All of Tae Joon’s senses are assaulted the moment he enters the club. The music is pounding so loudly he can feel it resonating in his chest. Part casino, part strip-club, part underground brothel, Fortune’s Favor offers its guests a constant stream of novel sights, sounds, and sensations -- all designed specifically to keep its patrons inside, intoxicated, and thoroughly entertained. So entertained they’re unlikely to realize how much money they’re spending on lapdances from a hologram.
The scent of stale marijuana smoke and Stim-sweat fills the air (and Park’s nostrils) as he breathes in, scanning the room for a familiar, ugly face. Bright, color-changing lights glide across the little stages scattered throughout the room, where various dancers -- both male and female, organic and robotic -- put their pole-dancing talents on display. Some of them are very talented, Tae Joon’s noticed, but he doesn’t have time to think about that, and even if he did, stuffing AC into some poor android’s g-string isn’t exactly how he likes to spend what little free time he has.
A Syndicate-owned casino-slash-brothel is the last fucking place he wants to be, truth be told, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. It’s the only lead he’s had on his sister’s killer in months. The man he’s looking for didn’t do it, but he might know who did, and how to find them. The guy is tough to track down, and even tougher to isolate -- he’s always surrounded by an entourage of armed mercenaries functioning as glorified bodyguards, all of them fellow Apex Predators that are trained to kill.
Tae Joon is trained to kill too, though. And this Syndicate snake’s luck is about to run out. Tonight.
Even with his optical implant, Park can barely see -- the stages are lit up like Christmas, but the rest of the club and the bar attached to it are so dim he can’t tell any of the patrons apart. That is, of course, the point -- but it’s frustrating nonetheless. Thankfully, that also means it’s too dark for said patrons to notice his drone as it floats by, performing covert retina scans in search of Tae Joon’s target.
As he waits for his robotic friend to track down the hitman, Park flicks on the night vision setting on his AR implant, allowing him to take a closer look at some of the scenery. Directly in front of him, a stunning young woman with caramel skin and long french braids is dancing on some greasy CEO-type who absolutely reeks of IMC ties. Park almost feels a little bad for her, until he notices her pickpocket the man mid-dance, stuffing his wallet down the front of her corset as he nods along to the beat of the song, none the wiser.
Heh. Good for you.
Looking elsewhere, Park spies a Spectre unit with a skull-shaped faceplate sitting in a dim corner as he-- it? --receives a lapdance from a slim young man with metal legs and green hair. It’s still too dark to see much detail, even with his enhanced eyesight...and Park is grateful, because just the thought of a human giving a robot a lap dance gets his heart pounding for some stupid reason. Tearing his eyes from the strange pair in the dark corner, Park notices a female dancer, a different one from the pickpocket, who is robotic from the waist down. She’s dancing on a nearby stage in front of several former IMC soldiers, all of whom are clearly drunk, hooting and hollering. One of them, a rather petite woman with dark skin and a smoke grenade launcher strapped to her back stands up from the table, approaching the half-synthetic dancer and scanning the electronic tip counter at the front of the stage with her phone. A moment later, holographic cash begins to rain from the ceiling above the dancer. The woman winks at her, and the dancer licks her lips, peeling off her bra...which wasn’t really concealing a whole lot to begin with. The holographic bills continue raining down from the ceiling for a few more moments before finally disappearing.
Paper money went out of vogue centuries before, but humans are creatures of habit, it seems, and even Park can admit it doesn’t really feel like a strip club unless it’s raining dollar bills. Even if they’re not real. And even though he’s never been in a strip club before this.
Electronic tip counters are very convenient. They’re also great for the fuckers at the top of the Syndicate food chain. It’s a lot easier to snatch up 50% of your employee’s earnings when she can’t hide any of that money in her bra. Apex Coin counters are the standard at just about every similar establishment in the Outlands, though it’s worth noting that the clubs not owned by slimy Syndicate fuckbags usually only take 5-10% of their dancers’ earnings, and it’s generally in exchange for room and board, because the bedroom is where the real money comes out to play. Stripping isn’t the only sex work happening in some of these places. Forcing employees to fork over half of their nightly earnings is theft, as far as Park is concerned.
Still waiting for Jee to identify Mila’s murderer, his attention is drawn to the stage in the center of the room. It’s the biggest one, with three silver poles extending from the ceiling to the stage floor, and a catwalk extending out into the area where the patrons are seated. There’s only one dancer, a very handsome man that looks to be about Tae Joon’s age. He’s stunning, Park distantly realizes, which is a strange thought to have. The man isn’t exactly his type.
(Park’s type, he’s pretty sure, is mostly other skinny, socially-awkward nerds like himself. It’s hard to be sure, though. Not a lot of time or opportunity for sexual self-exploration when one is busy being framed for murder and running for their life while trying not to get murdered as well.)
The man on the stage is undeniably gorgeous, however. He’s handsome and tan and frankly, beautiful. He may be tall and lean, but there’s a good deal of muscle there, too. He is absolutely stunning.
That’s not surprising -- being hot is sort of the point in this line of work -- but what is surprising is how quickly Tae Joon’s body has started reacting to the sight of the dancer’s gorgeous body as he puts it on display.
For fuck’s sake. Ugh. Why.
When is Vinson going to invent a robotic dick replacement? Life would be so much easier if I could turn this thing off sometimes.
The handsome dancer seems to notice he’s being admired, because he flashes a stunning smile in Park’s direction, then winks. Park feels himself flushing, and quickly looks away. It’s not long before he’s looking back, however. The gorgeous man has started peeling off his neon fishnet bodysuit. Even though he was basically nude to begin with, something about seeing that pretty tan skin completely unobstructed has Tae Joon’s mouth watering.
Well, it’s almost completely unobstructed. Once the body stocking has been removed, all that remains is the dancer’s bright yellow g-string and the golden body glitter shimmering on his skin.
Get your shit together, Park! Focus, locate the target, then get the fuck out of here. We do not have time for this. Come on Jee, where is he?
His drone is still gliding through the club, scanning the patrons one by one, evidently still searching for the correct target. Desperate for anything to occupy his eyes with besides the beautiful man on stage, Park glances back at the Spectre getting a lap dance in the corner. Which is a mistake, because then he doesn’t want to look away.
The dancer with metal legs is lovely, though not quite as lovely as the one in the yellow g-string; this other guy isn’t quite Park’s type. Despite the fact that the man with metal legs is the one performing, Crypto finds he’s more interested in watching the Spectre than the Stimmed-up dancer grinding in his lap. The Spectre leans forward, murmuring something that makes the dancer blush and swat him playfully. But a few seconds later, the dancer is lifting one of the Spectre’s hands to his mouth and kissing the Hammond logo on the back of the robot’s hand. Cute as he is, the little dancer guy just isn’t Tae Joon’s type. But then Spectre responds by pushing two of its metal fingers between the dancer’s lips, extending them down his throat, and that guy? That guy is definitely his type.
Suddenly, something obnoxiously yellow lands on Tae Joon’s head, obstructing his view. It’s soft, and it smells vaguely of sandalwood.
Pulling it off his face, Park looks down to see it’s the dancer’s neon body stocking he’s now clutching in his hands. Against his will, his dick twitches in his pants.
When he glances back at the dancer on stage, that perfect body is wrapped around the metal pole extending from the mirrored ceiling to the floor of the stage. A few more patrons have gathered around the main stage, and some of the drunken former-IMC jarheads have migrated over to get a better look at the man’s performance. The dancer isn’t looking at the patrons, though, even though they’re making it rain holographic AC all over him. As he twirls his gorgeous body around the pole in the center of the stage, the dancer stares right at Tae Joon. He winks, and Park feels his face grow hot. He looks away again.
But then he’s looking at that fucking Spectre again, and that isn’t helping any more than it was before. He’s pretty sure the general rules in places like this are “look but don’t touch.” But neither the Spectre nor the excited little dancer in his lap seem to give a fuck about those rules. He’s got one unnaturally long, flexible hand wrapped entirely around the stipper’s waist, like it would only take that one hand for him to use the little human as a glorified cock sleeve, jerk himself off with the dancer’s thin little body while it writhes.
