[He hadn't thought this kind of place was where he'd end up, but. Here he is.
Takes a lot out of you, losing a loved one. Takes a lot out of you to walk around, day after day, with that stupid ring on your finger like it still means something, even years after she left. A parting can be as amicable as you'd like, it will still never take away that sting, that rush of near visceral pain at just the thought of the years you used to share, the years she's now getting to spend with someone else. The years you're spending alone.
So he's lonely, alright? Barry is lonely and damnit, all he wants is some company, just. just for tonight. That's how he ends up in a place like this, after swallowing his pride and doing some research and leaving his ring at home. That's how he's ended up at the front desk of the Hotel, considering the beautiful lobby, the adjoining bar, wondering how to make himself look less out of place.]
[Corrigan mostly doesn't pay attention to the customers at the front desk -- not unless they're his own personal guests. But it's a slow time of night, just after dinner but before the bar really gets crowded, and Solstice is mysteriously absent, off reapplying her eyeliner or something, and Corrigan's a good host. He doesn't want to leave someone so clearly nervous and unsure fidgeting in the lobby like that.
...or maybe he was just drawn in by the fact that the fidgety man is wearing an entirely denim outfit.
Either way, he diverts his route from elevator to door to include the front desk, leaning against it and giving the other man a very long, slow up-and-down look.]
[Okay, so maybe going All Denim wasn't the most subtle choice. Maybe if he'd wanted to stay fairly incognito, he wouldn't have paired the bluejeans with the denim jacket. But in his defense, fall is creeping up on them, the weather is getting colder, okay, denim is just a sensible choice!
The man looks him over from head to toe, eyes slowly raking over him, and Barry is ready to melt out of his skin with shame. What is he doing? Why did he think going to a brothel was a good idea? The handsome man in the crisp, tailored suit must he able to take one look at him, with his salt-and-pepper hair, his receding hairline, his prominent belly framed on either side by an open jean jacket, and just know what a loser he is.]
I, uh... [Barry clears his throat, trying to fight down the bright red flush creeping over his skin. He's here now, right? Might as well go for it. This gorgeous man won't ever see him again anyway.] I was wonderin' if it was possible for me t'use some of your... services. For the night.
The thought flickers through Corrigan's mind, quick and intense and enough to make both his eyebrows quirk upwards. After however many years in this profession, and however many partners in and out of his bed (or on and off his couch, or in and out of his luxury bathtub...), he's narrowed down his type to a pretty all-encompassing "enthusiastically consenting and eager". Corrigan knows better than anyone that attraction isn't really something you can predict. Sometimes his interest is stirred by a seven-foot-tall supermodel, sometimes by a sixty-something widower with a passion for woodcarving.
Or by a walking advertisement for denim with a simultaneously rough and timid drawl and a furiously blushing face.
Well. Why not?
Corrigan shifts a little, leaning forward just enough to cross the line between "congenial host" and "predatory bird".] Mine, personally? Or did you have something else in mind?
[And this is why you're single, Barry J. Bluejeans. You're incapable of talking to people. Of course, this man works at a brothel, it's his job to be flirty and personable, to make the client feel good, but Barry just isn't used to this kind of attention.]
That's, y'know... Tell ya th'truth, bud, I-I wasn't really sure what I had in mind.
[The man is really tall, Barry realizes then. Tall and tan and beautifully built, his voice gentle but firm, his expression equal parts playful and powerful. As he looks him over, he's so completely different from what he'd imagined someone working at a brothel would be. So beautiful it's almost unreal, like the people on magazine covers. Something about the way he leans in, the way he speaks makes Barry weak in the knees, makes him want to surrender and give this man everything he has to offer. Which isn't much more than money and maybe forty-five minutes if he paces himself.]
I... sure wouldn't mind, though. If you're offerin'.
[Something in Corrigan's expression turns bewildered for a fraction of a second at the "bud". He's been called so many things, both favorable and insulting, but that...that is a new one. For that brief moment his suave persona flickers and he looks like a very tall, very handsome confused puppy.
But then it passes, and he's business again, rolling his shoulders back, then stepping forward, even more into the other man's space.] Let's say I'm offering, then.
[For a price, of course. Corrigan assumes that goes without saying. It's a service he's providing, after all. Still, something about this man, his hesitance, his lost expression, the way he keeps twisting his fingers together, feeling for something that isn't there -- Corrigan's seen enough men who are or were married that he recognizes the gesture. But it's not a guilty one, not a "my wife thinks I'm at a business conference" movement. Divorced or widowed, then.
Corrigan's expression softens, and he moves, hooking one index finger through a belt loop and tugging gently.] I'm offering. [He repeats it, softer.]
["Bud", "buddy", "bucko", brace yourself cause Barry's got a whole bunch more. Being unfamiliar with this man, he doesn't quite know how to parse the expression that flickers over his sculpted face, but something about it made his stomach do a little flip.
That was... cute.]
Yeah? [His heart beats a little faster as the man approaches, a finger finding a belt loop, his body moving forward nervously at the little tug. He can feel himself getting hotter, cheeks flushing. Barry swallows. His mouth feels dry, for some reason. Never did he anticipate someone so gorgeous volunteering to spend the night with him.]
[There's a text from Ginger's number waiting for Corrigan on his phone. Yeah yeah boss, she knows, only text for emergencies, whatever. It's a picture taken through a glass door of a pale young man hanging from the ceiling in the Hotel conference room, ropes artfully tied around his ankles, thighs, waist, and chest, arms held together behind his back with rope woven in an intricate braid design. He's suspended over the conference table, body parallel to the ground.
He looks like he's going out of his mind with anticipation. Surprising no one. Kurt's been hanging there for maybe an hour already.]
hes starting to look a little bored, boss. u should go check on him
!!!! I NEVER GOT THE NOTIFICATION FOR THIS??? WHAT @ ME ILU
[Corrigan is in the middle of -- a meeting, maybe, or a teleconference or. Something? Something. It's not something he'd been particularly devoted to, only half-listening, thinking vaguely about everything else he could be doing. Still, the notification gets a brief, perturbed grumble, and he actually ignores it for a good five, ten minutes.
When he does check, though, it's only a matter of about thirty seconds before he has an excuse, his coat over his arm and is hastily texting back:] omw
[Someday Kurt will get to hear all about how he managed to reduce Corrigan Molloy to abbreviations, which everyone knows are only a step or so above using emojis. But for now, within ten minutes (what are traffic rules?) there's the soft sound of the glass door sliding open and a breathless, bemused:] Did you get bored without me?
