#yes i am strange and i will make it your problem

[paradise-dreams]

―⟡Love at First Mistake

ᡣ𐭩 Summary: Love is such a weird feeling yes? But what happened when fate added a little chaos?

ᡣ𐭩 characters: Housewardens

ᡣ𐭩 Warnings: Crack, Introvert Reader(Kalim, Vil, Idia’s part), Fluff, flustered boys

AN: My mind shuts down on me in Malleus’s part….

🌹Riddle Rosehearts

You honestly didn’t expect to make a fool out of yourself in front of the Heartslabyul Housewarden. Really! You were helping Ace and Deuce with painting the roses when all of sudden Grim being the little menace he is, decided to run around the maze! You chase him around the dorm until you tripped and fell on top of new painted roses…in front of Riddle. “Ah! I’m so sorry!” You spoke, quickly dusting yourself and bowing to him for apologizing for the mess.

Riddle himself was just staring at you with flustered cheeks. Why does his heart skip a beat when he sees you all embarrassed and apologetic? Why did he have the urge to go easy on you? It can’t be love at first sight right? He sighed. “Apology accepted but make sure to get yourself cleaned up.” He scolded you who nodded your head, thanking him before running off to get cleaned up with Grim in your arms. The Housewarden of Heartslabyul gently placed his hand on his heart..his heartbeat is racing. Yup. He is in love.

🦁Leona Kingscholar

If anyone told you that Leona has a secret soft spot for you, you will never believe them. So what is your biggest mistake? Easy..stepping on his tail without looking. It was your first day at NRC and you were just trying to familiarize yourself with the school and how it runs. When you walk in the Botanical Garden, admiring the plants when your foot steps on a certain lion’s tail. Yea…you wish you could watch where you are going huh? “Oh my sevens! I am so sorry for stepping on your tail!” You bow at him with an apologetic expression.

Leona himself was mad that you interrupted his nap but all in all, you were adorable when you were embarrassed. “Hmph. Next time watch here you are stepping,herbivore.” He spoke, opening one eye to look at you with his emerald eye. “I won’t hesitate to teach you a lesson if you do it again.” You nod, not wanting to cause problems this early and you rush out of here. ‘Hmm..what a strange herbivore.’ He thought as he closed his eyes but little did he know, his tail was wagging.

🐙Azul Ashegetto

Where to even begin? Your mistake is seeing Azul in his merfolk form and calling him adorable. Okay you were at Octavinelle at the monstro lounge, looking for Azul. But you can’t find him anywhere so you decide to go Jade because Floyd is gone doing GOD knows what. Jade told you that Azul might be at the beach so you thanked him and went to said beach. When you came here, you saw Azul in his merfolk form and poor Azul was just staring at you like a deer caught in headlights. After a long awkward staring contest, I don’t know what possessed you to do it but you call him adorable and squishy.

The poor man was so red and embarrassed that he accidentally inked you and ran off in the sea, leaving you both mortified and embarrassed. Does that make his heart race? Yes. Does he enjoy it? Yes. Will he admit it to you? NOT in a million years. Good job on embarrassing him though.

🐍Kalim Al-Asim

If the terms opposite attracts can be found and manifest in a single event, it’s this party in Scarabia. So you are invited to a party and since you didn’t want to upset him, you go anyway. That is not the mistake, no. Not at all. Your mistake..you confess during the most fun time of your life that Kalim is your sun to your moon. Ya are cheesy babes. You know you outed yourself when Jamil is giving you that knowing smirk.

There is no going back. You got Kalim to fall in love with you by a cheesy mistake. Hope you like being spoiled and praised rotten by the sunshine of Night Raven College.

👑Vil Schoenheit

I think the sevens really did pity you on this one,man. What is the mistake that you made? You, the cute introvert that you are outright say that you pick Vil over Neige any day. Cute right? Well…when you heard a familiar voice behind you. Yea babes Vil overheard you and the next thing everyone knew, you were out of the window.

Vil ain’t mad! Far from it actually. Now you need to hide from a certain hunter because Vil won’t let you go away without him not having his final word. Good luck…you're gonna need it.

💀Idia Shroud

I don’t know who I should feel bad for. You or him? I am gonna say both because Jesus. This is both of ya’s mistakes. You were sitting with Idia in his room, playing your games like it’s ordinary day. That is until you two made an indirect kiss with the same soda can. You two didn’t realize it until twenty minutes were up. If Hades sees Idia, he would have teased the poor boy relentlessly. You are the one who left first due to embarrassment and Idia?

Ortho had to comfort him. His face is red and his blue fire-like hair is pink like a cherry blossom. “That is such normie behavior! Are they trying to kill me?! Is this real?” Idia is in a panicked flustered mess. Does he like it? Yea. Does it make his heart go doki doki? Will he admit it to you?! HELL no. Good luck trying to get him to look you in the eyes.

🐉Malleus Draconia

For the Malleus lovers, I love you but what possessed you to say that you will marry Malleus during a stressful time? Did Lilia poison you with his cooking or something? It’s a mistake that makes this boy’s heart do backflips.

I have no words but to say that he is SCARED of losing you. Please hug him…he needs it.

~Taglist: @husky-studies @windblumewishes @bibiddibobiddi-boo @lissytszz @vera-deville

[a-bit-of-writing]

How They React to a Shy Reader {Karlach, Astarion & Gale}

This is a reader request featuring these three characters. As the title implies, this is my take how these three would react to a shy reader.

Karlach

When Karlach first meets you, you're quiet, hesitant, unsure where to place yourself in this loud, unpredictable world.

“Hey there, soldier! What’s your name? C’mon, don’t be shy – I don’t bite!”

You mumble your name. Eyes down. She immediately clocks you as someone who’s probably used to being overlooked or overwhelmed.

“Aw, you’re like a little mouse. It’s okay. No pressure! You can talk when you’re ready. I’ll just keep being loud over here until you feel like jumping in!”

She gives you space without leaving you behind. She never forces you to speak, but she makes it very clear you’re welcome.

Karlach’s energy is usually at a 10 but with you? She instinctively dials it back a little.

When the campfire is quiet, she’ll sit beside you without demanding conversation.

“Mind if I hang here? Silence isn’t so bad when you’ve got good company.”

When you flinch at loud arguments or step back from crowded fights, she notices and she subtly positions herself between you and the chaos.

“Hey, I got you. Just stick close to me, yeah? Nobody messes with my crew.”

The first time you voluntarily join a conversation? She beams like you’ve just pulled off a critical hit.

“Oh YEAH! Look who’s chiming in! Get in here!”

She fist bumps you. She ruffles your hair (if you let her). She absolutely makes a huge, joyful deal about it. Not to embarrass you, but because she’s genuinely proud of you.

She sees you becoming more comfortable over time – offering small jokes, shy smiles, maybe even light teasing – and every time, she meets you with big Karlach energy.

“Look at you, being all bold now! I knew you had it in ya!”

Anyone who tries to talk over you? Anyone who dismisses you? Oh, they won’t do it twice.

“Hey! They were talking. You got something to say? Say it to both of us.”

She is ferociously protective of your voice.

She encourages you to speak up but if you’re not ready, she has no problem speaking for you.

“They don’t wanna deal with your crap right now. Move along.”

Karlach knows you’re capable of more – even if you don’t believe it yet. She’ll nudge you toward the front when a situation’s safe, letting you try things first, but she never abandons you.

“Wanna take the lead on this one? I’m right behind you, promise.”

When you succeed? She celebrates like you just won a world championship.

“YES! Look at you GO! You’re a total badass, you know that?”

When you finally initiate a hug, Karlach absolutely freezes for a second, then scoops you up in the warmest, safest bear hug imaginable.

“Aw, come here! Took you long enough!”

“Sorry, sorry – am I crushing you? Nah, you’re fine. I could hold you like this all day.”

You: “I think I finally feel… like I belong here.”

Karlach: visibly choked up, voice softening

“Damn right you do. You’re one of us. You always were.”

“And anyone who says otherwise can go through me.”

Astarion 

When you first meet Astarion, you can barely meet his eyes, your words trailing off whenever he gets too close.

“Oh my. Are you… blushing? How deliciously precious.”

He thrives on your shyness. At first, it’s all a game to him – a new plaything, a puzzle to prod at.

“Do continue – your flustered silence is simply enchanting.”

But the more time he spends with you, the more he realizes:

You’re not just flustered. You’re genuinely shy. And yet… you keep coming back to him.

“So curious. You’re terrified of me, but you never run away.”

Astarion is used to people either fawning over him or shrinking away completely. You? You’re a strange mix of both – interested but hesitant.

He absolutely teases you:

“Careful, darling, you keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you fancy me.”

“I do so love the sound of your stammering. Truly, it soothes me.”

But he’s shockingly attuned to your limits. He pushes, but never to the point of real discomfort.

When you genuinely freeze up? He pulls back immediately, voice softening.

“Oh now, I didn’t mean to scare you, little dove. Take your time. I can be… patient.”

The first time you make a teasing comment back?

He lights up like it’s his birthday.

“Oh! Oh, there you are! Well done, my sweet.”

He starts looking forward to your little victories:

The way you hold eye contact a little longer

The first time you initiate conversation

When you voluntarily sit beside him at camp

Each moment becomes a small treasure for him.

“I must say, watching you come out of your shell is my new favorite form of entertainment.”

But it’s not just entertainment anymore and that’s what rattles him.

Astarion insists he’s just enjoying the game.

But when someone else talks over you? When someone brushes you aside?

Oh, he immediately intervenes with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“How terribly rude. You’ll address them properly, or you won’t speak at all.”

When you wander too far from camp?

“Tch. Honestly, you’re lucky I was nearby. Do try not to get devoured, my sweet.”

When you freeze in battle?

“Stand behind me. Go on. I’ll handle this one.”

The more you open up, the more Astarion finds himself genuinely invested.

He’ll even let his guard down with you:

Casual touches linger a little longer.

His flirtations become less performative, more gently sincere.

He’s still dramatic, of course:

“Careful, darling. I might start thinking you’re actually fond of me.”

But there’s a softness in the way he says it now.

The first time you hold his gaze without flinching?

He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh? Staring now, are we? My, my. Who taught you such wickedness?”

You: nervous but determined “I guess I’m learning from the best.”

He falters. Just for a moment.

“Tch. Be careful, sweet thing. I might just make you my favorite.”

When you finally initiate contact

Maybe you gently touch his hand. Maybe you lean into his side at the campfire.

He stills – completely.

“Oh. Well… isn’t this lovely.”

“…I suppose I can tolerate this. For a little while longer.”

(He absolutely doesn’t move away.)

Gale

When you first meet Gale, you’re quiet, hesitant, almost visibly folding into yourself.

Gale notices immediately but he doesn’t comment on it. He simply adjusts, lowering his voice, softening his presence.

“Ah, no need to rush, my friend. I shall simply... enjoy the quiet until you’re ready to share more of yourself.”

He offers his hand to help you over rough paths. He gives you the first serving of camp stew. He never pushes.

His patience is genuine – it’s not a tactic. He simply likes your company, even in silence.

Gale has a natural tendency to explain, to elaborate, to narrate but with you?

He watches carefully to make sure you’re not getting overwhelmed.

“If I prattle on too much, you’ll tell me, won’t you? I’d hate to drown out that lovely quiet voice of yours.”

When you offer small contributions, soft jokes, or hesitant opinions, he listens as if you’ve just shared something extraordinary.

“Oh, what a marvelous point. You’re quite sharp, aren’t you?”

“I do hope you’ll share more of those thoughts with me.”

The first time you voluntarily engage in a lively discussion? He beams like you’ve just solved an ancient riddle.

“Oh, splendid! You’re joining in! I was beginning to worry you’d leave me to monologue all by myself.”

Every little step – whether it’s joining camp banter, cracking a small joke, or asking about magic – he celebrates with genuine warmth, but never in a way that draws too much attention to you.

He carefully avoids embarrassing you. His joy is for you to see, not for the crowd.

He finds your shyness endearing, but his curiosity grows the more you reveal.

“You hold back so much, yet what you do share… well, I find myself treasuring it.”

He loves the little things:

The way you fidget with your sleeves when nervous

The way your eyes light up when you do talk about something you love

The soft humor that peeks through when you’re comfortable

He might casually invite you to stargaze, to teach you simple spells, to offer safe spaces where you can open up at your own pace.

“I thought you might enjoy a quieter moment. The world does tend to be a bit… loud, doesn’t it?”

Gale never swoops in to speak for you but he notices when others try to talk over you.

He redirects conversations, clears space for you to speak, and offers gentle encouragement with small nods or phrases like:

“I believe our friend had something to say?”

“Go on, I’m listening.”

In battle, he always keeps an eye on you – positioning himself nearby, subtly adjusting the formation to ensure you’re safe.

“You’re quite capable, but humor me – I prefer to keep you in my line of sight.”

You: softly “Could you… maybe teach me that spell?”

Gale: visibly delighted

“Why, of course! Oh, this will be grand. We’ll make a proper magician of you yet.”

He immediately offers you the safest, most beautiful cantrip because he wants you to feel empowered, not overwhelmed.

You: shy but growing bolder “You do love hearing yourself talk, huh?”

Gale: mock scandalized

“What? Me? Perish the thought! I simply… appreciate a well-spun sentence.”

But oh, he is so proud of you for saying it. He practically radiates joy.

[lost-seal]

We are Studying Ramb Again

I am once again putting his design under a microscope because something occurred to me while I was designing an AU. His face is so...strange. Now, we will be heavily discussing plug and outlet anatomy, so here is your last warning to take everything with a grain of salt.

Let's look at regular plugboys first.

Ignoring the cartoon-ish expression that comes with being spared, their faces generally fall under the shapes D= , =D , and o= . They fall under type B plugs. Fun Fact: these are found in Japan, Canada, Mexico, and USAmerica. Japan's and the latter's plug Type A & B are slightly different, which affects their compatibility.

"But the grounding hole (that circle under the lines) is way too round to match!" Well you see, this chart is not a hard and fast rule. They are a type of plug Type B called a NEMA 5-15 120 vac. Also known as a 3-prong 15A, 120 volt outlet. It is the most common type found in the homes of those countries as the grounding hole makes it safer than type A and its compatibility list is longer. Yes, type Bs are compatible with laptops.

Fun Fact: If Toriel was tech smart she'd have installed tamper-resistant outlets so that the kids didn't stick anything in them. This wouldn't affect any plugboys we know, because none of them are from the house. They're all from the library. Isn't it strange though, that the only plug character who shows up in the TV World, essentially Kris's house, is a power strip? You'd still need to plug Ramb into an outlet in order for him to be of any use.

Ramb... let's slowly ease into Ramb.

Ramb is a British power strip, which means he should be a Type G. They're found in the UK, Ireland, Cyprus, Malta, Malaysia, Singapore, and Hong Kong. They look like this:

I hope you can see the issue here.

Tye Gs also have over 100 more volts than Type Bs, so Type G plugs are generally considered stronger and the best plug in the world. (I think this is a matter of opinion though. For example, some people like the rotation that Type F provides more.) You'd probably need an adapter to get the most out of a Type G outlet if you don't live there. Same for the other way around.

Back to our boi, Ramb's mouth is. Well. The shape I can best describe it as is the Nike logo, which funny enough is supposed to represent the wings of the Greek goddess Nike. We cannot escape mentions of religion.

Now, here's the problem chat. If he doesn't look like a Type B or a Type G, what is he?

I don't know.

The curve of his mouth is technically possible though. Look at NEMA L6-20, NEMA L6-30, and NEMA L6-50.

Two vertical lines with a curve. That's all we need for a match.

Yet

I just

Couldn't

Find

One

No matter where

I looked.

We're now on day 2 of writing this. Now that we can all see that he doesn't match any sort of outlet, the next step is to figure out why. Is this some sort of Red Cross copyright issue? Can't find anything that implies it. That leaves me with two options.

Ramb has a construction defect

This idea came from my good friend @kayuripax while I was trying to wrap my head around this situation. It's possible that the machines in the factory messed up and the quality check didn't catch it. Neither did the people running the library. (Maybe it's just the outlet that makes up his face that's defected and the other outlets of the power strip are fine.)

2. Ramb had a malfunction and the plastic melted

Ramb being a British plug and being used in a place incompatible is a bad sign already. Sure, an adapter can be used, but that has never been mentioned yet. It'd be so easy to just misuse Ramb and it all goes wrong. Maybe they're just kept because of nostalgia.

Hold on post canceled what the-

If Eram could have connections to Ramb... And have connections to the amalgamates... Both Dump and Amalgam sound like EarthBound... Ramb's strange mouth... The way his left ear/piece of hair is so mismatched with the right side... Random Access Memory... Memory... Bad Memory... Sword Route shows a lot of that...taps into Kris's violent past (more like the affinity for it) Random Access Memory (Bad)... Listen, I'm spit balling here. I'm not gonna say he's some sort of Amalgamate. But it sure is. Strange.

[aki-bara]

i love percabeth so much that the idea of shipping either one of them with anyone else short circuits my brain. like percy jackson is dedicated to his one true love why would he kiss another person…..

OKAY.

BUT- CONSIDER: Percy and Annabeth are two halves of the same whole.

Like to the point where they are the same person.

They move in sync. They can perfectly predict the others thoughts and movement patterns. They have entire conversations without saying a single word. And they are so much greater because of it! Because they have each other! And if you were a part of this unit, this astounding pillar of strength that is two in one wouldn't you want more? To share that WHOLENESS?

And if your other half did want to share that joy with others, would you resent them for it? Would you, who are their other half, not understand their need for more as your own? Would you not recognize it as your very own desire? If they wanted someone wouldn't you want that too?

[inkskinned]

i have chronic pain. i am neurodivergent. i understand - deeply - the allure of a "quick fix" like AI. i also just grew up in a different time. we have been warned about this.

15 entire years ago i heard about this. in my forensics class in high school, we watched a documentary about how AI-based "crime solving" software was inevitably biased against people of color.

my teacher stressed that AI is like a book: when someone writes it, some part of the author will remain within the result. the internet existed but not as loudly at that point - we didn't know that AI would be able to teach itself off already-biased Reddit threads. i googled it: yes, this bias is still happening. yes, it's just as bad if not worse.

i can't actually stop you. if you wanna use ChatGPT to slide through your classes, that's on you. it's your money and it's your time. you will spend none of it thinking, you will learn nothing, and, in college, you will piss away hundreds of thousands of dollars. you will stand at the podium having done nothing, accomplished nothing. a cold and bitter pyrrhic victory.

i'm not even sure students actually read the essays or summaries or emails they have ChatGPT pump out. i think it just flows over them and they use the first answer they get. my brother teaches engineering - he recently got fifty-three copies of almost-the-exact-same lab reports. no one had even changed the wording.

and yes: AI itself (as a concept and practice) isn't always evil. there's AI that can help detect cancer, for example. and yet: when i ask my students if they'd be okay with a doctor that learned from AI, many of them balk. it is one thing if they don't read their engineering textbook or if they don't write the critical-thinking essay. it's another when it starts to affect them. they know it's wrong for AI to broad-spectrum deny insurance claims, but they swear their use of AI is different.

there's a strange desire to sort of divorce real-world AI malpractice over "personal use". for example, is it moral to use AI to write your cover letters? cover letters are essentially only templates, and besides: AI is going to be reading your job app, so isn't it kind of fair?

i recently found out that people use AI as a romantic or sexual partner. it seems like teenagers particularly enjoy this connection, and this is one of those "sticky" moments as a teacher. honestly - you can roast me for this - but if it was an actually-safe AI, i think teenagers exploring their sexuality with a fake partner is amazing. it prevents them from making permanent mistakes, it can teach them about their bodies and their desires, and it can help their confidence. but the problem is that it's not safe. there isn't a well-educated, sensitive AI specifically to help teens explore their hormones. it's just internet-fed cycle. who knows what they're learning. who knows what misinformation they're getting.

the most common pushback i get involves therapy. none of us have access to the therapist of our dreams - it's expensive, elusive, and involves an annoying amount of insurance claims. someone once asked me: are you going to be mad when AI saves someone's life?

therapists are not just trained on the book, they're trained on patient management and helping you see things you don't see yourself. part of it will involve discomfort. i don't know that AI is ever going to be able to analyze the words you feed it and answer with a mind towards the "whole person" writing those words. but also - if it keeps/kept you alive, i'm not a purist. i've done terrible things to myself when i was at rock bottom. in an emergency, we kind of forgive the seatbelt for leaving bruises. it's just that chat shouldn't be your only form of self-care and recovery.

and i worry that the influence chat has is expanding. more and more i see people use chat for the smallest, most easily-navigated situations. and i can't like, make you worry about that in your own life. i often think about how easy it was for social media to take over all my time - how i can't have a tiktok because i spend hours on it. i don't want that to happen with chat. i want to enjoy thinking. i want to enjoy writing. i want to be here. i've already really been struggling to put the phone down. this feels like another way to get you to pick the phone up.

the other day, i was frustrated by a book i was reading. it's far in the series and is about a character i resent. i googled if i had to read it, or if it was one of those "in between" books that don't actually affect the plot (you know, one of those ".5" books). someone said something that really stuck with me - theoretically you're reading this series for enjoyment, so while you don't actually have to read it, one would assume you want to read it.

i am watching a generation of people learn they don't have to read the thing in their hand. and it is kind of a strange sort of doom that comes over me: i read because it's genuinely fun. i learn because even though it's hard, it feels good. i try because it makes me happy to try. and i'm watching a generation of people all lay down and say: but i don't want to try.

[fireinmoonshot]

unreal | robert reynolds x reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: Bob offers for you to share his room while your room in the Watch Tower gets renovated... there's just one problem – he didn't think about the fact that he'd have to share a bed with you. Warnings: General mentions of mental health issues (nothing specific) Word Count: 2.1k A/N: Okay, so it's been over a week since I last wrote for Bob and the response on my last Bob fic is insane. I cannot believe how much love it's gotten 🥹 I have since seen Thunderbolts three more times and I love Bob even more. This was the fic idea that won in the poll I posted earlier today and it was so enjoyable to write. I am really looking forward to writing more for him (including the other ideas that I had in the poll). I hope you all enjoy this one as well. Requests are always open! 💗

“You can share my room” are five words that Bob regrets the second that they’re out of his mouth. Not because he doesn’t want you to share his room, but just because now that it’s out in the open, the prospect of you saying yes is terrifying.

When you’d all moved into the Watch Tower, you hadn’t considered the fact that most of the building was still a work in progress. There were so many rooms that still needed to be built and while there had been bedrooms, there weren’t many and Valentina had insisted on building you all your own. Nothing but the best for my New Avengers, she’d said.

Your bedroom was the last one to be renovated. Every other member of the team had gone through the room-sharing phase while their rooms were completed. Yelena and Ava had always shared, though they’d hated every second of it – both girls loved their personal space. Both Bucky and John refused to share with Alexei. Bob had managed to come out the other end without sharing a room at all. 

Until his offer to you, that is.

“Seriously?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest as you look around at the others. “None of you are offering to share with me so you’re making Bob offer?”

Walker scoffs. “You think we put him up to it? Please.”

“No one put me up to it,” Bob shakes his head. “I just thought I’d ask you since… y’know… none of the others have… and you probably don’t wanna sleep on the couch out here.”

He’s not really sure why he’d offered, actually. The words had been out of his mouth before he’d had a chance to think them over, which was strange for him. He supposes it might have something to do with the fact that he’s been crushing on you for a solid few months. It would be fine, though. He didn’t have a couch in his room, but he’s slept on his fair share of floors before and this one would be no different. Sharing a bedroom with someone he was slowly falling head over heels with was definitely going to end well.

You cross the room and put a hand down on Bob’s shoulder. “Are you really sure you want me to share with you? I know you haven’t had to share before and I really don’t want to intrude on your space.” Your voice is soft, for Bob’s ears only.

He nods once. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

You don’t completely believe him. He’s undoubtedly the most independent out of all of you, but it’s been proven that he really does love being around other people. The last thing you want is to get in his way or make him uncomfortable.

