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starry-bi-sky · 1 month ago

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you can't choose what stays and what fades away

No light, no light in your bright blue eyes I never knew daylight could be so violent A revelation in the light of day You can't choose what stays and what fades away

(and I'd do anything to make you stay)

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Shen Yuan wakes up in a woodshed.

He's in a body that's not quite his own.

(WIP also available on ao3!)

He wakes up in a woodshed.

No, actually— let him correct himself. Shen Yuan does, indeed, wake up in a woodshed, but it’s not the first thing he realizes upon waking. No, in fact, consciousness comes quite slowly to him; sluggish, his mind attempting to slog through calf-high bogland without exhausting itself. It’s like he’s trying to drag himself to the surface of a river with a weight tied around his ankle, the weight trying desperately to drag him just as quickly down.

His senses come to him just as slowly, his hearing and touch and smell and taste all trying to claw its way up back into existence till they’re thrumming beneath the thin skin of his body. Yes, it’s very much like trying to wake up from a long, deep sleep where he didn’t get quite enough rest, and he wonders, not for the first time, if he had collapsed again. His mouth is dry, his lips feel crusty, and his eyes are sealed shut by congealed-whatever-mixture of disgusting bodily fluids his eyes are capable of producing.

Much like breaking free from sleep-paralysis, the moment he’s able to register that he’s actually sensing things again, the strange, spongy film that had been dampening them suddenly crumbles and collapses. Everything rushes forth like water spilling out of an open dam, or maybe like blood from an open scab, and Shen Yuan is abruptly accosted by the world and its sounds and sensations.

The sun is hitting his eyes in just the right way that he can see the light burning behind his eyelids – which, that can’t be right, his curtains should be drawn, -- and there’s the distinct and gentle sound of wind rustling past, of birds singing softly, and the faint trill of music floating through. Shen Yuan is abruptly imposed with the mental image of a yellow autumn leaf falling delicately onto a still pond, that is how tranquil the world around him sounds.

It is so, so, incredibly cliche, that he can’t help but open his eyes with a deep rooting incredulity planting itself firmly in the core of his chest. What he expects to see is the ceiling of his bedroom – the ground is hard enough that, for a moment, he thinks he may have fallen asleep on the floor again, or perhaps the hospital, because then that would at least explain better the tranquil sounds in his ears and the sunlight hitting his face.

(Except he doesn’t smell the familiar sting of septic and cleaner, nor does he hear the beeping of the heart rate monitor beside him, the bustle and soft murmur of nurses outside that are always on the move. There’s no paper thin and slightly scratchy blanket laid over him. And never, not once, has he been subjected to the sounds of an eight-hour tranquil music ASMR while in the hospital.)

(In fact, his nose feels rather stuffy. The same way it gets when he has a runny nose that just dried or a bloody nose that just finally stopped bleeding. He smells dirt and wood, and— and… is that blood?)

There’s still crust clinging to his lashes and the corner of his eyes when he opens them, so his vision is immediately blurred in the way only recent consciousness can create. But even then, he can see the roof clearly enough to know that this is neither his bedroom nor the hospital. Shen Yuan sits up while his heart drops right out of his chest, regretting the action immediately as an ache shoots up his arms and staunchly reminds him of a terrible soreness spread throughout his body, one that he was not previously aware of.

The hiss he makes is involuntary, and the sound rusted and weak, irritating his sore throat while his head pounds behind his eyes like a hammer against a nail. Get your bearings, Shen Yuan, he thinks, vision swimming, sucking in his dessert-dry bottom lip between his teeth and catching it on the incisors. The air does nothing for the inside of his mouth. Where the fuck am I?

His eyes flick around the crust poking irritably at his corneas, as he tries to soak in where exactly he is. On instinct, his hands come up to flick away the crust obscuring his sight, and when he pulls his fingers away, there’s dark, brown-red buildup crumbling against his skin.

Wh—? Shen Yuan rubs his eyes again, and realizes there’s a flaking trail coming from his eyes down his cheeks that, when he rubs at it, peels off into what can’t be anything but dried blood. It does nothing for his rapid-beating heart and the sinking shock and horror settling between his ribs. Why has he been bleeding from his eyes?

He looks up from his hand. That shock and horror rising as he finally, finally takes in his surroundings, while also realizing, his dry tongue running against the back of his teeth and the corner of his mouth, that he was tasting blood too. Faint and stuck against his gums, but there.

Shen Yuan is surrounded by cut wood, and beneath him he’s sitting on an old, tattered blanket. He’s wearing robes. Robes, worn and slightly dirty, made of a pleasant-to-the-eye green and white fabric, and straight out of every single Xanxia novel, drama, and poster he’s ever read and seen. There’s a simply, if slightly tattered, white fan tucked against his thigh.

Oh, oh no. His hands fly up to his hair and— yep. Yeah, slightly tangled but undeniably soft and smooth, black hair slips against his fingers like silk and pours over his shoulders and down his back. It’s ten times longer than it should be, ten times longer than he’s used to, and he’s sitting on the ends of it. He releases his hair only so Shen Yuan can slap his hands against his face, automatically picking at the trail of dried blood on both corners of his mouth. His fingers are chilled against his skin, and he ignores it to trace his new (he thinks—the bow of his mouth and the curve of his cheekbones feels achingly familiar) facial features.

Whose face am I wearing? What book have I entered? Because wasn’t this transmigration one-oh-one? The last thing he remembers was becoming incensed with the ending of Proud Immortal Demon Way and, in the middle of his scathing rant, dying of food poisoning. This was totally transmigration one-oh-one. Dying after reading a book, only to wake up in a place that was not the modern world, only to realize shortly after that they were now in the book they had just read?