[Kurt's whole body twitches and perks to attention as soon as the door to the conference room slides open and Corrigan enters. There isn't much he can do in terms of moving at the moment, fingers and toes clenching fruitlessly, shoulders trying to roll back, although he desperately wants to somehow reach over and touch the man. Instinctively, not thinking, he tries. The only thing that happens is that he jostles the rope and starts to swing a little bit, swaying over the long table he's suspended over.
Despite himself, he chuckles shakily. Hanging there for as long as he has - an hour? three? maybe it's only been five minutes? - it's no wonder he forgets what his body can and can't do right now. When you hang like this, you activate way different muscles over a much longer time than you'd think, core and traps and lats working overtime to keep you stable and you circulation going and your breathing even. Kurt hasn't even been able to hang his head - the rope tied around the D-ring of his collar forces him to keep his head up, demanding stiff posture even as he's parallel to the floor. It's either that or choke.
This was all probably supposed to demonstrate something, initially. Be a lesson in something or other. Patience, endurance, maybe body control. But Kurt has a really hard time meditating on lessons when he's this turned on.]
O-Of course not. [He smiles at Corrigan, flushed and equally breathless.] I've just been... hanging out. What-- What makes you think I've been bored, M-Master?
u r the light....of my life.....and the delight.....of my soul
[There's a rare grin on Corrigan's face, the type that has only been seen by a handful of people, equal parts amused, delighted and fond. He stands in the doorway for a moment more, arms crossed, already feeling the stress and anxiety of the day ebbing away.] "Hanging out", huh? [He repeats it teasingly, rolling his shoulders back a couple times before stepping into the conference room and closing the door behind him. Ginger should keep the rest of the employees away, for a bit (and probably is already arranging to have the room disinfected once they're done. The two of them tend to get a bit messy when they play.)
With each step forward, Corrigan slips further out of his benign business persona and deeper into who he is around Kurt -- sharper, stricter, ready to administer punishment and reward, as a benevolent, yet firm master should. By the time he's close enough to reach out and run his fingers over the ropes, the smile is gone.] If you're truly not bored, I could always go. Leave you to your solo pastime.
[Satisfied that the ropes are tied well enough to restrain and force good posture, but that there's no immediate danger of circulation loss (and, of course, that there are safety shears resting on one of the nearby chairs), Corrigan hooks his fingers under the rope crossing Kurt's chest, tugs him forward, close enough that when he speaks, it's soft and hot and inches from the young man's mouth.] After all, you had someone help you get up here, didn't you? Perhaps you'd like to have more fun that way. Let someone else keep touching what's mine.
u water my crops and cleanse my skin and so do these two i can never quit themm
[All the pain and suffering he's about to (happily) endure is all worth it, just for that grin. That look Corrigan gets on his face when he's trying not to laugh at something silly Kurt just said, even though he wants to, because it would break the illusion of their play. Sure, Corrigan smiles like that all the time when they're alone, when they're partners, but when it peeks out during play? In those few couple moments between Corrigan and Master? Kurt lives for that.
It disappears as quickly as it comes. That's fine. Knowing he's made Corrigan happy will keep him going for the rest of the scene.]
Well... I-I, uh... [His body moves without his doing, Kurt gasping sharply as he's pulled forward, tasting Corrigan's breath as he speaks a soft threat. He's already shivering, a flush spreading from ear to ear.]
I... I figured you'd appreciate a wrapped up little surprise. A-At the end of a long day at work. [The hour and a half day at work since Kurt saw him last, leaving the conference room.] This is for you, Master. N-No one else, I swear.
they are like a FINE WINE they get BETTER WITH TIME!!
[For years and years, Corrigan had rolled his eyes at the insistence from friends that sex is better with feelings, so certain that it couldn't possibly be. Not when sex by itself was so interesting, so enjoyable and pleasant and surprising. Then, of course, Kurt had happened, had completely taken apart every assumption Corrigan had and put it back together into something brilliant. The throb of fondness and adoration that pulses in his chest, even when he's fully in his dominant space, is just as addictive as the eagerness and creativity that Kurt brings to every scene, every moment, every wide-eyed, faux-innocent breathy word.
Corrigan tightens his grip on the ropes and licks his lips and it's I love you without words. Because his actual words are much dirtier, much less sappy and romantic, giving not the slightest thought to the fact that they're in an unlocked conference room.] You say that as though I couldn't have you wrapped up and ready for me at any time, with only a word. Or...unwrapped, as it may be.
[Then he cocks his head to one side, as if considering, his free hand reaching up to cup Kurt's cheek, to stroke over his lower lip, gently.] Though I'll admit there is...a pleasing efficiency to having my work done for me. To simply be able to begin, without the inconvenience of setup. [His thumb dips forward, coaxes into Kurt's mouth, just to hear his breath stutter, to make him that little bit more helpless.] I could do anything I like to you right now, couldn't I?
Normally, Kurt would do anything to not disturb the boss. Not that Mr. Molloy is cruel or treats him poorly or anything - he actually treats Kurt and his colleagues like people instead of zoo animals or pet parrots or sex angels, unlike most people who come through the doors of their little aviary - he just hates bothering him with anything other than stellar news. He'd give anything to be standing outside Mr. Molloy's door right now to complain that they're out of plumage conditioner or that the third floor humidifier is broken yet again. Anything but what he's actually there to talk about.
They had another security incident today. He's probably already heard about it, Solly usually calls up to let him know if anything like this happens, but protocol is protocol and the affected party has to come up and talk to the bossman themselves. Today that's Kurt.
He doesn't really grasp why, but the thought of upsetting Mr. Molloy makes him shrink in on himself, his gut doing awful painful twists at even the suggestion. It's not just the threat of losing his job that makes him sick with worry. What if the boss is upset at him? Upset for him? What if he blames Kurt for the client's distasteful behavior? He's trying to run a business here, after all, and along comes Kurt, demanding special treatment like he has any rights to anything - even though all he's ever demanded is to be treated like a person.
His pale wings are folded tightly together behind his back, making sure he takes up as little space as absolutely possible in the hallway leading to the office. He only barely had time to get dressed before being called up to speak to him, soft pants pulled up over his hips, his chest covered in filmy fabrics draped into something almost resembling clothing. The drapey top is meant to provide mobility, free range of motion for wings usually kept under confinement, but all it does is make him feel more exposed as he stands there, knocking on the door to his boss' office before cracking it open. "Mr. Molloy? You wanted to see me?"
