#onto Chapter 57

[violentdelightshavevioletends]

Well… I was expecting a second signet from someone… It was not him. Oh how the tables have turned

[seospicybin]

DOUBLE FEATURE

CHAPTER THREE

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

DOUBLE FEATURE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: After a strange accident on movie set, you and a stunt actor, Minho, wake up in each other’s bodies. The two of you are forced to live one another’s lives while searching for answers. But the longer both of you are stuck, the more both of you begin to see each other differently. (15,9k words)

Author's note: It's here! Hope you enjoy this one too and pls let me know what you think of it ♡

The set hums under harsh lights and the buzz of equipment being dragged across concrete. It's past midnight, but the night shoot shows no sign of slowing down. Crew members move like ghosts through pools of white and amber light, adjusting rigs, calling out cues, and checking monitors. The sky above is a blank, starless black, and everything feels suspended in that strange, electric hush that only happens after dark on set—where time stretches and blurs and the whole world feels like it only exists inside camera frames.

You tighten the Velcro on your wrist wraps and glance down again at the folded paper in your hands—the list of stunt sequences scheduled for the film. It’s slightly wrinkled now from how many times you’ve looked at it, studied it, memorized it. But your eyes keep getting stuck on the same line, the one halfway down the page, where Minho had circled something in red ink like it was a warning sign:

Scene 57 – Tank drop + underwater hold

It makes sense now. After yesterday’s therapy session with Dr. Severine—after hearing what really happened a year ago—you can't unread the memory. The truck. The river. The silence that followed. You’d only known the surface of the story, a passing headline that didn’t belong to you. But now it’s under your skin, and it's not just a story anymore. It's his trauma. It’s the waterlogged weight he’s been carrying ever since.

You should be focusing on today’s scene. Today, it’s just a choreographed fight with Felix, nothing remotely close to drowning. But that circled stunt won’t leave your mind. It haunts the edge of your concentration, and the more you try to ignore it, the louder it echoes.

You fold the paper again, slip it into the back pocket of your pants, and exhale slowly. You stretch your arms, roll your shoulders back. Get your head in the game. No room for hesitation—not in front of the camera, not with Felix, and especially not while you’re still in Minho’s body.

Across the set, someone calls out that you’re needed for wardrobe fitting. You nod and move toward the tent, already feeling the faint heat of the lights and the flutter of nerves in your stomach. It’s just a fight scene. But somehow, you can’t shake the feeling that something bigger is looming.

Everything smells faintly of sweat and dust and coffee that’s long since gone cold as you wait in the tent. You’ve already changed into your costume—combat boots, scuffed jeans, a loose hoodie damp with mist from the outdoor fog machine—and you're rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the nerves crawling under your skin.

Minho comes in not long after, wearing your face, your body, your skin—and somehow still carries himself like he’s the original. Confident. Steady. All sharp edges and focus.

“Nervous?” he cuts through your thoughts.

You look up to find him watching you, his expression unreadable but calm. You shake your head and force a playful smile. “Honestly? I’m starting to like this stunt gig. Way more fun than spreadsheets.”

He lifts a brow, skeptical. “So that’s why you won’t switch back—you’re stealing my job?”

You grin and nudge his ankle with your foot. “Exactly. I’m keeping the abs and the hazard pay.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, and you don’t press him either. But you know he doesn’t believe that’s the real reason. Neither do you.

“Alright,” he says, tossing a soft crash mat onto the floor. “Up. Let’s run it. I’ll be Felix.”

You step behind him and slide your arm around his neck, locking into the first move. Your arm fits too naturally against his throat.

“Not too tight,” he says dryly, glancing over his shoulder.

You tighten your hold just slightly. “This is for trying to seduce yourself, you creep.”

Minho laughs—low and real. “Touché.”

Then he moves—quick and practiced—grabbing your wrist, spinning, sweeping your leg. You let him. It’s like a dance, fast and fluid, and then suddenly the mat’s at your back, and Minho’s body is on top of yours.

Your breath hitches. It should be just practice. But it’s not. He has you pinned, one hand planted beside your head, the other pressing your shoulder down. His face is close. Closer than it needs to be. His breath is warm, and his eyes—your own eyes—search yours like they’re looking for something. You don’t say anything. You don’t move either. The space between you charges, heavy with something unspoken.

“You okay?” he murmurs, not teasing, just quiet.

You nod, your chest rising slowly beneath him.

He loosens his grip, as if giving you permission to break the moment. But neither of you do—until the walkie-talkie crackles.

“Please, check on Felix. He’s in holding.”

He blinks and slowly eases off you. The air feels different when he’s gone from above you. “Stay loose,” he says over his shoulder as he walks out. “And maybe… stay dangerous.”

You lie there for a moment, catching your breath. That felt… like something. You don’t know what, but something.

-

The floodlights are harsh on your skin, turning everything around you into sharp shadows and glints of sweat. The night air feels heavy, weighed down with exhaustion and adrenaline. You’re already warm from rehearsing with Minho earlier, but now you’re sweating for real—because this is the take. This is where the camera rolls and everyone watches.

Felix steps up beside you in his fight costume, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s already in character. He nudges your shoulder.

“We got this,” he grins. “Let’s go out there and make it look sick.”

You smile, though your jaw is tense. “But let’s try not to actually kill each other, yeah?”

“Deal,” he laughs, and then someone yells from behind the monitor—

“Rolling—aaaand action!”

You spring into motion, but a half-beat too late. Felix’s fist swings, aiming for the air beside your jaw—except you didn’t duck fast enough. Crack. Pain explodes in your face, sudden and sharp. Your head snaps slightly to the side.

There’s a collective gasp from somewhere off-set. Felix immediately breaks character, hands reaching out. “Shit—oh my god, are you okay?”

You blink a few times, teeth gritted, jaw throbbing. You want to say something clever. You want to shrug it off. You don’t want anyone remembering this moment as the time Minho flinched.

“I’m fine,” you say, waving him off with a quick shake of your head. “It’s on me. I was slow.”

Felix frowns but accepts your answer, brushing a bit of dust off your shoulder before giving it a reassuring pat.

“Let’s go again,” he says, voice gentler now but still full of energy. “This time we’ll nail it.”

You nod, and when the AD calls for another take, you plant your feet more firmly. You’re ready this time. No hesitation.

Action.

The fight plays out like choreography this time—fluid, practiced, fast. You slip into the movement like second nature, ducking the fake punches, countering, grappling. You let your body move like it’s meant for this. Because in this moment, it is. You hit the mat exactly where you should. Felix plays his part flawlessly.

“Cut! That was good! Let’s go again—different angle!” Flickerman calls.

Around you, crew members scatter, shifting lights, adjusting sandbags, resetting props. You step off to the side and someone hands you a cold water bottle. You twist it open, take a long sip, and wipe the sweat from your upper lip with the back of your hand.

From behind the camera setup, you spot Minho, standing still amid the movement, watching you. His eyes meet yours. He lifts his hand and gives you a thumbs-up, expression unreadable but steady. You smile, just a small one and then you cap your water bottle.

You’re just about to return to the set when Mr. Kim intercepts your path, stepping in with that quiet presence he always carries—calm, observant, and just a little too perceptive for your comfort.

He’s holding a clipboard, though you’re not convinced he’s looked at it even once. His eyes are on you. Studying. “That last stunt,” he says, nodding back toward the space you just cleared. “It was clean. Technically. But…”

You hold your breath, waiting for him to finish his sentence with so much anticipation. Afraid that he can see right through you that you're just an impostor in Minho’s body.

“There’s a hesitation in your movements,” he continues, his tone not scolding, just... careful. “A pause. Small, but it’s there. Like you’re bracing instead of committing.”

You nod once, slowly, trying not to let it show how tightly his words hook into you. He thinks you’re Minho, of course. Which only makes this harder. Because the concern in his voice isn’t just professional. It’s personal.

“I’m fine,” you say, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ll warm up better.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. He just steps forward and gently squeezes your shoulder—steady and firm, grounding. There’s something fatherly about it. Not in the way Flickerman condescends, but in the way people who actually care speak with their hands.

“Take it slowly,” he says.

You nod again but he doesn’t walk away right away. Instead, he lingers for a second longer, eyes softer now, his voice quieter when he adds, “Be gentle with yourself.”

It hits like a ripple in your chest. The words. The tone. The timing. They echo—not from this moment, but from another. From that small, clinical office, with a quiet ticking clock and Dr. Severine’s eyes peering into you the same way Mr. Kim is now.

“Be gentle with yourself.”

It’s not a warning. It’s an invitation. And somehow, that makes it heavier to carry.

You swallow, offer a small thank-you under your breath, and Mr. Kim gives you one last reassuring look before he turns and walks off. You take a moment. Just a beat. One breath in, one breath out. Then you roll your shoulders, shake the nerves out of your limbs, and step back onto set.

You and Felix go over the choreography one last time before cameras roll. The two of you going through the moves and timing and you're thankful you’ve practiced this before with Minho, over and over until your limbs could perform it in your sleep.

You bounce on your toes to loosen your legs. Your knuckles press into your palms to ground yourself. You nod at Felix, who grins and gently knocks his fist against your shoulder. “We got this,” he says, the way he always does before every take. It helps. It really does.

“Rolling,” someone calls out. “Action!”

And then everything kicks in. Your body moves automatically—strike, duck, pivot, grab. It’s all muscle memory now. You follow the flow without thinking. You trust your reflexes, your rehearsal, the weight of the sweat that’s soaked into the collar of your borrowed shirt. But somewhere in the middle of it—right after Felix swings wide and you slip under his arm—your mind flickers.

“Be gentle with yourself.”

The words slip in. Not loud, not jarring. Just enough to pull you inward. Just enough to tilt your awareness away from where it needs to be. You hesitate, not even a full second, but it’s enough to cause you to lose focus.

Felix pushes you—on cue—and you’re supposed to fall to the left, onto a padded mat just out of frame. But your balance is off. Your back foot stutters on the concrete. You twist in the wrong direction. And suddenly—

Your body lurches the other way and your foot misses the edge. There’s no mat waiting on this side. Just cold, unforgiving steps. You don’t even get to scream. Your ribs hit something hard. Your shoulder scrapes the edge. The back of your head smacks concrete.

And then it’s gone. The lights. The noise. Everything. It all collapses into black.

-

The world filters back in slowly—bright lights, shuffling feet, someone calling your name. No—Minho’s name.

“Minho,” Mr. Kim’s voice breaks through the static, calm but edged with concern. “Can you hear me?”

You force your eyes open. It takes effort, like dragging yourself up from underwater. The night sky blurs into the harsh glow of set lights. Mr. Kim is crouched beside you, eyes scanning your face. Behind him, more figures hover—Felix, pale and wide-eyed, a couple of crew members, and the on-set medic scrambling with a kit.

Then it hits you—what just happened. You were filming. A fight scene. You were supposed to fall left, but you didn’t. You failed to land. You fell the wrong way. Your stomach sinks. The pain hasn't even fully registered yet, but the embarrassment arrives first.

Minho’s body lies here, bruised and scraped and covered in someone else’s mistake. You shoot upright on instinct, teeth clenched against the sharp stab that radiates down your side and up your neck.

“Whoa—slow,” Mr. Kim says quickly, placing a steadying hand on your back as you sway. “Take it easy.”

The touch is gentle. So is the look in his eyes.

Felix crouches closer, guilt all over his face. “I pushed you too hard. I’m so—”

“No,” you interrupt, waving him off with a wince. “It’s not you. I messed up. I… lost my footing.”

“Don’t talk yet,” Mr. Kim says quietly. “Let the medic do his job.”

The medic checks your pupils, starts asking the usual questions. “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?”

You shake your head, even though every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. “I’m fine. Just sore.”

“You’ve got a cut on your forehead,” the medic mutters. “Nothing deep, but you’ll need to clean it properly. Let’s get you checked.”

You nod and let them help you stand. Your legs ache with every step as they guide you toward the waiting ambulance. The set buzzes behind you—muted voices, equipment being reset, the production trying to keep moving despite the incident.

Mr. Kim trails closely behind. You glance up at him as the medic wipes blood from your temple. “I can keep filming. I’m okay.”

Mr. Kim’s lips twitch into something between a frown and a sigh. “You’re not. Your job’s done for the night and I’ll take you home.”

You hesitate. “I don’t want to hold up the shoot.”

He gives you a look. “The shoot can wait. You can’t.”

You open your mouth to argue, but—

“I can take him,” a voice says from behind him.

You turn your head and spot Minho stepping into the light. He looks calm, collected—even a little tired—but his eyes flick to the scrape on your forehead, and they darken.

Mr. Kim turns, surprised. “But you’re working.”

Minho nods. “It's fine. I wrapped early.”

Mr. Kim looks between the two of you—between Minho and you in Minho’s body—before something in his expression softens. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s something else. He turns back to you and rests a hand on your shoulder again. “Go home. Rest. That’s an order.”

You nod and don’t even try to argue this time because beneath the throbbing pain and the scrape across your cheekbone, you feel something worse. Guilt.

Now you have to go home with the very person whose body you just threw down a flight of stairs. Minho’s hands stay steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, his jaw tense and unmoving. You glance at him from the passenger seat more than once, hoping for some kind of clue—an expression, a twitch, anything—but he gives you nothing. And somehow, that’s worse.

You know he’s saving it, holding it all in until the moment you step through the front door. That silence feels louder than anything he could say.

When you both walk into the apartment and the door shuts behind you with a soft click—the tension settles in with a weight of its own. You don’t wait but decide to be the first to break the suffocating silence.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, spinning to face him. “Minho, I—I really didn’t mean for that to happen. I just got distracted and—God, I know it’s your job to be perfect and professional and I just—”

You keep going, your voice tumbling out too fast, your words a mess of apology and shame.

“I made you look unprepared, and now people are going to think you can’t handle one scene—Mr. Kim looked so disappointed and I swear I’ll make up for it, I’ll do better, I’ll rehearse more—”

Minho doesn’t say a word. Just watches you with that unreadable expression.

Your voice falters. “Can you just… say something? Please?”

But he doesn’t—not in the way you expect. Instead, he takes one step closer. Then he reaches for you, grabs the front of the t-shirt you’re wearing—his shirt, technically—and starts to lift it.

You freeze. “Wait—Minho, I…”

But you don’t stop him. You know you’ve already upset him enough. You know whatever this is, it’s part of the fallout you’ve earned. So you let your arms lift as he let him peel the fabric off and over your head.

It’s only when he pauses, staring down at your torso, that you look too—and you finally see what he sees. Bruises. Large, deep, blossoming purple across your ribcage. Tiny cuts across your shoulder and along your collarbone. You hadn’t even noticed them before but now they sting under the apartment lights, angry and raw. You lower your eyes, ashamed to even be in his skin right now.

Minho lets out a slow breath through his nose. You can’t tell what it means—anger, frustration, restraint—but you follow when he gently nudges you toward one of the chairs by the dining table.

Without complaints, you sit and watch as he leaves to the kitchen without a word, and you hear the clink of cabinet doors opening and closing, the shuffle of supplies. He returns with the first aid kit and sets it on the table with a thud that makes you flinch. He pulls out another chair and sits across from you, knees bumping lightly into yours. You glance up just as he does—and for a split second, your eyes lock.

You look away first but his hand comes up to your chin, firm but not rough. He tilts your face to the side and begins tending to the small cut on your jaw with a Q-tip and ointment. The antiseptic stings. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from wincing. You take it, because maybe you should, because you deserve it.

Minho doesn’t speak. He just works in silence, every movement precise, his touch clinical but not cold. You want to say something. Apologize again. Ask if he’s mad. But you’re too afraid of the answer. So instead, you just sit there, wearing his pain and your guilt like they belong to you now.

-

Minho dabs at the cut on your jaw with careful hands, but his chest feels like it’s caving in. He sees every bruise, every scrape blooming across his skin—but it’s not his pain he feels. It’s yours. He watches the way you try not to flinch, how you look anywhere but at him. Like you expect him to explode. Like you're waiting for punishment.

It hurts more than he expected it to. Not the injuries. Not the misstep on set. You. You, sitting in his body, trying to hold it together when it’s obvious you’re in pain. Blaming yourself for what happened like you did something unforgivable.

And still—you whisper it again, “I’m sorry,” voice barely audible.

That’s when he breaks and snaps. “Shut up.”

The words come out sharper than he means them to. He sees it hit you immediately—your eyes snap wide open in alarm, and your lips clamp shut like a switch has been flipped.

He swallows hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not—God, I’m not mad because you got injured.”

You blink at him, confused as Minho sighs, chest heavy, voice rising with frustration. “I’ve gotten injured before. I’ve had worse. That’s not the point.”

Your brows furrow, searching his face like there’s something you’re not understanding.

He leans back slightly, exhales hard through his nose, then points to you—himself. “I’m mad because you’re not me. You’re not supposed to take the fall. You’re not trained for this. And you got hurt. Badly. And it could’ve been worse.”

His throat feels tight all of a sudden. Words catching. He shakes his head and bites back the rest, overwhelmed.

You look at him then—really look at him—and your voice comes out small. “So… you’re not mad I messed up the stunt? You’re… worried?”

He hates how earnest that sounds. How surprised you are by it. But he nods anyway. “Of course, I’m worried.”

Something in your expression softens—like the ground under your feet finally settles—and Minho doesn’t give himself another second to think. As if he needs to prove he meant his words, he leans in. His hand finds your jaw, the one he just tended to, gentle even in its urgency and as innocent as it sounds, he presses his lips against yours. Not out of impulse. Not for show. But because he wants to. Needs to. Because his heart’s been banging at the walls of his chest since he saw you hit the ground, and now that you’re here, hurt and safe and sitting in front of him—he can’t hold it back.

You’re stiff for a moment, caught off guard, but then you melt into him. Your mouth moves against his with something deeper than want. Something raw. Real.

And then you yelp.

Minho jerks back almost immediately. “What—?”

Your hand flies to your jaw and you wince.

“I—I... uhm,” you mumble, pressing gently into the skin. “I accidentally took a punch from Felix in the first take.”

Minho just stares at you and then he lets out a scoff that turns into a short laugh as he leans back in his chair.

“Yeah,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I knew.”

Minho pulls open the fridge and grabs the coldest can of soda he can find. When he returns, you’re still sitting obediently at the table, hunched slightly like you’re bracing for another lecture.

“Here,” he says, nudging the can into your hand.

You look up at him in surprise, but you take it, pressing the cold aluminum carefully against your jaw with a tiny wince.

Minho sits down again and grabs a fresh Q-tip, continues to tend to the scrape under your chin. The skin’s red, slightly raw, but he’s gentle with it. Too gentle, maybe. Like touching it any harder will make the whole thing worse.

“What happened?” he asks softly. “You’ve practiced the scene enough. It’s basically muscle memory now.”

You go quiet but he can tell you’re debating how much to tell him. “I… lost focus,” you admit after a beat. “Just for a second.”

He doesn’t push. Just dabs the ointment in slow circles, waiting. Then finally, you say it. “Mr. Kim took me to your appointment.”

Minho’s hand stills. Just for a second. A beat skips in his chest like someone punched through his ribcage. But then he moves again, keeping his fingers steady as if nothing happened. “Oh.”

“He insisted,” you rush out. “I—I didn’t even know where we were going until we got there. I wasn’t trying to snoop, I swear.”

He nods once, still avoiding your eyes.

“I know about the accident,” you say gently, like the words themselves might spook him. And they kind of do.

Minho places the Q-tip down on the table, then closes the ointment lid. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at you. He feels...bare. Unzipped. Like someone’s peeled back his skin and left him there for you to see everything underneath. He thought he could pretend. Thought he could stay in control. But you know now. You know. And somehow, the silence becomes heavier than anything else in the room.

But then your voice cuts through it—soft, steady. “I won’t tell anyone. And you don’t have to tell me anything about it either. I just… I needed to be honest with you. That’s all.”

Minho finally looks up. There’s no judgment in your eyes. No pity either. Just that same strange warmth that’s been growing between you since this all started—something he doesn’t know what to name, but feels frighteningly close to trust.

Suddenly, he gets it. Why you asked him, not long ago, if he was ready to come back. You weren’t just asking for logistics. You were asking if he was ready to return to this version of himself—the one who’s still scared. Still healing. Still learning how to face the water, and everything beneath it. His throat tightens, but he doesn’t say anything yet. He just nods. Quiet. Grateful. Exposed. And for once, not ashamed.

Minho thinks that’s it. That the worst of the conversation has passed—until you speak again, your voice hesitant but sure.

“And I know about the upcoming underwater stunt.”

Minho’s head lifts slowly, his eyes narrowing—not from anger, but from the slow, heavy realization that you’ve seen deeper into him than he expected.

And then you go and say the most absurd thing. “I can do it for you,” you offer, like it’s obvious. Like it’s a solution instead of another disaster waiting to happen.

Minho shakes his head immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

You lean forward, earnest. “I can do it, Minho. I’m not just saying that—I was on the swim team in high school. I’m a good swimmer, I swear. I’ve done some underwater shots before, I know how to hold my breath, and I—”

He holds up a hand, and you stop mid-sentence, lips still parted like you’re afraid he’s going to yell at you. But he doesn’t. His voice is soft—firmer now, but not harsh.

“That’s not your job,” he says. “It’s mine. I’m the one who signed up for it. I’m the one who’s supposed to do it.”

You open your mouth again, stubborn as ever, but Minho doesn’t give you the chance. He lifts your hand with the can of soda and presses it back to your jaw—gently, but pointedly. The cold metal makes you flinch slightly. His gaze locks with yours, unflinching.

“This isn’t up for debate,” he says, low and clear. “We need to switch back. Immediately.”

There’s a weight to his voice now that hadn’t been there before—something final, something quietly desperate. Because it’s not just about the stunt anymore. It’s about you. It’s about how close he came to losing you tonight—how easily it could happen again. He can’t let that happen. Not in his body. Not in any body. And especially not because you were trying to protect him.

-

You look at Minho—really look at him—and for the first time, you understand. Why he’s been so insistent about switching back. Why he’s been pushing for it harder since the accident. It’s not because he’s mad you got hurt or because you fumbled a scene and made him look unprofessional.

It’s because he’s scared.

Because this—doing his job, living his life—it’s not yours to carry. And if anything worse happened to you while carrying it, it’d break him in ways you’re not sure even he understands yet.

Your arms wrap around your body almost reflexively at the realization, like you’re trying to shield yourself from the direction this is going. Your voice trips out before you can stop it.

“I—I can’t have sex right now.”

Minho pauses mid-turn, blinking. “What?”

You cringe, face heating. “I mean, you’re probably thinking about doing the magic… switchy sex thing again, right? And I just—my body hurts. That’s all.”

His brow lifts and then—That smirk. That wicked yet attractive smirk. “Did you think I was gonna jump you just now?” he teases, stepping toward the kitchen.

You try to hold it together, to act unbothered, but your mouth flounders for something—anything—to say. “No! I just meant—it’s not a good time! I’m sore, and… I fell down the stairs, Minho.”

He chuckles under his breath, the sound low and warm as he puts the first aid kit back into the cabinet. “Okay, okay,” he says easily. “Not tonight.”

You exhale, shoulders relaxing a little but then, just as you think it’s over—

“Maybe I’ll try again in the morning,” he says over his shoulder, casual as ever. “You know. Since you’re always the one waking up with morning wood.”

You groan, flustered and defeated, smacking your palm to your forehead. “Oh my god, shut up—”

Except your jaw shifts with the movement and pain flares, sharp and instant. You yelp, hand flying to your face as your eyes water.

Minho’s teasing expression drops in an instant. “Hey, hey—careful,” he says, already stepping closer. “Don’t make me tape your mouth shut.”

The moment Minho turns around, you throw your shirt back on like your life depends on it. Your muscles protest with every movement, your ribs ache, your jaw throbs—but modesty (or panic) wins out over pain.

Minho approaches you, and you instinctively hold both hands up like he’s a threat. “Wait—hold on, wait—”

He stops in his tracks, raising an eyebrow. “Relax,” he says, clearly amused. He lifts his hand, revealing a small bottle. “It’s just liniment. For your shoulders.”

You blink. “Oh.”

But you still take a step back. Just in case.

Minho tilts his head, a little smile creeping onto his face as he eyes your fumbling. “What, you think I’m gonna tackle you?”

“No,” you blurt. “But I think—before we do anything else—we need to make an agreement.”

That gets his attention. His smile fades into a curious expression. “What kind of agreement?”

You straighten up, ignoring the burning in your ribs. “I’ll only do the sex magic thingy under one condition.”

Minho’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “Which is?”

“You have to let me help train you for the underwater stunt.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Minho actually scoffs. Almost sarcastically. “You want to train me? I’m the one with a decade of experience.”

“Yeah, but I’m better in the water than you,” you say confidently, arms crossing despite the protest from your bruised body. “I was on the swim team in high school.”

Minho stares at you, completely silent now. His gaze lingers, calculating. You can’t tell if he’s offended or impressed—or both. Then, finally, he exhales and gives a small, almost reluctant nod. “Fine.”

You blink. “Really?”

“But—” he holds up a finger, “you’re not allowed to do anything reckless.”

“Deal. But also—no sex,” you say firmly, pointing at him. “None. Of any kind. Until I say we’re ready.”

Minho grins at that, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should. “Wow. You drive a hard bargain.”

You extend your hand, and after a short pause, he takes it. His palm is warm against yours. His fingers curl tight. And just like that, the deal is sealed.

After a while, you start to pull your hand away, but Minho grips it tighter—and before you can react, he yanks you forward. You stumble right into him, your chest bumping lightly into his. His face is just inches from yours now, eyes glinting with mischief.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just smirks. Then, low and teasing, he murmurs, “I can’t wait.”

You open your mouth to scoff but it catches in your throat—probably because your brain short-circuits the second he looks at you like that. Instead, you sputter something unintelligible, awkwardly shove at his chest, and bolt.

“I'm going to bed!” you call over your shoulder, already halfway down the hall.

You hear his quiet laugh behind you and you don’t want to give him the satisfaction by looking back. God, you hate him. Wait— Are you really?

-

The morning light slips through the crack between the curtains, casting a soft glow across your sleeping face.

Minho leans quietly against the doorframe, arms folded, just watching you. Your mouth is slightly parted. One arm is tucked under the pillow, the other sprawled across the bed. Even in sleep, you look sore—your brows faintly drawn, your breathing just a bit uneven.

