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."
Kurt melts almost immediately into the kiss, not giving himself even a moment to overthink, just letting his body completely take over and do what feels natural. He doesn't feel like he has to put on the careful front he wears with clients, doesn't have to strategically counter every touch, doesn't have to remember the long list of kinks and squicks and preferences they filled out beforehand. There's no work, no strategy, no thought. Kurt just lets himself feel Mr. Molloy's plush lips to his own, his warm breath on his skin, his strong hand pressing against his back.
Against his wings. Right at his scapular feathers, pillowy soft and yielding to touch and absolutely the most sensitive ones. The boy moans, a high and needy sound against Corrigan's invading tongue, arching his body into the other's, holding onto his hips for dear life. It feels so good, like a tickle in his spine, making his knees buckle and his wings fan out with pleasure, brushing against Corrigan's where they form a protective circle around him.
"Sir--" Kurt moans as his boss slowly runs his fingers down one of his primaries, teasing, absolutely dragging it out on purpose. He shudders, instinctive. Even after almost six months of this, his wings are still so sensitive - but naturally, Corrigan's touch is unlike any other. "Feels so good, sir. Ah, m-more, please. Please, touch me more."
It's been an embarrassingly long time since Corrigan's been with anyone. It's difficult to have any sort of intimate encounter where it won't be suspicious to keep your shirt on, and even in the rare occasions that he's managed it, the painful binding of the bandages around his chest and back had been far too distracting to allow him to actually enjoy himself. So he's even more affected than normal by Kurt's hands at his waist, Kurt's mouth on his, Kurt's wings fluttering whisper-soft against his own.
And, of course, there's nothing quite like being touched by someone who knows what feels good, who knows how to make you lose your mind with pleasure. Corrigan knows some of the employees spend time with each other, craving that exact freedom of touch that can't be present when you're in the middle of a business exchange. He knows they'll flock together -- pun intended -- preening and stroking each other's feathers, desperate to satisfy some taboo instinct that's been sexualized beyond recovery.
He wants Kurt, wants him in a purely animalistic, primal way he's never wanted anyone before, but he also knows that craving to be touched, to be held like you aren't something to be purchased or something to be recoiled from. So he runs his hand back through the tertial feathers close to Kurt's skin, up to the tiny scapular ones, fingers sliding between them to the base of each quill. He can feel them fluffing out in pleasure, can feel Kurt's smaller wingspan brushing against his own. He nuzzles into the crook of the younger man's neck, breathes him in, obeys the soft, pleading words without a second thought. He never wants to stop touching him.
Corrigan touching him like this feels so good, Kurt doesn't ever want him to stop either. His fingers are big and warm, so different from most of his colleagues when they flock together after hours, soothing and comforting and playing with each other, releasing all kinds of pent-up needs and feelings. No one gets it like one of your own. After long days and weeks of clumsy human hands, either going too hard or barely touching them at all, tugging on feathers like that's supposed to do anything, nothing feels better than another flight swooping in with long, thin fingers threading past sensitive quills, really knowing where and how to touch.
And while it's been a while since Corrigan has been intimate with anyone, he sure could've fooled the young flight, because it feels like he too really knows. Kurt whimpers softly, pressing his barely clothed chest against Corrigan's bare one, fingers trembling against the sharp jut of his hips, the front of those soft pants starting to strain.
"Sir," the boy moans, wings flexing and fluffing from Corrigan's touch, so impatient for touch he chases those broad, strong hands. His own hands start moving up the man's chiseled body, relishing how broad he is, how firm and strong those muscles are, all along his stomach and waist and ribs and chest, all the way up his back, to the very base of those wings. Any scars, any hint of old trauma, are touched the same as the rest of him - with curiosity, patience, reverence, hot impatience bubbling just under the surface.
"I want to touch you. W-Want you to feel this good too, sir, want to hear you feel good. Please," it's mumbled between kisses pressed to his neck, his shoulder. His fingers press against his skin, just shy of the base of his wings, waiting for consent to be given. "Please, let me touch you."
