lovestruck domesticity ✿ . ۫ · 박종성
written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊
✷ mother’s day with your husband, park jongseong, turns into the softest, most love-filled day of your life !
pairings ⸝⸝ husband!jay ✿ f!rea ✉️ wc ⸝⸝ 5.2k
🗯️ 内容 established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, married couple dynamics, parents!au, lots of domestic intimacy, skinship, kisses, yumi is jay and rea's family babysitter, haneul and dohyun are cuties !
EL’S ✷ BUBBLE : double update for today woooow (i need to get these over with i'm so sorry) anyways goodness gracious this was so cute i'm actually giggling i need jay in my life as my husband !!!! thank you for the request ♡ lovelots
The alarm doesn't wake you. Jay makes sure of it.
He's been awake since 5:43 AM — not because his body doesn't know how to sleep in on a Sunday, but because he set a backup alarm on his phone and slipped it under his pillow the night before, vibrating like a secret against the cotton.
He kills both alarms with his thumb before the second one can even think about ringing, and then he lies there for exactly eleven seconds, looking at you.
You're on your side, one hand curled under your chin, the other flung over the duvet like you'd reached for him in your sleep and found empty air. Your hair is a mess. There's a crease on your cheek from the pillowcase. Your lips are parted the tiniest bit, and your breath is so quiet he has to lean in to hear it.
He leans in. Presses his mouth to your temple, just barely, just enough for you to feel warmth if you were awake to feel it, and then he rolls out of bed.
The floorboards in the hallway are the enemy. He knows which ones creak: the third one from your bedroom door, the one at the top of the stairs near the linen closet, two consecutive ones outside Haneul's room. He's mapped them out over years of late nights and early mornings, and he navigates them now in his socks, stepping over the worst ones like he's walking through a minefield of sound.
Haneul's door is cracked open. He eases it wider and peeks in — his daughter is starfished across her toddler bed, one foot hanging off the edge, her stuffed rabbit crushed against her chest. She's three and sleeps like she's fighting a war. Jay crouches next to the bed and brushes her bangs off her forehead.
"Haneul-ah," he whispers. "Baby. Wake up."
She doesn't.
He tries again, this time with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Haneul. Come on, my little bear."
She makes a sound like a grumpy cat and swats at his hand without opening her eyes. He almost laughs, he can see where you get your morning disposition from, but he swallows it and tries once more, softer this time, his thumb rubbing her tiny shoulder through her pajamas.
"Mama's special day," he murmurs. "We gotta make breakfast, remember? You said you wanted to crack the eggs."
That gets her. One eye cracks open. Then the other. Her face does something magnificent, confusion, then remembrance, then pure, incandescent excitement, and she's sitting up so fast her rabbit falls off the bed.
"Eggs," she whispers, but it comes out like a scream that's been stepped on.
"Shh, shh, shh—" Jay claps a hand over her mouth, grinning. "Quiet. Mama's sleeping."
She nods against his palm, eyes huge, and he lifts her out of bed. She weighs almost nothing. She always wraps her arms around his neck when he picks her up, always tucks her face into his shoulder, and he's never once in his life gotten tired of it.
Down the hall, the nursery. Dohyun is standing up in his crib, hanging onto the railing, already awake — he always is at this hour, like his internal clock knows dawn is his territory. When he sees Jay and Haneul, he opens his mouth and Jay says, very calmly, "No," which makes Dohyun's face crumple in offense before it can even become a wail.
"I know," Jay says, lifting him one-armed while Haneul clings to the other side. "I know, buddy. But Mama's sleeping. Quiet voice, okay?"
Dohyun is twenty months old and does not have a quiet voice. But he seems to understand the gravity of the situation, or at least he's distracted by Haneul's pajama sleeve, because he reaches over and grabs a fistful of it and doesn't scream.
The kitchen is dark when they get there.
Jay settles Dohyun into his high chair, the one with the faded dinosaur sticker on the tray that Haneul put there six months ago and nobody could bring themselves to peel off, and crouches down to look Haneul in the eye.
"Alright. You remember the plan?"
She nods, bouncing on her heels.
"What do we do first?"
"Flowers!" she says, too loud, and claps her hand over her own mouth this time. He can see you in her, the way she catches herself, the way her eyes go wide like oops — it's so exactly you that it knocks the breath out of him for a second.