He exhales through his nose. You look wrecked. Because of him.

Mr. Kim had insisted you take the day off. "Make sure he rests," he'd said on the phone call—not even knowing it wasn’t him in his own body.

So now, Minho stands there, caught between guilt and gratitude. Grateful you’re safe. Guilty you ever had to be in danger at all.

He checks the time and you should be up. But he can’t do it—not when you’re sleeping so soundly for the first time since the accident. “…Just rest,” he murmurs under his breath, barely audible.

Minho steps back and gently closes the bedroom door until it clicks shut. Then he grabs your bag, slings your coat over his arm, and walks out the door— Off to do your job for the day.

At the movie set, Minho wipes sweat off his brow with the hem of your hoodie, squinting toward the lighting rig someone’s adjusting above the set. Your clipboard is tucked under his arm, headset looped around his neck, and he’s half-listening to two crew members arguing over prop continuity when your name lights up his phone. He sighs, already bracing himself, and picks up.

“You didn’t wake me up!”

Minho pulls the phone slightly away from his ear at your sharp voice. “Good morning to you too,” he mutters, earning a few amused glances from nearby.

“You were supposed to wake me up for work! We had a deal, Minho!”

He rolls his eyes. “Relax,” he says, cutting you off before you wind yourself up further. “Mr. Kim told me to. He said you’re resting today.”

You go silent.

“And,” he adds smugly, “I’m doing your job just fine. Everyone’s still alive. No sets have burned down. You can stop worrying.”

He can hear you hesitate, like you’re trying to come up with something to nitpick. Minho smirks to himself. Before you find anything to say, he chuckles and cuts in, “I’m busy working, by the way.” And hangs up.

Sliding the phone back into his jeans pocket, he’s still smiling when a voice pipes up beside him. “Was that your boyfriend or something?”

Minho looks up—Felix is watching him with a sly little grin, head tilted, arms crossed. He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

Felix shrugs. “You looked stupidly happy.”

Minho lets out a scoff. “You’re imagining things.”

But he glances at Felix again, more pointedly this time. It’s been on his mind since the body swap. Felix has always been friendly to you—overly so sometimes. And now Minho’s seeing it from the inside, he’s starting to wonder…

With a tone that teeters between playful and serious, Minho asks, “Do you perhaps... like me, Felix?”

Felix blinks, caught off guard, then laughs. “Wow. Straight to the point, huh?”

Minho stares, unflinching. A faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Felix’s grin grows. He steps closer, leans in a little. “And what if I do?”

Minho’s jaw ticks, just slightly.

Felix leans back with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “What are you gonna do about it, huh?”

With that, he turns and walks away, hands in his pockets, that damn sunshine smile still lingering behind him.

Minho stays rooted to the spot, lips pursed, brows drawn. So Felix really does like you. And the strange twist in his chest isn’t confusion. It’s something else entirely. Something harder to ignore.

-

The midday sun is harsh, the gravel crunching under his boots, and there’s a hint of sweat gathering at his collar. Compared to the usual hustle and bustle of the movie set, today is a slow day because filming is going to move to a new location.

Minho walks with steady steps toward Flickerman’s trailer, the clipboard tucked securely under his arm with the new schedules and updates. He’s halfway rehearsing what to say—something efficient, professional—when the AD steps out from behind the grip truck and intercepts him.

“Hey,” the AD says, a little out of breath. “Flickerman’s still on a call with the execs. Just give me the updates, I’ll hand them off.”

“Sure. Here.” He passes the clipboard over without question, grateful to avoid another round of Flickerman’s long-winded tangents.

The AD flips through the papers, gives Minho a nod. “You’ve done enough today. You can head out early.”

Minho doesn’t argue. “Cool,” he says, already turning to leave.

As he walks toward the parking lot, his eyes wander toward the craft service table—what’s left of it. Most of it has been raided by the crew, but there, almost absurdly untouched, is a neatly boxed set of donuts. Bright pink box. Still sealed. He slows, something like amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. Of course, he thinks. You’d lose your mind over these.

Without even pretending to hesitate, Minho picks up the box and tucks it under his arm, carrying it like a small, ridiculous trophy. He doesn’t know what you’ve eaten today. He doesn’t even know if you can chew properly with your sore jaw. But still. He’s bringing you donuts.

-

You press the wet corner of a towel gently against your forehead, dabbing away the faint trace of dried blood. The bathroom light is harsh and cold, but it makes the cut easier to see. You lift your head slowly, eyes meeting the mirror—and for a moment, the breath catches in your throat.

It’s not your face staring back. It’s Minho’s.

Bruises bloom across his collarbone and shoulder, the edge of a cut still healing on his jaw. Faint scrapes. Purple smudges on his ribs you hadn’t noticed until now. You trace your gaze across the damage, taking in the details like you’re seeing it for the first time. And maybe… maybe you are.

You realize something that knots your stomach: all this time, you’ve been careful—yes—but not because you truly respected this body. You’ve been careful because you didn’t want to get scolded. Because you didn’t want to screw up. Because you didn’t want to face the shame of breaking something that wasn’t yours.

But this? This is more than just a borrowed vessel. It’s Minho’s. It’s the body that danced across years of hard-earned muscle memory, that survived an accident and still showed up to work, that’s quietly been holding his fears and his strength and his pain.

You look again, more intentionally this time. His body is toned, sculpted with discipline—earned. It’s all so distinctively him, and the thought makes your chest tighten with something like guilt. You reach for the ointment and apply it more gently this time to your forehead, then carefully press a fresh bandage over the cut.

You take another breath, then one more look in the mirror. “I’ll be better,” you murmur, not to yourself, but to him—even if he can’t hear it right now.

Then, the sound of the front door opening jolts you from your thoughts. You scramble to grab a t-shirt, tugging it over your head quickly and stepping out into the hallway.

Minho steps in like he’s just returned from a café run, not a film set. His jeans are dusty, and the collar of your shirt—his now—sits loosely around his neck. But it’s the smile on his face that throws you off. Relaxed. Amused. He looks strangely in a good mood.

When his eyes find you standing in the hall, he grins wider. “I bring you two things that will make you very happy.”

You blink, confused. “Two?”

Minho lifts one arm. “First—” He holds up the pink box in triumph. “—donuts.”

Your stomach growls at the sight, almost on cue. “And the second?” you ask slowly, squinting at him.

He shrugs, already kicking off his shoes. “Me, obviously.”

You roll your eyes at his smug face, his lopsided grin practically asking for a sarcastic comment. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter as you step forward to take the box from his hand.

Minho holds it out proudly like it’s a peace offering. “Come on, you know you want it. Pink box. Slightly warm. Lots of icing sugar.”

You glance down at it. Your mouth waters immediately, but your body tenses too. Not because you don’t want it. You do. But you remember what you told yourself just minutes ago in the bathroom—that this isn’t your body, and you haven’t been treating it with the care it deserves. Also— What if it’s a test? What if he’s trying to see if you’ll just dive back into thoughtless habits?

So instead of grabbing a donut like your instincts scream at you to do, you step around him and place the box neatly on the kitchen counter. You don’t even peek inside.

Minho blinks. “Hey. Aren’t you going to have one?”

You shake your head. “Later.”

He frowns, just slightly. “What, are you full from the air you’ve been eating all day?”

You suppress the smile creeping on your lips. “I said later, Minho.”

There’s a flash of disappointment on his face. He was expecting some kind of donut-induced praise or reaction. Or maybe he really just wanted to feed you something sweet for once. But you stay firm, because this is bigger than donuts.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to push again—but you cut in, clapping your hands once.

“You're home early. That's good. Now, go get changed.”

Minho squints at you. “Changed?”

You cross your arms, letting a sly smirk pull at your lips. “Your training for the underwater stunt starts tonight.”

His whole expression shifts. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

Minho’s eyes narrow like he’s gauging how far you’ll actually take this, but you can see the gears turning in his head.

“…Now?” he asks, cautiously.

You grin wider. “Yes. Now.”

-

Minho follows close behind as you lead the way down a dim hallway, passing the familiar silence of late-night apartment stillness. You stop at a door marked FACILITY ACCESS ONLY, punch in a code, and pull out a key like it’s nothing.

Minho raises an eyebrow. “You have keys to the pool? Should I be concerned?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder but say nothing as you turn the lock.

“Wait—” he grins, “did you date one of the security guys or something?”

You scowl as the door clicks open. “Unlike you,” you say dryly, “people like me because I’m kind. I don’t have to flirt my way into everything.”

Minho scoffs. “Kindness, huh? That’s what we’re calling your passive-aggressive death glares now?”

You ignore him, pushing the heavy door open. The scent hits him immediately—chlorine and faint humidity—and Minho steps inside, the soles of his sneakers squeaking softly against the tile.

The room glows with the faint blue light cast from underwater lamps. The surface of the pool is still and glassy, undisturbed, mirroring the tiled ceiling above. It’s quiet, almost serene. Peaceful. And surprisingly… he doesn’t tense.

No cold sweat creeps up his neck. No pounding heart. The usual pressure in his chest that arrives uninvited every time he sees open water isn’t there—at least not yet. The water is calm. Contained. Almost inviting.

Minho’s shoulders ease a bit. That should be a good sign. Right?

He glances at you as you toss a towel down on a bench and kick off your shoes with purpose. There’s a quiet determination in your movements, like you’ve already decided this is going to work. Like you already believe he can do it.

Minho stands stiffly near the bench, arms loosely at his sides, completely unsure what to do with them. He watches as you methodically stretch—neck rolls, shoulder rotations, a quick shake of your arms like a seasoned athlete—and it hits him that you’ve probably done this a thousand times before.

He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until you casually pull off your T-shirt, revealing the lean strength of his body underneath. The bruises are still faintly visible along your ribs and shoulders, reminders of yesterday’s fall.

Minho clears his throat, masking his sudden nervousness with a smirk. “Wow,” he says, lifting his brows. “You’re getting pretty comfortable flashing my hot body around, huh?”

You glance over your shoulder, clearly unimpressed. “Shut up,” you deadpan, before pointing at him. “You start warming up. I’m taking a lap.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, rolling his shoulders in a half-hearted circle. He starts mimicking your earlier stretches—stretching your arms, bending side to side—still distracted by the echo of his own voice coming out of your mouth.

From the corner of his eye, he sees you walk to the edge of the pool, crouch, and with a clean, fluid motion, dive in. The splash is minimal. You cut through the surface with practiced ease, gliding underwater in long, controlled strokes. No panic. No hesitation. Just motion.

Minho slows his stretch as he watches your form ripple beneath the water. There’s something almost eerie about it—how natural you look in his body, in a place where he’s always felt so unnatural. And for a moment… it soothes him.

The water doesn’t look so scary from here. Contained. Predictable. You’re swimming effortlessly—he’s swimming effortlessly.

It’s just water, Minho tells himself, pressing his palm down his thigh in another stretch. I can handle this.

Minho continues to watch as you cut through the water effortlessly, gliding back toward him. The water clings to every line of his body—your body—as you reach the edge and emerge. Droplets cascade down your face, catching the soft blue light of the room, and for a split second, Minho forgets how to breathe—not out of panic, but awe.

You push your wet hair back and look up at him. “Ready to get in?”

He swallows hard and steps forward until his toes are hanging over the edge. The water laps quietly against the tiles below. So still. So calm. It almost doesn’t feel like the thing that’s haunted him.

You float easily beside the edge, looking up at him with patience. “Take your time.”

But Minho thinks he’s ready. He has to be ready.

Without answering, he tugs the hoodie over his head and tosses it aside. His denim shorts come off next, leaving him in your swimsuit that he found in the back of your underwear drawer. He walks slowly to the deep end, where the water looks darker. Deeper. A different kind of still.

You’re waiting for him. Your—his—face open, calm, trusting.

“I’ll be here,” you tell him gently. “I’ll catch you if anything happens.”

Minho gives a tight nod. It’s just water. It’s just water. He sucks in a breath, plants his feet firmly on the edge, and jumps. The water swallows him whole and all of a sudden, it’s not the pool anymore.

It’s the car. It’s the river. It’s the sound of glass cracking under pressure and cold rushing in through broken seams. It’s the seatbelt that wouldn’t unclick. It’s his friend pounding the window, panicking, stuck—stuck—and Minho running out of air as he tried to reach for him.

The cold presses in like it wants to crush his chest. His limbs thrash. He's kicking the water but he can’t find the surface. Instead, he’s sinking deeper and deeper. The fear wraps around him like a fist.

Then—arms. Around his chest. Pulling. Breaking the memory’s grip. Pulling him up. And suddenly, he’s gasping, coughing, as air hits his face and your arms tighten around his chest, holding him steady above the water. Minho clings to you with a strength born of terror, his entire body shaking.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, your mouth near his ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Minho breathes raggedly against your shoulder, still clutching you like you’re the only solid thing in the world. And he realizes—his fear isn’t gone. Not even close. It’s worse than he thought.

-

The apartment is quiet—too quiet—and it’s driving you out of your mind. You stand outside the bedroom door, arms folded tightly over your chest, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You’ve been standing there for ten minutes now. Behind that door, Minho hasn’t made a sound since he disappeared into the room, towel wrapped around his shoulders and silence wrapped even tighter around him.

You’ve been thinking about knocking. You lift your hand—then drop it. Again. You feel awful. You didn’t mean for this to happen. The water was supposed to help. You were trying to help. But now… now you can’t unsee the way he looked at you when you pulled him out of the pool. His body shaking so hard it rattled through your bones. His grip on you like he was afraid you'd vanish. And his eyes—wide, distant, full of something far beyond fear. Something deeper. Raw.

You’ve seen Minho angry, smug, even vulnerable—but not like that. Not this version of him. Not broken. And the worst part is that you’re the one who asked him to get in.

You sigh and lean your forehead against the wall beside the door, guilt gnawing at your insides. You just wanted to help him. You didn’t realize what it would stir up. Maybe you should have realized. Maybe you pushed too hard.

You raise your hand again. This time, you don’t drop it. You hesitate but then, you knock on the door. Soft. Careful. Like you’re afraid the sound alone might break him further.

“…Minho?” you call quietly. “Can I come in?”

You hear him faintly responding. “Yeah.”

You open the door slowly, the faint creak of its hinges sounding louder than you expect in the quiet apartment. You linger by the doorway, eyes scanning the room until you find him—Minho, sitting at the edge of the bed, towel draped around his shoulders as he slowly dries his—your—hair. His back is to you. His posture is hunched slightly, as though the weight of everything still hasn’t left his body.

You swallow, keeping your voice low. “Hey…”

No response.

You try again, softer this time. “Are you… okay?”

A beat passes. Two. Then, finally— “Yeah,” he says, his voice low and distant. “I’m okay.”

It’s not convincing but you don’t push. You can’t. Not after earlier. So instead, you nod, even though he can’t see it.

“Okay,” you say gently. “Well… you can take the bedroom tonight.”

You take a step back, your hand finding the doorknob, ready to pull it shut behind you—

But then Minho speaks again. “You don’t have to. We can… share the bed.”

For a second, your brain short-circuits—not because you think he means that. That he'd be using this opportunity for the magic sex cure thing. You know he doesn’t. At least, not tonight. Not after what happened.

You look at him—his back still to you, towel still in hand, movements slower now. You understand that maybe he’s not asking to be close, but he’s asking not to be alone.

You step fully inside the room and nod. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Okay.”

-

Minho lies on his side, facing the edge of the bed, a good stretch of mattress and blanket between the two of you. The room is quiet, the air thick with unspoken words and the soft whir of the ceiling fan. It's dark—comfortingly so. In the dark, no one can see how tightly he’s wound beneath the covers. In the dark, he can pretend he's okay.

But he knows you’re still awake. He can feel it in the way your breathing is a little too measured, too careful, like you’re trying not to disturb the silence but also trying not to fall asleep.

Then, your voice breaks through. Soft, hesitant.

“…I’m sorry.”

Minho blinks slowly, eyes fixed on the shadows across the wall.

“I thought I could help,” you continue. “Thought I could train you, push you past it, but… I was wrong. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t think—”

You pause and then he hears you shift slightly, turning your head. “I’m really sorry, Minho.”

In the darkness, something inside him softens. And strangely, it's the silence that gives him the space to speak.

“It’s okay,” he says. Then, after a moment, “I should’ve known better too.”

He draws a breath, steadying himself, feeling how his chest still tightens a little like he's underwater. “I thought I was ready. But the second I hit the water…”

He swallows, blinking hard even though there's nothing to see. “It took me back. To that day. In the car. The sound of the windows cracking. The water flooding in so fast I didn’t have time to think. I remember—I remember the seatbelt wouldn’t budge. I was kicking at it, panicking… thinking this is it.”

His voice dips lower as he continues. “And then he got me out. My friend. He freed me. But he was still stuck. His foot… it wouldn’t come loose. I tried, I really tried, but…”

Minho trails off. His hands curl into fists beneath the blanket. “I was already out of breath. I could barely see. I swam up without him.”

He closes his eyes. And it’s like the memory plays again in full color, full sound, inside the dark behind his lids. “He didn’t make it.”

The room is quiet again, only the sound of the fan ticking and the sound of his pulse thudding in his ears. His eyelids flutter. His throat tightens. He doesn't cry—but the fear, the guilt, the weight of it… it's all still there, wrapped around him like water he hasn’t escaped yet.

And still, somehow, saying it aloud in the dark—feels like the start of learning how to breathe again. “I could’ve gone back,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve gone back.”

His knuckles ache from how tightly his fists are clenched under the blanket.

“I was out, I could breathe again. But I didn’t dive back down.” His voice trembles now. “I was scared. I knew I couldn’t hold my breath long enough again, but—what kind of coward doesn’t even try?”

He blinks rapidly, eyes burning even though no tears fall. “He was the better one. Kinder. Smarter. He should’ve been the one to live, not me.”

He shuts his eyes tight, like he can keep the pain from spilling out by sheer force. But it doesn’t work. The words have left a crack in him, and everything is pouring through.

Then—your hand finds his. Warm. Gentle. Real. You wrap your fingers around his and squeeze, grounding him back into the present.

“Minho…” Your voice is soft but firm. “It’s not your fault.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. But he doesn’t pull away either.

“You didn’t choose what happened,” you continue. “No one could’ve predicted it. You tried. You did. And it was terrifying and impossible and unfair. But it’s not your fault.”

Minho swallows hard, his throat aching.

“I should’ve been braver,” he says, and this time his voice breaks. “I should’ve been the one to die.”

You grip his hand tighter, refusing to let that sit in the silence. “Hey! No. Don’t say that.”

Your voice is fiercer now, shaky but certain. “Don’t you ever say that.”

You shift closer, just enough that your presence reaches him even through the dark. “The fact that you’re still here, breathing, trying—hurting like this—it proves you deserve to live. You didn’t run away from what happened. You carry it. Every day. That doesn’t make you less. That makes you… human.”

Minho doesn’t respond, not right away. He just lies there, listening to the sound of your breath. Feeling the way your fingers are still holding his.

Then, quieter than before, you ask, “If it were the other way around… if you died, and your friend lived, but he carried all this guilt with him… would you want that for him?”

Minho’s breath hitches. Would he? Would he want his friend to live like this, buried in pain, drowning in guilt?

He doesn’t answer. He just holds your hand. Holds onto it like it’s keeping him above water.

-

The train ride is long but quiet, the rhythmic rattle of the tracks lulling you into a stillness that feels almost meditative. When you step off at the small-town station, the air smells different—cleaner, lighter, and edged with something earthy, like pine and damp soil. You stretch your limbs as Mr. Kim begins ushering the group of stuntmen toward the waiting cars outside.

The drive is short, no more than twenty minutes, but you spend it gazing out the window. The town is sleepy, with narrow streets and small shops lining the sidewalks, all tucked into the surrounding hills. The change of scenery feels good. Needed, even. Like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding finally let go.

The car stops in front of a weathered little motel—low-roofed, sun-faded, but clean. You already knew this was the only accommodation close to the new filming location, and most of the movie staff is staying here too. Still, the quiet around it is comforting. A break from the usual chaos of the city sets.

You’re handed a room key without much fanfare. You thank the clerk, mumble a tired goodbye to the others, and head straight to your assigned room. It’s on the second floor, tucked into a corner with a window that overlooks a modest stretch of trees and the curve of the distant hills.

Inside, the room is small but neat. A queen bed, a dresser, a chair near the window, and a little desk in the corner. You drop your bag on the chair and sigh as you roll your shoulders. For a brief moment, the thought of throwing yourself onto the bed is tempting.

But then—knock knock.

You freeze, hand hovering above your hoodie zipper. Walking to the door, you open it slowly. Mr. Kim stands there, still in his jacket, still with that composed, unreadable look on his face.

“Hey,” you say.

He gives you a small nod. “Just checking in.”

You step aside instinctively, gesturing for him to come in, but he shakes his head. “No need. Just wanted to make sure you’re settled in all right.”

“I am.” You nod. “Thanks for asking.”

There’s a flicker in his expression. Like he’s searching your face for something—confirmation, maybe. A sign. A crack. You can tell he has more on his mind than just accommodations. Something heavier lingers between the words, but he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push.

“I’m just going to rest for a bit,” you say gently. “It’s been… a long week.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. Then he nods again. “Good. Do that.”

With that, he turns and walks back down the walkway, his steps even and measured. You watch him go, your hand still resting on the doorknob. A thought itches at the back of your mind and refuses to go away.

How much does he know? About Minho. About the trauma he carries. About what he’s been hiding behind that sarcasm and practiced perfection. You step back into the room and close the door slowly behind you. You finally let yourself collapse onto the edge of the bed, sighing as the mattress dips beneath you. Your body feels like it's vibrating with residual tension from the three hours long of train ride, from holding in thoughts, from Mr. Kim’s quiet concern still echoing in your chest.

However, as you’re about to lie back and close your eyes— Knock knock.

You groan into your hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dragging yourself off the bed, you shuffle toward the door, already muttering under your breath. You yank it open, fully prepared to snap—but stop short when you’re met with your face grinning back at you from the hallway.

Minho—you—leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, his head tilted as his eyes sweep lazily around your room. “Cozy,” he muses, clearly amused.

You squint at him. “Let me guess. You’re staying at a hotel with a view and room service?”

Minho snorts. “I wish. It’s a bed and breakfast. I’m sharing a bathroom with Rhonda from wardrobe.”

You blink, then grin. “Well. That sounds exactly like what the AD would assign. I bet she’s already made a shrine of you in there.”

He rolls his eyes. “She offered me organic shampoo. Lavender-something. I’m traumatized.”

You cross your arms and lean against the doorframe, mirroring him. “Why are you here?”

Minho shrugs. “Just checking in.”

The way he says it so casually almost makes you scoff. Checking in? He was the one who had a freak out in the pool the other night. The one who held onto you like his whole body was unraveling.

You almost ask—Are you okay now? But before you can say anything, Minho’s—your—phone rings shrilly, slicing through the moment.

Minho doesn’t even hesitate. He picks up the phone, and presses it to his ear. His expression immediately drops into exaggerated boredom as whoever’s on the other end starts talking. His eyes roll so hard you’re convinced he can see his own brain. “Yes… mmhmm… yeah, I got it. On my way.”

He hangs up dramatically and turns to you, pointing a finger. “Duty calls. Your very boring job awaits.”

You smirk. “Have fun.”

“I won’t,” he says with all the theatrical despair in the world.

“I’m going to lie down and do absolutely nothing,” you tease, stretching your arms high overhead in a show of relaxed bliss.

He groans loudly and stomps his feet in protest like a child, grumbling under his breath as he heads back toward the hallway. “Unbelievable. I should be the one resting.”

You just laugh. “You’ll live.”

Minho turns halfway, walking backward now with that stupid grin still tugging at your—his—mouth. “Unfortunately.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you standing in the doorway smiling to yourself before finally closing the door behind him. This time, when you lie down, you actually let yourself rest.

-

The air smells like fresh paint and sawdust, the set still half-built, buzzing with energy as crew members move like ants around him. Minho has barely had a minute to breathe since he got to the new filming location. He’s already gone over the location safety, walked the perimeter with the AD, triple-checked the new lighting rig schedule, and now he’s trying to finish filling out the stunt schedule checklist on the clipboard in his hand. He’s mid-sentence explaining something to one of the camera rig guys when someone from the props team waves him over.

“Hey! We need you for a second!”

Minho nods, mutters a quick “Be right back,” and jogs toward the prop storage room—one of the only enclosed places in this otherwise chaotic outdoor lot.

The second he pushes open the heavy door, the air shifts—dusty, dim, and colder than outside. The room is massive, metal shelves lined with rubber weapons, breakaway furniture, mock explosives. At the far end, two cars sit under sheets. One of the prop crew pulls the cover off the first one with a dramatic flourish.

“These are the two options for the underwater scene. We need to confirm which one’s getting rigged for submersion.”

The words hit Minho like a brick. Underwater scene. It’s as if the walls narrow around him. His breath shortens.

The cars sit there innocently, old sedans stripped and prepared for modifications. But the shape, the interior, the weight of them—it all slams into his chest like a memory. His hand tightens slightly on the clipboard as he steps forward.

Don’t think. Don’t feel.

“Both models are almost identical,” the prop guy continues, walking around them. “We just need a decision so the effects team can get started on sealing and rigging. Flickerman wants realism—cracked windows, pressure build, the works.”

Minho doesn’t trust his voice for a second, so he nods instead, jotting down a note on his clipboard. His fingers clench the pen a little too tightly. Car for underwater scene – confirm w/ Flickerman. Breathe. Breathe.

He forces himself to write it down with steady strokes even though his palm feels slick. His eyes lift one more time to the cars. They don’t look dangerous. Not yet. But just the sight of them makes him want to be anywhere else.

He draws in a slow, shallow breath through his nose and turns briskly toward the door, holding the clipboard to his chest like a shield. There’s still too much to do today.

Minho’s on his way to find Flickerman to report, clipboard in hand, rehearsing the list of notes he needs to report about the car props. But just as he rounds the corner past the catering tent, the Assistant Director comes barreling toward him like a man on a mission.

“Hey!” the AD barks.

Minho stops in his tracks, startled. “Yeah?”

“Stop whatever you're doing. I need you to get Felix. Now.”

