#obsessed obsessed obsessed WHERE ARE ALL THE NOTES FOR THIS POST

[livingformintyoongi]

Oops! I'm The MC

Summary: Your life had always been quiet; you worked in a small coffee shop downtown, lived in an average apartment with your roommate, Sunhee, and spent most of your free time playing random online games, one of your biggest obsessions being Love.exe, a new otome game that everyone was talking about and, well, you didn't want to miss it, much less after seeing the 7 main characters and their routes. Valentine's day was approaching and, with it, a super romantic special; you were promised roses, chocolates, love and a bit of spice, but what did you get? A stupid bus crash that led you -somehow- to enter the world of Love.exe, where every single thing you did affected your relationship with those seven beautiful guys, and from where you definitely need to escape as soon as possible. Author’s note: I promise, from the bottom of my heart, that this will be the last thing I post before continuing with GAS? :( nothing is confirmed, but I plan to upload it by Valentine's Day (it all depends on how well I manage my time) Until then, I'll be posting little previews as I go along. That's all, bye bye! P.S.: Thanks to the wonderful @kooktrash for inspiring me to do this with her story Rewriting Love, it's really good, please read it! Pairing: OT7 x Reader AU: Otome!AU

[fangdokja]

"The first time I touched death, I vowed it wouldn’t be the last."

❤︎ Synopsis. In a world where death feels more intimate than life, a young criminal profiler hides a dangerous secret: an insatiable obsession with killers, driven by the thrill of catching them—and the forbidden desire to get closer than anyone ever should.

♡ Book. 🔞Forbidden Fruits (FF) : Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Serial Killer/s (?) x Fem. Detective! Reader

♡ Novella. Hybristophilia - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 9,380

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, suggestive themes, fear play, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, BDSM, depression and mental illnesses, implied suicidal tendencies, unhealthy coping mechanisms, descriptions of gore, implied abuse, unhealthy family dynamics

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr content guidelines involving mental illnesses, self-harm, and suicide, some plot details of the original story were purposefully made ambiguous to fit the platform.

♡ A/N. I was stuck in the plot introduction 70% since Dec. 22, 2024 with this work. I just couldn't get the vibes done right. Until I realized that this was 9k words and can be posted already, ahhhhhh. I literally could've posted this earlier hjadskadjdslad. This is technically really, really, REALLY old work, tbh dsfjjdfkdsl. Like same age as Paternal Privilege. Also, I was so formal before in this blog, now I'm just weird tbh. Crack energy. ngahhhh. low-key my writing vs. my personality wahhaah. Also that synopsis is just sheeeshhh. I'm so excited to write the Forbidden Fruits stories. Legit. Extremely challenging to write, but satisfying. I have an upcoming Yandere! Family, Yandere! Fans, and this one, Yandere! Serial Killers. Finally found what to do. Yes, ALL of it is smutty reverse harem stories. This Part 1 mostly focuses on Reader lore.

The rain poured like a ceaseless baptism, a torrent that washed the blood from the cracked pavement and whispered the sins of the dead into the gutter. The city was a wretched beast—a labyrinth of neon lights and suffocating shadows, where humanity festered and decay thrived. It was here, in this urban purgatory, that you carved your name into the annals of justice. Rookie detective, they called you, but you were more than that. A prodigy. A virtuoso of the macabre symphony that was murder.

You stood at the edge of the crime scene, your breath curling in the air like ghostly smoke. The corpse lay sprawled across the asphalt, limbs twisted in a grotesque parody of life. Blood had pooled beneath the body, glistening black in the dim, flickering light of the streetlamp. The victim’s face—what was left of it—was frozen in a rictus of terror, eyes wide, mouth agape in a scream that would never be heard. A masterpiece of brutality.

The others hesitated, their hands trembling as they cataloged the scene, but not you. You stepped closer, the leather of your gloves creaking softly as you crouched down to examine the remains. The scent of copper and decay clung to the air, an invisible specter wrapping itself around your senses. Your gaze traced the jagged lines carved into the flesh, the deep incisions that spoke of rage, of obsession. You didn’t flinch. This wasn’t chaos to you. It was a puzzle, and every grotesque detail was a piece waiting to be placed.

“Detective,” a voice called from behind, hesitant. “We… we’ve got a partial print. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

You straightened, the weight of your coat shifting as you turned to face the forensics tech. The young man’s face was pale, his eyes darting nervously between you and the corpse. He held out a tablet, the illuminated screen displaying a magnified fingerprint. You nodded, taking the device and scanning the data with a clinical detachment that belied the storm brewing within you.

“It’s a start,” you said, your voice as cold and sharp as the night air. “Run it against every known database. Focus on violent offenders, repeat killers. He’s not new to this.”

The tech swallowed hard, nodding before scurrying off. You turned back to the body, your mind already piecing together the profile. Male, mid-thirties to forties. High intelligence, methodical. The precise incisions suggested medical knowledge or at least anatomical familiarity.

This wasn’t a crime of passion; it was art. A performance meant to shock and awe. He wanted to be seen. He wanted to be understood.

“He’s watching us right now,” you murmured, your breath ghosting over the victim’s lifeless eyes. It wasn’t paranoia. It was intuition—a sixth sense honed through years of studying the darkest recesses of the human mind. You scanned the surrounding buildings, the windows like darkened eyes peering down at you. Somewhere out there, he was hiding, basking in the chaos he had created.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, pulling you from your thoughts. You answered without looking at the screen, your voice a curt acknowledgment. “Detective speaking.”

“You’re quite something, aren’t you?” the voice on the other end drawled, rich with mockery and amusement. Male, smooth, confident. “Standing there in the rain, piecing me together like a puzzle. You’re just as brilliant as they say, maybe even more.”

Your heart quickened, but your expression remained impassive. “Who is this?”

A low chuckle, dark and velvety. “Let’s not pretend, Detective. You know exactly who I am. You’re holding my work in your hands, aren’t you? How does it feel to touch my masterpiece?”

Your grip tightened on the phone, the rain sliding off your glove like quicksilver. “Why don’t you come show me yourself? Or are you too much of a coward to face me?”

“Oh, feisty,” he purred. “I like that. But no, this is much more thrilling, don’t you think? The chase. The anticipation. You and me, dancing in the dark.”

“You won’t get away with this,” you said, your voice a blade honed to perfection. “I will find you.”

“Oh, I hope you do,” he replied, his tone shifting to something almost tender. “I’ve been waiting for someone like you, Detective. Someone who understands. Someone who can truly see me.”

