#paradox live rage

[jumpscaregoose]

lyssavirus

[deargravity]

[jalapenobee]

ONE YEAR KENTAREO ANNIVERSARY EVERYONE (two people) CHEERED!!!

[coffeepageplanter]

My love,

You ask "where do I go with all this rage?"

And I say, you come to me. You come home.

Because I see it, every wave of fire in you,

and still I see the ocean beneath in you vast, deep, healing.

Remember the story I once told you of the saint who kept saving the scorpion, even as it stung him again and again. When asked why, he said "Stinging is its nature, but saving is mine."

And you, my love,

you are the saint.

Gentleness is not your defeat, it is your defiance.

Softness is not your weakness, it is your sword.

Its you who taught me once that

Be yourself in a world that demanded otherwise.

So rage if you must.

Cry, scream, write, burn, breathe.

But know that your power lies not in losing yourself to the world —

but in remaining YOU despite it.

Be patient, love.

You are not lost. You are light,

and the good will find its way back to you.

I’ll remind you every time you forget.

Because this is us. This is home.

Where do I go with all this rage?

They hurt me and still expect my kindness and empathy,

while I carry the wounds they gave.

Where do I put this hate?

What do I do with all these questions in my head?

How do I stay soft in a world that’s so cruel?

I don’t want to be this angry.

I want peace but not the kind that silences me.

I want peace that feels free.

So I ask again

where do I go with all this rage?

[kathaelipwse]

Written in the Pages || C.San

Pairing: Choi San × You (F!Reader)

Trope: Hidden Identity | Slow Burn | Actor!Idol!San x Writer!Reader | Fate & Coincidence Warnings: Slight Angst | Pining | Public Speculation | Idol Life Struggles | Teasing | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE | Rushed writing | Mention of existing companies & brands | ONLY A WORK OF FICTION

Word Count: 4008 words ; Reading time: 15-ish mins

Synopsis: You never expected your novel to take over the world—or for readers to realize that your male lead looked exactly like Choi San. The internet was on fire, and when Netflix proposed a live adaptation, you jokingly suggested his name. Except he agreed. Now, standing across from him on set, lines blurring between fiction and reality, you can’t help but wonder—was your love story already written in the pages?

Author’s Note: This idea spiraled out of control, and I regret nothing! 🖤 A mix of tension, slow-burn romance, and the classic “Are we acting, or is this real?” trope. Hope you love the chaos as much as I do! Request's are open!!

The world knew you as Y/N, a name whispered in hushed tones everywhere midst the readers who loved a fusion of dark and fluff romance, a dark promise on the lips of those who dared to delve into the depths of your narratives.

Your novels, especially "Shattered Heart," were not mere romances; they were intricate labyrinths of the human psyche, meticulously crafted explorations into the darkest corners where love bloomed amidst decay and obsession. Readers were ensnared, captivated by the twisted dance of Ravenna Skye and Lee Renji , their story a haunting melody of desire and destruction, a symphony of obsession played on the strings of broken hearts.

Ravenna, a woman sculpted from sharp edges and hidden scars, a survivor with eyes that held the ghosts of past traumas, captivated them. She was a paradox, both fragile and formidable, a woman who demanded submission and offered a dangerous kind of salvation, a siren luring them into the depths of a twisted devotion.

Renji, the predator cloaked in charm, a man whose love was a suffocating embrace, a possessive force that promised both ecstasy and ruin, became an obsession, a dark idol worshipped in the shadows of the internet. His description, however, was where the unease began to fester, a creeping dread that seeped into the collective consciousness.

Broad shoulders that hinted at a capacity for violence, a subtle tension that promised a storm, a devastatingly charming smile that masked predatory intent, a calculated allure that ensnared the unwary, sharp yet haunting features that held unspoken threats, a silent promise of pain. And hands… hands that could both caress and crush, leaving marks that were both tender and brutal, a physical manifestation of his dual nature.

"He's him," a post on a hidden forum whispered, a digital echo in the darkness, a chilling revelation that spread like a virus, followed by a meticulously compiled, chillingly detailed comparison of Renji's physical and psychological traits to those of Choi San, the idol whose public persona was a carefully curated mask, a facade that hid something far more complex, far more dangerous, a hidden darkness that resonated with the shadows within Renji.

Screenshots of San's piercing gaze, a look that seemed to penetrate the soul, were juxtaposed with passages from "Shattered Heart," highlighting Renji's possessive tendencies, the subtle manipulation, the psychological games, and the undercurrent of barely restrained rage, the silent promise of violence beneath the veneer of charm.

"Did she know?" the question slithered through the online shadows, a venomous serpent seeking its prey, a chilling accusation that hung in the digital air. "Is this a confession, a warning, or a twisted game of control, a psychological experiment played out on the public stage?"

The online world, usually a place of playful speculation, was now steeped in a chilling unease, a pervasive sense of dread that permeated every forum, every comment section. They dissected every word, every nuance, searching for hidden meanings in the darkness of your prose, seeking the truth behind the carefully crafted fiction.

The speculation escalated, reaching a fever pitch, a crescendo of online anxiety, when you, the enigmatic author, finally emerged from your self-imposed exile for an interview. The world watched, drawn in by your unsettling beauty, a fragile, yet strong with eyes that held the weight of untold secrets, a haunted allure that mirrored Ravenna's own, a dark elegance that hinted at a hidden strength, and a knowledge that seemed to transcend the ordinary, a silent understanding of the darkness that lurked within the human heart.

"Renji is a fiction," you stated, your voice a low, melodic whisper, a silken thread of sound that held a chilling undercurrent, a subtle tremor that hinted at hidden depths, yet a flicker of something dark and knowing in your eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the shadows that lurked beneath the surface, a recognition of the primal desires that fueled both love and obsession. "He is a reflection of the shadows that reside within us all, the desires we dare not speak, the darkness we try to deny, the monsters we keep chained within our souls."

But the universe, it seemed, had a taste for the macabre, a perverse fascination with the twisted narratives you wove, a dark curiosity that mirrored the obsession of your readers. TikTok became a breeding ground for fan edits, each one a disturbing exploration of Renji's obsession, a visual representation of the psychological torment, the subtle manipulation, and San's potential for darkness, a chilling reminder of the thin line between adoration and obsession, a stark warning of the dangers that lurked beneath the surface of idealized love.

Livestreams were invaded by comments, their tone shifting from curiosity to dread, a growing sense of fear that the fictional world was bleeding into reality, that the darkness you crafted was seeping into their own. Even San's broadcasts were not immune, the playful banter replaced by an unsettling silence, a palpable tension that hung in the air.

He read a particularly unsettling comment aloud, his playful facade cracking, revealing a flicker of unease, a glimpse of the fear that was slowly consuming him. "San, you are Renji."

He scrolled through the images, his amusement turning to a cold unease, a creeping dread that settled in his bones, a chilling awareness of the darkness that lurked within the carefully constructed persona. He recognized the details, the subtle hints of darkness, the almost predatory intensity, the unsettling familiarity of Renji's possessiveness which he could possibly inact if needed.

A sense of dread washed over him, a feeling that Renji wasn't just a character, but a dark reflection of something within himself, a hidden darkness that he had never dared to acknowledge, a primal instinct that resonated with the twisted desires of the fictional character. The seed of doubt, planted by a thousand online whispers, began to bloom into a chilling realization, a terrifying echo of fear, a dark understanding that the line between fiction and reality was blurring, and that he was standing on the precipice of something dangerous.

The digital tremors from the online earthquake, a seismic shift in the perception of your work, had barely subsided when the call came. Netflix, drawn by the raw, visceral energy of "Shattered Heart," wanted to adapt it into a live-action series. A global project, they called it, promising to bring the dark romance to life with unflinching intensity, to translate the shadows you'd painted onto the screen. The news, usually a cause for celebration, hung heavy in the air, a dark promise of what was to come, a premonition of the chaos you were about to unleash.

During the initial casting discussions, amidst the hushed tones and the careful consideration of actors, a question was posed, a loaded inquiry that carried the weight of unspoken expectations: "Do you have anyone in mind for Renji?"

The name slipped from your lips, unbidden, a dark echo of the online whispers, a dangerous gamble that felt both reckless and inevitable: "Choi San."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unspoken questions, disbelief, and a flicker of something akin to fear. San, the idol, the performer, the man whose face had become synonymous with Renji’s darkness, whose public persona was a carefully crafted enigma. It was a bold, almost reckless suggestion, a gamble that could shatter everything, or ignite a firestorm of obsession.

The news exploded, a digital wildfire that consumed the internet, spreading through forums and social media like a plague. Fan theories, already fervent, reached a fever pitch, spiraling into darker territories. The possibility of San embodying Renji, the predator, the obsessive lover, was both thrilling and terrifying, a dangerous dance on the edge of obsession, a blurred line between fantasy and reality.

You had expected a refusal. A polite, diplomatic decline. After all, he was a K-pop idol, not an actor. The role of Renji demanded a level of emotional complexity, a willingness to delve into the darkest corners of the human psyche, to explore the shadows of obsession and control, that seemed far removed from the polished perfection of idol life. You had imagined a carefully worded statement from his agency, citing scheduling conflicts or creative differences.

Instead, a meeting was scheduled. You found yourself face-to-face with him, in a sterile conference room, the tension palpable, a silent battleground where unspoken desires and hidden fears collided. And goddamn, the internet was right. He fit the role like a glove. The captivating charm, the underlying intensity, the almost predatory gaze—it was all there, a chilling echo of Renji, a reflection of the darkness you had conjured. Cute yet lethal, charming yet mysterious, an effortless embodiment of the shadows you had written, a dangerous mirror of your creation.

"I won't be playing Ravenna," you declared, your voice steady, though a tremor ran through you, a subtle vibration of unease that betrayed your carefully constructed composure. "I'm not an actress." The thought of stepping into Ravenna’s shoes, of embodying her pain, her resilience, her dangerous allure, was a daunting, almost terrifying prospect, a leap into the abyss of your own creation.

