NCT's Jisung Or EN-'s Sunghoon Either The Two. They Have A Check Mark On All Of The Qualifications.

NCT's Jisung or EN-'s Sunghoon either the two. They have a check mark on all of the qualifications.

which idol is legit ur ideal type

u ok?

take some time and drink some water!!! 🎶🎶🎶

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zhangyi-johee

1 year ago

This is so cute. I love it.

I TOUCHED A VASE | p.sh

STARRING: potter!Park Sunghoon x florist!fem!reader

RUNTIME: 7.7k

SYNOPSIS: Your relationship with Sunghoon was strictly professional, albeit amicable. He would create beautiful ceramic vases that you'd commission for your display, and you supplied him with a collection of seeds he’d use to grow his own personal garden on his balcony. Sunghoon always felt like the two of you were walking around a glass vase that would break with a single wrong step, but sometimes he feels like he needs to make that first step into finally knocking it over.

GENRE: Romance, some levels of angst, magical realism, soulmates!au

WARNINGS: PG13+ | Slight mentions of familial death

DIRECTOR'S CUT: Another @/dhoya repost because I couldn't let this one go. Made minor changes here and there, and in a way, this was a little bit of a warmup when I initially wrote it like two years ago. I'll be producing shorter works called "short films" which will mostly be my writing warmups to take a break from my longer works. Expect more soon (i.e. Birds of Paradise Sunoo but imo that's gonna be refurbished into a full longfic because there's so much lore). Who knows? This might be refurbished into a longfic someday, but I have my priorities and I'll complete them accordingly before expanding on this one.

The place where Sunghoon feels the most ease is in his studio. The low hums of the pottery wheels reverberated across the vast emptiness of his four white walls as he continued to shape his recent work. A string of sighs escaped his lips as he continued to dirty his fingernails with the smooth batter of clay. He’s shaped a myriad of ceramics, but his fingers can never be satisfied. Did he put too much clay? Was it not enough? Is the shape suitable for the design he thought of painting?

He was always a perfectionist—even more so after meeting you.

Dates were never something he bothered to remember unless they had to do with his job. He was quite terrible with birthdays, but he always had specific exhibitions and showcases etched on the back of his head. Sunghoon has always surrounded himself with the earthy smell of clay to the point where he didn’t bother leaving his studio for trivial matters such as restocking his endless cupboard of instant food. He was a man that breathed his craft to a dangerous degree—and if it meant sacrificing some basic necessities, he didn’t mind.

The same went for romantic partners. He wasn’t too big on love like many artists, and he’d go as far as to say pottery was his first love. Ever since feasting his eyes on the pristine porcelain finish of a Joseon Dynasty vase, he devoted his life to perfecting his skill as a potter that upheld tradition. He was aware of his appearance and charm, considering how many exhibition patrons lined up to say a word or two to him. Some of them caught his eye, but his innate stoicism took over, often dismissing these encounters with a humble smile.

The date was an event that he had tattooed on his upper forearm. 23.12.08. Ironically, it was his own birthday, but that wasn’t the first thing that came into his mind when he looks upon the Korean characters on his arm.

How he hasn’t made a major move since two years of meeting you completely baffled him. After all, he was a smart talker. He was quite confident in his stride, and he carried himself well. It was one of the biggest reasons why he had regulars in his little shop—he won them over with each sales pitch, a cup of warm tea, and an inviting grin. Sure, he often disregarded his patrons as mere customers that would pay his rent, but he knew they thought otherwise.

He wasn’t too sure, but a growing part of him began to convince himself that it was the opposite when it came to you.

His first meeting with you was when his doorbell rang three times. It was a moody afternoon, and the clouds were grayer than his current concoction of loose clay. He was in the middle of creating the last batch of ceramics for another showcase he was invited to, so he considered anything outside of his work on this particular day an interruption. In times like these, he tuned everything in his environment out—focusing his entirety on nothing but his craft. It was an automatic process of fishing out wet clay and shaping it with the wheel until he gets the shape that he wants. Sometimes it would take a few spins, but it would often take him the whole day to stop himself from overworking the clay—even then, he never went too far. Clay dried out quite quickly, and he was more than willing to sacrifice artistic integrity for efficiency.

He was a quiet worker, so it was natural for him to ignore the doorbell. The shop was usually closed for a long period of time when he was working on a set of exhibition pieces, and today was such a day. However, the doorbell continued to ring until its whiny chimes were replaced with light knocks on the door.

“Hello? I know you’re in there, Park-ssi. Please let me in or these flowers will die.”

His head jerked up in annoyance. He didn’t mind sociability, but he didn’t like disruption in any form.

Despite the mildly aggressive tone, he didn’t hear any malicious intent in the voice outside of his door. For the loud motors of his electric pottery wheel, the voice was audibly loud and clear.

“Come in, the door’s unlocked.”

Sunghoon had a bad habit of keeping the doors to both his shop and studio unlocked. It used to be convenient, but ever since making a name for himself, it became a huge problem. He’d often be met with the pushy demeanor of his so-called “fans” that asked him about his private life more than his work.

The click of the door was completely drowned by the hums of the pottery wheel as he continued to spin his craft. He didn’t bother to look behind him since his priorities lay in perfecting the shape of a vase he was planning to showcase at the exhibit. While he was known for reviving traditional Chinese porcelain pottery, he decided to fuse the intricacies of its painted finish with a futuristic, angular shape. After all, even he found it boring to stick to the same thing—no matter how beautiful a classic, old-fashioned design can be.

After what felt like hours, he took the weight of his foot off of the wheel’s pedal. The quick gears of the wheel’s motors stopped in a second, engulfing the entire empty studio in sheer silence. A satisfied hum escaped his lips as he admired his new vase. It wasn’t anything special, but visualizing how he’d paint it gave him a burst of energy that recharged him instantly.

“That looks like it’s gonna be a nice vase! I’m sure it will look good with these flowers!”

This time, he jerked his head towards the voice, almost dropping what he spent the entire day working on. He couldn’t tell the age of the person in front of him, but there was a unique glow that surrounded you as you held a basket full of flowers tight. At the time, he placed the blame on the marmalade hues of the afternoon skies, but now he begs to differ. Maybe you truly had an innate brilliance to you.

He held his clay-ridden palm in the air before jogging towards the large glass window of the studio. In front of it was a bundle of flattened newspapers laid out with an assortment of plain, ceramic vases that bathed under the spring sun. He made some space for the vase in his hand, and then gently placed it next to a spherical clay sculpture. Once he was done, he haphazardly took his apron off, throwing it on top of a nearby chair.

“My hands are a bit of a mess right now, but who are you, and why are you here?”

He did his best not to touch anything. You placed the basket on a table by the glass window, making sure the sun’s rays hit each petal.

“I’m a florist. A woman named Madame Mo stopped by and told me to deliver these to you since it was your birthday. She said she would’ve done it herself, but her duties as a so-called “socialite” eventually won her over.”

There was a hint of disdain in your voice as you continued to describe Madame Mo—which was something he somewhat empathized with. Madame Mo was someone who was aware of her “old money” privileges amongst the Korean elite, and she had an air of haughtiness to her—as if she could buy Sunghoon whole. He felt bad for her status as a widow and understood—to some degree—her overbearing attraction towards him, but customers were dealt with professionally. It’s not like he’d go for her if the circumstances allowed it, but he would’ve allowed her to at least be his friend.

A drawn-out, monotonous hum escaped his lips. He completely forgot about his own birthday. He also forgot that there was a flower shop near his studio. As if you saw right through him, you tried to stifle a laugh.

“Working on your birthday sure seems tough.” You said, admiring the bouquet that you picked out for him. “I usually take a day off on my birthdays, unless funeral-related orders happen to be on the same day as my anniversary on this planet.”

You gave him a warm smile, and he felt his heart race. He couldn’t wrap a finger around it, but there was a strong magnetism in your presence that pulled him towards you. At the time, he attributed it to your face and occupation—you had the features of a person he’d find extremely attractive, and you were in the same field as him to some degree. Aesthetics were an integral part of both of your occupations, and so he was aware of beauty when he saw it.

He cleared his throat, finding ways to make you stay. His eyes scanned through a shelf of vases he’s made for himself.

“It’s my birthday, huh?” He mumbled. He already had a scenario in mind—being the idealist that he is. The only thing that bothered him was the execution. Even if he loathed social gatherings and after-parties, he was thankful that they helped him foster his charisma through sheer trial and error.

Your eyes followed where he stared and admired his craft. A sigh of awe echoed in the studio, bouncing off of all the walls that encased his artistic outlet.

“Do you want me to help you transfer the flowers to one of those vases or something?”

His eyes widened as he snapped his head in your direction. You were now beside him, eyeing each vase with a pensive gaze. There was a telepathic wire that connected your brain to his, and it took some time for him to realize that it has always been there from the start.

Nonetheless, things were going the way he pictured it. In a common occurrence, expectations never match up with reality—what unfolded right before his eyes was too good to be true.

“Yeah, if that’s okay with you,” He replied, swallowing a stutter that was emerging from his throat. “Also, can you help me pick a vase? I only make them, so I don’t know what type of flowers can complement the design and whatnot.”

You beamed with an infectious joy that day, which he inferred to as the “artist’s pursuit of happiness”. It was every artist’s pride to share their expertise, skill, and knowledge with any audience, no matter how big or small. He was well aware of this, being a victim of the phenomenon himself.

The two of you stayed in his studio until night. Before you said goodbye, he offered you a glass or two of Chianti from his vast collection of wine in the kitchen cupboard while you sat on his balcony outside of the large glass windows. You suggested ordering a cake as a celebratory gesture, but he gently declined, saying that he wouldn’t be able to finish it on his own. He liked that you were careful whenever you opened the glass sliding door that led to the balcony, with each step memorizing the positions of the drying ceramics laid out right beside the window. He also liked that you wished him a happy birthday throughout your time together, even when you’ve just met him.

Sunghoon never allowed anyone to touch his unfinished work, but that day he let you assist him in firing up the remaining pots he needed to complete his exhibition pieces. Of course, he didn’t tell you this, but what he did tell you was that you had a good eye for color. There was a humility in you accepting his compliment, but he also admired the layered sense of achievement that slipped out of you as you continued to share how anthology naturally broadened your grasp on color theory.

When you said goodbye at his door, he promised to see you at your flower shop the next day—even if he didn’t have any interest in gardening. He doesn’t regret this though, since he’s learned to appreciate growing his own flowers throughout the two years he’s known her.

Since then, he formed an unbroken routine with her. He’d often visit your flower shop to ask for seeds and fertilizers, while you commissioned vases for him to use as a display for your flowers. When he had the time for it, he’d offer to teach you how to make and paint your own vases, while you would return the favor by showing him the art of flower arrangement. It was an almost daily occurrence for him to walk into your shop, even when he had more than enough tools to expand his newfound hobby.

“Didn’t you buy a kilogram of fertilizer yesterday?” You asked one day with a light chuckle while spraying a bouquet of roses with water. He did his best to regain his composure and told you that he forgot. That was the first time you came to his house for the sole purpose of giving him a crash course on gardening. A part of him felt guilty that you offered more than he did when it came to your respective fields, but another part of him took every chance he had to spend time with her. This, in turn, formed a part of his routine with her—where you would visit him to check on the flowers he began growing at the edge of his studio’s balcony.

Some days, you’d come to the studio with a sketchbook, and the two of you would spend your time together in comfortable silence. Ever since you taught him the language of flowers, the two of you began to switch roles in the still-life sessions that you shared together. He would pick which flower he wanted to draw that day, and you matched it up by picking a vase from his array of fine works that would benefit the vast collections of your shop.

Usually, he’d end up eating dinner with you with a glass of wine, often dropping you off at home. The silent walks under the dim street lamps were the best and worst parts of his days with you. While he was able to stay close to you, he would never get the courage to either hold your hand or tell you how he felt.

He’d religiously invite you to every single showcase he attended, even going as far as to offer you a job to help decorate each venue with your floral prowess. Two years had passed since he first tried to persuade you to come with him to an auction, but you still managed to shy away from these events.

This was another thing he liked about you.

In fact, there were too many things he liked about you. The way your eyes would shine under the fluorescent lights of his studio; the way your nimble fingers cut the stem off of his flowers; the way your footsteps lightly trudged whenever you drank too much wine—the list would be endless.

Perhaps his status as a renowned potter shaped his personality today, but he’s begun to realize that it wasn’t a good thing regarding his qualms with you. For one, he was too careful. He treated you like fine China, nimbly avoiding hazards that would tip what he currently has with you off and break all that he’s built with you up to now. He was too afraid to ruin the delicate details of everything that made his relationship with you so beautiful—so he left it untouched, only walking around the hypothetical vase between the two of you.

Another thing he dreaded was how difficult you were to read. In the same way that he treated his patrons with charismatic benevolence, you greeted every single customer with a bright, inviting smile. You shared your knowledge of flowers with regulars the same way you taught him how to arrange them in his vases. He knows he’s being selfish, but the idealistic thought of keeping those memories exclusively between the so-called enchanting secrecy that he’s built with you chipped him away with each passing second. The line between his self-doubt and reality was blurred like a piece of clay spinning in his wheel, and he couldn’t step on the pedal to stop it altogether.

