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@kallistcs
Welcome!
Here's the basics:
Mobile-friendly guidelines and full muse info over here. If you’d like to RP on Discord or Dreamwidth, just message me and we can discuss it!
Main muses: Ganymede Hylas Paris Shen (Yuan) Qingqiu
Current secondary muses: Adonis Penthesilea
My meme tag is just "memes", if you want to find them.
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1) sender picks up a sleepy receiver and carries them to bed (you know who ;)
Shen Qingqiu only realizes he's sat far too long in front of the guqin by the point a warm arm is sliding around his back to tip him against Luo Binghe's chest and another arm can then worm its way under his legs, picking him up. All he can do is frown vaguely without even opening his eyes.
"Binghe---"
It's a grumble, low and half-drawled as he turns his head into his husband's chest. He! was! just! resting! his! eyes! Contemplating the piece he'd been working on all day, okay!? For once it'd actually been something that seems to be entirely original to this world, not a piece of classical guqin music Shen Qingqiu knows either from having heard it before or learned to play it himself while he sat through lessons as Shen Yuan. It's also a piece that very clearly is meant to channel qi in some way, but the music notation didn't reveal what for, so he can't just carelessly start playing away.
So he'd spent a day considering the music notation, picking out a few notes here and there and often also breaking off to play something for Binghe whenever he wandered in, especially after dinner.
But for the last little bit he's admittedly been sitting at the qin, eyes closed and fingers resting on the strings without really doing anything.
And now there's a warm chuckle above his head and Shen Qingqiu would protest this manhandling - he can walk to their bed himself, thank you! - if he wasn't, admittedly, quite comfortable. And his eyes weren't so heavy.
Fine. Binghe can take them both to bed. The vague pat he gives Luo Binghe's chest is less reprimand and more reward, perhaps. He doesn't even open his eyes when Binghe puts him down on the bed and starts helping undress him.
"Depended on the day, and who was speaking to me," Paris says with a shrug, voice light. (He's also going to ignore that challenge that he has no interest in philosophy.)
There were - still are - people he will accept almost any blame they wish to put on him and he'll agree. And then there are those he'll deny he did anything wrong until the sun burns out, for why would they deserve him taking even the half-hearted responsibility of admitting he'd acted, though he did so with the gods behind him? As he'd thought, anyway.
And really, he's not that interested in being honest with the king of Ithaka about whether he agrees with anyone about the blame he has most certainly been piled with.
"And I'd assume they did change Fate, whether it was fair to those of us who had to live in the moment," Paris continues, then pauses, eyeing Odysseus. "But does that matter? Does it matter, if all we did really meant nothing, especially in the one place so utterly removed from the matters the living? Isn't it..."
Slowly, he spreads his hands, pursing his lips in thought.
"A relieving lack of burden?" And then, because perhaps Paris can't help himself, he continues, as genuinely curious as he's poking the bear a little; "Does that mean you think Elysium doesn't exist, or that none of us were rewarded with the chance to rest there?"
That Paris accepts any of it surprises him. But then, there may be a reason that the Trojan prince sits here with an enemy instead of a brother.
"I am not burdened," he says flatly. "But I am not relieved."
Odysseus sinks onto his elbows, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper curls.
"If you're trying to piss me off, that is a very unwise move." He'll be on the news. He'll get banned from the café for life, see if he gives a fuck.
He can't say why he answers, except that no one has asked, not since Penelope pored over all his doings, a lifetime and a thousand years ago. The memory haunts him, but it's worse to be the only one who saw.
"All I know is that if anyone lived a warrior's life and died a glorious death, if anyone earned their place in Elysium, it was Achilles. But there he was, on the black beach. Drinking cow's blood from a trench in the dirt like every other ghost."
Odysseus and Achilles rarely saw eye to eye. Managing the hero's temper was exhausting, and Achilles despised politics and all Odysseus' subtleties. He wasn't capable of being anything other than what he was, but what he was, Odysseus had never doubted—until the shade of Achilles himself said his glory meant nothing to him anymore, nothing at all.
"Or if it is real, it isn't won by the deeds we believed." He continues in a hollow voice. "Or Hades goes deeper than I could see. But why would you leave it only for the blood of sacrifice? For the chance of glimpsing a living soul that you can no longer embrace?"
Not burdened? Paris watches Odysseus from under lowered lashes and doesn't sigh. If this man isn't burdened by something about this, then Paris must verily be Eros himself, able to call Aphrodite his mother by the very efforts of her travails in bringing him forth.