San leaned forward, his eyes locking with yours, a smirk playing on his lips, a playful yet dangerous glint in his gaze that sent a shiver down your spine. "Then who will? The fans won't settle for anyone else. They see you as Ravenna. They see us," he emphasized the "us," a subtle provocation, a dangerous acknowledgment of the connection the fans perceived. "They've already written the script in their heads, haven't they? They see the sparks."

You sighed, the weight of the situation pressing down on you, the pressure from the fans and the intensity of his gaze. "I've never acted. It'll take too many retakes—I'll just waste everyone's time. You’re a professional. I’d just slow everything down." The vulnerability you rarely showed, the fear of inadequacy, crept into your voice, a crack in your carefully constructed facade.

"Then learn," he shrugged, his gaze unwavering, intense, a silent challenge that dared you to step into the darkness. "Life is about learning, isn't it? About facing the darkness, about embracing the shadows."

There was something in the way he said it, a dark resonance that hinted at a shared understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface, a dangerous curiosity that mirrored your own. Something that made your pulse unsteady, that sent a strange, unsettling thrill through you, a forbidden excitement that you couldn't deny.

Against your better judgment, against the warnings echoing in your mind, you agreed. A contract was signed, not just for a series, but for something far more dangerous, a pact with the shadows, a dangerous game played on the edge of reality. The series, and this strange, intense connection with San, was about to begin, a dangerous dance into the darkness, a journey into the heart of your own creation.

Filming began, a whirlwind of controlled chaos, a meticulously crafted descent into the shadows. The set became a liminal space, a world between fiction and reality, where the shadows you had written took on flesh and blood, where the lines of reality began to blur and twist. And within that chaos, San moved with an unsettling grace, an effortless embodiment of Renji. The predatory charm, the simmering intensity, the way he could switch from playful to dangerous in a heartbeat—it was both captivating and terrifying, a dangerous dance on the edge of obsession, a performance that felt too real.

You, on the other hand, were thrown into the deep end, forced to confront the vulnerability you usually kept locked away, protected by the armor of your words. Acting was a different beast entirely, a raw exposure of emotions you typically channeled into your writing, a stripping away of the carefully constructed walls. The camera's unblinking eye felt like it was stripping away your carefully constructed defenses, exposing the raw emotions you usually poured into your characters, a terrifying intimacy.

But San became an unexpected anchor in that storm, a dark guide through the chaos, a constant presence that both comforted and unsettled you.

"You look like you're about to run," San observed during a break, his gaze studying your tense posture.

"I feel like I'm about to," you admitted, a wry smile playing on your lips. "This is… intense."

"Intense is what we do," he replied, a playful glint in his eyes. "Embrace the chaos, Y/N. It's where the magic happens."

In the quiet moments between takes, a strange camaraderie blossomed, a silent understanding that transcended words, a shared language of unspoken desires. You were comfortable in shared silences, finding an odd peace in the chaos, a fragile truce amidst the emotional turmoil. There were moments of goofy laughter, shared jokes that eased the tension, light moments that felt like a momentary reprieve. And then there were the moments where the line between actor and character blurred, where the intensity in San's eyes felt too real, too personal, a dangerous reflection of Renji's obsession, a haunting echo of the character you had created.

And then came the confession scene.

Los Angeles. A rainy night, the city lights reflecting off the wet streets, creating an almost ethereal glow, a scene painted in shadows and whispers, a culmination of the unspoken tension.

The scene was simple, yet laden with emotional weight, a raw expression of vulnerability: Renji calling out, "Venna!"

You, as Ravenna, turned, rain plastering your hair to your face, your breath catching in your throat. San, as Renji, was a dark silhouette against the city lights, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart pound.

"Venna," he repeated, his voice a low, desperate plea. "Don't run."

You took a step back, fear and desire warring within you. "Renji…"

He closed the distance, his hand reaching out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. "Tell me you feel it too. Tell me this isn't just me."

Your breath hitched. "I…"

He cupped your face, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. "Tell me, Venna."

You closed your eyes, the weight of the unspoken hanging heavy in the air. "Yes."

He pulled you closer, his hand sliding down to your waist, his grip firm, possessive. "Then show me."

A kiss. A lingering touch that felt like a brand, a silent promise, a dangerous consummation.

--- "Cut."

The director's voice broke the spell, but the air remained charged, thick with unspoken desires, a tension that crackled between you and San.

"That was… intense," the director commented, a flicker of unease in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the raw emotion.

"Too intense?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, your gaze locked on San, seeking answers in his eyes.

"Perfect," San murmured, his voice low, his eyes never leaving yours, a dangerous intensity in their depths. "Perfectly real."

Why did it feel so real?

Why did San linger, his gaze intense, wanting to hold you again, kiss you again, erase the boundaries between fiction and reality, merge the characters with the actors?

And why did you feel the same, a dangerous pull towards the darkness he embodied, a forbidden desire that mirrored Ravenna’s?

The rest of filming became a tightrope walk, a precarious balance between fiction and reality, a dangerous game of emotions. The chemistry between you and San was undeniable, electric, but it was a dangerous electricity, charged with unspoken desires and hidden depths, a silent language spoken in stolen glances and lingering touches, a constant push and pull. The lines between Ravenna and Renji, between Y/N and San, began to blur, creating a tension that permeated every scene, a silent battleground of emotions, a dangerous dance of shadows and light.

The year passed in a blur of long days and sleepless nights, a constant dance between shadows and light, a journey into the heart of your own creation. Filming wrapped. The movie was released.

It shattered records.

The world was captivated by the dark romance, by the raw intensity of the characters, by the undeniable connection between the actors, a connection that seemed to transcend the screen, a forbidden intimacy that captivated millions.

You and San still texted, the digital connection a lifeline in the post-filming void, a fragile thread connecting you across the distance, a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken. But distance grew between you, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken feelings, the dangerous desires left behind in that rain-soaked confession scene, a silent pact to ignore the fire that burned between you, a dangerous denial.

Neither of you spoke about the ache in your chests, the lingering questions that haunted your thoughts, the ghosts of the characters you had played, the emotions that felt too real.

Until San finally confessed to his members.

The teasing? Relentless, a mix of playful and concerned, a chorus of unspoken questions and knowing glances, a silent interrogation.

Award season arrived, a whirlwind of flashing lights and red carpets, a stage for the unspoken drama, a spotlight on the tangled truths.

You walked the red carpet in a black gown laced with gold, a dress that mirrored Ravenna's dark elegance, a silent declaration of the character you had become, a dangerous echo of the woman you wrote. San, in a tailored suit that accentuated his sharp features, sat beside you at your table, the air between you thick with unspoken words, a silent battleground of desires, a dangerous tension.

Best Romance Film? Your movie.

The moment your name was called, a wave of emotion washed over you, a culmination of the journey you had taken, a dangerous acknowledgment of the emotions you had stirred. As you made your way to the stage, San's gaze followed you, a silent intensity that felt both supportive and possessive, a dark promise, a silent claim.

After the show, he found you in an empty hallway, the shadows of the night clinging to him, a predator stalking his prey, a desperate plea for honesty.

And then—

He pinned you against the wall, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the forcefulness of the action, a desperate plea for honesty, a raw confession.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice low, rough with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher, a dangerous whisper in the darkness. "Tell me I was the only one who felt it. That it wasn't just acting. That the fire between us was real. That the shadows we danced in weren’t just fiction."

His words hung in the air, a dangerous question that shattered the fragile truce you had built. "Tell me," he had murmured, his voice raw, his eyes searching yours, "tell me it wasn't just acting."

You stared at him, the hallway suddenly shrinking, the silence deafening. The weight of his confession pressed down on you, a heavy truth you could no longer ignore. The fire between you, the connection that had sparked on set, it wasn't just for the cameras. It was a dangerous, consuming thing that had taken root in your soul.

"San…" you began, your voice trembling, the words caught in your throat.

He leaned closer, his hand tightening on your waist, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Was it real, Y/N? Was any of it real? Or were we just playing characters?"

The question echoed the doubts that had plagued you for months. The lines between Ravenna and Renji, between you and San, had blurred irrevocably. Was the passion, the intensity, just a performance? Or was it something more, something dangerous, something real, something that threatened to consume you both?

"I don't know," you finally whispered, the honesty a painful admission, a crack in the carefully constructed walls you'd built around yourself. "I don't know what's real anymore. I don't know where Ravenna ends and I begin."

A flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps, or maybe a hint of anger—crossed his face. He released you, stepping back, creating a distance that felt like a chasm, a tangible representation of the emotional distance between you.

"So, it was all just acting," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, a cold statement that cut through the tension.

"No!" you protested, reaching for him, your fingers brushing against his arm, desperate to bridge the gap. "It wasn't just acting. But… it's complicated, San. We're not Ravenna and Renji. This isn't a movie. We can't just follow a script."

He turned away, his jaw tight, his voice strained. "Isn't it? Because it felt pretty damn real to me. It felt like… like everything."

The tension between you was a palpable thing, a live wire stretched taut, threatening to snap, to ignite a fire that would consume you both. The unspoken hung heavy in the air, a dangerous mix of desire and fear, a silent battleground of emotions.

He turned back to you, his eyes searching yours, a raw vulnerability in his gaze. "Y/N," he said, his voice low, a desperate plea. "I need to know. Was it real for you too?"

You hesitated, the truth caught in your throat, a dangerous confession waiting to be unleashed. "San…"

"Tell me," he whispered, closing the distance between you, his breath warm against your skin. "Tell me you felt something. Tell me it wasn’t just me."

You closed your eyes, the weight of his confession pressing down on you. "It was real," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "It was too real."

He cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle, yet firm. "Then tell me," he said, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching yours for a flicker of truth. "Tell me you feel something for me."

"I…" you started, but the words caught in your throat.

"Say it," he urged, his voice a desperate whisper. "Please."

