#c. balthasar

[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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love tags: @bluedbliss @yesohhsehun @tynlvr @sunghoonsgfreal @2sungie @euphormiia @ptv-hades @imnotrosiee @remgeolli @vantxx95 @leehaechie @beestvng @schatjze @mango-bear

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[eucanthos]

eucanthos

hop(e-?)

Diego Velázquez. Equestrian Portrait of Prince Balthasar Charles, 1635. Oil on canvas 209 × 173 cm (82 × 68 in) Prado, Madrid

Eye: Enzo Ragazzini (1934) Senza titolo, 1970-80 [pink hole from Eli Craven, Soap Opera #1, 2023]

Hat: Circle of Diego Velázquez, Prince Baltasar Carlos 17th c.

Hair: Cervantes engraving portrait, ca 1590

Chin: Parmigianino. Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror, c. 1524

Vest: Jean-Léon Gérôme, Bashi-bazouk, 1868-69

Leg: French vintage erotic postcard

Arms: 1930s Baby girl's hand and boy with mug. Getty Images

[womblegrinch]

Walter Langley (1852-1922) - Jilted: The fraud of men was ever so, since summer first was leafy ...

Watercolour. Painted c.1888. 34.1 x 25 inches, 87 x 64 cm.

Part of a selling exhibition at Messum’s, St James’s, London, 28 May - 27 June 2025.

The painting's title comes from Balthasar's song in Act II, Scene III in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing:

 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,   Men were deceivers ever,  One foot in sea and one on shore,   To one thing constant never.  Then sigh not so, but let them go,   And be you blithe and bonny,  Converting all your sounds of woe   Into Hey, nonny nonny.  Sing no more ditties, sing no mo,   Of dumps so��dull and heavy.  The fraud of men was ever so,   Since summer first was leavy.  Then sigh not so, but let them go,   And be you blithe and bonny,  Converting all your sounds of woe   Into Hey, nonny nonny.

[artandthebible]

Adoration of the Magi

Artist: Jacopo Bassano (Italian, 1510–1592)

Date: c. 1555–1560

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Kunsthistorisches Museum Vienna, Austria

Adoration of the Magi

With his rural scenes and their convincing realism, Jacopo Bassano brought a new accent to Venetian painting. At the same time, in his finest works including this one, he proved himself to be a leading exponent of Mannerism at the height of that period. With extremely bold contrasts of colour and refined design, he unexpectedly paints realistic details and abstract motifs right next to one another.

What the Bible says about the Magi or three Wise Men

We assume that there were three wise men because of the three gifts that were given: gold, incense, and myrrh (Matthew 2:11). However, the Bible does not say there were only three wise men. There could have been many more. Tradition says that there were three and that their names were Gaspar/Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar/Balthazar, but since the Bible does not say, we have no way of knowing whether the tradition is accurate.

It is a common misconception that the wise men visited Jesus at the stable on the night of His birth. In fact, the wise men came days, months, or possibly even years later. That is why Matthew 2:11 says the wise men visited and worshiped Jesus in a house, not at the stable.

We know that the magi were wise men from "the East," most likely Persia, or modern-day Iran. This means the wise men traveled 800 to 900 miles to see the Christ child. Most likely, the magi knew of the writings of the prophet Daniel, who in time past had been the chief of the court seers in Persia. Daniel 9:24-27 includes a prophecy which gives a timeline for the birth of the Messiah. Also, the magi may have been aware of the prophecy of Balaam (who was from the town of Pethor on the Euphrates River near Persia) in Numbers 24:17. Balaam’s prophecy specifically mentions a “star coming out of Jacob.”

The wise men were guided to look for the King of the Jews by a miraculous stellar event, the “Star of Bethlehem,” which they called “His star” (Matthew 2:2). They came to Jerusalem and asked concerning the birth of Christ, and they were directed to Bethlehem (Matthew 2:4–8). They followed God’s guidance joyfully (Matthew 2:10). When they arrived in Bethlehem, they gave costly gifts to Jesus and worshiped Him. God warned them in a dream against returning to Herod, so, in defiance of the king, they left Judea by another route (Matthew 2:12).

So, the magi were men who 1) read and believed God’s Word, 2) sought Jesus, 3) recognized the worth of Christ, 4) humbled themselves to worship Jesus, and 5) obeyed God rather than man. They were truly wise men!

