#60 feet tall | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hcneymooners · 1 month ago

Text

⋆ angel of mine; i’m probably gonna think about you all the time.

biker!sevika x stripper!chubby!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: when you get news of your grandmother’s declining health, you pack what’s left of your life in miami and begin to head home. on the way you meet enigmatic stranger sevika, who gives you a ride.

wc: 10k

cw: age difference! stripper!reader, chubby!reader, fem!reader, mommy issues, implied melvika, implied melvika x reader, strangers to lovers, roadtrips, biker!sevika, resolved sexual tension, codependency, found family, dysfunctional families, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, exhibition kink (implied), degradation, name-calling, dom/sub, dom!sevika, sub!reader, hyperfemme!reader, lowkey sugar mommy!sevika.

notes: you can definitely tell i’m southern in this piece. i love the south despite it not loving me (black, sapphic, & female) back. so much of florida contains my family and love though i left it. i hope that comes through. i’m really proud of this and i hope you enjoy. so sorry for any typos i may have missed. let me know what you think & if you want a full melvika x reader pt. ii ! i love you. 𓆉⋆｡˚⋆❀ 🐚🫧𓇼 ˖°

playlist: lana born to die: paradise album. listen here.

The white teeth of Miami were always going to eat you alive.

That’s what your grandmother used to say, her voice crackling over the phone, sweet but certain, the way only old women could be. She didn’t say it to scare you—just to remind you that the city, for all its glitter and heat, had sharp edges. She was a lioness, and you were good meat.

You’d felt it too, walking barefoot along the highway, heels swinging in one hand and your purse in the other. The sunset was dying behind you, streaks of cotton candy pink, baby blue, and tangerine smeared across the horizon like someone had finger-painted the sky in haste.

Your cheeks still sparkled faintly under the fading light, remnants of glitter you hadn’t scrubbed off from work. It clung stubbornly, refusing to let go. You’d braided the front of your hair into two plaits that went straight back, falling apart in the middle to join the rest of the mass—wavy and tinsel-streaked. It was your “mermaid hair” as your younger sister loved to call it. You blinked heavily, your 60s-style lashes dragging their soft bodies across your plush cheeks.

The ache in your feet was grounding though, pulling you out of the haze of the club—the strobe lights, the bass that rattled in your ribs, the haze of too many eyes on you.

You’d gotten through the night, but just barely. Grandma’s sick. That had been the thought looping in your head as you swayed under the lights, pretending to be something more desirable than tired. Your mother had called, her voice small and broken. She wouldn’t tell you where she was. I’ll be home tomorrow, you’d promised anyway and then you climbed back on the stage.

You’d scraped together what you could tonight, but not enough for both a cab and the medicine your grandmother needed. The last bus out of town was fucked, something about a technical failure. So, you walked, the stretch of highway endless, the heat still radiating off the asphalt like it was sinking into hell.

You were so distracted by both your raging anxiety and oncoming hunger that the headlights caught you off guard. A single beam at first, low and flickering, until the growl of the engine grew louder, sharper, swallowing the silence. You turned instinctively, lifting a hand to wave—desperation bleeding through the gesture.

The motorcycle slowed. It wasn’t just a machine; it was an extension of her.

Its rider was tall and broad-shouldered, her presence filling the space before she even spoke. A thick, short braid of dark hair hung over her shoulder, catching the light like polished onyx, and her face was all hard angles—sharp jaw, strong brow, a faint scar cutting through her upper lip. She leaned forward slightly, resting her weight on a prosthetic arm that gleamed silver in the twilight. Her eyes, cold at first glance, raked over you, measuring.

For the millionth time that night, you became painfully aware of your appearance. You hadn’t had much time to change before rushing out, so you were stuck in a turquoise spaghetti-strap tank that clung uncomfortably to your skin and a pair of low-rise grey sweatpants, the faded mall-brand logo on the hip barely holding on.

Your purse—a tiny baby pink crossbody clutch—was stretched to its limit, struggling to close over your overstuffed Polo Assn. wallet, its dark brown leather warped by thick stacks of crumpled bills and nearly maxed-out credit cards.

A single white earbud perched in your left ear, the mile-long wire snaking under the loose neckline of your tank and into your hands, where your phone gleamed faintly in the glare of her headlights. Glittery gold, covered in 3D bubble stickers of pale pink and cream roses—your little sister’s handiwork.

Between the heat of the phone and the plastic of the case, you’d tucked a Polaroid: you, your sister, and your aunt, all dolled up in perfect makeup and hoop earrings, the three of you grinning wide enough to make the moment feel permanent. Behind the photo, folded neatly, was a note.

The faintest whiff of smoke clung to you, softened by bellini, cherry, and peach. You’d tried hard to be sweet, always sweet, but it wasn’t enough to cover the night’s work. Especially not tonight.

“You lost?” she asked, her voice gravelly, low, like the rumble of her engine hadn’t entirely faded.

“Not lost,” you said, voice softer than you intended. “Just… trying to get home.”

You were always trying to go home.

She raised a brow, glancing at your bare feet and the glitter still dusting your face. “Long walk.”

You shrugged, exhaustion pulling at the edges of your face.

“No choice.”

For a moment, she just stared at you, her expression unreadable, before she nodded toward the seat behind her.

“Hop on. I’ll get you there.”

You hesitated, your gaze lingering on the gleam of her prosthetic, the way it contrasted with the calloused hand gripping the throttle.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally, your voice quieter now.

She huffed faintly, tilting her head. “Sevika. And you?”

You gave her your name, your voice carrying the weight of gratitude but a lack of trust. You weighed your options—you had none—and decided that you could only hope she wasn’t insane.

You thought of the note in your phone case.

“Lord, I confess i want the clarity of catastrophe but not the catastrophe. Like everyone else, I want a storm I can dance in. I want an excuse to change my life. Lord if I say bless the cold water you throw on my face, does that make me a costume party. Am I greedy for comfort if I ask you not to kill my friends if I beg you to press your heel against my throat - not enough to ruin me, but just so I can almost see your face.” (x.)

Then, without another word, you climbed onto the bike, your fingers brushing against her shoulders as you steadied yourself.

The engine roared, and the wind hit your face, carrying you forward into the night. You bent your neck, tucked your head into her back, and began to pray.

❀

You woke to a soft hand on your skin.

“Hey. You up?”

The words were quiet, almost careful, but they pulled you from the thin edge of sleep. For a moment, you were disoriented. The ceiling above you was unfamiliar, white with faint water stains bleeding outward like bruises. The couch beneath you creaked as you shifted, and smelled of saltwater and lavender. There was a thin blanket draped over your shoulders but it felt impossibly heavy, anchoring you in place.

Sevika was leaning over you, her face shadowed but sharp in the dim light spilling from another room. Her hand lingered on your hip, her touch surprisingly gentle.

“Come on,” she said, her voice low and gravelly, rasping against the quiet. “Mel wants to meet you.”

“Mel?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.

“She lives here. She’s… persistent,” Sevika said with a dry edge, stepping back to give you room to sit up. “And she’s got a thing for taking care of strays. Don’t worry, she’s nice. Nicer than me, anyway.”

The apartment was small, but the stomach of it was softened by a clear effort to make it feel like home.

The walls were painted a pale cream, though the paint was peeling in the corners, and the floors were scuffed wood. The furniture was mismatched, but there was a warmth to it—a knitted throw slung over the back of the couch, a row of half-burned candles on the coffee table, the faint scent of coconut and vanilla lingering in the air.

The windows were open, letting in the salt-thick breeze of the early morning, and a line of photos pinned to the wall swayed slightly, the string barely holding on.

Mel appeared in the doorway to what must have been the bathroom, her figure backlit by the soft, yellow glow. She was taller than you’d expected, her frame lithe but strong, and her black braids pooled over her shoulders like an oil spill, gleaming in the dim light. She held a cherry red hairbrush in one hand and a small bottle of lotion in the other, her brown skin catching the light beautifully.

“You’re awake,” she said, her voice rich but cautious. Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, warm but searching.

Most people tended to treat you this way. It was as if you were a scared animal and they were trying to coax you in.

You nodded, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

“Yeah. Sorry—I didn’t mean to intrude here.”

“You didn’t,” Mel said quickly, stepping closer. Her tone softened, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Sev doesn’t bring people home unless she has a reason. You must’ve needed it.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Your gaze flicked to Sevika, who leaned against the wall, her arms crossed over her broad chest, her prosthetic glinting faintly in the soft light. She was watching the two of you, her expression unreadable.

“I’ve seen you before,” Mel said suddenly, drawing your attention back to her. Her smile turned wistful. “At The Siren, right?”

The mention of the club sent a ripple of recognition through you. You nodded slowly, and Mel’s expression shifted, her eyes softening further.

“I thought so,” she murmured. “You helped me once, in the bathroom. I was… having a bad night. You were so sweet.”

The moment came back in pieces. Her face streaked with tears, her voice trembling as she spoke about her mother, about leaving home. You’d handed her a tissue, touched her shoulder lightly, said something comforting.

“I remember,” you said softly, your voice catching in your throat.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mel said, her gaze steady. “But I’m glad you did.”

She knelt in front of you, holding up the brush. “Let me help you. You’ve had a long night.”

You hesitated, but something in her expression, in the calm warmth of her voice, made you nod. She guided you to the bathroom, which was small and tidy, the mirror rimmed with salt stains and seashells.

As she brushed your hair, her touch was careful, her fingers grazing your scalp like she was afraid of breaking something fragile.

“You’ve got beautiful hair,” she said softly, almost to herself.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice faint. “You smell nice.”

Her laugh was quiet, and you felt the warmth of it root deep in your chest.

“Coconut oil,” she said, but there was a blush creeping into her cheeks. “Mixed with vanilla. I like to smell dewey and sugary. Kind of like you.”

You smiled tiredly at her in the mirror, lifting a hand to pat at her wrist. The tender powder pink of your acrylics were bright against it. Behind you, Sevika leaned in the doorway, her presence as steady as a shadow.

“You’re making her shy, Melly,” she teased, her voice like gravel underfoot.

Mel glanced at her, rolling her eyes, but you caught the faintest smile tugging at her lips. As a final touch she added a large bow clip to your tamed strands; it was lilac and worn at the ends.

When you were cleaned up, you reached for your purse, pulling out a crumpled bill.

“Here. Let me—,” you began, holding it out.

Mel’s expression shifted, her smile fading into something more serious as she cut you off. She pushed your hand back gently.

“Honey, you don’t owe me anything.”

The sincerity in her voice caught you off guard, and you tucked the money away, unsure of what to say.

Sevika cleared her throat. “Where are we headed, anyway?”

“Tampa,” you said.

She raised a brow, her smirk returning.

“Figures. You seem like a Tampa girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Sevika just shrugged, her mouth twitching.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

The three of you stepped into the early morning light, the ocean-heavy breeze brushing against your skin. You didn’t even know you could live this close to the ocean in Miami.

You turned back and caught Sevika and Mel in silent conversation. There was something unspoken between them, between you, something you couldn’t quite name. For now, though, you let it rest.

Grandma’s sick, you reminded yourself. You had to keep going.

❀

The rest of the day swelled with humidity, the horizon bruised with the threat of rain. The Cadillac’s engine purred low, its growl humming beneath the croon of soft rock spilling through the speakers.

You kept your eyes on the window, the world outside blurring as heat shimmered off the asphalt and smeared the palms into a haze.

Sevika hadn’t said much since you got in her car. She didn’t need to.

There was a quiet kind of ease in her presence, a stillness that somehow made the grief gnawing at your chest feel less unbearable. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the window frame, her fingers idly toying with a cigarette she hadn’t yet lit.

The smell of the car had settled around you—leather, faint smoke, and something warm you couldn’t name. It was the kind of smell that made you think of safety, though you didn’t know why.

Your phone buzzed in your lap, the screen lighting up with a message from your mother.

Sorry, baby doll. Grandma’s on the brink.

You read the words twice, three times, and still they didn’t make sense. Your fingers tightened around the phone, your nails pressing into its glittery gold case, and something sharp and hot clawed its way up your throat.

Sevika glanced over, her brow furrowing.

“You good?”

You nodded quickly, your lips pressing together to hold back the tears that were already welling. But it was no use. They spilled over, fat and hot, streaking black mascara down your apple-round cheeks.

You turned your head, pretending to watch the passing trees, but your reflection in the window gave you away.

