#one write system

[complete-clownery]

Okay guys

[clingonlikeclingwrap]

Shen Yuan feels like the type of person to greentext on 4chan about meeting a hot guy and having a crisis but insisting he’s not gay and neither is the nice guy who was so considerate and listened intently to him yap and cooked for him and and—

anonymous

> be me. skinny ass shut-in living on trust fund, basically just waiting to die

> least interesting person ever. Hobbies include reading trash webnovels and then getting pissed about how trash they are

> decide to get a casual job after getting so pissed by the ending of aforementioned trash novel it actually shakes my entire worldview and indirectly sends me to the ER

> coworker is the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on, I’m talking Greek-statue, stallion-novel-protagonist ass beautiful. Perfect height, perfect features, dude looks like he belongs in a luxury brand three piece suit, not a heytea apron that he somehow manages to make look unbelievably good

> start chatting with him, we become friends. Finds out he’s a student working a couple jobs and finding it hard to cover rent

> obviously, offer him my guest room. He says he feels awful freeloading and offers to cook for me in return. No complaints here, his food is heavenly.

> seriously, he’s literally the perfect guy. Cannot find even a single flaw in him. Out of curiosity asks him if he’s interested in dating since he’s single and he shyly says he is

> now confused why he doesn’t have a gf. He could literally have anyone he wants

> he professes his love to me.

> wtf.

> I consider it

> wtf.

> we start dating?

mfw I realise this walking embodiment of perfect masculinity is gay for me

mfw I realise I’m dating a gay man

mfw I realise I’m gay

>> anonymous

> anon how did u not know u were gay from the moment u started waxing poetic about a man’s “Greek statue” “stallion novel protagonist” beauty

[shotmrmiller]

Bullrider! Johnny is explosive while on the bucking bull. He's a tightly wound coil of muscle and grit. His thighs clamp down, calves locked tight, his entire body tense, ready, prepared to counter every brutal buck with sharp corrections. His core works overtime, twisting to keep him balanced, his arms snapping in rhythm with the beast beneath him.

it's not just riding, it's conquering, and he thrives off the struggle.

And then there's Bullrider! Simon— my best pal, Johnny says— and he's an entirely different game. Mass. Weight. Gravity. Where Johnny fights the bull, Simon seems to absorb it. His sheer size is his advantage; his weight keeps him rooted. When the bull lunges, twists and kicks, Simon doesn't scramble. He doesn't need to. The momentum rolls through him and around him. When you're that big a man, you don't have to fight for your place, you reckon.

Johnny fights, and Simon claims.

And how they ride is exactly how they want, how they take.

Johnny steals you into a rodeo maintenance closet with starved impatience and greedy hands that're already trailing down south, fingers dipping into the waistband of your shorts, tips of them finding your pearl in seconds, and his ravenous mouth warm as it presses against the curve of your ear, murmuring nothing else but hot honey in an accent thick with places you've never been while he circles and thrusts and curls oh so deliciously.

"Tight grip ya got there, lass."

Then he holds your bleary gaze when he suckles on his fingers, glistening with your undone slick, licking them clean when his name's announced over the speakers, loud, cutting, for the main event. "Sorry, love, gotta run," he drawls, voice easy, grin sharp and cocky. "But don't ya worry, Simon here'll take good care o' ya."

Johnny's boots are heavy as he walks away, not even a glance back, and before you can even blink— can tell him that you don't remember signing up for the two for one special— Simon moves in, blocks out the light, already taking up the space Johnny left behind, ready to finish what he started.

He's got you now.

Where Johnny had pushed you against the wall, had knocked a bucket or two over in his haste, Simon decides that you belong against that wall, large hands spreading over your waist, and they pin you in place.

"Johnny's made a mess, eh?" His voice is low, careful, dragging slow just behind your ear, and it's thick with an accent that doesn't ask, simply informs.

"Guess I better clean up, then." It sinks hot into your skin but not hotter than the damp breath fanning against your exposed throbbing pussy, and it bounces around in your empty little head when he does clean up, thick, pink tongue savoring Johnny's reward.

And to think that Johnny had told you it'd be just a simple date.

What a lie that was.

[disgracefulthings]

I have 2 great ideas for 'Moshang gets married but Shang Qinghua is unaware' fics

The first one is that Mobei-Jun marries Shang Qinghua very early in the story, which still plays out as usual, until the very end where he tells the other peak lords that he and Shang Qinghua are married, leaving them and his husband very shocked

The second one is a Modern Day AU where Mobei-Jun is a CEO and Shang Qinghua is his assistant. Mobei-Jun places papers in front of him one day and tells him to sign, which Shang Qinghua does without reading them. It turns out that he was agreeing to marry Mobei-Jun, and his boss is very pleased by how fast he agreed

[gludgenbell]

My son, My son

You are my shining son

My moon, my stars

My clear blue daylight sky

[wiisagi-maiingan]

I got some sleep (not nearly enough but I digress) and I just want to say, to continue the posting from last night, that a lot of Westerners genuinely see the Latin alphabet as the default and don't even realize it, thinking of the alphabet as being the "true" writing system while everything else (Japanese, Hebrew, Arabic, etc) is an outlier. It's to the point where they see any writing system that they can't IMMEDIATELY recognize and they assume that it has to be fictional, alien, nonsense because some part of them genuinely does not even consider that their idea of what language looks and sounds like is very much limited.

