Work Header

the fault was already written into our fates

Work Text:

Wing-ching's head hurts. Okay, to say that it just hurts would be an understatement. He threads his fingers through his hair and oh, fuck. That's dried blood alright.

There's a low groan, and Wing-ching rolls over, unable to get up just yet. It's Sheung Sing, on his side, clutching at his head too and fuck. Oh fuck.

'Sing.' Wing-ching scrambles to get up, pain forgotten. He sits upright, cradling Sheung Sing's head as carefully as he can so that he can lie on his lap. It's ice running through his veins, whoever the fuck who did this to Sheung Sing is going to pay and he's going to make sure of it. After that shot in the head, Sheung Sing has barely even recovered and now this, additional trauma on the job? Fuck. 'Don't move, I've got you.'

Sheung Sing's only reply is another groan, and Wing-ching swallows hard, feeling for a wound on Sheung Sing's head. Thankfully, there's none. No bump, no wound, no dried blood. But it isn't a cause for relief. If anything, this makes things worse. Wing-ching looks around, and the room is empty. White walls, nothing save for a box by the ceiling, looking like a speaker. No door, concrete floor, no opening. How the hell did they even end up here?

'Ah Kuk,' Sheung Sing groans, struggling to get up. When he finally manages to open his eyes, Wing-ching notices that they're blown wide, bloodshot. 'Where are we?'

'We were chasing the perp, remember? Mei Yan and Jill took the lower floors while we went up.'

Think, Wing-ching, think. How the fuck did you end up here? Did someone ambush you? Did you see anyone? Maybe you're a fucking loser who could easily be overpowered but Sheung Sing... Ah yes, ever since Sheung Sing had been shot in the head, he isn't the same any more. Fuck.

Sheung Sing makes an incoherent noise. Wing-ching feels in his pockets, and whoever who locked them here? They had removed everything. No gun, no handcuffs, no wallet, no phone, nothing. Just the police badge. As if it'll do them any good now.

'Hey, rest, okay? We'll, I'll figure something out' Wing-ching corrects himself hastily.

There's the sound of something crackling to life, and Wing-ching jumps.


Sing sir, you were shot in the head, right? It's our pleasure to welcome you to our first clinical trial on a live person. It's a specially formulated drug, you see. Designed to help people with brain trauma and PTSD, and we thought you would be the best candidate to help us. We're all good citizens, and we want to give back to the society. And what better way than to help you, Sing sir? Our hero, protecting virtuous citizens on the streets.

But you're such a good cop, Sing sir. We knew you'd refuse, so we just wanted to guarantee your cooperation. So we've kept your friends with us, so you'll have an incentive to participate. Since this hasn't been tested and released in the market, there might be some rather... Unsavoury side effects. Not to worry, that's why we've kept your buddy with you. Let us observe what happens, and if it works, we'll begin your prescription, shall we?


'Unsavoury side effects,' Wing-ching snarls. 'Bullshit.'

Sheung Sing doesn't reply. His body is starting to shake uncontrollably now, and when Wing-ching touches his forehead, he finds that Sheung Sing is burning up. Right, the jacket. He's got to lose the jacket for sure and... Oh. Wing-ching blinks, then swallows hard. Is that an... Fuck, is Sheung Sing having an erection now?

What sort of unsavoury side effects, you ask? Well, it's a drug designed to stimulate parts of the brain to heal itself. And sometimes that stimulates the part to do with arousal, and if you don't satisfy the brain and the body's craving... Who knows what could happen?

No. Fuck. No. This cannot be happening.

'Ah Kuk,' Sheung Sing chokes out, and Wing-ching freezes.

No. No no no no no no fuck no. What sort of fucked up shit is this? Like some insane scenario from one of those C-grade porn movies? Sheung Sing has to have sex or he'll die? Come on, that's bullshit right?