And then, the dam broke. "I love you, San," you confessed, the words raw and honest, a dangerous admission of the feelings you had tried to deny. "I love you, and it terrifies me."

The following months were a torturous dance. You and San continued to text, the digital connection a fragile lifeline, but the easy camaraderie you had shared on set was gone, replaced by a careful distance, a guarded politeness, a silent acknowledgment of the dangerous emotions that simmered beneath the surface.

You attended every ATEEZ concert, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, watching him from the shadows, your heart aching with a longing you couldn't explain. You stayed in the same hotels, the close proximity a torment, a constant reminder of the unspoken desires that simmered beneath the surface.

Rumors spread like wildfire, fueled by your public appearances, your shared moments, the undeniable chemistry that radiated from you both. The fans, ever-observant, dissected every glance, every touch, weaving their own narratives, their own dangerous fantasies.

And then San made it official.

A single Instagram post.

The photo? You, working on your laptop, your face illuminated by the screen's glow, blurry but unmistakably you.

Caption: "Written in the pages. 🖤"

The internet? Broke.

The fans erupted, a chaotic mix of joy and disbelief, their theories finally confirmed.

The haters? Unbothered. Their voices, usually a deafening roar, were drowned out by the overwhelming tide of support.

Because you didn’t care what the world thought.

After all, your love was already written in the pages. Or was it? The question still lingered, a haunting echo in the quiet moments, a shadow that threatened to consume the light, a dangerous uncertainty that hung in the air.

--

[jamiepaige]

Constant Companions Closeup #5: CADMIUM COLORS

(also on bandcamp and spotify!)

Once again, welcome back to the Constant Companions Closeups - a series of in-depth dives into the songs off of my latest album, Constant Companions! Last time, I wrote a whole diatribe about my OCs while talking about I Wish That I Could Fall, and today, we're eating paint! Cadmium Colors featuring Soneji of Project Mikan!

Consider this a content warning: this post will discuss the pandemic, struggles with mental health, and suicidal ideation/attempts. I'm hoping it'll ultimately be uplifting, but the discussions at hand are incredibly heavy, and it wouldn't do this song right to be vague. Please be warned.

---

Let's talk about COVID.

At the beginning of 2020, I was in the midst of a long-term break from making music. It wasn't completely cold turkey, and I might not have even called it a break if you'd asked me at the time, but things were dire. I was still dealing with the burnout I'd sustained from the making of Autumn Every Day; I'd had my ego bruised by a live performance at a house party that went so hilariously bad it'd hurt even the most stoic performers (imagine watching an entire packed room of people clear out in 5 minutes flat from the already hyper-exposed vantage point of being on stage in front of them and knowing you single-handedly caused that lol); I had just moved across the country, and was preoccupied with trying to make ends meet as a 22 year old dealing with pure adulthood for the first time.

I was working a shitty minimum wage job at a discount clothing store I will not be naming, slogging through late-night shifts that wouldn't get me home until 3 am some nights. I had friends and roommates, but they were all just as overworked and exhausted and dealing with their own shit as me. I was mentally ill and unmedicated. Suicidal ideation was rearing its ugly head at my lowest moments.

Then, as I turned 23, a global pandemic shut the world down, my grandpa died with me being unable to attend his funeral, and I had a catastrophic mental breakdown that suddenly turned the voices in my head into a deafening cacophony of self-inflicted malice.

In hindsight, I think being 23 kinda just does that to you

---

Fast forward to 2021. I was back at my retail job with the pandemic raging in full force, my sense of self was held together with duct tape, positive self-talk essentially didn't exist for me, and I was the loneliest and lowest I had ever been. I was working the fewest hours I could get away with, and still, almost all spare time I had was taken up either by work or by my recovery from it.

This was around the time I got an email from Crypton, of all places - the people that make Hatsune Miku, for anyone uninformed. They wanted a remix of the song Happy Synthesizer for a Digital Stars compilation. I could not for the life of me tell you how I lucked into this or why they reached out to me of all people, but they did, and I was deathly determined to prove myself worthy of it.

This was August of 2021. I was staring down the barrel, languishing in what felt like only half of a life, fantasizing about death and trying to twist my thoughts into something that could at least keep me blearily shuffling forward another couple days. It was untenable.

(I'd also recently been diagnosed with OSDD 1b - this is a whole can of worms I can't really open until we talk about Breeze Blows, but it's important to at least mention that coping with this was a significant part of this turnaround.)

It's melodramatic, but I had only two options - make things again, or die.

I finished that remix within 24 hours of getting the stems, and I will gladly toot my own horn about it - it's really fucking good, in my opinion. Bittersweet ended up coming together in a mad dash over the next couple months as well. I was making music again.

Even though I was exponentially busier, things paradoxically got easier. I made the creative process a priority in my life, and not only did it give me an outlet for everything that had otherwise been eating away at my soul, but it struck a chord with other people who had been struggling as well. Things just... started getting brighter.

So I kept making music and living and yadda yadda blah blah here I am. This is all a lot of words and very personal stories of mental health struggles to say this:

One: The line between being an artist and being one of countless people forced to work jobs that go nowhere, that put their life at risk, that force them to strip parts of themselves away - it is a faint and transparent line built on circumstances of class and privilege and luck. Making Art and being an Artist aren't magical elevated states of existence, but something anyone is capable of if given the space to nurture their creativity. I believe the world should be a place where any person can do this.

Two: It's easy to convince yourself that art is meaningless in the face of the world at large. And yes, revolutions aren't fought by poetry and paintings, and people aren't fed through songs. But art is a source and a medium for connection; Art is how we find beauty in a disorganized and entropic world; Art is what we come home to and what words we write and pictures we paint and songs we sing to remind us that people matter to us and love is real and life is worth fucking living. Maybe that's corny and stupid, but it's true.

Three: So help me God, I will never work retail again in my entire life.

---

This is another song that is heavily inspired by artists like Prefab Sprout, Peter Gabriel, Kate Bush, and other artists of that ilk - very 80s, very flowery and sentimental lyricism, focused on telling a story. I greatly admire songs that aren't afraid to paint otherwise banal or ordinary scenes in abstract reverence!! I wanted the verses to contrast heavily with each other in that way, with verse one's relentless poeticisms (prosaic practice of depravity) and idioms turned on their head (suspending innocents above their disbelief) against verse two's incredibly straightforward depiction of a factory worker's circumstances.

The flowery language might have worked against me somewhat, though! I've seen a lot of folks that thought the ending was darker or much more defeatist than I intended, and while some of that is just inevitable with a work of art, I want to be clear.

Translator's note: this means "don't kill yourself, you idiot"!!

As you may have picked up from the previous post in this series, this song does heavily feature a leitmotif or two predominantly performed under pudgy pretenses. I'm not going to go on that whole novella-length spiel again, but rest assured knowing that this song, too, is one that makes me think about my OCs. Since it's something many people missed, however, I will take a moment to point out that this song quotes none other than Autumn Every Day off of my album of the same name!

Painting and visual art have been something of a reoccurring obsession of mine in my own art. I grew up around visual artists, have always been friends with many visual artists, and generally have a really intense love of it as a medium and a mode of expression. However, there's also always been a sense of... well, I don't want to call it jealousy, but it's jealousy. I've tried many times to start making visual art of my own, and I have made some things, but it's been a struggle, and I worry sometimes that my eye has permanently outstripped my ability.

However, in my quest to toss out grand expectations and simply have fun making art, I did recently pick up a cheap little drawing tablet! I'm excited to be a beginner at something artistic again...

Finally, I want to thank a couple people: Soneji of Project Mikan for the gorgeous, soaring saxophone solo; friend_xp for the mindboggling MV editing; and especially my good friend Que for the GORGEOUS painterly art that goes along with this song! Que's style was just perfect for this, and really tied the whole thing together immaculately!! There's no joke or deeper lore or anything I just fucking love Que's art go follow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And with that, I think this post is complete!! If you have anything else you wanna know about, ask away in the replies! Tomorrow will be Breeze Blows with Marcy Nabors and Marlow Jacobs!!!

MAKE ART AND BE GAY

[robo-writing]

I've had one that I've been dying for since D&W came out. What if Logan wasn't the anchor being but his child with YN/OC is? I can just imagine Deadpool hauling Logans ass to his world to force them to "get busy"

Paradox's explanation seems simple enough: "If the anchor being doesn't exist, then his timeline can't exist." Wade's answer seems simple enough. "So, since jolly old saint claws died he can't get busy with his girl, and since she can't get preggo then my world's gonna go kaboom?" There's a deafening silence, and he can see the visible discomfort on Paradox's face. "Well, I would never put it so crudely, but yes," he answers, gesturing to the wobbly mess of lines. "Without a living wolverine, a child cannot be born—" "Oh, we just need a live one?" He asks, snatching the square device from his hands gleefully. Paradox's face morphs from shock to fear as he sees the beginnings of a portal. "Wade, no! Someone stop him!"

The guards are hot on his tail, but not quick enough to catch the red-suited bandit before he jumps through a portal. "Leave it to me!"

"...and that's how I got here!" He finishes.

What was supposed to be a romantic evening was rudely interrupted—Logan's somewhere between anger and confusion, while you're very firmly planted somewhere in the embarrassment category, fumbling for anything to cover yourself with. "And this is somehow supposed to explain why you're in our fuckin' bedroom?" He growls, pulling the blanket as far as it can go to cover both your modesties. Wade finger-guns at the gesture, which only makes the veins in Logan's face stand out more. "Yeah, well, that's on me. Can't blame a guy for wanting to see how the wolverine gets down and dirty." He grins. "Don't worry, I'll stay in my assigned seating riiiight here." You can feel the rage wafting off of Logan, so for everyone's sake you choose to take lead before he ends up beheading this mysterious stranger.