Minho blinks. “From the airstrip?”

“Yes,” the AD snaps. “Flickerman needs him on set in fifteen minutes.”

Minho glances down at his watch. “I can call a driver—”

“No, you go. Now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it be faster with someone who’s, I don’t know, trained to drive like hell through a dirt town?”

The AD grabs his arm and yanks him to the side, lowering his voice but raising the stakes. “Listen. Flickerman’s waiting on Felix to rehearse the next sequence, and if he doesn’t show up on time, he’s going to blow. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen him lose it, but if he does, it won’t just be Felix who’s in trouble. It’ll be all of us. You included.”

Minho stares at him, the seriousness in the AD’s face draining any protest left in his chest. He swallows hard as all he can think about is your rule about not getting fired from each other’s jobs.

“Fifteen minutes?” he asks.

“Fourteen now,” the AD says grimly, already turning away.

Minho huffs and spins around, muttering, “Great. No pressure,” under his breath. He starts pacing toward the edge of the lot, his brain moving as fast as his legs. How the hell is he going to cut a 30-minute drive down to half the time?

He rounds the corner near the prop storage again, and something catches his eye through the half-open rolling door. A sleek black motorcycle, parked near the wall with a helmet hanging off the handlebar.

He stops. Looks at it. And then he grins. “Of course.”

With no hesitation, he strides toward it, tossing his clipboard to a nearby intern as he snatches the helmet in one hand. He mutters to himself, “You’re welcome, Felix,” as he swings one leg over the bike and kickstarts the engine.

The roar of it echoes through the lot. Minho revs it once for good measure before speeding off the lot.

The tires screech just slightly as Minho pulls up to the airstrip, kicking up dust as he slows the motorcycle to a hard stop near the small tarmac where Felix is just stepping off the private charter plane, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

Felix squints at the sight of the motorcycle rolling to a halt—at the sight of you on the motorcycle—and his brow furrows in confusion.

Minho pulls off the helmet, hair a wind-tossed mess as he swings his leg down and plants his feet. “Felix!” he shouts, waving him over. “Let’s go!”

Felix walks over, looking around as if expecting someone else. “Uh… hi? Where’s the driver?”

“You’re looking at her,” Minho replies flatly, tossing a spare helmet toward him. “Get on.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“No time,” Minho says as he hops back on the bike. “Just get on, Felix.”

Felix looks at the helmet, looks at the motorcycle, then back at Minho. “You’re serious.”

“I said get on.”

Felix hesitates only for another second before sighing, handing his duffel bag to his manager and hopping onto the back seat of the motorcycle.

“This better not be some elaborate prank,” Felix mutters as he fits the helmet on.

“You wish,” Minho shoots back, gripping the handles.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“You’ll find out in about ten minutes—assuming we make it in ten.”

Felix doesn't get a chance to respond before Minho revs the engine, loud and sharp, and the bike lurches forward onto the road. Felix instinctively tightens his arms around Minho’s waist, startled by the jolt of speed.

“Hold on!” Minho shouts over the roaring wind.

They weave through the narrow back roads with practiced ease—Minho leans low into the turns, the engine growling beneath them like it knows they’re racing the clock. Felix presses in behind him, ducking when Minho ducks, trusting him without question, even though he doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

All Minho knows is the timer in his head is ticking fast and he’s not about to be the reason Flickerman burns the set to the ground.

-

The scent of garlic and roasted meat wafts through the sma hall of the motel, mixing with the quiet clatter of forks and soft chatter between crew members. You’ve barely touched the food on your plate, mostly pushing steamed vegetables around with the side of your fork as Mr. Kim laughs at something one of the newer stunt guys says.

You glance up once in a while to watch as everyone chat with each other before you look back down at your phone, deciding to scroll for a moment while you chew and that’s when your thumb freezes mid-scroll.

A video plays on your screen—shaky, filmed from a phone, but clear enough to catch the unmistakable image of you—or rather, Minho—riding a motorcycle like a scene ripped straight out of an action drama. But it’s not just that. No.

Seated behind you is Felix, helmet and all, one arm clearly wrapped around your waist as the motorcycle speeds away from the small airstrip.

You nearly choke on your food. You cough into your napkin as your heart skips a confused beat, your eyes glued to the phone as the video loops. You blink, just to make sure you’re not hallucinating. Nope—still there. Felix’s arm. Around your waist.

It’s Minho’s body, yes, but still—you. Your finger slides down to the comments.

“WHO IS SHE OMG I’M SO JEALOUS 😭😭😭”

“wait that’s not a manager is it???”

“i heard it’s just a staff member lol chill”

“lucky girl... taking felix on a motorbike ride… i’d die.”

“felix’s arm around her waist?? HELLO?????”

You lock your phone screen, slowly placing it face-down on the table. Your appetite has officially disappeared.

You sit there, unsure whether to laugh, scream, or both. You don’t even know what you’re upset about—if it’s the misleading image of it all, or the way fans are shipping you with Felix, or maybe... maybe it's that you weren’t told. That Minho didn’t even think to warn you. That you're only finding out through a fan video.

You pace the motel room floor with your phone clutched tightly in your hand, the screen dimming every few minutes as your unanswered texts pile higher and higher in the chat with Minho.

come to my room. now.

we need to talk.

don’t make me come find you.

MINHO!!!!!

You glance at the clock—11:54 PM—and just as you’re about to fire off another message, a knock finally comes at your door. You fling it open before he can even knock twice. And of course, there he is, grinning like a child who’s convinced himself he's done nothing wrong.

"Hi," Minho says, way too cheerfully for someone being summoned like a fugitive. Before you can say a word, he breezes past you into the room like it’s his. He drops himself onto the edge of your bed, leans back, arms propped behind him, looking way too comfortable.

You shut the door with a sigh and walk up to him, shoving your phone in his face with the screen lit up. “What is this?” you ask, voice sharp.

Minho squints at the video still playing. “That’s me giving Felix a ride on a motorcycle.”

“No,” you say through clenched teeth. “That’s me giving Felix a ride. In that body. Which means that you made me the center of some wild fan theory.”

He shrugs. “Well, technically, I made you look cool. You’re welcome.”

You glare at him in disbelief. “Seriously, what were you thinking?” you ask. “You’re in my body, Minho. You don’t get to just show up with a movie star clinging to your waist and pretend it’s no big deal!”

Minho waves you off like you’re being dramatic. “You should be happy. Isn’t it your dream to date a movie star like Felix?”

You scoff. “Oh my God, no.”

He grins wider, like that’s exactly the answer he expected. “Okay, then why are you so flustered?” he asks, eyes narrowing with mock curiosity. “Unless—”

“No,” you cut him off quickly.

Minho lifts an eyebrow, head tilting slightly as he adds, far too casually, “Felix likes you, you know.”

Your entire body stiffens. “…What?”

“Yeah,” Minho says with a careless shrug. “He told me. Like, the other day. Said he likes you. Pretty straightforward.”

You stare at him, blinking. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, the smirk never fading. “Unfortunately, nope.”

You take a step back, overwhelmed, uncertain if your face is heating up from embarrassment or confusion—or both. Minho notices instantly, his grin widening with satisfaction.

“You’re flustered,” he teases. “Oh, this is rich. Who knew the tough girl act would crumble this fast?”

You shoot him a glare and turn your back to him, trying to compose yourself. “We’re not talking about that.”

“Oh, we’re definitely talking about it later,” he says smugly.

You spin back around. “Right now, we’re talking about you recklessly putting me in the center of internet gossip!”

At that, Minho sighs and finally sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, fine. Look. I didn’t mean to turn you into fan bait. Flickerman needed Felix on set in fifteen minutes, the AD practically threatened my life, and there was no time for a driver. The motorcycle was the fastest way.”

You cross your arms. “And it didn’t occur to you to, I don’t know, warn me?”

“I was going to,” he says. “But it's either that or... I got fired so... I didn’t think it would blow up this fast, okay? Sorry.”

You sigh, finally letting the tension out of your shoulders. His reasoning is… actually valid. And given the crisis-level urgency the AD was projecting earlier, you get it.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll let it slide. This time.”

You’re just about to sit down, maybe finally unwind from the entire emotional rollercoaster of the day, when Minho—still lounging on your bed like he owns the room—sits up and says, “Go get changed.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He jerks his chin toward your duffel bag. “I saw a pool out back. Looks decent. Let’s train. Tonight.”

You stare at him, confused. “You… want to get in the water? Tonight?”

He nods, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But it isn’t. Not after what happened the last time. Not after the way he shook so violently in your arms, as if the fear had swallowed him whole.

Your brows knit with concern. “Minho… are you sure? Because we can take it slow—”

“I am taking it slow,” he cuts in, his voice calm but firm. “We only have three days left until the underwater stunt. I need to be ready. No matter what happens, I want to be prepared.”

There’s something in his voice—not the cocky tone he usually wears like armor, not the biting sarcasm either. It’s steadier, grounded, but underneath it, you can still hear the tremor of fear he’s trying to bury. He meets your gaze head-on. Determined. Maybe a little scared, too—but this time, he’s not running from it. He’s walking straight into the storm.

You nod slowly. “Okay,” you say. “If that’s what you want.”

He nods back once, appreciative. And you can’t help but respect it—his resolve, his decision. Because when Lee Minho sets his mind on something, there’s really no changing it.

You sigh and head to your bag to grab your swimming trunks. If he's really going to do this, you’ll be right there with him. Every terrifying, breathless second of it.

-

Minho exhales slowly as he stands at the edge of the pool, the air cool against his skin and the silence of the night pressing in around him. Most of the motel lights are off, the building behind them dark and quiet. He figures a splash too loud could wake a light sleeper on the second floor—but that’s a risk he’s willing to take.

He rolls his shoulders once, then pulls off the hoodie, folding it neatly over a nearby chair. His jeans follow, and now he’s just standing there in your black swimsuit, hugging his frame in a way he’s still not quite used to. But he doesn’t let it distract him because tonight, he has a goal.

Minho takes a step forward onto the tiled steps and slowly begins to descend into the water. Each inch higher on his skin feels colder than the last. It seeps into his bones. He tries not to think of the weight of it. He tries not to think of the last time.

Another breath. Another step. The water reaches his knees. Another breath. Then his thighs. Another. Then his waist. He stops, closing his eyes for a moment. The water laps gently around him. It’s quiet. Peaceful, even. He doesn’t feel the same panic in his chest. Not yet. And that’s a small win.

When he opens his eyes, he turns around—and there you are. Standing at the edge of the pool with your arms crossed, your expression a mix of concern and calculation.

Minho exhales sharply through his nose. “Why aren’t you getting in?”

You hesitate. “I just think… maybe you shouldn’t push it.”

Minho nearly rolls his eyes. “Do I look like I can’t handle a kid’s swimming pool?”

He gestures down at the waist-high water surrounding him and lifts both brows at you, the sarcasm sitting comfortably in his voice. “Aren’t you going to train me?”

You let out a breath, shaking your head like he’s being ridiculous—which, of course, he is—but it makes you move. You peel off your T-shirt, revealing the swimming trunks beneath, and step into the water.

Minho watches you quietly and somehow, just having you in there with him makes everything feel a little easier like maybe, this time, he won’t drown. You step into the pool and make your way toward him, water rippling around your legs. You stop just in front of him, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your presence in the cool water.

The motel lights are dim behind you, and above, the sky stretches wide and dark, sprinkled with faint stars. It's quiet. The kind of quiet that makes him feel both grounded and exposed. He glances around, then back at you. “So…” he says, voice low, “what are we doing tonight?”

You shrug and think for a second. “Maybe we try holding our breath underwater?”

Minho lets his gaze drop to the surface of the water. It shimmers faintly under the moonlight. His reflection blurs, shifts, disappears. He swallows air as he wonders if he can handle that.

As if you heard his thoughts, you reach out and gently take both of his hands, lacing your fingers with his. “Let’s do it together.”

Minho looks up. The quiet certainty in your voice steadies something in him.

“We go down on the count of three,” you explain, watching him closely. “If you feel like you can’t do it—don’t. Just come back up. No pressure. Got it?”

He nods. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

“One…”

His grip tightens in yours.

“Two…”

He inhales deep, steadying himself.

“Three.”

Together, you begin to lower yourselves into the water. Inch by inch. The coolness brushes up against his neck, his jaw, his cheeks. He shuts his eyes before the surface swallows him whole.

For a second—just a second—it’s okay. He’s in the water, and it’s still. His hands are still in yours. He can feel the slight squeeze of your fingers, anchoring him.

Then it comes. A flash of memory—metal pressing against him, water rushing in, the suffocating fear of being trapped, lungs aching for air. The illusion of control snaps. He kicks upward and bursts back through the surface, gasping. His breath comes in ragged, uneven pulls. His chest heaves. Cold air hits his wet skin, and he blinks the water from his eyes.

When he opens his eyes, you're there. Still holding his hands. Still in front of him. No pity in your eyes. No judgment. Just quiet reassurance.

“That was good, Minho,” you say softly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Minho stares at you. The panic doesn’t leave immediately, but the sharp edge of it dulls under your voice. He doesn’t reply. He just nods slightly, still trying to catch his breath, still holding on.

-

You watch him—yourself—in the shimmering reflection of the pool under the night sky, and for a moment, it feels surreal. But the way Minho's chest rises and falls, the tremble in his breath, the fear flickering in his eyes—you see all of it and all you want is to reach in and take it from him, to carry it yourself, just to give him a second of peace, but you can’t.

What you can do is be here. Hold his hands. Tell him that he’s safe. That he’s doing okay. That he’s not alone.

After a moment, his breath slows. You see the fear fade a little, not gone—but quieter, smaller. “Maybe this is enough for tonight,” you offer gently.

But Minho shakes his head. “I want to try again.”

You pause, but you nod, meeting his eyes with calm and quiet respect. “Okay. Take your time.”

He nods. His grip on your hands is tighter this time. Tighter than before.

You wait. You patiently wait. And when he finally says, “I’m ready,” you move closer.

You carefully place his arms around your shoulders, letting your hands settle against his waist. “You can hold on to me,” you tell him. “It’s okay.”

He nods again. And you can feel his breath ghost over your neck as he tries to steady himself.

“One,” you whisper.

“Two…”

“Three.”

Together, you sink beneath the surface and the world above disappears in a ripple.

Minho clings to you while you stay still, hands firm on his waist, grounding him. His body is tense—tight like a wire—but his arms stay around you, and his grip doesn't falter. His eyes are shut, his brow drawn. You watch the fight happening inside him. The way he braces against something invisible, dark, heavy. He’s trying. You can feel it. So you don’t move. You don’t pull him up. Not until he decides.

The seconds stretch. One, then two, maybe more. You lose count in the hush of the water. Then suddenly, he kicks up, dragging you with him, and both of you burst back into the air.

Minho is panting, arms still around you. You wrap yours around him without hesitation.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, close to his ear. “You did so well.”

He doesn’t say anything, just leans into you, forehead resting against your shoulder, chest heaving, water streaming from his hair and face. You hold him tighter, letting the silence say everything that needs to be said and the two of you stay like that, in the middle of the pool, until the ripples settle and the night calms once more.

-

By the time the two of you return to your motel room, the air is cool against your damp skin, and silence settles between you—not heavy, not awkward. Just quiet. The comfortable kind.

You grab a towel and toss another toward Minho. “You can use the bathroom first,” you say, voice soft.

He nods, wordless, and disappears behind the door. The lock clicks afterwards.

As you wait, you dry your hair with the towel and glance toward the window. The night is still, the stars blurred by mist, the world calm in a way it hasn’t been for days.

Then the bathroom door flies open and you turn on your feet, expecting a small comment or maybe a mumble about how cold the water was—but Minho steps out with only a towel wrapped around him. Water glistens on his shoulders. His eyes find yours.

You blink. “Minho—?”

He doesn’t say anything but walks toward you, steady, almost cautious. And he doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth rising from his skin, smell the faint trace of your body wash on him.

You open your mouth to ask—but you don’t get the chance as Minho leans in and presses his lips to yours. Soft at first. Gentle. Like he’s still asking a question with every touch. But then you feel his hands move to your waist, pulling you closer—and the kiss deepens. He kisses you like he’s been holding back for too long. Like everything he’s been feeling—all the fear, the guilt, the gratitude, the relief—is pouring out through this single point of contact.

And you don’t hold back either. Your arms wrap around him, and your fingers curl against his bare skin. You kiss him harder, your heart thudding against your ribs. The room falls away, the air thick with heat and something unspoken that you both finally stop running from.

Minho’s touch is confident but careful, and the next thing you know, his fingers curling around the waistband of your swim trunks and easing them down. You inhale sharply but don’t stop him—can’t, really—not when your heart is pounding so hard in your chest, not when everything between you feels like it’s been building to this very moment.

Your trunks fall to the floor, and a beat later, his towel follows. Then it’s just the two of you. Nothing between you. Bare, vulnerable, exposed—not just physically, but in the quiet way that only happens when someone truly sees you.

He takes your hand, warm and steady, and leads you gently toward the bed. You follow wordlessly, your steps slow, breath caught somewhere between nerves and anticipation. When he lays down, you move with him, hovering just above as you brace yourself over his chest.

Minho cups your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek as his eyes search yours, then he pulls you down into a kiss—deep, slow, unraveling. You feel his other arm slide around your waist, anchoring you closer, until you’re lying right against him. Every inch of your skin touches his. The heat between you blooms.

The kiss grows heavier, more consuming, yet never loses its tenderness. You lose track of where his body ends and yours begins. Fingers trail along ribs, lips part, breath mingles.

And all the while, the world outside fades away. The fear. The pressure. Even the memory of cold water.

It’s just you and him. Together—closer than ever.

-

Minho doesn’t flinch when you pull away from the kiss. He keeps his eyes on you, steady and calm, reading every flicker of hesitation in your gaze. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist are trembling slightly, and he knows—it’s not just nerves. It’s the weight of everything that’s strange and new, the unfamiliarity of being in his body, of feeling all the sensation in ways you’ve never felt before.

You look at him, searching. “Minho, I don’t… I don’t know how to do this in this body.”

Minho expected this. Maybe he’d been waiting for it—maybe even hoping you’d say it out loud, rather than pretending like you weren’t overwhelmed. So he offers you a small, reassuring smile, one that you’ve worn on your own lips more than once. He reaches for your hand and gently guides it to his abdomen, just above the place where every part of him aches for more of you. His breath hitches, but he keeps his voice even as he murmurs, “Then just touch me the way you like to be touched.”

And then, softer: “And I’ll do the same.”

You don’t say anything at first. Just stay quiet, eyes wide and searching his. But then you give the faintest nod, like you’re trusting him—trusting yourself.

He pulls you back into a kiss, slower this time, deeper. Your hands begin to move—cautious at first, unsure, but growing bolder with every breath. You touch him like the way you like to be touched, running your fingers between the folds and easily locate your bundle of nerves. You begin circling on it as it pulsating, throbbing with every gentle pressure you apply on it and keep the stimulation going.

Minho mirrors you, touching with a kind of reverence, exploring the body that was once his with new wonder, new intent. His fingers trail the length of his cock, aching and hardening around his palm even though he hasn't moving yet. He gives it slow strokes, thumb pressing on the slit on the tip and once he gets his cock hot and hard in his hand, he begins pumping it at a steady pace.

Minho senses your nervousness giving way to something else—curiosity, anticipation, heat. And through it all, he holds you close, grounding you with every kiss, every breath.

Two bodies, one connection—tangled in a space where roles and boundaries blur, and all that remains is how you make each other feel.

Minho exhales, the sound shaky, as your fingers continously circling on the clit—slow, delicate, like you’re still unsure of how far you can take this, but every touch still lands just right. There’s something reverent in the way you explore him, like you’re memorizing a map of yourself through him, and the care in your movements makes his breath catch in his throat.

His body arches into your hand, craving more before he even realizes it, and his own hand wrapped around your length falters for a moment—sloppier now, less rhythm, more instinct. But when he hears your breath, hot and shallow against his neck, and feels how your body reacts to him, it spurs him on again.

Minho lets his lips part, soft moans escaping freely—he doesn’t try to hide how good it feels. “Oh yeah, just like that,” he murmurs, voice low, raw. “Whatever you're doing, keep going.”

You press closer at that, bringing your mouth to wrap around your breast, and Minho shudders at the contact of your hot tongue on the sensitive bud, his fingers curling around your cock tighter and with more purpose, matching your rhythm again. It’s clumsy in places—new, uncharted—but it’s real. It’s honest. And with every breath, every whispered sound, every stammered gasp, Minho gives in a little more to the pleasure, to you.

It's clear that you're both ready for more so Minho holds your face between his hands, thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks, and when your eyes meet his, there’s nothing but sincerity between you. “We’re ready for this,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, even as his heart pounds. You nod, almost instinctively, like you’ve both known this was inevitable from the start. The weight of waiting disappears in that shared look—there’s no more fear, no more hesitation. Only trust.

He kisses you again—slow, deep, full of something he can’t name—and then leans back, letting himself open to you. His legs part, completely baring himself to you and he breathes deeply, eyes fluttering shut as he whispers, “You know what to do.”

You nod again, more certain this time, and the moment your body aligns with his, he holds onto the sheets. Carefully, deliberately, you guide yourself into him, and Minho gasps at the sensation—foreign, yet achingly right. The stretch, the fullness, the press of your body—it all crashes into him at once.

His moan slips out before he can catch it, back arching into your chest, and then he sees you—your brows drawn tight in focus, your mouth parted, trying to hold it together but falling apart just the same. As you push in all of your length into him, your bodies settle together, chest to chest, skin to skin, breath tangled in breath.

Minho wraps his arms around your back, eyes stinging with the emotion of it all, and holds you there, completely overwhelmed. The feeling, the closeness, the quiet burn beneath his skin—it’s almost too much. It’s everything.

Your breaths are warm against his neck, the rhythm of your body grounding him more than the chill of the motel air or the weight of reality ever could. This—this moment—is more than just bodies colliding. It's a plea. A quiet, desperate prayer sealed in sweat and skin and unspoken promises.

He shuts his eyes and in the hush between heartbeats, Minho dares to wish. Let this work. Let this be it.

Because if it isn’t—if this isn’t the way back—he doesn't know how much more he can take. He doesn't know if he can survive waking up again in a body that doesn't feel like his, trapped in a mirror that reflects someone else’s face. The drowning, the panic, the constant pretending—he can barely hold himself together under the weight of it all.

But more than that—more than the fear of being lost inside someone else’s skin—he’s terrified of losing you. He doesn't say it aloud. He doesn't have to. Because in the fragile, fleeting quiet of that motel room, as your breath evens out and your heart beats against his, Minho only thinks it, clutching the thought like a lifeline:

Please… I can't lose you too.

-

✨ DOUBLE FEATURE: FINAL CHAPTER is available on my Patreon ✨

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[rememberwren]

/•Harmless Fun 7•\

Former and further chapters can be found here.

You and Johnny kiss. With company. Ghoap/fem!reader, dry humping, kissing, handjobs, exhibitionism, suggestion of blowjobs.

-

Kissing Johnny only gets easier, and it was easy to begin with.

-

The next morning sees you running late for work. After your late night, you had forgotten to set your alarm and hadn’t awoken until the sun spilled in through your open curtains and you could hear the sound of Simon bustling around at the other end of the apartment. You had taken the quickest shower of your life, brushed your teeth, and done your best to make yourself presentable, rehearsing potential excuses in your head for your boss. There was a crash on I-57; my car broke down; a child fell down a well… 

You didn’t even have time to grab a cup of Simon’s coffee before you were wrenching the front door open, but when Johnny calls out sharply for you to halt, you are startled enough into stopping your frenzied rush, turning to blink at his careful, limping approach. He cups your jaw and brings your mouth to his, tasting like creamer and sugar, just the way you like your coffee. 

“Have a good day, hen,” he says when he pulls back, giving you an innocuous smile. 

Your eyes flitter to Simon, who is leaning with one hip against the kitchen island, coffee halfway to his mouth, brows raised—it’s reflexive to check on him, to make sure that Johnny hasn’t made him angry with this sudden show of affection. To make sure that you’re allowed to enjoy it. When Simon’s coffee finally completes its circuit to his mouth, you look back at Johnny and give him a shy smile. 

“You too,” you say for lack of better words. After you shut the door, you mouth to yourself, Oh my god. Then you remember your own lateness and rush down to the parking lot, praying for green lights all the way to work. 

Inside the apartment, Johnny fixes Simon with a smug expression. 

Simon shakes his head, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. 

-

When you get home from work, feet aching and a knot in your neck, it all seems to melt away as Johnny sits up from where he was slumped on the couch and draws you onto his lap. You’re careful not to put too much pressure on his bad thigh, gripping his shoulders tightly, eyes flickering around the apartment looking for the looming presence of Johnny’s other half once Johnny’s intent seems clear. 

“Where’s Simon?” you breathe. 

“Out,” says Johnny, taking your chin in his fingers and coaxing you down toward his mouth. He pauses, lips nearly brushing. “Should we wait so he can watch?” 

“What?” 

Johnny grins. He leans up the last few hairs’ breadths and kisses you, and Simon finds you in a similar place nearly an hour later. 

You’ve shifted of course, unable to kneel for so long without your legs falling asleep. Now Johnny lays with his bad thigh braced against the back of the couch, legs opened for you to be nestled between, your arms looped around his neck so you can play with the soft hairs at the back of his head. 

Your mouth feels numb from kissing, your thoughts syrupy and slow, focused only on the softness of Johnny’s mouth, the way his stubble rubs your cheeks raw (and your neck, when he gives your mouth a break and trails his lips down your jaw to the space between your neck and shoulder). Your head feels light and airy, your heart too, positively buoyant with all the affection. The only part of you that doesn’t feel sleepy and slow is that needy place between your legs; there you ache, slick enough for your panties to stick to you every time you shift. 

Johnny isn’t unaffected, either. He’s been hard since he dragged you onto his lap, but he seems completely content to do nothing about it. Anytime you try to escalate your kisses into something a little firmer, a little more satisfying, he drags you back to that soft and slow place where it feels like all your thoughts leak out your ears. 

“Johnny,” you breathe into the crook of his neck, resting your own sore one. He hums in answer. “Don’t you want—more?” 

