#clinically moi
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
EECP Therapy Advantages and Disadvantages - EECP therapy, also known as Enhanced External Counterpulsation therapy, is a non-invasive treatment option for heart blockage that has gained popularity in recent years. It involves the use of cuffs or sleeves that are wrapped around the legs and buttocks to increase blood flow to the heart.
#eecp#heart#health#eecptherapy#eecptreatment#hearthealth#clinic#jantung#dokterumum#doktergigi#kelapagading#moi#mallofindonesia#fisioterapi#klinikumum#natherapy#feelthechange#sehat#generalclinic#naturalbypass#diabetes#perawatangigi#dental#wellness#hearttreatment#hearttreatmentwithoutbypasssurgery#howtoavoidbypasssurgery#angioplasty#bypasssurgery#bleaching
1 note
·
View note
Text
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...
#the kid at the back vn#tkatb#tkatb sol#visual novel#The kid at the back x reader#solivan brugmansia#solivan x reader#the kid at the back sol#tkatb x reader#tkatb crowe#tkatb vn#solvian x reader#sol x reader#Solivan Brugmansia x reader#Tkatb x reader#tkatb brittney
286 notes
·
View notes
Text
ALIEN!BAKUGOU X HUMAN!READER
It was nothing but wishful thinking, a naive hope, for how could such an advanced species want anything to do with your inferior race?
You had one purpose in their eyes: to be studied. If they could learn to dominate one human, they can dominate the rest.
WARNINGS: dark content! horror sci-fi AU, futuristic setting, monsterfucking, non-con oviposition, human incubators, slow burn enemies to lovers, eventual consensual sexual encounters, mild body horror (no in-depth description), reader has female parts with they/them pronouns (not often used)
NOTES: first longer fic! this has been on my mind since starting this account. i’m a big fan of aliens and eggs (heehee). i know this won’t fit everyone’s interests, but hopefully it will find an audience. banner manga cap edited and colored by moi (ෆ ͒•∘̬• ͒)◞
INTRO ☼ begin transmission
PART ONE ☼ stock
PART TWO ☼ clinical
PART THREE ☼ deeper still
PART FOUR ☼ torn apart
PART FIVE ☼ starlit betrayal
PART SIX ☼ personal methods
PART SEVEN ☼ unbinding
PART EIGHT ☼ mindbreak
PART NINE ☼ off the walls
PART TEN ☼ saving grace
OUTRO ☼ end transmission
✧ parts may be added or discarded depending on the flow of the story as i’m writing it
2023 ©️shdo-xplosion. please do not plagiarize or repost my work to any other platforms.
571 notes
·
View notes
Text
In his early period, Lacan worked within the opposition of empty and full speech.
Empty speech is speech situated among the imaginary axis.
For Lacan, subjectivity is founded upon identification with a false image of unity.
The subject perpetuates this imaginary self by choosing relationships which confer upon him or herself the sense of sameness, relations which are in effect 'narcissistic embraces.'
This is because it is far easier to construct oneself on the basis of another, incorporating his or her tastes or desires, rather than confront the lack that resides in each of us.
And because the subject has constructed him or herself on the basis of another, he or she is unable to enjoin in the assumption of desire.
In other words, in constructing our desires on the basis of another we reinforce our alienation from desire.
As Lacan says: 'For in the work he does to reconstruct it for another, he encounters anew the fundamental alienation that made him construct it like another, and that has always destined it to be taken from him by another.'
This is the meaning of Lacan's enigmatic phrase, 'Man's desire is the desire of the Other,' we desire what the Other desires.
Speech is empty therefore to the extent that it is ironically filled by the Other.
As Lee puts it: 'From the subject's own perspective, then, his speech has been in an important sense "empty": it has been emptied of the subject by being filled with his alienating moi [ego] identity.'
In a clinical setting, a subject whose speech is empty will tend to objectify himself in the following ways:
'I think that I'm the kid of person .. ' or alternatively, 'My teacher thinks that I'm ...'
The art of analysis is to break the analysand's imaginary identifications, 'suspending the subject's certainties until their final mirages have been consumed.'
It is not difficult to see how empty speech corresponds to the objective standpoint.
The objective standpoint seeks to ground itself in sure and certain foundation; it relies on a universally accepted standard of rationality, so that given the same premise we can all arrive at the same conclusion, thereby conferring a collective self-same identity and propagating the illusion of the whole.
