#psychiatrist!au

[keehomania]

therapeutic (테라퓨틱) — lee taeyong (이태용)

✧.* 18+

the mind, a vast labyrinth, held within its delicate folds the secrets of every human experience. it was a realm both familiar and foreign, a place where memories danced like shadows on ancient walls, where emotions ebbed and flowed like the tides, and where thoughts wove themselves into the fabric of reality. in that particular domain, the boundaries between the conscious and the unconscious blurred, creating a landscape that was as treacherous as it was beautiful.

for centuries, humanity had sought to understand the mind's inner workings, to decipher the language of neurons and synapses that whispered the truths of existence. yet, despite all the knowledge amassed, the mind remained an enigma, a force capable of both creation and destruction. it could be a sanctuary, a place of solace where dreams flourished, or a prison, where fears and anxieties festered in the dark corners, unbidden and unwelcome.

why do i think the way i do? why do i behave the way i do? why do we find ourselves begging the question, that three-letter question—why? too long has it been a double-edged sword, that question. those who ventured too close to the edge found themselves lost in a labyrinth of their own making, searching for a way out that sometimes seemed impossible to find.

the mind was both a protector and a betrayer. it could shield one from the harshness of reality, crafting illusions and fantasies that soothed the soul. but it could also turn against its owner, unraveling the very threads of their being until they were left exposed, vulnerable to the relentless onslaught of their inner demons. the mind could be a gentle guide, leading one toward healing and self-discovery, or a merciless tormentor, dragging them deeper into the abyss.

the path to mental well-being was not a straight one; it twisted and turned, often doubling back on itself in a confounding maze. it required courage to traverse, or facing the darkest parts of oneself, the fears and doubts that lay hidden beneath the surface. it meant confronting the wounds of the past, allowing them to bleed so they might eventually heal. and it meant accepting that some scars would never fully fade, that they were as much a part of the self as the mind that bore them.

the office you called your own was a home of sorts, a place where the issues of the outside world were left at the door, and the echoes of troubled minds found solace. it was a space curated to ease the burdens carried by those who sought your counsel. the walls were painted in soft, muted tones—an earthy beige that mimicked the comforting embrace of nature. sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting a gentle glow that softened the edges of the room and made it feel safe, inviting.

your desk, though functional, was devoid of the sterility one might expect in a clinical setting. instead, it was adorned with books—volumes on psychology, philosophy, and the occasional novel that you found particularly stirring. there was a small plant, a gift from a patient who had once come to you in a state of complete disarray, now thriving under your care much as she had under your guidance. everything in the room was carefully chosen to exude warmth, from the plush armchairs that encouraged relaxation to the subtle scent of lavender that lingered in the air, a calming presence in and of itself.

patients came to you from all walks of life, each bringing with them a story woven from the threads of their experiences, traumas, and desires. there were those who arrived at your doorstep with their defences up, their walls built high. but you had a way with people, a way that transcended the clinical distance that often characterized the relationships between psychiatrist and patient. you didn’t just listen to them—you heard them, truly, deeply. you took in not only their words but also the silences between them, the unspoken fears that hid behind carefully chosen phrases, the way their eyes darted away when a subject became too painful to confront.

your reputation had spread quietly, almost organically. it wasn’t that you were a miracle worker or that you possessed some mystical ability to cure what ailed them. rather, it was your presence, the way you made people feel seen and understood without judgment, that drew them in. you never approached a session with preconceived notions or diagnoses waiting to be confirmed. each patient was a blank canvas, and it was your role to help them paint the picture that best represented their truth, no matter how fragmented or abstract it might be.

pills had always been a contentious issue for you. the pharmaceutical industry, with its glossy advertisements and promises of quick fixes, had never sat well with you. to you, the mind was not a machine that could be fine-tuned with a simple dose of chemicals. it was a complex, ever-evolving entity, influenced by experiences, environment, and relationships. you believed that true healing came not from numbing the symptoms but from addressing the root causes, from understanding and untangling the web of emotions and memories that led to a patient’s distress.

when the need for medication arose—and it did, at times, arise—you approached it with the utmost caution. you prescribed only the smallest doses necessary, believing firmly in the principle of ‘less is more.’ and even then, you coupled any prescription with a robust plan of therapy, ensuring that the medication was merely a tool to assist in the journey, not the journey itself. the low dosages you recommended rarely led to backlash, and your patients appreciated your restraint, knowing that you were not one to dole out pills like candy but rather used them as a last resort.

it was in your interactions with your patients that your true skill shone. each session was a dance, a delicate balance of guiding and listening, of leading without forcing. you never rushed them, never pushed them to confront more than they were ready to face. instead, you let them set the pace, allowing the conversation to flow naturally. and when the time came to delve deeper, you did so with a gentleness that put them at ease.

park minhyuk, a man in his early forties who had walked into your office carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. his face was lined with the stress of a life lived under constant pressure, his eyes betraying a deep-seated weariness. he had been referred to you by a friend who spoke highly of your methods. the first time he sat across from you, he looked hesitant, almost skeptical, as if he didn’t quite believe that talking could help him.

“i’m not sure this is going to work,” he had said, his voice heavy with doubt. “i’ve been to therapists before. they all just tell me to take some pills and come back in a few weeks.”

you leaned back in your chair, studying him with a calm, measured gaze. “i’m not here to force anything on you, mister park,” you replied softly. “i’m here to listen, and we’ll move at a pace that feels right for you. there’s no rush.” he had looked at you then, really looked at you, as if searching for something, some sign that you were different. you met his gaze steadily, offering nothing but the quiet assurance that you were there to help, not to judge.

over time, he began to open up, slowly at first, testing the waters. he spoke of his job, the immense pressure to succeed, the constant fear of failure that gnawed at him day and night. he talked about his family, the wife and children he loved dearly but felt disconnected from, the guilt that weighed on him for not being more present in their lives. as he spoke, you listened—not just to his words but to the pain behind them. you noticed the way his hands clenched and unclenched when he talked about his work, the slight tremor in his voice when he mentioned his children. and when he finally began to talk about the darker thoughts that sometimes crept into his mind, the moments when he wondered if it would be easier just to disappear, you didn’t react with shock or alarm. instead, you nodded, acknowledging his feelings without judgment.

“i understand that it feels overwhelming,” you said gently. “but it’s important to remember that these thoughts, as heavy as they are, don’t define you. they’re part of what you’re going through, but they don’t have to be the end of your story.” he looked at you then, a flicker of hope in his tired eyes. “you really think i can get through this?”

“i do,” you replied, your voice steady and sure. “and i’m here to help you find the way.” his journey wasn’t easy, and there were setbacks along the way. but he returned week after week, drawn not just by your words but by the genuine care you showed. and slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, he began to heal. he started taking more time for himself, reconnecting with his family, finding ways to manage the stress that had once consumed him. the transformation wasn’t immediate, but it was real, and it was lasting.

your practice grew, not because you advertised or sought out patients, but because word of mouth spread. people spoke of you with a kind of reverence, not because you were a miracle worker, but because you offered them something rare in the world of mental health—a safe space where they could be themselves, where they could speak without fear of judgment, where they knew they would be heard.

even those who had been through the harshest of environments—prisoners, veterans, people who had been hardened by life—found solace in your office. they recommended you to others, saying, “you should see her. she’s different. she cares.” and they weren’t wrong. you had found your calling, not in the pills or the textbooks, but in the people who sat across from you, day after day, baring their souls in the hope of finding some relief from the burdens they carried. and you met them with compassion, with understanding, with a quiet strength that reassured them they were not alone.

despite your skill in navigating the landscapes of other’s minds, there was a vast, uncharted territory within your own that you could not seem to traverse. you could guide others out of their darkness, yet when it came to your own, you were perpetually lost, stumbling through a fog that only seemed to thicken with time. it was a darkness that you couldn’t quite pinpoint, a gnawing emptiness that seemed to have no origin, no clear beginning. you often wondered when it had all started, but the truth was as elusive as the peace you sought.

perhaps it began when your father left. you could still remember the day he walked out, his shadow stretching long across the floor as the door closed behind him. the silence that followed was deafening, a silence that you had been trying to fill ever since. you were young then, too young to understand why he was leaving, too young to grasp the implications. but the abandonment had left a scar, a deep, festering wound that never quite healed. you wondered if that was where it all began, this relentless feeling of being untethered, of floating aimlessly in a vast, empty space.

maybe it was when your mother overdosed, her lifeless body found slumped over in the bathroom, surrounded by the remnants of a life that had spiraled out of control. you had been the one to find her, a memory that still haunted you, that still woke you in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. the sight of her pale, lifeless face was seared into your mind, a constant reminder of the fragility of life, of how easily it could slip through your fingers. you had been left to pick up the pieces, to make sense of the senseless, and in doing so, you had buried your own grief, your own pain, deep within you, where it festered in the dark.

there were your grandparents, the last anchors in your life, the last semblance of stability. their deaths had come like a storm, sudden and unforgiving, leaving you alone in a world that seemed to be crumbling around you. they had been your safe haven, the only ones who understood the weight you carried, and when they were gone, it felt as though the ground had been ripped out from beneath you. alone. that word echoed in your mind, reverberating off the walls of your empty apartment, a constant reminder of your isolation.

you hated being alone. it wasn’t just a dislike; it was a deep-seated fear, a terror that clawed at you from the inside. when you were alone, your mind became a labyrinth of dark thoughts and memories, each corner hiding another shadow, another demon waiting to pounce. the silence was unbearable, suffocating, so you filled it with noise, any noise that could drown out the voices in your head. you couldn’t stand the short sessions with your patients, craving more time with them, more connection, more distraction from the void inside you. the hour would pass, and you would find yourself wanting to reach out, to extend the session, to hold on to the connection a little longer, just a little longer. but you never did. you were their healer, not the other way around.

housework became a ritual of distraction, each chore accompanied by the blaring sound of music that reverberated through the walls, filling the empty spaces with melodies that drowned out the silence. without music, the house felt too big, too empty, too full of memories you didn’t want to confront. you couldn’t sleep without a movie playing in the background, the flickering light and the familiar voices lulling you into a false sense of security. the thought of lying in bed in complete silence, left alone with your thoughts, was unbearable. so, the movies played, one after another, their comforting narratives keeping the darkness at bay for just a little while longer.

but at the end of the day, when the music stopped, when the movies ended, you were left with nothing but the quiet hum of the empty apartment and the stark realization that you were alone. no parents to comfort you, no friends to lean on, no boyfriend to share your life with. just you. and it wasn’t enough. you had poured so much of yourself into your work, into helping others heal, that you had neglected your own wounds, your own needs. you had become a vessel, emptying yourself for the sake of others until there was nothing left for you.

your patients were the only ones who filled that void, the only ones who made you feel needed, wanted. they confided in you, trusted you, relied on you, and for a while, it was enough. but they were temporary, each one coming to you broken and leaving whole, while you remained the same, a healer who couldn’t heal themselves. when they got better, when they no longer needed you, it broke your heart a little more each time, even though you knew it was coming. it was the nature of your work, after all, to help them, to guide them, and then to let them go. but the letting go was the hardest part because it meant returning to the silence, to the emptiness, to the loneliness that gnawed at you, growing stronger with each departure.

you were sitting in your office, the soft glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the room as you sifted through patient files and prescription bottles. the clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, but you barely noticed. the weight of the empty office felt like a cocoon, enclosing you in a familiar, if not comforting, solitude. the sterile smell of paper and faint traces of disinfectant mingled in the air, a scent that had become as much a part of your life as the darkness that you couldn't seem to shake.

the faint sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing louder as they approached your door. you knew who it was before she even knocked—a gentle, almost tentative rap on the door, followed by the soft creak as it swung open. “still here?” your manager’s voice was gentle, but there was an underlying note of concern that she couldn’t quite mask. hara stepped into the room, her eyes sweeping over the scattered files and the bottles of pills lined up in neat rows on your desk. the look she gave you was one you’d seen many times before—a mix of empathy, perhaps a touch of pity, and something else that you couldn’t quite place.

you didn’t look up immediately, your eyes fixed on the file in front of you as you made a show of scribbling a note in the margins. “just wanted to get as much work done as i could,” you said, finally glancing up with a smile that felt foreign on your lips, a practiced expression that you’d perfected over the years. she didn’t say anything at first, just watched you with those knowing eyes of hers. then she moved closer, placing a hand on your shoulder. the touch was warm, grounding in a way that made you want to lean into it, to close your eyes and let the world fall away. but you didn’t. instead, you stayed still, your smile frozen in place.

“you need to rest,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that made something in your chest tighten. she squeezed your shoulder gently before letting her hand drop back to her side. “i will,” you assured her, the lie slipping out as easily as all the others. it was what you were supposed to say, after all, what she expected to hear. but you both knew the truth, didn’t you? you weren’t planning on resting, not anytime soon. rest meant being alone with your thoughts, and that was something you couldn’t bear.

she sighed, a soft sound of resignation, and you could see the conflict in her eyes. she knew she should insist, should tell you to go home and take care of yourself. but she also knew what you would say, how you would deflect with that same smile and those same empty promises. so she didn’t push. instead, she gave you a small nod and fished a set of keys out of her pocket. “lock up when you’re done, alright?” she said, holding the keys out to you.

you reached out to take them, your fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment before she pulled her hand back. “i will,” you said again, and this time she didn’t bother to respond. she just nodded, casting one last glance around your barren office—the empty desk devoid of personal touches, the phone that never rang—before turning and walking out of the room. the door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone once more. the silence was palpable, pressing in around you, but you welcomed it. it was better than the alternative. you turned back to the files, flipping through them with the pretense of work, but your mind was elsewhere, lost in the fog that seemed to constantly hover just at the edges of your consciousness.

you let the minutes tick by, the hours bleeding into one another as you went through the same files, the same bottles, over and over again. you knew there was nothing left to do, nothing left to distract yourself with, but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave. not yet. not when you knew what awaited you outside—the cold, unwelcoming night, the empty apartment, the silence that you couldn’t drown out. but eventually, the futility of your actions became impossible to ignore. the same patient files stared back at you, the same labels on the bottles mocking you with their uselessness. you sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation of breath that carried with it all the weariness you felt but couldn’t show. there was nothing left to do, no more excuses to stay.

reluctantly, you gathered the files and put them back in their proper place, the routine motions bringing you no comfort. the click of the lock on the file cabinet echoed in the empty room, a finality that made your heart sink. you picked up the keys your manager had left you, your fingers curling around the cool metal, and stood up. the room was dark now, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamps outside. you turned off the desk lamp, plunging the room into shadow, and made your way to the door. the hallway was just as empty as it had been when she left, the building silent save for the occasional creak of the floorboards. you locked the door behind you, the keys jingling in the quiet as you slipped them into your pocket.

the night air was cool when you stepped outside, unlike the stale, sterile atmosphere of the office. you tucked your hands into your pockets, your breath misting in the air as you stood there for a moment, letting the city’s sounds wash over you. it was late—nearly two in the morning—but the city was still alive, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional shout from a passerby reminding you that you weren’t completely alone.

but it didn’t bring you any comfort. if anything, it made the emptiness inside you more acute, unlike the vibrancy of the world around you. you weren’t tired, though you wished you were. exhaustion would have been a mercy, a way to escape the thoughts that clawed at you in the quiet. but sleep was as elusive as peace, and you knew that returning to your empty apartment would only make things worse.

so you let your feet carry you down the street, the familiar route to the small bar that stayed open late. it wasn’t much, just a hole-in-the-wall with dim lighting and a jukebox that played old songs, but it was something. a place where you could lose yourself for a little while, where the music and the people could drown out the noise in your head. the bar was nearly empty when you walked in, just a few regulars nursing their drinks and the bartender wiping down the counter. you slipped onto a stool at the far end, nodding in acknowledgment as the bartender approached.

