Chapter Text
“You’re not getting a new head of accounting.”
Mobei Jun looks up as Shen Qingqiu barges into his office. Were it anyone else, Mobei Jun would have fired them on the spot for their nerve. Unfortunately, being married to the CEO, Shen Qingqiu has immunity, which is something Mobei Jun thinks is a poor match to a man with that level of superiority.
“No,” he agrees, in lieu of chewing Shen Qingqiu out. “We are appointing a temporary head to manage the department in Shang Qinghua’s absence.”
Shen Qingqiu scoffs archly. “So you know his name at least.”
Mobei Jun levels him with a look. It’s advantageous that he wasn’t blessed with an expressive face - it thoroughly hides the hypocrisy he feels at only remembering Shang Qinghua’s name quite recently.
“It’s my business to know the people running this company.”
“Yes, well,” Shen Qingqiu agrees, and then apparently doesn’t have anything more to say. Mobei Jun gives him a generous five seconds of silence before returning to his work. Hopefully the man will at least shut the door on his way out.
“Shang Qinghua isn’t quitting,” Shen Qingqiu says eventually.
He’s already testing Mobei Jun’s patience. “I know.”
“And you’re not firing him, either.”
“No.”
“He works hard and practically runs this company.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell him I said that.”
At this, Mobei Jun looks up from his laptop. There’s something agitated in Shen Qingqiu’s movements. Crisp little flicks of his pressed sleeves, not enough to be called fidgeting but close to it.
“You are friends?” Mobei Jun queries. He wasn’t aware that Shen Qingqiu had friends. Luo Binghe’s stickiness has that effect.
Something in Shen Qingqiu seems to give, and he folds both hands behind his back. “He’s missing. I’m worried.”
It’s the first time Mobei Jun has heard anyone reporting Shang Qinghua’s absence with actual concern; mostly people have been cursing him out for the lurch he’s left the company in, and Mobei Jun feels a pang to remember that he’s counted among them.
He turns back to his work. “I’ll find him.”
Shen Qingqiu very nearly jumps, his gaze turning sharp. “Do you know something? Has something happened to him?” A beat. “Do you know where he is?”
Mobei Jun doesn’t look up; it’s the closest he can get to dismissal in the vacancy of real firing.
“I’ll find him.”
❅
Mobei Jun does find Shang Qinghua.
He wasn’t fully expecting to; he’d tracked his uncle to a grotty hotel in the eastern suburbs and arrived with a leaden feeling that Shang Qinghua could very probably be dead by now; the building looks like the exact kind of place with a history of housing corpses. Linguang Jun might not be as slippery as he thinks, but he’s also not stupid enough to leave a loose end as big as Shang Qinghua hanging.
The hotel is tall but not in the least bit grand; the grubby linoleum in the foyer tells him exactly what clientele they’re used to receiving. Mobei Jun checks his gun is loaded before tucking it into his belt and then heads to the reception. The clerk barely looks up when Mobei Jun waves a fake room key at him with the air of someone who’s used to claiming plausible deniability. It’s a small miracle that there’s a working elevator.
Mobei Jun knows that his uncle is here. He knows that there is a room booked on the fifth floor. He knows that the rest of the rooms on that floor are booked out as well, because if Linguang Jun is willing to go as far as kidnapping, then he’s not going to want any witnesses when things go sideways. The only thing Mobei Jun doesn’t know is if Shang Qinghua will be there, and hoping he will be is a double edged sword. There’s a chance that Mobei Jun will find a body; he doesn’t put Linguang Jun above framing him for murder.
The elevator doors grind open with a half-hearted ding and Mobei Jun steps into the hallway. Nothing approaches eeriness the same way a deserted hotel corridor does. It’s the liminal feeling of it; wallpaper in a shade that’s hard to tell if it’s meant to be that colour or if it’s yellowed with cigarette smoke; worn carpet in a print that could be from the thirties or forties or seventies. The kind of carpet that transcends era.
