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There’s no need for the church bells to officiate the union. The veil will never lift from your eyes, as long as you’re committed to this love. There’s nothing to see clearly.
“I do,” he said, “till death do us part, I do.”
Standing at the altar of the city center, heard is the promise of love among the bustle.
With no ring, just a tattoo, and with no sense, just youthful naivety, you run back into the streets.
This love is pure, please don’t say otherwise.
𓏵
The house is shoddy. And yet the house is a home. In your wedding dress, veil still hanging over your face, you lie on the floor between boxes and knick-knacks. On the aged couch by the window sits Heeseung, the green light making his blond hair olive-toned. Toasting the end of a cheap cigar, he looks down at your splayed body, blanketed by lace and frill.
“When I get that job at the insurance company, the first thing I’ll do is get you a big rock on a gold band.”
“How about paying rent?” you laugh.
“That too,” he sighs before coughing into the arm of his suit jacket.
You hear his footsteps creak on the floorboards as he approaches you, kneeling and balancing the cigar between two fingers, using his other hand to lift your veil.
“But we can dream, right?” he whispers before leaving a chaste kiss on your lips.
“Then for our honeymoon, I’m dreaming of Madrid.”
He smiles down at your face, admiration clouding his eyes.
“Really, if you want it, I can make it happen. But how do you feel about having your honeymoon a couple of years late?”
Sitting up, you put a hand on his shoulder and the other on his thigh, feeling the warmth of his body bring your cold fingers to life.
“No, our honeymoon is tonight. And all you need is a full tank of gas.”
He lifts his brows at you teasingingly, fingertips pushing up layers of tulle and lace to inch up your bare legs and settle on your thigh.
“Tonight? Or should we consummate right now?”
“With the dress on?”
“With the dress on.”
There on the floor, he gently places you down, running his hand that once held the dropped cigar over your exposed collarbones to your waist over the dress. His eyes are all over you, like this moment will be branded into memory until his deathbed, like he can’t let it escape. Not a sight as beautiful as this, his bride ready to be taken by him. Each kiss he litters onto your skin is a sacred moment for him. When he lifts your leg to press his mouth against your inner thigh, it sends shivers down your spine. Your whole body is shaking, every sensation is on ten.
“I wish I could take a photo of how beautiful you are right now,” he slurs against your leg, kisses becoming sloppy, eyelids heavy. “Immortalize it,” Heeseung moans to himself.
You can’t speak, the words are stuck in your throat that can only release stuttering breaths. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in closer to finally let his weight fall against you. It’s lips against lips, simple, and then hungry. His lips are chapped, scratchy against your own that are soft. Heat bloomed, trickling up your jaw and making you dizzy. The only cure was to eagerly kiss harder, until there was no way to differentiate whose tongue was whose, until you suffocated and took your last breath. You feel Heeseung’s fingertips grip tighter around your thigh, nails digging in the flesh and leaving crescents you know will become marks.
He pulls away, looking down at you like his restraint is a thread invisible to the eye and ready to snap.
“Can I? Please?” he whines. You let your head fall back against the ground, only the thin fabric of your veil cushioning you. Everything feels fuzzy; the ceiling is a blur of color and shapes.
“Yes- yes,” you mutter breathlessly.
It doesn’t matter how many times you make love or fuck, Heeseung bottoming out always leaves you winded. The stretch burns before simmering down into pleasure with each thrust faster than the previous one. You’re a babbling mess on the floor, spouting nonsense and looking for something to grab, but your manicured nails chip at the tips, scratching at the hardwood floors. Heeseung pushes your dress up as high as possible, exposing your white panties shoved to the side and the arousing sight of your cunt, wrapping around him, perfectly tight. It's almost embarrassing how short he thinks he’ll last, but he can’t slow down, and you don’t want him to. Heeseung pinches your waist to ground himself, wrinkling the ironed lace. But with his jaw hanging open and the pulse of your hole as you climax, he can’t help it. He pulls out and makes a sacrilegious scene of your pure white panties, now soiled with his cum.
