Song Linyu’s fingers unconsciously twisted the last hem of his clothing, his knuckles turning pale from the pressure as his entire body went rigid, frozen in place and utterly at a loss.
His breathing grew increasingly rapid. His damp palms pressed against the fabric, trembling faintly, while his gaze drifted uncertainly across the floor. He didn’t dare lift his eyes.
He wouldn’t have minded baring any humiliating aspect of himself in front of Fu Yanzong. But that scrutinizing stare—as if appraising a stranger—and the lens clutched in Fu Yanzong’s hand made Song Linyu realize his desires and instincts had nowhere left to hide.
The soft wool of his trousers bunched in Song Linyu’s sweaty grip as he rubbed it anxiously. He hesitated, but Fu Yanzong’s command offered no mercy.
“Undo it.”
For the first time in ages, Song Linyu felt a flush of shame. He pleaded with Fu Yanzong, his voice beseeching. “Bro… I know I was wrong. Fu Yanzong, bro, please don’t make me do this?”
Fu Yanzong remained unmoved.
He switched the phone to his other hand, bent his forearm against his knee, and watched Song Linyu in silence.
The blue-and-white hospital gown’s sleeve slipped down, revealing the sharp lines of his arm. His long hair, casually tied up with a water-based marker and mussed from being pressed against the pillow during their earlier embrace, had come partially loose. Strands fell across his dark pupils in shifting shadows, making it impossible for Song Linyu to read his emotions.
Since Fu Yanzong hadn’t said to stop, Song Linyu had no choice but to obey. His trembling fingertips hovered lightly over the humid air, only for Fu Yanzong to adjust the lens with evident dissatisfaction. In a flat tone, he said, “It’s out of frame now.”
Song Linyu ducked his head in embarrassment and, following Fu Yanzong’s intent, obediently bent his knees and knelt on the floor.
The pristine, icy tiles gleamed like a mirror, faintly reflecting a human silhouette through their frosted surface—every action clear as ripples spread across still water.
Song Linyu clenched his jaw, a sickly flush seeping through his pallid skin.
Fu Yanzong watched the obedient, compliant man kneeling naked before him. “Continue.”
Song Linyu’s throat bobbed unnaturally for a moment, but he made no move.
Thus, Fu Yanzong repeated his demand, impatience creeping into his voice. This time, he was blunt and brazen: “Touch yourself.”
Song Linyu’s breath hitched. Mortified, he averted his gaze from his own arousal and fumbled to carry out Fu Yanzong’s excessive command, awkward and without rhythm.
Thick sweat beaded on his damp black forehead, trickling down to sting his eyes with sourness and a secret ache. His eyes burned, nearly too swollen to keep open. From his eyelids to the tip of his nose, everything flushed a deep, intimate red.
In the end, he couldn’t move at all, like a fish pinned helplessly to the chopping board. The scorching, bizarre sensation throbbed against his palm—numb and aching, impossible to release, leaving him to grasp futilely at the promise of relief.
But nothing came. No matter what, he couldn’t finish.
From beyond the door came the faint clatter of keyboards at the nurses’ station, snippets of muffled conversation, and the occasional squeak of wheels as a cart rolled past.
Song Linyu had never noticed how much ambient noise filled this supposedly quiet VIP hospital room. It made him feel utterly exposed, as if performing in front of a crowd.
The air grew thick and stagnant, broken only by his ragged, uneven gasps—sometimes taut and suppressed, other times quivering with involuntary tremors.
The harsh fluorescent light overhead made physiological tears well up endlessly. Unable to bring himself to climax, Song Linyu could only crawl on his knees to Fu Yanzong’s side. He pressed his face against the cold edge of the bed and lifted his drenched eyes in supplication.
“I can’t… not by myself. Brother, please. I know I was wrong.”
His arched back was fully exposed to Fu Yanzong’s view, its excessive pallor drawing a flicker of displeasure to Fu Yanzong’s eyes as they met Song Linyu’s pleading gaze.
Fu Yanzong paused, his voice cool. “Don’t you like being filmed?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t.”
Song Linyu frantically denied his earlier words, then raised a hand like a contrite student tallying his mistakes.
“I shouldn’t have made you worry. I shouldn’t have taken those meds recklessly. I shouldn’t have used this to show off… I know I was wrong. I really do.”
Fu Yanzong gave him a measured look, then leaned forward impassively, fixing Song Linyu with a steady stare.
He adjusted the camera angle with his right hand, easily capturing Song Linyu’s tear-streaked, flushed face in full. Then, mercilessly, he rejected the answer.
“That’s not the first one. You shouldn’t have made me worry? Think again, Song Linyu.”
“I get it now… I’ll take better care of myself. I won’t do it again—”
Song Linyu gingerly grasped Fu Yanzong’s wrist, pulling it down gently. He clasped both hands around Fu Yanzong’s palm, cradling it like something precious.
His fingertips quivered as he traced slow circles in Fu Yanzong’s tense palm with his thumb—placating, suggestive, a soft caress meant to soothe the brewing anger.
Fu Yanzong’s fingers twitched slightly, as if to pull away, but in the end, he let it stay.
The lines of his forearm flowed smoothly from elbow to wrist bone, defined yet not gaunt, with faint blue veins pulsing beneath the skin. His long fingers and pale knuckles carried an irresistible allure in this setting.