You can even see this in how a lot of native English speakers treat diacritics used in other languages that use the Latin alphabet or are transliterated; the idea that Ä or Ø are pronounced differently from A or O doesn't even cross a lot of people's minds. Those aren't real letters, they're just silly symbols for use in emoticons or for an aesthetic.

[grand-line-shenanigans]

For those of us who cannot comprehend big numbers (me) I have done the math. FOUR FUCKING YEARS. SECUNIT WHAT THE FUCK.

[hyruling]

For domestic prompts, 10, 24 & 38 pls!

10. a cupboard of mismatched mugs - 24. cold tiles - 38. a blanket draped over a sleeping form

—

Buck’s absence is the first thing he notices when he wakes.

He reaches over, feels the cold sheets and knows Buck’s been gone for awhile. His side of the bed is unmade, pillow still dented from where he’d spent at least some of the night. Eddie presses his hand against the soft down and sighs.

He shouldn’t be surprised — for nearly two weeks now he’s woken up alone after falling asleep to the comforting sounds of Buck’s breathing next to him. It’s no less disappointing than it was the first time.

Still, he’s not going to push it. Not while Buck still walks around with a haunted look in his eyes when he thinks no one’s looking, and stares off into space more often than not when he’s not busying himself with some chore or errand he’s invented in the name of being useful. Eddie’s lost track of the number of times he’s run a casserole over to the Grant-Nash household.

Eddie swings his legs over the side of the bed and stretches. It’s a warm day in April but the house is frigid, thermostat set to Eddie’s liking even though he insists on turning it up for Buck every night before they go to sleep. He wakes up with it set back to 68 every morning, accepted it as part of their new nightly routine.

The tiles are cold on his feet when he steps quietly in the kitchen. The coffee pot is already prepped with fresh grounds, meaning Buck has already been in here. All Eddie has to do is start the water. He pulls out a mug from the cabinet while it brews, still bursting with all the ones he’d had to leave in Buck’s care — the U-Haul was only so big after all. It’s a homemade creation of Christopher’s, Buck’s name across the front in messy eight-year old handwriting with hand-drawn flames dancing around the white ceramic. Eddie has a matching one in back in Texas, packed and ready to make its way back home next week.

Buck is still asleep when he pads into the living room, the only sign of life the steady rise and fall of his shoulder. Eddie snags the comforter off Chris’ bed on his way and drapes it over Buck, hunched in on himself in the chill of the room.

Eddie perches on the coffee table and picks up Buck’s phone, intending to plug it back into the charger for him. Bobby’s name is there, a new text he pointedly doesn’t read etched across Buck’s background photo of the 118, taken just before Eddie left for El Paso. He stares at the small Bobby Nash 👨‍🚒 until it becomes blurry and locks Buck’s phone with a sniff, scrubbing a hand over his wet eyes for good measure.

The click of the phone wakes Buck. Eddie watches his eyelids flutter, listens to the pattern of his breathing change. It takes a moment for Buck to process his own consciousness — he blinks blearily at Eddie and rubs his eyes.

“Hey,” Buck says, voice thick with sleep.

“Morning,” Eddie responds.

Buck shuffles into a sitting position, stretching as he goes, still swathed under both blankets. He looks ridiculous — a six-foot two tall toddler wrapped in a cocoon of fabric, so thick he can only see Buck’s head. Eddie can’t help but laugh softly at him.

“What?” Buck asks.

Eddie shakes his head and offers his mug to him. Buck’s fingers are chilly when he takes it. “Nothing. You look comfy, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” Buck says, taking a sip. He grimaces at the sweetness of Eddie’s hazelnut creamer but says nothing, patting the cushion next to him. “You wanna get in on this?”

Eddie smiles. “I really do, actually.”

Buck nods sagely and scoots, lifting both blankets for Eddie to wrangle his way into. They end up pressed together, blankets tight around their shoulders and under their crossed legs. Eddie sighs at the warmth and accepts the mug back from Buck. He fits his mouth over the same uneven ridge Buck did, feels a little thrill shoot straight through his stomach when Buck notices.

“You know, you don’t have to turn the A/C down every night,” Eddie says for at least the tenth time, rather than linger on Buck’s eyes on his mouth.

Buck shrugs, eyes back on Eddie’s, the blue thrown into sharp relief against the pink flush of his cheeks. “Habit. I did it before too, when I would stay over if you forgot. I know how you and Chris like to sleep in the Artic.”

Warmth that has nothing to do with the heavy comforter or hot coffee sluices through him. Warmth that has always been there, just beneath the surface. Warmth that’s taken on a new meaning in recent months, that’s been beaten down and ignored because there were other things more pressing than letting himself burrow into it the way he wanted. He can’t exactly remember why right now, watching Buck snag the mug back with a soft brush of fingers. Pink mouth pressed against that same ridge, that same imperfect divot of ceramic from Chris and Buck’s unpracticed hands.