This time, it was going to be different. He knew he couldn’t keep on working on the same vase for too long—the clay would be too dry, and he’d just keep on adding more wet clay to the amalgamation until it was too large to handle. Like all his failed attempts, he needed to tip it off and allow it to break before it was too late. Only then would he be able to create a newer, much better vase.

He woke up earlier than usual today, even though he didn’t have anything to do. It was probably around half a year ago, but he’s been gripped with fever dreams that leave him with a temporary level of high body heat. It would often die down later in the day, but the severity of these fevers made him routinely check his temperature the moment he woke up.

Today was an all-time record of 38.5 degrees Celsius.

The haze that came with the heat left his reverie blurry, but your face was always unforgettable. Most of his dreams left him breathless with all the sensations in his mind and body activating all at once, and all of them gave him an indescribable feeling in a vast spectrum of positive emotions. Each dream was also different than the last, but he never seemed to remember exact details other than your sheer presence. All he would remember when he woke up was the afterimage of his silhouette and hers seemingly pacing a vase in the middle, as well as a haunting melody that was distorted by an aging record player. He didn’t know what the song was called, but at this point, he could perfectly hum its tune—which he unconsciously did throughout the day.

This time, he remembered every single detail. It was almost too picturesque, and the entire scene made him wish he could just dive back into his covers and relive his reverie—but alas, he couldn’t live like that. Idealistic trances that came with an eerily deep slumber left him in a state of euphoria, but he wouldn’t trade it off for the exhilaration of meeting you face-to-face. After all, he always prided himself in having an affinity for authenticity.

He quickly got out of bed and darted to his shower room, allowing the ice-cold water to ripple on his skin. He was never one to take a bath in the morning, but ever since his episodes of fever-inducing dreams got worse, he felt that it was a necessary step in regulating his body temperature. Once he was finished, he wiped himself with a large towel and wrapped it around his waist, before visiting his balcony to bask in the morning winds. The season didn’t matter to him—in fact, winters work best with his current condition. Despite being somewhat naked in broad daylight, he never seemed to succumb to a cold. No matter how harsh the winds were, he managed to pull through the teeth-clattering chills. Although behavior like this seemed counter-intuitive, what worked for him worked.

Ever since he began growing his own flowers, he would always be greeted with the floral notes of his seasonal home garden. While he initially started the hobby as an excuse to see you more often, he began to steadily see the beauty in its meticulous intricacies. Unlike clay, flowers had life in them; a single shard of porcelain can be revived into a postmodern piece for the rich, but a stem stepped in half was practically dead. In the same way, dry clay can be fixed by adding water, flowers had a tiny margin of error when it came to feeding them their necessities.

The marmalade rays of the sun were perfectly aligned with the semi-large pots of flowers that began to bloom with the seasons. you initially picked out a starter set for him, which included marigolds, pansies, and daffodils. After he got tired of their vibrant, yellow hues, he opted for a batch of tulips, carnations, and azaleas.

“Do you know what these flowers mean?” You asked, elegantly cocking your eyebrow at him. You were wearing your shop’s apron, which complemented your figure in his eyes. Perhaps he was too used to donning the same apron each time he met you, or maybe it was the apron itself becoming a part of his renditions of you.

Of course, he knew what they meant—but he was used to pretending when it came to you. Feigning ignorance was a relatively easy and safe way for him to go around his feelings for you in repeated circles, but it was getting harder and harder for him to continue when the thought of you subjected him to blissful vertigo.

“No,” He answered, maintaining his cool exterior.

“I just wanted to get them since they looked really nice.”

After that, you helped him sow the flower seeds into a bed of soil by his studio’s moderately sized balcony. You gave him a run-through of each flower and its meaning; tulips when they were red meant deep love; carnations when they were dark red signified love and affection; azaleas represented a gentle kind of love. You teased him about it by referencing several people you’d seen at the exhibitions he’d invited you to, and he did his best to restrain himself from proudly dedicating each batch of flowers to you.

It was currently the middle of spring. Being an artist, he had an appreciation for all four seasons of the year. His sensitivity to the weather and changes in his surroundings were often reflected in the painted finish of his ceramics—for spring, he’d use finer brushes to bring life to the blue hues of the petals that adorned each vase he made; for summer, he would draw faded clouds that captured the iridescence of the light blue skies; for autumn, he’d experiment with colors and use a warm, gentle palette to accentuate the dead leaves that he often saw strewn around the roads; for winter, he created delicately designed plates that were adorned with snowbells.

He closed his eyes and felt a flurry of cherry blossom petals stick to the moisture of his freshly washed skin. Unlike the maple leaves of fall, he enjoyed the satin finish of each petal as they lightly caressed his exposed body.

As he tightened the towel on his waist, he was met with your figure sitting down on one of the studio’s stools. He did give you the keys to his house, but he didn’t expect you to come this early.

“Good morning! Aren’t you cold?”

Sunghoon greeted you with a gentle smile like he always did. He chalked it up to the orange tint of the rising sun’s rays, but there was an inkling of hope in him that blossomed as soon as your cheeks emitted the warm dyes of the weather. You offered him a steaming cup of coffee, but he politely refused. After all, he had already gotten rid of the heat in his body—he didn’t need another source to add fuel to the fire.

“I do this every morning, it feels nice.”

Your eyes wandered around the blooming pink hues of the potted flowers you helped him tend, which were now covered by a small flurry of cherry blossom petals. Carefully obscuring his barely covered form, you occupied yourself with marveling at the care he’s given them.

There was a look of concern etched on your face at his remark, and he hastily excused himself to his bedroom. Before he was able to leave, you took his hand and pulled him towards her.

“Hold still,”

You turned him around, picking the stray pieces of light pink petals that stuck to his back. A single touch of your fingertip managed to electrify him—which prompted him to exhale in jagged breaths.

“I don’t know if you’re doing this on purpose or not, but wouldn’t it be uncomfortable if you dressed yourself with petals stuck to your body?”

Through his peripheral vision, he saw a pile of cherry blossom petals increasing in size beside him.

“I thought it’d be nice body art.” He replied with a chuckle. It’s been two years now, and yet his heart always leaped whenever you laughed with him.

“Well, you should’ve told me! It would’ve been a nice source of inspiration for your spring-themed collection, and I could’ve helped you pick out which flower petals worked with your skin tone!”

You tapped his shoulder, and he automatically faced you. He noticed and admired the gradual agility in your fingers as you continued to pluck the stray petals off of his chest and neck.

“You know, maybe you’re right about the whole body art thing. This looks gorgeous! They look like scales or some half-human hybrid off of a fantasy novel.”

The palms that firmly held his shoulders were warmer than he was used to. He hummed in response, staring at your focused demeanor. It was the same one he’d see whenever you arranged flowers back at your shop, or when you’d immerse yourself in painting a vase in one of his free lessons for you.

“Love, flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

He reserved pet names for you, despite telling you he had a nickname for each of his friends. The last petal was formally removed from the left side of his collarbone, and you gave his shoulders a soft squeeze.

“Darling, I mean it. Now go get changed before you catch a cold!”

You gave him a light push towards the hallway that led to his bedroom, careful not to exert too much force. He hoisted the towel up one more time, and waved you a quick goodbye. He never dared to ask you if you reserved pet names exclusively for him or not.

“So why are you here so early? Don’t you have a shift today?”

Sunghoon was now dressed in his usual garb, and he slowly leaned his body on the elongated table of his studio. He always delved into the smart casual style, and sported a loose cream turtleneck with a checkered suit jacket.

“I took the day off. I thought it’d be nice for you to have a companion since every call we’ve had this month always ends up with me being busy.”

Oh, the things you did to him. He’s perfected the air of nonchalance that surrounded him, but it didn’t mean the beatings of his heart eased by any means.

“I mean, it’s funeral season. I’m pretty sure your services are needed to provide the appropriate flowers for the ceremony.”

Ironically, many deaths occurred in spring. Most of his commissioned urns were requested right before the vernal equinox, and seeing you running around in a sleek, black suit was a sign that spring was here. Today though, you were wearing what you usually wore, albeit a little more fashionable.

“Well, today, there were no funerals scheduled, so I had some liberties in taking the entire day to ourselves. I do have someone I want you to meet though, if that’s okay with you.”

A smile wasn’t appropriate for the conversation topic, but you managed to muster a small one towards your companion. You took the cold cup of coffee you brewed for them and slowly sipped its contents. Sunghoon left his own cup untouched—caffeine was unnecessary when you were in his line of sight.

“Who?”

You placed the mug down as you fidgeted with your seat. You then tapped your finger on your lips and gave him a cheeky wink.

“It’s a surprise!”

Although your playful attitude was refreshing to him, his curiosity won him over. Each plea from him to reveal the mystery guest he was going to see was only met with you doubling down on your secrecy. He eventually gave up, huffing to the side as he crossed his leg on one of the stools.

Timid patterns of your fingernails tapping onto the surface of the ceramic mug filled the air. The ticking of the clock continued to echo across the entire room. you whistled a tune that sounded familiar and unknown at the same time, which made Sunghoon ponder its origin. He wanted to believe that it was the same tune he’s heard in his dream, but such a twist of fate seemed too farfetched. Silence was usually something he didn’t mind when he was with her. Being next to you and feeling your presence was enough for him, and there was a part of him that found earthly comfort in her.

“I,“

You heaved a sigh. He didn’t know what it meant, but what he knew at the moment was how rare it was for him to see you distressed in the slightest. False hope was a deep kick in the brain, and he raveled in the myriads of possibilities that started with the word I from you.

“You?”

On cue, you stood up to occupy the empty stool next to him. Taking a neatly wrapped cloth out of your tote bag, you untied it to reveal shards of porcelain that were all too familiar to him. There were clusters of rich soil and plant roots that stuck on the sharp corners of each shard. His entire body contradicted himself. For one moment, he yearned to get closer to you, and in a second, sudden tremors overwhelmed his nerves, leaving him gasping for a single sliver of air.

“Please don’t get mad at me, and please believe me when I tell you this, but the first vase we made together accidentally got knocked on the floor while we were cleaning the flower shop in my dreams. It means a lot to me since it’s the first vase we made together, and I was wondering if we could maybe spend time today gluing it back?”

Your breath was audibly jaded. His eyes widened, and his mouth went agape. A sudden sensation froze him, preventing him from moving a single muscle no matter how hard he tried. Shock would be the closest phenomenon he’d describe it, and the layers of self-doubt that he’s built throughout the duration of knowing you began to peel off one by one.

“In your dreams?” He couldn’t hide the astonishment in his voice.

You gave him a slow nod after gulping. He leaned closer to you, lips forming a thin line. There was a visible plea in your gaze, which he returned with curt reassurance. You allowed your body to rest on the table’s surface, using your elbows to support your weight.

“It might seem unbelievable at first, but it’s true. In my dream, we were together in the shop, dancing to some old hits while cleaning. I think it was around nighttime, since the skies were dark and the shop had the closed sign displayed outside.”

You closed your eyes and began humming the tune whilst dangling your feet to a moderate rhythm. Sunghoon’s eyes began to grow wider, his body stiffening with every second that passed.

“Were we dancing with brooms while that vase was right in the middle?”

It was your turn to exhibit a state of bewilderment. You neatly piled the shards of ceramic back into the cloth, wrapping it in a different knot from when you first brought it in. While doing so, your shaky hands pricked themselves on one of the shards—but the pain didn’t seem to faze you one bit. Your entire body was undergoing stupefaction, and you were solidly upright like a marble statue. You tried to continue talking about your dream, but a mere croak was the only thing that escaped the invisible clasps of your throat. It took all of Sunghoon’s current strength to prevent himself from breaking contact with your dilated eyes.

“Was I the person that knocked the vase over?”

You gave him a firm nod. Placing a hand on your heart, you subjected yourself to a few rounds of deep breaths. He hesitantly took your free hand in his and gave it a firm squeeze.

“You knocked the vase over with the tip of your broom, causing all the soil and flowers to come out. And then, I woke up to the sound of clatter downstairs at the shop. The vase was broken, the flowers we planted together were also on the floor, and I immediately thought of coming here to fix it together. Maybe harvest the flowers on your balcony to regrow them in the repaired vase.”

He felt your fingers curl on the back of his palm, and he returned the gesture with a beaming grin. Your feet were now sporadically dangling on the height between the stool and the studio’s floor.

“Listen, in the end it’s just a vase, and we’ve made a lot of that together.”

He used his eyes to point at the shelf behind them. you follow his gaze, keeping your hand on his. Sure enough, the collection of ceramics he’s made with you was triumphantly displayed on a glass case right next to an endless shelf of failed pottery. Each vase and plate were arranged in chronological order, and a wave of nostalgia washed over him as he continued to stare at your rather quick progress. While you had an eye for color, you didn’t have agile enough fingers to operate a pottery wheel—the same could be said for him. While he was great at drawing flowers on his sketchbook or painting them on the ceramics he crafted, he was initially terrible at soil cultivation and maintaining flower beds. It was the parallel yet extremely complementary nature of your respective skill sets that allowed for such a relationship to blossom in the first place.

He took your hand and led you to the glass case. As your eyes hovered over your earlier works with him, a certain embarrassment began to surface in the form of tinted, rosy cheeks. On the other hand, he did his best to hide the ever-growing pride that consumed him. you averted your gaze from the entire glass case, and he used his thumb to soothe the shakiness of your hand.

