#and i should be congratulated for having it

[shencomix]

How to Be The Dominant Male in Any Situation

Let's say you walk into a party.

You are wet and pathetic. Not only are you a worm, but even among worms you are the runt of the litter.

There's a way to fix that. Even you can be the alpha male in every situation you're in. Here's how:

Alpha Male Rule 1: Stand Tall or Very Short

In some things in nature, like rats and giraffes, the biggest creature in is leader.

However, in other things in nature, like the mafia, which has large goons but a small boss, the smallest creature is the leader.

You need to lean into whichever option is closest to you. If you are almost short, try wearing a big suit like a mob boss would wear to also make yourself wider like a mob boss. If are you almost tall, like I am, trying wearing these bad boys:

Now, I know what you're thinking: "High heels?? But isn't that for women???" Women have been hiding them from us men because they are afraid of how powerful we would be with them. But, why do women alone get to augment so much about themselves?? Look at all the eyeliner and mascara they need to even begin to mimic the power and seductiveness of our male eyelashes:

So, let's take a look at how we're doing now having applied just this one piece of advice:

It's a whole new situation. Let's move onto rule 2:

Alpha Male Rule 2: Always Get What You Want But Never Ask For It

I notice the man next to me has cookies. I would like one. Not only that, but there's also a woman next to me, watching. Asking another man for a cookie is extremely un-alpha behavior, so here's how you go about this situation:

1) Point out that someone else has something that you want

2) Cry until they give it to you

If everything has gone according the plan, you now have a cookie, and the woman is thinking something like this:

Let's move onto the last rule.

Alpha Male Rule 3: Always Up the Ante

Whatever you want to do or say, do or say it at least 3 times as hard as a regular person. When your coffee is $3, you should give $9 to show how wealthy you are. When you say "I'll be back in 5 minutes" you should actually be back in 15 minutes -- but really, you should say "I'll be back in 15 minutes" and be back in 45 minutes.

You should also start every task at step 3 rather than step 1. So, a normal (read: beta) guy might tell a girl "I think you're pretty" and then later ask "will you be my girlfriend?' But you should just say this:

99% of women will say yes, but if she needs further convincing, it can be helpful to offer her a small present, like a trinket or snack.

Congratulations. You have now learned how to be the most dominant male in any situation. Here are a few more tips for the road:

Claim to be descended from an ancient king or emperor. You can make a map or your lineage and fold it up to carry it in your pocket, so that you may unfold it whenever it needs to be presented.

If a woman takes a genuine interest in you, do the full body blush animation rising from bottom to top like you're a cup filling up, then run away, leaving behind a small cloud and a few speed lines. The idea that woman can actually like you is a lie perpetuated by Big Women.

If you want to further increase your height, try wearing bunny ears.

[strawberry-nugget]

Katsuki does his own Calvin Klein ad and the comments you see all over TikTok make you jealous!

Pairing: Bakugo x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, top! reader, oral (m receiving), cumflation(?), jealousy, a little fighting, LOADS of comfort, Jungkook mentioned ig? All characters are 20+

You're mad.

Extremely mad.

Ac/dc’s TNT plays on repeat from the speaker of your phone, your laptop, your TV, the Main Street screen from the building across your apartment a few stories below. And truly, every single time a replay goes on and on, each screen unsynced, your anger grows even worse inside your already too tight chest.

The reason?

Your boyfriend’s Calvin Klein ad has actually broke the internet.

It’s fucking ridiculous—The whole thing is worse than what happened with Bad Bunny a few months ago.

The comments are all over the place. Messy. Too messy. Too thirsty. Too delirious. Too fucking disrespectful.

You've scrolled through way too many edits. No scratch that. You've only scrolled through edits. With millions of likes, hundreds thousands of comments—that you've spent hours reading to their entirety. The actual video from the official Calvin Klein account has thirty, no forty million likes. Almost as many saves and shares too.

You’re naturally jealous. You knew you were bound to be even if you were the one who practically begged him to say yes to the offer and you definitely knew your boyfriend was the cause of thirst for many people worldwide.

It’s never been a problem until now. You've usually encountered the occasional ‘congratulations to whoever is bouncing on it’ edit, hell you’ve even smiled like an idiot at it, but now? After digging through comments that explicitly say ‘his girlfriend aint even deserve all that’ and ‘damn Dynamight’s gf i said LET GO’ you want to scream. Yell. Get back at him.

You can’t even bear to witness the video anymore. Only because when looking at it out of context, you feel like you can forgive him because of how hot he just looks!

It’s all over your screen; Katsuki flexing his muscles, biceps, forearms, back, thighs, torso. Letting off explosions, pulling the waistband of his boxers down just enough to tease, stomping his hero boots before he kneels completely. All while being extremely sweaty.

Seriously, fuck him and that hero work durability underwear line.

You’ve now unliked the original post out of pure spite. Then re-liked it. Then unliked it again because it felt like you were feeding the beast that's unleashing negativity and pumps jealousy throughout your whole body

You’ve closed the app, deleted it, redownloaded it, and then ended up stalking your own boyfriend like you were a crazed fan girl and not the person who literally shares a bathroom with him, only to be met with the same ten posts on TikTok—yes the one where he does push ups with you on his back and the other edit he has posted of you, even the one and only repost he has that’s of your ‘somebody point me to the best ass eater’ TikTok, where he acted like a feral beast and actually tried to bend you over. 

And then his instagram, where there are only a few yearly hero chart posts that have him as a co creator and like, three actual posts that he made himself. One from his agency, one from a school reunion and one with you smiling next to him, both bloody and bruised after a villain attack with the caption ‘you should see the other guy’.

Back to TikTok now, you take one last look at the ad before you ultimately close it, yes, for real this time, fists clenched like you’re about to march straight to Calvin Klein Japan HQ and file a formal complaint about emotional damages.

Instead, you exhale sharp through your nose and storm into the kitchen like a woman on a mission.

Fine.

If the internet wants to thirst over your man like they’ve never seen shoulders before, then so be it. You’re not threatened.

Not really. Not even a little.

You’re the one he comes home to. You’re the one who knows the exact way he likes his coffee in the morning, the brand of muscle balm he’ll pretend he doesn’t need, the scar on his side he never talks about. 

They don’t know him.

But you do.

And tonight, you’re going to prove it. Prove that you’re the most perfect girlfriend for him, that you won’t let go because someone on the internet begs you to. 

You slam the fridge door shut with the kind of force that makes the condiments rattle. Chicken breast. Garlic. Thyme. That expensive parmesan he rolls his eyes at but always eats the fastest. You’ve got all the ingredients for the dumb TikTok “marry me chicken” and honestly, yeah—maybe it’s manipulative. Maybe it’s desperate.

You don’t care. You've made it before and he adores it.

If the competition is public thirst, then your counterattack is a home-cooked seduction plan followed by a bath with that weird overpriced salt soak that smells like cedarwood, cocoa and sex. Let them drool behind screens—you’re setting the mood with candles and your favorite playlist and maybe even the nice satin robe with nothing underneath if it’s clean.

And it almost works.

It almost makes you feel better. Like maybe you’ve got the upper hand again. Like maybe you’re not going insane over a stupid fucking ad where he literally flexes his thighs and kneels and sweats on purpose. And flexes again.

Until you start chopping the garlic and realize your hands are shaking.

You stop abruptly.

You stare down at the cutting board, knife hovering mid-air, and realize your throat’s a little tight. Your chest’s a little too hollow.

Because the truth is—deep down, like deep deep deep down, where all the ugliest thoughts live—you’re not mad.

You’re scared that you’re not enough. Insecure. Like youve got any right to when you've literally grown up with him. When he’s never even bat an eye to anyone but you.

But you feel like a high school girl again. Standing in the hallway outside your class, so mad and sick of jealousy that fangirls from year one are swamping your boyfriend that you drag him by the ear into the classroom and shove your tongue down his throat. 

And damn, was that punishment from Aizawa worth it when he caught you.

No, now, it’s even worse. It’s not just the girls at school. Not just Japan. It’s the whole world.

And you're so scared that the world seeing him like that is going to remind him of what he could have. Of what else is out there. Of how easily people fall to their knees for him—not in ad campaigns, but in real life.

And what are you?

Somebody who gets overwhelmed easily. Somebody who overthinks. Somebody who can’t even watch a thirty-second ad without spiraling into a meltdown that tastes like garlic seeped deeply into fingernails and salt and the distinct flavor of not enough.

What if ‘animemencracker22’ could cook better for him or what if ‘Dynamightsleftbicep’ could massage his head better when they run him a bath? If ‘gymratgirl4life’ wanted to go out with him more and if ‘corrrrruptedlvr’ wasn’t throwing jealousy fits?

You’re not the girl in the comments. You’re not the fantasy.

You’re just you.

And even when you’re holding the knife and planning the perfect welcome-home meal and pretending like the bath you’re running later isn’t strategic—you still wonder if that’s going to be enough to keep a man like Katsuki Bakugou.

Worse, you wonder if he knows you’re trying this hard, because of your overwhelming need to feel like you deserve someone like him. 

You let the knife drop and suddenly, you’re not hungry anymore. You were never even hungry to begin with. Your fucking eyes are welling up with stupid tears that you dont want to shed. 

You’re not even a jealous person. Save for two or three times, you don’t feel like this over him. And it’s not because you’ve taken him for granted, but it’s been years that you two are together that have worked you into not thinking Katsuki could want anyone else other than you. You don’t want anyone else other than him.

But what if he’s tired. What if he feels youre the same old song stuck on repeat when he could have anyone. 30 million people in the world and you included.

The silence in the kitchen hums louder than any song on loop, only broken by the sound of your choking as you’re trying not to violently sob. The garlic’s sharp sting still clings to your fingers. The oven’s preheat light blinks like a mocking little eye. Your playlist, the one reserved for special nights, is halfway into some sultry R&B Aaliyah track that now feels like a joke.

Your arms go slack at your sides.

This was supposed to feel empowering. Sexy. A big middle finger to the comment section and the edited thirst traps and the “she doesn’t even deserve him” discourse that’s been hijacking your feed all damn day.

Instead, you feel small. Stupid. Still so embarrassingly in love.

You rub your eyes with the backs of your hands like that’ll somehow push the thoughts back in. Like that’ll make you forget the way your chest aches with that special kind of loneliness that only shows up when you’re still physically close to someone but emotionally spiraling into the trenches of your own insecurity.

You glance at the clock. Patrol should end in twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. And you push your lips together, scrunching the corners of your mouth in, pursing your lips and squint your eyes. 

You’ll push through, because even if you’re so extremely jealous, Katsuki still deserves a nice home cooked meal and a hot bath, even more often than every other day, when you stay home to handle the agency paperwork, because of your latest injury after a villain attack.

He really hasn’t done anything wrong, you tell yourself, other than being extremely hot.

So you end up cooking, with tears in your eyes and the most pouty expression and by the time you finish, setting the pan on a part of the stove that isn't hot and curl down in front of the fridge, dropping to your knees to cry your heart out—The door clicks open.

Oh. Shit.

Weighty boots make contact with the floor first. The heavy stomp of post-patrol exhaustion. Then the groan of his back hitting the door frame. You hear the soft rustle of his gloves coming off, his keys clinking in the ceramic dish by the entry.

You freeze—You can’t let him see you like this. You can’t let him be the one who finds you curled on the tile like some lovesick idiot who lost a battle to TikTok.

“Heyy I’m home” you hear and you grunt to yourself, trying not to let it be known you sniffle right after.

“…Smells fuckin’ good,” his voice calls out—gruff, like he’s trying not to yawn. “You cookin’ somethin’?”

You grunt again.

He doesn’t see you right away. But his voice gets closer. Each step across the hardwood is loud and certain and distinctly him. The kind of sound that always used to make you feel safe.

Now it just makes your stomach twist.

You force yourself to stand, too fast, too suddenly, brushing your hands on your thighs then your apron and you try to act normal when your chest is about to cave in again.

Katsuki rounds the corner, still in uniform, gauntlets off, sweat clinging to his hairline, a little dirt smudged near his jaw, where some blond scruff is starting to grow. His eyes find you instantly—and narrow.

“Babe? You okay? Say hi back”

You hate how quick he notices. How easy it is for him to read you. You’ve never been good at hiding from him, especially not when it comes to shit like this.

“Oh—uh, hey. I was,” you say, eyes glued to the counter. “Got distracted.” Still, you force a smile “im fine”

“You don’t look fine.”

You flinch. “Can we—can we not do this right now?”

The silence stretches.

Katsuki exhales through his nose, tilting his head like a puppy, eyes big with inquiry boring in yours as if he’s debating whether to let it go or push. You know which one he’ll pick. He’s never, ever been the let it go type.

“You saw the ad.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even said with guilt or amusement or defensiveness. Just certainty.

You look away. Embarrassed. “Everyone and their mama saw the ad Katsuki.”

A pause. Then a sigh. Then he rubs a tired hand over his jaw.

He walks over, slow and careful like you’re a spooked animal, and you hate it. You hate that he’s being gentle when all you want is to yell at him and fall into his arms and scream into his chest all at once.

His hand lands on your waist. Warm. Familiar. Real.

“You mad at me?” he murmurs, lips pouty in the way you just love.

You shake your head up and down. A silent yes.

“I’m mad at me too tho.”

His brows furrow. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I shouldn’t care this much,” you mumble. “I shouldn’t be jealous of a bunch of people who don’t even know you. I shouldn’t be chopping garlic like it’s a last-ditch attempt to prove I deserve you, but I—I just—”

Your voice cracks.

Katsuki’s eyes soften, his lips too.

“You think I’d wanna be with anybody else?” he asks, so blunt it hits like a punch.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He lifts your chin with two fingers, thumb softly brushing lines across your bottom lip— he makes you look him in the eye.

“I did that ad ‘cause you told me to. ‘Cause you said I should. And I ain’t think it’d piss you off—but even if it did, I’d still be comin’ home to you.”

You swallow hard.

“They can watch,” he adds. “They can comment. They can make all the stupid fuckin’ edits they want. But you think I give a shit about any of ‘em when I’ve got you runnin’ me a bath?”

You blink. “…You knew I was running you a bath?”

“You only play that playlist when you’re tryna seduce me.” He snorts.

Your face burns, but your chest still burns hotter, tighter. Tight-est. You’re not ready to let go of this just yet. A hug and no kiss yet are already making your head spin back to that awful insecure state. You hate overthinking every little thing, but you can’t help getting caught up in it.

“Chicken smells good,” he adds casually. “Wanna feed it to me naked?”

You shove his chest gently. Though when you look up at him, you realise you're still greatly mad at him. “Shut up. No”

“C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you into his arms again. You go willingly, burying your face in his neck, nuzzling your nose too deep into his skin. “I love you,” he says into your hair. “All of them can choke.”

“They’re your fans, Katsuki”

“Yeah yeah. They can choke on my dick”

Oh that—that makes you snap.

“Im sure they’d love to” you hiss, lurching back away from him, too mad at how willingly his arms let you go. 

You want to jab, hurt him just a little. Make him jealous just a tad. Make yourself look like you've got better options than plain old ‘_narutoswife’ in his IG comment section.

He doesn’t deserve it. No, not at all. He just came back home from work and you want to catch a toxic attitude instead of communicating. You just want to make him a little mad over you too.

“Fyi, if you remember, Jungkook did say in an interview that im his type! He called me a strong female hero! Choi San also follows me on instagram” you say, crossing your arms, your eyes shut closed and lips pursed.

Unfortunately, you end up making him mad at you. That was so foul. Especially when he was about to sue Jeon freaking Jungkook for what he said in that interview. When the fuck did you become his type even? And why would he say that on national TV about some other man’s girlfriend?

His eye twitches. Just barely. But it definitely twitches. Great!

“…The fuck did you just say? You wanna start somethin’ now?” Katsuki says, voice low, sharp, practically growling, mouth pushed to the side of his face, one brow raised in desbelief,

Your arms are crossed like a petty little shield but it’s not enough to protect you from the instant shift in the air—his energy changing the moment those names leave your mouth. You can see it, feel it, in the sudden tension between his brows and the twitch of his jaw, in the way he takes one step back just so he can plant his hands on his hips and fully absorb the ridiculous thing you just said.

“Well I am his type,” you mutter, fake-casual, even adding a dramatic upward move of your chin for flair. “He literally said so. On record.”

You double down when you shouldn’t. Because now you’ve committed, and if you take it back, it’ll only make you look desperate. You tilt your head, faux-casual, all sugar and venom.

Katsuki blinks once—slow. Like he’s buffering. Like you’ve just spoken a dialect of petty he never expected to hear from your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet in that scary way, “are we talkin’ about Jeon fucking Jungkook right now?”

“I mean, he’s not the worst,” you say, airily. “He’s cute. Built. Has manners and a Calvin Klein ad too! Like you”

“You are not fuckin’ doin this with me—” His voice spikes as he takes a step forward, fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from hurling the rice cooker across the room. “You’re mad at me for a promo gig and now you’re bringin’ up some K-pop bastard—?!”

You bite your lip to stop the smirk. It’s immature. Childish. And so, so satisfying—ah the sweet feeling of getting your lick back.

His hands fly up and immediately start doing that panicked, half-feral gesture thing he does when he’s so mad he doesn’t even know where to put his anger. “You think that’s cute? You think throwin’ other guys in my face is what’s gonna make this better? You want me to start listin’ all the bitches in my DMs right now? ‘Cause I will. I fuckin’ will—”

“Oh so now it’s bitches plural—”

“They don’t matter!” he barks. But you don’t seem like you believe him. “You’re just mad and you’re not telling me the actual reason”

Your face goes hot, tears rising again. “I’m mad because you don’t get it!”

“Then tell me! Tell me what I’m not gettin’!”

“I want you to care!” you explode. “I want you to see that this hurts! That I don’t feel good enough half the damn time, and now I’ve got people with 800k followers stitching your photos sayin’ how they’d treat you right while I’m in our kitchen  trying to figure out if I’m even the one you’d want anymore if you realise there’s someone better out th—”

“Don’t you fuckin’ finish that sentence.”

His voice goes deadly low.

You glare at him, eyes blazing. “Why not? Afraid I’m gonna be right?”

“No. Because you’re not.”

His chest is rising now, jaw clenched tight. You’ve both crossed the line, bleeding all over the tile floor with your words.

“None of them matter. Just like Jungkook doesn’t matter. I don’t care about anyone else on TikTok and I definitely don’t give a shit if he writes you a song and a marriage proposal and names his next album ‘Strong Female Hero I Wanna Wife’—you’re mine. You hear me?”

You’re stunned into silence. Half because of the outburst. Half because of the fact he just said you’re his with the kind of conviction that makes your skin burn and tingles run up your back.

“…You gonna tattoo that somewhere?” you murmur, trying to deflect your way out of being completely swept off your feet. 

He steps closer, wraps a hand around your waist, nose nearly brushing yours, eyes blazing. “Gonna put a ring on it. Don’t tempt me.”

You blink at him, wide-eyed. His palm feels hot, too quirk charged against your clothed skin “What if I’m not joking?”

He narrows his eyes. “You are.”

You shrug, then whisper just slightly. “…Maybe.”

Next thing you know, Katsuki’s scooping you up like a caveman—no warning, no prep, just two strong arms under your ass, your back colliding with his chest, and your feet dangling uselessly as he stalks toward the bathroom.

“Put me down! I haven’t even plated the chicken!”

“We’ll eat it later.”

“I— but—”

“You’re so mine, and I’m about to prove it.”

He kicks the door open like a man on a mission. Your bathwater is already perfectly hot and steamy, the playlist still humming from the speaker in the corner. You barely notice it because you’re too busy clinging to his shoulders like you’re about to be ravished.

“I can’t believe you got mad at me over a Calvin Klein ad,” he mutters against your neck, lips hot and dragging lower as he sets you down only to start untying your apron, aggressive and purposeful.

“It was a very public ad, and you were nearly naked” you argue, squirming, trying to twist out of his grasp—but he’s already unlooping the neck strap, already tossing the apron somewhere over his shoulder, not even watching where it lands on the bathroom floor “Katsuki, no—”

“Sex isn’t gonna fix everything, you know,” you say, breath hitching when his mouth finds that spot just below your jaw, the one he knows makes your knees buckle. He’s too fast to start pressing hot open mouthed kisses on your neck. 

“Then let’s talk about it” he says, calm as hell. He sinks onto the edge of the bathtub like a menace, eyes smoldering, hands still locked around your waist like you might run. “You said you don’t feel enough, why’s that? What part of us did I neglect that made you feel like this?”

You blink, thinking. Well he didn’t really do anything wrong, he just. Exists. And he’s gorgeous and amazing at everything he does.

Oh god? Do you resent him for being good at everything?

“You’re deranged.” You finally respond, pouting but refusing to look at him while you say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

Katsuki’s palms rub soothingly up and down your thighs, head tilted back to look up at you ever so slightly. He's trying to pull you in closer, get you loose, comfortable. He wants you to drop this ‘being difficult’ act you've got on right now.

You follow his lead, come in closer, until your knees scrape the edge of the bathtub and your thighs the inside of his.

“Yeah but,” you pause for a second, debating on whether this is the right thing to say. “why me”

Finally, you kneel between his legs. Your eyes are locked into his, trying to study him, his expression, trying to find a glimpse of hesitation behind his gaze, even if there’s none. 

Katsuki catches the insecurity in your head, with a simple bore of his eyes into yours. And it’s bad. How he can read you so well, like he isn't confused and insecure at times too.

“Is it cause we grew up together?”

“Well that’s why your dear to me, but no” 

“Then why?”

“Cause you’re you. Simply. You’re kind and fair. Too smart and you’re too pretty. You stand your ground and stand up for what’s right. I knew damn well who I hunched on my back and tried to set off with explosions at five years old”

He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tips your face toward him until you’re locked in his orbit again.

You want to cry again. Be it the memory, or the fact that you've pushed him to say this much about why he’s in love with you. You've got no reason to get jealous over people on the internet. They don’t know Katsuki like you do. They never could. Fate chose you to be the one to grow up a few blocks away from him. All your shared memories together, no one on TikTok could live them out.

No matter any Vogue cover, any Calvin Klein ad, or late night show interview, you and Katsuki are two human beings who grew up together, beat the odds of death together. Fell in love with each other to top it. So many humans in history have had this storyline, they’ve shared their first time with each other the night before setting off to war, kissed for the first time behind the bleachers in middle school. 

“I was so scared back then” you sob. Just one violent sob after another “‘m sorry babe. I'm so sorry for how I acted right now. You're just so hot that I can’t handle it. Can you like, be that bratty little five year old again?”

Katsuki huffs a breath, mouth twitching like he wants to smirk but knows better. His hands stay firm around your waist, grounding you while leaning towards you.

“Well I can’t be five again,” he says, voice rough but fond, lips already pursing as his forehead sticks to yours “but I can give you a small brand new Bakugo”

You let out a choked, watery laugh, but he’s already shifting closer, his thighs spreading so you fit better between them. One of his hands, followed by his eyes, slides up to your chest, and with exaggerated slowness, he taps a finger just above your sternum.

Tap. Then a little higher. Tap.

Then again—until two fingers are softly “walking” their way up, up, up your chest like little boots. You blink at him.

“Katsukiiii”

Tap.

The pads of his fingers rest at the hollow of your throat for a beat before lifting to your chin, tipping your face toward him like you’re fragile glass he’s been carrying his whole life.

He’s pouting. You can see it clearly now—the petulant pull of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows, like he’s upset you made him feel things and doesn’t know how to ask for reassurance without being difficult.

“You sayin’ shit like that,” he mutters, eyes flickering down to your mouth, then back up, “makes me feel like I’m not doin’ enough. Like I ain’t sayin’ it right. And I already suck at this.”

You open your mouth to protest, say you didn’t really mean it when you said that you don’t feel enough, that it was a moment of weakness, just like when you tried to tell him you’ve got options, but he presses his thumb gently against your bottom lip, quieting you, you’ve already apologised. He hasn’t.

“Lemme show you instead,” he says.

His voice isn’t cocky. Not quite. It’s soft—almost shy. Like how it was when you asked him to walk you home a week into UA, like he knows now, sex won’t fix anything, for sure, but the humanity of it, the lack of personal space between you as you groan in each other's open mouths, will help, just a little to ease the pain of your words.

“You’re my soft spot,” he adds under his breath, kissing the corner of your mouth like he’s afraid you’ll vanish off to some hot idol that does fanservice for a living, before he finishes the sentence. “Always been. N’ I don’t want you forgettin’ it. I ain’t leaving you for no one”

His fingers trace the line of your jaw now, slow and reverent. The pout still hasn’t left. You’re not sure it ever will. But now it’s paired with heat, and a pull between your legs that starts low and deep as he finally—finally—brushes his mouth against yours.

Just a whisper of a kiss. All pout. All need. All Katsuki.

You wouldn’t really trade him for anyone, either.

You can feel how badly he wants to be touched back. He always wants to be physical and touchy after an argument. You know how grounded and real it makes him feel, how reassuring it is to him to know he is still loved enough to be touched, despite words that are meant to sting.

You make a move to peck him, only right as this was your fault, and he slowly moves his lips against your own, soft, smooth. Slipping between every hollow space until you can't pull away. Seems like the chapstick you got for him last week has done wonders to make his lips so soft and plump, when they’re usually so chapped; his mouth glides against yours with practiced ease.

“M sorry” he whispers, so faint against your lips, but you still catch it.

His voice stays in your skin long after it’s said, like steam caught between your ribs, not ready to evaporate just yet.

You don’t say anything at first—just lift your hand to cradle the back of his neck, drawing tiny circles at his nape with your thumb. His eyes flutter a little at the touch, and it’s so Katsuki the way he tries not to lean into it. Still pouting, still pretending he’s not craving softness like it’s the only thing that could save him, but you know him better.

You let your other hand wander, trailing along the hem of his work top, your fingertips skating just beneath the fabric—slow, just the way he likes it. And when your hands drift to the button of his pants, you catch that tiny hitch in his breath. Barely audible. But it’s there. His lashes drop, golden. Sun-kissed. His grip on your waist tightens, not to stop you, just to hold on.

“You said you’d show me,” you murmur, your voice dipping low, warm against the shell of his ear. “But maybe I show you first.”

He doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard. And you skip the rest of the sentence ‘how much better I am than those TikTok bitches who want you’.

The button of his work cargos clicks open beneath your fingers.

It’s intimate, the quiet that settles between you. Not awkward. Not even heated yet. Just close. Bathwater is still steaming behind him. The scent of your shared home in the air—sandalwood, white musk soap, the thick smell of chicken being cooked—him. 

His cologne, faded but still clinging to the collar of his shirt. The playlist hums something slow and familiar in the background—Hot like fire, because maybe Aaliyah wasn’t mocking you a while ago—like this moment has its own soundtrack and the world outside doesn’t exist.

Your fingers fiddle with his zipper, slow and smooth. He looks down at you—heavy-lidded, and all vermillion, lips slightly parted, like he’s already halfway gone from just being touched with intention for pleasure.

“You looked so confident in the ad” you whisper as your fingers brush just below his waistband, teasing. “But this is better. This right here. When you’re a little shy for me.”

He exhales shakily, like you cracked something open inside him. And you feel it—something primal and possessive bloom in your chest.

“No one gets to see you like this but me”

“You’re tryin’ to kill me” he mutters.

You smile up at him, biting your lower lip. “No, Katsuki. I’m just trying to blow you away with my insane head skills”

He laughs, a breathy little sound, as his hands move to take off his shirt, softly ungluing his eyes from yours for only a second. You lick your lips at the way his muscles flex, so thick and bulky and by all means yours.

Suddenly, the ad pops back into your head, every shot, every zoom in. You’re overtaken by lust driven jealousy again.

No one on fucking TikTok gets to see the way his abs flex when he cums. You do.

So you work to lower his pants in fast movements, pushing the heavy fabric down until it hits the floor in shuffling sounds. 

Your hands slide lower, palms flattening against his calves, then his hips as you stick your cheek to his thigh. He watches you like you’re a sunrise—warm and tender, grazing where his skin ends with where your skin begins, or running tender, teasing circles all over his tip through his boxers.

His fingers twitch against his thighs, unsure of where to go—if he should cup your cheek, fist your hair, or just hold on to the edge of the tub before he slides down into something desperate.

And when you look up at him from where you’re knelt, his breath catches. His hand finds the top of your head, like he needs the grounding contact, thumb brushing a gentle path through your hair, and his eyes are wide with something soft and so, so red and open.

“Yesssss” he says hoarsely, half-laughing, half-moan “im about to get the best head of my life”

You quirk your brow and pucker your lips as if it’s your turn to pout now, then, you jab “Was it bad before?”

He shakes his head, cheeks already pink. “It’s always damn perfect”

His breathing catches in his chest but by now, your lips catch onto the skin of his thigh, placing a kiss there while still looking at him. It makes him go completely red now, face ears and chest flustered.

You kiss higher on his inner thigh, barely missing where he’s straining against the fabric of his boxers. Katsuki’s knuckles press into the edge of the tub now, trying to keep himself grounded, but his hips twitch when your lips ghost just beneath the band of his boxers.

He looks like he might fall apart already. Lower lip caught between his teeth, lashes fluttering low, cheeks warm and pink in the bathroom light.

Your fingers tug at the elastic slowly—like a question. And he nods, fast, almost frantic.

You hum, and finally pull the waistband down, freeing him.

He’s already hard, tip flushed and leaking, twitching a little in the cool air. And the way he watches you—mouth parted, chest rising and falling quick—is nothing short of irrelevant. He looks at you with hunger, full blown everywhere on his face, like it burns just to feel it. His hand hovers near your cheek, and you guide it up into your hair with your own.

“Keep it here,” you murmur. “I want you to touch.”

Katsuki’s thumb brushes your scalp, tender, trembling.

His thumb twitches as it strokes your scalp.

You press your lips softly to the base of his cock. Not rushing. Just placing open mouthed kisses over his length. Letting the heat of your mouth register on every kiss before you move to the next one. Then again, higher this time. Then again—closer to the tip, where he shudders and grips your hair a little tighter. Your lips wrap tenderly around half of his tip, your tongue storming out for a circular lick before you give him a little suck.

His hips shift like he’s trying to stay still and failing. Then you kiss just beneath the tip, so close your breath makes him hiss.

“F-fuck,” he hisses, hips twitching once more. “You’re—baby, you’re—”

You wrap your hand around the base of him and drag your tongue along the underside, slow, teasing, drawing a whimper from him so small and raw that your thighs clench just hearing it.

“You gonna beg?” you ask softly, glancing up.

His head falls back against the tiled wall for a second, mouth parted, so red in the face. “Don’t make me—fuck—‘m already losin’ it.”

You take him into your mouth inch by inch, slow and careful, tongue flat underneath, eyes still locked on him. You feel his thighs shake.

He moans—a rough, broken sound—and his hand fists harder your hair. You pull back with a wet pop and stroke him slowly, thumb brushing over his leaking tip. “You’re so easy to ruin, Katsuki. One suck and you’re falling apart.”

“You—you're evil,” he pants, biting his knuckle. “You can’t say shit like that when your fuckin’ mouth is on me.”

You grin, licking your lips. “It’s on you again now.”

You take him deeper this time, hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue drag in deliberate patterns. He groans, head tipping down again to watch, jaw slack. His voice is wrecked. Raw. Low in his throat.

“Katsuki–” you pause, you murmur, pulling off again, cupping him with both hands now. ogling your eyes into his “Tell me i'm the only one who’s ever gonna make you feel this good’

Every movement you make is intentional—little flicks of your tongue, your hand twisting at the base, your lips tight around him. You don’t let him cum yet. Every time you feel him start to twitch harder, you ease back, sucking gently on just the tip.

“Babe,’s all you—” he chokes out, voice ragged. “Never gonna be anyone else but you”

“Yeah?” you breathe. “No thirsty fangirl, no fantasy, no fuckin’ ad? Just me?”

His eyes lock on yours—glassy, wild. He nods hard. “Just you.”

You glance up again. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown. He looks desperate. Like he’s holding onto the last threads of sanity. But this moment is bathed in vulnerability, raw love that makes you want to claim again and again. Katsuki’s had his moments like this, way more than you. He lets you go through with it, he even likes how jealous you are right now, but this doesn’t mean he’s not utterly and completely ruined and under your spell right now.

You kiss his head again, so sweet, and finally wrap your mouth around him once more—this time faster, deeper, your hand working in tandem. He lets out a strangled cry, almost panicked with how hard he’s trying to hold on.

“You’re mine, Katsuki. You know that, right? Doesn’t matter how many people thirst over you online.” You press your lips around him again, drag your mouth up slow, just to the tip. “They don’t get this. They don’t get you like I do.”

