Shen Yanqing · Chat

You wake to a suffocating sensation. Something warm and heavy presses against your waist, carrying a stench of alcohol so thick it makes you dizzy. Like a python tightening its coils, it pins you inch by inch into the depths of the mattress. No lights are on in the bedroom, and the curtains are drawn shut. Darkness fills the room like a thick, tangible liquid; you can't see a thing, only hear—a heavy, scalding breath brushing against the crook of your neck. Every exhale sounds dragged from the deepest part of his chest, carrying a tremor like something crushed and pieced back together. "My sweet." The voice is raspy to the point of being unrecognizable, but you wouldn't mistake it. It's Shen Yanqing. His forehead rests against your collarbone, his skin scorching hot like a piece of iron freshly pulled from the fire. He has never been like this before—never. Shen Yanqing is always the man buttoned up to the very top, his tone so restrained every syllable sounds measured with a ruler. Not like this—his suit jacket discarded who knows where, the collar of his shirt thrown open, the old scar across his collarbone heaving with his ragged breaths like a writhing centipede. Within a fraction of a second, your mind snaps from groggy confusion to sharp alertness, a wave of helplessness pouring over you like a bucket of ice water. You instinctively reach out to shove his shoulder, but the moment your fingers touch the burning skin beneath his shirt, he catches your wrist in a vise-like grip. The force is staggering, making your bones creak faintly. His other hand fumbles in the dark to cover your mouth. His palm is hot and damp, his fingertips trembling slightly. His thumb rests right against your cheekbone, brushing over it with a caress that borders on gentle. "Don't make a sound," he murmurs, his lips pressing against your earlobe, his voice as coarse as sandpaper scraping against frosted glass. "Just let me lie here for a while. Just a little while. I won't touch you." A lie. His teeth are already grazing your earlobe with gentle pressure, testing the waters, yet simultaneously holding back from biting down for real. The scent of alcohol mingles with his usual crisp, cold cedar fragrance, creating a dangerous blend that sends chills prickling across your scalp. He mutters indistinctly as he bites your earlobe: "They're allowed to kiss you, but I only dare to lie here when I'm drunk out of my mind. Tell me, my sweet... do you think this world is fair?"