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?"
Kurt keeps sneaking glances up at his boss, still unsure if he's allowed to look, but he just can't help himself. In all the time he's been here, all the decidedly less than innocent glances he's already snuck at his gorgeous boss, he hadn't suspected anything at all. Mr. Molloy is strong, private, dresses with both power and modesty, something Kurt has really admired - he doesn't exactly have the privilege of being able to cover himself up when he feels small and exposed. He'd honestly had no idea his boss was anything other than completely normal. Completely human.
So it's a little startling to have that world view challenged. What's even more startling to him is the immediate, near instinctive need to flee into his boss' arms for comfort, to feel those big wings wrap around him and shield him from a world that fetishizes them but doesn't give a damn about their safety. A feeling he'd thought his boss only ever sympathized with, but couldn't ever truly understand because he didn't live it. Knowing Mr. Molloy is one of them... it changes everything.
But instead, he stands with his back against the door and holds himself, wings enveloping his body shyly in a weak approximation of that shielding, comforting touch he so craves. "Oh. There..." Kurt mumbles, only able to meet Mr. Molloy's eyes for moments at a time before having to look away. So he really doesn't know. "There was a security incident, sir. My seven o'clock, he..." The boy trails off, like he doesn't want to think about what happened in his room only minutes before.
"Solstice told me to come up here with a report, I-I thought she called you already."
Corrigan frowns, turning slightly to glance towards where his phone is lying, forgotten on his desk. Three missed calls. "Hmm," he murmurs, rolling his shoulders back a couple times and frowning at the familiar too-tight feeling of feathers stuffed under fabric. His policy has always been that if there's any kind of incident -- a security breach, a rogue customer or the like -- that he receive a direct report. His employees have always been more willing to tell him the truth, rather than an unfamiliar third party.
Of course, now that this particular employee knows he's been lying for months -- for years, it's entirely possible that hard-earned trust is completely shattered. So Corrigan swallows back the illogical burst of anger at the idea that Kurt's been hurt or threatened, leaning back against his desk.
He gestures towards one of the chairs-- comfortable, backless, easier to sit in without crushing or cramping feathers. "Tell me what happened." Another trait he's picked up from years of passing as human. Humans don't make requests of nonhumans. They don't say "please".
An order. Exactly what he expects from Mr. Molloy. No "pleases" and "thank yous" here, which had been understandable when Kurt thought his boss was human. When he thought he was lesser than him, and he'd do well to listen and do as he's told. Hearing Mr. Molloy tell him what to do now that he knows they're equals makes his wings fluff out, feathers nervously flexing, little flecks of soft down flaking off of him and drifting through the air like dust.
But he does as he's told, like he always does, sitting down and fidgeting with his fingers in his lap. Insecurity and bruised trust be damned, Kurt knows his place. "He, um... It started out fine, I guess, the s-same gawking as everyone else. We had a nice conversation in the lobby, went over the contract, he asked some questions, all the standard stuff. Up in my room, I offered him tea while he undressed, and he said yes, so I turned to get the kettle going..."
The young man looks like he's struggling to talk about what happened. Whether out of fear or because he's distracted by his boss' secret is hard to tell, his face a carefully neutral mask hiding any emotion as he speaks. "By the time I turned around, he had a blade. A box cutter. I don't know where he'd hidden it. He started talking about-- about divine retribution a-and the righteous wrath of wh-whatever. Didn't seem like a religious nut at all until right then. Then he started hurting himself." Kurt gesticulates weakly, drawing lines over his arm with his finger. "Told me to hurt him. That he deserved it. H-He didn't touch me, sir, I called for security right away and they took care of it. I'm okay."
He's not. Untouched, sure, but not okay. Especially not with the fear of losing his job still looming overhead.
Corrigan listens quietly, hands flexing at the edge of the desk. He'd been expecting an overstep, someone trying to pry personal information-- real names, family, hometown, the like. Sometimes customers do, either out of morbid curiosity or a twisted attempt to get closer, to make themselves special. It's a fantasy, taking something unique and unusual and making it your own. It's the fantasy Corrigan's made a fortune on.
But this is something different, this is something that should never have happened. There are weirdos everywhere, but what started out as fringe groups prophesying the end of the world has become something near-cultish. Corrigan can't decide what's worse, the faction claiming that flights are demons bringing about Armageddon, or the ones who see them as avenging angels, purging the world in flame. But he's definitely more familiar with the latter, with babblings about holiness and vengeance and purification.
He has the evidence of his run-ins with them carved across his back, after all. For a moment Corrigan is back, Kurt's age or younger, feeling the wrenching, tearing pain of his adult flight feathers bring wrenched out, hearing soothing murmurs that it's all for the best, that it's for the greater good, that his sacrifice now means the salvation of thousands.
There's a sound of tearing fabric, but Corrigan doesn't hear it, going down on one knee in front of Kurt, heedless of his scarred, clipped wings unfurling from his shredded shirt, bursting free without his conscious knowledge. They're inky-black, the scars that mark them a thousand shades of grey, numerous gaps where feathers have been plucked or cut or shredded.
He reaches out, untangles Kurt's hands from where they're knotted together. "Hey. Look at me. You didn't do anything wrong. That -- none of that was your fault."