"Right. The flowers are already on the table. I got them yesterday, remember? After work." He tilts his head toward the dining table, where a bouquet of white peonies and soft blush ranunculus sits in your grandmother's old ceramic vase, wrapped in brown paper he hasn't untied yet because Haneul wanted to be the one to do it. "What's next?"
"Eggs."
"Eggs. And what else?"
"Pancakes with the—the—thingy, um—" She frowns, searching. "The faces."
"The faces, that's right." He grins. "Alright, let's do it."
He cracks two eggs into a bowl and lets Haneul whisk them with a fork.
She's meticulous about it, her little tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth the same way yours does when you're reviewing case files, and she only splashes a tiny bit onto the counter. Jay wipes it up without comment.
The pancake batter is from the container in the fridge, he made it last night after you fell asleep, standing in the dark kitchen at midnight in his boxers, stirring and then washing every single dish and putting it back so you'd never know.
He pours small circles onto the pan, and Haneul stands on her step stool next to him, watching with her chin on the counter, whispering "flip it, flip it, flip it, flip it, daddy," every time the bubbles appear.
Dohyun gets banana slices. He mashes them into the high chair tray with both fists, and Jay lets him.
That's what the dog is for, Miso, their old golden retriever, who materializes under the high chair like she has a sixth sense for falling food and sits there thumping her tail against the floor.
When the pancakes are done, Jay lets Haneul arrange them on the plate. She puts two in the center, banana slices for eyes, a strawberry slice for the mouth, blueberries in a zigzag that she apparently says is hair. It looks like a happy monster. It looks like something you'd frame.
"Perfect," he says, and he means it.
He pours your coffee into the mug that says Attorney in gold lettering — the one your law partner got you as a joke when you made partner yourself, the one you use every single morning even though it's chipped on the rim and the gold is flaking off the R.
He adds exactly one sugar and enough cream to turn it the color you like, the color you described once as "cloudy" and he described as "the exact shade of your skin in winter" and you threw a pillow at him for.
He plates everything. Pancakes. Eggs, scrambled the way you like, soft and wet. Fruit. Coffee.
A single white peony, stem trimmed, laid across the napkin. And the envelope — the one Haneul drew on for forty minutes yesterday while you were on a call, the one she insisted on gluing glitter onto even though Jay said it would get everywhere, which it did; he's still finding glitter on his dress shirts.
Under the envelope, wrapped in tissue paper printed with tiny hearts: the earrings.
He found them three weeks ago. You'd been scrolling on your phone in bed, half-asleep, and you stopped on a photo and turned the screen to him. "Aren't these pretty?" you said, already half-distracted by something else. "The droopy kind. Teardrop shape. I've always wanted a pair in gold."
You forgot you showed him. He didn't.
They're fourteen-karat gold, delicate, teardrop-shaped drops on fine chains, the kind that caught light when you turned your head, the kind that moved when you laughed.
He'd had them gift-wrapped at the store and then unwrapped them at home because the store's wrapping job wasn't good enough, and then wrapped them again himself with the heart tissue paper and a ribbon he had to watch a YouTube tutorial to tie properly.
He puts the wrapped box behind the plate, props the envelope against the coffee mug, and looks at the table. Haneul is vibrating with excitement. Dohyun has a few banana slices on his eyebrows.
"Ready?" Jay whispers.
Haneul nods so hard her whole body wiggles.
"Okay. Go get Mama."
You wake up to a small hand patting your cheek and a voice saying "Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama."
"M'awake," you mumble, and Haneul's face blooms into a smile so bright it could replace the sun.
She grabs your hand and pulls, and you let yourself be dragged out of bed, through the hallway, past the family photos on the wall you keep meaning to reorder, down the stairs with Miso bounding ahead of you like this is the best day of her life too.
And there's Jay, standing in the kitchen in his socks and the grey henley you stole from him last week and he stole back, leaning against the counter with Dohyun on his hip and a smile on his face that is so soft, so unbearably fond, that you stop walking.
"Happy Mother's Day," he says.
The table. The flowers. The food. The envelope with glitter everywhere. The small wrapped box. The coffee in your chipped mug. The pancake monster with its blueberry hair. The morning light through the kitchen window catching the edges of everything like it knows this is supposed to be golden.
"Oh," you say, and your voice cracks on it.
