#X Two (flipped scripts)

[allimili]

TRUTHLESS AND Y/N AS ELYSIA GIVES ME APONIA AND ELYSIA VIBE. HEHEH what about smc and y/n as elysia?

and i love how you draw and think, take care of urself beautiful human!

not really what you requested but think about this

[radioz0m]

Happy pride Month shits!

For the special time me post something for a forsaken au I've been slowly working on🔥

Basically a killer and survivor swap au but the old survivors remember what the killers did to them (cough cough kill them-) and shit, but this au a lil different. For starters two times AIN'T called that, They now X Two (times two)

More about this au eventually 🙏

Explodes-💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

[fullscoreshenanigans]

Owange... 🧡🍑🧡🍊🧡🥭

Had to complete my heart eyes set with the ones I had for Valentine's and Norman's birthday week.

When you're Ray and this is your canonical internal monologue about your two best friends:

(Chapter 93)

[ggukivrse]

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!

ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.

It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.

And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.

You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.

But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.

You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.

You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.

Why did you let this happen?

Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.

And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.

You haven’t heard his voice since.

You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.

Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?

Because you’re afraid.

Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.

Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.

Kook 🍜: hi

One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.

You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook

It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.

Three dots appear.

Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?

You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?

You feel sick.

There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.

Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.

You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.

You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

You: Okay

You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.

You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.

But you know you won't cancel.

Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.

He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.

He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.

The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.

It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.

And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.

And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.

He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."

So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?

Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?

The elevator dings.

Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.

You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.

But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.

He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.

You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.

He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.

He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.

You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t

He doesn’t even try.

Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”

His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.

“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”

You hate being like this towards him — you feel like a bitch. But it’s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.

“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”

He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.

“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”

You stay silent.

He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”

You scoff under your breath and look away.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”

You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”

He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.

“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.

So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.

Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”

His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.

“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”

You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.

“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.

You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”

You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”

Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”

That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”

You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.

Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.

“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”

Silence again.

Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”

You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.

You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.

And now he has.

He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.

Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”

You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."

You pause, pressing your lips together.

“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.

His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.

He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.

“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”

He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You stare at him.

Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.

And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.

So you move.

You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

You kiss him.

Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.

At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.

But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.

His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.

The sweetness melts fast.

He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.

You kiss him harder.

His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.

The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.

The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.

You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”

You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”

Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.

He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.

He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.

His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.

You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.

Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.

You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.

He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.

“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”

His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.

“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”

You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.

His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.

His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.

He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.

He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.

You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.

Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.

You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”

You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.

You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.

You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”

The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.

Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.

“Koo,” you whine out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.

You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.

“Please.”

He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.

He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.

“Gonna let me take these off?”

He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”

He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.

You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”

You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”

He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.

Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.

Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.

“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”

He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.

You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.

“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.

He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.

He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.

“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.

Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.

His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.

You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”

“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”

He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.

His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.

"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.

He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.

He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.

Your legs part without hesitation.

His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.

He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.

His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.

He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.

He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”

You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.

His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.

The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.

“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”

That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“You promise?”

The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.

The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.

“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”

“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”

You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.

Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”

He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.

His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.

Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.

Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.

His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.

Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.

He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.

“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.

“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”

You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”

He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”

There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.

“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”

You snort. “So humble.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”

You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”

His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”

“I already want to punch you.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”

“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

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[lazysoulwriter]

not in the script - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: NSFW — soft possessiveness, jealousy, praise kink, marking, unprotected sex, oral [f!receiving], handsy cuddling, overstimulation but in a cozy way, established relationship, pet names, aftercare, fluff woven through the spice | Pedro Pascal x Actress!Wife!Reader

---

It all started with the trailer.

You'd warned Pedro. Briefly.

“There’s a kiss in it,” you’d said. “But it’s short.”

And to your credit — it was short.

But it didn’t feel short when he watched it. It felt like it lasted an eternity. It wasn’t even the kiss itself. It was your face. The way you leaned into it. The soft gasp. The tremble in your hands as they touched your co-star’s chest.

It was too convincing.

Too real.

He watched it again. Just once more.

Then he tossed his phone aside with a small scoff and leaned back on the couch, his jaw locked.

You padded into the room moments later, fresh from the shower, wrapped in a short robe, hair still damp.

“You okay, baby?”

“I’m fine.”

You raised a brow. “You’re pouting.”

“I’m not—” he started, but you were already crawling into his lap.

He let out a small grunt when your hips settled over his, robe parting slightly. His hands found your thighs, a reaction more than a decision.

“Pedro,” you said softly, “you know it was just acting.”

“I know.”

“It was like… six seconds.”

“Too many.”

You giggled. “Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not,” he insisted, hands gripping your ass now, voice low and hot in your ear. “I just don’t like seeing my wife kiss someone like that and then moan.”

Your stomach flipped at his tone.

“You know what that sounded like?” he whispered, kissing the side of your jaw. “Sounded like the way you moan for me when I’ve got my tongue inside you.”

Heat bloomed between your legs instantly.

“Maybe you need a reminder,” you murmured, grinding your hips just enough to tease. “That it’s all for you.”

His fingers dug into your skin. “Take me to bed, right now.”

You didn’t even bother turning the lights on.

You let the soft natural glow pour into the bedroom from the sunset outside — skin bathed in gold, hair mussed, robe undone.

Pedro’s hands roamed everywhere. Slow. Certain.

“You look like a fucking goddess,” he whispered, kissing down your chest. “My beautiful, filthy wife.”

You whimpered as his tongue flicked across your nipple, then sucked. His hand trailed down your stomach, slipping between your legs like it belonged there.

Which it did.

He took his time.

Two fingers inside, curling exactly where you needed him. His thumb circled your clit in slow, deliberate strokes while his mouth stayed latched on your chest, switching sides, making you writhe under him.

Your head fell back against the pillows. “Pedro…”

“That’s it, baby. Let it out. But for methis time.”

Your orgasm hit like a wave, crashing through your body, thighs shaking as he whispered praises against your skin.

“Gorgeous. So fucking wet for me. No one else gets this, no one.”

You were still catching your breath when he moved above you, slipping between your thighs, his cock thick and hard, sliding through your folds.

“Let me inside, hermosa,” he groaned, voice rough. “Let me remind you who you belong to.”

When he pushed in, you both moaned.

He filled you so perfectly. Slow, deep thrusts that left you gasping, clinging to him as he buried his face in your neck, panting.

You clenched around him and he cursed. “Shit, baby. You’re gonna make me come—”

You flipped him before he could, straddling his hips with a wicked smile.

“I’ll decide when you get to come, esposo,” you whispered.

He groaned, head falling back as you rode him slow and steady, grinding deep, letting him feel every inch of you.

“You think anyone else gets to fuck me like this?” you purred. “You think anyone ever could?”

He shook his head desperately. “Never. Only me. Only me.”

You kissed him, biting his lip, still moving slow and teasing until you both hit that edge together — your moans messy, hands tangled, nails digging in, his name the only word you remembered.

When you collapsed on top of him, his arms instantly wrapped around you.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, still catching his breath. “And I’m so fucking lucky.”

You brushed sweaty curls from his forehead. “You’re also dramatic.”

He laughed, kissed your forehead, and held you tighter. “And you’re my wife. So you’re stuck with me.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[psformybss]

You Said You Loved Me

drew starkey x costar!secretgf!reader

warnings: emotional whiplash, betrayal, heartbreak, mental health themes, self-harm mention, panic attack, regret, heavy emotions

a/n: tumblr isn’t letting me answer the request like usual but here is this one requested by @kieeslove . this is one is probably one of the most heartbreaking one-shots i’ve written to be honest but i love how it ended up coming out. please please please read the warnings before reading it.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

You’ve had the whole day to yourself—no call time, no script changes, no wardrobe fittings. Just a long, open stretch of silence that you’d usually welcome.

But today, it’s been anything but peaceful.

You’ve barely moved from the couch since noon, wrapped in the hoodie Drew left on the kitchen chair last night, half-watching a show you’ve seen before just to fill the space. Your phone rests in your lap, screen dim, but your mind hasn’t stopped racing for hours.

You saw it this morning.

The story.

Odessa’s.

It popped up right after breakfast, when you were still groggy, sipping coffee on the balcony. You tapped through mindlessly until you froze on a video—shaky, close-up, her voice giggling behind the camera.

Drew.

He was leaning against a trailer, smiling—no, laughing. That wide, rare kind of laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes. She flipped the camera back to herself, grinning like it was an inside joke between just the two of them.

And maybe it was.

The next slide was a photo. A candid. He had his head thrown back, laughing at something you couldn’t hear, while she stood beside him with only half her face in the frame.

But it was enough.

Enough to make your stomach twist.

Enough to make you stare too long at the caption.

“Set life with this goof 🤍”

The cast knows about you and Drew. Everyone on set does. You’ve stopped pretending around them—stopped hiding the way you slip into his trailer during breaks, how he kisses your temple when he thinks no one’s looking.

But outside of that circle, no one knows. No Instagram posts. No red carpets. Not even soft launches in the comments section.

And you understood why at first.

Keeping it private felt safer. Cleaner. Something just for you two.

Until moments like this.

Moments where he looks like someone else’s.

You scroll back through the texts—between you and Drew, between you and Odessa.

There’s nothing wrong, not really. But there’s a shift. A subtle unraveling.

He doesn’t say “I love you” before bed anymore. Doesn’t kiss your forehead when he leaves for work.

And Odessa—your best friend, the person who once felt like your other half—she’s been on set more and more. Not because she has to be. Just because.

You used to think she came to see you. To hang out between scenes, raid craft services, sit on your trailer floor and gossip about everything and nothing.

But lately, it feels like she’s there for him.

You told yourself not to overthink it. Not to read too much into the way her hand lingers on his arm when she laughs, or the way he seems more awake when she’s around.

But today, alone with your thoughts and too much time, the pit in your stomach hasn’t let up.

You pick up your phone again and scroll to your thread with Odessa.

No new messages.

She didn’t text you today.

Not after she posted those stories. Not after she spent half the afternoon on the same set your boyfriend was working on.

You’d texted her earlier—just a casual “You on set today?”—but it’s still sitting there, unanswered.

You switch to Drew’s messages.

You (9:42am): Miss you today. Hope the scene went okay.

You (12:16pm): Odessa still there?

You (3:03pm): Are you home late tonight?

All read. None replied to.

The front door opens at 1:14 a.m.

You don’t even flinch anymore. You just pull the hoodie tighter around you and pretend the tightness in your chest isn’t there.

Drew walks in with slow, tired steps, jacket slung over his arm, hair tousled from a long shoot.

You look up at him, soft but cautious. “Hey.”

He pauses at the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey. You’re up?”

“Didn’t have any scenes today,” you say, voice quieter than you mean. “Just stayed home.”

He nods, distracted. Opens the fridge. Grabs a bottle of water. Doesn’t ask about your day.

He scrolls his phone, thumbs moving quickly.

“Long shoot?” you ask after a moment.

“Yeah,” he says, cracking open the bottle. “Ran over like an hour. Just wrapped a little while ago.”

You hesitate. “Was Odessa still there?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “For a bit. She left before we wrapped.”

Another beat of silence.

You want to say more. You want to ask why she’s always there lately, or why he hasn’t said I love you in four nights straight.

But your throat closes around the words, like saying them out loud would make it worse.

Drew glances at you again. “I’m gonna crash. Early call.”

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

He disappears down the hall. No kiss. No touch.

And again—no I love you.

You stare at your phone until the screen fades.

Open Odessa’s story one more time.

Watch the way he laughs like he’s weightless. The way she looks at him like she knows something you don’t.

They don’t look like they’re hiding anything.

But you feel like you’re the only one being kept in the dark.

You wake up to an empty apartment again. Drew left early for set, just like he said, but something’s different today. You didn’t have to film any scenes today either, so you stayed home, hoping maybe things would feel normal again. Maybe Drew would come back and the silence wouldn’t stretch so thin between you two.

But that’s not how it goes anymore.

You scroll through your phone, trying to shake the heaviness. You glance at your messages—nothing new from Drew, just the usual short replies.

Your eyes flick to Odessa’s name, the friend you’ve known for years—the one who always seemed like your sister, the person who knew you better than anyone. But lately, even she’s become distant.

You tap her name and open your texts.

“Can’t wait to hang out tomorrow! Dinner and drinks like old times?” you typed a few days ago. No reply. Just like the other texts since then.

The next morning, you woke to a curt text from Odessa: “Had to fly back to LA today. Sorry, last minute. Hope you understand.”

No call. Just a text.

Your stomach dropped. You’d been looking forward to that night all week, but now it was gone—just like her.

You tried not to overthink it, telling yourself she was busy.

She returned, just a few days later but didn’t tell you. You found out the worst way possible.

You were walking past the trailers on set when you saw them.

Drew and Odessa.

Laughing together.

Close.

Too close.

The easy way they leaned into each other—like you used to, all three of you—felt like a punch to the gut.

You stopped, heart hammering in your chest.

They looked up and caught your eyes. Drew smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Odessa’s grin faltered for a moment before she turned back to him.

Your throat tightened.

You blinked, trying to tell yourself you were imagining things. Maybe they were just friends. Maybe you were just overthinking.

But deep down, the pit in your stomach grew.

The distance between you and Drew had been growing too. More than growing—it had widened into a chasm you didn’t know how to cross.

Your conversations were clipped, like you were just two roommates trying to coexist rather than the couple you once were.

You found yourself wondering if maybe you were the problem.

Maybe I’m too much.

Maybe I’m not enough.

You replayed every conversation, every look, every silence between you two.

The way Drew would zone out when you talked about your day.

The way he spent more and more time texting someone you couldn’t see.

The way Odessa—your best friend—pulled away too, her responses short and distracted whenever you tried to ask if she was okay.

One afternoon, you caught her alone near the trailers.

“Hey, you’ve seemed… different lately. Is everything okay?” you asked, voice gentle.

She glanced up at you, eyes guarded.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, but you knew better.

She was closing off, just like Drew.

You wanted to reach through the walls that were building around her, but you didn’t know how.

The days blur together, each one heavier than the last.

You watch the calendar pages turn—slow and unforgiving—but the distance between you and Drew feels like it’s growing faster by the day.

He’s quieter. More distracted. Even when he’s in the room with you, it’s like you’re separate islands sharing the same space.

It’s been over a week since he kissed you.

Not a single brush of lips, not even a quick peck in passing.

You catch yourself waiting, holding your breath for the moment it will happen. But it never does.

You try to convince yourself it’s just stress. Long shoots. Exhaustion.

But when the lights go out and the apartment is still, the silence screams louder than any excuse.

One night, you find yourself standing in the bathroom, warm water streaming over your face, blurring your vision.

You don’t want him to hear the quietness of your tears—so you let them fall only in the shower, behind the locked door.

The water carries the ache away for a little while.

Later, when Drew leaves for set—his phone forgotten on the kitchen counter, screen unlocked—you hesitate.

Curiosity gnaws at you.

You pick it up, fingers trembling.

His messages open to a thread with Odessa.

You scroll through, the words soft but sharp:

“Missed you today.”

“Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

There’s nothing explicit. No promises or declarations.

Just the kind of words that linger in the spaces between.

Your chest tightens.

You close the phone carefully and set it back down.

Staring at the ceiling, you wonder how long this has been going on.

How long you’ve been standing on the outside looking in.

You want to confront him. To demand the truth.

But the words catch in your throat.

The apartment is quiet again.

That terrible, airless quiet that makes you feel like even the walls are watching.

Your phone buzzes.

You almost don’t check. You’ve been trying to be good—trying to stop torturing yourself by scrolling through Instagram, through posts with her name tagged beside his, through photos where his eyes don’t even look like his anymore.

But the name on your screen is one you can’t ignore.

Odessa.

Your pulse jumps. You hesitate. Then you open it.

“I told Drew I’m in love with him. He feels the same. I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The air leaves your lungs in one slow, numb exhale.

You reread it once. Twice. A third time, as if the words might change if you look hard enough.

They don’t.

No emoji. No nervous laughter. No gray area.

Just a quiet confession and a knife between your ribs.

But you don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t even blink.

You just sit there on the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, the message open on your screen, the cursor blinking like it’s daring you to respond.

You don’t.

The front door opens not long after.

You hear it before you see him—his key sliding into the lock, the door creaking open, boots hitting hardwood.

He walks in humming, like he’s had a good day.

Like the world didn’t just drop out from under you.

Then he sees you.

And the humming dies.

“Hey,” Drew says slowly, careful. His voice is soft, uncertain now. “You got her text.”

Your head turns slowly toward him. Your eyes are glassy, unreadable.

So he knows.

Of course he knows.

“She told you she was going to send it?” you ask, voice flat.

He nods once. “She said she felt guilty. She didn’t want to lie anymore.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“And you let her?”

“I didn’t let her,” he says, stepping closer. “I tried to stop her, but—”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. It sounds like something breaking.

“She said you feel the same.”

Drew hesitates. “That’s not what I—look, it’s not black and white, okay? It’s complicated—”

You stare at him. “Complicated,” you repeat, the word like acid in your mouth.

He moves toward you, crouching beside the couch, reaching for your hand.

You flinch before he can touch you.

He freezes.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says quietly.

Your hands shake as you stand, your voice rising without warning. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

His eyes go wide. “I—”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back. “You don’t get to say you didn’t mean to. You chose this.”

“You think I wanted to hurt you?”

“You did hurt me.”

The fury rises in you like a tide—faster than you can stop it.

“I’ve been here,” you whisper. “Every single day. Loving you. Waiting for you to love me back the way you used to.”

You grab the photo from the coffee table—the one from Paris, the one where you look happiest, safest, most certain of him.

You throw it across the room with every ounce of strength you have.

It hits the wall and shatters, glass and memories scattering across the floor.

He flinches.

“You were supposed to love me,” you say, voice cracking now. “Not her. Me.”

Drew steps forward like he’s trying to fix something already broken. “I do love you—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap. “Not really. Because if you did, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He tries to hug you, arms reaching for you like he still has a right to them.

You let him.

But not out of love.

Out of exhaustion.

His chest presses to yours, and for one brief second you remember the comfort that used to live in that space.

Now it feels foreign.

He murmurs, “We can fix this. Please. I’ll cut things off with her. We can go to therapy or—”

You press your hands to his chest and push him back gently.

“No,” you say. “This isn’t something you fix.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Well, you did.”

You walk to the door. Open it.

His breath catches. “You’re really kicking me out?”

You nod.

“I need space. I need you gone.”

Drew just stands there, stunned.

You look him straight in the eye.

“Come back for your things when I’m not here.”

“Please,” he says again, voice cracking. “Just let me explain—”

“You already did.”

And then you close the door.

Not hard.

Just enough to say this is final.

The click of the lock is the only sound in the apartment now.

The kind of silence that feels like grief.

Weeks pass.

The days don’t feel like days anymore.

Just hours strung together like dim beads on a thread you didn’t ask to hold.

You’re back on set.

Back in makeup chairs and wardrobe trailers. Back in long shooting days and artificial sunsets. Back in scenes where you’re supposed to smile, touch, kiss. Where you’re supposed to cry in the rain, shout until your throat is raw, crumble in someone else’s arms like your heart is breaking.