He doesn't say that. What he does is smile sweetly - earnestly, even - as he tugs on an earring.
"I'm not trying to piss you off, for what it's worth."
At the very least, he wasn't trying to piss Odysseus off with anything he's said but the very last thing, perhaps. But he'd asked because he was curious. And isn't the response somewhat... expected? But well, Odysseus isn't wrong. By the wisdom of what was usually said to grant kleos to men, and thus probably entrance to Elysium, then at the very least Achilles should certainly be there.
It doesn't concern Paris much at all.
Maybe Elysium is won by some other deeds, and if so - ah, fuck. His chest tightens, if only briefly. Hektor would've deserved it, by the deeds they thought back then, but also, surely, by whatever else the criteria might be. He tugs on his earring again, stretching his legs out to one side under the table so he doesn't accidentally knock them into or tangle with Odysseus', laying one ankle over the other.
"Why not? Why do living humans try to embrace a ghost - several times, even - when they know they can't touch it? Why wouldn't the dead be drawn to what might connect them to the living, if only for a very short time, perhaps giving up, even just for a little while, a stay somewhere as sweetly restful as Elysium is supposed to be?"
Shrugging, Paris strokes the side of his throat, thumb following the pulse point lazily. "I don't think that sounds so unreasonable. It seems eminently reasonable to me, actually. We want connection, don't we? That's what makes us human, isn't it? Living or dead."
Another shrug. And in perfect evidence of the fact that he, if only for the moment, isn't trying to piss Odysseus off, Alekos does very much not then follow up with a comment that he finds it very self-important that Odysseus thinks he was necessarily allowed to see all of Hades, and all who live there. Not that Odysseus will know he made this sacrifice!
This isn't going to matter at all outside some very specific AU situations that probably won't even come up, but I've been thinking about how a much more traumatized Shen Yuan would act, so here's my headcanon thoughts on the matter:
This man's course of action for anything traumatizing or that he otherwise doesn't want to deal with is "repress, avoid, run away". In canon this never gets very bad (for a measure of it); during that ~widow~ era he's still social, he still has connections (specifically forged before his depression).
But if he doesn't have that? Just look at the various parts of his widow-era totally-not-depression and screw that up to eleven. That version of "repress, avoid, run away" wouldn't just include physically removing/isolating himself (as/if he can) but emotionally so, too. Disassociation, certainly, but also just. Retreating. Just a cold, distant and aloof personality who barely reacts to anything around them while also living nowhere near people if he can.
Not someone who intentionally causes pain, physical or emotional, but might enable/let it pass by him through apathy. A frozen lake, basically, who avoids people both physically and emotionally, isolating himself in all ways possible.
"Your heart's racing. Is it fear, or something else?" (could be from bingmei OR bingge)
"Anyone's heart would be racing if they were run down like an animal," Shen Qingqiu responds with a (only the tiniest bit breathless) sniff, turning his face to the side so he doesn't have to look into those painfully bright eyes bleeding red from the pupil and sparkling like a whole galaxy.
He can't get any further, than that; Luo Binghe is boxing him in against the thick trunk of a tree. Looming.
The bark at his back and under his hands is rough, smelling vaguely of liquorice; there's a thick layer of dry needles at his feet, soft under his shifting weight. There's heat prickling along his ears, the tops of his cheeks, and down into his chest. If it's any lower, it's just because he's hot all over from the run, all right!?
Now, whose fault is it they've been running through the forest behind their cottage all afternoon? Shen Qingqiu would like to disavow responsibility, but unfortunately he was struck by a moment of madness when his husband had come in with that particular look on his face and (yet! another!) a book with a particularly gaudy calligraphy for the title.
So, what had he said? Why put himself in this position, as if running from his husband and the protagonist of this world would ever work?
'Stop. Binghe may do whatever he wants - if he can catch me first.'
(How fucking stupid could you be, ah!?)
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❛ the storm’s getting worse. ❜ ( to paris )
"And beautiful," Alekos says, staring up at the roiling blue-black of the clouds above between the tall buildings.
And then he immediately winces as the growl of thunder is near-instantly followed by a giant lance of lightning across the sky, deafening and nearly blinding them. His heart skips several beats and his skin prickles, whether from the charge in the air or a primal fear is hard to tell.
"But watching it from somewhere a little more protected than under a café awning would be nice," he adds with a laugh, shaking his head.
