#he remembered his wife and how to play the piano

[petrichara]

If I were on my deathbed with enough strength to write one word it would be your name

[thetangibleghost]

Just woke up from a dream where there was a Truman show remake? sequel? Both? Where Truman was played by pre-transition Elliot Page. Started of with this overveiw of some of the set, a big hole that looked kind of like an old sink hole and The voice over was Elliot Page saying "Something young inside me has died." And it showed Elliot Page climbing down into the sink hole, right into a suburban neighborhood "Something young enough to have seen all the marvel movies. I guess."

Which made perfect sense in the dream but-

So then he's walking and he trying to get to some underground lair or something? He finds one reference but a guard is like no. So he turns around a heads down an ally where the "camera" doesn't follow. Its like pouring rain and there's huge deep puddles everywhere.

[snowvies]

Mr. Badgley

Penn Badgley x Fem!Reader

summary: you can't stop thinking about your married piano teacher, Mr. Badgley. and one day he slides under the instrument to show you how much he's been thinking about you too.

wc: 1k

cw: age gap (reader 19, Penn late thirties), cheating, piano teacher x student, pussy eating, fingering, female masturbation

Sundays are your favorite days, especially ones like this when the clouds hang low with a murky swirl in the sky. You're nineteen, and college is kicking your ass but you promised yourself you wouldn't think about the papers due when you're here, at Mr. Badgley's house.

You found his ad on craigslist, piano lessons..fifty bucks an hour you would've scrolled past it until you saw him, and his family. You felt safer in a random man's house when his wife and newborn baby were in the same room with you. So you started going there, ever since your freshman year.

Your raggedy car rolllsss to stop and you get out to see the lonely house, picked apart to be perfect, not a single thing out of place... except yourself.

His wife answers the door a few minutes after knocking, the cold biting your bare legs as you run in for warmth, completely missing her scowl at your lack of kicking the mat with your dirty boots.

Mr. Badgley offers you a warm smile, hair combed perfectly, sweater ironed and pants straight like every weekend. His eyes always look a little empty when you come. His wife jingles her keys around her finger as she readjusts the baby on her hip

"I'm going out, be done when I'm home" the same line. Every week. You smile her way but she doesn't pay mind to it, leaving you and her husband to play. you turn to Mr. Badgley but he's already walking to the connecting living room of the tiny house, sitting on the worn bench as he slides the fallboard up.

You sit next to him as he wears an excited smile, when he's like this, playing with you, it doesn't seem orchestrated by his wife. Every move he makes is analyzed by her, except this. The only reason he's allowed to do this is because they needed the extra money.

"Let's start where we left off last week, yes?" he asked and you nodded, you inhaled the mixture of musk and old books that surrounded the pianist as he began the background cords. his eyes are on you, they shine as his spine relaxes into the music and you begin your part. fingers dancing over keys as you try to remember the pattern

Your eyes squeezed shut once you messed the keys up. He smiles softly and lets a laugh out of his nose at your reaction

"Like this," his larger palm rests on top of yours as he guides your fingers, you nod and try again.

Soon enough an hour passes and you both rise from the bench and you dig into your purse for the fifty bucks you crumpled into it this morning, but, warm hands slide on top of your shoulder and the older man shakes his head.

"No need" he grins and tries to send you off but you insist, grabbing the money but he pushes you out the door.

"I will not have you pay for something that I enjoy just as much, Y/n, have a lovely week" The door softly shuts and you're left stunned.

.

You roll around your dorm bed, restless as the man's words keep ringing in your head. Why didn't he let you pay?

Maybe you're being dramatic. But it isn't like the Badgleys are set either.

You shut your eyes in a huff, suffocating yourself in the pillow under you as you replay the keys in an attempt to lull you asleep

But it isn't just the keys you're thinking about...

It's how his hand guided yours, it's how he looked at you when it was your part to play, it's his scent, it's his being. It's driving you mad.

You arch your back slowly, fingers sliding down your body until you get to your aching core. slick-filled fingers rubbing yourself at the thought of your teacher's hands touching you, grabbing you, loving you.

You moan into the pillow, legs shaking as you cream around your fingers, the thought of him drives you wild.

So just how will you act the next time you see him?

.

Before you know it, it's Sunday and you're back at the Badgleys, with his wife announcing her departure and the formal greetings of you and your teacher, you're back at that bench, side by side.

He starts the cords, and you follow trying to calm your shaking legs as you think about what fueled you that night. You couldn't even look him in the eyes this session.

His hand softly squeezes your bare thigh and you look back at the man.

"You're completely off" he informs you and you don't think your face could get redder.

"I-I'm so sorry...let's try again" you panic but his thumb rubs loving circles on your flesh.

"You usually think the world ends when you mess up, but you kept playing this time, you're mind is somewhere else Ms. Y/n."

"Sorry Mr. Badgley" you murmur

"Talk to me, get it off your chest so we can get back to playing" he smiles and you nod slowly

"...Why didn't you let me pay last time?" you ask, he stops for a moment as the hand on your thigh now rests on his face as he thinks for a moment.

"I just feel like, something so pleasurable shouldn't be bought," he says above a whisper and you feel your entire face glow, and he must have noticed with how he laughs.

"Not those pleasures, Ms. Y/n" he smiles and you don't think you've ever been so embarrassed. But when his laughter stops, his eyes swirl softly into something darker, in that moment you feel exposed to every thought as he eyes you.

He stands, hands finding your shoulders

"Keep playing"

You take a shaky breath as your thighs begin to shake once more, fingers finding the keys as you start the song

"Good," he whispers, his scents overwhelming you now as you feel almost dizzy while playing, you barely notice how he slips under the piano.

"Mr. Badgley, what are you doing?" you gasp as his dark brown eyes gaze up at you

"Keep.playing" he says sternly, and with a swallow, you keep going

He kisses your knees and you feel yourself sticking to your panties as he spreads them apart.

He has a wife. He has a kid. What are you doing?

"You're doing great" he huffs, kissing your thighs, you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment as his fingers dance up to your panties.

He pulls them down slowly, your wetness sticking to the fabric before they are lost in his pockets

Your bare pussy is in front of your teacher's face as he rubs up and down your thighs taking a shaky breath in

You slam the keys as his tongue licks up your pussy, he moans into you before forcing you to scoot closer into his face, his hands wrapping around your ass as he slurps and moans at your cunt.

"Mr.- fuck" you cry, hands climbing to try and stop your moans as your hips buck up to hump his face

"You taste so so good" he groans, making out with your pussy as he sucks at your clit just to tongue fuck your hole

Hot tears flow down your face as he stares up at you, watching you come undone for him.

You shake around him, orgasm approaching closer with every lick, he sucks on your slit before adding a long finger to your hole. You throw your head back as he fingers you, flicking his tongue relentlessly as his finger curls inside you.

You feel him whine and moan against your pussy, and when you look down you see him gripping and grabbing at his hard-on as he eats you out. You cry as that sends you over and you cum around his finger

You're panting as he curls his fingers a few more times before shoving it into his mouth and licking you clean, you're shaking and wide-eyed as hair sticks to your face and he crawls out from under the piano

Right, weren't you two supposed to be playing right now? Isn't his wife about to be home and he's sucking his fingers because they still taste like you?

He helps you off the bench and you stare into the stained cushion but he turns your chin to him before kissing you deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue before breaking it off with a simple

"My wife is on her way...see you in our next session Ms. Y/n"

And you can't wait for next Sunday.

an: lmk how obvious it is idk anything about pianos. This is based on a dream I had last night 😵‍💫🖤 I hope you liked it <333

[senipsenipsenip]

The Pines family sat at the table, quietly eating their breakfast, when Mabel slammed her hands on the table and shouted “KERMIT THE FROG��.

Dipper leapt forward to right his orange juice glass, gathering nearby napkins to sop up the puddle. “What?”

“Kermit the frog! He plays the banjo!”

“Yyyyes?”

Ford raised his hand. “Who’s Kermit the Frog?”

Stan snapped his head up from his plate. “Who’s Kermit the Frog? The Muppets, Pointdexter, you were around for The Muppet Show. They had a movie and everything.”

Ford frowned. “Muppets.”

“Yeah, they’re a riot! There’s this Bear whose got some great puns and this pig who really know how to throw a punch. You’d love it, they’ve even got a scientist!”

Ford raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were such a fan of children’s television.”

“Children?!”

Dipper stirred his cereal. “I’m just impressed you remember all that. Yesterday you forgot you were married.”

“That’s because The Muppets are forever!” Mabel exclaimed.

“Wait, Stanley you were married?”

“Yep. Actually, unless I’m forgetting a divorce, I might still be married.”

“You didn’t,” Mabel chirped. “I’d have it on my Romance Chart if you did. You’ve missed a lot of anniversaries.”

“So has he!” Stan argued. “I’m not the only bad husband here!”

Ford spluttered. “Husband?”

Dipper frowned. “I think we’re getting a little too far away from why Mabel screamed Kermit the Frog and knocked my orange juice over.”

Mabel nodded. “Right, so, I was thinking of Mr. McGucket -

“Stanley you have a husband?“

“I was thinking of Mr. McGucket,” Mabel interrupted. “And how he could maybe help around the Shack. And he plays banjo! He could play banjo and people could put money in his lil banjo case like a real musician.”

At the mention of money, Stan leaned forward.

“But like, no one knows banjo music,” Mabel continued. “So I was like, maybe pop hits banjo? But then BOOM! Kermit the Frog! People love that frog. He could play the rainbow song. He’d be a hit!”

“Interesting,” Stan muttered. “Preying on people’s nostalgia to milk them for cash. I love it!”

Ford hummed. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea, Mabel. Activities like playing musical instruments have been proven to help patients with Alzheimers and dementia. Not that Fiddleford’s condition has the same root cause, but it may prove beneficial to memory recovery.”

“Eugh, don’t ruin this for me.”

“If playing an instrument helps with memory loss, maybe Grunkle Stan should learn an instrument,” Dipper suggested.

“Ooo!” Mabel squealed. “What about guitar? Or the piano? OH!” She clutched Stan’s arm with a fervor. “The triangle!”

Ford grimaced. “Maybe not that one.”

“Sorry, kid. I’m not exactly a music guy,” Stan shrugged out of Mabel’s grasp. “Let’s leave that to the professionals.”

Mabel frowned, but let the topic go.

Ford stood from the table. “Well, I happen to be visiting Fiddleford this afternoon. I can broach the topic and see what he thinks.”

Fiddleford, as it turns out, loved the idea. To the surprise of everyone, Fiddleford admitted that he had always wanted to play in a jugband when he was younger, but could never get over his stage fright enough to audition for the local band. Then he went off to college and then…everything else.

“Maybe I zapped away that scared bit enough to play!” he had cackled, knocking at the side of his head with his knuckles.

It was settled. “Fiddlin’ Fridays at the Mystery Shack with Fiddleford McGucket”. Dipper tried to point out the title didn’t make sense since it was a banjo, not a fiddle. Stan argued that “customers are suckers for alliteration”. The set up was just Fiddleford dragging an old rocking chair onto the porch and opening up his banjo case. Mabel had made a large glittery banner, but it was quickly absconded by Fiddleford’s raccoon.

“Tell your wife to give me back my banner!” Mabel had yelled, chasing the raccoon into the bushes.

“Ex-wife,” Fiddleford sighed sadly. “Apparently I was too emotionally available.”

Ford pulled at his hair. “Did everyone get married without telling me?”

“Excuse me?” A voice piped up. Fiddleford and Ford turned to see a little boy standing at the bottom of the porch. He was dressed in hiking clothes that were obviously new. In the distance, a young woman was unstrapping a baby from its seat in an SUV. Obviously city folk coming to the “wilderness” for the first time.

“Are you a real hillbilly?” The boy asked. Suddenly the door slammed open, Mr. Mystery striding through, eyepatch in place.

“Sure is!” Stan grinned. “Our very own genuine hillbilly just waiting to play you a tune! All you gotta do is put some of your mom’s money in his case there.”

The little boy’s eyes widened, turning around to race towards his mother.

“Stanley,” Ford admonished. “Fiddleford isn’t some show monkey to throw money at.”

“During work hours he is.” Stan turned to Fiddleford. “So, did Mabel teach you that song she was so excited about?”

Fiddleford sat frozen, watching the little boy yank at his mothers pants to try and get her attention, the baby beginning to fuss.

“Well…” Fiddleford cleared his throat. “Some good news and bad news fellas.”

Ford furrowed his brows. “What is it?”

“Good news is, my mind ain’t all broken.” Fiddleford hugged his banjo and turned to look up at Ford. “Bad news is I knows it ‘cause I still got stage fright.”

Stan scoffed. “Stage fright? C’mon it’s one kid and a couple o’ city slickers who would probably think you playing three wrong notes and spitting is ‘authentic’.”

“Stanley, be supportive.”

“I am! Look I’ve been at this job forever. All you gotta do is smile and if something goes wrong, you blame a ghost or something. They eat that up.”

Fiddleford shook his head. “But this is music. If’n I mess up music, ‘specially somethin’ they know. Music is real special to people, I can’t spoil it.”

Ford knelt down next to Fiddleford’s chair. “You don’t have to play that song Fiddleford. You don’t have to play at all.”

Fiddleford looked anxiously between Ford and the family. It seemed the little boy had finally gotten his mother’s attention and was excitedly pointing toward the porch.

“I…” Fiddleford shook his head. “I can’t let the little ‘uns down. ‘Specially not those ones.” As he said this, he gestured with his chin towards the other end of the porch where Dipper and Mabel sat bickering in lawn chairs. Mabel had returned from her raccoon chase covered in twigs and holding a surprisingly docile raccoon. Dipper was leaning away from the pair while trying to convince Mabel to stop feeding it gummy worms before it developed a taste for human food and tried breaking into the Shack.

Ford's gaze drifted to the twins. "Alright," he relented. "But you still don't have to play Mabel's song."

Fiddleford bowed his head.

"Yet!" Ford offered. "Not yet. She'll understand I'm sure."

Fiddleford frowned, looking unconvinced.

"Of course not yet!" Stan interjected. "You can't go playing the grand finale right out of the gate! You gotta warm 'em up first, keep 'em wanting more." Stan slapped his hand on Fiddleford's back. "If you give 'em what they want right away, they won't come back! Hold that one off until tomorrow or...uh...next week. Tease it or something."

Stan had started rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand as he spoke, a tell Ford was quick to recognize. It was the same one he did when he would "begrudgingly" let Mabel choose the movie for movie night or let Dipper rope him into another game of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons. Covering the most vulnerable part of his body while he let his emotions go soft.

Fiddleford seemed to perk up at Stan's words.

"Well," Fiddleford offered. "I do know some proper jugband music. Only, it don't have the same ring to it without a jug."

"We've got a jug!" Mabel cheered from the other side of the porch. It seemed the raccoon argument had reached enough of a truce that the twins were once again paying attention to the concert. "I used to keep pond water in it, it's in the kitchen!" She hopped off of her chair, lugging the racoon along with her like it was a rather expensive lap cat.

Dipper followed her. "Why did you have a jug of pond water?"

"Because, dummy, if I met a frog prince he would need something in the shack to remind him of home."

"Aren't you supposed to turn him into a person though?"

Whatever Mabel's retort was to be was cut off by the door swinging shut.

"There ya go," Stan grumbled. "You're getting your jug. Just in time too." He gestured toward the SUV. The mother was walking toward the Shack, one hand holding the baby, the other gripping tightly to the little boy's hand. The little boy gripped a few dollars in his fist, eyes alight with excitement.

Fiddleford looked frantic. "I can't sing and play the jug at the same time!" He gripped at his hat, pulling it down over his ears.

Ford sighed. "Then don't play the jug."

"It won't be the same!" Fiddleford shook his head. "A jugband without a jug that's...that's like a body with no heartbeat!"

The door swung open and Mabel emerged with an old ceramic jug.

"Here it is!" she exclaimed. "And it only sort of smells like pond scum."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Ford smiled gently. "It seems Fiddleford can't play both simultaneously."

Mabel frowned. "But it's a jugband. It's in the name!"

"How about we wait another day," Ford offered, patting Fiddleford awkwardly on the back. "Maybe someone in town will join you."

"Oh for Pete's sake, give it to me." Stan snatched the jug out Mabel's hand, sniffing at the top and giving a grimace.

Fiddleford stopped pulling at his hat, peeking out from under the brim. "You'll play?"

Stan grunted. "I'm not missing out on good money just because you have a case of the heebie jeebies. Besides, how hard can it be? It's like blowing on the top of a beer...er...I mean soda bottle."

Dipper crossed his arms. "Grunkle Stan, we know what beer is."

"Not from me you don't."

Mabel squealed. "It's happening! Grunkle Stan is learning an instrument!"

"It's not an instrument, Pumpkin. It's dishware."

"It's a scrapbookortunity!"

Mabel dashed into the house once more, leaving Dipper to grin at their Grunkle Stan.

The family was only a few yards away now. Fiddleford looked between Stan, Ford, and Dipper, and straightened up in his seat.

"Alright. Alright!" He clapped his hands together. "Stanley, you get down here with me, otherwise your feet are gonna get mighty sore from standing." He yanked at Stanley's hand until he sat beside the rocking chair with a grumble.

"Now when I tap my foot," Fiddleford instructed. "You blow on the jug. One short note at a time." Fiddleford tapped his foot in demonstration. "You got that?"

Stanley rolled his eyes. "Gee, I don't know. Seems pretty complicated for the guy without a PhD."

Mabel burst through the door, camera clutched in her hands. "Got it!"

"Excuse me?"

The little boy stood on the porch, approaching the banjo case with far more trepidation than before. Eyes darting between the assembly, he dropped a few dollars in the case.

"Is this enough to play a song?"

Fiddleford didn't bother looking at the money. He turned his gaze to Stanley, who shrugged and raised the jug to his lips.

Fiddleford grinned. "You know ‘Boodle Am Shake’?"

The little boy shook his head.

"Well you're about to!" And with that he was off.

By Fiddleford's standards, it wasn't a horribly complicated tune. Ford had heard him pluck out more complex riffs while waiting for the coffee pot in their dorm room to brew. But Fiddleford was smiling. His shoulders had dropped from around his ears, and he was nodding at the little boy to tap his feet along with him. Ford hid his smile behind his hands as he watched Stanley, eyes focused on Fiddleford's bare foot with as much attention as one would give to diffusing a bomb. Next to him, Mabel was snapping pictures of the pair. Dipper stood on his other side, wearing the small smile he tended to get when feeling introspective. Ford laid his hand on Dipper's shoulder, and Dipper leaned into the touch.

The mother was smiling at her little boy, her baby having finally stopped fussing. Maybe it wasn't the grand attraction Mabel had planned, but Ford thought it was worth far more than those few dollars anyway. Nothing could be worth more than his family standing around him, his closest friend singing again.

I know this song, it don't mean a doggone thing. Just do that good old Charleston swing. When you sing...

[carpkoinobori]

[☆] mean girls — momo x reader

[𖤐] 1/1 [please be aware this is all fiction! none of this is real and idols behavior is not accurately represented.]

song(s): applause - lady gaga | moments in love - charli xcx | paparazzi- lady gaga | old friend - mitski | mean girls - charli xcx | west coast - lana del rey | pink in the night - mitski

summary: getting on the survival show sixteen was really just a way to kickstart your acting career. who would’ve guessed it’d take such a toll on you?

pairing: momo x actress!reader

tags: not that much angst, happy ending, barely frenemies traumabonded to situationship to kinda friends to lovers, reader is just a little unstable, there is a good amount of fluff though

wc: 9.3k

cw: dieting, mild sexual content, alcohol, cigarettes (smoking), mention of covid, making out (like 4 times)

ex: not beta read, timeline was as accurate as I could make it given the fact that for some reason no one knows where twice was at during november and october of 2017

a/n: is it me if the story doesn’t have either an ed/restriction reference or catholic elements.. I love charli xcx’s music. reader has a “disgraced” older sister

you were 17 years old when you were told you made it onto sixteen.

you were a JYP trainee— not for an idol group, no, for acting. Yet, you were put into singing and dancing classes. It was a bit weird, but as long as you could perform, you didn’t mind.

you did pretty well, actually. You weren’t a top trainee by any means— this wasn’t your true passion— but you were good. You enjoyed dancing, and were pretty talented with hiphop and other less restrictive styles.

your parents had forced you into ballroom, specifically waltzes, even more specifically the Viennese waltz, since you could remember. You were a prim and proper, well-mannered, upper class girl. Perfect for acting, perfect for the silver screen.

Your father was a business magnate— specifically in transportation. He wasn’t like Samsung, no, but a manufacturer of luxury vehicles. He designed trains, bus systems, even planes, at time— he was a talented engineer, of course, but most of the work had now been relegated to employees. When you told him you wanted to be an actor, he didn’t really mind. Your mother didn’t look like she loved the idea, but it’d be good for the family image, so she conceded. After all, you’d succeed, right?

right?

What they didn’t tell you about being on a survival show is how it gets into your head.

you were competitive by nature, fueled by your parents constant reminders you needed to be the best. You were the daughter of a powerful and rich businessman, with his perfect trophy wife— their only daughter needed to be perfect, of course.

you played instruments— violin, piano, flute— were in extracurriculars— tennis, skiing, dance, language classes— had an absolutely pristine record, and perfect grades. You were the poster child of perfection, a face fit for magazines and your family, the girl a mother would tell you to bring home.

But you know, it gets tiring to be so perfect. You hadn’t had any competition— until now, that is.

Sixteen perfect, beautiful, talented girls. Seven spots.

You had never felt more desperate to prove yourself than in that moment.

It was strange, really— you didn’t want to be in an idol group. You had never even considered it. Your passion was acting, it always had been, and it always would be.

but you had never been bad at anything your whole life. Everything you had tried, you had mastered, a desperate fervor to know and prove yourself. But here you were, for once, not the best at something— and it drove you absolutely crazy.

you needed to be the absolute best, the perfect candidate— the prettiest, the best singer, the best personality, the best dancer—

you couldn’t, though. and it killed you.

You met Momo when you were 15. It was 2013, some time in the winter, although you couldn’t quite remember. Some people said she looked like you, but you didn’t really see it.

She had been a trainee for longer— since 2012– you had never really gotten the chance to talk to her, on account of the fact she didn’t speak Korean. Momo was Japanese, same as Sana. They were both close, obviously, and you had noticed they took Korean language classes with a tall Taiwanese girl you never bothered to learn the name of.

There were the trainees everyone knew would debut— Nayeon, Jihyo, Jeongyeon— and the trainees people didn’t really speak about.

You were somewhere in the middle. You had a lot of skills, both in instruments, languages, sports, and acting, but you weren’t a top trainee by any means. You stayed comfortably in the upper middle, a chance at debut but not too high, not too low to be kicked out, either.

You could dance well, of course, although you sometimes felt a burning pang of jealousy watching Momo dance. She was good at it, unreasonably so. It came so naturally to her. Like she didn’t even have to think about it.

and she was pretty, too. long black hair, black eyes you could drown in. You didn’t to stare too long. She was just.. noticeable. It’s not like she ever noticed. When she was dancing, the only thing that mattered was her reflection in the practice room mirror. Her friend, Sana, would glance at you once or twice, whenever you stared.

She knew.

you never noticed.

Practicing for the competition was obviously stressful, but nothing you couldn’t handle. You were determined, strong, not weak. You learned English, Japanese, played the piano, violin, you had kind of forgotten the flute but you could, once— you had skied since you were four, played tennis at six— you didn’t know, yet, but you would graduate high-school as valedictorian, taking the maximum amount of AP’s for the last four years.

You’d practice till you got a move, perfectly. You were the first to enter the practice room and the last to leave.

you know, contrary to what you’d think, your father’s money isn’t what got you into JYP, or their idol program, or SIXTEEN— well, maybe it played a part into getting you into JYP, but the rest was all you. All your “friends”, other kids you knew, same or richer than you, spent their time partying, shopping, crashing cars and drinking.

some, of course, worked like you. There were parents who didn’t care what their kids did, and parents who needed their children to be the paragons of perfection. Usually, the more high-class your parents were, the more in the public eye they were. Korean standards were strict, and if you didn’t mean it, you’d watch your family apologize for you on public television, renounce your name, and at times, wipe you from the will. Most kids got a pass, their parents pulled some strings, and they were free. But others? Well, the kids that were forced to work hard were usually the ones who had to pay a price.

you would not be disgraced like your sister. She lived in America, now, and you hadn’t contacted her in two years. Not like you missed her. Not like you counted.

“Momo, have you noticed that rich girl staring at you?” The dyed-brown haired girl questioned, twirling a pen in their shared dorm.

“What rich girl?” The long haired girl blinked, black hair dyed close to the same shade of her friend.

“The one sitting across from us? The one that the instructor always says you kind of look like,” she reminded, unimpressed, gesturing at her subtly with the pen.

“Why would she stare at me? She’s the daughter of some famous Korean businessman, we’re two random Japanese trainees,” Momo pointed out, causing Sana sigh and lean in a little closer.

“Momo, that’s not what I’m talking about! Even before she got moved to this dorm, she’s always looking at you. Maybe she’s jealous, you two are always getting compared to each other, after all, and I bet she feels threatened-” She rephrased, Momo’s eyes widening before she cut her off.

“Sana! Quiet down! She could hear you!”

“She’s Korean, Momo, she’s not going to know Japanese, let alone a dialect,” she pointed out, crossing her arms, flicking Momo on the forehead with an amused smile. “You know, I’m starting to think that time you hit your head really did have an effect on y-!”

“Actually, I’m fluent in both Japanese and English,” a cold voice piped up. “I don’t speak the dialects, but they’re understandable,” you added, shifting on the bunk-bed to rest on your hands, a carefully blank look on your face.

Sana turned to you in shock and embarrassment, and Momo pointed at her childishly, exclaiming, “I told you so!”

Sana and Momo had only been in Korea for about a year, at that point, and their Korean wasn’t exactly great.

“Ah.. I’m sorry..” Sana began, slowly, in Korean.

“I just told you, I speak Japanese. You don’t have to speak in Korean. That’s why they placed me here, though. To help you two with your Korean,” you informed, pronunciation sharp and undeniably the standard Tokyo-way of speaking.

“Right.. I’m sorry for talking about you,” Sana began, again, feeling a little humiliated, which made her a bit annoyed. She wasn’t a gossip or anything, you just stared at Momo a lot. It was noticeable. You two were constantly being compared to each other for your similarities in looks, after all.

“It’s fine,” you dismissed, with a wave of your hand. “I’m sure it seems like I stare a lot, but it’s just because I like to analyze the competition, not because I’m jealous of.. well, you two,” you voiced, regarding them both with an amused smile.

To be completely transparent, you were a little jealous of Momo. She was an absolutely amazing dancer. But of course, no one had to know that.

“You know we’re going to be on a survival show, don’t you?” you asked, with a tilted head and pointed stare.

“Well, yeah, we know.. but why am I competition?” Momo blinked, pointing at herself.

You let out a sharp, pointed laugh, almost in disbelief.

“You’re not a bad dancer, and don’t rank too low, either. It’s a seven member group. There’s not a lot of room to be mediocre,” your words were calculated, given sharply, seriousness gracing your words. Momo frowned, mood souring slightly at your clipped, dismissive tone. She didn’t notice, though, how serious you seemed— how some cutthroat ideology laced your words.

Sana did, though. As much as Sana presented herself as an airhead, she was unbelievably smart— especially with people. She knew intentions, how to talk to people, how to get what she wanted with words. You knew this, and recognized her for what she was— a clever, determined, but kind girl. She’d do what she needed to do to get what she wanted, of course, but she’d try to help you along as far as she could. It wasn’t clear to you, yet, if she’d give up her space to let someone else take it.

You weren’t sure you’d ever know.

“Anyway, I have some essays to finish. I’ll graduate this year,” you added, breaking the tension, laying on your bed and taking out your school laptop, beginning to write.

