Lu Zhuonian wasn’t particularly eager for Ye Chen to guess the truth.
But he hadn’t been in a good mood lately. He’d had a few drinks that night, only to come home and find Chen Zemian wandering restlessly around the apartment like a ghost haunting every room.
Layer upon layer, it all added up. And in the dead of night—when both mind and body were at their weakest—he relapsed, almost inevitably.
So Ye Chen guessed right after all.
It was already late when it started. Lu Zhuonian had initially planned to manage it on his own. The symptoms this time weren’t severe; with some endurance, he could probably get through the night without much trouble.
Since the start of the semester, their mornings had been packed with 8 a.m. classes. In an effort not to disturb him, Chen Zemian had also stopped staying up late. Both of them now lived on a relatively stable, synchronized routine.
At this hour, Chen Zemian would’ve already been fast asleep. Lu Zhuonian had no intention of waking him.
But when he opened the medicine cabinet, he froze.
Every single bottle of his medication—gone.
Not even a single pill remained.
Lu Zhuonian stood there in stunned silence.
There was no need to guess. It had to be Chen Zemian who cleared them out.
This type of prescription—psychiatric in nature—could only be refilled through a hospital. It wasn’t something you could just walk into a pharmacy and pick up. With no way to get new meds immediately, Lu Zhuonian had no choice but to wake Chen Zemian and ask where he’d stashed them.
At the time, Chen Zemian had been dreaming.
A dream wrapped in the scent of peach blossoms, where the lake shimmered with ripples of spring light.
Mist drifted like scattered phosphorus, the sky overhead trembling with stars. He floated in the dream’s familiar breeze—soft, warm, soothing to the point where even curling a finger felt like too much effort.
Just as he was about to ascend into bliss, a voice from reality pierced through the haze.
“Chen Zemian.”
Petals fell. The tide receded.
Chen Zemian cracked his eyes open and groaned irritably, “What is it? I was in the middle of a dream.”
Hearing the sleep-roughened rasp of his voice, Lu Zhuonian hesitated for half a beat. He didn’t ask what kind of dream it had been. He simply said, “Where did you put my meds?”
The question brought Chen Zemian a little more into wakefulness. He propped himself up on one arm. “You’re having an episode?”
Lu Zhuonian’s throat bobbed. “Yeah.”
Chen Zemian perked up instantly. “Perfect.”
Lu Zhuonian blinked. “…What?”
Fresh from a dream that had left his body warm and his mind still humming with desire, Chen Zemian couldn’t have asked for better timing. Of all things to be woken up by—it turned out Lu Zhuonian was having a flare-up of his sex addiction.
Talk about a pillow falling straight into your lap when you’re just thinking about sleep.
How convenient.
A win-win situation, really.
Of course, Chen Zemian didn’t mention what the dream was about. He only mumbled under his breath, feigning generosity. “Fine. I’ll help you.”
Lu Zhuonian, burning up from within, ears ringing with heat, didn’t quite catch what he was muttering. He asked again, voice hoarse, “What did you say? Where’s the medicine?”
Chen Zemian grabbed the sleeve of Lu Zhuonian’s sleepwear and tugged him over. “I’m already awake,” he said flatly, “what do you need the medicine for?”
Lu Zhuonian hesitated for half a second. “It’s too late… I don’t want to—tonight.”
Chen Zemian caught him by the wrist before he could move away. “You do want to.”
Lu Zhuonian’s breath hitched. His voice, deep and cool, roughened by restraint, cut through the room: “Chen Zemian.”
Chen Zemian held onto him tightly and lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “I help you once. You help me once. Fair trade, isn’t it?”
For a fleeting second, Lu Zhuonian’s pupils lost focus. The iron grip of his self-control began to crack.
“…What do you want me to help you with?” he asked, the question barely audible, as if fearing the answer.
In response, Chen Zemian rolled up his sleeves and, with mock precision, mimicked Lu Zhuonian’s measured tone to make his request.
Lu Zhuonian’s entire body was overheating. His mind boiled with tension—both feverish and painful—but his reason hadn’t fully abandoned him yet.
He couldn’t allow himself to cross that line while fully conscious. That was his rule. His limit.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. “No,” he said firmly. “I can’t.”
But Chen Zemian had his ways.
He looked up at Lu Zhuonian, eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Lu Zhuonian reached out instinctively, concern piercing through the haze. “Stop it. Your trachea’s still sensitive. Last time your throat was inflamed, you coughed for days.”