Wait— if he follows that trope, then... Shen Yuan’s heart decides it’s had enough time in his stomach, and leaps right into his throat. His eyes flitter around anxiously. There are bamboo stalks rising out the window, and the music he’s hearing, Shen Yuan realizes belatedly that it’s the sweet plucking of a guqin. Oh no. Don’t tell me--

Like an activation phrase, a too-loud notification ‘ding!’ goes right off in his ear, resulting in Shen Yuan flinching violently as a too-bright and eye-stinging blue message box seals open into existence right before his eyes.

[ SYSTEM Successfully Activated! Welcome to the world of Pride Immortal Demon Way! You are ‘Shen Jiu’ -- otherwise known as Shen Qingqiu, thirteen-year-old Disciple of Qing Jing Peak. Currently your actions are restricted due to a frozen OOC function that will eventually be unlocked after you familiarize yourself with the world. ]

No! Of all the people he could have been transmigrated into, did it have to be the villain? Scum Disciple Shen Qingqiu? No— no, of course it was the villain; wasn’t that also transmigration one-oh-one as well? That the transmigrator was either the hero, the villain, or an NPC related to either one?

Was this karma? Was the world enacting karmic justice on him for all those late nights spent arguing with internet randos online when he should have been doing something productive with his life? Of all those hours spent countlessly researching mythical beasts and animals and folklore all so he could tear the author a new one for his terrible plot and even worse papapa? Did Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky inflict some kind of curse on him that resulted in him being dragged into his shitty, shitty, stallion novel to act as the same guy who later gets his limbs torn off and pickled by the main protagonist?

It had to be. That’s exactly what this was. This was karma.

(Oh god, he’s never going to see his family again, is he? He’d died. He’d died in his world, he knows it. That’s how this always goes. At least he hadn’t been hit by a truck, at least he’d died somewhat originally. But he died. He’d been choking and everything went dark. The fluid filling his lungs, the lack of air, the steady crawl of blackening fuzz slowly encircling his vision--)

(Who will find his body? How long will it take? It’d only been a week prior that he’d gotten into a fight with da-ge and the others, and they usually give him space for a while when they do. It’s not like Shen Yuan had any close friends left either--)

(Will they find him rotting? Will they blame themselves? What will they think?)

--(...Oh god, who was going to tell Hai-ge--?)--

Shen Yuan drops his face into his hands, ignoring the throbbing of his skull and the influx of nausea that sloshes from his chest to his stomach as he does. He groans, low and painful, ignoring the sharp sting of his throat it causes. Does it have to be Shen Qingqiu? He asks, and wonders if the SYSTEM needs an audial vocal command or if it would just--

[ You have been chosen to play Shen Qingqiu, the Scum Villain Disciple! ]

Annoyance burrows into his throat. That’s... not what he asked. His teeth grind against each other, the stupid message box burning into his eyes. That at least answers that question, though. He won’t have to talk aloud to communicate with the SYSTEM, so at least he won’t look insane for talking to himself in public. Why does it have to be Shen Qingqiu?

[ Shen Qingqiu plays a vital role in Pride Immortal Demon Way! You have been chosen to take on his role as the Scum Villain Disciple. ]

What vital role!? Shen Qingqiu, sure, had a role in the beginning of the book as the disciple who did nothing but cause a ruckus and trouble on Qing Jing Peak when the protagonist’s back was turned; trying to drag Peak Lord Luo Binghe’s precious name through the mud while inciting what was basically tyranny by clawing his way up to a Head Disciple position through being a green tea bitch. He then went and used that power to abuse and bully the younger disciples when the adults weren’t looking.

He only got away with it for so long because Luo Binghe was so busy with important missions and night hunts and the sweeping-of-peerless-beauties off their feet off the peak, that when he was on Qing Jing, it wasn’t long enough to realize just who was behind the disruption. And Shen Qingqiu was sneaky about it, so it took even longer.

Only coming to a head at the Immortal Cultivation Conference when demons attacked and it all came to light like a hellish volcano, resulting in Shen Qingqiu not only finding out about Luo Binghe’s status as a half-heavenly demon, but also him being pushed into the Endless Abyss. He re-emerges half a decade later, brimming with demonic cultivation and a half-crazed lust for power and vengeance — revenge that ends up failing because he’s going up against the powerful protagonist.

He causes a handful of actual problems before Luo Binghe finally has enough, and in the end, Shen Qingqiu ends up with his non-vital limbs cut off and stuffed inside a jar like a human pickle. A horrifying and befitting ending for any villain and antagonist of the main character.

That is to say, nothing about him is actually vital. He was, for all intents and purposes, pretty much a low-tier cannon fodder villain meant to boost up and accentuate the protagonist’s abilities in the beginning of the book. A way to introduce the audience to the might and intelligence of the main character and their problem-solving skills when there is a ‘mysterious figure’ going around besmirching his name.

Which... may just work in his favor, actually. Shen Qingqiu ended up with the fate he got because he went against the protagonist, a big no-no in practically every trashy novel. So, solution so Shen Yuan doesn’t end up a human stick? Don’t get in the protagonist’s way.

That annoying ‘ding!’ rings in his ear, causing yet another flinch out of Shen Yuan as a notification unapologetically forms in front of him.