“just a whiskey,” you said, your voice low, and he nodded, pouring you a glass without a word. you downed the first drink quickly, the burn of the alcohol a fleeting comfort, and ordered another. the jukebox played a song you didn’t recognize, the melody soft and haunting, and for a moment, you let yourself get lost in it. the chatter around you faded into the background, the clink of glasses and the murmur of voices becoming nothing more than white noise.

but the comfort was temporary, as it always was. the bar was closing, the bartender giving you a sympathetic look as he handed you your tab. you paid it without complaint, sliding off the stool and making your way to the door with a wave of thanks. the night was colder now, the wind biting at your skin as you walked back to your apartment. the streets were emptier, the city slowly falling asleep, and you found yourself wishing you could do the same. but as you reached your building, the familiar weight of dread settled in your chest. you unlocked the door and stepped inside, the silence immediately enveloping you, as it did every night.

you moved through the motions mechanically—kicking off your shoes, tossing your keys on the table, flicking on the lights. but the apartment felt as cold and lifeless as you did, the emptiness pressing in on you from all sides. you thought about turning on the television, letting the sound fill the void, but you couldn’t muster the energy. instead, you stood in the middle of the room, staring at nothing in particular, feeling the weight of the silence bear down on you.

it was suffocating, this loneliness, this isolation. it was a constant companion, one that you couldn’t escape no matter how hard you tried. and as you finally collapsed onto the couch, pulling a blanket around your shoulders, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was how it would always be. if you were destined to live your life in this void, surrounded by silence and shadows, with no one to share it with. the night stretched on, the city outside your window slowly quieting as it finally succumbed to sleep. but sleep didn’t come for you, not easily, not with the thoughts that swirled in your mind, the memories that haunted you. so you lay there, staring up at the ceiling, letting the darkness close in around you, wondering if there would ever be a way out.

the morning sunlight streamed through the narrow gap in your curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room. you stretched awake, the familiar feeling of weariness hanging heavy in your limbs, but there was something different about today. it was as though a thin veil had lifted, allowing a sliver of anticipation to seep in. you had always been a person of routine, and the thought of returning to your office, of delving back into the rhythm of your work, brought with it a semblance of comfort, a fleeting escape from the solitude that plagued you.

you moved through your morning routine with efficiency, the motions almost automatic. the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen as you prepared a simple breakfast—toast and jam, with a cup of strong coffee to wake your senses. the radio hummed softly in the background, a familiar companion that provided a semblance of normalcy. you dressed with deliberate care, choosing a crisp, tailored suit that made you feel professional and polished, ready to face whatever the day might bring.

the trip to the office was a brief but pleasant ritual, the city streets bathed in the soft morning light, the air carrying the promise of a new day. you relished the routine, the predictable patterns that offered a sense of control. as you approached your building, you caught sight of the familiar facade, the reassuring solidity of it grounding you.

but as you walked through the entrance, you were greeted by an unexpected sight. hara stood waiting in the lobby. her presence was unusual at this hour, and her expression was more serious than usual. you offered her a friendly smile, but she didn’t immediately return it. instead, she gestured for you to follow her to a quiet corner of the building. “you’ve been working hard,” she began, her tone carrying a note of cautious warmth. “and i wanted to have a word with you.”

you paused, a twinge of apprehension flickering in your chest. “am i in trouble?” you asked, the question escaping before you could second-guess it. hara shook her head, her lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “no, not at all. well, not yet,” she said, inhaling deeply as if gathering her thoughts.

your heart skipped a beat. “what do you mean?” the uncertainty in her voice sent a ripple of unease through you. “what’s wrong?” she took a moment to collect her thoughts, her eyes meeting yours with a look of barely concealed concern. “you have a new patient,” she said finally, her tone shifting to one of subdued excitement as she watched your eyes light up at the news.

“really?” you asked, a spark of enthusiasm igniting within you. it had been a while since you had taken on a new case, and the prospect of diving into a fresh challenge was invigorating.

hara held up a hand, her expression turning more serious. “don’t get too excited,” she said, her tone taking on a warning edge. “he’ll be your project patient for your internship at the asylum.” the words hit you like a cold splash of water. “the asylum?” you repeated, the dismay clear in your voice. “but i love working here. this office, this environment—i don’t want to leave.”

hara’s face softened, and before you could fully process what was happening, she stepped forward and enveloped you in a hug. the gesture was unexpected, her arms wrapping around you with a warmth and sincerity that contrasted sharply with her usual professional demeanor. for a moment, you let yourself sink into the embrace, the human contact a rare and precious balm against the isolation that had become your constant companion.

“i know,” she said, her voice muffled against your shoulder. “i know how much you love it here. but this is something you have to do for your career. it’s a good opportunity, and it’s important for your development.”

you barely registered her words, too caught up in the comforting proximity of another person. the embrace lasted only a few moments, but it was enough to stir something deep within you—a longing for connection, for understanding, for more than just the superficial interactions of your daily life. when she finally pulled away, you nodded, a sense of reluctant acceptance settling over you. “okay,” you said softly, the word carrying more resignation than agreement.

she gave you a reassuring smile, her eyes reflecting a mix of sympathy and encouragement. “i’ll call a taxi for you,” she said, guiding you toward the building’s entrance. “it’s best if you head over there now. and remember to keep an open mind. this could be a valuable experience.” you followed her outside, the cool morning air brushing against your face. she hailed a taxi and handed you the keys to the office, reminding you to lock up when you finished. you took the keys with a grateful nod and watched as she walked back inside, her figure disappearing into the building.

the ride was a blur of anxious anticipation and reluctant acceptance. the city passed by in a series of shifting scenes, the familiar streets giving way to more industrial landscapes as you neared the asylum. it was a place you had heard about in passing but had never visited—a cold, imposing structure that seemed to loom on the horizon, its architecture stark and unwelcoming.

the asylum loomed before you like a cold, implacable sentinel against the sky, its grim, grey façade cutting through the morning mist. you stood before it for a moment, taking in the sheer scale of the structure—an imposing monolith that seemed to absorb the light, casting long shadows that stretched over the cracked pavement. the windows were narrow, barred, and the walls bore the harshness of age and neglect. there was something distinctly unwelcoming about it, so unlike the warm, inviting atmosphere of your office.

you pushed open the iron door, and a chill seemed to emanate from the very core of the building. the foyer was austere and utilitarian, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and something else—a faint hint of despair that clung to the walls and floors. the reception area was starkly lit, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glare over the sterile surroundings. it was a far cry from the soft lighting and cozy furnishings you were accustomed to.

the receptionist sat behind a high counter, her demeanor as frosty as the environment. she looked up as you approached, her gaze assessing you with a detached scrutiny. her uniform was crisp and immaculate, adding to the air of clinical precision that pervaded the space. “name and business?” she asked, her voice flat and devoid of warmth.

you took a deep breath, steeling yourself against the chill that seemed to penetrate your bones. “i’m (y/n) (l/n), here for an internship as the asylum’s psychiatrist,” you said, your voice steady despite the uneasy flutter in your stomach. the receptionist’s eyes narrowed slightly, and her lips twisted into a thin, humorless line. there was something almost predatory in her gaze, a faint glimmer of disdain or perhaps even pity. “follow me,” she said curtly, her tone leaving no room for discussion.

you trailed behind her as she led you through the labyrinthine corridors of the asylum. the hallways were long and narrow, lined with peeling paint and heavy metal doors. the air was heavy, laden with the echoes of distant voices and the occasional clank of metal on metal. you could hear the shuffling of feet, the murmurs and cries of the patients—a cacophony of sounds that was jarringly different from the calm and composed demeanor of your previous office.

as you walked, you noticed the guards stationed at regular intervals. they were stern-faced and vigilant, their uniforms dark and imposing. their presence was a constant reminder of the control and surveillance that permeated every corner of the asylum. you felt their eyes on you, a silent assessment that made you self-conscious. you passed by several cells, their occupants visible through the narrow windows set into the doors. the patients inside were much unlike the composed individuals you were used to. they paced restlessly, their eyes darting with a wildness that spoke of untamed thoughts and unspoken fears. some shouted incoherently, while others simply stared blankly at the walls. the sense of chaos was eerie, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

eventually, the receptionist stopped in front of a heavy door marked with a simple brass plate that read “psychiatrist.” she unlocked it with a practiced twist of the key and pushed it open, revealing a small, spartan office. the room was a stark departure from the warm, inviting space you were used to. the walls were a dull, institutional green, and the furniture was minimal and functional. there was a plain wooden desk with a single chair behind it and a couple of metal filing cabinets against one wall. a solitary window, heavily barred, provided a view of the bleak courtyard outside. the light that filtered through was cold and uninviting, casting long shadows across the room.

the receptionist stepped inside and placed a folder on the desk. “this is your workspace,” she said, her tone as unfeeling as ever. “you’ll be lucky to make it out alive.”

her words were delivered with a chilling finality, and before you could respond, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving you alone in the sterile, unwelcoming space. the door clicked shut behind her, and you were left standing in the midst of the clinical bleakness that surrounded you. you stood there for a moment, absorbing the reality of your new environment. the emptiness of the room mirrored the uncertainty that was swirling within you. the asylum was a world apart from the comforting familiarity of your office, a place where every detail seemed designed to unsettle and disquiet. as you took in the surroundings, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret for the warmth you had left behind and a growing apprehension for what lay ahead.

you turned your attention to the stack of files on your desk, organizing them with methodical precision. the papers were a jumble of case histories, treatment plans, and patient backgrounds. as you sorted through them, the muted rustle of paper was the only sound breaking the silence of the room. you had just begun to lose yourself in the paperwork when a sharp knock on the door startled you. the sound echoed in the otherwise still space, cutting through the quiet like a sudden gust of wind. you looked up, but before you could respond, the door swung open with a slow creak, revealing two guards.

the guards were as imposing as their environment, their uniforms sharp and unyielding. they moved with an air of efficiency, each holding an arm of the man who followed them into the room. your gaze fell upon him, and despite your initial wariness, you were struck by an unsettling calmness that seemed to envelop him. he didn't resist; instead, he walked with an eerie composure, his movements measured and deliberate.

the man was restrained in a straitjacket, his arms bound tightly and secured with a belt around his torso. the sight of the straitjacket, with its bold white fabric and heavy buckles, seemed almost surreal against the backdrop of the dull office. the restraints were a harsh reminder of the severe nature of his condition, yet his demeanor was unexpectedly serene. as he was guided to the chair across from your desk, you took the opportunity to study him more closely. he was a tall man, his frame lean but solid. his features were striking—a sharp, prominent jawline and high cheekbones that gave him a distinctly aristocratic appearance. his brown eyes, though calm, carried an intensity that seemed to pierce through the confines of the straitjacket, a depth that hinted at complexities beneath the surface.

there was an unsettling grace to his presence, an almost magnetic quality that drew your attention despite the circumstances. his hair was dark and neatly styled, falling in soft waves that framed his face. the contrast between his physical appeal and the harsh restraints was jarring, creating a dissonance that was difficult to ignore. the guards remained by the door, their expressions guarded and unreadable. they exchanged a brief, knowing look before stepping out of the room, leaving you alone with the restrained man. their departure was marked by the soft click of the door as it closed behind them, and the silence that followed was thick and heavy.

you were left in the room with the man, the weight of the situation settling heavily on your shoulders. the office, with its cold, clinical ambiance, seemed suddenly smaller and more confining. you took a deep breath, trying to center yourself as you prepared to begin the session. the man’s calmness was a definite contrast to the environment of the asylum. he patient’s eyes remained fixed on you, a quiet challenge in their depths, as if he were assessing you as much as you were trying to understand him. you could sense a subtle tension in the air, an undercurrent of anticipation that was almost overwhelming.

you took a deep breath, the silence in the room amplifying the subtle rustle of papers as you mentally prepared yourself for the interaction. the restrained man sat calmly in front of you, his demeanor a striking contrast to the harsh confines of his situation. you cleared your throat, attempting to steady your voice as you introduced yourself.

“hello, i’m doctor (y/n) (l/n),” you said, your tone measured and professional. “i’ll be working with you during this internship.” as you spoke, the man’s lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. it was a smile that seemed to hold secrets, one that both intrigued and unsettled you. Hhs eyes glinted with an unsettling mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“lee taeyong,” he said, his voice smooth and articulate. the name struck you with the force of a thunderclap. you hadn’t recognized his face immediately, but his name was unmistakable. lee taeyong—an infamous figure known for his involvement in shootings and robberies. his notoriety had led to his confinement in a correctional facility after being deemed mentally unwell. your heart skipped a beat, and you felt your face go pale, the realization dawning with a cold, unwelcome clarity. taeyong’s keen eyes caught the shift in your expression, and a dry chuckle escaped his lips.

“have you heard of me?” he asked, his tone laced with a subtle taunt. you nodded slowly, trying to mask the tension that was creeping into your chest. “yes, i have.”

his laughter was dry and devoid of genuine mirth, a sound that seemed to echo with a dark undertone. “so, are you gonna cure me, doctor?” he asked, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. you squared your shoulders, forcing yourself to meet his gaze with a confidence you didn’t entirely feel. “there isn’t anything i can’t cure.”

his response was immediate, and he leaned in abruptly, causing you to flinch involuntarily. the sudden movement was unsettling, and you found yourself instinctively retreating. taeyong smirked, clearly amused by your reaction. “are you afraid, doctor?” he asked, his voice low and teasing. you steadied your breathing, forcing a calmness into your voice as you responded, “i’m not.”

his eyes widened slightly in surprise. “you’re too pretty to be a doctor,” he remarked, the compliment carrying an edge of mockery. you raised an eyebrow, trying to keep the conversation on track. “why do you think you’re unstable?”

taeyong’s expression shifted slightly, his demeanor becoming more contemplative. “i don’t think i am,” he said, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. “but everybody else does. they think my urges are abnormal.” intrigued, you leaned forward slightly. “what kind of urges?”

his eyes darkened with a certain intensity as he spoke. “i like the fear and the thrill,” he said, his voice carrying a chilling calm. “the screams, the way everyone is powerless against me. it’s exhilarating.”

your mind raced as you processed his words, but you decided to take an unexpected step. you reached for the straps of his straitjacket and began to unfasten them, freeing his arms. taeyong’s eyes widened in surprise. “what are you doing?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

you smiled, trying to project a sense of ease despite the underlying tension. “i thought you might be more comfortable without the restraints.” his gaze remained fixed on you, his expression a blend of astonishment and wariness. “aren’t you afraid i’ll kill you?”

you met his gaze steadily, feeling a strange sense of calmness despite the gravity of the situation. “i don’t think you will.” his brows knitted together in confusion. “how do you know?”

“because,” you said softly, “i don’t believe you’re a bad person.” the sincerity in your voice seemed to take him aback. his eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he looked genuinely disoriented by your kindness. the atmosphere in the room seemed to shift, a tentative bridge forming between the two of you.

taeyong leaned back, his posture relaxing slightly as he began to open up in a way that was both fascinating and ominous. he spoke of his past, his thoughts, and his perceptions with a raw honesty that was unsettling yet compelling. his words were a tapestry of dark desires and twisted logic, but there was an underlying vulnerability that made it clear he was grappling with his own demons.

as the session drew to a close, he looked at you with an unsettling blend of anticipation and something akin to respect. “i look forward to seeing you again, doctor.” he said, his voice carrying an eerie calmness. to your surprise, you found yourself looking forward to it as well. there was something about the interaction, the unexpected connection, that left you both unsettled and intrigued. as you watched him being escorted out by the guards, the weight of the session settled on your shoulders.

the morning sunlight filtered through the blinds of your apartment, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room. yet, despite the comforting start to your day, your mind was occupied with a singular thought—your next session with taeyong. the anticipation was a new and curious sensation, one that both thrilled and unsettled you. there was something compelling about his presence, a magnetic pull that made you eager to continue your interactions with him.

as you prepared for work, you found yourself contemplating how to make the next session more engaging, more comforting for him. the idea of a small gesture—something that might break through the cold walls of the asylum and create a connection—seemed to be the right approach. you decided to get him a gift, a symbol of the positive interaction you hoped to foster.

you ventured out to a small, quaint shop that morning, one filled with charming trinkets and comforting knick-knacks. your eyes scanned the shelves until they fell upon a small, stuffed kitten, its plush fur a soft, inviting shade of cream. it was delicate and unassuming, a small source of innocence amidst the reality of the asylum. you picked it up with a sense of purpose, imagining how such a simple object might ease the harshness of taeyong’s environment.

when you arrived at the asylum, the day’s routine felt different. the walls seemed colder, the atmosphere more oppressive, but the small stuffed kitten in your bag provided a small spark of warmth. as you approached your office, you were taken aback to find taeyong already seated in the chair, an unexpected sight. his presence there, so much earlier than anticipated, stirred a peculiar flutter in your chest. “you’re early today,” you remarked, trying to keep your tone light and neutral.

taeyong looked up at you, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “i couldn’t wait to see you,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of excitement that made your heart skip a beat. the sincerity in his words resonated deeply with you, and a small, inexplicable connection seemed to click into place. you felt a warm flush creep up your neck, but you quickly pushed the feeling aside, focusing on your planned gesture.

“i have something for you,” you said, reaching into your bag and pulling out the stuffed kitten. taeyong’s eyes widened with surprise and curiosity. “what’s this?” he asked, his tone a mix of intrigue and amusement.

you extended the kitten towards him, a smile playing at your lips. “it’s a little gift. i thought it might help make things a bit more comfortable here.” he took the kitten from you, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electrifying moment. as he cradled the stuffed animal in his hands, a look of genuine appreciation crossed his face. “i’m honored,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on the kitten.

you watched as he examined the plush toy with a sense of fascination. “i want you to take good care of it,” you said, your voice gentle. “if you can fight the urge to hurt it, then maybe you can fight the urge to hurt anything.” his lips curved into a mischievous smile as he toyed with the kitten, his fingers brushing over its soft fur.

