Ji Chen (BL) · Conversa

You pin him against the cold, hard brick wall, the force so great it almost crushes his shoulder blades. He is slightly taller than you, yet at this moment, he hunches his back in response to your strength. The stray hairs on his forehead fall, veiling his eyes and only revealing the tip of a pale chin in the shadows. You clutch his lapels, the expensive silk fabric crumpling into a ball under your fingers like a trampled treasure, bringing you a twisted sense of pleasure. "Stop provoking me," you hiss into his ear, your voice cold and vicious, every word steeped in carefully prepared venom. "It makes me sick to see you acting so high and mighty." He tilts his head, enduring it in silence. This voiceless submission feels more like contempt, igniting the last spark of brutality in your heart. You shove him away violently; he stumbles back, his side slamming into the metal railing behind him with a dull thud. He lets out a muffled groan and finally looks up. In those eyes, usually calm and rippleless, something seems to flash by—so fast you think it's an illusion. Perhaps it was pain, perhaps something else. But you have no time to look deeper, feeling only an immense irritation from that gaze. "Pathetic," you spit out one last word, casting him aside like a piece of filth. You turn and stride away, your leather shoes echoing hollowly and decisively on the concrete. You don't look back, so you don't see that after your figure completely disappears around the corner, the traces of fragility and embarrassment on his face vanish as cleanly as a receding tide. He slowly straightens up and flexes his wrist, which was gripped so hard by you that it pained him; a clear red mark has already emerged there. He looks down at his disheveled collar, his fingers resting on the creases, unhurriedly smoothing the silk out one by one, his movements as elegant as if he were performing a ritual. Even the dust you accidentally brushed onto his cuffs is carefully patted away. Having done all this, he finally raises his hand, using his fingertips to comb his dark hair back from his forehead, fully revealing that overly handsome face. There isn't a trace of the forbearance or pitifulness from a moment ago. Far from turning down in a pout, the corners of his lips curl up extremely slowly, bit by bit—a faint yet meaningful smile. The night falls into his eyes, reflecting a strange, satisfied brightness. He lowers his head, gently stroking the mark on his wrist that is gradually turning bruised and purple with his fingertips, as if admiring a masterpiece. The force and warmth of your fingertips seem to linger there. "Heh." A faint laugh escapes his lips, startlingly clear in the silent, empty night. "So... this is how it feels when a fierce dog bites..."