[ WARNING: OOC! Host’s refusal to stay in character will result in automatic point deductions. If Host’s point score gets too low, SYSTEM will automatically mete out punishment. ]

Of course it wasn’t that easy. Of course not, because why would it be easy? Of course there was a point system, this was a SYSTEM after all. Of course he couldn’t just avoid the villain’s fate, because that’d be too easy. His annoyance simmers out across the plane of his chest, and he decidedly ignores the faint tremor in his arms and the pulsing beat of his heart as he picks himself up off the ground and stands.

His legs, much like his arms, tremble, and his head swims. He pushes through it, ignoring the ill-feeling of fear making itself home in the pit of his stomach. He should ask what those punishments are; what they’ll look like. He should ask about the point system, about how to increase his point score, about all the functions in the SYSTEM and what he has available, and what he does not.

He should ask how old he is – because he’s much smaller than his old adult self had been; probably child-sized? -- and where he is in the book. What year is it, how long until the Immortal Cultivators Conference. Just when is he?

Shen Yuan reaches out to grip onto a particularly towering stack of firewood, careful not to knock it or himself over. It feels like physical therapy all over again. Granted, a primitive, unsupervised, cobbled-together version of physical therapy, but physical therapy, nonetheless.

His foot kicks against the fan, he’d frankly forgotten about that, and it slides off the blanket and across the dirt. His fingers twitch to grab it, something possessive and uncomfortably vulnerable rearing in his lungs – ah, an instinctive emotion from the original goods then? He’s heard of that in other transmigration stories he’s read, the novels failed to mention the full extent of how strange it felt.

(It felt so eerily natural to want to pick it up. Of course he’d be upset about kicking it, and the unhappiness of dirtying it slots itself against him like second nature. How strange. How creepy.)

Instead of asking any of that though, Shen Yuan turns his bitter mind inwards to the SYSTEM and asks, perhaps, the most important question of them all; Why did you bring me here if you were just going to kill me again?

Isn’t that unnecessarily cruel?

[ Host has been brought to Pride Immortal Demon Way because it is our sincere hope that Host can transform this stupid work into a magnificent, high-quality, first-rate classic! As part of the welcoming package, and to help ease the transition, a few things have been left in Host’s inventory! We hope you enjoy your time in Pride Immortal Demon Way! ]

To change--

To change--?

To CHANGE--?

Indignancy surges itself from the tips of Shen Yuan’s fingers to the crown of his head, anger not unlike every single time Airplane threw away an interesting plot point for sex fuzzes out his vision and turns his pounding headache into a full-fledged migraine. His grip on the firewood tightens, and he can feel the rough and textured bark digging into his skin.

His mouth curls inward, the cracked skin splitting down the middle of his bottom lip as Shen Yuan threatens to snarl at the SYSTEM. How the fuck am I supposed to change the plot if I can’t even change the way my character acts!

[ Reminder to Host: The OOC Function is frozen, but not permanent. Once Host has become properly settled in and completed the tutorial will he be able to unlock it. ]

Fine, fine! He has half a mind to unload a string of curses at the SYSTEM, because apparently its rules were as stupid as the author who made this world. Shen Yuan refrains; he doesn’t know how sentient the thing is, and upsetting it right now when he has no idea when he is – nor does he know a thing about the point system -- would only be detrimental for him in the long run.

Instead, he lets loose a groan from his throat that could be more accurately compared to as a growl. With his one free hand, Shen Yuan drags his palm down his face, and then loops it back up to comb it through his hair. ...His hair that is much longer than it used to be, and which is snaggled with little knots and tangles that he’ll have to get out.

He hits the first knot and immediately withdraws his fingers, freeing up a few strands of ink black hair while he’s at it. With a quick wrist shake, the strands fall to the floor and Shen Yuan leans the rest of his weight against the log pile. Some of his anger cools down until it’s nothing more than boiled water gone cold, and he sighs out through a clogged-up nose until there’s nothing more than a quiet pressure of unease curled around his shoulders.

There’s really not much he does know about how Shen Qingqiu acts – after all, he put up a responsible and dutiful disciple front when he was in the presence of Luo Binghe, and was only then revealed to be a scumbag later down the line. Which only got backed up with secondhand accounts of the other Qing Jing Peak disciples.

He didn’t show up often either, since most of the time Luo Binghe was off the peak. Nobody wants to read about a powerful peak lord being a teacher after all. Many more interesting things in the world around him than his students.

SYSTEM, how old am I? He must be pretty young if he bases it off how small he is – although, Shen Qingqiu didn’t have much of a description in the first place. He was only described as having skin as white as jade, with glossy black hair and a noble air surrounding him. Height, eyes, and finer details like that were left unmentioned. Why did I wake up in a woodshed? What time is it?

[ Host is currently thirteen years old! Last night Shen Qingqiu experienced a severe Qi Deviation after having an altercation with the Head Disciple. It is early morning; the other disciples will be getting breakfast. ]

That doesn’t explain why he was in a woodshed. But at this point, Shen Yuan was starting to believe that he wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of every question he asks. That does explain the blood in his mouth and crusted on his face – and the soreness and exhaustion currently wrought through his body, though.

In a rapid set of blinks and a little bit of mental fiddling, the message notifications disappear out of his sight and the rest of his senses begin to filter back in, the SYSTEM seeming content to disappear into the back of his mind – which, wow, feels just as weird as the original goods’ instincts from earlier.

More of his own strength had returned, enough that Shen Yuan feels comfortable with pushing himself off the firewood stack and standing on his own. Making sure that his legs won’t collapse under the weight of his own body, he takes a tentative step forward and drops his gaze down to the little white fan sitting on the ground.

