#Ignore anything about this that doesn’t make sense

[hxney-lemcn]

Mine, Only Mine — Mr. Crawling, Gap, Silvair, Chopped, Hugeface, and Scarletella x gn! reader

summery: how jealous do some of the Homicipher boys get?

tw: unhealthy relationships (Mr. Hugeface & Scarletella)

wc: 1.2k

Master List

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Crawling

❥I know people have written about how he gets jealous…but I don’t really think he does? Or at least not terribly. The scene with Mr. Chopped and the cat ears show that Mr. Crawling won’t pout or get sad at you showing affection to others, just that he wants to gain the same attention (the ear scene…). So jealousy with Mr. Crawling isn’t too bad, just be prepared to shower him with more affection than the person you originally did. 

❥On the other hand, I do think his jealousy may increase if you ignore him. Say you give more attention to Mr. Scarletella, Mr. Crawling would get a bit sad and pouty, thinking you don’t like him anymore. If this happens, give him lots and lots of attention and reassurance, he’ll be super grateful. I mean he loves your affection anyways, so might as well give him some extra headpats and kisses. Even better if you only show certain signs of affection with him, it makes him feel special. 

❥Overall, not the most jealous, but not completely unaffected either. Make sure he gets his daily dose of attention/quality time and he’ll be as right as rain.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Gap

❥Uh, he gets more jealous than you’d think. Like…his whole thing is he wants to be special to you…in his own strange way. Doesn’t like the thought of someone taking his place as a jokester to you. Also why he brings you things he’d think you like from time to time, just to make sure you still have that special place in your heart for him <3

❥Hates hate hates when you call him bad or not good. He’s good! He swears! Remember how he’s helped you before! Gets all frowny when you call him not good and then call someone else good. He’s good too! Guess he has to prove it, AGAIN. It’s honestly kind of endearing how he has no clue how he actually kind of does like you? But not exactly in a romantic way? It’s honestly hard to label his feelings towards you, so why should I?

❥I’d say he’s the second most jealous in this list of characters, watching on angrily as you praise someone that isn’t him. Be prepared for magazines and books galore when he’s in this mood, trying to prove his worth to you. Kind of strange for someone to try so hard when they claim to not like you…

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Silvair

❥Definitely the chillest one here. Doesn’t really get jealous at all :/ If anything, he finds it entertaining when you’re affectionate with others. Gives him more insight to his lab rats. Yes, he sees everyone as a lab rat. Idk, I can’t really see him get jealous.

❥Maybe…MAYBE if someone else tries doing research on you, or if Ms. Nurse treats you instead he’ll feel a bit off. Like…you’re his test subject, he knows you from the inside out…literally and not in the fun sense. Why would you go to someone who doesn’t know as much about you and how this world affects you? It’s very hard to spot his jealousy, doesn’t even notice it/recognize it himself. He just doesn’t want anyone to mess up his data…that’s all…totally.

❥In conclusion, not really jealous. Doesn’t feel like he needs to be. You’re ‘friends’, doctor and patient, mad scientist and lab rat not many others threaten that balance between you. 

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Chopped

❥Honestly…Mr. Chopped I’m kinda mixed on how he’d be. Like on one hand, I could totally see him getting jealous if you call others cute or pay too much attention to them. On the other…he could probably care less. He loves himself, you love him, why does he need to get jealous? It’s clear how much you like him with the way you pamper him. I mean we get so many examples where you’re affectionate to Mr. Crawling in front of Mr. Chopped and he doesn’t really bat an eye. 

❥Now, I can see if he gets a bit insecure he might get more jealous. Whether it be because Mr. Crawling pats your head or tucks you into bed, Mr. Chopped feels a bit sad. He’d like to tuck you in, you look so comfy. Might be just a bit pouty, eyeing you like a dissatisfied cat. Easily rectified with head pats or even cuddles. Gets side tracked from his jealousy as soon as you give him a sliver of attention honestly.

❥Mr. Chopped is fifty fifty when it comes to jealousy, but it’s never too bad. He’s pretty comfortable with what you both have and doesn’t really feel threatened by others. After all, you did call him cute.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Hugeface

❥I wouldn’t say he gets jealous? More possessive than anything. Like that scene when Mr. Machete stumbles into his little makeshift dollhouse that he made for you and gets all angry that he’s there. It’s more of a ‘you’re not supposed to be here, this is our playtime’ more than actual jealousy. Throws a little fit whenever someone messes up your playtime. Very accusatory lmao.

❥Does not like when you try to escape. Was he not providing enough for you? Were you unhappy? You’re not allowed to leave! You’re his cute human! He can’t just find another one y’know. Mr. Hugeface may be lenient if he sees you happier, you need enrichment after all. Feels extra happy if you come back on your own violation. 

❥The most childish out of all the characters on this list. Isn’t afraid to throw tantrums, will also punish you by putting you in a solid concrete cube if he’s really upset. Yeah…not the most healthy of relationships to have…BUT! I do think you could convince him to be a bit better…? Maybe? Only if you put enough work in communicating with him though. Maybe punish him in your own way like leaving for longer if he threatens to trap you.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Mr. Scarletella

❥Uhhhhhhhhhhh. Top of the list when it comes to jealousy. Watches your every move with curiosity and spite. Why are you doing that to Mr. Crawling? Do it to him instead. Why do you look so happy braiding Mr. Chopped’s hair? Style his hair instead. Why are you looking so fondly amused at Mr. Gap? Don’t you find him amusing? You do like him, right? He likes you. He likes you a lot, and he thought he was enough…was he not?

❥Will stare through your skull. It is so intimidating. His smile? Strained, it makes your skin crawl. You have to make sure he doesn’t hurt your friends, he’s so close to snapping, but he knows that would upset you and that’s not his goal. So instead he stands ominously in the background, body staticing in and out while his hand clenches the handle of his umbrella. 

❥Not that easily mended. Likes to monopolize all your time and affection. Needs constant reassurance as well, he’s quite needy. If you like constant validation and no social life go for it, just don’t get too upset if he threatens your other monster friends…he can’t stand that you could like someone that wasn’t him.

[killerelysia]

Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur!- Solivan brugmansia x Yan!G.N Reader!

The kid at the back is a 18+ visual novel Minors don't interact!

Words:10004

Genre: Yandere-(Self aware yandere won the poll)

Summary: You’ve become consumed by your obsession with Solivan Brugmansia. What started as innocent curiosity quickly spiraled into a fixation. He started it and you began to stalk him, learning every detail about his life. You felt a sick sense of satisfaction in making Sol’s world safer while growing increasingly delusional about your connection with him. Your love for him deepens as you fantasize about the future, convinced that you are the one who truly understands him—better than anyone else. Despite the line between reality and obsession blurring, you remain certain: Sol is yours, even if he doesn’t know it yet.. You're his and he's yours...

( Reader is a g.n!)-

Trigger Warning: This content contains themes of obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, mental instability, and delusional thinking, Drugging, Yandere?, Hopeless in love for attention Please read with caution.

Obsessive behavior: The reader becomes dangerously fixated on someone, bordering on stalking and delusion.

Manipulation: The reader engages in schemes to control or harm others, often through deception.

Mental illness: Delusional thinking, possible dissociation from reality, and unhealthy fixation on someone.

Violence: There are references to bullying, physical harm, and emotional manipulation.

Emotional abuse: Both in terms of how the protagonist manipulates others and how they might internalize toxic behaviors.

Stalking: The reader watches and follows the person they are obsessed with.

EXTRA: He's a character from a game named The kid at the back!! Note, The relationship presented here between sol and reader is extremely toxic!! In no way, Just because I'm writing doesn't mean I support this kind of toxicity. Note, It's okay to like sol if you know the flaws and don't be a blind eye on them! Again, I don't support his actions etc! If you hate sol ignore this.

You always knew something was off within the labyrinth of your mind, an ache that whispered solitude in every corner. Perhaps it was loneliness, so profound that you yearned for someone to notice you—anything to shift the weight of your gaze from them to you. Some flicker of curiosity, a moment that lingered in the eyes of another.

Love? No, it wasn't something you believed you deserved. That thought had long been etched into your consciousness like a brand. But if, by some twist of fate, someone were to fall for you, you’d ensnare them with relentless support until they admitted it, an inexplicable, almost desperate logic born from the shadowed corners of your heart.

The end of the first semester brought the storm. It wasn’t just another rough day; it was the day you became a target for the school’s cruelest crew. Fists flew, words cut, and everything seemed to blend into one terrifying blur until Crowe stepped in, his eyes dark with determination.

"Thank goodness you're unharmed," he gasped, breathing heavily, each word a raw mix of relief and pain.

"You’re worried about me? Look at you, you're the one who’s hurt!" Your voice quivered, the disbelief clashing with gratitude.

He stood there, battle-worn and steady, blood trickling from a split lip, the bruises stark against his pale skin. Those who had cornered you were finally satisfied, leaving with the empty laughter of the bored and cruel. Crowe looked at you and shrugged, the glint in his eyes softening.

"As long as you’re safe, this doesn’t matter."

A warmth spread through your chest, alien and consuming. Someone cared. Someone defended you, unyielding in their resolve.

"What's your name, crazy prince?"

He managed a tired, almost mischievous smile. "Jericho. Jericho Ichabod. But just call me Crowe."

You exhaled a shaky breath. "Nice to meet you, Crowe. Call me Y/N."

That moment in the clinic, under the unforgiving fluorescent lights and the sterile scent of antiseptic, became the silent contract that bonded you two. You shared conversations, silent glances, and a strange understanding that made the world seem a little less harsh. For a while, you even harbored a crush, tender and tentative.

But then it hit you, as sudden as that fateful day. Crowe would have done the same for anyone—he was simply good. He was kind. The realization struck with an ache so deep it nearly broke you. Love, you learned, was an unrequited script in your story. But you respected him too much to let it taint what was there.

You laughed at the absurdity of your own heart, wondering how it had come to this: delusional, hopeful, but still grateful for the fleeting feeling of being someone’s concern.

There was always that gnawing thought, like a shadow, lurking at the back of your mind. You tried to shake it off, but it whispered relentlessly: There’s something wrong with the way you love. Maybe it was the way you sought attention, not in small doses but in that raw, hungry kind of way. The way you craved someone’s gaze not as a fleeting glance but as an unwavering fixation.