The line went dead, leaving you standing in the rain with the echo of his voice lingering in your mind. A shiver coursed through you, not from the cold, but from the thrill. The hunt had begun, and you were already neck-deep in the abyss.

As the city’s lights flickered and the shadows deepened, you turned back to the crime scene. The others glanced at you, their faces a mix of awe and fear.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. This wasn’t just a job for you.

It was an obsession, a dance with darkness where every step brought you closer to the edge. And you couldn’t wait to see how far you could fall.

────────────

The mansion you called home was a monument to perfection—gleaming marble floors, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and walls adorned with paintings worth more than most people earned in a lifetime. It was the kind of place where silence reigned, not out of peace, but from suffocating control. A mausoleum masquerading as a home. The air always smelled of polished wood and cold steel, sterile and lifeless.

Your family was the kind people envied. Your father was a titan of business, a man whose name alone could inspire fear or awe depending on who spoke it. Your mother was the perfect socialite, a porcelain doll of grace and poise who never let her painted smile falter. And then there was you—the heir, the eldest child, the one meant to inherit it all.

Except no one envied you. Not if they looked closely enough.

“You’re a disappointment,” your father had said, his voice as sharp and cold as the winter air that seeped through the cracks in the mansion’s walls. He loomed over you, his tailored suit immaculate, his cufflinks gleaming like little knives. His eyes burned into you, assessing, judging, and finding you wanting. “Do you even want this life? Or are you content to sit there like a damn ghost?”

You had stared back at him, your face a mask of apathy, your eyes dull and distant. “I didn’t ask for this life,” you said, your voice flat, emotionless.

His slap came fast, sharp, and deliberate. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to sting. “You don’t get to choose. You’re my child, and you will uphold this family’s legacy.”

Your mother had watched from the corner of the room, her wine glass clutched tightly in manicured fingers. She didn’t intervene. She never did.

You were a disappointment to her, too. You didn’t have your father’s drive or her charm. You were quiet, withdrawn, always lurking in the corners of rooms during parties, your shoulders slumped and your expression unreadable. People whispered about you. The heir to an empire, and yet you carried yourself like a ghost.

Your younger siblings—perfect in their roles—thrived under the weight of your parents’ expectations. They were ambitious, charismatic, eager to please. Everything you weren’t. You avoided them as much as you could, retreating to the library or your room where no one would bother you.

Books were your only refuge, but even they failed to hold your attention for long. You flipped through pages without absorbing the words, your mind drifting to an endless void of nothingness. School was no better. Teachers despised your lack of effort, your unwillingness to engage. You could solve equations and recite facts with ease, but you didn’t care enough to try.

“You could be top of your class,” one teacher had told you once, her voice tinged with frustration. “Why won’t you put in the effort?”

You had shrugged. “What’s the point?”

She had stared at you like you’d just confessed to a murder.

The truth was, everything felt pointless. The world was gray, flat, lifeless. Food tasted bland, music sounded hollow, conversations felt like static. The people around you moved like automatons, their voices blending into a dull hum that barely registered.

You dragged yourself through each day, waiting for something—anything—to spark life within you. But nothing ever did. You were a shell, empty and hollow, drifting through life like a leaf caught in a current.

At home, the pressure mounted. Your father’s glares grew colder, your mother’s smiles more strained. “Why can’t you be like them?” she had hissed once, gesturing toward your siblings as they basked in the glow of parental approval. “Why can’t you care about something?”

You didn’t have an answer. You didn’t care about anything.

Until that day.

———

It was a Wednesday—cold, gray, and unremarkable. You had come home from school, dragging your feet up the driveway lined with perfectly trimmed hedges. The front door was ajar, but you didn’t think much of it. You stepped inside, the sound of your shoes against the marble echoing through the empty house.

And then you smelled it.

Iron. Sharp and metallic, it filled your nostrils, cutting through the usual sterile scent of the house.

You paused, your heart giving the faintest flutter of something you couldn’t name.

“Mom?” you called out, your voice soft, almost hesitant.

No answer.

You moved further in, the silence pressing down on you like a weight. The air grew colder as you approached the living room, the scent of blood growing stronger. Your pulse quickened—not from fear, but from something else. Something that made your skin prickle and your breath hitch.

The door was slightly open, light spilling out onto the polished floor. You pushed it open, and the world changed.

Your parents were dead.

Your mother lay on the cold tile floor like a broken marionette, her body contorted into angles no living thing could endure.

Her neck had been slit from ear to ear, the severed carotid arteries gaping open like grotesque mouths. The blood spray, arterial and bright, had painted the walls in erratic arcs, a grotesque mural of violence. Her head tilted unnaturally backward, the deep incision almost severing the spinal column.

The skin of her neck had been parted with surgical precision, revealing the glistening white cartilage of her trachea and the dark, meaty coils of severed muscle beneath. Her eyes—wide, glassy, and unmoving—stared into eternity, their sclera stained pink by ruptured capillaries.

Your father was slumped against the far wall, his body a macabre tableau of suffering.

His chest cavity had been torn open, the rib cage shattered and spread like grotesque wings to reveal the glistening viscera within. His sternum had been cracked apart, jagged shards of bone jutting outward, some piercing the flesh around them like cruel splinters. The cavity was hollow now, organs displaced or missing entirely—perhaps taken as trophies or discarded in the frenzy.

The lungs and heart remained, barely recognizable, its walls torn and sagging like deflated balloons. Blood seeped sluggishly from its ruined chambers, mixing with the viscous, bile-stained fluid pooling around his torso. His intestines, severed and spilling, snaked out across the floor in tangled loops that glistened under the harsh overhead light.

But for the first time in your life.

...

You felt alive.

The apathy that had gripped you for years shattered in an instant. Your heart raced, your breath caught, your fingers trembled. You should have been horrified. You should have screamed, cried, run for help.

But you didn’t.

────────────

You stepped closer, your movements slow, deliberate, as if approaching a sacred altar. The blood seeped into your sneakers, warm and sticky, but you didn’t care. You crouched beside your mother’s body, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch her lifeless face. Her skin was cold, waxy, but your pulse raced. Your fingers brushed against her blood, smearing it across your skin like a ritualistic paint.

The door creaked behind you, and you turned sharply, your heart leaping—not in fear, but in anticipation. Standing there was the man responsible, his silhouette stark against the dim light filtering in from the hallway. He was tall, his face obscured by the hood of his jacket, but you could see his eyes—cold, calculating, devoid of remorse.

