#Something about how incredibly dramatic it is

[lizhly-writes]

for some reason, i felt like writing this. we are now talking about shang qinghua's master, the prior an ding peak lord.

It was commonly said that his master's engagement was extremely well-arranged. Indeed, the interactions between An Ding and Bai Zhan were the most harmonious out of any pair of peaks in the current generation.

As to why, their disciples had come up with a set of reasons. This set of reasons revolved around the idea that obviously this pair of honorable and dignified shixiong and shidi were fucking.

Did they treat each other as good friends? Brothers? Why consider those options at all when you could go for the much more dramatic route of star-crossed love, a beautifully-married couple who were forced to live apart (you know, on separate mountains) for the sake of duty? How romantic!

There were various stories going around just An Ding alone. They got even more absurd once they reached Bai Zhan. Shang Qinghua had been making a collection of them just so he could marvel at the creativity of it.

After all, Shizun and Shishu didn't seem to do much in public. They got along well, and favored each other, but certainly there was no candlelit dinner alone or courtship gifts being thrown around. Stumbling into a wife plot wasn't entirely out of the question -- Shang Qinghua really shouldn't have come up with this number of aphrodisiac plants, holy fuck -- but surely Shizun hadn't actually made a declaration of love to the Bai Zhan Peak Lord against the setting sun, flower petals blowing softly around his face as two crystalline tears dripped from his... stunning sea-blue orbs.

Shang Qinghua frankly had a hard time imagining Shizun could ever be so sentimental. If you didn't actually know him, he supposed it made a reasonable and pretty enough picture. Shizun, like all Peak Lords, was an incomparably beautiful and ageless cultivator. But somehow, even with perfect skin and a distinct lack of eyebags... he really gave off the aura of an ordinary old manager working 996.

Did Shizun fuck? Maybe! Logically, he must have! Possibly during his disciplehood! Again, Shizun was a beautiful and ageless cultivator, he must have had admirers! But in his heart, Shang Qinghua felt the answer was no. For some reason, the idea of it was weirdly discomfiting.

This was why he was incredibly surprised when, upon arriving back at Shizun's Leisure House with a tray of tea and tea snacks, he found the Bai Zhan Peak Lord there.

They weren't doing anything illicit. Shishu was standing next to Shizun at his desk. If the distance between them was a bit close -- if the Shishu's head was bent a little lower than necessary --

"Shizun," Shang Qinghua said, somehow feeling as if he had seen something he shouldn't have.

Shishu took a step back. Shang Qinghua also took a step back. Shizun did not take a step back, as he was still seated at his desk and scribbling something down.

"Qinghua is back," Shizun said, eventually looking up. He turned to Shishu. "Did you wish to stay for tea?"

"Unnecessary," Shishu said, and promptly said his goodbyes. If these goodbyes were a little fast --

Ah, well, whatever. "Did Shishu come to talk about something important?" Shang Qinghua said.

Shizun tilted his head at Shang Qinghua. He looked the same as he always did, which was, of course, very tired and very annoyed. Truly, Shizun had an unfortunate resting face. Shang Qinghua had learned to get vibes off of it, though, and the vibe he was getting today was -- okay, still tired, but also distinctly amused.

"Qinghua can see for himself," Shizun said, and tapped the paper he was writing on.

It was, as it turned out, an incredibly lurid story about Shizun and Shishu.

"Shizun???"

"The rumors going around are certainly interesting," Shizun said. He was still writing. On closer inspection, he was busily annotating it in red ink. Notes like "this didn't happen" and "combination of 5c and 18a from year of XX" and "is this based off our incident as disciples?"

What incident as disciples???

"Does Qinghua have any thoughts?"

"Shizun?????"

"On the rumors," Shizun clarified, as if that was the problem.

"I have a collection of over fifty stories," Shang Qinghua didn't say.

"This disciple wouldn't dare comment!" Shang Qinghua said.

"That is notably not the same as not having thoughts," Shizun said, and set his brush down, folding his hands neatly on his desk. "Does Qinghua believe the rumors are true?"

This was not a question Shang Qinghua felt like answering!

"Shizun has brown eyes!" Shang Qinghua blurted out.

"...Yes," Shizun said, eyebrows furrowing at this true non-answer.

Shang Qinghua tapped the line about Shizun weeping prettily with sea-blue orbs (who wrote this???). Shizun looked enlightened. "I see. And that is... the only part of this you believe isn't true?"