Gods almighty, it didn't use to be this difficult to get through the day. Corrigan's hardly done anything, answered some emails, updated some zoning permits, screened a couple new potential customers (all no's; he's getting more discerning about who's there out of a genuine desire and who just wants a cheap thrill and doesn't intend on respecting the ironclad NDA's) and walked uptown for a late lunch with a former employee. Granted, the lunch had run long, the façade of it being a friendly meeting crumbling into a confession -- the employee, who'd been young and bright and eager a decade before, who'd taken her earnings and tried to "go straight" as it were, confessed that she'd been let go from the last three jobs due to "subpar performances", despite routinely raking in three times what her human colleagues did. The meeting had ended with her asking, shame-faced and flushed crimson, if she could have her old position back. "It's the only thing I'm good for, I guess."
So Corrigan was a little more on edge than he might've normally did. Between the gutwrenching firsthand view of what happened to winged people -- that was the current politically correct term, though flights was much more colloquially common -- and the steadily constricting ace bandages wrapped around his midsection, he was both lightheaded and out of sorts by the time he returned to the hotel. The phone had rang -- multiple times, lighting up bright with Solstice's number -- but Corrigan had been so desperate for some relief that he'd ignored it, rushing into the office and unintentionally leaving the door ajar.
He'd only meant to unbind for a couple moments, enough to breathe easily, uncramp the tense knots of muscle and scar tissue. But it was so freeing, standing there shirtless, angled away from the windows, not wanting to see his reflection, that he was still there however many minutes later, when the knock sounded.
Like a slamming door, Corrigan draws in his wings -- huge, scarred things, flight feathers shortened artificially from years before, gaps where other pinions had been wrenched out, scars roping across the high arches of each wing -- and yanks his shirt back up over the bulk of them. "What?!" he snaps out, too reactive, too startled and sickened by the prospect of being seen.
It takes a moment for him to remember the name -- not the fake one, used with customers and on advertisements, but the real one, the one on the checks he signed and the contract in the files behind him. But he recognizes the snowy feathers immediately, spotless and unpatterned, like some old-timey portrait of an angel from legend. Usually wing patterns are more common colors -- black, brown, grey or occasionally red. Pure white is nearly unheard of. It had been a massive triumph to hire the young man, had almost doubled business in less than six months.
And now he'd seen -- something. He had to have seen something. Corrigan straightens up a little taller, and the name comes to him: Kurt. "It's customary to wait after knocking," he says finally, shortly.
Kurt doesn't know what to do. It feels like his whole body goes stiff and slack at the same time, eyes wide and mouth agape as he takes in what he just saw, as he lets it really sink in. Because he did see that, right? He saw his employer in a vulnerable position he wasn't supposed to, he saw him jerk to attention and wrench his shirt back over his exposed back, his exposed wings, snapping back in on themselves to hide under clothing and bandages, the red criss-crossing marks over his boss' chest impossible to deny.
There's a strange soaring feeling of relief in Kurt's belly as he realizes what this means. His boss, the powerful Mr. Molloy, is like him. That means more to him than he'd ever thought it would - this is a man he both fears and admires, a man who has invaluable influence, a man who risks everything to protect social rejects like him. But as the man pins him with that look, startled and sharp and surely furious at the intrusion, Kurt stiffens painfully and looks away, knuckles bright white where they're clutching the door handle, the door frame, eyes wide as they stare at the floor. He wasn't supposed to see that. Mr. Molloy is furious with him. He's surely out of a job now.
"I-- I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, sir!" Kurt feels like he's going to be sick. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know whether he should bolt down the hallway and hole himself up in his room two floors down and forget he'd seen anything at all, or if he should step further into the office, if he should be gracious and accept his punishment for snooping no matter what it is. Instead of doing either, he feels rooted to the spot, trembling, snow white wings protectively tucked around his shoulders.
"I d-didn't know you were--" busy? upset? a flight? "I thought--" you wanted to see me? you were normal? Kurt expects to be called into the office by his work name - Cassiel, recognizably Abrahamic, total cliché, a hit with the customers - reprimanded and punished and sent packing with a severance package and one of those famous NDAs. "I-I'm so sorry, Mr. Molloy, sir, please, I had no idea."
Damn it. Damn, damn, damn Corrigan's weaknesses, damn his compassionate streak that runs a mile wide, damn this kid -- Kurt, Cassiel, whichever, whatever -- and that tremble in his voice, the panic in his big, pretty eyes, standing there like something out of a Renaissance painting, snowy feathers fluffed up in distress. Not for the first time, Corrigan wants to reach out, smooth his hands over the stressed disarray the young man makes of himself when he's anxious. It's a common thing, fluffing out feathers in annoyance or surprise, but Kurt's the first person Corrigan has ever met who goes plush with anxiety.
This has been a problem since the beginning, since the kid first showed up, doe-eyed and honey-voiced, but with a steel in his spine that showed he wasn't an innocent. He knew what the world was like, knew that this was his best, his only option. Corrigan isn't so sure if he believes the sappy, feel-good nonsense some flights profess about flock instincts, the desire to be close, to care for each other, to protect and preen and praise.
But he does know that there's a sick, dark pit of jealousy in his stomach that gets deeper every time someone asks for the angel. They don't usually bother to remember the fake name, just whisper, beg, demand, give me the angel boy.
That's the only thing keeping Corrigan from threatening the vast power of his legal team and throwing Kurt out. That knot of jealousy that loosens with every second of undivided attention he gets. Under his shirt, still loosely wrapped in bandages, his wings twitch, wanting to fan out protectively. Stupid, birdbrained. He exhales, rubs a hand over his face
"It's-- fine." It isn't, but. "Just -- come inside, shut the door. Stop apologizing."
Kurt remains all tense and tucked in on himself even as he's told to come inside, wings puffy and protectively curled around his body as he steps inside, shutting the door without looking. He doesn't know where he's allowed to look, if he's allowed to look at his boss at all, so he keeps his eyes on the floor, apologetic and afraid of what's to come. He's already mentally running down the list of nearby shelters that would take him in for the night, somewhere he can be safe and warm until he can crawl into a government office and plead for help. A fitting end to an already awful night.
But he can't stop himself from glancing up at his boss - not seeking out his eyes, god no, too nervous - taking in the bandages over his chest, the flick of feathers under his shirt, loosely bound wings twitching. The markings, the look of the bandages, he looks like he's been wearing them all day. Did Kurt interrupt him as he was stretching? He must bind really tightly too, in order to keep them hidden. Almost six months in this place, and Kurt hadn't suspected a thing.
