Edgar Allan Poe - better known by his adoptive surname, Poe - was a shy man. He simply couldn’t even handle so much as eye contact - getting nervous in his boots. He always looked like a kicked dog, scared at every hand that came his way. He wasn’t scared of them - it was quite the opposite, in actuality. He just never knew how to approach the situation that he was dealt with, resorting to hiding in his own skin for the sake of hiding from that confrontation.

Poe was never good with people - not even his guildmates.

He spent hours, sometimes even days on end, in his room writing. Locked away, dedicating his life to making a novel that would stump the great Ranpo Edogawa. But - it was clear he was never really a proper match to the world's greatest detective, no matter how hard he prayed to be. It was like the man was some sort of ant that crawled under his skin and ate away at his nerves, he knew what he was doing.

He was always so scared when someone asked what he was working on - but he never felt that… extremely when you were around. It was an irritating feeling to him to be scared of everyone else but you. He couldn’t understand it - why were you the only person that didn’t scare him, didn’t make him feel like he needed to run or had to run like a kicked dog with his tail tucked between his legs.

You always listened. Hell, sometimes you even gave advice, and he used it. He couldn’t place his finger on why he ever listened to you, but he did without a question.

With the rate things were going between you two, if you asked him to fall to his knees and worship the ground you walked on, he’d surely do it without so much of a thought.

It embarrassed him - but you were what kept his hand busy, fueling his mind with rampant ideas, with twists and turns for a different story. You made his heart scream in ways he didn’t understand - in ways he didn’t want to understand.

And right now, that was fine with him. He wouldn’t need anyone else but you, and he hoped he had made that much clear. You were his muse - just as every painter needed their statue; he was your writer.

And every muse is worshipped by its writer in ways it will never understand - even if those ways are sometimes violent.

Poe prayed you would never discover that side of him.