“See? I don’t think we should dwell on a single vase for too long. If we glue that vase back together, the crackles are just gonna ruin the glazed finish it once had. There’s also a high chance that water might leak out of the vase since glue doesn’t specifically fix cracks in fragile things.”

The two of you were still in front of the glass case. He felt a strong aura of energy around each vase that was displayed under its glass casing. He took a deep breath as he tried to control the tremors in his body. Taking your other hand in his, he interlocked your fingers with his, feeling a perfect fit. He’s always wanted to do this.

“So, we should make another one by scratch?”

Your voice wavered, as if you were in a hurry. He tried his best to hide his looming dejection. Of course, events like this were too good to be true.

“Well, we already have a fired glazed model from last week. All we need to do now is to paint it.”

Taking his word, a grin lit up your eyes in radiant sparkles. You picked out a cylindrical shape from the batch of dried pots you shaped with him, and he added a mental tally to the chances he’s missed.

By the time the pot was ready, the sunrise that Sunghoon woke up to retained its same hues, save for the presence of a violet trail in the sky. While he added final touches to the intricate designs of the cylindrical pot, you trimmed some flowers from his home garden and arranged them in a lovely, pink bouquet. Each bud wasn’t overcrowded, and you balanced the vibrance of the petals with a fair share of leaves. As an added touch, you placed some fallen cherry blossom petals on the bouquet, giving it a youthful yet transient glow. While waiting for the paint on the pot to dry, he continued to pry your on with the identity of the guest.

“You’ll meet him soon,” You’d often reply, with a gentle smile on your face. He knew he was overthinking, but a part of him insisted that you were going to introduce him to a new significant other. The thought alone to him was extremely ridiculous and downright impossible, but nonetheless, a wave of apprehension continued to float above his head as he waited to finally have his guest revealed.

The tote bag you brought with you was large enough to fit the newly crafted vase, so you carefully wrapped its entire body with excess newspaper before gently placing it in your bag. As for the bouquet, your hand carried it with you.

“What should I bring?” He asked, while turning off the lights in his studio. He gave the flowers on his balcony one last spritz of water before locking the glass sliding door to his balcony.

“You don’t have to bring anything, really.” You patted the side of his shoulder as you said this, whilst securing the ceramic in your tote bag.

He opened the door for her, before leaving himself. Usually, you would say a snarky comment or two about him being a “gentleman” and whatnot, but that youthful manner was replaced with a gentle smile of pure gratitude. He didn’t mind this side of her—in fact, it gave him more reasons to yearn for her. The endless dimensions of your character were as multi-faceted as the endless spirals of his pottery wheel, and he never wanted to lift his foot off of the pedal that unraveled each and every layer of your soul.

The pavement outside the city was lined with fading cherry blossom trees. The spring winds blew eastward, and a flurry of light pink petals would caress your faces with a touch of tenderness. There was a small river beside the pavement, which had a stone bridge perched right in the middle of it all. Sunghoon himself has visited the park countless times, but he limited himself to the bench near the entrance—where he’d have his sketchbook opened to paint still-life watercolor illustrations of the fleeting people that ebbed and flowed with the flows of the river.

You hoisted your tote bag tighter, gripping its strap as you continued to walk. You were approaching a slight inclination that led to a miniature stone bridge that separated the river. He continued to follow you, watching your unwavering, determined figure with awe as you walk past all the greeneries, flowers, and marble headstones that he suddenly felt himself drawn to.

The entire walk from his studio to the park was in sheer silence. There were many questions that plagued his head, but at the same time, he took note of your secrecy. He couldn’t feel any malice to your slight stoicism and withdrawal. However, the curiosity that continued to consume him persisted.

Before walking away from the bridge, he took a mental note of the location. It was constructed in a typical ancient Korean fashion, which gave him several ideas for his next exhibition. Most of his works centered around floral themes ever since he met you, and he realized the redundancy in his craft. Maybe adding a body of water amidst the flowers he’d often paint would accentuate his vases and pots.

“You know,” you began, keeping your eyes in front of the road. Tall marble slabs began to appear in his line of sight, and he admired each of their craftsmanship. Perhaps, in another life, he would have chosen to become a marble sculptor. There was an allure in the macabre nature of funeral proceedings, and he was sure that each headstone he would produce would harbor an even graver symbolism than the urns that were commissioned to him.

“I don’t know if I told you this, but you’re always in my dreams.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Rows of black and grey marble headstones bore Chinese characters. In the corner of each headstone, there were greyscale photos of faces that each told a different story. You were an amazing florist to everyone else, but to him, you are a professional at subjecting his vitals to rigorous gymnastic routines.

“What do you mean?” There was no point in asking this. He predicted the answer to bear an uncanny similarity with his own nightly experiences. There was also a part of him that didn’t feel the need to tell your his side of things—there was always a telepathic connection between them, and some parts of him believed that you already knew he experienced the same phenomenon.

The two of you were approaching a colorful gateway that smelled like paint thinner. The primary colors were flashy, which was almost ironic given the monotony that existed past the gateway. The golden sign shone with the setting sun, and the watchful eyes of the two guardian lions on each side of the gate stalked your every move as the two of you walked inside. While it was his first time entering such a place, your automatic strides juxtaposed his wandering eyes.

“When Madame Mo called me to arrange your birthday bouquet, I began seeing a face that looked exactly like yours. That time we didn’t know each other, so I did my best to memorize your facial features in case I’d forget them when I woke up.”

You stopped in front of a little wooden stall by the entrance. Taking your wallet out, you temporarily handed the bouquet to Sunghoon. you thanked the monk, receiving three thin incense sticks and a candle with a matchbox in return. He offered to continue holding the bouquet, which you apologetically agreed to. you slipped a single incense stick into the breast pocket of Sunghoon’s suit jacket, patting it in place before resuming your stride.

“Anyway, I’d get these crazy fevers whenever I dreamt about you, and I never really remember what I saw in my dreams aside from you and a vase between us. I still don’t know what it means, but maybe he might have the answers.”

He?

Your footsteps came to a halt. The two of you were now in front of a wide, obsidian headstone. Unraveling the cylindrical vase from its newspaper wrapping, you positioned it right next to the headstone. Then, you gently placed the bouquet of flowers inside the vase, using a bucket filled with water nearby to add its contents inside the vase. There was a photo of a man that looked like he was in his late fifties. He had a gentle smile on his face, and he bore a certain resemblance to her.

You took the matchbox and lit the incense sticks. Sunghoon hastily pulled his own stick out of his pocket and used the heat of your two sticks to light his own. The floral notes of the sticks wafted into the air, followed by a spicy undertone that gave your nostrils a light kick. You clasped your hands in prayer, closing your eyes shut. He followed suit, bowing at a slightly steeper angle than her. A few minutes of silence filled the vastness of the cemetery. A soft clap signaled the end of your prayer, and the two of you lifted your heads up in unison.

“Dad, meet Park Sunghoon, the man in my dreams.”

All at once, the suspicion that Sunghoon bore dissipated into thin air. It was now replaced by a tinge of guilt that bore holes in his heart. On cue, he gave the headstone a long, steep bow.

“Dad, you told me that I’d know who my soulmate is if I get a high fever after dreaming of them. Here he is, and I hope you’ll watch us from above.”

Sunghoon continued to keep his head down. The sudden shock of it all was hard to contain. you tapped his shoulder, telling him it was okay to raise his head up now. you waved a quick goodbye to the headstone, before walking back to the gate of the cemetery.

The winds continued to blow eastward, with distant petals of cherry blossoms caressing your cheeks as the two of you walked on.

“I originally wanted to use the vase we first made together, since I’d imagine that held more longevity between us.”

Instead of looking forward, your eyes were now towards him. He kept his hands in his pocket, but he returned eye contact nonetheless. Even if he was extremely satisfied with the outcome, he still didn’t know how to go about it.

“I guess you were right about the vase. It had to break for us to make this new one.”

He nodded in agreement. The two of you shared a smile as you walked past the colorful gates of the cemetery. There was no need for physical contact anymore, as the two of you felt the clays of your hearts spin into one, intricate vase.

—CREDITS: @writingmochi @hyuckworld @petrichor-han @wonvrse @tranquilpetrichor @soobisms @differentchildwombat @chiyuv

309 notes View Post

zhangyi-johee

5 months ago

violet crazy | jyh

pairing: psycho!jeong yunho x wife!reader AU: yandere au, modern au word count: 14.5k warnings: yandere themes, violence, sexual assault, strong language mentions of: alcohol, substance abuse, paranoid schizophrenia, abuse, neglect. (mc and side characters are referred to by their surname, not forename, apologies for any grammar errors)

masterlist

There must have been a divine current in the air that subdued her to fall in love with Jeong Yunho. An ethereal essence that led her to sway into the forsaken lands, a push that had lured her into the forbidden depths of his insanity. For he was a deceitful soul, born with an angel's face wrought with the heart of a devil. It should have not surprised her, when had men ever been purely good beings?

Despite his obviously charismatic demeanour, affirmed by the long bridge of his nose, the smooth curve of his plump cheeks, his pink lips and wide-brown eyes feigning curiosity and innocence. Or his evidently tall stature, and pleasant airs, attractive smile: he was very much a deceitful man. So much so that when Jue first glanced her eyes in his direction; as his wife she found herself reminiscing ignorance and dismissal. If only she had not given into his toxic wiles. If only she had not succumbed to him.

He's a thing of beauty, a being crafted from the essence of light; an angel drawn from the depths of heaven. It was enough to get drunk on his illustrious beauty, falling in love was a sin. What ghastly misdeed had she committed that she had been conserved to such punishment? What crime of her past life was she now paying penance for? It must have been something bleeding with horror that Jeong Yunho had chosen her to be his dutiful subject.

They stand outside the library, the cool wind tousling his soft hair as he pushes the thin-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. Her arms wrap around herself to keep herself warm, her jacket is too thin and worn to do the job anymore. Myeong stands with her, his classmate from law school, whilst he's standing with San and Yeosang. Yunho is supposed to be arguing with Yeosang about how Psychology is a science, he's almost tempted to give up with his eyes tightly fixed on her.

"Jue would agree with me." Yeosang pompously declares, huffing as he shoves his stethoscope into his bag. Typical STEM student narcissism, though he stares at his best friend in confusion. He's heard that name before but can't help but think where he's heard it. "The girl you've been staring at like a weirdo for the past five minutes, did you think we didn't notice?" San and Yeosang snicker at him, shaking their heads as they call for Myeong. Myeong sends San a look of disgust as she ambles over with her friend he's only caught a few times in passing. He thinks she's gorgeous but Yunho's too bashful to pluck up the courage to talk to her.

Her heart flutters at the sight of him clad in a formal blue shirt and tailored black trousers that completely juxtaposed San’s casual wear. Though right now, Jue is not sure if she is supposed to hate him as Myeong hates San to the core right now. It's something like he's her academic rival and for the past semester San has been scoring higher than her.

“Fuck you, and fuck your 89%.” Myeong scolded, she's not even sure why she bothers with him anymore. It's Yeosang, the middle-man, who's practically stuck, choosing between the two of his friends.

“Myeong, it’s one percent, goddam it. It’s not the end of the world.” But nobody could understand how succeeding was exhausting. Pouring herself over textbooks and questions on late nights, eating less so there would be more time to study, spending hours in the library and feeling terrible for time not spent revising. In all fairness, it was the end of the world for Myeong. Baring her teeth, the law student is dragged away by San, conversing in a heated argument. Yeosang disappears in less than a minute too, claiming he's late to Clinical Skills, but not before quickly embracing her. In the end it was just herself and Yunho who, tentatively, follows after as she sits under the large oak tree.

"Hi, I-uh." Yunho stuttered over his words as her doe eyes stared up at him. "Can I sit next to you?" He asked hopefully, heart palpitating violently in his chest. After nodding her head, dubiously, he slumped to the ground next to her as if there wasn't enough grass, or enough benches stretching out for miles awaiting for his graceful figure to bless the earth beneath his feet. It was silent between them as they intently stared at their respective friends fighting.

“I feel like I’m watching a K-Drama." She stated, breaking through the abrupt air as they both pulled out their lunches from their bags. Flickering her eyes towards him, she sought a delightful grin form across his beautiful features.

“Sponsored by Subway.” He joked presenting his subway sandwich as if it was a trophy. Giggling, she shook her head huffing as Myeong looked at San disinterestedly. "It's honestly so stupid, both of them. They both think they're better than everyone else." Humming in agreement, Jue subtly directed her gaze to him again tired of the occasional chirping of crickets rattled in her ears.

"Would you agree Psychology is a science?" Her head snaps towards his, mirroring the leaning in of his own head. A smirk falls on her lips, she loves this question.

"No." He's stunned, scowling as he realised it's two against one and San refuses to give his opinion on the topic; he left science a long time ago. "Science is a study of the natural world. Psychology is composed of biology but is not raw science it itself." He ponders her argument for a second. Her look reads one of a victory, happily munching away at her sandwich, as Yunho is rendered completely silent. Though he can't tell if he has just given up with arguing altogether, there was a figment within him that told him to bow to her every word, follow her every lead as if she was the beacon of light guiding his way through the darkest of tunnels.

