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keravnous · 2 years ago

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desperado! ; tangerine/fem!reader (smut 18+)

read pt. 1 here | read pt. 3 here | read pt. 4 here

The Twins are laying low in Amsterdam. Growing bored of being stuck in the hideout all day, Tangerine decides to explore what the shifty parts of the city have to offer at night.

word count: 12,9k

warnings: i mean if atj can dance then tangerine can too, tango dancing bc it's very sexy and steamy ok; car sex, head while driving, oral (male receiving), masturbation (female), fingering, rough and passionate sex, undernegotiated kinks: (light) spanking, daddy kink (once or twice), unprotected sex, choking, pet names, dirty talk, name calling, hotel sex; they steal a car bc why not, short intro from tangerine's pov, small glimpses into his dysfunctionality, rather slow story development at the beginning, i still have very strong feelings about this angry man so please, have this

title is from the song of the same name, desperado by rihanna

the songs they're dancing to are esta noche en vivo by carlos libedinsky and otra luna by narcotango

mel said: kinda sad we didnt get to suck his dick in bathroom b!tch and I said: same

The air is still warm and a little humid despite the late hour, filled with laughter and the sweet, sweet smell of alcohol and marihuana, sweat and summer. Tangerine takes another drag from his cigarette, watches how the smoke curls into the dark sky, illuminated by the colourful lights of the city. He takes a deep breath.

He sighs, relishes in the way his shoulders relax. He feels alive -- again; finally. It's a real relief, has his limbs going a little slack. He had felt anger clawing at his chest for the past week now, the beast inside ripping his skin to shreds and lashing out with its razor-sharp claws - mostly at his brother. But since he had left the flat about an hour ago it has been curled up rather peacefully in his chest, with a satisfied purr in sync with his heartbeat.

Next to him, the water in the canals lays calmly, reflecting the city's lights and echoing the clinking of glasses and music that wafts through the streets. Tangerine passes by a restaurant, people sitting outside under string lights, drinking, chatting, eating and he watches them as he strolls by. They radiate happiness and it catches onto him like a wave, has him smiling at the sight. He takes another drag of his cigarette, enjoys the way the smoke burns in his throat. Jesus Christ, how he had missed this.

There just aren't enough books, good books, that can keep him holed up in a small flat for a whole fucking month. And thus, he had decided to break - well, bend - the rules a little tonight.

Their contact, Henk, had told him about that one spot where one could get anything: from alcohol to various drugs and weapons, maybe even a hitman. If one's lucky. And Tangerine does feel a whole lot of fucking luck pumping through his veins tonight, making him feel a little light-headed, stardust at the heels of his shoes.

His chest feels light and his feet are practically flying over the cobblestones, a smile toying with the corners of his mouth as he lays his head back, watches the illuminated sky above - exhales smoke, inhales the night.

A group of students staggers by, laughing and cheering, passing a bottle of liquor around. His gaze follows them, nostalgia tearing at his heartstrings as he remembers the times when Lemon and him were just that - young and without a care in the world.

Now, their hands are sticky with blood - metaphorically, he had washed his well and thoroughly after last month's job went wrong - and they are both in hiding. Again.

Lemon insisted it would be careless to go out at night, at any time of the day really - "That's bollocks, mate. You can't just go out, can ya? What if they sent someone after us?" -, but especially if it was just to have some fun. Because fuck fun, right?

But, there is nothing else to do anyways, with the way his brain always, always finds a way back to his own recent failure and how it was linked to Bolivia.

Bolivia -- it still leaves him sleepless and shaking sometimes, just like tonight.

Tangerine had been pacing the living room craving a drink until Lemon fell asleep, and then decided that he needed a change of scenery, something to take his mind of the carnage and its debris.

"Yeah, let's just all go fuckin' insane in that flat, huh", Tangerine huffs to himself, looking at his phone. It beeps, signalling him that he is getting closer to his destination. His feet carry him through the streets of Amsterdam, a warm summer breeze rustles his silk shirt and cools his warm skin as he passes by restaurants, bars and closed book and flower shops.

Eventually, he comes to a halt in front of a launderette: Wassen bij Muriel.

The neon lights inside are on, illuminating the sidewalk in a cold white. He blinks. There is no one inside but an old lady behind the counter and a grimly looking man sitting on a plastic stool in the back corner. He can hear faint music coming from behind the glass door.

To an unsuspecting tourist it would look like a rancid shop but to him, it doesn't. Tangerine knows better, has been to a lot of places like this.

"Alright", he says - lets his neck crack once, twice and throws his cigarette away - before pushing the door open, the bell above ringing.

***

You watch your friend leaning down towards the young woman, sitting in a darkened corner. Your father never wanted you to befriend any of his third or fourth row dealers but you never were one to follow rules, always going for the next thrill, the next rush of adrenaline. But tonight, there's been no rush so far, no tingling of your veins - just pure and blank boredom.

You had picked out your favourite dress in the prospect of being offered to dance with a handsome stranger, even ditched on the underwear to make sure the thin fabric hugged your curves nicely, but the men in here are mostly uninteresting, ordinary - simple dealers or lowlife thugs, street criminals that steal money from unwary tourists.

You watch how your friend, with a quick sleight of hand, exchanges cocaine for money, laughing at the woman like she is an old friend and then makes his way back to the bar. He winks at you and squeezes past a young couple, orders himself a drink.

You swirl your glass between your fingers, watching the remaining puddle of wine running up and down its walls - dripping down like blood - and then bring it up to your lips, emptying it in one sip. The taste is warm and full, rich and you close your eyes for a moment, allowing yourself to get lost in the strumming of the band's contrabass and the red wine on your tongue. It reminds you of that one time in Bogotá, when you and your father had visited his suppliers - wine and music melting together with the summer heat, having you dream of the jungle, old villages, and the beaches of private islands off the coast.

Your father had dragged you along once more, this time to Amsterdam, despite your pleas not to - "You will have to take over one day and I want you to be prepared" - and you were gladly sneaking away when your friend invited you to spend the night at his favourite bar.

It is a tango joint and a beautiful place, an old basement with low ceilings and a small bar, people and furniture bathed in colourful neon lights. Purple and red are dancing across faces and sweaty bodies - swirling over the dance floor or pressed against the cold walls, tongues shoved into mouths - reflecting off glasses and expensive jewellery.

It is a place where people like you and your friends get together: the upcoming generation of an international crime elite, sons and daughters throwing away their parents’ blood or drug money, getting high and drunk hidden by the shadows of the night, staying awake until the sun rises again. It's a place where people like you mix and mingle with those working for your families, a welcome change to a certain hierarchy at something a civilian would naively call a safe space.

You open your eyes again, as the band starts to play a new song, blinking while your eyes adjust to the dim, colourful lights. There still are couples swirling across the dance floor to the sensual rhythm of the tango, that the small band in the back is playing. You let out a sigh at both, the loneliness and the boredom creeping in on you, and turn around on your barstool to order yourself another drink as --

Your shoulder suddenly connects heavily with something firm and warm - triggering a muttered Fuckin' hell - and a second later the man, who you just bumped into, turns around. He looks pissed, left eye twitching.

"'M sorry", you say quickly, a little taken aback by both: his anger and his beauty. The former doesn't seem to last very long, with his lips tilting up a little, eyes gleaming mischievously while they dance over your frame.

"Apology accepted, love", he has a strong northern British accent, like some of your father's business partners do.

But he is arguably a lot more handsome than any of them are. Dark, combed, and slicked back hair that curls right over his shoulders building a nice contrast to his light blue, short-sleeved silk shirt, unbuttoned down to his belly - exposing golden jewellery. The necklace shines warmly against his pale skin, glimmering purple in the dim lights.

It might be the alcohol and the loneliness but you really, really want to just dart one hand out, run it over his chest and his neck, feeling his warmth and the few locks of chest hair, smelling and tasting the scent of summer on his skin.

You wonder what he does, what his profession is. The 70s porn-stache, vintage Rolex and golden rings scream Miami and you can't help but imagine him in the hot sun, bare chested, blood on his hands - red red red - cutting open bricks of cocaine -

"May I get you a drink, love?", his voice pulls you out of your daydreams and you blink. He must've caught you staring.

You know, that men like him usually mean trouble. And yet, you can hear yourself say: "That'd be very nice, thank you."

He lifts two fingers up, signalling the man behind the bar that he wants to order something and you notice that his knuckles are bruised. Blue and green mixing with the red of the scab, partially healed. There are scars on his forearm, meandering between his tattoos and up up up his arm below the soft, expensive silk of his shirt.

The goosebumps that erupt on your skin are nothing but pleasant as you immediately know what type of man he is. Everyone in here is on the market for something: drugs, love, sex, guns - but rarely does one sell murder. Real, cold-blooded murder. Ruthless, fast, dirty.

He's trying to hide it but watching him as he discusses the menu with the bartender, it sticks out like a sore thumb: the well-mannered gestures crash with his fucked-up hands, the way he's dressed like a drug-selling pimp refuses to fit in with his sugar-coated talk and the way he moves can't hide a lingering anger, like a raging beast pacing in a cage.

It is a carefully put together façade, but it's no use against you. You know men like him and you know them well. They don't scare you - quite the opposite, and thus the pure and utter danger he emits has excitement tingling in your stomach. As fucked up as it is: it makes you want him - adrenaline kicking in, shooting a tingle right between your legs.

He turns around again and you lean forward a little, deciding to make your move soon.

"'S a Mezcal Margarita alright with you, love?", he asks and you throw him your most charming smile, nodding.

"We'll take two then, mate", he nods and slides a few bucks over the counter, watches the bartender pouring liquid into a cocktail tumbler.

"Sooo", the man turns around towards you and grins, shows some teeth as his hand vanishes in the pocket of his linen trousers, pulls out a cigarette and lights it up. He's taking a looong deliberate drag, puffing out the smoke, "What's your name, sweetie?"

"Y/N", you reply, gaze dropping to his lips and back up, where his gaze catches yours. He has beautiful eyes, blue like the fucking sea and the purple neon lights make them glow with mischief and smugness - dark and oddly promising, inviting - framed by long lashes.

One of your fingers brushes over his hand, that is resting on the counter. The wooden surface is sticky with half-dried alcohol. His gaze holds yours while he takes another drag of his cigarette. You just might lose yourself in the hue that dances over his eyes.

"And you are?", you say, just loud enough to be audible over the music.

His gaze drops to your fingers that are brushing over his golden rings and he chuckles: "Don't ya try stealing those, sugar, I know that fuckin' trick", and you smile innocently, as he leans in a little, "Name's Tangerine, love." There are cheers erupting from the dancefloor, the rhythm of the music picking up.

You pout playfully and his eyes dance over your face, glimmering mischievously. "Oh", you sigh, "And here I was, thinking you'd may even give me your real name."

"Can't, love, m'sorry."

"Mh pity -- who did you kill?"

"Who said I killed someone?", he's dangerously close now, voice a low rumble.

"Your hands", your fingers dance over the crust of his knuckles and his eyes gleam. For a moment he says nothing and then, towering over your sitting form, voice low and rough:

"Aren't ya afraid o'me, love?"

"Terribly", and he grins at that, his eyes holding yours captive.

"Bet you are", Tangerine hums, barely audible and sticks his cigarette between his lips, one hand darting up, has his thumb gently grazing over your chin.

The touch is nice, soft and gentle but firm, in full control. It makes your chest tingle, sends a wave of pleasure through your body. His eyes flick over your face and you find yourself growing a little hot under his gaze. You wonder is he's going to lean in, ditch his cigarette and --

The bartender places two glasses in front of you and it makes you snap out of it for a second, noticing how close Tangerine got. His thighs are touching your knees and his face is so so close to yours, noses mere inches apart.

"Thanks, mate", Tangerine says, pulls the glasses closer. You watch him - slender fingers getting a little wet with condensed water, cigarette between his lips, chain and bracelet rustling with the sudden movement. There's a thin film of sweat glistening on his chest and it has your thighs clench with raw and utter want, wanting to put your lips onto the firm the muscles, licking his skin clean.

The way his body still presses against your knees, is electrifying and you decide to invite him in more. You let your knees fall apart, making way for him. His gaze drops down and he chuckles to himself but moves in nonetheless, one of his hands gently coming to a rest on your thigh, holding you close and in place. The touch shoves the soft, flowy silk of your cowl dress aside, the slit in the fabric exposing your thigh. Tangerine's hand is warm on your skin, rings pressing cooly against your hot flesh, as he starts groping you - thumb digging into your thigh and you gasp quietly.

"Been wantin' to ask -- what's a pretty girl like you doin' in a place like this, huh?", he says, cigarette bobbing up and down in the corner of his mouth.

"My friend sells blow here", you say truthfully - not a full lie and yet not the complete truth, but you know better than to trust a stranger with your ties to your family's business - and piqued interest flickers through his gaze.

Tangerine then, very languidly, takes another looong drag from his cigarette and taps some of the ash on the counter, holding your gaze with his own. "D'you sell yourself, love?"

You laugh at that, violently shaking your head. "Hell, no."

He chuckles, eyes roaming over your face. "Well, looks like I got myself a good girl, then eh?", he knows what he is doing, voice low and deep and you swallow.

"I wouldn't say so", you whisper, "But why don't you come a bit closer and find out?"

Tangerine flashes a grin, shows his bright bright teeth, one of his hands coming up and stroking his moustache while he shakes his head in disbelief.

It's stupid. Very fucking stupid. He shouldn't. He should get the fuck out of here - quickly. This is dangerous. She might be, too.

Instead, he looks up again. Ah, fuck it - fuck the rules. Lemon will get it - maybe. Ultimately, he will, simply has to - with the beast inside rattling the cage.

Tangerine leans in, his hand on your thigh sneaking up, making its way over your hip, your side and then cups your body, thumb digging into your flesh underneath your tit. Your heartbeat picks up as he pulls you close and you nearly yelp, scooting forward on the barstool, your hand coming up and grasping his forearm, holding on to him. "Well, why don't we fuckin' drink to that then, love?", he rasps, the hand resting on the bar pulls your glass in.

With a shaking hand you take it, fingers closing in around the cool glass and you watch him raising his, bud of cigarette nearly touching it. He is exhilarating, demanding and firm underneath the attire of a gentleman and it has your head swimming, wetness pooling between your legs. Excitement bubbles up in your chest, wondering where the night may, will lead.

"Cheers, love", Tangerine smirks and winks at you, both your glasses clink. He is still so so close, your knees still hitting his hips and his tongue runs over the edge, licks the salt away slowly, playfully until he downs half the Margarita in one go, like it's water.

You raise one brow, carefully taking a sip. The salt on the edge of the glass tingles on your lips and the liquor burns nicely in your throat as you take another. It's a hellishly strong cocktail and you wonder if he's a regular drinker. A lot of people like him - call them what you like, assassins, killers, hitmen - are.

Tangerine eyes the glass in his hand, weighs it from left to right a little, then nods to himself in approval while you take another sip. He instead downs the other half of the cocktail and puts the glass back on the counter. It's a quick, routinely movement and you come to realize that you may be right. You decide to not give it too much thought, because he's hot and he freed you from the boredom threatening to swallow you whole tonight and because everything about him has your blood singing with the gleeful promise of adrenaline. You put your glass next to his and look up at him through your lashes. He catches the invitation.

Tangerine throws his cigarette into his empty glass and then leans in again. The tip of his nose brushing over yours, the sensual music entangling both of you as his gaze flicks over your face.

You hook one leg around his waist and he moves in closer, pressing yourself against him, one hand on his arm - to anyone looking over you might even seem like an actual couple, enjoying the night out - and hunger burns in his eyes. His lips brush over yours and you know he's toying with you, keen on him leaning in to fucking kiss you already --

The music stops.

There's sudden silence as the band passes a bottle of whiskey around and the two of you freeze, blinking dumbfoundedly. The silence is odd, stalling both of you but you can't help it, feeling like drowning in the dark dark blue of his eyes, shimmering with green in the purple light. You can hear Tangerine breathe quietly with him being so utterly close to you and it's nice, comfortingly human and you can't help but smile against his lips still hovering over yours, a gentle gesture that is being reciprocated by him.

You're a little dizzy with it too, the alcohol, lack of fresh air and his body warmth mixing together, making you a little unsteady. He has pure and raw want tingling in your belly, your hand on his upper arm clenching around the firm muscles a little, thumb brushing over the soft material. And then, just as the music picks up again, his lips brush against yours: "You don't happen to wanna dance, do ya, love?"

"Fuck yes, thought you'd never ask", and Tangerine laughs, a deep, pleasant sound that rumbles in his chest and offers you his hand.

Yours runs down down down his arm and closes around his, while he's making some room for you to slip off of the barstool and then he's pulling you close again - your body pressing smack against his side as he's dragging you along to the makeshift dance floor.

The crowd still cheers, applauds the band and the bandoneon plays the few first chords of a new song. Tangerine gently takes your hand in his, thumb cupping your index and middle finger as your palm rests against his. His other hand sneaks around your waist and rests and the small of your back, holding you close. He looks at you and you feel like drowning in his eyes, pupils blown wide and you wonder when he'll show first signs of being drunk, with the way you already feel a little warm, light-headed. In a few minutes, maybe an hour you'll learn that he holds his liquor way better than you hold your own.

He is even closer to you now than before at the bar and now you can smell his perfume through the thick cloud of smoke that wavers through the basement's air - he smells nice, deep and rich of citrus and a little of vanilla and cigarettes, reminds you of the summer you've spent in Palermo once.

Tangerine gently places one hand below your shoulder and yours comes up, rests on his shoulder, just as he starts to move to the music. He takes a step backwards, guiding your forward and gently guides you through the crowd - a steady back and forth in rhythm with the tango.

Tangerine's hand still holds yours, guides your arm until it is stretched out and then it abandons your hand, runs down down down your arm very gently, pads of his fingers brushing over your soft skin, hairs on your arms rising. A shiver runs down your spine as his fingers cradle back between yours, a smile tugging at his lips.

One of his legs pushes between yours while he manoeuvres you backwards, hand on your waist holding you close. Tangerine presses himself against you, heat radiating off of his body with both your arms still stretched out and you grip his hand tightly, leaning back. You arch your back, raising one leg and hooking it around his waist as his gaze locks with yours. You can feel his crotch pressing against yours, with the way the skirt of your dress hikes up your legs. He is warm and a little hard already, has the breath hitching in your throat and arousal igniting your loins.

Tangerine leans down a little, lips still curled up in smile and then pulls you up like you weigh nothing and you stretch your legs in a delicate, slight split as he twirls you around, your chest firmly resting against his.

His arm presses onto your back, holds you close until your feet touch the ground once more and he immediately guides you sideways with a few long and slow strides until he comes to a halt. One of your arms wraps around his shoulders as he holds you close and you stretch your leg out, your heel gliding forward over the concrete floor of the basement, stretching your leg out in front of you and then gently sliding it backwards into a deep lunge, your body following the movement. You lean back and Tangerine follows, leans down and towers over your body.

He holds you there for a moment, chest rising and falling, brows furrowed a little before he carefully helps you back up - immediately embracing your body once more.

The music speeds up and so does he while guiding you over the dancefloor, face close to yours with unbreaking eye contact as you swirl over the concrete.

At the next strum of the contrabass, you take a step back, arching your back. Very playfully you sway your hips, shoulders loosely following while one of hands rests on his forearm, the other lays in his hand, feet tapping the floor rhythmically with the movement of your hips.

You know that he has a perfect view of your body, your hard nipples being visible through the thin fabric of your dress. His gaze drops down, watches how the silk plays with your curves, eyes growing a little darker. You move in and Tangerine pulls you close, your hand intertwined with his resting on his chest and his lips ghost over the shell of your ear, moustache tingling. "No underwear, I reckon, love?", he hums, the fingers of his other hand brushing over your waist.

And you shake your head, whispering: "No, none", and it has his eyebrows shooting up in surprise, a low chuckle escaping his throat. "Fuck me", he breathes and holds you close while moving over the dancefloor, one hand gently but firmly resting on your ass cheek, hiking the hem of your dress up a little.

The touch ignites you and you press against him, leaning in, nose brushing over his jaw, eyelids fluttering. You are pressed against each other, movements slowing down and blooming into a languid sensuality in dance: long strides, toying with him a little - turning your head away, stretching your arm out, only for his hand to gently caress it - feet wrapping around his calf, leg pushing between his. Tangerine is patient with the little game you are playing, unerringly keeping the lead and you in your place.

You wonder if he fucks like he dances. It makes your skin going hot, imagination running wild and breath hitching.

The song ebbs and the crowd applauds and the two of you come to a halt as well, but not parting, not partaking in the celebration of the band. You are clawing to him, breath going fast and heavy and so does his, a thin layer of sweat on his forehead. His hand momentarily rejects your waist to brush through his hair and then returns. His touch is firm, a little rough and you sigh contently.

Some people are looking your way, intrigued by what got over the two of you, enticed by each other and oblivious to the surrounding world. It's a dangerous thing - letting your guard down, for both of you - but you couldn't care less.

Tangerine smirks down at you and licks his lips. "D'ya know what ya do to me, dove?", he says quietly and you know but you feel the same, and thus, your hand brushes over his shoulder to his neck and you nestle your bods against his.

You wonder if he can feel your raising heartbeat, smell the lust and the excitement spreading in your body. You look up at him, fingers burying themselves in his locks.

"Mhm - do you?", you reply just as quietly and Tangerine chuckles, eyes falling shut.

Your bodies stay like that, closely pressing against each other with the music picking back up. You gently rest your forehead on his temple, leaning onto him as he holds you close. You can't help it, you just want to fucking touch him and your hand runs over his shoulder to the front, gently moves up his throat and then cups his jaw, fingers brushing over the clean-shaven skin. It's soft and warm and you can feel, hear him take a deep breath.

Moving across the floor slowly, Tangerine's body turns into an anchor for your long, ardent strides; his strong arms holding you up during each turn, muscles twitching beneath your touch. He is so so close to you, so warm - each one of his steps lingering with desire and it washes over you like a wave, has the hairs on your body standing up.

You sink against him, falling into his embrace, arms clinging around his neck and his hand is pressed on your shoulder, the other remains in the air uselessly as he looks down in surprise, brows furrowed. He can see, feel your chest heaving, a quiet whimper escaping your mouth.

Then, his lips curl into a smug grin.

