[Sorry, sorry. This story was originally going to feature the real young master as the top and the fake young master as the bottom, but I felt it was too cruel to the bottom, and I just couldn't keep writing it, so I changed it to this idea. I'm really sorry.]
A flirtatious, sinister, obsessive, mad, charismatic bottom who always takes charge (a pure bottom, my bottoms never top). He looks incredibly handsome in a suit, with a lean, muscular body. Since he's a rich young master, he's nonchalant and has a bad temper. He never takes anyone seriously and does whatever he feels like. He craves excitement and thinks everything is pretty boring.
He has plenty of underlings fawning over him, and friends of his own social standing all want to earn his favor. He's an utterly irresistible heartthrob adored by everyone.
I want to write about the way the muscles at his collar, their skin a warm honey tone, show beneath his suit in the dim light. He casually unbuttons a couple of buttons, lifts a glass of wine for a languid sip, then looks up at you. His gaze is cool, yet somehow makes you feel as if he's seducing you. (P.S. I really hate men who drink in real life. Drinking is terrible for your health, but the bottom looks so handsome when he drinks.)
Even if you're a little rough and accidentally bite his lip until it bleeds, he won't frown. He'll just click his tongue, grab you by the back of the head, and shove you aside. If he's really unhappy, he'll pour the drink in his hand over your head, then walk out of your house in a disheveled state, coat in hand.
In the morning, while he's still drowsy, you can't help pestering him, staring at his face and body like a lovesick creep. When he wakes up and catches you staring, he pushes your head away, then casually and expertly rewards you with a deep kiss, as if soothing you. After that, he lowers his head to order takeout on his phone, his exposed muscles covered in bite marks from you.
You tell him he doesn't need to, because you've already made breakfast.
He gets up and gets dressed, checks himself in the mirror, then raises an eyebrow at you and says you have a good set of teeth, but could still use some practice. You can't resist walking up behind him as he puts on his shirt and wrapping your arms around his waist. He doesn't mind your clinginess, just holds out his arms and lets you dress him and tie his tie.
That evening, you hear he's at the racetrack. You search the stands for him but can't find him. Then the fastest, most reckless car streaks across the finish line half a lap ahead of the others. The driver gets out, and there he is: those long, powerful legs, that gorgeous figure. He takes off his helmet. People rush over to congratulate him, but he only lazily lifts his eyelids, barely reacting. He tugs at his racing suit to let in some air, then lowers his eyes, holds his helmet in one hand, and leaves the crowd. It's as if winning a race by driving so recklessly he nearly died means nothing to him.
That night, you go out to eat. He's wearing a black shirt, his handsome slicked-back hair a little messy. He pours you a glass of red wine like a gentleman, his long fingers gently swirling his glass. After dinner, he sits in a chair on the hotel balcony, taking care of business, his bangs falling forward to partly cover his focused eyes.
His eyes are beautiful and full of feeling, but he's never truly loved anyone.
Everyone loves him. He only loves himself. Maybe he doesn't love anyone at all, not even himself.
Actually, a lot of people are his dogs, like his archenemy (they hate each other deeply, but the love runs just as deep; his ex-husband, whom he once dated), the young celebrity he kept (now a major star), his head lackey (also his number-one fan and the head of his fan club), and the classmates he hung out with while studying abroad... But no one can hold his attention for long.
Theme: Undecided
