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It"s Monday morning, quarter to nine.
And as is routine, as is tradition, Ten takes a long, indulgent sip from his Monday morning iced Americano and swivels his chair to face the elevators. He tilts back. He gets the best angle.
Senior Consultant Qian Kun is morning rush hour ruffled. Disheveled. He smooths his tie, combs through his hair as he cradles his own Americano to his chest.
Ten turns to watch him shuffle to his desk, too. He waits for the exact moment—gratifying and thrilling—when he spots the sticky note acrostic poem Ten had stuck on his computer monitor. Kun peels off Q—Qualification-rich. He sighs. He squares his shoulders. He glances back at Ten—right at him—raises one dark eyebrow, and sighs again.
Ten smiles sunnily in greeting.
This thing with Senior Consultant Qian Kun, it"s been going on for months now.
It"s just that—Qian Kun, he’s aggravating. He aggravates. He"s just—so well-spoken. He"s confident. He"s charismatic. Popular with management and the more useless, hero-starved interns. He"s good at his job—too good maybe, almost as good as Ten. But only because he takes it too seriously. Only because he wants it too bad. Because he hasn"t ceded as he should.
So Ten, he likes ruining his mood sometimes—most times. Ten likes needling. He likes prodding and poking. Ten likes pressing on the bruise. And Ten likes making Kun squirm.
It had started off simply enough. A gentle hazing of sorts for the new transfer with his fancy 985 credentials and his aggravatingly charming, dimpled smile and aggravatingly warm, musical voice. A good-natured attempt to remind him of his rightful place as second to Ten"s obvious first, too, when Kun got a little too invested in trying to outperform Ten.
And there was—there is a certain satisfaction in getting under his skin. The displeased little poke of his dimple in his cheek. His too-heavy steps. His furrowed brows. How pleasant and tight his voice gets when he"s fighting the urge to curse. To hit. To fight back.
And it’s just—too easy. Even when it’s not. Even when Kun tries to make it difficult. Adapting too quickly. Building up a tolerance. It"s—annoying, putting forth the effort to be met with Kun’s stupidly placid, stupidly self-assured smile. He feels it like an itch. Like a misstep. Like a loose strand that Ten has to twist his fingers into and tug and tug until it finally unravels.
It had started out small. Innocent. Testing his patience. Fake spiders on his keyboard. Salt sachets instead of sugar. Bamboo chopsticks instead of pens in his pencil holder. Replacing his name on the sales leaderboard with Cutie Baby Bean.
And it had escalated—by necessity—to hiding Kun"s succulents and indoor shoes around the office. To stealing the paper whenever Kun sent documents to the printer, too. To mild powerpoint vandalism.
The escalation, it had reached something of a tipping point last month. Ten manually changing the presentation time on Kun"s calendar, so he rushed back from his lunch break and burst into the empty conference room with mala sauce on his tie and on the corner of his mouth.
And Kun had cursed at him—just once, under his breath, but fiercely.
He had confronted him at their monthly company dinner, too. Kun had curled a strong, heavy arm around his waist. He held Ten captive. He held Ten close. Company-dinner tipsy, bold, bold, his cheeks flushed, his eyes shining, his lips plush and ruddy.
Why, Senior Consultant Lee, he’d insisted, breath hot and wet and unnerving close, close, a burn at the corner of Ten’s jaw. It doesn’t have to be this way between us. It can be nice between us. I"m always nice, Lee. Ten. Ten Lee. Are you listening? Why don’t you ever listen?.
And Ten, company-dinner tipsy, too, he hadn"t thought to argue. Because no, Kun hasn"t always been nice. He ignores Ten sometimes on the company messaging app, in the conference room, in the elevator. And Kun, he’d snapped at him when Ten teased him—good-naturedly—about the mess on his desk once. Had rolled his eyes once at him, mid-meeting when Ten had disagreed with him. And Kun, he’d gloated the first time he beat him. And Kun hadn"t yielded. He hasn"t yielded. He isn"t yielding even now.
