#erotomaniac

[sarahalainn]

People commenting on what I should wear, what and how I should sing, what I shouldn’t perform don’t seem to realise how toxic they can be. I am not your doll here to satisfy your expectations. I am a fellow human being with thoughts and dreams.🥲You may simply and kindly exit if what you see and hear makes you unhappy. There’s a whole world out there!

Perhaps I’ll turn you into a song🙃

A big thank you, always, to the real supporters for accepting me as I am. It’s a tough world, on the stage and off, for all of us to be our true selves. But I hope you find your way and peace of mind in this short but sweet time we have on this planet.

サポーターの皆様、いつもありがとうございます。自分らしく生きにくい世界だけど、この儚い、美しい人生というひと時を、どうか皆さんらしくMy Way 、Your Way、進められますように。

Love, Sarah

[wickedzeevyln]

Sentinel

I fear for her when she walks the heartless streets with painted eyes on the walls.Gelid hunger swallows the night,creatures that abseiled the abyss, remerge from their den,with the scent of skin and perfume on their snouts.For some odd reason, when a river of whiskey courses through their wintry veins,they forget that at home they were raised by a loving mother,now they howl in packs.I cringe at…

[filmkatt]

The Erotomaniac Daimyo (1972)

Norifumi Suzuki

[galgf]

♡ Erotomaniac Lesbian …

A flag for lesbians who experience erotomania. This is exclusive to beings who experience delusions.

[ludiharambasha]

I don't know which one I hate more, the Naruto or You fandom and critics alike. It's as if missing the shows' themes is their favorite pastime.

[hellsdogs]

The sound of the camera, clicking, capturing, it echoes together with this hammer banging, wrecking inside his chest, inside his mind, under his skin, through his guts. Fever, Madness, Desire - it feeds his art the same way it feeds his damaged soul, igniting every single one of his senses. His eyes, they never blink, never look away, intense, dark, captiivated as his breath keeps on getting short, shorter, his lungs filled with nothing but her perfume, her scent, Her. ( @wellfell ) More. More of Her. This edible blood is cascading down her neck, a neck he watches through his lens - it is made of the purest, the rawest porcelain he just dreams to seize, devour, own, crush. He moves like a sculptor, devoted to the statue of her, to every single frame he takes of her : on that screen, she is his creation, his masterpiece. One knee down the bed, he is bent over her as she lays down, like immortalized on the canvas of these tainted, wrinkled, messy and ruined sheets, a ruby of erotic violence, she becomes the allegory of his darkest and deepest desires. The palm of his hand lands down the mattress, close to her head, careful. He is oh so careful not to touch her, not to damage her, his precious little fantasy. His breath is irregular when she does that : touching him, grabbing his arm to get him closer and she's moaning, arching her back for him to admire, to contemplate as if she visited every single one of these obsene dreams he has about her, only to give them to him, right here, right now. The camera clicks and clicks as he moves, hover over her to capture every single moment, every single moan. Fuck. Her moans, the only music he wishes to listen to for the rest of his pathetic littles days. He can feel the warmth emanating from her body, like a magnet, like a trap as the camera clicking closer and closer, his face now pressed against her temple. He closes his eyes, focusing on his own respiration, inhaling, exhaling as the frustration is so insufferable it almost hurts. He would kill, to be allowed to touch her, to ruin her, to take her whole, to be inside of her, for the blood to spread from her skin to his, for his mouth to taste her core, for his hunger to consume her in all the disgusting ways he wishes to. She knows, Oh she knows, this forbidden crave he only allows his dirty little camera to see.