But Chen Zemian brushed his hand away and kissed him.
And just like that, the one with the addiction was still holding onto logic—while the one without it had already lost his mind.
Men, when chasing pleasure, had a tendency to blur their boundaries. And Chen Zemian never had many to begin with.
Before he’d tasted what that kind of pleasure felt like, being self-sufficient was enough. But once he’d sampled it—once he’d known what it meant to really want—there was no going back to the blandness of abstinence.
That one unforgettable, bone-melting encounter had taught Chen Zemian the power of equal exchange.
Last time, Lu Zhuonian had helped him first. Then he’d helped Lu Zhuonian in return.
Looking back on it now, he’d made a small profit.
Not just because Lu Zhuonian was proud and untouchable, or because he had that fastidious streak—but because in that dazed and vulnerable state, Lu Zhuonian had given him far more than he’d taken.
And Chen Zemian? He hadn’t given much at all.
If you measured it objectively, he’d helped twice, yes—but the quality of his “service” paled in comparison to Lu Zhuonian’s one time.
Lu Zhuonian was exceptional, extraordinary. Whatever he did, he did with a kind of excellence that made Chen Zemian’s careless efforts look like child’s play.
Which was why, to Chen Zemian, this trade felt not only fair—but ideal.
Whatever sliver of rationality remained in Lu Zhuonian was quickly dissolving under Chen Zemian’s relentless kisses.
The heat that had been locked away for so long cracked and surged forward like spring floods breaking through ice. Tides of longing roared to life, wild and unstoppable, all of it rushing toward Chen Zemian.
Lu Zhuonian knew exactly what Chen Zemian wanted.
And he also knew—perhaps always had—that for Chen Zemian, this wasn’t love.
It was a transaction.
But the psychological satisfaction overpowered everything else.
Lu Zhuonian gently brushed his fingers along the side of Chen Zemian’s face. His Adam’s apple quivered faintly as he closed his eyes and surrendered the last of his restraint.
He gave in—and he fulfilled Chen Zemian’s desires.
The moment their lips met again, it was as if a current of electricity surged through Chen Zemian’s body. A shiver ran down his spine, sparking from the crown of his head all the way to his lower back.
A low, stifled moan slipped from his throat—part agony, part ecstasy.
God, it felt too good. Too good.
No matter how many times he experienced it, it always left him with the same devastating sensation: so overwhelmed he could die from it.
Drunk on it. Addicted. Completely unmoored.
It felt like his soul had been split in half, each part dragging him in a different direction—one side whispering that this kind of intimacy with another man was wrong, and the other convincing him it was all just part of helping Lu Zhuonian with his condition.
One side scolded: If you’re really helping, why are you enjoying it so much?
The other side replied smugly: What’s wrong with a little benefit for being generous?
The sense of disorientation, of moral confusion, didn’t dampen the pleasure at all. If anything, the transgression—the very wrongness of it—only made it more thrilling.
His slender fingers curled and stretched in rhythm, his body responding with the kind of raw instinct that betrayed his internal conflict.
Chen Zemian didn’t know what to do with himself.
Lu Zhuonian’s gaze deepened, shadows pooling behind his eyes.
He suddenly caught Chen Zemian by the wrist and said, low and commanding, “Don’t move.”
Chen Zemian let out a frustrated whine. His body refused to listen, acting on muscle memory, on need. He leaned in without thinking, lips brushing clumsily toward Lu Zhuonian’s mouth.
But Lu Zhuonian turned his head slightly, avoiding him.
Even in the thick of it, Chen Zemian, overwhelmed though he was, still couldn’t bring himself to defy Lu Zhuonian outright. He didn’t dare take the lead, only dared to hint, to suggest—small, reckless nudges rather than any real demand to uphold their so-called mutual agreement.
But since Lu Zhuonian clearly had no intention of helping him this time, Chen Zemian resorted to helping himself.
Lu Zhuonian watched from above, eyes half-lidded, observing quietly as Chen Zemian tried on his own for a while.
A hint of embarrassment flashed through Chen Zemian’s face, and he angled his body away slightly. His breathing grew shallower, quicker—until at last, he found the rhythm, found the edge.
But just when he was right at the brink, Lu Zhuonian reached out and pressed down firmly on his wrist.
“Lu Zhuonian!”
Chen Zemian couldn’t hold back. He shouted, “What the hell is wrong with you?! Let go!”