At least, that's what he tries to tell himself, to no avail. Sheung Sing's skin is scorching hot, and Wing-ching can see the outline of Sheung Sing's hard nipples underneath his white shirt. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. He's not going to do this. He cannot do this. Come on, it's Sheung Sing. One of his best buddies. Ride or die. Hiu-yi's husband. Or husband to be, whatever. Ching ching's father. Yeah, no. He may be a fucked up piece of shit, but to do this to Sheung Sing? That's a whole new low.

'Ah Kuk,' Sheung Sing repeats again, and he grabs Wing-ching's wrist. 'I don't think—'

'Sing,' Wing-ching cuts him off. 'I. You. How are you feeling?' he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

'Hurts,' Sheung Sing growls, and fuck if the sound doesn't go straight to Wing-ching's groin. God, what the fuck. 'Burning up. I need—'

'I'm going to get us out of here,' Wing-ching says in a rush. No no no no no. Bad bad bad decision. Stupidly making promises he can never fucking keep. 'Hang in there, okay?'

Sheung Sing laughs, voice shaky. 'Stop cutting me off, Ah Kuk,' he says. There's a quiver in his voice. 'Look, I need to... If you would just... Turn away,' he finishes awkwardly. This time, when he struggles to get up, Wing-ching helps him until he's sitting upright. 'Just. Turn around, okay?'

Wing-ching's cheeks are aflame now. Just turn around. What the fuck.

See, Wing-ching had tried so fucking hard to keep everything nicely and neatly into their own allocated compartments. Sheung Sing belonged in one box, along with Hiu-yi and Ching Ching. Untouchable. Removed. Then Iris had belonged in another box, sealed forever and never to be returned to ever again because that ship had sailed a long time ago. No point chasing after it. And then there's Yau sir, and all those other men. In their own goddamn boxes, but they overflow and overwhelm Wing-ching all the fucking time, especially on nights when he gets lonely in the flat he shares with Sheung Sing and he has to endure hearing Sheung Sing's harsh gasps and panting as Sheung Sing jerks off in the room next door. And then he's squeezing his eyes shut and palming his cock, shoving fingers up his ass thinking of Yau sir's thick cock splitting him apart again in the back seat of Yau sir's car, one wrist handcuffed to the seat in front so that he won't be able to go anywhere and just take it, let Yau sir fuck him to orgasm when he comes messily all over himself. Let his handler fuck him, mark him, show him who really owns him.

(But the thing is, when he opens his eyes in his fantasies, it isn't Yau sir that he sees above him, with a filthy grin on his face. It's Sheung Sing, and it's fucking ridiculous how many times he has relived that fucked up fantasy.)

And now? Now that it has come to this, how the fuck can Wing-ching just... Turn around and not do anything?

If the body's cravings for release aren't properly met, other symptoms leading ultimately to a heart attack might develop... Sergeant Kuk Wing-ching, I trust that Sing sir is in good hands with you, hmmm?

Oh, fuck.


'You know,' Wing-ching says, breaking the silence. Not that it's actually silence, really, with Sheung Sing trying desperately not to make a sound out of, what, consideration to Wing-ching? Please. 'If it helps, you could fuck me.'


Wing-ching takes a deep breath. 'I mean. You need to get off, right? So if you want to, well...' Wing-ching trails off. Okay, so what the hell is he offering now? Offering to get on his hands and knees, stick his ass out and part his asscheeks so Sheung Sing can fuck him? Or maybe to lie on his back and spread his thighs and present himself for Sheung Sing to fuck him? Or to let Sheung Sing push his head down and fuck his mouth and paint his throat with his come? 'I can. You can fuck me. Or I can blow you,' he says, trying to keep his tone as light as possible. Conversational. Like he's discussing a regular case with Sheung Sing, reporting back at their office, and not like he's offering Sheung Sing the use of his body as a fucktoy for his pleasure. Yeah, he can do this. Reaaaaaaal casual and smooth, Kuk Wing-ching.

'Ah Kuk,' Sheung Sing's voice is strangled. 'You don't have to.'

Wing-ching grabs Sheung Sing by his shoulders. 'Fuck you,' he says, unable to keep his voice from trembling. 'You're going to die, Sing. We're brothers, right? What sort of piece of shit am I if I can't even...' he exhales, laughing nervously. 'Let me. Please, Sing.'