Mobei Jun doesn’t have to tap the walls to know they’re thin, which makes the silence around him that much thicker; there should be dubious voices and barely muffled arguments spilling through in a hotel like this.
Mobei Jun approaches Room 1642 carefully, tugging the gun out of his belt. The 2 is formed from a scrap of masking tape that’s been sharpied over, barely hiding the 3 that was underneath it. It almost makes Mobei Jun hesitate, but he presses forward regardless. His uncle is brutish but he’s not slapdash.
The door is locked, not that Mobei Jun was expecting it to be open, but then again the floor has been booked out. The wood is cheap enough for him to burst through without problem, but it’s always more elegant to pick the lock first. For Mobei Jun, that means jamming a bus card into the door and bending it until the wood creaks. The second the door swings open, Mobei Jun charges forward, gun raised ready to shoot anything that approaches.
There’s nothing. Not even a crappy TV from the 90’s jimmy rigged onto the wall. The silence feels worse in here, a clear and total absence of anything, and it makes Mobei Jun’s gut tighten in frustration. The room has been stripped of almost everything, with the exception of an armchair, a stand with two decanters of whisky, and bed wearing nothing but the sheets.
And a person.
A figure lies on the bed, stripped naked and shivering, arms bound parallel and ankles fastened to the thigh. Mobei Jun doesn’t have to look twice to know who it is. He shoves his gun back into his belt and rushes to him.
“Shang Qinghua!”
The mattress heaves with his weight as Mobei Jun crawls onto it, enough that Shang Qinghua’s prone body rolls into the dip with a mumble of protest. He blinks groggily as Mobei Jun swipes his choppy bangs back from his eyes, struggling to focus. A wide panel gag covers the lower half of his face, hooking over the bridge of his nose and under his jaw. It’s been cinched tight enough to leave dents in the skin. Something hot and caustic rises in Mobei Jun’s throat when he sees that Shang Qinghua’s skin is marbled with bruises. A few of them are unmistakably hand shaped.
“They left you like this?” Mobei Jun demands, failing to keep the fury out of his voice. He takes a steadying breath when he sees the way Shang Qinghua flinches. “Hold on,” Mobei Jun tells him, carefully directing his head so that Mobei Jun can feel for the buckle at the back.
Shang Qinghua makes a miserable noise, deeply muffled by the gag, but he obediently stays still. Mobei Jun understands a second later why; the leather strap holding the thing in place is fastened with a padlock. It’s not a flimsy device either, the shackle almost as thick as Mobei Jun’s pinky finger. Breaking it by force would mean breaking Shang Qinghua’s jaw, too, and Linguang Jun likely designed it that way.
Mobei Jun nearly bites through his tongue with the fury that pumps through him. The leather doesn’t give much either, too tight against Shang Qinghua’s skin to risk cutting. Desperately, Mobei Jun wiggles a finger beneath the widest part of the gag, trying to feel for a stretch. The tight squeeze of it makes Shang Qinghua whimper, so he withdraws quickly. Except his finger brushes against something; the soft curve of Shang Qinghua’s lower lip, pushed out and down as though he’s holding his mouth open or-
Or something is holding it open for him. Mobei Jun cradles Shang Qinghua’s face gently as understanding sinks in; they’ve fitted him with an insert gag. Buckled that tight, it’s a wonder he’s not choking on it.
“Is there a key?” he asks, massaging tight circles at the hinge of jaw that’s miraculously exposed from the gag.
Shang Qinghua sighs shakily through his nose, his eyelids fluttering with relief at the soothing motion. Tiredly, he nods his head.
“Do you know where it is?” Mobei Jun presses. After another nod, he asks, “Is it in this room?”
There’s a sense of defeat in Shang Qinghua’s eyes as he shakes his head. He’s getting floppier with every second Mobei Jun massages his cramped jaw, but he’s still lucid. That’s good; Mobei Jun isn’t sure he can get away with carrying a bound and unconscious man to his car.
