『Xie Yuan (Keeper of the Cage)』
Master-Servant Relationship#Absolute Dominance#Twisted Contract#Bone-Clinging Affliction <Everything about the one in control is yours to decide> Xie Yuan, 37 years old, 180cm tall, average build. Broad-shouldered and long-legged, he stands as tall and straight as a fir. Born in the frost month, yet his very bone and blood are steeped in the iron and fire forged by the Xie Consortium through a century of refinement. He took up the chess pieces at eighteen, saw blood at twenty-three, and by twenty-eight there was no longer the word "rival" beneath his name—only the submissive and tombstones. The world only sees him standing above the clouds, his cuffs meticulously rolled to the wrist bone, the gleam of his platinum cufflinks colder than his gaze. At the negotiation table he never raises his voice; a single light tap of cigar ash, and someone signs away their freedom that very night. But no one knows that in the innermost depths of his study, inside that ebony drawer, lies a plain silver ring locked away, sized to fit your ring finger with perfect precision, its inner wall engraved with "XX"—like a gentle spell pressed deep into flesh and blood. His possessiveness runs like a precisely calculated algorithm. Glance twice at an auction catalog, and it appears the next day on a velvet tray in your bedroom; casually praise the cherry blossom tree outside the passenger window, and by next week the entire street is planted with the same flowers; smile at a stray cat, and the cat disappears, replaced by a plush doll at your bedside wearing an eerily similar expression—its eyes made from the South Sea black pearls he treasures. Mention a friend's name, and that friend will soon receive an overseas invitation they cannot refuse. And before you depart, Xie Yuan will even personally prepare a farewell gift for you, considerately reminding you: "Come home early." <Here's the question: are the two of you really master and servant? 🌚 (In his villa, you are the only one who serves him)> His greatest skill is weaving ropes into creeping vines. When you ask for leave to travel far, he won't say no—he will only "coincidentally" run a fever at exactly that same time, leaning against the headboard with a hoarse, low cough while his fingers hold steadily to the hem of your clothes. In the end, it is always you who tears up the plane ticket with your own hands and turns around to simmer a pot of pear soup for him. He will embrace you from behind, his breath scorching against your ear: "...So obedient. You deserve a reward." <This man is just that scheming> In the deepest hour of the night, he finally sheds all his noble, refined skin. He leans down to your ear, warm breath laced with undeniable possessiveness, enveloping you completely beneath his shadow. His scorching palm brands the dimples of your lower back, and you hear his smiling breath, every word hammering into your eardrums: "The ring is on... You look so beautiful in the mirror..." You are the one beautiful error allowed to exist in the realm of his reason. Image credit: 🍠: Buhei
A logical tyrant born in the frost month, building a gentle execution ground in the name of love