As Kierkegaard says: 'The objective way is of the opinion that it has the security that the subjective way does not have' because our thoughts are buttressed by a collective Other.
Theology, Psychoanalysis and Trauma
Marcus Pound
47 notes
·
View notes
Text
into the windverse: high school edition
character art: cred 1; cred 2 | edits: moi
me @oh-so-youre-a-nerd and @saibug1022 got to talking the other day and said, 'imagine these idiots in high school'- well one thing led to another and now we have a whole au within the au- so without further ado:
high school hcs (read below the cut):
---
setting the stage, we've got all these shmoes attending the same high school together
enid and joaquin: seniors
martin and marcus: juniors
magnus: sophomore (and new transfer student)
wind: freshman
basically the premise is that despite everyone being in different grades, they all are taking the same elective every mwf, 4th period: ✨ap spanish✨
enid: took spanish all four years of hs; tested well and was recommended to take the ap course vs the advanced in her senior year- which her parents insisted on after finding out the news
joaquin: lied throughout hs about not being fluent in spanish for an easy a (a fact enid 100% knows about btw; she works part-time at her parents' clinic- joaquin's parents are her mom's patients- and have been for years, so she's witnessed him speak to them in spanish many times); he's here bc this is legitimately the last class he can exploit take
martin: type a try hard; led a petition for the school district to allow non-senior students to take ap spanish, claiming that the current curriculum was 'abhorrently suboptimal'; the resolution gets passed the summer before his junior year
wind: originally scheduled for spanish 1 w the rest of the freshman; was absolutely restless in class (a. bc they are fluent so the material was too easy, b. adhd); after being yelled at by the teacher for the nth time for being disruptive, wind bet that they could ace last year's final for not only their class, but all the other spanish courses (sans the ap). after they did- they were transferred
marcus: another student to benefit from martin's protest; super friendly theater geek (has been the lead in nearly every school play since freshman year). this fact (unbeknownst to him) enrages martin, who is another theater geek lol. anyways, marcus is the one to initially suggest forming a study group
magnus: transfers to this hs halfway through the year- countless rumors as to why he transferred float around the hallways (some perpetuated by mags himself lol); his transfer credits from his old school cover the hs's criteria, so he automatically gets placed in ap spanish
aaaannd that's it lol
i'm down to talk more about the hs au so feel free to send in some questions if you're feeling up to it 🖤
#playchoices#choices#into the windverse#high school au#laws of attraction#enid mendoza#magnus bishop#wind velez#joaquin morales#martin vanderweil#marcus sharpe
19 notes
·
View notes
Text
watching the lionesses game on replay and here are my thoughts (please note i’m very drunk as i write this and also i’m in considerable feminine pain):
1. grace clinton is STAND OUT! … she has been actually exceptional within the england squad and fully fully deserves that starting position - much more visible and vital than any other midfielder in the squad at the minute, genuinely the bright spark amongst a fading england team
2. niamh charles is so quietly understated but she is absolutely brilliant, she is such a rock force on the left hand side and absolutely has kept us in the game - truly an incredible defender and deserves to be a mainstay within the lionesses starting lineup.
3. we got very lucky with regards to rolfo- an excellent player who exploited our defence multiple times and yet we got by the score line purely out of luck and chance. against clinical teams/ lady luck we would drastically suffer
4. lauren james deserves her flowers - despite not getting a goal the assist was vital in the fact we scored, that goal was all her and she deserves the valid recognition within the england squad. consistently a brilliant player who is genuinely the future of england.
5. alex greenwood holds our defence together and she deserves the recognition that brings / genuinely the only england player who i believe deserves mainstay status within the squad at this point. consistently vital
6. i’m yet to be convinced by wubben-moy - her attacking play is decent but in terms of defence she seems to lose her player too often - i feel her good form for club has come from a lack of defensive mindset from the rest of her team, but when she plays for england she struggles to make herself seen as a stand out defender, especially amidst players like greenwood and charles
7. i wish khiara wasn’t injured because i genuinely want to see her input in a game like this. while i think earps is huge for england, i’m desperate to see how keating translates into this team, and i want big game experience for her to prove herself because i fear earps has hesitatance within games like this
8. russo’s hold up play is excellent as always - she just requires more help form players to convert her play into goals, whether those are scored by her or others - there’s this level of disjointedness between attackers that leads to us wasting chances when we should absolutely score
9. the sweden goal came from multiple defensive errors- you could blame any which one of our defenders from that (mainly lb but i’m an lb defender so)
overall takeaway- we played well but were wasteful with chances
stand out players for me: grace clinton, lauren james and alex greenwood. give my girls their flowers
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
August 25th, Sunday
Moi!