Pretend.

You move through it all like a ghost.

Quiet. Efficient. Detached.

You say your lines. You hit your marks. You laugh when the script says you’re supposed to. You kiss him when the camera rolls. You sob against his chest on cue, let your voice crack in that way the director loves. You even slap him in one scene—your eyes glassy, your voice trembling as you yell through clenched teeth.

But nothing touches you.

Not really.

You feel like someone’s removed your insides and left only the outline of you behind. Something hollowed out and left on autopilot.

Between takes, you sit by yourself.

No music in your headphones. No books cracked open. Just silence, staring at nothing, like you’re afraid to fill the space with anything real.

You used to light up on set. You used to steal the crew’s snacks, laugh between takes, tease Drew when he flubbed his lines. There was always an energy around you—light, warm, full of spark.

Now, the spark is gone.

And everyone feels it.

They don’t say anything, not directly. But you can feel the stares. The too-gentle hellos. The quiet way people check on you like they’re afraid you might shatter if they speak too loud.

Even Drew notices.

Especially Drew.

You don’t look at him unless the scene requires it.

You don’t answer when he says your name off camera.

You don’t sit near him at lunch, don’t meet his eyes when the director gives you blocking notes, don’t flinch when you’re told you’ll be filming another kiss today.

You just nod.

And do it.

Like it doesn’t hurt.

Like it doesn’t kill you every time his hands touch your waist, every time he looks at you like he remembers what it used to feel like to be loved by you.

The worst part is—he still looks at you like he’s in love.

Like he’s sorry.

But sorry doesn’t undo the wreckage.

You’ve already learned how to carry the debris.

Today, there’s a scene. You’re arguing. The kind that gets rewritten the night before for “heightened emotional stakes.” You scream at him, tears in your eyes, spit flying as you shove him in the chest. Your voice breaks in all the right places. The crew holds their breath.

"Cut."

You step back. Wipe your face. The tears vanish as fast as they came.

You turn away from him without a glance, your expression flat. Cold.

Drew just stands there, stunned. Still catching his breath from a fight that wasn’t real—at least not on paper. Still staring at you like he’s waiting for something soft to return to your face.

But your face is steel now.

Sharp angles. No trace of the vulnerability from a moment ago. Just rage simmering under the surface, quiet and controlled and utterly unreachable.

Like flipping a switch.

And that’s what terrifies him.

The way you can drop the emotion like it never existed. Like he doesn’t exist.

Between takes, you walk off set. You need air. Space. Anything that doesn’t feel like recycled heartbreak.

You step out behind the trailers, where no one’s watching.

Your hands tremble as you pull a cigarette from your jacket pocket. You haven’t smoked since college, since a messy breakup you thought nothing would ever top.

Funny.

You light it with shaking fingers, inhale, exhale, trying to find some kind of calm in the burn.

You don’t hear Rudy approach.

But you feel him.

He walks up slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes kind.

Without a word, he reaches out and gently takes the cigarette from your fingers.

You don’t fight him.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance at him, just barely. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

It’s the kind of question that should come with a dozen follow-ups. But he doesn’t push. Just asks it like he’ll believe whatever answer you give him.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

It’s a lie.

He knows it’s a lie.

But he lets you have it anyway.

Rudy looks at you for a long moment before dropping the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

Then he slings an arm loosely around your shoulders.

You don’t lean into it. But you don’t pull away, either.

You just stand there.

Side by side.

Quiet.

Because some silences don’t beg to be filled.

Some are just there to be witnessed.

The moon is a sliver above the water—ghostly and thin, like it’s watching but too tired to shine.

Drew finds you sitting at the edge of the dock, legs drawn up, arms locked around your knees like if you let go, you’d come apart completely.

You haven’t moved in what feels like hours.

He stands behind you for a while, saying nothing. Just… watching.

You look so still.

Too still.

So he steps forward, wood groaning beneath his weight, careful not to scare you. Not that you react. Not even a glance. Your eyes are locked on the black water, the surface rippling quietly like it’s holding your secrets.

He settles beside you, close but not touching. The wind brushes through your hair.

For a moment, all he hears is the hush of the waves and the far-off echo of laughter from the house.

He thinks maybe you’re calm.

Then he hears it.

That faint, stuttering breath. The wet sound of someone trying not to fall apart.

He turns to look at you—and sees it.

Your shoulders trembling.

Your jaw clenched so tight it’s trembling.

The soft, broken sound clawing from your throat as your lungs fail you.

You’re crying.

But it’s not just crying.

It’s a full-body unraveling.

He shifts closer, alarm rising in his chest. “Hey. Hey, breathe. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Your body hunches in tighter, shoulders shaking harder as your breath gets faster, shallower—like you’re trapped under something heavy.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Drew tries again, voice soft. “Just… follow me.”

He reaches out carefully, fingers brushing your wrist to anchor you, like he used to do back when things were simpler—back when that touch meant safety.

But this time, the contact makes you flinch.

And still, his hand closes gently around your wrist—and that’s when he feels it.

His fingers still.

Then tighten—just slightly.

Because he knows what he’s touching.

Scars.

Fresh ones.

Fainter than they used to be, maybe. But new. Raw.

His entire body goes cold.

“Please…” His voice breaks, a whisper edged in panic. “Please tell me those are old.”

Your head snaps toward him.

Your eyes—red, wide, furious—are like a slap.

You rip your arm from his grip and clutch it against your chest like a secret.

“I told you I wasn’t doing that anymore,” you snap, voice cracking. “I told you I was okay.”

“I thought you were,” he says, stunned. “You promised—”

“You think I wanted to start again?” you explode. “You think I wanted to go back to that?”

Your voice is all rage and ache and grief. “Do you know what it’s like? To sit in a bathroom with a towel under you and a razor in your hand, and you’re shaking so bad you can’t tell if you want to die or just want it to stop?”

He’s silent.

Paralyzed.

“I stopped for you,” you say, trembling. “I stopped because you made me feel like I was enough.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “But then you weren’t mine anymore. You were hers. And I couldn’t breathe, Drew. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

You stand up so fast he can barely react.

You stumble backward a few steps, chest heaving, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield.

“If you were just gonna fall in love with my best friend…” Your voice cracks. “Then you shouldn’t have asked me to be your fucking girlfriend.”

He rises slowly, hands out like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

“I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“But you did!” you scream, backing away. “You knew how fragile I was. You knew. I told you everything. I told you what it felt like to want to hurt myself. I told you what it cost to survive it.”

Tears streak your face, wild and fast.

“And you still chose her.”

He tries to reach for you. “Please—just talk to me.”

You shove his chest with both hands. Hard. Then again. And again.

“You were supposed to love me.”

He doesn’t stop you. He just stands there and takes it.

“You were supposed to be different,” you cry. “I trusted you with everything. I gave you every broken piece and you just—God—Drew, you left me there.”

More footsteps. Fast ones. The house has gone silent behind you, but now someone’s running.

Rudy reaches you just as you collapse forward.

He catches you in his arms, sinking with you to the dock.

Your body shakes with silent sobs, all strength gone, all resistance dissolved.

Madelyn grabs Drew, her expression unreadable—fear and fury clashing behind her eyes.

She pulls him back, away from you, away from the collapse.

“What happened?” she hisses, voice low and sharp.

But Drew can’t answer.

He’s crying too.

Watching the way Rudy holds you like something sacred and shattered.

Your voice, small and hoarse, cuts through the stillness.

“I really loved you,” you whisper, like you’re trying to remind yourself it mattered. “I really did.”

Rudy closes his eyes, jaw tight, hugging you closer.

“And I tried,” you say, your breath hitching again. “I really tried not to hurt myself. I really did.”

The only sound left is your broken breathing and the water moving beneath the dock.

No one knows what to say.

No one knows if anything would help.

And Drew—

He kneels in the shadows, hands shaking, the words I’m sorry caught somewhere between his heart and throat, knowing they’ll never be enough.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

The room is cold. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting pale shadows across the long table that stretches between you and the others.

You sit at one end, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the wood, knuckles blanching with pressure.

Across from you, the cast shifts uncomfortably in their seats—Jonas standing at the head of the table, his hands resting on its surface like an anchor, eyes serious and tired.

Drew sits near the middle, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed on the scuffs in the floor.

The silence hangs like a storm about to break, thick and unyielding.

Jonas clears his throat.

“We can’t keep filming like this,” he says, voice low but steady.

“This tension, this… distance. It’s hurting the work. And it’s hurting all of you.”

He looks around the room, then back at you.

“We all want to move forward. But that means you and Drew need to talk. You need to clear this, or at least try.”

Your throat tightens, words lodged in your chest like shards.

You stare down at the table, tracing a scratch in the grain with your finger.

Drew finally speaks, voice hesitant, raw.

“I never meant for things to get this messed up. For me to fall for Odessa.”

He looks up, meeting your eyes briefly.

“I wasn’t trying to use you, YN. I swear. You have to believe me.”

You swallow hard.

Bitter words claw at your throat, but they spill out before you can stop them.

“You promised me everything.”

Your voice breaks, trembling like a frayed wire.

“Paris. A house with a garden.”

“Kids. Marley from the pound.”

You close your eyes and press your palms to the table to stop them from shaking.

A cold certainty wraps around your words, unshakable.

The room is still.

Drew’s shoulders slump, a bitter twist in his chest.

“Do you really think I fell for her just to hurt you?”

His voice breaks like glass, fragile and jagged.

You don’t answer.

You don’t want to.

“You think you’re the only one hurting?”

He shakes his head, voice rising with desperate frustration.

“You think this is easy for me?”

The words are raw, ragged.

You lean forward, voice cutting through the thick silence.

“Easy?” you scoff. “You and Odessa? The perfect little couple who ruined me?”

Jonas steps between you with a steadying hand raised.

“Enough.”

You lift your head slowly, voice low and final.

“I can do the scenes. But Drew stays away from me.”

“Odessa stays away, too. If she ever visits, I don’t want to see her.”

The words fall like a decree, clear and unyielding.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping hard against the floor.

Your breath catches—sharp and uneven.

The door slams behind you.

Leaving behind only silence and the lingering weight of what’s broken.

Time passes in strange ways after everything breaks.

The apartment is quieter now. Not silent—just… softer. Like everyone’s learned to move around the wound without touching it.

You’ve stopped crying in the bathroom.

You still avoid him on set.

But you’re functioning again.

You wake up with the sun instead of dragging yourself out of bed at noon. You drink water. You make your bed. You sit on the balcony in the mornings with a journal in your lap and your knees curled to your chest, scribbling down thoughts you won’t say out loud.

You don’t live in the old apartment anymore.

You couldn’t. Not after everything.

The quiet was too loud there. The walls still held the shape of him—his coffee mug on the counter, his laugh echoing in the hallway, the soft imprint of a life you built and lost all at once.

So you packed it all up and left. New place. New routine. Smaller, lonelier, but yours.

No ghosts.

Just space to breathe.

Sometimes, you paint again. You drag an old easel out to the balcony and lose yourself in blues and golds and soft, wide brushstrokes. Your fingers end up stained for days.

Sometimes, you laugh.

Mostly with Rudy. He’s your shadow now. Always close. Always watching.

He knows when to joke, when to distract you, when to sit in silence and just breathe beside you.

JD brings you coffee every morning from town, no matter what. It started as a quiet gesture. Now it’s a ritual. He doesn’t say much—but you know it’s his way of reminding you you’re seen. Still wanted. Still here.

The cast has adjusted. They don’t talk about what happened. Not in front of you. Not in front of him.

You and Drew still share scenes. Still work together like professionals.

But off-camera? You orbit each other like broken planets.

Not friends.

Not enemies.

Just… nothing.

And maybe that’s worse.

Drew keeps his distance, like you asked. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t try.

But he watches you when he thinks you won’t notice.

From the far side of the room, across the lawn, just past the camera setup.

Always just out of reach.

You caught him once, lingering in the doorway as you laughed too hard at something Rudy said, your head thrown back, hair messy, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks.

He didn’t smile.

He just stood there, quiet and still, his expression unreadable.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel anything.

Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

Some days, you think you might hate him.

Other days, you ache just thinking his name.

But mostly—you’re just tired.

Tired of missing someone who’s still right there.

Tired of feeling haunted by a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore.

And Drew—

He wonders how it got like this.

How a joke at a table, a few lingering glances, a shared hoodie and some stupid, unspoken boundaries turned into something he’d ruin with a single mistake.

How he lost the girl who loved him enough to break for him.

He watches you from afar, regret curling in his chest like smoke.

You’re still beautiful. Still brilliant. Still trying.

But now, when you smile—it’s never at him.

And he doesn’t know if it ever will be again.

[pohyuck]

where pretend becomes real

lee donghyuck x reader — a variety show marriage. a fake spouse. cameras in your face every day. (5.9k)

• in celebration of our fullsun’s birthday!! this story is inspired by the show we got married, though please note that it may contain some inaccuracies, as it’s not strictly based on the show’s actual format or segments

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

you almost didn’t sign the contract.

the offer had come out of nowhere. an email from your manager, phrased with cautious excitement. 'we got married' was being rebooted after years off air. you’d be one of the main couples, if you agreed.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

you reread the email several times before closing your laptop and calling your best friend. “do i look like i have time to fake a marriage right now?” “you’ve literally been single for two years,” she said flatly. “yeah, but at least that’s authentic.”

the truth was, your agency thought it would be good exposure. and part of you, deep down, was curious. about what it would feel like. to pretend to fall in love. about whether pretending might start to feel real.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

donghyuck said yes because he thought it’d be funny. the managers barely got the words out. “they want you for we got married” he started laughing before they finished. “you’re joking. that’s the show where idols act in love for strangers, right?”

but later that night, lying in bed, he scrolled through old clips of the show. something about the way those couples looked at each other in the last episodes stuck with him.

he could fake chemistry. easy. he’d been doing that for stages and fan signs since he was fifteen.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the camera lens captured everything.

your nervous fidgeting, the way your eyes darted around the unfamiliar set, the tiny puff of breath you let out when the PD said, “action.”

you weren’t a stranger to the industry, but this was different. this wasn’t acting. this was you, paired with someone you’d never met, pretending to be newlyweds on national television.

and then he walked in.

lee donghyuck. better known to most as haechan—nct’s infamous sunshine with a mischievous streak and a smile that could disarm even the toughest senior idol.

you have seen clips of him before: teasing his members and turning charm into a weapon. and now, he stood in front of you, grinning like he already knew all your secrets.

“oh?” he said, head tilting slightly. “they really blessed me with a pretty wife.” you blinked. “they told me my husband would be cute, but i didn’t expect him to flirt five seconds in.”

he laughed, hand coming up to hide his mouth. “gotta give the fans what they want. don’t worry, i’m not always like this.”

“…actually, i am”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the first few shoots were awkward, as expected.

you learned quickly that haechan had no shame in front of the camera. he was a professional flirt, tossing out compliments and jokes with effortless precision. every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d flip the script.

"you’re not wearing your ring," he pointed out during episode two, eyes flicking to your bare finger as the two of you sat across from each other in a café.

"i forgot," you said, deadpan. "i left it next to the dignity i lost when they made us do couple yoga yesterday." he cracked up, but you caught the flicker of something behind his smile. maybe he hadn’t expected you to match his energy.

after that, it became a rhythm. witty back-and-forths. glances that lingered a second too long. moments that should’ve been harmless, like sharing an umbrella, decorating your "married" apartment, brushing flour off his cheek during a baking segment, but somehow weren’t.

you told yourself it was the cameras. the setting. the editing. they were supposed to make it look romantic.

still, you couldn’t help but notice the way haechan’s teasing softened when the staff weren’t around. how he started remembering the smallest things about you. how, during the fourth shoot, when your heel broke and you stumbled slightly, he caught you with an ease that felt too natural.

he blinked down at you. you blinked up at him.

then someone yelled "cut" and the moment disappeared like smoke.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it was around episode six when things started to shift.

you were filming a camping trip. just the two of you, a tent, a rented suv, and several production crew members pretending not to exist.

after the marshmallow roasting and scripted couple games, you found yourselves sitting by the fire, wrapped in matching blankets. it was one of those rare lulls where neither of you felt like performing.

"are you always like this?" you asked. he glanced at you. "like what?"

“like you’re constantly trying to win some imaginary flirting competition."

haechan smirked. "would it kill you to admit i’m charming?" "i think the entire population already knows that," you said flatly.

his smile widened. "so you do think i’m charming." you groaned, pulling the blanket over your face. "regret. immediate regret."

but he didn’t tease you further.

instead, he sat in quiet beside you. the fire crackled. you could hear distant rustling, maybe a staff member adjusting the camera angle, but the world felt oddly still.

you peeked out from under the blanket. haechan was watching the flames, his expression unusually unreadable.

"you know," he said after a moment, voice low, "i thought this would be easier."

you turned to him. "what do you mean?"

he didn’t look at you. "i thought i’d be better at pretending."

you didn’t answer. you weren’t sure you could.

because the truth was, you were struggling too.

not because you didn’t like him.

but because maybe you did.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the next few shoots blurred together.

the couple trip to busan. the matching outfits. the accidental hand-holding that neither of you pulled away from. the unscripted glances. the too-long hugs. the inside jokes that the cameras didn’t catch.

you still called it acting. he still called it fan service.

but the way his hand always found the small of your back? the way you leaned into his shoulder when you were tired between takes?

that wasn’t in the script.

neither was the night he texted you after filming, a message that simply said:

"are you okay? you seemed quiet today."

you stared at it for too long before replying:

"yeah. just tired. thanks."

he didn’t say anything else.

but the next shoot, he brought you your favorite coffee order without asking.

you didn’t thank him. he didn’t mention it. the moment passed quietly, like all the others.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it happened on an off day. no cameras. no script. just the two of you, killing time between schedules.

your manager had dropped you off early at the company building. haechan’s studio was just a floor above, and somehow you ended up in the practice room together. music played low from the speakers, nothing specific, just some playlist on shuffle. you were stretched out on the wooden floor with a water bottle pressed to your cheek, eyes closed.

"you know you’re allowed to sit on the couch," haechan said, voice light.

"i’m cooling off," you mumbled. "this floor has healing properties. don’t question them."

he laughed, sitting cross-legged beside you, watching as the sunlight through the window caught the edge of your hair.

for a while, neither of you said anything. it was easy, being quiet with you. easier than it should’ve been.

he leaned back on his hands, eyes tracing the outline of your face.

you were still in your casual clothes, makeup faded from earlier, a faint sheen of sweat on your skin from dance practice. there was nothing particularly special about the moment.

you opened one eye, looking at him sideways.

"what?"

"nothing," he said, too quickly.

you sat up a little. not fully, just enough to look at him properly.

"do i have something on my face?"

"no," he said again, quieter this time. "you just... look different when you’re not acting."

you blinked. "we’re not acting most of the time."

"aren’t we?" he asked. and then smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "sometimes i forget what’s real."

you watched him carefully, the air going still between you.

