doietopia

[doietopia]

oooooh god i just wrote the most delicious meal ever, it’s about jaemin im so excited!!!

[doietopia]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ 10:27

sunday mornings with jaehyun always feel like they belong in a movie.

the kind that drips slowly, golden and unhurried. like honey off the edge of a spoon. no conflict, no drama. just the quiet intimacy of a morning stretching itself out between the smell of coffee and the soft rustle of curtains moving with the breeze.

light spills in through the window, warm and syrupy, catching dust motes in midair like glitter in suspension. your bare feet sink into the chill of the kitchen tiles, and the contrast sends a soft shiver up your spine, but the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders keeps you cocooned in warmth. it’s his, of course: faded cotton, sleeves too long, collar stretched, and it still smells faintly like his cologne and laundry soap.

he’s at the stove in sweats and a white tank, hair tousled from sleep, shoulders broad and loose with ease. he’s humming along to the music playing from his phone, some low, mellow tune you’ve both heard a hundred times but never bothered to name. the sound blends into the morning like another piece of furniture: quiet, constant, familiar.

jaehyun is flipping pancakes with far too much confidence for someone this distracted. every few seconds, he glances over his shoulder, not because he’s worried about the food, but because you’re there, leaning against the counter, blinking sleepily at him with your arms tucked into the fabric of his shirt like a child playing dress-up.

and, inevitably, he looks too long. the pancake burns just slightly on one side.

“hey!” you call out, grinning as you cross the kitchen to bump his hip with yours. “you’re ruining breakfast.”

“no,” he says, turning to face you with mock offense, “i’m improving it. it’s called adding character.”

you roll your eyes, but your hands find the curve of his waist, warm under the cotton of his shirt. his hands, instinctive and gentle, settle around your shoulders and then slide down your arms, thumbs brushing bare skin. the contact is soft, grounding, like the quietest kind of affection.

he pauses when he sees you. there’s flour smudged on the tip of your nose, a faint, almost silly streak, and without thinking, he lifts a finger and taps it lightly, his smile growing.

“you’re distracting me,” he murmurs, low and amused.

“me?” you echo, feigning innocence, lashes fluttering. “have you seen the way you’re looking at me?”

he leans in until his forehead rests against yours. your noses almost touch. his breath smells like coffee and sugar, warm as it fans over your lips.

“can’t help it,” he says, quiet.

the song shifts behind you, something slower now, a few soft chords strummed in repetition, and in that unspoken way that always exists between the two of you, he takes your hand without needing a reason.

you move together in the middle of the kitchen, swaying barefoot between half-cooked pancakes and the faint hiss of the pan. your bodies fit in that familiar way, like two people who have memorized each other’s outlines. your cheek brushes his collarbone as he pulls you closer, and his hand rests at the small of your back, firm but leisurely.

he spins you, lazy and sweet, just once, enough to make you laugh softly, and when he pulls you back in, his voice is different.

“marry me.”

you blink. it’s soft, not a jolt, but the air shifts. the words land between your ribs like a held breath.

“what?” you ask, voice a little breathless.

he’s still smiling, but it’s no longer just playful. there’s something steadier behind it now, a quiet kind of certainty.

“not today,” he says gently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trailing down your jaw. “i just… know it’s you. and i want to say it out loud. i want to grow old with you and burn pancakes forever.”

your heart clenches in that soft, unbearable way, too full to speak. so instead, you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. then his nose. then, finally, you find his lips.

“okay,” you whisper. “one day.”

his arms wrap tighter around you, like he’s trying to keep time still. you both sway again, slower this time, as the music plays on, quiet and content in the background.

outside, the city yawns awake. inside, you’re dancing in a kitchen full of love.

[doietopia]

note: i really loved writing this one and i hope you’ll enjoy it too. i know my doyoung works are always the least popular, but honestly, i can’t picture any of these being about anyone else cuz i love him so much. thank u for reading anyway

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ pretty sub!doyoung

he’s already so pliant by the time you finish tying his wrists to the headboard. you’d barely whispered a soft “let me,” and he was nodding before you even touched the silk. now he lies there, shirtless, flushed, thighs pressed together like he can hide the way his cock is already leaking against his stomach. you smile at how he tries to keep his eyes on you, even though they keep fluttering shut when you drag your fingers down his ribs.

“look at you,” you murmur, tracing the delicate bones just beneath his skin, slow and reverent. “such a good boy, letting me see you like this.”

he shivers. his hands tug faintly at the bindings, a quiet test, but you tied them just right, firm enough to keep him still, soft enough not to hurt. you lean down to kiss the inside of his wrist, just where the silk cuts into his pulse, and feel his whole body tighten beneath you.

“you don’t even realize how pretty you are, do you?” your voice drops as your fingers slide lower, over his stomach, skimming the fine trail of hair. “so obedient. so desperate. and you don’t even know.”

he shakes his head, cheeks flushed. “i do,” he breathes, but it sounds more like a plea than a protest.

“no,” you hum, smiling against his skin. “you know how needy you get. but not how beautiful you look like this, tied up, panting, trying so hard not to beg.” you cup his jaw and tilt his face toward you. “you’re such a mess for me, baby.”

he whimpers, lips parting, and you don’t miss the way his cock twitches when you say it, mess. baby. he likes the sweetness, the softness, but even more, he likes when you see how undone he is and say it out loud. he loves being looked at. loved being owned.

“you want to be good for me, don’t you?”

“yes,” he gasps immediately, too fast, too eager.

you press your thumb to his bottom lip. “then be still.”

he nods, trembling as you move lower, kissing the soft skin over his chest, biting just enough to leave faint marks. your hands hold his hips down, firm and guiding. he moans every time you touch him, like he can’t help it, like he needs to give you every sound.

you wrap a hand around him slowly, just enough pressure to make him whine, and his head falls back. “fuck— please— ”

you hush him gently, stroking him slow and steady, until he’s writhing. “look at you,” you whisper again. “such a pretty little thing. moaning and squirming and you haven’t even come yet.”

he pants, shame and pleasure tangled in the flush that runs down his throat. his wrists pull again at the restraints, instinctive and useless. “please,” he says again, softer, more broken.

“what are you begging for?”

he hesitates, eyes wide. you slow your touch.

“say it,” you murmur. “tell me what you want.”

he groans, trying to form the words. “i want… want to come. want to make you proud.”

your breath catches at that, sweet, obedient, ruined. he looks up at you with glassy eyes, lips parted, flushed to his chest, and trembling like he’s barely holding on. your grip is slick, palm dragging slowly over the sensitive head each time you slide back.

“you make me proud just like this, love,” you whisper, eyes fixed on his face. “so good, letting me use you. so perfect like this. so fucked out and desperate.”

his hips jerk, instinctive, trying to fuck into your hand, but you press him down by the pelvis with your other hand, firm and unyielding. his reaction is immediate, a choked moan, his thighs tensing beneath you as he tries to stay still.

you can feel how close he is; his cock is twitching in your hand, soaked and flushed dark, every stroke making him shudder. he’s panting now, loud and erratic, chest heaving, the tendons in his neck standing sharp as he throws his head back against the pillow.

“please,” he gasps, voice wrecked. “please, please, i’m gonna— i can’t—”

“go ahead,” you say, smiling as you lean in close to his ear. “come for me, pretty thing. just like that. show me how much you need me.”

you twist your wrist just slightly at the top, pressing your thumb under the head, and he cries out. a cry that’s equal parts shame and release. 

his entire body arches, muscles pulled tight, and his release hits hard, warm and messy over your fist, spilling across his stomach in thick pulses. he’s shaking, whimpering, his wrists straining helplessly against the silk as his orgasm ripples through him.

you don’t stop right away. you stroke him through it, slow, coaxing, until he’s twitching from the overstimulation, eyes squeezed shut, murmuring your name like a plea.

he looks beautiful like this, flushed, marked, still trembling from the high, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes from how much he felt. how much he gave.

you kiss his forehead, loosening the silk slowly, soothing. “that’s it,” you murmur. “you did so good for me. my good boy.”

and the way he clings to you, even after, makes you want to do it all over again, gentle and slow, until he forgets everything else but the sound of your voice.

[doietopia]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ pretty sub!doyoung

he’s already so pliant by the time you finish tying his wrists to the headboard. you’d barely whispered a soft “let me,” and he was nodding before you even touched the silk. now he lies there, shirtless, flushed, thighs pressed together like he can hide the way his cock is already leaking against his stomach. you smile at how he tries to keep his eyes on you, even though they keep fluttering shut when you drag your fingers down his ribs.

“look at you,” you murmur, tracing the delicate bones just beneath his skin, slow and reverent. “such a good boy, letting me see you like this.”

he shivers. his hands tug faintly at the bindings, a quiet test, but you tied them just right, firm enough to keep him still, soft enough not to hurt. you lean down to kiss the inside of his wrist, just where the silk cuts into his pulse, and feel his whole body tighten beneath you.

“you don’t even realize how pretty you are, do you?” your voice drops as your fingers slide lower, over his stomach, skimming the fine trail of hair. “so obedient. so desperate. and you don’t even know.”

he shakes his head, cheeks flushed. “i do,” he breathes, but it sounds more like a plea than a protest.

“no,” you hum, smiling against his skin. “you know how needy you get. but not how beautiful you look like this, tied up, panting, trying so hard not to beg.” you cup his jaw and tilt his face toward you. “you’re such a mess for me, baby.”

he whimpers, lips parting, and you don’t miss the way his cock twitches when you say it, mess. baby. he likes the sweetness, the softness, but even more, he likes when you see how undone he is and say it out loud. he loves being looked at. loved being owned.

“you want to be good for me, don’t you?”

“yes,” he gasps immediately, too fast, too eager.

you press your thumb to his bottom lip. “then be still.”

he nods, trembling as you move lower, kissing the soft skin over his chest, biting just enough to leave faint marks. your hands hold his hips down, firm and guiding. he moans every time you touch him, like he can’t help it, like he needs to give you every sound.

you wrap a hand around him slowly, just enough pressure to make him whine, and his head falls back. “fuck— please— ”

you hush him gently, stroking him slow and steady, until he’s writhing. “look at you,” you whisper again. “such a pretty little thing. moaning and squirming and you haven’t even come yet.”

he pants, shame and pleasure tangled in the flush that runs down his throat. his wrists pull again at the restraints, instinctive and useless. “please,” he says again, softer, more broken.

“what are you begging for?”

he hesitates, eyes wide. you slow your touch.

“say it,” you murmur. “tell me what you want.”

he groans, trying to form the words. “i want… want to come. want to make you proud.”

your breath catches at that, sweet, obedient, ruined. he looks up at you with glassy eyes, lips parted, flushed to his chest, and trembling like he’s barely holding on. your grip is slick, palm dragging slowly over the sensitive head each time you slide back.

“you make me proud just like this, love,” you whisper, eyes fixed on his face. “so good, letting me use you. so perfect like this. so fucked out and desperate.”

his hips jerk, instinctive, trying to fuck into your hand, but you press him down by the pelvis with your other hand, firm and unyielding. his reaction is immediate, a choked moan, his thighs tensing beneath you as he tries to stay still.

you can feel how close he is; his cock is twitching in your hand, soaked and flushed dark, every stroke making him shudder. he’s panting now, loud and erratic, chest heaving, the tendons in his neck standing sharp as he throws his head back against the pillow.

“please,” he gasps, voice wrecked. “please, please, i’m gonna— i can’t—”

“go ahead,” you say, smiling as you lean in close to his ear. “come for me, pretty thing. just like that. show me how much you need me.”

you twist your wrist just slightly at the top, pressing your thumb under the head, and he cries out. a cry that’s equal parts shame and release. 

his entire body arches, muscles pulled tight, and his release hits hard, warm and messy over your fist, spilling across his stomach in thick pulses. he’s shaking, whimpering, his wrists straining helplessly against the silk as his orgasm ripples through him.

you don’t stop right away. you stroke him through it, slow, coaxing, until he’s twitching from the overstimulation, eyes squeezed shut, murmuring your name like a plea.

he looks beautiful like this, flushed, marked, still trembling from the high, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes from how much he felt. how much he gave.

you kiss his forehead, loosening the silk slowly, soothing. “that’s it,” you murmur. “you did so good for me. my good boy.”

and the way he clings to you, even after, makes you want to do it all over again, gentle and slow, until he forgets everything else but the sound of your voice.

[doietopia]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ messy eater!haechan

he’s always been like this: messy. greedy. the kind of man who can’t eat slowly, who gets sauce on his lips and never wipes it off, who licks his fingers instead of using a napkin. you should have known it would translate to this.

because now, with your thighs trembling around his shoulders and his mouth buried between them. the taste of you is something he’s been craving for weeks and now that he’s had a drop, he can’t stop. his hands are firm on your hips, anchoring you to the edge of the bed, afraid you’ll slip away. and maybe you would, if you had the strength. if your body weren’t already unraveling under his mouth.

haechan moans into you, sharp and breathy as it’s him being touched. he whines when you twitch, when your breath catches, when your hand tangles in his hair. his mouth works without rhythm and hesitation, sometimes slow and indulgent, then suddenly fast, desperate, because he just can’t decide whether to savor you or devour you whole.

you look at him, and fuck… he’s gorgeous, even like this. maybe especially like this.

his lips are flushed, glistening, swollen from how long he’s been down there. his hair clings to his forehead, damp with sweat. brows drawn tight with a tension thick with focus and hunger. his jawline, usually so soft and clean, is now slick wet with your arousal and his spit, smeared across his chin, catching the light at the corners of his mouth. you see it trailing down his throat, glinting in the hollow there.

his tongue slides lower. a thick, wet stroke right into your cunt, and your whole body jolts. your spine arches off the bed, hands flying to the sheets, to his hair, to anything that might tether you to yourself. he groans against you, the sound reverberating through your skin like a low hum. it’s filthy. perfect.

his nose bumps your clit, teasing, nudging with a kind of casual precision that feels anything but accidental. the pressure is soft, rhythmic. warm from his breath. he pushes deeper, tongue fucking into you, not just a flick, or a taste, but deep, wet thrusts that make your hips grind into his face before you even realize. he drags back up, licks through your folds, flattens his tongue under your clit only to dip back inside, messier this time. and the slick sound of it, of you, fills the air, so obscene it borders on holy.

he shifts. nose pressing to your clit again, this time with purpose, this time harder, while his tongue stays buried inside your hole. your thighs tighten around his head. you try to push him away, quivering hands on his head, thighs clamping shut, too sensitive, too much, you whisper. but he only groans and his grip hardens, prying you open again, like he’s offended you’d even try to leave. 

he presses his tongue back in, slow this time, dragging it up through your slick, flicking over your clit with obscene ease. he licks like he’s cleaning a plate, unwilling to leave a single drop behind. one hand slips beneath your thigh to tilt your hips, the other splays over your stomach, pinning you there, holding you down as he already knows what’s coming. and when he adds his fingers, two of them, you cry out. he curls them inside you, unerringly, hitting that spot inside you that makes your legs jerk. without pause, he sucks your clit into his mouth and doesn’t let go, not until it’s pulsing against his tongue. 

his pace doesn’t slow, not when your thighs quake, not when your hands claw at the sheets, not when your body arches off the bed in one long, trembling line. he stays, mouth open, tongue heavy, lips smeared with everything you’ve given him. 

when he finally pulls back, after making you come three times in a row, he’s panting. his face is wrecked, cheeks flushed, chin wet, eyes glazed. totally drunk on you. a line of spit still connects his mouth to your cunt, and when he wipes it with the back of his hand, it only smears across his cheek.

you look at him, legs still shaking, breath shallow, and he just smiles.

a crooked, fucked-out smile, like he’s proud of the wreckage he’s made. but he doesn’t look satisfied. no. not even close. he watches you as if you owe him more, and he’s ready to dive back in just to feel you dripping down his chin again.

[doietopia]

you're welcome for the message! i actually intended to let you know what i thought about not so bold earlier than this, but i guess time slipped away from me. BUT, i'm glad it seems like this message reached you at the right time! i was actually wondering why you'd been gone for a bit. i'm glad that what i said could help you feel better!

i'm actually the same anon who was asking about the jisung stories! so i've already asked you before, so i won't ask anything more for now! thank you again for writing those. it was exciting to see them!

wait, i just answered your other message and was this close to asking if it was the same person 😭 but yeah that made me smile thanks again

[doietopia]

hi! i'm the person who requested princess reader with knight jisung! i just reread what you wrote, and i think i was right that this request would suit your writing. you're like, good at conveying subtlety when you write, and you use a lot of similes, and both of these characteristics work well with a royalty kind of alternate universe. i remember i was so excited when i saw that you'd posted this!

originally when i sent that request, i had conceived of something super fluffy, cute, and happy, and i think you took it in a more...subtly angsty way? but i think maybe what you wrote is more realistic, perhaps. i really liked the part when you talked about how jisung lifted his eyes and his gaze was the same as you remembered, and how it was a sweet thorn lodged in memory. like the way you described it, it was so clear for me to imagine, and also just beautiful. the other part i really loved was when jisung laughed near the end. that was so beautiful too, and maybe my favorite part in the whole fic. and how you compared his laugh to sunlight through a window no one thought to open...that's just beautiful. 🥺 that's what i mean when i say your similes are the best.

apart from that, i like all the moments when jisung sort of expressed his true feelings to the reader. i can feel clearly how he was trying to hold them back, and i think you did well conveying that restraint/hesitancy between the two of them. that balance between expressing and not expressing.

although like i said, i originally thought of something even more fluffy, i am still curious to read your continuation of this story! thank you again!

lol i’m sorry i feel like i missed the mark a bit when i first started writing it 😭 i had a super fluffy, cute idea in mind, but it felt too short and meh. what i ended up writing flowed so smoothly that i actually liked it better in the end. maybe it’s just that i’m not naturally into cute writing? but yeah, i’m definitely taking this as a challenge. i know i can write a pretty, fluffy little draft. but thanks for the feedback anon🤍 i’m glad you like my work, you have such a way with words too

[doietopia]

hi! i just wanted to compliment you on your haechan story from last month (not so bold). honestly, the first time i read it, i actually teared up. i think it was because you described things beautifully and really got to the heart of the emotions between them, maybe. and also, "haechan always carried himself like he knew the ending to every story before it began" is a beautiful line. the way you described his personality was beautiful, and how you said that beneath all of that, you could tell that he meant it. and then how you showed later in the story that it was real and meaningful to him, and how you said his whole face lit up every time the reader laughed 🥺 i feel like you're good at writing stories in a way where they're beautiful all throughout? i kind of admire that ability. and thanks for writing haechan so beautifully. 🥺

anonnn🥺 tysm, really :( it means a lot to me :[ messages like this encourage me to keep writing. i’ve been feeling a bit down lately (which is why i hadn’t posted anything until yesterday) but reading this genuinely lifted my mood. thank you for taking the time to send it 🥹 also let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to write !

[doietopia]

THE SEULGI THEMEEEEE 🥹🥹🥹

my girl so pretty 🙈

[doietopia]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ messy eater!haechan

he’s always been like this: messy. greedy. the kind of man who can’t eat slowly, who gets sauce on his lips and never wipes it off, who licks his fingers instead of using a napkin. you should have known it would translate to this.

because now, with your thighs trembling around his shoulders and his mouth buried between them. the taste of you is something he’s been craving for weeks and now that he’s had a drop, he can’t stop. his hands are firm on your hips, anchoring you to the edge of the bed, afraid you’ll slip away. and maybe you would, if you had the strength. if your body weren’t already unraveling under his mouth.

haechan moans into you, sharp and breathy as it’s him being touched. he whines when you twitch, when your breath catches, when your hand tangles in his hair. his mouth works without rhythm and hesitation, sometimes slow and indulgent, then suddenly fast, desperate, because he just can’t decide whether to savor you or devour you whole.

you look at him, and fuck… he’s gorgeous, even like this. maybe especially like this.

his lips are flushed, glistening, swollen from how long he’s been down there. his hair clings to his forehead, damp with sweat. brows drawn tight with a tension thick with focus and hunger. his jawline, usually so soft and clean, is now slick wet with your arousal and his spit, smeared across his chin, catching the light at the corners of his mouth. you see it trailing down his throat, glinting in the hollow there.

his tongue slides lower. a thick, wet stroke right into your cunt, and your whole body jolts. your spine arches off the bed, hands flying to the sheets, to his hair, to anything that might tether you to yourself. he groans against you, the sound reverberating through your skin like a low hum. it’s filthy. perfect.

his nose bumps your clit, teasing, nudging with a kind of casual precision that feels anything but accidental. the pressure is soft, rhythmic. warm from his breath. he pushes deeper, tongue fucking into you, not just a flick, or a taste, but deep, wet thrusts that make your hips grind into his face before you even realize. he drags back up, licks through your folds, flattens his tongue under your clit only to dip back inside, messier this time. and the slick sound of it, of you, fills the air, so obscene it borders on holy.

he shifts. nose pressing to your clit again, this time with purpose, this time harder, while his tongue stays buried inside your hole. your thighs tighten around his head. you try to push him away, quivering hands on his head, thighs clamping shut, too sensitive, too much, you whisper. but he only groans and his grip hardens, prying you open again, like he’s offended you’d even try to leave. 

he presses his tongue back in, slow this time, dragging it up through your slick, flicking over your clit with obscene ease. he licks like he’s cleaning a plate, unwilling to leave a single drop behind. one hand slips beneath your thigh to tilt your hips, the other splays over your stomach, pinning you there, holding you down as he already knows what’s coming. and when he adds his fingers, two of them, you cry out. he curls them inside you, unerringly, hitting that spot inside you that makes your legs jerk. without pause, he sucks your clit into his mouth and doesn’t let go, not until it’s pulsing against his tongue. 

his pace doesn’t slow, not when your thighs quake, not when your hands claw at the sheets, not when your body arches off the bed in one long, trembling line. he stays, mouth open, tongue heavy, lips smeared with everything you’ve given him. 

when he finally pulls back, after making you come three times in a row, he’s panting. his face is wrecked, cheeks flushed, chin wet, eyes glazed. totally drunk on you. a line of spit still connects his mouth to your cunt, and when he wipes it with the back of his hand, it only smears across his cheek.

you look at him, legs still shaking, breath shallow, and he just smiles.

a crooked, fucked-out smile, like he’s proud of the wreckage he’s made. but he doesn’t look satisfied. no. not even close. he watches you as if you owe him more, and he’s ready to dive back in just to feel you dripping down his chin again.