The two Japanese girls stared, dumbfounded, and quietly slinked out of the room after a few minutes. It was too awkward, and you seemed so unbothered, unflappable after that little display— some of the other trainees were intimidated by you, whispers of how you were only in this program to “challenge” yourself, or that it was sure you’d debut because of your father, or talents, or how you were the smartest trainee— all rumors, all untrue. You were placed here for a reason unknown to you, and didn’t even rank particularly high at the moment. You were slowly climbing the ranks, though, and had sat comfortably in fifth place by the time SIXTEEN started.

Although, you’re sure all those people who whispered about you in the halls would be shocked to learn that you’d never end up debuting in the nation’s girl group. A successful actress, of course, but an idol? That wasn’t your fate to have.

Right at the end of June, falling into early April is when filming began.

Your life became practicing, training, working out, practicing, showcasing, and only barely sleeping.

You were still in a dorm with Sana and Momo, although a fourth girl— Chaeyeon— happened to be there as well.

She was the first to be eliminated, though, and it was just you three again.

Sana and Momo had gotten very close with another, younger Japanese trainee named Mina. Mina was very pretty, and had done ballet, and you could already just feel she would debut.

You liked Mina. She was probably who you were closest with. She grew up pretty well off, as well, and did ballet. You could relate to her, and she was the only one you’d keep in touch with after the show.

It was getting harder and harder to believe you’d debut.

Nayeon and Jeongyeon would definitely debut— Mina would, too, along with probably Momo and Sana. Dahyun was really popular, as well as Tzuyu, and there were only seven spots. Jihyo was too good of a singer to be sure what the final lineup would be, and Chaeyoung would be a good rapper— it was all so confusing. It made you all the more desperate to prove yourself wrong, though, because a part of you knew, deep down, you wouldn’t debut. A week before the first day of filming, you had snuck out to the convenience store. It was dark, late at night— you had a craving. Your father smoked cigars, your mother drank vodka and whiskey— not mixed, of course.

you were just scraping 18, now, having graduated in February. You couldn’t legally have a drink, or even smoke till 19, but a part of you itched to try it, curious.

obviously, you weren’t going to risk ruining your image. You loitered around the store, scanning the aisles, but ultimately not buying anything, unable to find something worth possibly gaining weight for.

the managers had been particularly strict before the start of the show.

you went back to your dorm, still restless, and exhausted at the same time.

the life of a trainee was draining.

When SIXTEEN began, everything shifted. You and Momo were still dorming together, but Sana was moved with Mina and there were a lot of other changes.

you were becoming antsy and restless. Watching people get eliminated was taking a toll on you. You ate less, slept less, practiced more— it was getting to you.

momo had begun eating less. a lot less. You couldn’t afford to be worried, you had to focus on yourself.

What no one would tell you about a survival show is that bonds are fickle. You wanted to care about other people, but once you had gotten a taste of the applause, the fans, all the love that came with being in the spotlight— you got hooked.

you were popular among the fans, your skills weren’t bad, maybe you could really debut. It started worming it’s way into your head.

the hunger and exhaustion was making everyone a bit volatile, a bit too confrontational— you were guilty of it, too.

you refused to build any friendships, while you were there, but built a very strong rivalry with Momo.

Everything she did, you did, trying to do it better.

You’d practice at the same time, next to each other, giving backhanded compliments on form and criticism to each other’s footwork and lines

You’d try your best to outdo each other, fueled by the constant comparison and the fact that you two were almost never on the same team together.

but when Momo was eliminated, you felt your heart drop.

you told yourself it was good, less competition that way. But a part of you felt.. empty.

you practiced, going through the motions, but it felt wrong. It was all robotic. There was no passion or emotion, and for that, you were eliminated the ninth episode, along with another girl.

from there, you threw yourself back into acting. You made your acting debut about a year later, months after Twice had debuted.

no one would ever know, though, that you had watched of the rest of the episodes, and congratulated Mina on her debut, telling her you were happy the three of them (Mina, Sana, Momo) would get to debut together. You debated on telling Momo yourself, maybe heading to the practice rooms to do so, out of begrudging respect and happiness, but you never did.

and so began the next nine years.

year 1; mid-May, 2016 | Korea

you had just exited the JYP building, into the cool night of the city after light rainfall. May wasn’t ever too hot, an easy 70 degrees out. It was a bit cold, but that was nothing. It was maybe thirty minutes to twelve, the city sparkling like the stars that were drowned out by smoke and light pollution.

You leaned on the building, debating on whether or not to go out to eat or just go straight home. You were pushed out of your thoughts when you heard the doors open and close, glancing at the person exiting the building.

Momo. Hirai Momo, with light caramel hair, now, looking tired, in some casual practice outfit thrown together hastily.

she still looked good.

her eyes were dark, glancing at some message on her phone. The bright white light illuminated her face, and you were about to quietly slink away when you both made eye contact.

“Momo,” you began, always eager to get the first word in, but not sure what to say.

She stared at you, obviously recognizing you. “Y/n,” she greeted. “I heard you’ve made your acting debut. Congratulations,” she offered, and the Korean off her tongue didn’t sound exactly right to you.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “I saw that you debuted. The song was good. Congratulations,” was your reply, tone polite. Momo knew that you and Mina still spoke, even going out to eat together whenever you both had the time, which wasn’t often.

“Thank you,” she replied back, and you hated how awkward everything felt.

“Well, I’m gonna g-”

“Do you want to come with me to the convenience store?” Momo asked, suddenly, immediately backtracking when your words registered. “If you have to go then go, don’t worry about it, nevermind,”

“I’ll go,” you agreed, not entirely sure why you did. “I haven’t eaten yet, anyway,”

the two of your walked a bit far off, entering the convenience store with a little chime and feeling the need to make conversation.

“So.. Momo, why are you practicing so late?” You asked, conversationally.

“We have so many albums and songs lined up, for this year.. we’re working on one right now. I’m sure Mina’s told you,” she murmured, voice low so as to not disturb anyone.

“She’s mentioned that you’re all.. busy,” you agreed, and you noticed how she looked thinner, more tired, somehow older in the span of a year.

she was still beautiful, of course, but you’ve been seeing beautiful people your whole life.

“Is it what you wanted?” You asked, forced lightness in your voice, though it might’ve come out more accusing than you wanted. It wasn’t her fault you got eliminated. Kind of.

She looked at you for a long time, fingers ghosting over some matcha candy you couldn’t name, parts of a life you probably wouldn’t ever see.

“I think it will be,” she replied, looking at the selection of green, instead of at you. the night was warmer on the walk back to your dorm. A grassy, slightly bitter taste sat comfortably in your mouth.

you’d have to start drinking matcha, more.

year 2; early November, 2017 | Korea

Likey had just dropped, and signal had won Twice international success. They were pushing Japan, doing promotions there so constantly you had half a mind to just ask them why they wouldn’t move there, and a nomination to the Korean Popular Culture and Arts Awards.

you were there too, of course, for your roles in a myriad of dramas, at that point.

You had been the lead role in “Strong girl Bonsoon” and “My Ghost” respectively. You were young, yes, 19, almost 20, now— but you had achieved amazing successes, just like the girls you sat near, now.

there was a reason there were almost no pictures of twice at the awards, and you couldn’t find their speeches.

You won, not unsurprisingly, as did Twice, and sat through the performances. You spoke to Mina, easily, but she went to go talk to Jihyo about something, at one point, and you couldn’t really remember or care— both you and Momo could drink now, and they were giving out free champagne.

as the performances closed, everyone had received their awards— you headed to the bathrooms. They were empty, and you stared at yourself in the mirror. Face flushed, hair and makeup still intact, though, black silk dress unmarred by any stains, something you’d bought just to prove to yourself you made it, had your own money now, didn’t need your parents—

the door opened, and Momo appeared inside. It took one glance and the sound of a lock clicking before her lips were on yours.

she tasted like good alcohol and something sweet, your hands in her perfectly styled hair. She pressed you against the wall, your pretty and pink lipstick mixing with her darker one, pulling apart after nearly a minute and a half, panting, your eyes dazed and dilated.

“you have an apartment now, right?” she murmured, breathless.

you did have an apartment, bought the second you turned 19, trying to prove you didn’t need your parents, still. You had made it, for fucks sake.

“I do,” you answered, and you both managed to make it there without any cameras flashing.

your apartment was near the Han river, a testament to your success. It was small, one bedroom, with a large-enough kitchen and spacious living room, large windows that let the city lights in.

the apartment was bathed in a cool, blue glow, by both the night sky, and the building outside the window.

You and Momo had stumbled into the space, hurriedly locking the door without breaking the kiss, barely making it to the bedroom. The apartment had large, wide windows, taking up nearly the entire wall. There were curtains, of course, but they were a bit sheer, and white. The lights of the city illuminated the dark room, letting your fingers fumble with the zipper of Momo’s dress, getting it off.

Her hair was mussed, and you were sure yours was the same, but you didn’t care, right now.

Lipstick stains adorned her mouth, the two of you having created a muted, glossy color, that would later become a favorite, then something you hated, to something you’d think about, fondly.

She took off your dress, carefully— it was Dolce and Gabbana— although hers was much the same, in the sense that it must’ve been designer, as well, although you didn’t bother to check the tag.

Both articles of clothing ended up sprawled on the wooden floor, anyway, forgotten.

you kissed her desperately, the two of you thoroughly lost in each other.

your skin burned, her hands feeling too hot, your brain slowly melting away every other worry other than her.

to be honest, you were a little too drunk to remember everything that had happened.

you kind of wished you did.

Waking up the next day at four thirty in the morning was rough. Running on two and a half hours of sleep, you groaned when you heard Momo’s alarm go off.

she didn’t wake, though, you had turned it off fairly quickly, and the alcohol mixed with the sex— the word left a bitter taste in your mouth, for some reason— had knocked her out cold.

you watched her, for a bit. Hirai Momo was beautiful, you’d always known that. You never really realized it till now, though. Soft, short brown hair, dyed, a peaceful expression, smooth skin bathed by cold light, in a mostly white space.

your apartment was sparsely decorated, feeling more like a museum than a home. You didn’t even call it home, just ‘the house’ or ‘the apartment’. There wasn’t any life to it. It wasn’t a place to get attached to.

You contemplated waking her up. You didn’t really want to, but you knew you had to.

“Momo,” you murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder, shaking her. “Momo, you have to wake up,”

She groaned, turning, screwing her eyes shut. “No.. I’m tired,” was her muttered response, and you could barely even tell if she was speaking korean or japanese (it was japanese, she had only been in korea five years at that point. that’s not enough time to completely switch languages).

“Momo, your alarm went off, you need to get up,” you urged, speaking in japanese in hopes it’d get through her head, better.

She let out a sound of protest, but opened her eyes, sitting up. “What time is it?” She muttered, running a hand through her hair. The both of you weren’t wearing clothes, obviously, but the sight of her was still a little much for so early in the morning.

���It’s fifteen minutes to five,” you informed.

“I have to be at Inkigayo at five thirty,” she exclaimed, eyes widening. “Oh god,” she cursed, under her breath, distressed.

“Look, you can borrow some of my clothes. No one’s gonna know it’s mine,” you muttered. “You can keep it, so we never get caught for sharing clothes. Plus, the worst that could happen is we say you slept over because I invited you to go eat, or something.. it doesn’t matter, we’re two girls anyway,” you explained.

Momo stared at you, dumbfounded, still processing the words that came out of your mouth before agreeing. “Okay, yeah.. can I use your shower?”

“Sure,” you shrugged, trying to be nonchalant when she was naked in your bed, and looked too fucking good for having just woken up. Fuck those instructors, you definitely did not look like Hirai Momo. You wished you did.

you handed her a simple pair of pink sweatpants and a dark red hoodie. They weren’t things you had actually worn, yet, just thought they were cute. Momo wasn’t too far from your height, anyway, so they fit fine.

She showered, changed, and it wasn’t that long of a drive to Inkigayo, and a taxi could probably get her there in fifteen minutes.

it was 5:15, now, and she was drying her hair on the balcony. You had also gifted her a pair of white sneakers, to complete the outfit. It fit their concept, anyway.

you were on the balcony, too, watching the sunrise with a Bohem Cigar Shake hanging out of your mouth, lit.

Momo didn’t smoke, you had learned when you offered her one. She didn’t like the smell.

truth be told, you weren’t the biggest fan, but these were sweet, they left an aftertaste in your mouth a lot of people hated, but you kinda liked it.

You put it out on an ashtray once you accidentally burnt your finger tip, sucking on the mark and snubbing the cigarette out with your other hand.

Momo gave you a slightly concerned look, but you assured her you were fine.

she left in your clothes (no one would ever know, just you and her members) into a taxi you paid for, to perform at a music show you’d watch.

you and momo met on and off for the rest of that year, between promotions and award shows and restaurants and going shopping with Mina and taking pictures together and her visiting you on set—

the public called you great friends.

at least they didn’t see where her hands tended to rest.

year 3; mid-February, 2018 | Japan

you were 20, officially.

Twice had begun their Japanese tour, releasing Candy Pop a week into February.

the 14th was the Gaon chart music awards, which twice attended, of course.

you were still filming some dramas in Korea, but had managed to get time off to go to Japan. For no other reason than the fact Japan was beautiful in February, of course. It’s not like you attended the Gaon chart music awards to see Momo— no, Sunmi had released some good music, too, and of course you were friendly with all of twice.

the after parties for the awards were always fun.

“Momo, wait,” you murmured, breathily, pressed up against some wall in the buildings seemingly-millions of bathrooms.

“What?” she blinked, deep brown eyes blown wide, staring deep into your own.

“I didn’t.. it’s. I got you something,” you admitted, quietly. You handed her a small, dark red box, that you had kept in the small black bag you had taken.

you were wearing 2017 MiuMiu, a black minidress that your stylist had complemented with pearls and silver, tightening the waist and removing some of the collar. What was left was a striking black dress, soft fabric, and a lower neckline, paired with, of course, a vintage black MiuMiu leather handbag.

“Open it,” you instructed, to which the other girl did, to reveal two Mikimoto pearl earrings, having 18kt gold yellow gold posts. You had found it at an auction, they weren’t relatively expensive— $500– and from ten years prior. You thought they’d suit her, and so you bought it.

she just stared at you, a bit surprised, dumbfounded—

“Why’d you get me this?” were the words that slipped out from her mouth. She had the same shade of lipstick on, this time liquid, and your lips were colored with a pink gloss, girlish.

“Don’t you know what day it is?” You laughed, amused, tilting your head. “It’s the fourteenth of February,”

“You got me a gift for valentines?” She clarified, slowly, recoiling, a grimace slowly morphing onto her face.

you noticed, of course.

“No,” you lied, easily. “For the win,”

you both knew it wasn’t true, but allowed yourselves to indulge in the lie just a little more.

you two were just high off the high-life, making it big for the first times in your life.

momo left your hotel room before you saw her in the morning.

the note; “早退してごめんなさい。コンサートがあったんだ。” (sorry for leaving early. there was a concert)

you knew there was no concert the fifteenth of February. momo was a horrible liar, but you knew, later, from photos, they were in an airport that day.

you never asked to where.

(It wasn’t a question, but she did send you a silver-chain necklace, a pearl-heart pendant, march 14th. you hadn’t taken it off)

year 4; early August, 2019 | Korea

you were nearly 21, now.

“Momo, who the fuck is Heechul?” you spat, looking at a news article. The girl, who now had black wavy hair, a little lower than her shoulder, was currently lounging in your bed. Promotions for Dance the Night Away had just started, and she looked better than ever.

Her eyes widened, and she sat up, looking hurt and a little panicked. You never spoke to her like this, not since Sixteen, and you both rarely spoke in Korean, anymore.

“What do you mean? He’s just a friend-”

“Don’t lie to me,” you cut in, sharply. “You’ve been acting weird ever since I gave you those earrings, Momo. Why?” you demanded, the anger masking all the hurt you felt.

she was silent, for a bit, drawing into herself, looking to the side and holding her arms.

“We can’t be anything more than this,” she murmured.

“What?”

“I have a career. I have a group, I can’t just.. leave it all,”

“What are you talking about?” You asked, a little high pitched.

“We should stop. You.. you like me too much,” she decided. “It’s safer if I’m.. you know, with a guy. It won’t be favorable, but it’ll get people off us both. People talk too much, nowadays,” she continued.

“I mean.. it’s just that.. you know, we’re both girls. That’ll ruin both of our careers. And I like being an idol. I won’t.. I won’t just give it up,”

“Momo, are you serious?” You exclaimed, shocked. “You’re refusing to see me, when we’ve been pretending to be just friends for over three years now, and instead.. you’re gonna date some guy? Momo, that could ruin your career, too! No one knows about us, I haven’t told anyone! Why are you being so-“

“It won’t be as bad as if it were us two,” she reminded, pointedly and acidly. “Not all of us have a rich family to fall back on. I had to work to get here. I will not give it all up just because you want to.. to play around, and pretend we’re in love!” She cried, aggravated.

you stared in shock. You didn’t even know what to say, the whole reason you refused to use your parents was your desperation to be independent from them.

you knew what they’d do to you if they found out what you were.

you didn’t want to have to rely on them, in case they ever found out.

you didn’t want to be like your sister.

“That’s not fair, Momo. You don’t-“

“I do!” She shot back. “I do, this is fair! This is my life, this is my career, you don’t get to tell me what I should do! Just- god!” She shouted, throwing her hands in the air, collecting her things. She got dressed, fixed her hair quickly into a bun, and stormed out of your apartment.

“Don’t contact me again,” were her low, parting words.

year 5; early January, 2020 | Korea

you had just turned 21 a little bit ago. the rest of 2019 had been absolute hell. you saw Momo everywhere you went— on advertisements, on tv, heard her on the radio.

and now, New Year’s Day, it was confirmed that she was dating Heechul.

you were in your apartment, still mostly empty save for a few things you had bought for her— like a tea kettle, an assortment of matcha flavored snacks, a second toothbrush—

everything hurt.

you did the only thing you could think to do.

you called your sister.

it was eleven something in the morning in New York, she’d have to pick up.

“Hello? Y/n, why the hell are you calling m-“

she was cut off by the sound of a choked sob, more like a hacking, and a shaky inhale.

“I get it now,” were your broken, pained words. “I fucking get it now,”

“Oh, y/n,” she murmured, quietly.

“I’m so sorry,”

10 years prior; late September, 2010 | Korea

“I’m gay. I have a girlfriend,” were the earth-shattering words your sister, freshly 18, had dropped on the shoulders of you and your parents in the middle of a family dinner.

“You’re what?” Your mother asked, slowly, giving her time to play it off. She stood, steadfast.

“I’m gay. I have a girlfriend,” she repeated, clearly.

Your father and mother stared at her, for a long while. You didn’t really know what would happen, yet— you had never heard your parents even mention their opinion on homosexuality, but there’s no way they’d care, right? It didn’t really matter-

“Get out,” were your fathers cold, flat words.

your sister nodded, once, clenching her jaw. She packed her things, appearing back downstairs within twenty minutes. (she had already packed the day prior. She knew how this would go).

“Wait, why does she have to leave? I don’t-“

“She’s not your sister anymore,” your mother informed, curtly.

“She’s not apart of this family anymore,” your dad restated.

“But.. why?” You asked, barely 13.

“It’s unnatural, and bad for the family image. It’s not good for us,”

you didn’t really think that was enough reason to kick a child out. But you couldn’t argue.

your sister left, that day, passing you her number secretly.

you didn’t have a bad relationship with your sister.

but for a few years, you refused to talk to her. You would not disgrace the family, you would not give up everything—

you just couldn’t understand why she give up a cushy life of luxury to go to school in New York, all for some girl.

“You’ll understand when your older,” she’d tell you, quietly, over the phone, when you both still got the chance to talk— before you had become paranoid of getting kicked out, like her.

“One day, you’ll meet someone you’ll love. You’ll love them, to the point that nothing matters as long as you’re together,”

“I don’t think I will,” you’d reply, so sure. “That’s stupid,”

“It is, isn’t it?” She’d laugh.

“You’ll get it, though, one day,”

you had flown to America, right in the beginning of 2020.

you went to New York, to live with your sister for a bit— you just needed to be around family— family that wasn’t your parents. you got an offer to shoot a drama there, anyway.

you had no idea you’d end up stuck in america for nearly a year, due to Covid.

whatever, you’d think.

not like you’d have anyone to come back to in Korea.

In America, you were more free.

no one particularly cared what anyone was doing— you couldn’t go out, and you were alone in the apartment you had rented.

your sister would come over with her girlfriend— now, wife, because you could get married, here— sometimes, but not often.

you smoked camels, now, unfiltered, by the balcony, overlooking a city so much the same and too different.

you texted Mina, a lot. She kept you updated.

you both made a point not to talk about Momo.

the necklace Momo had gifted you was left in your jewelry box in korea.

the house was a perfect snapshot of your life, then, untouched by changes.

it was a picture frozen in time.

god, fuck this place.

year 6; late June, 2021 | Japan

you were 22, now, having made it back to Korea in late may after finishing your drama, finally getting everything together and back to your apartment in early June. Your return was publicized, there were a few people who still came to the airport even with all the restrictions, but you had made it back to your country.

it had really helped, to get it all out, put everything in perspective.

you still smoked camels, now you drank tequila— the remnants were mementos of a life most people wouldn’t see.

you flew to Japan, though— you had the prospect of an ambassadorship, and they wanted you to fly over, for some reason.

you messaged Mina about it— maybe you two could meet up, go eat. you hadn’t seen her in a while. you spoke, gave her your hotel and room number, and you both agreed to see if you could schedule it.

the next day after you'd messaged her, there was a knock on your door.

you thought it’d be Mina.

Momo had shorter black hair now. It suited her.

Momo had hurt you.

you cried for at least three weeks. She seemed happy enough when you saw her through a screen. she was still with Heechul. She shouldn’t be here.

you opened the door.

momo’s eyes were watery, and she looked up at you, pleadingly.

“Y/n,” she began, voice shaky.

“What do you want?” You snapped, even though you didn’t really mean to.

“We broke up,” were her words. You stopped, for a second. You knew what this was. You were her rebound.

“I-“

“When I saw you came back, I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, y/n,” she murmured, crying now. “I didn’t want- I- I just.. I was so scared. But, I just- I can’t- it’s been too long. I can’t keep going without you, I need you, I..”

you pulled her inside, shutting the door, locking it, and pressing her against it. You hadn’t forgotten how her hair felt in your hands, soft and silky, how she always tasted a bit sweet.

people said she was a peach, but she didn’t exactly taste like it.

except for when she wore the peach lipgloss you got her, one time, as a joke.

she ran a hand through your hair, tugging on the strands, pulling you closer. god, she kind of reminded you of herself.

her tears made the kiss taste salty.

this time was different. it was not slow, it had no love in it. she had hurt you, she had left you, and now she was crawling back.

you left marks where no one but her would see. you ran your teeth over her pulse point, but never bit down.

your kisses were bruising and filled with anger and resentment.

this was a bad idea.

this was always going to be a bad idea.

it was only around 11 when you had both felt too tired, resigning yourself to sleep.

momo had hated sleeping alone, without you.

she pressed her face into your neck, eyes screwed shut. you felt a little bad, despite yourself. you had been a bit mean..

“Momo, go to sleep,” you spoke, softly, carding a hand through her short black hair.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for leaving. please don’t-”

“It’s okay,” you interjected, because you really didn’t want to have to hear the rest of her words. “I don’t have a schedule tomorrow, anyway,” which was not true, you had to go discuss the drama you were shooting at one in the afternoon, but you weren’t telling her that.

they weren’t the exact words she wanted to hear, but they were as close as you could get, right now.

you ran a hand through her hair, as her arm stayed around your waist. she was clinging onto you, like you’d disappear.

you probably should, to get back at her, but you couldn’t bring yourself to quit.

momo was kind of like every bad habit you couldn’t quit— smoking, drinking— they weren’t good for you, but they made you feel better.

she was addictive, like that.

but here, in your hotel room bed, kind of like last place you saw her, now the first time you’ve seen her in almost a year and a half—

she kind of seemed like something you really couldn’t live without.

July 8th, 2021 | Japan

they had flown back to Korea the day prior. You were still in Japan, when you saw the article.

momo and heechul had finally announced their break up to the public.

good, you thought.

you had gone out to eat with Mina a week ago, you both talked about your lives— work, vacations, how busy you both were. you asked about her members.

July 1st, 2021

“How is everyone?” you asked, with a tilted head.

“Everyone’s good, I’m happy we’re back in Japan, I got to see my parents, so did Sana, so did..”

“you can say her name, you know,” you muttered.

“Listen, y/n, I’ve tried not to get involved, but this isn’t good for you two. After you left, Momo could barely sleep. She ate less, too, and she still had to go on dates with Heechul to make it look real. She didn’t even really want to date him, she was just-”

“I know, Mina. But- you know, it’s not up to me. She’s too scared to be with me. She doesn’t really love me,” you chuckled, though it was more bitter than amused.

“I think she does,” she replied. “I just don’t think she’s realized it yet,”

year 7; late May, 2022 | Korea

“Momo!” you called, just a few months into being 23.

you had decided to pick up Momo from the airport.

now, fans would never know, but you just really wanted to see her.

she had been in the U.S. for months, now, touring, and you had missed her.

even with all your miscommunication you both still met up, sometimes— you visited your sister as an excuse when they held their concert in New York City.

you did meet with Momo, after the show.

“How was America?” You asked, in english, as she got into the car. She looked tired, her hair now ash-blue and a little longer.

“Good,” was her response, a tired smile under the mask.

she coughed, and you glanced at her, a bit worried.

“Nayeon and Tzuyu are sick, too,” she mumbled. “Can you take me to the apartment?”

and so you did, the apartment she shared with Nayeon. You helped her with the luggage, and you tried to kiss her but she moved her face— she didn’t want you sick.

Nayeon, Momo, and Tzuyu all tested positive for Covid-19 the following day.

To no one’s surprise, you tested positive for Covid as well, but with very mild symptoms that felt more like an annoying cold.

you obviously couldn’t go to any filmings or schedules, and Mina ended up positive too—

so you drove to Momo’s apartment with soup. Like a lovesick idiot.

Nayeon let you in, and you knew better than to not bring her some soup as well. You handed it to her, and went straight to Momo’s room.

she looked.. sick. coughing, exhausted, you were sure she was achey and had a headache.

her fever wasn’t too bad, on account of all the medication she was taking.

“Momo?” you called, running a hand through the girls hair. “I made you soup,”

she sat up, blearily, looking a little hazy.

“I’ll get you sick,” she mumbled.

“I’m already sick, don’t worry,” you assured.

you fed her the soup, because you were that painfully whipped, talking quietly about what you had been doing since they went on tour.

you made her take some Tylenol, because her face felt hotter when you put the back of your hand to her forehead.

you got up to leave, but she grabbed your hand, tugging you back like a child.

“can you stay?” she mumbled, looking at you pleadingly. you would never say no, of course.

it’s not like you had something better to do.

for the rest of the time you were sick, you would visit Momo, watch dramas with her, sleep in her bed, next to her— you both acted so much like a couple Nayeon pulled you aside after almost a week.

“Y/n, I don’t know how long this thing with Momo has been going on, exactly, but it looks like you make her happy, so.. thank you. It’s been a lot, lately, with touring and Heechul.. take care of her, okay?”

she walked off before you could explain that, no, you two weren’t dating, and you were scared that if you asked her to date you she’d run away again.

you had to go shoot some drama, again, even if you really didn’t want to, after you tested negative.

you both got busy, after that. Especially you— you had so many dramas to film.

February 8th, 2022

@OT9TRANS … BUBBLE MESSAGE 🍑💬 220208 MM: I have watched Call, watched Burning, watched Nothing Serious, and Money Heist. I have watched them all🫠❤︎ MM: i really like y/n l/n nim ♡ She’s my style 🫣

year 8; early January, 2023 | Korea

it was your 24th birthday party— you had turned 24 in winter of last year, but this was the only day you could make it work, because Twice had another tour starting in February.