He looks down at you again, eyes still glassy. So red. So wrecked.

You take him deeper, your cheeks hollowed, your tongue gliding in slow circles, teasing him at every sensitive spot. The veins on the underside of his cock, the base, as he hits the back of your throat. Katsuki moans, raw and shaky and his hips stutter forward before he forces himself still. The inside of your mouth is so slippery, so warm, he’s literally going crazy with each movement.

“Don’t even fuckin’ want anyone else.” He sounds destroyed now, ruined into a slurring mess as your hand is sliding along his thigh. 

“Let me—let me cum, shit—please, let me—”

His tip kisses the back of your throat, and you gag around him, just a little—just enough for him to choke on a moan that sounds like he’s dying.

You don’t let up. You feel the way he twitches, the way his thighs tense, the way his grip in your hair tightens. He’s close. So close. You hum against him, nodding just a little, eyes locked into his in such an intimate, tender way. You take him all the way in one last time, his tip hitting the back of your throat, eliciting just a small choking sound from you, letting him fall apart in your mouth, with every soft roll of his hips into you.

He grunts. Head lolling back again, so hard that is adam’s apple protrudes enough even for you to see. His hips stutter, and he tries to hold back—but his thighs are trembling, breath breaking. He snaps his head again, desperate to look at you and he swallows now, bites his lower lip in concentration before he clenches his legs, to buck his hips into your mouth.

His hands come to cradle your head, your cheeks, like he’s afraid to let go, like you’re the one keeping him from falling through the floor. And the way you keep eye contact with him while swallowing him down your pretty little throat–It’s a killer.

You back up, worrying his tip between your soft, plump lips and that's it–He shatters. Violently and way faster than he thought he would. Clawing at your face to make you take him in once again; he bottoms out, and you… you take him in easily, like a champ.

Katsuki falls apart in your mouth with a raw, choked moan, hips bucking just once as you hold him steady, taking every twitch, every pulse, every broken sound he makes as his cum spills in ropes down your throat. You try to swallow as much as you can, eyes tearing up at the amount of cum that’s making you choke– Katsuki’s favorite sounds when you’re giving him a blowjob. He’s only urged to spill more, but this time you back up a little, letting him fill your mouth until it spills down the sides of your lips.

“F-fuck. Baby. Fuck.” He gasps like you’ve already stolen the air from his lungs, and he spasms. His hips jerk forward once, like instinct takes over.

Your eyes well up again, tears beading on your lashes from the stretch, from the pressure, from the sheer force of him.

He groans again at the sight—his cock buried in your mouth, cum spilling out the corners of your lips, glistening. His hands cradle your cheeks like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the feel of your skin under his thumbs.

You swallow again, letting him ride it out with one last soft suck, and he moans like he’s unraveling from the inside out. His knees almost buckle.

And still, you don’t stop touching him. Your hand strokes slow at his base as you pull back with the loudest pop, letting some of the mess trail down lower at your chin, your lips swollen and glistening as you tilt your head up.

“You came so much,” you murmur, licking a drop from your bottom lip. “Were you that needy for me, baby?”

He groans as he’s still recovering, hips twitching slightly as your breath ghosts over him. His hands finally leave your cheeks, fumbling around, still shaky, down to where his pants are.

“Where the fuck’s my phone?” he rasps, breath catching on the tail end.

You blink up at him, mock-innocent. “Why do you want it, hmm?”

His gaze drops back to you, pupils blown wide, chest heaving as he glares like you’ve just personally offended him by being too hot to handle yourself.

“First, I’m taking a fuckin’ photo of you like this,” he grits out, voice still rough and low, “with your mouth all messy, lookin’ proud of yourself like that.”

You smirk, tilting your head as cum still drips slowly down your chin, your fingers catching it just to suck them clean. “So you can jerk off to it later?”

“So I can frame it,” he mutters darkly, eyes dragging over every inch of your face. “And then you’re watchin’ the ad again. Every second of it.”

You blink slowly. “But it makes me mad”

He nods. “Yeah exactly. Youre watching it.‘Til you get so fuckin’ riled up you suck me off meaner than this.”

Your lips curl. “Meaner? Baby… I was being sweet to you.”

“Exactly,” he pants, reaching for your wrist to drag you up into his lap. “I wanna see you do it when you're pissed.”

You climb into his space, knees bracketing his thighs, grinning into his mouth as you kiss him—messy, deep, still tasting like him. “Careful what you wish for, Katsuki. I might make your dick fall off”

His voice is just a whisper now and wrecked against your lips.

“Fuck yes”

Yeah… maybe the Calvin Klein ad was a good idea.

______

The water’s somehow still warm, barely steaming, and smells like cocoa and the shea butter soap he always pretends he doesn’t use until you catch him stealing it.

You’re settled between his legs, your back against his chest, and he’s folded around you—arms over your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck, breath soft and steady against your skin. You sink into him, muscles loosening all at once.

The bathwater laps at your collarbones. His thumbs trace slow circles into your stomach. And for a while, the only sound is your breathing, synced. The occasional soft swish of water when one of you shifts. The playlist outside still hums faintly, muffled through the bathroom door. Just gentle vocals and low drums. Like the score to this quiet little world you’ve made.

“Sorry I was a dick,” he mutters. His voice remains unsure of what to say in a situation like this, yet muffled against your neck. “I just—y’know…”

“Yeah. Me too. I should not have mentioned Jungkook because people online are asking how I handle all of that” you chuckle, tenderly placing a kiss at the back of Katsuki’s hands when you lift it from the water.

He frowns, letting off a sound of annoyance “asshole, he can shove that seven song up his ass”

“Oop— you listening to him now?”

“No, it’s all over the radio though” Katsuki kisses your shoulder in response. Then again, higher this time. “But I don’t care about nobody. Just you. Always you.”

You tilt your head and press a kiss into his damp hair from the side, catching just a little bit of his ear in the process. “I know, baby. I know.”

And you do. Deep in your bones. The same way you know how his eyes soften and he whines when he’s sleepy, how his jaw ticks to the right when he’s embarrassed, how his voice drops an octave when he wants to be taken seriously. You know him. Not the whored out Calvin Klein version the world sees.

You curl your hands around his forearm and let yourself melt back into him completely, the bathwater swaying at the peak of your chest now. Safe. Soothed. Held.

He squeezes you a little tighter and rests his chin on your shoulder, finally quiet. And if you listen close, you can feel it: the rise and fall of him. The warmth of his skin. The steady thrum of his heartbeat under your back. 

“So” you murmur “wanna talk about that little mini Bakugo you mentioned earlier?”

Katsuki mumbles something under his breath, eyes closed against your skin. He’s mellowed out in the split of a second, but you’re riled up at the thought when your mind returns to it. 

“‘S no use.” He whines, finally, like he’s annoyed “Our kid’s gonna look like you”

“So you'll get a mini me all over again and I won’t get the same? Un-faiiiir! Booooooo” you groan, leaning your head back against his shoulder dramatically. The water sloshes with the motion, and he huffs a tired laugh into your neck, chest vibrating behind you.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, lips brushing your skin. “Like I wouldn’t be fuckin’ obsessed with either version.”

You smile. Small. Soft. Let your thumb glide along the scar on his wrist and then you swallow. Blink a few times. Then nod once, slowly, before you speak.

“Wouldn’t be so bad, would it? A little baby with your temper and my sweet tooth?”

He lets out a real laugh now, low and gruff and warm against your back. “Fuckin’ menace. Our apartment wouldn’t survive.”

“Your PR team wouldn’t survive.”

“Shit, you’re right.”

You both laugh, muffled and close, and when it quiets again, you let your fingers lace through his under the water. His grip tightens like a reflex.

And then, just above a whisper:

“You really think about it sometimes?”

“…Yeah.”

“Me too.”

He kisses your shoulder again. No jokes this time. Just silence and warm water and cocoa steam. The both of you holding that dream quietly, like something sacred. 

In his arms, now, today, midst June, after feeling threatened that strangers online will ever do better than you when it comes to him, you think of you and him, back in his childhood room, watching Spirited Away as Mitsuki would fetch you cookies and milk before Katsuki would try to shove her away and she’d pretend to be knocked over.

“Hey…We’re still naming the baby Chihiro like we promised back then, right?”

He goes still behind you. Like, dead quiet. Like you’d short-circuited something in his brain.

You almost think he didn’t hear you until you feel the deep inhale against your spine, his arms tightening just a little more around you like he’s trying to fuse your body to his.

“…You remember that?” His voice is hoarse now, barely more than a breath.

You smile, eyes still half-lidded, watching the water ripple at the edges of the tub. “Of course I do. You made me pinky swear on it, when Mitsuki said we’d get married and have kids too!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but it’s soft, affectionate—almost embarrassed. His nose nudges your jaw like he’s trying to hide the warmth in his face. “Was a fuckin’ loser.”

“No,” you say gently. “You were just sweet. Always were.”

There’s a beat. He swallows. You feel it in his throat against your shoulder.

“…Chihiro, huh?” he murmurs, finally. “Still want that? Even now?”

You nod, and his hand floats up from beneath the water, trailing along your stomach, resting just under your ribs. Protective. Hopeful. Like something unspoken is blooming there.

“I always loved that promise,” you whisper, throat a little tight. He doesn’t answer. At least not with words.

Katsuki grins against your neck, and the sound of it, the way he breathes in like he’s grounding himself in the smell of your skin—it’s everything. It’s homely. Warm water. Summer steam. A shared name from a shared childhood.

Take that ‘tojissecondworm222’, not only do you handle all that, but everything the world’s fantasy driven Dynamight has to offer, is yours. 

Always has been.

Always will be.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

[vivwritesfics]

Wedding Rescue

Abandoned at Lorenzo's wedding, you called upon your 'situationship' for help.

Oscar Piastri x Leclerc!Reader

"We're going soon," her brother whispered to her as she spoke to their aunt.

She waved him off, made a note of what he said, but continued to speak to their aunt. It was rare the entire Leclerc family got together, with Charles in F1, Arthur as a development driver and her in fashion school in London.

But this was Lorenzo's wedding. Of course the entire family had to get together.

Charles met her eye, tried to wave her over. He used to head to gesture to the exit and he thought she gave a nod. Thought.

Charles, Alexandra, and Arthur walked out of the venue. She should have been following them, she should have been behind them, ready to climb into the back of Charles's Ferrari with Arthur.

But she wasn't. She was catching up with aunts and uncles and cousins. She was enjoying spending time with her family.

Lorenzo sat beside her. "Congratulations, Enzo," she said as she threw her arms around him. It was so damn exciting, her big brother taking the steps to start a family of his own.

Lorenzo hugged her back. "Thank you, ma petite sœur," he replied. "Do you know where Charles is?"

Shit, Charles. Standing up, she grabbed her little purse. It held nothing but her phone, a phone that didn't have her bank card attached. "Probably by the car," she said as if it was nothing.

Kissing Lorenzo on the cheek, she rushed out of the venue.

But Charles was gone. Arthur and Alexandre were gone. The Ferrari was gone.

Fuck.

Pulling her phone from her purse, she held it up to her ear and waited for Charles to pick up. There was just a few seconds between the phone ringing and him answering.

"Are you not in the back of my car?"

"Do you think I'd be calling you from the back of the car?!" She tried not to shriek the words, tried not to draw the attention of the employees outside of the venue.

"Charles, seriously, come and pick me up." She knew she sounded spoilt and entitled, but that was her right as the little sister. But, also, he fucking abandoned her!

She heard Charles release a sharp breath. "I'll turn around when I can, but you're going to be there for a little while," he told her.

"Charles." She tried to fill her voice with warning, but that had never worked with Charles. And she couldn't give the puppy eyes over the phone.

"I'm sorry! I'm trying."

She let out a sigh. "Forget about it," she said, leaning against the nearest wall. But then she remembered just how expensive her dress was and stood up straight again. "I'll find another way home."

Everybody in the Ferrari knew what that meant. "Just let one of us know when you're there," Charles said. "Love you."

"Love you." She hung up.

For a moment, she considered it. They weren't really a thing, and she had no idea if he would bother picking her up. It would be nice though, if he saw her in this dress. If he saw her with her hair and makeup this perfect. A rare sight for him.

Fuck it. She opened her phone and dialled his number. "Can you pick me up? I'm stuck," she said into the phone, holding her bag against her chest.

"Aren't you at your brothers wedding?" He asked.

She pulled her lip between her teeth. Her brothers didn't know about them; it wouldn't have been a surprise if he said no. But she continued speaking. "Charles abandoned me here and I don't want to bother Lorenzo," she explained quickly.

It was warm, as long as she stood in the sun. Crossing her fingers, she waited for his answer. Please, please, please.

Nothing.

Please.

"Send me your location."

"Thank you, Oscar!" She cried. "I swear I'll make it up to you!"

She didn't have to make it up to him, she should have known. But Oscar kept that information in his back pocket.

He wasted no time in climbing in his car and driving to pick her up. The girl he wanted to ask to be his. The girl he wasn't yet brave enough to ask out.

Oscar loved having her in his car. She belonged in his passenger seat, her shoes off, holding his hand between him changing gear.

He saw her before she saw him. A pretty blue dress, a square sort of neckline and straps that went wider over the top of her shoulders. Flowers were dotted all over the bodice and longer skirt.

It fit her like a glove, forcing Oscar to tear his eyes away before he crashed his car. He parked and leaned over the centre console to push open the door.

Grinning, she held her skirt as she climbed into his car. "You're quite literally the best," she said as she settled down, her purse in her lap.

Oscar glanced at her once before he began driving away. "Good wedding?" He asked as she undid the straps on her heels and pulled them off.

"Yeah," she said, throwing her heels into her back seat. "Could have done with a plus one, though."

Her hand touched his. Oscar turned his hand over, palm up, and let her lace her fingers through his.

Part of her wanted to invite Oscar to Lorenzo's wedding as her plus one. But that would mean explaining to her brothers why he was there. Oscar was great, the best of them (them being the driver's she'd managed to get to know), but she wasn't ready to explain anything to her brothers.

There wasn't anything to explain to her brothers, yet.

"You just back in Monaco for the wedding?" Oscar asked her, his thumb moving absentmindedly moving over her hand. But he let go of her to change gear and then grabbed her hand again.

She let out a hum, her body turned towards him. She kept her head against the headrest, watching him as he drove.

"Heading back to London tomorrow," she answered and yawned. It had been a fun day, but it had been exhausting.

Oscar raised his eyebrows. "Are you staying with your mum while you're here?" He asked. Purely because he needed to know where to drop her off, right?

She nodded her head. "Yeah, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind if I went to stay with somebody else for the night."

Driving, Oscar couldn't see the way her eyes sparkled as she looked at him. But he knew exactly what she wanted from the tone of her voice alone. "Okay," he said, bringing her hands up to his lips.

He kissed the back of her hand as he drove past her mother's apartment, driving her back to his.

[withlovemark]

“IRREPLACEABLE”

pairing: enemy! hyuck x ex bff! reader | genre:rom-com | words: 29k

synopsis -> lee haechan, theatre major, absolutely hated your guts. you felt the same exact way. the only girl in this whole university that hasn’t fallen for the most popular fuckboy’s charms. which is why it sucks that you have both landed the main roles in the theater’s upcoming play, romeo and juliet. what was that saying about love and hate being a thin line?

warnings -> i lost count of how many times i used the word hate and all it’s synonyms, pet name unlocked: princess, so much arguing, both of them have major communication issues!, so many side characters i hope you know all of them, too many musical references +18, crude humor, language, mentions of: parties, alcohol, reader gets drugged, drunk calling, so much smut i kinda got carried away! thigh riding, slight exhibitionism, very rough sex, hyuck is a dom bottom who lovesss boobies, dry-humping, use of whore and slut, choking, slapping, oral (m+f), fingering, car sex, dirty dirty dirty talk!

an -> the fourth installment of the loverboy series is yours! i’m gonna be honest, i’ve never gotten through romeo and juliet without falling asleep. i did force myself to watch the movie just for this though! and i took a nap in the middle lol. disclaimer! i know nothing about the theater world, i just like musicals! important things to note: 1) haechan is the most popular fuckboy - everyone loves him, he’s charming and funny and he’s not afraid to hurt anyone’s feelings if he needs to 2) all three couples jaemin x angel; jeno x bunny; and mark x kitten are all happily together! have fun reading! - with love, c.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath, the words bitter on your tongue. behind you, the hallway erupts with cheers, laughter, congratulations, celebration of their dream roles. you should be one of them. be as elated, as ecstatic, jump around and cheer for landing the role of one of the two protagonists.

but all you could focus on was the name above yours.

your stomach twists, fists clench at your sides. the letters blur for a second and you blink rapidly, as if reading it again will somehow make it go away. you don’t have to turn around to feel him – that distinct, arrogant presence that always makes your skin crawl. the air arounds you tightens, turns electric, suffocating as he steps up beside you, your shoulders instinctively stiffening like your body was preparing for war.

haechan doesn’t say a word first, just reading the cast list you’ve been cursing at for the past fifteen seconds.

romeo - lee, donghyuck

juliet - yln, yfn

tybalt - kim, sunwoo / mercutio - dejun, xiao / benvolio - choi, yeonjun / friar laurence - choi, jongho / count paris - choi, soobin / montague - seo, changbin / capulet - jung, wooyoung / gloria capulet - huh, yunjin / juliet’s nurse - yi zhou, ning /balthasar - yoon, sanha

then he scoffs, “what the hell?,” he hissed venomously, before ripping the sheet off the bulletin board, crinkling the edge between his fingers like it personally offended him.

“hey–!,” you snap, breaking from your stunned silence, spinning on your heel to follow him as he storms across the hall like a live grenade looking for somewhere to detonate.

“mr. doyoung!,” his voice cracks through the hallway like a thunderclap, “this has got to be a mistake!”

there it is. that infuriating, entitled tone, like the spoiled, arrogant bastard he’s always been. always louder. always assuming the world should rearrange itself around him. you roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but for the first time in a long time, you actually agree.

“yeah, there’s no way, in hell, you can make me act opposite of him,” you bite out, folding your arms tightly across your chest as you come to a halt beside him. your voice is sharp, clipped, every word aimed to kill as the two of you glare at each other like two predators forced into a cage.

his eyes glint with the same smug cruelty he’s weaponized against you, “then drop the part,” he sneers, that damned smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, “save us all the agony.”

you scoff, “if anyone’s dropping out, it should be you.” you step closer, close enough to feel the anger radiating off of him. your noses are inches apart, breaths sharp, shallow, matching like clashing rhythms.

his eyes narrow, “not in a million years, princess,” he spits. the nickname laced with the kind of condescension that makes your blood boil — the same nickname he gave you when you first met in freshman year of high school. it used to hold playfulness until junior year when he used it to spite you, calling you a spoiled, whiny brat in front of all your classmates.

“i. hate. you.” you hiss, slow and deliberate, as if saying it any softer wouldn’t do your fury justice.

“not as much as i. hate. you,” he fires back instantly as if he’s been waiting to say it.

and you know you both mean it. every syllable.

the silence between you is razor-sharp, about to break into something neither of you will be able to take back until mr. doyoung finally claps his hands together, far too enthusiastically.

“ahhh, exactly the kind of fire i’d expect from my two star crossed lovers,” he beams, though there’s a flicker of panic behind his eyes for the future of his play, “so much...raw emotion, i’m sure you’ll channel it beautifully!,” he smiles that bunny-like smile. you both turn to glare at him.

mr. doyoung’s smile falters, “orrr maybe i’ll add a few extra rehearsals. just in case.”

you want to scream. you want to throw the script in his face. you want the ground to open up and swallow him whole. transport him somewhere far away from you where you would never have to see him again. instead, you glare at him and know this is going to be war.

ཐིཋྀ the first week of rehearsals

the rehearsal room smells like dust and desperation. the air is heavy, slow, stale and every time the fan completes it’s rotation, it just blow more disappointment into your face.

but none of it compares to the static crackling between you and him.

“i’m not doing that,” you snap, backing away from haechan like his presence is physically repulsive, “if he touches me like that again, i swear to god, i’m walking out.” there’s something about the way haechan put his hand on your waist, not even hard, not even long, that makes your whole body go tight, defensive.

“jesus christ,” haechan groans, dramatically running a hand through his already disheveled hair as he paces like a caged animal, like the floor can somehow absorb his frustration, “it’s called blocking and i’m supposed to stand there. it’s the scene. what are you? an amateur.”

the both of you hate each other but you both knew you were far from amateurs. especially in the theatre world. you were always part of the main ensemble, so was he. it’s almost ironic how you never saw it coming…that one day you would land a role opposite his.

you glare daggers, “it’s called basic respect for personal space, not an invitation to grope me,” you shoot back, matching his volume now, hands on your hips, “and you didn’t follow the mark. you were supposed to take one step forward, not three and a half and a hand on my waist.”

“that’s literally where romeo touches juliet. in the script,” he grits out, teeth clenching, “ever heard of it?,” his eyes flash, jaw tight.

“i’ve read it,” you snap, voice rising in heat, “i just don’t think shakespeare imagined romeo groping juliet like a frat boy.”

“groping?,” he repeats, incredulous, “you’re delusional. talk about overreacting, as if i would ever want to grope you.”

you glare, “at least i can act.” it’s petty. it’s low. but it lands. you see the spark behind his eyes flare into flame.

he barks out a laugh that’s so disbelieving it echoes, “that’s rich coming from you. every time i look at you, you look dead, let me remind you juliet is still alive in this scene.”

“maybe because looking at you makes me want to jump off the balcony and actually end it myself!,” you yell, voice going an octave higher with every word.

you hate him so much. hate the way you act when he’s around. you’re not usually like this. you’re calm, sweet, a walking ray of sunshine. but when he’s around. it’s all a mess.

“okay, ENOUGH!”

mr. doyoung’s voice cuts through the room like a whip, his usual patience obliterated, stepping between the two of you like a human peace treaty, “you are juliet,” he says to you, “-and you are romeo,” he turns to haechan, “i don’t plan on changing any of the cast so if you two don’t find a way to sell the illusion that you’re in love, this entire show is going to be a very expensive dumpster fire.”

neither of you speak. too busy glaring at each other, like eye contact alone might ignite spontaneous combustion. mr. doyoung sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “let’s just…try the balcony scene again. from the top. no improvising. no suicide jokes. just the lines. please. for the love of theater.”

you both reluctantly take your marks, haechan looks up at you, a few feet above the stage, perched on a rickety prop balcony that feels two screws away from collapsing, wobbling under your feet.

he takes his place below, casting a look up at you that’s less romantic longing and more barely restrained murder. then he begins, voice flat, eyes dead, “but, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? it is the east, and juliet is the sun.”

you blink slowly, unimpressed, “really?,” you call down, loud enough to make mr. doyoung’s eye twitch. “that’s your romeo? he sounds like he’s reading from the terms and conditions page,” you insult.

“i’m projecting,” he says defensively, like the word justifies everything.

“you’re projecting boredom,” you deadpan, “romeo’s in love, not filing a complaint with customer service”

“oh, i’m sorry,” he stays stepping forward with mock enthusiasm, “it’s hard to sound passionate when i’m looking at someone who constantly has a resting bitch face.”

“you’re such a dick!,” you snap from the balcony.

“and you’re nothing but a spoiled brat!”

you both shout over each other. mr. doyoung lets out an almost feral scream and hurls his clipboard across the stage. it hits a chair and ricochets loudly, silencing the room. the rest of the cast sharing multiple side-eyes.

“end of rehearsals!,” he bellows, voice cracking with pure, unfiltered despair. you don’t need to be told twice. you turn on your heel and storm off the left side of the stage without looking back. you don’t need to. you can feel him heading the other way, like magnets forced apart.

and yet, even as you leave the room, you can still feel him…under your skin, buzzing through your veins.

ཐིཋྀ the second week of rehearsals

mr. doyoung looks like he’s aged ten years over the week. his clipboard is cracked down the spine, his coffee has gone cold, and his voice has taken on the strained edge of a man dangling off the brink of a nervous breakdown — there has been absolutely no progress when it comes to his leading actors.

he watches, again, as the scene falls apart. you stand center stage, shoulders stiff, delivering your lines like someone reading a grocery list and haechan was delivering his like a stand-up comedian doing shakespeare for drunks.

“you know what?,” mr. doyoung finally snaps, his voice cracking under the strain of suppressed rage, “i’m done. i’m tired of the two of you wasting everyone’s time.” you and haechan glance at each other with deadpan synchronicity and immediately roll your eyes in perfect unison. the only thing you can do in sync.

“i’m not going to waste one more minute pretending this is salvageable until you two get your shit together,” he pulls a key from his pocket, walks toward the back rehearsal room and without warning, yanks the door open, “get in.”

you hesitate. so does haechan. but mr. doyoung’s eyes blaze with the quiet fury of a man who has nothing left to lose. before either of you can protest, he herds you both into the cramped rehearsal room, walls lined with mismatched props and discarded costumes. he slams the door shut behind you, the sound of the lock clicking echoing through the space like a death sentence.

“you’re going to spend the next hour locked in this room. read the lines, build chemistry. i don’t care how you do it but make sure it works or i swear to god i will cast freshmen in the lead roles and let the whole show burn,” he instructs from the other side, his footsteps retreating down the hall.

mr. doyoung knew the two of you too well, both too proud, too consumed by your own egos and the thrill of performing. you didn’t just want to act, you wanted to outshine, to dominate every scene. all it needed was a little push, to finally get you where he wants.

“great,” you mutter, crossing your arms as you lean against the wall, “trapped in a room with you, it’s just like high school all over again.”

haechan stares at you like he’s seconds away from choosing violence, “believe me princess, i’d rather be stuck in a room filled with plague-infested rats than be here with you.”

“let’s just get this over with so we can get out of here,” you roll your eyes as you both grab your scripts. tension hanging like a thundercloud.

“deny thy father and refuse thy name–,” you start.

“maybe try not sounding like you’re ai,” haechan cuts in, already annoyed, tone drenched in mockery.

your eyes narrow, “this is ridiculous,” you mutter, slapping the script onto a table, “he really thinks chemistry can be forced?”

haechan scoffs, “it’s not chemistry that’s the problem. it’s you.”

you spin toward him, a furrow on your features, “right, because the way you butcher romantic lines make the audience swoon.”

“i’m sorry, have you ever heard yourself say ‘oh romeo, oh romeo’ without sounding like you’re a fucking gps?”

your voice rises, “god, you’re not even trying to act like you’re in love with me!,”

“maybe because the idea makes me want to rip out my own eyeballs,” he snarls, stepping closer.

“you are the most arrogant!,” you take a step closer, voice rising, veins protruding, “most infuriating–”

you don’t see it coming.

one second you’re shouting at each other, chest heaving, veins on fire and the next, his hands are tangled in your hair, mouth crushing yours like a threat – the kiss is messy. too much teeth. zero warning. absolute chaos.

you shove him off, lips bruised and tingling, breath ragged, eyes blown out, “are you fucking insane?!”

haechan looks like a deer caught in headlights, eyes flickering with something wild, shock and hunger all at once, but before he can register what he just did, you grab his shirt and pull him down into another kiss – twice as hard, all tongue and fury and years of pent-up hatred combusting between your teeth.

it’s not romantic. it’s war.

he stumbles back into the worn chair and you follow, climbing into his lap and straddling his thigh like you’re still trying to win. your skirt rides up as your knees settle on either side of his leg. hot, wet core pressing against the thick line of muscle beneath you, haechan’s own gym shorts bunching up on his thigh and for the first time, you’re both quiet. just the obscene sound of mouths and breath and friction echoing throughout the room.

your hips rock forward, slow at first, then harder. a needy, broken sound slips past your lips, making his cock twitch in his shorts.

“god,” he breathes into your jaw, “i would’ve done this years ago if i knew it’d finally shut you up,” his lips trail down your jaw, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses.

“you’re such a cocky piece of shit,” you hiss, panting against his mouth, hips still rocking into his thigh.

“and you’re still a brat,” he growls, gripping your waist like he might lose his mind otherwise, “but fuck–keep doing that.”

“i hate you,” you growl against his lips as you continue to ride his thigh anyway. like the words would justify any of this.

“you’re grinding on me like you don’t,” he says smugly.

“shut up.”

“make me.”

you do. you pull his hair and kiss him again, tongue in his mouth – filthy, hot, tangled. the pressure builds fast, molten and sharp. your tits brush his chest, perky nipples peeking through the thin fabric of your white shirt, his hands hot and demanding on your ass. he whines into your mouth and it’s almost enough to make you lose yourself entirely. you pick up rhythm, shameless and hungry, the movement hitting that perfect, aching spot.

haechan loathes how hot you look right now. on top of him, leaving a wet trail all over his leg, tits bouncing to the rhythm you’ve set. and he hates how his body is betraying him even more. absolutely despises the way all his blood is surging straight to his cock.

your nails dig into his shoulders, clutching him like an anchor as your rhythm stutters, speeding up then slowing down as pleasure starts to overtake logic.

“fuck,” you pant, lips brushing his, breath hot and ragged, “i’m gonna–”

“keep going,” he groans, voice whiny and hoarse, almost broken, “don’t stop, just—fuck—,” both of you lost in the heat and pleasure taking over.

his fingers dig into your hips with bruising intensity, like he’s holding on to the last thread of control. his eyes clamp shut, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his breath stutters, shallow, ragged, desperate. he’s completely still for half a second…then a full-body shiver runs through him.

you feel it. the tension. the collapse. the sudden hitch in his breath against your neck. the way he curses under it, low and broken, “shit.”

you freeze, then pull back just far enough to see his face. his eyes are blown wide, pupils drowning in dark, cheeks flushed with something that looks a lot like shame.

“did you just—” you whisper, half breathless, half cruel, hips slowing into a lazy roll meant only to taunt. you’re grinning now, wicked and disbelieving.

“shut up,” he mutters against your skin, but his voice is wrecked. gone. the edge of humiliation bleeding through.

your eyes drag over the heat in his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the way he refuses to meet your gaze and a laugh slips out, breathy, stunned, “oh my god. you did.”

he glares at you, face still flushed, every muscle taut like he’s deciding whether to deny it or destroy you for saying it. his pride was fraying, splintering – and then his hands fists in your hair, yanks your mouth back to his, eyes darker now, sharp with something feral as he regains his voice “i didn’t tell you, you could stop,” he growls, voice a low snarl against your lips.

then he takes over — in a blink, haechan’s hands clamp down on your hips, commanding your every grind, gripping like he’s trying not to completely lose it again. his mouth latches on that exposed skin above your breast, hot and unrelenting, teeth scraping, tongue following like he wants to mark you. wants you to hate yourself at the reminder of his lips on your skin.

his thigh flexes beneath you, on purpose this time, pushing up against you with just enough force to make you gasp, completely wiping away that smug he despises.

he hates you. god, he hates you. hates how every little thing you do sets off something in him, a chain reaction he can’t control. every movement, every breathy sound wrecking him in ways he’ll never admit.

“fuck, haechan,” you whine, shutting your eyes in pleasure, forehead pressed to his, “don’t stop.”

his breath catches, you’ve never said his name like that before, so raw, so needy, so desperate. it short-circuits something in him.

“wasn’t planning on it,” he mutters, voice low. he rolls your hips faster and faster, practically bouncing you on his thigh. the chair below you creaks but you barely hear it over your own wrecked breathing.

“you’re such a fucking slut, princess, hating me and getting off on my thigh like this,” he smirks, completely taking over the situation now. the words shouldn’t turn you on more. but they do. your body responds before your brain can catch up, lighting up like a match thrown onto gasoline. you can’t stop. you don’t stop. your fingers claw into his shoulders for balance as you grind down harder, breathy whines slipping in between your heavy breathing, entire body on fire, like every nerve has been rewired to respond to him and only him.

“go on princess,” he taunts, voice low, filthy, infuriating, “use me. i’ll let you,” he mocks like you should be grateful. like this is a gift. like he isn’t the one who came untouched in his shorts.

you hate it. you love it. you hate him.

“say it,” you pant, lips grazing his, breathless and daring.

his eyes are on fire, “say what?”

“that you hate me.”

his mouth curls into that cocky, devastating grin that you want to slap and kiss at the same time. “i hate you so fucking much,” he groans against your lips, swallowing the noise you make like he’s starving for it.

then his hand dives under your skirt, fingers rough and urgent, dragging your panties to the side. you don’t stop moving, continuing to ride his thigh, chasing that high. the press of skin against skin pushes you over the edge. you cry out, not caring if there was a chance mr. doyoung was listening in. the room’s spinning, heat rising like a fever. the tension in your stomach ready to explode.