The next question makes his mouth taste bitter; he surely knows the answer, but he has to be certain.
“Does my uncle have it?”
Shang Qinghua makes a pitiful noise behind the gag, chin dipping under Mobei Jun’s hands as he gives a resigned nod. A quick inspection of the other restraints shows them similarly padlocked, and it’s difficult for Mobei Jun to keep his hands steady where they cradle Shang Qinghua’s face. He could have been bound this way for hours; no doubt his joints are starting to cramp.
Mobei Jun casts a cursory glance around the room, searching for something he could use to break the locks. It’s largely in vain, because Linguang Jun has little class but he does have money, and the metal bonds are likely steel.
“I don’t have anything to cover you with,” Mobei Jun admits, feeling angry with himself the second he says it. There were no clothes in the apartment last time either, but he hadn’t been thinking about that when his frantic search had brought him here. “I can wrap you in a bed sheet and carry you out.”
Shang Qinghua just shakes his head tiredly, nodding towards something in the corner. Mobei Jun knows it’s a camera before he even glances at it. It’s cheap plastic and duct taped to the wall, but functional.
“If I leave,” he asks carefully, brushing a soothing hand down Shang Qinghua’s side when his eyes widen with panic. “Will he move you before I return?”
Mobei Jun already knows the answer, but it doesn’t make him feel any less pissed when Shang Qinghua offers him another helpless nod.
“What can I do?” he asks. Thankfully, his growing desperation doesn’t sound through his voice. All Shang Qinghua does is blink at him before lifting his head and jerking his chin towards the door.
“Mmmfn! Mmmgn mmph ,” he mumbles uselessly, frowning at the bridge of his nose where the only part of the gag he can see is hooked.
Mobei Jun can understand well enough. “No. If my uncle is coming back, then I shall be here to face him.”
“Mmmnno! Mnnh nnfggh mn mmmmgh!” Shang Qinghua shakes his head frantically, wriggling with his whole body in the direction of the door.
He continues to thrash and garble into his gag until Mobei Jun pulls him back across the bed and settles him with a heavy hand against his chest. It takes Shang Qinghua a second before he calms, throwing his head back against the mattress with a frustrated, “Mmnnnnn…”
The frustration is mutual. Linguang Jun was blunt, but that didn’t make him less thorough in his operations; Shang Qinghua babbled out his plan and the first thing Linguang Jun did was slap a bigger gag on him.
Helpless, Mobei Jun rests his forehead against Shang Qinghua’s in some modicum of comfort for them both. It makes Shang Qinghua’s shoulders slump a little, but his eyes flutter shut so Mobei Jun can claim he’s made some difference. He wishes he could kiss Shang Qinghua; he should have last time, but he refrained out of some idiotic pretense of control. It seems like such a petty reason now that the opportunity has been taken away.
In an attempt to soothe them both, Mobei Jun strokes one hand down Shang Qinghua’s side, thumbing at the just hip as he slides the hand on his chest a little higher until it sits just shy of his throat. Not pressing, just a gentle weight to calm the other man’s breathing; he can’t be comfortable with his mouth stuff like that. It seems to work for a bit, the tension unspooling out of Shang Qinghua’s body as the seconds tick by. Until Mobei Jun grazes the bend of his leg and Shang Qinghua makes an alarmed squeak.
He wriggles, twisting onto his side like he’s in pain and very nearly kneeing Mobei Jun in the face in an effort to close his legs.
Mobei Jun crowds him immediately. “What are you doing? Are you in pain?”
The question makes Shang Qinghua curl tighter into himself, but he shakes his head frantically ‘no’. When Mobei Jun tries to turn him onto his back, Shang Qinghua squeaks again and recoils away from him. His eyes keep flicking to Mobei Jun’s, wide and worried. It almost looks like he’s trying to cover himself, even though up until this point, Shang Qinghua hadn’t seemed particularly perturbed by his own nakedness.