You invited them, all 9, to noraebang— karaoke. obviously, some of your own friends came, too. You had made a lot of friends in the industry after so many years.

Momo’s hair was still black, grown out a bit more, but not as long.

you all sang and drank— Nayeon, particularly, having a good time singing every Twice song she could.

you sat next to Momo, pleasantly tipsy, and everything felt warm.

it was a little crowded, but you had rented a bigger space than normal. It was dim, the only lights coming from the screen in front of you.

after a little bit, you slipped outside. The place you rented had a rooftop, and you planned to make full use of it.

The skyline had changed from 8 years prior. It used to have less buildings, smaller skyscrapers— now it almost seemed as if the blue and red lights of the city were truly the stars in the sky.

You lit up a cigarette, this time, Cheyenne peach, and took a drag.

you heard a metal door open and shut.

Momo sat down next to you, and you offered her a drag.

she wrinkled her nose.

“They smell, y/n, why do you still smoke them?”

“Just a bad habit, I guess,” you shrugged.

she plucked it out of your mouth, tossing it to the side.

“It’s bad for you,” she chided.

how ironic, for her to say that.

“There’s a lot of things that are bad for me that I still do,” you replied, quietly.

she was silent, for a second.

she held your face, pulling you closer. She tasted like soju, which is to say smooth alcohol, of which you’ve been drinking the whole night.

it was sweeter than usual, because you can’t stand bitter tastes, and you noticed Momo was wearing nearly the same shade of lipstick as six years ago

your hands held her waist, loosely, the both of you sitting back on your heels, only leaning forward for each other.

when Momo pulled away, you felt a little dazed.

“I don’t want to be bad for you,” she mumbled, and all these years had seemed so childish— just two girls, trying to figure it out. You never wanted to hurt each other. It was just fear, and maybe a little shame, and so much love that it nearly drowned you.

“Momo,” you began, quietly. You knew that what you were going to tell her would force her away from you forever, but you didn’t care.

“I love you,”

the confession hung in the air, ringing through resounding silence. Seoul in January was cold, and your breaths could be seen in the air.

when Momo didn’t reply, you felt tears well in your eyes even if you knew this is how it would be.

“I’m sorry,” were your nexts words, and when you hiccuped, Momo finally broke out of her daze.

she screwed her eyes shut, snaking her hand to your nape, pulling you into her, kissing you desperately.

“no, don’t apologize,” she muttered, between gasps for air.

“I love you, y/n. I love you,”

it felt like the world stopped, in that second.

“I’m sorry for.. being scared, but I’m not anymore. I love you,” she repeated, wiping the tears from your eyes, thumb caressing your face.

“Really?” you asked, hope and fear mixing into your words. This could just be some cruel joke, after all, it could-

“y/n,” she said, seriously. “I love you,”

you leaned in again, and it was softer, now, feeling a year roll down your cheek, not from sadness but from relief, and happiness.

“God, Momo,” you choked out. “I love you so much,”

you both stayed like that, for a little under half an hour, telling each other all the things you wished you had so many years ago, making hopeful promises and swearing never to hurt each other again.

“Here,” Momo said, suddenly, producing another small box.

it was a beautiful silver chain bracelet, with a little pink gemstone in the center in the shape of a small star.

momo had the same bracelet on her wrist, though the gemstone was in your favorite color and the chain was in gold.

“Happy birthday, y/n,” she offered, putting the bracelet on your wrist.

you smiled, genuinely, eyes crinkling. You pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“It’s beautiful,” you admitted, softly, before a teasing smile worked its way onto your face.

“You’re beautiful, too, so do you think you could be my gift, instead?”

that comment earned you a slap on the shoulder and a chiding ‘yah’, but it gave you the view of Momo’s face flushing pink, and the sound of her infectious laugh.

“If you ask nicely, I’ll consider it,” was her response, in the end.

you and Momo were definitely dating, now, and you leaned your head forward, resting your forehead on hers.

“How do you say girlfriend in Japanese?”

Momo’s cheeks turned a little pink, again, and she was well aware you already knew, but she indulged you. It was your birthday, after all. “恋人” she mumbled, but you knew well enough. (lover)

a smile grew on your face.

“I know you already know Korean well enough, so you shouldn’t call anyone else 자기야 but me, okay?” you informed, mostly joking.

“Sure,” she agreed, smile blooming on her face at the thought of you calling her your girlfriend. “Anything you want,”

year 9; early April, 2024 | Korea

Momo’s black hair had stayed the same for almost two years or so.

it was still a bit short, but you didn’t really care.

you were 25, now, didn’t smoke anymore, having been dating Momo officially for nearly a year.

You two had actually gone on a date— you had been commenting on each other’s Instagram jokingly for weeks now. Her fans had been convinced she would “not pull” with her.. strange choice emojis, but they didn’t know you had already fallen head over heels for the loser you were currently sat next to.

you went to go get something to eat, with her, and it was still a little cool in Seoul.

you took photos, together— and posted them— something you would’ve been terrified to do a few years prior, fearing a dating scandal or something worse— the destruction of your careers.

your worlds weren’t as scary, anymore. Twice had been around nearly 10 years, and you had been acting for the same amount of time. The public loved you, and though you didn’t feel like announcing your relationship status to the world, (you were both private, like that) it was nice to know that if anything were to come to light, you and Momo would be safe. Korea had gotten a lot more accepting, over the years.

your parents were still the same, though they had become less strict about it. Your sister came home, sometimes, and your mother might actually love her girlish and kind wife more than her own daughter.

you made jokes about it, frequently.

your dad didn’t know about Momo, neither did your mom— your sister did, but after what happened to her, she wouldn’t force you to tell them. You didn’t think your parents would freak out, demand you to leave and disown you— but you didn’t want to risk it.

on breaks, you and Momo would visit Japan, or any other city she wanted to go to.

if she had a fashion week schedule, well, you’d try to go! Especially as a fellow ambassador of MiuMiu. The public knew you both as close friends, so any antics were now ignored and written off as just friendship.

honestly, your house was better, now, because of her. The apartment was no longer something not lived in, out of a catalog—it was filled with little reminders of you two.

photos of each other, your achievements on a bookshelf, a tea kettle you’d thought Momo would like, her clothes she’d leave there, plants you thought would make the place look better, little knickknacks from traveling, a second toothbrush—

it felt like a home, full of little curios and plants, a reminder of the life you loved with Momo.

and now, as you sat next to her on the couch the two of you had bought together, under warm lighting and lights of the city outside the window, so much different than the one from the skyline eight years ago, completely different buildings but the same cool, multicolored glow, taking pictures for an Instagram post that others would call like it was, a “date”, but never know how real it really was—

you pressed a kiss to her cheek, smiling into it, as she took the photo.

she turned to you, an amused expression on her face, albeit a bit surprised, perfectly tinged the pink shade of the lipstick you used to wear—

“What was that for? You know we can’t post that-”

“I love you,” you interrupted, with a stupid smile on your face.

“I love you too, silly, but we still can’t-”

you cut her off, again, pressing a kiss to her lips, discarding the phone, somewhere, smiling as you cupped her face in your hands.

those pictures, of you two kissing? They wouldn’t be posted.

the rest would, of course, a day late— you had gotten a bit sidetracked.

it didn’t matter, though.

you truly, irrevocably, loved Hirai Momo. She was beautiful, talented, funny, kind— you could keep going, there were a million and one reasons to love her.

but for some reason, she loved you back.

A/N: hi guys!! I had been thinking about this plot line for actual weeks but I managed to finish this in 10 days.. crazy.. I only started actually working on it 3 days ago though LMFAO

so.. there was a lot of research put into this fic. I tried to make the timeline as close to the one in real life as possible, but obviously there will be some inconsistencies. y/n is momo’s fav actress if you could not tell.. I wonder why

i don’t exactly love how this fic came out— I kind of lost the plot and repeated myself a lot. it actually came out completely different than how I originally imagined, which is why the song doesn’t exactly match? but I hope you enjoyed!

I will hopefully be posting more frequently.. I have a few things in mind, but my works take me a long time because I usually set them up, get the plot, then sit down and finish like 8k words in two or three days.

not beta read, I’m tired, maybe tomorrow.

please feel free to send asks and reqs! I love talking to you all <33 id love to know what you think..

I must sleep, now. goodnight, byebye!! ><

[a-hazbin-reader]

A reader who loves singing? Does Alator let her sing his radio show?

Alastor X Reader Headcanons

✅️Romantic

❌️Platonic

TW: Alastor being petty, Alastor eating people, Vox being bullied

Description: ☝️⬆️

Alastor loves having an wife who can sing, any talent of yours he celebrates but singing especially is his favorite

Alastor is the type of husband to brag to a room of strangers about how good his wife sings

Even the other overlords are SICK of hearing about you and your beautiful, heavenly, mesmerizing voice

Except maybe Zestial and Rosie, the two of them actually genuinely interested in hearing you sing

Alastor is absolutely embarrassing to take anywhere that there is a live band/music

Mocks any other singer on stage just to get a reaction out of people so he can get you up there instead

He loves your voice best 👌

"They're a fine singer, sure, I'm only saying that I've heard better~"

Not him throwing you on stage

Is your biggest fan, making sure everyone claps and cheers for you because he will eat them if they don't

You're going to be blushing the entire time on stage because he's going to be giving you the most sinful look while you sing

Even if he doesn't necessarily like the song you're singing, Alastor is content to just admire your vocal talent

He won't let anybody try to make deals or contracts with you over your voice, usually just giving people a terrifying grin as he pulls you close

Vox has asked you a few times to perform for his show, but Alastor is proud to say that his wife has better taste than that

He also exaggerates the story of how you turned him down, claiming you kicked Vox in the groin and shattered his screen

"Alastor! That's not how that happened-"

"No? Funny, that's how I remember it~"

And he usually does something funny to get back at Vox for even trying

In Alastor's opinion, there are only two ways to enjoy your voice

Either in person or on his radio show

Putting you on TV would only dull your natural sparkle and talent, take away how special it is to really listen to you

That's his opinion anyway

Will ask you to sing at the hotel instead, but really what he's asking is if you'll sing for him

Because if you perform at the hotel then he's not missing a single moment of it, each performance from you is a gift

Will have brief intermissions in his broadcast so that you can sing to all his listeners

Treats you as the Lilith figure for his show, believing that your singing does have some power to it but also just so he can rub his woman in Lucifer's face

"Seems as if her majesty wasn't the only one with a pretty voice~ Aren't we all so lucky to have Y/N~?"

Alastor, maybe don't piss off Lucifer by shit talking the mother of his child?

He'll play piano as long as you promise to sing, the two of you would have the BEST DUETS

If you sing him a love song, then he can't resist singing along with you and pulling you in for a dance

"You should serenade me more often, my dear~ I think I deserve such a treat from you every now and then~"

"You ate like six people today, I think you should think again."

Little nose boop for your husband

Not him biting your finger playfully as you go to pull it away

"You two are so fucking sweet it's making me sick, I'm outta here."

Sorry Angel

Sometimes he hums along with you if you're singing while you're working, content to harmonize with you

Lowkey gets jealous when other people sing with you but gets irritated if someone who can't sing tries to sing with you

He has gone so far as to threaten them for singing badly and ruining your song

"If you're going to open your mouth, it would do you well to mind the shit that comes out of it."

"Alastor!!"

If you ask him for it, Alastor will pull all the strings he can to get you a place just for you to sing

It'll be his shrine to your voice

No Mimzy, you can't borrow Y/N for your own business

Only people with refined tastes such as his own will be allowed in, Alastor makes sure it's the proper clientele

Oh and Husk will be the bartender

"You MOTHERFUCKER!"

Alastor likes taking your voice to it's limits, likes hearing all the different sounds you can make

And that includes in bed

Even if you sing a wrong note or mess up, he'll call it an artistic choice and praise you

He still cuts in on just about every song you sing because he can't help himself, music and Y/N? It's Alastor bait

Plus, the two of you get to show off together, compliment each other, and make everyone green with envy

Y'all are just too fucking cute

It's a dream come true for Alastor to have a wife who can sing

Oops! This became another Wife!Reader one...sorry... 🫡

[ohtobeleah]

California Fornication //

Two — ‘Odds Are?’

Summary: In the wake of Roosters belligerent act of violence, you try your best to remain calm. But if anything Jake Seresin showing up in North Island is only just the beginning of a whirlwind shit show.

Warnings: Mentions of cheating. Love Triangle x2. Bradley Bradshaw x F!reader. Jake Seresin xF!reader. Question ing Morality. Angst.

Word Count: 2.7k

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“I lied—“ You could remember it all too well, the moment you felt at your weakest. Your most vulnerable. “I’m not out of this relationship.” A week ago your entire world had come crashing down when the man you loved turned out to be married. You’d told him you were out. Point blank, end of discussion. But you weren’t.

“Siren—“ Bradley sighed as he looked over your shoulder to where his wife stood watching the interaction unfold from the veranda of the Hard Deck. “We can’t, not here.” 

“I’m in.” You didn’t care that she was watching, you needed to get this off your chest. “I’m so in it’s humiliating because here I am begging.” 

“Y/n—“ Bradley tried to interrupt but you held your finger up. Stopping him from saying anything more.

“Shut up, you say Y/n and I yell remember so why don’t we skip the yelling and I just tell you how I really feel?” 

“Yeah—“ Bradley sighed as he pocketed his car keys. “Yeah okay.” You took a breath in and exhaled slowly. Ready to wear your heart on your sleeve. 

“Here it is.” You tried your best to remain as calm as you could. “Here’s your choice, Rooster.” It was just you and Bradley, out by his Bronco under the festoon lights that lit up the car park of the Hard Deck. “Your choice? It’s simple—her, or me.” It was clear cut and dry. No one way around the fact. “And I’m sure she’s really great, but Bradley I love you.” 

It wasn’t the first time you’d said it without Rooster saying it back. You just thought he needed more time, but as it turned out he was already married. Perhaps it was a good thing after all he’d never said it back. It would have hurt more to know he did than to wonder if he ever did at all. 

“I love you in a really really big—pretend to like your music kind of way.” You had to hold yourself together so that the tears welling in your eyes didn’t stream down your cheeks as you pleaded with the man who’d made you fall in love with him to choose you. “I love you in a let you have the last silence of cheesecake kind of way—a sit beside you pretending to be interested in learning how to play the piano unfortunate kind of way that makes me hate you, yet love you kind of way.” You admitted as Rooster just started at you with an unreadable expression. “So pick me, choose me, love me, please Bradley.”

The silence was as loud as it could have been. And in those silent seconds that passed. You knew. 

“I can’t, I’m married Y/n.” Five words were all it took for Bradley Bradshaw to rip your heart through your chest. “I’m sorry.” 

It was the hardest thing to hear, and yet it still played on repeat throughout your mind all day and all night. You just weren’t good enough. 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

“What the hell is your problem!” 

“Eleven years!” Bradley hissed as you shoved him out of the Hard Deck and onto the front porch. “Eleven years we were married!” He rambled on as you watched Rooster place the makeshift ice pack Penny had made him over his knuckles. 

You stood leaning against the post by the stairs he’d just walked down—watching with your arms crossed over your chest as he paced up and down the sandy gravel pathway. 

“That means eleven sets of birthdays, Christmas’s and thanksgivings, Siren! Eleven wedding anniversaries!” It was clear that Bradley was enraged. “He doesn’t get to just show up again after what he did!” But it wasn’t all those memories that were tarnished by an affair that had made Bradley Bradshaw risk his career by breaking his hand on the jaw of the man who slept with his wife. 

No. 

It was the way he saw your eyes light up with a mischievous glint while you laughed with Hangman that had him making strides over to where you sat. 

Bradley wasn’t about to let Jake get his dirty hands all over you too. Fuck his marriage and fuck his wife. He’d made a mistake letting you go. Letting her back into his life when he’d just begun to heal. He should have chosen you. He loved you. Truly. But marriage still meant something to him. Enough at least to try just one more time. 

“Rooster, I’m not the person who you should be talking about this with, talk about it with your wife.” You sighed defeatedly, like you were still being strung along by an invisible string that connected your heart to his. All you wanted was to hold him. To feel his arms wrapped around you. To laugh with him again, to feel that warm warmth he brought to your life. But instead all you felt was a coldness, a temperature so cool it burned to the touch. Leaving you alone, forever the other woman. The mistress. 

Club of one. 

“Penny wants you to go home and sleep it off.” Katie groaned as she stomped out of the Hard Deck. She made no attempt to acknowledge your presence as she walked right past you and down the front steps. “How’s your hand?” She asked as you watched the clearly distressed couple argue. Wondering when the divorce papers would come flying out of Roosters back pocket. 

“What’s he doing here Kate?” Bradley growled. Her hand came to rub small circles against the small of Rooster's back. She helped to guide him over to where the Bronco was parked. Against his will—he moved. 

“How the hell should I know?” She replied sharply. “Please, let’s just go home and talk about this.” 

You didn’t stay out of the decking for much longer. You could hear the sound of Jake's nose cracking under the force of Roosters fist in your mind over and over again. Enough that you felt a little guilty for possibly being the reason he was gushing blood. 

“Where’s—?” You didn’t even need to say his name before Penny was gesturing over towards where the bathrooms were. With lips pressed into a fine line you nodded. “Thanks.” 

“He’s not all that bad of a guy.” She added before you could even begin to walk away. “I don’t know the full story but if I know Hangman it’s that under that thick layer of confidence, he’s just looking for a friend.” You listen with a small nod. Deciding you’d go check on the guy in case his septum was deviated. 

“Can I have a washcloth?” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

“Rooster and I always did have the same taste in women.” It wasn’t hard to get lost in the clear emerald skies of Jake Seresins eyes as he sat up on the bench next to the sink in the bathroom of the Hard Deck. 

“Excuse me?” You asked softly as you worked to clean the mix of dried and fresh blood from his face. Gently dabbing away at the mess that trickled down his face with the wet cloth Penny had given you. Soaked in warm water—standing between Jake's legs as they dangled over the edge of the bench. 

You’d found Jake staring at himself in the mirror, probably trying to figure out if his nose was broken or not. When you entered the bathroom he was honestly surprised to see you. He thought for sure Rooster would have thrown you over his shoulder and taken you home. 

But it wouldn’t be the first time Jake was wrong about his best friend. 

“You’re Rooster's lusty Wingwoman right?” Jake asked as his eyes drank you in. Watching as you carefully studied every line, every little imperfect blemish on his face. He was beautiful. “I heard about you all the way out on the Pacific.” He explained. “You’re famous.” You couldn’t help the smile that crept across your face. “The thorn in the side of the Bradshaws rekindlement.” 

Huh, that was a new one. You hadn’t heard that one before. It was actually quite poetic. 

“Well, I’ve heard about you all the way back here in North Island so I guess we have a lot in common.” No one ever spoke about Jake. Not Payback or Phoenix or Bob even. They all just pretend like he never existed. That he’d committed an act of utter betrayal. It was only after Bradley’s wife had come back to town that he told you everything. 

It was easy enough to see who’s side in all this they’d all chosen. But it wasn’t easy to understand why no one told you until you’d already fallen head over heels for a married man. 

“We’re just the dirty mistresses.” Jake teased as you gently worked away at the blood on his face. Immediately he was addicted to your laugh, the way you lit up the entire room when you did so. “Isn’t that right sweetheart.” 

You couldn’t stop the heat from rushing to your cheeks at the term of endearment that slipped past Jake's lips. 

“I suppose we are Hangman, I suppose we are.” Jake was easy to be around, that was the first thing you made your mind up about. Sure, the whole questionable relationship with a married woman was still yet to be addressed but nevertheless. 

“My therapist says behind this rugged and confident exterior I’m— self destructive and self loathing to an almost pathological degree.” Jake grinned as you paused your movement, you held his head still in your cloth free hand in the comfortable silence that lingered for mere seconds.

“Hey, guess we do have a lot in common.” Why the hell did Bradley have to go and ruin such a pretty face? “Mine says the same thing.” Jake was thankful for your gentle touch, he was starting to think Rooster may have broken his nose. Only a trip to urgent care and time would tell. 

“You know it’s funny—“ Jake began as he watched you rinse out the blood stained cloth into the sink beside where he sat shirtless, blood stained the white T-shirt he’d once been wearing. “Bradshaw walks in on me naked with his wife, actually in the throws—“ You listened as you worked, running warm water over the cloth to not shock Jake's bruised and swollen skin when you went back to attending to his wounds. “And he just turns around and walks away.” 

You couldn’t imagine what that must have felt like. To watch two people you trust and love commit such an act of betrayal. You felt for Rooster, you did. But it didn’t change the fact he never told you until after his wife, Katie ‘South’ Bradshaw, was shaking your hand and labeling you the mistress in all this mess. 

Not to mention no one sold him out. Coyote, Fanyboy, even Bob had Bradley’s back. They kept his wife a secret. Kept his entire life a lie until it was unraveled before you in spectacular fashion. 

“But he so much as sees me talking to you? And I’m on the ground with a bloody broken nose.” Jake continued to explain what he thought was already the case. That Rooster was in love with you. Period. “Interesting, don't you think?” 

It didn’t require a engineering degree to put together what Jake was insinuating. 

“Doesn’t matter what Bradley thinks—he chose his wife, the woman he made vows to.” You’d decided in that moment you were done cleaning Jake's face but stayed standing between his legs. You made no attempt to remove his hands from where they had settled on your hips. “He doesn’t need to get defensive over who I choose to talk to, he doesn’t get to stake a claim when he’s married.”

“He might still be married but he’s not in love with her.” Jake sighed as he pulled you a little closer by your hips with just enough force to have you reaching out for stability. Your hands softly landed on his shoulders—the sudden sensation of your touch made Jake's skin prickle with Goosebumps. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked softly, intrigued by the chaos Jake seemed to bring with him. “Back in North Island?” Jake didn’t answer right away. He’d been too busy drinking in the expanse of your face. From the fine lines that littered your nose when you crinkled it to the way your eyes swirled like deep pools of hope and displeasure all in one. 

“I’m here for Katherine—“ Those four vulnerable words made you feel more understood than you ever had in the last few weeks. It felt like there wasn’t another soul alive that could relate to your situation. “Which is as dehumanising as it sounds but, she’s the reason I came back.” 

“You’re still in love with her?” You asked as you tried to access the swollen nose that Jake wore with regret. 

“You’re still in love with him.” Jake didn’t need to question it, he already knew it to be true. You didn’t look at someone the way you looked at Bradley even when you were trying your best to avoid the man at all costs. He knew that simply because he laid awake at night thinking about the woman he loved who’d kissed him the night her husband was in the hospital—laid up post Uranium mission. 

Jake should have stopped it, but he didn’t. He just felt lucky enough to be loved in the dark. In secret. Because no one ever loved Jake Seresin first. 

And even worse, Jake was still in love with the very woman who’d spun the narrative in her favour. That he’d been the one who initiated the affair. But it hadn’t been him. It was her. 

Ignorance is bliss so they say. So Jake kept his adultering mouth shut and let the lie run its course. Turns out little white lies do hurt. He lost his posting, his best friend, the woman he loved, everything. 

“She won’t choose you, you know.” You didn’t mean for it to sound so cold, so as you spoke you ran your fingers through his deep blonde locks. Bringing a touch starved man some solace. “Rooster isn’t the kind of guy you leave if you can help it.” And boy did Katie stick to her husband’s side like superglue. 

“Yeah—” The corner of Jake's mouth twitched as he thought to himself. Leaning into your comforting touch as his eyeline slowly faded into the tiles on the ground. “But what if you’re wrong?” He sighed deeply, still staring at the ground beside where you stood between his legs. “What if, just this once, life comes down on the side of the dirty mistresses?” 

Suddenly that club of yours, the one with only one member, had two members in total. The dirty mistresses club. Party of two. You and Jake Seresin. 

“Pretty unrealistic, don't you think Seresin?” You chuckled softly as your eyes lingered to Jake’s lips. Slightly parted and plump. His eyes caught yours when you looked back to him and he had to stop himself. He couldn’t—could he? Because what were the odds he’d ruin two of Bradley Bradshaw's relationships? “Us adultering whores never get what we want.” 

“What if we decided to change what we wanted?” Jake asked as he closed the gap left between the two of you. His hands worked to guide your hips closer to him and before you knew it? Your lips were pressed against his. 

It was heavenly. The way Jake's lips felt against yours. Supple and soft and full of lust. His hands worked to cup at your cheeks as you begged him for more. Slipping your tongue into his mouth as you carded your fingers through his blonde locks. It was everything and nothing all at the same time. 

No one held a claim on you, you were free to make your own dumb choices now. And as your hand slipped down between the pair of you to softly land against Jake's jean clad crotch? He groaned into your mouth and bit your bottom lip. 

“I don’t even want to think about the consequences of this.” Jake whispered into your mouth as you palmed him through his jeans. “I think he’ll actually kill me.” 

“So don’t think.” You replied as you sunk your teeth into his neck. “Just do me.” 

As it turned out, those odds seemed pretty fucking high.

***~***~***~***~***~****~***~****~***~***~***~***~

[manias-wordcount]

Hi! I am once again requesting more Tamaki Suou/reader content because I love the way you write him. ♡

Prompt: Tamaki and his spouse (wife or husband or gender neutral, whichever you feel like writing) decide to roleplay while staying at one of the hotels owned by his family. They pretend not to know each other as they flirt endlessly. You can write this full nsfw or just have it be suggestive, but I'll love any playful flirting and teasing.

I hope you like this prompt. Thank you so much for your time and effort! ♡♡♡

Strangers at the Bar (Tamaki Suoh x Reader)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗺! 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂! 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 !! 𝘀𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝘂𝗴𝗴𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗲𝘀, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘇𝘆

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

By the time he slides into the stool right beside you, your giddiness almost can’t be contained.

You feel like a little kid again. One with secrets in their heart that are longing to be shared. But you know there’s no fun in that. Especially telling this secret. Not after all the trouble your husband went through to plan all this out for you. Still, very little stops you from buzzing in your seat with a smile that’s too big to be contained for more than a few seconds. Still, you try. It’s the least you could do.

It was your idea at first. Something originally mentioned in passing. The romance between the two of you was alive and well and both your staff and your inner circles could attest to the sickly sweet adoration the two of you shared for each other. But life has always kept you both busy. And being busy often meant being kept apart. So much so that when the two of you finally reunited after long, long periods away, those days together would be spent mostly between the sheets. Cuddled together and glued to each other’s side as if one would disappear if the other were to leave. And as nice as it was, you missed the excitement you both once had. The excitement that came with being young and filled with free time and longing for a certain handsome, blonde stranger you saw staring at you across the room.

So over a phone call across timezones one day, you mentioned how if you had the chance, you’d go back in time to relive the first time the two of you met. Not to do it better. But rather, to soak in all of the fun and excitement that came with being courted by him. By your now husband, Tamaki Suoh. And you remember him getting quiet for a while after you said that. You couldn’t help but wonder if you had unintentionally hurt his feelings in some way due to your statement.

But then you received an itinerary forwarded to your personal email for a week-long stay at one of his family’s nicest, most private hotels in all of Japan. Flights and rooms and spa treatments are included in the package deal, plus a request for you to take the entire time off (and then some) too. But perhaps what made this surprise really special was the little note placed at the bottom of his email instead of an automated signature.

Meet in the lounge on the first night. When you first see me, pretend you don’t know who I am. Let’s start over- I’d like the chance to fall in love with you again.

That was weeks ago. Now? You’re glancing almost shyly at your husband- or rather, the stranger your husband is pretending to be- and sipping at the cocktail you ordered while he very casually gives the bartender his order. There’s a jazz group playing a few light melodies in the background and you swear, the piano player almost draws his attention completely away from you for the night. But then he looks at you. Really looks at you. And so, you look at him. Locking gazes and laying eyes on each other for the first time in what must have been a month and a half of business travel and work keeping the two of you apart.

And at that moment, you can’t help but feel deep down inside that this is exactly like the first time the two of you met. A different place. A different time. A different almost everything. But you’re still you. And he’s still him. So naturally, you know in your heart that he must feel it too.