"You're the prettiest thing I"ve ever seen." His voice is low, deep, his lips against her ear, he is Mad for her. Her hand seizing his electrifies him again. His eyes never leave her and she does just that : this time, it' his name she is moaning. Dear fucking God. Every single drop of saliva he swallows feels like blades, his fingers frozen on the button. She pushes him then, swattng his hand away, he actually looses balance and falls, on the low of his back out of bed, while she stands up above him. Pathetic little dog on the carpet he now is, well that's what he wants to be, that's what he makes of himself. It is Art, she Is Art, the Art that puts you down your knees, that makes you beg like you would to God. The balcony is just a few meters away, it only takes a few steps for them to reach the spot just like she demands. There is an unspoken rule between them, he never touches her, never unless she allows him to, asks him to. The cold of the balcony railing is pressed against her loins, the wind playing with the light fabric of her dress, revealing pieces of her. The night is dark and the city lights seem far away, and she is here, at his mercy, 10 floors above the ground. His fingers travel up her collarbones, slowly, like every single centimeter of skin they gain must be worshipped. Is he tainting her? By shivering when he's touching her like this, aroused. His long fingers reach her neck, steady, firm, the type of grip that does not pressure on her veins just yet, but the type of possessive grip that says he never ever wants to let her go. A step is made, closer, their bodies one against the other against that railing in a perfect silence only the wind fills, cold. His eyes are melting when he looks at her right here, right now, completely enamored of this vision of her. It's Adoration. He. Adores. Her. The camera is forgotten , hanging on his shoulder but not in his other hand no as this one crawls up her neck as well. A slow smile is now on his lips, matching these eyes of a deranged man who would kill himself for the object of desire she is. "You are my masterpiece. The epitome of my Art, the Beauty I want to dive in and die for." He rests his forehead against hers, closing his eyes like a prayer while his fingers tightens his grip around her neck, a pressure against her carotids, the type that can make one suffocate. "Akina, Akina... Oh God, Akina. Is this the only way I could ever have you all for myself? Tell me. Tell me I'm a pathetic piece of shit that disgusts you. Tell me you will never be mine, tell me I will never get to taste you, tell me you will never allow me to own you." His eyes are linked with hers now. There are hells in his dilated pupils, the ones she feeds, the she ones she exists in, both of their hair wipping in the breeze, the goosebumps rising on his skin, his demons awakening. "Tell me the only way you could be mine is... if I kill you."

[slothu]

this is literally one of the first weeks of my life since i was 6 years old that i haven't had an active crush on anyone

[sorrowandpride]

So tumblr lets you send asks to people you have blocked 💀

[pathologicalreid]

Hii I am making a Spencer Reid x citizen! F reader. They have been dating for a really long time but for a while reader has been dealing with a stalker, suddenly the stalker becomes much more violent and maybe even kidnaps her if we want to get real cray cray. Just lots of protective reid and angst to comfort!!

don't lose your head | S.R.

a stalker uses your work as a tudor history professor to follow your every move, so you go to the only place you can think of for help - the BAU

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: professor!reader, fiance!spencer, erotomaniac stalker, lots of tudor history facts, kidnapping, decapitation, happy ending, s11 (post-maeve), guns, death, spencer feels a lot of guilt, unhelpful police, exhaustion, nausea, dry heaving word count: 3.71k a/n: yall if i wanted to make this into a series would you read it 😭 i had so much fun writing this!!! and yes the title is a reference to six! thank you sooo much for requesting!!

you

You told Spencer after the fourth note. While the first two had been near your office door – harmless enough to have been brushed off as a student prank, the third note had been left on your desk. When someone had gotten into your locked office to leave you an intense love letter, you knew you were out of your depth.

After years of hearing stories about the BAU needing to battle the chain of command, you thought the best thing to do was to first go to the campus police. You were a professor, so the natural assumption was that they’d look into it.

They didn’t even take a report. No one listened to you.

From the campus police, you went into the city police, then the county, and by the time you marched into DC Metro, you hadn’t slept in a day. Spencer was in Utah on a case, and you didn’t have anywhere else to go. Once DC Metro told you there was nothing they could do without an open investigation or further evidence, you went back to your apartment.

The fourth note was there waiting for you, covering the camera that you kept on your front door.

Since you had the first three notes already in your bag, you plucked the newest one from where it was stationed on the front door and stuffed it in with the others before making the trip down to Quantico.

You had no idea when the team would be back, but the security guards at the front desk recognized you from the times you’d come to pick Spencer up or bring him lunch and they let you up anyway.

There were no notifications on your phone from Spencer letting you know that they were flying home, but the only place you felt safe was in their headquarters. The idea of going to see Penelope crossed your mind, but as a profiler-adjacent, she’d likely see right through you. You never dropped by, especially not when Spencer was away.