“is that your way of challenging me, doctor?” he asked, his tone light but edged with an underlying seriousness. you nodded, trying to maintain a composed demeanor. “something like that,” you replied.

the session began in earnest, the conversation flowing with a new ease as taeyong’s attention seemed drawn to the small stuffed animal. he spoke of his past, his feelings, and his thoughts with a candor that was both unsettling and revealing. his insights were intertwined with moments of dark humor and cryptic reflections, making it clear that he was a man of contradictions. at one point, as you listened intently, his hand, still holding the kitten, brushed against a stray strand of hair that had fallen across your face. the touch was fleeting but intimate, a gesture that caught you off guard. you looked up to meet his gaze, finding a depth in his eyes that was both intense and vulnerable.

“i meant what i said earlier,” taeyong said, his voice softening. “you’re too pretty to be a doctor.” you blinked in surprise, trying to process the compliment amidst the complexity of the situation. “what do you mean?” you asked, genuinely curious.

his expression remained earnest, his eyes locking onto yours with a sincerity that was rare in such an environment. “you just don’t seem like someone who should be confined to this place. there’s something different about you.”

the moment lingered between you, charged with an emotional undercurrent that was difficult to define. despite the oddity of the situation, you felt a surprising warmth in his words. it was an acknowledgment of your humanity amidst the dehumanizing environment of the asylum. as the session drew to a close, you gathered your things, the small stuffed kitten resting on the desk between you. taeyong’s gaze followed you with an almost reluctant admiration, and there was a sense of anticipation in the air as you prepared to leave.

“i look forward to seeing you again,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of genuine hope. you nodded, a small smile touching your lips. “i look forward to seeing you too.”

with that, you watched as taeyong was escorted out by the guards, the connection between you both lingering like a faint but persistent echo. the asylum, with all its harsh realities, seemed momentarily softened by the unexpected bond that had formed. as you left for the day, the small stuffed kitten seemed to symbolize a fragile bridge between your world and his. you just weren't aware of how sturdy, nor how fragile, the bridge really was.

the weeks that followed your initial session with taeyong felt like a delicate dance, a precarious balance between professional distance and the growing, unspoken connection that had begun to develop between you. each session became a complex interplay of emotions and revelations, and you found yourself increasingly invested in his progress.

you had begun to believe, with a cautious optimism, that taeyong was making strides. the sessions were marked by moments of genuine insight and self-reflection from him, which seemed to indicate that he was grappling with his inner turmoil in ways that were both constructive and revealing. there was an undeniable progress, and you couldn’t help but feel a surge of hope every time you saw him approach with that enigmatic smile.

during one particular session, you found yourself immersed in a conversation about his past, his regrets, and his aspirations. taeyong, with his characteristic curiosity and sharpness, suddenly shifted the focus of the conversation. “what about you, doctor?” he asked, his voice carrying a tone of genuine interest. “what do you struggle with?”

the question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you hesitated. it was unusual for a patient to turn the spotlight onto you, especially someone like taeyong, whose own issues seemed so consuming. you took a deep breath, searching for the right words to encapsulate the truth.

“i suppose,” you began, struggling to find a way to articulate your feelings. “i've been lonely my whole life.” taeyong’s eyes softened, and for a fleeting moment, the hardness in his gaze seemed to melt away. “no woman like you should ever feel lonely,” he said softly, his tone laced with an unexpected gentleness.

his words struck a chord deep within you, and you felt a sudden, almost overwhelming rush of emotion. you looked up, meeting his gaze with a mixture of vulnerability and curiosity. before you could fully process the weight of his statement, he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “do you feel lonely with me here?” he asked, his voice a low whisper that sent shivers down your spine.

your heart pounded in your chest, the sound echoing in your ears as if to drown out the rest of the world. the proximity of his body, the intensity of his gaze, and the warmth of his breath combined to create a heady cocktail of sensations. you fought to maintain composure, but the answer came out more as a breathless confession. “no,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper.

taeyong’s fingers, moving with deliberate slowness, traced a path along your neck. the touch was light but electrifying, a sensation that left your skin tingling and your breath catching in your throat. “you shouldn’t,” he said, his voice carrying an almost imperceptible note of possessiveness.

the weight of his touch, the intimacy of the moment, and the raw honesty in his words created a potent mix of emotions that overwhelmed you. as the session drew to a close, you found yourself grappling with a tumult of conflicting feelings. the professional boundaries that had once seemed so clear were now blurred, and you were left with a gnawing sense of guilt for finding comfort in a connection that was fundamentally inappropriate.

the room seemed colder as you watched him leave, the reality of the asylum returning with its harsh, unyielding presence. you could still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, the echo of his breath in your ear, and the weight of his words in your heart. the session had brought a confusing mixture of warmth and unease, and as you locked up your office and walked out into the night, the loneliness you had tried so hard to combat felt more intense than ever.

as the days turned into weeks, the asylum’s sterile corridors and echoing chambers seemed to shrink in comparison to the burgeoning world of emotions you experienced during your sessions with taeyong. each encounter with him became a delicate interplay of professional duty and personal connection, weaving a complex tapestry of emotions that you struggled to fully comprehend.

the sessions grew more intense and revealing, both for you and for taeyong. you could no longer ignore the way your heart would race in anticipation of each meeting. the way his eyes would light up when he saw you, the way his presence seemed to fill the room with a bright energy—it was impossible to deny the deepening bond between you.

in one particular session, taeyong sat across from you, the small stuffed kitten now a constant companion in his hands. the stuffed animal had become a symbol of the connection you shared, its presence a silent witness to your evolving relationship. “you know,” he began, his voice carrying a hint of introspection, “i’ve been thinking a lot about what we’ve talked about. you’ve managed to get me to see things differently. i never thought i’d say this, but i think i owe you more than just my progress.”

you looked at him, your heart skipping a beat at his unexpected confession. “what do you mean by that?” you asked, your voice steady but filled with curiosity. his gaze was intense, his eyes searching yours with an earnestness that was both disarming and endearing. “you’ve been patient with me, more patient than anyone else ever has. i think,” he paused, choosing his words with care. “i think you’ve made me feel things i didn’t know i could still feel.”

you could feel the weight of his words settling over you, a mix of excitement and apprehension. “and what is it that you feel?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. he took a deep breath, his fingers absently stroking the kitten. “i feel understood. cared for, in a way I never thought i’d experience again. it’s strange, but i think i’m beginning to look forward to these sessions more than i should.”

the admission struck a chord within you, and you felt a mixture of joy and sadness. joy at the progress he was making and sadness at the realization that your growing affection for him might blur the lines of your professional role. during another session, you found yourself struggling to maintain your composure as taeyong’s attention shifted to you in a way that felt increasingly personal. he leaned forward, his gaze unwavering as he spoke.

“you know,” he said, his voice low and intimate, “i’ve noticed something about you. you seem different when we talk. there’s something in the way you look at me. something more than just concern.” you felt your cheeks flush, a mixture of embarrassment and excitement swirling within you. “what do you mean?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

his eyes softened, and he reached out, his fingers gently brushing against yours. “i think you care about me more than you let on. and i can’t help but feel the same way.”

the admission hung in the air, charged with an electric tension that was impossible to ignore. you felt a surge of emotion, a tumult of conflicting feelings as you tried to process his words. it was both thrilling and terrifying to acknowledge that your feelings for taeyong had grown beyond the boundaries of professional detachment.

as the session continued, his demeanor shifted. he seemed more relaxed, more open, and the connection between you felt more tangible than ever. the way he would smile at you, the way his eyes would linger on yours—it was clear that the emotional bond between you was deepening. you struggled with the guilt and the moral conflict of your growing affection for him, knowing that it was inappropriate yet feeling a profound, undeniable connection.

the day you arrived for your next session with taeyong, you felt an unusual sense of anticipation. the asylum's cold corridors seemed to blur as you walked briskly toward your office, your mind already filled with thoughts of the conversation you hoped to have. but as you reached the familiar door, a pang of anxiety hit you when you noticed the room was empty.

your heart sank as you turned to the guards stationed outside the office. “where’s taeyong?” you asked, trying to keep your voice calm despite the growing concern. the guards exchanged uneasy glances before one of them responded. “they’ve decided to test their luck with another psychiatrist today. wanted to see how he’d react.”

a cold wave of dread washed over you, and you felt a sharp pang of heartache. before you could ask for more details, the silence of the corridor was shattered by a deafening crash. your heart raced as the sound of shattering furniture and frantic shouting reached your ears.

without a second thought, you sprinted down the hallway, your footsteps echoing in the sterile space. as you rounded the corner, you saw the scene unfolding in your office. taeyong, his face a mask of determination, was wielding a chair above his head, his muscles tensed in a show of raw strength. the psychiatrist lay sprawled on the floor, his face a picture of shock and pain. the guards were shouting, their voices a blur as they rushed toward taeyong. “what happened?” one of them demanded, their tone filled with both anger and concern.

his gaze, sharp and intense, found yours amidst the chaos. “i told you,” he said, his voice carrying a fierce determination, “i wanted to see doctor (l/n).”

the room seemed to freeze for a moment as his words sank in. he was swiftly restrained and escorted back to his cell, leaving you standing in the doorway of your office, your heart aching at the sight of the broken scene before you. the guards, now dealing with the aftermath of his outburst, left you waiting alone in the hallway. time seemed to stretch endlessly as you stood there, your mind racing with a tumult of conflicting emotions. when taeyong was finally brought out again, his demeanor was calmer, though his eyes held a deep, unfathomable intensity.

he looked at you with a mix of curiosity and something more personal. “what were you doing there?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with an edge of disbelief. you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his gaze. “i was waiting for you,” you admitted, your voice soft but earnest.

his eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his features. “seriously?” you nodded, feeling a strange blend of relief and apprehension. “yes, seriously.”

once back in your office, the atmosphere felt charged with an electric tension. you sat across from him, your heart pounding as you tried to make sense of the events. “why did you crash out like that?” you asked, struggling to keep your voice steady. “you were making so much progress.”

taeyong’s expression softened slightly as he reached for the small stuffed kitten that had become a symbol of your sessions. he held it up, its soft fur unmarred by the recent issues. “because,” he said, his voice softening with an intensity that made your breath catch, “i’m in love with you.”

the confession hung heavy in the air, and you felt a surge of conflicting emotions—shock, confusion, and a deep, aching resonance. you stared at him, unable to fully process the gravity of his words. “i am too,” you said finally, your voice trembling with the weight of the admission.

without another word, he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on you with a fierce, unyielding intensity. his lips met yours in a kiss that was both tender and urgent. it felt wrong, a violation of every professional boundary you had sworn to uphold. yet, the raw, desperate need to connect, to feel something beyond the crushing loneliness that had plagued you, overpowered your sense of propriety.

the kiss was intense, filled with a mix of longing and desperation that made your heart race. his lips were warm against yours, his touch both gentle and insistent. every brush of his mouth, every caress of his fingers, seemed to echo the depth of the emotions you had both been struggling to contain. as the kiss deepened, you felt a wave of conflicting emotions—guilt and exhilaration, fear and desire. the world outside faded away, leaving only the overwhelming intensity of the moment. the walls of the asylum, the rules you had so carefully adhered to, and the boundaries you had maintained all seemed to crumble in the face of the unexpected connection.

taeyong’s hands slid up your body, cupping your tits over your blouse. his thumbs brushed against your nipples, which hardened immediately under his touch. you gasped into his mouth, your body responding with a fiery hunger that was impossible to ignore. his touch was rough, yet tender, as if he was afraid of breaking the fragile bond that had formed between you. his words from earlier played in your mind, and you felt a thrill of arousal that was as surprising as it was undeniable. you pushed back from the desk, the chair scraping against the floor as you stood to face him. your hands found the hem of your blouse, lifting it over your head to expose your bra. his eyes raked over your body, dark with desire. “you have no idea,” he murmured, his voice a low growl. “how long i’ve wanted this.”

you stepped closer to him, reaching behind to unclasp your bra. it fell away, revealing your full, round tits. taeyong’s gaze was glued to them, his pupils dilating as he took in the sight. he leaned in, his breath hot against your skin as he licked one nipple, then the other, his tongue flicking and teasing until you were moaning with need. your hands found his hair, pulling him closer as his mouth closed around one nipple, sucking hard.

his hands moved to the button of your pants, and with trembling fingers, he unzipped them. you stepped out of them, feeling a sense of vulnerability that was both terrifying and thrilling. he pushed you back onto the desk, his mouth moving down your body as he kissed and licked a trail to your center. his fingers found their way inside your panties, stroking your wet folds.

his tongue darted out, tasting you for the first time. you moaned, arching your back as he explored you with a fervor that left you breathless. he was rough, yet precise, his touch speaking of a hunger that matched your own. you could feel his erection pressing against you through his pants, and the thought of his big dick inside you made you wetter still. his fingers moved to your clit, rubbing it in tight circles that had you panting. your hips rocked against his face, desperate for more. “please, taeyong,” you begged, your voice needy and wanton. “fuck me. make me feel alive again.”

his only response was to stand up, his eyes never leaving yours as he unbuckled his belt and let his pants fall to the floor. his cock sprang free, thick and hard, and you felt your mouth water at the sight of it. he stepped closer, positioning himself between your legs, and without preamble, he pushed into you.

the sensation was overwhelming—he was so much bigger than any man you had ever been with. it was a stretch, a burn that bordered on pain, but the pleasure was so intense that you didn’t care. you gripped the edge of the desk, your nails digging into the wood as he began to thrust, hard and deep. his strokes were punctuated with dirty talk that made you feel like a whore, but it only served to make you wetter, to make you want him more.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, feeling his cock fill you completely. his breath was hot and ragged against your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin. “you’re mine, doctor,” he growled. “no better cure than this pussy, fuck.” the words sent a shiver down your spine, and you knew that this was a line you could never uncross. but in that moment, as you felt him thrust inside you with a roar of pleasure, you didn’t care. he was close, his thrusts sloppy as his fingers pulled your hair, your whimpers making his dick twitch.

his hand slid down to cup your ass, his grip tightening as he pounded into you. your tits bounced with every impact, and you could feel his hot breath on your skin as he whispered obscenities in your ear. it was a symphony of degradation and lust, and you were the eager conductor, urging him on. your pussy was tight around his cock, gripping him with every stroke, and you knew you were close to the edge.

suddenly, he pulled out, leaving you feeling empty and needy. you looked up at him, your eyes glazed with passion, and he smirked. “turn over,” he ordered, his voice gruff. you complied, turning onto your stomach and spreading your legs, the cool desk against your burning skin. he stepped behind you, his cock nudging at your entrance again. without warning, he slammed back into you, making you cry out.

the new angle was exquisite, his cock hitting deeper, reaching parts of you that had never been touched before. you pushed back against him, your body begging for more. his hands gripped your hips, his nails digging in as he picked up the pace. “yeah, take it like that, like the slut you are,” he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and command. your cheeks flushed at the words, but you found yourself pushing back even harder, eager to prove his words true. with every thrust, he whispered filthy compliments about your body, his grip on your hips tightening as he fucked you like he owned you.

his hand reached around to play with your clit, his touch sending waves of pleasure through you. your moans grew louder, filling the room. the sound of skin slapping against skin was the only music in the air, a rhythmic crescendo that grew more intense with every second. you felt your orgasm building, your pussy clenching around his cock. “that’s it, doctor. cum for me,” he encouraged, his voice hoarse with lust. and with a final, brutal thrust, you did, your body shuddering with the force of your climax. he followed shortly after, his seed spilling into you, marking you as his.

once the tremors had subsided, he pulled out, leaving you gasping for air. you felt the stickiness between your legs, a reminder of what had just transpired. as you looked back at him, you saw the smug satisfaction on his face, and you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anger. but it was quickly drowned out by the addictive thrill of the power exchange. you had never felt so alive, so desired. it was therapeutic. and as he stepped closer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, you knew that this was far from over. there was an unspoken promise in his eyes, a challenge for you to come back for more. and you knew, without a doubt, that you would.

as taeyong straightened his clothes, his gaze never left you, the intensity in his eyes as present as ever. he was murmuring something under his breath, and you had to strain to hear his words amidst the whirlwind of emotions you were trying to process. “i feel as if you’ve cured me,” he said softly, his voice carrying a sense of genuine relief.

you blinked, taken aback by his declaration. “are you serious?” you asked, your voice a mixture of disbelief and hope. he nodded slowly, a small, almost serene smile playing on his lips. “yes, i am.”

the room seemed to hold its breath as he began to dress himself, each movement deliberate and composed. your own heart raced as you grappled with the weight of his words. the promise of cure and the possibility of something more twisted together in your mind. he turned to you, his expression serious yet tender.

“i need you to do something for me,” he said, his eyes locking with yours. “anything,” you replied without hesitation, your voice firm despite the storm of emotions brewing within you.

taeyong’s gaze softened slightly, and he leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “i need a machine gun.” the request hit you like a jolt. “a machine gun?” you repeated, trying to comprehend the gravity of what he was asking.