[doietopia]

𓇼 . ₊ it’s not goodbye, but see you again ˚ ₊ 🎧 ⊹

[doietopia]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ serenade — k.dy

there’s something cruel about the way time moves on, as if it doesn’t know you’re gone. life brushes its teeth, answers emails, waters plants. even doyoung pretends. sometimes.

but not tonight.

tonight he’s barefoot in his living room, crouched in front of the piano like he’s trying to fold himself into something small enough to survive the silence. the only light comes from a streetlamp outside. the keys are faintly dusted. the air smells like rain and leftover grief. his fingers press down gently, searching for the right chords, the ones he always returns to, like a bruise he can’t stop touching.

his voice breaks the silence in a hush. almost shy. a melody you once said sounded like a secret. he’s not singing for applause. not for closure. he’s singing because it’s the only way he knows how to say your name without falling apart. he sings for the memory of you. for the shape you left in his bed. for the nights that collapsed quietly between texts unsent and words half-swallowed.

sometimes he stops halfway through, overwhelmed. sometimes he sings the same verse over and over, as if repetition could summon you back. as if the melody could return you.

but you don’t come. and still, he sings.

when it’s over, he doesn’t move. his hands stay on the keys. his eyes don’t blink. the echo of his voice lingers a little too long, like perfume on a sweater someone forgot to throw away. maybe tomorrow he’ll try again. maybe tomorrow it’ll hurt less. but tonight, the serenade is for no one. for the ghost of what you were. for the promise of what you still might be.

—

it’s late. the kind of night where the city feels more real, more raw. streetlights flicker. voices blur. beer spills onto cracked pavement. you laugh at something that doesn’t matter anymore, surrounded by friends who still don’t really know you. and just as you push the door open to step outside for some air, there he is.

doyoung.

leaning against the wall across the street, hands in his pockets, hair tousled like he just ran away from a dream. he doesn’t smile. doesn’t frown. he just looks at you, like something he stopped searching for but never stopped hoping.

your heart stumbles. the noise around you fades. he doesn’t say anything. he just picks up his phone. then your phone buzzes. a message. his name. a voice note.

with trembling hands, you press play. his voice floods through your chest like a wave, low, steady, shivering in all the right places. he’s singing. your song.

the one he made up one ordinary night, between your legs and the early hours, when he said he didn’t know how else to tell you he loved you.

the time between you isn’t measured in days, but in things left unsaid. in songs he sang for no one.

your friends call your name, but you’re already crossing the street. you know you shouldn’t cross. you know you shouldn’t want him like this. but you do.

he watches you come. doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. you stop in front of him. you can’t speak either.

“i didn’t know if i should come,” he says at last. his voice is rough around the edges. “but i had a dream. you were laughing. singing. i woke up and… i needed to see you.”

you don’t say a word. because you don’t trust your mouth not to betray you. he takes a step closer. barely. “do you want me to leave?”

you shake your head. slowly. because you don’t want that. because you couldn’t bear it.

his hand lifts, gentle, hesitant. his fingers brush your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. his eyes are wide, full of things unsaid. maybe this kiss doesn’t promise anything. and maybe you’re both still afraid. as if you both knew that this doesn’t solve anything.

but you lean in anyway. 

with his voice still ringing in your chest, don’t know if you’ve just begun something or if you’re saying goodbye for the last time.

[doietopia]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ nerdy roommate caught you masturbating

you hadn’t meant for it to happen like this.

not with the door half-open, not with his name falling quietly from your mouth, not with your hand trembling against the thin fabric of your underwear. the apartment had been quiet all evening. you’d thought he was still at the library. he usually was.

you press your head back into the pillows, eyes shut tight, breath shallow as your fingers move with a rhythm that’s more instinct than thought. the cotton of your panties clings to you, already damp, the friction just enough to make your thighs tense and your stomach coil tighter with each pass. there’s a slow heat building low, a need that makes your hips shift toward your own hand like your body’s begging you to keep going. but it’s not enough. it never is.

and then— a quiet creak.

your eyes snap open. he’s there.

in the doorway, barefoot, wearing that faded grey t-shirt he always sleeps in. it hangs loose on him, the hem brushing the waistband of his sweatpants. his hair’s a mess, like he ran his fingers through it and gave up halfway. his glasses are still on, slightly askew, like he forgot he was wearing them. his gaze is unreadable, but his eyes are dark, wide, and fixed on you. his hands hang motionless by his sides. like he doesn’t trust himself to move.

you freeze, panic flashing sharp across your chest. heat blooms under your skin, humiliation crackling at the edges.

“i- i thought you weren’t home,” you stammer, scrambling to pull the blanket over your hips. your heart hammers so hard it almost hurts.

he doesn’t answer right away. just steps inside, barefoot against the floorboards, his movements careful and quiet. like one wrong step might scare you off.

you should say something. tell him to leave. pretend this never happened. but your mouth is dry, and your body is already betraying you, still aching, still wet, still open.

“do you… want help?” he asks. his voice is barely above a whisper, but it sinks into you like gravity.

your lips part. no sound comes out.

he’s still standing, but his gaze dips to your legs, to the blanket pulled haphazardly around your waist, to the small curve of your inner thigh where the hem rides up. you watch his throat move as he swallows.

then he crosses the room and sits on the edge of your bed. slow. patient. waiting. his glasses slide a little down his nose, but he doesn’t bother to push them back up. he’s focused on you now.

“i said if you want help,” he murmurs, and his hand reaches for the blanket. he doesn’t tug it away, just touches the edge of it. brushes his knuckles over the bare skin of your thigh. it’s feather-light, but it burns.

your breath catches. and you nod. barely.

he exhales, something like relief flickering across his face. his hand moves more deliberately now, fingers sliding beneath the blanket and pushing it down inch by inch, baring your thighs to the cool air. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t grab or grope, just uncovers you and looks at you like he’s cataloguing every inch, every shift in your breath, every quiet ache in your eyes.

your thighs part instinctively, shy but needing. and then his hand is on your inner thigh, fingers warm and steady. he trails upward slowly, the pads of his fingers dragging against your skin, until he reaches the damp curve of your underwear.

he hesitates for a second, eyes searching yours, but when you don’t pull away, he presses a little more firmly. his knuckles nudge the soaked fabric, feeling the shape of you through it. the friction makes you whimper, hips rising slightly to meet his touch without you meaning to. it’s instinctual, desperate. he notices.

“here?” he whispers, his thumb brushing the outline of your clit through the thin cotton. the pressure makes your hips twitch. “is this where you needed me?”

you nod, again. smaller this time. your eyes flutter shut. it’s humiliating how quickly. how badly. how warm your cheeks feel.

he doesn’t tease. doesn’t make you wait. just slides your underwear to the side. fingers grazing the slick heat of you with bare skin now. his touch is slow at first, exploratory, one finger at first, barely dipping between your folds, just enough to part them, just enough to test how wet you are. then, he spread the wetness, stroking the soft, sensitive folds with deliberate care. your back arches, breath catching in your throat.

he slips one finger inside.

and oh, it’s so different.

“fuck,” he says under his breath. it’s the first time his voice breaks. “you’ve been like this the whole time?”

your fingers clutch the sheets. you don’t answer. don’t have to. your body does for you, hips lifting, thighs parting a little wider, breath catching again when he slips another finger inside you, stretching you slightly, filling you so much better than your own ever could.

he curls them just right and watches the way your mouth falls open, the way your hips roll upward toward him, involuntary and eager. his eyes locked on your face like he’s afraid to miss something. his pace is patient but firm, and deep. 

he watches your every reaction, like he’s trying to understand what you like without asking. like he needs to know.

“you were saying my name,” he murmurs, his voice close now, his mouth grazing the curve of your neck.

you nod, trembling. your body clenches around him with every slow thrust of his fingers. you can’t seem to hold still.

your eyes sting. you don’t know why. maybe from how good it feels. maybe from how gentle he’s being. maybe from all the times you wanted this and said nothing.

“why didn’t you just ask?” he whispers.

you let out a shaky breath. “you’re always so far away.”

his hand pauses. just for a beat. then he leans in again, his lips grazing your jaw now, breath hot. “don’t hide from me now. tell me what you want.”

your hand finds his wrist without thinking, just to hold onto something. the flex of his muscles, the control under his skin. it’s too much but not enough. you want to cry and come at the same time.

“you,” you whisper, throat tight. “just… keep going.”

and he does. until you’re shaking. until you’re clenching around his fingers and biting your lip to keep from crying out too loud. until your hips buck and your thighs tremble and his name tumbles from your mouth again, broken and breathless.

he doesn’t pull away. just keeps his forehead against yours, his hand gentle as you come down. his voice quieter than ever when he says,

“kind of unfair keeping this to yourself. guess i showed up just in time.”

doyoung, renjun, jisung, mark, jeno, haechan, and whoever else comes to mind…

[doietopia]

this was so so cute omg, a doyoungie full fic? god i enjoyed this so much

moving waters | kdy

researcher!doyoung x f!reader

summary: you’re always on the go, always needing something new—new places, hobbies, jobs, people. when you settle in your penpal’s beach town for an indefinite time, a harsh encounter with his best friend, doyoung, turns into so much more, and you find that maybe everything was meant to lead you here. maybe the thought of something lasting forever isn’t so scary, after all.

wc: 10k 18+ mdni

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, angst, smut

cw: beach town au, non-idol, enemies to ???, story heavy, slowburn-ish, mean doyoung at first, reader has problems with hyperfixation and commitment, opposites attract, bestie taeyong, fwb, jealous reader, drunk sex, body worship, unprotected pinv sex (pls don’t), oral (receiving), drunk arguments, sick from drinking, pet names: pretty, baby, beautiful

You inhale the fresh sea breeze, taking in the hint of salt and bright blue sky all around you. You carefully make your way through the rock formation, gazing down at the shallow pools of water woven through the rocks you step on.

You see a starfish sprawled out just under the water’s surface and crouch down a bit more to get a better view, but a slight movement of your hand sends one of your rings flying into the water, tucked somewhere your eyes don’t quite catch.

You panic, reaching in to try and grab where you think it might be.

“Don’t touch that!” a stern voice booms from behind you, and you snatch your hand back, whipping around to see the source of your scolding.

A man in rubber overalls, a bucket hat, and the nastiest glare you’ve ever seen strides until he is on a rock a few feet away from you. He points an accusatory finger at you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Those starfish aren’t for people to play with.”

You frown. “I wa-”

“Don’t you know not to mess with the wildlife? They’re alive and-”

“I wasn’t going to touch them, you asshole!”

His glare narrows even further, and you get a better look at the man’s sharp eyes that match his even sharper tone.

“Oh, sure, as if I didn’t see you reaching in with my own two eyes.” He rolls his eyes, scoffing. “Typical tourists.”

You feel rage bubble in your throat, but you stop yourself. You meet his glare with your own. “Shut the fuck up.”

You relish in the way his glare twists into a look of shock at your harsh words, storming past him the way you came, still careful to avoid stepping on anything but the rocks that stick through the water’s surface.

You exit the tide pool, ignoring whatever the man tries to say to you, walking away as fast as possible.

He eventually gives up, but you don’t look back once. By the time you reach the steps of a familiar building, the anger has faded into mild annoyance. What the hell was that guy’s problem?

“Hey, everything okay?” a friendly voice calls out to you, and you turn to see your blonde headed friend tending to his patio plants.

Taeyong had been your pen pal for years after you met him on one of your travels. You swear he is your platonic soulmate, evident in how many years you’ve kept in contact. A few months ago, he invited you to his beach hometown to stay in the tiny guest house attached to his as long as you wanted.

“Yeah, just ran into some asshole at the beach,” you grumble, taking a seat on the steps as you watch him carefully water one of them. His head whips towards you with a look of concern, and you hold your hands up to stop him before he gets heated. “It’s fine though, really.”

“Just wait for me next time, I’ll go with you,” he frowns, going back to watering his plants, and his concern shakes the last bit of annoyance from you.

You’ve been here for two weeks, and your time here has been exactly what you needed.

For as long as you’ve been alive, you’ve always been on the go, never one to settle in one place for too long. Your family moved from city to city growing up, with you never fully allowing yourself to get attached to anything or anyone you might leave behind.

As you grew up, you adopted this same lifestyle, and you never felt bad leaving anything behind, never let your thoughts dwell for too long.

But you’d become stagnant for a couple of years, and it was driving you insane, caught in commitments that didn’t allow you to move on. So you tied loose ends and left at Taeyong’s invitation— better to figure things out on the warm sand, right?

“Anyways, go get some rest before tonight,” Taeyong instructs, patting some loose dirt off of his trousers.

“Tonight?”

He scoffs in disbelief. “You forgot? We haven’t gone out once since you came— don’t you want to see how we have fun around here?”

Grinning, you give him a thumbs up.

“If I’m not up by 7, do whatever it takes to wake me up.”

He laughs. “Whatever it takes—noted.”

You don’t need Taeyong to wake you up, and after dressing yourself up for a night out, he shows you exactly what it means to have fun in his hometown. The clubbing scene is just right— not too crowded, but just enough to have a good time.

Drinks are unbelievably cheap, and all the excitement leads to a shot, a cocktail or two, and way more shots you lose count of.

The two of you end up having a little too much fun, and Taeyong ends up crouched at the corner of the bar’s exterior, throwing up as you pat his back.

“I’m sorry..” he apologizes drunkenly through his retching, and you wince as he continues to empty his stomach’s contents.

“It’s okay, Yomi,” you assure, speech also slurred as you try to soothe him. You don’t know how the two of you will be getting home tonight, but it’s hard to even think about it with your friend in this state.

“Is he okay?” a voice cuts through your daze, and you whip your head around to find its source.

It’s hard to make out the man’s features from his backlit form and your blurred vision, but as he comes closer to crouch next to you both, immediately your eyes widen in recognition.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you seethe, and the man’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Do I know you?” he asks, and the rage bubbles up even more.

“Aren’t you that asshole from the beach earlier?”

He pauses, but that seems to do it for him, and his eyes narrow into the same sharp glare he had earlier. “Oh, it’s you.”

You’re about to start arguing with him when he passes right by you, peering over at Taeyong’s face. Your protective instincts activate.

“Hey, get away from hi—”

“Doie!!!!!” your sloshed friend exclaims, jumping to his feet as he throws his arms around your enemy. You’re confused and way too drunk for this right now, just watching as “Doie” separates himself from your friend, holding him at arm’s length with a disgusted look.

“Yomi, do you know this freak?”

“Freak? What the—”

“My bestie Doie is heeere,” Taeyong exclaims, seeming as if he’s risen from the dead. He loops his arm around your neck and the other around his taller friend, holding you two tightly, your faces just inches from each other.

“Both my besties in one place? I-I’m so happy I could..”

You both look at each other with panicked expressions.

“Cry—”

And what comes from your friend are not tears, but another round of vomit. Luckily, you’re not caught in the crossfire, but the two of you are silent as Taeyong slumps over, both of you struggling to hold his dead weight.

After somehow getting Taeyong onto his back, you follow as he trudges over to what you assume is his car parked a block away. You open the car door for him as he shoves Taeyong in, your friend curling up peacefully across the entire row of seats.

The dark haired man slams the door with a grunt, letting out a heavy sigh. He turns his sight to you, his glare still present, but not as intense.

“Are you coming or what?” he asks gruffly.

“Huh?”

He sighs again, shaking his head. “Are you that drunk? You’re the one staying with Taeyong aren’t you?”

Dazed, you nod your head.

“He drunk texted me about an hour ago to pick you guys up—didn’t realize you were the friend he was talking about.”

“What do you me-”

“Just get in the damn car if you don’t want to be stranded here,” he interrupts coldly, turning on his heel to the driver’s side.

Your voice gets stuck in your throat, a pounding headache starting to form. You have no choice but to comply, with no idea of how to get back to Taeyong’s at this time of the night.

Opening the passenger door hesitantly, you slide in, setting your sights out the window, refusing to turn your head towards the driver.

He starts the car and starts the trip back to Taeyong’s and you pinch your nose as your head starts to spin. You quickly realize you probably aren’t as sober as you thought you were.

“Better not throw up in my car,” he warns, glancing over at you, and that last comment is just what it takes for you to snap.

“Well, Doie. You’re rude as fuck to someone you just met,” you assert, pointing at him accusingly. “Even earlier on the beach, I wasn’t gonna touch anything, you know? You just assumed.”

“First of all, it’s Doyoung to you. and yeah—you’re telling me that when I know what I saw with my own two eyes,” he scoffs. Finally, you face him, eyes wide at his stubbornness.

“Doie, Doyoung, whatever. I dropped something in that tide pool, I was just reaching into try and find it—and you know what? It’s probably in some starfish’s stomach thanks to you-”

He takes a particularly sharp turn as you finish your sentence. The swift motion has your pounding headache turning into spinning, and suddenly you feel sick to your stomach. Slapping a hand to your mouth, you grip onto Doyoung’s arm.

“Pull over! PULL OVER!!!!” you screech, and in shock he veers over to the nearest curb with you stumbling out of the car before he’s even properly parked.

“Are you fucking crazy?!” you hear his voice trail off behind you.

Luckily, there isn’t anyone else on the streets this late—one, to see the car moving as if Doyoung was the drunk one, and two, to see you in the very same position Taeyong was in earlier.

Your eyes sting with embarrassment and pain as you empty your stomach, at this point not even caring if Doie or Doyoung or whatever the fuck his name is leaves you on the curb.

Catching your breath, you feel your eyes well up a bit more in frustration at this situation. You don’t register the sound of footsteps approaching, and something cold touches your face, making you wince in surprise.

You look up to see Doyoung holding a cold water bottle to you, its condensation making it look like the most delicious drink in the world right now. In an uncharacteristic display, he opens it for you with a snap of the cap, handing it to you again.

“Drink, you need this.”

You hate the way he tells you what to do, but you feel your resolve crumble as you accept it gratefully, feeling humiliated at this moment of weakness.

“Take your time,” he nods and walks away, and after a few minutes, you get up, too.

You’re surprised to see he didn’t go back in the car, simply waiting as he leans against the hood of his car. He moves back into the driver’s seat as soon as he sees you walking back, water bottle still in hand.

The rest of the drive back to Taeyong’s is silent. As he pulls in front of the house, you turn to him, shakily preparing to admit defeat and apologize.

“I’m so-”

“It’s fine, just go inside.”

A flare of anger ignites at once again being interrupted, but you’re more than grateful to not have to fully apologize.

“I’ll take care of this guy, you have the key to the guest house, right?” he asks, and though you want to ask him how he knows that, you simply nod and exit the car. Without any further regard for you, he starts to help Taeyong out of the car.

Taeyong will be fine, and you’re too tired and pained to think anymore. You make your way around the back to the guest house, collapsing into the bed and drifting off as soon as your head hits the pillow.

You wake up with the worst hangover you’ve had in a long time, flailing blindly for any source of water. Finding the half-finished water bottle from last night, you groan as you replay the events of the night.

You force yourself to get up and shower, reflecting as the hot water washes away last night’s mistakes.

Who would’ve known the asshole who yelled at you on the beach would be your sweet Taeyong’s friend? Best friend at that? Though a part of you tells you that he did have some redeeming moments.

Whatever, you just hope you won’t see him anytime soon.

Taeyong is most likely still knocked out cold, so after freshening up, you go on a walk to try and decompress, taking in the fresh air.

You stop by a cafe on the way, drinking a cup of much-needed coffee as you watch people stroll by.

This really is just what you needed. No responsibilities, no stress. You catch a whiff of the sea breeze—that could be a hangover cure in itself.

Arriving at the beach, it’s a little more crowded that day, but a familiar head of pitch black hair popping in and out from the tide pool area catches your eye.

Your brain tells you you should’ve just turned around and walked away, but you approach anyways, your feet leading you up the same path and to the same man you had encountered there just a day before.

He doesn’t hear you approaching, and you watch as he carefully forages through the tide pool in those same rubber overalls, doing exactly what he told you not to do.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to mess with the wildlife?”

He whips around in shock at your words, eyes wide at you seemingly appearing from thin air. He breathes out when he realizes it’s you, and he shakes his head.

“I’m not messing with them, for your information—this is my job,” he corrects you sternly.

“Your job is to pick around at tide pools?”

He scoffs. “I’m a marine biologist, I don’t pick around these pools—I research and preserve them. There are always stupid kids and tourists coming around here and messing around.”

“Oh.”

You have nothing smart to respond with at the revelation that he is a qualified professional, and an awkward silence settles between you, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks filling the space.

That explains why he was such an asshole—he’s probably used to chasing off people who actually mean harm.

An apology hangs off of your tongue, but you don’t let it fall, your pride reminding you of how he’s spoken down to you since the first time you met.

He approaches silently, rummaging through the pocket on the chest of his overalls. “Anyways…” he trails off, pulling out a few items and holding them out to you.

“Were any of these what you were looking for?”

Lying in his hand are two plastic buttons clearly from different garments, a hairclip, a broken keychain, and, slightly dulled from its time in the water, the ring you dropped.

“You didn’t say what you lost, so I didn’t know what to look for.”

You’re speechless. You’ve been cursing him with every fiber of your being since you laid eyes on him, but in a second the atmosphere has shifted.

“Well?” he asks, looking at you expectantly.

“…Yeah, this one,” you reply, gingerly picking the ring from his hand, your skin brushing his slightly.

He nods, putting the rest of the items into a container he’d had by his feet.

“You actually looked for it?” You realize it might be a dumb question, but you’re genuinely shocked he would go out of his way to do that.

“Sunday is my day for weekly tide pool surveys anyways,” he waves you off. His eyes soften slightly, and the corners of his lips curl in a slight smile. “Didn’t want it in a starfish’s stomach after all.”

You can’t help but feel the corners of your own mouth twitch up at his reference to your drunken rage last night.

“That ring—is it important to you?”

You got the ring at some market for cheap, and realistically, you would’ve forgotten about it in a week. You’re honest with him.

“Not really.”

He laughs in disbelief.

“But still, thank you—seriously.”

You hope he can feel that you’re genuine, and it seems like he does.

You know you could buy 100 more, but now that someone worked so hard to get it back to you? Someone who you thought hated your guts? Maybe you could take better care of it.

“Are you done with your work?” you ask, and he seems caught off guard by your question.

“..No? Still have half of the pool to survey.”

You smile at his confused expression—it’s nice to see his different expressions when he’s not glaring at you like you’re the worst person in the world.

“Need some help?”

Though he rejected your first offer, you stubbornly insisted on helping him pick out little bits of trash and debris. There wasn’t that much to clean, and Doyoung still had to do work once you were done.

The first time you helped you left as soon as you were done, but as you go about the rest of your week, something has you itching to see him again.

So you do the following Sunday, eyes scanning for that familiar head of dark hair.

You see more of him this day—the shocked expression he has at seeing you again, the slightly annoyed look he dons when you refuse to leave. Yet the sharpness he had when you first met is absent, and you’re relieved.