“god,” you choke, voice cracking, “i’m gonna come on your fucking leg.”

his eyes darken, hands gripping tighter as he bites your earlobe with just enough force to run shivers down your spine, “do it,” he hisses, words like sin against your ear, “paint it.”

then his thumb finds your clit, circling harsh, precise circles. and it’s over. your whole body tenses, hips grinding down, breath catching, head tossed back, lips parted in a soft, stunned moan as pleasure rolls through you like a slow explosion. it seizes you from the inside out, heat blooming behind your eyes, your limbs trembling where you straddle him.

haechan swears under his breath, jaw tight, eyes darkening and locked on you like he’s watching something unholy and holy all at once. you slump against his chest, breathless, spent, your hands still clutching the collar of his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. he doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you there, heartbeat loud and frantic under your palm. his thigh still twitching from the aftermath.

eventually, you pull back enough to look at him. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is swollen. there’s a stunned, reverent look in his eyes that he tries, and fails, to cover with a smirk like he’s not sure what the hell just happened. and you’re sure you look the exact same way.

“well,” you breathe, blinking slowly, “that was…”

“method acting” he says, but his voice is hoarse, “completely professional, shakespeare would be proud.”

you let out a stunned laugh and shove his shoulder, “i still hate you.”

“and i, you” his mouth curves into that smug smile that you swore was glued onto his face.

“this isn’t happening again.” you say it sharp, sure.

“wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” he smirks, cocky and vexing.

ཐིཋྀ the third week of rehearsals

the rehearsal space feels different now. it shouldn’t. the floor is the same scuffed black, taped up with the same blocking marks you argued over last time. mr. doyoung is still barking notes from behind his clipboard, a coffee in one hand and a red pen in the other.

everything is the same. except you. except him.

the space between you used to be poison. now it’s something else. it crackles with something hotter, wilder, like dry air before a thunderstorm. charged and dangerous.

neither of you dares to speak of it. admit it.

you haven’t touched since that rehearsal, not so much as a brush of fingers. you haven’t spoken about what happened but your body hasn’t forgotten. neither has his. every glance feels like it could combust on contact. every time your eyes meet across the room, you feel the memory of his mouth. the way he kissed you mid-scream, like anger was just a mask for hunger. the way your hips rocked against his hard thigh. the way you both hated it, and how much worse it was that you enjoyed it, too.

you’re not proud of it. you try to ignore it. try to act normal. professional. just two enemies pretending to be in love. no big deal. you’re adults. adults can handle unresolved sexual tension and violent mutual resentment…right?

“y/n and haechan,” mr. doyoung’s voice cuts through the static in your head. your eyes snap up, heart thudding against your ribs. you grit your teeth.

the “and” makes your skin crawl. you hate how he says it. your name first. then his. like a pair. a duo. like you belong together.

“let’s run the balcony scene again,” mr. doyoung continues, “and this time, try not to fight.”

you let out a slow, measured breath and glance down at your crumpled script. the words blur for a second before snapping back into focus. you know them already. every line, every pause, every look juliet gives romeo – you practiced it all week.

what you don’t know is how to stand next to haechan without remembering what he sounds like with his breath ragged and your name tangled on his tongue. you almost want to start a fight, just to get out of doing this scene.

your pulse stutters before you even lift your head, because you can feel him. the weight of his stare from across the black box stage. for once, he doesn’t open with some smug quip or insult. he just gives a nod. subtle. almost respectful. almost.

you arch a brow, eyes narrowed, finally looking his way. he doesn’t smile. doesn’t smirk. just murmurs under his breath as he steps into place, “don’t look at me like that,” he says under his breath, “i’m trying not to hate you for five minutes.”

“gee, thanks,” you mutter, stepping into position.

you move to the edge of the mock balcony, script still clutched like a shield. but the words feel heavier now. the scene begins. your voice is steady because it has to. because this is theatre.

“o romeo, o romeo…”

you read the lines. and somehow, a true miracle, you don’t argue. not once. he doesn’t interrupt. you don’t roll your eyes. there are no snarky remarks or insults coming from you or him. the tension is still there but it’s different. sharper. controlled. like both of you have locked it in a cage between your ribs and are desperately pretending it isn’t rattling to get out.

when the scene ends, there’s a pause.

then mr. doyoung claps his hands together, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in shock, “holy hell, that was almost convincing! what the hell did you two do, blood sacrifice? therapy? drugs?”

your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

how do you tell your theater director that the only reason you and your sworn enemy can tolerate each other on stage is because you both got so angry you rode his thigh until you both came?

you can’t — neither of you answers. you just look at each other, both of your cheeks pink, heartbeat in your ears. you swallow hard as haechan clears his throat awkwardly before hopping off the platform.

but that strange, dangerous something hangs in the air. the same something you both refuse to acknowledge — you feel it every time he walks behind you and your back stiffens instinctively. you feel it when his shoulder brushes yours just a little too closely and you pretend not to notice. you look at his mouth a second too long when speaks. he looks at your legs when you pace the stage and quickly looks away.

neither of you says anything. you’re fine. it’s just a normal rehearsal. nothing happened. nothing is happening.

except it is.

and it becomes extremely evident when you’re packing up and someone from the ensemble cracks the wrong joke at the wrong time. you bend to shove your script into your bag and that’s when it happens.

“hey, princess,” someone snorts. you’ve hated that nickname since high school but hearing it from someone else makes your entire body go rigid, “you should really wear something under that skirt besides that black underwear, especially when you’re on that balcony.”

the entire room doesn’t go silent, no one else seems to be paying attention. but your blood roars too loud in your ears. slowly you turn, eyes narrowed at one of your castmates, sunwoo.

you were ready to fire back, eyes already in flames, mouth locked and loaded with a kill shot but before you can open your mouth, haechan’s already moving.

he steps in front of you like it’s instinct. shoulders squared. voice cool, but laced with venom, “say that again,” he says.

sunwoo blinks, caught off guard. haechan was always the first to rag on you, the first to poke until you snapped. he wasn’t supposed to be the one stepping in.

“relax, romeo,” the boy scoffs, “it was a joke–”

“no, go ahead,” haechan interrupts, his voice icy and his smile even colder, “say it louder. maybe you’ll get downgraded to the role of annoying extra who gets their teeth kicked in.”

the threat is quiet. clean. almost polite. but it lands like a fist. sunwoo stares for a second too long, then backs off with a bitter chuckle, “whatever you say, romeo,” he retreats towards the exit.

you’re left staring at haechan, confusion flickering all over your features, “what the hell was that?,” you demand.

he shrugs like it was nothing, like it was completely normal to threaten someone on your behalf, “no one gets to talk to you like that.”

your brows furrow, more confused than ever, “you talk to me like that.”

“exactly,” he says, looking you dead in the eyes, “that’s my job.”

there’s a pause. your heartbeat kicks up. you hate him. you want him. you hate that you want him. and he’s looking at you like he knows every thought you’re having—and is thinking the exact same thing.

you scoff and shove past him, muttering, “asshole.”

his voice follows behind you, low and maddening and far too close, “don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

you whip your head over your shoulder, cheeks burning, “excuse me?”

“you heard me.”

the dressing room hallway is dim and too quiet now, everyone else has already left. you stop just short of the bathroom door, hearing his footsteps closing the space behind like a slow hung. you don’t look at him. you can’t. not when your skin is already betraying you with how hot it feels.

you shove the door open. he’s right behind you.

it shuts behind you with a sharp click. neither of you speaks. not for a beat. not for two. then you both move at the same time. instinct, gravity, need. whatever the hell it is.

it’s not a kiss. not right away. it’s a clash of bodies, of mouths, of breaths and need and denial imploding all at once. your back slams into the wall, his hand protectively behind your head as yours curls around his neck. you’re both too close and not close enough. teeth graze lips. fingers tangled in fabric.

“you’re so fucking annoying,” you whisper, jaw clenched, forehead pressed to his.

“yeah?,” he breathes, voice rough. his grip tightens on your waist, grinding you against the hard line of him through his jeans, “well, you’re cute and it’s pissing me off.”

“tell me you hate me,” you snarl, like saying it might make this feel less like surrender.

“i do,” he growled, voice thick with fury and something worse, something hungrier. his fingers were already sliding beneath your skirt, knuckles brushing your thigh and your body can’t help but react, arching into his touch, “so much, i can’t think straight” he spits, right before he tore your panties clean in half with a sound that echoes in the tiny room.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?!,” you shoved at his chest, just enough to prove you could. just enough to pretend you didn’t want this. enough to pretend your pride was still intact. like the heat slicking between your legs didn’t mean a damn thing. he was so goddamn hot. so infuriatingly, sinfully hot.

“you’re such a fucking whore,” he snapped, eyes burning into yours, “you knew we were rehearsing the balcony scene and you only wore this underneath,” he holds up the torn fabric like evidence, his smirk pure sin, “you did this for me, didn’t you, princess? wanted my attention that badly, huh?” his voice dripped venom, but his pupils were blown wide, starved.

“you wish,” you shot back, lifting your chin, daring him.

he chuckles, low and lethal, before lifting the torn fabric to his nose and breathing you in like he needed to live.

“you’re sick in the head.”

“and you smell so fucking sweet,” he murmurs, voice dark with need. then, without hesitation, he tucks your panties in his pocket and sinks to his knees like he was praying at an altar, his mouth finding you fast and filthy.

“fuck-” your head tipped back as your fingers clawed for purchase on the edge of the sink next to you, the other tangled tight in his hair, anchoring yourself to the madness he dragged you into.

he groaned into you like he was starved, tongue moving with filthy precision, like he’d mapped you out in a dream and now he was just following directions. you tried to keep quiet, tried to bite your lip, swallow your noises, not wanting to give him any gratification, but when he sucked on your clit like he wanted to ruin you, a sob tore from your throat.

“couldn’t stop thinking about your moans,” he rasps between licks, voice wrecked.

“shut the fuck up,” your hips bucked against his mouth before you could stop yourself.

he laughs into your cunt, the vibration sending lightning up your spine as he licked into you harder, tongue fucking in and out of your entrance. you tug his hair so hard he groans again and you hated how much that sound made you clench.

this is insane. this is toxic. this is absolutely the best head of your life.

“i’m gonna, fuck, if you don’t stop, i’m gonna come,” your panting now, legs shaking. the only thing holding you upright is his grip on your hips.

“good,” he growled, dragging you down further onto his tongue, “fall apart for me, princess.”

the nickname sounded hotter, echoing in your mind, pushing you to your limit as your legs trembled, thighs clamping around his head and then you’re unraveling – moaning, shaking, coming hard on his tongue.

he moaned into your slick, like your orgasm was his reward. like he was addicted to it. your nails scraped down the porcelain sink, the high-pitched whimper that left your throat is so humiliating, so raw, it almost didn’t sound like you.

when you finally loosened your grip on his hair, he pulled back with a wet, obscene sound, mouth glistening.

“still hate me?” he asked, licking your taste off his lips.

you're trembling, panting, mind spinning and completely undone,“more than ever.”

“good,” he said, standing to his full height. his hand curled around your jaw, thumb pressing hard against your bottom lip until it parted, “then you won’t mind if i choke you with my cock.”

you didn’t answer, but your lips stayed open. and that was all the consent he needed. with one hand, he undid his belt, the clink of metal sharp in the silence.

“on your knees,” he ordered, voice dark, deadly. you roll your eyes before you can stop yourself and the defiance crawls under his skin like static. you were so fucking irritating so he grabbed a fistful of your hair and made you, forcing you down until you were kneeling in front of him on the grimy bathroom floor.

face mere inches away from his cock – thick and heavy in his hand, already leaking for you.

“you’re gonna pretend you don’t want this too?” he asked, stroking himself slowly, deliberately, right in front of your mouth.

you hated him. you hated how beautiful his cock was. you hated how your mouth watered.

“fuck you,” you whispered.

“you wish,” he sneered, “now open that pretty, lying mouth, princess,” he slapped his cock lightly against your lips. and you hated how fast you obeyed.

he slid in with a deep groan, slow at first, savoring the heat of your tongue, the way your lips closed tight around him like you were starved for it. his fingers twisted in your hair, guiding your pace, slow, then faster, then rougher, like he was punishing you for every fight you’d ever started.

“look at you,” he snarled, hips snapping forward, “on your knees sucking my cock like it’s all you’ve ever fucking wanted.”

you moaned around him, which only made him twitch harder. he started fucking into your throat with a filthy rhythm, panting, groaning, praising and cursing under his breath.

“take it. come on, princess,” he growled, pushing in impossibly deeper, it felt like you were swallowing him, “-that’s it, fuuuck, just like that.””

your eyes watered, mascara smeared, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth as you gagged and gasped around him. your hands clutched his thighs, not sure anymore if you were pushing him away or pulling him deeper. he looked down at you with a snarl twisted into something almost reverent.

“you’re a fucking dream,” he growled, “wrecked, ruined, all mine to destroy.”

you wanted to slap him. you wanted to make him come so hard he saw stars — so you sucked harder.

his grip tightened in your hair, knuckles white, cock throbbing against your tongue as your head bobbed faster and faster, taking him deeper each time. your jaw ached, throat burned, eyes ruined, spit smeared your chin but you couldn’t stop. not when he was unraveling like that above you. not when his control, his cocky, unbearable composure, was finally cracking.

“fuuuck, y/n,” he groaned, hips stuttering, “y-you’re so fucking good,” he praises, letting out a guttural noise, halfway between a growl and a whimper, and you realized with vicious satisfaction that he was close. desperate. needy. whining like his life depended on it.

you looked up, tongue swirling, and the second your teary, ruined eyes met his, he broke.

“shit, f-fuck,” he slammed deep one last time, cock pulsing against the back of your throat as he came, hard and hot, filling your mouth like he’d been holding it back for days. his whole body shuddered. he cursed again, holding you there, breath ragged, chest heaving like he’d just climbed out of hell.

you swallowed every drop without breaking eye contact. then slowly, so slowly, pulled off him with a slick pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like it was nothing. his eyes were still half-wild when he looked at you, dilated, glassy, like he wasn’t fully back in his body yet.

and yours? flat. cool. detached. or at least trying to be. trying to pick up the pride you let fall. trying to regain the control you easily handed over to him.

you stood, straightened your skirt, ignored the way your knees trembled a little and the way your legs threatened to give out. across from you, he tucked himself back into his pants in silence, hands shaking just slightly as he buckled his belt, your ruined panties peeking from his back pocket.

for a beat, the bathroom was silent, except for your shared breaths and the buzzing of fluorescent lights. then, like flipping a switch, you caught your reflection, instantly reminded of who you were, where you were, who you were with and what you just did. you hate him even more.

you patted your hair back into place, calmly pulling yourself back together and fixing your flushed lips and smeared mascara.

“no one finds out about this,” you said, tone flat, dismissive, like he hadn’t just unraveled inside your mouth.

“please,” he scoffed, lip curling, “i’d rather die than have people know i let your mouth anywhere near my cock.”

your gaze sharpened, but you didn’t flinch, “good,” you muttered, already moving toward the door, head high, ignoring how the air kissed your bare core with every step.

“wait,” his voice halts your movement, before you turn towards him, eyes already sharp, ready to cut.

“what now?,” you snap back. he didn’t answer at first, just shrugged off his jacket. takes three swift steps and he was in front of you, tying it low around your waist with the kind of ease that made your breath hitched.

“your ass bounces with every step, princess,” he said, lips brushing your ear.

you opened your mouth to respond but then he reached into his back pocket, pulled out your torn panties, and with a cocky smirk, stuffed them into his bag, “and this way, we’re even.”

for once, you had no words. you just pushed the door open and walked out. no thanks, no glances back, no trace of the filthy thing you’d just done. you moved through the hallway like your throat hadn’t just been fucked raw. like your pussy wasn’t still throbbing.

and a few seconds later, he followed, jaw tight, eyes dark, body calm, as if nothing had happened. as if he wasn’t still tasting you on the tip of his tongue. as if he wasn’t replaying the sound of your moans in his head.

as if the both of you hadn’t tasted your sworn enemy… and liked it.

ཐིཋྀ the fourth week of rehearsals

the script lay forgotten between you, crumpled in his sheets, its margins scribbled with notes and crossed-out lines. you’d barely made it halfway through act ii before the space on his mattress started feeling too tight. too hot.

you were supposed to be practicing. you were supposed to be fixing what you both ruined in week one. all the wasted rehearsals you spent glaring each other down, aiming snarky remarks instead of script lines.

instead, you were staring at the curve of his throat as he leaned back on his elbows, lips parted, legs spread just wide enough to make you clench. to make you remember how his leg felt between your thighs. and he was staring at you with that same dazed and cocky look. the one full of invitation, almost challenging you to do something about it. the one that says i know you want me too.

“focus,” you snapped, even though your voice sounded thin and you’re not sure whether the word is directed towards him or yourself, your hold tightened around the script like it could stop your traitorous hand from reaching out and doing something that’ll completely crush your ego.

“i am focused,” he murmured, dragging his gaze down over your bare legs, over your thighs, and resting, boldly, in the space between them. you could feel it, the phantom heat of his stare on your skin.

you snapped your fingers, “eyes up here, romeo,” you crossed your arms, “we promised mr. doyoung we’d take this seriously.”

haechan raised a brow, amused, “we’ve been taking it seriously for two weeks, look at us, i literally let you in my room just to rehearse.”

you narrow your eyes at him, “you say that like being in here is a reward.”

he smirks, “c’mon princess, let’s not lie, a million girls would kill to be in your spot right now,” a cocky grin on his face. you wanted to wipe it off. slap it away. kiss it away. you’re not too sure at this point.

“what? sitting on these bed sheets that you haven’t changed in weeks? the smell of axe body spray attacking their nostrils?,” you roll your eyes.

“i change those every week and i don’t even use axe, you must be smelling yourself,” he rolls his eyes.

“please, if i reeked of desperation and cheap cologne, i’d be you,” you shoot back, chin lifted, proud of the way his smirk faltered for half a second. you’ll never admit the way you secretly enjoy the smell of his cologne, the way it intoxicates you like a potion pulling you under a spell.

he sits up a little straighter, elbows propped on his knees now, eyes glinting with an infuriating mix of challenge and amusement. “desperation?,” he echoes, voice low, “princess, if anyone here’s desperate, it’s you. you’ve been eye-fucking me since you got here.”

your breath catches, partly from the audacity, partly because he’s not entirely wrong. but you recover fast, “please,” you scoff, “you’re the one looking at me like i’m your last meal.”

haechan laughs, head tilted back. he taps his fingers against his knee, a thoughtful little rhythm that drives you insane before leaning in again, “okay, fine. you wanna be serious? let’s be serious.”

you raise a brow, “that’d be a first for you.”

“let’s fuck.”

your brain blanks. for a second, it doesn’t even register, “what?!”

“lets just do it. get it out of our systems,” he says casually, like what he suggested wasn’t completely, absolutely, batshit crazy. “all this tension? it’s messing with rehearsals. so let’s just…,” he gestures vaguely between you, “rip the bandaid off. hate-fuck it out.”

you blink, trying to process his words. this had to be a joke. a dare. a trap, “you’re suggesting we sleep together for the sake of the theater department.”

“i’m suggesting we do everyone a favor and stop letting whatever this is,” he gestures again, less vaguely this time, at the very obvious, very mutual heat between you, “sabotage our performances. one time. no repeats. no weirdness.”

“oh there’ll be weirdness,” you mutter, folding your arms, your heart pounding in your throat.

“not if we’re adults about it,” he grins. that infuriating, boyish, charming grin, “can you be an adult, princess?”

you laugh, incredulous, “you? be an adult?, you still giggle when someone says ‘enter from the rear’ in stage directions.”

“okay, first of all, i see you laughing too,” he points a finger at you, that same stupid smirk still glued to his face, “second of all, im serious. we fuck and then we go back to being bitter enemies who can’t stand the sight of each other. clean slate.”

you stare at him, heart thudding, thoughts spiraling. it’s a terrible idea. the worst idea he’s ever had. but what’s even worse is the fact that you’re actually considering it.

“and what if you realize im the best fuck you’ve ever had and start following me around like a lovesick puppy?,” you quip a brow, a teasing smile on your face.

he barks out a laugh, cocky and careless, “never gonna happen, princess,” he says, leaning in so close you can feel the heat of his body radiating, “you’re not that good.”

you raise a brow, “that’s rich coming from someone who came untouched.” his expression darkens instantly, smirk faltering, the memory clearly still a bruise to his pride. you take this time to garner control and with no warning, you lunged — kissing him hard, desperate, sharp, messy. your teeth caught on his lip. you kiss him like he’s your last cigarette, like he’s something you have to burn through just to breathe.

he responds immediately, groaning into your mouth, hands flying to your waist, pulling you onto his lap, like he needed to leave fingerprints there.

you straddle him, fumbling with his shirt, dragging it up and over his head and shoving him backward until his back hits the bed with a grunt, “still think this is a good idea?,” you breathe, throwing your shirt over your head, leaving you in a lacy brown bra that makes his cock twitch in his shorts.

he props himself on his elbows, gaze dark and fixed on you as you strip, “no,” he says, eyes raking over your body like a challenge, “i think it’s the best idea i’ve ever had.”

your signature skirt rides up as you grind down against his hard bulge, enough to make him hiss.

“i still hate you,” you murmur, needing to remind yourself every single time.

“good,” he growls, thumbs digging into your waist, “say it again when i’m inside you.”

his voice grates in your ear. so smug. so loud. you slap him before you can think. not too hard, just enough to make his jaw twitch. he stares at you, stunned for half a second and then he smirks again, “god, you’re such a fucking brat.”

you slap him again, slower this time, deliberately, and he groans like everything about this turns him on. “you like that?,” you whisper, grinding harder now, testing him. he doesn’t answer, he refuses to give you any words of satisfaction.

instead his hand slide up your back, unhooking your bra with a practiced flick, the cool air hitting your hardened nipples before his large hands cupped around them, squeezing, mouth immediately latching on one nipple. he’s been wanting to see your tits since you were locked in that tiny room. and now that he has, he sucked like he was in complete bliss, eyes shut, wet and eager, tongue messily painting your breasts. you gasp, hands coming up to grip his hair, pulling him closer as your hips continue its slow grind against his hard, clothed cock.

“fuck,” you moan, every nerve lighting up. you’re soaking through your panties, whole body vibrating. you bounce harder, using him to reach your high as he continues worshipping your breasts with his lips, trails of his saliva littering your chest. his large hands make their way to your ass, cupping and squeezing but not controlling. not yet.

he lets you hump him harder and harder, trying to control the breathy whimpers slipping from him as he busies himself in between your breasts. your breathing was getting heavier, legs starting to give out, the friction was hitting your clit so perfectly and before you knew it, your orgasm washes over you, unexpected and all-consuming.

“look at you,” he murmurs, that damn smirk back again, breath hot against your ear, “already fucked out and we haven’t even started.” before you could reply, before you could argue, he flips you in a blur, pinning you to the mattress. his eyes are dark now, dangerous.

he yanks your skirt and underwear off in one go, leaving you completely bare for him. you looked so small in between his sheets and it drives him madly insane, “i’m only gonna say this once,” he says, eyes raking over your naked body, voice rough, “but fuck, you’re hot,” he compliments, almost.

you sit up, yanking his shorts down, large cock bouncing free from the last barrier between you, “you’re okay to look at,” you smirk. he rolls his eyes and slaps your hands away before you could reach out for him as he fumbles in his nightstand drawer, pulling out a condom, tearing the foil open with his teeth and rolling it on with ease.

he lines himself in your entrance, teasing his tip, that same devilish smirk plastered on his lips.

“admit you want me,” he grunts, hovering over you, a hand placed calculatedly on your neck, enough to choke you but not enough to completely block off your airways.

“no,” you hiss. he pushes in hard. no warning. no mercy. your back arches with a gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, mouth open in a soundless moan, his hand wrapping tighter around your neck, making your eyes roll back. he’s so so thick, you can feel him all around your walls, stretching you open inch by inch. he feels so good. too good.

“hate you,” you manage to whisper in between your breathy moans, even as your legs wrap around his waist.

“yeah?,” he pants, thrusting into you hard enough to make the headboard knock the wall, “say it louder,” he orders, finally releasing the hold he had on your neck and redirecting it to your breast, large hand squeezing tightly around the supple flesh.

“i hate you,” you moan and then you’re kissing him again, biting his bottom lip, swallowing the grunts he gives you. he sets a brutal pace, every thrust punctuated by the sound of skin on skin, by the filthy words he mutters against your neck. you push him in closer, wanting more, needing more.

“you’re so fucking needy,” he pants, voice tight, desperate.

“shut up,” you growl.

“make me,” he snaps back. so you slap him again and his face twitches, a deep, devilish chuckle slipping past his lips before he pulls out, flipping you over like you weighed nothing and pulling you up on your hands and knees before thrusting into you from behind, your face buried in his pillow.

he fucks you harder. the new angle hitting that spot over and over again you swore you could feel him in your stomach.

it was chaos. it was violence in the shape of pleasure.

“fuck,” you cry, “you’re so deep, so-,” his hand lands a slap on your ass, sharp and hot, the noise echoing throughout the room, making you bite down into the sheets.

“how do you like it?,” he grunts, landing another slap, hot and red, leaving tingles all over your skin. you were sure there were bruises in the shape of his fingertips forming all over you. you’re a mess of moans and incoherent words, each thrust wrecking your thoughts, your dignity, your hate.

you should be fighting him but all you can do is beg for more, “please, please, please, haechan, d-don’t stop,” and your cries do nothing but fuel him. the room continues to echo with the slap of skin and filthy words with your name in his voice and his cock in your pussy like he was trying to break you. you lose track of how many times you say i hate you. how many times he says it back. it becomes a chant. a rhythm. a promise.

you ride that line between loathing and lust until your vision whites out, orgasm hitting you like a punch in the gut, “haechan, fuck, i’m coming!,” you scream and he grabs your hair, pulling you back against him.

“go ahead princess,” he growls, “come all over my cock.” you shatter, gasping for air, jaw hanging open, shaking, as your eyes rolled back in complete pleasure, body going limp in his arms.

haechan doesn’t stop, hellbent on proving that he could last longer than you think. he shoves a pillow under you, continuing his relentless thrusts.

“fuuuck, how are you getting tighter?,” he grits out, “your pussy fucking loves me,” he groans, each hard thrust bringing him closer to that high.

you could cry from the overstimulation, “h-haechan–t-too much,” you stutter, gripping his thigh, tears forming in the corner of your eyes.

“you can take it, princess,” he says, voice low and dark. “i know you can. be a good girl and take it,” he grunts, still pushing into you with a force that rolls the tears down your cheeks.

eventually, the pain turns into pleasure again. blurring the line until you’re moving with him, lost in the pace, the heat, the hate. he chases his own high until his rhythm started shattering into jerky, desperate thrusts, “c’mon, princess, give me one more,” he grunts and all your body could do was follow his voice, immediately tightening around him and sending you to your third orgasm of the night.

he finally gives in with a low, wrecked groan of your name, burying his face in your neck as he shudders through it, hips slowing, grounding down into you until there’s nothing left but heat and sweat and the tremble in his arms as he holds himself over you.

when he pulls out, there’s a slick, lewd sound that makes your already flushed skin go warmer, the pillow beneath you, soaking. then he collapses beside you with a sigh, one arm slung over his eyes like the weight of everything that just happened is finally catching up to him.

silence swells between you. sticky and loud and way too fucking real.

your chest is still rising and falling fast, heartbeat trying to find its regular rhythm as you try to fight off the sleep that was wanting to overtake. you were so tired, so fucked out you almost gave in but your hate was still stronger and somehow your voice cuts through the thick silence, “we’re definitely not doing that again.”

he pauses, “...right.”

you roll onto your side, head propped on your hand, glaring at him like you can set him on fire with just your eyes, “that wasn’t hesitation.” you don’t ask him. you tell him.

he peeks at you from under his arm and shrugs, unbothered, “it was dramatic timing. theater major, remember?”

you groan, flopping back on the bed, rubbing your hands over your face, “god, i really fucking hate you.”

he grins, teeth sharp and full of bite, “yeah, well your pussy doesnt.” you grab the nearest thing, his shirt, and toss it straight to his face and he lets it sit there for a moment before peeling it off with an exaggerated sigh.

“asshole,” you mutter, already reaching for your clothes. ignoring the way your body was burning, a reminder of his touch, as you start dressing like you’re gearing up for a fight, like each item is a piece of armor you’re slapping on.

he watches you dress, that grin never really leaving his face but his eyes are softer than they should be. quieter. and he doesn’t say a word as you reassemble yourself.

within minutes, you’re both back in your roles, fully clothed and composed. like the last hour never happened. like he hadn’t just made you scream his name. like you hadn’t clawed his thighs so hard there’ll probably be marks tomorrow. like he hadn’t left bruises in the shape of his lips all over your skin. like the tear stains you were sporting wasn’t evident.

you pick up your script off the edge of the bed. it’s bent now, pages wrinkled. a souvenir from the chaos you two just unleashed. neither of you acknowledge it.

“start from your cue,” you say flatly.

he leans back against the headboard, flipping lazily through the script like nothing about this is new, like his cock wasn’t just inside you, “with love’s light wings did i o’erperch these walls…”

you roll your eyes, glaring “try saying it like you don’t want to fuck me.”

“i dont want to fuck you,” he deadpans, then glances at you with a smirk, “again.”

you shoot him a look so cold it could kill. he delivers it properly this time, and you move through the scene with professional precision except for the way your voices crack at the edges, how the eye contact lingers a beat too long.

the air between you is no less charged. if anything, it’s worse now. every line feels like a double entendre. every accidental brush of fingers feels like it might ignite something again.

you finish the scene without a word about what happened. no apologies. no acknowledgments. no we shouldn’t have done that.

then you shove the script into your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and walk to the door. “you’re leaving without a goodbye?” he calls out, that cocky lilt back in his voice.

you pause. not enough to turn. just enough to make him think you might. then you say, “we’re not friends, haechan. we don’t joke around. we rehearse. that’s it.”

and you leave. down the hall, around the corner, out the front door, your pulse still racing, his scent still clinging to your skin like it’s branding you. your body aching with the memory of his mouth, his hands, his body.

back in his room, haechan stares at the closed door. the tension in the air still hasn’t left. he sighs, eyes trailing back to the script. he lets it drop from his hand, the pages flopping limply to the floor. then he throws himself back against the mattress like he’s trying to forget the way you felt. the way you sounded.

his body still buzzes. his mind’s a goddamn storm. he drags a hand through his hair and covers his eyes with his arm again, “what the fuck did I just do?”

he’d told himself this was about getting you out of his system. that one fuck would fix it. but now? now you’re under his skin in a way he doesn’t know how to undo. every nerve remembers you. every inch of him aches for you. and every second since you walked out that door feels empty.

he groans to the ceiling, voice thick with frustration and something he won’t name. “well,” he mutters, sarcasm soaked in something bitter, “that worked great.”

ཐིཋྀ the fifth week of rehearsals

it’s been a week since the night that didn’t mean anything. you’d both agreed. no repeats. one time. clean slate. but the slate wasn’t clean. it was cracked and humming with everything you weren’t supposed to feel.

you’re on stage now, under the harsh fluorescents of the theater department’s rehearsal room, with your script in one hand and your heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

the scene is simple. romeo flirts. juliet flirts back. they kiss. easy. you’ve done kissing scenes a thousand times in other productions. but now? now your body remembers the exact weight of him. how he sounds when he groans. how he says your name like a sin he’s proud of committing.

mr. doyoung looks up, “let’s take it from romeo’s line, build the moment, don’t rush it.”

haechan nods, exhales, and steps into character, “have not saint lips, and holy palmers too?” his eyes are on you and it's not romeo’s gaze. it’s haechan’s. intense. knowing. annoyingly smug. feeding his line like nothing happened between you.

he leans in, perfectly in character as you follow through, finding juliet’s voice with ease, “ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”

“o, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; they pray, gran thou, lest faith turn to despair,” he continues, both of you smoothly moving through the stage, dancing around each other’s bodies.

“saints do not move, though grant for prayer’s sake,” you deliver the line perfectly, professionally.

“then move not, while my prayer’s effect i take,” he murmurs, inching the space closer and closer, twirling you around in his arms, and finally kissing you like his life depended on it . like he couldn’t wait a single second for this moment. completely capturing romeo’s yearning spirit.

and it’s evident as day that your body remembers everything from that night.

the kiss goes on a beat too long and for a second you almost forget you were in the middle of a scene until he’s in character again, “thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”

“then have my lips the sin they have took,” you respond immediately. his eyes flicker to yours and you see it. he remembers too. every second of it.

