#Eternal Smiles dentist | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

1-49 · 11 months ago

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성찬 : An angel slept on my shoulder, & now it feels like sunrise.

❝ wherein Sungchan wakes you up differently than you are used to.

pairing: f!reader × jung sungchan ⁝ tags: um, he is a meanieee, as in the most adorable, most dreamy. inspo; photographer era sungchan, this pic! (hopefully, there will be more of them) ep14 of rize&realize in terms of his styling. wc. 3k

this a sslight reupload from two weeks ago given it got eaten in the tags, sry.

Poets write more about perfect love than toothpaste and alarm clocks, though there are intriguing ways in which our morning routines shape our lives.

Already, months of mornings spent waking up to find Sungchan lying next to you──someone u would gladly wake up beside for eternity.

A comfort, a constant, a habit. Someone whose smile lifts, heals, and puts all you want to hear into words; someone gentle and kind who winces when you try to brush an eyelash away from his cheek. Just a really sweet person who smiles w his eyes & something about it flutters ur heart... But that’s only the beginning.

On certain days, you wake up on different sides of the bed; on other mornings you find yourself waking up next to his warm skin; and on certain days, his schedule demands that you wake up alone.

On this particular day though you awaken to an odd camera shutter sound. The sound isn’t new to you──you have heard it before, but not this close, this intimate, or this early in the morning.

It takes a few more hearings of the shutter and click sound before you manage to slowly open your eyes & realize that this isn’t a lucid dream.

He is just lying there beside you, curled in an odd way, holding what you think is a black object, though you cannot quite make out what it is yet due to blurry vision.

You try to reach out to him & get him to take his seemingly favourite new toy off of your face, but all u can manage is a husky, “What are you dooing?” and shut your eyes instantly.

Sungchan pulls back, securing his camera teasingly away from you, and putting more distance between the two.

Gradually adjusting your eyes to the light that has evidently been let through the curtains on purpose, you make another whiny remark, “It’s tooo bright in heere.”

In the most foul, deep tone a person in the morning can have, he cheekily says, “Morning.”

Ouch…

White sheets separate you as you are trying to get a closer look at him by tapping the puffiness of the duvet to discover why he is acting so meanly this early in the day.

There it is—that click again.

The shutter sound reverberates more because of the silence in the room. It loops similarly to how wrinkled sheets do and similarly to how waves do, as he continues to force his finger onto the shutter button.

At this point, you know he is holding a camera; you are just curious about how he got it, since you have never seen it and he has never expressed interest in that kind of thing before.

“You make a perfect subject,” he admits.

Sure, it is too early for him to flirt, but is not something you are unfamiliar with either. He has this ability to ease and comfort even in the most tense situations. Which then also equals the number of times he has flirted with you, even in the most unusual circumstances.

There is just something about Sungchan that thrives on the abnormality of situations. His level of extrovertism is as high as it gets on your hot-cold scale, making you feel everything from extremes, but you would not trade that for anything. And if that means you are flirting with him at the dentist or while feeding an animal in the zoo, so be it.

And he is being unconventionally alluring once again this morning. No matter how long you have been dating, he still has an insatiable desire when it comes to pushing your boundaries. Specifically, he is manipulating your emotions today from behind that too-small-for-his-hands rectangle thingy.

Burying your face in the pillow, you whine, “Sungchannn,” since you are actually given something to be upset about in the first place. Why is he like this?

You know he has that ‘trouble’ smile on his face, even though you are not looking at it.

Click.

He takes a little longer to play as he inspects the new toy, looks down at a picture of you on the screen, peers at you through the viewfinder, and then peeks at you over the camera.

“It feels strange that I can practically touch you through the screen.”

It is too early, you swear, and this time, he is disturbing your tranquillity, but when he goes above and beyond to get your full attention, can you really blame him?

Said into the pillow, you refuse to give up and look at him, so it comes out muffled. “You are unbelievable, you know that?”

“I consider that a compliment,” he taunts.

You instantly lift your head in reaction to the counterattack, intending to bother him even more “Well, yes, when” Despite the bright light coming from the windows, you force yourself to open your eyes. “when—”

The sight ..… You are only now experiencing it after your drowsy vision has subsided and things are beginning to become more clear.

The ball formed at the end of your throat is hard to swallow. “when—When… you,” you continue to glitch ── thinking, speaking, looking at him, and moving on are all challenging.

“Well… yes,” Sungchan continues his ribbing of you. “When…”

However, you are preoccupied with something else so much that you miss—you...

The fucking sight!

He is bathed in the most dazzling morning light. Someone who, naturally, has reached the pinnacle of confidence is someone who woke up significantly earlier than you and spent time with himself. Having had a great start to the day, worked out, showered, and taken care of himself, he has made the decision to make yours even better.

Propped up on his elbow, the devastation continues the more detail your eyes begin to take in.

The sunlight is skating on his hair. Pulling the camera away from his face, the drowsy light drips from his hair, still damp from the shower.

Golden, golden, golden — ‘the warm sun’ is burning your lips, cheeks, shoulders, and skin.

Here he is, seemingly creating ‘art’ when in fact he is it.

Considering that you have not yet experienced a view like this in the morning, the Leica in his hands enhances the rest of what you begin to perceive as his artistic movement.

Sungchan repeatedly tugs the camera strap in and out of his fingers as he plays with it. Even though your brain has just started working, you can understand the gesture’s flex and meaning.

Additionally, aside from the wet hair, the softness of the white sheets contrasts sharply with the print of the camo pants. It is hard not to be confused by the brutality of his choice.

His faded Diesel hoodie is completely unzipped, displaying his flawlessly squared abs, where the sun also appears to like to hang out. And you think that if he had been naked in bed instead of ‘completely clothed’, it would have seemed more natural. However, here you are.

Although the artwork you are viewing lacks logic, that is precisely the complexity of art.

As you continue to examine him more, your words linger at the back of your throat.

He remains unaffected. The flexing of his hands and abs is in harmony. The low rise of his camos tases the downward curve of his hips, and internally, you lose it a little. His toned physique exudes such an artistic quality. It is something you want to touch, feel, & experience with your hands to appreciate the artistry. But you know that you must go through hell to get there.

Apparently, you are his subject today, and you are aware of how dead-set Sunghcan can get when he has a goal. You are aware that you must tolerate his shaninagins this morning.

Alongside the obnoxious look, he has got going on──is the most mind-bending smile. It begs the question of how a smile can dig down that deep. All are capable of smiling, and all do smile, and you witness a hundred smiles every day, but none quite like his.

His smile has a subtle twist that gives it the ability to appear both devilishly seductive and angelically sweet. That is very exciting in both senses. It makes you shaky. A smile so intense and alluring that it simultaneously makes you feel afraid and terrified because it conveys how much you are falling for him. And even though you have been falling for a while, it always feels brand-new.

What is it that makes his smile so sincere? Why is it speaking back to you as well? And, why does it tell you what you want to hear?

Your mind is full of feelings. Your heart is full of feelings. There is no logic to you, as he starts to draw nearer, and your heart rate picks up too. You get so vulnerable every time you realize how much power this gentle giant has over you just by being so close.

He poses a question in an effort to highlight the fact that you are staring at him, “Would you like to see them?”

“Se—” you falter, raving deeply with your emotions. Not to say that he has caused you brain damage, but he most certainly has. “See-see what?”

“The pictures, angel.”

“Oh, yes,” you say, waving your head, “the-the pictures.”

An angel? You cannot remember a time when he called you an angel. This is the first instance. Your morning face freezes blankly, and all your efforts to stop the confusion from showing are useless. He finds appeal in it, so he grins.

And now, at a closer range, you can detect the scent of raspberry shampoo in his hair. His lips even; velvety and waxy, glazed in the same balm… The scent is vividly juicy, sweet, and slightly acidic, and it clings to your nostrils, gaining access to your thoughts and making you feel ecstatic.

The tension in your throat finally eases as you swallow it all. Still, it is not like you had a choice. You were forced to do it out of fear.

Fear of him. The fear of being approached by him in an awake state as opposed to a dream. This. The reality. The truth of his hoodie falling off his shoulder and his bare abs being dragged across the sheets...

You let out a sigh. No one could have prepared you for this morning.

Sungchan eventually tries to show you the photos he took of you on the LCD screen, but you are dying from the close proximity and the raspberry stench. As your itching, agitation, & restlessness increase, you try to cover more of yourself by pulling the sheets.

He picks up on all your signs—your desperation is adorable to him. He still appears naive enough to exploit you, though. “What?”

“N-nothing,” you respond, a little dizzy. “It’s just that this morning is giving me a really strong kickstart.”

He seems interested in what you just said, as his stare narrows. “Really?” His fluffy smile and curious eyes watch your lips for a reply.

How annoying…

After giving him a side eye, having grown tired of his lure, you turn back to the camera. “Show me.”

The pictures start to speed up one after another, & you aren’t sure how to react because you were the one being photographed without permission, but they are strangely gorgeous. Raw in the sense that perfection is surrounded by flaws.

You can see how he has fed his curiosity by taking a more romantic & delicate approach to your ignorance (you sleeping). There is no denying that the thematic progression perfectly conveys the raw emotions of someone being in love. The subject matter: tender sensuality, body art, and safe spaces.

Each and every one of photos discloses an intensely private detail about you that only he sees. Deeply asleep & oblivious to everything, including him and his camera, you are rendered completely helpless in those pictures.

Sunghcan looks at you and waits for your response while grinning to himself and twirling his finger around the edge of his lips.

At last, you say, “Um…”

He retracts, “Ummm? Just an umm?”

You make an effort to maintain your modesty and ignore what you consider weak pictures, considering how frail you look in them. “They are fine, I guess.”

“Fine!?” His brows furrow, and he gives a sad little pout. “Baby, no one else gets to see you like this but me.”

“A little possessive, aren’t we?” you flirt back, and naturally, the unintentional provocation is immediate. It works quickly, causing him to leap over you and threaten you with his new gadget.

With his knees bent, he straddles your body, & looks down on you. “Then let us improve them.”

You are still warm and sensitive from your sleep; the last thing you need to do is look at him standing on top of you as if you are viewing some grand statue from below...

And not to mention his low-rise camos and his unzipped hoodie with one sleeve hanging down his arm, exposing his bare shoulder. Incredibly ‘babygirlfied,’ if that makes any sense.

All of it is too much and something you do not need to focus on right now, but you can not really complain, can you? He is as dual-edged as the idea of his contradictory smile. Someone so irresistible.

Still,

“Sunggchaan,” you object, your hands covering your sleepy face, knowing that your protests never work against his determination anyway.

Waving the camera, he begins to goof around and document everything in the process. He is gazing at you and frantically pressing the shutter button, and the montage of pictures keeps going. Pretty soon, it is more about the moment than what he is photographing.

The room grows excessively bright as the walls begin to come to life one by one. It explodes with giggles and tickles and pillows thrown around as the peachy tint fills it.

The push-pull, trying-to-resist cat-and-mouse game is an engaging exercise to ensure you are fully motivated & prepared for the day. And it is nonstop movement, much like a workout.