Buck holds his gaze while he drinks, gives him a tentative smile before it skitters away. Eddie hands him his phone, and then Buck’s attention is focused on the unread text waiting for him. Buck smiles again, a private thing for himself and for Bobby.

“Bobby okay?” Eddie asks. He takes the mug back so Buck can type out a response.

Buck glances up briefly. “Yeah. Just responding to my late night neuroses again.”

Eddie lets that sit for a minute, taking a long drawn out drink while Buck types. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“I know,” Buck answers without looking up. “But it’s fine, Eddie. Really.”

“How many nights have you woken me up from my nightmares?” Eddie asks. Buck avoids his eye. “How is this different?”

Buck just shakes his head, and Eddie sighs. They’ve had this conversation nearly every morning since that phone call came in, since the impossible happened and Eddie watched the light slowly return to Buck’s eyes. But Buck keeps swearing he’s fine — he’s over the moon, he’s perfect, and why wouldn’t I be, Eddie? — and yet Eddie continues to wake up alone, continues to find Buck hiding himself away out here.

Buck puts the phone down and accepts the coffee when Eddie offers. Another sip, another phantom brush of lips that singes in his blood.

“Okay. I’m not going to push you, Buck. But I just want you to know I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Buck traces over the lettering of the mug, says, “I know.”

It’s almost convincing.

“Bobby is okay. He’s home, Athena is watching over him like a hawk. He’s—”

“It’s not Bobby,” Buck interrupts.

Eddie pauses — this is the most he’s gotten out of Buck in days. He waits, watching Buck’s thumb trail over the rim of the mug where both of their mouths have touched, and scrapes a hand over his own lips unconsciously.

“It’s not about Bobby,” Buck continues at last, quiet in the early morning stillness. “Not completely, anyway, and I—I can’t talk about it. With you.”

Buck’s blushing up to his ears now, and Eddie feels like he’s falling, knocked clean on his ass while his body remains perfectly still.

“Oh,” Eddie says, punched out of his lungs before he can stop it.

Buck picks at a loose thread on the plaid comforter and refuses to look at him.

Eddie stutters to fill the silence, awkward for the first time in their friendship. “Um. That’s—I mean, that’s okay, I guess, but you know—you can talk to me about anything, though. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know but not—not this.”

Buck hands the mug back to Eddie, just enough left for one last sip. It tastes like ash in his mouth, lukewarm and too bitter, all traces of hazelnut sweetness gone.

“Do you want br—”

“Why?” Eddie blurts. He twists around until he catches Buck’s eyes. Buck looks like a skittish deer when they meet.

He’s angry, he realizes — it hits him like a freight train. Not at Buck, not really, but at himself, maybe. For failing to do something, or be someone, that has Buck’s unequivocal trust. Everything they’ve been through, seven years of friendship — a word that had never been big enough, important enough, to describe what they have — and now, out of nowhere, there’s something that has Buck doubting. The past few weeks alone have deepened their bond in a way Eddie wasn’t sure was still possible as they held each other through their grief. They cried together, held each other up literally and metaphorically; they cared for each other in ways Eddie’s never had with a partner, let alone a friend before. Buck had even yelled at him for the first time in seven years, actually yelled, when everything inside of him had boiled over at last. And Eddie just took it, and held him when the fight went out of him and Buck collapsed against Eddie’s chest, muttering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” through broken gasps.

And when Bobby came back, he was still there; he was there through their shared euphoria and guilt and all the leftover grief they didn’t know what to do with. And now Buck can’t even look at him.

“It’s not—it’s just something I’m working through, Eddie. I don’t want to—you’re about to bring Chris home, it can wait.”

“No,” Eddie says, and the tense line of Buck’s shoulders deflates. “Come on, Buck. It’s me.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the problem,” Buck admits, a little testy.

“I’m confused. Did I do something to piss you off?” Eddie asks. “Is it—have I been in your space too much or something? I can find a hotel—”

“No,” Buck interrupts. His knee knocks into Eddie’s as he turns to face him more fully. “That’s not it.”

“Then what, Buck? Don’t make me—I can’t leave you for a week and let—whatever this is fester.”

“It’s really okay, you don’t need to worry.”

“Well I’m going to,” Eddie pushes. “So you may as well tell me.”

Buck looks at him helplessly, eyes darting around the room wildly and landing on the blankets they’re wrapped in. And Buck’s never been all that difficult to read — not for him, anyway — so he puts the pieces together pretty quickly.

“Are you uncomfortable sleeping in the same bed?” Eddie hedges. Buck goes rigid, and he knows he’s hit the nail on the head. Stomach sinking, he asks, “Is that why you move to the couch every night?”

They’d slept in the bed together every night when he first came back, waking tangled up in each other more often than not, but he should have realized Buck may not want that now that Bobby was back — now that he didn’t need Eddie to hold him together anymore.

“I—it’s not what you’re thinking, Eddie, I swear.”