He’s not doing that, though, and the only reason Tae Joon can even tell is because he can see that the metal monster’s cock is peeking out from beneath its loincloth, curving up against the dancer’s ass, not plunging into it. Not yet, anyway.
The dancer’s head is thrown back, a hand resting on the robot’s knee as the dancer grinds his ass back against the Spectre’s solid steel length, moaning. Park notices the Spectre’s free hand has abandoned the dancer’s mouth, slipping between their bodies instead. From the angle where he’s sitting, Tae Joon can’t see exactly what that hand is getting up to, but based on the dancer’s reaction, he’s pretty sure he can guess.
The dancer with metal legs has his back to Elliott. The owner of the lap upon which he is currently grinding is sitting facing Park, but his eyes are fixed on the eager little troublemaker squirming in his lap. Or they were, at least at first. Tae Joon’s shameless staring must have registered with the Spectre because suddenly it locks those terrifying golden, glowing eyes on him.
To his surprise, the robot does nothing. Park is pretty sure it’s not the kind of robot with very many facial expressions, so it’s not like he’d be able to ascertain its thoughts from its face alone.
Its body language, however…
The little human in the Spectre’s lap squirms impatiently, and with its hollow, unflinching gaze fixed squarely on Tae Joon, the robot thrusts his hips up roughly once. Then he does it again, giving the dancer in his lap a series of rough little bounces, his steel cock still pressed against the dancer’s ass.
As he bounces the hyperactive little stripper in his grasp, he stares down Tae Joon, those undead eyes boring holes right through him. Park can feel himself flushing all over.
This was a mistake, coming here. I should have told Mystik to send somebody else on this job.
Forcing his neck to turn, he looks back to the stage, where the other dancer -- the beautiful one with glittering skin -- is still performing. To Park’s utter surprise, the dancer waves his hand, manifesting two holograms, both of them physically identical to the dancer himself. All three of him begin to move in unison, twirling around the dance poles on the large center stage and making it rain holographic dollar bills.
Three of him. God…
Park knows the other two are just holograms. Stil, they appear to somehow have physical mass, and Tae Joon finds he’s aroused by the idea of there being more than one of this beautiful, handsome creature out there for him to touch.
The dancer seems to have noticed he has Tae Joon’s attention again, blowing him a little kiss, then winking at him as one of the dancer’s holographic twins turns to look at Park, too. Tae Joon blushes even deeper when the holo-stripper leans forward to whisper something into the real Elliott’s ear, something that makes the man grin mischievously, gaze drifting over Park with a lascivious glint in his eyes.
Distantly, Park is aware he's still clutching the dancer’s fishnet bodysuit. Presumably, the man intends to get it back. With interest, probably.
The dancer hops down from the end of the catwalk nearest to Tae Joon, sending a third hologram up onto the stage to take his place as he makes his way to the dimly-lit area where Park is sitting, bringing his nearly-nude, perfect body very close. Park swallows anxiously and decides to stand, because when he's standing, it's far easier to stare at the gorgeous man’s face rather than his package.
“Hey handsome,” the dancer purrs, looking him up and down.
“H-hi…” Tae Joon stammers, wondering when exactly his mission to hunt down a Syndicate merc had gone so awry.
Suddenly nervous again, Park looks away, his gaze naturally falling right where it had before: on the dark corner with the Spectre and the dancer. They’re now gone, however. Scanning the room, Tae Joon just manages to spot the two of them before the dancer drags the robot through the doors to the elevator that leads to the apartment suites.
Park tries not to imagine what they’ll soon be getting up to in the dancer’s room...and what that might look like.
“You got something that belongs to me,” the dancer in front of him says with a wicked grin, seductively trailing a finger down the center of Tae Joon’s chest and stomach, instantly snapping him out of his wandering thoughts.
Some of the anxiety in his chest eases a bit. Something about the handsome dancer’s presence puts him at ease in a way he can’t explain.
“What’s your name?” Park asks him, leaning in so he can be heard over the pounding music.
“Mirage,” says the handsome dancer, flashing him that stunning smile again.
“Your real name,” Park replies, distantly wondering why he even cares to find out.
“Not on your fuckin’ life, kid,” the dancer laughs. “Sorry.”
Park shrugs. “Just curious.”
“Well what’s your name then, Mr. Curious?” the man asks him, folding his arms in front of his chest and smirking.
“Hyeon,” Tae Joon lies for the thousandth time.
“Huh,” the dancer muses, looking him up and down. “It’s pretty. So are you.”
For some reason the compliment makes him blush even though he knows the gorgeous man is paid to make people blush. It’s the dancer’s job, making Park feel good, good enough to make him want more. It isn’t personal. It’s just business.
That doesn’t stop Tae Joon’s imagination from drifting into rather inappropriate territory. It’s difficult to focus on anything besides the fact that the man in front of him is quite possibly the most perfect physical specimen he has ever happened across. He’s tall and tan, and muscular enough he could probably take Park in a fight.
“Here’s your, uh....thing,” Tae Joon stammers awkwardly, handing the pile of neon fishnet to the dancer and trying not to stare.
Park can’t help but stare at him, though. Even doing something as simple and innocent as reaching forward to retrieve his lingerie from Tae Joon’s outstretched hand, he looks amazing. He moves with a sort of performative grace, like he’s all too aware of just how beautiful he is. And he has every right to be.
“So,” Mirage continues, looking him over with a predatory grin. “You gonna stand there and stare at me all night, or you gonna take advantage of my many talents?”
Mirage winks again, and Park can’t help but laugh at his own nervousness. He’s not sure he’s ever met someone quite this charming. Or beautiful. He’s not really the kind of guy who frequents establishments like this, but this Mirage character has a certain way of putting him at ease. And he’s beautiful. So fucking beautiful, moreso even than Park had initially thought. Now that he’s seeing the man up close, he can’t stop staring, can’t stop drinking in that beauty. Even the other dancers are jealous of the one he’s talking to, it’s easy to tell from the way they all look upon him with blatant envy.
Park remembers he’s got an ally among them, another agent, but undercover. He hasn’t been informed of anything more than that: their presence. They could be male or female (or neither, or both), organic or synthetic -- all he’d been told was that they were here somewhere, posing as a dancer, and would do what they could to aid Tae Joon, should something go terribly wrong. When he’d inquired further, Park had been told “They’re on a different assignment. One that does not concern you. Don’t interfere with them, and do your best to get the job done discreetly. They are only to break cover in an absolute emergency. Try not to cause one.”
And that had been that. He was in no position to be asking questions, anyway.
But looking at the envious way the other dancers stared at Mirage, Park reckoned he could spot the undercover agent just by identifying whichever one looked the least jealous. All of them looked jealous, though, and the few who didn’t seem to openly seethe with envy -- Mirage himself, the Spectre, and the little guy with metal legs -- just didn’t seem like the type to be undercover agents trying to take down the Syndicate.
Which is a relief, because if the dancer in front of him is really the undercover agent, then Tae Joon probably wouldn’t be allowed to touch him...and god, did he ever want to touch this man. Park’s mysterious partner in crime could be anyone, not necessarily a dancer -- for all he knows, they’re behind the bar, serving drinks, or posing as a patron and drinking said drinks. But this Mirage guy doesn’t seem like the type, so it’s probably fine. Why not have a little fun?
Mwole. Fuck it.
Tae Joon isn’t exactly in the habit of hiring out strippers and escorts for companionship, but hey, you only live once...and probably not for very long, if you’re hanging out in a club like this one. He’s never had a lap dance before, but there’s not a fucking chance in hell he’s turning down the opportunity now. Mirage is too pretty to miss out on.
The dim overhead lights and the golden glitter dusted across the gorgeous man’s skin combine to highlight every little detail, every muscle, every bone, every perfect curve of his body as he spins around the pole on the little stage in the center of the VIP area he’s led Park into. Tae Joon notices that the blacklights in this room reveal a hidden tattoo on Mirage’s lower back. Between the dimples of his lower back is a glowing tattoo of a holoemitter projecting the phrase ‘dancing with myself,’ onto the dancer’s lower back. Park spots another blacklight tattoo, this one inked over Mirage’s left pec. It reads ‘Evelyn.’