Settling yourself at his desk, you pulled an empty manila folder from a drawer, placed the notes neatly inside, and left it on Spencer’s desk before sitting in his chair and waiting for something to happen.

“Hey, Reid,” you heard a familiar voice from behind you. Slowly, you spun the chair around and looked at the team as they filtered in the glass doors.

Confused, Spencer tilted his head at you, clearly wondering why you were staking out the bullpen as he approached you. As he got closer, he observed the bags under your eyes, bloodshot from your lack of sleep over the last few days, “What’s wrong?”

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you clutched the folder like your life depended on it – for all you knew, it did. Your eyes followed Spencer as he knelt in front of you, accepting the folder when you handed it to him, “I think I’m in trouble,” you whispered, voice raspy from lack of use.

Your fiancé flipped through the pages, reading each of them a few times while you garnered attention from other members of the BAU. Tara, Derek, and JJ all crowded around Spencer’s desk, curious on your surprise appearance.

“I…” you faltered as you tried to explain what felt inexplicable. “The first one was folded over the doorknob of my office, the second one was slid beneath the door to my office, the third one was left on my desk, and the fourth one,” you glanced nervously at Spencer, “it was on the apartment door.”

Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed, “apartment door? Our apartment door?” As he questioned you, he stood up, leaving you with four federal agents staring down at you.

Despondently, you nodded, steepling your fingers in your lap and letting your shoulders droop.

“I’ll go get Hotch,” JJ said, nodding at everyone else to confirm her intentions before turning around, making her way up the steps to Hotch’s office.

From there, you ended up in the roundtable room. Tara had personally brought the letters for the lab to be checked for prints, and the techs had sent Garcia scans that were now projected on the screen. Each member of the team had them up on tablets, but you and Spencer knew the words by heart.

Shaking her head, Tara looked up at everyone, “I mean, who writes like this anymore? ‘But if you please to do the office of a true loyal mistress and friend, and to give yourself up body and heart to me, who will be, and have been, your most loyal servant,” she shrugged, continuing to look over the letters.

“They’re love letters,” you explained, tugging the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your palms before crossing your arms in front of your stomach. “The words aren’t original, they’re all passages from the love letters of Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn.”

Pointing to something on her screen, JJ frowned, “And what does his greeting mean? He always starts with ‘my rose without a thorn’.”

Nodding dejectedly, you focused your eyes on the now-empty manila folder on the table in front of you. “That was what Henry VIII called Catherine Howard, she was his youngest wife. It’s widely accepted among scholars that she was around seventeen when they got married, but others say she could’ve been as young as fifteen,” you answered, wondering if more details would help the investigation.

“So, we have Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, which wives were those?” Rossi asked, looking around the table for someone who knew the answer.

In the middle of scrawling something on an evidence board, Spencer answered quickly, “Two and five.”

Folding your hands in your lap, you scoured your memory for anything that could be helpful. When Hotch asked if those numbers meant everything to you, you just shook your head. “Is there any significance to the two wives he chose being Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard?”

Your lips parted in surprise as the blood drained from your face, “They were the two wives who were beheaded.”

An eerie silence fell over the room, interrupted only by a chime from Penelope’s laptop, her shoulders slumped forward in abject disappointment, “The lab didn’t find anything on the letters. No prints, no hair… nothing, but uh…” her voice trailed off as she looked up at Hotch, it was almost like she was seeking permission.

Each member of the BAU looked at each other with the same concerned expression on their faces. “What do you all know that I don’t?”

“Two bodies turned up last week in the greater DC area,” Morgan was the brave soul who spoke up, “they were both missing their heads, and they were both college professors.”

Goosebumps spread over your entire body, a chill of fear causing the tip of your nose to feel cold, “Oh, I…” you fumbled over your words, standing up from your chair and rushing to leave the roundtable, nearly throwing yourself out of the bullpen on your way to the women’s restroom.

Entering one of the stalls, you haphazardly gathered your hair at the back of your head and you dry heaved into the toilet. You dropped to your knees as nothing came out.

A knock at the door barely garnered your attention, you didn’t even bother responding as Spencer was already entering the stall, “Oh, honey.”

That was it, you sat back on your heels as tears welled in your eyes, looking up at Spencer as he sat down next to you. Immediately, you turned your body to face him and leaned forward.

