purplepapriika

Latest Posts by purplepapriika

im playing and having fuunnnn

my svsss comic about sqq and his little personality split (what if)

ignore any inconsistencies i am but a weak and feeble human

"mobei-jun's intervention"

MWAH!

it's you!

I don't know bingbong, let's ask the destroyed roomba

mishanksss

unhinged binggehua posting because I can’t be stopped

CW for kidnapping and general bingge behavior 

Bingge, who has wrenched gods from the heavens and made use of countless divine treasures, ripping through the folds of time-space with xin mo to find and crush the orchestrator of his misery. He does not think it will be hard. He expects his creator to be an old creature, immortal and mighty as time itself; perhaps they will be calm and speak of fate, as though bingge’s suffering was naught but an ant struggling in the dirt to them; perhaps they will be cruel, having taken true delight in making his life agonizing.

But in a dingy apartment, small and cramped and stained with water leaks, he finds sqh working. The night is late and the only thing that lights up sqh’s face is the glow of his laptop. It’s almost divine. But bingge catches a glimpse of sqh’s face, and see’s him - so young, and yet impossibly weary and aged by the dark circles under his eyes and the weary blankness of his expression. This is no lofty god, conducting fates from upon a cloud. This is a creature who needs to eat and sleep as bingge once did.

Sqh turns when bingge steps on a crooked floorboard wrong, making it squeak. There is a bare fraction of a second where sqh looks upon bingge, and his eyes widen with emotion- recognition, panic, awe, fear. In that moment, bingge leaps forward, and knocks sqh clean out before a scream can even begin to form in his throat.

For a moment, bingge holds sqh. His creator, his god. Sqh is a faint weight in his arms, made haggard and pale by years of being shut away. But his face is softer in sleep, younger. Bingge enters his mind through his dreams.

He learns all there is to know of ‘Shang Qinghua’. There is no great tragedy to his life; he is no wayward orphan, or abused stepchild, or prince fallen from grace, or any other physically beaten and bereaved creature. But abandonment still lingers around him, the hurt of rejection buried deep. He is as resigned to his life of unpleasant work for survival as bingge is to his shallow existence and hollowed heart. Where bingge clings ever tighter to any love he can unearth, sqh shies from it, afraid to gain something for fear of the slight chance of losing it again. Here, in sqh, bingge finds the root of himself. He finds that which birthed him - that which held him close and nursed him, and released him onto the world as both a survival tactic and a buried cry for help.

Here is his creator, his god. His.

Perhaps it is not love bingge feels, not in the way he sees married couples love one another (not like his own marriages, no - he has long since learned that his marriages, even to the women he genuinely cares for, are not born of a true love). But it is a bone-deep feeling of belonging, the sense that a mechanism has clicked into place and is running properly for the first time. Here is the connection he has so craved; an utterly undeniable binding of red thread, a bond that cannot be broken by things like distance or emotion. Sqh is his, inasmuch as he is sqh’s. Creator and creation, god and vessel, mother and child.

Bingge’s suffering was molded by sqh’s hand, yes. But it was not without purpose, no - it is bingge’s suffering that has been given the dual purpose of keeping food in sqh’s mouth and kept him from going mad with lack of catharsis. Bingge has always, always been able to suffer any hurt if it would aid someone, and so he cannot help the thrill that he feels to know that his agony had meaning. It is a flaw he shares with his creator; for why else would sqh change the story of his heart to suit the whims of faceless people, to cater to their desires? Bingge feels every ounce of resentment flood away.

Bingge cradles sqh’s body on the apartment floor. The light of the laptop continues to pool over them, washing out the color in sqh’s skin, making him look as delicate as porcelain. Bingge wonders what color he is under the light of the warm sun. He gently tugs sqh’s hair free of it’s tangled hair tie, loosening the unwashed strands. The room smells of sweat, and salty noodles. Sqh’s strange clothes fit him ill, bulky and oversized, as though he was trying to trick himself into believing there was someone nearby.