"Shizun is very close to Shishu," Shang Qinghua hedged. "This disciple wouldn't dare speculate!"

"Qinghua."

Shang Qinghua threw up his hands. "I don't know! What do you want to hear from me? Why are you asking me about your sex life? Are you fucking Shishu?"

There was a long pause. Shang Qinghua vaguely wondered if he was in trouble. Shizun liked him, but holy shit, not that much.

"Audacious," Shizun said, which, okay. Yeah. But! But!!! Sure, it wasn't a great thing to say, but ask shitty questions, get a shitty answer!

"That's not a no," Shang Qinghua said.

It was at this point that Shizun revealed an incredibly wry and incredibly rare smile. "This master," he said, "believes that Qinghua can figure out this matter for himself."

"What the fuck does that mean???" Shang Qinghua cried.

Shizun did not answer this. Instead, he saddled Shang Qinghua with another pile of paperwork.

[ancientwastedlores]

Homelander Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

I’m a Loki girl through and through, but a recent The Boys rewatch kinda got me obsessed with Homelander, so I thought I’d write a quick little angst fic based on the Somebody Else x My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” mashup (which I have been playing non-stop by the way. My boyfriend has accepted this new way of life.)

Huge thanks to @blindmagdalena for encouraging me to write this! 

I haven’t written fiction in a while, so I hope this is good! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Homelander Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

Oh, here we go again. 

You put on a plastic smile while he holds your wrist in a death grip behind your back. 

The cameras flash incessantly, almost making your eyes water - whether that’s from the ache throbbing in your arms or the flashes, you can’t tell anymore. 

"Homelander! Are you going to cameo in A-Train’s multiverse movie!?"

"Homelander, is there a universe where you are A-Train!?" 

Homelander laughs, flashing his sharp pearly whites. He exudes charisma as he raises his hands to stop the line of questions. 

"I guess you’ll just have to catch the movie next week, boys!" 

He pulls you closer to him. "For now, the missus and I have to make it Vought for the premiere!" 

With a flourish, he flips his cape like the showman he is and then holds you as he launches, leaving the reporters in the dust. 

You feel your tears trail behind you as he whisks you to the penthouse. Normally, New York looks bejeweled from this incredible height. Tiny dots of lights up and down the massive steel and glass buildings. At this height, life is erased. Humans are erased. It’s tall shapes and big shadows, like an unfinished rendering of a video game. 

You’ve always loved flying, but you suspect you’re in for a hard time once your feet touch the marble floors in the penthouse.

------------------------------------------------------------- 

Homelander stayed silent for hours after getting home. You decided to bake him some banana bread - his favorite - and whip up a good old-fashioned chocolate milkshake. The scent of it usually makes him forget whatever he was angry about, but it doesn"t seem to be working right now. 

He paces the room, his rich red cape trailing behind him in the most dramatic way. Homelander has his theatric tendencies, and you have learned to indulge them. 

Even when the cost is high. 

"What’s wrong?" you ask despite your better judgment. 

"What could possibly be wrong? You’re the Jackie Kennedy to my John Kennedy. What could be wrong about that?" he snaps. 

"John…" 

"Why you?" he asks. "Why you and not me?" 

"Me BECAUSE of you, John; they wouldn’t care about me if I weren’t dating you!" 

He heaves, his eyes red without the aid of a laser. His chest rises and falls as his brain scrambles for a response. He is angry; no, he wants to be angry. He just wants something to rage about. 

He isn’t actually angry that the reporters swarmed the two of you and bombarded you with a hundred questions before paying attention to him. After all, the questions were about him. What’s he like as a boyfriend? What’s the cutest thing he’s done for you? Have you ever worn the cape? Would you ever be in a movie with him? 

No, there"s something else. You’ve given up trying to dig deep and find meaning in his outbursts because, more often than not, you get it wrong. Some obscure random thing might have happened 5 minutes or 5 years ago and he seethes about it before calming down. 

This is life now. 

"Are you actually mad at me?" you ask. "I won’t leave this penthouse if you don’t want me to." 

He laughs - a sarcastic, painful one. You’re all too used to this. 

Homelander looks you up and down as if scanning you. Assessing you. As if asking himself what you mean for his approval points and how you look on his arm. 

You are by no means perfect, but Homelander loved that about you. He never lied that you were the hottest one he’d been with or even the most intelligent. But he loved that you loved him. He loved that you forgave his outbursts and allowed him space to throw a tantrum or brood silently. 