"i don’t think it matters anymore," you said eventually, voice soft. "real or fake. you’re still here."

he looked at you like you’d said something too big. like he hadn’t expected you to cut through him so cleanly.

you turned away after a second, brushing your hair out of your face. he didn’t move.

and that’s when it hit him.

not with fireworks. not with a romantic soundtrack or some grand emotional monologue. just a quiet, breathless awareness that settled into his chest like gravity.

he liked you.

he thought about you even when he didn’t have to. texted you jokes late at night, rehearsed conversations he wanted to have with you while waiting in traffic. his mood shifted depending on whether you smiled at him that day. he’d started looking forward to filming, not because of the exposure or the paycheck, but because it meant he got to stand next to you for a few hours and pretend you were his.

and it wasn’t pretend anymore.

haechan looked down at his hands. his palms were a little sweaty.

he was in trouble.

he stayed quiet after that, afraid that if he opened his mouth, the truth might spill out too fast.

you didn’t notice the way he looked at you after that.

but he did. and he didn’t stop.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

he didn’t flirt as much anymore.

at least, not in the same way.

it was subtle, the way things shifted. haechan still joked, still teased, but his words started landing softer. less edge, more care. the things he used to say to get a reaction out of you—calling you pretty just to see you roll your eyes, leaning too close just to fluster you— were all starting to feel real.

you didn’t notice.

or maybe you did, but refused to mind it.

when you got a sore throat from overworking and showed up to set with a raspy voice, he handed you a warm honey drink without a word. you assumed a staff member gave it to him.

when you forgot your phone charger during an overnight shoot and muttered about your battery dying, he offered you his without hesitation.

"don’t you need it?"

"i can live without my phone for one night," he said, smiling.

when your hands were cold in the middle of winter filming, he tucked one of them into his coat pocket with his.

you laughed. "you’re just doing this for the cameras." "yeah," he said. but he wasn’t looking at the cameras.

you brushed it off. he was haechan. playful, dramatic, full of unnecessary skinship. you’d seen him flirt with microphones, charm auntie fans, do aegyo on command like it was second nature.

so when he started waiting for you after your other schedules, just to walk you out, when he started sending you good morning texts before call time, and good night ones after wrap, when he got weirdly quiet whenever someone on set joked about you two being a real couple, you didn’t think too hard about it.

because thinking too hard would mean acknowledging that it felt different now. that he felt different now.

you told yourself it was still fake. that he was just that good at his job.

you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on you when you weren’t looking.

didn’t catch how he started memorizing your moods, your habits, your silences. how he stopped filling every silence with jokes and started letting you be.

you stayed blissfully, stubbornly unaware.

and haechan let you.

because even though he wanted you to see it—even though his feelings were starting to rise up like a tide, impossible to hold back—he was still scared.

scared that if he said it out loud, the spell would break. scared that you didn’t feel it too. scared that you’d laugh, like it was just another punchline.

so instead, he kept showing you in all the quiet ways.

and you, heart fluttering in ways you still refused to name, kept calling it coincidence.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

episode thirteen.

you weren’t nervous, exactly. but you did reapply your lip tint twice in the van on the way over.

the producers had teased a surprise guest for today’s shoot, and variety shows loved nothing more than forced love triangles. you braced for awkward. but you didn’t brace for him.

cha sungwoo.

tall. handsome. charming in that effortless, trained-for-this way. you’d filmed a drama together almost two years ago, and for a brief moment, fans thought the on-screen chemistry might have spilled off-camera. it hadn’t. but the rumors stuck anyway.

"look who it is," sungwoo said as you stepped onto set, voice warm. "didn’t think i’d get to see you again on a fake honeymoon."

you smiled automatically. "long time no see."

beside you, haechan shifted his weight.

he didn’t say anything at first. just watched. his expression was unreadable, but his silence was louder than anything.

finally, he spoke.

"should i be worried?" he asked, light tone cutting sharp beneath the surface. "or is this just good tv?"

"depends," sungwoo said, amused. "are you the jealous type?"

haechan smiled. not the usual, teasing kind—the one that reached his eyes. this one was smaller. flatter.

"only when i have a reason to be."

you laughed, trying to brush it off, but your fingers tightened slightly around the sleeve of your jacket.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the shoot moved on. it was supposed to be funny and competitive—three of you cooking dinner together like a sitcom setup.

you were chopping vegetables when sungwoo leaned in behind you, his hands brushing yours.

"still bad with a knife?" he said, voice low near your ear.

you didn’t even flinch. "i’ve improved."

but behind you, haechan dropped the spatula he was holding.

you turned. "you okay?"

he bent to pick it up, muttering, "yeah. slipped."

but when he stood again, his eyes didn’t meet yours.

they were still on sungwoo.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

later, the three of you sat at the low table, eating what barely passed as a meal. the cameras were still rolling, but things had turned quiet.

sungwoo was telling a story—something about a late-night shoot and a prank. you were laughing, loose and warm in a way you hadn’t noticed before.

and haechan was watching you.

his chopsticks hung in mid-air. his shoulders tense. his jaw set like he was biting back words.

you looked at him. "what?"

he blinked. "nothing."

you tilted your head. "you’re acting weird."

"just tired."

"you sure?"

he didn’t answer right away. then he leaned in, low voice meant only for you.

"you act like none of this matters," he said quietly.

you stared at him. "what?"

"this." he gestured, vague. "the show. the pretending. him."

you searched his face, unsure if this was part of the bit or something else entirely.

"we’re just filming, haechan."

his eyes didn’t leave yours.

"maybe you are."

the words hung there. suspended between you, fragile and real.

you opened your mouth to respond—but the PD clapped, announcing a break, and the spell broke with it.

haechan stood up without another word and walked off set.

you sat there, blinking, unsure why your chest felt so tight.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

you didn’t call haechan after the shoot.

you almost did. twice.

once, when you got home and dropped your bag on the floor like something was missing.

once more, in the middle of the night, when you were staring at your ceiling and couldn’t stop replaying the way he looked at you before he walked off set.

you didn’t call. you couldn’t.

so instead, you called her. your best friend. the one who knew the before version of you, before the show, before the cameras, before him.

"hey, everything alright?" chiya asked, her voice quiet over the line. soft with sleep but already worried.

"can i come over?"

"always."

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

her apartment was warm. messy in the way homes should be. you sat on the floor wrapped in an old hoodie you’d left there months ago, your fingers curled around a mug of tea neither of you remembered making.

you told her everything. not just about today, but about all of it.

the way filming used to feel like a joke, like a role you could slip into and out of without thinking.

how that changed.

how he changed.

how you changed.

"today… he looked at me like he didn’t recognize me," you said. "like he was hurt, and trying really hard not to be."

she didn’t speak, letting the silence hold space for you.

"and when sungwoo showed up, it felt like the air shifted. like i’d stepped into a room i didn’t belong in anymore."

"because of haechan?" she asked gently.

you nodded.

"he didn’t say much. just… one thing."

"what’d he say?"

you swallowed.

"he said, ‘you act like none of this matters.’"

the words still echoed in your head. they’d been soft, almost careful. like he wasn’t trying to pick a fight. like he was asking you to see him.

"and i didn’t know what to say. because i didn’t know how to tell him that i think it does matter. more than it should. more than i want it to."

your voice shook.

"and i’m scared. i’m scared that maybe this isn’t just acting anymore. not for me."

your best friend moved closer, resting her chin on your shoulder like she used to when you were both teenagers, crying over things that felt too big for your hearts to hold.

"have you ever been in love before?" she asked quietly.

"not like this."

you weren’t even sure it was love. but it was something. something that blossomed slowly, and then all at once, when you weren’t looking.

"he makes me feel like i’m being seen. not the version of me that the cameras want. just... me. and when he looks at me, sometimes i feel like he’s about to say something he doesn’t know how to say."

"and what do you want him to say?"

you paused. the answer hurt to admit.

"that i’m not just imagining it."

your friend reached over, squeezing your hand.

"you’re not," she said. "i don’t even need to meet him to know. you’re not the kind of person who gets confused about this stuff. you’d never fall for someone unless it was real. and it sounds like you already have."

your eyes stung.

"i didn’t mean to."

"you never do."

she pulled you into a hug, and for the first time since you wrapped that scene, you let the weight of it press down on you. not the confusion. not the fear. just the feeling.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

episode fourteen

you weren’t sure how to act around him now.

you told yourself you’d just play it cool. do what you always did: slip into character, smile when you were supposed to, laugh when the producers gave you a cue, go home.

but when you saw haechan waiting on set, leaning against the kitchen counter in the little “home” you’d built together over the past months, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from styling, something inside you stilled.

he looked up when you walked in.

and then he smiled.

small. real. tired, maybe. but his eyes softened the way they always did when he looked at you.

"hey," he said, voice gentle.

"hey," you replied, and the word felt different in your mouth. too small for how much you’d missed him in just a few days.

he opened his mouth like he was going to say more, but the PD clapped loudly and called for standby.

you both moved into position like professionals.

but you couldn’t stop glancing at him.

and he didn’t look away when you did.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the day’s concept was domestic bliss.

folding laundry. grocery shopping. making dinner together. things that looked boring on paper but, somehow, felt like the most intimate parts of the fake marriage.

just pretend it’s real, the writer joked before you started rolling.

you wanted to say, it’s getting harder to pretend it’s not.

you were standing beside haechan at the sink, rinsing vegetables, when your fingers brushed under the running water. you flinched slightly.

he didn’t.

his hand stayed against yours just for a second too long.

your heart skipped, and you hated how noticeable it felt. how loud it became in your own chest.

"you okay?" he asked, voice low.

you nodded too quickly. "just cold water."

he didn’t call you out on it. but his eyes didn’t leave yours for a long time.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

after filming, you stayed behind for a bit. the cameras were off, the crew busy packing up equipment. haechan was still in the kitchen, stacking plates to be returned to props.

you didn’t know why you lingered. only that you didn’t want to leave yet.

he looked up, sensing you there.

"you didn’t call," he said quietly.

you froze. "what?"

"after the last shoot. i thought maybe you would. or… maybe i hoped you would."

you opened your mouth. closed it again.

"i didn’t know what to say," you said eventually.

he nodded, like he understood. like he’d expected that.

then, after a long pause

"you don’t have to say anything," he murmured. "but i need you to know… i wasn’t acting. not with that."

you met his eyes. for once, there was no smirk. no sarcasm. nothing playful to hide behind.

just him.

just the truth.

your breath caught in your throat.

but before you could speak, a crew member popped their head in.

"you guys done? we need to lock up soon."

haechan glanced away. the moment passed like a held breath.

he nodded slowly. "yeah. we’re done."

but as you walked out of that little house, your fingers still tingling from the brush of his, you knew something had shifted for good.

you weren’t just playing pretend anymore.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it was the last shoot before the final week.

the set felt more quiet than usual, like the whole crew was holding their breath. maybe because everyone knew this was the last stretch—the end of the show, the end of pretending.

you and haechan moved through the day’s scenes with practiced ease, but the easy rhythm from before was gone. now, everything between you felt heavy, like invisible strings tugging tighter with every look and every touch.

you were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, but you weren’t really looking at the screen. your eyes kept flicking to haechan, who was sitting beside you, hands folded awkwardly on his lap.

he glanced at you once, then quickly looked away, face unreadable.

the silence between you stretched longer than usual, thick and uncomfortable.

finally, you broke it, voice barely above a whisper.

“are you okay?”

he didn’t answer right away. then, without meeting your eyes, he said, “i’m fine.”

you didn’t believe him.

he shifted in his seat, fingers twitching like he wanted to say more but couldn’t.

the director called “cut,” and the crew buzzed quietly as they reset the next scene, but you and haechan stayed still, caught in a space where neither wanted to cross the line first.

he looked over, voice low, almost rough.

“this… all of this. it’s harder than i thought.”

you swallowed, heart racing.

“yeah.”

“i don’t want it to end,” he said, eyes finally locking with yours.

you felt your breath hitch. everything inside you was screaming to reach out, to tell him you felt the same, but the words stuck.

“me neither,” you whispered.

he gave a small, sad smile.

“what do we do now?”

you looked down, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

“i don’t know.”

but maybe that was okay.

maybe the not knowing was the start of something real.

the cameras might have been off for the moment, but the space between you was alive with everything you couldn’t say—and everything you both desperately wanted to feel.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the last day of filming felt like the end of something you weren’t ready to lose.

the set was buzzing with energy, but for you and haechan, it was heavy. heavier than before. the playful teasing, the easy smiles—they were all there, but beneath them was a current you could no longer ignore.

during a break, you found yourselves alone in the quiet corner of the studio. the noise of crew and cameras faded, and suddenly the space between you felt too small.

haechan looked at you. his usual grin gone, replaced by something softer, vulnerable.

“i’ve been a coward,” he said, voice low, almost breaking.

you blinked, heart pounding.

“me too,” you whispered back.

he took a slow breath, stepping closer, hands trembling slightly at his sides.

“i was supposed to be the one who didn’t fall,” he said, “but it’s me. it’s always been me.”

you swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in.

“why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, voice barely audible.

“because i was scared,” he admitted. “scared you wouldn’t feel the same. scared it was just me.”

your eyes stung. “it’s not just you.”

the silence stretched, thick and full of everything you hadn’t said before.

finally, he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “can i.. hold you?”

your breath hitched, but you nodded.

as he pulled you close, the world outside the studio ceased to exist.

for the first time, pretending wasn’t enough. this was real.

and somehow, it left you feeling both lucky and appalled.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the studio emptied quickly, the usual noise fading until you and haechan were left alone. the silence between you felt thick, heavy with everything neither of you had dared to say.

he led you to the rooftop garden, the soft glow of string lights wrapping around the space like a secret only the two of you shared.

you sat close, shoulders brushing, every tiny movement sending sparks you could feel deep under your skin.

his fingers found yours, slow and deliberate, thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm. the warmth of his touch spread, setting fire to nerves you didn’t know you had.

he tilted his head, eyes dark and searching. “you feel it too, right?”

your breath hitched, heart pounding. “i do.”

his hand slid from your palm, fingers grazing your wrist, then up your arm, light as a whisper.

“this,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “this isn’t just for show.”

you swallowed hard, the heat in your chest rising. his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, daring you to say no.

instead, you leaned in, letting your breath mingle, the space between you crackling with anticipation.

when he finally closed the gap, his kiss was slow, teasing—like he was savoring every second.

his hand cupped your neck, thumb stroking softly, sending shivers down your spine.

you curled into him, the world narrowing to the press of skin on skin, the heat of his breath, the ache building in your chest.

he pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, “i’ve wanted this for so long.”

your voice barely a whisper, “me too.”

the night wrapped around you, every touch, every glance loaded with a promise neither of you was ready to say out loud.

but both of you knew.

this was only the beginning.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

soft light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room.

you stirred slowly, the weight of haechan’s arm draped over your waist anchoring you in place.

for a moment, everything was still, the world outside paused, and there was just this—the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the quiet rhythm of breath and heartbeat.

you turned your head slightly, catching his profile in the morning light. his eyes were closed, lashes resting softly against his cheeks, peaceful and completely unguarded.

a gentle smile tugged at your lips.

careful not to wake him, you traced lazy circles on his arm, memorizing the feeling of skin beneath your fingertips.

he shifted slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, but didn’t open his eyes.

you let yourself soak in the quiet intimacy, the kind of closeness you hadn’t dared imagine before.

finally, haechan blinked open his eyes, meeting yours with a soft, sleepy smile.

“good morning,” he whispered, voice rough but warm.

“good morning,” you replied, heart fluttering.

he tightened his arm around you just a little, as if afraid you might disappear.

“last night was… real,” he said, voice low, full of something like awe.

you nodded, feeling the same weight of it.

“yeah,” you said softly. “it was.”

for a moment, neither of you spoke, just held onto the fragile newness of what had started between you.

and in the quiet of that morning, everything felt possible.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the studio was buzzing again, crew rushing, cameras rolling, but for you and haechan, the world felt different.

you caught each other’s eyes across the set more times than you could count, every look loaded with a secret neither dared say out loud.

during a break, haechan slipped beside you, voice low enough that only you could hear.

“you okay?” he asked, thumb brushing lightly over your hand.

you nodded, heart pounding. “yeah. just… tired.”

he gave a small, knowing smile. “me too.”

the silence between you felt full, like an unspoken understanding.

filming felt harder now. not because the scenes were difficult, but because the line between acting and feeling was thinner than ever.

when the director called cut, you both lingered, reluctant to step back into the roles you’d played for so long.

haechan caught your gaze, eyes searching.

“we need to talk,” he said quietly.

your breath hitched.

“about us,” he added, voice softer now.

you nodded, the weight of it settling in your chest.

“after this is over,” you whispered.

“of course,” he agreed.

the cameras might have been rolling again soon, but in that moment, the world outside could wait.

because finally, you were ready to stop pretending.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the days after filming ended felt like a strange in-between.

you and haechan were no longer pretending, but everything else still felt like uncharted territory.

text messages came more often now, sometimes just a good morning or a meme that made you laugh, other times long, quiet conversations about fears and hopes.

you met up after practice one evening, somewhere quiet—a small café off the main streets where no one knew your names.

he was a little awkward, fumbling with his words like he was nervous all over again.

“i’m not great at this,” he admitted, stirring his coffee.

“neither am i,” you said, smiling softly.

he reached across the table, taking your hand. “guess we’re both beginners.”

some days were easier than others. sometimes, a glance or a touch spoke louder than any words.

other times, the weight of schedules, the constant eyes watching, made it hard to find space just for the two of you.

but slowly, you learned to navigate the new rhythm—stealing moments between rehearsals, quiet calls in the middle of the night, little jokes shared just between you.

there were missteps, too—missed calls, misunderstandings, moments where the fear of losing what you had made you both pull away.

but every time, you found your way back.

because beneath it all was something real, something neither of you wanted to let go.

and as the days turned into weeks, you realized that maybe, just maybe, this was more than just a story.

it was your story.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it started with a headline.

nothing scandalous, but enough to stir the internet—a fan account posted a blurry photo of you and haechan leaving a café, the caption dripping with speculation.

are they dating for real?

fake marriage turned real?

what does this mean for their agencies?

the messages flooded your phone—some from friends, some from fans, some from strangers.

you stared at the screen, heart pounding.

haechan was beside you, phone in hand, face tight.

“they’re going to spin this into a mess,” he muttered.

you nodded, biting your lip.

it was the first time your private feelings had become public territory, and neither of you knew how to navigate it.

that evening, you met at haechan’s dorm, wanting to face it together.

“what do we do?” you asked, voice trembling.

he took your hands in his, eyes steady and fierce.

“we don’t let rumors define us,” he said. “we keep being honest. with each other, and when we’re ready, with everyone else.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling the weight of the moment.

“i’m scared,” you admitted. “of losing what we have.”

he pulled you close, forehead resting against yours.

“me too,” he said. “but whatever happens, i’m not walking away.”

in that quiet room, surrounded by the noise of the world outside, you found a promise that felt stronger than any headline.

you weren’t just partners on a show anymore.

you were something real.

and you would face whatever came next—together.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

the room was tense as you and haechan sat across from your agencies. the conversation was careful, cautious, filled with questions you’d both anticipated but dreaded.