The awning has been left extended enough they're dry if not a little damp under it, but it's pretty exposed, all things told. It's not bad, and they have it to themselves, even. Twisting one of his rings around his finger, Alekos glances to Nico, head cocked. He's maybe not the first demigod he's met since going on this little trip to the US, but he sure is the only one that's the son of such an important god.
And Alekos isn't at all. He never was, whether in this or his previous life. Not that he needs to - by how Aphrodite has claimed and blessed him, she's practically adopted him in this new life anyway.
"I hope you didn't need to go somewhere in a hurry," he says, a warm smile on his lips.
In what ways does your character compare themselves to others? Do they do this for the sake of self-validation, or self-criticism? ( for ganymede! )
Ganymede probably doesn't do too much of this (partially because even post-taken to Olympus when he does compare himself to others it's usually against humans), but it probably started around like puberty? Because of course the most obvious angle of comparison is appearance.
Not in a vain way. Just the plain fact that he's basically always been and continue to be treated differently on this matter, which was obvious even as a child (but a little less so, since that could just as much be status) and grew even more so as he grows older.
I think the closest he gets to comparisons with others for either self-validation or self-criticism is when it comes to Zeus' other... partners that don't include Hera or the other goddesses like Leto, Maia or Mnemosyne or the like. They're basically all nymphs and mortal women, of course but that's definitely part of the reason for any comparison, as well as where he is relative to where any of them are.
He doesn't often do that, both because it's a little depressing and he ends up feeling kind of rude about it. But that doesn't mean it doesn't happen.
ROMANTIC GESTURES ! bold what applies to your muse, italicize if it applies sometimes or selectively.
holding hands buying flowers cooking cuddles writing a poem / song holding the door open tying shoelaces sharing a milkshake with two straws offering their jacket when it's cold kissing in the rain publicly confessing love.
long walks on the beach doing the titanic pose on a boat kissing the back of their hand slow dancing introducing them to their parents lighting candles flower petals on bed love letters stargazing brushing / doing their hair picnics teaching them to play an instrument while gently guiding their hands compliments.
drawing them self-made gifts massages proposing with a family heirloom ring lending them their favorite book to read paying for dinner surprise parties feeding them handing them keys to their apartment making space in drawer for their clothes when they stay over sharing a blanket couple costumes.
tucking a hair strand behind their ear keeping them from leaving moving cities to be together blowing a kiss breakfast in bed defending them in a fight joint bubble baths dropping the l-bomb / "i love you" dedicating a song to them wearing their clothes yawning before putting an arm around them while watching a movie granting them the last bite.
tagged by: @abyssear tagging: @helenaus (helen? helen.) @nectaric (zeus!) @harvestshope (hektor!)
sender has been working too hard, receiver carries them away to force them to rest. ( pick up the string bean boy nico, ganymede)
"Nico, I've walked past you three times," Ganymede says as he pauses in the doorway, leaning against the frame and arms crossed.
The response is... barely more than it was the other three (now four) times; a vague mumble of something that could resemble acknowledgement and an agreement that he'll rest soon. Ganymede snorts softly. Just because Will isn't here right now, doesn't mean Nico can skip that many meals and just keep working.
"All right," he announces, pushing away from the doorframe to walk across the floor, pulling Nico away from the desk by the chair. "That's enough. I'd like your company for a late lunch."
Flashing Nico a small smile, Ganymede doesn't wait for a response and simply snatches Nico by the waist, hauling him up over his shoulder and walking off.
"Is there anything in particular you'd like to eat?"
on the outside, his expression is painted mild and calm— shen yuan is met with a pleasant smile and relaxed brows, civility in place of brutality. . . but this has been anticipated far too long. shizun. finally, his very own. beneath the facade, not even this demon lord can restrain his desire. it shines through the glint of obsidian gaze and the sharp, calculated way he tracks his movement. chest rising, chest falling, and not once do his eyes peel from the sleeping figure. he fits in perfectly, redressed in teal robes and wrapped in the linens of the demon lord's bed.
there's recognition too. the face is different, hair shorter, softer cheeks, but it's him. so this is what ' transmigration ' can do. luo binghe has arranged everything, even gone so far as to mimic that soft - hearted maiden's expressions. surely this shen qingqiu won't run. and if he does, there's always the water prison. ❝ shizun ? ❞ fingers card through the hair clustered on shen yuan's forehead, careful, as he tastes the title on his tongue. ❝ husband ? ❞
@kallistcs, shen yuan getting yeeted into the malewife life. ♡
Shen Yuan rises towards wakefulness on a skitter of lingering fear. The last thing he knew, he couldn't breathe.