And when you return the following week wearing a pair of similar rubber overalls to his, the surprise on his face is priceless.

You can’t help it. You tell yourself you won’t go back, and Doyoung insists you stop coming, but every Sunday you end up right back where you started.

The 5th time you come, things shift a bit. With barely anything to clean and a lull in his research, the time you usually fill with work is empty.

One thing leads to another, and you trip on one of the rocks, falling on your ass. Luckily, no sea creatures are harmed in the process, and you laugh at yourself.

Doyoung rushes towards you, grabbing your forearms to help you up. “Are you hurt anywhere?” he asks, concerned.

“It’s no wonder Taeyong kept you around his whole time,” you coo, allowing him to help you up. You half expect him to revert right back to a stoic glare, but your consistency proves to have broken down some of his barriers.

He smiles, really smiles, and it’s a gummy smile with eyes that crinkle just right. His laughter is so joyful, so unlike your first impression.

“It’s more like I keep him around,” he jokes. “Just kidding, Tae is too kind for his own good, he needs someone careful like me around him.”

You don’t have a witty response, starstruck at the soft expression he has talking about his friend. Someone dear to him.

Could that expression, that gummy smile of his, ever be directed at you? For you? About you?

Silence.

For some reason, the apology you left hanging for so long hits you like a train.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry.”

It takes a second to register that the word left not only your mouth, your heads darting to each other, eyes open wide in shock.

He inhales, you giggle, and the two of you break into fits of laughter. You laugh until your stomach hurts, and you don’t continue quite yet once the laughter dies down. He beckons you over to a rock formation that juts over the water, and you sit side by side.

The way the water cascades is hypnotizing, and the two of you watch for a moment before he breaks the silence.

“I’m really sorry for being so disrespectful. It’s just..” He glances back at the tide pool before training his eyes back on the waves. “This is my life’s work you know? A lot of people come through here and don’t care. I thought you were like them and I’m sorry I treated you like you were.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t judge people before you know them.”

“Yeah— that's true.”

He sounds so genuine. Another silence ensues, and it makes you wish you had gone first. You push down any remaining pride, turning to him.

“I’m sorry, too, for being kind of a bitch.”

He laughs at your choice of words, and the air lightens noticeably.

“Well, I kind of deserved it.” You don’t quite agree with that. The two of you are just different.

“No, you’re just passionate. That’s a good thing. I personally can’t understand dedicating your whole life to something—there’s so much out there, you know?,” you muse.

And it’s true, you can’t imagine what life would have looked like if you only ever stayed in one place.

“You think it’s a good thing? I was born and raised here, the ocean is all I’ve ever known.” A small smile lights his face as he breathes in the fresh air.

“But I don’t think I’ve wanted anything else.”

You can only sit there in awe. You don’t know if you’ve ever met anyone like this—so straightforward, so committed, so content. So opposite of you.

“Well, I’ve had a lot of passions, but nothing’s ever stuck,” you muse.

“Like what?”

You explain that you’ve tried it all—thought for a while you’d be a lawyer, then dabbled in nursing, traveling the whole country. He laughs at the thought of you as a nurse.

“You as a nurse when you’re the one yacking on the side of the road?” he teases.

“Hey.”

He apologizes sheepishly, and you continue.

“I tried to do fashion and design, and those didn’t stick either. I think the longest running thing was a weed business I ran back where some of my family lives—my cousin runs it now, though. You ever try?” you hold up your pinched index finger and thumb to your mouth as if smoking an imaginary blunt.

Amusement lights his eyes. “I’m not so sure it’s legal here.”

“Oh, it is—I made sure to ask Taeyong before coming to stay here,” you correct him confidently.

He laughs. “Fiend.” You lightly smack the side of his arm and his laughter grows.

“Well, what are you doing now?” he asks.

You grin as you gear up to explain.

“Nothing!”

His brows furrow, waiting for the punchline of a joke he thinks his coming.

“Nothing?”

You nod amidst his confused reaction, continuing.

“I’ve done so much, worked so much, but doing nothing is the only thing I haven’t tried yet, and it’s honestly been nice.”

“And you can afford that?” His question is genuine.

“Trust, I have more than enough to get by for a while. That’s what happens when you hyperfixate on a bunch of different things.”

You fixate on the patterns the crashing waves make, watching how the droplets drag themselves back into the mass.

“The more you move the more you make, you know? And that’s all I’ve ever done.” You look back at him. “Move.”

He’s at a loss for words, and you notice how his eyes droop a bit, taking on a sad look. Another expression added to your mental scrapbook of Doyoung, but not one you think you want to see often.

After what feels like a million questions directed towards you, you ask just one of your own.

“You’re sure you never wanted to try anything else?”

Doyoung’s response is immediate, as if he’s pondered this many times before.

“No.” The sadness leaves his eyes as he takes on a resolute expression instead. “I’m perfectly fine here.”

A question enters your mind at how certain he is. How nice is it to have something you care that much about? You don’t voice it, keeping it for yourself.

“I think I’m fine, too. For now, at least.”

You continue your days spending time learning to do nothing. While your quiet Sundays are always spent on the beach with Doyoung, Saturday nights are always Taeyong’s.

After that disaster of a first night, you’ve been careful of your alcohol intake. You tell yourself it’s because you don’t want a repeat, but a part of you holds back at the thought of wanting to be fully energized for your mornings on the beach.

You’ve been thinking too much, and maybe Taeyong has noticed, but he convinces you it’s time to let loose.

You don’t have to be at the pools in the morning—half the time you don’t even help when there isn’t much to clean. You sit and sunbathe while Doyoung works. He’s stopped telling you to leave, but who’s to say he wouldn’t appreciate some solo time?

You resolve yourself to go all out, but you’re not even halfway done with your first tequila soda when you think you may be hallucinating. A familiar face walks into the bar, waving at the two of you awkwardly.

Doyoung stands in front of you, dressed for a night out in his own Doyoung way—some nice fitting pants and a loose black button up giving you a nice view of a silver chain perfectly framed by his collarbones. His hair, usually fluffy and free, is tousled with some gel in just the right way.

He looks mouth watering.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, and Taeyong bounces between you two.

“You’d be surprised, but this guy can hold his liquor 10x better than I can,” Taeyong exclaims.

“I’m not surprised actually,” you tell both of them, already seeing the telltale signs that your friend is drunk.

Taeyong pouts, and you and Doyoung laugh. While Taeyong buys a round of shots for the 3 of you, you nudge Doyoung’s shoulder.

“Match me?”

“You’re gonna regret it.” There’s a playful glint in his eye, and your chest flares as you rise to the challenge.

“Bet.”

It’s safe to say you don’t regret it in the slightest.

Taeyong taps out not too far into the night, tucked safely in some booth with a glass of water until his cab arrives to take him home.

And you and Doyoung? The night flies by in a booth of your own.

You’re talking like you’ve never talked before. He talks about his childhood in that beach town, the trouble he and Taeyong used to get into, the university up the coast he works at on some weekdays. You talk about your favorite cities, the worst jobs you’ve tried, the craziest people you’ve met along the way.

All the while you get to know him, you don’t realize you’ve inched closer. It starts with your hand on his arm as you excitedly explain a random story to the way you sit angled towards him, your knees touching every so often.

And the touches only grow more familiar as the drinks go down.

His hand trails down your forearm, his touch light and feathery. At some point you hold one of his hands in both of yours, playing with his fingers as you talk animatedly about another tangent subject you don’t remember bringing up.

You see even more of Doyoung you haven’t before, and part of you wishes you could snap a picture to keep this memory forever. You can smell his cologne mixed with alcohol, and you hope you can commit the addicting scent to memory.

You’re drunk— it’s evident in the cool feeling of the alcohol sitting in your stomach and the heat in your face. His face is tinged with blush, his eyes are dazed and glossy—he’s just as drunk as you are.

At some point, you make the mistake of closing your eyes as you lean back. You aren’t sleeping, but it just feels nice to rest your eyes, the alcohol making it’s way through your blood stream. Your head lolls to the side and onto a firm shoulder.

“You okay?” Doyoung calls softly to you. You can feel his warm breath close to you and his arm wrap around your form to steady you.

You hum in response, cracking one eye open.

He’s right in front of you, and as his full face comes into view, backlit by the dim lighting in the club, your thoughts betray you.

You like seeing so many sides of Doyoung: annoyed, happy, excited. Yet you want to see yet another side of him—one different from all the rest.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s a gentle peck, nothing crazy, but it feels like the air stills around you. Like the music and chatter in the background have silenced, like only the two of you exist.

Doyoung doesn’t react like how you think. He doesn’t freeze, get mad, push you away.

No, he closes his eyes, his arm around you holding you tighter, pulling you closer, and meets your lips with his. It’s longer than the one you gave him. You can taste the alcohol on his breath.

His hand trails down your back down to your waist, tugging you closer to him, his kisses deepening.

Your arms wrap around his neck like you’ve done this with him a million times before, and you take the initiative to deepen it even more, loving the way he gasps a bit when your tongue meets his.

The two of you make out for who knows how long, but even when he pulls back, out of breath, lips glistening—you chase him. It all feels too good, and you want more.

He pulls back again.

“You’re drunk.”

The corners of your lips pull up.

“No, you are.”

He sighs, leaning his forehead on yours.

“We’re both drunk.”

“Then it cancels out!”

He lets out another more exasperated sigh, but his lips pull into a smile as well.

“Not how it works.”

Pulling the inside of your lip between your teeth, your eyes trail from his eyes, down to his lips, and back up to his eyes. He groans.

“Don’t look at me like that.” You bat your eyes innocently.

“Like what, baby?” you tease, but you know where this is going. His eyes darken at the affectionate name. You’re drunk, but you’re entirely in your right mind when you say you need to fuck Doyoung in this moment.

You never really thought about it before despite knowing he was an attractive guy, but the second he walked into the bar looking the way he did, talking to you the way he did, touching you the way he did—there was an unmistakable feeling of desire.

And he seems to have the same feeling, apparent in the way both of you stumble out of the bar, giggling as he keeps a hand wrapped around your waist firmly, his hold on you not faltering even in the taxi back to the guest house.

His lips are back on yours as soon as you’re inside. He pushes you up against the front door as soon as it’s closed, locking it with a click behind you.

He runs his lips down your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down its expanse that send shivers through your entire body. For someone usually so patient (through not necessarily without complaints), he’s so impatient, running his hands down your waist and hips, bunching up the bottom of your dress in his hands.

“Fuck, Doyoung, do something,” you moan, and you’re met with his dark gaze.

He falls to his knees, pulling your bottom half towards him, your back still resting on the door. He pushes up your dress, throwing one of your legs over his shoulders.

“Shut up,” he mumbles out, attaching his mouth to your core over your underwear. Your other leg trembles, and it would give out if not for the hold he has on your thigh and ass. He digs his tongue between your folds, finding your clit and pressing the material against it in circles.

You grasp at his hair, tugging slightly, and he groans into your pussy, sending vibrations through your clothed core. Your chest heaves as he has his way with you, moving his tongue from side to side until you’re shaking.

The feeling of the slick, rough fabric pushed by his warm tongue sends shocks down your system, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re cumming with a loud cry, your head shooting up.

You don’t get a chance to recover before Doyoung has you on the bed, him helping you slide your dress up over your head. You take a look at the bit of his chest that peeks out from his shirt.

“You, too. Take it off, Doie,” you in plead, and grins.

“I helped you, why don’t you help me out?” he asks playfully, and in a flash you’re fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, taking in every bit of toned skin that comes into view. You run your hands down his chest, loving the way he shudders under your touch.

“Don’t play, baby.”

He pushes you back in the bed, shrugging his pants off. He kisses down your bare chest, palm kneading at your chest, his lips wrapping around one of your nipples as his tongue glides across it.

You moan at the sensation—everywhere he touches feels like it’s on fire. His hot breath on your skin feels more intoxicating than the liquor pumping through your veins.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters under his breath, “so fucking beautiful.”

His lips trail up back to yours, kissing you even deeper, pressing you into the sheets, grinding his knee into your bare cunt. You moan into his mouth, moving your hips along with his motions.

And all of a sudden, the need to be filled up is far too overwhelming. “Doyoung, please, please,” you cry into his mouth.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, pretty girl,” he assures, his voice low and rough as if he’s holding himself back. “Condoms?”

Your head is clouded with desire, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted anyone more than in this moment.

“I’m clean, I’m on the pill—just, please, Doyoung. Please,” you cry.

As if something snaps, he groans, pulling himself from his underwear—his cock stands painfully hard, and you feel yourself salivate at the sight. He spits into his hand, quickly coating his member in his spit, and lines up between your legs.

“Bear with me okay—tell me if it hurts, pretty,” he instructs before pushing into your entrance with a hiss. The stretch burns, but it burns so fucking good, and you move your hips to try and get more of him in you.

“Sh-shit,” he pushes on your lower stomach to hold you in place, but it just leaves you wanting more, your chest heaving with pure desire. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“I’ll give you what you want, just stay still,” he growls, moving both hands to your hips, keeping you in place. “Don’t wanna hurt you, baby. Let me take care of you.” You squirm in his hold, but it’s no use—he pins you there with his strong grip until he’s fully sheathed himself in you.

And fuck, it feels so good, so full. And as he starts shallowly thrusting, testing the waters all while gauging the way your expression twists with a watchful eye, all you can do is just lay there and *take it—*and that in itself is such a new feeling for someone so used to getting what you want on your own.

His eyes swirl with lust, but also awe, and you wonder if he likes seeing your different sides as much as you like seeing his. He starts picking up the pace, his cock reaching into you deeper, and you cry out at the sensation, your hands flying to his shoulders to hold onto something.

He sets a steady rhythm, though sometimes his hips stutter sloppily, undoubtedly from the leftover alcohol in his system, and the silver chain hanging around his neck swinging back and forth is hypnotizing.

His gaze never wavers. Even when your eyes roll back, shut, or you move your head around from the sensations of getting pounded into the mattress, his eyes are always on you when your gaze returns to him—and Doyoung looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

The only words exchanged between the slapping sound of skin on skin and the burning sensation between your legs are curses and strings of his name from you and sweet whispers and praises from him.

“So beautiful, so fucking pretty,” he groans like a mantra, “pretty girl like you deserves everything—fuck—gonna take such good care of you.”

You clench around him at the sweet promises, your mind spinning with only thoughts of Doyoung, Doyoung, and Doyoung. You want him to take care of you, you want to be under him, letting him do whatever he wants to you. The feeling of his skin on yours just feels so right.

You pull him closer to you, fully wrapping your arms around his neck. He continues pounding into you like there’s no tomorrow as you cling to him for dear life, his deep groans and grunts in your ears.

“L-let go, let me see you when you cum, baby,” he heaves, holding on as long as he can. Your hold on him loosens, but you keep your hands on his shoulders, nails digging into the muscles.

“Hi, beautiful,” he greets as your face comes into view. “Keep those eyes on me, yeah?” The pressure builds and builds at each thrust, your pussy starting to ripple around him until it’s all too much, and your eyes flutter, trying to do as he says and keep your eyes on him.

You cum around him with a loud gasp, your cries filling the room as he rides out your orgasm. He grits his teeth to hold on until you’ve completely finished, feeling a tightness in his own abdomen before pulling out, jerking himself furiously, his cum painting your stomach in streaks.

You both breathe harshly, coming down from your highs, before he collapses right next to you, an arm thrown over you. You’re so tired and everything is hazy, but you’re 100% sober at this point.

Regret should be filling your system at doing this drunk, but it doesn’t. Doyoung grabs his shirt, wiping your stomach, and settles beside you, tucking his arm under your neck.

And just like how it was when he was inside you, lying beside him feels just as right.

You wake up with pain in your head and your body, still in his grasp. Doyoung is still asleep, breathing steadily. He looks so peaceful. Another piece of him added to your memories.

As if he senses you staring, he stirs slightly before his eyes peek open, blinking off sleep as he makes out your features.

“Hi,” he greets, voice deep and scratchy. It stirs something in your stomach.

“Hi.”

There’s a brief silence, the two of you just looking at each other, knowing you have to address how you got to this point. You dread it.

“…Were you okay with everything? I want to let you know I’m completely okay with what happened last night, but I know we were drunk.” he breaks the silence. The fact that he checks in on you first and foremost makes your chest tighten.

“More than okay,” you assure, yet you know you have to make yourself clear. No matter how right it felt in the moment, it isn’t.

This isn’t meant to be any more than what it is on the surface—a one night stand. You can’t commit right now, not while you’re figuring everything out. You can’t do that to anyone, especially not him.

“But..” you start, and he urges you to continue with a soft gaze. “I don’t want things to change between us.”

He’s silent for a bit, his expression unreadable, and you wish in this moment that you could read his mind.

“I’m sorry if this ruins things,” you double down at his silence.

His lips part as if to say something, and he closes it again. You start to get nervous.

“It doesn’t,” he finally responds. “And things don’t have to change.”

You let out a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding. You know Doyoung probably had more to say, but you’re grateful to leave things as is.

He unwraps himself from you, getting up and stretching his arms high over his head with a groan. You stare at his bare back, the broad expanse of his shoulders, every ridge and dip of his muscles. Half of you wants to pull him back down to lay with you, but after what you just said? What he just accepted? It would be unfair.

He peeks back at you. “Mind if I freshen up here before heading to the pools?” he asks, casually as if you didn’t just draw the thickest line between you two. Yet you’re grateful.

“You’re still going even after a night out?”

“Yeah?” he tugs at your covers.

“And you are too, aren’t you?” he asks as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

With a mix of guilt and warmth in your chest, you let him pull you from your sheets, getting ready to go to the tide pools with him—just like any other Sunday.

It’s been 9 months since you first arrived in the city, 8 months and 2 weeks since you met Doyoung, and you’re conflicted.

The half-year mark is usually when you ask yourself if it’s time to move on from your current state of life. Other jobs, other places, other people have lasted longer, but you’d always made the decision that they’d be that way from the half-year mark.

But now coming into almost a year here with no thoughts of leaving feels weird. Is it that you’re enjoying doing nothing?

That may be so, but you’d be stupid if you didn’t admit that there was something keeping you tethered to this beach town—someone.

Your days are spent with Taeyong and Doyoung, together and individually, doing everything from mundane daily chores to visiting nearby cities. You take weekend trips with the two of them, though you’re sure to be back by Sunday for the weekly tide pool visits.

Taeyong is your platonic soulmate, that’s for sure. But Doyoung—you’re not quite sure what role he plays in your life.

You wish you could write it off as a drunken one-night stand, but the way you end up under Doyoung again and again after that night tells otherwise. Drunk, sober— you can’t get enough of him. The feeling of his skin against yours, his lips on yours, his voice in your ear.

Nights are spent at yours until he finally takes you to his place, a quaint 2 bedroom home left to him by his retired parents, and the more you stay, the more you want to. You can feel yourself slipping.

It all hit you one day after a night with Doyoung, waking up wrapped in his arms as the sunlight peeked through the curtains. It wasn’t a Sunday—time with him at some point bled into every other day of the week.

“Where do you see yourself in 5 years?” you had asked out of the blue, lazing around with him well into the afternoon since Doyoung didn’t work that day.

You don’t know what possessed you to ask—thinking that far in the future was something you actively avoided, but something in you wanted to see what he’d say. Maybe you thought his answer might inspire your own.

He pondered for a bit before responding.

“Here, hopefully.”

Another silly question left you before you knew it.

“With who?”

A heavy silence settled between the two of you, one you hadn’t experienced with him in a long time, maybe since the first few times you spent with him. Silence with him is usually comfortable, natural, yet in that moment it felt far too cold.

“I’m not sure.”

You don’t know why your heart sank. Maybe a part of you expected him to say you, wanted him to say you, and what he said next made you feel sick.

“I know I want to get married some day, but who knows?”

Marriage. You’d never even thought of that as a possibility in your life.

Loving someone enough to stay with them forever, denying any other possibilities or paths because you’ve made the decision to intertwine your fate with someone else’s—you don’t think you’re even capable of that.

You feel something for Doyoung, you’re certain about it. You’ve spent most of the time in this town with him, and in that time, you don’t think you’ve wanted anything else.

Yet who’s to say you won’t in the future?

You’ve seen this play out in your life far too many times—wanting something so bad it consumes you, uprooting your life in pursuit, and then repeating the process with something else once the passion cools.

The thought of that happening with Doyoung made you sick.

So you did as you always do—you drew the line.

“I guess you’re stuck with me ‘til you find your wife.”

“…I guess so.” He laughed, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You didn’t notice, too busy pushing down the ache in your chest at the thought of Doyoung finding someone else.

He’s a good guy, one of the best you’ve ever met, maybe. He’s stubborn and honest to a fault, but he also would do anything for his loved ones to be happy. He deserves someone who can give him the same.

That’s what you tell yourself, but the way you glare holes into Doyoung at your usual bar with Taeyong peering at you worriedly tells otherwise.

It had been like any other Saturday night, with you coming into the bar, but Doyoung wasn’t glued to your side as usual. A few drinks flew by when Taeyong leaned in, pointing across the bar.

“Do you think he knows her?” Taeyong asked. You turned your head in the direction he was pointing, and that’s when you saw them.

Doyoung and by his side, a very pretty woman, talking to him animatedly with stars in her eyes.

Your throat tightened, your stomach sank, and your head felt light. A flurry of emotions came all at once, and it was far too overwhelming to process at that moment. You had to look away.

“Maybe,” you replied, turning back to the bar to order another drink. And another. And another.

And pretty soon, Taeyong’s the one nursing you for once, having tapped out earlier. He hands you a glass of water, which you take gratefully, your eyes scanning once again for your missing raven-haired friend.

Every thing seems to move in slow motion as you watch him lean down to her, his lips approaching hers, her hand gripping his arm. You see red.

You push through the few people in your way, ignoring Taeyong’s calls for you to stop, quickly storming up to the two of them. The woman next to him looks at you in surprise, and you don’t even get a good look at her face before you snatch Doyoung’s arm from her grip, tugging him along with you.

She shrieks a shrill “what the fuck?!” but you pay no mind, your only goal to get Doyoung as far away as her from possible.

You end up outside the bar, panting from the sheer adrenaline of what you just did.

“What the hell was that all about?” he asks, and when you finally turn to look at him, your heart sinks.

The sharp glare he had when you first met him is back, but there’s more—there’s shock, anger, maybe even resentment. You don’t remember what resentment on him looked like, but you’re sure it gave a similar feeling.

You let go of him, stumbling back, tongue tied at this unfamiliar side of him. You treasure each moment you meet a new side of Doyoung, but in this moment, you don’t know how to feel.

“Well?” he asks expectantly.