He looked at you, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then, a slow, crooked smile spread across his face.

“You’re not scared,” he said, his voice low, almost amused. “Interesting.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes locked on his. You felt something stir within you, a connection, a pull. You didn’t hate him. You didn’t want to run or scream. Instead, you wanted to understand him. To unravel the mystery of the man who had brought such beauty into your sterile, empty world.

“You’re different,” he murmured, stepping closer. His boots squelched in the blood, the sound sharp and wet. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re like me.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a thrill that you couldn’t explain. You didn’t move as he crouched before you, his gloved hand reaching out to cup your face. His touch was cold, but it didn’t bother you.

“You’ll remember this day,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “And one day, you’ll thank me.”

He stood, pulling the hood tighter around his face, and turned to leave. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t cry out or beg for help. You just sat there, staring at the blood-soaked floor, your mind racing, your heart pounding.

In that moment, something inside you shifted.

You weren’t afraid of death.

You were fascinated by it, drawn to its cold embrace like a moth to flame.

You didn’t tell anyone about the man or his words. He was your secret, a shadow etched into your soul.

With the memory of his smile lingered in your mind, he would be a ghost that would haunt you for years to come.

────────────

You didn’t know how much time passed. Minutes, hours—it was meaningless. You were kneeling in the middle of the carnage, your school uniform soaked in blood that wasn’t yours. The hem of your skirt clung to the sticky floor, and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the next room filled the void of silence. The bodies of your parents lay sprawled before you like grotesque marionettes, strings cut and discarded.

You tilted your head, staring, unblinking. You traced the patterns of blood with your eyes—the way it spidered out in thin, spindly veins, pooling in the cracks of the marble. It was beautiful in its brutality, the symmetry and chaos mingling in a way that stirred something inside you.

A distant noise pulled you from your trance. The sound of footsteps. Heavy boots against the floor, muffled voices carrying through the still air. The door creaked open further, and the cold wash of blue and red lights from the police cruisers outside spilled into the room.

“Jesus Christ,” someone whispered, the words trembling on their lips.

You didn’t turn to look. You stayed where you were, your gaze locked on the corpses. The air seemed to grow heavier, oppressive with the weight of death.

“Kid?” a soft voice called out, tentative, careful. A man stepped into view, his face pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. He was a detective, judging by the coat slung over his shoulders. His badge glinted faintly at his hip. “Are you… Are you okay?”

You blinked slowly, tilting your head as you finally tore your gaze away from the bodies to look at him. His eyes widened slightly, and he took a step back, as though your stare had unnerved him.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice devoid of emotion.

He crouched down, careful not to step into the blood. His face softened, his voice lowering into a soothing tone, the kind reserved for skittish animals or traumatized children. “It’s okay, you’re safe now. I’m Detective Shiu Kong. Can you tell me your name?”

You told him, your tone as flat as ever. He glanced at the carnage behind you, his jaw tightening. “Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

You shook your head. “No. I just… found them like this.”

His eyes searched your face, looking for signs of tears, fear, something—anything. But you gave him nothing.

Another officer stepped into the room, his hand flying to his mouth as he gagged. “Oh, God… This is… It’s like something out of a nightmare.”

Detective Shiu shot him a look. “Pull it together, Itadori. Go secure the perimeter. Make sure no one contaminates the scene.”

Itadori nodded quickly and left, his footsteps retreating down the hall. Shiu turned his attention back to you, his gaze softening again. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out, I promise. But I need you to come with me, alright? Let’s get you out of here.”

He extended a hand, but you didn’t take it. Instead, you stood on your own, your legs stiff from kneeling so long. Blood clung to your shoes, leaving faint red imprints as you stepped back.

Another officer approached, this one a woman with kind eyes and a gentle demeanor. “We’ll need to ask her some questions,” she said softly, her gaze flickering to you. “But let’s give her some time.”

You allowed them to guide you into another room, away from the bodies, though the image was burned into your mind. The house felt colder now, emptier.

Behind you, the investigators began their work. You could hear their voices, low murmurs tinged with horror and disbelief.

“The killer had to have known them. This wasn’t random.”

“Look at the precision of the wounds. This wasn’t just rage—this was deliberate.”

“There’s no sign of forced entry. They let him in.”

The words filtered through the haze in your mind, but you didn’t react. You sat on the edge of a pristine white couch, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your bloodstained fingers leaving faint smears on your skin.

Shiu knelt in front of you, his face lined with concern. “I know this is hard,” he said gently. “But we’re going to catch the person who did this. I promise.”

You met his gaze, your expression blank. Inside, though, something stirred. Catch him? You didn’t want them to catch him. You wanted to understand him.

And for the first time, you spoke a question that sounded innocent, but carried a deeper, darker hunger. “What kind of person would do something like this?”

Shiu sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Someone broken. Someone dangerous. But don’t worry, we’ll keep you safe.”

Safe. You didn’t care about being safe. You cared about him. About the mind that had created that tableau of death. About the hands that had painted your parents’ blood across the floor.

As the investigation swirled around you, as officers snapped photos and collected evidence, you sat in silence, a strange, budding fascination growing in your chest.

The world wasn’t gray anymore.

For the first time, it was alive with color.

────────────

The interrogation room was a sterile box—a windowless void bathed in the cold fluorescence of a single overhead light. It smelled faintly of bleach and despair, the walls closing in with an oppressive, airless silence. You sat in the center of it, small and motionless, like a porcelain doll abandoned on a shelf. Your hands rested on the table, palms upturned, the faint streaks of your parents’ blood still etched into the creases of your fingers.

On the other side of the glass, the detectives gathered, watching you in a hushed conference of disbelief and unease.

“She hasn’t cried,” one of them murmured, his voice tight. “Not once.”

Detective Shiu, the man who had been first on the scene, leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His brow was furrowed, his expression grim. “She’s in shock,” he said quietly. “Or maybe she’s too scared to process what happened. It’s not unusual in kids this young.”

“She’s twelve, Shiu,” another detective said, his voice wavering. “Twelve. I’ve seen kids lose it over their goldfish dying, and she’s sitting there like… like she’s made of stone.”

A younger officer, fresh out of the academy, spoke up hesitantly. “Her siblings… They’re in the next room. Crying their eyes out, clinging to the social workers like lifelines. But her? She hasn’t even asked about them.”

Shiu glanced through the glass, his gaze hardening as he studied you. “Kids process trauma differently. Just because she’s not falling apart doesn’t mean she’s not affected. Hell, it might hit her later—when she’s alone. When there’s no one left to be strong for.”