Welcomingly, Spencer grabbed you, firmly wrapping his arms around your torso as he pulled you into his lap, “I have you. I’m right here.” His voice was gentle, no more than a whisper as he kept a firm pressure around your body, “You’re safe with me,” he reassured you, using one hand to keep you upright and the other to rub your back as you cried.

Your face was buried in the crook of his neck as you wept, the sensation of fear ran through your body like electricity, and you felt content for the first time in days in the safety of Spencer’s arms. “I- I just teach. I’m n- not built for this,” you cried, words slightly muffled by his shoulder.

You were a history professor, teaching a course on the six wives of Henry VIII, this was never even in the realm of things you considered when putting together your syllabus.

Taking a shaky breath, you pulled away from Spencer, and he reached behind you for a wad of toilet paper to dry your face. “Spence,” you said, though it came out as more of a whimper.

“When’s the last time you slept?” He asked, cupping both of your cheeks in his hands while he studied your exhausted expression.

Shrugging, you shuffled off of him, dropping the wad of toilet paper in the bowl and flushing it, “A day? Two?” You weren’t entirely sure what day it currently was, the events of the last few had caused everything to sort of blend together.

Spencer nodded in understanding, “Okay,” he responded, slipping his phone out of his pocket before typing something out, “Why don’t you go lie down in Morgan’s office for a little while? He won’t mind.”

You blinked a few final tears from your eyes before affirming, “Yeah, uh. I need to grab something from my car.”

“Okay, are you parked in the garage? I’ll go down with you,” he offered, getting up and lending you a hand up, mumbling about the state of the bathroom floor as he did so.

After washing your hands, the two of you made your way through the hall and to the elevator before Garcia called out for Reid, “Hotch needs you for something, he said it’s urgent.”

Glancing back at you, he pursed his lips before selecting a lower-level special agent to go with you to the parking garage. “Be right back,” you told him as you stepped onto the elevator.

him

Once he was finished with Hotch, Spencer made his way back down the hallway, expecting to find yourself settling in Morgan’s office only to find it empty. Turning back in the hallway, he nearly bulldozed into Morgan and JJ, “Hey, what’s the rush?”

“Have either of you seen Y/N?” He asked, trying not to let panic rise in his voice, but there had been ample time for you to get to the parking garage and back. You should’ve been back by now.

The two of them shared a look, “Uh, no, I haven’t seen her since she left the roundtable room. Is she alright?” JJ asked, blue eyes filled with concern.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, Spencer hit the number one on speed dial – your number – and brought the phone to his ear before rushing to the elevator and moving to the side as JJ and Morgan piled in with him. Frantically pushing the button for the parking level, he cursed as the phone went to voicemail.

“Reid, what is it?” Morgan asked as the elevator started moving down.

Redialing your number, Spencer muttered to himself, hoping you’d pick up, “I sent her down with an agent. Hotch needed my apartment key so that Tara and Rossi could go look for anything.”

As the steel doors opened, the three of them drew their firearms, each of them taking a different direction when Spencer realized he didn’t even know where you had parked your car. “We have an agent down,” Morgan called out, calling Garcia and putting the phone on speaker. “Baby girl, we need medical and crime scene techs down to the lower-level parking garage,” he said into the phone.

“Spencer,” JJ called out, garnering his attention as he made his way through the garage to where JJ and Morgan were now stood, Morgan was applying pressure on Agent Franks’ wound, and JJ was looking at a car.

The passenger door to your car was open, and the vehicle was chiming as an alert to get you to close the door. As he stepped forward, something glimmered at the edge of his vision. Crouching down, he picked up your engagement ring from the cement, “He’s got her,” he said, a wave of déjà vu nearly toppling him over.

Impatiently waiting for the elevator to take him back up to the sixth floor, Spencer trudged to the roundtable room, desperate for another look at the evidence board. The dates of each letter that you had received, the content of each letter, and the reason for all of this didn’t make any sense to him.

It had to be an erotomaniac, it was the only thing that made sense. You were an object of someone’s desires, and their delusion had to have become so strong that they took you.

Quietly, someone stepped into the roundtable room behind him, “What are you thinking about?”