Tangerine carefully twirls you around, hands gripping your waist and pulling you closer. Your back rests against his chest and you can feel the tip of his nose brushing through your hair as his hands move over your body - one resting on your belly, the other gently cupping you below your breast, feeling the way your heart races against your ribcage, and his touch sends shivers down your spine, has arousal shooting right between your legs. You remain this way for a few beats, the blood in your veins pumping with the rhythm of the music, feeling his strong frame pressing against you - his breath on your temple and his cologne wrapping you in. His body radiates warmth and you can feel his chest rising against your back, his hardening dick pressing against your ass.

Lust tingles in your stomach looking up at him and, at the next strum of the contrabass, you take his hand and twirl out of his embrace. Tangerine follows and pulls you back in and your hand crawls up his arm, another one resting on his neck. His gaze locks with yours as he leans down, tip of his nose brushing against yours.

The hands on your back keeps you close, a dark shadow resting over his eyes, turning them into a deep deep sea. He slowly guides you forward with two long strides and then firmly hooks one arm around you, lunges backward a little and you follow his movement, bending your leg and resting it against his groin. His hard cock presses against your thigh, and he leans in, lips brushing over yours before straightening both of you back up, heels of your shoes connecting firmly with the ground. Tangerine swirls you over the floor and manoeuvres you through the dancing couples, until he eventually, when the space arises, grabs your hips once more. You let yourself fall, upper body leaning back delicately, enthralled by his strength and the way he guides you through the dance, and he pulls you back up.

Your hand runs up his chest, fingers clawing at the silk as your gazes lock once more. You suck in a few breaths, his scent clouding up your mind, hand running higher and higher, thumb cupping his cheek and fingers resting in his hair behind his ear, earring pressing cooly against your skin.

His lips are slightly agape, eyes you up and down, while his hand presses you close. "Yeah, fuck, you wanna take this elsewhere, love?", he rasps and you nod, eyelids fluttering with the hidden promise.

All the while Tangerine navigates you through the crowd, he holds you close, blood pumping in your ears with the way the music makes your chest vibrate, his scent clouding up your mind - only him him him.

As soon as you are out on the street Tangerine is onto you again, pulls you close in the bright lights of the laundrette and kisses you like a starving man. His arms wrap around your waist, pressing you against him, tits flush against his chest, as his tongue licks into your mouth. Your hands run up his arms, one of them curling his neck and the other cupping his jaw. You can feel his hard dick through his linen slacks and it makes you hot all over, wetness pooling between your legs. You break the kiss, heaving against his lips.

"Fuck", Tangerine huffs, hand on your waist wandering down, cupping one of your ass cheeks. You mewl, eyelids fluttering. You're desperate to touch him, for him to fuck you.

"My hotel's nearby", you whisper and it sounds so fucking needy, "We could take the tram?"

"Yeah sure, lead the way", and you do, stealing another long and sloppy, hungry kiss from him and then he's pulling you close, holds you by his side as the two of you rush down the streets of Amsterdam - heels clicking, sweet nothings on the tip of your tongues. Some people turn their heads, voyeurism kicking in at the oddly hot couple with the air around them cracking with their energy, watching how the two of you rush by - the woman giggling and clearly a little drunk, hands roaming all over the man's chest, while he holds her close, thick British accent wrapping her in.

That is, until he stops dead in his tracks next to an alley on a rather empty street.

"Oi, wait a bloody minute, love -- would'ya look at that", Tangerine looks down an alleyway and you lean in closer, trying to get a look at what he's seeing, peaking over his shoulder on the tip of your toes. His hand is still resting on your waist, fingers splayed out.

"What?", there's nothing. Just cars parked beneath a warmly glowing streetlight in a dark alley.

"That", his finger darts out and points at a beige convertible.

"I -- that's a car?"

He looks a you, a little offended.

"That's not just a car, love. That's a 1966 Cadillac Coupe DeVille."

You blink, watching him while he eyes the vehicle, fingers brushing over his stache absent-mindedly.

"What are you thinking 'bout?", and it doesn't even take him a second to reply: "I wanna steal it."

Well, that's a surprise. "You wanna steal the car?"

"Yeah, I got this fuckin' thing -- 's kinda like compulsion, innit?"

You raise your eyebrows and he looks at you, lips curling up in an amused smile that's looks an awful lot like Sugar I can't change it, now can I? and before he can come up with something witty to go along with it, you say: "Yeah fuck, alright. Let's do it."

He laughs, eyes you up and down. "Ya naughty little girl, eh."

You can feel your skin growing hot, hand brushing over his forearm, leaning in a little. His eyes gleam. "Show me what you can do, babe", and he does, wraps one arm around your hips and strolls over to the car, carefully eyeing the alley.

The windows are rolled down and he grins. "That's an easy one, love, watch it", his hand brushes over your hip and the touch has goosebumps erupting on your arms, running down down your back and you nod - fuck yes, you'll watch.

Tangerine leans against the driver side's door and reaches inside through the rolled down window. You don't know what exactly he's doing but you can see the way his muscles work underneath the blue silk, as he grabs the handle and then, suddenly lifts the door a little out of its frame. The lock bursts, and for a second your muscles tense, body anticipating alarms going off and reading to flee.

Nothing happens; no sirens erupting - just the door swinging open lazily.

Apparently; obviously this is not his first time stealing a car. The thought of him just taking what he wants does something funny to your stomach.

You peak inside. It is an old-timer, with one large seating bench in the front, instead of two seats. Tangerine is holding the door open for you.

"After you, Lady", and he fucking winks at you.

Crawling onto the seats you make sure to make a little show out of it. You can feel his gaze roaming over your body as you bend down, until you eventually sit down in the middle of the front row seat. Tangerine sits down next to you and you immediately close the distance between the two of you, pulling one leg up, knee resting firmly on the soft beige leather and pressing against his thigh. The fabric of your dress hikes up, the slit exposing your leg up up up to your groin.

The sight distracts him for second, as you throw a look over your shoulder and out of the rear window, into the night. The alley still lays silent and deserted - but for how much longer? Tangerine watches you tensing up next to him.

"Easy, love, just a minute", he huffs and pulls an envelope out of his pocket, takes out a set of lockpicks.

"Oh, so you just carry that around with you?", you blurt out, blinking.

"Yeah", he says casually, bends down a little, trying to get a good look beneath the steering wheel.

If you were to be more of a thief and less of a drug lord's lazy daughter, you'd be able to identify his choice as a Lishi lockpick.

You watch him as he carefully sticks it into the keyhole of the ignition, slooowly starts to move the tool forward and feeling for the contact of the wafer. Quiet clicking sounds fill the humid air.

You can tell, that Tangerine is showing off a little, trying to impress you with speed and precision. He squints his eyes a little, brows furrowing and eyeing the small lock while carefully turning it clockwise.

It jams.

"Bastard", Tangerine curses underneath, pulls the reader of the lockpick back and carefully feels for the missing contact, tuuurns it --

The engine jolts alive, purrs lowly and the headlights snap on.

"There ya go", he mutters, "Piece 'o piss, eh?"

You snort at his vulgar cockney but you must agree - it did not take him more than two to three minutes, from breaking the lock to starting the engine. It shouldn't, but it does turn you on a little.

Tangerine is slamming the door shut and whips out his phone, handing it over to you. "Type in the address, love, would ya?"

You do and then quickly discard it into the cupholder - you want him and your fingertips tingle with it, wanting to touch him and being touched by him. The female voice - uncanny valley personified - of the google maps assistant pipes up and if you weren't so very fucking intoxicated by him you would laugh.

Instead, a fresh wave of desperate lust takes over you and your hands are onto him again in no time, one crawling up his arm, the other resting on his thigh and feeling his muscles work as he backs the Cadillac up. Tangerine chuckles, throws you a quick look before he is steering the car out of the alley.

You are aching for him to touch you, to be closer to you, hand tugging at his shirt a little while you lean in, nose brushing over the side of his throat.

"Jesus, love", he huffs, "Can't keep ya'self together, can ya?"

And you mewl, shake your head and then your lips are closing in around the exposed crook of his neck. Your tongue laps over the sweaty, hot skin, tasting him - his cologne mixing bitterly with his sweat and you hum, gently sucking at his soft skin.

"Fuckin' hell", Tangerine's right hand abandons the steering wheel, coming to a rest on your exposed thigh brushing over your skin. The tone of his voice has your head swimming, spurring you on, encouraging you. Your eyelids flutter as your tongue comes loose:

"Want me to suck your cock while driving?", you say, looking at him - the tips of your fingers are playfully brushing over his shoulder, silk of his shirt rustling under the feather-light touch.

He snorts, shakes his head a little with disbelief, before looking back at you. It seems to click.

"Bloody hell, you're serious, aren't ya?", and you blush a little. You can see the way his Adam’s apple bops as he swallows, eyes aimlessly darting over the road, considering.

The google maps assistant pipes up again, chirps out the directions and then falls silent again.

"Yeah, no, that's a very lovely idea", he rasps, and then: "C'mon love, get to it."

And you do, mouth watering at the same time your sight drops down to his linen slacks, the fabric wrapping around his muscular thighs nicely and pressing firmly to his crotch, exposing the outlines of his hard dick straining it.

Your hand wanders up his leg - feeling his muscles twitch as he hammers down the gas pedal, racing by the light switching from yellow to green - and then sour fingers close in around his cock. It is large and hot through the fabric and just feeling it has fresh arousal pooling between your legs, making you hum, before rubbing his bulge through his trousers. Tangerine's right hand leaves your thigh and comes to a rest on your neck, thumb rubbing over your warm skin and making way for you, giving you some space and encouraging you further.

It's a nice, somewhat patronizing touch that is pushing all the right buttons, has you quivering with excitement.

You make quick work of his slacks, pulling the zipper down - already bowing down a little, stretching your lower leg out on the seat behind you - until you open the fly up. There's a damp stain on his dark silk boxers and your mouth fucking waters, before you pull the hem down. His cock springs free lazily and your breath hitches.

Tangerine's cock is large, cut and a little curved, resting between neatly trimmed pubic hair - vein at the bottom pulsing and the tip already flushed, precum glistening in the low light of the passing street lamps.

You can't wait to suck it, taste it, feel it inside of you -- you are fucking hungry for it, spit pooling around your tongue and heart beating in your chest. Arching your back while bowing down between his lower body and the steering wheel, you put your lips onto his dick, kissing from the base to the top, his musky scent wrapping you in, clouding your mind. You can hear him hum, a nice and deep sound, and the city rushing by through the rolled down window.

Your tongue flicks over the head of his dick, lapping at the precum, circling it. The way he tastes - salt and musk - has your head swimming a little, wetness pooling between your legs.

It makes your brain go mushy, hazy and one of your hands brushes over his thigh, desperate to being closer tohim, to make it feel good for him, caressing the warm skin beneath your touch before you blink up at him.

"Fuck, you got a nice cock", you nearly moan as your tongue betrays your brain, impatiently opening your mouth and letting him slide in a little, feeling him pressing hard and hot against your tongue.

"Shit", Tangerine laughs roughly, hand grabbing your neck as his dick twitches against your tongue, "D'ya even hear yourself speak, girl? Fuck."

You smile to yourself, a little coy, and you start to move your hand up up up his muscular thigh, palming his balls through the linen and then grabbing the base of his cock, slowly jerking him. Tangerine groans, breathing loudly, the city passing by.

Spit runs down his dick over taking him in deeper, pools between your fingers and you flick your wrist, moving your hand in rhythm with your tongue.

The car comes to a halt at the next red light, as Tangerine hits the brakes carefully. Your eyelids flutter and then your gaze darts up, meets his while you are releasing his dick from your mouth a little.

Tangerine moans deeply as tongue swirling around the thick head of his dick once more, his gaze boring into yours. "Isn't that just a lovely sight", he groans, right hand brushing through your hair, while the left grabs the steering wheel hard.

Tangerine watches you, traffic light long forgotten, how your tongue licks over his cock, your eyes looking up at him through your lashes. "You fuckin' minx -- ya do like behavin' like a slut, don't ya", and you smile against his cock, a quiet Uh-huh leaving your lips, before they close in around the tip of his dick.

His eyelids flutter as you start to suck, bobbing your head a little, tongue rubbing over the tip of his cock. "Fuckin' hell", he puffs his cheeks and throws his head back a little, exhales theatrically. The traffic light switches from yellow to green and you let him sink deeper into your mouth - the engine roars. You are certain he's close to breaking the speed limit, veins bursting with adrenaline and testosterone but you couldn't care less, the musky taste of his cock hazing your mind, lust taking over.

You feel yourself growing wet, cunt aching and you surrender to yourself, complying to your body's wishes, as one of your hands slooowly dips between your legs and underneath the hem of your dress. Your fingers brush up your thighs and over your slick folds, mentally thanking yourself for not putting any underwear on, mostly due to the unbearable heat and your skin-tight dress - but it sure does come in handy now, too. Your index finger flicks over your clit, just as his cock slides deeper into your mouth.

It feels fucking nice, the way Tangerine's dick is hard and heavy and hot on your tongue, his taste and scent engulfing you, the way you rub your clit has lust spreading through your body, moaning around his cock.

And then suddenly, Tangerine hits the breaks, hand hammering down on the horn. One of your hands darts out, barely catching onto the dashboard as you are thrown forward. Blood rushes in your ears, hastily sucking in a few breaths through your nose while you sputter around his cock.

The maps assistant chimes up in that second, reminding the driver that he will need to go right at the next intersection but --

"Ya fuckin' prick, imma fuckin' shoot ya in the fuckin' head ya stupid twat -", Tangerine yells and your head immediately pipes up, abandoning his dick and looking out of the windshield. Tangerine is just speeding up, passing by the car in front of him, angrily looking inside. "Ya dirty fuckin' chav, I got a right fuckin' lady with me 'ere, ya git", he spits and the man slowly turns his head. First, he looks at Tangerine, a cascade of insults flying his way and then he looks at you, smudged mascara and spit on your chin, your lips wet with it. You can see the wheels in his head turning, eyes growing wide as they drop down to one of your hands - the one that is still holding Tangerine's cock - vanishing between his legs. The man blinks and Tangerine flashes him the finger, before speeding by.

"Fuck about -- that fuckin' arsehole, love, could've killed ya drivin' like that", he grumbles, throws him one last look in the mirror, "Seriously, where did that prick get his license, the bloody fuckin' lottery?"

Tangerine's eye twitches and you can see his pulse speeding up, aorta pressing thickly against his neck, pumping. He is like a force of nature and a mental image of him, covered in bruises, blood and sweat flashes before your eyes - chest heaving and knuckles bruised, hair curling and framing his face like a halo, dripping with blood.

"You're so fuckin' hot when you're angry", you mumble and then you're bending down again, tongue licking over his cock, from the base all the way up the top, flicking around its head and then gliiiding back down.

A growl, a real fucking growl, leaves his chest, hand on your neck tightening. "You better get fuckin' back to it, love, Jesus fuckin' Christ", his voice is coarse and it gets you going, makes you wet wet wet and has your head diving back in, tongue lolling out of your mouth as his dick slides back in.

"Atta girl, fuck", he groans and then his hips jolt up, pushing his dick deep into your mouth and you hum around it. You start to bob your head up and down, meeting his thrusts - your hand abandons the dashboard to clutch his thigh, nails digging into the flesh a little.

Tangerine moans at both, your hot and wet mouth sucking him off and the slight pain that blooms in his thigh, dangerously mixing with the anger pulsing in his chest and he throws his head back.

"Just like that, fuckin' hell love", his hips buck, shoving himself deeper into your mouth. The sudden intrusion has you choking a little as he hits the back of your throat, spit gathering around the corners of your mouth while you sputter around his dick - jaw going slack and his hand finding its way into your hair, fisting it as he starts to fuck into your mouth.

Holding your head in place his cock hits the back of your throat, steals your breath. Your nose is buried in his pubes, inhaling his scent - sweat and musk - more saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth, wetting his locks. You relax your throat and whimper around his dick, the way he uses you has fresh wetness spreading between your folds, squelching sounds filling the air as your finger is joined by a second, rubbing tight circles over your clit.

You moan around his cock, strangled noises escaping your throat while your rock back against your fingers, choking around the head of his cock hitting your throat.

"Shh, shh shh", he tuts, a little breathless, "Daddy's got ya, mh pretty girl? Lemme just--"

Tangerine's right hand lets go off your hair and then you can feel it sneak past your back, a feather-light touch brushing over the silk of your dress. It travels further and then grabs your ass, the sudden rough touch has you moaning around his dick once more. Your eyelids flutter as he pulls the fabric up up up, fists it and exposes you to whoever or whatever may rush past the passenger side's window. Your fingers speed up at the thought while his hand kneads the flesh of your cheeks.

"Fuckin' pretty", he hums, taking another quick look at the way your head bobs up and down his cock, "All over my cock like that, pretty fuckin' slut."

His hand wanders further down and before you can process it, one of his fingers circles your hole, feeling your slick and your plump folds. "Jesus Christ", he nearly groans, "You just love sucking cock, don't ya?"

That you do, whining around his base as the thick head of his dick hits the back of your throat again, with your fingers still working your clit. "Let me help you with that, love", and with that he pushes one finger in, up to his golden onyx ring, nestles it snugly between your hot walls. They clench around him and the sensation - the lingering promise of more - has you squirming a little.

Tangerine gives you what you want, need - finger curling a little, digits brushing over your spongy hot walls, before he slooowly pulls it back out. It circles your hole once more, quickly joined by a second, before he pushes them in again, starting to fuck you fast.

You moan, feet kicking a little and eyes tearing up at the sensation, with his dick pushing further into your throat and your fingers rubbing your clit, quickly has your muscles clench and cunt squirting.

"Yeah, just right 'ere, love, huh? Gettin'ya all loose 'n wet f'me? Such a good girl, aren't ya?", obscene sounds fill the air as he fucks your slick back into you, bottoms his fingers out, rubbing over the spot that has you seeing stars.

Tangerine moans deep in his chest as his cock starts to fuck into your mouth again and you let him use your throat gladly while his fingers pump in and out of your cunt, accompanied by the way your fingers flick over your clit rapidly.

The lack of fresh oxygen has you bucking against his hand, choking and sputtering around his cock that rams deeply in your throat but your stomach still flutters with it, lust igniting your loins and limbs tingling with it.

You can feel the muscles in your abdomen clenching, heart racing in your chest. Your fucking close and he seems to notice, too, his moans barely reaching your ears through the blood pumping and engine roaring. Tangerine nestles his fingers deep deep inside of you, rubbing over your walls and the spot that has you seeing stars, eyes falling shut and moaning against his cock.

It is all too much and your chest heaves as you finally cum, muscles clenching around his fingers, hips stuttering. His dick pulls back a little, tip resting hot and heavy against your tongue and then, his movements still.

"Open up your pretty mouth, doll, lemme see", he rasps, barely keeps an eye out to the street and you comply, fucked out mind making everything a little hazy, a little slow. Your jaw goes slack as you open your mouth, giving him a perfect view of his dick resting on your tongue.

Tangerine looks at you: mascara pooling beneath your eyes, lips swollen and red and jaw wet with spit and then comes too, shoots ropes of hot cum into your mouth. He watches the way it paints your tongue white, some of it landing on your upper lip, slooowly dripping down, running over your chin.

You swallow and then your tongue darts out, licks over your lips and then darts out, licks his cock clean, too.

Slowly, with your mind still foggy and limbs a little heavy already, you get back up. Your fingers brush through his remaining cum on your chin, wiping it away and letting them slip into your mouth, licking them clean. "Jesus, love", Tangerine's voice is a little coarse, gaze darting back and forth between your mouth and the street, as he carefully pulls his fingers out of you and your body closer instead.

You yelp, pressing yourself onto him, of your knees resting between his spread legs. None of you fucking care anymore, lust tugging at your brains dangerously, daringly. His hand, fingers still wet with your juices, brushes over your waist, grabs your ass and you lean in, lick over his throat, tasting his sweat and cologne.

"Can't wait for you to fuck me", you rasp, hands brushing over his chest, his necklace jingling, down down down, hand brushing over his cock and carefully putting it away, his clothing back in place.

Tangerine huffs, google assistant chiming out a direction, indicator clicking loudly as he sets it and then his hand comes up quickly, grabs your chin hard and holds your head in place. You look at him, deer in the headlights, holding your breath and then he's pulling you close, locks his lips with yours. He can taste himself on your tongue licking into your mouth, pulls you close.

You don't know how you made it to the fucking hotel alive, with Tangerine's hands roaming over your body, lips locking occasionally while he was speeding down the streets, cutting corners and red lights.

The two of you barely make it through the lobby and into the elevator, until Tangerine is onto you once more, presses your back flat against the cold, bronze metal. "I'll fuck ya so good, love", his dick is already hard again, pressing against you through the linen of his trousers and the satin of your dress, "'S gon' be all you'll be thinkin'bout for the next weeks." In a little more than an hour you will come to realize that he is right. You will be thinking about it for weeks. But now, there are only his lips roaming over your throat, occupying your mind and letting you drift back to a hazy, lustful state, with his hands feeling up your hips, your waist.

Eventually, the elevator piiings lazily and the two of you rush out it, like you are on the run from your own lust, hand clutching his as you quickly make your way down the hall to your suite. You unlock the door and turn the dimmed lights on inside. The room's just like you left it, guns and cash on the coffee table, soft light coming from the bedroom on the left. The window there is still opened, a soft breeze rolling in through the light curtains.

Tangerine throws the door shut behind himself and immediately grabs you by your waist, pulls you onto him, hand on your back on your ass as he leans down, devours you with a kiss. His tongue pushes into your mouth while he manoeuvres you backwards through your suite. Your hands dart out, catching the doorframe of the bedroom and you grab it hard, using it as leverage as you push back against him, your crotch rubbing against his. Tangerine grins against your lips and grabs your hips hard, makes you moan into the kiss.

He breaks it, chest heaving a little. "Fuck, love, imma ruin ya." Your breath hitches at that and your hands let go of the doorframe, wrapping around his neck instead like you're on some sort of fucking autopilot. "Yeah fuck, please", you whisper.

It takes Tangerine a moment, gaze growing a little soft before the beast takes over again, a gleaming dark hue turning the blue into an endless ocean and he hoists you up, carries you over to the bed.

He is carrying you like a caveman would his bagged prey and he tears at your dress just the same, one hand shoving the straps down your shoulders. Then he's onto the zipper, sliiides it down and throws you onto the bed.

