#Red diary

[everytangbo]

「一剪梅」

"A single cutting plum blossom"

「舉酒欲邀明月醉」

"Raising wine to invite the bright moon to get drunk"

[charbroiledchicken]

reblog if you're a writer but would rather drink straight cyanide than show any of your family members your work

[verdiris]

Here to provide your regularly scheduled MB fanart 😌🤝😌

[tuttyfruttyss]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ # ⠀ ๋⠀ ᐢ ׅ ‎ 🍓📖 ⭑⠀⠀ ࣪ 𖧷

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀𝗽𝗻𝗴 made 𝗯𝘆 tuttyfruttyss © ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ☆⌒(ゝ。∂) 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲 to 𝘂𝘀𝗲

[angelfragil]

[vzxncee]

MCD Aarmau x Redhood 🛐

[ithinkdogshouldvote]

The siblings ever

[queereads-bracket]

Queer Adult SFF Books Bracket: Round 1

Book summaries and submitted endorsements below:

The Murderbot Diaries series (All Systems Red, Artificial Condition, Rogue Protocol, Exit Strategy, Network Effect, Fugitive Telemetry, System Collapse, and other stories) by Martha Wells

Endorsement from submitter: "Asexual and agender main character. In later books side characters are revealed to be in poly relationship."

"As a heartless killing machine, I was a complete failure."

In a corporate-dominated space-faring future, planetary missions must be approved and supplied by the Company. For their own safety, exploratory teams are accompanied by Company-supplied security androids. But in a society where contracts are awarded to the lowest bidder, safety isn’t a primary concern.

On a distant planet, a team of scientists is conducting surface tests, shadowed by their Company-supplied ‘droid--a self-aware SecUnit that has hacked its own governor module and refers to itself (though never out loud) as “Murderbot.” Scornful of humans, Murderbot wants is to be left alone long enough to figure out who it is, but when a neighboring mission goes dark, it's up to the scientists and Murderbot to get to the truth.

Science fiction, novella, series, adult

Hunger Pangs series (True Love Bites) by Joy Demorra

In a world of dwindling hope, love has never mattered more...

Captain Nathan J. Northland had no idea what to expect when he returned home to Lorehaven injured from war, but it certainly wasn't to find himself posted on an island full of vampires. An island whose local vampire dandy lord causes Nathan to feel strange things he'd never felt before. Particularly about fangs.

When Vlad Blutstein agreed to hire Nathan as Captain of the Eyrie Guard, he hadn't been sure what to expect either, but it certainly hadn't been to fall in love with a disabled werewolf. However Vlad has fallen and fallen hard, and that's the problem.

Torn by their allegiances--to family, to duty, and the age-old enmity between vampires and werewolves--the pair find themselves in a difficult situation: to love where the heart wants or to follow where expectation demands.

The situation is complicated further when a mysterious and beguiling figure known only as Lady Ursula crashes into their lives, bringing with her dark omens of death, doom, and destruction in her wake.

And a desperate plea for help neither of them can ignore.

Thrown together in uncertain times and struggling to find their place amidst the rising human empire, the unlikely trio must decide how to face the coming darkness: united as one or divided and alone. One thing is for certain, none of them will ever be the same.

Fantasy, romance, paranormal, series, adult

[milkymolle]

yes btw i am catching up on murderbot. drew a poster for da first book for fun :^)

[justshipsandstuff]

A tale as old as time

[graveyardbunnii]

[everytangbo]

"The Insufferable Art of Mockery and Care"

Part 1

"Myung-Myung asked if I write a lot about him. I know he hasn't read this one, but it's a matter of time… Never thought I'd be hiding evidence.”

[And so he did, not only hiding the diary, but refusing to start a new one out of sheer self-awareness. Chung Myung didn't missed it.]

Tang Bō, often mistaken for careless due to the disorderly state of his quarters, was anything but. Even amidst the chaos, his sharp eyes missed little. Anyone who dared to spend time with him would quickly realize it was a misguided judgment. No, even within the chaos, the man's acumen was more than formidable. His apparent indifference was no more than a clever veneer. Even amidst the scattered tools, opium pipes, and stacks of parchment, nothing escaped his notice. His eagle-sharp gaze immediately caught a foreign shade of red fabric tucked on one of the cluttered shelves.

It wasn’t subtle, and that alone made him wary. His steps carried him swiftly to the shelf, his senses alert. If this was some audacious prank—or worse, an attack—he’d be ready. One hand hovered close to the blade tucked at his side while the other reached for the object. His fingers brushed against silk. The soft, unmistakable texture made him pause. He pulled it out anyway, breath hitching slightly as the fabric unraveled under his touch.

The color was striking—cinnabar, maybe carmine. A vivid shade he couldn’t ignore. The embroidery, though slightly askew from being hastily folded, revealed a crane and a turtle entwined in a simple yet elegant design. Now he was intrigued, but still cautious.The depiction wasn’t some mass-market trinket; no, this had the faint weight of deliberation behind it.

