Chapter Text
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There was a particular kind of relief that came from finishing the form—not satisfaction, not quite, but something adjacent to it, like loosening a collar that had been sitting too tightly at the throat. Suo Wei exhaled as he slid the paper across the desk, the motion smooth, practiced, almost automatic.
It was not his first time in a place like this. Over the past few weeks, he had drifted from club to club with the quiet persistence of someone searching for something he could not properly define, gathering experiences the way others collected receipts—proof that he had tried, proof that he had been there, proof that none of it had been enough.
The doms had not been lacking. If anything, they had been competent to a fault—attentive, careful, almost studiously respectful of his limits, as though they were following a manual rather than responding to a person. They listened, they executed, they checked in afterward with the same reassuring cadence, leaving him intact, unhurt, and—most damning of all—unchanged.
And still something was missing. Not absent in a way he could point to, not a flaw he could circle in red ink, but a quiet lack that lingered beneath everything, like a note just slightly off-key.
The form in front of him had been exhaustive, as they always were—personal details, preferences, boundaries mapped out with clinical precision, soft limits, hard limits, contingencies for everything that could be anticipated.
And then, at the very end—
Things you want to try.
He had hesitated.
Not because he lacked ideas, but because none of them felt quite right.
In the end, he had written only three words.
To be shared.
It looked almost insignificant on the page. And yet the moment he wrote it, something in his chest had shifted, subtle but undeniable, like a lock turning somewhere deep inside him.
Maybe that was it. Maybe that had always been it.
Because every dom before this had wanted the same thing in different variations: ownership, exclusivity, control refined into something neat and singular. They wanted to keep him, define him, reduce him into something that belonged solely to them.
At first, he had liked it. Liked the intensity of it, the way their attention narrowed until it excluded everything else, until the world reduced itself to the space between their hands and his body. There was something intoxicating in being the center of someone’s focus, in being seen so completely.
But over time it became suffocating—too much control, too much expectation, too much insistence on perfection, on obedience that left no room for deviation, no room for friction.
Wu Suo Wei was not made for that. He was a brat in the quietest, most deliberate sense of the word—undisciplined not because he lacked control, but because he enjoyed testing it. He liked to push, to provoke, to see how far a boundary could stretch before it snapped back with enough force to leave an impression.
Pain, to him, was not punishment but punctuation—sharp as the bite of fingernails into his palms, clarifying as the first gasp of winter air, grounding as the weight of a hand on the nape of his neck. But like all punctuation, it only served to frame the spaces between, those trembling moments of anticipation that truly held meaning.
He had always drawn the line clearly.
Do not truly hurt me.
It was the only rule that mattered, everything else was negotiable.
Maybe today would be different.
With that thought, he shrugged off the long cloak that had concealed him. Beneath it, a white lace blouse clung to his frame, sheer enough to reveal more than was strictly allowed, paired with shorts—if they could even be called that—barely qualified as coverage at all. High white socks hugged his calves, disappearing into pristine sneakers that looked almost absurdly innocent in a place like this.
He liked the contradiction—the way the color suggested purity while everything else about him quietly refuted it. He liked the way people looked at him, trying to reconcile what they saw with what they felt—untouched, innocent, and completely, unmistakably not. Compared to the others, he was almost modest.
Around him, bodies were displayed openly, unapologetically—subs arching, stretching, presenting themselves in ways that blurred the line between invitation and offering. Skin gleamed under low lighting, movements calculated to draw attention from the unseen watchers who lingered in the shadows.
No one here felt shame, there was no room for it. This was a place built on the absence of judgment, where desire existed without apology, stripped of the polite disguises it wore in the outside world.
Outside, Suo Wei was careful—with his words, his posture, the version of himself he allowed others to see. He had spent years refining that image, sanding down the edges that did not fit, learning how to pass unnoticed. But here, he could let it go.
He had known for a long time that he was not normal, that what he wanted existed slightly outside the boundaries of what people considered acceptable. It unsettled them, that difference. Made them uneasy in ways they could not articulate.
They feared what they could not understand, and that fear had driven him here—first to a screen glowing in the dark, then to conversations he had not meant to have, and finally to places like this, where what had once felt isolating became something shared, not entirely wrong, just different.
He stepped into the room reserved for unclaimed subs with a steadier posture than before, spine straightening as his awareness sharpened.