No, Ten had been too, too gone then. Too, too warm. Too, too dizzy. Tongue too, too clumsy. Body tensing helplessly against the awful, awful, hot, hot, slow, slow honey down his spine. He had jerked away—stung, burned.
And Kun had let him go.
And Ten had come in early that next Monday to replace all the family pictures on Kun’s desk with stills from Peppa Pig. Ten had even enlisted the interns for help—the more discerning, respectful interns. He had made an entire private chat for the occasion and bought them coffee and donuts. One of the interns, a Macau transfer, a long, squirmy thing with bright eyes and too many teeth in his mouth, he had called it an office flirtation. He had said it so loudly. Ten had snatched his donut back for that. He had put him back on filing duty, too. Labeling and alphabetizing. Menial, meaningless labor. Ten had tilted his chair to watch him, too. He had made a tradition and routine of that, too, a curl of satisfaction at the resigned, defeated slope of his shoulders, the downturned corners of his big mouth.
It isn’t flirtation. It isn’t romance. This rivalry. This restless, useless itch beneath his skin when Ten catches Kun’s warm eyes sometimes. The bristling desire to make Kun’s placid smile strain and finally break. To ruin him just a little. Make him bad. Make him mean.
And yes, in weaker moments of sleep deprivation and caffeine-induced psychosis, Ten has found himself fixating on the firmness of Kun’s ass in his work slacks. The pull of fabric across his broad shoulders and chest. The pretty lilt of his voice and elegant twist of his fingers on his phone cord when he’s charming another big client—away from Ten.
But it passes. It doesn"t count if it passes.
Across the room, Qian Kun has cleared off his monitor, settled into his desk, opened his log for the day.
Ten takes a long, indulgent sip from his Monday morning Americano, and he settles, too. Opens, too. Works, too.
🖨️
The end of the fiscal quarter, it weighs heavy. It lengthens his working hours, shortens his lunch break. It strains his shoulders, his eyes. It aches in his wrist, his fingertips. It has him eating lunch—the occasional delivery dinner—over his keyboard.
It’s another one of those days. An awful, awful Monday. Invoices, phone calls, emails between bites of his delivery noodles.
Ten massages into his eyelids until he sees stars. He stretches back until the lumbar pillow hits his spine—just right. He takes an indulgent sip from his long-melted, watered down coffee. He thumbs at the corner of his framed picture of his cats. He taps his bobblehead deskmate and watches his head bounce.
It’s a silly little thing. A bespectacled cat with his little briefcase and little tie. A birthday gift. Reminded me of you, Kun had told him, with a smile in his voice, in his eyes. Warm in a way that could have been teasing, if Kun wasn"t so earnest, didn’t always mean what he said. And it had made something warm, something tiny tingle in his chest. It had shocked a helpless smile over his face.
So Ten had stolen his favorite cookies from the conference room the next morning as punishment for it.
The recollection sits sour and tight in the pit of his belly. Then blooms. Then sweetens. Then spreads.
And that feeling, it takes longer to pass. It lingers. It bristles. It bothers.
Across from him, Kun highlights something on his little planner. Crosses something out. He puffs his cheeks as he tilts back in his chair.
And Ten has to break it. The tension, prickling, tingling. He has to ruin it—ruin him, just a little. Has to make him bad. Make him mean. He has to make it right.
It thrills, the swell of sudden, glittering purpose.
Thrilled, filled with sudden glittering purpose, bold with it, impulsive, Ten opens his chat with Kun.
Trusting him to read and respond—promptly, Ten speedwalks to the office storage room. He crouches behind the towers of A4 paper, and he waits.
🖨️
It’s a simple plan. Juvenile. A little crude, all things considered, a jump scare. But Ten, he is making do.
Kun startles. He squeaks. He flushes very, very darkly. "Lee," he says, too.
And it"s worth it. Needling, prodding, poking at him, it always, always is.
"Your face," he says—to savor it just a little longer.
And Kun rolls his eyes. He dimples angrily. He fixes his tie reflexively.
He tries the door. It rattles. He laughs—sharp and disbelieving.