"Sir, all due respect, I'm not gonna let you watch us fuck." you sigh, popping your head from beneath the blanket. Your words make him whine in his chair, hands clasped together. "Please? Pretty please? I promise I'm a silent masturbator, just ask Al! You won't hear a peep!" Snikt! "And there goes our bedsheets..."

[archivequinn]

What's your secret, envoy? emperor geta x fem!reader

Summary: Desperation drives you to the gates of the Roman Empire when your brother is dragged away to fight as a gladiator in their blood-soaked arenas. With nothing left to lose, you strike a perilous bargain with the cunning Emperor Geta—your freedom and future in exchange for your brother’s life. But what begins as a desperate ploy turns into a tangled web of intrigue, betrayal, and forbidden ties. You never imagined that the ruthless emperor would become more than an adversary—and that the most dangerous risk of all would be losing him.

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three (completed) ao3 link

Darkness had fallen, and the flickering light of the torches surrounding the arena cast dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls. The weight of chains stretched from wrist to wrist, from wrist to ankle, echoing with every step you took.

Fatigue and resignation were etched onto Geta’s face, but the last spark in his eyes had not yet dimmed. Looking at him, you felt in your bones that this moment had finally come, that the inevitable was now here, confronting you.

The screams and cheers echoing through the arena were like a death march rising from the heart of Rome. The crowd was filled with the fervor of ruthless savagery; in their hands were roses and mud-mixed stones, hurling at you the paradox of life and death.

On one side, a barbaric crowd hungry for blood; on the other, roses, symbols intertwined with death. The air carried the mingled scents of soil, sweat, and fire, imprinting the moment indelibly into your memory.

As the sky transitioned from a copper-hued sunset to the absolute blackness of night, Macrinus's arrogant gaze gleamed before you. Reclining on his throne with the demeanor of a king assured of his victory, he listened to the frenzied cheers of the crowd.

Beside him sat Caracalla, his face utterly different; tense with rage, you could almost hear the blood coursing through his veins. His hatred for Geta seemed like the hidden playwright of this dark theater.

Geta suddenly stopped. The clinking sound of the chains reverberated on the stone floor. Standing confidently in the center of the arena, he held his head high. “People of Rome!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the stone walls and reaching every corner.

The weight in his voice imbued each word with both fury and hope. “Today, here before you, a conspiracy is being staged. Macrinus is a traitor who has infiltrated the heart of our empire! Can’t you see his treachery?”

For a moment, the crowd fell silent, but it was short-lived. Screams, laughter, and jeers rose again, crashing over you like a wave. Geta’s voice was lost in this sea.

Though he continued speaking, the crowd’s minds were already sealed with a predetermined verdict. They wanted blood. The eyes looking at you sought not justice but mere entertainment.

Geta’s words were like winds wasted in the void. You looked at him, your heart constricting, helplessness clutching at you. Geta’s hands trembled into fists; the chains clattered once more. Among the faces watching, there was no mercy, only cruelty.

At that moment, Macrinus rose from his seat. As his steps echoed in the arena, the crowd began to quiet down. That arrogant, mocking smile never left his face. His hands moved like those of an actor initiating a play, and his voice rang out, cold and cutting.

“People of Rome!” Macrinus declared, his every word dripping like venom.

“Today, you will not only witness the punishment of traitors. No! Today, I present to you a tragedy! You will see how these two traitors pay the price of their betrayal. But the one to execute their punishment will not be an ordinary gladiator…”

The crowd held its breath. Everyone waited to hear what Macrinus would say. His voice lowered, but its impact grew stronger, slithering like a serpent and feeding the crowd’s curiosity.

“Their executioner will be one of this woman’s own blood! Her brother!”

For a moment, everything seemed frozen. Your mind refused to comprehend it. “No…” you murmured, the word breaking like a fractured prayer before leaving your lips.

Your eyes turned to Geta. He was just as shocked as you, but his expression quickly shifted to one of anger.

When one of the slave gates opened, the figure emerging was initially just a vague silhouette in the darkness. The crowd held its breath. As the echoes of footsteps drew closer, your heart began to race. Your eyes recognized the figure. Broad shoulders, a face weary but hardened—it was your brother.

No. This had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t be real. But there he was. His chained hands were visible beneath the coarse, heavy pieces of gladiator armor. The crowd’s shouts and cheers rose once more. The people were enthralled by this dramatic display.

Geta leaned toward you, his voice firm and sharp. “You must pull yourself together.”

Ignoring the weight of your chains, you surged forward, running toward your brother. But just as you moved, the world froze with the sharp cry of an arrow. The arrow embedded itself in the sands before you, halting your steps.

Geta suddenly appeared beside you, pulling you back. He extended his arms protectively in front of you like a shield. “Stay calm,” he said in a low voice, though a storm raged within him. “They’re luring us into a trap.”

Macrinus’s voice filled the arena with mocking resonance. “Ah, how touching! But there is no mercy in this arena! Without blood, there is no victory! The people of Rome want victory, they want tragedy, they want blood! But only one will leave this arena alive!”

A brief silence fell before he widened his smile and added, “And the decision of who that will be… is in your hands.”

As the crowd erupted in wild cheers over this merciless proposition, tears streamed down your cheeks, and you saw the same anguish in your brother’s eyes.

Geta turned to Caracalla, his voice now an unstoppable eruption of fury. “Are you really watching this, brother?” he shouted, his voice reverberating against the stone walls of the arena. “Can’t you see how Macrinus has deceived you? This game, this plan, all of it is his doing! He lied to make you kill us! He lied to turn you against me!”

Caracalla sat on the throne on the other side of the arena. His face seemed expressionless, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Yet what was it? Doubt? Or anger? You knew you wouldn’t get an answer in that moment, but you heard Geta’s voice rise even further in one last desperate effort.

“Are you so blind that you can’t see Macrinus’s true face?” he cried, his voice sharp like a cutting wind. “He’s the traitor! Not us! He’s the one poisoning Rome! He’s the one who turned you against me!”

At that very moment, one of the large gates in the corner of the arena slowly began to open. The crowd momentarily ceased their cheers, turning their attention to the gate. Beyond it, General Acacius and his elite soldiers emerged. Acacius stepped forward with a composed demeanor, his face bearing an expression as unyielding as stone. The silence of the crowd turned into a murmur; some greeted Acacius with surprise, while others speculated on his intentions.

Seeing Acacius enter the arena, a glimmer of hope appeared in Geta’s eyes. “Finally…” he murmured.

Acacius approached the center of the arena and bowed toward Caracalla. However, this did not please Macrinus. “General, what are you doing here? The game has started, and it is not your place to entertain the crowd!” he snapped, his voice tinged with irritation.

Acacius spoke with cold certainty in his tone, “Your Majesty, I am responsible for the security of Rome. However, I sense that there is a darker plan unfolding behind these public games.”

Macrinus, his anger plain on his face, demanded, “What are you implying, General?”

Acacius took another step forward, standing directly in front of Macrinus. “Betrayal and manipulation. And the one responsible for it is you, Macrinus.”

Turning to Caracalla, Acacius spoke in a measured tone, “Your Majesty, I have evidence to prove Macrinus’s treacherous schemes.”

Caracalla hesitated for a moment. His gaze shifted from Macrinus to Geta and finally to Acacius. The crowd held their breath, waiting in tense silence.

Caracalla’s face was like a stone mask. His silence made every breath in the arena feel heavy. At last, he turned to Macrinus and spoke with a mocking smile, “How curious, Macrinus. It seems everyone has a story to tell today.”

Macrinus let out a confident laugh, attempting to mask the tension in the air. “Your Majesty, this general’s loyalty has long been questionable. Don’t let him waste your time with supposed evidence. Justice must be served to Geta and these traitors!”

But Caracalla ignored Macrinus’s words and focused his gaze on Acacius. “Do you have evidence, General? And if so, why have you waited until now?”

Acacius, feeling the weight of the question, replied in a calm voice, “Because traitors work in the shadows, Your Majesty. I waited for the right moment.”

Despite the cheers of the crowd, Caracalla seemed lost in thought. Finally, he raised his hand, silencing the arena. A wave of quiet spread, broken only by the whisper of the wind and the crackle of the torches.

At that moment, Macrinus lost his feigned smile and raised his voice. “Your Majesty, this is a trap! Acacius and Geta’s collaboration is nothing less than treason against Rome!”

Acacius turned to Macrinus, his voice as firm as steel. “Watch your words, Macrinus. No one understands treachery better than you.”

At that instant, Acacius reached into an inner pocket of his armor and produced a carefully folded parchment. His expression remained stoic, but his eyes shone with the determination that matched the gravity of his words. “Your Majesty, this parchment contains the proof of Macrinus’s treacherous plans—details of conspiracies that threaten Rome’s security…” As he spoke, a murmur rose among the crowd.

The whispers spread like sparks under the flickering light of the torches.

Macrinus, struggling to maintain his mocking facade, said, “Who can guarantee the reliability of this so-called evidence?” But the panic in his voice was impossible to hide.

At that moment, the leader of the archers stationed at the edge of the arena was staring at Macrinus, waiting for his orders. Macrinus scanned the crowd quickly, then furrowed his brow and gave a low command: “Prepare.”

The archers drew their bows, aiming at the four figures in the arena. The tension was so thick it felt difficult to breathe. The murmurs of the crowd foretold an impending storm.

As you tried to understand how everything had reached this point, your eyes drifted to Geta. There was a strength in his stance, one that seemed to defy all the chaos in the world. When your eyes met, a spark of both fear and something else lit up within you. His gaze seemed to say, “You wil be okay.”

Geta stepped forward and suddenly pulled you into his arms. The warmth of his chest was stronger than the cold steel of his chains. It was as if you weren’t standing in the middle of an arena, as if you weren’t in the shadow of death. He whispered, his voice low enough for only you to hear, “If this is our end, I’ll die protecting you.”

In that moment, everything froze. The flames of the torches danced in your eyes as you felt Geta’s hands on your shoulders. His embrace wasn’t just protective—it was a reflection of all the emotions he had suppressed. A warmth spread through you, momentarily erasing all fear.

