#pardonnez moi | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

killerelysia · 12 days ago

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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

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cassandraclare · 4 months ago

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Those of you who get my newsletter will already have seen this but here's a snippet from the Matthew novella A Sea Change (some spoilers) — and Matthew on one of the endpapers for the novella book! Doesn't he look grownup?

It was a beautiful night. The promenade deck wended its way around the entirely of the Majestic like a necklace of polished wood and brass fittings. There were few out walking like Matthew, perhaps because it was cool and windy, but Shadowhunters were used to the cold. Besides, the wind blew the clouds away, exposing a sky so full of stars it looked as if a jeweler had hastily stuffed a drawer with handfuls of loose-cut diamonds. A year ago, Matthew would not have been able to enjoy the path the moonlight made across the water, or the sky afire with white flame. He would have been thinking about his last drink, or where he would find his next one. A frantic circle of pain and shame and longing: one he’d had to trudge invisibly, keeping his secrets from his friends, his family. Now the weight was off him. He felt light, and sometimes strangely at rest, like a windmill on a windless night. He no longer despised himself, but he did not know his purpose, either. If, he mused, one had to have a purpose at all. Was it not enough to be a Shadowhunter — one among many, but each sworn to protect humanity against demons? To keep peace among mundanes and Downworlders — warlocks, werewolves, the Fair Folk, and vampires? A year ago, he wasn’t sure he would have so quickly identified Miss Gwendolyn as a vampire, either. But then Matthew spent more time with Downworlders than most Shadowhunters did. Some he was friendly with, but he did not trick himself into thinking that meant they were not dangerous. And a vampire hiding out among humans was cause for concern. He’d noted the way Gwendolyn hadn’t eaten, and had drunk sparingly of the wine. The translucence of her fingernails. Her pallor, even under a layer of makeup. The veins at her temples — if those were visible, she was hungry. And there had been the odd behavior of Orville Cole. The way he’d stared at her worshipfully. Humans often fell under the spell of vampires, finding them impossible to resist. It was not the same as a thrall relationship, where the vampire fed from the human and in return promised them eternal life, but it was a use of vampire glamour forbidden by the Accords. Though Gwendolyn had seemed, if anything, annoyed at Cole’s attentions. Perhaps she’d enchanted him without meaning to and wished nothing more than to be rid of him. It was hard to say; Matthew did not get the sense she’d been a vampire very long. At that moment, lost in thought, Matthew collided with something solid. “Pardonnez-moi — oh. It’s you.” The young man from dinner, Sylvain Allard, had evolved out of the shadows. He wore a dark summer suit which blended with the night.

#mysterious boat doings!#matthew fairchild #novella #shadowhunters

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comicaloverachiever · 9 months ago

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Forgive me. / Pardonnez–moi.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire / Portrait de la jeune fille en feu (2019) dir. Céline Sciamma

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lifeofpriya · 4 months ago

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City of Love, Pool of Dreams - Thomas Ceccon

author's note: no gif this time unfortunately 😔 this fic may or may not have been come to fruition thanks to @2manytabsopen and i's daily chats and yeah...i hope y'all enjoy this Olympic-edition fic!

summary: A chance encounter during the Olympics ignites a passionate romance between you and a certain Italian swimmer...

You found yourself in Paris, the City of Lights, during the Olympics. The cobblestone streets were alive with the electricity of competition and camaraderie. Athletes from around the globe mingled with tourists and locals, creating a pattern of languages, colors, and emotions. As you strolled along the banks of the Seine, the gentle murmur of the river mixed with the distant cheers from the nearby stadiums. You paused at a small café, drawn in by the aroma of freshly baked croissants and the sound of laughter spilling out onto the sidewalk.

As you opened the door to enter the café, you accidentally bumped into someone exiting. You turned to apologize, and your eyes met green eyes that were so familiar to you, but you couldn't place where from.

"Pardonnez-moi," you murmur, the words slipping out at the same moment you realize who you've collided with. Thomas Ceccon, the Italian swimmer you've watched race to victory on TV recently, stands before you, his wavy hair slightly disheveled from the encounter. He smiles and extends a hand to help you regain your balance.