Too much, you thought, turning the phrase over and over like a bitter pill on your tongue. You wanted to be loved so desperately that it bordered on obsession, a gnawing, insatiable need. It wasn’t the soft, gentle kind of love you read about or saw in movies—it was something darker, almost suffocating. It made your chest tighten with both longing and dread.

You swallowed hard, a dry laugh slipping past your lips as the thought settled in: That’s just you, isn’t it? Creepy Y/N, always wanting more, always needing to be consumed by the flame of someone’s attention. A shiver traced down your spine, and you hugged your arms close, seeking comfort in the cold truth.

Now, you’ve perfected the act. You've slipped so far into delusion that reality feels like it’s cracking at the edges, and your mind might not make it back intact. But you only have one task: work relentlessly and pay off the debt, save the farm that’s been the lifeblood of your family.

Your obsession with love, you remind yourself, is nothing but a sickness—a distraction, unhealthy and unneeded. Focus, you think. Study. Keep your head down. Your father believes in you, doesn’t he? He trusts you with this responsibility. But would anyone love a mess like you anyway? The question loops bitterly in your mind, self-loathing taking hold before you even have the chance.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” You tell yourself.

Something felt off for a few weeks now, like an odd tension building in the corners of your life. It was... something. It wasn’t anything you could pinpoint, but you couldn’t shake the feeling.

A pair of eyes, always there, always watching. At first, it was subtle—just a flicker of awareness when you turned a corner or sat down. But it was more than that. It was almost a presence, an invisible force that seemed to follow your every move. It wasn’t a simple glance. No, it was far more intense, almost stalking.

And yet, a strange part of you... liked it. It sent a thrill through you, a kind of adrenaline rush you couldn’t explain. You’d find yourself sitting in class, pretending to study, but the sensation of being watched made your heart race. It wasn’t discomfort—it was excitement, a twisted thrill, something you couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t just at University. No, it followed you home too. As you entered your room, you couldn’t help but feel the familiar weight of someone’s gaze on you, lingering in the dark corners, watching through the crack in your door. Your mind spun with a chaotic mix of fear and anticipation. Who was it? Why were they watching you?

There was no reason for it—at least, none you could rationalize. And yet, you found yourself... hoping to meet them. Wanting to meet them. A part of you longed to finally see the one who’d been following you in the shadows. Because somehow, you knew they were close. You knew they were waiting for the right moment to step out from the

The next morning, something was off. The usual routine of brushing off your paranoia seemed heavier, more tangible. Your bedroom window, which you always locked at night, was ajar. Not just unlocked—it had slid open slightly, exposing a crack wide enough to send shivers down your spine. You tried to push it closed, but the latch was broken, the mechanism jammed beyond repair. Had it always been like this?

You stared at it for a moment, the realization sinking in: someone could have come in. Someone might have been inside.

You tried to shake it off, but as the day went on, more pieces fell into place. A gnawing sense of violation crept up your spine when you went to grab your laundry and noticed... something was missing. Not just something—specific clothes. Shirts you’d worn recently, soft hoodies you curled up in, a pair of socks that didn’t match but had sentimental value. Gone.

Your chest tightened, panic flooding your veins, but it wasn’t just fear. A part of you—some sick, pathetic part—felt thrilled. Someone is watching me.

The thought settled in, heavy and dark, but the sharp edges of logic began to dull. Who would stalk you? You’re not even pretty. You weren’t special. Not worth the effort. And yet, here you were, clothes missing, your window breached, the unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze following you through every step of your day.

“Normal people would think this isn’t fine,” you muttered aloud to yourself, trying to anchor yourself in rationality. This isn’t fine. This isn’t okay.

But the words fell flat. Somewhere in your mind, reality started to bend. Yes, it was wrong—stalking was wrong. It was invasive, dangerous, terrifying. And yet, the pounding in your chest wasn’t just fear. It was curiosity. It was longing.

The thought twisted in your mind, dark and intrusive: What kind of person would go this far just for me? They must care. They must want to know you in a way no one else ever had. What do they see when they watch? What do they think about?

You couldn’t help yourself. The idea of being desired so intensely that someone would break into your life, leave pieces of themselves hidden in the cracks of your existence—it sent a thrill through you. Wrong. So wrong. But intoxicating.

You paced your room that evening, staring at the broken latch on the window. The moonlight spilled across the floor in sharp lines, almost like it was pointing at the scene of the crime. A part of you wondered if they were watching now. Standing somewhere in the dark, just out of reach, their breath fogging up the glass.

Who even are you? Why me?

The questions spun in your mind, each one pulling you deeper into a strange obsession of your own. You should be scared. You should be scared. But instead, you were intrigued. Drawn in. You wanted to know this person, to see the face that lingered in the shadows.

You sat down at your desk, your reflection catching in the window’s glass. “This isn’t normal,” you said softly, your voice cracking slightly. “I shouldn’t feel like this. I shouldn’t want this.”

But you did. You couldn’t deny it any longer. The thought of someone dedicating their time, their energy, their every waking moment to you—it filled a hole you didn’t know existed. You craved that kind of devotion, twisted as it was.

You caught yourself smiling, a wry, self-deprecating grin. “God, I’m a mess,” you whispered. You leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. Why do I feel this way?

The truth settled in, stark and undeniable: you’d never felt wanted before. Not like this. And now, even if it was wrong, even if it was dangerous, you couldn’t help but feel... excited. Like something in your life was finally happening, shaking you out of the monotony of existence.

You wanted to meet them. To see them. To understand the face behind the gaze that followed you everywhere you went. You told yourself it wasn’t love—not yet. But it was something. Something raw and electric, and you weren’t sure you could resist it.

Your fixation deepened, evolving from a vague thrill to deliberate action. The missing items didn’t alarm you anymore—they exhilarated you. At first, it was small things: a pen left behind on a desk or the bench outside class. Accidental, you told yourself. But you knew better. You weren’t careless. You’d started leaving things on purpose, wondering, hoping, knowing they would take them.

And they did.

The pen was gone when you returned, replaced by nothing but the faintest hint of satisfaction in your chest. You tested it again, leaving behind a notebook with a stray doodle inside—gone by the next day. It became a game. A secret dance between you and this unknown figure lurking in your shadow.

The knowledge that someone wanted these pieces of you made your heart race. Pathetic, you thought, but the warmth in your chest told a different story. You were addicted to the idea, to them. And soon, you weren’t just leaving things behind. You were creating a world where they could exist freely.

You didn’t fix the window. Why would you? You liked to imagine them climbing through it, their hands brushing against the sill, their breath in your room. Fixing it would shut them out, make their life harder. You couldn’t do that—not to them. You told yourself it wasn’t because you wanted them inside, because you were inviting them in. No, it was just… considerate. Thoughtful.

The laugh that bubbled up from your throat at the thought startled you. Soft, at first, then louder. “I’m losing it,” you murmured, but the giggles didn’t stop. They spilled out of you, an almost giddy sound as you turned the idea over and over in your head.

If they were coming in, why not make it easier for both of you? Why not see them, finally see them?

That night, you slipped a tiny camera into the corner of your room, hidden carefully in the folds of an old, dusty bookend. It was subtle, unassuming—nothing that would stand out to anyone who didn’t know it was there.

The thrill of it sent a shiver down your spine. Soon, you’d have answers. Soon, you’d see their face, their expressions, their intent. Ah, what would they look like? You’d imagined it before, of course—soft features, a piercing gaze, maybe even a shy smile. Someone who would look at you with the intensity that had kept you up at night, that had followed you for weeks.

You sat in the middle of your room that night, staring at the blinking light on the camera, anticipation coiling in your stomach. “You’ll come, won’t you?” you whispered to no one. The silence answered back, but you weren’t disheartened. You knew they’d come.

You could feel the laughter building up in your chest again, giddy and uncontrollable. The corners of your lips curled upward as you muttered, “I’m going to see you. Heheh… Soon.” The giggle turned into full-blown laughter, sharp and manic as it filled the room.

This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t healthy. But God, it was intoxicating.

The thought of finally meeting them, of knowing them, sent your thoughts spiraling. Your hands trembled as you checked the camera one last time before heading to bed. It was all set. Everything was perfect. All that was left was to wait.

As you lay in bed, staring at the broken window, your mind swirled with fantasies of what was to come. Maybe they’d speak to you, confess their reasons for watching, for taking your things. Maybe they’d admit their feelings—feelings you were sure existed, even if you couldn’t yet see them.

And if they didn’t? Well, you’d find out soon enough.

“Come on,” you whispered to the empty room, your voice trembling with a mixture of excitement and desperation. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

And with that, you closed your eyes, letting the thrill of anticipation lull you into restless sleep.

You wake up, drowsy and groggy, blinking as you register the faint glow of your camera's recording light. Your heart skips—not from fear but from a jittery excitement. Did it catch something? Your hands move faster than your thoughts, fumbling to pull up the footage.

Last night had been a blur. You’d tried so hard to stay awake, but the meal you’d eaten earlier had lulled you into a deep, undisturbed sleep. As you scroll through the recording, skipping the mundane moments of you tossing and turning, the feed jumps to him.

The man.

His hair, black with vivid green streaks, is loose, falling in soft waves around his face. The mask he wears obscures most of his features, but his eyes—crimson red on the outer ring with fiery orange at their centers—gleam, focused solely on you. His attire is dark and layered: a black t-shirt over a green-striped long-sleeve, necklaces clinking softly with each of his movements. You even catch a glint of the metallic piercings decorating his ears, the upside-down cross swaying slightly as he leans closer.

And then, he speaks.

“Finally found you, pumpkin,” his voice is soft, smooth, almost reverent. You freeze, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Pumpkin?

“I’m sorry about the window,” he continues, running gloved fingers along the edge of your desk. “But it’s a good thing you didn’t fix it, still.” His tone is teasing, like he’s scolding and praising you all at once.

Your hands hover over the keyboard as he approaches your sleeping form on the screen. He kneels beside you, brushing back a strand of hair from your face with deliberate care. “Hyugo’s pills do work,” he murmurs to himself, chuckling faintly. “They make you sleep so peacefully. I can finally see you at night…”

Then, he leans down. His masked face inches closer to your cheek. You watch, your breath caught, as he plants the softest kiss on your skin.

That explains it. The faint pressure you’d felt in your sleep—the fleeting warmth. Your hand instinctively touches the spot on your cheek, even now, feeling its ghost.

Yet instead of terror, instead of the dread that should’ve consumed you, your heart flutters. A warmth blooms in your chest, spreading, suffocating. You press your clasped hands to your lips, trembling not in fear, but in something else entirely.