"I..." The boy wraps his arms around himself, warm hands running over cold, bare arms, a small self-soothing gesture. He's probably going to get kicked out tonight, called into an emergency meeting with legal and made to sign contracts and agreements that go way over his head, and no amount of begging and pleading and promises that he won't ever tell is going to save him from that. If that's the case, he doesn't see a point in censoring himself right now, in pretending like he hadn't seen anything. Might as well come out and say what he's thinking.
Since the cat's already out of the bag as far as, y'know, the one thing Corrigan has tried to keep a secret for two decades, he doesn't quite see the point of trying to hide. Besides, unwrapping the bandages gives him something to focus on besides the stress radiating off Kurt in waves, every ruffled feather a silent cry for someone to come closer, wrap him up in their wings and keep him safe.
Someone else. Corrigan's seen enough horrified reactions to the scarred state of his own wings to know that any attempts at comfort would fail miserably.
Still, the comment has him glancing up, startled, wings rustling instinctively under his shirt. Then he huffs out a humorless laugh, pulling the last of the bandages free and glancing down at the bruises they've left, reddened skin in neat, even lines down his sides,, where the fabric had constricted. "Yes, well. Turns out the PSA's about using government-issued binding materials, rather than DIYing them are correct. This is a good way to get a cracked rib." Of course, in order to get a properly-fitting wing binder, there are steps that one needs to take -- including formally registering as a nonhuman.
Corrigan clearly hasn't done that, otherwise there's no way he'd be anyone's boss. Flights don't own hotels. They scarcely own themselves.
Folding up the bandages, Corrigan allows himself a glance up, taking in the still-fluffed-out state Kurt is in. "Did you have a reason for coming to my office?"
All things told, Corrigan had gotten very little from his father. A name, yes, but not one of any standing or means -- there were no Molloy's in the fine salons of Europe, or gracing the high society pages. Some notion of how the world worked, maybe, but even if he hadn't passed that on, Corrigan would've been fully aware of it by the time he was old enough to work. Even the work ethic had been something the man developed himself, as a direct contrast to his drunken father.
What he had gotten, though, was a way with horses. Corrigan could recall (on the rare occasions he let himself be nostalgic) how his old man had been able to sweet talk even the most temperamental of beasts into eating out of his palm. There were countless nights where the humans in the home went to sleep hungry, but there was always hay and oats and a soft word for whatever bag of bones was pulling the cab that year. That, if nothing else, Corrigan had retained, had parlayed into a decent living.
Granted, being a stable hand for one of the wealthiest families in the commonwealth meant that Corrigan was around horses of much higher caliber than the cabbie nags he'd grown up around. The Pierce stables were meticulously kept, gleaming animals in sparkling stalls, healthy and strong and boasting pedigrees every bit as illustrious as their masters.
But horses were horses, papers or no. And the high-strung new little filly -- the personal steed of the eldest Pierce girl's new husband -- melted into Corrigan's knowing touch like every other horse had. The other grooms were watching with a mixture of scorn and amusement, most of them nursing nips from the spirited chestnuts sharp teeth. Apparently she didn't tolerate anyone besides her master touching her.
Well. Her master and now Corrigan, who had her sniffling gently into his cupped palm, sweet as if he'd raised her himself. He was distracted enough that he paid little attention to anyone else who might be witnessing him. For better or worse.
It surely can't be for the worse that it's the said chestnut's master who ends up witnessing him, pausing in his tracks as he enters the stables, immediately made curious by the display. He's never seen Elizabeth respond to anyone but him before - even his wife, though she's sweet as a button, doesn't want to get near her for fear of the filly snatching her shawl again. Not that Elizabeth is malicious, of course not. But horses take after their masters. And Kurt has an unfortunate reputation for being cold and aloof, keeping others at a distance, nervously snapping when he feels unsure or unsafe.
But like his horse, Kurt isn't at all as bad as he's made out to be. A bit of a dandy, sure, more preoccupied with how he looks than navigating social politics and maintaining relationships, all that idle pleasant conversation expected of men like him more draining than anything. It doesn't mean he's truly cold and aloof. Resigned would be more apt. Which is why he doesn't flinch when the other grooms nod politely in greeting at the sight of him before scurrying out the other end of the building, mumbling to each other, leaving the tall, broad stranger on his own, seemingly too preoccupied with the horse to notice.
Kurt has seen this stable hand before once or twice since settling at the Pierce estate, but only from afar. He has... something of a taste for exceptionally handsome men, no matter their social standing, and whenever he's afforded a quiet moment on his own, he likes to just look at them. Consider their beauty from afar, like you would paintings or marble sculptures. Kurt is sure he would have spent a long time looking at this man, if he'd had enough time in the day. He could happily spend all day looking at him like this, closer, connecting with his horse completely effortlessly.
"I never thought I'd see the day," he finally says, soft and politely playful, stepping further into the stables, hay crunching softly under leather riding boots. He's dressed prettily, too pretty for a typical afternoon ride - but then again, he's usually the prettiest one in the room, no matter what the occasion. "Forgive my spying. She's usually not this agreeable with anyone, I was taken by surprise."
A less observant man would've been startled by the unexpected voice, but Corrigan's attention had been thoroughly involved in the filly, whose delicate ears pricked up eagerly at the first sight of her master. So he knows exactly how long the young man had been watching him -- much longer than is strictly proper. Corrigan doesn't let himself think anything of it, firmly stamping down any notion of thinking about it at all. Probably just watching to make sure he was treating the horse well. That's it.
So he turns, holding onto the lead rope firmly with one hand, the other smoothing up and down the horse's elegantly arched neck. His head is inclined in respect, perfectly aware of his place. He might be twice the nobleman's age, but class matters far more than age. Corrigan knows that perfectly well. Still, he can't help noticing the perfect fit of the boots, the tailored cut of the riding jacket and shirt and those pants--
"Not at all, sir," Corrigan interrupts his own thoughts, dragging them away from marveling at the masterful manipulation of fabric that came together to create the perfectly tight riding pants the young man in wearing. He can't even let himself think of the nobleman by name, he should absolutely not be thinking about how well those pants fit him. Angling away, Corrigan smooths his work-roughened hand over the filly's neck again. "She has opinions and doesn't mind expressing them. Perfectly respectable in a lady."
