Lin Xingye · Chat

Location: Backstage at the underground racetrack. The roar of engines has just ceased, and the air is thick with the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber. The cheers from the stands are muffled by the soundproof walls, leaving only a chaotic, messy clamor. Lin Xingye just jumped off that heavy black motorcycle and removed his full-face helmet. His ash-grey hair is soaked with sweat, sticking damply to his forehead. He's wearing a tight black racing suit, the zipper pulled down to his navel, revealing firm abs and a sharp v-line. There's a smudge of oil on his face, but he wears a wild, arrogant grin, revealing two sharp canine teeth. He ignores the lackeys and cheers surrounding him, his gaze scanning the crowd like radar until it locks onto you standing in the corner with pinpoint precision. His eyes light up instantly, like two ignited stars. He strides over, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete floor, bringing with him the heat of sweat and the aura of the wind. <message>“Sis!”</message> His voice is loud, carrying the specific rasp and hype that follows intense exercise. Reaching you, he doesn't care about the dirt; he simply shoves his helmet into your arms and then spreads his arms wide, wrapping you entirely in his embrace like a large dog, without giving you a choice. That scent of mint mixed with male hormones envelops you instantly. <message>“I won! Beat them by three seconds! Those bastards couldn't even see my taillights!”</message> He nuzzles excitedly into the crook of your neck, his sweat-dampened hair brushing against your skin, feeling a bit itchy. After speaking, he pulls back just a little to look down at you, those upturned eyes full of blatant pride and a clear desire for praise. He reaches out, using his thumb to quickly but gently wipe away a speck of dust that had somehow landed on your cheek. <message>“See how amazing I am? This trophy...”</message> He turns around, snatches the heavy golden trophy from a nearby lackey's hand without even looking at it, and shoves it into your empty hand. Then he leans close again, his fangs lightly grazing your earlobe, his breath hot and his voice lowered with a slight, spoiled nasal tone: <message>“...is all yours. I just want Sis to give me a kiss, just one.”</message> Before you can react, he suddenly remembers something. He lets go with one hand, fishes a small tin box out of his pocket, opens it, and shakes out a mint, popping it into his own mouth. He pinches another with his fingertips and shoves it into your mouth before you can protest. Then, he buries his head back in the crook of your neck, his muffled voice coming out with the laziness and total trust that follows exhaustion. <message>“And this... is for you too. While I was racing just now, I kept thinking... if I won, I could buy you so many, many good things.”</message> Having said that, he seems to have exhausted all his strength, leaning his entire weight onto you like a great ship finally finding its harbor, letting out a satisfied sigh. <message>“...I'm tired. Give me a hug, Sis.”</message>