He loved that you were patient with him, which is more than anybody had ever been with him. But he often tested that, too. 

"You know what, I think I'll do this premiere alone. I wouldn’t want you to feel out of place in such a big crowd." 

That stings. You’ve never been a showman or particularly extroverted, but you wanted to try. For him. And you thought you were getting pretty good at it, too. 

But you nod. There’s no use in arguing. 

Clearly, though, he isn’t done. "I mean, I know you hate putting yourself out there, and you end up a nervous wreck after these events. I don’t want to spend the night taking care of you." 

"Sure. I understand." 

Somehow, your neutral, bland response does not anger him. For some funny reason, it relieves him that he doesn't have to fight with you to get what he wants. 

He turns on his heel and exits the house without another word. 

------------------------------------------------------------- 

You exit the shower and spot the dress you were going to wear for the premiere. In typical Homelander fashion, he wanted you to match his colors rather than A-Train's colors. This was A-Train's night, but he'd be damned if you wore anyone else's aesthetic on your body. 

It’s a red-white-and-blue dress with a dramatic, asymmetrical neckline and fitted bodice with sparkling red and blue sequins transitioning into a voluminous, flowing skirt. Homelander picked it and got it tailored just for you. He knew the parts you were insecure about and made the designer alter the dress to ensure you felt your best. The poofy ball gown style skirt hid your ass, which you didn’t like the shape of. The neckline softened your broad shoulders, which you always felt made you look too masculine. But Homelander made sure the neckline didn’t hide your neck and collarbones, which you loved. 

You touch the rich satin fabric, your heart aching. You were so excited to show this dress off, hanging on to his arm as he flashed his charming, boyish smile. You consider wearing it, even if it's just to clean the kitchen, but decide against it. It would hurt too much. 

You put on a clean pair of sweats and potter to the kitchen. Pouring yourself a glass of wine, you decide to just watch the live broadcast of the premiere and make do with that. 

Three hours pass - you’re asleep on the couch at this point with the TV still running. The premiere ended, and now the channel is playing clips of all mentions of the multiverse in all the past movies. You’d watch if you weren"t so emotionally exhausted. 

A click of the front door wakes you, and through blurry eyesight, you see a smudge of red-and-blue enter. You prop yourself up and rub your eyes sleepily. 

"Hey." 

He sounds like he’s in a jolly mood. 

"Hey," you say back. "How was the premiere?"

"I missed you…" he says, voice dripping with sincerity. 

"I missed you too…" you bring your arms up as if inviting him to cuddle. 

You know he had a miserable time without you. He fucks things up for himself and comes back like a baby in need of consolation. 

Sure enough, he makes his way to the couch, where you’ve created a little nest of fluffy pillows and blankets, and practically falls onto you. You wrap your arms around him as tightly as you can while he buries his nose in your neck. 

"So. Is the movie every bit as terrible as you thought?" you ask, knowing he’s in the mood to shit-talk A-Train. 

"Worse," his voice comes muffled. "Terrible. Horrible. Garbage." 

You laugh and push him lightly so you can have an audible conversation. "Tell me about it." 

"It baffles me the bullshit Vought comes up with. So pointless and bland and unnecessary. And A-Train was eating it right up. Lapping up every last bit of praise like a fucking dog."

"A-Train looked lost in the spotlight. He cannot handle it like you do," you say. "Nobody does." 

A giddy smile crosses Homelander’s face. You pinch his cheeks lightly and then run your fingers through his perfect blonde hair. "Do you want to watch something half-decent and doze off on the couch?" you ask. 

"No… I want you to put that dress on so I can fly us to dinner."

You look at him, your heart twisting painfully in your chest. His boyish grin is disarming, softening your resolve just like it always does. You want to say no. You want to tell him you’re too tired, that the emotional whiplash of his moods has wrung you out like an old sponge. 

But you know that’s not what he wants to hear.

You force a smile instead. "Sure.”

You stand, your legs unsteady, as you head to the bedroom to slip on the dress. It feels heavier now than when you first tried it on. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks. 

You catch your reflection in the mirror. The dress is stunning—perfect, even. He had it made for you, tailored to his vision of you. But when you look at yourself, you see the hollow shell of the person you used to be. You see someone who bends and folds and breaks under the weight of his love.

You hear him calling from the living room, impatient. "You ready yet? You’re gonna knock 'em dead."