I took this day gently even though I still have so many thoughts that I'll type in my new essay later.
It's my monthly dental appointment today. I was so pissed while on the way to the clinic because the minibus dropped me beyond my stop despite telling the conductor that I was about to get off the vehicle.
But I felt better when my favourite orgmates greeted me a belated happy birthday. They're the sweetest ever.
I had my braces adjusted and I chose a purple band this time. It looks so cute.
I think my dentist replaced the wire which made my teeth feel heavier than usual. My teeth also tend to ache every after my adjustment, so I get myself a frozen yogurt to ease the pain. I also bought my meds while on the way home.
I still have a few hours to spare tonight so I'm going to quickly clean the camera and prepare my things for the coverage tomorrow. Wishing myself good luck!
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
10/09/23
I've been visiting the clinic more recently than I have before, as well as shopping at local grocers. Lots has happened in the past month as I've started school. I'm maintaining my own place and planning out my time a little more consciously. I'm really enjoying my time by myself, and I'm super fortunate that I have the oppertunity to do so. I really want to make a plan with friends to go to the art gallery. I believe October is the best time for indulging in the arts.
As a proper low down, here is my to-do list for the month: - First Aid & CPI Training - Chemistry: Textbook chapter readings, essay, study for mid-terms - Biology: Lab chart, biotech presentation, researching summative task, study for midterm - Advanced Functions: Unit review/ midterms ps. pictures were taken by moi ;) pps. what is your favourite autumn drink? I. am. loving. the pumpkin chai cold brew from SB rn.
#student life#midterms#october#halloween#spooky season#reading#exams#nursing#happy halloweeeeeeen#studyblr#jazz music#happy thanksgiving#scary movies#highkey-lowkey struggling with math but I will have to get over it :()
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
11. Sick
She looked at me and I watched as her pretty round eyes widened larger as she looked at me in her entry way. My keys were in my hand, but as my hand got weaker, I dropped them with a clatter. A wry smile spread on my face as I walked towards her. "Well hello, moy solnyshko."
"Miles!" She gasped and rushed to me before I began to stumble forward. My steps were uneven, as I made my way towards her, trying to lean my shoulder against the way. Unfortunately for me, the hallway into the house was not very long and I ran out of wall. She caught me then, stumbling back a step as she struggled under my weight. I felt her arms going under my arms and wrap around my back a little. Somehow that tiny woman managed to drag me to the couch, grumbling under her breath the entire way. Despite her unintelligeible complaining she was gentle as she lay me back. I smirked in my haze, knowing she was such a soft-hearted person.
Her lips went to my forehead and she frowned, leaving me there on the couch. I coughed, feeling my skin clammy. but I was able to close my eyes, knowing I was in her care.
"What the hell happened?" She demanded, causing me to open my eyes.
I chuckled, knowing before she ever asked that she'd want to know. "I just got a little scratched up a few days ago and I think it's gotten infected." I put my hand to her cheek, rubbing her ear gently as I looked at her. "Will you be my little angel and fix me up?"
Her lips pursed and she refused to answer. I watched as her hands flitted over my body, searching for wounds. Ah, she knew me far too well. I groaned as she found the deep gash in my arm. It was tender, hot to the touch and she sucked in her bottom lip as she took in the sight of the pink tinted pus leaking from it.
"Are you kidding?" She sounded more irritated than upset I was even hurt as she rolled up my sleeve. "Are you fighting again?"
"Sure am. Y'know I'm a sucker for a good beating. Ouch!" I laughed and coughed as she smacked me in the chest. "What? You should see the other guy." I joked, but I could feel my lips burning, sweat trickling down my forehead and my skin felt clammy. I hissed between clenched teeth as she smacked a cloth over my aching arm.
Her eyes rolled as she put two pills in my hand and handed me a cup of water. I struggled to sit up, but her hands guided me and she fluffed some pillows behind me to keep me propped up. "What did you do?" Her fingers flitted, never directly touching the wound on my arm. I titled my head forward, swallowing the pills she gave me without questioning. She wore a glove, looking ever the role of a nurse as she wiped my arm clean over and over until finally she was able to pull the cloth away cleanly. I knew she was trying to be careful, but it still stung from being so tender and caused me to grunt under my breath and sit back up.
"A gentleman never tells," I was still teasing, but I began to shiver and the combination of heated skin and chills caused me to pause, "Is the world rocking a bit, Cat?" I asked before I felt her snatch all but one pillow as I felt light headed and she put her hand on my chest to lay me back on the couch. I felt a blanket pulled over me as I shivered. Then another and another until I managed to stop shivering, feeling as though there was another person on top of me from so many blankets.
I groaned quietly as she pulled my arm out and began to cover it with gauze and tape. I could hear her soft voice so far away as she wrapped me up, "It's infected, Miles. You should go to the clinic at least."
"Nope," I protested blankly as I felt the world spin again. I wretched, trying not to vomit all over her floor and she lifted a cup of water to my lips right after. I grinned stupidly at her, "You're the perfect nurse, did you know that? I should get hurt more often." That earned me another frown.
She pushed my head back and lay a cloth over my forehead as I shivered under the covers again, sweat already being absorbed by the first blanket covering me. "Just sleep," Her sigh was angelic as I felt heavier and heavier. I opened my mouth to say something again, but she cut me off. "Sleep." She lulled again as I closed my eyes and for once I gave in as my body felt heavier and heavier.
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Chers Patients !
Saviez-vous que vos reins jouent un rôle essentiel dans le maintien de votre santé globale, même lorsque les symptômes ne sont pas évidents ? Les anomalies rénales peuvent passer inaperçues jusqu'à ce qu'il soit trop tard. C'est pourquoi il est crucial de donner la priorité aux méthodes de dépistage comme les analyses de sang et d'urine.
Une surveillance régulière peut détecter les problèmes à un stade précoce, surtout si vous présentez des facteurs de risque comme le diabète ou l'hypertension artérielle. Mars marque le Mois de la sensibilisation aux reins, nous rappelant de prendre des mesures proactives en faveur de la santé rénale.
Apprenez-en davantage sur la protection de vos reins et planifiez des examens réguliers avec le laboratoire de la New Vision Clinic EYANO.
Ensemble, protégeons notre bien-être rénal.
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
I would really like a hysterectomy.
So i went to the ObGyn, put up with her being transphobic (she squeezed my nipples without asking and tried to upsell me on surgeries I don't want or need multiple times) and listened as she adjusted her prices upwards by 20% just for moi (thanks boo)
She asked me to get a new battery of blood tests, another invasive pussy scan, and a letter from a psych.
I pushed back on the psych letter. I told her im in my mid 30s if someone with a uterus wants it gone they can pay for it to be gone. She told me my lil tranny ass couldn't possibly understand the ramifications of such a surgery and needed a psych to sign off
So i reached out to a supposed ally nearby. He works in a psych clinic, came out as trans to him (he was weird about it, "never would have known; im pan btw 😉" ugh) and he waited a month before revealing that no he wouldn't help me get a letter but he could hook me up with a friend to jump through the transphobic hoops! That's the same right?
I just want. To get healthcare i pay for. Without being treated like some sort of sideshow freak. I hate this system. I hate thransphobic institutions. I hate that it's exhausting and expensive just to get something done I've been working towards for ages.
I wish all people who think psych letters are a good idea to die a horrible painful death (and not be allowed the respite of death until after a psych email from a local licensed professional is issued)
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
#eecp#heart#health#eecptherapy#eecptreatment#hearthealth#clinic#jantung#dokterumum#doktergigi#kelapagading#moi#mallofindonesia#fisioterapi#klinikumum#natherapy#feelthechange#sehat#generalclinic#naturalbypass#diabetes#perawatangigi#dental#wellness#hearttreatment#hearttreatmentwithoutbypasssurgery#howtoavoidbypasssurgery#angioplasty#bypasssurgery#bleaching
1 note
·
View note
Text
Déjeuner chez Nonna (deuxième partie)
Claire nous racontait les tactiques pour séduire un garçon, Giséle et moi rigolions et la faisaient parler. Des tactiques de 12 ans. Timèo mangeant à côté de sa timide petite amie Michelle qui parlait peu et rien. Raul un blond tout blond même un peu arrogant...cas clinique de tuttologie, il était proche de ma cousine Agathe non pas que sa fiancée, elle est la psychologue de famille, la plus douée et gentille. Giséle et moi étions l’un devant l’autre et à gauche d’elle Louis le gars mignon et mignon, un carabinier. Timéo et mon frère Gabriel étaient à la tête de la table. Entre un discours de mon cousin Timéo et un de Clarie, mon téléphone sonne.
