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: 2020-12-16 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."