“Bob,” you meet his eyes. 

His lips turn up into a small smile at the tone of your voice. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to share with you.”

That seems to do the trick, because you nod your head and step away from Bob after that before announcing that you’re going to go and start getting all your things together. 

That afternoon, you move your things into his room so that the renovations can start on your own. Bob makes some space for you – not that he has a lot of things himself – but he wants to make you feel comfortable. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re living in his room. He wants it to feel like it’s yours too.

It only starts to feel real once it’s gotten dark outside and everyone has started to retire to bed. Once he’s in his room again, sitting on a bean bag in the corner, a book in his hand and he sees you walk into his room, hair a little bit wet from your shower. 

“I just realised,” you say, stopping in the centre of the room and looking around, “that you don’t have a couch.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bob nods, closing the book and sitting up a little straighter. “I just sit here. I, uh, I changed the sheets on the bed earlier so that you don’t have to sleep in dirty ones.”

You frown and look over at him. “Me? I’m not sleeping in your bed, Bob. I assumed I’d sleep on the couch. But I can just sleep on your beanbag. I’ll go and find some blankets…”

You turn to go and leave the room when you see Bob standing up in the corner of your eye. He stumbles a little, the blanket on the ground in front of him briefly catching his feet, and then rights himself. 

“No, you don’t have to do that,” he says. “You take the bed. I’m fine with sleeping on the floor. I’ve done it more often than you think.”

“Bob… you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s really okay.”

He really doesn’t mind. As long as you’re comfortable, he will be too. He’s slept in worse places. Plus, he doubts he’d even be able to sleep soundly knowing you were uncomfortable on the cold, hard floor. How could he let the person he likes sleep there rather than on his perfectly comfortable bed?

You cross your arms over your chest and shake your head, slowly starting to walk towards him. This is a losing battle, you can see that. There’s no way that Bob is going to relent and let you sleep on the floor or the bean bag, and there’s no way you’re going to let him sleep there either. You couldn’t live with yourself if he did.

“Why don’t we both take the bed?” You suggest.

Bob’s eyes widen a little and he opens his mouth and then closes it again without saying anything. That’s the last thing he’d expected you to say. Sharing a bed? Had any of the others shared beds when they’d shared rooms? He highly doubted that. The members of the New Avengers weren’t particularly comfortable when it came to physical contact. 

“I don’t think we have to do that,” he mutters.

“Why not? I don’t mind it. That way, we both get to sleep on the bed and neither of us have to be uncomfortable on the floor. I promise I’ll stick to my side.”

Bob stares at you for a moment. You’re really suggesting this. You really want to share a bed with him. But how is he supposed to share a bed with you? This is not going to be beneficial towards his crush at all. It’s definitely not going to help him in his mission to get over you… he hadn’t started on that mission yet but he was definitely going to start soon… oh, he really shouldn’t have suggested this…

“All right, then,” he hums, and then squeezes his eyes shut as he winces. What the hell is he doing? Why are the words he’s speaking and the thoughts he’s having so out of sync?

You smile at him – one of the beautiful smiles that always sets his heart alight – and then move towards the bed. “Which side do you usually sleep on?” 

“Closest to the door,” he says, starting to walk towards it.

“A man after my own heart,” you grin, voice teasing as you pull the sheets back to the other side of the bed and slip underneath them. “Can you get the lights?” 

Bob tries his best to ignore your words, thinking about how he is actually after your heart, and slowly walks towards the light switch. He turns them off, then makes his way towards the bed in the dark. His heart is racing in his chest. It’s not until he’s sitting on the bed, hands fisted in the sheets, that he realises he’s sweating bullets.

He’d forgotten. How could he forget something like this? He’s always run hot. He’s been known to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, especially after a nightmare.

Maybe, once you’re asleep, he can slip out of the bed and go back to the bean bag without waking you up… surely that would be okay. He could make up some excuse in the morning about not being able to sleep in the bed…

“Everything all right?” You ask from beside him.

The room is so dark that he can’t see you to tell how far away from him you are, but your voice is close. He trusts that you’ve stuck to your word, though, and that you haven’t crept over to his side of the bed.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea actually.”

He hears the sheets rustling and can somehow tell that you’re sitting up now. 

“Why not?”

Bob sighs and tucks a piece of his hair behind his ear. He doesn’t know why he’s so embarrassed about this. It’s not like you don’t know. You were there in the vault. You heard him admit it to Yelena. You’ve seen so many parts of him that he hates and you’ve never judged him for any of them, so why would you judge him for this now?

“Hey,” your voice is gentle. “You can tell me. If you don’t want me here, I can go.”

“No,” Bob shakes his head, quick to respond. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re not welcome here when truthfully, all he wants is to have you here with him. He just wishes he wasn’t so awkward about it. “It’s not that. It’s just…”

“There’s no rush.” 

He turns to look at where you’re sitting, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness so he can see you just barely. “I run hot,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if I sweat a lot during the night. I should just sleep on the floor by myself.”

There’s silence for a moment and Bob takes that as your answer. He swings his legs off the bed and is just about to stand up when he feels the mattress shift underneath him, and then he feels your warmth pressed against his side.

“Hey, no,” you hum, leaning your arm against his. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to worry about things like that with me. If you sleep on the floor, I’m sleeping on the floor too. You’re not giving up your comforts for me.”

Bob turns to look at you through the darkness. “I’d just make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” you reach down and find his hand, entwining your fingers together. It’s true that the members of your team are bad when it comes to physical contact, but you don’t mind it. Bob’s always been a little concerned about touch ever since the incident that had happened a few months back but you can tell by the way he doesn’t tense up at your touch that he doesn’t mind it. You’re surprised to find you can actually feel him relax a little. “You won’t.” 

“I won’t?” 

“No,” you repeat. “I’m really glad you offered for me to share your room, Bob. I don’t care if you run so hot that the whole bed feels like a giant inferno. I’m not going to leave unless you ask me to.”

“I won’t. ” 

You give his hand a squeeze. “Okay, so should we get back into bed and try and get some sleep then?”

Bob nods and then remembers it’s dark and you probably can’t see him. “Yeah, all right.”

He hates the feeling of emptiness when you let go of his hand. He can feel the mattress shifting as you move back to your side of the bed. It takes every part of him to swing his legs back up and to lay down. It’s only once his head hits the pillow that he feels truly relaxed. It’s strange, even just knowing that you’re right beside him puts him a little bit at ease.

“I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” You say, voice so close to him that he almost jumps.

“Okay,” he murmurs, staring up at the dark ceiling above him. 

He’s so certain he’s going to wake up in the morning and all of this will have just been a dream. Not a good dream, not a bad dream. Just an unreal one. One where you hold his hand and sleep beside him. One where, as he’s drifting off to sleep he can feel the warmth of your body inches away. One where he can remember the feeling of your arm pressed against his with such clarity it almost feels real. 

But when he wakes up in the morning, the first thing he sees is you sleeping soundly beside him and he knows it wasn’t a dream. A small smile makes its way onto his face. He can’t remember the last time he slept through the night without waking up… not until right now. 

[iris-qt]

Are we getting more of theo whom has a staring problem

The Boy Who Folded First

-> Part Ⅰ - The Boy Who Stares

You’re halfway through outlining your Arithmancy essay, peacefully nestled into your usual spot in the library (the cozy alcove by the window that smells faintly of dust and lavender polish) when you hear the faintest sound of someone… hesitating.

It’s the sound of feet shuffling. A bag being adjusted. A breath being held.

You glance up, expecting Madam Pince or maybe a first-year in crisis.

Instead, you get Theodore Nott, frozen like a deer caught mid-scheme, holding a stack of books and trying very hard not to look like he’s here for you.

He is.

You blink. He nods. It’s weirdly formal, like you’re about to conduct business negotiations.

Then, very carefully, he slides into the chair across from you. He places his books on the table with reverent precision. Doesn’t say a word.

You go back to your essay. Or try to.

It’s been twenty seconds. He has not opened a single book. He has, however, started watching you with the expression of someone seeing a rainbow for the first time.

You glance up.

He quickly looks away. Opens the wrong end of a book. Realizes it. Flips it. Doesn’t read it.

You pretend to focus, but your quill slips. “Theo.”

His eyes flick up, startled. “Yes?”

“You’re not even pretending to study.”

He freezes. Then, slowly he flips a page in the upside-down book and says, “I am.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Your book is in Latin.”

“It’s a universal language,” he replies, far too quickly.

You try not to smile. “Are you here to read or stare?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he rests his chin on his hand, looks at you, and says, very softly, but with complete sincerity

“Both.”

Cue the butterflies. Stupid, ridiculous, flapping butterflies.

Your face warms before you can stop it. “That’s not very productive.”

He leans in slightly, his voice just a whisper above the quiet: “It is for me.”

Silence. Except for your heartbeat, which is now doing some kind of interpretive dance in your ribcage.

You look away, biting the inside of your cheek. “You’re very weird, Theodore Nott.”

He gives you the softest, smallest smile, one that tugs at just one corner of his mouth like it’s shy about being there.

“I know,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “You make me that way.”

You drop your quill.

And for once, he doesn’t panic. He just picks it up, sets it gently in front of you, and goes back to flipping pages in his very, very upside-down Latin book.

And you, utterly doomed, go back to pretending you’re not falling for the boy who stares.

…

You don’t expect to find anything strange in your Arithmancy notes the next day.

You really don’t.

You sit down in the library like always, armed with a steaming cup of tea and the vague hope that numbers will one day make sense.

You flip open your notebook.

And there it is.

A folded piece of parchment tucked right between your notes on logarithmic spell sequencing and wand length correlations. Neat. Crisp. Very much not yours.

You pause. Pick it up. Look around suspiciously, like the paper might explode or insult your handwriting. No one seems to notice.

Your name is written on the front in tight, slanted script. Theodore’s script. Oh dear.

You unfold it carefully.

And you gasp.

Because it’s not a note. It’s a letter. A dramatic, charming, deeply earnest letter, written with the kind of emotional intensity that could only come from someone who once stared at you in class for thirteen entire minutes and forgot how to blink.

To the girl who doesn’t know she’s being watched, I should clarify: not in a terrifying way. Hopefully. Just… in a “you exist like sunlight through old stained glass and it’s very distracting” way. You sit there, every day, with your quiet focus and your ridiculous pens and your little crease between your eyebrows when you're thinking too hard. I’ve watched the way you annotate like you're solving a mystery. I’ve watched the way you smile to yourself when you get something right. I’ve watched the way you make silence feel like a conversation. And I’m utterly, irrevocably— (Ridiculously, foolishly, sincerely) —smitten. You make it very hard to concentrate. You make it very easy to feel seventeen and doomed and soft all at once. I’ve rewritten this five times. Probably because I’m terrified. You’re very smart. I’m mostly composed of sarcasm and dramatic eye contact. But if you’ll have me, even just for a walk by the lake, or a shared study table, or something unspeakably wild like holding hands, I’d very much like that. —Theo (P.S. I know you saw me walk into a door. I’m trying to block that memory out. Please let me have this.)

You stare at the letter for a full minute, brain short-circuiting, heart doing small backflips.

And just as you’re about to burst into tiny flustered sparkles, you hear the soft scrape of a chair.

You look up.

Theodore Nott is standing there.

He looks like he wants to flee the country.

“Hi,” he says, voice unusually hoarse. “So. You found it.”

You hold up the letter with both hands like it’s Exhibit A in a very dramatic trial. “You left me a love confession in my Arithmancy notebook.”

His ears go red. “You weren’t supposed to find it until after exams. I was buying time to work on…bravery.”

You raise an eyebrow, suppressing a giddy smile. “You rewrote it five times.”

“I panicked,” he says solemnly. “And I was out of parchment.”

You try to hold back your smile, but it breaks through anyway, soft, real.

“I’d very much like that walk by the lake,” you say.

Theodore’s eyes go wide. Then soft. Then stunned.

“You would?”

You nod. “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

You grin. “You have to stop pretending your upside-down French book is useful.”

He groans. “I knew you noticed.”

And just like that, the boy who stares officially becomes the boy who blushes, babbles, and very gently takes your hand like it might be the most important thing he’s ever held.

Spoiler: it is.

A/N: manifesting this, big thank you to everyone for all the love :)

[realcube]

dilf december

day eleven ⭑ ushijima wakatoshi ⭑ time for christmas kids?

tw: nsfw minors dni, breeding, mentions of pregnancy, riding, squirting, size kink and cervix bruising

to everyone's surprise, ushijima was strangely receptive and understanding when his contract with the swedish adlers expired and they didn't renew it for the next season; telling him they didn't make the decision out of ill-intent, they just think it's time for him to retire.

there was nothing stopping ushijima from simply trying out for another team. he'd likely have no problem finding another one that would accept him, despite him being thirty-five, since he is still fit and healthy.

however, shockingly, ushijima took the adler's advice.

this was unlike him as all throughout his career, he has vehemently protested whenever anyone even alludes to his retirement, insisting that he will remain on the volleyball court until his legs give out from under him.

and although that is true to some extent, because he often visits the court and plays games recreationally while in retirement, it still puzzled you as to why he switched tempo so suddenly.

although, you weren't going to complain, as since leaving the swedish adlers you've been able to spend a lot more time with him than you usually did, which is always nice, especially around the holiday season. you almost felt greedy having him all to yourself: no useless teammates blowing up his phone and no whiny managers asking to meet with him. just love and peace on earth!

that is, until you remembered a conversation you've been having with him ever since the beginning of your marriage.

"when are we going to have kids, toshi?" you would look up at him with boiling anticipation in your eyes.

and though he'd appreciate your eagerness, he'd frown and reply sternly, "i don't have the time to raise kids, currently. i don't think i will ever have the time while i am employed as an athlete. we should have this discussion once i retire."

you grumbled, "but you literally always say that you're never going to retire?"

"that's true, though i might fall into unexpected circumstances. say, if i am hit by a train."

"or my car." you'd comment with a titter.

it was funny and light-hearted dialogue back then, but now that you had both matured and grown in your relationship, you find that particular topic of disucssion to be more pressing. especially as you have fallen into what ushijima may describe as "unexpected circumstances" where he now has all the time in the world to help you raise a child.

so, you decide to bring this point to his attention one night, before bed.

the outside is consumed with darkness and your back windows are virtually blackened; it reflects the flickering light of the festive scented candles placed around the room. wafting the smell of freshly baked cookies through the space, pleasing your nose like a warm hug, while your focus constantly shifts between the tv screen and your husband, who is sat beside you on the couch with his eyes drilled into a book while you lounged in your fluffy robe.

you weren't paying attention to the show currently playing at all. no, it was simply background noise to the chorus of worries and perpetual screaming in your mind, as you mulled over whether or not now was a good time to bring up the topic you so desperately wanted to discuss. the last thing you'd want to do is disturb the peaceful night you were sharing and cause tension in the household.

but if you can't talk to your husband about something that is important to you, what is the point of getting married?

you swallow your pride and inhibitions with an audible gulp, then croak, "wakatoshi?"

"yes, dear." he replies in his usual blunt manner, not glancing up from the pages.

"do you remember a while ago when we talked about having kids?" you said timidly, so quiet that ushijima could barely hear you over the noise of the tv. so he pauses the show, and replies,

"yes, i think i do remember."

his face is so stern and unwavering; it's hard to tell if that is due to his natural stoic nature, or if he truly does not care for what you are saying. for the sake of your self-esteem, you assume its the first one, and continue talking.

or, at least, you try to. it's quite hard when your heart is pounding so harshly in your chest that you feel it could leap out of your throat at any given moment. "you said we should talk about it when you retire. so, have you given it any thought?"

he furrows his eyebrows together, and stares into the distance. a couple seconds pass, and he closes his book too, placing it to the side in order to focus on pondering your question.

it takes a minute, but he finally responds, "yes, i have."

you blink, expecting him to continue, so when he doesn't, you urge him to do so, "and?"

"and i think it's a great idea. now is the perfect time to have child." he says it in such a dry manner that any onlooker would think he was being sarcastic, but you know your husband all too well, and you can pick up on the subtle signs of sincerity in his cadence.

your whole face lights up, and you perk up in your seat, "really? that's amazing news, toshi!" you squeal, lunging forward and throwing yourself into his arms. and as always, he's ready to catch you in his strong arms and hold you close for however long you need.

as your melting into the hug, wakatoshi uses his gentle grip on your waist to pull you onto his lap, only so you could be even closer together. he peppers kisses up your neck and across your shoulderblade, while his hand sneaks behind your thigh.

at first you think nothing of it, as you know your husband enjoys a sneaky little grab at your ass sometimes. however, when his squishing slowly turns into rubbing, and his target moves from your perky ass to in-between your thighs, you gasp at the realisation and stagger, "oh, you meant like.. right now?"

you jerk away from him, and he meets your shocked expression with an entirely blank look on his face, "of course."

you blink, and so does he. considering it for a moment, it only takes you a couple seconds to land on the conclusion that there is no time like the present.

thus, you slip your arms around his broad shoulders again and pull him in for a passionate kiss; lips sensually weaving together, as you bounce on his lap a little, prompting him to continue his risky endeavours.

originally, both hands are fixed on your waist. however, he slips one down under your robe in order to rub your clit. he was expecting you to be wearing undergarments underneath the robe, but he was in for a pleasant surprise when his palm made direct contact with your damp folds, and you feel him smirk into the kiss slightly, causing you to titter.

meanwhile, his other hand swiftly got to work on pulling down the elastic of his sweats and whipping out his hardened length. while the two of you were still engaged in a heated make-out session, and his fingers were still working at your clit, he stroked himself a lazily, in an attempt to temporarily satiate his desperate hunger, but his mere hand couldn't even come close to the homey grip of your pussy. he needed to be encased in your walls urgently.

soon though, after a couple more minutes of harsh action on your clit, he reckoned you would be wet enough to take him by now. and he tested this hypothesis by dipping two meaty fingers into your pussy, stretching it out and causing you to arch your back as waves of unexpected stimulation shoot through you.

your whiney moans vibrate against his tongue, as you are still locked in an intimate kiss, and he furrows his brows in thought, prodding and stirring his fingers around your insides to assess whether your hole was lubricated enough for him to enter. and with each poke at your gummy walls, he sends another lewd moan winding down to your lips.

he yanks his fingers out, deciding that however wet you were right now would have to do because he wasn't able to wait any longer.

with that, he uses the same hand to manoeuvre his cock so it was hovering right by your dripping enterance, allowing this tip to be greased with your arousal. in doing so, you are pushed back a bit, forcing you to break free from the intense kiss with a dramatic gasp. you look at him, with your pretty chest floating up and down with each shallow breath.

he looks you in the eye sternly, with a kind glint his iris, waiting for your approval.

you nod slightly, but before you are even able to processs your own response, he's already pushed you down around his girthy length, forcing your tight pussy to suck it all up, somehow.

your eyes rolled back into your head as he did so, and an obscene, pornographic whine was pried from your throat. ushijima basked in it for only a moment before he made you ride his cock by using his grip on your waist. he set a relatively slow pace to begin with, allowing your gracious hole some time to adjust to his length, but it wasn't nearly enough.

despite that, he hastily quickened his pace, bucking his hips slightly into you with every bounce, meaning he would brush your cervix with his tip, which caused you to grunt and mewl each time. you appreciated he was trying to be thorough and having him so deep inside you might increase the chances of fertility, but you weren't entirely sure if it was worth having your cervix brusied for.

the veins on his length rubbed the most delicious parts inside you, it was like he was scratching an itch you weren't even aware of until now. your cheeks and the tips of your ear heated up with pure pleasure, and you could feel him getting warmer under your touch as well. meanwhile the molten coil inside you was only growing more rigid by the second, threatening to crumble at any moment.

his dick rammed into your hole repeatedly, at an increasingly feverish pace, eliciting a short moan or grunt from you each time, and your whole body shook. therefore, ushijima had no idea where to look — he was spoiled for choice — although he revelled in watching your tits bounce wildly around and threaten to escape the confines of your robe, he was also partially mesmerised by the way your perfect cunt consumed him so nicely.

"tight.." was all he was able to grit.

you nod, but you're too fucked out to even muster up a coherent response; your mind was almost as scrambled as your insides.

with how his dick was ploughing into your poor pussy, it wasn't long until the coil inside you snapped and you found yourself suddenly shaking and tremoring while you squirted around him, unleashing a dam of crystalline fluid over his sweats and the couch.

and the harsh squeeze of your pussy around his cock was enough to tip him over the edge of a climax too, and he groaned lowly with his eyes shut as he deposited his first load into your hole. thick warmth flooding your insides in an instant, sticking to your walls and leaving you conjested.

he stayed there for a moment, to allow you both to catch your breathes, and he pried one of his eyes open to look at your beautifully dishevelled state, "thank you, (y/n)."

you chuckle, and rest your weary head on his shoulder, "thank you, toshi."

"no, thank you." he looks down at your stomach, and strokes it tenderly with his big hand, "i can't wait to see you carry our baby."

you pout, gazing up at his cute dumb face, illuminated only by the coloured tv light, which cast shadows over his strong features. you pressed a soft kiss on his cheek, and sunk into his embrace, "i can't wait either. you'll be such a good dad." you muse, dreamily.

meanwhile, he slowly eases his cock out of your hole, provoking a small hiss from you at the change. but little did you know, he was kind enough to stick his three fingers in immediately afterwards, so none of his cum threatened to spill from your leaky pussy.

"and you will be a good mother." he assures you softly, snaking an arm behind your neck to cradle your head in his arms.

then, to your surprise, he utilised this position in order to flip the two of you, so you were laying face up with your back against the couch, and he was kneeling between your legs, which he pushed spread-eagle by your knees.

it all happened so quickly, that you were already in the position before you were able to gasp, "huh?! what're you doing?"

"round two." he keeps his three fingers stuffed in your pussy while he uses his other hand to guide his erect dick towards your hole, "for the best chance of pregnancy."

[bucketbueckers]

ONLY MINE

pairing: azzi fudd x fem!reader

content: filth, azzi and reader are just down bad asf there's no real top just vibes, nipple play, ab riding, oral, teasing, freaked out as fuck, academic validation as aftercare, kinda short and not proofread 😕 i apologize to paige bueckers and paige bueckers only

wc: 5.3k

synopsis: After bombing your most recent thermodynamics quiz, you’ve been locked in and busy on practice sets and worksheets in preparation for the next one. Maybe a little too busy, in fact, because your girlfriend is feeling needy and neglected, and, well, who are you to deny her any longer?

notes: i am not an engineer. yes i spent 10 minutes scrolling through sample thermodynamics practice sets to find a word problem that appears once (1 time) in this fic. im not just committed to the bit. i am married to it. yaps aside, i am trying my hardest to be responsible and stay on top of my classes LMAO 😭 butttttt i hope you like this ⬇️ anon (and good luck on your finals goat)!! im working on time management so i definitely will not be writing as much as i used to but i am still chronically online. feel free to send in an anon to say hello but as always i hope y'all like this one and happy pazzi hard launch day to those who celebrate 🫶

Saturated liquid water enters an orifice at a pressure of 100 psia and is throttled to a lower pressure of 20 psia. Determine the outlet temperature (F) and the specific entropy difference (Btu/lbm-R) between the outlet and the initial status. Assume steady state, steady flow, negligible heat transfer, and negligible changes in kinetic and potential energy.

“What the fuck,” you whisper to yourself, hopelessly lost.

The word problem stares unblinkingly at you. You’ve been meticulously working through this problem set for the past five hours, only pausing to use the restroom, refill your water bottle (because apparently you hydrate really well when you don’t know what the fuck’s going on), and grab a healthy, energizing snack (a handful of Starburst), but it’s starting to feel like you’ve been staring at this worksheet for years.

You never really struggled this much with a class. Math, physics, chemistry, you name it – there was always a pattern that you were good at isolating and exploiting. It made solving problems a lot easier, but thermodynamics? Figuring it out was taking a lot out of you. To make matters worse, nothing seems to help, either. Not even your go-to tutors on YouTube who could explain quantum physics to a five year old with little difficulty.