“sin from my lips? o trespass sweetly urged!,” he continues, leaning in once again, following the script perfectly, “give me my sin again,” he says, placing a sweet kiss on your lips. all too different from the kisses you’ve shared before.

“you kiss by th’ book,” you end the scene as his lips travel down your neck, igniting that heat in your stomach. mr. doyoung was taking his sweet time yelling out cut. you can feel haechan’s smirk against your neck and it’s taking everything in you to not end the scene yourself.

mr. doyoung rises from his chair, clapping slowly, and finally yelling out the one word you needed to breathe. you both jump back immediately like touching each other burned.

“there it is,” he says, “my romeo and juliet,” he dramatically wipes a fake tear from his eyes, “absolutely beautiful. from the top!,” he says excitedly and all you could do was follow his directions. pretending every single touch isn’t affecting you way more than you would ever admit.

you’re not losing this battle. not letting him know that the one time one fuck proposal didn’t work. and haechan, sure as hell, isn't backing down either.

♕

THE BIGGEST, MOST ANTICIPATED PARTY OF THE YEAR: HALLOWEEN NIGHT @ THE DREAM FRATERNITY

haechan scans the room, it was their busiest party of the year. the most chaotic, most fun, most prepared party he and the boys ever have to plan. and now the dream house is packed with costumes, glitter, smoke, chaos. he’s dressed as some version of a vampire, sexy but not too much, his funny, charming side taking over.

he spots mark and kitten across the room, near the couch, in their spiderman and black cat costumes, trying, and failing, to do the spiderman kiss. there was jaemin and angel groping each other on the dance floor wearing matching hermione and ron costumes and in the corner in the back near the kitchen was jeno and bunny caught in a heated makeout session with their ash and pikachu costumes on. and yes, jeno is pikachu.

and then you walked in. he knew you would be here. it was the only dream party you attended because everyone attends it. it was either this or spending the night alone, watching scary movies by yourself.

you were dressed in a lacy red devil’s costume leaving no room for imagination. he shouldn’t even be looking at you. but he is. and his eyes zero in on the faint marks that were blooming on the exposed skin of your breasts. you didn’t even care that people saw them. but he knew you would have if people knew that those marks came from his lips.

he feels his pants tighten in his jeans. he really needed to get a good fuck. maybe it’ll stop you from plaguing his mind.

“can’t believe i’m part of the singles fuck boy club,” renjun says, snapping him out of the trance you trapped him in.

haechan smirks, “take it as a win,” he takes a sip from his drink, “more ladies for us,” he winks, just as jisung and chenle walked up to them.

“so, who do you have your eyes on tonight?,” chenle asks, a smirk on his lips.

haechan chuckles, looking around, his eyes glossing over your figure for a second before they land on the girl he’s been trying to get with since the first party of this year, “ryujin,” he smirks. ryujin – dance major, one of the university’s best.

“how about you, my little protege?,” haechan asks, turning his attention to jisung, the rest of the boys awaiting his answer.

jisung smirks, already knowing the answer, “wonyoung.”

renjun’s jaw drops, “jisung, she might be a freshman but she’s completely out of your league.”

jisung just chuckles, haechan chuckling with him, “hey, don’t doubt my boy,” he says before patting jisung in the back, “just remember everything mark and i taught you,” he winks before jisung took a shot and disappeared into the crowd.

“his head is getting bigger, you know,” renjun rolls his eyes.

“that’s fine, let him have his fun,” chenle says, “now let’s go find you a girl so you’re not so grumpy all the time,” he drags renjun out of there, leaving haechan to fend for himself, a smirk still playing on his lips. and he can’t help it. his eyes dart back to your figure.

across the room, he sees you laughing, too close, too bright, with some guy he doesn’t recognize. the guy’s in some lazy pirate costume, leaning in like he knows you. like he’s already been invited in and something in his stomach turns. something about you looking that comfortable makes him want to throw the nearest pumpkin straight at his head.

he remembers a time when he was privileged enough to hear your laugh. to make you laugh. to laugh together until your ribs were sore.

he absolutely hates it — the way that memory has been popping up in his head like a haunted time loop. he thought he got rid of it, buried it somewhere deep, he wouldn’t have been able to find it. but just a couple weeks with you and all his work for the last five years go down the drain.

he forces himself to look away, making his way over to ryujin, dressed up as bella from twilight. oh, this was going to be too easy.

“hey pretty, you looking for me?,” he interrupts the conversation she was having with another guy, smoothly and all so charming, the way he usually is.

ryujin lets out a giggle, “hmm, i could’ve sworn i was talking to another vampire,” she says, voice sultry and deep with desire.

“none of those vampires can compare to me,” he winks playfully, cocky as ever. and that was all it took before ryujin was pulling him down for a kiss.

he lets his mouth move against hers, hot and fast, but completely hollow. she tastes like candy, vodka and sticky lip gloss, her hands gripping at his arms like she owns him. his mouth is probably smeared with red now, and she moans like it means something.

but to him, it means absolutely nothing.

there’s no fire. no heat. no pulse-racing thrill behind it. no push and pull. no sharp banter humming beneath the surface. he was making out with a girl he’s been trying to get with since the first party of this year and all he could think about was how different it was from kissing you.

god, you were so fucking irritating.

he opens his eyes in the middle of the kiss, and to his unfortunate luck, he makes direct eye contact with you. across the room, half hidden in shadows and flashing lights, your gaze is locked on him but there’s no challenge there. no eye-roll. no smirk. nothing that makes you, you. just eerie blankness, almost like you were looking through him.

something’s wrong.

he pulls back abruptly, ryujin still chasing his lips with a frustrated sound. “give me a second,” he mutters before completely leaving her standing there on her own. an angry scoff follows him as he pushes through the crowd, all of his attention zeroed in on you.

he walks across the room, watching your every move. you’re swaying a little. not like you’re dancing. like your balance is off, disconnected from gravity, from control. the look in your eyes is unresponsive and you’re blinking so incredibly slow. and the pirate is still right next to you, standing way too close.

his hand lands on your waist. then he presses a kiss on the side of your neck and haechan moves through the crowd like a storm, pushing everyone out of his way.

he grips the guy’s shirt and yanks him back, stepping between you and him like a wall of fire. he grabs your wrist, grounding you, voice low but unshakeable, “we’re leaving.”

you blink up at him like you’re seeing the sun for the first time, “donghyuck?,” you smile softly, too sweetly, and it takes everything in him to not kill the guy who did this to you.

“did you drink something?,” he asks, firm but gentle. you nod slowly, lips parted like you’re stuck in a delayed reaction. he brings the cup to his nose – fruity, sticky-sweet but there’s something else. something chemical. and then he sees it, the powdery film at the bottom, confirming his prediction.

his stomach drops. rage coils in his gut. he grabs the drink, tossing the liquid in the nearest plant and fists a hand in the guy’s shirt before shoving him backward, “touch her again and i’ll break your fucking face,” he seethes. the guy stumbles back, arms raised like he’s innocent.

mark notices the commotion before anyone else does, quickly stepping in, kitten by his side with wide, concerned eyes, “dude, what’s happening?,” he speaks low and in control.

“he drugged her,” he growls into his ear. mark’s eyes widen, sharp and alert “i’ll handle him. you take care of her,” he says.

haechan’s attention was back on you in an instant. your balance is off, feet shifting clumsily, eyes blinking slow and unfocused, pupils dilated.

he crouches slightly so he’s at eye level, “hey, come with me, okay?,” he says softly. you lift your head to look at him, your lips parting into a dreamy, dazed smile. you manage to nod once before your body gives out, knees buckling, weight tipping forward. haechan catches you before you can even fall. you land into him like you were meant to be there, cheeks pressed to his chest, body in his arms.

you giggle softly, the sound barely audible over the music. it’s airy. almost innocent. it breaks his heart in two.

“warm,” you mumble into his shirt. “you’re so warm, hyuck.”

his heart squeezes painfully, trying to push away that all too familiar feeling of his nickname on your tongue. the nickname you gave him. the way it sounds so soft as if somewhere in the haze and fog in your brain, some part of you knows you’re safe with him.

without a word, he lifts you into his arms bridal style. your arms immediately wrap around his neck, hands clinging like he’s your lifeline.

“up we go,” he says softly, carrying you through the house, ignoring every curious stare, every muttered comment.

you nuzzle closer, relaxing into his body like it’s familiar, lips brushing his jaw, and he nearly stumbles, “you smell so good…why do you smell so good…?”

he hides his smirk. you told him he smelled like axe just a week ago. “because i shower, dumbass,” he mutters. the insult wasn’t needed but hey, he can’t help it.

in his room, he kicks the door shut with his foot, setting you gently on the bed.

but you don’t let go.

your hands are still on him, clutching his shoulders, his shirt, anything. you whine when he tries to pull back, “nooo, hyuck, don’t go,” you pout like a child.

your breath fans against his neck, lips brushing so close to his skin that he shivers, “need you…” you whisper, almost too faint to catch. it guts him. he carefully pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek and your eyes flutter open, slow and unfocused, but locked on him.

and then you lean in. soft. uncertain. your lips part slightly, tilting toward his like muscle memory.

and his heart lurches. he wants it, god, does he want it. but not like this. not when you’re not fully you. not when you won’t remember. not when it would feel like taking. so he stops you.

he leans back, gently pressing his fingers to your lips, “hey,” he says quietly, “not right now.”

you blink, confused. hurt flickers across your face, “but i want—”

“i know,” he whispers, brushing your hair out of your face with heartbreaking tenderness. “but you’re not… you’re not okay right now. you’re not thinking clearly and you’re gonna hate me even more if i let you do this.”

you stare at him for a long moment, your expression folding into something soft, something fractured. your voice comes out barely audible, “you always ruin everything.”

he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, crouching down to your eye level again, “yeah,” he murmurs, “i’m really good at that.”

you’re trembling now, whether from the drug or emotion he can’t tell. he reaches for the edge of his hoodie draped over his desk chair. then he coaxes you out of your costume.

you let him take care of you.

he slips the oversized hoodie over your head in an instant. it swallows you whole, falling to mid-thigh, sleeves engulfing your hands, covering more than your costume ever did. then he grabs a pair of his clean sweatpants and helps you step into them, rolling the waistband until they don’t fall off.

“there,” he murmurs, tugging the hood up over your head, “much better,” and seeing you in his clothes makes his heart skip a beat.

you blink up at him, dazed and warm, “smells like you.”

he chuckles softly, “well, that’s cause it’s mine, princess” he says, the nickname landing so gently he’s almost glad you won't remember this. he guides you back on the bed, his hands warm and careful on your shoulders, like he’s afraid you’ll break. you lay down like a sleepy cat, limbs loose, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

he crouches in front of you, steady and patient, watching you with an unreadable expression. the room is dim, hushed, wrapped in the kind of silence that comes right after chaos.

then you say it. quiet. barely there. like a secret.

“i didn’t want to hate you.”

his breath catches. he wanted to ask so why do you?

he’s never figured out. why things between you turned so bitter. why you suddenly started twisting a knife behind his back. and why he grabbed that knife and pointed it at you. but he know it’s wrong to get information out of you in this state. not when your eyes are glassy, your words a half-conscious confession spilling out like a secret you didn’t mean to say. you’re too far gone to argue. too soft to lie.

you’re still looking at him, but your eyelids are heavier now. the words just fall from your lips, unguarded. honest in a way you never let yourself be sober, “you made it so easy sometimes though” you murmur, the corners of your mouth tilting in something that’s not quite a smile, not quite pain, “being loud. being cocky. saying shit you didn’t mean just to piss me off…”

his heart is thudding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. there’s so much he wants to say. apologies, defenses, explanations. but before he can say anything, your body shifts, sinks into the pillow, limbs going limp as your breath evens out and your eyes flutter shut.

you’re asleep. just like that.

haechan stays kneeling beside the bed, frozen in place. his gaze traces the soft furrow of your brow, the way your lips part slightly as you breathe. he wonders if you’ll remember any of this tomorrow. if you’ll pretend it never happened. if you’ll regret letting your walls down for even a second.

“i didn’t want to hate you either,” he whispers, voice barely audible over your breathing.

there’s a pause. a longer silence.

“i don’t even know why i hate you,” he admits, softer still. but you’re already gone.

and yet, he stays beside you a little longer, resting his head on the edge of the mattress, eyes never leaving yours, like if he just watches long enough, maybe he’ll figure out where it all went wrong.

♕

the morning light filters through the curtains. everything is quiet. too quiet.

you stir slowly, the ache in your head blooming behind your eyes like a storm cloud. your limbs are heavy, your mouth dry and your body is wrapped around a warmth that doesn’t belong to your bed.

it takes a second for the fog in your mind to lift, but when it does, your heart skips.

you’re not in your room. you’re in his. and he’s right there – lying beside you, one arm flung over his eyes, hair tousled, chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths of someone who stayed up way too late.

you freeze. every part of you tenses as your gaze darts down to your body — hoodie and sweatpants, both way too big, wrapped around you. you exhale in quiet, stunned relief, but your heart is still pounding, “what the hell?” you whisper, rubbing your temples.

at the sound of your voice, he stirs, groaning, blinking against the light like it personally offended him then his eyes land on you.

“you’re up,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep. he stretches lazily like he doesn’t feel the full weight of your stare on him. “you okay?”

you blink, “why am i here?”

“you were drugged,” he says plainly. no softening. no sugar-coating. “some guy slipped something in your drink.”

the room tilts. you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to recollect memories from last night. the fear of what could’ve happened gnaws at your insides.

“i got you out before anything happened,” he adds quietly, “you were… not yourself. clingy. slurring. said i smelled nice, for some reason,” there’s a light, teasing tone in his voice.

you shoot him a glare, despite the pounding in your head, “you do not smell nice.”

he grins faintly, because of course, even now, all you could do was insult him, and it was all he needed to know that you were safe and back to normal, “okay, sure.”

silence stretches between you as you sit up slowly, piecing together flickers of last night. the music, the lights, that sickly sweet drink. the guy in the pirate costume. then — the warmth. the voice you’d know even half-conscious. you glance down at the hoodie you’re drowning in. his scent is faint but still there.

“you changed me?,” you ask, eyes wide.

he nods, propping himself up on one elbow, “you were half-passed out. you needed to sleep it off. i didn’t look, i swear. i just helped.”

you believe him. strangely, you do, “thank you.”

he raises an eyebrow like he wasn’t expecting that.

“you’re welcome,” he says, softer now, “just… be more careful next time, okay?”

you look away, the words settling heavy between you, “i didn’t think…”

“exactly,” he cuts in, voice gentle but tired, “you didn’t. that’s how shit like that happens.” his tone isn’t cruel. he’s not scolding you. he’s just…tired. and worried. and probably more scared last night than he’d ever admit.

you nod once. that’s all you can manage. you don’t want to admit how safe you felt. how it was his arms you clung to. how your body trusted him even when your brain was compromised.

but none of that changes anything.

you clear your throat, “well, thanks. but… that doesn’t mean anything is different between us.”

the faintest flicker crosses his face, unreadable, before it’s gone.

“didn’t say it did,” he says simply. then, “you hungry?”

you blink, “what?”

“i make a decent hangover ramen,” he says, already swinging his legs out of bed, “and i’ll even throw in some kimchi, if you promise not to puke on my carpet.”

you roll your eyes, “you’re such a dumbass.”

he shoots you a crooked smile. “yeah, but not as dumb as you, princess.”

you don’t respond. you just sit there in his bed, swimming in his clothes and your own confusion, watching him move through his room like this was the most normal morning in the world. you slip your shoes back on without a word, still wearing his hoodie and sweats. your costume’s somewhere in a pile on his desk chair, but there’s no way in hell you’re putting that back on. not after last night.

you follow haechan into the kitchen, as he hums some stupid melody, reaching for the pan and boiling the water. you stand awkwardly in the doorway, arms crossed over your chest like it’ll hide how massive his hoodie is on you.

he glances up, “you gonna sit down?”

you shake your head, “i just…i should go.”

he doesn’t fight you on it. just nods, quietly preparing the packs of instant noodles.

you turn to leave but stop short. three of the dream boys are coming down the stairs. they freeze in the hallway when they see you. so do you. the room goes dead silent and you look like a deer caught in headlights. his hoodie feels ten times heavier now, your legs bare in his sweatpants, and your hair a mess from sleep. you look like everything they think happened.

renjun raises a brow, “morning…”

jisung coughs loudly, trying to hide his grin.

chenle looks at haechan, who appears behind you a second later, “really?” he mouths, and haechan shoots him a deadly glare, the kind that says shut up without a single word.

but it’s too late. they all recognize you. of course they do. you’re not just any girl. you’re the girl — the one who’s made haechan stomp through the front door ranting and raving more times than any of them can count. the one whose name used to spark an automatic groan from someone in the room. the one who once made haechan so mad he slammed a door clean off its hinge, then spent two hours denying it had anything to do with you – you’re a household legend. a walking migraine. the ongoing war he never seemed to win but kept returning to like clockwork.

so to see you, standing in their house, in his clothes, the morning after the biggest party of the year is definitely strange. you look like you spent the night tangled up in something intimate. something that doesn’t match the version of events they’ve heard a hundred times over.

the air goes stiff with curiosity and thinly veiled amusement. you straighten your back, refusing to flinch, “nothing happened.”

“sure,” jisung says, not even trying to hide the smirk.

“seriously,” you snap, “i got drugged and he just…helped me.”

renjun tilts his head, worry flashing over all of their features “you good?”

you pause, then nod, “yeah. i’m good.”

haechan steps beside you, voice casual but firm. “she’s telling the truth.”

his words shock you. you were half expecting him to stay quiet.

then you feel the shift in the room like a breeze that slips through a cracked window. they move on, the scent of the ramen calling out to them like moths drawn to the light. you continue your path toward the front door, haechan follows, footsteps soft behind you like a shadow that doesn’t want to overstep.

you reach for the door then pause, glancing over your shoulder, “thanks,” you say again, quieter this time, it slips out like a confession.

his eyes meet yours, steady and unreadable “anytime.”

and somehow, you know he means it. not in the casual way people toss that word around — you see it in the way his posture doesn’t shift, in the way he doesn’t look away, in the quiet steel under his tone. you knew that if it happened again, god forbid, it would be him again. coming to your rescue. without hesitation. without conditions.

something in your chest cracks. not from last night, not from the near-miss or the weight of fear. but from a memory. a time in the past, years ago, that you shoved deep into the vault of things too painful to touch.

♕

as soon as the front door clicks shut behind you, silence settles over the house for a beat. then it erupts.

jisung is the first to crack, “bro,” he looks up at haechan, gaping, as they all sat in the kitchen, “what happened to i hate her so much i’d rather die than be caught with her?’”

renjun chokes on his coffee, suppressing his amusement, “no, no, i think it was more like, if i ever even breathe the same air as her willingly, just kill me,” he says, mocking his friend.

chenle snorts, a playful smirk on his lips, “do we kill you now or later?”

haechan doesn’t even bother trying to defend himself. he just drops his head back with a groan and laughs, loud and shameless, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls, “you guys are so annoying.”

“not as annoying as the fact that she left wearing your clothes,” chenle says, waggling his eyebrows, “your hoodie, dude. the hoodie. the one you said no one’s allowed to borrow because it’s your emotional support layer.’”

“she needed clothes,” haechan says, rolling his eyes and grabbing bowls from the cabinet, like none of it was a big deal. like you didn’t just crack down all the years of hate with one simple call of his name.

“what, i was supposed to let her wander the streets in a lingerie looking like she escaped from a halloween thirst trap?”

renjun squints at him, mock-serious, “you’re in love.”

this elicits a groan from jisung, “oh god, not another one…the other three literally makes me want to vomit.”

haechan rolls his eyes, “i’m not in love.”

“sure,” chenle and renjun say in unison, like a damn choir.

“okay, first of all,” haechan says, gritting his teeth, holding up a finger, “i don’t even like her.”

“uh-huh,” chenle says, “that’s why you stayed up all night babysitting her and making sure she didn’t die.”

“oh my god, did you tuck her in?,” renjun asks.

“i didn’t tuck her in! she just…passed out, and i put a pillow under her head like a civilized human being!,” he reasons out, “plus it’s our party, she’s our responsibility,” he says seriously.

that silences them for half a second. just long enough for his words to land, “yeah, okay,” jisung says squinting, “but you could’ve just called one of her friends to bring her home, not spend the party of the year taking care of her…i mean ryujin was right there!”

haechan slams the ramen bowls down on the counter, harder than necessary, but not quite angry. just exasperated. like he’s been circling this same conversation in his own head since sunrise.

“fine. okay. whatever. you guys win,” he mutters.

there’s a pause, then jisung leans forward, eyes wide with mock innocence, voice pure mischief, “so you do like her?”

“i loathe her,” haechan says with a perfectly straight face, “can’t stand her. makes my blood boil. hate her so much i—”

“—gave her your bed, made her ramen she didn’t even eat, and threatened chenle with your eyes,” renjun finishes without missing a beat, sipping his coffee like he’s watching the best drama of the year unfold in real time.

chenle throws in a lazy, “don’t forget the hoodie,” for good measure.

haechan snorts, “you guys suck.”

they dissolve into laughter around him, loud and chaotic and full of affection. and haechan doesn’t stop them. because deep down, he knows they’re not wrong.

something is changing. cracking open. he felt it when he heard you say his name, all light and smiles like it was genuinely directed at him. he felt it when he saw you asleep in his bed, curled into his hoodie like it was the only safe place in the world. he felt it when your voice cracked saying thank you.

and now that feeling is lodged somewhere between his ribs, sharp and impossible to ignore. but he’s not ready to name it. not yet. so he grins, serves the ramen, and lets the teasing continue, pretending it’s just another morning with his idiot friends.

ཐིཋྀ the sixth week of rehearsals

rehearsals resume like nothing happened. like there wasn’t a near assault. like you didn’t sleep in his bed. like he didn’t stay up all night watching you breathe just to make sure you were okay — but of course, something has changed.

you still bicker. constantly. relentlessly. but it’s not as sharp now. not as mean. it’s irritation tinged with something unspoken. something softer.

mr. doyoung claps his hands, excited and ready. his vision of romeo and juliet when he casted you both slowly coming to life, “okay, let’s do the balcony scene!” the same scene you two could never get through before.

you climb up the makeshift balcony without any further instructions, the rickety platform still wobbling under your feet like it did during the first week. haechan stands below, glancing up just as you grip the railing and start juliet’s lines again, voice laced with practiced longing, “o romeo, o romeo, wherefore art thou–”

before you could finish your line. a crack echoes throughout the stage. it happens fast. the board beneath you splits, you were falling through, a flash of panic in your eyes as you unsuccessfully tried to grip on to whatever you could find.

haechan lunges forward, catching you mid fall with a grunt as your body collapses into his. you hit the ground hard, him first then you crashing into his chest with a force that knocks the air out of your breaths. chaos erupts. voices shouting. mr. doyoung yelling for someone to call the campus’ nurse. a cast member swearing in the background. but haechan doesn’t hear any of it. all he sees is you. your face twisting in pain as you try to sit up, only to wince and clutch your ankle.

“don’t move,” he says quickly, arms tightening around you, “just, stay still.”

“i’m fine,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

“you’re not fine, you idiot,” his voice cracks at the edges. more panic than anger. he shifts carefully, helping you sit upright before reaching down to gently examine your ankle. you hiss when he touches it. he flinches like it hurts him.

“swollen,” he mutters, “probably a sprain,” he says seriously. the kind of serious you’ve never seen him before.

“oh my god, relax, i’m not dying,” you say, managing a breathless laugh.

he glares at you, “you fell off a stage ten feet high. that’s not nothing.”

“yeah. and you saved me. again,” your eyes narrow playfully, “what are you…my guardian angel now?”

“more like your full-time babysitter,” he snaps, but his voice is too soft to land.

“you care too much,” you tease.

“and you scare me too much,” he says, barely louder than a whisper but your heart still races and you’re not too sure if it’s the adrenaline or if it’s him — the crew surrounds you, someone finally arrives with ice and a first-aid kit. mr. doyoung is talking a mile a minute about liability and structural integrity and someone offers to help carry you to the nurse’s office but you wave them off.

“i’ve got him,” you say, jerking your chin toward haechan who still hasn’t taken his hands off you. he doesn’t even argue. just helps you to your feet, arm around your waist, guiding you slowly off the stage as you limp beside him.

no one says it. not you. not him. not any of the wide-eyed castmates watching the two of you walk away like something’s finally cracked open. but they all feel it. something has changed.

♕

the clinic smells like antiseptic and lemon cleaner. you sit stiffly on the padded bed, ankle propped up with a wrapped ice pack, waiting for the nurse —haechan’s right beside you, knee bouncing restlessly like he can’t stand seeing you in pain, “you need anything?,” he asks, voice gentler than it has any right to be, “water? painkillers? i can steal some candy from the front desk if that helps.”

you glance at him, lips parting, then closing. because that tone. that face. that tenderness you never asked for. it reminds you of before. the haechan who sat side by side with you, eating convenience store snacks, watching clouds drift by, sharing a wired earphone like you had all the time in the world. the haechan who walked you home without ever saying why. who pretended he didn’t like mamma mia! but knew every lyric by heart. the haechan who was loud and stupid and kind and yours. before everything fell apart.

the nurse finally walks in and checks your ankle. haechan stays seated in the plastic chair next to you, leg still bouncing as you listen to her instructions. when she finally leaves with a parting, “just rest it for a few days,” silence rushes in to fill the space.

you exhale slowly, “can you stop bouncing your leg? you heard her, it’s a minor sprain, i’ll live.” you can’t help but roll your eyes. he was being too dramatic. too caring.

“you scared the hell out of me,” he blurts, like the words have been clawing their way up his throat all afternoon.

you look at him, surprised by his bluntness, “i’m fine, haechan.”

“you weren’t fine when the stage gave out under you,” he snaps.

your mouth opens. closes. he keeps stealing the words right out of you. then he shifts, shoulders straighter, spine tighter.

“you said something last week,” he says, voice low, barely above a whisper “when you were half-asleep.”

his fingers tighten in his lap. the campus’ clinic is probably the wrong place for this conversation, but it’s been gnawing at him ever since you walked out of the dream house. and now it’s too big to hold in.

“you said you didn’t want to hate me,” you go incredibly still. so still it’s like your whole body locks up. the air in the room changes. you keep staring at the floor like the white tiles might split open and swallow you whole. of course you remember. curse your memory for never ever letting you forget anything, even when you beg it to. even drugged and half-conscious, everything from that night came back to you throughout moments in the week. like you’d be taking a shower and you’d remember the way you fell into his arms and called out his name or when you were eating lunch and the memory of you reaching out to him, trying to kiss him, hits the back of your head, making you cringe.

“so?,” you forced a breath through your nose. it comes out sharper than you mean it to but you don’t deny it.

“so i want to know,” he swallows, his voice is softer now, “why did you start?”

the silence that follows is thick. suffocating. haechan swears the wall inched closer with every second you don’t answer.

“i’ve been trying to figure it out for years,” he says, voice fraying, “what i did. why you started treating me like i was nothing. why you iced me out like i didn’t matter. like i never did.”

you lift your gaze, slow and deliberate and it hits him. not like a punch, but like a car crash. like every part of him is thrown forward, lungs emptied, heart shattered. there’s a grief in your expression he’s never seen before. not even on stage. this is real. too real.

and he waits. like he always used to. back when the two of you were something – not dating, not together, but something solid. something warm. something unshakeable. the kind of friends who stayed behind after rehearsal just to talk. the kind of friends who knew each other’s favorite snacks, who shared playlists and secrets and inside jokes no one else understood. the kind of friends that felt like home.

“don't you remember?” you finally ask, voice quiet, flat, tired.

haechan frowns, “remember what?”

you laugh bitterly, “of course you don’t.” a pause. a breath. a blade. “it wasn’t your name they were writing on the bathroom stalls.”

he sits up, straighter, alarmed, “what?”

“the closet. junior year of high school. you remember that?”

“of course i do,” he says immediately, “we were locked in there for what? half an hour?”

“forty-three minutes,” you reply, sharp as glass. and suddenly the memory slams into both of you — the closet during the winter play production of beauty and the beast. an accidental lock-in during prop duty, the two of you stuck in the cramped space. too much closeness. too many unspoken things. breath catching in your throat.

nothing happened – but by morning, it didn’t matter.

“you told everyone we hooked up,” you say flatly, “that night in the prop closet. you let them believe it.”

haechan’s whole face shifts, like someone just knocked the air out of his lungs, “y/n, i never said anything, i didn’t even–,”

“you didn’t correct anyone,” you cut him off, the memory still holding as much pain as it did before, “and then the rumors started, people were whispering about me in the hallways. calling me easy. and you just smiled and laughed and acted like it was funny,” your voice cracks and you hate that it does.

“what?,” his voice rises, he looks horrified. shaken. like the floor dropped out beneath him, “no, i didn’t know–”

you turn to him now, eyes blazing, every buried wound rising to the surface, “you let me take the fall. you let them slut-shame me into the ground and when i needed you to shut it down, you disappeared.”

he stares at you like something is shattering behind his eyes. he remembered that moment so differently.

“i thought you hated me because we almost kissed,” he says slowly, as if saying it aloud unearths something, “because i leaned in and i thought i ruined it by misreading everything. so when you started ignoring me, i thought i deserved it.”

you stare at him. your whole chest aches.

“i didn’t know they were calling you names,” he says, “if i had known, i would’ve–,”

“you were laughing with your stupid friends in the hallway,” you snap, tears burning behind your eyes, “smirking when someone made a joke. you didn’t care.”

“i did care!,” he fires back, voice breaking, “i was freaking out! i liked you! okay?,” the confession lingers in the air like smoke and all you could do was stare at him, eyes wide.

“—i liked you. and i didn’t know what to do with it and when people started assuming we were a thing, i….i liked it,” he breathes out.

you blink at him. silent. stunned. speechless.

“i was selfish,” he admits, quieter now, shame flooding his expression, “i got caught up in the idea of you and me and i didn’t realize you were paying the price.”

your expression cracks, disbelief twisting with heartbreak, “but you stopped talking to me,” you whisper, “i thought maybe you just saw me the same way that everyone else did.”

his head shakes desperately, over and over, “no. never.”

the silence afterwards is brutal, wrapping around the two of you like barbed wire. “i didn’t know how to fix it,” he breaks helplessly, each word torn straight from the center of his chest, “you looked at me like i was poison. like just being near you made everything worse. so i stopped trying. i didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

he paused, his voice going quieter, tighter, “you hated me so easily. or at least…that’s what i thought. after a while i convinced myself that maybe that’s what you always wanted and it hurt so i decided to hate you back.”

your jaw clenches. you look away, not because you don’t want to see him but because you can’t. because if you do, you might fall apart completely. haechan leans in. voice shaking. his hand tremble slightly where they rest on the edge of the bed, “but i never stopped thinking about you,” he says like he’s been dying to say it, “not once. and if i could go back, if i could take it all back, i would,” his voice cracks, “i don’t care if we’re supposed to be bitter enemies, if that’s the story everyone loves to believe now. i never wanted to lose you,” his hand twitches in his lap, “and i’m sorry y/n, i am so, so fucking sorry,” he finishes softly, voice filled with raw honesty.

you don’t say anything but your silence isn’t angry now. and the tears slip, silent and slow, dripping down your cheeks like memories you can’t scrub away. those were the words you’ve been aching to hear for years. he brings a hand up your face, slowly, carefully, tentatively like you might flinch. but you don’t. his fingertips graze your skin, carefully brushing away the tear that’s already fallen, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek like it’s sacred.

“please,” he whispers, “let me fix it. let me try. we don’t have to be anything big. just…let me be your friend again. i’ll do anything,” his voice breaks at the end and this time it’s desperation.

you say nothing for a long moment. instead, you look at him, really look. and it’s strange. the way grief can sit beside adoration. the way familiarity can hurt as much as it comforts. because you see the boy who made you laugh until your ribs hurt. the boy who stole your last gummy bear and shared his hoodie. the boy who would watch all your favorite movies with you. the boy who memorized all your favorite songs just so you could sing them together. but you also see the boy who stood by and let the world tear you apart. the boy you’ve spent the last five years resenting.

you see all of him. and for a moment, it makes it hard to breathe.

“i felt so alone,” you say at last, your voice so quiet, “you were my best friend and then overnight, it was like i didn’t exist to you. and every time i looked at you, i just kept thinking, why wasn’t i worth defending?”

he makes a pained sound, like the question cuts deeper than anything else. like he couldn’t forgive his own self for the hurt he put you through.

