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."
Molloy hoists them up, and all Kurt can do is cling to him as he carries them across the room and pray he doesn’t drop them. Though of course he doesn’t drop them. They can feel his body through all the layers of clothing, they know for a fact he’s ripped, and he deposits them gently into his lap like they weigh nothing.
Kurt always assumed they would enjoy being picked up and manhandled. Another fantasy they figured would never actually see daylight. They had figured wrong, but assumed correctly. His hands on their body feel amazing, so strong and sure, and they know they would let him do anything he wanted to them.
“Is that right,” they breathe, not really a question, their arms tightening around his neck. Before he gets the chance to either lose his mind or ask them again, Kurt presses their whole body against his, legs spread wide over his strong thighs, leaving nothing hidden from him anymore, and kisses him.
It’s light and playful at first, a little bashful, as all first kisses go. But soon their impatience wins out, and they deepen the kiss with a hungry little noise, lips parting to let him inside.
Despite the fact that Corrigan has a kinky to-do list a mile long that centers Kurt specifically, he could also conceivably spend the rest of his life just kissing them. They taste fantastic, lipgloss and toothpaste, and the hint of metal when he curls his tongue into their mouth. Kissing someone with braces is an art, and there's something sweet about how it feels new to him. Corrigan isn't used to anything feeling brand-new, but kissing Kurt does.
"You still want this?" he manages between long, deep, lingering kisses, breathless and slick-lipped. "Knowing who I am and everything?" A quick flash of a grin, and his hands sliding back to grab possessively at their ass, pull their body easily against his. "Your boss with godawful taste in screen names?"
If he decides to keep them employed after all of this, they'll have all the time in the world to work their way through that kinky to-do list. Kurt, too, has an untold number of things they want to do to Molloy, that they want him to do to them, things he's teased and threatened with during live shows, things they've babbled about while made to edge themself, toys and costumes they haven't shown him yet.
They want to do everything with him.
"Yes," they breathe, not willing to stop kissing him, surging forward again and again to press their lips to his, slide their tongue against his own. They try to be mindful of the braces. His hands squeeze at their ass, and they moan happily, suddenly regretting not wearing a skirt. Pants are the worst. "Knowing who you are just makes me want this more, if I'm being honest, sir."
"Does it really?" Corrigan grins for a moment, boyish and genuine, squeezing once more at Kurt's ass, before his hand slides slowly back up their spine, inch by inch. There's another of those long, lingering kisses, heady and dizzying, as his fingers slide into the loose tangles of their hair --
-- and then, suddenly, Corrigan’s fishing his hand, yanking their hair back hard, wrenching their face up to meet him. The soft eagerness has melted away, replaced with the commanding presence of moments before -- but stronger, more secure, because he's playing with Freyja and he knows what they like.
"I distinctly remember telling you to ask me nicely, sweetheart. I know you're able." He keeps his hand firm in their hair, eyebrows arching. He knows their safewords, their likes, their kinks. If it's too much, he knows they'll tell him.
His hand fists into their hair and yanks their head back, and Kurt cries out into the luxurious penthouse, a jolt of pain and surprise going through their entire body. It hurts a lot more than they’d imagined it would, when Molloy teased that he’d pull their hair during a livestream.
It makes their cock throb with need in their slacks. Though that could just be how secure he looks right now, firm and stern, completely confident Kurt will like this. He’s right.
“S-Sir—!” Their fingers twitch and clench into Molloy’s dress shirt, their eyes growing dark with need, wet with tears, the flush of color across their face deepening. They don’t call him sir on stream, do they? Whimpering, they rock their hips down against Molloy’s as they open their mouth to beg.
“Please… Daddy, p-please,” they whine, pouting up at him. “I want you so bad, Daddy. Please, I w-want you to fuck me, I need you to, please! D-Daddy, I’ve been so good!”
There they are. Freyja and Kurt, bleeding together into one needy, shuddering, breathless mess in his lap, eyes hazy, lips full and kiss-swollen, tears welling in their bright, hungry eyes. Corrigan leans up, kisses down the bared line of their neck, teasing his teeth against their pulse. The first mark he's ever left on them -- at least physically.
"That's my baby," he murmurs, loosening his grip slightly on their hair, cradling their body against his. "That's my needy little slut. How could I ever say no to you?" He's being much more indulgent than normal, but it's their first time physically together. Corrigan figures he can be a liiiitttle lenient.
Another issue over their racing pulse, then he turns, depositing them in a heap on the bed. "Undress, princess," he commands, squeezing at their thighs. "Hands and knees for Daddy. I wanna see how you taste."