The space was crowded. Bodies in various stages of undress filled it, some already positioned for attention, others hovering at the edges, waiting to be seen. Every movement felt intentional, every glance calculated, every breath carrying a quiet undercurrent of expectation. All of this just to be noticed.
Suo Wei's eyes drifted across the room with purpose, each sweep more focused than the last, filtering the crowd like a sieve.
He knew what he liked.
Men who did not need to assert their strength for it to be felt—whose bodies carried weight and certainty even in stillness, whose hands suggested control without haste. He liked the inevitability of them, the way resistance felt less like defiance and more like delay. Stronger—not in force alone, but in restraint.
He wanted to be held in place with intention, not rushed, not carelessly overwhelmed, but measured—contained within something that understood exactly how much pressure to apply and when to release it. He wanted to struggle and know it would change nothing. To push and feel that push absorbed, redirected, returned with greater precision. To be outmatched not by accident, but by design until his body learned what his mind had already begun to accept—that giving in was not defeat.
And that—more than anything else—was what he had come here to find.
“Da Bao.”
There was something unsettling about hearing his name spoken like that—not loudly, not sharply, but with a kind of quiet certainty that suggested it had always belonged on that man’s tongue.
Suo Wei froze. It was too soon. He had only just handed in the form, the ink barely dry where he had written that name in the margin as something softer, something chosen rather than given. There was no reasonable way anyone should have read it already—no reason that voice should know how to call him.
A shiver slipped down his spine, as if his body had recognized something before his mind could catch up.
What the fuck…
This hadn’t been the plan. He had come here intending to linger at the edges, to watch and absorb, to ease himself into the atmosphere the way one might enter cold water—gradually, carefully, with enough distance to retreat if necessary. He had imagined himself seated somewhere unobtrusive, observing others, maybe exchanging quiet conversations with fellow subs, collecting impressions before offering anything of himself.
Instead, he stood rooted in place. His pulse climbed steadily, each beat sharper than the last, tension coiling low and tight as anticipation bled into something far more electric. The idea of turning around—of meeting whoever stood behind him—felt suddenly enormous, weighted with consequence in a way he couldn’t explain.
As if sensing that hesitation, the voice came again.
“Turn around.”
It wasn’t forceful, it wasn’t even loud; if anything, it was almost gentle—devoid of urgency, stripped of theatrics, and yet Suo Wei reacted as though refusal had never been an option.
No, that wasn’t it.
He drew in a sharp breath, something in his chest tightening with sudden clarity.
He didn’t feel compelled—he felt willing, and more than that, he wanted to obey.
The realization struck harder than any command could have.
There was something in that voice—something measured, controlled, entirely certain of itself—that slipped beneath his defenses without resistance, bypassing thought entirely and settling somewhere deeper, somewhere instinctive.
He wanted that voice to tell him what to do. Wanted it to strip him of decision, to reduce him to reaction, to take hold of him and shape him into something simpler, something defined entirely by another’s will.
His breath trembled.
Slowly, carefully, he turned, but he did not look up—his gaze remained lowered, fixed somewhere near the floor, as though delaying the inevitable might grant him a moment longer to gather himself, because if the voice alone could unravel him like this, he wasn’t sure he was ready to face the eyes behind it. He had never reacted like this before, not so quickly, not so completely.
Usually, this was where his bratty instincts would surface. He would test, tease, poke at the edges just to see how much patience a potential partner had, how far he could go before being pushed back.
It was instinct, a habit, a quiet form of control disguised as disobedience. Now that instinct faltered, because something in the tone of that voice—something beneath the surface of it—warned him against it, not with threat, not with force, but with the kind of certainty that did not need to prove itself.
So he stood there, head bowed, acutely aware of the silence stretching between them, each second lengthening into something tangible, something heavy enough to press against his skin.
A shift in the air, subtle, but unmistakable.
He didn’t need to look to know the man had moved closer. He felt it—the way space adjusted around presence, the way awareness narrowed until everything else receded into irrelevance. It was as if the room itself had been quietly erased, leaving behind only this moment, this proximity, this quiet, consuming attention.
He was being watched, studied, measured, without a single touch.
“Good.”
The word was spoken low, close enough that it seemed to settle directly against his skin rather than travel through the air.
Suo Wei’s fingers twitched at his sides.
He hated—hated—how easily that approval took root, how quickly his body responded, heat blooming low and sharp before his mind could even process it. It felt intrusive, unfair, and deeply, undeniably wanted.