Inside the sheets, then outside of them. Click.

Folded limbs & naive scratches. Click.

Teeth pulling at the strap of your tank top.

Teeth digging into the camera strap... [An artistic moment of reflection.] Click.

Your hand in reach for his camera. Click.

A Backhug. Speaking lip touching earlobe. Secrets spilling. A Promise.

And again, your palm (Click) on his lens.

A groan.

The Leica being thrown onto the bed.

Your wrists being pinned.

Stuck.

Tasting without touch.

Warm lips pressing a kiss against your cheek.

⠀

Finally, he pulls away from you, a photographer who takes his work seriously. He assumes the first position, straddling your body & stopping movement by glaring down at you.

It is just hitting that the constant motions and how you two emoted through the last couple of minutes lead into a new series of super artsy & super candid couple aesthetic—the ultimate romantic declaration.

Despite the camera being in his face, he looks at you over it. There is something so romantic about the prolonged primal eye contact you two share. Following everything is too intimate, beautiful, harsh, and full of passion.

Click.

It is impossible not to tease Sungchan, even though he is made you feel a little tired and increased your dopamine levels. “That is not how you shoot a photograph.”

“Oh, yeah?” He bends down, tongue pocking at his cheek and thumb resting on the delicate column of your throat. “Care to teach me?”

Pressing slightly, slightly...

the gentle thumb pressure to reduce your airflow is purely psychological.

Love tickles the shallow parts of your spine as his body heat seeps through the sheet that you badly force on yourself to cover your body. You too are fevered, & you have been since opening your eyes.

He observes every inch of your face, for you are his dream girl.

His lashes battle as his damp hair slides into his deer eyes. His breath and the raspberry scent are waiting on your lips. To say that he just imagines a kiss that would stop time and give you another hour of his undivided attention would be an understatement.

Butterflies start to swarm your whole body, you really want nothing more than to bite into that ivory shoulder!!

His soft pink tongue dances along his teeth as it tries to get your attention.

And while with sweet thoughts, a loving heart, and kind deeds, Sungchan radiates happiness like a sweet puppy, he also doesn’t mind being naughty...

You shy away, smiling—embarrassed by your own ideas. Mean, mean, mean. He is so mean!

This doe giant, the type to hold your face in his hands and say, “Come closer.”

You feeeel insane...

The camera sits on the nightstand, battered but full of memories. Somewhat of an unusual late morning—the city appears blood orange in the distance.

Your skin is being caressed by the gentle amber light of the morning as your legs entwine with his. The material of his pants is rough against your exposed skin, but there is something about the uncomfortability that makes you feel even more sensitive.

Ultimately, the final product is...

Well,

it is all about the mess of unmade bedsheets, uncareful kisses and blurry photos. The birds chirping their morning melody, and your face buried in his neck as you take in a deep breath.

They say a picture encapsulates a moment, but you come to realize that there is no better view than this one,

waking up to Sungchan’s dreamy face in this heaven-like bedroom every day──a safe space where you let him speak and have his way with you. That pictures can document a tiny fraction of those feelings & emotions it feels like bonus.

#riize #sungchan #riize scenarios #riize x reader #riize fluff #riize imagines #jung sungchan #riize fanfic #riize fic #sungchan imagines #sungchan x reader #sungchan x you #sungchan scenarios #sungchan x yn #sungchan fanfic #sungchan fluff

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beachy--head · 10 days ago

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Little drabble (yay), inspired by (SPOILERS FOR 21x06) a cute Lumone scene that felt so much like Japril circa season 9.

___

Life is back on track. Sure, she has yet to pass her boards, but she’s still a trauma attending working in a nationally-acclaimed hospital, the interns have stopped calling her “the dud” (allowing them to scrub in on a grizzly trauma usually does the trick), and her best friend, turned virginity taker, turned friend with benefits, turned proper boyfriend, looks really good in dark blue scrubs.

April Kepner is so back.

She’s in the elevator with said boyfriend and with Alex, who’s heading with her to the pit for a consult. As she’s studying the patient’s chart, the doors open to the plastics floor, and Jackson kisses her cheek.

“I’m in the OR all day. Three reconstructive surgeries. I’ll see you later.”

Still engrossed in her chart, she smiles and nods as he exits the elevator.

“Good luck! See you later. Love you!”

Oh no. No no no no.

Jackson freezes, ruining any delusion that maybe she hasn’t uttered these words out loud, and she can feel Alex stifle a laugh.

“Uh…”

Her face is probably fifty shades of red, but she can’t stop looking at Jackson, his mouth slightly open, for what feels like years (is Alex somehow pressing the button that keeps the elevator doors open?). God, the universe, someone finally deigns to take pity on her, and the doors close, the elevator continuing its journey down to the pit.

“Dude. Did you just say–”

“Shut up, Alex.”

“And it’s the first time that either of y–”

“I said shut. Up.”

Alex obeys, but his smirk stays on, and he snorts. Another eternity later, the doors open, and she’s face to face with Cristina.

“Hey Yang, guess what? Kepner here just–”

She huffs and glares at Alex, holding the chart close to her chest.

“We have a patient we need to see.”

“Oh, I bet you’d looove to see our patient.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes Alex’s shoulder in an effort to leave. As she walks away, Alex on her trail, she tries to convince herself that everything is fine. Maybe she’s making a bigger deal out of it that it needs to be.

Maybe he didn’t even hear her.

___

Maybe she didn’t even say it.

His day was filled with surgeries, so it’s not like Jackson had the luxury to replay this moment in his head on a loop, but he’s now trying to get some rest in an on-call room before his last surgery of the day, and it’s getting harder to think about anything but this morning.

That is, until April comes in, eyes avoiding his, ruining any chance he had to think of anything else. She takes a seat next to him on the cot and starts rambling right away (that’s his girl).

“So, I’ve prepared a speech in my head all day, about how it was nothing, it’s just something you say at the end of a conversation, like, I’m pretty sure I said it to my dentist on the phone once after confirming an appointment, and that it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But it does mean something, and I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a liar. And I know we agreed to take things slow after that pregnancy scare, and it’s a big deal, but I’m tired of acting like I don’t, so. Here goes. I love you. And it’s okay if it’s too soon and you can’t say it back, I’ll live, I know you said you had feelings and I’m not asking you to–”

He cuts her off with a kiss, his hand automatically going in her hair, hoping to convey everything he hasn’t said yet. She sighs, this little sigh he’ll never grow tired of hearing, and he deepens the kiss, his hands moving to her neck.

His pager beeps, and he ignores it, getting lost in her, until it beeps again. It’s from Torres, telling him in capital letters to get his ass down to OR3 immediately or else, and he sighs. Because he doesn’t want to tell her in an on-call room. He’s a closeted romantic (don’t tell Karev), and his plans for telling her he loved her (because oh, how much he loves her) didn’t include dirty scrubs and pagers going off in the middle of a pretty good damn kiss. So far, their relationship has not particularly followed the standard stages, so he kind of needs to get at least one thing right, with a big romantic gesture, or at least a proper date.

“I’m sorry, I got to go, last surgery of the day. I’ll see you right after? My place?”

April nods, her hands unconsciously touching her hair, and he gives her a smile before leaving, hoping she won’t think he’s a coward who would do anything to avoid the subject. Because April Kepner deserves the world, deserves to know that what she said is okay, more than okay, actually. She's his best friend, his favorite person, whom he met at the hospital, and who loves him, dirty scrubs and proper romantic dates be damned.

So he turns back, passes his head in the doorway, catching April looking as confused as ever, and he smiles.

“Oh, and I love you too, by the way.”

April’s beaming smile stays with him during the whole surgery, the whole evening, until he can hold her in his arms again and pepper those three words over and over on her skin.

#japril #drabble #april kepner #jackson avery

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deathbyhertouch · 6 months ago

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Chance of Fate

Julien Baker x f!reader

warnings: smut (minors dni), fingering, oral (reader receiving), trapped in small spaces, corruption kink if you squint, bad cliche, softdom!Julien, swearing, general cuteness, choking if you squint

word count: 2.2k

AN: hello! this is my inaugural post. I hope you like it!! please send me requests for more if you like my work :)

Your day started off like any other, it was a warm day in downtown Nashville, and you had a bunch of adulting to do with absolutely zero motivation. You had already gotten your dentist appointment as well as your haircut out of the way. All that was left was to drop off some stuff at your friend's apartment complex. She lived in a high rise building right off the corner from your favorite coffee place. As you made the trek towards her building, you noticed how the breeze picked up, flowing through your hair, and bringing a slight smile to your face. You made your way up the stairs to the front entrance and pressed the buzzer for her apartment.

“Y/N? Is that you?” Kacey’s voice rang out to you. “Hey girlie, just dropping off those books you wanted to borrow.” you replied. “Sounds good, come on up.”

You heard the door click open and you made your way to the elevator. How she ever managed to find this place for a decent price you’ll never know, she had always had the best luck when it came to stuff like this. You pushed the call button for the elevator and waited for the doors to open. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, the doors creaked open and you waltzed on in.

“Hey wait! Hold the lift!” You turned to see the sweet sounding voice belonging to a shorter girl covered in tattoos. You stuck your arm out to halt the elevator from leaving her behind. You looked her up and down as she walked in with you, noticing her big brown eyes, and taking in her scent. She smelled like coffee and something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“Thanks! I owe you one.” She beamed up at you, now noticing she was shorter than yourself. You smiled back at her and told her; “No problem, happy to do it.” You smiled back at her. She pushed the floor two above the one Kacey lived on. You noticed the intricate ink and how slender her fingers were. You could feel the blush creeping up your neck as you were lost in your own thoughts.

“Like what you see?” Oh fuck. She caught you staring at her hands. Way to go, creep. Scare off this absolute dreamboat. “ Y-yeah, I like your tattoos, they suit you well.” Your voice cracked and your breath quickened. She smirked at you and muttered a thank you.

A sudden jolt made you lose your balance. “ Oh shit.” Your mystery girl looked at you with wide eyes and the sudden realization made you groan. “Seriously? This fucking sucks.” You sucked your lip between your teeth in frustration. Of all the things to happen, the old elevator breaking down on you, trapping you inside with a total stranger, albeit a drop dead gorgeous stranger, was not on your list of things you wanted to happen today.

“Well this is just great, not like I had anywhere to be or anything.” You quipped under your breath. She chuckled and moved to the door of the elevator, trying to squeeze her fingers in the crack to try and pry it open. “Sorry, hun. I guess we are stuck here until further notice.” You gazed at her and gave her a bleak smile. “Awesome.” You slid down the wall and took a seat on the floor and pulled out your phone to see if you could get a signal. No service. You huffed and looked at her and smiled. “ No signal here, you?” She pulled out her phone and flashed it to you, also no signal.

“I’m Julien, by the way.” she spoke softly. You accepted her outreached hand into your own, taking note of how soft her hands were. “Y/N. Do you live here?” You were curious to know more about her, seeing as you didn’t have much of a choice right now. What a shame, trapped in a small elevator with the hottest girl in Tennessee.