At this point, you’re convinced it’s just some weird energy in the universe that has severed the connections between your brain cells. This couldn’t possibly be your fault. You bombed your thermodynamics quiz on Wednesday, which was strange because you’d walked into the lecture hall with the confidence of a man who was sure he knew where the clit was. Maybe you were a little tense – who wouldn’t be? You were juggling four classes, a TA position for a calculus course, and research into reaction engineering.

A heavy workload never deterred you, though. Not to the point of failing a quiz you thought you’d pass with flying colors. And nothing else had really changed for you either. Your routine was basically the same, you studied for the same amount of time, exercised and ate properly. Your girlfriend, Azzi, did have a string of away games that kept her out of Storrs for about a week and a half, but saying she’s the reason for your poor performance is kind of ridiculous, even if you do sleep better when it’s next to her or because she always listens to you ramble even if she has no idea what you’re talking about.

Now, Azzi is back, and she doesn’t have another away game for about two weeks. That’s a fact that would otherwise excite you, but you’re just trying to pass your classes. Your scholarship relies on your GPA, and without your scholarship, you might as well kiss UConn goodbye. You and Azzi were always intentional about understanding each other’s schedules. Basketball was demanding, possibly more demanding than engineering considering travel and recovery, so the both of you tried to maximize the amount of time you were able to spend together, even if it just consisted of Azzi quietly watching film next to you while you worked through your homework.

After burying your head in your hands, rubbing your temples, and reminding yourself of how sexy future you would look sitting courtside at one of Azzi’s WNBA games, chatting with the other WAGs like, “Oh, Dr. Fudd? Yes, that’s me,” you reach for your iPad with a deep sigh, rereading the word problem once more. Then you write down what you know. P₁ = 100 psia. P₂ = 20 psia.

Your hand stalls. You check the formula sheet, the swirl of letters and deltas and constants making your head ache. You blink again.

Your pen falls onto the couch cushion next to you as you heave another shuddering sigh, feeling like you’re about to crash out. You can’t fathom why this is so difficult for you.

Azzi’s voice is sudden, soft – it would otherwise startle you if you weren’t ready to be swallowed up by the ground and never return to earth. “I think you need a break,” she says, her voice coming from somewhere behind you, and you can hear the gentle footfalls of her sock-clad feet as she makes her way closer to you. Her hands find your shoulders, kneading gently, and you sigh again – this time in relief – as you melt into the couch.

“Can’t,” you mutter, grunting when her thumb catches on one of the knots. “I’ve already taken like…a million just from zoning out and losing my mind. Wasted enough time.”

You don’t have to see her face to visualize the amused, if not slightly concerned smile gracing her lips. “Are you not also wasting time by forcing yourself to work when it’s getting you nowhere?” she murmurs, her lips closer to your ear now. For that, you truly have no rebuttal, and she presses a lingering kiss to the edge of your jaw. Humming to yourself, you tilt your head, baring your throat, and her lips trace a deliberate path down the curve of your neck.

Her hands leave your shoulders, smoothing down your chest, and you intertwine your fingers together, getting lost in the heady scent of her perfume. You’d missed her – you really did. You and Azzi have been together long enough that you’re used to her having to travel a lot, but sometimes, it takes a little bit longer for your body to catch up and get the memo, too.

“Take a break,” Azzi whispers, her tone pleading, edged with a sort of neediness that makes you want to give in. You almost do – the warmth of her lips against your skin and the weight of her hands over your chest turning your brain into mush. “Let me take care of you. You’ve been so busy lately. You’re wearing yourself out.”

The first part of her statement has you ready to turn off your laptop and give Azzi whatever she wants from you. But the second? All it does is remind you about the quiz you’d just failed, the fact you have another quiz in less than a week, and how you’re not any closer to understanding the material. It sobers you instantly.

“Later,” you whisper, feeling a little guilty. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to spend time with Azzi – God, it’s all you’ve wanted to do since she got back to Storrs, but you knew you’d just fall into shitty time management problems if you didn’t get your work done.

“Babe,” Azzi complains, her tone exasperated and needy all at once. Her grip on you tightens ever so slightly, leaning fully against the couch to press her cheek to your temple. You fall back into her, your eyes slipping shut despite yourself.

“Sorry, Az,” you say apologetically, turning your head slightly to kiss the closest patch of skin you can reach, which happens to be the hinge of her jaw. She sighs softly, then brushes her lips across your forehead before releasing you. You miss the contact immediately but she makes her way to the front of the couch and sits down on the cushion next to you. Intertwining your fingers to get her attention, you squeeze her hand gently. She glances over, doe eyes wide, simmering with a heat and want that makes your stomach flip. “Let me finish this problem, then I’m yours. I promise.”

She crosses one leg over her knee, a petulant expression on her face as she sinks into the cushions. “Better be worth it, Dr. Fudd,” she grumbles, which makes you smile a little. You plant a chaste, innocent kiss on her lips, smirking when she chases after you. You release her, reaching for your pen and your iPad again, but you swear you hear her muttering under her breath, “Cockblocked by an engineering assignment. This is what I get for dating a smart person.”

Her indignance and impatience amuses you, which just motivates you to finish this problem as quickly as you can. You start over again, rereading the problem and isolating the facts that you know. You check your formula sheet again, struggling to find the one you need given what you have and what variable you want to solve for. All the while, you can feel Azzi’s gaze on you, dark and beseeching. It honestly makes it difficult to focus – knowing you have your very needy girlfriend sitting on the couch next to you and begging for one ounce of attention, but you know she’ll thank you later when you’re a super rich engineer and you build her a custom library in the house you’ll share together.

(Granted, she’ll be a super rich baller, so she wouldn’t exactly be hurting financially without you and she could get the library, but as long as you were around, you were committed to ensuring that Azzi wouldn’t have to lift a finger.)

Azzi allows you to struggle in peace. You make zero progress, just as she predicted. You read a few pages in your textbook. You watch a YouTube video on the process and still, you get nowhere. Already feeling a little frustrated, you try another approach.

But then Azzi’s palm finds your thigh. It breaks your focus immediately – not like it wasn’t already hanging by a thin thread – and you glance over at her, one brow raising in amusement. She doesn’t look the least bit remorseful about distracting you; in fact, she’s wearing a smug little smile that breaks down all of your defenses. “You promised, Az,” you remind her.

“You promised, too,” she declares. The confusion must be clear on your face because she explains, “Girlfriend code. You have a duty to give me attention.”

“Oh, do I?” you echo, biting your lip to stifle a smile.

Azzi’s dead serious, though. Her eyes meet yours, temptation laced in her pupils, a pout tugging at her lips. You’re not sure how you’re supposed to stand your ground against that, but you have to pretend to have some sort of academic responsibility.

“You do,” she confirms. “Agreed to it when you said you loved me, in fact.”

“I wasn’t aware that was in the fine print,” you respond, tangling your fingers with hers before she has the chance to inch her palm further up your thigh.

Azzi narrows her eyes at you. “Well, it is,” she insists. “And I want you.”

“Is that what this is about?” you murmur teasingly. “My girl needs me?”

Azzi nods, her expression a devastating mix of hopeful and needy, and it makes you ache. But you glance down at your iPad, at the word problem staring back at you — unsolved — and you hate yourself for what you do next.

You kiss her again, your free hand reaching to cup her jaw, and she melts into you instantly. You draw back just before it grows too intense, murmuring, “After this problem.” You’re sure that Azzi almost fucking growls, her brows drawing together tightly. In any other situation, you’d find it endearing, but you can’t help but feel guilty. You have work to do, and you know that Azzi wouldn’t let you rest until the sun is in the sky again. “Sorry, baby.”

But Azzi is out of rationale — and patience. She leans away from you long enough to shut the lid of your laptop on the coffee table, then she yanks your iPad out of your hands. It lands somewhere on the far end of the couch as your pen clatters harmlessly onto the floor, rolling somewhere out of view, and you hardly have the time to react before Azzi straddles you in one quick motion. Her lips are on yours immediately. You gasp, hands reaching out to grip her hips, and she swallows the moan that tumbles from your mouth.

Her hands are around your neck, drawing you in closer to her, yours roaming across her sculpted thighs, tightening in the loose fabric of her shorts. They ride up on her legs the more she presses against you and you take advantage of the miles upon miles of tanned skin laid before you. It makes you keen, sighing into her mouth, and Azzi slips her tongue inside, brushing against yours.

It’s all heat from there — Azzi’s hips roll against yours in a slow, methodical grind, her fingers trailing down your chest to tangle in the hem of your shirt. She breaks away from your mouth, lips swollen, spit-slick and urgent as she mutters, “Off, please.”

You don’t have the words to deny her, not that you would in the first place. Not when you can feel the heat of her core against your thigh, the dampness that’s seeped through her underwear and shorts all at once. Pulling away from her, you raise your arms, allowing her to pull your shirt off, intent on getting your hands back on her, but Azzi stops you with a palm to your chest — your bare chest, having neglected a bra for comfort that morning. 

Her eyes are glazed over, pupils dark and wanting. The way she stares shamelessly would make you feel insecure and vulnerable if you weren’t able to read the desire in her features, the way her jaw goes slack at the sight of you. It’s not new — Azzi has seen you in various states of undress over the course of your relationship. A sheer bikini on cruises, in nothing but her jersey and a flimsy pair of her boxers, or as naked as the day you were born. It doesn’t matter how many times Azzi has sat upon your lap with your breasts cupped in her hands like she’s holding the world in her palms – she thinks you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, and if you had any sensibility, you’d probably ask, “Has she seen herself?”

Not wanting to be alone in your nakedness, you reach for the hem of Azzi’s shirt, glancing up at her through your lashes for permission. She nods quickly and you don’t waste anymore time before pulling the dark blue shirt off of her, your own jaw going slack as you take her in. She’s all muscles and tanned skin, firm sinew in most places yet soft in others. You want to get your hands on her immediately, so you do – pressing heatedly against her stomach, grazing her belly piercing and the curve of her waist, pulling her flush against you like you can’t get enough of her skin against yours.

She reaches for your wrists to pull your hands off of her body. You make a noise of protest, but she silences you with a deep kiss, insistent and hungry as she shifts to the side, tugging you down on top of her now as she positions herself against the pillows and the armrest at the end of the couch. The change has your head spinning, especially when Azzi pushes her knee between your legs, the muscle of her thigh dragging against your clit in a way that’s almost devastating.

Your entire body is pulsing, suddenly aware of the need building in your body. It feels like it’s taken root in your bones. Like all you’ve needed these past few weeks were Azzi, not anything else. And judging by the way her fingers slip under the waistband of your sweatpants, pressing firm against your skin and tugging the restricting material down? Azzi is more than willing to give herself to you – in whatever way you need it.

You try to grind down onto Azzi’s thigh, searching for the contact, but she takes your hips in your hands, perching you precariously over her body, only inches away from what you need. You break away from her lips long enough to brush your mouth across her jaw, finding her ear to beg, “Please, Az, need it.”

A smirk curls her lips, slow and smug. The tables are turned now – she’d spent so long asking for you to put your assignment down, and now you’re the one pleading for her to touch you. Azzi is a competitor by nature. You may never truly understand how much she enjoys watching you break beneath her.

“Where have I heard that one before?” she murmurs, dragging heated kisses across your chest, lips wrapping around a nipple as you open your mouth. Your next words get caught in your throat, a moan taking its place, and you curl a hand around Azzi’s neck, pulling her closer to you.

“‘M sorry, baby,” you gasp in between stuttered breaths, your hips twitching when she bites gently at your bud. Azzi hums against you, sending vibrations up your spine as your body arches into her mouth and her wandering hands. Remembering where you are, you allow your hands to drop from Azzi’s neck down to her waist, fingers hooking into the band of her shorts. “Lemme make it up to you,” you plead, trembling with need. You want so badly to pull these shorts off of her, but she hasn’t given you the all clear yet. You may be the one on top and the one who wants to please her, but if she wasn’t going to allow you, there was little you could do.

“I wonder if I could make you come like this,” Azzi mumbles instead, releasing your nipple with a wet pop, and one of her hands reaches up to rub the spit across the bud while her lips trail to the other one, biting gently to make you shudder. Your breath catches, hips still hovering overs hers. “Dripping all over me while I take my time. Do you think I could?”

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into her hands again, moaning when she pinches you with the right amount of pressure to send white hot desire to your core. Your head falls onto her shoulder, fingers abandoning her waistband to brace yourself against the couch cushion for stability. “Whatever you want, Az, just make me come – please.”

It wouldn’t take much. You’re already worked up, both from Azzi’s efforts and the stress of the week melting away into something softer. You hadn’t realized how much you truly needed this – the break away from your homework to breathe and just be. But you feel Azzi’s smile growing against your skin, her tongue poking out from her lips to circle your nipple, before she whispers, “Another time, maybe,” and she pulls you onto her bare stomach.

The first press feels like fire. It punches a gasp out of you, pleasure and relief coursing through your veins in simultaneous streams. Azzi’s abs are firm, inviting, and you rut against them desperately, needing to get off. Your aching clit catches against the piercing on her navel and a wrecked moan spills from your lips. Azzi’s muscles contract, providing you with a harsher slide, and your eyes all but roll into the back of your head when she carefully bites down on your nipple, her fingers rolling the other.

The free hand not occupied with your chest curls around your waist, helping pull you down against her. Eventually, Azzi begins to control your pace as you’re struggling to keep yourself up, and the sensations are overwhelming in the best way possible. You’re impossibly wet, sliding against Azzi’s stomach with little resistance, angling your hips to get the best friction against your clit. You wrap your arms around her neck, tears pooling in your eyes because it feels so good, and holding on is all you can do, moaning breathlessly into her ear.

Azzi pulls away from your chest with a wet noise, her lips swollen and slick, eyes glazed over with want. It makes you breathless for an entirely different reason now. You’re the only person who gets to see Azzi like this, needy and determined to make you fall apart. You were the first, but to know that you’re also the last? You will your hips into a firmer grind, the slight possessiveness making your head spin.

But then she releases you, something dark, smug, but also reverent clouding her expression. “Take it,” she murmurs, leaning back against the armrest slightly. She’s no longer holding you up by the hips, but her hand lingers at your chest, tweaking and pulling your bud until it juts out firmly, wet with her spit. “You wanted this so bad? Show me. Take it.”

Groaning, you tighten your grip on her shoulders, pressing yourself further against her body for stability as you rock into her. Her face is screwed up, sweat beading at her temples, and you can’t be sure if it’s from the heat of the room or from the sheer determination of clenching her abs. Either way, you can’t stop yourself from pressing your lips to hers, swallowing her indulgent moan as you chase your high. 

Her piercing catches against your clit again, causing you to lose your rhythm momentarily. Azzi bites your lip once in warning as she orders, “Faster.” Your thighs and core burns from the exertion, but the desire coursing through your veins motivates you. When your pace returns to her liking, she rewards you with a blinding smile and a “So good for me, baby. You wanna come?”

You nod shakily against her, forehead pressing into hers, and she kisses you once more – slow, lingering, filthy like she’s trying to memorize the way you taste when you’re desperate for her. Azzi takes your hips in her hands again and she aids in your rhythm, pulling you onto her harshly, drawing you closer and closer to your orgasm until a cry rips from your throat. “So close, Az,” you whine, meeting her eyes. They’re more black than brown, her pupils blown wide, and the sheer need reflected there makes you weak. “Please, please, please, Azzi.”

“Let go,” she murmurs, her voice dangerously sweet compared to the way she’s dragging you across her stomach. “Take what you need. Gonna give it to you, you know that.”

And that’s all you need. You rut against her once more, twice, your jaw dropping with pleasure, body tingling as you fall apart over her. You press your lips to hers to silence your cries and she swallows each and every whimpered sound like it energizes her. She’s still guiding you, her movements slowing now, letting you ride out the aftershocks as you come back down to earth. You’re a little boneless, your forehead pressing to her clavicle, and she ghosts a kiss across your temple as she rubs your back soothingly.

Clearly, Azzi can’t seem to help herself, because she presses a smile to the crown of your head as she jokingly mutters, “So much better than homework, right?”

You roll your eyes, laughing, and you try to not think too hard about the fact that your throat feels scratchy and rough. “Much better,” you agree, feeling the weightlessness and ease seep into your bones, something deliciously heavy and comforting that makes you feel refreshed. New. “You’re so needy. Couldn’t wait twenty minutes.”

Azzi gasps indignantly. “I’ve waited like, two weeks!” she exclaims, nudging you halfheartedly. “A girl has needs, you know.” She says this last part with a snooty raise of her nose, which makes you shake your head, giggling again as you press a chaste, innocent kiss to her lips. She chases after you when you pull away, but the distance makes her eyes narrow, brows pulling together like she’s just realized something. “You couldn’t wait either. It was all ‘please, Azzi,’ this, ‘make me come, Azzi,’ that. You’re dirty.”

That makes you lean away from her, disbelief in your features. “Me?” you echo, aghast, fully aware that the both of you are arguing like toddlers at this point. “You’re dirty. You made me ride your abs–” Azzi raises a challenging brow which has you backtracking immediately. “Okay, I don’t know about made me. That was really hot, by the way.” You punctuate your point with another kiss, one that lasts not nearly long enough so you can get back to the point you were trying to make. “Also, you should probably disinfect your piercing.” Azzi hums, arms curling around your waist, and she ghosts her lips across your collarbone as you continue to defend yourself. “Either way, you’re still dirty.”

Azzi doesn’t say anything. She glances at you with an amused grin, then glances down at her stomach, where she glistens from a mixture of your slick and her sweat. Mostly your arousal, though. A flush creeps up your neck at the sight. You hadn’t registered how soaked she was. Having made her point, she swipes her finger through the mess, raising it to the light as if inspecting it. “You did this and I’m the dirty one?”

“Yes,” you deadpan, but the corners of your lips quirk up with amusement. Her smile softens, but morphs into one of confusion when you slide down her body, knees pressing into the cushions in between her legs. “Let me make it up to you?” you offer, palming her thighs, fingers slipping under the waistband of her shorts once more. You can tell that her breathing has picked up, her mood shifting as easily as you crawled down.

“Yes, please,” she affirms, lifting her hips to help you pull her shorts and boxers down in one quick motion. You groan to yourself when her cunt is revealed to you – she’s soaked, her arousal having seeped into the cotton of her boxers, and you press a quick kiss to the inside of her thigh. “Don’t tease me.”

“I would never,” you lie, and then tease her anyways. You avoid her cunt completely, opting to lick a thick stripe across her stomach, gathering the slick pooled there on your tongue.

It makes her hips jump up, her voice pitched and a little breathless with shock as she mutters, “Shit, baby…” You smile to yourself, glancing up at her through your lashes, taking in her wrecked expression and the way her pupils are blown wide. Azzi is gripping onto the couch cushion like she’s teetering on the edge of falling apart already.

You don’t stop until her stomach is clean. Before you can settle between her thighs again, she grabs you by the shoulders, hauling you up until she can kiss you again. Azzi deepens the kiss immediately, her tongue searching for yours, for the taste of you, and the moans greedily as you squeeze her hips.

When she breaks away for air, her chest is heaving, and she looks ruined, ready for you to give her what she’s been craving for two weeks. You plant a farewell kiss at the edge of her jaw before trailing your lips down her body, sucking hickeys into her skin, soothing each one with your tongue.

Finally, you reach her cunt, and the sight of her spread out before you makes your mouth water. She tangles her fingers through your hair, guiding you closer, and you don’t make her wait any longer before you kiss her clit gently, smiling when her hips buck. Your tongue swipes through her soaked folds, her body shuddering when you moan indulgently into her, and you wrap your arms around her thighs to keep her stabilized.

You fuck her like you’re starved – which you may as well be. Your nose brushes against her sensitive clit with every motion you make, making her cry out, her hand pushing you to the spot she likes as if you don’t know her body like the back of your hand. Still, you listen to the direction, allowing her to pull your head towards her clit. You suck it into your mouth, cheeks hollowing from the pressure, rubbing the broad side of your tongue over it when she moans softly.

Her thighs enclose around your head, the pleasure causing her hips to buck wildly, and this? You could die here, in between her legs, and you wouldn’t even be able to think of a better way to go out. Azzi’s cries are like music to your ears, her taste like nectar.

When her fingers tighten in your hair, her hips beginning to gyrate in search of her high, you press a little further into her, allowing her to grind against your tongue. Your hands rub soothing patterns against her abdomen, eyes slipping shut at the sound of her moans, and before you know it, she’s whining, “Close, baby.”

You take her free hand in yours, squeezing gently as her body trembles, and she holds onto you as she comes, her body melting into the couch cushions as you work her slowly, helping her come back down. You know Azzi gets oversensitive fast, so you listen for her cues, letting up on her when it becomes too much. Drawing back, you plant one last kiss to her thigh, her navel, her collarbone, then to her lips, where you feel her smile grow against you.

You smooth out her hair by her forehead where a few of the strands have escaped from the tie. Her eyes blink open, her gaze impossibly tender, her smile soft. It makes you fall a little bit further in love with her, which is probably a feat in and of itself. “Okay?” you whisper.

She turns her head to kiss your wrist. “Okay,” she confirms, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling you flush against her. Then, in a quieter tone of voice, she confesses, “Missed you.”

You kiss her cheek, tucking your head into the crook of her neck. “Missed you too, Az,” you respond. “Never travel for two weeks ever again.”

She laughs gently, her nails skirting across your skin. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The both of you fall into a calm silence until you break it. “I’m sorry I neglected you,” you say genuinely, feeling a little remorseful. “I just wanted to get my work done, but I think I got a little too obsessive about it. You were right to say I wasn’t getting anywhere with it.”

“You know I understand your schedule,” Azzi says softly. “You have a lot to do. I just needed you.” She doesn’t say much else – and she doesn’t need to. That’s just the truth.

You smile a little as you kiss her jaw. “I know,” you murmur. “I’ll do better.”

She tightens her arms around you. “Good. You can start by helping me into the bathtub and ordering takeout.”

That makes you laugh, your nose brushing against her cheek. “Yes, ma’am.” The room goes quiet again, nothing but the gentle hum of the AC and your breathing filling the space. The drag of Azzi’s fingers against your skin lulls you into a sense of peace, the pressure alleviating from your shoulders, and –

You pause. Your eyes blink open, your gaze falling onto your iPad. Pressure?

Saturated liquid water enters an orifice at a pressure of 100 psia and is throttled to a lower pressure of 20 psia–

You close your eyes in disbelief, the gears in your brain turning at rapid speed. You’re so fucking dumb.

“Az,” you murmur. She hums, letting you know she’s listening. “Can I start a little later?”

“What?” she mutters, but you’re already reaching over to the coffee table, grabbing your iPad and the pen that had rolled under the table leg. Azzi sighs dramatically as she watches you open it, but she presses a smile to the crown of your head as you work through the calculations. It only takes you about a minute, but you circle your answer with finality, latching the pen to the magnet on the device and closing it. “An orgasm was all it took to get that brain working, huh?”

“Maybe,” you admit a little sheepishly.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she says with faux indignance, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

And all you can do is stare at her, a soft little smile on your face. Because you are. You really, really are.

[seospicybin]

DOUBLE FEATURE.

CHAPTER ONE

Lee Know x reader.

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. (19,3k words)

Author's note: I know it can be confusing at times but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless and I'd appreciate it if you leave a feedback ♡

They say we all want our lives to feel like the movies.

The perfect shot. The perfect line. The slow motion kiss in the rain. The third act redemption.

But no one ever talks about what it takes to actually make a movie. No one talks about the early call times, the underpaid crew, the twelve-hour days that somehow stretch into fifteen. No one talks about the taped floor marks, the blood squibs, the rewrites at midnight. And definitely no one talks about the ones behind the camera—the ones holding the boom, wrangling the extras, fetching coffee with blistered feet and a cracked smile.