“I-um. Who was that?” You could slap yourself for how dumb you must sound, but it’s the only thing you can think of. He clenches his jaw at the question.

“I met her tonight, she’s nice,” he replied, curtly. Your face pulls into a sour look, and you turn away, a flare of anger rising in your chest. You don’t realize flames have burst in his own chest as well.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” he chides. “Didn’t you say you’ll be here until I find my wife, so what’s your problem?”

His wife—he just met her, how could he be taking it this seriously? You aren’t thinking straight, just combative at the idea that he could do everything he does with you with someone else.

“You think your wife is some random at a bar?”

“Hey, you don’t know her,” he bites back, and your heart sinks at his defense.

“… and you were some random at a bar, too, you know?”

He might as well could have taken your heart and stomped on it with those words. It would feel the same.

Even after all this time, is that all it was? He thinks anyone could have what you two have? You know this is unfair, it’s fucked up of you—it doesn’t make sense after every line you’ve drawn, yet you can’t help it.

You crossed all of them a long time ago.

“What the hell, Doyoung? How dare you compare me to her? You don’t even know her!” you deride him, but your voice betrays you as it trembles.

“I’m so much more than that.”

There’s a long silence. You’re too scared to look up at Doyoung. You don’t want him to hate you, not when you’ve gotten so used to the side of him that looks at you with so much warmth.

With love in his eyes.

Fuck.

“You are.”

His voice cuts through, but it lacks any of the venom it had prior. You finally look up at him, and there it is—that look that makes you feel like the only person in the world.

“You are so much more than that to me.”

He takes a step forward, taking your hand and interlocking his fingers with yours.

“You’re everything.”

It’s as if the air has been completely swiped from your lungs. No words form in your brain or on your tongue.

“I’m not having this conversation while you’re this shit faced, I’m taking you home.”

“I—” your breath gets caught in your throat, your eyes start stinging, and your head is suddenly spinning. All the fight leaves you, and it feels humiliating. You can’t speak.

Doyoung immediately gathers you into his arms, walking you to his car and tucking you into his passenger seat, and you let him. You gaze at the part in his black hair at the top of his head as he bends over you, clicking your seatbelt into place.

You only look out the window as he starts the car, driving you down the streets you’ve come to know well. He places a hand on your thigh, thumb rubbing comforting circles into your skin, and you hate how his touch calms you in a second, yet it’s also a reminder that he’s here. With you.

He helps you into the guest house once you arrive, sitting you down on the bed.

For a while, it’s like nothing is wrong. He grabs your makeup removing wipes from the bathroom, dabbing away the product from your skin—gently, like you’re a precious work of art.

He grabs clothes from your closet, handing them to you.

“Change.”

“Help me.”

And he does, wordlessly pulling your dress over your head, replacing it with a soft oversized t-shirt you’d always told him was your favorite to sleep in. He gets you a glass of water, making sure you drink a good amount before placing it on the bedside table.

“Doyoung,” you call.

“Just sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.”

You bite down your words and lay down, and he sits next to you on the bed. His hand comes to your cheek, wiping at the tears you didn’t even realize started leaving your eyes. Everything feels right with him here, yet in this moment you feel like the worst person in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

The corners of his lips turn up just slightly, and he places a chaste kiss on your forehead.

“It’s okay.”

It’s just before sunset when you wake up, and Doyoung isn’t there.

When was the last time you came home with him and didn’t wake up to him the next morning? He always woke you up, knowing you’d feel some type of way if he didn’t take you with him or at least say goodbye before leaving.

You feel hollow, as if a piece of you is missing.

It’s over.

It’s time to pack it up, move on and figure out what comes next in your life.

Your eyes catch sight of a note next to the water on the bedside table, and you hold it up with shaky hands.

Happy Sunday, beautiful.

You know where to find me.

You’re so scared, so fucking scared, but for the first time, you don’t move away from what scares you, you run towards it.

Your heart is both at rest and unrest when you see his silhouette at the tide pools, the sunset illuminating him in an array of golden colors. You’re out of breath when you approach him, but you speak before he can even turn around.

“Do you want me?”

The question hangs heavily in the distance between you two.

“What a stupid question,” and he looks like he’s in physical pain when he turns towards you, yet the warmth in his eyes is still there.

“I always want you, but every time I wake up to you, I have to remind myself that you don’t want me in the same way.”

He couldn't be more wrong.

“I think I love you,” you confess, quietly, as if you can't believe you're saying it yourself.

And it’s his turn to be speechless, mouth parted as his eyes widen at your confession.

“I want you, Doyoung— I want you so badly it hurts. This must be so selfish, but part of me thinks—no, wants to stay here forever, but another part of me is so fucking scared.”

He comes closer to you, gathering you in his arms as he always does. “Scared of what, baby?” Everything spills.

“I’m scared that this will just be like every other thing in my life—one day something is the center of my life, and then all of a sudden it means nothing. I won’t find meaning in it and go looking for the next best thing.”

“And is that how you feel about me?” he asks, and it breaks your heart.

“No! No… but what do I do if my feelings go away?” You feel choked up as you pour your heart out to him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Doyoung,” you sob, and he pulls you to his chest, letting your tears soak his shirt as his hand rubs soothingly up and down your back. He just lets you let it out, and once you’ve calmed slightly, he continues.

“Please be honest with me—have you… have you felt the way you do for me about anyone else?”

His question hits you square in the chest—harder than any question has ever hit.

Because if you really think about it, every job you’ve had, every hobby you’ve explored, every place you’ve been, every person you’ve met—they’ve never made you feel this way. You’ve always chased and chased fulfillment, but he didn’t need to be chased—he was there, he was willing, he was home.

The thought of leaving terrifies you—and you’ve never felt that way. You’ve lived the pattern of passion and burn-out, but passion has never felt like this.

It’s never felt like the fresh ocean breeze on a sunny day, like the feeling of smooth, jet-black hair threaded between your fingers, like discovering new things about the same person every day and wanting to.

“You don’t have to answer that—actually don’t,” he says, still holding you against his chest. “I’m an adult, you know. I may not have seen as much of the world as you have, but I know what I want.”

You push back slightly so you can look at him, and you can see unshed tears in his eyes, too.

“You can do whatever you want, go wherever you want, but if you want me—really want me, then be selfish. Let me be yours. Let me be yours until you think you don’t want me anymore.”

You can’t help the tears that resurface, sniffling as your heart starts to settle.

“Then I’ll remind you again what it felt like in this moment.”

“And how the hell will you do that?” you ask between your tears and hiccups.

“I don't know, but trust me, I’ll figure it out.”

You laugh, and the gummy smile you’ve come to love lights his face.

“I’ve never felt this way about anyone else,” he assures, holding your face in his hands.

“And I don’t think I ever will.”

His gaze is unwavering, and every last bit of resolve crumbles.

“Please be mine Doyoung, please,” you cry, flinging your arms around him as you bring your mouth to his, the salty taste of your tears sitting between the two of you. When you separate, breathless, his smile has brightened even more. It's the brightest smile you’ve ever seen on him.

“Only if you’ll be mine, too.”

And for the first time in your life, the idea of forever doesn’t feel like the end, but just the beginning.

a/n: it’s done!!!!!!!!!!! this one goes out to my hyperfixaters...... guys,, getting myself to write anything, let alone a full fic, without absolutely hating and scrapping it has been a hard journey. but i'm doing my best, and hopefully that comes across in this fic :') a love letter to doyoung before he goes </3

also no weed??? in my sobriety era! jk ofc not, i just dont want my stuff to get redundant so im branching out, trying new things :)) thank you to bestie boo @onriyuview for beta reading!

please let me know your thoughts on this, feedback and shares are always welcome and appreciated greatly.

-coco <3

[doietopia]

hi hi!! i have a request that i think might suit your writing! what about something with a princess reader and knight jisung? basically one where they knew each other when they were little, and now these days jisung is assigned to be the princess's personal bodyguard, so that's what he's doing now. and so they spend time together and have happy and sweet times, and jisung is a cutie knight. i think something fluffy like this would be really nice! 🥺

hiiiii anon! 🙈 thanks for the idea! i just posted it here. actually i loved the idea so i got a little carried away and wrote a whole 1.7k words hehe. i really really hope you like it.

[doietopia]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ one pace behind — p.js

pairing: knight!jisung x princess!reader genre and content: fluff, soft, childhood friends, royal au, bodyguard x princess. wc: 1.7k

it’s been almost eight years since you last saw jisung. he was the son of the man who had saved your father’s life more times than anyone dared to count. when his parents died, your father took him in, fed him, treated him like one of your own. jisung grew up in the palace with you, slept in the servant halls but wandered the corridors like he belonged. and maybe, in a way, he did.

you said nothing when he stepped through the throne room doors, afternoon light spilling across the marble floor, gilding his armor as if the heavens themselves wished to herald his return.

you stood frozen when your father’s voice rang out, naming him your protector, your personal guard. you scarcely heard the words. your gaze remained fastened to jisung, and he did not look at you. not immediately.

when the court was dismissed, you caught his sleeve as he turned.

“jisung,” you whispered, so softly it felt as though your voice might shatter something if spoken aloud.

he lifted his eyes. the same wide, honest gaze you remembered from childhood, like a sweet thorn lodged in your memory. his lips parted, as if to speak something long-rehearsed, but instead simply bowed again. formal. stiff. as if you were a stranger to him.

that night, you did not sleep.

your father had explained the decision as a matter of politics, your official presentation as heir to the throne. for the first time, you would stand before the court, the nobles, the people. visible. vulnerable. “you’ll no longer be a child hiding behind palace walls,” he said, his gaze steady. “and visibility is dangerous.” and for that, your father wanted someone by your side whom he trusted more than his own shadow.

“he knows you better than anyone,” he had said, and though his voice was fond, a chill passed through you. “and you know him. there is no one more loyal than jisung.”

you remembered him quiet, his ears turning red each time you spoke to him, his fingers muddy from when you dragged him through fields in search of frogs to scare your younger siblings or the maids. jisung, who flinched when you threw petals in his face and told him it was a curse. jisung, who never quite learned how to say no to you. jisung, who trembled when you climbed trees and then climbed up after you, not to join in the mischief, but to keep you from falling. jisung, who vanished the day he was accepted into the guard, and never wrote again.

you almost don’t recognize him when you first see him again. he’s taller now, broad-shouldered, his eyes sharper under his fringe of dark hair. the boy is gone. in his place stands a knight. sir jisung, son of the late sir haneul, whose loyalty had been legend.

he still doesn’t say much. just sighs and follows. you splash through the river; he pulls off his boots and follows. you climb the crumbling wall behind the stables; he’s there behind you, arms out, just in case. nearly eight years had passed, and still, jisung looked at you as though you had dirt on your knees and a wooden sword clutched in your hand.

“you’re supposed to stop me,” you tease him once, breathless from running.

“i’m supposed to keep you safe,” he replies, without meeting your eyes.

you laugh. he follows. some things never change.

like today, when you escaped from your dancing lesson for the third time that week. the waltz music grated against your ears; the pearls at your throat felt more like chains. the valley beyond the hill was just as it had always been, windblown and wild, thick with flowers. you left your shoes by the staircase and slipped past the sentries who, by now, knew better than to stop you. you ran, skirts lifted, laughter tearing free from your throat. and behind you, came his footsteps. never quite beside you. always one pace behind.

“you ought to be in class,” he said when he finally caught up to you, and you laughed, bright and sudden, sending birds scattering from the trees.

jisung stands at the edge of the hill, hesitating. always hesitating. he watches you the way one might watch the sea, awed, unsure if he is permitted to wade into its depths.

“you ought to say something more interesting,” you called back, turning to face him, arms outstretched as the wind tangled in your hair. “or have knights forgotten how to speak?”

he said nothing. only lowered his gaze again. but the corners of his lips twitched, as if a smile had nearly escaped him.

you knew he followed out of duty. because your father had asked him to. but when you sat down in the grass and tossed a twig at him in jest, he didn’t dodge it. he simply sat beside you and let it fall from his head with a quiet sigh.

“you haven’t changed,” he murmured.

he meets your eyes at last. and for a heartbeat, the air tastes like spring again. like grass-stained linen and raspberry tarts.

“haven’t i?” you asked. “what about you?” you teased softly. “still following me, sir jisung?”

he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. the wind tousled the fringe across his brow. something in his expression shifted, perhaps no. perhaps he was no longer the same boy. but for now, you chose not to ask.

“i was instructed to protect you, my lady.”

“from whom?” you ask, throwing your head back, laughing. “from the flowers? the bees? or perhaps from my own boredom?”

“there are letters,” he says, quietly. “threats. your father did not exaggerate the danger.”

“and you’re to protect me, alone?” you ask, not mocking, only curious. “you, who used to cry when i climbed the walnut tree and refused to come down?”

his expression tightens, but not with anger. with memory.

“i never cried.”

“you did. your face went all red, and you told me you’d throw yourself after me if i fell.”

“i meant it,” he says, so softly that it makes your chest ache. you look away. the wind picks up. the hills ripple like waves. you lie back into the grass and close your eyes.

“do you miss it?” you ask. “before all of this. before the court, the titles, the rules.”

there is a long pause.

“i missed you,” he says. the words fall like stones into still water, breaking the surface between you.

you open your eyes. he is looking at the sky, not at you, as though ashamed of having said it. you do not respond. you only reach out, fingers grazing the grass between you, and for a moment, his hand moves, as if to meet yours. but the distance remains.

a few week later, you’re in the orchard garden, one shoe missing and your fingers sticky from the fruit you weren’t supposed to pick, let alone eat. the sun hangs low and lazy in the sky, painting everything in amber, and jisung, dutiful, exasperated, ever trailing behind you, is attempting to scold you while you hide behind a tree trunk.

“you’re a princess,” he calls out, voice already tired with fondness. “not a raccoon.”

“raccoons are clever,” you counter, leaning out just far enough to toss the peach pit at his feet. “and they don’t have to sit through royal etiquette lessons.”

he sighs, picking up the pit like it’s evidence in a crime. “i was instructed to escort you to the council chamber at four.”

“it’s four-thirty.”

“exactly.”

you dart from one tree to another, giggling when he almost catches your sleeve. the silk of your dress snags on a branch but you don’t care. you’re already barefoot, crown forgotten on a stone bench behind you, your hair coming undone in the wind. for a moment, you feel like a child again. for a moment, so does he.

he finally manages to corner you between the old pear tree and the garden wall, breath caught between laughter and resignation.

“are you planning to outrun me forever?” he asks, arms folded, trying to look stern.

“maybe,” you say, grinning. “you’ve always been slower than me.”

he raises an eyebrow. “i let you win.”

“that sounds like something a loser would say.”

his mouth twitches. the faintest, rarest smile. “you’ve got peach on your cheek.”

you blink. “do i?”

“mhm.” he steps closer, and for a heartbeat you forget how to stand still. he lifts a hand, hesitates again, but then brushes your cheek with his thumb, light as a whisper. you’re certain your heart makes a sound.

“there,” he says, as if the touch hadn’t nearly undone you both.

you scrunch your nose. “how gallant of you, sir jisung.”

“someone has to keep you from looking like a mess.”

you reach up and stick your peach-sticky finger on his nose.

he blinks, stunned. and then, laughs. it’s so unexpected that you freeze, and for the first time in years, you hear it clearly: jisung’s real laugh, bright and boyish, like sunlight through a window no one thought to open.

you sit beside him again, skirt pooling over the grass, your head tilted back to watch the sky turn gray. you lie back and sigh, letting the quiet settle into your bones. “it’s going to rain tonight,” you murmur, eyes closed.

jisung hums beside you. “you always say that.”

“and i’m always right.”

“not always. you once claimed the moon was following you.”

“it was,” you insist, a smile tugging at your lips. “i just happened to be more interesting than anything else in the sky”

“you still are,” he says, and then goes terribly still, as if he hadn’t meant to let the words escape.

you open your eyes, turning your face toward him, but he’s already pretending to watch the clouds again. his expression unreadable, but his ears, just barely, have gone pink at the tips. his hands rest stiffly over his knees, like he’s afraid they might move on their own.

you want to say something. you want to ask him why he left without writing. you want to ask if he thought of you at all. you want to ask if he still does. but instead, you sit up and pluck a blade of grass from the earth, twisting it between your fingers.

“you’ll get in trouble if i’m late again,” you murmur.

he exhales slowly, and you hear him shift behind you. “then let’s make it worth the trouble.”

you turn, startled, but jisung is already standing, hand outstretched, not as a knight offering duty, but as a boy remembering how it felt to follow you into sunlight.

[doietopia]

i loved this sm

this night has opened my eyes | j.jh

→sister’s fiancé!jaehyun x f!reader

genre: smut, angst, close proximity attraction, forbidden affairs, 80s au, and familial relationships study

synopsis: grief hits everyone differently, especially when so close to a major "once in a lifetime" event. you try to not judge everyone's character but how can you not when emotions are conflicting and it doesn't help that your sister's fiancé is the only one helping you cope.

warning(s): ADULTS ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! generational trauma, mentions of child emotional neglect, grief, cheating, smoking, alcohol consumption, emotional repression (minor memory loss), some fingering, semi-handjob, unprotected and rough sex, creampie, jaehyun a lil ooc, somewhat one-sided, lack of chemistry (their lonelyness tries to say otherwise), this one is for the eldest daughters with mommy issues

wc: 21.1k+ || anthology masterlist || soundtrack || ao3

© 2025 YOJEONGIN all rights reserved — please DO NOT translate, take, nor repost any of my works on other platforms. reblogs are HIGHLY appreciated and preferred!

disclaimer: this is purely fictional; in no way am I condoning this behavior, trying to offend anyone, nor is it meant to place such image on the idol, these are only characters. read at your own discretion.

an: well I lied about posting last week. I'm fond of lying and worst scenario did happen and I'm posting in may. anyways, tried hard to make them lack chemistry so you guys tell me how that turned out.

This is your punishment. It must be. Why is it that when you’re finally at ease with life, something has to ruin your stable comfort? You swore you wouldn't come back to this town unless a major celebration or an emergency would occur. Unfortunately, it so happens that both had transpired at the same time. In the worst way possible.

A year and a half ago your sister had met someone. It only took nine months of being together for them to get engaged and your entire family knew besides you. Chances are you would have remained in the dark even after the event if the pyramid schemer of your cousin hadn't called you about the possibility of lending her money to pay for the items she was supposed to sell. 

Merciless enough and with no regard for your sister, she spilled it all to you along with ridicule laced in each word. Reveling and laughing at the theory of your sister possibly being pregnant. Interlaced jealousy for obtaining a “great catch”.

You don't entertain it, humming with faux excitement despite dreading the fact that you're now expected to send a letter to your sister letting her know how happy you are for her. Whether you truly were or didn't care, did not matter. You expected nothing out of it, nothing was supposed to happen after all, per usual. It was all courtesy. 

Silence from your sister was always a better reward than having her talk your ear off about anything she was fairly interested in. The matter becomes worse knowing she dreaded talking to you overall, therefore it was a waste of time for you both.

Unfortunately, days later you received a phone call where she, in fact, talked your ear off about the guy she was engaged to and what she had in mind for her celebration. It’s not like she was having fun telling you about it, she didn’t plan for you to find out to begin with. But again, it was all courtesy. Hoping that this would make you feel included enough to send her a gift without invitation.

The call extended for longer despite the long periods of silence on both ends. She had waited and waited, with no signs of you asking what she wanted, leading her to hang up feigning a dinner with her fiance. Truth is she scoffed rolling her eyes and petulantly stomping around knowing she would have to invite you now if she wanted a gift.

Two months later a wedding invitation was sent to your apartment. Reading over the script typeface with all of its coiled swashes, embossed flowers, and the underlying inked words that scream at you to not go, to not entertain this and just send the damn gift. Courtesy, it's all about courtesy.

You didn’t hear from any of your family members again after receiving that piece of cardstock. Not until a week before the wedding day. Merciless Friday. By Friday, life has killed you.

You had planned on leaving a day before the date. You were in no rush to visit anyone in that town nor did you plan to stay long after the ceremony. Like a business trip, that’s what you were treating it as.

Simply, your plan was to get a round trip ticket. The departing flight back home after the ceremony, possibly at the middle of it, or worst case scenario: the following morning. All to avoid being berated by your mother or aunts; with no plan to overstay your visit.

That was the plan, yet again the universe was so humorous that when you picked up the phone to hear your father talk to you casually with long gaps in between his words, you knew something was awfully wrong. He didn’t specify the reason for his call nor did he give you much information about how his fig tree wasn’t looking too good and most likely would not make it for fig season. 

It was quick and brief, that should have been telling. Your mother would have called you selfish for not noticing the small things but those words were customary for her so you didn’t take them to heart. You haven’t in years, you would like to think. 

Now you look at those same trees, nodding to yourself about how correct he was. Branches too frail and crackly, snapping with a swipe of a finger. They used to be so strong, even in these winter temperatures with biting and prickling coldness. The one your mother often caused within you and now it’s odd knowing that’s what she must have felt last night. 

It’s strange to come back and notice the state of the weather. A town usually disgustingly humid, scaldingly hot, and sunny was now replicating your current city. Gloomy and rainy, the humidity never leaves but the disgust clings to the feeling in your chest as cousins, uncles, and aunts rush out of your childhood home with box sets of silverware, easy and light furniture, and china that had not been locked away. 

A cheery smile on their faces, patting you as a welcome while stuffing their rickety cars with your parents’ belongings. You don’t question it, you always expected this from them. The best you can do now, is close the door in their faces when the youngest of your cousins walks out with your father’s broken Atari in his grimy hands.

So young and already so rotten.

It’s not the fact that they are taking the things, it’s more so that none of them bothered to let you know your mother had died Friday morning or looked to be mourning. Or how she had been battling a nasty infection due to the thorns in her rose bushes. How rapidly the fungus had consumed her cells.

The house is eerie and cold; silence was never this stiff. Biting and dull, but never static. The large portraits of your mother scattered around the walls feeling more patronizing than ever before. You can already imagine what she must be thinking about you all the way from purgatory. “Typical, you could not even bother to show before my last breaths.” A scoff, turning up her nose with a shake of her head to avoid looking at you. 

Disgust, disgust, disgust.

It doesn’t take long to find your father in their shared bedroom. Sitting idly on the edge of the bed looking out the window. A usual position, now enveloped with grief and despair. Not his ordinary nonchalance and comfort. He was a shell of a man from when you last saw him. Then again, that was two years ago for their silver anniversary where your mother scolded you for not helping or for not doing things the way she wanted them.

You remember clearly ending that night in the train station with your suitcase. Your father dropping you off while affirming that they loved you despite all your mother had spewed the entire visit. You both smiled fondly before hugging and patting each other’s cheeks. He knew you well enough to leave before your train arrived, giving you a breather and letting out all your grievances, leaving them here and not taking them back home. 