Corrigan's instinct is to shy away, to curl in on himself and shield the old scars from view. After all, if you're told again and again that something is horrific, ugly, monstrous, you start to believe it eventually. But Kurt's touch is eager and hungry in a way that Corrigan hasn't felt in ages, and if the sight of his inky-black feathers against the downy, soft white ones makes something guilty curl in his gut --
-- well, he can close his eyes when he ducks to kiss Kurt again, this time far less innocent. He lets a hint of the bone-deep hunger he feels creep into how his tongue curls into Kurt's mouth, swallows up his sweet, pleading voice. The hand buried in those soft feathers curls, nails scraping over the base of each quill, a pleasure-pain that's almost too much to bear.
"Say my name," he murmurs when he pulls back to breathe, when he shifts to sit on the desk, knocking books and papers haphazardly to the ground. His hands are big, rough, demanding on Kurt's waist, pulling him up and into his lap, kissing him again and again. "Say it."
Consent is not given, so Kurt doesn't bury his fingers in-between those dark feathers, no matter how badly he wants to - by god he wants to touch him. He wants to make Corrigan feel good so badly, it's like a pull in his bones, a primal yearning to pleasure the other man, one he doesn't have the vocabulary to explain.
Biological, probably. It could explain why he melts so easily into Corrigan's hungry kiss, claiming him completely. It could explain why that touch of pain to his most sensitive place makes him arch and cry out, his knees buckling, his cock twitching with need in those barely-there filmy pants, hiding all of nothing. It could explain why he follows so eagerly into his employer's lap, holding onto his broad shoulders, whimpering and kissing him back, already rocking his hips down to meet the other's. The sound of his voice demanding he say his name makes Kurt feel like he's going to pass out with need.
"Corrigan," the boy moans like a prayer against those plush lips, wings fanned out and fluffy and strong, like he's going to take flight. His hands worship the other man's body, touching his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his neck, his face, like he can't stop himself. "Corrigan, sir, p-please-- please, Corrigan, fuck me. I need to feel you inside me."
God, he's barely thought beyond kissing and Kurt is already there, hard and moving perfectly and driving him insane. Corrigan pulls back, rests his forehead in the crook of Kurt's neck, breathes in the scent of him -- sweat and fabric softener and cologne. Not a trace of anyone else, of any other man who might've been with him earlier that day, or in the days and weeks prior. There's a hot curl of possessiveness in Corrigan's gut, feathers fanning out in reaction to it. He doesn't ever want to smell another man on this boy again.
Pushing that thought aside, he leans back, licking over his kiss swollen lips and reaching to catch one of Kurt's roaming hands. His other arm moves, around Kurt's waist, keeping him from falling backwards, resisting the urge to keep touching him. Expression suddenly serious, he moves the hand he's holding up and back, until he touches the scarred, splintered feathers. His gaze stays firmly on Kurt's face, watching intently.
It isn't that he doesn't trust him. It's just that -- looking at isn't the same as touching. If there's even the tiniest bit of hesitation or repulsion, he can't go any further. He needs to know that Kurt is being wholehearted, that he isn't forcing himself at all.
Kurt isn't sure what to think when Corrigan's strong arm loops around his waist, when that big hand closes over his own, makes him stop his exploration of his body dead in its tracks. The confusion and curiosity is evident on his face, eyes searching Corrigan's abruptly serious expression for answers, not sure he finds any.
Then his hand is lead to Corrigan's wing, fingers made to touch clipped black feathers, and Kurt thinks he understands.
He immediately, eagerly flattens his hand against those feathers, spreading his fingers out, letting as much of his palm touch them as possible. They're strong, he feels the gentle resistance as he presses down against them, running his hand reverently along his wing now that he's allowed. Curling his fingers gently around one of those clipped flight feathers, mirroring the touch to his own feathers from earlier, Kurt lets his warm hand slide slowly down every barb, unafraid, not flinching when the feather comes to an abrupt end.