The horse huffs warm, hay-smelling breath into Corrigan's short-cut hair, making him chuckle in amusement. He dares a look back at the young man. Master Hummel, he should get himself used to that. No trouble calling Miss Pierce by her name, or the rest of the family by theirs. It's perfectly normal. "Are you heading out? Shall I tack her up for you?"
Kurt is strange for a nobleman. Barely noble at all, for starters, his family's wealth almost modest compared to that of his wife's. What he couldn't offer the Pierce's eldest daughter in terms of money and land and status, he could offer in protection from a world that didn't understand her. Politicians have their own sort of power in this world. Better to have access to legislators when you can. It's probably mostly because of his congressman father that Kurt Hummel hasn't been completely frozen out of polite society for how queer he is.
Case in point, he nods his head in respectful greeting back to the groom, meets his eye, listens when he speaks. Talks to him like a person. "Of all the ladies I know, she's indeed up there with the most respectable," he says, smiling reservedly but pleasantly at the stable hand. Kurt honestly finds it easier to talk with the serving staff than with all of Brittany's wealthy friends - or, at least, it's easier to read their intentions, to guess what they're thinking. He notices the groom's wandering eyes tracing the lines of his body.
Interesting. It's probably just in reaction to the bright colors he's wearing, the immaculate tailoring, his clothing clinging near skintight to his small frame. But still...
"Oh, would you, please? I wanted to catch the sun setting over the lake." Like he needs a reason to take his horse out for a crisp afternoon ride. Stepping closer, he fishes a sugar cube out of his pocket and holds it out for Elizabeth, gently stroking his other hand over her face - he usually gives her a treat for not killing any stable hands that day, but today he supposes she gets a treat just for being so nice. The handsome groom gets another bright, lingering look. He's beautiful when he laughs. "You're good with horses. Have you been in the trade long?"
For all that Master Hummel is relaxed and polite, Corrigan is just as much cautious and on alert. People aren't respectful or kind to servants. They can be civil, but that's about it. Stories about genuine bonds forming between the upstairs and downstairs are just that -- stories. Even the more illicit relationships that can (and do) develop are fraught with risk and rarely, if ever, worth it.
He knows all this damn well, but it isn't stopping him from imagining taking off those perfectly-fitted clothes with his teeth.
Corrigan clears his throat, waiting for the filly to finish her treat and nuzzle into her master's hand before obligingly leading her over to the crossties. He'd seen firsthand the same horse nearly take off another groom's fingers when trying to do the exact same thing, but with Kurt around, she's tame as a kitten, hardly even blinking when Corrigan clips her in place and begins grooming the dust and loose hair off her gleaming chestnut coat.
The question is...odd. It's polite, friendly conversation, which means it belongs inside the house, in the sitting room or around the dining table. Not in a stable with barn cats prowling around and hay bales stacked up everywhere. He allows another cautious, sideways look at the young man. "All my life, I suppose, sir. I can't ever remember not being. Learned it from my father." And that's also odd -- Corrigan doesn't mention his father, not when he can help it.
Kurt has never understood why it has to be like this. Nothing about him makes him better or worse than the groom gently leading his horse to the crossties, getting ready to tack her up for an afternoon ride. When his mother was still alive, she never let him be anything but polite and kind to his fathers employees, and while he's gotten less open and curious since she passed, more guarded, careful with his words, he still likes making connections with people. It certainly helps when they look as good as this man does.
"Your father too?" Generational, then. Makes something tug at Kurt's inside a little. Bless Burt Hummel's ailing heart, he really wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. "Before Congress, my father used to manage stables. Been around horses all my life too," he says, watching the groom as he brushes his filly, dust flying everywhere, catching golden rays of sun and swirling around the man as he works. Kurt finds he can't stop looking at him. He really is exceptionally beautiful, and equally good with her - he obviously feels safe around an otherwise nervous animal, even though she could crush him, and she feeds off that security and comfort. He knows she won't hurt him. So she doesn't.
He's still idly petting her as the groom works, keeping on opposite sides of the animal from him, not wanting to get in his way. "Horses don't let you get away with anything, do they? They're so skittish, spook so easily for a reason. They have good instincts." Elizabeth has never laid him astray before.
There's no ones judgement he trusts quite like hers. "What's your name?"
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i heard u like... dads.
Takes a lot out of you, losing a loved one. Takes a lot out of you to walk around, day after day, with that stupid ring on your finger like it still means something, even years after she left. A parting can be as amicable as you'd like, it will still never take away that sting, that rush of near visceral pain at just the thought of the years you used to share, the years she's now getting to spend with someone else. The years you're spending alone.
So he's lonely, alright? Barry is lonely and damnit, all he wants is some company, just. just for tonight. That's how he ends up in a place like this, after swallowing his pride and doing some research and leaving his ring at home. That's how he's ended up at the front desk of the Hotel, considering the beautiful lobby, the adjoining bar, wondering how to make himself look less out of place.]
i owe u my life
...or maybe he was just drawn in by the fact that the fidgety man is wearing an entirely denim outfit.
Either way, he diverts his route from elevator to door to include the front desk, leaning against it and giving the other man a very long, slow up-and-down look.]
...can I help you?
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The man looks him over from head to toe, eyes slowly raking over him, and Barry is ready to melt out of his skin with shame. What is he doing? Why did he think going to a brothel was a good idea? The handsome man in the crisp, tailored suit must he able to take one look at him, with his salt-and-pepper hair, his receding hairline, his prominent belly framed on either side by an open jean jacket, and just know what a loser he is.]
I, uh... [Barry clears his throat, trying to fight down the bright red flush creeping over his skin. He's here now, right? Might as well go for it. This gorgeous man won't ever see him again anyway.] I was wonderin' if it was possible for me t'use some of your... services. For the night.
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The thought flickers through Corrigan's mind, quick and intense and enough to make both his eyebrows quirk upwards. After however many years in this profession, and however many partners in and out of his bed (or on and off his couch, or in and out of his luxury bathtub...), he's narrowed down his type to a pretty all-encompassing "enthusiastically consenting and eager". Corrigan knows better than anyone that attraction isn't really something you can predict. Sometimes his interest is stirred by a seven-foot-tall supermodel, sometimes by a sixty-something widower with a passion for woodcarving.
Or by a walking advertisement for denim with a simultaneously rough and timid drawl and a furiously blushing face.
Well. Why not?
Corrigan shifts a little, leaning forward just enough to cross the line between "congenial host" and "predatory bird".] Mine, personally? Or did you have something else in mind?