Oh, hearing him say it right into their ear is so much better than reading his words on a screen, than hearing them murmured through tinny laptop speakers. When he calls them baby, when he calls them his needy little slut, shocks of pleasure shoot down their spine, making their toes curl in their pumps. There's none of the fear or apprehension they'd imagined, the embarrassment of being chastized and punished in real life only making them want him more.
"Y-Yes, Daddy," they whine, quietly sulking as they're dumped onto the bed, losing physical contact with him. So they hurry to do what he says, eager to feel his hands on them again, the press of his body to theirs, his mouth... Shivering, they unbutton the blouse and shuck off their slacks, kicking each garment off the bed one by one as they shed them. Finally free of their stupid business casual interview attire, Kurt looks like themself again, naked and flushed and freckled, so hard between their legs, exactly how Molloy knows them.
Panting, they scramble into place as told, hands and knees in the center of the bed, presenting for Daddy—and the rest of Los Angeles, if anyone knows to look, their form entirely visible through the glass wall. It doesn't deter them. Kurt is a natural at this, spreading their legs and arching their back so deep, their shuddering spine curving attractively for Molloy. For Daddy. "P-Please..."
It's sort of amusing how heedless Kurt is of their clothes -- usually undressing is part of the show, another chance to tease and entice the viewers with each removal, each unzipping or untying or unbuttoning. But clearly they're too impatient for any of that, breathless and trembling and naked in front of him within moments.
Despite his own impatience, Corrigan has to take the time to savor this moment, the first time his hands slide up their freckled thighs, nudging them apart a bit more, the first time he squeezes possessively at their perfect upturned ass, the first time he sets a hand between their shoulders and presses down, guiding them to arch their back and lift their hips higher. "There you go, so pretty for me, baby," he murmurs, climbing onto the bed and grabbing their ass again.
They're soft and quivering and perfectly compliant, begging him so sweetly, and Corrigan easily manhandles them back into his lap, their thighs spread, hips lifted so high their knees are barely touching the bed. It's an undignified, exposed, helpless position, one where Kurt's entirely at Corrigan’s mercy. All they can really do is squirm and make more of those pretty noises as he slowly, luxuriously, slides the flat of his tongue over their hole.
Feeling his hands on them after all this time is beyond anything Kurt could have possibly imagined. It’s not like they don’t sleep around. They hook up with randoms and workers at the Hotel all the time, they’re not what you could call touch-starved or anything.
But the hands running up their thighs and squeezing their ass and manipulating them into position belong to him. To the man who’s haunted their dreams for months, who’s captivated them completely without ever getting near them. It’s no wonder they’re so reactive to his touch. It’s his hands that make them shiver, it’s his silky praise that makes them whine, it’s his tongue sliding so slowly over their hole that lures a hungry cry from their lips.
And they get to have this every day from now on. Kurt can’t believe how lucky they are. "Yes! Yes, oh Daddy, that feels so good," they moan, fingers curling into the luxurious bedsheets, thighs already quivering both from pleasure and the punishing position they’re made to hold.
Whoever said 'never meet your heroes' didn’t know what they were talking about. Kurt just hopes this is as exhilarating for Molloy as it is for them.
Corrigan wonders momentarily if the penthouse suite is soundproof -- and immediately follows that by hoping it isn't. He doesn't really care who Kurt flirts with or even sleeps with -- its a job and a hobby for them, one he isn't about to suddenly demand they give up. But he wants the whole Hotel to know that he's the one who makes them moan like this. He wants everyone to hear how mindless with pleasure they get under his touch.
So he stays focused, eating Kurt out with slow, focused drags of his tongue, enjoying how they shiver and squirm as he works them open gradually, taking his time. He only stops when he can feel their thighs shaking, when their whining, gasping sounds take on a desperate pitch. Then he pulls back, panting, working two fingers inside their ass and pumping them slowly.
"Gonna come for me?" he purrs, free hand sliding over their cock for the first time, an almost gentle caress. "C'mon, I wanna watch you, wanna see you come on my fingers, my tongue in you. You have permission..." Then Corrigan pauses, before diving back in to licking and sucking around his fingers, to add: "...this time."
They're sure half the staff knows already. After Ginger started spamming the group chat—their phone is still whirring within the pile of clothes abandoned on the floor—they wouldn't be surprised if a bunch of them have already piled up on the other side of the locked door, listening intently to the bratty Princess Freyja getting nasty with their new boss.