He looks like he wants to keep touching him. So he does, both hands reaching in to gently comb long fingers through splintered feathers, feeling how they flex at his touch, wanting to see if he can make Corrigan feel good from his hands alone. Kurt recognizes this for all it is. A test and a gift. He relishes the gift, lets himself enjoy it for as long as he has it, and only hopes he passed the test. "Does that feel good, Corrigan?" he asks, equal parts giddy and shy, slowly rolling his hips down against the other's.
It's been years since Corrigan's been with someone else. It's been decades since another person's touched his wings. It feels like -- coming home, like being released, like forgiveness. Kurt's touch is lingering and expert and loving, like he's known exactly how Corrigan longs to be touched since the moment they met. Like he was born to be here, warm and soft in the man's lap, all soft edges and sweet voice and teasing.
Corrigan's forehead drops back to Kurt's shoulder, his breath coming a bit ragged at the delicious, satisfying feel of fingers through and around and over his feathers. It feels obscenely good, like scratching an itch, like sinking into a warm bath. Like a metaphor that his mind can't even think of, so whited out with yes and perfect and more.
Both his hands move, sliding to the hem -- or, at least, what he can approximate is the hem -- of Kurt's excuse for a shirt, curling into the silky, clingy fabric. Under the expert roll of the younger man's hips, Corrigan's so hard it aches. "It feels like I need you to take this off," he mutters, into Kurt's shoulder.
Pleasuring flights may not be part of his training, but he has yet to meet a flight who's much different from a man. Kurt is very good at his job, after all. He can tell how good Corrigan feels from his touch, can hear it in his breath, can feel it in how his feathers shake, fluffing up against his fingers. There are few things in this world that gives Kurt as much pleasure as knowing he's satisfying a man's deepest needs - not just physical needs, but the real ones, the ones deep down, like an itch in their bones. Sometimes a touch is all that's needed.
Corrigan's broad hands tug at his pathetic excuse for a shirt, the words murmured into his skin making the boy sigh happily, wings twitching with need. "Of course, sir," he hums, out of habit more than anything else - after all, he's still in his work uniform, gently rocking his hips down into his boss' lap. Even though he's loathe to stop touching Corrigan's gorgeously responsive wings, Kurt's hands find the end of his silky wrap shirt, making quick work of the garment, unraveling it and dropping it to the floor.
"Is that better?" Kurt arches his spine, slowly rolling his body, knowing the shifting muscles under his flushed, freckled skin make for a very attractive display. His body is amazing, he knows it is. He makes his living and ensures his safety on how amazing his body looks, how well he can use it, how gorgeous silk bonds and delicate black lace looks against his pale skin, his pale wings, knowing what drives men wild. Long fingers find the hem of his pants, just as loose and silky as the top, teasing them down the sharp jut of his hips to reveal that he's not wearing anything underneath. "Or do you maybe feel like a little more?"
Thank god Kurt knows how that ridiculous excuse for a shirt goes together, because Corrigan would most likely have just torn it to bits to get it off. He's still thinking that way regarding the pants, though having the unbridled access to lean forward, nuzzle his stubbly cheek against Kurt's bare chest is distracting him for the time being. He hums, low in his throat, nearly a crooning sound at the warmth, the scent of his skin. It's perfect. He's perfect.
The teasing gets a soft huff of sound, Corrigan's inky wings shuttering around again, arching gracefully, feathers brushing lightly against Kurt's shoulders, grazing his upper arm as he does so. "In a moment," Corrigan murmurs against Kurt's chest, over his heart, hands sliding down his sides, like he can't possibly touch him enough. "Take your time. You have time. We have time."
Then he lifts his chin, looks up at Kurt out of heavy-lidded, soft eyes, making that sound in his throat again. It's like a warble, a cooing, affectionate sound. A flocking, flight-like sound. "Touch me," he says, soft, a request.
Kurt's head tips backwards as Corrigan buries his face against his chest, breathing him in, feeling the warmth of his skin against his own. It feels so good. The touch in itself is almost innocent, a gentle nuzzle, a soft rumbling hum, but it feels otherworldly when paired with the way their wings bump and collide, the strength of the body underneath him, against him. It makes Kurt feel small and held and enveloped, completely forgetting how unsafe he'd felt when stepping into the boss' office.