“ No, I’m cat-sitting for my bandmate.” She said, now joining your side on the hard floor. “You’re in a band, huh? That’s pretty cool.” You spoke, looking into her eyes. “ I am pretty cool, thank you for noticing.” She chuckled while replying to you. You blushed hard again, noticing how close you were, thighs touching.

“So what are you doing here? I’ve never seen you before, I would’ve remembered someone as gorgeous as yourself.” She smirked slightly, not so subtly eyeing your lips. Fuck me. “Oh I’d like to, babe.” “I-I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I’m so-” she cut you off, smashing her lips to yours in a heavy kiss.

You moaned into her mouth, your hands snaking their way up to her brown locks, tangling themselves in her long hair. She smiled into the kiss and licked your bottom lip, asking for permission to enter your mouth. Your lips parted for hers and her hands found their way to your waist, holding you in place, afraid you’ll slip away from her. You moaned at the feeling of her tongue on yours. She tasted so good, you didn’t want to ever stop kissing her.

“Julien, I need you.” You breathed into her mouth. She broke the kiss and winked at you. “All in good time, sugar.” she whispered, moving her mouth down to your neck. You gasped as she began to place her lips to your neck. Her hand moved down from your waist to your thigh, agonizingly close to your clothed pussy. You could feel the heat pooling in your lower stomach and you subconsciously rubbed your thighs together, aching for some type of friction.

“Mmm baby, tell me how badly you need me. I wanna hear that pretty mouth beg.” She said, nipping lightly at your neck. You whined and gripped her arm out of frustration. “Please Jules, I want you so bad. I want you to f-fuck touch me. I want to feel your mouth on me.” You whispered, panting heavily as you could feel your arousal start to seep through your panties. “Yeah? Does my pretty girl want me to fuck her in an elevator? What a whore. Are you my little whore? Just can’t wait for me to ruin her?” You could hear the grin in her words, and you moaned at her words. Her hands migrating to your heat, fingers ghosting over you through your shorts.

You whined, more needy than ever, and she brought her lips back to yours. Her fingers pulled at the drawstring before they dipped under the waistband. You gasped and she took the opportunity to stick her tongue back in your mouth. Her fingers traveled further down and barely made contact with your swollen clit but it was enough for you as your hips bucked into her hand.

“Is this what my pretty girl wants? My fingers on her pretty pussy?” She whispered into your mouth, absolutely loving the way she had your wrapped around her fingers. You moaned again and nodded pathetically. “Yes please. I want you to make me cum around your fingers. I want you to make me yours.” You breathed into her mouth.

Without warning, she removed her fingers from your pussy and your eyes shot open to give her an annoyed look. “Tease.” you muttered under your breath. Her eyes lit up with cockiness and she grabbed your throat, not hard enough to hurt but it definitely was enough to let you know who was in control.

“ Y’know, good girls get to cum, not mouthy ones.” She was looking deep into your eyes now with that same smirk on her face. “I-I’m sorry baby, it won’t h-happen again.” You replied looking down at her lips. The way she was looking at you was sending electricity straight to your center. You were so utterly turned on by this woman, you would’ve done any number of things if she asked. She smiled back at you and let out a light giggle.

“Good girl. Now open that pretty mouth of yours.” She spoke in a softer, but very serious tone. You obliged and she smiled before spitting into your mouth. You just about burst from the pure sex appeal of her. You wanted her to do awful, filthy things to you. You moaned and swallowed her spit, like it was the best thing to ever touch your tongue.

She moved her hands to your stomach under your shirt. She slowly began to pull your top above your head, exposing your bare chest to her. Your cheeks began to run warm with blush, and your nipples began to harden under her gaze. “No bra? My my, what a naughty thing you are.” She told you while taking one of your breasts into her hand, fingers pinching your nipple. You yelped at the sudden touch and she chuckled. Her mouth leaned down, taking the other nipple between her lips. You threw your head back, letting a moan slip out. You looked back down at her and found her doe eyes looking back to yours.

You wanted to freeze this moment, she looked so good, good enough to be in a museum. Her tongue swirled around the hard bud and your eyes screwed shut. She flicked her tongue against it and came off the nipple with a small pop before quickly capturing your lips in hers again. She hummed into your mouth and you decided to slip your hands under her shirt. She squeaked out a small moan, making you smile against her soft lips. You broke the kiss to lift her shirt over her head before bringing her mouth back to yours. You pawed lightly at her chest over her sports bra and could feel her nipples start to harden.

She broke the kiss, much to your discontent. You whined, chasing after her mouth. “I know baby, but I want to make you feel good.” She chuckled at you. You huffed lightly at her, but you understood. Her fingers hooked your shorts and began to slide them down. You lifted your hips to help her out and she made quick work of it, throwing them behind her. She spread your legs with her hands and smiled at you.

“My goodness, what do we have here? I wonder who made you this wet?” Her words dripping with desire as she eyed your panty-covered pussy. You knew you were soaked, how could you not be. You blushed hard at the comment, feeling bashful. “You, Jules. You did this. I need you so bad.” You whined out at her. She shifted her body so that her face was inches from where you needed her most. You could feel her warm breath on your arousal, and the wait was agonizing.

Her finger hooked your panties and pulled them to the side, finally revealing your wet folds to her. She looked up at you and you gave her a slight nod to continue. She hummed and pressed her thumb to your clit once more, your hips bucking into her hand and you gasped at the contact. Your eyes closed and your head leaned back as you reveled in the pleasure. Her tongue fell flat as she licked a stripe through your folds.

“Fuck baby, you taste so good.” She told you as she placed a kiss on your clit. Her fingers gathered your slick and she pushed one into you, sliding in with ease. You let out a soft moan and weaved your fingers into her hair once more. Her finger began to pump into you and her mouth sucked hard around your clit. You were panting and your chest was heaving. She seemed to enjoy how much you were getting off because of her. She added a second finger and you could feel your stomach start to build a knot.

“Jules please, go faster.” you whined and she obliged happily. Her fingers began to move in and out of you at a fast pace, her tongue flicking your bud faster as well. You could feel yourself coming undone at her doing. Your grip on her hair tightened, nails grazing her scalp. She moaned into you, the vibrations sending shock waves across your whole body. You let out a moan at the sensation and she chuckled against your clit.

You could feel your orgasm building and your hips began to buck up into her. She used her free hand to hold you steady. Your whines were becoming louder and more frequent and she added a third finger. “Fuck Julien, don’t stop, I’m so close.” You spoke, looking at her eating your pussy like she was starving. She kept at a fast pace and began humming more into your pussy.

“C’mon pretty girl, you feel so good around my fingers. Let me taste you. Cum f’me.” She whispered, only egging you on. You let out a loud moan as your orgasm began to come to a head. She smirked and pumped her fingers a bit slower, helping you ride out your orgasm. You came hard, dripping down her fingers onto the floor. She pulled out of you and came up to kiss you, her chin glistening with your juices and a shit-eating grin plastered to her face.

She kissed you feverishly and you moaned into the kiss, tasting yourself on her tongue. She moved your panties back in place for you and then brought her hand to your boob. You couldn’t get enough of how good you felt because of her. You broke the kiss and pressed your forehead to hers.

“Wow.” you breathed, smiling widely and looking deep into her eyes. “You are so hot, how did you get so good at that?” She let out a laugh at that, taken aback by your blunt honesty. “Well, I wanted to be prepared in case this exact scenario happened.” She quipped at you, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You hummed and gave her a peck on the lips.

“ After we escape this elevator, can I treat you to dinner, as a thank you?” You asked, wanting to see her again after this chance encounter. She smiled and nodded and kissed your cheek.

“You must be high if you think you’re getting away from me this easily.”

#julien baker smut #boygenius #boygenius smut #boygenius x reader #julien baker x reader

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somebluemelodies · 1 year ago

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DAY FOUR OF SPIDERBIT THEME WEEK STARTED BY @anonymous-dentist! :D SELECTED THEME: KISS took a new approach with this one bc i really really wanted to write an absolute soft fluffy mess and i present to you: a compilation of different types of kisses :> this is kinda long sorry guys-

Chaos. Pure, unadulterated chaos.

Everything is a hazy blur. Everything. Waking up and finding Felps. Breaking Felps out and reuniting. Stumbling into the room overlooking the massive dungeon and finally being able to send coordinates, desperately hoping that someone, anyone, will see them and come, despite everything he’s done.

Did they all get their letters?

(Did Roier get his letter? The amaranths?)

If they won’t come for him specifically, maybe they’ll come for Felps’s sake.

And then, after God only knows how long, people show up. A lot of people show up.

And they’re rescued. They’re freed. It’s a mess of voices shouting, swords clashing, armor clanging, and heat. Cellbit barely has the energy to hurry, mentally and physically exhausted, but he’s being ushered along and he has no choice.

(People care. They came. They care.)

The first moment of clarity, oddly enough, comes when he’s standing on the roof, and he’s just indirectly proposed to Roier— oh, God, is this actually—

And Roier accepts.

(Were they even dating in the first place?)

(Does it matter? Anything could happen at any moment. The last few days are an example of just that.)

Well, nothing about them is normal, anyway.

There are arms thrown around his neck, drawing him back from his mind. Roier is laughing, and warmth blooms in Cellbit’s heart as he laughs alongside him, arms wrapping right around his waist as they rock in place.

(Incredulousness. Surprise. Happiness. Love.)

When the laughter finally calms, and they still, Roier pauses a moment before moving back one of his arms, tentatively cupping Cellbit’s face.

The investigator’s eyes widen slightly, heat threatening to creep up his neck, and it takes all of his willpower to try not to lean into the touch.

(He fails, borderline miserably. But the fondness in Roier’s eyes runs so deep he isn’t sure he can be embarrassed.)

Roier presses a kiss to his cheek, then, and his stunlock must be visible, because Roier laughs again, dark eyes crinkling and God, he just looks so happy and perfect and Cellbit thinks he might melt and die right here and now—

His cheeks flush and the spider-hybrid only laughs more, burying his head into Cellbit’s neck. Cellbit breathes in, but a smile splits his face once more and they’re both laughing like idiots again, holding each other tighter all the while.

(Love. Love. Love.)

…

“Don’t fuck this up” repeats like a mantra in Cellbit’s head; over and over and over again. He feels impossibly lucky Roier even agreed to let this date happen, nearly physically wincing at the recollection of all the events that had transpired prior to this point.

(Roier deserves better than him, really.)

(But if he’s who Roier wants after all, then he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to be at least half the man the spider-hybrid deserves.)

All things considered, though, the date is going really well. Although the investigator is still kicking his own ass at his carelessness, things are finally returning to a semblance of normalcy, and for that he’s eternally grateful.

Roier spends more time talking between the two of them, but it’s perfectly fine by Cellbit; he’s always been more of a listener, anyway.

(It’s not like he’s too distracted by the man himself to make any extended commentary. No, not at all!)

Roier is fun to watch, though. Captivating. He’s expressive, charming, practically everything adoring under the sun. And he’s, well, beautiful.

Really beautiful.

(Handsome? Pretty? Beautiful?)