Let them hear. Let them hear how good Molloy makes them feel, how his tongue alone has them gasping and whining for more, squirming in his grasp. When he finally permits them to come—this time, he teases, just like he does online, edging them until they cry—Kurt is beside themself with need, rocking helplessly into the fingers toying with their leaking cock, bucking into his hand.
"Thank you, D-Daddy, thank you—! Ah, hah, y-yes—!" He's barely even been inside them yet, barely even touched them, but the first time Corrigan Molloy makes them come is the most dizzying pleasure of their life. They make a mess of themself, of Molloy's hand, Molloy's lap, clenching around his fingers and tongue with a keening moan.
The one thing Corrigan did keep track of on the tour -- in between mentally undressing Kurt and daydreaming about pinning them against the wall -- was the laundry room. So he knows there's a place for those nice silky blankets to be thoroughly cleaned, and no reason at all to worry about making a mess of them.
So he takes his time working Kurt through that first pleasurable peak, never slowing or stopping the movements of his fingers inside them, his hand around their cock, his tongue sliding messy and slick around and between the scissoring digits. Even when they're twitching with overstimulation, when the moans are laced with pleading desperation, he doesn't stop.
Corrigan just reaches around, sliding his come-covered fingers into Kurt's moaning mouth, prompting them to clean him up. "You can tap out if it's too much," he teases, adding a third finger inside them, focusing his attention on that oversensitive spot, enjoying how their thighs shake uncontrollably at the intense stimulation. "I know it's much more than you're used to. It's fine if you can't take it."
He's deliberately goading them on, knowing their stubborn pride won't let them give up, not now. Even when their body starts screaming for it, for just a moment of rest, to catch their breath, to recover. Corrigan has no intention of giving that without them pleading for it.
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no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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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Kurt always assumed they would enjoy being picked up and manhandled. Another fantasy they figured would never actually see daylight. They had figured wrong, but assumed correctly. His hands on their body feel amazing, so strong and sure, and they know they would let him do anything he wanted to them.
“Is that right,” they breathe, not really a question, their arms tightening around his neck. Before he gets the chance to either lose his mind or ask them again, Kurt presses their whole body against his, legs spread wide over his strong thighs, leaving nothing hidden from him anymore, and kisses him.
It’s light and playful at first, a little bashful, as all first kisses go. But soon their impatience wins out, and they deepen the kiss with a hungry little noise, lips parting to let him inside.
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"You still want this?" he manages between long, deep, lingering kisses, breathless and slick-lipped. "Knowing who I am and everything?" A quick flash of a grin, and his hands sliding back to grab possessively at their ass, pull their body easily against his. "Your boss with godawful taste in screen names?"
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They want to do everything with him.
"Yes," they breathe, not willing to stop kissing him, surging forward again and again to press their lips to his, slide their tongue against his own. They try to be mindful of the braces. His hands squeeze at their ass, and they moan happily, suddenly regretting not wearing a skirt. Pants are the worst. "Knowing who you are just makes me want this more, if I'm being honest, sir."
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-- and then, suddenly, Corrigan’s fishing his hand, yanking their hair back hard, wrenching their face up to meet him. The soft eagerness has melted away, replaced with the commanding presence of moments before -- but stronger, more secure, because he's playing with Freyja and he knows what they like.
"I distinctly remember telling you to ask me nicely, sweetheart. I know you're able." He keeps his hand firm in their hair, eyebrows arching. He knows their safewords, their likes, their kinks. If it's too much, he knows they'll tell him.
It's almost never too much.
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It makes their cock throb with need in their slacks. Though that could just be how secure he looks right now, firm and stern, completely confident Kurt will like this. He’s right.
“S-Sir—!” Their fingers twitch and clench into Molloy’s dress shirt, their eyes growing dark with need, wet with tears, the flush of color across their face deepening. They don’t call him sir on stream, do they? Whimpering, they rock their hips down against Molloy’s as they open their mouth to beg.
“Please… Daddy, p-please,” they whine, pouting up at him. “I want you so bad, Daddy. Please, I w-want you to fuck me, I need you to, please! D-Daddy, I’ve been so good!”
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"That's my baby," he murmurs, loosening his grip slightly on their hair, cradling their body against his. "That's my needy little slut. How could I ever say no to you?" He's being much more indulgent than normal, but it's their first time physically together. Corrigan figures he can be a liiiitttle lenient.
Another issue over their racing pulse, then he turns, depositing them in a heap on the bed. "Undress, princess," he commands, squeezing at their thighs. "Hands and knees for Daddy. I wanna see how you taste."