Macrinus’s voice cut through the moment. “Archers!” he shouted, his anger echoing through the crowd. But just then, chaos erupted among the spectators. Those who believed in Macrinus’s schemes clashed with those opposing him. Torches toppled over, and the crowd at the edge of the arena began scuffling with the guards.

Amid the chaos, someone accidentally bumped into an archer. Losing his balance, the archer released his bow, and the arrow shot through the air, piercing the silence of the arena as it landed on the ground. The tension peaked. A scream rose from the crowd, and people began to scatter in panic.

In that instant, Geta reflexively pulled you to the ground, wrapping his arms around you. The arrow had struck just a few steps away. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, his breath warm against your neck. The tears streaming from your eyes were the expression of a feeling that was neither pure fear nor pure happiness. When you looked at Geta’s face, you saw that his eyes, too, were brimming with tears.

Acacius’s gaze was locked on Macrinus, who was attempting to retreat.

Meanwhile, the guards in the arena quickly moved to secure Caracalla’s safety. Soldiers rushed toward the emperor’s throne, escorting him to the palace gates to protect him from the chaos among the crowd.

Only four people remained in the center of the arena: You, Geta, Acacius, and your brother. The sands glowed with sparks from the fallen torches. Your heart knew that everything would unravel in this fleeting chaos. Geta’s hands were still on you, and when you turned to him, words caught in your throat. He simply whispered to you, “Never forget me.”

As the chaos grew, Macrinus retreated to a corner of the arena. But Acacius, sword drawn, began to pursue him.

The turmoil within the arena escalated. Shouts echoed among the crowd, and a full-blown rebellion erupted. For a brief moment, Geta turned to you, his face holding something you had never seen before—a mixture of love and sorrow.

“You must stay here,” he said, his voice softer than before. “I can’t protect you if you put yourself in danger.”

“No, Geta! You can’t go!” you cried, tears burning down your cheeks. But Geta had already made his decision. He gave you one last look—a gaze that wasn’t just a farewell but the passing of an eternal memory to you. “Forgive me,” he said. Then he surged forward, following Acacius.

You tried to run after him, but a strong hand on your shoulder stopped you. When you turned, you saw the determined look on your brother’s face. “Don’t leave him! Please!” you shouted, but your brother held you firmly.

“No,” he said, his voice hard and resolute. “Listen to me. I can’t leave you here. We have to get out of here. Now!”

He wrapped his arms around you, almost carrying you away from the chaos of the arena. But your mind and heart remained with Geta. With each step, you felt further away from him, and each breath became an unbearable torment.

Your brother quickly led you out of the arena to a waiting horse. “No! Let me go!” you shouted, but he didn’t listen. He placed you on the horse, your hands trembling, your eyes still locked on the fading sight of the arena. “Something will happen to Geta! I can’t leave him alone!”

Gripping the reins tightly, your brother said, “He risked everything to save us. We must honor his sacrifice!” He spurred the horse forward. Behind you, Geta’s face remained frozen in your mind as the last image you saw of him. Your eyes were still filled with tears, and everything felt like a dream—or rather, a nightmare. But one thing was certain: Geta’s choice had changed your life forever.

You found yourself inside an old stone-walled warehouse where your brother had dragged you. The interior was dark, illuminated only by the faint moonlight streaming through a narrow window in the wall, casting soft shadows. The distant screams and the sharp clash of metal against metal outside planted deep roots of fear in your heart. From afar, the silhouette of Rome was visible; massive fires painted the sky orange, and smoke rose like a heavy shroud. The city was burning. Rome was burning.

Your brother stood with one hand on your shoulder, the other gripping the hilt of his sword, on high alert. "You’re safe here," he said, though his voice didn’t sound particularly confident. His words didn’t comfort you.

Your eyes remained locked on the distant flames. Trembling with a storm of emotions swirling inside you, you muttered, "Geta... He’s dead. He... He tried to save us but failed. I... I couldn’t protect him..." Your voice was hoarse and filled with sorrow.

Your brother spoke without looking at you. "We had to survive. Geta knew that. That’s why he risked everything." But those words didn’t console you; instead, they brought another wave of guilt and grief. You collapsed to your knees, your throat tight with emotion. Tears streamed down your cheeks as the weight of your grief crushed you to the ground. Watching Rome burn, you remembered Geta’s face. The determination, courage, and... farewell in his eyes. You felt as though something inside you had shattered.

Crying was like trying to purge all the heaviness inside you, but it also left you feeling more drained. Your eyes burned, your shoulders shook. Finally, when your tears dried and your breathing grew uneven, exhaustion settled over you like a heavy blanket. Your eyelids succumbed to their own weight, and you slipped into a dark unconsciousness.

You didn’t know how much time had passed. It was as if your grief had disconnected you from time. But after a while, a sharp "clattering" sound pulled you back to reality. The echo of horse hooves reached your ears. Your heart began to race; the silence of the warehouse was torn apart by the resounding sound. A whistling noise came from above the rafters, like a cold wind slipping inside. You heard the creak of the door as it opened.

Your brother instantly rose to his feet on high alert. One hand went to the hilt of his sword, while the other protectively pushed you behind him. "Stay behind me," he said, his voice now tired but just as protective. Your heart pounded as you tried to guess who they were. But then, everything went still.

Then, the moonlight illuminated the faces of those who had entered. You suddenly recognized the two riders before you: Geta and Acacius.

At that moment, your world froze. You stared in disbelief. Standing before you was Geta, alive and breathing. His face bore a few scars, and he looked exhausted but strong. And then, your body moved as if it had a will of its own. "Geta!" you cried, your voice trembling, but this time not with sorrow— with joy.

You ran towards him. Your brother tried to say something, but you didn’t hear him. In that moment, all you cared about was reaching Geta. Tears streamed from your eyes, but they carried an entirely different meaning now. Geta bent slightly toward you, and when you threw your arms around his neck, it felt as if time itself had stopped. You held him tightly, as if letting go would make everything vanish again.

"You... You’re alive! I thought I lost you! I was so scared!" you said, words tumbling out of your mouth as your mind struggled to process everything. When Geta’s strong arms wrapped around you, a deep sense of comfort washed over you.

Behind you, Acacius exchanged a brief look with your brother, his face tired yet determined as he gave a small nod. In the darkness of the night, the only thing holding you all together was love and the instinct to survive.

Clinging to Geta, you felt waves of happiness and relief wash over you. The weight in your heart seemed to lift entirely. His warm voice broke the silence: "Don’t worry anymore. Everything is under control." His words rang with the solidity of a promise, though your mind was still struggling to grasp what had happened.

You pulled back slightly from his embrace to look into his eyes. "What happened? What did you go through?" you asked, your words shaky but filled with hope.

A faint smile appeared on Geta’s lips. "Macrinus has been captured. He’s been thrown into the dungeon and won’t pose a threat again. We also quelled the rebellion among the people. The city will be rebuilt now. There’s a light of hope for everyone," he said. His voice was weary but carried the relief of a hard-fought victory. As you watched his expression, you found yourself admiring his courage and leadership once more.

Acacius stepped forward, as stoic as ever, though a flicker of pride and satisfaction shone in his eyes. "Emperor," he said formally to Geta, "Tonight, Rome saw not an emperor but a hero of the people. Your loyalty and bravery will become a legend."

Geta turned to him, nodding. "This victory isn’t mine alone. It belongs to everyone here. And to you, Acacius. Rome could never have had a better general, and never will."

Acacius’s lips twitched slightly in what might have been a faint smile—a quiet expression of gratitude. But when Geta turned back to you, his face was entirely different. His eyes softened, as though he’d found his one source of peace amidst all the chaos. "But above all, seeing you here... That is my greatest victory."

Those words filled your heart with warmth. "I thought I’d lost you," you said, tears accompanying your words. "It felt like the whole world had stopped, Geta. Without you... I would be nothing."

Geta took one of your hands in his. The warmth of his palm melted away all your fears. "And I would never leave you," he said, his voice low but resolute. "No force, no rebellion, no war could ever separate me from you."

His words brought a faint smile to your lips. In that moment, the entire world seemed to quiet down. While Rome’s smoke rose in the distance, you felt safe at Geta’s side. His eyes held a promise—a future of countless days together filled with hope.

The following days were spent rebuilding Rome. The people looked upon both Geta and Acacius with deep respect. Acacius received an honorary medal from the Senate and was declared the commander-in-chief of the army. Your brother was hailed as a hero who restored his family’s honor. But your world was defined by being at Geta’s side.

One day, as you walked through Rome’s quiet gardens, Geta was beside you, his usual calm yet profound expression on his face. Amidst the birdsong, you noticed him suddenly stop. "I need to say something," he said, his voice taking on a serious tone.

Your heart skipped a beat. "What is it?" you asked, smiling slightly.

Geta took your hands in his. His eyes locked onto yours as if he understood the entire world within them. "I’ve seen many things in my life—power, war, betrayal. But after meeting you, I realized that the most important thing isn’t loyalty; it’s love. Before you, I wasn’t living, only existing. And now... I know what it means to truly live."

His words deeply moved you. Your eyes welled up, but with happiness this time. Being with him made all the chaos of the world feel meaningful.

In that moment, Geta leaned down, and his lips softly met yours. It was a moment beyond everything—a moment transcending all the complexities of life. Rome might have burned, and the world might have been changing. But your world was complete in Geta’s arms.

And in that moment, after all the struggles, losses, and fears, you were truly happy. It was a happiness that would last forever.

taglist: @hesvoid3434 @drowning-in-cosmic-hopes @quuinyoung @cokepowder55 @justnobodynothingmore @arluna @multyfangirl @sarahskywalker-amidala @spiderxparker @your-nightmaredoll @avenjames-anderson @fruitylikeabagofskittles @urlivingdeadgirl @flawssy-227 @t-folklore13 @carlaaa76-blog7 @nicholaschavezslut69 @zalera8310

[hambiichu]

Merman

Sumarry: It was a mistake to meet him and there's no other choice to you when his eyes already claimed you at sight.