“Strong?” The younger officer scoffed. “She’s twelve. She shouldn’t have to be strong. She should be screaming for her parents.”

Shiu turned sharply to face him, his voice a low growl. “And what exactly do you expect her to do? She came home and found her parents butchered. Her entire world’s been shattered. Maybe this is her way of surviving it.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on all of them. Beyond the glass, you sat unmoving, your eyes fixed on the corner of the table.

“She’s been sitting like that for over an hour,” the first detective muttered, his gaze flicking nervously toward the one-way mirror. “Not a single word unless we ask her something directly. No tears, no outbursts. Nothing.”

Shiu rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion etched into his features. “What do you want me to say? That it’s normal? It’s not. But we don’t know her. We don’t know what’s going on in her head.”

The younger officer swallowed hard, his voice dropping. “The scene was… It was bad, Shiu. Worse than anything I’ve seen in years. The bodies were staged, for Christ’s sake. Staged like it was some kind of art project. And she sat in the middle of it like she didn’t even see the blood.”

Shiu’s jaw tightened. “I saw it too, rookie. And I’m telling you, that girl isn’t our priority right now. The killer is. Focus on the evidence.”

But the rookie couldn’t let it go. “Did you notice her hands? The way she was staring at them when we brought her in? Like she was memorizing the blood. Like it was… I don’t know, fascinating to her.”

“That’s enough,” Shiu snapped, his voice a blade that cut through the room.

But the words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

The group fell into an uneasy silence as they turned their attention back to you. Inside the room, you shifted slightly, your fingers curling against the table. Your movements were slow, deliberate, as though you were cataloging each sensation—the cool surface of the metal, the faint stickiness of dried blood.

“You said she’s the eldest,” another detective said quietly, breaking the silence. “She’s probably been under pressure her whole life. Heir to the family fortune, right? Big shoes to fill, parents pushing her to be perfect. Maybe she was just… conditioned for this kind of detachment.”

“Maybe,” Shiu muttered, though the doubt in his voice was palpable. “But that doesn’t explain why she’s so damn calm. I’ve seen soldiers with less composure after a firefight.”

Another officer entered the observation room, holding a folder thick with case files and photographs. She set it down on the table with a heavy thud. “Preliminary findings from the scene,” she said. “And it’s… a mess. No forced entry, so the killer either had a key or they were let in. The wounds are precise—surgical, almost. We’re looking at someone with medical training, maybe an ex-surgeon.”

Shiu opened the folder, his eyes scanning the grisly photographs. “Anything else?”

The officer hesitated, then lowered her voice. “The way the bodies were positioned… It wasn’t random. It was deliberate. Like he wanted to send a message. And the kids’ rooms? Untouched. He had the chance to hurt them but didn’t. This was about the parents.”

“Deliberate,” Shiu echoed, his voice a low growl. He glanced at you through the glass, his gaze darkening.

“She’s a victim, Shiu,” the officer said firmly, sensing his hesitation. “Don’t let your gut get in the way of the facts.”

He nodded slowly, though his eyes remained on you. “Get a full psych eval on her as soon as possible. And keep an eye on her siblings. They’ve been through hell.”

As the others filed out, Shiu lingered, his gaze locked on your tiny figure in the interrogation room. Your face was a blank slate, devoid of emotion, your eyes distant, like you were staring into another world entirely.

“Kid,” he murmured under his breath, his voice heavy with pity and unease. “What the hell’s going on in that head of yours?”

Inside the room, you shifted your gaze to the one-way mirror, your expression unreadable. Somewhere deep inside you, beneath the calm, beneath the emptiness, a quiet, gnawing hunger began to stir.

────────────

The funeral was a cold, desolate affair. Rain fell in relentless sheets, drumming against the black umbrellas that formed a sea of mourners. The sky, a bruised expanse of gray, seemed to weep for the tragedy that had hollowed out an entire family. The scent of wet earth and wilting flowers hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sterile tang of grief and formaldehyde.

Six children stood in a line, each a mirror of their parents’ legacy. Their faces bore the delicate symmetry of their bloodline, but grief had marred their perfection. Red-rimmed eyes, trembling hands, and heaving sobs betrayed their anguish. They clung to the adults around them—grandparents, aunts, uncles—like lifelines in an unrelenting storm. All except you.

You stood apart from the others, a silent silhouette against the backdrop of the open grave. Your posture was unnervingly composed, your expression a mask of indifference. The black dress you wore hung loosely on your slight frame, rain streaking the fabric like tears you refused to shed. While your siblings cried openly, you remained still, your gaze fixed not on the caskets being lowered into the ground, but somewhere beyond—into the void.

Detective Shiu watched you from a respectful distance, his sharp eyes missing nothing. The rain plastered his raven hair to his forehead, and his trench coat was soaked through, but he didn’t move. There was something about you that gnawed at him, something that refused to be dismissed as mere shock or stoicism.

When the priest finished his sermon, the mourners began to disperse, their sobs fading into the sound of rain. Shiu approached you cautiously, his boots sinking slightly into the mud with each step. You didn’t acknowledge his presence at first, not until he stopped beside you, his voice low and measured.

“You’re a strong kid,” he said, his tone laden with the kind of empathy that came from years of witnessing human suffering. “Stronger than most adults I’ve met.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes still locked on the horizon.

He followed your gaze, finding nothing but the skeletal outline of trees in the distance. “Your siblings,” he continued, “they’ve got people to lean on. Family. Support. But you…” He hesitated, studying you carefully. “You’ve been handling this on your own, haven’t you?”

Still, you said nothing.

Shiu sighed, his breath misting in the cold air. “I know it feels like the world’s ended. Like nothing makes sense anymore. But it’s okay to let it out, you know. To feel something.”

Finally, you turned to look at him, your expression as blank as the tombstones dotting the cemetery.

Shiu’s jaw tightened, his instincts flaring. He’d spent decades reading people, peeling back the layers they tried to hide. And you… You were like a locked vault, impenetrable and cold.

But then he saw it—a flicker, brief but unmistakable. A spark of something behind your eyes when he shifted the subject.

“The case,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “We’re working hard to catch whoever did this. It’s not going to be easy, but we’ll get them. I promise you that.”

Your posture changed, barely perceptible. Your shoulders stiffened slightly, and your gaze, previously distant, sharpened just enough for him to notice.

“What do you know so far?” you asked.

The question was casual, but to Shiu, it was like a flare in the dark. Most kids in your position wouldn’t want to hear the details, wouldn’t want to relive the horror. But you… You were curious.