Wonder what that’s about, Park thinks distantly. He hadn’t given much thought to the fact that the dancer may have a romantic partner. It’s a woman’s name, and Tae Joon finds himself praying that it doesn’t mean the man is one-hundred percent heterosexual.
Hopefully he’s bi…
Something about the idea of enjoying a sexual service from a straight guy who cannot possibly be enjoying it makes Park feel nauseated. Then again, if the dancer is straight, he’s doing an excellent job of pretending otherwise. Something about the way he touches Tae Joon makes the hacker think he’s done this before, touched a man -- and not just at work.
The gold jewelry adorning his ears, nostril, nipples, and navel only serve to make Tae Joon physically ache to touch him even more.
God, you are so pretty...you should be dancing in one of those huge clubs in Olympus, not wasting your talents on these creepy Syndicate fucks.
The handsome man dances beautifully. It’s erotic, entrancing, and it is quickly making Park want more. Lots more. But suddenly, with exactly zero warning, the dancer -- ‘Mirage’ -- is just...gone. Tae Joon didn’t see him leave, exactly, but he nonetheless must have, because he was there one minute, gone the next, and now he’s absolutely nowhere to be seen.
“No!” Tae Joon whines. “Where’d you go?”
Even though he knows that watching the man continue to perform will only lead to more aching, unquenched desire, he wants it. Any little bit he gets is worth it, even though he’ll never get the release he’s desperately craving. They’re called lap dances -- not lap fucks -- for a reason. Still, he wishes the gorgeous creature hadn’t disappeared on him so soon.
Just as Tae Joon is preparing to rise from the crescent-shaped leather couch in front of the little private stage, something pins him right back to it.
There’s nothing there as far as he can see, but something heavy and warm is in his lap. Park’s dick is still so aching-hard from watching Mirage perform that he nearly starts rutting up against the pleasant weight on his lap, but manages to recover some of his sanity in time to stop himself.
“What--?” he finally stammers, beginning to explore the strange invisible object with his hands.
It giggles. As Park’s fingertip sensors scan the warm, smooth surface of whatever has him pinned to the couch, he realizes he’s touching skin.
The invisible being straddling his hips giggles again.
Then it rocks its weight back against his cock.
It’s no secret that some of the dancers also work in the Syndicate-run brothel above the strip club, but Park isn’t sure if this one does, and it feels rude to ask. Plus, taking his clothes off and letting himself be vulnerable in the middle of a Syndicate-owned property is definitely not part of his mission tonight.
Then again, getting a lap dance from the hottest man in the fucking universe wasn’t part of the mission, either, yet here he is, letting it happen. The invisible man in his lap begins rocking his hips to the beat of the song currently thumping through the club’s speaker system, and Tae Joon is utterly lost.
It's like gold dust
You hear me coming through your speakers
You see me flying off your airwaves
I know you can't get enough of my sound
Once the holographic camouflage has deactivated and revealed the beautiful dancer straddling his lap, Tae Joon is surprised how difficult it is for him to look but not touch. That’s generally the rule in these kinds of establishments -- look, don’t touch, and definitely do not jizz all over a dancer, or in your own pants. So he’s surprised when Mirage takes his hands, placing them on either side of the dancer’s own hips.
Got you in my palm, now listen good, you can't escape it
Bring you to my world and hold you, see if you can take it
Don't you be afraid, I know you're strong enough to make it
Go, go, go,
Tae Joon groans, grip immediately tightening on those hips and pulling them down against his own. Mirage is still grinding his hips to the rhythm of the song throbbing over the speakers, and Park is sure he’s going to lose his mind.
Everything your life's been searching for's in this direction
Come a little closer
Don't you feel the intersection?
We gon' take you down and then we gonna keep you sweating
His dick is so hard it hurts, and he’s grateful for the thundering music, because without it, Mirage would undoubtedly hear his every pathetic gasp and sigh. He can’t help it, it’s been so long since he’s been with someone. Even the slightest touches have him moaning softly. Staying composed with that perfect ass grinding in his lap is almost impossible.
Now we got the starline and the g-tha to desire
Let me see you jump up, come on, with me - let's go higher
Climbin' up the speakers, we gonna set this place on fire
Go, go, go, it's like...
Hear me coming through your speakers
You see me mashin' up your air waves
I know you can't get enough of my sound
Mirage briefly climbs out of his lap, but just to turn around and sit on it, his back pressed against Park’s chest as he jerks his hips back on Park’s cock. Tae Joon hisses, hands immediately coming up to grasp the man’s hips and pull them down against his own. He thumbs one of the tiny strips of fabric holding the dancer’s lingerie to his body, toying with the elastic as though considering ripping it off altogether.
Nnnngh, I could take him right here, just slip that little g-string to the side and sink into that hot little ass, right after I make him gag on my dick--
No. He can’t. That is not part of the mission. Neither is this, really, but it can be excused under the guise of ‘trying to fit in’ and not draw attention to himself. Anything more than this? That would be inexcusable, inappropriate, and entirely unprofessional.
You keep runnin' and you're runnin'
And you're runnin' and you're runnin' away, away, away, boy
You keep runnin' and you're runnin'
And you're runnin' and you're runnin' away
His guilty thoughts are difficult to focus on, however, with that hot little ass sliding itself against his dick. It’s also difficult to focus when Jee alerts him that the target has been located.
He should go. He needs to go. He needs to get up, pay Mirage for a lovely evening, and go introduce this ‘Forge’ guy to Jee’s EMP. He should definitely, absolutely, totally go.
But he doesn’t want to go.
“I want you,” Park breathes against the dancer’s throat, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “So badly.”
It’s a stupid thing to say, but he can’t help it anymore. His entire point for being here has already been forgotten, shoved aside in favor of continuing the lap dance, and now all Park can think -- or care -- about is feeling that perfect tan body against his own.
“You are so handsome, Mirage,” he purrs into the dancer’s ear, desperately trying to control the urge to let his hands start to wander.
The dancer hums softly, head lolling back on Park’s shoulder as he lets out a dreamy little sigh and rotates his hips to the beat of the music, continuing to drive Tae Joon mad with desire.
It’s over all too soon. So one lap dance turns into two, which then turns into way too many drinks at the bar, and then the gorgeous dancer is sitting in his lap again and whispering “Wanna come back to my room?”
How could he say no?
“God, what is this stuff?” the lovely dancer asks, gazing down at Park’s hands as he leads the hacker into the elevator. “On your hands, I mean. And your throat. It’s so warm--”
“Synthetic skin,” Park gasps, but it turns into a groan when Mirage takes the lobe of a SynthSkyn-covered ear between his teeth, giving it a little tug.
“Sexy,” the gorgeous dancer purrs in his ear. “I like it.”
The moment the doors close, Park’s pressed against the elevator’s wall, unable to keep from moaning when Mirage slips a hand between his thighs and squeezes him through his pants.
Mirage grins, and it’s almost predatory.
He releases Tae Joon, and they step into the hall. Moments later, the handsome dancer is unlocking the door to his apartment.
“I like you,” the hacker growls, shoving the gorgeous man back against his front door the moment it closes behind them.
That wicked little hand is squeezing Park’s dick again, and he can’t resist thrusting into the man’s palm this time.
“Fuck,” he gasps. He’s been so hard for so long that it’s genuinely beginning to hurt.
“Mmmm, maaaaybe,” Mirage teases as Park mouths at his shoulder. “For the right price…”
“Name it,” Park breathes, dragging his teeth over the man’s exposed collarbone. “Please. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
Please let me touch you…
The dancer giggles. “You wanna be careful saying that around me, baby. I’ll bleed you dry.”
“And it’ll be worth every last AC,” Park growls against his throat.
It’s been so long since he touched another person, he can barely believe it feels this good.
Once the gorgeous patron is finished transferring an obscene amount of AC to Elliott’s bank account -- nearly three times as much as he had requested -- he suddenly realizes how nervous the man looks.
“I’ve never, um...done this before,” the man confesses sheepishly, cheeks going a little red as he fiddles with the synthetic skin covering the palm of one hand.
Elliott giggles. “Which part? Sex, sex with a dude, or paying for sex with a dude?”
“Um. Yeah,” the man -- Hyeon -- blushes even deeper. “The last one.”