“i kept waiting,” you go on, quieter now, “for you to say something. to explain. to pull me aside and say hey, i didn’t mean for it to go like that. i didn't mean for it to hurt you. but you never did.”

haechan nods, small and slow, his shoulders hunched in shame. he doesn’t argue. doesn’t defend. he just takes every word like he knows he deserves it. another silence passes but this one feels different. lighter, maybe…sadder, definitely.

his gaze flickers to the pillow behind you as if looking at you now is too much. like if he sees the tears on your cheeks, he might start crying himself and never stop. you wipe at your face with the back of your sleeve, sniffling through a shaky breath “i don't know if i can be your friend again…not like before,” you say honestly and you see how the words break him. his chest rises too fast. his mouth parts like he wants to beg. he nods again, visibly swallowing, like he’s choking on all the apologies he can’t say fast enough.

“but,” you add softly, “i think i’m tired of hating you, too.”

his eyes meet yours, something flickering in them. fragile. hope.

“i think…,” you whisper, “maybe i want to know who you are now,” you add and he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years. like your words cracked a dam and let him come up for air for the first time in forever.

and then you say the words that make something shift in the air, make the angels sing all around him. “we could try,” you murmur, “not going back but maybe starting over?”

his lips part. body stills, afraid he had just imagined it, “you mean it?,” he whispers, voice trembling.

you nod once, slow, soft, “one chance, hyuck. don’t waste it.”

and the sound of his old nickname, your nickname for him, cracks something wide open in his chest. a broken, stunned smile pulls at his lips, trembles with disbelief. like just hearing it makes him feel alive again.

he nods, eyes wet, heart in his hands, “i won’t,” he says, “i swear, i won’t.”

ཐིཋྀ the seventh week of rehearsals

it starts quietly. no grand announcement. no dramatic reconciliation that leaves the audience gasping. just…a shift. a subtle recalibration in the air.

you walk into rehearsal, script tucked under your arm. you aren’t bracing yourself like you usually do. there’s no adrenaline-fueled armor laced tight around your spine. you just simply walk in, the same way you would if haechan wasn’t there.

and when you spot him across the room, lounging in one of the chairs, thumb lazily scrolling through his phone, something inside you clicks into a different gear. you don’t look through him like he’s invisible. you don’t burn holes into him with your glare. you just look and then…you nod. barely anything. but he sees it. his thumb stills. his head lifts. he meets your gaze. there’s no tension in his shoulders, no spark of challenge in his eyes. and then he nods back. just as slight. just as careful.

to the untrained eye, nothing monumental has happened. but to the handful of castmates who have witnessed your years-long cold war with the icy stares, the sarcastic jabs, the tension so thick it warped the air – it’s seismic. everyone curious as to what happened in the nurse’s clinic.

a pause ripples through the room. like someone's holding their breath. and then…he smiles. not the cocky, smug grin he used to toss your way like a dare. not the smirk that usually meant he was about to say something that would make you want to throw your script at his head. no. this one is soft, small, a little uneven. the kind of smile you give a stray cat you’re hoping won’t run away.

you feel the tug of something low in your stomach, not butterflies, not quite. just movement, a flicker. and your lips twitch into an answering curve. not a full smile. but not nothing.

one of your castmates, also one of your best friends, yujin, jolts so hard she drops her script with a thud that echoes louder than it should. no one helps to pick it up, everyone too busy watching the apocalypse unfold in real time. you pretend not to notice the stares. instead, you slide into your usual seat and flip open your script like it’s just another regular day, not the first page of something new. you don’t look at him again. not right away. but you can feel him. the way you always could.

mr. doyoung claps his hands twice, too enthusiastically, as if to break the spell or maybe because even he feels the tension lifting, “alright! today’s rehearsal…the wedding scene!” he announces, his smile extra bright, eyes darting between you and haechan.

you don’t flinch. you don’t groan or make a joke at haechan’s expense like you might’ve a week ago. you just flip to the page. from beside you, yujin leans in slightly, whispering out of the corner of her mouth, “are you two… friends now?” her voice is half hopeful, half afraid the answer might implode the timeline.

you keep your eyes on the script, “maybe” you murmur back, shrugging, voice calm, “but we’re not enemies anymore.”

she stares at you for a second like she’s trying to decode an alien language, then exhales sharply and mutters, “holy shit, i need a drink.”

across the room, haechan shifted forward in his seat now, elbows on his knees, script open, highlighter cap in his mouth. you glance up once, and he’s already looking at you. his mouth quirks. not a smirk. not a dare. just that same soft expression. your fingers tighten slightly around your script before the two of you take your spots on stage.

the rehearsal is going surprisingly smooth. almost like someone replaced the decades-old scripts of your dynamic with a gentler rewrite. one where your lines don’t burn with anger when you speak them, where eye contact doesn’t feel like a threat. you’re standing across from haechan in the middle of the stage, your fingers laced loosely in front of you, your posture careful but relaxed.

“romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both,” jongho says, fully immersed in his friar laurence voice, hands folded solemnly like he’s performing an actual ceremony. you glance at haechan as he steps toward you. he leans in and brushes a kiss to your lips, soft, almost reverent, and you do your best to ignore the tiny spark that settles in your chest and fizzles straight to your toes.

“as much to him, else is his thanks too much,” you say with quiet warmth, smiling through the line. you kiss him again, this one just a touch longer, just a breath closer than necessary.

he pulls back slightly, meeting your eyes, “ah, juliet, if the measure of thy joy be heaped like mine and that thy skill be more. to blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath. this neighbor air and…,” he trails off.

there’s a beat of silence. his eyes flick to the side. nothing comes. you raise an eyebrow, “o romeo, are you lagging?”

a ripple of laughter breaks out across the room. haechan narrows his eyes at you, but he’s grinning, the corners of his mouth twitching, “no my juliet, i’m connecting to the server.”

“oh, sorry, i forgot this version of romeo runs on the internet.” the laughter grows. even mr. doyoung chuckles softly from behind his script.

haechan places a hand dramatically on his chest, staggering back a step, “you wound me, juliet.”

you place a hand on your hip, “you forgot your line in the middle of our wedding. i think i’m the one who should be wounded.”

he opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get a word out, sanha, who’s been watching this unfold with wide eyes, throws in a “i knew it was too good to be true.”

the laughter dies down. there’s a shift, a pause, one of those delicate moments that could tilt either way. everyone glances between the two of you, waiting to see if the air will thicken with old tension again.

but then haechan shrugs, smile still soft, “can’t friends banter?”

the room stills. the word hovers between you like a fragile thing, spoken so casually but carrying so much more weight than anyone expected.

friend wasn’t exactly the word people would describe your relationship to be.

your heart skips, not in a dramatic way, just a quiet flutter, like it’s catching up to something your brain already knew. you look at him and he’s already looking at you. there’s something behind his eyes, a private little spark, a shared joke, like the two of you are in on something no else quite understands.

you smile, slow and real, “exactly,” you say, “friends banter.”

everyone goes quiet again, not with tension but surprise. you can practically hear the mental recalibration of the room. yujin’s mouth is slightly open, xiaojun has an eyebrow raise, jongho is looking back and forth in between you, wondering how he got himself stuck in the middle of all this.

mr. doyoung clears his throat and claps his hands once, “alright, let’s run it again. from romeo’s line.”

haechan pick up his script, quickly reading it over, still grinning. as you take your mark beside him, his shoulder brushes yours, barely noticeable but deliberate. neither of you move away.

♕

the next day, after rehearsal ends and the cast slowly filters out, you find yourself lingering in the black box again, volunteering to put away the chairs. it’s quiet, dimly lit, the echoes of the day still in the air in half-muttered lines, scattered laughter, a crumpled water bottle forgotten in the wings. you’re sitting on the edge of the stage, kicking your heels lightly against the wood. then you hear footsteps, unhurried, familiar. haechan joins you a beat later, collapsing beside you with a dramatic groan.

“remind me why we volunteered for this, again?,” he sighs, eyes closed, head tilted toward the ceiling.

you smirk, “well, i volunteered for this because i haven’t helped out since week one. you just…showed up.”

he cracks one eye open and turns his head toward you, grinning, “right. my hero complex. forgot.”

you nudge him with your shoulder, and for a second it feels like nothing ever changed between you. like the years of eye-rolls and cold shoulders never happened. like you’re just you and he’s just him, and all the old memories you both tried to forget have started quietly knocking again.

“so,” you say playfully, “you do realize you completely blacked out on your monologue yesterday, right?”

he groans again, louder this time, slumping so far sideways he’s almost sliding off the stage, “don’t remind me, i saw my life flash before my eyes, mr. doyoung’s disappointment in 4k.”

you turn toward him, grinning, “my favorite part was when you just stood there, blinking like you got hit with a windows error.”

haechan throws a hand over his eyes, “i was reconnecting!, you caught me mid-update.”

you burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the walls. it makes him look at you again, and not in the usual teasing way. he watches the way your face lights up, the way your shoulders shake with it, and something in his chest aches – warm and familiar.

“i’ll admit,” you say between giggles, “that line delivery of mine? ‘o romeo, are you lagging?’ oscar-worthy.”

“you’re insufferable,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling too.

you both go quiet for a moment, the air between you charged in a way it didn’t used to be — or maybe always was, back before either of you knew what to call it.

“did you see jongho’s face?,” you ask, biting back a grin.

he grins, eyes lighting up, “he looked like he was witnessing a miracle. like we were gonna shake hands and start a foundation for world peace.”

“yujin nearly dropped her phone” you snort, “i think she thought she was hallucinating.”

he chuckles, nudging you slightly, “we should’ve milked it, gone on tour with our peace treaty, sold merch, team haechan and team y/n shirts.”

you roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself, “we’d have sold out shows every night.”

he looks at you for a beat longer than necessary, “you know… it’s weird.”

you glance over, “what is?”

“this,” he says quietly, “us. talking like this again, it feels…,” he pauses, searching for the word, “familiar.”

you don’t say anything right away, because you feel it too. that quiet pull. that ache. the thing that never fully went away. you both know it. you were each other’s person. before the hate took over, before the jabs. before either of you figured out that pushing someone away is sometimes easier than letting them in.

“yeah,” you say softly, “it does.”

then he shifts slightly, glancing sideways, “so…friends banter, huh?”

you raise a brow, “you said it.”

“and you didn’t disagree,” he says softer now. there’s no teasing in his voice, just curiosity.

you nod, “nope, i didn’t.”

he smiles. not that smug, sharp smile you used to hate. this one’s crooked, earnest. and you smile back, the same kind of smile, the kind you don't have to guard. the smile you give to a friend. but something in the way you look at each other says maybe not just that forever. maybe just that for now.

he bumps his shoulder into yours, “so, friend…you buying me lunch tomorrow?”

you scoff, “you forgot your lines. i should be the one charging you.”

he grins, that glint sneaking back into his eyes, “fine, princess. lunch tomorrow. cafeteria. my treat.”

the nickname is gentler now, filled with a sort of affection that makes your heart skip a beat. you tilt your head, pretending to consider, “as long as you don’t freeze mid-sentence again.”

he leans just slightly closer, his voice barely above a murmur, “only if you promise to tease me about it again.”

you pretend to roll your eyes, but you’re smiling…big now. unrestrained. the kind that feels like sunlight in your chest. you think about everything that’s happened. the years of arguing. the pushing and pulling. the kisses that weren’t on the script. the ones that came after, the magnetic pull of him. the electric tension you thought would destroy you both. now somehow reshaped into this — a strange, slow return to something lighter. something that still pulses underneath with heat.

you walk out side by side, the distance between you closer than it was yesterday.

♕

the next day, true to his word, haechan meets you outside the cafeteria, two iced choco’s in hand and a stupidly triumphant grin on his face like he just won a prize.

“you drink this, right?,” he says, handing you one without waiting for an answer, “i know it used to be your favorite, i just don’t know if you still like it now,” he rambles, a little nervous.

you take it, brushing your fingers lightly against his, “of course I still like it now,” you say with a smile that you don’t quite realize is soft enough to knock the wind out of him, “thank you.”

“anything for the princess,” he winks as you roll your eyes playfully. you find a corner table by the windows, where the sun spills across the scratched plastic surface and turns your drinks gold. the campus buzzes around you, students passing by with backpacks slung low, the distant hum of conversations and clinking trays.

haechan orders sandwiches for you both, and without asking, skips the pickles on yours. you notice, and you don’t say anything, but the fact that he remembered that makes something in your chest swell and ache at the same time. there’s something undeniably easy about it all. about him. you fall into a rhythm of banter, half jokes, and snide comments wrapped in smiles that linger just a little too long. it’s almost too easy to forget that the two of you hated each other. almost too easy to remember that once, you didn’t.

you’re in the middle of a joke when a voice interrupts the moment — “hey, haechan,” your eyes turn towards the voice. it’s ryujin. and she’s leaning against the edge of the table, hair in a pretty messy bun in that effortless dancer way, water bottle in hand, wearing one of those crop tops that make everyone in the building do a double take. she flashes him a bright smile.

“you didn’t show up to the party last night,” she says, teasing but with a bite that suggests she noticed and cared.

haechan blinks like he wasn’t expecting her, “oh, yeah, i–uh, fell asleep early,” he shifts in his seat, his legs brushing yours under the table. then he glances at you, a quick flicker of a look, like a reflex. it’s so fast. he probably thinks you missed it. but you didn't.

ryujin giggles lightly and touches his shoulder, a fleeting gesture that might have meant nothing to anyone else, “we’re always missing out on each other,” she pouts.

you glance down at your sandwich. you can’t bring yourself to keep watching. your appetite vanishes somewhere between her hand and his smile.

“yeah,” haechan forced out, then clears his throat, trying to find words.

you miss the awkward way he scratches the back of his neck, the polite distance in his voice that doesn’t quite match ryujin’s energy. he’s not flirting back but he’s not shutting it down either.

ryujin’s gaze finally flickers to you, her smile dimming just slightly, “hey.”

you smile, sharp and polite “hey.”

she lingers. just enough to make it weird. then flicks her hair over her shoulder and turns back to him, “you’re mine at the next party, okay?”

haechan lets out a nervous laugh, “cool. yeah.” it comes out a little too fast, like he’s agreeing just to make the moment end. he wishes the ground could just swallow him whole. he doesn’t even know why the mere action of ryujin flirting with him around you is getting him all flustered.

she finally walks away and you don’t say anything at first. you take a sip from your drink just to have something to do with your hands. haechan exhales like he’s just escaped a fire.

you arch an eyebrow, still not looking at him, “you okay?”

he rubs his hands down his thighs, “yeah. that was…awkward.”

“didn’t look awkward from where i was sitting,” you mutter, voice a little sharper than intended.

he turns to you, caught off guard by your tone, “be serious.”

you poke the lettuce in your sandwich, “haven’t you been flirting with her since forever?,” you comment. it wasn’t exactly a secret to the rest of the university that the two had the hots for each other. just like how it wasn’t a secret that the two of you can’t stand each other.

“yeah, well. that was before,” he says without thinking.

“before what?,” you ask, raising a brow, your eyes finally meeting his.

he goes quiet. you wait. he’s already looking at you, his expression unreadable. there’s a long pause, like he’s debating something. then he looks away, his voice low “nothing. never mind.”

you don’t push. but your stomach twists in a way that’s hard to ignore. you weren’t supposed to care. he’s just a friend. that’s what you agreed on.

then he forces out a laugh, soft and a little shaky, he bumps your foot under the table, voice casual, “so” he murmurs, “you’re totally jealous.”

you nearly choke on your sandwich, “am not.”

“you looked at your sandwich like you wanted it dead,” he points out, teasing.

you narrow your eyes at him, but your lips twitch anyway, “you’re officially delirious.”

he grins, that same crooked, trouble-making grin that used to make your blood boil and now just… makes it rush. you roll your eyes and take another sip of your drink, hiding your smile behind the straw. but your cheeks feel warm. and your heart feels stupid.

because yeah, maybe you were jealous. and maybe that means this thing between you, this not-quite-friends, not-quite-something-else, is barreling toward a truth you’re both trying not to name.

♕

the lights flash neon blue and pink over the velvet booths and sticky tables. it was karaoke night with your castmates. the room filled with laughter, everyone sipping cheap drinks, flipping through the karaoke’s binder, music pulsing through the speakers, everyone pretending they’re not stressed about the upcoming show. haechan leans against the booth, one arm resting over the backrest, drink in hand. usually you sit in the booth farthest away from him, but tonight, tonight you’re sitting right next to him, trying not to notice the way his shoulders brush yours every so often. the way it sparks something irritatingly warm in your chest.

“you do know you’re not getting out of singing, right?” you say, a smirk playing on your lips as you leaned over to talk in his ear, loud enough for him to hear over changbin and wooyoung currently performing hamilton.

he raises an eyebrow, ignoring the way your breath sends goosebumps all over his spine, “who said i was trying to?”

“you haven’t signed up once,” you point out.

“maybe i’m waiting,” he says, turning his head so you're closer than before, so close you catch the faint smell of his cologne, the woody powdery scent that makes your brain fuzzy, “for the right song and the right partner,” he glances at you. there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“are you asking me to duet, lee donghyuck?,” you smirk.

“only if you think you can keep up,” he says, a playful smile on his lips.

minutes later you’re both up front, two microphones in hand. you give him a sideways glance as the intro to what is this feeling starts playing. haechan smirks when he sees the lyrics pop up on the screen.

“what is this feeling, so sudden and new?,” he starts. of course he was galinda, milking the drama, throwing in that little hair flip that makes you giggle. you both slip into character. the room blurs. it’s just you and him.

“loathing. unadulterated loathing,” he levels you with an exaggerated glare.

“for your face — your voice — your clothing!,” you match his energy, pacing in time with him like two cats ready to pounce. the song becomes a battleground, but its play fighting. banter wrapped around melody. and you feel like a child again.

“let’s just say we loathe it all!” you end, breathless and giddy.

the room erupts, howling with laughter and applause. but something about the moment slows. the harmony lingers longer than it should. haechan’s eyes meet yours, you don’t look away.

an hour later the bar started to empty out. castmates peel off into groups, calling rides or walking to the subway in clumps. you’re slipping your jacket on when you feel someone fall into step beside you.

“you’re walking home?” haechan asks casually, hands shoved in his coat pockets.

you nod, “it’s not far.”

“i’ll walk with you,” he says, like it’s not even a question. like it’s a given.

the streets are quieter now, only the hum of traffic and the occasional siren echoing down the avenue. the moon reflecting shimmer in puddles, and there’s a leftover thrill buzzing under your skin from the performance, from him.

he kicks at a pebble, glancing over at you, “so… we make a pretty good team.”

you bump your shoulder into his lightly, “don’t let it get to your head.”

“too late, princess” he says with a grin.

you walk in silence for a beat, the good kind, where it doesn’t feel like something needs to be said. then, softly, “we’re pretty good at being friends,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the sidewalk.

you feel him glance at you before he answers “yeah,” he says, just as quiet, “we are.”

your fingers don’t touch, but they hang close enough that the space between them feels loud. you look up at him then, and he gives you that crooked, genuine smile that always comes out when he thinks no one’s watching.

“thanks for walking me,” you say when you reach your building.

he nods, “always.” there’s a pause. that kind where you could either wave and walk away or not. then haechan opens his arms slightly, like he’s offering, but not assuming. and you don’t even hesitate. you step into him, arms wrapping around his torso. he’s warm and steady around your shoulders. it’s not rushed. not awkward. it’s one of those hugs that feels like it’s saying a lot more than either of you are willing to put into words just yet.

you breathe him in and for a second, it feels like the rest of the world goes quiet. he pulls back first, but slowly, like he’s not quite ready either. his hands brush your arms before he lets go.

“night, princess,” he says, teasing, voice a little huskier than before.

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, “night, hyuck.”

and even though nothing’s said, and nothing happens, it still feels like something changed. like you both felt it, even if you’re pretending not to.

♕

hyuck: wanna come over and watch mamma mia 2 tonight?

princess: the one that came out when we hated each other?

hyuck: yeah, thought it might be poetic or whatever >.<

you almost laugh out loud when you read it. of all the movies. that one. the one released right in the thick of your worst arguments, during the year neither of you could say a full sentence without wanting to kill each other. the one you couldn’t bring yourself to watch in theater because all you could remember was watching the first one with him.

princess: will there be popcorn?

hyuck: of course

princess: see you later ;)

by the time you arrive at the frat house, it’s quiet. most of the guys are out for the night and the place, for once, feels peaceful. lived-in, but cozy. haechan greets you at the door with popcorn in one hand and remote in the other.

“just you, me and ABBA,” he says, a playful smile on his face as you make your way to his living room.

you smirk, stepping inside, “scared i’ll out-sing you?”

his laugh is automatic, “you wish.”

you settle on the couch, blanket tossed between the two of you. you don’t sit close, not at first. but as the movie plays, as waterloo kicks in and the popcorn dwindles and your feet end up tangled somewhere under the blanket, the space between you shrinks. neither of you mentions it. you both sing along, loud and obnoxious, voices overlapping in messy harmonies, especially during why did it have to be me, elbowing each other like teenagers. there’s a softness in it. a safety. like the memories that used to hurt have dulled around the edges and all that’s left now is warmth. you’re both grinning so hard it hurts. the kind of joy you haven’t let yourself feel around him in years. by angel eyes you’re leaning into him more than you mean to. his shoulder’s warm. you let yourself rest there, just for a second. but the second turns into minutes. and by the time my love, my life begins to play, you’ve gone quiet, breaths slow and even, your head tilted gently against him.

he doesn't dare move.

the movie goes on, but he doesn’t register it anymore. not really. he’s too aware of you, curled up beside him, cheek pressed into his hoodie, peacefully asleep. like you completely trust him again. and that’s when it hits him.

it’s not a surprise. not a sudden realization. just something he’s been trying to ignore finally catching up to him — he never stopped liking you.

not when you fought. not when you ignored each other in the hallways and on stage and in classes. not even when he flirted with other girls, trying to replace the hole you burned through him with something lighter, simpler. but no one ever did. no one even came close. because it’s always been you. under his skin. in his lungs. every song he sang louder just so you’d hear it. every stupid joke he cracked just so you would see him.

and now, god, now it’s stronger than ever. because he’s not just thinking about how right this feels. he’s thinking about you. the way you laughed tonight, unguarded. the way you trusted him enough to fall asleep on him like this. the way you’ve been slowly letting him back in.

but underneath that softness, beneath all the fragile peace you’ve built…is something hungrier. something heavier.

because now he knows the way your lips feel on his, hot and frantic, laced with fury and desperation. the weight of your body tangled with his, all tension and sharp edges and need. he remembers the night you both gave in to it. when everything between you collided and combusted and for a few stolen hours, nothing else existed. the sound you made when he was inside you. the way you clung to him like you hated him for how good it felt.

he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t thought about it since. about you. that night. the taste of your skin. the way he wanted more, even then. the way he still wants more now — he wants to feel you again but not like that. not angry. not bitter. not as a mistake to bury. he wants to feel you without the weight of a grudge between you.

that’s what scares him the most. because you’re just starting to rebuild whatever fragile thread of friendship you’ve stitched together. if he leans in again, if he fucks this up, he’s not sure either of you will come back from it.

so he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. just lets you rest against him, eyes fixed on the credits. heart beating loud and traitorous in his chest. he tells himself it’s enough but he knows it won't be for long because he never wanted to be just your friend — not really. not ever. not then. and definitely not now.

ཐིཋྀ the eight week of rehearsals

monday comes again you spot him in rehearsals, sitting in his usual chair. and for the first time, you chose to sit on the chair next to him. you wait for his usual greeting, that charming smirk, the lifted eyebrows, the dumb pun about how you finally couldn’t resist sitting next to the greatest.

but none of it comes.

he doesn’t raise his brows and say something stupid just to make you roll your eyes. he just nods. quiet and distant.

“hi,” you offer as you approach, a smile on your face.

“hey,” he replies, without looking at you. it throws you off. not completely. just enough that your smile falters a little.

but it doesn't stop there. during rehearsals, he’s all business. focused. he doesn’t crack jokes during warmups like he usually does. even when you fumble a line and instinctively glance at him for a reaction, he doesn’t meet your eyes. there are no friendly banters. it’s like someone hit the switch on him over the weekend. and sure, he talks to you. he doesn’t ignore you completely. but it’s colder. measured. like he’s rehearsing something behind every word.

at break, you sit on the edge of the stage like always but he doesn’t join you. he stretches with the boys instead, laughing a little too loudly at something that isn’t even funny.

you feel it — the difference. the detachment. like he’s edited you out of a movie scene where you once had top billing.

you watch from across the room, trying not to let it show that you notice. but you do. you notice everything. the way he keeps his distance. the way his gaze skips over you in group conversation. the way he leaves rehearsal without waiting, mumbling something about being late for a meeting you’re not even sure exists.

you tell yourself it’s fine. you’re friends. it’s just a weird day. maybe he’s tired. maybe something’s going on. maybe he did have a meeting. maybe it’s nothing.

but the thing is — it doesn’t feel like nothing. and it stings. because just last week you were creating new inside jokes, sharing lunch, singing duets, watching movies, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. and just two nights ago, you fell asleep on his shoulder and he let you and for one quiet, perfect evening, it felt like maybe, maybe, you were finding your way back to something real. and now? now he won’t even look at you.

later, you replay the night in your mind, trying to pinpoint what went wrong. the way he sang with a fake swedish accent, making you laugh until your ribs hurt. the way you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. like you were something precious. something fragile. nothing about that night felt off. but now he’s acting like you’re glass that cracked when he wasn’t looking, and he doesn’t know how to pick up the pieces without bleeding.

you want to call him out. ask what the hell you did. demand to know why he’s shutting you out when you were finally figuring out how to be in the same room without burning. but you don’t. you don’t say a word. because maybe you were just being dramatic. or maybe because part of you is scared of the answer.

and part of you, the part that still aches for him even now, kind of wishes you could just go back to hating each other. at least then, he looked at you like he meant it.

♕

it’s been a few days since and things have gotten worse. you can’t put your finger on it exactly. nothing obvious. no big blow up. no fight. just the absence of something that was almost there.

he shows up to every rehearsal, still jokes with the cast, still reads his lines. but with you? he’s quieter. not cold, not cruel. just careful. like he’s watching every word, every glance, weighing them all in his head before he lets them go. like he’s trying to keep something from slipping out. something that used to dance at the edge of his smirks and linger in the way he looked at you, that soft, half-daring thing that felt almost too real.

you hate it. so you do something about it. you text him on a thursday evening in a moment of impulsive hope or maybe desperation.

princess: you doing anything tomorrow night? a few of us are going to the A.M. 127 bar, you should come.

you watch the message go through, then you toss your phone aside like it didn’t cost you anything to send. it takes him an hour to respond.

hyuck: ah wish i could but i’m busy. have to finish a write-up for theater theory and help mark with something

you stare at it, a little too long. looking for cracks in the excuse. for anything that might explain why it sounds like a gentle rejection and not just a scheduling conflict. and when you finally type out a reply, something nonchalant, unaffected, you send it before you can overthink.

princess: all good. good luck :)

you toss your phone again, harder this time, like the weight in your chest might go with it. you won’t be bitter. you can’t be bitter. he doesn’t owe you anything. he doesn’t have to show up just because you asked. you’re friends now. just friends. friends have boundaries. friends don’t need each other to say yes.

but the next night while waiting for your drink with yujin at the loud, dimly lit bar, you make the mistake of scrolling through your phone. the story flashes before you even realize what you’re watching. a living room, lights flickering, people playing a game of beer pong.

and there, clear as day – haechan. leaning against the arm of the couch. grinning. and next to him? ryujin. tucked comfortably into his side like she’s always belonged there. laughing at something he says, head tipped toward him, her hand casually resting on his thigh like she doesn’t even have to think about it.

the clip is only ten seconds long. but it affects you more than it should. you click it again. watch it one more time. and another. and another — his head leans toward hers. he’s smiling. he looks easy with her. like nothing’s complicated. like nothing happened. like he didn’t freeze up around you this week. like he didn’t pull away just when things started to feel… possible.

you swallow around the twist in your chest, reaching out for your drink. you laugh too, like you’re fine, like you didn’t just get sucker punched by a few pixels on a screen. but inside, you feel like an absolute joke — a stupid, drunk punchline to a story you thought had changed.

you take a couple more shots before you were staring at your phone again. the last text between you still lit up on the screen.

“all good. good luck :)”

you hate the way it reads. detached. not real. not at all how you feel. and before you can stop yourself, before you can listen to your own logic, you’re tapping his name in your contacts and pressing call — it rings once. twice. you don't think he’ll answer. but by the third ring, his voice hits your ear, “hello?,” low, familiar, a little too steady. he’s not drunk.

you try to swallow around the words clogging your throat, “hey,” you say and you wince at how thin it comes out, “it’s me.”

a beat of silence. “yeah. i know,” he sounds softer, cautious now.

you almost laugh, “sorry,” you mutter, “i shouldn’t have called. just…ignore this, okay? just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“wait,” he says, sharp enough to stop you from ending the call, “are you okay?”

there he goes again. pretending he cares. you want to lie. say yeah, of course i’m great. but you’re tired. a little drunk. a little heartbroken. you laugh. it sounds bitter, “what do you think?”

another pause. you can hear the voices in the background. the loud music. ryujin’s laugh. the exact same sound from the video. and it scrapes at your ribs.

“you said you were busy,” you say and this time you don’t try to hide the shake in your voice, “you said you had to help mark with something.”

“i did,” he replies, and god, he sounds so calm it makes your chest burn, “plans changed.”

“right,” you whisper, “funny how that happens.”

he’s quiet again and maybe that should be your cue to hang up. to end this before it gets pathetic. but you can’t. not when it feels like he’s been slipping further and further away all week.

“i just didn’t expect to see you with her,” you admit, a little too bare, too honest, too messy, “that’s all.”

he exhales slowly. you can hear voices in the background, someone calling his name. he murmurs something away from the phone, you can’t make it out. when he speaks again, he’s quieter, “it’s not what you think.”

you smile without warmth, “okay,” you say because what else can you say? you were in no position to tell him who he can and can’t hang out with. you were in no position to even get jealous. he doesn’t explain further. he doesn’t need to. you were just his friend.

“you’ve been weird all week,” you say suddenly, “and i’ve been trying not to take it personally, but–,” you cut yourself off.

“but what?,” he asks. you swallow hard, “i don’t know. i guess i thought we were friends again.”

“we are,” he says quickly. too quickly.

“then why are you pushing me away?,” you ask, voice soft and quiet.

another breath from him, a pause that stretches, “i’m not.”

“you are. you stopped looking at me. you stopped cracking jokes,” you blink hard, throat thick, “did i do something wrong? is this some kind of elaborate plan to hurt me the way i hurt you?”

“no.” he says quickly, “it’s not like that.” then the line goes silent. the music behind him fades.

“i’m just,” he finally says, the words slow and clipped, “trying to keep things simple right now.”

you nod even though he can’t see you. even though it didn’t make sense. even though nothing about you and him has ever been simple.

“okay,” you say again, “i’ll let you get back to your party.”

“princess–,” he starts.

but you’re already pulling the phone away, muttering out a hollow “bye,” and ending the call before he can stop you.

you hang up, phone trembling in your hand, heart heavier than before. you didn’t get answers. didn’t get clarity. didn’t get the version of him who sang ABBA at the top of his lungs and leaned into you like you were home. you just got silence. distance. a half-hearted promise that meant nothing.

♕

you don’t remember how many drinks it takes to get you there – that hazy, floating kind of drunk. the kind that makes everything feel like it’s underwater and glowing. you’re not sad, not exactly. just…empty. tired in a way that no one can see.

yujin left a while ago, with a boy she’s been making out with the whole night. she kissed your cheek goodbye, making you promise to uber home. you said of course and waved her off with a smile too big for your face. then you stayed and ordered another drink. and another. let the night blur until it felt like you didn’t exist anymore.

the bartender starts to notice around 2:00 a.m. – you’re sitting slouched over the counter. your lips are slightly smeared and your mascara smudged just enough to make you look fragile. breakable. like someone who doesn’t know where she is or why she’s still here. you don’t notice the bartender hovering until he gently taps the bar in front of you, “hey” he says, voice low, kind, “you alright?”

you glance up, slow and reluctant, eyes glassy, unfocused, trying to read his blurry nametag: johnny. you try to smile at him but your mouth doesn’t quite cooperate, “mm fine, johnny,” you mumble, slurring your words.

he gives you a long look, his voice is still gentle but it sharpens a little at the edges, “that’s not true.”

you shake your head, try to sit up straighter, but the motion tilts the room again. you let out a soft, pathetic-sounding laugh, “okay, maybe not, but i’ll be fine.”

johnny sighs, the kind of sigh that says he’s seen this before. too many times. he pulls out a clean glass of water, slides it in front of you, “drink this.”

you do. drunk enough to drink anything a stranger would give. then he looks at you again, soft but steady, “i’m gonna call someone for you, okay? just to make sure you get home safe.”

you blink, the words registering slower than normal, “no–it’s—dont. please. i’m fine, i can–”

“you’re not fine,” he says gently but firm. you don’t argue again. you’re too tired.

