#I do have other ideas...

[kousagi7hikari]

Moshang Pigmalion AU

Shang Qinghua was burnt out. This was a fact that only became obvious to him when his… friend? Biggest critic? Shen Yuan had pointed out how his usually crappy sculptures had somehow gotten worse. Shang Qinghua finally had to admit that maybe he’d been working too hard. But he was a starving artist! What was he supposed to do?

Luckily, he’d managed to finish a commission that would give him a couple month’s rent and food, so he could take a much-needed break.

But his fingers still itched. Even though he’d taken this time off to rest and recover, he simply had to make… something. So, he decided to make something for himself.

He had plenty of chicken wire and just enough clay, so he started sculpting a man. 

As he molded and scraped and smeared and carved, Shang Qinghua felt a little better. This piece was just for him, after all. He created it without worrying about putting it in a tiny art show or desperately trying to sell it off. 

After all, who hadn’t thought about creating their perfect man before? 

He’d lost track of how long it took for him to make this piece, but when it was done, Shang Qinghua felt a flutter of pride.

He was tall, muscular, with pecs you could get lost in, hair that flowed down his back like water, an icy stare that could drop the room a couple degrees, and… Shang Qinghua glanced at the place between his legs that he’d covered with a sheet. 

He’d taken life drawing classes! Why was this so embarrassing?

As he looked over his creation, Shang Qinghua sighed. It was fun to create for himself, especially to create his ideal guy… but he was just clay. Clay and chicken wire.

The buzzer to his door snapped Shang Qinghua out of his reverie. 

“Finally!” He sighed with relief. He’d forgotten how long ago he had placed his food delivery order.

He probably looked like he'd rolled around in a mud pit, so he was thankful he’d requested the delivery person to just leave the bags. However, when he arrived at the door, the delivery person was still there.

“Can I help you?” Shang Qinghua asked through the crack in the door, held shut by the chain.

“Uh, yeah, I just need you to sign the receipt.”

Shang Quinghua knew for a fact that he’d never had to sign a receipt with these people before, and he’d used the same method of payment. Immediately, red flags started popping up. “Are you sure? I don’t usually have to sign.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, it’s a new policy.”

Bullshit. “I didn’t get any email or notice about this.” Shang Qinghua said, trying to be as firm as he could. “Can I please just have my food?”

Suddenly the delivery person took a step forward, grabbing the door, trying to open it further.

“You can have it when you get out here.” He snarled.

Immediately Shang Qinghua realized he was in serious danger. His eyes flicked to the hat the man was using to hide his eyes and noticed it had no logo on it.

This guy wasn’t the food delivery person, and Shang Qinghua would rather not find out who-or what-he was. 

“Y-You need to leave or I’ll call the police!” He left out the fact that his cell was in his studio.

“I don’t think you-” The man suddenly stopped, looking at something behind Shang Qinghua.

Before he could even ask what he was looking at, Shang Qinghua was aware of a presence behind him. Now the terror he had tried to hide from this assailant showed clearly on his face.

Someone was in his home who had not been a moment ago.

Before he could scream, a hand reached over and grabbed the door frame with a worrying “CRACK!”

The intruder leaned over Shang Qinghua, his long, dark hair spilling onto his shoulder from above.

“He said…” A voice Shang Qinghua had never heard before growled. “Get lost.”

The assailant, now stark white, gently placed the bag of food back on the ground, took a few steps back, then bolted back down the street.

Shang Qinghua remained frozen in place as the hair and the presence retreated. Even without turning around, he knew he was still there.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” The voice asked.

Shang Qinghua swallowed the fear (and possible vomit) creeping up his throat and nodded. He undid the chain to retrieve his food, then closed the door again, leaving it unlocked in case he needed to make an escape.

He took a shaky breath and turned around to face the intruder.

The food promptly dropped to the floor.

Standing before Shang Qinghua was the man he had sculpted from clay. He had the same long hair, though it was now black as ink. His skin was pale, but now flushed with life. His piercing gaze chilled Shang Qinghua to the bone, and his… No!! He didn’t dare look! Even though he was now wrapped in the sheet, looking like he’d just stepped out of the shower.

“You…” He managed to squeak out. “You’re my…”

The sculpture waited for him to construct a sentence, a raised eyebrow indicating he’d rather not wait all day.

“How… are you alive?” Was the question Shang Qinghua finally settled on.

“You made me. And then I was awake.” He said.

“Okay, fair…” Shang Qinghua murmured. “Um… What’s your name?”

The sculpture looked deeply unamused. “You didn’t give me one yet.”

“Ah…” Shang Qinghua whispered. “Would you… like one?”

The man gave him an undeniably clear “what do you think?” face.

Shang Qinghua reached into his mind, back to when he fancied himself a writer back in high school. He had even typed up an outline for a book. Something with demons and cultivators and stuff. He remembered one character he’d made as a sidekick to the main character, a powerful general, one who-just like the man before him-he’d made just for him.

“Mobei Jun?”

Mobei Jun seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding, and turning away. “You should eat.”

Shang Qinghua quickly scooped up the bag of food, checking to make sure nothing had spilled, then followed Mobei Jun into his kitchen. He’d have to text Shen Yuan later. “What was that one story where the artist’s sculpture came to life?”