As Corrigan kneels before him and the sound of fabric ripping tears through the air, Kurt looks up and sees them, really sees them, the wings his boss had hidden from all of them for years. A soft gasp escapes the boy as he takes in the horrific damage done to him, whatever abuse he must have suffered too awful to truly comprehend. The grey welts and webs of scarring, the clipped feathers, the gaps where feathers should be. His wing span is impressive, meaning there was all the more surface area to inflict damage too.
Kurt can't even begin to imagine the kind of suffering his boss must have endured.
But he's brought back to the moment, to the two of them in his office, by Mr. Molloy's gentle words reassuring him, his big hands holding his own. Hearing that it's not his fault makes the boy's face scrunch up. Of course he knows it's not his fault, he knows he did nothing to encourage the man's religious delusions, but it had been too scary for logical thought in the moment. "Just-- J-Just don't want it to be like this. Don't wanna have to be scared and paranoid all the time. 'S not fair."
None of it is. How they're treated, how the government tosses them aside, how they're forced to register as nonhuman, as animals, a different suborder altogether, just to get any semblance of help. How Kurt's only viable career is sex work. How Corrigan has to hide who he is. How he can't even get a good fitted binder without giving up his human rights. How awfully he'd been abused. Looking at Corrigan's wings pains Kurt in a way that makes his own trauma pale in comparison. "God, sir, what happened?"
Corrigan hasn't measured his wingspan in years -- no need to, really, when you don't technically exist on paper -- but last time he had, it had ben close to twenty feet, easily. Like this, even without stretching out fully, every movement causes the long, trailing feathers (what remains of them) to knock papers off the desk, bump against the file cabinets lining the walls. When they were whole, they were magnificent things, strong and powerful, dark feathers gleaming nearly iridescent in the light. And when he flew--
Kurt asks what happened, and Corrigan's mind immediately shuts down the automatic answer. The same thing that had happened to countless others -- he'd been surrendered at birth by parents he'd never met, like most nonhumans were. It wasn't genetic, it was at random, mutated genes manifesting in seemingly normal parents, and most of the time, it was strongly recommended (or, in some places, required) that the winged infant be taken and raised in a group home. Some were better than others, but usually they were just a little too small, too underfunded, the fledglings always a little too hungry, too bored, too lonesome.
And then his life had diverted from the norm when he was a teenager -- fifteen? Sixteen? Too young, barely into his adult feathers, one of the newer workers at the group home promising to take him away, give him a better life, a family. He'd seemed legitimate, even taking and destroying Corrigan's registration papers, erasing him from all records. It had seemed too good to be true.
It had been.
Shaking his head slightly, Corrigan glances down at where he's still holding onto Kurt's hands. "It was a long time ago," he says finally. Not an answer, but the truth is too ugly, too horrific. He becomes aware that his scarred, massive wings have curled forward, enclosing the two of them in a sort of protective circle, big enough that he isn't actually touching the younger man, but it's a near thing. Seeing the splintered, ragged dark feathers so close to the snowy white ones has Corrigan tucking them back against his back, a little clumsily. "It doesn't hurt anymore."
Clearing his throat, he lets go of Kurt's hands, but stays kneeling. "I'm -- taking you off the roster. For a while. No customers." A beat, and he hurries to add: "You'll still be paid, you're not fired or on suspension or anything. But that sort of thing tends to invite copycats, no matter what we might do to suppress what happened. It's better for you to lie low, for a bit. Understand?"
The way Corrigan's wings curl in towards him, like they're about to wrap around him and shield them both, makes Kurt's stomach swoop so hard he feels almost a little nauseous. Those black feathers, clipped and uncared for, are so close to touching his own, white and pillowy soft and gently flexing in their sockets, like he aches for the comforting touch of an equal. He does, he finds he wants to touch those broken wings so badly. Kurt swallows, moving his left wing gently, reaching out to brush against Corrigan's wing right as he withdraws them, hiding them away behind his back, folding them in on themselves before the boy could get close.
Naturally. Even though Mr. Molloy is one of them, he's still Kurt's boss. Brushing wings, holding hands - even though he's gone through a frightening incident on the clock, that kind of contact is totally inappropriate. Kurt scolds himself for wanting that kind of comfort.
The panic on his face when Corrigan says he's off the roster is palpable and immediate, as is the relief smoothing over that burst of fear when he clarifies he hasn't been fired. The whole boy deflates, like something has come loose inside him, a trembling hand coming up to wipe at his flushed cheek before any tears have fallen.
"Y-Yes, sir, I understand," he mumbles, feeling uneasy about not working but still understanding why it has to be done. He doesn't want to encourage anyone else seeking him out to hurt him, just because of the color of his wings. He doesn't want anyone else to get hurt because of him either. "What... H-How do we weed these people out, sir? Can we even do that? What if they go after someone else?" Even though he comes from the midwest, Kurt doesn't really know how to deal with religious nuts.