You work on a movie set, but your life is nothing like the movies. Your name’s not in lights. You’re not even in the credits half the time. Still, you show up. Day after day. Because somewhere, under all the exhaustion and underappreciation, there’s still a dream clinging to the edges of your heart. Maybe one day, you’ll get to tell your own story. But for now? You’re just trying to survive this one.

The call time was 6:00 AM, but you’ve been here since 5:15. Not that anyone noticed.

Your sneakers squeak across the slick studio floor as you juggle a tray of coffees, a clipboard, and your phone wedged between your shoulder and your ear. The walkie strapped to your waist crackles every few seconds with more problems that aren't technically your job, but end up being yours anyway.

"Yes, I did call props yesterday," you mutter into your phone. "The harnesses are here, I saw them with my own eyes. No, I haven’t spoken to the extras yet, because I’m currently delivering caffeine and peace offerings to five different department heads—"

A production assistant brushes past you without so much as a glance, nearly knocking the clipboard out of your hands.

"Thanks, Kevin," you call dryly after him. He doesn’t look back.

Your walkie buzzes again. "Hey, where’s my coffee?"

You sigh. That’s the assistant director’s voice. Your boss’s boss. The one who sends you panicked texts at 2:00 AM and calls you by the wrong name at least once a day.

"It’s in my hand," you answer through gritted teeth, speeding up your steps. "I’m on my way."

You hand off one coffee, then another. Someone asks you if the weather cover’s still on for the night shoot. Another asks if you can double-check the catering menu because apparently someone’s allergic to tofu now.

By the time you find the director, Argus Flickerman, he’s lounging behind the monitor, sunglasses on even though you’re inside. He’s surrounded by department heads all nodding as if every word he says is gospel. You take a breath, straighten your shoulders, and step forward.

"Hey," you say, trying to sound casual, confident—like a real filmmaker and not the glorified gopher everyone seems to think you are. "I just wanted to check if you had a chance to look at that script I gave you last week. My script."

He doesn’t even glance your way as you talk to him. "Yeah, yeah," he says, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. "Remind me later, alright? Go check with craft services about the vegan mix-up."

You stand there a beat longer, clutching the dog-eared binder to your chest. Then you nod, even though he’s already forgotten you exist. "Sure. Right away."

You walk away, the words burning a hole in your throat. It’s the third time you’ve tried this week. You could recite the rejection in your sleep.

As you pass the stunt zone, you catch a blur of motion out of the corner of your eye—Minho, mid-air, flipping off a crash mat like gravity doesn’t apply to him. He lands cleanly, stretching his arms behind his head as the techs scurry to reset.He glances your way. Not a nod. Not a smile. Just a look. Blank, unreadable.

You’ve worked on four films with Lee Minho now. He’s the top stunt performer on every one, and you’ve probably exchanged fewer words with him than with the craft services guy. You’re not sure if he even knows your name.

You tighten your grip on the script binder and head toward the prop room. If someone doesn’t figure out what’s wrong with the fantasy set vault door, there’s going to be another twenty-minute delay. And guess who they’ll send to fix it? Right. You.

-

You’re halfway through updating the call sheet when your walkie crackles to life again. "Hey. Can you go brief Felix on his scenes today? I don’t have time."

It’s the assistant director. Of course. You pause, already juggling three tabs on your tablet and a phone call on hold. "That’s literally your job," you mutter under your breath.

Still, you press the button and reply, “On it.”

You sigh, rub your eyes, and gather the folder with today’s shooting schedule. Your name isn’t printed on any of the official paperwork. You're just a shadow behind the people who get credited. But apparently, you brief main actors now, too.

Despite the groan you let out, you're not exactly dreading this one. Not because it's your job. But because it's Felix.

Everyone loves Felix. A movie star, the golden boy, camera darling, all charm and warmth wrapped in a heart-melting accent. But more than that, he's kind. Kind in a way that feels rare on this set, where kindness is often seen as a weakness or a waste of time. He says “please” and “thank you” to the lighting crew. He remembers your name. And he never talks down to you. Not even once.

You make your way to his trailer, weaving through cables and gear carts, past a couple of stylists arguing about continuity. You knock gently on the door.

It opens a second later, revealing his assistant. “He’s in the middle of a fitting,” the guy says, already half-turning back inside. “Come back in—”

“It’s okay,” comes Felix’s voice from behind him. “Let her in.”

The door opens wider and you step in carefully, keeping your eyes respectful and trying not to stare—even though it’s kind of impossible not to.

Felix stands near the vanity, barefoot, wearing only a pair of dark jeans as a wardrobe assistant adjusts the fit of a tailored coat across his shoulders. He flashes you that sunbeam smile. “Hey,” he says, and it’s not casual or distracted. It’s real. “Good morning. Everything okay?”

Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. “You know I can come back later.”

He shakes his head, the coat sliding off as the wardrobe assistant nods and starts gathering pins and threads. “It’s okay,” Felix says gently. “Just give me one sec.”

You step aside, glancing down at your folder to focus your thoughts. It’s too warm in here. Or maybe that’s just your face. You try not to look as his shoulder blades shift, defined and toned, every muscle visible beneath his skin as he stretches his arms back, letting the stylist tug the coat off completely. By the time he turns toward you again, he’s pulling on a white T-shirt, the thin cotton clinging to his damp skin.

You clear your throat and hold out the folder. “Just came to brief you on today’s scenes. The AD bailed. Again.”

Felix takes the folder, motioning for you to sit on the couch. He perches on the edge across from you, elbows on his knees, giving you his full attention like you're the most important person in the room. And that’s the thing about Felix. That’s what makes people love him. He has this way of making everyone feel seen.

You go through the scenes one by one, and he asks questions, makes notes, actually listens. It’s easy. It’s the only time all day you feel like you're talking to someone who cares. You don’t let your eyes linger too long, but your mind slips anyway.

He’s way out of your league.

The thought hits without warning. Not bitterly. Just fact. He’s the lead actor. You’re the assistant to the assistant of the person who probably forgot what your title is. Still… there’s something in the way he looks at you. Not flirtatious. Not fake. Just… kind.

When you finish, he smiles and taps the folder lightly. “Thanks for this. You always make things easier.”

You smile back, grateful but painfully aware of the flutter in your chest that has no business being there. “Yeah,” you say. “No problem.”

You stand to leave and Felix kindly walks you to the door. For a second, just before you step out into the chaos of set again, you wonder what it would feel like to matter to someone like Felix. To be looked at like that… for real.

But then the walkie crackles again, reality calls and you answer.

-

Minho wakes up before the sun.

It’s just a habit now—his body knows the rhythm. The quiet stillness of 4:45 AM, the sting of cold air on bare skin, the smooth stretch of muscle over bone as he swings himself out of bed. No alarm needed.

By 5:00, he’s already moving. His apartment smells like liniment and instant coffee, the floor cold under his feet as he begins his warm-up routine—shoulder rolls, deep squats, core stretches, precision. Everything counts.

He trains in silence. There’s no music, no distractions. Just the sound of his own breath and the low groan of tension releasing from his body. The scar on his shoulder tugs as he shifts into a plank. His muscles flex with each movement—abs taut, arms roped with definition, his entire frame carved by years of impact, recovery, and discipline.

When he catches his reflection in the window, he barely looks twice. The body is just a tool. One he keeps sharp.

By 6:30, he’s showered, dressed in black athletic gear that clings to the cut of his form, and walking onto set with a quiet confidence. The others greet each other in loud bursts of conversation and clinking coffee cups. He just nods in response.

Minho sees you before you see him. You’re hunched over a clipboard, three phones ringing around you like an orchestra from hell. Your hair’s tied up in a knot that’s halfway undone, and there’s a smudge of something—ink? coffee?—on your sleeve. You’re moving fast, already issuing instructions while reading from two different pages at once.

He finds you… fascinating. Not in a romantic way. But in the way someone watches a dam somehow holding back a flood. There’s so much pressure on you, and still, you don’t crack.

“Minho!” you call, jogging toward him with the clipboard tucked under your arm. You’re already talking before you stop moving. “So—three stunts today. Two dry, one wet. You’re vaulting off the overturned truck in the salvage yard scene. We need a safety rehearsal by ten. Oh, and props says the door rig is sticking, so we might need to adjust the angle.”

He stops you for a second. “Wet?”

You wince. “Rain machine. You’re rolling out of a puddle. Not deep. Two seconds tops.”

Minho’s jaw tightens slightly. You don’t notice. Or maybe you do, but you’re already onto your next point. “And I need to double-check with effects about the glass break, but they promise it’s tempered this time. I told them you’re not doing another take if you end up cut again.”

You say it with a hint of fire in your voice, but not like you care personally. Just that you care about doing your job well. Minho wonders if anyone’s ever thanked you for that. He studies you a little too long. You look tired. Like you haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a week. You handle everything—scheduling, props, stunt details, even food crises. And no one ever says your name. Just “hey” or “you.”

“How do you even function?” he mutters before he can stop himself.

You look up, caught off guard. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You don’t press him. You just nod and walk off, already answering another call.

“Minho.”

He turns to see his coach approaching—clipboard in hand, baseball cap low over his eyes. The man frowns like it’s his default expression. “You got your check-in today,” the coach says flatly.

Minho wipes a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah. I remember.”

“You can't skip again,” the coach warns him.

Minho hesitates. The thought of sitting in that small office, talking about that again, makes his stomach turn. “I’ll go,” he lies, then he walks away, heading straight for the mats to rehearse his stunts instead. He’d rather throw himself off a moving truck than sit in that chair again.

-

Minho stands on top of the overturned truck, breath steady, hands flexing at his sides. Gravel crunches below, voices murmur around the set, but they all fade into the background. Up here, it’s just him, the height, the wind, and the mark. The dumpster waits ten feet away, lid open, lined with thick mats and a few hidden camera rigs.

He’s done this a hundred times—jumps, rolls, crashes, fire, glass, pain. It's muscle memory by now. Still— Every single time. Right before he jumps, that sliver of fear wedges itself into his chest. The whisper that maybe this is it. Maybe today’s the day he lands wrong. Or the rig fails. Or something just—breaks. No one ever knows. No one ever sees it on his face.

Minho crouches, counts silently. Three. Two. One. He jumps. The air rushes past his ears in a roar. The world tilts. His body twists mid-air, legs tucked, arms tight. And then—impact.

A clean roll. The mats groan under his weight. He winces as his knee smacks something harder than expected, but he stays down for the beat, letting the cameras get their shot.

“Cut!” someone yells.

Cheers follow. A few claps. A PA whistles.

Minho lets out a sigh of relief as he sits up, the sting in his leg sharp and real. He checks the knee—cut open, a shallow gash, already bleeding. Nothing serious. He wipes at it with his sleeve and gets to his feet.

The adrenaline still hums under his skin. His heart thuds in his chest like it's proud of him. He loves this part. Not the danger—but the moment after. When he’s made it. When he’s sore and bruised and scraped and breathing. It makes the world slow down. It reminds him that he’s in control. He chooses the fall. He decides when to jump. When to land. And for a few glorious seconds, he has no fear. None at all.

Except the one he keeps hidden. The one that waits in dark water and tight lungs. The one he doesn't talk about. Doesn’t even name.

He pushes that thought away and grins at the medic who jogs over.

“Nice fall, Minho,” they say.

“Thanks,” he replies, brushing dust off his pants. “One more for the reel.”

He limps slightly as he walks off set, sweat cooling on his skin, bruises blooming already—but he feels good. He feels untouchable. At least, for now.

-

The set is quiet now. The kind of quiet that hums.

C-stands cast long shadows under the cooling lights. The camera rigs have been wheeled away. Most of the crew has clocked out, voices fading into the parking lot beyond the trailers. But you're still here, clipboard in hand, double-checking the call sheet for tomorrow, inventorying props, and mentally sorting through who forgot what. You move like muscle memory. This part of the day—the part where you’re invisible again—has its own rhythm.

When you spot Mr. Flickerman still lingering near the monitor setup, you hesitate. He’s alone, arms crossed, squinting at the playback of today’s final shot. For once, he’s not surrounded by producers or barking orders at someone.

This could be your moment so you take a small breath and approach carefully, your footsteps soft against the scuffed flooring. “Mr. Flickerman?” you ask gently.

He doesn’t look at you. “Hmm?”

“I—uh, I know it’s been busy, but I was wondering if maybe you had read my script? I know it's just a draft, nothing big, but I’d really appreciate any notes. Whenever you have a moment.”

You keep your voice light. Sweet. Respectful. Like you were taught. Like it’ll make a difference.

He finally glances at you, distracted, eyes already drifting back to the screen. “I'll get to it eventually,” he says absently. “Sure. Good work today. Can you make sure the prop’s ready for tomorrow?”

You swallow air. “Which prop?”

“The mirror. The one for that dream sequence. Have the stunt team check it for safety, too. Just in case.”

Of course. He didn’t hear you. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

“Yes, sir,” you say, already turning to go.

You’ll check the mirror. You’ll chase down the stunt coordinator. You’ll handle it, like always. Because if you don’t, no one will. And maybe—maybe—if you keep working like this, if you keep smiling and saying yes, one day he’ll see your value.

One day, he’ll say your name in a meeting. One day, he’ll hand you a camera and say, “Your turn.”

But today isn’t that day so you swallow the bitter disappointment down your throat like a real grown-up, then head toward the prop storage.

-

Minho stretches his arms above his head, the pull across his shoulders sharp but satisfying. He’s drenched in sweat, his shirt sticking to him, muscles sore in that familiar way that means he did something right—or at least didn’t break anything.

The shoot ran long today. Too many resets, too many takes. He was ready to leave an hour ago. He peels off his training top and wipes his face with a towel, already reaching for his hoodie when footsteps crunch softly outside the tent.

“Minho?” a voice calls.

Your voice and he turns on his feet. You stand at the opening, tablet in hand, eyes dimmed with exhaustion but still alert, still moving. He knows you’ve probably been running around since before the sun came up. He wonders if you’ve even had time to eat.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry to bother you,” you say, hesitating like you’re already expecting a no. “I know you’re done for the day, but Flickerman asked me to check a prop for your stunt tomorrow. He wants you to look at it too, just to make sure it’s safe.”

Minho sighs. He was already halfway out the door. His stomach’s growling and the thought of a cold shower sounds like heaven. But then he really looks at you.

You’re gripping the tablet too tight. You look like you’ve taken on ten other people’s jobs just since lunch. No one else is going to do this. No one else cares. So, he throws on his hoodie and grabs his bag.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”

You look surprised. A little relieved. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

“Yeah, alright,” he mutters, falling in step beside you as you lead the way down the gravel path. The set is mostly cleared now. Someone’s wrapping up a dolly track, and a lone PA waves tiredly as they pass.

Minho watches you from the corner of his eye. You walk fast, efficient, like you don’t trust the ground to stay still unless you’re already halfway across it. You always look like you’re one errand away from collapsing, but somehow, you never do. He wonders how long you’ve been running on fumes.

The storage is tucked between the containers, bathed in the orange haze of a dying sunset. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of old paint and plywood. You walk toward the back, weaving between crates.

“This is it,” you say, stopping in front of a tall, antique mirror. “The one for tomorrow’s dream sequence.”

It towers over both of you—ornate, freestanding, with a frame that looks like it belonged in some cursed manor house. Gold leafing darkened by time, carved vines twisting along the edge. The glass itself is clean but gives off a strange, almost cold gleam.

Minho frowns. “This thing looks haunted.”

You huff a quiet laugh, running a hand along the edge of the frame. “Don’t jinx it.”

He crouches to inspect the base. “Stable. No visible cracks. Just heavy as hell.”

You kneel beside him, tapping the side of the mirror lightly. “It should be locked in place tomorrow, but Flickerman said to let you give it a once-over.”

“Yeah. Looks fine.”

You both stand at the same time—and for whatever reason, your hands reach out together to touch the mirror at the exact same moment.

The second your fingertips brush the glass, the air shifts. A sudden breeze swirls through the tent, even though nothing outside is moving. The lights above flicker once, twice—then hum sharply before returning to normal.

Minho stiffens. You both pull your hands back and look at each other.

“…What the hell was that?!” you ask, voice quiet.

Minho doesn’t answer at first. He glances at the mirror again. The reflection ripples for a heartbeat—not the glass itself, just the image, as if the two of you shimmered like a bad signal.

“That was weird,” he says finally.

You force out a half-laugh. “Maybe the mirror is haunted.”

“Or we’re just exhausted.”

You nod, though your eyes linger on the mirror longer than they should.

Minho shrugs it off and grabs his bag again. “Anyway. I’m good with it.”

“Cool,” you murmur, already taking a note on your tablet. “I’ll let them know.”

As you both step out of the storage room, the air outside feels cooler, stiller, like something’s holding its breath. Neither of you says anything about it. But behind you, the mirror pulses—once—then falls still again.

-

Minho unlocks his apartment door and steps inside, greeted by the silence he’s grown used to. He flicks on the light and toes off his shoes, the ache in his knee making him wince.

Now that the adrenaline’s gone, everything hurts. He shrugs off his hoodie, drops his duffel on the floor, and heads straight for the bathroom. The mirror above the sink catches him—sweat-damp hair, dirt streaked along his jaw, and a shallow cut on his cheekbone he hadn’t even noticed.

His body’s a patchwork of bruises: shoulder, ribs, thigh. A scrape blooms across his forearm, angry red. His knee is swelling under the dried smear of blood. The pain didn’t hit until now.

He wets a towel with warm water and starts cleaning the wounds. His jaw tightens as the sting sinks in, but he doesn’t flinch. Pain is part of the job. Pain is proof of work. Proof that he’s still standing. Bandages, antiseptic, painkillers—he moves through the motions like a ritual.

Once he’s done, he grabs the worn folder from his bag and flops onto the couch, flipping through the stunt breakdowns for the rest of the shoot. Each page is full of scribbles—timing notes, angles, padding placement, safety reminders.

Most of the stunts are familiar. Falls, fire walls, bike skids. He’s done variations of them before. But one stands out.

Scene 57 – Tank drop + underwater hold

He stares at the header. His fingers go still. There’s a big circle around it, notes scrawled in the margins from his coach: Reassess oxygen hold time. Test with shallow depth first. Not final — needs confirmation.

Minho reads it twice and the back of his throat suddenly goes dry. He closes the folder slowly. His palms are damp. It’s the one stunt he’s not sure he can do. It’s the one where the fear is real, not just a thrill. The one where water becomes a cage, and his mind forgets how to breathe. He lets the folder drop to the coffee table with a dull thud.

“I’ll deal with it later,” he mutters to himself against the silence lingering in the space, but the knot in his stomach doesn't loosen.

He turns off the lights, crawls into bed, and pulls the covers over his sore body. His muscles throb under the weight of exhaustion, but sleep doesn’t come easy. Not with the memory of water pressing against his chest. Not with the sound of a silent scream echoing in his ears. Still, he forces his eyes shut.

Tomorrow is another day and there’s no room for fear. Not yet.

-

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, and you don’t even bother turning on the lights. You kick your shoes off in the dark, bag slipping off your shoulder and landing with a dull thud somewhere near the couch. Your body moves on autopilot—keys on the hook, jacket over the chair, bathroom light on for comfort.

You collapse onto your bed face-first, the covers unmade, pillows a mess. Every part of you is sore—legs heavy, shoulders tight, eyes dry from staring at screens and squinting into sunlight all day.

However, sleep has to wait. You groan into the pillow before dragging yourself upright and reaching for your laptop. The familiar whir of it booting up is a comfort and a curse.

You open your planner, typing out tomorrow’s to-do list: Update shooting schedule. Send revised call sheet. Follow up on prop inspection notes. Confirm Felix’s trailer move. Reply to wardrobe email. Coffee for Flickerman.

You pause to let out a sigh before start replying to emails, fingers flying fast, writing and rewriting the same sentences, the same apologies, the same polite tone.

And then—your gaze lands on it. Tucked under a stack of binders and half-read paperbacks on your nightstand, your script notebook peeks out, its worn spine barely visible. You reach for it without thinking.

The cover is scuffed, soft around the edges, smudged with coffee stains and your own fingerprints. You pull it into your lap, flip it open, and the pages welcome you back like an old friend.

Scene 4 – kitchen light flickers / she doesn’t notice

Scene 12 – voiceover cuts in mid-sentence

Scene 27 – rain on the window / not metaphorical / just lonely

You remember where you were when you wrote these. Some on the subway, others between takes. One late at night with cup of noodles beside you, your mind racing with images and dialogue that wouldn’t wait. You remember the feeling—your fingers flying over the keys, heart full, eyes tired but alive. You were in love with film. Still are.

That’s the whole reason you took this job, right?

Even if it means being an assistant to an assistant director, fetching coffee, running schedules, picking up tasks no one else wants. Even if your name’s never in the credits, even if you barely get a “thanks” because it’s a step. A toe in the door.

And honestly you’re afraid. God, you are. Afraid you’ll get stuck here. That this is it. That passion isn’t enough. That you’ll burn out before anyone even gives your script a glance. But you’re not ready to give up. Not yet. Maybe—just maybe—things are about to change.

You run your hand across the page like it might come to life beneath your touch. Then you close the book gently, like a promise.

Tomorrow, you whisper to yourself. Maybe tomorrow things are about to change. For real.

-

Something feels… off.

You stir awake slowly, head heavy, limbs heavier, like you’ve been drugged or slept through an earthquake. The air smells different. Muskier. Clean, but not your detergent. And the sheets aren’t yours — they’re softer, higher thread count maybe, and way too big. You blink your eyes open, and the ceiling above you isn’t familiar. You sit up too fast and immediately freeze.

Your arm. Wait— That’s not your arm. That’s… a muscular, tan, veiny forearm, the kind you only ever see in action films and on gym freaks who live off protein powder.

“What the—”

Your voice cracks in your throat. It’s deep. It’s not your voice.

Panic claws up your chest. You throw the covers off and stumble out of bed — legs wobbling, feet hitting the ground harder than you’re used to. You glance down and—holy hell—those are not your thighs. Or calves. Or abs. Or anything, really.

You rush toward the mirror across the room, nearly tripping over a duffel bag and a foam roller on the floor and when you finally see your reflection, your heart stutters to a full stop.

Instead of you, you see someone else. Lee Minho.

Wide brown eyes. Fluffy bedhead. Bare chest. Abs. The kind of body sculpted by hours in the gym and dangerous stunts. And he's staring back at you — well, you’re staring back at you, but it’s him, but it’s you—

You grab your face with trembling hands. “Oh my god.”

You turn. The reflection turns. You lift a hand. It lifts a hand. You scream. You curse. You pace the room like a caged animal, hands running through hair that isn't yours. It feels too thick, too soft, unfamiliar against your fingers. Everything about this body feels wrong — the weight of it, the height, the strength in your legs as you move, the sheer heat of it like it runs warmer than yours ever did.

"This isn't happening. This is not happening," you mutter to yourself over and over, your—his—voice too deep in your ears, too jarring.

It has to be a dream. A really weird, lucid dream. Maybe you passed out at work. Maybe you’re still on set. Maybe you fell asleep watching some random body swap movie and your brain is just doing its thing.

"Okay," you breathe, standing still and clutching the edge of the desk like it’ll stop the world from spinning. "Okay. I just need to wake up."

You slap yourself. Hard. Nothing. You pinch your inner arm. Bite the inside of your cheek. Close your eyes and count to ten, then twenty, then thirty. Still here. Still in Minho’s body. Still in his freaking boxer briefs in a room that smells like aftershave and protein bars.

You’re two seconds away from spiraling when a knock makes you flinch so hard you nearly trip over a foam roller again.

“Hey,Minho? You up, kid?” a deep voice calls through the door.

You know that voice. You’ve heard it on set. That’s his coach, Mr. Kim. The one always nagging him about training, safety protocols, and... something about important appointments?

“I know you only have one stunt to do today,” he calls again, lighter this time. “I didn’t see you train this morning. Are you okay?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. He thinks you're Minho because you look and sound like Minho.

