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Chapter Text

Kim Hongjoong had always been a meticulous man in his work, someone whose skills and intelligence had carried him to the top in a world that didn't forgive weakness. At seventeen, when other still dreamed of utopian futures, he had made an irrevocable decision: to join the marines. He began as an ordinary sailor, enduring long days beneath the weight military hierarchy, but Hongjoong wasn't made to remain at the bottom of any pyramid. His ambition was voracious and silent an inner engine that drove him step by step toward the summit.

At twenty-three, in the midst of ward with one of the most defiant space colonies, fate tested him: his Captain had fallen in battle, leaving the ship on the brink of ruin. Hongjoong seized command with ruthless determination, leading his crew to victory at a terrible cost: the lost ooh his left foot. Yet, the sacrifice was worth every agonizing second; he not only save his crew, but forced the rebellious colony surrender entirely, yielding its territory to the rulers of T-Rra.

T-Rra, a planet whose past was intertwined with the ancient Earth, now stood as an empire in its own right. Its aesthetic was a marriage of tradition and technology. The starships, vast structures with metallic sails and plasma-steam thruster, crossed the stellar void with the majesty of old galleons. Prosthetics —like Hongjoong's, were masterpieces of engineering and desing: a polished brass articulated foot, adorned with gears and rivets that served both as weapon of war and declaration of style.

Technological profess had not erased the shadow of the past. Universities, laboratories, even hospitals still carried the air of Victorian academies, with carved wooden cabinets housing holographic tablets and nanometric precision scalpels. Educational itself was a delicate balance between the romanticism of yesterday and the infinite possibilities of tomorrow. Yet, beneath this veil of nostalgia, T-Rra had long abandoned its identity as "Earth". Its was now a planet that ruled vast stretches of the galaxy with an iron fist.

Hongjoong was promoted to Lieutenant after the conquest of that rebellious planet, a position that cemented his authority withing his unit. Neither his prosthetic nor the cane he carried as a natural extension of himself diminished his agility. Moving through the ranks of soldiers with impeccable martial bearing, Hongjoong remained the ever-present shadow og the Capitan he had once replaced. For three years, he stood firm, feared and admired in equal measure, pushing his dicipline to the limits of ard and his body to the limits of sacrifice.

He thought there would be more years, that time would grant him the chance to rise and become Captain of his won ship — perhaps even the commander of an entire fleet. Bur his life did not follow the path he had imagined.

But his life didn't follow the path he had imagined. It all collapsed at the most unexpected moment, as if universe with his ironic humor, had decided to remind him that no one can scape their own demons.

Kim Hongjoong was an exceptional soldier, that was undeniable. On the battlefield, his mid worked like a precision clock, calculating every move with the perfection of a well-oiled machine. He was methodical, organized, a natural strategist who could turn any situation into an advantage. But outside the trenches and the maps, his personal life was an utter disaster. A chaos he had learned to hide beneath layers of immaculate uniform and disciplined speeches.

In the shadows of that disorder, Hongjoong kept a secret. One he would never share with anyone but the walls of his locked room. Lieutenant Kim Hongjoong was an addict, but not to substances, nor to gambling, nor even to power. His addiction was far more intimate, far more unspeakable.

Kim Hongjoong was addicted to sex.

But it wasn't just any kind of sex. He didn't seek pleasure in the company of others, nor in passing relationships. His desire was far more introspective, almost obsessive. He experiment with himself, exploring the limits of his own body, using toys, testing positions, discovering new ways to touch himself.

Hongjoong wasn't only searching for pleasure; he was searching for control. Control over his image, over the desire thar radiated from his swat-soaked skin and restrained gasps. And he always recorded. Always. It was part of the process, a need he could never fully explain. Yet those recordings were never meant for anyone else. They remained locked in his hard drive, sealed within the fantasy of watching himself lose control, of being a witness to his own vulnerability before returning to reality.

Because then, once the final moan had been captured, the transformation began. Hongjoong adjusted his uniform like a robot —every fold an button in its place, and his cane secured firmly in his hand. His footsteps echoed through the barracks with the same unwavering firmness as always, the flawless image of the untouchable Lieutenant. No one could ever suspect what had happened minuted earlier, behind the walls of his locked room.

No one, until that fateful day.

Lieutenant Kim Hongjoong stood rigid, his posture unyielding, his gaze fixed on some undefined point ahead. His face, pale as marble, clashed with the searing heat burning at his ears. But neither fear nor shame could bend his spine.

The image showed Hongjoong pleasuring himself with a glass toy, finely shaped into a curved design that spoke of craftsmanship beyond the ordinary. The camera never revealed his face, but what betrayed his identity was his unique and unmistakable prosthetic crafted by the Marines themselves. A mark as distinctive as his own name, now exposed at the very center of that public humiliation.

The urge to hide became a desperate necessity. Heat rushed from his neck to his ears, brutally contrasting with the cold that spread trough the rest of his body. His hands trembled, buy he clung to his cane as if searching for one last spark of control. The pallor oh his face revealed the depths of his nervousness, but Hongjoong refused to break.

Even so his stance remained upright, his back straight and his chin slightly raised, every fiver of his body screamed at him to run, but his military discipline anchored him in place. That mask of seriousness —fragile as it was — was all he had left to shield the scraps of dignity that hadn't yet been stolen from him. And though it was little, he clung to it with the strength of a man refusing to sink entirely.

"Could you explain this to us, Lieutenant?"

The Major's voice cut the air like a blade, hard, cold and relentless. Not only him but all the senior officers present watched him with looks full of disgust and contempt. Hongjoong swallowed with difficulty, trying to control the tremor in his voice.

"T-that's.. private, Sir."

"Private?" the man let out a short, bitter laugh "Then why this video and the other… eighty-six are circulating on the network right now?"

Shit.

"I can assure you, Sir, that I didn't upload any of those videos" Hongjoong's voice sound hoarse, almost broken "All this material is completely private. No one should have access to it in any way."

But his words were useless, smothered by the moans and gasps spilling from the screen. Each sound felt like a slap in the face. He, who had always taken pleasure in watching himself, could no longer even lift his eyes, his gaze fixed on a crack i the wall — anything to avoid confronting his own image.

"This is a offense against the infantry code!" one of the senior officers roared, hitting the table so hard that Hongjoong flinched "Shameful for you and for this entire institution! You've dirtied the uniform and the honor of this unit!"

"Who would have thought a Lieutenant of this unit capable of… this?"

The Captain Major pronounced the last word with revulsion. And jus the, hit its climax: his hight, pleasure-laden cry filled the room in a sound impossible to ignore. The camera blinked out for a second, only to switch to another video; this time, his face appeared as he adjusted the angle, making clear who the protagonist was.

"You don't need us to explain the punishment for such a grave offense, Lieutenant Kim!" the Captain shut the computer with a sharp slam, his hands folded on the table "You're hereby dishonorably discharged, effective immediately. You will lose all benefits, including your pay and retirement pension. You're also absolutely forbidden from approaching our facilities. Is that clear?" the knot in Hongjoong's throat tightened further. He nodded, but his silence was not enough "IS THAT CLEAR?!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Leave your badge and get out before I throw you into a cell for life, you damn homo-!"

The words struck him like lash.

Hongjoong obeyed. With slow and deliberated movements, he left his insignias on the table, the weight of each piece falling with a dull sound that seemed to mark the end of an era. The knot in his throat squeezed so hard it was difficult to breathe, but his face remained an impenetrable mask. That cold and empty expression was all he had left.

He stepped toward the door, the stopped. The humiliation that had flooded him until that moment began to change, like a tide pulling back to reveal something darker and more powerful. Shame, helplessness, sadness. All of it was transforming into something burning.

Anger. Rage. Vengeance.

His mind raced, replaying what had happened over an over. How? How could those videos, his deepest secret, have left the safety of his hard drive and ended up spreading across the damned network? Hongjoong knew he hadn't made any mistakes. He couldn't have!

Someone had done it. Someone had breached his privacy, stripped him of his life and thrown his dignity into the mud. A traitorous bastard who would pay dearly for what he had done.

Because Kim Hongjoong was not a man who accept defeat, not with blood boiling in his veins an a will of steel.

He would not stay like this, not while he was still named Kim Hongjoong.

His jaw clenched, and his fist closed so tight his knuckles went white. He would not remain as he was, not while he knew how to fix this disaster. And he knew.