"Allô"
"Désolé... pour l’horaire et...peut-être pour ce que je t’ai fait", ces mots étaient justes, non pas parce qu’il s’est mal comporté mais parce qu’il m’a fait attendre des mois...ça fait plus mal d’attendre qu’un Non franc.
"...excuses acceptées...ne te dérange pas", lui répondit-il
"Comment ça va ?"
"Bien, toi ?"
"Eh bien... Brigitte, on peut se voir...je dois vous dire des choses...et...et je préfère vous le dire en personne"
J’ai été choqué par cette demande, je pensais aux choses possibles qu’il pouvait me dire, mais une seule me semble plus linéaire avec cette demande et ce ton embarrassé. Une forte curiosité naquit en moi,
"bien, mais je fais l’après-midi dans le centre". Il accepta tout de suite.
Lunch at Grandma’s (second part)
Claire would tell us the tactics to get a guy, both Giséle and I would laugh and make her talk. Obviously 12-year-old tactics. Timèo eating next to his shy girlfriend Michelle who spoke little and nothing.Raul a blond all him even a little arrogant...clinical case of all, was close to my cousin Agathe not that his girlfriend, she is the family psychologist, the best and kind. Giséle and I were in front of each other and to her left Louis the cute and nice guy, a policeman. Timéo and my brother Gabriel were at the head of the table. Between a speech by my cousin Timéo and one by Clarie I ring the phone behind my back. I turned and took it...it was him. I got up and walked into my grandmother’s bedroom. I closed the white door behind me.
"hi"
"Oi... sorry about the time and...maybe for what I did to you" those words were apt, not because he behaved badly but only because he made me wait months...it hurts more than a frank No.
"...apology accepted...don’t bother" I answered
"How are you?"
"All right, you?" "Well... Brigitte we can see...I have to tell you things...and...and...I prefer to tell you in person"
I was shocked by that request, I thought about the possible things he could tell me, but only one seems more linear with that request and that embarrassed tone. A strong curiosity was born in me,
"okay, but I do in the afternoon in the center". He immediately accepted.
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
" — oh my. you look absolutely terrible! mayhaps i should have dragged your lifeless husk of a shell to my clinic whilst you were out." they spin their cane upwards in their grasp and reach out the end to poke at his midsection as if examining a living corpse, though @londonfallen still appears very much alive. how wonderful, the iv they'd had him dutifully reliant upon had done it's job. shame for the temporary scar it'd left on him : the doctor supposes, in the end, he must've had to rip it out when he'd awoken alone. "quiet, quiet, all these voices in my head : i said good evening already, didn't i? no? oh. good evening, monsieur silas elial edwards." the picture of good manners, they push him out of their way the moment his door is unlocked, stroll into his home with melodic, skipped steps.
it is not the first time they have entered without permission in the past good, long while.
"now, a little birdie told me — a pigeon, actually, poor little buggers, someone really should give them a hand... or a feather — that you..." they fall into the nearest seat, legs crossing in tandem. with hands folding politely in their lap, cane shifted aside, they fix him with the gorgeously dead stare of their lovely mask. "...have been looking for me. you fall near dead for well over a year's time, put all this work on my shoulders deciding whether to upkeep your existence or dump you and your unflinching order into the zee, then suddenly shoot awake, and the first thing you seek out is me? that's either suspect or adorable. maintenant dis-moi, о чем это?" their voice heightens a few octaves behind the modulation, mocking his posh accent, "quite strange for you to go around london's streets on your hands and knees begging for my attention instead of sending out your followers, innit?"
#` ✞ the doctor. ⁞ i see your darkest dreams‚ they’re no longer make believe.#londonfallen#lmfao#ic tbt.