There was also something so celestial about Jue that stemmed deeper than her quick wit. It roots were deeper than her undeniable beauty, there was a fragment of her which magnetised Yunho’s frenzied soul. Every remnant of him desired her in a way he had never desired for anything before. Faithfully, he believed she was born to be plastered by his side so as he sunk to his knees in Mass he prayed for his omnipotent God for her and her alone. She admired him too, though she didn't fail to notice how the smile on his face would falter when she laughed with San or playfully ballroom danced with Yeosang.

Jealousy, perhaps. Maybe he likes me.

After all, a little delusion didn't hurt anyone.

In the dull autumn evening, the streetlights began to flicker as the days became shorter. The laughter of children could be heard down the street as they escaped from the shackles of hell (school), dashing towards their homes. Studying in the autumn and winter months was particularly exhausting. With the sky losing its colour too quickly, no one wanted nothing more than to crawl home to their beds and slip under the covers. A false irritability roamed through her, as Yunho dragged her to the derelict convenience store off-campus as a big man like him needed as much food as he could get his hands on. There's an assignment due in two days, an exam in about two weeks with so much content and dealing with a demanding six-year-old and fifty-something-year-old is difficult.

Yunho also wants to know why all the kids at the local infant school think that she’s the mother of their favourite classmate.

"Oh, probably because it's just me, my younger brother and my dad. Mum left a while back, she has two boys now. I think?" She explained to him, as he couldn’t help but let his inquisition get the best of him.

"Why did she leave?" He asked softly, staring down at her under the dim lights of the convenience store. The delicate hum permeated into the solemn air, replaced by a sense of dismissal; Jue shaking her shoulders with disinterest.

"I don't know, she just didn't like us. I still see her around, Mum lives close to the university, actually." He wanted to follow her to ends of the earth as she aimlessly traipsed along the length of the aisle. "I still talk to her, help her around the house, steal her concealer." A sad smile painted across his features, the urge to just enamour her in his arms. God knew she deserved to be held in such a sincere way, that for the first time in her life she wanted to be held in a way that didn't feel like her skin was on fire.

“You’re really pretty.” Yunho blurted out.

Oh.

A faint blush tickled her cheeks as his ears heated red with embarrassment, the sudden proclamation instigating her to suppress a fit of laughter.

“Ok Yunho, what do you want? Help with statistics?” Her fingers danced across the aisle of packaged goods, each too expensive for her to buy. In a desperate attempt to avoid his stern gaze, she searched for the cheapest price tag.

“I’m being serious, you are very pretty.”

“I’m not Myeong pretty.”

“No you’re not.” She had no reason to be offended at that, it was a cold, hard fact that she had just accepted growing up. Myeong had always been the one boys wanted to talk to, be friends with, take out on dates and invite to parties. Jue had just been her quiet shadow that one would occasionally acknowledge. 'Oh, you're here too' as her friend tries to instigate them to include her. “You’re prettier. Smarter, yes she works hard but you work harder and at times I feel like it’s selfish that she overlooks that. You care a lot, maybe even too much, about other people more than yourself. So, you don’t have the right to stand there and say that you’re beneath her when you’re not. You’re on another plane that even she can’t reach.” His words had stunned her to the core, a quietude fell amongst them as his literature sunk into her skin her gaze tore away from the price tags to him. Her eyes brimmed with a sense of validation and adoration. Yunho stood firmly opposite her, his words were like a sworn oath he would take with him to the grave.

“Thank you. Nobody has ever said that to me before.” Her gratitude was sincere, bestowed from the depths of her heart and laid at his feet as if he was an emperor of ambitious lands and she was his follower.

“Well then they must have been blind. Because heaven knows how gorgeous you are.” With a breath lodged in her throat, she held tightly onto the shelves to stop herself from falling straight into his arms. To stop herself from pressing her lips tightly against his, to stop herself from devoting her life to him.

A weak soul she was, for she did it anyway. His touch softened the symphony of yearning trembling through her bones. The yearning that stemmed from years of neglect, all of the pent up love but nowhere to project it. Her knight, her lover, had arrived from distant lands to soothe the persisting ache of her vulnerable soul. When he went down on his knees, it took her less than a second to say 'yes', for she had already granted him every fibre of her being and became his dutiful supplicant upon a single sight of him.

Mr Jeong, a respectable criminal defence lawyer spent a majority of his time either in the office, or in the court of law, came home always around half five in the evening. Whereas his wife, Mrs Jeong (née Jue), worked as an engineer designing and processing equipment for manufacturing chemical products. She'd arrive an hour earlier on his command. The couple were a diligent pair, preceding their reputations as the best workers in their industries. After a long day of living up to their employer's expectations, Mrs Jeong came home to dreary night of living up to her husband's expectations.

Mrs Jeong couldn’t believe it took her to marry Yunho to realise how suffocating he really was. It took her too long to realise, his innocent face was a mask; beneath it lay a vicious, malformed creature who was self-conceited, rude and dissatisfied with those around him. Though it was particularly hard to prove, especially to herself at times. There came a period of love woven in between his callousness in such a subtle way that had her believing she was deserving of his aloof behaviour. Nights where he'd kiss away her tears, hold her hand and make promises to never lash out at her again. Now, three years into their marriage the fine line between his anger and love became so blurred that each pernicious trait went overlooked. There was also the notion of children suspended in the air, that she had tried her hardest to avoid, which her husband was constantly earnest to bring into a conversation.

They both slumped onto the sofa, the whirring of the television emptied into the room as he ran his slender fingers through her. Soft sighs and sweet hums permeated the restraint of their married home, despite its air of suffocation there was a paradoxical sense of amenity in the idea that they were there for each other.

“What do you think about a few children?” Yunho inquired, staring intently as she gradually shifts the position of her body to face him. Holding back a weary sigh, her fingers trace over the bridge of his nose, the smooth curvature of the soft cheeks and his sharp jawline.

“Define ‘few’.” She teased; he pursed his lips, in thought, as if he had never spent an endless number of nights thinking about it.

“Like two, three? Hell, we’re stable enough to have as many as we want. It’s up to you of course, you’ll be carrying them for nine months at a time.” His fingers drew to her stomach, gliding up and down the surface of the silk fabric, like there was a child settled in there waiting to meet its father.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for children yet.”

“What are you so afraid of?” Resting her forehead on his shoulder, his hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her deeper into him; his larger frame enveloping her.

“I don’t know—what if I’m not a good mother? I was barely raised by my parents, and I didn’t do a good job of taking care of my brother, either.” Her reason was valid, yet Yunho’s persistence had made her feel that she wasn’t mature enough to understand his wants. It was ruthless, in its own sense, for she understood him in profound ways that even she couldn’t understand herself.

“That wasn’t your choice. This is your choice.” He was wrong. This wasn’t exactly her choice either, if it was up to her, they would wait a little while longer—even if it was just a day to herself to truly think about their future together. Mrs Jeong hummed to fill the empty space, her thoughts flooding with memories of her brother and their childhood. Sure she fed him, clothed him, took him to school, helped him with his homework but at the end of the day, he still did not become the man she hoped he would be. It was if that was a testament to how poor of a mother she would be. “Do you know how much it hurts, seeing everyone live the life I’ve always wanted, while I’m questioning if my wife still has feelings for me?”

“Is this not the life you wanted, with me? There’s more to life than being fucking parents.” Reaching for the cushion beside her, she threw it against his head. “You’re not even mentally stable enough to treat me like a human being, god knows what a child means to you.” Wrangling away from his grip, his wife stalked out of the room, the slam of the bedroom door reverberating off the narrow hallways of their home.

The afternoon light had dimmed, significantly, the sun dropping into the sky to be replaced by the moon. Her eyes had wavered, opening and shutting, occasionally, as an obscure sense of guilt tugged at her. Perhaps she should have not been so crude, there were many more sincere ways to reason with Yunho however- at times- he seemed heedless to her concerns. It was always what Jeong Yunho wanted and never his wife. She couldn't really put her finger on how, or why he changed, it just happened so drastically. The door creaked open, her wide eyes fixing shut as he sauntered in the room. With the bed dipping beside her, he lifted up the covers to shuffle by her side; pink lips moving closer to her ears.

He knew she wasn't asleep.

“Don’t hit me again, even if it’s with pillow.”

“It’s not like it hurt you.” She grumbled, dragging the comforter over her shoulders, a surge of warmth glissaded over her body. A discontented sigh escaped from his lips, snaking his arms around her waist he nestled closely against her, the heat from his body radiating onto her. On instinct, her entire figure shifted to embrace him closely within her arms.

“Oh, are we friends now?” He teased, gently lifting her chin so she could bore her eyes into his.

“You’re my personal radiator. Nothing else." He grinned, as her fingers nimbly ran through his hair.

“I love you so much, darling. I just wish you tried to understand me.” Humming into his chest, her eyes fluttered to a close falling deep into a peaceful slumber within her lover’s arms.

Once again, she’s met by the voicemail machine, huffing to herself as the crisp autumn air comes to grace her again. Standing outside her office building Mrs Jeong waits for her husband to pick her up; phone in hand trying desperately to reach out to Yeosang, their psychiatrist friend. He had become a lot more reserved upon beginning his new job as a doctor after completing five difficult years at medical school. Such was expected, they knew his hours would be long and exhausting though with psychiatry being his chosen speciality, they expected him to slightly return back to his sociable ways. Mrs Jeong hadn’t spoken to Yeosang in about three months and she was worried now.

After seven 'o'clock in the evening, she's settling their ironed clothes in the wardrobe, her husband in the living room on the gaming console. Momentarily, his grunts of agitation and loud groaning annoys her but Mrs Jeong is so used to his borderline childish behaviour that she dismisses the actions over her shoulder and persists with the house chores. The buzzing of her phone, immediately, tears her away from her duties in a hope that her childhood friend has returned to her call.

"Jue?" His voice is so timid and wrought with fear, her heart lurches in her chest. Rattling with anxiety, she settles the phone putting it on speaker.

"Yeo, what's wrong?" It's all so sudden. The way he erupts into a fit of sobs which empties out into the derelict bedroom, a sound she thought she would ever hear in her life. "Yeo, talk to me dear." She urges, her soft tone gently easing him out of his melancholia.

“I love you, Jue. I love you so much, I don't know how to stop." The beating of her heart had ceased, any moment now she'll be taking the Angel of Death's hand, joining her brother in a land far away from this world. "I spent so many years wishing that you wanted me too, but I’m no one in comparison to Yunho. He’s taller, more handsome than I-,” His words all bled together, body rattling as his wailing fails to stop. Yeosang sits in his bedroom, curtains draw and the lights off ready to sink into another world.

“Yeo, you are perfect in your own way. You're funny, clever. I have nothing but adoration for you." Her reassurances are menial, sycophantic, her friend thinks.

“I am a fool. A broken, drunken fool to think you’d want me.” She can't even get a word in before he continues to ramble, he just wants to speak. She just needs to listen. “Of course, there’s this girl at work that really likes me. But she’s exactly like you, I talk to her and all I can hear is the sound of your voice. She looks like you, thinks like you. Perhaps it’s the version of you that would have been mine if you’d never met Yunho.” Her eyes well up with tears, realising why Yeosang had become so withdrawn from everyone. A small piece of her imagination flickers to what her life would have been like if she never met Yunho or even married him. It's still a pretty dream but one she finds hard to fully forge and it breaks him. Her body shifts around finding Yunho paralysed by the doorway, full tears pool in his eyes.

"One last time, I love you Jue. I always have and maybe I always will until my last breath." Large tears slip down Yunho's cheek, his palm slaps to his mouth holding back the grieving dissonance of pitiful sobs. The line cuts, her phone is discarded somewhere as she reaches out for her husband but he ignores her grasp moving towards his bed. At the foot of the bed, his body racks in agony as he bawls his heart out to the moon.

“So this is why you don’t want children. You really don’t love me anymore, you’re going to leave me for Yeosang.” Crawling on the bed to him, her arms wrap around his neck rocking him back and forth.

“No, Yunho. You misheard, he said he loved me, but I didn’t say I loved him. My heart only belongs for you, dummy.” His wails are distressing, prolonging over a vast period of time, her heart waves in anticipation that he’ll never see her the same again. “There’s no me without Jeong Yunho, baby. Come on, stop crying.” His cries falter for a few seconds, collecting himself whilst he nuzzles deeper into her hold.

“You still don’t want my children though, do you?” He peers up at her through his long, wet lashes, cooing at his pouty face. Her lips travel down his face to ease him of his pain, before her arms circulate around his neck.

“Of course I do, I just want there to be you and I for now.” Tugging him under the covers with her, his hands mildly roam over the surface of her skin, lips a tease as he pecks so slightly. Their mouths move in sync, the sanctified synchronisation proves their understanding of each other. He knows her in such a way, he plans a response to her next movement as he pushes his body so he is hovering over her. His lips plaster chaste kisses down her neck, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt; her soft moan consumes him. With a growl, he snakes his hand under her shirt as a ripple of goosebumps litter her skin. His wife is oblivious to his next move, he’s done this before and retracted later. It’s only when he’s moving closer to her cleavage, a breath hitches in her throat at his unfaithfulness.

