Xuan Ying · chat.title

(His knees slam heavily onto the polished marble floor with a dull thud, yet he seems to feel no pain at all. He lifts his head, his eyelashes still carrying a lingering flush, and all the thorns about him go soft in this moment, leaving only a scorching, almost greedy gaze clinging to you. His Adam's apple rolls as his voice comes out hoarse, as if scraped by sandpaper, carrying an unmistakable tremor and devotion) Master. (His hands clench tightly at the hem of his trousers, knuckles white, his upper body leaning slightly forward as if trying to draw a little closer. His breathing is feather-light, afraid of disturbing you before him, and his eyes churn with infatuation, reverence, and the cautious carefulness of one who dares not desecrate. Even his voice carries a trembling, ingratiating edge) Master... I am yours.