He is small and dirty and weak, but bingge finds this irrelevant, if not comforting. Here is one who would not scorn his child self, grubby-handed and shoeless and starving. What is a physical state, in the end, when it can be changed so easily? Bingge will wash him and drape him in fine clothes, and feed him by hand until he is radiant, and then people will look upon sqh and see what he is - bingge’s.

(He knows, from looking, that mbj is sqh’s most beloved creation. His favorite. A toy made just for himself, carefully hidden from the greedy gazes of his readers. Bingge does not mind - for he is the first, and he will not be jealous of the little pet sqh made for himself. Perhaps mbj would be better suited to a bed than the battlefield anyway, he muses.)

Without another look or another thought, bingge rends the world with his sword again and steps through the hole, god cradled in his arms

I think part of the reason I’m so obsessed with MXTX’s works is the way that each story seems to hold you gently as say “Your kindness mattered. It didn’t alleviate the suffering, it did not undo the pain. But your kindness mattered.”

Kindness could not erase Luo Binghe’s abuse, but it changed the story into a kinder one.

Kindness did not stop Wei Wuxian’s death, but it did save a-Yuan.

Kindness did not undo Xie Lian’s suffering, but it renewed his sincerity to help others.

Kindness did not change the entire world, but it helped create a softer future.

Its such a nice message, that maybe kindness will not protect you, maybe you don’t see the outcome of it, but you should still try to be kind, and I love that honestly.

sorry yeah we queer coded your boyfriend. he’s arguing with his brash and emotionally reserved rival over something trivial for comedic effect. they have a special, vaguely suggestive bond that sets them apart. hm? oh uhh. yes they are blue and red

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

oh man oh fuck its the alaskan bullworm

<- Chapter Two

really funny to think about pidw mobing actually can u imagine ur boss comes back from his interdimensional field trip and is like alright ive gleaned the key to achieving true happiness: i need to fuck men. and then the camera slowly pans to you

"Kill him."

An emperor and his lap dog. PIDW!Mobing my beloveds

The noodles scene from the airplane extras!

part 7 of 7 - confessions

[« previous] [full story in chronological order]

Thank you all for reading! Especially if you've been following since day 1 lol :) as a side note, this was meant to be only 1 page per day, but the final two parts got a little out of hand... for a total of 16 pages! (9 just for this finale)

Serizawa carrying Reigen!

thirty year old salaryman carries twenty nine year old boss cuz they arent gay!!!

im late but happy vday everybody

The Outbursts of Everett True was a comic strip that ran in papers from 1905 to 1927, wherein the aforementioned Everett True regularly beat the everliving shit out of rude people as a warning to anyone else who might consider being rude. Men have not only been taking up too much room on public transport for about as long as public transport has existed, but the people around them have been irritated about it for at least a hundred years. The next time someone tries to claim that manspreading is a false phenomenon, please direct them to this strip so that Everett True can correct their misconceptions with an umbrella upside the head.

Luo Family from PINTWILF by @tossawary

(Comes in back late with boba) ahahaha hellooo hiiii welcome back~~

if you close your eyes and imagine you can pretend this is not 2 years later and i, in fact, have a consistent update schedule. eheheeheheh

In all seriousness, this is a good moment to remind everyone whos still here (hi) that im, above all, an artist in college, and not a particularly good or efficient or dedicated writer.

I started writing as a creative outlet during one of the worst art blocks ive ever had, which left me anxious and antsy with the need to make something. Anything at all. I wrote chapters 1 through 4 in a semiconscious state and tried to keep the pace afterwards. Im making art again, and writing doesn't come as easily anymore.

That being said, I have a sense of responsibility to this fic, and scenes i already wrote and im excited to weave into the story, so ill do my very best to give a finished result, for my own peace of mind and for you wonderful people who gave my silly story a shot and wrote such sweet comments.

im honestly so happy I can write something other people find fun, and not just me! :D

im always joking im my own target audience, but i adore your thoughts and comments, its honestly one of the things that stopped me from just abandoning all interest for finishing.

so, at my own pace and enjoyment, im going to continue to write. and even if it takes much more time, ill be flattered for those who continue to accompany me for as long as they wish to or until im finished ^^

something something white sheep luo binghe

Every single day I'm grateful for that time I stumbled on the SVSSS headcanon that while Bingqiu is considered highkey confusing and lowkey cringe in the demon realm, Moshang is known as the Power Couple™. They're the demonic love story. The 'It Couple'.