𓏵
In Heeseung’s beat-down red ride, you take the passenger seat, driving to nowhere. Neither of you changed, just grabbed what you needed. The keys, his wallet, a change of clothes, a drink, and a pack of cigarettes with a light. The top is down, and the wind is blowing in your hair. The subtle breeze as the season begins to shift into winter brings goosebumps to your skin, but it's freeing. Heeseung has one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the car door. There are no words exchanged; the radio fills the silence, playing old tunes between the host's blurbs you pay no attention to. The city is long left behind, now the streets line planes of grass and suburbia before becoming the middle of nowhere. Heeseung doesn’t have any source of directions. Your heels are on the dash, and a bottle of chilled Absolut Vanilia vodka in your hands that you sip neat. Heeseung gives you a disapproving look from the corner of his eye, but you ignore it. Yeah, yeah, you can’t handle your alcohol sometimes, but tonight is celebratory, and that's why he can’t say anything. Really, he can’t scold you for anything after all he’s done. He knows that. Whenever Heeseung is dissatisfied and can’t say it out loud, he thrums his fingers against something, and in the moment, his fingers are tapping rapidly against the top of his steering wheel.
It’s such a telltale, and you hate it. So you provoke him a little.
“Heedeungie, give me a light.”
“Can’t you see I’m driving?”
You take a swig of vodka, burning your throat and going down rough.
“You don’t need to have an attitude with me, just say you can’t give me a light.”
He turns to face you for a second before looking back to the road with an exasperated look and rummaging in his pocket for a lighter. At the same time, you pick out a cig from the box and place it between your lips, waiting for him.
“You know I don’t want to fight,” he sighs while sparking the lighter against the tip of your cigarette.
“Who said I want to fight?” you mutter.
“You’re tipsy.”
“I’m celebrating.”
“No, you're trying to get drunk.”
“No, I’m happy, and I want to be happy with you, so I don’t wanna fight.”
Heeseung drops the lighter in the cup holder and reaches for your hand,d still wrapped around the bottle. He intertwines his fingers with yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips and placing a tender kiss without letting go.
“I know, I’m sorry, baby.”
You lean over the console, placing your head on his shoulder while he drives, satisfied.
“We should stop at a motel soon.”
Heeseung hums, both of you acknowledging the setting sun.
𓏵
You’re so drunk. The bottle sits on the bedside of the motel room while Heeseung showers. You’ve already showered, sitting on the edge of the bed in your bra and panties, staring at the way your heels click together. Such clean heels stand out against the aged brown tile of the motel, even the white sheets are off by a shade. Your body is feeling loose, you're testing how far your ass can sit on the edge before falling off, when Heeseung comes out of the bathroom, a towel slung around his shoulders and one around his waist.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” you shrug.
Heeseung rubs the towel on his shoulders roughly against his hair, a drop of water landing on your thigh.
When he’s done, he kneels slightly to take the heels off your feet with a sigh, but you pull away.
“I don’t wanna take them off.”
The attitude in your voice makes Heeseung’s eyebrow twitch, but he keeps his composure well.
“How are you supposed to sleep with your shoes on?”
“I’m not sleeping yet.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“So?”
“So? We have to be up tomorrow?”
“I hate you.”
“What?”
Your eyes scan the motel room, unkempt, miserable, familiar.
“I hate you.”
You kick your heel back into place, shouldering Heeseung when you get up to walk over to the side table, taking a swig of vodka that's more painful than anything. It's room temperature now and sears your throat. He snatches the bottle from your grip, so harshly it slips from his hand and shatters against the motel floor.
“You-” you begin to scream.
“What can I do when you’re acting a fool?” he yells back.
“Go fuck another bitch,” you spit in his face, shoving him with your palms to grab your trench coat hanging on the lone chair in the room. Buttoning it up, you sway side to side as you storm out. Heeseung doesn’t say anything, but in your peripheral vision, you can see he hasn’t moved from where you left him.
𓏵
The night is cold, winds blowing through your coat to exposed skin beneath and seeping into your bones. The town is unrecognizable, but you stumble in your heels, rummaging in your pocket for a cig and a light to keep you warm. Your hands tremble as you flick the spark to life and sigh when heat spreads through your chest. You’re a total mess.
“Can I have a light?”
You look over your shoulder to the voice that spoke out, a boy swinging his legs on the raised cobblestone that lined the sidewalk. Moles littered his face, and a leather jacket swallowed his tall frame, the meek hood on his head keeping him from the cold.
