[ He manages to scoff, despite his growing breathlessness, the repeated rutting motion against Irving's own hips largely falling to thoughtlessness, like breathing, blinking, the rapid contractions of his heart. ]

Of course you're not. You're— A sailor. No combat training. Unarmed.

[ And vulnerable. So vulnerable and fragile beneath him, able to be snuffed out in an instant if he wants to. Irving knows that, has surrendered his safety to a man he knows has killed before. Hell, he couldn't even get up right now if he wanted to—he's not strong enough to push back against the amount of partial force Cheol-gang is exerting to keep his shoulders against the carpet. Even if he wasn't handcuffed.

It's an incredibly erotic line of thought, and a dangerous one, if he wants to last much longer. Irving doesn't like actually coming, or at least seems to find more bizarre gratification from not finishing, but he likes him enough to at least give him a 'run for his money', to quote one of at least one hundred idioms he's learned over the past week. ]

You wouldn't be— able to kill me. Men like you don't kill. You'd be in the army if you could kill. [ A shuddering breath; an unplanned admission: ] I prefer that. Seeing you like this. Knowing that you're— different— from some worthless grunt. You think.