The stalker. The man. He…he likes you? Watches you every night, praises you even in your most unguarded moments? It’s wrong. It’s so obviously wrong. The rational part of your mind screams at you to call for help, to fix the window, to run far away.

But instead, you giggle.

The sound bubbles out of you uncontrollably, and you quickly clamp a hand over your mouth. You know this isn’t normal. You know something is terribly broken inside of you. But that knowledge doesn’t stop the twisted elation coursing through your veins.

He’s here. He sees you. He wants you.

You rewind the footage, watching it again. This time, you focus on his words, on the reverent way he speaks to your unconscious self. You note the details: the shine of his hair, the small buckle on his collar-like choker, the way his spider-bite piercings catch the moonlight when he tilts his head. He’s beautiful, like something plucked out of your dreams—or maybe your nightmares.

And now, he’s real.

Your hands shake as you stop the playback, staring blankly at the paused image of him by your bedside. The mask hides so much, but his eyes—they burn into you, even through the screen. You imagine what it would be like to see him without it, to hear his voice unfiltered, to—

You slap your cheeks, shaking your head. Focus, Y/N.

But the truth clings to you, suffocating and intoxicating all at once. You know he’s a stalker. You know this situation is dangerous. Yet the thought of fixing the window, of locking him out for good, feels unbearable. The idea of never seeing him again—of never hearing his voice, his praises—sends a pang of despair through you.

“Delusional,” you whisper to yourself, laughing softly. You curl into yourself, gripping the camera tightly. “I’m so delusional.”

But even as you say it, even as you acknowledge the depths of your spiraling thoughts, you can’t stop the lovesick smile creeping across your face.

You couldn’t shake the image of him—the stalker who had taken such a twisted interest in you. His voice, his praise, the way he watched you with that obsessive focus—it haunted your waking thoughts and danced through your dreams.

You needed to know more about him.

At first, you tried to find clues, anything that could lead you to his identity. You scoured your campus, paying close attention to anyone with black and green-streaked hair, those fiery orange-crimson eyes, or piercings that matched the ones you’d seen on the footage. But nothing. He was a ghost, blending seamlessly into the crowd or watching from somewhere beyond your grasp.

Still, you didn’t give up. Each day, you upped your game. You adjusted your routine to appear natural, but always left subtle traces behind—a scarf forgotten on a bench, a pen dropped intentionally in class. When you circled back, the items were always gone, confirming he was following you even during the day. Good, you thought with a lovesick smile.

Then there was the matter of the food.

You began preparing two batches of every meal—one real and one fake. The fake was the key to your plan. You seasoned it as usual but spiked it with just enough sleeping pills to incapacitate. You made sure to label it with your name, store it visibly in your fridge, and place a half-finished glass of juice beside it. You wanted it to look lived-in, convincing, a perfect trap should he decide to raid your kitchen while you left so he can do be fooled with the fake, food.

Your window remained unfixed, and you started leaving the back door slightly unlocked, just in case. You didn’t want to inconvenience him. He might notice and think you were trying to keep him out, and you couldn’t have that.

Meanwhile, your eyes darted constantly across the campus, scanning crowds for any hint of him. You noted everyone’s schedules, mapped out their movements, even engaged in small talk to see if anyone slipped or seemed overly interested in you. But you were careful, never letting on that you were actively looking for someone.

The high alert you maintained made your classmates think you were just unusually focused. Nobody questioned you, and you made sure to keep up appearances: smiling, laughing when appropriate, pretending you didn’t feel eyes on you during every step you took.

Your awareness sharpened to the point where you could feel even the subtlest shifts in your environment. A shadow lingering a little too long, footsteps trailing you just far enough to seem coincidental, and the faint brush of something in your periphery. It thrilled you.

That night, everything was in place. You prepared your fake dinner, complete with a side of drugged juice, and left it in the kitchen. The back door was left unlocked, the window slightly ajar. You dimmed the lights in your room, slipped into bed, and forced yourself to feign sleep.

Your heart raced as you waited. Will he come tonight?

Time passed, but you stayed still, fighting the urge to peek at the camera feed. If this worked, you would finally get what you wanted—a glimpse of him unguarded, vulnerable.

The plan worked almost too perfectly. The camera, discreetly tucked in a shadowy corner, confirmed what you already suspected—he was breaking in nightly. Sol fell for the fake food every time, drugging it to keep you in a deeper sleep. You couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of pride. He's trying so hard for me.

That night, you left everything in place as usual. The drugged fake food was strategically left out, the door slightly ajar, and your performance as a deep sleeper rehearsed to perfection. You even regulated your breathing to mimic the rise and fall of slumber, fully aware he was watching. The excitement bubbled under your skin, but you held it in check. Be still. He can’t suspect.

You felt him enter, the faintest whisper of air as the door creaked open. He moved quietly, though not silently. Every step he took was deliberate, careful not to wake you. You heard the faint sound of him checking the food, his soft hum of satisfaction as he saw it gone!. Good. He thinks I ate it.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down beside you. Your pulse quickened, but you kept your breathing steady, your body relaxed. He leaned close, his breath warm against your neck.

“Pumpkin...” he whispered, the word barely audible, yet it sent a shiver down your spine. His voice was soft, tender, laced with a devotion that felt almost holy in its intensity. “You’re so perfect, you know that? Even when you sleep, you’re beautiful.”

You felt his hand brush against your hair, a soft caress like you were something precious, fragile. He moved closer, the faint scent of his cologne enveloping you. Then, he did something you didn’t expect—he lay down beside you. His arm draped over your waist, pulling you close as though you belonged there, as though this was his right.

He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell like heaven,” he murmured, his voice barely above a breath. “I’ve waited so long for this. To hold you. To be close to you.”

Your heart clenched. Not in fear or disgust—no, it was something else entirely. He’s... cute? The thought struck you like a lightning bolt, absurd and yet undeniable. There was something endearing about the way he clung to you, his touches reverent, his voice filled with genuine emotion. This is wrong. He’s a stalker. He drugs my food. He breaks into my house... but... You bit the inside of your cheek to suppress a smile.

He continued to whisper sweet nothings, his words blurring into a hazy mix of praise and adoration. “You’re everything to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” His hand slid up to brush your hair back, his fingers lingering on your cheek. “You’re mine, pumpkin. You’ll always be mine.”

A part of you wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Mine? You were the one trapping him, leading him into this elaborate game of cat and mouse. And yet, his words made your heart flutter. What is wrong with me? you thought, though the answer was glaringly obvious. You were broken, disturbed, a sick and twisted mirror of his obsession.

But you were self-aware, at least. That counted for something, didn’t it? No. No, it doesn’t, you admitted silently, feeling a pang of guilt.

Still, you played your part perfectly. You didn’t stir as he shifted, wrapping his arms around you more tightly. You felt the weight of his head resting against yours, his breath warm and steady.

“You make me feel alive,” he whispered. “Even if you don’t know it, even if you’d hate me if you did... I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. But instead of fear, you felt a sick sense of satisfaction. He needs me.

You clasped your hands together under the blanket, holding them to your mouth as though in prayer. Your lips curved into a soft smile, hidden from his view. This was real. Someone wanted you, needed you, loved you so obsessively it consumed them.

It didn’t matter that it was wrong, that it was dangerous. You weren’t afraid. If anything, you felt secure, wrapped in the warmth of his embrace. How ironic, you thought, giggling softly in your mind. The stalker makes me feel safe.

The hours dragged on, but he didn’t move. He stayed there, holding you as though he was afraid you’d vanish. When his breathing finally evened out, signaling he’d fallen asleep, you dared to open your eyes just a sliver.

You caught a glimpse of his face, partially obscured by the strands of his black-and-green hair. Even in sleep, there was a softness to his features, a vulnerability that made your chest ache.

He’s beautiful.

You closed your eyes again, biting your lip to stifle another giggle. You were a good actor, yes, but deep down, you knew the truth. You weren’t pretending for his sake. You were pretending for yours, to keep up the illusion that you still had control.

Because the reality was, you didn’t.

He had you just as much as you had him.

Each night, you lay in bed, pretending to be under the spell of the fake food laced with sleeping pills. Each night, he came to you, a shadow in the moonlight, and you reveled in his presence.

Your adoration for him grew like an uncontrollable fire, consuming every rational thought. The notebook you'd started was your secret shrine to him. Sketches filled the pages—his face, his hair cascading like a dark waterfall, his intense eyes, the way his lips curled into the faintest smile when he whispered sweet things to your sleeping form. You had to capture it all. Your pencil scratched furiously, your mind replaying his words, his touch, the way he’d caress your face and murmur promises as if you were his most precious treasure.

That night, you prepared everything as usual. The fake food sat on the counter, the door left just barely ajar, your blankets pulled up to mimic serene sleep. You curled into the mattress, feigning slumber, though your heart raced with anticipation.

The familiar sound of the door creaking open sent a thrill down your spine. His footsteps were soft but unmistakable, and you felt the mattress shift as he sat down beside you. Here we go.

“Pumpkin,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hand brushed your hair back from your face, and you fought the urge to smile. “Why don’t you ever turn back to look at me? I saw you at class today...”

Your breath hitched ever so slightly. What?! Your mind raced, but you maintained your facade. His voice was soft, almost pleading, and it tugged at something deep inside you.

He sighed, lying down beside you and draping an arm over your waist. His grip was possessive, but his touch was gentle, warm. “I wish you would,” he whispered. “I wish you’d look at me, smile at me, talk to me… God, I’d do anything to make you happy.”

Your heart thudded loudly in your chest. Is this real? His words, his touch, the way he held you—it all felt surreal, like a dream you didn’t want to wake from.

“If anyone bullies you…” he began, his voice low and serious. “They’re done for. I’ll make sure of it.”

Bullies? Your mind latched onto the word. Did he know about the snide remarks, the subtle glances from classmates? Wait… Your heart skipped a beat as realization dawned. Same school?!

You wanted to scream, laugh, cry—every emotion hit you at once. He was there, so close, within reach even during the day. The idea sent a jolt of giddy energy through you. He's been watching me even then.

He shifted, his lips brushing dangerously close to yours. For a moment, you thought he might kiss you fully, and your heart practically stopped. Instead, he kissed the corner of your lips, lingering just enough to make your stomach churn with a dizzying mix of emotions.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispered. “Good night, pumpkin.”