"Really," he says.
He tries it again. And again. Puts his shoulder into it, too. He curses soundly.
“Why would you? We"re stuck here. And you’re just such—” Kun exhales through his mouth, slowly. Deliberately as he turns to face him.
And yeah, Ten admittedly hadn’t thought this all the way through. But he squares his shoulders. But he sets his chin. Defiant. Imperious. As he meets those dark, burning eyes.
"Hey!” And it bristles—as it had then. As it always does. “Why do you hate me so much, huh?"
Kun laughs. "Why do I—? "
The shadows are harsh on the planes of Kun’s face. He runs a hand through his hair—exasperated. Loose strands fall across his forehead. Ten swallows past the dryness in his throat, the sudden, sour sharpness of an apology there.
“Why are you like this, Lee?”
And of course he wouldn’t understand that asking ruins the entire thing.
“Like what?” Ten presses. Making a fight of it. Making it right again.
Kun shakes his head hard. Jiggles with the lock once more. Squares his shoulders. Collects himself. Satisfaction—inopportune—curls in Ten"s chest. He’s affected; I’ve affected.
“I just don’t get it.”
And honestly Ten doesn’t either. Not really. Beyond needing to get under his skin. Beyond liking it when he succeeds. But it’s just—dizzying having those eyes on him. Dark. Burning. The squirming, breathless, hot, heavy entirety of his attention. It thrums beneath Ten"s skin, too, the prickling heat of it.
“Like what?” Ten repeats. “Say it,” he says.
“An asshole,” Kun says—with feeling. “For no reason. And only with me. You’re just—always trying to make me mad. And I’ve—tried. I’m nice to you. We’re the same age, you know. I thought we could be friends. I thought we could be okay? But you just—Why?”
”Because I wanted to.”
His nostrils flare. His jaw sets. And they’ve moved closer—somehow. Ten can feel the race of his heart like this. The sear of his breathing—hard. Fast. “You’re so—”
And Ten can’t help it. He kisses him.
Kun responds immediately. Sighing into it, melting, melting, he kisses like he wants it, kisses like he means it. Curling his entire body forward with it, one hand at his waist, the other on his cheekbone—tilting, guiding. Absurdly tender with it. Taming. Gentling. So soft. So stupid. So, so, so slow. The stroke of his thumb into Ten"s bottom lip. The roll of his tongue in Ten"s mouth. The way he eases Ten shudderingly loose and open.
Of course, he"d kiss like this, Ten thinks. Of course he"d need correcting, need guidance. Clutching at his shoulders, raking through his hair, surging beneath him. He corrects. He guides. He coaxes. He coaxes. Gets it harder and hotter and more and more and more. Come on. Come on.
Obliging—for once—Kun kisses harder, hotter, more intent to it, more heat, as he urges Ten back, back, back against the shelves. Ten’s arm crashes against the old photocopier that IT promised they"d move months ago. He curses. Kun laughs into his mouth. Ten pulls at his hair to break it into a soft, shaky, shaky little moan, parts his trembling thighs to make room for Kun"s solid, warm, warm body.
Kun presses into him. Solid. Warmth—bleeding. Licks into his mouth. Curls his tongue inside deep and slow and dirty and with purpose.
Heat roars beneath Ten"s skin. His mind hazes. His legs quake around the inviting heat of Kun"s thighs.
“Mr. Qian,” Ten manages, breathy, scandalized. He twists his fingers into Kun’s lanyard, his tie, tugs him breathlessly tighter, tighter. Behind him, the shelves rattle. Pens jostle. Highlighters. Manila folders. Staples. And Ten arches sharper, curls and curls into all the disgustingly strong lines of his body. Greedy for it, entitled. The gratification of his shaky, ruined little moans. The taut, taut tension of his body, the tight, tight coil of the infurating control beneath his skin. Wants the sweet release of splintering, finally, finally breaking . “Mr. Qian, come on. Come on.”
But “Hey,” Kun says. Softly. Softly. “Hey. Hey. Why can"t you be nice, huh? Just let me. Let me."