The silk wrapping was... sloppy, haphazard, almost careless, as if whoever had bundled it had no patience for proper presentation. But that, in its own way, intrigued him more than a perfect presentation would have. He recognized the intent, however clumsy, hidden beneath the folds. It took only a slight tug to undo the silk, which fell away in soft folds, revealing the object within.

The sight stopped him cold.

A logbook.

Not just any logbook, though. His defenses, so carefully maintained, crumbled as he took it in. The cover was breathtaking—a deep pink, bordering on carmine, its surface faintly shimmering as if kissed by sunlight, vibrant under his dark fingers, and the texture was impossibly smooth under his calloused fingers, an intoxicating contrast that made him hesitate to grip it too tightly, lest he damage it.

His thumb instinctively traced the stitched binding, marveling at the craftsmanship. Six holes, not the standard four, held it together, the dark green thread crisscrossing with precision. He couldn’t help but notice the shade of the thread—Tang green. His green. The edges of the spine were lined with a darker silk, adding a sturdiness that whispered of longevity, much like the crane and turtle on the wrapping.

Tang Bō flipped it open, and the sound of the pages shifting under his hands was oddly soothing. The xuan paper within was unmistakably high-quality, the kind reserved for serious calligraphy and painting, not the cheap scraps used for practice, far too fine for his idle notes or careless doodles. It was the type of material meant to preserve, not discard.

His gaze lingered on the book, which felt less like a tool and more like a relic. Every detail spoke of intention, precision, and care. This wasn’t something found by chance or some reckless purchase he’d made in a haze of opium. It was commissioned—crafted specifically for someone.— It felt strange in his hands, like something too pure, too deliberate to belong to him.

And Tang Bō, as keen as he was, up to that point had completly overlook the logbook title, written in a penmanship he has familiar with, 'Collection of a leech's ramblings', he scoffed at the sight. His scoff was loud and sharp, cutting through the silence of the room.

Only one person. Only one person had the audacity, the gall, to pair such a mocking title with such an opulent gift. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Chung Myung.”

Tang Bō was livid. So livid in fact he felt a smile drawing upon his face and a soft warm on his cheeks. That infuriating bastard.

So absorbed was he that he ignored the subtle footsteps that could be heard from the hallway. As subtle as a strutting peacock.

His fingers curled protectively around the journal, clutching it closer to his chest as if it might slip away. His face burned, the warmth spreading from his cheeks to his ears. Before he could stop himself, his free hand absently gathering the discarded silk wrapping. He felt ridiculous, cradling the thing like it was precious, yet he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

His door slide open.

The crane and turtle stared up at him, their meaning teasing at the edge of his mind. Repeating in his mind the old tale. He closed his eyes and sighed, the weight of the journal oddly comforting against him.

Yet that stupid title. He felt livid.

Livid enough to smile.

"That was fast..." Tang Bō whipped his head around, spotting Chung Myung leaning casually against the doorframe, holding a bottle from Bō's private stash in a hand, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face. His posture alone exuding brazenness. "Well?"

He asked, though the glint in his eyes suggested he already knew the answer. Tang Bō tightened his grip on the journal, glaring at him.

“You—” He struggled for the right words, torn between berating him and… whatever else was clawing at his chest. “You think this is funny?”

Chung Myung shrugged, his smirk widening. “A little.”

Bō stopped a few paces away, glaring at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that?”

Chung Myung raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “What’d I do now?”

Bō held up the journal, shaking it slightly for emphasis. “This.” He jabbed a finger at the title. “Do you have any idea how insufferable you are?”

Chung Myung took a slow sip of his wine, utterly unfazed. “Pretty sure you’ve told me before.”

“And you keep proving me right.”

“Come on,” Chung Myung said, leaning back against the tree with a smug grin. “It’s a nice journal, isn’t it? You’re holding it like it’s your firstborn.”

Bō opened his mouth to retort, but the words died on his tongue. He glanced down at the journal, realizing with some embarrassment that he was holding it close, his fingers clutching the edges protectively. His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go.

“It’s too much,” he muttered, his voice softer now.

Chung Myung waved a hand dismissively. “Nah. You needed something better than that old rag you’ve been scribbling in. Consider it an upgrade.”

Bō looked at him, searching for any hint of mockery, but all he found was a quiet sort of pride. Chung Myung didn’t say it outright—he never would—but the effort behind the gift, the careful thought that went into every detail, spoke volumes.

“You’re insufferable,” Bō said again, but this time there was no bite to his wor ds.

“And you’re welcome,” Chung Myung said, his tone maddeningly smug, his eyes flicked to the journal in Bō’s hands, the way he held it close. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not—” Tang Bō began, only to realize with horror that his lips had, in fact, curved upward. “For the record, the title’s still awful.”

