You know what I can't get enough of? Speculation about what the fictional novel Proud Immortal Demon Way says about its fictional author. Because it would be completely possible to make a story like this without that connection. I'm not sure I've read any other transmigration story where the author was a character, so just that addition adds a lot of interesting texture to the situation even without getting deep in the author's head, but it's so interesting how deep I can speculate in so many directions if I think about getting in his head.
And oh man, I could talk for AGES about how Shang Qinghua and his iconic protagonist reflect each other, but a lot of people have written about that already! Including in the medium of fic, which is my favorite way to consume that kind of crunch. So let's talk about familial neglect and mistreatment and the author's favorite character.
Honestly, when I look at how iconic this ship is, I'm astonished there aren't more hit novels where the author gets yeeted into their own book and has to navigate platonic or romantic relationships with their own characters. A lot of the parallels between Shang Qinghua and Luo Binghe are about them being alike in ugly and vulnerable ways, ways I don't think either of them likes about themselves, and regarding aspects of their personalities that I don't think they'd be happy discussing period. Like, Binghe very much hates himself, that's right there on the page. And Shang Qinghua is a ridiculous character, he's very funny, but he's also not stupid. He's very aware of who he is and what he is, and makes a decision to behave the ways he does. I'm typing this up because I was scrolling through an old chat looking for something and tripped across a conversation about shang qinghua and fawn trauma response.
He knows he does this thing! He has an easy opening to turbokill Mobei-jun while he's unconscious and decides to go the route of begging for his life and trying to ingratiate himself after Mobei-jun wakes up instead, which is a much trickier process. He says it himself, that Mobei-jun is his ideal, that he embodies everything Shang Qinghua wants to be, that etc. And that's hilarious and all, especially in light of the eventual romance and the clownery it takes to get there, but in classic svsss fashion, it also becomes a lot sadder when you add up all the pieces and see everything Shang Qinghua hates about himself.
In some ways he's an even more avoidant narrator than Shen Qingqiu, he deflects and jokes like a motherfucker, so it really is a matter of assembling all the pieces and seeing where there are gaps. But what really underscored the connection for me was Mobei-jun's reaction to parental neglect. Because that's what pushed Shang Qinghua into being an author in the first place, his parents divorced and remarried and kinda just.... forgot about him.
Mobei-jun's dad doesn't exactly do that, but he is operating without a mom in the picture, and rather than remarrying, he just chooses to ignore the thing where his shitty brother is persistently trying to kill his son. That really sucks! But Mobei-jun never shows the smallest hint of weakness or vulnerability over this, even when it would have really helped to use his words, like 'hi my uncle is coming to kill me and i trust you to protect me.' He's everything cool, aloof, arrogant, proud, all a bunch of adjectives that really do not apply to Shang Qinghua. Mobei-jun honestly looks like a boring character if you just stick to the main story, because he's so self-contained and controlled. Compare and contrast to Shang Qinghua, who accidentally outs himself as a transmigrator like two minutes after showing up and proceeds to be hilarious for the rest of the book.
(Brief aside to say that I don't think Mobei-jun is necessarily a happier or healthier person for all of this, lmao. The conversation that fawn reaction thing came from was talking about freeze (tee hee) versus fawn in response to threats or stressful situations. But that goes along with the svsss theme of people used to engaging with this universe as a fictional property coming to terms with the depth and complexity of other people's emotions and not just seeing them as simplistic not-real characters in a book)
(Additionally, this makes the ship hilarious as a take on 'opposites attract,' but also it gives me actual Emotions that Shang Qinghua's ideal who he wishes he could be, purely incidentally, he is able to value and love Shang Qinghua in a way that Shang Qinghua can't and doesn't seem to totally understand)
And what's very interesting here. Is that Shang Qinghua made these two characters, Luo Binghe and Mobei-jun. His protagonist ultimately reflects a lot of his own vulnerabilities and insecurities (secretly and quietly in pidw, much more.... overtly in svsss), and Mobei-jun corrects for his vulnerabilities and insecurities. He's the person Shang Qinghua wishes he could be, which is basically... the opposite of Shang Qinghua, to an almost comical degree. And he then gives Mobei-jun the VERY BEST plot armor he can devise. It's hard for a male character to exist near a stallion protagonist without getting swept up in rivalries/suspicions/etc and getting killed by the protagonist, but he makes sure that his favorite character is safe from these things. He's protecting the character he wishes he could be from the character whose faults most reflect his own. That is very sweet and weird and sad, and that's very reflective of the svsss experience, I think.
love my 2 gay dads
Just in case you forget this exists.
It exists.
Luo Family from PINTWILF by @tossawary
Su Minshan / Su She from from MDZS
Submission 1: Idk I just kinda like him
Submission 2: Look at him having his own life and grudges and friendships and priorities completely unrelated to the main characters! He was so right to curse Jin Zixun
Tianlang-jun from SVSSS
Submission: Incredible character who does it like him
im sexy and i know it girl look a dead body girl look a dead body
"the svsss fandom is much less toxic than other fandoms" i’m literally trying my best YOU try starting serious discourse abt a novel in which one of the main characters canon fujoshi dad walks in on a medical procedure and immediately tries to initiate an orgy with his son his son in law AND his nephew u don’t know me u don’t know my story
im late but happy vday everybody
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.”
Jiang Cheng from MDZS
Submission 1: Extremely traumatized yet also somehow the most normal and functional by the end. Huge bitch but I (and at least one of the other characters) think he deserves to be even worse after everything he's been through
Submission 2: Simultaneously badass and the most cringefail man. Extremely funny and stylish but still manages to be very uncool. Cries a lot. Also he's lost a lot of tumblr polls—let's give him another shot! We definitely love him more than his dad did!
Submission 3: He's got mommy issues AND daddy issues. He loves his sister and his shige so much. He's traumatised and incredibly competent. He rebuilt his whole sect! He's an asshole (affectionate). He's purple! He's got the coolest weapon ever conceived. I'm so worried about his blood pressure basically all the time.
Tianlang-jun from SVSSS
Submission: Incredible character who does it like him
#bro tlj read porn abt his son and his teacher and just assumed thats what happened #and then tried to hook his nephew up with said teacher #he also is introduced lounging in a coffin #oh and he is a sugar baby #its true no one does it like him (via @galsjustwannahavefun)
Additional Propaganda
Liu Qingge from SVSSS
#great sect brother! Dependable reliable and most of the time sorta sane #Great big brother to his younger sister #Stablest person around by a lot (still pretty off the rails) #Fought someone better than him every day for five years to get his best friend's body back for a burial #Got rescued from the plot for the specific purpose of saving someone back #and then had to watch that someone repeatedly not let him save them (via @rights-for-redshirts)