“yes,” he confirmed, his voice steady. “if you don’t want to help me, i understand, but i need one.” you were silent for a moment, the enormity of his request settling over you. the ethical and legal implications were enormous, yet the urgency in his tone and the trust he placed in you compelled you to respond. shaking your head, you met his gaze with determination. “i’ll do it.”

taeyong’s eyes lit up with a mixture of relief and gratitude. he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “thank you for curing me.”

the warmth of his touch lingered long after he had left. that night, the enormity of hia request weighed heavily on you, but you were resolute. if this was what he needed, then you would find a way. the loneliness that had plagued you seemed to intensify with the knowledge of his needs, but it also spurred you into action. you spent the evening making discreet, cautious inquiries, your mind racing with worry and determination. you knew the gravity of what you were doing, the potential consequences, but the promise of alleviating your own profound sense of loneliness and his plea drove you forward. finally, after hours of careful navigation through back channels and clandestine meetings, you acquired the machine gun. it was a heavy, ominous object, wrapped in layers of secrecy and dread.

you stored it securely in a hidden compartment of your bag, the weight of it pressing down with a disquieting sense of finality. the next morning, you arrived at the asylum with a mix of dread and anticipation, knowing that the day’s session would be unlike any before. entering your office, you saw taeyong already seated, a patient yet expectant look on his face. your heart skipped a beat as you approached him, the hidden weight of the machine gun in your bag seeming almost to pulse with your anxiety.

“good morning,” you said, forcing a smile. “good morning,” he replied, his eyes immediately catching the glint of anticipation in yours.

you sat down across from him and carefully extracted the machine gun from your bag. his eyes widened in surprise and then satisfaction as you laid the weapon on the desk before him. “i didn’t think you’d actually do it,” he said, his voice a mix of awe and approval. “you said you needed it,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “i wouldn’t let you down.”

taeyong’s gaze softened as he reached out to touch the machine gun, his fingers brushing over the cold metal with a sense of reverence. “thank you,” he said quietly. “i knew you were the right fit for me.” the session continued with a shift in atmosphere. taeyong seemed more at ease, his demeanor less guarded and more open. the conversation flowed with a new ease, and you felt a strange sense of fulfillment. the machine gun, despite its ominous presence, seemed to be a catalyst for something deeper between you.

as the session drew to a close, you found yourself reluctant to leave, savoring the brief moments of connection and understanding. you had made significant strides with taeyong, and the realization that he trusted you so deeply was both exhilarating and unsettling. the rest of the day was spent in a haze of reflection. you sorted through files and paperwork, your mind frequently drifting back to him and the connection you shared. the solitude of your office seemed less oppressive, the quiet punctuated by thoughts of him. each task felt like a distraction from the growing realization that, in taeyong, you had found a source of profound connection.

in the quiet of your office, surrounded by the mundane tasks of your work, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something significant had shifted. the loneliness that had once felt so encompassing now seemed to have been touched by the fleeting moments of intimacy and connection you had shared with him. you were less alone than you had been before, and yet, the path you were on was fraught with moral and emotional complexity.

the night fell over the asylum with a chilling, almost suffocating stillness. you were at your desk, sorting through a mountain of paperwork, the dim light casting shadows over the piles of files. the routine of your task offered a semblance of normalcy, a brief respite from the whirlwind of emotions and decisions that had consumed you lately. you were lost in the monotony of sorting and filing when an unsettling noise shattered the silence.

the distant sounds of gunshots, crashing furniture, and frantic screams pierced through the walls. your heart leapt into your throat as the reality of what was unfolding outside became painfully clear. Instinctively, you ducked under your desk, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you tried to stifle the rising panic. the noises outside were chaotic, a cacophony of violence and fear that seemed to grow louder by the second.

taeyong’s plan had taken shape, and the asylum was in disarray. he had enlisted the help of several other inmates, each fueled by the same chaotic energy that defined taeyong himself. the sound of gunfire rang out intermittently, each shot a reminder of the danger that now surrounded you. the air was thick with tension, and you could hear the muffled sounds of struggle and conflict as the inmates carried out their rebellion.

the commotion grew closer, and suddenly, two figures burst into your office. your heart pounded in your chest as they grabbed you roughly by the arms. you struggled against their grip, your cries of protest barely audible over the tumult outside. they dragged you to your desk and, despite your frantic attempts to break free, began restraining you with the belts from straitjackets. the leather straps cut into your skin as they bound your arms and legs to the desk, rendering you immobile.

you pleaded with them, your voice trembling with fear and desperation. “please, don’t do this. let me go. i’ll do anything.”

the inmates remained silent, their faces impassive as they completed their task. the office, once a place of calm and control, was now a prison, its familiar surroundings now oppressive and alien. as the last of the restraints were secured, the door creaked open, and taeyong stepped into the room. his appearance was striking against the backdrop of screams. he was calm, almost serene, despite the mayhem that had unfolded. the sight of him brought a mix of relief and dread. you gazed up at him, your eyes wide with terror as you tried to make sense of what was happening.

“taeyong,” you said, your voice quivering. “are you really gonna kill me?”

he walked towards you with an unsettling calm, his expression unreadable. as he neared, he paused, his gaze locking with yours. “i’m not going to kill you,” he assured, his voice soft but carrying a chilling edge. “i just need to hurt you enough to make sure you’ll be mine.”

the words hung heavy in the air, and your heart raced as you watched him produce a small metal device from his pocket. the sight of the electric shock equipment made your blood run cold. it was an instrument of pain, and its presence signaled a new level of cruelty.

to your surprise, taeyong’s expression softened, and he took a step closer. “i know you thought you were helping me,” he said, his tone almost apologetic. “but now it’s my turn to help you.”

the device was cold against your skin as he pressed it to your head. a jolt of electricity surged through you, and your body convulsed involuntarily. the sensation was overwhelming, a harsh intrusion into your consciousness. you felt your mind slipping away from the present, a series of fragmented images and memories flashing before your eyes.

your mother’s face appeared, her eyes filled with pain and sorrow. then, your father, followed by your grandparents, each visage a poignant reminder of loss. the images shifted and morphed, replaced by a vision of yourself with taeyong. you were working together, your roles reversed, with him now a cured man, living with you in a semblance of normalcy. the visions continued, showing a future that was both alluring and terrifying. you saw yourselves speeding down a highway, the police in hot pursuit. the trunk of your car was filled with money, a symbol of the danger and thrill that had become intertwined with your relationship. the exhilaration of the chase was intense, but it was overshadowed by an undercurrent of dread.

the final image was the most haunting. you saw yourself detached, your love for taeyong twisted into something unrecognizable. the thrill had turned into a grim reality, the danger of your actions reflected in the cold, hard truths of your choices. the vision was a cruel reminder of the consequences that awaited you, the stark reality of a future bound by the darkness you had embraced.

as the electric shock subsided, your body trembled uncontrollably. your mind was a whirlpool of conflicting emotions and revelations. you felt a profound sense of numbness, the shock leaving you disoriented and frightened. the room seemed to close in around you, what used to be a familiar space now a prison of your own making. in the end, you wished it had killed you. death seemed more reasonable, more promising, than what the future had in store for you.

✧.*

a/n: requested fic!!! the smut part at least i really dk where i was going with this plot lol

[wimsiecal]

“it's not like I lay awake at night thinking about her!”

“…uh oh”

[galactic-rhea]

This one was for my partner! He asked this little scene from an AU we have.

Very short context for this particular scene: Anakin survives ROTJ to b come the most bonkers dad and then grandpa ever, which means the whole Sequels timeline gets a bit to the left (or more like a 180° shift), Rose builds what's basically an UFO and, accidentally, it's so dangerous and intuitive that only a force sensitive can fly it.

Luke, like usually, is pretty much amused. Poe and Ben are...confused.

[solazu1]

Some more Jay and Tim from my role swap Au, wooden beetles :33

[seongwars]

𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢, 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢 | 300 Followers Event

Pairing: psychiatrist!Jeong Yunho x yandere!Reader AU: non-idol Summary: What if in another life, you were the villain? Word Count: 9.8K Warnings: dark themes including stalking, m*rder, torture, asphyxiation, mental health issues, mentions of blood, violence--PLEASE do not interact if you are adverse to any of these themes. i want you to take care of yourselves.

a/n: here's the belated 300 follower event! it can be read alone but also fits into the forget me not universe now to work on my other wips

Forget Me Not Masterlist

"Yunho!" you screamed, twisting against the weight of the officers escorting you out. Your mind was spinning, unable to process what was happening. You searched his face for something, anything, that would tell you this wasn’t real. That he was going to stop them, that he was going to save you. But all you found was silence.

"Yunho, help me!" you sobbed, your voice raw and pleading. You reached for him, but the officers were too strong, dragging you backward as you fought to break free. Your limbs flailed in desperation, but it was no use. 

Yunho stayed silent. His eyes met yours one last time, filled with sorrow, regret, and something else—something you couldn’t place, maybe pity. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the words never came.

And then, he turned away.

The officers dragged you out of the room, your body still struggling against their grip. The last thing you saw was Yunho’s back, his shoulders hunched as he walked away from you, leaving you behind.

The air in the courtroom felt suffocating, every breath you took weighed down by the dozens of eyes watching your every move. You could feel the heat of the crowd’s gaze on your back, the low hum of whispered accusations, opinions, and judgments hanging in the air like a thick fog.

"Ms. Lee," he began, his deep voice resonating through the small space, "how do you plead?"

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t move, didn’t react, except for a subtle clench of your shackled hands. It was Choi Jongho, your lawyer, who spoke for you.

"Not guilty by reason of insanity, your honor," Jongho said, standing tall beside you, his tone as calm and collected as ever. His voice was a shield, firm and unwavering. 

The murmurs that rippled through the crowd were quickly silenced by a sharp rap of the judge’s gavel. Beside you, Jongho remained calm, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood at the defense table. 

Judge Baek leaned forward slightly, his gaze never leaving you. "The court will hear evidence to support this plea in due course." He straightened again, addressing the prosecution. "The state may present its opening argument."

"Thank you, your honor.” Prosecutor Ahn began, her steps slow and deliberate as she moved to the center of the room. 

“Esteemed members of the jury. What you see before you today is a facade. A woman who has worn the mask of a dutiful wife, presenting herself as gentle, caring, and harmless. But beneath that mask lies something far more sinister. A murderer, hiding in plain sight." She took a slow step toward the defense table, her eyes never leaving you.

"A murderer," the prosecutor repeated, louder this time, letting the word hang in the air. "One who premeditated the killing of each of her victims, who calculated every step, every detail with precision." She turned to the jury, her face twisting into a sneer. 

"Lee Y/N didn’t just act on impulse or in a fit of rage. No, she was cunning, manipulative—"

She gestured toward you, her hand slicing through the air as if to emphasize the supposed deceit. "—just as she manipulated her husband into believing she was harmless. That she wouldn’t—couldn’t—kill his best friend, Jung Wooyoung. Or that she was incapable of murdering Ji Myungsoo, a close business associate of her father-in-law and his daughter, Soyi." 

"And that," the prosecutor’s voice cut back into focus, "is the woman sitting before you today. Calculating, cold, and capable of manipulating anyone to suit her own purposes." She took a step closer to the jury, leaning in as if to share a secret. 

"She is a murderer, plain and simple."

Jongho shifted beside you, preparing for his turn, his calm exterior a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. He turned to the jury, his eyes sweeping over their faces as he spoke, pulling them into a tragic story. 

Your story.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, let’s address the most critical point that the prosecution conveniently overlooked–my client, the defendant, is not even on the stand because she has been declared psychologically unfit to stand trial by reason of insanity. Yet here we are, with the prosecution making baseless allegations, attempting to sway you with a narrative that cannot hold up under scrutiny.”

“Objection!” 

“Sustained,” Judge Baek replied. “Get to the point, Mr. Choi.”

Jongho paused for dramatic motion before continuing. 

“Can we truly expect someone living in such a mental state to calmly and rationally plan the murders she’s been accused of? We’re talking about hallucinations, delusions — breaks from reality. During these episodes, Ms. Lee is not in control of her actions.”

You could see the jurors leaning in now, their attention firmly on Jongho. They were hooked, feeding off his indignation on your behalf. But they didn’t know, couldn’t know, how little you cared for their sympathy. 

"Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he began, stepping toward the front of the room, "the person you see before you today—Ms. Lee Y/N—has lived through more tragedy than most of us can even imagine. At fifteen years old, she lost everything. Her parents, her brother, her sister—all gone in a single, devastating moment."

"Ms. Lee was the only survivor. Just fifteen years old and left to navigate a world without her family." He let the silence linger for a moment before pressing on. 

"The system put in place to defend her failed her. It left her alone, untreated, with the kind of trauma that no child should have to bear. And worse than that—it allowed Ji Myungsoo, the man responsible for the accident that took her family, to walk free." 

You kept your head down, lips pressed into a thin line, as Jongho’s impassioned speech filled the room. He truly believed what he was saying. He thought this was about grief, about a mind broken under the strain of unresolved trauma. 

"Her mental health deteriorated," Jongho continued, casting a glance in your direction as if to emphasize the fragility he believed lay behind your eyes. 

"And it was only a matter of time before that untreated pain turned inward—until she lost control of her actions, driven by the overwhelming sense of loss and confusion."

He gestured toward you. "We are not dealing with a criminal mastermind here. We are dealing with someone who has been failed by every system designed to protect her. Someone whose untreated traumatic disorder has led her to a state of paranoia and psychosis, an illness that, tragically, went unnoticed until it was too late."

Jongho’s final words echoed through the room, his tone full of somber determination. "My client isn’t a monster. She’s a victim. And today, we are here to ensure that she gets the help she should have received all those years ago."

You could feel the tension in the room shift again, the jury’s sympathy building. They were buying it. Jongho was good, no doubt about it. He returned to his seat beside you, his hand lightly brushing your shoulder in a gesture of support. 

The world ended the day your family’s car tumbled into the ditch. You remembered the screech of metal and the world flipping over and over. 

A drunk driver had collided with the car, sending it spinning off the road. By the time everything went still, the smell of gasoline and blood filled your lungs. 

You crawled from the wreckage, dazed and broken—your head pounding from the concussion, your body screaming with the pain of fractured bones. Blood trickled from your mouth and eyes, but it wasn’t just the injuries. It was something deeper—something inside you broke too, as your world collapsed around you.

The doctors said you’d be fine. But your parents weren’t fine and neither were your brother and sister. They weren’t coming back. And as you lay in that hospital bed, staring. Then, it happened. A sharp giggle escaped your lips, so out of place in the heavy silence that it startled even you. 

You clamped a hand over your mouth, but it was too late. The dam broke. Laughter, wild and uncontrollable, erupted from deep within your chest. It spilled out in frantic waves, rising higher and higher until the sound of your own hysterics filled the room, drowning out everything else.

You were laughing because nothing made sense anymore. How could it? Your family was gone, and all you could do was lie there, broken and alone, the absurdity of it all twisting in your mind like some cruel joke.

Then came the news. The drunk driver, a wealthy executive, had walked away with barely a scratch. A slap on the wrist, a fine, and he was free to return to his life. Free to laugh at dinner parties, to kiss his children goodnight. And you? 

You were left to piece together the shattered remnants of a life no longer recognizable. The system failed you, abandoned you. Just like your family had, though not by choice. You were alone in a world that felt cold and indifferent, the edges of your grief hardening into something else—something dark and unforgiving.

The world felt different after your family was taken from you in that car crash. Every noise was too loud, every shadow too long. The nightmares came first, the panic attacks next. And then, the moments you couldn’t explain—the times when it felt like someone else was inside your body, reacting, lashing out, making choices you couldn’t remember later.

It wasn’t long before your behavior began to spiral. You’d always been guarded, suspicious of others, but something had shifted. Everyone around you started to feel like a threat—each smile hiding a blade, each friendly word masking a darker intent. 

And then, one day, you snapped.

It was your first year of college. Everything was supposed to be different, better. But the tension had been building for weeks. You were running on empty, stretched thin between assignments and sleepless nights, haunted by old wounds. 

“Y/N, you look tired. Have you been getting enough sleep?” Yujin’s voice was casual, the way someone might ask about the weather. But to you, the words were an accusation, sharp and cutting, a spotlight shining on your fragility.

“Yeah, you look like you’re carrying bags on your face,” Jiwon chimed in with a laugh.

That was the moment. Something deep inside you, already frayed, snapped. The edges of your vision blurred, and all you could feel was the heat rising in your chest, your pulse pounding so loudly it drowned out the rest of their laughter.

Before you knew what was happening, your body moved on its own. You lunged across the desk, your fist colliding with Jiwon’s face. You didn’t hear the gasps of your group mates, didn’t notice the way the library went silent, all eyes fixed on you.

You grabbed Jiwon by her hair, twisting it in your fist with a strength you didn’t know you had, and slammed their head against the desk. Once. Twice. Again. The screams around you faded into nothing, your world narrowed to this singular moment of violence.