If you prefer at ao3

Divider by @/v6que

Divider

Tags: Dark! Levi, Merman! Levi, gender neutral! Reader, possesive, claiming, bit blood, Marine Biologist Reader

You shouldn’t have met him in the first place, especially given the dire consequences radiating from that fateful encounter. Levi, a magnificent creature born from the ocean's enigmatic depths, carried a tumult of emotions within him—rage and jealousy surged like a violent tempest, each wave crashing recklessly against the shores of reason.

It was this very storm that he unleashed upon you, an overwhelming fury that, despite its magnitude, seemed to originate from emotional wounds far deeper than your current predicament. As you fought to draw breath, the frigid saltwater invaded your lungs, leaving you gasping in terror, your body feeling leaden and weak, thrashing helplessly in the ocean's relentless embrace just inside the darkened cave where your fates had first intertwined.

As you fought to draw breath, the frigid saltwater invaded your lungs, leaving you gasping in terror, your body feeling leaden and weak, thrashing helplessly in the ocean's relentless embrace just inside the darkened cave where your fates had first intertwined.

Levi was unlike any being you had ever encountered. He was an enchanting merman, a living embodiment of the sea's myriad mysteries, and his very existence captivated you beyond measure. As a marine biologist, you had always felt an intrinsic connection to the ocean and its many creatures, and the revelation that such a magnificent being could exist ignited a passionate curiosity that burned brightly within your soul.

What began as initial awe gradually blossomed into something much more profound over time. You came to know him intimately, to love him deeply, and to cherish the tempestuous bond you shared. Yet, lurking beneath the surface of this tender connection was a primal instinct—a fierce territoriality that simmered just beneath Levi's calm facade.

It revealed itself slowly as if he had been biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to unveil the true depths of his nature. From the instant your gazes locked, the possessive glint in his deep-set eyes made it abundantly clear: you were his, claimed irrevocably by the ferocity of his being.

Caught in an intricate web of emotions, you began to feel as though you were merely his territory—a coveted prize to be fought over, ensnared in the tumult of his primal instincts and the suffocating grip of jealousy. The intensity of his feelings was an intoxicating blend of thrill and horror, creating a paradox that left you breathless and disoriented.

When he finally released his grip on you, the crushing weight of the ocean still pulling you down, your face broke through the surface once more, gasping for air like a drowning creature yearning for salvation and light. Your eyes found Levi's, whose expression had darkened into a stormy ferocity that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

His iridescent scales shimmered ominously under the moonlight filtering into the cave, and with a powerful flick of his merman tail, waves raged around you—a striking display of just how far beyond furious he truly was. Your heart thundered wildly in your chest, a chaotic rhythm that felt absurdly misplaced, as if you were being punished for a crime you had not even committed.

“We haven’t seen each other for weeks, human!” Levi snarled his voice a sharp weapon, its intensity reverberating throughout the cavern, echoing off the damp stone walls. The remnants of your strength still lingered, but instinct kicked in, urging you to take a cautious step back. “Have we not promised to be each other’s, only each other’s?”

His gaze bore into you with an unyielding intensity, a tempest swirling against the backdrop of crashing waves and the sinister shadows of the cave.

At that moment, it became painfully evident that his anger ran far deeper; he was not just furious—he was wounded, as if your very absence had carved a profound wound into his spirit. The space between you felt thick with unspoken emotions, each ghostly heartbeat of the water echoing the chaos brewing beneath the surface.

“I was busy with work!—of course, I will not see you!” you stammered, trembling in fear as Levi advanced toward you. His vicious claws gripped your scuba diving suit—a fierce, unyielding hold that drew blood, droplets of crimson mingling with the water, transforming it into a hauntingly beautiful hue.

He genuinely believed you left him behind, or maybe you found someone new.

With an almost predatory grace, he bared his sharp canine fangs, reminiscent of ancient tales where merfolk would feast cruelly upon hapless sailors. It was a myth long forgotten, a remnant of fears meant to terrify sailors and adventurers, yet the visceral fear coursing through you felt all too real at that moment.

“Gone or not,” he declared slowly, each word dripping with a possessive authority that demanded your full attention, “You are mine. You are my human. If you do not wish to be dragged down to the depths of the ocean, far beyond the reach of light, where it will surely mean your end, you don't want that, do you?"

You could feel the weight of his words pressing down on you, and deep down, you knew he was trying to guilt-trip you. It was a tactic he often relied on, yet in this moment, it somehow felt startlingly genuine.

The sincerity in his eyes made your heart race, and despite your instincts, you found yourself shaking your head slowly. “N-No, please. I don’t want that!"

Levi’s expression softened at your resistance, and a small, cruel smile curled at the corners of his lips. He let out a light chuckle.

As he spoke your name, it lingered in the air like honey, sweet and soothing. “That’s my good human."

[ozzgin]

I can order a yandere cute (kawaii), who maybe because of his cute and innocent appearance managed to get close to his beloved, but maybe this boy is not only cute and has a very disturbing past...

Cute!Twisted! Yandere x Reader

Children will say the strangest things. Such as the marriage promise you’ve received from the little boy you befriended a long time ago, when you were rather young yourself. Yet sometimes the words aren’t entirely devoid of meaning. He definitely hasn’t forgotten his intentions, and your current fiancé is a mere delay to his plans. content: female reader, mentions of abuse, obsessive behavior, violence, small age gap, death

He still remembers the day you met, so clearly and vividly. His most cherished memory. 

It was particularly cold despite the sun and his feet were hurting. He didn't have the time to put any shoes on, he ran out the moment he'd heard the sound of glass breaking. 

Mother was so scary when she'd get upset. The bulging eyes, the screaming mouth, the wild hair scattered over her face, darkening her features.

What if she were to follow him outside? No, she was never mean in front of others. Then again, the street was empty...He bit apart the skin on his fingers in panic. 

"Isn't it a bit late for pajamas?"

His eyes darted up and met hers. A girl somewhat taller and older, holding a basketball under her arm and staring intently, visibly confused. He was, after all, shivering outside by himself, barefoot and in sleeping garments in bright daylight. He blushed in embarrassment. 

"I snuck out for some fresh air."

"Rebellious already, huh?" She smirked and walked over, dropping herself on the sidewalk next to him. "I'm (Y/N). Do you live in the area? We could hang out when you feel like it. No need to sit by yourself."

She pointed to a house unexpectedly close. Has she always been nearby? Then again, he was never allowed outside. Besides the spontaneous escapades in order to avoid the burning rage, he didn't see other people much. It had always been him and Mother. 

For his own good, really. At least that's what Mother used to say. When she wasn't angry, she'd cry and hold him tight, telling him how much she pities him between hiccups and candid sobs. A vile creature like him would surely be mocked by the rest of the world. Not his fault, the poor little angel. Alas, his miserable fate still had a glimpse of hope, because Mother would never abandon him. He would always find acceptance from her all-forgiving heart.

And yet, there was always the seed of suspicion in the depths of his mind. Her sweet, soothing words felt like a hot slap over the blooming wounds already adorning his body, shaping a paradox.

Then he met you. You didn't seem to be disturbed by his presence. The following days, whenever he approached you, you'd welcome him with the same warm smile. Just like you promised. He couldn't find the ridicule he'd so often been warned about.

The puzzle pieces didn't fit together, and it became painfully obvious once Mother confronted him about his secret outings. Somehow her wrath had faded. Her shouts were mere waves echoing from somewhere distant, only grazing by his ears. She must've noticed his indifference, too, because she began rummaging her pockets for the basement key. Perhaps an old fashioned discipline would have helped him regain his voice. But the dark, cramped walls of the basement no longer frightened him. During his time spent outside, he had discovered a fact of stunning novelty:

He didn't have to listen to her. Staring into her ferocious, bottomless pits, he only found the reflection of (Y/N)'s face. Her peaceful, loving expression, devoid of pain, or fury, or punishment. 

His little hands reached for the box cutter.

"It's you that has to go downstairs, Mother. You're a liar. I hate liars."

Was it the right choice? His small outburst had ultimately cost him your company. That evening he politely called emergency to let them know his Mother had gone mad. And so they dispatched a couple of officers to investigate the gruesome cadaver, sprawled along the stairs with too many gashes to count. They shyly investigated the basement, and a social worker carefully inspected the little boy's abundant markings. This couldn't have been a suicide, but the tearful, frightened eyes of the child kept them from pressing further. Whoever had stepped foot into their home that day most likely did him a favor. Nonetheless, he was now essentially orphaned, requiring an adult, and was swiftly shipped to the first available relative.

He didn't have the time to meet you one last time. A shameful departure given his final meeting: completely inebriated with ardent affection, he dared to present to you his innermost wish. One day he'd marry you, he was certain of it. You chuckled and extended your pinky finger reassuringly. A sealed deal. 

All he had was your name and your promise and God, how dearly he clung to them every night, every passing year. His true glimmer of hope.

You're scrolling through your emails, waiting for the bus to arrive, when a gentle tap on the shoulder startles you. Behind you is a young man, although the soft, feminine features give him more of an androgynous appearance.

"May I help you?"

"You're (Y/N), aren't you?" he bats his eyelashes expectantly. 

"I am, but how do you-" 

You gaze at the stranger intently. The big, innocent eyes, the childish demeanor, there's a certain familiarity to it. Who could it be? Suddenly you're overwhelmed by nostalgia. 

"It's you! How many years...? And you haven't changed one bit!" You laugh merrily at the sight of your shy, quiet friend, all grown up. 

"H-hey now, surely I look more mature this time." He tries to emulate a somber frown as a way to prove his adulthood. "Do you have time? I'd love to catch up."

He missed you so much. 

"Right now is a little difficult, but I'll tell you what. Why don't you come over to our place in the near future?"

