Chapter 1: The Karaoke Riot
The karaoke bar was a symphony of controlled chaos. Neon signage bled pink and blue light across sticky tables where clusters of friends shouted over each other and the thumping bass of a Mandopop ballad. The air swam with chili oil and steamed rice, cut through by the sweet, cloying fog of lychee whiskey. On the low stage, under a strobing gold light, Wei Lin was giving the performance of his life.
He was a riot of color in a room of shadows—a canary-yellow sweatshirt over cherry-red trousers, one hand clutching the microphone like a lifeline, the other slicing through the humid air. His voice, surprisingly clear and strong, tore through the love song’s sentimental lyrics with a raw, defiant energy.
“Wo de xin, yi pian kong dong!” he belted, fist thumping his chest for emphasis. His small circle of friends, led by Mei Hua, cheered and clinked glasses of bubbling beer.
Mei, her own cheeks flushed, laughed into her hand. “Xiao Hua! Save some heartbreak for the rest of us!”
Wei Lin just winked, spinning on the heel of his worn sneaker. That’s when he saw him.
Zhang Chen stood just inside the entrance, a stark silhouette against the neon waterfall. He was a study in monochrome: black turtleneck, black trousers, his dark hair perfectly swept back. He wasn’t moving. He was just watching, his expression unreadable from across the room, but Wei Lin felt the stare like a physical touch, a hot brand against his skin. The verse died in his throat for a split second before he recovered, throwing himself back into the song with even more reckless abandon.
He finished with a final, dramatic note, bowing to his friends’ whistles. As he hopped off the stage, the high from the performance still buzzing in his veins, Zhang Chen was already there.
“Lao Gui,” Wei Lin said, his grin wide but slightly forced. “You made it. I thought you had a… a thing.”
“The thing ended,” Zhang Chen said. His voice was low, barely audible over the music, but it carried a vibration that went straight to Wei Lin’s spine. He didn’t smile. His eyes, dark and intense, traveled from Wei Lin’s flushed face down the length of his colorful outfit, a slow, appraising look that felt like being undressed in public.
Mei Hua sidled up, protective. “Chen-ge! Xiao Hua was just getting started. He was going to sing ‘Tian Mi Mi’ next, for me.”
“He’s done singing,” Zhang Chen stated, his gaze never leaving Wei Lin’s. “We’re leaving.”
Wei Lin’s fiery temper sparked. “Hey, I just got here. I haven’t even had a drink with Xiao Yan yet. You can’t just—”
Zhang Chen’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Wei Lin’s wrist. The grip was firm, unyielding. It wasn’t painful, but it was absolute. A current, hot and demanding, surged through the point of contact. “I can,” Zhang Chen said, the words final. “We’re leaving. Now.”
He began to pull him toward the back exit, not the main door. Wei Lin stumbled for a step, shooting a wide-eyed look back at Mei. She shrugged, concern etching her features, but she knew better than to intervene. This was their dance.
The humid night air of the back alley hit them like a wall, the thud of music reduced to a muffled pulse. The alley smelled of garbage and wet concrete. Zhang Chen didn’t stop. He pushed Wei Lin against the rough brick wall of the adjoining building, the impact knocking the air from Wei Lin’s lungs.
“What the fuck, Lao Gui?” Wei Lin spat, struggling. “You can’t just drag me out like some animal.”
“I saw the way that engineering student was looking at you,” Zhang Chen murmured, his mouth inches from Wei Lin’s ear. His body pressed close, pinning him. “The one by the bar. He was imagining this.” His hand slid down, palming Wei Lin’s crotch through the thin red fabric, feeling the half-hardness already there. “Weren’t you? Letting them all look at you. Letting them imagine.”
Wei Lin gasped, his protest crumbling into a shudder. “I wasn’t… it was just a song.”
“It was a display,” Zhang Chen corrected, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. He squeezed, and Wei Lin’s hips jerked. “My display. And I’m taking it off the stage.”
He crushed their mouths together. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claim. Insistent, demanding, all tongue and teeth and possessive anger. Wei Lin tasted the faint bitterness of coffee and the uniquely sharp taste that was just Zhang Chen. He stopped fighting, his hands coming up to fist in the expensive wool of Zhang Chen’s sweater, a low moan vibrating in his throat. Zhang Chen’s kiss was a masterclass in dominance, leaving him breathless and pliant.
“Car. Now,” Zhang Chen ordered, breaking the kiss, a string of saliva connecting their lips for a second in the dim light. He kept a firm grip on Wei Lin’s wrist, half-dragging him toward the sleek black sedan idling at the alley’s mouth. The driver’s eyes were forward, seeing nothing.