Another low sip. “Awful, but true,”

Tang Bo stride closer. "Mhp. You're the one coming here eating our food, stealing my wine, taking over my bed, using our supplies. And I'm the leech?"

Chung Myung smirked, dismissing any grievances with a hand. "You're the one clinging like a leech when I'm around."

Tang Bō rolled his eyes, a gesture so dramatic it might’ve knocked his head back had he put any more force into it. “A leech?” he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If I’m a leech, you’re the idiot who keeps feeding me.”

Chung Myung didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re the one clinging to me like your life depends on it.” His smirk grew wider, like a cat toying with its prey. “Case in point—you're still holding that journal like a baby.”

Tang Bō felt the weight of the journal in his hands, his fingers curling tighter around it instinctively. Damn him, he thought. Chung Myung always had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things while making it feel like a joke.

Bō huffed, stepping closer, the silk wrapping clutched awkwardly in his free hand. “Speaking of this—what’s with the crane and turtle? Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Chung Myung blinked, and for a fleeting moment, there was something behind his gaze that Bō couldn’t quite place. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by feigned indifference. “What about it?”

Bō jabbed a finger at the embroidered design. “Don’t play dumb. You picked this on purpose. Crane and turtle—. Is there something you wanna say?”

Chung Myung raised an eyebrow, tilting his head as though the concept had never crossed his mind. “Bah, a dove and a gecko, what difference does it makes whatever vermin it has? You're reading too much into it.” He shrugged, leaning against the doorframe with that infuriating nonchalance. “I told the tailor to pick something that looked nice. Maybe they were feeling inspired.”

“Liar.” Bō’s accusation came fast, sharper than he intended, but he wasn’t about to let it go. “You’re not that clueless.”

“You’re assuming I care about that nonsense.” Chung Myung took another sip from the bottle, the glint in his eyes betraying his amusement. “Maybe I just thought it looked pretty. Ever consider that?”

“Pretty?” Bō’s voice cracked, half an incredulous scoff, half a laugh. “You expect me to believe you picked out this—” he shook the silk for emphasis, “—because it was ‘pretty?’”

Chung Myung tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, something he disguise by taking a longer sip. “Why not? You’re always scowling, so I figured you could use something cheerful.”

“Cheerful,” Bō repeated flatly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.” Chung Myung stepped closer, Bō could smell the liquor more acutely —damn his sharp nose, damn he didn't hate it—.

"Who's talking?" Chung Myung's tone dropping into something more familiar, more teasing leaning just slightly forward. “If I’d given you something plain, you’d complain. If I gave you something flashy, you’d say I was trying too hard. This?” He gestured lazily at the journal still in Bō’s hands. “It’s perfect because it’s already making you squirm.”

Bō flushed, the warmth creeping from his chest to his face, and he cursed himself for it. “I’m not squirming,” he muttered, averting his gaze. But even as he said it, his grip on the journal remained firm, his thumb tracing the green threads almost unconsciously.

“Sure you’re not.” Chung Myung’s grin widened, and he reached out, tapping the journal lightly with a finger. “Just say you like it”

“I—” The protest died in his throat. Bō glared at him instead, but it lacked the bite he intended. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Because it bears repeating.”

Chung Myung chuckled, stepping back and lifting the bottle in a mock toast. “I’m glad we’ve established that you’re predictable, clingy, and ridiculously oversentimental. The trifecta.”

Tang Bō opened his mouth to retort, but the words didn’t come. Instead, the warmth in his chest swelled, pushing past his bravado, settling into something… soft. Foreign. He hated it, and yet—he didn’t. Not entirely.

He was, in fact, a clingy leech. And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mind.

With a resigned sigh, he clutched the journal tighter and muttered, “For the record, if I’m a leech, it’s only because you’re stupid enough to let me stick around.”

Chung Myung’s laugh was light, carefree, and entirely unbothered. The wine in his breath hitting more intensely. “You’re not wrong.”

Bō didn’t miss the way Chung Myung’s gaze lingered, just for a moment, on the way he held the journal close to his chest. And though the infuriating bastard said nothing more, Bō could still feel something hanging in the air between them.

He stared at the title again. He was, in fact, a clingy leech, if only for him. While Chung Myung, he turned around, unable to keep his own smile at bay.

[bearmakesart]

[verdiris]

“I hate caring about stuff. But apparently once you start, you can’t just stop.”

[shiftingsoda]

Struggled to meditate today cuz I kept getting distracted cuz that “WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY?” ahh song was playing in my head on repeat louder than any other thought for like several long minutes

[velvetminefield]

😜 “It’s an automatic reaction triggered by catastrophic malfunction. Also, I really didn’t want them to try to move me because it hurt bad enough the way it was. “ - Martha Wells, All Systems Red

Bye bye Planet. See you at Port FreeCommerce.