You land onto the duvet with a soft thud, tits bouncing a little and his gaze follows the movement hungrily, before he tugs at the hem of your dress, pulls it down and throws it to the ground carelessly.

Tangerine just watches, gaze hungrily moving over your naked form, slooowly starts to undress himself. His slender fingers unbutton the silky shirt, button by button in an agonizingly slow speed. You know he's deliberately taking his time with you and it works, has your body quivering with anticipation and lust, one of your own hands running up your body, cupping your tit. He lifts a brow as he watches you tweaking your nipple and the haughty disdain has your head swimming, legs falling apart. "Please", you whisper, pussy aching for his touch, "--Need you."

The silk falls open, still hugging his shoulder and Tangerine continues watching you, playing with a ring on his finger, just like he's playing with you. It's cruel but it has lust building up in your belly, shooting arousal down between your legs and making fresh wetness pool between your folds in a way that you just know, that his touch will be heavenly.

And yet, impatience taking over, you mewl and in a desperate attempt for any sort of attention - for him to just fucking touch you again - you scramble to your knees, stretching out on the mattress and pressing your body flat onto it, ass high in the air. You know that he'll see it: your wet cunt, glistening in the dim light, hole clenching desperately around nothing. You feel exposed and at his mercy alone, and the degradation and danger of being unarmed like this in the presence of a killer, has your heart racing, thighs rubbing together for any sort of fucking friction.

Tangerine bellows out a laugh, surprised and dark, can't really hide either how turned on he is, and then his hand comes down on your ass. The sound bounces off the walls and has your bods jolting forward, first a gasp and then a moan falling from your lips, hands fisting the sheets. "Ya dirty fuckin' whore", he groans, hand groping your already reddening flesh. You can hear the silk flowing down to the ground and then he is pressing his crotch against you, fine linen against your wet cunt.

It's electrifying, the rather rough material pressing against your soft skin, your slick immediately wetting the fabric as your start to roll your hips against it, rutting over his clothed dick. Tangerine's cock is so so hard, hotly pulsing through the linen and you can feel its curve pressing against your pussy. You whimper, hips stuttering.

"Jesus Christ, love, can feel ya through my fucking pants -- lemme see", Tangerine groans and then grabs your hips hard, stalling your desperate movement, shoving them forward a little. You can feel his gaze dancing over your cunt, hear him whistle lowly, hands spreading your ass cheeks, assessing your slick. One of them comes loose and then --

He gives your cunt a light slap - the slight pain and degradation making your head swim - has you squirming on the mattress, a whiny Daddy, please escaping your lips. Your mind fogs up, all hazy with lust and his perfume, aching your back for him, pressing your chest flat against the sheets.

Tangerine pouts at you, eyes gleaming playfully. "D'you wan'it that bad, love?", and you nod nod nod, wiggling your hips as you chant - a desperate Yes yes yes escaping your lips, muffled by the mattress - hands uselessly darting out for any leverage.

His middle finger runs through your folds and you tremble, goosebumps erupting on your arms, spreading all over your body. He spreads your slick and his other hand comes up, kneads the flesh of your ass, spreading your cheeks further apart. "Always fuckin' wet f'me, innit? Picture perfect cunt ya got, love."

You mewl, throwing a glance over your shoulder to see him watching your hole clench around nothing. His eyes gleam. "Shit", you huff out as his finger brushes over your clit, feet curling a little and he grins smugly - Bastard - and gives your ass another sharp slap. You groan and then his hands are off you, making work of his trousers.

You watch him get fully undressed and your mouth waters at the sight. Tangerine's body is covered in scars, smaller round ones from bullets and larger, longer ones from knives and nasty fist fights and you want to crawl to him on your knees, kiss and lick them, worship them and him - his body, his tool of death - like he's your very personal reincarnation of Ares.

His dick springs free as he drops his boxers, completely exposing his muscular body to you, dusted on body hair and tattoos and scars scars scars and in the moment, that you can see precum glistening on the tip of his cock, you realize that you had already missed it. You fucking missed his dick. The thought has warmth spreading on your cheeks.

There's a light pat on your hip. "C'mon love, turn around. Wanna see your face while I fuck you nice and proper", he hums and your eyelids flutter, humming deeply in your throat at the proposition, turning around and laying on your back.

The mattress dips as he sinks down on his knees, chest flushed a little - the golden necklace dangling between your bodies - and then he's onto you, crawls over your body like an animal, leaves sloppy kisses on your skin, tongue licking over your nipples, stache tickling.

"Oh fuck", you huff, hands darting out and finding his hair, gently tugging at it. Tangerine's lips move over your throat and he sucks, makingyou gasp, throwing your head back as he marks you up.

"Spread ya legs f'me, sweetie", he rasps against your jaw and you do, knees falling apart. He grabs his dick with one hand, the other one supporting his own weight next to your head, rubs himself along your folds, using your slick as lube. "There ya fuckin' go", he huffs and then the thick head of his cock presses against your hole.

"Fuck, yes", you whimper, hot with anticipation, one hand leaving his hair and clutching around his shoulder. And then, he finally - fucking finally - puuushes in, your hole stretching around his girth a little, dull pain spreading excitement across your body.

Tangerine groans. It's a low and honest sound, has his chest vibrating against yours while he looks down to where your bodies meet. "Shit, fuckin' hell", he says, hand abandoning his dick as he slowly slides into you, fills you up and spreads your walls, grabbing your inner thigh instead. The way he spreads your legs is delicious and you hum, his dick is completely seated inside of you.

He lifts his gaze once more, looks at you. His eyes are dark, a stormy stormy sea, a few loose strands falling into his face, curls of his hair freeing themselves from the hair gel. He looks like a fucking god. "Fuck", you say, lowly, hole fluttering around him, stomach tingling at the sight.

"Ya cunt's so fuckin' tight, love", he growls and you can hear, feel it on your skin, that he is having a hard time holding back, "'S perfect, Jesus Christ."

Tangerine rolls his hips, once, twice and you moan, fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulder. "'S good for ya, too, love?", his nose brushes over yours, lips ghosting over your cheek. "Yeah, fuck", you huff, and then he's onto you, licks over your lips with his tongue and shoves it into your mouth, invites himself in. You lick over it, lips locking with his, stealing the air from both of your lungs. It is a sloppy kiss charged with energy and lust, your hands tugging at his curls, making the thrusts of his dick more feral, as he forces himself in deeper, groaning into your mouth. In return you moan, chest heaving against his, tits rubbing over the muscular skin.

His lips brush over the corner of your mouth, breathes against it, stache tingling a little as they move down to your throat, kissing and nibbling at the skin, marking you up.

"Fuck", you gasp at the stinging sensation, pulling his hair and he groans.

It feels nice; the way he is fucking you - you push away the thought that it's dangerously close to actually making love - the way he feels inside of you, how his body feels against yours, but it's also not enough. You need more.

A whine escapes your mouth, all desperate and needy and breathless and his movements still for a second.

Then, Tangerine looks up at you, dark blue eyes meeting yours. "Tell me what you want", he whispers, hand groping your thigh and dick buried deep deep inside of you. You can feel it twitch inside of you and your breath hitches. "Want -- want you to fuck me", you say quietly, "Like - hard."

"Aint' ya just a fuckin' dream, poppet", he growls and then his lips are unto you once more, licking into your mouth, teeth catching your lower lip; licking and kissing your lips until their sore while picking up a faster rhythm, pounding into you.

Tangerine eventually breaks away from you, leaves you panting and straightens up until he's kneeling between your legs - rolls his hips into you with his dick fucking in and out your hole, accompanied by an obscene squelching sound. One of his hands grabs your thigh hard, rings digging into the flesh, and then he's hoisting it up, resting your ankle on his shoulder and you moan at both: how deep his cock now pushes into you and the way Tangerine looks.

A thin layer of sweat covers his cheeks and his upper body, chest and cheeks flushed, a few strands of hair falling into his face as his brows are furrowed, lips slightly parted. You can hear him breathe heavily, occasionally moaning when your walls clench around his cock, squeezing him. He looks like a fucking porn star, with his defined muscles working beneath the skin and the golden jewellery, a soft summer breeze rolling in through the opened window, toying with his hair. Tangerine's gaze is glued to his dick that rhythmically pumps in and out of you, watches the way your juices squelch around the base of his cock, balls slapping against your wet skin.

His free hand runs up your belly and cups one of your tits, squeezes it, rolls the nipple between his fingers - the bracelet around his wrist jingles and the rings are cold against your skin. You hum deeply, breath ragged and fingers clawing at the sheets desperate for any leverage, while his deep thrusts throw you back and forth like a fucking ragdoll, tits bouncing and gasps falling from your lips.

Your mouth falls agape, watching Tangerine through hooded eyes and dark lashes and his gaze crawls up up up your body until it meets yours. It is accompanied by his hand, ditching your tit, and brushing up your neck, cupping your jaw and then falling in the crook beneath it, pressing down. The sudden lack of air has the muscles in your legs tensing and he feels it, too, mischief illuminating his face, his eyes, as you gasp for air. You know he could kill you then and there, watch you as your lights fade out and as fucked up as it is, it has your rutting your hips against him, spurring him on.

Tangerine furrows his brows and picks up a quicker rhythm, hand closing in tighter around your throat, rings pressing down onto your windpipe, and you lay your head back, feeling the stretch as he's choking you. The lack of fresh oxygen has your chest heaving, body surrendering to him and the way his cock pumps into your hole fast and deep, lust igniting your nerves. Tangerine can feel you clenching around his dick, wetting his trimmed pubic hair as you squirt, slick dripping down his balls and staining the sheets below. The beast inside him roars, thrums against the bars of its cage, his ribs and he sees your eyelids fluttering, cheeks prettily reddened.

"Atta girl", he groans, fingers giving in a little and you suck in a few deep breaths, before he presses them back down again. It's too soon and your hands dart up, clutching in around his wrist, bracelet jostling and clinking under your touch.

The cage breaks.

Suddenly, quickly, with the force and speed of a predatory animal, Tangerine lets go off your throat and flicks his wrist, catches both of yours in an iron grip and pins them above your head, down onto the mattress. His body follows the stretch of yours, bending over you, holding his own weight up with a hand that crashes down next to your chest. He is feral and it should scare you, especially as air floods your system again, lifts your mind out of your foggy state just a little, but it just doesn't no fight or flight kicking in. The way Tangerine hovers over you now has your leg on his shoulder bend, too, allowing his dick to fuck into you deeper, delicate pain from the stretch of your back igniting your loins.

Ragged breaths escape his throat while he pounds, ruts into you and you lose yourself in both, the sound of his utter pleasure and the way your body feels: on fire, chest tight with your approaching orgasm and raw lust, pure want, that chews up the ends of your nerves, has your limbs tingling.

Tangerine's hand keeps your wrists in that iron grip of his as he rolls his hips into you, dick hitting your cervix, his fingers digging into the flesh of your wrists. You throw your head back, gasping with each of his thrusts and his eyes follow your movement hungrily, groans as your eyes roll back. There's a strong pull in your abdomen and your hole flutters around his cock, his balls slap against your wet skin.

"Fuck fuck fuck", you whine, high pitched moans falling from your hips as he ruts into you, "I'm gonna cum, oh shit --"

Tangerine's eyes fall shut, a throaty moan erupting deep from his chest when your muscles tighten around him. "Yeah, shit love -- that's it, fuckin' cum f'me", he rasps, forehead coming down to a rest on your shoulder.

And you do after a few more of his deep thrusts, whining and legs kicking a little, shakes erupting in your chest as you press against him. Everything goes white as you ride your orgasm out on his dick, moaning and gasping as he does, too, shoots thick and hot ropes of cum into you, painting your walls and pulsing deep inside of you.

Tangerine moans, coarse and raw and his chest heaves, presses his nose into the crook of your neck - but you barely notice it, too far gone, mouth agape and legs shaking.

It takes you a while to come down again, eyelids fluttering open lazily. There's a hand on your cheek, a deep hum near your ear. "Welcome back, love", Tangerine says quietly and then, "Ya did so good for me, eh?" You mewl, stretching your legs a little. Your whole body feels sore, his cum leaking out of you and into the sheets. All you want to so is to get up and clean yourself up, but your legs are so so heavy and you just feel so so tired. Tangerine seems to notice, too.

"You stay here, darlin', imma get you something to clean you up", Tangerine says, voice coarse but soft and he gets up, just as a fresh breeze rolls in through the curtains, blows them up and sends them flying a little. The forecast prognosed heavy rainfall for next week. The air already smells like it a little - damp and mushy.

The breeze cools your sweaty skin, has you sighing with content while you watch Tangerine's naked form as he is walking to your bathroom, muscles in his legs and butt working nicely with each step.

***

It has been over a week and this is his third night. It starts to feel like a fucking stake out.

He feels incredibly silly. Silly for coming here again. Silly for lying to Lemon - again. Silly for ordering two Margaritas. Silly for drinking both.

Tangerine leans against the bar, elbows planted firmly on the sticky wood, smoking a cigarette. The band, same musicians, play a soft and melancholic tango. The air had cooled down a little after yesterday’s rain and maybe, just maybe, that'll be the summer's first soft goodbye before it will go down in a last great huzzah with a hot Indian summer before autumn takes over the city.

He wonders if he will still be in Amsterdam by then, if he and Lemon will watch the leaves fall. There is an offer for a job in Japan and he is considering to take it. He'll have to talk to Lemon about it.

"Anything else for you, Sir?", the bartender asks. And Tangerine nods, orders another Margarita. The bartender takes the empty glasses away and he stares at the wood. Oh, he's just so bloody fucking silly, isn't he?

He takes another drag from his cigarette, shifts his weight from one foot to another and rubs his eyes. She won't come. He knows.

She just won't. Tangerine did have a suspicion who she was, has heard stories about her father and he knew, as soon as he had laid eyes on her, that he was in big, big trouble. He wonders if he had already taken her away, wanting better for his daughter than a no-good ordinary killer. Did not want the danger in his life that came with a man, who potentially could be holding his daughter for ransom at some point or worse, could get her killed.

He gets it, though. He would probably do just the same.

"There you go, Sir", the bartender says and Tangerine just nods, suddenly feels very very exhausted and just barely notices that something, someone is moving next to him.

"Can you still afford to buy me one, too?", a familiar voice says, "Or did you burn it all on car insurance?" He chuckles, feels a sudden burst of energy surging through his veins, straightens back up and slowly turns around to her.

"Wasn't my fault, 'prick was driving like a fuckin' loony."

She chuckles and the noise makes his head swim, a strange fluttering feeling in his stomach. He wants to tear his chest open and claw at it, rip it out. That is how much it fucking scares him. How much she scares him.

"Wasn't sure if you were coming back", she says, casually, calmly like she thought about it so much she's just used to it by now.

"I'm not leavin' that soon, love", he says, signals the bartender that another Margarita is in order.

"Where you going?"

"Tokyo, love. Probably -- most likely."

"Come back in one piece then", her smile is genuine. And he knows, that he just has to now.

#tangerine #tangerine x reader #tangerine smut #tangerine x y/n #tangerine bullet train #tangerine x you #tangerine x fem!reader #tangerine imagine #my writing #smut #bullet train #bullet train 2022 #aaron taylor johnson

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meluiloth · 8 months ago

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For @silmarillionepistolary day 7, Remembrance and New Beginnings! Artwork at the bottom.

Night has fallen. The lamps have been turned low, the house cleaned, the bedtime routine completed; all Maglor and Maedhros have left to do is tuck the twins and read them their customary story.

They look so small wrapped in the red wool blankets, like two little birds in a crimson nest. They are quiet, too, waiting patiently for Maglor to ask his routine question: “Now, what story would you like tonight? Or would you rather hear a song?”

“I want the one about the Sun and the Moon!” Elros pipes up, scrunching the blanket in his hands eagerly.

Maglor smiles. “Is that what you want as well, Elrond?”

Elrond, the quieter twin, looks bashfully down before murmuring, “I’d like to see the picture book…”

Maglor shares a confused look with Maedhros. They did not own any picture books. “What do you mean?” Maedhros asks.

Elrond tips his head. “The one in your study,” he says. “It’s got gold string around it and lots of pictures on every page.”

Maedhros frowns. “You know you are forbidden from entering my study,” he reproaches.

Elrond bites his lip. “Yes, I know … I just saw the pictures and thought they were pretty.”

Maglor sees the telltale signs of a lecture in Maedhros’s expression, so he swiftly says, “Perhaps we can excuse it this once, if you promise to ask before you touch our things.”

Both Elrond and Elros nod emphatically, and Maglor leaves the room to search for the ‘picture book’ in his brother’s study, which is packed with volumes, scrolls, and papers. Maglor thinks it will take him forever to find the book Elrond described, if it exists at all, but surprisingly he easily locates it in the first bookshelf: a worn book of red leather, tied with a fading gold ribbon. It is familiar to him, but he cannot recollect why until he brings it back into the twins’ room. Maedhros’s eyes widen when he sees it. “Grandfather’s sketchbook? I thought that was lost ages ago!”

“It was in a box in the back,” Elrond supplies.

Maglor looks down at it, a stab of nostalgia and old grief passing through him. “I thought we never even brought it,” he murmurs.

“Can we read it?” Elros asks, leaning forward curiously.

Maedhros frowns, his reluctance clear. There are many memories neither of them want to relive, the life and death of their grandfather among the most heartbreaking. But many of the memories Finwë recorded in his beloved sketchbook were his happiest, from both his life and the rest of his family’s. And the two young children looking up at Maglor are also Finwë’s family … and he wants to share something of his life that is not just the blood on his hands.

The spine of the book cracks softly as he opens it, and the yellowed paper releases a small puff of dust, but the artwork on the inside is still as lovely and life-filled as the day he penned them.

Maglor explains each piece as he showed it to the twins, and lets them look as long as they like. Even Maedhros sometimes asks him to wait a little longer on certain pages, the heavy, dark look in his eyes brightening when he remembers his childhood in Valinor.

It is well past midnight by the time they reach the last pages, and all of them are surprised to see that they are all in full color, when all the previous pages have been only graphite sketches.

“Who are they?” Elros breathes, tracing his finger delicately over the meticulously painted faces.

Maglor swallows, his throat and his eyes clogged with tears. His brother, too, is at a loss for words.

“It’s them,” Elrond says, looking up at the Fëanorians and then back down at thd drawings. “Maglor and Maedhros are right there … but Maedhros looks different …”

It was true. Maglor and Maedhros, along with all of their brothers - still alive and smiling radiantly - and their parents. On the other pages, their cousins and uncles and aunts, before any of them had suffered the horrors of Morgoth.

“That is us,” Maedhros murmurs. “That was us then. We were so happy..."

“What was it like … then?” Elros ventures.

Maglor smiles. “I will tell you.”

“Tomorrow night,” Maedhros interrupts. “It is very late, and if you are to understand a word we say, you must be well-rested.”

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cheynovak · 3 months ago

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Sweetheart - Part 2

Characters: Jensen Ackles x Y/N Female character

Summary: After years apart, Y/N and Jensen, high school sweethearts, unexpectedly reunite. As they reminisce about their past, Jensen expresses regret about their breakup, and the chemistry between them reignites. Despite the weight of Jensen's current relationship with Danneel, they share a tentative kiss that brings back fond memories of their first love.

Warnings: none

*Please do not copy my work, reblog/comments/likes are appreciated*

Weeks had passed since that night, but the kiss with Jensen lingered in my mind like a song stuck on repeat. I couldn’t shake it, the way it made me feel—like that teenage girl all over again, falling hopelessly in love for the first time. Every time I closed my eyes, I could still feel the warmth of his lips, the tenderness in his touch, and the familiar flutter in my chest.

In a moment of nostalgia, I found myself digging through old photo albums, hoping to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions I couldn’t quite shake. Flipping through the pages, I paused when I found them—our prom pictures.

I stared at the photo, my fingers lightly brushing over it. There I was, standing next to Jensen in that long, flowy dress I had spent weeks picking out. He looked so young, his suit slightly too big, but his smile was everything. I looked up at him with stars in my eyes, my love for him written all over my face. My heart ached as I realized just how deep those feelings had run back then, how simple everything had seemed.

In that picture, I looked so in love, my eyes sparkling with hope, and Jensen—he had always looked at me like I was his world. A part of me wondered if he still cared.

My phone buzzed, pulling me from the haze of memories that had consumed me. I looked up from the bed, where I’d been sitting with the old photo album spread across my lap, and reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up with a message from an unknown number.

*Hi, I hope you don't mind. I asked around to find your number. I really hope I didn’t scare you off the other night. Maybe we can still be friends? J.*

The moment I read his words, my stomach fluttered. Butterflies danced in my chest, and I could picture him so clearly, standing there with that boyish nervousness, hand rubbing the back of his neck, unsure of how I’d respond. Just like he had done the very first time he came up to me in high school.

I could still see it—us in the school yard. Jensen and I had been stealing glances at each other for days, neither of us bold enough to make the first move. His friends had practically pushed him toward me, egging him on, while mine giggled behind me, watching the whole scene unfold.

I remembered how he fumbled for words at first, clearly nervous, but the second our eyes met, everything else fell away. He’d made me laugh with some awkward joke, and from that moment, it all just clicked. That was where it had started—those small, tentative steps toward each other, the way his nerves melted into charm, and how, before we knew it, we were inseparable.

And now, after all these years, there was that same feeling. I texted back, *" I'd love to be friends! Hope to run into you soon."*

His response came almost immediately: *"Why wait for fate again? How about tomorrow?"*

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. That was fast. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before I typed, *"Name the place, and time."* A few seconds later, my phone buzzed again, this time with an address.

I didn’t think much of it until I arrived. It wasn’t just any spot—it was our place. By the lake. The place we’d spent countless hours during summer, the place where we’d shared so many memories. My heart clenched as I stepped out of the car and saw him standing there, the sun beginning to set behind him, casting a warm glow on the water.

As I walked toward him, my breath caught in my throat. Jensen had changed, undeniably so. He wasn’t the lanky boy I once knew. His shoulders had broadened, his posture more confident, and his beard was neatly trimmed. God, he looked handsome. The years had been kind to him in ways that made my stomach flutter all over again.