“Got you in my lap,” he says, hands massaging your hips firmly. “What more could I possibly want?” 

You let your pelvis settle a little more firmly against his own, rocking against his hard cock. He can’t control the way his breath hitches at the stimulation, fingertips digging into your flesh. 

“Oh, him?” Johnny asks innocently. “Just ignore him.” 

“I don’t want to ignore him,” you mutter sulkily. “I want to sit on him.” 

Johnny guffaws. Beneath you, his cock twitches. 

The door opens and Simon enters. He’s dripping sweat from his run, and for the first time you notice the backpack he carries with him, the way it seems to droop against his back, like it’s filled with something heavy. All three of you freeze at the sight of the other. The moment is broken by a buzzing—Simon fishes his phone from his pocket and sighs, pressing it to his ear. 

“I’m listening,” he says, shutting the front door behind him. 

Johnny reaches out softly and turns your chin back towards him. There is something in his eyes, something mischievous, but all he does is coax your mouth back down to his and kiss you again. You sigh against his mouth, eyes fluttering closed as he sucks sweetly on your tongue. You hear the sound of Simon’s voice, but his words go in one ear and out the other, the warm rumble of his tenor doing nothing to help the ache between your thighs. 

Johnny grips your hips in his hands and—oh, oh god. He rocks you gently against him, his cock brushing against your soaked sex through your respective layers. It sends a jolt through you, even this small stimulation feeling good after denying yourself for so long. You can’t help the sound that slips out of your throat, the little whine that Johnny swallows whole and matches with a warm, pleased hum. 

You know what he’s doing now. Had he planned it to be like this? It’s hard to imagine that he hadn’t, not with his earlier flippant phrase of waiting for Simon to watch. Respectability wars with your own need, and you find that it’s far too easy to let your need win, to let Johnny’s hands guide you against his cock again and again, stoking that fire in your belly into something transcendental, something too big to be ignored. 

“Johnny?” you hear Simon say to whoever is on the other end of the phone, the name briefly breaking through your stupor. “Being a pain in my ass, as usual.” 

You break away from Johnny’s mouth but can’t seem to stop the gentle rolling of your hips. Instead you bury your face in his neck, hoping for some reprieve from the embarrassment that has your face aflame, from the shame that seems to be doing nothing but whetting the ache between your legs. 

“Johnny,” you whine quietly. “Be fair.” 

“What’s unfair?” he breathes. He jerks his hips up against you softly. “Oh—this? You want me to stop? Just say the word.” 

You chance a glance toward Simon and find that he still has the phone pressed to his ear, but his eyes are focused firmly on you and Johnny, his expression of greater intensity than usual: brows lower, eyes darker, scarred mouth barely parted, like he has something to say but can’t. He meets your eyes and hums something noncommittal into the phone. You wonder if he’s paying attention to the call at all. 

Simon turns his eyes away. He reaches down and grips the hem of his shirt, lifts it up to wipe at his dripping brow, and it gives you a glance of his body: pale and scarred, but so fucking strong, muscled with a nice layer of padding. Fuck, they are both so painfully beautiful. You realize that Johnny has stopped his gentle ministrations on your hips and that now all the movement is due to you: you’re the one grinding against his hard cock. You hide in his neck again, placing sloppy kisses against his steady pulse. 

“That’s it,” Johnny mutters, barely loud enough for you to hear. His hands slip around to cup your arse. “Does that feel good?” 

You nod. Anything would feel good after so much time spent on the most innocent of foreplay, anything would feel good with how swollen and wet you were. Johnny’s hands press against you, lengthening your strokes, turning your hasty, jerky movements into slow, sensual rolls of your hips, maximizing the contact between you both. 

“Sit up, I want to see you,” he whispers. Your head is so full of cotton that you do, forgetting for a moment that Simon is there. He’s watching you again, one hand braced against the countertop, dark eyes watching the way you grind against his husband’s cock, knuckles white where he grips the phone and presses it to his ear, giving the occasional grunt to whomever is on the other line. Johnny says: “Fuck, yer beautiful.” 

You ignore that, unwilling to let him fluster you any more than you already are. Instead you brace your hands against his chest and quicken your hips, feeling the coil inside your belly twist tight. You’ve needed to cum since last night, since Johnny first kissed you with Simon right there watching. All you want is to feel that sweet burst of pleasure, to let it rise up like high tide and drown you. Johnny’s hands smooth along your thighs and up your belly and cup the fullness of your breasts, and that’s all you need to cover your face, mouth falling open as a painfully embarrassing sound is torn from your throat. Your body is wracked with shivers as your pussy clenches tight around nothing, and you’d forgotten over the years just how unsatisfying these kinds of orgasms could be. You needed something inside you, something you could clench down on, if only Johnny had been willing to give it to you. 

A door clicks shut. Your misty eyes open to find that Simon is gone. 

“Beautiful,” Johnny says, drawing you back down into his arms for a kiss. Against your mouth, he mutters: “Yer perfect.” 

“We scared off Simon,” you groan, forehead resting against his own. Beneath you, his cock is still hard, reminding you that he still hasn’t cum yet—likely can’t with just this level of stimulation. 

“Yeah, he’s scared t’ death,” Johnny says, eyes rolling, his hands smoothing up and down the small of your back. “Probably already got his cock out in the next room.” 

You frown. That wouldn’t make any sense. You decide to focus on what does make sense—helping Johnny find his own pleasure. Reaching down, you lightly trail your fingers over his clothed cock, feeling positively electric when he gives a shaky sigh, cock jerking beneath your tentative touch. 

“Want some help?” you ask. 

He just gives you a soft smile. “Actually, I know just the person who’s going to help me.” 

-

When Johnny enters the bedroom, Simon is nowhere in sight. The light coming from beneath the ensuite door tells him all he needs to know. He raps his knuckles against the door and waits, unable to help the grin that stretches his mouth and the way his cock nudges at the fly of his denim. The door opens and a hand reaches out, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him in, pressing him back against the door with enough force to rattle the knob. 

“Hi love,” Johnny coos. “How was your run?” 

Simon kisses him, sucks on his full lower lips, licks into his open mouth like it is a cup he can drink his fill from. Johnny meets him with equal fervor, his hands falling to find Simon’s belt already undone, his cock already free and hard. It’s a warm, familiar weight in his palm as he strokes his lover and thumbs at the leaking head. 

“Not—not being subtle at all,” Johnny warns him. 

Simon just grunts in between kisses. 

“What, can you taste her on me?” Johnny teases. 

Simon groans and buries his face in the crook of Johnny’s neck where you had buried your own. He presses his mouth to every mark you left behind, teases your teeth marks with his own, hips thrusting into the tight fist of Johnny’s hand. 

“You’re not subtle either,” Simon grits out, palms placed flat on the oak door, pinning Johnny in place. “She’s going to catch on that you’re trying to play matchmaker.” 

“I’m not aiming for subtle,” Johnny breathes. He presses Simon back with a palm against his chest and drops to his knees, even as Simon’s eyes tighten with disapproval, knowing Johnny can’t remain in the position long. Johnny just grins, easy and lighter than he’s felt in weeks. “I’ve got about five minutes before my leg starts killin’ me…think you can cum before then?” 

“I think that depends on how good your mouth treats me,” Simon says. 

“I’d better get to work then, hadn’t I?”

[linedbycaro]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝟑𝟎𝐭𝐡 - 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐄𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝚸𝐭. 𝟏 (𝚸𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢)

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐨 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞—𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧! 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝, 𝐈’𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐟𝐮����!

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐦, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐃𝐍𝐈!!!

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.9𝐤

It's a day normal as ever. Beautiful, even. 

The late afternoon sun spills onto the freeway like gold honey, kissing every surface, painting the California hills amber. It's the kind of breathtaking sunshine that makes the world feel less impossible. The kind that makes music sound better, makes you mind traffic less.

Which is good, because Azzi is currently in a standstill. It's unusually early for rush hour traffic, but then again it's LA. On the 5. Typical. She should be more annoyed, but she is used to LA highways now. 

Her biggest complaint with the city's gridlock is its tendency to make her overthink. Or dwell. On her life, on what could have been. On what should have been. I mean, when you're sitting in a car with nothing but a view and an aux system that feels more like a therapist, it's actually pretty hard not to have an existential crisis. 

But no. Not today. Today is a good day, and she's determined to not let stupid traffic ruin it. It's a day that feels like a new chapter- like maybe her career-ending knee injury wasn't the end of the world. 

She's actually starting to enjoy life again- really enjoy it. Even without playing basketball. Even without the one person she thought she'd have forever. She's finally figuring out who she is without the two things that made up her identity for so long. 

Time has helped, yes, but it hasn't necessarily healed. It's just made space for other things. New things. Good things. Things like her very important appointment today. And God, She really, really just wants to be on time. 

Her phone pings beside her- it's a notification reminder. 

(20 minutes till) November 30th- 3:45 pm: INTERVIEW WITH SPORTS ILLUSTRATED!! DON'T BE LATE!!

Well, shit. Her ETA currently reads 3:57.

It's fine. Its fine its fine its fine its fine. She reaches down to text her manager to let the magazine know when- HONK. 

The cars in front of her are moving again. Slowly, but definitely moving. She drops her phone and presses the gas. 

About a mile ahead, she spots an ambulance on the left side of the road. Rail twisted and torn. A grey jeep totaled and unrecognizable, barely hanging off the side of the asphalt. Her gut drops a little, and she thinks, what a crazy, horrible accident. I guess that explains the traffic. Jesus. 

But then she pulls her eyes back to the road. Eyes forward. Focused. Just a freak accident that'll probably be on the news tomorrow.

Eventually, the traffic breaks. She makes it- barely, and the interview goes well- overwhelmingly so. She feels like the journalist really understands her. And for once she actually trusts that her story will be shared truthfully- raw and real and open and honest.

The world will finally hear from her for the first time in two years. For the first time since the accident. Since she basically disappeared off the planet.

When she went ghost, she hadn't just disappeared from the spotlight, left like she hadn't just won the WNBA MVP the season prior, she disappeared from her personal life too. 

At first It wasn't something she intended to do, it just happened. She stopped living. Stopped trying. Drew away. Pulled back. Shut down.

And people tried to reach out, honest to God, they really did. Over and over and over again. But Azzi didn't let them reach her. Truly reach her.

She'd be on the phone with Inez or out to eat with Caroline, and they'd talk, give her life updates, and Azzi listened. She really did. But when it became her time to talk, she just didn't. She felt like she didn't have anything interesting going on. Anything to add. Anything to share. Truthfully, she just felt empty. Like her life was void. She felt like she didn't relate to anyone, didn't want to burden anyone, and didn't want anyone to see how hopelessly, deeply, and desperately she was struggling. 

So slowly, the phone calls got shorter. Dinners became less frequent. Paige held on the longest, because, of course, she had. But then she let go too. 

Throughout the beginning of Azzi's recovery process, Paige had been right there, by her side, helping her through it like she had all the other times, regardless of Azzi's emotional distance. 

But when the doctors told Azzi she wouldn't be able to play on it again and that her knee had given out one final time, Azzi lost it. She began to resent Paige. Beautiful Paige, who had just won the WNBA championship, and instead of celebrating with her team, had flown to Azzi the minute the game was over. To help her. To be with her. Azzi hated herself for it.

She remembers that night vividly- Paige walking in with her duffle slung over one shoulder, confetti still shedding off her sweatsuit, a takeout bag in hand. And with one look at her, Azzi crumbled. Sobbed. Stupidly. Uncontrollably. Angrily. Because she was tired. Oh, she was so tired. And she was sick to her stomach that Paige cared so much.

She couldn't accept that type of devotion, that frustratingly persistent love. It felt too big. Too undeserved. Azzi couldn't even be properly happy for her girlfriend, who had just won the championship. And that made her hate herself even more.

So she snapped. Yelled. Spouted awful words she never should have said at the one person who deserved it least out of everyone in the world. Words that cut deep. Violent. Words that she didn't mean, not deep down, but words that she felt. Undeserved. Unwarranted. Vicious, all the same.

That awful night Paige finally understood that Azzi didn't want her help. Didn't want her to be there. Azzi remembers how Paige swallowed thickly, eyes threatening to spill with tears.

She looked so Hurt. Irrevocably hurt. And exhausted too. Like she was done fighting this battle alone. Done fighting for Azzi's life. She remembers how Paige whispered a hoarse "okay" and turned and left, door shutting softly behind her. 

And this time, Azzi was truly alone.

The months that followed consisted of days spent in bed. Laying in the dark, shades half drawn, hair unwashed, unbrushed, unshowered. Not eating. Skipping recovery appointments. Because what did it matter anyways? 

She watched the world from her phone screen. Saw that Paige signed with The Sparks and left the Wings. And her heart thumped, both hopeful and sour at the thought that Paige was coming to her city on her team. But then she remembered it didn't matter. She was no longer a part of that world, and being in the same city wouldn't change Paige's silence. Azzi didn't blame her.

And they never spoke again. Unless well- Unless you count that one time six months after Paige had left Azzi in her apartment.

Things had gotten low. Low low. And that night, Azzi had had a lot to drink- which wasn't new for her- but it had been more than usual.

And there she was, slouched on the floor of her bathroom, bottle tipped over and broken beside her, pooling onto the tile. The stench of alcohol reeked around her, and she remembers the cool feel of metal in her hand, pressing into her wrist. Sharp. Controlled. Comforting.

She remembers watching the red liquid trickle to the floor, bright and sticky, staining the puddle of liquor beneath her- now a mix of alcohol and blood and tears. And no one was coming to save her. Everyone had given up on her, and she really didn't matter to anyone.

And then she remembers, maybe less clearly, how deeply she didn't want to be alive. How she stumbled up the steps to her building's balcony, alcohol still thundering in her blood. How she climbed up on the ledge. Stared out. Looked down. Standing.

And she was terrified. Terrified with how easy it was. Terrified with how much she wanted to. Terrified with how much she didn't.

She didn't get down. She didn't step off the ledge, but she did call someone. The one person still pinned in her contacts. The person who she knew, deep down, would always pick up on the second ring. The one person that maybe, just maybe, she still mattered too.

"Paige," She had said shakily. "I'm scared." Her voice was barely a whisper, frantic.

The minute Paige heard Azzi's broken tone, she demanded, voice laced with concern, "Az, where are you? Tell me right now. Okay?" And Azzi told her. 

And when she finished, Paige pleaded, voice cracked and brimming with worry, "Just stay on the phone with me, K? Stay on the phone. Don't leave me. Don't leave. I'm coming. Stay with me now. Please. I'm on my way. Stay on the phone, and don't hang up."

Azzi could hear Paige was crying then too. And Paige couldn't see her, but Azzi nodded back furiously, her voice like a lifeline keeping her grounded. Keeping her here.

The rest of it was kind of a blur. But she does remember Paige's panicked eyes. She remembers strong arms tugging her down from the ledge, wrapping around her, not letting go. Holding her. Just holding her for the longest time, her familiar scent washing away Azzi's fears- and momentarily, her pain too. Azzi wept into her shoulder, yielding to Paige's strength, her steadiness, her safety.

She remembers sure hands peeling off week-old clothes, helping her into the shower- walking in with her fully clothed, scrubbing her scalp, rubbing soap in gentle motions down her limbs.  

She remembers blonde hair pulled back in that bun, bent over, cleaning her wounds. Tender fingers wiping her eyes, lifting water to her lips. 

She remembers falling asleep with Paige rubbing circles on her back, whispering, "It's okay, it's all gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay I promise. I promise."

And then she remembers waking up alone, wondering if she'd imagined it all. If it had been just a bad dream. 

But then there was a handwritten note on her bedside. 

I've never been more terrified in my life. Thank you for calling me. I'm so fucking glad you called me. I never want you to feel like that again. I never could have imagined it would get this bad, but I should have seen it coming. I should never have given up on you. I'm so sorry. That was so scary, and I really want you to get better. There's a car coming to pick you up at 1:00. I think you should get some help and some treatment. Then let's talk. I love you. Always. Unconditionally.

P

So she got into the car. She went to rehab. She got better. Started therapy. And her life improved. Moved forward. Slowly. There were some bad days, of course, and her progress wasn't linear, but it was steady.

And here she is, on the other side of it, ready to tell her story. Ready to re-enter the world. Ready to help others.

Except she never called Paige. To thank her. Not that she couldn't have, not that she was embarrassed. But what would she even say? Two words would never cover it.

And time passed. Her life changed. It's not like Paige ever reached out, either. Azzi always thought Paige assumed she wanted space; or maybe that night was too emotionally taxing for her, and Paige needed a boundary.

The last thing Azzi wants to do is hurt Paige more or take advantage of her kindness. Sure it stings, but Azzi is eternally grateful for Paige- even if her help that night didn't result in her coming back into her life. Regardless, she is certain they have mutual understanding- An invisible tether that says, as long as I know you are out there, somewhere in this universe, on the same planet I'm on, I'm okay, and I'm here for you. Even if we don't talk anymore.

Azzi's heart tugs at the memories- her love for Paige that hasn't dwindled. She is certain she's ready to move on and focus on the current. But she is also certain she will never love anyone the way she loves Paige. And now that she has grown- healed, she wishes she could let Paige know how sorry she is.

But more than anything, she wants to see Paige thrive. She wants to see her happy. And from afar, it looks like she has been doing really well. And it would be selfish of Azzi to take that away from her in the name of some self-beneficial closure. And Azzi has to be okay with that.

She's just grateful for the opportunities she still has- for the people she has been able to reconnect with. People who have welcomed her back with grace and understanding and love. And she feels fulfilled now, too.

She's excited to launch her new nonprofit: helping women navigate athletic setbacks, vocalizing the importance of mental health, and funding a research initiative exploring the link between female athletes and ACL injuries. She's also coaching a local middle school rec team for fun. She's motivated. And proud. And filled with purpose.

She sighs, happy with how the day has gone. She's done reflecting on her past for the night and is ready to top her night off with a book and some ice cream.

And then her phone rings. It's late. Really late for a phone call. But that's not what catches her off guard.

It's the fact that Azzi's phone is on Do Not Disturb, and there is only one contact in her phone that still bypasses thre setting. Her heart drops.  

No, she thinks. It can't be. It's probably a fluke. It's probably just Caroline calling to ask how the interview went. 

But when she picks up her phone up off the couch, and her screen lights up with the familiar "P 🤍" Facetime, her throat goes dry.

It's like her body knows before her brain does, because her thumb swipes' answer' before she can even mentally processes anything. Because her soul knows, innately, that no matter the distance or the time that has passed between them, she will always pick up. 

The screen loads for a minute, and then it connects. And-

"Oh my god, Paige!"

The words tumble out of Azzi's mouth with a guttural yelp when she sees the blonde on the other side of the screen. Bruised. Bloodied. Hair loosely tied back. Eyes tired. Face pale. In a medical gown. Propped up in what must be a hospital bed.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Azzi is going to be sick. Her blood is pounding, and suddenly, she can't breathe properly.

"Az," Comes the croaky voice- distinctly Paigie's. Azzi doesn't answer. Just stares at the screen blankly. Terrified. Her ears are ringing.

"Azzi," Paige tries again, slightly louder this time. That snaps her to attention.

"P, are you? Are you okay- what happened?" Azzi asks, slightly breathless. "Tell me you're gonna be okay."

"Azzi," Paige sighs her name like an answered prayer. 

"Hi," Azzi says softly, "Hi, I'm here." She gives the blonde a weak smile. "Can you hear me?"

"You're here." Paige breathes out, relieved. "You're here."

"I'm here," Azzi repeats, voice wobbly. "Can you tell me what happened? Is someone with you right now?"

"I- I was in an accident I think. I don't remember." Paige says, quiet. "I woke up in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. They said- they it was an accident, but I just don't remember."

"Thank God you're alive," Azzi replies, voice barely above a whisper, suddenly understanding how Paige must have felt that night, how terrified she must have been getting Azzi's call, scared that she going to lose her.

"I'm so scared Az." 

"I know, but it's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay, P." Azzi tries to make her voice sound reassuring, but truthfully, she is petrified. Petrified with how easily Paige could've died. Petrified with how much it's shaken her. How much she's realized that she doesn't want to imagine a world without Paige in it. Without hearing her voice. Seeing her face. Needing to know she's okay at any given moment.

"I'm glad- I'm glad you called. I'm glad to hear your voice- to know you're okay," Azzi says after a minute.

"Yeah?" Paige smiles weakly. "Me too." And then, "You look pretty, Az. You look like you're doin' better." 

"I'm sorry I never called," Azzi's voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Thank you."

And the thank you lingers because they know it's for more than Paige's compliment. 

Then Azzi says, "You look good too P. You look so pretty." And it's true. Azzi has never seen Paige look more beautiful than now, bruised and all. Alive.

Azzi sees Paige is quiet then, drifting, on the other side of the screen. And then she whispers, "Azzi, just stay on the phone with me a little, okay?"

"Okay, P. Of course. Do you want me to- do you want me to come to the hospital?" Azzi feels a bit guilty now, knowing that if it was the other way around, Paige would already be on her way.

"No, s'fine," came the reply. "I think I'm gonna sleep now anyway. I just- I just needed to hear your voice. to See you."

"Okay," Azzi says comfortingly. "I'll be here. I'm not goin anywhere."

"And call tomorrow too," Paige says like Azzi is fleeting. "When I'm better."

"I'll call P. I promise. You sleep now, I'm watching." And then, because it feels right, she adds, "I love you." 

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart: Chapter 57 (Human Alastor x Widowed Reader)

CW: Blood, smut AN: Upcoming bonus chapter Wednesday for MisD's birthday! We're $5 toward the next bonus chapter! Prev__ Welcome Post__ AO3__ KoFi Want a bonus chapter on Wednesday? Unlock it via KoFi updates! More information here

Alastor held you to him as both of your bodies shook, coming down together from the highs of pleasure. Looking up at him, you couldn’t get past how handsome he was or the feeling of being so truly his. You’d given everything to him now. There wasn’t anything he hadn’t claimed. 

Inside you, his cock softened slowly as he held you.

Finally, you had laid with him as a woman lays with her husband. Alastor had given you everything he had to give, including his seed and your freedom.

“What do we do now?” Your fingers trembled as you reached out, scared to touch the blood drying on his face. “Oh, my god. Alastor, I- I killed him.” 

“Yes,” Alastor’s hand wrapped around yours, pressing your palm against his cheek. “We killed him. You’re free now.” 

Panic flooded through you, giving you a whole new reason to tremble in his arms. You were a murderess. Alastor, he was alright, but what would he think when it set in for him? Through the panic, every time you closed your eyes, you saw his hand over yours, helping you hold the blade steady. 

You had to trust in him.

“First, we need to wash this blood off us and burn our clothes. Then we’ll figure out the rest of it.” 

Your legs were numb as you stood, looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Water roared as it filled the tub. The bright electric lights only made the drying blood on your skin, soaked into your dress, stand out more. 

Nausea rolled through you in waves as you looked down at your hands. Blood stained your wedding ring, just like seemingly every part of you. The back of your dress stuck to you, glued in place by drying blood. 

“Cher?” Alastor’s voice cut through the fog in your mind. 

You turned mechanically to see him unbuttoning his shirt. The brown was dark, stained with your husband’s blood in places. Blood smeared down his neck and onto his chest from where it had run down from his face. 

It was your husband’s blood that coated his hands as he worked his belt free. His pants fell to the ground as your eyes examined him unashamedly, taking in every dip of muscle. Bright red marks on his ribs told you where he had taken blows. Those marks would likely deepen into dark bruises that would be tender for days. 

Alastor hummed a soft tune as he walked over to you. The musical sound of his voice wrapped around you as his nimble fingers worked the buttons down your dress. Your stomach rolled as he peeled the bloody fabric off your skin, leaving you standing in front of him in your slip. 

With a simple brush of his fingers, that layer of fabric, too, should have fallen to the ground. Instead, like your dress, the drying blood that coated your back held it in place. It didn’t seem to bother Alastor in the slightest as he tugged the fabric off your body.

“You’re bleeding,” Alastor knelt as he guided your panties down your legs. You hadn’t noticed that some of the blood you wore was not Laurence’s. “If- I didn’t want to hurt you. You should have-” 

“No,” you leaned into his chest as he stood up, pressing your bare front into him as you wrapped your arms around his back. “You didn’t, not really. I wanted it. I wanted you to.” 

“You’re not supposed to bleed.” Alastor’s cheek rested against your head. “You should never bleed.” 

“I nearly always do,” you tried to brush it off. 

“It’s because he hurt you,” Alastor cupped your jaw and forced you to look up at him. “It won’t be that way with me.”

“Can we be together now? Really?” You couldn’t keep the fear from your voice. “Alastor we-” 

He shushed you while walking toward the bath with you tucked in his arms. “First, we wash the blood off, then we figure out how we’re getting out of this together.” 

“I should let you,” you tried to step back as Alastor stepped into the steaming bath. 

“Join me,” he finished for you. 

“Alastor, it’s-” you spoke as you stepped into the water in direct contrast to your protests. 

“Indecent?” Alastor chuckled, “less so for a widowed woman.” 

You offered no protests as he sank into the water, guiding you to rest in his arms. Red ribbons lifted from your hands as you moved them to rest on his chest. The water soaked into your skin, pulling up the evidence of your greatest sin. You couldn’t pull your eyes from the sight. 

“Close your yes,” Alastor’s voice was soft, floating into your ears through the steam. “Don’t look at it.” 

“I’m going to go to hell,” you whimpered. “Alastor, we-” 

His hand, hot and wet from the bath, tilted your chin up so that his lips could capture yours in a soft kiss. Your eyes closed with a flutter of lashes. A soft sigh slipped from between your parted lips as he pulled away. 

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice naked and thick with accent. “Just like that, darlin’. Stay just like that.” 

Alastor’s hands ran over your arm, caressing down until he threaded his fingers through yours. It took a bit for you to realize what he was doing as he worked his fingers around yours. While you sat, eyes closed, body pressed against his, he washed the blood from your hands. 

You turned, reading the pressure of his hands to straddle his lap. The hard tub bit into your knees. Warm hands ran up and down your back, splashing warm water up onto the blood that dried there.

“Lean back,” Alastor said, “I’ll hold you.” 

“What?” Your eyes fluttered open, eyes focusing on Alastor’s face. He had washed the blood from his face before the tub filled, but it still matted his hair into dark clumps.