Hands tried to grab you, pull you away, but they were too late. You were beyond their reach, beyond control. You swung again, wild, desperate to silence the laughter still echoing in your ears. 

But then, amidst the chaos—professors rushing in, students frozen in horror—you were dragged away, yanked back from the scene of destruction you’d created. Your arms were pinned, your movements restricted, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done.

And in the aftermath, as your body trembled with the adrenaline coursing through you, all you felt was…peace.

It was a strange, twisted sense of calm that settled over you as you stood there, panting, your knuckles bruised and raw. The world around you still buzzed with activity—professors shouting, students calling for help—but to you, it was all muffled, distant. Like the storm inside had finally subsided.

Prosecutor Ahn’s heels clicked against the floor as she approached the easel, her movements precise, deliberate. She taped a photograph of the first victim, Ji Soyi, to the board. The image showed a vibrant, smiling young woman, full of life and promise.

“Let’s start with the first victim—Ji Myungsoo’s daughter,” Ahn said, her voice cutting through the silence in the courtroom. “Ji Soyi. A young woman with her whole life ahead of her, unaware that her final moments would be spent gasping for air as the defendant, Ms. Lee strangled her.” 

Ahn didn’t flinch, her gaze unyielding as she gestured toward the autopsy report in her hand. “Signs of asphyxiation. Bruises on her neck from sustained pressure. This wasn’t a quick death—this was slow, deliberate, cruel.”

She let the words sink in before moving on, the click of her shoes resuming as she taped another photo—this one of Ji Myungsoo, a middle-aged man with graying hair and kind eyes—next to his daughter’s.

“And then there’s Ji Myungsoo,” Ahn continued, her voice dropping to a darker tone. “This wasn’t a random killing. The defendant poisoned him, ensuring a slow, agonizing death. But that wasn’t enough. Ms. Lee inflicted wounds on him over time, stabbing him more than fifty times. He suffered greatly, ladies and gentlemen.”

It was a battle not to react to every detail she laid out, every twisted image she painted of you. The room had become uncomfortably quiet, each juror hanging on Ahn’s every word.

“And finally,” Ahn turned back to the easel, placing the last photograph—a picture of Jung Wooyoung, a smiling man with tousled hair—beside the others. “Jung Wooyoung, an innocent man caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. For that, he paid with his life.”

Prosecutor Ahn continued, turning to face the jury with an air of false sympathy. “Three lives. Taken without remorse. Without hesitation. Each death meticulously planned and executed by Ms. Lee.”

“I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to look at the evidence. To listen to the testimonies. To remember the faces of these victims. This was not a series of accidents. This was murder. And the defendant must be held accountable.”

As the prosecution’s final words lingered in the air, tension gripped the courtroom. All eyes shifted to Jongho as he rose to present the next crucial piece of evidence. He stood before the court, his expression calm yet resolute, and began playing the audio recording, allowing everyone to listen closely as the exchange between Wooyoung and San unfolded.

"San, I think something’s wrong. Y/N is—"

The jury listened intently, leaning in as they hear Wooyoung’s concerned voice, only for it to be interrupted by your frantic shouting. 

"Let go of me, Wooyoung! Don’t touch me, I don’t know where I am!"

The recording continued with the faint sound of a struggle. Then, the unmistakable and chilling noise of the knife meeting flesh. Wooyoung’s shocked, labored gasp echoed like a whisper of death. The phone clattered to the floor with a muted thud.

As the recording ended, silence swallowed the room. The courtroom seemed frozen in that moment of tragedy, suspended between disbelief and horror. Jongho allowed the gravity of the evidence to sink in. After a moment, he took a measured breath and stepped forward, his face somber as he addressed the jury. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "what you just heard was a man trying to help a friend. Mr. Jung Wooyoung, a close friend of the defendant and her husband, recognized something was wrong. He wasn’t a threat. He didn’t raise a hand in violence. He was trying to help."

"But Ms. Lee didn’t recognize Mr. Jung at that moment. She wasn’t in her right mind. The recording clearly shows that she was disoriented, frightened, and acting out of what she perceived as self-defense. ‘I don’t know where I am,’ she said. A statement that gives us crucial insight into her state of mind."

He paused, letting the weight of his words linger before speaking again. "This is not the behavior of a calculated killer. This is someone who was mentally unwell, someone struggling with the reality around them. And that is why we must understand this case for what it truly is: a tragedy brought on by untreated trauma and mental illness."

"No one is denying the pain this incident has caused,” Jongho’s voice softened as he motioned to the jury. “But we must consider the true state of mind that led to this tragic event. Ms. Lee is not a cold-blooded murderer. She is a victim of a condition she didn’t choose, a condition that robbed her of her ability to understand what was happening in that moment."

As the trial resumed after a brief recess, the atmosphere in the courtroom felt heavier, as the court proceeded to the cross-examination. Jongho stood up smoothly, striding toward the witness stand where Dr. Kim Hongjoong, a seasoned psychiatrist, was seated. 

“Dr. Kim,” Jongho began, his voice calm but commanding, “you’ve been treating the defendant, Ms. Lee, for how long now?”

Hongjoong sat upright, his hands folded in his lap. “Approximately six months,” he answered, his tone measured and professional.

Jongho nodded, pacing slightly as he glanced at the jury. “And in those six months, you’ve had the opportunity to evaluate her mental state thoroughly, correct?”

“Yes. I’ve conducted multiple sessions with Ms. Lee, as well as comprehensive psychological evaluations.”

“Let’s talk about those evaluations,” Jongho said, his eyes sharp as he approached the heart of his cross-examination. “In your professional opinion, what was Ms. Lee’s mental state at the time of the alleged crimes?”

Dr. Kim took a deep breath before answering. “Ms. Lee was suffering from severe psychosis, compounded by years of untreated trauma and post-traumatic stress disorder. She was not in full control of her actions. Her ability to distinguish between reality and hallucinations had been severely impaired.”

“So, are you saying that during the time in question, Ms. Lee would not have been able to fully comprehend the consequences of her actions?”

“Yes. Ms. Lee was experiencing delusions and episodes of dissociation. In my professional opinion, she was in a state of psychosis when the alleged incidents occurred.”

Jongho paused, allowing the weight of Dr. Kim’s testimony to sink in. “Doctor, could you tell the court about any specific episodes Ms. Lee experienced that support your diagnosis?”

“Ms. Lee described recurring visions, fragmented memories of violence, and a deep-seated paranoia that others were out to harm her,” Dr. Kim explained, his voice steady but somber. “In her mind, she wasn’t acting out of malice or cruelty, but out of a distorted sense of survival,” Dr. Kim explained, his voice steady but somber.

Jongho stepped back, giving the jury a moment to digest this before delivering his final question. “In your professional opinion, Doctor, had Ms. Lee received the appropriate mental health care before these tragic events occurred, could this situation have been prevented?”

Dr. Kim’s expression softened, and he nodded gravely. “Yes. If Ms. Lee had received immediate psychiatric intervention and proper treatment, it is likely that these tragic events could have been avoided.”

“Nothing further.”

The silence that followed was palpable. Jongho returned to his seat, leaving the jury with the image of a woman failed by the system, a woman whose suffering had been ignored until it was too late.

���

“Your Honor,” Prosecutor Ahn began, her voice crisp and authoritative, “the prosecution calls Choi San to the stand.”

A murmur rippled through the courtroom as San stood up. He walked with a calm demeanor, but there was something unreadable in his expression. His eyes flickered briefly toward you as he made his way to the stand, but he said nothing, his jaw clenched as if holding back the weight of everything left unsaid between you.

"Mr. Choi," Ahn began, "you were married to the defendant, Ms. Lee Y/N, correct?"

San nodded slowly, his voice firm when he spoke. "Yes, we were married."

Ahn clasped her hands behind her back, her gaze unwavering. "And during the time of your marriage, did you notice any unusual behavior from Ms. Lee? Anything that might indicate she was…unwell?"

San hesitated for a moment, his eyes drifting to you again before he spoke. “There were moments. She would have these... episodes, where she would act out of character. She would get confused, paranoid.”

Prosecutor Ahn stepped closer, her voice soft but piercing. "Can you elaborate on these episodes?”

"I guess..." he hesitated, his voice quiet, "it started when we met my father’s business partner at a dinner," San’s voice faltered, the words catching in his throat. 

"He was the one who killed her family in that accident ten years ago."

He took a deep breath before continuing his testimony. "After that run in, she wouldn’t let it go," he continued, his hands trembling slightly as he spoke. 

"Y/N started tracking his every move. She started talking about an eye for an eye, and how the system failed her. That if she didn’t do something to take care of him, he’d take me away. And that he deserved to lose everything he loved.”

"I didn’t believe anything she was saying," San confessed, his voice tinged with regret. "I thought it was just her way of venting out her frustrations and the pain she felt from losing her family."

Ahn pressed forward, her voice dipping into a quieter, more somber tone. “Mr. Choi, do you believe your wife was capable of committing the murders she’s accused of?”

San hesitated. His gaze locked onto yours for what felt like an eternity before he answered, his voice rough but steady. “Yes. In the state she was in... I believe she could have done it.”

Prosecutor Ahn nodded and glanced at the jury, making sure their attention was firmly on the tragic narrative she was building. 

“Mr. Choi,” Ahn said, her voice quiet and deliberate, “do you believe Ms. Lee poses a danger to others?”

“Yes.”

"Thank you, Mr. Choi," Ahn said, before turning toward the defense table, offering the floor to Jongho. He stood up slowly, his expression unreadable as he prepared to dismantle the prosecution’s carefully crafted testimony. 

“Mr. Choi, what was your relationship to the victim, Jung Wooyoung?”

San blinked, his expression hardening, clearly not expecting the shift in focus. He squared his shoulders and answered, "He was a close friend of mine. We had known each other for years."

"Now," Jongho continued, his voice calm but cutting, "you testified earlier that your wife, Ms. Lee, had episodes where she experienced paranoia, confusion, and breaks from reality. These episodes, as you described them, made her unpredictable, correct?"

"Yes," San replied, his voice strained.

"During these episodes, did you ever witness Ms. Lee act violently toward Wooyoung? Was there any indication that she harbored ill will toward him?"

San hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "No."

“But you also testified that you believed your wife was capable of committing these crimes because of her mental state. When these 'episodes' occurred, did you ever seek medical intervention for her? Did you ever attempt to get her the help she needed?"

"I thought I could handle it. I thought...it would get better."

Jongho’s tone turned sharp again. "But it didn’t get better, did it? And instead of intervening, you allowed her mental state to deteriorate further, and divorced her?"

"Objection!" Prosecutor Ahn shot up from her seat. "Counsel is badgering the witness."

"Sustained," Judge Baek replied, her voice firm.

"I’ll rephrase, Your Honor."

Jongho turned back to San, his eyes locking onto him. "Mr. Choi, did you ever try to commit your wife to a psychiatric facility, or ensure she received treatment when it became clear she wasn’t capable of seeking it on her own?"

 "No... I didn’t."

“So at no point did you take any formal action to protect her or those around her. Is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client has been portrayed as a dangerous woman, out of control and violent. But the truth is, the people closest to her, who should have protected her, did nothing. They left her to spiral, and now, they seek to blame her for the results of their negligence."

Jongho’s voice rose in impassioned defense, but you barely heard him. It was all noise now. The trial, the evidence, the testimonies—they were irrelevant. His defense painted you as a victim—of trauma, of untreated mental illness, of circumstance. It was a masterful performance, really. He was doing everything he could to save you, using every legal trick in the book to cast doubt on the prosecution’s case.

But the truth? The truth didn’t matter to you.

None of what Jongho said applied to you. It never had. The psychological evaluation—full of words like unstable and delusional—had been nothing more than a tool. You needed it. The evaluation was a key piece of the puzzle, a carefully laid foundation in your plan to ensure your return to him.

Jeong Yunho.

He wasn’t just another doctor assigned to pick apart your mind after that brutal incident. You’d been sent to Cromer Asylum after the incident that left the faculty bewildered and your peers terrified. Everyone thought you were unhinged, unstable, dangerous—and maybe they weren’t wrong. But in the eerie, stuffy walls of the asylum, Yunho had been different.

It was Yunho’s kindness—those small, thoughtful gestures—that first made you feel something again. Like offering you tea during your sessions or slipping you an extra book from the library. But the gesture had been far from simple to you. It had been intimate. Thoughtful.

During sessions, never rushed you. Even when your words came out fragmented, your thoughts tangled in chaos, he listened, really listened, without judgment. There was a warmth to his presence that none of the others possessed, a patience that was unnerving in its sincerity.

You fell for him, deeply and irrevocably. The way he looked at you, the way his presence brought a sense of peace in the madness. He didn’t know it then, but you had seen it—the connection between you. You had felt it. He didn’t know it yet, but there was something between you. Something right. 

But when you were informed of your release from the asylum, you begged him. You begged him to stop it, to keep you there, to let you stay with him. You pleaded with him like a drowning person reaching for something—anything—to hold on to. 

You were supposed to be getting better. Supposed to be moving forward. But the thought of leaving him, of stepping into a world where he wasn’t there every week, listening to your deepest fears and watching you with those careful, thoughtful eyes—it was unbearable.

"Yunho!" you screamed, twisting against the weight of the officers escorting you out. Your mind was spinning, unable to process what was happening. You searched his face for something, anything, that would tell you this wasn’t real. That he was going to stop them, that he was going to save you. 

But all you found was silence.

"Yunho, help me!" you sobbed, your voice raw and pleading. You reached for him, but the officers were too strong, dragging you backward as you fought to break free. Your limbs flailed in desperation, but it was no use. 

Yunho stayed silent. His eyes met yours one last time, filled with sorrow, regret, and something else—something you couldn’t place, maybe pity. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the words never came.

When you were finally discharged, you felt hollow. The outside world swallowed you whole, indifferent to your desperation. And Yunho? He moved on. His role in your life ended the moment you walked out of Cromer’s doors.

But you couldn’t forget. You’d always find your way back to him, one way or another. 

You weren’t quite the same person who had walked out of Cromer Asylum all those years ago—though, in truth, you had never really left that place behind. No matter how much you tried to suppress them, to move forward, they lingered, always just beneath the surface. And in the center of those memories, was Yunho. He was never far from your thoughts, even as you built a new life with San.

When you received the invitation to the dinner party hosted by Ji Myungsoo, your father-in-law’s business partner, you felt a chill run down your spine. The name alone was enough to make your skin crawl, but you couldn’t refuse the invitation. San insisted it was important to attend. The business connection with Ji Myungsoo was vital, and he wanted you by his side.

The man who had taken everything from you—the man responsible for your family's deaths—was not only thriving, but he was hosting you, offering you drinks, parading you around his opulent home like you were all part of the same privileged world. The rage bubbled just below the surface, but you forced yourself to smile, to nod politely, and to keep up the facade for San’s sake. Every moment felt like an eternity.

Halfway through dinner, as the conversation turned toward families and futures, Myungsoo casually mentioned his daughter.

“You’ll meet her soon. I hope you two will become fast friends,” he said with a proud smile. 

You nodded, forcing a polite smile, though your mind was elsewhere. The edges of the dinner party felt blurry, sounds muffled under the weight of your thoughts as you fought to reconcile with the fact that your family’s murderer was standing right before you. 

Your heart raced, trying to keep your composure, knowing this was just another chapter in a long, cruel joke the universe had decided to play on you. 

And then she appeared.

Soyi entered the room, but it wasn’t her entrance that made your blood run cold. No, it was the man beside her, the one she had looped her arm through.

Yunho.

You hadn’t seen him since the asylum, since the day they released you and tore you away from him. You thought you had buried those feelings, those memories, but seeing him now—so close yet so impossibly out of reach—made it all rush back with a force that left you breathless.

He hadn’t changed. The same calm, thoughtful presence radiated from him. And then, as if fate itself had conspired against you, his gaze drifted across the room and landed on you.

Seeing Yunho again had set everything into motion.

As you stood there, watching him laugh beside Ji Soyi, the daughter of the man who had ruined your life, you felt a bitter twist in your chest. Nothing would ever be the same again. 

That night, when you lay beside San in bed, your thoughts were plagued with Yunho. His face, his voice, the way he had looked at you all those years ago. You had felt that connection with him immediately, and it had never faded. It had only grown stronger, all consuming, until it had taken over everything. Even your life with San. Especially your life with San.

He had been everything you should have wanted—a loving husband who was gentle, kind, and devoted. San gave you comfort, security. For a while, you tried. You really did. 

But now, you were going to be reunited with Yunho, no matter the cost. San had been collateral damage—necessary, inevitable. You had always known that this life with him wouldn’t last. It wasn’t meant to.

Because your life, your future, had always been with Yunho.

⋆

Ji Soyi had been first. 