He would do whatever it took to get his life back. And this time, nothing would stop him.

═══ ✦🏴‍☠️ ── ⋆✦⚙⛴⚙✦⋆ ── 🏴‍☠️✦ ═══

The music drifts soft through the air, weaving itself between the clink of heavy glass tumblers and the gleam of polished copper bottles glowing beneath the golden light of mechanical chandeliers. On the cabaret's ceiling, gears turn with a low hum, powering ornate fans that scatter the tick scent of spiced tobacco and imported absinthe. Beyond the walls, space stretches in a vast ocean of shadow and starlight, visible through armored windows thar trembled faintly with the distant roar of airships docking at the station.

Only a few tables are occupied, figures wrapped in velvet and mystery, men and women with wary eyes who whisper silents deals and seal them with handshakes, while objects of questionable origin vanish under tables in a flash like polished metal, Among them, young performers dress in brocade corsets, exotic plumes and silk stoking laced with threads of gold, gliding with grace as they balancing trays of heavy and forbidden liquor. Some slip into the laps of wealthy patrons, their laughter sweets but fakes, feigning delight at tasteless jokes, their joy nothing more than a currency in the endless theater of purchased pleasure.

For a man like Kim Hongjoong, cabarets and brothels like this have become sanctuaries. No matter the planet, these places play by their own rules, bound by a loyalty that law cannot easily touch. They are oases in the storm, where even a former Marine Lieutenant could vanish into smoke and music; so long as he plays his cards right.

And he needs that more than ever. He hadn't only stolen one of the navy's prized vessels, but also one of the most sacred and coveted relics of T-Rra: The Chromer.

The object itself, shaped like a rough hourglass, sits like a relic from another age, unearthed centuries ago when the planet was only beginning its climb from a mere rock in the void to one of the mos powerful colonies in the galaxy. The Chromer lets its bearer teleport within the same temporal line, even step back in time up to a year before being forced forward again into the present. There are no risk of timeline fractures or catastrophic side effect like with other time-manipulation devices, which make it both priceless… and Hongjoong's only hope.

The plan is simple and deadly: find the bastard who hacked his personal computer, leaked his most intimate videos and shredded his like, kill him, and return to his own timeline. If lucks is on his side, that person's disappearance will erase the exposure, restore his rank as Lieutenant and wipe away the stain of those images of his body surrendered to pleasure, his prosthetic betraying his identity beyond doubt.

Less that a year. That's how much time he has to fix everything. And every lead, in one way or another, has brought him here: to the most exclusive cabaret on the planet Luntherra.

Funny, really. This planes is not just another colony; it's T-Rra's number one enemy, the greatest rebel among the galactic factions. Ironic, too, because here he is, a former Marine Lieutenant, sitting in one of its clandestine bars, hood pulled low, fingers wrapped around the cold glass of rum, trying to disappear. Not for being a deserter, not for being a traitor, but because, more than once, his face has been recognized not for his military record, but for to fucking videos circulating the hell of the Interstellar Net.

And if he fails to find his target before his time runs out, all that remains is oblivion; becoming the protagonist of a humiliation that will haunt him until death.

A soft clink sounds at his side, followed by de subtle scrape of glass against polished wood. A drink is set before him, it's surface shifting tickly between ocher tones and deep and black liquid, as if shadows themselves had been poured into the glass. Hongjoong barely lifts his gaze, his eyes caught on the glossy swirl of the liquor before trailing —almost unconsciously — along the arm that placed it there.

His eyes map the contours of unfamiliar skin, tracing the line of sculpted muscle flexing with the simple act of setting down a glass. Higher up, veins press faintly beneath pale flesh with almost artistic precision, every fiber carved as if by careful hand. His gaze lingers sliding further until reaches the stranger's upper arm, where a undeniably, masculine firm bicep contrast with the delicate lace cinched around it.

Curiosity pulls him farther. The man wears a corset, emerald green, to tight and visibly uncomfortable. It's rigid wave sharpens his waist with seductive elegance, making the loose, reddish strands framing his face stand out all the more. Hongjoong feels his own caution loosen just a little, his head lifting higher at last to see the figure beside him.

The sight strikes him like a rush of cold water dow his spine. There is no way a body so honed, so unapologetically masculine, could belong to someone with a face this angelic. His features are soft, fine,almost ethereal; a fascinating contradiction to the firmness of his frame. The fleam of fine jewelry at his neck catches the cabaret's warm light, while thin golden pins scattered through his red hair, heighten that ambiguous beauty. Through slender round glasses, copper-colored eyes meet his, glowing with a peculiar intensity, as though savoring the effect they have on him.

Hongjoong swallows hard, heat crawling to his ears, stifled beneath the hood. There's no denying it, this man unsettles him.

"This one is on the house"

The low timbre of his voice sends a shiver through Hongjoong. It's not what he expects. The warmth in that tone is so deep, too commanding, clashing against the innocence painted across the stranger's angelic face.

Hongjoong drops his gaze to the glass and reaches for it, but the pressure of the young man's hand suddenly tightens, pinning it in place. The grip is steady, precise, like a trap snapping shut.

A frow creases Hongjoong's brow as his eyes lift again, meeting a different light in those copper irises. The sweetness is gone, what stares back at him now is sharp, predatory… dangerous.

"Would you like to drink it somewhere more private…" The question is a intimate whisper, barely audible beneath the cabaret's din. The young man leans closer, closing the space between them with deliberate and provocative slowness. Hongjoong feels a knot tighten in his stomach just before the final words cut through his calm "…Lieutenant Kim Hongjoong?"

The sound of his name, spoken with such softness, lands like a threat wrapped in silk.

His hand drops the glass instantly, moving on instinct toward his hip, where the familiar weight of his weapon rest in its holster. But the young man beside him shows no flicker of alarm. No nervous blink, no retreating step. He simply watches Hongjoong with the detached curiosity of a child studying an animal in a cage, an amusement he can toy with at will.

"How do you know my name" Hongjoong growls, tension sharpening every syllable.

The reply isn't words but a gesture. The stranger's index finger glides down with unhurried grace, pointing to the floor —specifically, to Hongjoong's left leg. The hem of his trousers has hidden up just enought to reveal the outline of his prosthetic. Beside it, hidden within the folds of his cloak, a metallic glint betrays the presence of his cane.

The message was clear.

"I know you, as everyone here does, because of that beautiful piece of machinery you wear" the young man murmurs, lips curving into a half-smile "And because of how breathtaking you look when you put on such a splendid show jumping from one exquisite toy in your collection after another. "

Bitterness floods Hongjoong's mouth. He clicks his tongue, lowering his head and letting the hood's shadow swallow his face. A heat rises in his chest, sharp burning fire of shame and frustration linking at his insides. He paid a fortune for his informant to guide him to a place where he could find answers. So far, all he is found is humiliation upon humiliation.

"Did you come here just for that?" he snaps, irritation seeping into his tone " 'cause if that's the case, you'd better leave before i stop answering for my actions."

The young man tilt his head in a thoughtful gesture before slowly pivoting on his heels. "Then I suppose I'll have to tell someone else the location of the man who released those videos online…"

Hongjoong's blood runs cold. Before is mind can even process the words, his body has already moved. His hand clamps down on the stranger's wrist in an iron grip, stopping him before he can slip away. He rises abruptly to his feet, swaying slightly as he does.

Maybe his informant wasn't entirely wrong.

"What did you just say?" his voice comes out low as he yanks the wrist closer, dragging the young man toward him "You know the identity of the bastard who hacked my computer?"

The young man doesn't answer with word. Instead, a smile plays on his lips as his fingers slide deliberately —an almost provocative— slow over Hongjoong's hand, loosening his grip until he slips free. Then, as if performing a rehearsed dance, he turns gracefully back to the table, lifts the glass of black liquor, and places it firmly in Hongjoong's hands. His eyes gleam with a spark of amusement before his lisp curve again into a teasing smile.

And then, without another word, he walks away.

The former Lieutenant barely has time to process what jus happened when his gaze, as if drawn by a magnet, drifts involuntary to the way the young man walks. Or rather, to the way his his sway with each step, the hypnotic motion amplified by the tight leggings that outline his figure with almost insulting boldness.

A sharp heartbeat slam against is chest. Damn it, this is not the moment to get distracted.

His fingers tighten around the cane in his free hand as he draws a deep breath. Whit quick strides, Hongjoong moves fo follow. He has no idea where the man is leading him, but one thing is certain— he is not letting him out of his sight.