You waited, your body tense, until you heard the faint click of the door closing behind him. Only then did you sit up, your breaths coming fast and shallow. Same school, your mind repeated, looping the thought like a mantra.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, your fingers trembling as you opened your notebook. The sketch of him was already half-finished, but now you added the details you hadn’t dared before—the soft smile he wore when he looked at you, the way his hair framed his face like ink spilled on paper. You scribbled furiously, giggling to yourself as your mind replayed his words.

“He’s mine,” you whispered, clutching the notebook to your chest. The idea felt like a delicious secret, one only the two of you shared.

You fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, your laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. It was manic, unhinged, and you couldn’t stop. You covered your mouth with your hands, trying to stifle the sound, but it burst out anyway.

He’s at my school. He’s watching me. He wants me.

The thought spiraled in your mind, sending shivers of excitement down your spine. You hugged yourself, the ghost of his embrace still lingering on your skin.

“Ahahaha…” Your laughter echoed in the room, a twisted symphony of delight and madness. This is love, you thought, your smile widening. “He loves me. He loves me so much.”

Dark circles framed your eyes, your energy depleted from balancing your nightly "acting" with day-to-day university life. Every night, after he left, your mind raced with fantasies of him, spinning scenarios that left you restless, yet alive.

Crowe noticed, of course. He always did. His concern showed in the way he glanced at you during lectures, and eventually, he leaned over, whispering, “You look like death. Go to sleep in the next class. I’ll get the notes for you.”

You flashed him a polite smile, brushing off his concern. “I’m fine, really. I was going to head to the library anyway.”

Crowe’s friend Brittney was hard to miss. Tall, striking, and effortlessly commanding, she was the kind of person who drew attention whether she wanted to or not. Her gyaru style made her stand out even more: bold streaks of color in her hair, immaculate nails, and an outfit that balanced daring and chic. Crowe had asked you to at least try to get along with her, but the truth was, you didn’t see yourself fitting into their world. Too weird, too… you.

Still, you played your part well, smiling sweetly when Brittney asked for help organizing papers. “Of course! Thank you for asking,” you replied, your voice the picture of politeness.

As she walked away, Crowe chuckled. “She’s like that. Rough edges, but she means well.”

You tilted your head, smiling faintly. “Everyone hides something under their skin, Crowe.”

The library was a quieter battlefield until one of the bullies decided to play a cruel joke. A mean girl "accidentally" knocked over a shelf Brittney had been working on. Papers and books scattered everywhere, and you could see Brittney’s jaw tighten, her polished exterior cracking.

“F***ing bitch!” Brittney snarled, tackling the girl with surprising ferocity.

It escalated quickly. Books flew, chairs screeched, and the air buzzed with tension. You tried to step in, hands raised in a gesture of peace, but chaos had already broken loose. When one of the girls attempted to strike Brittney from behind, you didn’t hesitate—you shoved her hard, pushing her back into a table.

Pain shot through your wrist as you deflected her, and you realized she’d managed to scratch you with something sharp. Blood welled up, staining your sleeve, but adrenaline drowned out the pain. Brittney’s punches found their target while you held the attacker off.

The fight fizzled when a few bystanders yelled for order, and the bullies slinked away under the librarian’s furious glare. Brittney brushed herself off, her hair askew but her fiery defiance intact. Jess, another of Brittney’s friends, rushed to her side, fretting quietly as she checked her for injuries.

You stood off to the side, cradling your wrist. Jess glanced at you briefly, hesitant, before returning her focus to Brittney. You caught the faintest flicker of concern in her expression. She does care, you thought, but you let it go.

Crowe appeared moments later, taking in the scene with wide eyes. “What the hell happened? You’re hurt—let me take you to the nurse.”

You shook your head, offering him a tired smile. “I’m fine. I can go on my own.”

Crowe didn’t look convinced, but you turned away before he could argue, clutching your injured wrist as you made your way out. It’s nothing, you told yourself. Just another day in your fractured reality, another crack in the mask you wore so well.

The nurse’s office was a quiet reprieve from the chaos of the library. You slipped into the restroom nearby first, taking a moment to breathe and inspect your injured wrist under the fluorescent lights. The skin was raw and red, the gash deeper than you initially thought, but the pain was dulled by the adrenaline still coursing through you. You splashed water on your face, smoothing your features back into a neutral mask before heading into the nurse's domain.

The hallway seemed endless as you walked, with lingering eyes on you from passing students. Whispers buzzed faintly, but no one dared approach. Good, you thought. You preferred it that way. Once inside, the nurse noticed your bruised state immediately.

“Another bully victim?” she sighed, her tone exasperated but kind. “This school, honestly... I need to file a formal complaint with the principal.” She gestured for you to sit, but you stayed standing, pretending to be fascinated by the various medical supplies lined up on the counter. You didn’t want to stay still. It made you too vulnerable.

As you idly picked at a box of bandages, a voice sliced through the quiet atmosphere.

“Did you have to punch that girl’s boyfriend that hard, Sunny?”

“Yes,” came a familiar, firm reply. “They hurt them. So I did.”

Your heart stopped. That voice—it was him. The one who watched, who whispered. The voice that curled around your mind every night like smoke.

Without thinking, you stumbled backward, finding a corner to hide behind as your gaze sought him out. And there he was.

There was something almost surreal about seeing him in the light of day, his presence no longer confined to the shadowy cocoon of your nights. "Sunny," as his companion called him—was perched on the nurse’s bed, his plum hair catching the light in a way that made it seem alive, streaked with vibrant green like ivy climbing through ruins. His heterochromatic eyes burned like embers: orange at their core, ringed with a deep crimson that seemed to pulse with restrained intensity. They were a contradiction, much like him—fiery yet haunting, sharp yet soft.

His features were angular, carved with precision, yet softened by the slight pout of his lips and the faint curve of his nose. He radiated a raw, magnetic energy that felt both predatory and tender, like the kind of beauty that ruins you, and yet you crave it. The piercings that adorned his ears gleamed faintly, tiny markers of rebellion etched into his skin. The hoops on his lower lip caught the light every time he spoke, adding a glint of silver to the vibrant palette of his face.

His striped shirt clung to him, black and green lines stretching across his lean frame. The black t-shirt layered beneath was slightly oversized, softening the edge of his appearance, while his necklace dangled lightly with each of his movements—a two-pronged key, dangling with an air of mystery. His jewelry matched his aesthetic perfectly: the buckled choker hugging his throat, the key necklace swaying with each breath, the metal glinting like secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Even seated, he had a presence that demanded attention, though he seemed to wield it effortlessly, unaware of the effect he had on the room.

The blue-haired boy standing next to him was smaller in stature, and despite his exasperated expression, there was a gentle authority in the way he interacted with Sol.

“Isn’t it time to go, Sunny?” he asked, clearly used to Sunny's antics.

“Nope,” Sunny replied lazily, crossing his arms. “Not until Y/N gets bandaged.”

Your breath hitched. Your name falling from his lips sent a jolt through your chest, like an electric wire connecting directly to your heartbeat. You pressed further into the corner, praying they wouldn’t notice you, but you couldn’t stop watching.

The blue-haired boy—Hyugo, as Sol addressed him—sighed, dragging Sunny off the bed with surprising strength despite their size difference. “Sunny,” he chided, like a parent scolding their child. Sol resisted briefly, pouting, before reluctantly letting himself be led away. His footsteps echoed faintly as they left, and you waited until you were sure the coast was clear before emerging from your hiding spot.

You managed to snap a few discreet photos of Sol. You told yourself it was just for memory’s sake, but when you looked at them again, your stomach fluttered.

Sol, with his chaos and beauty, was so striking, so utterly unique. And he was yours to admire, even if only from a distance.

The nurse’s hurried return interrupted your spiraling thoughts. Her voice pulled you back to reality as she gestured for you to sit on the bed she had prepared. "And what about the other two students?" she asked, glancing toward the hallway.

“They left,” you muttered, your voice neutral as you fought to keep your heart rate under control. The nurse bustled around, grabbing supplies while she filled the silence with small talk.

“They’re such interesting boys,” she said, her voice warm with familiarity. “Hyugo is such a helpful young man. Always looking out for that friend of his. You know, despite his height, Sol is surprisingly sweet—like a friendly giant."

Your hands tightened around the edge of the bed, nails pressing into the vinyl. Hyugo. That was the blue-haired boy’s name. The nurse’s description of him as Sol’s protector matched perfectly with what you had seen. You forced out a soft giggle, though it escaped as a hiccup, drawing the nurse’s attention. “Are you alright?” she asked.

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied quickly, masking your excitement. “It’s just… they seem close. It’s kind of nice.”

“Oh, they are,” she continued, dabbing antiseptic on your wound. “Hyugo’s always been like that. And Solivan…” She paused, as though thinking of the right words. “He’s a bit of a sad case, really. He’s been through a lot, poor thing. But he’s strong—so much stronger than he realizes.”

Your breath hitched. Solivan. Your world tilted as the name settled in your chest like a brand. Solivan Brugmansia. It echoed in your head, sweet and perfect, like a melody only you were meant to hear.

The nurse’s voice faded into a murmur as she continued her work, oblivious to the storm brewing within you. Your heart raced, your mind spinning as you turned the name over and over in your head. When she finished bandaging your hand, you thanked her in a daze and stumbled out of the office.

The hallway was empty, but you didn’t care. You ducked into the restroom, slamming the door shut behind you. The sterile walls seemed to close in as your emotions surged. A giggle bubbled up, spilling out in shaky bursts before escalating into full-blown laughter.

“Solivan Brugmansia,” you whispered, your voice reverent, almost trembling. You repeated it, louder this time, your reflection in the mirror smiling back at you. “Solivan Brugmansia. Solivan. Brugmansia. Sol. Solivan.”

The name felt like magic, a key unlocking something wild and unhinged within you. You chanted it like a prayer, each repetition filling you with a twisted joy. “Solivan Brugmansia, Solivan Brugmansia, Solivan Brugmansia—”

Your giggles turned to shrill laughter, a sound that echoed eerily in the small restroom. You clutched the sink for support, your bandaged hand trembling as your thoughts spiraled further. I know his name. I know his name! The realization was intoxicating, overwhelming, consuming every rational thought you had left.

“He’s perfect,” you whispered to yourself, tears of manic delight prickling at your eyes. “I’ll meet him. I’ll be normal. I’ll be normal. I’ll—”

A sudden knock on the door shattered your reverie, the sound loud and jarring against your fragile composure.

“Could you keep it down in there?” a muffled voice called, annoyance dripping from the tone.