“I was going to wash your hair for you.” 

You leaned forward intead. Pink water ran from your arms as you cupped water in your hands, carrying it up to Alastor’s head. He leaned his head back, fingers gripping your hips as he scooted down the tub, folding his legs more to allow him room to sink down. 

“Me first,” you said, as if he wasn’t already making room for you to work. 

He leaned his head back and sighed as you ran your fingers through his curls. You tried to tell yourself it was something else you were washing from his hair. More red ribbons spread out around his head, mixing into the pink bloodstained water. 

You continued to work your fingers through his hair, carefully splashing water up to work through all of his hair. His hands ran along your thighs and up your sides, taking in the feeling of you while you worked your fingers over his scalp. 

When was the last time anyone had washed his hair? It wasn’t something he allowed just anyone to do. Before you, it was just Mimzi he’d allowed to see his hair naturally. It took a few moments of thinking before Alastor realized the last person to wash his hair for him was, in fact, his mother. 

“There,” you whispered, realizing the fact that you were naked in the bath atop Alastor as his eyes slowly opened, locking on yours. “As clean as it’s going to get in this water.” 

“Your turn.” Alastor held you to him as he sat up. Water ran from his curls, dripping into the pink water. 

His large hand rested between your shoulder blades as he guided you to lean back. Your core pressed against him, sliding against his hips and pressing into his lower abdomen. Each passing minute had you more aware of his body moving against yours than you were of his hands running through your hair, spreading the strands out behind you in the water. 

A warm floral smell wrapped around you as he worked the liquid soap through your hair. He took his time working the lather through each strand, spending far longer than you would on the task. You didn’t mind. The oils from the plants in it worked hard to dampen the coppery tinge that lingered in the air. 

He watched the bloody water surround your body as the bubby suds floated away from you. It felt like he was living in his ideal world, you in his arms, with the lovely smell of blood and flowers hanging in the air. You were the most beautiful thing, surrounded in the bloody water, held in his arms, trusting him with your life. 

Under you, his cock twitched, stiffening with every beat of his mesmerized heart. When his hardening cock pressed intently up against the soft curve of your ass, his body was once again awakening with need. 

You gasped as he pressed up against you. Alastor’s lips descended on your neck. Soft kisses ran down your skin before he licked up your neck, tasting you. His muscles flexed as he moved, holding you tight while you ran your fingers over his chest. 

His name was a soft sigh on your lips as he caressed away the memory of your husband’s touch. When Alastor had washed away the memory of Laurence’s hands on your skin, you leaned into him. 

He accepted your kiss eagerly, matching your hunger as you rose off his lap slightly. Under you, his cock stood, no longer pinned down by your body. 

“Cher,” Alastor had to clear his throat before he could make any sound come out of his mouth. “Your body is healing. I don’t-” 

You moaned softly as you nestled yourself over his cock, the head of him pressing against your opening. He had made you feel so good and you craved that feeling again. 

“You need to heal.” Alastor’s voice was soft. It took much restraint to not allow his desire to seep into it. “There will be plenty of time-” 

Your velvety heat enveloped him, choking off his words as you sank lower down his shaft. His back arched and his head fell back, thumping against the tub as you nestled into his lap. 

It would be a lie to say there was no pain. Alastor was far more of a man than your husband had been in more ways than one. He stretched the healing tissue around him, pulling open the small rips Laurence left inside you before they had enough time to do much more than clot. 

You didn’t have to give your body to Alastor a second time. You didn’t have to give your body to anyone ever again. No one would ever hurt you again. Everything, at least for the moment, was your choice again. 

And your choice was to have him seated, hard and stiff inside you. 

Never had you imagined that a man could take a woman without having her under him. The very idea that you could give yourself to Alastor while in the man’s place was ludicrous and yet your back arched as he filled you from below. 

“Oh, Alastor.” You sighed as your body nestled down against his. He stretched you painfully. It was a pain you chouse, though. It was a pain you wanted. 

“Yes?” His hands gripped your hips. He had his eyes locked on you as you once again surrounded him in your heat. 

“It feels good.” Your hips rocked, testing the sensation. 

“What does?” He guided your hips up, encouraging you to lift on your knees before leading you to sink down his shaft again. 

“You,” your head fell back as you let him lead you. “Having you inside me. Being with you like this. Being with you at all.” 

It would have been a lie if Alastor told anyone that he didn’t want you at that moment. You moved in water stained with Laurence’s blood. He was taking you, being taken by you in a sea of pink. Each time you sank on him, the water splashed up. Pink water drops ran down your chest, hanging from the pebbled bud of your nipple. 

“You’re beautiful like this.” Alastor couldn’t take his eyes off you as you clumsily rode him. Your lips parted in gasping breaths each time he filled you. Fresh blood, though slight, spilled into the water from where your bodies joined. 

“Does it feel good to take your pleasure?” Alastor ran his hands, warm and wet, up your sides. “To use instead of being used?” 

“I’m sorry.” You curled into him, tucking yourself into his chest as shame washed over you. It wasn’t enough to stop the steady rise and fall of your hips. Water splashed and surged with your movements. “I’m so sorry,” 

“Cher,” Alastor pulled your face up as his other hand forced itself into the tight space between your bodies, seeking the nub of pleasure you ground into him each time you forced your protesting body down on his long cock. “I am for you to use. My pleasure is yours to take.” 

“Ah,” you cried out as he stroked the nerves. 

Each time you rose along his shaft, his hand followed. Pleasure built as you worked yourself onto him. Your fingers dug into his chest, nails scratching over his nipple as you tried to grip whatever was under hand as that breaking point only Alastor could take you to approached. 

The sharp sting of your nail over his nipple sent a shiver down his spine. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub, splashing onto the ground as he thrust up into you. 

“Cher,” Alastor said as his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you to him tighter. 

“Alastor,” you sighed into his neck as the pink sea of water in the tub surged around you with each thrust onto him. 

You were so close to shattering atop him. Tears gathered in your eyes as you chased the feeling, just out of reach. You wanted that explosion of pleasure that only Alastor could give you. There was only so much of the magical feeling that came with being with Alastor you could seem to muster up in the cramped tub. 

“Hold on to me,” Alastor said, fingers carding through your hair. 

He leaned forward. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, though you did not stop moving, chasing what was just out of reach. He guided your legs to wrap around his waist, stifling your movements in his lap. 

It took a few awkward moments before he reversed the roles and you were plunged into the cooling pink water. He braced an arm on the tub behind you, keeping your body from hitting the hard surface while his other arm swept behind your back. He held you steady as he thrust into you. 

Water surged and splashed as he pushed forward, giving you everything you struggled to give yourself. While you enjoyed the power you felt while being atop such a strong and powerful man, having him atop you stole the breath from your lungs. 

He held you in place just so, allowing himself to stimulate all of you with every deep thrust into your tight, sore body. You clung to him as the pleasure washed over you. Pulling back, he shifted his grip on you, giving you a chance to see the wide smile stretched on his handsome face. 

The smile unnerved you, though he didn’t give you long to dwell on it. He tucked you against his shoulder and moved with renewed energy. Water sloshed and surged as your fingers dug into his back, feeling the muscles work under his skin and the water drying until you were clutching him with all of your body. 

Your core fluttered as muscles spasmed. His name was a prayer of thanks and a blessing on your lips. Alastor showed you for the second time that day the pleasure of laying with a man you loved, who loved you. This was the world kept hidden from you, stolen from you. This was what you could have an unending supply of now that…

Alastor pulled you from the water as your body relaxed around him. He was still hard inside you as he stood, stepping out of the cooling pink water. You told yourself the water was pink from the soaps or the oils. That was why. It wasn’t… you didn’t just… in… 

“Cher.” Alastor’s voice stole your attention only for his lips to steal your thoughts. He kissed you with a hunger that ripped the breath from your lungs. Cold pebbled your nipples, brushing against the hard buds of his as he carried your wet, naked body through the hall. 

It was indecent. The sunlight flittered into the hall from the bedroom window. What you were doing, laying with Alastor as you were- these were things one does in the night or the early morning. This was not what a respectable woman did in the middle of the day.

Your back pressed against the wall, supporting your weight as Alastor adjusted his grip. He took the chance to thrust into you, taking you against the wall for a few moments. It wasn’t something you had realized was possible, but it had you wanting more of him. 

“Darlin’,” Alastor gasped out, his cock twitching hard as he seated himself fulling inside of you. “Baby. You’re warm. So wet for me.” 

“That’s what happens when you take a bath. You get wet.” You tried to put a sly smile on your lips, losing it the moment he plunged back into you. 

Alastor chuckled, face hidden in the crook of your neck. “Oh, this is a very different water soaking me.” 

You moaned as he pulled you from the wall, your weight settling heavier on the cock within you. The pain of him spreading your sore and healing walls was nearly forgotten now, replaced with a consuming need for more of him. 

He carried you easily, shifting your weight to bounce slightly on his twitching cock with every step he took. He bent, placing your back on the soft bedspread that you hated for so many years. Your hands ran over his shoulders, slipping down to caress his chest as he thrust into you one last time before stepping away. 

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[felassan]

Mark Darrah video: 'Dragon Age: The Veilguard Has Shipped. Now What?? #/masseffect'

Video description:

"Dragon Age: The Veilguard has shipped. What happens at BioWare now? BioWare structurally finds itself in uncharted territory as it only has a single Project (Mass Effect) active. Chapters: 0:00 Veilguard is out, now what? 0:22 BioWare Structure and History 1:57 Growth 4:45 Consumption 6:28 Sustain 7:27 Contraction 11:14 Leadership Discontinuity 1 12:48 Leadership Discontinuity 2 14:14 One Project At A Time 16:33 Mass Effect 18:50 Will The People Be There? 22:18 FOCUS"

[source]

Key notes from the vid and the comments underneath:

"Up front I should say that I have every confidence that Mass Effect [5] is in fact being worked on and that that project is going to receive all of the support from EA that it might need."

Slowly and painfully BioWare is figuring out that it simply can't do more than one project at a time anymore. It's now a single-project studio. Mark Darrah expects that both Edmonton and Austin will be working on ME5 together

ME5 effectively paused production for 15 months in order to help DA:TV ship

Right now other than some DA:TV clean up/final patches, everyone at BW is working on ME5

However ME5 isn't yet ready to suddenly have a team of 250-300 people working on it, so while some DA:TV devs moved onto it, some DA:TV devs were moved to/are moving to other parts of EA instead. The ME5 team started, but there is a long way between "start" and "ready to scale" up

The ME5 team is figuring out what ME5 is going to be & its structure, then will get ready to ramp up to a much bigger team size

"BW, for the first time really ever, is able to singularly focus on a single project, is able to put everything it has towards a single goal, which is making the best ME it possibly can."

But it remains to be seen whether BW will be able to get its people back when it needs them and is ready for them. There are a few reasons why this might prove difficult. Alternatively, on the flipside, this degree of focus might be exactly what BW needs to move it into the next phase of its life. "Maybe EA is going to prove to be incredibly effective at moving people around and when ME5 looks to start to grow maybe there will be no troubles".

We will probably have hints of what's going on [with ME5] within the next two years. "I have high hopes for ME. I think that once they figure out staffing, BW being focused on one game at a time is probably great for the studio" (though there may be growing pains to get there)

Does Mark Darrah foresee similar issues in the ME5 dev cycle to what DA:TV had? No, because ME5 hasn't had the same two big directional shifts, and it has had no leadership discontinuity (ME5 paused when they went to help DA:TV i.e. it didn't continue without a leader). But we should only really start counting ME5's dev cycle from today. "It really hasn't been that long with a significant team"

The ME5 teases in recent N7 Days were made by a "very small team"

There are still lots of veterans at BW

Mark Darrah doesn't expect to be involved in what BW makes next

More under cut due to length.

BW has existed in different ways/structures through its history. We're currently entering into an "unprecedented time" for BW

The purchase of BW by Elevation Partners, the purchase of BW by EA, when Ray Muzyka & Greg Zeschuk left BW, and the year 2017 in general are the 4 most important events (not including shipping games) that Mark Darrah feels have affected BW the most in its history

BW's strategy over time could be seen as having had 4 different phases: grow, consume, sustain, contract. In the contract phase, though BW maybe didn't realize it yet, the number of projects it was capable of running simultaneously was decreasing slowly/gradually. Why? Projects were getting more expensive, requiring more people/resources/time, and by this point BW had essentially burned off all its 'reserves' from the growth phase i.e. there was no longer any fat left to burn off

After DA:I shipped, Mark Darrah experienced that it was very difficult to find resources if your project wasn't the next project that was due out the door

DLC is a safety valve for processes and staff; a place for devs to work when other projects aren't quite ready for them yet; a place for the next gen of leaders to be grown. These things disappear as DLC does. Mark Darrah is pretty sure that the move away from DLC is coming from EA

In the contract phase, in 2013-14 Anthem was starved out by DA & ME:A. ME:A was also somewhat starved out by DA. Then when ME:A was in the driver's seat, it consumed most of the resources

In late 2016/early 2017 during the push to ship ME:A, as part of that BW began to experience leadership discontinuity. As the DA leader, Mark Darrah led a team of DA people onto ME:A to help it ship (the Dragon Age Finaling Team) for a few months. this sort of thing had happened at BW before but this was the first time when senior leadership moved off the projects they led to do this. this caused a change in philosophy in terms of the way that projects were run

When ME:A shipped and Casey Hudson came back to lead BW, there was then a much much larger leadership discontinuity with Anthem. The Montreal studio was supposed to move over onto Joplin to help kickstart it but it ended up getting taken away and given to the leadership in Montreal. but even if this had happened as it was supposed to, BW may not have been able to be in a place where it was going to be able to ship Anthem and Joplin simultaneously

Three quarters of the senior leadership on Joplin moved to Anthem or left BW. DA continued and became Morrison. The discontinuity had massive consequences for DA4

In 2021/22, this happened again in the opposite direction. The leadership team moved onto DA to help it ship, though rather than leaving some of the team in place, everyone moved. The other project (next Mass Effect) effectively ceased to exist for 15 months in order to help DA4 ship. In 2023 for the first time since 1995 BW was only working on 1 project (DA:TV) & there was nobody working on ME5 or remasters or side projects at that time. Now that DA:TV has shipped, apart from some people on cleanup and final patches, there is no plans for DA:TV DLC and "there is only Mass Effect". "Everyone at BW will be working on Mass Effect."

DA:TV being a 'direct sequel' would have been an unlikely path

With BW now focusing on a single project, Mark Darrah does worry that EA will get "itchy"

It'll be a [long] while to DA5 [hypothetically speaking, if it gets made]

MELE involved a lot of external devs

Shadow Realms was BioWare Austin and was due to: "partially places for people, partially a desire for Austin to get something new."

Mark Darrah expects that the devs are hearing everything being said about DA:TV

BW focuses more on consoles because of sales numbers

Unreal Engine 5 (which ME5 is on) is moving onto other EA projects as well, which may help

There are reasons why DA:TV is the way it is

BW has had external consultants on leadership and structure over the years

Mark Darrah expects that the next Dragon Age will once again be pretty different to the last iteration

BW Austin were brought in to help make Anthem. "What didn't happen (that should have) is that they should have had more directional control over the live service direction."

BW has had difficulty learning from previous games because at least one title was too far along TO learn. but a single game leads to staffing issues

Mark Darrah pitched a dev structure back in 2016/17 which would have had "3 fast follow games then a period of retooling"

EA doesn't really sell IPs

Chance of DA:TV DLC? "That's an EA question. And I expect EA's answer to be no". "I don't think we will see DLC. A new DA would be in the future."

"DA has been looking for larger audiences in every iteration. EA has never understood the franchise"

Remake DA:O or ME1? "While I think it would do well, I don't expect it to happen at any time soon. Also the skillsets required don't really over lap"

"The 3 previous games DAVe was are leaking through in places"

Diagram from the video which shows the flow of people throughout BW's history, made by a member of Mark Darrah's community.

[source]

[differentpostrebel]

Master List! 

A/N: Hi everyone! Here is the masterlist for my work. I will also be uploading them onto AO3. A little bit about me is that I love to write, read, watch anime, and more!. I am 27 years old, and writing has just been my way to get either a message out there or to tell a story. Some stories will have bonus chapters so that we can dive in some more on details that may not have been featured on the main series. Each one will say a bonus chapter on them. I will also write:  Short series,  Long Series,  One shots.  Some of the chapters may contain strong language, violence, smut, etc. Listed below are the works I have done and the new ones that will be worked on once I completed the series or works done.  Lost and Found: A Pirate’s Promise- Sanji x Y/N, One piece x Reader- (On going) Synopsis: 

Y/N is an established pirate and a formidable warrior, with the third highest bounty in the Straw Hat crew. She's not just another member; her strength and skills have earned her a respected spot among the crew. Sanji, our favorite lovesick cook, falls head over heels for Y/N almost immediately. True to his nature, he tries every trick in the book to catch her attention, from cooking her favorite meals to showering her with compliments. On the other hand, Y/N may have a small crush on Sanji, but she’s cautious and focused on her goals as a pirate. As the story progresses, that small crush gradually blossoms into something more profound, but their journey together won't be easy. With the chaos of the New World looming, the dangers they face will test their bond and loyalty to each other. Will their love be strong enough to survive the trials ahead, or will the perils of their pirate life tear them apart?

Chapter 1,

Chapter 2,

Chapter 3,

Chapter 4,

Chapter 5,

Chapter 6,

Chapter 7,

Chapter 8,

Chapter 9,

Chapter 10,

Chapter 11,

Chapter 12,

Chapter 13,

Chapter 14,

Chapter 15,

Chapter 16,

Chapter 17,

Chapter 18,

Chapter 19,

Chapter 20,

Chapter 21,

Chapter 22,

Chapter 23,

Chapter 24,

Chapter 25,

Chapter 26,

Chapter 27,

Chapter 28,

Chapter 29,

Chapter 30,

Chapter 31,

Chapter 32,

Chapter 33,

Chapter 34,

Chapter 35,

Chapter 36

Chapter 37,

Chapter 38 ,

Chapter 39 ,

Chapter 40 ,

Chapter 41

Chapter 41.5 (Bonus Chapter) ,

Chapter 42 ,

Chapter 43

Chapter 44 ,

Chapter 45 ,

Chapter 46 ,

Chapter 47 ,

Chapter 48 Part 1 ,

Chapter 48 Part 2,

Chapter 49 Part 1 ,

Chapter 49 Part 2 ,

Chapter 50 ,

Chapter 51 ,

Chapter 52

Chapter 53 part 1

Chapter 53 Part 2

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60 part 2

Chapter 61 part 1 , part 2, part 3(new)

Queen of the Night-Halloween special ft Sanji and Usopp

Die with a Smile - Portgas D. Ace x Y/N- Synopsis: Y/N, the determined daughter of Fleet Admiral Sakazuki, and Ace, the free-spirited son of Gol D. Roger, have always been bound by their legacies. After going their separate ways to pursue their own pirate dreams, they find themselves crossing paths once again. As they face off against the dangers of the Grand Line, old wounds resurface, and the sparks between them become impossible to ignore. With freedom and their futures on the line, can they overcome their pasts and the expectations that threaten to pull them apart?

Chapter 1: Beginnings

Chapter 2: Taste

Chapter 3: Changes

Chapter 4: Dreamin

Chapter 5: We meet again

Chapter 6: Coming soon

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

The Sweetest Sanguine, Prologue

Vampire!Arthur Morgan x Modern!Female Reader.

Summary: As a bartender putting yourself through grad school, you never thought your life would get more exciting in the college town of Rhodes...until you meet a certain man of the...undead variety. Word Count: 1,637 Warnings: Mature themes such as cursing, violence, blood, and smut. A/N: Here's the beginning of the revamped Vampire!Arthur series. I'm very excited to get this one off the ground! | Next Chapter >>

11:57 pm.

If there was one thing that you could say about Arthur Morgan, was that he was a romantic at heart. 

He held you in his arms, worshipping you, your body, your very soul. It was as if his entire world revolved around you, and only you. 

His lips caressed yours, devouring your mouth in a sensual kiss that left you breathless. His hands trapped you to his body, your soft curves molding to his hard angles. 

Your own hands explored every surface within your reach. His soft hair, his broad shoulders, the expanse of his back. Everything about him was...strength, power, a force of nature. Since you learned his secret, your better senses told you time and time again to run. 

But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Not when he treated you like a goddess. Not when everything about him was so alluring. 

You bit his bottom lip, dragging it slightly as you parted the kiss for a breath of air. Your hands were gripping the shirt he wore, tugging it off without hesitation. His blue eyes smoldered in the moonlight streaming into your bedroom window, a small smirk playing on his lips. 

“Eager, sweetheart?” he asked with a chuckle, his hand reaching to caress your cheek. 

A smile tugged at your mouth. “Maybe,” you responded, placing your hands on his chest and pushed him. 

Well, more like he gave to your pressure. He lay back onto the plush comforter and soft pillows, to which you straddled his hips. His cool hands rested along your bare thighs, gaze never leaving your face. 

Your one palm remained against his chest, above the still heart that hadn’t beat in over a century. Sliding it down, you could feel every ridge of muscle, marveling at how they flexed at your touch. His abdomen rose in a deep breath when you paused below his navel, just at the waistband of his jeans. 

He smoothed his hands against your thighs, thumbs swiping the warm inner skin, close to your heat. You bit your lip in anticipation, a flush crowding your cheeks as you unzipped his jeans. His arousal barely concealed by his clothing peeked through, just as those lingering hands of his skated underneath your shirt. 

The stark difference in temperature made you twitch in surprise, before the sudden feel of it melted into one of soothing pleasure when he gently squeezed your breasts. Your nipples budded between his fingers, the tips rolling against the peaked flesh. 

With minimal effort you freed him of his confines, his length standing ready and waiting. You wrapped your hand around him, pleasantly surprised by his girth. Slowly you stroked him from root to tip, earning a low groan from him. 

A smile formed as you continued, thoroughly enjoying the way his eyelids fluttered, and his breath hitched from your touch alone. The sight sparked a deeper heat in your core, unfurling and growing with need. And as if he read your mind, one hand skimmed back down your belly to between your legs, the thin fabric of your panties the only barrier between his thumb and your clit. 

He pressed against the sensitive bundle of nerves, causing your toes to curl and your grip on him to tighten. You sighed out his name, hips twitching in search of more friction. Seconds passed before his hand met your skin again, granting you the pleasure you needed. 

But the ache wouldn’t be satisfied by his fingers alone. You wanted him, needed him. And from the way his half-lidded stare met yours, the feeling was mutual. 

His lips parted, and in a split second the tips of elongated canines were noticeable. The sight made your heart skip a beat, stirring an instinct that told you to flee for safety. But you quelled it, knowing he would never hurt you on purpose. 

Gaze meeting yours, his ministrations slowed but didn’t stop. His expression softened as he sat up, removing his other hand from your shirt to cup your cheek again. “You nervous?” 

You stared at him for a split second, momentarily distracted by the pulses of pleasure still spreading through your body. His words made sense, he was, for all intents and purposes, a predator. You should be nervous, even he himself said it many times since your first encounter with him. 

But he’s been nothing but kind and gentle to you. Always asked if things were okay before proceeding with anything. To hold your hand, to touch, to kiss… 

And you wanted him from day one. 

“No,” you answered, although your heart rate picked up with the anticipation. Your free hand raised to his mouth, fingers gently grazing his fangs. He parted his lips further to allow you the exploration. The edges felt sharp, and if you pressed harder, you’d for sure puncture the skin. 

“I can hear your heart racin’,” he spoke quietly, reaching to gently grasp your wrist. “You don’t gotta do this.” 

“I want to,” you affirmed, twisting your hand along his length. You smiled as his head tilted back, face slack. “I won’t back down now.” 

Arthur breathed in deeply, leveling those gorgeous eyes with yours. “You tryna undo me?” 

You giggled softly. “Arthur, if I wanted to do that, I’d be on my knees and taking you in my mouth, sucking YOU dry.” 

His eyes flared at your words. “Not that I’d complain ‘bout that,” he groaned, the finder at your core sliding through your folds to find home in your entrance. The invasion was welcoming, and your muscles clenched. “God damn,” he breathed. “You’re…ready.” 

Another flush crept across your face, although there was no need to feel shy. He wanted this as much as you did, and you ground against his hand. “I am,” you moaned. “Don’t make me wait.” 

You could feel his hand spasm underneath you, and the desperation flitted across his face, before being replaced with a look of…what you could only describe as hunger. He moved his hand to your underwear, shoving it aside while his other hand pushed his jeans down further. He then guided you to hover over him, and then you sunk down, the head of his dick parting your inner walls until you were fully seated upon him. 

There was a moment of silence, you allowing to adjust to the fullness, and him…his fingers pressed hard in the flesh of your hips. Every muscle in his body was tense, as if ready to snap. But he waited for you, fixated on your face for any signs of unease or pain. 

But there was none. Once the initial stretch settled, your body waited for more. You rolled your hips, allowing every inch of him to caress you. And the moan he uttered…decadent. 

Your rhythm picked up, rolling and bucking against him slow and deep, the pleasure even more intense with each movement. A swear slid from his lips as he began to match your movement, a roaming hand once again disappearing under your shirt. Your arms wrapped around his neck for extra leverage while he toyed with your breasts. He leaned forward and placed open-mouthed kisses on your neck, the graze of his fangs against your heated skin caused you to jolt. The heady arousal and anxious anticipation mixed, and you moaned his name. 

Fingers curled into your hair when he moved to crush his lips to yours. It was sloppy, all tongue and teeth and heavy breaths. Even with those razor-sharp canines, he was careful to not puncture your tongue, even the thought of him sucking blood directly from your mouth sent a shiver down your spine. 

A cool finger danced across your clit, igniting you even further. You gasped into his mouth, arching your back against his solid torso. Every part of you was on fire, and an all too familiar sensation coiled deep in your belly. 

“Arthur,” you mewled. “I’m gonna cum!” 

He was relentless then, moving faster than what you thought was humanly possible, fiddling you like a well-practiced instrument while he thrust up. Within seconds you imploded in a wave of pure pleasure, and your cries were swallowed by his kisses. 