“You could have said something, I didn’t mean to assume, we just—after Bobby, I thought—I can move to Chris’ room until he’s back home, and then—”

“No, Eddie, stop,” Buck says. He puts his hands on Eddie’s bare knees, as if he can physically stop Eddie’s stream of consciousness. It works, turns Eddie’s brain embarrassingly fuzzy from the two small points of contact. “That’s not the problem. I-I’m not uncomfortable. The opposite, actually.”

“You’re… too comfortable?” Eddie asks.

“I want it too much,” Buck says, words slurring together in a rush. He pulls his hands back to his lap, and Eddie misses them instantly.

“Want what?” Eddie asks, his own voice barely audible over the rushing in his ears.

Buck looks at his hands, wringing them so tightly his knuckles turn white. Eddie’s own are gripping the mug so hard he has to consciously unclench so he doesn’t put a crack the ceramic.

“Bobby told me he loved me, in the lab,” Buck says. It’s not what he expected to hear, and he rears back a bit in surprise. Buck isn’t fazed, continues, “I didn’t say it back, a-and that stuck with me, the whole time he was gone. Tore me up, really, that I didn’t get to tell him what he meant to me.”

“He knew,” Eddie says reflexively, because it’s true.

“But he deserved to hear it,” Buck insists. “And it made me think about—about things… really think. About the people I love, and how quickly you can lose them.”

It’s quiet for a bit, early morning birdsong the only sounds he can hear. Eddie twirls the mug around in his hand, watching the dregs swirl, and says, “Yeah. Death has a way of doing that. Recalibrates your whole life.”

Buck’s eyes are already on him when he looks up again. The breath he releases is shaky, cheeks flushed, curls askew. He’s beautiful, always, but especially now, backlit with sunlight streaming in through the gauzy curtains. Eddie’s entire nervous system thrums with want, with anticipation.

“You deserve to hear it too,” Buck says softly, and Eddie’s heart somersaults in his chest. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

“Buck—”

“And—and I needed you, before, and I still do but—it’s too much, I know. I’m taking too much, and I was just trying to—to not be. Especially now, when you’re about to leave, and when you and Chris come back I’ll have to go, and I just didn’t want to—”

Eddie surges forward, catching Buck’s jaw with one hand, and kisses him. He tastes like coffee and hazelnut, and makes a sweet soft sound when Eddie tilts his jaw where he wants him. His eyes are still closed when Eddie pulls away and brushes his thumb against Buck’s birthmark.

“I love you,” Eddie says, and Buck’s eyes fly open.

“Eddie,” he croaks.

“You deserve to hear it too,” Eddie echoes. “You deserve everything, Buck. You could never be too much, or want anything from me that I wouldn’t give you.”

Buck shakes his head, dislodging Eddie’s hand on his face. He curls it around Buck’s forearm instead. “I don’t deserve you, Eddie.”

“I’ll decide that, thank you very much,” Eddie insists with a grin.

Buck slowly returns the smile, lets Eddie lean in and kiss it off his face.

“Please be sure,” Buck begs him when they part, his hands on Eddie’s face. “Because I want—I want you so much, Eddie. I want everything with you.”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees easily. Buck frowns a bit, and Eddie takes the opportunity to climb into his lap. Buck accepts his weight easily, arms wrapped around Eddie’s waist while he presses a soft kiss to his pulse point. Buck shudders and tugs Eddie’s head up to look him in the eye.

“Seriously,” Buck says. “I want to stay here when you get back, with you and Chris. Like, permanently.”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees, pressing a kiss to Buck’s mouth.

“And I want to sign all the HR forms at work calling you mine.”

Eddie shivers — Buck misinterprets and tugs the blanket up around his shoulders, and the gesture is so sweet Eddie has to kiss him again. “Okay, baby,” he says against his mouth.

Buck whines, and they get distracted for awhile, lost in each the slick heat of each other’s mouths. Buck breathes, “I want to marry you.”

Eddie swallows hard, but the thought doesn’t scare him. Buck kisses his jaw, nuzzles into his neck, and Eddie says, “Okay.”

Buck lifts his head, smile lighting up the whole room. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie says. “I want it all. I want you in my house, my bed, everywhere. Everything.”

“God, Eddie, I love you, I love you so fucking much,”Buck says in a rush, and kisses him so hard their teeth clack together.

Neither of them notice the mug falling to the floor with a thump, staining the rug. It stays there for a month before Chris notices it, and Eddie watches with delight when Buck fishes it from under the couch, blush high on his cheeks when Chris asks how it got there. Chris quickly determines he doesn’t want to know when Buck stutters through an excuse, and rolls his eyes in mock disgust when Eddie snags the mug from Buck’s limp hand and kisses his cheek.

From that day on, it receives a place of honor on their windowsill. Buck deems it too lucky to drink from and plants some basil in it instead, and every time he cooks with it, Eddie could swear he tastes hazelnut.