They pass through the bar without drawing a simple inquisitive look. Non of the staff seem notice —or maybe they simply don't care —that an outsider moves so freely through the backrooms. Even so, Hongjoong keeps his head low, face hidden beneath the hood, clinging to the faint hope it might still shield him from recognition. But after what the mysterious young man just said, he know his face is no longer the only thing that could give him away.

Beyond the bar, the kitchen hum wit the controlled chaos of service. Pots bubble over open flames, knives strike against cutting boards, and curt voices trade orders above the din. But his guide slips through it all with unbothered ease, ignoring the scene entirely, until he pushes open another door at the back. A narrow, dimly lit hallway unfolds beyond.

Hongjoong follows, each step sending a dull echo bouncing off the tight walls. Instinct whispers warning at the back of his mind, and his grip tightens around the handle of his cane as his eyes lock on the end of the corridor, where a corroded stairwell climbs toward a heavy bronze door.

He doesn't like this at all.

The copper-eyed young man steps ahead with the same calm he's carried all along. With precise movements, he taps a code into the small panel by the door, then slides a card across the reader. A metallic beep grant permission and with a gentle push, the door swing open.

He turns to Hongjoong then, stepping aside to let him pass first, wearing a smile that looks harmless. Far too harmless.

Hongjoong hesitates, but finally moves forward with caution steps. He enters without taking his eyes off the stranger, every glance tracking his movements. When the young man crosses the threshold and shuts the door behind him, a sharp click snaps trough the room. His stomach knots when he realizes exactly what just happened.

He's trapped, alone, with someone who knows far too much about him.

The room turn out to be not just a room, but a enormous dressing chamber. Metal lockers line the walls, while vibrant garment splashed with feathers, sequins, and extravagant accessories hang from improvised racks. Two-piece outfits, tight corsets and shoes as flamboyant as the rest of the attire are scattered across the space, composing a mess that, somehow, feels orchestrated.

One wall is completely covered with beveled mirrors, framed by rows of lightbulbs that flicker faintly with electricity, some of them shielded by copper cages. In front of them, worktables overflow with glass jars filled with powders and pigments for makeup, alongside dark-handled brushes and fine instruments made for tracing the smallest of details. Nothing seems to be in order, yet there's a system here within the creative chaos.

At the center, two velvet armchairs in deep red stitched thick and studded with brass nails, adding an air of decadent opulence. Scars in the fabric speak of years of use, of countless performers collapsing into them after long nights on stage. Between them, a wrought-iron table holds an ashtray brimming with still-smoking butts, and a small sphere of turning gear, ticking away as if measuring time to its own rhythm.

At the far end, a massive desk of dark wood rises like a throne above the disorder, its bronzed leg and reinforced drawer sealed with mechanical locks. On top, a rusted gramophone sits beside a gold-cased laptop sprouting tiny vacuum tubes from its side, its screen glowing with a sickly green light. Above an overflowing shelf of folders and scrolls, a combination-locked safe a clockwork sphere suggest that heavier secrets rest here than mere administrative records.

Hongjoong scans every detail with narrowed eyes, tensions gathering in his shoulders. With each step he takes, his mind is already mapping scape routes, anticipating the moment this place might turn into a death trap.

The stranger, however, moves with the same careless ease as before. He approaches the desk, pulls open the bottom drawer and takes out a bottle of wine along with a crystal glass. Without the slightest rush, he pours the crimson liquid, leaning against the desk as he studies Hongjoong with that piercing gaze that seems to cut straight trough him. He raises the glass to his lips, drinks a slow sip and never once looks away.

The former Lieutenant stands his ground, though he can't ignore the shiver creeping down his spine.

"Straight to the point" he finally says, his tone sharp. He sets the black liquor still in his hand on one of the cluttered makeup tables "How much do you want for what you know?"

The stranger lets out a soft laugh over the rim of the glass before taking another sip. Then, with feline slowness, he sets it aside and braces both hands on the desk. He tilts his head, a gesture as playful as it is dangerous.

"Do you really think you have the money to pay me?" his voice drips with deliberate calm "As far as I know, you were discharged. You're wanted across the universe for stealing one of the T-Rra's most important war artifacts and, while you were at it, you took one of their ships too. There's no way you have money left to your name."

Touché

Hongjoong's eyes narrow further, his jaw clenching in irritation. "Then what do you want in return?"

In the moment the words scape his lips, Hongjoong regrets it.

The air, thick with spiced perfumed and the tang of machine oil, seems to grow heavier under the dim glow of copper filament lamps. Mirrors framed in tarnished brass scatter the flicker of pressure valves along the walls, exhaling steam in the steady whisper, as if the very machinery of the room is holding its breath.

The stranger's eyes catch the amber light, sharp and feral, like a predator who knows its prey has just made a mistake. He tilts his chin the slightest degree, lifts one brow, and smile. One the surface, it's innocent— almost sweet, but Hongjoong isn't naive or stupid enough to fall for the angelic mask when he can see the blade hidden behind it.

His instincts scream at him to run away. Hongjoong swallows hard and steps back. In the few minutes he has spent with this man, he has realized it isn't his mouth that speaks the loudest, but his eyes. And now, in the molten copper glow of that gaze, a message burns that makes his skin crawl.

"No." his voice strikes like metal against stone, as cold and unyielding as the staff in his hand "Don't you dare say it loud"

The stranger lest out a soft laugh and the sound link in the room like a coin bouncing on the floor. He tilt his head, letting the light caress the cut of his jaw before sliding down his neck, when his fitted attire clings shamelessly to every line of his body.

"It won't be any different from what you've already done" he murmurs condescendingly.

His hair falls across his cheek like a curtain of velvet silk. With a slow and deliberate grace, he tucks a strand of hair behind is ear. The gesture is small and casual, but to Hongjoong, it feels like a hook cast with precision and a provocation impossible to ignore.

The vibration of hidden machinery thrums beneath the floor, gears grinding somewhere deep in the cabaret's bones, merging with the heat gathering in Hongjoong's throat.

"Who do you think I am? Some kind of sex toy for you?" His voice spit fire, raw indignation "You're insane if you think I'm going to say yes".

He spins on his heel, grabs the aged bronzed handle of the door and shoves. The mechanism refuses to yield, a dull clank echoes —a gear that won't turn. The lock is jammed.

"Come on, Lieutenant" The stranger's voice is a melodic whisper, dripping with a patiente far more unsettling than any threat "I only want to try a couple of things, nothing more" He pouts faintly, feigning a childish tantrum before his lips twist into a sly smile "I promise it won't be anything new. Exactly the same what you've done before".

"No!" Hongjoong's fury ricochets off the velvet walls. His hand clamps down on the handle again, harder this time, until his knuckles bleach white "Let me out now before I—"

"Kill me?"

The interruption slices between the like a razor blade. The stranger straightens, his posture shifting. The playfulness vanishes, replaced with a slow, deliberate advance. Leather boots creak against the Persian rug, metal buckles flashing with each step. He smiles, and Hongjoong hates how much that smile makes his skin prickle.

"You and I both know that wouldn't help either of us" he continues, each word dripping with unshakable certainty "Because I don't just have the name of the one who hacked your computer… I know where he lives, which colony and the exact address of his home."

He stops two meters away.

His gaze doesn't meet Hongjoong's right away. Instead, it drags over him piece by piece, dissecting every twitch in his face, every taut line in his body. Then, finally, he tilts his head to the side and locks eyes with him. the pull is suffocating, like being caught in a whirlpool, scape only drags you deeper.

"And I can give you resources" he whisper "Money, people who will work for you, help you carry on with your journey. A journey that, if I'm not mistaken, is racing against time, isn't it? How many months have you been traveling alone? Two? Three?" His hand drifts lazily to the edge of his corset, pulling free a glossy black card —the same one he used moments before to open the door. He lifts it between two fingers with casual indifference before holding it out toward Hongjoong. "But if you'd rather leave, you can" His voice is poisoned honey, cloaked in courtesy "Thought I warn you: the moment you step out of this room, everything you've planned collapses in the snap of a finger"

Silence, heavy an charged, like the static before a storm breaks.

"Well?" His smile curves again in a provocation "What do you say?"