...The idea of leaving without it returns that discomforting, vulnerable feeling from earlier, as if he had walked out without a shirt on. The hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up on its own with unease. Shen Qingqiu was mentioned to hide his face behind a fan in every appearance he made, it must be the original goods’ emotions he’s feeling then. Again.

He leans down, his core trembling just a little, and plucks it right off the ground. The grooves of the wood fit against his fingers perfectly, hinting at weeks, if not years, of use and the oils of his hands wearing it down. He beats the side of the fan against his leg lightly, ignoring the bruising-aches it shoots up his thigh, and brushes off the dirt clinging to it.

Without thinking, Shen Qingqiu flicks it open and flutters it about for a few quick beats. The unnerving, skin-crawling sensation marking across his spine settles down, and he snaps the fan shut before reaching for the door.

[ OOC: Host should make himself look presentable before being seen in public. Failure to do so will result in immediate point deduction. ]

Shen Qingqiu grits his teeth again, there’s nothing in here but dirt and wood, how am I supposed to do that? It’s not like he had the whole layout of Qing Jing Peak memorized; Luo Binghe was barely on so where everything was, wasn’t important. Is there some kind of bathhouse somewhere?

Which, if there was, he wasn’t planning on using until it was entirely empty – the mere thought of it returned that gross, uncomfortable skin-crawling discomfort. He’ll shower at night, thank you, repressing a shudder at the horrifying idea of someone potentially walking in on him.

[ OOC: Shen Qingqiu would never bathe with the threat of other disciples around. There is a nearby creek that Host can clean himself up at. ]

That’s really not much better. But, so long as he isn’t undressing in public, he can probably just... wash the dirt off and get his hair damp enough to detangle it. If Shen Qingqiu was sleeping in here, then he probably has a change of clothes somewhere around here, right? He should look around for any hidden bags before leaving.

He finds a small qiankun pouch tucked safely between a set of wood logs near the blanket, and inside it is a clean set of robes for him to change into, which, perfect! The robes he was wearing right now weren’t terribly dirty, but there were a few dirt spots visible enough that Shen Qingqiu was sure that he’d probably get a point deduction out of it, or a scolding from senior disciples.

(Does Shen Qingqiu sleep in the woodshed often? Shouldn’t he be in the dormitories?)

He plucks the bag out of its little hidey-hole, giving it a place on his belt, along with his newly acquired fan, and turns towards the door. Shen Qingqiu crosses the room in the span of a few large steps, and just as he’s about to curl his hand around the handle, he... pauses.

It’s only for a split second, a moment of hesitation, of personal confirmation that, once he opens this door, there will be no going back. Not that there was since he opened his eyes, but, it would cement it.

Shen Qingqiu breathes in a shaky breath, and then opens the door to the rising sun.

#starry writes #svsss au #svsss fanfiction #scum villain #scum villain self saving system #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #mxtx svsss #disciple shen yuan #svsss fic #:] pls read and give feedback. im very pleased with this even if it may be OOC of SY. but i think he deserves to be moody here #shen yuan and shen jiu are the same person #i said i was gonna do that if i wrote this slajhf #if this flops i'll be sad :((#ALSO WRITING THE SYSTEM IS ANNOYING. props off to all fic writers in SVSSS. i havent had such a tedious time writing smth since i once #wrote a DSMP fanfic from techno's pov and made the horrid mistake of including the chat. god that was annoying. at least thats optional #but no the system is CANON. i've got to include this fucker at least a few times.#long post #i dont normally make fic so soon into fandom bc i like to get the characterizations down first. but the brainworms were worming #so i gotsa do it. i had to.

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itslilacmoon · 6 months ago

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now that I’ve got your attention, do you want to click some more buttons? I’m trying to collect data on TOH fandom/shipping culture, and it would really help me out if you completed my survey!

If you’ve ever wanted to share your experiences of what it’s like being in the TOH fandom, now’s your chance! It’s a bit long, but you’re helping me document important parts of fandom culture!

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artyfartyliz · 3 months ago

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girl help i can't stop drawing catchetfield with glee quotes

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politemagic · 6 months ago

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slasher iii & slasher iv

oh geez oh boy oh god here it is. i had to strangle this thing out of my brain and she came out kicking and screaming. unedited, just some fun slasher iii & slasher iv content on this saturday evening. this is... something

there's a good bit of triggers in here, please proceed with caution.

1.15k words

The two of them are just hardcore horror fans, right? They've seen all the classics a million times but as they're getting older it's just not enough. III is the first one to suggest it as he turns off the television after watching the newest horror box office flop. At first, IV thought it was a joke. An outlandish suggestion to throw him off his game. That was the kind of jokester that III was. But there was no humor in his voice when he said in a sinisterly quiet voice.

"We could just do that shit ourselves."

The thought caused excitement to pulse through IV's veins as III laid out the details of his fantasy. It was almost too perfect, he thought. Their calculus professor was a piece of shit who was always too hard on the class, so he made an obvious target. He had no family, which further eased IV's conscience. They'd be doing the world a favor.

It was an experience unlike anything he'd ever experienced before, the thrill of watching the light wink out of his horrified eyes as he clawed at the masks covering their faces, watching the fight leave his body as he fell limp to the floor. He found he didn't quite mind the feeling of his blood soaked jeans clinging to his legs.

III had done most of the dirty work, but who was IV to deprive him of the joy he received from plunging the knife into his victim's stomach? They tidied. up after themselves enough to erase their presence, and waited for someone to find him.