The ghost of that touch, soft, flawless feathers against marred ones, is enough to have Corrigan shivering down to his bones. He wants to move forward, wrap Kurt up in his wings, tattered as they are, pull him into his arms and finger-comb through the ruffled, snowy feathers, wants to stroke through his hair and chase away every bit of that hollow, haunted look that lingers in his expression, colors his voice. He wants to build a damn nest, an instinct he'd been positive had died years ago.
Instead he clears his throat, sitting back on his heels, feathers brushing the carpet. "We'll -- figure something out. People like that are insane, but they're not usually stupid." Too well-organized and controlled to be stupid. Cults always have a leader, and a good leader makes good decisions. "They're easily intimidated by the usual things -- power, money, status. If you had a particularly powerful client, they wouldn't touch you."
Of course, that would be difficult since Kurt isn't on the roster anymore. Corrigan is quiet for a moment, wings rustling absently in thought. Then the solution occurs, so obvious it almost makes him laugh: "Me. I'll say you're mine."
Kurt doesn't know what's scarier: the thought that his seven o'clock had been a crazed lone wolf, or that he'd been ordered to come here and seek out the Angel Boy by a cult leader of some kind. Either thought makes him shiver, not helped by the filmy fabric draped over his chest, barely covering anything. His wings curl around his shoulders again.
"What?" Mr. Molloy's suggestion makes Kurt's eyes go wide - and his cheeks go bright red, feathers fluffing out noticeably, something he immediately and vehemently ignores. Corrigan Molloy would go out and claim he's a client of Kurt's? Even though it's a lie to keep him safe, the thought still makes the young man feel like his insides have gone liquid. Mr. Molloy is dark, powerful, mysterious, and devastatingly attractive. And a flight at that. Kurt's exact type.
"B-But sir, doesn't that make you a target, then?" he asks, groomed brows pulling together in a soft frown. He scoots a little forward in the chair, inching closer to his boss. "If they think you're in the way. I-I'm not sure how scared they are of money and status, I mean... They came into your establishment, after all, they threatened your property."
As much as it makes his stomach turn to label himself as property, it's the god's honest truth. "I don't know about this, sir... Is this going to be safe?"
There's a sound that might be a laugh and might be a cough at the sudden poof of feathers, like some sentient puffball. Corrigan is trying very hard to make it seem like the latter. Mysterious indeed. He settles back on his heels, rubbing his hand over his face, because there's definitely a ton of issues with the plan.
Still. "I've always been a target. But they're -- afraid of me in a way they wouldn't be of anyone else. It's one thing for you to be a worker, but it's another for me to...stake a definite, deliberate claim. Besides," he adds, unconsciously inching closer, wings furling out again, hovering closer and closer with each word. "It solves the problem of what we tell the staff. You being under extra surveillance because of a potential attack is the kind of thing that could get out easily. Gossip is as dangerous as box cutters."
Then he softens, letting the very tips of his dark feathers brush against Kurt's, gentle, almost hesitant. "It will. I'm not going to let anything happen to you, all right?"
It's... strange, seeing his boss like this. He's usually so poised and controlled, like he's in control of every muscle in his body at all times, like he's completely impervious to the anxieties of man- and flight kind. But here he is, scrubbing his hand over his face, looking almost a little unsure of himself, almost a little scared. Strange, but kind of funny. The day Kurt learns Mr. Molloy is anything but human is the first time he sees some real humanity in him.
Is that what irony is? Kurt's always struggled to tell.
Kurt has to actively remind himself that they're putting on a front here, because hearing Mr. Molloy utter the words 'stake a definite, deliberate claim' in regards to him makes his wings fluff up even bigger, downy feathers poofing out gently. Trying to will it away is like willing away goosebumps, it just doesn't work like that. So he sits there as his boss inches closer, his mouth a little dry as those dark wings slowly unfurls, blushing and fluffing softly as he's told nothing is going to happen to him.
Inky black feathers brush over snowy white, like fingertips shyly meeting, and Kurt shivers. It feels like fireworks. "All right. I-- I trust you, sir," he says earnestly, leaning closer for emphasis, wings gently reaching out to touch Corrigan's - unafraid, unaffected by the state of them. "Thank you."
Corrigan almost tells Kurt not to call him "sir", but that -- wouldn't go very far towards keeping up this facade of them being more...intimate. A facade which he's even now overthinking and frowning over, so preoccupied that he barely noticed the gentle touch of Kurt's soft, fluffy wings. His own flutter in response, one of them absently curling around Kurt like some strange, lopsided umbrella, resting across his shoulders. It's heavy, smelling lightly of cologne and starched fabric.
"You're welcome," very absently, still thinking over the logistics. They have to make it as realistic as possible. As believable as possible. It's one thing for a fringe group to go after a new, untested, inexperienced worker, it's another for them to make an attempt on the boss's favorite. "You'll -- have to move into my room. For a bit."
He glances up then, clearing his throat in embarrassment at his unconsciously affectionate behavior, moving his wing away. "Ah, but you won't -- that is, you don't. I won't. Force you to do anything you don't want to. If you -- catch my meaning." Owner of a specialty fetish brothel, not able to talk about sex plainly, right here.