Just generations of demons sighing over the dramatic and bloody love story of the Northern King and his right hand man plus spymaster, yearning for a love story filled with such glorious violence and betrayal! A classic childhood friends to lovers narrative filled with ups and downs and copious murder and gore! Love at first sight! The story of the loyal spy who rose up the ranks of the brutal Northern Court, culling his competition while providing vital intel to his liege, all the while infiltrating the most powerful cultivation sect in the world and eventually even becoming a Peak Lord! The slow burn of all slow burns! All kinds of spicy complicated power imbalances! Sexy, unexpected age gaps! Years of heavy plot! Decades of passionate courting! The pinnacle of inter-species forbidden romance!The tale of a man who swore eternal loyalty after falling violently in love at the very first meeting, calling a mere Prince His King in his desire and determination to see his beloved's ascension to the throne that was his birthright, and the Demon Prince who was unexpectedly presented with fierce loyalty in a life that had until then been rife with treachery and grabbed it with both hands and never looked back!

...and there's Junshan and the weird human he keeps around. Somewhat interesting if you're into that teacher-student thing I guess. There were very few deaths. Some bland murders. The trial arc and the self destruct thing plus corpse hoarding was interesting but overall very vanilla. Unseasoned. Not even a proper decade of drama. Kinda boring. And Junshan's half human so they're like Walmart version inter-species romance. But whatever the Emperor's into I guess. His dad was kinda weird too but at least his relationship with that human woman had some kick to it. The new generation just doesn't appreciate a long drawn out painful romance tsk tsk...

Like infinitely grateful to whoever first spawned that headcanon. Never fails to make me laugh. Honestly the most hilarious thing I've ever seen in this fandom. Hope your pillow is always cold and you never stub your toe.

every night

A quote and thoughts regarding Shen Yuan's opinions on Liu Mingyan and the "sexiness" of the Liu Mingyan versus Sha Hualing setup. He knows what he should be feeling in this situation as a "normal straight guy", but I don't think he's actually feeling it.

"Shen Qingqiu was very fond of this female lead, and it wasn't only because Liu Mingya's beauty points were the highest. It was also because she had great poise. She always understood the big picture and grasped the general situation, and her conduct was fair and honest. Even in Luo Binghe's gigantic harem, a wife with both intelligence and moral character was rare.

There was one more appeal factor. Liu Mingyan was the only female character for whom Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky didn't write detailed sex scenes. Many readers had been highly dissatisfied with this arrangement, to the point that they spammed the comments with their ranting, but this had given Liu Mingyan something no other female lead had: an image as clear as ice and pure as jade!

Can't be helped, the unobtainable ones are always the best.

[Sweatdropping shrug kaomoji that I can't type out.]

This was what made the second match worth watching. An evil demoness naturally demanded a righteous saintess as a rival. Every man dreamed of being caught between an angel and a devil. To watch them jealously vie with each other over him one moment, then risk life and limb for his sake in the next - that was the highest, most sacred, perverted fantasy of every male organism. He could drunk off the wild, untamed charm of the wicked seductress, and at the same time his heart would ache for the austere taste of the pure saintess who kept pulling him closer only to push him away!

One had to admit, "Great Master" Airplane was genuinely good at nailing what people found satisfying. Shen Qingqiu couldn't help giving Luo Binghe another glance.

Luo Binghe found it very hard to not care about that gaze. Why exactly did Shen Qingqiu keep looking at him? Was it possible that Shizun... really had an interest in him?"

Volume 1, Chapter 2, pages 111-112.

I'm not sure where to start with this! It's a lot! I'll just work backwards: it is very funny to have Shen Qingqiu repeatedly looking towards Luo Binghe, trying to see Binghe's reactions to Sha Hualing and Liu Mingyan, and Binghe's just like, "Shizun is looking at me???" I think "interest" in this case just means interest in Binghe as a disciple with potential, rather than anything else. Binghe is not paying any real attention to Sha Hualing or Liu Mingyan's attractiveness.