“are you sure this isn’t just for publicity?” one manager asked.

“this is real,” haechan said quietly, eyes locked on yours. “we want to take this seriously.”

your own manager nodded slowly, “then we’ll support you. but you need to be prepared for everything.”

the words hung heavy in the air, a mix of relief and new pressure settling over you.

once the meetings ended, you didn’t speak much on the way back. the city lights blurred past the windows, your hands finally finding each other’s in the quiet.

as soon as you stepped inside haechan’s apartment, the tension broke.

he pulled you close, fingers threading through your hair, lips pressing soft and sure against yours.

“no matter what they say,” he murmured between kisses, “this is ours.”

you traced his jawline, heart pounding in your chest.

“ours,” you echoed.

the night wrapped around you, a sanctuary from the world.

in the quiet between heartbeats, you’ve found a place—a fragile world where pretend becomes real.

[a-leg-without-fear]

Threesome🔥

going a bit off script on day 2 because i'm a HEATHEN anyway enjoy

Ship: Worst!Logan Howlett x f!Reader x Wade Wilson

Rating: 18+

Wordcount: 776

Warnings: cursing, smut, threesome, Wade Wilson is his own warning, unprotected PiV, anal (f!receiving), use of petnames, kissing, cocaine mention

Series: Leg's Tuna Tober

Your mind was fucking shattered.

Deep, guttural grunts rumbled from Logan beneath you with every deliberate thrust. Sharp canines scraped along your overheated skin. Whispers of "you're doing so good, baby" filtered from between his clenched teeth. His sweat-drenched skin was nearly sticking to yours due to your proximity. Barely a centimeter of space was left between the two of you.

It didn't help that Wade was on top of you, thrusting into you from behind, bearing his full weight on you as his hands fisted in the sheets. His wet tongue traced down your spine. Shivers erupted across your back in brutal waves.

"That's a good girl. Taking us so well. Isn't she, Wolvie?" Wade mused, voice muffled from where his lips connected with your skin. You gasped as a quick hitch in Wade's thrust nearly jostled Logan out of you.

"Watch it, red," Logan growled quietly. His large palms clung to your hips in near desperation. Gripping at your skin so tight you knew there'd be bruises in the morning. Not that you minded.

A light laugh rumbled against your back, "Feeling possessive, are we, Lo? Afraid I'll take our sunflower away from you?"

"Just shut up and fuck her, will you?" Logan said over your shoulder. He pressed a quick "sorry" behind your ear with a gentle kiss. You couldn't help the quiet moan that leaked from your throat.

"Let's make a game of it, shall we?" was all the warning Wade gave before he suddenly pulled out. You whined at how empty you now felt, craving both of them inside you every waking moment of your life. Wade ran a gentle hand down your back, "Shh, it's alright, angel cakes. I just wanna see if Lo-Lo's up to the task."

"The fuck is wrong with you, Wade?" Logan asked, propping himself up on his elbows to throw the merc a heavy glare. Now no one was focused on fucking you. You muttered obscenities under your breath as you buried your nose in Logan's shoulder. These two couldn't stop bickering for five minutes, let alone a whole night with just the three of you.

"I just wanted to challenge you, Mr.Not-a-Duke. Which of us do you think can make our sunbeam here come the fastest?" Wade offered with a cocky grin you could hear.

Logan scoffed, shaking his head, "I think you already know the answer to that."

"Yeah, and it'd be me," Wade returned.

"You must've taken some brain damage, because you know it'd be me," Logan bit back.

You groaned against Logan's neck, then nipped at the thin skin under his jaw, "Will someone please just fuck me?"

A shudder rolled over Logan's shoulders. He peered down at you through narrowed eyes. You could practically feel the seconds tick by as he remained still, just staring at you. Unease settled around your ribs. Logan was an impossible man to read, even at the best of times. When his pupils were blown, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, and his cock was inside you, it was even more difficult to gauge what he was thinking.

"Start a timer," he instructed Wade, gaze never leaving you. Arousal reignited in your abdomen like a stoked bonfire.

"Yes sir," Wade said with a wide smile. You heard rustling behind you as Wade grabbed one of the three phones on the nightstand.

The world spun without warning as you were flipped on your back. A gust of air shot from your lungs at the impact with the bed. Soft lips brushed along the skin under the hinge of your jaw.

"Go easy on me, huh? Wanna prove Wade wrong," Logan whispered in your ear. Flames licked at your skin, goosebumps rising in the wake of the Wolverine's gentle touch. Callused fingers grazed over you as light as feathers.

"I haven't started the timer yet, cheater! Any more unsportsmanlike behavior and I'll lock you out," Wade groused loudly. Logan breathed a chuckle along your collarbone.

"I'll just break the door down," he said as he threw you a wink. It took every bone in your body to keep your eyes from rolling back in your head.

"Break another door and Blind Al'll hide the cocaine again. When she hides shit, that stuff stays gone," Wade mumbled indignantly. Logan ignored the merc, fingers trailing ever-so slowly down your sensitive skin. A choked moan kicked out of your chest when Logan's thigh brushed against your swollen clit. Wade's wrinkled hand entered your periphery as he tapped on Logan's cheek, "Did you hear me, resident senior citizen? No cheating!"

It was going to be a long, long night.

may need to continue this in a future fic...

taglist: @ripleyswife @just-a-nightdreamer @venomqueen2002 @c1eepypas1a @www-interludeshadow-com

Want to be on the taglist? Fill out this form!

[hoetachi]

LOST COUNT — E. (SMOKE) MOORE

➠ tattooartist!smoke x blk!reader

➠ mulan’s input; listen to nekkid by muni long yall… its def smoke coded

➠ cw; y/n is just girl who wants a pretty tatt, hints at ptsd, angst & slow burn (but like barely if you squint)

“ ‘ight, we done the easy part,” stack muttered, reaching for a clean paper towel and gently wiping over your swollen, red skin. you winced even at the touch.

“i think the numbing cream wore off,” you said nervously, eyeing the needle now buzzing back to life in his grip like it was plotting against you.

“sucks to suck,” he shrugged, absolutely no mercy in sight. “‘cuz this next part? gonna sting bad. real bad.”

you instinctively tensed, gripping the cushion beneath you as stack lowered the machine toward your thigh again — right over the part you knew was all soft nerve endings and suffering.

the second the needle touched your skin, your whole leg jerked like it had been hit with a live wire.

“damn!” stack pulled back fast, glaring. “girl, you tryin’ to catch a charge? i told you this part ain’t no joke!”

“i wasn’t ready!” you cried, gripping your own thigh. “you ain’t give me a countdown or nothin’—you just went in!”

stack cut the machine off, dropped his gloves on the tray, and stood up like he was done with life altogether.

“nah. no ma’am. i got high blood pressure. you not finna send me to the er ‘cause you don’t know how to sit still.”

“wait—stack, i’m sorry—”

he threw a hand up, already backing toward the hallway.

“nope. don’t apologize now. i need a break. i need a sandwich. maybe therapy.”

he peeked around the curtain.

“yo, smoke! ol’ girl over here tap dancin’ on the table again. i’m taggin’ out.”

you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “i’m not trying to be difficult,” you mumbled.

a few moments later, you heard the soft tread of boots, then felt the shift in air as smoke stepped into the room. he said nothing at first — just quietly took in the unfinished tattoo, your flushed face, and stack’s dramatic exit.

“he quit on me,” you said weakly, glancing up.

smoke raised a brow. “stack barely got patience for mosquitos. you think he gonna survive a jumpy first-timer?”

“you still want it finished?” he asked, setting down the stencil and gently grabbing a fresh pair of gloves.

you nodded quickly. “yeah. i’m just—i don’t know. my brain knows i want it, but my body’s bein’ a punk.”

that got the faintest flicker of a smile from him. “it happens more than you think.”

he pulled the stool close, adjusted the tray, and checked the lines stack had already done. the buzz of the machine hadn’t even started again yet, but your leg was already bracing itself.

smoke glanced up at you, calm and even.

“you ever try takin’ your mind off the pain?”

you blinked. “like... how?”

he leaned back slightly, considering. then said with a shrug,

“count my tattoos.”

you blinked again. “wait—what?”

“i’m serious.” he gave a soft laugh. “start with what you can see. out loud. keeps your brain busy. works better than holdin’ ya’ breath or squeezin’ the life outta that cushion.”

you hesitated, eyes trailing down his inked arms — and yeah, there was a lot. the longer you looked, the more you noticed the details: a portrait hidden in negative space, script in cursive so tight it looked like it whispered.

“okay... one,” you said, pointing to the jagged barbed wire wrapped around his wrist. “good,” he murmured, flipping the switch on the machine, the buzz soft and familiar

“two...” you said, moving your eyes up his forearm.

he started tattooing again, slow and steady. you winced slightly but kept going.

“three... four... five—”

you stopped, brow furrowing. “wait. that looks like two separate pieces. is it five or six?”

smoke glanced up briefly. “six.”

you nodded, returning to your count. it wasn’t painless, but it was manageable. his voice helped. his presence helped.

“seven... eight...”

he paused the machine suddenly, just for a moment.

“you missed one.”

you looked up at him, confused. “where?”

he didn’t answer right away. just reached down and, with a casual motion, pulled off his black tank.

your jaw damn near dropped.

his chest, arms, collarbones — all of it was marked. more than what you saw before. black and gray realism, smoke-like shadows blending into text, symbols, loss. pain and poetry inked into skin. and near the top of his collarbone sat the one you missed — an abstract design tucked near his heart.

“that one’s easy to overlook,” he said softly, touching the piece near his collarbone.

you blinked.

“...you are so much more tatted than stack.”

he gave a small shrug, almost like he was apologizing for it.

“yeah. i got carried away after the war...”

your eyes found his. he didn’t look at you at first — he just turned the machine off for a moment, resting it carefully beside the tray.

“me and stack enlisted together. thought it’d give us some structure. get us outta mississippi for a while.” he leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs.

“but war… it don’t care where you come from. it strips shit from you.”

you were quiet, letting him speak. something about the way he sat — shirtless, half in shadow, tattooed from shoulder to hip — made him look both larger than life and completely exposed.

“every one of these,” he gestured slowly to the ink that wrapped around his chest and arms, “is a piece of what I lost. a name, a moment, a version of me i can’t get back.”

his fingers tapped lightly over the cracked halo on his ribs.

“that one? that’s innocence. got carved out of me overseas and never came back.”

you swallowed hard, not sure what to say at first. the air between you felt full — not heavy, but sacred, like stepping inside a story no one had told out loud in a long time.

“i didn’t know,” you said quietly. “you wear it all like armor.”

he looked at you then, soft eyes full of something between exhaustion and understanding.

“that’s the thing,” he said. “it ain’t armor. it’s a reminder. i don’t wanna forget who i was… even if i don’t recognize him anymore.”

you reached out before you even realized it, fingertips brushing the ink at his shoulder. he didn’t flinch. he let you.

“you’re still here,” you said. “that’s worth something.”

smoke gave you a look then — not surprised, not guarded. just present. like no one had ever said that to him before, and he didn’t quite know how to hold it.

he cleared his throat, lips twitching faintly. “you ready to finish this tattoo, or you need a minute to keep starin’ at me?”

you snorted, blinking quickly and pulling your hand back.

“just trying to be respectful of your trauma, sir.”

“mhm. sounded like thirst to me.” he teased

you studied him with a quiet laugh as the sweet lyrics of tevin campbell’s ‘can we talk’ cushioned your ears whilst he focused on your skin — his brow furrowed, mouth set in a calm line. so careful, so still. nothing like his brother, all loudness and sharp commentary. where stack talked with his hands, smoke spoke in silence. in patience. in presence.

and damn, now that you were this close, really looking…

“you’re nothing like your brother,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

smoke’s eyes flicked up, a little glint hiding behind his lashes.“that a good thing or a bad thing?”

you smirked. “good. stack’s the kind of loud people notice. you’re the kind of quiet they remember.”

he chuckled low in his throat. “careful. say one more poetic line and i might start thinkin’ you sweet on me.”

you opened your mouth to clap back— something equally slick, equally brave — but then the needle hit that spot on your thigh.

“oh—shit—” you gasped, jerking slightly, hand flying to grab the table’s edge like it could save you.

smoke’s hand pressed gently on your hip to steady you.

“breathe. deep. in through your nose, not through your scream.”

you groaned through clenched teeth, hating how good he smelled, hating how good his voice sounded, even when you were on the verge of seeing stars.

“i was having a poetic-ass moment,” you wheezed, “and then my nerve endings decided to jump me.”

he chuckled, eyes back on your thigh.

“that’s how it goes. beauty always costs somethin’.”

you clenched your jaw as the needle buzzed back to life, digging into the softest part of your thigh like it was trying to start a fire. your hands curled around the cushion beneath you, nails biting into the leather, but you didn’t move.

you refused to.

smoke had already seen enough — the flinching, the squirming, stack quitting on you like it was nothing. you weren’t about to fold now. not in front of him.

“you good?” he asked, not even looking up.

“mhm.” you nodded quickly, too quickly.

smoke didn’t say anything. just kept going, slow and steady. the room was quiet, but your body was screaming, and you were doing everything in your power to hide it. your eyes were glassy, your breathing shallow. your leg twitched once— just a little — but it was enough.

he stopped. turned off the machine.

you didn’t dare look up.

“why’d you stop?”

“because you lyin’,” he said calmly, setting the machine down like this was routine.

you blinked at him, heart stuttering.

“i said I’m good.”

smoke finally looked up, expression unreadable but firm.

“and your face said otherwise.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but he was already wiping your skin clean again — gentle, deliberate, careful.

“you don’t gotta prove anything to me.”

“i’m not,” you muttered, but it came out too soft. too guilty.

smoke raised a brow.

“so you makin’ that face just for fun?”

you went quiet. the weight of his stare was heavier than the pain had been. it wasn’t judgment. it wasn’t pity. it was just real.

“you don’t think i’ve seen people try to sit through more than they should? you think i’d let you walk outta here hurt worse just so you can feel tough?”

he leaned back slightly, peeling off his gloves with a slow tug.

“you wanna finish this piece? cool. i got you, but not if it means watchin’ you suffer and act like you not.”

you looked away, jaw tight. you hated that he could see through you like that. hated even more that he was right.

he didn’t press. just stood up, pulled out the wrap, and moved with the same quiet care he always had with 702’s ‘get it together’ whispering through the shop like a sign from the universe, telling you to sit your stubborn ass down.

“we’ll finish it when your body’s ready. not before.”

as he wrapped your thigh, you finally let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. disappointed, frustrated, but… grateful.

“you didn’t have to stop.”

“i know,” he said, taping the last edge down. “but i wanted to.”

“we’ll finish another day,” he reassured, securing the bandage in place one last time. “ink ain’t goin’ nowhere. and neither am i.”

you watched him reach for the clipboard to jot something down, still trying to swallow the strange ache that had nothing to do with the tattoo.

“stack left you mid-session like a punk. you’re not payin’ full,” he said without looking up, like it was a decision he’d already made before you ever sat down.

“you sure?” you asked.

he shrugged, “you sat longer than most first-timers would’ve.” you opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off with a glance.

“ain’t charity. it’s respect.”

that shut you up. you looked at him and felt something twist deep in your chest. not regret. not pain. just that awful ache of wanting more time with someone right when it runs out. you were just starting to understand him. just starting to peel back the quiet. and now the session was over.

“guess I’ll see you soon, then.”

it sounded casual, but the hope in your voice gave you away. smoke nodded, handing you the paperwork.

“i’ll keep your stencil ready.” you took it from him, your fingers brushing his — just barely. but it lingered like a promise neither of you said out loud.

[ilovejb]

| Scene one |

Pairings : Florence Pugh x female!reader

Summary : You met her on set, somewhere between long days and quiet looks. It wasn’t part of the script, but it felt real — slow, unexpected, and impossible to ignore.

Warnings : Florence being a tease ? Lots of teasing

Authors note : 3k words, I have become way too obsessed with flo

You weren’t even supposed to be in Thunderbolts.

Originally, your role was a small one — a two-scene cameo as a morally gray anti-hero with sharp knives and a sharper tongue. But after the chemistry test with Florence Pugh, something shifted. The room crackled. The director coughed awkwardly and scribbled something in his notebook. Two weeks later, your agent called you, breathless.

“You’ve been upgraded,” she said. “Big time.”

You landed a full supporting role, which meant months of filming… with Florence.

God help you.

Florence Pugh was magnetic in person. She moved like she knew every eye was on her — and she liked it. But she wasn’t arrogant. No. She was playful. Teasing. Mischievous in a way that made your pulse tick just a bit faster every time she smiled in your direction.

Which was often.

“You always look so serious,” she told you one day between takes, her Yelena wig slightly askew, a lollipop between her lips. “Is that your villain face? Or are you just trying not to flirt with me?”

You nearly choked on your water. “Is it that obvious?”

She winked. “A little.”

It was a game from that point on. A maddening, sweet, slow game. She’d lean just a bit too close while reading lines, her breath brushing your cheek. You’d catch her watching you during fight training, head tilted, eyes thoughtful. You once caught her recording a slow-mo video of you flipping your stunt knife — she claimed it was “for reference,” but the smirk on her lips said otherwise.

You started teasing back, naturally.

“Careful, Pugh,” you whispered during one particularly intense scene rehearsal, your face inches from hers. “You keep looking at me like that and people will think you’re in love.”

She arched an eyebrow, unbothered. “Let them.”

You couldn’t tell if it was flirting anymore, or just her natural Florence-ness. Either way, it drove you wild. But it wasn’t until the last week of shooting that something actually shifted.

You were in your trailer, half out of costume, when she knocked — then walked in without waiting.

“Sorry,” she said, grinning as her eyes roamed over you. “Didn’t realize wardrobe was optional in here.”

“Florence.”

“What?” she laughed, perching on the couch like she owned it. “Just came to say goodbye before you wrapped for the day. Unless you wanted to run that last scene again. The one where you pin me to the wall?”

Your cheeks flamed. She knew exactly what she was doing.

You crossed your arms. “You are absolutely impossible.”

“Mm,” she hummed, standing slowly. She walked over, close enough that you had to tilt your chin to keep your eyes on hers. “You like it.”

She didn’t kiss you. But she didn’t have to. The tension between you both was a string pulled taut, vibrating with every inch of space that wasn’t quite filled.

That night, she texted you:

Goodbye scenes are overrated. Want to do dinner instead? Just you. Just me. Just… us?

The day they filmed the rooftop scene was the worst.

Not because it was cold. Not because you were bruised from a week of stunts. But because Florence Pugh was pressed up against you, panting, flushed, smiling like she knew exactly what she was doing to you — and you still weren’t allowed to kiss her.

In the scene, your character saves Yelena from a sniper. You crash behind a vent, her body half under yours, her fingers twisted in your jacket.

It was supposed to last ten seconds.

It took four takes.

“Sorry,” Florence said between the second and third take, voice low as she smoothed her hand down your chest. “I keep getting distracted.”

You stared at her, your face inches from hers. “By what?”

She grinned. “You.”

You made it through the scene, barely. When the director finally called cut, you stood up too fast and muttered something about needing air.