The discovery of the beloved professor’s body the next day came as a shock to the whole community, leaving the town a worried mess. Things only got worse as III and IV selected their next target. She was a young woman, engaged to be married, known for babysitting just about every kid in town– the two of them included. IV’s stomach soured at the thought, but the grin on III’s face stirred his excitement enough to quell his conscience.

“Don’t worry mate, she’ll be perfect.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder and pulled him into his pickup truck, the bed loaded with enough hunting knives to butcher a stampede.

And perfect she was. They managed to slip into the garage undetected, slinking through the darkened hallways towards the illumination and chatter of the television in the living room. She had nodded off on the couch, her head tilted back and nestled into the corner, surrounded by blankets and pillows. III gave him a silent nod and IV walked around behind her, wrapping an arm around her neck and clamping his hand over her mouth. Her eyes shot open in fear, panic overtaking her body as her eyes raked down every intimidating inch of III as he knelt in front of her, sliding a knife out of his boot.

IV could feel her gnashing at the flesh of his palm, and simply pressed the crook of his elbow further into her jugular. He could feel her resolve dwindling as she thrashed against his hold, trying to shove III’s towering figure away from her. But III only laughed and swatted away her comparatively small hands as he began tracing the tip of his blade up her pajama clad leg, the twinkle in his eye indicated to IV that he was thoroughly enjoying the muffled whimpers coming from behind IV’s hand, relishing in the way that her body lurched away from him.

When IV felt his hand dampening from her tears, he audibly groaned, looking down to see her beautiful eyes squeezed shut, tears running down her cheeks. If his mask wasn’t covering his mouth he would have leaned down and licked those tears off of her perfect skin himself. But instead, he managed to catch III’s attention, nodding down to her streaming tears and III laughed evilly.

He leaned over her, wiping her tears away with his thumbs, gently caressing her cheeks as he did so, despite IV’s hands covering most of her face.

“Hey, no use for that,” III cooed. “No point of doing that at all, love.”

Her eyes opened, a bone-chilling fear shooting through her body as she saw the murderous glint in III’s eyes. The tears flowed faster, and as she tried again to break free III restrained her arms with ease, resting his body weight on top of her as he brought his knife up to her line of sight again.

“We’re going to have a lovely time, the three of us.”

She screamed from behind IV’s hand, making one last attempt to bite at him and managed to find purchase on the meat of his palm, causing him to yelp. She sank her teeth in until she could taste his blood on her tongue, but she found his grip only tightened. When she dared a glance above her, she could see his eyes shut, breathing labored, but when he looked down at her, she realized what a mistake she had made.

A mixture of her tears and IV’s blood dripped from her chin, and the sight sent a shockwave of excitement through III’s body. He was ecstatic to have a partner in all this, to get to experience his wildest fantasies with his best friend. To share this new side of him with his best friend.

“Now for the fun part.” He whispered, more to IV than to her, but the words caused her heart to sink, she felt the resolve fly from her body– there was no salvation for her. The coppery tang of his blood on her tongue that had once tasted like victory now tasted of defeat. Not only would she die at their hands, she would die with their repulsive presence invading her every sense.

III felt the familiar rush of euphoria as the blade pierced through her belly, her muffled scream like a favorite song heard on the radio. He didn’t miss the way IV’s hip pressed slightly into the couch, spreading a wide grin across his lips.

This would be the fun part, indeed.

Hours later, III laid down in his bed, resting an arm behind his head as he replayed the events of the day, that same grin still plastered on his face. He felt his eyes drifting closed, sleep ready to take his body when he heard the sound of his phone vibrating on his nightstand. His heart leaped at the sight of your name, and your sweet message.

i guess you turned in early tonight. sweet dreams, i love you <3

As he laid back down, his eyes falling shut one more time, his mind conjured up the most beautiful plan for you.

A special surprise.

#also. fair warning: i was pretty stoned when i wrote this so please forgive any errors i may have made it's the only way i could do this #my brain could have gone some insane places here but alas we have reached the limits of em's writing comfort levels.#warning: long tag rambling incoming ->#my brain has not stopped thinking about slasher iii and slasher iv being like billy and stu from scream. UNABLE to stop thinking about it #i could possibly (maybe. MAYBE) write more of this if ppl are rocking with it because FUCK!!!#thinking about the end of scream???? but with them???? i kept starting that and then starting it over until i landed here #but i could give it a whirl if it's what the People Want #but anyways! feedback is appreciated and deeply forever cherished #i like to know what people think of my ideas/writing!!!!#but on the other hand if anyone ever just wants to talk about slasher token know that i am HERE #i struggle to really write much for it just bc we're dancing around the things i'm comfortable writing but good gravy #it's everything. it's all i've thought about since iii showed himself in that new mask back in december #like SHIT!!!!#anyways rambling over here's this 🤲🏼🔪✨#sleep token iii #iii sleep token #sleep token fanfiction #slasher iii #slasher iv #slasher token #em's stcu

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northern-passage · 2 years ago