[collectionstilllife]

Balthasar van der Ast (1593/1594–1657) • Still Life with Shells • c. 1640 • Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam, Netherlands

[tinyshe]

CHALK + BLESS YOUR HOME FOR EPIPHANY This Epiphany tradition is a way of blessing all who enter, exit, and dwell in your home or church. You simply write the number of the new year and the letters C, M, and B in chalk on the door or doorframe. The letters stand for the three traditional names of the Magi in Matthew 2: Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar. The letters can also be a Latin acronym for “May Christ bless this dwelling.” CHALKING THE DOORS LITURGY FOR HOMES (2024) Leader: Peace be to this home, and to all who enter here. All: Amen. One or more of the following prayers may be said: May all who come to our home this year rejoice to find Christ living among us; and may we seek and serve, in everyone we meet, that same Jesus who is your incarnate Word, now and forever. Amen. God of heaven and earth, you revealed your only-begotten One to every nation by the guidance of a star. Bless this home and all who inhabit it. Fill us with the light of Christ, that our concern for others may reflect your love. We ask this through Christ our Savior. Amen. Loving God, bless this household. May we be blessed with health, goodness of heart, gentleness, and abiding in your will. We ask this through Christ our Savior. Amen. All may take turns chalking the door: 20 + C + M + B + 24 The three Wise Men, Caspar [C], Melchior [M], and Balthasar [B], followed the star to Bethlehem and the child Jesus 2000 [20] and 24 [24] years ago. [+ +] May Christ bless our home [+ +], and remain with us throughout the new year. Amen. All say the Lord’s Prayer From buildfaith.org/chalking-the-door/; prayers by Bosco Peters

printable pdf

[socialshakespeare]

Reading 1: Friday, July 12

The first read-through of Romeo & Juliet.

(Most of you are double or triple cast, so double check which lines you have to read.) You can look up the lines of the characters here. The names listed below all go with the Folger Edition. We will post line changes and cuts shortly.

Please submit your confirmation or any request to understudy here. If you’re in any doubt, please ask.

Times and time zones:

EDT (US): 2:00 PM CDT (US): 1:00 PM MDT (US): 12:00 PM PDT (US): 11:00 AM BST (UK): 7:00 PM AEST (AU): 4:00 AM (Saturday, July 13)

Leader: @actorinfluence

Romeo, 3rd Musician: Gabby C Juliet, Lady Montague: @thehamletdiaries Friar Lawrence, 2nd Servingman, Citizen(s): @the-lincyclopedia Mercutio, 2nd Musician, Gregory, Page: @theshakespearetrash Nurse, Abram, 3rd Watch: @bottomoftheriverbed Lord Capulet, Petruchio, 2nd Watch: @cabbage-rhymes Benvolio, 1st Musician, Balthasar: @actorinfluence Paris, Lord Montague, Peter, Capulet's Cousin, Chorus: @hamletkin Prince Escalus, Tybalt, (1st) Servingman, Friar John, Apothecary: @wandererimsternenmeer Lady Capulet, Sampson, 1st Watch, 3rd Servingman: @thestorywitch Understudy: @captainminette

Please submit your confirmation here. - liking/reblogging this post does not count!

Read the Guidelines. To avoid the differences between editions that make for confusion and missed cues, please use the Folger edition of Romeo & Juliet during the read-through.

Be on time, be prepared, and make sure you know which lines to read. Good luck!

[mrbacf]

Johann Balthasar Kehl (1725-1778) - Concerto ex C dur (c.1775)

[auroraborealis22]

Balthasar van der Ast Still life with flowers and fruit c. 1640

[lesser-known-composers]

Balthasar Fritsch (c.1570/80– c.1608)

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

JUST ABOUT READY TO EXPLODE WITH THE FINEST IN AMSTERDAM HARDCORE.

PIC INFO: Spotlight on Dutch hardcore punk band B.G.K. (BALTHASAR GERARDS KOMMANDO), performing live in former Ljubljana, Yugoslavia during their tour with UPSET NOISE from Italy, c. December 1984. 📸: Don Verbanac.

Steven Walraven, a.k.a., "Wilhelm Ruis," (guitar, 1980-84).

Bassist Tony Leeuwenburgh, a.k.a., "Tony Slug," can be seen in the back, another legend lost.

Source: www.picuki.com/media/3383014030156443085.

