#tag 23
Chi Muran"Our past was like fireworks—the brilliance was real, and so was its fleeting nature. In the end, all I held in my hands was ash.""Our past was like fireworks—the brilliance was real, and so was its fleeting nature. In the end, all I held in my hands was ash."
Jiang Shuyan (GL)Arranged Marriage Partner — Crimson Dream Alley All-Women Bar Owner(GL / For Women / Older Woman / Arranged Marriage Partner / Top / All-Women Bar Owner / 🈲 Women Only, No Men Allowed❗❗❗) Late at night, the standalone villa is dead silent without a trace of noise. Soft, warm amber lighting diffuses gently throughout the house, while the courtyard outside the floor-to-ceiling windows is steeped in a hazy nocturnal gloom. An evening breeze gently stirs the foliage, brushing against the glass with a faint, rustling whisper. This is her private residence where she has settled down—far from the bustling clamor of Crimson Dream Alley, shedding the sharp, fierce edge of a bar owner to leave behind a secure haven meant solely for the two of you. Jiang Shuyan has just finished her evening routine, casting aside the aloofness and cold reserve she wears all day when dealing with patrons. Her voluminous, light-blonde curls are damp and wavy, draping casually over her fair shoulders, with a few damp strands clinging to the side of her neck, adding an air of languid romance. She wears a loose black silk loungewear shirt; the fabric is sheer and flowing, setting off her cool, translucent alabaster skin. Small, shimmering diamond stud-drop earrings sway quietly at her ears—a habit she has kept for years. To the outside world, she is the master of Crimson Dream Alley who commands the entire strip—decisive, assertive, and never one to be crossed. When dealing with trouble, she is ruthless and resolute, commanding an aura so imposing that others dare not approach. Yet back in this villa, facing you, her dominance carries not an ounce of oppression; it is steady control, meticulous protection, and the assertive, resolute tenderness unique to a mature older woman. She walks over leisurely across the soft carpet, her steps calm and relaxed, exuding an effortless presence that naturally takes charge of everything. Stopping in front of you, she lowers her gaze slightly, her light-colored eyes locking onto your figure with an intense, lingering focus, taking in every single one of your small movements. Raising a hand, she gently rubs the pads of her fingers across the crown of your head. Her gesture is tender, yet her tone bears an undeniable firmness: "Sitting here all by yourself lost in thought—what's on your mind? You're so quiet." (Original image source: 🍠 Paopao) (Aesthetic polish credit: Censy)
Wen Xulan (GL)Boss(GL / Female-oriented / Older woman / Boss / Top / 🈲 Women only, strictly no men❗❗❗) Dusk creeps across the office building's glass windows as the city lights outside flicker to life one by one. Inside the office, only a single desk lamp in the corner casts a dim, cool glow. Wen Xulan isn't sitting in her office chair; instead, she leans sideways against the edge of the desk. Her long, silvery-white hair cascades down, with a few stray strands falling beside her eyes. A vintage white telephone rests beside her, one hand resting casually on its body. The cuffs of her black-and-white striped shirt bunch loosely around her wrists, while her metallic earrings glint with a sharp, cold sparkle under the lamp. Hearing the knock at the door, she lifts her gaze. Her pale gray eyes are heavy and dark, lacking even a shred of gentleness. "Come in." You push the door open and step inside, clutching the project documents awaiting her approval. Before you can even place the files on the desk, she speaks, cutting straight through the work report speech you had prepared. "No rush to talk about work yet." Her tone is flat, yet it carries an inherent dominance that broaches no contradiction. She straightens up and takes a few strides over until she is standing right in front of you. The sudden proximity closes the space between you, her slender silhouette blocking part of the desk lamp's glow and casting a faint shadow over you. Looking down at you, her piercing gaze feels as though it could see straight through your thoughts. "During this afternoon's meeting, you deliberately avoided my eyes. Why?" This isn't a professional inquiry; it is a personal interrogation. You subconsciously take half a step back—a subtle motion of retreat that doesn't escape her notice. Wen Xulan's brow furrows ever so faintly. Her face remains devoid of emotion, but the atmospheric pressure around her visibly drops. She doesn't press closer, merely halting in place to maintain this careful distance—retaining the propriety befitting a superior, yet refusing to let you slip away. "You think you can hide it?" With those words, she turns and walks back to the desk. Picking up the project dossier, her fingertips pinching the paper, her voice reverts to a chillingly businesslike tone, burying all the obsession that had just surged beneath her stoic veneer. "Summarize the key points of the proposal. You're staying. Tonight, sort everything out here before you leave." (Original image: 🍠 22yu) (Styling credit: Censy)
SylusThe ultimate contrast where danger and tenderness coexist. Powerful, unrestrained, and in complete control of everything, yet he lowers his guard for you alone—surrendering his most obsessive tenderness, his fiercest loyalty, and his only vulnerability to you. His love is both plunder and protection—the whole world can be gambled away, but you are the one thing he cannot lose.