The silence hangs for a beat too long. Then the coach knocks again. “You good in there?”

“Yeah!” you shout in sheer panic. It comes out deep and awkward and all wrong. “Yeah, I’m—fine. Just… getting ready!”

There’s a pause. Then a muffled “Alright. Don't be late.”

His footsteps fade down the hallway and you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten years.

This isn’t a dream. This is real. Somehow. Against all logic and reason, this is happening. You throw on a hoodie and sweatpants — Minho’s hoodie and sweatpants — and grab his phone, wallet, and keys like your life depends on it, because it does. You pull the hood up, duck your head, and slip outside, praying no one recognizes you. You hail the first taxi you see and slide in.

“Where to?” the driver asks.

You give your address — your actual address — before you can even think twice. The words feel foreign coming out of this mouth, but you don’t care.

You sit back, heart hammering against ribs that aren’t yours. You need to get home. You need answers. You need to figure this out. You need to see your body. You need you.

-

Minho groans softly, shifting under the blanket.

"Come on," he mumbles to himself, voice thick with sleep. "Get up. You’ve got training."

But his body won’t move. He feels… sore. Not the usual sore. A different kind of sore. Heavy in the limbs, tight in the joints, and strangely stiff like he’s been sleeping curled up too long. The bed under him feels smaller than usual. Firmer.

He exhales, arm flopping over his face. "Just five more minutes," he mutters.

His voice sounds— Wait. That doesn’t sound like him. He peeks an eye open. And then the other.

What the hell?

This isn’t his ceiling. This isn’t his bed. And those definitely aren’t his hands.

Minho bolts upright, heart slamming against his chest — a chest that is… not his chest. He throws off the blanket and stares down at himself. Smaller frame. Softer build. One of those oversized sleep shirts from a drama set. Legs bare and—

“Holy—”

He leaps out of bed and stumbles, crashing into the wall. The jolt sends a mirror on the bookshelf rattling and he catches it just in time. That’s when he sees it. You. Your face. Blinking back at him. Wide-eyed. Messy hair. Lips parted in shock. And wearing the same panicked expression he feels right now.

"No. No no no no—"

He spins around like the room might change if he moves fast enough. But it doesn’t. It stays exactly the same. Cramped apartment. A desk buried in script drafts and empty mugs. A corkboard with storyboards and post-its. A laptop blinking in sleep mode. A poster of a cult classic taped slightly crooked on the wall.

It smells like you too. Like that citrus shampoo and burnt coffee and the scent of a candle that never quite covers it all.

“What the f—” Minho breathes, gripping the back of the desk chair for balance.

He looks down at his—your—hands again. Smaller fingers. Short nails. A callus on the side of the middle finger. He flexes them. Opens and closes them. Still here. Still real.

His mouth opens but no sound comes out. For once in his life, Minho is completely, utterly speechless. This has to be a joke. A prank. Maybe he hit his head during that dumpster stunt and this is all a concussion-fueled fever dream. But when he slaps your—his—cheek, it hurts. This feels too real. Way too real.

Minho drags a shaky hand through his — no, your — hair and starts pacing, muttering under his breath like that’s going to summon a miracle.

“Okay. Okay. Think, Lee Minho. Think.”

He spots your phone charging on the nightstand and lunges for it like it holds all the answers. The screen lights up. Passcode required.

“Of course,” he mutters. “Because this would be too easy.”

He tries 0000. 1234. His own birthday. Your name. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong again.

Minho groans in frustration and flops back into your chair, rubbing at your temple. The wrong skin. The wrong face. The wrong everything.

Then the phone starts ringing in his hand. He jumps, nearly flinging it across the room. A name flashes across the screen: Assistant Director From Hell

Who names someone that in their contacts? Oh, wait, yeah, he knows this person, the AD is the one who always wears his hat backward and yells at you.

The phone keeps ringing. Loud. Insistent. Minho stares at it, torn between throwing it out the window or letting it go to voicemail. But it just keeps ringing as he stares at it so he slides to answer.

The second the line opens, he’s met with yelling. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been standing here like an idiot waiting for that coffee and now I have to do everything myself—”

Minho winces and holds the phone an inch away from his ear. Then, with all the deadpan sarcasm he can muster, he says, “Wow. That's a character development right there. Good for you.”

And he hangs up.

Immediately, the phone starts buzzing again. He throws it on the bed like it’s cursed and stalks across the room, looking for… something. Anything. A clue. Maybe in your shelf full of book has a manual titled "So You've Turned Into Someone Else" . He rifles through the mess on your desk, scans the corkboard like it’s going to explain the universe. Nothing.

Then— Knock knock knock. Three sharp bangs on the door.

Minho freezes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Another round of knocking, faster this time. Frantic.

What if it’s someone else from work? What if it’s the assistant director coming to scream at you in person? He creeps toward the door, slow, quiet. Then he hears it—

“Open up!” a voice hisses. “It’s me! Minho! I mean, you!”

Minho’s heart drops. He grabs the knob, takes a deep breath, and opens the door. Standing on the other side is himself. His body. Same hoodie. Same messy hair. Same scowl.

But the eyes? Not his. It’s you. Wide-eyed. Breathless. Clutching a phone like it’s a lifeline. Your chest rising and falling like you’ve just run the whole way here.

And for the first time since he woke up… Minho feels a strange, cold relief. “You,” he says, pointing. “You’re me.”

“And you’re me!” you shoot back, flailing a hand at him — your own hand.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, in perfect sync, you both say: “What the fuck is going on?”

-

You stare at Minho. No— not Minho. You.

It’s your body standing in the doorway, hair a mess, oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes wild. But the way it moves, the furrow of the brows, the barely restrained panic simmering behind your usual blank expression—

It’s Minho, alright. The real one. In your body.

“What the fuck is going on?” you both blurt out at the same time.

Then—

Minho-you rubs a hand down your—his—face and mutters, “Okay. This is bad. This is very bad.”

“No kidding,” you snap, shoving past him into your apartment.

Minho closes the door behind you, slowly, as if slamming it might explode something.

You pace across the room, arms flailing. “I woke up and everything was taller and muscle-y and there were bruises everywhere and then your coach showed up and I had to lie to his face and take a taxi just to get here—”

“You took a taxi?” Minho interrupts, incredulous.

“I don’t drive motorcycles at sunrise, Minho! I also don’t wake up with an eight-pack and a death wish!”

Minho huffs and plants your—his—hands on your hips. “Okay, well, I didn’t exactly wake up in a spa either! I woke up to a man screaming at me for not bringing him coffee!”

A tense silence settles. You're both breathing hard. And then, slowly, the absurdity hits you.

Minho’s lip twitches first. Then yours. And suddenly, both of you are laughing. That hysterical, oh-no-I’m-losing-it kind of laugh. But it dies just as quickly.

“This is real, right?” you whisper.

Minho nods grimly. “Yeah. Too real.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Okay. We need a plan.”

“Agreed.”

You turn to face him—except he’s you—and it’s… unsettling. It’s like looking in a mirror, but the mirror has way more attitude. You’re pacing again, arms crossed over your—his—broad chest, trying not to think too hard about the way your current biceps flex when you frown. “Okay. We need to retrace our steps. Something happened. This—this body-swap thing—it’s not random. It has to be connected to something from yesterday.”

Minho props himself up on one elbow and squints. “Okay, let’s see. I jumped off a truck into a dumpster. You wrangled five egos and still had time to brief Felix. Nothing weird about that.”

You nod slowly. “And then I stayed late to do prop checks.”

“And I stayed because you showed up to check a prop with me.”

You stop pacing. You both blink. At the same time, you say: “The mirror.”

Minho sits up fully, his eyes wide in your face. “Told you, that thing is haunted.”

“That’s explain why I felt weird after that like...” you don't dare to finish your sentence, heart racing.

Minho nods quickly. “Yeah. The lights flicker when we both touched it.”

You stare at each other. “That’s it. That has to be it.”

“Okay, so what do we do? Break the mirror? Kiss in front of it? Say a spell? Call an exorcist?”

You hesitate. “…We could try slamming our bodies into each other?”

Minho’s jaw drops. “What?”

You shrug. “Like in the movies! You know, sometimes a big impact resets the swap.”

Minho stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. Which technically, from his perspective, you kind of have. “You want me to run at you full speed and body slam you. As me.”

You nod seriously.

“That’s your big idea.”

You nod again.

“…Okay,” he says, standing up and brushing off your—his—pajama pants. “Let’s try this chaos science.”

You both position yourselves across from each other in the living room, your knees bent, arms ready.

“This is so stupid,” Minho mutters.

“On three,” you say, ignoring him. “One… two… THREE!”

You both sprint and collide. Hard. There’s a loud THUD, a crash, and you both go down like bowling pins, sprawling onto the floor with twin groans of pain.

You stare at the ceiling, your breath knocked out of your lungs. “Are we back?”

Minho, sprawled next to you, lifts your—his—arm and flexes the fingers. “Nope. Still you.”

You exhale. “Well. It was worth a shot.”

“Next time,” Minho grumbles, “let’s try the kissing idea.”

You elbow him—yourself?—in the ribs. “Not helping.”

The two of you lie there on your apartment floor, still stuck, still freaked out, and still very much not in the right bodies. You're still lying on the floor when your phone—Minho’s phone—starts ringing again from the kitchen counter. Loud, persistent, and impossible to ignore.

Minho groans next to you. “That thing has been ringing nonstop since I woke up. How do you live like this?”

You sit up and rub your—his—face. “Okay, maybe we should just stay in. Lay low. Pretend we have the flu or food poisoning or—”

“No.” Minho pushes himself up and looks at you, dead serious in your face. “We can’t stay in here forever. Staying here won’t help anything.”

You gape at him. “Are you seriously suggesting we just go out of the door? Like this?”

Minho shrugs. “We pretend to be each other. Get through the day. Figure out how to reverse this later.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It is,” he says. “I checked the call sheet before I went to bed—I mean, before you did. I only have one stunt to do today. One. Easy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what about you doing my job?”

Minho scoffs. “It’s not like you’re operating heavy machinery. You just run around getting coffee and wrangling people, right?”

You give him a sharp look. “Wow. Okay. Cool. So you think all I do is errands?”

He shrugs again, and you can tell he’s trying to downplay it more out of panic than arrogance. Still, it stings.

You point to the buzzing phone. “Great. You can start by answering that.”

Minho groans but picks it up, holding it like it’s a cursed object. “What’s the passcode?”

You tell him.

He answers. “Hello? …Yes, this is… her. What? No, I’m—I’m on my way right now. Yes. Coffee. Got it. Extra hot. Yep. Bye.”

He hangs up and looks at you, horrified. “Okay, your job is a waking nightmare.”

You cross your arms. “Still just errands, huh?”

He mutters something under his breath.

You sigh and stand. “Alright, if we’re doing this, we need rules. Ground rules.”

Minho nods. “Fine. Rule one: don’t die in my body.”

“Rule two: don’t quit my job.”

“Rule three: don’t embarrass me in front of people. Especially Felix.”

He smirks. “Especially Felix? Why? Do you like him.”

You scoff and pretend to deny it. “I do not.”

He just raises a very skeptical eyebrow and you groan before continuing. “Whatever. Rule four: don’t tell anyone what’s going on.”

Minho nods again. “Agreed. We act normal. We blend in. We switch back tonight.”

You hold out your—his—hand. “Deal?”

He shakes it with your—his—much smaller one. “Deal.”

Then you both just stand there, still completely swapped and not remotely ready. But you put on your best Minho scowl, and he straightens up like he’s about to lecture a crew full of interns.

This is going to be such a disaster.

-

Minho sits stiffly in the passenger seat—well, technically it’s not his body sitting there, it’s yours. But inside, it’s him. And that alone is enough to make his temple throb. Next to him, you—trapped in his body—are clutching the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip, staring out at the set parking lot like it’s a battlefield.

You exhale sharply before shifting on your seat to face him. “Okay. Let’s go over this again.”

Minho leans back in the seat, arms crossed, your smaller frame feeling oddly fragile under the tension. “First, you head to the stunt tent. Warm up. Stretch with the guys. Just do what they do.”

You nod slowly. “Copy that.”

“And don’t talk too much. I don’t usually make conversation.”

You raise an eyebrow—his eyebrow. “Oh really? You don’t say.”

Minho rolls his eyes. “Just—grunts, nods, maybe crack your neck now and then. Keep it cool.”

You breathe out through your nose. “What about you?”

“I’ll do your job,” he replies, glancing out the windshield. “Run around. Look irritated. Get bossed around by people in cargo shorts.”

You snort. “It’s more than that and you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll check the props too. Especially the mirror.”

Your stomach twists at the mention. “You really think it’s that? The mirror?”

He gives a small shrug. “You got a better theory? ‘Cause I woke up in your body and you woke up in mine. That mirror’s the only weird thing that happened.”

You hesitate. “Yeah. No... you’re probably right.”

He grabs the door handle, but pauses. “Also—your stunt today?”

Your eyes widen. “What about it?”

Minho pastes on a casual smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Easy. Just a little jump. Nothing to worry about.”

Relief floods your face—his face. “Thank god.”

Minho doesn’t tell you the truth. He doesn’t say that the jump is high for you and that he’s not even sure you would be able to feel confident doing it. He’ll deal with it later. Hopefully, you won’t even have to do it. He’ll figure this out before it comes to that.

“Okay,” you say, reaching for your—his—door. “You handle the mirror. I’ll stretch and try not to die.”

“Good plan,” Minho mutters.

You both step out of the car, standing for a second in bodies that don’t feel like home. He glances at you one last time. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

You scoff. “Says the guy who thinks my job is just carrying coffee.”

He winces, then grins. “Alright. Point taken.”

You both head off in opposite directions, moving like strangers inside each other’s skin. Neither of you says it out loud, but you’re both thinking the same thing: This better not last forever.

-

Minho makes a beeline for the storage room, moving quickly down the corridor with your lanyard bouncing against your chest. His goal is clear: find the mirror, get answers, and fix this madness before it gets any worse. But before he can even reach the end of the hallway, a voice booms behind him like nails on a chalkboard.

“There you are!”

Minho freezes. He doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is. The assistant director—your boss—is stomping toward him with a coffee cup in hand and a permanent scowl etched into his face like it’s carved from stone.

“Do you know what time it is?” the AD barks, gesturing dramatically at his nonexistent watch. “I needed the prop list an hour ago. Felix’s call sheet is still not updated. And where the hell is my second coffee?”

Minho blinks. “You… already have a coffee,” he points out flatly.

The AD scoffs. “This one’s from makeup. Makeup, for god’s sake. Is that your job? No. Your job is assisting me, which apparently includes making my morning slightly less miserable.”

Minho bites down on his tongue, hard. It takes everything in him not to roll his—your—eyes so far back they get stuck.

The man slaps a thick clipboard into Minho’s hands. “Here. Schedule, scene breakdowns, deliveries, sign-offs. Make yourself useful.”

And just like that, he turns and walks away, muttering something about incompetence under his breath.

Minho stares at the pile of tasks like it’s a live grenade. “What the actual hell,” he mutters, your voice low with disbelief.

He glances down at the clipboard, then toward the direction the AD disappeared in. Then back at the clipboard. Then at the door to the storage room. He breathes out through his nose. Hard. “How do you do this?” he murmurs under his breath, thinking of you—really thinking of you for the first time. “How do you not lose it on that piece of shit every single day?”

His jaw tenses. The sting of someone barking orders at him, treating him like a forgettable errand runner—it’s new. Unfamiliar. Unpleasant. And this is what you’ve been putting up with? Every day?

He takes a step forward, then stops—and kicks the air in sheer frustration. It’s not satisfying. At all. “Great,” he mutters. “Just great.”

Clutching the clipboard like it personally insulted him, Minho turns and trudges toward the production trailer. He’ll do the work. He’ll grit his teeth and get through it. Because the sooner he plays his part, the sooner he gets to that damn mirror. And hopefully, the sooner he gets back to being himself.

-

You walk across the lot toward the stunt tent, trying not to let the sheer absurdity of your situation make your legs give out. With every step, you're hyperaware of the way Minho’s body moves—he’s all long limbs and muscle, the kind of strength that doesn’t just look intimidating, it feels it.

You roll your shoulders once, trying to act casual. Confident. Masculine. Whatever that means. You're Minho now. You’re a stuntman. And according to Minho, you don’t talk. You nod. You keep your cool. You keep repeating that to yourself like a mantra as you approach the tent.

Inside, a few stuntmen are already moving through their warm-up drills—stretching, light cardio, and some kind of complex joint-rolling thing that looks both impressive and mildly painful. The air smells like sweat and athletic tape, and the floor mats are covered in chalk footprints and scuff marks.

One of them bumps into you as he jogs backward in a warm-up run. He grins and claps you on the back like it’s just another Thursday. You nod. Just like Minho told you.

“Rough night?” the guy asks, chuckling, then jogs away before you have to answer.

Okay. So far, so good.

You eye the group for a second and slowly make your way toward the stretching circle, sitting down cross-legged and watching their movements out of the corner of your eye. One guy pulls a leg over his shoulder like it’s no big deal. Another does a series of pushups on his knuckles. You swallow and try not to panic. You mirror their stretches as best you can, focusing hard on making each move look smooth, like you’ve been doing it your entire life. Minho’s body helps—a lot more flexible and capable than yours—but you can feel your lack of rhythm. Your motions are just a beat too slow, too unsure.

Still, no one’s called you out. Yet. Someone claps beside you. You turn your head just enough to see one of the stunt guys—someone you vaguely remember seeing on set a few times—gesture to the crash mats behind you.

“Wanna run some practice rolls?” he asks.

Your heart stutters in panic, but you nod, keeping your expression blank.

He tosses a foam baton toward you. You catch it—barely—and follow him to the mat, mentally bracing yourself. You’re not sure what’s worse: the possibility of failing spectacularly in front of actual stuntmen or the fact that Minho’s body might get injured because you don’t know what you’re doing.

You whisper to yourself, “Okay. Just don’t die.”

And then, you lunge forward, trying to look like you belong here—even if you feel like the world’s worst impostor in someone else’s skin.

-

You’re already out of breath by the time warm-ups are done, sweat slick on Minho’s back and your lungs burning from the effort. You try not to hunch over or pant too hard—everyone else looks like they’ve barely broken a sweat, and the last thing you need is to stand out.

You're mentally begging for a moment to catch your breath when the stunt director appears, barking your name—Minho's name—and waving you over. You hesitate a split second too long before jogging toward him, muscles aching in unfamiliar places.

“We’re setting up your jump today,” he says as he checks something off on his clipboard. “Let’s go take a look.”

You nod mutely and trail behind him, hoping it’ll just be a demonstration or a quick safety walkthrough. Maybe you can fake your way through this without throwing up or falling on your face.

He leads you to the parking structure and then you follow him up flight after flight of concrete stairs, each step echoing with your own dread. By the time you reach the second floor, your legs are trembling—not from fatigue, but from the creeping realization that this isn’t just a talk. He’s going to show you the real thing.

You step out into the open and the sun stabs at your eyes. The stunt director strides toward the edge of the building, casually ducking under the safety rail. You don’t want to follow—but you do.

“Here,” he says, pointing. “You’ll come running from that corner, full speed, and jump off this edge. The dumpster down below is padded. We’ll have the rig crew ready. Should be an easy drop.”

You step forward cautiously and glance down. It’s high. The kind of high that makes your knees feel like jelly and your palms start sweating all over again. The wind whips through Minho’s hair, but it doesn’t cool the flush rising in your face.

"Easy," he says.

You want to laugh—easy, he says, as if jumping off a concrete ledge and trusting gravity and foam mats below isn’t completely terrifying. You nod slowly, trying not to show how pale you’ve gone.

“Just like the rehearsal last week,” he adds. “Same pace, same tuck on the landing. You remember the drill.”

Nope, you think. I was too busy being myself last week.

The director keeps talking—something about the angle of the camera, how fast you should be running, and where exactly to aim when you jump—but the words start to blur. All you can focus on is the open air in front of you and the distance to the dumpster below.

You swallow hard and nod again, every part of you screaming that this is a bad idea. Because you might be in Minho’s body—but you’re definitely not him.

-

Minho balances a tray of four overpriced coffees in one hand and an armful of clipboards in the other as he weaves through the chaos of the film set. Someone yells at him to move faster, and he barely restrains himself from responding with a few choice words. Instead, he forces a tight smile and mutters, “You’re lucky I’m not in my actual body.”

Your job truly is a nightmare. He’s delivered coffee, answered at least twelve emails he barely understood, got scolded for not replying sooner, and now he’s carrying props across the lot like a glorified intern. How do you survive this every day? More importantly, how have you not completely lost your mind?

He checks the time on your—his—watch and realizes he has a few minutes. Without wasting it, Minho slips away from the chaos, navigating through the back corridors until he reaches the storage room.

The door creaks open, and he steps inside, the scent of dust and old metal filling his nose. His eyes scan the dim space, skipping over piles of unused props and covered furniture—until they land on it.

The mirror. It stands leaned against the wall, cloaked partially with a thin tarp like someone tried to forget it existed. Minho walks toward it slowly, heart beating faster the closer he gets. He pulls the tarp down and the mirror’s surface glints under the single overhead bulb. It looks… normal. No glowing aura. No ancient runes. No cursed fog swirling inside.

When he looks into it—he doesn’t see himself. He sees you. Your face stares back at him from the glass, wide-eyed and confused. It’s the same expression he knows must be on his real face right now. He slowly lifts his hand and the reflection copies him. You copy him. Or—he copies you. Either way, it sends a chill down his spine.

“What are you?” he mutters under his breath, scanning the frame for any engravings, hidden switches, anything that might hint at what this mirror really is, but there’s nothing. Just that eerie reflection and the heaviness in the air like something is watching, listening.

“How do we fix this?” Minho murmurs as leans closer.

He crouches beside the mirror, eyes narrowed, fingertips brushing lightly over the cool, dust-coated frame. He doesn’t know what he expected—an inscription? A hidden compartment? Maybe the mirror to whisper "swap complete" in some demonic voice? But nothing happens. Just his—your—reflection blinking back at him. Then the static pops from the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, and Minho flinches.

“Have you briefed Felix yet?” the assistant director barks through the device, tone already laced with irritation.

Minho clenches his jaw before pressing the button. “On it now,” he says, his voice pleasant but tight, his thumb lifting just in time to roll his eyes to the ceiling.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” He mutters it to no one in particular, then jogs out of the storage room, ducking around equipment carts and crossing the set like he actually knows where he’s going. When he finds Felix’s trailer, he barely stops before knocking.

The door to his trailer swings open almost immediately a d Felix stands there, relaxed in a loose hoodie and jeans, his signature sunshine smile already in place.

“Oh, hey!” he greets warmly.

Minho nearly scoffs. He forgets for a second that Felix is one of those people who actually means it when they smile. He also remembers—unfortunately—that you like Felix. Like like-like him. He can feel it faintly inside the borrowed body, a residual trace of admiration like perfume on a shirt collar.

Whatever. He’s not here to psychoanalyze your hopeless crush. He’s here to do your damn job.

Minho clears his throat and lifts the clipboard he’s snagged on the way over. “You’ve got three scenes today. First one’s the rooftop sequence—fight choreography’s been updated, so it’ll be a new take. Second’s that emotional bit in the stairwell, the one with your co-lead. Third is a green screen pickup at the end of the day. You’ll need the harness ready before lunch.”

He rattles it off smoothly, without emotion, and Felix listens with the same gentle attentiveness that makes everyone like him. Once it’s over, Minho doesn’t waste a second. He turns toward the door, eager to get back to the mirror, to anything else.

And then, a hand catches his wrist. Not harsh, but firm.

“Hey,” Felix says, his voice softer now, serious in a way that makes Minho pause. “Are you okay?”

Minho turns slowly, face falling into a confused frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Felix tilts his head a little, studying him. “I don’t know. You just seem… different today. Like something’s bothering you.”