Florence didn’t follow. But when you got back to your trailer, there was a post-it note on your mirror.

Still thinking about the way you looked at me when I said “thanks for saving my ass.” Let me know if you want to rehearse that part. Alone.

You stared at the note for too long.

Later that night, you replied with a photo — the scene’s script page, her line circled in red, your handwriting underneath:

Anytime. I’ll always have your back. And maybe your ass, too.

Her response came five minutes later.

That was smooth. I’m proud. Still want to rehearse? I promise to be very professional. Until I’m not.

Over the next few days, it escalated.

During lunch, she stole fries from your plate with slow eye contact and said, “You don’t mind sharing, right?”

You shrugged, fighting a smile. “Only if you feed me one too.”

She did. Slowly.

During combat training, she pinned you to the mat and whispered, “I win.”

You rolled her over in one move, face barely a breath from hers. “You sure about that?”

You saw it in her eyes then — the pause, the flicker, the something behind the playfulness. Like she was thinking the same thing you were:

This was no longer just a game.

But no one made a move.

Until the wrap party.

You’d both made it through the final day of filming. Hugs were passed around. The cast danced, drinks flowed, and somewhere between the bad karaoke and the champagne, you found her on the balcony, barefoot, holding a half-finished cocktail.

“Cold?” you asked, offering your jacket.

She let you put it around her shoulders, tugging it tighter. “Only a little.”

“Nice party,” you said.

“Nice job surviving a movie with me.”

You smiled. “Barely.”

There was a quiet between you. Not uncomfortable — more like the silence right before thunder rolls in.

“You were the best part of this film,” she said softly, eyes locked on yours. “And not just on camera.”

Your throat tightened. “You too.”

She stepped closer.

“Are we still playing the game?” she asked, voice like velvet.

You met her gaze. “Do you want to be?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not anymore.”

You leaned in. Not a kiss, not yet — just your forehead resting gently against hers.

“Then stop me,” you whispered, “if I’m wrong about this.”

She didn’t.

Her fingers slipped into your hair, and you finally kissed her — slow, warm, and so full of everything you’d both been holding back.

You didn’t expect her to stay the night.

You kissed her on that balcony — slow, searching, a little dizzy with the realization that it wasn’t just tension or chemistry or a well-rehearsed scene. It was real. She was real. And when she pulled away, she didn’t let go. Not even a little.

She held your hand the whole Uber ride home.

And when you opened the door to your apartment, she followed without asking.

“I probably shouldn’t,” she said, toes nudging off her shoes, fingers brushing your wrist. “I’ll stay if you ask.”

“I want you to stay,” you told her. “No games.”

She smiled. “No games.”

That night, you didn’t sleep much — not for the reasons most people would assume. You lay tangled up in each other, whispering things you should’ve said weeks ago. She played with your fingers in the dark. You traced circles on her back. She kept falling asleep mid-sentence, then jerking awake to finish it.

It was soft.

It was perfect.

It was the beginning of everything.

Months later, she was still there — Florence, in your space like she’d always belonged.

She stole your t-shirts, left half-drunk cups of tea on the counter, and kissed you with ridiculous intensity in the morning, even when your breath was awful and your hair stuck up in seventeen directions.

You made her laugh so hard once she choked on cereal. She got you back by blasting Taylor Swift in the shower and dramatically serenading you through the curtain.

Life with her wasn’t glamorous or wild — not most days. It was warm. Domestic. Good.

But there were moments.

Like now.

You were lying on the couch, her legs stretched across your lap. A bowl of popcorn rested between you, long forgotten, because Florence was snuggled against your side wearing your hoodie — and nothing else — and she was doing that thing she did where she kissed your neck in slow, innocent intervals that were absolutely not innocent.

“Flor,” you warned, barely breathing. “You’re distracting me.”

“I know,” she murmured, voice low and amused. “That’s the point.”

You tilted your head to look at her. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet you adore me.”

You kissed the tip of her nose. “Unfortunately.”

She smiled, smug and beautiful and way too pleased with herself. “You know the Thunderbolts premiere is in three days, right?”

You groaned. “Don’t remind me. Red carpets. Public attention. You in that dress that’s probably going to kill me.”

“Oh?” she said, feigning innocence. “You’ve already seen it?”

“No,” you admitted, covering your face dramatically. “But I know. I’ve seen the fittings. The smirk you get when you like what you’re wearing. I’m doomed.”

She shifted on top of you, straddling your hips, arms loosely around your shoulders. “What if I wear something extra hot just for you?”

You swallowed hard.

“Florence.”

“Yes?”

“You’re evil.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips against your ear. “You love it.”

You didn’t deny it.

You were not prepared.

You thought you were.

You’d seen the dress at her final fitting — dark, sculpted, slit high enough to be illegal in at least three countries. But it was nothing compared to this. Compared to Florence walking the red carpet like she owned the planet, confident and calm and sexy as hell — like she didn’t know your brain was melting inside your skull.

Except she totally knew.

Because when she saw you — tucked near the press line, trying your best to blend in — she locked eyes with you and smirked.

It was criminal.

You stared. She winked. And just to really drive it home, she turned back toward the cameras, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and posed. Legs. Waist. That backless moment. You were dead.

A handler nudged you. “You okay?”

You blinked. “No. I’m not okay. I need a cold shower and possibly medical attention.”

The premiere rolled on — interviews, flashing lights, fans screaming her name. But your eyes were glued to her. You watched her laugh with castmates, sign posters, take selfies. She looked so alive. So herself. And also like she might actually be the hottest woman alive.

When she finally made her way over to you during a lull in interviews, you gave her a look.

“You’re evil,” you said.

“Hi, baby,” she grinned, sliding her arm around your waist like she hadn’t just destroyed your soul ten minutes ago. “Like the dress?”

You scoffed. “You know I like the dress. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past hour. I almost fainted when you turned around.”

“Really?” she said, mock-surprised. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve done a little spin.”

You groaned. “Don’t tempt me.”

She leaned in, her breath warm against your ear. “I wore this for you.”

You were sweating.

“You’re so mean to me,” you whispered.

She kissed your cheek — just there, gentle and lingering — and said, “You love it.”

After the movie (which you barely survived — between her fight scenes, those smug grins, and the way she said your character’s name in one particular scene like it was a sin), the two of you snuck out early to avoid the chaos.

You made it back to the hotel suite in a blur. And then?

Then she laughed at you.

“You were literally squirming in your seat.”

“I was not,” you lied, eyes wide.

“You whimpered when I pinned someone to the floor.”

“Okay, that happened once!”

She took off her earrings slowly, deliberately. “You like me dangerous, huh?”

You stared. “Florence.”

“Yes, love?”

“Stop undressing like that unless you want me to do something about it.”

She smiled — wide, soft, pleased. Then she walked over, took your hand, and guided it to the zipper of her dress.

“I definitely want you to do something about it.”

Your breath caught.

But instead of going further, she kissed you sweetly — forehead first, then nose, then lips. Her hands slid under your shirt, fingers warm against your skin, but she didn’t rush. She never rushed with you. She just teased — featherlight touches, smiles against your mouth, a low “I missed you” that made your stomach twist in the best way.

“I want to ruin you,” she whispered, playfully, her voice like silk.

“Romantically or emotionally?” you murmured back, dazed.

She kissed you again. “Both.”

You woke up tangled in her.

There was light filtering in through the curtains — soft, pale, golden — but you didn’t dare move. Florence was curled against your chest, hair a little wild, lips parted, one bare leg thrown over yours like a sleepy octopus.

You were warm in every possible way.

Her cheek was pressed to your collarbone. You could feel her breathing — slow, deep, safe. You ran your fingers gently up and down her spine, watching her nose twitch like a cat in a dream.

God, you were in trouble.

You’d never been this soft for anyone. Never felt this quiet. Like your heart wasn’t just beating — it was resting in her presence.

Eventually, she stirred.

“Mm,” she mumbled, eyes still shut. “Why’re you awake? That’s illegal.”

“I’m admiring you,” you whispered.

“That’s worse,” she said, groggy. “You’re making me feel feelings before coffee.”

“You always have feelings,” you teased. “You just pretend they’re sarcasm.”

She cracked one eye open. “Don’t call me out like that.”

You kissed her hair. “You were incredible last night.”

“I know,” she muttered into your chest. “I was there. I saw myself on screen, remember?”

“No,” you laughed. “I mean — yes, the movie. You were ridiculously hot. I think I passed out somewhere during the third fight scene. But I meant after. With me. The way you looked at me. The way you — I don’t know. Made me feel.”

She went quiet. Then she pulled back, barely, just enough to meet your gaze.

“You felt that too?”

“I’ve been feeling it since the rooftop scene,” you admitted. “When I was trying really hard not to kiss you.”

Her smile was slow, sleepy, and a little shy — a rare thing for her. “I wanted you to. Back then. I kept hoping you’d break and just do it.”

“I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You didn’t,” she whispered, brushing your cheek. “You made it better.”

There was a pause. A soft hush. A heartbeat shared in silence.

Then—

“I love you,” you almost said.

But she beat you to it.

“I’m in love with you,” she said, quiet but clear.

Your heart stopped. And then raced.

You cupped her face, kissed her once — firm and sure and full of something so big it hurt.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whispered.

And that was it. No fireworks. No dramatic score. Just two people, wrapped in a blanket, clinging to each other like the world outside didn’t exist. You didn’t need anything else.

Until—

Her stomach growled.

Florence blinked. “Okay. I love you, but I also love pancakes. Which do I get first?”

You grinned. “If you play your cards right, both.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And how exactly do I earn that?”

You kissed her collarbone. “By staying mine. Forever.”

Her smile softened. “Deal.”

“Okay, Florence,” the interviewer said, smiling slyly, “we have to ask. Fans are kind of… losing their minds over your red carpet chemistry with a certain co-star.”

Florence tilted her head, all innocent charm. “Oh? Which one?”

“You know exactly who.”

She laughed — not denying it, not even pretending.

“Well,” she said, crossing her legs like she wasn’t a walking smirk, “they’re pretty easy to have chemistry with. I mean, have you seen them?”

The host leaned in, clearly invested. “So, the dating rumors. Can we confirm or deny?”

Florence smiled sweetly into the camera. “Let’s just say I’m very well-fed, emotionally and… otherwise.”

The host gasped.

The internet exploded.

You, watching from backstage with your coffee half-spilled down your front, facepalmed so hard you might’ve bruised.

Later, when she got off stage and saw your face, she just grinned.

“Too much?” she asked.

You blinked. “You literally flirted with me through a national broadcast.”

“And you’re welcome,” she said, stealing your coffee and sipping it like she hadn’t just committed war crimes against your self-control.

That night, back in your shared apartment, you found her curled on the couch in your favorite hoodie (again), hair up in a messy bun, glasses slightly askew, scrolling through TikToks of herself.

“Are you watching your own interviews?” you said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Yep,” she said without shame. “I’m hilarious. Also, did you see how many edits people made of us?”

You walked over, slid onto the couch beside her, and tugged her into your arms.

“I saw,” you murmured into her shoulder. “I also saw someone call me ‘the luckiest human alive.’ I think I agree.”

She looked at you, cheeks pink, a little sheepish now. “You’re not mad I said all that on camera?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m mad you didn’t say more. Like, tell them how you make me pancakes in heart shapes and how you hog the duvet but always end up wrapped around me anyway.”

Florence laughed, nudging your nose with hers. “Fine. I’ll give them the full report next time.”

You kissed her forehead. “Promise?”

She reached behind her neck and unhooked a delicate chain — one with a tiny silver thunderbolt charm — and placed it in your palm.

“Promise,” she said softly. “But this one’s just for you.”

You stared at the charm. At her.

“What is this?” you whispered.

“A symbol,” she said. “For everything we survived. For the movie. For how we started. For the fact that even after all the teasing and chaos, I still choose you. Every time.”

Your throat tightened. You pulled her in, held her like she was the most fragile thing you’d ever touched — and maybe the strongest too.

“I love you,” you said into her hair.

She smiled. “I know. I love you more.”

And somewhere between the thunder and the soft things, you realized you didn’t need a wedding or a spotlight or the world’s approval to feel whole.

You had her.

And that was enough.

Always.

[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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[lascvitae]

WANNA MAKE YOU MINE³ ✵ YU JIMIN.

❀ ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚ alt. I WANNA STRING YOU OUT,

I WANNA MAKE YOU MINE .ᐟ

ᝰ.ᐟ y/n plans to flip the power, but karina’s silence isn’t part of the plan. and when she finally speaks, it’s not what y/n expects.

part one. part two. part three.

ᝰ.ᐟ pairing. karina x fem!reader ᝰ.ᐟ genre. angst, fluff, strangers to lovers ᝰ.ᐟ warning(s). cursing, arguing, underage drinking, obsession and possession, manipulation, not toxic if its hot (it’s toxic), y/n is ceo of i can fix her, it’s kinda dramatic for no reason

ᝰ.ᐟ wc 20k (sorry for yapping…)

ᝰ.ᐟ katty hiii guys it’s finally here (pretending like it isn’t 5 am) but i hope you guys like it <3 i rewrote it like 4 times bc i didn’t like it but i’m kinda satisfied w this ending (i lowk feel like its ahh 🥀) also we’re sooo back i graduate monday n i’ll be working on requests next ++ it’s so crazy how i’m close to 900 alr OKAY enjoy

masterlist.

FIRST PERIOD WAS ALMOST A BLUR. you slid into your seat beside minjeong, biting your bottom lip lightly. she looked over at you, brow furrowed in quiet concern. “you good?”

“do i look good?”

“you look like you got hit by the karina train.” she said, making you groan. you folded your arms on the desk and dropped your head. “i don’t know how much longer i can do this. she has a comeback for everything, minjeong. it’s like she studied me before i even got here.”

minjeong didn’t laugh. she just sat quietly for a moment before speaking. “she probably did.” you lifted your head up enough to look at her. “not helping.”

“i’m just saying. she has a phd in obsession but you know that by now. girl is trying to own you.” she shrugged and you sighed. “she’s already halfway there.” minjeong leaned in, resting her chin on her hand. “so… you’re gonna fold?”

you hesitated. “no. i wanna flip the script. i know she’s hiding everything.” that got her attention. her eyebrows rose. “you wanna make karina blush?”

“i didn’t say that. i just want her to… i don’t know. i wanna see what happens when she doesn’t have control.” you paused. “i need her to show me who she really is.” minjeong tilted her head slightly. “what do you mean?” 

you looked down at your desk, voice softer. “i want to know what happened. with jiwon. with yujin. with everything. i can’t ask her. she’d twist it or avoid it. but if i make her slip… maybe i’ll finally get the truth.”

“so you’re not just trying to win.”

“no. i just need her to be real with me. i think part of her wants that too, but she doesn’t know how.” minjeong’s expression softened. “that’s… kinda beautiful.”

“don’t get soft on me now.” you joked weakly.

“sorry— okay. then we flip the script around.”

“and if she falls?” you asked.

“she will. but when she does, you gotta look her in the eye and let her feel it.” minjeong said quietly. you felt your chest swell with something warm and electric. “i want her to actually like me. not just want me.”

minjeong watched you carefully. “she already does. she just doesn’t know how to say it yet.” you exhaled.

“okay.” you whispered.

“alright. if we’re gonna do this, you need to stop acting like you’re surprised every time she breathes near you.” you rolled your eyes. “i’m not that bad.”

“you stuttered when she handed you a napkin. first rule. don’t react first. let her flinch. let her look for your reaction and find none. you stay calm and mysterious like you already know what she’s going to do next.”

“you mean act like her?”

“exactly. be the mirror. let her see herself and it’ll drive her crazy. second, start giving her what she gives you. the little touches, the looks. but make it obvious that you’re doing it on purpose. following?”

“like when i fed her that one time?”

“yes, but crank it all the way up. you want her to be the one biting her lip this time.”

“okay. got it.”

“third, don’t be afraid to pull back sometimes. make her come to you. show her she’s not the only one who can leave someone wanting.” you paused at that, glancing down at your notebook full of notes. “you’ve really thought about this.”

minjeong shrugged. “i had to learn it the hard way.” you looked up at her. “how do you know her so well?”

“i used to be in love with her.” she said as if it were obvious.

“oh. right.” it kinda was. “yeah. it was back when she didn’t know what to do with someone who actually cared. i was dumb. thought i could be the exception.”

you felt guilt and understanding stir in your chest. “i’m sorry.” you murmured.

“don’t be.” the teacher begins the lesson before you can reply.

  ──────────౨ৎ───────────

the bell rings. you barely register it until minjeong nudges your arm.

“hey. study session at my place after school?”

you nod. “yeah. thanks, minjeong.“

you gather your things with calm, measured movements. no rushing. no nerves. you already know she’s waiting.

you step into the hallway and there she is.

karina’s leaning against your locker arms crossed and phone in one hand. her expression is unreadable but the second her eyes meet yours, the corners of her mouth twitch. you slow your pace just enough to make her eyes narrow. 

“hey, stranger. only took you one period to forget what i look like?” she says. you try not to smile, keeping your face calm. then you tilted your head.

“you’re hard to forget.” you said lightly. you stood in front of her now. closer than you needed to be.

“were you waiting long?” you asked.

“long enough.” her voice was smooth but something behind it had shifted. there was a pause and her eyes dropped to your mouth and you caught it. barely. before they flicked back up.

“walk me to class?” you asked, almost teasing. “…unless you have other plans.”

“no. i don’t.” she said slowly.

“then let’s go.” you started walking before she could say anything else. and this time, she followed. the hallway moved around you in waves. everyone was noticing karina but you both ignored it. she walked beside you, composed as usual. she always looked like she was heading somewhere important. even when she was just following you. you didn’t rush. you just walked steadily.

“you’re quiet. thinking about me?” she said, glancing over. you hummed. “you want me to be?”

“always.”

you turned your head just slightly, your expression unreadable. and then without a word, you reached over and slid your fingers between hers. you didn’t look at her, didn’t squeeze her hand. you just held it like it was nothing. karina’s eyes were on you now. you felt the sharp heat of her attention flickering across your face. she didn’t say anything.

you finally glanced her way. “no comment?”

“you don’t usually do that.”

“maybe you don’t know what i usually do.”

you felt her smile before you saw it. “is this a new phase?”

you looked ahead again, unfazed. “maybe i’m just tired of playing it safe.”

“careful. i might start thinking you’re in love with me.” she murmured.

you shrugged. “is that a bad thing?”

“for everyone else.”

you bit your lip. “good thing i just want you then.” karina let out a soft laugh. it was barely more than a breath, but it was real. then, like nothing had happened, she kept walking with the same pace, grip tightened just slightly around your hand.

“careful. you’re starting to sound dangerous.” she said again, her voice lower now.

"guess i’m finally learning from the best.”

“hm. so you admit it.”

“i never said i didn’t.” she hummed again, but it was different this time. it was warmer.

“don’t think i won’t test you.”

“don’t think i won’t pass.” and she smiled. but she didn’t let go.