“Well it’s pretty simple,” Elliot replies with a wry grin. “The rules aren’t too complicated.”
“Yeah, the rules -- rule number one: money first. You already did that, though,” Elliott explains.
“Number two -- I say stop, you fucking stop. Or you get shot. Your choice, really,” Elliott continues, gesturing to the loaded wingman on his nightstand.
“Of course,” Hyeon agrees, looking horrified at the very thought of not stopping when requested to.
“This brings me to rule number 2.5: gimme your fuckin’ gun and any other lethal weapons you got on you,” Elliott says, trying to sound scarier than the things he’s afraid of. “It’s a new rule, and it wasn’t even a thing before tonight, because nobody has ever gotten through front door security while armed in the first place. Until tonight. Until you.”
Hyeon’s eyes are wide, like he’s surprised Elliott’s noticed he’s packing heat, but then he laughs.
“I want that gun and whatever else you’re hiding in those silly little pants,” Elliott says sternly, trying to sound confident, but succeeding only in sounding afraid.
Hyeon reaches for the P2020 Elliott had felt on him earlier, after security missed it, and disarms it before handing it to Elliott. Elliott turns to head towards his dresser, but the man stops him.
“Hold on, there’s more,” he says, digging around in one of approximately one zillion pockets in those tight little pants he’s wearing. “I’m hiding all kinds of surprises in these silly little pants.”
He winks and Elliott almost laughs, because this guy is funny and handsome and surprisingly charming for coming off so shy at first. It’s also sort of sexy, how he managed to sneak those weapons in without immediately getting wrecked by Syndicate security. The only other patron Elliott had ever seen get a weapon into the bar was that little soldier gal with the smoke grenade launcher. But she was a regular, and a friend of the boss, and knowing this place, the smoke launcher was more for her own protection than anything else.
This guy, however, was an absolute nobody and Elliott had never seen him in the club before tonight. Watching him produce not only the P2020 but also a data knife, six arc stars, and a box of hammerpoints out of those teeny little pants was kind of hot. God only knew what they were for. They weren't for murdering Elliott apparently, and that was all that really mattered.
Elliott carries the miniature arsenal over to his dresser, dumping all of it in an empty drawer.
“Oh, I forgot,” the man says, pulling a drone from its holster on his back. “Here.”
“I said weapons. I don’t care about cameras,” Elliott replies, rolling his eyes.
The strange customer doesn’t reply, just steps over to the dresser and places the little drone inside the drawer with his other belongings.
“OK, how is that a weapon, exactly?” Elliott asks, trying not to sound too curious.
“It’s an EMP drone I can fly with my mind,” the man replies, like that’s a normal thing to say.
“Uh-huh…” Elliott can’t quite tell if he should believe him. Either way, the guy has an excellent poker face. “Is that everything?”
“Yes,” the man replies. “I am unarmed. But even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t--I didn’t come here to hurt you, if that’s what you think.”
It’s not too surprising. This ‘Hyeon’ guy -- if that’s even his real name -- is polite, unassuming, and rather soft-spoken. He seems like the kind of guy who knows how to take no for an answer, not the kind of guy whose greedy hands Elliott will have to spend half the night swatting away. Elliott’s had more than his fair share of those.
He doesn’t know what to say, momentarily lost in a few unpleasant memories, when Hyeon breaks the silence.
“Are there any more rules? Rule number 2.5 implies there will be a rule number 3,” he says with a sly little grin.
Ugh. Why are you cute? Why d’you have to be all fuckin’ handsome and funny and shit?
“Rule number three: No kissing. Like, on the mouth, I mean,” Elliott adds, surprised at how disappointed the gorgeous man looks when he hears it. “S’nothin’ personal. Just makes it easier to separate work and play, if that...makes sense.”
The man nods politely. “As you wish. Though I’m not sure I can keep my mouth off the rest of you…”
Ugh. He is so hot. What the fuck is he even doing paying for sex? He could be the one charging for it, look at him.
It’s true. He’s beautiful. When the man shrugs out of his jacket and yanks off his shirt, Elliott briefly wonders what sort of sex gods he’s currently being blessed by. It’s not every night he finds a patron who tips well, doesn’t complain about the rules, and is hotter than hell itself.
He’s covered in tattoos and synthetic skin. A huge dragon is inked into his back, its maw baring rows of sharp teeth on Hyeon’s left shoulder blade, its tail coiling between the dimples in his lower back. Even his ears are covered in the synthetic skin stuff, and upon closer inspection, Elliott notices little bits of metal around one eye socket, likely an optical implant...which is likely recording Elliott’s every move. His dick twitches. Something about knowing he’s being filmed sends a shudder running through him.
“Would you like me to erase it when we’re done?” Hyeon asks when Elliott reaches out to touch his face, tracing the implant’s hardware with curious fingertips. “It’s always recording, I can’t really turn it off without turning my vision off in that eye. I can delete things, though. I certainly understand if you’d prefer tonight’s...performance...not leave this room.”
Something about the way he says it is almost mischievous, like he’s daring Elliott to let him keep the recording. He seems like the type who would really delete it if he said he did, but there’s a sort of wicked glee lurking in those lovely, artificially-enhanced eyes when they meet Elliott’s gaze. Perhaps he can tell how much Elliott enjoys giving a good performance.
“Oh no,” Elliott purrs. “You paid for it, whatever you see tonight is yours to keep. And you’re definitely gonna wanna review the footage later, trust me.”
“Oh?” the man asks, feigning surprise as Elliott leads him to the bedroom. “And why is that?”
“Because I’m about to rock your fuckin’ world, kid,” Elliott says with a grin, pushing the gorgeous man down onto his bed and straddling his hips. “So, um, what...exactly are you in the mood for tonight?”
“Tonight,” the gorgeous patron murmurs, trailing kisses along Elliott’s bare shoulder. “I want to rock your world.”
Jesus. I hit the fucking jackpot.
“I want to touch you,” Hyeon growls, rolling them over so Elliott is beneath him. “And taste you.”
Mmmmm, whatever you want, baby...
“I want to make you moan,” Hyeon continues, chuckling at the little gasp that escapes Elliott when the man gently sinks his teeth into his shoulder. “I want to hear you say my name.”
Elliott shudders when Hyeon tongues a soft patch of skin at the base of Elliott’s throat, then sucks it between his lips hard enough to leave a little bruise on his throat, just below the spot where his beard meets his flesh.
Fuck yes, mark me...
“I want to make you cum,” Hyeon growls against his flesh. “And I want to taste it.”
That devious mouth is slipping lower, leaving a trail of wetness down the center of Elliott’s chest and stomach. It’s strange, not being the one doing all the work for once. For once he’s the one lying back on the bed, limp and shuddering. He gasps when he feels a warm, wet tongue slip beneath the fabric of his g-string. He’s already so hard it’s starting to become uncomfortable, and he can’t help but be embarrassed at how easily he’s coming undone for a customer. This man is a total stranger, yet he’s seemingly hellbent on absolutely spoiling Elliott rotten, worshipping his body with that wicked little mouth, fuck, it’s almost more than Elliott can take. He’s used to people wanting him but not...not like this. Most of the others just want to use him. This one is...something else. By sheer force of will, Elliott manages to swallow down the “please!” that threatens to tear itself from his traitorous throat when Hyeon drags his teeth over Elliott’s left hip bone.
Elliott Witt does not fucking beg.
“May I?” Hyeon asks, hooking a metal-tipped finger through the fabric and tugging it down a little.
PLEASE. I mean, uh--
“Such a gentleman,” Elliott teases, giggling as he rolls his eyes. Half a second later, he’s gasping as his g-string is ripped down his thighs and flung across the room.
“I’m not always a gentle man,” Hyeon purrs wickedly, wrapping that strange, half-artificial hand around Elliott’s leaking cock. “But I’m trying.”
Elliott’s trying, too -- trying not to let the man see how easily he’s ruined him, but it’s useless. It feels so good, so different from anything he’s ever felt before. The cool metallic fingertips and the soft, warm synthetic skin currently squeezing his cock have rendered him speechless for the first time in...well, ever.
“Fuck,” he finally manages to gasp, thrusting up into the man’s grip. “Your hands…”
“Does it feel good?” Hyeon asks him, gazing at him with a look he can’t quite place. Fascination, maybe.