Imminent death. Statistics of harm and death in cases involving erotomanic kidnappings. “Synchronicity,” he answered simply, entertaining JJ’s conversation as he continued to study the letters. The love letters were at the core of it all, so the answer needed to be written in there. Everything that had come to you was almost an exact copy of words written by Henry VIII.

“Ah, that’s Jung, right?” JJ asked, her voice was kind, and she was using the same tone she used when doing cognitive interviews with victims. He didn’t have time for her pity, they were on a clock.

Sighing, Spencer picked his dry-erase marker back up and scrawled on the board, “It’s a concept that he introduced, yes. It’s meant to describe the occurrence of events which seem like they’re significantly related but there’s no discernable causation.”

JJ nodded understandingly, taking a spot next to him and looking at the notes, “And what occurrence of events are we thinking about right now?”

“I suppose more than anything, I’m wondering if there’s an action that I took in the past that somehow caused me to find myself in this situation twice,” he answered, circling the word ‘the place chosen by yourself’ on the evidence board.

Humming, JJ turned to face him, “Does Y/N know?”

Pressing his lips together in a thin, white line, he nodded tightly, “I told her years ago, when we had first started dating, actually. I never thought…” his voice trailed off as he set down the marker, “She came to me, JJ. She came here to be safe, and he grabbed her from the parking garage.”

“You sent her down there with an agent, you thought you were doing the right thing,” JJ tried to comfort him.

Scoffing dismissively, he stepped back and took a seat in one of the chairs, “I can’t stop thinking about if it would’ve made a difference. If her asking me for help would have fixed anything, or if it would have ended the same way.”

Taking a seat near him, JJ paused for a moment, seemingly at a loss for words, before responding, “We can’t really afford to think like that though, in our line of work.”

Spencer scoffed, “No, we can’t. Especially not now, but the timing of it is weird. It’s been almost exactly four years, and now…” his voice trailed off as his eye caught on something on the paper. “The timing is off,” he muttered, picking up the first letter you had received.

“What is it, Spence?” JJ asked, tilting her head to the side curiously.

Shaking his head, he read the letter again, “This letter, it’s from the first letter Henry VIII wrote to Anne Boleyn, but in this version, he says he’s been waiting for months to be with her, but they waited seven years to be together because they were waiting for his marriage to Catherine of Aragon to be annulled.”

Still confused, JJ leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, “Okay, what does that mean.”

“We ruled out a student because the crimes didn’t read as mature, but what if it’s a different kind of student?” He proposed, standing up from the chair abruptly and starting to write on the board.

Rolling her chair closer to the board, she shrugged, “I’m not sure I’m following.”

Holding up a single finger, Spencer wrote a name down on the board, “Y/N has a grad student TA, he’s been working toward his PhD for seven years. He’s been her TA for three months – that lines up with the timeline in the letters.”

“Okay,” JJ said, starting to follow along, she waved at the team members in the bullpen to get their attention before hitting the call button on the conference phone. “Penelope, what do you have on a Geoffrey Williamson? He’s a TA in Y/N’s class.”

There was typing on the other line before a sound of disgust came from the technical analyst, “He is a different kind of smarmy, it looks like he transferred programs two years ago to Y/N’s university after he… oh. It looks like he bounced from foster home to foster home as a kid, his parents never fully gave up their rights but couldn’t follow through on their case plan. He was unsuccessful in his last dissertation defense three months ago,” she continued clacking on her keyboard, “after which his mentor teacher dropped him and the school gave him one more semester before pulling his funding. He asked Y/N to be his new mentor teacher and it looks like she turned him down -very nicely, might I add.”

Scoffing, Morgan crossed his arms in front of his chest, “That sounds like a stressor and a trigger if I’ve ever heard one.

“Garcia,” Hotch spoke into the phone, “Do you have a location for Williamson?”

There was more typing as Spencer could feel his carotid pounding in his throat, “It looks like he lives in student housing, but… he recently inherited an old factory after his biological father passed away two weeks ago.”

Nodding, Hotch looked around the table, “Send us the address, and forward it to Rossi and Lewis too.”

“Done, go get her,” Penelope urged into the phone before hanging up.

He slipped your engagement ring into his pocket before adjusting the strap on his Kevlar, thrumming with nervous energy as Morgan coordinated with SWAT, waiting outside of the old textile factory as the tactical team organized themselves in front of the BAU.

