oh, take me back to the start | for makingculture

[manincharge]

Corrigan Molloy isn't usually the type to go out cruising. He doesn't need to, not in his line of work. No, not the official, above-the-table work he puts on resumes and business cards and LinkedIn and all that -- real estate, especially on the East Coast, is not a very reliable way to meet people. It's been lucrative, especially in the wake of several economic collapses, especially with his uncanny ability to predict the fluctuations in trends and capitalize on them. The long and short of it is that Corrigan doesn't have to worry about money, and hasn't had to for a long time.

Generally, due to the under-the-table side of his work, he doesn't have to worry about companionship either. It's been almost ten years since an acquaintance of his (Solstice, who would indignantly declare herself his "best friend", which is ludicrous) had partnered with him on the Hotel. An amorphous, vague name for what was now one of the most reputable sex work locations in the city. She'd handled the marketing, the licenses and the testing and the recruiting, he'd handled the location -- a newly-purchased six-story hotel, modest and unassuming on the outside, redone in lush aristocracy on the inside -- and the funding. It had paid off tenfold in the past decade, himself and Solly taking cuts of the earnings and insuring that the workers were protected, regularly tested and able to pick and choose clients. The world's oldest profession, in the digital era.

As the manager and owner of the Hotel, Corrigan wasn't necessarily needed to work -- he easily could've cloistered himself in his penthouse suite, maintaining his properties in Massachusetts or Vermont or overseas and never even acknowledged what was going on in the floors below. But every so often there was a potential client who reached out, via the discreet, hard-to-find website, or through word of mouth, who wanted something a little more...intense than the straightforward, vanilla experience. And, once Solstice had screened them vigorously to insure that no, they weren't wanting something akin to that godawful 50 shades of whatever book, Corrigan was occasionally inclined to step up, to shift into the Dom persona he'd lived almost full-time in when he was much younger, when kink in general -- much less between men -- was a rarity, hidden in secret clubs and private parties. Back in those days, he'd even had a series of fulltime submissives -- one of whom he was still Facebook friends with, actually -- though none had lasted more than a couple months.

You're so intense, Corry, had always been their ultimate, apologetic explanation for wanting to end the relationship. Not in a bad way, just...it's not what I'm looking for permanently. And of course, he'd always understood, knowing that his personality -- bossy, domineering, able to fill a room with his presence, but intensely focused, doting and attentive on whoever he was with -- could be a lot. Too much, maybe, for any one person. Maybe it was better to keep things sex-only.

And so: there he was, lingering outside a nightclub, pulsing with energy and neon and music, hands in his pockets, debating whether to go inside. None of his doubts showed on his face, though, long accustomed to hiding his emotions under a brooding, impassive mask. It was a gay club, which was technically not exactly what he was -- "pansexual, but male-leaning", Solstice had helpfully deemed him, which had gotten a baffled look as Corrigan thought immediately of cookware -- but it definitely fit what he was looking for. His last four customers, over the past six or so months, had all been women. That damn 50 Shades book was an insidious piece of shit.

Corrigan huffs out a thoughtful, grumbling sound, stepping around to the corner by the club and pulling out his cigarettes. He'd smoke a little, debate if he actually wanted to go inside and go through the song and dance (literally) of finding someone to go home with. Maybe he'd just give it up, pour himself inside a taxi and go home. Catch up on 90-Day Fiance or something.

Comments

[manincharge]

It's just shy of reckless, the flirtation, the blatant proposition. Corrigan could be anyone, could be dangerous or unsettlingly perverted or just really bad at sex, but this young man doesn't seem to care. That speaks of an old wound flaring up -- the anniversary of a break-up, or a rejection or something, a painful thought that's enough to block out any logical, rational thought. Corrigan's been there, decades ago, been the pretty young thing throwing themselves at anything on two legs, desperate to block out the ugly memories.

Does it deter Corrigan, then, that this wide-eyed young stranger is clearly using him as a bandaid on wounds someone else left? No, of course not. The desperation is as compelling as that face and that body and that soft, lilting voice. It's fortunate that Corrigan is only somewhat dangerous, slightly perverted and extremely good at sex.