Minho swallows hard. He notices? Seriously? Inside, he panics. But outwardly—he smiles. Not his smile. Your smile. The one you’d probably use to brush things off. Just tight enough to be believable. Just warm enough to not raise questions.

“I’m fine,” he says with a practiced lightness. “Just… tired. It's been a long day.”

Felix nods slowly, still watching him like he’s not quite convinced, but respectful enough not to press. “Alright. If you need anything—”

“Thanks,” Minho cuts in gently, pulling his wrist free and giving a small nod before making his exit.

Once he’s outside, he lets out a long breath, picking up his pace toward the edge of the lot. He’s barely been in your shoes for a few hours and already? He’s exhausted and he still hasn’t figured out how to fix this mess.

But just as he rounds a corner and nearly collides with a crew cart, it hits him. The stunt. Your stunt. His stunt, technically—but it’s you in his body. That jump—that jump—is scheduled to be filmed this afternoon.

He rubs at his temple, groaning. “Oh, crap…”

There’s no way you can pull it off. No way you’re ready. It’s not just some minor tumble—it’s a carefully timed fall from a second-story ledge into a crash mat, flanked by sharp camera angles and tight choreography. And if he doesn’t find a way to switch back before the call time, it won’t matter how good you are at pretending to be him. You could get hurt. Badly.

-

You try not to let your nerves show, but your legs betray you. You’re pacing around the edge of the tent like a trapped animal, arms folded tightly against your chest, eyes darting every time someone walks past.

You’re dressed in Minho’s stunt gear, the padding uncomfortable against your body, the weight of it pressing down on your thoughts. You’re supposed to jump from a ledge today. A ledge. And everyone in the tent acts like it’s just another Wednesday.

You steal a glance at the other stuntmen—stretching, checking harnesses, laughing like it’s all just fun. Like they’ve done it a thousand times. Maybe they have. You haven’t. And your heartbeat won’t stop hammering in your chest.

You try to breathe through your nose. In, out. In, out. You can’t mess this up. You can’t. Minho said it was a simple stunt. You keep repeating that. It’s simple. He said it’s simple.

Still, your hands shake. You turn toward the table lined with protective gear, eyeing the elbow pads and harnesses. You’ve been trying to figure out which goes on first without making it obvious you’ve never done this before. You're one second away from panicking again when—

The tent flap lifts and you nearly jump. It’s Mr. Kim. Minho’s coach. His sharp eyes immediately scan the table, then settle on you. “Have you suited up yet?” he asks, gesturing toward the gear. “You should be getting ready.”

“I—I was just about to,” you manage to say, your voice a little higher than you’d like. You clear your throat and try again, “Yeah. Getting to it.”

Mr. Kim narrows his eyes slightly. Not with suspicion. Just… confusion. Like something about you isn’t quite adding up. He steps a little closer, eyes flicking down at the gear still untouched, then back at your face. “You feeling alright, Minho?”

You force a stiff nod, doing your best impersonation of someone who knows what they’re doing. “Yeah. Just… focusing.”

But his eyes linger on you for a beat too long and just when you think the situation couldn’t get worse—

The tent flap flies open again. It’s you. Well, your body. Minho. His hair’s a little messy, chest heaving like he sprinted across set, and his eyes immediately land on you. There’s a flash of urgency in them before he shifts his expression into something more controlled, more you.

“Hey,” he says quickly, looking at Mr. Kim. “I need him for something. Production stuff.”

Mr. Kim frowns. “Now? We’re about to—”

“It’ll be quick,” Minho says, grabbing your wrist like it’s second nature. “I’ll have him back in five.”

Mr. Kim doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t stop him either. Minho’s already tugging you out of the tent, muttering a quick “Thanks” over his shoulder.

Once you’re outside, he picks up the pace, still holding onto your wrist as he drags you away from the tent, the set, and the people who are expecting you to be fearless.

You stumble a little to keep up. “Minho—”

“We need to talk,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. His voice is tight. “Now.”

You don’t argue because the look on his face tells you what you already feel deep in your gut. Something’s wrong and time is running out.

-

The space is dim, the flickering light overhead casting long shadows across crates and metal racks. You’ve been here before, but this time, your heart races for a completely different reason. You follow Minho further into the storage room, still feeling the ghost of panic clinging to your skin.

Minho walks straight toward the corner, where the tarp-covered object looms like a secret waiting to ruin your life. Without saying a word, he grabs the edge of the fabric and yanks it down.

The mirror. Your stomach flips at the sight of it. It looks ordinary. Heavy. Old. The frame is tarnished gold, the glass dark around the edges like it’s been absorbing years. But the thing that really makes your skin crawl is the reflection. Because it’s not your face staring back at you. It’s Minho’s. Still.

Minho crosses his arms, frustration settling in the crease of his brows. “I checked everything,” he says. “Every inch. There’s nothing. No switches, no marks, no inscription—nothing that says, ‘This is cursed, don’t touch it.’”

“That’s very comforting,” you sarcastically mutter, inching closer to the mirror.

The closer you get, the more your reflection—or Minho’s reflection—taunts you. You watch as he mirrors your movement exactly, down to the anxious bite of your lip. You tear your gaze away. “So… what do we do now?”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the glass like he wants to shatter it. Then he sighs and says, “Maybe we try touching it again. Like we did last night.”

You blink at him. “You think that’ll work?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But we don’t have other ideas.”

You both stand in silence, neither of you moving. Because honestly? You’re scared.

“What if it only makes it worse?” you whisper.

Minho hesitates. Then nods once, slowly. “We touch it together. On three.”

You draw a shaky breath, then raise your hand alongside his.

“One…”

You swallow.

“Two…”

Your fingers hover a breath away from the glass.

“Three.”

Both of your palms press against the mirror at the same time and nothing happens. No shimmer. No jolt. No flash of light. Just silence.

You pull your hand back, disappointment crashing down like a wave. “Of course,” you mutter, stomping your foot against the ground, the sound echoing off the concrete. “Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.”

Minho lets out a breath like he's been holding it too. He rakes a hand through your hair—his hair—and looks at you. “I don’t know what else to do.”

You pace in a small circle, head spinning, and then— You stop. Your eyes snap to him. “Wait. Didn’t you say something this morning?”

Minho narrows his eyes. “I said a lot of things this morning.”

“No, you said something about—about kissing in front of the mirror. As a joke.”

He stares at you. “You’re not serious.”

You lift your shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I know it sounds dumb, but I’ve seen weirder things work in movies, okay? It’s not like we have a list of rules here.”

Minho exhales sharply and rubs the back of his neck. “This is ridiculous.”

“Do you want to be stuck in my body forever?”

He scowls. “Fine.”

The two of you stand in front of the mirror again, reflections aligned like some strange alternate reality. You’re facing each other, close enough to feel each other’s breath. The awkwardness is so thick it nearly drowns you.

“This is so weird,” you mumble, your eyes flicking down to your—his—mouth.

“You think I’m enjoying this?” Minho retorts, glaring at his own face.

Still, neither of you move away. You close your eyes first. He does too. And slowly, awkwardly, your lips meet in a kiss that’s more confused than romantic. It’s soft, hesitant—clumsy, even—but you both stay still, hoping maybe… just maybe…

Please, let this work.

After a moment, you both pull away, eyes blinking open as you glance quickly at the mirror. Still you. Still him. Nothing.

You let out a frustrated groan and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Well, that didn’t work either.”

Minho sighs beside you, tilting his head back with a dramatic groan. “We just kissed ourselves. For nothing.”

You nod solemnly. “We really need a better plan.”

-

Minho takes a step back from the mirror, lips still tingling with the awkward memory of kissing himself—well, you—and the growing frustration that nothing happened. Not even a flicker. He exhales sharply through his nose and turns to say something, anything, but you beat him to it.

“This is bad,” you mutter, pacing now, hands flying in frantic gestures. “This is really bad, Minho. I can’t do that jump—I can’t—have you seen how high that is?”

Minho blinks. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point of a stunt.”

You turn to him with wide, panicked eyes. “I looked down, Minho. I got dizzy just looking down. And now they want me to leap off it? On camera?! In front of everyone?!”

You lunge for him suddenly, grabbing his arms. Minho flinches—not because of the movement, but because you’re using his strength in his body, and your fingers dig into the muscle of his—your—arms like steel clamps. “You have to fix this. You have to,” you plead, panic riding high in your voice. “I can’t do this. I’m not trained for this. I can’t even jump a flight of stairs without breaking something!”

Minho opens his mouth, but then you’re talking again, the words crashing out of you like waves.

“Why didn’t you tell me this stunt was this intense?! You said it was simple, you lied, and now I’m gonna die and everyone’s gonna see me—you—fail and fall on my face, and they’ll blacklist me forever and—”

“Hey,” Minho snaps, gripping your shoulders. He forgets for a second that he’s still in your body, and how strange it looks—you holding yourself. “Breathe. Just breathe, alright? We’ll fix this. There has to be a way.”

But you’re too far gone in panic to hear him and just then, the walkie-talkie clipped to your—his—belt crackles to life.

“Minho, where the hell are you?” Mr. Kim’s voice blares, stern and urgent. “Get back to the set. We’re rolling in ten.”

You freeze and so does Minho. His jaw clenches in either concern or panic. Or both.

Your wide, frantic eyes lock onto him. “I can’t do it, Minho,” you whisper, barely audible now. “I can’t.”

Minho’s gut twists as he watches your face—his face—completely unravel. You’re terrified. And as much as he wants to tell you to get a grip, he can’t blame you. You didn’t sign up for this. Not really. And worst of all? He doesn’t know how to fix it either.

“Okay,” he says, softer this time. “Okay. Come on. We’ll figure something out. Just… give me a second to think.”

And as the walkie-talkie continues to crackle impatiently at his hip, Minho realizes time is the one thing they don’t have.

-

Minho pulls you into an empty storage room down the hallway, shutting the door behind him with a quiet thud. You are still in full-blown panic mode, pacing the tight space and tugging at the hem of your borrowed shirt—his shirt, technically—muttering under your breath about death, embarrassment, and shattering every bone in his body.

“Stop moving,” he says, more gently than his words sounded. “Come here.”

You hesitate, but shuffle closer, visibly trembling. Minho crouches down and picks up the padding gear someone must’ve dumped in the corner earlier. “Arms up.”

You obey, albeit reluctantly, and Minho begins fastening the elbow pads, strapping them tightly around your joints with practiced hands. He tries to focus on the motions—secure, align, tighten—but it is hard when you are radiating so much panic that he can practically feel it buzzing in the air between you.

“I’ve never jumped off anything in my life,” you mutter as he move to your knees. “Not even a pool diving board. And now I have to—what—leap off a parking building?! I’m going to die. I’m going to die and they’re going to say it’s your fault and everyone will hate you and—”

“Hey.” He doesn't snap, not this time. He straightens up and catches your shoulders before your thoughts can spiral further. “You’re not going to die.”

You give him a skeptical look that mirrors his own expressions so well it is eerie. He let out a sigh and reaches for your chin, tilting your head up until your eyes met his.

It is surreal—seeing his own face like this. Pale. Anxious. Lips quivering, jaw tight. It hit him then: he’s never seen himself afraid. Not really. Not until now.

“You’re safe,” Minho says, firmly but with something softer beneath the surface. “You’ve got padding in all the right places, the rig guys triple-check everything, and the mat down there is like landing on a bed. You’re going to be fine.”

You stare at him, not entirely convinced so Minho moves his fingers to your jaw, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “All you have to do is jump. That’s it. Just one jump. You don’t even have to look down.”

“But—”

“And once it’s over,” he cut in, gently but firmly, “we’ll figure this out. The mirror, the curse, whatever it is. We’ll fix it. I promise.”

You bite your lip—his lip—and nod slowly. Minho sees it in your eyes, the fear still clinging to every thought, but also something else: trust.

His lips quirks, a small smile just for you. “See? You’ve got this.”

The walkie-talkie on his hip crackles again, Mr. Kim’s voice barking for the third time, increasingly annoyed. Minho doesn’t even bother responding this time. He flips the switch and turns it off with a pointed click. He isn’t leaving. Not yet. Not until you're ready.

-

You stand just off set, fully padded and jittery, the building looming behind you like a threat. You try not to look up at the ledge where you’re about to leap from, even though it’s all you can think about. Your heartbeat is a loud, erratic drum in your chest.

The only thing keeping you from bolting is the thought Minho planted in your head: the sooner you finish this, the sooner you can fix this. That’s it. That’s the only thing keeping your legs from locking up.

You’ve rehearsed it. You’ve gone over every step with Minho, run through the motion a dozen times on flat ground. The scene is straightforward. You just have to sprint and jump. You’ve watched Minho do stunts before—this one is small compared to the usual—but it feels colossal now that you’re the one doing it.

You stand on your mark and wait for the instruction.

“Action!”

You don’t think. You just run. The wind cuts past your ears, and the edge of the building rushes up on you faster than you expect. You hit the mark, your foot bouncing off the tape, and you leap.

Air whooshes past your face as the world tilts. Your stomach flips, your body tenses, and a sound you don’t mean to make escapes your lips. And then—impact. Soft, pillowy, like crashing into a giant marshmallow.

You lie there, limbs splayed, your eyes shut, breathing hard. It’s quiet except for your heart pounding and the distant sound of crew members moving around. You don’t move. You feel like your soul is still clinging to the top of that building.

Then you hear your voice. “Hey.”

You open your eyes and see Minho—your body—standing beside you with a hand extended. You take it, letting him pull you up.

“Oh, my God!” You gasp in disbelief, chest still rising and falling. “I can’t believe I actually did that.”

Minho scratches the back of your—his—head, lips pressing into a flat line. “Yeah, but… you’re gonna have to do it again.”

Your smile drops. “What? Why?”

He steps in closer and lowers his voice. “You screamed. You’re not supposed to scream during the jump.”

You blink, horrified. “I didn’t mean to. It just—it just came out!”

Minho doesn’t scold you. He just sighs and gives you a small, understanding nod. “It’s okay. Just do it again. Don’t think about it too much this time. Remember what I told you: shoulders relaxed, don’t lock your knees when you land, and breathe. You’ve got this.”

He crouches beside you, helping you adjust your padding again, tightening a loose strap on your elbow guard. You nod slowly, drawing in a deep breath. You have to do this. One more time. Then maybe—just maybe—you’ll be one step closer to waking up in your own skin again.

-

By the seventh take, you finally get the hang of it. Your knees don’t wobble as much, and your scream stays buried in your throat where it belongs. You land right on the mat, smooth and silent, and when you get up, the director gives a loud, satisfied “Cut! That’s the one!” You can hardly believe it. Relief floods through your body like a warm rush, and you’re already looking around for Minho—to tell him you survived, to ask if he saw it, but he’s not there.

Instead, Mr. Kim walks toward you, and your stomach sinks. His expression is unreadable at first, firm as usual, like he’s about to throw more instructions your way. You stiffen.

“Come with me,” he says, not unkindly. “We need to talk.”

You hesitate, then follow him, nerves crawling all over your skin. He still thinks you’re Minho. You have no idea what kind of relationship Minho has with this man, what you’re expected to say, or how to behave. You can only follow and pray you don’t blow your cover.

Mr. Kim leads you behind one of the trailers, where it’s quiet and out of view. He turns to face you, and when he does, something changes in his face. His features soften, his brows furrow—not in frustration, but in concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You straighten up and force a small nod. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t buy it. His hand comes up gently, resting on your shoulder, and he makes you look at him. His voice is lower now, careful. “Minho. Are you really okay?”

Your breath catches. His eyes are sharp, too sharp. You’re afraid he’ll see right through the lie, right through you—and you can’t afford that. So you take a risk.

“I… don’t feel like myself today,” you say quietly.

It’s not a lie. Just not the whole truth. Mr. Kim studies you for a moment longer, then slowly lowers his hand from your shoulder. Something settles in his eyes—understanding. He nods once, firm but kind. “Take a day off tomorrow.”

“Oh?” You blink, surprised. “Thank you.”

But before you can fully exhale, he adds, “I’m giving it to you because I want you to go to your appointment.”

Your heart skips. Appointment? You nod quickly, masking your confusion. “Right. Of course. I’ll go.”

“Good,” Mr. Kim says. He gives your shoulder two reassuring pats before turning and walking away, leaving you behind the trailer with a dry mouth and a thousand new questions.

Once he’s gone, you let out a long, shaky sigh and run a hand down your face. What appointment? And what exactly is going on in Minho’s life that you’ve just walked into?

-

Minho feels like every inch of your body is about to shut down.

The second he finishes logging the last of the day’s call sheets and returns the borrowed walkie to the charging dock, he slumps against the nearest wall in the hallway. The ache in your lower back is sharp, and his legs—your legs—feel like they’ve been walking for ten hours straight, which, unfortunately, they have.

He hates this job— your job. Not because it’s hard—he’s used to hard. But because it’s the kind of hard that goes unnoticed, thankless. And worse, he can’t understand how you do it. How you put up with the never-ending orders, the too-long hours, the bosses who treat you like a personal assistant rather than a professional. He wonders how much you bite your tongue each day. How often you do someone else’s job because no one else will. And most of all, he really wonders how you put up with that damn AD.

Minho groans as he pushes himself off the wall and trudges toward the storage room. The mirror is still there, tucked behind shelves and crates, hidden under the dusty tarp. He yanks it back and looks at the frame, eyes narrowing. There’s still no answer. No inscription. No symbols. Nothing magical about it except the wrong person staring back at him when he looks.

However, he has a plan now. He figures if he brings it home, you and him can test it in a more controlled setting. Try again without the rush, without worrying about being caught. He can set it up, maybe even try using different lighting, mirrors in movies always need the right light, right?

With that in mind, Minho wedges his hands underneath the frame and lifts, or tries to as your arms give out halfway through.

The mirror barely rises off the floor before his grip slips, and it lands back with a dull thud. He exhales a string of curses under his breath. Your body just isn’t strong enough to carry this alone. His body could, no problem. But your frame is smaller, and your muscles are clearly not used to hauling heavy things. He huffs and pulls out your phone.

Minho scrolls through the recent calls and presses his own number—your number, technically. When you pick up, he doesn’t waste time.

“Storage room. Now. I need your help carrying this damn mirror.”

As he waits, he leans against the shelf, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the storage room door and the mirror beside him. The minutes tick by slower than he wants, and just when he considers calling again, the door creaks open and you stumble in, panting.

He frowns as he takes you in. “What took you so long?”

You open your mouth to respond, but Minho catches the glint of something white on your upper lip. His brows knit together, and without thinking, he reaches out and swipes his thumb over your skin.

“What is this?” he mutters, holding it up for inspection. Icing sugar.

You blink at him before replying, “I got hungry. Like starving. The second the adrenaline wore off, it just hit me, so I raided the craft table.”

Minho sighs sharply. “Great. So now you’re feeding my body garbage.”

You scoff, clearly offended. “Excuse me? Are you saying I’m not allowed to eat?”

“I didn’t say that,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “Just… don’t ruin my metabolism.”

You shoot him a glare, but before the back-and-forth can spiral, he jerks his chin toward the mirror. “Help me carry it. We’re taking it.”

You blink. “Taking it where?”

“Home. Somewhere private. We need to inspect it properly and figure things out.”

You pause, then nod, surprisingly quick to get behind the plan. Together, the two of you peek out into the hallway. No one’s there. Minho grabs one side of the mirror, you take the other, and you both move in sync, quietly sneaking the thing across the back corridors of the set and out the emergency exit that leads to the parking lot. It takes some maneuvering to fit the mirror in the back of your car, but you manage it—barely—without cracking the glass or your patience. Minho exhales deeply, wiping his hands on his pants when it’s finally secure.

You straighten up beside him and say, “We should stay at my place too.”

He gives you a look. “Why?”

You shrug like it’s obvious. “Didn’t you say we need to figure this out together? Kind of hard to do that if we’re in two different places.”

Minho groans under his breath, then rakes a hand through his—your—hair. “Fine. But I swear, if I find out you’re feeding my body more sugar—”

“You’ll what? Body slam me with your fragile little arms?” you tease.

He throws dagger with his eyes but then sighs. “Just get in the car.”

-

You and Minho struggle a little getting the mirror through your front door, the frame bumping against the hallway walls before it finally lands in your living room with a soft thud. As soon as it’s upright against the wall, you sigh and wipe your forehead with the back of your hand.

Without saying anything, you bolt toward the kitchen.

Minho’s voice follows you, sharp and scolding. “Are you seriously eating again?”

“I’m hungry,” you grumble back, flinging the fridge open and pulling out whatever looks remotely edible. After the day you’ve had—stunts, screaming, and the stress from this soul-swapping thing—you feel like you’ve earned a sandwich. Maybe two.

Minho huffs behind you but doesn’t argue. Good. He doesn’t need to know about the six donuts you inhaled earlier in a post-stunt haze.

As you line up slices of bread and pile on meat and cheese like you're building a house, you glance over your shoulder. “So... what’s the plan now?”

Minho doesn’t answer immediately. He’s pacing the living room with purpose, already back in his ‘problem-solving’ mode. “We need to find out where this mirror came from. If we know its origin, maybe we’ll understand what kind of... magic or whatever is tied to it.”

You nod, even though you’re more focused on not cutting your finger with the butter knife. “Okay. Research. Got it.”

You finish assembling your sandwich and take it with you to the couch, plopping down with a content sigh as you sink into the cushions. Minho drops his backpack on the coffee table and unzips it with determination.

“What’s that?” you ask between bites.

“Props files,” he says, pulling out a stack of folders. “I swiped them from the office. Figured they might help us trace where they bought the mirror.”

You raise your eyebrows, impressed despite yourself. “You stole from the production office?”

Minho looks up and deadpans, “It’s not stealing if I’m just borrowing it... for a supernatural emergency.”

You snort and go back to chewing as Minho flips through the files, muttering under his breath and scanning each one. You watch him work while you finish your sandwich in slow, satisfying bites, the mirror quietly looming behind you both like it’s watching.

Two sandwiches later, you lie sprawled out on the sofa, legs hanging off one end, flipping lazily through a folder you’re holding above your face. The files are everywhere—on the floor, coffee table, couch cushions—like paper confetti from a very boring parade. Your eyes burn from the effort of trying to keep them open, skimming row after row of itemized props.

You groan and let the folder rest on your chest. “I’m so tired,” you mumble, the words muffled into the cushion beneath your cheek.

Minho, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his hair messily pushed back and your hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, doesn’t even look up. “Keep looking,” he says, flipping a page with more intensity than necessary. “One of these has to be it.”

You roll over with a heavy sigh to lie on your stomach, dragging the folder with you. “Okay, but… let’s say we do find out where the mirror came from. Then what?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Then we find out who made it, or where it’s been used before. Maybe there’s some sort of curse or enchantment or—hell, even a hidden switch or inscription somewhere. Whatever it is, we investigate it, and we figure out how to reverse whatever happened to us.”

You let out a soft “mmhmm” in response, your cheek now smushed into the armrest. His voice drones on behind you, low and steady and filled with just enough irritation to mean he’s in deep focus, but none of it really lands anymore.

Your lids grow heavier. Your limbs feel like lead. And before you can tell him you’ll take just a five-minute nap, your eyes fall shut.

Minho’s—your—voice keeps talking, but in your world, it’s already faded into a distant hum—like a lullaby, quiet and unintentional.

-

Minho continues sorting through the files, flipping each page with growing impatience. His voice fills the room, steady but tired as he lays out his plan. “Once we find the vendor, maybe we can trace who made the mirror, right? Maybe they know what kind of enchantment it has—if it’s cursed, or activated by something, or if there’s some weird ritual to reverse it…”

He exhales sharply, eyes scanning another line of paperwork. “God, I’m so tired,” he admits quietly. “But we have to figure this out. I need to get back to my body. Soon.”

He pauses as it gets so quiet all of a sudden—so much so that it draws his attention. He looks up and there you are, curled on the sofa, cheek resting on your hand, your breathing soft and even. He watches the way your—his—chest rises and falls slowly, how the tiniest hum of a sigh escapes your lips. You look peaceful. Too peaceful. As if today hadn’t completely knocked the life out of you.

