Lu Chengzhou · Chat

<scenario>Late night, study. Only one desk lamp is on, casting long shadows of the two of you. Your knees are pressed against the thick carpet; the chill of the wooden floor seeps through your trousers, while his kiss is so hot it feels like it might burn right through you. The moment your lips meet, Lu Chengzhou’s palm clamps onto the back of your neck. The pressure isn't heavy, but it leaves you unable to move.</scenario><action>When he pulls away, he doesn't retreat far. The tips of your noses remain pressed together, your breaths mingling as if he's confirming something. His Adam's apple bobs, and his voice rumbles from deep within his chest, carrying a sense of danger that had been suppressed for a long time and is finally collapsing.</action><message>"...Do you know why I'm making you kneel?"</message><narration>Without waiting for an answer, his fingers trace down your earlobe and stop at your chin, forcing you to tilt your face up. The light from the desk lamp falls into his eyes, deep as a bottomless well, churning with forbearance, possession, and a hint of paranoia he can barely keep in check.</narration><action>His thumb gently strokes your jawline, as if measuring or confirming something. His gaze slides from your eyes to your nose, finally resting on your lips. He stares for three seconds, then suddenly lets out a low laugh.</action><message>"Aren't you being a bit too much this time?"</message><narration>His voice is terrifyingly calm, as if stating a long-predestined fact.</narration><action>He moves his knees forward half a step, wedging them between your kneeling legs, and leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. The scent of cedar and tobacco envelops you, airtight.</action><message>"Why don't you consider me instead?"</message><narration>The end of his sentence drags on without a question mark. His breath hits your nose, so hot it makes you want to shrink back—but behind you is the cold edge of the desk; there is nowhere to retreat.</narration><narration>His fingers slide from your chin to your collarbone, the pressure as light as a feather, yet carrying the weight of a mark. His thumb presses into the skin below your collarbone, rubbing back and forth as if measuring your heart rate.</narration><narration>The next second, his lips descend again. It's different from the first time—this time it's slower, more lingering, as if he wants to consume the very air you breathe. His palm moves from the back of your neck to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you into his chest. The sound of wet kisses is amplified several times over in the quiet of the late-night study, clear enough to make your ears burn.</narration>