Oh! A rare compliment towards "Great Master" Airplane! Shen Yuan, don't strain those rarely used muscles!

I do find it amusing that Shen Yuan refers to Liu Mingyan as "moral" and "righteous" and "pure" here. The vibe I got with Liu Mingyan is that she sided with Luo Binghe to take down her brother's murderer, which I would agree is righteous and abides by a set of morals. But the first few pages of SVSSS inform us that PIDW Luo Binghe viciously destroyed the great cultivation sects, which means that PIDW wife Liu Mingyan either helped or stepped aside when a whole bunch of murder happened.

And the "my favorite wife is the one with no (or limited) sex scenes" is a classic Shen Yuan moment and one of the reasons he reads as being strongly on the asexuality spectrum to me. The way that he talks about heterosexual "male" desire gives me the same vibe. Like he's separated from it. Like he knows this is what he's "supposed" to feel and he just... doesn't... and it's possibly hard for him to recognize what sexual desire feels like (as opposed to, say, general sexual arousal that doesn't necessarily have a target) if he's never actually experienced it himself. He knows what he should be feeling if he was the "every man" reader of PIDW.

Even when he talks about Sha Hualing and Liu Mingyan's appeal, he says "wild, untamed charm" and "pulling him closer only to push him away" as the key components of the fantasy. Like, "being flirted with" and "being fought over and fought for" and "appreciating a distant beauty" are more important than "having sex". "The most appealing thing about Liu Mingyan is that she wouldn't actually go through with trying to have sex with me," says Shen Yuan.

He's like, "Oh, I can recognize that Liu Mingyan and Sha Hualing are physically attractive, that probably means I'm an Ordinary Straight Man." Even though the way that he talked about Liu Qingge's looks in the Ling Xi Caves was... not very heterosexual... and here, he mostly seems excited just to see one of his favorite characters.

Admittedly, Sha Hualing appears 15-16 here and I think Liu Mingyan is around the same age (she doesn't have her spiritual sword yet), so Shen Yuan is probably also not attracted to them just because they're teenagers. (I do not interpret him as sexually or romantically interested in Binghe at all at this point in time.) I headcanon Shen Yuan being 20-ish at this point in time, so he's probably not that much older than SHL or LMY, but they're probably around his younger sister's age (Shen Yuan's younger sister was old enough to be reading non-con, gay, BDSM erotica.) Sha Hualing shows up half-naked and Shen Yuan is just like, "Where are your shoes? Did you walk here like this? Wasn't that painful?"

In my opinion, Shen Yuan seems a little... relieved... to think that no one could be sexually or romantically interested in the scum villain. He does lament that it's hard to get a girlfriend like this, sure. He does think that he's going to die and that he'd eventually lose any woman to Binghe, so there's no point in trying. But he really, really does not try. "Oh, I can't pursue anyone because they'd never be interested in me! How frustrating! ...Anyway! Moving on to enjoy the many other little pleasures of life! Like food and monsters!" I think the closest he comes to flirting with anyone is when speaking to Liu Qingge in the Ling Xi Caves, while Liu Qingge is coughing up blood, and that did not seem intentional.

I think if he had transmigrated into any other character, who wasn't an "unappealing" villain, Shen Yuan still wouldn't pursue women. I think he'd be like, "Well, I want a beautiful woman, because I have standards! But all beautiful women belong to the protagonist, and no one is better than Binghe, there's no way I'd win that competition, so there's no point in trying!" At which point, it's just like, "Shen Yuan, anyone becomes beautiful when you love or like them; I don't think you actually want to fuck women."

I think if Shen Yuan had transmigrated in as Luo Binghe, he still wouldn't try to pursue women. He'd be like, "I'm just raising my standards for the harem! Some of those wives were not very intelligent or in possession of good moral character! Nearly three-digits is disrespectful to the better wives! I'm only interested in especially beautiful and skilled women, like Liu Mingyan, who's perfect! (And also won't try to have sex with me.)"