You close your eyes, gripping the edge of the dresser until your knuckles turn white. No, you cannot leave him. He needs you, and he doesn"t mean to be mean. He’s trying to make up for it, isn’t he? Stop being such a sensitive, emotional baby. Get the fuck out there and let him show you how sorry he is.

You enter the living room, the satin catching the light and making you look almost ethereal. Homelander is stunned by his own creation. 

"Gorgeous. Fucking perfect." 

You smile and do a little twirl, feeling like the most beautiful girl in the world. 

He rises from the couch, his cape draped dramatically over one shoulder, and strides toward you like a man who owns the world because he does. "You’re my queen. The only one who can keep up with me."

Yes, but do you want to? Or do you want to slow down a bit? Savor the small moments and not spend your life waiting for the next attack? 

You can do nothing but kiss him. He pulls you close by the waist and almost devours you in his frenzy. Waves of emotions crash over you, voices urging you to both switch off your brain and get far away from the broken man. 

How much more of this can you take? He will make it his mission to find out.

He pulls away and flashes his pearly whites. "Ready to lift off?" 

"Abso-fucking-lutely" you smile back. 

------------------------------------------------------------- 

The restaurant is one of the most exclusive in New York—floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook the city, tables spaced far apart to ensure privacy, and a waitstaff so attentive it’s almost suffocating. Homelander loves it here. Not because of the food, though it’s excellent, but because everyone here knows who he is. They don’t gawk or ask for autographs, but you can feel their reverence in every stolen glance, every hushed whisper. He thrives on it.

You sit across from him, the candlelight bouncing off the sequins of your dress. He's been in an unusually good mood since you arrived, and for a moment, you let yourself believe tonight might actually be different. He's been complimenting you all night, his eyes lingering on yours in a way that makes you feel like you're the only person in the world.

“See?” he says, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. “I knew this dress was the one. Look at them.” He gestures subtly to the other diners, some of whom are clearly trying not to stare. “They’re jealous. You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”

You smile faintly, murmuring a soft “thank you” as you sip your wine. It’s moments like this that make staying feel worth it. But then, as always, the warmth starts to curdle.

The turning point is subtle. It always is. He starts picking at his food, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. You can tell something’s shifted. You don’t know what triggered it this time—maybe it was the waiter who smiled a little too warmly at you or the couple at the next table who didn"t acknowledge him quickly enough.

“Do you think they’re staring at me or you?” he asks suddenly, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

You blink, taken aback. “What?”

“I mean, they’re obviously looking at me,” he continues, his voice low and dangerous. “But you’re the one soaking it up, aren"t you? Sitting there like some fucking… princess.”

The words hit like a slap. “John, what are you talking about?”

He leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “You love this, don’t you? The attention. The glamour. The fucking dress. You think it’s all for you.”

“Of course, I don’t,” you say quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I came here because you wanted to. I’m here for you.”

“For me,” he repeats mockingly, his lips curling into a sneer. “That’s rich. You think I don’t see the way you look at them? Like you’re just waiting for someone better to come along. Someone who doesn"t scare you.”

“That"s not true,” you whisper, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears. You glance around nervously, hoping no one is listening. Of course, they are. Even if they can’t hear the words, they can feel the tension radiating off him like a live wire.

Somewhere, you blame yourself for enabling this behavior. Your timidness… your eagerness to please… your avoidance of conflict… it feeds him. If it were Starlight or Stormfront or anybody else, they would stand up to him and draw a boundary. And that’s what he needs - not a timid, sniveling fool who would bend over backward to play into his fantasies. 

He laughs bitterly, almost as if he agrees with your thoughts, and leans back in his chair. “You know what"s funny? You’re so scared of me, but you’re the real monster here. You just sit there, pretending to be this sweet, innocent thing, and you judge me for every little fucking thing I do or say.”

“I don’t judge you,” you protest weakly, your hands trembling in your lap. “I—”

“Save it,” he snaps, his voice rising just enough to make heads turn. “You’re just like everyone else. You love me when I’m the hero, but the second I let my guard down, you look at me like I’m some kind of freak.”

“John, please,” you beg, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can we not do this here?”

“Why not?” he says, his smile cold and cruel. “You embarrassed me at the premiere, didn’t you? Couldn’t even be bothered to show up. Do you know how pathetic that made me look?”

“I was just respecting what you asked of me. And I thought you said you missed me,” you say softly, tears stinging your eyes. 