“You wrote that you like to test limits,” the man continued, his tone conversational, almost detached, as though discussing something already understood. “That you don’t listen well.”
Suo Wei’s breath faltered.
The paper.
He was being read—unfolded piece by piece, interpreted with unsettling accuracy from a handful of written lines.
“And yet,” the voice went on, quieter now, “you’re standing very still.”
Suo Wei swallowed.
“You didn’t tell me to move,” he said, his voice softer than he intended.
A brief pause followed.
Then—something like amusement, faint but unmistakable.
“No,” the man agreed. “I didn’t.”
Another step closer.
Close enough now that Suo Wei could feel warmth at his back, the undeniable presence of someone who did not need contact to assert control.
“But you’re listening anyway.”
His knees weakened.
In that moment it struck him—this man had no intention of breaking him quickly, there would be no rush, no force, no spectacle, only a slow, deliberate unraveling, and the realization sent something both cold and burning through Suo Wei all at once.
A soft chuckle followed, threaded with something darker beneath it.
“What’s wrong, kitten?” the man asked. “Where’s that bravado you wrote so proudly about?”
Irritation sparked instinctively, but it remained contained, swallowed before it could surface. The urge to snap back flickered, brief and tempting, the brat in him stirring restlessly.
But he held it back—not here, not like this.
“Answer me,” the man said, voice lowering. Then, more firmly: “And look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Suo Wei obeyed before the decision had fully formed, startled by how immediate and natural it felt, because this was not submission forced upon him, but something he was choosing.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze, and his breath caught.
The man before him was nothing like he had imagined—and far worse for it, beautiful in a way that felt dangerous rather than inviting. The kind of beauty that belonged to a carnivore—silent, patient, aware of its own lethality. The kind that didn’t need to chase, because prey would wander closer all on its own.
His features were cut with an almost ruthless clarity, cheekbones high and unforgiving, his expression controlled to the point of severity. But it was his eyes that held Suo Wei in place—dark, depthless, reflecting nothing while seeing everything. And his mouth—just barely curved, not quite a smile, but enough to suggest something waiting beneath the surface.
Suo Wei felt it then, with a clarity that left him lightheaded—he was already caught. And worse—he hadn’t even realized when it happened. Worse still—he didn’t want to leave.
Something in him leaned forward instead, drawn in by that gaze, by the quiet gravity of it, by the sense that resisting would only delay something inevitable.
“That’s right, kitten,” the man murmured, satisfaction threading softly through his voice. “Now you understand without me having to explain it.”
A hand lifted—hovering, not touching, but close enough to feel unavoidable.
“Something tells me you might be the one for—”
He let the sentence fall unfinished.
The silence that followed felt sharper than any completed thought.
By then, the room had disappeared entirely. The bodies, the noise, the quiet scrutiny from the shadows—all of it faded into something distant and irrelevant, leaving behind only the man in front of him, only the quiet pull tightening steadily around Suo Wei’s awareness.
“Follow me, kitten,” he said, already turning away. “And don’t get lost. It would be a great pity.”
Suo Wei followed, like Alice stepping after the Hatter, knowing full well that the path led somewhere strange, somewhere dangerous—and wanting it anyway.
The tall man—Suo Wei only now realizing just how tall—towered over everyone in the room. It wasn’t just height. It was the way people reacted to it.
As he moved forward, the crowd parted almost instinctively. Conversations faltered, bodies shifted aside. Some doms watched him with guarded expressions, measuring rather than challenging. Many of the subs dropped their gazes immediately, shoulders curling inward, as if shrinking could make them invisible. A few didn’t even try to hide their fear.
Suo Wei noticed it in the way their breaths hitched, in the way they pressed themselves closer to walls or pillars to avoid crossing his path. It was as though everyone here understood something Suo Wei didn’t—not consciously, perhaps, but on a visceral level.
This man was not to be crossed.
And yet Suo Wei followed him.
He felt the looks then—sharp as needles, curious as probing fingers, uneasy as the flutter of moths against his skin. Subs watched him from the corners of their eyes, their expressions a mix of disbelief and something close to pity. Some stared as though trying to understand how he’d caught this man’s attention. Others looked at him like he was walking willingly into the jaws of something that would not let go once it closed.
Why him?
Does he know what he’s doing?
Suo Wei’s skin prickled under their scrutiny. He became acutely aware of how small he must look beside the man ahead of him, how exposed. Like prey trailing obediently after its hunter, step for step, never once attempting to flee.