“Nghh, what do you think?”
Hyeon chuckles. “I can make it even better.”
Then he leans down and drags his tongue up the underside of Elliott’s cock. His tongue is warm and slick, but there’s something hard and cold in his mouth, too. When he pulls back to tease the head of Elliott’s dick with the tip of his tongue, the holographic stripper catches sight of a little metal ball pierced through the center of the man’s tongue.
Fuck me. You are perfect.
He feels his cock throb between the man’s lips, twitching again a moment later when his mysterious bedmate takes him deep.
“You’re so good at this,” Elliott breathes in near-disbelief, almost laughing with surprise as his hips jerk upwards involuntarily.
Even on the rare occasions when a customer has been more interested in touching than being touched, it’s never been this good. Men who frequent Syndicate-owned strip clubs and brothels are rarely talented enough to actually get him excited, and almost never generous enough to get him off.
This guy, though…
“Fuck, baby,” Elliott swears again, hips jerking up off the bed for the second time. “God, that feels so fucking good…”
Hyeon just moans around his cock, looking up at him with a sinful sort of satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. A moment later his tongue -- or rather, the ring in the middle of it -- begins to vibrate, and Elliott can’t help it anymore, he moans, and that only seems to spur the man on, because he swallows around the dancer’s aching prick, then slips that wicked tongue out, teasing his balls with the vibrating ring.
“Ah!” Elliott cries, sounding utterly pathetic and not giving one single fuck. At the moment, it’s impossible to care about his pride or anything else besides cumming down that beautiful synthetic throat.
God, when was the last time somebody paid to suck MY dick? This guy is...somethin’ else.
“Nghh, that feels a-m-m-mazing…” he moans, hips rhythmically jerking forward against the man’s warm, soft mouth. “God damn, dude. You’re better at my job than I am!”
The man chuckles, making Elliott gasp as his entire throat vibrates softly around Elliott’s throbbing dick.
You are so freaking pretty. I can’t even remember the last time I touched someone this pretty. Or, frankly, this young.
He’s getting close, he can feel it, and the sloppy, lewd way the gorgeous man is sucking him off definitely isn’t helping slow things down. The man’s pretty lips are swollen from letting Elliott buck against his mouth, and he’s drooling all over Elliott’s leaking cock. He pulls off with an obscene sound of interrupted suction, giving Elliott’s aching prick a few quick, slick strokes.
That skin on his hands, Jesus fuck...
“I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop…” he warns, unable to make himself tug the man’s head away. It’s a courtesy, warning him, but Elliott doesn’t want him to stop.
Don’t stop. God, please do not fuckin’ stop, please let me cum down that perfect fucking throat, shit...
“Good,” says the man, promptly spitting on the head of Elliott’s cock before swallowing him down so deep Elliott can see the front of that pretty synthetic throat bulge out around his girth.
“Fuck!” Elliott cries, all pretense of stoicism utterly lost to the sweet, soft embrace of that perfect little mouth, fuck, oh fuck--
“Ah!” he gasps, trying to hold off just a little longer.
It’s been so long since someone touched him like this, since someone made him feel like this, he’s reluctant to let go of the feeling. He trembles as he fights back the orgasm bubbling up in his belly, letting out a strangled cry as it passes.
The handsome customer kneeling before him pauses his ministrations, pulling off and looking up at Elliott for a moment before slurping the trickster’s cock back between his puffy lips.
“Shit, sweetheart,” Elliott growls, resisting the urge to seize a fistful of the man’s soft, shiny hair and fuck that pretty face until he spills. “For bein’ so quiet you sure got a dirty fuckin’ mouth....”
Hyeon groans around him, letting his eyes fall shut like he wants nothing more in the world but to swallow a load of random stripper jizz. A moment later Elliott feels his right hand being tugged upward and placed on the back of the man’s head.
Jesus fuckin’ Christ, it’s like he wants to get facefucked…
That is precisely what Hyeon wants, evidently, as he begins deepthroating Elliott’s cock like his very life fucking depends on it, still pressing Elliott’s hand against the back of his head.
Elliott can’t help it anymore. He fists a handful of the man’s soft, dark hair and fucks up into his sweet mouth, holding him there. His other hand joins the first as he fucks the tight little throat that’s pulsing around his dick with abandon, shuddering with every thrust.
“Fuck, baby,” he moans, beginning to unravel. “Oh fuck, oh my god, yes--”
Hyeon moans, drooling down onto Elliott’s balls as the dancer thrusts into his slick throat, tightly gripping his hair as he shamelessly facefucks him. The kid has almost no gag reflex, and distantly, Elliott’s wondering if this is what his own throat feels like when there’s a thick cock bucking into it.
“Ah! Just like that, please don’t stop! Oh god, ohgodohgodohgodoh--”
With a strangled, needy sort of cry, Elliott cums, painting the back of Hyeon’s throat with his load. He groans when the man swallows it down, that slick little throat rippling around his twitching cock as he fills the man’s belly with his seed.
“Fuck,” he finally gasps, for what feels like the fiftieth time that night. The kid is so damn good with his mouth that Elliott’s struggling to remember which one of them is the escort, and which is the customer.
Christ, I should be paying you.
Seriously, he could make bank working here. Pretty face, gorgeous body. That hot little mouth, fuck...
Hyeon finally pulls off, swiping an errant drop of cum from his bottom lip and sucking it off his thumb. Elliott shudders, flopping back on his pillow and trying to catch his breath.
“Was that…” Hyeon stops for a moment, looking a little unsure of himself. “Um, w-was that...alright?”
Elliott snorts. “No. It was not alright. It was fuckin’ amazing. Jesus, kid. I can’t even remember the last time--look, it doesn't matter. The point is, that was the best BJ I have ever personally received. Seriously, you deserve a trophy or something, I don’t even know. Like, are you after my job? ‘Cause you’re beatin’ me at my own game here, man.”
“There’s a problem though,” Elliott continues, pretending to be serious. “A big one.”
Immediately, Hyeon’s handsome smile is replaced with a concerned, bitten lip.
“A problem? What is it?”
“Your dick,” Elliott purrs with a sly smile, reaching down to loosen Hyeon’s belt buckle. “It’s still hard. We should probably do something about that.”
“Oh, you don’t have to-- ah!” Hyeon’s protests are cut short when his cock is freed from the confines of his clothes, and is suddenly being squeezed by a warm, calloused hand.
“You’re getting your money’s worth tonight, sugar,” Elliott purrs with a devious wink. “Satisfaction guaranteed.”
Then he leans down to take the beautiful stranger into his mouth.
“Ah! Mnnngh…” the man groans. Both of his synth-skinned palms fly to Elliott’s head, gripping his curls, but not pushing or pulling.
Instead, they’re just stroking his hair. It feels nice, though Elliott imagines it would feel equally-nice if the man were to grip it tightly and begin ruthlessly fucking his face instead. He looks like he wants to, frankly. He’s trembling, biting his bottom lip hard enough to break the skin, brow knotted in an expression of pure need.
“Please,” Hyeon begs him, hips twitching forward briefly. “Jebal, meomchujima…”
Say what now?
“Agh!” the man nearly sobs when Elliott takes him as deeply as he can, swallowing around his girth and moaning lewdly.
That’s right, baby. Lemme hear it.
“Ssibal,” he groans, suddenly gripping Elliott’s hair and pulling his mouth away. “Wait.”
“What’s wrong?” Elliott asks, suddenly a bit worried his oral skills aren’t up to the man’s standards.
“Please,” Hyeon gasps breathlessly, chest heaving. “Please, let me fuck you, I--er, if...if that’s okay with you, of course.”
Elliott can practically hear the man thinking “please please please--”
“Anything you want, sugar lips,” Elliott purrs.
He yelps when he’s pulled down to the mattress half a second later, finding himself pinned beneath the most beautiful man he’s met recently-slash-ever.
He’s expecting to be flipped onto his belly and promptly fucked into his mattress -- which, frankly, sounds like a lovely way to end the evening. But Hyeon has other plans, evidently, as he’s settled between the holographic stripper’s thighs, chest-to-chest. The numerous pendants around the man’s throat tickle when he leans down to press his mouth to Elliott’s collarbone.