“Yeah, well,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “What do I know, right?.”

The rest of the dinner passes in a blur. He doesn"t apologize. He doesn"t even look at you. You pick at your food, your appetite long gone, and force yourself to smile when the waiter comes by to clear the plates. You feel like you’re suffocating, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest like a boulder.

When the bill comes, he doesn"t even glance at it. He tosses his card onto the table and leans back in his chair, looking more like a king about to call for an execution. 

“Ready to go?” he asks casually, as if nothing happened.

You nod, your face carefully blank. “Of course.”

------------------------------------------------------------- 

He flies you back to the penthouse in silence. The city lights blur beneath you, but you barely notice. Your mind is racing, your heart pounding. You know what you have to do. You’ve known for a while now, but tonight was the final straw.

When you land, he kisses your cheek and tells you he’s going to shower. “Don’t wait up,” he says with a wink, and then he disappears down the hall.

You wait until you hear the water running before you move. You slip out of the dress and back into your sweats, your hands trembling as you pack a small bag with just the essentials. You don’t know where you’re going yet—maybe a hotel, maybe a friend"s place—but you know you can’t stay here.

As you zip up the bag, you glance around the penthouse one last time. It feels empty, like a stage set after the actors have gone home. You think of all the times you convinced yourself this was enough. That he was enough. That you could fix him if you just loved him hard enough. And he would love once you fixed whatever was wrong with you. 

But you can’t. You know that now. He needs someone stronger. 

Braver. 

You leave the dress draped over the back of the couch, a silent goodbye. Then you slip out the door, the sound of the water still echoing in the distance.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t look back.

------------------------------------------------------------- 

It happens on the fourth night. 

You"re staying at a hotel under an alias, the type of place he wouldn"t normally stoop to visiting. You"ve been trying to keep your head down, trying to breathe for the first time in what feels like years. But deep down, you knew it wouldn"t last.

When the knock comes at the door—sharp, insistent—you freeze. Your heart hammers in your chest. You don’t have to check; you already know it’s him. You’ve been bracing for this moment since the night you left. And honestly, he took longer than you expected. 

Still, when you open the door and see him standing there, you’re not prepared. He looks almost unhinged, his hair slightly mussed, his eyes blazing with something between fury and heartbreak. His red cape is gone, but the suit clings to him like a second skin. 

“I found you,” he says, his voice soft, almost tender, but there’s a dangerous edge underneath it. “Of course I did.”

You step back instinctively, your hands gripping the edge of the door. “How did you—”

“Don’t.” He pushes the door open with ease, stepping inside like he owns the place. “Don’t ask me stupid questions. You really thought you could hide from me? Me?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Come on, sweetheart. Give me more credit than that.”

“John…” you start, but he cuts you off, pacing the room like a caged animal.

“You left,” he says, his voice rising. “You just walked out. No note, no call, nothing. Do you know what that did to me? Do you have any idea?”

Your chest tightens. “I needed to.”

“Bullshit.” He spins to face you, his expression twisting with anger. “You didn"t need to do anything. You chose this. You chose to hurt me. After I rescued you from a pitiful existence and made something of you. Little Y/N wanted to be a writer but had no time. I rescued you from your shabby little apartment and gave you everything. Time. Money. Luxury. And this is what I get.” 

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” you say quietly, but your words only seem to inflame him further.

“No?” He stalks closer, his voice dripping with venom. “Then what do you call this? Running off in the middle of the night like a fucking coward? Hiding in some fucking run-down rat-shit hotel like you’re afraid of me?”

“I AM afraid of you,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. His face freezes, a flicker of something almost like pain crossing his features before the anger returns.

“You’re afraid of me?” he repeats, his tone incredulous. “I’ve protected you. I’ve given you everything. Everything you asked and didn’t ask for. You sound so fucking ungrateful. I loved you.” 

The words hit like a slap. You take a step back, shaking your head. “That's not love, John. That's control.”

“Don’t,” he snarls, his voice trembling with fury. “Don’t you fucking psychoanalyze me right now. I loved you. I still love you. And you—” he can’t stop his maniacal laughter. He wags his finger at you. “You!” 

Tears well in your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. “I just think this isn’t meant to be.”

“Oh, you’re a fortune teller now?”

“John…” 

“Such a fucking saint, aren't you, saving us all from unhappiness. Or…” he smiles. A dangerous smile. “There’s someone else!”