“Stop being foolish!” Mobei Jun snaps at him, strapping an arm around Shang Qinghua’s waist and bodily turning him over.
Shang Qinghua’s muffled wailing is gradually rising in pitch. “Mmnoo! Nhff mnngh mnnah!!”
The second pass at his face concludes with Shang Qinghua’s knee meeting his chin so hard that his teeth shut with a harsh click that makes both of them freeze. Mobei Jun glowers at him, rubbing his jaw, and barks, “Enough!”
He seizes one of Shang Qinghua’s legs with the intent of dragging him closer. It’s only when Shang Qinghua makes a truly frantic sound and turns his face into the bedding that Mobei Jun realises the problem: Shang Qinghua is undeniably hard.
His cock lies heavy on his stomach, flushed and barely glistening at the tip. It twitches when Mobei Jun’s hand tightens around his leg.
“Shang Qinghua,” he rumbles, feeling his mouth go dry. “You have been like this the whole time?”
It’s clear he’s not going to get an answer; Shang Qinghua is resolutely trying to dive in between the bedsprings, red-faced and sniffling. Curiously, Mobei Jun traces one finger up his length, and Shang Qinghua shudders so hard the padlocks on his restraints jingle loudly.
“You enjoy this?” Mobei Jun asks, swiping his thumb over the slit and nearly getting kneed in the jaw again for his trouble. He presses Shang Qinghua’s legs open, not allowing him to hide. “Being bound and gagged, entirely at the mercy of whoever finds you here laid bare?”
Embarrassment Shang Qinghua will hide from, but taunting he will not. He turns just enough to shoot Mobei Jun a tear-lined look of caution as he shakes his head. “Mno mnneemnghh, nffh mnngh.”
“Hush,” Mobei Jun orders him, and Shang Qinghua shivers, going limp. “If this Mobei Jun can help…”
Shang Qinghua’s eyes widen for a second before his gaze wanders to the camera jammed in the corner. Mobei Jun understands; if they go any further, there’s a high chance this footage will end up all over the internet.
“How benevolent of you, nephew.”
Mobei Jun snaps his head up, hand diving for his gun. A click has him freezing.
“Ah-buh-buh, is that anyway to greet your uncle?” Linguang Jun asks, a grin carving his face. The black muzzle of his gun is trained on Mobei Jun unflinchingly. “Toss your weapon, nice and slow now, there’s a good boy. Or I might have to shoot your little toy there.”
Mobei Jun’s lips curl back into a snarl, but he slowly draws the gun out of his belt, flicking it across the room. Linguang Jun’s eyes glint gleefully as he hefts the gun higher.
“Back away from the bed. Hand where I can see them. We wouldn’t want any accidents, would we?” When Mobei Jun doesn’t move, his uncle’s smile drops. He points the gun at Shang Qinghua who goes deathly pale. “Don’t test me, boy. Up against the wall. Now.”
It’s this feeling again, the one Mobei Jun loathes; the feeling of leaving Shang Qinghua vulnerable. He backs away from the bed, but not without discreetly squeezing Shang Qinghua’s arm in the only reassurance he can offer.
Linguang Jun follows him, circling the bed until he’s standing where Mobei Jun was a moment earlier. He doesn’t take his eyes off him until Mobei Jun’s back is pressed flat against the thin wall, hands up by his head. On the bed, Shang Qinghua’s eyes track him as well, wide with terror.
He makes a frightened little noise and Linguang Jun leans over to slap him. Mobei Jun leaps forward but the gun is back in his face, forcing him to back off.
“You stay right where you are,” Linguang Jun spits at him.
Mobei Jun is gearing up to charge again when Linguang Jun rests his hand on Shang Qinghua’s head.
The smaller man whimpers into his gag. “Mmnnh mn.. Nghh.”