—

prompts ❤️

[joyfulhottubfuntik]

Shortly after weirdmageddon, when everyone is busy restoring the shack and tending to Stan, Ford approaches his brother. The latter doesn't remember him yet, as they hadn't really interacted one on one. He is doing well, though, all things considered, making swift progress in getting his memories back, there's just a lot of work still left to do.

They talk for a bit, not really a full on conversation, just Ford wondering about Stan's well-being, about what he's remembered so far and Stan answering. The rest of the time they just fall into slightly awkward silence. Overtime Ford sees that Stan's taken notice of his hands, watching them as Ford gestures with a somewhat confused expression.

Ford realizes almost immediately that it has to be because of his fingers. And he knows he should have expected it, after all, Stan has only forgotten every piece of information related to himself, his general knowledge is intact, so of course he knows what amount of fingers is normal and what is not. But it still hurts, rubs salt into the fresh and open wound. Because Stanley has never once looked at his hands that way, the way everyone else has at some point —like they're noticing something odd and wrong, something that shouldn't be there, trying to figure out whether they're having double vision or seeing things. For Stan his hands have always been the most normal thing in the world, after all, he's never not had a six-fingered twin brother. Well, he has now. And it hurts because that's just an extra reminder that the person sitting next to Ford is not his brother, at least not fully. Maybe will never be him. Hopefully not.

So they sit there. Stan doesn't speak and Ford doesn't either, trying to hold himself together, preparing himself for when Stan's inevitably going to point out his hands. Even though he's had a lifetime of responding to questions about them, even the most uncomfortable ones, he never thought his brother could be the one asking them. This is different and worse than it's ever been. He has to just endure it, it's all his fault after all.

Then Stan finally speaks again. But instead of judgement, confusion, disgust, shock, fear or all the other responses Ford has mentally prepared himself for it's

"Oh, you have six fingers, right? That's pretty cool".

Said calmly, with a warm smile. Like it is the most normal thing in the world. So much like back in the childhood that only one of them remembers.

And that almost moves Ford to tears. Or maybe it does. Not the first time he's cried over this and not the last one either, he feels. But these right now are happy tears. And Ford feels that maybe it will all be alright after all

[kittleskittle]

And time warms up love gently

And time nurtures love gently

[mipexch]

[bonehymns]

super funny to me how fuinjuutsu specialists are functionally the wizards even among the ninja wizard populace of naruto. give them some paper and prep time and they start playing with reality like it's made of dough. anyways, some things iruka does with his fuinjuutsu that are cool and fun and thematically resonant:

he gains the most renown for his seals, of course, but has carved out a niche for himself in learning how to enchant weapons and clothing. for iruka, who does everything he can for others, this was a natural progression. (fuinjuutsu, like anything else in this world made possible with chakra and grit, is about intention, and will, and some healthy disregard for the laws of reality. iruka's only desire had ever been to protect as many people as he could, to let them be as safe as they could be, to come home. of course he would learn to make their clothes tough enough to deflect blades. of course he would gift weapons that don't break, that could cleave mountains in two if the wielder tried hard enough. violence is the way of this world, and iruka has learned about survival since he was a child; he will give others what they need to survive, until the world no longer needs such things. it will be considered a kindness until it isn't.) his fuinjuutsu mastery becomes so refined and covetous that the daimyos have received enchanted items by him, as well as the other kages, but iruka gives away most of his craft to the general populace, and most often for free, because they are the ones who need it most, and the most deserving besides.

if cursed seals exist, then surely the opposite can as well? iruka is willing to experiment and kakashi is more than willing to be the test subject. it's desire and willpower made manifest into ink, put onto skin, but instead of kakashi carrying around the remnants of ambition and greed, he has iruka's love for him, writ large and deep, so deep he can feel it to his marrow. there is no pain, just warmth and a soft pressure, like a kiss, like a hand on his shoulder. that blessed seal, like many other things kakashi carries on his body, will come to save his life many times. and if nothing else, it serves as a beautiful tattoo, inked on his left arm, covering his anbu mark. call it a shedding of the skin, at last, for a man who's worn too many it became so heavy. let it be a start to him writing a better ending for himself, with iruka's hand to help steady him, his generous heart reminding kakashi that he can want better for himself. iruka always could see the potential in everyone.

[disgracefulthings]

Modern Day Scum Villain AU where Shang Qinghua adopts Luo Binghe who was left abandoned with no family, or so everyone thought. One day Tianlang-Jun (I have no idea what his human name would be) shows up and reveals that he is Binghe's birth father. Turns out he was sent to prison on false charges, and when he was let out he learned that his lover was dead and so he tracked down their son. He doesn't want to take Binghe away from Shang Qinghua, mostly because he thinks he would be a shit father on his own, so they agree to co-parent the kid. The people around them are like ' this is going to end up like one of those love stories where both parents fall for each other', but nope, Shang Qinghua and Tianlang-Jun can't stand each other. Their parenting style differs too much and they keep getting in each other's way. The situation gets worse when Shang Qinghua starts seeing Mobei-Jun (again, I don't know what to do for a human name), which adds to him trying to be Binghe's step father

[tempo-takoyaki]

Transmigrator!Hua Cheng AU (aka SVSSS x TGCF AU) | I mean technically it's an AU but I wrote it in a way that would make it fit as HC's POV throughout TGCF, so AU or theory? Take that as you will | Warning: Canon Compliant Violence, Suicide ideation, Implied non-con (not between Hualian and never actually happens here)

"A Tale of Three Princes" was Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky’s latest novel. Unlike his previous success, Proud Immortal Demon's Way, ATTP (as it was called by the fans) was a renowned  masterpiece. Far from the stallion novels Airplane readers had been used to, ATTP was more akin to one of those classics that would be taught over and over again throughout  the centuries. What made it so peculiar though was the narrative device used to tell its story.