Your laughter cut off abruptly, replaced by a cold, seething anger. Slowly, you turned toward the door, your reflection in the mirror now a twisted, distorted version of yourself.

They dared to interrupt.

You opened the door slowly, your movements deliberate, controlled. The person on the other side—a student, their face vaguely familiar—took a step back, their irritation fading into nervousness as they met your gaze.

“Is there a problem?” you asked, your voice low and dangerous. The edges of your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, and your tilted head made you look like a predator sizing up its prey.

“N-No, just…” they stammered, their confidence crumbling under your cold stare. “You were, um, being kind of loud—”

Before they could finish, you took a single step forward, and they flinched. The hallway seemed darker now, your presence casting a shadow that felt far too large for one person.

“I’ll keep it down,” you said softly, the sweetness in your tone laced with venom. Then, leaning in just enough for them to catch the glint of something unhinged in your eyes, you whispered, “But you should watch where you stick your nose next time.”

They stumbled back, their mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, before muttering a hurried apology and retreating down the hall.

The sound of their footsteps faded, you turned back into the restroom, closing the door with a quiet click. Your reflection in the mirror greeted you, your smile widening as you touched your lips, imagining them shaping his name again.

“Solivan Brugmansia,” you whispered, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

The encounter had done nothing to dim your obsession. If anything, it only fed it. Soon, you thought, your heart pounding with anticipation.

You started stalking Sol and Hyugo like clockwork. Every day on campus, you trailed after them, your movements as careful as a predator circling its prey. They were always together—Hyugo acting like a makeshift guardian while Sol seemed lost in his own world. Their favorite spot quickly became apparent: the rooftop. It wasn’t technically allowed for students to hang out there, but that didn’t stop them. Sol seemed to loathe the cafeteria, his disdain for its noise and chaos written all over his face whenever someone suggested it.

You made it a habit to reach the rooftop before them, ensuring you’d have the perfect vantage point to watch them. Not creepy at all, you thought with a twisted grin. There was something ethereal about Solivan under the open sky, the sunlight catching on the green streaks in his hair and making his mismatched eyes gleam like fire and blood. He’s so pretty, you sighed internally. Every movement, every glance felt deliberate and perfect, like he was crafted by your own imagination.

Hyugo, the blue-haired “parent” of the duo, was Sol’s grounding force. You watched as he subtly steered Sol’s chaotic thoughts back to reality, his calm voice carrying through the breeze. Sometimes, their conversations drifted your way. One particular exchange made your heart race.

“Have you been taking your sleeping pills, Sol?” Hyugo asked, his tone laced with concern.

Sol nodded, but you knew better. Oh, sweetheart, you’re feeding them to me instead, you thought, biting back a giggle. The very idea thrilled you. He’s lying to his best friend for me—just like I’d lie for him. We’re so alike, Sol. Matchy-matchy. You giggled softly to yourself, clutching your bag as though it held every secret you’d gathered about him.

The rooftop had become your sacred ground. Each day, you made sure to get there first, blending into the background as best you could while Sol and Hyugo came to unwind. It was their haven, where Sol could escape the cafeteria—his disdain for the crowded, noisy space evident in every eye roll and sharp comment he made about it.

You hid yourself carefully, peering around corners or crouching behind vents as the duo talked. It wasn’t hard to piece together their dynamic: Hyugo, the loud and teasing one, always nudging Sol toward some semblance of normalcy, and Sol, the quiet, brooding artist, who seemed eternally annoyed yet tethered to his friend’s chaotic energy.

“Sunny boy, I swear, one day you’re going to crack from all this stalking,” Hyugo teased, leaning against the edge of the rooftop railing. His blue hair caught the sunlight, but your eyes were locked on Sol.

“I’m not stalking anyone,” Sol muttered, his voice as flat and disinterested as ever. He didn’t look up from his sketchbook, where his pencil moved in quick, fluid strokes.

“Uh-huh. And I’m the Pope. Come on, Sunny, you’re practically vibrating whenever Y/N’s around. It’s cute, actually.”

Sol shot him a glare so sharp it could cut glass. “I don’t vibrate.”

“Sure, sure,” Hyugo said with a grin, leaning closer to peek at the sketchbook. “Hey, is that—oh my God, are you drawing them again? Sunny, you’re obsessed!”

“Shut up, Hyugo,” Sol snapped, snapping the book shut with a satisfying thud. A faint flush dusted his cheeks, and you almost swooned at the sight.

Through your relentless watching, you pieced together more and more about Sol’s world. He liked plushies—tiny glimpses of them in his bag or on his desk betrayed a softness he tried to hide. Horses fascinated him, though you’d never seen him near one. The ocean, however, was an object of pure hatred. Even the thought of it seemed to unsettle him. And his neck—oh, how he hated when people noticed it. You didn’t know why, but the way he’d pull his collar up or hide behind his scarf whenever someone’s gaze lingered too long sent shivers of fascination down your spine.

Crowe, though? Sol hated Crowe. Why? You weren’t sure. Did Sol think you liked Crowe? That thought made you laugh—a loud, manic sound that echoed in your mind. No, silly Sol. Crowe’s just a friend. You’re the only one who matters. You giggled to yourself, making a mental note to friendzone Crowe at the next opportunity. No one has to die, right?

Your stalking wasn’t all selfish indulgence, though. You made it your mission to protect Sol from his bullies in secret. Every time someone dared to mess with him, you found ways to make their lives miserable. Pranks, carefully crafted rumors, even well-placed traps—it was your way of showing love, even if he’d never know it was you.

You couldn't stop yourself, could you? Each time your mind drifted back to Sol, it felt like you were drowning in an ocean of thoughts you couldn’t escape. There was no rational explanation for it, just a need, a yearning to see him, to be close to him. You didn’t know why you liked Sol, and the more you thought about it, the more you felt like something inside you was broken. Messy. Rotten. Ugly. Stupid. The words echoed in your mind like a relentless drumbeat, each one sinking deeper into your consciousness.

But you couldn’t stop. Why couldn’t you stop?

Maybe you were just messed up—maybe this was just who you were now. The idea of obsession wasn’t new to you, but this? This feeling for Sol was different. You were feeding into his own obsession, subtly manipulating his thoughts and actions, just as he unknowingly tugged on your every string. I’m a fucking mess, you thought, crumpling the pages of your journal before tossing it aside. I’m messed up for liking him. I shouldn’t be doing this. Why do I care so much?

Yet, as you thought about it, a darker voice inside your head whispered: But you don’t care. You just want him. You want to keep him. Don’t you?

You looked at your reflection in the glass, disgust rising up in your throat. The self-loathing was overwhelming. You wanted to leave. Run away. Escape from this sick obsession gnawing at you, but you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. What would I even do without him? you thought, the sick realization that he was the only thing that made sense in your otherwise chaotic world.

And then your gaze shifted. Your scrapbook—your treasure trove of Sol. You’d been filling it for weeks, months, maybe. Pictures of him, scribbled notes, little drawings of his face, and the countless things you learned about him. Things you knew he would never notice, things that were yours and yours alone. You smiled, a dark, twisted grin spreading across your face as you flipped through the pages, relishing in the thought that no one else had this.

You reached for your favorite pen, the one that always felt so good in your hand, and began writing. The words flowed out like a twisted confession, something that felt raw and vulnerable, but at the same time, empowering. You wrote:

O, thou shadowed soul whose crimson eyes do stare, Through twilight’s veil, seeking me with ceaseless care. How I know thy step, thy breath, thy tender scheme, The hunter’s heart, woven deep within this dream.

I, Annabel, with whispers darkly sweet, Stand here entranced, ready for the cruel heat, Of trial and gaze, a feverish, whispered jest, To test thy fervor, O stalker, my unrest.

Art thou true, or doth the mask crack wide, When confronted with love that seeks to chide? O Sol, thou art regal, a lost marquis, A figure grander than court's rich pleas.

Why dost thou flinch at this jeweled yoke, Collared like Marie Antoinette, when spoke Of necks adorned in fate’s decree, Tell me, pretty man, dost thou flee or plea?

Yet, I love thee, this strange, begotten chase, A danse macabre within thy haunted embrace. O, prove thyself, meet the midnight’s dare, For ‘tis love I hold, should thy soul lay bare.

His Annabel...

You laughed quietly to yourself, the sound almost hollow. Oh god, this is so cringy, you thought. The poetry, the confession—it was ridiculous. But it’s what I feel, isn't it?

You paused, looking at the mess of words you had written, and smiled. It’s okay. I don’t care. You couldn’t help but smile. I’m not normal. I’m not like everyone else. But Sol... Sol gets it, doesn’t he?

The laugh bubbled up again, darker this time, a little more manic. You hugged the scrapbook to your chest, clutching it tightly as though it were a lifeline. The obsession that had once felt foreign was now becoming a part of you, weaving itself into your identity like the very air you breathed.

You were hopeless. But, in a twisted way, you were happy. Because in this world of chaos, Sol was your constant. The only one who could save you.

And so you wrote more. “Fix me, Sol. Fix me, and I’ll love you forever.”

You looked at the words..

Everything was perfect until!

THUD!

Geo had always been a bit of a mystery to everyone, even to those who were close to Crowe. His tall, imposing presence, the sharp eyes that seemed to look straight through you, and his effortless grace with a weapon made him someone no one dared cross. He wasn't known for being sociable or for revealing much about himself, and despite his wealth, people respected his silence more than they feared his power.

But now, you had been caught.

The way he stood in front of you, arms crossed with that knowing, intimidating gaze locked on you—shit. You hadn't expected anyone to figure it out. You thought you'd covered your tracks well enough, staying in the shadows, sneaking around just before the rooftop sessions, watching Sol and Hyugo like an obsessive, lovesick ghost. But now, Geo—Geo—was standing in front of you, calling you out.

You forced a smile, a casual, almost innocent grin. "Why do you care?" You giggled, trying to make light of the situation, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you. The amusement didn't reach your eyes. He knows, doesn't he?

Geo raised an eyebrow, his aquamarine eyes never leaving yours, sharp and assessing. His posture was relaxed, but the air around him crackled with the intensity of someone who didn’t need to do much to make people feel uncomfortable. "Stalking people isn't exactly a good look," he said, his voice low and steady. "Especially not those close to Crowe." His eyes flickered briefly to your hands, as if he knew you were clutching something—your scrapbook, maybe, the evidence of your obsession. Shit.