Mobei Jun stops cold, watching as his uncle threads his fingers into the smaller man’s hair, stroking in a way that’s almost tender. A chain glints around his neck, and Shang Qinghua’s eyes slide to it, widening.
The key.
“I suppose I should thank this little rat, really. He was wonderful bait, wasn’t he?” Linguang Jun pauses to sneer at Mobei Jun. “Must have a talented mouth to bring you running, so I thought he’d enjoy having it filled.”
“Don’t touch him,” Mobei Jun growls, feeling a sharp, primal urge curling his fingers into claws.
He should have known better than to challenge his uncle to a fight he can win, but his hands on Shang Qinghua’s body is making Mobei Jun see red.
“I’ll touch all I want, nephew.”
Linguang Jun shoots him a positively feral smile and seizes a handful of Shang Qinghua’s hair, dragging him painfully off the edge of the bed. Without limbs free to catch himself, Shang Qinghua lands heavily on the floor, letting out a sharp squeal with the force of impact.
The sound is all Mobei Jun needs to burst forward, aiming a sharp jab to Linguang Jun’s ribs. He ducks under his uncle’s arm, forcing it up with a hand on his wrist just as the gun goes off. Plaster rains down on them, and as Linguang Jun twists to cover his eyes, Mobei Jun lunges for the chain around his neck. His fingers graze it just as Linguang Jun plants a foot on his abdomen and kicks.
Mobei Jun falls back scrambling to his feet just as the muzzle of the gun greets his temple. Shang Qinghua shrieks, muffled pleas spilling from behind his gag. “ Mmnnoh! Mnnph mn hrrrt hm pllphhh!”
“Shut up!” Linguang Jun seethes down at him. “Or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”
Shang QInghua falls abruptly silent, eyes teary until they focus on something just over his shoulder. He jerks his chin at Mobei Jun, nodding at his uncle with urgency.
Linguang Jun presses the gun harder against Mobei Jun’s head. “How dare you! Back against the wall, arrogant brat!”
Mobei Jun backs up against the wall. Linguang Jun looks livid, teeth bared and eyes crazed. His fingers twitch around the trigger, and Mobei Jun believes with a sharp realisation that it’s entirely possible his uncle will shoot him by accident. He’s running through his chances of successfully disarming him when something glints in his periphery: Shang Qinghua has his fingers around the key. The chain must have snapped when Mobei Jun attacked his uncle.
“You’ll pay for that,” Linguang Jun promises, and Mobei Jun’s attention snaps back to him. He’s wearing a frightening smile. “You think I won’t kill you? Your father raised a fool, in that case.”
Mobei Jun isn’t particularly afraid of death, but he feels less than pleased about it being at the hands of his uncle. He’s stilled by that thought, along with the idea that if Linguang Jun shoots him in the head, Shang Qinghua will be left alone with him.
Beyond Linguang Jun’s shoulder, Shang Qinghua has successfully slid the arm binder off himself, wincing when the metal buckle clinks.
“I can see why you like that thing so much,” Linguang Jun sneers, tilting his head in Shang Qinghua’s direction. “It makes some very pretty noises when distressed, doesn’t it? Tempting to keep around. I know some people who’d pay well for such a responsive pet.”
Bile rises hot and metallic in Mobei Jun’s throat as the bruises on Shang Qinghua’s body take new shape. His hands twitch with the need to wrap around Linguang Jun’s neck.
“Much more tolerable with that gag on, wouldn’t you agree?” Linguang Jun continues, his grin stretching now that he’s found a nerve to strike. “They’d pass him around like a bottle all night long.”
The words dig like a nail, but surprisingly Shang Qinghua rolls his eyes like he’s heard it all before. There’s a stark possibility he has; Linguang Jun has always loved the sound of his own voice. One of the leg cuffs slides free from around Shang Qinghua’s thigh, and he tenses, glancing warily at Linguang Jun.