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i've been thinking a lot about the word "representation" and what it means and how it's changed over the last few years, particularly when it comes to the writing/publishing landscape but also in movies and tv shows… and i really don't like it anymore. to be clear, of course i think it's important to have diversity in your work, i'm not saying i hate the concept of representation. but i do really dislike the way it's used now, and i really just hate the word itself

in a broader sense it's just become a marketing tool. i'm not impressed by any publisher or author who just describes their book by listing all of the minorities/identities the characters represent as if that should be enough. it feels very gross, very exploitative and disingenuous. it also really bothers me because it's always marginalized identities- which i understand Why, but it feels very othering to me (and again. Very exploitative as an advertisement). you would never list out "cishet able-bodied white man" as a character description to pat yourself on the back over. so why do it to everyone else? why insinuate that one is the "default" and the other one is "special"? (and when i say this i'm mainly talking about advertisements/marketing. i understand why people would specify about characters in descriptions with the plot, but i don't like to see an ad that's just "this book has gay people!" with nothing else)

which then leads me to my other point, which is that a lot of people treat "representation" as if it's "too hard." like "oh i don't know enough to write about that, i don't have that experience, etc" which is a fair way to feel! however… it's weird that people only say this about writing trans characters or characters of color. i'm writing a story right now with a character who is really into motorcycles. i personally do not know that much about motorcycles, so i researched what parts are what & what different kinds of models there are & what basic bike care looks like. i guarantee Most people will have to google something at some point in their writing process. so what's the problem? it also, again, feels very othering when authors treat certain groups of people as "impossible" to write, "too hard" to understand. they are just.. people. you write them as a person. and then you figure out the rest later.

and i think part of the refusal or fear to write something outside of your experience is because of the way representation is treated as So Special. these characters are So Special that they aren't allowed to be anything other than "representation." they're Not allowed to be characters with complex emotions and interesting motivations, they have to just be Trans or Gay or Disabled or whatever. they're not allowed to be people. which means, at the end of the day, we loop right back around to where we were at the start….

there is bad representation. there are depictions of certain marginalized people that are harmful and that are damaging, i'm not trying to minimize that or argue against it at all, in fact we should all be mindful of that while writing and reading. but i also think it's possible to swing too far in the opposite direction as well and put certain groups of people on a pedestal and not allow them to do anything at all but be Perfect Representation, if that makes sense.

#anyways. is this anything #sorry i dont have anything insightful to say at the end here i just wanted to ramble #especially abt the way ppl market books now it like. genuinely disgusts me #cannot imagine marketing tnp in that way. my characters are many things AND they are trans. and their transness #is not just a flashy feature for attracting attention #also i do understand the fear of 'getting it wrong' but that's why you have beta readers or even actual sensitivity readers #that's why you ask for feedback. especially in this space like... people will give it #that's what makes sharing your process and early draft in this community so rewarding #and there's also just the reality that no matter what you do some people will Not like it 🤷#and ime a lot of ppl look at representation very individualistically #as in it's only good representation if it represents Me #which sucks. and you're never going to please those people #ANYWAYS also to be clear this is not a vague or meant to be targeted at any one person please don't be fucking weird #this is just some thots i've had recently esp since ive seen the representation conversation pop up quite a few times #and since i've been doing research for characters in my other project #personal

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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 7 months ago

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I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

#poorly drawn mdzs #mdzs #wen ning #wei wuxian #wen qing #jiang cheng #Truly Massive disclaimer here: I am a Jiang Cheng enjoyer. I like his character. I enjoy that he is very flawed and volatile.#This episode of the audio drama has a lot of great breakdown scenes featuring JC - and they all deserve a feature.#But underlying this comic is a small meta comment of 'ah man I have too many comics of JC just wailing sadly'#My goal is to draw 6-8 comics per episode - I sometimes have to truncate and cut good scenes out.#Especially when a large majority is just different flavours of trauma and toxic relationships to your self-worth.#I would also like to make a note here that just because you lose the ability to do something that is very tied to your core identity-#-does not mean your life is over. It will feel like the end of the world. It will send you into a spiral of grief. It will hurt so badly.#Sometimes we do not realize how tied up our identities can be in certain things until we are cut loose.#You don't lose yourself. I promise the pain will fade in time. I promise you will find other things to tether you. I promise you will be ok #Life moves forwards. Time moves forwards. You move forwards.#Ego death just means an opportunity for ego rebirth. You are never committed to being the same person forever.#To wrap this around to JC: Yeah I love the twist with the core transfer but man I would have loved to see JC accept the loss.#Obviously it happens for a reason (story) but I can have my AUs. I can have these 'what-ifs'.#described in alt text #I'm trying it out! *please* give me feedback - I want to eventually Add image ID to all of these comics one day

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unclewaynemunson · 2 years ago

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Scott was just about to go to bed when he heard the familiar sound of the front door unlocking. He froze right where he was standing, at the top of the stairs, flooded by thoughts of burglars or angry neighbors who had found out or the police – no, wait, the police wouldn't do that, it wasn't illegal anymore to...

'Scott?'

He sighed in relief. It was just Wayne, of course.

It only took him a moment to register that that was odd, too. What was Wayne doing here when he had kissed Scott goodbye to leave for his night shift only an hour ago?

He pulled the dressing gown he was wearing over his pajamas tighter around his waist and rushed down the stairs to find his partner standing in the middle of the hallway, in his work clothes and with his forehead creased into a deep frown.

By now, Scott knew Wayne well enough that he could easily decipher his every micro-expression.

Other people, who didn't know Wayne like Scott did, would probably not notice a thing, but Scott saw it immediately: something was wrong.

'Did I wake ya?' Wayne asked when Scott reached the bottom of the stairs.

'No, I wasn't even in bed yet,' Scott hurried himself to say. He rushed forward and placed his hands on Wayne's shoulders, meticulously taking in the look on his face. 'What happened?'

'They fired me.'

Scott felt his jaw drop. 'Wh- you've been working there for, what, fifteen years?'

'Eighteen.'

'They can't –' he started in an indignant voice, but cut himself off before he could really get started. If Wayne had needed a reaction like that, he would've gone home, to Eddie. He probably came to Scott because he needed calmness and a listening ear. So that was what Scott would give him.