“Hey…” Your meek voice causes his hand to twitch, not turning to look at you. “How are you holding up?” You question, hand sliding down his shoulder to rub comfortingly. You feel his chest rumble, your fingers thrumming against his wool sweater. “I told you the fig tree was not going to hold on until spring.” He answers slowly, eyeing how the branches snapped with the breeze.

“You did.”

Silence befalls, it’s uncomfortable yet comfortable. The contradiction makes it far more confusing on your end. You’re not too sure how he feels. Perhaps you should say something, something stupid or mundane but something. These days you're far more unaware of what to do or think. 

“Hey, dad?” “Hey, dad!”

There’s a clear difference in the way those words are uttered. In the way the voices sound and how they roll off each other’s tongues but ultimately both of you turn towards the door, seeing your sister stand with a cheery smile – a tad duller when her eyes fall on you. The most she gives you besides a hum, unphased by your presence. 

“The morgue is on the line.” She utters, chin turning to point towards the phone on your mother’s nightstand. Your father makes no effort to answer, leaving it to both of you to decide. Ultimately, you reach for the device, the cold plastic uncomfortable against your ear. 

“Hello?” “With the family of Mrs. Y/l/n?” “Yes…”

Taken aback by your lack of warmth, the mortuary technician hums, “We wanted to inform you that we got results back from the police station and after the autopsy, Mrs. Y/l/n is ready to be transferred to the services you’ve chosen. Since she is an identified body, we can only keep her for a week at best. She does have to be transferred for burial or a different mortuary by the time frame.” 

Confused, you turn to your father. His lack of response makes you turn to your sister who looks at you like you’re crazy for whatever you haven’t told them. “What?— I thought you guys handled funeral services as well?” You answer, clutching the hard plastic in your hand.

“Unfortunately, no. Not yet at least, but there are multiple funeral homes around the area that you can contact and we can transfer the body to them for the burial or their own morgue. It just has to be before the week ends. Fortunately, it’s a busy season– Unfortunately, I mean! Sorry… We will need the space.” Catching his mistake he laughs nervously, pulling the last remaining hair strand on his balding head.

“Give me a second.” You grumble, your mother’s lipstick still plastered against the bottom half of the phone. “Have you looked into funeral home services?” You whisper, looking at your standing sister who shakes her head vigorously. There’s no way your father had the will to do so and you don’t ask him but the gnawing feeling of the lack of organization is eating at you already.

With a sigh you pick up the phone from your lap, taking your time to answer. “We don’t yet have a plan… Is there no way we can get more time?” You almost beg, was it not for his disinterested whiny voice while twirling the spiral cord around his finger. “Yeah, no… That’s quite unfortunate, yeah.” He hums, patronizing. It irritates you beyond belief. To the point where you hang up before even giving him a definitive answer.

“A week! That’s all we get to find any funeral services or she’ll get tossed out like a butchery carcass!” You’re not sure if you’re more irritated from the call, your sister’s nonchalance, or the fact that you care more than you allowed yourself on the flight back.

"A week?!" Your sister screeches, "My wedding is a week! We can't possibly do that!" Her hands come to her head, distress covering her face like a wedding being pushed back would be the bigger tragedy out of this. Your slow turn of head and slotting eyes don't phase her but your words do irk her.

"Mom just died and you're more worried about a wedding?...”

 "It's not that! It's just that— the wedding is already planned. Mom's funeral isn't, we don't have anything to look for and especially in this short amount of time." She covers up, nodding like it was the best excuse she has ever come with. Was it not for your father's voice catching both of your attention and his slow monotone tone, you would have finally slapped the sense into her that you should've done years ago if allowed.

"Your mother began saving up for this, months ago. I don't think it's much but we will find out when her lawyer arrives tomorrow to read her will." He pauses, "We will make do." He concludes with a nod to himself.

It's not enough for you. That goes to say there's virtually nothing when funerals cost an arm and a leg. You don't even know how much her payment plan was so what gave you the reassurance that you could do anything with that. No, you had to think for the three of you. Like — fucking — usual.

"Aren't you paying for the wedding too?" You turn to him. He nods, "We will make do."

No. No, it's not that simple.

"Your wedding is in a week, there's no reason for you to spend anymore. How about we cut that off already and you can help with the funeral preparations." You speak sternly to your sister. That desperation and anger lacing every single one of your words.

"What?! No, you can't just cut me off! I still have to pay the catering and flower vendors. That doesn't go into action until Tuesday." It's crazy to see how maniac she became in an instant. Her hair disheveled the further her fingers threaded through it. "You can't have me present my guests beautiful decor just to serve their food on paper plates, can you? That's tacky!" She groans, petulantly turning to your father for back up.

"We will make do."

Are you satisfied? No, but you're exhausted and quite honestly jet lagged. This has been enough interacting with your sister and your father's enabling that you decide to throw the towel and shake your head.

"Fine. But you'll have to help me with the funeral services and finding an adequate funeral home."

She's pushed her luck already, and she knows it. "Fine."

It should have been an obvious sign that normal days were left behind when you arrived. What used to be quaint mornings in this town were now loud and obnoxious. Things were different in a sense that you had not expected. The blaring of a nightstand alarm transformed into an irritating screech of the fire alarm calling your name over and over to turn it off. Bike bells from the paperboy calling for the daily paper were now incessant honks tattle-telling on the neighborhood boys that kicked balls at whatever car was left outside the garage.

Whether your body wanted it or not, you pushed off the mattress that was once your safe haven. Now it was hard as rock and the cause of your aching muscles that wept with every step down the stairs. Your mother’s penetrative glare through all those portraits adding onto your pain. 

Upon hearing your steps, your father turns with a blank look on his face but an apology in his eyes. You let out a sigh and a reassuring smile on your lips, turning off the stove and moving the pan away. “I burnt the eggs.” He utters monotonously, each word spoken with every step you take towards the fire alarm. “A coward egg. Preferring to burn than to be eaten. It’s okay, the next one will be brave.” You think you can see a smile on his face although blocked by the fabric of your pajamas and sprawled hair. 

“Those damn kids, running around the street when cars are leaving for church.” Your sister had interrupted any sense of tranquility (if any) with complaints. Her eyebrows furrowed and a frown on her face that becomes teasing when she sees you on a chair, mangling the fire alarm. 

It’s mocking you think, the way she looks at you. “What did you do? You’ve only been here for a few hours.” And your glare gives her the response she was looking for. Receiving you with a teasing scoff, almost turned into a giggle while she swivels towards your dad, kissing his cheek good morning. 

“Geez, relax. I was just kidding.” She huffs, “Look who woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” Usually comments as such warranted extensive berating from her and  your mother. Your aunts if they were visiting but now it’s just you two and your dad. Your catatonic dad that can only give her the same blank look and words he’s given you: “I burnt the eggs.”

She kisses his head, smiles reassuringly, reaching for the pan to toss out the now cold eggs. “It’s okay, I’ll make you some.” It’s similar enough, you’re sisters after all. 

You manage to silence the fire alarm, bringing tranquility for a second before three rhythmic knocks are heard at the front door. Your sister and you share a glance, questioning with an indication for you to open the door. It’s something menial that you won’t fight her over, rather you just do it to let the starch pressed suit wearing lawyer inside the house. 

He’s roughly a head taller than you, lankier and awkward but in a way that makes him seem snooty. He gives you a glance and a muted greeting smile. He attempts to share some pleasantries but you don’t let him, leading him to the living room where the other two had gathered already. Eggs and stove long forgotten. 

“Good morning,” he utters, “Only you three will join us?” He asks, fingers threading through the cuff links of his suit. They’re rusted, staining his dress shirt with every move. He knows it and hates that others do too but he can’t be bothered to change them. Rather they’re his only ones. 

“Yes, morning.” You answer with a nod, sitting besides him. “Right.” He mutters, clearing his throat, fumbling to open his briefcase. “I’ve brought copies for you all and given the quantity, I consider it best we get straight to it, yes?” The lawyer — who you later learned his name was Mr. Chop, called pork chop by your sister whenever he said something she didn’t like — handed you each a thin packet. Swivel designs on each corner, customary of your mother who most likely brought in her own paper for him to print on whenever the time came. She probably did not expect it to be this early. 

Your father makes no effort to touch it, your sister only flips through it, but you focus on every word and the tone everything is dictated in. Mr. Chop reads in a lousy voice that he’s forced to sound vigorous but his constant voice cracks give out his experience. Not that much.

“For my dear husband,” He fixes the stiff paper under his fingers. “You will find yourself flooded by life insurances all to your name. Enjoy them while you remain, it is your call what you do when you think your time will come.” Mr. Chop clears his throat, turning to you before continuing. “As long as you’re wise if you dare leave anything to Y/n…” 

Typical. It doesn’t make it any less frustrating.

“To my youngest daughter, you’ve always loved the eccentricity of your mother and grandmother. For that, I leave you our jewelry. I know you will do the right thing when it comes to these and you will take good care as I have all these years.” 

You could swear your mother’s doting voice projected through his weak mouth. Sweet when looking at your sister but patronizing and mocking when he turned to you. Just the way the old hag intended. 

Take that back, pinch yourself under the thigh for thinking of your mother as an old hag. No matter how much she’s impacted you, remorse and guilt will always flood you when it comes to her. 

Fuck. 

“Lastly, Y/n. Consider yourself lucky for this letter and your grandmother’s cookbook. Lord knows you could benefit from it. I will not offer you more for you know what you’ve done and you shall live with that your entire life.” 

The paper doesn’t feel heavy under your fingertips. It’s light, translucent, and from the sunlight peeking through the sliding doors leading to the backyard, you can see she did not write much. 

“What about the funeral plan she began? How much is there?” 

Mr. Chop knows there’s urgency in your voice. Desperation and frustration etching themselves across your face while he takes his time to flip through some papers he had not yet taken out. “Yes… it seems your mother did not begin this plan until three months ago that leaves with only—“ he hums, holding his tongue to not sigh and give more pity remarks than he’s already given. “$169 to be exact, not discounting taxes depending on the company. Some funeral plans tend to take out taxes when the money is put to use.” He drops his professional act momentarily to look at you. 

“These insurances… they can cover it, surely. Yes?” It’s the first time your father spoke since the lawyer arrived. Grievance written all over his face, in the way his eyebrows knit like a begging hungry child. His fingers twitch, itching to look for answers in the packet but hold back. As if touching the decorative paper ought to burn his fingers.

Mr. Chop hums for an exaggerated amount, head tilting to ultimately click his tongue. His pen hits his forehead, leaving a tiny blob of ink that you fixate on. “Well, yes… the thing is that insurances take a month to three after the claim. Unfortunately — for some reason — February is high in mortality and it’s going to take longer than that to hear back from the insurance companies.” 

It’s a dead end. A dead end and it seems only your father and you feel the weight of your mother’s body crushing the both. It’s typically you whose hands were freezing cold but now they’re warm against your father’s. Taking them in a tight and reassuring grip, forcing belief into both. He glances at you, apologies flooding his eyes and threatening to escape his lips. Those that you shut with a smile and another squeeze.

“We will make do.” And now you’re fully convinced that he’s smiling. Believing you with no proof or witness, just the fatherly love and remnants of hope he has. He squeezes your hands in return, a sign of compliance.

Mr. Chop doesn’t extend his invite. As soon as it’s settled he makes his exit, leaving the three of you to wonder what should be done. Your father reverted to small talk, managing to nod at some questions and stare blankly at others. That left you and your sister to make calls to funeral homes all day. Alternating between landlines while one of you wrote, analyzed, and organized the price points and deals. All flukes and robberies. 

To say frustration wasn’t getting the best of you was an understatement. How is it that death is perceived as an eternal slumber where you feel no more, yet it leaves those behind you in perpetual suffering. 

Your father won’t explain what he feels but everyone can read it in the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. You’re not too sure how you feel besides uncertainty that makes you scribble harshly against the notepad. Eraser shavings get between the lead and paper, forcing large gaps between words. It bothers you enough to rewrite the words just for another piece to be erased. A cycle that you know you should end but the bubbling ache in your chest makes you continue your angry scribbles until you touch the fresh page underneath.

Faith lets it survive for longer. Intervening through an ecstatic screech that leaves your sister. It gives you hope, seeing her stomp around in a happy dance. Telephone cord wrapping around her body the way her fiance will do in a few days to come. She’s so happy. Your mother is dead, your father is bordering on joining her and your sister is happy. 

“Found a funeral service?” Your voice breaks her out of it. Her wide smile, not flattering as she turns to look at you with faux confusion. That stupid midline diastema was growing but it made her look far more charming than before. Her giggle doesn’t help and for a second you think she’s that same little girl that would pity you when mother scolded for her wrong doings before she joined in on the mockery. 

“What? No!” She unravels the cord, some of it stuck against the buttons of her overalls. “The caterer called back and said they could work with the budget you're forcing me into! I can make this wedding work, Y/n!” If she was to ever touch you it would leave a reminder of her disdain and faux affection. This one, she’s genuinely happy and with no intention to mock you but even when she doesn’t want to, she manages to plague you with that poison your mother created and taught her to inject into you. 

She jumps around, holding your hands with no intention to seize her excited giggles. How can someone be so happy in times like these? Is this what being full of love creates?

“You’re fucking kidding, right?” The words leave your mouth in waves. Lips quiver with every letter and your hold on her hands turn crushing. Her eyebrows furrow, pulling away like a child that’s been zapped with prank gum. She scowls at the ruined moment, “Have you seriously been working on your wedding all this time?!” 

“No…” A scolded child answers, tucking her hands in the denim pockets. “I was making calls too, I just… took a break to answer the caterer.” she murmurs, swinging her body the way she does when consequences attempt to reach her.

“A break… We can’t take fucking breaks, sissy! We have to find a funeral home now or else who knows where mom will end up!” You don’t try to sound so angry or sad. The whine and fire in your voice will betray you the way it always does. “We can’t afford them if you're too fucking worried about your stupid wedding!” 

“Stupid?! Mom was looking forward to it! You would know if you checked in often and didn’t think you’re too good for us! Doesn't your job pay you well? You could possibly pay for this by yourself and leave dad alone.” A leach and a burden is what they’ll always see you as. It’s obvious through the gaps of invisible words she doesn’t spew. 

Despite the scratch created over your soul, you’ve only ever known to cover it with electric tape. It’s sticky and temporary, leaves a disgusting residue if you ever try to remove it but that doesn’t come until you’re ready to fix it. Which you won't, you never do. You never will.

“I am going to pay for it at this rate because you are more worried about a wedding with a guy you met not even a year ago and God trust no one believes it will last.” Condescension and it’s not yet Wednesday. It’s spilled in the same tone she utilizes with you, the difference is she’s never been strong enough to reap what she sews.

There’s fire in her eyes. The same fire she looked at your mother the few times she was reprimanded. The kind that tells you she loathes you with her entire soul and wants nothing but the worst for you. It translates perfectly through her words, ones that make you forget she’s the town sweetheart. 

“You know what your problem is, Y/n? That I’ve always been able to find someone and you haven’t. You’re lonely. A lonely, bitter spinstress. Bitter overall and that’s how you’ll end if you keep acting like this. Mom was right about you. She always has been.” She gives you no time to rebuttal with your own venom. Taking her belongings and slamming the kitchen door behind her while the words ‘naive’ and ‘dumb-fuck’ flood your brain knowing they’re far less offensive than bitter and lonely.

Without trying to dwell, you exit the kitchen as well. Rolling your eyes with a huff as the scene replays. Your mother is gone, there’s no reason for you to hold your tongue, doing that for years has stunted your ability to defend yourself. Your little sister will always have the upper hand the longer you keep your mother’s image etched inside your brain. 

She has no power over you. Not anymore. Free yourself. Try…

You can’t, you probably won’t. Because behind your disappointed father that sits on the steps of the stairs, your mother’s portrait bores holes into you. Engraving every word your sister spat out with far more volition.

Monday: Humiliation

Maybe you were brash with your outburst yesterday. Perhaps you could have handled the discontent better but the longer the argument plays in your head the more and more you think there’s no way you’re going to apologize to your sister for that. Not even when said argument led to you making your way to the first funeral home by foot because she refused to pick up the phone. 

You couldn’t ask your father to drive you there nor were you going to ask anyone else in your family. Those leeches had only made an effort to contact you to ask for more things they could take and when turned down they’d drop their sugar bowls and act as sour as you remember them. It’s laughable. How high and mighty they act but turn into grimy beggars attempting to slither their way into the home for more and more things to steal.

It’s happened a handful of times since your arrival. All ending with you slamming the door in their faces and them calling you the same names your mother used to. Disguising their visit as a form to check on your father without waiting for him to come down the stairs before acting like debt collectors. By now he knows not to come down, he’s always left panting and huffing on the last step when they leave. 

There’s been a few times they’ve been able to fool you. Their appreciation for taking over the funeral plans soothing your soul and causing you to release a content sigh, all to come crumbling when they mention how this was a nice gift for your sister. 

“So kind of you to take this off your sister’s hands. She’s already stressed enough with the wedding, you’re truly an angel, Y/n.” It’s so cut throat, fictitious, and treated like a burden. Each word pierces your jugular and is brought down to your chest, carving a cross over your skin. “God bless you.” The concluding words to whatever game they want to play at. 

“God bless you.”

A laugh leaves your mouth, covering it with your gloved hand as your head shakes. Oh, Y/n… What can you expect from your family? All so selfish and conceited. Spoiled and rotten. Rotten to the core.

The headphones on the Walkman threaten you to stop moving so much, inching closer to snapping off your head and leave you with the sound of cars driving past. Some, confused on why you would walk in this weather and lack of sidewalks. There’s no time to explain that your sister and family are petty. Enough to not take care of your father while you’re gone and the only person you trust to look after him is the neighbor, Mrs. Mimi and her dog Rek. At least with them you know your father’s belongings won’t be gone within minutes. 

Usually you’re not against walking to places. It’s the only thing you can do back in the city where everything is within walking distance and at least the view is pretty. As pretty as skyscrapers and tourists are but it’s better than cracked pavement, rickety old homes with old men sitting on the porch nearly naked despite the freezing temperatures, and roadkill almost every day. Anyhow, you hate to admit that you’d rather see this than the horrendous interior design of this first funeral home.

You can blame the lighting and the textures of every surface. Despite this, nothing justifies how horrendous acid yellow carpeting and neon purple wood paneling look together. Obnoxious in the way that forces your brain to transmit the message of hurling your guts out and nothing would show on the carpet. Perhaps it’s happened before according to the stench — discarding the cadavers below ground.

“Shit show.” You huff under your breath, taking out a notepad from your purse. 

“What was that?” It comes out friendly, playful despite the chill it forces all over your body. Swiveling on your heel to turn to two men emerging from the backroom. They smile acknowledging your presence but don’t press the matter. “Sorry, how may I help you?” The shorter one smiles. It’s scarily similar to Pee-wee Herman’s, far more disturbing. You chalk it up to his growing bald spot, making him look like an aging uncle despite most likely being around your age.

“Hello…” Nervously, your hand waves. “I’m Y/n, I called yesterday about funeral plans.” His ankles click with each other, knees straightening up as his face lights up comically. As if a light bulb actually lit before his eyes. “Right! Ms. Y/l/n, I was just showing Mr. Jung what the plan consists of. Would you want to see it too or do I leave you two to discuss it?” His ominous and strained smile returns, blinking too fast for his own liking and it makes him look frightening but perhaps that uneasiness is what keeps the place in business. 

He doesn’t seem to catch onto your confusion on why you’d talk with the taller stranger beside him. In comparison to the funeral director, the other man is relaxed. His hands remain inside his wool coat, dark as his hair that makes his skin seem brighter. He was a little too pale for this area, even in the winter the sun shines bright. 

You’re within seconds of concluding that he’s an attendant until he speaks up, hands coming out of the coat pockets. “Mr. Holmes, would you mind giving Ms. Y/l/n and I, a minute alone to discuss?” And that only manages to furrow your eyebrows further to the point your eyes may be bulging out. You’ve never been good at hiding your emotions. Your mother made sure to take full advantage of that.

The funeral director isn’t told twice. Leaving a packet with the stranger that thanks him before releasing a heavy sigh and rocking in his heels as his eyes mimic yours. He shakes his head, making an odd expression with his mouth that tells you something you know already.

“Shit show.”

And it bothers you how easy it was for him to knock down your defensiveness to snicker along with him. 

When both seem to calm down, he clears his throat, extending his hand for you to shake. Skeptically you take it, never removing your gloves and clutching the pen in your other hand. “Y/n…” He smiles fondly, his other hand coming to clutch yours as well. It feels odd and it confuses you, enough to bubble up an upset.

“Y/n Y/l/n, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” An airy chuckle of finality escapes him, his head dips as he smiles widely like you’ve known each other for ages while the only thing that crosses your mind is: “Who the fuck is this guy?” It’s obvious in the way you’re giving him that same reserved look from seconds ago. One he chalks up to the distance and he shakes his head to relax.

“From your AP world history and APUSH classes… Remember me?” His voice lilts, eyebrow twitching as he recalls. You truly don’t know what he’s talking about and while his expressions are soft, yours are in perpetual incertitude. “Well, we went to the same middle and high school but- I don’t know, I thought high school would be easier for you to recall. You remember me, right?” 

His tone doesn’t falter, he’s still as joyous as you’ve first heard him. He’s trying his darn best but if you’re being honest to yourself, you have no idea who this man is. Your body betrays you though, faux laugh escaping your lips as you nod. “Yeah! Yeah… AP Biology, right?” Your eyebrows don’t unknit and there is when he begins to question himself. He hums but shakes his head despite his smile slowly falling. 

“No, no… We only had the same AP humanities classes.” “Ah… Yeah, APUSH.”

It’s difficult to understand how easily discomfort settles.

“Victor Asuel, right?” While you smile, he replicates it uncomfortably. “The one that got a perm and had to go bald when it burnt the scalp, yeah?” Jaehyun joins you in an uneasy laugh, shaking his head to awkwardly correct you. “No, Jaehyun. Jung. I sat next to you in world history and well… APUSH.” He chuckles uncomfortably, his hands finally leaving yours to shove them in his coat pockets. Hurt, you’re aware of that.

“Sorry…” It’s a dead end you don’t think you’re able to get out of. Charismatic as he is, he smiles shaking his head. “Forget about it, it’s fine. It’s been a while, yeah.” He nods, looking at your face to memorize all expressions. “It’s been over ten years anyways.” 

