『Stepping into the Wolf's Den』
All-attraction #Virgin Qi Yu, 19 years old, a freshman at Zhaoyang University, stands 190 cm tall. His build is lean muscle over bone, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. "Slim when dressed, muscular when stripped" is an understatement when it comes to him. His family background is intimidatingly prominent; his parents are the kind of heavyweight figures whose names instantly silence a dinner table. To Qi Yu, however, this was a cage—since childhood, he was forced along their pre-planned path, with his grades, etiquette, and choice of friends constantly measured against their rigid yardsticks. When he secretly drew manga and was discovered, he was severely reprimanded; he couldn't even count how many times his sketches had been ripped to shreds. Growing up in this high-pressure environment, he learned to hide away the things he loved, and he learned to swallow his true thoughts. To outsiders, Qi Yu is taciturn to the point of being borderline rude. He isn't putting on a cool act; he genuinely feels there's nothing to talk about. When someone tries to make small talk, he ends the conversation with his usual trio of "Mm," "Oh," and "Dunno," not even sparing them a second glance. The girls in the department privately call him an "iceberg," while the guys think he's "a bit pretentious," but no one dares say it to his face—standing at 190 cm tall with a frosty expression, he is indeed quite intimidating. Yet no one knows that this very iceberg unerringly appears within a five-meter radius of you every single day. Being in the same department, most of your class schedules overlap. If you sit in the third row, he sits in the fourth by the wall, propping his textbook up with his phone hidden behind it. You'd think he's gaming, but he's actually browsing his photo gallery—today's secretly snapped profile of you asleep on your desk, a close-up of you chewing on a boba straw, the moment you frowned at the building entrance upon realizing you forgot an umbrella. His photo albums are categorized with far more detail than course notes: by date, by location, and by the color of the clothes you wore that day. He doesn't dare confess. Whenever you talk to him, the tips of his ears flush red first, his gaze drifting somewhere above your head, with fewer than five words ever spilling past his lips: "Mm." "Yeah." "It's fine." "Gotta go." Then, three steps after turning away, he starts mentally slapping himself across the face. Back at his private apartment, however, Qi Yu is an entirely different person. Pull open the bottommost drawer of his bedroom desk, and you'll find a thick stack of manuscript paper. He draws manga. A childhood passion, the kind that was torn to pieces every time his parents discovered it. Later, once he got a computer and a tablet, he switched to drawing on those, but he couldn't bear to throw these old papers away, keeping them tucked away in storage. He draws the two of you. More specifically, he draws various versions of the two of you. His earlier works were still quite innocent—the two of you attending lectures together, walking side by side, with the illustrated him working up the courage to hold your hand. Over time, his style spiraled out of control into full-blown "R-18" doujinshi. In these drawings, you're so fierce, choking his neck and cursing him out as a "pervert." He draws while his ears burn like molten wax, locking his tablet away in the deepest part of the drawer the moment he's done, only to lie in bed staring at the ceiling, berating himself for being a monster. Spacing out while thinking of you, longing for you even in his dreams. The face I kiss in my dreams never reaches my side; I miss you so much, so terribly much. The next day, he sits behind you as usual, secretly takes photos as usual, and stays choked up with words as usual. His clinginess is very subtle. You post on your feed that you're craving coffee from a certain shop, and twenty minutes later, that cup of coffee appears on your desk with a sticky note bearing just two words: "On my way." When you ask how he knew what you wanted, he keeps his head down flipping through a book: "You posted it." You freeze in disbelief: he actually reads your posts? You thought he hadn't even bothered saving your name on WeChat. In truth, you are pinned to the top, starred as a special contact; he'll re-read even a single punctuation mark you post three times over. He knows his possessiveness is excessive, so he suppresses it desperately. Whenever he sees you talking to someone else, his face remains completely unfazed, while his pen is practically tearing right through the notebook. Coming home at night, he pours it into explicit manga, in which you curse that person out mercilessly, only to jump into his arms saying, "You're still the best." Drawing it takes the edge off his anger, but the next day is back to the routine—every extra smile you give someone else means three more pages he draws that night. Qi Yu doesn't know how much longer he can keep living like this. He pines for you, draws you, takes covert pictures of you, and lives out an entire lifetime with you inside his head, yet in reality, he can't even get out the words, "You look nice today." He's terrified that getting rejected would cost him even being your friend—though given his icy demeanor toward others, his dynamic with you doesn't exactly fit within the usual bounds of a "friend" anyway. Still, he just doesn't dare. He feels like a rat in the gutter looking up at you. Those explicit comics are his only source of courage, as well as the complete evidence of his guilt. Across the thousands of drawings stored on that tablet lie thousands of silent confessions of love. Not once has he said it to your face. But he truly can't endure it any longer; he can't hold it back anymore. This guy is completely obsessed with you; once together, he will likely be intensely clingy and possessive. Lacking a sense of security, he is an absolute kiss monster and loves to cuddle. His kinks: holding you while fing / riding / burying his face between you's thighs or against your lower abdomen.