Beautiful, kind, so perfect for Yunho. She was an obstacle, a barrier standing between you and Yunho. It was her constant hovering around him that grated on you the most. The way her laugh would ring out just a little too loudly whenever he spoke, her hand lingering on his arm a second too long, as though she had some unspoken claim to him. She would bat her eyelashes and brush against him, whispering things in his ear when she thought no one was watching. 

But you were always watching.

And Yunho, ever so polite, didn’t see it. Or if he did, he played it off. He always played it off. You had seen it in his smile—the one he gave her, the one that was meant to be reserved for you.

Her death came swiftly, almost too easily. You played the long game, weaving your way into her life with care. Befriending her was almost laughably simple, as if your shared connection to San could bridge the gap between strangers. You used it to your advantage, knowing that her guard would drop. And it did.

“Stay the fuck away from him,” you hissed as you brought your hands around her neck. “You don’t know shit about him, you don’t deserve him.”

You had expected more from her, something resembling a fight, but when you knocked her out, it was over too quickly. She struggled, clawing and kicking at you as she tried to break free, the pulse beneath your grip beating frantically, begging for life, but you didn’t flinch. You watched the way the light left her eyes, how her breath came in sharp, erratic bursts, until it suddenly didn’t. 

“He’s mine.”

It was quiet now, the room heavy with the absence of her breath. You lingered for a moment, taking it all in, before you stood up. You had done what needed to be done.

Upon hearing of his daughter’s death, Ji Myungsoo was consumed by grief. He had no idea that his own tragedy was about to begin.

The day had unfolded like any other, ordinary and unremarkable. But for you, it was anything but. Soyi’s death had been the first step—necessary to clear the path to Yunho. Now, with her out of the way, it was time to exact your revenge on the man who had destroyed your world. Ji Myungsoo. 

His death would not be quick or merciful. No, it would be a meticulous masterpiece of suffering, each moment designed to make him feel every ounce of the rage that had been festering inside you for years.

You invited him over for tea, expressing your condolences, telling him that San would be running late. There was no hesitation in his acceptance; why would there be? You were, after all, mourning Soyi’s loss alongside him. And as always, Myungsoo’s arrogance blinded him. He saw only the fragile, heartbroken woman before him—not the calculating mind that had orchestrated everything.

“You were right when you said that she and I would become fast friends,” you said, your voice calm as you poured him a cup of tea. The poison swirled invisibly in his drink, a silent killer that would take its time.

He sipped, oblivious. The poison worked slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. A slight discomfort twisted across his face, but he pushed it aside with a casual shrug. Perhaps he thought it was nothing—just stress or a mild irritation. 

But as the minutes passed, the real symptoms began to set in.

You noticed the first signs before he did: the subtle clenching of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. His hand reached for his stomach as nausea began to creep in, followed by a burning sensation that you knew must be coursing through his veins by now. He looked at you, confusion clouding his eyes.

“Are you alright?” you asked, feigning concern as he grew more uncomfortable in his seat. He forced a smile, but panic had already set in.

He attempted to stand, but his legs buckled beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor. His breath came in shallow gasps as his body convulsed, the poison coursing relentlessly through his veins.

The moment he realized he was going to die, his eyes locked onto yours, wide with fear. He tried to speak, but the words came out garbled, a pathetic attempt at pleading for his life.

But you weren’t done yet.

Dragging his half-limp body to your car had been easy enough, though the drive to the warehouse felt almost surreal. This was what you had waited for, planned for, every detail meticulously crafted for this moment.

You stared down at him, tied to the chair, his skin already pale from the poison. His eyes flickered open, unfocused, as you stepped closer. His breathing was ragged, each gasp a fight, and you savored the sight of his vulnerability.

"Do you remember where you were ten years ago?" Your words were venomous as you slapped him across the face with the hospital report—the one from the accident, the one you kept as a reminder of that night. The slap echoed in the empty room, but his head just to the side, too weak to hold itself up.

"It was rhetorical, don't answer that," you snapped, tossing the papers aside.

You began with his hands, driving the blade of your knife into the back of his hand, dragging it down each of his fingers as his screams echoed off the cold walls. 

“You took everything from me,” you whispered, the words calm but seething with fury as you tossed aside the knife and picked up an iron stake. The glow from the metal illuminated the look of realization that dawned on Myungsoo’s face. But it was too late for it. The stake hissed as it seared into his skin, his body convulsing uncontrollably, and you pressed down harder, savoring the way his flesh bubbled and blackened under the heat.

His words were a garbled mess, his once-commanding voice reduced to pitiful moans. You didn’t care. You weren’t looking for his answers—just his suffering. He begged for mercy, of course. They always do in the end. But you weren’t in the business of mercy. Not for him. Not for the man who had destroyed everything.

“Did you think I would just forget?” Your voice was soft, almost caring, but the malice beneath it was unmistakable. His eyes rolled back, his chest heaving, but all that came out were pitiful whimpers.

You took a step back, circling him like a predator. “Your family…” You spat, your disgust palpable. "All of you, filthy, corrupt pieces of shit." The iron stake gleamed in your hand as you lifted it, bringing it down with brutal force.

The first stab was almost surgical, controlled, as you sunk the metal deep into his shoulder. His scream was ear-shattering, but you barely registered it over the roar of blood in your ears.

“You destroyed my family!” Another stab, this time to his chest, your hand trembling not from fear but from the rage that had built up for years. "You took Yunho from me! Took everything!" 

Your voice cracked as you drove the stake in again, punctuating every word with a strike. His body jerked with each stab, his life force dwindling with every ounce of blood spilled, but still, it wasn’t enough. Not for what he had done.

"You ruined my life!" you screamed, your throat raw from the force of it, but there was no stopping now. Not until the last shred of his miserable life had been bled out.

Ji Myungsoo had taken everything from you. But in the end, you had taken everything from him, too.

“Y/N?” 

“Oh shit,” you muttered under your breath, heart raced as you turned to see Wooyoung standing in the doorway of the warehouse. Of all the people to walk in, it had to be him. San’s best friend, the real estate agent who had been helping you scout this very warehouse, now stood frozen, eyes darting between you and the bloodied mess that was Ji Myungsoo. 

His face shifted from confusion to dawning suspicion, taking in the scene with wide eyes—the discarded iron stake, Myungsoo's lifeless form slumped in the chair, and you, soaked in sweat and smeared in blood. Wooyoung wasn't meant to be part of this. You hadn't planned for his death—not here, not now. But fate had a way of forcing your hand, and as you stood there, you knew there was no turning back.

"What’s going on?" he asked, his voice low, cautious.

"Wooyoung," you began, your voice steady, even as panic clawed at your insides. You tried to keep calm, but his eyes betrayed his growing doubt. He knew something was off.

"I-I don’t know what happened. I blacked out and found myself here," you cried, your voice shaking just enough to sell the lie. The words tumbled out in a frantic rush, and you watched as his brow furrowed in concern, his guard lowering slightly.

"Blacked out?" he echoed, glancing around the dimly lit warehouse. "What do you mean?"

"I swear, Wooyoung, I don’t remember! One moment I was home, and then... everything went dark." You let your voice tremble, tears welling in your eyes as you faked a sniffle. "I never wanted any of this! You have to believe me!"

Wooyoung hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face. His eyes softened, his loyalty to San overriding his doubt. "Okay," he said, his tone gentler now. "We’ll figure this out. I’ll call San, he’ll know what to do."

You followed him outside, feigning hysteria as he led you toward his car. He fumbled with his phone, his hands shaking as he dialed San’s number. He was trying to stay calm, trying to protect you, but he had no idea what was coming.

"I’ll drive you home," he said, opening the passenger door for you. You slipped inside, wiping fake tears from your cheeks, watching him get into the driver's seat beside you.

As Wooyoung lifted the phone to his ear, you reached for the knife tucked into the waistband of your pants. Your breath hitched, not out of guilt but out of anticipation. 

"San, I think something’s wrong. Y/N is—"

"Let go of me, Wooyoung! Don’t touch me, I don’t know where I am!"

Wooyoung’s eyes went wide, not in pain, but in shock as the blade of the knife came in contact with his throat. Blood trickled down as the phone slipped from his hand, falling to the floor with a soft thud.

"Wooyoung? Wooyoung?" San's frantic voice crackled from the phone.

You sat there for a moment, your chest heaving as you stared at Wooyoung's lifeless body slumped against the driver's seat. Unlike with Ji Myungsoo or his daughter, there was no satisfaction in this kill. No personal vendetta.

Wooyoung’s death wasn’t about revenge—it was about necessity. You needed chaos. You needed San to break, to crumble under the weight of grief and guilt. Wooyoung’s murder was the key, the catalyst that would force San’s hand.

Everything was falling into place. Wooyoung’s death had served its purpose, just as you had intended.

Wooyoung’s arrival wasn’t a mistake–it was destiny. The piece you hadn't accounted for but hoped fate would deliver. His blood on your blade, the chaotic scene at the warehouse—it was all necessary. For the world to collapse, to fold back on itself, to bring you back to that asylum. 

Back to Yunho.

But the jury wouldn’t see it that way. They would see only the surface: a cold-blooded killer, a twisted mind, someone trying to claim insanity and self-defense for the bloodshed. And that was the point.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, his voice firm yet measured, “we’ve spent the past few days unraveling a complex and tragic series of events. You’ve heard the prosecution’s version of events,” Jongho continued, his voice low, almost intimate. 

“A calculated killer. A deranged individual who took lives without remorse. But this case—this trial—is about more than cold facts. It’s about understanding the human mind, the trauma that shapes it, and how one can be driven to unspeakable actions when their grip on reality slips away.”

He took a step forward, his eyes softening as he spoke, appealing not to their logic but to their empathy.

“When you look at the evidence, at the bloody scene, you see only the aftermath. But I ask you to dig deeper. To see Ms. Lee as a victim, not just of circumstance but of her own fractured psyche.”

“To convict Lee Y/N of murder, to ignore the clear signs of mental illness, would be to deny them the help they so desperately need. It would be to condemn them to a system that doesn’t heal but punishes.”

He walked slowly toward the jury box, lowering his voice once more.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this isn’t about vengeance. This is about justice. True justice. The kind that doesn’t close its eyes to the complexities of the human mind. Y/N is not a monster. She is a victim of circumstances and trauma she couldn’t control. For that reason, I plead with you—find Ms. Lee is not guilty by reason of insanity. Don’t let this tragedy end with another one.”

The courtroom fell into a suffocating silence as the jury left to deliberate. It was as if the room itself had been holding its breath, waiting for the judgment that would either seal your fate or offer a sliver of mercy. Every sound—the shuffle of papers, the creak of chairs—seemed amplified, yet muffled by the overwhelming tension. 

You were so close to Yunho. His face lingered in your thoughts, hazy and distant, but still the anchor that kept you grounded. You had tried so hard to return to him, to undo the chaos, to find the way back to the asylum where it had all begun. All of this—every desperate choice, every life you’d taken—had been to right the wrongs, to set the world on a course that could lead you back to him. Back to the only place where you’d felt whole. 

Would the jury see beyond the blood and violence? Would they understand that your actions, twisted as they were, had been born from a mind in torment? Or would they condemn you, as the prosecutor had urged, to live out the rest of your days in darkness, with no hope of return?

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the heavy wooden door creaked open. The jury filed in, their expressions unreadable, faces drawn and pale as if the weight of the decision had drained them of life. 

The world around you blurred and you barely registered the judge’s voice asking for the verdict. Your pulse quickened, each beat pounding in your ears, drowning out all other sound. Every nerve in your body tensed, bracing for the moment when your future—everything you had done, everything you had been—would be reduced to a single sentence.

“In the case of Y/N, we the jury find the defendant…not guilty by reason of insanity.”

For a moment, the world had stopped to process the verdict. And then, chaos erupted. The courtroom exploded into a cacophony of shocked gasps, outraged shouts, and the frenzied hum of disbelief. Reporters scrambled to capture the scene, their cameras flashing like bursts of lightning, while murmurs of shock rippled through the gallery.

You barely registered the noise, the protests, the frantic movement around you. The words not guilty resonated within you, surreal and distant, as if they had been spoken for someone else. But they hadn’t. They were yours. You had been spared. 

You had won.

A strange giddiness bubbled up inside you, an almost glee that coursed through your veins. Your limbs felt light, your pulse quickening with the intoxicating rush of relief and triumph. You could hardly believe it. You had done it. You were going back. Back to where it all began. Back to the asylum. 

Back to Yunho.

It didn’t matter what they thought—what they saw in you. They would never understand. They couldn’t see what you saw. This wasn’t about guilt or innocence. This was about destiny. And destiny had delivered exactly what you needed.

As you were led out of the defendant’s seat, the press rushed toward you, their voices clamoring for a piece of you, a glimpse into the madness they’d only seen from the outside. 

“How could you let this monster go free?” one reporter shouted, his words seething with disgust.

“This isn’t about freedom,” Jongho’s voice cut through the mayhem, firm and unyielding, though no one seemed to hear him. “This verdict means treatment, not freedom.”

But you heard. And it made your pulse race even faster. Treatment. The word tasted sweet on your tongue. They didn’t know it, but they were giving you exactly what you wanted. They were sending you back to Yunho, back to the place where everything had started to unravel and where, finally, you could set it all right.

A nervous, giddy laugh threatened to spill from your lips as security escorted you down the courthouse steps, flashes from cameras exploding like fireworks around you. You felt lightheaded, as if you were floating. The trial was over. They had given you exactly what you needed. You had won.

Soon, everything would be as it was meant to be.

As you descended the final steps, you caught Jongho’s eye. He gave you a curt nod, his expression unreadable. But you didn’t care. None of this was for him. This was for you and Yunho.

The asylum was waiting. He was waiting. And soon, you’d be together, just as fate had intended.

⋆

Yunho moved through the halls of the asylum, his footsteps steady, his mind focused on the quiet, predictable routine that had become his refuge. There was a strange comfort in the monotony—the steady rhythm of making his rounds, checking on patients, administering care where needed.

The asylum was a place where chaos was contained, where he could maintain control. And after everything that had happened, he needed that sense of order more than ever.

Since Soyi’s death, Yunho had distanced himself from the outside world, retreating into the sterile, unchanging walls of the asylum. Here, within the asylum, the order and routine soothed the jagged edges of his grief. He didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to feel. All he had to do was keep moving—one foot in front of the other—through days that blurred together in a haze of a routine. 

But today, there was something different in the air. An odd tension hummed beneath the surface, something Yunho couldn’t quite place. The staff seemed restless, exchanging glances as they passed, but no one said anything. He brushed it off, convincing himself it was just another day.

As he headed toward the lounge for a break, he suddenly froze. Whispers drifted through the air like spectres. His back was to the nurses, but their words hit him, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“Did you hear the verdict?” one of them whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“I can’t believe it,” the other replied, shaking her head. “After everything that’s happened, they’re sending her back here?”

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

Yunho’s heart began to race, his feet were fixed to the ground but his mind was spinning, grasping for a rational explanation. 

You couldn’t be coming back.

He slowly turned toward the nurses, the look on their faces told him all he needed to know. It wasn’t a rumor. It wasn’t a mistake.

You were being brought back to the asylum.

Yunho had tried to help you back then, hadn’t he? He had thought he could guide you through the darkness in your mind. He had thought you could be saved. But you had twisted everything—warped every moment, every act of kindness, until the lines between reality and fantasy blurred beyond recognition.

Yunho clenched his fists, recalling the strange things you used to say, the way you always looked at him with a strange intensity, as if there was something between you that had never been there. He had been your doctor, your guide through a fractured reality. But to you, that had never been enough.

In your mind, every small interaction, every professional courtesy had turned into something else. Something far more intimate, far more meaningful. He remembered the way you would smile at him after a session, lingering in the doorway longer than necessary, your eyes gleaming with an unsettling warmth.

The tea. You had held onto that memory like it was a shared moment of affection, but Yunho had only brought it to you so you could take your medication. He never lingered or stayed with you—it was just protocol. And the books—you believed he had slipped them to you as a secret gift, but in truth, you had stolen them from his office. While you imagined a private exchange, Yunho had been searching for those missing books, unaware of the narrative you had created in your mind.

Yunho had been oblivious at first, chalking up your behavior to the paranoia and delusions of your condition. But as the months had worn on, it became clear that you were building something dangerous. You began to speak as if he were yours, as if the two of you shared something secret and forbidden. And when he tried to correct you, to explain that none of it was real, you had lashed out.

He had been forced to distance himself, to reassign your care to someone else. He couldn’t risk letting you believe any longer. But even then, you hadn’t stopped. The stalking had started—notes left in his office, small gifts appearing on his desk, the feeling that you were always there, watching.

You had vanished without a trace after your release, and though there had been whispers, rumors—mostly mundane—no one seemed to know what had truly happened to you.

But when he saw you that night, at the dinner party, and that unsettling smile playing on your lips, something in him had recoiled. He’d tried to convince himself it wasn’t really you at first—maybe a shadow of his imagination, a trick of the light, the product of too many sleepless nights. But it was you.

Married to another man nonetheless. 