“Please, my vape died,” he pouts.
You toss the lighter in the essentially empty pack of cigarettes at him, which he catches with two hands.
“Take it, boy, it's yours.”
But before you can leave he calls out to you again.
“Hey, spark one up with me.”
You turn on your heel with a shrug, accepting the lighter he passes back to you so that you can set flame to the cigarette tip sticking out between his plump lips.
“I’ve never smoked a cigarette before,” he says, muffled.
“Oh yeah? Are we celebrating?”
You can only focus on the elevation of his Adam's apple as he laughs, pouty mouth showing the white of his teeth as he struggles to keep his lips sealed.
“Mhm, you’ve deflowered me.”
You can only shake your head and look off towards the rows of houses.
“What a first night.”
“I can tell you’ve been having some fun yourself,” he leans forward, “the smell of liquor is strong off you.”
You take one long drag as you contemplate your words, but your mind isn’t sound.
“It’s my first night too.” You show off the tattoo branded around your ring finger with an ornate cross in the middle. “I’m a married woman tonight.”
The boy leans back on his palms, the cigarette almost falling to the ground between the weak hold of his teeth.
Raising his eyebrow, he doesn’t hide his amusement.
“I’ve never seen a bride all alone on her wedding night.”
“I’m not a traditional bride,” you shrug.
“Had a fight with your groom?” he prods.
“You’re sure nosy.”
“Anyone would ask, and you sure are young to be married.”
“Definitely older than you.”
“Hey, I’m grown. Just turned twenty.”
You roll your eyes.
“Whatever.”
Silence permeated between the two of you for minutes on end. When your cigarette became a stem of ash, you threw it to the ground and pulverized it with your heel. It seemed the low temperatures stung your skin all over again and made your heart bitter.
“Nothing really happened at all. I just didn’t know how to be happy. I didn’t know how to sit on that motel bed and not think about all the other girls he fucked while we’ve been together. How he probably took them to motels just like that.”
You laugh to yourself, digging your heel even harder into the sidewalk. “The vodka burned the words straight out of my throat, but the feeling never left.”
You can hear from behind you the boy's shoes hit the ground, and his cigarette fall to the floor.
“So why’d you stay? Why’d you marry him?”
You spin around and lift your arms in defeat, the bitter ache in your chest swelling and spilling over.
“I don’t know? Because I loved him? Because he told me he loved me? Because I didn’t know anything else?”
You fall into yourself, hunching over your knees, but the air is suffocating, and the chill envelopes your entire body. Even the burn in your throat and the tears of truth welling in your waterline give no warmth.
You feel cool fingertips lift your chin, the boy's eyes staring directly into yours.
“Make the score even then,” he rasps.
His hand slides further, fully cupping the sides of your face before his soft lips crash into yours. You think for a brief second it tastes sweet, like syrupy strawberries, but you pull away.
“You’re nuts,” you stumble backwards to stand back up on your feet. He remains crouched, looking up at you with innocent eyes.
“I’m just trying to help out. A favor for the one you did for me.”
You wipe at your mouth with the base of your palm.
“You wanna help me? Get me a drink.”
“I’m twenty.”
“I’m not.”
He licks his lips with a laugh, eyebrows raising again.
“I get it,” he dips a hand into his leather pocket and pulls out a beat-up wallet. Rising up he places a crumpled ten and a twenty in your own coat pocket before taking a step back. “Just share whatever you buy with me, promise?”
“Sure, sure, just show me the way to the nearest store.”
He comes to your side, a finger hooked in the empty belt loop of your trench as he guides you forward, leaning down to speak against the shell of your ear.
“I’m Ni-ki by the way.”
𓏵
You don’t exactly process when you end up back at his place, cradling a bottle of rum on the bed and Ni-ki in his mini-fridge looking for Diet Coke.
His room is small; it’s a studio apartment on the hundredth floor of some complex. You can still feel the tingling from his hand holding yours to drag you up the stairs.
Ni-ki takes the bottle from your hand, pouring it into a plastic cup before topping it with Coke.
“You have no pants on?” he comments, eyes flickering down at your crossed legs that are no longer concealed beneath the length of your coat.
“No,” you roll over on your side, clamping your legs together.