Ten’s fingers sharpen at Kun’s shoulders. Down the rolling tension of his spine. Into the swell of his ass. Squeezing into the firmness. Kun shudders. He pants. Fabric rustles between them. Kun"s stubble rasps at Ten"s chin.
“You’re such an asshole,” Kun murmurs against his mouth. Shuddery and so, so sharp. “Don"t think you even know how to be nice, huh. Always so, so—"
And Ten chases the heat of him. The strength. The danger.
“Shut up.” He bites into the plushness of his bottom lip. Suckles. Is awarded with a breathy little whimper, the rolling tide of Kun’s hips. Sighing, quaking, he tilts his own hips in offering. “You like it,” he says, kneading into Kun’s ass, urging him harder. Meaner. What’s the point otherwise. “You like it.”
Liking it, wanting it, easy, so, so easy, Kun follows. He presses. He pins. The buckle of his belt drags against Ten’s belly. His hiss burns against Ten’s jaw. And his fingers close around Ten’s waist—anticipating, arresting. Heat pulses low, low in Ten"s belly, aches between his spread thighs.
“You do, Ten,” Kun says, and he tilts into him, scrapes a kiss into his throat. Ten’s head tips back, back—an offering. Kun’s hands shift, curl around Ten"s wrists. They pin. They hold. Ten swallows thickly, quells a shudder. “Just let me, okay,” Kun says, against the quiver of Ten"s pulse, his teeth dragging with it. “Let me.”
But of course, Ten has to wriggle, has to test it. Because he can. Because he has a right. He arches, twists—tries. But there"s no give. Kun is so, so strong. Ten"s cock fattens, pulses against Kun’s thigh. “Qian Kun is so strong, huh,” Ten says. "So forceful. So responsible.Thinks he has to take charge, huh."
Kun"s cheek curls at Ten"s throat. Heat rattles through Ten"s body.
"You like it," Kun says. “You’re so hard,” he says, rough, amazed, as he rocks his knee in a slow, slow roll along the aching, aching ridge of Ten"s cock. Deliberate. Delicious. Ten shudders. His fingers spasm around the force of Kun’s hold. Kun doesn"t even shift—so, so strong. Ten bites back a whine, hisses through his teeth.
“You are, too, Qian,” Ten manages, twisting to prove it. He ruts against the heavy, promising bulge of it. Fuck. Fuck. And huffing a laugh—an infuriating laugh—Kun pulses heavy and hot against his thigh. Their foreheads brush. Kun’s eyelashes kiss against his cheekbone. Ten hooks a leg around his waist, greedy, hot.
The friction has him bucking helplessly. Has Kun’s fingernails biting into his skin. Kun kisses him—hard. Sharp. Mean. He uses teeth—Ten had known.
Desire roars beneath his skin. "Come on,” Ten says. “Do something about it, then.”
Kun releases his hold. And Ten freed, gets a good fistful of hair, tugs hard enough to make Kun whimper.
"Come on," he says again, more breath, more raw, rasped need.
“Be nice," Kun says. "Let me,” he says. Digs his thumb into the nape of his neck, deliberately, deliciously cruel. Yes. Yes. He drags the other hand down Ten"s body, cups over the bulge of his cock, He squeezes. And clawing down Kun"s spine, anchoring, breathless, Ten goes lax with it, whimpers, tips forward to watch.
Kun, he"s watching, too. Forehead to his, breath shuddering out as he works Ten"s pants open one-handed, curls around his cock and strokes and strokes. Languid. Appraising. Sweet. Not, not knowing that that ruins the game, too. But Ten, Ten can allow it. Just this once. Just for a little bit. He"ll teach him—later. Later.
“You, too,” Ten says, pushing, pushing into his hand, squeezing, squeezing into his ass. “Come on, baby,” he tries. “Come on, gege.”
Kun shudders. He shoves his pants open—rougher with himself than he is with Ten. Rough as Ten would want him.
“Let me feel you,” he says.
Kun tips. He drags. He pulses. He leaks.
