Zhan's pov.
"Come sit on my cock," I say to Wang. He blushes, oils his ass, and slowly sinks onto me. I suck in a hard breath, my hand sliding over the curve of his back.
"Zhan. Zhan, wake up."
The voice is faint, a hand shaking my shoulder. I jolt awake, my body heavy, the dream still thick in my mind.
I'm in a van. Chained. Wang has a plan, and said we should go back to prison. When dre asked why, he said that was where it all started. And it's the only place we'll find the key. That's how we agreed to go back.
The iron bites at my wrists. I was wheeled out of the prison in a bed, now I'm being dragged back in shackles. A sharp gasp escapes me.
"Are you okay?" Dre whispers beside me.
"Yes. Yeah," I rasp. My voice is raw. "Just... daydreaming."
Across from me, Wang sits quietly, eyes on mine. I want to kiss him. Right then. I want the dream to be real.
I lunge forward, but the chains yank me back. I hiss, not from pain, but from pure frustration. I want to touch him. Kiss him. Fuck his brains out.
The guard next to Wang jerks up, cocking his gun and pointing it at me.
Wang shoots him a filthy glare and calmly pushes the barrel down with his hand.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"No. I'm not," I snap.
"What's wrong?" he says, softer now.
"I don't know. I just... I don't feel right." My breath stutters. My chest tightens. My heart kicks against my ribs. "Kiss me," I whisper.
Wang is beside me in a second. His lips find mine, fast, desperate, but it doesn't help. My body's not calming down.
"He's having a panic attack," Wang growls. "Take off his cuffs. Now."
The cuffs don't come off.
The guards just stare, unmoving, like statues with guns. One glances at the other, waiting for a command, but no one moves. My breath shortens, tight, shallow gulps that don't do shit.
Wang looks furious now. "Did you not hear me?" he barks. "He's fucking spiraling, take off the cuffs!"
Still nothing.
Dre shifts beside me, nervous. "Hey," he says, voice low. "He really can't breathe."
I'm drowning in air. My heart is slamming in my ribs like it's trying to get out. I tug at the chains again, pointlessly, but I need to move. I need...
"Zhan," Wang says, crouching low, eye level with me. "Look at me. Just look at me."
I do. Eyes locked with his. His face is soft now, nothing like the sharp-edged doctor he usually is.
"Follow my voice," he says. "Okay? You're here. You're with me."
My hands are shaking. I didn't even notice until now.
"Take this off," Wang snaps again, this time to the guard beside him. "I don't care what protocol says. I'll take responsibility."
The guard hesitates, then, finally, nods. He pulls out a small key, glances nervously at the guards, then leans forward. Cold metal clicks, and the cuffs fall away.
The relief is instant. I collapse forward into Wang's arms, like gravity finally won. My forehead presses against his shoulder. I breathe his scent.
"I've got you," Wang murmurs, holding me tight. "I've always got you."
The van rattles as it turns. The guards look away now, pretending they didn't just watch me fall apart.
But I don't care.
Because Wang is here. Holding me.
"I was dreaming about you," I mutter, my voice thin. "Sitting on my cock."
Wang lets out a soft laugh, short, breathy, almost shy. "That," he says with a grin, "can be arranged."
He slides an arm around me, helping me sit up. His touch is careful, steady. Familiar. But something's wrong.
The panic should be fading. His warmth, his voice, his closeness, it should've brought me back.
It doesn't.
Everything's muffled now. Like I'm underwater. Sounds fade at the edges. My limbs feel too heavy, too slow. My vision tilts, black creeping in at the corners.
"Zhan?" Wang's voice is clearer than the rest, but still far away. He leans in closer, eyes scanning my face. "Hey. Stay with me."
I want to answer. I want to say something cocky, something dumb, something me.
But I can't.
My head falls against his chest.
Then nothing.
Just dark.
I don't know how long I was out.
The world comes back slowly, like rising from deep water. My eyelids feel like lead, my mouth dry as ash. When I manage to crack my eyes open, the first thing I see is white, too much white.
Hospital?
No. Not quite.
I turn my head and wince. A soft beep matches the thud in my chest. There's a needle in my arm, clear fluid dripping into me. Some kind of private room. Cleaner than a ward. Calmer.
Then I see him.
Wang.
Sitting right beside the bed in a shitty plastic chair that looks like it's been through war. His elbows are on his knees, hands hanging loose, head bowed. He looks like he hasn't slept.
His eyes snap to mine as soon as I shift.
"You're awake," he says, voice tight with relief.
"Looks like," I croak. My throat burns.
He grabs a paper cup from the table and presses it into my hand. I sip, slowly, the water tasting like heaven and metal at the same time.
"You scared the shit out of me," Wang says, quieter now.
"What happened?" I ask, though I already know.
"You passed out. Your Body couldn't keep up. You were barely breathing when we got here." His jaw clenches. "I gave you fluids. Sedatives. You were overstimulated and dehydrated.. Too much trauma."