“Shit,” Sevika muttered, low and rough. She took one last drag from her cigarette, then flicked it out the window. “Hold on.”

She pulled off the highway, her movements smooth and deliberate, and guided the car into the gravel lot of a diner. Its neon sign flickered faintly against the gray sky, Chuck’s written in soft pink cursive. The building was small and sweet, painted robin’s egg blue with white shutters and lace curtains framing its windows.

Sevika parked and cut the engine, turning to look at you.

“Come here.”

Her voice was softer now, but it still carried that unshakable steadiness. You hesitated, your hands trembling in your lap, but the look on her face left no room for doubt. You leaned toward her, and her arms came around you, solid and warm, pulling you into her chest.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, her hand smoothing over your hair. “Come on, angel. Just let it out.”

And you did. The sobs came in waves, ripping through you until you were shaking, your fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like a lifeline. She didn’t flinch, didn’t tell you to stop. She just held you, her hand a steady weight against the back of your head, her thumb brushing small, grounding circles into your shoulder.

You couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged you like this.

When you finally pulled back, your face was hot, damp, and streaked; your mascara smudged into shadows beneath your eyes. Sevika reached out, her thumb catching the tracks on your cheeks.

“Messy,” she said softly, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

The diner’s door chimed as you stepped inside, the scent of fresh coffee and bread washing over you. The interior was impossibly charming, with its pastel booths, checkerboard floors, and the low hum of a jukebox in the corner. You slid into a booth by the window, the vinyl cool against the back of your legs.

Sevika sat across from you, her body filling the small space like a storm cloud, heavy and unshakable. You stared out the window, watching the rain slip down the glass in delicate rivulets. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled, low and faint.

“You’re strong, you know that?” Sevika’s voice broke through the quiet.

You turned to her, startled. Her eyes were dark, but they were the softest you’d seen them so far, almost tender.

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing your chin. The touch was light, but it sent a jolt through you, her thumb catching against your skin.

“It’ll be fine,” she said, her voice low and certain. “You’ll be fine. You have to be.”

Outside, the rain fell harder, the sound of it filling the silence between you. And then Sevika let go, her hand retreating back across the table.

The rain continued to blur the diner’s windows, the soft pink neon outside flickering faintly against the new gloom. You stared down at your coffee, the chipped porcelain mug warm in your hands, but it wasn’t enough to steady the tremor that had worked its way into your fingers. The realities of the world felt too sharp, too close, like you might unravel right there in your plain sight.

“Talk to me,” you said suddenly, your voice thin and unsteady. “I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack.”

Sevika’s eyes lifted from her coffee, dark and knowing. Her expression didn’t shift, but something gave in the set of her jaw. She leaned back, one arm slung over the booth’s edge, her other hand absently brushing the lip of her mug.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything.” You exhaled shakily, your gaze flicking out to the rain before returning to her. “Tell me why you drive a beat-up Cadillac.”

That pulled a small, low chuckle from her, quiet but rich. She tipped her head, the motion slow and deliberate, and for a moment, you felt less like you were shuddering into beautiful pieces.

“You think she’s beat-up?” Sevika asked, her lips curving faintly.

“She’s held together by rust and prayer,” you said, almost smiling. “I’m just saying.”

Sevika’s laugh came fuller this time, a sound that filled the air without disrupting the other patrons.

“Hey. She’s got character. My dad gave her to me when I was nineteen. She used to be pristine—white leather, a real beauty. But time does what it does.”

You blinked, caught on the number.

“Nineteen?” you asked, hesitant. “How long ago was that?”

Her smirk grew, slow and sharp. “Longer than you’d guess, angel.”

Your brows furrowed, curiosity blooming against the weight in your chest. “How old are you?”

Sevika’s gaze lingered, the kind of look that made you feel seen in a way that was both unnerving and magnetic.

“Old enough to remember when you had to rewind your mixtapes with a pencil,” she said, her voice dry, teasing.

You couldn’t help it—a small laugh slipped out, barely there, but it felt good.

“I’ve always had a thing for older women,” you said absently, the words slipping out before you realized what you’d said.

Her smirk deepened, her eyes sharpening in a way that made your stomach flip.

“That so?” she murmured, her voice low and rich, a swatch of velvet dragged through smoke. “You looking for a mommy, angel?”

Heat flooded your face, vicious and unbearable, and you pushed back from the table, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor.

“I’m, um—gonna order something at the counter,” you mumbled, refusing to meet her gaze.

She chuckled, soft and lazy, her voice following you as you turned toward the counter.

“Go on, sweetheart. Take your time.”

The diner felt warmer, brighter, as you made your way to the counter, the fluorescents buzzing faintly above. You kept your eyes on the menu board, your pulse still thrumming in your ears.

❀

It’s four more hours to Tampa, but it’s the most excruciating period of your life.

You’d left the diner a little steadier, Sevika’s arm brushing yours as you climbed back into her car. The Cadillac rattled like death, its leather seats sticky against your thighs.

You leaned your temple against the window, watching as the flat Florida landscape blurred into soft greens and yellows. The air outside was still thick with heat, even with the sun reducing its intensity as it slunk away.

The highway stretched out like an open wound, raw and endless. You fiddled with the radio dial until a bouncy indie pop song filtered back through the speakers, filling the air with a thousand wailing guitars. Sevika didn’t complain, her focus locked on the road ahead.

At some point, she pulled off into a gravel lot in front of a boutique. The building was small and unassuming, its pink paint faded by time. A hand-painted sign swung lazily in the humid breeze.

“We’re stopping?” you asked, your voice hoarse from exhaustion.

“You need other clothes,” Sevika said simply, stepping out of the car. “Come on.”

The shop smelled faintly of coconut wax and dust, its racks crammed with mismatched pieces that managed to appear more curated than random. Sevika leaned against a rack of jeans, her arms crossed, as you wandered through the aisles.

“We’re strangers,” you said eventually, holding up a knit top to your chest. “Why are you taking care of me?”

Sevika didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her jaw tightening in thought.

“I remember being twenty-one,” she said finally. “The world was a lot to handle back then. Some days, it still is.”

You lowered the top and gazed at her, mouth dipping in understanding. She was so beautiful here, despite being far from at home in this confectionery store. Her arms flexed gently as she shifted in place, and you resisted the urge to press her hair out of her face.

“I’m sorry that you know what that feels like.”

“You don’t have to pity me,” she said, the response clearly a reflex.

You smiled crookedly and didn’t press further.

The outfit you picked—a striped knit and high-waisted jeans—felt soft against your skin. The knit hugged your curves, the soft plum-colored neckline slipping just low enough to expose the plush swell of your shoulder. When you stepped out of the dressing room, Sevika gave you a once-over, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“You’re a girl with expensive taste,” she teased. “Is that cashmere?”

“It’s my stage name for a reason,” you shot back, smiling softly. “And everything is overpriced here.”

“You look like a doll,” she said, her tone amused.

You rolled your eyes, brushing past her to the counter.

“I’ve got to look a little more appropriate.”

“For what?” she teased. “Tampa doesn’t care.”

“Well , my Aunt Kenna will.”

Unsurprisingly, you found yourself overpowered by Sevika at the register. She pressed her card down, its body sleek and black with silver lettering. Once again, you were struck by the kindness of strangers and you felt your throat tighten.

She gave you a look, as if to quiet your self-effacing urges. Behind the counter, the clerk smiled to herself as she observed the two of you. She was petite and had a pinched face, her hair short and a creamy blonde. Maddie, her tag read. She reminded you a lot of your mother, possessing the same shifty energy of a runner as she racked up your total.

The drive resumed, and with it, you revealed more of yourself to Sevika. You told her about your grandma, about the way she used to braid your hair with fake frangipani from the craft store and sing to you in the evenings where your mother would be gone. How her hands were always soft, even when they were tired. How you used to tuck yourself under the desk at the hospital where she worked when your heart was crumbled by women you definitely shouldn’t have been involved with at eighteen.

You spoke of your aunt, the way she fought to keep the family together, even when it wasn’t hers to save. You spoke of your little sister who in a way was also your child, how you did most things in life for her sake.

Sevika listened in silence, her hand resting on the wheel, her gaze never straying from the road. There was something in her stillness that made you feel seen, even when the words caught in your throat.

When you finally crossed into Tampa, the sky was dyed indigo and gold, the houses lining the street glowing faintly in the dusk.

You rolled the window down and leaned out, your phone poised to capture the image forever on your cracked back camera. You were such a tall child.

The warm air stroked against the moon of your face, tugged at the ends of your hair and dried your lips. You felt Sevika’s hand slide to your thigh, just below the crease of your ass, heavy and grounding, and you froze. Her palm was rough against the soft give of your flesh, her fingers splayed just enough to keep you steady.

“Don’t fall out,” she muttered, her voice tinged with quiet amusement.

“I won’t,” you said, but you sat back soon after, your heart beating a little too fast.

Sevika’s hand lingered a second longer before retreating to the wheel.

The butter-yellow house came into view, its shutters glowing faintly in the twilight. Your breath hitched. It looked the same as it always had, though the paint was more weathered, the steps chipped at the edges.

Sevika pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. The silence was deafening. You fumbled with your purse, fingers trembling, but before you could open the door, Sevika’s hand found your chin. She turned your face toward hers, her thumb brushing just beneath your jaw.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Always is.”

Her eyes held you in place, dark and unflinching.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed her. Before you could think too much of it, you leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her cheek. Over her scar.

“Thank you.”

Her mouth parted, but the screen door creaked open, and you saw your aunt step onto the porch, her arms crossed and one brow raised in quiet judgment. You hesitated, glancing back at Sevika.

“You could come in,” you offered, the words heavier than they should have been.

She hesitated, her gaze flicking to your aunt before landing back on you. She pushed off the seat and got out to follow you, her presence like a shadow at your back.

The porch light hummed faintly as you step inside, and a creamy warmth filled your chest. Your sister cheered when she saw you, and you laughed—your eyesight blurring. For the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe.

❀

As always, you dived in headfirst and sought out your grandmother’s room.

It was a terrible mistake. You couldn’t handle seeing her like that.

Almost immediately, bile surged up your throat, sharp and acidic, and you bolted—pausing just long enough to set the medicine down on her nightstand with quaking hands. You burst outside, where the air was sweltering with salt and the sudden impact of your new reality.

You weren’t good with death, not in any of its forms.

When your daddy died, something inside you cracked clean in half, the break jagged and irreparable. You’d felt a piece of yourself slip down into his grave, like a loose flower. Since then, you’d clung to the hope that love—your love—could somehow keep the people you cared about alive. At least until you felt ready for the loss.

Your chest ached in a way that felt both too familiar and entirely new, like grief had leveled your ribs to construct a home in your body. You rubbed at it absently, trying to dull the pressure blooming there, blinking hard against the rising tide of tears.

She was going to die. You knew this. It settled into your stomach like lead, poisoning you.

Behind you, the woods creaked, the trees’ chorus soft and low, like they were joining you in mourning. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Hey, angel,” Sevika said, her voice low and warm, the kind of soft you wouldn’t have expected from her. It caught you off guard every time. “You alright?”

“I’m not going back in there,” you said quickly, your voice brittle and thin.

“You don’t have to.” There was a pause, long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, quieter, “Can you look at me?”

You hesitated, staring down at your hands, at the chipping polish on your grown out tips and the way your fingers trembled. You could feel her waiting, patient and steady, like she’d stand there all night if you needed her to. Finally, you turned, slow and reluctant, until your eyes met hers.

Sevika stood at the edge of the porch, broad shoulders framed by the faded light. Her face was unreadable, but not unkind.

“Come here,” she said, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t think. You moved, inching forward on unsteady legs and stepping into her orbit. Her hands came up instinctively, one curling around your elbow, the other hovering just above your waist, as if she wasn’t sure where to touch you.

“I can’t go back in there,” you repeated, your voice cracking.

“[Name]—,”

“She’s dying.”

“But you knew that. You can’t leave her when she needs you the most.

“I’m tired of people fucking needing me.” You crossed your arms over your torso, holding yourself. “They all just leave anyway.”

“When you love people, that’s the process. That’s life’s price.

The words hit you like a perfect blow, and before you could stop yourself, you were crying—big, fat tears that streaked your cheeks with warmth and made your mascara run. You tried to turn away, but her hand found your chin, tilting your face back toward hers.

“Hey,” she murmured, her thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s unfair, I know. Trust me, I know. Let it out.”