ATTP was not in fact a single story, but three, set in the same universe, centuries apart. The three stories were updated one after another daily, by chapters of ten thousand words (as Airplane readers were used to). Which meant that the readers had no idea how each story ended before being swept up into the next...

Which also explained why Zhu Qiang did not know any of the three endings when he got reincarnated into ATTP.

It had been just another terrible day for Zhu Qiang when he died. He had found a quiet spot in his school's stairwell to unwind and read the latest update of ATTP when his bullies had found their way back to him. He had put up a good fight, maybe too much, as he could still remember losing his footing and falling head first onto the stairs. When he had opened his eyes, it was not to the stairwell's ceiling, or even a hospital, but a busy street where people in ancient clothing looked at him strangely.

After a few minutes, he had put two and two together relatively quickly. He  had transmigrated in none other than the second story of ATTP, also called the Xianle Arc. As for which character he was supposed to be... He had no idea. When he had asked the system about it, it only flashed him a [System has encountered an error. System update…] which was not helpful in the least. Despite his more introverted personality, he had no other choice but to ask around… And the answers came relatively quickly: “It’s the monster child!” “Get away you fiend!” “Disappear!” With a sigh, he came to the realization that unlike many of those popular transmigration novels, this life wouldn’t be too much different from his previous one.

He hadn’t been the best looking guy back in his hometown, at least from what he knew, and people had always bullied him for it. This time around, he had no mirrors or phones to confirm what others said, but he supposed he wasn’t much different. (Though to be fair, even back in his previous life he had always carefully avoided mirrors and photos, he couldn’t even recall what his own face actually looked like). Once the system had finished its update, it tried to give him some helpful directions to survive, like where he could find food or shelter, but any questions about what character he was supposed to be were left unanswered. (All that he knew was that he was about ten years old). However, he finally got access to his stats (after days left to his own devices) and he almost choked on the spot.

“MINUS THIRTY-SIX ON LUCK?! WTF?!”

The reason for  these god-awful bad stats? A passive skill called Eye of Misfortune which reduced his own luck by a hundred points, and the one of surrounding people by fifteen percent. Completely unfair… But it explained people’s glares and insults. Again, with no mirror to look for, Zhu Qiang had no idea of what that Eye of Misfortune actually looked like. But at this point, he had understood that the best way to stay on the down low was to hide it. Usually, those types of novels would then introduce a special ability only the protagonist could have to solve his main issue and become a total badass… But asking the system about it, for the very first time, it seemed to express an actual tangible emotion.

[System apologizes. There has been an error. UV003 has no special ability attached to this vessel besides Eye of Misfortune and Demonic Heritage.]

Ah, yes Demonic Heritage. Another passive skill that actually was useful, unlike the other, as it made him less receptive to pain by fifty percent. He supposed it was linked to Eye of Misfortune in some way… But again how could he know when he’d apparently spawned out of nowhere with a backstory he wasn’t aware of? As time passed, the hope of bettering his life slimmed down until it seemed barely believable. 

He had no parents to take care of him. No home to find shelter in. No prospect of finding a job with his “deformity” as people called it… Only two months went by before he called it quits.

If he hadn’t died in that stairwell, he probably would have jumped from the rooftop of his school. He wasn’t afraid of death, he had hoped for that prospect for many years prior to reincarnating. But reincarnation hadn’t been kinder to him. It hadn’t offered him a life he could change, one he could better to prove he was worthy of something, anything. The system flashed him warning signs, but fuck it, he was tired. So tired of playing into God’s hand. 

[Major Event Activated: The Last Parade of Xianle.]

At the top of the castle’s wall, he could remember the first chapter of the second story of ATTP. “His beauty was beyond compare, his stance the one of a mighty warrior, and his gaze behind the mask: determined, fierce, and maybe even sly in his own childish way.” (Chapter 2 of A Tale Of Three Princes) He was too tired to go on, but if he had to go one last time, he wanted to see the prince, his favorite character, before doing so.

Once he saw him in his golden clothes, Zhu Qiang took a step beyond the edge and…

…

[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Great things must be said three times! You have successfully changed the plot "The Star of Bad Omen" into "A Fateful meeting"! Character role changed from "Canon Fodder" to "Side Character". +100 B-points!]

… Uh?