Those big hands smoothing down his sides feel divine, Kurt arching fluidly into Corrigan's touch, his hands, his face, wanting to drown himself in sensation. The soft reminder that they have all the time in the world are swiftly disregarded - Kurt is too impatient to internalize having more time than the very moment he's living right now - in favor of latching onto Corrigan's soft cooing warble, the request for touch.
"Yes, sir, of course," he moans, quiet and reverent, hands once more finding the older man's body. He fans his fingers out over his chest, explores the vast expanse of golden skin eagerly, without judgment, just feeling him against his palms. One hand slips around to his back once more, passing over scars of past trauma without hesitation to slowly bury his fingers in those tiny sensitive tertiary feathers, touching and pressing and raking his nails ever so gently over the skin and joint. His other hand slips between their bodies, over Corrigan's taut stomach and further down, cupping his cock through his pants. "Like this? Does this feel good?"
There's another of those soft, humming sounds from low in Corrigan's throat at the touch, his eyes fluttering closed, his feathers fluffing up. It gives him a look that's both rakish and soft, almost cute in a way. Though when he opens his eyes again, both big hands smoothing over Kurt's sides to his back, gliding up the length of his spine, then down again, his expression is hot and eager. The touch to his scarred wings and (more importantly) down between his legs has done the trick, reassuring him that this is what Kurt wants. For now.
Now can be enough.
Corrigan's hips rock forward, into the coaxing, gentle touch of Kurt's hand, and it takes significant effort for him to move away, to settle more securely on the edge of his desk. But the last thing he wants is to get caught up in pleasure and delight and end up tumbling right to the floor. That'd be a difficult concussion to explain. The question makes him huff out a laugh, hands sliding back down to work the loose waistband of Kurt's pants down, bit by bit.
"It would feel better if you weren't wearing these," he says placidly, matter of fact. That makes absolutely no logical sense, but nevermind. He wants Kurt naked and curled up in his arms five minutes ago.
Not to worry, it makes perfect sense to Kurt. He perks up happily at Corrigan's suggestion, tone calm and even and tinged with laughter, like he isn't teasingly inching Kurt's soft pants down over the jut of his hips. "Mmm, I agree, sir," he says, lips curled in a fond smile as he eases himself out of the man's lap just long enough to hook his thumbs under the waistband of his pants and ease them the rest of the way down. Letting it go, the soft garment drops down his long legs before finally pooling at his ankles, and Kurt steps out of the last piece of fabric on his body, knowing just how good he looks right now. Pale, aroused, flushed pink, his wings such a stark white in contrast to his skin where they curl around his shoulders almost shyly.
He knows he looks good when he lets the filmy fabric of his uniform go and he steps out of it with an almost ethereal grace, slow and measured and angelic - it's what sells, it's been focus-grouped, it's just what he does. The fantasy he offers.
But he doesn't want to just sell the boss some angel fantasy, the same one he offers every Joe Shmoe who comes in and out of his door every day. Not after getting to see the real him, the real Corrigan, hidden away, bound by shame and fear and finally getting to unfurl, if only for tonight. Kurt wants Corrigan to see the real him in return. The part of him that trips over itself to be close to someone. The part of him that gets kinda nervous and shy, still a little flustered by sex even though it's his job. The needy, eager part that makes him reach out, climbing back up into Corrigan's lap and wrapping his arms around his neck and sealing their lips together in a kiss, disregarding his own aroused nudity for now.
He wants to share a couple hot, needy, giggly kisses with his boss before they do anything else. He wants to show Corrigan that he's here for him.
The strangest thing is, it's not like Corrigan hasn't seen Kurt naked before -- out of anyone, he probably knows the most about his body, exact measurements of everything, refractory period length, sexual prowess, positions and kinks and scenarios he excels at. It's all somewhere in a file, noted down in a critical, neutral way. That's just good business.