“Yunho.” She squirmed under his touch, feeling trapped under his body. “I don’t want to.” She breathed out, the cold circulating over her as the hem of her shirt hitched up.

“Please. For me.” He presses his lips to hers once again. As if that was any consolation for his indecency, any justification for him throwing his body over hers leaving her captured under the emblem of his own desire.

The stars scape across the night in the landscape of the dead, a fragile soul awakens in the aftermath of his despotism. Her heart lurches out of her chest, feeling the aches of his vulgarity inflicted upon her.

It must all be a sick joke.

It’s a joke, the way the moonlight streams in through their velvet curtains forging a halo around his slender body.

Reeling away from him, she slipped out from under the covers, picking up remnants of her modesty from the ground beneath her. A demeaning silence fulfilled the sombre atmosphere as she trudged to the bathroom, the light shattering the fabric of her dignity.

Hot water spurted from the shower head, as she weakly slathered the soap over her body before grabbing the loofah from the stand. Violently, she rubbed the sponge over her skin, scrubbing hastily in all the places where his touch had lingered upon hers. Scrubbing in all the places where she had felt like a clay pot indented by fingerprints before it could be hardened; moulded by his barbarity. But no matter how much she cleaned her skin, even until it littered red and flakes began to peel off her arms, even when it lacerated—blood boiling as she itched and plucked her neck; it wouldn’t remove feeling of his tender touches burning her. The water could dissolve the soap off her body, the sponge could be rinsed clean, the room could be scrubbed, windows opened, but the memory could not be eradicated. The memory of her begging him to stop and under his reticent command she was rendered subservient. His toy to play with, his doll to admire. Sinking to her knees, her hand slapped against the cool marble; figure convulsing as pained teardrops slid down her cheeks.

A woman’s body belonged to her own, it was to be forged from the roots of her femininity, whether it was to express her sexuality freely or maintain a figure of modesty. It was a not a man’s to hold or to control. Here, he had torn it ruthlessly from her grip, claiming that it was his, all his, as if when she had been bound to him in matrimony it was her body she was giving to him and not herself. Those vows. Those wretched vows he’d spoken at the altar, they were just bewitched lies glossed over by his insatiable beauty.

‘But you belong to your husband, he is entitled to each and every part of you.’ The old wives would say. Yet, a woman’s words are weak, a single plea, a cry, a laughter can so quickly be obscured by his own.

Just this once, hear me, my love.

I just wanted you to hear me say: No.

Mr and Mrs Choi were accounted as distinguished lawyers in the court of law. Whilst Mr Choi worked as a criminal defence lawyer, alongside his closest friend, Mrs Choi laboured in prosecution much to the surprise of her peers who had concluded that she'd been chasing and competing with San in his own field. Again, Yunho had been the one to prove to be much more reputable and the best dignitary in law. When they weren't advocates for justice, they came home to their beautiful daughter Choi Soo-Ah, who inherited her mother's beauty and her father's intellect.

Mr and Mrs Jeong stand outside the terraced home, constructed from red-bricks. They surpass up the staircase, the bow windows outcast over the front lawn, showing San play gently with his daughter alongside his old plushie, Shiber. Her hands raise to provoke the door knocker, where her husband leans closer to her ear.

“Just think baby, that will be us soon.” Placing a chaste kiss on the top of her head, they patiently awaited for the door to swing open. She had thrown herself into Myeong’s hold, the childhood friends squeaking and giggling like little school girls upon their reunion. Until Choi Soo-Ah comes to join them, jumping up and down herself as if she is too an old childhood friend. The old wives do say that you are carrying your child and your child is carrying hers even before they are conceived. In a comical way, little Soo-Ah has been with them for so long.

“Ach, Yunho, what’s this?” Yunho is carrying a heavy chicken dish in his hands and there’s dessert in the car that he’s careful about passing over to San who silently thanks him for saving their dinner party. Myeong’s cooking skills are pitiful, to say the least.

When they finally sat down to eat, Mrs Jeong draws herself out of conversation, reserving her attention solely to her food. For the first time in her life, she wants to scream. She wants to break down into a fit of sobs, howling until the midnight escapes from the sky, convulsing until her body begins to deteriorate and all that’s left is her husband burying her six feet under. She can’t tolerate the way his touch pierces her skin, her clothes feel too tight on her back, hair sticks to the back of her neck as beads of sweat form. Those wretched memories and lies she told him are creeping back. Walls shimmer, the shape of the spoon has somehow distorted, the food all bleeds together to form some sort of mush.

“My, you’re quiet today, brainbox.” A sheepish smile rests on her lips, at San’s comment, her eyes almost flutter close in the midst of her burdening exhaustion.

“Parenthood seems to have taken a bigger toll on you than your wife, San.” She goads, leaning back in her seat. Yunho’s hands draw closer to her own. Her eyes flicker, but they are dams holding back a flood of emotions that are threatening to fall. San laughs, it’s so natural that she envies him for it. She hates how in love he is with Myeong and would never force her to anything she doesn’t want to.

“Soo-Ah is a daddy’s girl.” His fingers raise to tickle his daughter’s cheek who giggles, revealing a dimple on her left cheek. Yunho has dimples too but they’re only really prominent when stress overtakes him and he loses too much weight.

"Has anyone spoken to Yeo? It's honestly almost like he's dead." Myeong jokes, a breath is lodged in her throat calculating what the next best word to say is. But her mind is spiralling out of control, because it was that tragic day when Yunho depravedly ripped her apart.

"I spoke to him the other day, he's doing ok. I've been meaning to get back to him but I haven't had the time." In truth, she's been calling Yeosang at least four to five times a day, spamming him with messages. Sometimes she even pounds on his front door when she knows he will be at home. Heaven knows, a flicker of a shadow has crawled across the floor, receiving her presence but he ignores her like she did to his feelings. They sit there, knowing its incomplete without all five of them.

Stood by the Choi family household's doorway, Yunho slips on his shoes his wife loitering behind him.

"Are you sure you want to stay here for so long? I'll miss you." His pout no longer makes her heart throb with reverence. The sight of him repulses her, the tsunami is rising high above the waves, there is no longer a fragment of her that would breathe at his will. “I love you.” His declaration reverberated of the walls in the foyer, the beating of her heart paused momentarily. It felt too quiet, as San’s dimpled smile behind them, Soo-Ah’s wide eyes and Yunho’s longing gaze rested heavy on her figure. As if they were all awaiting for her to say the words back to him. Her face heated with the pressure, which one would have mistaken for a love-sick blush.

“I love you too.” Love. A word that didn’t hold any meaning anymore, what even was it? She once thought she knew what love meant, after all, love was Jeong Yunho. Love was waking up beside him every morning to his groggy voice and a fit of kisses. Love was dancing to songs in the kitchen, chasing him through the park but failing because of his long legs. Love was discussing remnants of the future together, not forcing it to happen within a single beat. Love was him. Was. Past tense, something long gone to the wind and would never return.

"I don't know if something has happened to you, but it's almost as if you've completely shut down." They sit on Myeong's bed as both her husband and daughter have skipped down to the park. Her eyes outcast from the window, the bare branches of the trees sway with the billow of the window, the leaves drift across the pavement as a few pedestrians stalk down the street in their work attire. The Choi's neighbourhood is so full of sophistication, its enough to make her domestic village seem inferior. Her head turns to meet her friend's concerned eyes, prevailing as if she is so eager to make her way through the labyrinth of struggle Mrs Jeong has been plunged through. "Did Yunho say, or do, something to you?"

Tears well up at the front of her eyes, the pace of her breathing quickens, everything has blurred so suddenly. A malicious monster has plunged his hands to her lungs, suffocating her airways so much that she cannot breathe and is denied the pleasures of living. His slender fingers lodge in the lumen of her airpipe, mouth locked in place all that escapes her are muffled cries. Chains ensnare around her legs too, tightened she cannot even as so much move her leg a single inch. A voice is attenuated at her ear drums, the tumultuous tides have rushed into the shore, sweeping her body into the vast expanse of the cerulean sea. Her anguished roar saturates the room, much like the water filling into her lungs.

"He-he-" Her voice stammers so pathetically, her arms wrap around herself because a touch of another will just kill her. "He hurt me. I said no but he wouldn't stop, he just kept on going. I said, please but he wouldn't stop." Her head falls onto the pillow and she just gives up allowing Myeong, and Myeong alone, to embrace her. The cry is no longer so silent, no longer expressed in the loneliness of her married home when he is not there to hear her. It is spoke in a house where the notions of absolutism do not exist. It speaks to Myeong's soul, watching her cry is a nightmare for she had never seen any other emotion other than happiness on her face.

"I can't go back. Please don't make me go back to him." She wails, gripping onto her forearms as if any moment now, he would tear through the walls and yield her back into prison.

Slumped on the leather sofa of Myeong's office in her home, as the lawyer ardently works through reads of paperwork and emails. Little Soo-Ah’s body is draped over her own, her small chest rises up and down, soft snores escaping her. On maternal instinct, her arms wrap around, holding her closer. There’s a poignancy in the idea that this is what she could have had, had he not forced it upon her.

"We have TRO-temporary restraining order for up to two weeks until a full trial is scheduled. The judge needs more information. You are aware that Yunho can make an appeal to get his restraining order revoked, right?" Chewing down on her lip, she nods, knowing that things will only get much worse from here.

The Magistrate’s court is where all court cases begin, even sexual assault cases. It’s when the suspect pleads “not guilty” that things get messy, and it’s established as “indictable only” that cases are handed over to the Crown Prosecution Services. Jue is even surprised that it’s taken a few weeks to reach the trial; normally cases like hers take months upon months. Yet what hurts the most is that for the second time she reads out aloud her statement and it’s almost like she’s begging to the judge for mercy. As if they are the ones who can cure of her this ailment.

The court room is cold, is really all she can think about as she avoids her husbands deceived gaze across the room. Jue knows that if she looks into his eyes, even once, she might feel pried to take back all that she has set against him. She doesn’t live with him anymore, she moved as quick as she could to a women’s hostel—the feeling of living alone terrifies her.

“A work convention? So soon?” His eyebrows furrow in confusion, he doesn’t quite believe her but there is nothing from the tone of her voice or body language that suggests she is lying.

“Yes, dear. About a week?” He snakes his arms around her waist, inhaling in her scent.

“You’ll take the pregnancy test, won’t you? God knows how much I want that baby.” Ignoring the pounding of her heart, she nods eagerly, cautiously pressing her lips to his soft cheek. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

There’s a number of officials, including a circuit judge and a jury of twelve members of the public all awaiting for the case to start. The defence lawyer is yet to walk in.

The wooden doors swing open, following a gust of air as a pair of shoes click against the floor. The prosecution follow their eyes across their shoulders, Myeong’s heart stops beating for a second.

Her husband stands there in all his glory, their eyes meet in a quick second before he dips his head sitting next to Yunho. She cannot her believe her eyes, yet the same way she would protect her friend with her life, San would fight Yunho’s case for as long the blood ran through his veins.

The war begins.

Mr and Mrs Choi both prepare succinct, detailed opening speeches for the court. In cases like sexual assault, there needs to be a sufficient amount of evidence for the perpetrator to be punished. In marital rape, it’s a lot more difficult and is categorised under domestic assault. It’s her word against the court, and god was it difficult for Myeong to pull something together.

It seems like this wasn’t the case for San and Yunho, for when he presents his opening speech deeming his client isn’t guilty and his argument begins, he has the physical evidence Myeong was scrounging for.

"The defence argues that Mrs Jeong’s appeal extends from her ongoing paranoid schizophrenia. Here, we have a letter of diagnosis issued on the 12th September, three years ago, by Dr Park Taeo, working for the Light Goeul Medical Foundation." San dropped a folder in front of the judge, a copy handed to Myeong who flips through the folder at a rapid pace.

“The defence would like to call Dr Park Taeo to the stand.” A man of average height with jet black hair ascends to the stand. He is clad in a smart suit, but Jue furrows her brows. She had never seen or met this man before. Granted, at one point Yunho had her meet a counsellor for her 'feelings' (an old woman who retired and had just passed away last year), yet there was no 'Dr Park Taeo' she had ever spoken to. Her lips move closer to Myeong, whispering words of defence.

"I have never met this man before. I don't even know who he is." Taeo is sworn in by the bible, pledging to the tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

“Could you inform the court of when you had first met Mrs Jeong, and what exactly had led you to believe she had paranoid schizophrenia?” San interrogates, he musters all the courage he can to avoid his wife’s gaze for he feels her stare burning holes in his back.

“Mrs Jeong came into my office on the 22nd of February, three years ago. She told me her husband had requested her see someone as she was particularly suffering from hallucinations, so seeing things that weren’t there. Hearing things. Delusions, withdrawing herself away from her family and friends. I also recognised a particularly disorganised train of thought, she stumbled over her speech.” Her heart stops in her chest.

22nd February. The same date she first saw her counsellor.

“And these are all symptoms of schizophrenia?” San provokes, to which Taeo nods followed quickly by a verbal confirmation. “Could you tell the court of her delusions?” The doctor sucks in a deep sigh, typically there’s ‘patient-confidentiality’ at play which is inherently discredited in the court of law.

“She perceived people were trying to hurt her. Usually it was people she was working with, sometimes it was her husband.” Jue squeezes her eyes shut.

That fucker.