He flicks his lighter once more, then shifts, subtly, but enough so that he's facing the younger man squarely, rolling his shoulders a couple times and arching both eyebrows. "You don't know me from Adam. What if this is a bad idea?" A step forward, then another, enough that he's well within the stranger's personal space, not touching him yet, but effectively pinning him up against the wall. "What if you're getting in over your head, hm?"

Corrigan reaches out, then, ghosting the backs of his fingers over the filmy material of the young man's scarf, just barely touching. "Unless...that's exactly what you're lookin' for."

[makingculture]

What if this is a bad idea?

The thought doesn't strike him until the stranger faces him head-on, approaches him with slow, even steps, gets right up in his face and pins him to the spot without a single touch. Kurt could very well be getting in over his head. He could be making the biggest mistake of his life talking to this man, this stranger, thoughtlessly propositioning him with little regard for his own safety and dignity. What if he regrets it in the morning? In a month, in a year? What if he starts feeling that he's been throwing himself around like he doesn't matter? What would that do to him?

But those niggling concerns are swiftly overshadowed by how surprisingly good it feels to be boxed in against the wall by the stranger's broad, imposing frame. Kurt draws a sharp breath, mouth suddenly dry, the hairs at the back of his neck standing up in response to the man's invasion of his space, the low rumble of his voice, the barely-there touch of his fingers to his scarf, so close to making contact with his body. Stormy eyes flick between the big hand hovering over his chest and the man's sculpted face, the dark eyes pinning him in place.

He doesn't make a move to leave, doesn't appear to be uncomfortable or frightened by the man's advances. For some reason even Kurt can't explain, he finds he wants the stranger even more now. Even if he really is getting in over his head. Even if this really is a bad idea.

"I can handle myself." A pink tongue peeks out to wet plush lips. "Think I can handle you just fine."

[manincharge]

Oh, he's confident. He's young and cocky and confident beyond all logic or rationale, and normally Corrigan would scoff or roll his eyes at that kind of bravado, but with this young man, he finds he likes it. He likes the brash defiance in those bright eyes, he likes the wordplay and he really likes the tempting prospect of getting his hands on everything that's currently covered up in designer fabric.

The response has Corrigan tilting his head to one side, eyes going dark and shuttered with undisguised want. When he moves, it's deliberate, but sudden -- he wants to see this stranger's breath catch, wants the intoxicating reaction of both startled surprise and excitement on his face. His hand comes up, cradles the wind-chilled side of the young man's face, thumb brushing over his lower lip, still gentle, but casually possessive.

"I'll enjoy making you change your mind," he promises, low and just shy of predatory. "What's your name?"

[makingculture]

The stranger gets exactly what he wanted. The big hand suddenly shooting up to cup his jaw makes Kurt startle, eyes widening with the initial surprise, shoulders bunching up as if to protect himself. Kurt Hummel is, if nothing else, used to holding his own against bigger, stronger men who always delighted in making him flinch.

But the surprise is soon smoothed over, that sharp intake of breath melting into a soft, shuddery exhale as the man's thumb caresses his lower lip, soft and pink and unconsciously yielding to touch. He doesn't know why, doesn't get it yet, but that vaguely possessive touch, that almost-predatory edge to his voice, rumbling low and deep in that broad chest, makes Kurt shiver with something. He doesn't know what it is, won't really understand for weeks and months after this, he just knows that he wants more of whatever this is. This feeling of being so small, being at this man's mercy as he threatens to make him change his mind.

Kurt can handle himself. He can handle this man. He's handled worse. Right? So why does he feel hot all over from such a simple touch already? Why is his stomach doing nauseous flips at the promise of taking on more than he can handle..?

"Ah... My name's Kurt." No last name. What do one-night stands need with those? There's a moment of hesitation before he continues. "What's yours?"

[manincharge]

"Kurt." Corrigan repeats it softly, the hand slipping around to the back of the young man's neck, squeezing gently. His hands are big, warm even without gloves in the cold, cold night, and he can very nearly reach around Kurt's throat entirely. He rubs over where he can feel the pulse beating, just under the jut of Kurt's jaw, feels it quicken a little as he does, and gives a slow, bemused smile.