And you did. You let the sobs take you, let them rip through you wave after wave, until you were clinging to her shirt, the fabric balled tightly in your fists. She held you through it, solid and unfaltering, her hand steady against your back.

When the tears finally subsided, you felt drained, like you’d been wrung out and left to dry. But her arms stayed around you.

❀

Sevika managed to coax you inside, shivering and bleating like a lamb, but the house was newly unbearable.

Every room smelled like antiseptic and something sweetly rotting beneath the surface, a scent that clung to your hair and the back of your throat. The walls felt too bright, too alive for what was happening inside them.

It was like the house was mocking you. Every sound—your grandmother’s labored breathing, the clock ticking too loudly in the kitchen, your little sister’s restless movements on the couch—seemed to close in on you.

You couldn’t stay. Not in that room, not in that house. Maybe you took after your mother more than you liked to admit.

Your sister looked so small on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her and her face blank as she stared at the flickering TV. She was holding onto the hem of her dress like it might unravel if she let go and the man on the screen promised to get her a spot in heaven, under God’s thumb. Bullshit.

When you spoke, your voice was soft, barely audible over the droning hum of the television.

“Get your shoes on, bug,” you said. “We’re going to the beach.”

Her head snapped up, her wide eyes searching yours for a moment before she nodded and slid off the couch.

You were almost out the door when your aunt caught you, her voice sharp but quiet.

“You better know what you’re doing with that woman.”

Kenna’s words stopped you cold, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder as you turned to face her. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her face shadowed by the dim porch light.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with her,” you admitted, your voice low. “But I know I trust her.”

Your aunt studied you for a long moment, her gaze heavy and cutting. Finally, she stepped aside, her expression softening just enough to let you know she wasn’t angry, just worried.

“I know what infatuation looks like. I know what love looks like too, even when it’s still on its way. It’s coming, baby. Just—,”she sighed, breaking off.

“Just be careful,” she finished.

You hugged her tight, sagging as she slid a hand over her hair before letting you go.

Sevika was waiting in the car, her arm draped over the steering wheel, her face unreadable in the twilight. Your sister climbed into the backseat, curling up immediately with her Lisa Frank coloring book, and you slid into the passenger seat without a word.

The drive was quiet, the low hum of the city filling the space between you. Sevika didn’t push, didn’t ask what had happened inside. She just drove, and you were so grateful you could’ve kissed her.

The beach was nearly empty when you arrived, the sun beyond gone now. You spread a blanket out on the cool gray sand, letting your sister run down to the water. Her laughter echoed faintly, carried by the breeze, and for a moment, you let yourself relax.

You pulled off your woven cover-up, revealing the soft orange bikini you’d slipped on. The well-loved fabric clung to you, accentuating the plush curves of your body in a way that made you stall for only a moment. But then Sevika looked at you, and the way her gaze dragged over you made all air flee your throat.

She swallowed hard, her jaw working as she tore her eyes away and stared out at the water instead.

“You look nice,” she said, her voice gruff.

You snorted, sitting down on the blanket.

“Nice?”

“Very nice,” she amended, but the rasp in her voice gave her away.

“You do too,” you told her and you meant it.

She was gorgeous in her black cropped tee and little black cargoes. This was “as beachy as she was willing to get”. You didn’t give a damn. You wanted to eat her alive.

The sky deepened into a hazy indigo, the stars faint and scattered. Your sister danced along the shoreline, her feet splashing in the shallow waves. You watched her, your chest aching with something you couldn’t name.

“I wish this was my entire life,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Sevika.

She turned to you, her brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, gesturing to your sister. “Taking care of her. Taking care of my daughter with my wife. No illness, no bills piling up, no—” Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard. “No worries. Just a quiet life.”

Sevika didn’t respond right away. When you finally looked at her, her face was so soft in a way you knew was probably a rarity. Her prosthetic raised in an aborted motion, as if she’d thought to touch your face.

“I could take care of you, baby,” she said quietly, the words slipping from her lips like a promise.

Your breath caught, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

“Come back with me, [Name],” she said, her voice low and steady. “Stay with me and Melly. Bring [Sister’s Name]. You don’t have to do it alone all the time.”

The fantasy of her words pressed against your chest, warm and overwhelming. For a moment, you let yourself imagine it: her, Melly, your sister, a life where the world's heaviness couldn’t crush you.

Your sister called out from the water, waving a piece of driftwood she’d found, and the moment broke. Sevika’s hand brushed yours, solid and grounding, and when you turned back to her, her eyes were still on you, waiting.

The tide lapped at the shore, the sound mingling with your sister’s laughter, and you felt a rising pulse in your mouth, on your tongue.

“They do fireworks at the docks. You have to pay, but we sneak in all the time. You wanna see?”

“Sure,” Sevika said.

The answer came so easily and you knew she’d give you everything. Maybe even love you forever. The thought made you tingle and you dug your toes into the sand.

“Let’s go,” you said, your pinky twisting around hers.

You both knew you weren’t talking about the fireworks.

With a wry smile she rose and set about taking you home again.

Your sister—forever your baby—was curled fast asleep in the back seat of Sevika’s car by the time you pulled out of the lot, her face slack with the kind of peace only children seemed capable of. Her soft snores filled the space between you as Sevika drove back to your grandmother’s house, the streets quiet and warm, lit faintly by streetlights. The evening air hung heavy, sticking to your skin like a second layer.

You glanced at Sevika as she drove, her profile lit in flashes by the passing lights. Her grip on the wheel was loose, but her fingers drummed absently against the leather, her thoughts somewhere else. Maybe with you.

You wondered if she was nervous. You wondered if she knew how much you were.

“She’s out like a light,” Sevika murmured, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Guess it’s just us.”

You swallowed, your fingers playing with the hem of your cover-up, and nodded. “Just us.”

Your aunt was waiting on the porch when you arrived. She was perched on the railing, her vape glowing faintly in the dark. You knew the scent without looking: cucumber, apple, and sour cherry.

Her sharp gaze moved between the two of you as Sevika carried your sister inside, her long stride easy and steady despite the weight of the little girl in her arms.

“Enjoyed your family outing?” Aunt Kenna asked, teasing but pointed, as you lingered by the door.

You blinked at her, startled, heat rising in your cheeks. “It wasn’t like that.”

She snorted, taking a long drag. “Sure it wasn’t .”

❀

The docks were quieter than you expected when you arrived. Most of the families had settled in their little corners, kids running barefoot across the wooden planks, their laughter echoing into the open sky. The air smelled of pear, peach blossoms, and distant charcoal grills, a mix of sugar and fire that felt like the very essence of where you’d been born and raised.

Sevika parked far enough away to avoid the crowd but close enough for you to see the shimmering reflections of the boats swaying in the dark water. She leaned back against the hood of her car, her long legs stretched out in front of her, and watched as you wandered closer to the edge, the creamy orange of your tiny bikini glowing faintly in the dim light.

You should’ve been illegal.

“Careful, angel,” she called, her voice warm, fond. “You fall in, I’m not jumping after you.”

You turned, smirking, the breeze tugging at the bow sitting pretty in the middle of your full breasts.

“I can swim.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to fish you out,” she said, but her smile gave her away. She was watching you so intently, her gaze loaded, as if committing you to memory.

You walked back toward her, your arms wrapped around yourself, and stopped just a foot away. The tension between you was almost tangible now, electric. You could feel it humming in the air, in the way her eyes lingered on the curve of your wide hips, the dip of your collarbone. It made your breath hitch.

“I’ve always loved the docks,” you said softly. “They feel… timeless. Like you could stand here forever and nothing would change.”

Sevika hummed, tilting her head to look up at you. “You think that’s a good thing?”

You shrugged, your lips curving faintly.

“Sometimes.”

The first firework burst above you then, a bloom of pink and gold that lit up the sky and reflected off the water. A shock of red followed shortly after. You both looked up, the moment suspended, the sound of the explosion echoing in your chest.

You glanced at Sevika, her face bathed in the soft glow of the fireworks, and felt something shift inside you. Something undeniable.

The show continued, and you moved to lean against the hood of her car. The metal was warm and your stomach was buzzing at the nearness of Sevika’s broad body.

By the time the fireworks were halfway through, you couldn’t focus on them anymore. The loud bursts of color seemed secondary to the way Sevika was lounging next to you, her broad shoulders relaxed, her eyes soaking in the way goosebumps bubbled along your arms. It felt like she was daring you to do something, to cross the line you’d been dancing around since she’d swept you off the highway.

You moved closer, your bare feet brushing against hers, and she straightened slightly, her head listing to the side as she watched you.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, her voice low.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding.

“I’m thinking…” You trailed off, your fingers twisting in the sides of your bikini bottom. “I’m thinking this feels… nice.”

Her lips quirked, just slightly, but her gaze was serious. “Nice?”

“So good,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I feel… safe with you. Things are perfect like this, and—and I’m probably never gonna feel this way again.”

The words hung between you, honest and raw, and you could see the way they landed on her, the way her expression softened, her guard slipping for just a moment.

“I’d never hurt you,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “You know that, right?”

You nodded, stepping even closer until you were standing between her legs, the warmth of her body seeping into yours. “I know.”

You didn’t, really. She could be selling you a paper thin dream. But your hope had always been the largest part of you. It spurred the flame you felt for her, your aching burning desire to be with her all the time. To ride by her side without question.

Her hand came up then, hesitating for just a second before settling on your waist. The touch was light, almost cautious, but it sent an electric current straight through you.

“Sevika,” you whispered, your voice stumbling.

She leaned in slightly, her breath warm against your cheek.

“Yeah?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the gap between you, your lips brushing against hers in a kiss that felt just right, like the tide meeting the shore. Your body lit up, and you collapsed into her—trusting and free.

She stilled for a moment, as if surprised, but then her hand tightened on your waist and she kissed you back, slow and deliberate.

The world seemed to fade then, the fireworks a distant, glittering symphony in the black sky. All you could feel was her—her warmth, her strength, the way she seemed determined to hold you together even as you felt like you might fall apart.

When you finally pulled back, your breath coming in weak gasps, lightheaded and aching to faint, she rested her forehead against yours, searching your dilated eyes.

Your lip gloss was smeared across Sevika’s jaw, leaving a streak of shimmering peach and rose that caught in the fleeting light of the evening. It clung to her skin, soft and vivid As she moved, the stain glistened faintly, the contrast against her sharp, weathered features sending a slow, aching thrill down your spine.

It was yours, this faint, glittering mark, lingering in the space where your mouth had been. She made no effort to remove it.

“Angel,” she murmured, her voice rough. “You sure about this?”

You nodded, your hands clutching at her shoulders. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Her smile was soft, almost reverent, as she pressed another searing kiss to your lips.

“Come on,” she said, pulling back just enough to look at you. “Let’s get in the car.”

❀

Your palm slapped hard against the roof, your teeth almost tearing through your bottom lip as you tried to hold back a loud moan.

Beneath you, Sevika gripped the copious flesh of your ass as she sucked at your clit.

“Oh, shit, Sevika. Fuck.”

In the beginning you were so careful, worried about blocking her airway. With a hard slap to your ass she pulled you down, relentless in taking all of you.

“Hnnnnnh,” you whimpered. “Sevi, fuuuuuck.”

Sevika hummed in satisfaction at that. As she watched your face she grazed your clit with her teeth, relishing in how you arched.

You were so warm and supple between her fingers, your pussy slobbering over her nose and mouth. You tasted so good, so musky and honeyed. She never wanted to let you go.

Slowly, she slide you down and pressed you down to her chest as she undid your bikini top so that your tits spilled eagerly against her own. She then tenderly tucked two fingers inside of you, cooing as you whined at the stretch.

She began to bounce you by the fabric of your bottoms, forcing you to ride her fingers until they were covered in the thin film of your wetness. You moaned at her strength, at how easily she’d decided how you’d take her.

“Good fucking girl. So sweet, aren’t you, baby? Hmm?”

“Sevi, please. Just—just a little faster.”

She grinned meanly, inserting a third finger and curling them—raking cruelly against your g-spot. You sank further into her, swiveling your hips if only to get her deeper. To take her harder. Your pussy was weeping, emptying itself onto her hand.

“Jesus, sweetheart. You’re leaking all over me. ‘M never gonna get this out of these seats.”

“Good,” you breathed out, smiling impishly.