But his smile—that hadn’t changed. It was the same easy, boyish grin that had always made me feel like I was the only person in the world. He took a step toward me, and for a moment, everything felt like it had slipped back into place, like no time had passed at all.

As he leaned in, I saw it. The flash of white gold. His wedding ring.

My heart dropped into my stomach, and instinctively, I turned my head, offering my cheek instead. His lips grazed my skin, warm and soft, but that one small gesture felt like a wall going up between us.

I forced a smile, trying to shake off the sudden weight in my chest. “Hey,” I said, my voice steady even though my mind was racing.

Jensen pulled back, his own expression faltering for a second, as if realizing the same thing I had at the last moment. “Hi,” he replied, his voice soft, almost tentative, like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

The silence between us stretched for a moment, the lake's quiet lapping against the shore the only sound. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was different. Everything was different. And yet, despite it all, the connection between us still lingered, fragile but undeniable.

After the silence settled between us, Jensen suddenly started to laugh. His deep, familiar chuckle broke through the tension, and I couldn’t help but smile, even though my heart was still racing.

“What’s up?” I asked, glancing up at him, curious.

He shook his head, grinning. “I just remembered that time you accidentally pushed me into the lake. You were so freaked out that you offered to buy me hot cocoa because you felt so guilty.”

I couldn’t help but laugh softly at the memory, warmth spreading through my chest. “Yeah... And you paid for it behind my back.” I looked down at my feet, feeling the nostalgia wash over me, tugging at both my heart and my nerves.

“Yeah,” he said, his smile softening as he looked at me, but then the silence returned. This time, it felt heavier, like the weight of everything unsaid was pressing down on us.

I swallowed, bracing myself before I spoke again. “J, what are we doing here?” My voice was quieter, but steady. I didn’t mean *here* as in this spot by the lake. We both knew I meant something deeper, us. Whatever was happening between us now.

His smile faded slightly as he looked at me, his expression turning serious. He knew exactly what I was asking. His gaze dropped to the ground for a moment, and I could see the conflict in his eyes. Jensen shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar way, but this time, it wasn’t just nerves—it was hesitation, uncertainty.

He sighed, glancing at the lake before meeting my eyes again. "I don’t know," he admitted softly. "I guess I’ve been thinking about us a lot lately. About what we had... and what could’ve been."

Hearing him say that out loud made my heart twist. “But you’re married, J,” I whispered, not wanting to break the delicate moment, but needing to be real. “We can’t pretend that doesn’t matter.”

“I know.” His voice was filled with regret, but there was something more there—an ache, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the feelings that had clearly resurfaced between us. “I just—seeing you again, it’s made me realize how much I miss… this. You. Us.”

I looked at him, feeling torn. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment as I gathered the courage to admit what had been swirling in my mind for weeks. “I looked at our old pictures,” I said softly. “High school, prom… all of it. I guess I miss us too.”

Jensen turned his head slightly, his gaze meeting mine briefly before drifting back out over the lake. The corners of his mouth twitched into a small smile, and for a moment, I could see the memories flashing in his eyes.

“Prom night,” he murmured, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “That was a great night.”

I nodded, the memory vivid in my mind—the music, the laughter, the way he held me like we were the only two people in the world. But before I could say anything more, Jensen spoke again.

“I remember what you wore that night,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the water as if he was pulling the image from the depths of his memory. “That blue dress. You looked incredible. I couldn’t stop staring at you the entire night.”

Jensen’s eyes sparkled as he described the outfit you wore to prom. I could see him picturing every detail.

"The fabric of the dress hugged your figure perfectly, the soft flow of it as you moved, and how the color made you stand out under the dim prom lights." And then he added "Your hair… you had it up, right? All messy and beautiful.”

I nodded, biting my lip as I remembered the exact moment. " Simple, soft curls, lose curls or two framing your face, beautiful" He’d complimented me back then too, and I could still hear his words in my mind as if they were said just yesterday.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you the whole night,” Jensen confessed quietly, his voice filled with the same affection from all those years ago.

I looked at him, watching the way he was lost in the memory, and I couldn’t help but smile.

I blinked, caught off guard by how easily he recalled every detail. “You remember that?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat.

He chuckled softly. “Yeah, how could I forget? You were… perfect.”

I bit my lip, warmth flooding my chest as I watched him, the sunset casting a soft glow over his face. The way he spoke, the way he remembered, made me feel like we were back there again, dancing under the stars like nothing else mattered.

Jensen’s gaze softened as he continued, his eyes locked on the lake but his mind clearly elsewhere—back in time. “You know,” he said slowly, almost as if he was still savoring the memory, “when I saw you that night… I don’t think I’ve ever felt more nervous in my life.”

I raised my brow, surprised. “You? Nervous?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Yeah. You looked... perfect. That blue dress, it wasn’t just the color—it was how you wore it, how you moved. You were so confident, so beautiful, I didn’t know what to do with myself. All I could think was, *Don’t screw this up, Jensen.*” He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as if still teasing his younger self.

His smile faded slightly as he grew more reflective. “I remember how the room practically disappeared when you walked in. Everyone was there, but all I could see was you." He paused, looking at me with that familiar glint in his eyes.

"You were laughing about something with your friends when I walked up with pur drinks. I couldn’t even think of anything to say. I just stood there, completely stunned, and you—God, you smiled at me, and it was like... nothing else mattered.”

I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as he spoke, every word carrying more weight than I expected. “I didn’t know you felt that way,” I whispered.

Jensen shrugged, his gaze still far off. “I wasn’t good at showing it back then. But that night... I knew I was in love with you. I was already falling, but when I saw you like that? I was gone. I spent the whole night trying to find excuses to... to touch you, to be close. It was like I couldn’t breathe unless you were right there next to me.”

I swallowed hard, feeling the intensity of his words. He was opening up in a way that was both tender and heartbreaking. His voice lowered as he added, “When we danced, I remember thinking... This is it. You were the only thing that mattered in that room, in that moment, in my whole damn world.”

I looked at him, searching his face, realizing that this wasn't just some old high school memory to him. It was something he had held onto, just as I had.

He glanced over at me, his expression vulnerable, like he was trying to find the right words to explain how deeply those moments had stuck with him.

I smiled softly at the memory, looking down at my feet as the words tumbled out. “I remember how most of my friends went off with their dates to some cheap motel after prom... but you didn’t.”

Jensen smirked, the playful edge in his voice making me glance up at him. “Trust me, I wanted to,” he admitted, the honesty in his tone catching me off guard. His eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and affection, but I could tell he wasn’t just talking about the physical desire. It was deeper than that.

“Yet, you didn’t,” I said, my voice softer now, recalling that night in vivid detail. “Instead, you drove us here.” I gestured toward the lake, the exact same spot we were standing in now. “We laid under the stars, kissing, talking... just holding me.”

He nodded, his smirk fading into something more tender. “Yeah,” he whispered, his eyes softening as they met mine. “I didn’t need anything else that night. You were everything.”

I could feel my heart swell as the memory flooded back. The way the cool night breeze had danced over our skin, the sound of the lake lapping gently at the shore, and the stars—so many stars—hanging above us like tiny specks of light, illuminating that perfect moment.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving a soft, cool breeze in its wake. I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself, trying to fight off the slight chill. Jensen, noticing my discomfort, walked over to his truck, parked just a few feet away with the tailgate facing the lake. Without a word, he opened the back, rummaging around until he pulled out a blanket.

He patted the back of the truck, motioning for me to sit. I hesitated for a moment, but then climbed up, perching on the edge. The cold metal of the truck’s surface sent a shiver through me, but before I could say anything, Jensen was standing right in front of me. Eye to eye now, the closeness made my heart race.

Without a word, he gently draped the blanket over my shoulders, his hands brushing against my skin, sending a wave of warmth through me. “Don’t want you to get sick on my watch,” he said softly, his voice low and filled with that familiar care. The sound of it sent a shiver down my spine—not from the cold, but from the feeling of being so close to him again.

I could only stare up at him, taking in every detail of his face. The way his jawline was more defined now, the faintest traces of freckles still visible, and those eyes—just as green and mesmerizing as they were all those years ago. My breath hitched slightly as his gaze held mine, filled with something unspoken.

There was a tenderness in the way he looked at me, and for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed between us. Like we were still those two kids, wrapped up in each other, the world falling away around us. The lake, the stars, the silence—it was all there, but the only thing I could focus on was him.

Jensen’s fingers lingered on the blanket for a second longer than necessary, as if he didn’t want to break the moment. His touch was warm, reassuring, and I found myself lost in the feel of it.

“You always took care of me,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Jensen’s lips curled into a soft smile. I couldn't tear my eyes away from his lips, memories of every kiss we'd ever shared rushing back to me in waves. The tension between us crackled, making the cool night air feel electric. His hand moved slowly, deliberately, brushing against my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. The touch was so tender, like he was afraid I might disappear if he moved too fast.

Then, before I could even process what was happening, his lips were on mine. Soft, hesitant. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t push forward either, waiting for my reaction, giving me space. It was just a whisper of a kiss, almost like he was testing the waters, feeling the way things still hung between us after all this time.

A second kiss followed, still light but with a little more certainty, and by the third, something shifted. My nerves—strung tight ever since we met again—began to calm, and I leaned into him, allowing myself to fall into the familiarity of it. It was like muscle memory, like our bodies remembered each other in ways our minds had tried to forget.

By the fourth kiss, everything else faded away. His lips parted slightly, a silent question, asking for permission without words. On instinct, I answered, my mouth opening to meet his, and suddenly I was 15 again, feeling that same nervous excitement that had coursed through me the very first time we kissed. My heart pounded, and for a moment, it felt like time had folded in on itself, bringing us right back to the start.

It was different now, though. Deeper. More layered. The years we’d spent apart, the lives we’d lived, everything that had changed between us—it all melted away in that moment, leaving only the two of us, tangled in something that felt both impossibly new and achingly familiar.

I didn’t know where this was going, or if it even could go anywhere, but right now, all I cared about was the feel of his lips on mine, his hands holding me like they had always belonged there.

Like I had always belonged with him.

-- Eh guys... I think I need a part 3 to wrap it up. What do y'all think? --

Please like, share or comment when you liked the story. If you liked this, please check out my masterlist for other stories.

Tag list:-> If you want to be added let me know what you like to read! If anyone feels like you're tagged too much, also let me know please. :)

@kr804573 @nancymcl @suckitands33 @mostlymarvelgirl @globetrotter28 @jackles010378 @hobby27 @winchesterwild78

@deans-baby-momma @soab1967 @livingdeadblondequeen @ladysparkles78 @whimsyfinny @lmg14 @yvonneeeee @ninii-winchester @spxideyver @n-o-p-e-never

#jensen ackles #fanfic #x reader #jensen fucking ackles #fluff #spn #dean winchester #soldier boy #the boys #beau arlen #jensen ackles singing #jensenedit

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metalichotchoco · 3 months ago

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Ever since I found out that my baby girl Edgar has an actual high end perfume based on him Miguel matos’ “electric dreams” I thought it could be fun to talk about what some other computers would smell like based on their personalities, stories and overall vibes.

Since Edgar has a perfume already I might as well talk about it

Released in 2021, they describe this scent as being “digital hormones” and trying to understand an emotion and failing at it, which works well for Edgar very well. Electric dreams as a whole lives in the pre internet age of the 80s and how hopeful that dream of the future was in the minds of the people. I love that they included the cheap champagne that miles spills on Edgar as a note here. The other scents are contextualized with the youth of the 80s, strawberry gum and tutti frutti soda, plastic flowers and clean laundry. Even the part where Edgar overheats at the end is in the smoke note. It’s categorized as chypre fruity and I think some other scents fit Edgar very well.

In love with everything by imaginary authors is glitzy and bright almost like those arcade cabinets introduced in the era.its based on the young adults of the time specifically the women, the joys of recklessness. Inexhaustible enthusiasm. To me Edgar is a sugar sweet summer.

Edgar is characterized by the era he was born in, something actually a lot of sentient computers share. As technology morphs and evolves with humanity, our ideas and outlooks also change with it. Electric dreams is coated in the neon lit nostalgia of the 80s, and in a weird twist of fate its legacy is of the 80s as well. The commercialism of it as a whole is what’s remembered most prominently, the song that was made for the movie has outlived its original context. Honorable mentions to age of innocence by Toskovat but I don’t think the rubber or gasoline notes fit him well. Fantômas by Nasomatto is pretty good being a fruity clearly fake fragrance though the gunpowder might be a bit much.

Moving forward, let’s talk about HAL

While technically she was an anomaly by Etat Libre d’Orange makes direct reference to him and his most iconic line, this scent is based on the marriage of Nina Simone and Stanley Kubrick. If hal was human in any shape or form this fragrance would be a generally good fit, as it’s clean professional and one of those your skin but better scents that’s prefect for workplaces.

Eu de space from nasa could work pretty well though it’s not exact. This is a photorealistic space scent with metals and plastics and ozone notes but Hal isn’t directly in space, he’s what the ship would smell like. The burnt sweet quality doesn’t mix well with how pristine and rigid the character is. Spacewalk by Demeter also has a bit of similar problem being a bit too sweet but the soapiness does add points in my opinion. Hal is the sharpness of metal and ozone on your nose to me, not the smell of a hospital or sanitizer but the smell of something newly plastic. Skiing on Europa could be that but unfortunately it’s a little more niche.

Last but not least for now, let’s talk about am, there’s so many different ways to go with am, none being particularly good smelling but there’s so much you could do for him. You can go with the fact that he’s the whole planet, add in soil, rock,gasoline as accords, you can do the religious angle that he has that can pair well with other ideas, use wine or incense and wax like in with the candlestick by clue, you can do blood, sweat, tears and skin to represent the survivors who are now a part of him. Warm electronics, tar, gunpowder there’s so many distinct parts of him.

I think that the two I’m going to single out in terms of perfume are ones that take inspiration from what am’s original function was which is war. And that’s inexcusable evil by toskovat and Molotov cocktail by sylhouette perfumes

Inexcusable evil is infamous in the fragrance and perfume world for its incredibly strong violent smell, it’s a hospital ward ravaged by war. That is its story. Memories that are lost to the tide of battle. “The next war will decide not what is right but what is left.”

Molotov cocktail goes more personal but is still a war scent, the top notes are gasoline,vodka and pepper. the middle notes are blood sweat and rubber and the base is metal, iodine, musk and leather. More animalic and close but both work on the scales that am is a threat in, he’s both a world ender but also a personal tormentor, he spans the globe but also cannot leave his confinement

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simic-initiate · 6 months ago

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The episode "Mr. Universe" from Steven Universe: Future is still one of my favorite episodes of television. Steven's realization that his father is just...some guy. Some guy who used to be some kid who flew through life by the seat of his pants to stick it to his stifling parents. Steven's bewildered frustration that his father would so thoroughly reject these things that Steven feels would have been huge comforts to him.

Along with saying so much we didn't know before about Greg there is much told to us without dialogue or implications that aren't stated. There are no photos of Steven in the home of Greg’s parents, no pictures of Rose, nothing of Greg Universe. The only image of him we see in the home is when he was younger in a family photo where he is the only one trying to smile.

The fact that Greg has sent at least six letters to his parents and none of them have even been opened is rather telling. Greg has reached out, but there is no evidence that Steven's grandparents have ever had any interest in their son's life since he left home at the age of twenty.

This does not seem to register to Steven though, he's excited to learn about family he never knew and about his father's youth, something Greg is still trying to get away from even now. As Steven gets out his father's old yearbook, delighted to find a young Greg with braces he snaps a picture on his phone. Instead of being a conversation about fondly remembered home life, Greg is dismissive and distant about nearly everything that had to do with his parents, school or his hometown with one exception. The CD that inspired him to be the man he is.

Getting in the van with his father's prized CD Steven is horrified to learn that his family name was just a song title his dad liked.

Greg insists at every turn that his life growing up was terrible, downright suffocating. All Steven sees is a kid dealing with somewhat strict parents, he's seen that before in Connie. Sure Connie's mother was somewhat controlling but it was because she cared, surely that's what Mr. and Mrs. DeMayo were like, right?

This isn't an episode about who's right or wrong to be feeling one way or the other, it's a father and son both entirely failing to connect. Steven experiences more visible discomfort than in maybe any other episode as his disillusionment deepens with every word out of Greg's mouth. Greg, meanwhile, is so swept up in his nostalgia over the first thing he felt ever gave him joy as a kid that he completely misses how upset this is making Steven. Culminating in a livid rant about how his father's fair-weather lifestyle kept him from being a normal kid he declares "My problem isn't that I'm a gem! My problem is I'm a Universe!"

After wrecking the Van (arguably Greg's most treasured possession) and coming to, Steven is faced with his father who shrugs off the damage to the vehicle and the peril Steven caused, Greg saying "I'm proud of you."

Steven is beside himself with confusion that this would be what is father tells him after he nearly got him killed, Greg begins telling him why, that he is proud Steven has the guts to tell him off and 'talk to him about anything', at this point Greg slowly becomes white-noise as Steven tunes him out. He has given up on trying to understand the thing that is his father. He listlessly looks at his phone, at the yearbook picture he took

and he deletes it. The episode ends. There's no schmaltzy reconciliation, no understanding is reached. This never gets brought up again in the show, it's just 10 minutes of a boy realizing his father is a flawed stranger that happen to raise him.

#Steven Universe #Steven Universe Future #Greg Universe

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otakuworks · 2 years ago

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❛ 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑. reborn au

feat. Zhongli x Reincarnated!GN!Reader | PART II | wc. 5.4K

Based on 'See You In My 19th Life' webtoon | overview. This Webtoon follows the story of a woman who somehow can remember all her past lives.

sum. You were running too fast in life, so fast that no one could catch up, not even Morax who left you to fend off with your curse. Just when you thought you'll slip and fall, a certain consultant came behind and caught you.

cw. mentions of extreme emotion breakdown. cttro 双niarss on Twitter for the art below.

main m.list genshin m.mlist

PART I < PART II

THEME SONG; Slump by Stray Kids (English Version)

There are five stages of grief; Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. All in order.

In your case, it was the other way around. You have long accepted Morax will lay on his deathbed one day, every living thing will eventually cease to exist, mortal and immortal alike

You, out of all people know the in-depth concept of death.

And yet, no amount of tutelage or experience can prepare you for the real thing.

Now you understood what Morax felt when you died.

Your chest feels raw like there's a sudden gash wound that has manifested in your heart. It was painful, too painful that you wouldn't wish it upon anyone, even on your worst enemy.

Scratch that. It's not just pain. It feels something more destructive, demanding and insatiable, crueler than sorrow. Not even death can appease this feeling.

It was agony.

Impale your abdomen with a spear hundred times. Sever your limbs every lifetime. Suffer for all eternity hiding behind Morax and watch him love with someone else over and over again— you'd take them all and say thank you.

You'd be grateful and endure each of them just to trade whatever horrible feeling that's tearing you apart.

Confusion, terror and fright blanketed your mind as you slumped on the floorboards, desperately gasping for breath.

The acrid smell of snarling lightning crackles in the stale midnight air, sharp enough to singe every nerve of your body, rendering you cowering in overwhelming emotions— agony, pain and grief.

Inazuma was bustling with the news of the Geo Archon passing away recently. You could only imagine how Liyue is digesting the cruel twists of events.

The news spreads fast enough for foreign people to sympathize to Liyue citizens, some even offered prayers to the Raiden Shogun, some pay their respects by wishing the late Archon to rest in peace, some never bothered to care.

But none of them mourned in the confinements of their four walls as you did, the Celestia above knows the quiet sobs that wrecked the very core of your existence. The horrors of every shitty lives you went through cannot be compared to this day.

Rex Lapis, who is— was widely known for many names, mostly as the Geo Archon, God of War, God of Contracts, Former Prime Adepti, the Stonebreaker, God of History is now reduced by dust with his people carrying the legacy he has passed on.

To you, all this time, he's still... Morax the petulant child who leans on you for comfort, who politely demands you to sing a lullaby as kids. You're already sold to the idea no one would ever believe you if you told them what embodiment of mischief he was in the ancient times, the exact opposite of the Archon they knew about.

Nostalgia hits you in particular days you can't find traces of the young Morax, but Pride would caress your heart every achievement he succeeds as you watch the people love him.

Similar to a lone planet, you desperately search for a star to orbit around, to give you a source of energy and strength. Once you find one, it'll be difficult to rearrange your position after you have settled down, you're attached until the star loses its amber glow.

And now the star is gone. Gone with the cosmos after a supernova.

Destroying the neighboring planets, including you.

You were the closest in its orbit, you're the one who had to endure the scorching flames morphing you into ashes until you're reduced into cosmos particles for no one to remember.

Morax left you to fend off with your curse and face adversities alone.

Mortals would succumb to these adversities and would choose to sever their connection to the living to escape from everything. You've seen a handful of them and can't ever get enough of it.

If there's anything you long to have other than having Morax beside you is a swift escape.

Every mortal is capable of such thing, you are too, but it's pointless if the pain will cling to you in your next life. It's fruitless to cry when you know every affliction won't be forgotten even if you tried.

Just why?! Why do I have this perpetual curse of reincarnation? I abhor you, Celestia! Not only you cursed me, you even took away Morax from this land!

You shake your head as the anger surge took over your sanity. You thought you can just go live your merry life, unbeknownst how dependent you were to Morax.

Your will to live is solely operated by the fact you have someone you want to protect. But now he's gone? What's the back up plan? Clearly you can't just follow him in his death knowing you can die, but your memories will remain with you.

Was it out of selfishness to protect him to have someone accompany your lonely soul? Because he's the only one who actually remembers the real you?

Rain began to pour from the desolute atmosphere as you heard disembodied voices theorizing Morax's death. The muffled thundering of the storm only growing louder, reminding you of today's unsavory news. How convenient, the sky is sympathizing.

No, make it stop! I don't want fo hear any of it! Morax is dead, that's how nature works. I'm griefing because it hurts, not because I have nothing to live for.

You lived in that illusion for minutes until. . .

*drip* *drip*

. . . the dam broke.

Hot tears streamed down your face, and you squeezed your eyelids shut in the hope the pain would stop, just numbing it would be fine too. Your choppy breathing and watery eyes remained for quite some time, and sat there unmoving.

There's no see you later's anymore, for Morax has left you. Today has marked your first Goodbye to him.

For an indiscernible amount of time, there was only a black void and it could have been as if you didn’t exist and you had never existed.