And it"s good—he"s good. And his fingers are so pretty, like this, so big, so strong, so, so elegant as he curls and strokes and strokes.
Ten loses himself in the sensations. Just, just, just the velvet, pulsing, wet, wet heat of him, the scrape of his calluses, the soft ruin of his parted mouth at Ten"s throat.
“Kun,” he whimpers.
Kun"s lips scrape his jaw. They skim his cheekbone—clumsy, rough, but too tender still, too much still. Ten shakes, rocks, rocks. His cock jerks and drools in Kun"s spit-slick fist, against the flushed, pulsing, pulsing ridge of him. And gone, gone, Ten whines. He claws. He bites. He begs. "Kun," he whines. "Please."
"I know, baby," Kun says—stupid and so, so soft. "I"ve got you. It"s okay. It"s okay," he says.
And tipping forward, he spits directly onto their cocks—just like that. Messy and too, too hot. He twists his fist faster, faster. And harder and hotter and better and better. "There you go," he kisses into his jaw. “There you go. Take what you need." So, soft, still, stupid, stupid.
And it makes Ten want soft, stupid things, too. To drench himself in the spicy sweetness of his skin. Fold into his heat. Melt into something softer, something sweeter. To blunt the sharper edges to his words, too. Treat him gentle. Treat him kind. Treat him good. Impossible. Stupid. Stupid.
Whining with it, shaky, shaking, Ten mouths into the knot of his tie, over the starched fabric at his throat. Wrinkles it with the wet, smearing heat of his helpless whines. The skin trembles beneath his lips. The shift of Kun’s soft, shaky little moans. The spicy sweet tickle of his cologne. The richer musk of his skin beneath. Heady like wine, hot and rich like it, too. Kun. Kun. “Please,” he hears himself say. “Kun—Qian Kun—gege, please.”
Kun’s teeth scrape at his temple, his lips, too—a clumsy, sharp, sharp kiss. Ten claws at his shoulders, through the devastation of his helpless shudder. Kun’s fist tightens just a hair, just too much. The breathtaking friction. The heat and pulse of him. It pulls a whine from his throat. A helpless, hitching little plea. “I know, baby. Baby. I know. Just come. Come on. Let go. Let go.”
And shaking, sobbing, gnawing, rocking, rocking, Ten does. Hard. Hard.
And stupid, soft, soft Kun, he strokes him through it, kissing and kissing and kissing as he wrings every sloppy, hot, breathless, trembling drop from his helpless, quaking body. The pleasure is staggering. excruciating. The twist of Kun"s fingers, the scrape of his cock.
"Baby," Kun pants into his hair. "Just, just a little more. Just—let me. Let me."
Hissing, shaking, Ten lets him. Lets him. And he makes it good—so good—for him. Is so, so good for him. He tilts his hips, bites into his mouth, his chin, as he watches Kun"s awful, pretty, pretty, come-tacky fingers, tug and tug.
“Come on,” Ten says, too. Soft, stupid, too. Good. So good. “Let go, Kun. Kunnie. Want it. Want to feel it. Show me.”
Kun whimpers when he comes. And Ten arches upwards to swallow the sweet, soft, stupid, stupid devastation of it. Ten replaces his hand, too, smears his trembling palm against the hot, sticky mess of him, stroking, stroking until Kun is grasping weakly at his wrist, jerking violently, whispering, "Please. Please."
Ten wipes at the edge of his shirt, over the warm tremble of bare, soft, soft skin on his waist, his belly. The hair there scrapes against his fingertips, the muscles dancing as Kun curls closer, twisting to kiss him again and again. It"s this languid thing, achingly tender, achingly sweet. And deep and slow and breathlessly thorough. Like they have all the time in the world for this, like Kun could dedicate hours to this, like he thinks Ten could, too. Even now. Even like this.
The door is locked—still. And beyond the door there are sales calls to make, emails to send, DRM to log, work, work, but Ten, stupid, softened, indulgent, he kisses back just as languid, just as deep, just as slow, just as thorough. In Kun"s arms, he melts. He melts.