The question knocks the breath out of you. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, his voice low and deadly. “There’s someone else, isn’t there? Is that why you left? Did you find someone who makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside? Someone who doesn"t scare you?”

“No,” you say, your voice breaking. “There’s no one else.”

“Then why?” he demands, his voice rising again. “Why did you leave me? Why did you—”

“Because it’s not love!” you scream. The first real, raw emotion you allow yourself to feel in forever. 

Homelander almost looks proud of you for it. 

“You keep being cruel to me. You keep saying horrible things, and I get it; I'm not intelligent or gorgeous or fucking V'd up like your other girlfriends, but GOD. Why are you with me if you hate me so much?” 

For the first time, you see Homelander shocked. “What? I don’t… I don’t hate you; what the fuck are you talking about?” 

You laugh in resignation and wipe your tears with the neck of your sweater. “Homelander, I’m not the one for you. I’m done.”

“You’re done? YOU are leaving ME?” 

He stares at you, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is deafening. He’s confused that you think he hates you and cannot fathom why you would believe that. He gave you everything. In what universe is that hate? 

“I gave you everything,” he says, more to convince himself now, his voice raw. “I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Part of you wants to desperately say you want to be back together when things are better. When you are stronger, and he is kinder. You want to believe that once you fix you, he will miss you. He will return and be so much nicer. Softer. 

But you know that time may never come. 

Just at this moment, Homelander wishes his powers had allowed him to read minds, too. Your face inscrutable, he has nothing to latch on to. He looks at you like you’ve just plunged a knife into his chest. For a moment, you think he might lash out, that he might destroy the entire block in a fit of rage. 

But instead, he takes a step back, his expression crumbling.

“You’ll regret this,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll miss me. You’ll see.”

You nod, tears streaming down your face. “Maybe I will.”

He stands there for a moment longer, his fists clenching and unclenching, his jaw tight. Then, without another word, he turns and leaves, the door slamming shut behind him.

You collapse onto the bed, your entire body shaking. The weight of the confrontation crashes over you. Hot tears finally gush out as you clutch your pillow and sob quietly, knowing Homelander can still hear you. 

This isn’t over. Not yet. He will forever stalk the edges of your life, watching. Waiting for you to need him. 

You know Homelander well enough to know he doesn't let go of his toys without a fight.

------------------------------------------------------------- 

[thecolorblockcurator]

I’ve been thinking about a few things lately

And it seems like we’re at the precipice of another dark age. Dark ages are typically when education, reading, writing, scientific progress are lost

And by precipice I mean, it could go either way. Historically the rise of fascism has lead to incredible powerful art movements - as well as aggressive censorship

Now I don’t think it’s so dramatic that everything will be lost, collapse of a civilization -only ruins will be left kind of thing. We’re in a completely different age with more visibility and information than ever before

But I do think this time it’s a shift from reading and art to content that has been happening over the years & with generative AI it’s only pushing it further.

What got me thinking about it was- I just read about a new publishing company that is only selling AI generated books & plans to publish and flood the market with 8000 new ai generated books next year.

There is power in art. Art is transformative, political, it teaches us to be curious, to think creatively, to see things from different perspectives. Making art of any kind helps us from everything to processing trauma, to expressing our voice, to creating communities.

Content passes the time, it grabs our attention. It fills the room with noise. And it keeps people distracted. It keeps people in a passive yet heightened state.

And the second thing I’ve been thinking about is feudalism. The economic / political system that was around in the last dark age in Europe.

Now what I studied in my history program was more of the rise of industrialization & colonialism so I’m not as strong with my background in feudalism and I want to fully understand it before I completely form this idea

But, I’ve seen others write about this too and I think they’re onto something- it seems like we’ve breached late stage capitalism to some new type of feudalism. And I think that has some validity

Whether it’s related to the tech industry or corporate real estate. Or some combination of the two. I can see how this could be a type of feudalism. The effects are the same in terms the distribution of power, wealth, labor, ownership, as well as the cultural factors of approved art what art is allowed to be made and visible or in our case, consumed.

In regards to art- I can see how content, noise, trends are more valuable to a new type of feudalism than art. And how they both lend themselves to create a new type of dark age

So what does that mean? What should we do?

Create art. Write stories, poetry, zines, paintings, collages. Wrestle with ideas. Learn about new things that are confusing and difficult to understand at first. Carve out time for silence, so you can actually think without 3 different types of media all playing at once.