“here,” you mumble, unlocking your phone with clumsy fingers, “pick whoever you want, i don’t care,” you say, giving in. he scrolls through your recent calls, lifts the phone to his ear.

“yo…hey…is this hyuck?,” his voice rings in your ear but you were too out of it to care, “yeah, hi i’m a bartender at A.M. 01:27, i’ve got a girl here, this is her phone, she’s pretty out of it. not in danger or anything just too drunk to leave alone. you were the last person she called, so…,” his voice drifts off in the background as your forehead sinks into your arms, head dropped to the counter, letting the drowsiness take over.

time passes. or maybe it doesn’t. you don’t really know.

then you hear your name. you lift your head slowly, the bar has started to spin again or maybe your brain has. same difference. you squint your eyes open and he is there, standing next to you, hoodie pulled over his hair, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“you okay?,” haechan asks, voice strained. careful.

“define ‘okay,” you mutter, pushing yourself up. you sway a little and his hand is instantly under your elbow, steadying you.

“got it,” he murmurs, sliding an arm around your waist, “let’s go.”

“wow,” you say under your breath, stumbling slightly as he helps you toward the exit, “my hero, coming to my rescue so fast, didn’t know i still mattered.”

“i got a call from a man who doesn’t even know you,” he mutters, jaw tight, “forgive me if i didn’t love that scenario.”

you glance up at him as he opens the passenger door, “jealous?” he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even look at you. just helps you in, buckles the seatbelt with a sigh and shuts the door.

the drive is quiet. not awkward. not exactly. but there’s a weight between you. thick and humming. some ghost made of the things you never said. haechan’s hands grip the wheel tight, knuckles white, eyes locked on the road. the glow from the dash throws soft light across his face, shadows catching in the curve of his jaw, the dip under his cheekbone. you watch him in sideways glances, arms crossed tight to your chest like you’re holding yourself together. the city fades. buildings blur into darkness. music plays low from the stereo, some playlist he forgot to turn off. you don’t say much. neither does he. but slowly, gradually, the fog in your brain starts to clear. your head feels less floaty. your pulse settles. your tongue feels normal in your mouth again. you blink. you breathe.

you’re starting to sober up. enough to feel the cracks again. enough for the ache to come back clearer than before — and when the gps chimes that you’re ten minutes away from your dorm, something inside you finally breaks.

“i hate you.” you whisper, eyes still on the road ahead.

his brow twitches, and he casts you a quick, startled glance, “what?”

you turn your head now, shoulders squaring toward him, the last drops of alcohol giving you courage, or maybe just stripping your fear down to its bare, shaking bones.

“i said, i hate you.”

maybe you say it because it’s real. maybe you wanted to get a reaction out of him. something. anything.

“okay,” he says, soft and resigned. like he’s letting you go without even trying to hold on. like he knew this was coming, “you’re drunk.

“i’m not that drunk,” you snap.

he continues focusing on the road. jaw tight.

“i hate your stupid face,” you go on, voice low but steady, “i hate your stupid little moles,” you take a breath, “i hate when you laugh without me.”

a pause. he wonders if you could hear the way his heart is thudding in his chest.

“i hate how you asked me to be friends again just to ignore me. i hate the way you act like nothing has happened between us.”

you pause. your chest tight. your throat is burning.

“i hate the way you look at me like you want to say something, but you won’t. i hate the way you leave me guessing, doubting, wondering if any of this is real.”

he doesn’t say a word. just silence so loud it echoes. you stare at him, heart pounding. you don’t cry. you just tell the truth, finally.

“i hate the way you make me feel,” you whisper, “i hate the way it’s so easy for me to fall for you.”

the words hang in the air, awful and honest. you feel them leave your mouth and you can’t take it back. he doesn’t pull over right away. but his jaw locks. his throat bobs with a swallow. and then he takes the next left, turns into a side street, dark and quiet, far from the dorms. no one’s around. just the sound of your breath and his. he parks the car and the silence rushes in. it’s deafening. the kind that drowns out everything else. it’s thick with all the things you’ve never said, with every unfinished sentence and swallowed apology.

then he turns toward you, eyes wide and raw, like he’s been trying to hold something in for so long it’s starting to hurt. like your words have cracked something open in him that he can’t put back.

“don’t.” he says, barely a whisper. “don’t say that. not when you don’t mean it.”

but you don’t look away, “i do mean it.”

and for a second, neither of you speak. neither of you move. it’s all there between you. the longing, the ache, the silence that always meant more — and you’ve filled it up. you’ve cracked the quiet open and poured the truth inside it.

now there’s nothing left to hide behind. you see it. the wreckage in him. the war. the part of him that wants to reach for you. and the part of him terrified that if he does, you’ll disappear.

he exhales, slowly and shaky, like he’s trying to steady himself on the edge of something steep, “i didn’t think you felt it,” he murmurs, voice rough like it’s been scraped raw from the inside, “i kept telling myself you wouldn’t. that you couldn’t.”

you stay quiet, letting him unravel. he laughs then, a broken little sound, hollow and helpless, “i told myself if i just kept my distance, if i just waited long enough… whatever i was feeling would die out. that i’d get over it. that i won’t ruin our friendship again.”

he doesn’t look at you when he says it. he looks straight ahead, like the truth will hurt less if he doesn’t have to see your face when he says it out loud.

“but it didn’t,” he whispered, “it just got worse.”

the confession spills out now, uncontained. he can’t stop it, and he doesn’t try to anymore.

“you were everywhere. in my phone, in my stupid dreams, in every fucking song. and i hated that i couldn’t shake you,” he turns to look at you then, finally. his eyes are glassy, dark and tired. no walls left.

“i tried to be your friend,” he says desperately, “i tried so fucking hard. but every time you smiled at me, it felt like i was falling, every time you laughed, i wanted more and every time i felt you next to me, it’s like i couldn’t control myself.”

your breath hitches, but he doesn’t stop.

“i don’t want to be your friend.”

he looks at you. eyes quickly darting down your lips.

“im in love with you.” he lets the words settle in the air and then he adds, “and i want you in a way that friends shouldn’t. i always have.”

the words fall between you like a match dropped on gasoline. hot and sudden and irreversible.

“i’m tired of pretending this doesn’t wreck me,” he adds, voice low, “that you don’t wreck me.”

you don’t move. you just look at him. and in his eyes, you see it all. the quiet desperation, the resentment at himself for still loving you, the hope he keeps trying to kill. the truth sits heavy in your chest, rising fast, threatening to drown you. but you don't back away from it now. you don’t want to. because you know that you wreck him the same way he wrecks you.

you don’t remember moving. just the heat in your chest, the ache behind your ribs, the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears. one second, you’re sitting there, breath shallow, heart torn wide open. the next, your hand is on his jaw, guiding his face toward yours and his mouth is crashing into yours. the rawness in the way he kissed you like he was trying to erase every second of space that has ever existed between you.

it’s not soft. it’s not tentative. it’s months of denial, weeks of tension and years of everything left unsaid, finally snapping all at once. and he kisses you like he’s drowning in it. his hands tangle in your hair, bringing you impossibly closer, “fuck, you’re a dream,” he manages to say in between kisses.

you kiss him harder to prove that you weren’t. that you were here and real and his for the taking. his hands are on your thighs, pushing your dress up roughly, bunching the fabric around your waist like he can’t get it out of the way fast enough. you scramble into his lap, straddling him in the driver's seat, your knees bracketing his hips, your breath already coming in fast.

he groans against your mouth, hot and frantic and trembling slightly. you break the kiss to breathe, but it’s useless, he leans in again, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath ragged.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “just once. say it, and i will.”

your soaked panties brush against the bulge in his jeans and he groans, deep and guttural. you shake your head, lips brushing his “don't tell me you’re gonna go soft on me just because we’re in love now.”

he pulls back slightly, stunned, like he can’t believe what he just heard, “we?”

you give him a soft, unguarded smile, “yes, hyuck. i’m in love with you too.”

that’s all it takes. the look in his eyes changes — burning hotter. darker. his mouth is on your throat, kissing a trail down to your collarbone, hands everywhere, under your dress, against your skin, gripping your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish. the space is cramped, bodies tangled, breath fogging up the windows, but you don’t care about anything except the way his hands feel on your bare skin, the way he groans when your fingers thread into his hair and pull just a little, the way his hips arch up into yours like he’s come undone.

“you think love means soft?” he rasps, voice shredded, “you think i don’t still want to fuck you like i’ve been starving?”

his hands slide up under your dress, dragging your panties down to your thighs. he leans you back, your spine meeting the steering wheel. it’s a little awkward, a little painful, but it vanishes the moment his fingers slip between your folds.

“god, look at you,” he pants against your mouth, dragging two fingers through your folds. “you’re fucking soaked for me, princess”

you moan when he presses in, one finger at first, rough and fast, no buildup, the feel of his cool rings against your cunt making you jerk in his lap, head thrown back against the roof, thighs already quaking.

“not soft,” he growls into your skin, “not even close.”

“shut up and—fuck—fuck me already,” you moan, hips chasing the rhythm of his finger.

“no,” he snaps, a smirk on his lips, “not until i make you come on my fingers,” he groans, and then he starts really working you open. inserting another digit, angling it just right, fucking into you like he knows exactly where to go, exactly how to ruin you. his palm grinds against your clit in tight, mean circles, and it’s so much, so fast, your knees buckle on either side of him, moans of his name filling the night air, and he has to hold you down with one arm wrapped around your waist.

“you can take it, right?” he hisses, fucking you faster, “don’t tell me you’re gonna break on me now.”

“i won’t,” you whine, “i won’t, hyuck, d-don’t stop,” you beg. his cock twitching in his pants at the mere sound of his name on your lips — all needy and desperate and his. he curls his fingers harder, presses deeper, and the filthy sounds of your wetness fill the car like music to his ears. your dress is hitched around your hips, tits threatening to spill out of the neckline, and you’re so far gone you’re grinding down on his hand like you need it to survive.

“you look so fucking pretty like this,” he growls, thumb swiping across your clit like he’s trying to rip the orgasm out of you, “fucking yourself on my hand, begging for it.”

you gasp, legs trembling, feeling yourself start to come apart. and he’s obsessed with how you clench around him, how your moans go sharp and high and desperate.

“that’s it princess,” he pants, watching you with hooded eyes as you get lost in the pleasure, “let go for me.” you do. you come hard, panting, shaking in his lap as his fingers keep coaxing you through it, soaking his palm as you cry out against his shoulder, nails digging into his biceps.

he doesn’t stop right away. only after your legs go limp, after you push his hand away, after you twitch around him too much to handle another second. then, only then does he pulls his fingers out, slick and glistening, and brings them to his mouth, “tastes like fucking heaven,” he groans, licking them clean like it’s nothing.

“now ride me and take what’s yours, princess,” he grunts in your ear. you’re still panting, legs shaking, but your hands move on instinct, unzipping his jeans, pulling him out. he grabs his wallet, pulling out a small foil wrapper, ripping it open with his teeth and rolling it on with practiced urgency.

the second he’s ready, he drags the blunt head of his cock through your folds, slowly. sending goosebumps throughout your body. you can’t take another second of teasing. you grab the base of his cock, making him grunt in response. then you align him in your entrance and finally sink down, both of you breaking at the feeling.

“ahh, fuck,” he hisses, forehead thudding back against the seat. his hands grip your thighs so tight it borders on bruising, “you’re so fucking tight.”

you don’t give him time to catch his breath. you rise up and drop down again, harder this time. again. and again. the rhythm fast, desperate, almost punishing. the windows fog instantly. your dress is hitched up to your hips, sweat slick on your skin, your shared moans echoing through the small space as you bounce in his lap, riding him hard and reckless, the console digging into your spine with every movement.

“god, you feel so fucking good,” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair. he yanks your neckline lower, finally letting your tits bounce out of your dress and his mouth is on them in an instant licking, biting, sucking like he wants to mark you up just so everyone knows you’re his.

“i never fucking stopped wanting you,” he growls against your sensitive nipple, “couldn’t sleep. couldn’t think. and now, fuck, you’re mine. you hear me?”

you grind harder, drunk on it now, his voice, the feel of him buried deep inside you, stretching you open, ruining you in the best way, “yes,” you moan, head tipped back, “yours hyuck, a-all yours.”

the car rocks. the wheel presses against your back. your thighs burn, vision blurring. his hands slide to your ass, fingers digging in to your thighs as he holds you up before fucking up into you with a speed that steals all the air from your lungs, each thrust ruining you as your legs shake in his grip and you practically scream.

“come for me,” he pants heavily, sweat dripping down his temple, “come on my cock, princess, come and let me feel it.”

you can’t do anything else but respond to him, tightening around him, crying out as your second orgasm hits you like a freight train. he follows right after, hips jerking, his hold on you loosens and you sink completely into his cock, a whiny moan escaping his lips as he empties into the condom, eyes squeezed shut, completely undone.

everything goes still. your breathing. his hands. the spinning inside your chest. you collapse against him, dress still bunched at your waist, tits on his chest, your forehead pressed to his neck, both of you wrecked and panting and clinging to each other.

haechan strokes your spine absently, soft and gentle, “you okay?” he murmurs, voice raw and hoarse, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder. you nod into him. neither of you moves. then he says it, soft and tentative, “come home with me tonight,” he whispers, not ready for the night to end.

♕

his room smells like his cologne and laundry detergent and he’s kissing you again, slower this time, more like he’s savoring it. like he has all night. because he does. he lays you down on his bed, undresses you piece by piece, there’s none of that urgent need from earlier. just worship. mouth littering kisses all over your skin. hands skating over your hips like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you like this.

you feel him all over again like it’s the first time. body moving together like it’s a dance you’ve always known. you let yourself fall under him. let yourself whimper when his hand slips between your thighs, let yourself pull him in close and kiss him breathless until the two of you reach that addicting high that you can’t seem to get enough of.

and later, when he’s spooning you under the sheets, arms tight around your waist and his mouth pressed to your shoulder, he mumbles, “you know i’m crazy about you, right?”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut, “yeah, i know.”

when morning comes — you wake up alone. the warmth on the other side of the bed is gone, the sheets cooling. for a second, the room feels too quiet. your heart stutters, mind already racing with the outcome that he left.

you sit up, breath caught in your throat, but before you could wallow in the pity, the door creaks open, and there he is — tray in hand, hair still messy, sweatpants barely hanging on, wearing the exact kind of cocky grin that would usually drive you insane, except you’re too relieved to feel anything but full.

“breakfast for my one and only princess,” he says, voice obnoxiously proud. you blink at him, and it must be written all over your face, because his grin falters a little.

“hey,” he says, voice softening, as he places the tray carefully on the foot of the bed, taking a seat next to you, “you okay?”

you pull the covers up around you, shrug a little, “i just didn’t like waking up without you,” you admit, soft and quiet, almost afraid to be this honest, “i thought you left.”

a flicker of guilt passes behind his eyes, a tiny “oh,” slipping from his lips. the moment is soft, vulnerable, for two people who always dance around the other. you laugh a little under your breath, trying to shake it off, “stupid, i know, i mean, it’s you. you made it pretty clear you’re into me.”

“princess,” he says gently, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his side, “it’s not stupid, i should’ve left a note or something.”

“what? ‘gone to make eggs, don’t spiral’?,” you say, realizing how dumb it sounded.

“exactly,” he deadpans, and you both laugh.

he brushes a strand of your hair away, more careful now, “we should probably work on being better at communicating, huh?”

“yeah,” you nod, forehead bumping his, “would’ve saved us, like… years of misery.”

he groans, dramatic this time, “don’t remind me, i was so annoying.”

“you’re still annoying,” you say sweetly, and he bites your shoulder in retaliation, making you squeal.

but when the laughter fades, his voice stays low, that quiet sincerity returning “i’m not gonna disappear, okay?”

you nod, “okay.”

“and i love you,” he says, gentler this time, no hesitation. just pure, stupid, real love.

your smile softens, “i love you too,” you say, leaning over to kiss him, not caring about morning breath or bedhead or the toast that’s probably getting cold.

he pulls away, breathless, a grin evident on his face, “the breakfast is gonna have to wait now,” he whispers in your ear.

you raise an eyebrow, “why?”

he leans in, voice low and warm in your ear, “because i’m hard again,” and you burst out laughing, “you’re insane.”

“insanely into my girlfriend,” he smirks, already kissing along your jaw. and you let him. because you’re his and he’s yours and it’s finally, finally, simple.

ཐིཋྀ tech week

it’s disgusting. absolutely, positively disgusting. at least, that’s the general consensus among the rest of the cast. just last month, people couldn’t stand being around the two of you because of how often you fought. every rehearsal a battleground, every interaction laced with venom.

but now? you’ve entered your full blown, pda-plagued, heart-eyes, can’t-stop-touching-each-other in-love era.

now, it’s kisses behind curtains, giggling into each other’s mouths between lighting cues, forehead touches during water breaks, fingers constantly linked even while you’re being given notes. and they don’t know what’s worse.

yeonjun throws a prop sword down dramatically, “i miss when you two hated each other, at least we had peace.”

“you’re just mad no one kisses you in between takes,” haechan fires back, smug, arm slung over your shoulder while you’re giggling into his hoodie.

someone on the crew threatens to hang a “no pda backstage,” sign after catching the two of you in a heated make out session.

but the real problem? the two of you are unstoppable.

even your arguments, and yes, you still argue, don’t last more than five minutes. you’ll bicker about stage directions or costume adjustments or whether haechan needs to dramatically fall to his knees when romeo sees juliet “dead,” and five minutes later he’ll be kissing you against a dressing room door whispering, “you’re hot when you're mad” against your lips.

and while the cast is absolutely suffering through your honeymoon phase – mr. doyoung is thriving. he walked into every rehearsal of this week with stars in his eyes, clapping wildly as you and haechan nail your death scene again. so in sync. so devastating. so tender you can feel every raw emotion behind the lines.

because now when haechan calls you “juliet,” it comes out breathless. now when you say, “my only love sprung from my only hate,” your voice cracks for real.

“do you SEE this chemistry?!,” mr. doyoung once cried, pointing dramatically at the stage, “this! this is art! this is why i casted you two!.” he might have even teared up once during the balcony scene. no one’s confirmed it but no one’s denying it either.

you and haechan just grin like idiots through it all. and when rehearsals wrap for the night, he always kisses you soft and slow and says, “can’t wait to do it all again tomorrow.”

you roll your eyes, pretend it’s annoying, but you never pull away.

ཐིཋྀ opening night

the energy backstage is electric, nerves buzzing like static in the air, costumes perfectly pressed, everyone running through the lines they already know by heart. the theater is full. the lights are hot. mr. doyoung is pacing with a clipboard and thinly veiled tears in his eyes, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

and you’re doing your opening night ritual – little handwritten letters, folded neatly, handed to each castmate and crew member like clockwork. it’s your thing. everyone knows it. something encouraging, something kind, something just sentimental enough to make people emotional right before they have to go on stage.

you hand one to ningning, who clutches it to her chest and says dramatically, “i’m framing this.” soobin reads his and calls you a menace for making him tear up right before the show. yujin hugs you tightly, muttering something about how she’s so happy she gets to do this with her best friend too.

haechan watches from a distance as you make your rounds. he’s trying to play it cool, arms crossed, leaning against a wall in his stupidly perfect costume, lips pressed together in a barely there smirk. but underneath he’s a little tense. not that he’d ever admit it — it’s been years since he got one of your letters. not since high school. but now, with you officially his girlfriend and practically glowing as you move through the cast, he cant help but wonder, did you write him one?

he doesn’t ask. he doesn’t want to look needy. but his eyes follow you everywhere. and finally, you approach him, holding a single remaining envelope.

you stop in front of him, one brow raised, playing innocent, “oh, looks like i have one more.”

he stares at you, slow and suspicious, “you’re unbelievable.” you just grin, sliding the note into his hand. he opens it. the handwriting is unmistakably yours – familiar and clean, like a secret only he gets to keep:

what do we say when we say juliet? romeo!

every moment with you is like a scene in a movie. going through my head now is the climax. the words i practiced thousands of times as if they were scripted – you are the protagonist of my life. i want to keep you forever. no one can fill your place…you’re irreplaceable.

p.s. you look so hot as romeo, i, too would have left my family just to feel your lips.

p.p.s romeo take me somewhere we can be alone? ;)

for a second, he forgets how to breathe. love coils tightly in his chest, but so does something hotter, something heady and electric. his eyes flick to the last line, and then to you. you’re already walking away, over your shoulder, you toss him a wink. and he nearly chokes on air.

“why would you add that last part?” he hisses, catching up, voice low and wrecked. his eyes are blown wide, desperate, like you’ve lit a fuse inside him, “i just want to fuck you so bad you won’t be able to walk on stage.”

you burst out laughing, smacking his chest, “focus, romeo,” you press a kiss to his cheek and he groans like he’s being tortured, yet his mouth curves upwards into a smile anyway.

and somehow, he makes it through the show — when the lights go up and the crowd goes quiet, you step into juliet’s shoes like you were born to wear them. haechan’s romeo is every bit as dramatic and devastating and alive as he should be. the balcony scene is breathtaking. the fights are insane. the kiss before he dies draws a gasp from the crowd. by the time the final scene ends, with you sobbing over him, your voice cracking on your last words, there’s a pause…then thunderous applause, the crowd roared, standing ovation, flowers tossed on stage, some people are crying. mr. doyoung is definitely part of some people.

but as soon as the curtain closes. haechan is dragging you by the hand through the backstage chaos, ignoring the cheers, the calls, the cast photo attempts.

his grip is firm, focused and needy. you barely have time to ask where you’re going before he yanks open the door to the rehearsal room in the back and pulls you in. the door slams shut. it’s just the two of you. again. in the same, tiny, dusty room where everything shifted.

and his mouth is already on yours, “i can’t believe you wrote that in the letter,” he groans into your mouth, lifting you like it’s muscle memory, “you’re evil. you knew what you were doing.”

you gasp between kisses, clinging to his shoulder, “i don’t know what you mean,” you say innocently.

he rolls his eyes, “i’ve been hard since act i,” he kisses you like he’s starved, like the show was one long tease, every kiss on stage edging him on, every touch of juliet’s hand killing him and now he finally gets to be rewarded.

he spins and sets you down, not on the chair, not on the table — on his thigh. you blink and he grins, cocky and hungry and impossibly hot in the dim light, “you never rode this one,” he murmurs, low and sinful, hands sliding up your thighs under the skirts of juliet’s gown, “thought we’d fix that.”

the breath catches in your throat. his thigh is solid beneath you, strong and flexing, already pressed perfectly against where you need him the most. the second you move, just a little, the pressure makes your whole body jolt. and he feels it.

“fuck,” he hisses, watching you closely, an amused smirk on his lips, hands gripping your hip, “you are so into this.”

you glare at him, but your hips twitch forward again anyway. the friction is delicious. the fabric of your panties drag just right. his thigh tenses beneath you on purpose.

“you gonna come for me like this, princess?,” he whispers, lips brushing your jaw, “gonna mess up your pretty little costume riding my thigh like a desperate girl?,” you gasp, gripping his shoulders for balance, body rocking on instinct now, chasing that pressure, that heat, that release.

“f-feels so good hyuckie,” you moan as he watches, transfixed, pupils blown out, jaw tight, chest rising with every shaky breath you take.

“i could watch you forever,” he groans, “no one else ever gets to see you like this, you know that, right?”

you nod helplessly. completely lost in the pressure that was building in your stomach. and when you finally come, sudden and hot and hard, he groans at the way your whole body tenses, how your thighs shake, how your lips part in a silent moan right against his mouth, your eyes shut.

you collapse against him, but he’s not done, “think you can take me now?”, he asks, voice thick with lust, already untying the back of your costume. you look up at him, dazed, hair a mess, breath shallow and nod like there’s nothing else in the world.

he kisses you again, already sliding the skirt up your hips, making you his all over again.

𓏲 the end.

-

18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

bonus: hyuck x princess coded -> video one, video two, video three, video four

-

an: HAPPY DONGHYUCK DAY! 🧸🌻 this is one of my gifts for you all today (you’re still getting a birthday blurb, wink wink) i really wanted to finish this in time for haechan day and i can’t believe i actually did. but holy shit guys! we’re halfway done with this series i did not expect to get this far if im being completely honest. thank you all so much for all the love, you don’t know how happy and excited you all make me. i hope you loved haechan and princess too! i think this couple was the most fun to write and i also think they finally beat jaemin x angel as my favorite confession scene so far hehe (don’t tell jaemin!)… as always, thank you for reading! <3

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[phillip-bankss]

I saw a CGWLKDGAF shirt at Spencer’s and I was gonna be like ‘goddamn I can’t believe he got ripped off here too’ and then I saw on the tag that it had your brand so I just want to say congratulations on fucking making it babey!!!!!!!

thank you! funny you mention it, I also saw it in person naturally for the first time yesterday lol

but also let's talk about why my hand looks so fucking big in this picture

on topic though, if you're ever curious if something is legit or not, it should have a copyright on it somewhere and/or my logo on it

[onaswife]

https://www.tumblr.com/onaswife/785460957763747840/ive-been-seeing-a-lot-of-videos-in-tiktok-and?source=share

share them thoughts 🙂‍↕️

I made blurbs of both Alexias, I don't know if you'd like to know more. For now, these are the ideas I developed best.

Warning: Mention of miscarriage

The first time Omega! Alexia met Irene's little son, she was struck by the famous "Baby Fever."

You still remember how bright her eyes looked as Lucía showed her how to hold a baby properly without hurting or making him uncomfortable. Never, at least not since you two had started having a serious relationship, had you talked about having children.

That day when you got home, Alexia couldn't stop talking about this new experience, about feeling how the little one seemed to snuggle up against her chest, something that made her feel full. You, on the other hand, couldn't stop thinking about how radiant Alexia looked with a baby in her arms. You'd always thought Alexia was a person who radiated energy, perhaps not so much on the pitch when she should have been a more serious person, or when she was in "media day" mode, but when she was at home with her mom and sister, or when she went to visit the girls from her foundation, even when she scolded the younger members of the team for listening to Mapi and doing something mean, Alexia would look like the most beautiful and radiant person in the room.

That day you didn't talk about expanding the family; ypu only talked about Irene's little one.

The months began to pass. Mateo, Irene's son, was already older, beginning to say his first words, and could already babble something close to "mama" and "mami." Meanwhile, Alexia had one mission in mind: to get Mateo to say "Tia" or at least "Ale."

When it was their turn to babysit (on Alexia's whim, disguised as the older couple needing to have time for themselves), she would try to get him to mumble something as close to "Tía" as possible. Every time he mumbled something with a tone resembling that word, Alexia would begin to congratulate him while holding him tightly to her chest and praising him for being so intelligent.

You always stayed more distant, not because you hated being around the boy or anything like that, but because you'd never been able to figure out how to connect with little kids. You always stood there, not knowing what to do while looking anywhere but at the boy, trying to find help. But while you stood like that, you could look at your girlfriend, who seemed more and more accustomed to being maternal, giving you future ideas of what she would be like with your children, without having to be sad about them having to go with their real parents; they would be hers.

Gradually, every time Mateo accompanied his mother to training, or when they took him to watch the finals, he always looked for Alexia first. Which is why it seemed rather strange to you when Irene approached you with the little boy in her arms, while he screamed your name and tried to get away from his mother's arms. As soon as Irene stood in front of you, the boy stopped moving and stretched his short arms toward you.

It was at that moment, when Mateo looked for you first, that the baby fever hit you the hardest.

Neither of you said anything, neither of you wanted to have the conversation.

It was like that until you saw Alexia start flushing all the birth control pills down the toilet, and you knew the next step in the relationship was closer than you'd thought.

There was a long talk about the future. You tried to get Alexia to remember why she had decided not to be a mother yet—she was in the prime of her career, having just won the Ballon d'Or and being the face of the Spanish national team—but Alexia kept countering her arguments based on her experience with her teammate's child.

From that day on, you had both agreed to no longer use protection, you wouldn't force children, but Alexia really wanted to get pregnant. Whenever you two had sex (which was quite often, it was hard to keep your hands off her body), Alexia made sure that when it was time for you to finish, you wouldn't pull out until she was sure you could. So for the next eight minutes, you were on top of your girlfriend's sweaty body while her legs tightly hugged your body, leaving you with no way to move.

It was in the midst of recovering from her ACL that the pregnancy test finally came back positive. You both were both now proud mothers to little Mar. Mar Putellas.

On the other hand alpha! Alexia would be more scared. She loves children, and she had that instinct, being Alba's older sister. From the moment they met and talked about having children, they had both agreed that they weren't ready for them.

That remained the case until your older brother had his first daughter, and you automatically made her your spoiled niece (the only one).

You lived and breathed for that little girl. She looked a lot like you did when you were a baby, something your mother and brother emphasized when you and Alexia visited them.

Alexia and you had a tacit agreement about using condoms when being intimate. You both got tested for sexually transmitted infections every two months, and obviously neither of you had any other sexual partners, so it hadn't been a problem.

Until it was.

You got pregnant.

None of you expected it. That night there was a big argument. Alexia left, slamming the door as you cried in the bathroom stall, no longer knowing what to feel.

The following week was a cold one. You didn't speak to Alexia, you didn't look at her, you had started sleeping in the guest room and always avoided seeing her in the mornings and at night.

It was like this for about two weeks, until Alexia stopped being a coward and spoke to you seriously. While it was something neither of you had planned, it was something you had both done, and therefore, you would both have to take responsibility. As soon as you heard those words, you couldn't help but feel worse; you felt like Alexia was forcing herself to take charge.

Time began to pass; Alexia seemed to change. And just as Alexia changed, so did your pregnancy. At week 11, you began to feel strange; even Alexia commented on your lack of milky smell. That day, you both suffered and cried knowing your little one would no longer be with you.

The following weeks were hell for both of you, a personal hell.

Time passed, the wound healed as best it could. A year and a half after that fateful day, the test came back positive again.

This time, Alexia didn't get angry, of course not. She cried. She cried next to you as she looked at the pregnancy test on the sink.

Alexia pampered you throughout your pregnancy. She didn't mind canceling interviews so she could get treatment for the back pain you were having. She didn't mind getting up at 2 in the morning and having to get up in 4 more hours to go buy your midnight snack. She didn't mind carrying you every time you went out and your feet started to hurt. She watched videos on social media to help you. When your bump had grown enough to slow you down and cause more back pain, she started standing behind you and bringing her hands to your lower abdomen, where she would put her hands together and take some of the weight, making you feel less heavy and allowing you to rest a little. Or when you were going for a walk on the beach and you couldn't lie face down, she remembered seeing a video where they dug a hole in the sand big enough to fit your bump comfortably so you could rest. Alexia might be able to take her heart out if you asked her to. She wouldn't make the same mistake as in the past again, and she wouldn't let it end the same way either.

The day her son was born, Alexia felt her chest fill with happiness as she saw him in your arms as he lay resting. Even as you watched her be happy with your son, you couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if your first baby had been born. You still had nightmares about that event.

She cried again, seeing how her family had grown, now determined never to be separated from her son or from you again.

Whenever you went out, both Elias and you reeked of Alexia's scent; it was her way of being present.

Over time, little Elias had grown up with the same passion that Alexia's father had passed on to her. Both Barcelona fans, they breathed and died for their colors.

[lvnleah]

baby miedema’s arrival | our little love.

The phone call came in the middle of the night. You were sound asleep, sprawled out in the middle of Beth and Viv’s bed with Twix tucked into your chest tightly. You were completely oblivious to what was going on around you. 

Beth’s phone rang at around 4am, waking both her and Viv up unexpectedly. She groggily wiped the sleep from her eyes as she sat up and read the name on her phone screen.  

“It’s Sarah.” Beth said, turning to Viv who was now fully awake. 

They both knew what it meant. 

Beth quickly answered the phone, her voice low but steady despite the heaviness of the situation. “Hello?” she said, trying to shake off the drowsiness from her sleep.

Viv sat up beside her, her body tense. She watched Beth closely, knowing from the moment Sarah’s name flashed on the screen that it was urgent.

There was a long pause on the other end before Sarah’s voice came through, soft but firm. “Hi Beth, I’m so sorry for phoning at this time but I thought I’d phone to tell you that you’re now parents again to another little baby girl.”