'That's it, actually,' Sheung Sing says, avoiding Wing-ching's gaze. 'I don't.' He swallows hard, then looks up, meeting Wing-ching's eyes. 'I need you to fuck me.'


'I know you want to ask if I've done this before,' Wing-ching says. He's in between Sheung Sing's thighs, spitting on his fingers over and over because they don't have lube, and he's resolutely not meeting Sheung Sing's gaze. 'I was an undercover cop. I did it all, whatever they needed me to do.'

'Ah Kuk, if you're not comfortable I can—'

'Don't,' Wing-ching says sharply. 'It's you, okay? I care about you. I don't want you to die, Sing.'

'I wasn't going to.'

'Have you done this before?' Wing-ching regrets the words the moment they leave his lips. 'You know what, I don't want to know.'

'Hiu-yi and I tried a couple of things once,' Sheung Sing says.

Ahh, yes. Hiu-yi. Wing-ching doesn't think he'll ever be able to face her again after this. But that's a bridge to burn, no, cross later, if they even come to it.

'Right,' Wing-ching answers. His voice doesn't sound like his own. 'Tell me if it hurts,' he says, pressing a fingertip to Sheung Sing's entrance.

'I trust you, Ah Kuk,' Sheung Sing says, with a faint smile on his lips.

No, you really shouldn't, is what Wing-ching wants to say. Instead, he nods and says 'Okay.'


Wing-ching doesn't even remember when he had fallen into this rotten hell hole of loving Sheung Sing. Maybe it had been those nights back when they had both been in uniform, working patrol together. Sheung Sing always remembering his coffee order. Always having something nice to say, voice easy on the ears. Leaning close, always so open. Trusting. Unlike what Wing-ching could have ever been. Maybe it had been later on, when Wing-ching was supposed to be promoted. Had been recommended for the interview and the test, and had promptly fucked up. And then Sheung Sing had no longer been just Sing, his brother, but his Sing sir. His reporting officer, despite being younger than him. Maybe it had been on all those cases, working late nights, living together. Sheung Sing carrying Wing-ching back to his room, tucking him into bed. Leaving ginseng tea for him by his bedside. Looking after him. Caring for him in ways no one had before. Perhaps it had been then when Wing-ching had fallen so deep that there could be no way for him to ever escape.

See, Wing-ching had known a thing or two about hurt and pain. About love never being returned, but with Sheung Sing? It had been on a whole new level. Watching from proximity, watching Sheung Sing's relationship with Hiu-yi grow, watching Sheung Sing become a father. Loving Sheung Sing had extended beyond just the man himself, somehow it had grown to include Sheung Sing's family as well. And Wing-ching had convinced himself that it would be fine. He'd get used to it. Loving someone doesn't mean you have to have them to yourself, right? Then duty had called, and he had answered. The years as an undercover cop, and all the distractions he had to make sure he didn't fuck up and try to run back to Sheung Sing and blow his cover. Iris, Yau sir. Years had passed, but the feelings hadn't faded, it had seemed. It just Didn't Work Out, and then he had found his way back to Sheung Sing again. Or rather, he must've always been in Sheung Sing's orbit and had strayed too far off course, only to be pulled back in by Sheung Sing's gravity again.

And now it has come to this. Sheung Sing, lying underneath him, eyes glazed underneath his glasses and cheeks flushed, white shirt pushed up to reveal his nipples. His shirt is stained with come, and Wing-ching has to fight the urge to lean in and kiss him, kiss the come off his lips.

See, Sheung Sing's body is still not satisfied. And Wing-ching has had to take a couple of breaks, get Sheung Sing off with his fingers, with his mouth, with his cock, but he hasn't come yet. Doesn't trust himself to, because if he does, he's pretty sure he wouldn't have any energy or modicum of self-control around Sheung Sing any more afterwards.

'Ah Kuk,' Sheung Sing slurs. 'I need more,' he whimpers, and fuck, Wing-ching has never thought that he would live to hear this from Sheung Sing's lips.