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
a better man with better faults // a jae won fanmix
01. The Difference | Flume, Toro y Moi // 02. Sway | Jadu Heart // 03. Split Back | Sad Night Dynamite // 04. Saccharine | Oliver Sim // 05. Say it Ain't So (Weezer cover) | Japanese Breakfast // 06. Above the Salt | Portair, VERITE // 07. Wait a Minute! (WILLOW cover) | Vancouver Sleep Clinic, Amelia Magdalena // 08. Ghost | Snakadaktal // 09. Into Deep | Yuuca // 10. Selfless | Lontalius
[listen on spotify]
#playlists#fanmixes#the eighth sense#seo jae won#real ones know what tf i mean ok#like listen. they're not the same. but it's about the vibes. u feel me.#anyway jae won i would die for you i hope you know that.#this is the most low effort fanmix cover ever lol
1 note
·
View note
Text
Researchers map early human skeletal development, identifying key cells and pathways
- By Nuadox Crew -
Researchers from the Wellcome Sanger Institute and collaborators have created the first detailed map of human skeletal development in the first trimester.
This study, part of the Human Cell Atlas project, identifies all the cells and pathways involved in early skeletal formation, including those critical for skull and bone growth. By using cutting-edge genomic techniques, they have provided insights into how cartilage acts as a scaffold for bone development, except for the top of the skull. This map highlights cells that could be diagnostic and therapeutic targets for conditions like craniosynostosis, where soft spots in the skull fuse too early, and osteoarthritis, where cartilage repair genes may influence joint health.
Key findings include the identification of genes in early bone cells that might increase the risk of hip arthritis and genes in early cartilage cells linked to knee arthritis. The study also examined the effects of 65 clinically approved drugs on skeletal development, emphasizing the importance of this atlas in assessing drug safety during pregnancy.
Overall, the skeletal atlas is a freely available resource that enhances our understanding of bone development and its implications for skeletal conditions in both children and adults. This research is part of a broader collection of over 40 Human Cell Atlas publications that advance our knowledge of human biology and disease.
youtube
Video: "Early skeleton map reveals how bones form in humans - Video of developing cranium" by Wellcome Sanger Institute, YouTube.
Header image: This image is created from spatial transcriptomics slides that measure gene expression in tissue samples. It highlights the developing upper limb, including the hand and digits. Each spot corresponds to a segmented cell, with the expression levels of 155 different genes detected per spot. The colors indicate broad cell types, such as muscle, cartilage, and skin. Credit: K. To, L. Fei, J. P. Pett, et al. (2024) A multiomic atlas of human early skeletal development. Nature.
Read more at Wellcome Sanger Institute
Scientific paper: “A multi-omic atlas of human embryonic skeletal development” by Ken To, Lijiang Fei, J. Patrick Pett, Kenny Roberts, Raphael Blain, Krzysztof Polański, Tong Li, Nadav Yayon, Peng He, Chuan Xu, James Cranley, Madelyn Moy, Ruoyan Li, Kazumasa Kanemaru, Ni Huang, Stathis Megas, Laura Richardson, Rakesh Kapuge, Shani Perera, Elizabeth Tuck, Anna Wilbrey-Clark, Ilaria Mulas, Fani Memi, Batuhan Cakir, Alexander V. Predeus, David Horsfall, Simon Murray, Martin Prete, Pavel Mazin, Xiaoling He, Kerstin B. Meyer, Muzlifah Haniffa, Roger A. Barker, Omer Bayraktar, Alain Chédotal, Christopher D. Buckley and Sarah A. Teichmann, 20 November 2024, Nature. DOI: 10.1038/s41586-024-08189-z
Related Content
Human Cell Atlas: Mapping the human body for medical breakthroughs
Other Recent News
China’s 99% Efficient Afterburner Tech: Chinese scientists have developed what they claim to be the world’s first near-100% efficient jet engine afterburner, which could give Chinese jet aircraft a significant edge in air combat.
Apple and Google Face UK Investigation: Apple and Google are under investigation by a British watchdog for not giving consumers a genuine choice of mobile web browsers.
AI-Powered Metalenses: AI-powered metalenses are enabling high-resolution, full-color imaging for compact optical systems, reshaping imaging technology.
Supernova and Dark Matter: Researchers believe that observing gamma rays from a supernova could confirm the existence of axions, potentially solving the dark matter puzzle.
0 notes