The realization sent a tremor through him—not fear alone, but something darker. A thrill that curled low in his stomach.
The man never once glanced back to check if Suo Wei was still there. Each step carried absolute confidence, the kind born from certainty rather than arrogance. He knew he was being followed. He expected it. And Suo Wei, caught in the wake of that certainty, found himself unable to imagine doing anything else.
Somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice whispered that he should stop. That this was dangerous, different from anything he’d experienced before. But Suo Wei ignored it. After all—he had come here looking for something he couldn’t name.
The man led him deeper, away from the main hall and into a network of narrow, dim corridors. The lighting here was sparse, casting everything in shadows that clung too tightly to the walls, as if the darkness itself were listening.
Doors lined both sides. Most of them were closed—but they were far from silent. Sounds leaked through the thick wood in fragments: broken gasps, choked noises that might have been pleasure or pain, low voices murmuring commands too soft to distinguish yet unmistakably authoritative. Somewhere nearby, something heavy struck a surface—once, twice—followed by a sharp inhale that made Suo Wei’s stomach tighten.
His steps faltered for just a fraction of a second. The air felt different here—thicker, warmer, heavy with sweat and anticipation. Whatever was happening behind those doors was raw, unfiltered, stripped of pretense. These weren’t performances meant to be seen. They were indulgences meant to be felt. Too much, some of it. Too extreme.
Suo Wei’s pulse quickened despite himself. His body reacted before his mind could catch up—heat blooming low in his belly, his skin tingling with a mix of curiosity and unease. He knew, instinctively, that some of what unfolded in these rooms was far beyond what he was ready to endure. Things that required absolute trust, absolute surrender. Things that erased the line between pleasure and something darker.
He was still learning where his limits truly lay, what made him ache in the right way and what made him recoil. There were desires he embraced eagerly—and others he watched from a distance, knowing he wasn’t ready to step closer, not yet, maybe not ever.
Ahead of him, the man didn’t slow. He walked these corridors like they belonged to him, like the sounds behind the doors were nothing more than echoes of familiar rituals. His confidence was unsettling—suggesting experience, authority, and a comfort with excess that made Suo Wei’s throat go dry.
When the man stopped suddenly, Suo Wei nearly collided with his back, forced to halt just short of contact.
The silence between them stretched—broken only by the muffled sounds seeping through the walls.
Then, without turning around, the man spoke quietly: “Still following, kitten?”
Suo Wei swallowed, heart pounding. “Yes.”
And this time, there was no hesitation at all.
“Good,” the man hummed, the sound low and pleased, as if Suo Wei had passed some unseen test.
Suo Wei became aware of their surroundings then. They had stopped in front of one of many identical doors lining the corridor—dark wood, unmarked, unassuming. But unlike the others, this one was utterly silent. No muffled sounds, no voices bleeding through the cracks. Nothing.
The absence of noise unsettled him more than the moans and gasps they had passed earlier. Silence left too much room for imagination, too many possibilities.
The man reached past him and pushed the door open. The sound was soft, almost polite—but in Suo Wei’s ears it rang out far too loud, like the echo of a starting gun. His pulse jumped, blood roaring as if his body already knew what was coming, even if his mind didn’t.
“Inside,” the man said, calmly. He gestured for Suo Wei to enter first.
Suo Wei hesitated—just a second. Long enough to feel the weight of the moment settle onto his shoulders, long enough to recognize that once he crossed this threshold, there would be no pretending this was casual, no easy retreat back into observation.
Anticipation coiled low in his stomach, tight and insistent. Then he stepped forward.
The room swallowed him whole, the door closing behind with a muted click that sounded far too final. The air inside was cooler, cleaner, stripped of the heavy scents of the corridor. Dim lighting revealed little at first—only shapes, shadows, the sense of space designed to focus attention inward.
Suo Wei stood very still. He could feel the man behind him now, close enough that the space between them felt charged, compressed like the air before a summer storm. The heat of the other's body radiated against his back, a phantom touch that traced his spine without contact. The deliberate restraint of it made his skin buzz with anticipation, tiny electric currents dancing across his nape where warm breath ghosted against sensitive skin.
“You came willingly,” the man said softly, almost thoughtfully. “Remember that.”
Suo Wei’s throat felt tight as he nodded. “Yes.”
Another pause.
“Good,” the man repeated. “Then we’ll begin properly.”