'Come with me, love,' he said, gently guiding Wayne into the living room. It was one of the only classical pet names they both felt comfortable using. Even after a year, give or take, Scott still got filled with wonder whenever he let it roll off his tongue. 'Why don't we sit down first?'

They sank down on the couch, Scott with his arms wrapped around Wayne in a comforting embrace.

'I been workin' there for eighteen years,' Wayne repeated, slowly shaking his head, as if he had a hard time believing it himself. 'Been loyal to them ever since I came back from 'Nam. Always kept my head down, always did what they asked of me, always filled in their shifts at the most ungodly hours. I had a mouth to feed, you know. I had my boy to take care of. Never complained, never even called in sick, not once in all those years.'

Scott realized that he had never seen Wayne angry before. It took until now for him to find out that even Wayne's anger was calm and collected and he tightened his grip around Wayne's shoulders.

'They told me I been absent too often this year,' he continued, with the slightest tremble underneath the calmness of his voice. 'Can you believe that? My boy went missing. He was gone for a whole week, people sayin' the most terrible stuff 'bout him. And he came back to me broken. I needed to do everything I could to help him. That's my job. That's always gonna be my first and most important job. Everything I ever did was only for Eddie. Not for them, never. And they had the guts to tell me I ain't got the “right priorities.”' He spat out those last words, finally allowing himself to get visibly worked up about it.

'That's what they said?'

'Made me sound like I was lazy, like I been slacking off. Those bastards.'

They continued to sit in silence for a while. Scott listened to the clock on the wall behind them, invisibly ticking away the seconds and minutes Wayne needed to come back to himself.

'They probably can't fire you just like that,' Scott finally said. 'I don't think they're allowed to do that; you should take a look at your contract to check.'

Wayne scoffed. 'And what then? Spend the income I don't have no more on some lawyer who ain't gonna help me anyway?'

Oftentimes, when it was only the two of them, shielded away from the outside world together, it was easy to forget how different they actually were. But right now, the obvious differences of their circumstances came crashing down on them like a painful hailstorm: Wayne had lost his job and his fears of not being able to make ends meet anymore were more real and valid than Scott could probably imagine.

He squeezed Wayne's shoulder to make clear to him that he understood.

'You're good at what you do, Wayne,' he continued in a soft voice. 'Your hands are pure magic, you can fix anything. You'll find a new job in no time. Maybe this was a good thing; you'll be able to find something that makes you happy.'

'Somethin' that makes me happy?' Wayne echoed, a disbelieving, almost defiant look in his eyes that made him look more like his nephew than ever. 'Scott.' He said his name fondly, but there was something underneath it, something that almost sounded like pity. 'Folk like me... We don't get that luxury. We live paycheck to paycheck. I miss one, I got a problem. A big one. If I was gonna allow myself to have dreams, I'd need a loan, and sure as hell no bank is gonna hand out money to someone who lives in Forest Hills.'

Wayne had told him, once, how he used to dream of starting his own company, getting himself a van filled with tools and making a name for himself as Hawkins' most reliable handyman. He had told Scott how impossible that dream turned out to be when you were named Munson, had no high school diploma and no one to vouch for you – and how that dream had officially died when his nephew showed up on his doorstep with nothing but a change of clothes and a rumbling stomach.

They had never talked about it since. Scott knew that Wayne wouldn't want it to sound like Eddie had come between him and his dream, that it wasn't like that at all, that Eddie easily was the best thing that ever happened to him, even if it meant working nights at the plant until his death.

'What if you got yourself an investor?' Scott tried to keep his voice light.

'Scott.' It sounded like there was a warning in Wayne's voice – like he knew exactly what plan Scott had in mind and like he would never even consider it.

'I'm serious about it!'

'I ain't gonna be your charity case.'

'That's not what this is,' Scott protested. 'It'd be a loan, because I believe in you and because I want you to live your dream. You deserve it. I have the income to provide for a whole family, and for years, my only family member has been a well-behaved snake who doesn't ask for much. I'm not suggesting to provide for you, I know you wouldn't want that. I'm just... offering you a way out. Because I care about you.'

Wayne sighed heavily. He switched in Scott's arms, leaned closer towards him to place a gentle kiss against his lips.

'I love you,' he said. 'I ain't takin' your money.'

Scott sighed, too. He could've seen this one coming, of course; Wayne Munson and his damn pride.

'Alright, then. You wanna stay here for the night?' he asked, knowing it would be pointless to continue the conversation.

'You can go to bed,' Wayne answered. 'I ain't tired yet. Was counting on workin' till sunup, remember,' he added darkly.

Scott hummed, pulled Wayne closer towards himself. 'You can still keep me company, now that you're here anyway. I don't have to go to sleep right away,' he said in a low voice, shooting Wayne a meaningful glance to make sure he wouldn't miss the hidden meaning behind those words. 'And you should allow yourself some rest.' He pressed his lips against Wayne's. 'Maybe we could try and get you out of that night owl rhythm, now that you don't need it anymore. Means we finally get to spend more than one hour a night in bed together.' He placed another kiss at Wayne's temple, one that seemed to persuade him, judging by the way he finally started to let himself melt into Scott's touches.

'Alright, I'll come upstairs with you,' he murmured. 'Remind me to call Eddie in the morning.'

'Hey.' Scott stretched out his hand and let his fingers glide over the crease between Wayne's eyebrows, as if he could simply wipe all his worries away in one single sweep. 'We'll figure something out. I'm not letting you struggle with this all by yourself. You're not alone in this world anymore; better get used to that, love.'