(Does it really matter?)

The lighting in the taqueria isn’t spectacular by any means. But if anything, the slight dimness only makes the spider-hybrid more distracting pretty. His eyes twinkle with fun and mischief, and his smile could light up the whole taqueria itself, Cellbit thinks fondly. And—

“Cellbo?”

Cellbit blinks, snapping back to reality. “Yeah?”

Roier is a rather cute mix of puzzled and amused, quirking an eyebrow. “¿Estás bien? You spaced out or something; you okay?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, yeah. Sí. Sorry.” The investigator rubs the back of his neck.

“No worries, man,” Roier dismisses. And much to Cellbit’s admiration, he backs up a bit in his story and continues right on.

At some point, Cellbit’s eyes drop to their hands on the table, a short distance apart from each other. And a thought starts to creep into his head.

(The mantra repeats itself. Don’t fuck this up.)

Gingerly, Cellbit takes Roier’s hand in his, thumb brushing along his knuckles. The spider-hybrid doesn’t make any moves to pull his hand back, and, to the other’s surprise, his momentary surprised pause doesn’t even disrupt the flow of his story.

They stay like that for a short while, and Cellbit’s adoring thoughts amble back to him as he listens to Roier.

(Him. Him. Him.)

Before the investigator even fully processes what he’s doing, he’s lifting the spider-hybrid’s hand and pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

This makes Roier actively pause, and Cellbit’s heart drops for a moment, eyes widening.

(Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up—)

(You’ve fucked this up—)

Roier starts smiling, cheeks tinted the faintest of reds. Nothing is said, but he lowers their hands to the table, lacing their fingers together.

And they stay like that until Leo reappears with their food.

…

Both of them have barely been able to stop smiling since the ceremony began, when Cellbit stepped onto the aisle and their eyes locked.

Everything is a bit of a haze. But a pleasant one. Hands clasped, the world seems to get smaller and smaller until it’s only them at the altar, Father Peta’s voice a hum of white noise in the background.

It’s something that’s felt like a long time coming, oddly enough. Thinking back, the pieces seem to fall into place, like a puzzle.

For Cellbit, it started that very moment he and the other Brazilians were rescued off the boat. When the first face he saw on the other side of the glass, beaming and laughing and shouting, was already etching into his mind. Unforgettable.

(That was it.)

He didn’t know, then. He didn’t understand the little piece nagging him at the back of his mind. How could he know, when the future was so uncertain? An island full of mysteries, that was a mystery within itself. His priorities were elsewhere.

For a while, at least.

It’s a little blurrier for Roier, when things, feelings, started to grow more apparent. Their adventures got longer, more frequent. Seeking each other out with no excuse, supporting each other. The flirting stopped being just for the sake of flirting, of having a little fun. Cellbit made him nervous in a way not quite foreign to him, but a way that made him try to deny it. Try to hide from it.

And then Cellbit disappeared, leaving Roier to stare at a letter, a painfully familiar photo, and a bundle of red flowers. Amaranths.

(Everlasting love.)

And it became crystal clear then. He knew. Even if it was too late. God, had he hoped it wasn’t.

(He couldn’t take another loss.)

(But he wouldn’t.)

So, in a strange cacophony of events, for better or for worse, here they are. Admiring each other, exchanging vows that make both of their eyes glassy. They don’t need to talk about the interruption.

It’s all led up to this, one way or another.

“I now pronounce you married!”

Hasn’t it?

The ‘kiss cue’ has barely left Father Peta’s mouth before Roier is grabbing Cellbit’s face - quick but gentle, never harsh - and pulling him into a kiss he’s gotten rather impatient for.

(They were both getting rather impatient, but nobody needs to know that.)

It’s not much of a kiss at first, though, the way their noses bump first and they can’t stop smiling and fighting laughter against each other’s lips. But as it sinks in, that they’re married, they’re husbands, Cellbit holds Roier tighter, pulling him closer still. Their eyes flutter shut, lips pressing together in a way that feels nothing short of home.

(They’re finally right where they needed to be.)

…

“Espera- I want to try something.”

Cellbit shoots his husband a questioning look. Roier only grins.

The investigator folds his arms, watching as the spider-hybrid flicks his wrist up towards the ceiling, a thin string of web shooting out.

With an athletic grace that never ceases to impress Cellbit, Roier jumps and flips himself upside-down, suspended by the web.

They’re eye-level now— well, if Cellbit looks straight ahead then he’s looking at Roier’s chin, and vice versa, but his eyes lower to his love’s own. “Okay, and?”

(This feels oddly familiar. Is this the set-up for what he thinks it is?)

Roier’s grin doesn’t falter. “Kiss me.”

(Of-fucking-course.)

Cellbit wants to facepalm, flick his husband on his very kissable face, but the fondness in his heart is quickly growing, and he laughs instead, shaking his head to himself. “Que? Like the fucking movie?”

It’s the spider-hybrid’s turn to laugh. “C’mon, man! You know you want to!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Bésame, pendejo. Before I get light-headed and fall on my face or some shit. You don’t want me cracking my—”

Huffing another laugh, the investigator tilts his head up and cups Roier’s cheeks, connecting their lips and effectively shutting him up.

The angle makes it wonky and awkward, and the kiss only lasts a few seconds before they’re smiling and snickering, and snickering turns into even more laughter.

(How did they get here?)

Still holding Roier’s face, Cellbit plants kisses to the corner of his mouth, his nose, and his forehead in succession. “Te amo, guapito.”

Roier’s smile softens, eyes bright, and his husband is certain he’s falling in love with the spider-hybrid all over again. “Eu te amo, gatinho.”

#holy shit that took ages HBEJDJWD #BUT I DID IT #is this coherent? i’m not sure #i wanted a fluffy mess and by god i got a mess at the very least #but it’s my mess #and i love my cubito husbands and their love very much #qsmp cellbit #qsmp roier #spiderbit #qsmp #blue writes qsmp #a.d's spiderbit week

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eternal-smiles · 1 month ago

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Safe Mercury Filling Removal: Why You Need a Specialist Dentist in Solihull

Mercury fillings, also known as amalgam fillings, were once the go-to solution for repairing cavities. However, growing awareness about the potential health risks associated with mercury exposure has led many individuals to seek out safer alternatives. If you’re considering having your mercury fillings removed, it’s crucial to work with a dentist experienced in the removal of dental amalgam to ensure the process is safe and effective. In Solihull, the expert team at Eternal Smiles Dental Centre specializes in this procedure, offering patients peace of mind and expert care.

#dentist to remove mercury fillings #removal of dental amalgam #emergency dentist solihull #eternal smiles

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eternal-smiles-dental · 14 days ago

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Unlocking a Confident Smile with Ceramic Dental Implants and Clip-On Porcelain Veneers at Eternal Smiles Dental Centre in Solihull

Achieving a radiant smile and optimal oral health involves more than just brushing twice daily. Advanced dental care solutions, such as ceramic dental implants and clip on porcelain veneers, are game changers in modern dentistry. Residents of the Solihull area seeking high-quality dental services are turning to expert providers, like the Eternal Smiles Dental Centre, known for their exceptional patient care and innovative treatments. This post explores the transformative benefits of ceramic dental implants and clip-on porcelain veneers and highlights why Eternal Smiles Dental Centre is the top choice for patients.

#Ceramic Dental Implants #clip on porcelain veneers #dentists in solihull area #eternal smiles dental

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eternal-smiles-dental-centre · 1 month ago

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Achieve Your Perfect Smile with Single Implants and Six Months Smile Braces at Eternal Smiles Dental Centre in Solihull

Finding a trusted dental clinic that offers advanced solutions for your oral health is essential for achieving a confident smile. Whether you’re dealing with missing teeth or misalignment, modern dental technology offers a wide range of treatments. Eternal Smiles Dental Centre, one of the most renowned dentists in Solihull area, provides cutting-edge options like Single Implant and Six Months Smile Braces to help you restore your smile. In this article, we will explore these treatments in depth and how Eternal Smiles Dental Centre can help you achieve the smile of your dreams.

#Single Implant #Six Months Smile Braces #dentists in solihull area #Eternal Smiles Dental Centre

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hanafubukki · 4 months ago

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Twisted Wonderland Masterlist Part 3

Lilia Vanrouge

Flower Shop x Mafia AU

The Little One

Let There Be Twins

Stubborn Fae and Respect Earned

General Vanrouge and the Baby

Intimacy

Volleyball!Lilia Vanrouge , part 2, Part 3

To Know Your Mind

General Vanoruge Courtship

Of Demons and PTS Meetings

Dearly Beloveds

The Scale

Present Love

The Book of Knowledge

Secret Weapon

Bruises

Entwined

Worth the Wait

Alpha/Omega

Tales Told Within These Hands

Cuddles

Pinned Beneath

A Match Made Through…Pain?

A Different Experience

Lilia’s Scars, Gentle Hands

Complete Whole

I’ve Been Looking Everywhere for You Sweetheart

Pregnancy Sympathy

NRC Lilia versus His Tsum

General Tsum versus Lilia

Tsums Lilias versus Lilia

Within Bounds

He Has You

Reader w/glasses: On the Nose , A Pair Like Us

Hot and Bothered (Mature)

Enemies

Tiny Hands

Malleus Draconia

Lifetimes

Names

Eternal

Gargoyles and You

Bouquet

Silver Vanrouge

Sleeping Knight and His Tsum

Obvious Truth

Skills with a Sword

Sebek Zigvolt

Not Every Century

Knight of Dawn

His Freedom

His Smile

The Beauty in Mornings

Skully J. Graves

Smile

I’ll Always Be With You

Pictures

Sally

What’s This?

Endless Halloween

Possession

One-Shots/Drabbles

The Night's Blessing

Happy Birthday, Silver

His Princeling

Wingman Tsums Tsums

Amusement Park with Diasomnia

Baby Dragons and the Hachet

Sailor Diasomnia

The Monster

Purring Bat Fae and His Son , Family Tradition, Peaceful Sleep

The Dragon and The Dentist

All I've Ever Wanted

Sing to Me

Zigvolt Family Headcanons

Return Home

Too Quick

Predator/Play with Diasomnia

Papa! Don’t Leave Me!

Silver’s Scary Family

Scary Lilia

Hair Pulling

It’s Your Highness

Turned Into Kids

Diasomnia x Epic Saga

Malleus versus Silver in the “No” Phase

“In The Blood”

Delico’s Nursery x Lilia with Malleus and Silver

True Love Kiss Reversed

Lilia’s Scars Headcanons

Lilia versus Silver in the “No” Phase

Bad Malleus

Lilia as a Spirit

KOD and Baby Silver

Baby Tsum

Knight of Dawn and Eggleus AU: Part 1

Malleus’s First Roses

Pumpkin!Malleus 🎃

Sick Malleus

Familiars

#masterlist #twst masterlist #twst Masterlist part 3 #diasomnia #diasomnia family #malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge #twst knight of dawn #twst silver #silver vanrouge #x reader #general lilia vanrouge

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whimsimille · 4 months ago

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PSYCHOCHROMIA

Seo Moonjo (Patient) x Reader! (Doctor)

Chapter 2: Slaughter house

Tick tack

30 minutes now and you're going crazy. You look at Moonjo through your mascara-coated eyelashes, the clumps of black giving your gaze an almost predatory edge. He only smirks, a Cheshire curl of lips that deflates another question once again. It's grating. It's perverse. But you still take a sip of the cold coffee.