[resplendentoutfit]

Portrait by Benjamin von Block (Here, Leopold was content to grab the nearest tablecloth with which to drape himself. Not to bad effect, mind you.) He may not have been handsome but he certainly had a flair for fashion!

The outrageous, extravagant, sometimes quizzical, and often humorous outfits worn by subjects of old portraits.

Half-assed History Lesson. Expect errors. Feel free to correct.

Here he is again, the banner-boy of this blog - Leopold I (Leopold Ignaz Joseph Balthasar Franz Felician, Holy Roman Emperor, King of Hungary, Croatia, and Bohemia ! (If I were speaking it, I'd be out of breath!) Leopold of the famous, in-bred Habsburg jaw.

 Because his jaw was depicted unusually large on a 1670 silver coin, Leopold was nicknamed "the Hogmouth"; however, most collectors do not believe the coin was an accurate depiction.

Portrait of Margaret Theresa of Spain by an unknown artist, c. 1662–1664, currently displayed in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna

So, Leopold had been waiting for years to marry his niece, Margaret Theresa of Spain. When she was a mere 15 years of age, she married Uncle Leopold who was also Cousin Leopold. By marriage to him, Margaret became Holy Roman Empress, German Queen, Archduchess of Austria and Queen of Hungary and Bohemia. Gotta catch my breath again. Though she kept her Spanish customs and never learned German, she fondly referred to her husband as "Onkle". How quaint.

There is a resemblance, don't you think? Who would've guessed.

The couple had a gaggle of children but only a couple made it to adulthood. One such was Maria Antonia Josepha Benedicta Rosalia Petronella. As one would expect, she bears an especially strong likeness to her parents.

In fact, Maria Antonia had the highest coefficient of inbreeding in the House of Habsburg. As we know, her father was her mother's maternal uncle and paternal first cousin once removed. Her maternal grandparents were also uncle and niece. Her coefficient was higher than that of a child born to a parent and offspring, or brother and sister. Despite this, it is written in the Wikipedia entry about her that she was intelligent and cultivated, sharing her parents' aptitude for music.

Portrait of Maria Antonia by an unidenfied artist

This concludes The Resplendent Outfit Half-assed History Lesson. I'm sure there are errors. Feel free to point them out.

[ashitakaxsan]

Marvel Atlas

✨ From the towering skyscrapers of New York City to the mystical realms of Asgard, the MARVEL Atlas is a treasure trove of information about the diverse lands that make up the Marvel Universe. With intricate maps, vibrant illustrations, and in-depth descriptions, it's an essential companion for any Marvel fan.

 However, as we explore the pages of the Atlas, one notable absence stands out – the lack of information about Iran. Despite the Atlas's meticulous attention to detail in depicting lands from around the world, Iran's rich history, culture, and geography are notably absent from its pages.

Below:The iranian archaeological site and necropolis Naqsh-e Rostam, located about 13 km northwest of Persepolis, in Fars Province, Iran.

Below:Illustration based on Persian Infantry. Source: Wargames:Immortals-persian-Infantry

Chogha Zanbil(Persian: چغازنبيل; Elamite: Al Untas Napirisa).It’s a ziggurat,made by the ancient Elamites,located in the Khuzestan province of Iran. 

As fans of the Marvel Universe, we appreciate the effort put into creating such a comprehensive guide, but we also recognize the importance of inclusivity and representation.

 We hope that future editions of the Atlas will rectify this oversight and shine a spotlight on the diverse landscapes and peoples of Iran, enriching the Marvel Universe even further.

The persian/iranian faravahar:

A vital lesson of history is the Biblical magi(plural for Magus):The distinguished wise men who journeyed form lands of the East to visit Jesus after his birth, bearing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh in homage to his birth.

"After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked, “Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.” (Matthew 2:1-2)

Below: The Three Magi, Byzantine mosaic, c. 565, Basilica of Sant'Apollinare Nuovo, Ravenna, Italy (restored during the 19th century). As here, Byzantine art usually depicts the Magi in Persian clothing, which includes breeches, capes, and Phrygian caps.

Their identities,and their exact number is a mystery.However  prominent figures within the Christianity; they are venerated as saints or even martyrs in many Christians communities, and are the subject of numerous artworks, legends, and customs. Both secular and Christian observers have noted that the Magi popularly serve as a canvas for various ideas, symbols, and creative interpretations

There are legends and narrations bout the prominent three*:

Caspar or Gaspar (and several other Greek or Latin variants such as Gathaspa,[6] Jaspar, Jaspas, etc.)from India .