"Great," I mutter. "I broke my brain."
"You didn't break anything," he says firmly. "You survived."
We sit there for a moment. The silence feels... full.
Then I shift again, slowly, the sheet slipping down my chest. His eyes follow the movement, lingering too long. I smirk, weakly.
"You still arranging that thing we talked about?" I ask.
He chuckles, but it sounds more like a sigh. "You asshole," he says, shaking his head. "You nearly die and still think about fucking."
"I nearly died because I didn't get to," I say, lips dry, but eyes locked on his.
Wang leans in. Just enough to brush a hand along my jaw, then down my collarbone. It's soft. Careful. The kind of touch that says I'm here, but also I want you.
"Rest," he murmurs. "When you're better... I'll give you everything you dreamed about."
My body aches. My head spins.
"I don't want to rest," I say, voice low but sharp. "I haven't had sex in seven years."
Wang blinks. His mouth opens, then closes like he's not sure if I'm joking or about to break down again.
"Seven?" he echoes.
"Seven," I repeat. "And I've spent the last six days thinking about your hands. Your mouth. Your fucking cock."
He swallows, hard. His eyes darken, jaw tightening like he's trying not to move too fast. Like he's afraid that if he touches me now, I'll shatter.
"You just had a panic attack," he says, carefully. "You passed out, Zhan."
"I know what my body can't handle," I mutter. "But I also know what it needs."
I reach for his wrist, slow, shaky. My fingers barely wrap around it, but he still stiffens like I've lit a fuse under his skin.
"I don't need rest. I need you."
Wang stares at me for a second too long, like he's checking if I mean it, if this is real or another broken dream.
Then he leans in.
Not slow this time. Not gentle. His mouth crashes into mine, hot and bruising. His hand slides up my chest, past the IV line, to cup the side of my face like he's been dying to do it.
I gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound whole.
"You're fucking insane," he whispers against my lips.
"I know," I breathe back.
He's half on the bed now, one knee pressing between mine. The heat of him is maddening, solid, and dangerous, and real. My whole body is trembling, but not from fear anymore. It's hunger. Starvation.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. "If I do this," he says, voice hoarse, "you don't get to decide when we stop."
I meet his eyes. "I wouldn't. I won't."
Wang presses his forehead to mine. His breath is hot. His lips brush my cheek, my jaw, then lower.
"Then tell me what you want," he says.
I don't even hesitate.
"You," I whisper. "All of you. Every fucking inch."
Wang doesn't say anything.
He just moves.
His hands are on me like he's memorizing. One sliding down my chest, fingers grazing over ribs too sharp, too exposed. The other curls around the back of my neck, anchoring me to him.
His lips trail down my throat slowly, burning, reverent.
I tilt my head back, letting him have all of it.
"Seven years," he mutters against my skin. "That's a fucking crime."
"Then do something about it," I whisper, breath hitching.
He does.
He climbs fully onto the bed, straddling my hips, carefully removes the IV line, but otherwise unrelenting. His weight presses me down, grounding me most deliciously. My body is weak, yeah, but my hunger is louder.
Wang kisses me again, deeper this time. Tongue sliding into my mouth, teasing, claiming. I groan into him, my hands finally gripping his hips, fingers digging in like I'm afraid he'll disappear.
"You want slow," he breathes, breaking the kiss. "Or hard?"
"Yes," I say. It's all I can manage.
He smirks, God, that smirk, and then he's grinding down against me, just enough friction to make my brain go static. My cock twitches beneath the thin hospital blanket. He feels it. He knows.
"You're already hard?" he teases, voice rough.
"I've been hard since the damn van," I growl.
Wang hums, low in his throat, and leans down to kiss my collarbone. Then lower. His mouth moves across my chest, wet and open, sucking marks into my skin like he wants to brand me.
I arch into him, breath ragged. "Don't tease."
"I'm not," he says, nipping at a nipple. "This is foreplay. You remember what that is, grandpa?"
"Fuck you."
"That's the plan."
He slides lower, lips tracing down my stomach, slow and possessive. When he reaches the edge of the hospital gown, he doesn't ask, he just pulls it up.
My cock springs free, angry and flushed, desperate for touch.
Wang looks up at me from between my legs, his eyes burning.
"Seven years," he repeats, almost like a prayer.
Then he lowers his head and wraps his mouth around me.
Heat explodes through my spine. My head thumps back against the pillow, a groan tearing from my throat. His mouth is heaven and hell at once, wet, warm, perfect. He moves slowly at first, then deeper, tongue swirling, lips tight.
"Fuck—Wang—" I choke out. My hand fists in his hair, and he doesn't stop. Doesn't slow.
Just takes me deeper.
I can't last.
I don't want to.
And when I cum hard, shaking, breathless—it's like the last seven years drain out of me all at once.
He swallows every drop.
Then crawls back up to kiss me again, tasting of sweat and heat and something holy.
"I'm not done with you," he murmurs against my lips.
"Good," I whisper back. "Because I'm finally ready to live again."