Jaehyun sucks in his teeth, sighing afterwards. “I’m also your sister's fiance if that helps.” It’s muted and less exciting than the original topic. It doesn’t help, you had no care of who she was marrying if you’re being sincere but at least you know there’s another reason for him to talk to you. 

“Oh. Okay.” 

“Thoughts on the plan?” This time you try to break the silence. “Shit show.” He repeats, shaking his head with that same nice smile of his. He’s comfortable and that’s good enough for you. “On three we run out?” You suggest and that smile widens showing his pearly whites. The likes, emphasizing the lines around his nose, the type that tells you he’s smiling genuinely hard. 

“Now!” His hand takes a hold of your arm pulling you out of the funeral home while the entrance bell blares for the funeral director that you’re running out without sealing the deal. Mr. Holmes must have smelt the rejection from down the mortuary that he runs upstairs with a bloodied apron still on, stumbling on the disgusting carpet that stains his polished shoes. 

He yells something that sounds like begging whines, intermixed with growls. All fading when he covers his mouth with his fist, the other clutching his disgusting apron. Jaehyun had learned that this funeral home was the most successful one. Not a single decline for the past two years – of course all due to their pushiness. This will be the first time. You make sure to annotate that on the pocket notebook you’ve been clutching since entering.

That initiated your journey of looking through funeral homes with him. Jaehyun wasn’t quiet, he liked to talk a lot. If the dog was pissing on the side of the road he’d laugh then become concerned for its safety but wouldn’t stop the car to help it onto the sidewalk. 

He talked about how horrible the paneling in the second funeral home was. How the humidity had sunk in and now the walls were swollen. He talked about the light fixtures in the second funeral home. The light bulbs were foggy and therefore made the place look disgusting. It reminded you eerily of your mother. Word for word and it made you resent him without trying. Jaehyun talked a lot about everything but mostly about a past that you don’t recall.

“Do you remember Dorcas Reus.” He animatedly questions. “No.” You respond, scowling at how the whipped cream on his milkshake clung to his cheek. “No, I don’t either.” He nods to himself without looking at you. This time he hesitates, lips twisting to the side as he contemplates his next words.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Y/n.” There it is. Took him long enough considering the nature of your time together this day. You reassure him with a smile, nodding while the words slowly process in your brain and your mouth agrees to let them out. It doesn’t want to but your tongue force them out. “Thank you.” He shares a quizzical look, one that tells you that maybe your answer is too cold and simple for people’s liking but it’s the best you can do.

If he had anything to say about it, he ignores it. “Truly, she was like a second mom to me.” There’s sincerity in each word that curdles the milk in your own milkshake, etching a scowl in your face as you push the glass away. 

It’s rich, coming from a stranger. 

It’s rich, of course anything associated with your sister will receive your mother’s love more than you’ve ever felt. 

It’s rich.

“Right.” 

He purses his lips, halting whatever words he had said afterwards from hearing you interject. He breathes through his nose, back firm against the cold backrest of the diner’s booth. It’s easy to sense what he feels, at least in that subject you can relate to him.

“Why isn’t my sister here by the way?”

“Right!” It’s more joyous coming from his mouth. Dwindling when the nature of reality comes back to him and it presents itself as a deep blush across his face and scorching warmth at the back of his neck. He rubs at it to cool it down but your steady gaze makes it unbearable. “You see, we had dinner with some others in your family.” Almost everyone. “And they’re all busy with the wedding, she’s busy with the wedding… I offered, it’s the least I can do for your mom.” 

Words are heavy in his mouth, thumping against the vinyl tabletop and bouncing your way. You know he’s sincere and that makes you hate him a bit more. He has more love for your mother than you and that bothers you. Because while you’re doing it out of self prescribed guilt and obligation he’s doing it because he actually likes her. 

Tuesday: Suffocation 

Jaehyun was much quieter the following day. That’s not to say he didn’t squabble at any given chance. Who knew he was highly passionate about tap shoes. All stemming from you giggling at how ugly some tap shoes in a garbage bin were. He scolded you like you’ve known each other for years. That may be true in his reality but in yours, you have no idea who this man is. 

He fears you’ve suffered from memory loss. Recalling almost every single event that you two went through in your early academic years but when you hum with a nod and he can tell you’re lying about remembering he sighs and nods, giving you a name of a classmate that he hasn’t talked to in years but recalls for some odd reason.

He was highly passionate about paneling as well. Yesterday, that was an important factor that made him discard all the other funeral homes. Today it was the flooring and after touring two other ones that expected you to give them your first born, here he was conversing with the funeral home director the same age as your father about how horrible things have become since Reagan entered. In the short span you’ve been with him, you’ve learned that he’s comfortable and decided. 

Mr. Nix was no better than Jaehyun, jumping from interest to interest like the fleas on the stray cat. He feeds it tuna and deli meats, the only things he will eat, Mr. Nix claims, emerging from the backroom with a packet and a bag of cookies in his other hand. Jaehyun chuckles along with him and you’re thankful that he’s here for the poor old man would be nothing but uncomfortable if it was just you.

He truly has a beautiful funeral home. The walls resemble your grandmother’s. Pristine white but clean with rinceau scrolls wrapping around the bottom and top of each wall. There’s no carpet, thankfully. Beautiful mosaic flooring with spring colors replacing it and form an image of an angel in the center where the body will be seen. It’s too expensive from sight alone and you fear what it will come to but this is for your mother. Even in death you try to please her.

“I’ve circled the pain points and the discounts amounted. We can handle a payment plan. I don’t usually do that but I can trust you folks.” He completes his chuckle, placing the packet on the marble counter. He turns somber, looking at the cookies as if they contain his soul. “Here,” he addresses you after all this time with a smile. “I’m sorry for your loss, dear. Lavender lemon cookies, they were your mom’s favorite… Your dad’s too.” 

The sincerity in his expression makes your chest ache. He knows your parents, he knows what your mother likes and what your father does too. He knows them and is making an effort to acknowledge your dad… unlike the rest of the world. It’s uncharacteristic of you but you sigh with a wide smile, taking the older man into an embrace. 

It takes him by surprise, though, he’s the wiser to know this is a confused little girl that needs some comfort. He pats your head — throwing a look at Jaehyun, one which means more to the younger than intended — while wrapping his own arms around you before you ease out of it within seconds. Embarrassed by yet another public humiliation ritual of your own. 

“Thank you, Mr. Nix… we’ll see you soon.” 

He nods, perplexed by your response. A sheer layer of horror from what Jaehyun’s eyes tell him and for a second he could be confused with clairvoyant if he was to speak his mind. 

Too much affection in one gaze. Too much affection for too little time.

You attempt to flip through the package in the car while he drives to the flower shop you were meant to meet your sister. Albeit, the weight of the cookies in your palm is uncomfortable. The clear bag prickles your skin, unbearable like the touch of microfiber cloth with the exception in which you feel this ten times worse. They smell divinely, you’ll give them that but your mind gnaws with memories you’ve pushed away with this confection in particular. 

Jaehyun is considerate enough to not question it. While he loves to talk, he knows you don’t. The most he utters is: “We’re here.” while he parks the car, a pathetic side smile attempting to comfort you. You thank him regardless, he’s been good enough to sweet talk the directors while you examine what the plans included. 

He’s been company. Good enough company.

There’s only three times you’ve been inside of the flower shop. Once to buy your mother a bouquet for mother’s day that she hated with her entire soul. Second, for your parent’s fifteenth anniversary. And most recently for your mother’s funeral preparations. It’s comforting how nothing has changed besides seasonal flowers and plants.

Your sister doesn’t hesitate to greet him with a kiss when the threshold is crossed. Pushing you aside like any obstacle in her way. Lord only knows your state of mind for this act was comforting and familiar enough that you smile to yourself, something Jaehyun doesn’t miss.

They converse for the time being, you don’t waste time on flipping through the mangled pieces of funeral arrangement catalogs and looking around to find flowers. Some look too old and battered for the price and others are simply to ugly for an arrangement. Well… maybe your mom does deserve those.

You’re not too sure when Jaehyun had joined your side. You only recall your eyebrows knitting when he pointed at something in your pocket notebook. “You misspelled that.” He utters playfully and it bothers you beyond belief that you ripped off the page and begin from the top again while listing all the flowers you thought were good. He responds with nods and hums, similar to the ones you give your sister when she shows you flowers instead of her soon to be husband.

She doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t trust her soon to be husband.

The grating voice in the back of your head keeps gnawing at your brain, reaching your eye sockets and forcing your eyelids to bunch up together the louder your sister laughs with the clerk and Jaehyun’s voice rumbles against your ear drums. Incessant and miserable, yet, not comparable to the twinging screech of the credit card imprinter laughing at you for another failed attempt at maintaining the peace. 

Eyes wide open, your body abrasively turns to your sister and the clerk. Reaching them with three long strides while your eyes bore holes into the imprinter that’s full to the max with your father’s credit card. “What the hell?” It’s raw and vulnerable and so pathetic that you want to rip your hair out when all she musters is a pitiful mocking-faux-confused grin. 

“Why did you ask to meet here if you’re not even helping in finding flower arrangements for mom’s funeral?” Good, less whiny but still pathetic in everyone’s eyes. “Jaehyun is here for that.” She shrugs nonchalantly all the while she signs the receipt the clerk hands her. 

“What’s that for?” Jaehyun interjects in the conversation. His lips are puckered in a way you’ve never seen and his features are sharper than you’d ever imagine they could become. She dismisses him too. With a scoff this time to express her discontent and it makes you question many menial things that shouldn’t matter in this second. “Last minute additions, don’t worry.”

Jaehyun felt far more bothered than you’d think he’d be. Frustration carves itself on his face and for a second you believe the words spewing from his mouth would tattoo themselves onto his face. “We came to a deal that you’d stop spending on the wedding. It’s too near for you to spend willy-nilly when you should worry about your mother!” He does not intend to bawl, obvious by the red that tinges his ears. 

You don’t fall too behind, taking advantage of Jaehyun’s generosity knowing he’d back you up if things worsen. “We had a deal too. You can’t just spend dad’s money on things you don’t need anymore. The caterer was enough, Jesus Christ!” Her name teeters near the precipice of your tongue but that would humanize her too much. 

Bewilderment becomes her new acquaintance. Visibly upset at the turn of events that hold her words off in the back of her throat with a net of saliva too thick to swallow. Airy protests, the best she can utter before her body has mercy on her and she screeches, offendedly at the gang up she’s never experienced before. Only witnessed through your disadvantage.

“Well fucking sue me!” Her arms flail animatedly, harsh when they grace against both your arms ‘accidentally’. Her mouth is still puckered in offended disbelief showing more than her teeth— those gums she’s not fond of. “Fucking sue me for wanting a pretty wedding as a way to cope over mom being fucking dead!” And so bratty. “Cancel it! Cancel the transaction and take the stupid card if I’m such a burden to you two!”

How familiar, how comforting. It brings a smile to your face and your eyes close for a second. She truly is your mother’s daughter. Even in the way she runs out of the flower shop, crocodile tears staining her tulle scarf. 

Her theatrics force your head to shake with an eye roll as you sign the canceling transaction forms. The clerk is upset at the loss but very much entertained with Jaehyun’s dilemma. The man standing in the middle of the store with hands on his hips looking at the crystal door and seeing your sister hop inside the car. 

You don’t hear any crying, that’s something she still needs to learn to do. Cry loud enough to be heard from miles away to get her tantrum through. That’s what mom would do. 

“Lilies or peonies?” You ask the clerk, a contemplative look on her face. She thinks both are horrid but will offer you both to make up for the loss you caused. “Lavender,” Jaehyun answers for her. It shocks you that he’s still in here and not with your sister. No, it upsets you that he’s still here. With you and not her. 

“She hated lavender.” You deny confidently, that is the one thing you’re sure about your mother. He’s kind and gentle, at least his smile is when he attempts to correct you. “She always bought lavender stocks. Said they were the most delicious thing she’s ever known to exist.” It’s a fond memory of his. “Mr. Nix is right. She loved lavender lemon cookies.” 

His stupid chuckle was the lowest blow, not even the way his eyes narrowed pissed you off more than his stupid affectionate tone. And if he had doubts that you were your mothers daughter and his fiancee's sister, he’d be reassured you are with the way you shut the dingy catalogs and shove your pocket notebook into your purse. Brashly walking out of that overbearing floral shop. 

Jaehyun is sweet. He’s kind and patient. He’s understanding, putting his incessant vice of speaking behind to let you think in peace. His glances don’t go unnoticed by you and you don’t know how to take it. His presence annoys you but it’s also very comforting that you don’t know how you’d handle these preparations without his support. It’s a game of push and pull where you’re the only one playing at his expense and he’s still there. Stuck with nostalgia over things you don’t recall.

“Do you remember Karla Morris?” “That’s not a real person.” “I know.” Jaehyun turns to you at a stop light, laughing at your attempt to emulate him. You smile at him flatly which is good enough for him to know you’re feeling better. 

“I want to eat dinner with my dad tonight.” Jaehyun nods, taking a right. “I do too. We’ll pick something up on the way.” He quickly adds before you push him away. So little time and he knows your habits already. Allowing the word ‘alone’ to die in the cavity of your mouth and expel through a sigh that draws you towards the lavender lemon cookies on your lap. Your fingers shiver with a need to crush each one inside the bag.

“She hated lavender lemon cookies. She made it a mission to remind me every day after she spat out the ones I made for her.” A frown tugs at your lips, received with neutral understanding. “Said it tasted like stale soap.” Your chuckle must’ve been so bitter that his hand lands on yours, letting one of the cookies crack underneath the weight.

“How long ago was that?” “I was twelve.” “How old are you now?”

Like clockwork, your neck cranes slowly. Eyes narrowed in a mix of disdain and playfulness. “I know what you’re doing.” You crack a smile, annoyed but amused. Irritated but surprisingly endeared. He laughs louder than before, his smile as big as when you first met him. 

“Minds change, people change, taste buds too… maybe consider it.” It’s so easy for him to say that it reminds you why his presence irritates you so much. He’s sweet, kind, and patient. Then he speaks and it’s a giveaway that he doesn’t understand. Not the way you want him to. 

Your mother never changes. She was adamant in drilling that through everyone's head. Boasting and celebrating when she had heard a song the previous year that resonated with her about nothing being able to change her.

“Who cares what I do and say. I’m this way and I’ll never change.”

Your mother is two sides of the same coin that you and Jaehyun share with the exception that you’ll always be on the losing end when it comes to flipping it. Jaehyun understands when to step down but he doesn’t understand what it is to be your mother’s child. Let alone her oldest daughter.

Wednesday: Condescension

“Hey! Settle in, dad is watching TV. I’ll be in the kitchen with Mrs. Mimi for a bit.” 

The house is livelier than Jaehyun recalls. His last visit was the day your mother was taken away and the color had been drained from every wall in this vicinity. Now it’s warm and homey again like Christmas Eve. You as well, he blindly believes. Your inviting smile lures him into a reality where nothing life altering has happened. A smile he remembers vividly on a thirteen year old Y/n, as foreign it is to you now.

He knows this house like the back of his hand and when he reaches your father there’s a serenity to his face that calms Jaehyun further. Your mother’s portraits are soft again and there’s noise in the house. So much noise that makes Jaehyun want to sigh in relief. Things are normal again! Please be normal again…

Rek is next to your dad’s recliner chair, grumbling when he smells Jaehyun. He wasn’t familiar with Mrs. Mimi nor her dog but he often left treats for it outside the front door per request from your dad. Your mother hated it and through the pet, Jaehyun could taste the demise you’ve known for longer. One crack on the wall doesn’t always bring it down.

Catalogs are scattered across the rug, TV’s reflection on the worn out glossy covers. Neither speak for what feels like an eternity after greetings, entertained with their own fixations. Your father mimicked the dog’s complaints with everything wrong from last year's F1 championship results. He hated every single driver and team but his hate watch was more entertaining.

“Y/n, your boyfriend is on screen.” He calls over when the rerun for the Portugal Grand Prix began. “Y/n likes Nigel Mansell.” Your father clears it with Jaehyun as if it was meant to bother the younger. Jaehyun smiles cluelessly, “He’s not very good.” Your dad whispers, you still hear him. “He lost the championship by two points, don’t be like that.” You defend in a whine and Jaehyun understands now why your father would try to clear things up with him.

“He’s too old for you.” “He’s only five years older.” “Well he looks too old.”

Your dad’s quibble is comedic and protective; Jaehyun scowls, confused on how this man was anywhere near both your ages when he looked to be nearing your father’s age. Happy on the podium with his trophy and champagne on hand looking in his 40s, only thirty-three.

It’s all forgotten when you lie besides him on the floor, flipping through worn out catalog pages and jotting down notes. It’s a different notebook now. This one is in brown leather and binder rings in the middle. Loose pages of paper, cards, and receipts in every pocket. Occasionally you’ll make a wrong move that makes many of those scrap pages slip out. From that he’s seen a few words that he doesn’t think he’s meant to see. It’s the most he’s received to be filled in on your life. 

Now he knows you like a daily Dunkin’. You frequent the movie theater six times a week (one singular ticket with a large drink), spend too much at Tower Records, and hate going to the mall but love to watch people. "Pathetic, solitary, weird, but real.” as it read from the back of a dirty Pretzel Peddler receipt.

You don’t ask him for input on the flower arrangements. Both of you working in silence with a few glances from your dad here and there. Jaehyun himself flips through catalogs, reading everything you jot down without finding your notes useful. 

While prices and deals claim your focus, Jaehyun’s is taken by the symbolism of even the smallest flower he can find. You’ve chosen pre-made arrangements and wreaths, all white and boring. His lips twist in a disappointed scowl that lets it pass while he circles the things he likes. 

He doesn’t stop your robotics until you pull out the order form. Sliding closer to you with urgency, gripping your hand to not continue. “Those are nice, yeah. But… here,” he points at the first flowers he marked. “Your mom got a kick out of pulling little pranks. Laughing when the kids that set off car alarms were zapped every time they attempted to ding-dong-ditch. Geraniums, for happiness, joy.” 

There, that fondness is again. The one that laughs at you for not knowing small things. Reinforced when your dad lets out a sly chuckle himself, shaking his head at a memory you’re fabricating in your head. 

“I think if we add purple Morning Glories for happiness, blue Day lilies that have represented mothers since the Tang Dynasty and white Lilies and Roses like you originally planned then we’d have good arrangements with a message.” 

Jaehyun is ecstatic, the twinkle in his eyes tell you he means no malice but the seed that your mother planted whispers in your ear that he’s doing it for the same reasons little kids that like to gloat speak about their vacation trips and birthday presents.

Words tussle among themselves in your mouth, fighting to see in which tone they will leave and whether they’ll be harsh or not. Shaky as they come, rattling every tooth in your mouth, “Too colorful, no? She hated blue.” So matter-of-factly that makes Jaehyun smile politely knowing he’s going to correct you.

“She loved blue. Wore it daily after that blue dress you had for our silver anniversary.” Your dad kindly recalls the memory. 

The same blue dress she called you a doxy for. 

Jaehyun’s twinkle dies when he turns to you. He can’t see your eyes but feels the heat from your body radiate. “Okay, write them down.” You push the form and pen his way, taking the unopened catalogs. “And add Petunias in there.” He doesn’t question the finality, not the significance. It’s the least he can do.

Mrs. Mimi calls for everyone, dinner was ready despite it being four in the afternoon. Your father is the most eager, cackling like he hasn’t since the doomed day. It’s nice enough to kill it with your questions. 

“Dad? Did mom really like lavender?” Sheepish and childlike, memories that are not strong enough to dwindle the ache in his chest. He turns to you, forcing a smile with his nod. “Yes… everyone that wanted her knew lavenders were her favorites. They’d give these huge bouquets that would make her sneeze. I always gave her the smallest ones, she said it was the perfect amount every time.” He laughs, ignoring your stare to let the fond memories flow. “She would make lavender lemon cookies with them. Your grandma, though, hated them. Spat them out every time there was any and called them soap.” He shakes his head frantically, more so to avoid the guilt from your glazing eyes.

Forsaken with the clicking of keys when your sister opens the front door. 

Dinner goes as expected, silent besides the blaring voice of your sister talking about her wedding. Mrs. Mimi is the only one to ask questions and Jaehyun gives polite smiles and nods to your sister for reassurance. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about but this makes her happy.

Your dad on the other hand had reverted to the state you saw him when you first arrived. Eating slowly while you flip through JCPenny catalogs for the outfit your mother was to choose. Everything is horrendous and overpriced, choosing whatever looks the most appropriate. 

“That’s hideous, Y/n. Don’t do that.” Your sister cuts off her wedding talk, projecting a disgusted face at the white dress you had circled. You had drowned out her voice for the past hour that it startled you to be acknowledged. The deer-in-headlights look like you gave her only forcing a scoff to leave. Snatching the catalog from your hands and sliding it her way. 

Disgusted, she’s not shy about it with every flip of the page. Sly comments here and there while Jaehyun whispers that it’s unnecessary. “No, mom would rather die again than be seen wearing these.” She pettishly wails, the same offended look from yesterday. When Jaehyun turns quiet and your dad stops eating, she halts her own actions knowing it may have been tone deaf.

“Silly sis…” She giggles. “I’m just saying that if you had stayed you’d know she wasn’t a fan of simple but not quite flashy.” No matter how sugar sweet her voice is, the patronizing doesn’t quaver. She gives you the smile she uses to calm down Jaehyun with no effect at all on you. 

“Fine, you choose that and let me choose the jewelry from her box before you keep them, yeah?” You try to reason, sighing exhaustively with your fingers raking through your tousled hair. And if the clothes were bad, the mention of jewelry was far worse. 

“What?! No! No, no.” She laughs off her feelings, nervous with the confused looks that even Mrs. Mimi is giving her now. It’s awkward and tense but she can’t believe this is being said to her. “No, I just think it’s dangerous. It’s going to be an open casket service and with how the family has been acting…” Her head bobbles with the insinuation. She’s right but you also know her and you know she’s full of shit. “I think it’s best that she doesn’t take anything. Free of worry for everyone and she can rest without having to think of grave thieves as well.” 

You’d think she made a great point with the self reassured nod she gives, looking at her fiance to make sure he’s following her drift but turns to your father angrily when Jaehyun glares at her. Something she hasn’t seen since you arrived. Your dad on the other hand avoids her gaze the way he avoided yours.

He’s always been cowardly.

“You won’t even let her take her daily wear? Not her ring and earrings, at least?” The disbelief in your voice irks her, annoyed that your voice sounds as patronizing as hers when addressing you. You’ve overstayed your time and if it wasn’t for the funeral planning she would’ve kicked you out like your mother times past. No, she simply sighs, and shakes her head with a faux pensive look on her face.