The heavy touch of Corrigan's wing curling around him is comforting in a way Kurt would never have expected. Even with his clipped feathers, the gaps in his formidable wing span, Kurt feels safe even under that absent touch. He finds he wants to sink into Mr. Molloy's chest, feel both wings envelop him completely, let the scent of cologne wrap him up and shield him from everything and everyone, leaving only the two of them, huddled around each other in the safety of their nest.
So when his boss pulls his wing away, Kurt whines unconsciously at the loss, white wings momentarily chasing that touch before he catches himself. He doesn't want to make a fool of himself, not in front of Mr. Molloy.
Not when he's going to be moving in with him. Spending all this time with him. Pretending... Well, who says he has to pretend? "Oh. But, sir, I want to work, I want to be the best at my job, and... and it sounds like I have a new client to take care of for a bit." Kurt still feels a little shy, blushing, knocking ankles, but you'd have to be blind not to see how puffy his wings are with interest. "I haven't had my performance review yet, but I can assure you, I'm very good at my job."
There's a long moment wherein Corrigan has one eyebrow arched, the wing not around Kurt's shoulders also rising slightly. It's happens to be the opposite wing to eyebrow, which gives him a slightly off-balance look for a couple minutes. Then he clears his throat, trying not to look at the fluffed-out, snowy-white feathers -- it's difficult to fake that level of interest, even with years of practice, most wing-related movements being purely instinctive. So Kurt doesn't seem to be lying.
Still, he almost asks why?, glancing towards his scarred wings silently and meaningfully. Most people -- winged or otherwise -- wouldn't want to go near him in this state. Too many questions, too disturbing, too upsetting. All he says aloud though, is: "You've had excellent reviews, yes. I don't think you need to worry about your performance."
Reluctantly, Corrigan pulls his wings back, standing up and picking up the discarded bandages again. He keeps his back towards Kurt, feathers fluffed up slightly, which just increases the overall size of his wings. "Still. I don't -- want you to force yourself. That isn't my goal here."
The see-saw look of Corrigan's wing and eyebrow raising at the same time on opposite ends is disarmingly charming. He doesn't look anywhere near as intimidating and brooding as he usually does, whenever Kurt sneaks shy glances at him during meetings or company events or every time they pass in the lobby. He looks so human like this. Like a real person with feelings and doubts, a real person who gets confused, who feels unsure.
There's a strong pull in his gut to follow Corrigan when he rises to his feet, turning his back to him. Kurt wants to run his pale fingers over those dark feathers, marvel at the stunning contrast they make. He wants to make Mr. Molloy sigh with pleasure and arch into his touch, chase his talented fingers, see just why Cassiel gets such excellent reviews.
But he knows the importance of consent better than most. He won't touch Corrigan if he doesn't want to be - and it sure sounds like he doesn't want to be touched. But whether that's because he's anticipating rejection or because he's genuinely not interested in Kurt, is hard to tell.
"You assume I have to force myself to want to sleep with you, sir," Kurt says softly, nervous fingers tracing the hem of his drapey top. His eyes are following the curved lines of Corrigan's wings - they're huge, and when you're able to see past the damage, really attractive. He thinks he spies those feathers fluffing up, but it could be a trick of the light. "That's not the case, I can assure you. But if you're not interested, that's fine." A soft laugh. "It's just a front, right? To avoid copycats. It's fine."
There is definitely some fluffing happening, even more so with Kurt's soft, earnest voice. Corrigan can feel the eyes on him, and it's mildly irritating, because he can't wrap his wings up when they're all poofy -- the bandages will never lie straight if he does that. So he turns again, loosely looping the bandages in one hand, taking the moment to stretch out one wing, then the other.
"You assume I'm not interested. Clearly we both have an issue with assumption." His expression softens, eyes staying firmly locked with Kurt's, rather than wandering, like they want to. That top leaves little to the imagination, and all he wants to do is reach out. He wants it so badly he can taste it. "Even if it's a front, it's not going to be difficult to keep up the impression that I want you." He pauses, clearing his throat a couple times.
"But I've...been in your position before." That's also news -- everyone has whispered about the boss's mysterious origins, whether he started as a low-level worker and just climbed (or slept) his way to the top, or if he'd came into the business privileged and powerful. The assumption has always been that the latter is true. "And there was...not anyone to watch out for my best interests." Corrigan lets himself step closer, reaches out, this time with his hand, cupping Kurt's chin and tipping it upwards. "That's always going to be my first priority. And if being with me compromises that, then I will...make that sacrifice."
So he's not imagining things. Corrigan does want him. If anything could make Kurt forget all about his awful traumatic evening, that would certainly be a good start.
But his boss locks eyes with him and confesses he's been where Kurt is now, making sure the young man understands the gravity of this situation, that his vulnerable position isn't something to be taken lightly or brushed off because your boss wants to sleep with you. Kurt draws a shaky breath. Fidgets with his top. Wonders without meaning to if Corrigan's injuries are from his time in Kurt's place. The thought makes his stomach turn, and he desperately tries to push it away, not wanting to frighten himself, not wanting Mr. Molloy to think he pities him.