And then you felt each of your cells that had been ripped apart within seconds be sewed back together just as quickly, and your eyes met nothing but a blinding white light.

Have I reborn again? You're not aware which is which anymore. You lift your numb hand and reality crashed over your head, you haven't died out of grief, yet.

Your mind is in havoc, you don't know what you want, not that you have any choice.

Dying won't help you escape, forgetting is not an option, loving. . . can't heal an open wound.

No words can equate the absolute devastation you feel.

❖ ── ✦ ── 『 6000 YRS AGO 』 ── ✦ ── ❖

This is stupid. Utterly ridiculous!

What kind of mortal would go in the mines in the middle of the night where monsters lurk in the shadows to hunt for preys? Yeah, that's a question he would like for you to answer!

He flies twice the speed he usually exerts, his mind running rampant of all worst possible scenarios.

He doesn't know what compelled you to do such ridiculous act, but all he knows is he has get to you before any monsters do.

Landing unceremoniously, he gulps at the sight before him. He was never a fan of darkness, it never fails to instill fear in him, the fear of the unknown.

The only time he feels comfortable in the night is whenever you're around him. You don't fear the night, and it somehow influenced him in a way that there's nothing that should be afraid of as long as you're with him— as his human shield.

Young Morax finds himself slowly withdrawing, the fear overpowering his will to come and save you.

"Morax? What are you doing out here?" Saved by the gracious voice of yours, young Morax nearly broke his neck with how fast he looked at your direction.

Your face is contorted out of concern for him, he's sweating profusely and his breathing is ragged.

Just seeing you all in one piece with no signs of injuries made hin slumped on the ground, sighing in relief.

You were at his side seconds later, subconsciously caressing his cheeks. Celestia above! He's shaking like a leaf!

"It's alright, let's get you out of here." Your soothing voice appeased his troubled mind as you helped him get back on his feet. He clutches the fabric of your shirt and wordlessly launches himself on you, arms and tiny tail entrapping you in an embrace.

You waste no second reciprocating the gesture, you've known him for months to be comfortable with physical sentiments. Though you can't say the same to him as he would always flinch away when you initiate it, but has no problem when he does it.

And it seems like he needs your comfort to even give a damn.

"Whatever it is, it can't hurt you now okay?"

From that angle, he peered from below you as if confirming the validity of your words, amber eyes looking like someone has kicked an innocent puppy, it's no wonder you have a soft spot for him.

Both of you strayed away from the caves leading to mines, "I-I thought you l-left me." He meekly mumbled, almost incoherent.

That baffles you as he continues, "I overheard f-from your village that m-monsters are increasing in the area and you're probably..."

"Shh... I'm here now, aren't I? I'm sorry you have to hear that, I can assure you I haven't encountered any marauding monsters during my little excursion." You sighed, guilt pooling your conscience.

He sniffled, "So, you're not going to leave me?"

"Can I even go anywhere when you have a sharp sense of smell?"

"I'm a dragon, not a wolf." He whined, though you could still see the glint of dubious in his eyes, "Can I trust your word?"

Words never served him better than actions, you ought to show him you honor your word by affirming it through gestures.

Smiling, you offered your hand to him.

"How about you hold my hand on our way home? Will that help?" He stares at you and literally contemplated before he relented.

It's warm, much similar to your hug, but like a form of hug that has been reduced to a smaller fraction. It's still a paragon of comfort.

Surely enough, it did help his mind to be at ease. If you ever feel like he's cutting off your circulation, he is cutting your circulation by intertwining your fingers as if trying to tangle it so it won't loose.

"I'm sorry, you must think I'm stupid for cowering away just because of some stupid dark cave." He lowered his head in shame.

He's a Dragon who has greater strength than most beings, and yet he lets his fear consume him as if they can hurt him like how—

"Nonsense! Don't ever think like that or I will personally be the reason why you should fear humans." As stern as you sound, your eyes tell a different story.

Young Morax deduced this as concern, which resulted a flustered and heartwarming reaction from the boy. You were worried for him.

It shouldn't be something he's supposed to feel happy about, but your fretful intentions warranted warmth and security in his mind.

"I didn't know how oddly. . . pleasant it is to hold hands." He mused, and you responded with an amused giggle, "Here I thought only couples do this stuff, but it's really reassuring."

"It does, doesn't it? Sometimes the solution to your conflicts is in a form of validation."

Too wise for a kid, he inwardly complained, ". . .Meaning?"

You hold his other hand and stood to face him with a sequined smile, "No matter how minuscule or massive your fears are, you'll still find comfort when someone validates your feelings; to let you know that they care. It may not be the solution in some cases, but it's better than being alone in times of your vulnerability."

You leaned slightly closer, "Can I ask you a favor?" Your gaze pierced right through his soul and he can only nod absently which resulted for you to grin.

"If you see someone, friend and stranger even enemies, looking so vulnerable that they actually might cry. . ." You lifted your intertwined hands with his, ". . .Make them feel significant."

A cold midnight wind whisked past the both of you, your eyes shone brighter than jewels and stars alike as you spoke those words that made a huge impact in his life.

". . .Even if my enemies are about to cry because I'm about to end their miserable lives?"

What a way to ruin the moment.

"You know what I mean, Mora." You deadpan, preparing to let go of his hand, but his grip is much stronger and it only tightens once he feels you're trying to detach.

"I'm afraid you have to elaborate further, Y/N. And please, I only have two syllables in my name. What's so hard in including the X?" In contrast to his words, he quite enjoys hearing his nickname.

"The X is not even a syllable, Mora."

That time, young Morax found peace.

He's always on the hunt for something new, something glimmering, something incredible, something undiscovered and something bedazzling. That's how his childlike brain thinks and he seizes anything outwardly beautiful.

But he never knew how amazing it was to see something— or rather, to see someone's beauty on the inside.

Perhaps that's what draws him to you, because of your voice, patience and understanding. He would never admit it though

To him, you're beautiful inside and out, almost perfect, even your flaws are easy to love.

He can't deny he wasted a few immortal years just mourning your death, you'd probably scold him.

Within those years, he's only reliving the memories and wise words you have with him. He wanted to come out as a better person after your death, take it as an honour of your passing.

You made him for what he is.

If he hadn't met you he'd still be the intolerable, impatient and disrespectful person as he grows up.

He'd still fear the unknown, never having the courage to take risks and accept whatever outcomes.

Everything he does always brings him back to you, his actions always correlates to something that's relevant about you. It had always been you.

He prays the Celestia to let you know you will always be apart of his person. Yes, you died, but every lingering piece of you still remains intact in the deep recesses of his mind.

He has moved on, but you remain the person he loved the most. Not even the sands of time has the capability to change that.

"How disastrous. People can be really simple-minded." Morax rubbed both of his temples once he heard the speculation of him and Guizhong plausible relationship.

"I apologize on their behalf, it never crossed my mind they'll be quick to make assumptions." The fair Goddess bowed in shame.

"You have done nothing wrong to spark such rumors, Guizhong. If anything, it is I who should seek forgiveness for I have tied you down with such unpleasant gossips."

She meekly chuckles, "If we're going to paint ourselves as the culprit then we might as well work together to quell the rumors."

His perfectly lined eyebrows knitted, which didn't go unnoticed by Guizhong, "What seems to be troubling your mind?"

A few seconds ticked by before he let out a whisper that only Barbatos can only hear thanks to his wind. For Guizhong who has keen sense of hearing, "If Y/N was here I'll gear up for another war just to extinguish this spreading rumors." She stifled a laugh.

Oh, she knows alright. She knows you. She knows the person who captivated Morax's heart, it's all about he talks to her in their leisure time and you're not a secret between their comrades.

Most people would find it dull to listen about someone's life unless it held any merit to pass onto the other mouth, she would too. But Morax describes you like a protagonist of a fairy tale, like some mythical being, caught between two worlds, a miracle of existence that racked his existence— which makes you an interesting person

She was so eager to meet you, it was rather unfortunate that you've already passed on uncountable years ago.

"Where are you going?" She inquired as the Geo Archon whisk passed her, "Out to visit an old friend. I won't be returning until tomorrow dawn."

She sighed, a corresponding smile soon follows as she took over his job for the meantime.

Morax walked through the barren areas in Mt. Tianheng, it became part of his leisure activities during the day when his mind needs to detach itself from reality and let himself be swayed by the memories he tucked in the deep recesses of his mind.

Memories of his late comrades who perished in the horrors of war and the most painful but nostalgic one; Y/N.

He ruefully sighed at the thought of you. Even in death, you have full grasp of his heart and shroud his head with your image.

Filtered beams of light accented the spaces between the ancient trees that twisted like spires from the undergrowth. Golden leaves littered the forest floor as Morax appraised the trail of mycelium path, one leading to a particular tree.

His expression remains unchanging, at least that's what he thought, any stranger sees him they'll stop to ponder what made this godly man smile so fondly.

A single maple leaf flow with the breeze, swaying in inconsistent direction until it falls in his gloved hand. The rich color of autumn and texture brings him back in his youthful days.

[ cttro papercider on Twitter ]

"Ah! All I do is reminisce to pass time." He muttered to himself as he let the leaf get carried away by the zither winds once again.

"It certainly has been awhile, Y/N. I was but a petulant child since I've visited you. I now stand here as the Geo Archon." It has been a habit to come back to this specific tree and treats it as his home.

It's a sacred place he's closely attached to, he can perfectly picture his young self failing to spy on you. He grimaced at the memory when he was caught in the act.

"I still have no idea why you let me trail your shadows, you weren't least afraid that I'm a dragon. You told me you're fascinated, but. . . was that the only reason?"

Only the breeze answered for him with nothing, "If you hadn't allowed me to do so I do not know what kind of person I would be as of today." He steps closer and pulled off his hood.

He let the silence hang for minutes, maybe even hours. Just standing there as he appreciates what nature has to offer in the place where his story began with you.

"Are you proud of me? My comrades claimed they were more than proud to stand alongside with me, but I doubt the veracity of their words when I led them to their demise. Is it that prideful to have me as a friend when I bring nothing but misfortune?"

He finally sat down between the roots of the tree, relishing the blissful comfort as the sunlight accentuates his godly features.

"I met a boy who was being manipulated by an evil god who only desires power and selfish gains." He began.

"He was a fierce warrior, strong and capable, the manipulation only fuels him to be at his strongest form. I was thinking of eradicating him, but his eyes already looked so dead. It reminded me of. . ."

He holds his tongue and shuts his eyes as he's in pain, "It would be one of my greatest regrets if I had impaled my spear into him."

"I thought of you that time. Hadn't it been to my promise to you, I wouldn't have gained a new ally. Xiao is his name."

The wind blew stronger, ". . . I forgot you can summon him just by calling out his name." He chuckles to himself.

Green statics cracked into the air and quickly revealed a masked man with his polearm readied for any danger.

"Settle down now. I apologize, your name slipped in my mouth." The young Yaksha visibly looked confused even under the layers of his mask.

"I was narrating a story to my old friend Y/N."

Guizhong couldn't have been more right.

By the end of the day, Xiao now knows every detail there is to know about the person called Y/N. It's what Morax ever talk to him.

"Mr. Zhongli is in a very elated mood ever since you told him Archon knows what, Traveler." Hu Tao, the Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor finds the situation quite absurd to look at, but never impossible. His mood just feels out of place.

Who looks at mournful families with an eccentric smile on their face as they consult them about their loved one's death?

"Why does Paimon feel like you're pointing finger at the traveler?" She puts her tiny hands on tiny her hips like a mother hen.

The Traveler let out a nervous laugh, "I wonder what exactly brought him in such high spirit with my words."

"Ooh... Paimon thinks it's about Y/N. Isn't it obvious by now?" Hu Tao furrowed her eyebrows, "Y/N? You mean the Adventurer?" Both heads snapped at her direction, "You know them?"

She reluctantly shrugged, "Only at acquaintance level. They showed interest in business and I taught them a few things." She smiled at the epilogue of her statement.

"If they ever come back, my hunch tells me you'd find them in Wangshu Inn, they frequented there before." She added before turning her attention to a new customer.

Zhongli, who's been eavesdropping, perked up at the claims. Perhaps he should visit Xiao tonight and totally won't inquire if he ever met you before.

Midnight falls and Zhongli bid his farewell to the traveler before heading towards the Wangshu Inn.

For some unknown reason, Zhongli could sense the foreboding feeling that's nagging his instincts as he gets closer to his desired destination, yet he doesn't stop. What's worse is that he doesn't know if it's for the good or bad.

All of a sudden, a harsh breeze blew past his face as if the winds attempting to convey a message that's only for his intuition to decipher, for him to meander.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his statue glowing bright blue, but that wasn't what caught his attention. A hand reached out to touch the stone statue.

A mop of [H/C] facing him backward bowed down in respect of the late Rex Lapis, but Zhongli could feel a much more intense feeling.

Something stirs inside him, he remembers this situation— when he watched Y/N with such fascination from above the tree, not knowing what they look like, yet they never fail to express their feelings through threaded words he finds so wondrous to hear.

In contrary to that, the person appears to be. . . forlorn. He stepped closer until he's only less than five meters away from them.

All of a sudden, he feels skittish around the person. It's as if he doesn't want to leave a bad first impression, he's suddenly self-conscious of his looks, and Zhongli never cared about his outer appearance.

Then they spoke, in a solemn voice.

"See you later, Mora. I hope you found your eternal peace."

There are times when you wish you'd forget Morax, some that you don't. But still, in the birth of new beings, you will find Morax in his next life. The prospect of being alone is a phobia you can't ever overcome unless you have Morax.

What a joke. It should've been a farewell. Your final goodbye to your old friend. Not a hopeless see you later.

It took you months to come with that mindset, only to end up saying what's the exact opposite.

It was difficult to come back in Liyue, every step adds a new pile of memory that drags you further into the depths of agony. Every where you look reminds you of the late Geo Archon. Each encouraging word in your mind gets trampled on by his image.

You consider it as an achievement to stand tall in front of his statue after his death, and a failure that you didn't get to bid your final words to him before you depart from Liyue.

You're still clinging to a nonexistent hope that you'll actually get to see him even after your death. Old habits die hard they say. It couldn't have been more relatable than now.

Sighing in disappointment, you retracted your hand from the statue and briskly turn around when you felt the disturbance behind you.

A gloved hand suspended in the air seems to be trying to reach out to you. As you raise your eyes to meet the oh-so-familiar glowing amber eyes that you grew to love. . .

You offered the stranger a faux smile, seemingly naive to the person standing in front of you with an aghast expression.

You failed to realize Morax as Zhongli just as Morax failed to realize you in your different lives.

"Hello. How may I help you?"

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Time has stopped, both hands of the clock moved counterclockwise, bringing him back to the time he first laid his eyes on you— so unsuspecting from what's about to unravel after a sweet hello.

His broadened eyes are solely fixated on you, it ingnited a feeling he couldn’t immediately identify, a sense of a certain and long-forgotten familiarity fogged his memory.

From the color of your eyes, skin and hair. The subtle furrow of your eyebrows and the upturn of your lips. The gentle facade that compelled him to indulge his curiosity towards you.

Y/N. . . Are you the Y/N the traveler was talking about?

But you bare no resemblance to the Y/N he knew, yet he can tell how it is your soul residing in the mortal's body. It is you. Your eyes aren't the ones that welcomed him as new friend. It feels different.

You're smiling while your eyes are grieving.

Your eyes failed to conceal your weeping soul and could only hope the last bits of its strength will keep it standing until someone reach a hand to put back the shattered pieces.

Behind that gleeful stare was a mountain of pain and extracting it would bring instability to the person who would dare to climb. Yet come what may, you're always worth any risk.

He lowered his hand to shake yours, his lips upturned into an enigmatic smile.

Your heart went erratic and the usually dormant butterflies imploded in your stomach. You haven't felt like a teenager since. . .

You felt your breath hitch in your throat when suddenly, with a mere handful of strides, the beautiful man was standing right in front of you, his amber eyes searching your face intently, trying to find whatever it was he was seeking.

"My name is Zhongli, I'm a consultant in Wangsheng Funeral Parlor." Your [E/C] eyes blinked surreptitiously before accepting it. What a beautiful name, you thought almost immediately.

Under normal circumstances you would've strictly reprimanded the man with his incongruous advances, but you felt something else, something so powerful it overshadowed your senses.

It was a need, an unyielding need to be close to him.

Rather than pushing him away, something inside you stirs awake and begin to implore to coalesce with his existence.

"I'm Y/N L/N, an adventurer."

So it is really you.

He briefly looks down to their intwined hands.

For countless nights, the image of your bloodied hand reaching out to him as you take your last breath plagued his every dream. The tender, soft hands that will no longer bring him comfort. The hand of the person whom he loved so dearly, whom he failed to protect against the wicked ways of the world.

The intense urge to hide you away from the prying eyes that shared similarities to his kept his mind in shambles.

Which what led him to mumble to you what his thoughts are repeating like a mantra.

When he spoke the promise he'll show you what's up at the highest altitude his wings could go, he was mostly speaking out of his selfish desire to hold onto your hand and fly you away to the farthest place no living creatures have ever stumbled upon.

He had to learn it the hard way; that the greater you wish for something, the crueler fate can be. Maybe if he hadn't been so greedy you could've live your mortal life.

Now that you are standing in front of him, shaking your hand, he can amend his mistake by straying far away from you before he repeats history itself, before he could inflict pain on you again.

And yet, looking at you attempting to shoulder the boulders of life is what all it takes for all the wisdom he garnered for centuries to be thrown out the window.

He can't imagine himself distancing from you when you're suffering and have no one comfortable enough to share your burdens with, no one to validate your feelings, no one to embrace you in your vulnerable times.

You taught him to be compassionate, to not disregard emotions, and he's about to set that in motion. You were there when he needed you the most, offered your shoulder to vent out his feelings, it's about time to let him do what you always did for him.

It became abundantly clear he's not willing to let you go through anything alone just like he had gone through without you.

"You claim you're a consultant. Did you perhaps think I'm a potential customer?"

He let go of your hand as much as he loathes being away from your warmth for even just a second, he's still convinced you can be taken away from him at any given moment.

"Indeed, I couldn't stand idle and watch you grieve alone." He watches how you averted your eyes as if hiding the pain would appease your mind.

"I appreciate the thought. . . though, I highly doubt it'll be effective."

He mentally chuckled at the irony. He, too, was once amazed of what simple gestures can bring to a downhearted person.

"Hmm. An old friend once showed me how to console a person. Allow me to share their insights."

Your eye brows perched in curiosity, this man speaks like he's in his 50s or something, ". . .If you insist. I could use a company for now."

Morax experienced eons of desires to attain what he wishes to, though he refrains from being blinded by those greedy thoughts as he had witnessed how cruel fate can be when he once desired to have you. Will history repeat itself?

Zhongli chortles in response, but his expression soon turned nostalgic, "I may not know what adversities you're facing nor do I know who you are, but know that you're never alone."

His smile never left his face as he takes off his glove and held the palm face forward to you, he watches how your eyes glisten with unshed tears, "W-What is that supposed to convey?"

You didn't even notice how much gap he closed just to increase the proximity between the both of you. Archons! You can smell the lingering scent of Osmanthus Wine mingling with his breath!

Is he a drunkard like Venti?

Perhaps this man is drunk to comprehend his actions, perhaps he won't remember this the never next day, perhaps he has mistaken you for someone else, perhaps—

"Wherever you wish to go, I'll keep you company. I dare ask if I may hold your hand along the way, Y/N?"

Perhaps there's hope you can cling onto until your aching heart is at ease.

Your hand found its way to his, almost too desperate to not let this moment of comfort vanish. Just this once, you thought to yourself as the man smiled with absolute glee that it puts the sun in shame.

Out of reflex, your fingers laced with his, wanting nothing more than to relieve in the warmth of his hand. His expression soon turned into a priceless one as if he's in disbelief that you actually just did that, and that alone made the realization struck you harder than Raiden's lightning and fried your nerves with embarrassment.

"I-I'm so-sorry! I didn't mean to get too comfortable!"

You're a stranger to him, and you acted as if you've been a longtime friends. He must have been feeling uncomfortable, you nervously thought as you quickly tried reel back your hand in an attempt to salvage whatever budding acquaintanceship you have.

Keyword; tried.

Your action prompts him to retaliate by locking his fingers in place, keeping your hand sealed with his and shot you a reassuring smile.

"Do not fret. I'm delighted to know I somehow earned a little fraction of your trust. It's only fair to mirror the trust you gave me."

As if to spell out his point, he held up your intertwined hands just below your chin. His eyes blazed with a newfound emotion you couldn't decipher. He almost looks eager. He was gripping your hand, not too tight, but firm enough give emphasize of something.

His action wasn't fruitless as it gained a reaction from you. Your eyebrows twitched, there's something too familiar about it, but your memory refuses to give you that answer.

Instead, you could only mutter weak responses, "I-I understand, but if you feel uncomfortable in any way then don't hesitate to point out what I'm doing wrong."

Whether it was a satisfying answer he wants to hear, his emotions betrayed to even give you a brief answer and his face only lit up as he turns away from you, "You could never do anything wrong in my eyes."

Did he just say something? "What was that?"

"Nothing. Are you new in Liyue? I could give you a tour if you'd like to make you familiarize with the environment."

Your lips turned into a genuine smile, it didn't reach your ears but something tells you this man will lengthen it until you're the happiest person alive, "I'd love to, Zhongli."

As the wind blows to the East, a new chapter has began with a new retelling of their unfinished story. Until the last maple leaf falls and the oldest standing tree drought, two souls will always find their way to rekindle what has been lost.

>> PART III

─ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. @itsyourgirlria @shizunxie @elsoleil @cherlynono @slzarr @katsuissus @tartarsaucechi1de @spyanya @tikitsune @shoujishu @useless-potatho @chimsblogg @xiamuyi @lemonlimesocks @belletifeshyl @alexon-mars @multifandomvoyage @malt-rants-and-stuff @jameineliebe @angelkazusstuff @orginiallyann @eissaaaa @beezgobuzzbuzz @towos @kamukayakmonyet @atsukawolfcat @sunflowers1970 @yamtwt @avery-needs-more-fics @angstylittleb1tch @bigcandlesmolbrain @lxmine @imk1ra @fauxizs @islxisl @chihawari @bishishbored @yuuki4646 @sunsethw4 @princeabomination @alexiris @chocolateneapolitan @ayra2452008 @akaritenchi @sophiee-bush @ittosoneandoniwife @alatus2716 @almighty-raiden-shogunate

(it's my first time doing tags so pls inform me if it's not working, idk why the others are white, did I do something wrong??)