Your fingers moved almost subconsciously to cross over each other on top of the table—a nervous habit you had since childhood when Mom wasn't looking. She would have shot you a disapproving look if she were still alive, reminding you of Dad and how he used to beat you for being so much like him. But she wasn't here now; she couldn’t make you feel like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. She couldn't see you crossing your fingers in this room, hoping against hope that Moonjo would open up and reveal something about his past or his crimes.

"Can you tell me about your... work? How do you reconcile your actions with your own moral compass, Mr. Seo?"

Moonjo's smile widened, revealing perfect, gleaming teeth that seemed almost too pristine, too sharp. He reached for the crayon you usually leave out for Mina, a patient with regression disorder. The bright red crayon looked almost comically out of place in his large, bruised hand. Without breaking eye contact, he began to sketch on the paper in front of him, making slow and chirurgical strokes that gradually took form.

"You see, Dr. Song, extracting a tooth is an art form. It's delicate, precise. You must be gentle but also firm. One wrong move and you could shatter the tooth, ruin the whole endeavor. It's very similar to... my other work."

He paused, glancing down at his doodle. Hollow eyes, razor-thin smile lines carved out of the paper.

"I had an unfortunate upbringing. My father was a strict man—a pastor who preached about sin and damnation every Sunday. I suppose it rubbed off on me." Moonjo pulls at one of his bottom lips with his teeth, revealing the sharp edge of his incisor. There's something feral about him now, almost primal. It's as if he's been waiting for this moment—not only to share his story but also to relish in it. "I remember one Sunday, after a particularly fiery sermon about the wages of sin, he took me to the basement. There was a row of dental tools laid out on a white cloth—forceps, scalers, probes. He said they were instruments of God's will, tools to cleanse the soul. That day, I learned how to extract a tooth. He made me practice on myself first, pulling out a molar with trembling hands. The pain was excruciating, but the lesson was clear: salvation through suffering.”

Your pen hovered over the page, barely able to keep up with the torrent of his revelations. "I’m sorry for you—"

“Don’t,” he shook his head slowly, almost pityingly. “People think of God as a comforting figure. Like a teddy bear a child clings to at night, or a security blanket. It's nice to think there's someone up there who's always watching, always caring. The promise of paradise, of eternal life—it’s a comforting thought, isn't it?"

You shifted in your seat again, uncrossing your legs and recrossing them the other way around, trying to find some sort of comfort in the movement. "But not everyone sees it that way. Some people find comfort in the rituals and the community. It's not just about fear or comfort; it's about belonging."

Seo paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were trying to recall a distant memory. "For some people, yes. But I understood that it was always in the blood, in the agape mouths and in the crushed windpipes. It was in the steel of the dental tools, the ones I used to clean my victims' teeth before... well, you know."

It was like listening to a twisted version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; the transformation from healer to killer so seamless it was almost poetic. It was like being in a surreal version of a dentist's office—one where the patients were more likely to bite you than spit out what was stuck in their teeth.

“I might not understand everything, Mr. Seo. But I do know that everyone has their reasons and their justifications. Even if those reasons are twisted and dark, yes. I know.”

The man looks up from his drawing and raises an eyebrow at you—a challenge in his eyes. You force yourself to maintain eye contact, holding his gaze even if it feels like he's seeing straight into your soul.

"If the idea of eternal punishment is the only thing keeping you good, are you really a good person? Is it the fear of hell that makes you help an old lady cross the street, or is it genuine kindness? Maybe it was other things that caused me to lose my belief. Maybe my faith was only conditional to begin with. Perhaps it was rooted in the childlike wonder I felt when I first read the Bible, like believing in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny."

Moonjo stretches his arm out, displaying the paper with the half-finished drawing—a crude sketch of a man in a robe, arms spread wide and eyes closed—and an almost serene smile on his face. Above his head, a halo glows bright and golden. "Sometimes when we prayed at church or at home, I would close my eyes and try to summon that feeling of awe, of connection to something greater. But it always felt hollow, like I was reciting lines from a play I no longer believed in."

You took a deep breath before speaking again, not wanting to break the eerie silence that had fallen between you two. "I understand, Mr. Seo… But what do you want me to do with this? This man in your sketch, is he supposed to represent your father, or perhaps a version of yourself?"

You held up the drawing, trying not to let your shaking hands give away your fear. There was no answer from Moonjo; he simply sat there, staring at you with those empty eyes that seemed to hold an endless well of madness. Sweat began to bead on your forehead as the temperature in the room dropped precipitously. It felt as if the air itself were becoming chilled by his presence, as if he were sucking out all warmth and light like some kind of parasite.

"Mr. Seo?" You tried again, louder this time. "Are you alright?"

He didn't respond, but instead reached over to a small pot on the table and picked up a stick of sugar-free gum from it. Popping it into his mouth with a loud crack, he began chewing vigorously on it as he stared at you intently, studying your every move as if trying to decide whether or not you were worth keeping around any longer.

“This is how they saw him. Pure and holy, a beacon of light." His voice drawls with disgust, lips pulling back to show his teeth chewing the gum. "But I saw something else. I saw an old man who'd lost control of his son, who beat him when he misbehaved and demanded silent obedience. I saw the hypocrisy in their pews every Sunday. They sang hymns of love while their husbands beat their wives at home." He pauses, nodding slowly as if in agreement with himself. "So I started cleansing them—cleansing them with my own hands and tools. It was liberating."

As he speaks, he absently fiddles with the red crayon, twirling it between his fingers before dipping it into the black inkpot on the table. A smear of blood-red color mixes with the black ink, forming an ominous stain on the wet surface. The sound of scratching fills the air as he writes his next words: 'Sometimes I imagine they scream so loud for me'.

In general, when you start working with a patient, there is no urgency, no predetermined therapeutic timeline to meet specific goals. Usually, it begins with many months of conversation. In an ideal world, Moonjo would talk about himself, his life, and his childhood. You would listen, gradually building a picture until it was complete enough to venture into precise and useful interpretations. But in this case, nothing real would be said. Nothing non manipulative would be heard. The information you needed would have to be obtained from non-verbal cues, from whatever information you could extract from other sources, like the confidential notes from the police files or the whispered rumors among the nurses.

In other words, you had to set a plan in motion to help Moonjo without knowing exactly how to execute it.

A fly buzzes aimlessly around your head before landing on Moonjo's sleeve; he casually reaches out and crushes it between his fingers, never breaking eye contact with you. The crunch of the exoskeleton is barely audible, but you can see the minute satisfaction in his eyes as he slowly pulls at the insect, dismembering it piece by piece. His jaw tightens, and you can't help but notice the pure, unadulterated grayness in his gaze—no spark, no humanity. Were the men and women he killed made out of a pair of fully developed wings on the thorax and a knobby, vestigial second pair of wings too? Had they too committed the crime of being small enough to fit between his fingers?

"You know, Mr. Seo, everyone has a different perspective on faith and morality. It's not always about fear of punishment or the promise of reward. Sometimes, it's about the simple act of doing what's right because it feels right. It's about the connections we forge and the empathy we extend to others." You spoke with more confidence than you felt. And you thought your voice sounded inordinately high and squeaky, though you could barely hear it, blood pumping so hard in your ears. "When I help someone, whether it's through my work here or in my personal life, it's not because I'm afraid of some divine retribution. It's because I believe in the inherent value of each human life. I believe in the power of compassion and understanding to bring about change, no matter how small."

Moonjo's smile widened as he dropped the insect, now crushed like an ant beneath a boot heel. Its wings had been smudged into grayish-black smears and you tried not to fidget at the thought that you were now the insect he wanted to dissect, to see if your blood was just as shiny and if your teeth would be as easy to pull out, but the rustle of your skirt against the vinyl chair caused you to twitch involuntarily.

"Do you really believe in what you're saying?" he asked, wiggling his fingers as if casting a spell, emphasizing their length and dexterity. "Or is your faith rotting in your drawer alongside your paints and canvases?"

Breath catches in your throat like an invisible noose tightening around your neck and your hand moves instinctively towards your necklace at the base of your throat—a simple silver chain holding an old Saint Christopher medal your first patient had given you when you first started working here.

You had never mentioned your passion for painting to anyone. How could he possibly know?

Quickly, you find your hand reaching for the recorder, your fingers fumbling a little, but you manage to hit 'pause' just before the next words. You can't believe what you're hearing. Your stomach churns and you feel your face go pale, yet you know that there are only ten more minutes left and you're pulling the plug on this interview. You'll have to pick it up with another patient later or simply write it up yourself based on his words, but the last thing you will do is be here when night falls.

"How do you know about that?"

He pointed toward your nails. "It's all in the details, Dr. Song. The way you hold your pen, the slight smudges on your skin... It's clear that you paint. And it's also clear that you're trying to reconcile two parts of yourself—the healer and the artist."

You glanced down at your hands, now trembling slightly. The faint traces of ultramarine blue under your thumbnail, the barely noticeable streak of burnt sienna on your wrist—marks of your late-night sessions that never seemed to completely wash away, no matter how hard you scrubbed with the lavender-scented soap from the local market.

Still, who would look at tiny bits of color strokes that couldn’t be cleaned with a sponge and make poetry out of them?

You gulp down the rest of your cold coffee, feeling its harshness sit heavy in your stomach like a rock. Moonjo watches intently as you set the mug down gently on the table that separates you from him—its metallic clank echoing off the walls like a warning bell in an empty church steeple.

"What makes you think my faith is rotting?"

"Because, jagiya, people like us... we wear masks. We hide behind our roles and our titles. But deep down, we are all searching for something. And sometimes, the very things we believe in, the things we cling to, can decay and fester within us."

"And what about you, Mr. Seo? What are you searching for? What lies beneath your mask?"

Moonjo shrugs nonchalantly, his chained hands moving up to his leather restraints as if he could snap them off at any moment if he wanted to. "Perhaps I'm searching for someone who can understand the darkness within me. Someone who can see beyond the monster and find the humanity buried deep.”

Tick tack.

Suddenly, another fly buzzes around the room. It lands on the battered oak table, right next to the crushed remains of the last one Moonjo had dismembered. Its tiny legs twitch as it surveys the scene, perhaps sensing the latent malice in the room. It cautiously inches towards your coffee mug. You shiver involuntarily as its spindly legs dance closer to the rim of the mug, delicately navigating the remnants of your lipstick stain.

Still, you just roll a piece of paper—the appointment schedule for the day, printed on flimsy office stock—and swat it away. The fly buzzes off, leaving a faint smear on the page, the scent of ink and paper mingling with the stale smell of old coffee.