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"Y-Yes, Daddy," they whine, quietly sulking as they're dumped onto the bed, losing physical contact with him. So they hurry to do what he says, eager to feel his hands on them again, the press of his body to theirs, his mouth... Shivering, they unbutton the blouse and shuck off their slacks, kicking each garment off the bed one by one as they shed them. Finally free of their stupid business casual interview attire, Kurt looks like themself again, naked and flushed and freckled, so hard between their legs, exactly how Molloy knows them.
Panting, they scramble into place as told, hands and knees in the center of the bed, presenting for Daddy—and the rest of Los Angeles, if anyone knows to look, their form entirely visible through the glass wall. It doesn't deter them. Kurt is a natural at this, spreading their legs and arching their back so deep, their shuddering spine curving attractively for Molloy. For Daddy. "P-Please..."
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Despite his own impatience, Corrigan has to take the time to savor this moment, the first time his hands slide up their freckled thighs, nudging them apart a bit more, the first time he squeezes possessively at their perfect upturned ass, the first time he sets a hand between their shoulders and presses down, guiding them to arch their back and lift their hips higher. "There you go, so pretty for me, baby," he murmurs, climbing onto the bed and grabbing their ass again.
They're soft and quivering and perfectly compliant, begging him so sweetly, and Corrigan easily manhandles them back into his lap, their thighs spread, hips lifted so high their knees are barely touching the bed. It's an undignified, exposed, helpless position, one where Kurt's entirely at Corrigan’s mercy. All they can really do is squirm and make more of those pretty noises as he slowly, luxuriously, slides the flat of his tongue over their hole.
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But the hands running up their thighs and squeezing their ass and manipulating them into position belong to him. To the man who’s haunted their dreams for months, who’s captivated them completely without ever getting near them. It’s no wonder they’re so reactive to his touch. It’s his hands that make them shiver, it’s his silky praise that makes them whine, it’s his tongue sliding so slowly over their hole that lures a hungry cry from their lips.
And they get to have this every day from now on. Kurt can’t believe how lucky they are. "Yes! Yes, oh Daddy, that feels so good," they moan, fingers curling into the luxurious bedsheets, thighs already quivering both from pleasure and the punishing position they’re made to hold.
Whoever said 'never meet your heroes' didn’t know what they were talking about. Kurt just hopes this is as exhilarating for Molloy as it is for them.
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So he stays focused, eating Kurt out with slow, focused drags of his tongue, enjoying how they shiver and squirm as he works them open gradually, taking his time. He only stops when he can feel their thighs shaking, when their whining, gasping sounds take on a desperate pitch. Then he pulls back, panting, working two fingers inside their ass and pumping them slowly.
"Gonna come for me?" he purrs, free hand sliding over their cock for the first time, an almost gentle caress. "C'mon, I wanna watch you, wanna see you come on my fingers, my tongue in you. You have permission..." Then Corrigan pauses, before diving back in to licking and sucking around his fingers, to add: "...this time."
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Let them hear. Let them hear how good Molloy makes them feel, how his tongue alone has them gasping and whining for more, squirming in his grasp. When he finally permits them to come—this time, he teases, just like he does online, edging them until they cry—Kurt is beside themself with need, rocking helplessly into the fingers toying with their leaking cock, bucking into his hand.
"Thank you, D-Daddy, thank you—! Ah, hah, y-yes—!" He's barely even been inside them yet, barely even touched them, but the first time Corrigan Molloy makes them come is the most dizzying pleasure of their life. They make a mess of themself, of Molloy's hand, Molloy's lap, clenching around his fingers and tongue with a keening moan.
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So he takes his time working Kurt through that first pleasurable peak, never slowing or stopping the movements of his fingers inside them, his hand around their cock, his tongue sliding messy and slick around and between the scissoring digits. Even when they're twitching with overstimulation, when the moans are laced with pleading desperation, he doesn't stop.
Corrigan just reaches around, sliding his come-covered fingers into Kurt's moaning mouth, prompting them to clean him up. "You can tap out if it's too much," he teases, adding a third finger inside them, focusing his attention on that oversensitive spot, enjoying how their thighs shake uncontrollably at the intense stimulation. "I know it's much more than you're used to. It's fine if you can't take it."
He's deliberately goading them on, knowing their stubborn pride won't let them give up, not now. Even when their body starts screaming for it, for just a moment of rest, to catch their breath, to recover. Corrigan has no intention of giving that without them pleading for it.
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