Haneul tugs your hand. "I cracked the eggs, Mama. Both of them."
"You did?"
"Both. And I didn't splash. Only a tiny splash. Daddy wiped it."
"That's—wow—you did so good, baby." You crouch down, and she throws herself into your arms, and you hold her and look up at Jay, and his smile hasn't changed, not even a little — he's looking at you like you invented the concept of morning, like the sun came up because you walked into the room.
"Open it," Haneul says, squirming out of your arms and pointing at the envelope. "Open it open it open it."
The envelope with glitter everywhere.
Inside, a card — construction paper, folded crookedly, with a drawing of three stick figures: one very tall, one medium, one very small, and a yellow blob that might be Miso. Above them, in Haneul's wobbly handwriting, the words MOMY I LUV YOO SO MATCH and below that, in Jay's handwriting, smaller: And I love you more than my vocabulary could ever be able to encapsulate. Every day. — J
You stare at it. Your eyes are burning.
"Open the box!" Haneul says.
You open the box. The tissue paper crinkles. The ribbon falls away. And there they are — gold teardrops on fine chains, delicate and warm and exactly what you pointed at on your phone screen three weeks ago and forgot about.
"Jay—"
"You showed me," he says, shrugging, like it's nothing, like remembering things you forget about yourself isn't the entire point. "I figured you'd forget you showed me. You always forget."
You're going to cry. You can feel it building, the heat behind your eyes, the shake in your chin. You haven't even had your coffee yet. This isn't fair.
He must see it, because he crosses the kitchen in two strides, shifts Dohyun to one arm, and cups your face with his free hand. His thumb brushes your cheek.
"No crying," he says, quiet, just for you. "It's too early for crying. We have a whole day."
"I'm not crying."
"You're about to cry."
"I'm not." You are. "These are—they're so, so perfect."
"I know." He kisses your forehead. "Come on. Eat your monster pancake before Dohyun decides to share his banana with it."
After breakfast, he doesn't let you touch the dishes.
"Jay, I can at least—"
"You can at least sit on the couch and drink your coffee."
"It's cold now."
"I'll make another one."
"No? I can still drink it, besides I can make my own—"
"Sit." He says it gently, with a kiss to the top of your head, and you sit, because sometimes the only thing to do with Jay in this mode is surrender.
He does the dishes. He does the dishes while Haneul sits on the counter "helping," which is basically just rinsing the same spoon over and over, and Dohyun plays with a plastic cup on the floor. He makes you another mug of coffee. He cuts up an apple for the kids. He wipes down the table. He puts the flowers in the vase properly, unties the brown paper, fluffs the peonies with his fingers like he watched a florist do once.
You sit on the couch with Miso's head on your lap and watch him move around your kitchen like he was built for it, like being a CEO is his job but this, this is what he actually is.
When the dishes are done and the kids are set up with crayons at the coffee table, he sits next to you. Close. His arm around your shoulders, your feet in his lap. He rubs your ankle with his thumb, absent and warm.
"What do you want to do today, sweetheart? Anything? Any plans?" he asks.
"I don't know actually. Anything, really. This is already—"
"No," he says. "Not 'anything.' What do you want? Specifically."
"I don't—Jay, you already got me the earrings, and breakfast, and the flowers—"
"That's the kids' side. That's for this morning. I'm asking about the rest of the day. Afternoon, evening, you name it."
You look at him. He looks back at you. His eyes are steady and certain, the way they are in boardrooms, contract negotiations, and every single time he's decided something is going to happen.
"Whatever I want?"
"Whatever you want, sweetheart."
"Like—shopping?"
"Like anything. Shopping. Appliances store. The park. A different store. Four different stores. I don't care. Today you point at things and I get them, got it?"
"You're absolutely absurd, Jay."
"Hey! No, I'm consistent. There's a difference, you know?"
You laugh. You can't help it. He grins, and it's the same grin he gave you six years ago across a bar, when you were a second-year associate too tired to function and he was a stranger who bought your drink and then argued with you about tort law for an hour and a half.
"Okay," you say. "Shopping. But I'm not going crazy."
He doesn't say anything. He just smiles and kisses your temple.
He drops the kids at Yumi's at two. Haneul clings to his leg and he crouches down and promises three times that he'll pick her up before bedtime, that she can stay up late if she wants, that he and Mama are just going out for a little while. Dohyun doesn't care; Dohyun is already trying to eat Yumi's cat's tail. Miso stays home with the back door open to the yard.