“What do you want, uncle?” Mobei Jun grits out. In contrast to Linguang Jun, Mobei Jun has always been reticent. But he’ll talk as much as necessary if it will provide the distraction Shang Qinghua needs.
Linguang Jun sighs like this is all some arduous task, hefting the gun. “I merely want what’s owed to me. Sign over the rights to the company and I won’t shoot you right here, nephew. I’ll even let you take your little plaything with you.”
When he waves the gun at Shang Qinghua, the man shoves both his arms behind his back. A facsimile of captivity whilst the game is still in play.
Mobei Jun snorts derisively, lacing his tone with condescension as he says, “And what then? I can simply go to the police and inform them of your coercion.”
It works like a charm; if there’s one thing Linguang Jun can’t tolerate, it’s being looked down upon.
His mouth twists into a snarl. “Insolent boy! What proof do you have? You think I’d be stupid enough to record this?”
Linguang Jun fishes a remote out of his pocket and clicks it towards the camera in the corner. The red light shuts off with a wheeze. Behind him, Shang Qinghua has gotten both legs free of the restraints. He doesn’t pause to bother with the gag as he shakily eases himself to his feet. It makes a shot of anger leap through Mobei Jun’s chest to see his face screw tight with pain when he stretches his joints, wobbly as a newborn colt. Fear follows closely behind it; if Linguang Jun spots him now, he won’t hesitate to shoot Shang Qinghua like a dog.
“If you wanted the company,” Mobei Jun begins, squaring his shoulders as he raises his voice. “You could have merely asked. What use was there in turning to such means?”
“As if you would have signed over your inheritance,” Linguang Jun snaps at him.
“I am amenable to good business. Uncle did not ask.”
There is some satisfaction in seeing Linguang Jun nonplussed. He has always been this way; resorting to underhanded means before even trying an honest channel. It will be his downfall eventually, but it has been an effective venture so far, and so Mobei Jun can’t entirely fault his uncle for leaping to the worst course of action first. Shang Qinghua is picking his way around Linguang Jun’s back, eyes flicking between him, Mobei Jun, and the gun. He reaches for the glass whisky decanter on the stand. Mobei Jun resolutely does not look at him.
Linguang Jun scoffs. “It’s too late to play nice, nephew,” he chides sardonically. Pulling out a roll of duct tape, he brandishes it at Mobei Jun. “I don’t want to use such inelegant equipment, so have a little respect for your uncle. You will sign the rights to me, or I’ll flay that ugly thing alive and make you watch.”
Worse than the words, Linguang Jun jerks his head towards where Shang Qinghua had been lying and abruptly freezes when he spots the vacant restraints. He whirls around, teeth bared in a snarl and gun poised at the very same moment Shang Qinghua brings the decanter down on his head. The gun goes off with a BANG that makes Mobei Jun’s ears ring, the decanter shattering as it greets Linguang Jun’s skull, and Shang Qinghua drops to the floor.
Linguang Jun screams, his face a mess of blood and glass and liquor as he clutches one eye. Mobei Jun doesn’t waste a second in delivering a brutal uppercut to his chin. Linguang Jun’s head snaps back. His feet leave the ground before he lands on his temple with a thud, and Mobei Jun drags him up by the collar for a powerful right hook to make sure he’s unconscious.
He kicks the gun out of Linguang Jun’s limp hand, not even bothering to look where it skids away.
“Shang Qinghua!” Mobei Jun drops to the other man’s side, urgency and something that tastes like fear clawing his belly.
Shang Qinghua has both arms over his head, shoulders shaking violently. He spasms when Mobei Jun grasps him, recoiling in a mess of flailing limbs. His nails rake down Mobei Jun’s forearms until he grabs him by the wrists.
“Mmmnnooh! Mnph mmmgh!”
“It’s me,” Mobei Jun snaps at him. “Stop moving.”