“Tamaki Suoh,” He (re)introduces himself after a few moments of silence. He ignores the quiet clink of a lowball glass being placed in front of him in favor of reaching a hand out in your direction. You reach out to take his hand with a smile- one that hopefully appears more charming than giddy- but he doesn’t shake it. Instead, he’s quick to scoop up your hand and bring the back to his lips. Bright violet eyes refuse to break eye contact with you as he places a few kisses on the back of your hand, and is struck with the thought that he could truly have anyone in the world if he wanted to. But he doesn’t want just anyone. “And you must be one I’ve been looking for~”

He just wants you.

Admittedly, you couldn’t help but let a few snorts of laughter slip. Immediately, Tamaki goes wide-eyed and alarmed and red in the face as he realizes that after years of not being a host, he’s way out of practice and not so good at the cheesy line thing anymore. But you’re nice enough not to tease him too much. After all, you’ve been breaking character all night despite knowing practically everything he wanted to do to you before sunrise. In your eyes, he’s still your prince charming. And that’s all he’ll ever be. But for right now, you could at least do one thing in his favor.

Pretend he doesn’t have you just yet.

“Hmmm,” You try to cover up the rest of your laughter with a light hum as you start to calm down. At the same time, you reach out your fingers and brush the tops of your nails against the sleeve of his suit jacket. His eyes watch your fingers with a careful, yet heated look. Almost as if a simple action such as that was enough to bring him back into the spirit of things. So you continued, putting on your most sultry voice and matching the intensity of his gaze with a seductive look of your own. “I sure hope you haven’t been looking very long.”

He gives a huff of laughter. His blush is just barely noticeable at this point as he takes the earlier embarrassment in stride. He has changed much over the years. He’s still your Tamaki after all. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t grown. He’s not the boy you met in high school at a party thrown by your parents. He’s a man now. Your husband now. But it’s getting a little too hard to remember that he’s supposed to be a stranger to you at the moment. A little too hard. 

“Only all my life,” He responds smoothly, eyes peering at yours with a knowing half-smile. The sincerity in his voice was enough to get you to draw in a sharp breath. Even after all these years of dating and marriage and spending all the time that you possibly could together, he still manages to say a little something sweet to knock you off your feet every once in a while. And although you knew you shouldn’t be surprised, you just didn’t expect to feel your heart beat this fast at such a simple line during such a simple time.

Perhaps he has held on to a few more of his skills than you previously thought. Hmmm…

“Well, I’m sorry for the wait, Mister Suoh. It won’t happen again,” You apologize with a faux frown tugging at your lips, almost as if there was truly something to apologize for. At that, his smile grows just a big, almost triumph. Although he’s quick to tense up the moment your fingers start to trail up his jacket sleeve. And as you draw small shapes in the fabric and climb higher and higher up his shoulder, you lean in a bit closer to him. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his fingers twitching and flexing in his lap. Looking eager and desperate to reach out towards and grab you. You suppose you should make this easier on him. He was never able to keep his hands off of you for long. “How about I make it up to you?”

At the sound of you whispering in his ear, you can tell that his interest was more than piqued. He had frozen, just for a moment, before leaning into your space as well and tilting his head close to your ear.

“Oh yeah?” His murmur was low, and his breath felt warm as it brushed against your ear. You shivered at the feeling, and you could tell he took delight in it with the way he let out a pleased-sounding hum. At least he had the decency to hide his smile. Though you’re sure that if you looked into his eyes right now, all you would see is the look of a cat who had finally caught the canary after many, many tries. “How?”

That single word felt like a challenge to you. 

“Well…”

And in some ways, it was. It was his money and connections and careful planning that flew you out here to this hotel so the two of you could finally meet after a long, long time apart. It was due to his smooth tongue that the two of you were guaranteed to meet up in a bar that was nearly empty and drinks that were to die for while light jazz filled the room with something more pleasant than silence. It was he who did all this for you. Because of a passing comment. Or perhaps simply, because he wanted and felt this way too. But it was your moment to shine now. Your moment to make it up to him. Your moment to show him what he was missing. And to show him that time and distance and playing pretend…

“We could start in your room? Or mine”

…could never change the way you truly feel about him.

[kimingyuslover]

Wedding vows

synopsis : mingyu is in awe when he sees you walking down the aisle with the dress you've been dreaming about for years, your favorite flowers bouquet, and white veil as the cherry on top.

word count : 544 & some change

warning : fem!reader, angst, bad grammar (i'm not a native speaker), wonwoo makes appearances, minhee is your bestfriend, tears, minimal dialogue.

note : feel the ending kinda rushed.. but it's already half past 1 here. my first time writing a oneshot.

this is the day that you've been waiting for the most of your life. The white gown that you dreamed of getting is draped over your body, the white veil that's going to cover a major upper body of yours with a bouquet of flowers in your hands, and you are ready to walk down the aisle.

"so, how's you feeling?" minhee asks while she holds her camera to your face, "i'm feeling ridiculously nervous and excited, i'm seeing him in the next five minutes after not seeing him this morning and last night," you said while you're getting your dress to get fixed so you're not going to trip while walking down the aisle.

one of the wedding organizers staff called you to stand in front of the door, because soon you'll be out of the room and chanting your vows with your soon-to-be husband.

on the other hand, mingyu is definitely nervous and scared to see you walk in the aisle with your father. he's always fixing his tie every now and then, feeling choked by the air and his tie.

the piano and violin start to play your wedding entrance song, which means you can come out of the door anytime soon.

and there you are. a beautiful white gown that you've been telling him years ago is now droop over your body. the bouquet of your favorite flowers is now on your hands, and the white veil that covers your upper body is like the cherry on top.

mingyu eyes are getting wetter by any seconds pass. he just wants to spill all his tears while he sees you walk down the aisle with your father. the sound of the music feels the air, making this moment's more precious to him.

you are now delivering your vows, and mingyu's tears began to spill all over his cheeks.

he has dreamed of this moment everytime he fell asleep while thinking about you. except, this one is real, but he's not the groom, wonwoo is.

he broke things up with you 2 years ago. he can still vividly remember how your face morphed into a horror when he tells you that he wants a breakup because he has lost his feelings towards you. the unspoken truth, he's not losing his feelings towards you. he just had a bad day and lashes it out on you.

That was his biggest regret. you two already planned your wedding, and that 5 years old relationship was gone because of his selfishness.

mingyu's always thinking about your relationship in the past. What would your relationship turn if he's not breaking up with you that time? Will you get married to him instead? having a child? hell, you both are even already talking about having 3 children, 2 boys, and a girl.

When you're finished delivering your vows, "you may kiss the bride," said priest, and that's when mingyu get out of his 'what ifs' images, to see you locking your lips with your now husband– Jeon Wonwoo, mingyu's best friend & roommate.

it's impossible to get your girl back when she's already someone else's wife, all that 'what ifs' are thrown out of the window, he can't be selfish for one more time, because for fuck sake, that's his bestfriend! but when he sees you smile at wonwoo, his heart breaks a thousand times.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥

The sandy stone patio outside The Hard Deck is quiet. 

Well, it’s quieter than it was inside. Rowdy Navymen and their rowdy friends a few too many draft beers deep jamming out with the jukebox on high, Penny overwhelmed by the amount of men in Uncle Sam beards and patriotic paper top-hats, peanut shells on the floor, ice clinking in whiskey glasses, fireworks going off every few minutes. 

It’s all a bit overwhelming for you, which is why you slid out and quietly settled in one of the metal bistro chairs, breathing in the sweet ocean and sulfuric air. It’s foggy outside from the fireworks, which are bursting into the night sky in fantastic sparks of yellow and pink and red and blue. 

Finally--you can take a deep breath, inflate your lungs, tune in with your daughter just beneath the taut skin of your swollen belly. She’s fluttering around like she always is when you’re finally still. Sometimes, you like to imagine that she’s mimicking you: taking a deep breath, tilting her head towards the sky, lashes fluttering as she watches the fireworks. 

Bradley is still sitting at the piano, playing a jaunty version of Born in the USA on the piano, a little tipsy and the kind of happy that makes his cheeks bright pink. The usual crowd is around him, much drunker and much blearier, sloshing their drinks and mussing each other’s faux beards. 

“Where’s that wife of mine?” Bradley asks suddenly--he scans the crowd around the piano and doesn’t find you in the sea of red, white, and blue. “Jake, did you scare her off?” 

“She wakes up to you every morning, Bradshaw,” Jake retorts, grinning. “How could I scare her off?” 

Bradley stills--everyone groans when the live music stops. 

“Yeah, yeah, cry me a river!” Bradley says as everyone boo’s him. He stands up, stretches, glances around the bar again. He doesn't see you still. “Respect your countryman!” 

And then he’s fielding pats on the backs as he navigates the bar, heading for the patio doors. He’s sure you’re out there--you like to sneak away when you can get away with it to dip your toes in the water or sit in the patio chairs. 

He’s right--you’re right where he knew you would be: sitting in the patio chair, head tilted back as you watch the smoke drift across the star-dotted sky, shoes thrown aside and feet buried in the sand, eyes shining as you stroke your belly with both hands. 

“Hey, mama,” he greets softly. 

You turn, a soft smile on your face. All the noise of the bar fades whenever Rooster closes the door behind him, grinning at you something fierce.

“Hey, daddy,” you respond, face warm with love.  

He stalls right where he is, hands on the hips of his true-blue Levi’s. Pink sprouts across the exposed part of his chest, his Hawaiian shirt long unbuttoned after his fourth drink and second song on the piano. He just beholds you, a lip tucked between his teeth, his smile growing wider when you wrinkle your nose at him. 

“What?” You ask, but you have a feeling that you already know. 

“You’re a fucking vision,” he sighs, earnest and yearning. “How’d I land a bombshell like you?” 

“Trapped me,” you tease, gesturing to your bump. “Remember?” 

He grins, laughing. He starts to toe his Chuck Taylors off, peeling his socks off while you rest your cheek on your shoulder to gaze at him. 

“It’s quiet out here,” he says softly, sauntering over to you and wrapping his arms around your neck. He peppers your sweet-smelling hair with a few kisses before tucking his nose into your neck. “Didn’t realize my ears were ringing in there.” 

You smile. 

“Poor baby,” you mutter mockingly, curling your fingers in his sandy locks. “You alright?”

“Respect your countryman,” Bradley insists softly, muffled from the silky skin of your neck. “And the father of your daughter.” 

He moves his hand to your belly and your daughter kicks softly, stretching and turning. You can feel his grin when it spreads across his face. He’s so delighted in the thought of becoming a father that his joy is genuinely palpable. You can feel it at all times like the sun on your cheeks or the wind in your hair. 

His hand is warm, covering the front of your rounded belly. Bradley sighs softly, eyes fluttering shut as he feels your daughter move inside of you, imagining what she’ll be like. 

But then a firework goes off--pops right beside the both of you. And you both feel it: your daughter jolting in your belly, startled. 

Before Bradley can respond, you’re laughing. Laughing a big and loud laugh with your mouth wide open and your eyes teary.

“Oh,” you giggle, grinning at Bradley. “Our poor baby!” 

Bradley, frowning good-naturedly, tuts and moves so he’s kneeling before you. You’re still fighting your laughter, biting your lip and stroking your belly. But Bradley’s tucking himself between your legs, moving your shirt up until the curve of your belly is exposed to the cool night air. 

“Poor thing,” Bradley said, pressing a few kisses to your skin. “S’okay, bird. Just some fireworks, huh? You’re gonna have to get used to ‘em, aren’t you? Fourth of July is…big in this family, to say the least.” 

You nod as if she can see you, combing your fingers through his hair as he peppers your belly in affection. You can almost see it now: Bradley holding your tiny daughter, pressing his nose into her little shoulder, making her shudder when his mustache tickles her delicate skin. 

“We’ll get her some headphones,” you tell him, biting a grin. “That oughta do the trick, huh?” Another firework pops and she jolts again, more than before. Your belly flutters, tenses. “She really doesn’t like those,” you tell Bradley, gasping softly. 

With his brows furrowed, Bradley peers over his shoulder at the small group of mens setting them off on the beach. 

“I’m gonna go give ‘em a piece of my mind,” he mutters. 

“Bradley,” you laugh. “What’re you gonna say? You’re scaring my unborn daughter?”

He pauses--glares at you. 

“And if that is what I’m gonna say?” 

Grinning, feeling like you’re about to burst with all this love for this goofy man on his knees before you, you shake your head. 

“Oh, boy, do I love you,” you say softly. “And so does our daughter.” 

He grins. 

“Our American girl,” he laughs. “Who doesn’t like fireworks.”

You hope, with everything in your heart, that she has his laugh. Big, loud, hearty. You want people to hear her laugh and know who her father is. Oh, that’s gotta be a Bradshaw. 

“She’ll learn,” you tell him, stroking your belly. “Her daddy’s a Navyman.” 

𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐬 <𝟑

[bingwriterxo]

the shakespeare exhibit -- drabble 3

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: in which tara meets more of your family and learns another secret

warnings: none

word count: 700+

previous part | next part

Cordelia had been put to bed hours ago. You had been given the task by your parents, with the claim that you could get her to fall asleep the fastest, and Tara had watched as you rocked your sister gently in your arms, whispering sweet words to her until her babbles and giggles faded into a peaceful silence.

Maybe, Tara had thought while she stood in the doorway, committing the sight to memory, a baby wouldn’t be so bad right now.

Though the reason for the party was sleeping in her crib upstairs, there were still plenty of people crowded in your ballroom, though you had told Tara that they were all close friends or extended family by that point.

You had been whisked away by a cousin, which left Tara vulnerable to whomever decided to strike up a conversation. And, just as she watched Nate and Eddie begin to march toward her, her line of vision was blocked by your grandparents, who had finally emerged from the wine cellar.

“Hello, deary,” your grandmother said, smiling. “You must be our Y/N’s dear girlfriend.”

Your grandfather stood by his wife’s side silently, and Tara remembered you telling her that he was not too fond of people. She offered him a smile but kept her attention on your grandmother.

“Yes, hi! I’m Tara.” She stuck her hand out, slightly thankful that your grandma decided to shake it rather than pull her into a hug. As nice as they are, I think I’ve had enough hugs for one day.

“It’s lovely to meet you, sweetheart. Y/N has spoken so much about you.” Your grandmother winked. Tara felt herself blush up to her ears.

“She talks about you guys a lot, too! She holds both of you in very high esteem.”

Your grandmother chuckled, and Tara’s ears perked up, realizing that she was who you had gotten your laugh from. “I’m sure she speaks of her grandfather plenty.” She patted her husband on the forearm. “He is, after all, the writer of the two of us, and we all know how much Y/N loves literature.”

Tara turned to your grandfather. “Right, of course. She’s mentioned that you’re a poet.”

Your grandfather’s eyes seemed to light up at the mention of his work. “Talks about her old man, does she? Yes, yes. In my day, I could write poem upon poem.” He looked at your grandmother. “Most of them were for Jane, of course.”

Tara smiled as your grandmother scoffed lightly. This will be us one day, she thought. I just know it. “I’ve read a few of them,” Tara said, and your grandfather grinned. “They’re beautiful.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He stood a little taller and puffed his chest out a bit. “Makes an old man like me feel good, hearing a youngster like you say that.”

“Well, I’m just being honest--” Tara was interrupted by your appearance at her side. You took her hand in yours, beaming at your grandparents.

“Hope these two oldies aren’t boring you, Tar,” you giggled, and your grandmother reached out, swatting you on the shoulder.

“Go on, child,” your grandma said, her tone light. “Go play us a song. Make yourself useful while we speak to your dear girl.”

Play us a song? Tara wondered, her eyebrows furrowing.

You hummed and nodded. “Any requests, my lovely grandmother?”

“Play that one song she likes,” your grandpa answered. “You know…that one song.”

“Ah, yes. ‘That one song’,” you teased. You pulled away from Tara. “Just a moment.” She watched as you crossed the room, settling down on the bench in front of the grand piano that stood in the corner of the room.

Her eyes widened. No way. How many things is this woman hiding from me?

A somber melody filled the room, and all conversations quieted, everyone turning to watch you as you played, your fingers dancing along the keys of the piano like they belonged there.

Tara gulped, her heart beginning to race, a shiver running along her back. Jesus, I’m so in love with her, she thought.

The song began to pick up a bit, and her eyes glanced around the room, seeing your parents sway together and Nate and Eddie sitting still for once, entranced by the tune.

Your eyes closed, your fingers playing faster. You became one with the music, one with the piano, and Tara tried to bite back the smile that pulled at her lips. You looked at home there, on that bench--almost as much as you did when you were explaining literature.

“Oh, I know that look,” your grandfather whispered, and Tara glanced at him. He grinned, the skin around his eyes wrinkling. “Welcome to the family, dear girl.” Softly, he patted her on the back. “Welcome to the family.”

[gallilovesf1]

Title: Into You

Number of Episodes: N/A

Themes/Warnings: Slowburn, light smut (Kissing, teasing, sexual tensions) angst, fluff, mentions of death,Daddy kink, Neglections.

─────── ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ─────────꒰ ♡ ꒱ ─────

Cover

─────── ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ─────────꒰ ♡ ꒱ ─────

Character Descriptions:

MAIN CHARACTERS:

Y/N Horner (femHorner! READER)

- 5’2 ,British, 22 years old, fresh graduate from Harvard University under the course of Mechanical engineering.

- Likes to draw and paint, can play a few instruments like electric guitar and piano.

- Forced to take the course of mechanical engineering because of her mother who’s a mechanical engineer at formula one who recently passed due to cancer (lung).

- Smart and hardworking person who thinks that everything is a competition because of the household that she grew up in, But doesn't want to compete with his brother because they get a long way to well.

- Younger daughter of Christian Horner the team principal of red bull racing oracle formula one team.

- Has prior knowledge to FORMULA ONE, but doesn’t take that much interest in it.

- Neglected by his father

- Sergio’s Bestfriend

- Has Big problem of having a daddy issues.

- Sebastian Vettel is her favorite driver, because she remembers how Seb treats her as a kid, Seb likes to give her hugs, candies and even tells her how would she help the environment as a kid or even when she grows up.

Christian Horner (Team Principal of RedBul Racing Oracle Formula One Team)

- 50 years old

- 5’10

- british

- Father of Y/N Horner and Jonathan Horner

- Pressuring his daughter to take her job as the one of the engineers in Redbull.

- Hates Mercedes team so much.

- Ignoring her daughter's talents in arts and not letting her take another course or study under a fine arts program.

Jonathan Horner (Redbull Driver)

- 5’8

- 26 years old

- british

- Son of Christian Horner

- Older brother of Y/N Horner

- One of the Driver for Redbull racing

- Loved by his father

- Protective to his younger sister

- Hates his own father because of neglecting his own daughter (you).

- Supportive to his younger sister, thinks that it’s cool that Y/N can draw and is a mechanic for the red bull

Sergio “Checo” Pérez (Red Bull racing driver)

- Mexican

- 5’8

- 34 years old

- Driving alongside Jonathan Horner.

- Has a crush on Y/N Horner, but doesn’t tell her because he thinks that y/n will not like her.

- Best friend of Y/N

- A shy and introverted person but talks a lot when he’s with Y/N

- Likes it when Y/n is telling him about how she likes art so much, sometimes takes Y/N in art museum whenever it’s race week.

- Y/n’s biggest fan when it comes to art.

- Treats y/n whenever he can, because he thinks that y/n deserves so much more.

- A ray of sunshine to Red bull

- Is Confused all the time

Toto Wolff (CEO and The Team Principal of Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team)

- 52 years old

- Austrian

- 6’5 (🧎🏻‍♀️)

- Has a big problem with anger issues.

- Hates Horner and Redbull.

- Thinks that Y/N is too good for redbull

- Has a soft spot for y/n, but hides it because he doesn’t want y/n to think that he’s weak, given that he looks intimidating and tall ( well he is…)

- Divorced, has 1 kid with his Ex-Wife. (Not canon Toto:( )

- Jealous of Sergio, because Sergio's very close with y/n and he isn’t. In fact Y/N doesn’t even know him, she just knew that he’s the team principal of Mercedes, nothing else.

- Likes Y/N

- Brat tamer toto (RAAAAAAHHHHHH)

- Manipulative, He thinks that he can get anything, buy everything because he's toto Wolff, the team principal and the CEO of Mercedes formula one team.

Lewis Hamilton (Driver for Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team)

- British

- 39 years old

- 5’9

- A very close friend of toto

- Helping Y/N to know more about F1

- Thinks that Y/N deserves so much more and not just a engineer.

- Y/N's friend in Mercedes, he likes it when y/n runs to his garage to catch up and congratulate him about the race, win or lose y/n always do that.

Supporting Characters:

F1 Grid (Drivers to be mentioned later on the story)

F1 Retired drivers (Appearance in the race, paddock and outside)

MASTERLIST

[torchflies]

Hi TG Fandom! 

(I’m currently trapped in the hellscape of trying to finish a year of personal development hours in a week, while studying for four cert tests). 

But!!! Do we remember this quote?

“I've never lost a wingman.”

“You're lucky. Fly long enough, it'll happen. There will be others.”

What if we got to have a Rooster who did? One who has lost a wingman? What if we got a Rooster who became a Maverick to another wingman and another little boy?

Picture this, okay?

Rooster, young, angry and defiant, is at Top Gun and avoiding the piano at the Hard Deck like it has cooties — until one day, the day before he's meant to be assigned a new WSO, he decides to go for it, to play again after everything. 

Instead, he finds a random guy at the piano, one with light blond hair and a rolling laugh, who is messing around with the keys and singing an odd kind of song without any words. The song comes from his chest and throat like a howl, but with more bones than he's ever heard from anything else. So, Bradley asks about it. The guy tells him it’s not a song per se: he's joiking.

He presents a joik of the sky, of the green grass or snow in the winter. It isn't about something, it is something. It’s like creating a watercolor likeness of a person or thing through sound, using his voice. 

“I'm Máhtte Kvitfjell.” He says and at the look on Bradley’s face, he laughs and adds, “They call me Iceland — my callsign?”

“You’re from Iceland?” 

“Nope, Boston — but Norway before that.”

It isn't a surprise to either of them that Iceland is his new WSO. They become inseparable, Landy (because he could never call him Ice) learns everything there is to know about Bradley Bradshaw and he doesn't go running for the hills. He listens and loves and slowly, Bradley begins to heal. He gets to experience bits of Norwegian culture through Landy, but mainly Sami culture. Landy is South Sami, and so are his wife and little boy Loekte. They raise reindeer back home, just like Landy did when he was a little boy. But, dreams of flight led him to joining his grandparents in America when he got older, and eventually becoming Bradley’s wizzo. 

They fly together for years and in the same mission where a hotshot pilot named Hangman, Bradley’s ex, gets his first air-to-air kill — he throws them into an unrecoverable flat spin and Landy doesn't survive his ejection. 

“Hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave.” Much? 

So, Bradley is left to mourn his best-friend, his brother, and when Loekte’s mother dies — he's left to raise a ten-year-old alone. 

By the time the uranium plant mission rolls around, Bradley is a grown man with a metric ton of baggage and Hangman gets a brand new wizzo by the name of Loetke “Songbird” Kvitfjell. 

Give me an AU where Maverick gets to meet a Bradley who has felt the same pain as him, and get an adopted grandson too.

One where Loekte is wondering what the hell happened to his calm and level-headed dad — he's having a tantrum, what is up with that? He's forty? 

Just, a patchwork family brought together from loss. 

I need Bradley and Maverick to realize how similar they are and how they both fucked up so terribly. I need no one to be innocent in this situation (except a very normal and well-adjusted Loekte who is trying his hardest to figure out everything his dad won’t say and Iceman Kazansky, who always lives babeyyy). 

🤣 

[tonicandjins]

find your way back home | lee donghyuck

pairing: lee donghyuck | haechan x female reader

word count: 22.5k

genre: fluff, some mentions of sex, ANGST and nostalgia lots of it, haechan-centric, slow burn

warnings: mentions of sex, excessive drinking, will talk about insomnia and depression

summary: nct’s haechan gets into a scandal after a night of drinking his ass off in hongdae, which prompts the management to put him in an indefinite hiatus. and it’s not like it’s the first time, because over the past months, haechan’s drinking problem had gone worse. hence, his parents send him back to jeju island for some healing time because his parents and managers think that maybe some time home would help. haechan laughs at the thought. if medication can’t, what can jeju island do? besides, he hasn’t been there in literal years.

author's note: this is my favorite work so far, which is why it took this long. i put my heart in here. please let me know which one is your favorite line/scene. this is also very heachan-centric, so please don't expect a lot of the reader's POV. also, may i recommend you to listen to Moon, Be There For You, Never Goodbye by NCT DREAM, Good Person by Haechan himself, and Black Clouds by NCT 127 as you read this! :) TIP ME HERE.

taglist: @mosviqu @matchahyuck @sirens-dreams @sundamariis @lovingvoidgoatee @anjaenha @thiccfullsun @665321-more @hyuckiesoftie @aliceinwhateverland @tddyhyck @anniebyanto @novawona @gimmehyuck @blxshqueen @blitz-fall @byungbyungbaek @calssunflower @funkygoose @carelessshootanonymous-blog @jungwooforever @budibbly @positionslab @beomyomom @jexizia @4everhyucks

disclaimer: names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of my imagination or used in a fictitious manner. i do not claim to own or to have invented any copyrighted characters or concepts that i write about.  

Y/N = your name, Y/C/N = your childhood nickname

Haechan’s dream has always been the spotlight.

His Mother would tell her friends stories of how he would always tell her he’d be a star someday, a grin flashing across his small face on pictures and clips of him taking a stage as small as the podium in his first grade classroom, and would proudly brag that his first-born son made it to the world stage. She was so proud that she’d have his portfolio picture as her display image in her social media accounts. As a musician herself, she’d play NCT’s music out loud and would even go an extra mile by using their b-side songs when teaching their students at their small but proud music academy in the big city of Seoul. Haechan’s pictures are all over the small place they’d rented for their small business, two floors—the vocal lessons facilitated on the second floor and piano and guitar on the ground floor—and the humble husband and wife would proudly say the most successful student they’d ever had was Lee Donghyuck, now better known as Haechan.

Haechan allows her to take credit of it all, his success, because after all, she’d been the one to encourage her to take a chance at SM Entertainment’s infamous Saturday auditions. People tell Haechan he works hard, but nobody really works harder than his Mother. With sheer determination and a passionate heart, his mother would take little Donghyuck to every stage—no matter how small. Young and bright, he remembers being dragged from one contest to another, even when their family still lived in Jeju, and he’d win all of them for her. He’d take the spotlight just to see her happy and proud.

At times, Haechan wonders how much effort his mother had really put into his career. If he thinks about it now, it started with their entire family moving out of Jeju Island, completely uprooting their entire lives from the simple life in the island to give her dream a chance. People say that Haechan was born a star, that SM got lucky to have a child prodigy offer himself—bare and whole and real—who was willing to give up his childhood and education for a shot in the dark. His father had been reluctant about it, saying that they’d have to give up their entire life savings to merely move to Seoul—considering plane tickets and security deposits need to be sent prior to moving—and that taking a loan wouldn’t be ideal when they could barely make ends meet with four children growing up too fast. A shot in the dark, a flip of a coin, the luck of a draw. They say he was meant for this, was meant for the stage and the lights and the applause, but to Haechan, it’s not really fate. It’s just his mother doing all the work, and he’d take the spotlight for her.

Because Haechan likes the attention. He likes the good and the bad. The cheers and the applause. The painful arm slaps from Mark when he’s annoyed him enough. The head pats and hugs Taeil gives him when he’s being cute and when he lives up to his maknae image. The viral videos of him all over the internet for simply walking down the stage.

And his mother couldn’t be prouder to have a reliable son like him. She had always dreamed of the spotlight herself, but the timing was never right for her—hence Haechan living her dream, her spotlight, had been one of, if not the biggest accomplishments of her life.