"It's quite alright," he says, his Italian accent lilting the words like a melody. "I should have been more careful." His eyes dance with good humor, and you can't help but feel the warmth of his presence.

You take his hand, noticing the firm grip of a trained athlete. As you both laugh off the minor collision, the café's door swings shut behind you, leaving the bustle of the street outside a muffled backdrop to your conversation. The interior is cozy, with wooden tables and chairs that have seen a thousand conversations, and walls adorned with vintage posters of French cinema. The smell of strong coffee and freshly baked bread fills the air, making your stomach rumble.

"Would you like to join me?" Thomas asks, gesturing to an empty table by the window. You nod eagerly, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. This is not a meeting you could have ever anticipated.

The sun breaks through the clouds as you sit down, casting a warm glow over the café. The bell above the door jingles again, announcing the arrival of more customers, but you're too caught up in the moment to pay them much mind.

"So, what brings you to Paris?" Thomas asks, his eyes genuinely curious. His casual demeanor puts you at ease, and you find yourself sharing more than you usually would with a stranger.

"I'm just here to watch the games and take in the sights," you reply, smoothing out your clothes, still slightly disheveled from the collision. I've always wanted to visit during the Olympics. It's like the whole world is here."

Thomas nods, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "It's incredible, isn't it? Everyone coming together for the love of sport. Have you seen any of the competitions yet?"

You admit that you haven't had the chance to attend any events in person, but you've been keeping up with the news. "I haven't had a chance to get tickets, but I've been watching the highlights every night," you say, a hint of disappointment in your voice.

Thomas's eyes light up. "Well, I might be able to help with that," he says, a playful smile playing on his lips. "I have an extra pass for the 4 x 100m medley relay finals tomorrow. Would you like to come?"

Your heart skips a beat. "Are you serious?"

Thomas nods, his smile growing wider. "Absolutely. It's going to be an incredible race. And it's my last event before I head home."

You can't believe your luck. Sitting in a quaint Parisian café with an Olympic gold medalist, sipping on steaming cups of café au lait, and now being offered a ticket to the most anticipated swimming event of the games. "I'd love to," you reply, trying to keep your cool. "But aren't you supposed to save those for family or something?"

Thomas waves off your concern. "My family's already got theirs. Besides, I'd rather share the experience with someone who truly appreciates it. Plus, I think it'll be more fun to have a friendly face in the crowd." His words warm you from the inside out, and you find yourself accepting his generous offer without hesitation.

The rest of the afternoon is a whirlwind of conversation as you share stories about your hometowns and your own passions. Thomas tells you about his rigorous training to get to the Olympics, and you listen, captivated by his dedication and love for the sport. In return, you speak about your own life, feeling surprisingly open with this charming stranger.

As the sun dips lower in the sky, casting a warm glow over the café, you both realize the time has flown by. "I should get going," Thomas says, glancing at his watch. "I have to be at the village soon. But I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

You nod, feeling a mix of excitement and anticipation. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Thomas leaves a generous tip on the table and stands up, his tall frame towering over the tiny chairs. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and extends his hand once more. "It's been a pleasure," he says, shaking yours firmly. "I'll meet you at the stadium's east entrance at 7 pm tomorrow then. Don't be late!"

You nod, your heart racing. As you watch him weave through the café and out the door, you can't shake the feeling that this is all a dream. The café seems to deflate slightly without his energy, and you sit there for a moment, lost in thought. The rest of the afternoon is a blur of preparation - finding the perfect outfit, re-reading the event schedule, and trying to calm your nerves.

\\\

Soon enough, tomorrow arrives. You wake up early, the excitement of the night before still buzzing in your veins. You take your time getting ready, choosing an outfit that is both comfortable for the long day ahead and presentable enough to be seen with someone as notable as Thomas. The sun is high in the sky by the time you leave your hotel room, casting a golden hue over the city.

You arrive at the stadium with time to spare, the anticipation building with every step you take towards the east entrance. The grandeur of the Olympic venue is a stark contrast to the quaint café where you'd met Thomas. The air is thick with the scent of popcorn and anticipation as fans from every nation mill about, adorned in their country's colors.

As you wait, you can't help but feel a twinge of doubt. What if he forgot about you? What if he'd just been being polite? But then, like a beacon of hope, you see him approaching, his green eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you. He waves, a grin spreading across his face, and you wave back, feeling a flutter in your stomach.