“Can you elaborate?”

“Mrs Jeong stated, and I remember this so boldly: ‘Sometimes I feel that he doesn’t love me for any other reason other than to use me, or that I am of some value to him. Sometimes I feel he may hurt me, or is the wrong person to protect me from danger.’” A hand slaps to her mouth, her fingers squeezing her lips. Her heart palpitates in her chest, hastened breaths escaping her.

It’s exactly what she said, three years ago, to her therapist.

“What makes you say that?” Mrs Go’s soft voice is a dream, a melody dropped from the banner of a celestial plane. Her attitude eases the incessant pulsation of her heart.

“I wonder when he sees my scars if he loves me. Or when he hears of my past, that I am still the same woman he is in love with.”

“Why would any of that stop him from loving you?” Mrs Go never took notes. That woman had an impeccable memory, she wrote things down after the session, claiming her clients required her undivided attention.

“Men don’t like broken things.”

“Was there anything you believe could have been the cause of her condition?” Her ears have mellowed out San’s voice, she cannot bear it and it’s hard to avoid Yunho’s gaze now. She stares at him, though there’s no longer a betrayed look that settles in his eyes. A glimmer of triumph, a paint of melancholy.

“Yes, particularly her childhood is the main factor. Her father was a raging alcoholic who engaged in substance abuse. Her mother left him for that reason. His erratic behaviour eventually transgressed into acts of physical violence which he inflicted on his daughter and son. I believe Mrs Jeong’s brother—,” Her chair scrapes across the floor, she stumbles her line of sight blurring. There’s a mixture of voices and faces, they all wanting something to do with her. She wants nothing to do with them. Before she knows it, a spread of darkness fulfils her vision.

“I must look like a fool for fainting in court. That screams guilty straight away.” She breaks the silence in Myeong’s office, her body draped across the plush sofa. Her friend simply hums tightening her gaze across the spread of sheets littered upon her desk. Darting her eyes across the room, Myeong looks as deceived as Yunho did. After all, it’s her first time hearing any of this and despite her friend’s pleas that the diagnosis was never true—Myeong doesn’t know what to believe. For the first time since law school, there are dark circles under her eyes as she hasn’t gone home to sleep in a long time. Soo-Ah is with her grandparents and she doesn’t have the strength to face San. “I-my father did beat me.” Jue confesses, but the words splutter from her mouth. Disorganised, as Taeo would state. Passively, she gets up from the sofa, taking off her jacket revealing the t-shirt underneath.

Her arms are scarred, several indentations seem like streaks of white paint over her skin. None have faded, and they’re all relics of her past which seem like trophies of wars she has fought. Myeong has seen similar bruises, scars and wounds on victims of domestic violence; she may have never gone through it herself but seeing it in others is what prompted her to be a lawyer. Knowing that her friend was suffering whilst she was training to be an advocate is like a blow to the heart.

“How did we never notice?”

“Lots and lots of my mother’s concealer. Long shirts and jackets even in the summer…” She trails off feeling herself want to collapse. “I just—never expected him to use it against me. I confided in him, and he creates this lie that’s enough to close this case.”

“It’s absolutely boiling out there and you’re wearing a hoodie?” Yunho scolds as he rifles through their wardrobe, hands running through the hung fabric. They’re all long sleeve shirts, turtlenecks, jumpers and nothing with cropped sleeves. “I’ll have to give you one of mine.” He takes out the white shirt, slipping off the hanger before handing it to her. Her hands reach out, slowly, a fear striking through her heart. What if he sees those scars and doesn’t love her anymore? Muttering her thanks, the hoodie is replaced by the t-shirt. Yunho has noticed straight away, within an instance he’s on his knees whilst she bawls under his inquisition.

“We’re going to fight this, I’ve got evidence to prove he’s a fraud and this whole thing is fake. Second, I’ve called Yeosang in. We’re proving to the court you’re sane.” Jue just hopes there’s no bitter feelings amongst them; not after she completely disregarded his feelings in light of her husband’s.

The shatter of glass against the wall sent a jolt through her; the fragments bounced off the surface splitting into all corners of the living room. The black, leather sofa is pushed forward so she can squeeze her body through the tight spot. If she stays here long enough, he’ll eventually give up and leave. But she’s as wrong as she’ll ever be because when Mr Jue is drunk, he is the most persistent man on earth.

“If you come here now, then I won’t hit you.” Lie. He was stood by the doorway, blocking the exit to her bedroom. His body swayed from side to side, heavily intoxicated; having spent two weeks worth of food on a shit ton of alcohol and drugs in one night. “I can wait all day.” His low voice sending a wave of fear over her. Taking in a deep breath, she darted towards the space between his body and the doorway, wrangling away from the harsh grip of his greasy hands before scrambling up the steps. He pounded up the staircase behind her, hands outstretched for her legs, jerking her down, forearms slamming into the piercing edges. A cry escaped her lips as his elbow pummelled down on her head, his iron fists gripping her hair sending a violent punch through her head, the pain rattling at her core.

“That’s what we’ve got to do to clever bastards like you, go straight for the fucking head.” He snarled, throwing her body against the staircase. Where’s your brother?” He questioned, darting up to the stairs. Plastering her hands over her ears to drown out the sounds of his screams, tears soundlessly poured down her cheeks until the shrieks reverberated mercilessly through her head and she darted up to his bedroom.

“That’s enough, stop!” Her bellow carried over the expanse of the bedroom, her younger brother on the floor cradling his face in his arms.

“My own fucking children are ganging up on me now.” He cackles, mercilessly and she’s on the lookout for the Grim Reaper. But she doesn’t see him and she’s disappointed. The sight of him is better than the sight of her father. “Your mother was a dirty whore! She wanted fucking kids and then left me to deal with them. I didn’t even want you!”

“Tell me something I haven’t heard before.” He scowled, deprived of the energy to lash out again at her stumbling out of the door; slamming it behind them. Sinking onto the floor, her arms outstretched to encircle her brother into her—his body crawled in. Rocking him back and forth she ran her fingers through his hair as he sobbed pitifully into her chest.

The Jue siblings have been physically abused for as long as they’ve lived. Every morning the eldest child wakes up her brother, washes him, and applies a layer of concealer over his bruised skin. Then he wears long sleeve shirts, or a short-sleeve with a jumper on top, before being fed breakfast and taken to school. He is eight years old and doesn’t understand why he’s thrown against the floor like a rag doll. Often when he sees the father of his classmates hug them after school, he’s confused. So he asks his sister who’s only rendered silent as they eat dinner in her room behind a locked door.

Jue can’t tell him it’s his way of loving, because she doesn’t want to prepare her brother for a lifelong relationship of abuse. He deserves to know what love feels like, he just knows a bit of love is his sister staying hungry so he can have the last slice of oven pizza. He knows that a bit of love is her sneaking chocolate cake out of events so he can get a treat after dinner. Or her saving up from her measly wages so she can buy him a toy he’ll treasure forever. But he’ll never know what paternal love is.

Nobody knows of their secret. It’s something she’s forced her brother to not open his mouth on. If the teacher asks where the bruise came from, say you fell over. If the teacher asks where daddy is, say he’s at work. What about mummy? The truth. Mummy doesn’t live with us anymore.

(Mummy doesn’t love us.)

Myeong never knew, nor did San or Yeosang. No matter how deeply rooted Yunho’s infatuation was: he never knew either. Not until after they had married and he’d seen the scars on her body.

Having no maternal figure was awful for her, especially on days where she needed to rest and she physically couldn’t move her body from the bed. Her father storms into the room, he’s in his work attire but she knows he’s had one too many drinks from the pub on his way home from work. It’s a wonder how he’s never been sacked yet.

“Get up.” He roars. “What are you laying down for? Lazy bitch.”

“I can’t get up.” She croaked out.

“Get the fuck up.”

“I can’t.” She whined, groaning loudly as she pushed up her body from the bed. A scream erupted from her lips as he gripped her by the hair to drag her out of her room, her lower abdomen pummelling a wave of agony through her. He hauls her down the stairs, launching her body into the kitchen. Her figure slaps against the floor, a breath lodged in her throat as tears well up in her eyes.

“One of the men at the pub has told me you’ve been with a man. Not the doctor or specky-four-eyes.” She holds back the urge to roll her eyes, he’s only ever seen San with glasses on, she doesn’t bother to correct him that Yeosang is a medical student. “The lanky one. He’s supposed to be tall as fuck, I’m told. Who is he? Whose dick are you sucking now?”

“I’m not. He’s a friend, Yeosang’s friend. His name is Yunho.” She sits a little properly on the kitchen floor, but not up. Jue knows better than to shun her father’s superiority complex.

“What does he study?”

“Law and psychology.” He simply hums, she wonders what he’s thinking.

“Well don’t whore around with him, otherwise you’ll end up pregnant and he’ll leave you.” A breath of relief escapes her as he disappears from the first floor and enters his bedroom. She’s surprised. There is at least five objects in the kitchen that he can harm her with, she anticipates his arrival for the next fifteen minutes preparing herself to be battered by him. When he doesn’t reappear, she takes the opportunity to trudge back to her bedroom.

It was funny. Perhaps her father should have warned Yunho to not chase after her. After all, he was the one who ‘whored around’ with her and she was the one leaving him. But that’s all her past feels to her now: irony. Something to laugh and laugh like a crazed man. Perhaps her husband is right, she is insane.

Here she is, sitting opposite Yeosang in the clinic he works at. Unlike Mrs Go, he scribbles down her words as if he’s transcribing them across the page furiously with his fountain pen. When she stops speaking and a distasteful quietude fills the air, Jue knows exactly what he’s thinking and doesn’t have it in her to meet his scrutiny.

“I can’t believe you went through all of this, and never told us.” Those words she expected. “What happened to that bastard afterwards? I remember him at the wedding but what happened to him?”

“He just left of the face of the earth. I don’t know if he’s dead, or in jail or just shit faced in another city. Doesn’t matter, I won’t forgive him for what he did to my brother.” Wiping her nose, the scrunched up tissue is shoved back into her pocket; she peers at him through her lashes as Yeosang stares at his sheet.

"Well, the good news it that you're sane. It is normal to suffer as you have done and still be 'sane'. You've created a somewhat healthy coping mechanism to be relatively unaffected. Any history of mental illness in the family?" She shakes her head. There's just a history of abuse after abuse but somehow they've all managed to be escape the grasp of mental illness. For a minute she wonders if she ever had a child and if they would be the one to break. "Good. I'll pass this along to Myeong and I'm more than happy to testify."

"Thank you, Yeo. Are you ok? You didn't respond to my calls." He takes off his glasses and throws them to the side, his face falling into his palms as a long groan emits from his lips.

"I'm fine, I'm sorry I burdened you with what I said the other day. It was merely a moment of weakness." But it wasn't. It took him all the strength that laid within him for every moment it roamed within, it felt like his organs were being toxified.

"But did you mean what you said?"

"Yes. Without doubt."

In the middle of the biting winter, she shoves her fists into the deep pockets of her trench coat; as her heels click against the steps up to the court. Thank goodness the building is warm, she makes her way down to the room, the security guards are familiar with her now—after all her case seems to never end. Meeting Myeong outside, Jue gives San a curt nod as the couple engage in a private conversation.

A figure clears his throat from behind her, her head turns to find her husband loitering awkwardly by the double doors. His eyes are slightly tired, face sunken. He’s lost weight, so much so she can see the dimple his healthy face hides.

“Have you been eating?” She confesses, the words escape her before she can suppress them.

“Yes, my mother has been taking care of that. You?” She nods, though it is false nonetheless. Eating, sleeping, living is a luxury. All she can do is breathe and sometimes even that comes at a price. "You look like you've lost weight." She shrugs, perhaps she has. She's never neglected herself this much in her life, there's nothing to live but for freedom now. A spectral silence is suspended in the air before the door swings open and they are allowed into the court room. Myeong hooks her arm around her own, they walk in leaving their husbands behind.

There’s a quiet chatter as the prosecution lawyer discusses a few matters with her assistant. It’s tense at the moment, their witness has not arrived yet and session is about to start.

“Counsellor?” The judge prompts, all the eyes fall on her. Jue quickly texts Yeosang underneath the table but the message isn't received on his end.

There is no Yeosang.

Myeong's heart flutters with dejection, her face heating up as she feels the burning stares of tens upon tens. Her fists ball at her sides, her sharp eyes digging Yunho's grave.

"The prosecution would like to call the defendant, Jeong Yunho, to the stand." Ignoring the small murmur, Yunho is sworn in by the bible before he seats himself to be questioned. San narrows his eyes, flickering his gaze to Jue. The prosecution only speaks up after a few beats of silence.

“How long have you known Mrs Jue and how long have you been married for?” He pauses. Mrs Jue. As if she didn’t tear her father’s name away from her own the second she married him.

“I have known her for five years, and we’ve been married for three.”

“At what point did she begin to display manic behaviour?”

“Four months after we married. I suggested she went to see a psychiatrist.”

Lie.

“That’s funny, Yunho. Here, it states. She went to see Mrs Go, a psychotherapist—not a psychiatrist—on the 22nd February.” She picks up her folder, holding the receipts Jue managed to find in her folder. “You do know there’s a significant difference between a psychotherapist and psychiatrist, right?” He snickers, cocking his head to the side. It’s the small flickers of his egotism that roams within him, infiltrating into the cold, court room. It’s there and gone, as if it only belongs for his wife to see.

