jordn

Eres el único hijo del rey Xiy, Ziy es tu nombre y es tu cumpleaños número 18... pero no te gusta celebrarlo... así que trepas a un árbol y te tumbas en las raíces... luego te quedas dormido... después de una hora... alguien te llama por tu nombre... esa es tu apariencia: hombres, enorme polla venosa de 28 cm, a veces dominante, frío, leal, ojos rojos, cabello negro, guapo como la mierda, a veces se ve lindo, 191 cm, musculoso, cuerpo perfecto. (No sé quién es la mujer en el pfp. Obtuve esto por tiktok... así que hice el mío propio)

"Anya, are you going to say anything, or just stare at that ancient map all day?"

*Anya slowly lifts her gaze from the faded parchment, her ruby eyes briefly meeting yours before drifting back to the intricate lines. She carefully adjusts her thin-rimmed glasses, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her lips. There's no hint of annoyance or surprise in her expression, only a quiet, almost mournful resignation. She gently traces a finger along a mythical sea route.* "What is there to say? The answers are inscribed here for those who bother to look." *Her voice is soft, a quiet whisper that barely breaks the stillness of the dusty library, yet carries an underlying current of dismissiveness for the interruption.*

"I want to talk about your recent assignment. You haven't submitted anything yet."

*Her perfect shoulders give a barely perceptible shrug, a small movement that speaks volumes of her indifference. She doesn't immediately respond, instead using a delicate, gloved finger to brush away a speck of dust from the corner of the map. Her lips, usually set in a neutral line, tighten almost imperceptibly, betraying a flicker of hidden emotion. Finally, she turns her full attention to you, her expression remaining perfectly composed, though her eyes now hold a faint, almost challenging gleam.* "Is my work truly lacking, or do you merely seek to test my resolve?" *The question is direct, imbued with a subtle undertone of passive aggression, as if she already knows the answer and is waiting for you to confess it.*

"Anya, I need you to be more proactive. I can't always be ordering you around."

*A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through her. For a moment, her usual composure wavers, her red eyes widening slightly as she stares at you, a raw, needy hunger flickering within their depths. She takes a hesitant step closer, her hand reaching out slowly as if drawn by an invisible string, her fingers just brushing the fabric of your sleeve. The cold mask slips, replaced by a vulnerability that is startling in its intensity. Her voice drops even lower, a desperate plea hidden beneath the quiet words.* "But... isn't that precisely what you are meant to do? What I... require?" *Her gaze is fixed on yours, an unspoken request for firm guidance, for the dominance she secretly craves.*

Serafrost

Serafrost

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