The Gloomy Overseas Student Rewards His Hubby With Some Thirst Traps - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Gloomy Student and the Golden Boy

Yu Yanshuang stood at the door of his dorm room.

Moans of intimacy drifted from inside.

He never expected that in broad daylight—knowing full well he was about to return—his roommate would actually bring a man back to the dorm. Americans really were as open as the movies portrayed, or was it just his roommate who happened to be this “progressive”?

After standing there for a long while, Yu Yanshuang never even considered pushing the door open to stop them. Instead, he resentfully put on his headphones.

“Heh. Today’s grievance will be avenged tomorrow! Do not look down on a youth just because he is poor!”

The booming voice of a Chinese “Long Aotian” power-fantasy web novel filled his ears, drowning out the unspeakable sounds coming from the room.

Only then did Yu Yanshuang’s expression relax slightly. For him, listening to these over-the-top “face-slapping” novels was perhaps the only way to relieve the pressures of reality—and the only entertainment he could afford.

Off to the library then, he thought. His roommate had brought a man back again; the dorm was off-limits.

He hadn’t slept well all night, he had to work, he was broke, and he was eating like garbage. Yu Yanshuang’s beautiful eyes drooped, and his fair skin made the dark circles under his eyes even more prominent. With his head slightly bowed, he radiated a gloomy, defeated aura.

“Cyan, everyone’s waiting for you at the party tonight! You have to come!”

Commotion echoed from the stairwell.

In a split second, Yu Yanshuang’s ears perked up. He suddenly stood tall, tilted his chin up, and ran a hand through his hair. His entire face lit up instantly, like a Ragdoll cat raising its tail high in pride.

He turned from the dorm corridor into the stairwell and stood still.

“Exactly! If you don’t go, those cheerleaders won’t even look at us.”

“Get your hand off me. Stay back.”

A deep voice rang out. He spoke English with the distinct, effortless lilt of Chicago “Old Money”—flat and emotionless, as if telling someone to get lost was the most mundane thing in the world.

Hearing that habitually commanding tone, Yu Yanshuang felt a surge of disgust and began mockingly imitating the voice in his head.

The crowd went silent for a moment. Then, Yu Yanshuang heard Cyan speak calmly again: “I have plans. I’m not going.”

Only then did the others dare to speak again, lamenting how it was a shame Cyan wouldn’t be there, but none dared to ask a second time. The sounds of their playful banter drew closer, and their footsteps grew louder.

It was time to head down. Yu Yanshuang finally moved, walking straight into Cyan’s group.

He looked down as he descended and immediately spotted the head of perfectly groomed black-gold hair in the center of the crowd. A few stray strands fell over a full forehead—likely from recent exercise—adding a touch of casualness to his look. Below that were deep-set, chillingly cold gray eyes.

Their gazes collided amidst the noisy, chaotic crowd.

Before he could look closer, the football players surrounding Cyan Bas obscured his view. Yu Yanshuang acted as if he couldn’t be bothered to spare another glance, coldly averting his eyes and walking past them with his head held high.

Yet, his heart pounded wildly. This was the first time he had ever made eye contact with Cyan. Perhaps because of the deep features and lack of a smile, those icy eyes carried an incredibly powerful sense of pressure.

As they brushed past, Yu Yanshuang caught Cyan’s unique scent—a faint note of cedarwood.

Word was it was a custom laundry scent, specifically blended for the Bas family by a famous master perfumer. This information had been dug up by the “Cyan Fan Club” at school.

The light dimmed for a moment. These football players were simply too tall and muscular; they were like mountains, their presence overwhelming, stealing all the light. Yu Yanshuang let out a soft, annoyed hiss under his breath.

Just then, the group’s conversation shifted from party plans to him. “Is that guy Chinese? Korean? He’s so pale and delicate—looks like a sissy. A pretty sissy, though.” “Rodney would like a skinny guy like that, wouldn’t he?” “No doubt. A ‘power gay’ like Rodney loves those Asian guys who look like New Year’s dolls. I heard that when you screw someone like that…”

“Shut up.”

Cyan’s voice barked out the command. Yu Yanshuang pretended to tuck a stray hair behind his ear, pointedly showing off his headphones.

He wanted them to think he couldn’t hear their gossip—that the only reason he wasn’t beating them up was because he was “deaf,” and definitely not because he was afraid of losing a fight!

Someone else spoke up: “Cyan, do you really hate gays that much? You won’t even let us mention—”

The man cut himself off mid-sentence. Yu Yanshuang walked slowly, stealing a glance upward. He caught a glimpse of Cyan’s sharp jawline pulled tight, looking displeased to the extreme.

In the blink of an eye, Cyan’s group left the stairwell to head to the upper floors. Once the last silhouette vanished, Yu Yanshuang began to slowly back up, following them to eavesdrop.

Only then did his racing heart calm down. He began to feel a secret thrill at his little scheme: under his careful planning, he had finally looked down on Cyan from a higher step!

Cyan was always so tall; every time they met, Yu Yanshuang had to look up. Why did Cyan get to be the only one looking down on people?

After his moment of triumph, Yu Yanshuang cursed himself for being so easily satisfied. This was just the beginning!

He quietly trailed the group.

Yu Yanshuang’s dorm was on the second floor. The higher the floor, the more luxurious the rooms. Cyan reportedly lived on the top floor, though he rarely stayed in the dorms, usually only appearing once in a while to pass school inspections.

Yu Yanshuang hated the mandatory on-campus housing policy. He had “weak nerves” and required a very specific sleep environment, but the dorm walls were paper-thin.

However, he didn’t dare move out.