"Corrigan Molloy." The name sounds fake, like two last names, or something out of an old-timey romance novel. Too many syllables, melodious in a far-too-deliberate way. But it's true on paper and it's been true in practice for years, though Corrigan will admit it's a little unwieldy to moan or scream. That's why he prefers other names -- sir, daddy, et cetera.

Time enough for that later. He moves his hand from Kurt's neck to his lower back, steering him neatly out of the alley with a practiced familiarity that would suggest they've known each other for years, rather than minutes. "I'm assuming you didn't drive," he says, evenly, pulling out his phone and dialing a towncar.

[makingculture]

Kurt doesn't think he's ever felt this small before. The man's hand is so big against his neck, where his thumb runs over his fluttering pulse, then when it slips down the length of his body to rest at the curve of his back just above his hips. Kurt isn't a tiny man, he's tall, strong, built like a dancer, but this man - Corrigan - makes him feel so small in comparison to his frame, his touch.

He feels breakable. That should frighten him.

Instead, he lets that big hand guide him out of the alleyway, slotting in at Corrigan's muscled side, only shivering slightly. He tries not to let it show, his posture strong, his jaw held high, long pale fingers coming up to tuck a stray lock of hair away, like he's completely nonplussed by the way the man makes him feel. "You assume correctly," he says, the soft tremble in his high voice blamed on the cold, even though he feels hot to the touch all over. "Do you live far away?"

[manincharge]

Corrigan makes a vaguely noncommittal sound, which should logically be a red flag. But then he steps closer, somehow, the firmly muscled line of his body warm against Kurt's shivering one, angling slightly to block the wind. It's all done without a word, like it's instinctive. Some people would bristle at the protectiveness, the caretaking of the gesture. He has a hunch Kurt won't.

His hand stays firmly at Kurt's lower back, fingers spread, nearly reaching hip to hip. "It's uptown a ways," he says, finally. "Not too long of a drive, especially if you aren't taking a taxi." True to his word, the car that pulls up within moments is a sleek black towncar, the kind used by celebrities and high-ranking executives. Corrigan holds the door open, gentleman-like. More caretaking.

[makingculture]

He's right. Kurt doesn't bristle at the protective gesture from this complete stranger. Maybe he should. Although, maybe he's just imagining the way Corrigan angles his body to shield Kurt from the icy gusts rushing down damp New York streets. Yes, probably just imagining things. Corrigan must just be that much bigger than him.

Honestly, he's more perturbed by how he avoids answering his question for a while - but that too can be excused. Kurt is a private man too. Even if he wasn't currently bunking with his friend from high school, he wouldn't want to bring strangers home to his space either.

But the answer comes just as a sleek, expensive car pulls up in front of them, Corrigan holding the door open for him. It takes him a moment to compute, to take in every elegant curved line of the vehicle, the near-spotless reflective black of the body, the expensive leather interior and dimmed lighting, the driver hidden behind a tinted partition. Catching himself, his mouth slightly agape, Kurt for some reason defaults to doing a tiny little curtsey in thanks before slipping into the backseat of the car, cheeks flushed, his heart in his throat as he starts trying to digest what's happening. What he's getting himself into. "You, uh-- You always get around the city in private towncars?"

[manincharge]

Corrigan has to take a brief -- oh-so-brief, hardly a millisecond -- moment to close his eyes and fight back the visible bemusement after that curtsey, and wonder momentarily what he's gotten himself into. But the wide-eyed wonder at the car is charming, taking away some of the effectiveness of Kurt's earlier haughty attitude. Clearly not a New Yorker, and not someone used to the finer things in life, no matter what his wardrobe might say.