The night is cold. Haechan feels dizzy when flashes of the lights coming from the small window of the bar’s building hit his face. He hates the lights, he hates being seen, and it makes him throw up when, as soon as he closes his eyes, it’s his mother that he sees.

Would his mother still be so proud when she learns that, after a long weekend of a back to back concert with NCT 127, his son would be getting a blowjob from a stranger at the back of some sleazy bar he had found online?

“Please tell me this isn’t real.”

Mark Lee is only twenty-three, but with how his forehead’s skin is wrinkling, he might as well invest in several sessions of botox shots. He’s holding his phone up to Haechan’s face, as if bringing the device closer to the younger’s eyes would deny the article that Dispatch uploaded at five in the fucking morning.

“I didn’t sleep with her,” Haechan denies, voice bored, tired. “We might have done other things, but I didn’t sleep with her.”

Mark lets out a groan of frustration, throwing his phone behind Haechan, the device landing on the carpeted floor. Haechan doesn’t even flinch even though it almost hit him.

“Haechan, what the fuck is going on, man?” Mark asks, demands to know what really is going on with his best friend, or whoever he’s speaking with now. “You know SM is going to kill you, right?”

Haechan shrugs. “What are they gonna do? Fire me?”

“You know they can!” Mark shouts, walking back and forth while Haechan remains seated on the couch, unbothered. “You’ve seen them do it! To our seniors! To the people you trained with. You think you’re big time, huh? That just because you’re essential in both units, they wouldn’t send you to some dungeon?”

Haechan laughs bitterly. He reckons being placed in a dungeon would be much better than the hell he’s living in now. “Now that,” he mocks. “Would be the ultimate dream.”

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” Mark says, pointing a finger to Haechan, enunciating each syllable so it goes through his skull.

But nothing can really make Lee Haechan budge anymore—not an expensive, hard device laterally thrown to his face, and not even his best friend (if he could still call him that) blatantly showing how disgusted he is with him—and he can’t really blame anyone. It used to he frightening to see Mark angry at something he did. Used to.

Haechan doesn’t really know what to say, so he chuckles bitterly and leans his head back so that it’s against the backrest, pondering whether it’s a good time to drink the bottle of vodka he’s been keeping under his bed.

“It’s funny because I don’t even know what having a nightmare feels like.”

Mark huffs, seemingly had given up on Haechan, then leaves the room alongside the small piece of sanity that the younger had left. Haechan bolts, sitting up real quick, but too slow because Mark is already out of the door. Haechan likes attention, and even though Mark Lee makes his head hurt, he likes the attention. Haechan likes that Mark is angry at him.

His manager calls him next, (as expected) voice angry as if he’s about to explode, and tells him his publicist is doing her very best to answer every god damn call from every magazine and news outlet. But none of those magazine and news outlets who have called had posted something to clear the situation; none of them were buying it. Haechan thinks it’s fucking ridiculous anyway. There were pictures and videos of him sneaking out with Hana or Hari, whatever her name was, and a clip of him zipping his pants up as they try to hide from the flashes of lights. Who the fuck would believe he was just out exploring with his 35-year old, happily-married-with-kids personal assistant?

And it’s too late, anyway, because what was the point of it all when his most loyal and long-time fan sites have all shut down overnight, his Instagram followers reducing down to five million in a matter of hours since Dispatch posted that article, and his best friends blatantly ignoring him with the exception of Mark confronting him, but of course, Haechan had to screw that up, too.

“They’re calling you in for a meeting,” his manager concludes with a sigh after elaborating what had been done to patch up the entire mess. “Be ready for whatever they have to say. Don’t expect me to have your back because I’m over it, Haechan. Whatever they decide to do with you, you fucking deserve it.”

The call ends. Haechan didn’t even get to talk.

He looks at the screen of his phone. There were a million of calls and text messages from his agency, half of it were from his mother, and the last thing he really wants now is to hear her voice. He scrolls through it all, chest tightening when he realizes nobody from Jaemin, Renjun and Jeno had tried to call him. Haechan knows he’s an asshole, deserving to be the receiving end of all the shouting and cussing, and he’s probably made the dumbest mistake of his entire life, but he’d live the stardom’s life long enough, he’d be okay. But a call from his best friends would have been a breather.

Haechan understands, what his manager said, that he shouldn’t really expect anyone to have his back after all that’s transpired in the last few of months.

You see, Haechan developed insomnia. He’d look the symptoms up in the internet, and it’s described as a common sleeping disorder that can make it hard for people to fall asleep, or if one’s attempt to drift off is successful, to stay asleep. Taeyong had said it’s a common disorder for idols, that their seniors from groups like EXO and SHINEE had all gone to psychologists for help, but Haechan didn’t really want to make a big deal out of it. He relied on what Naver offered him one morning when the sun’s already out and his eyes are still wide open.

Stress and anxiety were the major causes. Some resources say it could be from a poor sleeping environment such as an uncomfortable bed or bad lighting or temperature. One claims that it could also be from one’s lifestyle, like jetlag from traveling frequently, or drinking one too many caffeine-infused doses of fluids. It all could be factors why Haechan’s been getting 8-10 hours of sleep a week, and he acknowledges that he doesn’t really have the best lifestyle—and it’s not like he’s ever had the choice since NCT blew up.

So, he’d consulted Taeyong again, through a text, and all he’d gotten was a link to a study that insomnia can be caused by mental health conditions such as depression, followed by his therapist’s phone number.

Among all the causes he’d gathered, Haechan could confidently rule out depression because there’s no fucking way he’s sad. There’s barely any reason to be sad. Sure, he’d miss his siblings most of the time and he hates the feeling of seeing any of them cry whenever he had to leave, but nothing is more gratifying than the relief of seeing them happy whenever he comes home with luxurious gifts or plane tickets to Tokyo for a vacation. Haechan likes making people happy, and Mark tells him he’s always been a people pleaser. At times, he’d think his happiness depends on the happiness of the people he loves and values, and people around him are happy.

Hence, Haechan is happy.

Or at least, was happy.

Because the insomnia got worse—not that Haechan’s dealt with it enough to know whether it’s getting better or worse—but it was bad. He would come home exhausted as fuck after an entire day of dancing and singing, and he knows he’s tired because his body tells him so. Haechan would lie on bed, body drained from all energy, but his eyes would be wide open for an entire night. He’d only fall asleep when the sun’s started to seep through his curtains, a good hour before his manager would wake him for the next schedule. It was manageable, and the tour was a good excuse for the insomnia, but it followed him even on his days off, even in the beginning of the pandemic when there little to zero schedules that would have caused him anxiety or stress.

Therefore, reluctantly, he’d visited a doctor to get a prescription for some meds he could take to help him sleep. He’d lied, though, that it wasn’t that bad and that he would need it only on nights after shows, because he knew they’d only refer him to a therapist. Haechan doesn’t need a therapist. He could just talk to his mother about it, and she’d know what to say to make him feel better. To make him keep going.

It was fine until the melatonin supplements stopped working. Sometime last year, if he remembers right, when he thought he’d gone crazy because everything stopped working for him. There was a bottle of soju, half empty, from the fridge he had in the corner of the room he shared with Johnny, and he reckoned it could help. As soon as the bottle was empty, Haechan felt drowsy; he was out like the light half an hour later.

But just like the prescription from the doctor he can’t even remember the name of, drinking half a bottle worked. Johnny would give him suspicious looks when he would see Haechan stocking up soju inside their room, but he doesn’t ever say anything. Because alcohol made him sleep, until it didn’t. Until half a bottle stopped working. Until an entire bottle is no longer enough. Until Taeyong’s decided that there should be no alcohol inside anyone’s fridge, both fifth and tenth floors.

Hence, the drinking problem.

Haechan wonders what’s next. The sleeping problem, then the drinking problem. It looks like here is it, the next one: the scandal.

When Haechan was a trainee, his greatest fear was getting removed from the agency.

There was an assessment every quarter, and the CEO himself would sit down in a panel alongside other producers and choreographers to identify which of the trainees would move on to another level and which ones would have to go home. Each time they had to go through the assessment, Haechan, alongside other existing members of NCT, would spend long days inside the training room. He would fear that the CEO would ask him to rap all of a sudden because Haechan can’t rap to save his god damn life at that time. He would fear that his mother would receive a call and find out his beloved son, whom she spent so much money on just to get ballet classes, failed and would need to go home.

Today, Haechan fears none of those.

The decision to put him in an indefinite hiatus was quick to make, not that Haechan expected anything less.

The news was out the second they threw him out of the meeting room (but not before the CEO slapping him right across the face, his left cheek throbbing in pain he’s oddly happy he could feel) and his bags were packed before he could even tell his members. The dorms were empty when he arrived, and there was no time to visit Dream’s place; Haechan knew he could just call, or visit. His family lives twenty minutes away, a short ride from downtown. He’d figure it out, like he always would.

What fazes him is what he comes home to.

His father offers him a one-way ticket, says his mother is still too upset to look even at Haechan in the face, that she’s spending the night in her friend’s house. The domestic flight ticket is bound to Jeju Island, and it boards tomorrow morning.

“Your grandmother will be waiting for you,” his father says, eyes everywhere but Haechan’s. “Your mother thinks it would be the best for now. Your agency knows, of course, and they’re helping us ensure you get your privacy in Jeju-do. We just need you to stay there for a bit, Donghyuck. Might help.”

“Dad,” Haechan pleads, Dad sounding foreign to him now. He’s stopped calling him Dad years ago, right before he debuted in NCT, and had been calling him Father. He’s not sure why he’a suddenly calling him that now, perhaps it’s the sinking feeling in his stomach, but Haechan is desperate for another solution. “You can’t send me back in the island. I haven’t lived in grandmother’s house since I was twelve.”

“Don’t act like the place isn’t civilized, Donghyuck,” his father sighs. “You’ll be okay. You can take your expensive gaming laptop with you so you can entertain yourself while you’re on vacation. It’s only going to be a few months.”

“A few months?” Haechan cries. “I can’t live there anymore!”

“The agency decided not to terminate their contract with you,” his father reveals. “Apparently, you’re too talented to let go of. Your mother and I are very grateful they didn’t. All they want in return is for you to go back in six months—sober and full of life again. Your therapist suggests you go to a vacation.”

“I don’t have a therapist?”

“The doctor who prescribed you sleeping pills? You didn’t tell us you had insomnia.”

“Fuck you,” Haechan spits before he could even think about it. “Neither you nor mother thought of asking me what’s been going on. Dad, I wanted you to scold me. To punch me in the fucking gut and tell me I’ve ruined everything. I wanted mother to yell at me until my ear bleeds, so I can find the motivation to work hard and make her happy again.”

“Donghyuck, we–”

“Don’t call me that!” He yells. “The first thing that came to your mind was how grateful you are that I’m not fired from my job? I’m not some retirement plan! I’m your son!”

“Keep it down. Your siblings are–”

”Donghyuck-hyung?” Haechan turns. Gyeom stands at the end of the hallway, seemingly woken up from his slumber, and Dongmin hides behind the younger one to see what’s going on. Haechan doesn’t even see Seungyeon come out of her room. He just hears her door shut loudly, the lock clicking, and realize he fucked up big time.

He takes a look at the ticket from his father’s hand.

It’s ridiculous. If the melatonin pills he’s taking are not helping with his stupid insomnia, and drinking a bottle of soju works as equally as useless, what the fuck could work? They think a recreational vacation to fucking Jeju Island would do shit?

Fuck his parents, honestly.

Fuck his siblings for not even giving him a hug as soon as he entered their home.

Fuck his members for not checking up on him.

Fuck the entire god damn world.

He rips the ticket from his father’s hand and turns to leave, taking the same bags he’d brought in a few minutes ago. The flight is tomorrow morning, but Haechan calls a taxi to take him to the airport.

Sleeping (or at least, trying to) in the uncomfortable airport seats is a fucking pain in the ass, literally. But nothing more hurts than the look on his family’s face: the blankness in his father’s and the fright from his siblings.

Jeju fucking Island. Way to end the day.

When Haechan was younger, his grandmother would take him to the Camellia Hills on the weekends. While kids his age would be taken in Aqua Planet to see thousands of animals and plant species to ease their shoulders from studies, Haechan would be running around fields of camellia and hydrangea flowers. They would spend hours just walking around trees of over five hundred different kinds of wildflowers. His grandmother would take pictures of him and let him eat whatever he wanted at a nearby restaurant, and his siblings would always cry and complain why Nana only wanted to bring Haechan. There wasn’t a particular reason, of course, it was only because the younger ones were too difficult for their grandmother to look after on a trip to Camellia Hill. Little Donghyuckie was well-behaved albeit his bold and obnoxious nature. He would do whatever his Nana would ask him.

Haechan’s always claimed that he’s the favorite despite his grandmother repeatedly saying she doesn’t do favorites, and he knows deep in his heart that he is. He is, after all, the first grandchild, and he spent a lot of time with his Nana alone for many years while they were in Jeju.

His grandmother used to sing him to sleep at night. When his younger sister was born, Nana stayed with them in Seoul for a while to help his parents adjust to having two kids, considering Haechan’s age gap with Seungyeon is only a year. Nana made sure Haechan slept well every night, in a separate room from his parents because newborn Seungyeon who wouldn’t let anyone sleep past one in the morning. She’d sing him songs from The Beatles in broken English, and Haechan likes to think that even though both his parents were musicians, the reason why he could sing well was his Nana.

She eventually had to move back to Jeju Island as soon as the family had settled, but years later, at the age of seven, his grandfather died and Nana was left all alone to tend to their land and business, hence the Lee family packed their bags to stay at Nana’s supposedly for the summer, but ended up with the decision of staying for her.

Nana had problems sleeping when his grandfather died. Haechan used to find her awake when he’d need a glass of water or to go to the toilet at two in the morning. She’d be watching television, a nighttime talk show she used to like, or reading a book from his grandfather’s shelf. The lights in her home were always on.

So, Haechan started singing her to sleep just like how she did when he was a child.

She’d tell him, “Oh, my Donghyuckie, you have such a nice voice. Why don’t you sing more?”

Then she’d fall asleep while Haechan wondered why lovers die at different times, why one has to go first and the other is left on Earth trying to sleep well every night.

Upon his arrival in Jeju-do, his grandmother doesn’t pick him up from the airport like he’d expected, so he takes a taxi from the airport to her house. Haechan knows what their home looks like despite not visiting since his training days. They own a small hectare of land filled with tangerine trees, and his grandmother had been the sole operator of it all for many years until she had to start hiring people here and there to manage things for her when her age caught up with her. His father used to travel back and forth to see how things are here and there, but eventually stopped when Nana had found people she can rely on—which Haechan is very glad about.

He must be an asshole, or a prick, or a hypocrite to even say this but he’s been thinking about her more often than he calls. If he recalls right, the last time he’d called was three months ago, on her birthday, but it was two-minute exchange of generic how are yous and please stay healthys. She would call, of course, but Haechan would always have something as an excuse: a dance practice, a trip to Japan for a show, a photoshoot, something. Something to cover up the fact that he hasn’t been the best grandson to her in a long time.

He arrives and the first thing he notices is a hammock hanging in between the posts of her patio. A kick of nostalgia hits him because grandfather put up a hammock at the back of their home once, when Haechan was around five years old and they were visiting the couple for the summer. Her grandmother used to tell Haechan that the hammock is the best place to take his afternoon naps, hence little Donghyuck would spend most of his afternoons lying on a hammock made of strong nylon.

Shaking off the nostalgia, Haechan clears his throat. “Nana! I’m home!”

“Donghyuckie, is that you?” she calls from somewhere. Haechan walks over to the patio and drops his bags.

Nana comes out from the side of the house, her favorite pink apron on, grey hair hidden by a hair cap. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Haechan sees her age simply by the way she stands. Her back is hunched more than it was the last time he saw her during Chuseok last year. The wrinkles in the edges of her eyes and around her mouth are much more evident. The skin on her neck is loose, and so is the skin on her arms and everywhere.

For a second, Haechan feels like he’s seven again, seeing her for the first time since summer, her eyes not as happy as they were from the last time they’d been in Jeju-do, when grandfather was still alive. Haechan suddenly is taken back to when she’d hug him so, so tightly, crying to his shoulder, telling him harabeoji had left her while she was asleep. He remembers his heart dropping down to the ground when he saw her breaking down, his loving grandmother—who was always bright and happy, whom people would say he got his personality from—at her lowest. It’s the same wave of sadness Haechan feels looking at her now—looking at the years painted in her skin. Her memories blurring out the color of her eyes. Decades of hard work and labor tainted on the callouses on her fingers. Glints of loneliness spread throughout the wrinkles on her face.

Haechan has been all over the world for years now. Years of training and sleepless nights perfecting a performance had led him to where he is now. People who speak different languages love him and cheer for him even with countries and continents in between. He’s made millions happy by simply singing songs or saying hi in a fan call. And while he’s done of all of these, what had he done for his grandmother? People have been watching him grow up, who was watching Nana all this time?

Haechan chokes on his own tears. His grandmother, his Nana, opens her arms like Haechan is not the person the world hates right now. She hugs him like Haechan is not the person who had potentially ruined the group his best friend Mark had worked hard on. She holds him in her arms like Haechan is not the person who scared his siblings and cursed his own father. Nana takes him inside her home like he’s her Donghyuck again.

Haechan feels like he’s her Donghyuckie again.

Contrary to popular belief, Donghyuck doesn’t like affection as much as Haechan does.

He believes that being offered tenderness is the very proof that you’ve been ruined, and Haechan likes to think that with the life he has now, he’s not really in the position to talk about his life’s struggles. Because there are more people in the world who deserves to talk about their pain. Donghyuck doesn’t deserve as much.

Hence, the nostalgia goes away as quickly as it arrives. Haechan spends the rest of the day trying to sleep in his grandmother’s spare room and doesn’t even bother answering when his grandmother knocked on his door to invite him for lunch despite him being wide awake.

Haechan gets up at five in the afternoon, just when the sun is about to set, eyes heavy. The sky looks a lot like the color of his own skin, he notices, and he thinks about how beautiful the sky would be in Han River and recalls how him and Mark (and sometimes Doyoung) would lie on the ground, letting their skin soak in the sun slowly sinking down to its rest.

But none of that is close to happening because he’s here. In Jeju-do. Stuck like some twelve-year old sent to camp for an entire summer because his parents can’t stand him.

Haechan’s train of (bitter) thoughts is interrupted with a loud plonk from the wooden patio, which is right outside his window. He pulls his curtains slightly to peek, and he finds you on the floor on your side, groaning like a kid and massaging your back. It looks like you’d just fallen out of the hammock.

Curious, Haechan gets up and quickly slips out of his room to see you on their front porch.

“And Nana says it’s the most comfortable place to sleep on,” he hears you mumble as you get up, eyes meeting his as soon as you see him. Your eyes widen in shock, probably recognizing him, but you quickly catch yourself and look down.

“You are?” Haechan asks, towering over you.

You clear your throat. “Y/N.”

“I don’t mean your name, pumpkin,” he replies. “What do you do here?”

Haechan smirks at the way one of your eyebrows raised, clearly already infuriated at his attitude. You’re wearing a white shirt that’s too big for you underneath your denim overalls. The pair of boots sitting under the hammock is a clear sign that you’re a farmer tending to the tangerine trees on the land right beside the house, separated by a fence and his grandmother’s home garden.

“I manage your grandmother’s land,” you answer, stance defensive. “And it looks like you’re the delinquent grandson they sent away for the summer?”

Haechan chuckles, liking how you’re bark and bite, wondering how far he can push you, because the last thing he really wants is someone staying at his grandmother’s house. Too close. Too easy to see everything. You’d make millions selling him to the tabloids. He’d honestly rather hear people saying how much of an asshole he is, than have people invading his grandmother’s privacy while he’s here.

“You mean the world star, right?” he brags, licking his upper lip. “And you manage the land we own? Sounds a lot like a farmer to me.”

You stifle a laugh. You’re not at all intimidated. “Oh, pumpkin, I think the last thing you’d want to do in Jeju-do is insult a farmer for their job. The agricultural structure of Jeju Island has done more than you thrusting your hips up on the air for young, easily-manipulated teenage girls, Donghyuck.”

“So, you know my name?”

You click your tongue and turn around, proceeding to slip your boots back on. “How could I not know?”

“Because I’m a world star, right. How could you not know?”

Haechan watches you tie the laces up of your boots. You don’t give him another glance and leave, stomping your feet down the stairs to the ground until you’re out of his sight.

“Hey, you’re awake,” Nana says from inside. The door is wide open. “Where’s Y/N?”

She walks towards where Haechan stands, looking around for you. “That girl. I told her to stay for dinner. What’d you do, Donghyuck-ah?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles, annoyed at how Nana is more concerned about you leaving than ensuring his privacy. He’s a star, for god’s sake. “Why’d you let her sleep here, anyway? And have her stay for dinner? Aren’t you scared she might sell me off to some magazine for, I don’t know, one million won?”

“Why would Y/N sell you—“ his grandmother sighs. “Not everyone is out to get you, Donghyuck-ah.”

“Why does she even know my birth name?” he questions. “That’s like, too much, Nana. Don’t share things like that.”

His grandmother slaps his arm. “Ow! What’d you do that for?”

“You’re a moron!” she screeches. “That was Y/N! She waited for you to wake up all day!”

“That’s creepy!”

“Y/C/N,” Nana enunciates. Haechan remembers. “Her childhood nickname. Does it ring a bell?”

“Y/N—” he breathes out. Frozen. “—is Y/C/N?”

Haechan has always had an affinity with flowers, long before he named his fans sunflowers.

His grandparents had a larger flower garden as compared to how it is now. They’d planted tangerine trees in place of the fields of beautiful red azalea and rhododendron blossoms. On spring days, the cherry blossoms were infinite, and little Donghyuck used to spend a lot of time looking at the flowers and making necklaces out of them.

You used to (still do, perhaps) live down the street, and your parents used to help out in the farm when your grandparents needed another pair of hands to harvest the tangerines. Little Donghyuck met you when he was six.

If he recalls it right, it was the second day of summer, a hundred something days before they had to return back to Seoul. He found you lying under a cherry blossom tree, eyes closed, allowing hundreds of pink petals to drown you in their beauty. Little Donghyuck lied down beside you, upside-down but his head is right beside yours. He’s always been a curious kid, so he wanted to know why you were letting the pink petals rain on you. There was nothing special about it. Just petals falling when the wind blows a certain direction.

When he opened his eyes, you turn to look at him, your eyebrows were furrowed the way they were when Haechan found you on the floor of his patio earlier, right after you’d fallen from the hammock.

“Hey,” you had said. “You’re the kid from Nana’s house, right?”

“She’s my Nana,” he corrected, closing his eyes once again. “And yes, I’m the kid from Nana’s house. You are?”

“My mom calls me Y/C/N,” you answered. “Are you staying for the summer?”

He nodded. “Only for the summer. We’re leaving before school starts.”

“Do you like flowers?” you asked.

“We don’t have a lot of flowers in Seoul,” Little Donghyuck mumbled. “But I love flowers. Last summer, Nana took me to Camellia Hills to see the flowers bloom in May.”

“Then you should stay,” you trailed off. “If you love flowers and Seoul doesn’t offer much, then you should stay.”

“What about school?” Donghyuck had asked, opening his eyes to look at you. You’re looking at him, upside-down and all. Donghyuck’s never seen someone more beautiful. “You’re pretty.”

Your eyes widened. You immediately hide your face from him using your hands. “We’re only five. I can’t have a boyfriend at five years old.”

“Maybe when we’re older.”

Haechan doesn’t remember much from the day you met, but he got close to you during that summer in 2006, even more when his family moved back to Jeju-do in 2007. Your friendship blossomed from walking together in first grade throughout primary school until he’d graduated and eventually moved back to Seoul.

He can’t believe that he’d forgotten your name, and a part of him knows it’s because he’s always called you by your childhood nickname, but a larger part of him likes to think that it’s because he’s almost twenty-three now—it’s been almost ten years. He’s met probably thousands of people at this point, and with the lifestyle he has, he really can’t afford to remember each person he spends time with. Not even the girl he spent his entire childhood in Jeju-do with.

So, Haechan forgives himself before he could ask for yours. He reckons you’d understand. You know him, somehow. You kept in touch until Haechan got into SM in 2013 and high school and training got the best of him. He changed his number and lost contact with almost everyone in Jeju-do, even his closest friends, and you were one them.

Life as a singer means Haechan had to sacrifice a lot of things.

Most people know an idol sacrifices having a normal life—playing in the streets, trying out to be a part of the basketball team, dating at fifteen years old, prom, staying at one classmate’s house for a group project—and it includes forgetting the people you used to be close with.

One of the rules in SM when he was a trainee was to not get in touch with the people from their past. One of their managers used to tell them that their lives are divided into two parts: before training and after training; and to be successful in the industry means to forget who you were before training. They’d deleted all of his social media, which means he disconnected from the people he knew before he was Haechan. They’d deleted who he was before Haechan.

Many sacrifices, indeed. The list goes on, and at the end of it was your name.

“She never left Jeju-do?” Haechan asks, curious, as he ate the dinner Nana made for him. “Like not even for college?”

“She didn’t go to college at all,” Nana answers. “And she likes it here. Why do you make staying in Jeju-do sound like a living hell?”

Haechan shrugs. “It’s not like that, Nana. I mean, God knows what I’d do to get a normal life and go to college in Seoul and do what normal people in their early twenties do.”

Nana smiles at him. “This is probably what normal is for her. Not everyone has big dreams like you.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Haechan asks. “Dreams are free. It doesn’t cost anything to dream. Why wouldn’t people want to have big dreams?”

“Aren’t you the lucky one to have a dream and to be able to live your dream?” Nana says. She finishes up her meal and watches Haechan eat. “How are you, Donghyuck-ah?”

Haechan stops chewing and braces himself. Nobody’s asked him how he is. He continues chewing like it’s not a question that’s been weighing him under.

“I’m okay,” he answers, mouth full of food. “They didn’t fire me. So, I guess I should be grateful. I’m okay.”

“You know that you don’t have to lie to Nana, right?” She asks, smile kind and warm.

And Haechan wants to say it all. Out loud. Maybe even cry.

But he is not about to let his grandmother carry his burdens with her. Burdens that shouldn’t even matter because he’s so lucky to have the life he has now. Burdens that are nothing compared to other people’s.

“Come on, Donghyuck-ah,” she urges. “Talk to Nana. Tell me what’s wrong, my dear.”

“Halmeoni,” he firmly says. “I said I’m okay. I’m tired. Thank you for the meal.” He bows and stands to leave.

Life has a singer means Haechan had to sacrifice a lot, indeed.

Nana leaves a box of things Haechan would need while he’s in Jeju-do before her trusted chauffeur takes her to the town’s market for some business.

Haechan finds himself wearing the same fit as you the day before: a pair of overalls, an old, non-branded shirt that looks like it’s been worn and washed 300 times. Nana left a list of chores to do, and there’s no way Haechan is doing all of those. He’s taking a walk around the fields, supervise like how the owner’s grandson should, bask on the sunlight for a bit, then go back to his room and play some games with strangers online.

You’re waiting by the patio, sitting and looking at the opposite direction so he only sees your back, when Haechan comes out, dressed up for the role but not ready for whatever today brings him.

“Took you long enough,” you grumble as he steps out of the house. You stand and turn to look at him. “Lock the door and let’s get going. You’re late on your first day.”

“Chill out, sweet cheeks,” he scoffs, reaching behind the door and locking it before slamming it shut. “You’re not the boss of me.”

You nod, chuckling. “I’m not. But your grandmother is. And she added your list to the name of workers joining us to harvest today. You will be paid by the hour.”

Haechan gasps lightly in disbelief. “I don’t need to work. We own this place.”

“Hmm,” you hum, feigning curiosity as you tap your index finger to your chin as if you’re thinking hard. “You know I manage this whole place, right? Which means I also manage its taxes and permits annually. I’ve never seen your name in any of the papers I play with every day.”