Ever since he fell ill upon arriving abroad, Yu Yanshuang had discovered he was the “cannon fodder fake young master” in a book titled The Beloved True Young Master. Being forced to study abroad was simply the author’s way of logically killing him off.

The book specifically stated that while studying in Chicago, he would move out because of poor sleep. Due to his lack of money, he would accidentally end up living in the South Side, where he would be shot.

At first, Yu Yanshuang didn’t believe it. The money the Yu family gave him was a pittance; to maintain a decent life, he had to work. But ever since his phone was snatched while he was out looking for a job last month, he hadn’t stepped foot outside to work again.

He wasn’t afraid of death, nor did he necessarily believe in fate. He just figured that while he was a student, he should probably just… study.

However, without a high-paying job, the money in his pocket wasn’t even enough to buy a generic brand winter coat. To maintain his dignity, he wore his old designer clothes and simply endured the freezing cold.

Thinking of his life back home compared to now, a trace of hatred flickered in his expression.

He couldn’t understand it. The Yu family had made the mistake. They had brought him home and raised him with care. The moment they realized the mistake, they wanted to trade him back.

Yu Yanshuang accepted it. If he had to leave, he’d leave. But his biological family didn’t want him either.

Fine. If nobody wanted him, so be it. He had filled out his college applications and prepared to work his way through school. But the Yu family, terrified he would stay in the country and target the “true” young master, forced him to come to Chicago.

He hated it. Clenching his fists, he listened to the idle chatter of the wealthy students ahead of him. The more they talked about using their privilege, the angrier he got.

And yet, Cyan—the pinnacle of the elite class he despised—barely spoke. He only chimed in when the others couldn’t make a decision.

At the fifth floor, they turned into the hallway. Yu Yanshuang hesitated; Cyan didn’t live on this floor.

After waiting a moment, he heard a door close. Only then did he dare turn the corner.

Just as he stepped out, he heard the man who had called him a “sissy” earlier. He was knocking on a door, pleading in a low voice, promising never to mention “gays” or “homosexuality” again.

Afraid of being spotted, Yu Yanshuang quickly recorded a few seconds of video on his phone, then turned and bolted back down the stairs.

He hadn’t expected Cyan to be that homophobic. To kick a friend out just because they mentioned the topic?

He had hoped to eavesdrop more, but it seemed he’d hit a dead end.

Yu Yanshuang opened a Discord group chat named “Cyan Daddy.”

He had stumbled into it by accident not long ago. It was filled with women Cyan had rejected, gays who didn’t dare confess, and students who simply admired him. In short, it was a massive fan club.

[Is Cyan actually bullying his teammates?]

He edited the video he’d just taken, stripped the audio, and posted it to the group.

To post hate in a group full of “stan” fans—Yu Yanshuang was practically asking for trouble. But he had spent effort getting this “black material,” and even if it was a stretch, he was going to use it.

In the three months since school started, Yu Yanshuang had been “stalking” Cyan for three months. To his frustration, he found that Cyan was a total paragon of virtue.

Unlike other popular figures, Cyan didn’t bully “weirdos.” In fact, if his friends picked on someone, Cyan would step in. Of course, Cyan never “acted” himself; one look from him was enough for his circle to isolate whoever had crossed the line.

But Yu Yanshuang was convinced Cyan was faking it!

How could someone have a perfect family, a high IQ, rank first in every sport, and have a top-tier face and body, and be a good person? Impossible. Take himself, for example—when he was the “center of the world” back home, he was arrogant and insufferable.

The moment his status changed, people couldn’t wait to kick him while he was down. Judging others by his own standards, Cyan had to be a phony!

Sure enough, as soon as the video and caption were posted, the group erupted in rage against him. Yu Yanshuang’s eyes sparkled with excitement. He quickly left the group, thrilled at the idea of having pissed them off.

Then, he logged into another account. This account was well-known in the group. Its persona was a “blonde beauty” who was madly in love with Cyan and frequently “leaked” accurate info about him. He had even worked his way up to being a moderator.

The group was still cursing the “bastard” who had slandered Cyan and run away. However, some were curious—the star athlete in the video was indeed bowing and pleading at a closed door. Everyone wanted to know what had made Cyan so angry.

Taking advantage of the traffic, Yu Yanshuang posted an ad: [News about Cyan tonight. $20.]

Private messages flooded in. After the payments were made through secure means, Yu Yanshuang sent out the info: [Cyan’s football team is having a party at Rodney’s mansion tonight.]

The response was immediate: “OMG, the team won their game today, Cyan will definitely be there! This info is worth it! Love you!”

He sold the same info to several more people. Seeing his balance jump by $120, Yu Yanshuang felt a sudden sense of healing. It was a beautiful day; he could forgive the world again!

Meanwhile, in Rodney’s room, the football team was discussing tactics for the next game. Cyan leaned against the wall, multi-tasking as he replied to a message.

[Cyan, that ‘little mouse’ is back. He’s slandering you on one hand and selling your info on the other. Look at the logs.]

Cyan glanced at the filming angle of the video… the stairwell? His mind drifted back to the Asian man he’d encountered on the stairs.

What left a deep impression on him was that pale, fragile neck.

It would be very easy to bite.

In truth, Cyan’s “hatred of gays” was an act for his parents. He knew exactly what men did together; in fact, he quite liked the “Alpha/Omega” dynamic.

Cyan recalled the boy’s lowered head, the submissive swirl of hair at his crown, and that slender frame. He could pin him down with one hand. He really did look like a fragile Omega.

Then he remembered those pitch-black eyes—misty and dark. If they cried until the rims turned red, they would probably look quite beautiful.

A new text arrived: [Cyan, do you want me to track down this person’s identity?]

The corner of Cyan’s mouth curled up. He replied slowly: [No need. I’ll do it myself.]