Chapter Text
Chihen had always remembered why Shuaibo had brought him home that day.
Because his face was pretty.
He was only seven years old then. His parents had died early, or perhaps had abandoned him the moment he was born, leaving him with nothing but a surname so vague it barely registered on the tongue. Either way, ever since Chihen could remember, the only places that had left an impression on him were the poorly constructed orphanage on the outskirts of the city, the auditorium, and the murky, almost rotten puddles outside. Nothing more.
In fact, when Shuaibo followed his father into the orphanage hall, Chihen had just finished being severely beaten. Before he could even wash his face, he was dragged into the auditorium and lined up in two rows to be chosen. He wasn’t particularly tall, so he stood quietly at the end of the line, half his face covered in nosebleed, his shirt stained crimson and stiffened by the cold wind.
That was why he’d been beaten—because he was too quiet, too cold, too obedient. Most of the other kids in the orphanage thought he was mute, and he accepted the label without protest, rarely uttering a sound unless absolutely necessary. Even when he was being hit, he remained silent. His forehead slammed against the sticky bathroom tiles, his back covered in wounds, but he never made a noise. Before the beating, during it, and after—it was all the same.
There were too many children in the orphanage, and Chihen was just another insignificant face. Even as his scars piled up, no one spared him a second glance. So he lowered his eyes and picked at the frayed edge of his old shirt—the blood on his face was disgusting, and he didn’t want the potential adopters to see it.
Then Shuaibo stood in front of him, staring at him as if appraising something.
“Wipe your face clean.”
Chihen obeyed. There was nothing handy to use, so he lifted the hem of his shirt and slowly wiped away the blood.
He had his reasons for doing this—his abdomen was covered with too many wounds from abuse, and he knew that these so-called virtuous adopters, in order to maintain their image of compassion, would probably take him home out of a non-existent sense of mercy. He’d been there for too long—seven years—and the children around him had come and gone. He’d learned a few tricks, none of them particularly noble.
But Shuaibo didn’t seem to care about any of that. He just stared at Chihen’s cleaned face.
Chihen couldn’t describe the feeling. After all, he was only seven, and Shuaibo was only eleven. In terms of maturity, he might not even have been Chihen’s equal. He couldn’t guess what the other boy was thinking.
He only felt an inexplicable burning on his skin—the kind of measuring gaze he hated.
Then Shuaibo tossed out a sentence as if it meant nothing: “I want him.”
His father spoke up: “Why?”
“His face is pretty.” With that,Shuaibo turned and walked away, not even bothering to spare Chihen another look.
Chihen’s hand froze. The blood on the fabric seeped into his skin, leaving a faint chill. For the first time, he realized that besides being obedient, he had another trait that could deceive others.
The director tried to dissuade the young master: “...He has a bad temperament. He doesn’t talk much, almost like a mute.”
“I don’t care.”Shuaibo slumped onto the sofa, frowned, and closed his eyes.
“He’ll be hard to integrate into a family. He’s been returned by many adopters.”
This time,Shuaibo didn’t even bother to respond.
“He…” The director hesitated, then forced the words out: “He’s a Fork.”
Shuaibo finally reacted. That appraising gaze returned, though this time it was directed at the director.
Fork. Predator. A synonym for violence. The latest mutated species of human. Compared to ordinary people, they possessed extreme aggression. Although they made up only a small percentage of the population, they were still under strict government control. The orphanage had hidden Chihen’s identity to protect its reputation, but with the Zhang family’s power, he didn’t dare to take the risk—if Chihen suddenly attacked Shuaibo after being adopted, the orphanage couldn’t bear the responsibility.
Every family that found out Chihen was a Fork had returned him immediately. Although he didn’t have the typical Fork aura, and had spent seven years behaving with perfect obedience, he was still a child. The genetic test didn’t lie, and after seven, anything could happen.
This time, even his father tried to persuade him: “Chunxiao, pick another child.”
The reason was simple—Shuaibo was a Cake.
The prey. The weaker party. A being physiologically suppressed by Forks.
This was a secret known only to the Zhang family, and it was also the reason why his father wanted to adopt a child. He needed someone to protect Shuaibo.
Forks, while gaining extraordinary abilities, also lost something essential—their sense of smell and taste. Everything Chihen had eaten in seven years tasted like nothing. But Cakes were the only ones who could awaken a Fork’s sense of taste. Whether it was saliva, tears, blood, or any part of the body, to a Fork, it was a necessity to satisfy their hunger.
Hunger. Yes, what Forks felt for Cakes was a physiological instinct. That was why Forks were strictly controlled—they would follow their primal desires and feed on humans, and this was something no personal will could resist.
Shuaibo’s mother had been a Cake. And his father, a normal human, had spent most of his life keeping his wife out of the hands of Forks. The poor woman had died young, haunted by fear of her identity. And his father would never allow Shuaibo, who carried his mother’s genes in his veins, to live under the same roof as an adopted Fork.
Shuaibo bit his thumb habitually. At eleven, he was still full of teenage immaturity and arrogance.
But he was right about one thing: “It’s fine. He wouldn’t dare bite me.”
So Chihen was brought before Shuaibo again, this time on his knees. He still hadn’t changed out of that bloodstained old shirt.
“Open your mouth.”Shuaibo’s voice was cold.
Chihen was still in the middle of losing his baby teeth. His teeth were loose, completely incapable of piercing Shuaibo’s skin to extract sustenance.Shuaibo put on gloves, sat on the sofa, grabbed his face, and pressed his thumb against his back teeth, forcing Chihen to keep his mouth open.
Chihen didn’t bite down. Even though his cheeks ached, and saliva dripped down his jaw, pooling in Shuaibo’s disposable glove, he showed no inclination to bite. He just knelt there obediently.
Shuaibo was satisfied. He pulled his hand out, then stuffed the wet glove into Chihen’s mouth. He signaled to the bodyguards to take the boy away. Soon after, they dragged him back—Shuaibo watched as he opened his mouth again. His two upper canine teeth were gone, and his mouth was filled with blood.
It was a warning. Chihen understood. If Shuaibo had the power to pull out his teeth, he certainly had the power to sew his mouth shut, or even destroy his life.
But he would never dream of disobeying Shuaibo. He was a good child, had been since birth. The only thing he’d ever learned was to obey.
So the adoption went smoothly. His father knew how stubborn and eccentric Shuaibo was, and Chihen’s performance was passable—from the moment they met, the boy hadn’t said a word, not even when two of his teeth were pulled out. The Zhang family needed a child like this—docile, obedient, a good dog.
Chihen remained silent as he pressed his fingerprint, as the blood was roughly wiped from his mouth, as he sat in the back seat of the car. For a moment,Shuaibo really did suspect he was mute. But the young master didn’t care. All he needed was a dog. As long as it could bite when necessary, it didn’t matter if it was mute or not.
“Name?”Shuaibo leaned against the car door. He felt a little dizzy, so he closed his eyes and asked stiffly.
Chihen didn’t answer. He just clenched the edge of his clothes tightly.
Shuaibo thought he understood the simple logic of Chihen’s mind, so he spoke again, impatiently: “You’re allowed to speak.”
So Chihen replied in a low voice: “Jian.”
“That’s it?”
He only nodded.
“Jian Chihen.”Shuaibo remembered a gilded business card he’d seen that morning. He didn’t care whose secretary or lover the name belonged to. And so Chihen acquired a name whose origin even Shuaibo couldn’t explain.
“Yes.” Chihen remained sitting upright.
“Yes?”
Chihen didn’t know what Shuaibo wanted to hear. He trembled, racked his brains, and tentatively added the title he’d practiced countless times in private: “...Yes, Master?”
Shuaibo laughed, unexpectedly.
He gestured for Chihen to come closer, forced him to look up, and then slapped him without warning.
The blow was hard. Chihen’s face, already swollen from the tooth extraction, was struck again, making a dull, alarming sound. His lip split, and blood surged forth, crimson and thick, coagulating on his jaw.
“You should be glad Father isn’t in this car.”Shuaibo slowly pulled out a wet wipe and cleaned his fingers. “If he heard you call me that, he’d definitely punish me. Why are you calling me that? Have I abused you?”
No. Chihen shook his head. Just like his frayed blood-red shirt, his missing canine teeth, his swollen cheek—none of it was real. It was all just his imagination.
“That’s better.”Shuaibo smiled. He was the kind of person with a strange temper. Compared to him, Chihen’s eccentricity was nothing.
He gently, lovingly, almost schizophrenically cupped Chihen’s face, not caring that his palm print was still visible on the boy’s skin. Like a mother coaxing a child, he said softly: “I’m your brother. Do you really want to be my dog?”
Chihen could read what Shuaibo wanted. Reading expressions was his specialty. So he pressed his burning, swollen cheek against Shuaibo’s palm and whispered, so quietly only they could hear: “Woof.”
Chihen didn’t remember much of what happened after that. He’d lost too much blood that day, and just staying conscious enough to comply with Shuaibo’s demands was already his limit. He hadn’t yet awakened his Fork traits. His physical strength was no more than that of a normal seven-year-old, and because of years of abuse and malnutrition, he didn’t even look any different from a four or five-year-old.
What came after—entering the mansion, sitting among his father’s subordinates for his “baptism,” being fitted with a muzzle and thrown into the room next to Shuaibo’s—was just a muddled dream to him. In the Zhang family, he was nothing more than a bleeding tool. The only clear memory he had was the moment Shuaibo had smiled and touched his hair in the car—that was when he finally realized Shuaibo was a Cake.
It was hard to explain, but Chihen could tell that Shuaibo was different from everyone else. Perhaps it was already determined in their genes. The longing, the need, the hunger that surged from within him was nothing like the simple act of eating to sustain his life. From Shuaibo, he could feel a pain that ran deep into his bones. He was only seven years old.
But in the end, he said nothing, and did nothing. Chihen forcibly transformed that predatory instinct into an unquestionable desire to protect Shuaibo. Perhaps he was the only Fork who had ever done such a thing.Shuaibo, who had been raised with gender training since childhood, didn’t even notice the predatory desire the dirty, ragged child beside him felt for him.
He still called his father “Master of the House,” called Shuaibo “brother” to his face, and “Master” in private.
That was the longest day they had ever spent together.
Although the original intention of adopting Chihen was to protect Shuaibo, to be a shield, his father still didn’t allow them to stay together. The time Chihen could spend in Shuaibo’s presence was very limited. And Shuaibo’s personality was completely unpredictable to him. Perhaps Chihen had become so accustomed to Shuaibo’s commanding side, so used to his role as a subordinate, that he forgot that Shuaibo was still just a child.
But this abnormal relationship somehow continued smoothly. Chihen could take three slaps from Shuaibo and still pitifully rub his hand against Shuaibo’s, wrap his arms around his waist, and beg to sleep with him.
If at first, when he’d just entered the family, he’d curried favor with Shuaibo out of pretense, out of self-interest, now he did it almost entirely according to his own instincts. And when Shuaibo, in a rare moment of kindness, allowed Chihen to climb into his bed with a pillow, Chihen could hardly sleep all night—he just obsessively wrapped his arms around Shuaibo, trying to absorb as much of his scent as possible.Shuaibo’s shampoo was cherry-scented. He couldn’t smell it, but he knew.
He only wanted to smell. He didn’t have the courage to bite, or even lick,Shuaibo’s skin.
Even though the price for this was his father setting dogs on him, tearing through his calf, and locking him in a dog cage for twenty-four hours, he didn’t complain.
Don’t push your luck. Those were his father’s exact words. Do your duty. You’re nothing but a dog.
High-sounding and ridiculous. Chihen didn’t understand why his father always treated him like a stray dog, yet still made him call Shuaibo “brother.” He obviously wanted to call Shuaibo “Master.”
In fact, from the very beginning, his father had decided to fully cultivate him, while regarding Shuaibo as the heir to the family bloodline. After Shuaibo had his first wet dream at twelve, he was forced into various brothels and nightclubs, made to deal with all kinds of people capable of bearing children.
Chihen was forbidden from going with him. Although his role was that of a bodyguard, his father intended to train him as a temporary heir while Shuaibo was busy with his “breeding duties.” His father was getting old, and Shuaibo, as a Cake, was too easily targeted. Chihen, raised from childhood to be as obedient as a dog, naturally became the best candidate for successor.
So Chihen had no choice but to watch as Shuaibo flirted, got involved in ambiguous relationships, fell in love. But Shuaibo never brought home a child, and never entered into marriage. Chihen couldn’t judge this. All he could do was, when he received a drunk call from Shuaibo in the early hours of the morning, order a driver and go pick him up from the bar.
Shuaibo was very affectionate when he was drunk—in every sense of the word. He leaned against the back seat and called Chihen “darling,” messed up his hair just like he had the day he brought him home, then lifted Chihen’s face again and forced him to meet his eyes.
“Who’s a good doggy?”Shuaibo laughed, trembling all over. Chihen knew he was only doing this on a whim, because he said the same thing to the family pet dog.
But he didn’t refute, didn’t show any impatience. At thirteen, he would just obediently press his face against Shuaibo’s palm and call out: “Woof.”
In reality, this situation didn’t last long. At least, not long enough for the family to have a new heir.
Shuaibo was attacked in a bar. The attacker was an adult male Fork.
Chihen killed someone for the first time when he was fourteen. Although before that, he had already practiced on countless wild animals, his father had never allowed him to kill a real person. But this time was different. When his father pushed Chihen in front of the Fork, whose leg was already broken, the only weapon he gave him was a 9mm revolver.
Until then, he had been strictly forbidden from using guns. His Fork traits had already begun to manifest, and his father was afraid he wouldn’t be able to control his violent urges, so he only allowed him to use simple cold weapons. But this time, his father was truly enraged. He was willing to lock this loyal dog, whose life’s first priority was protecting Shuaibo, in the same room as a loaded revolver.
Seven shots to the body, five to the head. He went out once to reload. Twelve bullets in total.
Shuaibo just kept trembling, sitting outside the glass room, watching as the man’s head exploded under Chihen’s bullets.
Brains and blood splattered in front of him, and Shuaibo couldn’t help but retch.
Chihen accepted it calmly. He wiped the blood from his face, just like he had wiped away his nosebleed with his shirt in the orphanage.
Then he turned around.
Shuaibo was still trembling. He was wearing the scarf Chihen had taken off and wrapped around him. The familiar scent would make a Cake feel a little better in a state of stress.
Beautiful.
His tear-reddened eyes were beautiful, his lips, pale from the cold, were beautiful, and his face, buried in the scarf, was beautiful.
That was Chihen’s only thought.
It was also the last time he saw Shuaibo before he turned eighteen.
The fact that Shuaibo was a Cake had stirred up rebellious feelings among the subordinates. Moreover,Shuaibo still had no children. They didn’t believe that a Cake, constantly threatened by the outside world, could become the new leader.
As for Chihen, only fourteen and an adopted son, he wasn’t even considered. They couldn’t believe that a family that had always prided itself on bloodline would be willing to let an outsider inherit the family business.
The struggle lasted too long. And from the moment his identity was revealed, the eighteen-year-old Shuaibo was secretly sent to Seoul, where his safety was ensured as much as possible. Chihen stayed in the country with his father. The purge lasted more than two years. The subordinates were replaced again and again, but Chihen remained the most obedient dog under his father’s hand—killing obediently, consolidating his position as the first heir obediently.
He was still forbidden from using guns. Every time he killed, it was with a single stab to the chest, leaving no room for survival.
He still couldn’t taste anything. He still maintained his life signs stiffly. He still waited.
Shuaibo still didn’t come back.
Until he turned eighteen.
His father didn’t survive that winter.
It was he who made the call to Shuaibo. The ringtone was short.Shuaibo’s voice was almost the same as when he was eighteen: “Who is this?”
And for the first time in a long while, Chihen felt that familiar longing. His throat was dry, and his words were barely a whisper: “The Master of the House is dead.”
Only a long silence answered him.
Chihen knew that Shuaibo had always hated the family bitterly. Although he had to admit that he had been protected by his father from beginning to end, and hadn’t been completely devoured by those with ulterior motives, he couldn’t resist his fate as the family heir. Sex, inheritance, even being bitten by unknown Forks—all of it was part of his hatred. He hated a life he couldn’t control.
But at times like this, he would also think of Chihen’s misery. Think of Chihen, raised as a two-legged dog, enslaved by him and his father for eleven years. But Shuaibo didn’t call his feelings for Chihen “heartache” or “pity.” It had started from the moment he’d watched Chihen kill—Chihen was a madman, a born violent maniac. He was different from himself.
So he naturally ignored Chihen’s gaze at the private airport. He told himself it was just a part of his life.
Shuaibo finally chose to come back. Not for anyone, and certainly not for his identity as the family heir.
The twenty-two-year-old Shuaibo was simply tired of running. He had no choice but to return to the starting point. Fortunately, the eighteen-year-old Chihen was still willing to be his dog.
Chihen had dyed his hair white. When he received the notice that Shuaibo was arriving at the airport, he was in the middle of bleaching his newly grown roots. The snow in January clung to his wet hair, and he didn’t even have time to tone the yellow out before speeding to the airport.
He looked a mess, disheveled and exhausted. Luckily, Shuaibo didn’t spare him a second glance—otherwise, Chihen would never have forgiven himself.
“Long time no see.” He brushed the snow off his eyelashes, maintaining the loyalty of a slave to his master. “Brother.”
The corner of Shuaibo’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. But in the end, he said nothing.
This pretense of reserve only lasted until Chihen drove him back to the old mansion. While Shuaibo was changing his shirt, Chihen slipped into the room, his tone still carrying that childish obsequiousness as he snuggled up to him.
“I missed you… Master.”
Shuaibo was busy buttoning his shirt. During the four years in Seoul, he hadn’t been completely ignorant of what was happening at home. At the very least, he knew there were still people in the family who weren’t satisfied with his identity as a Cake. He was going to have to face them tonight as the heir. No matter how much he sneered at the family and its legacy, this was his responsibility. He had no choice.
So he only commented coldly: “The hair doesn’t suit you. Stop clinging to me and go change your clothes.”
Shuaibo also knew that most of the subordinates would rather see Chihen as the next heir. On one hand, at eighteen, Chihen was already more than capable of taking over. On the other hand, if the Zhang family’s bloodline curse was broken through Chihen, it would give them more room to maneuver—power could shift, and soon.
Shuaibo didn’t want that. So the heir had to be him.
He didn’t dare to gamble on what Chihen was thinking. After four years apart, even if Chihen still seemed obedient, he couldn’t be sure whether the other man had any rebellious thoughts. It had been eleven years. Chihen was no longer the child who’d let him pull out his canine teeth without a fight. What Shuaibo was facing now was a fully grown male Fork with an extremely strong will.
The fear of being preyed upon surged again, and Shuaibo couldn’t help but shiver.
Fortunately, Chihen still listened to him. He left the room obediently after being scolded, leaving Shuaibo with a rare moment of silence.
The storm was coming.
When Chihen stood beside Shuaibo as his bodyguard, he had already changed out of the snow-covered coat, and his hair even looked like it had been treated with a hair mask.
The atmosphere below was still chaotic—although Chihen and his father had already dealt with most of the family’s remaining problems, some people had hidden in the shadows, waiting for Shuaibo’s return to strike a fatal blow.
They’d bet correctly.Shuaibo really wasn’t good at this. His mind had been addled by alcohol and pleasure, and his father had never actually taught him anything about managing the family. His only demand had always been reproduction.
So the problems were pushed back onto Chihen.Shuaibo deliberately ignored the sounds of opposition from below.
Someone shouted in the chaos, exposing his identity as a Cake, accusing him of being nothing more than livestock raised by Forks.Shuaibo sat stiffly on the main seat, his ears filled mostly with voices urging Chihen to become the new Master of the House. He knew that logically, it was the best choice. He didn’t dare to look into Chihen’s eyes.
Chihen smiled—a strange, rare smile. “I don’t want it.”
He knelt halfway in front of Shuaibo, pressing his face against the other man’s palm as if it were second nature. “The only things I do are the things you tell me to do.”
“I’m your dog.”
The hall fell into a chilling silence. By the time the subordinates realized they’d bet on the wrong horse, the conflict had already escalated beyond Shuaibo’s expectations.
They had a backup plan—if Chihen couldn’t become the new Master of the House in Shuaibo’s presence, they would take Shuaibo’s life. In that case, the Zhang family’s bloodline would naturally come to an end.
Shuaibo’s thoughts were actually very simple—bloodshed or tears. Although he did care about the family’s influence, he valued his life more. If his life was threatened to force him to agree to Chihen as heir, he would have agreed. He just hadn’t expected their attitude to be so extreme. Just because of Chihen’s words, they’d pushed him into a situation where he had to die—without even asking him what he wanted.
When the saber was thrust toward him, Shuaibo couldn’t even figure out why he was facing death.
Weapons were strictly prohibited in the hall—a rule passed down since some ancestor had been assassinated. Shuaibo couldn’t imagine how this man had dared to bring a saber in, risking being shot by the bodyguards. What was even more terrifying was that he could sense that the man was a Fork with a strong predatory desire. Under the absolute genetic suppression, Shuaibo didn’t even have the strength to run.
It was happening again. He trembled in a stressed reaction, realizing he would never escape the curse.
But Chihen, who had already returned to his position, used some incredible willpower to rush forward and block the fatal blow before it reached Shuaibo—even though pushing Shuaibo aside would only have left a shallow cut on Chihen’s cheek, he’d chosen to block the blade with his palm, resulting in his hand being pierced straight through.
Still, Chihen said nothing. As Shuaibo sank into near-suffocating despair, he pulled the revolver out of his pocket.
9mm caliber, silver, an old model—the same one he’d used to kill when he was fourteen.
Seven shots to the body, five to the head. He reloaded once. Twelve bullets in total.
Brains and blood splattered in front of Shuaibo again.
This time, Shuaibo didn’t retch. He just breathed, his face pale.
The hall fell into another chilling silence.
“I won’t be the heir.” Chihen slowly pulled the saber out of his palm and threw it into the man’s exploded head. “Only you are the heir. I’ll only be your dog.”
The rebellion ended with Chihen’s almost cruel threat.
He was a Fork—a predator, a violent maniac. It was only now that everyone present truly realized this—the family’s adopted son was a bona fide Fork. Chihen was a man who could eat people.
And so, after having his wound bandaged following the banquet, Chihen was called to Shuaibo’s room.
The decor hadn’t changed. After Shuaibo’s departure, Chihen had maintained a near-obsessive insistence that the room he’d once slept in remain exactly as it was.
Shuaibo was sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking a perfumed cigarette, looking almost exactly as he had four years ago.
Chihen knelt obediently in front of him.
“I’m sor—” he began.
“Tell me what happened these past few years.”
Chihen obeyed, speaking until Shuaibo lit his second cigarette and cut him off.
A slap.
Shuaibo told him to hold out his uninjured hand, then shook cigarette ash into his palm. The twenty-two-year-old young master quickly regained the composure of his youth. “Did you kill the bodyguards in the hall?”
Chihen didn’t hide it. “Yes.”
“Just so you could bring a gun in?”
No answer—silence that amounted to acquiescence.
Another slap.
“Human lives aren’t even worth as much as your gun.”Shuaibo smiled sarcastically, pinching Chihen’s chin and forcing him to look up. “Aren’t you a dog? What does a dog need a gun for? I almost died today, do you know that?”
“I’m sorry.” Chihen replied, still holding out his hand to catch the falling ash.
“You idiot.”
Shuaibo gripped his chin tightly, studying his face back and forth. “You’re that afraid of getting your face hurt? You’d rather cripple a hand than let your face get scratched? Everything you’ve learned over more than ten years has gone to the dogs, huh?”
“Because…” Chihen felt his blood rushing.Shuaibo was holding his jaw so tightly he could barely speak. “Because you… you brought me home because of my face.”
Shuaibo frowned.
The cigarette, burned down to the end, scalded his fingertips. He let go of Chihen and flicked the butt into his palm.
Then came the third slap.
“Your face is the most worthless thing about you.”Shuaibo said coldly.
Chihen nodded, then obediently rubbed his cheek against Shuaibo’s palm as he’d done so many times before.
Shuaibo’s hands were always cold. When he was little, Chihen had done this to ease the pain after being slapped. Now, it felt more like a kind of comfort.
A comfort for the longing, the need, the hunger.
Before puberty, he hadn’t understood where his desires came from. It wasn’t until he was sixteen, when he’d found himself jerking off to Shuaibo’s old shirt, that he understood. Completely.
Just like now, the moment he pressed his face into Shuaibo’s cold palm, all other sounds faded into the background. Even Shuaibo’s scolding couldn’t elicit a conditioned response from him.
At eighteen, Chihen finally learned to follow his own physiological instincts. He closed his mouth around Shuaibo’s cigarette-burned fingertips.
This was the end of their relationship.
By relationship, Chihen meant the normal kind.
Gene influence is powerful—Chihen had no choice but to admit it. Even someone as rigidly formulaic as himself under strict discipline couldn’t escape the curse brought by his identity.
His body had definitely been under the control of some unknown force for more than half an hour, because afterward he was painfully clear: during that time he had no consciousness at all. Everything he did was his body acting, not Chihen himself.
But that didn’t let him avoid facing one undeniable fact—when he barely regained his senses, he realized he was fucking Shuaibo.
Savage, wide-open thrusts, no holding back at all. Shuaibo trembled beneath him like January snow in Seoul; even the curses he spat out between sobs were weak and breathless.
The bedsheet underneath was completely soaked—blood, semen, slick, and even vomit mixed together. Shuaibo had thrown up twice during the sex, but the young master hadn’t eaten much to begin with, so all that came up was thin, bland gastric fluid.
Yet Chihen couldn’t stop himself. Shuaibo couldn’t either. Only in the overwhelming rush of pleasure did the two of them truly grasp how terrifying a perfect match could be.
They were still locked in fierce, relentless thrusting and grinding. What started as curses from Shuaibo gradually turned into begging. He mimicked the ways women pleased him, calling out “Hyung”“Daddy” in Korean—OPPA—laced with utter filth and twelve levels of depravity.
Later on, even the strength to beg left him. He refused to admit how good it felt, how his soul seemed to fracture from the pleasure. Every time Chihen pulled out, Shuaibo would instinctively arch his waist to chase it, welcoming him back in.
The tender hole, never properly prepared, had turned a deep crimson from the brutal pounding, yet he still craved to be devoured, consumed, fucked until his eyes rolled back and his thighs convulsed.
His legs were folded up to Chihen’s shoulders. The cock drove in without mercy, slamming deep. His forehead banged against the headboard during the thrusts, producing dull thuds.
Shuaibo felt darkness swallow his vision. A sharp, tingling numbness exploded from the base of his spine. His hole spasmed a few times and then he was squirting hard—gushing uncontrollably, drenching Chihen’s groin completely.
He had lost all control over his lower body. The squirt came without warning; now he could only twitch through the aftershocks of climax. Excess slick soaked into the mattress. The thick, sweet-fishy scent in the air grew heavier, clinging to the room and refusing to dissipate.
Shuaibo’s thighs trembled along with his spine. But before he could even catch his breath, Chihen slammed back inside to the hilt once more. The fragile cervix fluttered under the relentless prodding of the glans; the thick shaft stretched the winding passage flat.
Flesh slapped flesh with heavy, wet sounds. His ass cheeks turned pink from the impacts, foam forming from the slick being churned out with every thrust.
Chihen’s palm cracked down on his ass—white flesh blooming with erotic red marks. Shuaibo’s hair was plastered to his face with sweat and tears. The overload of orgasms left him with no energy to process what was happening. He simply endured—endured the pounding, the spanking, endured everything Chihen gave him.
“No…!” A startled cry tore from his throat. His legs finally gave out completely in the middle of the sex. Chihen held him and changed the sheet, but before the four corners were even smoothed flat, Shuaibo’s spine was pressed down again and he was penetrated once more.
Eventually they didn’t even bother changing the sheet anymore. Chihen knelt on the soaked mattress and speared straight through Shuaibo’s hole, granting him not even a second to breathe.
His whole body buzzed with numb pleasure. Broken moans leaked out between thrusts; even Chihen’s name came out slurred and indistinct in his mouth. His nipples had been bitten raw at the very beginning—blood taken into Chihen’s mouth. All the longing, need, hunger… it was simply the pain Shuaibo had caused him, the eleven years of being treated like a dog finally repaid.
Each thrust pushed Shuaibo right to the edge of what his body could endure. The delicate passage was stretched to its absolute maximum. He felt like his lower half was about to shatter from the high-speed fucking. His body had snapped like a string—pain and desire blurring his mind until he could only tremble aimlessly, too wrecked to even clutch at the corner of clothing within reach.
Chihen could no longer tell whether what he felt toward Shuaibo was hunger for food or hunger for sex. In this bedroom he knew better than anywhere else, he fucked Shuaibo until his mind scattered. Whether it was the fluids overflowing from their joining or the white streaks Shuaibo spilled across his own stomach, Chihen licked it all clean. At last he understood what “taste” meant. At last Shuaibo became, to him, the concept of food.
But beneath him, Shuaibo only breathed with difficulty, only convulsed uncontrollably, only cried.
Chihen leaned close to his ear, voice almost seductive.
“The master was right to discipline me.”
“Woof.” The softest, gentlest bark—nothing different from before.
White cum dripped wetly from his hole. Shuaibo kept twitching on the bed, tongue lolling past his lips, a glistening thread of drool hanging from the tip.
Chihen licked his own fingertip.
Shuaibo’s taste.
TBC.