Hongjoong watches the black card between the stranger's fingers, gleaming under the soft gaslight. It's within reach, yet taking it would mean accepting everything that comes with it. His eyes tremble as they trace the shiny rectangle, the slowly climb to the other man's copper-colored, deep dark as polished wood irises, gleaming like burnish metal under the lamp's warm glow.

Making a decision has never felt this impossible.

His mind spins over the offer again and again, dissecting it with precision of a watchmaker dismantling a delicate mechanism. Men, resources, information, all handed to him on a silver platter, delivered by a young man with angelic face an ravenous hunger. And in return, what does he really want?

His body.

Since joining the Marines, he's been alone. His life revolves around his missions and nothing else. Love, pleasure, desire, touch… all distractions he eliminated completely, satisfied only in the cold privacy of his room, in the familiarity of his own hand, in the recordings he watches to ease the tension. But now, faced with the possibility of something real, someone real, his body react in ways he doesn't expect.

He doesn't know whether the fear rinsing in him come from the treat in the stranger's voice, the certainty with which he speak, of the simple fact that, for the first time in years, someone else is taking control. But he feels it, a heat rising, an anticipation he refuses to admit.

The stranger claims it won't be any different than what he's done before. Hongjoong feels the weight of that promise brush against his skin, like the touch of a fitted leather glove. But is this man, a man of his words? or is he playing him, waiting to pull the rope at the last second and laugh at his gullibility?

The card glows in the dim yellow light of the hanging candelabra. His escape. And still… he doesn't want to take it.

His voice trembles when he speaks, his breath as ragged as the tangled thought in his mind.

"What… what do you want me to do?"

The stranger smiles. A curve of lips both triumphant and predatory. Without breaking eye contact, he slides the card back into his corset, into that space which, until a second ago, had been a point of temptation.

"First," he says, extending his hand with a formality absurd for the nature of the deal they just sealed, "call me by my name."

Hongjoong freezes, staring. He hesitates… but only for a moment. Five seconds later, he slowly his own hand and claps the stranger's.

"I'm Kang Yeosang".

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When Yeosang says it won't be anything he hasn't done before, Hongjoong assumes he means figuratively. Not literally.

His eyes track the belt as it fly through the air, landing casually on the velvet sofa. Beside it, a bottle of lubricant and a sleek black dildo rest, stacked with premeditated ease. Confusion hits first, followed by fascination he can't quite explain. Logically, the angel-faced man should have use his own body to seal the deal, but the dynamic seem be different this time. Too different.

His throat tightens. Hongjoong's gaze sweeps over Yeosang from head to toe. The other man adjusts effortlessly on the sofa, one arm draped across the backrest, the other resting lightly on his tight, every movement deliberate, confident commanding.

A jolt of uncertainty courses through Hongjoong like electricity, leaving a slow spreading heat in his stomach. For reasons he doesn't understand, anticipation coils around him, thick and silent, igniting a fire beneath his ribs. His mouth is both dry and wet, betraying the confusion of a body unsure how to react. The fine hairs on his arms rise in response, a shiver climbing relentlessly up his spine to his nape, tightening every strand of hair as through pulled by some by some invisible force emanating from Yeosang's copper gaze.

Yeosang nudges the coffee table aside with his foot, clearing the space between them, He smiles, the kind smile that would seem innocent if not for the story his eyes are telling.

"Come here" the low voice echoes in the room, in his head, in his stomach. It isn't sharp command, but it leaves no room for doubt.

Hongjoong steps forward, measured, until he stands in front of him. Despite his own decision, uncertainty climbs up his spine with every inch he closes. From below, the young man watches him without looking away, that unnerving calm in his gaze suggesting he sees more than he says.

"Take off your clothes" The air thickens in Hongjoong's throat. His muscles tenses, a barely perceptible shiver running through him before his mid fully registers the request "Take your time," Yeosang adds, reclining on the sofa, the fingers over the backrest drumming patiently "I have all the time in the world.. oh, right. You're racing against it"

The tease strikes like a knife in the back. A spark of irritation cuts through his nervousness and Hongjoong holds his gaze, lips pressed tight until the tensions bursts in a single phrase.

"Shut up"

Yeosang raises a hand, half-hiding the smile curling his lips. His expression melts for a second before snapping back into that impenetrable mask, as if the teasing had never been there.

The former Lieutenant lets the cane fall with a soft snap in the coffee table before bringing his hands to his heavy coat. He strips it off without enthusiasm, movements almost annoyed, and tosses it onto the other sofa without care; the thick fabric thuds against the worn leather as it lands. Then comes the jacket, the harness where he hides another pistol, and finally the shirt, whose buttons he undoes one by one with tense, never breaking the gaze loaded with resentment that he keeps on Yeosang.

The clothes pile up in disorder on the sofa, forgotten in the rising heat of the room. Steam vents embedded in the walls exhale thick air that clings to the skin, and slowly, Hongjoong's bare torso begins to glisten with tiny beads of sweat.

His breath catches ever so slightly as his hands descend to the lower garments. That's when the trembling really starts.

Slowly, he lift his right foot and places it between Yeosang's legs, undoing the laces with fingers that cling to the control slipping away. His gaze stays locked on the other, defiant, though his lips are barely parted. He repeat the movement with his left leg, but before he can continue, Yeosang's hand rises, gripping his calf with a firm hold.

The contact is as unexpected as the beat heat spreading from where he touches. Hongjoong freezes for a moment, feeling the light brush of fingertips against his leg before Yeosang leans slightly closer on the sofa. Now, both hands are on him, his left keeps his leg in place, while the right descends with deliberate calm to grasp the shoe. With a precise movement, Yeosang removes it, and the gleam in his eyes shifts as Hongjoong's prothesis of brass, copper and gear is revealed.

Hongjoong feels the weight of that gaze, but this time, it's different. No mockery, no pity— only pure, predatory fascination.

Yeosang slides his right hand from the calf down to the edge where skin meets cold metal, tracing every contour, every transition from flesh to machine with torturous slowness. Hongjoong swallows, hard as the shiver crawling across his skin spreads from his back, climbing his legs, settling in his abdomen.. A little lower than he expected.

The trill coils in Hongjoong's chest like sweet poison, twisting with the anxiety and anticipation already knotting his stomach. Something in the way Yeosang watches him, the way his fingers explore the junction of flesh and metal pushes him to seek more. To provoke.

So when Yeosang, after admiring with brazen fascination the gears fused with his muscles and nerves, lest him continue, Hongjoong decides against it. Instead, he slides his foot a little higher, just where he should find the other's crotch, waiting for a reaction, a flicker of surprise or irritation. But Instead, there's nothing.

Nothing where there should be something.

His brain clicks instantly. The belt, the sex toy, the ambiguous beauty. Everything falls into place like pieces of a puzzle he didn't even realize he was solving until now.

Yeosang knows he's figured it out. He sees it in the new gleam in his eyes.

"So…" Hongjoong murmurs, his voice trembling more from the revelation than from nerves ", you are not a-"

"I am" Yeosang cuts him off sharp. His grip tightens around the prosthesis still resting against his pelvis "Not having a cock like yours doesn't mean I'm not a man like you"

Interesting. Hongjoong narrows his eyes, processing not jus the claim, but everything it implies. Everything now within his reach.

"That explains your interest in experimenting with me" he mutter with a mocking edge, pressing his foot against the resistance of the hand trying to hold it down. But he pushes lower, insistent, until he finds exactly where he knows Yeosang's sensitivity gathers.

The air between them shifts in an instant. The other's breath falters only slightly, but Hongjoong notices. He feels it in the way Yeosang's grip on his ankle grows tighter, more demanding. In the way his lips part for a second before he cant stop them

It's feel like a small victory. Hongjoong smirks, savoring the moment Yeosang finally cracks. He sees it in his heavier breathing, in the subtle way his tights part, granting just enough space for him to continue his provocation. So he does, he applies more pressure with the prosthesis, pushing wit intention, and Yeosang's grip on his angle clamps down instantly.

The mask of composure starts to crumble, his molten eyes burning with a different intensity, his chest rising with breaths deeper than necessary. But when a sigh scapes his lips, Yeosang regains control, tilting his head as he forces Hongjoong's foot off the sofa. Hongjoong clicks his tongue, but he doesn't mind— on the contrary, what he's just witnessed fuels him further, a new heat spreading through his body. His ears and cheeks burn, and it's not only from the stifling air of the room.

Yeosang straightens in his seat, trying to recover his composure, but Hongjoong knows it's already impossible, not when the younger man has boarded this ferry too; there's no getting off.

