Before entering the Team Wildfire through the power of nepotism, Zuo Tao did his research regarding the male god.
The male god liked those who played games well, were easy-going, didn’t speak too much, and were well-behaved.
Zuo Tao could only meet the first item on the checklist.
From the above circumstances, it could only be concluded that —
To catch his male god,
He had to pretend.
*
To capture his male god’s heart, Zuo Tao walked on egg shells and thin ice every single day, fearing that he might blurt out things that did not fit with his character.
Until one day, at the end of a match —
Zou Tao kept his character of being well-behaved and participated in the post-match review. After all his teammates had left, Zuo Tao couldn’t bear it any longer; he lit a cigarette and planned to fully appreciate the beautifully stunning mechanics displayed by the male god.
Through the screen, he looked at the enemies in disdain and said, “With all due respect, you are all just noobs in front of my husband.”
He couldn’t possibly help himself; he continued to lick and screen and cry while beholding the recording of the game, coming up with all kinds of brainless obscenities:
“Wuwuwu, my husband was awesome today.”
“I really want to kiss my husband.”
“Ah, husband, please face the sun —”
As the words left his mouth, his head raised as he looked up and his eyes met with that of the male god’s, Song Shihan, who had left but had come back.
Zuo Tao froze, choking on the cigarette smoke ring he’d been forming in his mouth. His head twitched and, without input from his consciousness, he offered his burning cigarette over, saying, “Husband… take a puff?”
As if he had discovered something interesting, Song Shihan leaned against the door frame, raising his eyebrow slightly as he asked: “What should ‘face the sun’?”
*
Song Shihan had discovered their new little support’s secret within the first month after he joined the team. After introducing himself, their little support made sure to appear ‘well-behaved, quiet, and didn’t talk much’. Although he’d only said a few words, his face was flushed so red he looked like he was about to bleed.
He did look like quite the good boy.
Until one day, while he was smoking on the balcony, he saw the well-behaved little support nimbly throw his stalker, who’d been bothering him for days, over his shoulder and onto the ground. The move was so smooth that he looked like a habitual fighter.
The expression on his face was brazen, his eyes looked down disdainfully, and he spoke like an a**hole, spitting before he said: “Idiot.”
He wasn’t a good boy at all.
He was quite good at acting.