In the car, you put your feet on the dashboard. He doesn't say anything about it. He never does. He reaches over and puts his hand on your knee instead, and drives.
The boutique you've been eyeing for months, the one with the silk blouses in the window you always slow down for, he pulls into the lot before you can say anything.
"I saw you looking," he says, turning off the engine. "Every time we drive past. You press your foot on the brake just a little, every single time."
"That's—what in the world, how do you even catch that? I don’t, end of the story."
"Yes, you totally do. You brake-check me for silk."
You get out of the car so he can't see you blush, but he catches up and laces his fingers through yours, and you go in together.
He sits in the armchair by the fitting room. Every time you come out in something new, he gives you a real answer, not it's fine or whatever you want but actual opinions, specific ones, the kind that mean he's paying attention.
He tells you the sage green dress makes your shoulders look incredible.
He tells you the black one is too stiff, you'll hate it by noon.
He tells you the cream blouse with the tiny buttons is very you, and when you ask what that means, he says "it means you'd wear it to court and think about me when you button it."
You buy the cream blouse. You buy the sage dress. You buy a linen maxi-skirt you don't need and a pair of sunglasses he picks out, silver frames, slightly cat-eyed, because he says they match the new earrings, and you're already wearing them, the teardrops catching the store's warm light every time you turn.
He pays. You tell him you can pay. He pays anyway, card already out, already sliding it across the counter, already taking the bags before the cashier can offer.
"Jay—"
"It's Mother's Day."
"It's not—you don't have to—"
"What’s the harm in spoiling my queen? I know I don't have to. I want to." He says it lightly, but he's already steering you toward the door, bags in hand, one arm reaching for yours.
The second store is makeup. You don’t actually need anything, but the sight of glossy tubes lined up like candy makes you drift toward the lip section anyway.
He follows close behind, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie while you unscrew tester after tester, swiping colors onto the back of your hand until your skin looks like a paint palette.
“You’re running out of space,” he says.
“I’m conducting important research.”
“You’re smearing six shades of pink on yourself.”
“There are differences.”
He hums like he doesn’t believe you for a second, then suddenly reaches over and flips your wrist gently to inspect the chaos of colors. His brows pinch together in exaggerated concentration.
“This one’s too orange.”
“You don’t know what orange undertones are.”
“I know when it makes you look like you ate spicy noodles.”
You snort. “Oh my gosh.”
Before you can grab another tester, he holds his hand out between you both, palm up.
“Use mine.”
You blink. “What?”
“You’re out of skin.” He wiggles his fingers impatiently. “C’mon, makeup artist.”
“That’s literally not sanitary, Jay, I got this.”
“You just used three testers directly from the display.”
“…fair point.”
Trying not to smile too hard, you drag a mauve shade across the back of his hand. The color looks absurdly delicate against his knuckles, and he watches with the seriousness of someone signing legal documents.
“Hm,” he murmurs. “Not the one.”
“You can’t reject it after one swatch.”
“I absolutely can. Next!”
You laugh under your breath and swipe another color beside it, then another, until his hand is covered in glossy streaks of pinks, berries, roses. He studies every single one like he’s on a judging panel.
Finally, he taps one shade with his free hand — a soft warm rose.
“That one.”
“You picked the most normal color here.”
“Because it’ll look good on you.”
“You say that with a lot of confidence for a man who used to head out in baggy hoodies and skinny jeans twenty-four seven.”
“Hey! Sweetheart, they were the thing back then. Now? I’ve left them behind. Besides, I have no distractions. My judgment is pure.”
“You’re insane.”
He closes his fingers carefully so the swatches won’t smear and looks at you completely deadpan.
“Consistently insane. There’s a difference.”
You buy the lip color. And a new setting spray. And a tiny pot of highlighter he picks up and says "this one, you always run out of this one," and he's right, you do always run out of that one, and the fact that he knows that makes your chest hurt in the best way.
The third store is jewelry. Not because you need more, but because you both see a bracelet, a simple gold chain with a single tiny disc, and he picks it up and turns to you and says, "Haneul's birthday's in three months."
"She's three. She doesn't need jewelry yet."