Sevika’s eyes darkened and she suddenly rearranged you till you were on your back against the leather seats, your legs wholly spread. she lowered between them, licking a long stripe up to your clit experimentally.

She had you soft and loose. You didn’t realize just how spacious this car was.

You moaned, high and loud, snapping into an arch until you were forced to come back down, Sevika’s arm holding your hips firmly. Your eyes were closed now, and your eyelids were no longer just black, explosions of color staining them, ripping through you.

Sevika lapped at you, taking her time but still intentional with the way she touched you. She used a hand to spread you apart burying her face into her pussy, her nose becoming wet again with your rabid need. She became messy, moving her head back and forth, slurping at you until you were almost shaking, on the edge of something greater.

Settling back just slightly, she spat harshly into your cunt and rubbed it into your clit, pressing down until it was close to painful. You couldn’t breathe correctly. You couldn’t even remember your name.

"Sevi. Sevi. Mommy, oh my fucking God.“

Sevika said nothing, just caught a lip of your cunt between her teeth, biting down as she slid her fingers back in.

"Unh," is what you had to add to the nonexistent conversation and Sevika grinned against you.

She spread her fingers and then curled them, dragging your hips into her lap as she sat up. You couldn’t feel your fucking legs.

"Yes. Yeah. Yeah, just like that. It feels so fucking good."

Sevika was driven and vicious, determined to eat away at the woman beneath her. You curved your back as your orgasm approached, determined to feel it all the way up in the cavern of your mouth. You needed this.

Sevika leaned over you, tilting your head down so that you were looking at one another.

"I want you to keep looking at me as you cum."

You made a faint noise of agreement and clutched at Sevika’s arms. She took your hands and placed them underneath your knees, so that you could hold yourself open. It spread you apart until she was able to view how pink and puffy you were.

“I can’t wait to get you in bed, honey. ‘M gonna bend you over, open that tight little cunt with my cock, and watch you swallow me.”

“Oh.” You let a little groan of satisfaction as she thumbed at your clit.

Sevika pressed your foreheads together and thumbed at your mouth. You felt both here and there, brain blanking.

“Ohh,” she mocked you with a slight smile. “You’re so fucking cute.”

You cast your head back as Sevika returned her mouth to your pussy, suckling at it in combination with her fingers carving a space deep inside of you.

"Come on, angel," she urged. "Be good for me."

You were trying, goddamnit.

"Gonna take a photo of this creamy cunt. Show Melly, tell her that I did this. That you let me."

You let out a high whine, and she nodded in faux sympathy.

“Mmm? Is that what you want to do? Want me to take you to that shitty club and spread you open on stage? Stake my claim?”

A fourth finger now. Her voice dropped as if telling you a secret.

“Maybe I’ll slide some cold, hard cash into this slutty cunt, stretch that slit.” Faster now. Your toes curled. “ Fuck. I’m sorry, baby. Mommy just wants to slut you out.”

She pressed a delicate kiss to your cunt and you were unsure if what came next was just the slam of your hand against the door echoing or another firework going off.

All you knew was that the world around you was roaring, that she refused to stop. All you knew was her digging into you.

You imploded.

❀

The drive back was quiet, the tension between you still palpable but softer now, sated and sleepy. Sevika reached over once, her fingers brushing against your cheek and you shifted, pressing the petals of your lips into the center of her palm without hesitation.

When you finally pulled into your grandmother’s driveway, the house bathed in the soft glow of the porch light, you turned to her, your heart full to bursting.

“Stay,” you said, your emotions splayed wide open. “Just for a little while.”

She looked at you for a long moment, and then she nodded. “Okay.”

You both knew it wasn’t just for a little while.

❀

The house smelled like hibiscus and coffee when you walked in, the faint scent of six-dollar soy candles lingering in the corners. Your aunt was at the sink, her hands submerged in soapy water, her curls pinned back with a clip. She turned when she heard the door creak open, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she took in Sevika trailing behind you, broad-shouldered and quiet.

“You brought her back?” she asked, not in a disparaging manner, though her tone carried the weight of an older woman who’d seen it all.

“[Sister’s Name] forgot something in her car,” you lied easily, gesturing toward said alibi, who was peeking into the kitchen while rubbing a fist over her eye, her drowsy greeting muffled as she dragged her blanket behind her.

Your aunt didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue either. Instead, she flicked her chin toward the counter.

“If she’s staying, she may as well help.”

Sevika looked at you, one brow arched slightly in amusement. You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though the idea of her folding herself into your life—even for something as mundane as this—made your stomach swoop.

The kitchen was broiling, almost unbearably so, with the old oven humming faintly and the humidity from the day still clinging to the walls. Sevika rolled up her sleeves, revealing the curve of her forearms, the prosthetic gleaming faintly in the soft overhead light.

You tried not to stare, but your eyes kept drifting—over the way her hands moved as she dried the dishes your aunt handed her, the faint flex of muscle under her skin.

“You ever wash a dish before?” your aunt asked, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Plenty,” Sevika admitted, her voice low and even. “Did a couple restaurant stints when I first came to this place. I was hoping to never do that shit again.”

You bit back a smile, ducking your head as you reached for a towel to dry the counter. The space felt smaller with her in it, her silhouette filling every corner, her quick movements electric.

Your aunt glanced between the two of you, her gaze lingering on Sevika before she handed her another plate.

“You’re a hard worker. Good. She needs someone who can keep up.”

Sevika’s lips quirked, but she didn’t respond, her attention focused on the task in front of her.

The radio crackled faintly from the corner, playing some old Cuban bolero your aunt loved, and you found yourself swaying slightly as you worked, the rhythm infectious. You caught Sevika watching you out of the corner of her eye, her gaze soft but intent, and your cheeks warmed.

“You dance to this too?” she asked, her voice pitched low enough that your aunt didn’t catch it.

“Sometimes,” you said, keeping your focus on the counter. “Not for free, though.”

She chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in her chest. “Figures.”

Your aunt, oblivious or maybe just tactfully ignoring the tension that weaved itself between you, turned to Sevika with a clean dish in hand.

“Rinse this for me, would you? And don’t let her distract you—she’s been trouble since she could fucking walk.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sevika said, glancing at you with a spark of amusement in her eyes.

The night wore on, the kitchen growing quieter as your aunt finally finished and stepped out to check on your sister. You stayed behind, leaning against the counter as Sevika dried her hands on a threadbare patch of towel.

“I can’t believe you were hustling in restaurants,” you said, nodding toward the sink.

She smirked, tossing the towel onto the counter.

“Don’t sound so surprised. I can be a delight.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

“Thanks for helping.”

“Anytime,” she said, her voice softening slightly.

You watched her for a moment, the way her shoulders seemed less tense now, the way her hair caught the light. The memory of her hands on you earlier still lingered, watering over your skin. It was a secret only the two of you shared.

“You okay?” she asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she stepped closer.

You nodded, though your chest felt tight, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

“Yeah. Just a little tired.”

Her hand brushed yours, just barely, but it was enough to make your heart skip. She noticed, her gaze dropping to where your fingers nearly touched before she pulled back, her jaw tightening.

“We should get some sleep,” she said, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” you murmured, though you didn’t move.

For a moment, neither of you did, the hum of the radio the only sound in the room. Then she stepped back, giving you space you didn’t want, and you let her.

❀

Your bedroom felt much like the inside of a shell—quiet and strange, the air soaked with a mixture of rose, magnolia, and something darker, something that sat low in your chest. You could still taste the golden slices of your childhood, still feel the ache in your ribs that came from building elaborate forts.

But now there was Sevika, solid and steady beneath you.

As soon as the door had closed, she’d taken you apart slowly, carefully, as though she’d known you needed it to feel stable again.

The rough pads of her fingers, the soft murmur of her voice, the way she called you princess like it was the only name you’d ever had. And you had suffered in silence, hand across your mouth as you clenched and shook around her head for the third time, then the fourth.

You’d finally tired after a good ride on her thigh, holding on desperately to the nape of neck. Her baby hair was soft there, tender. She came when you kissed her nose, slid down to her mouth, and called her beautiful. She’d whimpered, bucked awkwardly around your fingers, and you held her to you as you whispered her name.

You’d looked it up in the bathroom. Sevika. Of Indian and Sanskrit origin. Servant of God.

Now, she lay between your legs, her head resting heavy and warm against your stomach. The weight of her felt magical, made your body feel more virginal than it ever had been, and you sighed lowly as the first rays of sunlight slipped through the blinds, casting pale gold stripes across her back.

The swan wings stretched with her every move, the feathers catching flight as she breathed. Muted ivory and soft grays leaned tenderly into the faintest hints of lavender and navy blue, the delicate gradient of ink glowing against her deep, bronze skin.

You reached out, tracing the curve of a wing’s tip near her shoulder blade. The ink felt warm under your fingertips, her skin soft but unyielding. The swan’s head, nestled at the base of her neck where the wings met, was elegant and sharp, its eyes bright as if they could see into you. You followed the line of its neck with your thumb, your touch lingering at the place where her spine dipped, and she hummed low in her throat, a sound that vibrated through your body.

She tilted her head, her cheek brushing against the softness of your belly as her eyes opened slowly, sleep still heavy in her gaze.

“You like it?” she murmured, voice rough and low.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re beautiful.”

You had already said this, and the reminder made you blush in embarrassment. A slow, lopsided smile tugged at her lips, and she closed her eyes again, sinking deeper into you as if she belonged there. You felt her hand slide up to rest on your thigh, her fingers splayed against your skin, holding you in place like she was afraid you’d disappear into the rising morning.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, and you flinched at the sound, the world outside pressing back in. Sevika didn’t move, just let her hand trail lazily up your spine as you reached for it. The screen glowed with messages from your aunt:

aunt kenna 𓆉: Couldn’t get anyone to cover the rest of my shifts this week. aunt kenna 𓆉: Mom’s still kicking. She’s getting stronger. aunt kenna 𓆉: Ty for coming home. See you soon. Love you, bug x

Still alive, you thought. The words lit up something inside you, bright and raw and impossible to contain. You laughed, the sound catching on the edge of a sob, and dropped the phone onto the bed.

“What is it?” Sevika asked, her voice filling with concern.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. The words tangled in your throat. Instead, you turned to her, your fingers trembling as they found her face, tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her full mouth.

“She’s still alive,” you whispered, the words spilling out like a prayer.

Her eyes softened, her hand sliding up to cradle your face, her thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice steady, certain. “She’s a strong woman, just like the rest of you.”

The relief hit you all at once, sharp and overwhelming, and you kissed her because you couldn’t think of anything else to do. It was messy and desperate, your hands fisting in her hair as you tried to pour every unspoken thing into her mouth. She let you, her body surrendering to its basest urges .

“Still alive,” you repeated, this time against her lips, your forehead resting against hers as your tears slipped silently onto her skin.

“Mmhmm,” she murmured, her voice soft but sure, her hands steady on your hips. “You’re all gonna live forever.”

You kissed her again, because you needed to. You needed her.

You believed her.

And the truth was you didn’t know how good it would get for the two (five) of you.

You’d look back, let go, lose this part of things. Take your baby sister and leave.

You’d still be you, but you'd be free.

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inkyquillstories · 8 days ago

Text

A Body Swap Study

Author’s Note:

This is a long one but I hope you enjoy it. Had this story in mind for a while but I was looking for the perfect pair of men to use. The pics here are the SFW version. If you wanna see the full NSFW version, you can see them on my discord: https://discord.gg/mMY9wSu4rS

There’s considerably less photos in the tumblr post than the one on discord

A Body Swap Study: Posters had begun appearing throughout the city, each one promising an opportunity too good to be true. The details were vague yet enticing: a groundbreaking psychological and neurological study seeking male participants between the ages of 18 and 60. The commitment was significant—a full year in a secured facility—but so were the incentives. Housing, meals, and an eye-watering sum of money were offered in exchange for participation. A non-disclosure agreement was mandatory, hinting at the study’s highly confidential nature. Some dismissed it as a scam, but for those desperate enough, it was an irresistible lifeline.

Silas was one of those people. A twenty-year-old aspiring actor in Los Angeles, he had once been confident that success was just around the corner. Yet, after countless auditions and endless rejections, he found himself unable to pay rent, with no prospects in sight. Handsome, fit, and brimming with charisma, he carried himself with the bravado of someone who had the world at his feet. But behind that confidence lay a man aware of how precarious his situation had become. When he saw the poster, he barely hesitated before signing up. It was money, stability—just for a year. How bad could it be?