Spencer and JJ took the left side, Rossi and Tara took the right, and Morgan and Hotch went through the main doors.

“No!” Your voice broke out through the steel corridors of the factory, immediately followed by a yelp.

There was an awful noise then, like metal scraping against itself, “Fucking say it!” An unfamiliar male voice broke out in a holler.

Steeling himself, Spencer had to hold himself back from rushing into the room where your voice was coming from, each one of your sobs was like another strike at his resolve. “Good Christian people,” he heard you say, your voice was strained, “I am come hither to die, for according to the law, and by the law I am judged to- to-“ Your voice broke off into a heap of wails.

“What is she saying?” JJ whispered, waiting for SWAT to clear the corridor.

All of the blood had drained from Spencer’s face, “She’s reciting Anne Boleyn’s execution speech, from right before she was beheaded.”

JJ nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation – they needed to get in there, and they needed to do it quickly. SWAT waved them over, and the two of them filtered through the open doorway. The space was dimly illuminated by candles, but the only thing Spencer could focus on was your head, bowed toward the ground as you watched the ground. Above you, Geoffrey was holding a sword, ready to cut your head off.

“Geoffrey Williamson, FBI!” JJ called out, announcing themselves to the UnSub before he could get any further in his convoluted execution, “Put the sword down! Let Y/N go.”

Spencer clocked the UnSub’s grip tightening on the sword as he zeroed in on you, “I can’t! She has to pay for this! She has to finish the speech.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but as you raised your head slightly, he found himself silenced by your gaze. Roll, he mouthed the words to you, hoping Williamson was too focused on JJ to notice what he was trying to tell you.

“And by the law I am judged to die,” you continued the speech, your voice wavering.

Taking a deep breath, Spencer watched as the UnSub raised the sword despite JJ’s instructions to set it on the ground, “Y/N, stop talking!”

Releasing another sob, you finished the execution speech, “And therefore I will speak nothing against it.”

As soon as the last word was out of your mouth, Williamson brought the sword down, and as it swung, two things happened. JJ pulled the trigger on her firearm, killing the UnSub, and you rolled out of the way, the chains that bound your hands and feet clanging on the ground as you did so.

Holstering his weapon, Spencer ran over to you, dropping to his knees in front of you, “It’s done. It’s over,” he tried to reassure you, but you had begun struggling against your restraints as Spencer tried to settle you down, “Stop, it’s me, baby. Baby, it’s me,” he said desperately.

Once you had maneuvered yourself into a sitting position, you looked at Spencer with big, watery eyes before completely breaking down. “I just wanted it to end,” you babbled as your face crumpled.

“I know, honey,” he said, reaching out to pull you close as JJ contacted the rest of the team, asking for a chain cutter to get your restraints off of you as they weren’t able to find the keys on the body. “He’s gone, you’re safe,” he urged, holding you tightly.

You weren’t seriously injured, but there were enough bumps and bruises to make Spencer insist on a trip to the hospital. Until the EMTs could make it to you, he was fine with holding you on the floor of the factory. Keeping you close. Keeping you safe with him.

[fsugirl1]

what security issues has Z been through? I'm sorry idk

[werewolfcave]

Juvia Lockser is psychotic. Plain and simple.

But people don't understand in what way she is psychotic. She experiences Erotomaniac Delusions and Delusional Jealousy. I would say a good way to label her would be Mixed Delusional Disorder, specifically of the Non-Bizarre category.

Some people might believe that perhaps a more extreme psychotic disorder would be fitting but she doesn't exactly experience hallucinations so I would put her further in the Delusional Disorder category.

Now this is my throwing a bunch of jargon around so let me break this down:

What is a Delusion?

"A delusion is a fixed false belief based on an inaccurate interpretation of an external reality despite evidence to the contrary." (National Library of Medicine)

Essentially: a delusion is something that you perceive to be true even when there is evidence that shows it is not. This evidence could be anywhere between proof that what your brain believes is happening isn't happening, to the fact that what the delusions hinges on does not even exist (such as: a minotaur standing in your dining room (this one happened to me)).