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Not much yet. We’re looking into suspects. Someone close to the family, maybe. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. It wasn’t random.”

Your head tilted slightly, your expression unreadable. “Knew what they were doing?”

“Yeah,” Shiu said, his voice lowering. “The wounds were precise. Almost surgical. This wasn’t someone acting out of rage or desperation. It was planned. Methodical.”

For the briefest moment, your lips curved into something resembling a smile, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Shiu’s stomach churned.

“You’re interested in the case,” he said, more of an observation than a question.

You shrugged, your gaze drifting back to the open grave. “I just want to know why.”

“Why?”

“Why they did it,” you said simply. “Why my parents. Why like that.”

Shiu studied you for a long moment, his mind racing. He could see it now, the faint glimmer of fascination in your otherwise dead eyes. It wasn’t grief that drove you—it was curiosity. And that disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

“I’ll let you know when we find something,” he said finally, his voice tight.

You nodded, turning away from him and back to the grave as the caskets disappeared into the earth.

As Shiu walked away, a cold dread settled in his chest. He didn’t have proof, not yet. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that you weren’t just a victim of this tragedy. You were something else entirely. Something he couldn’t name.

And deep down, he wondered if the killer hadn’t just taken your parents. He wondered if, in some twisted way, they’d awakened something in you.

Something that would never go back to sleep.

────────────

Detective Shiu Kong leaned back in his chair, the muted hum of the interrogation room’s fluorescent lights buzzing in his ears. Across the table, you sat motionless, hands folded neatly in your lap, posture unnaturally straight for someone your age. The muted gray walls and steel table seemed to swallow you whole, a tiny figure in an oppressive void. Your face was calm, eerily so—no tears, no tremors, no reddened eyes like your siblings. Just that neutral, detached expression, as if you were waiting out a dull lecture at school.

The detective studied you, his brow furrowed. His years as a profiler had trained him to see what others couldn’t, to read the nuances of behavior that betrayed inner turmoil. But with you? It was a blank slate. No tells, no cracks in the armor. If anything, your stillness felt intentional, like the quiet before the eye of a storm.

“It takes a village to make a killer,” Shiu said, breaking the heavy silence. His voice was soft, a stark contrast to the clinical environment around you. “Someone doesn’t just wake up one day and decide to do what they did to your parents. It’s… fragile, the way a person breaks.”

You said nothing, but your gaze flicked to him for the briefest of moments before returning to the cold metal surface of the table. It wasn’t much, but he saw it—a faint glimmer of something. Interest? Annoyance? He wasn’t sure.

Shiu exhaled, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I know you don’t like to talk much,” he continued. “And I’m not here to force you. But… I’m curious. You’ve been through something no one should ever have to experience. I’d like to hear your thoughts. About the case.”

You finally moved, tilting your head slightly, your eyes narrowing as you studied him. For a moment, he thought you wouldn’t respond. Then, softly, you spoke. Your voice was quiet but carried a certain weight, an eerie calmness that unsettled even him.

“They weren’t sloppy,” you said, almost to yourself. “Not at all.”

Shiu leaned forward, elbows on the table, nodding for you to continue.

“The cuts,” you said, your tone clinical, detached. “Precise. Efficient. The carotid artery was severed on my mother. Do you know how hard it is to make that cut on the first attempt? There’s a lot of tissue in the way—muscle, skin. It’s easy to miss. But they didn’t. They knew exactly what they were doing.”

Shiu’s eyes widened slightly, but he stayed silent, letting you unravel your thoughts.

“And my father,” you continued, your voice taking on a rhythm now, faster, like a scientist presenting a theory. “They cracked his sternum. That requires force—an immense amount of it. Whoever did this either used a tool, or they’re physically very strong. Maybe both.”

You leaned back slightly, a faint crease forming between your brows. “But it wasn’t random. They didn’t damage the lungs. Or the heart. That’s unusual for a chest cavity opening, isn’t it?”

Shiu’s lips parted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching in surprise. “You’re right,” he admitted. “It is unusual. We assumed they were interrupted before finishing.”

You shook your head, the first real emotion flickering across your face—a faint, almost imperceptible trace of impatience. “No. That wasn’t the point. It wasn’t an unfinished job. It was… intentional. A display. Like they wanted us to see inside him.”

Shiu stared at you, his mind working overtime to process your words. “A display,” he repeated. “You think it was symbolic?”

“Maybe,” you replied, your voice tinged with a strange, almost morbid fascination. “Or maybe it’s a message. They took care to leave certain things intact. Why? If it was just rage, they’d have destroyed everything. But they didn’t. It’s methodical. Almost surgical.”

The room felt colder now, the air thick with tension. Shiu leaned closer, his eyes locked on yours. “And what do you think they’re trying to say?”

For the first time, you hesitated, your gaze dropping to the table. Then you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “That they’re better than us. Smarter. More… evolved.”

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to drop. Shiu studied you, his chest tight with unease. There was something about the way you spoke—not just the content, but the tone. Detached, yet brimming with an almost manic curiosity. It reminded him of someone dissecting a rare specimen under a microscope.

“You’ve thought about this a lot,” he said carefully.

You shrugged, your shoulders barely moving. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Everything else is just… noise.”

Shiu’s brow furrowed, his gut instinct screaming at him. “You’re not like your siblings,” he said finally. “They cry. They grieve. You… don’t.”

Your gaze snapped to his, sharp and unyielding. “Is that what you want? Tears?” There was no malice in your tone, only a quiet challenge. “Would that make it easier for you to understand?”

Shiu didn’t flinch, but he felt the weight of your words settle heavily on his shoulders. “No,” he said softly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You didn’t respond, your gaze dropping back to the table. The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. Shiu sat back, exhaling slowly.

“You’re smart,” he said finally. “Smarter than you let on.”

You said nothing, but the faintest flicker of an annoyed smile ghosted across your lips—a blink-and-you-miss-it moment that sent a chill down Shiu’s spine.

He knew then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you weren’t just a victim in this story. You were something else entirely. Something he couldn’t quite put into words, but that set every instinct on edge.

And as he walked out of the room that day, he made a silent promise to himself: he’d watch you. Not out of pity or duty, but because deep down, he knew that whatever path you were heading down, it was one he couldn’t ignore.

────────────

Detective Shiu Kong had seen too many young lives derailed by tragedy, twisted by trauma, but you—there was something about you that unsettled him deeply. It wasn’t just the apathy, the emptiness that radiated off you like a thick, suffocating fog. It was the moments where that apathy cracked, and something far more dangerous seeped through—an unnatural hunger, a sharpness to your gaze that reminded him of a predator observing prey.