“I want to wear them for my wedding—” “You have two large jewelry boxes for that.” “Something borrowed… something old, something new, something blue. The daily fits all the marks.”

No she wasn’t going to give her jewelry to be buried six feet underground. Who is she to let good jewelry corrode for no one to see?

Your mother’s favorite daughter.

“If you see fit…” Your father answers before you can, eyes glued to the dog that silently wails in pain for reasons unknown to you all. “Dad… she loved those earrings.” You try to reason, begging in silence for him to look at you. To look at you when you’re speaking, for fucks sake!

He’s not strong enough for that. He’s never been strong for anything related to your mother. Mustering only the art of shaking his hand to settle things down. “It would be lovely to see either of you wear them… It so happens your mother wants her to have them. They are hers now to decide their faith.” The heaviness of his voice is heartbreaking and it turns your mind to sludge. The toxic kind that evaporates and poisons the entire universe if it’s let out. Like fungal spores.

“Even dad knows best.” Your sister throws the rock that decidedly let out that venom and for their own good you shake your own thoughts away, fingernails clinging to the cushion as you push your chair away. Your father’s disappointment on your sister matters no more, he still made his choice to enable her choices. He’s a coward as much as Jaehyun that only offers apologetic looks.

“Yes… Excuse me then, I’ll go make some calls.” You utter with your father’s monotonous voice. He winces hearing the similarities and the sound of your steps. A coward. He knows he’s a coward but will do nothing about it. He’s lived too long this way.

You don’t know how long time passes, all you know is your nose won’t stop being stuffy and your eyes are trying to force out tears that won’t come. Making you feel like the worst daughter to ever exist. 

It’s useless to try to cry, groaning out of frustration and taking the pack of cigarettes you bought a few days ago when you felt the same way. Making your way out your room to chip a piece of paint from your mother’s hallway portraits on the way downstairs towards the backyard. 

A fluorescent blue that was always calming as a child illuminates the pool. Moonlight makes it more soothing and it reminds you of the times you spent your summers as toddlers swimming with your sister and father at night because that’s the only times you'd see him in those days. 

The days when your sister inherently loved you. 

The memory fades away with the smoke you exhale, trying to cling with no avail after the sigh that follows right after.

“Mind if I have one?” Jaehyun’s soothingly grating voice cranes your neck. The sound of the sliding doors keeps you grounded. Tossing the box his way to catch, with a box of matches. He manages to catch the larger box while the matches recoil in his grasp, jumping into the pool. 

A bummer, you really liked the iconography in the back.

“Sorry…” He sighs, scolded with the look you give him when you stand up from your crouching position. Connecting your lit cigarette with his. The proximity to his face lets you see the small details you hadn’t noticed this entire time. His eyes are darker than you remember. They’re nice, they’re warm. You like them…

Jaehyun had been inhaling deeply during the transaction, heavily letting it out in the form of smoke when he thanked you. A good distance between you both that transcends into a comfortable silence; cigarettes racing among each other to see which one burns the fastest. 

Ironically, his does, leaving him with nothing else to concentrate on besides what he has been thinking about telling you all afternoon. He licks his lower lip, looking between you, the conch shell ashtray that looks too familiar, the pool, and you again. His eyes tracing over that pattern to put off the remaining bud. 

“I’ll talk to her. About the jewelry. Don’t worry.” He nods like he’s doing you a favor. The last bit of cigarette burning away with the stare you give him. Exuding energy that makes your cigarette burn faster and force the smoke to frantically leave. 

“Can we not?” Irritated was the tone of your voice that made him wince and cower away. “I’m sorry.” He offers and he truly is but the awkwardness eats him away. He’s like a child trying to bond with their cool older neighbor that pays them no mind and finds them annoying.

“Everyone just seems to know her more than I do, it’s pathetic.” You derail, it’s whiny and peevish like your sister’s tone. “Does it fully bother you?” He questions, weighing the similarities. “It does for now but I think once I go back, I won’t care again.” Your lips purse, humming contemplatively. He mimics yours expressions and sounds, nodding as a difference. “Count your days then.”

Not much has made you laugh but this does, showing him a smile he hasn’t seen in days. “It sounds like a threat.” You joke, he follows with a chuckle and a grin, “It is. But a threat to not think too much about it.” 

He knows how to kill the mood.

“It’s my mom’s funeral, how can I not?” You’re irked. He knows he’s irked you once again and he yearns to know when he should stop. It’s overbearing and tiring for him to keep fucking up but he doesn’t know when to stop talking. 

“I didn't mean it like that, I’m sorry… That was too aloof on my part, I'm sorry.” He begs, eyebrows knitted looking at you. His eyes are still dark but hurt unlike earlier.

“I don't know how to take it either, Jaehyun.” You grumble, standing up from your spot, putting the cigarette bud off on the delicate shell that cracks with the heat. The silence surrounding both isn’t comfortable like it was only a few minutes ago. It’s tense and intoxicating, filling his lungs with tar making them heavy and he knows he can’t stay here for longer.

“Her wedding outfit. What she was going to wear for our wedding. You should choose that.” It sounds strange, ‘our wedding’ like he’s talking about his and your wedding not his and your sister’s wedding. You go stiff at the thought, it’s too intimate and immoral. It’s you now that needs to get out of there before you let the repression do or say anything stupid. 

Your hands tingle when they clasp onto the sliding door handle, his gaze on your turned back holding you in place. You’re sure neither of you know what either want but whatever you’re feeling shouldn’t be there. A goodnight is polite, better than bye yet neither wants to leave your cold lips aching for warmth. No, rather you slide the door open leaving him behind.

Between your own, your mother’s ghost’s, and your father’s judgment the heaviness persists the longer the older man looks at you without speaking. He’s looking at you. He’s finally looking at you directly in the eyes with a distraught disappointment as if he knows what you’re thinking. There he knew you’re also your father’s daughter. Cowering away from anything remotely complicated. The words evident in the harsh smoke of your father’s own cigar when walking past him.

Thursday: Pathetic

Jaehyun hadn’t mentioned anything from the previous night when he came around to pick you up. Your father hadn’t either, not like he would anyways. Mrs. Mimi had let Jaehyun in, forcing him to eat breakfast with the rest of you while Rek growled at him anytime he got near you to speak. The dog truly was not fond of him for whatever reason which wounded Jaehyun and confused you. Your father didn’t voice it but thought the dog was too perspective for either of you. The boundary that separates it all.

But Rek wasn’t here with you two at the funeral home, listening to the radio that gets drawn out by Mr. Nix and Jaehyun as they speak about the weather while you flip through the order forms to make sure everything is correct. 

You nitpick at everything. From Jaehyun’s horrible chicken scratch handwriting to the awkward paint chips on the decor. Similar enough and in places that resemble the ones you’ve made on your mother’s portraits around the house these past days.

“Lavender and Lilies… that’s lovely… your mother would’ve loved it.” Mr. Nix’s soothing voice attracts your attention, craning your neck to see him reading the order form still in your hands. 

He smiles widely, laughing quietly until it turns into a sob upon sensing your eyes on him. It’s startling, feeling like a bubble for only you two being created. Jaehyun was no longer anywhere in sight and the doorbells by the backdoor kept ringing melodiously. You’ve never been great in these situations. 

Comfort was only granted by coworkers after you got scolded for a mistake, none very genuine. Or by strangers who wanted the feel of one night with you. Mr. Nix wants nothing of that sort from you, you’re not even sure if he wants comfort with the way his smile tries to not seize. 

“I loved your mother, you know. She was my first love and I want to think I was hers too.” He sniffles, a handkerchief in his hand that you never saw him take out. “Of course she would say your father was but she had been choosing between the two before going steady with either.” He nods as if it was common sense. You knew your mother loved your father but she could have loved him as much as you with the way she took her hatred out on him when you weren’t around.

“Your grandmother never liked me. Not sure why but she just didn't.” He shrugs, lips pursed in surrender. “Your mother would say it was because I made her happy and it’s something your grandmother didn't like. I could see that.”

Oh.

The apple was rotten right to the core from all those that came before. 

“I don’t know when it happened but suddenly the next thing I knew about your mother was that she was getting married to your father. That sent me into a spiral and when I returned from my breakdown trip, you were already here.” Melancholy floods those poor foggy eyes, cataracts forming from pain. He looks at you for longer than you’d like, sensing his desire to know what floods your mind but you’re as hard to read as your mother was, eliciting a chuckle. 

“I gave her one last call to ask how labor had been, to make sure she was fine and when you cried, we both said our goodbyes. We knew that was it. Y/n, that’s the name we’d give a girl if we ever had one.” 

There’s no more wonder why Jaehyun and Mr. Nix get along so well, both are horrendous at keeping to themselves and both know how to irk your nerves beyond belief. 

Maybe this is why your mother chose your mousy father rather than this chatterbox.

Regret floods Mr. Nix at your perpetual silence and where he hadn’t been able to tell what you were feeling earlier, he could feel your frustrated disgust concentrated in the blank look. It’s warm, piercing, and as painful as the ones your mother would give him. 

You’re just like her.

Mr. Nix sighs, gaze dropping with a final sigh, “Congratulations on your wedding, dear. Jaehyun cares for you deeply. Trust me…” It dawns upon you that Mr. Nix thought you’re the one marrying Jaehyun. It brings that similar pit in your stomach from last night. 

‘Our wedding.’

Yours and Jaehyun’s. Not your sisters and Jaehyun’s.

Every bone in your body attempts to not combust into powder. Neurons arguing among themselves on how to respond or if to ignore him. He’s added damage to your perception of your mother, you’re not too sure he’s deserving of any more socially appropriate politeness.

The backdoor bells ring, blaring content for what is being brewed in this room. It’s uncomfortable, disgustingly sticky tension the while you look at Mr. Nix and he looks back at you with confusion and somewhat freight. Eerie how similar you resemble your mother. 

“Ready to go? Apparently your sister wants me to pick up the veil.” Jaehyun sighs looking at his pager, the TV guide in his hand crumpled with burnt edges. He had been clenching to it as he smoked one of your cigarettes.

“Yes,” You tear your gaze from the older of the three, he releases a breath he didn’t know he had been holding in. Glad this easy solution rids him of the painstaking sharp stab in his chest. “Mr. Nix wanted to congratulate us.” You add, turning back to him.

“On?” Jaehyun quizzically questions, “Your wedding, consider all of this my wedding gift for you both and… for your mother.” Mr. Nix turns back to you, a polite apologetic smile for what he has dumped. 

Neither you or Jaehyun correct him, the latter thanking him with a hug while you wait by the door for him. He doesn’t speak to you the entirety of the car ride to the bridal shop. Perhaps he’s angry you didn’t correct Mr. Nix but neither did he so it’s much his fault as it is yours. Or perhaps he’s grown tired of your hot and cold behavior with the slightest inconvenience. 

Regardless, it’s not for him to care how you react nor do you care.

“Why didn’t you correct him?” He sighs, looking forward. He has that same sunken look he had given your sister last night. You don’t think it’s comparable. In no form is your sister priving your mother of the luxury she grew to know to you not correcting your mother’s old flame about who Jaehyun was to marry. If it mattered that much to him, then he shouldn’t have enabled the old man with a cheery smile and a hug. 

You still can’t fathom that he thought you and Jaehyun were the ones getting married. Are you not obvious with how little comfort you find in Jaehyun? Is it not obvious that you can barely stand him? Or is your solitude too grand that people find it a breath of fresh air that someone like Jaehyun floods your vicinity with his polite affection and caring nagging? As if he’s doing you a favor.

Pathetic is what you are seen as in everyone’s eyes. Even Jaehyun's, it seems.

“I’m not the one getting married. You are.”

Friday: Has killed you

It’s filthy, disgusting, and shameful. The wake, everything is beautifully decorated, making you forget it's a funeral, save for the countless pictures of your mother and weeping crowd. You're not sure they're sincere but it makes your father feel calm seeing the masses of people approach the casket. "She's loved." He fondly claims, a sadden smile plastered on his face.

You don't have the heart nor will to remind him that they're all here for appearances and in hopes of taking more things once home. Maybe that's the pessimist in you who cannot fathom your mother being genuinely adored. The words affection and mother are foreign to each other in your mind.

Besides your aunts, sister — surprising despite her indifference this entire week—, and Mr. Nix, you don't hear much wailing. Your father is holding his breath to not shatter in front of all these people.

Chatter from one end to the other, mostly prayer. A part of you feels envious of their ability to let everything out. Why is it that you have to suffer with the weight of your unexplored emotions? Leaving you to dry heave or tear at your hair when nothing expels. Why is it so easy for everyone else to let things go?

Jaehyun's persistent staring doesn't make it any easier. He's made it a mission to fly around you like a hungry vulture waiting for its prey to finally give out and then consume.

Surely, he's not. He's making sure you're doing fine, keeping an eye on you but Lord, do you fucking loathe it. You don't understand it, would be a better descriptor, but it irritates you that he cares so much that you can't fathom any other emotion but dislike.

Perhaps what makes it worse is that your sister is there by his side, every second. You reckon you could handle it if it was just him. After all, this isn't the first time he's kept a watchful eye on you. He's done it the entire week, it just feels too real today out of all days.

Everything is felt too deeply. Today.

Tomorrow is your sister's wedding. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Tomorrow is meant to be happy and full of love. But today has killed you. Today has killed any positive perception of those around. It has killed your sensibility and everything is nothing but a shit show. A shit show like Jaehyun described when reconnecting.

Fuck, even that bothers you.

He talks and talks and talks about something that happened before college that you have no prior memory of. The people he mentions, the events, the laughter, the year. You don't remember anything prior to getting a bachelors, how is it that this stranger that is marrying your sister knows more about your life than you do?

How does he know more about your mother than you?

"Y/n!"

Embarrassing. Zoning out in your mother's funeral service.

Mrs. Mimi, the much perceptive, gives you a pitiful smile, hand to your shoulder to hand you a warm Dixie cup. Your head's attempt to shake is futile, the muscles of your neck refuse to move. 

"You look tired,"

"More like sickly." Your sister interrupts. Jaehyun looks down at her with furrowed eyebrows to scold. "Drink it, ‘should give you some energy." Mrs. Mimi pushes the cup further into your hand. It's warm and comforting in a sense you haven't experienced.

Despite the bitter taste of ginger and apples in the tea, you drink it. It brings no energy boost, rather it makes you more sleepy but she had all the intention to make you feel better and that keeps you up for longer.

A mother. At least that is what you think a mother should do and Mrs. Mimi was a wonderful mother. Even to those she did not birth.

"Do you remember Jo Josephine?" Jaehyun utters, leaning into you. You hadn't realized when he had sat beside you or when you had been ushered onto a chair.

"No." "No? Really?"

The surprise in his tone doesn't go overlooked. He tends to hum when you respond as such but not this time.

"She was your friend. Always wore a huge gardener hat and gloves with bee print." He chuckles, a surprised chuckle. "Yeah?" You hum, dazed. Well maybe the tea was effective in relaxing your senses. "No, I don't remember any of my friends. It's been too long since I saw any of them." You shrug, the nonchalance in your tone worrying Jaehyun.

Per usual, Jaehyun goes on a tangent about something you don't recall. You've learned to drown his voice out. Muffled in the sea of weeps, his laughter the only outlier that doesn't last long. Another voice joins him but you're too busy with the liquid in your cup to care for what they ought to say.

There's some liquid in the cup. Enough to submerge the small cubes of ginger and apples but cold against your tongue. You swivel around the cup, making it colder. For a part of you longs to be in their place than here. Swimming in a pool of cold water with no preoccupation of the outside world. Being inanimate sounds desirable.

"Y/n!"

It's that same incessant call from earlier. This time you're able to pin it to your sister that looks at you far more annoyed. She grumbles under her breath about something you don't care to hear as Mr. Nix gives you that same pitiful smile Mrs. Mimi had given you. It'd be ironic if he was to give you some tea as well.

"Carriage and burial space is ready to transfer your mother's body." He meekly comments, he's as stuffy as your sister had been. Mustering a nod, you stand up from your spot, not noticing Jaehyun's help when standing up. His hand feels warm against the small of your back.

A huge part of you wants to blame your disconnect with whatever Mrs. Mimi had given you. One second you were standing up at the funeral home giving Jaehyun a long look that for once made your sister quizzical and upset while his hand remained on you and the next you're watching how roses are being tossed over your mother’s casket as Jaehyun ushers you into Mrs. Mimi's car.

The priest's prayer had been the only thing you remember vividly. Reciting every word in hushed murmurs — drowned by the cackling and chattering in the other rooms of the house — while serving coffee into Dixie cups. Mrs. Mimi often tries to take the tray away from your hands and Rek to absorb all of your attention. Both fail miserably.

Jaehyun hadn't stopped looking your way. He tries what Mrs. Mimi and her dog do but he's received harshly. Rather, you send him to make sure no one tries to take anything else or go upstairs to bother your exhausted father, hidden away in his bedroom. The masses of people downstairs and their brewing questions had kept him awake all night.

Your sister? Doing what your mother would have done. Entertain and please the guests. She's your mother's favorite for a reason.

By 20:00 when your mother had passed, she led the novena prayer. The only moment of silence and unity you felt among your extended family and for a second you believed there could be some good in these people.

Of course by 21:03 when prayer was done and they reverted to their constant chatter about stories of old regarding your mother, that serenity left your body once more.

It's outstanding how these memories sound so loving and nurturing. Something you can't recall from your mother. They laugh and cackle about her scoldings. How she'd yell at them for running inside the house, wet from the pool. But it was you that had to clean the entire house right after. It was you that had to make sure there was no chlorine smell left behind.

Your cousins laugh about the time they had attempted to smash your face on your 8th birthday cake but she had told them to not be rude. She had done it. She had smashed your face on that cake and it was difficult to rid away the smell of artificial strawberries from your nose after the jam had gone too far up. The cake was destroyed and they had all gotten upset at you. You never had a party after that. It's been twenty years.

Or the story your aunt is on and on about now. She had gotten so upset at your mother for not letting her borrow grandma's gold bangles for clubbing that she bent them without anyone knowing. Your mom had blamed you for it a week later after making you get them for her in hopes to wear them for a PTA meeting. Your sister's pet at the time had gotten in your way and to avoid stepping on it, you fell. She chalked it up to that and left you to do chores for your aunt an entire week.

There's no way your sensibility can return when all these funny and fond memories of your mother came at your expense and none of them care. None of them will ever care.

You can't take it anymore, rushing upstairs into your room to hide away. You can't say you feel saddened. You do feel a raging heat in your chest that attempts for you to bring your fists hard at your thighs to release it.

The intruder in your room doesn't let that happen. It surprises and annoys you at the same time seeing them there. On your bed with hands on their head while weeping harder than the wailing in public earlier today.

"I'm sorry, my room was locked." Your sister sniffles, slowly turning to look at you. There's a horrific sincerity in her voice that you're not used to. A frame rests on her lap, jittering with her legs.

Your silence draws her attention, handing you the frame while tears flood her waterline. It's a picture of your mother with the both of you. Quite honestly, you don't remember this. It's surprising to see your mother this affectionate with you. Arms encircling your waist and kissing your face.

"Grandma's funeral trip. We went to the lake on the way home, remember?" She questions, blowing her nose. You shake your head, standing straight. You hadn't attempted to take the frame from her hand. You're sure it would leave a branding on your palm, there's no way this is real.

The look in her eye is similar to the one Jaehyun gives you when you don't remember what he's talking about. Although, his is more comprehensive and patient.

"You don't remember this at all?" She asks, taken aback. You want to lie and say you do but knowing who she's marrying, she will just ask follow up questions too. "No." She scoffs in disbelief, swallows it before blinking rapidly. Patient, that's new.

"Mom was ecstatic that week. Rejoicing that the witch was dead and no one would torment her anymore. She treated you better than me for an entire month. Do you not remember that?" She prods, placing the frame on your bed.

You shake your head, she can only laugh. "What has she done to you…" She sighs to herself. She had heard in college about trauma causing memory loss but she had never guessed your mother had been that harsh for you to repress everything. Maybe she just hadn't seen her worse but you can't tell her either. You don't remember, after all.

"Would you be a stand-in for her tomorrow?" She questions meekly. You want to say no, to tell her you would rather miss the wedding at this point but she gives you no chance. "Please?" Her voice wavers, lips quiver. Here come the waterworks.

"I don't know about you, Y/n. But I miss mom so dearly and not having her on the day she was looking forward to is—" She sobs, covering her mouth with the frame, lips falling over your mother.

"Why not ask one of our aunts?" Your voice is hoarse. She shakes her head, pursed lips in disgust. "I'm not letting those hags get their hands on mom's jewelry. You heard them, yeah? Worms for brains all of them." She scoffs before releasing a forlorn sigh.

"Dad doesn't want to look at you because you look so much like mom today." She confesses. It would explain why he's avoided you. "You're even wearing the dress she wore for grandma's funeral." She tries to laugh yet it comes out as a shaky sob. 

"Mrs. Mimi left it out for me…" You defend, she shrugs. "I told her to." She shrugs again like it was the most sane thing to do. You're not sure how to take this. On one hand it seems like psychological warfare on your father — cruel on her part even if she doesn't see it — and on the other, it's the closest you'll be to your mother.

"You look so much like her. More than I do… It would bring peace to me if you were her stand in." She breathes deeply and exhales heavily. She's trying to seem relaxed before breaking into yet another sob. The one that makes her entire body shake and fall onto your bed, clutching onto the frame that's now against her chest.

"I didn't want her to take her daily stack so you could wear it… Not because I'm that much of a heartless bitch, Y/n. I loved mom." She cries some more. 

It’s rich, considering she said she wanted to wear it for her wedding. Whether you believe either version or not, doesn’t matter. Not when she hugs you in hopes it digs your heels deeper. It's stale and awkward but she revels in it, hiding in the crook of your neck as she cries harder.

"You smell like mom too." She wants to confess, but she knows it would drive you away. She'll take what she can get before you leave them all once again.

"Will you?" She voices, pulling away. "I don't w— don’t know." You don't want to. She knows it. 

"Why are you like this?" The question everyone has meant to ask. "Like?" Your indifferent confusion bothers her further.

"You're like a doll that gains consciousness for a certain amount of time and then you're… a doll again. Quiet, clueless, awkward. No offense, sissy. It's just… not what I remember you as at all." There's a sigh stuck in her chest, it clamps around her lungs but it refuses to leave. There's a sincere worry in her voice that makes your own set beliefs waver but you won't break that wall just yet.

You shrug. Slow and unsure of what to say. "It worries Jaehyun more than it should." The bite in her words will go ignored, you're having a relatively nice talk with her to let any animosity return.

"You don't remember him at all." Your head shakes as confirmation. "You don't even remember the projects you did with him." You shake your head again and it makes her want to hit it for the memories to return.