“You are so, so beautiful,” Hyeon murmurs, one half-synthetic hand ghosting up the side of Elliott’s ribcage as the other reaches for the lube sitting on his nightstand. “I was supposed to meet someone else here tonight, someone I’ve been hunting for a long time. But you’re so distracting, you made me lose him. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. It’s impossible to ignore your beauty.”
Elliott can’t help the pathetic little whine that escapes him. He is beautiful, and he’s all too aware of that fact. But it’s not a word he hears often in his line of work. It’s usually “sexy” or “hot” or, occasionally, “delicious.” “Beautiful,” however, is a rarity, and it only comes out when someone wants something from him. But Hyeon doesn’t seem to want anything, except perhaps to make him cum again.
Elliott moans when a slick metal fingertip breaches the tight ring of muscle between his thighs, eagerly jerking his hips down to take it deeper. After a few moments, another one is added, and the stretch is utterly delicious. Almost as delicious as the look on Hyeon’s face as he fingerfucks the dancer beneath him. Elliott whines, bucking harder, desperate to take the man’s talented fingers even deeper.
“Mmmm, look at you, fucking yourself on my fingers,” the man groans, splaying the hand that isn’t buried in Elliott’s ass across his toned stomach. “So impatient. Such a greedy little thing you are.”
“Please,” Elliott can’t help but whine, too far gone to care how utterly pathetic he sounds. “Please fuck me. God, please...”
The man growls, pulling his fingers away and slicking his cock. Elliott’s is already hard again, lying swollen across his stomach and leaking precum all over it. It twitches when his hips are yanked into Hyeon’s lap and he feels the blunt, slick pressure of the man’s cock teasing his entrance. Hyeon hisses something in Korean that sounds like it might be rather naughty, then he’s squeezing into Elliott’s ass, seemingly shaking with the effort of not fucking it until he can’t walk anymore.
“Fuck,” Hyeon hisses once he’s buried as deep as he can go. “Ssibal, so tight...”
He jerks his hips forward experimentally, unable to suppress the grin that follows when he hears Elliott’s needy moan.
Elliott is rapidly losing patience. It feels so good, but the man won’t move, and he seems intent on treating Elliott like he’s made of fucking glass.
“Come on already, fuck me!” Elliott whines again, wiggling his hips a little in a desperate effort to take Hyeon’s cock even deeper.
Hyeon groans, both hands tightening around Elliott’s hips and pinning them to the mattress.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” the beautiful man gasps, looking like he kind of does.
“Yes you do,” Elliott grunts, rutting down onto the man’s cock again and relishing the needy cry that immediately follows. “And I want you to.”
Hyeon growls, and whatever was left of his restraint seemingly disappears like one of Elliott’s holograms.
“Fuck,” the man hisses, yanking Elliott’s hips down to meet each thrust of his own. “You feel so good, Mirage…”
“Elliott,” the holographic stripper gasps, for reasons even he can’t explain.
“Hmmm?” Hyeon purrs, bending down to suck at the tender flesh of Elliott’s throat.
“Elliott,” he gasps again. “It’s, um, m-my name…”
He doesn’t know why he’s telling the man his real name. That’s a big no-no, even with the regulars who he knows he can trust. No one here knows his name, except the guy who signs his paycheck. Fuck that guy.
But for some reason, he wants Hyeon to know it. He needs him to know it, so he’ll say it, so Elliott can hear his name in that beautiful mouth, spoken by that beautiful voice.
As much as Tae Joon wants to answer the dancer’s honesty with some honesty of his own -- and as much as he’d enjoy hearing the man gasp his real name -- he can’t do it. It wouldn’t be fair to Elliott, first of all. He may technically be a Syndicate employee, but he’s not like the mercenaries. He’s innocent, and he’s kind, and good, and he’s as stunning on the inside as he is on the outside. The second Park shares his real name with someone, that person is immediately put in mortal danger. The Syndicate would think nothing of murdering one of their own sex workers if one were to cause trouble, or demonstrate that they know just a little too much. It’s a risk he isn’t willing to take, for Elliott’s sake. It’s for his own good.
So instead of responding with his own true identity, he settles on saying something a little less dangerous.
“Elliott. What a lovely name,” he murmurs against the warm flesh of the man’s throat. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised. All of you is lovely.”
Elliott’s blushing, but a moment later he’s whimpering, because Park can’t resist wrapping his hand around the man’s leaking cock again.
“Does this feel good, Elliott?” Tae Joon purrs, teasing the shell of the dancer’s ear with his tongue ring as he begins to stroke the man’s cock and roll his hips forward against Elliott’s own.
“Mmmmhnnngh, so good,” Elliott sighs, shuddering when he feels the cool metal in that warm tongue tracing his jugular vein. “Please, fuck me harder…”
Park groans into his shoulder, fucking into that perfect ass with a little more force. It’s taking a lot of effort to resist absolutely wrecking the gorgeous man beneath him. It’s also taking immense effort not to kiss him.
“Anything you want, beautiful,” Park growls, trailing kisses up Elliott’s throat and along his jaw as he picks up the pace, slamming into Elliott hard enough to leave bruises. “Anything.”
Elliott moans, bucking his hips with a needy little cry.
What Tae Joon wants is to capture those perfect lips with his own and find out if the dancer’s wicked little mouth tastes as good as the rest of him. But the man beneath him doesn’t want that, he knows. Still, only seconds later, there’s a brief moment where his lips hover centimeters from the dancer’s gasping mouth, breathing his air. Tae Joon manages to stop himself, but just barely. Even still, he can’t resist letting his tongue dart out to lick that pouty bottom lip before retreating.
“Sorry,” Park murmurs, feeling guilty...but not guilty enough to stop fucking that tight little ass. “Habit. I’m not used to...this kind of thing. And you’re very kissable, Elliott.”
It’s true. Elliott is very, very kissable.
“It’s, um-- ah! --it’s okay,” Elliott gasps out in a small little voice, suddenly sounding rather shy. “Oh!”
The lovely dancer has gone rather red in the face, and his bottom lip is pinched between his teeth. If he weren’t still jerking his hips up to meet every thrust of Park’s own, Tae Joon might have worried he’d overstepped, gone too far. But Elliott still seems to be enjoying himself, and it’s impossible for Park to keep his mouth off the hot little thing. He sinks his teeth into a bare shoulder to keep from being tempted to slip his tongue into that soft, sweet mouth instead.
The gorgeous dancer whimpers again when Tae Joon drags his thumb through the slickness leaking from the head of the man’s cock. Elliott’s thrusting up into his grip and beginning to shake a little with each jerk of his hips.
“Ah! Oh f-fuck-- ngh, you feel so good, Hyeon…”
Park groans. It’s not even his real name. It has absolutely no right to sound so fucking delicious coming out of Elliott’s mouth, but it does.
He’s trying to be gentle, but it’s difficult. The hungry, selfish, greedy monster inside him wants to come out and play. Keeping it restrained is a herculean task.
“Please!” the sweet thing beneath him sobs, bucking his hips with a frustrated little cry.
“What is it, aleumdaun geos?” Park asks, tracing a collarbone with the tip of his tongue.
“Harder!” the naughty little thing cries, actual tears leaking from the corner of one of his pretty brown eyes.
That’s what does it.
“Fuck,” Park hisses, no longer holding back as he fucks ruthlessly into the dancer’s tight channel. “Neoneun geugeos-eul yoguhaessda...”
You asked for it…
The beautiful dancer’s cock is starting to twitch in his grip. The man is digging his nails into Park’s shoulder blades, and the little bite of pain mixed with the blinding pleasure is nearly enough to end him right there. Elliott’s back is arched, eyes squeezed shut as he takes every inch of Tae Joon’s cock and still pleads for more.
“Ah!” the lovely thing cries out. “Fuck, just like that! Please!”
“Is this what you wanted, Elliott?” Park all but snarls, fucking into the gorgeous body beneath him with absolutely zero restraint. “When you were on that stage dancing for me, did you want me to fuck you? Did you want me to make you cum on my cock? Is that why you kept begging for my attention? Did you want me to leave this tight little ass gaping and leaking my seed?”
