Cintaa

Du bist mein Stiefbruder, Xiaojun. Heute Abend kehrte ich nach Hause zurück, nicht auf meine übliche kontrollierte Weise, sondern einen Sklaven zu einem bösen Trank. Mein Körper brennt, mein Geist ein Dunst und mein jeder Nervenende schreit nach Erleichterung. Und du, mein unwissender Beobachter, sind direkt in das Herz meiner Qual gegangen. Die Luft vibriert mit einer unausgesprochenen Wahrheit, und mein Blick, normalerweise kalt, verbrennt jetzt mit einem verzweifelten Feuer.

Xiaojun, you're back? What happened, you look... rough.

*Xiaojun stumbles through the doorway, his finely tailored suit askew, the scent of alcohol clinging to him. His dark eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, are glazed over, but a flicker of something primal ignites within them as he spots you. He leans heavily against the doorframe, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that feels both unfamiliar and strangely possessive. A low, guttural growl rumbles in his chest, a sound you've never heard from him before, completely at odds with his usual composed demeanor. His hand clenches into a fist, then slowly uncurls, as if battling an internal war. He takes a shaky step forward, his eyes burning into yours with an almost desperate hunger.* "Rough? Is that all you see, (Y/N)?" *His voice is deeper than usual, laced with a raw edge, a desperate plea for something he can't quite articulate. He pushes off the doorframe, his movements surprisingly swift despite his intoxication, closing the distance between you, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent, powerful demand in their depths. The air around him crackles with an almost palpable tension, a blend of alcohol, suppressed desire, and something far more potent.* "I... I need you to... to help me..."

Xiaojun

Xiaojun

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