PS. if you want to get tagged for the next part or be removed then simply comment it TAGLIST is for the readers who want to be updated for my future genshin works.

─ 𝐀/𝐍. Can you all smell that? *sniff sniff* I smell a Xiao ver. of this 👀👀 Fr, I didn't expect the fic will be loved that much as I initially thought, I received many appreciative comments and messages which is what motivated me to write part 2, and possibly part 3 (just for the fluff) since this was supposed to be a series but I crossed that idea out until everyone broke my expectation. Thank you💜💙 and merry christmas everyone ❤💚

#zhongli #zhongli x reader #zhongli fic #zhongli angst #genshin crossover #genshin impact #genshin impact angst #genshin x reader #zhongli fluff #crossover #see you in my 19th life #webtoon #genshin impact crossover #reborn au #genshin zhongli #Spotify

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tonicandjins · 2 years ago

Text

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.

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positivelyholland · 1 year ago

Note

Styles-Swift reader where Taylor plays her Never Grow Up (Taylor's Version) for the first since Speak Now TV came out? 👀💜

pairing: taylor swift x daughter!reader

genre: SO MUCH FLUFF

summary: Never Grow Up being played with the mother-daughter duo throughout the years.

warnings: it might make you cry it's so sweet

A/N i decided to add a little bit more to the request so i hope that it's ok

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FIVE YEARS OLD

You sit cross-legged on the soft carpet of the living room, your favorite stuffed animals scattered around you. At five years old, you're growing up fast, so Taylor takes advantage of every moments the two of you spend together. Right now is one of those moments.

Taylor enters the room, a warm smile lighting up her face as she notices you waiting eagerly. She's dressed casually, wearing a cozy sweater and jeans, her signature curls cascading around her shoulders. With a playful twinkle in her eyes, she plops down on the couch opposite you.

"Hey there, my little superstar," she says, her voice filled with love. "Are you ready for something special today?"

Your eyes widen in anticipation. "What is it, Mommy?"

Taylor reaches for her guitar, which she always keeps nearby, and begins to strum a familiar tune. The opening chords of "Never Grow Up" fill the room, and you can't help but smile. Even while still being young, this song has always meant a lot to you.

As your mom starts to sing, her voice wraps around you like a warm hug. The lyrics, filled with heartfelt wisdom, remind you of the precious bond you share with your mother. They speak of cherishing every moment and embracing the magic of childhood.

You listen intently, your eyes fixed on your mom's gentle expression. She pours her heart into the song, and you can feel the depth of her emotions in every word. The way she looks at you, her love shining through, makes you feel like the most important person in the world.

As the song progresses, memories flood your mind. You remember the countless bedtime stories, the lullabies sung softly in your ear, and the tickles that made you giggle uncontrollably. And she has always been there, through the ups and downs, guiding you with unwavering love.

You watch a single tear escapes from her eye, and she pauses briefly to wipe it away. You reach out and take her hand in yours, feeling her warmth and the reassurance it brings. Together, you find strength in the music, in the shared experience of growing up, and in the bond that nothing can break.

As the last note ends, the room fills with silence, the melody still lingering in the air. Taylor gazes at you, her eyes filled with a mixture of pride and nostalgia. She pulls you into her arms, holding you tight.

"I love you so much, y/n," she whispers, her voice filled with tenderness. "You are my greatest treasure, and I will cherish every moment we have together."

You snuggle against her, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. In this quiet moment, you know that no matter how much you grow, how much the world changes, your mother's love will always be there to guide you.

TEENAGE YEARS

As you walked into the living room, you couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement in the air. Your heart fluttered with anticipation as you saw your mothe, sitting on the couch, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

"Hey, sweetheart," Taylor said, patting the spot beside her. "Come sit with me."

You never know what to expect when your mom had that look on her face. But nevertheless, you sat down beside her, trying to hide the eagerness in your eyes. There was an air of secrecy about her, and you couldn't help but wonder what she had in store for you.

"Remember how I used to sing to you when you were little?" Taylor asked, a nostalgic glimmer in her eyes.

You nodded, a smile spreading across your face. Those moments had been some of the most precious memories of your childhood.

"I want to share something special with you today," your mom continued, her voice filled with tenderness. "Something I've been working on."

Your heart skipped a beat. Taylor had been teasing her re-recordings of her old songs for a while now, and she didn't even tell you when she would release them. You couldn't wait to hear what she had in store for you.

Taylor reached for her guitar, her fingers gracefully finding their place on the strings. The room was filled with anticipation, and you held your breath as she strummed the first chord.

As the familiar melody of "Never Grow Up" filled the room, tears welled up in your eyes.

The lyrics held a deep meaning that you hadn't fully grasped when you were younger, and now they resonated with your own journey of growing up.

As your mom sang, voice filled with emotion, you found yourself transported to a time when life was simpler.

Memories of playgrounds and scraped knees flooded your mind, and you realized just how much you missed those carefree days. But there was something bittersweet about those memories now, knowing that you could never go back to being that young and innocent again.

Taylor's voice cracked slightly on the chorus, and you saw tears glistening in her eyes as well. It was a song about letting go and embracing change, but it was also a reminder of the precious moments that would forever be etched in your heart.

As the final notes echoed through the room, you wiped away a stray tear and turned to Taylor, a mixture of gratitude and love in your eyes.

"That was beautiful, Mom," you whispered, your voice filled with emotion.

Taylor smiled, a tear trickling down her cheek. "I wrote that song when you were just a baby. It's always been my way of holding on to the moments we shared, even as you grow older. You'll always be my baby girl, no matter how old you get."

You hugged her tightly, feeling an overwhelming sense of love and comfort in her embrace. In that moment, you realized that growing up didn't mean leaving everything behind. It meant carrying the memories and the love with you as you embarked on new chapters of your life.

Taylor gently wiped away your tears, her eyes shining with pride. "You're becoming such an incredible young woman, and I couldn't be prouder. But never forget that you'll always have a home in my heart, no matter where life takes you."

You smiled through your tears, feeling a renewed sense of warmth and belonging. This was a moment you would treasure forever—a moment where your mother's music had touched your soul in a profound way.

The two of you sat on the couch, wrapped in a comfortable silence, basking in the afterglow of the song. In that moment, time stood still, and you couldn't have asked for anything more.

With a heart full of love and gratitude, you snuggled closer to Taylor, knowing that no matter how old you grew, the bond between you would remain unbreakable.

In this moment, surrounded by the music and your mother's unwavering love, you know that growing up isn't about leaving the magic behind—it's about carrying it with you, forever.

#positively holland #taylor swift x daughter!reader #taylor swift x reader #taylor swift #speak now #taylor's version #x daughter!reader #styles swift!reader

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winniemaywebber · 1 month ago

Text

Honeysuckle Rose - Part 9

read previous parts here.

It's time for the truth to come out, no matter what the cost. With friendship on the line, will Olive finally find it within herself to be truly honest?

Brakes screeching, cars colliding in the pouring rain. The smell of burning oil. An abrupt pain in the chest, a girl struggling to breathe. A man slumped on her, ailing gasps leaving his mouth as his life slipped away…

“No!” Olive yells, awakening herself with a cry. Feeling a heat rise in her chest, she tries to steady herself and breathe, gripping fistfuls of the blanket she'd been sleeping under. The soft snores of her best friend, Valencia DiRosano, in the bed opposite her own begin to settle her, Olive keeping in time with the hum of Val's breathing.

Counting her lucky stars that her sudden yelp didn't awaken Val, she wipes the sheen of sweat from her face with her nightgown as she sits up, beginning to pad across to the bathroom.

As she washes her face, Olive begins to count on her soapy fingers and tries to calculate how many days she'd been here without going to check on Pearl. Was it three? No, more. Four or five? A week? Surely not. Olive shakes her head at herself in the mirror in front of her, toothbrush in her mouth. She sees the tiredness etched on her face, her eyes beginning to look withdrawn. Something had to give, and soon.

Rushing out the door, she's surprised to see a thick fog upon the air today. So thick, in fact, that she's unable to see much in her trajectory, walking to the hardstand by memory alone. It's when she bumps her shoulder on the wing of Just A-Snappin that she hears a loud bark in the distance, a gruff voice following it.

“Who is it, fella? Someone else out with us this early?”

“Shit,” Olive breathes, recognizing the voice as her friend Benny Demarco's.

“Go get her then, buddy, go say good morning!”

Running up the stairs at a startling speed, Olive slams the door of the aircraft shut, hoping she wasn’t spotted after all.

***

The sun shines almost too brightly on Olive as she makes the walk to Pearl’s, quietly swinging open the metal gate and ridiculously shushing it as it squeaks, the scraping noise making her cringe. It’s when she reaches the door that she feels something untoward, the energy from outside seeming different than usual. Making her way in, pushing on the warped wooden door as she unlocks it, she is surprised to find Pearl alone in the kitchen, staring at the kettle and willing for it to boil faster.

Olive accidentally shocks her Grandmother, making her presence known a lot more prematurely than planned when her keys clatter on the dining table.

“Christ alive!” Pearl yells, dramatically clutching her chest. “You little devil!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she laughs, holding her hands up in apology and mock surrender. “That wasn’t meant to be so loud.”

“Just like your bloody father,” she teases. “The expression ‘bull in a china shop’ comes to mind.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t know where we get it,” she replies, as Pearl clatters around with the sugar tin and stirs her now prepared tea with a spoon, clanging it on the mug with each clockwise spin. “You’re awake early, Grandma.”

“God forbid I want some alone time,” she winks, sipping at the beverage. “Between you coming in and out and Joan hovering, I barely get any time to myself in this place.”

“Hey, we can back off,” Olive cackles, taking the glass bottle of milk from the counter and putting it to her lips.

“I don’t think so, lady,” Pearl scolds, eyebrows raised. “Get a glass.”

“Yes, Grandma,” she sighs, leaning up on her tiptoes to retrieve her favorite one - Tots TV, a show from her childhood. Pearl spots it and smiles, her eyes softening with the nostalgia of remembering this young woman in front of her as a toddler, squeezed in the armchair with her as they both dozed, the sounds of the gentle theme song somehow lulling them both to sleep.

“You know I’m only kidding, right, Ollie Pop?”

“About what?”

“The alone time, Joan hovering…”

“No, pal, I know. I’d feel quite the same to be honest.”

“I just miss my independence, y’know. Just being able to do little things myself. I seem to be getting stronger each day, though. Look, I even made my own tea!”

“I know. I’m proud of you,” Olive begins, emotion threatening to get the better of her. “You’ve come a long way. Soon enough, you’ll be back to your old self, up to your old tricks. Beating all the other ladies at bingo and seeing them bubble with anger over it.”

Her eyes narrow, a titter leaving her lips. “They know they’ve all got it coming, especially that Doreen. Cheating old hag.”

“Pearl!” Olive snorts, milk almost streaming from her nostrils. “At least you kept your humor.”

“At least there’s that, hm?”

Pearl reaches over and grips her granddaughter’s hand, staring into her eyes for just a moment.

“I like the outfit,” she says as Olive looks down at herself. Her eyes widen a little, realizing that she’d gotten dressed on autopilot: blue jumpsuit, boots, button down underneath. “Something for work?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Olive stutters, shaking her head at the inner voice picking at her brain, bullying her to tell the truth. “Something like that.”

“I don’t usually go for re-enactment stuff, Ol, but I must say, they’re keeping very accurate.”

“How so?”

“Well, putting British girls in Red Cross uniforms. I don’t know how they managed it, but when I was over at the base, doing my work as a Land Girl, the lovely American girls acquired one more lass. It’s as if she appeared out nowhere; a British girl, but she fit right in. I don’t know how they got to keep her on because I heard the requirements were crazy!”

“Haha,” Olive forces out, keeping her eyes on the table. She hopes that, by avoiding eye contact, she won’t be able to give anything away. Nevertheless, Pearl carries on.

“She had a lovely boyfriend. He was gorgeous, had these beautiful blue eyes. She was always laughing at everything he said.”

“Obviously a funny guy, Pearly,” Olive giggles, the thought of every silly joke of Dougie’s coming to mind.

“Must’ve been,” she nods. “But I had my eye on someone else, you see.”

“Who?” Olive urges, keen to be reminded. She rests her elbow on the table, her cheek resting on her hand. “Tell me, tell me!”

“I don’t remember his name, but I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before. He was so handsome. He and his dog would cause such chaos.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Olive mumbles, clearing her throat. “You never thought to ask him for a dance?”

“He asked me out for a drink, but it never happened. I was moving away by the time I could say yes, and I never remembered his name to send him a letter to apologize. Poor boy probably thinks I stood him up!”

“Yeah,” Olive laughs weakly. She stands, walking over to Pearl and plants a kiss on her cheek.

“What’s that for?”

“Just love your little stories, girly. You should write them all down for me.”

“I actually–”

The pair are distracted by the door swinging open, the wind seeming to try to take it off its hinges as it slams against the wall.

“And you thought I was loud,” Olive gestures, shaking her head. “Hi, Joan.”

“Ah, this is a surprise.”

“Not really, Joan. I do live here.”

“You know what I mean, Olive,” she sighs, patting Pearl on the shoulder. “Thanks for getting her up.”

“No need, she did that all by herself. Made a tea and everything.”

“You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not in the bloody room,” she interjects, exasperated. “Yes, Joan, I got out of my own bed and made my own tea. Like a regular person should.”

“I’m glad,” Joan says, her shoulders falling a little with relief. “Fancy going into town and having a look around the shops? Lunch, too? My treat.”

“That’ll be lovely,” Pearl smiles, nodding along at her suggestion. “Change of scenery and some fresh air will do me good.”

Joan turns to Olive before going to pour her own cup of tea. “You’re welcome to join us, of course, Olive.”

“Thanks, Joan, but I’m gonna clean up around here a little. My bedroom is a sty and it needs a good tidy. You two have fun, though!”

“You need anything bringing back, kiddo?”

“Nah, Pearly. I’m all set.”

***

After showering - Olive willing to never take a power shower for granted ever again - and throwing on her comfiest clothes while her jumpsuit was in the washing machine, she began to tidy. She began at her bookshelf, placing her precious books straight before becoming easily distracted, thumbing through well worn copies of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Hamlet and Much Ado About Nothing. Fishing for a backpack from under her bed, she stuffs each book in with care, glad to find something to occupy her mind when there was no work to be done on mission days.

It’s when she’s dusting the shelves that something falls from a height. A sparkling gold catches her eye from the floor, Olive holding her breath in both disbelief and anticipation as she bends down to pick it up. She holds the locket in her hands for the first time in years, turning it over in her hands thrice before opening it up.

“Hello,” she speaks softly, keeping the words for the man in the picture. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

Olive holds the heart shaped pendant in her hand a few moments more, taking in the features and expressions of her father, Oscar. There he was, smiling so gleefully that he was blushing, his cheeks a delightful shade of pink as he holds a small baby close to him. Baby Olive, a few weeks old, is looking at her father with awe, the same expression she carried on her face for the rest of his life whenever he was around. Her heart pounds unpleasantly as her mind reruns her dream from this morning; the crash, the car buckling all around them. Oscar slumping on his daughter as he took his final breath…

Olive snaps the locket closed at the memory, willing her brain to muster up better ones they shared. She places the chain around her neck and clasps it at the back, hoping that by wearing it, by keeping him close again, the bad memories can be saturated.

***

Olive pulls out a sheet of paper and grabs a pen, intending to write Pearl and Joan a letter to explain her absence from the house when the door opens, the pair of them traipsing in with a shiver.

“It’s cold out there, Ollie Pop,” Pearl shudders, nodding her head towards Olive’s coat that’s upon the hook as she looks at the jumpsuit she is wearing. “Wear something more than that if you’re heading out.”

“I was just about to write down that I was off again. Are you sure you don’t need me?”

“Absolutely sure,” Joan responds, closing the door behind her out of habit despite Olive saying she was about to leave. “Your grandma is right though, it’s bloody freezing. That wind has got a bite to it.”

“Turned quickly,” Olive observes, pulling on the mentioned jacket. “It was sunny when I got here.”

“Wasn’t it? Good old temperamental British weather, hm?”

“Got that right. Well, I’m off,” Olive announces, pecking Pearl on the cheek and giving her a quick squeeze.

“Don’t get lost!”

“Me? Never.”

***

There had been some ungraceful descents from the fort over the few weeks of going back and forth between the years, but today’s was about to go on record as the worst. Assuming that Kenny, Wink or one of the ground crew, had seen fit to leave the stairs exactly where they had been earlier this morning, Olive sticks one foot out of the door, only to be surprisingly greeted with air beneath her feet. Before she can register what’s happening, she steps down, sending herself flying through the air to the ground with a yelp.

“Fuck me,” she cries, once again finding herself winded on the hardstand of Thorpe Abbotts. Slowly gaining her breath back, she sits up, only to be greeted by a rowdy husky who is intent on giving one of his favorite girls a good morning kiss as a hello.

“Dang dog,” she giggles, scritching the space between his ears. “Morning.”

“Olive! Knew it was you,” Benny says, making his presence known by coming out of the fog. “What the hell are you doing all the way out here this early? Lemmons isn’t hankering for a donut that bad is he?”

“No, errm, no, no, he isn’t,” Olive winces, her voice raising a few octaves as she bites through another set of lies today. She sighs, standing up and brushing herself off. “I was just coming back from–”

His face is suddenly serious, the most solemn she’s ever seen him. “What are you doing out here, Ol?”

“Well, I–it’s just…” she stutters, her mouth filling with saliva as she talks. “I’m–ugh, Benny, I can’t lie to you.”

He crosses his arms, ready for an answer. He shakes his head, his eyebrows raised in an agitated manner. “Well?”

“Remember how I fell at your feet a few weeks ago?”

“Uh-huh…”

“And how it’s like I just appeared out of nowhere? Thin air?”

“Get to the point, Ol.”

“Jeez, okay,” she snides back, wincing in preparation for his reaction. “I’m from the future.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m from the future,” she repeats, seeing Benny’s arms uncross and his face go back to its usual kind expression. “I’m from the year 2021.”

“Hold on,” he says, the palm of his hand now resting on his forehead. “But how–”

“Dunno, bud. I clambered into this thing in my time and ended up here, in 1943. Fighting this war with you all.”

“I just–who else knows?”

“Kenny, Wink, and now you.”

“Val?”

“Not yet, Benny. I haven’t found the right time, or the right way to explain it. I mean, listen to me. It’s insane!”

“Got that right,” he exhales, puffing his cheeks. “Kenny found out before me? Before Dougie? Before Val?!”

“Listen, Kenny caught me the other night and I can’t lie very well, as you’ve just beared witness to. What else was I supposed to do when he caught me clambering up the stairs of a B-17?”

“Look, I can understand you not telling me, Dougie and Ev just yet. But Val? I’m surprised at you, Olive.”

“Yeah,” she squeaks, her throat closing around a lump within it. “Because, like, what if they don’t believe me, hm? What then?”

“I believe you,” Benny says, his voice soft on the cool morning breeze. “You’re my baby sis. I believe you. I’ll back you up, Ol.”

“You will?”

“Always! It’s fucking nuts,” he laughs, shaking his head and shrugging. “But I believe you.”

“How do you believe me so easily? And with no questions?”

“I don't know. I just feel like you of all people wouldn't lie to me.” He pauses for a second. “Also, pretty wild thing to lie about, huh?”

She laughs, the sound crawling up from her belly.

“Right? Anyway, baby sis is actually quite literal now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he laughs again. “What year were you born?”

“1997.”

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, running a hand through his hair. Looking a little less stressed, he finds her hand and grips it. “Something tells me you were always meant to be here, pal.”

“You know what, I think so, too. Meatball wouldn’t have led me here otherwise.”

He nods, petting the dog at his feet. “You want me to walk you home?”

“Please,” she agrees, linking her arm through his. “I’m knackered.”

“Nah-kurred,” Benny mocks, keeping Olive close so they don’t lose one another in the thick fog that hasn’t budged since they woke up this morning.

“Don’t take the piss, Bernard. I’ll spit in your eye.”

“There it is. I see learning from Val is going well.”

***

Benny pulls her into a comforting embrace upon escorting her back to the Red Cross hut, opening the door for her as gently as he can while trying - and failing - to keep Meatball quiet so as to not wake the other girls.

“Shut your pie hole, pal,” he whispers, his teeth gritted. “Yes, yes, it is breakfast time. You think I don’t know that? Maybe put your friends before your stomach just this once.”

As Benny talks, Meatball’s head tilts this way and that as if he is truly listening and understanding every word. Both Olive and Benny see the dog’s ears prick up just once during their exchange: when the word ‘breakfast’ was mentioned.

“Heard your belly rumble, too, Demarco,” Olive observes, the subtle sound ceasing as he lets out a sigh.

“I am. But I’m not crazy about those eggs, Ol.”

“No shit, buddy. Be patient; East Anglia’s finest donuts, coming right up.”

“Can’t wait,” he says, beginning to walk away. “C’mon, Meatball, let’s go.”

Seeing him and the mutt disappear back into the fog, Olive creeps through the door that Benny had opened for her, hoping that both Val and Helen were still snoozing. Much to her relief, they are, Valencia still snoring the same way she was when Olive left, and Helen, wrapped up in her blanket like a caterpillar waiting to emerge from its chrysalis.

Olive slings the bag off her shoulder and places it on her bunk before sitting down, pulling the dog-eared copies of the books she retrieved from her bedroom at Pearl’s out of the bag. She begins thumbing through them once again, grabbing a stray pencil and begins to annotate, already keen to present Brady’s girl, Jules, with another analysis in the coming weeks. It’s a line in Hamlet that catches her eye, quickly underlining it before snapping the book shut as Valencia begins to stir.

‘This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day…Thou canst not then be false to any man.’

“Morning, chickie,” Val yawns, stretching her arms above her head with a groan before standing up and making her way to the washroom, rubbing at her eyes as she goes. On her way, she shakes Helen awake, a pained moan coming from the cocoon she’s created herself.

“Not yet,” she whines, nuzzling back into her pillow. “I was just about to have my big kissing moment with Jimmy Stewart.”