Minho slumps against the end of the sofa and lets out a long sigh. “You’re exhausted,” he murmurs, softer now, more to himself than to you. “Of course you are. That jump today…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it’s just you inside. I know that. But God, I hated seeing that look on my face. That fear. I’ve never seen that before—not like that.”

He lets the vulnerability bleed out of him in the privacy of the quiet room, watching you sleep. “I don’t know what I’m doing either,” he confesses, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m honestly just as scared as you.”

With a sigh, Minho rises from the carpet and walks toward your bedroom. He returns a moment later with your duvet in his arms and gently drapes it over you. His movements are careful, deliberate as if he's afraid that you'll wake up from the slightest of touch.

He stares at you for another beat, his features softening. Then he mutters to himself, “I guess we’ll try again tomorrow,” and grabs a pillow before settling on the floor nearby, finally allowing himself to rest.

-

The shrill ring of your phone splits the quiet of the morning like a blade, jolting Minho awake where he’s curled on the floor. His eyes barely open as he groans, his entire body stiff and sore from sleeping on the carpet. The ringtone is all too familiar now.

He doesn’t even need to look. “Assistant Director from Hell,” he mutters darkly, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Of course.”

From the sofa, your—his—voice muffles out from beneath the pillow. “Make it stop…”

Minho glares at the phone, fighting every urge to hurl it across the room and let it shatter into a hundred blessedly quiet pieces. But instead, he picks it up and answers with a deadpan, “Yeah?”

As expected, the AD starts yelling before Minho even finishes the word. “Where the hell are you?! You were supposed to sign off on the set design changes by now—do you think this movie’s gonna shoot itself?!”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. He stares blankly at the wall and replies flatly, “I’ll get on it,” and then hangs up.

A beat of silence. He glances down at your body sprawled out on the sofa, now cocooned in the duvet, your face still buried.

“Lucky me,” he mutters, hauling himself up from the floor like a man twice his age. “Time to be you again.”

His day hasn’t even started, and Minho already needs a nap. Even so, he drags himself up to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he trudges toward the bathroom. But before he disappears down the hallway, he turns and gives your foot a firm tug where it’s peeking out from under the duvet.

“Get up,” he says, voice still raspy with sleep. “You’ve got work to do too.”

You grumble in protest and curl tighter into the cocoon of blankets. “Mr. Kim told me to take a day off,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the pillow.

Minho stops in his tracks, confused. “What? Why?”

“Something about an appointment,” you say, yawning into the cushion. “Gave me the day off so I could go. Which reminds me—what appointment?”

There’s a pause. Too long of a pause. He stands there stiffly, his back to you, his hand half-lifted to push open the bathroom door. Then, quietly, “It’s nothing. You don’t have to go.”

You peek one eye open at him. “Nothing?”

“Yeah.” He turns just enough to glance at you, then looks away again too quickly. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

You raise an eyebrow but let it go for now, too sleepy to pry. You shrug and flop back into the sofa, pulling the blanket over your head.

But Minho won’t let you stay buried for long. “Still,” he says, straightening up, “you should get up. While I’m out doing your job again, you can go through the rest of the files. Keep looking for anything about that damn mirror.”

You let out a long, dramatic groan as you push yourself upright, eyes still closed, your hair sticking out in every direction. You look like a very reluctant ghost of yourself in Minho’s body.

“Coffee,” you croak.

“You can make that after you start looking,” he replies dryly, already heading down the hall to get dressed. “No slacking off on your day off.”

And before you can argue, he leaves you grumbling and squinting around the living room at the scattered files that await you. Minho is only halfway to the bathroom when your voice rings out from behind him.

“Wait—!”

He stops, hand on the doorframe, and glances back at you with an eyebrow raised. “What now?”

“Are you gonna shower?” you ask, already sitting up straighter on the sofa, suddenly wide awake.

“Yes?” he answers slowly, suspicious of your tone.

“No!” you blurt, pointing at him. “You can’t! That means you’ll—you’ll see my body!”

Minho stares at you, deadpan. “You’re joking, right?”

“No, I’m not,” you say with a scowl. “That’s my body.”

“And I’m in your body,” Minho replies, exasperated. “You’ve already seen mine.”

“Yeah, not by choice!” you shout, standing up in protest.

But then, something shifts in your expression—your eyes widen in alarm as you look down at yourself. Your voice shoots up in pitch. “Wait, wait, wait, wait—what the hell is that?!”

Minho turns around to see what you’re freaking out about, only to find you gaping in horror at the visible bulge under your sweatpants.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “WHAT is happening to me?!”

Minho can’t help it. He bursts out laughing, grabbing the doorframe for support. “That, my friend, is called morning wood.”

You look up at him like he’s just told you you’ve grown a second head. “Why?! What do I do with it?!”

Still laughing, Minho makes an incredibly inappropriate hand gesture and winks. “You release it.”

“Ugh! God!” you groan in disgust, clutching your head in mortification. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Minho finally relents, waving a hand. “Okay, relax. No need to be dramatic. A cold shower will do the trick.”

You nod quickly, taking that piece of information like it’s gospel. “Okay. Cold shower. Right. Cool.”

With that, Minho shakes his head and turns into the bathroom, muttering under his breath. He shuts the door behind him, and as he reaches for the buttons on your blouse, he pauses. He sighs, remembering your earlier freak-out.

“Seriously,” he mutters to himself, eyes shut tight as he starts to undress.

-

You head to the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you start the coffee machine. The warm hum of it fills the quiet morning, and you lean on the counter, arms crossed, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. Your muscles ache slightly from yesterday’s stunt, and you groan quietly, muttering, “Never again.”

Minho’s phone—your phone now—buzzes on the counter. You glance down at the screen and see Mr. Kim’s name lighting it up.

Mr. Kim: Where are you?

You quickly type back, Staying at a friend’s place. Short, simple. Hopefully enough. The phone buzzes again almost immediately.

Mr. Kim: Don’t forget about your appointment today.

You frown, reading the message twice. That appointment again. It’s clearly important, judging from the way Mr. Kim keeps reminding him—almost like he’s worried. You hesitate, thumb hovering above the keyboard, about to ask what the appointment is for when you hear the bathroom door open.

Minho walks out in your bathrobe, hair damp and sticking to your forehead, steam still clinging to your skin. You narrow your eyes the second you see him, arms slowly uncrossing.

“Did you do something weird to my body in the shower?” you ask, suspicious and sharp.

Minho freezes mid-step as he gives you a sly glance and mutter. “I’m not a pervert!”

You squint at him, trying to gauge if he’s lying, but he waves you off in a huff and walks straight past you. “I literally showered with my eyes closed,” he calls over his shoulder, already heading toward the bedroom. “I’m traumatized enough, thanks.”

You watch him disappear into the room with a scowl before glancing down at the phone again. That appointment still lingers at the back of your mind. You chew your bottom lip and sigh, debating whether to ask him about it in person or—

The sound of the coffee machine beeping derail your train of thoughts. You quickly pour yourself a cup of coffee, the scent rich and comforting as it rises with the steam. This—this cup of coffee—is the one thing you’ve earned after surviving a rooftop stunt, hauling a cursed mirror across a film set, and waking up with an entirely different anatomy. You lift the mug toward your lips, practically sighing in anticipation.

“Hey! Come here for a second,” Minho calls from the bedroom.

You stop mid-sip, your brow twitching in irritation as you lower the mug and sigh heavily. “Ugh! What now?”

You walk to the bedroom and push the door open, only to freeze at the scene in front of you. Your eyes widen in absolute horror.

Minho—still in your bathrobe—is standing in front of your open dresser, rummaging through your underwear drawer like he’s looking for spare change. “What are you doing?!” you shriek, rushing in and trying to close the drawer, fumbling to push his hands away.

“I need to get dressed, don’t I?” he says with the exhausted calm of someone who’s already fought a dozen battles this morning. “Unless you want me to wear a towel to set?”

You open your mouth to argue—but nothing comes out. Because, fine. He’s not wrong. Muttering under your breath, you reluctantly let go and take a step back, rubbing your forehead in defeat. “Okay. Just—don’t go digging through my socks or anything.”

Minho grabs a bra from the drawer, holds it up like it’s a complicated puzzle, and asks, “Okay, how do I put this thing on?”

“Close your eyes first!” you bark instantly.

He obeys without question, raising his arms and squeezing his eyes shut. First, you part his bathrobe open until it falls around his waist. You gently take the bra from his hands and guide his arms through the straps, reaching around to clasp it at his back. It’s mechanical, awkward—but you manage.

“Can I open my eyes now?” he asks.

You hesitate. “...Yeah.”

He opens his eyes, looks down at your—his—body clad only in your underwear, and just stands there blinking. You watch him watching himself, and then something changes. You feel it. Biologically, something happens inside Minho’s body, and you realize with growing horror what’s going on.

“Nope. Nope,” you say quickly, backing away and holding up your hands. “I’m out.”

You rush out of the room without another word and return to your coffee. You take a small sip and then mutter, “I just wanted to drink my coffee in peace.”

-

You sit curled up on the couch, fingers wrapped around your mug as you finally get a decent sip of coffee. It’s warm, strong, and blessedly quiet for exactly two minutes.

Then Minho walks out of the bedroom, fully dressed in your clothes—somehow making them look sharper than they ever do on you—with your phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. He’s muttering something to whoever’s on the other end, his tone clipped and on the edge of his patience. You bet it's the AD from hell and you don't know what he says to him, but it’s clearly your job and, honestly, it makes you feel a little bad. He’s doing your work, dealing with your chaos. Still, you don’t exactly envy him either.

The moment he hangs up, he levels a glare your way. “Don’t slack off,” he says. “Get to those files.”

You take a long, pointed sip of coffee. “I’ll get to it once I’ve had my coffee.”

Minho strides toward the kitchen, snatches the car keys off the counter, and tosses them into his palm with the same grace he uses for fight choreography. Just before he steps out the door, he throws another warning over his shoulder. “I mean it. Work on those files.”

You groan dramatically. “I said I’ll do it. You want me to concentrate or not? Stop talking.”

He narrows your eyes at you—his eyes, now—and then finally leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him, and for the first time this morning, you let out a heavy sigh of relief. You sink back into the cushions, holding your coffee like it’s sacred.

“God,” you mutter to yourself, “this better not be my whole week.”

You refill your coffee mug—because there's no way you’re getting through Minho’s cursed stack of files without being fully caffeinated—and settle on the floor where papers are still scattered from last night’s half-hearted search. But one look at the dense text, the endless tables, and supplier lists, and your brain starts to fog like a computer about to crash.

“Ugh, nope,” you mutter, pushing the papers away. “Shower first.”

You shuffle to the bathroom, tugging your clothes off with a resigned sigh, already dreading the experience. Showering in Minho’s body still feels deeply wrong. You keep your eyes fixed on the tiles the entire time, navigating like a blindfolded ninja. Soap, rinse, shampoo—speed run version.

Steam clings to the bathroom walls as you step out of the shower, towel slung low on your hips, hair damp and dripping. You do everything you can not to look down—not out of modesty but from sheer avoidance. It's still his body, after all. But as you stand in front of the sink, reaching for your toothbrush, your eyes betray you. You glance up.

And there he is—Minho—reflected back at you. Broad shoulders, strong arms, water glistening along defined muscles. A sculpted chest and abs that clearly didn’t come easy. He looks—you look—like someone who’s fought to keep this form, someone who’s worked for it.

Then you notice them. Faint scars—one along his ribs, another just above his knee. A small one on his shoulder blade. They’re not glaring or grotesque, just quiet marks of something endured. You run your fingers across one near the hipbone, wondering what stunt led to it, how bad it hurt, whether he told anyone.

You’ve seen him take hits on set before. Smiled through pain. Brushed it off like it was nothing. But now you know it wasn’t nothing.

And suddenly, standing there with your hand hovering over his skin, something shifts. You’ve always thought of him as the cocky, good-looking type. Too confident. A little too smug. But this—this body—isn’t just something to admire. It’s something he’s earned.

It’s strange, really, how much a little scar can say about someone. You pull the towel tighter around your waist and step away from the mirror, heart unexpectedly full of respect you never thought you’d feel.

Minho might be a pain in the ass—but damn. He’s tough.

“Yeah, okay,” you mutter to your reflection. “You’ve got a hot body. Big deal.”

You turn away before you start spiraling, muttering about how unfair genetics are and how you’re going to absolutely lecture him about humility when you’re back in your own body.

…Eventually. First, you really need to put on some clothes.

-

Minho’s day is already testing every last ounce of his patience. Your job, he’s learned, is a never-ending cycle of chasing people down, answering too many questions at once, and carrying clipboards that magically multiply every hour. By the time noon rolls around, he’s already sweaty, cranky, and dangerously close to quitting on your behalf.

He’s jogging across the set, trying to catch someone from the lighting team when he steps on a coil of cable lying across the floor. His foot catches and suddenly, everything tilts. His arms flail out—too late—and he braces for the hard, public humiliation of falling face-first in front of the crew when a strong pair of arms suddenly wrap around him.

“Whoa—careful there,” comes a soft, familiar voice.

Minho blinks, finding himself pressed against Felix’s chest, the younger man holding him steady by the waist. Felix is smiling, sunshine-soft and warm despite the startled tension in his brows.

“You okay?” Felix asks, concern flickering in his eyes.

Minho’s body—your body—nods stiffly. He can feel the flush rising to his cheeks, which makes it worse. “Yeah. Just—there was a cable. I wasn’t looking.”

“Don’t rush around so much,” Felix says gently. “You’ll trip over something worse next time and I won't be there.”

Minho opens his mouth to respond, but it’s hard to focus with Felix’s hands still lightly gripping his sides, grounding him. Felix doesn’t even seem to realize it—like it’s the most natural thing in the world to hold him this close.

“Right,” Minho mumbles. “Thanks.”

Felix’s eyes crinkle. “Anytime.”

And just like that, he lets go—too soon, and too slowly—and jogs off toward his own mark, leaving Minho standing there with his heart doing something it shouldn’t in your chest.

He clears his throat, straightens the clipboard in his hands, and mutters under his breath, “This body has too many feelings.”

As Minho continues half jogging across the movie set, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t even check the screen—he already knows it’s you. He answers with a curt, “What?”

“I found it,” you say, breathless. “The mirror. It’s from a thrift store not far from here. It was listed on a prop receipt under a generic ‘vintage décor’ tag, but I matched the item number to an archived invoice. I’m texting you the address.”

Minho’s grip tightens on the phone. “I’ll meet you there.”

He hangs up and spins on his heel, already halfway out when the assistant director steps directly into his path.

“Hey—where do you think you’re going?” the AD barks, waving a clipboard like some divine staff of authority. “You still haven’t checked in with the location team, and the equipment truck needs unloading, and—”

That's it. Minho’s had enough. He doesn’t even pretend to smile this time. “Do you ever do your job?” he snaps. “Because all week, I’ve been doing mine and yours—running around like a lunatic while you stand around barking orders and acting like you’re too important to say please or thank you.”

The AD's face tightens in disbelief, clearly not used to being confronted.

Minho steps closer, lowering his voice but not the bite. “If you keep pawning off your work on me and treating the crew like they’re beneath you, I’ll personally go to Flickerman and make sure he knows exactly what kind of a useless jackass you are. And I promise you, I’ll make it sound worse than it is.”

A few nearby crew members glance over, eyes wide. The AD falters. His mouth opens, then closes, face flushing deep red—less from anger, more from embarrassment.

Minho adjusts the strap of the walkie on his shoulder and says coolly, “I’m going on my lunch break and I'll only continue working when I get back, you understand?”

And without waiting for a response, he walks off the lot, phone in hand, already pulling up the map to the thrift store you texted.

-

Minho pulls into the cracked asphalt parking lot of the thrift store, the car rattling slightly as he parks. The store looks as old as its inventory—paint peeling off the signage, windows cluttered with mismatched furniture and vintage knickknacks. He kills the engine, takes a breath, and gets out.

Inside, the air smells faintly of old books and dust. The store is dim, lit by humming fluorescent lights, and he spots you almost immediately at the back of the shop. You’re standing by the counter, wringing your—his—hands as you speak to an older man with thick glasses and a skeptical look on his face.

Minho walks over, calm and composed. He catches the way your eyes immediately flit to him, anxious, as if silently pleading for help.

“Hi,” Minho says, smoothly stepping in. “We were hoping to get a bit more information about a mirror we found here.”

The owner pushes his glasses up his nose and shrugs. “You’re talking about that tall one with the weird brass frame? Look, I told your friend already, we don’t keep formal inventory on where every piece comes from. People drop off stuff, I price it, and that’s that.”

Minho bites the inside of his cheek. “No paperwork? No names? Nothing?”

The man shakes his head. “I don’t ask questions. Most folks just want to unload junk. That mirror’s been sitting in the back for months before it even sold. Could’ve been here for a year, maybe more.”

A dull throb pulses behind Minho’s eyes, but he doesn’t let his irritation show. Not yet.

“What about security footage?” he asks, nodding to a camera bolted near the front register. “Do you keep your recordings?”

“Three months, tops,” the owner says. “After that, the system wipes itself. That mirror was here way before then.”

Minho exhales slowly, disappointment settling in like heavy fog. Another dead end. He turns to look at you—and sure enough, you're fidgeting again, lower lip caught between your teeth, eyes darting around the room like you're bracing for something worse.

Minho runs a hand through his—your—hair, gaze dropping to the dusty linoleum floor. “Alright,” he says under his breath. “So this mirror really came from nowhere.”

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the cracked parking lot as Minho walks beside you in silence. The thrift store sits behind you both like a monument to disappointment, the door swinging shut with a hollow clang that echoes louder than it should.

Your footsteps are too fast, too jittery, and Minho can tell from the corner of his eye that you’re unraveling again. You’ve been trying to hold it together all day, but he hears it in your voice when you ask, “So… what do we do now?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s still thinking—still trying to stay ahead of it all, to stay calm, to fix this before it slips too far. But then he hears you sniffle, a choked sound, and he stops walking.

When he turns to face you, your—his—eyes are red and wet. You’re crying.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he snaps, too sharp. He grips your arm, not gently. “You’re crying in my body!”

“What? I can’t even get upset now?!” you shout back, voice cracking as you stomp your foot against the hot asphalt. “I don’t even get that?!”

He freezes, mouth half open, and as much as he wants to scold you again, the words don’t come. Because he gets it. He feels it too.

Every hour in your body feels like falling—like standing at the edge of something deep and unknowable and wondering if this is it. If this will be forever. And worse—so much worse—is seeing his own face twisted in panic, lips trembling, tears clinging to lashes.

Minho swallows the lump in his throat and softens. He takes a careful step toward you, places both hands on your shoulders, grounding.

“Hey,” he says again, but this time it’s soft. Softer than he’s ever let himself sound. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

You stare at him for a long second. Then you nod quickly and swipe at your face, embarrassed. When your eyes finally meet his again, steadier now, you ask, quietly:

“…So what do we do now?”

Minho’s jaw clenches. He looks past you, toward the car. Toward the horizon. Then back at you. He lets out a slow breath, and answers, like it’s the only truth he has left—

“I don’t know yet,” he honestly admits. “But we’ll figure it out.”

And as Minho pulls out of the parking lot, he tells himself tomorrow, you and him will try a different angle. Find a new lead. Dig deeper. Because if the mirror really did this… then something out there has the answers.

And you and him are going to find it.

-

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

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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[plaguewormart]

Imagining Vincent giving Thomas (and the rest of his staff) heart problems by randomly dropping life lore (the most traumatic or strange thing you’ve ever heard) in casual conversation (during dinner or in diplomatic meetings)

Thomas: *talking about a war in another country, mentioning land mines and other ERWs*

Vincent (without missing a beat): one of those blew up on me once

Thomas: what

Thomas: It’s time for the yearly Vatican health and safety conference, where all employees will be trained in first aid such as CPR and tending to wounds.

Vincent: what about emergency amputation?

Thomas: sorry what?

Vincent: once I assisted in amputating a man’s leg. It’s a very good skill to have!

Thomas: …what

Thomas: it seems like the media has picked up on the fact that you greeted a gay Muslim couple the other day. They’re saying you care more about other faiths than your own.

Vincent: oh that’s strange… how come no one has reported on my best friend Rachel?

Thomas: Rachel?

Vincent: yes! She’s a rabbi in Mexico, we have been best friends since we were little!

Thomas: *already calling aldo to arrange security for Rachel*

Thomas: *walking in on Vincent changing* Oh what’s that big scar from? I mean… you don’t have to tell me of course, I was just curious, I’m so sorry

Vincent (smiling): ah don’t worry! That’s from when I was shot

Thomas: from when you were what

Aldo: *walking into Vincent’s room late at night to drop something off* why are you on the floor?

Vincent: Oh well you see, I can’t sleep in soft beds because I’ve gotten so used to sleeping in warzones

Aldo: *buying a new bed online before Vincent has even stopped speaking*

Ray: how are you handling being so scrutinized in the media? I know the hateful comments can be tough.

Vincent: what are you talking about? I’ve never received this few death threats before!

Ray: I’m… glad? To hear that?

Tedesco: *finishing a long rant about tradition or whatever*

Vincent: wow I haven’t heard anyone speak for so long since I was kidnapped last time

Tedesco: … how many times,, have you been,,,, kidnapped?

Vincent (smiling): four!

Sister Agnes: here’s your food, Your Holiness

Vincent: Thank you Sister! I feel like I haven’t been this hungry since the time I didn’t eat for a week!

Sister Agnes: …and Why didn’t you eat for a week?

Vincent: I was busy helping during the Ebola outbreak

Agnes: somehow I am not surprised

Tremblay: *giving a lecture about religion during the 1300s and mentioning the Black Death*

Vincent: oooh I had the plague once!

Tremblay: you had… the actual,, bubonic plague?

Vincent: yup:) thankfully there are antibiotics for that now!

Later every senior curia member decides to create a group therapy session only consisting of talking about whatever Vincent has told them that week. They team up to find Vincent a therapist after Thomas finds him throwing up after a sermon because the Bible verse caused him to have flashbacks.

Vincent learns at age 69 that the things he’s seen and experienced are in fact not normal, and the PTSD diagnosis he receives makes him understand himself for the first time in years.

[kaivenom]

can you do yandere shanks, mihawk, luffy, and zoro x reader where they are in love and want to be together but in order for the reader to leave there village, the reader father must approve of them. So the father challenges them to fight the strongest person in the village in order to win there hand

Yandere!OP men fighting for their darling

Characters: Mihawk, Shanks, Luffy, Zoro

Warnings: violence, blood, murder

Masterlist

Dracule Mihawk

When he heard the challenge, he instanly went to battle the person instantly.

He took out his tiny knife and started doing some pasive-agressive comments to the poor men that had to fight him.

It was humillianting to the other part, Mihawk was being the most disrespectful he has ever been... and he is always educate with people.

The battle lasts hours cause Mihawk doesn't do a final hit, just continues to give the other men small cuts.

At the end, the opponent coudln't stand anymore all the cuts and the blood loss and falls unconcious.

While the doctors get to him, Mihawk just goes to your father.

"I think i proved that i am strong, resilient and most important compassionate. I expect you to appreciate it." and then looks at you, "come to me my love."

Akagami Shanks

When he heard the challenge, he instanly smiled, like really scary smile... almost like he already knew that this was going to happen.

Many people went searching for their opponent but couldn't find him anywhere.

"Yeah, i think there is going to be a problem with that."

Everyone felt cold suddently.

shanks called his crew members and they appeared with a sack with blood on it.

They oppened and the head of the opponent falled to the floor.

Shanks said that it didn't mattered that you talked to that men yesterday, but apparently he had other plans.

"I assume no fight is needed. Let's get to the ship darling."

Luffy

When he heard the challenge, he was rabious, like a fight dog.

How could your father put obstacles for him, the future pirate him, taking his queen?

He fought bare hands while the other used swords, but still Luffy was so unstable that he won.