  ──────────౨ৎ───────────

the lunch bell came sooner than you expected. aeri was sitting across from you, already mid rant. "i swear, i hate school. especially lunch. it’s always the same. same food, same people, same boring ass conversations. i’m ready to just skip it and go home.”

ning rolled her eyes dramatically. “you’re just mad because your salad is a sad excuse for one. i told you to get the chicken wrap but you never listen.”

aeri glared at ning. “whatever. i don’t care! i’m about to leave.” she searched for her car keys. karina didn’t seem interested in the conversation. she wasn’t even looking at aeri or ning. she was watching you with the same calculating gaze, the one that made you feel like she knew every thought in your head before you even thought it.

“every time i try to get closer, you pull back.” she said. her smile was barely there but it was undeniably sly. you could feel aeri’s eyes darting between you and karina. you leaned in slightly, enough to close the gap between you. “maybe i’m just trying to figure you out. you’re not exactly the easiest person to read." karina’s gaze flickered at that, but she didn't say anything yet. instead, she leaned back in her seat like she was studying you, waiting for you to make your next move. so that’s when you did it.

without warning, you slid your hand across the table to barely brushing her fingers. she raised an eyebrow. "nevermind. i take it back. i love lunch. god bless private schools.” aeri chimed in. karina was now looking at you with a little more intensity than before. there was something unreadable in her gaze. then after a moment, her curled into a subtle smirk. something in her was definitely interested now. and maybe, she was starting to wonder how far you were willing to take it. for now though, you’re gonna keep her guessing. just like she kept you guessing.

  ──────────౨ৎ───────────

the final bell rang but your brain had already clocked out twenty minutes ago. you barely had time to shove your stuff into your bag before you stepped into the hallway and saw her. she was leaning against the lockers like she had been waiting since second period. her bag was slung over one shoulder and her hair was perfect. expression unreadable but so her.

“walk with me?” she asked, already turning like she knew you’d say yes. you did. of course you did.

“i was thinking… you should come back to mine. we can study. or not.” she said casually as the two of you made your way out of the building. her tone was light, but her eyes? not so much.

“actually— i’m meeting minjeong. study session.” and there it was. the shift. it was tiny, but you saw it. the slight pause in her step. the lightest twitch in her jaw. it was jealousy. 

“oh.” she said, smiling like it didn’t bother her.

“she’s helping me pass, not planning my wedding.” you said half teasing, but karina wasn’t laughing. she was looking at you like you just slipped through her fingers.

“you can come by after. i’ll wait.” she said, reapplying lipgloss. you were about to respond when aeri popped up out of literally nowhere. “wait for what?”

you raised a brow. “karina invited me over.”

“okay? say yes.”

“i have a study session.” you said.

“she’ll still be minjeong tomorrow. but karina’s house has an elevator. have you seen it?”

“she’s not wrong.” karina muttered, arms crossed now.

“i saw i—“

“besides! karina can help you study. she has snacks too. gourmet ones. the fridge talks.” you turned back to karina, whose expression was neutral but her eyes had darkened just enough to make your stomach do a flip.

“fine. but i’m not staying late.” you said.

karina smiled. just barely. “you say that every time.”

“this would only be the second time.”

“and yet it’s starting to feel like a habit.” she said, already turning towards the parking lot. hou rolled your eyes but your heart was already racing.

yeah. you were in too deep. and you kinda liked it.

karina’s car was already purring in the lot, sleek and black. you had barely opened the passenger side door when a shriek came from behind you. “shotgun, bitch!” aeri shoved past you like this was mario kart and not a luxury vehicle. “are you serious?”

“deadass. my knees hurt.” she said, already buckled in and adjusting the seat. ning raised an eyebrow. “karina isn’t gonna let—“

“let her sit up here.” karina’s voice cut through.

“ugh, she really does get everything!” you slid into the passenger and aeri looked personally victimized by karina’s favoritism. “she’s not even trying and she still wins. i hope your spotify crashes mid song.” aeri muttered, dramatically slinging her legs over ning’s lap.

karina didn’t respond. she was busy driving like she had people to run over. but her hand was flexing on the wheel every time you leaned a little too close to the window. or when your phone buzzed and she saw minjeong’s name flash across the screen. you saw it too. she didn’t say anything, but her jaw did that thing again. and just as you passed the back exit, you spotted her. minjeong. she was talking to someone, her eyes locking with yours through the window just long enough to make your stomach twist.

“oh shit. that was minjeong, right?” aeri said under her breath. “she’s chill.” you muttered. but ning leaned forward between the seats with a smirk. “she looked mad chill. like she was upset or something kinda chill.” karina didn’t look back. just gripped the wheel a little tighter and hit the turn signal. the ride started off normal. well, as normal as it could be with ning trying to pick a playlist. 

“i’m playing doja.” she declared, phone already connected.

“if y’all make me listen to doja one more time—”

“respectfully, shut up. it’s woman hour.”

“i am a woman!” aeri yelled back.

“not like doja is.”

“karina! can we get cold stone?” aeri chirped. karina was just silent. her hand on the wheel and her eyes were forward, but you saw the faintest twitch in her lips. amused. or maybe something more dangerous.

“karina! cold stone? please?” aeri repeated, dragging out the please. karina still didn’t answer right away. she just changed lanes.

“wait— what about min—” you started, already pulling your phone out.

“i want cold stone too. and i’m not about to third wheel y’all studying about cells and shit.” ning cut in. “we wouldn’t even be stu—” you paused, caught yourself, and then gave karina a look. “we’re not even gonna study, are we?”

karina finally glanced at you, eyes sharp and unreadable. “i don’t know. depends if you’re a good girl.” aeri made a noise that might’ve been a gag. “oh my god. please send her to jail.”

ning cackled. “nooo, let her have her moment. let them be weird.”

karina’s hand slid from the wheel to the center console, fingers brushing yours like it was casual. it wasn’t. “so? cold stone?” she asked quietly. you exhaled, letting your phone drop into your lap. “fine. but nothing crazy.”

“that’s what victiorian children say before they try my order and see god.”

“you put gummy bears and marshmallows in it.”

“it’s texture.”

ning rolled her eyes. “it’s giving diabetes.” karina didn’t say a word, but when the turn signal clicked again, you realized she had already taken the exit.

and yeah. maybe minjeong would be pissed. but as you watched karina change lanes like she owned the road and felt her fingers barely grazing yours again, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. the cold stone parking lot was mostly empty, late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the building. karina pulled into a spot and looked over at you.

“stay close.” she said.

aeri was already halfway out the car, yelling something about birthday cake remix and how “cookie dough is a lifestyle.” ning followed behind her. you stepped out and felt karina’s hand brush yours again, then linger for just a second too long. you glanced up at her. “you always like this about ice cream?”

“only when you’re involved.” she said, walking ahead like she didn’t just throw you off guard. you caught up fast. inside, the cold stone was blaring early 2010s pop. aeri was already at the glass, pressed up against it like a child, pointing aggressively at mix ins.

“that. and that. and— yes, extra sprinkles.”

ning was pulling out her phone to take a picture of her nails in front of the rainbow display. you looked over at karina. she wasn’t looking at the ice cream. she was watching you.

“what?” you asked.

“what do you want?”

“me?”

“mmhm.”

“uh… coffee ice cream. brownies. fudge. maybe caramel…”

“why are you looking at me like that?” you laughed nervously. 

“just figuring you out. you give strawberry energy but you order differently.” she said, lips twitching into a smirk.

“is that a bad thing?”

“not at all.” you were about to say something back when aeri waved you over, two samples already melting in her hand.

“taste test. now.” karina just stepped back, letting you take your time. and when you finally got your cup — caramel dripping down the side and way too many brownies packed in — she paid without asking. you opened your mouth to protest but she just raised a brow.

“habit.” she said simply. you didn’t argue. not this time. maybe you were getting pulled deeper into something you didn’t fully understand yet. but you were warm, full of sugar, and karina was walking next to you like she’d always been there. and for now? you let it happen.

you stepped outside into the gold drenched dusk, caramel already threatening to drip down your wrist. aeri and ning were arguing about who would win in a cage match between taylor swift and doja cat, both talking at the same time. karina walked beside you in silence, but it wasn’t awkward. it was heavy. intentional.

you stole a glance at her as you walked. perfect posture. gaze straight ahead. one hand tucked in her jacket pocket.

and that’s when it hit you. this was the plan.

the detour. the ice cream. the quiet touches. the eye contact. even letting aeri and ning come along, keeping it casual. giving you space, but not too much. you were never going to study with minjeong today.

you paused mid step, and karina noticed. of course she did. “something wrong?”

you looked up at her, heart racing just a little. “you knew what you were doing.”

karina blinked, slow and deliberate. “elaborate.”

“you changed the subject. distracted me. gave me sugar so i wouldn’t be mad.”

she tilted her head. “did it work?” you stared at her, at the way her smile ghosted across her lips like she already knew your answer. and maybe she did.

“you’re insane.” you muttered.

“so i’ve heard.” you didn’t pull away when she brushed her fingers against yours again. because deep down? you already knew this was the plan from the moment she said 'walk with me.'

karina’s place was quiet when you walked in. the kind of quiet that felt designed. she casually kicked her shoes off by the door and you followed suit, already feeling the marble under your socks like it was judging you. aeri flopped onto the couch like she paid rent there. “okay so. what’s the plan.”

“we literally just got here.” you said, setting your cold stone cup on the table.

“yeah and i’m already bored. can we do something? like a movie? or a game? strip uno?” ning looked up from scrolling. “girl. we are not doing strip anything with y/n and rina.”

aeri rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. “oh my god, i meant it casually. like not full nipple. just a vibe.”

“we’re not playing strip uno, we need a better plan.”

you settled into the arm of the couch, spoon halfway to your mouth. “what happened to watching a movie?”

“that’s what people do when they’re boring.” ning said, crossing one leg over the other. “we should do something new. like— break into the community pool?” karina, who had been quiet this whole time, finally spoke. “we’re not breaking the law.”

“ugh, fine. then…” ning sat up straighter, eyes flicking between the three of you. 

“let’s throw a party.”

“what?” you asked, spoon now frozen mid air.

“friday night. here. exclusive.” she said it like she was offering you a gift. karina didn’t even blink. “ning.”

“what? come on. you haven’t hosted anything since halloween and that doesn’t even count. i blacked out.”

aeri looked interested now. “i’m down. i’ll make a playlist. we can do a dress code. like hot but scary?”

“okay but—” you glanced at karina. 

“you’re just gonna say yes to this?” karina tilted her head like she was studying you. “you don’t want to?”

you opened your mouth, paused. “i mean. i didn’t say that.” ning grinned. “so that’s a yes. party on friday. hosted by our very own karina yu.” karina just leaned back into the couch, spooning a piece of your brownie into her mouth like this was exactly how she wanted it to go.

aeri clapped. “yesss. i’m texting people. hot but scary, byob!” you watched as karina used your spoon again, completely unbothered by personal space. “you’re just gonna eat mine?”

“you said you didn’t want anything crazy.” she said, chewing. “this is crazy.”

“you’re insane.”

“you like that.” karina smiled with her whole face this time. you muttered something under your breath that definitely wasn’t denial and ignored how aeri and ning exchanged a look behind you. and when your phone buzzed again, another unread message from minjeong, you turned it over without checking. because suddenly, friday didn’t feel that far away. karina fed you some of your ice cream and you were starting to realize everything always went exactly how she wanted.

friday morning, the school hallways were buzzing in that weird, overstimulating way they always were after a party was announced. and a scandal. and even though you hadn’t caused the latest scandal (yet), walking in next to karina still made you feel like a headliner. she was close. closer than usual. one hand brushing the small of your back like a warning and a claim all at once.

“you slept okay?” she asked like it wasn’t 8:06 a.m. and you weren’t actively trying to survive.

“barely. someone kept texting me party theme ideas at 2 a.m.” you muttered, adjusting your bag.

“aeri’s passionate.”

“aeri’s insane.”

“and you’re invited to be insane with us.” she said, glancing sideways at you. you were just about to respond when you saw her — minjeong. heading down the hall. she stopped a few feet away, eyes flicking between you and karina. “morning.”

you hesitated. “hey.”

karina was the one who stepped forward, expression unreadable but voice light. “you coming tonight?” minjeong looked confused. “to what?”

“party at my place. ning’s idea. hot but scary. you’d fit.” karina said, tone smooth. you glanced between them and minjeong raised an eyebrow. “you’re inviting me?”

karina smiled. it was tight lipped and dangerous. “sure. we’re all friends now, right?” minjeong didn’t respond right away. “...i’ll think about it.” and just like that, she walked off.

you turned to karina. “was that necessary?”

“completely.” she said, already walking again. and of course you followed.

first period felt slower than usual. maybe because you were hyper aware of the way karina sat next to you, ankle lightly brushing against yours under the table. your mind wasn’t on the teacher. it was on her. and the fact that today... maybe you were going to initiate the plan. so when karina leaned over, voice low against your ear, "you zoning out?" you didn’t flinch. instead, you turned your head just enough that your nose almost brushed hers and smiled sweetly.

"you’re watching me again."

“i am.” she said simply, looking back at the board. you glanced down at your notebook. “you’re not very subtle.”

karina didn’t look at you, but her pen stilled. “you think so?”

“i know so.” she hummed. you flipped to a new page in your notebook, letting your pen hover.

“you look very pretty today.” now she looked at you. briefly.

"mhm?”

“yeah. i really like your hair.” karina didn’t respond. she just glanced down at your hand resting near hers and went back to writing like she didn’t hear you. but you saw it. the slight curve in her mouth, the slow drag of her pen. it was amusement. maybe interest.

“thanks.” she purred, eyes flickering down to your lips. you didn’t push. and for the rest of class, she didn’t say a word. but she didn’t move away either. when the bell rang, she stood first. cool and unbothered. “let’s go.”

by the time lunch rolled around, you found yourself walking beside minjeong again, the two of you weaving through the courtyard like nothing was weird. like she didn’t disappear right after karina’s invitation.

“so. you gonna come friday?” you said, nudging her lightly. minjeong just looked ahead. “you want me to?”

you shrugged. “i wouldn’t hate it.” she let out a quiet breath. not quite a laugh. “that’s the most lukewarm invitation i’ve ever gotten.” you smiled but didn’t say anything. there was a pause. you were about to speak when—

“y/n.” her voice. smooth. always at the wrong time. you turned to see karina already approaching, like she didn’t just interrupted something. no, like she didn’t care if she did.

“hey.” you said, slower this time. karina’s gaze flicked to minjeong for a second, unreadable. “can i steal you?”

minjeong crossed her arms, subtle but still not that subtle. you glanced between them, heartbeat a little too loud in your ears. karina tilted her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “i brought you something.”

“what?” karina held up a small brown bag. “double chocolate muffin. the good kind. from the café off main.”

you stared at the bag, then at her. “you left campus?”

“i was early.” minjeong let out a low scoff just under her breath. not enough to cause a scene, but enough to register. karina didn’t react. just held the bag out to you again. “you coming?” you hesitated, but only for a second before taking it.

“thanks.” you said, voice quiet. karina nodded once. then you looked back at minjeong. she didn’t say anything. didn’t stop you. she just watched you walk away. and as you followed karina across the quad, hand curled around the still warm muffin, you tried not to think too hard about the fact that she always, somehow, pulled you back to her.

you ended up at the usual spot, half tucked under karina’s arm on the bench while aeri and ning fought over something across from you. karina wasn’t saying much. just slowly picking the chocolate chips out of the muffin she bought you like it was hers now. you didn’t call her out for it.

“okay, okay. tonight.” aeri said suddenly, slapping her hands down on the table. “tonight.” ning echoed, mouth full.

“i’m thinking. we start hot but scary… and end with hot and scandalous.” aeri continued, lowering her voice like she was about to reveal a fbi level secret. ning laughed. “girl. you just wanna make out with someone.”

“no shame in that.” ning shrugged. then looked right at you with a glint in her eye.

“you’re bringing a costume, right y/n?” karina’s hand stilled against the muffin and you just stared. “costume?”

“duh. you can’t just show up ‘normal.’ it’s gotta be scary or hot. preferably both.” ning grinned. karina finally spoke. “she’ll figure it out.”

but ning wasn’t done. “i’m just saying. people are gonna go crazy tonight. last year, someone hooked up in the upstairs bathroom.”

aeri fake gagged. “in the pink guest room?”

“yup.” you raised an eyebrow. “wait. upstairs?”

ning nodded. “you’re allowed up there... if you’re invited.” karina’s fingers tapped the table once. sharp. deliberate.

“ning.”

ning smiled wider, like she loved being warned. karina turned to you, voice softer now. “you don’t have to worry about that.”

you looked at her, curious. “why not?”

karina tilted her head slightly, a slow smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “because you’ll already be where you’re supposed to be. with me.”

ning let out a groan. “god. you two are insufferable.”

“you’re just mad you’re single.” aeri laughed.

“single by choice!” ning shouted. you just shook your head, laughing under your breath. but when you glanced back at karina, she was already watching you. and she didn’t look like she was joking. not even a little bit.

the rest of the day dragged the way it always did when something bigger was happening. you barely processed half your classes and aeri yelling something about "outfits" across the parking lot. because you were thinking about tonight.

by the time the final bell rang, you needed air. you found minjeong near the side entrance. she looked up when you approached, face shifting through about five different emotions before she settled on neutral.

"hey.” you said.

"hey.” she echoed. for a second, neither of you moved. then you both started walking at the same time, falling into step without needing to talk about it. it was easy with minjeong. easier than it should’ve been, considering everything.

"you should come.” you said, breaking the silence. it felt refreshing to finally have a conversation with her today. but your voice was too gentle. you heard it and you hated it. minjeong looked at you like you were impossible. like you didn’t get it.

"you’re not gonna be able to fix it. not with me there.” she said.

you shoved your hands into your pockets. "maybe not. but i don’t want you alone, either."

minjeong just shook her head, stepping back onto the path. "i’ll think about it." it wasn’t a yes. but it wasn’t a no, either. you stood there for a second after she left, staring at the spot where she’d been, feeling heavier than you should. and when you finally turned, when you finally made your way to the front of the school—

karina was waiting. leaning against her car with her arms crossed and eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. you almost laughed. almost. until she pushed off the car and walked over.

"busy?" she asked, voice casual. too casual.

"talking to minjeong."

karina tilted her head like she was pretending to think about that. "hmm." you raised an eyebrow. "what?"

"nothing. you’re loyal. it’s cute.” she said, stepping closer and lowering her sunglasses enough that you could see the glint in her eyes. you flushed, hating how easily she could still make you react. the plan wasn’t going very well yet.

karina smiled then reached out, tugging your backpack strap like a leash, pulling you one step closer. "don’t worry. you won’t be thinking about her tonight.” she said, voice low, only for you. and then she let go, walking around you to the driver’s side like she didn’t just set something on fire between you. you stood there for half a second. then you followed. because somehow, even knowing everything you knew, you were still walking straight into her arms. and maybe you wanted to.

the drive was quiet at first. but not the awkward kind. karina lazily kept one hand on the wheel, glancing at you every so often like she was thinking things she wasn’t saying. you stared out the window, pretending not to feel it. halfway to your house, she finally spoke.

"what are you wearing tonight?"