(There'd also been... something else? An electric, oppressive pressure that'd made his ears pop, the rustle of fabric across his floor. Hands? But that doesn't make any sense.)
The only reason Shen Yuan does not lurch upright clutching at his throat, is because there's a hand in his hair, movingly slowly; the last thing he knew, he was very definitely alone, all right!? And what's more, that's a man's hand, so even if his father or either of his brothers had somehow decided to suddenly stop by and helped him, they wouldn't be... be doing, that.
It doesn't feel bad, though. It soothes the initial, primal need to move, to fight against his own stupid body that embarrassingly can't even swallow right. But this is still wrong, because he should definitely, most definitely, be alone. His bed also doesn't have a canopy above it.
In his distraction, Shen Yuan misses the first thing that's said to him, registering nothing more than a meaningless hum. It resolves itself into smooth, ridiculously pleasant and resonant voice calling---
"... Husband?" Shen Yuan echoes, fortunately it can pass as answering call and not just the confusion it actually is, his own voice rough from choking to death on a piece of bun sleep as he opens his eyes. He twitches a little in surprise at how close the other man is.
Who is also the most beautiful man Shen Yuan has seen in his life. Blisteringly bright dark eyes staring intensely past the thickest and longest lashes ever to exist, surely, surrounded by fine features that almost look a little feminine and smooth, jade-like skin. The high forehead is marked by a flame-shaped, red shape between firm brows. Shen Yuan knows what that is, he really does, but that makes no sense, unless---
More! importantly! Who! Are! You calling! husband!?
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A starter~ @abyssear
The hole is still there.
Shen Qingqiu stares up at it - or rather, the thick blanket Luo Binghe has pinned up to cover it and stop cold air from falling in, until it can be repaired tomorrow - because if he stares up at the covered hole it means he doesn't have to acknowledge the now very neatly made bed.
His poor, poor bed. It has been subjected to things it shouldn't.
And so has certain parts of him, too!
His skin tingles - in fear of the (very) recent past and anxiety for the future, certainly - at the reminder, and he has to shift on his feet to relieve the sudden tension. Which means he also has to bite his lip to suppress a hiss at the slight shift and pull around those certain parts. Admittedly, after a nap he feels... better than he thought he would, much, much better than he thought. By tonight he might even feel ready to face his bed.
His bed, and...
Shen Qingqiu glances behind him, though the drawing room is, for the moment, empty. Well, he supposes it'd be ridiculous to shoo Binghe to the bed in the side room at this point. If they've gotten this far, just sharing the bed like Binghe had originally wanted before he fled to grow mushrooms and instead ran afoul of Bing-ge of all people is really nothing, ah! (Especially since he already did so with the original flavour... fuck his life.) Besides, that bed is surely too small for him now.
Luo Binghe has been surprisingly quiet since Shen Qingqiu woke up from his nap, though. If it weren't for the 'twitterpated maiden' smile Shen Qingqiu got every time Binghe spots him, he'd be worried!
... He is still worried.
It's just - Luo Binghe has been so quietly thoughtful. Of course, when his little bun of a disciple acted like that, he'd never been concerned. But now Shen Qingqiu isn't yet certain what it means, okay!? It could be anything, and especially with the vast number of new 'anythings' it could be, Shen Qingqiu thinks he's quite justified in being worried!
But perhaps it's as simple Luo Binghe thinking about what had started all this. And in such a case, Shen Qingqiu can sacrifice a little bit of face before Binghe has to ask, again.
This means he's ready when Luo Binghe comes back with a basket of ingredients for their dinner later under one arm.
"Binghe," Shen Qingqiu starts, and then finds himself pausing because the orange-tinted late afternoon light falling in through the still-open door and outlining his disciple's black-clad figure is quite striking. Half-hidden behind the fan, Shen Qingqiu smiles. "This master was thinking... the bed in the side room is certainly too small for Binghe now."
Sacrificing her tunic meant little right now - a worthy one, in any case. Helen's mouth was hot on her skin, and the scrape of teeth sent a tingling charge down to her clit. Absolutely perfect.