He gasps softly as Corrigan takes him by the chin, surrendering to the touch, not breaking that firmly established eye contact. It makes him feel a lot safer, knowing he has Mr. Molloy batting for him, but the thought of anyone making sacrifices makes him uneasy. It's just one weird Jesus freak, right? How bad can it really be? Still, he'll take the protection the name Corrigan Molloy offers any day of the week. "Thank you, sir," he says softly, a hand reaching out to gently smooth over the man's thigh, his hip, so conveniently within reach. "I'd, um... request no one makes any sacrifices, if at all possible," he adds with a quiet laugh.
There's a soft huff of sound, almost a laugh, wondering and almost gentle. But then Kurt reaches out, one of those soft, long-fingered hands trailing fingertips over Corrigan's hip, and there's a flash of the domineering, possessive nature that he's much better known for. The hand on Kurt's chin tugs, upwards, once, with the air of someone used to getting what they want.
"You're going to be trouble for me," he says, softly, voice heavy with that barely repressed wanting and amusement. "Good trouble. But trouble." Behind him, his wings are fanning out, no longer self-conscious or shameful, spreading as much as they can in the small room. Like this, held properly, even the splintered feathers aren't as noticeable as the healthy ones, as the leanly corded muscle rippled with scars, as the presence Corrigan has, even just standing still in the middle of the room. "C'mere."
That strong hand gives his chin a firm tug, and something in Kurt makes him feel like he's won. Mr. Molloy paying him this kind of attention, something he's been fantasizing about for months, makes everything else seem insignificant in comparison. Some weirdo with a box cutter, the shock of discovering a well kept traumatic secret, it all pales in his mind when he's beckoned to stand by his superior's strong hand and voice heavy with wanting.
Kurt loves to please. Part of what makes him exceptional at his job. Something in his brain is just wired differently - maybe it's because of the wings, maybe not - making him want to trip over himself to please and serve if beckoned by the right people. Mr. Molloy is absolutely the right people.
"Oh no, sir, I'm not like that at all. I'm not the kind of boy to be any trouble," he teases, rising to stand and pressing his body against Corrigan's. He's so big and firm against him, made even bigger by the maddeningly hot display of his wings fully unfurling, unashamed and stunning. Kurt doesn't get to be with fellow flights very often. His wings fan out too, so white and soft, feathers flexing shyly.
Corrigan clicks his tongue reproachfully, reaching out one big wing to fully make sure the door is closed, before letting the protective, possessive circle of them close around him and Kurt, feeling the warm shape of him through the soft, clinging clothes. "Liar," he murmurs, ducking his head to nudge the tip of his nose against Kurt's, then obligingly kissing him, a slow, lingering type of kiss.
The hand on the young man's chin stays where it is, but the other one slides up his back, over the draping layers of fabric, nails grazing over the sensitive spot where feathers and skin meet. Corrigan strokes through the plush, velvet-soft feathers he's been admiring for months without letting himself touch, letting out a soft, pleased moan of sound into Kurt's mouth, tongue slipping past his lips. He tastes as good as he looks, feels incredible as he shivers closer to Corrigan's hard, muscled body, as those angel wings of his flare out, brilliant, gleaming white. Corrigan slides his fingers through the feathers, curling his hand around one of the long flight ones, letting it sliiiiide through inch by inch. "Pretty, pretty liar."
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2020-12-08 02:55 am (UTC)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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Date: 2020-12-08 08:06 am (UTC)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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Date: 2020-12-08 09:02 am (UTC)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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Date: 2020-12-08 09:27 am (UTC)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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Date: 2020-12-08 05:31 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2020-12-08 05:53 pm (UTC)So it's a little startling to have that world view challenged. What's even more startling to him is the immediate, near instinctive need to flee into his boss' arms for comfort, to feel those big wings wrap around him and shield him from a world that fetishizes them but doesn't give a damn about their safety. A feeling he'd thought his boss only ever sympathized with, but couldn't ever truly understand because he didn't live it. Knowing Mr. Molloy is one of them... it changes everything.
But instead, he stands with his back against the door and holds himself, wings enveloping his body shyly in a weak approximation of that shielding, comforting touch he so craves. "Oh. There..." Kurt mumbles, only able to meet Mr. Molloy's eyes for moments at a time before having to look away. So he really doesn't know. "There was a security incident, sir. My seven o'clock, he..." The boy trails off, like he doesn't want to think about what happened in his room only minutes before.
"Solstice told me to come up here with a report, I-I thought she called you already."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-08 06:14 pm (UTC)Of course, now that this particular employee knows he's been lying for months -- for years, it's entirely possible that hard-earned trust is completely shattered. So Corrigan swallows back the illogical burst of anger at the idea that Kurt's been hurt or threatened, leaning back against his desk.
He gestures towards one of the chairs-- comfortable, backless, easier to sit in without crushing or cramping feathers. "Tell me what happened." Another trait he's picked up from years of passing as human. Humans don't make requests of nonhumans. They don't say "please".
tw: self harm mention
Date: 2020-12-08 06:36 pm (UTC)But he does as he's told, like he always does, sitting down and fidgeting with his fingers in his lap. Insecurity and bruised trust be damned, Kurt knows his place. "He, um... It started out fine, I guess, the s-same gawking as everyone else. We had a nice conversation in the lobby, went over the contract, he asked some questions, all the standard stuff. Up in my room, I offered him tea while he undressed, and he said yes, so I turned to get the kettle going..."