“Mhm,” he hums, setting everything but the cup on the floor by his bed before crawling on. “Sip.”
You look back over your shoulder and part your lips as he tips the drink, letting it pour down your throat and dribble down your chin.
“More?” he asks.
You nod, and he angles the cup farther. It feels lewd the way he looks down at you, hooded eyes locked on your wet lips. He takes what's left in the cup for himself without ever breaking eye contact with your face.
“More?” His voice is quieter, softer, like he’s rocking you to sleep and you open your mouth in response. Ni-ki reaches for the bottle off the floor before pouring it straight down your throat. It’s too much, too disgusting, watered-down sugar, chemicals, and a burn. But you take it all until he stops.
“Here, here,” he soothes, and now the coke can is pressed to your mouth, but it's too sudden and only half of it makes it where it's supposed to, and the rest leaves sticky trails down your neck and collarbones. His hands are quick to wipe it away, but it's just skin on skin; he doesn’t help at all. Soon, his fingertips are inching lower, and he pops each button of your coat open, but you don’t do a thing, just watch how skillful his slender fingers work.
“I’m cold,” you mutter.
“I’ll warm you up.”
You shiver as your skin is exposed, goosebumps rising from your clavicle to your ankles.
“Pretty,” he hums.
You grip his forearm and pull him flush against you like a blanket. Anything to be warm again.
His hands are tracing circles down your spine the moment you pull him in, and he accepts it as a hug. He’s just a stranger with a name you learned thirty minutes ago, but this stranger is so warm, and all the alcohol has liquified your mind and body into its most basic of functions: seeking comfort, seeking pleasure.
“Closer,” you whine, and he obliges. Your bra is slipping, threatening to make you even more indecent with the way the two of you press against each other. It's not long before his lips press their heat against yours, and your gut is bubbling with guilt and satisfaction. He kisses like a memory brought to life, sweet and euphoric, all edges blurred to give the illusion of perfection. You let his tongue slip past, and it’s all so soft inside your mouth you think you might bite down and eat him. Sugar, he’s like sugar. Better than the diluted sweetness of rum.
Your hands find purchase at the back of his neck, interlocking between strands of coarse hair. His baggy jeans don’t do much to hide the growing erection slotting between your legs. The friction shoots straight to your core, and inhibitions aren’t even a concept anymore. You feel so hot that even a match straight to the skin wouldn’t compare.
You let Ni-ki run kisses down from your lips to your chest, leaving a trail of burning bliss. When your bra blocks his path, he lets his hand on your back fall to the clasp to open it. The sensation of his wet lips and soft tongue wrapping around your nipple makes you keen and wrap your legs tighter around his hips in search of further relief. When he looks up at you, his pupils are blown out.
“You want more?”
You nod your head, falling back against the wall to give him more access to your body. Using the nail of his middle finger, he draws a path down your sternum, over your chest, and to the aching wet spot in between your thighs.
Over the cotton, he presses his finger in and watches how you take him in readily, even if not all the way. He has to bite his lip to stifle the pathetic sound resounding in his throat.
“I know you’d take my cock well,” he purrs.
“No, no, no, you can’t,” you ramble.
Ni-ki leans further on top of you, middle finger still pressed over your cunt, but his pinky hooks to get your panties out of the way.
“Not even the tip?” he pleads.
“No,” you shake your head firmer.
He sticks his bottom lip out in a pout and furrows his brow in feigned disappointment.
“Ok,” he plunges two fingers inside of you with harsh speed. The squelch is lewd, and you feel like a pervert the way that alone turns you on even further. Ni-ki looks you straight in the eye as he scissors you open, teeth biting deep into his plush lip. He’s gotten more than he thought he would tonight: a light, a drink, and your body.
“Treat me like you would him,” he says, “take it all out on me.”
You wrinkle your forehead in confusion at the absurdity of his words, and he leans in closer.
“Come on, spit at me, fight me.”
You punch him weakly, but it has no energy to it. You’re too focused on the sensation of his fingers thrusting inside of you. Ni-ki grabs your fist and punches himself in the chest with it.
“Where's the fight in you?” he taunts. You spit at him. It lands right above his cupid's bow with an impressive projection, and he smiles.
“Thats my girl.”