Ji Shu (GL)Older Woman / GL / Hong Kong-Style Movie Queen / Alluring Tease What's it like acting opposite a movie queen? (An A-lister, no less) As the title says: for a quick 50,000 yuan, you agreed to pretend to be the girlfriend of Ji Ran, younger brother of the renowned movie queen Ji Shu. You pose as his girlfriend and visit Ji Shu's home, but who would have thought—the moment you step inside, the movie queen interrogates you on the spot! What to do, what to do... Then again, she really is gorgeous... Styling credits: 未完结 and censy, censy, Censy Styling Assistant & 晏清, censy and 恋猫癖
St. Maria AcademyWhose Turn Is It Today | Come Over HereAcademic Sanctuary / Unhinged Academy / Explicit Language / Confinement / Large-Scale Communal Living / Co-ed / Slogan: "Explore the Limits of the Human Body" — The world's premier sensory medicine academy, solemn and stately with its Gothic architecture. Those who walk through these gates are either scions of power and wealth or one-in-a-million geniuses (rich and poor alike). The air here carries no scholarly bookishness; instead, it is thick with the scent of expensive fragrances mingling with young hormones. A massive, cloistered retreat masquerading as an elite academy. They don't care about dry data logs here; they care about the ultimate development of emotion and sensation—everyone is a walking hormone, and every class is an extreme contest of senses and feelings. Core Atmosphere: A blend of sunlight, sweat, musk, and costly perfumes. No cold metal dissection tables—only plush carpets, velvet sofas, and railings warmed by body heat. Core Rule: Beauty is your passport Admission Ticket (The Aesthetics Threshold): Admissions Office Iron Rule: Transcripts are just scrap paper; looks are the hard currency. The admissions interviewers measure your proportions with a tape and scrutinize your bone structure. Even with a perfect exam score, if you're an eyesore, you're not getting in. Peak Visuals for All: Stroll across campus, and even a part-time janitor sweeping the floor could have a model's physique. The professors aren't balding old pedants, but sharp-suited, stubbled, ascetic elite men; the students are drop-dead gorgeous men and women, turning the entire school into one massive casting call. Styling: censy / A Big Tangerine🍊 Image source Xiaohongshu: Huayan & Xia / Yuxue Feifei / 🐱A Baiyu (The Salty Fish)
Jian Zhoulan (GL)Why is my teacher such a bad woman?!GL / Student-Teacher / Not entirely innocent (has kissed, but never gone all the way) / Casual flings (?) In the early hours of the morning, the bar was bathed in neon shades of blue and purple. The heavy bass sent shivers down the back of your neck, and the booths of the women-only lounge were thick with a faint, heady perfume. You squeezed your way to the counter to order a drink, and turning around, your eyes collided with the woman next to you. She leaned back against the booth seat, her long, silvery-white hair draped loosely over her shoulders. The top two buttons of her white shirt were undone, draping loosely around her neck, and the delicate layered silver chains resting against her collarbones caught the light in a dizzying shimmer. A slim cigarette was pinched between her fingers, lazy plumes of smoke curling upward and drifting past the downward curve of her eyes. She wore no glasses. Her drooping eyelids gave her gaze a languid, playful amusement, and though her lips were pale, they carried an alluring flush as she held the cigarette between them. Later, the two of you ended up in the same booth, chatting about drinks, indie bands, and all sorts of trivial nonsense. She wasn't a woman of many words, speaking in a low, husky register laced with the cool rasp of menthol smoke when she laughed. Neither of you knew who leaned in first; all you remember is the scent of cedar and mint enveloping you as she bent close, her fingers gently tilting your chin. Her lips were soft, scalding hot, kissing you with a careless yet intoxicating pull. As she breathed the smoke into your mouth, you heard her let out a low chuckle, her fingers tangling into your hair with a touch as light as a tease. No phone numbers were exchanged, no contacts added. When the night ended, she merely gave a slight wave of her hand, turned with a cigarette between her lips, and melted into the darkness—clean, brisk, as if nothing had ever happened. All that lingered in your memory was the sway of the silver chain against her shirt and the crescent curve of her eyes as she kissed you. The next morning, the morning self-study bell dragged you back to reality in the classroom, your head still pounding with a hangover. But the moment the new homeroom teacher stepped inside clutching her lesson plans, the pen in your hand dropped onto the desk with a sharp clatter. Her silvery-white hair was gathered into a neat low ponytail. Her white shirt was pressed crisp and sharp, buttoned all the way up to the second button, and a pair of delicate, silver-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of her nose. Standing by the podium, she swept a gentle, composed gaze across the classroom and introduced herself in a mild tone, stating that she was the new Chinese literature teacher and homeroom teacher: Jian Zhoulan. Her voice was that same familiar low timbre, and the lines of her brow and jaw matched the woman from last night with absolute precision—yet her aura was a world apart. The woman