The young man looks like he's struggling to talk about what happened. Whether out of fear or because he's distracted by his boss' secret is hard to tell, his face a carefully neutral mask hiding any emotion as he speaks. "By the time I turned around, he had a blade. A box cutter. I don't know where he'd hidden it. He started talking about-- about divine retribution a-and the righteous wrath of wh-whatever. Didn't seem like a religious nut at all until right then. Then he started hurting himself." Kurt gesticulates weakly, drawing lines over his arm with his finger. "Told me to hurt him. That he deserved it. H-He didn't touch me, sir, I called for security right away and they took care of it. I'm okay."
He's not. Untouched, sure, but not okay. Especially not with the fear of losing his job still looming overhead.
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Date: 2020-12-08 07:01 pm (UTC)But this is something different, this is something that should never have happened. There are weirdos everywhere, but what started out as fringe groups prophesying the end of the world has become something near-cultish. Corrigan can't decide what's worse, the faction claiming that flights are demons bringing about Armageddon, or the ones who see them as avenging angels, purging the world in flame. But he's definitely more familiar with the latter, with babblings about holiness and vengeance and purification.
He has the evidence of his run-ins with them carved across his back, after all. For a moment Corrigan is back, Kurt's age or younger, feeling the wrenching, tearing pain of his adult flight feathers bring wrenched out, hearing soothing murmurs that it's all for the best, that it's for the greater good, that his sacrifice now means the salvation of thousands.
There's a sound of tearing fabric, but Corrigan doesn't hear it, going down on one knee in front of Kurt, heedless of his scarred, clipped wings unfurling from his shredded shirt, bursting free without his conscious knowledge. They're inky-black, the scars that mark them a thousand shades of grey, numerous gaps where feathers have been plucked or cut or shredded.
He reaches out, untangles Kurt's hands from where they're knotted together. "Hey. Look at me. You didn't do anything wrong. That -- none of that was your fault."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-09 12:55 am (UTC)Kurt can't even begin to imagine the kind of suffering his boss must have endured.
But he's brought back to the moment, to the two of them in his office, by Mr. Molloy's gentle words reassuring him, his big hands holding his own. Hearing that it's not his fault makes the boy's face scrunch up. Of course he knows it's not his fault, he knows he did nothing to encourage the man's religious delusions, but it had been too scary for logical thought in the moment. "Just-- J-Just don't want it to be like this. Don't wanna have to be scared and paranoid all the time. 'S not fair."
None of it is. How they're treated, how the government tosses them aside, how they're forced to register as nonhuman, as animals, a different suborder altogether, just to get any semblance of help. How Kurt's only viable career is sex work. How Corrigan has to hide who he is. How he can't even get a good fitted binder without giving up his human rights. How awfully he'd been abused. Looking at Corrigan's wings pains Kurt in a way that makes his own trauma pale in comparison. "God, sir, what happened?"
no subject
Date: 2020-12-09 03:42 am (UTC)Kurt asks what happened, and Corrigan's mind immediately shuts down the automatic answer. The same thing that had happened to countless others -- he'd been surrendered at birth by parents he'd never met, like most nonhumans were. It wasn't genetic, it was at random, mutated genes manifesting in seemingly normal parents, and most of the time, it was strongly recommended (or, in some places, required) that the winged infant be taken and raised in a group home. Some were better than others, but usually they were just a little too small, too underfunded, the fledglings always a little too hungry, too bored, too lonesome.
And then his life had diverted from the norm when he was a teenager -- fifteen? Sixteen? Too young, barely into his adult feathers, one of the newer workers at the group home promising to take him away, give him a better life, a family. He'd seemed legitimate, even taking and destroying Corrigan's registration papers, erasing him from all records. It had seemed too good to be true.
It had been.
Shaking his head slightly, Corrigan glances down at where he's still holding onto Kurt's hands. "It was a long time ago," he says finally. Not an answer, but the truth is too ugly, too horrific. He becomes aware that his scarred, massive wings have curled forward, enclosing the two of them in a sort of protective circle, big enough that he isn't actually touching the younger man, but it's a near thing. Seeing the splintered, ragged dark feathers so close to the snowy white ones has Corrigan tucking them back against his back, a little clumsily. "It doesn't hurt anymore."
Clearing his throat, he lets go of Kurt's hands, but stays kneeling. "I'm -- taking you off the roster. For a while. No customers." A beat, and he hurries to add: "You'll still be paid, you're not fired or on suspension or anything. But that sort of thing tends to invite copycats, no matter what we might do to suppress what happened. It's better for you to lie low, for a bit. Understand?"
no subject
Date: 2020-12-09 06:14 pm (UTC)Naturally. Even though Mr. Molloy is one of them, he's still Kurt's boss. Brushing wings, holding hands - even though he's gone through a frightening incident on the clock, that kind of contact is totally inappropriate. Kurt scolds himself for wanting that kind of comfort.
The panic on his face when Corrigan says he's off the roster is palpable and immediate, as is the relief smoothing over that burst of fear when he clarifies he hasn't been fired. The whole boy deflates, like something has come loose inside him, a trembling hand coming up to wipe at his flushed cheek before any tears have fallen.