Huh?

"This way I can introduce you to my fiancé!" You flash him your phone in order to exchange numbers, enthusiastic about the surprise reunion.

He vacantly stares at the lockscreen depicting an unknown man holding you close to him. When he searched for your name online, he didn't find anything regarding a relationship. He didn't expect this. He shouldn't have expected this. His fingers tighten around the small velvet box in his pocket. 

Did you forget your promise to him? Or was everything a lie? No, you wouldn't...you couldn't...He fucking hates liars. But you're not one of them, are you? You're not like Mother. No, no, no, no. Breathe. It's his fault. Of course, naturally. He vanished without a word and you must've thought he abandoned you. How careless of him. How terribly rude to blame you for his mistakes. It's okay, it's alright. He'll make it up to you. Sweet, darling (Y/N). 

"Are you okay?"

He looks up and notices your worried face. 

"Me? Yes, definitely. I was just a little surprised. Hehe. Who would've thought?" He grins and winks at you. "I have an even better idea! Why don't you two come to my apartment instead? I never got the chance to congratulate you for your engagement."

"Gosh, haha, don't worry about i-"

"Please. Pretty please?" He pouts dramatically, holding onto your coat, and you blush slightly at the adorable display. "It's my way of thanking you for the nice childhood memories."

"You really have your way to convince people, huh?" You ruffle his hair and he lowers his head, enjoying the touch. "I'll let my fiancé know."

"Such a cozy place you got yourself!" You beam at the lovely atmosphere of the room. Everything is bright and inviting. 

"Uh huh. The ladies must love you." Your fiancé follows up in agreement, snacking on the fancy appetizers. 

The young man places a tray on the table and hands you both a glass of sparkling wine. 

"Do you live alone? I refuse to believe you don't have a girlfriend." You joke and turn to your partner. "He was a real loner back then. Never saw him around other kids."

"Don't out me like that, (Y/N)!" He pinches your cheek humorously. "As a matter of fact, I do have a girlfriend."

Your fiancé raises his eyebrows, encouraging the boy to continue with details, while he gulps down the pleasantly aromatic drink. Must be expensive. 

"Then why didn't you bring her here? I want to meet her!" You whine. 

The man fiddles with his glass, observing the air bubbles that rush to the surface. 

"You already know her."

"Oh?"

Distracted by this knowledge, you stretch for your own glass and accidentally grab the one belonging to your fiancé. Before you can bring it to your lips, your head swings to the side and you can instantly feel your cheek throb, numb from the abrupt impact of someone's hand. 

"Don't fucking touch it!"

Your childhood friend is standing before you, equally shocked by his act. He stares at his reddening palm and his face twists in terror.

"I-I'm...Oh God...I'm so sorry, (Y/N). I just, I didn't know what else to do. You have to understand, please. I'd never-"

As you listen to his erratic apology, you hear the wheezing coughs of your fiancé. His breathing is irregular and he scratches his throat, unable to verbalize his struggle to you. A white foam begins to form in the corners of his mouth. You try to get up, but the man's fingers dig into your face, forcing you back on the chair. 

"Shhh shhh, it sounds uglier than it actually is. Trust me. Do you see now? I had to be a little rough, otherwise you would've gotten hurt. Hey! Look at me." He cups your cheeks with both of his hands, squatting in front of you. "Let him settle down. It won't be long."

Your vision becomes blurry.

"He needs an ambulance. Please. What did you do with the drinks?" You manage to blurt out.

"Won't make a difference."

He rests his gaze on your features for a few moments, admiring them dreamily. 

"It breaks my heart when you're sad like this. Didn't I say this is an engagement celebration?"

Without breaking eye contact, he pulls out his treasured box and opens it in your lap, revealing a ring.

"I know I disappeared without a word, but I truly had no choice. This is my way of begging for your forgiveness. Not a day went by without thinking of you, (Y/N). I, heh...I actually got this many years ago. Just carried it in my pocket in case I ever found you again." 

He giggles awkwardly, stroking your cheek protectively. 

"So don't cry. I've kept my promise after all, didn't I? Aren't you proud of me~?"

By the time his little speech ends, the room has filled with silence. Your fiancé is slouching on the chair, still and quiet. The young boy picks up your limp body, humming cheerfully. 

"You'll be the prettiest bride in the world.

Mine and mine only."

[bruisedswan]

♱☼ whå† måkê§ †hê w¤|f ïñ §ïlk ✶ ɐɹɔɐuǝ ɹǝɐๅᴉʇʎ sǝๅɟ ℘

there is no light in the eyes of an apex predator such as the lýkos, no evidence of spirit or essence until the sweet stench of death hits her nostrils. there’s a certain elation that sparks in the windows of her soul when the remains of life hang between her canines that she's not sure she can get anywhere else, when she tastes its tartness akin to plums. in addition, the vitality is often bitter, too ripe, almost rotting, a fruit the gods reject and throw into her eager mouth. 

beware of the lýkos, for she is no ordinary predator. the most dangerous type of beast; not one that impulsively bares her teeth, not one only driven by the primitive insatiable hunger that rumbles in her belly like a storm. no. the lýkos is a quiet one. a careful one. a deceiving one. she gathers all that she is — the rage and hunger and envy and cunning — and stuffs it in the strong confines of a living mask made of flesh and bone. Instead of the sharp canines, calculating eyes encasing nothing but her desire to consume, you see a soft delicate smile, cool doe eyes of willow bark and sage meant to lower her prey’s sense of danger long enough for her to pounce. lýkos prowls quietly in her own ribcage as she entraps her prey in broad daylight and for every poor soul she sets her sights on, she adapts and modifies the veil. how do you escape an ever changing beast? how do you survive against the most dangerous apex predator of all — a being crafted to be valor and timidness — a girl? you don’t, simply watch the god favoured take.

and oh how god favoured she is. discordia sees her mayhem caged inside of the girl, a white hot inferno and the emptiness of void, the disturbing quiet that fills open air like static before the apocalyptic tempest rolls in with the might of gods’ rage. life and death, strife and harmony, predator and prey. inner conflict, always contradicting the other. a living paradox. a mortal (?) being embodying all natural forces governing reality. a soldier of chaos and daughter of discord, the priestess of the temple and the knife and the lamb. oh wolf in silk, oh lýkos, oh lycia medarda... to be as divinely touched and tragic as you.

☼✶ s͋͋o҉҉ng̷͋҉҉ pa͋i҉҉ri͋͋ngs҉ ༄ monolithic by milord ༄ la femme ressort by la femme ༄ evol by emprisencia ༄ la ciruela by nico play ༄ slow the burn by sungaze ༄ nymphs finding the head of orpheus by nicole dollanganger

❝ She is the virgin-harlot. She is vulgar, witty, knowledgeable to a depth that terrifies, cruel when she is most kind, unthinking while she thinks, and when she seeks to build she is as destructive as a coriolis storm. ❞

— Dune Messiah by Frank Herbert...

heavily inspired by the lovely @elysian-fawn, her moodboards are absolutely beautiful <33. also this is a sneak peek to an intro that is very much rotting in my drafts so do what you will with this...

[callingitquits]

Hi! Thank you very much for your contribution for Johan Liebert fans (I hate to love him but I do XD). I have a question for you if it wasn't answered already - how do you think Johan would react to his lover with Dr Tenma's personality and/or with similar beliefs to doctor. Would he still try to keep distance if they could see him for who he is?

Hope you have a nice day/night and keep doing great work I think you're one of few who can really dissect the core of who Johan really is and keep it realistic and for that I have nothing but praise

(additionally I'd like to see your take on more of post Monster Johan and how you think he may "changed" or navigates the world now that he's more "human" - emphasis on human because I don't think he'd really change that much and it'd be definitely difficult for him to "try living in society" or maybe he'd be hiding as he did before? I leave that to you)

First off—thank you for the kind words!! And for asking the kind of question that makes my brain do little somersaults. Yes, I love dissecting Johan (emotionally, not medically… probably), and this post is my attempt at tackling your ‘What if his partner was like Tenma?’ scenario. Because oh, he’d notice. And oh, he’d spiral.

As for your second question: post-Monster Johan… yeah, that’s gonna require several drafts, a gallon of iced coffee, and probably its own set of breakdowns (mine or his?). So stay tuned for that mess lmao.

Let’s get into it!

The Recognition

Johan would see it instantly. The way you speak about others.

The pause before you judge. How your eyes stay soft, even when they shouldn’t.

“You sound like him.”

He wouldn’t say this out loud. It would just echo in his mind almost accusingly. 

That same kindness, that conviction, that belief that even the most lost soul could be saved.

It would irritate him.

But also…. draw him in, because part of Johan has never stopped orbiting Dr. Tenma. Not out of hate. Out of obsession. 

Because Tenma is the only one who chose him, not out of fear or manipulation—but out of principle. And that shook Johan to his core.

Now, here is someone else doing the exact same thing.

Why would you choose me? Why do people like you always choose me?

Provocation and Psychological Prodding

He wouldn’t be openly cruel but would constantly edge around moral boundaries, presenting you with these small ethical dilemmas: minor manipulations, lies, half-truths… to see if you bend or break.

“You reach out your hand… but what if they’d rather drown? What then?”

This is a game for him: not out of malice, but because your refusal to collapse under nihilism challenges his worldview. It’s both frustrating and magnetic.

Resentment Laced with Fascination

If you continue to stand firm in your ideals, Johan’s fascination turns inward. Uncomfortably so. 

Like Tenma, your existence reminds him that a life not ruled by despair is possible.

He would hate how you make him feel small, and yet he’d seek you out anyway.

“You keep looking at me like there’s something left.”

Projection

Being with someone like that would feel like constantly living in Tenma’s shadow—but this time closer, more intimate.

He might project his complicated feelings for Tenma onto you without meaning to. Obsession. Rage. Longing. The desire to destroy. The wish to be understood.

“I see the same mercy in your eyes… the kind that kept me breathing longer than I deserved.”