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[And this is why you're single, Barry J. Bluejeans. You're incapable of talking to people. Of course, this man works at a brothel, it's his job to be flirty and personable, to make the client feel good, but Barry just isn't used to this kind of attention.]
That's, y'know... Tell ya th'truth, bud, I-I wasn't really sure what I had in mind.
[The man is really tall, Barry realizes then. Tall and tan and beautifully built, his voice gentle but firm, his expression equal parts playful and powerful. As he looks him over, he's so completely different from what he'd imagined someone working at a brothel would be. So beautiful it's almost unreal, like the people on magazine covers. Something about the way he leans in, the way he speaks makes Barry weak in the knees, makes him want to surrender and give this man everything he has to offer. Which isn't much more than money and maybe forty-five minutes if he paces himself.]
I... sure wouldn't mind, though. If you're offerin'.
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But then it passes, and he's business again, rolling his shoulders back, then stepping forward, even more into the other man's space.] Let's say I'm offering, then.
[For a price, of course. Corrigan assumes that goes without saying. It's a service he's providing, after all. Still, something about this man, his hesitance, his lost expression, the way he keeps twisting his fingers together, feeling for something that isn't there -- Corrigan's seen enough men who are or were married that he recognizes the gesture. But it's not a guilty one, not a "my wife thinks I'm at a business conference" movement. Divorced or widowed, then.
Corrigan's expression softens, and he moves, hooking one index finger through a belt loop and tugging gently.] I'm offering. [He repeats it, softer.]
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That was... cute.]
Yeah? [His heart beats a little faster as the man approaches, a finger finding a belt loop, his body moving forward nervously at the little tug. He can feel himself getting hotter, cheeks flushing. Barry swallows. His mouth feels dry, for some reason. Never did he anticipate someone so gorgeous volunteering to spend the night with him.]
Well... I-I want that, then. [A nervous exhale.] Sorry, I'm-- I've never done this.
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in case u need a lil quarantine pickmeup
He looks like he's going out of his mind with anticipation. Surprising no one. Kurt's been hanging there for maybe an hour already.]
hes starting to look a little bored, boss. u should go check on him
!!!! I NEVER GOT THE NOTIFICATION FOR THIS??? WHAT @ ME ILU
When he does check, though, it's only a matter of about thirty seconds before he has an excuse, his coat over his arm and is hastily texting back:] omw
[Someday Kurt will get to hear all about how he managed to reduce Corrigan Molloy to abbreviations, which everyone knows are only a step or so above using emojis. But for now, within ten minutes (what are traffic rules?) there's the soft sound of the glass door sliding open and a breathless, bemused:] Did you get bored without me?
HEEHEEHEEE ILU <3
Despite himself, he chuckles shakily. Hanging there for as long as he has - an hour? three? maybe it's only been five minutes? - it's no wonder he forgets what his body can and can't do right now. When you hang like this, you activate way different muscles over a much longer time than you'd think, core and traps and lats working overtime to keep you stable and you circulation going and your breathing even. Kurt hasn't even been able to hang his head - the rope tied around the D-ring of his collar forces him to keep his head up, demanding stiff posture even as he's parallel to the floor. It's either that or choke.
This was all probably supposed to demonstrate something, initially. Be a lesson in something or other. Patience, endurance, maybe body control. But Kurt has a really hard time meditating on lessons when he's this turned on.]
O-Of course not. [He smiles at Corrigan, flushed and equally breathless.] I've just been... hanging out. What-- What makes you think I've been bored, M-Master?
u r the light....of my life.....and the delight.....of my soul
With each step forward, Corrigan slips further out of his benign business persona and deeper into who he is around Kurt -- sharper, stricter, ready to administer punishment and reward, as a benevolent, yet firm master should. By the time he's close enough to reach out and run his fingers over the ropes, the smile is gone.] If you're truly not bored, I could always go. Leave you to your solo pastime.
[Satisfied that the ropes are tied well enough to restrain and force good posture, but that there's no immediate danger of circulation loss (and, of course, that there are safety shears resting on one of the nearby chairs), Corrigan hooks his fingers under the rope crossing Kurt's chest, tugs him forward, close enough that when he speaks, it's soft and hot and inches from the young man's mouth.] After all, you had someone help you get up here, didn't you? Perhaps you'd like to have more fun that way. Let someone else keep touching what's mine.
u water my crops and cleanse my skin and so do these two i can never quit themm
It disappears as quickly as it comes. That's fine. Knowing he's made Corrigan happy will keep him going for the rest of the scene.]
Well... I-I, uh... [His body moves without his doing, Kurt gasping sharply as he's pulled forward, tasting Corrigan's breath as he speaks a soft threat. He's already shivering, a flush spreading from ear to ear.]
I... I figured you'd appreciate a wrapped up little surprise. A-At the end of a long day at work. [The hour and a half day at work since Kurt saw him last, leaving the conference room.] This is for you, Master. N-No one else, I swear.
they are like a FINE WINE they get BETTER WITH TIME!!
Corrigan tightens his grip on the ropes and licks his lips and it's I love you without words. Because his actual words are much dirtier, much less sappy and romantic, giving not the slightest thought to the fact that they're in an unlocked conference room.] You say that as though I couldn't have you wrapped up and ready for me at any time, with only a word. Or...unwrapped, as it may be.
[Then he cocks his head to one side, as if considering, his free hand reaching up to cup Kurt's cheek, to stroke over his lower lip, gently.] Though I'll admit there is...a pleasing efficiency to having my work done for me. To simply be able to begin, without the inconvenience of setup. [His thumb dips forward, coaxes into Kurt's mouth, just to hear his breath stutter, to make him that little bit more helpless.] I could do anything I like to you right now, couldn't I?
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im supposed to be asleep but damnit i cant quit them,,
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PERFECT ADDICTION
AN ADDICTION GOING ON A DECADE FUC K
AT THIS POINT IT'S NOT JUST A HOBBY, IT IS A SACRED VOCATION
im gonna order us cakes for our 10y anniversary in march, deadass
get ur art of them tattooed on my bicep tbh
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trust corry to have a $100 vibrator in his edc
right next to his keys and wallet, ofc~
naturally~~
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They had another security incident today. He's probably already heard about it, Solly usually calls up to let him know if anything like this happens, but protocol is protocol and the affected party has to come up and talk to the bossman themselves. Today that's Kurt.