It's...cute? Cute. Corrigan hasn't thought another person was cute in ages, and he basks in the feeling a little, that unaffected awe that isn't just put on for appearances sake. He slides into the car, closing the door and making sure the partition is all the way up before spreading out. He's a man who takes up space, knees apart, arm stretched along the back of the seat, offering a very convenient place for Kurt to nestle into. "I do, yes," is his simple answer, before reaching out to retrieve a couple glasses and some nicely chilled champagne from the discreetly hidden minifridge. "Care for some?"

You know, like he didn't find Kurt outside of a bar. For all he knows, the young man could be staunchly anti-alcohol. Never hurts to ask.

[makingculture]

By the time Corrigan slips in to join him, Kurt is sitting primly and delicately in his seat, his hands on his pressed-together knees, a little unsure of himself as wide eyes take in the dark interior of the car. How are you really supposed to sit in a car like this anyway? What if his shoes scuff the leather of the seats, or the center console nestled close to the partition, far away from even Kurt's long legs, or the surely expensive carpet lining the vehicle? He has a good eye for thrifted bargains and expensive-looking fabrics and can sew a dress shirt in his sleep with a hand behind his back, but that's it. Kurt clearly doesn't come from this kind of money.

Corrigan's sprawled limbs and cavalier attitude indicates that he does, so does his casual answer to his question. And the champagne he pulls out from seemingly nowhere. Kurt has never been a car that has crystal flutes and bottles of chilled champagne handy. The ridiculousness of it all helps him relax a little, huffing out a shy laugh, nodding softly up at the older man.

"I'd love some, thank you," he softly accepts, shifting closer to Corrigan's body, so open and welcoming. There's still some hesitation - knowing the man is wealthy in addition to stunningly attractive, he's a little unsure of how to address him. Is Mr. Molloy too formal? Is Corrigan too friendly? Is sir too deferential? Kurt doesn't want to overstep or make a fool of himself. But he'll gladly accept some crisp champagne, hoping it will take some of that nervous edge off.

[manincharge]

Thank god for alcohol, especially perfectly dry champagne. Corrigan likes to think he's retained some of his approachable, salt-of-the-earth, down-home charm, but he's become an irrepressible alcohol snob. If it's not expensive and high-brow, he doesn't want it. He pours two glasses easily, holding the flutes in one hand and the bottle in the other, filling them just enough, the foam skimming the very edge. He hands one to Kurt, watching him relax in the warm, dark privacy of the backseat of the car.

Once the bottle is stowed away, Corrigan's free hand goes back to rest at the back of Kurt's neck, thumbing over the ridge of his spine, fingers slightly chilled from holding the champagne. "I think you should tell me what it is you're hoping for, tonight." It's blunt, but gently so, so matter-of-fact that it might take a moment to realize that it's not a request, but a command. If all Kurt is hoping for is something simple and straightforward and vanilla -- well, Corrigan could do far worse.

But...he's seen the widening of those eyes and the furtive, surreptitious looks sideways and the way Kurt shivers whenever Corrigan moves closer, fills his space, subtly bosses him around. And Corrigan has a hunch that Kurt might want something a little more...interesting than a few hours in missionary position. His hunches are rarely wrong, too.

[makingculture]

There's that hand to his neck again. That touch that gives him chills, gentle but somehow still dominating, making Kurt feel small against the cool touch of his palm. Then he's asked - no, not asked, absolutely not, he's told what to do, commanded, and something about that realization once it hits him makes Kurt flush hot from his hairline all the way down his spine.

"You do, do you?" is the initial mumbled reply, bristly but quiet, like he's not sure why his reaction to being commanded to speak like that isn't more... volatile. It should make him indignant and upset, not make his stomach swoop like that, not make him flush pink and hot like he's been doused in boiling water. No one gets to tell Kurt what to do.

... Except this man, apparently. Because he's not getting upset, not making a move to break out of Corrigan's hand holding him in place. He quickly glances sideways at the man, taking a slow sip of crisp, cold, perfectly dry champagne, letting it ground him before he tries giving an actual answer.

"I didn't... exactly have much of a plan, if I'm being honest," he says, licking a drop of champagne off his lips. "Usually when I go home with someone, we just take things as they come, figure things out on the spot as we do them." A pause, then, "Gets kind of boring, if I'm honest. Guess I just don't really know what to ask for...