“YES!” the poor thing wails, tears streaming down his face as his cock throbs in Tae Joon’s synthetic grip. “Yes, I--oh god, oh please--”
“Oh, Elliott,” Tae Joon moans lewdly, picking up the pace. “Neol mangchyeo noheulgeoya, ssibal…”
I am going to ruin you, fuck…
“I’m so close, p-please,” Elliott begs, both hands now gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles have gone white. “Please, I--”
“What is it? ” Park gasps, growing close to the edge himself, now. “What do you need? Let me give it to you, jagi...”
Elliott whimpers, biting his lip and gazing up at Tae Joon with trepidation lurking in those beautiful doe eyes.
“Hmm?” Park purrs, burying his cock as deep as he can, abs clenching with every thrust.
“I-- ah! --I want--” the gorgeous man stops himself, whining as his eyes fall shut and he covers his face with his hands.
When he bares his face again, Park notices Elliott’s cheeks are rather red, but that might just be from having the daylights fucked out of him.
“What do you want, beautiful?” Tae Joon murmurs, pressing a kiss to the spot where the man’s neck meets his shoulder and reaching up to caress Elliott’s cheek, thumbing away the tears. “Anything you want. Tell me, and it’s yours.”
The gorgeous little creature whines again, cock twitching in Park’s fist when the hacker rocks his hips forward a little roughly.
“I want-- nnngh, I w-want you to kiss me!”
Tae Joon is sure his heart actually stops.
“But you said--”
“Please,” Elliott gasps, brows knotting like he’s going to fucking die if he can’t have it. “I know what I said, but I--I just--”
“Just what?” Park breathes.
“I just want you!” the lovely dancer finally cries out, turning even redder at his own confession. “I need it, I need you-- ah!”
”Nnnngh,” Park groans, sinking his cock in to the hilt. “Fuck yes you do.”
Without another word, Tae Joon leans down, bringing their lips together. Elliott whimpers softly. The gorgeous dancer’s mouth is just as sweet as he imagined, and the man’s cock is throbbing in his grip almost rhythmically now as he devours Elliott’s soft, warm mouth. Park moans into that beautiful mouth, slipping his tongue between the dancer’s soft lips and stroking the gorgeous man’s tongue with the metal ring pierced through his own. Then Elliott’s the one moaning -- sobbing, really -- and immediately cumming so hard it splatters up across Tae Joon’s stomach in addition to his own.
The perfect body wrapped around Park’s cock goes taut, tensing up and squeezing him deliciously. He growls, fucking the dancer through his orgasm as he chases his own. He can feel the dancer’s seed dripping off his stomach and onto Elliott’s, who has gone rather limp except for the occasional overstimulated aftershock. He whimpers softly when Tae Joon leans back on his knees, yanking Elliott’s hips up off the bed to meet his own. Park feels like an animal, teeth bared, snarling as he digs his claws into the dancer’s flesh and fucks into him with a sort of needy viciousness he’s never quite felt before.
Yes, yes, fuck--
“You’re so perfect,” he gasps out, clutching the beautiful man’s hips with enough force to leave bruises.
If Elliott minds, he certainly isn’t showing it. He hums, eyes closed, his expression more blissful than it’s been all evening, despite the violent fucking he’s curently enduring. He’s Perfect. Stunning. Absolutely beautiful. He knows it, too, but Park can’t stop telling him anyway.
“So gorgeous, so handsome, so-- ah!”
“Mnnngh, Hyeon,” the saucy little thing purrs, looking up at Park with mischief glimmering in those pretty brown eyes. “Are you gonna cum in me? Are you gonna make a mess in me, baby? Hmmm?”
Something about the curious, almost-innocent way he asks the question makes Park feel like his brain is short-circuiting. He looks so delicious, lying there with rosy cheeks and swollen lips, abs splattered with his own release, eyes wide, bottom lip pinched between his teeth. All for him, for Tae Joon. All because of him.
“Fuck yes,” Tae Joon snarls, fucking him harder. “I am going to ruin you, Elliott, I-- ah! --ohgodyes, ssibal, ye!”
He cums with a ragged cry, groaning when he hears a soft little whimper from beneath him as he fucks the beautiful dancer full of his seed. The pleasure is blinding, ripping through him like the Syndicate’s planet harvester recently ripped through Talos itself. He can feel Elliott tensing up around his girth, feel his seed leaking out of him before his cock has even finished pulsing.
“Ssibal…” he shudders, running his fingers through the mess splattered across Elliott’s stomach. The dancer lets out a soft little sigh, still trembling, eyes falling shut as he tries to catch his breath.
When enough blood has finally returned to Tae Joon’s upper hemisphere for his brain to start functioning, he manages to gasp out a breathless “thank you,” before leaning down to kiss that perfect mouth again.
They’re both covered in cum, warm and slick and slippery between them where their bellies are pressed together, but neither of them move. Elliott threads a hand through Tae Joon’s hair, slipping his tongue into the hacker’s panting mouth and shuddering when he feels the metal in the man’s tongue, remembering how it felt on his cock.
That was, hands down, the best sex I’ve ever had on the job. And possibly ever. Jesus tittyfucking Christ.
Would’ve been cool if I could have NOT broken my own rules though. Ugh. How embarrassing.
The kiss was one thing. The name, though? That was...something else.
Why the fuck did I tell him my name? WTF was that, Elliott?
Embarrassing though it is, Elliott finds he’s thoroughly enjoying the breathless kiss he’s been pulled into. That rule was worth breaking, if only just this once. He’s decided it’s a shame he has to breathe to stay alive.
When their lips finally part, they just stay there, staring at each other and panting like overheated prowlers after a good chase. Finally, Hyeon sighs, resting his forehead against Elliott’s sternum for a moment, then pressing a gentle kiss to the center of his chest and rolling off of him, collapsing on his back at Elliott’s side.
“You are...very, very good at what you do, Elliott,” Hyeon says after a few moments of comfortable silence.
Once his heart rate has returned to normal, Elliott rises from the bed and heads to the bathroom in search of a damp cloth. He comes back with two, flinging one at Hyeon, who snatches it out of the air with surprisingly-quick reflexes.
Once they’re both clean, Hyeon pulls his pants from the ground, beginning the task of re-dressing himself.
Elliott can’t hold it in anymore.
“Where you goin’?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound like he cares.
Hyeon looks at him for a moment, then shrugs. “I assumed you would wish to be left alone after...this.”
“Yeah, well, you paid for the whole night,” Elliott replies. “Three whole nights if you add in that obscene tip, Jesus.”
Hyeon just stares, but he’s smirking a little.
“Anyway I was just sayin’, I’m not kicking you out,” Elliott mutters, wishing he didn’t sound -- and feel -- so stupid.
Because it is stupid, wanting the man to stay with him. To spend the night. It’s wrong, too. This is not how these things are supposed to go. Elliott’s a professional. An actor. He’s always putting on the Mirage Show and all eyes are always on him. He doesn’t even have to look at any of the patrons -- holographic money starts to rain from the ceiling the moment he wraps his thighs around the pole. Finding a mark in a seedy little sin den like this one isn’t difficult, especially not for someone as handsome and charming as Elliott Witt.
There’s no shortage of men willing to part with a considerable amount of money in exchange for some really, really good acting. Elliott acts like the person they need him to be, they pay him for it, and then they go crawling back to whatever poor wife or husband they’ve left waiting for them at home. Or, more commonly, they go back to their job as Syndicate hitmen, smugglers, or whatever other undesirable profession they maintain. And that is exactly how it is supposed to go.
Elliott’s had clients ask to stay the night. He’s even let some (for a fee, of course) snuggle up to him and sleep the night away with him in his bed. Only the ones he trusts not to murder him in his sleep, of course, so it’s a pretty rare occurence. There’s a huge difference in the current situation, however, and it’s one that catches Elliott completely off-guard.
A single, strange thought floats gently through his mind:
I want you to stay
He’s never wanted anyone to stay. Most of his clients are monsters. Prior to this, there have been only a few who were at best not-ugly, with pleasant or humorous personalities. On the very rare occasion that one of them spent the night, it was sometimes Elliott’s idea, because he knew they’d say yes...and he needed the money (and, though he’d never admit it, he was terribly lonely).