The words settled over Suo Wei like a promise—and a warning—as the room seemed to hold its breath with him.
“Chi Cheng,” the man said casually into the dimness, “look what I found.”
A pause.
“Or rather—who.”
Suo Wei stiffened, having sensed no one else in the room, and the realization sent his heart racing as unease slipped quietly beneath his anticipation. What did I just walk into?
Then someone moved. A figure stepped out of the shadows, and Suo Wei nearly wrenched his neck in disbelief—his gaze snapping from the man who had led him here to the one now revealed, and back again. His eyes widened, lips parting soundlessly.
They were identical. At least ten centimeters taller than him, both of them. Cheekbones that could slice paper. When they moved they did it with the same unhurried precision of cats stalking prey. Twins, obviously—but still, the coincidence struck him like a blow. He’d come to this bar to escape, not to be cornered. Yet here he stood, trapped between two bodies that mirrored each other perfectly, like some cosmic joke at his expense.
“Our lost kitten,” the second man murmured, his voice even deeper, darker than his brother’s.
Suo Wei shivered despite himself.
“Thank you, Chi Yan.”
So that was it.
Two of them—Chi Cheng and Chi Yan.
Chi Cheng lit a cigarette without taking his eyes off Suo Wei, the brief flare of the flame illuminating his features as he lowered himself into an armchair that resembled a throne more than ordinary furniture. At first, he crossed his legs—then, as if reconsidering, spread them apart, reclaiming the space.
“Come closer,” he said, curling his fingers in a lazy beckon. The meaning was unmistakable.
Suo Wei hesitated just a fraction too long. Chi Cheng's left eyebrow twitched once, the corner of his mouth tightening for just a heartbeat before his expression smoothed like water.
“Do I need to repeat myself?”
No.
Suo Wei definitely didn’t want that.
He stepped forward, heart lodged in his throat, until he stood between Chi Cheng’s knees, painfully aware of his own position, of how small he must look from this angle.
Chi Cheng said nothing at first, simply studying him slowly and thoroughly, his gaze stripping away Suo Wei’s composure layer by layer. It was more unnerving than any sharp command.
Then, quietly, almost gently, Chi Cheng spoke.
“Will you allow me to touch you?”
Suo Wei blinked. The question caught him completely off guard. Every dom he’d been with before had simply taken what they wanted, assuming permission where it hadn’t been explicitly denied. It had always been consensual—he hadn’t minded—but this was different, because this time someone was asking, openly and intentionally.
Suo Wei swallowed, his pulse loud enough that he was certain they could hear it.
The question lingered in the air like smoke, Chi Cheng’s mouth still slightly parted after the final syllable, his eyes never leaving Suo Wei's face.
“Yes,” he said finally. His voice came out softer than he intended, but it didn’t waver. “You can.”
Chi Cheng’s eyes darkened, something unreadable shifting behind them. He didn’t move right away. Instead, he took another slow drag from his cigarette, smoke curling lazily from his lips as if he were giving Suo Wei time to reconsider—to pull back, to change his mind.
He didn’t.
Only then did Chi Cheng lift a hand—not reaching for him yet, just enough movement to make Suo Wei’s awareness narrow, his body bracing for something that hadn’t happened.
“You answered,” Chi Cheng said quietly. “That’s important.”
Behind him, Chi Yan chuckled under his breath. “Most don’t wait to be asked.”
Chi Cheng’s fingers finally made contact—lightly, almost deceptively so—brushing beneath Suo Wei’s chin, tipping his face down just enough to force eye contact. The touch wasn’t possessive or rough—it was precise.
Suo Wei’s breath hitched anyway.
“Look at you,” Chi Cheng murmured, studying him openly now. “You walked in thinking you were choosing a dom.”
His thumb lingered for a brief second longer, then withdrew, leaving the absence of touch sharper than the contact had been.
“What you did instead,” he continued, “was put yourself in a position to be chosen.”
Heat pooled low in Suo Wei’s stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or something far worse—and far better.
Chi Yan pushed off the wall, circling them slowly, his gaze assessing in a way that made Suo Wei feel exposed from every angle. “You wrote you like to provoke,” he said casually. “But you haven’t tried once.”
Suo Wei swallowed. “I—”
“Careful,” Chi Cheng interrupted softly—not unkindly, but just enough to stop him. “You’re doing very well by listening.”
That approval landed harder than any sharp word could have.