But this is -- not business at all. This is Kurt blushing and bare and climbing back into his lap, wings fluffed out behind him in snowy splendor, no performance, no feigned, put-on seduction. Just himself, warm and sleek under Corrigan's hands when he slides them over well-defined shoulder, back, stomach muscles, like he can't get enough of the feeling. Corrigan exhales into the kiss, tongue sliding against Kurt's lower lip, marveling at the taste of him.
He wants to say you're beautiful, but he doesn't want to say the same thing countless other men have, every day, make it one of an endless parade. So instead, one hand stroking the smooth skin over Kurt's hip, arm wrapped around his waist to keep him close, he murmurs, "Thank you."
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timeasmymeasure
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."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-13 01:17 am (UTC)Against his wings. Right at his scapular feathers, pillowy soft and yielding to touch and absolutely the most sensitive ones. The boy moans, a high and needy sound against Corrigan's invading tongue, arching his body into the other's, holding onto his hips for dear life. It feels so good, like a tickle in his spine, making his knees buckle and his wings fan out with pleasure, brushing against Corrigan's where they form a protective circle around him.
"Sir--" Kurt moans as his boss slowly runs his fingers down one of his primaries, teasing, absolutely dragging it out on purpose. He shudders, instinctive. Even after almost six months of this, his wings are still so sensitive - but naturally, Corrigan's touch is unlike any other. "Feels so good, sir. Ah, m-more, please. Please, touch me more."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-13 04:11 am (UTC)And, of course, there's nothing quite like being touched by someone who knows what feels good, who knows how to make you lose your mind with pleasure. Corrigan knows some of the employees spend time with each other, craving that exact freedom of touch that can't be present when you're in the middle of a business exchange. He knows they'll flock together -- pun intended -- preening and stroking each other's feathers, desperate to satisfy some taboo instinct that's been sexualized beyond recovery.
He wants Kurt, wants him in a purely animalistic, primal way he's never wanted anyone before, but he also knows that craving to be touched, to be held like you aren't something to be purchased or something to be recoiled from. So he runs his hand back through the tertial feathers close to Kurt's skin, up to the tiny scapular ones, fingers sliding between them to the base of each quill. He can feel them fluffing out in pleasure, can feel Kurt's smaller wingspan brushing against his own. He nuzzles into the crook of the younger man's neck, breathes him in, obeys the soft, pleading words without a second thought. He never wants to stop touching him.
no subject
Date: 2020-12-13 10:49 pm (UTC)And while it's been a while since Corrigan has been intimate with anyone, he sure could've fooled the young flight, because it feels like he too really knows. Kurt whimpers softly, pressing his barely clothed chest against Corrigan's bare one, fingers trembling against the sharp jut of his hips, the front of those soft pants starting to strain.
"Sir," the boy moans, wings flexing and fluffing from Corrigan's touch, so impatient for touch he chases those broad, strong hands. His own hands start moving up the man's chiseled body, relishing how broad he is, how firm and strong those muscles are, all along his stomach and waist and ribs and chest, all the way up his back, to the very base of those wings. Any scars, any hint of old trauma, are touched the same as the rest of him - with curiosity, patience, reverence, hot impatience bubbling just under the surface.
"I want to touch you. W-Want you to feel this good too, sir, want to hear you feel good. Please," it's mumbled between kisses pressed to his neck, his shoulder. His fingers press against his skin, just shy of the base of his wings, waiting for consent to be given. "Please, let me touch you."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-16 12:12 am (UTC)-- well, he can close his eyes when he ducks to kiss Kurt again, this time far less innocent. He lets a hint of the bone-deep hunger he feels creep into how his tongue curls into Kurt's mouth, swallows up his sweet, pleading voice. The hand buried in those soft feathers curls, nails scraping over the base of each quill, a pleasure-pain that's almost too much to bear.
"Say my name," he murmurs when he pulls back to breathe, when he shifts to sit on the desk, knocking books and papers haphazardly to the ground. His hands are big, rough, demanding on Kurt's waist, pulling him up and into his lap, kissing him again and again. "Say it."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-16 01:01 am (UTC)Biological, probably. It could explain why he melts so easily into Corrigan's hungry kiss, claiming him completely. It could explain why that touch of pain to his most sensitive place makes him arch and cry out, his knees buckling, his cock twitching with need in those barely-there filmy pants, hiding all of nothing. It could explain why he follows so eagerly into his employer's lap, holding onto his broad shoulders, whimpering and kissing him back, already rocking his hips down to meet the other's. The sound of his voice demanding he say his name makes Kurt feel like he's going to pass out with need.