He doesn't really grasp why, but the thought of upsetting Mr. Molloy makes him shrink in on himself, his gut doing awful painful twists at even the suggestion. It's not just the threat of losing his job that makes him sick with worry. What if the boss is upset at him? Upset for him? What if he blames Kurt for the client's distasteful behavior? He's trying to run a business here, after all, and along comes Kurt, demanding special treatment like he has any rights to anything - even though all he's ever demanded is to be treated like a person.
His pale wings are folded tightly together behind his back, making sure he takes up as little space as absolutely possible in the hallway leading to the office. He only barely had time to get dressed before being called up to speak to him, soft pants pulled up over his hips, his chest covered in filmy fabrics draped into something almost resembling clothing. The drapey top is meant to provide mobility, free range of motion for wings usually kept under confinement, but all it does is make him feel more exposed as he stands there, knocking on the door to his boss' office before cracking it open. "Mr. Molloy? You wanted to see me?"
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So Corrigan was a little more on edge than he might've normally did. Between the gutwrenching firsthand view of what happened to winged people -- that was the current politically correct term, though flights was much more colloquially common -- and the steadily constricting ace bandages wrapped around his midsection, he was both lightheaded and out of sorts by the time he returned to the hotel. The phone had rang -- multiple times, lighting up bright with Solstice's number -- but Corrigan had been so desperate for some relief that he'd ignored it, rushing into the office and unintentionally leaving the door ajar.
He'd only meant to unbind for a couple moments, enough to breathe easily, uncramp the tense knots of muscle and scar tissue. But it was so freeing, standing there shirtless, angled away from the windows, not wanting to see his reflection, that he was still there however many minutes later, when the knock sounded.
Like a slamming door, Corrigan draws in his wings -- huge, scarred things, flight feathers shortened artificially from years before, gaps where other pinions had been wrenched out, scars roping across the high arches of each wing -- and yanks his shirt back up over the bulk of them. "What?!" he snaps out, too reactive, too startled and sickened by the prospect of being seen.
It takes a moment for him to remember the name -- not the fake one, used with customers and on advertisements, but the real one, the one on the checks he signed and the contract in the files behind him. But he recognizes the snowy feathers immediately, spotless and unpatterned, like some old-timey portrait of an angel from legend. Usually wing patterns are more common colors -- black, brown, grey or occasionally red. Pure white is nearly unheard of. It had been a massive triumph to hire the young man, had almost doubled business in less than six months.
And now he'd seen -- something. He had to have seen something. Corrigan straightens up a little taller, and the name comes to him: Kurt. "It's customary to wait after knocking," he says finally, shortly.
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There's a strange soaring feeling of relief in Kurt's belly as he realizes what this means. His boss, the powerful Mr. Molloy, is like him. That means more to him than he'd ever thought it would - this is a man he both fears and admires, a man who has invaluable influence, a man who risks everything to protect social rejects like him. But as the man pins him with that look, startled and sharp and surely furious at the intrusion, Kurt stiffens painfully and looks away, knuckles bright white where they're clutching the door handle, the door frame, eyes wide as they stare at the floor. He wasn't supposed to see that. Mr. Molloy is furious with him. He's surely out of a job now.
"I-- I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, sir!" Kurt feels like he's going to be sick. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know whether he should bolt down the hallway and hole himself up in his room two floors down and forget he'd seen anything at all, or if he should step further into the office, if he should be gracious and accept his punishment for snooping no matter what it is. Instead of doing either, he feels rooted to the spot, trembling, snow white wings protectively tucked around his shoulders.
"I d-didn't know you were--" busy? upset? a flight? "I thought--" you wanted to see me? you were normal? Kurt expects to be called into the office by his work name - Cassiel, recognizably Abrahamic, total cliché, a hit with the customers - reprimanded and punished and sent packing with a severance package and one of those famous NDAs. "I-I'm so sorry, Mr. Molloy, sir, please, I had no idea."
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This has been a problem since the beginning, since the kid first showed up, doe-eyed and honey-voiced, but with a steel in his spine that showed he wasn't an innocent. He knew what the world was like, knew that this was his best, his only option. Corrigan isn't so sure if he believes the sappy, feel-good nonsense some flights profess about flock instincts, the desire to be close, to care for each other, to protect and preen and praise.
But he does know that there's a sick, dark pit of jealousy in his stomach that gets deeper every time someone asks for the angel. They don't usually bother to remember the fake name, just whisper, beg, demand, give me the angel boy.
That's the only thing keeping Corrigan from threatening the vast power of his legal team and throwing Kurt out. That knot of jealousy that loosens with every second of undivided attention he gets. Under his shirt, still loosely wrapped in bandages, his wings twitch, wanting to fan out protectively. Stupid, birdbrained. He exhales, rubs a hand over his face
"It's-- fine." It isn't, but. "Just -- come inside, shut the door. Stop apologizing."
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But he can't stop himself from glancing up at his boss - not seeking out his eyes, god no, too nervous - taking in the bandages over his chest, the flick of feathers under his shirt, loosely bound wings twitching. The markings, the look of the bandages, he looks like he's been wearing them all day. Did Kurt interrupt him as he was stretching? He must bind really tightly too, in order to keep them hidden. Almost six months in this place, and Kurt hadn't suspected a thing.
"I..." The boy wraps his arms around himself, warm hands running over cold, bare arms, a small self-soothing gesture. He's probably going to get kicked out tonight, called into an emergency meeting with legal and made to sign contracts and agreements that go way over his head, and no amount of begging and pleading and promises that he won't ever tell is going to save him from that. If that's the case, he doesn't see a point in censoring himself right now, in pretending like he hadn't seen anything. Might as well come out and say what he's thinking.
"That looks like it really hurts, sir."
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Someone else. Corrigan's seen enough horrified reactions to the scarred state of his own wings to know that any attempts at comfort would fail miserably.
Still, the comment has him glancing up, startled, wings rustling instinctively under his shirt. Then he huffs out a humorless laugh, pulling the last of the bandages free and glancing down at the bruises they've left, reddened skin in neat, even lines down his sides,, where the fabric had constricted. "Yes, well. Turns out the PSA's about using government-issued binding materials, rather than DIYing them are correct. This is a good way to get a cracked rib." Of course, in order to get a properly-fitting wing binder, there are steps that one needs to take -- including formally registering as a nonhuman.
Corrigan clearly hasn't done that, otherwise there's no way he'd be anyone's boss. Flights don't own hotels. They scarcely own themselves.
Folding up the bandages, Corrigan allows himself a glance up, taking in the still-fluffed-out state Kurt is in. "Did you have a reason for coming to my office?"