Beth’s heart skipped a beat, the realization setting in. Her breath caught in her throat as the weight of Sarah’s words sank in. 

Parents again. To a little baby girl. 

She glanced at Viv, whose eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and joy. Neither of them had fully processed the idea of becoming parents again properly, but now it was real.

“Is she okay?” Viv asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her concern overtaking the excitement.

“She’s healthy. Just a bit small, but she’s doing well,” Sarah responded, the warmth in her voice comforting. “If you can, we’d appreciate it if you could get to the hospital as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I reckon we can be there in around an hour if that’s okay? We just need to sort something out for Rory.” Viv explained. 

“Yeah, of course, take your time.” Sarah told them, “Congratulations on your baby girl!”

Beth’s heart raced as she quickly pulled herself from the bed. She wanted to ask a thousand questions, but she knew there wasn’t time. They needed to go, now.

Viv had already hung up the phone and was up, grabbing their overnight bag from the corner of the room, “I’ll drive to Leah’s,” she said, her voice calm but firm.

Beth scrambled to grab her own things, still feeling like she was in a bit of a daze. It had been a whirlwind, the idea of adopting again, and now it was happening. The moment had arrived.

They’d had a plan in place for weeks now. With no family living locally, they’d arranged that whilst they were at the hospital with the baby you’d go to Leah’s house. They felt bad dropping you off during the middle of the night while asleep, especially since Leah already had hands full with a newborn, a troublesome 4-year-old and a hormonally infused teenager but Leah insisted that she didn’t care. 

While Viv packed a few things for you into an overnight bag, Beth pulled up Leah’s contact. It only took a couple of rings before Leah answered the phone. 

“Hey, Beth,” Leah mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “Everything alright?”

“Hey Le, I’m sorry for waking you up but can you have Rory for us?” Beth asked her, “I know it’s four in the morning but the social worker just phoned and baby girl is her and they need us at the hospital and—”

Beth was cut off as Leah let out a soft gasp, “Oh my god the baby’s here? Of course, I’ll have Rory, bring her over and I’ll put her in Buddy’s bed or something.”

“Are you sure?” Beth asked. 

“Course I am, Roo’s no trouble.” Leah said, “I don’t care what time it is, drop her off on the way to the hospital.”

“Thank you, Le. We’ll be there soon.” Beth hung up the phone with Leah and glanced at Viv, her heart still racing. “She said it’s fine, we should get going.”

They moved quietly through the house, careful not to wake you as they grabbed the last of the things they needed. You were still fast asleep, oblivious to the life-changing moment unfolding around you. Twix was tucked tightly in your arms, and your soft breathing filled the room as Beth and Viv exchanged a look.

“She’s gonna be so happy when she wakes up,” Viv whispered. “She got a little sister like she wanted.”

Beth nodded, walking over to you one last time before they left. She gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face, her heart swelling with love for you, her first little girl.

Viv carefully lifted your overnight bag as Beth put a blanket over you before scooping you up. The house was silent except for the soft rustle of clothing and the quiet footsteps.

When they arrived at Leah’s house, the world outside still dark and quiet, Viv parked the car in front of Leah’s doorstep. Beth turned to look at you one last time, her fingers lightly brushing against your cheek. 

“We’ll be back soon, Roo.” she murmured, “With your little sister too.”

Viv opened the car door and gently lifted you out, still wrapped up in your cosy blanket, your little body curled into her chest. She nudged the doorbell softly. Within seconds, Leah appeared, looking just as groggy but eager to help.

“Hey,” Leah whispered, her voice soft in the early morning silence. “I’ll take her, don’t worry about anything.”

Viv carefully passed you to Leah, whispering a quick thanks before kissing your forehead.

“We’ll be back soon, munchkin,” Beth added, placing a gentle kiss on your temple. She didn’t want to leave you, but her heart swelled with the excitement of meeting their new baby girl.

Leah smiled, adjusting you in her arms as she backed into the doorway. “Go, go. I’ve got her. You two go meet your new daughter. Send me a photo of the new Bubba yeah?”

“Yeah, of course,” Beth nodded, “Thank you again, Le.”

The drive to the hospital was quiet. Beth kept stealing glances at Viv, whose knuckles were white against the steering wheel. They were both nervous, every red light made them want to both scream as they tried to get to the hospital. 

“You okay?” Beth finally asked, breaking the silence.

Viv nodded, her lips pressed into a line. “I’m just thinking about what she looks like… and how Roo’s going to react when she sees her.”

Beth smiled at that, her own nerves easing slightly. “She’s going to adore her. She’s going to be over the moon that she’s got a little sister.

Viv chuckled, the tension in her shoulders loosening. “Yeah, I can’t wait to see them together. I can’t believe we’ve got another little girl.”

“I know,” Beth sighed, a smile spread over her face, “Reckon she’ll look like Roo?”

Viv nodded, “I think so, it’ll be nice to see if she looks like Roo from her baby photos.”

As they pulled into the hospital car park, the sun was just beginning to rise. Both of their hearts were pounding as they grabbed their bag and hurried toward the entrance.

The maternity ward was quiet, the hushed tones of nurses and the occasional cry of a newborn echoing softly in the air. A nurse greeted them at the front desk, her smile warm despite the early hour.

“You must be here for the baby,” she said gently. “I’ll take you to Sarah now.”

Beth and Viv nodded, their hands tightly intertwined as they followed the nurse through the corridors. Their hearts felt like they might burst with every step closer to meeting their daughter.

When they reached the room, Sarah was waiting for them just outside the door. She greeted them with a soft smile. 

“She’s right in here,” Sarah said, her voice kind. “She’s a little on the smaller side but she’s doing well. The nurses have been keeping an eye on her since she was born and she’s doing good.”

“What time was she born?” Viv couldn’t help but ask.

“3:35 this morning,” Sarah smiled, “so she’s only…” she quickly checked her watch that read 5:30am, “two hours old. She only weighs 6 pounds, so she’s small, but she’s healthy. Strong set of lungs too.”

Beth and Viv exchanged a quick look, their excitement bubbling over. “Can we see her?” Beth asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“Of course,” Sarah said, stepping aside to let them through.

The room was softly lit, and in the middle of it was a small bassinet. Beth’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the tiny bundle inside. Viv reached out to gently touch Beth’s arm, grounding her as they moved closer.

The baby was impossibly small, her tiny fists curled up near her face. She had a full head of blonde hair, totally different from yours, and the softest little features. Beth’s hand flew to her mouth as tears filled her eyes.

“She’s perfect,” Beth whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“She’s so tiny,” Viv murmured, her voice barely audible. “Look at her little nose, it’s like Roo’s.”

Beth reached out a hand, brushing her fingers softly over the baby’s cheek. The little girl stirred slightly, her tiny mouth opening in a sleepy yawn before she settled again.

“You guys can hold her, you know.” Sarah smiled, standing a little further back.

“You hold her first,” Viv said to Beth, a smile on her face, “my hands are too shaky.”

“You sure?” Beth asked, getting a nod from Viv. 

Beth hesitated, her hands trembling slightly as she reached down to gently lift the tiny baby from the bassinet. She was so light, feeling like a feather in her arms. Beth cradled her carefully, tears streaming down her face as she stared down at her daughter for the first time.

“Hi, baby girl,” Beth whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m your Mummy.”

The little girl stirred, her tiny fingers curling into a soft fist as Beth held her close. Viv moved closer, her hand resting gently on Beth’s back as she leaned in to look at their new daughter.

“She’s beautiful,” Viv murmured, her own tears threatening to fall. She reached out and let her finger brush against the baby’s hand, and to her amazement, the baby’s tiny fingers wrapped around it. “She’s strong,” Viv added with a soft laugh. “Just like her sister.”

Beth chuckled through her tears, her heart swelling with love. “Roo’s going to be so protective of her.”

“She’ll have to be,” Viv teased gently. “I reckon this little one is going to be feisty.”

The baby let out a soft sound, a little coo that made both Beth and Viv laugh. Beth kissed the baby’s forehead, her heart feeling so full it might burst. She gently turned to Viv.

“Your turn,” she said, carefully transferring the baby into Viv’s arms.

Viv held her daughter close, her larger hands cradling the tiny bundle with such tenderness. She studied every little feature—the soft blonde hair, the delicate nose, the tiny chin.

“Hey, Kleintje,” Viv said softly, “I’m your Mamma.”

The baby shifted in her arms, her little face scrunching up before she let out another soft sound. Viv smiled, her heart melting. “You’re going to be so loved. Your big sister is going to spoil you rotten.”

Beth leaned her head against Viv’s shoulder, watching the two of them together. “She’s perfect, Viv,” Beth whispered.

“She is,” Viv agreed, her voice thick with emotion.

Sarah, who had been quietly standing to the side, finally stepped forward. “We’ve got some paperwork to sort out, but there’s no rush,” she said kindly. “Take all the time you need with her. What’s her name?”

Beth and Viv exchanged a glance at Sarah’s question, their expressions were soft but unsure. They hadn’t settled on a name yet—just two possibilities they weren’t entirely sold on.

“We’d been thinking Freya or Sienna,” Beth admitted, her eyes lingering on the baby in Viv’s arms. “But now…I don’t know. Neither feels right.”

Viv nodded, letting out a soft sigh as she looked down at their daughter. “She doesn’t look like a Freya to me. Or a Sienna.” Her voice was gentle but firm, as though she were already ruling the options out. “They’re nice names, but they don’t fit her.”

Beth frowned, biting her lip. “She would've been Mason if she’d been a boy,” she mused quietly. “But now I feel like we’re back to square one.”

For a moment, the room was quiet, save for the soft coos of the baby. Then Viv’s expression shifted, a small smile tugging at her lips as a thought came to her. “What about Phoebe?” she asked, her voice warm and soft.

Beth’s eyes widened slightly at the suggestion, her heart skipping a beat. “Phoebe,” she repeated, testing the name. 

It had been one of their very first ideas, months ago, but somehow it had fallen to the wayside in favour of other options. Now, looking at their tiny daughter, it suddenly felt perfect. 

“Phoebe,” she said again, this time with more certainty. “That’s it. That’s her name.”

Viv chuckled softly, her finger brushing over the baby’s tiny hand as she spoke. “Phoebe June. After your mum.”

“Yeah,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. “Little miss Phoebe June.”

The baby shifted in Viv’s arms, her little mouth opening in a sleepy yawn before she settled again, as if agreeing with their choice. Viv smiled, her eyes shining. “It suits her,” she said softly. “She’s a Phoebe.”

Sarah, who had been standing quietly nearby, smiled warmly at their decision. “Phoebe June,” she repeated, jotting it down on some paper. “It’s perfect. A beautiful name for a beautiful baby girl.”

Beth leaned her head against Viv’s shoulder, her gaze fixed on their daughter. “I can’t believe we were thinking of anything else,” she said with a quiet laugh. “She was always meant to be Phoebe.”

Viv nodded, “Welcome to the world, Phoebe June,” she murmured, brushing her finger over Phoebe’s nose. 

The next few hours were spent getting used to life with a newborn. While Sarah sorted out some paperwork, Beth and Viv were shown all of the basics they would need to know about life with a newborn. 

Beth and Viv spent all morning doting on Phoebe, both overwhelmed with love and excitement. They took turns holding her, each marvelling at the tiny life that had just become part of their family.

Beth’s phone buzzed, and she glanced down to see a message from Leah: Roo’s awake. Told her about the baby being here, and she’s already planning what toys to give her. No rush; take your time, we’re all good here x

Beth showed Viv the text, and they both laughed softly. “She’s already head over heels,” Beth said.

Viv laughed, looking down at the baby in her arms, “You better be prepared for your big sis, Phee.”

“Phee?” Beth asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, Phee,” Viv nodded, “She’s our little Phee.”

Hours later, after the initial paperwork was signed and the nurses confirmed Phoebe was ready to leave with them, Beth and Viv prepared to head home. Beth carefully placed Phoebe in the tiny car seat they’d brought, securing her with a gentleness that only came with experience. Viv hovered nervously, adjusting the blanket and double-checking the straps.

“You’re going to drive like a grandma, aren’t you?” Beth teased, noticing Viv’s serious expression as she buckled herself in.

“Of course,” Viv shot back. “Precious cargo on board.”

The drive home was quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and occasional coos or whimpers from Phoebe. The normal fifteen-minute drive ended up taking thirty minutes because Viv drove so carefully. 

“Welcome home, Phee!” Beth cooed as she took the car seat out of the car. 

Viv carried the bags inside while Beth gently lifted Phoebe’s car seat out of the car. Together, they stepped into their quiet home, a peaceful contrast to the whirlwind of emotions they’d experienced at the hospital.

The living room was cosy, the soft glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. Viv set the bag down and carefully unbuckled Phoebe from her car seat, lifting her into her arms. Beth busied herself setting up the bassinet they’d prepared weeks ago, glancing over at Viv, who was swaying gently with Phoebe.

“She’s so tiny,” Viv murmured, her voice filled with awe. “I don’t think I’ve ever held a baby this small.”

Beth smiled, “Roo’s gonna seem massive compared to Phee.” She moved closer and gently ran a finger along Phoebe’s cheek. “It’s so strange, ain’t it?”

The next few hours passed in a blur. Beth and Viv spent the quiet time adjusting to life with Phoebe at home. They soaked in the peacefulness, knowing it wouldn’t last long. Sure enough, as the clock ticked closer to your arrival, the tranquillity gave way to anticipation.

Right on cue, the front door opened, and chaos bursted into the house.

“Is she here? Where’s my sister?!” Your excited voice echoed through the hallway as you bounded into the house, Buddy hot on her heels, giggling just as loudly.

“Girls! Wait—Buddy, Roo!” Leah called after you both, stepping inside, carrying Rugrat inside in her car seat.

Both of you stopped, turning to face Leah with matching grins. “We need to use our indoor voices, yeah?” Leah said gently, crouching down to their level. “The baby is only a little, so we have to be extra careful. And let’s take our shoes off and wash our hands before we say hi, okay?”

You nodded eagerly, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Okay! But where is she?”

“She’s in the living room,” Viv said, stepping into the hallway with a smile. “But Auntie Le is right, wash your hands first, yeah?”

“Okay, Mamma!” You nodded, running off into the kitchen with Buddy. 

Leah laughed softly, shaking her head. “They’re so excited,” she murmured to Viv and Beth, who both chuckled knowingly.

“You look shattered yourself, Le,” Beth commented, noting Leah’s exhausted face, “Rough night with the baby?”

“Something like that,” Leah chuckled, setting the car seat on the plush carpet in the living room, “This one woke up after you guys dropped Roo off. And then Monkey woke up as well. Thankfully, the only two that remained asleep were Buddy and Roo.”

“Hopefully, it won’t be as bad tonight. You can always call Jordan to come round and help, right?” Viv wondered.

“Thankfully, yeah. They have the game against West Ham tomorrow, so she’s already offered to have Buddy at hers, and Rugrat too if I need a breather. I think I might take her up on that offer so I can spend some quality time with Monkey,” Leah explained, bending down to unbuckle Rugrat out of her car seat and scoop her into her arms, “Ooh, we’re awake, are we? Do you want to meet your new little cousin, as well?”

“They’re going to be best friends, aren’t they?” Beth grinned, peering down at Pheobe, who was still asleep, “Who’d have thought, eh?”

“It still can’t quite wrap my head around it,” Leah murmured, holding Rugrat as she gently sat her up and took her small cardigan of her, “Never in a million years did I ever think something like this could happen. My family are still in shock.”

“That’s to be expected,” Viv responded, “What was your Mum’s reaction?”

“Just… pure shock. Just like everyone else. Jord’s family too,” Leah admitted with a chuckle, “They’ve all been saints though with helping out. J adores her.”

“We washed our hands!” Buddy shouted as she ran through into the living room, as you trailed behind her, “Now can we hold her?”

Once you had scrubbed your hands so thoroughly that even Leah joked you’d polished them, you made your way back into the living room with Buddy trailing behind. Your excitement from earlier had shifted into a quiet, nervous energy as you approached the couch where Beth was now sitting, holding Phoebe.

Buddy climbed up onto the arm of the couch again, peering down at the baby with wide eyes. “She’s so tiny. Just like my sissy!” she whispered. “Mummy, look!”

You hung back near the doorway, your hands twisting the hem of your shirt. You couldn’t look away from Phoebe, but you couldn’t seem to move closer either.

Beth noticed immediately. “Munchkin, you okay?”

You nodded quickly, “She’s… she’s really little,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“She is,” Beth agreed, “Do you want to hold her?”

You glanced down at your hands, your feet shifting nervously. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

Beth quickly handed Phoebe to Viv before crossing the room to crouch in front of you. “Oh, she’s going to love you. You’re her big sister.”

“But what if I’m not good at it?” you asked, tears pricking your eyes. 

Viv spoke up from the couch. “Roo, You don’t have to ‘know how.’ You just have to be yourself.”

Leah soon chimed in, “Roo, you’ve been waiting for this day forever. Remember how excited you were?”

You hesitated before nodding, taking a small step forward. Beth held out her hand, and you grasped it tightly as she led you to the couch.

“Come sit here, next to Mamma,” Beth suggested, patting the cushion. “We’ll help you hold her.”

You climbed onto the couch, sitting next to Viv. Your heart was pounding as Beth carefully took Phoebe from Viv and lowered her into your lap, helping you support her tiny head.

“She’s so soft,” you whispered, your nerves melting into awe as you looked down at your baby sister for the first time.

Phoebe’s eyes fluttered open briefly, and you gasped. “She looked at me!”

“She did, didn’t she?” Viv laughed, nodding her head, “I think you’re the first person she’s properly looked at, Roo!”

“What’s her name?” You asked, realising that you forgot to ask after all of the excitement had overtaken your thoughts. 

“Her name is Phoebe.” Viv answered, “Do you think it suits her?”

“Yeah!” you nodded, “Hi Phee-Phee! I’m your big sis!”

Buddy leaned closer from beside you, “Hi, Phoebe!” she whispered loudly, making everyone laugh. “Why she sleeping? When she gon’ wake up? She need to play with us! Her and sissy can play!”

Beth chuckled softly, brushing a hand over Phoebe’s tiny head. “She’s sleeping because she’s so little. Babies need lots of rest to grow big and strong.”

Leah added with a smile, “They're tiny right now. And they won’t be able to play for a while, Bubba. But when they’re older, you two can show her all your games.”

Buddy’s eyes lit up. “I show ‘em my dinos!”

“She’s so small,” you whispered, like you were afraid to speak too loudly. “Will she always be this tiny?”

Viv chuckled. “No, she’ll grow to be big, just like you. But for now, we have to be extra gentle with her, okay?”

You nodded seriously, adjusting your hands slightly as Beth helped support Phoebe’s head. “Okay. I’ll be gentle. I promise.”

Phoebe let out a little yawn, and your eyes went wide as she stirred in your arms. “Did you hear that? She made a sound!”

Beth grinned. “She did. I think she likes being with her big sister already.”

You looked up, a small smile creeping onto your face. “I think I like her, too.”

As you cuddled Phoebe on the sofa, Beth and Viv fell into an easy conversation with Leah, who held Rugrat in her own arms. You and Buddy of course had to tell them about everything you’d done throughout the day while they were away, giving them every little detail. 

Beth raised an eyebrow, “Where’s Monkey?”

Leah let out a soft sigh, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Don’t ask… things are a bit… tough right now,” she said quietly, clearly worried.

Buddy piped up from her spot beside you, crossing her arms and pouting. “Monks’ has done nuffin’ but cry! I think she been silly!”

Leah smiled at Buddy but shook her head gently. “No, Buddy, Monkey’s not bein’ silly. She’s had a baby, remember? That can make her a bit sad right now, but she’s with Auntie Katie who’s looking after her.”

“Oh,” Buddy said, her expression softening as she looked up at Leah. She then nodded as if she understood. “I cheer her up with Lego!” she declared, as if the solution to everything was that simple.

Leah laughed softly, her voice filled with affection. “I’m sure that will help, Bubba. You’re very good at making people feel better.”

Just as Buddy declared her plan to cheer up Monkey, Phoebe’s tiny face scrunched up, and she let out a sudden wail, startling everyone.

You froze as her tiny cries grew stronger,  “Why’s she crying? Did I do something wrong?”

Beth was quick to reassure you, her voice calm. “No, Munchkin, you didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes babies just cry.”

“But—what if she’s upset because of me?” you asked, your bottom lip wobbling as Phoebe’s cries grew louder.

“She’s not upset with you, Roo.” Viv said, “She’s just trying to tell us something but because she can’t talk like you yet, she cries instead.”

“She don’ like sitting. She wan’ crawl?” 

Leah chuckled softly. “She’s too little to crawl, Bubba. But that’s a good guess.”

Beth crouched down in front of you, her eyes soft. “I think she’s just hungry, munchkin.”

You watched as Beth carefully lifted Phoebe out of your arms. “But… are you sure she’s not crying because of me?”

“I’m absolutely sure,” Beth said, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “You were doing a great job holding her. She’s just telling us she needs her milk.”

You watched as Beth cradled Phoebe and began to soothe her, her cries slowly quieting as Viv prepared a bottle for her. “See?” Beth said, smiling at you. “It’s nothing to worry about. She’s calming down now.”

Buddy crossed her arms, nodding like she had it all figured out. “I get grumpy I’ hungry too. Phee like me!”

Leah laughed, pulling Buddy into a playful hug with her other free arm. “You might be onto something there, Bubba.”

“Roaaaaar!” Buddy leaned forward in Rugrat’s face, startling the newborn and causing her to let out an ear-piercing cry, “Mummy! She cryin’ I don’ like dat. Make it stop!” She exclaimed, holding her hands over her ears.

“Oh, Bubba,” Leah exhaled a sigh, instantly trying to soothe the baby in her arms, “Rugrat is only a tiny baby. You can’t do things like that, because it’ll scare her, remember?”

“I only wanted to cheer ‘er up tho, Mummy!” Buddy scrunched her face up in disagreement, “Rugrat’s borin’ an’ don’t do nuffin’! Send ‘er back!”

Leah chuckled, shaking her head, “Silly, Bubba. I can’t send her back. She’s part of our family now, isn’t she? Your little sister. You have to be a good big sister and protect her.”

“I can do dat! I can protect ‘er!” Buddy declared, puffing out her chest, “I be da bestest big sister!”

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching Phoebe calm down as Beth fed her. Then, you looked up at Viv. “She’s not upset with me?”

Viv shook her head with a smile. “Not one bit. She loves you already, Roo. You’re her big sister.”

You nodded. “Okay. When she’s done eating, can I maybe cuddle her again?”

“Of course you can,” Beth said, beaming at you. “She loves being with you.”

The evening soon came quickly. Leah, Buddy and Rugrat left after a little while, Leah quickly helped tidy around the house. After they left, the house fell into a calm stillness. Beth cleaned up the kitchen while Viv settled on the couch with Phoebe cradled gently on her chest. You sat beside them, your eyes growing heavier with each passing minute.

Phoebe had just finished another feed and was now fast asleep, her tiny hand resting against Viv’s shirt. Viv traced gentle circles on her back, her spare arm wrapped around you. 

You shifted closer, tucking yourself into Viv’s side, your head resting against her shoulder. “She’s really small, Mamma,” you mumbled sleepily, your voice muffled.

“She is, isn’t she?” Viv murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head.

You scooted closer, leaning fully into Viv’s side. “I love her a lot already.”

“I know you do,” Viv said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

As the night stretched on, you slowly began to fall asleep. Beth returned from tidying up the kitchen and paused in the doorway, her heart swelling at the sight of you curled up against Viv, Phoebe fast asleep on Viv’s chest.

“She’s completely out,” Beth murmured, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she walked over.

“Both of them are,” Viv whispered, glancing down at you with a tender look.

Beth leaned down to press a kiss to your cheek, then one to Phoebe’s head. “Perfect, isn’t it?”

Viv nodded, her arms tightening just slightly around both of you. “It is.”

[mapswithoutwyoming]

This is really a nuanced topic. Our concept of “consensual chess” and “nonconsensual chess” often is overly focused on contextless interactions and doesn’t take into account the various social forces that can work to manufacture consent in people who might agree to a game they don’t actually want to play, but on the other hand, to what extent can any individual person be responsible for understanding whether someone who accepts their proposal for a friendly match is feeling indirectly coerced? I’m by no means an expert, but just based on what I’ve heard from accounts of chess games I’ve found on various databases, there are a few things that I think people should keep in mind.

Are you kidding ??? What the **** are you talking about man ? You are a biggest looser i ever seen in my life ! You was doing PIPI in your pampers when i was beating players much more stronger then you! You are not proffesional, because proffesionals knew how to lose and congratulate opponents, you are like a girl crying after i beat you! Be brave, be honest to yourself and stop this trush talkings!!! Everybody know that i am very good blitz player, i can win anyone in the world in single game! And "w"esley "s"o is nobody for me, just a player who are crying every single time when loosing, ( remember what you say about Firouzja ) !!! Stop playing with my name, i deserve to have a good name during whole my chess carrier, I am Officially inviting you to OTB blitz match with the Prize fund! Both of us will invest 5000$ and winner takes it all! I suggest all other people who's intrested in this situation, just take a look at my results in 2016 and 2017 Blitz World championships, and that should be enough… No need to listen for every crying babe, Tigran Petrosyan is always play Fair ! And if someone will continue Officially talk about me like that, we will meet in Court! God bless with true! True will never die ! Liers will kicked off…

yeah I mean I don't think there's anything wrong with playing chess. as long as it's between 2 consenting adults

[raineyconstellations]

As Long As You’d Like || Reader x Bob

“ Wow, congratulations! “

It had been decided, Robert Reynolds, Bob, would be permitted to leave the tower. Finally after almost a year of counseling and on and off training sessions he was being included in field operations.

You offered him a lopsided smile as you lowered the heat on the pan and wiped your hands on the front of your apron fully turning to take him in. You really couldn’t help the laugh that left your lips as you saw the man before you seemingly trying to fold in on himself. He looked everything but excited, more like a cat that had been harnessed and was about to be thrown out into the world for the first time.

“ I-I’m just not sure I’m…100 percent ready you know. “

He shrugged as he hid his hands in the oversized sleeves of his shirt, but even through the fabric you could already see the nervous fidgeting. His eyes darted left and right, up and down, unsure where it would be safe to rest. You noticed whenever Bob was about to say the worst things about himself he was always reluctant to look you in the eye.

“ Robert Reynolds.”

At the sound of his full name he stiffened, just like a cat that had been spooked and you swore you could hear him gulp down his negative comments. His fingers flexed but they remained at his side refusing to nervously tear at the already sensitive skin surrounding his nails.

“ Give yourself a little more credit bud, I know it’s sometimes a little hard to step back and see our accomplishments but you good sir. You have come a long way from where you started and you should be very proud of that. “

You turned away from him but not before seeing the tops of his ears burn red in embarrassment.

Your attention shifted to the dishes piled up high in the sink and with a sigh you motioned him to step forward and help you. You could have thrown them in the dishwasher, but truth be told you hated those things and washing dishes by hand was always therapeutic. It was also something mundane, something ordinary that Bob had quite taking a liking to helping you with as well.

He stumbled towards the sink , arms raised already memorizing the routine and you without skipping a beat leaned forward and rolled his sleeves up before handing him the dish towel.

“ I guess I could only play Rapunzel for so long. “

“ Bob, even Rapunzel left her tower. I’ll give you a cast iron skillet if it would make you feel better.“

“ Will you be my Pascal. “

“ Only if I’m allowed to sit on your shoulders. “

You splashed him and the both of you shared a couple laughs, while the tension hadn’t completely left him it was at least a little better and those negative words Bob had thought about throwing at himself had burst like the bubbles in the sink.

═════════════════════════════

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶

After the first mission it was like a bomb had been set off. The team remained busy and poor Bob was strung along without a chance to breathe or even think for that matter. Valentina called it public exposure therapy, aka the team really needed to be seen publicly and garner good press.

For the majority of your time, there was not much you could do but cook for yourself and the furry friends that had been entrusted to your care while everyone else was away. It became quite boring quite fast and on many days you found yourself pacing Bob’s little reading nook dusting the area for what seemed to be the 50th time.

You didn’t want to admit it, but the absence of Bob was felt. While you had been around the team, they would come and go whenever they pleased, but Bob remained a constant presence and now you were missing that presence.

On days where the harsh words of your own conscious were too much to take ; normal, boring, plain - you would take yourself out to explore the city. You would immerse yourself, exploring the food scene discovering what new recipes or ingredients you could bring to the team. You thought about Bob and at the end of everyday, you would bring something back to the tower that reminded you of him.

Sometimes a book, a bookmark, or maybe some teas you thought would help Bob through his sleepless nights or lazy mornings. Sometimes you would even take cuttings from local flowers and press them into the pages of the books you brought home for him. On days you didn’t feel like wondering out, you would leave sticky notes around his nook.

‘ The ole lady said this recipe was good for sore throats . ‘

‘ This one is good for sniffles. ‘

‘ Hearty, packed with potatoes. You like potatoes. ‘

‘ I am Pascal and Pascal is me. ‘

‘ I miss Rapunzel. ‘

═════════════════════════════

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶

Where he had found you had surprised him. Body curled up in the sofa chair located in his reading nook, head pressed to your chest in what looked to be an uncomfortable sleeping position. A small bubble of drool at the corner of your lips, and one of the books he had finished before leaving on these publicity missions cracked open in your lap.

The more he let his eyes wonder the more he discovered. What had been an empty coffee table beside the chair was now stacked high with a pile of books. Titles he hadn’t seen in his collection before leaving, books that had also been decorated in sticky notes. He picked one up.

‘ Spice cake, Bob likes cinnamon. ‘

‘Saw a cat, looked like Bob. ‘

‘ New shop on 5th, Bob might like. ‘

‘ Weighted blanket for Bob. ‘

Every sticky note was addressed to him and the more he read the more the warmth in his chest grew. It felt full, like at any moment it could burst and he couldn’t help the prickle at the corner of his eyes .

Cause never in his life, did Bob think that he would have someone waiting for him. Someone missing him, who wanted him around so often to do mundane things with like wash dishes, or cook. You were the most normal abnormal thing in his life and he couldn’t help the awful bad thoughts asking him “ Until when? “

“ As long as you’d like.”

He jumped not realizing that he had asked out loud and you grinned as you smacked your lips then closed your eyes and went back to blissful sleep. Your body sinking further into the couch, as if finally finding the perfect state of peace.

As long as he’d like. He smiled as he sat with his back against the couch, laying his head on the tops of your legs where you instinctively ran your fingers through his curls. His eyes closed and all the tension he had felt these past few weeks melted away.

═════════════════════════════

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶

[mythalsknickers]

The Bullying and Doxxing

This has been edited to clarify my points 6.6.2025

It has taken me longer than I would like to put this into words, due to life giving me all the good things I have been working for at once. I am going to make this abundantly clear for everyone.

What happened to Idontevenlikedragonage should have never happened. Not because we are all rainbows and toxic positivity, but rather we as a community should never allow people to feel comfortable enough that they can dox someone. In my thirty one years of existence there has been one cardinal rule of the internet.

If you dont like something or someone's take ignore it.

At the end of the day we all like engaging with media be it on a hyper critical way or on the barest amount of engagement. However it does not matter if it is a survey, an analysis, or someone's opinion. You do not need to escalate to bullying them off the internet and doxxing.

This is different for real beliefs that translate beyond the videogame space such as Zionism, TERF ideologies, White Supremacy, Racism etc. That being said the more engagement you give a piece the bigger platform they have. The best strategy I have seen across social media platforms is blocking and not engaging period.

DOXXING IS ILLEGAL.

The fact this was done on Anon, very clearly illustrates that they know what they are doing is wrong, and they do not want to face the consequences of their actions. However, I am ultimately not surprised as to date to my knowledge this fandom has done the following;

Bullied Jenifer Hepler off the Internet

My fandom knowledge has said this was due to the alleged character assassination of Anders. However someone did bring up Proto-gamergate and while I am still looking into the events leading to her being doxxed and her family threatened but it is possible for these two things to exist in the same space and time. It is still bullying and harassment.

Disclaimer: Her TERF and Zionism ideologies are not condoned

Bullied David Gaider, Mike Laidlaw, Trick Weekes, and John Epler into Locking their Accounts Multiple Times.