"Corrigan," the boy moans like a prayer against those plush lips, wings fanned out and fluffy and strong, like he's going to take flight. His hands worship the other man's body, touching his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his neck, his face, like he can't stop himself. "Corrigan, sir, p-please-- please, Corrigan, fuck me. I need to feel you inside me."
no subject
Date: 2020-12-16 01:54 am (UTC)Pushing that thought aside, he leans back, licking over his kiss swollen lips and reaching to catch one of Kurt's roaming hands. His other arm moves, around Kurt's waist, keeping him from falling backwards, resisting the urge to keep touching him. Expression suddenly serious, he moves the hand he's holding up and back, until he touches the scarred, splintered feathers. His gaze stays firmly on Kurt's face, watching intently.
It isn't that he doesn't trust him. It's just that -- looking at isn't the same as touching. If there's even the tiniest bit of hesitation or repulsion, he can't go any further. He needs to know that Kurt is being wholehearted, that he isn't forcing himself at all.
no subject
Date: 2020-12-16 11:12 pm (UTC)Then his hand is lead to Corrigan's wing, fingers made to touch clipped black feathers, and Kurt thinks he understands.
He immediately, eagerly flattens his hand against those feathers, spreading his fingers out, letting as much of his palm touch them as possible. They're strong, he feels the gentle resistance as he presses down against them, running his hand reverently along his wing now that he's allowed. Curling his fingers gently around one of those clipped flight feathers, mirroring the touch to his own feathers from earlier, Kurt lets his warm hand slide slowly down every barb, unafraid, not flinching when the feather comes to an abrupt end.
He looks like he wants to keep touching him. So he does, both hands reaching in to gently comb long fingers through splintered feathers, feeling how they flex at his touch, wanting to see if he can make Corrigan feel good from his hands alone. Kurt recognizes this for all it is. A test and a gift. He relishes the gift, lets himself enjoy it for as long as he has it, and only hopes he passed the test. "Does that feel good, Corrigan?" he asks, equal parts giddy and shy, slowly rolling his hips down against the other's.
no subject
Date: 2020-12-18 01:22 am (UTC)Corrigan's forehead drops back to Kurt's shoulder, his breath coming a bit ragged at the delicious, satisfying feel of fingers through and around and over his feathers. It feels obscenely good, like scratching an itch, like sinking into a warm bath. Like a metaphor that his mind can't even think of, so whited out with yes and perfect and more.
Both his hands move, sliding to the hem -- or, at least, what he can approximate is the hem -- of Kurt's excuse for a shirt, curling into the silky, clingy fabric. Under the expert roll of the younger man's hips, Corrigan's so hard it aches. "It feels like I need you to take this off," he mutters, into Kurt's shoulder.
no subject
Date: 2020-12-22 06:45 pm (UTC)Corrigan's broad hands tug at his pathetic excuse for a shirt, the words murmured into his skin making the boy sigh happily, wings twitching with need. "Of course, sir," he hums, out of habit more than anything else - after all, he's still in his work uniform, gently rocking his hips down into his boss' lap. Even though he's loathe to stop touching Corrigan's gorgeously responsive wings, Kurt's hands find the end of his silky wrap shirt, making quick work of the garment, unraveling it and dropping it to the floor.