Chi Cheng leaned back into the chair again, reclaiming space, spreading his legs with unhurried confidence. “Tell me something, kitten,” he said. “Are you nervous because there are two of us… or because you don’t know which one you want to disobey first?”
Suo Wei’s face warmed instantly.
Chi Yan laughed outright this time. “I like him.”
Chi Cheng’s gaze never left Suo Wei. “So do I.”
The silence that followed was tick, stretching just long enough to settle into something tangible.
Then Chi Cheng spoke again, voice low and certain. “Kneel.”
Not a command barked for obedience.
An invitation weighted with expectation.
Suo Wei hesitated only long enough to feel the choice settle into his bones.
He sank to his knees in the space they had left for him, pulse hammering against his throat, skin prickling under the weight of their twin gazes—cataloging his every movement, assessing his worth, determining his fate.
Above him, Chi Cheng exhaled slowly. “Good.”
But Suo Wei couldn’t stay still, lasting maybe a minute—two at most—before restlessness crept in, his weight shifting subtly from knee to knee, fingers curling and uncurling against his thighs as his breath grew just a little too fast.
Chi Cheng noticed everything, observing in silence as his eyes tracked every small movement and unconscious reaction, cataloguing them with unnerving precision. Knowing he was being watched so closely only made Suo Wei more aware of his own body, more nervous, more exposed.
Somewhere nearby, Chi Yan let out a quiet, mocking chuckle. “Someone’s really not good at being an obedient little kitten.”
No—Suo Wei wanted to be good. He wanted to listen, to follow every instruction properly. But his body betrayed him. He wasn’t used to being told to hold still for this long, to sit in the tension without release.
“I can be good,” he blurted out, the words tumbling free before he could stop them. “I promise.”
He didn’t know why the need to prove himself felt so urgent—only that it did.
Chi Cheng tilted his head slightly, assessing, calculating. His gaze softened just a fraction, as if he’d reached some internal conclusion. “Perhaps what you need requires… gentler methods.”
His tone remained calm, but the decision was already made.
“Come closer,” he added. “Put your head on my thigh.”
Suo Wei blinked.
What?
But Chi Cheng was already waiting, patient and unmoving, and Suo Wei understood then that this, too, was a choice—not forced, but offered—and he chose to obey.
Shuffling closer on his knees, he slowly lowered his head, resting it against Chi Cheng’s thigh. He didn’t break eye contact as he did, silently asking Is this right? Am I doing it correctly?
Chi Cheng hummed in approval and the sound alone made Suo Wei’s heart flutter.
Fingers threaded through his hair, a gentle rhythm that asked nothing of him. The touch wasn't demanding or harsh—just present, an anchor in the moment—and Suo Wei felt the knot in his chest loosen as his mind began to drift, sharp edges softening into haze.
His eyelids grew heavy as the tension bled from his body and his breathing slowed, each inhale deeper than the last, until it felt like floating—like being held just beneath the surface of awareness.
“Chi Cheng,” Chi Yan said quietly, concern threading into his voice. “I think he’s—”
“I know what I’m doing,” Chi Cheng replied calmly.
Suo Wei heard their voices as if through water—muted, distant, distorted, the syllables blurring like ink in rain. The room swam around him, its edges softening into watercolor boundaries, the furniture seeming to hover just above the floor. His limbs felt weightless, disconnected from his will.
“He’s slipping into subspace,” Chi Yan warned softly.
Chi Cheng’s hand never stopped moving. If anything, the strokes grew more deliberate, anchoring Suo Wei in sensation rather than thought. His other hand came to rest lightly at Suo Wei’s jaw, thumb brushing against his lips—not demanding, just present. Then he pushed it into his mouth.
“Suck,” Chi Cheng said quietly.
Suo Wei obeyed without realizing he’d made the decision. His body responded first, settling more fully, pressing closer as if seeking stability.
“That’s it,” Chi Cheng murmured. “Stay right there.”
The words sank deep, settling somewhere warm and heavy inside him.
“You’re not actually a brat, Da Bao,” Chi Cheng continued, voice low and steady. “You just never had someone who knew how to hold you still.”
Suo Wei shifted instinctively, pressing a little closer, his mind too soft now to argue. He sucked more eagerly on Chi Cheng’s finger.
“And this,” Chi Cheng finished, fingers tightening ever so slightly in his hair, “is where you belong.”
Silence was enough—his body had already confessed everything.