Types of Delusions

These are some of the commonly experienced delusions:

Delusional jealousy - That one’s sexual/romantic partner is unfaithful.

Erotomanic - The fixed idea that another person, more frequently someone of higher status is in love with the individual.

Grandiose - A conviction of great talent, discovery, inflated self-worth, power, knowledge, or relationship with someone famous or deity.

Persecutory - A belief that the individual is being conspired against, attacked, harassed, obstructed in the pursuit of long-term goals.

Somatic - Perceiving bodily functions and sensations that are not actually occurring.

Mixed - No single theme is prevalent.

Thought broadcasting - Delusion that one's thought is projected and perceived by others.

Thought insertion - Delusion that one's thought is not one's own but inserted into their mind by an external source or entity.

And there are two categories that delusions are broken up into:

Bizarre - Delusions that defy the laws of reality, they are absurd and impossible.

Non-Bizarre - Delusions that have some basis in reality, there is a chance that it could occur.

How does this apply?

I have seen essays that say that Juvia believes the worst in Gray, I have seen essays that say that Juvia is not truly a friend to Lucy because of how she acts threatened by Lucy's presence around Gray. I would disagree with these statements.

Juvia is someone whose reality is perceived around her want of Gray Fullbuster and the belief that he is her man. This delusion was set in stone in her mind (triggered and backed up) when Gray cleared the sky for her and she saw a clear blue sky for the first time in her life. This moment altered her entire perception of reality as she believed this was not a possibility for her.

In desperation to keep this clear blue sky, and to cope with the alteration of her reality, she developed the delusion that Gray Fullbuster was in love with her/meant to be with her.

Her belief that Lucy is a threat is a perceived reality due to Lucy frequently being around Gray AND her misperception that Gray had feelings for her during the triggering event of her delusions. That said we see that she is capable of functioning alongside that delusion and showing genuine care towards Lucy and the other people in her life, even with the feeling of being threatened.

If I were to suggest how one might go about rewriting Juvia I would say take her psychosis into consideration and think about how her guildmates would function alongside her delusions. I believe there are plenty of ways to work within her delusions to cause her and Gray both less stress.

It's interesting because we can see that she is able to respect the boundary of sleeping in a separate bed when her and Gray are living together which is a good sign of how she functions in the realm of her own delusions.

[filmkatt]

The Erotomaniac Daimyo (1972)

Norifumi Suzuki

[galgf]

❤️‍🩹 ，Erotomaniac Lesbian Utsu …

Like & Reblog if used．

No Kin， ID， Me tags．

[zot3-flopped]

https://www.tumblr.com/alarrytale/760261273445449728/i-personally-dont-need-a-bandana-anymore-i-think

“If we declare an item he wears is for Louis, then H will find out and be onboard”

This is total insanity! In her mind H/L exist to service her fan fiction fantasy. Larries constantly talk about them being manipulated by their management but have zero self awareness on a moronic statement like this.

She's a psychotic erotomaniac.

[erotomanicpixiedreamgirl]

i dont think i could deal with another break up last summer when i stopped talking to my ex and “detached” i immediately reverted back to my erotomaniac self except this time the object of my erm. affection it wasn’t [redacted] but over a certain cancelled…….musician….who is married and has children. it was so insanely retarded that i learned i cannot be single and switch to hermit mode. it’s just how i am now. also maybe just maybe i need someone to match my freak and cure me of this illness. will someone volunteer

[haveyoureadthispoll]

One of Alasdair Gray's most brilliant creations, Poor Things is a postmodern revision of Frankenstein that replaces the traditional monster with Bella Baxter - a beautiful young erotomaniac brought back to life with the brain of an infant. Godwin Baxter's scientific ambition to create the perfect companion is realized when he finds the drowned body of Bella, but his dream is thwarted by Dr. Archibald McCandless's jealous love for Baxter's creation. The hilarious tale of love and scandal that ensues would be "the whole story" in the hands of a lesser author (which in fact it is, for this account is actually written by Dr. McCandless). For Gray, though, this is only half the story, after which Bella (a.k.a. Victoria McCandless) has her own say in the matter. Satirizing the classic Victorian novel, Poor Things is a hilarious political allegory and a thought-provoking duel between the desires of men and the independence of women, from one of Scotland's most accomplished authors.