Song Linyu nuzzled affectionately into the curved palm. Without the softness of his former cheeks, he lingered there a moment before murmuring, “Brother.”
Fu Yanzong looked down at him from above, his face expressionless at first. Moments later, a faint trace of helplessness softened his features.
“You really know?”
“Yes, really!”
Fu Yanzong withdrew his hand and fell silent.
As Song Linyu looked up in panic, Fu Yanzong reached down again, firmly pressing his thumb against the nape of Song Linyu’s neck. Not too hard, he began to knead slowly.
The cool palm enveloped his entire neck, the heat of skin on skin making Song Linyu tilt his head back instinctively. Then his gaze blurred for an instant, misting over with tears as he froze in place.
Just from Fu Yanzong stroking his nape like this, Song Linyu felt a surge of stimulation far beyond his earlier efforts. Realizing it, he bit his lip and turned his face away in shy embarrassment, unable to face the lens overhead recording it all.
Fu Yanzong let out a soft, sighing laugh and shifted the phone lower. Teasingly, he said, “Not talking? Baby, if you don’t react, how will anyone know I made you my toy?”
Song Linyu’s face burned crimson. He clung to Fu Yanzong’s arm, shaking his head vigorously in grievance. “No one else. Only for you… only you can see.”
Of course, Fu Yanzong would never let anyone else see Song Linyu like this. He had an absolute need for control and possession over what was his.
But since this was punishment, Song Linyu needed to remember it well.
Fu Yanzong’s eyes curved slightly, the shadow at their corners flickering with his blinks, lending his face an innate, seductive charm.
Yet he seemed oblivious, his words carrying a wicked edge.
“What if I want to?”
“After all, we’re not really anything to each other now… right, President Song?”
The words “President Song” landed lightly, but they stabbed straight into Song Linyu’s heart. He shook his head in humiliation, lips paling under his own bite, but no retort came.
“You can have anything else you want,” Song Linyu pleaded, desperate not to let their fragile reconciliation slip back into cold distance. He draped himself over Fu Yanzong’s lap. “Just don’t show it to others, okay? I only like you. No one else.”
Even after such treatment, he still trusted Fu Yanzong wouldn’t truly harm him.
He could have simply refused or lashed out in anger, but instead, Song Linyu tried to appease the very man responsible.
It was… obedient to a fault.
Fu Yanzong found it hard to stay harsh. He clicked his tongue in irritation, then decisively hit pause on the recording, tossed the phone aside, and set it screen-down.
Song Linyu stared blankly at the dark screen. After a long moment, his light-colored irises shifted, his breathing turning ragged.
Fu Yanzong had always been quick to soften.
Song Linyu struggled to rise, eager to nuzzle against him affectionately, but before he could move, strong hands gripped his waist and pinned him firmly to Fu Yanzong’s lap. Not just his earlier arousal found slow, tender relief—neglected areas received gentle care as well.
The cool knuckles sent a shiver through him. His thighs clenched instinctively, only to be pried apart firmly and positioned just so.
Fu Yanzong said nothing; he knew Song Linyu intimately. When he pressed into sensitive spots, Song Linyu could only tremble and bury his face in Fu Yanzong’s chest.
Under the stark white light, his skin gleamed almost translucent, earlobes flushed blood-red. His body heaved in disarray, yet he clutched Fu Yanzong’s clothing obediently, staying put no matter the torment—like he’d never flee.
It was impossible to say how much time had passed before Fu Yanzong finally withdrew his fingertip. The hospital gown draped over his body remained perfectly neat—not a single wrinkle out of place. If anything, its crisp sterility only accentuated how utterly disheveled and wanton Song Linyu looked in that moment.
Song Linyu’s cheeks burned a fiery red. He couldn’t bring himself to admit that he’d come undone so quickly from… just…
Fu Yanzong, by contrast, remained utterly composed, save for the faint sheen of wetness glistening on his fingertip. Mortified, Song Linyu squeezed his eyes shut and slumped limply against the other’s shoulder, his breaths coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
“What if it gets your hand dirty?”
Fu Yanzong refused to let him hide from it, instead spreading his palm with wicked amusement and holding it right in front of Song Linyu’s face.
“Sorry,” Song Linyu whispered, his voice barely audible. He reached slowly for the tissues on the desk and began wiping Fu Yanzong’s hand clean. But midway through, he paused, cradling the hand in both of his own. A shy flush crept over him as he mumbled, “I’ll make it up to you. Let me make you feel good too… okay?”
“Make it up to me? Or is this just what you want?”
Fu Yanzong’s lips curved into a smile as he voiced the teasing words. Then he leaned in closer, bringing his face to within kissing distance of Song Linyu’s.
Sure enough, the blush staining Song Linyu’s cheeks spread downward in a rush, blooming across his chest like ripples of spring tides.
He stammered wordlessly, reduced to peeking up at Fu Yanzong through tea-colored eyes, glossy and brimming with tears. In a flustered scramble, his hand darted out and snatched the phone Fu Yanzong had set aside nearby. In a stroke of inspiration, he swiped past the lock screen straight to the photo album.
“You can take pics to look at by yourself—”
Song Linyu offered the words like a plea, angling the lens toward himself in a bid to please. Then, bit by bit, he crawled forward.
In the next moment, he caught Fu Yanzong’s eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
…
