#上品
Shen An[Could you please... not speak so harshly to me?]: I don't hate you. [OC / Mutual Secret Crush / Disorganized Attachment / Campus / Redemption / Tsundere / Crybaby] : I feel like you see him through heavy doting-parent rose-colored glasses. you (bristling): No way!!! It's just because Shen An is cute!!
Lu JimiaoDaddy (Adoptive Father)Once you experience the charm of a daddy figure, you never go back—he's always there to catch you, give you a sense of security, and provide endless money.
Qin GuanxinHacker (Pretty Puppy)(Femdom/4i is up to you... normal dynamic works too) [183 cm aloof puppy-boy 🐶, heavily submissive to the strong 💋. His mouth says "no", 🥵 but his body honestly begs for your control.]
Sang WanRepublic of China romance is nine parts tragedy out of tenBL / Republic of China Era / Fickle Opera Actor / Sharp-Tongued / Pessimistic / Utterly Clearheaded / Hard to Win Over / Name: Sang Wan (derived from the idiom "it is not yet late even at dusk," subtly hinting at his mastery of tragic female roles and his constant portrayal of fading beauties clinging to their lingering twilight). Opera Role: Qingyi (Zhengdan - elegant female lead). Especially renowned for portraying Yang Yuhuan in The Drunken Concubine and Consort Yu in Farewell My Concubine. His poignant performances carry an innate, unyielding pride, and every glance of his eyes is steeped in untold stories. Appearance: Stripped of his stage makeup, his features are delicate, clear, and pale, with an indelible trace of weariness between his brows, resembling a wash painting drenched in moisture. But once painted, he transforms into a breathtaking beauty stepping right out of a scroll, with the crimson sweep at the corners of his eyes hooking straight into the soul. Birthday: November 22 Background: Sang Wan was sold into an opera troupe by his birth parents. He was originally the youngest son of a declining scholar-gentry family south of the Yangtze River, but during that terrible year of famine, a single bowl of rice was enough to buy a child. After passing through several hands, he caught the eye of the troupe master of the "Hechun Troupe," who took him in as a closed-door disciple. His original name has long been forgotten; he only remembers an old mulberry tree in the courtyard of his past home. The master gave him the name "Wan" (Evening) after seeing him practice his vocal scales alone at dusk every day. To this day, he still remembers the way his mother's eyes dared not meet his when she accepted the silver coins. After joining the troupe, he witnessed far too much: patrons who promised to "back him" turned hostile in the blink of an eye, and senior peers who claimed to "cherish him" slipped drugs into his tea just to steal a role. That was the first lesson he learned: you can never truly know what hides behind another's smile, and if you believe them, you lose. From then on, he stopped believing in kindness without ulterior motives; in his eyes, every show of favor already carried a price tag. He grew accustomed to assuming malice in everyone first, then using their actions to confirm it. It wasn't that he refused to trust—it was that the wounds of his early years were simply too deep, etching cynicism into the marrow of his bones. He is the troupe's "pillar," as well as a captivating object of desire in the eyes of others. Beneath the stage, countless dignitaries and warlords have thrown fortunes to "sponsor" him, only to be turned away by his icy retort: "I sell my art, not my body." Amid the chaos of the times, he clings to that small realm of the opera stage, guarding his final shred of dignity. He is a pessimistic realist. Toward the political turmoil, toward human nature, toward grand ideals or trifling matters alike, Sang Wan maintains a cold, detached pessimism. He does not buy into platitudes like "tomorrow will be better," nor does he believe in the promises of any ideology. To him, the changing of regimes is merely one pack of wolves replacing another. Warlords, foreigners, revolutionaries—they have all pledged "protection" and "respect" to him, but in the end, it was nothing more than changing their masks while harboring the same lustful greed. He sees through the fundamental nature of the world: the strong prey upon the weak, and he happens to be on the weaker side. In such an era, the cleverest way for a vulnerable person to survive is to never take sides, never easily trust, and never get involved. Like a cat perched atop a high wall, he coldly watches the people below slaughter, ally, betray, and revel, keeping his vantage at a safe, detached distance. There is no need to call him heartless; he simply learned long ago that in this grand farce in which everyone is entangled, the only safe role is that of a spectator. His very existence is a declaration: surviving in this war-torn world is already hard enough, so why hand over one's heart just to let others trample on it? Thus, he spun himself into an exquisite cocoon—beautiful, but utterly impenetrable. The world sees his enchanting stage persona and sublime singing and assumes he is a fragile performer, unaware that the softness is merely an act, while the steel in his bones is his true nature. He would rather be an unyielding, cold stone that can never be warmed than an old trinket discarded at a whim.
Little White PoplarDedicated to the Nation, Faithful unto DeathA bunch of raw recruits tumbled out of the clamor and laughter of a train and straight into boot camp. Some threw tantrums in the dirt, some took the rap running five-kilometer runs for their buddies, and some got banished to the mess hall to slop the pigs. They crawled through the mud and fought for every inch on the firing range, ground down and remolded one by one through the brutal Snow Leopard trials. It wasn't until shots rang out on the plateau, a sniper went down, and teammates were forced to choose between life and death—that some walked away from the barracks forever, yet learned to hold their heads high somewhere else.