"You made it!" Thomas says as he reaches you. He's wearing the Italian team's colors, and the Olympic rings on his jacket glint in the sun. Are you ready for an unforgettable night?"

You nod, unable to find the words to express your excitement. He takes the ticket from you and leads the way through the throngs of people to the designated section. The stadium is a cacophony of noise, with fans from all corners of the globe cheering and waving flags. The atmosphere is electric, and you can feel it zipping through the air.

As you take your seat, you're struck by the sheer size of the pool. It stretches out before you, a blue expanse that seems to go on forever. The starting blocks gleam under the lights, and you can't help but imagine the tension that must build up there, the anticipation of the race to come.

Thomas notices your awe and chuckles. "It's pretty amazing, isn't it?" he says, his voice full of pride. "This is where dreams are made or broken."

"Go get them, Thomas!" You couldn't help but smile at the Italian as you nudged him playfully. His eyes lit up with a competitive fire, and you knew he was eager to dive into the water. The air was thick with anticipation, and the hum of the crowd was a constant reminder of the magnitude of the event unfolding before you.

As the evening progressed, the tension grew palpable. Athletes from various countries paraded into the arena, each step they took resonating with the weight of their nation's hopes and dreams. The time for the 4 x 100m medley relay grew nearer, and you found yourself leaning forward in your seat, the excitement building with every minute that ticked by.

Thomas's team was announced, and the crowd erupted into a symphony of cheers. You spotted him in the pool area, his eyes focused and intense. He caught your gaze and flashed a quick smile before turning his attention back to the water. Your heart raced in sync with the rhythm of the crowd as the starting gun went off.

The swimmers dove in, and the race began. Each stroke, each kick, every split second counted. The Italian team took an early lead, and you found yourself standing, hands clutched together, willing Thomas and his teammates to victory. The sound of water splashing and the buzz of the audience created a crescendo of energy that seemed to pulse through the entire stadium.

You watched Thomas's powerful strokes, his arms slicing through the water like a knife. The Italian fans around you were a sea of green, white, and red, their shouts of "Forza, Thomas!" echoing in your ears. As he approached the final stretch, you could see the determination etched on his face, the muscles in his arms bulging with the effort.

The race was tight, with the Americans and the Australian teams hot on Italy's heels. The tension in the air was so thick you could almost taste it. You held your breath as Thomas made the final turn, his legs kicking furiously. The crowd's cheers grew louder, each one a shout of encouragement that propelled him forward.

As Thomas reached for the wall to tag his teammate for the final leg, you felt your heart pound in your chest. The Italian team was still in the lead, but the margin was slim. You watched the final swimmer, the freestyler, dive in and slice through the water like a torpedo. The stadium was a blur of motion and sound around you, but your eyes remained fixed on the pool.

The race was a nail-biter, with the lead changing hands multiple times. The American swimmer was closing the gap, their strokes powerful and precise. You could see the determination in the Italian's eyes as he kicked harder, reaching deeper for the speed that had brought him to this moment. The crowd around you was a mix of hope and fear, each nation's supporters willing their team to victory.

As the race's final moments ticked by, the Italian freestyler pulled ahead, his stroke a thing of beauty and strength. The crowd's roar grew deafening, a wave of sound that seemed to lift the swimmers out of the water. You clenched your fists, feeling your heart race in time with the music's pounding bass and the cheers' rhythm.

Then, it was over. The Italian swimmer's hand slapped the wall, and the buzzer rang out. The crowd erupted into a frenzy of cheers and applause. You looked at Thomas, who was now standing at the edge of the pool, chest heaving and a smile of pure triumph spreading across his face. The Italian flag was draped over his shoulders, and his eyes searched the stands for yours.

When he found you, his smile grew even wider. He pointed at you, the universal gesture for 'we did it.' You couldn't help but laugh and cheer along with the rest of the crowd. The adrenaline rushing through your veins mirrored the race's intensity, and you felt a part of the victory, despite being a spectator.

After the race, Thomas made his way to the stands, navigating through the ecstatic Italians. His teammates hugged him tightly, their faces a mix of exhaustion and elation. When he reached you, his eyes sparkled with excitement. "Thank you for being here," he said, his voice hoarse from the chlorine and the screams.