“what?"

"for the party. you can’t just show up in a hoodie.” she tapped the wheel once, nails clicking.

"thanks for the vote of confidence.” you muttered, crossing your arms. karina just smiled, unbothered.

"i’m serious. it’s a theme."

"i’ll figure something out." karina didn’t respond right away. she just kept driving.

"i sent something to your house."

you turned your head, eyebrows lifting. "what?"

"you’ll see." you stared at her but she just smoothly pulled up in front of your place, putting the car in park. 

"i’ll see you tonight." she said simply, fingers drumming once against the wheel. you hesitated, halfway out the door.

"karina—"

"tonight." her voice cut you off. soft but firm. "wear it." you didn’t say anything else. you just shut the door and stood there, watching her drive away. and sitting there on the doorstep like a warning was a black box, tied with a silver ribbon. your name in her handwriting. you untied it with shaky fingers, peeled back the tissue paper and stared.

lace. straps. the outfit wasn’t just hot and scary. it was a problem. and you were going to wear it.

  ──────────౨ৎ───────────

you didn’t text her you were coming. didn’t say a word in the group chat. just got ready slowly like you weren’t already an hour late.

you wore the outfit karina sent. every strap, every inch of lace. but you added your own twist. a little jacket she didn’t pick. cat ears. eyeliner whiskers. and a thin black ribbon around your neck like a collar. you needed a costume and that was the point.

the uber dropped you off just past 10:30. the bass from the house hit before the front steps did. lights flashing behind the windows. laughter spilling out onto the lawn. someone was already throwing up in a bush. you didn’t go to the door right away. you took your time. karina had made you wait before and you were returning the favor. by the time you walked in, the party was deep. and the moment you stepped through the door, people turned.

you were late. and you were seen. someone gasped — maybe ning — and somewhere across the room, aeri shouted “OH my god.” but karina was near the stairs. leaning against the wall like she hasn’t been checking the door all night. glass in one hand, with an unreadable expression. but her grip on the railing tightened the second she saw you.

you felt it, but you didn’t go to her. not yet.

you let her watch you walk through the crowd. let her see someone stop you to talk. and when you finally made it close enough, just barely within arm’s reach, she stepped forward — quiet but intense.

“you’re late.”

“am i?”

her eyes dragged down your body like she paid for it. and, technically, she did.

“you wore it.”

“you sent it.” there was silence before karina spoke again. “take off the jacket.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you don’t wanna say hi first?”

“hi. now take it off.” you held her gaze. then slowly tugged at the jacket on your shoulders. 

"holy shit." aeri said before you could even take your jacket off. ning was behind her, eyes wide with her drink in hand. karina disappeared in an instant. “okay, you were holding out on us.”

you shrugged like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. “was i?” aeri circled around you like you were on display, grabbing the edge of your jacket sleeve. “karina’s gonna lose her mind.”

"you say that like she hasn't already.” you muttered, eyes flicking toward the stairs where karina had just gotten pulled into a conversation by someone too rich and too loud to ignore. her eyes stayed on you as long as they could. but eventually, she had to look away. ning noticed it too. “...you planning something?”

you turned, expression calm but playful. “depends. you two wanna help?” aeri smiled immediately and ning leaned in. “always.”

you glanced over your shoulder, making sure karina was still busy. she was. but not for long. “okay. so. karina. she always watches. but she never really moves. she stays two steps ahead. like it’s a game she already won.” you murmured, turning back to them.

“because it is. and she always wins.” ning said.

“not tonight. tonight she’s gonna chase. i don’t want any of that. just... her.” you said. aeri raised an eyebrow. “you sure you can handle that?”

“not the point. i want her to feel something. enough to drop the act.” 

“I’m in. what’s the plan?” you leaned in. “simple. we make her jealous. curious. we make her wonder. and when she’s finally about to snap? that’s when i pull her upstairs.”

“and then?”

“then we see who she really is.” you were three sips into your drink when aeri leaned closer, fake casual.

“you know she didn’t used to be like this.” she said like she was commenting on the music. “like what?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

ning leaned her elbows on the counter next to you, swirling the drink in her cup. “like… karina.”

“possessive. obsessive. scary hot but scary scary.” aeri added.

“she was always hot. but she used to be fun.” ning said.

“she’s not fun now?”

ning gave you a look. “i mean… she’s fun.”

“but not in a ‘would lose a game of truth or dare without threatening someone’ way. she used to let people win.” aeri sighed. you raised an eyebrow. “so what changed?”

they exchanged a glance. you caught it. “what?” you asked.

“nothing. just… you kinda right. she used to be different.” she waved a hand. “before freshman year?” ning’s eyes narrowed like you were too clever for your own good before shrugging.

“it’s just… she wasn’t always like this. before freshman year, she was—” she paused. “different.”

aeri shot her a look. “ning.”

“i’m not saying anything bad!” ning insisted. then looked back at you. “just… there was someone before. yujin. and i think she lost her because she didn’t show how much she really wanted her until it was too late.” you frowned. “what happened?”

“ask her. but maybe don’t bring up yujin’s name unless you want a whole thing.” ning said, suddenly breezy again. you took another shot and spun in a slow circle. “well now i need to know everything.”

“you’ll get your moment. because she hasn’t taken her eyes off you since you walked in. even now. especially now.” ning said, nodding towards karina. you looked at her.

“she hasn’t even moved. i thought she would come over by now.” you said, sipping whatever mystery drink aeri handed you.

“oh, she’s watching. she’s doing that thing where she pretends not to care.” aeri muttered, eyes flicking past your shoulder. “which is funny considering the way she acts like she owns you in public.” ning added. 

you raised an eyebrow. “does she?”

“babe. she bought your outfit, picked your earrings and threatened that one guy that looked at you. she’s claiming you.” aeri said, smiling. “well, she’s gonna have to prove it.”

you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or the music or the adrenaline from knowing karina could walk up at any second, but your skin buzzed. and you didn’t have to wait long. you turned your head — and there she was. karina. still in that dark wine colored dress that clung in all the right places, dipped low in the back and slit high on the side. her hair was pulled back, earrings catching the light. it was the kind of look that made everyone in the room aware of her without her saying a word.

she stepped in close. close enough to make your heart pick up but not enough to make it obvious. her eyes moved slowly. the cat ears, the black ribbon tied like a collar, the slick fabric of your dress that she bought, shortened and sharpened into a sexy little costume. she smiled. slow and warm. but not soft.

"where was i?" karina’s eyes flicked to your neck, then back to your mouth. “you’re a problem.”

“you like it.”

“i do. maybe too much.” she didn’t hesitate. a moment passed, heavy in the air. then her voice dropped softer, only for you.

“i can’t decide what i like more. that you wore something i picked or that you made it look like this.” she murmured, eyes dragging over you again. your skin buzzed and aeri cleared her throat.

“okay. we’re gonna go… anywhere else.” she said loudly, grabbing ning’s wrist. they disappeared into the crowd again, half laughing. karina didn’t look away.

“come find me later?” she said, like it was both a question and a guarantee. you raised your brows, voice light while you pouted. “you’re leaving me? what if i don’t wanna?”

her jaw tensed just enough. but then she smiled again, tight lipped. “don’t make me come looking for you.”

and with that, she turned and walked back towards the hallway, already being pulled into conversation by someone else. but you felt it. her eyes? they never really left.

you settled at the kitchen counter once more, nursing a cup in your hand while you allowed your head to shake to the beat.

that was when a guy slowly approached you, oblivious to the pair of eyes burning onto your skin.

he was tall. broad. the kind of guy who wore chains he probably didn’t earn and smiled like he expected the world to swoon.

“hey. you new around here?” he said, already sliding into your space like he was invited.

you raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink. “do i look new?”

“no. but you look like something i want.”

you laughed once at his boldness.

his smile widened. “i’m yeonjun.”

of course he was. you knew him. everyone knew him. 

you let him talk. let him compliment your costume, call you the hottest catgirl he’s ever seen, try and touch your hand while you adjusted your ribbon.

and across the room, karina was watching.

she wasn’t pretending anymore.

aeri and ning came in from the kitchen with drinks in hand, glitter everywhere, and both of them already yelling.

“hello?? did you get a fan club?” aeri shrieked.

“oh my god. is that yeonjun?” ning said, mouth open.

“it is.” you muttered, barely glancing at him.

“he’s so hot but so dumb. literally everyone wanted to fuck him last year.” aeri whispered.

yeonjun, entirely oblivious, smiled at you. “they your friends?”

“sort of.” aeri smiled, looping her arm through yours.

yeonjun tried to say something else but was immediately ignored.

“okay, now turn your head three inches to the left. karina is locked in.” ning said, sipping her drink dramatically. you didn’t even have to look. you could feel it.

“she hasn’t blinked in like a full minute. she’s either gonna die or commit a crime.” aeri said. 

“so same as usual.” ning shrugged.

you turned back to yeonjun. “so, what are you supposed to be?”

“uh, myself. ‘cause you know…” he said, flexing slightly.

“god. he’s so lucky he’s pretty.” aeri whispered behind her drink.

you smirked and leaned a little closer to him, letting your hand rest on your own hip. not his. not yet.

you were about to respond until you saw minjeong in the corner of your eye. 

leaning against the archway like she was standing there for a while. cup in hand and gaze fixed on you.

your smile dropped.

yeonjun was still talking but you couldn’t hear him. you murmured something to him, an excuse maybe, and slipped away before he could stop you.

the noise of the party dulled the closer you got to her.

“hey.” you greeted. 

“hey yourself. so this is what happens when karina plays dress up.” she said, eyes scanning your outfit.

you smiled faintly. “don’t start.”

“not starting anything. just making an observation.” she said in an amused tone.

you both stood there for a second, the party pulsing behind you. then she nudged your cup with hers.

“so. how’s the plan going?” minjeong said a little quieter. your throat tightened slightly.

“still intact.”

“good. keep it that way.” she nodded once.

you stared at her. “you sound like you think i’m gonna slip up.”

minjeong shrugged. “no. i know how she works.”

your silence said more than it should’ve.

minjeong offered a small smile. “i’m not here to scare you. stop doing that.”

“what did i do?”

“you keep going silent on me.”

“what am i supposed to say?”

“i don’t know. what are you thinking?” minjeong shrugged. 

“i want her but i want the truth.”

“i think you can get it. just be careful. i like you and i’d rather not watch her snap you in half just because you forgot she’s not playing fair.”

her eyes softened.

“just don’t lose yourself in her. not all at once.”

before you could reply, she was already walking away to the sound of someone calling her name.

you stood there for a moment, letting minjeong’s words settle.

then—

“HELLO? y/n??”

aeri appeared in front of you out of nowhere, cheeks flushed and glitter in her lashes. one hand on her hip and the other was holding a drink. 

“we lost you to hot boy #3. and then we lost you again to the corner.” ning added.

you blinked, a little dazed. “just… catching up.”

aeri raised an eyebrow. “with minjeong?”

“she gave me a pep talk.” you said, vague on purpose.

ning grinned. “that sounds fake but okay.”

“is she still in love with karina?” aeri asked bluntly, sipping her drink.

“no? i don’t know!”

they exchanged a look. one of those unspoken ones.

aeri leaned in. “whatever. we need more shots.”

“absolutely. and dancing.” ning added, grabbing your hand.

you hesitated. “i don’t know if—”

“don’t care. you’re wearing lingerie and fake ears, you gotta give into the sluttiness.” aeri said sweetly.

“and. you know she’s watching. has been. not even blinking.” ning sang, already pulling you into the living room.

your stomach flipped. but you didn’t stop them.

the music hit harder as you stepped into the crowd again and ning handed you something you thought was vodka. you downed it with the kind of attitude that came from being halfway in control and halfway over it.

you were laughing, dancing, spinning under lights you didn’t recognize when yeonjun reappeared, hand brushing your waist like he belonged there.

“miss me?” he asked.

you didn’t answer yet.

but you didn’t stop him either. one hand brushed your hip like he had a right to.

“i thought you gave up easy.” you said.

he smiled. “i don’t give up when i want something.”

you rolled your eyes but didn’t move away. the liquor hit harder in your veins and your body swayed, loose and untethered. you let your arms drape around his shoulders. not because he deserved it. but because you knew she was watching.

somewhere in this house. somewhere behind you.

you didn’t need to see her to know. you could feel it. it was like a thread winding tight around your ribs. pulling you in.

yeonjun leaned closer, bold now, mouth near your ear. “you’re gorgeous.”

you laughed. and just before he could speak again, something shifted.

you turned your head slightly, enough to catch her.

karina. at the edge of the room.

she wasn’t leaning. she was moving. her eyes were locked on you and didn’t stray. not once.

you smile twitched.

yeonjun noticed none of it. “come upstairs with me?” he asked.

you looked back at him. “you think I’m that easy?”

“what?”

you stepped back just out of his reach. “sorry. not interested.”

he frowned. “you were just—”

but you were already turning. already walking away. and behind you through the crowd, karina was following. you didn’t rush or run. you wanted her to catch you.

each room you passed, you felt her closer. then a hand caught your wrist.

you stopped, turned, and she was there. 

“don’t do that again.” her voice was low and calm.

“what, dance?”

“flirt with him.”

you tilted your head, feigning innocence. “you weren’t there.”

“i’m always there.” karina stood there, eyes locked on yours. too still. too composed.

you tilted your head, gaze tracing her silhouette. “you gonna keep staring, or were you gonna say something?”

“didn’t want to ruin the show.”

you sipped your drink, letting the music pulse between you. “but you like watching, don’t you?”

karina stepped closer. “only when it’s you.”

a breath caught in your chest but you didn’t let it show. you just rolled your eyes.

“you should be careful.” karina finally murmured, voice almost gentle.

you smiled. “everybody says that.”

“you didn’t listen to them.”

“because i want you, jimin.” you sighed, exasperated. 

you could hear her suck in a breath.

“then let me have you.”

you didn’t let the shiver show. but it was there. “not until you learn how to be honest.”

karina’s expression cracked just for a second. before she could speak, a voice called your name.

you stepped back without looking away.

“come find me later. when you’re ready to stop treating me like something you can keep in your pocket, jimin.”

and then you were gone, slipping back into the crowd.

but karina? she was still standing there. like she just lost something she thought she already owned.

“where have you been?” ning asked, stepping in front of you as soon as you entered the kitchen. you didn’t answer right away. just took the bottle from aeri’s hand and drank straight from it.

“y/n. what happened?” aeri tilted her head, brows furrowed.

“karina happened.” you muttered, tossing the liquor back. the burn was dull and familiar. 

“did yall fuck that quick?” ning widened her eyes. 

you choked slightly on the drink. “what—no!”

“then why do you look like you just got slammed against a wall?” aeri said, tilting her head. 

“she followed me.”

“duh.” ning muttered.

“what did she say?” aeri asked, stepping closer. you could smell the alcohol on her lips. 

“told me not to flirt with yeonjun.”

aeri stared. “that’s it?“

“she said she’s always there.” you muttered, grabbing the bottle again and drinking straight from it.

“the obsession spiral. she’s so back.” ning sighed, fixing your hair. 

you drank again. “i told her no.”

both of them stared.

“i told her she can’t have me unless she learns how to be honest.”

“she might lose it.” aeri said.

“she said ‘let me have you.’ you exhaled, remembering the words.

ning actually put a hand on her chest. “i love when she getd dramatic like that.”

“that ain’t drama, that’s delusion. and the way you walked back in here?” aeri corrected.

“she just looked at me.” you said quietly.

“karina doesn’t… deal with rejection. not from people she wants.”

“and she wants you.” ning said, no teasing this time. but you all knew that.

you stared down into the bottle. “so what do i do?”

aeri shrugged. “the plan still on, isn’t it?”

you looked up at her before shrugging.

“then you need to dance. right now. before she finds you again.” ning said.

you tilted your head back and downed another one. “okay.”

ning grinned while dragging you to the living room. the music thumped louder and you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

the moment you began to dance aeri shoved a drink in your hand. ning grabbed the other. you were being moved like a doll, but you didn’t care. it was no different than being with karina.

“she’s watching.” aeri whispered in your ear.

you didn’t have to ask who.

“good.” you muttered, sipping the drink.

“that’s the spirit.” ning spun you into the center of the crowd like it was a runway.

you danced. it wasn’t graceful. it was sloppy, confident, and all hips. you were letting the liquor take over. aeri pressed behind you, light hands on your hips. phones were out and 

for a second, you forgot about karina. you forgot about the way she said “let me have you” like it was a prayer.

ning cackled, slipping another shot into your hand.

“i think i’m already drunk.” you said. but you threw it back anyway.

you turned your head and there she was. she was across the room with her back to the wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on you. cold and possessive.

you smiled at her.

“she looks like she’s gonna murder me.” you muttered.

“she wouldn’t. you’re her favorite toy.” ning shrugged.

another shot. you lost count.

someone grabbed your hand. you danced harder.

karina was still watching you like she wanted to kill you. or kiss you. or maybe both.

you blinked up at ning. “i think i’m gonna throw up.”

“nah. you’ll be fine.” ning said.

“she’s coming.” aeri whispered.

you didn’t look.

“what do i do?”

“let her suffer. that’s the plan, right?” ning said. it wasn’t. 

but you laughed anyway. loud and drunk.

karina took one step forward. you took two back into aeri’s arms before continuing to dance. 

and when you felt a firm grip on your wrist, you knew it was karina. it wasn’t painful, but it was enough to remind you that she wasn’t asking.

you didn’t fight her. you were too dizzy. too tired. too done.

she pulled you through the house like a thread, past rooms full of people, eyes flicking towards you with quiet curiosity. a drunk girl was being dragged off by her maybe girlfriend. or maybe not.

the moment the door shut behind you, karina finally let go.

“you’re drunk.”

you laughed. “really?”

karina didn’t laugh back. she stepped forward, arms crossed and jaw tense. her expression was unreadable.

“you shouldn’t be drinking like that.”

“you shouldn’t be controlling.”

her lip twitched. “i’m not trying to control you.”

“bullshit.”

“y/n—”

“don’t ‘y/n’ me. can you just be honest? just for once? if you were honest and did this the right way, then we wouldn’t even be here.” you snapped, stepping back.

karina stood across from you, chest rising and falling. the room was too quiet, and the bass from the party outside thudded faintly through the walls.

“you’re drunk. you’re not thinking straight.” she said again, quieter this time.

“stop using that as an excuse. i’m drunk, not stupid.” you dragged your hands down your face. “god, you’re so hot it actually pisses me off.”

karina stared. “what?”

“you— you walk around acting like you don’t actually care and everyone’s telling me not to fall for it but then say shit like ‘let me have you’ and stalk me around parties and get all possessive. like— i don’t know what’s real.”

“it’s all real. everything i’ve said. everything i’ve done.” she said, stepping closer. her voice dropped, softer now. 

you laughed bitterly. “even the controlling part?”

“i’m not controlling—”

“you are. you want me close but only on your terms. you get jealous, you get weird when i talk to other people, you talk like i belong to you, karina.”

she didn’t deny it. she just stared at you, expression unreadable.

“i just want honesty. even if it sucks. even if it hurts. stop trying to play me.” you said, voice softer now.