"Not for her. For you, of course. So you have something of hers that you wear." He pauses. "I'll get her name engraved on the disc. Or—a star, or a heart, or something. Whatever you want, sweetheart."
You stare at him.
"What?" he says.
"You’re literally going to make me flood this whole jewelry store with my tears."
"You've cried in worse places, it’ll be fine."
"That was your fault too."
He buys the bracelet.
He tells the sales associate he'll come back for the engraving.
Outside, on the sidewalk, he hands you all the bags and cups your face with both hands and kisses you, slow, deliberate, right there in front of the store window and a woman walking her dog and two teenagers on skateboards, and when he pulls back, you're both flushed.
"Where next?" he asks.
You're smiling so hard your face hurts. "What about… oh my gosh, the park! The one with the big willow tree."
He doesn't ask why. He just takes your hand and walks you to the car.
The park with the willows is the one you found on your first year of dating, back when he was just a sharp-suited guy with a nice car and way too many opinions about your brief writing, and you were just a lawyer who couldn't believe he'd argued a motion and won and then texted you about it like a kid with five golden stars. You'd wandered here after dinner, both of you, still buzzy from wine, and sat under the biggest willow and talked until the streetlights came on.
Nothing's changed. The willow is bigger, maybe. The pond still has the same ducks. The bench by the water has been repainted but it's in the same spot, and Jay sits down and pulls you next to him, and the shopping bags go on the ground at your feet, and his arm goes around you, and it's so exactly like that first night that you feel time fold.
“You know,” you say, “you’re annoyingly good at this.”
“At what?”
“Making me feel loved without making it a big thing.”
He smiles a little. “That’s because it isn’t a big thing.”
He's quiet for a second, looking at the water. Then he turns to you, and his face is different — not the easy grin, not the playful certainty. Something deeper. Something he doesn't bring out often, not because he's hiding it but because it's too real for small moments.
"I think about it sometimes," he says. "The way you move through the world."
You blink. "Huh?"
"The way you—" He stops, starts again. "You argue in court like you're building a house for someone. Brick by brick. You take cases that eat you alive and you carry them anyway because somebody has to, and you come home and you're so tired you can barely keep your eyes open, but you still read Haneul two stories instead of one, and you still rock Dohyun even though he's getting too heavy for it, and you still—you still find my shirts in the laundry and fold them the way I like, even though I've never once asked you to."
Your throat is closing. You can feel it.
"I think about what it would be like if you weren't here," he says, "and I can't. I can't think about it. It doesn't compute. You're the whole structure. You're the thing everything else hangs on. And I know—I know I'm not always good at saying it, absolutely terrible even, and I know I work too much, and I know sometimes I come home and my head is still in the office—but I notice. I notice everything you do. I notice every single thing, and I don't say it enough, and today—today is just me trying to make a dent in what I owe you."
He looks at you. His eyes are steady. His voice is steady. His hand on your shoulder is gentle enough to break something.
"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," he says. "You and Haneul and Dohyun. The three of you. And I'm going to spend my whole life trying to be worth it."
You're crying. Full tears, silent, rolling down your cheeks, and you can't stop them, and you don't even want to. He sees it and his expression shifts — the deep thing tucks itself away, and the other Jay comes back, the one who makes you laugh, the one who knows exactly how to catch you before you fall too far.
"Okay, that's enough of that," he says softly, and thumbs the tears off your cheeks. "I wasn't trying to make you a mess. I was trying to be romantic."
"You were romantic. You are romantic, Jay. I'm just—"
"You're crying on Mother's Day. That's a violation."
"A violation of what exa—"
"Of the official Mother's Day rules. Section four, paragraph two: no tears allowed on the designated day of spoiling." He wipes another tear with the pad of his thumb. "I'm going to have to issue a citation."
You laugh. It comes out wet and messy, and he smiles, and the smile is so warm you can feel it in your bones.
"There she is," he says. "Come on. The ducks are judging you."
You look over. A duck is, in fact, looking at you from the pond with a sort of flat judgment.
"That duck has nothing to say about my emotional state."
"That duck is a living being. Therefore, that duck is capable of forming its own opinions, and he has some about you."
You lean into him, and he pulls you closer, and you sit there under the willow until the light goes amber, until the shopping bags have tipped over on the grass, until the duck loses interest and swims away.