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tw: self harm mention
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period piece au~
What he had gotten, though, was a way with horses. Corrigan could recall (on the rare occasions he let himself be nostalgic) how his old man had been able to sweet talk even the most temperamental of beasts into eating out of his palm. There were countless nights where the humans in the home went to sleep hungry, but there was always hay and oats and a soft word for whatever bag of bones was pulling the cab that year. That, if nothing else, Corrigan had retained, had parlayed into a decent living.
Granted, being a stable hand for one of the wealthiest families in the commonwealth meant that Corrigan was around horses of much higher caliber than the cabbie nags he'd grown up around. The Pierce stables were meticulously kept, gleaming animals in sparkling stalls, healthy and strong and boasting pedigrees every bit as illustrious as their masters.
But horses were horses, papers or no. And the high-strung new little filly -- the personal steed of the eldest Pierce girl's new husband -- melted into Corrigan's knowing touch like every other horse had. The other grooms were watching with a mixture of scorn and amusement, most of them nursing nips from the spirited chestnuts sharp teeth. Apparently she didn't tolerate anyone besides her master touching her.
Well. Her master and now Corrigan, who had her sniffling gently into his cupped palm, sweet as if he'd raised her himself. He was distracted enough that he paid little attention to anyone else who might be witnessing him. For better or worse.
u spoil me, ✨
But like his horse, Kurt isn't at all as bad as he's made out to be. A bit of a dandy, sure, more preoccupied with how he looks than navigating social politics and maintaining relationships, all that idle pleasant conversation expected of men like him more draining than anything. It doesn't mean he's truly cold and aloof. Resigned would be more apt. Which is why he doesn't flinch when the other grooms nod politely in greeting at the sight of him before scurrying out the other end of the building, mumbling to each other, leaving the tall, broad stranger on his own, seemingly too preoccupied with the horse to notice.
Kurt has seen this stable hand before once or twice since settling at the Pierce estate, but only from afar. He has... something of a taste for exceptionally handsome men, no matter their social standing, and whenever he's afforded a quiet moment on his own, he likes to just look at them. Consider their beauty from afar, like you would paintings or marble sculptures. Kurt is sure he would have spent a long time looking at this man, if he'd had enough time in the day. He could happily spend all day looking at him like this, closer, connecting with his horse completely effortlessly.
"I never thought I'd see the day," he finally says, soft and politely playful, stepping further into the stables, hay crunching softly under leather riding boots. He's dressed prettily, too pretty for a typical afternoon ride - but then again, he's usually the prettiest one in the room, no matter what the occasion. "Forgive my spying. She's usually not this agreeable with anyone, I was taken by surprise."
anything 4 u~~
So he turns, holding onto the lead rope firmly with one hand, the other smoothing up and down the horse's elegantly arched neck. His head is inclined in respect, perfectly aware of his place. He might be twice the nobleman's age, but class matters far more than age. Corrigan knows that perfectly well. Still, he can't help noticing the perfect fit of the boots, the tailored cut of the riding jacket and shirt and those pants--
"Not at all, sir," Corrigan interrupts his own thoughts, dragging them away from marveling at the masterful manipulation of fabric that came together to create the perfectly tight riding pants the young man in wearing. He can't even let himself think of the nobleman by name, he should absolutely not be thinking about how well those pants fit him. Angling away, Corrigan smooths his work-roughened hand over the filly's neck again. "She has opinions and doesn't mind expressing them. Perfectly respectable in a lady."
The horse huffs warm, hay-smelling breath into Corrigan's short-cut hair, making him chuckle in amusement. He dares a look back at the young man. Master Hummel, he should get himself used to that. No trouble calling Miss Pierce by her name, or the rest of the family by theirs. It's perfectly normal. "Are you heading out? Shall I tack her up for you?"
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Case in point, he nods his head in respectful greeting back to the groom, meets his eye, listens when he speaks. Talks to him like a person. "Of all the ladies I know, she's indeed up there with the most respectable," he says, smiling reservedly but pleasantly at the stable hand. Kurt honestly finds it easier to talk with the serving staff than with all of Brittany's wealthy friends - or, at least, it's easier to read their intentions, to guess what they're thinking. He notices the groom's wandering eyes tracing the lines of his body.
Interesting. It's probably just in reaction to the bright colors he's wearing, the immaculate tailoring, his clothing clinging near skintight to his small frame. But still...
"Oh, would you, please? I wanted to catch the sun setting over the lake." Like he needs a reason to take his horse out for a crisp afternoon ride. Stepping closer, he fishes a sugar cube out of his pocket and holds it out for Elizabeth, gently stroking his other hand over her face - he usually gives her a treat for not killing any stable hands that day, but today he supposes she gets a treat just for being so nice. The handsome groom gets another bright, lingering look. He's beautiful when he laughs. "You're good with horses. Have you been in the trade long?"
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He knows all this damn well, but it isn't stopping him from imagining taking off those perfectly-fitted clothes with his teeth.
Corrigan clears his throat, waiting for the filly to finish her treat and nuzzle into her master's hand before obligingly leading her over to the crossties. He'd seen firsthand the same horse nearly take off another groom's fingers when trying to do the exact same thing, but with Kurt around, she's tame as a kitten, hardly even blinking when Corrigan clips her in place and begins grooming the dust and loose hair off her gleaming chestnut coat.
The question is...odd. It's polite, friendly conversation, which means it belongs inside the house, in the sitting room or around the dining table. Not in a stable with barn cats prowling around and hay bales stacked up everywhere. He allows another cautious, sideways look at the young man. "All my life, I suppose, sir. I can't ever remember not being. Learned it from my father." And that's also odd -- Corrigan doesn't mention his father, not when he can help it.
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"Your father too?" Generational, then. Makes something tug at Kurt's inside a little. Bless Burt Hummel's ailing heart, he really wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. "Before Congress, my father used to manage stables. Been around horses all my life too," he says, watching the groom as he brushes his filly, dust flying everywhere, catching golden rays of sun and swirling around the man as he works. Kurt finds he can't stop looking at him. He really is exceptionally beautiful, and equally good with her - he obviously feels safe around an otherwise nervous animal, even though she could crush him, and she feeds off that security and comfort. He knows she won't hurt him. So she doesn't.
He's still idly petting her as the groom works, keeping on opposite sides of the animal from him, not wanting to get in his way. "Horses don't let you get away with anything, do they? They're so skittish, spook so easily for a reason. They have good instincts." Elizabeth has never laid him astray before.
There's no ones judgement he trusts quite like hers. "What's your name?"
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