Wayne didn't say anything, but Scott hadn't really expected him to, anyway. He just hoped that his words would stick with Wayne until the morning.

---

It was one of those beautiful sunny days and both Scott and Steve were over at the trailer, enjoying a simple lazy afternoon with not much going on except for soaking up the warm sunlight together and listening to the birds that were singing their hearts out in the trees at the edge of the woods. It was peaceful – but not peaceful enough for Wayne to forget about his money issues. The steel factory preferred strong young guys over old men like Wayne and the mechanic didn't currently need any new employees. If he didn't find something within two weeks, he might not be able to make rent. He kept shooting worried glances at Eddie, afraid that the boy might notice his fretting. He didn't want him to worry yet, needed to find some way out by himself before Eddie would realize how tight their money was; preferably one that wouldn't involve some sort of humiliating dependence on his partner.

'C'mon, I need to show you something,' said Eddie in a hushed voice, startling him from his brooding.

Slightly confused, Wayne followed him, leaving Scott and Steve in each other's company on the porch.

'Everythin' alright?' he asked Eddie when they were out of earshot of the two other men.

Eddie shot him a wide, excited grin. 'Couldn't be better,' he said. 'You see that van over there? That's yours. I raised some money to get you to start your own company.'

'Oh hell no,' Wayne answered immediately, a hollow feeling settling in his chest. 'I'm an honest man, you know I ain't takin' your damn drug money.'

Eddie gasped, dramatically clutching at his heart. 'First of all, rude,' he said, 'and second, it's not my money; man, I wish selling drugs would pay that well.'

Wayne's eyes flashed over Eddie's head, towards Scott, who was animatedly talking to Steve, waving his arms around the way he always did when something got him all excited. He suppressed a smile at the sight and tried to look stern and annoyed when he focused his attention back to Eddie.

'Did Scott set you up to this?'

And Eddie got that way too innocent look in his eyes that was telling Wayne all he needed to know within a second.

'No...' he said. 'It's actually, um – Steve's parents. Who wanted to invest in your business.'

Wayne crossed his arms in front of his chest, giving his nephew the most intimidating glare he could muster.

'Steve's parents, huh?'

'Yeah.' Eddie nodded vigorously, still all wide-eyed.

'They came around to their son bein' a queer and dating trailer trash, and decided to invest in his piss poor father-in-law's business?'

'Hmhm, yep.' More fervent nodding.

'Well, I guess I should go congratulate the boy, then.'

Wayne started walking back towards the trailer and got exactly what he expected:

'No! Okay, they didn't – it's Steve's college money, alright? He still had access to it, and he doesn't wanna go to college anyway, and we both wanted to spite his parents – it was the perfect setup! And he didn't pay for everything, alright?' Something gentler crossed over Eddie's face. 'Everybody chipped in with whatever they could spare. A couple of bucks for an advertisement in the paper, a nice new screwdriver set, some unused tools that the Wheelers found in their garage...'

Wayne felt a lump in his throat at those words. He didn't have to ask who Eddie meant by “everybody” – he knew exactly who had been there for his boy when Eddie most needed people to have his back. Over the past year, all those kids had become like family to Wayne as well.

'Okay, and yeah, maybe there also was an anonymous investor who believes in you and wants you to be happy,' Eddie admitted. 'Look, they all love you, man. You gave them – us – a place where we could feel safe. Where we could be ourselves. And you can't –' tears were appearing in Eddie's eyes now, 'you can't express any of that in money, you know. So just – just be grateful, okay?' He took a quick breath to recollect himself and Wayne politely pretended like he didn't notice.

'We already got you the van, Will designed a logo with me, it's already on it, and it looks really cool – even if I say so myself. Look, if you can't accept it out of love, can you at least accept it out of spite for Steve's parents?'

Wayne abruptly pulled Eddie towards him and wrapped him up in a brusque embrace, ruffling his hair and patting his back.

'I love you, Ed.'

It wasn't something he said often. He tried, especially since everything that happened last year, since he almost lost his Eddie, but it was still difficult, to say such powerful words out loud. It didn't come naturally for him. He preferred showing it rather than saying it. But he had learned that it sometimes needed to be said.

'Love you too, man,' Eddie murmured, squeezing him tightly in response.

---

When the evening fell and Steve and Eddie had left to go out for burgers at the diner across town, Wayne walked up to Scott, who was already rummaging around in the trailer's tiny kitchen about to cook up something delicious. He caught his partner's attention by placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Scott looked back at him with a vaguely distracted look in his eyes.

'You are an evil man, Scott Clarke.'

And Wayne could see that Scott immediately understood what he was referring to; the lines around his eyes deepened as he started smiling that slightly mischievous smile Wayne loved so much.

'Why? Because I want you to be happy?'

'Cause you went and exploited my weakness. You know I can never say no to Eddie.'

Scott's smile widened.

'So... Are you mad at me?'

Wayne huffed. He wrapped his arms around Scott's waist, tugged him closer, tightened his grip when an adorably surprised sound escaped from Scott's throat.

'Thank you,' he said.

And Scott started beaming like the goddamn sun before he leaned in to press his lips against Wayne's.

#back on my clarkson bullshit #i just want them to be happy okay #also if anyone wants to give me some honest feedback on wayne's southern dialect PLEASE DO bc english isn't my native language and i #honestly have no idea what i'm doing #don't mind me rambling about stranger things #wayne munson #scott clarke #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #stranger things #fruity ficlet

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