Rob, on the other hand, had just lost his job. It wasn’t the first time. Overweight since childhood, he had grown accustomed to the silent judgments and casual dismissals of others. He was highly intelligent, kind-hearted, but plagued with insecurities that made it difficult to navigate social situations. His appetite was insatiable, his body unaccustomed to exercise, and he often sweated excessively, making him self-conscious about his appearance. When he stumbled upon the poster, it felt like a godsend. He needed money, and if spending a year in a research facility was the price, so be it.

The research team was flooded with applications, but two names stood out: Silas and Rob. Their physical and psychological differences made them ideal candidates. When they arrived at the state-of-the-art facility, they were greeted by Dr. Hank, a middle-aged man with an air of quiet authority. He welcomed them into a sleek, modern space filled with cutting-edge technology and a team of eager scientists. As Silas and Rob exchanged glances, their immediate impressions of each other were hard to ignore.

Silas couldn't tear his eyes away from Rob, his gaze flickering between disgust and disbelief. The sight of him—slouched and bloated—made something twist deep in Silas’ gut. How could someone let themselves reach this point? Rob's clothes hung loosely on his frame, but it was clear the fabric couldn’t fully conceal the rolls of flesh beneath. His face, once vaguely youthful, now sagged with an unflattering weight, his skin stretched tight around the folds like it was struggling to keep up with the overwhelming bulk.

The size difference between them was so stark it almost seemed like a cruel joke. Silas stood tall, lean, a picture of discipline and control. And then there was Rob, who looked as though he'd long given up on any semblance of self-respect. His greasy hair hung limply, a stark contrast to the neatly combed strands Silas took so much pride in. The small beads of sweat on Rob’s forehead seemed to reflect a deeper, unspoken struggle—one that Silas couldn’t quite place but that filled him with an uncomfortable mixture of superiority and contempt.

A huff of disbelief escaped Silas before he could stop it. How does someone let themselves go like that?

Yet, even as the thought crossed his mind, he scolded himself. He knew nothing of Rob’s life, his struggles, or how he had ended up this way. It wasn’t fair to judge him for his body alone. Still, it was difficult not to feel a sense of superiority.

Rob’s gaze lingered on Silas, and for a moment, he felt a sharp pang of envy twist in his chest. Silas exuded a kind of effortless confidence that Rob had always longed for, something he could never seem to grasp. His eyes traced Silas’ lean, sculpted form, the way his clothes fit him perfectly, as if every inch of him had been meticulously designed for maximum impact. There was a magnetic energy around him, a self-assuredness that Rob could never seem to summon, no matter how hard he tried.

It was frustrating—almost maddening—watching Silas move with that kind of ease, as if nothing in the world could faze him. Rob had dreamed of that confidence, had imagined walking into a room and commanding attention without even trying. He’d fantasized about being in shape, about going to the gym and chiseling his body into something that might make him proud, but the reality of his lazy habits, his poor diet, and his inability to break free from his patterns always held him back.

But standing next to Silas now, the gap between them felt painfully insurmountable. He couldn’t ignore the stark contrast: where Silas was sharp, defined, and disciplined, Rob felt sluggish, soft, and weak. A bitter jealousy simmered under his skin, but there was something else too—a strange, almost involuntary thrill at the sheer difference between them.

As his eyes briefly scanned Silas’ body, he felt a jolt, a tightness in his chest that he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just envy. There was a certain pull to Silas—something more than just admiration. Rob didn’t quite know how to label it, but there was a raw, magnetic attraction in the way Silas stood, in the way his presence seemed to fill the room. It stirred something deep inside Rob, a hunger he’d never fully understood, an aching desire to somehow be that person, to embody that power, that control.

But, even as these thoughts circled in his mind, he pushed them down, focusing instead on the fleeting hope that this experiment, whatever it was, might be his chance to finally change. To escape his stagnant life and step into something new. The envy was still there, but now it was tinged with a desperate yearning, an almost primal desire to shed his old self and embrace whatever might be possible with Silas’ image, if only for a moment.

Dr. Hank soon gathered them for an explanation. The study, he revealed, was not just about the brain—it was about identity itself. The goal was to explore what happened when the mind was gradually reshaped to fit a new body. This wouldn’t be an instant switch. Instead, over the course of months, every aspect of their lives would be systematically exchanged. By the end of the experiment, their minds would fully adapt to their new identities.

Both men were horrified. The idea of losing themselves, even temporarily, was unnerving. But Dr. Hank calmly reminded them of the immense compensation they would receive. He assured them that the process would be entirely reversible and that Silas and Rob would return to the outside world when the study concluded. It was a small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. With some hesitation, they signed the NDA and the consent forms, sealing their fate.

After signing, they were introduced to the rest of the research team and given a tour of the facility. It was more luxurious than either of them had expected—a strange fusion of laboratory and resort. There was a buffet, a gym, an arcade, and even outdoor spaces like a pool and lush green parks. Each man was given a private room, equipped with all the comforts of home. For a moment, it almost felt like a vacation. Almost.

The first phase of the experiment was simple: a swap of personal objects. They were instructed to exchange clothes in front of each other, a task that made Silas uneasy from the start. As he pulled off his fitted designer t-shirt, he couldn’t help but glance over at Rob’s exposed body standing before him. The difference between them was almost jarring. Rob’s stomach protruded noticeably, his belly soft and rounded, the fabric of his shirt clinging tightly to the folds of flesh beneath. His arms were thick, but the weight wasn’t muscle; his skin, slick with residual sweat, reflected a life of neglect.

Silas’ gaze lingered briefly on the stretch marks crisscrossing Rob’s torso, a stark contrast to his own firm, meticulously cared-for body. It wasn’t a feeling of disgust, not exactly, but a deep sense of disbelief at the reality of the man in front of him—someone who lived in a completely different world, a world Silas had never been forced to acknowledge until now.

As Rob peeled off his jeans, Silas’ eyes flickered downward despite himself, taking in the full extent of the contrast between them. Rob’s thighs were thick, heavy, pressing against each other with every movement, the skin slightly chafed where they rubbed together. His calves, though large, lacked the definition Silas was used to seeing on his own body, and his knees seemed almost swallowed by the surrounding flesh. Silas couldn’t help but notice the way Rob’s stomach sagged slightly over the waistband of his underwear, the elastic digging into his skin, leaving faint red marks. His hips were wide, his lower body carrying the bulk of his weight, and even the way he stood—feet planted firmly apart for balance—was so different from Silas’ own natural stance.

As he slid Rob’s oversized, sweat-dampened shirt over his head, Silas was hit with an immediate discomfort. The fabric, heavy and loose, hung off his own frame like a sack, draping over his well-defined muscles in an unfamiliar way. The scent of Rob’s body—a mixture of stale deodorant and the lingering musk of someone who didn’t care much for hygiene—clung to the fabric, making Silas wrinkle his nose. The jeans were even worse—baggy and stretched out in places that seemed unnatural. They hung off him awkwardly, as if he were a child playing dress-up in his father’s old clothes. His discomfort deepened, the weight of Rob’s existence—his habits, his choices—pressing down on him in a way that felt almost suffocating. Silas swallowed hard, fighting the unease rising in his chest. This wasn’t just an exchange of clothes; it was a glimpse into a life he had never truly understood, and the reality was far more unsettling than he had imagined.

Meanwhile, Rob’s hands trembled slightly as he peeled off his old, sweat-stained t-shirt and handed it to Silas. He had seen fit men before—on television, at the gym he had always been too intimidated to enter—but never had he stood so close to someone like Silas, let alone stripped down before them. His eyes traveled over Silas’ body, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. Silas was everything he had ever wanted to be—lean, toned, effortlessly powerful. His chest was firm, each muscle subtly defined without being overly bulky, his stomach tight and sculpted, as if he had never known the struggle of excess weight. His shoulders were broad, his arms chiseled, his entire frame carrying a natural confidence that came from discipline, from a life of control.

As Silas removed his last layer, Rob felt a pang of something deeper than envy—an aching realization that they were built for entirely different worlds. When he stepped into Silas’ crisp, perfectly fitted clothes, the waistband snug against his stomach, he felt like an imposter. This wasn’t just an exchange of fabric—it was a fleeting, painful glimpse into the life he had always wished for but had never been able to reach.

Rob’s eyes traced Silas’ form with an almost analytical intensity, absorbing every detail of the body he had always longed for. His chest was firm and smooth, his pectoral muscles subtly defined, rising and falling with steady breaths. His collarbones jutted out ever so slightly, accentuating the lean, angular structure of his upper body. Silas’ arms, even at rest, carried an effortless strength—biceps and triceps taut beneath his skin, veins faintly visible along his forearms, a sign of low body fat and rigorous training. His stomach was a masterpiece of discipline, each muscle carved into a set of defined abs that tensed slightly with every shift of his posture. Lower down, his hips were narrow, his waist trim, leading to long, toned legs with thighs firm and proportionate, the muscles apparent even in stillness. His calves were sharply contoured, the kind Rob had always envied in runners or athletes, shaped by years of movement and effort. Even his stance was different—relaxed but assured, as though he had never once worried about how much space he took up. Rob swallowed hard, not out of embarrassment, but from the sheer weight of the comparison. Silas’ body wasn’t just different—it was proof of everything Rob wasn’t, everything he had always wished he could be.

Rob couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy mixed with awe. Was it really possible for a person to look this… perfect? He had always admired fit men from afar, but seeing Silas up close like this made his own body feel even heavier in comparison.

Sliding into Silas’s clothes was an entirely different experience—one that filled Rob with a strange, exhilarating thrill. The shirt was snug, hugging his body in ways he wasn’t used to. It was strange, almost suffocating, but he didn’t hate it. In fact, he reveled in it. The fabric was soft, clean, and carried a faint scent of expensive cologne—nothing like the lingering musk that clung to his usual clothes. When he lifted his arms again, the motion brought a fresh wave of Silas' scent—an intoxicating mix of soap, skin, and something subtly masculine that Rob couldn't quite place. He inhaled before he could stop himself, a flicker of something heady and unfamiliar stirring inside him.

The jeans were impossibly tight, and he struggled to button them over his stomach, but he relished the sensation of wearing something meant for someone like Silas. He stood up straighter, tilting his chin slightly, imagining what it must feel like to actually *belong* in these clothes. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to believe—just maybe—this experiment could give him more than just money.

Aside from that, they also exchanged wallets, IDs, and phones. The symbolism was clear—this was the first step in becoming each other. From that moment on, they were required to wear each other's clothes. It felt ridiculous, even surreal, but they reminded themselves that it was all temporary. Just a year, and then they would return to normal. Or so they thought. That afternoon, Silas and Rob sat across from each other in one of the facility’s sleek, minimalist lounge areas. A small recording device sat between them, its red light blinking steadily, a silent witness to the exchange that was about to take place. Dr. Hank had given them clear instructions—share everything. Every detail of their lives had to be known by the other, down to the smallest habits and personal quirks. If they were going to live as each other, they had to be each other.

Rob cleared his throat, rubbing his hands together nervously. "Alright… I guess I’ll go first," he said. "My full name is Robert Daniel Whitmore. I was born in Chicago, Illinois. I’m twenty-six. Only child. My mom raised me on her own after my dad left when I was a baby. We didn’t have much growing up, but she worked hard to give me a good education. I was always the smart kid, the one with his nose in a book. I studied computer science at the University of Illinois, but I never really fit in. I… I always felt like an outsider, you know?" His voice softened, eyes darting away. "And yeah, I’ve always been… big. I tried to lose weight a few times, but food was kind of my escape. It still is."

Silas listened, arms resting on the back of the couch. He forced himself to absorb everything. It wasn’t just words—it was supposed to be his new reality. "Alright," he said, exhaling. "I’m Silas Maddox. Full name Silas James Maddox. Born and raised in Los Angeles. I’m twenty. I have one sibling. It’s just my dad, sister, and I after my mom passed away when I was a kid. He’s a talent agent, got me into acting when I was little. Did a bunch of commercials, tried for bigger roles, but nothing really stuck. I work part-time as a waiter, but acting’s always been my dream. I hit the gym every morning, keep myself in shape—image is everything in my business. And, well…" He gave a dry chuckle. "Let’s just say I’m used to getting attention."