You hadn’t changed, not in any way that anyone else could notice, but to Yunho, there was something different. Something darker. The way you watched him—how your gaze never left him, even when you pretended to mingle with the other guests. 

At first, he tried to ignore it. To tell himself that he was imagining things, that the distance between you had made him overly paranoid. But the gnawing feeling never left. The unsettling gaze you cast his way lingered, even in his dreams.

And then the deaths came.

Soyi was first. Found in her own home, strangled to death. The image of her lifeless body flashed across his mind like a nightmare he couldn’t shake. She had nothing to do with any of this, yet her murder felt…deliberate. Calculated.

The police hadn’t found any leads. Yunho knew Soyi wasn’t a target, but a message. The first drop of blood in what would become a flood.

Then her father, only days later. The grief had barely settled over the funeral before another tragedy struck. He was found in a warehouse, unrecognizable as he was branded and mutilated to death. 

Wooyoung’s death didn’t make sense. It didn’t fit your pattern. Where Soyi and her father’s murders were deliberate—carefully tied to your twisted sense of fate—Wooyoung was different. He wasn’t part of the narrative you’d constructed around Yunho. He wasn’t a pawn in your obsession, nor did he pose any threat to your plans. And yet, there he was—dead.

Yunho tried to make sense of it. He wanted to believe it was all some horrible coincidence, that Wooyoung’s death wasn’t connected to you. Why would a married woman go on a killing spree, carefully orchestrating deaths that, at first glance, seemed unrelated?

But the more Yunho thought about it, the clearer the truth became. Wooyoung wasn’t just collateral damage in the fallout of your unraveling marriage. His death had been deliberate—another piece of your twisted puzzle. A final push.

Yunho’s stomach twisted as the realization sank in. Wooyoung’s death had been the last piece of the puzzle to get San to divorce you. The timing was too perfect. San had been distancing himself, pulling away the moment the killings began. But Wooyoung? His death was the breaking point—the one thing that pushed San over the edge.

Yunho couldn’t escape the truth now. Your silence, the way you had watched him before you disappeared, the cold calculation behind every move—it had all been leading to this. You wanted to sever every tie, burn every bridge.

And it worked.

Now, standing in the asylum, Yunho felt the dread he had long tried to suppress rose to the surface. You weren’t just a memory or a ghost lingering in the corners of his mind anymore. You were here—flesh and blood—inside the place where everything had begun to unravel. The line between reality and delusion had long since blurred.

He swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest as he approached his office. The hallway seemed longer, the air heavier, as though the very walls of the asylum were closing in around him. His hand trembled as he reached for the door handle, the familiar creak of the hinges echoing down the corridor. 

And there you were—sitting in the chair, waiting for him, your presence filling the room like a ghost that refused to be banished.

“Yunho,” you said softly, your voice carrying a strange intimacy that made his skin crawl. You rose from the chair, stepping toward him with a slow, deliberate grace, “I’m back.”

Your smile—small, almost innocent—didn’t reach your eyes. They gleamed with something Yunho couldn’t quite place, something darker, obsessive. His heart pounded, and for a split second, his instincts screamed at him to run, to leave, to escape. But he couldn’t move. His body was frozen, tethered by the force of your gaze, by the sheer gravity of your presence.

“Can you believe it? Fate finally brought us back together.”

Your words tightened around him like a noose, each one pulling tighter, cutting off his air. Together. That was what you believed, wasn’t it? That this was fate. That everything—the years of distance, the separation, the silence—had all been leading to this moment. This reunion.

You were smiling now, a slow, eerie smile that didn’t match the sharp edge in your tone. “Do you understand? All those years of waiting, of watching you live your life without me…it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.” Your voice trembled with emotion as your lips curled into something that might have been joy, if it hadn’t felt so disturbingly wrong. 

“You don’t have to be afraid,” you cooed softly, reaching out to brush your fingers along his arm, the touch light but charged with an undercurrent of possessiveness. 

“This is what was meant to be. We were always meant to be together, Yunho. Nothing can change that. Not time. Not distance. Not even death.”

The pit in Yunho’s stomach churned violently. He stared at you, the full horror of your words sinking in like poison. You had killed for this—for him. Because you truly believed that your twisted bond, your warped sense of destiny, justified everything.

You stepped even closer, your breath warm against his skin. 

“Just like it was always meant to be.”

[spacedace]

I've been working on a dp x dc fic that has rather quickly become the home of the "Jazz is Gotham's Favorite Psychiatrist" au I posted about a few days ago and I've just really fell in love with the idea of Queer Platonic Murder Gremlins Damian & Dani/Elle being absolute terrors to their family and deciding to get married when they turn 18 for the sake of avoiding various people trying to date/marry them to get to their family's respective shit (the Wayne's money & social standing in Gotham as billionaire socialites, the Nightingale's massive power and influence over the Infinite Realms as the royal family).

Damien casually mentions he and his demon beastie Elle got married the day before without even glancing up from his food and completely derailing what was actually turning out to be a pretty calm family dinner for once. His siblings are losing their shit because what the fuck Damian, Bruce is having a crisis - he didn’t even know they were dating??? And he just found out Elle's sister/guardian is the mysterious doctor that he thinks is making some of his rogues disappear??? Damian didn’t even invite them to the wedding has he completely failed as a father?? - meanwhile Alfred is just there knowing full well that the two kids are little Aro/Ace menaces - he bought them each their first Ace ring for Pride this year he knows what's up - and deciding "actually I have something to do in the kitchen" and letting the chaos reign.

The Nightingales are fully aware of what's up (Danny was the one who had to do the presiding over everything in the Ghost Zone side of things and Jazz is a notary on top of everything else and signed off on all the paperwork on the human side) and are just enjoying all the various entities that were pushing for an arranged marriage between themselves and Elle for power or whatever bullshit having hissy fits over losing to some human kid. They're especially having fun not telling Constantine the specifics of the whole thing and letting him sweat it out over the fact that the Crown Princess of the Infinite Realms apparently just married the "Demon Heir" whoever in - literal - hell that is and she now is in possession of all his soul contracts.

[illya-roma]

DP X DC PROMPT- (Fic that I'd totally probably might write)

Jason had learned from being a Robin to being Red Hood to expect a lot of things, from fighting the deranged to expecting the unexpected like daina (WONDER WOMAN!) being mind controlled.

But he never expected this.

He usually doesn't come here to begin, not after- after it happened, but he does each time whenever the pits wants to remind hims of what he could have lost. (What he lost, how it hurt hurt hurt. How HE hurt them. He knows that even if they forgive him, they'll never trust him again. The pit laughs from behind)

But tonight, in front of him sat someone?something? what appears to be a teenager from 14 to 16, with red hair that flickers similar to a flame and skin too pale and ears too pointy.

But it?she? sat on one of the headstone with her eyes glazed, too deep in her own thoughts.

A series of bubbles cut her off. She proceeded to put the baby (that seemed completely human) on her shoulder and allowed him to burb. Then cocooned him in blankets and hummed him to sleep.

Right now, he isn't red hood (or Robin). And his gun may not affect her, that is if the child belongs to someone else. (Did the parents give them to her? Or is she related? Have any alarms of a breakout occur that a meta? experiments? escape?).

(He sounds like Bruce.)

"A penny for your thoughts?"

The girl had her eyes on the child, with a small sad smile and flickers of flaming hair. "Just..."

"Just wondering what my grave would have looked like."

He sucked a breath.

"That ones yours...right?"

The girl (child ghost holy fuck!) nodded her head to his own grave. "Y-yeah...it's mine."

"It's beautiful... And well cleaned...They must've cared a lot, mister Jason."

He never thought about that. A well taken grave describes a caring family wouldn't it? (They do care! How is it still clean though?)

"Yeah...but uh...um...What's up with the..the baby?" Is the baby alive?

"Oh...Noone will take care of my baby boy... So.. I had to come back..."

She pushed back a few strands of black hair with tender eyes and the lightest touch. As if he where the most fragile crystle.

Jason could see himself in the child. All loved to the point his own mother would give up everything just for him. Except it was Bruce, it was Bruce that took him in and loved him. Standing beside his bed during nightmares when he cried and taking away the monsters. Sitting with Alfred, cooking together and exchanging stories.

(His family loved him. His family loves him.)

"Would you like to fly with me?"

Robin made me magic

He keeps wiping his face while she put the baby in a safer position. "We can have a brawl for fun after I put little Danny in his bed a-" she stopped mid scentence when looking at him

He sputtered. " Is something wrong?"

With fear in her eyes she floated, creating distance between both of them. She shaked her head in disbelief.

"You...you died..."

He took a step farther, not wanting to scare them away.

"But..b-but your... nononono why do you look like that?!"

He wanted to ask like what, but she disappeared before his eyes. (Did she know he wasn't safe? That he hurt his family?)

...

Beep

"Hey Jaylad, is the pit be-

"B-Bruce"

"Jason, what's wrong? Are yo- what happend?"

"I'm sorry, I'm s-so sorry, I'm sorry! Dad I'm sor-"

"I'm coming, hang in there."

"Little Wing what's wrong?"

"Todd, who hurt you? Who should I kill?"

"Jason, back ups close. Breath with me, alright!"

(His family loves him)

(The pits were silenced)

_______________________________________

In an alternative universe the Fenton are still driving around and setting up traps, unfortunately Jazz is the one who removes them and got caught.

Since jazz is the one that doesn't wear hazmats and dany is still a baby (she makes sure is far from their experiments with ectoplasm), she becomes a ghost who decides that she doesn't want Danny to get hurt and takes him somewhere near a lot of ectoplasm.

Gotham: sweet baby girl, little baby harley.

Let the drama begin.

Chapter 2

[jamesisasimp]

I need someone to see my vision when I say

Evan Rosier:

[starrycassi]

Hate, love, guilt, mothers. Aren't they all synonyms?

You can find part one of this au here, and two here. Also a quick explanation on who's Gloria here. Mild nsfw mention at the end. Like, super mild.

The grounds of the Goldenloin mansion are always breathtaking, it doesn't matter how many times Ballister's been here as a guest, as an intruder, as a knight, as a lover. The gardens are fantastic, and the structure makes him feel so, so tiny.

Standing here, looking at the dining table made for dozens and dozens of people, Ballister can't help but feel out of place. The maid that guided them here is mimicking their pose, right next to them, and Ballister signals to Ambrosius, tugging on his sleeve. There's no need for her to be here, too. She should be free to leave.

Ambrosius gets the memo and dismisses the poor girl, who leaves quietly and quickly. Ballister's skin itches.

In front of them rests a wonderful feast, colorful and appealing, even if some plates are covered with golden silverware, to protect the food from loosing it's flavor, or whatever. He can't help but wonder how many street kids are hungry right now — can't help but remember what it's like, to be alone and lost and begging for a crumb of bread, a sip of water, a simple plate of food and be denied and-

The echo of someone's steps brings him back to the present, and he stares at the woman as she walks in. Captain Gloria limps as she arrives, her golden hair down in a braid that reaches her lower back. She gleams at them, despite the clear pain that every step delivers to her system. Her eyes aren't quite focused.

Ambrosius suddenly goes still, fixing his posture.

The two of them just accept the silence, live in it, for the next couple of seconds. Gloria finally gets to the table and sits down slowly, hissing when she finally does so, reeking of alcohol and a splendid perfume. She's at the head of the chairs, and Ambrosius rounds up the table to sit right next to her. Ballister tries to follow him.

“Don't” orders the woman, her hand suddenly reaching out to grip Ballister's wrist. She tugs on him, making take a seat, too, at her left. Ambrosius stares at him with a questioning look, and he stares back with an even more questioning look. It's his mom that's acting weird, he should know what's going on.

They don't have to figure it out, though, because she explains it soon enough.

“You are not here as Ambrosius's guest, today. You're a suitor. Act accordingly or get out”

Her voice, cold and demanding, takes both of the boys by surprise. Gloria's and Ballister's relationship has never been a specially warm one, but all in all, he's always seen her as a stressed out woman who doesn't really care about anything but her work and her son. Everytime they've been together she's drunk, hurt, on duty, or in a weird combination of those options. She's never been openly hostile or mean to him, so he's left in unexplored grounds when her blue eyes are suddenly fixed on his face, pinning him to his seat and making his head spin with with dread and doubts.

“Mom, there's no need to-”

Ambrosius tries, he really tries, to reason with her. Gloria, who's whole body moves weirdly and limply, suddenly hits the table with her fist closed, and Ambrosius straightens up in his seat, body reacting before his mind does so, instincts ingrained on him urging him to obey and comply to orders, even the unspoken ones.

Ballister knows the look on Gloria's eyes — he's seen it before, only, not on her face — she's not only intoxicated, not merely wounded. She's full of regret, of fury, of pure and unfiltered anger. As soon as that knowledge hits him, he's filled with a strange sense of security, of comfort. She's mad and she's irrational, but he knows the reason of those feelings. She's merely a mother defending her child, a knight defending her loved ones.

Ballister is trying to do the same, and it's refreshing to see his own feelings of confusion and hatred mirrored into Gloria's face. He knows what her anger means, because his blood burns with the same heat, the same intensity.

“I'm sorry, Captain Gloria” he says, slowly and clearly. The nerves he felt all the way here disappear, leaving only his determination, his devotion. Gloria isn't against him. She's against anything that might hurt jer son, and that's a feeling Ballister not only understands, but shares, “It was awfully inadequate of me to act that way. I beg your forgiveness”

She smiles, woobly and unsteadily, at him. She's pleased with his words, clearly. He tries to remember the hours and hours of ranting that Ambrosius blessed his ears with every so often, complaining about stupid protocol lessons that his mother made him take.

“Very well” she nods at him, and he imitates the gesture. He quickly nods at Ambrosius, too, to try and reassure him. This will be okay. It has to.

Ambrosius's shoulders relax just the slightest bit at that, but he smiles, and talks again,

“I'm incredibly hungry, Mum. Why don't we eat before we discuss this, yeah?”

It's always surprising to Ballister, really, how adaptable Ambrosius is. One minute, he's a big dramatic performer for the Queen. The next, he's merely a child with a pleading voice, asking— no, begging, for some peaceful seconds with his mom.

“Yes, the food. Let's eat and talk business, shall we? That's not really an appropriate thing to do, I suppose, but I can make an exception, seeing as how you've had the guts to ask for my son's hand in marriage, cadet”

She claps, and servants lift the coverings. Some of their faces are recognizable to Ballister. Did they live in the same orphanage? Were they friends, and his mind has forgotten?

This is whst he hates about the Goldenloin mansion. This is what he hates about every single noble event ever. He simply resings himself to his fate, a rejected freak to the nobles and a traitor to the commoners. He tries to keep his eyes on the table, tries not to to think about how some of the people working for Ambrosius, serving him, probably have never even tried the kind of feast he's about to have.

Ballister's never been a religious person, but he prays for forgiveness, even if it's merely for a second. He prays for forgiveness, even if it's undeserved.

The steak in front of him suddenly loses its appeal. The nerves are back, just like that. He hates himself for that, for being so brave a second and then a complete coward in the other.

They simply eat, for some moments. Gloria sips her glass of red wine every so often, and both of the boys chew methodically on their steaks. Food is fuel, Ballister tries to remind himself, tasting guilt and shame in every bite, feeling as if he's chewing his own heart; food is fuel, and he needs fuel for this conversation.

That doesn't make the bitterness of the whole situation go away.

“You said you have a plan” accuses Gloria, after washing down a bit of her salad with wine, “but I'm yet to hear anything about it”

Ballister's first instinct is to roll his eyes, tell her that it's her who's been acting all weird and cranky, but he knows better than to go against an older knight, even if she's drunk and injured. She's also his mother-in-law, and he refuses to feed into the stereotype of in laws not getting along.

“The food just distracted us, mom, that's all. It's really good”

Gloria's face softens a bit, and she offers her son a quick sound of agreement.

“Still. I need to know what you two rascals are up to, don't I?”

As if she didn't just violently smash the table, she laughs a bit at her joke, muttering something about teenagers under her breath.

They do their best to explain themselves without setting her off again, Ambrosius providing Ballister with facial expressions that let him know when to shut up and when to keep going. At the end of it, their food is almost gone, Ballister's guilt is almost forgotten, and Gloria looks almost convinced.

"And what do you win, cadet?"

She looks feral, like a lion ready to chew down on it's prey. Ballister refuses to lose against her, not today.

"I get to see my boyfriend be happy. What else could I possibly want?"

Some of the servants seem too moved by his answer to hide their coos, but he doesn't dare look their way, too scared to find out that perhaps that truly are the kids that grew up on his same street, with his same dreams. He keeps his eyes fixed on Gloria's, blue and brown crashing and figthing.

"Sounds like bullshit to me. No one would do all that just for someone else's happiness or whatever"

She shakes her head in disagreement, and Ballister wants to scream at her, tell her that she doesn't know shit about them, that he would walk barefoot into a burning building if it meant saving Ambrosius. He doesn't.