At first, the idea of trading his body for information filled him with disgust. Now, the resistance is fading, melting into something absorbing.

"Finish undressing" Yeosang orders, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear with apparent calm, but Hongjoong catches the faint tremor in his fingers, a silent betrayal of his self-control.

Without breaking eye contact, Hongjoong slips off his second shoe, leaving his bare boot on the worm carpet before reaching for his belt. The buckle loosens wit a dull click, followed by the rasp of leather sliding from his waist. He take his time with the holster strapped to his thigh, fumbling more than he'd like before finally dropping it onto the pile of discarded clothes.

With the essentials out of the way, he unbuttons his trousers. It’s not as easy as he expected; his fingers don’t quite obey him, and Yeosang notices. His hand reaches out, steady and confident his won like a anchor against the nervous tremor coursing through the both. Together, they finish pulling the fabric away.

Now, only a thin barrier of cloth separates him from complete vulnerability. Yeosang studies him closely, his gaze dragging over every inch without hurry. The heat of the room mingles with Hongjoong's own, his skin damp with a fine sheen of sweet, his breathing slower but heavier, thick with anticipation. The last piece of clotting betrays him with the dark stain spreading across the fabric, speaking louder than any words could.

Yeosang's hands settle on his hip, pulling him closer. Hongjoong steps forward, acutely aware of those copper eyes consuming him. And though he's the one standing, the wight of that gaze makes him feel smaller. the warmth of Yeosang's breath ghost over his stomach, drawing a shiver up his spine and a subtle tremor scapes as a ragged sigh.

There's no rush in his movements. Yeosang barely brushes against his skin with the tip of his nose, sliding slowly down his torso, his mouth hovering just millimeters away from Hongjoong's flesh, sparking anxiety in his body with every near touch. Anticipation burns like a sweet torture, heat pooling low beneath his navel, ready to spill over.

Yeosang's hands climb from his waist to his chest, palms dragging across bare skin until his fingertips graze over his nipples. A new sigh escapes him, louder this time, chased by an electric shiver that surges through his torso, anchors itself in his groin, and splinters down his limbs. Hongjoong can't help curling his toes against the floor, overwhelmed by the sensation.

Yeosang keeps exploring his torso, sliding his hands around to his back, following the line of his spine with his fingers until they reach his lower back. But he pauses there, lifting his eyes to meet Hongjoong's through the almost fogged lenses of his glasses, as if silently asking for permission to keep going.

Hongjoong swallows hard and gives a small nod.

The grip comes instantly. Yeosang seizes his ass with both hands, squeezing firmly, and Hongjoong startles, imagining how those fingers must be carving into his skin with every press.

"You don't know how many times i fantasized about grabbing you like this" Yeosang murmurs, his warm breath hitting directly against the fabric covering Hongjoong's crotch. A shiver runs through him as the hear seeps through the cloth, reaching straight to his skin "In every video, I could see how round and firm they looked. I wondered if it was just the camera or if they were really that big"

"H-How many… videos did you watch?" Hongjoong stammer with a trembling voice, his body growing hotter with every passing second.

Yeosang flashes a crooked smile before answering with the same calm of someone unwilling to hide a thing. "All of them" he says without hesitation "Two or three times each"

His firm hand, still gripping Hongjoong's ass, squeeze once more before sliding to his hips.His long fingers trace the edge where fabric meets skin, dragging slowly, sending tingles that mix with fire rising in his belly.

"I couldn't stop watching them," he murmurs, eyes fixed on his body. "Over and over and over again, watching how easily you lost control under your own hands…" He presses more firmly against his hips before sliding his hands downward, dragging the last piece of clothing with them. A shaky sigh slips from Hongjoong's lips "And I wondered," Yeosang goes on, his rough voice vibrating against his skin, "if I could ever make you feel the same. Is you'd squirm beneath me just like that. If you'd moan my name with the same desperation. If you'd beg me for your release as if your life depended on it."

The words slide into his mind like a burning caress, igniting every nerve in his body. Hongjoong swallows, unable to ignore the way his skin prickles at each phrase. His hands rise, framing Yeosang's face, gripping his cheeks, his jaw, as anticipation races down his spine like a shiver.

Then Yeosang's deep voice rumbles against his stomach, carrying the weight of a whispered command.

"Let me feel, just one, what it's like to have you belong me, Lieutenant Kim Hongjoong"

He has never reacted this quickly to anyonne's request. Not even when his superiors in the navy barked orders at him, demanding obedience without leaving room for doubt. But Yeosang… Yeosang has been unraveling him finger by finger, binding him with nothing but searing glances and words that vibrate against his skin like a deep echo. Every phrase, every brush, slides into his mind with the sole porpuse of melting him into submission.

No even the anticipation of the encounters he one planned for his ow release with himself comes close to his. His self-control, his unshakable mindset, the mission he had chosen to forget until now… all of it dissolves under the yoke of the young man holding him in this spiral of desire.

Yeosang strips away the last piece of clothing, letting the fabric fall to Hongjoong's ankles before nudging it aside with a careless kick. His body stands bare before him, and shame barely has place in his mid. Only the faith flush on his cheeks betrays the vulnerability he should feel right now , but arousal takes the reins, ruling every reaction.

Yeosang pulls him closer, gripping his waist until Hongjoong's legs hit the edge of the couch, and before he can even process the movement, a trembling gasp escapes him as the hot and wet heat of Yeosang's mouth envelopes him completely. His first reflex is to clutch the other head, fingers tangling in the strands of fiery red hair. A shiver rips through him from head to toe as he gives himself over to the new sensation, surrendering to Yeosang's pace, letting him guide him into a pleasure he has never known before.

It's a pleasure almost beyond description and, at the same time, impossible to replicate. Hongjoong watches, lisp parted and breath ragged, as his erection disappears between Yeosang's lips, swallowed into the wet heat of his mouth. Every pull spark electric currents that spread through his body, unleashing shivers that make him tremble from head to toe. He can feel the blood pounding harder in his groin, the furious pulse throbbing beneath taut skin. The sensation of growing even harder inside that warm cavity turns into a new obsession, something he cannot escape —and wouldn't even think of doing so.

A wet and obscene sound fills the air when Yeosang pulls back, leaving his erection exposed throbbing in the cool air. But the absence of his mouth last only a heartbeat before his hand take over, stroking him with slow movements. Dark eyes look up at him, never breaking contact, and Hongjoong feels himself sinking into the abyss of that hungry, molten copper gaze.

Moans spill from him unfiltered, each one more pleading than the last. His fingers tangle in Yeosang's fiery hair, clutching the strands as if they were his only anchor in this dizzying rush consuming him. When Yeosang's lips seal around just his tip and suck, a spam jolts through him, and his body reacts by spilling more precum, coating the warmth of that mouth. Hongjoong shudders, he feels lost, trapped in a limbo of intoxicating sensation that blur everything else away.

He perceives nothing but the steady pressure of that mouth sliding down his length, until something shifts. A different touch. His skin prickles as a hand glides down his back to his lower spine and the slowly descends. That's when Yeosang's fingers trails over his tailbone, and Hongjoong jolts at the cool contrast of something wet an slick. With superhuman effort, he forces his eyes to focus on him, his breath stuttering as he catches sight of the bottle of lube resting in his lap.

Desire ad anticipation ignite in his belly all over again, just as Yeosang's hand slips between his cheeks and find his entrance. The brush of a fingertip against his skin sends an electric shiver racing up Hongjoong's spine, tearing a broken moan from his throat. His body react before his mind cant catch up, jerking instinctively as his hips push back in search of more. Urgency coils low in his belly, hot and relentless, while one hand slides from Yeosang's hair to the headboard of the sofa, gripping hard to steady himself, to offer a better angle as a fuller surrender.

Yeosang keeps the tormenting pace, circling his ring with exasperating patience. Hongjoong can't help but tense and release with every pass, as if his body —despite the time gone without this —remembers the path back pleasure with startling ease. But this is nothing like what he felts before. It isn't his own hand fumbling in the loneliness of midnight. He isn't the one setting the rhythm, deciding how much or how far. He has given the control away, and the anticipation of what is coming burns hotter than any rushed release he's ever stolen for himself.