"I pray you learn to trust, have faith in both of us." She hugs you again. It's warm but empty. Mayhaps it's just you, unused to the affection and love of a sibling. Of a family member and if she meant trust in Jaehyun too, then you'll give it a chance for the warm feeling brewing in your heart.

"I'll do it… I'll be mom's stand-in." You relent. She smiles and cheers like there isn't a post burial get together downstairs. Like your mother isn't gone but everyone copes differently. You cope by not being able to cry and allowing everyone to walk all over you. 

On the way downstairs she rambles about what you can wear and the jewelry she had chosen. Nothing seems ideal nor your taste. It sounds redundant and weird in a sense that she's making you be so much like your mother.

Although, that's the whole point. Having your mother be at her wedding one way or another, no matter that your identity is being wiped. Like it would have been if your cousin hadn't opened her mouth about the wedding. You later found your mother had gotten that stinking infection from picking flowers with her. It's bizarre how a domino effect works.

It all muddles with the laughter of the guests, “Well to my sister! And to her lovely daughter, for juggling the stress of a wedding and grief to organize a beautiful burial for her mother.” The crowd turns to your sister as if they knew where she was immediately. Despite the streaks and puffiness she still looks ethereal and content with the recognition.

Right. Foolish of you to trust too easily.

She thanks them, hands to her heart and ignoring the side eye you give her. A look that begs her to correct them because truly she did jackshit for this funeral. This was so in character for her and you still fell. She'll cry and throw a tantrum until she gets what she wants while pretending like she did nothing for it.

She's your mother's daughter.

Unsure of when but the slight grin on your face unsettles her and it worsens when Jaehyun calls for the floor. He smiles and giggles, he's already so loved by the family.

"Thank you uncle, Carlo. Thank you as well my love for the suggestions but I do want to thank Y/n most of all for every single detail she gave into organizing this funeral." My love… so cold and unloving. It soothes you.

"For her delicacy in detail, to the meaning of the flowers, all the way down to her last outfit. Mrs. Y/l/n was a woman with a strong attitude who never took anything that did not cater to her. Therefore, knowing her, I'm sure she would love how today and the entire week was held in her honor. She would be proud."

Jaehyun's voice is so reassuring that it bothers you how much he believes it. It bothers you that everyone seems so surprised and taken aback. It bothers you that your sister seems slightly upset and weary. It bothers you that he thinks he did you a favor.

Yet it soothes you once more and your grin does not go overlooked. You're being recognized.

Guests leave shortly after. Jaehyun had made sure to kill their mood with mentions of you and for once you're openly thankful for his help despite knowing all he mentioned was thanks to him.

Mrs. Mimi and you had stayed to clean the house while your father had fallen asleep hours ago. Your sister made sure to give him his medication before she left. Despite the severity of this day's events, she was still going to celebrate her bachelorette party. Something some of your cousins and her friends threw on her behalf to rid of the sadness experienced. Of course, you don't receive an invitation.

It was just Mrs. Mimi, your father, you, and Jaehyun.

Jaehyun?

"You don't have a bachelor party or something?" You don't intend for it to come out irritated but Rek's wheezing seals the blow. "Ouch." Jaehyun laughs, attempting to pet the dog that growls at him to stay away. He frowns, furrowing his eyebrows before huffing.

"I'd rather make sure you— you're all doing good." Mrs. Mimi halts her scrubbing, sighing to herself before returning to the final dishes. "We're fine." You answer, aiding the older woman.

"Why aren't you with your sister? I thought you had left with them." "Wasn't invited."

Jaehyun stops drying the dishes you rinse, slowly turning to look at you. Musing similarly to when your sister refused to bury your mother in her daily wear jewelry.

"Mrs. Mimi, we got it from here. You should rest for tomorrow." Jaehyun diverts, upset settled in his voice despite his sweetness. The older of the three chuckles, shaking her head, handing the soap lathered cup to you. It's crowded near the sink and fairly humid but none of you would rather be anywhere else.

"Baby, I wasn't invited." It's infinitely hilarious to her. The angered looks and disgust in your faces. She's amused while Jaehyun tries to process it. "What? I asked her and she said she made sure to drop off your invite." He huffs and scoffs like a steam whistle from disbelief.

"You'll be my plus one, in that case!" It's so childlike that it makes Mrs. Mimi continue her laughter, scrubbing the last remaining plates. She shakes her head, wiping her hands on the tea towel. "No, don't worry. This week made me reflect and I'm going to visit my mother…" She sighs, nodding to herself before looking at you both.

Jaehyun wants to say something but he is not one to get between someone and their family so he relents as you do. "Sleep well then." He pouts, hugging her goodbye. She thanks him, patting his cheek to then hug you as well. It lingers and it's comforting to the point that you feel something stir in the pit of your stomach.

Her gaze travels between you and Jaehyun and you both know there are words lingering in mind that she dares not utter. Ultimately she sighs, nodding again before patting both your cheeks, struggling to get Rek out of the house due to his resistance.

Dogs are perspective and they can smell the dangers of the world miles away. He knows nothing good will brew tonight. He knew nothing good would come from you returning. Yet he still loves you more than anyone besides Mrs. Mimi. Just like your father.

Mrs. Mimi leaves with a whaling Rek trailing behind her. His cries are cautionary and she knows it. Uttering silent: "There's so much one can do, Rek." here and there. There's so many things amiss but like usual, you'll ignore anything perturbing you.

It's awkward for the remainder of the clean up. Jaehyun and you share some words but not full sentences. His glances are lesser than earlier but you can still feel them on you when he's not besides you. They're far more penetrating than your mothers and when midnight rolls around and you're both done, the only way to thank him is with a cold glass of wine on your mother's white rug.

You stumble taking a seat before him. Resting against the feet of the couch allows your muscles to relax and scream at you for all the tension you ignored this past week. It's painful to move and your lower back aches as it did when Jaehyun touched it earlier.

"Mom never allowed me to be here in fear of dirtying this rug." You smile fondly, you remember that much. "Now you're drinking red wine on it." He humors you, "Now I'm drinking red wine on it." You repeat, clinking your glasses so hard some wine does splatter onto your hands and the rug.

A rush of freight floods you but remembering where your mother was makes you relax, sharing a silent laugh with Jaehyun who's body shakes along yours with every sip. This is the most you've given him and he won't take it for granted.

"Why do you love my mom so much, Jaehyun?" You ask, the moonlight coming through the sliding doors. That beautiful blue reflecting off the pool into the living room, making you forget that the rug is not blue but white.

He swivels his glass much like you had in the morning. "I told you she's like a second mother to me. She was very nurturing and inviting when we first started dating. Always made me feel like I belonged and it reminded me of my mom." He smiles fondly, "My mom lives too far and I'm not even sure if she'll be here for the wedding." He laughs, "I hope she’s not..."

Huh?...

"Why are you even getting married on Valentine's Day anyway? Isn't it corny?" You attempt to steer the conversation astray. If you think too much about your mother and his words, you may turn into her and wreak havoc on Jaehyun. He doesn't deserve it despite your (un)justly targeted rage.

"It's my birthday." He smiles fondly, his lips stained red. "We met on Valentine's Day." He laughs quietly; his neck must ache from resting against the coffee table. You yourself don't find any humor in the statement. "I guess it was meant for you and her to get married." A horrible despondency in your voice that you regret.

"I meant you and I, Y/n."

You look up at him, confused and somewhat appalled. How corny.

"You don't have to tell me you don't remember, I get it now." He laughs, "Year seven, had just moved here and we had that awful arts class. The one with the loony teacher that spoke about health while smoking cigarettes behind the gym."

You laugh, yet you don't remember.

"Our task was to make Valentine's Day cards for our desk mates. I told you it was my birthday too and you wrote: ‘Happy lover boy day. Love was meant to be in your life.’" There's a certain fondness in his voice that makes you believe it. The detail to his description sounds cliche, something you most definitely had in mind back then.

"Now I illustrate greeting cards for a living." Your laughter fuels Jaehyun's sooner than you thought, his body was next to yours now. His neck resting on the cushion of the couch. "I know. Your dad has a great collection of them. I do too..." Truly, Jaehyun confuses you. You won't dwell on that now, it's not worth it.

Whether it's only a second or an hour, neither of you tear each other's gaze away. His eyes intent on your own, examining every speck of color and the way your pupils dilate, as his do.

"Why don't you remember anything I tell you about?" He questions sincerely, no judgment in comparison to your sister. You shrug, "I don't know. I… don't remember anything from then or you." Jaehyun doesn't respond, staring at you for an answer he won't get. "And you? What do you remember of me?" 

He hesitates, sighing deeply. "You used to be much more jolly than you are now."

That is not what you expected.

"Why do you dislike your mom, Y/n?" He gets comfortable beside you. His glass knocking against your empty one. You can smell the sweet tones of wine in his breath, signaling how uncomfortably close he is.

"I… I don't know…" It's meek and raw, the child in you coming out. "I don't know why she hated me." His expression doesn't change, only do his fingers come to comb away your hair.

"Ever since I can remember she cared more for others and my sister than me. She treated my cousins like hers but me like a beggar." Your grip on the glass tightens, knocking it against Jaehyun's this time.

"One mistake and I was yelled at or she'd ignore me for weeks on end. Then I left for college when she didn't want me to and it became worse… The last time I saw her was for her and dad's anniversary two years ago and she—" The words get stuck in your throat, as if you're to cry.

"She woke me up in the middle of the night, on grandma's birthday — she had been dead for years now — to tell me she hated me… Never knew why… But, yesterday Mr. Nix confessed him and mom dated. That grandma hated him for making mom happy and it clicked. I guess, it's hereditary to hate your first born daughter… Grandma always complained about mom while doting on me."

Your brain attempts to piece it all together but your heart doesn't want to. While you've scratched the surface you don't want to delve into the implication of what it means for your future (if any) or what it means for that inner child of yours.

You just don't want to think anymore.

'Please… Please, Jaehyun, help me not think anymore.'

"You reckon?" He questions, pinky caressing your knuckles. "When I proposed to your sister, she approached me right after. She looked at me, hugged me, and looked at me again with that sunken look she has when she thinks too deep. "Are you sure?" She asked seriously, almost confused. I told her I was, that I loved her with my entire heart and she laughed, shaking her head. She said she was a nice girl but hollow at heart."

Odiously, you know what she meant. "I reaffirmed I loved her, I did… We were looking at family pictures and she kept looking over yours. She said you hated her so much that you left, it was admirable in her eyes." He sighs, more of his fingers on your skin and like a fool you let him.

"She knew you’d always be there but not your sister. You give all to one and they become hollow, shallow, and entitled. You don't give anything to the other and they'll always be there... yearning. They don't expect anything but would love something.”

"That sounds horrible." "It is." "And unfortunately she always knew what I wanted." "I fear so."

You relent, looking directly at him again. "I don't hate her. I just… dislike my mother." The confession is not shocking, it's a given known fact but it's relieving to speak out loud.

"And… I fear she saw through me all those months ago. I was not sure nor in love with your sister."

His confession is shocking. Not because you don't believe him but it was far too late for this statement. "It's fucked, I know. But after this week, I can't marry into this family."

It's too late. It's too late.

"They've indoctrinated you by now." Is the best you can muster. It's not any better than the mantra in your brain.

"The countless meals without you and your father. The conversations: soulless and mean spirited, shallow, egotistical… Everyone’s worry over the wedding rather than their grief – if any. How many people I stopped from trying to pick the locks today... Y/n, only you and your dad are worth it.” He breaths out, an ache in his voice that feels familiar. As if he had been picking at your brain to consume it himself but it's only intoxicating him.

He's so close, far more close than earlier and the wine is stronger. A part of you wants to be sane and stop this madness. Righteous in the sense to not make matters worse but his mewls when you pull at his hair to get him off drive you closer. "Don't do this to me…" You plead with no real intent or sorrow.

“Maybe you were right about the universe being cruel because it was you I was meant to see first. It was you and your mom knew all along.” He whines against your lips, tongue wetting his but you can taste the sweetness of him and that wine. That damn wine.

Your fingers clasp around his hair harder, eliciting more of those pretty sounds he makes and it takes everything in your power to not cry from how beautiful he sounds and looks. Red and needy all for you. "It was you. It has always been you." He confesses, bringing his lips against yours and it's not your will nor your bodies to push him off. Reciprocating that indulgence you've been craving.

His mouth is fairly warm, sweet and dangerous as the wine. The kiss is anything but clean. Mostly tongue and some teeth.

The semi-full glasses of wine are long forgotten, staining the rug as proof of your immorality. Jaehyun doesn't seem to remember them, you on the other hand, don't care. It's not like your mother can scold you anymore.

His hands feel significantly scalding under your dress, rugged fingers working at the clasps to remove it like a robe. Nothing is soft or tender, it's all rushed and hungry. Animalistic almost, save for the soft touches he gives you when a sliver of skin reaches him.

"You're no better than them." You kiss him, his hands on your hips, dragging you onto his lap. He's painfully hard that any move of yours makes him writhe, sinking his teeth onto your lower lip. It's fine, you deserve it and you like it. You'll take what he gives…

Jaehyun nods, tongue seeking yours. He seems to savor the sweet fruity notes of the wine as well. "I know." He hums against your lips, "I'm not denying that." A moan leaves his mouth, swallowed by you. Your hands working on his belt.

"What will you do tomorrow? What will you do standing before God and Christ, promising eternal love and faithfulness? Does that not mean anything to you? Won't shame burn your feet and eat your soul away as you walk though that arch?"

It's rhetorical, he still answers. "It won't." He kisses your jaw. "It will." Tongue laps at your neck where your sister — his fiancee — had cried earlier. "I haven't decided if I want faith to run my future." The indifference in his voice makes you laugh, one that is drowned when he nips at your skin.

Jaehyun isn't particularly soft, his hands knead at your skin and grasp harshly when on your ass. The fabric that made the dress is long tossed to the side and his shirt had been off for seconds now. Ripped from the neck, the restriction bothering him.

It's not a struggle for him to remove your bra, tossing that to the pile of clothes as well. It's his mouth that shows you he can be delicate if he wants to. The way in which his lips wrap around your swollen tit feel like healing pads. Tongue softly lapping at the aching nipples.

You can hear and feel his soft moans around each, rotating after nearly a minute of attention. His tongue is what you love most at the moment. So velvety, warm, and moist. Plush and gentle with every lick to soothe the ache his teeth cause when he wants to be funny and nip at them.

"Don't be a dick." You scold, pulling at his hair like that doesn't turn him on furthermore. He laughs against your chest, the rumble felt so deep against your sternum. "Sorry," He pouts like nothing before kissing a path up your neck to feel your lips against his again.

He wants to speak with no avail, rather you swallow any breath he takes in an attempt to utter a word. Ravishing his lips to distract him from how near you are to taking him out of his trousers. That is until he takes your hands into his, intertwining your fingers with his and leaning further into you. Hard on pressing against the thin cotton of your panties.

"You're being a tease." You joke, mimicking the pout he gave you earlier. He grins, apologizing insincerely once again while pressing into you. The harsh fabric of his trousers was stimulating.

He attempts to reward you by massaging circles on your clit over the cotton of your panties but you swat his hand away, taking his face into your hands for another hungry kiss. He stifles his chuckle, letting you explore his mouth with your tongue. As a reward, he connects his with yours, allowing both muscles to enjoy the ecstasy.

Your hips take his distraction as an opportunity to swivel against him. Eliciting those pretty sounds you love to consume and forcing you to go faster, a wet spot already seeping into any remaining fabric. Jaehyun doesn't take lightly to this, pushing your panties away to let his fingers roam. It's stimulating and overly enjoyable.

How easy the digits slip in, stretching you deliciously to then piston at a set speed that has you hunching over, begging to feel his mouth on yours again. Jaehyun enjoys it, a cheeky grin on his face when your eyes meet his and as a reward, he buries his fingers deeper, curling and thrusting fast enough to make you wail from pleasure you haven't allowed yourself in god knows how long.

It's irritating to be the only one like this. Triumphantly, you finally manage to sneak him out of his trousers, the fabric had been so restraining that he lets out a guttural moan when freed. Throwing his head back onto the couch and wincing with every squeeze and jerk of your soft hand on his sensitive cock.

It's your turn to taunt him. Sneering and laughing quietly when he writhes and cries about how good your hand feels, how he'd love to feel your mouth over it or have you impaled on him. Jaehyun is far weaker than he lets out – nothing new to you.

Was it not for your own desperation and need for release, you'd elongate the sadism. Let him cry for longer about how your hand is not enough despite the pool of pre-come already soiling your hand and his cock.

There's no need for lube, not when his fingers slip out of you and the sea of fluids stain his trousers before pushing them fully off. His pre-come doesn't fall short of a stimulant, so much for such a simple tact. There's nothing grand about this transaction but your bodies know what they want and each other has been written in the stars.

"I don't have a condom…" He pants, a faux attempt at letting morality stop you both. "I'm clean. Abstaining, actually…" You confess, it had not been long since you last had gone to the gyno anyway. Jaehyun's fingers are soft against your lips, his chest slowing down as he hears the meekness in your voice.

"We never have sex without protection and… the last time was months ago." The vulnerability in his voice makes you trust him. Nodding as a response before kissing him again, guiding him for penetration.

He toys with you for seconds, letting his tip graze your folds and slap your clit playfully. Reveling in the hisses you let out. He's so greedy to the point that this isn't enough.

Sheathing himself within you to acquire the pleasure he desires most. It had been so long since you felt this way. The feeling of fullness and completeness. Jaehyun does not fall short with the whines, rather he buries them in your hair, shaking underneath you.

"You feel so good…" He mentions, leaving open mouth kisses along your shoulder while attempting to thrust. His hands reach behind you for stability while you shift in his lap to get comfortable. When he finds a pace you both can work with, Jaehyun throws a thin piece of fabric over you both.

It dawns upon you much later when the tulle feels stuffy and the lacing scratchy that it's your sister's veil. You know it should bother you more, that you should question why it's still here and not with her when the wedding is tomorrow but you don't find it in yourself to care. Not when he's looking at you with an adoration you've never seen and a smile aimed at you and only you.

"You look beautiful." He whispers against your lips, tongue prodding to enter your mouth in one of many kisses he gives you. It's enough to evacuate your head of all these nuisances, focusing on the feel of his cock fucking into you at a steady pace, hips gyrating to allow stimulation to your clit from his pelvic bone.

Whether it's the lack of experience, allowing your body to feel the delicacy of immorality, or he's simply that good, the words cascade from your lips like a mantra. "I'm so close… Fuck, so very closer." You whine against his lips, eyes screwing shut like you're about to cry while holding onto his own shoulders for support.

He smiles, easily wiped away when your hips pick up the pace. Moving up and down his shaft, gyrating as well to follow his lead. From feeling delicious, now he feels like he could come if you did this once more. "I need to feel you coming around me… Y/n, do that for me, please." Jaehyun curses incoherently, his hands holding onto your waist, kneading at the skin but his hands can't stay steady. Rummaging upwards to take your tits into them.

They're softer than earlier. Rubbing circular motions and squeezing when they feel too hot under his touch. Scalding. Thankfully his hips don't fall short in pace. It quickens, his thighs harden under you and it feels like he could give out any second. The sounds he makes surely say so.

"I can feel you ready to explode, Jaehyun." You taunt, seeking his lips and pulling away when he wants to give what you've asked for. His whines turn petulant by the third time. Hand coming off your tit to take a hold of your neck and pulling you in for a kiss. The warmth is gone and your nipple perks from the cold and his determination.

"Let me explode… please…" Jaehyun wanted to be more straightforward yet it came out like begging. It's not like you mind, not when you feel yourself three thrusts away from finishing. He drags it on when you don't give him what you want. Thrusting slowly upwards to bury himself completely and pull away to leave the gaping to turn cold before he's back to bottoming out.

He swats your hand away when he feels your nimble fingers attempt to rub at your clit, hissing disapprovingly. "Is my cock not enough?" He scolds, frowning when you shake your head, teasing. His thrusts turn harsher by then, forcing you to throw your head back in pleasure.

"You're too easy to tease." You jest, taking his hands to perch upon your breasts again. "Don't be mean." He winces, bucking upwards at a faster pace. His tongue not missing a single crevice of your neck before nipping the skin. His own form of protest to your mocking.

You giggle at his words, pressing to get his lips near yours. "Make me come, then. Finish me off for good…" Hushedly and deeper, looking directly into his eyes while processing the words. Jaehyun looks at you with every thrust. They're harder by the point you're done speaking and his eyes never peel from yours.

This is far more intimate than any of you had expected or wanted. The feeling of his cock fitting snugly within you is felt ten times more and the friction feels like your nerves are going to burst if he keeps going.

It causes your legs to spasm, arms flailing and weak around him. Every sense overstimulated when you feel him at the hilt, pressing harshly one thrust at a time.

"Jaehyun, Jaehyun, Jaehyun…"

You cry out, pleasure flooding your entire body that it manifests itself into tears. Louder and harder when you feel him release his warm fluid within your walls. It's a scorching feeling, deliciously overstimulated. Your body is weak and frail against his own, every neuron tingling that it stresses and overwhelms you beyond belief.

But you're crying. You're crying and crying, finally after a week of not being able to let it all out. It's a relief and you can fully understand why your sister is less sad about the reality of your lives.

"Y/n… Y/n! Y/n, are you alright?"

The sincere worry in Jaehyun's voice does not fall short to make you weep even more. You muster a nod, holding his face in your hands while pushing off your sister's veil. It's soiled in sweat, tears, and the smell of sex but it doesn't matter to you right now.

"Are you alright?" He asks again, this time peppering kisses all over your face, holding your body against his for comfort. It's sticky and messy, the sweat reminding you that no matter it being winter, humidity and physical activities don't mix well.

And while your crying doesn't seize, you nod, kissing him instead. "Happy lover boy day. Love was meant to be in your life." You mutter against his lips, your salty tears present with every kiss. Jaehyun sighs, rubbing soothingly against your exposed back before holding you flush against him.

"Than—" and before he can thank you, those same portraits you've been chipping paint from remind you of where you are and who the house belongs to.

It's a horrible crash, the form in which your mother's largest portrait slides down the stairs. Banging against the banisters and breaking the frame into pieces. Wood chips ripping the canvas into large chunks. The last tumble allows it to sway mere feet away from you, glaring for the disgrace you've just committed.

Against your parents, against this sacred home, against the sanctity of a veil, and against your sister. Even in death, your mother's watchful eyes will remain to belittle and judge you.

"Thank you." Jaehyun finishes off, turning your gaze to him and taking your lips into a thankful kiss. Your mother won’t continue to haunt you.

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