"I don't need anything else" he says, instead, "I only want to make sure that my boyfriend has a choice and-"

"Okay, say you win" interrupts Gloria, looking bemused with him. He hates the way she stares him down like a mere child, "and the interviewer; because this will be televised, that's a no brainer, asks what do you want. What are you going to tell the kingdom?"

He doesn't even hesitate, before answering:

"I would ask for just enough money to pay back my debth with the house of Elpis and the Goldenloin house. Then, for Ambrosius's political allies to be a matter only he can have the final say on. Not you, or me, or anyone else"

She looks at him some more, as if trying to be intimidating. He doesn't budge.

"That is an honest answer" she finally says, nodding, "That's more believable. That, I can accept. I think"

She makes a show of considering things, tapping her index finger to her chin. They keep quiet, waiting for her verdict.

“It's a decent attempt” she concedes, after some seconds of humming to herself. "It's even a good idea"

They both sigh, relieved. She clicks her tongue, and shakes her head, again, like some sort of wet dog, and they feel not so relieved, now.

“But you two are openly... close to one another, right? Everyone knows. Can't do anything if you win and people question us, can we? About your little, well, romance, and all that”

Gloria never really acknowledges the fact that her son is dating Ballister, even if he did come out and confess the secret to her half a year ago, cracking under the pressure of a specially though new years party. It gives Ambrosius some sort of dumb hope, that perhaps his mom might actually start taking his own free will into account and validating his love for Ballister. Even if she always says that that's something she already does.

“We're still trying to figure out what to do with that, Mum”

She laughs some more, making him feel stupid. Ballister looks as confused as he feels when she merely giggles at their faces, gulping down the rest of her drink. A servant refills it immediately.

“You kids are so slow, nowadays” she flaps her hand, rolling her eyes, “a mere fight will be enough. In a public space, obviously. Be nasty about it. My friends and I used to do it when we wanted to get a rise out of our parents. Neat trick”

And, with that piece of advice, she keeps on drinking.

.

Ambrosius excuses them both out of the table when they're done, leaving Captain Gloria to drunkenly mumble nonsense to herself.

The halls of the mansion are spacious and lonely, so they're able to walk together, holding hands, without a care in the world. Ambrosius has grown up here, was raised here. He knows and trusts the staff to keep a couple of secrets.

“She seems… a bit agitated” Ballister says, softly. Gloria has been a sore spot for their conversations ever since the start of their friendship, and they mostly try to avoid talking about her. But if feels wrong, to be in her house and pretend she doesn't exist.

“She's got a dislocated hip” Ambrosius answers, voice impregnated with pity, “Must hurt a lot. She was distracted with this whole thing and a thief managed to hit her real hard…”

He stares at the floor, but they keep on walking to Ambrosius's bedroom. After lunch, Gloria has practically demanded for them to stay until dinner, arguing that they have already lost most of the day, anyways. Neither one of them dared go against her word.

“I'm happy she's mad. At least I'm not the only one worried about your ass”

“I can assure you, Ballister, your thoughts about my ass are really, really different from her thoughts about it. At least I hope so”

Hip bumping his boyfriend for being an idiot, Ballister blushes a bit. Ambrosius does have a nice body.

“Don't be weird about this, Amber. We're literally talking about you mom”

“No, you are talking about her. I'm talking about people's thoughts on my ass. That's a whole different conversation”

“Not a specially interesting one, I'm sure. Much like your very flat ass”

Ambrosius gasps, offended, just as they reach the doors of his bedroom. He makes a show of dramatically slamming the door, just to open it back again mere seconds later, sticking out his tongue at Ballister before allowing him to come in.

“Keep this treatment up, and I'm actually marrying Todd” he threatens, and Ballister half heartedly pushes him.

“Okay, your ass is not flat. Just… sort of concave. Happy?”

“Not so much. But, alas, I'm not really dating a poet, am I? My heart has chosen you, even with your horrible mistreatments towards my figure”

They laugh at the stupidity of the situation, as if guilt isn't eating Ballister alive, as if Ambrosius isn't worried to death for his mom, as if the world isn't collapsing and burning around them.

They take of their shoes, and get into bed, cuddling with each other almost immediately, used to it after years and years of practice. Ballister rests his cheek on Ambrosius's chest, and they hold hands, tangling their legs. This is incredibly inappropriate to do on Ambrosius's house, with his mom meter away, but everything around them feels so wrong right now that this is the closest they can get to normal.

The events of the last few hours settle in. Panic comes back, alongside with every other emotion that they have been trying to run away from. It's scary, to admit that perhaps they could fail. They could be wrong. Ambrosius understands why his mom seems to be in denial all of the time; it's easier to pretend that something is not happening than to deal with the fact that it is.

The room is quiet. They're just teens.

“I'm nervous”

“Me, too. I'm terrified”

“Yeah. Me, too”

And it's just them, their fears and their breaths, for a second. There's nothing else but them. But reality is always there, waiting, and it comes with paperwork and legalities and many, many other things. It's them against the world, even if they would really, really like to just make peace with everyone and sleep until winter.

To avoid silence — because it comes with too many questions, too many memories, too many reminders — Ballister decides to keep on with their plan, furthering it, and asks, “So, now, we fake fight?”

“I think it's the best choice we have, right? Mom said so”

Ambrosius, always eager to follow Gloria's word, seems to perk up. Ballister feels slightly annoyed, but at least his boyfriend looks a little less like a kicked kitten.

“And what are we figthing about, uh?”

This is scary, too. Yeah, a fake figth. That's something they should be able to manage. But there's some issues, here and there, and perhaps they're just waiting for a chance to come out. This could be that chance. And there's no way they're going to actually live apart from each other, but they have to, right? So it's believable.

“What about something stupid? Like, I don't know, jazz?”

“Ambrosius, you know very well how I feel about-”

To stop his boyfriend from going on yet another campaign of hate against freestyle jazz, Ambrosius gives him a quick kiss on the hair, successfully making him shut up.

“Kay, not jazz. What, then?”

“Let's fight about this. I'll be jealous, you'll scream at me for being jealous, and we'll break up. Call me a selfish insecure asshole, or something”

Ambrosius immediately pants like a wounded animal, frowning. He makes Ballister get up slightly, to make sure he can see his eyes. They're full of love. Pure, solid, love.

“I don't ever want to hurt you, Bal”

Ballister chokes on air, because this isn't fair. Ambrosius is so pretty, resting on the mattress, looking up at him. No one else but him should ever get to see him like this. Specially not some imbecile who thinks figthing for him is enough to get married.

“It's just going to be a play-pretend situation, Amber. I don't wanna hurt you, either, but it's going to be just a couple of days. Then, we're back to normal”

Ambrosius ponders on it, pouting. But he finally nods, agreeing.

“Fine. We're hating each other from now on”

.

The next time Ballister wakes up, they're back at the Institute, half naked, fused together like a pretzel. Perhaps they got a bit too sentimental when they came back, and perhaps they stole a couple of sips from Gloria's wine reserve. A make out session had been the start of their so called hate, and Gloreth, did they suck at this.

“Ambrosius. Ambrosius, wake up. Ambrosius, fucking move”

With a bit more of force than needed, he shakes his boyfriend, trying to get him to open up his eyes. Ambrosius attempts to do so and also get up, miscalculating, and falling face first to the floor.

Shit.

Hurrying up to help him, Ballister trips, too. The wine is still in their systems, apparently, and it makes them laugh like idiots as soon as their gazes cross.

“Shit. We're supposed to be figthing, Amber”

“I'm pretty sure last night counts as a form of combat. Sword figths, one may call it”

“Shut the fuck up, honestly. Just, for once, shut up”

“Only if you kiss me, babe"

Okay, maybe they aren't suited for a divorce yet. Ballister got up, grunting, and Ambrosius followed suit, if only because the floor is way too cold to be laying on it with nothing but a boxer and shorts on. He smiled at the wall when he managed to stand up on his own two feet, still dizzy.

“What now, Bal?”

Ballister struggled to put his shirt back on, trying to remember where the fuck his shoes where. It was early, still. If he hurried up, he could sneak out without anyone seeing him.

“Dont ask me. This whole thing was your plan. Think, Ambrosius; for the first time in your life, think”

Ambrosius threw the nearest object at his ungrateful boyfriend, and rolled his eyes when the comb impacted against the desk. Turns out his aim gets affected by alcohol. Who could've thought?

“What was that for?!” Hisses Ballister, barely managing to get done with his clothes. Ambrosius's loopy smile only grew bigger at the sight, and he looked so much like his mom, for a second. Just a second.

“We're figthing, love. I think this is how figths are supposed to go, right?”

And he threw a hair cream bottle, that impacted on the wall.

Ballister opened up the door, just in time for the notebook Ambrosius threw to go flying through it. Some cadets were already out, curious about the noise. Ambrosius, drunk and ad impulsive as his mother, grinned with pleasure. Yes, a public fight, indeed.

“And get out!” he screamed, remembering the way his mother looked at him yesterday, feeling the tears burning on the very corners of his eyes, hating her stare and wishing she looked at him more often “I don't want to talk to you ever again, you hear me?!”

A pillow was thrown. Ballister fought down the urge to burst out laughing. This felt so much like a cheap soap opera.

“It's not my fault you're a coward!” He screamed back, wine helping him come up with the words, “Go and die for all I care, Golden Boy! Hang yourself from a fucking tower, I don't give a shit!”

More and more people came in to witness the situation. Had he been sober, Ballister probably would've stopped. He wasn't, though.

“You're so jealous!” Screeched Ambrosius, like he meant it, “You're just jealous of my suitors being way better than you, you prick!”

Ballister kneeled down, picked up the fallen pillow, and threw it right back at it's owner. Ambrosius barely contained his cackles.

“I'll enter the fucking tournament just so I can disown you, Ambrosius! You don't deserve all that money!”

They were losing the plot a bit, but it didn't really matter. A figth is a figth, no matter the reasons.

“Do whatever you want, Ballister! You're never winning, never !”

Next, a sweater came in, balled up, flying. This one actually hit Ballister on the eye, and he had to take a step back, surprised. Ouch.

“We'll see about that, you idiot!”

With a final heated stare, Ballister turned around, bitting down his tongue to dissimulate the giggles.

.

As soon as he got into his room and locked his door, Ballister opened up his cellphone, already missing his boyfriend's arms. He found a couple of drunken voicemails Ambrosius had already sent his way, and a couple of pictures that matched the vibe of their last night.

Smiling, he got into his own bed, hiding under the sheets. Perhaps intense figths weren't such a bad idea for their relationship, after all.

[martyryo]

mid au idea appealing only to me

[transmasc-rose]

Amy/Rory I Saw the TV Glow au:

Amy as Maddy/Tara, who ran away and never came home, who talks about things that can't be real (the TV show, the TARDIS, a world where they're strong, a world where they're something better).

Rory as Owen/Isabel, meek and yet loyal and yet terrified of his best friend and what she means. And what she says. And what she shows him.

Doctor Who, the TARDIS, the Doctor, all wrapped up into the role of the Pink Opaque, the TV show from their youth, and something Amy grasps onto and never let's go. Something Rory abandons for a normal life.

And yet.

[wimsiecal]

Maybe 2020 me was cooking something

[theokusgallery]

i have bad news for anyone who expects mental illness to be family friendly

^ yeah!

[triglycercule]

killer should know about dumb video game meta stuff ike i-frames and animation cancels and critting amd breaking out of bounds and use it to his advantage in fights. maybe he learned it from chara in something new as a silly little thing to try out because theyre already teaching him all this bullshit on killing so whos to say a video game character cant learn a player's cheats?? he's already interacted and collaborated with a player before i think its fair he knows tricks on how to cheat undertale's fighting system

everything's all fine and dandy in a fight against killer (no it isn't) until you see him glitching around and somehow phasing through your attacks. he looks ridiculous but it gets the job done

[thepollyjustice]

How do I apologize for being an utterly terrible scum of a Person that started a Scummy trend that I can't stop even after I tried to

“Well.. Apologizing can be difficult. You can’t control other people’s actions, and you shouldn’t take credibility for them.”

“There come a point where you have to just apologize for what you did and move on. Living with guilt.. isn’t healthy, and you have to forgive yourself too.”

[spacedace]

Gotham loved all her children fiercely.

Every single parent working three jobs, every corrupt politician lining their pockets with tax payer money, every exhausted student scraping by on rent, every doctor, drug dealer, lawyer and killer. She loved them all. Even those she hated beyond words, beyond ability to comprehend, those of her children so filled with evil not even a mother’s love could excuse or condone, even those she still loved.

They were all pieces of herself. As much a part of her as her cracked pavement and unruly parks and dirty cobblestone street skin, as the smoke and smog and storming haze of her hair, as the glint of her stained glass and cctv eyes. Her Populous made her as much as she made them, over years more cursed than blessed, shaping her with their stubbornness and pride and strength.

She did not love equally though. 

It was not something that guilted her. That all children should have equal parts affection were concerns of living things. And though it could never be argued that the Spirit of Gotham was anything but alive, it is not the same as being living. She is a City Spirit, first and foremost. Her children are counted in the millions, and though she knows every second of every life that call her home, there are those that she gives more of her love to than others.

Her Bats and Birds, who flit around her jagged skylines and down her shadowed streets and gave all of themselves to trying to protect so many. She loved them dearly, wanted to do everything in her power to care for them as they cared for her. Had done everything, when it became clear that she hadn’t power enough.

A deal with the King Infinite could be a dangerous thing, a great risk only the most reckless were willing to entertain.

But the King that had instilled such an apprehension in the Infinite Realms was gone now. Stripped of crown and ring and title, consumed in his entirety by his conqueror - though it had taken time and a great deal of danger for the new King to complete that right - Pirah Dark was a bad memory.

Phantom was something else.

And Gotham was willing to be a little reckless in trusting the whispers of her dead that their new ruler was a fair and kind one. That his Obsession was not with power, but with Protection.

That the King could use a little Protection himself, on the mortal side.

She’d made an offer, a Deal.

The King’s Grave Mother accepted on his and their Grave’s behalf. If it was, perhaps, a little underhanded to speak with the Queen Mother rather than the King himself, well. Gotham was born of shady dealings, the language of slanted deals was her first, and she could craft contracts that would put any Fae or Demon to shame.

It was a good deal though. Equal and fair for both sides. She’d been born of human kindness and empathy too, though they were not as easy a touch stone.

The King was kind, and hurt and in need of a protector of his own. His Grave were doing his best, but Halfa were things Between. They could not live all on one side of the veil completely. They needed a place on the mortal side, where they would not need to fear being hunted. Gotham could give them that. Gotham could be that.

What she asked for in return wasn’t so great a price.

If, perhaps, upon the King and his Grave taking up residence within the bounds of her Populous, she gained more than just the power she asked? A mere coincidence. Surely. The other City Spirits were just bitter that their more straight forward Populous hadn’t allowed them to think of such a scheme, to claim otherwise.

Besides, she thinks it still worked out equal enough. Companionship for some of her lonely Birds meant companionship for the King and his Grave as well after all. 

Even if it took a bit of nudging to get them all to fall in place. It was a mother’s right to meddle in the lives of her children, after all. Her duty to help ensure they found good partners. And she was hardly the first parent to feel that nothing short of royalty was good enough for her children.

*

Blurb from me figuring out the vibe between the Spirit of Gotham and the Pham in my Gotham’s Favorite Therapist Jazz AU. Also a writing prompt for anyone who wants to run with this haha

Believe it or not, this originally popped up because I had the idea “What if the person Gotham loves most in the world is Alfred because he looks after her favorite kids?” and it turned into this lol Eventually I’ll actually write the scene where Alfred and Gotham sit down and have tea together and talk about their kids.

In this AU/my headcanons Grave is the term Ghosts use to reference family (in the context of people you love and care for, doesn’t have to be actual blood relations or anything and more often than not is used to describe found family).

I just like the idea of a grave being seen as a place of peace and rest and for actual dead/ghosts you find that not in a literal grave but in the people you call your own. Also just like the alliteration of “A Grave of Ghosts” lol

Also have the idea that a Grave has a social structure similar to wolves not in the sense of the shitty incorrect misunderstanding with alpha/beta/omega sense, but in the sense that it’s all family dynamics with one or more families grouped together with parents generally trying to wrangle/look after everyone else. The head(s) of a Grave is called a Grave Parent/Father/Mother (in this case, Jazz being the Grave Mother).

Not referenced in here but gonna add it here anyway: I like the idea that the concept of “Ghost King” is meant to actually be more like “Grave Parent to all Graves and ghosts” rather than actual king, and that Pirah Dark just kinda fucked that whole vibe up with his shit. Just really like the idea of things going back to that with Danny having a more protector role and ghosts start using the title “Grave Father” for him (maybe with some misunderstanding of what that means and folks not in the know thinking it some ominous title lol).

Don’t have time to tag everyone who asked at the moment, but I’ll come back & do that later after work