That same hunger is mirrored in the way Yeosang handles him, drawing out shallow caresses while his mouth still envelopes Hongjoong's cook, sucking with a slow and deliberated rhythm that steals the air from his lungs. He's about to open his mouth, to beg, to plead for more, but the thought shatters the instant he feels the subtle push of a finger sliding inside. Just the first phalanx, no more that a taste of intrusion, and still the sensation knock the breath from him.

His knees tremble. A moan, higher- pitcher than he meat, cuts through the room.

Yeosang releases him with a wet pop, and the sudden absence oh his mouth wrenches a strangled gasp from Hongjoong, as though something vital has been ripped away. His eyes cling to Yeosang's, caught in the dark intensity of dilated pupils, in that feverish gleam that watches him as he were the most extraordinary sight in the world. But there's nothing extraordinary about him. He is only Hongjoong, surrendering under the hands of the man who disarms him with every touch.

The finger withdraws with the same maddening slowest it had entered, only to press forward again, deeper this time, sliding as far as the angle allows. Hongjoong squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on the feeling, on how his body adjust, on how pleasure pushes past nervous tension and blooms into something needier. It's only a single finger, and yet his mind already spiral to the thought of something larger, deeper. Something that will fill him completely.

The thought makes his mouth water.

“Do you like it when I do it like this?” Yeosang’s voice vibrates against his skin, and Hongjoong feels every word crawl up his spine like an electric shiver. He barely manages to crack one eye open, only to meet Yeosang's crooked and mocking smile teetering between playful and shamelessly condescending “In your videos, it always looks like you rush…” he continues, holding that provoking gaze. “But do you like it when I do it this slow?”

No, he doesn't. He doesn’t like Yeosang taking his time, dragging out the agony with exasperating patience. Because even though his body melts under the torture, even though his skin burns and his chest rises with trembling breaths, the reality still hammers in his head like a neon sign flashing in the dark. They are still on borrowed time, there’s still a purpose, still something beyond the pleasure he’s sinking into.

And yet… the way Yeosang plays with his patience, the way he keeps him right at the edge without letting him fall, makes him feel euphoric.

But he doesn’t want to admit it.

He clicks his tongue, frowning, squeezing his eyes shut in a vain attempt to hide the spark of desperation threatening to give him away.

“N-No, because you’re just playing with m—ahh…~” The end of the sentence slips from his lips when he feels a second finger sliding inside him.

The new intrusion burns, making him tremble, and without thinking, his fingers clutch Yeosang’s hair tighter, yanking as if that small punishment could give him back even a shred of control. But Yeosang doesn’t flinch. Instead, his lips close around Hongjoong’s cock again, resuming his earlier rhythm, syncing the torturous pace of his mouth with the deliberate thrust of his fingers.

And Hongjoong begins to collapse. He feels it in the way his breathing shatters, in the way his back arches every time those fingers move inside him. He feels his composure slipping like sand through his fingers, his mind fogging until nothing else exists. Only pleasure ruling his body, consuming his thought.

Step by step, like walking the plank of his own ship, he edges closer to the abyss.
Stars spark behind his eyelids with blinding intensity, close enough to touch if he just reaches far enough. He feels like he’s about to break, his body clenching desperately around Yeosang’s fingers, his voice spilling out more urgent, more needy. He knows what he’s giving him. He knows he’s handing Yeosang exactly what he wanted: the sound of his voice begging for release.

And just as he’s there, dangling at the edge, hanging by a thread, it vanishes.

Yeosang pulls his fingers free and leaves his cock untouched, abandoned in a state of agonizing, throbbing need.

Hongjoong’s eyes fly open, confusion and indignation crashing through his chest like a storm. It’s the first time he’s been denied an orgasm, the first time his body has been forced to remain suspended in that unbearable state of need without finding relief. And it’s maddening. It's suffocating, a torture he never imagined, and yet now he knows it with a raw, trembling intensity.

Yeosang’s smile widens as he takes in the sight before him. Maybe it’s the deep flush spreading across Hongjoong’s skin, painting his cheeks and the line of his neck in burning red. Maybe it’s the dark strands of hair sticking to his sweat-dampened forehead, or the way his chest heaves with each shaky breath. Or maybe, it's his glassy eyes filled with a silent plea that collides with the frustration burning in his pupils.

Maybe it's all of it at one.

Either way, Yeosang lets out a low, satisfied laugh, as though he’s just witnessed something worth savoring. Then, with deliberate movements, his hands found Hongjoong's hips and he eases him back just enough to rise, never one breaking eye contact.

“That’s not how I want to make you come,” Yeosang murmurs, his voice thrumming with a mix of quiet cadence and unshakable command. His hands remain firm as he maneuvers Hongjoong’s body with practiced ease, guiding him until he’s seated on the armrest of the sofa.

The heat lingers, a flame stoked by denial, by the sharp edge of interrupted pleasure. His skin tingles, his body still caught in that unbearable tension that drives him to move, to search desperately for the release that’s been ripped away. The temptation to lower his hand and fix it himself digs into his mind like a hook; he could do it, he could slide his fingers over himself, ease the burning pressure in his lower abdomen, end it all in seconds, but something tells him that if he dared, if he disobeyed, the consequences would be inevitable.

So he waits. He swallows, forcing his mind to focus on anything else. Counts in his head—one, two, three, four, five…— but there are never enough numbers to banish the image of Yeosang from his mind, or the sensation of his mouth, his fingers, the electric anticipation hanging in the air.

He sees him move. Under his watchful gaze, Yeosang takes the worn leather strap and the dark rubber dildo, fitting it precisely into the opening at his pubis. The straps creak softly as they tighten around his hips in a single motion, a sound that sends a shiver through Hongjoong. He watches every movement, lips parted, unable to tear his eyes away while his tongue instinctively wets his lower lip.

Yeosang was right. He doesn’t need a body like his to make him crave every inch of him, to make him feel the weight of his own anticipation like an insatiable hunger.

Yeosang reaches a hand toward him, and Hongjoong takes it without hesitation, letting himself be guided once more. He settles onto Yeosang’s lap with ease, fitting him as though this were always his place. The snap of the cap breaking open pulls him from his reverie. He sees the bottle of lubricant in Yeosang’s hands, but instead of applying it himself, Yeosang offers it to him. Hongjoong shivers at the intensity of his gaze, feeling as if every movement is observed with patient fascination.

“Take your time,” Yeosang whispers, his voice barely a breath against his skin. “We have all the time in the world.”

No, they don’t. At least, not him—but arguing would be pointless.

Hongjoong lets out a low and breathy sight, rolling his eyes effortlessly in a silent reply. He extends his hand, palm open, and takes the icy liquid as it trickles between his fingers. He plays with it for a moment before spreading it over the dildo, tracing its firm length slowly, making sure every centimeter is covered as his own thighs tremble at the thought of what’s to come.

Again, the anticipation coils in his lower belly, a burning pressure that expands with each shallow, ragged breath. His eyes stay locked on Yeosang’s, caught in a silent understanding as his hand continues the slow and deliberate motion up and down the dildo. The rhythm is methodical, intentional, as if he’s stroking a real penis, though they both know it isn’t. And yet, the illusion persists.

It’s intoxicating—this hybrid between what he’s done countless times alone with his own toys and the tangible heat of a real body beneath his hands. A new pleasure, sharper, amplified by Yeosang’s presence, by the weight of his gaze fixed on him, by the breath that mingles with his as he leans forward. Hongjoong moistens his lips, feeling Yeosang’s sweat against his skin as he nears the sharp line of his jaw. He inhales his scent greedily, letting himself be enveloped by the suffocating warmth of his body, while his own hips begin to move in an instinctive rocking rhythm across his lap.

A soft sigh escapes Yeosang as Hongjoong’s teeth brush against the skin of his neck, leaving a subtle mark. His hands respond instantly, gripping his ass, lifting him with ease.

Hongjoong gets the message. With labored breathing he grips the base of the dildo and positions it at his entrance, testing the surface with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. His body tenses as the head presses against him, a shiver running through him as his flesh slowly yields to the pressure. A sharp moan escapes his throat the moment he lets it slide just a little inside. It’s more than what he’s received so far, more than Yeosang’s fingers, and the contrast between the firm silicone and the warmth of his body is breathtaking.

It hurts, but not enough to make him stop, just enough to force him to move cautiously. His hips sway in shallow movements, letting the fake glans slide in and out slowly, giving himself time to adjust to the sensation. As he goes deeper, the initial burn fades, replaced gradually by rising pleasure. His breathing becomes ragged gasps, and bit by bit, he allows himself to sink further, feeling how each inch that fills him pushes him closer to the edge he longs for.