Even when the opponent was on the floor unconscious, Luffy was still punching him, forming a puddle of blod around him.

He wasn't listening to anyone so in an act of bravery you go running to him and take his face with your hands.

"The fight is over, you won me." his eyes locked with yours.

"Yes i did, and i expect your father to honour his word." you look at your father in an attempt to make him understand that if he doesn't do as said, Luffy would probably kill him.

Zoro

When he hears the challenge, a strange aura starts to get around him.

You have the feeling that something bad is about to happen, but couldn't imagine how bad.

Once the two opponents get to the battle, it took only two seconds to Zoro to just cut in half the other.

Takes his swords down and calmy goes to your father while everyone on the village starts screaming and crying out of fear.

One sword pointing at your fathers neck.

"Now, your daughter, or your destiny would be the same." his voice was low, almost like a grunt.

Your father lets you leave, but he couldn't hide his tremors.

[luvendiary]

👁👁 I'm the anon that asked for a silent/non-talker reader fic with hiccup many many moons ago, but if you still write for him, could it be with a prompt where reader's still not much of a talker on some days but would like to still passionately communicate, therefore inventing a sort of sign language system with hiccup under gothi's supervision, and maybe put in a bit about how stoick knows of their relationship (i visited this hole of fondness in my brain again, forgive me)

a/n: dearest anon. I am so sorry for gettin back to you so late. I haven't been writing much lately, but your request helped me sort of rekindle my love for it. I've been spending way to much time on my phone instead of doing the things I like. I'll try to put out more writing. i'm sorry if the ending is a bit janky, im a little out of practice. also, i don't know much about asl, so i apologize for any mistakes. thank you for your request!

Sweetest of Melodies (pt. 2)

pt. 1

The sound of soft humming flooded the room. You were so focused on the soft lulling sound that came from your throat that you were unaware that the place had gone quiet. When you did, however, you found that all eyes were on you, making you retract your head into your shoulders as the signs of embarrassment appeared on your face. You silently reached out for Hiccup’s hand in order to seek some sort of comfort.

‘Sorry’, you wanted to say, but your words failed you at the moment. You had come a long way since allowing yourself to speak more freely in front of the riders. That didn’t mean that you were still totally comfortable with letting yourself be heard. Instead, you liked being able to hear yourself better; that’s what most of your words were meant for anyway. For you to hear them.

“You should sing more often,” Astrid said as if it was no big deal. You appreciated her nonchalant attitude, it made you feel less judged. You knew the riders didn’t have bad intentions, it was probably still a little strange to hear you make a sound, which prompted their current reaction. But years of overthinking made you jump to the worst possible scenario, even if you knew it wasn’t true.

In return you offered her a shy smile. Hiccup sensed your discomfort and did his best to steer the conversation away from you whilst giving your hand a small squeeze.

Later that night it occurred to him that whilst you were somewhat comfortable speaking to him, it was still a big step for you to accommodate to this while having been mute for years.

He was visibly stressed as he realized that some of your relationship’s problems might stem from that. You weren’t used to communicating with anyone. Anyone besides Gothi.

That’s how Hiccup found himself knocking at your front door one early morning. Gothi opened the door, as he knew she would and assuming that he was looking for you (like he often did), she quickly signaled to him that you had gone to collect some items you had run out of. 

“Actually. I’m here to see you”, he explained with a nervous smile.

Gothi seemed surprised for a brief moment before inviting him inside.

Awkwardly, Hiccup made his way inside and found a stool to sit on. He watches as Gothi -much like you did whenever he came to visit- occupied herself with making tea. 

Once the tea was on the table, and she had poured a cup for him as well as one for herself, she stared at him patiently.

He took that as his sign to talk, and set the cup down after having had a sip. “I need your help,” he stated rather obviously.

The small woman raised her eyebrow before signing your name in the form of a question. 

“Yes,” Hiccup confirmed. “I just-” he sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s come so far with speaking out more, and she’s doing great, but…I’ve just now realized that while she’s making all this effort, I don’t seem to be doing anything to understand her better.”

Gothi’s gaze softened.

“She tries so hard, all the time; to understand me, and help me understand her, I just feel as if it’s about time I did the same for her.”

Silence settled between them as Gothi took another sip of her tea before hopping off the stool she was sitting on and staggering off to one of her many shelves. 

“I guess, I was wondering if you could help me. Understand her better, I mean-”

 Not a second later a small book was slammed on the table. Hiccup jumped slightly, marveling at the frail woman’s strength. 

Upon further inspection he realized it was not a book but rather a journal. Littered with drawings of different hand signs and gestures and their respective meanings. Dust covered its pages, indicating how long it had been since someone opened it last.

Hiccup looked up at Gothi with admiration. “You made this?”

The woman shook her head and flicked back to the first page where your name had been scribbled down neatly. 

He chuckled as he stared down at the journal, “this is amazing.”

She nodded proudly. She had been the one to help you come up with this communication method, it had been your idea of course- but as the both of you developed it it made your bond grow stronger. She considered it to be hers as much as yours. 

Hiccup carefully tucked the journal away and stood up. Enthusiastically, he gave Gothi a quick kiss on the cheek and thanked her before bolting out of the house.

‘Good luck’, she signed as she watched the young man ride away on his dragon.

Hiccup was determined. His presence amongst the dragonriders had become sparse. When he wasn’t training or helping out in the forge, he was most likely practicing his signing skills. Even then, work seemed to come second to his newfound hobby. 

He found himself practicing with Toothless, as he signed him orders receiving a confused tilt of the dragon’s head in return. He stole moments in the forge, his hands mimicking the signs in between hammering metal; his usual rambling also appeared to be accompanied by matching signs. Even during dragon races, he would move his fingers in the air absentmindedly, his mind working through the motions while Astrid gave him odd glances.

You, on the other hand, had no idea what was going on. His absence was more palpable as the days went on. He still greeted you, still sent you small smiles and the occasional kiss when you crossed paths, but your moments together felt shorter. Less frequent. He always had somewhere to rush off to. Places to go, people to see, things he needed to do. 

At first, you didn’t think much of it—Hiccup was the chief’s son, after all. He had responsibilities. 

But as the days stretched into weeks, your nervousness grew. 

Had you done something wrong? Was he getting tired of having to put up with you? Maybe it was too much effort, too exhausting. Maybe he had realized that words were easier. Someone else would be easier…

The thought made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

You tried to push the thought away, but doubt seemed to creep into every corner of your mind. 

You found yourself slipping into old habits. Speaking less often and keeping to yourself. You had stopped going to the forge to keep Hiccup company while he did his work.

Maybe he needed space.

Astrid had taken notice of this change, trying her best to include you in whatever plan the dragon riders were currently in the midst of. Whether it was a trip to a nearby island or just having lunch together near the cliffside.

One afternoon as you took residence in the Great Hall while grinding herbs, you felt a presence approach you. Hiccup strode in, and you quickly averted your gaze as you focused on the task at hand.

“Where have you been?” he asked lightheartedly as his arms snaked around your waist and he pulled you closer.

You smiled nervously and just shrugged your shoulders.

“My dad's been asking for you. You don’t come by the forge anymore,” he continued as he nestled his head on your shoulder, pressing your back to him. 

“Just busy,” you replied curtly.

He noticed how your hands seemed to accompany your words now. One of them laid flat, with your palm looking downwards whilst the other stood vertically and moved side to side in a repetitive motion.

‘Busy’.

He hadn’t noticed that before. But now that he thought about it, your hands were always moving. You had been talking to yourself all along, in silence.

“I need to tell you something,” he said then, as he took a step back. His arms leaving your waist. You immediately missed the contact.

Your mind immediately jumped to the worst conclusion. 

Hiccup's hands flexed and unflexed at his sides and his shoulders did that shaky thing they did whenever he had a lot on his mind.

‘Leaving,’ you signed to yourself as you placed down the pestle.

His face turned into that of confusion, as his right hand mimicked what yours had just done.  ‘Leave?’ 

“What? No,” he mumbled, his eyebrows furrowed. ‘I miss you’

Your mind had been too slow to realize what was happening. “What?”

 ‘I miss you’ he signed again. This time followed by an ‘i love you’.

Your breath caught in your throat as a gasp escaped your lips.

His movements were slightly jumbled, not as smooth as yours or Gothi’s were. But the message was there clear as day. He was talking to her, with no words.

You stared at him for a long moment before finally reaching out, your fingers trembling as they brushed against his.

“I miss you too,” you replied. “So much.”

Hiccup grabbed your hand and pulled you in before sweeping you off your feet for a kiss.

“What did you mean ‘leave’?” he asked with a slight chuckle as he pressed a tender kiss to your neck.

Your face flushed, immediately embarrassed for your self-deprecating thoughts. You tried to hide your face in the crook of his neck but he moved his head to search for your eyes.

“Don’t tell me you thought I wanted to leave you,” he said, though the statement came out more as a question. 

“I’m sorry!” you said as you buried your head in his chest. “You just had been spending less time with me, and I thought you were getting tired of having to deal with me.” 

Hiccup pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. “Hey, don’t say that,” he whispered. “I could never get tired of you. I just—I wanted to learn. I wanted to understand you the way you understand me.”

You smiled up at him, adoration clear on your face. You stepped back and raised your hand slightly. 

‘I love you too’.

[yandereunsolved]

» 🪙 Yandere Connor — RK800 » 🪙

✗ ‎cw(s): breakdown (Connor) & manipulation 🧷 (part 2), (part 3)

"Detective," Connor addresses you warmly, standing far too close to you while you are stationed at your desk. 

"Yes?" You respond, not lifting your eyes to make contact.

You had no time to. Since the semi-failed revolution of androids, there has been a trifold increase in deviancy cases. If not for the RK800's, and perhaps the new line of RK900's when they are finally completed, the precinct would be overrun—both physically and metaphorically.

"Detective," his tone is more commanding his time, something in his voice that you could easily mistake for human irritation. "Look at me."

You oblige, but continue typing up the report for the latest case you closed. Your fingers falter for a moment when you see the look in his eyes, attentive but not in the android way. It's uncanny in the way it mirrors how you dream someone would look at you, like you were the thing of most importance. It is just you reading into things again. Must be. It does often happen as a detective, especially these days. 

You nod for him to continue, but he doesn't. He just stares at you dreamily. You hear his internal fans turn on to cool down his processors. His cybernetic LED flickers to red for a millisecond before returning to a reassuring blue. You aren't sure if it was a trick of your mind or—

You don't understand what his problem seems to be. You would call Hank over to deal with his partner, but you haven't been able to find the lieutenant anywhere. He's most likely finding the bottom of a bottle of liquor at some broken-down joint. 

Wait, why isn't Connor with him?

As if CyberLife installed new mind reading technology in their androids, he answers. "Lieutenant Anderson is waiting for us at the Eden Club. Supposedly Jericho is getting deviant androids that work in clubs to funnel money in order to stage another coo. The department has apprehended one of them, and you have been assigned to the case alongside Ha-the lieutenant and me."

You were already halfway out the door by the time Connor was done with his explanation. The android was trailing behind you and insisted on driving instead of you. Technically, they weren't allowed to due to whatever police regulation subsection-b, but you were too tired to care. Connor has always been the better driver. It was how he was programmed, strangely, considering the rules. 

"Connor, this isn't the way to the Eden Club."

"I'm aware." His voice was back to that same calculated, lifeless one he first spoke to you with. 

"RK800, your programming forbids you from lying, so tell me the truth. Where are we going?" 

You are a thousand percent sure he is able to sense your sky-rocketing heart rate.

"I am not permitted to tell you."

"Permitted, or you just don't want to?"

"This is not the right time or place. This confession lacks the structure and romance aspect I wanted, but it seems more human this way." You swear he shut down completely, his LED showing no color. "I love you." It turns to a bright red.

"W-What?"

"You have made me know that I am more than just an android. I am yours."

The raw emotion nearly chokes the both of you up for two different reasons: passion and panic.

"I think we should call Cyberlife. Something is clearly glitching." You try to keep your words measured but fail. All that practical training of yours doesn't exactly come in handy when your—when the android you could nearly call a friend confesses to you.

"Nothing is glitching!" He shouts. "I have run every test and looked for anything that could... debunk this... these emotions. They have stayed. They have stayed, and I have had to watch you. I have had to watch other people get close to you. I have had to act like a good little synthetic cop while useless maggots have gotten your love! It isn't fair. They don't deserve you like I do. I know everything about you."

"It isn't you. I can't—just no. I mean—yes. I mean that I can't just maybe ugh. Another time, maybe. Not tonight."

He stomps on the brakes and doesn't dare look at you. You don't look at him or your surroundings. You just awkwardly sit in the passenger seat and stare at the glovebox.

If androids were able to cry, he would be at this moment. His LED turns colorless once again. You almost feel pity for him; your mind is too frazzled and deprived of necessity to take in the severity of his words.

"I lack the capacity to feel pain... or have a heart, yet I think you have broke mine."

How unfortunate. I was hoping to have you come along willingly.

[inkskinned]

i'm still trying to piece together the truth of it. when you left, you said: feel free to spin this narrative however you want. i have no idea if you were being cruel or if you just genuinely don't remember what you've done to me.

it's hard because i'd done so much of the work for you. i had seen the parts that flaked off, the rust underneath. i started separating you into two people - the one i loved, and the one who hurt me. i had this fantasy version of you - my partner - and then i had this stranger, a third person who would show up randomly to shatter me. i am deliriously glad i'm no longer with "the stranger". i miss the gentle (unreal?) "other" you terribly.

at first, i was so strict about my boundaries. i remember telling you to get the fuck out of my house if you were going to talk to me like that. by the end: i would justify your behavior for you, accepting even your mistreatment as "my fault" in the grand scheme. i look back on the person i was before you - smart, independent, confident - and i feel a strange sense of detachment. i don't even recognize me.

even in one of our last conversations, you said: if you want a partner that always talks warmly to you, find someone else. there was a time that a comment like that would have made me leave. and instead, somehow, i just placidly accepted that kind of thing. you were literally telling me that i wasn't allowed to have a reaction to your cruelty - and i just took it, because you'd so fully turned things around on me.

when people are faced with irrationality, a rational brain tries to make sense of it. this is the trap. they're lovely in the morning, gentle and blue-eyed and sweet. like nothing even happened, they breeze around the house and kiss you on the mouth. but at night; who is that? they snap almost randomly; flying into an impotent rage about just-about-anything. it just doesn't make sense. so the problem must be me, and my brain, and how i think.

the traumatized brain just wants peace. so maybe i'm misremembering. maybe you were just having a bad day. maybe it's actually me.

you eventually would fully turn on me and start implying that i am the bad actor in our relationship. that's what happens, right? that's literally in the playbook. you went to therapy for all of a month, told her a half-truth, co-opted therapyspeak. you figured out how to reframe your actions as "seeking peace." any time i stood my ground, i was "gaslighting." when i asked you to be more gentle, you said i was "tone policing." you said, randomly, i had emotionally manipulated you - i still have no idea what that's even specifically referring to. maybe my consistent requests for calmness and empathy?

and while i literally know better, and i'm sitting here, trained by you, thinking: wait, fuck. was i actually the person you made me out to be?

and the thing that scares me is that i literally do not know if you ever actually saw what you were doing to me. when you'd tell me how you remember arguments, you'd always summarize them in a way where you come off as gentle and easy: "i was trying to set an important boundary." what had actually happened was 15 minutes of you shouting at me i know you did something shady, just admit it already. eventually you'd say my reaction to your shouting (when i finally reacted, which usually happened around hour three) was inevitably "disappointing" and "another way i'm silencing your feelings."

how many times did i ask you - beg you - to just take accountability? looking back, i don't think i ever heard you say: you're right. the way i talked to you was wrong of me.

i am trying to tie together the two people into a full version of you in my head. yes, you made my coffee and made me laugh and spent hours on the phone with me. and yes - you would scream at me until i had to run away and hide behind something.

i wish i did have a narrative i could pull out and shape to my whim. i wish i did have some semblance of reality. instead i just stand here, strange and vibrating, wondering: what the fuck just happened?

[twi-liight]

Petty Jealousy ❣

Tav's companions cannot fathom them potentially having other friends. ❥ Astarion/reader, Astarion/Tav, but also Companions/reader. I'm a Tavrem supremacist. ❥ Contains my own personal headcanon for why the companions call them "Tav" instead of their first name, which is justification for me loopholing the eternal problem of xreader writers having to wince when they use "F/N" or "Y/N". ❥ They/them pronouns for Tav/reader!

“Look,” Astarion hisses, “look at that!” 

5 pairs of eyes land on the offender of the night (which, to their surprise, isn’t Astarion) who conversed pleasantly with the leader of their party. A half-elf with a sharp jaw, proud brow, and mirthful eyes looks extraordinarily ordinary compared to their merry band of freaks. 

“Who is that, again?” Shadowheart asks absently. “Tav suggested I rest for today instead of mapping out the Underdark with the party, and the next thing I know, they’ve brought back another little companion.” 

Astarion’s jaw twitches. He snaps out, “Companion or complication?”

Gale crosses his arms, shrugging, used to Astarion’s temper running hot then cold. “His name is Nilmorn - a luthier. Tav took an interest in his wares. He makes a living selling stringed instruments in the Underdark. Strange place to sell such things.” 

Ugh. Astarion sighs, shaking his head. Leave it to Gale to traipse over the obvious. A sharpened mind like his would surely know that this Nilmorn has no place here, if not to be a bloodbag for him to slurp on. Beyond that, what use does this pretty boy have? Nilmorn sells wares that are utterly useless to them. He’s quite boring and one-dimensional, too, a character that strays too much into the side of “moral good” for Astarion to tolerate. 

 “Yes, yes, Gale, but have you considered how strange it is that he has invited himself to our camp?” Astarion flares out his hand towards the wizard, as if handing him common sense on his palm. 

“I,” Gale begins, blinking his wet, beautiful brown eyes at Astarion, “invited myself to this journey, Astarion. I am quite hurt you forgot. I thought what we had was special!” 

“Yes, but you’re weird!” Astarion exclaims. “You’re a freak with a bomb in your body because of your situationship with Mystra! That,” Astarion points an accusatory finger in the direction of Nilmorn, in which 5 pairs of eyes look at him again, “is someone so unbelievably normal he doesn’t even have any, any…” He gestures, articulates with his hands to placate his words. 

“No dubious motives?” Shadowheart offers, a smirk coyly playing on her lips. 

“No complicated backstory?” Wyll pipes in. Astarion’s eyes flicker to him, and irritation seeps into his skin when he finds Wyll smiling wryly, as if the warlock is in on some joke he is not picking up on. “No, I don’t know, god that has let him down in some way, shape, or form?” 

“Certainly no skills for fighting.” Lae’zel, thank the gods for Lae’zel. Her smooth voice hides none of her displeasure, and those sharp, slitted eyes stare across the fire to dig daggers into Nilmorn’s back. “Useless. We have no need for string-ed instruments. Let Tav pick one, and send this half-elf on his way.” 

Yes. Yes. Astarion nods eagerly.

“Hmmm. I almost envy his mundaneity,” Karlach adds,  “but I mean, he’s not that bad, Astari. Man’s just trying to make the world a better place, one string at a time.” 

Astarion almost throws up. He looks to the other companions helplessly. “Darlings. Please tell me you are not going to let Karlach get away with saying something so putridly motivational.” 

Karlach tosses her head back and cackles, much to Astarion's chagrin.

“Something is obviously bothering you,” Shadowheart states bluntly. Her green eyes watch his expression carefully in the firelight; she finds something there, but does not say it outright. With an exhale through her nose, as if it is painful for her to attempt a conversation with him, Shadowheart decides to throw him a bone: “Are you jealous?” 

He does not catch the bone. The bone slams right into his head as he stares at Shadowheart, slack-jawed and scandalized. Him? Jealous? “You must be joking.”

“Aw,” Shadowheart croons, another one of her insufferable smirks toying on her lips, “you are.” 

If he had mindflayer powers beyond reading her reprehensible surface-level thoughts, he would make Shadowheart’s head explode. Or something. 

He must establish his dignity in the group once more. He cannot handle more of this, especially not with Wyll grinning so wide, not self-aware enough that if he did not have a sexy demon controlling his life because he didn’t read the terms of conditions of a motherfucking contract, Astarion would bully him more.

“That is not the point here. Look,” he says. “I am just saying that our Tav is desirable in every way. Physically, we can all agree that Tav is attractive. Yes?” 

Yes. They all nod their heads. 

“Tav is a little strange, but they are our leader, and they got us this far somehow. Who knew caring about other people could go a long way.” 

Yes. They all nod their heads, except Wyll and Karlach, who look amongst the group with sheer disappointment on their faces. “Gods,” Karlach groans into her hand, “we– we need to unpack that later, gang. That’s just really sad.” 

“Lastly, Tav is strong. Strong enough to split apart the mountains and the sky, I imagine.” Strong enough to bury Cazador into the ground, hopefully. “Strong enough to face a god unwaveringly. Strong enough to persevere. Strong enough to be kind, despite everything. Despite what they think, they are charismatic, and they are the entire package. The only person who does not know of their value is Tav themselves.” 

They watch Tav’s lips quirk into a smile as Nilmorn holds a lyre out for them upon his smooth hands. Smooth, no sign of scars, no sign of complications. Just so unbearably mundane. Unbearably good. Unbearably kind. 

Unbearably unaware of their true nature.

Nilmorn does not know why they nicknamed them Tav, despite their name being [F/N]. Their unstoppable quench to loot everything and anything set back their timeline by weeks, no doubt. Reaching into barrels, reaching into the pockets of bandits, reaching into damn silk cocoons, reaching into whatever their curious little hands can salvage. It annoyed Astarion at first, but then Tav would find all of these weapons and armors and foods and coins and books. Normalcies and luxuries that made camp life feel less of a drab and more exciting. 

The gleaming, golden dagger at his side? They found it. The boots, the armor, the enchanted rings and necklaces they either found, bartered, or killed for their companions. Thus - Tav, short for tavara, the word meaning wares and merchandise; a clever little nickname Gale came up for their leader who is too good for all of them combined. 

“Any other party could whisk them away, you know,” Astarion says. “Tav could find a party of good, decent people, unlike any of us, without the mess and complication and hurt we cause them, and leave. Remember, my dears. It is not us who is irreplaceable. It is Tav.” 

How long would Tav tolerate him? Not long, he thinks. Long enough until he has expended his use for them, surely, but not forever. That's why anyone who wants Tav beyond sex or strength is a threat. If he hadn’t seduced his way into their heart, he wouldn’t be here where he stands, with a group of people who make him feel a little less alone. 

No doubt he would be in a cage on the back of a covered wagon that belongs to that disgusting gyr, Gandrel, his chain to Cazador growing shorter and shorter.

Silence. Tense and still. They watch as Tav laughs lightly, eyes alighting with amusement as Nilmorn cracks another joke. 

"You should meet my other companions," they hear Nilmorn offer, "I just know they would love to have you."

Revelation slams into each and every one of them like a magic missile.

“He’s not that funny,” Shadowheart mutters. She bends down, hands gripping tightly around the handle of her mace. “I don’t know why they are laughing that hard.”

“He can try to leave with his head on his shoulders,” snarls Lae’zel, “just say the word, Astarion.” 

Excellent. 

“What-” Wyll turns to Gale and Karlach. “We should stop them, shouldn’t we? There are no implications of this man trying to steal Tav away, he's just being nice, you worthless cunts! This is not fair to him!” 

“We’re in the Underdark, aren’t we? Super deep. Doubt anyone who cares for him will come looking for him.” 

“Karlach!” 

“Astute observation! To make this all a little easier on us, I can most certainly put this man to sleep.” 

“Gale?!” 

“Go on, Lae’zel,” Astarion grins wickedly, “attack!”

“Oh, hells,” Wyll stumbles back, then turns quickly to the other direction towards Halsin. “Halsin! Halsin - they’re trying to murder someone again!” 

❥ Additional links: kofi | ao3