Work Text:
“Is it really impossible for men to get pregnant?”
Xiaoshuai chokes on his iced americano so violently that the barista behind the counter flinches. He slams the cup down, sputtering as cold coffee drips down his chin and onto his shirt.
“What the fuck?” he wheezes, grabbing the nearest table napkin with frantic, offended energy. “You drag me out on my day off—my one day off—beg me to meet you because there’s something urgent about Suowei, and this is what you ask?” He gestures wildly with the damp napkin. “This is the emergency? This—this bullshit?”
Chi Cheng doesn’t even flinch. He sits there like a man discussing global diplomacy or the ethics of AI, hands folded neatly, expression painfully serious. “There could be a way,” he insists. “Right?”
Xiaoshuai stares. For a long moment, the café noise fades, leaving only the sound of his own soul trying to leave his body. He sets his cup down with the gentleness of someone restraining the urge to commit violence, straightens his posture, and inhales deeply.
“Look,” he begins, choosing every word like he’s defusing a bomb. “If you want to have a child, there are plenty of ways. Surrogacy, adoption—we’re living in an advanced modern world—”
“No.”
Chi Cheng cuts him off, turning away as if watching invisible equations float in the air. His brows furrow, lips tightening in intense calculation. Xiaoshuai recognizes that look. It’s the look Chi Cheng gets before deciding to buy out a rival company or destroy someone's career.
It’s the look of a man about to do something catastrophically stupid.
“Wu Suowei would look good pregnant,” Chi Cheng says finally—calmly, like he’s commenting on the weather. He nods to himself, satisfied with the image in his mind. Then he turns back, eyes burning with terrifying sincerity. “You’re a doctor. You’d know if there’s a way.” A beat. “I want to impregnate him.”
Xiaoshuai closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose so hard he might leave a bruise.
“Are you on drugs?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer—he knows Chi Cheng well enough to know the answer is no, which somehow makes this worse.
“It is biologically impossible for men to get pregnant,” Xiaoshuai says, slipping into a monotone that suggests his spirit is detaching. “No uterus. No implantation site. No hormonal system to support a pregnancy. No abdominal capacity. No—just—no.” He breathes sharply through his teeth. “Unless magic is real and it decides to bless Suowei specifically, it’s impossible.” He opens his eyes. “I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with you. You. A CEO. A supposedly functional member of society.”
But Chi Cheng isn’t listening anymore.
Magic. That word hits him like divine revelation. His eyes widen, a spark lighting up behind them—dangerous, determined, holy in the worst way.
“Which Goddess should I pray to?” he murmurs, as if mapping out temples already. “Who handles fertility? Who grants miracles?”
Xiaoshuai’s chair screeches loudly as he stands up. “I’m leaving,” he says flatly. “This is nonsense. You’re sick in the head.” He grabs his jacket, shaking it out dramatically. “Do not contact me about this ever again.”
He storms out.
But Chi Cheng stays seated, unmoving, fingers steepled, mind racing through pantheons and possible offerings.
He is absolutely, terrifyingly serious.
And somewhere—somewhere in the recesses of his brain—he’s already imagining Suowei glowing, round, pregnant with his child.
The café air chills.
Chi Cheng smiles faintly.
He has a plan.
Chi Cheng’s fingers twitch, restless with purpose. He digs into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and scrolls with the ferocity of a man searching for divine intervention through sheer force of will. He finds Gang Zi’s name and taps it before he can think.
The call barely rings once.
“Boss?” Gang Zi answers, already anxious. Chi Cheng never calls casually. If he calls, someone is about to lose a job, a building, or a limb.
“Find spiritual practitioners,” Chi Cheng says immediately, his voice low, urgent. “Monks, priests, temple masters—anyone in China who prays to a fertility goddess or specializes in miracle conception rituals.” He speaks fast, like time is a resource he’s hemorrhaging. “The most powerful ones. The ones who get results. I don’t care how far. I don’t care how expensive. I want a list within the hour.”
There’s a pause on the other end. A terrified inhale.
"ASAP." He doesn't elaborate. He never does.
Gang Zi goes silent. He may be loyal, but he’s not suicidal—he knows better than to ask.
“O-Okay, Boss. I’ll… look into it.”
Chi Cheng ends the call before the sentence finishes. No explanation, no context, no mercy.
He stares at his reflection in the dark café window—a powerful man with a mission so deranged the gods themselves would need to double-check their schedules.
He isn’t religious. Only when needed.
But, for Suowei, he is willing to kneel until his bones crack.
If a goddess demands wealth, he’ll give it. If she demands devotion, he’ll worship. If she demands sacrifice, he’ll ask how much.