Dinner is at the Italian place situated at the heart of the city. The one with the bad lighting and the incredible pasta and the owner who knows both of you by name because you've been coming here since before Haneul, since before the house, since before anything except the two of you and the feeling that this might be real, might be.
Jay orders your wine without asking. The carbonara. A chocolate mousse for dessert, two spoons. He eats half his rigatoni and then swaps plates with you like he always does because the carbonara is better and he knows you'll want it but won't order it for yourself.
You tell him about a case you're working on. He listens the way he always does, fully, completely, like what you're saying is the most important thing in the room, and asks questions that are smart and specific, because he's been listening to you talk about law for six years and he's learned enough to be dangerous.
He tells you about a deal that fell through. You tell him it's fine, it happens. He says it's not fine, he wanted it, and you tell him the next one will be better, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the answer to something.
The chocolate mousse comes. You eat it with two spoons. He gets cream on his lip and you wipe it off with your thumb and he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles, and the couple at the next table smiles at you both like you're something worth looking at.
The drive home is quiet.
The windows are down, just a crack, and the night air is cool on your face.
His jacket is over your shoulders, he put it there when you got in the car, didn't ask, just draped it and adjusted the collar and turned back to the road.
In the cup holder between you: two ice cream cups from the place you remembered your childhood friend dreamily talk about, the one that stays open late, the one you discovered when you were pregnant with Haneul and craved mint chocolate chip at eleven p.m. and he drove forty minutes to get it.
He'd driven forty minutes tonight, too. Without you asking. Because he remembers.
You lean your head against the window. The gold earrings shift against your neck. On your wrist, the new bracelet catches the streetlights as they pass, gold chain, tiny disc, blank for now but not for long. On your finger, your wedding ring. On the seat beside you, bags from four different stores. In the cup holder, ice cream. In the driver's seat, your whole entire life, one hand on the wheel and the other reaching over to rest on your knee like it belongs there.
Because it does.
"Hey," he says, not looking away from the road.
"Hey."
"Good day?"
You look at him, the line of his jaw, the henley sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the way his hair is falling after a full day of you running your hands through it, and you think about all of it.
The eggs Haneul cracked. The pancake monster with its blueberry hair. The flowers. The earrings. The cream blouse and the sage dress and the lip color he chose for you. The bracelet with the empty disc. The bench under the willow. His voice, low and sure, saying you're the best thing that ever happened to me. The tears and the duck and the way he made you laugh exactly when you needed to. The chocolate mousse with two spoons. The jacket on your shoulders. The ice cream in the cup holder.
"Good day," you say.
He squeezes your knee. You close your eyes.
The road unspools ahead of him. The city blurs past. The car hums. And you are so full — of him, of the day, of the kind of love that doesn't just hold you up but builds the ground under your feet — that you don't think you could fit another single thing inside you.
Then he says, quiet, almost to himself, like he's checking: "More than Father's Day?"
You open your eyes. He's smiling. That smile — the one that's only for you, the one that makes you feel like you invented the sun.
"So much more than Father's Day," you say.
"Good." He looks at you, quick, then back at the road. "Because I've already got next year planned."
"You're impossible to deal with."
"A better way to word it is that I’m consistent, sweetheart, there's a—"
"Difference. I know."
He laughs. You laugh.
Miso's going to lose her mind when you walk through the door, and Haneul is going to want to show you the crayon drawing she made at Yumi's, and Dohyun is going to reach for you the second he sees you, and tomorrow is Monday and there are briefs to file and deals to close and the whole ordinary machinery of your life waiting to start up again.
But right now, you are the most spoiled woman on the planet, and you're not even a little bit sorry about it.
⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
标签 : @wonscapes @simsimluver @maishee @grdientlips @yejisair777 @kristynaaah @heesroses @vmpiricou @seungiesdoll @malibluess @stwryun @hooniluhv @rikisn @hazeheart12 @exclipszz @melancholatte @bluepains @gojopolo @jasmineeeee1009 @ming1luvr @ni-k1ttie @enzsstuff01 @ixnotmee @emvss @simjaeyunslut @luvlyjaemin @kikizzz0 @ilovhoonie @starboyhee @prettygirlthings-world @jaesim @luv4dani @perristar @bkatarina | send an ask if you’d like to be added ˙𐃷˙
💿 ࿐ . . every summertime by niki
✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !