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath from the excitement. "That was… amazing," you managed to say.

Thomas leaned in closer, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of the stadium. "It means so much to have you here," he said, his eyes searching yours. "I couldn't have done it without you."

You felt a blush creep up your cheeks, unsure of how to respond. Before you could say anything, a swarm of reporters and photographers descended upon the victorious team. Thomas was swept away in a whirlwind of flashing lights and questions, but not before winking at you and promising to catch up later.

\\\

As the excitement of the relay finals waned, you made your way out of the stadium, feeling both exhilarated and slightly lost. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and the city's lights twinkled like stars in the sky above. You wandered the streets of Paris, the games' energy pulsating through the city's cobblestone veins.

You soon found yourself on the pathway that led to the Eiffel Tower, the iconic structure casting its shadow over the bustling city. The air was still electric with the excitement of the games, but here, amidst the tourists and lovers, there was a sense of peace. You decided to sit on a bench, giving yourself a moment to process the whirlwind of emotions you felt from watching Thomas' victory.

As you sat there, the Tower's lights began to twinkle, a magical sight that seemed to mirror the spark in Thomas' eyes when he'd found you in the crowd. The sound of a distant accordion played a soft tune, and you felt a gentle nudge of nostalgia for a place you'd only just arrived in.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice. "Mind if I join you?" Thomas appeared, out of breath but beaming. He'd managed to escape the media storm and track you down. His wet hair clung to his forehead, and his eyes searched yours, looking for the same awe that you'd seen in the pool.

You nodded, your heart racing. "How did you find me?"

Thomas shrugged off his backpack and sat beside you, his eyes still gleaming with excitement. "I had a feeling you'd be here," he said with a grin. "This is where everyone comes to reflect on the magic of Paris."

You couldn't help but smile back, feeling a sense of camaraderie that went beyond the typical fan-athlete dynamic. The Tower's lights continued to dance above you, casting a soft glow on the two of you as you sat in companionable silence, watching the world go by.

Thomas leaned back on the bench, his eyes still glued to the Eiffel Tower. "You know, I've competed in so many places, but there's something about Paris that's just… special."

You nodded in agreement. "It's like the whole city is alive with excitement."

Thomas turned to you, his eyes shining with a newfound warmth. "And meeting you has made it even more unforgettable."

You felt your cheeks flush as you tried to find the right words to respond. "Thank you," you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas' smile grew softer, and he leaned in slightly. "Do you believe in destiny?"

You tilted your head, considering his question. "I like to think so," you replied, your voice barely audible over the Tower's twinkling lights.

Thomas nodded, his gaze lingering on the Tower before returning to you. "Then I guess it was destined for us to meet here," he said, his voice a gentle caress against the night air.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt your palms begin to sweat. You had never felt so alive, so seen. "I suppose it was," you murmured, not quite meeting his gaze.

The Tower's lights continued their rhythmic dance, casting a soft, romantic glow on the two of you. The accordion's tune grew faint, as if giving way to the conversation that was about to unfold. You looked up at Thomas, his features softened by the dim light, and realized that this moment was more than just a chance encounter. There was something genuine in his eyes, something that made you want to believe in fairy tales and happy endings.

"So, what happens now?" you asked, breaking the silence. Thomas took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "Now, we enjoy the magic of Paris," he said, his voice filled with promise. "We've got the whole night ahead of us."

#thomas ceccon #thomas ceccon imagine #thomas ceccon imagines #thomas ceccon fic #thomas ceccon fics

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missriyochuchi · 4 months ago

Text

Race to Capture the Flagbearer

Summary: On the eve of the start of the athletics events, the Torchbearer and the Flagbearer race to the Stade de France, betting that whoever enters the stadium first with the Flagbearer’s cape gets to chose the method of blessing the track.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Established relationship. Sexual tension. Kissing. Very lame sexual innuendo I’m very sorry lolol

Notes: In honor of the start of the track and field events, my favorite because I used to run track, I give you this hot mess! This one really got away from me. Full disclosure: I have never been to Paris. GoogleMaps and Google Images were absolutely indispensable!

Once again, I strongly recommend reading The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer first, but if not, only a few details carry over: the two exist only during the Olympics, so they die and are reborn every two years; interaction with humans is strictly limited; and the Flagbearer’s horse is named Zeus. I use gendered pronouns only to distinguish between the two; otherwise, their physical descriptions are not gendered.

Read on AO3

Beyond the city center, just north of the historic hilltop of Montmartre, Paris slumbers as though it were any other balmy summer night. A few stores and restaurants remain open, hosting those too restless to neglect the City of Lights. The low murmur of conversations warms the air beneath the amber glow of streetlights and the verdant canopies of deciduous trees. On the Avenue de Saint-Ouen, the soft, unmistakable clops of a horse turn the heads of those shocked to a standstill on the sidewalk.

The Flagbearer sways in her saddle as she guides Zeus down the northbound lane at a leisurely clip. The few cars caught behind them pass when able, unhurried by the late-night hour. Whispered surprise and pointing fingers follow in their wake. She turns and nods to the few aiming cameras and smartphones in their direction. Several meters behind on the northwest corner of the Boulevards des Maréchaux, two tourists watch the hooded figure continue on her journey.

“Where’s the other one?”

“Other one?”

“They’re always together at night.”

“What are you talking about?”

From behind them, a woman points up and shouts, “Là-bas!”

Heads tilt towards the rooftops. On the east side of the avenue, beyond the cover of the streetlights’ shine, onlookers catch the faint, bright material of the Torchbearer’s hood bobbing from building to building. The gauzy fabric travels quickly, seeming to fly across the uneven architecture, unbothered by safety or gravity.

Sounds of the spectators acknowledging the Torchbearer’s trajectory build to a wave that rolls down the road and crashes on the Flagbearer’s cape. Her hood turns around, the shadow beneath facing the line of buildings to her right. She whips forward and digs her heels into the horse’s sides. In a flash, the rider and her mount take off on a gallop, and the telltale signs of the nimble nightwalker disappear from the rooftops’ edge.

“What happened?” A fourth bystander, looking as confused as the first two, joins the three on the corner.

“Elle l'a vu.” The woman smiles and, with her fore- and middle fingers, gestures from her eyes to the rooftops to the north end of the street.

“Oh, uh, pardonnez-moi,” one of the two tourists attempts haltingly, “je ne parle pas français.”

“Dude, you don’t need to know French to know what this,” his companion mimics the woman’s gestures, “means. She said—”

“‘She saw him’ is what she said,” clarifies the fourth bystander.

“He’s chasing her?”

“Ils font la course.”

“I— Where’s my dictionary? Sorry, could you, uh— répétez, s'il vous plaît?”

“‘They’re racing.’ Dude, I’m going to strangle you.”

“What? But he can’t win. She’s on a horse!”

The woman and the fourth bystander share a laugh as they continue down the road. “Depends on where the finish line is!”

No announcements had been made declaring the particulars of this after-hours contest, but the more observant tourists and Parisians who had witnessed the two hooded figures about town before could more or less divine where they were headed. The Stade de France marked the end of their race, the venue housing the track for which their relay was honoring. No one, however, not even those with firsthand experience of past Olympic Games, could guess the particulars of their side bet.

“The athletics events begin in a few hours,” the Torchbearer had said to the Flagbearer, 90 minutes earlier, as they crossed the esplanade of the Palais de Chaillot in the direction of the Seine.

She hummed and smiled, gazing at the ground and matching his stride, her hands folded behind her back. “One of your favorites,” she said fondly.

From the top of the steps leading to the Jardins du Trocadéro, the Olympic Torch was still visible in the sky. Small groups of tourists flitted about the site, aiming all kinds of photographic equipment between the Olympic Flag flying above the Place du Trocadéro to the Eiffel Tower glittering above it all.

“The stadium is about 10 kilometers away,” the Torchbearer continued, pointing in a general northeasterly direction.

“I am aware of the distance, ma chère.”

“Shall we go over the rules?”

“Zeus,” the Flagbearer lilted, turning to face her mount, “do you need to be reminded of the rules?”

Following close behind, the horse shook his head. The two Olympic guardians had spent the last few nights inventing details to include the stallion in their quirky tradition. He was forbidden from trotting faster than 12 kilometers per hour, the average speed of a human man running. Only when the Torchbearer was in sight could Zeus gallop to his top speed; once out of sight, the horse would return to an average walk. The Flagbearer had offered to send Zeus ahead to the stadium in an attempt at fairness, but even she knew her armor was a handicap in the Torchbearer’s favor. She needed her steed.

“Perhaps we should lift the ban on mechanical vehicles, just this once,” the Flagbearer offered sheepishly. She felt guilty that for all of the Torchbearer’s physical prowess and show on the rooftops during the Opening Ceremony, he was still no match for one of Earth’s fastest land animals.

“No, my love. I do not believe Zeus gives you an undue advantage. Besides, I have my own ideas for bypassing our usual rule.”

“Oh?” She stopped at the edge of the esplanade and crossed her arms. “Then perhaps I should remind you that a bicycle is a kind of vehicle and therefore forbidden.”

The Torchbearer laughed. “I know better than to repeat my own mistakes. No, I have something even less mechanical in mind.”

“Would you care to share so that I may approve your means of cheating?”

He gasped and recoiled in faux offense, bringing his fingertips to his chest in mock shock. “Darling, how dare you accuse me of such a thing! It is not in our nature to cheat!”

“I know,” she conceded carefully before resuming her command, “but just because the equipment is featured in the Games does not mean it is allowed in our little competition. However, I suppose for tonight, I can allow you to skateboard.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “You still have not guessed correctly. No, I am certain these types of wheels are permissible. No human law has ever classified them as a form of transportation.”

The Flagbearer dropped her arms to her sides and squared her shoulders, straightening her posture. “Now I am intrigued.”

Light cheers and applause bubbled up around them. The two looked up in time to watch the Olympic Torch descend out of sight. Only the Eiffel Tower remained bright in the inky night.

“That is your cue, chérie.” The Torchbearer extended a hand in a show of sportsmanship. “Good luck.”

The Flagbearer accepted the gesture. “Bonne chance à toi, aussi, my dear. If you do reach me, try not to pull too hard. Falling from Zeus’s height would hurt even more in this armor.”

“I shall hold back my strength for your safety, mon amour. Now go.”

The Torchbearer watched his partner mount her steed and quickly gallop back through the esplanade, gaining more spectators with each echoing hoofbeat. When she reached the road, she brought Zeus to rear on his hind legs. Gasps of surprise followed. Once Zeus righted on all four legs, she blew a kiss to the Torchbearer who caught and tucked it into his vest against his chest. With a nod, horse and rider trotted in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. He waited for the sound of hoofbeats to fade away before running down the steps and across the garden and banking left to try to cut them off through neighboring roads.

What would normally have been a swift, straightforward race from the Place du Trocadéro to the Stade de France turned into an extended excursion into the more hidden side streets of Paris. Previous incarnations of the Olympic guardians allowed them to run unencumbered. The Flagbearer’s armored form, paired with Zeus’s presence, meant that they needed a creative twist to make up for their unique limitations. Eyeing the Flagbearer’s cape one night, the Torchbearer suggested a riff on the rules of Capture the Flag: one flag and one territory instead of the usual two each, her cape standing in for the desired marker and the stadium the sole safe place. Whoever entered the Stade de France first with the Flagbearer’s cape would win. What was once a race became a chase.

For more than 10 kilometers, the Flagbearer evades the more agile Torchbearer. She never hears him coming, his footsteps too light even in the silence of empty streets. She had been halfway through the Parc Manceau, hoping to use its lawns and trees to muffle Zeus’s steps, when she felt a rush of air graze her right leg. Her arm shot behind her and grasped her cape, its tough material caught up in the momentary gust. She sighed in relief just as the scrape of plastic wheels echoed on the pavement. She turned around and watched the Torchbearer come up from a crouched position and straighten up a few inches taller than his usual height.

“Rollerblades!” The Flagbearer was impressed. “Darling, you think of everything.”

He laughed. “They are not as quiet as I need them to be, but at least I have a chance to match Zeus’s trot.”

“It is not your speed that needs improvement.” She threw her cape behind her, taunting him as it fluttered back into place. “Your grip is lacking, my dove.”