As you came down, he leaned forward, his weight pushing you down to the bed. Your legs wrapped around his waist to keep from separating. Somehow, he didn’t stop his hips from grinding against yours, though had slowed significantly when he caged you between his arms. 

Those eyes were gleaming in the moonlight with an expression of awe. He smiled down at you, reaching to caress your face. His features grew serious, even when he was still moving in and out of you. 

“Last chance to get outta this,” he murmured. “You sure?” 

You nodded, knowing he wasn’t talking about sex. 

He was silent for a moment. “I…ain’t gonna feed on anyone else then. You okay with that?” 

Again, you nodded. He’d explained this to you before, that in vampire and human relationships, the act of taking blood was exclusive between the two unless absolutely necessary. It was an intimate act, based on love and trust. And even if the concept scared you a little, you absolutely trusted Arthur. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have suggested it.” 

Arthur smiled again, one full of…relief. He dipped his head and placed a gentle kiss on your lips, and whispered, “It’ll hurt for a second, no more.” 

“I trust you.” 

You heard his intake of breath then, as if he were shocked at your words. But his actions said otherwise, as he placed sweet kisses along your jaw and down your neck, against your pulse point. His rhythm deepened then, and your mind was quickly diverted to the pleasure he elicited. Your back arched again, sighing out your pleasure as the fangs grazed against your skin. 

And then, he struck. 

Top banner created by @cafekitsune

[poisonousquinzel]

i think while Ivy's definitely been her rock throughout their relationship over the years and has been the most consistent in her support system, that it can't be understated the key role that Batman has had over the years in that too.

Harley's a wonderful example of exactly the kinda growth that Bruce tries to achieve with members of the criminal underworld inside Gotham when she's allowed to be.

And he's repeatedly over the years given her the opportunities to prove she's changed, even if it's the 12th time over the last decade.

He doesn't lose hope in his rogues (or when he did it was returned by the end of the chapter)

But more importantly, when she's away from Joker and he feels she's sincere, he doesn't just abandon her to the streets with the false belief that that'll be enough, ya know?

Such a common part of abusive relationships is the financial aspect of it, becoming reliant of the abuser and having no options outside of them. When Harley's released from Arkham, if she has no other option for income other than returning to crime, most of the time that would mean inevitably returning to Joker. He would always find her.

If she has nothing she's connected onto post release there's nothing keeping her from slipping, especially because of how manipulative Joker is.

And Batman knows that.

He's so supportive of her and it means everything to me if the new writer takes their dynamic in the 2021 comic away i stg

Look at them!!! they're so neat :')

Detective Comics #1046 Harley Quinn (2016) #57-58 Detective Comics #831 Punchline: The Gotham Game (2022-) #2 Batman: The Animated Series "Harley's Holiday" Batman & Harley Quinn (2017) #1, #5 Harley Quinn (2021 - ) #1, #29 Batman (2016) #100

[meganegatari]

SUPERBLOOD WOLFMOON → PROLOGUE

read this first! ▪︎ playlist ▪︎ series m.list ▪︎ next chapter

☆: honestly suuuper proud of how this came out ngl, please enjoy!! art in newspaper graphic drawn by the wonderful, amazing, multi-talented, freakin' incredible @sharkthrob ♡ ◇: sfw, both start out as young teens, ends with time skip to "present day", relatively mild (at least imo...idk) violence/gory descriptions, arachnophobia warning (lol), this is also a play on the "left behind" dlc!! ;) ♧: 2.2k wc

Summer, 2035

“60, 59, 58, 57….” The ambient droning of the abandoned mall’s timeworn neon lighting hung in the air as you stood against the old, mold-scented wall, the wallpaper peeling off in chunks, counting down the seconds as your best friend ran to find a hiding place. You could hear her gleeful giggles and pitter-patter of footfalls echo off the structure’s walls while she frantically searched for an effective crevice to stow herself away in, and break her losing streak once and for all.

Unbeknownst to you, Ellie had reached the complete opposite end of the building in no time at all, stumbling upon a crater in the floor, which opened up to the basement. “Fuck’s this?” She mumbles to herself, peering inside the inky darkness of the unexplored space, her sense of danger being overshadowed by the increasing curiosity, and your progressing countdown.

She idles for a moment debating whether to go inside because if she did, she’d definitely win, but there was also the possibility of getting hurt. She chooses to believe the former regardless. Glancing back in your direction one last time to make sure you weren't cheating and spying through your fingers, she hoists herself down, grunting as she falls harshly onto the damaged linoleum tiles.

Ellie winces as she gathers herself to stand, and takes in her surroundings. A long, eerie, brick-lined corridor extends further than she can see. If she is already here, might as well check it out, she reasons.

Stale air fills her lungs almost painfully, the heavy odor of mildew making her eyes water. Through the crack above she hears you finish the countdown and yell out, “I’m gonna get you!” She coughs, collects herself and begins running into the darkness, there was no way you’d find her down here.

“Shit, shit, shit gotta hide- what the…” She reaches the end of the unfamiliar hallway, ending up in a spacious but empty room, the walls covered in some sort of graffiti. She rubs at her eyes to clear them of any debris particles floating around, and so she could fully observe her surroundings once her eyes adjusted to the absence of light.

An abnormally large rat scurries over her feet, squeaking, making her jump and withhold a startled yelp. That was close, she almost gave away her location. Continuing to walk around the space, she observes the graffiti covering the brittle, withered walls. Splashes of vibrant color in an array of abstract forms stretching on, symbols and sigils of all kinds painted within. Jagged, angular glyphs, containing profanities scrawled in deranged strokes, vulgar phallic scribblings earning an immature chuckle from the girl as she continues to inspect the space, seemingly forgetting about the game of hide and seek entirely.

She’s left breathless when she reaches a peculiar piece of graffiti separate from the bulk of the rest, staring at it with wonder. Extraordinary, brilliant hues of color were painted on a mural spanning the whole side wall of the room, with what looked like a gargantuan spider painted in the center of it all. The illustration of the web seemed to sparkle, stand out and contrast the intimidating blackness of the room, the arachnid’s limbs painted with such precision where she couldn't spot a single mistake, as if it was created with machinery or similar.

Out of the corner of her eye she spots some movement, and from the shadows emerges an iridescent spider—the exact one painted—and it crawls along the mural until it stops right in front of her at eye level. She watches as its countless peepers bore into hers, utterly transfixed, unable to look away. Its body shines, reminding her of a scarab beetle. She wonders what kind it is, it’s completely unrecognizable and foreign to her, however big of an interest in bugs she has.

A sickly dread builds in the pit of her stomach, it’s only now dawned on her just how bad of an idea this was. She silently hopes you can hear her telepathic pleas, pick up on the panicked mantras she’s whispering under her breath and come save her from the mutant creature.

Budding panic rises in her chest, paralyzing her with fear, and she can't do anything apart from watch the eight-legged beast suddenly quadruple in size with a sharp crunch of its exoskeleton snapping, thin, twiggy legs turning muscular and strong, dagger-sharp spines ripping their way through the armor-like exterior, jutting out towards every direction. It has changed form entirely, resembling something that only exists in the confines of a comic book or science fiction film.

Ellie sucks in a harsh, shaky breath through her teeth and braces herself to quickly plan an exit, but before she has the chance to begin running, the arachnid’s jaws burst open, the sharp teeth gleaming as if they were made of a metal alloy. She didn't know spiders had teeth, or made any sounds, but she swore she heard it snarl, right before it leapt forward onto her with a speed faster than sound, tackling her onto the ground.

Adrenaline courses through her veins as she wrangles the spider, shrieking as it scratches and pierces her flesh wherever it can reach. It's feral, unlike anything she's ever seen or read about, its movements inharmonious, yet simultaneously neat and calculated. She’s miraculously dodging every strike, although growing weary rather quickly.

Finally, her instincts to fight kick in, and she frantically scans the room for a makeshift weapon. She’s holding the arachnid away from her, the sharp clashing of its jaws around the air echoing off the walls. Ellie squints, and in the dark she makes out some rusted pipes sticking out of the corner of the wall, and in a burst of strength shoves the creature off of her, bolting to grab the metal. It flies and crashes against the wall with a shrill squeal, its hideous form squirming to recover from the blow.

“Goddamnit, stupid SHIT."  She huffs breathlessly as she wrestles the metal, tugging with every morsel of her might to get it detach before the spider lunges again. The way she pushed it away left it stunned and bought her a mere smidgen of time to act, which she utilizes to strike the paralyzed creature. She hits it once, twice, and a third time, the lethal blow crushing it with a jarring smash.

The oversized spider’s limbs briefly twitch before stilling—oily, dark, navy blue blood pooling underneath its corpse. Ellie stands over it unsteadily, trying to catch her breath and process the fight she endured. All that against a spider. Where did that thing even come from? She didn't even wish to know at this point, and was just grateful she was alright.

She sways, before remembering why she ventured here in the first place—the game of hide and seek. You were still searching for her all around the upper floors of the mall, blissfully unaware of the chaos that just occurred below your feet. “Better get out of here.” Ellie mumbles into the dusty air, taking one last look at the ornamented walls of the room, and begins walking back to the main area where you were, emerging victorious in the game being the very last thing on her mind after all that. Even though she still achieved her goal.

With some difficulty she lifts herself out of the basement space into the main foyer of the mall, feeling fatigued, so she resorts to resting on the cool tiles momentarily to recuperate. 

Meanwhile, you were growing concerned about where she was, having searched every single nook and cranny you knew of to check, with no luck whatsoever. Having a bad feeling that something had happened to her, you return to the main area where the two of you agreed to meet at the end of the game if no one won, and were bewildered to find her laying on the ground.

“Ellie, where the hell were you?” You sprint to her side, almost tripping over a stray glass shard on the floor, and fall to your knees right next to her. She’s laying on her back, with a vague smile on her face. She opens her eyes and grins at you, chuckling at the fact she got her victory after all. “Heheh, you lost.”

You’re filled with relief that she’s fine, but beyond pissed at her for worrying you so much. Sighing, you stand up and nudge her side with your shoe, sputtering, “You idiot, I thought you died or something, what were you thinking?” Her expression falls the moment she sees how upset you got, so she sits up and points to the crack in the ground, trying to explain the situation.

“I was just in there, thought I'd go in there and see what's up, since we haven't been there before, but there’s nothing interesting, just an empty storage room. I promise.” She chews on her bottom lip, feeling rather guilty she’s decided to lie straight to your face like that, but wanted to minimize your worry as much as she could. She knows you’d freak if you heard what actually happened down there, and she wanted to just forget it.

Ellie sticks out her arm for you to pull her to her feet, only now taking notice of how many nicks, cuts and scratches she acquired in the ordeal, with some bizarre puncture wounds at the center of her forearm. Did it bite her? During the fight her focus wasn't anywhere apart from the creature attacking her, so she didn't feel it happen.

You notice her injuries at the same second she does, and open your mouth to say something about it, to lecture her for being reckless, but she beats you to it by stammering out a rapid clarification. “I’m fine, getting down there was a pain in the ass. The way in and out was a little sharp, that's all. We’ll just clean these, n’ I'll put some band-aids on, y’know.”

She avoids your suspicious glare and dusts herself off. “Let’s go back, I’m tired. Gotta enjoy my win. You gonna buy me some ice cream or somethin’? Think I deserve it. I'll even be generous enough to give you a bite!” She flashes you the signature toothy grin you’ve always loved so much, distracting from any residual suspicions you have about what she was up to. And so the two of you skipped out of the abandoned mall, never to return again.

Soon after your last time there, the mall was quickly scheduled for demolition due to “unpredictable and dangerous conditions.” You never ended up asking her if she ran into some trouble while hiding in the unexplored basement area, even though it remained a question in the back of your mind that surfaced whenever you caught a glimpse of the strange scar left on her forearm. Four round welts, perfect raised circles, placed as pairs opposite each other. One day you’d make her talk, but for now all you could do was be thankful that she was still with you, whatever may have happened during that game.

Winter, 2041

taggiesssss: @elliesexual @elliesbitchvenus @kawaiibreadbouquet-blog @williamellieslilho @flowrmoth @shestheheadlights @aouiaa @bready101 @shiimer @pascals-doll @boobdrug @starlight-savegery @vqxen @yk2enyx @seraphicsentences @k1ssesworld @lasting-lover @amberputh @syrenada @deliriousrn @corpsebridenightamare @seaseasalts

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Separate Worlds, Chapter Three ⭑

Main masterlist

Pairing: Michael Gavey x Popular!rich!reader

Warnings: 18+ mdni, mentions of alcohol, michael being a horny virgin, michael being desparate, reader being thirsty, mastrubation.

Summary: Living two completely separate lives you and Michael had never really crossed paths and you’ve never really looked at him before. But when your worlds collide, affections arise.

Word count: 1.2k

Saturday, 15th October 2006

You awoke with an awful headache, you didn’t think you had enough to drink to even get hungover but it had been a while since you last had any alcohol. Your mind flashed back to last night, the argument, running in your heels after Michael, breaking into the library, the dusty attic with the starry night sky, and- him of course. His breathtaking eyes, big nose, sharp jaw and chiselled chin. Your mind started to wander, his veiny arms and most importantly his veiny hands, thick fingers, broad shoulders and just his hair that looked so graspable- Christ. Get a grip. 

You got out of bed as the stinging headache and a wave of nausea hit you. A good shower would fix you, maybe today would be a self care day, just to energise for the week. But even in the shower your mind started to wander, and they got even worse- all you could think about was what his cock looked like, how his big hands would look grabbing your hips as you rode him. And with that image you finished. When you had gotten ready for the day, well at least dressed. You decided to get some food and coffee. 

Once in the main courtyard you ran into Farleigh, Maisie and Eloise. “Hey, you okay? You stormed out on your own birthday last night.” Maisie asked, a bit concerned. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Just had too much to drink and it had gotten to my head. But I’m fine now. You guys want to grab some coffee with me?” They stopped questioning you at that and you all hit the nearest Starbucks. 

Sunday, October 16th 2006

You made your way to the library, heart pounding in your chest. All day yesterday you thought about him, after the shower you had to relieve yourself once more when you climbed into bed that night. You didn’t even need to study, but you hoped so badly he would be there. You entered the library with a beaming smile on your face, expecting to see him. He wasn’t there? What?

A sigh left your lips and you turned on your heel. No reason for coming here then. You decided to head to your friend's dorm instead. 

Monday, October 17th 2006

Finally! You felt like Monday couldn’t come fast enough, at last you were able to see him again. Even though it had only been two days since your last encounter, it felt like a week. You knew the second you saw him in class you would bring him the box of crunchies with your phone number and email taped onto it as well as a funny maths pun t-shirt you bought while getting coffee on Saturday. You used your calculator Saturday night and the bastard was right. So of course you had to reward him.

You didn’t even meet up with Eloise like usual before maths, instead you put on your cutest outfit, showered before and wore your strongest and nicest perfume. Surely this would grab his attention. But when you got there a message dinged on your phone. 

Eloise Sinclair: please don't kill me im fucking sick and i cant get out of bed :(((  8:56

(You): No worries, just rest ok? Want me to bring you something after maths?  8:57

Eloise Sinclair: no maisie just got here with supplies. thanks though xxx  8:57

(You): Ok I’ll visit later xx  8:57

Maybe it was the universe sending you signs because when you stepped in the lecture hall you spotted Michael, with empty seats next to him. You almost jogged down the stairs with a huge grin and dropped the box with crunchies, the t-shirt and the note on his tiny desk. He looked at you in surprise as you sat at the desk right next to him. Was he dreaming? “Morning, you were right. You are a genius. So here are the crunchies as promised and also a funny t-shirt I saw when I was out, made me think of you.” You smiled as you nudged the box towards him. 

Michael however was still stunned. Did his dream girl who was way out of his league dump her friends to sit next to him? Did she buy him his favourite treat? Did she think of him while she was out? And most important of all…she called him a genius. Fuck. He was actually hard right now, how pathetic. How does a guy get hard from just some gifts and a compliment? How did- “Helloooo? Earth to Michael?” You snapped him out of his thoughts. 

“I’m sorry, it’s pretty early- uhm- thank you I really appreciate it.” He smiled, and for the first time he smiled properly, showing off his cute teeth. And holy shit did that make you fall harder.  Luckily for him, you hadn’t noticed his boner, he swiftly moved the sweater that was hanging from his shoulders to his lap. You wanted to talk to him more and tell him you left your info in the box too but the professor was starting and somehow, sitting next to Michael Gavey made it so much less boring.

The lecture seemed to fly by and the end was near. After the professor made you do some practice assignments she spoke up. “Before next monday I have a little project that I want you to complete, this project will require you to partner up with someone. The project information itself will be handed out before you leave, you can now choose your partner.” The class immediately started to mingle and you turned to Michael. 

“So since you’re next to me anyway, want to partner up?” He looked unsure and turned more towards you. “Uhm, usually I prefer to work alone.” Oh. But when your face dropped he continued. “But I don’t think we really have a choice and I would rather work with you than anyone else here.” He rambled. That made you smile again, the professor handed out the information you needed and you agreed to meet up the following morning since you both had a free period at the same time. 

The second Michael got back to his dorm room he threw the sweater he held discreetly in front of him on his desk chair and quickly moved on his bed. His cock was straining in his pants and he never had needed relief this badly. Your perfume was still lingering in his nose, the way your tits were almost out with that top you wore, the skirt that showed off your silky smooth thighs. It was all too much. He quickly grabbed his laptop that was still on his bed and went to his saved porn, all girls that looked like you with guys that looked like him.

The video started to play and he opened his pants so he could finally relieve his aching cock. He almost came in record time as he released all over his veiny hand, cumming with a loud groan he had to muffle.

Tag list (also want to be tagged in chapters? message me): @sepherinaspoppies

[beetlesau]

Its Light Still Shines

Chapter 2 - 1.2k

(Chapter 1 here)

haters will say Shadow wasn't even in this chapter. sorry

The grass beneath me is soft. I've never felt anything like it in all my memories. I smell the earth, fresh and beautiful.

I don't know where I teleported away to.

An old abandoned cabin sits before me, and a running stream-turned-river sits not far from it. I can hear its flowing water and the small fish that splash its surface now and then. Morning is breaking just over the horizon, and pink and orange paint the sky as I approach the worn building.

"Hello?" I call out, but no one has been here in a long, long time.

I knocked on the door before opening it in case someone or something was waiting inside. I didn't expect how sturdy and tough the door would be. The outside looked like old wooden logs but resonated like a metal crate. When my knuckles made contact, a small, pin-sized light met my gaze and scanned my retina.

"Welcome, Experiment L2S-03xx. to SafeZone 12." A static voice chimed in the door, which swung open automatically. Dust and dirt accumulated around the crevasses, which were knocked loose and found their way to my throat. I coughed, covering my face, and tried to disperse the debris with my free hand.

I entered, and to my surprise, I found it looked like a cozy cabin you'd book for a vacation. It was an open floor concept, with a bed on the far left wall, a bathroom ahead of me, a kitchen, and a small dinette to the right. The decor was simple and a bit antique. A frilly duvet on the bed caught my gaze. I rolled my eyes when I realized I could even recognize such small details about something I'd never seen in my real life before—sudden thoughts of watching interior decorating on TV flashed in my mind's eye.

I groaned. I had other problems besides the clashing curtains in the dinette not matching the plates stacked on the shelves above the sink. Namely what the AI system called me.

"L2S? What? What was it you called me?" I asked aloud.

"That is your experiment identification code," it stated as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"Where am I?"

"This is isolated SafeZone 12 erected by Professor Robotnik, Gerald."

"When was this last time he was here?"

"57 years, 8 months, 21 days. Would you like the question answered to the nearest second?"

"No! No, thank you. Do I have a name?"

"You were not assigned a name, only your experiment identification code."

"What is Shadows experiment code or whatever, then?"

"S2L-02xy - or Project Shadow."

I removed my jacket, shuffled over to the bed, and plopped onto the surprisingly soft mattress, caressing little angels into the plush comforter. "Bummer. How come he got a name, and I didn't?" I was speaking to myself now, but the system took it upon itself to answer anyway.  

"Records indicate you were an preliminary project that was not completed under the supervision of the Professor."

"Yeah, yeah. So what is my purpose?"

"Error. Purpose Obsolete."

"Ouch okay, what was my purpose?"

"You are a culmination of the residuals left over from Project Shadow, chaos emeralds, and the restructured DNA of the deceased Maria Robotnik. Your purpose was to serve as replacement parts for an incurable disease within Maria Robotnik. However, key parts of the experiment did not occur due to the ARK's destruction. Your consciousness was triggered and stages of your development were altered by the government organization known as GUN."

"You're kidding me."

"I do not understand; please rephrase."

I wept quietly to myself.

I was never meant to awaken. My purpose was never as divided from Maria as Shadow. If GUN hadn't intervened, there would be no me.

But then Maria may still be alive otherwise.

Did I even deserve to be alive instead?

I pulled one of the pillows close and buried my face into it.

All these memories of her kindness. Her beauty. I have them because she died.

It's too much for me.

I screw my eyes shut, hoping I can lock my tears away, but I can't. They come and soak through everything. The pounding in my head kicks up again. Before long, I cried myself to sleep at the thought of her and all she was. All that I can only hope to be for myself.

Being in stasis and actually sleeping are worlds apart. When I wake, my mind settles, and I better regulate my emotions. It's once again dark outside, and in the night, I see a flashing light coming from the dinette table. I pull myself up, groggy, and shuffle over to check it out.

"What is this?" I ask the system.

"There is an electronic pulse similar to that of the Professor's work in a quadrant of Japan that has recently appeared. Would you like to take a look?"

"Show me." Anything to do with the Professor now could only mean something involving Shadow.

The system flashes, and a small hologram feed floats just at eye level. It shows security footage of a pier in Japan, likely hacked into by Robotniks tech, which is still advanced all these years later. My skin prickles as I watch an immense mechanical crab surface from the water.

I've seen this before, but Shadow isn't there. Not yet. He's going to find the Professor, not the Doctor.

"Can you keep tabs on that crab from here?"

"I can mark it as an object of interest, of course. Would you like to be notified when it relocates?"

"Oh. Uh, I don't plan on staying here much longer, I'm leaving once I figure out where Shadow is."

"I have an electronic bracer in the refrigerator that can be used as a notification hub when you're away from SafeZone 12."

"The refrigerator?"

"It is the red box behind you and to your left, it typically holds items to keep them cool and fresher for longer than if they were left out at room tem--"

Okay! Thank you, that's not really what I meant when I-- you know what? Nevermind. Thank you. I'll be sure to grab that before I go."

"You are welcome, L2S-03xx."

"Could you call me something else?" I grumbled.

"I can reassign your name, yes. What would you prefer?"

I took a moment to think it over. I wasn't stuck to one thing. I could change my name as much as I wanted; it wasn't like I had one. And I wasn't really Maria; keeping hers didn't feel right. Though I could, as an homage. I didn't think this would be that hard, but a name might be a big deal.

"I don't actually know... I guess I should just shorten my experiment name for now. Call me L. I'm sure I can come up with something better later. Maybe." If I couldn't stop Shadow from what was to come, it wouldn't matter if I'd had a name.

I felt drained all over again. Although I've been alone all this time, I was never lonely—not when they occupied my mind. But now I felt the weight of things.

I'd never had Shadow. I was nothing to him, but I would fight for him.

I couldn't be his Maria; I must be something else. I would reach him.

"Its Light still shines."

[not-poignant]

Excerpt from chapter 57 of A Stain that Won't Dissolve:

‘I had a sudden vision of Jodi telling everyone everything, even though she couldn’t know everything, and having no control over my privacy anymore. It’s not realistic. It’s not even rational. I flipped out. Wentworth made our private life public when he went to the witch to kill our relationship. Because suddenly I was back home, and Demetrius is telling me witchcraft doesn’t actually exist, and magic is just science-by-another-name, and Mom’s all sad but somehow not surprised, like I’m the reason it inevitably ended, and Maru keeps wanting to know what he did.’ Sebastian held out a cupped hand, and a firefly flew onto his palm, lighting it up in yellow-green neon. The pretty slow pulses made it look like Sebastian knew how to do magic. Alex stared at the light in Sebastian’s palm. Well, he probably did know how to use magic. Sebastian’s breathing shook. Alex bit his top lip, because out of everything he expected, he didn’t expect Sebastian to open up like this. ‘It’s so annoying,’ Sebastian said. ‘But I want this to just belong to us and a few other people for a little while. The town’s going to be weird about you being gay. At least some of them. They’re going to be weird about us being together because of high school. They’re going to be waiting for it to fail, because of me and Wentworth. It’s none of their fucking business.’

[drksanctuary]

DRK-SANCTUARY'S WIP/FIC MASTERPOST:

FINISHED/ WORKS IN PROGRESS:

BANDITS AND SHERIFFS:

Completed western AU for the PJO BigBang back in 2014. Around 50k words, collaboration with @thomas-life. Fictional "western setting" not historically accurate American west.

Original post for it HERE.

Link to Fic on Ao3: HERE

Title art HERE.

Character art HERE.

LIFTING THE MIST CURSE COMIC

(Mist Comic): A fan comic that chronicles an alternate timeline where Nico Meets Al after the event of BoO. Al comes to CHB to have people help him Lift the Mist Curse. (Rated M)

Chapter 1 HERE.

Miscellaneous Mist Comic:

Sketches

Excerpt with Al and Dionysus

nicobaster comic "Oreo Meme"

Nicobaster fluff scene

Dreams "amv" comic.