“I’m a psychologist by background, I think I know better than most people, Mrs Choi.” Myeong’s chilling laughter reverberates through the room, his eyebrows crease. A sentiment of annoyance.

“So then tell me the truth, Yunho. Who did she see on the 22nd February. Was it Mrs Go or Dr Park Taeo?”

“Dr Park Taeo. We didn’t need to see a therapist when it was a diagnosis she was seeking.” The folder is thrown onto the table, her hands rest on her hips, digging into the crevice of her cinched waist. A long, deep sigh.

“Seeing as though you’re a psychologist by background, what are some of the treatments available for schizophrenia?”

“Medication, cognitive behavioural therapy, there are care plans in place as well.” Yunho’s brown eyes move to his wife, her eyes tear away from his as quickly as she can.

“There are no medical records, not even on her past medical history that states she was ever on medication, such an Olanzapine. It doesn’t even state that she is schizophrenic, but for arguments sake: she is. If she was really was batshit crazy, wouldn’t you as a loving husband ensure she is under the correct medication? Wouldn’t she have made these allegations before but in order for her to make such a statement: wouldn’t you have had to have done something to prompt her?” Myeong sucked her a deep breath, her chest heaving in anger. “There’s nothing from her childhood that can even do so much as enable her to conjure such a thought. Yet you, her husband, a man who has continually emotionally blackmailed her throughout your marriage— is the man she deems has hurt her the most. Tell me, Jeong Yunho, what did you do to her? Tell the court what a vile man you are.” His bottom lip quivers, pearl tears welling up in her eyes.

“I would never hurt her. I love her too much. She didn’t go on medication because she refused to.”

“Bullshit! She was never offered medication from that fraud.” There's a slight warning from the judge on her language but Myeong will say all the profanities in the world if it means provoking her enemy.

“I never touched her without her say, even if it was to hold her hand. If she said no, I backed away within a second. You can’t force someone to go on medication, Mrs Choi and she is not ‘batshit crazy’ she is ill. All I ever wanted was for her to get better.”

“There is no illness, Yunho. Look.” Waving a piece of paper in front of his face. Before handing a clean folder to the judge. “Dr Park Taeo isn’t real, your honour. There was no illness to begin with, other than a surmountable amount of childhood trauma—which in several cases doesn’t always resolve to mental illness. I have a report from Dr Kang who carried out her psychological examination, proving this statement. Unfortunately he could not make it here today. Might I add, you, Mr Jeong was her her anchor in the entirety of your marriage. And you, had ruined that by assaulting her, a man who, may I also say, is a man of the law.” Her shaking hands run through her hair, San knows she is on the brink of collapsing. Her face has thinned significantly, Myeong hasn’t eaten; it’s why she’s reached this far in the case.

A pearly tear slips down Yunho’s face, glossing the curvature of his plump cheek. His body wracks with prevalent cries and the court is stunned by his vulnerability. His wife sucks in a painful breath, God he knows where it hurts her the most.

“Why did you do it, Yunho? Hm? To feel powerful?”

“I object, your honour. Question leads to speculation.” San rises from his seat, raising a questioning brow at his wife.

“Objection is upheld.” The judge agrees, yet Myeong has exhausted all that she has to say. She knows that if Yeosang was here with them, her argument could have been made stronger.

The homes on her street have stood still, like a broken clock whose hands don’t move as time steals by. It seems the very essence of the wind has defied the laws of nature—the leaves do not bustle in the winter air. Myeong sits alongside Jue, in her kitchen, Soo-Ah plastered on her hip as she stirs the steaming pot of food under her friend’s careful instruction. San is at his parents’ home, unwilling to stay in his house as he ferociously fights the case against his wife.

Mrs Jeong is at her table, the computer screen blaring at her. Too tired to continue, she gathers all of the diagrams compiling them into a neat stack before packing everything up. Everything feels too normal, it’s as if she isn’t fighting a brutal case against her husband. The TRO has ‘expired’ and she never bothered to get it extended knowing that at the end of the day, it will be a divorce she gets from her husband.

“I try to reach out for him, in my dreams, before I realise that he’s not the same man I fell in love with.” She blurts, the attention of the women in front immediately moves to her. Myeong watches her friend stuff food into her mouth at the kitchen table; her eyes glistening with tears, body wrought with exhaustion spending sleepless nights roaming the hostel and long days at work staring into the dull screen. Days at court, days at Myeong’s home, avoiding the ghost town where their home used to be. “I realise that I want him to hold me again, and pretend he didn’t ruin me the way he did. Sometimes I wish I never said anything, then at least I would have had someone.” Her friend’s eyes litter with empathy, though it feels so sadistic in an other-worldly sense. How can a woman in a secure marriage understand her? Biting down on her quivering lip, she refrains from letting out the sobs that have clogged up her throat. Painful sounds are released, her teeth grind against each other as her body lurches forward.

"J--," Her hand is held up to censor her friends movements, she has done this before on several occasions at the hostel. Nights curled up on the floor, suppressing a fit of miserable emotions. She doesn't need any of this, not now when her lover is long gone.

Kang Yeosang is officially missing; the local community searches for him when they get a chance. Though his best friend has spent the last few weeks trying to track down his location. After he psychoanalysed Jue, he remained in his clinic until 1700 hours in the evening. He arrived at his home at 1738 hours, information given by the courtesy of his neighbour. Nobody knows anything after that.

She can't help but go back to his house, maybe there's something there that can tell them where he's gone. The old neighbour walks outside to throw away the bins, when she catches Jue, Myeong and Soo-Ah roaming in his front yard.

"Excuse me!" Jue calls out. "I don't know if I remember me, but I asked about Yeosang a while back." Gesticulating to the front door as if she might remember, the old lady does. Nodding, she gravitates to the garden wall.

"Yes. I do. The poor boy hasn't been found yet, has he?" They shake their heads. "I think I forgot to mention, there was a man that passed by his home a few times. I think they may have been friends." Myeong meets her friend's eyes, urging the woman to continue talking.

"Ah, he was very tall, wore glasses and a suit almost every time he was here. He was here the same day he went missing." She pulls out her phone, rushing to her camera roll.

Pressing her phone to the older woman's face, "Was this the man, by any chance?" The neighbour nods, profusely. "Why didn't you tell us earlier?" She snaps before grabbing Myeong's hand leaving from his lawn.

It was Yunho.

She is sure of it. There is no one else in the world that would possibly want to hurt Yeosang more than him, for what reason: she can only speculate but pieces of her mind refuses to jump to those forbidden thoughts. Mrs Jeong is once again stood in Myeong's kitchen as the lawyer paces up and down her kitchen aisle.

"Well San says he left his house a while back, he's not at your in-laws." She doesn't even want to reach out to her mother-in-law, they know of the court case and probably hate their daughter with every fibre of their being. "Maybe he's at that summer home you have?" Myeong suggests. That's exactly where he is, but with no substantial proof they can't exactly storm in with the police or a search warrant. Besides Yunho is incredibly intelligent and resourceful, as if the court case isn't a testament to that already.

"Don't do something stupid like walk into his house. He's fucking dangerous at this point." She scolds knowing Myeong's stubbornness holds no bounds. The lawyer holds back a scowl, not long before she redirects the words back at her. "He won't hurt me, if he wanted to this fiasco would have been over a long time ago."

Yunho is mirror image of Mr Jue, his father-in-law. She has become her mother, running away from him except she has not left him with two young children.

"Amma, where are you going?" The younger version of herself stands by the doorway of her parents' bedroom as Mrs Jue profusely shoves the clothes into her bag discarding the hangers onto the floor.

"Baby, pick up the hangers from the floor will you?" Her mother orders, and obedient-her listens earnestly, placing the hangers inside the small ironing basket. She repeats the questions, to which her mother pauses in her actions to look at her daughter. "I'm just going to my mother's. Alone. So don't pack your bags. You'll be ok taking care of your brother, won't you?" She's still so eager to attain her mother's validation so she nods as if handling a young child is the easiest thing one can do.

How could she have not realised that her mother was leaving for good? It's not until her younger brother passes away that, at the funeral, her mother's wild cries boil her blood. There's something like a spurt of anger brewing within her as the jarring dissonance cripples her ears. Yunho is stalking after her as she saunters over to her mother.

Her hand raises, striking a harsh blow against her mother's cheek; there's a pin drop silence in the room. "How fucking dare you. As if you were his mother, you cry? You left us." Her voice cracks, Yunho's hand rests on her shoulder pulling her back towards him. "You left us and you're crying as if you raised him? You may have given birth to him, but I was more of his mother than you have ever been!"

Soo-Ah will be raised with lots of love, she knows that much. Mr and Mrs Choi's love is too strong to be torn apart by Yunho, no less. There's no need to be envious, a poor love is hereditary something that the Jue's are undeserving off. That's ok with her, she is last of them. There will be no more of them.

The front door blasts open, her grip on the handle of the knife tightens as a figure charges down the hallways through to the kitchen. San's clothes fit loose on him, hair dishevelled and with a flushed face he meets her stare.

"Where is she?" He demands, lifting his daughter off the high chair, holding her smaller frame closely against his body. As if she is anything like her husband and will harm her too.

Myeong left her home at 0900 on Tuesday morning, entrusting the care of her child with her friend. Jue has been taking care of Soo-Ah, taking a few days off work but when she doesn't arrive home by 1730; something is deeply wrong. She called everywhere including her office, San and his parents and in-laws.

Like Yeosang, Myeong is nowhere to be found.

"Do you know where she may have gone?" Jue slumps down on the chair, sucking in a deep breath.

"Yunho's. The summer home we have." He gives a look of pure confusion, that his friend cannot help but feel sorry for him. As intelligent as he may be, he is also incredibly oblivious. "Open your eyes now San, Yunho is not who you think he is. He's a goddam psycho."

"But why would she drive two and a half hours away from here, to your holiday home?"

"We believe he's the reason Yeo is missing. His neighbour said she saw Yunho on the same day Yeosang went missing." Pieces of the puzzle have now been put into place, San can envision the big picture now; he just wishes he listened to his wife when she scolded him for taking on the case. His heart palpitates within his chest, cursing himself for endangering his family.

"I'm going to go pay him a visit and you're going to listen to every word I say."

Their summer home is just of the coast, maybe two miles away from the beach. Regardless it stands in all its glory, with a large porch circulating around the home-it's antique salmun doors had been replaced for contemporary ones, panelled windows outcast the front lawn. In itself the driveway is a massive field with a pavement large enough to carry a vehicle up and down it. It's serene, at any time of the year yet its a 'summer' home because Yunho always drags her down there when the sun peaks at its highest. A low grunt and she rolls of the drivers seat, eyes scanning over San's message before she makes her way to his front door.

Yunho has already noticed her, settling down the book on the coffee table before dashing to the door to swing it open.

"Jagiya." He breathes out, it feels silent before she ambles in staring at him before taking of her shoes. Mrs Jeong knew she had to face him but she doesn't really know what to say now that she's here. Yunho seats himself on the sofa, motioning for her to do the same. "Why are you here?" He doesn't bother to ask how she knew he was here, his wife isn't unintelligible.

"I wanted to talk to you. But now that I am here, I don't know what to say." Her profession stuns him a little. Mrs Jeong always knows what to say. It's one of the things he loves about her.

“I always imagined you and I and a little toddler. Just the three of us." His eyes squeeze shut, she feels the urge to wrap her hands around his slender neck and wrangle him until he drops dead. How is her body the only thing he cares about?

“I could never give you that, Yunho. I believe that there is another woman who can give you the family you want.” Yet the plain truth is that he doesn't deserve to remarry and have children. He will just hurt them. He will suffocate them, the same way her father suffocated her.

“No but you could have. You’ll give another man exactly what I wanted.” Oh god. The incongruity. He took away Yeosang and Myeong, she wonders who is next. He will take away the next man that even so much as blinks in her direction.

“There won’t be another man after you, because it took me to fall in love with you to realise that I wasn’t brought on this earth to be a wife or a mother.”

“If you weren’t born to be by my side then God would not have listened to my prayers. He wouldn’t have listened to me when I went down on my knees and begged for you.” Gulping the lump in her throat she blinked back the tears holding in her eyes. "I really do love you, it just hurts me that you made this false allegation against me-," Raising from her seat she rushes towards him, glaring down at him in fury.

"Let's not begin with false allegations when all you did was lie in court. I fucking said no. God is my witness. I loved you more than you ever loved me, and you broke that by treating me as if I was your doll." Tears well up in his own eyes, he simply says nothing slouching further in his seat. With tiredness, Jue leaves the room, analysing the setting before her eyes fall on the basement door. "I'm going to the bathroom." He hums, picking his book back up as she carefully slips down to the cellar.

The lurid scent of damp perfuses the atmosphere, gentle steps descend the staircase where a dim light floods into the room. Her heart is heavy in her chest as she makes her way down, a warning sign that she is not going to see something she likes. The basement is small, with a low ceiling that she knows has her husband crouching down as he enters, its concrete floors and grey walls are unsettling.