“Same fucking thing,” he mumbles, walking past you to reach the gate. Haechan finds two horses waiting for him outside. He turns, ready to ask you what kind of joke you’re pulling on him, but he finds you going around the house, perhaps to make sure everything’s locked and all. You catch up on him, eyebrows raised when he points to the horses.

“Don’t tell me you can’t ride a horse,” you ask, seemingly in disbelief that someone like him isn’t capable of riding a horse. “You can’t work in the fields just walking. You’ll tire yourself out and will waste most of your working hours just walking.”

“I—I’m really not—” Haechan falters for a second, but comes back as quickly as he goes. “It’s been years since the last time I rode a horse. I’m not certain if I can do that now.” You give him a questioning look. “Besides. I’m a celebrity if you haven’t noticed it already. What if I break a bone?”

“You’ll live.”

“What if I fall and break my face?”

“Seoul has the best plastic surgeons.”

“My legs! They were injured before. I can’t afford to get another injury!”

“You’ll be fine. You’re such a drama queen.”

“I’m a star!”

At that, you burst out into a fit of laughter, the kind that Haechan would normally join in, because what he just said is truly ridiculous. He can’t believe he said that himself. But, of course, he can’t just laugh with, basically, a stranger.

“Oh my God, Lee Donghyuck,” you say in between laughter.

Something ignites something in him, the way you just said his name.

Haechan is a name he loves, an alter-ego he adores, a character he lives. Full sun, because that’s what he wants to be. He wants to bring light to everyone looking up to him, and he wants to be remembered by the way his voice warms the entire planet. He loves hearing cheers and applause when he introduces himself as Haechan. Because Haechan is talented. Haechan is an ace, an all-rounder who can do anything an idol is expected to do, perhaps even more. Haechan is bright and positive, and he likes making people laugh and at the same time uncomfortable of the influx of skinship he offers. Haechan loves the lights and cameras on stage, and he adores the way his name is in every city he goes to.

Meanwhile, Lee Donghyuck, he’s heard in a million times. Mark still calls him Donghyuck like they never aged since 2013, even Doyoung and Jeno. His parents seldom call him Haechan, never for Nana. His fans also have been calling him Donghyuck since they learned his birth name is Donghyuck, sometimes Hyuck or Hyuckie, which he finds really endearing.

Yet no one’s ever called him his name like he’s nothing but just Lee Donghyuck. Not for a long time. Not from someone before Haechan.

Donghyuck suddenly feels like he’s twelve again, the year he left Jeju-do and had to say goodbye to all of his friends with a promise to keep in touch and to never forget. Donghyuck finds himself looking at the way you’re laughing, how you have your eyes closed, mouth agape and melodies of your amusement coming out like a song he thought he’d forgotten but know all the words to, and he finds himself thinking, maybe being Lee Donghyuck isn’t so bad.

His first day at the farm didn’t go as quick as expected and if Donghyuck could say so himself, it’s the longest fucking day in his entire life.

Evidently, he couldn’t ride a horse to save his life. He doesn’t even know why he’d told you it’s been a long time when the only time he ever rode a horse was when he was eleven for a field trip and only to take a god damn picture to make his mother smile. You and him were only a couple of horse steps or whatever away from Nana’s home and his horse was already squirming and more like threatening to throw him ten meters away, hence, you begrudgingly offered to have him ride with you. Donghyuck didn’t decline, of course, because it was either walk around the place under the hot sun or die at the hands of a stupid horse. You had let him sit behind you, skillfully and impressively holding the other horse by its rope, Donghyuck’s arms reluctantly wrapped around your waist because he didn’t want to fall, and if you were uncomfortable, you didn’t say anything about it.

You had taken him to a tour within his grandparents’ land, and Donghyuck is already twenty-three when he realized his grandparents are big time, like for real. The land isn’t as big as the others, ones that are owned by a big corporation, people who aren’t even from Jeju-do but like to play agricultural monopoly, but it’s bigger than most. Nana was too humbled when she’d told him the night before that he would need to help out in their “small” business.

The business is nowhere near small, with hundreds of tangerine trees scattered around, blooming in the famous Jeju-do delicacy, and she had forty to fifty employees working for her.

“Not really like full-time employees,” you had explained when Donghyuck verbalized his surprise with the number of people working for the farm. “Normally, it’s just me and Nana and a few other people who handle the delivery, quality assurance, and sales in the farmer’s market, which I’d need to take you to tomorrow, and also some folks from Seoul who handle the cargo shipping to the cities. But when it’s harvest season, we really would need more than ten pairs of hands to help out.”

“So, like, all year, there’s only around ten people are here,” Donghyuck confirmed, hands still on your waist as the horse came to a stop. “And on harvest season, Nana hires more people to help out. That’s really nice. Could be a good summer job for students and all.”

You hummed in agreement, patting the horse that Donghyuck learned you named as Daisy. “But normally, you’d find older people working here instead of the younger ones.”

“Oh?” Donghyuck’s curious. “That’s a little odd. I mean, isn’t the job physically tiring?”

You shrugged. “The elderly, well, they don’t really have a lot of opportunities to work here, you know, considering that Jeju-do has become more of like a tourist island than a self-sufficient, thriving agricultural place. You’ve probably heard of the water park they’d built nearby the airport and other big corporations taking over and building their stores here and there. And of course, they’d most likely hire younger people who can relate to the Korean Wave your group caused, right?”

“Keeping tabs?”

You scoffed at that. “As if! Now, get down before I ask Daisy to wiggle her ass and throw you off.”

After the supposed short tour that took an hour because, well, their land is enormous, you take him where some of the elderly people are harvesting.

“This is Donghyuck,” you’d introduced. “Nana’s grandson from Seoul. He’ll be helping us today. So, halmeoni, don’t even think about getting him off the hook because he’s Nana’s grandson. He will be paid for the day like everyone else. You wouldn’t want someone to get paid the same, only to work half of what you do, right?”

The older women laughed at the way you’d introduced him, and he feels his heart swell with the way you’re laughing with them and how they looked at him with so much tenderness. And normally, Donghyuck doesn’t like the look of tenderness, especially when directed to him, but today, it felt warm. Warmth like never before.

“You grew up so handsome, Donghyuck-ah,” one of the women said. “But I thought you’d be taller, you know. You had such long limbs when you were younger.”

Donghyuck feigned offense, clutching his chest. “Ahjumma, you should’ve stopped at the word handsome.”

“Tangerines ripen earlier than other citruses, so they can escape damage from freezes that will harm midseason varieties such as grapefruit and sweet oranges. Most varieties will be ready for picking during the winter and early spring, although the exact tangerine harvest time depends on the cultivar and region,” you explain, following the lead while Donghyuck and two other guys around yours and his age trail behind you. He apparently needs some training before he can start working.

“How do we know if they’re ready to be picked?” Joohyuk, one of the part-timers, ask.

You will know it’s about harvest time for tangerines when the fruit is a good shade of orange and begins to soften a bit. This is your chance to do a taste test,” you answer, stopping to show an abundant tangerine tree. You pick one out and show it to Donghyuck and the rest. “Cut the fruit from the tree at the stem with hand pruners. If after your taste test the fruit has reached its ideal juicy sweetness, proceed to snip other fruit from the tree with the hand pruners.”

You proceed to show them how it’s cut and hand them a piece each. Donghyuck likes that the fruit is sweet, not sour.

The ahjummas find your group and start handing baskets to Donghyuck and the guys, telling them they’d guide them all throughout.

He found himself spending the rest of the morning getting to know the people harvesting tangerines and making them laugh like it’s his job. He learned all their names one by one, their families briefly, and what they used to do before they retired. By the time it’s lunch, Donghyuck was about to say goodbye and perhaps ask you to take him back to his house, the group from the other side of the farm joined their area, all packed with bags of lunch.

They asked him to join, of course, but Donghyuck refused, in respect of their time to relax and take a break, and asked if you could take him home instead. You agreed, of course, mumbling that you would also need to go home to feed your dog.

“I’ll pick you up at 1:15,” you say as soon as Donghyuck lands on his feet. “Don’t sleep, please. The ahjummas will be expecting you. It’ll be a lot hotter, so drench your celebrity skin with twice the amount of sunscreen you’d normally use.”

“Yeah,” Donghyuck responds, itching to say thank you, but not enough to actually say it. He rubs Daisy’s neck instead. “You—I, okay.”

“O-kay,” you nod and whistle to signal Daisy to turn and walk the other way.

Nana waits for him by the patio. “How was your first day?”

“It’s not even over yet,” he sighs, slumping his butt on one of the patio’s stairs. “Nana, I can’t believe you’re making me work while I’m on vacation.”

“Your father never said anything about a vacation,” she responds, smiling as she struggles to sit beside him. Donghyuck helps her. “You’re here for some time away from work, right?”

“Yeah, a vacation,” he emphasizes.

Nana reaches to move the fringe covering a part of his eyes. “Let’s call this your healing time. But I wouldn’t call it a vacation because a vacation for you only means playing computer games until the sun rises then sleeping all day.”

“You should stop talking to Seungyeon about me,” he mumbles, looking sideways to find his grandmother looking at him lovingly. “And I don’t only play computer games. I also listen to a lot of music.”

“Try not to think about the limelight while you’re here,” she says. “The farm needs some help now. And it’s the best time for you to learn about the family business in case you don’t make it back in Seoul.” Donghyuck groans, burying his face in his hands, and Nana laughs at him. “That’s a possibility you should be considering, Donghyuck-ah.”

“Nana, you’re making me feel worse,” he whines. “You just told me not to think about the limelight, how can I not when you just said what you said!”

“I’m only joking,” she admits. “No one is ever going to take the limelight away from you, Donghyuck-ah, even if they try. You were born for the stage, and I know it’s everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Donghyuck looks up at her. “Is it bad that it’s all I want?”

Nana shakes her head and offers a kind smile. “Having a dream like yours is never bad, Donghyuck-ah. I know that eventually you’d have to leave and go back to where you really belong: the limelight. But all I’m saying is, stepping out of the light isn’t as bad as you think it is.”

“Right.”

“Tell me how it was in the farm.”

“The ladies love me,” he chuckles. “I’m quite popular even in the small villages of Jeju-do, aren’t I?”

“You sure are,” she agrees. “They’ve been asking about you for a long time. Looks like your Nana isn’t the only one who missed you.”

“How come they still remember me?” he asks before he can think about it. “I mean, I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten about most people here. They still remember how I used to play around and sing for small events.”

It’s true. It caught him by surprise that the workers still remembered him—and not only because he’s a celebrity now, but they remember him by the small, insignificant happenstances when he was younger. Like for example, one of them mentioned how he was once was injured, his pinky finger to be exact, because he was running like a madman when his mother had given him permission to go play computer games with his cousin. He doesn’t remember that person being there, but he knows his grandmother talked about it like it was a news about a hurricane hitting Seoul at that time it happened.

It makes Donghyuck wonder how many people remember him, and how many people he’d forgotten and left behind for his dreams.

“Our world here in Jeju-do is small,” Nana explains. “People like you, who left, well, while ours remain humble and small, while we fade into the background and slowly become insignificant, yours become bigger. So, while we remember, you forget, slowly, one by one—and nobody blames you for forgetting, Donghyuck-ah.”

Oh, look. Another burden, another truth that Donghyuck has to carry for the rest of his life. Another reason not to fall asleep tonight.

There is a small, local store located down the road from his grandmother’s house. They don’t sell nearly half the number the ones local convenience stores in Seoul would, but Donghyuck likes to think it’ll do. Soju and beer taste the same anyway, regardless of where he buys it.

With the faint, beaten yellow paint from its exterior, the store has been around even before Donghyuck was born. It’s the village’s very own convenience store, after all. There weren’t any rival stores like how it would look like in Seoul where every corner of every street one would find a convenience store. From where Donghyuck stands, the store doesn’t like look like it’s changed much in a decade.

For some reason, Donghyuck remembers how much Renjun likes reading neuroscience studies for fun. He doesn’t know anyone else who would read neuroscience studies. For fun. But anyway, back to his point, there was a neuroscience study that Renjun has been blabbing about during their US tour. It was something about when someone recalls an old memory, a representation of the entire event is instantaneously reactivated in the brain that often includes the people, location, smells, music, and other trivia. Recalling old memories can have a cinematic quality. Memories often seem to play out in the mind's eye like an old Super 8 home movie or vintage Technicolor film. Neuroscientists discovered that when someone tries to remember a singular aspect of an event from his or her past—such as a recent birthday party—that a complete representation of the entire scene is reactivated in the brain like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle coming together to create a vivid recollection. The new research reveals that humans remember life events using individual threads, that are coupled together into a tapestry of associations.

Donghyuck’s never really understood what Renjun meant at that time, except now.

He stands there, a good ten-meter distance from where you’re sitting. The pavement on the sidewalk isn’t the most comfortable place to sit in, but Donghyuck thinks it might just be, with how comfortable and at peace you look: legs stretched out to the street, headphones covering your ears, a book (or a journal perhaps, Donghyuck can’t see well from here) in one of your hands while the other is twirling a pen.

The scene takes him back to ten years ago, in the exact same place where you’re sitting, and if Donghyuck thinks about it now, it seems like nothing’s really change—except he’s almost twenty-three now, and despite him standing a few meters away from you, it feels like you and him are worlds away. And from what it looks like, you still love writing as much as Donghyuck loves singing.

It was a warm evening in May 2013, a couple of weeks before school ended and summer would officially start, counting down the nights when Donghyuck would have to move back to Seoul, and it was way too hot for Donghyuck’s liking. Nana didn’t have an air-conditioning system yet; his father was working hard to get her one before they leave for Seoul because summers can be crazy hot in Jeju-do. And Donghyuck needed a popsicle so bad, otherwise, he’d probably explode.

He found you the same place where you are now. Donghyuck thought your SHINEE shirt looked cute because while girls your age liked the newly debuted EXO, you still listened to SHINEE like a religion. You were sitting with your legs sprawled on the street, right under the streetlight, a pen in one hand and your old, beaten up journal on the other. Your eyebrows were furrowed, and Donghyuck caught himself before he could start thinking about how pretty you looked like that: focused and doing what you loved.

Donghyuck decided not to disrupt your focus and opted to go straight inside the small store, spending the last of his money on yours and his favorite: lime and cherry twin popsicle—the kind that’s packaged in one, two flavors in one, lime green and cherry red colors separated in the middle between popsicle sticks. Lime for you, cherry for him. You didn’t look up when he sat beside you, but took the lime-flavored popsicle from his hand when he handed it to you after peeling off the plastic cover and breaking it into two.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, taking the ice-cold treat in your mouth. Donghyuck couldn’t help but think his cherry-flavored popsicle resembled the color of your lips.

Donghyuck nodded his thoughts away, leaning in to peak at the page you’re working on. “What are you working on?” he asked it while the popsicle rested on one side of his mouth, his left cheek protruding.

You shrugged, taking the popsicle off your mouth, showing your work to him. Donghyuck found it endearing that you write all over the pages of your journals, it was as though he could see your train of thoughts: some smudged, some erased under ink but not really because he could still read through it, some clear as day, some to never see daylight again.

“I was in Science class today,” you started.

“We’re in the same homeroom, dumbass. I was there.”

“I’m talking,” you whined. “And I doubt you were even listening. You hate Science more than anything.”

“Fair point,” he hummed. “Okay, what about Science class? Please don’t tell me you’ll start writing about Science. Because I’m so sorry. I’ll never read any of your work ever again if you decide to do that.”

You laughed, the melody of your fondness of his jokes creating its own room inside the crevices of Donghyuck’s brain. “Teacher Kim was talking about symbiosis.”

“I’m not even going to pretend I know what that means.”

“Symbiosis is a term describing any relationship or interaction between two dissimilar organisms. The specific kind of symbiosis depends on whether either or both organisms benefit from the relationship,” you continued. “Butterflies and flowers, they are the best examples of symbiosis.”

Donghyuck nodded, savoring the sweetness of his cherry-flavored treat.

“Hence I did some research and read more about butterflies and flowers, and I read something a little sad,” you trailed off. “I learned that certain flowers bloom when butterflies hatch and depends on how they match each other. Butterflies, they prefer light-colored flowers they can perch on. So, when the timing is off, the flower misses the butterfly. The butterfly, therefore, finds another flower.”

“Then what happens to the flower?” Donghyuck asked, watching as you try to catch the melting piece off your popsicle, taking it back to your mouth. Your lips looked really pretty. “If it misses all the timing?”

“Well,” you shrugged, looking up to the night sky. The stars in Jeju-do that night were much prettier than it is in Seoul. “They bloom again next year, and hope that maybe next time, the timing is better. That the butterfly arrives just in time for the flowers to bloom.

“That is a little sad,” Donghyuck acknowledged. He watched you look back down, grimacing a little as you take the popsicle off your mouth. “Wanna try mine?” he asked before he could think about it.

You looked back at him. The stars in Jeju-do turned out to be nothing compared to your eyes. “Yeah?”

Donghyuck pulled the sweet treat from his mouth just as you hand him your lime-flavored one. He took it in his mouth, and Donghyuck had never been the biggest fan of anything sour, but for some reason, the lime flavor tasted sweeter than ever. You took his cherry-flavored ones, groaning in delight as you taste the treat’s sweetness.

“Cherry has always been my favorite,” you’d confessed, and Donghyuck was surprised because you’d always gotten the lime-flavored ones. The twin pops were your thing since you met summer of 2006—it was cheap, practical for two kids, two-in-one; you’d always choose the lime ones. “God, this is good.”

“You literally always take the lime ones,” he argued. “My whole life has been a lie. I’ve always thought lime was your favorite because you always take it whenever we get this!”

You shrugged. “You never liked anything sour,” you said like it’s the easiest thing to say, like it didn’t make Donghyuck’s heart somersault. “And I can take a little bit of sourness if it means you enjoy your cherry-flavored popsicle.”

Donghyuck was only twelve. He didn’t know anything about falling in love, but that night might just be the closest thing.

“So, you drink alcohol to help you fall asleep?” you ask as if it’s the most interesting solution to insomnia. Donghyuck thinks it isn’t; he’s read somewhere online that alcohol really helps. “That’s stupid.”

Donghyuck shrugs. “It’s not really working great right now. But it helps.”

He sits beside you on the sidewalk, legs sprawled out just like yours, a can of cold beer one hand while the other holds him up, flat on the rough pavement. There’s no particular reason why Donghyuck’s talking to you now. You and him got off the wrong foot, and it’s not like you can really blame Donghyuck for seeing a (supposed) stranger sleeping at his grandmother’s patio. And you were friends. Even though it’s been years, Donghyuck reckons talking to you would do no harm. Besides, if he’s staying here for a few months, a companion would probably make it less miserable.

“And your father thinks coming to Jeju-do would help, too?” you ask.

Donghyuck chuckles. “I guess you could say that. What else have you heard about me?”

You look at him, away from the street and right into his eyes. Donghyuck wonders why he didn’t recognize you the first time he saw you. Your face looks the same from the day he bid you goodbye a decade ago—lips colored in cherry, eyes bright as the stars, cheeks soft all over.

“A lot,” you answer. “But I’ve never been one to believe in rumors anyway.”

Donghyuck licks his lips. “The rumors are true.”

“Not about the sleeping around and getting drunk, pabo,” you mutter. “That, I believe.”

“Which ones?” he asks.

“People are saying you no longer like being on stage,” you say. It’s not the first time Donghyuck’s heard it. “That you’ve been burnt out from working all these years. And that you don’t care about music anymore.”

Donghyuck snickers. “That’s true, too.” He throws his head back, chugging on the cold beer. “I’m so over it. I don’t even care what happens after this.”

“Oh, Donghyuckie,” you whisper softly, eyes still glued to his face. “What has the limelight done to you?”

Donghyuck only shrugs, finishing off the rest of the cold beer, helping himself up and taking the plastic bag full of iced cold beer from the store.

“I don’t think that’s something you should be worried about,” Donghyuck says. You keep your eyes on him, so you’re looking up from where you’re seated and Donghyuck looks down on you. “It’s getting late. Wanna go drink at Nana’s?”

“Nana would kill you if she finds alcohol inside her house,” you say.

“I’ve snuck in about twenty bottles since I arrived last week and she hasn’t noticed,” he confesses.

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” you laugh.

Donghyuck freezes for a moment, watching you stand in between giggles. Mark said the same think a couple of weeks ago, but it doesn’t sting when you say it. You say it in laughter. Like it’s okay. Like it doesn’t scare you.

“My house is down the street,” you say, helping yourself up and standing in front of him. Donghyuck remembers. “I’ll call Nana and let her know you’re with me.”

A bark startles Donghyuck for a second. You and him turn to find a golden Labrador running towards where you stand.

“Aw, my baby’s here to pick me up,” you announce with the softest voice. The lab runs, almost dashes towards you, and Donghyuck is taken aback when it tackles him—not you—knocking the plastic bag off his hands and resulting to him landing his butt back to the pavement. “Pororo!” you shriek, not in surprise but with a tone of betrayal. “I’m your mother!”

Donghyuck hears you shriek, but laughs through it because the golden lab is hogging him, licking him all over as if he’d miss him all these years. “Oh, baby, you’re so cute,” he coos, cradling the dog by its face, looking up at you as the dog licks his face. “This is yours?”

You fight back a smile, but you lose immediately because your face breaks with a grin. “What has the limelight done to you?” you ask, the same question from earlier, but a different tone—teasing, nostalgic, like years ago.

The dog sniffs him all over and you stand there watching them.

“Can’t even recognize your own dog now?” you tease, walking so you could pet the dog and have him follow you. “It’s the puppy Nana got you a month before you left Seoul. You couldn’t bring him with you, and Nana couldn’t take care of him when you left, so I adopted him, pabo.”

“Pororo?” Donghyuck finally, finally recognizes. Pororo looks like he’s nodding, like saying thank God, you remembered me! The dog goes back to tackle him. “Oh, Pororo! My baby!”

You lead the way to your house, Pororo following after you. He watches you take several steps ahead of him. He feels dizzy watching the scene in front of him. Donghyuck understands what Renjun is talking about now.

Humans remember a singular aspect of an event from his or her past that a complete representation of the entire scene is reactivated in the brain like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle coming together to create a vivid recollection. You’re the representation of his entire life in Jeju-do, a clear image before Haechan, and he’s fucking sorry he forgot about you all these years.

But that’s an apology you’d never hear from him. Instead, he watches you, taking a small step towards you, and decides he’ll allow his unsaid apology to be added on the long list of reasons why he can’t sleep at night.

Nostalgia comes in waves, they say, but why do you bring it to him like a hurricane?

Donghyuck could say that Nana is impressed with the drastic change of character in the span of six weeks.

She’s been treating him better these days; by “better”, Donghyuck means she’s been cutting off a few hours from work so he could spend more time at her home, guarding the hens and roosters that serve at her alarm clock and watering her plants from her small vegetable garden. She’s also been paying him, giving him a small envelope with cash and a small paper that resembled a payslip showing the number of hours he’d work for the week, and Donghyuck ignores the quick jump from his heart when he sees your signature at the end of it, affirming that the hours listed are accurate. Donghyuck takes the money, of course, after Nana threatened to beat him up because she’d be breaking Korea’s labor laws if he doesn’t accept it, and he keeps it all in a small box in his room, planning to show it to his members when he goes back to Seoul and brag about working like a normal civilian at the age of 23.

There is a pinch in his heart when he remembers his members. While Donghyuck has been working on (and failing to) sober up for an entire month, his members have not called nor texted him. He’d been reaching out, of course. Some of his members have been assigned solo projects and activities in the last month, and he ensures to congratulate them. All he’s gotten so far are the receipts that his messages have been read.

Donghyuck convinces himself that it’s probably SM that advised everyone not to give him a time of their day, that they probably think being away from work means disconnecting from everyone, too, that his members love him and also believe that he needs some time off from everything.

But the convincing can only do much. The convincing distracts him while he’s at work, or while he’s watering Nana’s plants, but it doesn’t do much at night. Still, after six weeks, Donghyuck is nowhere near clean.

He wakes up with a terrible headache every day (from lack of sleep or hangover, he’s not really certain), and his Nana has been oddly making hangover soup for breakfast. Donghyuck wonders whether you’d ratted him out or his mother had called her about it. Either way, she probably knows something’s up.

His mother had called him a few times now, Seungyeon, too, and it’s been casual. His mother’s voice always sounded like she’s walking on eggshells whenever she’d call, blurting a half-assed apology for not seeing him before he left and telling him she’d forgiven him and that she’s looking forward to seeing her in a few months. Seungyeon talks to him the most, almost every day, in short text messages and 10-minute calls on the weekends when she doesn’t have to worry about waking up early the next day.  And she talks to him about the most random thing, nothing ever related to his obsession with drinking or the scandal, which makes Donghyuck feel better somehow.

Six weeks didn’t make much of a difference, not that Donghyuck was expecting any. The only thing that’s changed so far is that, he’s not as exhausted as he was in Seoul despite his shitty sleeping schedule continuously fucking up his already deteriorated mental health. He hasn’t been listening to songs for quite a while, and he’s been drinking every night. And if it means anything to him, you’ve been hanging out with him while he drinks.

In six weeks, he learns that you’re not much of a drinker. You don’t have many friends that you could really invite for a drink in a nearby pub or in a samgyeopsal restaurant. You’d mentioned that most people your age have all moved on to different places, spewing names that were once familiar to Donghyuck and telling him where they are now. Donghyuck is yet to learn why you had stayed in Jeju-do, not once stepping in Seoul, when the world off this island’s shores are much, much bigger than you think.

It’s two in the morning. You’d taken him home because he could barely keep his head up with the number of soju bottles he had downed, and he appreciates that you try to stay quiet when you put him to bed and leave, keeping the blinds closed because he’d told you once that the morning sunlight seeping through spaces between the curtains hurt his eyes. You’d left when Donghyuck’s barely awake.

His phone dings a notification. Donghyuck probably won’t remember so he reaches over, checking it and recognizing his mother’s name.

She sends him an article about the upcoming debut of NCT DoJaeJung, and Donghyuck’s seen it in the groupchat for some time now. Donghyuck isn’t even halfway down the article when she sends another one: Mark’s solo song.

She doesn’t add another message, and he sees her status change from online to offline in a split second, but she doesn’t really have to say anything else for him to understand.

Donghyuck’s dream has always been the spotlight.

Or at least, as he recognizes now, his mother’s dream for him has always been the spotlight.

Donghyuck always thought he loved making people happy and singing equally.

While people called him kind and a ray of sunshine, Mark’s always called him out for being a people-pleaser, reminding him that he doesn’t have to make sure everyone is happy with the choices he’d make, telling him he doesn’t have to feel the strong urge to please everyone. And Donghyuck never understood it until now, now that he’s wide awake and looking at his mother’s messages. She’s probably expecting a solo project for him, too, and she sends these things that make her happy, and she’s already expecting him he’d do it no matter what. Donghyuck’s mother is a good person; he’d look up at her and think to himself that when he grows up, he’d want to be as supportive as his mother, and don’t get him wrong when he says she expects him to do anything that’d make her happy. Because this is all Donghyuck’s fault, anyway.

With his desire to make her the happiest, he’s done everything he could to make her happy, even at his own expense.

The infamous Saturday audition at SM was something Donghyuck never thought about—not at the age of 13 when he had just gotten back in Seoul after five years of staying in Jeju-do. His accent has changed and he reckons he could have a good relationship with boys his age who grew up in the city. And as much as he loved performing, Donghyuck doesn’t like being criticized. He doesn’t like rejection, and he can’t bare the thought of adults telling him he couldn’t sing.

Hence, his initial answer to his mother’s proposal to visit SM Entertainment and give it a try was no. The only thing that had made him go, knees shaking and palms sweaty, was his mother’s words: “It’ll truly make me happy if you give it a try.”

She’d said it in many occasions, and Donghyuck’s given everything that’d make her happy a try. She’d never said a bad thing and even told him a few times that it’s okay if he doesn’t want to, but he does it anyway.