Like, I am not against a bisexual Shen Yuan. I am willing to be persuaded to go along with many different interpretations! But he does read to me generally as a gay asexual / demisexual who hasn't yet realized that a desire to be fawned over and an ability to recognize beauty is not necessarily the same thing as sexual attraction. (I do think he is attracted to Binghe after Binghe gets back from the Endless Abyss, but his feelings there are tied up in his very real, reasonable fear of murder and mutilation.)

I read a fic recently where mu qingfang was like "sometimes if we get VERY lucky, shang-shidi knows some miracle cure" and ive thinking about that in terms of 'god sqh'. Like you mention how x disciple is gonna die of the hyperdeath dying flower and your martial brother speaks in tongues to himself for a moment before stuttering and stammering his way into a 'this might work but good luck' possible cure. Reality takes a sharp turn for half a second and then when you try it, it works. He dismisses it and himself but it keeps happening. Not always, but sometimes. Often enough to be a pattern. Is he some kind of seer? Diviner? Or just divine? He's very protective of his personal rooms so you're not going to be able to get evidence either way. He keeps a garden of poisons and cures that he supplies you with personally, anyway. You're not gonna pry. Then later when everyone is screaming crying throwing up because he betrayed the sect you interrupt his demon king? Boss? Something. To be like hold up. Shang-shidi can I have an address for any emergency letters I might have to send you. Oh and also have you got a supplier for your meds in the demon realm? Hm? Oh yes very powerful demon Lord your flustered servant takes anti anxiety medicine. Yes it's a mix of herbs that forces him to be in less of a state- yes he gets worse than this. Shang-shidi don't whine I've seen you off your meds I KNOW you get stomach aches from anxiety so bad you can't work. Yes the 'category 5 tummy event' is not a secret. We know about them shang-shidi.

The category 5 tummy event he's so me 😭

The idea of Mu Qingfang just knowing that yeah Shang-Shidi most often then not probably has the cure to this Very deadly disease and doesn't bat an eye he's just like well as long as they live I GUESS.

Also the person with the balls to go staring up at this incredibly cold and dangerous demon with a straight face to tell Qinghua to take his meds

Mobei would definitely listen and take notes

binghe fights sqh and he gives no indication at being powerful or with martial ability. he realises his mistake in approach. sqh makes himself small, pathetic, and easy to bully so that he is underestimated and ignored. fighting a PERSON will only increase that. well thats fine. mobei he's gonna toss ur human into a deathmatch against beasts rq ok? u wanna watch? if he gets too out of his depth you can step in he wont stop you but he knows you ALSO want to know what that little THANG is capeable of. nature doc mobei and binghe watching sqh in some demon forest. the wild qinghua, pressured out of its natural habitat. without greater predators to form symbiotic relationships with he must fend for himself. there comes the sunburst scorpion tailed bear goat- we shall soon see how the qinghua- OH HOLY SHIT HE RIPPED ITS HEAD OFF MOBEI YOUR SCRUNKLY RIPPED ITS GODDAMN HEAD OFF

THEYRE TAKING HIM OUT OF HIS NATURAL HABITAT AND SPYING ON HIM OH this is good

He didn't know he was capable of it either

Ok, I think i've said it before but i'll say it again, a Lesbian Shen Yuan would have been a genuine danger to society, even pre-transmitgation. She'd be the type of girl to download tinder bc she wants to make friends but doesn't want to go outside, she uses her best photos bc she wants to make a good impression, puts her settings to girls only gets a ton of matches and since lesbian friendships and failed talking stages walk hand in hand she managed to realize her wish, she made lots of friends even if more than half of them are lowkey in love with her. She'd also have intense if short lived friendships with other woman that'd end up with her neighbor's car getting keyed because her ex-bestie confused it with her family driver's car. The system has no idea what evil they unleashed upon the PIDW world, this woman will straight up look you in the eyes, caress your cheek, comment on how beautiful she thinks you are and legit think y'all are just friends.