[plagueislost]

there is a voice inside my head that whispers “wing au” every time i join a new fandom. it is currently winning.

EDIT: made an update to bruce’s design!

[etakeh]

[linktoo-doodles]

experimenting

[yeepof]

Local PHD student at wizard school HARRASSED!! FOR SHAME!!

[noodles-and-tea]

Continuation of this

[inkskinned]

i keep thinking about how rfk said that autistic people "will never write a poem." i keep thinking about that, about if humanity is calculated on the back of old verse. how far we measure personhood is in baseball and stanza breaks.

i keep thinking - i have over 7k poems on here alone. language can be a special interest, after all. did you know the word autism comes almost direct from the greek word autos, meaning "self"? self-ism.

maybe he is right - i haven't really played baseball. i was a ballet dancer instead. and besides - my sister once accidentally hit me in the face with an aluminum bat. i'm not sure if the injury gives me half points. am i only a person in the dugout? hand in a mitt? swinging?

does softball count? does cricket? am i a person if i throw the ball to my dog. am i a person as long as the ball is in the air, or do i stop being a person as it rolls into the bushes. i took my girlfriend to fenway recently; was i a person in the sun, with my hands up, with the game laid out at my feet in a diamond. i felt like a person, but that was back in the summer, and i often feel my most person-like then.

am i more of a person because of the sheer number of things i've written? does quality matter, or is it quantity? i used to write entire books every summer in high school - i wasn't doing well. i felt the least like-a-person back then. but then - does any person feel human in high school?

in the library, ink on my skin, i feel personhood shutter at the edges of myself. actually, writing feels blissfully like not being myself. it feels birdlike; escaping into creation so my body dissolves and i survive only by muscle memory. i am not there, i am writing.

but who can deny the falconlike focus of warsan shire, the tenderness of mary oliver, the sheer skill of amanda gorman. those are poets. they are certainly human. you could line them up with the way their words have influenced us and measure their literary shadows like wings.

perhaps it was very assumptive of me to want to be a poet rather than "a [ label ] poet." i wanted the work to fill itself in, rather than be stained by what i am. i do not write in despite of my neurodivergence, i am just neurodivergent and writing.

does the poem have to be in english or can i send it through my palms into the coat of my dog. does the poem have to make sense. does the poem have to love you back.

if i break a glass, will the poem appear naturally? or is the act of breaking the glass human-enough. the shards of my life glittering out beneath me - do i have to write the poem, or is it self-evident in the pile of glass splinters? i cannot grasp this world the way other people can. regardless, i endeavor to touch - even the mess - very gently.

i broke my toenail against my coffee table recently. i released a bug outdoors. i made coffee. i walked my dog.

i didn't write a poem about any of these things.

something else, then. existing without humanity.

[musubiki]

my favorite fields of mistria boys 🥰

[corviiids]

my top bit of advice going into the new year: compliment people. especially strangers. literally everyone you interact with if you can. when you buy coffee in the morning compliment the barista's tattoos. when you're chatting with a coworker tell them that by the way you like their outfit. always find something they've chosen to do on purpose. nail polish, jewellery, tattoos, hair colour/style, statement accessory, outfit, etc are all good bets. things people hope will be noticed. things that aren't too personal so it doesn't make them uncomfortable (eg probably not their physical features). i've gotten into the habit of scanning everyone i talk to for something about them that i think is cool so i can tell them. it's a great habit because it makes me notice people and realise just how many neat little details there are in people's presentation of themselves that might pass me by if i wasn't paying attention. and it brings out so much joy. you'd be surprised how much it disarms people to receive an unexpected compliment from someone they don't know. it is the most sincere smile you will see all day long. it feels nice to make people happy but it also means you win the social interaction. establish dominance by complimenting a stranger's earrings and disappearing into the fog

[ugli-ly]

I started Disco Elysium barely knowing anything about the game, I assumed when people called Harry Du Bois a wet pathetic freak they were exaggerating. You know, the blorbofication of a middle aged man.

But no. I'm only 4 hours in and I had to make him take off his pants to clear some areas in this game? For a second I was genuinely afraid it'd be possible to get a Game Over screen bc I thought I was killing him by making him stand up too fast. The guy is almost completely incoherent. He vomited twice. Tbh it might be possible to make him meet the criteria for almost every disorder in the DSM-5, if the player so wishes

[hiding-under-the-willow]

Okay so things have mayhaps gotten immediately out of hand with this au.

But! Yippee!! Main hermit ghosts design lineup!!!

[jojaxcola]

"no one told me back then that i was in the glory days."

[ jojamart mockumentary #14 ]

[ prev || next ]

[cronchy-baguette]

'cause when i see me through your eyes

i love me, so don't leave my side

[hotdogmchiggin]

Company Mandated Fancy Fits on the Tulpar 😏

Also had to include the REAL star of the show (and a bonus)

Based off of this and this. Thank you very much joetastic for being inspirational 👍

The REAL reason this is late

[hinamie]

make it vicious, take a stab

[vanilla-extracter]

some ahnk moporkian bullshit (mostly moist and the truth)