I am specifically referencing a group of Solavellan enjoyers known as Sollavellan Wives due to their alarming similarity to Snape Wives from the Harry Potter Franchise. To MY KNOWLEDGE this does not include anyone with nuanced versions of Lavellan, or Solavellans who are capable of disagreeing with the the creators but remaining rational about it. Additionally this comes to mind about Emmerich sleeping like a giraffe or Solas having a breeding kink, the devs are allowed to have fun, they are allowed to not like a character they write. I will be real as a budding novelist and fanfiction author I legitimately do not like some of my characters. I have a character who I literally mentally shake like a maraca because they keep changing what they want. At the end of the day though this does not change my dedication for my characters or the work I will put in to see that their voice is heard.

Hate mobbed A WOC author for her portrayal of Vivienne, using the fic as an example of systemic violence against WOC characters, and Improper Tagging.

Bullied Voice Actors and Devs for having different opinions on the characters.

Bullied Concept Artists for releasing concept art.

Y'all need to learn to enjoy life and nature more, I am tired of seeing creators and people who simply enjoy the game bullied for daring to have a different opinion. There is a difference between bigotry and use of stereotypes and someone genuinely having an opinion for no reason that the media you consumed is not great. The above actions are not the fault of the victims but rather the so called alleged fans who decided to bully them off the internet. Congratulations you are as bad as the Star Wars Fandom and that is not a compliment.

DA is what you make it, Veilguard is what you make it.

I have been in this franchise since ye-olden days and I have enjoyed every minute of it. I have also actively enjoyed Veilguard to the point it is competing with my UNMODDED Inquisition run on XBOX for playable hours, mind you this was when you had to leave the machine on and the game running for the Wartable to it's thing.

Also if by some miracle I have mutuals or followers/following that are contributing to this bullying and doxxing bullshit in the fandom. Please do reach out and let me know. They do not speak for my beliefs or opinions. Fandom should be our place from the world to take our selves less seriously, and enjoy the media we all love.

Racists, TERFS, Zionists, and those practicing other forms of Bigotry please exit stage left. You are not welcome here.

[band--psycho]

Poly!141 x Reader - Stop The Wedding (Part 6)

Thank you all so much for the continued love you're giving this story! It honestly means so much to me! 💛

I hope you all enjoy this part 💛

Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated! Thank you for all the continued support 💛

Requests are open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over (thank you to everyone who's requested a story so far, I'm working my way through them!)

I do not give permission for any of my works to be copied or translated onto this site or other platforms!

Catch up on the previous part here: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 /Part 4 / Part 5

Warnings: Feelings of anger, confusion, sadness, jealousy, brief mentions of death/being killed/being shot, angst

COD Modern Warfare Masterlist /Taskforce 141 Masterlist /Join My Taglist

You were lying on your sofa, simply reading and relaxing after what had been an exhausting day of wedding preparation. 

Your social battery was absolutely drained, you didn’t want to talk to anyone; you just wanted to read your current book and chill, before going back to work. 

Thankfully, Phillip knew you well enough to know how socially exhausting today had been, and decided to go out with some work colleagues to give you some space. 

He was good like that. 

You were so engrossed in the book, that the sudden ringing of your doorbell made you jump a little. 

You scowled at the door as though the inanimate object itself was the source of your distraction.

You knew it wasn’t Phillip, he’d made sure to take his keys in case you fell asleep before he got home.

Knowing that it wasn’t your fiance at the door made you a lot more reluctant to open it; especially given that it was 9pm and starting to get dark outside. 

But then the bell rang again, followed by several quick yet short knocks. 

Whoever it was was certainly persistent. 

A defeated sigh left your lips as you placed the book down on the small coffee table next to you.

All you wanted to do was read and have a peaceful evening, was that too much to ask for?

You’d only just got to your feet before the ringing of the bell came once again. 

“Just gimme sec, jeez,” you shouted from the living room, quickly walking into the hallway and opening the door. 

“Look, I don’t know what-” you began your voice trailing off as you stared at the four men in front of you. 

“Nope,” you pretty much shouted at them, attempting to slam the door in their faces, but the door was halted by Simon’s foot on the bottom of the door frame. 

He didn't flinch.

Not even a little.

“We just wanna talk, sweetheart ” John spoke, leaning his head around the door slightly so that he could see you. 

“I don't want to talk to you,” you snapped back, “and don’t call me, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” John apologised, even in the dim light of your porch, you could see the hurt flicker in his eyes at your words. 

“How did you even know where I live?” 

“We had some help with that,” Johnny admitted, his voice coming from behind John, his figure hidden.

You didn’t need to ask who. 

You knew who. 

Kate Laswell.

Well now you just felt like all your privacy had been violated; fantastic. 

“Please, just let us explain why we’re here,” Kyle urged. 

You couldn’t understand what had changed in such a short time with Kyle, one minute he was congratulating you on your engagement and apologising for his partners uninvited arrival at your workplace, the next he was partaking with them in an uninitiated arrival at your home. 

Another sigh fell from your lips; knowing that there was no way you were going to be able to close this door with Simon’s foot wedged on the frame.

You didn’t really want to let them in. 

But what choice did you really have? 

Your mobile was in the living room so you couldn’t exactly call anyone. 

“Y/n, please,” Simon's plea filled your ears; you suppose you should be grateful he wasn’t forcing himself into your home, you knew his strength, knew he could easily just shove the door and be inside the house already. 

You pulled the door back, away from Simon’s foot and looked at all four of them, crossing your arms across your chest, trying to keep control of the anger burning inside of you. 

Your eyes met John first; hearing a relieved sigh fall from his lips. 

Next to him was Simon, unreadable as ever.

Behind Simon was Johnny, who you noticed was wearing the hoodie you stole and slept in for a month when you were dating. 

And next to the Scotsman was Kyle, who looked nervous, you noticed how much he was fidgeting behind John.

It was weird; you’d never really seen Kyle nervous before. 

And his nervousness only added to your confusion as to why they were here.

What were they expecting? 

To just pop back up in your life and waltz back in as your  partners like nothing had ever happened?

“What are you doing here?” Your questioned firmly, part of you desperate to have an explanation as to why they were here. 

The other part, knowing that their answer, regardless of what it was, was probably going to involve you cancelling your wedding which just simply enraged you. 

“We need to talk,” John stated, his voice continuing to remain calm despite the evident rage in your words and actions. 

“I gathered that,” you snapped back coldly, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm yourself down before talking again.

“What about?”

“About Graves,” Johnny answered, his eyes meeting yours. 

Graves?

Phillip? 

They wanted to talk to you about Phillip?

Johnny called him Graves instead of Phillip….like he knew him…how the hell could he or any of them know Phillip. 

Your stomach flipped as your confusion grew, "Phillip?"

“Just let us come in and we’ll explain,” Kyle stated; you knew letting them in was probably going to be a bad idea.

You knew they wouldn’t hurt you, not physically at least; but that didn’t mean that you weren’t going to be more pissed off with them by the time they left.

Slamming the door in their faces wasn’t an option either, evidently. 

And you couldn’t help but be curious, curious about what shit they’d managed to make up to persuade you to not marry your Fiancé. 

You were certain it was about that subject at least.

You stared at them; the four men you'd loved, the four men you'd trusted with everything, and stepped back, pulling the door fully open. 

“You’ve got ten minutes, after that I’m calling the police,” you warned, watching as the four men filed into your home, walking down the hallway and into your living room. 

It was a bizarre feeling, seeing people that you thought you’d spend a future with in a home you’d built (metaphorically) with the person you were actually going to spend your future with.

You noticed each of them looking around at different things; a sense of familiarity washing over each of them as they recognised things that used to live within the walls of their home. 

Little things, like candles, pictures, throws that were over the sofa. 

“Talk,” you instructed, making them all turn and look at you. 

“You can’t marry Graves,” Johnny began, taking a step closer to you. 

You backed away, a bitter laugh leaving your lips as you shook your head, “none of you, have the right to tell me who I can and cannot marry.”

“He’s not who you think he is,” Kyle continued, mimicking Johnny's steps.

His words made your blood boil. 

“Pot kettle,” you snarked back.

None of the men before you turned out to be the people you believed them to be; but Kyle had the audacity to say that about the man you were marrying; and your response signified that. 

“Y/n, you can’t trust him,” John stated, only adding to your anger. 

“But I can trust you right, John?” The sarcasm was dripping in your voice; and you didn’t even care at the frustrated and hurt look he gave you. 

Part of you felt like you were going insane; the people who broke your heart were standing here telling you that you couldn’t trust your soon to be husband,  without actually giving you any reason why.

“Why do you seem to believe I can’t trust him?” You asked exasperatedly, losing your patience,

Simon took a few strides towards you, you went to back away but the cabinet behind you halted your movements. 

“He shot Johnny,” his tone was quiet, as though he was worried there was someone outside of this room was going to hear him. 

You felt all the rage inside you freeze at his words for a brief moment. 

Your eyes searched Simon’s; looking for an indication that he was lying, but there was none, all you could see was truth in his eyes. 

You glanced behind Simon’s muscular figure to look at Johnny; searching for confirmation of Simon’s accusation. 

“Shot me in the arm when we were in Mexico, after trying to kill Si and me,” Johnny explained, taking his hoodie off to show you the scar on his arm. 

This couldn’t be real. 

They had to be making it up to just stop the wedding from happening….but something inside you, something deep down inside of you couldn’t help but believe the words they were saying. 

“You’re lying,” you whispered, unsure of who you were trying to convince, them or yourself. 

“I’m not,” Simon stated, his eyes meeting yours, “you know I’m not.”

Simon kept certain things from you during your relationship; that was true, but he never lied to you. 

Never. 

He was always straight with you about the things he felt comfortable talking about and if he didn’t want to talk about something, he simply told you that. 

“He’ll try to deny it,” he continued, “Or he’ll say we’re twisting the story to get you back,” 

His voice was firm, but his eyes were soft, you felt a slight ache in your heart as you stared into them, the moments you shared flashing through your mind, the good and the bad.

“Isn’t that what you’re trying to do, twist the story?” You whispered, tearing your eyes away from Simon’s to look at the others. 

“Why did he try to kill you?” The words felt foreign leaving your mouth, your mind barely processing the words you were saying. 

“He had his orders,” John answered simply as Simon took a few steps away from you, allowing you to see the captain and the others. 

A shaky breath escaped your lips.

What did you do with this information?

Phillip was a soldier, you knew that; you’d assumed given his job that he’d killed people; just like the men currently in this room had. 

But trying to kill Johnny and Simon….it made you feel sick to your stomach and confused.

“Ye cannae trust him and ye certainly canne marry him,” Johnny spoke softly, clearly seeing how confused you were by what was going on. 

“Do you guys just enjoy ruining my life?” You scoffed, feeling the tears beginning to form in your eyes, attempting desperately to blink them away. 

You were not going to cry. 

Not in front of them. 

Not again.

You refused to. 

“Quite the opposite, love,” Simon replied back solemnly, “we fuckin’ hate it.”

“Then why can’t you just let me be happy?”

“You can be happy, with anyone else,” John responded back softly.

“Just not him,” Kyle finished; wanting nothing more than to hold you so you could cry properly whilst he comforted you.

You glanced up at the clock, realising that their time had ended and now they had to leave, before you completely broke down. 

“Your ten minutes is up,” you pointed out to them, nodding towards the clock on the wall.

“Y/n-,” Johnny started, reaching out to you, not wanting to leave you like this, not again. 

But you shrugged away his touch; worried that you would lose what little composure you were holding on to if you let his fingers linger on you. 

“Get out,”

Your words were harsh, anger and sadness morphing together and leaving no room for a discussion to be had.

"I'm sorry," Kyle whispered his apology to you as they all began to file out of the room.

It was only when you heard the door close that you let yourself break down; trying to wrap your head around the fact that the man you’re in love with tried to kill two of the people who’d once been as important to you as he was. 

Taglist:

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[lil-quinnie]

About walls and whispers

warnings: alcohol use implied, weed and toxic family dynamics.

+18 minors get out.

Summary: They promised it meant nothing but secrets have a way of unraveling.

Eddie x Rick reefer's little sister!Reader

The final year of high school always drags a little more than it should. Classes stop mattering the way they used to. The scratched-up desks, the endless hallways that once felt like mazes... now they’re just worn paths, walked too many times.

It’s a strange sort of limbo. Not quite the end, not quite freedom. You’d been counting the days until you could leave. Not out of eagerness, but exhaustion. Tired of being watched. Measured. Whispered about. Sister of Rick Reefer.Everyone knew ,e veryone feared. And you had learned to wear that fear like armor.

Eddie was leaving too, and this time, for real.

Two extra years in the same building, drifting through classrooms like he didn’t belong anywhere. The kind of guy who failed the tests but never missed the conversations that mattered. He knew too much of what was never written on the blackboards and yet, there he always was, sitting in the back of the room.

You had crossed paths forever. You already knew the sound of his footsteps. The faint scent of cigarettes clinging to his jacket, not by choice, but because of the orbit you both shared.

Eddie worked for your brother. He was always around, ghosting through the house with that silent, sharp presence. He never talked much, especially not to you.

At home, he barely looked anyone in the eye. He stayed quiet, on edge, like he couldn’t wait to leave. Sometimes it felt like he hated being there.

But at school, he was different, louder! Unapologetically present. He filled the space without trying. His voice always carried, cracking jokes, calling people out, talking like he didn’t care who was listening. It made you wonder how someone could flick so easily between silence and fire.

Still, you noticed everything.

You weren’t friends. But you weren’t strangers either. Just two people bound by proximity, separated by silence.

The gym was stifling, as always. But this time, the ceiling fans had been replaced with weak spotlights strung between crooked banners that read “CONGRATS, GRADUATES” in faded gold letters.

There was something almost beautiful in how pathetic it all looked. Like the school was trying too hard to matter one last time.

You walked in with no urgency, thin black dress, hair down, eyes lined too dark to be casual. The lipstick didn’t match the occasion, and maybe that was the point. You’d had enough of handshakes and half-hugs, of fake laughs or people congratulating you for something that didn’t feel like an accomplishment.

And then he showed up.

Eddie showed up the way he always did; Late.

Hands stuffed in his pockets, dragging the weight of too many bad choices behind him. Gray shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos inked like old confessions on his skin. He didn’t look like he belonged, but when he saw you he stopped like the world had stuttered. You looked at each other like something had already been said, like recognition had arrived long before words ever could.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, trying to sound lighter than you felt.

“I came for the diploma,” he said with a smirk.

“Two years late.”

“Yeah. I was waiting on you.”

You almost smiled, but swallowed it before it could show.

Your gaze flicked to the lights, the exits, anything to soften the ache curling under your ribs.

“Are you going to Steve’s after?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes still on you. “Got business to handle.”

“Guess I’ll see you later, then.”

He nodded once before some friends shouted his name, pulling him away. But even as he left, you caught him watching you again, and again and again.

Not in an obvious way, Eddie never did anything obvious. But the glance he gave before turning away was slow and reluctant, like it cost him something. You weren’t sure when it started, that loaded silence between you but a look across the hallway began to burn more than a conversation ever could.

There were always people around. Rick’s friends. The noise of your house. Teachers. Strangers. But somehow, the air between you and Eddie always felt different. Tuned to some quieter frequency only the two of you could hear.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

He passed by the drink table, his shoulder brushing close to yours. Too close. You felt the warmth of his skin. Your fingers twitched. His jaw flexed.

"It was nothing" you repeat in your head a million times.

Steve’s house was packed. Sweat, weed, perfume, cheap vodka, It all blended into the kind of chaos people called fun. The hallway was a mess of limbs and laughter. You took a drink someone handed you, didn’t ask what it was. It burned going down, and that was what you want.

Eddie leaned against the wall like he wasn’t part of the party, just tolerating it. Same rolled-up sleeves. Same tattoos. Same tired eyes.

But this time, he wasn't alone.

He was talking to some girl with a fake tan and a voice like syrup. She leaned in, hand on his arm like she’d done it a thousand times. Laughing too loud at whatever bullshit he was feeding her.

He wasn’t laughing. But he wasn’t moving either.

You stood across the room, half in shadow, half in smoke. Sipped your drink like it didn’t matter but your eyes stayed on him too long.

And he found you anyway. This time, you didn’t look away. You raised your cup. Tilted your head.

Really? Her?

Then you turned and walked off before he could answer.

You ended up on the back porch. Arms resting on the railing, the night air cooler than expected. A cigarette held loose between your fingers, smoke curling toward the sky. You weren’t even smoking it. Just holding it for the wind.

And of course, he came.

He walked out like it was a coincidence. It wasn’t.

He stood beside you. Close, but not touching. Silent, for a beat too long.

“You saw,” he said finally. His hands were in his pockets. Voice low. Like he’d been caught.

You kept your eyes on the yard. “It’s not my business, Eddie.”

“She meant nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing to me,” you snapped.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” he muttered, quieter now.

You gave a slow, ironic smile. “What you do is none of my business, Munson. I just thought you had better taste.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Damn. If that’s you not caring, I wonder what it’d be like if you did.”

“I never said I didn’t care.”

Your eyes met his for the first time that night. His big brown ones burned like they had something to say.

“I said it was none of my business.”

You whispered the last part.

The silence sharpened. Pulled tight like a wire.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Whether it was your hand threading into his curls, or his fingers gripping your waist. His mouth met yours like a warning; You kissed him back like a dare.

It wasn’t sweet nor romantic.

It was all teeth, hot hands and breathless mouths. Fingers tugging your hair hard enough to sting, his grip on your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

You kissed him like you’d promised yourself you never would, your tongue explored Eddie's mouth, he tasted like smoke, beer and mints.

You knew it was forbidden, that no one could see but the only thing that went through your head was the comfort that his hands brought to your body while he devoured your kiss as if it were the last time, and maybe it was..

The kiss slammed into you, stealing your your balance and Eddie didn’t hesitate. He shoved you back against the wall, lips still crushing yours, hands already on your thigh. He gripped it hard, hauled your leg around his waist, forcing your core down onto the solid pressure of his thigh.

“Fuck,” he growled into your mouth, the word ragged. His control was fraying, you could feel it in the way his hands started grinding your hips against him, rough and hungry.

His mouth tore from yours and dragged down your neck, all tongue and teeth and heat, licking a line to the edge of your now twisted, wrinkled dress.

You squeezed the bulge in his pants — hard. He groaned, low and filthy, and it was your turn to attack. Your mouth found his neck, teeth scraping against his warm skin, leaving your mark while his fingers carved bruises into your hips.

You wanted to keep going, to explore every inch of him, but the pressure he was grinding against your center was suddenly too much — too good.

“Fuck, Eddie,” you whispered, your voice ragged, surrendering to whatever he wanted to do with you. His crooked, wicked smile made you throb, eyes burning into you with so much hunger it made your skin prickle.

His lips crashed back into yours, the kiss deep, messy, laced with something desperate. The fingers that had been tracing slow circles on your thigh slipped beneath your panties without warning.

“So wet for me,” he purred against your ear. “Poor thing... let me take care of you.”

Then his thumb found your clit, teasing it with feather-light circles,so gentle it felt unreal, like one of your late-night fantasies bleeding into life. He whispered sweet nothings while his fingers worked you with the precision of a musician, deliberate and skilled.

It didn’t take long before your body betrayed your hips stuttered, and you left a shameless, soaking mark on his pants.

When you finally pulled apart, your lips were swollen. Your heart was racing. Your cheeks burned and he looked at you with that look again.

You ignored it.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” you said fixing your lipstick

He nodded once.

“I wasn’t planning on falling in love.”

“Good,” you replied, stepping back. Smoothing your dress like nothing had happened.

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

No feelings,no mess.

Just silence. And secrets.

Hi guys, it's been a while (a long time) since I wrote so be nice to me, ok? let me know if you like it. <3

Dividers by @cursed-carmine

[madamechrissy]

He tries to fuck her at the party! HE TRIES TO FUCK HER AT THE PARTY!!! Reader said she doesn’t want a purely sexual relationship AND THE FIRST THING HE DOES WHEN THEY SEE EACHTOHER AGAIN IS KISS AND FINGER HER!!!! Reader baby STAND UP! She was gonna do it if they weren’t interested 😭 hold your ground, don’t let this man back in so easy

I wanna kiss Jenna so bad!!! I love her 🧡🧡🧡 #1 bestie fr. And the obligatory ngh nanami 😫!!! Also the muffins can’t be that good that it got both men moaning 😭 calm yourself

Congratulations to gojo FINALLY wanting to change careers. Can’t have your cake and eat it too 😒 dumb bitch. I don’t know how it is for men but I know woman typically have a hard time finding a job when they quit sex work. With all the stigma they don’t get taken seriously and no one wants to work with them because sex work is typically looked down upon. I know he’s hot and good looking and rich and whatever but I want him to STRUGGLE. Not saying he should be shamed or anything.

Ok I think I feel better now. Amazing chapter!! ILY CHRISSY!!!🧡🧡🧡🧡

Ily too pookie!!!

I really wanna show with Gojo just how emotionally stunted he is, and how he equates sex to affection due to his very fked up past. The older pornstar gf and him being a poor lil nerdy virgin at the time skewed him and of he is traumatized ✨️✨️✨️ as I love to make all my characters bc I'm rly fked up mentally 😭😭

Im glad you see this bc so many people are mad at reader for telling him to leave and I actually don't get them. Why shouldn't she at least try to remove herself when he ignored two love confessions and her wishes? She is helpless when it comes to him so she just has to avoiddddd

The chap had me so upset bc I want them happy but they're both so stupid lol 😆 next chap we get a time skip then get sm more development without the sexual! 🫶

Edit to add the muffins were that good 💀

[bewitched-hours]

wow just wow ........ tech lover noli OVER HEREEE im loving the fics you cook up for computer!reader ON GATTTTTT i need that guy so bad now what if........ android!reader that acts like a cat (seeking for warmth) but is also apathetic about others ..... x noli YEAH THATS RIGHT THE noli.. like imagine noli teasing them about it and they're like "?? my systems are cold. of course i need warmth." WOWO wow fluff WOW insane..... insane -computer anon here BACK AGAIn

Computer anon, I'm gonna tell you something rn... I love cats. Seriously. They're my favourites.

Reader's pronouns are gonna be She/They for this!

You felt more like a pet than a killer... Sometimes-

You were an android, but your design was more cat-like. You couldn't bother to know why.

Most of the killers just treated you like a pet too.

C00lkidd liked to ramble to you because you were quiet and remembered what he'd tell you, 1x1 enjoyed having someone to vent to and so on.

For Noli? He was just head over heels for you and wouldn't ever admit it.

You only made it worse with your cat-like habits.

Seeking warmth? Noli just so happened to be nearby and offering warmth only to tease you afterwards even though it did nothing to your usually apathetic nature.

But you knew what was going on. The way his temperature rose with you, his heartrate speeding up from your touch, even subtly congratulating you whenever you won a round.

He was not hiding his crush from you. And you decided to allow him to think he was.

But eventually, it made you reciprocate. Much to your own dismay.

You were made to be apathetic. This shouldn't happen. You should see him as a fool. WHY DO YOU RECIPROCATE THE FEELINGS OF A FOOL-

1x1 was less than... Well, she was obviously not happy...

I mean, your apathetic nature scored you pretty high on which of the killers he hates the least so out of all the people your systems could overheat for... WHY NOLI?!?!?!?!

The walking meme of all people... Disappointment would be an understatement...

Nonetheless, she didn't care about it being a secret, considering he wasn't very talkative anyhow.

But at least it somehow motivated you a little more during matches. And you'd be greeted back at the cabin with Noli playing some shitty victory music and trying to play it cool as he praised your strategy once more.

Yup... In love with an idiot...

And today was no different. The cold of the maps were getting to you again and rather than asking, you simply laid your head on Noli's lap for his warmth. It was a surprise to be had but a welcome one.

"I know what you want to say. I feel it's appropriate to remind you I'm feline in nature and require the warmth after rounds." You almost warned him, only earning you a chuckle.

"No nee-d for hissing, [Reader]~ I'm not com-plain-plaining~" You could almost hear the smugness and it annoyed you even more. All the while 1x1 was probably watching with much annoyance.

But this just had to be when you decide to tell him, huh?

"You're lucky your annoyance is cute or I would have you wishing for separation." You blurted out, making him go quiet. It was like a blessing from the Spectre but at least you had your peace now...

... Or not...

"Again! Say tha-at again!" He'd excitedly shake you to stop you from going on stand-by. And you immediately regretted telling him.

"Yeah yeah, feelings returned, blah blah blah, you made an android feel shit, now let me sleep." You coldly warned him, making sure he knew that you could take away that small bit of affection and he did shortly oblige.

Now you had an annoying boyfriend but at least you could go on stand-by without anymore bullshit...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[lemonsyk]

Oh, how obsessed i am with creating art with meaning. It is truly wonderful how many conclusions people come to from looking at it.

In this piece, i depicted Mina, my character standing in the middle of a retro style background. Now, you may see different things, but here is the intention:

Broken tv - protest for the waste of electricity, and the usage of ai. Auto-generative software is responsible for a huge part of the world's water pollution. From 2021 to 2022, Google and Microsoft alone were responsible for the use of 22.7 billion liters of potable water.

No signal flower pot - the desire of nature to take over the world once again

Metal bat, cans of paint - Protest of a human drawn character against the rise of corporate murder of many aspiring artists' careers. It is truly saddening how much less people care about art and only about making a quick buck off of ignorant people.

"Oh, but it doesn't matter as long as the drawings are pretty, oh, I'm not ready to pay hundreds for what i can do for free in seconds."

-well, congratulations, you have played yourself. I could take hours explaining why it's wrong, but i would be only yelling at a wall. Ai supporters will never listen, but that doesn't mean we should stop voicing our opinions.

In conclusion, the fast development and vast misuse of ai will definitely change our future for the worse, and i wonder how much more it would take to make the authorities realize that we are killing our only planet.

I take commissions, please dm if you are interested 🤗🫶

[quintessenceofdust88]

Congratulations on 500 followers 🎊🎉💥 Let that number grow fast and you get another 500 soon!!!

For celebration mpreg i wanna ask the 6 for bucktommy 🙏🫶

Rina my love! Thank youuuu ♥ thank you for all the support you always give me, it means the world, I promise ♥ And ofc! Since you weren't specific on who you wanted to be pregnant, I decided to do it with Tommy, since I already answered another request for this prompt with pregnant Buck. It ended up half humorous and half angsty, and I hope you enjoy it, darling! ♥

Chimney is feeling very, very conflicted right now. And it's all Maddie's fault. Because if his wife hadn't asked him to pick up orange juice and peanut butter, he wouldn't have gone to the grocery store, met Tommy and find himself in his biggest internal conflict since having to choose his starter Pokemon (Bulbasaur. He always chooses Bulbasaur).

The thing is, Chimney hates secrets. He's not good at keeping his own and he definitely hates to know other people's. Which naturally means they land on his lap through no effort of his own, and then he doesn't know what to do with them.

He knows it's not his place. That he should stay out of it. But Buck is his brother-in-law and his friend. And now he knows this… thing. That he's sure Buck would like to know.

The thing is, Chimney ran into Tommy into the supermarket. And while running into Buck's ex (and Chim's old friend) wouldn't be something too out of the ordinary, it's Tommy's… situation. That is giving Chim pause.

He had spotted Tommy on a bench by the parking lot, grocery bags sitting by his side and his complexion paler than usual. Chim's paramedic instincts had kicked in and, before he even realized it, he had rushed to Tommy's side.

"Tommy? You alright?", he asked, reaching for Tommy's wrist to take his pulse. And that's when he saw it.

Tommy's prominent bump straining against his black T-shirt. Big enough that Chim couldn't mistake it for anything other than a baby bump, but definitely not big enough to have happened before his and Buck's break-up. Well, shit. "Tommy. Are you...?" Chim didn't have the nerve to finish the question, cause he couldn't bring that kind of responsibility upon himself. Maybe, he thought irrationally, Tommy would deny it, and then Chim wouldn't have to decide if he should tell Buck or not.

"Of course I'm pregnant, Howie, can't you see that? You're supposed to be a paramedic, aren't you?", Tommy quipped, that trademark bitchy look taking over his features, and Chim felt a faint blush in his cheek. "Well, I didn't want to be rude and assume!", he defended himself, and wisely tried to change the subject. "Are you okay, though? Any pain or discomfort? Do you need me to call... someone?" Chim finished lamely, because he hasn't gotten the faintest idea of who he should call for Tommy.

"We're fine, Howie", Tommy said, more softly now, and even gave Chim a small smile as he got up, a small grimace taking over his face as he placed a hand on his bump. "I gotta get going, thought, it's clear someone wants to go home soon. See you around?"

And then he was gone before Chimney could fully absorb what had just happened, taking his groceries and Chimney's inner peace with him.

Which brings him back to now that his groceries are done and he's staring at a red traffic light and wondering what to do.

He shouldn't tell Buck, is the thing. Because it's none of his business, and he and Tommy have been broken up for longer than they were together at this point. Objectively, it shouldn't even matter to Buck if Tommy moved on and is having a baby with someone else.

Except Chim was there. He knows how much it hurt Buck to lose Tommy. He remembers the baking; he misses the baking, if he's honest, although he definitely doesn't miss the kicked puppy look that usually came with the baked goods.

No, Chimney might make jokes, but the truth is, he cares a lot about his golden retriever of a brother-in-law, and he doesn't want to see Buck suffer. He's had a rough year as it is; they all have. So to bring him the news that Tommy moved on so completely? It's not something Chimney is particularly looking forward to doing.

But is he willing to let Buck find out on his own? Wouldn't that be so much worse for a guy?

In the end, that's the thought that makes Chim decide. Before he can give himself too much time to think about it, he's making his way to the apartment Buck has been renting from Ravi. He has only been to the place once or twice at this point, and not even Maddie has been there more often as far as he knows; with the kids, it's just easier for Buck to visit them than the other way around. Yet, Chim has memorized the route, and is not a struggle to get there. If Chimney wasn't in such a hurry and so worried about how his brother-in-law would take the news, he would maybe have noticed the familiar truck parked outside. The same truck Tommy entered back then, in the supermarket.

With a deep sigh, Chim rings the doorbell, already rehearsing a 'Buck, I know you might not like to hear this, but' speech on his mind. He is not prepared for the sight that meets him.

Because it's Tommy who opens the door. Tommy who's still as pregnant as when Chim saw him half an hour ago. Tommy who doesn't look surprised to see Chim there; in fact, he looks a tad bit smug.

"Long time no see, Howie" The bastard says with a smirk on his face, and Chim's not sure he'll ever be able to pick up his jaw from the floor. That's when he spots Buck, who's coming towards him in the same hoodie Chim just saw in Tommy a while ago, a sheepish smile on his face.

"Hey, Chim, Tommy was just filling me in on your meeting earlier today", he says, as casual as the weather.

"Will someone fill me in?!" He yells, looking between the two of them. "Are you guys back together?!"

"For about a month, yeah", Buck says, and even now he can't keep the smile out of his face, the utter dork. "At first we tried to stay just friends, thought it'd be better for the baby, but it didn't quite work out"

Chimney blinks; taken aback is an understatement. "A month?!" "Five weeks, to be completely accurate", Tommy quips as Buck wraps an arm around him, the two of them the complete image of domestic bliss Chim doesn't know what to do with.

"Yeah, right, okay", he says, trying to gather his thoughts. "And were you planning on telling us at some point before the baby was born?!" "Well, yeah, but I've only told Evan about the baby when the first trimester was done, and then we were figuring out our situation before talking to you guys", Tommy shrugs, and Buck nods, then gives Chim an uncharacteristically hard look.

"And to be fair", Buck adds softly. "I would have told you if you had asked."

Chim wants to refute that. He wants to say Buck is being unfair, but he knows he's not. Between his new captain position, two kids, and grieving Bobby, he doesn't remember the last time he sat down to actually catch up with Buck and ask him what's going on in his life.

"Does Maddie know?", he asks, and Buck smiles.

"Not yet. I want to do a whole 'you're going to be an aunt' announcement, so don't you go telling her" He says in warning, and Chim groans. "Fine", he drawls. "But don't take too long or I might explode"

"Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?" Tommy chuckles. "Not before you get to meet your niece at least" Chim's heart skips a beat and, before he knows it, there's a huge smile taking over his face.

"M-my niece?" He stutters, and Buck smiles more widely than Chim has seen ever since they lost Bobby. Maybe ever, if he's honest with himsef.

"Yeah, uncle Howie, you're having a niece" He says proudly, placing a hand on Tommy's bump.

Tommy places his own hand over Buck's and gives it a gentle squeeze. Looking at that, Chimney can't be mad at them for keeping their secret. He can't be mad at them at all, really. As far as the surprises of this year, this was one of the best ones by far. --

There you go, my love, I hope you enjoy it! It got wayyy longer than I was expecting, and I'm not sure I like the ending hehe but here it is ♥ Ily and thank you for the prompt!