SON OF MAGIC VOLUME 2

(SoM V2): similar to mist comic Al and Nico meet after BoO (but waaay after in their early to mid 20's). Al is mired in the Olympian Underground/black market, Nico who is just trying to be a good camp recruiter gets dragged into Al's problems, but he kinda likes it. (Rated M)

Chapter 1 (TBD)

Miscellaneous SoM V2:

Post with better context

cover sketch draft

misc sketches and context

Al's updated club outfit

Silly meme

Excerpt from (likely) chapt 2

THE NEW GOLDEN AGE (Titan AU)

Al and Nico meet during the titan war, Titans end up winning with the help of the Giants. Like PJO but infinitely more YA novel about it. (Rated T)

Prologue: A03 post and link HERE, Regular Tumblr Post HERE

Chapter 1: HERE

Chapter 2: HERE

MAKING YOUR MARK ON ME (Tattoo AU) (EXPLICIT)

AU where Nico and Al meet as adults well after the wars. Alabaster Torrington owns a Magical Tattoo Parlor/Magic Shop. Nico di Angelo is a frequent customer, but when Nico goes there this time, it’s not for business… it’s for pleasure. (Rated E for language and sexual content. You have been warned)

Chapt 1 SFW (just the picture): HERE

Sketch of Alabaster SFW: HERE

Chapter 1: NFSW (Pic and fic) tumblr post HERE and Ao3 link HERE (rated M, really)

Chapter 2 (Actually rated E): on Ao3: HERE

HIDDEN GEM CAFE

technically the fic is a little fluff piece entirely written by @thomas-life not me but I drew the picture. link HERE. (Rated G)

CAMP CHTHONIC

More AN RP blog than a fic but if i do fics they will be posted on the sideblog: @campchthonic

OUT OF TARTARUS

A comic we started after the release of Mark of Athena. Nico escapes tartarus and immediately runs onto Alabaster. (rated T)

Chpt 1 Part 1/Pages 1-10 HERE

Chpt 1 Part 2/Pages 11-20 HERE

Chpt 1 Part 3/Pages 21-27 HERE

Chpt 2 Part 1/Pages 28-37 HERE

Chpt 2 Part 2/Pages 38-47 Pages HERE

Chapt 2 Part 3/Pages 38-57 (and bonus pg 58 posted later) HERE

A PIECE OUT OF PLACE

Victorian AU Jasico and Bianca/Alabaster (i know its odd but trust me it made sense). also i know, NOT NICOBASTER??? wha??? (Also rated M)

Jasico Week Picture And Summary HERE

Jasico Dramatic Kiss pic HERE

Jasico steamy scene pg 1 and 2 (kind of NSFW) HERE

Victorian Sketches HERE

Victorian Sketches (old) has Piper bc it was before we changed it to Bianca HERE

Cute Jasico Sketches HERE

Victorian Jasico Meet-cute HERE

Jason and the wolves HERE

SNIPPET FIC/IDEA DUMPS

CHTHONIC CAMP AU (fanfic for a fanfic)

Not to be confused with the camp Chthonic blog above these are all the links for stuff I did for my interpretations and headcanons and AUs for @gutsybitsies Chthonic Camp AU. Their original fic HERE.

Jason and Nico and Al. HERE.

Nicobaster ficlet. HERE

Nicobaster looking bamf. HERE.

Alabaster being extra: HERE

ANCIENT CHTHONIC NICOBASTER (rated M)

"But your highness our love is forbidden" pic. HERE

APHRODITE NICO/THEMIS AL

Original post: HERE

Post with Drew (Nico's sister): HERE

Aprodite!Nico and Mars!Jason: HERE

JACKSON HOUSE NICOBASTER (rated M ig)

Idea post HERE

Nicobaster sketches for the AU: HERE

SLUT AU (rated M)

Idea post HERE

NICOBASTER FANFIC TO ORIGINAL WORK PIPELINE

MEDIEVAL PJO (KnightSlayer)

"A bastard shall be king." ....So reads the Prophecy of the Ages. But with a war on the horizon and Hazel to feed, Nico has more to worry about than kings and their bands of upper class sycophants. That is, until Percy comes along, and suddenly he finds himself right in the middle of it all... (rated M)

Ao3 link: HERE

Al and Nico Meeting: HERE

Nico and Percy (kiss). HERE (might be considered mature by some)

Nico backstory. HERE (rated M for Violence)

Chapt Pictures i had planned. HERE

Ball Sketches HERE

Nico Backstory 2 (sad) HERE

Nico and Percy Thestral encounter HERE

Miscellaneous Medieval AU Nico Sketches: Sketch 1 HERE, Sketch 2 HERE, Sketch 3 HERE.

MERMAID AU (Through the Sea Glass)

Like "the little mermaid" but with extra fantasy world building and the prince (Nico) ACTUALLY falls in love with the Sea Witch (Alabaster) instead of the mermaid (Percy) rated G

Summary with pictures HERE

Octokind Alabaster HERE

PHANTOM AU - (Phantom Haven)

Nico's near-death experience endows him with powers and now he has to be a Savior which means he has to fight phantoms to keep people safe which would be a doable job, BUT that's not the only task of a Savior. He also has to uphold the integrity of the Savior System (ugh),Do good deeds and report them to his supervisor (double ugh), train his Lumen (dead eyed little thing doesn't like to listen to him so...ugh again!) and last but definitely not least he has to dedicate his life to figuring out how to use his endowment to cure a great societal problem... to perform... a MIRACLE TM. (yikes on bikes, no pressure). Will he be able to live up to the expectations of greatness that has been thrust upon him? or will he fail?

Character concepts 1-6 HERE

Character concepts 7-8 HERE

CHIP AU - (No original title yet)

Modern Human AU in which an aimless Nico's life is changed for the better when someone abandons their little baby girl (Hazel) on the steps of the refurbished fire house he now lives in. Years later he finds a little kid named Frank and adopts him as well. Now he just needs to navigate life as a single parent which he is mostly fine with until Bianca tries to set him up with her fiance's best friend (Alabaster). Will this romance stay the casual fling it started as or could it blossom into something more? (Rated M)

NIco with bb hazel HERE

CHURCH AU - (no original title yet)

An AU where Nico sells his soul to save his family from dying, when he meets his untimely death however he finds that Hell is not what he expected, its a quarry, and is he does his quotas, he can ascend the ranks, and even make it to heaven. Each Level comes with its own set of rules. The level right before heaven, which requires Demons to go to earth to collect evil humors that taint people's souls, has the MOST rules. With him being unable to see his family, not knowing what he's doing, and finding out that his childhood friend has grown into a handsome...Preist in training?!? Nico finds that he can't keep the all of the rules straight, especially because he's not. (Rated M)

Nico as a Demon pic HERE

There's quite a few more AUs but the above shows most of them.

If you'd like to know more about the above or about the ones not mentioned please subscribe to "Nicobaster premium" for the low low price of Free.99! And if you are 18 or older and interested I also have Nicobaster Premium 18+ (for the same price for all your smutty needs. Tee Hee!)

That's all, Nicobaster Houshold!...FOR NOW!

OTHER MASTERPOSTS

MISCELLANEOUS NICOBASTER - Here

ALABASTER BEING BBG - Here

[postsbycass]

Of Beasts and Bloodlines, Chapter 1

[ blurb ]

At Hogwarts, dark forces threaten student safety and the beloved Quidditch season. But does Oliver Wood know more than he is letting on?

Or…

Oliver Wood and Percy Weasley are forced to work together… but don’t worry, it’s fine, nothing will go horribly wrong. Probably.

AND FINALLY…START OF CHAPTER:

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

Sunday, the 1st of September, 1991.

10:57.

Percy knows—he’s been checking the time every five seconds since he arrived at Platform 9¾

His mother was in the middle of her third round of goodbye hugs, and Percy endured it with minimal squirming. Well, sort of.

“You’ll do brilliantly, my darling,” Molly Weasley whispered fiercely, brushing imaginary dust off his robes.

“Yes, thank you, Mum,” Percy replied. “I have my list. Everything’s in order.”

Behind them, Fred and George were trying to attach a dungbomb to Ron’s trunk while Arthur distractedly checked his muggle watch. He’d been obsessed with that thing lately…

“Right, well, I need to be on board early,” Percy said, stepping back from the embrace. “Prefects are expected to—”

“Yes, yes,” Molly interrupted, tearful. “Go on then, darling. Make us proud.”

Mrs. Weasley kissed both his cheeks, twice, and Percy made a face of discomfort. She was halfway through waving off his siblings when he turned to Ginny, who was hovering nearby, red-eyed and fiercely trying not to sniffle.

“Make sure you keep your room tidy,” he said, adjusting his glasses in that precise way that meant he was nervous. “And help Mum out when you can. I won’t be there to remind you.”

Ginny huffed, scrubbing at her nose. “I know, Percy.”

“I mean it,” he added. “No leaving your socks under the bed. No scribbling on the walls with enchantments—”

“That was Fred and George!”

Percy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Regardless. Be good. You’re the only one left at home now.”

Ginny crossed her arms, lower lip trembling but held high. “I’m always good.”

“Right,” Percy said, softening just a little. “Well. Stay that way.”

There was a pause—awkward, uncertain—where it looked like he might hug her. But instead, he gave her a brisk nod and turned toward the train, adjusting his badge for what was the fourth time that morning.

10:59.

Inside the train, chaos reigned as usual. Students weaving through narrow corridors, trunks being hauled and dropped, owls shrieking from cages…but Percy only saw checkboxes. He mentally ticked off each item on his itinerary: arrive early, attend Prefect meeting, patrol the corridors, settle into routine.

The designated Prefect compartment was near the front of the train, away from the excited first years. Honestly? It felt like entering a different realm—one where everything was orderly, predictable, and most importantly, serious. The moment he stepped inside, he straightened his spine a little more, adjusted his badge a fifth time (if you can believe it), and took in the other students with the cool scrutiny of someone determined to be seen as an equal.

Penelope Clearwater was already there, seated near the window with her notes lined up in perfect little rows. Her penmanship was maddeningly neat. Ever letter is precisely angled, as though the parchment itself had demanded perfection. Percy, who prided himself on his own tidy scrawl, had the sudden urge to rewrite his entire planner. Dammit.

She glanced up. “Weasley.”

“Clearwater,” he replied smoothly, settling onto the seat opposite her.

The other Prefects trickled in, a mix of returning prefects and the new, 5th year ones, such as Percy himself. There was an informal sense of hierarchy already in place: the older students sat more comfortably, joking with each other, while the younger ones kept their backs straight and their voices quiet..

One Head Boy, a tall Hufflepuff named Davinder Patel, called the meeting to order. Percy immediately sat up even straighter, quill poised, planner open. This was it. The beginning of his prefectship.

“Alright, lads and lasses,” Davinder began, tone easy but commanding. “We’ve got a lot to cover before we get to the school, so let’s keep this moving. Patrol rotations, first-year guidance teams, curfew enforcement—you know the drill.”

Percy’s hand flew across his parchment, writing quite literally every word. His brow furrowed when someone next to him snorted at a joke Davinder made about how Slytherin Prefects always vanish right before trouble starts. Not everything had to be funny. This was important.

Penelope leaned in slightly at one point to clarify something under her breath—“It’s every third Thursday, not second”—and Percy felt a strange twinge of admiration and competition at once. She was sharp. Efficient. Possibly sharper than him.

He hated how much that thrilled him.

There was a brief discussion on disciplinary protocol, during which one of the sixth-year Gryffindor Prefects asked, “Do we have to write everything down, or is that just a Percy thing?”

Several students laughed.

Percy went bright red. “Keeping records is standard practice,” he muttered, not looking up.

Penelope cut in, of course. “Actually, it’s encouraged. The Head Girl said last year that thorough documentation helped when reporting repeat offenses.”

Percy glanced at her. She didn’t even look up from her planner. But he made a note to thank her later. Or maybe never. He hadn’t decided yet.

The meeting wrapped up after thirty minutes, with folders distributed, patrol partners assigned, and everything reviewed. Percy left the compartment feeling…different. Not relaxed, exactly. But he didn’t feel like an imposter. Not entirely. He had a role to play, a place where order mattered. And he planned to be excellent at it.

Even if it meant rewriting his to-do list three times before the train arrived.

11:30

After the meeting, Percy returned to a mostly empty compartment three cars down and settled in. He was only halfway through his notes on Prefect duties when the door slid open again and someone slouched in.

Oliver Wood. Percy’s Quidditch-obsessed dorm mate, for the last 4 years.

His hair looked like he’d run through a wind tunnel, and his uniform was only technically tidy—just enough to pass inspection, but clearly thrown on in a hurry. His eyes had that bleary, battle-worn look of someone who’d slept too little and thought too much.

“Morning,” Oliver grunted, tossing his bag onto the seat across from Percy and collapsing after it like a man who’d run from Hogsmeade to London.

Percy didn’t look up. “It’s nearly noon.”

Oliver waved that off. “Details.”

Fair enough. Percy carefully finished underlining something on his parchment, then frowned, realizing something.

“…Why are you even in here? This is the Prefect compartment.”

Oliver groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah. I know. I’ll leave in a bit. I just…I needed a place to breathe.”

Percy blinked. “Breathe?”

“It’s chaos out there,” Oliver muttered. “I can’t deal with it right now.”

He leaned back, eyes shut, jaw tight.

“Didn’t think the bloody drama would start before we even reached the school.”

Percy opened his mouth, probably to say something about rules or boundaries, but paused. Oliver looked… genuinely tired. Less of the usual firebrand and more like someone already bracing for impact.

“…You’re not supposed to be here,” Percy said, but with less bite than before.

“I know,” Oliver replied, not moving. “Just… give me ten minutes before I have to go back to pretending I have any control over that team.”

Percy sighed, eyes flicking down to his parchment. “Fine. But if Penelope comes back and sees you in here, I’m not defending you.”

Silence settled for a few moments, save for the scribble of Percy’s quill and Oliver’s muffled rummaging through his bag.

Then:

“They’ve gutted us,” Oliver said suddenly.

Percy blinked. “I beg your pardon? Gutted ‘us’ how, exactly?”

“Quidditch,” Oliver replied, rubbing his temples like a man plagued by strategy and ghosts. “Charlie’s gone. Charlie. That’s a massive hole in the lineup. We’ve no Seeker. Bell says Spinnet might not come back this year. Johnson wants to try Beater—she’s good, but we need her as Chaser, and we’ve already got the twins as Beaters. And I’ve just found out something. Something horrid. Bell’s crushing on a Slytherin.”

He said it like she’d announced her plans to join a magical terrorist organization.

Percy looked up, mildly alarmed. “Is that… dangerous, somehow?”

“No. Worse. It’s Quidditch incest.”

There was a beat of silence.

Percy blinked again. “I… don’t follow.”

Oliver flailed an arm. “She’s fraternizing with the enemy! It’s unnatural! Like—like a Bludger and a Snitch having tea together. You don’t like someone who’s actively trying to concuss you!”

From somewhere down the corridor, a voice shouted, “It’s not incest, Oliver!”

“Oh well that makes it okay then, I suppose???” Oliver yelled back. “Cancel the whole season! Bring cupcakes to the matches! Let’s all snog midair and call it a draw!”

He collapsed backward into his seat, looking personally betrayed by romance itself.

Percy slowly set down his quill and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You do realize,” he said carefully, “that liking a member of the opposing team isn’t a war crime.”

“Tell that to the scoreboard,” Oliver muttered. “Slytherin’s stacked this year. Flint’s still Captain, which means he’s still alive somehow, despite the rumors.”

Percy wasn’t going to ask about the rumors. That was a detour he didn’t have time for.

“Marcus Flint is an idiot,” Percy replied primly. “But he plays dirty. That makes him dangerous.”

Oliver pointed at Percy. “See? Exactly. Katie gets distracted by his teammate’s stupid cheekbones, and next thing you know, she’s missing passes and crying on the pitch.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually think that will happen, or are you just catastrophizing to avoid addressing your tactical gaps?”

Oliver stared at him.

“Who hurt you,” he whispered.

Percy flushed. “I’m just saying! Emotional distractions are manageable if you prioritize discipline. Personally, I avoid them altogether.”

Oliver pulled a face. “You say that like you’re proud.”

“I am,” Percy snapped. “It’s my first year as Prefect. I have a reputation to maintain. If you think I’m going to risk—”

“Oh Merlin, you are proud.”

They glared at each other across the compartment.

“Look,” Oliver sighed. “You do your little patrols and make your tidy little lists. That’s your Quidditch. This? This chaos? This is mine.”

He tapped his temple.

Percy, against his better judgment, cracked a smile.

“And here I thought your chaos lived entirely in your vocal cords, with how much you shout.”

Oliver grinned. “Only when Flint’s involved.”

They lapsed into silence again, this time companionable. Outside, the scenery blurred as the train rolled on. Percy resumed his notes with slightly less urgency. Oliver bounced his leg restlessly, as if powered by some sort of magical stimulant.

A knock on the compartment door made them both glance up. Penelope Clearwater slid it open, composed as ever.

“We’re arriving in ten,” she told Percy.

“Right.” Percy stood, smoothing his robes. “Best to start early.”

As he moved past Oliver, the other boy leaned back lazily.

“Try not to enforce any international treaties while you’re at it, Percy.”

7:30

The Great Hall glowed with warm candlelight, its enchanted ceiling mirroring the dusky September sky. The first years shuffled in behind the prefects, wide-eyed and whispering, the newness of it all clinging to them like static. Percy Weasley led the Gryffindors with the brisk, rigid efficiency of someone carrying several invisible clipboards. His badge gleamed just enough to make him sit straighter.

Behind him, the Gryffindor table buzzed—bets on House placements, heated recounts of train compartment drama, Fred and George laughing too hard to be innocent.

That was never a good sign.

Percy slid into a seat midway down the table, eyes sweeping the Hall with quiet precision. He was watching. That was his job now. He looked like a traumatized owl, but hey…that was kind of the point, right?

“Not bad crop this year,” Oliver murmured beside him, making Percy twitch. “Couple of them looked like they could handle a broom.”

“They’re eleven.”

“Exactly. Start ‘em young.”

Percy inhaled through his nose

As the Sorting began, Oliver leaned forward each time a name was called, whispering evaluations like a coach scouting talent at a toddler tryout.

“Too nervous. Nope. That one’s got a good center of gravity. Definitely fast.”

“You can’t tell that from their name.”

“Wrong. You just don’t have The Eye.”

“You do realize this is an ancient House tradition, not a recruitment drive.”

“Why can’t it be both?” Oliver grinned like this was the cleverest thing he’d said all year. “Ooh—Higgins! Percy, did you hear Higgins? He said he likes flying. That’s a good sign. Make a note.”

“I’m not writing that down.”

“You’re thinking about it, though.”

Unfortunately, he was.

The Sorting ended, the Hat’s last echoes fading into the high-arched ceiling. The first years found their places—some glowing with pride, others blinking in numb horror. A tearful, pureblood Hufflepuff was already regretting everything.

Percy scanned the Gryffindor additions, instinctively noting who might need help, and who might end up lighting a toilet on fire. And then, of course, there was the issue of Harry Potter.

Something about him made Percy uneasy—and he had a feeling this year was going to be long.

Very long.

The feast was already winding down. Pudding plates scraped clean, chatter rising like steam. Oliver Wood, meanwhile, was visibly vibrating beside Percy—restraining himself from leaping onto the table and announcing Quidditch tryouts to a room of half-conscious first years. No, genuinely. He’s legitimately trembling.

Percy sliced an apple and muttered, “If you say the word ‘practice’ before the first-years find their beds, I’m leaving.”

“I’m not,” Oliver lied.

His eyes flicked across the Hall—and locked.

“Flint’s looking over here again.”

Across the room, Marcus Flint leaned lazily against the Slytherin table, laughing at something Cassius Warrington had said. Broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and constantly five seconds from a brawl, he looked like he’d been carved out of granite and then left in the sun too long. His smile, when it landed on Oliver, was smug and just a touch too slow. He raised a hand in a mocking little wave.

Oliver scowled. “Gross. Smarmy git.”

“Focus,” Percy warned.

And then, as if summoned by chaos itself, Katie Bell leaned over the table. “Hey, Oliver? Is it true Montague made the Slytherin team this year?”

Oliver paused mid-glare. “Yeah. Why?”

Katie tilted her head, trying to be casual. “No reason. He just… looks taller.”

Percy choked on a bit of apple.

Oliver turned to her, aghast. “Taller?! What does that even—Katie, you can’t be serious—”

“I didn’t say I like him!” Katie insisted, her face pinking. “Just that he’s… tall now. That’s all.”

Before Oliver could spiral further, Marcus Flint chose that exact moment to stroll over, looking like he owned the floorboards.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Evening, Wood. Congratulations on having the most open-minded Chaser lineup this year.”

He nodded to Katie with exaggerated charm. “Montague says hi, by the way.”

Katie nearly slid under the table. Oliver stood so fast his goblet went flying. “You! You stay the hell away from my Chasers, Flint!”

Flint gave a slow smirk. “Bit possessive, aren’t you? Or are you just jealous she noticed someone with actual talent—”

That was when Angelina Johnson calmly set down her spoon with a little clink.

She folded her arms. “Alright. That’s it.”

Oliver froze. As did Katie…

“Flint,” Angelina said, voice calm but cutting.

Marcus leaned in, cocky as ever. “Yeah, Johnson?”

She gestured to her dessert. “Your face is making my treacle tart taste worse.”

A hush swept down the table.

Flint’s eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she said, gesturing to her plate. “You show up, start strutting like a preening Hippogriff, and now all I taste is sweat and ego. Unkindly shove off.”

A snort of laughter came from somewhere near George. Someone at the Ravenclaw table winced sympathetically.

Flint’s smirk twitched. “Y’know what? Fine. Hope you lot enjoy losing this year. Especially with Wood playing captain and emotional support owl.”

He stormed off. Oliver opened his mouth to yell something—

Angelina didn’t even look up. “And you. Don’t.”

Oliver closed his mouth.

“If I hear one more word about Montague, Katie’s tragic preferences, or how Slytherins don’t blink like normal people, I will personally end this meal with violence.”

Oliver held up both hands in surrender.

Angelina picked up her fork again, peaceful as could be. “Thank you. Now let’s all try acting like normal people for five minutes so Dumbledore can give his speech without someone throwing a fork.”

Percy let out a breath.

Katie whispered, “All I said was that he’s tall.”

Angelina, still not looking up: “Katie, I swear to Merlin—”

The Great Hall fell into silence.

No one had seen Dumbledore enter. But suddenly, there he stood at the head table. Tall, robed, and far wearier than Percy remembered. His eyes swept across the Hall as he raised his hands for quiet.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice as calm as ever, but distant, too. “To another year at Hogwarts.”

The silence hung close.

“As always, we gather in the spirit of discovery, friendship, and growth. But this year…” he paused, and for a moment, Percy felt the air itself hold its breath, “this year may prove… complicated.”

Chairs creaked. A nervous laugh or two echoed.

“There are things that go unnoticed until they move. Shadows with no shape. Doors that do not open. Whispers you will not trace to any mouth. Should you encounter something unusual—do not dismiss it. Come forward. Tell someone.”

Oliver shifted beside Percy, brow furrowed.

“You may also find,” Dumbledore went on, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “that allies arise in unexpected places. Let that not be a cause for fear. Hogwarts stands when we stand together.”

He raised his goblet.

“To unity. To vigilance. And to another year of magic.”

The hall clapped, quiet and uneven. Percy looked across to Penelope, who met his eyes with a frown.

Something was off.

He looked back toward the staff table—noticed McGonagall whispering something to Flitwick, Snape’s arms crossed tighter than usual, even Hagrid fidgeting. Dumbledore, now seated, wasn’t touching his food. He was staring into nothing with a distant, unreadable look.

It wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t just a new term.

Something was wrong. Percy didn’t know what, but the air had changed.

Even the ceiling—normally enchanted to look like the sky—looked different now. Too still. Too dark. Like it was watching back, almost.

Beside him, Oliver swallowed, then leaned in and whispered, “This is how it always starts in those horror novels my cousin Victoria reads. Next thing you know, someone’s broom tries to kill them.”

Percy stared at him. “…What?”

Oliver shrugged, already grabbing a final roll off the platter. “I’m just saying. If my broom starts growling or developing opinions, I’m not flying it.”

He took a bite, thoughtful. “Though, I dunno. If it helps block Slytherin goals, might be worth the risk.”

Percy sighed through his nose. “You’re going to die first.”

“Yeah, but it’d be in a wicked way. Probably during a dive.”

[word count: 3,135]

authors note -> I’M SORRY. I’VE BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOR LIKE, EVER. I KNOW I SAID I’D PUT THIS OUT IN JANUARY (twas all a lie) BUT IT IS HERE NOW !!! ENJOY. ALSO TAGGING MY BEAUTIFUL WONDERFUL SCRUMPTIOUS DELIGHTFUL BESTIE BOO WHO HAS ENDURED MY RANTING AND RAVING THESE PAST MONTHS. @amethystandemma

[ssa-dado]

8 - Law & Self-Awareness

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader

Genre: angst, sad stuff, fluff

Summary: Hotch and Peter confront a tense situation as they rush to Riverhead, where the unsub is expected to strike next, but conflict arises when Peter wants to warn you, fearing for your safety. Hotch insists on following procedure, though both men struggle with personal fears and the ethics of their choices. At Riverhead, you visit your father's grave, reflecting on past decisions and realizations. In a quiet moment later, surrounded by your team, you come to understand a truth you've been trying to avoid.

Warnings: Grief, CM case

Word Count: 6,1k

Dado's Corner: Here's the sister chapter of the previous one! The narration is still inspired by Suits' 2×08. Funny how Aaron making physical contact with you occupies 57 paragraphs while Peter doing the same thing ½ of a line. Also this is probably the first chapter in which Y/N's physical appearance is mentioned sooo let me know if you imagined her in this way (it's still very vague don’t worry). That said, bring out your finest china, we're celebrating!

previous chapter ; masterlist

“Riverhead,” Hotch said, his voice taut, barely containing the urgency that trembled beneath the surface. “He’s going there next.”

Peter’s eyes widened in disbelief, his immediate reaction pure instinct as he reached for his phone, fingers fumbling desperately to find your contact. “We have to call her. She needs to know -”

Hotch’s hand instinctively shot out, grabbing Peter’s arm with a force that matched the fear hiding behind his calm eyes. “No, we can’t. If we warn her, we risk tipping the unsub off, causing chaos, panic. It’s not just about her, Peter. It’s about every person in Riverhead. We have to handle this the right way.”

Peter wrenched his arm free, his anger flaring like gasoline igniting in the confined space of the SUV. “You’re seriously going to let her walk right into this? She’s in danger, Hotch! And you’re just going to sit back and do nothing?”

Hotch’s expression remained steely, but there was a tremor beneath the surface, a vulnerability he kept tightly under wraps. “This isn’t just about her. There are hundreds of people in Riverhead who could be at risk. If we alert her and it gets out, we’re not just endangering her, we’re endangering everyone. It’s not fair to warn one person and not the others. You can’t let your feelings dictate your decisions.”