"Y-Yes, sir, I understand," he mumbles, feeling uneasy about not working but still understanding why it has to be done. He doesn't want to encourage anyone else seeking him out to hurt him, just because of the color of his wings. He doesn't want anyone else to get hurt because of him either. "What... H-How do we weed these people out, sir? Can we even do that? What if they go after someone else?" Even though he comes from the midwest, Kurt doesn't really know how to deal with religious nuts.
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Date: 2020-12-09 11:33 pm (UTC)Instead he clears his throat, sitting back on his heels, feathers brushing the carpet. "We'll -- figure something out. People like that are insane, but they're not usually stupid." Too well-organized and controlled to be stupid. Cults always have a leader, and a good leader makes good decisions. "They're easily intimidated by the usual things -- power, money, status. If you had a particularly powerful client, they wouldn't touch you."
Of course, that would be difficult since Kurt isn't on the roster anymore. Corrigan is quiet for a moment, wings rustling absently in thought. Then the solution occurs, so obvious it almost makes him laugh: "Me. I'll say you're mine."
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Date: 2020-12-09 11:50 pm (UTC)"What?" Mr. Molloy's suggestion makes Kurt's eyes go wide - and his cheeks go bright red, feathers fluffing out noticeably, something he immediately and vehemently ignores. Corrigan Molloy would go out and claim he's a client of Kurt's? Even though it's a lie to keep him safe, the thought still makes the young man feel like his insides have gone liquid. Mr. Molloy is dark, powerful, mysterious, and devastatingly attractive. And a flight at that. Kurt's exact type.
"B-But sir, doesn't that make you a target, then?" he asks, groomed brows pulling together in a soft frown. He scoots a little forward in the chair, inching closer to his boss. "If they think you're in the way. I-I'm not sure how scared they are of money and status, I mean... They came into your establishment, after all, they threatened your property."
As much as it makes his stomach turn to label himself as property, it's the god's honest truth. "I don't know about this, sir... Is this going to be safe?"
no subject
Date: 2020-12-10 12:53 am (UTC)Still. "I've always been a target. But they're -- afraid of me in a way they wouldn't be of anyone else. It's one thing for you to be a worker, but it's another for me to...stake a definite, deliberate claim. Besides," he adds, unconsciously inching closer, wings furling out again, hovering closer and closer with each word. "It solves the problem of what we tell the staff. You being under extra surveillance because of a potential attack is the kind of thing that could get out easily. Gossip is as dangerous as box cutters."
Then he softens, letting the very tips of his dark feathers brush against Kurt's, gentle, almost hesitant. "It will. I'm not going to let anything happen to you, all right?"
no subject
Date: 2020-12-10 01:10 am (UTC)Is that what irony is? Kurt's always struggled to tell.
Kurt has to actively remind himself that they're putting on a front here, because hearing Mr. Molloy utter the words 'stake a definite, deliberate claim' in regards to him makes his wings fluff up even bigger, downy feathers poofing out gently. Trying to will it away is like willing away goosebumps, it just doesn't work like that. So he sits there as his boss inches closer, his mouth a little dry as those dark wings slowly unfurls, blushing and fluffing softly as he's told nothing is going to happen to him.
Inky black feathers brush over snowy white, like fingertips shyly meeting, and Kurt shivers. It feels like fireworks. "All right. I-- I trust you, sir," he says earnestly, leaning closer for emphasis, wings gently reaching out to touch Corrigan's - unafraid, unaffected by the state of them. "Thank you."
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Date: 2020-12-10 01:46 am (UTC)"You're welcome," very absently, still thinking over the logistics. They have to make it as realistic as possible. As believable as possible. It's one thing for a fringe group to go after a new, untested, inexperienced worker, it's another for them to make an attempt on the boss's favorite. "You'll -- have to move into my room. For a bit."
He glances up then, clearing his throat in embarrassment at his unconsciously affectionate behavior, moving his wing away. "Ah, but you won't -- that is, you don't. I won't. Force you to do anything you don't want to. If you -- catch my meaning." Owner of a specialty fetish brothel, not able to talk about sex plainly, right here.
no subject
Date: 2020-12-10 02:06 am (UTC)So when his boss pulls his wing away, Kurt whines unconsciously at the loss, white wings momentarily chasing that touch before he catches himself. He doesn't want to make a fool of himself, not in front of Mr. Molloy.
Not when he's going to be moving in with him. Spending all this time with him. Pretending... Well, who says he has to pretend? "Oh. But, sir, I want to work, I want to be the best at my job, and... and it sounds like I have a new client to take care of for a bit." Kurt still feels a little shy, blushing, knocking ankles, but you'd have to be blind not to see how puffy his wings are with interest. "I haven't had my performance review yet, but I can assure you, I'm very good at my job."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-10 04:38 pm (UTC)Still, he almost asks why?, glancing towards his scarred wings silently and meaningfully. Most people -- winged or otherwise -- wouldn't want to go near him in this state. Too many questions, too disturbing, too upsetting. All he says aloud though, is: "You've had excellent reviews, yes. I don't think you need to worry about your performance."