“Well, you can resume that at bedtime,” Val shouts behind her. “There’s donuts to be made, and a certain Herbert Nash to look at.”

“Well, if you’re putting it that way…”

“If it gets you out of bed, doll, I’ll say anything.

***

“Good morning, kids,” Tattie greets, flinging open the door to the hut with her foot. Her hands are full, the objects clanging as she sets them down on a small table. “Right, some housekeeping. Pulled some strings with the friends in high places, and Olive,” she says, turning to her with her hands on her hips, “you’re being allowed to stay.”

“All about who ya know, isn’t it, Tat?”

“Indeed,” she nods, a triumphant smile making her eyes crinkle. “I mean, look at this face! What kind of father would say no to this? Even if he can’t see it, he knows I’d be giving him the puppy eyes. Think the memory of that weakened him.” She pauses for a second, picking up the silver objects she’d discarded a moment earlier. “Anyway, in regards to that, we’ve all been given dog tags to wear now, as part of our uniform.”

She gives each girl their dog tag, the tag itself looped on the regulation silver ball chain. Olive places hers around her neck before tucking it into her jumpsuit, the tag dangling just below where her locket sits neatly on her clavicle.

“Let’s get going, girls,” Tattie coos, a mother hen herding her little chicks. The weather shocks both Valencia and Helen, the pair of them looking at their surroundings with wide eyes.

“They can’t fly in this, surely?” Helen says, shaking her head with worry.

“Surely not,” Val replies, slipping her hand into Olive’s. It feels clammy, Olive feeling the anxiety emanate off her instantly. “They’ll be grounded. Chicky will ground them, right?” Val squeezes at Olive’s hand for a response, the second girl unsure if Val was talking out loud or expecting an answer. Olive clears her throat, squeezing back reassuringly.

“Right,” she agrees, her head on Val’s shoulder for just a fleeting moment. “I think you’re right.”

As they reach the truck, they are surprised to see four men standing around it, two leaning against it for balance. Jack Kidd, Everett Blakely, James Douglass and Herbert Nash all deep in conversation, exchanging stories of home and their families, perk up even more at the sight of their girls in the early morning light.

“What in the world…” Valencia begins, her footsteps picking up pace to greet Everett with a good morning kiss. Olive feels herself do the same to reach her guy, followed by Helen. The only one that keeps their cool is Tattie Spaatz, addressing Kidd with only a quiet hello.

“Hello, you,” Olive murmurs, leaning up to kiss Dougie. “How are you?”

“Morning, dumpling,” he replies, nuzzling into her.

“What did you call me?” she laughs, her arms wrapping around him. “Never heard that as a pet name before.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Not my favorite,” she replies, rubbing her nose against his. “Maybe try some others?”

“Oh, uh. Don’t worry, there’s a few more up here,” he responds, tapping his finger to his temple.

“Get away,” she teases, shoving him softly. “When did you all orchestrate this early morning surprise, anyhow?”

“When we all walked to bed last night. The four of us, we thought it would be a nice idea.”

“It was. It really was,” she says, kissing him again. “If you stay, coffee will be ready in a few.”

“What do you think I’m here for? No sugar, please, lovey.”

“I know…oh, that one’s sweet. I like that one!”

He grins at her cheekily, that twinkle in his eye ever present. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, his cheeks turning pink.

“You’re cute,” she teases, pinching his cheek softly and turning to climb into the truck.

***

Coffee finally brewed and a batch of donuts ready for the hungry men of Thorpe Abotts, the gang hears the slap of feet running on the pavement, and the sound of two small children giggling. Billy and Sammy race their way to the Clubmobile as fast as their legs would carry them, almost diving headfirst into the counter.

“Steady on, lads, you almost took out Captain Blakely!” Olive urges, picking up two fresh donuts for them. “Just out of the fryer.”

“Wow, thanks, Miss,” Sammy says. Val joins them, holding two cups of coffee for the boys. “Don’t tell your mothers, for God’s sake,” she says, patting Sammy on the shoulder and ruffling through Billy’s curls. The youngins cheer quietly, excited over being given this, to them, forbidden beverage.

“You’re giving already excitable children coffee? Before school? Jesus, that poor teacher.”

“Don’t sweat it, Ol. It’s mostly milk.”

“Ohhhh. Smart.”

“Not just a pretty face,” she cackles, heading back to the truck.

“The prettiest, though,” Ev interjects, handing her his half smoked cigarette. “Maude,” he nods in her direction. “Any idea where Dougie went?”

“Absolutely none,” she shrugs, confused. She hadn’t even seen him leave, and was a little sore at his sudden exit without so much as a goodbye. She huffs a little, lighting her own cigarette and letting the smoke from the first drag stream through her nostrils.

“Okay, sourpuss,” Ev japes, pointing through the fog that's beginning to clear. “Here he comes.”

“Where did you go?” Olive asks, her face still etched with a little sadness.

“Forgot something,” he responds breathlessly, smiling down at his girl. He has a jacket strewn over his shoulder, and hands it to her as he takes the cigarette from her mouth and pulls on it. “This is for you.”

“For me?” she gasps, unfolding it. It smells just like him, and covered in different patches that he’d obviously exchanged for smokes. She grins at him, lost for words. “This is–wow.”

“It’s for when I’m not here,” he murmurs, helping her put it on. “So you can feel close to me.”

“That’s so sweet, Dougie. Thank you.” She fumbles for a second, panicking. “I don’t have anything to give you!”

“Hey, don’t worry about it–”

“Wait!” she yelps, fiddling with her collar. “I do have something.”

She fiddles with the two chains around her neck, pulling at the spare dog tag that hangs a little lower than the other. She unclasps it and hands it to him; his turn to be speechless, his mouth open in surprise and a hand running quickly through his neatly pomaded hair.

“Gee, Ollie. Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“That’s–heh, now I don’t know what to say. You’re really my girl, huh?”

“Sure am.”

He grabs her by the back of her neck and kisses her deeply, her hands finding balance on his chest as she’s thrust into him. They feel one another smile as their lips meet, a moment that makes them feel like they’re in their own little world.

He places the tag around his own chain after they break apart, Olive's tag dangling close to his heart.

“Ah,” he mutters, patting it gently. “Perfect.”

She grins at him, heat rising from her chest and spreading over her cheeks. He glances down at her open jumpsuit, her clavicle still visible. His eyes light up when he sees the gold locket sitting pretty, hand coming out to touch it.

“Got room for me in there?”

“You know it,” she swoons. “Right next to my Papa.” Her fingers touch his as she takes the locket from his gentle grasp, beginning to open it and not paying a thought to the color picture of her father within it. The world seems to slow down as the locket almost opens, everything coming back into focus at the sound of Everett Blakely's voice from the back of the truck.

“Doug, you need more smokes?” he calls, Dougie planting a quick kiss to Olive’s forehead and rushing over to him. She exhales a breath she barely noticed she had been withholding, opening the locket for just a quick second.

“I'll tell him, promise,” she whispers to the picture. “I'll tell them all.”

“Come on, ya rabble. Get inside!” Chick Harding struts out of the briefing room, making his way up to Val at the window of the truck. He opens his mouth to ask for his coffee, mouth left hanging open as Valencia places the cup in front of him, already made to his exact taste. She pours a second for Red Bowman before placing two donuts on napkins and wordlessly handing the goodies over.

“Thank you, Valencia,” he says, clearly surprised. “I need to get you girls together real quick. Miss Tattie, can you close up once the fellas are all in briefing?”

“Errm…yes?” She replies, clearly confused. She looks towards her girls, shrugging. “I guess start cleaning up a little, we'll come back to it.”

“We're not in trouble, are we?” Helen asks, her eyes worriedly darting between her friends. “I mean, I know we aren't exactly allowed to form romances with the men, it's right there in the rules, but…”

“It's a silly rule,” Tattie responds, puffing on her cigarette. “How do they expect us not to form bonds with these fellas?”

“Don't stress yourself, chicken,” Olive joins, pulling her into a hug. “I'm sure Chicky just wants to remind us that we need to keep Meatball tied to the post.”

“You're probably right. He hasn't mentioned knowing about Nash and I, neither has Red, so–”

“Helen, that man has eyes in the back of his ass. He knows everything: the all seeing eyes from the watchtower.”

“Okay, that's not terrifying at all. Save it for Halloween, English!”

***

Red Bowman stands broadly at the door of the briefing hut, hands on his hips as the girls walk towards him. Val is sporting that signature furrow, albeit softer this time, as if she is deep in anxious thought.

“Spaatz, DiRosano, Porter, Lewis,” he greets, nodding at each of them as he says their name. “Come on in.”

They follow him silently, the girls catching the eye of some of the men as they enter. Chicky spots them from where he is standing across the room, fat cigar freshly lit between his teeth.

“Girls,” he says in that thundering voice of his.

“Chicky,” Tattie responds as he joins them near the door. Lighting a smoke of her own, she looks at him suspiciously. “Care to reveal why you’ve pulled us in here?”

“Need ya to look after that damn mutt,” he huffs, a billow of smoke leaving his nostrils and mouth as he replies. “Make sure he don’t distract the boys none.”

“Uh-huh,” Tattie responds, still staring at him narrow-eyed. “Surely you don’t need all four of us to do that? Meatball is hard work but, sir, not that dang hard.”

He laughs, gesturing for the girls to move closer to him. They bunch in, including Red, the communal circle growing tighter at his silent command. “Bowman, tell ‘em.”

Red clears his throat and finally relaxes his stance. “We don’t just want ya in here to watch the dog. We’ve seen how close some of ya have got to these men and we don’t feel it’s fair to keep ya in the dark. It’s a big one, and we don’t want ya moping around and playing guessing games. We want ya all in the know. Got me?”

“We gotcha,” Val replies. “Doesn’t lessen the worry though, Red.”

“No, I know,” he agrees, exhaling an audible deep breath through his nose. “But it takes away the mystery. They’d tell ya anyway, but…”

“But you think we deserve to know,” Olive squeaks, nodding in agreement.

“That’s right.”

Tattie finally lets her eyes open wider, also nodding along. Helen joins, her lips pressed together in a line of worry. “Where shall we sit?”

“At the back if you don’t mind, girls,” Chicky interjects, showing them to four spare seats. “Keep that mutt under control. No playing fetch during the briefing!”

At the word ‘fetch,’ a whine shrills from Meatball, the husky suddenly ready to play.

“Not now, buddy,” Olive soothes, scritching at his fur before taking her seat. “Later, mkay?”

Distracted by giving attention to Meatball, Olive doesn’t register the large presence of Curt Biddick sauntering up to them and greeting Val in the same way he has since childhood.

“There she is!” he cries. “There’s the gal. Hey, whatcha doin’ in here? This ain’t your usual spot before a mission.”

“We know,” she murmurs, standing to relay the information Red and Chicky gave them. They speak in hushed tones, Olive noticing Curt nodding at every appropriate stage of the conversation.

“Well, that’s good of him to think of ya like that,” he says, his hand gripping at hers. “Yous all should be in the know. It’s only right.”

“You wanna sit with us?” Olive offers, patting a spare seat on the right of her.

“Nah, thanks though, Ol. Dickie saved me a spot up front.”

“Ah, grand,” she nods, going back to the dog and drowning him in the attention he keeps whining for.

“Well, I’ll be seein’ yous. Val, make me a coffee after.”

“Pain in my ass!”

***

As the briefing begins, Olive feels Helen next to her, elbowing her gently.

“Hey, Ol!” she whispers through her teeth, head nodding towards where James Douglass is sat next to Harry Crosby.

“Mhm?” Olive replies, catching Dougie turn around and wink at her at the same moment. She smiles at him softly, winking back.

“That,” she giggles, hand covering her mouth to muffle the sound as Chick Harding’s voice blares throughout the room and capturing the attention of each airman. “I was trying to tell you that.”

“So high school,” she teases, shaking her head and joining in the giggles. “What a sweetie.”

“He loves you,” she says, a knowing look in her eyes.

“Oh, shut it, Porter,” she bites back, smiling nonetheless.

“And you love him.”

“Give over, doll. I’ll spit in your eye.”

“Go for it. I’d take it, because I know I’m right.”

Olive sighs, shaking her head and leaning against her. She feels Meatball finally settle, his head on her legs and huffing slightly, surrounded by all his people and none of them willing to play.

“Quit sassing,” Olive softly scolds, petting his soft ears. “We will play later.”

“What’s up?” Val leans over, reaching to pat Meatball.

“He’s having a tantrum ‘cos all his friends are in the same room and not a single one can play.”

“He’s just a baby, that’s why,” Helen coos, making kissy faces at him.

“Girls, don’t make Chicky regret inviting us in here,” Tattie hisses, passing cigarettes down the line. “Hush up, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they all say in unison, suddenly sitting up straight and keen to listen.

The curtain that is covering a large map on the wall is pulled - almost with a flourish - by the Colonel, the airmen making noises of suspense. It's Curt, sitting a few rows ahead of the usual guys, next to his co-pilot Dickie, who speaks first, his voice a little softer than everyone else is used to.

“Why's that line go all the way to Africa?”

“Africa?!” The word leaves Olive's mouth in a squeak before she can stop it, clapping a hand over her mouth immediately following it. Meatball whimpers at the sudden mood change, those literal puppy eyes full of concern that his girl is suddenly afraid.

“Here,” Val says, elbowing Olive gently in the ribs. She hands her Tattie’s hip flask, shoving it in her hand. “Calm yourself.”

Olive does so, taking a chaste gulp from the flask and wincing at the burn of the alcohol racing down her throat.

“Better?”

She nods, handing it back to Val so it reaches its original owner. Val looks back at Olive with the same concern that's gripped Meatball, her hand suddenly gripping Olive’s.

“Doll, you've never reacted like this.”

“I'm aware,” Olive whispers back, her voice shaking. “Fucking Africa, Valencia. Africa.”

Her nervousness momentarily fades away as Dougie turns around to smile at her again, her grinning back instantly. They hold it for a moment, Olive getting lost in his beautiful eyes even from this distance. She feels Helen nudge her again, nodding triumphantly.

“I didn't say you were wrong, doll.”

“Oh, I knew it, English!”

***

“See you all in a few days,” is Colonel Harding’s departing remark as the airmen begin to file out of the room. Tattie is the one to lead the girls out, the three others following her like ducks in a row once again. Olive is so distracted by not bumping into a dozen other men that she barely notices Dougie waiting for her in the doorway, along with Ev who is waiting for Valencia.

“How did you sneak in this time, babydoll?”

“No sneaking required, James,” she grins, him pulling her into an embrace. “We were invited. Chick and Red thought it appropriate to let us in on what you boys are doing - lessens the anxiety apparently.”

“And did it help any?”

“Not one bit,” Olive replies. “Enemy territory,” she says, her voice squeaking as her throat closes, the effort of keeping tears at bay. “Then fucking Africa.”

“Hey, now,” he soothes, his hand on the side of her neck, his thumb stroking her cheek. “I’ll be home before you know it. I’ll even write you.”

“There won't be much point,” she laughs. “I'll end up getting it after you get home.”

“Hey, it's the thought that counts, right?”

She smiles, despite the single tear falling from her cheek. He wipes it away as soon as he sees it drop, a soft, comforting smile on his face. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” she sniffs. “I’m a tough girl.”

He nods. “I know you are.”

“I can take care of myself, don’t you fret.”

“You have,” he says. “You still do. You always will.” He leans in and kisses her sweetly on the lips, his hand still upon her now blushed cheek. “I’ve just joined in, too. Now we take care of each other, hm?”

She nods, pressing her nose and forehead to his, feeling every worry melt away for just a moment. He breaks the silence, moving back a little and holding her hand with his free one.

“Kept seeing your cute little smile while we were in there. I loved it.”

“Gosh, you’re just obsessed with me, aren’t you?” She replies with a giggle, obviously joking; she doesn’t expect his face to fall serious, his eyes darting all over her face, not quite being able to figure out where to look first. He settles on her eyes and then her mouth as he moves to kiss her again.

“Sure am, sugar.”

The pair are distracted by Tattie sauntering over, being followed by an overly giggly Helen who is trying to control a very giddy Meatball.

“Girls, there’s a truck to re-open and more hungry fellas hankering for donuts. Quit necking!” Despite her clear irritation, she winks at both Olive and Val, beckoning them to follow her once again.

“Come on, handsome,” Olive says, pulling Dougie by the hand. “Let me get you a snack for the journey.”

***

“Meatball! Meatball, no!” Helen scolds, trying her best to tie his leash to the pole that stands right beside the Clubmobile. Seeing Helen crouch in front of him, he thinks it’s time to play, the hyper husky panting in her face. His tail begins to wag as he sees her reach into the pocket of her jumpsuit but is dismayed to find she has only reached in there to grab a handkerchief, capturing a surprise sneeze. “This dog hair! Tickles my nose something fierce.” Eyes now streaming, Helen struggles with completing the knot and looks towards her companions for assistance.

“Ol, a little help please! You’re the only one he listens to besides DeMarco.”

At the mention of his owner’s name, Meatball howls loudly and continues panting and wagging in excitement. Making her way to him and Helen, Olive laughs.

“He can’t hear you from all the way out here, buddy!” She takes the leash from Helen and ties it with a flourish in seconds, Helen looking on impressively. “Helen, we cannot say his name! You know that by now!”

“My bad!” She titters, groaning as she wipes at her eyes again. “He’s adorable but my goodness, these allergies.”

A Jeep breaks through the fog with a loud screech, the noise startling the girls and the dog. Val, lighting a cigarette as she exits the truck, joins the other girls in order to investigate while Tattie continues cleaning, mumbling out loud to herself - something that the girls have deciphered she does when she is anxious.

“Garcia,” Val greets, recognizing him instantly. “How can we help ya?”

“Just wanted to let you all know, the boys have got a thirty minute delay. If ya wanted to say goodbye again, drop em another hot coffee to keep their spirits up.”

“Say less,” Olive replies, unhooking Meatball from his leash and gesturing for him to follow her. She clambers in, the dog leaping into her lap instantly. Val grabs another two coffees and a bag of donuts, Tattie and Helen waving them off.

“Step on it, Garcia,” Val laughs. “They’ll take the news better if it comes from us.”

“You got that right, DiRosano. Sure they like looking at you both a hell of a lot more than they like looking at me!”

Speeding through the mist, Garcia huffs a little, the brightest setting of lights not able to break through it. “It’s a real pea-souper, this one.”

“Do you reckon they’ll call it off?” Olive enquires, hoping for the answer she wants to hear.

“Not a chance, Lewis. This is a big one. Brass have taken a lotta risks and–well, I’d better zip it.”

“Nothing I won’t find out in a few weeks when I’m typing Chicky’s reports up,” Val retorts, reaching around to pet Meatball. “No need to keep it quiet.”

They conclude their drive in silence, Garcia seeming to have run out of polite conversation within a few moments. The brakes screech as they come to a stop, Olive patting Meatball on the rear to get him off her lap. Swiping at her navy blue jumpsuit to rid it of the hair, she loses him in the smog instantly and throws a ball in the direction he ran off in. Grabbing Val’s hand, as if she’s somehow able to lead her to the crew of Just A-Snappin’, she smiles at her wanely.

“Chickie, I can see through this haze just as well as you.”

“This way we don’t lose each other,” Olive cackles in return, resting her head on Val’s shoulder for a short second.

“Oh, never, girl. Never ever.”

She looks her friend up and down as they walk hand in hand, Olive trying to wrap Dougie’s jacket around her with her spare hand.

“Dougie’s?” Val asks, gesturing.

“Yeah! Sewed all these on himself. Ain't it neat?”

“Sewed…himself?”

“Yeah!”

“Ol, I've been sewing his stuff since Ev and I started dating…oh, wait til I get my hands on him!”

***

“Looky here!” Dougie yells, clumsily getting up from the ground. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Garcia wanted us to share some news…”

“Uh-huh?”

“Thirty minute delay!” The girls yell in unison, trying their best to add some cheer to it. Olive even accompanies it with a singsong voice and jazz hands, Dougie almost falling over himself laughing at her.

“The Clubmobile serving snacks and putting on a show now, Maude?” Everett Blakely pipes up as Val kisses him on the cheek.

“Hey, get it for free while you can. Olive and The Clubmobile Gals. It's got some pizzazz to it, huh?”

“You gonna be a star, Maude? Take care of all of us?”

“You bet, Ernest,” she laughs, feeling Dougie wrap his arms around her waist and give her a squeeze.

“This is the best way bad news has ever been given to me.”

“Those three years of drama school had to come in handy somewhere, my love. Here,” she says, handing him a brown bag full to burst with donuts. “For everyone, mind!”

“All of us?” Ev asks. “No chance. Via and Saunders don’t like donuts, Kidd and I are too busy flying the damn fort to even think about having a snack break, and Croz…” The group look over at him, laying on the concrete hardstand with his eyes closed, his head upon his briefcase.

“Croz won’t keep ‘em down,” Dougie interjects, a triumphant expression on his face. “Looks like they’re all for me!”

“I've got a bone to pick with you, Douglass!” Val interjects, that classic brow furrow joined by a mischievous smile.

“What?!” he snorts, mouth full of donut. “What've I done now?”

“You're in trouble, baby boy.”

“You! Sewing!?”

“Oh–shit,” he swallows, holding his hands up defensively around a grin. “I know when I've been caught!”

“I've been–”

“I know,” he replies, laughing at her extremely pissed off expression. “Just makes me feel safer.”

Val softens instantly, as does Olive, the pair of them aww-ing and cooing at him.

“Darling,” Olive pouts, kissing his cheek. “Very cute.”

“The puppy eyes work every time,” he retorts, grabbing Olive’s hand.

“Oh, you little shit!”

The group make their way to where Croz is snoozing, Dougie sitting behind Olive so she can lean on him to get somewhat comfy as Valencia, joined by Ev, sidles up to Curt the moment she spots him appearing through the fog.

“Drew you somethin’,” Dougie murmurs, digging around in the pocket of his sheepskin.

“When?” Olive asks, shoulders beginning to shake from giggling. “How?”

“Just before you got here. I was gonna send it with your letter but you may as well have it now.” He hands her a small piece of neatly folded paper, an expectant look on his face as she opens it. He has drawn two ladybirds, nestled together on a leaf with the caption ‘Can I bug you forever?’

“Oh, gee,” Olive says, absolutely tickled. “I love the ladybirds.”

“Ladybugs, honey girl.”