Peter’s laugh was sharp and scornful, tinged with a mix of disbelief and fury. “Feelings? Don’t talk to me about feelings, Hotch. You’re always hiding behind the rules, always standing on the side of the law like it’s some infallible god. But this isn’t just about following orders - this is real, and she’s walking into something she can’t see coming.”

Hotch’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles going white as the weight of Peter’s words crashed over him, each one a blow to the carefully built walls he’d constructed around himself.

He shot Peter a side glance, his voice simmering with restrained anger. “I’m not doing this because it’s easy, I’m doing it because it’s the only way to stop this from getting worse. If we tip him off, if she gets scared and acts on it, it could cause a domino effect that puts even more lives at risk. We have to be smarter than that.”

Peter turned to fully face Hotch, the intensity between them palpable, a charged current of frustration and fear. “You keep talking about doing the job, about being ‘smart,’ but what about being human? What about doing the right thing for once instead of hiding behind procedure? What happens if something happens to her, Hotch? Are you really going to look me in the eye and say we did the right thing?”

Hotch’s expression tightened, his jaw clenched as he fought to keep his emotions in check. He kept repeating the same words, not so much to convince Peter, but to anchor himself - to hold onto some semblance of control as much as possible. “This isn’t just about one person, Peter,” he said, his voice a bit strained with the weight of the impossible choice they faced.

“We can’t put her safety above everyone else’s. It’s not how we do things. If this gets out, if people panic, we lose everything. That’s exactly what the unsub wants: to see us unravel, to watch us make decisions with our hearts instead of our heads. We can’t give him that satisfaction. We can’t let him win.”

Peter scoffed, his anger bubbling over as he stepped closer, his eyes blazing with frustration. His voice rose, each word laced with a mix of fury and desperation. “You’re always so damn obsessed with the law, Hotch,” he snapped, his breath coming faster, as if the force of his emotions was too much to contain. “But what about ethics? What about the people behind the profiles, behind all these damn statistics and protocols? This isn’t just a case file, it’s about real people.”

Peter’s tone shifted as he tried to reach Hotch, his next words softening, laced with an urgent plea. “You know Y/N. I know Y/N. And if she were standing here, right now, listening to us argue like this, she wouldn’t hesitate for a second. She’d probably quote some damn philosopher she loves - Sophocles or whoever - about how there’s more to this than just sticking to the rules. She’d remind us that the law isn’t the only thing that matters, that there’s a fine line between what’s legal and what’s just.”

Peter’s voice cracked slightly, his gaze searching Hotch’s for any flicker of understanding. “She’d be talking about the balance between law and justice, that sometimes what’s right and what’s legal are not the same thing. And you know she’d be right, Hotch. We’re not just here to enforce rules. We’re here to protect people. And if you can’t see that, then maybe you’ve lost sight of why we’re doing this in the first place.”

Hotch felt something inside him twitch at Peter’s words, a sharp, painful pull that he couldn’t ignore. The truth of what Peter was saying sliced through his defenses like a scalpel, precise and unyielding. It was as if Peter’s voice had reached into the guarded, unspoken places of his mind, exposing the doubts he worked so hard to bury. He could almost hear your voice echoing in his head, clear and insistent, the way it always was when you spoke up during team meetings.

You had a way of looking at cases that was different from anyone else, this deep, almost philosophical curiosity that refused to settle for the easy answers.

You’d sit there, arms crossed, eyes locked in that thoughtful gaze, and when you spoke, you’d often pose questions that hung in the air, challenging every assumption. You never just saw suspects and victims; you saw people - complex, flawed, human. You’d remind them all that beyond the evidence, beyond the profiles, there were lives and stories that couldn’t be reduced to simple binaries of right and wrong.

Hotch could almost picture you now, leaning forward in your seat, the intensity in your eyes as you dissected every aspect of the case. You were never satisfied with just the black-and-white - you thrived in the gray, constantly urging the team to see beyond the rigid lines of the law.

At how you’d quote philosophers, pull wisdom from literature, history, anything to make your point. It wasn’t about showing off. it was about challenging everyone, especially him, to rethink their approach. You’d often remind him that justice wasn’t just about following rules, it was about finding the truth that lay hidden beneath the surface, about doing what was right, even when it wasn’t easy.

Peter’s words hit Hotch hard because they echoed what you would’ve said, what you always said. It was that relentless pursuit of justice, that constant push to go beyond the status quo, that made you such an irreplaceable part of the team. And right now, it was tearing Hotch apart, knowing that you weren’t there to challenge him, to remind him of the bigger picture, to make him question the very things that had once felt so certain.

Peter noticed the crack in Hotch’s demeanor, and he pressed on, his voice softer now but no less intense. “But none of that matters if she doesn’t make it out alive, does it? You can stand here all day talking about rules and duty, but if she’s gone, who’s going to remind us of the difference? The dead can’t debate law and ethics, Hotch. Only the living can do that.”

Hotch’s breath caught in his throat, Peter’s words hitting him with a force that felt physical, like a punch to the gut. He could feel the fear that had been clawing at his insides since the moment he realized you were in danger, the fear he had been trying so desperately to keep at bay.

The fear of losing you - of never getting the chance to understand what this thing between you could be, of failing to protect the one person who had managed to breach the walls he’d spent years building.

“You think I don’t know that?” Hotch’s voice broke, his control slipping for just a moment. “You think I don’t feel it? But it’s not just about what we want, it’s about what we have to do. You want to protect her, and so do I. But again, this isn’t just about saving her. It’s about stopping him. It’s about making sure no one else gets hurt because we let our guard down.”

Peter’s gaze softened, but his frustration remained, an unresolved tension simmering between them. “Maybe you’re right, Hotch. Maybe we have to think about everyone. But that doesn’t mean you’re not scared. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you don’t care. So stop pretending you’re above it all, because you’re not. You’re just as terrified as the rest of us.”

Hotch looked away, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as he tried to regain his composure. Peter was right, he was terrified, but not just for you. He was terrified of what it would mean if he let this get personal, if he let himself care too much and it all fell apart. But as they hurtled toward Riverhead, the truth of Peter’s words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his resolve.

He couldn’t afford to lose focus, not now. But the fear, the aching fear that he was making the wrong call, that he was letting his own walls cost him something irreplaceable, was a battle he was losing with every mile closer they got to you.

And in the silence that followed, the weight of those unspoken fears hung heavy between them, a fragile truce bound only by their shared desperation to protect you, no matter the cost.

---

You had finally arrived at Riverhead.

The cemetery was quiet, shrouded in a stillness that felt heavy with the weight of unspoken memories. Each step toward your father’s grave felt deliberate, slow, as if every movement pulled at something deep within you that you hadn’t touched in years. You hadn’t been here since the funeral, and the sight of his name etched into the stone brought a fresh wave of emotions you weren’t prepared for: grief, anger, regret, all tangled up in the memories you had tried to bury.

You knelt beside his grave, your fingers trembling slightly as you placed a single orchid on the cold, gray headstone, the delicate petals were a sharp contrast to the starkness of the granite. Orchids had always reminded you of the first case you ever worked on at the BAU - a case that had tested every part of you, that had made you realize what it truly meant to carry the weight of other people’s pain.

The purple flower was a fitting tribute, an unspoken apology for not being there when he had needed you most, for choosing a path that had pulled you away from his final moments.

You traced the letters of his name, feeling the grooves under your fingertips, and memories of the past surged forward, unbidden. You thought back to the day you told your parents you wanted to become a profiler - a day that, despite all the tension that often simmered between you, had stood out as one of the rare moments of connection between you and your father.

It had been a rainy Sunday afternoon, the kind that kept everyone indoors and made the house feel smaller, the air thick with the unspoken tensions that seemed to linger in every corner. You had been pacing your bedroom, rehearsing the words over and over in front of your mirror, heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and dread. Telling them that you wanted to be a profiler felt like exposing a piece of yourself that you had kept hidden, especially from them.

You finally gathered the courage, walking down the stairs with resolve. Your father was at the dining table, surrounded by stacks of paperwork, his glasses perched on his nose as he scribbled notes on a report.

He was always working, always lost in something that seemed more important than anything happening in the room. It was his way: work was sacred, an escape, and a duty that defined him. You often resented it, the way he would get so caught up that he’d miss dinners, birthdays, the small moments that you had yearned for as a child. But there were also times when you admired his dedication, his unspoken belief that what he was doing mattered.

Your mother was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with an efficiency that matched her exacting nature. She always seemed to be in motion, always doing, rarely resting. She was the professor, the academic who had spent her life studying the human mind, dissecting theories, and teaching students who idolized her. To her, intellect was the highest form of achievement, and anything less was a waste of potential.

You stood in the doorway, feeling the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in your chest, but you pushed forward, clearing your throat to catch their attention. “Mom, Dad… I need to talk to you about something.”

Your father glanced up first, pulling his glasses off and setting them on the table with a raised brow, his expression curious but calm. “What’s on your mind?”

You hesitated, glancing between them, searching for the right words. “I’ve decided what I want to do after graduation. I… I want to be a profiler. I want to join the FBI.”

The room fell silent, the only sound the steady chop of your mother’s knife against the cutting board. Your father’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t speak right away, just watched you, his gaze heavy with a mix of concern and something you couldn’t quite name. Your mother, however, set her knife down sharply, her brow furrowing as she turned to face you.

“A profiler?” she repeated, the disbelief clear in her voice. “Y/N, do you have any idea what that entails? You’re talking about diving into the minds of criminals, putting yourself in danger every day. This isn’t some classroom exercise, this is real life.”

You braced yourself, taking a deep breath. “I know what it means, Mom. I’ve thought about this for a long time. I don’t just want to study the human mind, I want to understand what happens when it breaks. I want to make a difference, to stop people from getting hurt.”

Your father remained quiet, but his gaze never left yours, absorbing every word. There was something in his eyes that told you he was listening, that he understood the weight of what you were saying.

“Do you really understand what you’re asking for?” your mother continued, her voice laced with frustration. “You’re brilliant, Y/N. You have so much potential. You could do anything: be a researcher, a professor. You’d be safe, you’d be respected. Why throw all that away to chase criminals?”

It stung, but you had expected her reaction. For as long as you could remember, your mother had pushed you toward her path, believing that academia was where you belonged. But as much as you respected her work, it had never felt right for you.

The endless theories, the dissection of literature studies in sterile classrooms, it all felt too detached, too far removed from the gritty reality of the world you wanted to understand. You wanted to do more than just read about what broke people; you wanted to see it, to confront it, to fight against it.

“I don’t want to be safe, Mom,” you said, your voice firmer now, carrying the weight of all the arguments you’d been rehearsing for months. “I want to be out there. I want to see the truth of what people can become, the good and the bad. I can’t just sit back and write papers about it.”

Your mother’s mouth tightened, the disappointment etched in her features, but your father leaned back in his chair, studying you with a quiet intensity. He cleared his throat, and you braced yourself for the inevitable disapproval. But when he finally spoke, his voice was low, contemplative, carrying the weight of his own unspoken struggles.

“If this is really what you want,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care, “then you have my support.” He paused, glancing at your mother before returning his focus to you. “Work is… sacred. It’s a calling, not just a job. I know I haven’t always been there, and I know you’ve seen the toll it can take. But I also know the satisfaction that comes from doing something that matters, something you believe in.”

Your heart swelled, caught off guard by the unexpected warmth in his words. It was one of the few times you’d felt truly seen by him, and the memory of that moment, of his quiet nod of approval, had stayed with you ever since.

Your mother turned away, picking up the knife and resuming her chopping, her movements more forceful now. “Just don’t come crying to me when it all falls apart,” she muttered, the bitterness barely hidden in her tone. “There’s no glory in risking your life. There’s no reward for choosing danger over reason.”

But you held on to your father’s words, his silent validation, and in that moment, it had been enough. Even if he wasn’t always present, even if his own work often kept him away, he had understood the drive that pulled you toward the unknown, the need to carve your own path, even if it led you away from everything they had envisioned for you.

As you stood at his grave now, the weight of that decision felt heavier than ever. You had chosen this life, knowing full well the risks, knowing the sacrifices that would come with it. And yet, in this quiet moment, you couldn’t help but wonder if he would still be proud, if he would still see the value in the path you had chosen.

You stood up, brushing the dirt from your knees, feeling the rough earth cling stubbornly to your clothes. As you turned to leave, something caught your eye near the cemetery entrance: a line of sleek, black SUVs parked in formation.

Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized the unmistakable outlines of the BAU vehicles, their dark, imposing presence impossible to miss. But what truly made your breath hitch was the sight of Hotch. Even from this distance, you recognized him instantly, not by his face, but by his unmistakable posture, the way he stood with that rigid, commanding presence, his stance was familiar, almost comforting in its certainty, a figure you’d know anywhere, even among a crowd.

It was only after a moment that your gaze shifted and you noticed Peter beside him, standing just as tensely, their expressions hard and urgent. Hotch’s sharp, focused demeanor contrasted with Peter’s more animated stance, but there was no mistaking the tension that hung between them, like a taut wire ready to snap.

Despite the distance, you could feel the weight of their conversation, the urgency that radiated from them both, and it made your pulse quicken. You hesitated, watching them, knowing that whatever they were discussing, it was serious, and you were about to be pulled right into the heart of it.

A surge of fear shot through you as you rushed toward them, your heart pounding with a mix of dread and confusion. As you got closer, you could see the strain etched across Hotch’s face, the urgency in his eyes that told you something was terribly wrong.

“Hotch?” you called out, breathless, searching his expression for answers. “What’s going on?”

Hotch turned to you, his eyes meeting yours, and for a split second, you saw the raw fear that he usually kept buried deep within. His jaw tightened, the weight of everything he couldn’t say hanging heavily between you, and you knew, whatever this was, it was bigger than any case you had ever faced.

Hotch’s normally composed demeanor was strained, his eyes revealing the fear he had been fighting to suppress all day. Peter, usually quick with a grin, looked torn between anger and the overwhelming relief of seeing you safe.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, breathless from both the sudden sprint and the weight of dread that settled in your chest. “Why are you here in Riverhead?”

Hotch exchanged a quick glance with Peter, an unspoken conversation passing between them before he turned back to you, his voice steady but edged with urgency. “The unsub’s been leaving clues at each crime scene, riddles hinting at his next target. The latest message… it mentioned Riverhead.” He paused, the gravity of his words sinking in, his gaze unwavering. “We think he’s planning his next attack here.”

Your stomach dropped, the weight of his revelation hitting you like a physical blow. The peaceful cemetery, a place you had come to seek closure and quiet, suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable, and fraught with danger. You looked around, the once comforting silence now suffocating as you imagined the unsub watching, waiting. You turned back to Hotch, trying to make sense of the layers of fear and determination that flickered across his face, unspoken and raw.

Peter, attempting to cut through the tension that gripped you all, forced a smile, though his voice was tight with the day’s unrelenting strain. “Luckily, Hotch cracked the code before anything happened. Sharp as ever, saved us all a lot of grief.”

You barely registered Peter’s words, his voice a distant murmur against the roar of your own thoughts. Guilt and self-reproach surged within you, crashing over like relentless waves. You were supposed to be better than this: your instincts, your training, everything you had learned should have protected you. But you had been caught off guard, blindsided by a danger that crept too close, too fast. Your eyes flicked back to the gravestones, their cold, silent presence now bearing witness to your vulnerability, each one a haunting reminder of how close you’d come.

Hotch, always attuned to the unspoken, stepped closer, sensing the spiral of self-doubt threatening to consume you. His hand found your shoulder, his touch firm and grounding, pulling you back from the edge of your own unraveling. The contact was startling at first, his touch warmer and steadier than you expected, cutting through the noise in your head like a lifeline.

It was a simple gesture, but it felt like an anchor in the storm, grounding you when everything else seemed to be slipping away. Hotch's touch was rare, almost unheard of, he was always so composed with his steady presence always keeping his distance, preferring words over gestures. But this, the solid weight of his hand on your shoulder, meant more than he could ever say.

His touch was warm, steady, a silent assurance that seeped past your defenses. It wasn’t just a comforting squeeze; it was Hotch’s way of saying what he rarely ever said aloud: I’ve got you. You’re safe. We’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.

The unspoken promise behind that touch cut through the chaos and fear, wrapping around you like a shield against the overwhelming feeling of guilt and self-doubt. It was as if he was lending you his strength, even for just a heartbeat, and in that moment, it was enough to keep you from completely falling apart.

“We’ve alerted local law enforcement,” Hotch said, his voice lower, more gentle now, the usual edge softened as if he was speaking directly to the turmoil inside you. “They’re securing the area. The unsub’s been targeting public spaces to create fear and chaos, but we won’t let him succeed. Not here, not today.” His words were calm, steady, the kind of reassurance that cut through the panic clawing at your chest.

You nodded, the knot in your throat tightening painfully as you fought to swallow the rising wave of emotion. The breath you drew felt unsteady, like the first real one you’d managed in minutes, but even as you tried to gather yourself, the stark reality of how close you’d come to danger clung to you, gnawing at the edges of your composure.

Hotch’s hand stayed firm on your shoulder, grounding you in a way that was both comforting and unnerving. It was a constant, quiet reminder of your vulnerability, a presence that made it impossible to hide from the fear you so often buried deep.

Desperate to shift the mood, you forced a strained smile, hoping to lighten the heaviness in the air. “Since we’re all here… how about we grab dinner?” you suggested, your voice wavering but hopeful. “There’s this local spot I used to go to when I was a kid. It’s nothing fancy, just this cozy little place, but it’s familiar, and… I could really use some company that feels like home right now.”

Hotch’s hand lingered for a moment longer, as if he was reluctant to let go, his touch a silent reassurance that even in your most vulnerable moments, he was right there with you. The smallest flicker of understanding passed between you, unspoken but felt deeply, as if he knew exactly why you needed this, why you needed them.

Peter’s grin was immediate, though it was tinged with the lingering shadows of what could have been. He clapped his hands together, trying to inject some much-needed levity into the moment. “Now you’re speaking my language. Food, friends, and hopefully a strong drink or two. What do you say, Hotch?”

Hotch hesitated, his mind still half-entangled in the day’s events and the potential dangers that loomed. But then he looked at you, really looked - saw the exhaustion etched into your features, the traces of pain you’d been carrying since your father’s grave. He knew this wasn’t just about a meal; it was about finding a moment of respite, about reconnecting when the job tore so much away.

“I’ll join you,” Hotch said quietly, his voice softer than you’d expected. “But I’ll catch up in a bit. There’s something I need to take care of first.”

You watched him turn back toward the cemetery, his figure fading into the sea of gravestones. It wasn’t like Hotch to delay; he was always so determined, so single-minded when it came to the job. But you sensed this wasn’t just about duty, it was about finding his own moment of stillness in a day that had been anything but.

Peter placed a comforting hand on your back, his touch gentle and familiar, guiding you toward the restaurant with an ease that belied the day’s tension. The small, local eatery was exactly as you remembered: warm, inviting, with the kind of worn wooden tables that made you feel instantly at home. The faint hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows, all of it wrapped around you like a comforting embrace.

Rossi and Gideon joined soon after, settling in with the kind of camaraderie that came only from years of shared battles and late-night stakeouts. There was a tiredness in all of you, a bone-deep fatigue that only people in your line of work truly understood, but for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t just about the job - it was about being together, about finding solace in each other’s presence.

Rossi leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling with a blend of mischief and genuine curiosity. “So, thesis, antithesis, synthesis,” he mused, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement. “Come on, kid. Educate us. What’s that all about in these weird Hegelian stuff you always talk about?”

You chuckled softly, grateful for the distraction. “It’s about the constant cycle of conflict and resolution. The synthesis - the so-called solution - doesn’t end the cycle; it just becomes the new thesis. Life is always evolving, always challenging us to adapt. Every resolution leads to a new conflict, a new question. It’s never really over.”

Rossi nodded thoughtfully, his gaze flicking between you and the empty seat that Hotch had yet to fill. “Sounds like something we could all stand to remember,” he said, his tone softer now, more reflective.

Meanwhile, back at the cemetery, Hotch stood alone in front of your father’s grave, the silence hanging heavy and profound. The orchid you had placed there was still fresh, its vibrant petals striking against the cold, unyielding stone.

Hotch understood the significance of that flower, the way it linked back to the very first case you’d ever worked at the BAU, the first time your paths had crossed.

It was the unsub’s calling card, a chilling detail that had haunted the case and marked the start of your journey in this unforgiving world. It was the first time he saw you not just as another agent but as someone uniquely brilliant, fiercely determined, and carrying a burden that ran deeper than anyone could have guessed.

Hotch knelt slowly, the memories of that first meeting mingling with the present, a bittersweet reminder of how far you both had come. He thought of you standing in that briefing room, so composed and meticulous, always immaculate in your appearance.

Your hair, always perfectly straightened, framing your face in a precise way that left nothing to chance. You wore black almost every day, the monochrome only broken by subtle variations in texture: sleek, tailored fabrics that gave the faintest hint of depth but no room for distraction.

He knew it wasn’t just a preference; it was armor, a way to command respect in a field that often doubted you because of your youth. On days when you felt a little lighter, a little braver, you’d occasionally allow yourself the small rebellion of a white shirt, a glimpse of something softer beneath the carefully crafted exterior.

He remembered noticing the deliberate choices you made, how you often wore masculine, tailored suits, sometimes even a three-piece, to project authority and mask the youth that others might use against you.

You were always striving to appear older, tougher, less vulnerable, less feminine, crafting an image that demanded to be taken seriously. And while it worked on most, Hotch never needed the sharp suits, the perfectly placed hair, or the carefully chosen colors to see your worth.

From the beginning, he had valued your insights, your sharp mind, and your relentless drive. He had never looked down on you, never needed you to prove yourself in ways that others did. He saw past the façade to the strength and vulnerability beneath, and he respected you all the more for it.

As he placed the small replica of the Guggenheim Museum beside the orchid, the gesture felt heavy with meaning - a tribute not only to your father but also to the history you both carried.

It was an offering of understanding, a quiet acknowledgment of everything unsaid between you. As Hotch lingered by the grave, he couldn’t help but think of the first day he met you, how determined you were to make your mark, and how, even then, he had been grateful for your presence. You challenged him in ways that reminded him of why he had started this journey, refusing to let the darkness win.

For a moment, Hotch allowed himself to feel it all: the gratitude for having met you, the fear of losing those he cared about, and the faint, fragile hope that maybe, he could find a way to let someone in without losing himself completely. As he stood there, surrounded by the quiet of the cemetery, he found a flicker of peace, a rare, delicate solace that, for the first time in years, made him feel less alone.

When Hotch finally made his way to the restaurant, the sight that greeted him was a balm to his weary soul. You were seated at the table, laughing at something Peter had said, your eyes sparkling with a light that had been missing all day. Rossi and Gideon were leaning back, more at ease than he had seen them in a long time, their expressions softened in a way that only moments like this could bring out - rare and fleeting for men who had spent their lives chasing shadows. It was a simple scene, but it was enough.

It was a reminder of why Hotch fought so hard, why he kept pushing forward, even when the weight of his responsibilities felt like too much to bear.

Without hesitation, Hotch took the seat directly across from you, mirroring the way your desks were always arranged back at the office.

It was deliberate, instinctual - a configuration that felt as natural as breathing. There was comfort in this alignment, in the way his eyes always found yours first, no matter how hectic the day had been. It wasn’t just about proximity; it was about connection.

Sitting across from you allowed him to see you fully, to catch those fleeting, unguarded moments when the professional masks slipped, and the real you shone through.

It was the angle that felt right, where he could read the subtle shifts in your expression, the small smiles that hinted at unspoken thoughts. It was where he could feel the bond between you most acutely, a silent acknowledgment of the trust and understanding that had grown over time.

You looked up as Hotch sat down, your gaze meeting his with a warmth that said more than words ever could. In that moment, the noise of the restaurant faded away, leaving only the quiet understanding that had always existed between you.

It was as if the world had shrunk to just the two of you, anchored by the familiar rhythm of shared space, the unspoken promises that bound you together. You had always understood each other in ways that transcended words - both driven by the same relentless need for justice, both carrying the weight of lives you couldn’t always save.

“I thought you’d never come, partner,” you greeted him, your voice carrying a mix of relief and something deeper, something that spoke to how much his presence truly mattered. It wasn’t just relief, it was comfort, knowing that he was here, that he always showed up, no matter what.

Hotch’s response was immediate, his voice softened with sincerity. “How could I miss this?”

The words were simple but carried so much more meaning. It wasn’t just a casual remark, not from him. It felt like a reaffirmation of something deeper, a silent promise that went beyond tonight.

It was a declaration that he was there, not just for this moment, but always. His presence was grounding, steady, the kind of anchor you hadn’t realized you needed until it was there.

As the night went on, you couldn’t help but reflect on how everything had unfolded - especially the train journey that had brought you to this point.

Or how the out-of-the-blue conversation with Rossi about Hegel’s thesis, antithesis, and synthesis now felt almost fated, as though the universe had nudged him to ask you once again – to make you acknowledge the truth you kept hidden within you.

Maybe the irony was the point: Hegel’s idea of the synthesis, the resolution that comes from the collision of opposing forces, was exactly where you found yourself.

The journey to self-awareness wasn’t linear; it was filled with contradictions, moments of doubt, and unexpected realizations.

Every step you had taken, every case, every sleepless night, now made sense, as if you had reached a vantage point from which you could see it all clearly for the first time.

It was like standing on the top of a mountain after a long, hard climb, finally able to look back at the winding path that had led you here.

And standing at that vantage point, you could see why you had been hesitant about the date with Peter, why something in you had resisted moving forward with him. It wasn’t because you didn’t care about him - it was because your heart had already chosen someone else.

The truth settled in gently, like a quiet revelation you had always known but hadn’t fully accepted until now.

It was Hotch.

It had always been Hotch.

The connection between you, the understanding, the trust that went deeper than words, it was more than just friendship or partnership.

You had admired him, respected him, but now you could see it for what it really was.

The reason you had hesitated, the reason you hadn’t been eager for anything else, was because the person you truly wanted was sitting right across from you.

You had a crush on Aaron Hotchner.

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Extras: here are some pics of the Guggenheim Museum by Frank Lloyd Wright! It inspired me to write the case you read in "Thesis" and Aaron Hotchner to show his love support to Y/N in this chapter.