#it’s so hard to copy and paste into a document afterward huhuhuuu

[vodkassassin]

I'd love to hear more about the Wings!AU!! Wings + people are my JAM

It was a passing flight of fancy, nothing that he ever put much planning into.

He’d thought, hey, the demon wives are the ones who always get the cool additions, while the cultivators are just humans. Surrounded by all these devastating beauties with tails or horns or extra appendages, aren’t they unfortunately boring? Out classed? That’s kind of unfair, right?

If demons can have horns and tails and be devilish, then shouldn’t the other side of their coin in this world have the opposite?

So he’d dreamt up a new wife, a cultivator born of low standing who had worked hard to get to where she was. She’s lived a thankless life but her heart was too good to allow her past to darken her mindset. She was kind, and found purpose in helping others. It was that kindness that drew his darling protagonist to her to begin with, so different was it from the rest of his scheming, plotting, politically-minded concubines.

Endlessly kind despite hardship. Righteous in the way that a person of the ‘righteous cultivator of the immortal, heavenly path’ schtick was always supposed to be.

Almost angelic. And what’s an angel without wings?

It’s a very western idea, so Airplane was forced to tackle it in a very delicate manner. Not too delicately — after all, he’d already implemented other western ideas in the story, such as the vampire demon clan, so what’s one more? It’s not like anyone other than one particularly pissy forum reviewer gave a shit — but carefully enough that it soothes the last, bloody, fraying scraps of what was left of his integrity as an author.

So he’d written stipulations. Rules. The rarity, the difficult origin, the mythical nature. A condition of virtue, barely obtainable by a mere mortal, and completely unobtainable by immortals that weren’t already blessed with them.

One in a billion chance, basically.

So the kind, angelic cultivator had faced every horrid and treacherous obstacle of her life and still come out as soft-hearted as she’d been before, if not more so. Luo Binghe was smitten, obviously. How could he not be, when he hadn’t seen such kindness in either world since his poor mother?

And then, the cultivator had reached a milestone in the journey of an immortal; despite all the difficult steps of her life, she’d finally formed her golden core.

And in the formation of that seed of immortality, the blessing of the heavens themselves was laid upon this cultivator, as wings sprouted from her back. Beautiful wings, pure as her soul with feathers as soft as her heart. They fit her perfectly and were something glorious to behold.

Their emergence was painful, bloody, and near fatal. His poor protagonist was driven nearly insane with worry the entire week it had taken for the wings to fully appear, forced to leave the bedside of his newest love to hunt her down herbs that would lessen the agonizing pain.

But the cultivator woman pulled through in the end. After all, what kind of author would he be if he allowed the newest wife of his stallion protag to die a tragic death when he’d only just obtained her?

The cultivator got her wings, Luo Binghe got his angel, and the plot closed rather simply on that one. Airplane patted himself on the back for an idea well executed and continued on his way, hardly ever thinking about it again.

After all, it was rare. It would go against the continuity of his own narrative decision if he’d written another winged cultivator wife.

A one in a billion chance, mostly known only because of legends.

That’s one of the many reasons why he, Airplane, now trapped in his own train wreck of a novel as canon fodder character Shang Qinghua, had never, not once, ever given the slightest thought it could ever happen to him.

After all, him? Shang Qinghua? Destined to be a traitor? Weak in cultivation, an overworked head disciple of the logistics peak, with a feeble mind and a will that’s about as strong as wet newspaper?

Wings are for cultivators who are a shimmering diamond in a pig trough. Cultivators who work themselves to the bone in the face of all adversity and live and breath the adage of righteousness.

Shang Qinghua isn’t that at all. He’s the exact opposite. He’s sneaky and underhanded and too tired to make any effort more than is necessary. Shang Qinghua is a textbook cannon fodder villain.

Shang Qinghua is in the middle of the woods, far from any town or village or human campsite, actually meditating for the first time in ages because he’s so bored waiting for his king to come and listen to his report that doesn’t even have anything interesting of note.

Shang Qinghua is leaning against a tree when he feels something click into place in the depths of his much-neglected dantian.

Without the time to take even one more breath, his entire back erupts into agony like hot, molten metal had just been poured down his collar. Shang Qinghua falls to the ground with a quiet noise that does nothing, nothing to verbalize the way his skeleton is suddenly trying to claw its way out of his skin.