What are you hoping for tonight, Corrigan?"

[manincharge]

Corrigan waits, quiet and patient, sipping his champagne through that initial bristly reaction, smiling against the rim of the glass as Kurt relaxes back into his touch. Like a wary cat, hissing for the show of it, then melting under the slightest hint of affection. Like he'd known he would. Automatically, as an unspoken sort of reward for the relaxation, Corrigan smooths his thumb over a knot of tension where neck and shoulder meet, coaxing it loose.

The response makes him chuckle, a low rumble of sound. "I don't tend to enjoy doing things on the fly, if that's what you're asking." Another slow, measured sip. "I had plans in mind for you the moment I saw you."

He shifts a little, so he can look down at Kurt, dark eyes raking over him once again, slower than before, taking his time. "The real question is, do you plan on trusting that I know what's best and I'm going to give you a night to remember? And let me take care of the rest?"

It's a risky proposition -- let me, a complete stranger, do exactly what I want to you, no questions asked. Then again, it's a risky decision to get in a car with a total stranger, bound for an unknown destination, but here Kurt is. Maybe risky is what he's looking for.

[makingculture]

"Really?" Hearing Corrigan say that lights a fire in Kurt's gut as he sits there, slowly drinking champagne in the dark backseat of an expensive car, shivering softly against the thumb rubbing loose that spot of tension low on his neck. He had plans in mind for him? That's probably not true. That's probably just something Corrigan says to impress him, to make him think he's got more up his sleeve than money and a big dick and half an hour if he paces himself.

But despite himself, Kurt finds himself infuriatingly, excruciatingly curious. Now he has to know what the stranger means.

Corrigan shifts to look at him, and Kurt meets his eyes head-on, chin still held high - although there's a waver in his gaze now that wasn't there before. A softening, his ice front eased by Corrigan's big hand and coaxing touch rewarding his compliance and those dark, hungry eyes raking over every inch of his body like he wants to devour him right there. "I-I do," he finds himself saying without really thinking, melting under those eyes, his pulse fluttering in his throat, in his ears, louder than the thrum of the engine and the sound of his own voice when he agrees to the terms.

"I will, I--" Kurt swallows, feeling hot and tingly all over. It seems risky is absolutely what he's looking for. "I trust you will." Should I be?

[manincharge]

To be completely fair, Corrigan also has money and a big dick. But that's besides the point. The question get a soft, humming sound, and, matter-of-factly: "If I didn't have plans for you, you wouldn't be here right now, Kurt."

That said, he finishes his champagne in a couple slow, measured swallows, then sets the glass aside, safely out of the way. Then he slides along the seat, taking Kurt's glass without a word -- time enough for champagne later. Right now he's rather more preoccupied with reaching out, curling his fingers around the loose ends of the silky scarf, drawing them free of where they'd been neatly tucked away and tugging once, hard enough to pull Kurt close to him.

"Good boy." It's soft, just shy of purring, and it should be insulting. But Corrigan says it like it's the height of praise, like it's the most lavish of compliments, and he follows up by twining the scarf around his hand and pulling Kurt into his lap, right there in the back of the towncar, leaning in close enough that his next words are tangible against the younger man's mouth. "Do you know what a safeword is?"

[makingculture]

Those hands are back at his scarf, pulling the ends loose, before tugging on them, forcefully yanking the young man close, so close, a sharp gasp coming from him. That almost hurt. It doesn't make sense that Kurt would feel his pants getting tighter, that he'd feel like he was on fire all over with need, but that's all he can feel.

And the praise. The praise hits him in a part of his gut he absolutely wasn't expecting it to.

Kurt slips easily into Corrigan's lap, lead without hesitation by the scarf wound around the man's strong fist, Kurt's own hands hesitating before settling on his shoulders. He doesn't have the vocabulary for what's happening to him right now, doesn't know what a safeword is - although he can guess based just on the name, he shakes his head just to be safe - but he's starting to feel like he doesn't quite have the autonomy to help himself to Corrigan's body anymore.