It's an innocent gesture, a reflex born out of years of dealing with minor nuisances. But the act makes Moonjo stifle a laugh, a sound that is both mocking and curious. He tilts his head as if you were an interesting specimen under his scrutinizing gaze, his eyes narrowing like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

“…Or maybe I'm just looking for my next challenge." His tone was perfectly neutral, without judgment.

Even so, you felt a swell in your chest—a familiar toxic squeeze—like your lungs were eroding under the sheer weight of your work. You exhaled, fighting to remain calm. Seo Moonjo stayed under control only so long as you were calm.

"And do you think you'll find what you're looking for here, in this room with me?"

Moonjo's eyes bore into yours. "Maybe. Or maybe you'll find something about yourself that you never wanted to confront."

After a failed snack at the cafeteria—where the only offerings were a sad-looking sandwich with wilted lettuce and a cup of what could only be described as dishwater masquerading as coffee—you wandered through the dimly lit corridors of Gonjiam, still stained with the rusty marks of dried blood from the day a patient named Ji-Hoon had torn out his IV and sprinted through the halls, desperate for an escape. The metallic tang of old blood seemed to cling to the air, mingling with the antiseptic scent that never quite masked the underlying odor of despair. You needed to sneak out for a cigarette to escape the suffocating weight of your thoughts after the unnerving session with Seo Moonjo. His doodle, now folded and tucked away in your pocket, felt like a lead weight pressing against your leg.

Just as you were about to give up after minutes of wandering around and heading back to your office, Son Yoo Jeong appeared near the fire escape, her ever-present clipboard clutched to her chest and a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, suggesting she'd been rushing around the ward. Still, she was pretty with her new short bob cut, the kind of haircut that looked effortlessly chic but probably required meticulous maintenance.

“Are you lost, Y/N?" Jeong tilted her head slightly, her brown eyes scanning your face for any signs of distress.

You hesitated, the urge to confess weighing heavily on your chest. “No, not lost. Just... needing a break, noona.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Oh, there’s no need to lie, honey! It happens even with senior nurses! It took me months to find my way around here. It feels like a maze with no exit. Sometimes I still get lost, and I've been here for ten years." She laughed, a light, tinkling sound that contrasted sharply with the heavy atmosphere.

Before you could protest, she gently took you by the arm, her fingers surprisingly strong for someone so petite. She led you through a series of twists and turns, past the nurses' station, where a couple of RNs were chatting over their cups. You barely had time to register the framed prints of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" and Monet's "Water Lilies" hanging on the walls before she was guiding you upstairs, where nurses and aides moved in and out, their scrubs a blur of blues and greens, punctuated by the occasional flash of a brightly colored lanyard or a pin celebrating a recent vaccination.

"I'll put the water on to boil," Jeong said as soon as you two entered the place, her voice cutting through the noise. "What a miserable weather, huh? It would be better if it started raining to end this... Rainis a very strong symbol in the imagination, don't you think? It cleans everything. Have you noticed how patients like to talk about storms? Try to observe. It's interesting."

To your surprise, she reached into her oversized tote bag—a well-worn, brown leather piece that looked like it had seen better days—and pulled out a huge piece of cake wrapped in cling film, placing it in your hand. "Here. Walnut cake. I made it last night. For you. Don't think I didn't notice your pretty face getting smaller every day. I know you're not eating."

"Wow, thanks. I..."

"I know it's not conventional, but I always get better results with difficult patients when I offer a slice of cake during the session," she said with a wink.

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders easing just a bit. "I bet you do. Am I a difficult patient?

Jeong giggled with a deep, hearty sound. "No, although I also think it works well with difficult team members... which you are not, by the way. A little sugar helps a lot to improve the mood. I used to make cakes for the cafeteria, but Sangwoo made such a fuss about all that nonsense about health and safety with food brought from outside... It was like I was smuggling files to see through the bars. But I still make my cakes on the sly sometimes. My rebellion against the dictatorial state. Eat a piece.

It wasn't a suggestion but an order. You took a bite. It was delicious. The cake had a perfect consistency, full of walnut pieces, and just the right amount of sweetness. You were chewing, so you tried to cover your mouth while speaking. "I have no doubt that this will put your patients in a good mood."

Jeong clapped her hands, seeming pleased. You realized why you liked her: she radiated a kind of maternal calm. She reminded you of your former therapist, Go Eun. It was hard to imagine her angry or upset. She also had that pink shade on her, mostly on the tip of her nose. You suspected it was partly from the cold; the hospital's thermostat perpetually set a few degrees too low, partly from her habit of pinching her cheeks whenever she felt flustered—a nervous tick she picked up from her grandmother, who always said a little color in the cheeks made one look healthier and mostly because she was just pure goodness and kindness.

You glanced around the room while she made the tea. The nurse's station is always the center of a psychiatric unit, the heart of the place: staff coming and going, and it's from there that the ward is managed day-to-day, or at least where practical decisions are made. "Aquarium" was the nickname the nurses themselves gave the station because the walls were made of reinforced glass, meaning the staff could keep an eye on the patients in the recreation room, at least in theory. In practice, the patients roamed outside constantly, looking in at us, making us the ones under constant observation. Since the space was small, there weren't enough chairs, and the existing ones were usually occupied by nurses working on the computers. So, you generally stood in the middle of the room or leaned awkwardly against a desk, making the place feel crowded no matter how many people were inside.

"Here you go, my dear." Jeong handed you a cup of chamomile tea, the steam curling up in delicate tendrils.

"Thank you. That's exactly what I needed after Jungwoo dropped a big case on my lap out of nowhere. He didn't even give me a heads-up; he just waltzed into the garden and dumped a stack of files on my hands. I swear, he enjoys watching me scramble."

Jeong sighed like a teenage girl from one of those American movies, twirling a lock of her new short bob cut around her finger. "Oh, that cutie. Have you seen him this afternoon? I wanted to show him my new hair. I thought he might appreciate the change. You know, he has a good eye for detail.”

You took a sip of the tea, savoring the gentle floral notes. "He clocked out around three. Said he had scheduled a meeting with his previous seniors and his girl. Probably talking about his residency program and catching up on old times. He looked pretty excited about it.”

"Wished I was her," Jeong sighed wistfully, leaning against the counter. Her new bob swayed as she shook her head. "It must be nice to have a boyfriend so cute like that. Plus, he's a nurse. It makes his appeal get a boost. I mean, who wouldn't want someone who can take care of them and look like he walked out of a K-drama? Remember when he helped old Mrs. Kim during her panic attack last week? The way his hands moved so gently, so sure..."

"Please, stop," you groaned, feeling the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. You set down your cup with more force than necessary, the china clinking against the saucer. It was bad enough that Jungwoo was the topic of many daydreams among the staff; hearing it out loud made it all the more embarrassing. And it certainly didn't help that you'd caught yourself staring at those very hands more times than you cared to admit.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. I forgot I'm talking with Mrs. Cold here."

"Mrs. Cold, huh?"

"Well, you know how it is," Jeong leaned in conspiratorially, her breath smelling faintly of the walnut cake. "You've got that icy exterior, but we all know you're just a big softie underneath. Like a lollipop with a hard shell and a gooey center. Besides, it's kind of endearing. The way you pretend not to care when Jungwoo brings you coffee every morning, or how you always make sure he eats during long shifts..."

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, sure. Just call me the Ice Queen of Gonjiam.”

“Hey, it’s better than some of the other nicknames flying around,” Jeong winked, glancing around as if to make sure no one else was listening. “Remember when Nurse Kim accidentally dyed her hair green and everyone called her ‘The Hulk’ for months? At least your nickname has a certain... elegance to it.”

“You're impossible, Noona.”

Just then, the door to the nurse's station creaked open, and Go Sangman entered, his presence immediately commanding the room. The man was painfully thin, almost skeletal, his frame accentuated by the oversized white coat he wore. His thick glasses magnified his eyes to an almost comical degree, and his hair clung to his scalp in a desperate attempt to cover the bald spots. A dark blue one.

As always, though, he exuded a strong smell of mint gum that he was always chewing.

It was one of the few things you shared in common while you worked at a downtown asylum, and you recalled that he smoked a lot. However, he had given up smoking, got married, and had a young child since then. You pondered Sangman's potential as a father. Thought he was not a very caring guy, and yet here he was—the new employee of the month, with his picture emblazoned on the bulletin board outside the "aquarium," surrounded by an outrageous gold border.

He gave you a cold smile. "Funny running into you again, Y/N."

"Small world."

"The world of mental health certainly is," he said, as if to imply that he could also be found in other, broader worlds. You tried to imagine what those might be like, but all you could visualize was him hunched over a dimly lit desk, engrossed in the latest volume of "Attack on Titan" or scrolling through a forum dedicated to anime theories.

"How's Ji-Young and little Soo-Min?" You asked, trying to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Ji-Young has become quite the entrepreneur," he finally said, his voice tinged with a hint of pride. "Her brownies are practically flying off the shelves. And Soo-Min... She's already the teacher's pet. Loves her new ‘Frozen’ backpack and can’t stop talking about Mrs. Kim, her homeroom teacher. Time flies, doesn't it?"

You nodded."It sure does."

Sangman stared at you for a few seconds. You had forgotten his habit of pausing, sometimes for a long time, forcing the other person to wait while he considered his response. It annoyed you now, just as it did back then.

"I’ve joined the team at a rather inopportune moment," he said finally. "The sword of Damocles is hanging over the Gonjiam."

"You think the situation is that bad?"

"It's only a matter of time. Sooner or later, the government will close our doors," he replied, his eyes narrowing as he leaned against the doorframe. "The question is, what are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" Jeong asked, pausing mid-bite of her walnut cake, the crumbs scattering onto her clipboard. A child’s laughter at a funeral.

"Well, when the ship starts sinking, the rats run away. They don't climb aboard."

You were perplexed by Sangman's direct aggression. You decided not to take the bait. "It's possible. But I'm not a rat. And in that case, you are the one who should leave since you’re new here."

Before he could respond, a violent bang on the reinforced glass interrupted the conversation. Hanna was on the other side of the window, pounding on it with such ferocity that the glass vibrated. Her face was pressed against the glass, nose squished flat, features distorted to the point of resembling something out of a Francis Bacon painting.

"I'm not taking this shit anymore. I hate these fucking pills, man..."

Sangman opened a small hatch in the glass, the kind you see in old bank teller windows, and spoke through it. "Now is not the time to discuss this, girl."

Hanna's eyes were wild; her pupils dilated. "Discuss? What's there to discuss? You people don't listen. You just shove pills down our throats and expect us to be grateful."

"I'm not talking about this now. Make an appointment to talk in a private setting. Please, step back.”

But Hanna was having none of it. "You mean the isolation room, right? Where you can pump me full of more drugs?" Her words were laced with bitterness, and you couldn't blame her. The isolation room—Room 317, a windowless cube—was a last resort, a place none of the patients wanted to end up. The walls were padded, and the only window was a small, barred one high up on the wall, allowing in just a sliver of daylight. Designed to break the spirit.

“Go. Away.”

Hanna furrowed her brow and thought for a while. After that, she turned and went away with a heavy step, leaving behind a small condensation circle where her nose had touched the glass. Her slow shuffling step, with one foot dragging slightly behind the other due to an old injury sustained during one of her episodes, was audible.