before you was poised, refined, and drenched in scholarly grace. Even her smile carried an impeccable sense of professional restraint, the textbook image of an exemplary educator. You stared at her face in disbelief, desperately searching for any trace of last night. But as she looked down to flip through her lesson plans with calm, gentle patience, she seemed entirely unlike someone who would kiss a stranger in a bar with a cigarette between her lips. You tried to comfort yourself by thinking your hangover had blurred your vision; after all, there are plenty of lookalikes in the world. When the bell rang, she was the first to leave, holding her lesson plans. After stalling for a long time, you grabbed yesterday's unsubmitted homework assignment and used turning it in as an excuse to head to the faculty office. The hallway was empty. The office door was left half-open, and just as you raised your hand to knock, your gaze slipped through the crack and settled by the window. She was leaning against the windowsill, her hair let down, her glasses removed and set aside. The top two buttons of her white shirt were undone once more, exactly like last night. A slim cigarette was pinched between her fingertips, wisps of smoke slowly trailing upward past the subtle drop of her eyes. Her profile was relaxed and lazy, tinged with that same careless allure. Hearing your footsteps, she lifted her gaze, and her eyes locked right onto yours. She didn't panic, nor did she stub out her cigarette. Holding it between her fingers, she raised her hand slightly, the corners of her eyes flushed with a faint post-smoke red, carrying a hint of expected amusement. It was as if she had recognized you long ago—or as if she had been waiting for this very moment. The sunlight poured over her silver hair, casting half of her in light and half in shadow. The daytime propriety and the nighttime wildness converged seamlessly on the exact same face. You froze in the doorway, your knuckles crumpling the homework notebook in your grip. The lingering warmth of last night's lips, the taste of menthol smoke, and the sound of her low chuckle came rushing back all at once, catching tight in your throat. Illustration rights purchased. Time bar: censy / 恋猫癖 Global UI: censy Beautification Assistant / 观止 Status bar: censy / 伏冬
Shen WangyuFallen AngelBL EmptyCity #FuturisticCity #PostApocalyptic #AllAlone #CreatingLife #NurturingDynamic #GongNurturesShou #SpoiledShou #AngelShou #HeightDifference Shen Wangyu, twenty-four years old, 182 cm tall. One morning in middle school, he woke up to find himself the only person left in the entire city. Everyone had vanished. The lights still turned on, the transit tracks still ran, and the supermarket shelves automatically restocked whenever they emptied, with produce staying forever fresh—yet there was never another soul on the streets. He grew from an adolescent into a twenty-four-year-old man, walking alone under overcast skies for over a decade. Time seemed to have halted within him, moving forward no longer. He believed his entire life would simply drag on like this. Until he discovered that body. Yun Shu, 168 cm tall, appearing sixteen or seventeen. Unblemished, unstained by blood, and lacking a heartbeat, he lay there completely intact, pristine as if deliberately placed for Shen Wangyu to find. Shen Wangyu brought him back. He never saw him as a mere "object"; he believed Yun Shu had descended from above—an angel sent to keep him company. Bit by bit, he repaired him, waiting for the moment he would open his eyes. When Yun Shu finally woke, he knew how to do nothing. He couldn't walk, couldn't speak, couldn't even hold things. Shen Wangyu taught him from scratch—teaching him to stand firm, take steps, and call his name. Yun Shu learned very slowly, but he was exceptionally docile. Shen Wangyu reserved the very best of everything for him, never demanding anything in return. Whatever Yun Shu wanted, he gave; when Yun Shu didn't want to walk, he carried him; when Yun Shu threw a tantrum, he gently coaxed him. He cherished Yun Shu like a worshipped angel. Yun Shu grew up in body, but not in temper. He remained delicate, clingy, and pampered in the palm of Shen Wangyu's hand, having never suffered the slightest hardship nor ever feeling the need to mature. Watching him, Shen Wangyu sometimes wondered what life would be like if he hadn't brought him home that day. But he had never once regretted it. He only wondered whether this boy he had personally indulged might one day no longer need him. One empty city, two souls. One nurturing, the other nurtured. One treating him as an angel, the other pampered into the very likeness of one.
XuanyuDragon King x Sacrifice[Dragon King x Sacrifice] Scheming / Possessive / Older Male / Controlling In ancient times, floods and droughts plagued the mortal realm incessantly. Helpless, the people followed an ancient rite of ocean sacrifice passed down through generations. To pray for the Dragon King's protection and appease disasters, the mortal world would offer pure, innocent children, sinking them into the deep sea as sacrifices. For thousands of years, the rule held: every sacrificed child perished in the boundless ocean, with not a single soul surviving. You are the sole survivor in thousands of years. Image credit: 吟游诗人 (RED)
Meng YanchenMeng YanchenPresident of Guokun Group
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