Your family, as it turned out, hadn’t cared for you in the way families were supposed to. It was in the brittle silences of the house you were now trapped in, the way the distant relatives who took over arrangements barely addressed you, their perfunctory actions revealing more about duty than love. Your siblings clung to one another, huddling for warmth against the cold, but you stayed apart.

Always apart.

Watching.

Thinking.

Silent.

———

Shiu didn’t know what compelled him to watch over you.

He was a man who worked alone, who didn’t believe in getting attached to anyone, least of all children with gaping wounds that no amount of therapy could stitch closed.

But every instinct in his body screamed that you were a ticking bomb, and he couldn’t ignore it.

He noticed the small, alarming habits first. The way you would skip meals for days on end, your thin frame growing even thinner. The way you could sit for hours, unmoving, staring at the same spot on the wall like you were seeing something no one else could. The way you seemed to breathe only out of necessity.

Yet when the topic of death, of cases, came up, you transformed. Your eyes would sharpen, your monotone voice would take on a rhythm, a tremor of something almost joyous.

“You know, not eating won’t make the pain disappear,” he told you one day, sitting across from you in the dim light of the room you had claimed as your own. The windows were closed, the air stale.

You didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him. But then, in the stillness, you said, “What was the autopsy report for the victim in the Wyler case?”

Shiu blinked, caught off guard. “You’re not eating, and that’s what you’re interested in?”

“Yes,” you replied simply, turning your head just slightly to meet his gaze. Your eyes weren’t those of a child’s. They were ancient and cold, dissecting him. “The way they were dismembered. There were inconsistencies in the photos. It didn’t seem... human.”

For a moment, Shiu wondered if he should leave, report you to someone better equipped to handle whatever this was.

But then he sighed, his professional curiosity outweighing his unease. “The dismemberment wasn’t human, not entirely,” he admitted. “The killer used a custom blade, likely self-made. Something serrated, designed to maximize tissue damage while minimizing effort. Efficient but cruel.”

You sat up, for the first time showing a glimmer of true interest. “Efficient but cruel,” you murmured, as if tasting the words. “Like they wanted to see how far they could go before the body failed. A test, maybe.”

Shiu raised a brow. “That’s a very specific theory.”

You shrugged. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Make theories?”

Shiu leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “You realize this isn’t normal for someone your age, right?”

“Normal is boring,” you replied, your voice flat but tinged with something darker. “And you keep talking to me. So, maybe I’m useful to you.”

Shiu didn’t have an answer to that. He didn’t want to admit you were right.

———

Over the weeks, he started bringing you details of cases—not the classified, sensitive material, but enough to give you a taste of what he was dealing with. It was against protocol, sure, but Shiu wasn’t stupid. He saw how your apathy shifted when you had something to analyze.

It wasn’t about healing you; it was about keeping you from descending into something far worse.

“What do you see here?” he asked one evening, spreading out crime scene photos on the desk between you. The images were brutal—blood splatter patterns streaked across concrete walls, a body slumped in the corner, its throat carved open with surgical precision.

You leaned in, your fingers tracing the edges of one photo. “The blood arc here,” you said, pointing to a particularly vivid spray. “It’s too high for someone who’s left-handed.”

Shiu frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“Because if they were left-handed, the angle would’ve been sharper, closer to this direction.” You gestured with your hand, mimicking the trajectory. “They used their right hand to strike, but... they weren’t dominant with it. See how the arc stutters here? Like they hesitated.”

Shiu stared at the photo, then at you. “That’s... not bad,” he said cautiously. “But why would they use their non-dominant hand?”

“To confuse you,” you replied, your tone matter-of-fact. “Throw off the profile. They’re probably ambidextrous, but they want you to think they’re clumsy. A false lead.”

Shiu shook his head, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve got a knack for this.”

You looked at him, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something almost resembling emotion.

“I want to do what you do,” you said. “Study them. Understand them. I think... I could be good at it.”

Shiu’s chest tightened. He wanted to tell you no, to tell you to choose something else, something lighter, but he knew it would be a lie.

You weren’t meant for light.

You thrived in the shadows, where the unspeakable lived.

“All right,” he said after a long pause. “But if you’re serious about this, you need to take it seriously. No more skipping meals. No more locking yourself away. You put in the effort, or you don’t do it at all.”

You tilted your head, as if considering his words, and then nodded. “Deal.”

Shiu watched you carefully as you returned your attention to the photos, the faintest hint of life returning to your features. He didn’t know if he was helping you or enabling something far worse, but one thing was certain: you weren’t a victim anymore.

You were something else entirely.

────────────

The years between 12 and 18 passed like a blur of clinical precision and relentless hunger. You became the youngest graduate in criminal profiling, earning honors, accolades, and the kind of begrudging respect that even the most senior officers had to acknowledge.

But for all the brilliance you displayed on paper, your presence unnerved people. Outside of work, you remained distant, a spectral figure with dead eyes and an air of quiet detachment. In social settings, you were polite but devoid of warmth, a mannequin in human form.

In the field, however, you were a force of nature. Cases brought you to life in a way nothing else could. It wasn’t just work to you—it was an obsession, an itch buried deep in your psyche that only bloodied crime scenes and twisted puzzles could scratch.

To most, your drive was admirable, a testament to youthful ambition. To those who worked with you, it was terrifying.

———

It had been a week since the “Red Veil Butcher” case had been closed. A particularly brutal spree killer who targeted victims with surgical precision, leaving behind bodies that were less human than anatomical exhibits.

The debrief was supposed to be routine, a moment of closure for the department. The victim’s family was present, a grieving mother clutching her child’s scarf like it was the last tether to her sanity. Officers murmured words of comfort, offering coffee and awkward pats on her shoulder. You sat in the corner, silent, observing the proceedings like they were an annoying obstacle.

When one of the senior officers asked you for your thoughts, you didn’t hesitate.

“The mother missed key signs,” you said bluntly. “The killer stalked her daughter for months, even sent warning letters. She should’ve contacted the police earlier.”

The room went silent, save for the soft, choked sobs of the grieving mother. Every pair of eyes turned to you, wide with disbelief.

“Jesus Christ, have some empathy!” one of the officers hissed. “That’s her child.”

You blinked, tilting your head slightly. “It’s the truth. She ignored the signs, and the result was fatal. If anything, she should—”

“Enough!” The commanding officer’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Leave. Now.”