He was cradled into a pair of strong arms, holding him tight against embroidered robes despite his dirty appearance. He heard the sound of a wooden object hitting the floor, and he looked up. There, with the most gentle eyes he had ever seen…

[New Character Unlocked: Xie Lian, Prince of Xianle. Second protagonist of A Tale of Three Princes.]

Zhu Qiang wanted to strangle the system with all his might. Finally, finally he knew which character he had been transmigrated into: THAT ONE STUPID KID WHO KILLED HIMSELF DURING THE PARADE OF XIANLE, CURSING THE ENTIRE COUNTRY IN THE PROCESS. WOW. That one child who had no name but haunted the entire second plotline of ATTP. Never named but always present, the curse of the city, the failure of its inhabitants, a character full of symbolism but no actual practical utility to speak of… No wonder his luck stat was so low and the system did nothing to make up for it!! He was born to die!!! 

That alone, pissed him off enough to reschedule his suicide at a later date. If he had to die he wanted it to be by his own hands and his own choice. If the system wanted him dead, then it was no better than his bullies back in his previous life! Besides, he was already laughing in its face, because he had been held by the Crown Prince of Xianle, a beauty amongst beauties, the most perfect and fascinating character ever written (in Zhu Qiang’s own biased opinion as a 16 year old).

What happened afterwards though was embarrassing to say the least. First he had been found out by Qi Rong (that bastard traitor, he had always hated him even when he was only a reader) who had beaten him to a pulp (he was so thankful for Demonic Heritage at that moment), then Xie Lian had saved him (yay!) and he had taken care of him (double yay!) and then he and his subordinates had asked him questions (fuck).

“What’s your name?” He doesn’t know. “What does your mother call you?” Uuuuh people said his cursed eye was red so maybe… “Hong…Hong-er?” “How cute!” Nailed it. “Where are your parents?” Damn, he wishes he knew! “I… ran away from home.” “Poor boy…” He would have felt awful if it weren’t for Xie Lian’s gentle hands and his soft smile. Any lie in the world was worth it if it allowed him to see him. He was however, feeling very uneasy in the presence of Feng Xin and Mu Qing, Xie Lian’s two closest servants and friends who were eyeing him as if he had a bomb hidden under his clothes. Especially Mu Qing, the last chapter of ATTP about Xianle he read implied that Mu Qing was about to betray the prince, and so Zhu Qiang (now renamed Hong-er) didn’t trust him one bit.

But even so… After that awful cultivator told him he didn’t deserve to live (and god did he already know that)... Xie Lian took him in his arms and said he wasn’t a monster. No matter how ugly his sobbing was, no matter the reason for his misfortune, Xie Lian, unafraid of him, held him and told him he was not a monster… that was more than anyone had ever done for him in two lifetimes. And for the first time in a long time, Zhu Qiang cried.

He already knew he was a curse on legs, and so no matter how thankful he was, he couldn’t extend his stay. He knew what sort of character he was, if he did, things would only get worse for Xie Lian from then on. And he didn’t want that for him… And then Xie Lian ascended.

It was a miracle that he stayed alive for so long. His saving grace? Not Xie Lian’s temple he had built himself and took care of. No. It was beating the other street kids like they had beaten him up before. Hey, no judgement, those weren’t modern times, the worst that would happen is some other kids coming back to get revenge and then he could whoop their ass over again. Uh? He was an adult beefing with kids? That’s a detail, system, buddy! Let him enjoy this miserable life of his that had not improved one bit in three years besides that!

[+32 exp point. User has obtained a new success: Child Beater. Congratulations… (-_-)]

Now it’s just making stuff up. Anyway, life was going, that was it. Every day was the same: go in the fields to get a flower for the crown prince’s statue (not only did it make him happy, it also raised his Faith stat!), pray, take care of the temple if need be, take leftovers from one of the big houses in the neighbourhood, beat other kids up when they came to provoke him (or steal his food), go back to the temple to pray (again), clean it up (again), steal food (again), beat kids (again) and sleep where no one will see him (...again). It was fine the first year. The second, it had become redundant, the third, he was wondering what the heck he was doing. Beating kids raised his stats slowly but surely, but becoming stronger wasn’t his goal. What he wanted… And that was it, he didn’t know what he wanted. And after three years, doubt made its way in the cracks of his broken heart: he lived so he could spite the system for attempting to kill him… But was it worth it? 

Xie Lian was a god now, and with his shitty luck, was he going to live long enough to even see him for the upcoming civil war? What was the point of it all in the end? He wasn’t supposed to live. He had never been meant to live at all… So why…?

“If you don’t know what to live for, then live for me.”

[Class upgrade: Beggar -> Soldier. Skill update: STR +15. DEF +13. CHAR +5...etc]

[New passive skills acquired: Blade of Xianle, doubles the amount of exp gained from killing humans. Demonic Heritage II, the might of your ancestors give you +20 to your Strength and Speed.]

[Major event coming soon: Land of Tender, Land of Loser.]

Reading about the Land of Tender had been excruciating. One of the main criticisms towards ATTP was how downright cruel some chapters were towards the main three princes. Each had one specific traumatic event that would shape them up for the rest of the story, their own fall from grace. In the case of Xie Lian… It had been the Land of Tender.