Melchior (Melichior,[6] Melchyor) from Persia(todays Iran)

Balthasar (Bithisarea,[6] Balthassar) from Arabia.

In the meantime, let's continue to celebrate the MARVEL Atlas for its expansive scope and immersive storytelling, while also advocating for greater diversity and inclusion in our favorite fictional worlds. Excelsior! 🚀📖

*: These names apparently derive from a Greek manuscript probably composed in Alexandria around 500 CE, and which has been translated into Latin with the title Excerpta Latina Barbari.[6] Another Greek document from the 8th century, of presumed Irish origin and translated into Latin with the title Collectanea et Flores, continues the tradition of three kings and their names and gives additional details.

[apesoformythoughts]

“Pope Francis himself should know better and most certainly does. In his graduate studies he was a student of the theology of Romano Guardini, which he clearly likes (as do I). Surely Guardini, who wrote extensively with an eye toward modern culture, is not guilty of merely repeating past formulas or of ignoring modern culture. And the Pope knows this. Neither were Bouyer, Balthasar, David L. Schindler, de Lubac, or even Garrigou LaGrange and Thomists such as Pieper, Gilson, Ulrich, and Maritain, for that matter.

Nor are a host of contemporary theologians, both young and old, guilty of such stale categories of thought. Creative and brilliant theologians and philosophers like Cyril O’Regan, David C. Schindler, John Betz, Matthew Levering, Emmanuel Falque, Jennifer Martin, Margaret Turek, Remi Brague, Keith Lemna, Jonathan Ciraulo, Jacob Wood, Bishop Erik Varden, and many others too numerous to list here, are in no way guilty of the theological deficits this document claims that theology up to this point has suffered from. I mention these thinkers simply because they are some of my favorites. But there are literally hundreds of equally gifted Catholic intellectuals out there doing precisely what the Pope is asking here—but in a manner I suspect the Pope does not favor because they do not serve his agenda.”

— Larry Chapp: “New papal document reads like a conclusion in search of an argument”

[lord-here-i-am]

Das Dreikönigsfest (Epiphanie) am 6. Januar ist ein christliches Fest, das die Erscheinung des Herrn feiert. Es erinnert an die Anbetung des neugeborenen Jesus durch die drei Weisen aus dem Morgenland (auch Heilige Drei Könige genannt: Caspar, Melchior und Balthasar). Diese brachten dem Kind Geschenke – Gold, Weihrauch und Myrrhe – die seine königliche, göttliche und leidende Natur symbolisieren.

In vielen Ländern ist es ein Feiertag mit unterschiedlichen Bräuchen, wie dem Sternsingen, bei dem Kinder als Könige verkleidet Spenden für wohltätige Zwecke sammeln, oder dem Segnen von Häusern durch das Schreiben von "C+M+B" (Christus Mansionem Benedicat) über die Türen.

Das Fest markiert das Ende der Weihnachtszeit in vielen christlichen Traditionen.

[socialshakespeare]

Reading 6: Sunday, February 25

The sixth (and final!) read-through of Much Ado About Nothing!

(Most of you are double or triple cast, so double check which lines you have to read.) You can look up the lines of the characters here. The names listed below all go with the Folger Edition.

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Times and time zones:

EST (US): 4:00 PM CST (US): 3:00 PM MST (US): 2:00 PM PST (US): 1:00 PM GMT (UK): 9:00 PM AEDT (AU): 8:00 AM (Monday, February 26)

Leader: @mariposagal

Benedick:  @quoththegayven/@daphneblakess FIGHT IT OUT Leonato, 1st Lord:  @mariposagal Prince (Don Pedro), 2nd Watchman:  Derik M.  Beatrice, Sexton:  quoththegayven/daphneblakes FIGHT IT OUT Claudio, 1st Watchman:  @dramamath Dogberry, Leonato's Brother, Antonio:  @heartseeksthehearth Borachio, Messenger, Boy:  @redwindowpane Hero, Verges, Balthasar:  @kylasedai Don John, Ursula, Seacoal:  @faderofall Margaret, Friar Francis, Conrade:  Emma C. Understudy:  @trashprinceofdenmark

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Read the Guidelines. To avoid the differences between editions that make for confusion and missed cues, please use the Folger edition of Much Ado About Nothing during the read-through.

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