With a swift tug of her reins, she brought Zeus to a gallop across the lawn where the Torchbearer’s wheels could not follow. He glided down a path to try to cut them off at the park’s edge, but lost sight of them behind the foliage. He stared at the five-road intersection and quickly picked up Zeus’s hoofbeats echoing down the Rue Georges Berger. Though he couldn’t see the source of the sound, he was sure of its direction. He took off down the Rue de Thann, hoping to catch them at the Boulevard Malesherbes. When he reached the corner, he found Zeus waiting riderless. The Flagbearer would repeat this strategy throughout the night.

With Zeus’s hoofbeats no longer a reliable sign of his partner’s presence, the Torchbearer takes to the rooftops for the higher vantage points. He flies freely — no cars or pedestrians to block his journey, no trees or walls to block his view. Despite the cloak of darkness hiding potentially dangerous nooks on which to trip, his step is sure. He falters only when he reaches the main thoroughfares, several lanes too wide to jump, and is forced to climb back down to the sidewalk. When he swivels around, hands on his hips and unsure of the Flagbearer’s location, a few wide-eyed tourists point him in the right direction. He nods or salutes before sprinting to the nearest building and resuming his flight across the darkened rooftops.

Meanwhile, the Flagbearer continues to use sound to her advantage. When she is not deploying Zeus as a decoy, she also relies on the few onlookers in her wake. Every time the Torchbearer nears, a low swell of claps and gasps announces his proximity, the spectators’ excitement at witnessing the phantom figure reenact his debut performance rippling through the air like a lighthouse beacon on a foggy night. The audible warning allows her enough time to pinpoint his location and break for a darker or wider street. Despite the weight of her armor and the agreed-upon limitations on Zeus’s abilities, she manages to stay ahead and out of reach of the Torchbearer.

Eventually, after breathless hours of looking over her shoulder, the Flagbearer comes into sight of the Stade de France. She is relieved but restless. It had taken longer to reach the stadium than she’d anticipated, and her daytime duties began to slip into the forefront of her mind. She senses dawn just below the horizon, hiding for another hour before warming Paris once more. She felt the urgency of concluding their game.

With no sign of the Torchbearer, the Flagbearer dismounts and walks the remaining distance to the parking lot surrounding the stadium. Zeus’s hoofbeats punctuate the whoosh of the few cars passing on the highway. They are 100 meters from a western gate when she hears the familiar roll of plastic wheels fast approaching behind her.

Without turning around, she smacks Zeus’s rump and grabs the horn of her saddle. She lifts herself high enough to put a foot in the stirrup as the stallion gallops towards the gate. She clings to her steed’s side, pushing sore muscles to their breaking point as her cape whips and drags in the wind. She pulls herself up and over to straddle the saddle and grasps for enough stability to turn her head around. She sees no hooded figure.

Only when Zeus stops abruptly in front of a gate does she see the Torchbearer. He had rolled to a stop a few meters from her position, holding her cape aloft in his right hand and waving low with his left. The Flagbearer quickly dismounts and points for Zeus to step away from the gate.

“Looks like I won, my sweet,” the Torchbearer taunts across the distance.

“Not yet, darling.” The Flagbearer advances slowly, cracking her neck and loosening her shoulders for what she assumes could turn into a wrestling match. “You have not entered the stadium proper. This parking lot is open space.”

His right hand drops to his hip, her cape billowing in the breeze. “You cannot outrun me in your armor.”

“Then play fair, ma chère. You know your agility is hampered by those tiny wheels.”

He lets out an amused huff before agreeing to her concession. He kneels on her cape, alternating knees so as not to lose it to the wind, and takes off the rollerblades. From behind his jacket, he produces and quickly puts on his shoes, readjusting his leg gaiters over the treads. All the while, the Flagbearer maintains her distance.

“A lesser opponent would have rushed me by now,” the Torchbearer observes as he stands up.

“A lesser opponent would have conceded defeat,” she counters as she steps forward.

He strides to the side, and she mirrors his move. “How do you imagine this will end, my dear?”

“With you pinning my cape back on me and blessing the track my way.”

“Darling, I would gladly pin you any day, but do tell what you had in mind if you do indeed win.”