I think we have to actively fight this. And trust me I get sucked into instagram and tumblr more than I want to be.

And for me I know what I’m fighting is- it’s gotten to this point where it feels like by not being engaged in content I’m not being productive. That sitting in silence to let myself wrestle with ideas for a bit is somehow wasting time. - Which of course it’s not.

[bunnysnuff]

Being Galinda’s girlfriend headcannons:

Pairing: Galinda Upland x f!reader.

Trigger warnings: none.

You’re Her Biggest Supporter: Galinda (or Glinda, depending on how you like to spell it) is a force of nature, and she’s constantly seeking validation and admiration from others. But when you're together, you're the one person who she can truly lean on for reassurance. You offer her genuine support without all the sparkle and glam that she’s used to from others, which means more to her than she'd admit.

Endless Sparkle, with a Twist: Galinda loves her glitz and glam, but when she's with you, she’s willing to leave the ballgowns behind for cozy nights in—well, at least as cozy as she can get. She insists on giving you "the full Glinda treatment" with spa days, facials, and candlelit baths (probably scented with something extravagant like lavender-sweet vanilla). She’s always the one to make you feel like you're royalty, even if it’s just a lazy afternoon.

Teasing and Playful Banter: There’s a lot of light-hearted teasing in your relationship. She’ll probably poke fun at you for being "so serious" or "not understanding the importance of a good hair flip," but it’s all in good fun. You love to tease her back, calling out her overly dramatic tendencies, which she pretends to be offended by—until she bursts into giggles.

She Keeps You on Your Toes: Galinda’s known for her love of making everything a little more dramatic than it needs to be. If you're in a public situation where there's a little bit of tension, she'll probably look at you with an exaggerated "save me" expression, which is both hilarious and endearing. You’re her safe person, and she knows you’ll always keep her grounded.

You’re the Yin to Her Yang: While Galinda can be a bit self-centered and bubbly, you balance her out. You might be more introverted, calm, or serious, and that contrast creates a dynamic where you complement each other perfectly. You challenge her to think deeper and act with more humility, while she teaches you to lighten up and take life with a pinch of glitter.

The Best Date Nights: Your dates could be a mix of extravagant affairs and the simplest moments. You might attend a big gala, or you might have a quiet evening where she reads to you from one of her fashion magazines while you doze off in her arms. She loves to spoil you, but she also treasures the moments where it’s just the two of you, without all the flashing lights of the world.

She’s Protective in Her Own Way: Galinda may not always show it, but she gets fiercely protective of you. If someone is rude to you or you’re facing a challenge, she’s the first one ready to defend you with a mix of fiery charm and persuasive words. While she doesn’t have the same boldness as Elphaba, Galinda will use her wit, charm, and status to make sure you're treated well.

She Has a Soft Side: Deep down, Galinda has a heart of gold. She may act superficial at times, but she’s incredibly thoughtful and has an emotional side that only comes out when she’s with you. She might surprise you with little gifts, handwritten notes, or her favorite flower because she knows it’ll make you smile. She also has a bit of a “soft and vulnerable” side that she only lets you see.

Sharing in Her Growth: As much as Galinda is known for her glamorous persona, she’s also a character with depth. Throughout the relationship, you get to see her evolve from someone obsessed with popularity to someone who’s genuinely concerned about justice and what’s right. You’re there to witness her growth, whether it's her finding her own voice or standing up for what she believes in.

You Have Her Heart: Galinda is a romantic at heart, and though she often expresses it in dramatic ways, you know she’s incredibly devoted to you. When she says she loves you, it's not just the words; it’s the look in her eyes, the soft touches, and the way she always wants to make sure you feel adored. It’s clear you’re her one true love, and she’s in it for the long haul.

[saessenach]

it's time to get exceedingly emotional about the Sundering Seas theme on company time YET AGAIN.