He is not crazy, he tells himself. He is a man in love. A determined man. A man with resources, influence, and a frightening lack of hesitation.
If biology blocks him, he will bypass biology. If the universe says no, he will bribe the universe. If the gods refuse him, he will go higher.
He will make this happen. He will create a miracle with his bare hands.
Somewhere above—whether the heavens are listening or not—Chi Cheng whispers under his breath:
“He will get pregnant. One way or another.”
He rises from his seat, his calm smile bordering on unholy.
The plan is already moving.
And nothing—biology, logic, or divine order—stands a chance against him now.
Because Gang Zi just texted him a long, meticulously compiled list of every temple, shrine, and monastery in Wuxi rumored to have connections to fertility, pregnancy blessings, or miracle conception rituals, Chi Cheng barely even glances at it. He scrolls once, thumbs flicking like a man possessed.
“Arrange me a meeting with all of them. Tomorrow,” he types back before sliding the phone into his pocket. Without waiting for a reply, he strides out, head high, and slips into his car. Engine roaring to life, he tears into the streets of Wuxi, mind spinning with impossible possibilities and half-formed prayers.
He arrives home, the city’s lights reflecting off the sleek black hood of his car. Wu Suowei is sprawled on the couch like a starfish, a book in hand, utterly unaware of the storm that just drove through the streets.
Chi Cheng freezes in the doorway. The world slows. He doesn’t move for a long moment, just drinking in the sight of Suowei—the curve of his neck, the way the light catches his hair, the subtle tilt of his perfect, unassuming face.
Where did this thought come from? The audacity? The sheer madness? Making his boyfriend pregnant. He knows it’s impossible. He knows it’s absurd. He knows he’s teetering on the edge of creepy.
But could he really blame himself? Wu Suowei—the most devastatingly, heartbreakingly beautiful man alive—sits there like a sun in his orbit. Big, round eyes that could swallow entire galaxies, a nose that begs to be kissed, lips that are the softest, sweetest sin Chi Cheng has ever known.
Who wouldn’t want to… leave a piece of themselves inside this man?
Suowei looks up, lowering the book, and a smile lights his face. “You’re home,” he says, glee soft in his voice. He sets the book aside and sits upright, eyes shining.
Chi Cheng doesn’t reply with words. He walks closer, each step deliberate, predatory, tender all at once. And then, impossibly, he kneels in front of Suowei, pressing his face into the space between his boyfriend’s thighs like it’s a prayer he’s meant to offer.
“What’s wrong?” Suowei asks, voice tinged with concern.
Chi Cheng stays like that for a long, heavy moment, breathing in the scent of Suowei, memorizing the heat, the warmth, the absolute perfection. And then he lifts his head, eyes dark and bright at once, heart thundering with the kind of stupid, reckless love that borders on madness.
“I love you,” he pants, like he’s confessing a crime.
Well… he kind of is.
Obsession has a name, and Chi Cheng’s name could be stamped on it in fire. He’s thinking about seeing Wu Suowei pregnant—literally pregnant—and somehow, somewhere, that should be illegal. Maybe in another world it is. Maybe the universe would call the cops if it knew.
But here he is, kneeling at Suowei’s feet, voice trembling, heart hammering, confessing only the part that sounds sane. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking. He doesn’t say: I want you swollen with our child, carrying a piece of me, the miracle I’ll make happen no matter what.
No, instead he says, simple, chaotic, too-hot-to-handle words: “I love you.”
Because he does. He loves Wu Suowei so much it’s nearly criminal. So much that he’d risk everything—reason, biology, divine law—just to see him, just to touch him, just to create something impossible with him.
But, even the divine law seems to shiver under the weight of his desire.
Chi Cheng kneels in a sun-dappled temple the next day, the incense burning sharp and sweet in the air, and stares down at the monk before him. The monk stares back, wide-eyed, disbelief etched deep into his face.
“For your… boyfriend?” the monk asks, voice trembling slightly, as if questioning the sanity of the universe itself.
“Precisely,” Chi Cheng says, calm, composed, terrifyingly serious.
The monk inhales sharply, as though gathering every ounce of composure, patience, and spiritual endurance he possesses. He reaches for a brass censer, incense smoke curling like hesitant ghosts. “Alright,” the monk says finally, voice tight with a mix of exasperation and awe. “If this is truly your wish, there are steps. Rituals. Offerings. Prayers to the Goddess of Fertility.”
He lays out the ritual like a very serious, slightly bewildered teacher dealing with a student who clearly skipped several centuries of human history:
“First,” the monk continues, “you must offer a bowl of the sweetest rice you can find, steamed until each grain glistens like little suns. Too dry or too sticky, and the Goddess may… ignore you. Then, three candles—pink, gold, and… surprisingly, chartreuse. Light them clockwise. Do not ask why. Do not question it. Just do it.”