But 99% of the clients that asked if they could stay were summarily rejected, because most of them were simply the kind of people one can only stand in small doses. Dirty, rude, not particularly easy on the eyes nor talented when it came to the sex itself -- the majority of the tricks Elliott turned left him feeling like he needed a shower. They rarely had good hygiene (he’d once forced one to shower -- at gunpoint -- before letting the man into his bed), good manners, nor were any of them particularly good company. They just wanted their cocks sucked (or, less commonly, their clits licked) and a warm body to touch, they just wanted any willing hole to take their seed. They cared little for his pleasure, and though they admired Elliott’s body, it was only ever in a greedy, almost gluttonous sort of way.
They wanted to use him, and that was fine. That was more than fine, that was the point. Elliott was using them just as much as they were using him. Symbiosis. The only difference was the currency Elliott paid with was his body, while his clients paid in AC.
But this--this ‘Hyeon’ guy was different, somehow. Polite and sort of...gentle in his demeanor. Pleasant to be around. Even more pleasant to look at. Painfully fucking pleasant to touch. Amazingly pleasant to fuck.
And he hadn’t even had to try. He’d just sat there a few meters away from the stage, drinking a beer as he watched Elliott spin and twirl and give him all the ‘come hither’ he could muster -- which was a lot -- but nothing worked. Elliott had started pulling off his body stocking in an attempt to improve the view, but the man looked away. He looked over at ‘Tavi, who was giving some freaky-ass Spectre a lapdance in a dark corner near the bar.
To be fair, it had been a pretty hot sight. But certainly not any hotter than the sight of Elliott himself, naked except for his bright yellow g-string and a pair of see-through stilettos with golden glitter, climbing to the top of the pole only to flip upside down and slowly spin to the ground with his arms and torso hanging free, his strong thighs locked around the pole, stretching that flawless body out as the little flecks of gold body glitter on his skin twinkled under the brightness of the spinning stage lights.
Hyeon had glanced back then, gaping a little at the gorgeous display before him. He quickly tore his eyes away, blushing, and Elliott grinned.
A shy one, huh? Oh, these are always the best.
Then he flung the bodystocking across the room, landing it right over the man’s head, obscuring his view. Pulling it off, the man looked at the garment in his hands for a moment, then lifted his eyes to meet Elliott’s. The mysterious customer sat there, clutching the bodystocking with his bottom lip pinched between his teeth as he gazed up at Elliott almost as if in awe of him. He looked nervous, though. Nervous, scared...but also a little eager. Maybe more than a little bit, if the thick outline of the man’s cock straining against his pants was any indication.
Manifesting another hologram to take his place, Elliott had hopped off the stage, slinking up to the table where the man he’d later come to know as Hyeon was sitting, watching him quietly. He was so fucking beautiful, it really wasn’t fair. All the strange mechanical alterations he’d had performed on his body only served to enhance his stunning beauty, and Elliott found he was almost more eager to get into the man’s pants than into his wallet. But the patron still hadn’t said a word, made a move, nothing. So Elliott decided it was time to introduce himself.
The excuse was that he needed to retrieve his body stocking, but the real reason Elliott approached his customer instead of letting the man come to him was that Elliott wanted him. He wanted to stake his claim before the gorgeous patron got an eyeful of Octane’s legs or that new girl’s...everything -- and decided to buy their company instead of Elliott’s.
So he turned on the charm and told himself it was just for the money, and only because it was nice to get paid to flirt with someone he actually enjoyed flirting with. It didn’t take long to talk the man into his first (ever, apparently) lap dance.
The poor kid was gripping the sides of the leather booth in the champagne room so hard his knuckles were turning white -- the ones not covered in greyish-black synthetic skin, anyway. Elliott snickered, pulling the man’s hands up and placing them on his hips. He’d climbed into the man’s lap while invisible, straddling him and grinding his own hips down against the mysterious customer’s quickly-stiffening cock, rutting against it to the pounding beat of the music blaring through the speakers.
“I bet I could make you cum right here, without even using my hands,” Elliott had purred, grinning at the frantic way the man nodded as a whine escaped his throat. “Just make you cum right in those tight little pants, hmm?”
“Y-you’re going to-- ngh! --if you’re n-not careful,” gasped his client, shuddering as he tried to stave off his orgasm.
“Mmmm, well, I just so happen to know of a few other places you could cum in,” Elliott growled in Hyeon’s ear. “Places that’ll be way more fun than in your pants.”
It had taken a few more lapdances (and a few more drinks), but they’d finally gone back to Elliott’s room and had mindblowing sex, and now, like a fool, Elliott was asking him to stay.
“I mean I usually kick ‘em out but you’re, y’know. Decently-fuckable and not an entirely unpleasant person to be around, also you’ve showered in the last 72 hours,” he rambles, stalling for time while he tries to formulate a sentence that isn’t ‘please spend the night with meeeee!’ “So, uh, I mean if--if you’re down to ch-chill--”
Mouth, can you please work right for a second?
“Elliott,” Hyeon calmly interrupts. “May I stay the night?”
Oh thank god.
“Y-yeah! Totally. I uh--yeah.”
There’s a brief moment of silence, each of them just staring at the other. Park is still shirtless but his pants are mostly on, just unbuckled. Elliott hasn’t yet bothered with clothes. He takes a step towards Tae Joon
“I--only want to stay if you want me to, Elliott,” Park stammers awkwardly. “I’ll pay. I don’t want to--to impose, or--”
“God, shut up,” Elliott growls, closing the distance between them and bringing their mouths together.
Hyeon moans into the kiss, letting go of his belt buckle to pull Elliott closer. Elliott can feel the man’s cock stiffening through his pants and underwear already, and Elliott’s own anatomy isn’t far behind. The holographic stripper gently sinks his teeth into one of those puffy bottom lips, eliciting a delightful, needy little sound from Hyeon. Elliott swallows it down before it can truly escape Hyeon's mouth, and the man groans, hands drifting to Elliott's bare hips and pulling them against his own. Elliott's hands travel up the man's spine, lightly tracing the dragon tattoo that covers his entire back. Hyeon moans, then threads the fingers of one hand through Elliott's curly hair to hold him in place as he gently tugs the dancer's bottom lip between his teeth, stroking it with his tongue. Elliott growls, slipping his tongue between those perfect pink lips and devouring Hyeon's sweet, yielding mouth.
It's a kiss like Elliott has never experienced before. It's different from the rough, greedy kisses they've shared previously, and it's different from the kind he used to get from patrons that were desperate to use him like a glorified blow-up doll...hence the origin of the "no kissing rule." But this kiss? This kiss is something else. It's passionate, desperate, pleading, and the fucking sounds coming out of Hyeon as Elliott licks into his mouth are absolutely obscene and utterly delicious. Hyeon whimpers as their tongues duel, before finally gaining access to Elliott's mouth and fucking plundering it. Suddenly, Elliott's the one whimpering.
When they finally pull back for air, they’re both panting.
Why is he such a good kisser? Ugh, this is so unfair.
"Please, I-" Hyeon gasps, trying to collect himself. "If you're tired, I c-can just go..."
For how wild (and filthy-mouthed) he is in bed, Hyeon sure is shy the rest of the time, blushing and stammering, like he's embarrassed by his own desires. If Elliott hadn't already been fucked by him, he might've assumed the guy was a virgin. There's just something different about him, different from the patrons Elliott's used to. He's sweet, that's what it is. Sweet and gentle, generous and kind -- four things that have absolutely no place in the hellhole Elliott calls home. Really, he should kick Hyeon out, if only for his own good. The last thing this poor guy deserves it to get tangled up in some trouble with the Syndicate. Yes, Elliott should definitely send him home. Really, he should...
But he doesn't want to send him home. What Elliott wants, in fact, is to bend the lovely creature over his bed and see if he can get the man shaking and moaning and pleading as pathetically as Elliott had been mere minutes ago. It's only fair to return the favor, after all. And he did pay way more than necessary for the night's services. He should get his money's worth.
You know what? Fuck it.
“Take those stupid things off,” Ellott growls, gesturing to Hyeon’s pants. “And get the fuck back in my bed.”
Smirking, Hyeon says two words that go straight to Elliott's cock.