"Is that better?" Kurt arches his spine, slowly rolling his body, knowing the shifting muscles under his flushed, freckled skin make for a very attractive display. His body is amazing, he knows it is. He makes his living and ensures his safety on how amazing his body looks, how well he can use it, how gorgeous silk bonds and delicate black lace looks against his pale skin, his pale wings, knowing what drives men wild. Long fingers find the hem of his pants, just as loose and silky as the top, teasing them down the sharp jut of his hips to reveal that he's not wearing anything underneath. "Or do you maybe feel like a little more?"
no subject
Date: 2020-12-27 06:01 am (UTC)The teasing gets a soft huff of sound, Corrigan's inky wings shuttering around again, arching gracefully, feathers brushing lightly against Kurt's shoulders, grazing his upper arm as he does so. "In a moment," Corrigan murmurs against Kurt's chest, over his heart, hands sliding down his sides, like he can't possibly touch him enough. "Take your time. You have time. We have time."
Then he lifts his chin, looks up at Kurt out of heavy-lidded, soft eyes, making that sound in his throat again. It's like a warble, a cooing, affectionate sound. A flocking, flight-like sound. "Touch me," he says, soft, a request.
no subject
Date: 2021-01-02 01:10 am (UTC)Those big hands smoothing down his sides feel divine, Kurt arching fluidly into Corrigan's touch, his hands, his face, wanting to drown himself in sensation. The soft reminder that they have all the time in the world are swiftly disregarded - Kurt is too impatient to internalize having more time than the very moment he's living right now - in favor of latching onto Corrigan's soft cooing warble, the request for touch.
"Yes, sir, of course," he moans, quiet and reverent, hands once more finding the older man's body. He fans his fingers out over his chest, explores the vast expanse of golden skin eagerly, without judgment, just feeling him against his palms. One hand slips around to his back once more, passing over scars of past trauma without hesitation to slowly bury his fingers in those tiny sensitive tertiary feathers, touching and pressing and raking his nails ever so gently over the skin and joint. His other hand slips between their bodies, over Corrigan's taut stomach and further down, cupping his cock through his pants. "Like this? Does this feel good?"
no subject
Date: 2021-01-04 01:19 am (UTC)Now can be enough.
Corrigan's hips rock forward, into the coaxing, gentle touch of Kurt's hand, and it takes significant effort for him to move away, to settle more securely on the edge of his desk. But the last thing he wants is to get caught up in pleasure and delight and end up tumbling right to the floor. That'd be a difficult concussion to explain. The question makes him huff out a laugh, hands sliding back down to work the loose waistband of Kurt's pants down, bit by bit.
"It would feel better if you weren't wearing these," he says placidly, matter of fact. That makes absolutely no logical sense, but nevermind. He wants Kurt naked and curled up in his arms five minutes ago.
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Date: 2021-01-04 10:16 am (UTC)He knows he looks good when he lets the filmy fabric of his uniform go and he steps out of it with an almost ethereal grace, slow and measured and angelic - it's what sells, it's been focus-grouped, it's just what he does. The fantasy he offers.
But he doesn't want to just sell the boss some angel fantasy, the same one he offers every Joe Shmoe who comes in and out of his door every day. Not after getting to see the real him, the real Corrigan, hidden away, bound by shame and fear and finally getting to unfurl, if only for tonight. Kurt wants Corrigan to see the real him in return. The part of him that trips over itself to be close to someone. The part of him that gets kinda nervous and shy, still a little flustered by sex even though it's his job. The needy, eager part that makes him reach out, climbing back up into Corrigan's lap and wrapping his arms around his neck and sealing their lips together in a kiss, disregarding his own aroused nudity for now.
He wants to share a couple hot, needy, giggly kisses with his boss before they do anything else. He wants to show Corrigan that he's here for him.
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Date: 2021-01-09 11:32 pm (UTC)But this is -- not business at all. This is Kurt blushing and bare and climbing back into his lap, wings fluffed out behind him in snowy splendor, no performance, no feigned, put-on seduction. Just himself, warm and sleek under Corrigan's hands when he slides them over well-defined shoulder, back, stomach muscles, like he can't get enough of the feeling. Corrigan exhales into the kiss, tongue sliding against Kurt's lower lip, marveling at the taste of him.
He wants to say you're beautiful, but he doesn't want to say the same thing countless other men have, every day, make it one of an endless parade. So instead, one hand stroking the smooth skin over Kurt's hip, arm wrapped around his waist to keep him close, he murmurs, "Thank you."