You scoffed, trying to push down the anxiety creeping up your spine. "Oh, come on. I’m just… observing." You laughed, as though it were a joke, hoping that Geo would take it lightly. But you knew he wouldn’t. Geo wasn’t someone who took anything lightly.

"You think I'm stupid?" Geo's tone hardened, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He stepped forward, the movement smooth and deliberate, closing the distance between you. "I know you’re not just observing. You’re obsessing, and you’re messing with them. Do you think I don't notice? Do you think you’re the only one who sees things?" His words were like daggers, each one hitting harder than the last.

The room felt smaller now, as if the walls were closing in on you. Your heart raced, a mix of fear and excitement. He was onto you. But did he know the extent of it? Did he know you weren’t just watching from afar? Did he understand how deep this fixation went?

Geo's expression shifted, growing more serious. "You’re playing a dangerous game, you know." He stepped even closer, his face inches from yours. "And I don’t like people who play games with people I care about. So, if you have something on them… or if you think you can manipulate them into something they don't want… I’d suggest you think twice."

You swallowed hard, your mind spinning. The image of Sol, of Hyugo, both so wrapped up in their own worlds, their quiet, innocent lives. You didn't want to hurt them, not really. But the obsession—the way Sol's face haunted your thoughts, how he was everything you wanted and more—it made your decisions blur. It made you do things you didn’t even fully understand.

Geo seemed to sense the shift in your demeanor. "Look," he said, a trace of pity in his voice now, "I don’t want to make things difficult. I just want to make sure you understand the consequences of your actions." His eyes bored into yours, almost reading your thoughts. "Whatever it is you think you're doing with them… just stop. I don’t want to see anyone get hurt."

The way he looked at you now, with a strange mix of concern and cold detachment, made you feel small, exposed. You weren’t used to this. You weren’t used to being vulnerable. He knows. He knows everything.

You bit your lip, trying to keep your composure. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," you whispered, but it was clear Geo didn’t believe you.

He sighed, his shoulders relaxing a little. "You’re lucky I don’t want to make this worse. Just… stay away from them, okay?" His voice softened just a fraction. "You don’t want to mess with someone like Sol. And you definitely don’t want to get on Hyugo’s bad side. Trust me and mess with him, you will see me."

Geo took a step back, eyes still on you, as if waiting for your response. You didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything you could say. He’s right, isn’t he?

Geo turned and walked away, you felt your chest tighten.

You watch Geo from a distance, your heart pounding with excitement and a dash of madness. It wasn’t enough to just observe them anymore. No, you needed more.

With a quick step, you approach Geo, your grin growing wider. His dark eyes flicker with annoyance, and he halts, looking over at you as if you're a pest he wishes would just disappear. The tension is thick, and you're only getting more thrilled by it. You call out his full name, “Subaru Oogami,” knowing the effect it would have.

He stops. His expression hardens, and you can almost feel the wave of annoyance radiating off him. “What do you want?” he spits, his voice low, almost like a growl. It’s a response you expected. A warning, a challenge. You savor it.

“Isn’t Hyugo Sugimoto your older brother?” you ask, a playful note lacing your voice. The words are casual, but your eyes glint with mischief. His gaze sharpens even more. You can see the tension rising in his posture.

You giggle, unable to hide the amusement. "Such a bad boy, Subaru, ignoring your own brother like that. It’s so embarrassing, though... all that emo energy for what?" The words spill out of you in a rush, the laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. You know it’s getting under his skin. You can tell by the tightening of his jaw, the slight twitch of his hands.

You step closer, your eyes glinting with something dangerous, something predatory. “You know, I’ve gotten a lot of info from watching you and your brother... but don’t worry. I’m not interested in Hyugo,” you say, voice low and smooth, almost a whisper. You lean in just a bit, the space between you two narrowing. “But... I am interested in Sol.”

His glare feels like it could slice through steel, but you hold his stare, smiling evilly. His eyes narrow into daggers, but you don't flinch. No one gets in your way. Not anymore.

“Don’t disturb me, and I won’t be after your ass, Subaru,” you say, your voice sweet but laced with the cold bite of a threat.

He looks at you, eyes flashing with fury. There’s a moment of silence where he contemplates your words, the weight of your threat hanging between you two. He looks ready to strike, to put you in your place, but he simply lets out a harsh “tch” and shakes his head.

“You keep quiet, stay out of trouble with me or Hyugo, and we won’t have a problem,” he says, his voice sharp, his glare never leaving you.

You tilt your head, a sly smile still tugging at the corner of your lips.

"Promises,” you murmur, watching as he turns, clearly done with the conversation. You let out a quiet laugh as you watch him walk away, knowing that you’ve made your point.

Geo, Subaru Oogami—whatever you call him—wouldn’t be such a threat anymore.

He left, looking that same death glare at you smiled like a angel who did nothing wrong!

Part 1 over! Pls tell me if I should make part 2...

[webbluvrsugar]

is this too freaky? ykw if you could just roll w it as a prompt i will give you my first born child.

ethan’s the type of guy to be an absolutely stuttering mess when he’s with you in public and then when he’s fucking you he puts his hand on your abdomen and says “feel me all up in your guts”

— 🦚

a/n: deffo not too freaky, this hit just the spot!! I think this is the most accurate headcanon about Ethan <33

proofread

﹒ ☆ 𓂂 ˚ ☆. ꙳ * ࣭ ࣭ Ethan hides his true nature from everybody else..

His friends don’t get it. They don’t get how you ended up dating a dork like Ethan, specially not one that can’t hold a simple conversation with you, but this ‘thing’ you have with him has lasted a couple months and they’re starting to actually believe you’re not fooling around with the boy, it’s weird to believe so, Ethan is just so… bland, and not to shame him or anything but they can’t help but wonder how you two work it out in the bedroom, it’s weird as hell, they wonder if you’ve even got to that base yet.

Ethan doesn’t like his private life to be out there for everyone to hear so when they do ask.. he just ignores their question with an angry mutter.

You’ve also thought this would never go anywhere, specially with not how Ethan acted around you in public — sure, he was cute, blushed every time you asked him anything, even if just a pen, and if you were thinking before, you’d never believe you’d get with a guy that acts that away. That is until… you’ve finally took the first step.

You were already kissing him when it happened, your hand wildly moving down to his pants, slipping underneath his shorts when he doesn’t complain, palming him through his boxers. His moves got wilder too, his hand went up to your throat and he used that to push you down on your bed, after that, Ethan showed a side of him you’ve never seen before.

You predicted he was a virgin or something, that you would have to guide him somehow — that plan went down the drain when he didn’t hesitate to pull down your panties and fuck you exactly how you wanted him to.

“Shit, Ethan, I —“ you moan, interrupting yourself as he leans down, the sudden movement makes him switch angles, reaching that spot in you that makes you lose all senses.

“You like it like this, huh?” He smirks, one of his hands caresses your face while the other one goes down from your chest to your stomach. “Yeah, I knew it, don’t worry baby, I’ll give it to you the way you wan’it.”

He pecks your lips, slows down his pace torturously, you can almost feel every inch coming in and out as he does so.

“Can you feel it?” He presses his hand down, right on your stomach, earns an exasperated mewl from you. “‘M all up in your guts.”

You’d never expect this from him, specially not the way he talks, the way he’s just so.. bold.

“Fuuck, you’re so tight,” he comments, releases the pressure on your stomach and moves his thumb down to your clit. “Almost made me cum inside you.”

He’s so casual with it, like the chance of him doing so doesn’t just fuck with your head even more.

“But I bet you’d like that, huh?”

[julietcpulet]

The Champion or Vax’ildan?

So I’ve seen people comment on the idea that Vox Machina won’t move on from the truth that Vax is now the Champion and so what they’re clinging to is the memory of him but it’s not actually him. When they see him he’s not himself, merely a collection of memories and that’s why he doesn’t interact with them the same but they ignore it. Some have cited Percy’s comment about he and Vex’s children “finally finding out how much (Percy) is embellishing the memory of you” meaning that Vax may not be all Percy and Vex have described him to be to their children. Some say this is evidence that they’re holding on to who Vax was not who he is.

My problem with this idea though is what Vax himself says. When Liam has him say to Keyleth “I long for our life” that can’t be the Champion. If Vax is merely a shell, only filled with memories he wouldn’t care about having a life with Keyleth or his family any longer, he would just be looking at his life of faithful service to the Matron without longing or desire for anything else. But we do see from Liam’s perspective as Vax that he does want that love still, that future and that says Vax is still very much there. To me it says he’s just altered from being with the Matron so long, from having this perspective of being her Champion, of standing in the doorway of death and staring down this long of a lifetime. I think it has changed his view of fate forever but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still himself just a more mature version maybe, if that makes sense.

It’s less that Vax is a shell filled only with memories and following the mandate of the Champion. It’s more that he’s a person who’s gone through a lot to follow his commitment to the Matron while holding onto what remains of his love for those beyond that service. And their bond to him I think helps tether him to the living world when he’s in it, which is why he seems distant and like in a fog. If he came back permanently there would be a reckoning on him learning to live amongst everyone again now so much has changed. For me though Vax isn’t only himself in memory, he’s simply closed off and hidden the parts of himself that can no longer want things beyond his service to the Matron until those possibilities are real again.

[bloomeng]

dick wasn't really flirty when he was white

I agree that Devin Grayson’s time writing him amped him up several notches but it didn’t come from nowhere either.

One thing I want to acknowledge is that Dick didn’t just suddenly become a non-white character after Grayson introduced that, for many writers at the time this was another piece of canon that went ignored. For instance in the 2008 Titans run (not written by Grayson but is post 1996 run that she did write for) I don’t remember them ever mentioning his heritage but he’s treated as a white character as far as I can tell and yet he’s still flirty… not that I personally like this version of him.

But to not split hairs I’m going to look at the 80’s version of him.

So starting off Nightwing has always been drawn as a sexy character who women want. Most super suits tend to be skin tight but the “discowing” look that he was first introduced in 1984 also has that iconic V-neckline. Even when it’s changed later I always got the impression they were trying to aim for someone who felt trendy. I mean his girlfriend is literally a model and a princess. He’s supposed to be this cool attractive dude.