He thrusts impossibly deeper into your cunt, his knuckles are practically inside you. With his free hand, he inserts a thumb between your lips and against your teeth to open your mouth wide.
“But it's better like this.”
He spits straight into your mouth, and you feel it slide down your throat. It’s so depraved you feel the pressure in your core build, a couple more thrusts, and you’ll be completely undone around his digits.
Satisfied Ni-ki shifts so his face hovers below your waist. His pace inside of you remains as he gently rolls his tongue around your clit and sucks. You can’t help the moans that slip past your lips as the feeling makes you climax. When you come down, your body is weightless, and Ni-ki is still nuzzled between your legs. He removes his fingers from inside you and rubs the same sticky fingers against your stomach in a daze of amusement.
“It’s a shame I can’t see how my cum would trickle out of you, your pussy looks so pretty when you cum,” he coos.
“You fucking weirdo,” you slur in response.
“I’m just so goddamn hard right now, I would even put it in your ass if I could.”
“Pervert.”
All the alcohol and sex are making you drowsy, your vision fades as the last thing in your line of sight is Ni-ki sitting up on his knees and unbuckling his belt to jerk himself on top of you.
“Pervert,” you repeat.
Your eyelids weigh down and drift out of consciousness.
𓏵
You’re hungover, half naked, and covered in dried cum. Ni-ki is on the floor, face down with an empty bottle of rum in his grip. It doesn’t process for you. The guilt, shame, repulsion, none of it. You swallow the dryness in your throat and peel yourself from the mattress, stepping over Ni-ki to put on your heels and rake through the knots in your hair. When you go to the bathroom and open the faucet you pause and stare at the tattooed ring on your finger. Your head throbs and you stumble forward but the feeling in your gut is simply numb. You wipe the cum off your body as if it were any other stain. Luckily Ni-ki didn’t leave any marks on your skin so no proof of the night remains, only the mess of your panties that feel disgusting against your skin but there's nothing that can be done for now. You could really use a cigarette.
When you leave the bathroom Ni-ki is still knocked out and you kick him with your heel. In response he whines, turning his face a quarter of the way towards you and muffling his voice with his elbow.
“What?”
“I gotta go. Do you have something I can take a hit of?”
At that he rolls over completely to rest on his arms, eyes puffy with lack of sleep.
“You’re gonna go back to him?”
You roll your eyes and give him another kick.
“Well I woke up still married.”
“Theres a vape on the kitchen counter.”
Ni-ki falls flat against the floor and you go towards the counter. It's strawberry ice. Childish.
𓏵
Heeseung is still confined to the motel room. He lays on his back staring at the popcorn ceiling. His eyes are blood shot and his leg trembling. It’s about easy to guess why you blew up at him. He knows all the times you’ve caught him slipping up have added up into an impenetrable resentment. But he was a changed man, and he wanted only you, only his bride. Those other girls didn’t mean anything now, they never did.
He jumps when he hears a knock at the door. It has to be you. He jumps to his feet and opens the door in a heartbeat. You stand there, hair a mess, jaw clenched, and eyes sunken. Heesueng wraps his arms around your waist and falls to his knees right at the doorway. He can smell the vague scent of musk and rum, someone else on you but he ignores it.
“I’m sorry,” he pleads.
You pet his hair in silence, eyes locked on the way his blond tendrils glide through your fingers. His hair is softer than Ni-ki’s.
“Are you ready for the honeymoon?” you ask.
Heeseung looks up at you in shock with red eyes before nodding vigorously. He looks like he could throw up all the blood in his body with joy. And his joy makes you nearly feel uneven in filth and sin.
You kneel to reach his level and kiss him harshly, letting the taste of electric heat, Ni-ki’s saliva, and coke permeate across his taste buds. Heeseung kisses back eagerly as if consuming and absolving you of all your wrongdoings in the past twelve hours.
“You don’t look well baby,” you whisper against his open mouth.
“I can’t be well without you.”
You smile, satisfied at his needy state.
“Lets exchange real vows, at a real church,,” you propose. “Start new again.”
But you know the past festers beneath and influences every single thing, no matter how much progress the two of you make. Still, there's no other direction to take, and just as you know misery in his arms you know the greatest of joys.
A damned bride and groom in a dingy motel room, falling over and over again.