The back door was opened, and Wei Lin was shoved inside. Zhang Chen followed, the door thudding shut, plunging them into near silence. The partition was already up. Before Wei Lin could even right himself, Zhang Chen was on him.
“You want an audience, Xiao Hua?” Zhang Chen’s hands were everywhere, pulling at the yellow sweatshirt, yanking it up and over Wei Lin’s head. The cooler air of the car kissed his heated skin. “You like showing off?”
“No, I…” Wei Lin’s denial was cut short as Zhang Chen captured his mouth again, a hand twisting in his hair to hold him still. He was pulled roughly onto Zhang Chen’s lap, straddling him. The hard line of Zhang Chen’s erection pressed insistently against his own through their clothes.
“Liar,” Zhang Chen breathed against his lips. He unbuttoned Wei Lin’s trousers with quick, efficient tugs, then shoved his own down just enough. There was no finesse, no gentle preparation. He spat into his own hand, reached between them, and slicked himself with a crude, harsh stroke. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet car.
Wei Lin braced his hands on Zhang Chen’s shoulders, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was burning up, anticipation and a thread of fear coiling tight in his gut. “Lao Gui, wait, it’s not—”
“You’re ready,” Zhang Chen stated, his voice guttural. He guided the thick head of his cock to Wei Lin’s entrance, applying relentless pressure. “You’re always ready for me.”
He pushed in.
Wei Lin cried out, a sharp, choked sound as the stretch burned. It was too fast, too dry, a punishing invasion. He buried his face in Zhang Chen’s neck, teeth gritted. Zhang Chen didn’t pause. He shoved the rest of the way in with one brutal, deep thrust, sheathing himself completely, his own groan harsh in Wei Lin’s ear.
“Fuck,” Wei Lin sobbed, the pain sharp and bright, his nails digging into the black wool.
“Mine,” Zhang Chen growled, his hips beginning to move. It was a ruthless, driving pace from the start, the seat leather creaking beneath them. Each thrust jarred through Wei Lin, the initial burn slowly melting into a scorching, full ache. Zhang Chen’s hands gripped his hips hard, fingers sure to leave bruises, controlling the rhythm, slamming him down onto his cock again and again.
The car moved through the city, the world outside a blur of indifferent lights. Inside, it was all heat and sweat and the slap of skin. Zhang Chen fucked him with a focused, silent intensity, his breathing ragged against Wei Lin’s throat. He shifted his angle, and on the next deep drive, Wei Lin saw stars, a jolt of pure, shocking pleasure cutting through the ache.
“There…” he gasped, his body clamping down involuntarily.
Zhang Chen grunted, a sound of dark satisfaction. “Yeah. There.” He hammered into that spot, relentless, his possessiveness transforming into something more visceral, a shared hunger. He found Wei Lin’s mouth again, the kiss messier now, all tongues and shared breath. One hand left Wei Lin’s hip to wrap around his leaking cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts, rough and perfect.
The pleasure built, a tight coil at the base of Wei Lin’s spine, fed by the raw, almost angry connection, by the feeling of being so utterly possessed. He was babbling, nonsense words, curses, Zhang Chen’s name. He came first, with a shattered cry, spilling over Zhang Chen’s fist, his body convulsing around the cock still pistoning inside him.
The fierce clenching tipped Zhang Chen over the edge. He stiffened, his thrusts losing rhythm, becoming shuddering jerks as he buried himself as deep as he could go. A hot flood filled Wei Lin, followed by Zhang Chen’s low, long groan against his shoulder, the sound raw and private.
For a moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the soft hum of the engine. Wei Lin went boneless, collapsed against the solid wall of Zhang Chen’s chest, feeling spent and utterly claimed. Zhang Chen’s arms came around him, not tenderly, but firmly, holding him in place. He was still inside him.
The car slowed, then stopped. They were at Zhang Chen’s apartment building.
Slowly, Zhang Chen softened and slipped out. He reached for a handkerchief, cleaning himself and then Wei Lin with a few brisk, impersonal swipes before tucking them both back into their clothes. He straightened his turtleneck, his face already settling back into its usual calm mask, though his eyes remained dark and smoldering.
He cupped Wei Lin’s chin, tilting his face up. “Next time you perform,” he said, his thumb stroking over Wei Lin’s kiss-swollen bottom lip, “remember who you belong to.”
Wei Lin just nodded, wordless, the aftermath of the encounter humming through every nerve.
As they stepped out of the car, Wei Lin’s phone buzzed in his discarded sweatshirt. He fished it out. A message from Mei Hua lit up the screen: You alive? He seemed… intense tonight. More than usual. Call me.
He stared at the words, then at Zhang Chen’s retreating back as he walked toward the building’s glowing entrance, not checking to see if Wei Lin followed. The night air was cool on his heated skin. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, and followed.