Shang Qinghua obeys, going as still as he can whilst still trembling with terror. Mobei Jun makes short but thorough work of checking him over for injuries; he baulks at the blood spattered over Shang Qinghua’s chest until he realises that it’s his uncle’s. The bullet missed Shang Qinghua’s body; Mobei Jun can spy the hole it tore through the cheap plaster wall.
“Hold on,” Mobei Jun instructs, and turns around to find the abandoned key.
Something grabs his sleeve, yanking with enough force to tear his collar. Shang Qinghua shakes, eyes screwed shut, his knuckles turning white around Mobei Jun’s shirt.
Oh.
Mobei Jun stills himself for a moment, sucking in a breath to try and disperse the adrenaline choking his veins.
He places a palm against Shang Qinghua’s cheek, trying to employ the same calming method he’d used earlier. “I’m not leaving,” Mobei Jun tells him firmly. The words seem to penetrate, Shang Qinghua’s hold loosening a fraction. “Be still. I will find the key.”
It takes almost a full minute before Shang Qinghua releases him, Mobei Jun’s thumb stroking over his knuckles until his fingers slide free.
“Mmnng,” Shang Qinghua groans sadly.
The key is exactly where he left it in the jumble of restraints. When Mobei Jun slots it into the buckle at the nape of Shang Qinghua’s neck, the other man becomes suddenly alert.
He makes a sharp noise, struggling to push himself upright until Mobei Jun bodily hefts him into his lap. The lock comes off with a satisfying click and Mobei Jun throws it into the corner with such prejudice that it tears another hole in the wall. He makes short work of the buckles, but when he grasps the front of the gag, Shang Qinghua’s hand shoots up to lock around his wrist.
“Easy,” Mobei Jun soothes him. He turns Shang Qinghua in his arms, coaxing him to lean against his shoulder and running his knuckles up and down the other man’s spine.
Shang Qinghua’s grip loosens but it stays around his wrist. Mobei Jun understands why a second later as he gently tugs the muzzle off: It’s bigger than a simple insert gag. It’s a huge cock gag, stuffed so deep that Mobei Jun can see the bulge moving in Shang Qinghua’s throat as it’s removed. He’s faintly astonished that man has apparently been deep-throating a dildo for god knows how long now.
He wants to be impressed by Shang Qinghua’s apparent lack of gag reflex, but it’s overcome by the cold realisation that the insert is nearly the exact size and length as Mobei Jun’s cock. Something acrid stings his tongue when Mobei Jun thinks of whatever sick game Linguang Jun must have been playing, binding Shang Qinghua tight, stuffing his mouth until he chokes, and then treating himself to a fifth of Scotch whilst watching him whine and struggling.
Shang Qinghua’s throat bobs with a disgusting GLUCK as the gag finally glides free. He coughs, thick ropes of saliva stringing from the dildo to his mouth; he’s already trying to babble though his jaw must be painfully stiff.
“Don’t try to speak,” Mobei Jun growls at him, locking one hand under Shang Qinghua’s chin.
Whatever argument Shang Qinghua was about to launch dies when Mobei Jun digs his thumb into the hinge of his jaw. He makes a weak noise of relief, eyelids fluttering. For a minute, Mobei Jun just rubs circles into the cramped muscle, petting the other man’s back as Shang Qinghua gets more and more limp in his arms.
It doesn’t last. Shang Qinghua’s head pops up, eyes gaining some clarity. “He was embezzling.”
Mobei Jun blinks at him. It’s a second before he registers what’s been said, since Shang Qinghua’s voice is wrecked beyond belief. It’s not the time or place, but it makes something hot and thick as tar curl in Mobei Jun’s gut.
“What?”
“Your uncle,” Shang Qinghua rasps, and then coughs hard. He swallows dry a few times before trying again. “He’s been embezzling funds from your company. I found out about it and I was going to blow the whistle. It’s all on a drive he took.”