The Flagbearer shakes her head as she takes another step closer. “As much as I enjoy your sense of humor, I would not deign to give you ideas before my victory is secured.”

“A wise move perhaps, but in truth, you read my mind.” The Torchbearer jumps several steps to the right, the entrance briefly in view, before she blocks him. “I can tell you with the utmost certainty that when I win, I shall pin you on the track.”

He is close enough to spy a smirk on her lips. She giggles and says, “And you call me insatiable.”

“My hunger burns eternal for you, my angel sweet.”

She comes up to her full height and points a finger in his direction. “You are distracting me.”

“An effective strategy, I would say. I have lured you away from the entrance.”

“By closing the distance between us.” The Flagbearer reaches out and jabs the Torchbearer’s shoulder with a firm finger. She enters into a slight crouch, palms outstretched, ready to reclaim her cape.

“Well, if we are to dance, mon amour,” he takes her cape in both hands and bunches opposing corners in his fists, “we must step closer.”

He swings the length of the cape over the Flagbearer’s head and around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. She looks up, grabs the remaining free corners fluttering above their heads, and swings them behind his shoulders. They land in each other’s arms, enveloped by the Olympic Flag.

Hidden beneath the cover of the opaque cape, the Flagbearer removes her gloves, stuffs them into her belt, and brings gentle fingertips to the bottom edge of the Torchbearer’s mask.

“You win, my love. Would you like a taste of your prize?”

She lifts the mesh just enough to expose his mouth. His breath warms her hand as she presses the pad of her thumb across his soft lips. She cradles his jaw in both hands, keeping his mask in place over his nose, as they meet for a fevered kiss.

Only the Flagbearer is privy to the face beneath the Torchbearer’s mask, the covering quickly removed during private moments behind closed doors. No rule existed banning the public exposure of their countenances, but the Olympic guardians thought it best for their appearances to remain as neutral as the intentions behind the performance of their duties. They are as much a symbol of the Games as they are its players, and only with their features hidden can they best represent the best of humanity in all its forms and functions.

From the top of the steps leading to the upper parts of the stadium, the crackle of a security guard’s radio travels through the air and interrupts the lovers. They part lips with heavy sighs, reluctant to meet the world and its inhabitants.

“Change of plans,” the Torchbearer mumbles as he chases the Flagbearer’s chin with his mouth and finds the lower edge of her cuirass with his hands. “This audience will not do.”

She giggles and runs her hands down his chest, searching for the warmth beneath his many layers. “Our race took too long. If only we had reached the stadium sooner,” she sighs as he traces her jaw with the tip of his tongue and latches his lips just below her ear, “when it was less populated.” She pulls him closer, reaching for the backs of his neck and waist.

“A simple walk must suffice.” He pulls away, lowering the Flagbearer’s hands by her wrists. “I have had enough racing for tonight.”

“Have I worn you down?” She tugs on the Torchbearer’s lapels.

He laughs as he removes her gloves from her belt and glides them over her hands, the wind at his back keeping the cape in place. “I bow to your mastery of stealth and strategy.”

“Well, I learned from the best.” She readjusts his mask under his chin before he flips the cape behind her and secures it under her spaulders. “Be honest, dear, did I tire you too much?”

“I can manage a 400-meter walk.”

“And afterwards?” The Flagbearer nudges her hand into the crook of his arm, pressing her shoulder to his, and starts towards the stadium.

“I have enough strength for my duties. You need not worry.”

“I know. I had hoped for my own blessing before sunrise.”

The Torchbearer laughs to the sky before swinging his arm around her waist and opening his side to her embrace. “Darling, you truly are insatiable.”

“I merely wish for you to claim your prize.”

“The walk around the track—”

“Is still part of our duties. Your prize for catching me is far more enjoyable.”

He stops to hold her hands and run a finger along her jawline. “Then let us race properly, quickly around the track, so I may claim you.”

The Flagbearer giggles and starts down a tunnel leading into the belly of the stadium, the weight of her boots and the drag of her cape slowing her sprint. The Torchbearer captures her quickly.

Translations: Là-bas! - Over there! pardonnez-moi, je ne parle pas français - forgive me, I don't speak French répétez, s'il vous plaît - repeat, please Bonne chance à toi, aussi - Good luck to you, too