Another moan escapes his lips as he sinks a little more, the toy sliding deeper inside, sending involuntary tremors through him, a shiver racing up his spine. He clings to Yeosang’s shoulders, squeezing his eyes shut as he repeats the same rocking pattern, letting his body acclimate to the invasion slowly, pushing his own limits with every descent. Until finally, with a last, shuddering sigh and his body trembling from the effort, he settles fully, sitting pressed against Yeosang’s pelvis.

The sensation leaves him breathless. It fills him, overwhelms him, consumes him. For a moment, he can do nothing but stay still, feeling his insides adjust to the size of the toy, the burn mingling with the exquisite fullness that makes his heart pound in his ears.

Yeosang hasn’t stopped watching all this time.

From his place, he remains still, surrendering to patience, letting Hongjoong find his own rhythm before intervening. His gaze is dense, dark, scanning him with the fascination of someone witnessing something beautiful and unwilling to interrupt it.

Carefully, as if still wanting to convey the message to take things slow, Yeosang slides his warm hand down Hongjoong’s lower back, tracing the line of his spine with a slow, almost reverent touch. The pressure of his fingers along each vertebra is an anchor, a silent reminder of his presence, of his patience.

The contact sends an involuntary shiver through him. A desperate, trembling gasp escapes, brushing against Yeosang’s cheek as a traitorous spasm ripples through his body. The thick rubber shaft moves inside him in the commotion, sending a lash of pleasure so intense that, for a moment, his mind clouds completely. The heat in his lower belly intensifies, melting into a liquid fire that spreads through every nerve of his being.

He tests his own endurance. With a fragment of self-control still clinging to his skin, he lifts his hips just slightly, enough for the toy to slide out before collapsing back onto it. The impact shoots through him. Every brush against his inner walls is an electric jolt, a pulse of fire that steals his breath and forces him to clutch Yeosang’s shoulders as if the man beneath him were his only anchor in this sea of sensation. His body, previously forced into denial, now aches in desperation.

He moves slowly at first, giving himself time to absorb each wave of pleasure, each shiver that shakes his back, each gasp caught in his throat. He lets the dildo exit almost completely before plunging back in with a rocking rhythmic motion, a sway that gradually grows more insistent and demanding.

Yeosang’s hands hold him, assist him. His fingers, firm against Hongjoong’s hips, mark the rhythm, follow him, guide him without imposing anything, letting him find his own pleasure without restraint. And in seconds, every conscious thought dissolves.

His body moves with the ease of someone who has explored pleasure alone in his room countless times, with the precision of someone who knows exactly the paths that lead him to ecstasy. He searches insistently for the right angle, that spot where pleasure becomes incendiary and overwhelming. His thighs burn with the effort, but he doesn’t stop. With Yeosang’s steady hands gripping his back, he leans slightly backward, trusting the stability of those hands to hold him, and he moves again.

Up… Down…Until he finds it.

There…

It’s electric. Almost painful, yet incredibly pleasurable.

The toy inside him presses exactly against that sensitive spot, unleashing a jolt that shakes him from head to toe. Hongjoong can barely contain himself. His body reacts instinctively, hands clutching at his chest, gripping his own skin in a futile attempt to anchor himself, to not completely drown in the tide of sensations threatening to sweep him away. His nails scrape against bare skin, and the wave of pleasure is so intense, so overwhelming, that all he can do is gasp, choked and broken, silently begging for more.

Yeosang laugh. His consciousness, blurred and fogged by desire, sharpens just enough to open his eyes and look at him. And he finds him there, pleased. Not because he’s been touched, not because he’s been brought to pleasure in any tangible way. But because he’s watching him.

Hongjoong feels the weight of that gaze like fire on his skin. The hunger in Yeosang’s eyes is overwhelming, insatiable, as if in that moment he’s witnessing the culmination of one of his darkest fantasies: watching him lose control completely.

For a moment, Hongjoong feels magnificent. Majestic. Like the greatest work of art ever created, sculpted by the devotion of gods, designed solely to be admired, to be desired.

Confidence courses through him like a river of molten fire. He lets his hands glide over his own chest, exploring without shame, allowing Yeosang to see everything. And when he smirk, it’s pure mischief, pleasure dripping from his voice, each gasp escaping his lips like a wicked echo of total surrender.

"Fuck, Yeosang~… it feels so good, Yeosang~… oh, shit… Yeosang~"

He’s so lost in his own pleasure, so trapped in the suffocating haze of desire, that he barely notices the marks his hands leave on his own neck, how his hips keep moving desperately, searching relentlessly for that point of absolute ecstasy. But then, suddenly, the world flips.

His back collides with something soft, the back of his head hitting the cushioned surface with a gentle thud, and a startled gasp dies in his throat. His eyes, still fogged with pleasure, snap open only to meet Yeosang looming over him, covering him completely, eclipsing him under the shadow of his body.

The air leaves his lungs. Even through his misted glasses, he sees the fire burning in the other’s copper eyes with crystalline clarity. This time it’s not just desire. It’s darker, more intense.
More dangerous.

Yeosang’s red strands fall like curtains around him, creating a suffocating enclosure, isolating them from the rest of the world. His strong hands hold him with ease, gripping his thighs and lifting his hips effortlessly, disarming him completely.

And then he feels it. That overwhelming presence, that insatiable voracity.

Yeosang is no longer human in this moment. He is a beast. A fierce, unleashed, hungry creature.

Hongjoong feels butterflies in his stomach, an electric shiver racing across his skin. He feels small. Trapped. Caught between the invisible bars of that desire threatening to consume him whole.

"Again… say it again…" Yeosang’s voice seeps into his ears like a low, raspy growl. Deep, shadowed, desire incarnate, traveling straight to his bones.

Hongjoong barely has time to process it when he feels the hard and relentless strike. His body arches, a broken gasp dying in his throat before it even forms. It’s as if the air has been ripped from his lungs in a single, brutal blow, his gaze lost in the way Yeosang’s hips press into him, anchoring him in an unknown abyss.

Never. He has never felt anything like this. Never has anything reached so deep. Never has his body been invaded with such intensity, such devastating rawness.

And never—ever—has his mind gone dark in this way.

"Say it" he insists.

This time, Yeosang’s hand climbs to his face, gripping his jaw firmly, forcing him to look at him. And at that exact moment, he does it again; an almost complete withdrawal, a fleeting pause, and then the sharp impact of his pelvis slamming into his own, driving him back to the edge.

Hongjoong feels his body shiver, but his eyes are locked on the fogged glass of his glasses. He’s trapped there, caught between the blurred reflection of his own face and the burning intensity behind the lenses. He can’t look away. He can’t even moan.

Another thrust. And another. And another. Each one marking a solemn rhythm, like church bells tolling in the dead of night.

His heart roars in his ears. Pleasure coils in his lower belly, thick and scorching. His voice dies in broken gasps that match each relentless strike. And as the methodical rhythm continues to ravage him from the inside, Hongjoong feels his mind fray.

The Yeosang leans in. Closer. Oppressive.

The grip on his jaw tightens, as if he wants to tattoo his presence into his skin, as if it’s not enough to be inside his body. He wants to be in his eyes, in his soul.

"My name… say it again…"

And then he understands. He feels it in the tremors of that unyielding rhythm against his body. He knows exactly which button he’s pressed. He knows what he’s done to turn the man who, moments ago, had let him chase his own pleasure in solitude, into this insatiable, ravenous creature.

And, oh God… He’s fascinated.

"Say it" Yeosang’s voice slips between his teeth, deep, commanding, vibrating against his skin like an order that cannot be denied. Hongjoong with his mind fogged with pleasure, can barely react. Instinct drives him to clutch at the other’s forearms, his nails digging into the skin as if that alone could anchor him to reality. "Say my name"

The demand makes him shiver. His voice comes out broken, almost a stifled sob between gasps.

"Y-Yeo… Yeosang~…"

"Again."

"Yeosang~…"

"Again."

"Yeosang~!"

The thrusts quicken, faster now, but no less brutal. Each strike reverberates through his body, shattering his sanity piece by piece. Yeosang’s hands hold him firmly, pushing his thighs forward, arching his posture, forcing him to open wider, to surrender deeper.

