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.

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[makingculture]

As Corrigan slips around the corner, hands fishing through his pockets for a pack of smokes, a pale young man leaning against the wall further down the alley looks up from his cellphone and quietly watches. Considers. Curious eyes tracing every strong curve and angle of the stranger's body, the seams of an expertly tailored suit, the near-imperceptible line of tension along broad shoulders.

Kurt hadn't expected to find himself here tonight. Here as in this particular glittery neon gay club, or here as in this damp alleyway somewhere in Chelsea late at night, doesn't matter which. Some almost-friends from college had insisted this was the spot, that the bouncers here were chill, that they barely ever carded, and even when they did they couldn't tell a driver's license from a bus ticket, so fake IDs would fly no problem. Turns out, even though his fake ID has gotten a lot better since the miserable failure of Scandals Ohio, someone still saw right through it and snitched to the decidedly not-chill bouncers.

So now he's here. Hiding away in the alley by the club, trying to text his friends inside, not getting anywhere with anyone. Normally, he wouldn't even care. He'd cut his losses and get an Uber back to Bushwick, getting ready for bed while pointedly avoiding Rachel's incessant questions about his night out. At least they didn't call the cops on him, right? He should be fine with it. But for some reason, getting kicked out tonight stings. He'd been having fun in there, dancing, singing along, not even drinking much more than water, too busy making flirty eye-contact with handsome men, trying to make a connection with someone, anyone.

It's been a while since he left Blaine. Coming up on what would've been their anniversary. Every day spent alone gets harder and harder, and he doesn't know how to deal with all that loneliness and ugliness and the pain of betrayal anymore. Doesn't want to. He wants to fill that gaping, aching void with something, anything to make it go away.

The man pulling a cigarette from his pack could certainly fill it. He's exceptionally handsome, his sculpted features made sharper by the harsh overhead light of street lamps, the neon glow from the club around the corner haloing him from behind, casting a near ethereal pink and purple veil over golden skin. His body looks incredible, that suit tailored to perfection over his broad chest, his strong thighs, making Kurt feel little in comparison. Kurt is far from the skinny boy who left Ohio almost two years ago, he's grown into himself now, tall and toned and strong, but something about being made to feel small still makes his guts go all hot. The man is surely gay, right? This area is almost all queer, mannequins with leather harnesses in store windows and pride flags hanging from wrought iron balconies all down the street. Kurt won't get beaten up in this alley for shooting his shot, right?

He tucks his phone into a pocket of impossibly tight pants, arms crossing loosely over his chest, covered by a loudly patterned dress shirt only partway buttoned, a silky scarf tucked into the open collar. Though there's a sheen of sweat over his pale skin, still flushed from dancing, his hair is somehow still holding its shape through either copious amounts of product or witchcraft. His voice is countertenor high when he speaks, cutting the cold air between them, stormy eyes gazing past his upturned nose at the broad stranger about to light his cigarette.

"That'll kill you, y'know."

[manincharge]

When Corrigan glances up, cigarette held between his lips, lighter mid-flick, the heavens do not open and time does not stop. It's hardly a fairy-tale setting -- there's a torn-open garbage bag in the alley, spilling stale fries and half-rotten vegan cheese sauce onto the pavement, and the familiar squeaking chittering of rats somewhere inside it. There's a light drizzle, and the air is a bit too cold to be strictly refreshing, and somewhere down the street, someone drunk is yelling profanities at a passing taxi cab. It's New York close to midnight, on a night like every other night, and Corrigan has no idea that things are going to change so profoundly.

But he lets his eyes linger on the flashy pattern of the young (too young? It's hard to tell in the dim light, but the voice and the smooth skin and the bright eyes read innocent, while the squared shoulders and toned, tight body speak of someone who's very clearly not a boy anymore) man's shirt, following the trim line of the fitted pants and designer shoes and come back to linger on the scarf. It's clearly for fashion, not for warmth, but the overall effect is that of very little skin being shown, especially for a neon-tinted nightclub. Corrigan might not be young anymore, but he knows that mesh shirts and tight cut-offs tend to be the dress code, not button-downs and scarves.

