sit on the bed with them in his lap.
"Baby, am I anything like anyone else?" He teases, settling Kurt with their legs spread over his thighs, his hands languidly feeling up the shape of their hips, their back, their ass. "I never say things I don't mean. When I say I've been thinking about you in my arms, in my bed, I mean it."
Then, tilting his head, Corrigan adds archly: "And when I say that you'd better kiss me before I lose my mind, I mean that too."
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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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They have had a lot of change recently. This sale has potentially disrupted their whole life. No wonder they're all out of sorts. They came onto their new boss, for crying out loud, before even getting hired!
Though it appears that particular faux pas wasn't as badly received as they feared. Because Molloy's voice dips down low, as low as his fingers on their body, and coaxes them to follow him into his suite.
Kurt's heart starts pounding again, their cheeks reddening once more, but it's not with shame this time. Embarrassment, yes, but excitement too. He still wants them. He did all along. Swallowing thickly, eyes glued adoringly to the man the whole time, Kurt follows right behind him through the doors to the penthouse suite, feeling more than hearing the door close behind them. It's a beautiful space, wide and open and inviting, exquisitely furnished with the very finest pieces the staff have collected over the years. Polished mahogany contrasted against sleek modern furniture, delicate art pieces thoughtfully placed, all leading the eye towards the enormous glass panes making up both the entirety of the south wall and the entrance to the spacious balcony, sunken jacuzzi and all. And the centerpiece of it all, the ornate emperor bed with the carved frame and neatly made cotton sateen sheets.
It truly is a wonder just how the previous owner was able to afford all this. Maybe the reason he had to sell is more obvious than they thought. But if they're being honest with themself, the economics of this place is much less important than the sight of Molloy before them, tall and imposing and breathtaking, framed by the light pouring in from the glass wall. They're still achingly hard in their slacks. "It's not a maybe, sir... Y-You really are that special," they breathe, unable to stop staring at him. Their freckled cheeks are red and hot. "No one's ever made me feel like this before, s-sir."
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Then he crosses back to the door, behind Kurt, hand resting for a moment on the deadbolt. Any number of staff might have the room key, but once that bolt is locked, nobody's coming in or out without his permission. He knows that. Kurt knows that. They're at a turning point, the edge of something professionally ill-advised, but devastatingly tempting.
"You have the job, Kurt," Corrigan says softly, hand on the deadbolt, taking in the afternoon sun outlining their body, bringing out the gold and auburn lights in their hair. "Assistant or receptionist or anything else you wish. If that's all you need, you can go."
The room is big, but not so much so that Corrigan can't reach out, rest his hand on the back of Kurt’s neck, find their pulse with his thumb and press gently. "Anything from here on is purely...a personal investment. If that's what you want." He doesn't want them to agree to sleep with him to get or keep a job -- not this time. He wants to know it's their decision, their desire, powerful enough that money doesn't factor in at all.
He wants them, he's always wanted them, but he needs them to want him back.
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And he still wants them.
Kurt’s eyes fall closed as the man’s big hand finds their neck, as he presses down on their pulse, their breath escaping them in a shuddering exhale. It feels so good. Molloy wields such a formidable power over them, and it feels so natural, not frightening, not overwhelming—especially since he gave them the job already, not requiring any services to make up his mind. He just dominates them naturally, effortlessly, making them melt into his touch.
They really really want him. They would have even without the job.
“Thank you so much, sir. I— I happily accept the position,” they say, unconsciously leaning back against him. They turn their head then, biting their lip, peering over their shoulder to look at him. That hunger and raw adoration is still in their eyes. “And… if you’ll have me, sir, I really want you.”
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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.
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Why would they want to pull away anyway, when his hard cock against their ass feels so good? They moan hungrily, arching into him without shame, their hand finding his where it rests over their stomach so they can press it harder into their yielding flesh. So they can guide it further down.
That guiding hand stills as soon as Molloy speaks. His voice and words are searingly hot, yes, but more than anything they’re… familiar. They can’t place it at first. Like they’re recalling an old song, or a dream someone else once had.
But then it hits them. Kurt realizes with a start why he sounds so familiar, exactly where they’ve heard that voice speak those words before, and their entire center of gravity flips.
“Wait… W-Wait, you’re…” Kurt stares up at him, slack jawed and wide eyed, shivering all over as a complete impossibility inexplicably becomes reality. “No fucking way.“
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So he doesn't keep feeling Kurt up -- much as he wants to -- instead frowning a little and tilting his head to one side, like a bewildered bird. "No fucking way what?" He'd very much like to get back to the fun horny stuff, but this seems...important.
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No one has ever captured Kurt's attention the way Southcalman has. The mysterious viewer quickly made himself known as a generous tipper, frequently buying private shows from them, but where he really shone was in the chat. His words were arresting, captivating, addicting. Soon, Kurt would find themself sulking if he didn't show up one night, or lamenting other users buying private shows, stealing time they could've been spending with Southcalman. For months, whenever they perform, they've pictured him.
Of course, it's hard to picture someone whose face you've never seen and whose voice you've barely heard. So getting to see him, hear him, feel him on their body in this moment is the wildest thrill. Yeah, they're probably outing themself as a cam model and sex worker to their boss—and he's only been their boss for two minutes—but they don't care. Kurt looks star-struck. "I recognize your voice, you're— you're in my chat all the time, I can't believe it's actually you! Holy shit!"
As if he would be confused about who they are, Kurt reaches up and pulls their bun loose, letting their hair tumble and spill heavily over their shoulders, over Molloy's hand still on their face. Their chest thrums with nerves and giddy excitement, tummy doing flips. "I-I'm Princess Freyja, sir."
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And then he laughs genuinely, warmly, hands finding Kurt's hips to turn them around so he can look down properly into that giddy, grinning face. They're adorable like this, loose hair and big adoring eyes, giving up their big secret so easily, so trusting. Because Kurt knows him, like he knows them. And it makes something soft and tender in his chest acheI.
"Oh, baby, I know," he replies, hands finding their face again, cradling their flushed cheeks, gazing down at them. "I've known it was you since the second you smiled at me. I'd know that smile anywhere." He leans down, rests his forehead against theirs for a moment, closes his eyes. "I never thought I'd get -- this. Get you like this, in the flesh. Not have to share you with anyone else."
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Kurt dissolves into soft giggles, letting the man turn them around and cradle them, holding them so close. They're alight with an embarrassed blush, excitement thrumming through them, smiling up at him with that same adoring starry-eyed expression. He says he's happy that he doesn't have to share them, and bizarrely, Kurt feels the same way, even though they've never really had to share Molloy with anyone before. It feels amazing, not having to divide their attention.
"Yeah? Have you been thinking about that a lot?" they ask, letting their arms snake around the man's neck, bolder and more playful, more comfortable with him now that they know who he is. "Getting to have me for real? You kept saying that during shows, but everyone just says stuff like that, ya know..."
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"Baby, am I anything like anyone else?" He teases, settling Kurt with their legs spread over his thighs, his hands languidly feeling up the shape of their hips, their back, their ass. "I never say things I don't mean. When I say I've been thinking about you in my arms, in my bed, I mean it."
Then, tilting his head, Corrigan adds archly: "And when I say that you'd better kiss me before I lose my mind, I mean that too."
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