Doesn't have permission yet. Kurt trembles, eyes wide with anticipation as he waits for Corrigan to explain, to fill in the gaps for him.

[manincharge]

Settling back against the seat, Corrigan keeps one hand knotted in the scarf, the other moving to rest at Kurt's lower back, smoothing up and down the line of his spine, almost mindlessly, like petting a startled, wary animal. He can feel the tension, the curiosity mixed with fear, and it's as intoxicating now as it's always been -- perhaps even more so, colored with Kurt's youth and inexperience and the obvious way he's being effected by even this slight bit of dominance.

It's both amusing and concerning -- what if someone else had gotten to him first, what if it hadn't been Corrigan who picked him up off the street and took him home? The thought wouldn't normally cause any distress, since this is supposed to be a one-night stand. Until a few minutes ago, Corrigan had been prepared for it to be straightforward, simple, an hour or so to pass the time. But that was before the tiniest bit of praise had Kurt shivering in his lap, wide-eyed and eager. That was before Corrigan had the urge to put his mark all over the young man, make it so clear that nobody else would dare touch him, ever.

He pushes the thought away, shuts it down, focuses instead on the way Kurt shifts in his lap, on the trembling, breathless look on his pretty face, on his eyes, wide and eager and curious. Corrigan pulls him a little closer, tightens his grip on the scarf, wanting to hear his breath catch, see his face flush deeper. "It's a word you use when you're being pushed too far, when you need a break, or to slow down or stop what's happening. It's -- important to make sure you know it and I know it, before we go any further."

This is, of course, very simplistic as explanations go, barely scratching the surface of the intricate power dynamics that Corrigan enjoys. But he wants this last point to be heard and understood, looking up into Kurt's eyes with solemnity. "It means that no matter what is happening, no matter how much I seem to be enjoying myself, if you need to stop, if you don't want it anymore, our agreement is that you say that word and I stop. No matter what." He arches both eyebrows. "Understand?"

[makingculture]

Kurt feels almost sick with anticipation as he listens to Corrigan explain, laying out the rules that should have been obvious to him just from the name - safe word, to keep him safe, both of them safe, naturally. If Corrigan likes playing with dominance, with pain, expects Kurt to follow, to do as he says, having a code word makes perfect sense.

What doesn't make sense is just how easily Kurt slips into a state of deference, finding himself wanting to do as the man says. Usually it's Kurt who takes charge in the bedroom, bottoming only occasionally, and even then he's bossy about it, not one to be cowed by anyone. Not anymore. So why does this feel so good? So natural?

There's something about this man. How steely and strong he is, how he carries himself with an air of complete control, how he has such a chokehold on Kurt - as literal as metaphorical - and how safe that makes him feel, even in such a vulnerable position. He can feel his spine tingling as the scarf tightens around his neck, breath catching in his throat. He wants to feel more. "Yes," he gasps, nodding eagerly, fingers tightening in Corrigan's suit jacket. "Yes, I understand. I--"

What's a good safe word? Kurt doesn't know the protocol. Probably something he wouldn't otherwise say during sex, right? Nothing too long, too confusing, too hard to say... "Um... Would-- Would 'scarlet' work? Is that okay?"

[manincharge]

That's always been Corrigan's favorite part about the intricate dance if dominance and submission-- not just the sex, though that part is always pleasant, of course. It's watching the layers peel away, all those walls that people put up in their day to day life crumbling until all that's left is pure wanting, pure desire and pleasure and delight. It's watching that and knowing it's because of him.

Corrigan huffs out a little laugh, letting the scarf loose in favor of reaching up, cradling Kurt's chin in his hand, thumbing over his lower lip. "That works fine. "Red" is the traditional one, but I suppose you like the finer things in life, hm?" He leans in, acting like he's going to finally do more than vague, ghosting touches, like he's going to kiss Kurt breathless like he's been teasing this whole time -- but that is, of course, right when the town car pulls to a stop.

Figures. Corrigan looks mildly perturbed, but doesn't say anything, just strokes over the shape of Kurt's lower lip once more and then eases him off his lap. "Here we are," he offers, unnecessarily, opening the door and sliding out.