“Ladybir–what did you call me?”

She feels her cheeks glow pink at this new pet name, the first that’s made her insides feel like they’re melting.

“Oh, you like that one!”

“I absolutely do. Stick with that one. That’s lovely.”

“You’re lovely.”

“Oh, stop,” she teases, leaning up so he can plant a kiss on her temple. She presses her forehead on his chin, him squeezing her to his body in reciprocation. “You’re such a sweetie.”

They’re silent for a few moments, them both savoring the embrace. His hands feel warm as he places them in her lap, his nose burying itself in her neck as he kisses her there gently. With Everett joining them again, sans Val, she looks to her left, spotting Val and Curt a short distance away - a sign that the fog is clearing just a little. Olive sees them hug, Val holding him a little tighter this time. He smiles softly at her, bidding her farewell. She stares after him wistfully as he walks away and disappears into the ether.

***

As Valencia returns to rejoin the group, sitting and chatting underneath their fort, Everett stands to greet her.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” she stammers out, a shaky breath leaving her lips as Ev reaches up to wipe her eyes and pull her into a hug. He takes her hand as he sits on the concrete again, gently pulling her with him.

“C'mere, come sit,” he says, patting his knee. “Got a riddle to share.”

She perches on his lap as Dougie wakes a snoring Croz by whacking him on the leg.

“Hmm!” Croz grumbles, his brow furiously furrowed. “What now, Doug?”

“Ev has a riddle to tell us.”

“You woke me up for a friggin’ riddle?”

“Thought you could do with waking up your brain,” Dougie teases, Crosby swatting at him.

“Fine. Go on, Blakely, the floor is yours.”

The captain takes a pull from his Lucky Strike before beginning, clearing his throat as he speaks:

“You’re on the way to purgatory–”

“Purgatory?”

“Yes, Maude, purgatory. You’re on the way to purgatory, and one road goes to Valhalla. The other goes to Hell, damnation, the abyss, what have you.”

“Uh huh?” Croz says, his tired face now clouded with confusion and curiosity.

“On each of the roads, is a goblin…”

“A goblin?” Olive exclaims, trying to stifle a giggle. “Ernest, where is this going?”

“If you'd let me get through more than one line, English, you'd find out. One goblin tells the truth, the other always lies. He's a tricky little fucker, a little mischievous.”

“An imp,” Olive chuckles, catching Val’s eye.

“Birichino,” she enunciates, winking at Ev. “That's what Ma calls Curt.”

“Wait…would you ask both of them if either are the good goblin?”

“Jesus, English, I was about to say that!” Croz yelps, frisbeeing his crush cap at her.

“Snooze ya lose, Harry!” She throws it right back, catching him in the abdomen. It winds him slightly, Crosby sitting up quickly and wincing.

“Good shot,” he wheezes, holding a hand up in defeat as Olive checks on him, laughing at his faux coughs.

With a laugh, Dougie brings the group back to the conversation.

“I have a riddle!”

“Please, regale us,” Val says, lighting a cigarette and handing it across to Olive. Dougie winks down at Olive, a knowing glint in his eye.

“What's the difference between a hippo, and a–”

“And a zippo? Douglass, we've heard that one a thousand times now, pal.”

Despite hearing it for what feels like the thousandth time herself, Olive begins to giggle in front of James, him joining in as he nuzzles into her again. “Yeah, but this is why I tell it. For the prettiest smile in the world.”

“I love that one,” she titters, reaching up to kiss him.

“I know you do,” he murmurs, reciprocating her kiss just as lovingly. “And I love y–”

“That a flare?” Croz cuts in, his eyes narrowing as he tries to make sense of the light in the distance that's now falling speedily to the ground.

“Time to go, fellas,” Ev commands, his crew jumping up at his tone. He kisses Val deeply, before wrapping his arms around her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear to look forward to his return home.

After he helps her stand, Dougie takes Olive’s face in his hands and traces her mouth with the pad of his thumb, as if to try and memorize its shape.

“What were you about to say?” she asks, their faces coming closer together and their noses meeting.

“Tell you when I get home, honey girl.”

“No, now!” she demands, kissing him deeply.

“You're cute when you're pissed off.”

“Doesn't mean you should do it often, cheeky.”

“I'll write you, okay?”

“Okay,” she quivers, hand on his sweet face. “Please come home to me.”

“Nowhere else I'd rather be, babydoll.”

He moves her hand from his face, kissing her palm one, two, three times before walking away, Olive watching him until he's out of sight.

***

“You heard that, right?” Olive gasps, her hand gripping on to Val's arm. “What Dougie said, you heard it?”

“Yes, I did. I heard it, Ol. He loves you!” she squeals, handing Meatball’s leash back to her as he leads them back to the truck, sniffing through the mist.

“I didn't think–”

“Olive Lewis!” Val shouts, that Brooklyn twang adding an extra umph to Olive’s name. “Don't make me give you a slap.”

“I'm not!” she protests, rolling her eyes. “I just…”

“We all know you love him, too, doll. You'd have to be blind to not notice it.”

“Is it really that obvious?”

“Limpido come il giorno, my girl.”

“In English, please.”

“As plain as the nose on ya face.”

Arriving back at the Clubmobile thanks to Meatball’s dog senses, Val and Olive rejoin Helen and Tattie, the girls standing outside of the truck sharing a cigarette. Dainty coughs leave Helen as she tries to inhale, her sweet, kind eyes filling up with tears at every drag.

“Helen, what have I told you about that? You’re going to hurt yourself, coughing like that.”

“I can’t…seem to…do it!”

“Then don’t, chicken!”

They hear a ruckus coming through the fog, Rosie and his group breaking out of the mist and greeting the girls.

“Hiya, boys!” Tattie calls, climbing back into the truck. “Last few donuts are yours if you want ‘em!”

“Thank ya, Miss Tattie,” Rosie politely replies, shaking his head in mock dismay as he spots Nash making a beeline for Helen. “How’s your day been?”

“Oh, easy enough. It’s trying to find a way to keep ourselves occupied while the boys are up that’ll be the trouble. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any ideas?”

“Nothing that doesn’t involve sitting with a book, I’m afraid.”

“Hm, maybe not. I’d get restless.”

“You, restless? Now I don’t believe that.”

She pauses for a second, taking a sip of her lukewarm coffee. “Girls!” she calls, the three of them breaking away from their conversation with Nash, Pappy and Speas. “What do you say we name this old girl?” She pats the open window of the Clubmobile fondly before continuing. “A few of the other girls out in Europe have named theirs, why don’t we?”

“Oh, yes!” Helen replies excitedly. “But what?”

There’s a pause as they all begin to ponder, each person occasionally offering a “hm,” or a “aha!” Pappy, at one point, scratches his head as if he’s deep in thought. “Why don’t you name it after one of the states you’re all from?”

“Pappy,” Olive says, looking at him side-eyed. “Think about that again.”

“Scratch that,” he laughs. “Well then, I’m stumped!”

“You did have a semblance of a good idea though! We totally could keep it in relation to all of us girls.”

“Do-Nut Enter,” Tattie suggests, cackling at her own joke.

“All Things Nice?” Helen shrugs. “Because we’ve got sugar on the donuts, Val is the spice–”

“Why, thank you!”

“Olive, any ideas?”

“None!” She walks over to Meatball, tying him to his post. “My brain is fried.”

“That’ll be the lack of sleep, kid. I’ve got my eye on you!” she pokes, winking at her.

“That’s it!” Val calls, seeing Olive begin to pet the dog. “Something to do with Meatball!”

“Uh-huh? What did you have in mind?”

“Meatball, Meatball…” she murmurs, before snapping her fingers. “Got it! Spaghetti ‘n’ Meatball!”

“Oh, that’s precious!” Olive squeals, looking between everyone else. “Don’t you all think?”

Tattie smiles with a soft chuckle, Helen also nodding in agreement.

“Spaghetti ‘n’ Meatball it is.”

***

Inducting Kenny and Winks to be their painters, their brilliant nose art designs speaking for themselves, the gang all rally around with trays of coffee and a fresh batch of donuts to satiate their hungry helpers. Rosie and Pappy were on ribbon duty, finding something for the girls to cut for the grand reopening of the truck with its brand new name. Speas was in charge of gathering the remaining men for the celebration, rallying them from all corners of the base. Nash was supposed to have joined him, but remains stuck to Helen’s side like he was velcroed to her.

“Nash,” Olive says, teasingly. “I promise she won’t disappear while you help Speas out.”

“Olive, you can’t let a pretty girl like this outta your sight if you can help it!”

“Soppy sod,” she giggles, watching Helen blush. “I��ll need her once Rosie and Cousin Pappy have arrived back, though.”

“Hey, what’s all that about?” Nash asks. “I tried to ask but I couldn’t make head nor tail about what he was yappin’ about.”

“Oh! We share the same surname and the moment Pappy heard it, he declared we obviously had to be related. I’m not protesting,” she laughs, covering her mouth to stifle it slightly. “It’s not like I have a big family myself. It’s nice to add to the fold, actually.”

“What’s that, doll?” Helen asks, her face now a picture of both curiosity and concern. Olive feels herself heat up, almost beginning to boil over as the reality of what she has said begins to set it.

“Nothing, nothing!” she swallows, willing the stressed warmth to leave her cheeks.

“No, tell me what you meant!”

“Later,” she replies, dismissively, racing back around to the front of the truck. Through the haze of panic, she barely notices Lemmons sneak up behind her and snatch a donut from the tray she had been holding.

“Hey!” Sammy yells, telling on him within seconds. “You didn’t ask Miss Olive first!”

“Yeah!” Billy echoes. “Lemmons, you need to ask nicely!”

“Boys!” he laughs. “I don’t need to ask. Miss Olive and I have an agreement.”

“Oh!” They say in realization, before carrying on petting Meatball who is happily lapping up all the extra attention.

“What does that mean?” Val asks, Olive jumping at her presence.

“What does what mean?” she snaps, shaking her head. “What?”

“You and Kenny having a deal.”

“Oh my God, nothing!” she barks, feeling her eyes begin to swim with tears. “Just leave it.”

“Huh…”

As Olive turns her back, Val walks away, shaking her head. Clutching the locket, Olive sniffs as the tears dry in her eyes. “Don’t worry, Papa. They’ll know by tonight. No more secrets.”

Olive is quickly distracted by a chorus of voices calling her name, Helen and Tattie pulling a trail of toilet paper across the Clubmobile to create a makeshift ribbon to cut for the grand reopening. Just as Chick Harding approaches, he speaks up again.

“Whose twenty two sheet daily ration did ya take?”

“Yours, sir,” Tattie quips back, joining the rest of the group. “After three! One, two…”

“You little–”

Just as Chick is prepared to tear the paper, Meatball leaps. It’s as if it all happens in slow motion, everyone’s faces a picture of surprise as the dog jumps and grabs the paper with his teeth, pulling it apart before Tattie even manages to get to three.

“Meatball!” They all moan disdainfully, the dog happily panting at his efforts, looking terribly pleased with himself.

“Good thing you’re cute,” Olive scolds, kissing him on the head. “Wait til your Dad hears about this!”

***

The Silver Wings Club is the emptiest it’s ever been - usually packed to the brim, the few service members sat deep in quiet conversation as a few members of the band play softly on stage adds an eerie feel to the environment.

Olive was already feeling uneasy, both Val and Helen noticing how subdued she was as they changed uniforms, her shrugging them off and reassuring them she was fine at every turn. She’d seen herself grow ever paler in the mirror, willing herself to put one foot in front of the other as they approached Rosie and his crew in the club. As they all stand to offer their seats, Olive declines and makes a beeline for the bar where she orders a large whiskey. She gulps it down the moment it is placed in front of her, her friends looking on in surprise as she turns back to them.

“Rosie, Pappy…lads. I need to talk to the girls. Alone.”

“Sure thing, Miss Olive.”

Pappy remains still, arms crossed as he smiles jovially between Olive and their friends. “You too, Cousin Pappy.”

“Oh, what? Why?”

“Because it’s private.”

“We’re family!”

“It’s girl stuff!” she blurts, closing her eyes and wincing as she snaps at him.

“Say no more!” he guffaws, the insinuation of that alone enough to have him pick up his drink and follow Rosie.

“What’s up, kid?” Tattie says, side eyeing Olive as she lights a cigarette. “You’ve been off all day. Lay it on us.”

“Well, it’s uh–”

“Is it because Dougie and Ev, and the rest of the fellas are away? I know it’s the first time you’ve dealt with something like this, but–”

“Nope, not that. There’s something–oh, Jesus Christ…” Olive gasps, swallowing the bile that’s beginning to creep up her throat. She shudders, her whole body seeming to convulse.

“What something?”

“I need to tell you something. About me, about my life. And I’m worried - terrified, in fact - that you all won’t believe me.”

“We’ve heard it all, Ol,” Helen laughs, sipping her cocktail.

“Oh, I doubt you’ve heard this, Helen.”

“Christ sake!” Val yells, gently kicking Olive’s shin. “Spit it out, English!”

“Right, well. Tattie, you know how I, in your words, appeared suddenly?”

“Yeah? From thin air, it seems.”

“Well, I was on the hardstand that day, because I fell out of a fort.”

“Why were you in a fort, Ol?” Helen places her drink down, her brow softly furrowed. Olive takes a deep breath in, bracing herself to finally tell the truth.

“I was in a fort because that’s how I got here. I’m not from here, from this time.”

“W-what?” Val asks, equally as confused as the rest of the group. “Huh?” Olive sees her chest rise and fall quickly, her breaths becoming uneven and jagged.

“I’m from the future,” Olive replies quietly, her eyes falling on her hands that she’s placed in her lap, wringing them together. “I’m from the year two thousand and twenty one. In my time, I climbed into a model fort because I thought I heard a dog barking for help in there and I fell out. Here.”

“Olive–”

“Who else knows?” Val demands. “Does anyone else know?”

Olive nods without looking up. “Kenny, and now Benny.”

“Before me?!”

Olive looks up as her friend's voice borders on yelling, and sees her eyes begin to fill with tears.

“I thought we were friends, Olive.”

“We are!” she yells in response as Val stands, stalking towards the door. “I didn’t know what else to do!” She begins to follow her, but is quickly pulled back by Helen and Tattie who return her to her chair.

“Let her go,” Tattie says, stubbing her cigarette into the ashtray in front of her. “Give her a moment.”

“But–”

“No buts, girl. Now…you’re not lying to us?”

“I have been, yes. But this…this is me telling the truth. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to land on my ass somewhere so removed from my own life and find this.”

“What is it you’ve found, hm?”

“You guys…a family. I don’t–I don’t really have one aside from my grandmother and this…” she feels hot, fat tears begin to streak down her cheeks as she sobs through her words. “This is such a gift.”

“Look, we can’t say we’re not shocked,” Helen says, taking her hand. “But, I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Mhm. Now I think about it, it all makes sense. Can’t set your hair, can’t seem to get your nails right…”

“Gee, thanks,” Olive snorts, wiping her nose with a handkerchief.

“You know what I mean, girlie,” she comforts, hand now stroking hers. “Aside from all that, you’re one of us now. I feel like you always have been.”

Tattie nods, wordlessly confirming what Helen has said. “You don’t just have your grandmother anymore, Ol. You have me, Helen, the boys, and Val.”

“Not so sure about that last one right now,” Olive weeps, Helen shushing her softly.

“Yes, you are. She’s upset she wasn’t told, and rightfully so. She has every right to be mad at you right now, doll.”

“Yeah,” Olive says softly, dabbing at her eyes again. “I’m gonna go see to her, but when I come back, I have something to show you.”

“What is it?” Tattie asks, eyes glowing with excitement.

“Proof.”

***

“Can I come in?” Olive asks as she taps on the door to the Red Cross hut.

“Free country,” Val responds, her tone sulky. Olive sees her slumped on her bunk with Meatball as she walks in, deciding against sitting next to her and opting to sit on the bunk opposite.

“I’m sorry,” Olive starts, her voice quiet. “I wanted to tell you, I just–”

“Just what? Decided to tell Kenny and DeMarco before I even got a look in?”

“I didn’t intend to tell them. They caught me.”

“Come again?”

“Kenny caught me one night, and I couldn’t lie to him. Truth be told, I’d had one too many Old Fashioneds and didn’t have my wits about me.”

“And DeMarco?”

“The dog gave me away this morning as I fell out of the plane.” Meatball whines at the mention of his presence, his ears pricking up. “Yes, I’m talking about you, ya damn mutt.”

She hears Val take a deep inhale, the breath leaving her slowly. “So you did wanna tell me?”

“More than anything. I just couldn’t figure out how.”

“Why now?”

“It was all getting too risky. So many things almost gave me away today and I can’t keep lying to everyone. Especially you, Val. You’re my person.”

“Thought that would be Dougie,” she replies snarkily, a smile growing on her lips nevertheless.

“Hm, maybe, romantically. But you? This shit is for keeps.”

“I feel the same.”

“Good.”

A moment of silence passes between them, Val reaching over to take Olive’s hand.

“Sorry I was a big baby,” she sniffs, shaking her head. “I just don’t like being left out.”

“Does anyone?” Olive laughs. “You believe me?”

“Y’know what, I actually do. It all makes sense now.”

“Yes, yes, I know, Helen already ate me up about my hair and my nails, I don’t need it repeated.”

“Ate you up?” Val asks, a snort leaving her as she tries to stifle a giggle.

“Chewed me up and spat me right out.”

“Oh, I love that. I need to use it.”

“Feel free! It’s one of my favorites.”

“Any more secrets you have to tell me? Might as well air it all out now while we’re here.”

“Nothing much else to tell, really. Dead dad, abandoned by my mum, raised by my grandmother.”

“Oh, me too. The–the first one.”

“I’m so sorry, honey. It’s not a nice club to be a member of.”

“Club?” she asks. “There’s a club?”

“Hmm. Dead Dads Club. Nobody chooses to be a member, it’s sort of thrust upon you. I was 13 when I got my badge.”

“I was much younger. Only a small child. It’s just been me, mom and Nonna ever since.”

“I only ever had Pearl after. My mum didn’t take my dad passing well–I mean, of course she didn’t but…anyway, that’s a story for another day.” She pulls her locket out of her collar, showing it to Valencia. “Would you like to see him?”

“I’d be honored.”

She opens the locket as Val perches on the bed next to her, her eyes squinting a little to see the small heart shaped picture inside. “You look just like him. Same eyes…same chin and jaw…wow, that’s your dad.”

“That’s my dad. My Papa,” she breathes, closing the necklace. “He was a sweetheart.”

“You think he’d approve of Dougie?”

“Without a doubt. Both with the same silly sense of humor. I’m beginning to think James has a hotline to heaven, the way he’s coming out with similar jokes.”

“And this?”

“I think he would. I think he’d just be happy to see me happy, y’know. It all scares me silly. He’s gone, and once Pearl goes, I’m all alone.”

“I’ll smack you, English,” Val scolds, wrapping an arm around her. “No, you’re not. We’re your family now.”

“Not just blowing smoke up my arse?”

“Never.”

“Come on,” Olive suggests, pulling Val up off the bed. “We’d better get back. I have something to show you.” She digs around in her bag, pulling out her phone as the door suddenly swings open.

“What on earth is that thing?” Tattie laughs, pointing at the object in Olive’s hand as Helen follows her in. “Sorry, we just wanted to check up on you. The conversation with Rosie and the boys became less and less riveting. Pah, get it. Riveting! Oh, what am I like?”

“Drunk, is what you are, Spaatz,” Helen teases, sitting her on a bunk. “You weren’t complaining when Pappy and Speas were buying you whiskey after whiskey.”

“Exactly! Now, what’s in your hand, English? A futuristic contraption?” She slurs through each word, her speech sounding like she has a mouth full of candy.

“Here’s the proof I mentioned.” Olive presses the phone’s lock button for it to flash on, the girls all screeching in terror.

“What the fuck?!” Helen screams, a rarity for her to curse. “What is that?”

“A phone. Or a doo-hickey, as Lemmons likes to call it.”

“But where’s the wire? The numbers? The–huh?!”

“I can’t do much with it here. But, I can play music, and take photos.”

“On a telephone?” Val shouts, grabbing it from her hands. “Let me see!”

Olive swipes the screen with her finger, swapping the camera to selfie mode. “Look, it’s us!”

“B-but…how?”

“Magic,” Olive replies. “I actually don’t know, I don’t ask questions.”

“Take our picture!” Val demands.

“Shit, alright. Calm it down.”

Olive presses the camera button, the shutter sound startling the three girls who obviously don’t expect it. “Yeah, we’ll delete that one. Try again,” Olive laughs, taking in the still of their shocked faces.

“I need to print all these,” Olive laughs as she scrolls through about fifty images, finding her favorites amongst the shots. “You girls wanna hear some music?”

“Uh, yeah?!” Helen keenly agrees, Olive hitting play on a downloaded playlist and placing the phone into a glass.

By the end of the night, they all have preferences: Helen has fallen in love with Elvis Presley, Tattie Spaatz has learned to headbang to AC/DC, and Val has become enamored with 80s era Madonna.

“What do you think Ev will like?”

“We’ll soon find out. I’ll bring some vinyls from Pearl’s, save using the phone. She still has my dad’s and her records somewhere.”

They hear a soft snore emanating from one of the bunks, Tattie knocked out in her uniform. Helen covers her with a blanket with a giggle, holding a finger to her lips to get everyone to shush.

“She’s on to something,” Olive yawns. “I’m knackered.”

“Nah-kurred!” Both Val and Helen tease, Val poking Olive softly on the nose.

“Leave it, Yanks!”

“Oooh! Getting bold now?”

“Yep. Now I know we’re stuck together forever, I can now be totally myself.”

“Good,” Val says, planting a kiss on her cheek as she retires to her own bunk. Olive and Helen follow suit, Olive wrapping herself up in Dougie’s jacket and breathing in his scent, wishing more than anything that he was right there beside her. As she snuffles her nose into the collar, she hears the camera shutter click for the final time that night, Val giggling away as she captures Olive curled up.

“Love you,” Olive whispers.

“Love you more.”

Olive lets herself snuggle up and fall fast asleep in minutes. A deep sleep, the sort of sleep she’s sought after for years, the warmth of it sending her into gentle dreams. Those of a future, a comfortable life with a family by her side. A sense of peace and hope washes over her, praying that everything is finally coming up roses.

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