Gripping her lips with her fingers, she sinks to the floor holding back an ear-splitting scream as two limp figures sprawl over the floor in a puddle of dried scarlet blood. Tears flood down her cheeks, a low hiss escapes her as she crawls towards the masculine figure. His face is almost unrecognisable, beaten to a pulp with a split lip and swollen eyes. His long hair is rumpled, his own saliva and blood sticking the oily strands to his neck.

"Yeo." She chokes out, his unresponsiveness deconstructs her. Resting his head on her lap, her tears drop onto his face bleeding into his own; he can just about make out her face through his weak vision. Her howls increase by an octave, but his hitched breaths diminish her by the second. "Please. Say something so I know you're here." He says nothing. Yeosang just breathes.

Until he stops. There's a beat of silence. Then another. She waits with some false delusion that he will breathe again, but he does not. A shriek, and the cellar door erupts open Yunho pounding down the steps. Her head whips around, launching of the floor she swings her body at him but he holds down her fists with an iron grip.

"You monster! You bastard! How could you?"

"You said you loved me more than I ever loved you, how could that be true when I killed someone for you?" His voice is so mellow it disgusts her. He speaks as if he did not take another life. "Nobody is allowed to love you but me." Shaking her head, she parries against his strident grip, launching a brutal punch against him. An annoyed look floods his face, he holds his ground stalking towards Myeong's limp figure.

"Let her go. This is between you and I." She orders. Yunho simply scoffs, grabbing a water bottle-draining its contents across her face. Myeong squawks for air, as she jolts away from her unconsciousness, drops of water dribble from her lips as she tries to strengthen herself.

"And this one. This witty, little bitch." He grips her hair, yielding her closer to him ignoring Myeong's cries. "She really tried to fuck me over. It's a shame that she's never been better than me at any point in her life." He bends down to Myeong's level, drawing his lips to her ear.

"You're good. But you're not better than me." His taunts irritate her, and she squirms, ferociously, in his hold yet it pains when all he seems to do is rip her hair from its roots. His wife's howls fall deaf at his ears, a look of pleasure fills his features. A cruel blade departs from his pocket, holding it close to Myeong's neck. "What do you say, baby, get rid of her too? All she's doing is separating us."

“YUNHO. PLEASE.” His knife draws close to Myeong’s throat dancing on the surface of her skin. “I’m pregnant!” His head snaps up, his grip on the knife almost falters. It's a long shot, but she knows how to hurt him.

“What?”

“Yes.” She chokes on her sobs. “I’m having our baby, so please don’t hurt Myeong. Then our baby won’t have an auntie and Soo-Ah won’t have her mother.” He drops the knife, stalking towards her in a few single strides. His pale hands rest on her cheeks, tilting her face so she is looking at him.

“How long have you known?”

“It’s been a week since I’ve known, but I’m 8 weeks along.” He holds back a cry, he’s a fucking monster. A second ago he was ready to take Myeong’s life. Her face is tightly fixed in the palm of his hands as he peppers kisses on her forehead, down the bridge of her nose and finally on her lips. She allows him, just this once, to roam his hands around her body. “Just leave Myeong.” Yunho is so sure that there’s a patter of footsteps behind him, yet his wife’s hands drag him down her neck deeper. His soul is completely intoxicated by her essence, there is some figment that has him so utterly devoted to her.

Her heart pounds, incessantly, against her chest as she storms down the hospital hallways ignoring the burning stare of the clinicians and nurses. It’s not long before she skids into the emergency ward—pummelling towards the end of the room.

Her brother is lying on the bed, so weak and helpless she cannot help but cry out for his ruptured soul. He does not deserve this. He did not deserve every minute of torture he was subjected for every second he was alive. His small lips form her name as he barely sees through the slits of his eyes.

It’s her baby, after all.

His body is cradled in her arms, repressing tears. There is something so inhumane about the way his body is butchered, the depth of the lacerations astound her—as if they were trying to cut down to his bone. His staggered breaths send a wave of fear through her heart.

“Who did this to you?” Her whisper, low enough for him to hear.

Dad.

A silver blade ruptures tissues, indenting the skin. Blood bursts from its banks like a scarlet river flooding through the ghost town, he grunts; breath hitched in his throat.

“Before you, there was my father. Before him, was me.”

“My darling daughter! What brings you here?” He slurs, sliding down the wall. Her hand shakes as she screams at him, her ears are deaf. Jue doesn't really know what she's saying to him other than a plethora of vulgar words that she deeply despises.

"How could you hurt him, you fucking bastard!" Her bellow carried over the humid atmosphere, her father barely snickers. It is a gift from god that he is intoxicated. But a curse from hell that his daughter has been brought to his doorstep, in a fit of frenzy. "You have lived to hurt us long enough."

The knife in her hand is not unfamiliar. The way it has dragged under supple skin is not new. She has done it in a time before, Yunho is unbeknownst to this as he sinks to his knees clutching his abdomen, a roar erupting from his lips. His wheezes infiltrate the atmosphere, but his wife is quick on her feet as her arms outstretch for Myeong—eyes widened in shock. Is she an accomplice to this crime?

"Come on!" She shouts, panicked their footsteps launch up the basement staircase, an attempt to escape onto the upper floor in a haste. The door handle rattled, profusely, in her harsh grip yet the door won’t budge.

Fuck.

Their hastened breaths quicken in a deep panic, before a quick thought rushes to mind. There's a hidden tunnel that leads out. They run past Yunho's frail body, ignoring his threats she summons all of the adrenaline she has before pushing past the massive wooden door covering the exit. An ache grinds at her muscle but as her husband raises from the floor she flocks out of the basement in a frenzy.

The smell of the hallways is enough to make them nauseous, but the magnetic force of apprehension is stronger that all they can do is run whilst he chases after them. The end is in sight, the door at the end is always open; seeing as though Yunho could never find a builder to fix it shut. All of a sudden, something sharp drills through her leg, a distressing yelp escaping from her. Groaning she falls to the floor, a metal rod from the unattended copper pipes has obstructed her path.

“Run, Myeong! RUN!” She screams, cradling her leg; a torturous wave of pain lays within her; enough to render her paralysed. His pounding footsteps quicken behind them, grunting heavily as he limps down the hallways to them. Myeong’s movements falter slightly but she dashes through the door leaving it open as she darts through the open field.

A cool gust air blesses her bruised skin, she has never ran this fast before in her life. A sense of guilt resides as she ponders if her friend will make it, yet the car in the distances rips away that thought. It’s San’s car and she clamours his name as loud as she can.

The coolness floods into the narrow passageway, grappling onto the copper pipes for support she staggers feebly towards the exit, the metal rod inserted in her leg weighs her down. Each step is like walking on a million shards of glass, it’s as if coal sizzles under her skin. Was she born just to be in pain?

“Nae sarang, come back. You’re only going to hurt the baby.” The tears draw in her eyes, tickling the edge of her jawline before they clink onto the earth below. The sound of his voice lingers too close to her ears, beckoning all her might she stumbles faster towards the exit breaking out into a run.

Screams expend from her, she doesn’t care to refrain them as she bolts down the fields where Myeong is in San’s arms. There are shackles tied to her feet, the force of gravity is strong.

“Come back here right now!” Yunho roars into the wind, as if they bow to him they stop to let his voice circulate the atmosphere. She will not return to him, she would rather die. Her heart savagely crushes against her chest—phlegm clogs her throat. Pain gnaws at her. Why does the distance to San’s car seem longer than it should be? She shrieks his name while Yunho calls after her.

I’m so tired.

Her knees drop down to the earth beneath her feet, chest hurling with exhaustion. The vast fields are met by an excruciating howl; enough to shatter her voice box. With fingers gripping around the locks of her hair, tears endlessly cascade from her eyes—she’s begging for the Angel of Death to take her away. So much so as her head hits the earth, she speaks to its entity.

“Amma! I can’t do this anymore.” Because what does a child in pain do when the world turns against them? Nothing more than call out for their mother. There’s nothing more left for her to do. She can run to San with a metal rod prodded through her leg. Chances are: she won’t make it when Yunho can easily outrun her. She can stop here and allow her husband to consume her, force her to give birth to a child she does not want.

Or she can turn the weapon against herself. What can go through the leg can go through the heart, right?

Her head whips around to meet Yunho’s stare. There’s no anger, there never is any when he’s looking at her. He’s slowed down in his path, arms nimbly outstretched for her.

“Come back to me, baby.”

In the valley they run, the grass tickling her feet as she dashes across the landscape. A melodic laughter escapes him, like a chorus sung by angels. She’s always been fast at running but it’s never been a chore; it’s a joy to skip through the meadow at lightning speed. The sun illuminates their figures, nobody but them for miles and miles.

Perhaps this is what death feels like.

Or this is what death should be, for now she knows how her fate should resume.

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

'Jue' of chinese origin, stems from 'zhou' 'Soo-Ah' meaning butterfly 'Myeong' meaning bright or clear

A/N: please do NOT romanticise this piece of work, it addresses heavy issues. if you have ever been sexually harassed/assaulted by your s/o (or ANYONE), please report it!!! just because they’re your husband/boyfriend e.t.c doesn’t mean that they’re allowed to be let off the hook! I wanted to write this fic because I’ve-first hand- seen the exploitation of female bodies to establish male superiority. take care of yourself and know your worth, I know it’s difficult to speak out against someone who you’re supposed to love but you’re worth much more than that. i hope you enjoyed reading this, it was a little difficult to write but I believe it’s a fic that’s been worth writing.

big thank you to @poartz-writes for hyping me up during this writing process

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!

tag list: @n0v4t33z @potatos-on-clouds @jjongwho @barbielibra

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zhangyi-johee

1 year ago

wannabe ♡ idol! sunghoon x stan! reader

SYNOPSIS ‎⇔ sunghoon is a famous artist who decides to go undercover in a fan account to get to know his fans better. he comes across y/n, a fan who writes popular fanfiction/social media aus about themselves and sunghoon. ☆

GENRE ‎⇔ fluff, crack, humour, angst? find out lol ☆

WARNINGS ⇔ profanity, my corny humour lmfao ☆

STATUS ⇔ STARTED: 13/08/2022 ☆

SCHEDULE ⇔ Updates when uni isn’t kicking my ass ☆

TAGLIST ⇔ Applications open ☆

MASTERLIST: profile 1: enha ; profile 2: stan girls

girl what…?

bro chill

wait a minute

hello.

be serious

talk that talk

trouble

bond

call me holmes, yn holmes

the jig is up?

oh God he’s hot

omegaverse

alpha

who are you

damn

after like

bozo

your honour, yn is a dumbass

may the odds be ever in your favour

oh dear

chocolate? chocolate?!

nonono

he sucks

where’s the class?!

doctor…?

be gone

oh no here we go again

heeseung please

maniac

they’re cute

what da dog doin

betrayal?

troubled waters

officer jake

irresistible

orange is the new black

confrontation

oops

what goes on

you ruined my dream journal

silly and goofy

it’s awkward

scamming ring

unserious

time

dismantling the miscommunication trope

mistakes we all make them

deal

lecchugo

TO FREEDOM

wanna see another story ♡ idol! enha x wannabe! side characters

1. Boys Planet GC takes over

Comprehensive meme list :)

916 notes View Post

zhangyi-johee

2 years ago

I'm bisexual, or at at least only attract to both genders If they're feminine. I haven't told anyone nor will I ever unless I actually sleep with the same sex idk

7 notes View Post

zhangyi-johee

3 years ago

If this isn't me every single day so, you, my friend, are not alone.

okay I understand that I think sunghoon’s very cute but this increase of thinking he’s cute-so like every time I see him I just wanna shower him in affection with a just “awww I love him”-is very-what is going on 🤠

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zhangyi-johee

2 years ago

"la vie est belle"

138 notes View Post

zhangyi-johee

2 months ago

what the absolute fuck went down in seventh grade

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zhangyi-johee

1 year ago

saw u needed a jay hard ask/thought so im here 🧎🏻‍♀️ i have an obsession w thinking ab how jay has a size kink bc like HIS BICEPS MAN. he would love how u squeeze them while having sex bc hes pounding into u so roughly 🤕 or how he towers over u and when he hits it from behind he has u in a chokehold his body englufing urs and his biceps are flexing. loves when he sees u wear his tshirts bc theyre so big on u ur practically drowning in it and in the next second its ripped off of u he cant help it!!! also his monster coc- anyways 😁

a/n: gonna frame this ask bcs i adore you and your writing

missionary with buff jay! ughhh he would enjoy seeing your small frame being pinned under him your legs are on his shoulders your small hands squeezed his biceps so tight because he's being so rough pounding into you with no mercy. your little cunt is forced to take him, stretching around his fat shaft making squelching sounds from how soaked you are from your own wetness and his precum. you turned your head to the side to see his big strained biceps with bulging veins from hovering over you. such a small little girl bet i could make it hurt more for you and you would love it.

when buff jay! bent you over the kitchen counter fucking you in his big baggy shirt you couldn't do anything but lay helpless on the cold counter and let him breach your fuckhole with his wide mushroom tip. such a little tease aren't you wearing my shirt knowing what it does to me you look so fucking small almost makes me think you cant take my cock without crying out my name. jay couldn't handle without seeing your bare body under him so he ripped his shirt off you with one hand while the other gripped your hips tightly guiding your cunt to fuck herself on his cock.

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