Jeong sighed while pouting, "Poor Hanna."

Sangman grumbled, " There’s nothing poor about her. Difficult. That 's all she is."

"Do you even know why she is here?" You took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the chamomile tea in your hand, before eyeing his red face, the veins in his neck bulging slightly as if he were restraining himself from snapping back.

"Double homicide," Go replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "She killed her mother and sister. Smothered them while they slept."

You shook your head slowly, the corners of your mouth curling into a grim smile. "No. Wrong. She actually killed her abusive father. The one you’re talking about is Gunwoo-shi. Before calling me or other people rats, you should recognize you’re one yourself.”

Sangman’s eyes widened momentarily, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through his usual facade. His fingers twitched, as if reaching for the pack of cigarettes he no longer carried. "I don't recall—"

“Of course, you don't," you interrupted. "You’ve always been quick to judge, slow to understand. Hanna was admitted last spring. Maybe you’re too busy with your ‘research’ on the effects of antipsychotic medications on her to notice the details. She killed her father in self-defense. He broke her soul before she broke his neck.”

“Ouch!” Jeong giggled. “You deserved that, oppa!”

“That’s not funny,” Sangman retorted, rubbing his arm where Jeong had playfully swatted him. His glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, and he pushed them back up.

Ignoring them, you watched what was happening on the other side of the glass.

Hanna had joined the other patients. She was much larger than the others. One of the patients, a man named Minho with a penchant for collecting bottle caps, handed her a crumpled five-thousand won note, which she pocketed with a practiced nonchalance. Minho's eyes darted around nervously, his fingers twitching as if he were itching to add another cap to his collection.

Just as you were about to resume your conversation with Jeong about the teenager’s relationship, you noticed a stillness settle over the room. Across from you, Jeong looks like she might be sick; her face is ashen and she keeps licking her lips, a nervous habit you remember from when she first started working here. Go Sangman stays rigid near the doorway, his arms crossed tightly across his chest and his mouth slightly agape as if unable to find words for once.

It was as if someone had pressed a mute button, silencing the usual ambient noise of whispers, shuffling feet, and the hum of fluorescent lights. Every head, every pair of eyes turned slowly to the left, towards the maximum security room.

You followed their gaze and felt a chill run down your spine. The double doors of the high-security wing creaked open, and there he was—Seo Moonjo. Flanked by five guards, he walked with an unsettling calmness, his eyes scanning the room like a predator surveying his territory. The guards looked tense, their grips tight on the batons at their sides, ready for any sudden movement. They had seen this before—patients attempting to attack their infamous new roommate in order to earn his favor and join his ranks.

As they led him towards the solitary dining area, the patients parted like the Red Sea, creating a wide berth for Moonjo and his entourage. Some of the more unstable patients reached out as he passed, their fingers barely grazing his skin. Their eyes were wide, filled with a mix of awe and fear, as if they were in the presence of some unholy deity.

"Moonjo-ssi," Yoo Gi-hyeok said, his voice trembling. He stretched out his hand, trying to touch Moonjo's face as if seeking a blessing. "Save us..."

The dentist’s lips curled into a smile, but it held no warmth. His eyes were dark, devoid of any human emotion. He allowed the patient to touch his cheek for the briefest moment before the guards shoved the man back, causing him to stumble and fall.

Gi-hyeok didn't seem to mind; he lay on the floor, gazing up at Moonjo with a look of reverence. His eyes were glazed over, his mouth slightly agape as if still tasting something—perhaps what little piece of human connection he got from touching the infamous killer or perhaps simply relishing in fear itself. Whatever it was, it made them all feel alive in some twisted way.

A savior? Or a butcher? Did the others sense the predator within him, the one that saw them not as individuals but as prey? As potential meals, are their flesh and bones nothing more than sustenance for his insatiable hunger? Did they sense, in some deep part of their psyche, that he would devour them, body and soul?

And what did Moonjo see when he looked at them? Did he see the delicate curve of their necks, the pulse of their blood just beneath the skin? Did he imagine the taste of their fear, the texture of their flesh as his teeth tore through it? Was every touch, every glance, a prelude to a feast, a silent promise of their inevitable consumption?

You couldn't tear your eyes away from the scene. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion—horrifying yet impossible to look away from. Moonjo continued his march towards the solitary dining area, his presence casting a long shadow over the room.

Jeong took a quick sip of her tea but spilled some down her chin when her hand shook; she quickly wiped it away with a trembling hand.

She glanced at you with wide eyes before looking back at Moonjo's retreating form. ” It's his first day here and they act like this when he's around. They treat him as if he's some kind of messiah."

With that, Moonjo and his guards disappeared behind the heavy metal door of the solitary dining area, the clang of the door echoing ominously through the now silent room.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Kwang, Min-Jun's father, short leashes his dogs again. They were valuable, and he had no intention of losing them to a shot female doe howling and gibbering just down yonder. His son reloaded their guns and snapped them closed. That howling had chilled you and made the sweat under your arms run down your back feel like ice water. When situations become uncomfortable like this, people look for someone to guide them and in such cases, Kwang Jun steps up. He wasn’t feeling much of a hero right then—quite the contrary—but he did it nonetheless, leading the way toward an outcrop of alders jutting ambitiously from the woody fringe on your right side while you followed nervously at a short distance behind him, trying hard not to stumble over roots or fall behind too far.

Only once did he halt his stride—long enough to crush his spent cigarette underfoot—and then push ahead into the vast open area beyond trees filled with dense underbrush.

To the left, the riverbank sloped gently. Thunderstruck, you halted, wishing you could erase the sight that greeted you, a sight that would haunt your dreams—it was the sort of raw, sun-scorched nightmare that lurked beyond the ordinary—church suppers, walks along the vibrant Han River, honest labor in the factories, stolen kisses under the cherry blossoms. As you'd often told Ae-ra after her nightly story, there's a grimacing skull lurking behind every man's smile. That day, you saw it—you saw the grinning skull.

Sprawled on the riverbank was the most beautiful doe, a bullet lodged in her back. Flies had already begun to gather, buzzing around her wounds and settling in the congealing blood. Her head turned towards the gray sky, as if admiring the sparrows launching from the Lotte World Tower before retiring to the bushes. And then you notice it—a slight bulge in her abdomen. She was pregnant.

So often you read in the local paper that “the killer showed no remorse,” but that wasn’t the case here. Min Jun was torn open by what he had done, you saw it in the trembling of his lips, the quivering of his right point finger on the trigger, the way his eyes widened and darted around, almost as if seeking an escape from the reality he had created. . . But he would live. The doe would not. She had been torn open in a more fundamental way, a way that the blood seeping into the earth couldn't even begin to convey.

You have never been as quiet as you were at that moment, holding that live track. Your whole body just stopped working. Your legs felt like water, jelly, completely unreliable. Your mouth opened. You didn't open it; it opened by itself, a gaping maw trying to silently scream. You couldn't move, but you could hear, see and sense everything inside you and for miles around. It was like you were hyper aware of every rustling leaf, every distant bird call, every breath you took. You thought of church mornings at the confessional with that smelly priest, and you thought that Min Jun and you would soon be joining him in seeking absolution.

You think it was fear. You're always fearful. For what you've done, for what you haven't, for things that haven't even happened yet. The fear is a constant deadweight. A backpack full of wet cement is strapped to your shoulders, dragging you down. You were fearful of not spending enough time outside, of playing with your dolls—a Barbie with a missing shoe and tangled blonde hair that you found in the trash and the plush rabbit Dad won you at the county fair before getting drunk and hitting Mom in front of the Mayor. Fear accompanying your neighbors on their hunt.

You were fearful of not trying hard enough to be better.

"Come on, girl. Get closer. Don’t think too much about it. Her head will have a special place in our family’s house," Kwang chuckled as he finished lighting his tobacco stick, the one he always kept tucked behind his ear, before ruffling your hair and pushing you to stand in front of the bloodied carcass. "She turned out to be on our way; she turned out to be prey, kid.”

You think about the way he said it. Turned out. Not grew up to be a prey. She turned out to be prey. Like she was always supposed to be this way, and it was just hiding inside of her. And this was all inevitable. And her instincts of submission were hiding right underneath the surface when she birthed her fawn in the spring, teaching it to navigate the forest, to find the sweetest grass by the riverbank, to leap over the streams that crisscrossed the woods. Like a volcano that's seen as a mountain, the ones people live right on top of.

It doesn't look deadly until it is.

Your bones shift away from one another like nervous tectonic plates as you crack your head down to finally look at the animal’s eyes. Toes become bloated like little water balloons as you kneel in the grass, the damp earth soaking through your worn-out Converse sneakers. Your eyes crystallize and for a second, everything feels okay as you wrap the frayed, weathered cord around the doe’s neck, the rough fibers scratching against your palms.

Then you explode.

No.

You don't explode.

You slowly morph as you finish the third loop. The wick effect. Your own fat keeps you inflamed. Looking into the water of the river, you see yourself changing. Your reflection warps; your features distort and elongate. Your hair falls out in clumps, drifting away like dandelion seeds in the wind. Your eyes, once black and sharp, soften and take on the glassy, lifeless stare of the doe. You watch as your skin stretches and sags, transforming into a hide, your freckles merging into the spots of a fawn. Your mouth opens in a silent scream, but no sound comes out—only the soft, pitiful bleat of a wounded animal.

Just before you fully morph into the doe, before your mind succumbs to the instinctual fear and resignation of a hunted creature, you wake up.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You reach for the hairbrush and start smoothing down your wild hair. It always stuck up all over the place in the morning, especially after a nightmare that involved placing the corpse of a doe in the back of a truck.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror. Still the same, old you: short, black hair that reached down to the chin, black eyes, and splatters of freckles over the ridge of your nose and the rest of your body. Your nightgown had slipped down during the night, revealing a pale shoulder. You stopped brushing out your hair and tugged it back up.

Your eyes caught the glint of the diamond ring on your finger, a small but noticeable sparkle even in the dim morning light. You looked outside. The sky was gray today, with a blanket of clouds promising a downpour. The kind of weather that made you want to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over your head, and forget the world existed.

It's funny, isn’t it?

Sighing, you reached for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter at the far end of the vanity, only to find nothing. Jesus. Min Jun and his fucking ramblings about lung cancer and how, as a doctor, you should stop going to the hospital smelling like nicotine or weed. The endless lectures about the carcinogens, the secondhand smoke, the image you presented to your patients—it was all part of his new routine.

“Looking for this?”

You cracked your head to the side, turning to see the man himself standing there in the doorway, wiggling your cigarettes and the lighter. He was already dressed in a new, crisp suit with trousers tailored to his frame, as well as a tie that matched his jacket and polished leather shoes from Ferragamo. God, he had been insufferable since he discovered aesthetics on his social media feed, always posting pictures of himself in meticulously coordinated outfits, each post tagged with #OOTD and #Style Goals.

But, yeah, today, his clothes matched the color you always associated with him.

Yellow.