Rob nodded, trying to picture himself in Silas’s world. The glitz, the constant pressure to be seen, to be perfect. It was so far from his own reality that it almost felt like fiction. Meanwhile, Silas tried to imagine Rob’s life—long nights behind a computer, the loneliness of always being the outsider, the struggle of trying to change and never quite succeeding.

For the next few hours, they drilled each other on details. Favorite foods, childhood memories, allergies, daily routines. Silas now had a mother who sent long-winded texts about his health. Rob now had a father who expected him to make it big in Hollywood. The longer they spoke, the more their lives intertwined, and the more unsettling it became. By the end of it, they weren’t just learning—they were becoming.

Afterwards, Dr. Hank paced in front of them with a clipboard in hand. The sterile white walls of the facility seemed to press in on him, making him feel trapped in something far more intense than he had expected. He glanced at Rob, who looked equally uncomfortable, shifting in his seat, his thick fingers fidgeting with the hem of Silas’s former shirt. Dr. Hank finally stopped pacing and turned to them with a sharp, expectant smile.

"Alright, let’s begin," Dr. Hank said, adjusting his glasses. "Silas—" He paused, then corrected himself with a smirk. "No, I should say… Rob. Let’s hear you introduce yourself."

Silas hesitated. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his jaw tightening before he finally spoke. "Uh… My name is Robert Daniel Whitmore, but you can call me Rob." The words felt foreign, wrong, like an ill-fitting costume.

Dr. Hank nodded encouragingly. "Good. And how old are you, Rob?"

Silas clenched his jaw. He wanted to say twenty, but he knew that wasn’t the right answer anymore. "I’m twenty-six," he muttered.

Dr. Hank’s smirk widened. "And tell me, Rob, between you two, are you the fit man or the overweight man?"

Silas exhaled sharply through his nose. His instinct was to scoff, to argue, but he caught himself. That wasn’t what Rob would do. That wasn’t what he was supposed to do anymore. "I… I’m the overweight one," he admitted, his voice quieter than before. The words felt like acid on his tongue.

Dr. Hank nodded approvingly before turning to Rob. "And you—Silas—let’s hear it."

Rob sat up straighter, as if already stepping into his new role. "I’m Silas James Maddox, but you can call me Silas," he said, his voice steadier than Silas had expected. "I’m twenty years old." He paused, then smirked slightly. "And I’m the fit one."

Silas narrowed his eyes at Rob’s confidence, while Dr. Hank merely chuckled. "Excellent. Now, let’s make sure this sticks."

For the next hour, Dr. Hank continued his relentless questioning, drilling into their heads who they now were. Silas had to repeat again and again that he was Rob, that he was the older, overweight man. Rob, meanwhile, seemed to grow more comfortable each time he stated that he was Silas, that he was the younger, athletic one. By the end of the session, Silas felt mentally exhausted, as if his very identity was being pried from his grip.

Dr. Hank set his clipboard down with a satisfied nod. "Good work, gentlemen. From now on, there are no mistakes. You will refer to each other, and yourselves, by your new identities. The more you embrace it, the easier it will be."

Silas let out a slow breath, glancing at Rob. He had no idea just how deep this experiment was going to go. And worse—he had no idea if he was ready for it.

The weeks that followed the initial introductions were grueling, both mentally and physically. Dr. Hank made it clear that the next phase was about full immersion. But it wasn’t just their identities that were being exchanged. Their diets were next. "If you’re going to live as each other," Dr. Hank had said, "you’ll eat as each other. Starting now."

The new Silas—Rob, still in his own chubbier frame but tasked with assuming Silas’s habits—stared at the plate in front of him: grilled chicken breast, steamed broccoli, and a side of quinoa. Across the table, the new Rob—Silas, with his muscular build but wearing Rob’s baggy clothes —eyed a towering burger, fries glistening with oil, and a milkshake dripping with whipped cream.

“You actually eat this stuff?” Silas muttered, poking at the burger with a mix of disgust and curiosity. Rob smirked, shoveling a forkful of quinoa into his mouth. “Better than rabbit food,” he shot back, though the dryness of the healthy meal made him wince.

What neither of them realized, however, was that the food had been tampered with. The meals, though appearing perfectly ordinary, had been subtly altered by the research team. The healthy dishes prepared for Rob were enhanced with compounds designed to make nutrient-dense foods more palatable, triggering cravings for lighter fare. Meanwhile, the indulgent meals given to Silas had been treated to mimic the addictive flavors of greasy, calorie-laden comfort food. Their bodies wouldn’t gain or lose a pound—Dr. Hank had ensured that—but their preferences were another matter entirely.

At first, the meals were torturous. Rob struggled to finish the modest portions, his stomach growling in defiance as he longed for something heavier. Silas, on the other hand, grimaced with every bite of greasy fries, his usual discipline warring with the newfound compulsion to clean his plate. But as the days turned into weeks, the changes began to take root. Rob found himself enjoying the lightness of a spinach salad, while Silas’s hand reached for a second helping of lasagna without hesitation. They didn’t notice the shift—not consciously, at least. But Dr. Hank did. From behind the mirrored glass of the observation room, he watched with quiet satisfaction as the experiment progressed exactly as planned. The transition wasn’t just about knowledge anymore. It was about instinct. The lines between Silas and Rob were beginning to blur, and neither of them could see it yet.

The gym was pristine, almost clinical in its design, with mirrored surfaces and gleaming equipment that looked barely touched. Silas and Rob stood in their respective rooms, separated only by the large glass wall between them. Everything had been designed to be identical—the machines, the placement of the dumbbells, even the lighting. It was as if they were inside a perfectly symmetrical illusion. The only thing breaking the reflection was the fact that the man staring back at them wasn’t their own.

Silas adjusted the snug, moisture-wicking shirt he had been given, shifting uncomfortably. It clung to his torso, emphasizing his lean, muscular build.

Across from him, Rob wore the same outfit—except on him, it stretched awkwardly over his stomach and arms, highlighting every roll and bulge. Silas tried to keep his expression neutral, but he could already feel the discomfort creeping in.

Dr. Hank’s voice crackled over the intercom, instructing them to begin their workout, ensuring they mirrored each other’s movements perfectly.

Rob exhaled and gripped the dumbbells, his fingers tightening around the cold metal as he pulled them upward in a slow, deliberate bicep curl. His eyes immediately darted to the glass wall, where “his” reflection—Silas—moved in perfect sync. The thick veins running down “his” forearms bulged with each rep, his biceps peaking, flexing, contracting like coiled steel beneath his skin. His shoulders, broad and sculpted, rolled with effortless precision.

Rob felt a thrill surge through him.

The illusion was mesmerizing. It was like looking into a mirror, but instead of seeing the soft, pudgy form he had known all his life, he saw strength. Definition. Perfection.

He relished every second of it.

He transitioned into shoulder presses, pushing the dumbbells overhead. His delts flared, the striations in “his” muscles appearing more defined with each movement. He admired how “his” pecs tightened, the sweat glistening over smooth, firm skin. It was intoxicating to see “his” body move with such effortless power. He had never looked so good—never *felt* so good. The glass wall was no longer just a tool for training; it was a portal into the life he had always craved.

His favorite part of the session was squats. As he lowered his body, he savored the way his quads flexed and stretched, the way his hamstrings tightened with tension before he pushed back up with ease. The sheer athleticism reflected back at him made his pulse race. This was his body now. The reflection belonged to him.

Silas, on the other hand, could barely stomach what he was seeing.

Every movement felt wrong.

Each rep, each squat, each contraction of his muscles only reinforced the horrifying illusion. He lifted his arms for a bicep curl, but instead of seeing his strong, defined arms moving in the reflection, he saw Rob—a version of himself that had become thick, heavy, and painfully out of shape. His once-chiseled forearms now looked soft. His chest, which had once been tight and strong, now appeared bloated, lacking any of the sharp contours he had worked so hard to maintain.

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his breathing steady as he moved through the motions. The glass wall was unrelenting, forcing him to watch every painful second. The worst was when they moved to planks—he held himself up on his forearms, trembling not from exertion, but from disgust as he saw “his” stomach sag slightly, a clear reminder that Rob’s body was nowhere near as taut or conditioned as his own.

It was unbearable.

Rob, however, was still entranced. He smirked, flexing his arm slightly in between sets, watching “his” bicep bulge and harden. He turned slightly to get a better view of “his” back in the reflection, grinning at the way “his” lats flared out, creating the V-taper he had always dreamed of having.

Silas caught the expression on Rob’s face and felt something bitter rise in his throat.

Rob was enjoying this.

His hands clenched into fists. He had spent years crafting his body into peak condition, years sculpting every muscle, and now, here was Rob—lazy, overweight Rob—basking in the illusion that he had built this physique. That it belonged to him.

Silas wanted to scream.

But there was nothing he could do except continue the workout, moving in perfect sync, locked in this cruel, twisted reflection of reality.

Mid-workout, the gym was filled with the rhythmic sounds of exertion—dumbbells clanking onto the rubber flooring, controlled breaths exhaling between sets, the occasional grunt of effort. Sweat glistened on both men’s bodies, soaking through their clothes as they pushed themselves further.

Then Dr. Hank’s voice crackled through the intercom.

"Now, switch gym clothes. All of it."

Silas stiffened. Rob’s breath hitched in excitement. That meant everything they were wearing.

With no choice but to obey, Silas peeled off his tight, sweat-drenched compression shirt, grimacing as the cool air hit his damp skin. He looked down at his chiseled torso—his torso—before reluctantly reaching for Rob’s oversized, moisture-soaked tank top. The fabric was thick with sweat, carrying the unmistakable scent of Rob’s exertion. As he pulled it over his head, he shuddered at the way it clung uncomfortably to his body, the foreign musk invading his senses.

Rob, on the other hand, grinned as he grabbed Silas’s sleek, fitted gym shirt. The material was thin, designed to hug every contour of Silas’s sculpted physique. As he slipped it on, he gasped—it fit. It actually fit. The snug compression wrapped perfectly around his man boobs, his flabby arms, emphasizing every ridge and valley of fat. He felt powerful. He also enjoyed smelling Silas’s musk on his own body.

Silas tugged at the loose tank top draped over his frame, feeling utterly disgusted. The fabric sagged at the chest, pooled slightly around his waist—*it didn’t belong on his body*. He tried to ignore the way it smelled, the way it reminded him with every inhale that this wasn’t *his* usual scent anymore.

Then came Dr. Hank’s next command.

"Silas, stand in front of the mirror and flex."

Rob’s pulse quickened.

Silas hesitated, jaw tightening. Slowly, he stepped forward until he was directly in front of the glass. He knew what he would see. It never got easier. The reflection staring back at him wasn’t his own—it was Rob’s. His breath hitched slightly, the weight of the reality sinking in.

Behind him, Rob watched with barely contained excitement.

Silas lifted his arms, forcing his biceps to contract. The thick, rounded muscles peaked, veins pulsing beneath the surface. Rob mirrored the movement behind the glass wall, watching with hungry eyes as “his” body flexed in response.

"Continue flexing through a full routine, Silas—keep mirroring Rob."

Silas moved through each pose reluctantly, muscles rippling as he transitioned from a front double bicep to a side chest flex, his abs tightening with every motion.

Rob, however, relished every second of it. He struck the same poses, mimicking the movements exactly, grinning as he watched his reflection respond. It was intoxicating, seeing himself like this. Strong. Dominant. Perfect.

He hit a side tricep pose, watching the muscles coil and stretch, the lines crisp and well-defined. Sweat trickled down his forehead, dripping onto his chest, making his already toned body gleam under the gym lights.

Silas, meanwhile, felt his stomach twist with resentment. He was being objectified—by Rob, of all people. He could feel the way Rob was drinking in the sight of “his” reflection, the way his eyes lingered on every flex, every contraction.

"Now, continue your workout." said Dr. Hank

Silas turned away from the glass wall, thankful to be done, but Rob was still fixated on the illusion. He grabbed the barbell with renewed energy, eager to lift, to feel *his* muscles working.

Silas did the same, but with every movement, he could feel Rob’s oversized tank top shifting awkwardly against his body, could smell the lingering musk of Rob’s sweat. His skin crawled.

And yet, when he glanced up, Rob was staring at his reflection with utter admiration. The realization made his blood boil. Rob loved this. Loved the body that wasn’t even his.

And worst of all—Silas couldn’t do anything about it.

After the grueling workout, their bodies were glistening with sweat, muscles sore yet warm from exertion. Dr. Hank’s voice crackled once again over the speaker.

“Now, head to the showers. Same procedure applies—mirror each other’s actions.”

Silas let out a slow, shaky breath. His body was screaming for relief, but the thought of yet another humiliating exercise made his stomach churn. Rob, however, practically vibrated with anticipation. He followed Silas out of the gym, every step feeling more natural—like he belonged in this role.

When they arrived at the showers, Silas froze in the doorway. Just like the gym, it was designed to reinforce their mirrored roles. A false mirror stretched across the length of the shower stalls, but Silas knew better by now. It wasn’t a mirror at all—it was a transparent glass wall. On the other side, Rob stood in the exact same spot, his eager eyes locked onto Silas like a predator finally cornering its prey.

“Similar in the gym, Silas leads. Rob follows.”

The words rang in Silas’s ears like a death sentence.

Rob moved himself forward, standing in front of the shower controls. Silas’s hands moved on autopilot as he turned the knob, warm water cascading down his body, rinsing away the sweat from the brutal training session. Every movement—every flex of muscle, every lift of his arms to wash his hair—was him copying Rob with unwavering precision.

Rob’s eyes raked over Silas’s reflection—his reflection, in his mind—watching the way the water slid over his toned chest, down his sculpted abs, trailing lower and lower. He swallowed, enthralled by every defined muscle, the way Silas’s shoulders tensed, the sharp angles of his jawline when he tilted his head back into the stream. Even the way Silas ran his fingers through his wet hair looked effortlessly cool, effortlessly right.

Rob mimicked every motion perfectly, but there was a difference. Silas was enduring this. Rob was savoring it.

For Silas, this was another level of hell. Every time he opened his eyes, he wasn’t greeted by his own reflection, but by Rob’s body, doing exactly what he was doing. He scrubbed his arms, his chest, but every movement was mirrored by a body that wasn’t his—one that was softer, rounder, completely alien. His jaw clenched as he reached up to wash his armpits, his biceps flexing involuntarily—only to see Rob’s reflection doing the same. It almost felt hypnotic.

His stomach twisted when he moved downward, washing his torso. The glass left nothing hidden. Every action was performed in sync, and even though he was looking at Rob, his mind hated how natural it felt—how his brain was beginning to accept that the body staring back at him was his own.

Meanwhile, Rob was in heaven. He took his time, watching Silas’s every motion like it was a performance crafted just for him. His favorite part? Seeing the shifting expressions of frustration, anger, and helplessness on Silas’s face. It fueled him. It made him bask in the reality that he was winning—he was Silas now.

When the shower ended, Dr. Hank’s voice returned.

“Now, put on your clothes.”

Silas let out a slow breath, desperate to escape this psychological torture. But the torment wasn’t over yet. Their clothes had already been laid out for them—Rob’s outfit on Silas’s side. Silas’s outfit on Rob’s side.

It was deliberate.

With no choice, Silas grabbed the oversized shirt and loose sweatpants that reeked of Rob’s scent. The fabric felt wrong against his skin, swallowing his frame in a way that disgusted him. He tugged the shirt over his head, feeling like he was drowning in the unfamiliar cloth, the musk clinging to him.

Rob, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He grabbed the fitted t-shirt, sliding it over his shoulders, marveling at how perfectly it contoured his chest, how snug it felt against his arms. He pulled on the athletic joggers, admiring the way they sat on his hips.

When they stepped out of the showers, it was almost laughable how much they looked like each other. The real Silas, dressed in Rob’s oversized clothes, looked tired, burdened, out of place. The real Rob, dressed in Silas’s perfectly fitted outfit, looked energized, confident, as if he had never not been Silas.

Without another word, they walked to their respective bedrooms. Or rather, each other’s bedrooms.

Silas stepped into Rob’s room, the scent of junk food and unwashed clothes filling his nostrils, making him gag. Rob stepped into Silas’s room, inhaling the crisp, clean air with a satisfied smirk.

This was exactly how it should be.

The psychological and the physical phases had started. Now it’s the social phase. At first, managing each other’s social media accounts had felt like a chore—a game of memorization, carefully choosing words and tones to match their new identities. But as weeks turned into months, it became second nature. Silas found himself scrolling through Rob’s old messages, responding to conversations about coding projects and online gaming as if he had always been part of that world. The new Rob was very hooked into gaming to escape his new reality.

Meanwhile, Rob was thriving, slipping effortlessly into the role of Silas Maddox. He flirted with confidence, set up dinner plans with strangers who had no idea they were speaking to someone completely different, and basked in the attention that came with being an attractive, fit young man.

The dating profiles became a particular source of amusement for Rob. He had never experienced so many matches before—his inbox was flooded with eager messages, women (and even a few men) vying for his attention. But photos were crucial. Every potential match wanted proof that the man they were talking to was real, and that’s where Silas came in. Rob would direct him meticulously, instructing him to pose just right, flexing in ways that accentuated his muscles. "A little more light on your abs," Rob would say, adjusting the angle. "Turn your shoulders a bit—yeah, perfect." Sometimes Rob would do a picture for Silas to copy. Silas found the whole thing humiliating. His body had become a product for Rob to use, a tool to maintain the illusion. But the paycheck, the contract, the experiment—he reminded himself it was all temporary.

Rob, however, had never felt more powerful. He scrolled through his matches, feeling giddy at the thought that people saw him—well, saw Silas—as desirable. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t invisible. He was the man others wanted. And with every post, every video, and every flexing picture he had Silas send, he felt himself sinking deeper into his new identity, wishing that maybe—just maybe—it didn’t have to end.

After a few more weeks, the next phase began. They were given necklaces that were simple, unassuming—thin chains with a small metallic pendant, cool to the touch as Dr. Hank placed them around their necks. Silas eyed his warily, rubbing the pendant between his fingers, but it felt ordinary. Rob, however, was eager. He had learned by now that every step of the experiment brought him closer to fully embodying Silas, and he welcomed it.

Dr. Hank cleared his throat, beginning the usual round of questions. “Rob, what’s your name?” asking Silas.

Silas exhaled sharply before answering, “Rob Whitmore.” But as soon as he spoke, his eyes widened. The voice that left his mouth wasn’t his own—it was deeper, heavier, unfamiliar. It was Rob’s voice. He pressed his fingers to his throat in shock.

Dr. Hank smirked. “Good. And how old are you?”

Silas hesitated. He knew the answer. He had rehearsed it for weeks. But now, with the strange weight of the voice coming out of his mouth, it felt disturbingly real. “I’m twenty-six.”

Dr. Hank nodded and turned to Rob. “And you? What’s your name?”

Rob swallowed hard. A shiver of anticipation ran through him. “Silas Maddox,” he said, and his heart nearly stopped. His voice—Silas’s voice—was smooth, confident, effortless. He let the words settle in his mouth, repeating them in his head.

Dr. Hank continued. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“And are you the overweight man or the muscular one?”

Rob almost smiled. “Muscular.”

The words sent a thrill through him. He glanced at the glass wall, catching sight of Silas in his reflection, and for a moment, it was as if his mind filled in the gaps. The voice, the posture, the way he had been living—He was Silas.

Silas, however, felt the opposite. Every answer he gave pulled him deeper into a reality he didn’t want to accept. His voice was wrong. His name was wrong. He had been forced to embrace so many parts of Rob’s life already, but this was different. This was intimate. It wasn’t just about acting anymore. It was starting to feel real.

Later that day, Rob stood in front of the glass wall of the gym again, watching "himself" move in sync. He had loved these sessions before, but now, knowing his voice matched the man in the reflection, it felt perfect. He wasn’t just imagining being Silas anymore—his brain was solidifying it as truth. He grinned as he curled the weights, feeling stronger, more alive.

But beneath that thrill, a fear lurked. What if, at the end of all this, they took it away? What if he had to go back to being Rob? The thought unsettled him, gnawed at the edges of his excitement. He clenched his jaw, pushing the thought away.

The next contraption was introduced a few weeks later. The contact lenses sat in two small cases, perfectly clear, almost indistinguishable from ordinary prescription lenses. Dr. Hank explained their purpose, though both men already had a feeling of what was coming.

Rob picked up his set first, glancing at Silas one last time before carefully placing the lenses in his eyes.

A quick blink, then another—his breath caught. Silas was gone. In his place stood himself—or rather, how his old body looked like. Chubby and hairy.

Rob looked at the mirror and saw Silas’s toned arms, sharp jawline, and athletic stance. Rob’s eyes widened in astonishment. He turned his head slightly, watching “himself” do the same, but from a different angle. His heart pounded in his chest as he raised a hand, watching his "reflection" move in perfect sync.

He quickly turned his gaze downward to confirm what he feared—and excitement exploded in his chest. His stomach—Silas’s stomach—was flat. No overhang, no soft flesh pressing against his shirt. He reached down and pressed his fingers into his belly and pecs, expecting firmness, expecting definition—

—but all he felt was flab.

The illusion wavered just for a second. He could see abs, but beneath his hands, he could feel the soft rolls of his true form. His breath hitched, but rather than disappointment, an intoxicating thrill ran through him. It was almost perfect. Just one more step.

On the other side of the room, Silas hesitated before slipping in his own lenses. He blinked a few times, forcing himself to look straight at Rob.

Except it wasn’t Rob anymore.

It was him. His own face, his own body. Standing over there. Moving in real time.

A cold wave of nausea hit him.

He swallowed hard and turned his gaze downward. Panic swelled in his chest. The first thing he saw was Rob’s thick arms. His belly bulged under his shirt, round and unfamiliar. His body looked like Rob’s. But—instinctively—he pressed a hand into his gut.

His own firm abs were still there.

For a moment, relief flooded through him. He wasn’t actually trapped. It was all just a trick. His fingers dug in deeper, feeling the muscle underneath. He could feel his real body, even if his eyes told him otherwise. But the sight was suffocating.

“Excellent,” Dr. Hank said, jotting something down. “Now that you both look the part, there's no need for shared workouts. You can train separately and continue your regimen alone.” Rob grinned, unable to stop himself from turning back to the mirror. His hands glided over his "abs" again, despite the deception. His mind was already starting to believe it.

That night, alone in his room, Rob stood before the full-length mirror, peeling off his sweat-dampened shirt. The fabric slid from his skin, revealing the defined lines of his chest and stomach—or rather, Silas’s chest and stomach. He ran his hands over his "chest," brushing over the sculpted pecs he saw. He looked perfect. The only flaw was that he could still feel his real body beneath the surface.

Despite this, his fingers ghosted over his reflection in the mirror, tracing the sharp definition of his jawline, his broad shoulders. He flexed an arm, watching the muscle shift, tightening with strength that—just weeks ago—he could never have imagined.

He tilted his head, drinking in the sight of himself. This was who he was now. The body of a man who belonged in the spotlight, on magazine covers, admired by everyone who laid eyes on him. His fingers dragged slowly down his stomach, stopping just above his waistband. His old body—his real body—had been soft, flabby, weak. But now? Now, he was powerful. Now, he could strut into any room and command attention.

A knock on the door snapped him out of his trance.

Dr. Hank entered, holding a small case of pills. “This should help reinforce the connection between your mind and body,” he explained. “Rob will feel heavier, as he should be, and you, Silas, will finally feel lighter and stronger.”

Rob snatched up the pill eagerly, barely hearing the rest of the explanation before swallowing it down. . Silas, however, hesitated. He looked at the grotesque reflection in the mirror—his reflection, bloated and unfamiliar. A deep pit of unease settled in his gut before he finally shoved the pill in his mouth, swallowing hard.

It didn’t take long for the effects to sink in.

Rob let out a slow breath as warmth spread through his limbs. His fingers pressed into his stomach again—except this time, there was no flab, no resistance. His body felt tight, compact, efficient. He flexed his arms again, his grin widening as he felt the tension in his biceps, the solid weight of strength coursing through him.

He turned back to the mirror, running his hands over his chest, over his stomach, up to his shoulders, reveling in every single inch of his sculpted frame.

“Oh yeah,” he murmured to himself, tilting his head, shifting his stance just slightly to emphasize his best angles. He threw a few casual poses, watching the light dance across the definition of his abs. Every movement felt fluid, natural. He had become Silas in every way that mattered.

Then he turned his gaze across the room.

Silas sat hunched on his bed, staring down at himself with a look of absolute horror.

His fingers gripped the flesh at his waist—except this time, it moved under his touch. It sagged, the weight pulling in ways that felt unbearable. His whole body felt sluggish, heavy, bloated. His stomach sat on his lap, the subtle bounce of soft fat foreign and horrifying. He clenched his fists, resisting the overwhelming urge to scream.

His breath turned shallow.

This wasn’t a trick anymore. The lenses made him see it, but now? Now, he felt it.

His gut clenched as he slowly raised his gaze toward the mirror.

Across from him, Rob smirked, basking in the glory of his—Silas’s—body, flexing without a care in the world. Silas’s stomach twisted as he watched the man move, admire himself, preen like he had earned that body.

Rob turned slightly to the side, taking in his reflection from another angle, running a hand through his hair before meeting Silas’s gaze in the mirror. He caught the flicker of envy in Silas’s expression—raw, unfiltered resentment.

And he loved it.

He let his smirk widen as he stretched his arms above his head, exaggerating the movement, rolling his shoulders just to feel the strength radiating from his muscles.

"Man," he sighed, dragging his hands down his torso again, relishing every inch. "I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this."

Silas gritted his teeth, his hands tightening into fists.

Rob turned to him, eyes gleaming. “How’s it feel?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

Silas didn’t answer. He refused to give Rob the satisfaction.

But that smirk—that knowing, arrogant smirk—never left Rob’s face.

He stretched again, yawned, then gave one last glance at his reflection, dragging his fingers across his stomach one final time before heading to bed.

Silas, however, had trouble sleeping that night. He sat in front of the mirror, trapped in the body he once mocked, his own physique stolen by the very man who didn’t deserve it. Eventually, he got tired and fell asleep.

The facility was silent in the dead of night, save for the occasional hum of machinery and the rhythmic beeping of monitors. Silas and Rob lay unconscious in their separate rooms, their breathing steady, their minds deep in drug-induced sleep. The sedation had been precise—calibrated to ensure that neither man would stir as they were carefully transported to the sterile, steel-lined chamber. The walls of the room were lined with machinery that pulsed with an eerie blue glow, their function known only to those who worked under Dr. Hank’s meticulous guidance.

In the center of the room stood two massive pods, each one large enough to contain a full-grown man. Their curved glass surfaces were clouded with condensation, hiding the intricate network of wires, tubes, and electrodes that snaked along the interior.

Dr. Hank observed as his team worked in practiced efficiency, preparing for the final phase of the experiment. He approached the control panel, his fingers dancing over the buttons before gripping the lever.

“This is it,” he murmured, almost to himself.

He pulled the lever.

The hum of the machines deepened into a low, resonant vibration. The pods lit up from within, a blinding white light flooding the room as energy surged through the complex system. Inside, the bodies of Silas and Rob twitched involuntarily, muscles seizing as the technology did its work.

The process took mere minutes.

When the glow finally dimmed, the pods hissed as they depressurized. The lids slowly lifted, revealing the men inside.

Where Silas had been placed, Rob’s body now lay still.

Where Rob had been placed, Silas’ body now remained.

It was seamless—perfect. Every detail, down to the finest fingerprint, had transferred flawlessly. The bodies had been switched completely.

Dr. Hank leaned in, inspecting them closely.

"Turn off the necklace and the lenses," he instructed.

A technician complied, pressing a button on a nearby console. The faint energy signatures that had once manipulated their senses flickered out.

Neither man would notice.

When they woke up, they would feel exactly the same.

And that was the true brilliance of it all.

The morning light filtered through the blinds as the new Silas stirred awake, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. Immediately, something felt different—better. He felt light. He felt strong. Ultimately, it felt right.

He sat up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, and as he moved, his body responded with a sharpness he had never known before. There was no sluggishness, no resistance, no weight dragging him down. His muscles felt compact, efficient, ready to move. A slow smile spread across his lips as he ran his hands over his stomach, reveling in the tightness of his abs, the firmness of his chest. It felt real now—undeniably real.

Standing up, he took a few steps toward the full-length mirror, his breath hitching as his reflection greeted him. Silas.

He turned slightly, rolling his shoulders, flexing his arms just to feel them move. A rush of warmth spread through his chest. This was his body now. He felt like he was really Silas.

On the other side of the facility, the new Rob groaned as he woke up, the simple act of rolling over suddenly feeling off. His limbs felt heavy, his movements slower, less responsive. He furrowed his brows, shifting onto his back and blinking up at the ceiling. Something wasn't right.

Sitting up took effort—too much effort.

His breath caught as his stomach pooled in his lap, the weight of it unfamiliar, foreign. His fingers dug into the soft flesh at his sides, and a wave of unease rolled through him. The pill must still be working, he told himself. The effects will wear off soon.

Dragging himself out of bed, he made his way to the mirror, bracing himself before glancing at his reflection. His breath hitched. He saw Rob.

No. That’s himself, he told himself.

He frowned, running a hand through his hair. He was still getting used to seeing himself like this, but now, it felt real. The weight on his body, the sluggishness in his movements—it was all too much.

Before either man could dwell on it further, Dr. Hank’s voice crackled through the intercom.

Gentlemen, report to the main room. They arrived at the usual session, sitting across from each other as Dr. Hank regarded them with a pleased expression.

“We’ve made some advancements,” Dr. Hank began. “To further reinforce your new realities, we’ve integrated AI into your devices. From now on, when you look into a camera, the camera will see yourselves—as you should.” Though in reality, there was no AI added. The truth is, they just completely swapped bodies.

Silas—the new Silas—felt a rush of excitement as he grabbed his phone and opened the selfie camera.

There he was.

The sharp jawline. The clear skin. The perfect physique.

He turned his head, testing the angles. His reflection followed flawlessly, every movement natural.

He had no reason to doubt it. He didn’t need Silas to take photos and videos for him anymore.

Rob—the new Rob—hesitated before doing the same. His stomach twisted as he raised his phone and stared at the image on the screen.

His lips pressed into a thin line. The AI was too good. The way it moved, the way the light caught his features—it was as if he were really looking at himself in the mirror.

His grip on the phone tightened.

“Everything you see, everything you feel, is a result of our process working exactly as it should,” Dr. Hank said smoothly. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Neither of them questioned it.

The day continued as usual. Their meals were switched—Silas enjoying his healthy protein-heavy diet while Rob choked down the carb-heavy, high-calorie meals he had once despised.

At the gym, Silas—the old Rob—felt the rush of strength surge through him as he lifted the weights effortlessly. His body responded with power, precision. Each curl, each press, each motion was a testament to the reality he had embraced.

Across from him, Rob—the old Silas—was struggling.

The weights that used to feel light now burned in his arms. His breath came heavier, his movements slower. He watched as the new Silas worked out with ease, flexing in front of the mirror, admiring his own reflection.

The new Rob gritted his teeth. He hated how it felt. How natural it was beginning to seem. Not only that, he can smell his own musk. The old musk of Rob which is now his own.

He wanted to believe this was just a trick—just the pills, the lenses, the AI. But with every movement, every step, every moment… The truth settled deeper into his bones. And neither of them knew.

The final phase had arrived.

Dr. Hank stood before them, his expression unreadable as he clasped his hands behind his back. Silas and Rob sat across from him, the weight of the moment pressing down on them.

“For the next six months,” Dr. Hank said smoothly, “you will be living as each other in the real world. No more controlled environments, no more structured drills. You will be immersed completely.”

The old Silas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “But… we haven’t actually swapped bodies.” His voice, now permanently sounding like Rob’s, was filled with doubt. “How the hell are we supposed to pull this off?”

The old Rob, in contrast, leaned forward eagerly. “Yeah, I mean… I know we’ve got the AI, the lenses, the pills, and all that, but outside, how do we make sure people don’t see the truth?”

Dr. Hank gave a slow, knowing smile. “That’s already been taken care of. All necessary arrangements have been made.”

Silas frowned. “Arrangements?”

Dr. Hank didn’t elaborate. Instead, he motioned to the assistant standing by the door. “Before you go, we have one last exercise.”

The old Silas’s stomach churned as the familiar process began once again. The final drill.

Dr. Hank turned to the new Rob first. “What’s your name?”

The old Silas clenched his fists but forced himself to answer. “Rob Whitmore.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

Dr. Hank’s smirk widened. "And tell me, Rob, between you two, are you the fit man or the overweight man?"

The new Rob exhaled sharply through his nose. His instinct was to scoff, to argue, but he caught himself. That wasn’t what Rob would do. That wasn’t what he was supposed to do anymore. "I… I’m the overweight one," he admitted, his voice quieter than before.

Dr. Hank nodded approvingly before turning to Rob. “And you?”

Rob grinned. “I’m Silas Maddox.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty”

“And are you the overweight man or the muscular one?”

The new Silas smiled. “Muscular.”

Dr. Hank’s gaze flickered between them, and then he continued, pressing deeper into their identities. Childhood memories. Family histories. Personal quirks. Every answer solidified the transformation, reinforcing who they had become.

Silas relished every moment, answering with enthusiasm, loving the power of fully stepping into Silas’s life. He stole glances at the reflection of his body in the glass, flexing slightly when he thought no one was looking.

Rob, on the other hand, responded reluctantly, hating every second of it. Each answer felt like another nail in the coffin of his old self, trapping him further in this deception.

By the end of the session, Rob felt hollow. Silas, however, felt exhilarated.

“Good,” Dr. Hank finally said, pleased. “You’re ready.”

The men were escorted out of the facility and sent on their way.

Silas stepped into the world, meeting his "friends" and "family." They greeted him warmly, embracing him, laughing with him as if he had always been Silas. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing—only acceptance.

Rob arrived at his "home." Everything about it felt familiar even though it shouldn't be. Then everyone he met—his coworkers, his neighbors—treated him exactly as they would Rob.

Both men felt a deep, unsettling shock.

How was this possible? The world saw them exactly as they saw themselves. And they had no idea that it wasn’t just perception anymore.

Six months passed.

Silas thrived. He had embraced his new body, his new life, and everything that came with it. Every morning, he woke up feeling strong, powerful, and confident. The gym had become his second home, a place where he sculpted his already perfect physique and basked in the admiration of others. He had even landed a few acting gigs—something the old Silas had always struggled to achieve.

It was as if fate had corrected a mistake.

He wasn’t just living as Silas; he was excelling at it.

Meanwhile, Rob endured each day with growing frustration. He hated the way his body felt—heavy, sluggish, uncooperative. The workouts that had once been second nature were now grueling, humiliating tasks, and soon, he gave up on them entirely. Instead, he found comfort in food and video games, settling into the life he had been given, biding his time until the swap was reversed.

Because it would be reversed.

…Wouldn’t it?

The thought nagged at him more and more as the months passed. He had been counting down the days, waiting for Dr. Hank’s call, waiting for the experiment to end.

Then, one evening, the call finally came.

Both men were summoned back to the facility. Silas arrived in a crisp, well-fitted shirt that accentuated his muscular build, his presence commanding the room effortlessly.

Rob, in contrast, arrived in loose, comfortable clothes that did little to hide his weight gain, his expression filled with equal parts relief and desperation.

Dr. Hank greeted them with his usual composed demeanor. “Gentlemen, congratulations. The study has concluded.”

Rob exhaled sharply, shoulders relaxing. “Finally. So, we swap back now?”

Dr. Hank smiled, tilting his head. “That was never part of the agreement.”

A silence heavier than anything they had experienced before settled over the room.

Rob’s stomach twisted. “What?”

“The process was designed to be entirely reversible,” Dr. Hank clarified, his voice infuriatingly calm. “But I never promised that it would be reversed.”

Silas said nothing. He simply stared at Dr. Hank, his expression unreadable.

Rob shot Silas a pleading look. “You want to switch back… right?”

Silas met his gaze, and for the first time in six months, Rob saw something in his eyes that made his stomach drop.

“No.”

Silas didn’t want to switch back.

He had won.

Panic surged through Rob. “No. No, no, no. You can’t just—”

Rob removed his contacts and yanked his necklace but everything looked and sounded the same. When he looked at Silas, he still saw a muscular and handsome man there.

“Dr. Hank already told me that the contacts and necklaces were off months ago.” Silas said.

Dr. Hank simply gestured to the door. “You’re free to go.”

Silas left without hesitation, stepping back into his perfect life without a single glance backward.

Rob remained frozen, his world collapsing around him.

And when he finally stumbled out of the facility, no one—not his coworkers, not his friends, not the world—would ever believe that he had once been someone else. Not that he could, given his non-disclosure agreement.

The End.

#male body swap #inkyquill

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