Donghyuck was afraid that she’d love him less if he didn’t make her happy. He was only thirteen, and his twenty-three now, and his biggest fear hasn’t changed: to be loved less because he didn’t make them happy enough.

So, Haechan blurts out the most random jokes when the cameras are on and initiates skinship with the member even if they abhor him for it and style his hair a different way, because it makes the fans happy. Haechan stays up learning the tune of the new song and recording himself in his phone for hours even after an entire day of physical activities, because it makes the producers happy. Haechan takes his friends and the younger members to dinner after a 16-hour flight from the west on the night of his birthday—his eyes barely open the entire time—because it makes them happy. Haechan plays the maknae role perfectly, even when at times he’s tired of it, because it makes the older members happy. Haechan continues to be a sunny and bright character even on days when he’s exhausted, because it makes his managers happy.

But the truth is, Donghyuck doesn’t like dyeing his hair. His hair’s gotten so unhealthy from dyeing it different colors last year.

Donghyuck feels awful sometimes, when his friends do not return his affection, but he plays it off, feigning hurt even when it actually does.

Donghyuck wants to sleep after a 16-hour flight.

Donghyuck wants to drink with his hyungs, too.

Donghyuck just wants to sing and write songs when he’s learned enough.

Donghyuck doesn’t want to be like Mark, or Doyoung, or anyone else.

Donghyuck wants Haechan to be… Donghyuck.

Donghyuck wants to be happy—in his own terms, by his own choices.

But how can he be happy when he’s always depended his happiness on the people he loves?

Donghyuck feels like a dead man walking.

You and Donghyuck are tasked to bring the harvested fruits at the farmer’s market in the early hours of Sunday.

It’s barely five in the morning, and the sun’s not even out yet, but you had forced him to sleep early the night before to make sure he’d accompany you to the market. (He didn’t sleep though; he lied awake until his phone rang and you’re calling from outside.) You’d driven the farm’s truck to get here, and Donghyuck can’t help but admire the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand.

Donghyuck helps you carry the boxes out of the truck, arranging them in front of his grandmother’s store. You had walked in while he carries the rest inside and Donghyuck hears you talk to Eunseuk, his Nana’s sales person who handles and manages their place in the public market.

“That’s awful,” Donghyuck hears you say as soon as he places the last of the boxes in a corner. “Can’t the mayor do anything about it?

Eunseuk sighs, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, it looks like the donation project Nana’s driven wasn’t enough. She barely made enough profit last quarter because she’d donated most of it to the project.”

“What is awful and what project are we talking about?” Donghyuck interrupts.

Eunseuk smiles sadly at him. “The clinic that Nana’s been proposing to the mayor for years now. The town’s mayor thinks it’s not going to be built this year.” Donghyuck’s never heard of it.

“The community has a lot of elderly people who live alone in Jeju-do,” you explain when you notice his curiosity. “Especially in here in the island, even more here in our town. Most people leave Jeju-do at the age of eighteen to find a better life in Seoul, which is ridiculous because there’s no place better than Jeju-do, and Nana thought it’d be great if she built a small clinic for the elderly nearby, that way they wouldn’t have to travel fifty kilometers to visit the nearest hospital. It’d be great if the elderly can have themselves checked for free and to have, if not all, most equipment they’d need.”

“How is that possible?” Donghyuck asks.

“Well,” Eunseuk starts. “First, we need the funds to actually build the clinic itself. Nana is halfway through the amount needed. The mayor’s children are doctors, and if he wants to keep winning the next elections, I’m sure he’d be happy to have them volunteer.”

“What about maintenance?” he asks.

“Good question,” you say. “And good thinking. I like it, you’re already thinking ahead, Donghyuck-ah. Anyway, the elderly is very much willing to do community service in exchange of the maintenance of the small clinic. And don’t worry, it’s not like Nana’s going to make them work like horses.”

“Services like crocheting products for the local market,” Eunseuk adds. “Food manufacturing—the kind that would allow them to make while sitting down, local farming, jewelry-making, and the like. Things we can sell in the market. You know how tourists are so keen on buying anything hand-made.”

“So, a clinic for the elderly built and maintained by the elderly?” Donghyuck sums up.

“Exactly!”

“How much are we looking at in terms of money?” He asks.

You chuckle. “If you’re grandmother wanted to ask money from you, she would have already. She has some kind of pride, you know.”

“Well, I’ll give it you and you tell her it’s an anonymous donation.”

“As if she’d believe that bullshit,” you answer. “Anyway, Eunseuk-eonnie, what do we do now?”

The older woman shrugs. “We’ll keep selling tangerines until we reach the goal, I guess.”

Donghyuck talks before he could think about it. “I can do something.”

You and Eunseuk look at him like you’d just seen a ghost.

“I don’t know what I can offer,” he says right away. “But I’ll… I think I can do something.”

“Donghyuck,” you say. “You can sing.”

“I am aware,” he jokes.

“No, you can sing,” you repeat. Donghyuck looks back at you. “You can sing, so I’m sure you can teach people how to sing.”

“And?” He doesn’t get it.

“It’s summer,” you answer. “Most kids are bored and are probably looking for something meaningful to do while they wait for school to start again. Teach kids how to sing and have their parents pay for it!”

Donghyuck thinks it’s a good idea. “And you can write.”

You freeze. “No.”

“Teach kids how to write and have their parents pay for it.”

“Over my dead body!”

“I will do it only if you do it.”

Eunseuk laughs, “Oh, this is good.”

“No, Donghyuck. I’m not a professional writer. I didn’t even go to college. I don’t have the credentials for it.”

“You don’t have to go college to be a writer,” he snorts. “Scott Fitzgerald didn’t even finish college.”

“Where’d you even learn that?”

“You told me when we were kids!” he answers, laughing. “Come on, Y/N. I’m sure Nana can find someone to do your job in the farm while we teach kids.”

“I don’t know, Donghyuck,” you sigh.

Eunseuk lightly slaps your arm. “Come on, young lady. Do it for the elderly.”

“Yeah, Y/N, do it for the elderly.”

The sparkle in your eyes and the smile on your lips tell Donghyuck you agree.

And so, the plan goes accordingly.

Donghyuck could say that Nana is more than delighted to learn that his delinquent and embarrassing grandson, who’s spent all this time pretending he doesn’t care, had decided to help out. You’d done the most part, of course— obtaining the permit from the mayor’s office and settling all the paperwork needed. All Donghyuck had to do was to help clean up and renovate his grandfather’s old office in the farm. Everyone else who had some free time helped because apparently, that’s what this community does. Donghyuck could probably get used to receiving help without him asking for it.

So, in more or less five days, his grandfather’s old office, which is about forty square meters, had turned into the community’s summer class headquarters. You and Donghyuck decided to call it Nana’s Music and Literature Classes. And with the help of Eunseuk and some of the workers, the word spread like news from the radio. In a week’s time, you and Donghyuck have over twenty student each. Mondays and Wednesdays were his schedule; yours were Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fridays were called Hyuckie and Y/C/N’s day—which means you and him would dedicate an entire day brainstorming and talking about your class’ progress.

The summer courses would take eight weeks to complete, and at the end of it would be a competition, in which the Mayor promised he’d give a very big reward for. Those who enrolled in Donghyuck’s classes would have a recital at the end of summer where the kids will hold a small concert for the town—tickets to be sold as part of the drive, of course—and the judges will be identified to select three winners. As for your classes, it will be a short story competition, and the winners will be announced on the night of the small concert, which Donghyuck is the best ending any summer could have.

The place is cramped, and Donghyuck’s never been more excited his entire life.

He’s gone to many places and met with many prominent people in this lifetime. But he’s decided that this is the most exhilarating day of his life.

The parents leave as soon as Donghyuck assures them that the kids will be safe and will be all set for pick up by 3 in the afternoon. You’re talking to the kids while he ensures that the room is cool enough for everybody. The room is filled with excitement that Donghyuck could feel inside him. He learned from the parents he’d met just a few minutes ago that the town doesn’t really offer things like this for children and that they’d have to send their kids to summer camp in the mainland if they wanted them to experience this, and the fact that you and him are doing this for a cause makes it even better.

Donghyuck views this like it’s not as big as the drives NCT had been doing, or the charity concerts he takes part in, or the money he donates to various causes, but to the people of the town, it’s bigger than anything they had ever known.

“Aigoo,” one of the parents cooed when she’d seen Donghyuck greet everybody outside. “Your grandparents have always been kind. They’d been the pillar of this small town for quite some time now. I’m glad you’re growing up a good man.”

You’d smiled at him when you heard that, and Donghyuck wonders if you also think he’s growing up a good man, because he thinks you grew up to be such an amazing, compassionate person.

“Hello, kids!” Donghyuck greets. Everybody says it back with the same enthusiasm, and despite having been in hundreds of shows with thousands of people in the audience, he can’t remember the last time a crowd made him feel alive.

Donghyuck hates being recognized.

When his career had just started, he thought that the greatest compliment was to be recognized. He thought that he’d measure his success with the number of people from the general public who could recognize him under a hat and with a face mask covering half his face. But in the latter years of his career, he’d learned the hard way that he hated being seen and being recognized.

There had been many happenstances in his job in which he’d just wish he was invisible for a moment. Anytime he’s in an airport, regardless it was for an event or concert overseas, or worst of it all, a vacation with his family, all Donghyuck wants is for people not to know who he is. In afternoon runs by himself, all he needs is a time alone and not girls following him and taking pictures of him. On days when he’s out with friends and family, all he hopes is peace. This comes with the job, Johnny would tell him whenever he’d get frisky and annoyed, but Donghyuck never really understood why his privacy is anyone’s business. Never really understood why he had to go through this when all he’s ever really wanted was sing.

Donghyuck hates being seen.

More than anything. Especially when he’s trying hard to hide. And he wishes he’s only talking about his physical appearance being seen. He hates that his grandmother sees through him but doesn’t say anything about it unless he opens up first. He hates that Mark, his best friend in the entire world, sees right through his walls and that all Donghyuck’s done is push him away and make him hate him even more. He hates that his father sees his pain, but doesn’t talk about it for some reason. He hates that you see him—all of him—but you don’t look at him with disgust or pity or anything of that sort.

It’s Friday, yours and his day, the second one since summer school’s started, and he’d started calling you by your childhood nickname again. You’d grimaced the first time and told him nobody’s called you that in a long time, but allowed him nonetheless.

The clock strikes six in the afternoon and the dusk had just settled in the horizon. You and him are sitting on the floor of his room, facing each other, separated by a small table, notepads scattered, ideas running a hundred miles per second.

“This is perfect,” you comment when you and him had finished planning out next week’s daily agenda. “The kids are going to love it!”

Donghyuck stays silent, eyes on you as you finally set your pen down.

“What should we have for dinner?” you ask, eyes still on the notepad. “Nana’s probably heating up some leftover galbi, but I think we should make some kimchi stew, too.”

Donghyuck hums. You look up at him. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I just had something in mind.”

You tilt your head. “Tell me.”

“It’s a question,” he says. “And if I say it, you’d have to answer.”

You think about it for a moment. Donghyuck almost takes it back. “Sure.”

“Really?”

You nod. “As long as you answer a question from me, too.”

Donghyuck pretends to think about it. “Can we set some rules?”

“It’s literally one question,” you snort. “Come on. Ask me.”

“No, ask me first,” he insists.

“You asked first.”

“No. Ask me first,” he repeats.

You scoff. “Fine. You have to tell me the truth, yeah?” A nod. “Ready?” Another.

Donghyuck holds his breath for a moment and you don’t say anything for about a minute, probably thinking the same as him: this is the only chance both of you are honest and open, might as well ask a question one wouldn’t answer on a normal day.

“How are you?”

He exhales the breath he’s been holding and nearly breaks down in tears when he hears the question you’d decided to ask. He’s sure you’ve heard of it all. Everything’s been all over the internet for the past two months he’d been in hiding in Jeju-do: the drinking, the nights in clubs and bars, the fights with the members, the cherry on top which is the scandal. It’d all spiraled into everything he was initially afraid of. The girl he’d met at the back of the club had sold him to reporters and had made up a story of how they’ve been in a sexual relationship for quite some time. The media had dug up stories of him being out of control in the streets when he’s shitfaced from all the soju he had and had posted tales of him asking multiple women to sleep with him whenever he’s drunk.

The agency sued everyone for making shit up, of course, but Donghyuck knows half of those are the truth. He has not been the best group member in a long time: always late in practices, grumpy and hangover during fan signs, lethargic during concerts, and fucking up performances. He’s lost himself, and he’s losing everyone in the process of it.

People ask him if he’d really had sex with someone at the back of a bar. They’d ask him why he never asked for help with his drinking problem. Comments from his Instagram would tell him to back off and just leave the group. Fans from calls and fan signs would ask him why he’d stop making covers of the songs he loved and why he hasn’t been on Bubble in a long period of time.

But nobody else had really asked him how he’s been aside from Nana, who he doesn’t have the heart to open up to.

“I—” He starts but swallows, breathing in. You wait for him. “I’m—I don’t really—I’m not sure if I can.”

You nod. “Take your time, Donghyuck.”

Donghyuck reminds himself to breathe.

How is he? How has been holding up after everything that’s happened?

He’s lost his spark. He’s lost his love for music, his passion for the stage, the sparkle in his eyes. He’s losing the people he loves. He’s losing his friends. And he’s losing a battle with himself.

He’s—

“I’m, ” he tries again. “Y/N, I’m not okay.”

It pours like rain, his tears. He shakes when he cries and his chest is tight and it’s hard to breathe, but he keeps crying because it’s the only time he ever will. He sobs in pain and holds himself when his entire body shakes from the ache of it all.

He’s grieving, weeping, like how one would in a funeral, because how does he ask for forgiveness? How does he ask forgiveness from his parents and siblings? From his members? From his fans? From the staff and the people who’d brought him to where he is? How does he ask forgiveness from little Donghyuck when all he’d wanted was for him to grow up a good man?

You let him cry, and only reach out to hand him a handkerchief when he’s done. You don’t say anything. Instead you kneel and reach over to hug him from the other side. Donghyuck accepts your tenderness.

“I don’t have anything else to ask,” you murmur against his hair. “But I do want to say that you’re loved in ways you probably have forgotten already. You’ve probably been used to love that’s loud—screaming and flamboyant and beautiful and everything anyone would want—but you’re also loved quietly. In a small, serene room. In a way you’ve forgotten.”

“Thank you,” he says, sniffling, a little embarrassed now. “I’m sorry. I probably ruined the moment.”

You chuckle, pulling away, and Donghyuck’s heart does flips when you kiss the top of his head like you always did when you were younger. He doesn’t know why he remembers all of a sudden.

“Stop apologizing,” you reply. “There’s nothing to apologize about.”

“There’s a lot,” he admits. “I didn’t recognize you the first time I saw you. We did everything when we were kids, and I didn’t recognize you.”

“And it’s okay,” you assure, holding the top of his hand that’s resting on the small table. “I didn’t expect you to recognize me right away. You were worlds away from me. We forget people and that’s okay.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not. I promised to keep in touch, and I never did. I’m sorry.”

You nod. “You’re forgiven.”

Donghyuck sighs in relief. “I doubt, but okay.”

“Trust me.” He does. “Anyway, you were going to ask me something. You’re not allowed to ask the same thing because I’d just answer that I’m tired and I want to sleep. Nothing big happens in my life.”

Donghyuck smiles again. “Ready?” A nod. “Why’d you never leave Jeju-do?”

It seems like you didn’t expect the question because your face tells Donghyuck you’re surprised by what he just asked. You lick your lip and exhale largely, looking everywhere but his eyes. Donghyuck allows you to take your time, and you’re not running away so he’s assuming you’re thinking of an answer for him.

“I don’t have a dream,” is your answer. “My parents think it’s not normal. Because even they had already left the town and moved to a bigger place off the island. People think it’s impossible that I don’t have a dream, that I must want something in life, I just haven’t discovered it yet. And I’m twenty-three, I’m still waiting for my awakening, for dreams to find me, but it hasn’t. I don’t want to do anything in life but just… survive.”

Donghyuck only listens. “In high school, when we were deciding what to take up in college and which college we’d go to, I had nothing in mind. I didn’t want a career—not an engineer, not a teacher, not a doctor, none of those. I couldn’t think of anything. Writing is something that I love doing, but I really can’t see myself pursuing it as a career. I don’t want to end up hating it. I’ve always been convinced that I wasn’t specifically good at anything apart from that. I’m okay with all subjects at school, average grades and all, but nothing ever stood out for me. I never stood out. And I was okay with it for a reason I still don’t know. I was okay with not having dreams. College was the only reason for me to leave Jeju-do. There’s nothing else, therefore I’m still here. At twenty-three, I haven’t accomplished much, and if you want me to be all out and honest,” you sigh. “It’s… it’s starting to scare me.”

“What scares you?”

“That I haven’t accomplished anything yet,” you admit. “I’m not one to, you know, force myself to people and make them remember me. I wasn’t scared of oblivion. Until… these days, I’ve been asking myself, how are people going to remember me?”

Donghyuck nods, urges you to continue.

“Are they going to remember me as someone who helps out in your Nana’s farm because I had nothing to do?” you voice out. “Are they going to remember me as someone who brings all the deliveries to the farmer’s market when the staff is unavailable? Are they going to remember be as Eunseuk’s co-worker? Are they going to remember me at all?”

 “Can I tell you something?” he asks but doesn’t wait for you to answer. “I know I’m not in the position to say anything about remembering you when I couldn’t recognize you the first time we met after a decade, but I remember you by the way I see cherry blossoms.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Is that a good thing?”

“We met in a puddle of fallen cherry blossoms in summer of 2006,” he explains. “I remember you by the way you admired flowers that fall off from its stem, by the way you loved fallen and broken things equally when they were perfect and when they stood still. I may have awfully forgotten you all these years, but the way I see cherry blossoms is the exact same way you see them.”

Donghyuck continues, “You know how they say we’re a manifestation of all the people we met, right? That we’re a mosaic of everything we’ve ever learned from them. To me, I remember you as the clear image of who I was before… before everything that’s happened. I remember you as someone helping me find my way back home.”

“Donghyuck,” you trail off. “That’s the… best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Donghyuck smiles. “And so, what if you don’t have big dreams? Dreams are just dreams anyway. You don’t have to have one if you don’t want to. You shouldn’t have to struggle so much in order to live.”

“Do people know you’re this kind and profound?” you chuckle. “People should see this side of Lee Donghyuck.”

“Call yourself lucky you’re the only one,” he answers.

“What’s wrong with people seeing this side?”

Donghyuck shrugs. “I don’t think they’d want the boring kind. I think they like me better when I’m funny and over the top and a sucker for attention.”

“Well,” you click your tongue. “I like you either way.”

Donghyuck is barely twenty-three. And if he knows anything about falling in love, this might just be the moment he truly learns it.

You and him end up falling asleep on his bed. Donghyuck likes to think he doesn’t really remember how it happened. You’d told him you’d sleep in the hammock at his house’s patio, but he’d insisted to sleep in his room, of course. Reason? Mosquitoes, of course. Donghyuck said he’d sleep on the floor, taking an extra pillow, but you were already half asleep, moving so your body is right by the wall, safe and sound. You’d save the extra space for him to sleep beside you. Donghyuck likes to think he’d fallen asleep because he was exhausted and not because he felt safe around you.

It’s the longest sleep he’s had in a long time.

He wakes up at eight in the morning, the room already warm despite the air-conditioning system still switched on. You are no longer beside him, but he clearly hears your voice from outside.

Donghyuck gets up, going straight outside and finds everyone from the farm gathered around for breakfast outside his grandmother’s house. He’d forgotten that his Nana invited everybody for a scrumptious breakfast today, Saturday, and he wonders why neither you nor Nana herself had woken him up to help out.

Farmers and harvesters pass a plate to one another. A long table is set up in the middle of Nana’s driveway space, various of dishes laid out, and Donghyuck finds you holding two pitchers of tangerine juice, walking around to fill up the workers’ cups.

It’s Eunseuk who sees Donghyuck standing by the patio watching everybody move around.

“There’s our Donghyuckie!” she announces.

Everyone looks at him and greets him a good morning. Nana shouts his name and asks him to come over and eat some breakfast. You squint when you look at him, the sun blinding your eyes, but you smile as soon as he waves hi.

Donghyuck can’t help but think being recognized is not so bad after all.

Donghyuck spends the rest of summer like a kid.

Except he goes to work at Nana’s Music and Literature Classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, goes to the farm on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and spends his Fridays with you. He learns many things over the summer, especially about the community and the town itself. He meets more people as Donghyuck, Nana’s grandson who teaches children how to sing and who helps out in the farm two days a week. They accept him as he is, and he feels like seven again, meeting new people every day until they all remember him by his name.

Among the things he’s learned, he likes learning how your lips taste the most.

It was sudden, unplanned, the kind where he didn’t know he was doing it until he’s done it. You and him were ending a Friday session at your place that time, the place where he used to hide his drinks, and he was so elated that he wasn’t going home drunk for the first time since he arrived in Jeju-do. And he was bidding you goodbye. He’d leaned it like it was the most natural thing to do and caught your lips in his. You shrieked in surprise, unable to say anything, but tipped on your toes and gave him a second kiss before turning and running inside your house.

You didn’t talk about it, and Donghyuck felt like it was not something to talk about. You had voiced out you liked him in many occasions, and Donghyuck’s been relentlessly flirting with you since the night you fell asleep in his room. The signs were never mixed and the lines were never blurred. Donghyuck’s grown much closer to you more than anyone else in the world, and he’s been falling asleep in the safety of your arms these days. It was safe to say the kisses weren’t meaningless.

The night of his class’ recital comes quickly.

Donghyuck spend the entire two days practicing with each of his students while you were busy reading all of your students’ works and giving them feedback before they submit it to the Mayor’s office. You find him getting ready in his room, dressed in the only button-down shirt he brought from Seoul and a pair of slacks. Meanwhile, it’s the first time he’s seeing you in a dress that somehow matches the colors of his outfit.

“Looking great, handsome,” you say.

Donghyuck pulls you for a kiss. “Could say the same to you, beautiful.”

“Why are you so touchy these days?” you whine but lean back to kiss him again anyway. “Ready? One of the parents called and said his kid is already in the venue. They’re excited.”

Donghyuck nods, grabbing a jacket just in case it gets cold later tonight, and leads the way out. Nana is dressed in a pretty dress Donghyuck gave her for Christmas last year. Donghyuck drives to the venue and finds himself nervous for the first time in a long time.

 You’d managed to convince him to sing tonight despite his persistent refusal.

“Come on, Donghyuck,” you begged, pulling him by the end of his shirt as he harvests tangerines. “The audience will love you!”

“They paid their tickets to watch the kids of the community sing, not me,” he argued. “And besides, I haven’t sung in like, four months. Who knows? I may have forgotten to sing already.”

“Bullshit,” you said. “Your Nana would want to hear you sing live.”

“She’s already heard me sing live many times,” he replied. “She’s been to many concerts.”

You tilt you head, a habit he’s grown to really like. “But I haven’t.”

Donghyuck had wanted to kiss the pout off your lips at that time. “Watch it from Youtube.”

“You don’t get many lines!” you said.

“So, you do watch my performances in Youtube, huh?” he teased. “Only in NCT 127 I don’t get so much lines because there are more members. Try to listen to NCT Dream.”

“Donghyuck!” you bellowed in frustration as you follow him around the farm. “Please!”

He stopped and turned, a little too late for you to step back because you’re already pressed up against his chest. “Okay.”

“Really?” you asked, voice lower because your faces were just inches apart—one wrong move and you’d be kissing in the middle of tangerine trees.

He nodded, purposely moving his face closer. “Only if you start reviewing for the SAT again and start sending your drafted college applications from your laptop.”

“Who told you to sneak in and open my files!” you gasped.

“I was checking if you’ve ever watched porn in your life and I found something better: your college applications.”

“I hate you, you know?”

Donghyuck chuckled, moving even closer to intimidate you but he hoped you couldn’t his heart hammering against his chest. “I know. Now. Do we have a deal? I’ll sing at recital night and you start reviewing for the upcoming SAT and send out your college applications when it’s time.”

“I’m—I’m not sure.”

Donghyuck let you go, you almost falling back but he held your hand before you could. “Then I’m not singing.”

“But Donghyuck!” He turned to leave while you scream behind him, pleading.

Ten steps forward and he finally got what he wanted: “Okay! I’ll do it! I’ll start reviewing and will send all the drafted college applications! I’ll do it!”

Hence, the singing stunt for tonight.

The event goes as planned.

The night starts with Donghyuck’s entire class singing their own rendition of a famous traditional song that the crowd truly loved. One by one, the kids would sing, with intermission numbers in groups in between, and by the end of it, it was Donghyuck’s turn.

The minus one track is ready and Donghyuck takes a deep breath as he walks up the stage. It’s smaller than any of the stages he’s been on—perhaps the smallest—and the lights aren’t as bright than the ones he’s used to. Big stages mean big lights, and if he’s being completely honest, he doesn’t see a single face when he’s on stage. The illuminations to ensure the fans would see them are blinding, beyond what people think. While his mother thinks his eyesight has gotten worse due to the long hours of playing APEX on his days off, Donghyuck believes it’s because of the blinding lights from the stage and everywhere he goes.

However, this stage has the gentlest lights he’s ever seen. The crowd is small, about two hundred people including their students, and from here, he can see their faces clearly. He stands not too far away, not to high, and he smiles when the crowd cheers when he reaches the middle of the stage.

“Hello, I’m Donghyuck,” he says on the mic. “I’m the teacher of the talented kids we watched this evening, and I can’t be prouder with how they sang their hearts out tonight. To show my gratitude, I also prepared a song for you.”

The crowd cheers again, your voice standing out as you stand right beside the stage, your phone already up probably recording him.

“I sang this song some time last year,” he continues. “This is Good Person.”

The instrumental plays and the crowd claps before he even starts. Donghyuck breathes, closing his eyes, and sings: “What’s going on today? Your face looks like it’s been crying. Did he break your heart? You’re the most precious person in the world to me.”

He hasn’t sung in a long time, and he barely practiced this song yesterday. Donghyuck, for some time before everything went to crumbles, felt scared going on stage. He felt as though he wouldn’t do well enough to deserve the applause and cheers, and he spent a lot of time doubting his own capabilities.

Whoever he is now, Donghyuck truly worked hard for it. At first, he only knew how to sing and it was the only thing he ever loved. And then he learned how to dance, how to stand like an idol, how to answer like a celebrity, how to have his “candid” photos taken, how to be a proper artist—even when he only wants to sing.

Standing here, now, in a small crowd, singing a song he wished was his own, he wished he had written, Donghyuck feels safe.

In Jeju-do, he feels safe. Donghyuck feels like he’s found his way home. The people he’s spent all these months with brought him comfort he’s never known—like coming home after a whole day of being pestered in the real world—and he knows that he’ll never find ease and serenity the same way Jeju-do had given him. The town took him in with open arms, like he’s not some idol who ruined their career for fleeting pleasure, like he’s not some person who’d forgotten about all of them. His Nana embraced him like he was seven again, like making mistakes is normal and that forgiving is easy when you love the person. You accepted him and taught him what falling in love means as though he was deserving of love and comfort.

The song ends with his voice dragging out the last words, his eyes closed: “I can only comfort you.”

When Donghyuck opens his eyes, the lights don’t blind him and the people he knows and love clap, cheering for him. It comes to him like pouring rain. And he allows himself to drench in it—the tenderness, the warmth, the love.

Because he deserves it. He deserves the love, therefore he takes, takes, takes, until he’s full of it.

Like many times in Donghyuck’s life, the ease and serenity end as quickly as it arrives.

You’d spent the night in his home, Donghyuck for the first time learned how to make love in bed. He’s had sex before, of course, but never like how you and him connected in his bed—moans and music of pleasure hushed by each other’s mouth, his honey-colored skin’s warmth pressed against yours, his lips and tongue tasting every inch of you. He’d said he loves you, and you’d said it back as you and him take each other.