Strangely, though, the neatly put-together outfit has the effect of making Corrigan wonder, much more intrigued than he might've been if the stranger had appeared wearing nothing but body glitter and a smile. Perhaps the Victorians were onto something, because there's a sudden, overwhelming urge to see what's beneath the buttons, the neatly-tailored pants, the perfectly coordinated belt. Corrigan lets his gaze linger a bit too long on this last item, before flicking his gaze up to meet the young man's eyes. They're bright, not quite green, not quite blue or grey, but something in-between, doe-soft and wide, but fixed on him with an intensity that has him looking away first.

He flicks his lighter, watches the little flame spark into life, then lets it die, cigarette unlit. He looks back, trying to see if he can last a bit longer beneath those eyes, his own dark and intent. His voice, a deep baritone, unaccented, rumbles -- "Hmmm. But not tonight."

[makingculture]

The stranger is definitely checking him out. Not even making eye contact first, that dark gaze instead flicking over Kurt's reclining body, deliberately lingering at his middle. Definitely into men, then. Good start. The pitch black gravity well of loneliness sure is a powerful driving force. Not even a thorough gay bashing in a dark New York alleyway months past can stop Kurt from trying his luck with a handsome man almost twice his size.

Maybe it's precisely because of that touch of danger that Kurt had the nerve to reach out first.

"Mmm." The man has a nice voice. Strong presence, an irresistible pull, those dark eyes both pinning him and drawing him closer in. Kurt looks away and eases himself off the wall, takes a few steps closer to the mouth of the alley, closer to the stranger, but sticking close to the wall opposite him still, keeping a respectable distance. Close, but not too close. All measured movements, calculated risks, assessing.

"How are you going to spend all that time you just got back?" When Kurt looks back up at him, now illuminated by the street lamp overhead, he must look younger than he is. Porcelain pale, cheeks and nose and ears flushed red with cold and motion, eyes soft and inquisitive even as they trace the attractive contour of the older man's lips, cradling the butt of that cigarette. But the high cheekbones betray him, the sharp jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, the long thin fingers coming up to toy with the fabric of his scarf. He is clearly not a boy anymore.

"Not alone, I hope."

[manincharge]

Definitely young, still, fresh-faced in the way that many long-time New Yorkers aren't. There's a boldness in his voice, the blatant flirtation of his words speaks more than anything of his inexperience. Most people would play it more subtly, hold back a little longer, try to feel things out. Maybe offer to buy Corrigan a drink.

Instead this stranger is lingering under the streetlight, snowy-pale and wide-eyed, the tip of his nose crimson, practically offering himself up on a silver platter. And god, Corrigan has been with countless people over the years, but he's intrigued in spite of himself. He wants to eat this kid up.

He tilts his head to one side, one dark eyebrow arching, making no secret of his slow, lingering look up and down the younger man's body. There's a predatory note to his voice when he replies: "No? Makin' me an offer?"

[makingculture]

If Kurt had any idea just how quickly the tall stranger accurately sussed him out - young, inexperienced, not a real New Yorker - he'd probably bristle indignantly and just leave, stalk away down the street like he knows where he's going before tucking into an Uber and going home. In all his inexperience, having really only been with one boy before a string of disappointingly mediocre one-night stands, all Kurt wants to exude is confidence and desirability. He wants to be wanted so badly, to be attractive and alluring and sexy, not realizing that is precisely what makes him appear so juvenile and blunt.

But the stranger, instead of scoffing at his anything-but-subtle approach to flirting, just rakes those dark eyes over Kurt's long body, taking in every inch of him. When he speaks, that silky voice takes on an edge of something that gives the pale young man goosebumps all over.

"If I am, would you take me back to yours?"

[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.