From the outside, the building id unassuming, even shabby, just a six-story grayish building among many other grayish buildings, without so much as a sign or a doorman to distinguish itself. The windows are tinted, and there's a keypad by the door, making it seem like perhaps a middle-class apartment building. Hardly in keeping with the tone set by the town car and champagne.

[makingculture]

Kurt blushes bright red - or scarlet, he supposes - when Corrigan teases him over his choice of safe word. He does like the finer things in life, of course, anyone with eyes in their heads can surmise as much. But this man thumbing his lip, leaning in to ghost his breath over his waiting mouth, has an almost preternatural way of getting under his skin.

He lets out a shuddering breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when the car comes to a stop, and Corrigan eases him off his lap, denying him the surely intense kiss he so badly wanted. Yet more anticipation to rub his nerves raw.

The building isn't what he'd expected - although what he'd been expecting, he's not totally sure. Maybe something like the Ritz, luxurious exterior, gilded accents, carved decor, something distinguished and quintessentially wealthy New York. It certainly looks better than Kurt's Bushwick apartment building. But only slightly.

"This is where you live?" he asks softly, tone carefully neutral as he tucks his scarf back into his dress shirt, wanting to cover up as much as possible when potentially in view of anyone else but Corrigan.

[manincharge]

As far as reactions go, that's a very neutrally tactful one, but Corrigan can easily assume that the outward view of the building doesn't inspire much confidence. That's on purpose, of course -- avoiding too much unsolicited attention is more or less his goal. Still, it serves the purpose of getting a bemused half-smile from Corrigan as he steps closer, arm going back around Kurt's waist to guide him to the door. "It is, yes. I own the building."

There's a note of obvious pride in Corrigan's voice, which makes much more sense once he's punched a code into the keypad and the door has unlocked. There's a rush of warmth and the soft sound of music that immediately issues forth from the open door, as Corrigan escorts Kurt inside. The foyer is understated, but beautifully tasteful and spotless, a gleaming reception desk to one side, a waiting area with fireplace and seating, and a glimpse of what looks like a bar to the other side. There are a few people milling about, mostly couples, sitting close together in a loveseat or walking arm-in-arm to the two shining elevators just past the desk. Corrigan spares a quick glance around and silently exhales in relief when there's no sign of neon pink dreadlocks. He'd texted Solstice and asked her to run some mundane errand during the ride over, simply because if anyone could spook Kurt into turning and running, it was her. Better to save that introduction for the morning after.

There's a noticeable shift in the atmosphere when Corrigan steps inside -- everyone there seems to sit up and take notice, glancing over with either furtive smiles or subtle nods. A few of the more lavishly dressed individuals, all of them draped over their business-suit-clad companions, wave or blow kisses, even. Corrigan nods politely in return, then glances over at Kurt to take in his reaction. "I could mention something about books and covers now, but that would be somewhat redundant, hm?"

[makingculture]

Something about books and covers indeed.

Kurt's eyes are wide with wonder when they step into the warmth of the lobby, trying to take everything in without looking so much like the most lost virgin on planet Earth. It only takes one look at a breathtakingly attractive twenty-something draped over the arm of what looks like a local politician for Kurt to connect the dots that he currently finds himself in a brothel. It may look like the clean, tasteful lobby of a hotel, complete with the warm comfort of a seating area and a bar perfect for mingling off to the side, but every way to Sunday, this is a brothel.

"Y-Yeah, wow, no kiddin', huh?" Kurt doesn't sound upset, really, more stunned and surprised than anything else. Anything that could make Kurt sound that midwestern can't be all that bad, right? His jaw has gone a little slack as he looks around, returning the playfully flirty wave of a young woman with bright red curls sprawled out on the chaise longue by the fireplace, grinning at the sight of the two men who just came in the door. She looks like she would eat Kurt for breakfast if given the chance.

Leaning in a little closer to Corrigan, the absurdity of his situation completely wiping away the desperate submission of moments before, Kurt asks through the side of his mouth: "I don't mean to be a stick in the mud, but i-is this legal?"