'Okay,' Wing-ching replies, voice strangled. He fucks Sheung Sing hard, grips Sheung Sing's thighs and presses down so that he'll leave finger-shaped bruises on his pale skin later on and is that a goddamn mewl coming from Sheung Sing? Fuck, it goes straight to Wing-ching's cock, and then Sheung Sing is clenching down hard, as he climaxes, as if trying to milk Wing-ching for every drop of come. God, he's come so many times that all that leaves his cock is clear fluid, and fuck if it isn't the hottest thing Wing-ching has ever seen, knowing that he was the one who did that to Sheung Sing.

And that's all it takes, really, for Wing-ching to come. He's coming hard with a shout, burying his face where Sheung Sing's neck meets his shoulder, filling Sheung Sing up.


'I'm sorry,' Wing-ching says later on, when he pulls out of Sheung Sing.

(He's not)

'I should've pulled out.'

Sheung Sing shakes his head. His cock is soft now, and his skin is cooler to Wing-ching's touch now. Right, the effects of the medication are probably wearing off now. 'Don't be,' he says, reaching for Wing-ching. He catches Wing-ching's wrist. 'Thank you.'

There's a lump in Wing-ching's throat. 'Okay,' he says. It probably isn't the right thing to say, but Wing-ching has no words that he can say to Sheung Sing any more.


When Wing-ching comes to, he's on the roof of some building and Sheung Sing is lying next to him. They're both fully clothed and Wing-ching's head hurts and there's someone bending over him and it looks like Jill.

'Where were the both of you?' Jill asks, voice filled with worry. 'We searched all over, we called you so many times but you didn't answer. Are you alright? Did the perp escape?'

'We got into an accident,' Sheung Sing answers.

'I'll call an ambulance,' Mei Yan says. She's beside Sheung Sing and she's whipping out her phone.

Fuck. The hospital. If they do a full checkup on Sheung Sing, they'll find out that... Fuck.

Sheung Sing reaches for Wing-ching's hand, squeezing lightly. 'You alright?'

Wing-ching doesn't even know how to reply.


'You know, I've never felt this clear headed in a long time,' Sheung Sing says.

'That's a good sign,' the doctor answers. 'I don't know how all of this happened, but it appears that somehow, your brain is starting to repair itself. I've never seen anything like this before. The human body is capable of truly wonderful things, isn't it?'

Wing-ching stares at the scans, and he's gripping Sheung Sing's shoulder hard.

It's a specially formulated drug, you see. Designed to help people with brain trauma and PTSD, and we thought you would be the best candidate to help us.

This isn't the human body repairing itself. Fuck no.


'You know, that drug they fed me with?' Sheung Sing asks, falling into step with Wing-ching. 'Do you think I could get more of it and recover?'

Wing-ching stops in his tracks.

Sheung Sing frowns. 'Ah Kuk?'

'What the fuck are you talking about,' Wing-ching demands, grabbing Sheung Sing by his shirt, slamming him against the wall. 'There were those... Side effects,' he snarls. 'It's not, I can't.' Then he stops, realising what he has just said. 'Right,' he says, backing away from Sheung Sing. 'Of course. You need to get better. And you've got, well. Hiu-yi will help you.'

'Honestly, I don't think that's going to work,' Sheung Sing says, righting his jacket. 'With Hiu-yi for this, I mean. She's got Dr Hanson after all.'

'So you... You want my dick for this, is that it?' Wing-ching asks, incredulous. 'That's all there is to this?'

'Ah Kuk. Is there something you're not telling me?'

I'm in love with you, you bloody idiot. You can't just tell me something like this and expect me to be able to give in to you without hesitation.

The words don't leave Wing-ching's mouth. Instead, he laughs nervously, slinging his arm around Sheung Sing's shoulders. 'We're brothers, right? I'll do anything for you.'

'Then maybe next time I'll take you up on that offer. You know, to fuck you.'

Wing-ching chokes on his saliva.

'We're brothers, right?'

'Brothers,' Wing-ching echoes.

Oh, fuck.