Chi Cheng nods, memorizing every ridiculous detail, while his mind keeps drifting to Suowei—the curve of his neck, the swell of his lips, the warmth that he can’t stop imagining carrying life.
“And while chanting the prayers,” the monk continues, voice low, almost conspiratorial, “you must visualize your intent. Focus entirely on the outcome. No distractions. No doubt. And after performing these rituals… you make love to him. Fully. Passionately. And then… you wait.”
Chi Cheng’s chest swells. This is not a suggestion. This is divine strategy. A tactical, unholy roadmap to an impossible goal.
He follows every instruction to the letter. The rice glistens. The candles spiral in chaotic perfection. His prayers fly from his lips, desperate, precise, and somehow reverent. Later, he kneels beside Suowei, hips aligned, lips hungry, and fulfills the monk’s final, most important directive.
A week passes.
Chi Cheng watches. Observes every movement, every shift, every breath. The anticipation coils tight in his chest, alive, desperate.
And then… something changes.
A subtle glow in Suowei’s skin. A warmth that wasn’t there before. Chi Cheng’s pulse quickens. His hands twitch. He’s ready—ready for the impossible, ready for the universe to bend.
The miracle… might actually be happening.
Suowei sits across from him at the kitchen table, plate in front of him, fork poised, but Chi Cheng doesn’t even glance at the food. He’s studying Suowei instead—every curve, every subtle shift, every tremor of his hands, every flutter in his pulse. The air between them thrums with something unspoken, something wild and dangerous and beautiful.
“Hey, stop staring,” Suowei says, trying to keep it casual, twirling pasta around his fork. But just as he lifts it to his mouth, his grip falters. The fork clatters against the plate, and he bolts for the toilet.
Chi Cheng is immediately at his side, bracing himself for whatever is coming. “Are you okay? What are you feeling?” he asks, gentle hands patting Suowei’s back as he hunches over the toilet.
“I… don’t know,” Suowei admits, running water over his face at the sink to calm himself. “I’ve been feeling sick these past few days.”
Chi Cheng’s expression sharpens. “Let’s get you checked,” he says seriously. Wu Suowei doesn’t argue.
The drive to Xiaoshuai’s clinic passes in a blur. Chi Cheng’s hands grip the wheel with barely contained tension, every stoplight and curve an eternity.
“Weiwei? What happened?” Xiaoshuai asks as they step inside.
“I feel sick,” Suowei mutters. Xiaoshuai guides him to his office, Chi Cheng trailing silently behind, tension coiled like a spring. “I’ve been feeling… off these past few days. Nausea, mild fatigue, and… other weird little things.”
Xiaoshuai frowns, skeptical. Pregnancy symptoms? Here? For him? Unthinkable. But the signs… they are there. Subtle but real. He shakes his head, refocusing. “Let me examine you.”
Suowei nods quietly. Chi Cheng sits nearby, hands folded, eyes glued to every move, stomach twisting with a mix of dread and anticipation.
Xiaoshuai runs through the examination like any normal checkup—heart rate, blood pressure, abdomen palpation. But the look on his face changes as he feels something subtle, something undeniable. He stops, leaning back with a sharp inhale.
“Weiwei…” he begins, voice hesitant. “I need you to take a… specific test for me. It’s… impossible… but just to be sure.”
Suowei blinks, brows knitting. “A… test?”
Xiaoshuai holds up a small stick. “A… pregnancy test.”
Suowei chokes. “…Shuai… I’m a man.”
“I know. I know,” Xiaoshuai says, exhaling slowly, rubbing his temples like he’s already aged ten years in the last ten minutes. “But… just… please. For me. Just… do it.”
Suowei hesitates, then slowly nods. He gets up and heads to the toilet, the paper crinkling under his fingers. Chi Cheng stays seated, heart hammering, hands trembling. Xiaoshuai leans back, whispering to him:
“What did you do?”
“I… prayed,” Chi Cheng admits, voice small but intense.
Xiaoshuai groans, facepalming. “You’re insane.”
Minutes pass. Chi Cheng barely breathes, counting each tick of the clock, willing the universe to bend further, faster.
Then Suowei emerges, pale, wide-eyed, looking like he’s seen a ghost.
“Two red lines… means… p-positive, right?” he whispers, voice cracking. “…I’m… I’m pregnant?”
Silence.
Then—
"Oh. Thank you, Fertility Goddess,” Chi Cheng cries, springing to his feet. Hands clasped together, eyes squeezed shut in joy, his entire body trembling with relief, triumph, and madness.
He has done the impossible.
And somehow… the universe has listened.
fin.