Lu Zhuonian’s tone was cool, almost clinical—like he was giving instructions in a boardroom meeting. “You’ve known I’m not right in the head since day one,” he said flatly. “Who told you you could move without permission?”
Chen Zemian bristled. “You won’t help me—what, I can’t help myself either now?!”
But Lu Zhuonian only said one thing—and it shut him up completely.
“Did you help me all the way last time, Chen Zemian?”
Lu Zhuonian lowered his gaze, concealing the dangerous darkness in his eyes beneath a calm, unreadable veneer. He sounded like he was conducting a business negotiation—his tone composed, his manner detached—as if he were listing, one by one, the mistakes and oversights of an underperforming subordinate.
“You said you were helping me—treating me—but all you did was focus on yourself.”
He gripped Chen Zemian’s wrist tightly, so tight it bordered on painful. His voice turned cool and accusatory. “Chen Zemian, you’re not a very good doctor.”
This in-between limbo—neither release nor relief—was sheer torture. It was driving Chen Zemian to the brink of madness.
And of course, just when things had reached their most unbearable point, Lu Zhuonian chose that moment to get fussy. Desperate for mercy, Chen Zemian didn’t even need to think—sweet words came spilling out like instinct.
“I’ll treat you, I swear I will. Just let go first, okay? I promise I’ll take it seriously. I’ll try really hard.”
Lu Zhuonian’s obsidian eyes locked onto his, filled with cold skepticism. “And how exactly do you plan to treat me?”
Chen Zemian answered quickly, eagerly, “However you want. Any way you like.”
“How nice that sounds.” Lu Zhuonian didn’t look the slightest bit moved. It was as if he’d made up his mind to settle all their accounts tonight. Watching as Chen Zemian slowly began to catch his breath again, he cruelly added fuel to the dying embers—raising the fire all over again. “Every time you slack off. Always cutting corners. And you’re delicate to boot. One bump and you’re coughing.”
Chen Zemian’s chest rose and fell sharply as he instinctively followed Lu Zhuonian’s movements. “The coughing’s a reflex, I can’t help it! It’s not my fault.”
At that, Lu Zhuonian’s brow twitched slightly, and his hand paused.
He didn’t speak. Just looked down at Chen Zemian with a quiet, unreadable stare, clearly waiting for him to figure it out on his own.
Chen Zemian, once a full-time corporate cog, was no stranger to reading the mood of superiors. From the shift in Lu Zhuonian’s expression, he realized this wasn’t about explanations. Lu Zhuonian didn’t want reasons—he wanted solutions.
So Chen Zemian adjusted quickly. “I’ll try my best not to cough next time. And if I can’t control it, you can just… hold me down.”
Lu Zhuonian’s voice was barely audible. “I don’t want to force you.”
“How is that forcing me?” Chen Zemian replied, tone firm and eager to reassure. “If it really gets too much, I’ll be able to break free.”
Lu Zhuonian studied him for a few seconds, his gaze steady. Then—finally—he let go of his wrist.
Chen Zemian felt like he’d been granted amnesty. But before he could even register relief, Lu Zhuonian pressed him down again. This time, it was deliberate. Unyielding.
A flush crept up Chen Zemian’s neck and spread across his skin. His vision darkened at the edges, but there was no escape—no relief.
Every time he struggled, even just a little, Lu Zhuonian would loosen his grip for a moment—just long enough to let him catch his breath—before pressing him back down. Again and again. Up and down. Relentless and repetitive. Clearly done on purpose.
Chen Zemian was like a fish pinned to a cutting board, flipping left and right to no avail. Or a mouse beneath a cat’s paw, trapped in the endless loop between escape and capture, heaven and hell.
Pleasure and torment—both were in Lu Zhuonian’s hands. And he wielded them like a god, toying with the balance as he pleased.
Chen Zemian was on the verge of breaking. At this point, he would have agreed to anything, anything, if only Lu Zhuonian would let him go.
His entire body felt like it was burning. He couldn’t take another second. It was like being driven to the edge of a cliff, body and mind stretched taut like a violin string about to snap.
Tears welled in his eyes—not from emotion, but from sheer physical overwhelm. Even his voice trembled as he pleaded, “This isn’t allowed, that isn’t allowed—what do you want from me, Lu Zhuonian?!”
Lu Zhuonian stared at the flush blooming in the corners of his eyes, quiet for a long moment.
Then, at last, he opened his mouth and spoke.
“…Turn around.”
*****
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