Then there’s the fact that DC has been fighting the Dick Grayson gay allegations for years because while he was Robin parents were concerned that his relationship to Batman was too…. well. Anyway if I’m not mistaken that’s why they ended up making Robin younger and Batman’s ward so as to combat that. But they still to this day try to constantly pair him off with women and it’s a huge focus of his character. See while Jason and Tim have also had multiple female love interests the writers often have a hard time selling that they really care about the romantic relationships in their lives. With the exception of Tim and Steph their stories don’t revolve around their romantic interests as much. Versus Dick who is constantly shown to be interacting with women. His relationships romantic or platonic just tend to be richer. He appears to be a very tactile person which isn’t necessarily flirtation but it definitely lends itself to that. (Dw I’m not implying that he’s flirting with Donna here)

It’s intentional that they make him have these conversations with Kory while naked in bed. They really need you to know that Dick fucks. Nothing they’re saying here is inherently flirty but the way things are staged lends an impression. And even when he doesn’t have agency the writers are still inventing ways for him to kiss women.

The point is he’s a bit of a sex symbol. But that’s just the context.

Flirting doesn’t have to be over the top or sexual. Dick isn’t out here using pick up lines or anything, but we got to see a lot of his relationship with Kory and they are sickeningly sweet. They profess their love to each other frequently. They use pet names. They’re shown generally being in love. And just because that flirting is happening in the context of a committed relationship doesn’t make it not flirting.

Anyway 🤷‍♀️ hope this made some sense. I don’t thinks he’s a casanova type character but the flirting is present.

[sapphiresaphics]

“they don’t work out their issues. they don’t discuss any of their issues. they are forced to work together because vander’s situation provides urgency. and then they insult each other and slap fight without explaining why they did what they did, what’s been going through their minds, why they’re angry at each other. they don’t communicate at all.”

You’ve never had siblings have you? Or if you have.. you’ve never gotten into actual fights with them have you?

Vi isn’t “forced” to do anything. She CHOOSES to go with Jinx. And the Vander situation is a problem, yes, but it’s not URGENT. If it was they wouldn’t be casually strolling through the caves. And this is where they TRULY come to blows. The big epic fight earlier was just spectacle. THIS is the fight between sisters. And it’s raw and silly and childish. That’s the point of it.

And again. You don’t need to SAY why you did anything. Vi learns Mir about Jinx as a person by how she interacts with Isha than she does taking to her. It’s also no secret that during their little brawl in the caves on a mission to save Vander, Vi accidentally hurts Isha (Jinx’s personification) just as she did when she punched Powder back in season 1. This is very deliberate storytelling parallels.

Also, screenwriting 101: characters never just say what they mean. Cuz that’s just boring and uninteresting. Scenes are more interesting when characters can’t say what they want to say, so they talk about other issues to make up for it. All dialogue should HINT at what they really want. The tussle in the mines is far more authentic and realistic than the over the top brawl they had in the pipe works.

Take the note they find from Vander to Silco. Jinx reads it out loud and then comments about how if Silco had found it maybe things would’ve been different. And in that moment Vi raises her hand and wants to touch Jinx’s shoulder but can’t quite bring herself to do it yet. Because that moment isn’t REALLY about Vander and Silco. It’s about Jinx and Vi. Say one thing, but mean another. That’s GOOD scriptwriting.

“She’s not exactly a dictator in the traditional sense”

Okay stop right there. If she’s not a dictator in the traditional sense then she’s not a god damn dictator. End of story. Stop trying to justify her being one when you freely admit she is not one.

The show repeatedly shows that despite her being hardened and angry and doing these things out of fear and hate… she ultimately doesn’t want to. Has she been impressing Zaun even more than before? Absolutely. But is she also chastising Ambessa’s guard for instigating violence and calling out Ambessa’s justification for more violence? Absolutely as well.

Caitlyn is an oppressive authority figure clouded in privileged and doing what she’s doing because of hate and fear and anger. Yes. 100% no getting around that. But she’s not a dictator. And she doesn’t WANT to be a dictator. She was thrust into this position through peer pressure and manipulation just like Jayce was when he became a counselor. And she’s been looking for an excuse to get out of it for a while too. Maddie says as much in bed.

And remember Vi? When Caitlyn is sad after her mother died, she refers to Vi as the person who calms her down and guides her through things. Vi is who she breaks down and cries with. Vi is who she listens to when things get more dangerous in the pipe works. There’s a reason why when Vi shows up again, Caitlyn is all too willing to help her out. Especially if it means she can get rid of Ambessa and save VI’s father in the process.

This show is filled with nuance and morally grey characters. So when you reduce them to binary black and white roles and call them dictators, yeah that’s not gonna jive well when they do stuff contrary to that binary. That’s what I’m calling you out for and why I insist you don’t refer to Caitlyn as a dictator. Because calling her a dictator erases her moral complexity and ignores everything that happened in season 1. You are flattening out her character so you can whine.

“Hextech didn’t break them apart, systemic oppression did”

No… hextech broke them apart. The bomb Powder used in season 1 was hextech. It happened at the exact same time Jayce and Viktor were experimenting and their experiments resulted in teleportation magic. And if you watch closely when the explosion goes off, there are pieces of debris and rubble that get teleported through the door and end up killing the two boys. As we’ve learned this season, all Hextech devices are linked. It was Jayce and Viktor tampering with Hextech that resulted in the bomb going off being so devastating to Vi and Powder’s family.

Additionally, the explosion at the beginning of the show that sets everything in motion is Hextech. Yes they were infiltrating Jayce’s workshop because of systemic inequality, but that’s a background detail to explain why. It’s not the inciting incident that started it all. That’s the hextech gem explosion. The show begins with Hextech being volatile and dangerous and that’s the reoccurring conundrum throughout the entire show. Everybody wants this power and they use their positions of inequality and oppression to get it. Again… that’s the inequality being a background excuse, but not the driving force.

“How does Vander being alive fix everything?”

Because that’s the rift that broke Powder and Vi apart. It’s because of Powder’s bomb that Vander died. It’s because Vander died that Vi hurt Powder and started her on this path to becoming Jinx. It was the inciding incident that broke them apart.

Vander being alive means they can heal their rift. Vander being alive means Powder didn’t kill him. Finding Vander and bringing him back allows Vi to forgive Powder for what she did. Like Jinx says “maybe this is a do-over.”

Vander is their father. Having him back means they don’t have to fight anymore. They don’t have to try to kill each other anymore. It means Jinx can heal and become herself again. Vi can forgive Jinx. Etc etc.

This is like one of the biggest moments in the show. That you seem to put so little emphasis on its importance and can’t understand why Vander being alive could heal their rift is sad.

You seem like the type of person who needs characters to just say what they mean literally or else you don’t understand what’s happening. Body language, voice acting, dialogue, shot composition and framing… you seem to IGNORE all of that and complain that characters just don’t sit down and talk one on one with each other. You don’t seem to understand or respect the craft of the show.

When a character says something but means something else, you seem like you only take things at face value and can’t comprehend that they might be lying, or saying meaning something else.

Take the moment when Sallow is rolled in on a wheelchair demanding they go to war with the undercity. Mel clocks that this is not how Sallow talks. And since he was rolled out by Ambessa, it’s made very clear that it’s Ambessa who’s ACTUALLY talking in the scene. Even though she never says a word. I wonder.. how did you read that scene? Did you pick up on Mel playing chess with her mother? Or did you think she was actually addressing Sallow the whole time?

I don’t know what else to tell you dude. You’re not wrong that systemic oppression and power dynamics play a significant role in the show’s message. I would just argue that it’s not the MAIN FOCUS of the show and has never been. It’s window dressing at best. The main focus has always been how attempts to do good for love and for family can result in doing terrible awful things.

As Victor puts it “we lost ourselves. Lost our dreams. In our attempt to save the world we failed to do good.”

I find it hilarious when the show called ARCANE starts talking about the ARCANE and the ARCANE starts having a more prominent role in the trajectory of the show named ARCANE that people are only now complaining about “lore” being added to the show.

Like, my dudes… the show was about the ARCANE. Now that it’s reacting and developing and becoming the big thing the whole show is heading towards… NOW you’re worried about the “lore” messing things up??!

Hahah

Sorry guys. I know we started with class inequality, and that’s definitely a theme of the show… but the TRUE star has ALWAYS been the ARCANE and how it reacts to the events around it.

They wouldn’t have named the show ARCANE if they weren’t going to address the ARCANE.

[coffeeecatss]

Post-TRoS fluffy fix-it art

[thatone-churro]

okay i saw someone’s depiction of moonpaw being red and i got thinking so it’s my turn to contribute to the collective theorizing of moonpaw

so we’ve all come to terms with her probably being a NightSun kit, right? which means she’ll be FireKin on the Squilf side, which means there’s an awful chance she MIGHT be another FireClone. believe me, i fear yet another gray med cat protag experiencing the horrors ™, but i think FireClone moonpaw is literally the WORST possible scenario, UNDER ONE CONDITION:

so we’ve had a dramatic “temporary disconnect from starclan caused by some natural although they didn’t know it event involving a celestial body (the moon, namely)” moment before, right? the solar eclipse comes to my mind.

take this with a grain of salt because i’ve only absorbed my knowledge of the books post midway through po3 through mitosis at this point, but we never did find out what happened to our little weasel friend sol, did we? he might still be alive, which is likely but we know how the Erins can backtrack on the fate of a minor (or even major atp) villain for the sake of the next quick plot-related name drop, so it’s possible he might be dead.

the moonpool is in danger this arc. moonpaw probably has something to do with it. she’s hearing a voice that seems to guide her but becomes more “sinister” and possibly manipulative over time.

i have absolutely NOT coordinated these ideas at all but i’m just saying red moonpaw going with red lunar eclipse imagery (with sol’s involvement) would go hard as fuck but we know the writing will never be good enough to do this or to even do it to its full potential

anyway bye bye see y’all later in the rest of the moonpaw gambling going on 👋

[bpdamn]

not my mom giving me the silent treatment even now that i‘m an adult. lol but not so lol i guess

[starlooove]

So which is it? Did Bruce treat everyone like that or was he only super mean to Steph bc of the writers? Like I’m tired of the excuses being made, if it was one and done whatever but the way Bruce treated steph did impact her story and then changing stephs personality to golden retriever blond doesn’t change that at all lmao

[floral-hex]

Writing is stupid! It’s dumb! It doesn’t make any sense! It’s all just jumbles that don’t mean anything and I hate it forever goodbye!

[lieutenant-amuel]

Hmm one day I’ll have to figure out my characters’ MBTI types.