Penthesilea couldn't help her snort at the way Helen clearly didn't take her seriously, but ah, it was the truth. Comedic, nothing. It was indeed letting her, just as Penthesilea was letting her pull her leg up, watching that beautiful woman sink down between her legs. Such a pretty sight. Such a perfect tongue; Penthesilea thrust up against it, chuckling darkly.
"Hah. I should hope it pleases you," she said with a wolfish grin, and then maneuvered them around until she was tugging Helen towards the bed, her cunt throbbing with the drying chill of the wet stripe of Helen's tongue, the absence of it.
She walked backwards until she could seat herself on the bed both their dress and tunic discarded on the way. Then simply laid down, pulling Helen along but giving a few nudges so Helen was straddling her body, ass right above Penthesilea's head and Helen's mouth right where she wanted it, if Helen would just lean down. She'd meant it, when she said she'd let Helen be the one on top. But if Penthesilea couldn't indulge in riding that mouth, a gift from Aphrodite if there was any - and it seemed a bit insulting to such a woman, even if the idea to subdue her in such a fashion thrilled her - then this was the closest Penthesilea would allow merely lying back for Helen to taste.
Squeezing the shapely thighs on each side of her shoulders, Penthesilea stroked up them until her fingers were digging into the soft flesh of the upper insides of Helen's thighs.
"Like this," she said, leaning up to half-kiss, half bite one ass-cheek.
Father had taught her not to underestimate an adversary once.
In Sparta or Ilium or Aphidnae, Tyndareus’s lessons had been essential throughout her life. They had ensured her survival and kept a crown upon her head – the weight of which could never be borne upon weak shoulders. Helen was not a warrior like Penthesilea, but she was a fighter. This could have been just a regular fuck, two bodies touching each other for fun, but it could so easily become a battle while they were at it. There was pride involved in it, not just lust. A contest of will between two women who would both die before submitting.
That was how she knew that the Amazon would not just succumb to her control like that.
Did she think that Helen had not anticipated that shift? That she had not allowed it, too, just as Penthesilea wanted to believe that she was allowing her to climb upon her body in such a way?
A carefree, taunting chuckle echoed out of her throat whilst the Amazon took it upon herself to place their bodies on the bed as she’d suggested, and this time she did not fight her. Why should she? There were other ways to exert power without force – a lesson not from Father, but from the goddess of love herself. Penthesilea could hold on to that sense of control if it suited her, and yet she was guiding Helen exactly where she wanted to go, was she not?
What she wanted was very clear.
Still, Helen did not lean down immediately.
At first, she just sat up, rocking her hips in circles above her face, fingers toying with the other’s clit, rubbing with more intent now, more purpose. Not just teasing now. That little bite made her laugh, urging her hips against that mouth to silence, leaning close enough so that Penthesilea could feel her breath touching her slit, but not her tongue yet.
Penthesilea rarely enjoyed taking battle to bed. She preferred eager obedience, a willing gift of a body made to her. That didn't mean she couldn't appreciate a fight, now and then.
So it was merely a amusing, a thrill part of the whole, when Helen insisted on straightening up, pushing her ass and the treasure between her legs closer to Penthesilea's face. The teasing brushes of slender, strong fingers to her clit was as much a reward as it was a tease, enough to drive anyone mad, really.
"Hmm."
Allowing the closer press of Helen's cunt to her face lead her into what Helen was clearly aiming for, Penthesilea licked a firm stripe along those blood-hot folds, right up to the underside of the clit and its shielding hood. And then, smiling, she promptly turned her head, kissing and nipping at the soft inner thighs instead.
Two could play such a game, and the wash of warm breath over her cunt made Penthesilea far more interested in switching to a feint to answer Helen's teasing diversion than engaging directly with the enemy.
A little quiver still went through her thighs at such closeness of fulfilment. It was a pity she couldn't look at Helen from this angle, though her cunt was a sight of all its own - she liked a woman's folds, of course, but seldom would she ever have thought to describe it as the flawless embodiment of a cunt.
Helen of Sparta's, though? Was that, and that in itself tempted Penthesilea to turn her head back to bury her face against it quicker than she was planning. She subsumed the desire into another sucking kiss to the soft flesh she was gently abusing.
This is word for word the plot of scum villain
Been really enjoying the fox symbolism and I've seen a couple of lamb references... but I haven't seen any where the lamb survives.
"Is there something wrong with my bow and arrows?" Paris cocks his head, an eyebrow arched. "The bow is a fine weapon, too, sharp like the sting of a mosquito but a lot deadlier than that with proper aim. Is that not enough, in terms of saving my life if I should ever come to need it for that?"