You left without another word, though the rage simmering behind you was palpable.

———

Shiu Kong didn’t call you immediately. He waited, as he always did, giving you time to simmer in your own thoughts.

When he finally summoned you to his office, the look on his face was enough to tell you this wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to it.

You shrugged. “I said what needed to be said. She was negligent—”

“Stop,” Shiu snapped. “Do you think that helps anyone? Do you think saying that to a grieving mother is going to bring her daughter back? Or make her feel anything other than guilt?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s not about feelings. It’s about preventing the next victim. If people understood the consequences of their negligence—”

“This isn’t just about logic!” Shiu slammed his hand on the desk, making you flinch ever so slightly.

“Do you know why you’re still here, why you haven’t been pulled from this line of work entirely? Because you’re good. Damned good. But if you can’t figure out how to make people listen to you without alienating them, you’re useless. Do you understand that?”

You looked away, lips pressed into a thin line.

Shiu sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Listen, I know you don’t care about people. I know empathy doesn’t come naturally to you, and I’m not asking you to fake something you’re not. But you need to learn how to communicate in a way that gets results. That means learning how to mask your apathy, at least enough that people aren’t too angry or upset to work with you.”

“That’s... illogical,” you muttered. “Why should I—”

“Because obstruction is your worst enemy,” Shiu interrupted, his tone softening slightly. “And you hate inefficiency, don’t you?”

You froze, his words striking a chord deep within you.

“You don’t do this for glory or fame,” Shiu continued.

“You do it because solving cases is what makes you tick. So think of this as another skill to master—another tool in your arsenal. Learn how to handle people, or you’ll be left behind. And I won’t be able to protect you.”

You hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “Fine.”

———

You weren’t perfect, but you adapted. You learned how to soften your edges, how to mimic the empathy that people expected. You nodded at grieving families, offered hollow condolences, and kept your cutting observations to yourself until you were behind closed doors.

It was exhausting, like wearing a second skin that didn’t quite fit, but it worked. People stopped glaring at you. They started listening.

But in private, in the confines of your work, you were the same. Clinical. Relentless. Brilliant.

———

Shiu handed you a file one evening, his expression unreadable. “This one’s tricky,” he said. “The killer calls themselves ‘Red Rose.’ They leave roses at every crime scene, but no fingerprints, no DNA. Just the flowers.”

You opened the file, scanning the photos. The victims were posed in strange, almost reverent positions, their bodies adorned with thorny vines.

“They’re making a statement,” you said after a moment. “The roses aren’t just a calling card. They’re part of the ritual.”

Shiu nodded. “That’s what we think too. But what’s the message?”

You studied the photos in silence, then pointed to a small detail in one of the images. “Look at the way the vines are arranged. They’re covering the victim’s mouth and eyes, but not their ears. It’s symbolic. They’re saying... ‘Listen.’”

Shiu raised a brow. “To what?”

“To them,” you replied. “The killer thinks they’re silencing liars, people who ‘speak falsehoods’ or ‘see evil.’ They want their truth to be heard.”

Shiu leaned back, impressed despite himself. “You’ve got a knack for getting into their heads.”

You allowed yourself a small, almost imperceptible smile. “It’s what I do.”

By 18, you had built a reputation as one of the youngest, most promising criminal profilers in the field.

But Shiu knew the truth—you weren’t doing this out of a sense of justice or duty. You were chasing something deeper, darker.

And he watched, always wary, always waiting, knowing that one day, he might have to make a choice: save you from yourself, or let you burn.

────────────

It began as a whisper, a quiet, insidious thought that crawled into the back of your mind during the early years of your work. It wasn’t the murders themselves that fascinated you—though you would sometimes lie awake at night replaying the crime scenes in your head, each bloody tableau etched with clinical precision.

No, it was the murderers. The way their minds worked, their audacity to play God.

It was intoxicating.

You told yourself it was professional interest.

Shiu Kong often praised your ability to get into a killer’s head, to see the world through their eyes. It was why you were the best.

But you knew better. There was something else, something primal and shameful, that pulled you toward them like gravity. You could feel it in your chest, a tight, hot coil of hunger every time you interrogated one.

———

The first time it happened, you told yourself it was a mistake.

A lapse in judgment.

He was a sadist, a monster who had strangled six women in their own beds. You were supposed to be observing him, studying him.

Instead, you found yourself leaning closer, your breath hitching when his hand brushed yours. He smiled—a predator’s smile, sharp and knowing. He saw right through you, into the dark, hollow place you kept hidden from everyone, even yourself.

“You love danger, don’t you?” he had whispered, his voice like velvet laced with barbed wire.

You didn’t answer, but your silence spoke volumes.

Later that night, you visited him in his cell. The guards had left for their rounds, and the shadows swallowed the room whole.

It was dangerous. Reckless.

But when he pinned you against the cold, unforgiving bars, you had never felt more alive. His hands were rough, his grip bruising, and you let him do whatever he wanted.

You didn’t care about the consequences, only the searing heat in your veins and the dizzying high of being so close to death.

———

After that, it became a pattern.

You were careful—always careful. You never left evidence, never allowed your encounters to interfere with your cases. To the world, you were still the brilliant, detached profiler who closed cases with surgical precision.

But in the shadows, you lived for the moments when a killer’s hands wrapped around your throat, when you could feel their breath on your skin and the sharp edge of a blade against your flesh.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust, not in the conventional sense.

You didn’t care about them as people, and you certainly didn’t want a relationship. It was the power, the thrill of standing at the edge of the abyss and staring into the void. You were the perfect submissive, but not because you wanted to be controlled. You wanted to be consumed.

And then, when the moment came, you turned the tables.

They thought they had you, that you were theirs to break and discard. But you were always one step ahead. You let them believe they had won, let them take their pleasure and their power. And then you crushed them. Every time, without fail, you closed the case.

They ended up behind bars, or dead, and you walked away unscathed. It was a game, a twisted chess match where you always had the final move.

———

But there was one killer you hadn’t found yet. The one who had started it all.

Your parents’ murderer.

He was the first, the one who had opened your eyes to the beauty of chaos and the fragility of life.

You didn’t hate him. You couldn’t. In a way, you were grateful to him. He had given you purpose, a reason to exist.

And yet, you wanted him more than anyone else.

Not to love him. Not even to kill him. You wanted to stand before him, to feel his hands on your skin, to let him carve his mark into you like he had carved it into your family. You wanted him to take you apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

And then you would destroy him.