[fightingdragonswithwho]

hate to be a hater on the main … but this season of ted lasso excels (once again) at team dynamic and the found family elements and i think the finale absolutely nailed that, i cried, i laughed, it was perfect on that. now as for the individual stories and relationships… yeah, let’s leave it at that

[snaileer]

Danny sighs. Wanting to get up and pace. But he was on the bus. And you can’t pace on the bus unless you’re a crazy person.

Which…. would not look good considering the current circumstances.

He could always just not get off. That was totally still an option. He could just keep going. Maybe ride to Old Gotham. Go get pasta or a deli sandwich.

The ‘Stop Requested’ sign dinged.

The bus looped back around to his dorm apartment anyways. He didn’t have to get off.

Ah frick this was his.

Danny’s hand pulls the bus cord against his permission. Oh ancients too late now, he has to get off or the other people will think he’s rude for pulling the cord and not leaving.

Okay. Okay. He can do this. He can do this

Danny resisted the urge to shake his hands and jump in place as he waited for the doors to open.

Pep talk. Pep talk.

Pep talk totally working. Uh huh.

The bus is leaving. Ok. Now it’s really too late.

Danny checks the google map directions again. A 23 minute walk was not bad.

If only the destination wasn’t Arkham Asylum and he wasn’t visiting the Joker with a grieving self-help book.

Really the most important stage here was acceptance.

He started walking.

It hadn’t even originally wanted to bring the book personally but apparently there was a ‘mail ban.’ The book came Jazz recommended anyways so it would have to be worth it.

Danny tried to ignore the ectoplasm thickening in the air like soup as he got closer. Oh this was totally a normal thing to do.

Just convince the megalomaniac murder clown that he’s dead and a ghost and needs to pass on and everything will come out hunky-dory!

Danny gave a fake laugh to himself as he buzzed the entrance button and was let in.

The secretary looked at him like he was crazy when he told her who he was here to see. Which… fair.

He tried to explain that, quite genuinely, he did not want to be here either. But ghosts were kind of his problem ever since the portal and even if this one wasn’t his fault… it didn’t feel right to just let him run wild when Danny knew the problem.

He winced and pretended not to notice as she pressed an alarm button before letting him through the metal detectors and towards the cell.

Yay for armed escorts.

Now here he was. Dodging a self-help paper airplane from the Joker. Danny sighed again.

Why couldn’t ghosts just stay in the Zone?

The Joker is Dead (and always has been)

Danny is attending Gotham U and gets caught up in a Joker escapade and realizes the clown is, in fact, a ghost.

Suddenly everything makes an insane amount of sense: the fact that no one has killed a psycho with seemingly human-normal abilities yet, that Arkham can’t keep him for more than a week, the obsessive behavior, the appearance.

Honestly, Danny should have clocked this before he even met the spook.

And Danny doesn’t want to step on any toes, really. The Bat and the Joker have A Thing going on. But, the Batman just isn’t equipped to really put a ghost away. No wonder there’s a breakout from Arkham every couple of months. How many other Gotham rogues are obsessive ghosts haunting the city?

Joker doesn’t display any of the usual ghost powers he associates with his own “rogues”—who’ve really become more like unwanted relatives over the years what with their dropping in uninvited, making a mess, and then ditching before they had to help clean.

It strikes Danny, as he’s being tied up by the clown-costumed goons, that maybe the Joker doesn’t know.

Huh.

How does he broach the topic in a sensitive way?

“Hey, uh. Not to be rude but… You know you’re dead, right?”

Danny winces. Not like that, probably.

The Clown Prince of Crime stops in front of him, the crazed light in his eyes dimmed slightly by confusion. He glances back and forth between Danny and the students around him who are shying away from their insane classmate. (Which is. Fair.)

A menacing giggle warbles from the specter’s throat. He leans into Danny’s bubble, that eerie grin stretching somehow wider.

“Ohhhh really?” The clown draws it out and Danny can hear the crackle of static in the high notes. Honestly. How did no one figure this out before? “And are you gonna kill me, hmm? Have I got a widdle hero in my bait tank?”

“No, no, I mean, it’s not… you’re not… like? You’re not alive,” Danny rambles, trying to clarify and failing utterly. “You’re already dead.”

The Joker tilts his head, eyes dilating and glowing toxic green. He considers what Danny said, then throws his head back and cackles like a hyena.

The ghost doubles over, even, laughing so hard it sounds like he’s gonna bust something. He puts a white-gloved hand on Danny’s shoulder for support and squeezes, just shy of hurting.

After an uncomfortably long moment, the ghost wipes imaginary tears out of his eyes and pats Danny on the back so hard he stumbles and falls to his knee.

“You’re a riot, kid! If I didn’t have a date already planned…”

He trails off and ambles away, still chuckling and muttering to himself. “And they say I’m crazy! Wait til Bats hears about this!”

Danny watches him go, despondent.

It’s always harder when they don’t know.

This is gonna be a mess.

[chronic-escapist]

lol i really did become a boring adult, i used to daydream about like doing fun shit and travelling and making music, now i daydream about idk going to therapy Imao. okay, maybe i don’t really agree with the boring adult thing, but that’s also coz i don’t really see myself as an adult anyway, but most people i know seem to think like that, that’s not unique to my experience. honestly i just kinda wish someone could work out why tf i just cannot want to be alive and it's not like cool and idk edgy or whatever, i just genuinely don't fucking know how to want to be here fuck idk it's just hard yknow. and ik the whole thing with me is like i want attention and whatever but idk how to talk to people about that kinda stuff and i figure that they don't wanna hear about it, especially when i hardly ever see people and when we do see each other and im having fun and i don't want to bring that shit up coz idk, it's not really fair to expect other people to fix that either.

i know it’s not fair to expect other people to like fix that but unfortunately it kinda does, i really only like myself when other people are around and who i am with and to them. idk, in that way when im with other people i can exist with them and stop being so in my own head. but also every expression of like sadness or whatever kinda feels fake or attention seeking or whatever when i try to do it and idk, i guess it kinda is, i mean im posting this on here, i guess in that way i am asking for attention. but that’s kinda why we do anything, why i do anything, attention economy and all that bullshit of the modern world. i think i just idk, i think that the only thing that makes any of this shit mean anything is the connection we have with each other and if you look at the state of the world, that connection is sometimes really fucking hard to find or believe in.

or maybe it’s really not that deep and all of that doesn’t matter, maybe i’ll never work it out. maybe i’ll just have to accept it anyway. the one thing that makes me really fucking happy, actually happy doesn’t really describe it, more like idk, the thing that i emotionally respond to the most ( i guess that’s how i would word it) is music and like art generally, and i think there’s a lot of people who feel that way. i mean, that’s the point of art, isn’t it? (that’s a whole other conversation, the purpose and point of art but anyway). the experience of live music is one thing that people really do come together for, for the reason of loving something, of connecting to it and that can be kinda hard to find looking at the state of the world and how divided we are. idk, i don’t really have a point that hasn’t been said many times before and far more eloquently but at the end of the day, i do think we all really do give a fuck, maybe more than we want to admit and more than we know how to express, and at the core of everything it’s about connection or the lack of it

[mulanism]

lovesick ryomen sukuna is literally infesting my mind and giving me brainworms and i don’t think anyone gets it. how absolutely smitten sukuna would become with you, the puny little human he had originally thought to be unworthy of his gaze, let alone his time and attention.

it's nothing but time, the healer and killer of all things, that makes this cursed man realize just how much his entire world revolves around you. how he'd end humanity itself before he'd allow things to be any other way between you two.

lovesick sukuna who loathes being in proximity to those he deems as insignificant and inferior. he gets awfully irritated breathing the same air as those lowly underlings, and he predictably doesn’t like the touch of anyone else.

but when it comes to you, he has this unbridled desire to always be skin-to-skin, to keep you flush against his massive body and never let go until he absolutely has to. it's troublesome, but the weight of you in his lap keeps him oddly pacified whether he wants to acknowledge his restrained and mellowed demeanor in your presence or not.

lovesick sukuna who doesn’t like when others try to touch him in any way, shape, or form. but he’d let you do anything. you could dig your nails into his skin, tear his heart out, and he’d do absolutely nothing to stop you.

he is completely yours, just as you are completely his.

suggesting that sukuna enjoys your touch earns you nothing but unwarranted ridicule and excessive condemnation from him if you ever mention it; his chest rumbles as he reprimands you for being so foolish—all while he makes no move to stop your hands from brushing those wisps of pink hair away from his line of sight. he doesn't even interfere when your tender lips carefully brush against the tattoo markings littered across his face.

lovesick sukuna who is fully aware of how much he likes to return your touch, too. there was a time when he told himself he was far too busy to wallow in trivial matters of the flesh; but now it has gotten to a point where he can't stop himself from indulging in yours.

you feel so soft, so supple, and warm beneath his calloused fingers. sukuna's hands are big—large enough that a single hand of his almost completely covers the expanse of your tummy. the size difference between you two both humors and fascinates him, so much that he can't stop himself from kneading the plush of your stomach or the soft flesh of your thighs. it was sukuna's nature to barbarously ruin and pulverize everything he got his hands on, but here you were being the only exception.

lovesick sukuna who is never one to hold back in anything he does, yet he finds himself handling you with a little bit of care that he wouldn't dare extend to another soul on this earth. truthfully, he wants to devour you completely, but he understands he could snap you in half if he doesn't remain mindful about the amount of force he's exerting when he's bending and twisting and handling you every which way.

he has his moments where his uninhibited carnality and lust speak for him; when he loses control of himself and lets out out those guttural sounds that he never lets slip through his lips unless he's with you. sounds that are never heard outside of your most intimate moments, like the ones where he can't stop marking you and leaving behind dark, purple love-bites that will last a little while longer than usual.

lovesick sukuna has moments where his senses are clouded with the smell and taste of you as you exhale softly through parted, kiss-swollen lips while you lay dazed beneath him. those moments where he's kissed you for far too long and taken nearly all of the oxygen out of your lungs. vermillion eyes watch as your chest heaves and you puff out those small little breaths, and sukuna thinks it's cute how he can render you that way with little else but a kiss.

lovesick sukuna who thinks you are ignorant. he believes you don't truly realize the power you hold over him. you don't truly comprehend how he would scorch and set ablaze the entire world on your command. all you had to do was say the word, and he'd do anything. it's a bit unsettling to think about how tightly you've got him wrapped around your finger without even knowing it, but there's a part of sukuna that's in no rush to reveal such a vulnerability to you.

sukuna is not one for sweetly saccharine words and sentiments—but if there is one thing that rings true, it’s that his mind is constantly consumed by you—you, you, you.