He wouldn’t know whether he’s trying to punish you for being like him, or cling to you in hopes of rewriting that story. Fixing something that never quite healed.

The Paradox of Admiration and Contempt

Johan respects Tenma, almost reveres him. Though it’s twisted with disdain. He sees Tenma’s ideals as beautiful lies—and he resents how resilient they are. You would provoke that same push and pull.

He would sometimes catch himself watching you speak to others—defending someone, showing mercy, treating pain—and it would ache.

Because it makes him remember a world he told himself didn’t exist. One that still refuses to fall apart.

“You still believe in a dream.”

Softly, almost like a confession.

“I wonder how much of you will be left when it dies.”

The Core Truth

Johan does not see himself as redeemable. He resents being seen as broken because it implies he was once whole. 

Being treated like someone to ‘fix’ offends him—not because he wants to be left alone, but because it intrudes on the composed stillness he’s carved from his own ruin.

Attempts to ‘save’ him imply moral superiority. That’s what he truly detests: not your kindness, but your assumption that you understand him.That you could shape him into anything other than what he is.

“You speak as if you’ve seen the end of me… and decided it isn’t final.”

He tilts his head, voice soft as breath.

“That’s the part I find unforgivable.”

Subconscious Protection

Despite himself, Johan might begin to protect you—not from others, but from what you don’t yet understand: him. He knows what he is. What closeness becomes in his hands. 

If he loves you—it won’t be gentle. It will be possessive, consuming, threaded with the fear that he will unmake you just by being known. 

And so, without saying why, he starts to pull away. Not because he doesn’t want you close, but because he knows what happens when you are.

If I let you too close… I won’t know where I end and you begin.

And I don’t believe you’d survive that.

In essence: Johan with a Tenma-like partner is like a moth circling a flame he both wants to snuff out and be warmed by. He would never stop testing their ideals…. because if they hold, they threaten to undo everything he believes about the emptiness of humanity. And that, to Johan, is both deplorable and irresistible.

[oddyseye]

Achilles killing Hector is absolutely a metaphor for Achilles’ suicidal despair.

Homer presents Achilles and Hector not just as opposing warriors, but as reflections of one another. They are, paradoxically, more alike than any other two men on the battlefield. This likeness is central to the metaphor of self-destruction. They’re both unstoppable warriors, both driven by duty, and both doomed to die young. The difference is in their choices. Hector fights to protect his family and his city. Achilles? He fights for his name, for glory. And when Hector kills Patroclus, it’s like everything Achilles can’t stand about himself — his failure, his pride, his isolation — gets shoved in his face. That’s why Hector has to die. It’s not just revenge. It’s personal. To start, consider how Hector literally steps into Achilles’ identity by wearing his armor. When Hector puts on Achilles’ armor after killing Patroclus, he literally becomes Achilles’ mirror image. He’s wearing the skin of Achilles’ rage, guilt, and grief. Homer doesn’t just stop there, in fact he hammers it home when we straight-up get told that Hector in the armor looked like Achilles chasing and trying to kill himself.

But this isn’t just about Hector wearing the armor. It’s about what the armor represents. Achilles gave it to Patroclus, knowing full well it would make his best friend a target. When Hector kills Patroclus, Achilles’ first reaction isn’t just grief; it’s self-hatred. Deep down, he thinks he killed Patroclus. He let his pride keep him off the battlefield, sent Patroclus out there to do his job, and now his friend is dead. So when Achilles sees Hector in the armor, it’s like looking at a walking, breathing embodiment of his failure.

Hector isn’t just a reminder of Achilles’ guilt, though. He’s also everything Achilles feels he can never be. Hector has a family — a wife and child who adore him. He fights not for himself but for the people he loves. And that infuriates Achilles. Hector has what Achilles doesn’t, and by this point, Achilles doesn’t even want it anymore. By losing Patroclus, he lost any chance of such life. And Achilles knows killing Hector will seal his own doom. He just...doesn’t care. In fact, he’s already resigned to it. This is where the suicidal undertones really hit hard. Killing Hector is Achilles’ way of accelerating his own destruction. He’s not just dragging Hector’s body around Troy out of vengeance; he’s punishing himself. He’s tearing apart the last shred of his humanity, dragging it through the dirt, because that’s how deep his self-loathing goes. That’s why the act of killing Hector feels so hollow and unsatisfying for him. Dragging Hector’s body around Troy, desecrating it, isn’t about punishing Hector; it’s about punishing himself. It’s Achilles’ way of tearing apart the part of him that still feels, still mourns, still holds onto a shred of humanity. By the time Priam comes to beg for his son’s body, Achilles is unrecognizable as the man who once lived for glory and triumph. He’s lost in his grief, consumed by his guilt, and haunted by the inevitability of his own death. Killing Hector wasn’t an act of justice or redemption. It was Achilles’ final descent into despair. What remains of him after that moment is just a shadow of the man he once was, waiting for the end he knows will come.

[jalapenobee]

"baby quickly turn around and exit the other way" kenta who are you talking to. WHO.

[radical-revolution]

I do not split.

I carry all contradictions within myself.

I hold the inner twins:

Joy and sorrow.

Bliss and boredom.

Profound peace and the clarifying fire of anger.

I no longer exile one and glorify the other.

I let all the pairs live together in me -

The sacred ones and the scared ones,

The lost ones and the luminous ones.

I do not split

Between teacher and student,

Expert and beginner,

Pure channel and imperfect vessel,

Silence and storm.

I hold them all.

This is my power now -

Not some spiritual high,

Not some lofty detachment,

But the refusal to abandon any part of myself.

The refusal to chase cheap resolution

In the face of inner contradiction.

I am not here to transcend myself.

I am here to house all of myself.

To hold every last lost one in love!

To be vast -

Like the sky holding storm and sunlight,

Like a father’s heart,

as he cradles all his children.

In mythology, the twins appeared:

Castor and Pollux.

Romulus and Remus.

Osiris and Set.

Light and Shade.

Heaven and Earth.

Mortal and Immortal.

Our power is not in choosing between them -

But in letting them live together inside of us.

Through near-death and return,

I have learned and earned this:

I no longer chase bliss and abandon boredom.

No longer cling to presence and banish absence.

No longer silence rage to appear enlightened.

These are false choices,

Born of fear -

Like the ocean trying to exile half of its waves!

No.

I am the one who can hold it all!

That is courage.

That is power.

That is nonduality, embodied.

Not floating above life -

But standing in the middle of it.

Arms wide.

Heart exposed.

Vulnerable.

Grounded as all hell.

I do not split.

I expand.

I enlarge.

And even when I do split -

I still carry all the paradoxes.

I still hold all my inner children.

I still let them all sing.

I do not split.

- Jeff Foster

[kaayyyys]

negan X reader

Captured

My wrists burned, the rough rope biting into my skin. Rick Grimes, his face etched with desperation and exhaustion, stood before me, his eyes a storm of conflicting emotions. He looked at me, Negan’s wife, with a mixture of guilt and grim determination."We don't want to hurt you," he rasped, his voice raw. "We just… we need Negan to listen. Alexandria… it's not living. It's surviving, under his thumb."His words echoed the unspoken anxieties that haunted my own heart. Life with Negan was a paradox of security and suffocating control. He loved me, fiercely and possessively, showering me with affection and ensuring my comfort. But that love came with a steep price – unwavering obedience, a constant awareness of the power he wielded, and the ever-present shadow of Lucille.The Saviors surrounding me were a motley crew, their faces hardened by hardship and loyalty to Negan. They kept their distance, their gazes wary, mindful of the wrath they would incur if they harmed me. Rick, however, seemed different. He held himself with a burden, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his decisions.Days bled into each other. I was confined to a small, dusty room, the silence punctuated only by the rustling of leaves and the distant cries of walkers. My captors brought me food, bland and unappetizing, but sustenance nonetheless. They were careful, almost apologetic, in their interactions with me. It was an odd charade, threatening and intimidating one moment, then solicitous and cautious the next. He was my husband, my protector, the man who had swept me off my feet with his charm and unwavering devotion. But I also saw the suffering he caused, the fear in the eyes of the people he oppressed. And now, seeing Rick’s desperation, the hollow-eyed hunger in his men, I couldn't ignore it ."He won't listen," I said softly, my voice barely a whisper. "Negan won't negotiate. He'll see this as an act of war."Rick sighed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Then we fight," he said, his voice laced with weariness. "But I had to try. I had to try to find a way to save my people without bloodshed."His words resonated with me. I saw in him a reflection of the man Negan could have been, a leader driven by compassion instead of fear. The air crackled with gunfire, the ground trembled with the force of the battle. Then, the unmistakable crack of Lucille echoed through the chaos. Negan.He stormed into the room, his face a mask of rage, Lucille dripping with blood. His eyes locked on Rick, and a primal fury erupted from him."You touch what's mine, Grimes," he roared, his voice a terrifying bellow, "and you pay the price!"He lunged at Rick, Lucille raised high, ready to deliver a fatal blow.In that moment, something snapped within me. I couldn't let him do it. I couldn't stand by and watch another life be taken, another family torn apart.I surged forward, placing myself between Negan and Rick, my arms outstretched."Stop!" I cried .He lowered Lucille, his anger momentarily eclipsed by confusion."What are you doing?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief."Don't do this, Negan," I pleaded, tears streaming down my face. "Talk to him. Please, just for me ." He saw the sincerity in my eyes, the desperate plea for peace .He hesitated for a long moment, his eyes flicking between me and Rick. "Fine," he growled, his voice still rough, but devoid of the murderous intent. "We talk. But Grimes knows, one wrong move…"Rick, his face bruised and bloodied, nodded slowly. "I understand."The air still crackled with tension, but the immediate threat of violence had subsided. As Negan and Rick began their hesitant negotiations, I knew this was just the beginning. And maybe, just maybe, I could help build that future, one conversation, one compromise, one act of kindness at a time.