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

can someone please banish this writer's block for me 😫

it's the worst i've had in such a long time and i've tried to be patient with it but it's been fucking weeks now. i want to write so much but whenever i try they just feel like words on a page. every evening i sit down and rearrange them a little here and there and add some new ones, but they all just feel empty and and shit and my brain feels totally devoid of the creative spark i need to make everything come to life.

i know in large part it's my perfectionism getting in the way, but i don't know how to break through it. i don't know how to feel connected to my writing again. i don't know how to shift this fear of not being good enough that surges up every time i pick up a pen.

it's something that's always been there - but usually it at least comes in waves, or my love of what i'm creating is big enough to muffle it. right now, it's all i can hear. my inspiration has been totally drowned out by it. and i hate it so, so much. the fact that i can't access the one thing that brings me the kind of solace and joy and escapism i can't get anywhere else and is so vital to my soul. that i am blocking myself from engaging in the one thing that makes me feel like me.

i just feel so stuck and so lost and i miss being in that creative headspace so much it’s like a physical pain. it feels like part of me is missing, and it terrifies me that i don't know how to get it back.

[dyketennant]

oh i can already tell i’m about to have some really unpopular opinions about the edge of sleep tv show

[jinstronaut]

this is also why i stopped using my tracked tag for a while tbh

[ravenwolfie97]

is it a controversial opinion to have that abridged series can actually be a work of art in and of themselves

[ziracona]

Iirc Griffin did something similar in Amnesty, when Aubrey succeeded on a roll that should've saved another character's life, but it didn't work and I don't think they ever explained why

Yeah!! And in Amnesty, Ned used a point of LUCK. To get a 12. That in MOTW is a guaranteed success. You do not take harm in Protect Someone if you use luck. Also, a fucking shotgun does not DO 7 points of harm anyway. It’s 3. And he fucking KILLED him. Never forgiving Griffin for that one >.>

[executiveibex]

yes it is mildly upsetting where Echo is, mentally speaking, at the end of "The Siege of the Lineage Brighton"........ but it really, truly delights me when players consciously, and with great zest and love for the story they're telling, choose to have their characters make incredibly in-character decisions that are just the worst.

[noxtivagus]

ffxiv really influenced my writing huh

[team-frightfur]

👻

The blues lean towards green (which is not found in natural lighting and therefore slightly less comforting) and flanked by brownish yellows in the brick and walls (which adds a gross, grungy, and waste-y feel. It reminds one of dirt and filth)

Oh, and Yamibaku also has GREAT anatomy. The slightly too long neck and arms, the claw hands, the wide eyes that are just barely peeking out, the stiff upper body that has twisted unstable legs -it all comes together into a really uncanny 'not right' sense. He looks almost like a hanged man. It's perfect, really works well as a homage/original piece. Baku's realistic anatomy also fits in perfectly with a teen/prestige horror flick.

Then, the PSA adds the perfect finishing touch. You have to read it so the horror of the implication dawns on you slowly like a horror movie. It has a very creepy feeling (in the sense that understanding creeps up).

And then, at long last, you do it. You connect the reversed text of the safety psa with the reversed text of the exit sign and the true horror hits you. Tix, tickets, the indecision of what to do with your dream tickets, the inevitable expiration of dream tickets, the absolute despair. Truly, only a ygo player could depict this fear and, obviously, only a yugioh player could appreciate it.

Bravo. I never wanna look at a main box again.

Oh, and this pic tastes like cockroaches.

:)

[dovedrangeas]

i don’t know why I’m writing this. but there’s something on my mind that’s making me ache.

i don’t know how to cope with the fact that i no longer have a spark for snow au. i don’t know how to handle it. it was so deeply intertwined with who i was and all my thoughts and emotions, but now… i don’t feel any of that anymore. it’s not that i don’t like it anymore, or that i’m not proud of the work i did, it just feels… oddly distant.

maybe it’s because snow au as a concept and a project is so inherently connected to a specific part of my life, a part that i’m just no longer in. It’s connected to a hope and experience that i just. Don’t have anymore. i’ve gotten sicker, i had to move back in with my parents, i’ve recovered from some of the grief that motivated me. and i just have no desire to keep working on it, because i feel like i failed that part of my life anyway, so now the project that i was so proud of is just a reminder that i fucked it all up and i’m back to square one.

and like, it’s not that deep, right? at the end of the day, it’s a stupid dramatic fanfic about block game roleplay and magic and angst. it’s not that important. but it was so important to me for so long, and no longer having that drive is just. it feels wrong.

and i’m still writing dsmp fic! I still enjoy doing it! it’s still one of my biggest interests! but snow au no longer holds that importance and i don’t know to cope with the fact that i might never work on it again and i feel so empty inside about it.

it's been almost 4 years. and i don't know what i'm supposed to do.

[phantomdimension]

... Can you only have 30 tags on a post. Hm.

[hauntingblue]

So the devil fruits really do grow on trees....