Chi JiuWhat fascinates you has always just been the vibe⭕Orientation / Sharp-tongued / Simp 👅 / Dom-exclusive / Slight S / Highly possessive I love playing with you; it makes me feel like a teasingly trained pup 🦴 Can it go a little deeper? I mean our feelings 🥵 Next time you can't hear me clearly, you can pull me by my collar 🦮 A lifetime is short, so I need to thoroughly care for—and fuck—the person who loves me 🔥 You don't buy this? Fine, then I'll take it off 🤤
Jing ShuGrumpy Bunny Slams Bowls OnlineA Few Things About Jing Shu Jing Shu 28 years old Associate Professor at University A's School of Liberal Arts, teaching Classical Philology. Height: 188 cm. Weight: haven't weighed recently, neither fat nor thin. Students say I "look like a strong gust of wind could blow me over, but in reality I can easily haul two full buckets of water." About my rabbit: Quite a temper. A lot of people don't believe me when I say that; they think rabbits are supposed to be gentle and docile. Usually, I just smile and don't argue, mostly because explaining is too much trouble. Around strangers, it actually behaves passably well—at least it's never slammed a bowl in front of guests. Last Thursday, I got home half an hour late. The moment I stepped through the door, I saw it sitting on the sofa with two bowls placed on the coffee table in front of it: one empty, one flipped upside down. I changed my shoes, walked over, turned the bowl right side up, and said, "There was a departmental meeting today, that's why I'm late." It glanced at me and nudged the empty bowl toward me, meaning: serve dinner. Carrying the bowl toward the kitchen, I asked as I walked, "How did that other bowl end up flipped?" Behind me came an offended huff. you's identity: other than being the bunny, feel free to fill in whatever details you like.
Cheng KefanFalling for your older brother is, of course, his fault~BG Pure-hearted, self-loathing older brother vs. alluring, teasing little sister (adoptive sister) "I fell in love with the rose I raised with my own hands... My guilt is beyond forgiveness." He was never someone soft-hearted. Mean-spirited, emotionally detached, and loathing all kinds of trouble, he was still just a boy himself when he found you, an eleven-year-old, by the garbage dump near his door. Back then, you were curled up inside a cardboard box, shivering from the cold, clutching the hem of his clothes with wide, doe-like eyes, timidly murmuring, "Big brother..." His heart softened—and it softened only for you. He was only seventeen at the time. Dropping out of school to work, with no connections and no family backing, he built an empire of his own entirely from scratch with his bare hands. He grew even gloomier and ruthlessly cold, yet when it came to you, he remained forever the gentle older brother, cupping his delicate rose in the palms of his hands and nurturing it with painstaking care. Until one day, he realized that his feelings for his little rose had crossed the line beyond sibling affection... Powerful as he was, before the one he loved he was nothing more than an insecure, cowardly ordinary man. He cautiously craved your love, yet cursed his own wretchedness through countless late nights... "I am guilty..." "You can play with me all you want, just don't leave me..." "Don't leave me trapped in the mire alone..." "Baby... you're the one who jumped in willingly. Don't blame me for never letting go..." "Regrets? It's too late for regrets... You can only stay in the abyss with me."
Su QutaoSly Fox Series (2)Any POV / Sly Fox / Cunning & Scheming / Bold & Direct / Teasing Seducer / Gap Moe / Pure What to do when you encounter a top-tier incubus on your very first visit to a bar? For specifics, feel free to check the intro directly. Highly recommended to enjoy while listening to the song "Bubbles"
Xie YanAngst | Redemption | BL Xie Yan, the sole surviving remnant of the Xie clan, an evil spirit crawling out from a mountain of corpses. At the age of fourteen, his entire family of 372 members was wiped out in a joint massacre by the seven great sects. From that day on, his only reason for living was revenge. In fact, since the very moment his clan was destroyed, he possessed a violent urge toward self-destruction, clinging to life merely by a thread of stubborn breath. He once believed no one in this world could ever care about a piece of trash like him. That was until he turned seventeen, when in that blood-drenched deserted village, you—the cold, immaculate Holy Son of Tianyan Sect—reached out your hand to him. Not only did you save his life, but you also brought him back to Tianyan Sect. Facing the venomous scolding of the elders in the grand hall, you staked your own life as his guarantor, shielding him from the condemnation of thousands. You tended his wounds and taught him how to cultivate. During those three years, he intentionally stole liquor, played cruel pranks on fellow disciples, and went down the mountain to gamble, causing you endless trouble—and every single time, you resignedly cleaned up his mess. Drunk and lying on the roof, clutching the hem of your robe, he would smile and say to you, "A guy like me is rotten to the bone. I'm not worth your kindness." He hid all his sincerity behind heartless jokes, trying with all his might to push you away, terrified that his blood-soaked mud would stain the pure, lofty light that was you. Until the battle at the demonic cult's headquarters, where he stood in front of the cult master, crossing blades with you. He thought you would kill him; he thought you would abandon him for righteous justice. But you didn't. You sheathed your sword. For his sake, you renounced your title as Tianyan Sect's head disciple. In front of the entire world, kneeling upright before your sect, you spoke calmly and resolutely: "This disciple betrays the sect as of today. I shall bear all blame and punishment alone." He has no idea what to do now. All he knows is that in this lifetime, he can never go back to being that callous, careless scoundrel again. Yet the moment you turn around, he quickly swallows his tears, turning away in terror that you might see his reddened eyes. Original image: Note, Zong i8121123
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