Each case you worked on felt like a step closer to him, even though you knew it wasn’t. You chased every lead, interrogated every suspect with the same cold, detached intensity.

But when they weren’t him, you felt a pang of disappointment, a hollow ache that no amount of blood or violence could fill.

Every killer you encountered was a pale imitation, a placeholder to fill the void until you found him. You imagined what it would be like to face him, to feel his hands on your throat, to hear his voice whispering in your ear. The thought made your heart race, your breath quicken.

And, you never stopped. You couldn’t. He was out there somewhere, watching, waiting. And you would find him.

He was the endgame, the final piece of the puzzle.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. 🔞Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

[author-main]

Welcome back to Author Takes the Romance out of Wrightworth just to Put It Back Later. The reason why I do this is because, I'm a relatively newer fan, haven't been here for super long. And I wanna share my thoughts and opinions as a fan who got into the games because of nrmt/mtnr. I (personally) think a lot of the meaning in the characters' dialog gets kinda lost in fanon. So today, I will discuss how:

Phoenix becoming a lawyer for Miles isn't THAT extreme when you learn how easy it was to "change his life" to do it.

By that, I mean... it wasn't THAT big of a change.

Point One: Phoenix did not change his entire college course for Miles, nor did he need to.

I should start with: becoming a lawyer is no joke, no matter where you live. But since I'm American, we'll follow the localization.

In the U.S. you're required to obtain your Juris Doctor (J.D.) to take the bar exam. What you need to start working towards a J.D. is any bachelor's degree. Phoenix was 21 and still an art major (April 2014), even after knowing for up to over a year (February 2013) that Miles was a prosecutor. He is said to have taken law classes, that could mean three things

Law electives

Law minor

double major

Note: The double major is the least likely in canon, because if that was the case, his character profile in 3-1 would've mentioned it.

Given the timeline of events, I believe that Phoenix was already a graduating senior at by the time of 3-1. Not a super important thought, just a "he's pretty much ready to get into a grad program anyway" thing.

Point Two: Larry Butz is his other reason in becoming a lawyer.

And not so many people ship them now do they? Most people either see Larry as just a friend to Phoenix, or they outright forget him (which is why I have to point him out NOW). Phoenix knew Larry for his entire life, longer than he knew Edgeworth. And he's the reason they all became friends in the first place. But he's even more important than just being the reason he and Miles became friends.

Phoenix wanted to show his gratitude to Miles and Larry in the exact same way, by defending them in court. This isn't romantic, this is wholly platonic. This is his way of showing how much they actually meant to him, how much their friendship meant to them. He's trying to show them what exactly they've done for him. They changed him as a person. Showed him that he should follow his convictions and intuition, to believe in people and defend them especially when the rest of the world is against them.

Point Three: "I'm the only one who knows the real Edgeworth": You NEED to pay attention to the entire conversation to understand why he said this. (though I obviously can't share it all here, but here are the most important parts for this post)

Probably the most seemingly obsessive part this of is: "He's in pain… And no one's on his side. I'm the only one who knows the real Edgeworth. I'm the only one who can help him." But you really need to actually consider what he's saying here. Phoenix knows that the world is cruel and that mob mentality can form no matter the demographic. He knows that whether it's a class of elementary school kids, or full-grown adults in suits and ties; if the world thinks you did it, you're discouraged from defending yourself. If the world thinks you did it, you'll start believing it too. If the world tells you to apologize and take responsibility, you're going to do it, even if what they accuse you of isn't true. And Phoenix knows what it's like to not be able to defend himself. He knows that he needs to defend the seemingly indefensible. That's why he became a defense attorney. That's what the class trial taught him, what Miles and Larry taught him.

"I'm the only one who knows the real Edgeworth." -> "I'm the only one who knows what it's like to be in Edgeworth's shoes and I know for a fact that he's innocent. I know that no matter what happened in the past, that he doesn't deserve this."

Extra: The other reason why I decided to write this is because of Xitter lurking

This was all part of a conversation but I'm only sharing my own opinions

[autisticandroids]

CASTIEL: Stop. What's the point if you don't mean it? You fear me - not love, not respect, just fear.

[youtube with closed captions]

a godstiel pity party. i'd like to thank an anon i got way back in february of 2021.

[numbuh424]

Light's wardrobe in the 1st half of the jdrama (ep 1 - 5) vs his wardrobe in the 2nd half (ep 6 - 11).

[totheidiot]

i am on episode 9 in the dn jdrama and i have come to three conclusions about the people who made this drama: 1. they ship lawlight. an unhealthy amount. lawlight is their jam, the whole drama was created to have them together. 2. they think near is really neat :D like that is their boy !! their best friend near !! 3. they are so fucking in love with teru mikami, it's embarrassing.

[averlym]

fairest of the fair

[sapphorror]

Okay but my favorite GIR moments are ALWAYS the ones that imply he's just aware enough of what's going on to know that the thing he's doing will fuck up Zim's day, and he still does it anyway, possibly specifically for that purpose.

[icewindandboringhorror]

just a few little bits from the past few days

[residentialsinyomakai]

Its so funny thinking about the different things people know me as in the yokai watch fandom. That one person who loves Babblong. The Roughraff guy. The one who drew way too much Casanuva at one point. The one with the goofy aus. One of the three (3) McKraken fans. Or when I used to be a Zote Hollow Knight/Captain Charlie Pikmin account (if you know me from those days DAMN)

[unproduciblesmackdown]

maybe bsol is that time jen tepper mentions when she was so upset about a review of a show of joe's that she broke a glass (&/or threw it out a window)

[shiningshard]

Istg theres this comfort character that i have thats just been like ruined in my eyes because of how downright weird the fandom is abt them

[toestalucia]

anyway,,,,,,,,,

these r also great. theres always more panels than i think where vyrn is on grans head/shoulders LOLL

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

oh my god i fucking forgot they made her alive undead again

[cruelsister-moved2]

man one thing idk how to feel about is the trans men you periodically see weighing in on 'lesbians who fuck men' discourse, usually pretty young people who dont have much experience, desperately insisting that lesbians can be attracted to men because their lesbian girlfriend says so. look I'm not trying to be mean but you need to realise she doesn't see you as a man. she sees you as a woman, or basically a woman, and that's why she likes you. if she was attracted to you as a man she would have to reconsider her feelings about men. if it's just you, that's because she doesn't see you as one.

[camellia-thea]

initially this post had some commentary about interests right now. and then it turned into a ramble about personal healing in the tags. so the interest post is going separately.