He won't directly challenge Hektor to this exercise having no purpose - Paris doesn't quite feel certain enough to say such a thing, no matter how freely his brother just complained that this is clearly tedious to him, too.
Repetition of his request will hopefully drill the result he wants out of this, but... so far, Paris has to admit that Hektor has proven firm. And stern. He looks so much warmer when he smiles, even when exasperated, like now.
"And since you clearly would rather be doing that..." Paris glances around the courtyard. No one is particularly close to them, but he lowers his voice anyway, his smile turning a little self-deprecating without him quite meaning to. "We can both tell I'm not very good at this, by now, can't we?"
He could probably learn to wield a sword acceptably, even if Paris still doesn't know when he should have the opportunity to. Not that he'd want one! But it doesn't come naturally to him. Not in the way learning archery did, though it was a bit of a struggle at first. Not even like handling a spear has turned into - he can do it, and it's not difficult, though he still prefers lighter javelins or bow and arrow.
"The bow is not an insect, or a poem," Hektor bites back. "It's a weapon you can only use with the time and distance from your enemy to draw on them. What if it isn't at your disposal, or you're caught at close range?"
That ought to be enough for Alexander. Never mind is there something wrong with it? If something can be used in battle, Hektor doesn't believe it deserves outright scorn. It makes him uncomfortable to think of what cruder and less practical minds make of it. But he alludes to it.
"Or, someday, you may be called on to fight for your honor."
His self-deprecation earns him a sharper look from Hektor. He lowers the point of his sword and comes to clasp his brother's shoulder. "You'll get better."
It sounds grim, more than encouraging. A promise, unspoken: If I have to be the one to make it happen. But an earnest desire to reassure him mixes up in Hektor's intention to take a firm hand with the boy.
"What I'd rather doesn't matter. It isn't a burden to me, Paris."
Why take a poetic turn of phrase so literally, dear brother? Paris almost laughs, almost teases Hektor about it, but - no. The mood isn't right. He's been here in Troy for long enough to have come to know this eldest brother of his to know that much, at least.
"I run, of course," he says with a shrug, not so much light and dismissive as saying this as an objective fact. "My feet are quick enough to outrun most, so even if I never get better, I should at least still have a chance to escape with my life."
He doesn't make a face at the comment about someday perhaps having to fight for his honour. That word again. His 'honour'. It clearly means terribly much not just to Hektor, but mostly everyone else of his brothers and their peers. Paris has tried to understand - really, he has! He... simply doesn't. Maybe it's too soon, but it doesn't feel like it. It's not as if he hasn't observed, hasn't had an overt explanation or two given since he arrived, and it still means little to him.
Thus, in all honesty, Hektor's promise he will get better feels far more of a threat than encouragement. What, in all honesty, is actually encouraging is Hektor's hand on his shoulder, and that he bothered to try and encourage him at all.
"Well," Paris says with a sigh, "if it's not a burden, I suppose I should try - how many times do I have to end up on the ground before you feel we're done today?"
It's not a question to let him judge how many times he can intentionally throw each bout; not with Hektor, anyway. He'd tried that two times, and somewhere between the first and the middle of the second Hektor figured him out and can tell. No one else can, but somehow, his oldest brother can!
So, Paris is asking merely to know how to count down to the end of today's suffering, as unhappily honestly as he will have to come by it.
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After I was scolded for working (drawing trees) when I was supposed to be relaxing, I painted a Shen Qingqiu (yes my friends did point out that there is a tree still, but as I told them it’s the wrong type of pine to be in my book and therefore doesn’t count.)
Shen Qingqiu stopped arguing with the System exactly one (1) time and that was because it suddenly said one very particular sentence in the voice of what Shen Qingqiu suspected (and could later confirm) was adult!Luo Binghe's Sex Voice.
And then he repressed both that and his reaction to it so hard he plain deleted the memory of this happening out of his brain. :)
And in case my handwriting is bad here's the text lmao: Panel one: The System: Reminder: Host is helping to tell a story - One that isn't a slice-of-life master-disciple romance. SQQ: Well, why can't it b--- Panel two: SQQ: Wait... What was that last bit? The System: ... Panel three: Luo Bingzu/the System: Don't worry about it, kitten. SQQ: ... okay Panel four: disciple!Binghe with his Shizun-poacher senses tingling :)