And in that moment, Hongjoong understands. He sees it in his eyes. He feels it in the way his voice deepens, in the tightening grip on his body.

This isn’t just obsession. It’s devotion.

An uncontrollable desire to see him surrender. A visceral hunger to make him his, again, and again, and again, and again…

And, oh my fucking God… he’s losing his mind.

His nails rake down the other’s firm biceps, digging in hard, marking him, feeling every tense muscle under his fingertips.

"Beg me" Yeosang commands.

And the former Lieutenant Kim Hongjoong breaks. Again, his mind shuts off, his consciousness dissolving into the brutal need consuming him.

"Please, Yeosang~!"

"Louder"

"Please!"

"Again…"

"PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE…"

What was he asking for? He doesn’t know exactly. Or at least, he can’t put a single word to it. It’s a primal craving, an urgent need, something devouring him from within, forcing him to beg as if his very life depended on it; in response to his plea, a perfectly aimed thrust hits him right at that lethal spot.

Hongjoong feels pleasure explode inside him like lightning cutting across the night. His body arches violently, but it’s not enough; an involuntary shiver shakes every muscle, ripping a strangled moan from his throat as his eyes roll back. He feels it again—once, twice, three times—each strike delivered with precision, as if Yeosang knows his body better than he does himself.

It’s sudden. It’s searing. It’s too much.

And there’s no warning. The climax overwhelms him, giving him no chance to cling to anything, leaving him suspended at the edge of madness for an eternal instant before crashing into the void. His orgasm takes him without mercy, shredding every coherent thought until only pure instinct remains. The sensation is so intense he isn’t even aware of what’s happening until it’s too late. Only when the wet heat spreads across his abdomen, staining him indecorously, does he realize he’s cumming. His chest heaves in ragged breaths, his skin burning, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to grasp something already vanished.

He sees him, Yeosang, still clad in the emerald corset, now speckled with the remnants of his own frenzy. A shiver runs through him. Tears well in his eyes, unsure whether they are from overload, embarrassment, or a pleasure so overwhelming that his body can’t process it any other way. His gaze drifts to the tin-and-copper ceiling of the dressing room, warm lights reflecting off the metallic panels, distorted by the dizzy haze that envelopes him.

Yeosang’s thrusts continue for a few more moments, but the rhythm softens, slows, indulgent, giving him space to catch his breath, to let his trembling body absorb what just happened.

And Hongjoong… Hongjoong doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know what day it is, or even his own name. His mind is a calm sea after a violent storm, and his body a drifting star, floating through the vastness of space.

It isn’t until Yeosang’s hand lands gently on his flushed cheek that Hongjoong returns to reality—or at least, a little. He barely turns his head to meet him, finding once again those angelic features, the sweet smile, the eyes full of innocence and care.

"Are you back?" Yeosang asks softly, calm, concerned, nothing like the beast who had consumed him just minutes ago.

Hongjoong, still breathing hard, ears ringing from the pressure, barely nods. He doesn’t even notice when the copper-eyed young man lowers his body and slides out of him. Now, the sticky warmth of his own semen mixed with sweat begins to settle on his skin, but his body is too weak to even move, too spent to fix it.

Yeosang stands, undoing the leather strap as he moves to the lockers, grabbing a couple of towels and fresh water. The strap hits the floor with a dry smack. He sits on the edge of the sofa, carefully cleaning Hongjoong’s body before offering him a sip of water.

"Did you like it? Was it good?" he asks with a strange shyness, as if just a few minutes ago he hadn't been demanding that he scream his name and beg him.

The former Lieutenant only has the strength to nod. Still, a thought slices through his foggy mind, now a little clearer. All this time, he had been the one receiving the overwhelming pleasure, and he realizes how neglected Yeosang had been, even as his eyes burned with the same fire, lust coursing through his veins. Guilt twists in Hongjoong’s chest, and with a look full of remorse, he slides his hand toward the inner thigh of the other.

Yeosang stops him, returning his hand to his chest with a soft, deliberate touch.

"It’s okay, you don’t have to do anything." He stands again, returning to the lockers and retrieving a blanket from the top shelf. He drapes it over Hongjoong with gentle care, sitting back beside him, a faint, sweet, almost youthful smile lighting his face. Hongjoong watches silently, feeling the warmth of a small sun shining before him. "We leave tomorrow morning, so try to get some rest" murmurs, brushing stray sweat-damp strands from his forehead.

He rises and starts gathering the scattered items from the floor, leaving Hongjoong to focus on the sounds filling the dressing room: the whistle of pipes along the walls, the intermittent buzz of a failing electric lantern near the vanities. His mind replays what just happened—how a single encounter unlocked sensations he never imagined, how, without a doubt, he’s experienced the best sex of his life. Never did he expect his first time with someone to feel this good.

He wonders if he’ll ever feel anything so intoxicating again.

"So…" Yeosang breaks the silence, and Hongjoong turns toward him, watching as he folds his clothes on the sofa "Now that you have a ship, a fleet, and money… I don’t think “Lieutenant” suits you anymore."

Yeosang pivots on his heels to face him, hand lifting to remove his glasses. A playful, mischievous smile spreads across his lips, teeth just barely visible, eyes curling into two tiny copper crescents.

"Maybe it’s better if I call you “Captain,” huh? Captain Kim Hongjoong."

═══ ✦🏴‍☠️ ── ⋆✦⚙⛴⚙✦⋆ ── 🏴‍☠️✦ ═══

The only light in the room comes from the computer screen, casting flickering shadows across his face. His copper eyes never leave the video looping on repeat, now for the third time.

"Say my name."

"Y-Yeo… Yeosang~…"

"Again."

"Yeosang~…"

"Beg me."

"Please, Yeosang~!"

"Louder"

"PLEASE!"

"Again…"

He bites his thumb, mesmerized by the way the man now sleeping on the sofa had contorted in sheer pleasure. Furrowed brows, swollen lips, skin glistening with sweat… every detail in that image makes him feel like he’s seeing himself through someone else’s eyes. Because that’s exactly what it had been.

"Hey! I’m talking to you!" The voice from the speaker cuts through his contemplation. Yeosang rolls his eyes but doesn’t break his gaze from the screen. "So, were the glasses I gave you useful?"

"Absolutely" A faint smile curves his lips as his fingers drag the cursor back to the start of the video "Good video quality, solid audio capture, no suspicion at all. I’m still impressed you managed to fit such a high-quality micro-camera in them".

"Because I’m a genius, duh~." A pleased laugh vibrates through the line "I saw the copy of the video you sent me. Can’t believe you were the first and not me! Can I upload it too? Could make some serious cash."

"Buu~ Go cry to your mom" The tease comes with a light laugh "And no, don’t even think about uploading it. It’s mine"

'Take your time… I have all the eternity in the world… Oh, right. You’re the one against the clock.'

"Selfish…" the other huffs, feigning irritation "So, how long until you arrive?"

Yeosang drums his fingers on the desk, his face resting in the palm of his hand. He calculates in his head before replying. "One month"

"Perfect. I’ll be waiting."

The conversation breaks off, leaving only the sound of the video filling the dressing room. Between the distant buzz of the faulty lights and the intermittent hiss of the pipes, the exhaled, ragged breaths of the now-Captain hang in the air.

"One last thing before I hang up." Yeosang presses the spacebar to pause the video and glances at the phone. "Do you think I’ll have luck with him too? You have no idea how much I want to make him kneel, grab his hair, and force him to use his mouth to…"

"If you’re respectful" he interrupts, cutting him off before he can continue "he’ll probably say yes."

"Tsk. How boring."

Yeosang smiles. "But…" he drags the word, malice dripping from it "if you’re clever, you could find another way for him to agree. Something… around you."

A brief silence follows before the voice on the other end sighs theatrically.

"'Around me'!? What does that mean, Yeosang? I don’t get what my surroundings have to do with it, but I can assure you I’m not going to force him to… Oh… Oh? …Oh!"

Yes. Oh.

"See you in a month."

Yeosang doesn’t wait for an answer before ending the call. He leans just enough to make sure the Captain is still asleep, breathing slow and steady. Once he confirms he hasn’t stirred, he settles back into the chair and hits play on the video. His copper eyes fix on the screen, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips in the dim light.

Everything is unfolding exactly as planned.

═══ ✦🏴‍☠️ ── ⋆✦⚙⛴⚙✦⋆ ── 🏴‍☠️✦ ═══