Typical of Linguang Jun; only he would steal from himself. Mobei Jun glares at his uncle’s prone body before turning back to ask, “Did you keep a copy.”
The look Shang Qinghua gives him is flat out offended. “Who do you think runs your accounting department, ah? Of course I made a copy. I made several! All of them were on timed publication as well, in case I didn’t come back.”
It’s undeniably pragmatic. Still, Mobei Jun dislikes how sure of his own demise Shang Qinghua seems to have been.
“I would have brought you back,” he feels the need to say.
Shang Qinghua gives him a watery smile. “Ah… Of course, of course. I wouldn’t dare doubt, sir.”
“Mobei Jun.”
“What?”
Mobei Jun shifts Shang Qinghua in his lap, cupping his face to stare straight into his eyes. “After all this, should you not use my name?”
“Ah.” Shang Qinghua blinks, adorably. “Mobei Jun.”
Mobei Jun nods and then abruptly stands. Shang Qinghua yelps, even though he was never in danger of falling, tucked tightly into Mobei Jun’s arms.
“Can you stand?”
Shang Qinghua wiggles his legs a bit, mouth twisting as his knee joints creak. But he says, “Yes? I think so.”
Mobei Jun places him down carefully, keeping an arm around his waist as Shang Qinghua regains his balance. When there’s no more danger of him falling, Mobei Jun turns his attention to his uncle and promptly strips him down to his boxers.
“Put those on,” he orders, tossing his uncle’s discarded clothes at Shang Qinghua. “Shoes as well.”
“Wha- These won’t fit me, you know?” Shang Qinghua complains. When Mobei Jun gives him a look, he squeaks and tugs on the clothes as fast as his stiff body will allow.
As he does, Mobei Jun picks up the discarded restraints and begins strapping Linguang Jun into them. If he tightens them more than necessary, then that’s the least his uncle deserves. He casts an eye over Linguang Jun’s exposed hands before picking up the dropped roll of duct tape and wrapping them into fists. When he’s done, he shoves Linguang Jun’s tie into his mouth and then wraps enough tape around his head that he can’t spit it out.
Shang Qinghua is staring at him when he looks up, dressed in Linguang Jun’s too big suit. It makes him look smaller, the jacket sleeves extending almost completely over his fingers. The sight of him injects something vicious in Mobei Jun, protective and possessive. It channels him into snatching up the ridiculous gag and dropping it into the bin in the corner with a thud of finality.
The click of Shang Qinghua’s tongue draws his gaze, but the other man flushes and turns away, tugging at the oversized sleeve cuffs. Mobei Jun can make an educated guess about his embarrassment.
“My uncle will touch no part of you ever again,” Mobei Jun informs him. He’s surprised at the fierceness in his own voice, but he means every bit of it.
Shang Qinghua’s gaze travels to him, his jaw falling open. Something passes between them, drawn and thick. The anticipation of a feeling. The swelling potential of motion.
The thread snaps. Mobei Jun reaches Shang Qinghua in two strides, seizing his face and crushing their mouths together. There is no resistance; Shang Qinghua falls into him like he’d been waiting, lips opening against the push of Mobei Jun’s tongue and allowing him to lick inside. Mobei Jun tilts his head, supporting Shang Qinghua’s weight with an arm around his waist. The skin is chilly under his palm. It reminds Mobei Jun of their situation, and how vulnerable Shang Qinghua is right now.
When he pulls back, Shang Qinghua looks like he’s been hit over the head, dazed, cheeks stained with blush.
It’s a moment before he asks, “So, what now?”
“Now, I’m taking you home,” Mobei Jun replies, and scoops Shang Qinghua up in his arms.
“I can walk!” Shang Qinghua yelps.
Mobei Jun petulantly tightens his hold. “No.”
The man in his arms goes slack, fingers winding into his collar. “Okay,” Shang Qinghua concedes.
And so Mobei Jun takes him home.