[manincharge]

It's that comment, mumbled and quintessentially midwestern that actually catches Corrigan off-guard for the first time all evening. He actually stares at Kurt for a long moment, eyebrows arched at this unexpected show of genuine, casseroles-and-corn-fields midwest good-ol'-boy lingo. Iowa or Ohio, maybe Illinois, but nowhere near Chicago. Fascinating. He'd known Kurt wasn't from New York, but he hadn't expected such a small-town backstory.

Fortunately Ginger is distracting Kurt enough that Corrigan's slip goes unnoticed, and he recovers in time to give her a scowl over the top of the younger man's head. True to form, she just grins, toothy and bemused and returns her attention to her phone. Probably texting Solly, the traitor. Nobody respects him in this house.

Clearing his throat, Corrigan tucks his arm a little firmer around Kurt's waist, bypassing a few more patrons -- an older man with a truly stupendous mustache gazing at his younger, magazine-pretty male companion, a woman in a long evening gown escorted by a beauty with short-cropped silvery hair -- on his way to the elevators. "You mean, am I leading you into a situation that's going to end with the police raiding us at 3am? I certainly hope not, I just got those chairs reupholstered, and a police raid would definitely ruin the ambiance."

Smirking, he pushes the up button, fishing his room card out of his back pocket. "But yes, on paper this is simply a very expensive hotel with...extremely friendly staff." Corrigan huffs out a weary sigh, tapping his foot with mild impatience. "Ironically, if everything that went on here was filmed and edited to ambient jazz, then put online, it'd all be legal, but because it's private, it becomes illicit." A pause, then he glances down at Kurt, eyebrows arched. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

[makingculture]

Corrigan pulls him closer, holds him against his muscled side more firmly, with intention, reminding him with sudden clarity why they're here. It's enough for Kurt to snap back into reality, a delighted shiver running through him on the short walk to the elevator past even more attractive people and their clients. Not only is he going to sleep with an insanely attractive and intensely dominating man, he's going to sleep with the boss of an exclusive, seemingly expensive brothel. He owns the building, right? So it stands to reason he owns at least part of the business too.

Kurt wouldn't dare assert that Corrigan sleeps with his employees. That's inappropriate of him, he's not educated enough on sex work to comprehend the ethics of that. But there's a possibility that he could have any single one of these stunningly gorgeous people in his bed at any given time. And still, he wanted to bring Kurt home with him.

"Oh, n-no. No, I..." Kurt trails off, scanning his eyes over the room again as they wait for the elevator, nervous fingers playing with the hem of his scarf. "I mean, everyone looks really healthy and happy to be here." Some maybe a little too happy - that redhead keeps shooting piercing glances at the two of them before going back to texting someone really intensely, nails clacking against the phone screen, making Kurt feel like there's a joke here he's not in on. But while it does make him blush a little, he doesn't take offense.

When he looks back up at the man, he offers a little shrug. Kurt is definitely cool and not a lame narc. "I have no problem with friendly staff."

[manincharge]

Goddammit, Ginger. Corrigan can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket -- Solstice, likely, demanding an explanation. He slips his free hand down to turn the device off. Let her wonder, for one night, and grill him in the morning. Right now, Corriganhas other things to occupy his attention.

He allows himself an affectionate nuzzle against Kurt's temple, intimate but not too demonstrative, not with an audience. Corrigan is many things, but he's not super into voyeurism. He doesn't want to share Kurt with anyone. A touch of this possessive line of thought creeps into his voice as he murmurs: "Good, because I'd find it very difficult to let you go now."

The elevator doors slide open, finally, letting out a few more of the hotel's employees, on their way to meet customers in the bar -- or to catch a glimpse of the boss's new toy. Corrigan ignores them, guiding Kurt into the elevator and hooking his fingers into the younger man's belt loops to drag him close, chest-to-chest. "We can discuss business practices later. I believe we were having a much more interesting conversation, in the car?" His gaze flickers down, lingering on Kurt's mouth. "Did you have...any other questions?"