Unlike his previous novel Airplane hadn’t romanticized what happened at all. It was so raw and so awful many readers had considered dropping the story right here and there, Zhu Qiang had been one of them. It was the start of the fall of Xianle, marked by this cruel beyond humanly possible event.

Now, standing straight with his sword in hand, Hong-er faced the flowers. He couldn’t let them close, he knew what would happen if he did. It’s the exact reason for why he had followed Xie Lian in the forest to save Qi Rong even if he hated him. If he gave up, if he wavered for just one moment… Never could he forgive himself.

And then the flowers changed appearances, and laughing, they took the face of the Crown Prince.

Back when Xie Lian only used to be a character in Zhu Qiang eyes, he admitted he looked at some fanarts or some skimpy fics about him, sometimes even watched videos imagining it was him. Face with the real deal, he had vowed himself to never see him again as some sort of forbidden pleasure. And yet those flowers had seen right through him… Maybe they had all been right, his bullies, his parents, his teachers, the villagers, everyone… Maybe he was a monster.

“You’re not a monster,” he had clinged onto those words for years. But his palm against the white skin of his prince, he felt his devotion waver. He thought it was faith, he thought it was fate, now… he wondered, hadn’t it all been in the name of lust and obsession? When Xie Lian left, and he asked for him, he reminded himself of why he shouldn’t have gotten closer in the first place: he was a jinx.

Mu Qing kicked him out of the army after this event. There was no point in arguing with him. No matter how Hong-er told him he was the one at fault for abandoning the prince, the only acknowledgement he got from him was a slap to his face and his insignia snatched out of his hands. And back to the street he was. He wasn’t beating kids anymore, no point to that, he would destroy them at the first occasion. His stats were high thanks to how much he had killed (Paper men, he reminded himself after washing the blood off his hand, paper men). There was the epidemic too. Since he was immune, he got recruited to take care of the transport of the ill. The grotesque faces made him want to puke, but it hadn’t been the worst he’d seen at that point.

He saw Xie Lian one last time. And then another time, his eyes closed, holding the pagoda… And then Xianle fell. And he was back to beating kids up to protect the temples he rebuilt.

“I’ll never forget you!!” His one reason to hold on in two lifetimes.

He died in Xie Lian’s temple, stabbed by Qi Rong, not without smashing his head in retaliation. Heavens, he hated that guy. He laughed low and quiet, the system flashing his health bar lowering and lowering. And then… As he had expected it, everything faded to black.

[GAME OVER. 2/3 life left, start again?]

Wait… HE HAD SPARE LIVES???!!

[Class update: Soldier -> Malice. Base stats changed from Human to Ghost. Passive skills still active: Eye of Misfortune, Demonic Heritage I, Demonic Heritage II, Blade of Xianle...]

[To continue…?]

(I don't know if I'll do it in multiple parts or not, if you like it I'll continue. Other than that, here's the tweets that started it all:)

(I added one of the replies mentioning that it could explain why his writing is so bad because I hadn't thought about it when I made my first tweets, but looking at his writing in adaptations and comparing it to how modern chinese students write... You can see similarities.)

If you enjoy the concept you can add onto it in the replies, the reblogs or send me asks!

[wafywaify]

i hate svsss fics that downplay sqqs (yuan) trauma incredibly.

and not in the sqq pov where hes just an unreliable narrator, no, I mean when the author very clearly did not understand how dramatic what happened to him was. i dont see them very often but every time i do i just sigh and leave it lol.

i doubt this is done on purpose but for those who actually enjoy that uh view of things (?) thats fine, totally cool. kudos to you and everything- but at least put a warning in the tags. im begging.

ive gotten really into some of these fics without realizing and its just so disappointing but i cant just leave it unfinished, yknow? the shen yuan in me wont allow it

like bro literally got half his limbs ripped off by a person with the face he loved and has died for MULTIPLE TIMES. and then was raped..? by that same person??? (not that im blaming binghe, they were both victims) but like. CMON??? oh and dont even get me started on the whole "binghes going to want revenge after i unwillingly had to push him into literal hell, i must prepare" and the entire holy mausoleum arc.. aint no way hes totally chill after that man. for years he was just waiting for death while also mourning white lotus bingbing..

give me more fics of sqq having breakdowns, ptsd, trauma!! he deserves to cry!!! sqq is just as traumatized as binghe!! let the man sob!! preferably in binghes arms!!!

[fallofthecelestial]

Okay. Since we're going over all the takes on Mr. X at this point.. What if his powers really don't have a backside. What if (the state of) his normal life is the backside.

What if his normal life is akin to that of heroes where he has to pretend to be something he's not and follow rules that the people who control his life came up with to further their own goals. What if he can only be free of other people's beliefs and expectations when he's a hero.

What if in reality he truly is like everyone else. The other heroes. The ordinary people. All those who work themselves to the bone, who are tired and overworked and sick of all the exploitation...

What if when he's in the form of the number one hero.. when he becomes the most sought after product on the hero market..

Is when he gains the freedom to truly be himself