This morning he wakes up without a headache, and he’s been waking up without one for a few weeks now. He usually wakes up with the sound of roosters from his grandmother’s backyard, or the sound of you and his Nana talking over your morning coffee. But today, he wakes up with the sound of his grandmother knocking profusely, seemingly frightened by the sound of her voice calling his name.

“Donghyuck-ah,” she shouts. “Please wake up. I don’t know what to do.”

You and Donghyuck get up startled, scrambling to put some clothes on and hurrying to open the door—only to find Nana on the verge of tears. Nana never falters, she’d only shown strength but Donghyuck finds her shaking. Nana doesn’t get the chance to answer because Joohyuk barges in, sweaty and catching his breath.

“The mayor’s security team is here,” he announces. “Let’s get going.”

“Go where?” Donghyuck asks, but Joohyuk is already pulling him.

The door opens, and Donghyuck finally realizes what’s going on.

They’d found him. Men and women with cameras shout his name—he recognizes a few from the conferences he’d attended—and flashes of lights and the stuttering sound of shutters devour him. He looks around and he can’t see you and he hears his Nana cry, and Donghyuck doesn’t understand what the fuck is going on, but he feels his legs give out. Joohyuk practically carries him to the SUV waiting outside their home.

Inside the car, Donghyuck catches a glimpse of the crowd—a crowd that looks like twice the amount of the people from the recital last night. He hears them screaming his name and he sees glints of neon green and posters as they pass by. His Nana, who sits beside him, cries and says she doesn’t understand why they’d found him. The mayor had specifically ensured that the town’s residents do not say a word about his visit way before he’d arrived and she’d done her best to protect him from the lights. He doesn’t say anything and only hugs her tight.

On the other side of Nana is you. You’re staring off the window, the fields far more interesting than what just happened, and you’re biting off the nails of your fingers and your legs wouldn’t stop bouncing. And you’re silent, and Donghyuck wonders why all of a—

Donghyuck doesn’t have to ask you to know.

You’d sold him off.

“I’m sorry,” is all you had to say when you and him are left inside the mayor’s office’s lounge. Donghyuck asked everybody to leave.

You’re sitting on the couch, eyes on the floor, while Donghyuck walks back and forth, angry. “I didn’t mean to.”

He stops walking right in front of you. “What do you mean you didn’t mean to post me on your Instagram? How could you possibly accidentally do that?!”

You keep your head low. “I—I forgot that it wasn’t on private and I didn’t have that many of followers to even be bothered by it. And one of our old friends commented and asked me if it was you—”

“And you said yes?” he enunciated. “You consciously, deliberately said yes?”

You start crying at this point. “Yes, and I’m sorry!”

“That’s a little too late now, isn’t it?”

“I just—”

“You just what? You want to play the girlfriend role so fucking bad?”

“Donghyuck, please, listen—” You get up and hold him by his arms but he backs off and rips his body from yours. “I just—I wanted the world to know that you can be kind and warm and you’re nothing like what the tabloids say—”

“So, you admit you purposely posted it!” he shouts. “What a fucking—”

“Yes!” you admit, still crying. “Because I can’t live knowing the world sees you differently when you’re generous and loving and amazing!”

Donghyuck takes a deep breath, hands on his waist, head tilted up so he can focus on the ceiling instead of the image of you crying. “You have no idea how the world fucking works, do you?”

“You always loved singing,” you reason out. “And the world shouldn’t take that away from you because of one mistake. I’m so sorry for what I’ve done. I didn’t think it through, but please understand my purpose.”

“You really have no fucking idea,” he concludes, looking down at you, right in your eyes and says: “How would you have any knowledge of what goes on outside of Jeju-do, anyway? You have never left this god damn place in your entire life and you know nothing aside from stringing words beautifully to get what you want. And you think you’re fucking cool for not having a dream and staying in an island, living your small-town girl fantasy, when in fact you’ve done nothing in life and people won’t even remember you. Why would you think you can make this decision for me? You’re just some girl who didn’t even go to college!”

“That’s enough, Donghyuck!” Nana interrupts.

Donghyuck turns and finds his Nana, Joohyuk, some of the Mayor’s security staff, his manager, and his Mother standing right outside the now opened door.

He looks back at you and you’re no longer crying. Your expression is just empty, like a light bulb burnt out.

Indeed, like many times in Donghyuck’s life, the ease and serenity end as quickly as it arrives.

They take the first flight to Seoul after successfully shooing the media and fans away. Nana travels with them, his mother deciding that it’s the best for now until everything calms down.

Donghyuck finds out during the flight that yours and his old friend from middle school had reposted the video of him singing from last night and it went viral in multiple social media platforms. Overnight, people had found out his location and the media had started interviewing people in the town. Despite the mayor instructing everyone not to say a thing, some had answered questions, even submitted entries on some forums about Haechan online.

His manager talks about how their PR team sort of thinks this might just be what he needed, says something about the locals of the town had said so many good things about him. He confirms that the post originated from your Instagram account and you had deactivated at this point and that they’re in the process of contacting your old schoolmate because the agency wants to press charges for invading his grandmother’s privacy and for bothering him on an unofficial schedule.

His mother holds his hand all through, and she offers a kind smile and kisses the top of his head.

Donghyuck cries like baby, and his mother only holds him, and perhaps that’s all he truly needs.

The crowd is just as bad when his plane lands. Donghyuck can barely see and hear considering the lights and people shouting his name. They take him to a separate SUV, away from his mother and Nana to keep them off the radar, and he sits in the car beside his manager.

“Here,” his manager hands him a phone as soon as the car starts moving. Donghyuck had forgotten his phone. It’s probably still in his room back in Nana’s house. People are still screaming his name. Donghyuck stares at his manager’s phone blankly. The screen shows he’s in a call with Mark.

Donghyuck’s hand shakes when he takes it. He puts the device over his ear and doesn’t wait for Mark to say anything.

“Mark-hyung,” he cries.

And cries. And cries. And cries. Until he arrives in SM’s headquarters and the manager has to take the phone away from him. Mark tells him he’s on the way to the headquarters with Renjun and Doyoung and that the others should be on their way after their individual schedules.

They arrive and immediately their staff take care of him like a baby, and he realizes that he’s back. He’s back. Right where he’s supposed to belong.

They take him to the PR teams office, and none of them ask how he’s doing and he’s spiraling again—already starting to think how he could please the staff and make them happy, not even an entire day of landing in Seoul and he’s already thinking about other people at his own expense.

Hence, Donghyuck makes a decision he’s never considered before.

While one of the PR associates discuss how he’s ranked number one in Naver’s most searched term, Donghyuck raises his hand.

They all look at him.

And finally, Donghyuck says: “Please get me a therapist. Please get someone who can help me.”

The room is clean and if Donghyuck’s being honest, a little too perfect for a therapist’s office. A tiny part of his fucked-up brain tries to convince him that they’d probably set him up for a documentary he’s not aware of to clean his image, so he looks around and tries to check if there are any cameras setup.

“Truly a celebrity,” Dr. Yoon says, which makes Donghyuck jump a little. The doctor stands from the door way, closing it as he steps inside. “Please, feel comfortable.”

Donghyuck thinks that’s a little impossible, but he takes a seat one of the single couches.

“The first thing that celebrities do in my office is look around for cameras,” the doctor comments, sitting on a similar chair across Donghyuck. “And I assure you that no amount of money can buy my integrity as a psychologist.”

“I’m relieved,” Donghyuck mumbles. “Hello, I’m Donghyuck.”

“Hello, Donghyuck,” the doctor greets; Donghyuck bows. “I had a quick glimpse of your situation from the form you filled out online. Are you feeling better today?”

“I guess,” Donghyuck shrugs. Dr. Yoon smiles.

“How about I ask questions and if you don’t want to answer, stay silent instead of lying to me?” He asks. Donghyuck sighs but nods. “And if you want to answer, answer as truthfully as you can, yes?” Donghyuck agrees. “Let’s start with simple questions.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

Dr. Yoon asks him many close-ended questions, to which Donghyuck had given him all the answers to, then proceeds to ask him what’s on his mind. The doctor’s notepad sits on the table between them, left open and blank even after asking so many questions.

Donghyuck is not really sure whether he’d done the right thing by seeking help, but he can’t keep hurting people just because he’s fucked up in the head. And he can’t keep hurting himself just because he can’t make the entire fucking world happy. He can’t keep drinking his insomnia away because he’s scared a doctor may tell him he’s fucked up in the head, which he knows already, he just doesn’t want it written in his medical records. He can’t keep fucking up his group’s image just because the alcohol doesn’t help his insomnia anymore. He can’t keep drowning himself in his sadness and the thought of disappointing so many people in his life—the people he left behind in Jeju-do, the members, his fans, the staff, his parents and siblings, his Nana, you.

If melatonin didn’t work, if the alcohol didn’t work, and if Jeju-do didn’t work, then perhaps a therapist is his best shot at getting better.

Donghyuck takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and begins.

“I keep thinking about how I can make everyone happy without sacrificing anything.”

The doctor finally picks up the pen and starts scribbling down.

Donghyuck keeps talking.

Donghyuck goes to therapy on Tuesdays and Fridays, and SM keeps his hiatus status active until Donghyuck decides to come back himself. It’s an agreement his parents, Donghyuck, and the agency settled while things are still chaotic.

The members are supportive of this, especially Mark and Taeyong. They’d send him cheerful messages every Tuesday and Friday, when they know that his session would begin. Sometimes, Jeno, Jisung, and Jaemin would pick him up and take him to a barbecue restaurant after. Donghyuck can’t remember how many times Renjun and Chenle had driven him to therapy and had waited for a couple of hours, only to take him to his favorite Chinese restaurant that serves the best hotpot. The older members have also driven him to therapy once or twice, with Jungwoo even signing up for therapy one time, and they’ve all given him love and tenderness—which Donghyuck accepted.

Donghyuck learns many things from Dr. Yoon. He learns that people pleasing isn't a mental illness, but it can be an issue that adversely affects how many people, with or without mental illness, relate to others. Most of all, people pleasers try to nourish other people without adequately nourishing themselves. Dr. Yoon called it Sociotrophy. He described it as the tendency to place an inordinate value on relationships over personal independence in response to the loss of relationships or conflict.

Those with sociotropic tendencies, wish to make other people happy, often at the sake of their own needs or values. While being warm, kind, and helpful are positive traits, they can result in strong feelings of resentment, anxiety, stress, and emotional depletion when they come at your expense.

People-pleasing, apparently, falls at the opposite end of the scale from autonomy. Autonomy places emphasis on independence whereas people-pleasers prioritize interpersonal relationships above all else. People-pleasers are often extremely empathic and attuned to others’ needs. A people-pleaser therefore tends to pursue intimate, affectionate, and confiding relationships. These people have a strong desire for external validation and avoid, or are sensitive to, situations where conflict may arise.  They will go above and beyond to avoid displeasing others out of fear of diminished social acceptance.

This behavior can have detrimental effects on a person’s self-worth and self-esteem.  A never-ending pursuit of approval, a desire for acceptance, and a sense of validation that arise from others happiness often result in a negative self-image. The person is likely to feel unworthy, powerless, or resentful, which may result in a lack of self-care.

The way Dr. Yoon had described it basically sums up Donghyuck as a human being.

He also learns that Sociotropic tendencies are often associated with mental health disorders such as anxiety or depression, which finally gave them Donghyuck’s diagnosis: clinical depression, also known as major depressive disorder abbreviated as MDD.

Clinical depression is a chronic condition, but it usually occurs in episodes, which can last several weeks or months. Dr. Yoon says one would likely have more than one episode in a lifetime. Donghyuck had asked him what was the difference between MDD and depression as it is.

Dr. Yoon explained that it’s normal to feel sad when you’re faced with difficult life situations, such as losing your job or a relationship. Some people may say they feel depressed during these situations. MDD is different in that it persists practically every day for at least two weeks and involves other symptoms than just sadness alone. It can be confusing because many people call clinical depression or major depressive disorder just “depression.”

Dr. Yoon also blabbered about chemicals in his brain that, well, Donghyuck really doesn’t understand much. All he knows at this point is that the treatment involves some medication and most specially psychotherapy. Apparently, studies show that the combination of these treatments is more effective than either of them alone.

Donghyuck has been investing a lot of his time in psychotherapy. His normal sessions were every Friday, thirty minutes to a maximum of an hour each. Like how his prescription doses went up, he also requested his psychotherapy sessions to be more frequent, hence Tuesdays and Fridays, minimum of one hour a session, maximum of an hour and a half.

Donghyuck likes to think that over the course of eight weeks, he’d gotten a little better. It turns out that being honest with your doctor means you’d get prescribed the right pills to take to help you fall asleep. No wonder the melatonin pills he’d taken didn’t work in the long run; he was taking the wrong ones and the wrong dosage—just like how he’d been looking for happiness in the wrong places.

From today’s session, Dr. Yoon asked him if he could talk to his mother about how he’d felt for so many years—the pressure, the urge to do whatever pleases her, the comparisons with other members, everything. Hence, Donghyuck finds himself knocking on his parents’ room.

He’s staying at their home during his hiatus. He reckons it’s the best time to speak with her as his father and the kids are out for work and school.

“Come in, Donghyuck-ah,” she says softly from the other side. He opens the door and finds his mother writing something in her journal. “You need anything, baby? Do you want to eat?”

He shakes his head and walks towards their bed, sitting on its edge. His mother puts the pen down and sits beside him. “Something wrong?”

“Eomma,” he says in the softest voice. “Can I sleep here?”

The question brings tears to his mother’s eyes. She nods and leads him to bed, Donghyuck lying on his side and his mother cradling him from behind. He looks like he’s thirteen again, the day before the audition at SM, young and anxious about what the next day would bring, and his mother seems like she’s never aged a day, still determined and only wants the best for her children.

Donghyuck can feel her crying.

“I’m sorry, Donghyuck-ah,” is all she says.

And Donghyuck knows deep in his heart that even before she’d uttered her apology, he’s already forgiven her.

Haechan comes back right before Chuseok.

NCT Dream is invited to perform at a music festival held in the Seoul Olympic Stadium alongside many other artists. When news broke that this would be Haechan’s come back stage, the ticket sites went crazy—crashing every second because everybody wanted to get tickets to see the most-awaited comeback.

Over the course of seven months of Donghyuck’s hiatus, many things have changed. He gained more fans in the latter parts of the hiatus after the world learned his life in Jeju-do. He’d gotten a new piercing in his cartilage, which the fans love, but only Donghyuck probably understands what it means. Old videos of him going on stage went viral years later, the world seeing how talented and passionate he truly is. Clips of him randomly singing without autotune circulated for quite some time, and his fondness of children and respect for the elder have been the talk of the KPop industry for the last months or so, calling him the most well-mannered idol. The scandal had not been erased from history, of course; some people still hate him for it. Some of his old fan sites did not return to support him, and if we’re talking about old Donghyuck, he’d probably be pretty bummed about it. He’d probably start compromising his privacy to give them a glimpse of his life off the stage to get them back.

But the sessions with Dr. Yoon have been working well, because Donghyuck doesn’t really care about pleasing the entire world anymore. Donghyuck thinks that as long as there’s a good number of people supporting him and loving him for who he is—as a person and as a singer—then he’d be okay. He didn’t have to make the entire planet roar his name.

The dress rehearsals are done by the time the clock hit four in the afternoon. The members argue where to go eat. Jisung announces he’s going shopping for a new pair of wired headphones because he lost his on the way to the stadium, to which Renjun says he’d go with him. The others decide to go eat with the staff, some opt to go home and rest so they’d be ready for the next day.

Donghyuck decides to go buy the book that Johnny recommended him: The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. He’s told that the book is about a boy growing up, and that it might strike his thoughts if he’s up to reading a children’s book meant for adults.

Hence, Donghyuck finds himself going through shelves and sections of children’s book after picking up The Little Prince and wondering if Gyeom would want to read any of these.

You see, Lee Donghyuck is not much of a believer of fate. As he’d say before, his career didn’t happen by fate because it was all his mother doing all the hard work. But what are the odds of him choosing to visit this exact book store at this exact moment over elsewhere and another time?

And what are the odds of him finding you leaning against the wall in the corner of the store, hair longer than the last time, nose red and body bundled up in layers of clothes, a book in your hand as you read through it?

Donghyuck stops, stares at you, as if he’s waiting for you to look up from the book, and thinks about how much he’d missed you all this time and how much he’d regretted ending things with foul, unacceptable words. He thinks about remembering you anytime he sees tangerines and flowers around the city. He thinks about the odds of finding you again and again in this lifetime. He thinks about the flowers only blooming as soon as the butterflies have left, missing their timing, and how they bloom again next spring, hoping that this time, the timing is right.

He thinks about you in silence. He thinks about love hiding in the corners of his chest, convincing him he’ll get over it—he’ll get over you. He thinks about his dreams.

A few people pass by the space between you and him. The distance is about three meters. It’s silent for the most part.

Donghyuck is not much of a believer of fate, and you look up to prove him otherwise.

It’s only then that Donghyuck takes a really good look on you: new hairstyle, backpack slung in one arm, a student ID badge hanging right below your chest.

“Y/N!” A girl whisper-shouts from behind fDonghyuck. “Have you found the book?”

You don’t tear your glance away from him, but you nod and say, “Yeah. I’ll go check it out and I’ll meet you outside.”

The other girl doesn’t notice him and proceeds to leave. You take two, three, five, seven steps, and you’re right in front of him.

“Hi, Donghyuck-ah,” you say in the softest voice as soon as you’re close enough.

Donghyuck wonders whether this is just a dream or if he’d started hallucinating you because of the medicines he’s been taking, but then he catches a whiff of your scent, and Donghyuck believes.

Donghyuck believes in fate. In forgiveness. In healing. In love. In finding one’s way back home.

END

author's note: PLEASE tell me what you think of this in the comments or reblogs. I'd also appreciate if you send me you favorite line here. Thank you so much for reading until the end!

optional as always: TIP ME HERE.

[phoward89]

Based on this ask

Coriolanus Snow, for as long as he could remember, had always linked the scent of roses to his mother, Demeter Snow. His mother was too sweet for this world. She was very beautiful, but vapid. She didn't have a grasp on the hardships of life, being sheltered from them due to her standing as a young lady from a wealthy Capitolite family. And, of course, Coriolanus' father, Crassus, kept his wife with a heart of gold and who enjoyed singing love songs and playing the piano at his Corso penthouse with his mother while he served in District 12 as the Commander.

Coriolanus' vaguely remembers how his mother always sang him love songs from the days before Panem. Oh, how she sang to him all of the classics, ballads, and operas she enjoyed. She would also pick him up and sling him on her hip, singing to him while helping her mother-in-law tend to the rooftop rose garden. A garden that she always smelled like.

But one day, when he was 5, tragedy stuck. Coriolanus was going to be a big brother. His mother, Demeter, was expecting a baby girl. It wasn't planned (at least it wasn't on Crassus' part) but the new addition was going to be a little bit of newfound joy in the Snow family. Much needed joy considering the rebellion breaking out in the districts.

Demeter had gotten Coriolanus all excited about becoming a big brother to a little sister. So excited that he couldn't wait for the baby to come. His mother said that her name was going to be a floral one. Calla. Like the calla lily. Coriolanus wondered if his baby sister would smell like lilies when she was born since she'd be named after them.

But Coriolanus discovered one fateful night that his baby sister would not smell of lilies, but of the stench of death and blood when she was born. That she'd struggle to breath with too tiny lungs and struggle to stay warm with her translucent skin covering her nearly 2 pound body. That his baby sister would die wrapped in a blanket as he held her in his arms, sitting by the roaring fireplace as his Grandma’am and the cook tried to save his mother, who was hemorrhaging in the birthing bed.

Sadly, Demeter Snow bleeds to death in the birthing bed after going into premature labor at 7 months due to the sudden bombing by the districts. Yes, the official start of the war between the Capitol and their allies and the Districts had triggered off a premature labor that had proven deadly for the delicate woman that was too softhearted for this world. The woman who smelled of roses, always powdered her nose with rose scented powder, and enjoyed singing love songs and playing the piano.

As the war drew on, the Snow family had to make sacrifices to eat and stay warm. Since the Capitol was under siege for a few years, food was scarce and so was fuel. The Snow family, thankfully, had their neighbor Pluribus to help them acquire lima beans from the black market. He was also able to give Grandma'am Snow some cabbage seeds to grow in her garden.

Fuel was hard to find, but thankfully the Snow penthouse has a fireplace. And in order to keep the flames fanning, Coriolanus had to sacrifice his beloved picture books to the flames. The books his mother always read to him and to be burned to stay warm. Just like his mother's prized baby grand piano had to be chopped up for firewood. It was either freeze to death in the bitter winters in the valley of the Rocky Mountains or sacrifice sentimental items to use us fuel for flames of warmth

The latter was the choice Grandma'am Snow made for her family. Of course, she had help from the neighbor, Pluribus with chopping up the piano; she even shared the wood from it for his help.

After the loss of his mother's baby grand piano, the only thing Coriolanus had left of his mother that was tangible was her silver compact full of her rose scented powder, her bright orange shawl, and a picture of her with him slung on her hip as a baby.

Coriolanus took to smelling his mother's compact for comfort whenever he was feeling anxious. The smell of roses, his mother's scent, always seemed to calm him.

And it was like this as he grew into a young man.

Until one day he's sitting in the front row seat of his morning class and in walks Dean Casca Highbottom with a new girl in tow.

You.

“Class, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Y/N Halvir.” Dean Highbottom waves his hand towards you while informing the class, “She's the daughter of Colonel Javani Halvir, the war hero, and she's just transferred here District 2 where her father was stationed at PK Base- The Nut.”

You're nervous, standing in front of the entire class. Everyone's eyes are on you, scrutinizing you; judging you. But a pair of icy blue eyes that belong to a boy with a prominent nose and light golden curls makes you feel like the air has left your lungs as they pin you with a look you can't distinguish.

“Mr. Snow, I'm assigning you the task of showing Miss Y/N around the Academy.” Dean Highbottom told Coriolanus, who just gave the dean a curt nod. Dean Highbottom turned to you, only to say, “Please have a seat between Mr. Snow and Mr. Plinth.”

But before you could even ask who those boys were, a broad boy with dark curly hair smiled warmly at you and the icy eyed boy, who made you feel a bit uneasy from his gaze, subtly nodded to the empty seat next to him.

You walk over to your newly assigned seat and place yourself in between your new classmates, Plinth and Snow. The dark haired boy, Plinth, smiles and introduces himself as Sejanus.

“I’m from 2, but I moved here right after the war when I was 8.” Sejanus informs you before asking, “How long were you in 2 for? Do you miss it?”

“I was there long enough and no, I don't miss it there.” You tell your classmate.

Coriolanus can't help, but stare at you in awe. For one, you couldn't wait to leave the district your father was stationed in for the Capitol, but the other reason- the real reason he was in awe over you was because of your smell. Your scent was one he hasn't had the luxury to smell in a long time.

You smell like roses.

“I'm Coriolanus Snow; I'd be honored to become your friend.” The blonde boy smiled, extending his hand out for you to shake.

“I think I'd like that.” You smile, shaking Coriolanus hand before turning your attention to the lesson being taught.

And during the entire class Coriolanus finds himself drawn to your rosy scent instead of paying attention to the lecture being given. Roses fill his nostrils faintly and it's intoxicating. All he can do is fall into a feeling of comfort, since the scent of roses always eased his anxiety. He's positive that you'll be a warm, gentle soul like his mother was because you smell like roses- just like she did.

And because you smell like roses, Coriolanus is determined to make you his girl; his one true comfort in a life of anxieties and unknowns.

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord @erikasurfer @tulips2715 @universal-s1ut @thesmutconnoisseur @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @swiftieblyth @joyfulyouthlover @lady-harvey @chxrrybomb22 @marvel-hiddles-stark @xjinnix @devils-blackrose @zombicupcake3 @jacesvelaryons @tempt-ress

[i-yap]

Hello here another request from Dick Grayson. I hope you are well and that you are not putting pressure on yourself with these requests, sleep well.

Could you write something about Dick's Girlfriend who is an artist 🎨 she went to university and graduated with a degree in Literature or something like that she is like an artistic soul she writes, plays the piano, paints maybe she knows a little about ballet [she is just as flexible than Dick] and speaks several languages. Maybe Dick convinced her not to "work" [on a schedule for someone else] so they could spend more time together and so she wouldn't fill her little head with things like forced labor or bills. He covers all expenses and more. He spoils us too much. ...it also makes it so that you focus only on your art out of passion, writing, painting, playing music, learning to play the guitar 🎸 just because you want to and have the time.

and on the nights when he has patrol you go out with your friends "Sex And The City" style.

You also learn to cook in the huge kitchen of their shared apartment and he tries everything you make, he also cooks for you (sometimes) you also do a Skincare routine for him and he loves to smell just like us.

Dick Grayson x artist!y/n

man has money, I can see bruce paying all his vigilante children and he got alfred's billion plus man is the best detective at the pd .

So how could you expect him to not feel sorry for his -pretty but stressed overworked surrounded by idiots who don't know art having to commercialize herself and loosing her sense of style and art because of the nonsense requests of her bosses -gf. Your pain is his pain after all.

You know you are very creative I mean- your ballet could give grayson a run for his money. You have always been talented, drawn to the creative arts. But here you are stuck being a designer for a corporate job. AND IT SUCKS BALLS.

The boss keeps asking you to design templates and after designing 3 boring asf template she's like yea that fine now just do content. But even the content cant be fun or innovative. It has to be corporate and easily consumable and its just so dumb like let ai do it and why even hire you if she wants you to do the labor that is just ctrl c ctrl v LIKE FUCKK

And your creativity is dyinggg. you cant remember the last time you picked up a paintbrush and you loved art. Now you're loosing a sense of self and you don't even know if any of this is worth it. WHY NOT BE A BARISTA?? AND DO ART ON THE SIDE...CUZ OF THIS FUCKING ECONOMY. ONLY THE RICH CAN BE ARTISTS ONLY THE RICH AHHHH

(sorry this turned into a little self vent ahem ahem)

anyways dick sees your talent and he sees your pain and...he wont take no for an answer.

So here you are, live in girlfriend , but he calls you an investment whenever you feel down because dick is paying for both of you.

So other than art, you make him food. And he makes you food too dw girlie but you do it out of passion of trying out new recipes .

You go out and teach students dance at underfunded public schools and perform without contracts...just for the love of performing or focus on writing a book.

You spend the day focusing on your passions and build up your skill, having a loving supportive boyfriend.

Dick is really busy with detective work then as Nightwing so you spend the alone time focusing on your work rather than being distracted by your pretty boyfriend...that too actually.

And with this amazing man by your side, you have plenty motivation.

SO when you do become a hit, No one is prouder than Mr grayson here who believed in his girl all along.

and If you don't? you can always start a small art school, language school or ballet school. There is no lack of talents

And with such a talented gf , dick has the perfect trophy wife who he loves very very much. You are the talk of every gala, you accompany him on business meets (language skills and art is universally needed) and honestly dick couldn't ask for more!

In modern society its now believed that the only way to get self respect is to be a working woman. Why cant we stop telling woman to be something? Staying at home, raising or not raising kids, focusing on your passion and loving your husband ( future husband too) is just as acceptable as going to work( if you can find a man like dick ofc). you do work hard, you did have a degree or not depending on your circumstances and you are genuinely working towards your goals. And dick comforts you in it. He sees your passion he sees your talent and more than that he loves you so no matter what, he's supporting you through this journey.

I am actually writing a batboys skincare thing which ill post over the weekend. Im sorry this turned into a personal rant. Im working two jobs and studying 3 courses while preparing to start university..so this hit a little close to home . What I would do to have a dick grayson just marry me and let me focus on my passion rather than juggling various stuff. This blog is maybe the only thing I do for myself..which is sad cuz I had a lot of hobbies. Anyways ...hope this didn't suck too much.