Reluctantly, Corrigan pulls his wings back, standing up and picking up the discarded bandages again. He keeps his back towards Kurt, feathers fluffed up slightly, which just increases the overall size of his wings. "Still. I don't -- want you to force yourself. That isn't my goal here."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-10 04:55 pm (UTC)There's a strong pull in his gut to follow Corrigan when he rises to his feet, turning his back to him. Kurt wants to run his pale fingers over those dark feathers, marvel at the stunning contrast they make. He wants to make Mr. Molloy sigh with pleasure and arch into his touch, chase his talented fingers, see just why Cassiel gets such excellent reviews.
But he knows the importance of consent better than most. He won't touch Corrigan if he doesn't want to be - and it sure sounds like he doesn't want to be touched. But whether that's because he's anticipating rejection or because he's genuinely not interested in Kurt, is hard to tell.
"You assume I have to force myself to want to sleep with you, sir," Kurt says softly, nervous fingers tracing the hem of his drapey top. His eyes are following the curved lines of Corrigan's wings - they're huge, and when you're able to see past the damage, really attractive. He thinks he spies those feathers fluffing up, but it could be a trick of the light. "That's not the case, I can assure you. But if you're not interested, that's fine." A soft laugh. "It's just a front, right? To avoid copycats. It's fine."
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Date: 2020-12-10 09:16 pm (UTC)"You assume I'm not interested. Clearly we both have an issue with assumption." His expression softens, eyes staying firmly locked with Kurt's, rather than wandering, like they want to. That top leaves little to the imagination, and all he wants to do is reach out. He wants it so badly he can taste it. "Even if it's a front, it's not going to be difficult to keep up the impression that I want you." He pauses, clearing his throat a couple times.
"But I've...been in your position before." That's also news -- everyone has whispered about the boss's mysterious origins, whether he started as a low-level worker and just climbed (or slept) his way to the top, or if he'd came into the business privileged and powerful. The assumption has always been that the latter is true. "And there was...not anyone to watch out for my best interests." Corrigan lets himself step closer, reaches out, this time with his hand, cupping Kurt's chin and tipping it upwards. "That's always going to be my first priority. And if being with me compromises that, then I will...make that sacrifice."
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Date: 2020-12-10 10:19 pm (UTC)But his boss locks eyes with him and confesses he's been where Kurt is now, making sure the young man understands the gravity of this situation, that his vulnerable position isn't something to be taken lightly or brushed off because your boss wants to sleep with you. Kurt draws a shaky breath. Fidgets with his top. Wonders without meaning to if Corrigan's injuries are from his time in Kurt's place. The thought makes his stomach turn, and he desperately tries to push it away, not wanting to frighten himself, not wanting Mr. Molloy to think he pities him.
He gasps softly as Corrigan takes him by the chin, surrendering to the touch, not breaking that firmly established eye contact. It makes him feel a lot safer, knowing he has Mr. Molloy batting for him, but the thought of anyone making sacrifices makes him uneasy. It's just one weird Jesus freak, right? How bad can it really be? Still, he'll take the protection the name Corrigan Molloy offers any day of the week. "Thank you, sir," he says softly, a hand reaching out to gently smooth over the man's thigh, his hip, so conveniently within reach. "I'd, um... request no one makes any sacrifices, if at all possible," he adds with a quiet laugh.
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Date: 2020-12-11 01:16 am (UTC)"You're going to be trouble for me," he says, softly, voice heavy with that barely repressed wanting and amusement. "Good trouble. But trouble." Behind him, his wings are fanning out, no longer self-conscious or shameful, spreading as much as they can in the small room. Like this, held properly, even the splintered feathers aren't as noticeable as the healthy ones, as the leanly corded muscle rippled with scars, as the presence Corrigan has, even just standing still in the middle of the room. "C'mere."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-11 01:40 am (UTC)Kurt loves to please. Part of what makes him exceptional at his job. Something in his brain is just wired differently - maybe it's because of the wings, maybe not - making him want to trip over himself to please and serve if beckoned by the right people. Mr. Molloy is absolutely the right people.
"Oh no, sir, I'm not like that at all. I'm not the kind of boy to be any trouble," he teases, rising to stand and pressing his body against Corrigan's. He's so big and firm against him, made even bigger by the maddeningly hot display of his wings fully unfurling, unashamed and stunning. Kurt doesn't get to be with fellow flights very often. His wings fan out too, so white and soft, feathers flexing shyly.
"Please, sir. I want you to kiss me."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-11 07:04 am (UTC)The hand on the young man's chin stays where it is, but the other one slides up his back, over the draping layers of fabric, nails grazing over the sensitive spot where feathers and skin meet. Corrigan strokes through the plush, velvet-soft feathers he's been admiring for months without letting himself touch, letting out a soft, pleased moan of sound into Kurt's mouth, tongue slipping past his lips. He tastes as good as he looks, feels incredible as he shivers closer to Corrigan's hard, muscled body, as those angel wings of his flare out, brilliant, gleaming white. Corrigan slides his fingers through the feathers, curling his hand around one of the long flight ones, letting it sliiiiide through inch by inch. "Pretty, pretty liar."
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