Min Jun’s yellow wasn’t the vibrant hue of sunflowers or gold. It was the jaundiced yellow of sickness, the kind that creeps into your skin and festers. It was the color of deceit, of broken promises whispered in the dark. Every time he flashed that politician's yellow smile, the one inherited from his dad, it made you nauseous. Old man Kwang, who had escalated a non-violent protest into bloodshed. It was Min Jun, though, who took Ae-ra with him that day. He paraded your girl around like some political prop to gain momentum for his father’s campaign.

You could never forgive him—not after what happened to her.

Because, in the end, it was their ambition that had taken your daughter away. A lamb led to slaughter.

Colorful flyers and bold banners invaded the city streets while chants and marches echoed in every corner—all for endorsing Kwang’s political charade. Slogans rang through speakers: "For a Brighter Tomorrow," "Unity and Progress," "Kwang Jun for the People." And Min Jun, playacting as the perfect son, had pulled Ae-ra into that cyclone of chaos. Your sweet little girl was swallowed by a turbulent crowd, lost within its confusion—her wide eyes were framed on the hospital TV screen as she clutched her new Hello Kitty backpack from Lotte Mart nervously—a maze of pink braids bouncing behind her with every step she took.

Everything around you in the psychiatric ward was fast and stressful that day, but you were stuck in tar while everyone else was on land. Sinking slowly while other people were using their legs to run in circles to help the Gonjiam Hospital with all the hurt people. Your legs didn’t work for days. Neither has your brain.

And now? Now you haven't cried since three weeks ago on the third anniversary of her death; your eyes feel dry and cold. You've tried, but there's just nothing. Even when you sit away from Min Jun and ignore his extended hand, watching things that aren't lungs move his chest up and down, praying to feel something for him, there's just silence in response.

You did love Min Jun once. At times when he was cornered, you would dive into the deep end, plunge so suddenly it would cause waves to ripple out, drawing the public’s attention away from him. You would swim to abandoned shores where you would carry buckets, helping him scoop up the murky water of regrets as he cried out till the ocean itself seemed to tremble and the sky collapsed into the horizon.

But what has he done for you? All these years of sacrifice have caused this world to erode everything that was once pure and you can no longer breathe with a rib missing. There was all of this water settling deep within the walls of your lungs, drowning you slowly.

So, after her death, he grabbed another bucket and took you to the abandoned shores, where you used to scoop up his regrets to free him from all his mistakes. And you didn’t even cry out till the ocean itself seemed to tremble and the sky collapsed because, after all these years of carrying his mistakes, how could you believe that you had become one?

“Do you mind knocking before entering my bedroom?”

“Oh, come on! Don’t be so grumpy at this hour!” Min Ju retorted, his voice carrying an almost cheerful lilt that grated on your nerves.

Sleeping in his office wasn’t doing the best things for his princess back; of course, you saw it as he walked in a hunched way. His loafers made no sound on the thick, cream-colored carpet, but the rustle of his suit filled the silence. He placed the lighter and the pack on your side on the vanity, making sure not to knock over the scattered makeup compacts and the crystal perfume bottle.

From the corner of your eyes, you noticed how he kicked the clothes you left on the floor after getting home exhausted from another grueling 12-hour shift. You noticed how he scoffed as he saw the patches on your faded covers, once a deep navy but now a murky gray from too many washes and your sweat.

“Did you wet the bed?” His laugh was a little louder this time, but still hollow. That was his old joke. It was stupid.

Long ago, you pretended to laugh, pretended to play along, as if to apologize in front of former friends. In front of your own eyes, for admitting such a yoke. Nothing, however, was funny to you anymore.

“No, I had another nightmare.”

The cigarette finally lit, and you took a slow drag, feeling the familiar burn of nicotine as it filled your lungs. You discarded the lighter in the jewelry holder plate, where it landed with a small clank, nudging a pair of earrings slightly askew.

He scrunched his nose the exact same way Ae-ra used to before deciding to grab all the covers, making a bundle in his arms. “Nightmares again, huh? You know, Y/N, maybe if you didn’t bring your work home with you, you’d sleep better. All that stress isn't good for you. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, letting out a plume of smoke, coughing. “I’ll get right on that.”

He received the phrase with displeasure, as always, when your "animal intensity shocked him." He fixed his eyes on you, and progressively his features transformed. You almost blushed. The constant preoccupation with reaching his thoughts had not granted you the power to penetrate the most important ones, but it had honed your intuition regarding the smaller ones. You knew that for him to pity you, you had to be ridiculous. Neither hunger nor someone's misery moved him more than the lack of aesthetics. Loose hair, damp with sweat, fell over your flushed face, and the pain, to which your long-calm features had not yet adapted, must have twisted your mouth, lending them some grotesque note. At the most grave moment of your life, you were ridiculous, his pitiful gaze told you.

Finally, after seconds that felt like centuries, his eyes briefly flitted to the divorce papers on your nightstand but he ignored them. Instead, he focused on the small details of the room—the way your books were scattered everywhere, mostly medical journals and a few dog-eared novels, a framed photo of you and Ae-ra by the Han River, and, in the darkest corner of your room, your unfinished canvas.

“You know,” Min Jun began, walking towards your creation as if he were a little boy eager to discover his mom’s secrets. “I remember when you used to teach Ae-ra how to paint every night. So sweet….”

People said that a lot. Even your own mind did, sometimes. Be sweet like before; be better for the people around you. They knew there was a gaping hole inside of you, and they poked and prodded in there, looking for bits of Ae-Ra floating around in the void. As if somehow you could reach inside yourself and pull parts of her out—parts that you lacked. But she wasn't there. She was nowhere. When a part of you disappears, you change, and sometimes it's impossible to go back to who you used to be. That's what people didn't understand. That’s what this cosplay of SpongeBob didn’t understand.

You coughed again, then took one last inhale and stubbed the end of it on the vanity’s smooth and sanded surface, ash and embers falling to the carpet like crumbs off a pastry. “Yeah, well, those days are gone.”

Min Jun touched the dried paint, lingering over the signature line that remained blank. “You know, maybe if you spent half as much time on this marriage as you do at Westlake, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

You bristled at his words, but he continued, undeterred. “You’re always so busy, Y/N. Always with your patients, your research. Think about Ae-ra. She wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want her parents to fall apart like this.” He leaned closer, his cologne—something expensive and heavy—filling your senses and making you want to recoil.

“Don’t you dare bring her into this,” you snapped, your voice breaking. “You think you can manipulate me with memories of her? You think that’s going to work?”

His eyes softened. “I’m not trying to manipulate you. I just want us to be a family again. I miss her too, you know. Every single day.” He reached out to touch your hand, but you pulled away, the gesture feeling like a trap.

You pushed past him to the dresser made of dark, deep oak with elegant twisted legs and gilded golden trims. You picked out your attire for the day, folding it into a bundle: a red silk blouse, black high-waisted trousers with a tailored fit, a leather belt that cinched snugly over your waist, and your usual black heeled boots, still at the foot of the bed. There was still some mud caked on the bottoms, no matter how much you had scrubbed them the night before from running after a patient. You’d have to ask Jungwoo for his shoe shining spray.

With your clothes in hand, you made your way to the bathroom. Min Jun followed you like a shadow, still grumbling something about you and your work, but you tuned him out, focusing instead on the sound of your bare feet padding against the cold, hardwood floor. Still, after twenty seconds, you had enough.

You stopped at the bathroom door and turned to face him. “Why aren’t you at work already? Taking care of Daddy’s laundry?”

His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening in a way that reminded you of the time he had to tell his father that he didn’t want to go into politics. “I was actually trying to be good for you. I know your car is still at the workshop and your driver is on vacation.”

You turned on the faucet, letting the warm water fill the tub. “I’ll take a cab,” you muttered, the words rolling off your tongue with a deliberate calmness, pronounced in a way that revolutionized and exposed what was most hidden within you.

While waiting for the water, you grabbed a towel from the shelves in the back as well as a bar of soap.

Min Jun’s eyes narrowed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, sure. Just like you always do. Ignore the problem, run away.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you laid out the towel on the heated rack. “You’re so dramatic, Min Jun. It’s almost entertaining.”

“What’s so funny?”

You turned off the faucet and threw your head back, your hair falling behind your back like a cascade of dark silk, the ends brushing against the lace trim of your nightgown. You laughed then, a sound that felt foreign, almost unnatural, before walking towards him, cornering him against the sink. He almost dropped the bundle of sheets in his hands, his eyes going wide with a mix of surprise and something else—fear, maybe?

For the first time in a long while, you saw the old Min Jun, the rebellious teenager who once stole his father’s suits to impress you, the same boy who would sneak flowers into your school locker when no one was watching. He used to bring you daisies, your favorite, wrapped in newspaper because he couldn’t afford anything else. Now, he stood before you, a stranger in an expensive suit, holding onto wet sheets and a past that no longer existed.

After feeling helpless, unsure of what to do with yourself, not wanting to continue the same past of calm and death, and unable to dominate a different future due to the habit of comfort, you now realized how free Min was and how unhappy he had been. His past—obscure, riddled with frustrated dreams—had left him unable to settle into the conformist, half-happy world of mediocrity.

You leaned in, your breath warm against his cheek, and whispered, "Min Jun."

The sound of his name seemed to snap him out of his daze, and he blinked rapidly, trying to regain his composure.

He tried to take a step back, but the sink behind him left no room for escape. You reached out, your fingers brushing against his, and he flinched, almost losing his grip on the sheets.

“You think I don’t know you, huh?”

“W-what?”

He raised his eyes, meeting your anguished face, and narrowed them, analyzing and understanding you. There was a long minute of silence. You waited silently. You knew this moment was the first truly alive between you, the first that connected you directly. That moment suddenly separated you from all your past, and in a singular premonition, you foresaw that it would stand out as a red dot over the entire course of your life.

“Are you fucking out of your-” he began, but you cut him off, your words spilling out in a rapid-fire burst.

“Elections are coming up, aren’t they, honey? Elections are coming up, and your damn wife isn’t going to any of those shitty interviews or rallies anymore. Your wife doesn’t appear on the cameras, and it is making the public’s attention go to us instead of your father, and that is driving him mad. And now? Now I’m taking over Seo Moonjo’s case! What a perfect way to steal his lollipop, huh? So I’m guessing you’re being all sweet like that because something’s going to happen this weekend, isn’t it? A meeting or a family dinner? Or do you want to take me to bed, soften me up like a piece of meat and tell you all of the things that serial killer told me?”

Min Jun’s face flushed a deep red, his hands trembling slightly. “Are you really trying to use your psychiatric skills on me?”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Oh, darling, I don’t need to use any skills on you. You’re an open book and I know you're scared, aren’t you?” You whispered, your lips barely an inch from his ear.

“Scared that I’ll mess up your perfect little plans? Scared that I’ll drag your name through the mud along with mine.”

#lee dongwook x fem! reader #lee dongwook x reader #a shop for killers #seo moonjo x reader #jeong jian #imagine #lee dong wook #lee dong wook x reader #jeong jin man #seo moonjo

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