“i’m not playing you. but you want honesty?” she paused. “then let’s be honest.”

you watched her warily.

“my mom told me. about the transfer.” she said.

your stomach turned.

“she said your dad’s affair got out. that your mom wants a fresh start. how quick they pulled you out.”

the silence that followed was suffocating.

your throat burned. “you had no right—”

“she’s the counselor, y/n.”

“yeah? and you had no right to use that against me. i don't have to tell you everything.” you backed up, bumping into the velvet chair behind you. “what, you’re just gonna throw my worst moment at me when you’re losing control?”

“i’m not trying to win or lose—”

“yes you are!” you raised your voice. “you always are. this is a game to you. a way to get people to obey you.”

karina’s jaw clenched. “no. you’re different.”

“then treat me like i’m different! you keep saying that but all i get is secrecy and obsession and manipulation. and— i think i like it. fuck, i think i like you so much it’s fucking me up, but i can’t keep doing this if you won’t give me anything real.”

the silence stretched long in between you. karina didn’t move.

“i could be good for you. if you let me.” she said, almost in a whisper.

you exhaled. “i don’t want the version of you you think i want. i want the real you. even if it’s ugly. even if you’re scared. i don’t want to be someone you collect and protect and keep quiet. i want to matter.”

“you do matter. that’s why i’m trying so hard.” karina said.

“then stop using what you know to control me. stop hovering. stop acting like knowing me means owning me.”

she scoffed. “i only know because i care.”

“and i’m telling you right now— you’re gonna lose me if you keep going like this.”

she didn’t respond.

“it’s been a month of being dragged, watched, and decoded like i’m just a new file in your brain. don’t you think i’m tired?”

and then quieter, you added. “i’m not yujin.”

karina froze.

your voice trembled. “i don’t care who she was. but i’m not her. you don’t get to rewrite what you lost with someone else through me.”

she stepped forward again, slower now. “i know.”

“do you?”

“i do. you’re not her. you’re you.” she said.

you shook your head. “then let me be me.”

“i keep trying to convince myself you’re just intense. that this is just your form of affection.” you said slowly, eyes on her. she stayed quiet.

“but sometimes i look at you and it’s like you already know how this ends. like you already planned ten steps ahead of me.”

her silence was confirmation.

“and that scares me.” you admitted quietly.

karina’s eyes flickered with shame, maybe. or guilt. or something colder underneath. the calculation that she always tried to hide behind softness.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“maybe not. but you did. you treat me like a replacement for whatever you lost.”

karina swallowed. “i never wanted that.”

“then why do i feel like i’m being studied?”

she took a step forward and you took one back.

“don’t. not this time.” you said.

her head tilted. “then would you rather i ignored you? like your parents did? like your friends did back home when everything fell apart?”

you froze.

that was a low blow. and she knew it.

she saw it in your face. and still, she didn’t take it back. she only stepped closer.

“i’m the only one who’s seen the whole you and stayed. doesn’t that mean something?”

you stared at her. “you’re not staying. you’re watching. waiting to see how i break so you can catch the pieces before anyone else.”

her lip twitched like she wanted to deny it. but she couldn’t.

“i didn’t ask for this. i didn’t ask for the secrets or the way you make me feel insane or the fact that i still want you even when i know i shouldn’t.”

she moved again. you didn’t.

“you still haven’t told me the truth about yujin. about what happened. why you can’t let go.”

“i didn’t want to scare you.”

“you already did.”

the words hung between you, heavier than anything else.

karina’s voice dropped. “you think i’m too much now. but you didn’t seem scared when you kissed me. or when you stayed the night. or when you begged me not to stop touching you.”

you flinched.

she stepped even closer, now inches from you. “you weren’t scared then. you liked it. you liked being known.”

“don’t twist this.” you whispered.

“i’m not. you’re the one running because i care in other ways people can’t.” she said. 

“that’s not love, karina. that’s control.” you said, backing away.

“you call it control.”

you almost laughed. “karina. you’re on your own planet.”

but she didn’t answer. instead, she stepped forward. and then, without warning or hesitation, dropped to her knees.

you froze.

“karina.”

she looked up at you from the floor, eyes locked on yours like you were the only thing keeping her down to earth.

she didn’t look pathetic. she looked intentional. poised. like she thought about this before. she didn’t reach for you right away. just stared up, head tilted slightly like she was memorizing you from this angle. her eyes were clear. soft in a way that made your throat burn.

“you scare me.” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “the way you see me. the way you make me want to be different.”

you hated how that made you pause. how it made you ache.

“i know i come off cold. calculated. maybe i am. maybe that’s what happens when you already lost someone once and promised yourself you’d never feel that again. but you—” she looked up, slowly. “you make me feel like i don’t have to be that version of myself.”

you looked away, afraid of what was happening to your resolve.

“i don’t want to own you,” she said and her voice cracked just slightly. “i just want to keep you. to protect the only thing that’s made me feel real again.”

god. she was good.

you wanted to believe her. you almost did.

“karina…” your voice trembled. “i don’t know if you’re saying this because it’s true, or because you know i’ll stay if you do.”

her smile was sad and quiet. “maybe both.”

and somehow, that honesty hurt the most.

she reached up slowly. her fingers ghosted over your wrist like she was asking for permission without words. you didn’t pull away.

“don’t leave.” she said it so quietly that it cracked something in you.

you swallowed. her hands moved slowly, reaching for yours like they were something sacred. she waited, and when you didn’t stop her, she slid her fingers over your palm, lifting it gently. her lips pressed against the back of your hand, soft and slow, lingering like she didn’t want to let go. 

and for a moment, you almost faltered. you almost fell again. that was how she worked, sweet enough to confuse you, but sharp enough to keep you in check.

but before you could respond —

knock knock.

the door creaked. “yo.” ning’s voice cut in. too casual. “am i interrupting… something?”

you stepped back instantly. like you had woken up.

karina didn’t even turn to look. “leave.”

“okay damn.” ning’s voice faded as the door shut again.

but the moment had cracked. fractured in the way that all glass eventually does.

“i have to go.” you said, your voice small.

karina stood slowly, no longer trying to stop you. but she didn’t look surprised. only calm again. composed. a little sad. which made it harder to leave. her silence was the cruelest part.

but you did anyway. and your hands were already shaking as you texted minjeong.

you woke up slow. heavy. like the night before had pressed its whole body against you and never really left.

there was sunlight pouring in through the curtains, soft and too gentle for how you felt. the sheets were warm and unfamiliar  but they didn’t smell like her.

your throat was dry. your head was pounding. your chest? worse.

because it remembered everything.

you laid there for a long time in the quiet. wrapped in the comfort of someone else’s house and the ache of your own mistakes.

minjeong’s guest bed. in her extra blanket.

not karina’s arms. not karina’s bed. not karina.

you hated that that mattered.

the scent of lavender came from the pillow. there was a water glass beside the bed, half full, and two advil on a folded napkin. 

your phone buzzed under your pillow. you ignored her.

your body still remembered her. the grip. the way she’d looked at you like you were the most infuriating thing she had ever wanted.

you rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. your body ached in strange places—your temples, your chest, the hollow spot behind your ribs where her voice used to echo.

you didn’t know what time it was. you didn’t care. you just existed in the hangover and the heat of her memory.

then the buzz came again. 6 texts. 2 missed calls. 1 voice message.

none from her.

but you opened it anyway. 

ning

ummmm she ended the party

literally pulled the aux mid song.

likeee everyone out

no yelling n no emotion

your chest tightened.

aeri

girl when i say SCARY…

haven’t seen her like that since the thing with yujin

she didn’t even say ur name but we all knew

the blood drained from your face.

aeri

she went upstairs after

didn’t even look at anyone

you stared at your phone. you knew she was upstairs probably replaying every word you said. probably memorizing the exact angle you looked at her when you told her she was controlling. probably blaming herself. probably blaming you more.

you imagined her sitting on her bed, scrolling through something that reminded her of you. or maybe nothing at all.

you could still hear it from last night:

“you weren’t scared then. you liked it. you liked being known.”

and fuck, maybe you did.

maybe that was the worst part. that she looked at you like she already knew how this ended. that she kissed you like she built the ending to your story herself.

“morning.” minjeong’s voice came soft from the doorway.

you turned your head but didn’t speak. she walked in, still in sweats while holding a mug of tea.

“i thought you might need something warm.”

you didn’t answer. just reached for it with a quiet nod. 

she sat beside you, watching the way your hand curled around the mug.

“you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” she said.

you laughed under your breath. “i think i might’ve dated one.”

minjeong tilted her head. “you didn’t date her.”

“i know. she ended the party. didnt say anything. she’s probably not even mad.”

“she’s probably hurting. in her own twisted way.” minjeong said. you finished the tea, feeling your body start to thaw.

you finished the tea in a few gulps. “she always been like this?” you asked.

minjeong leaned back, stretching her legs out beside the bed. “kind of. not always in the scary way. back when we were freshmen, she was… a lot more normal. we were close.” you glanced at her, the word close sticking.

“you know she was captain of the volleyball team. people liked her, but it wasn’t… like now. she was just kind of cool and serious and good at stuff. intimidating, sure, but not on purpose. she laughed more.”

minjeong smiled faintly at the memory. “sophomore year, she bleached her hair and suddenly half the school had a crush on her. everyone started looking at her different. like she was untouchable. even the teachers. i think she liked it.”

you tilted your head. “what about you?”

minjeong shrugged. “i liked her before that. when she still let herself be soft. when it wasn’t all about control. i guess i just fell into it? she used to let me hang around after practice. we would talk. sometimes she would drive me home. it wasn’t anything, but at the time it felt like everything.” you nodded slowly.

“i think i mistook her attention for affection. but karina gives her attention very… strategically. and you start bending around it.” 

“she hurt her shoulder junior year and stopped playing. she didn’t tell anyone at first. i found out, told jiwon, and i guess she figured out eventually.” minjeong continued.

“that’s why you guys stopped talking?” you asked, quietly.

“yeah. she doesn’t handle that very well.” she said, voice low. but you knew that. 

“but hey. i got a text from jiwon.” minjeong changed the subject, making your ears perk up. “she said that her parents couldn’t afford the cost anymore.”

“just like that?”

“yeah. she’s already packed and ready to leave wednesday.” there was a pass of silence between you two.

“she got on her knees.”

minjeong looked at you. “what?”

you stared out at the grass. “last night. when i told her she was controlling.”

you took a slow breath, unsteady. “she just… dropped. right there. like it wasn’t a performance. like it was a decision. like she knew what she was doing and still wanted me to see her that way.” minjeong was quiet.

“she didn’t touch me, not at first.” you said. “just looked up at me like… i don’t know.” your voice cracked a little. “and then she reached for my hand.”

minjeong nodded for you to go on, eyes careful. “she kissed it. twice. once like she needed to remember me. and then again like she wanted me to forget everything else.”

“and the way she said things… like she wasn’t trying to win me over. just trying not to lose me. she told me i scare her.” you let out a breathy laugh, bitter. “me. like i’m the one with power.”

minjeong looked down, biting the inside of her cheek.

“she said i made her want to change.” you said softly. “but it felt like a test. like she wanted me to forgive her just because she knew how to sound honest.”

you stared down at your hands. they still felt like hers.

“then ning came in.” you added, voice distant. “door cracked open like a fucking movie scene. she saw us and dipped so fast.”

“and you left.” minjeong finished for you.

you nodded. “i told her i had to go. she didn’t even stop me.” your eyes stung.

“i still wanted to stay.” you admitted. “i think that’s the worst part.”

minjeong looked at you then, eyes soft but firm. “no it isn’t.” 

“it makes me hers.”

“don’t go back. not yet." she said.

you leaned into her shoulder just slightly. and this time, when your phone buzzed, you didn’t look.

the second you stepped in the school building, you felt it.

that weird tension that came when something major happened and the walls were still pretending nothing changed.

students were moving around like normal, laughing, running to class, shoving lockers shut, but everything felt too loud. and then you saw her.

karina was leaning against the lockers, phone in hand. she was standing between ning and aeri like nothing had happened. like she didn’t look you in the eye three nights ago and say things you can’t unhear. like she didn’t ask you not to leave her, and then let you walk away anyway.

you didn’t even get a glance. not a twitch. not a blink in your direction. just her mouth curling at something that ning said. her arms crossing in that familiar way, eyes locked on anything but you. you slowed down.

“don’t.” minjeong said softly, already seeing the shift in your face.

you turned towards her like you haven’t been staring. “what?”

she looked at you for a second too long. then she opened the front door, holding it long enough for you to pass through. the main hallway hit you with a mix of perfume and the citrus floor cleaner the janitors used.

you barely noticed. you were still focused on karina. “she’s pretending like i don’t exist. did you see that?” you muttered once you were both inside.

minjeong walked in step beside you, adjusting her backpack like she was trying to stay casual. “i saw it.”

you passed a group of juniors huddled by the vending machines. someone laughed too loud and your stomach flipped.

“she didn’t even acknowledge me.”

“she’s doing what she thinks keeps her in control. that’s kind of her whole thing.” minjeong said, glancing sideways at you.

you kept walking towards your locker, not really focused on where your feet were taking you. “well it’s working. i feel like i got erased.”

minjeong sighed. “how do you actually feel?”

you leaned against your locker, the cold metal grounding you. “like i miss her. which is stupid.”

“it’s not stupid.”

“i thought that she really liked me. and now she won’t even look at me.”

minjeong gave you a long, quiet look. students passed around you, some bumping shoulders, some glancing curiously. but you didn’t care.

“she does. that’s the problem.”

you swallowed hard. then you opened your locker with shaking hands. 

“she’s just not good at liking people in a… normal way.” minjeong added softly.

you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. because she was right. and you still wanted to be destroyed. 

you weren’t ready for first period. you told yourself that you were, that you could do this — that it was just another class, just another morning, just another girl.

but it wasn’t. not when the girl was her.

you stepped through the classroom door like you didn’t spend the walk building yourself back up from the pieces she left you in. like you weren’t still thinking about friday. 

you looked up — and there she was.

karina.

already seated, back straight, posture perfect, like always. she was angled toward the window, sunlight catching the edge of her cheekbone, making her look carved from marble. her expression was calm and composed. bored even. her fingers tapped against her notebook, idle and distracted.

she looked like someone who had never broken.

who had never begged.

who didn’t kiss you like you were air and she was drowning in an endless sea.

and that was when the first crack formed in your chest.

you slowed your steps. something in you was still hoping that she’d feel you. tbat she’d turn. that some invisible thread between you might tug hard enough to make her look.

she didn’t. not even a flicker. just stayed there, perfectly still, like you were nothing more than another body passing by.

you took your seat beside her — the same seat you filled for weeks now, the one she used to glance at before class, used to lean toward mid lecture, and used to brush her fingers against like it was an accident.

now? nothing. she didn’t shift away from you. but she didn’t acknowledge you either. and that absence was worse than if she’d flinched. 

you glanced at her hands. you wanted to speak. you wanted to say her name. to whisper it the way she used to whisper yours when no one else was listening.

so you did. quietly. barely.

“karina.” she didn’t move. didn’t blink. didn’t even breathe differently. you felt your stomach drop. like something sacred had been lost. you said her name again. a little louder this time. like maybe she didn’t hear you. like maybe this was all just a misunderstanding.

still — nothing.

you sat there, hands folded in your lap, chest aching in that awful, familiar way. the one that doesn’t come from heartbreak, but from the silence that follows it. the teacher started talking. something about metaphor. something about illusions. something about how language can hide pain. it was almost funny. like the universe was in on the joke now.

you didn’t take notes. you just stared down at your paper, eyes unfocused, hands still. the urge to cry was heavy behind your eyes, but you didn’t let it win.

not here. and especially not next to her. not when she wouldn’t even give you the decency of a glance. your throat felt tight.

you turned your head just slightly, enough to see her in your peripheral. her mouth twitched at something the teacher said. the little smirk that was always on her face when she caught an inside joke that the rest of the class missed. you stared at her profile, memorizing it all over again. the sharpness of her jaw, the way her lashes curled slightly up at the ends, the way her lip twitched when she was holding something back.

but you didn’t know what she was holding back now. you didn’t even know if she cared anymore. maybe she never did. maybe she did too much.

god, you missed her. missed her so much you wanted to scream. but instead you sat there, painfully still, biting the inside of your cheek just to feel something that wasn’t her absence.

halfway through the class, your leg brushed hers. just barely. not enough to matter. not enough to be anything but coincidence.

but still. your heart stopped. but she didn’t move. she didn’t shift. she didn’t do anything. and that was the cruelest part. because even her nothing felt like a decision.

when the bell rang, you jolted. you looked at her before she could stand, desperate just for a moment. for something. for a glance. for a word. for proof that this wasn’t a dream.

she stood up, packed up, and walked away. no hesitation and no goodbye.

the second you stepped out of the classroom, you let out a breath that you didn’t even know you were holding. your heart had been holding out for a glance, a twitch, any sign — and you got absolutely nothing.

it was forty eight minutes of pretending you weren’t sitting right beside her. forty eight minutes of her not looking at you, not speaking to you, and not even acknowledging you existed in the same dimension.

and still. still, you found yourself staring at the way her fingers tapped the edge of her notebook. the way she pushed her hair behind her ear when she was focusing. you could practically recreate the sound of her sigh when she was bored. you hated how you noticed all of it. but you hated even more how you missed it.

you didn’t even realize you stopped walking until minjeong showed up beside you, sliding into your space like she had been watching you the whole time.

“you okay?” she asked.

you blinked like you were just waking up from a long sleep. “no.”

minjeong nodded once and leaned against the lockers. “she didn’t say a word. she didn’t even look at me. like i was never there.” you muttered, leaning beside her.

“she’s the goat at acting unbothered. it’s how she wins.” minjeong said, standing beside you with her arms crossed.

you scoffed. “well congrats to her. she’s winning.”

“i shouldn’t care this much. i really shouldn’t.” you said suddenly.

“maybe not. but you do.” minjeong said.

“i feel pathetic. i know she’s manipulative. i know she plays games. i know she’s probably never been in something real and i’m stupid for thinking it was.”

“i—“

“and i still want her.” minjeong hesitated, then nodded like she expected that answer. “i know.”

“it’s so dumb, right?” you laughed. “like, she’s probably already moved on. she has ning and aeri and her whole little kingdom and i’m over here acting like i just got ghosted by the girl i thought i’d get married to.”

minjeong turned fully to face you. “you’re not dumb. she’ll come back.” she said quietly.

“she already left.” before minjeong could respond, the classroom door behind you swung open. karina stepped out with her head high and face unreadable. she didn’t even scan the hallway. like she already knew exactly who was watching.

ning and aeri somehow followed behind. aeri was fixing her lip gloss in the reflection of the fire extinguisher case and ning said something that made karina smile. just barely.

you stood straighter before you could stop yourself and karina walked right toward you. your heart thudded. and then— 

she brushed past minjeong’s shoulder. it wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t subtle either. minjeong went rigid beside you. you just froze.

karina didn’t even glance at you. didnt slow down either. just kept walking. “wow.” you whispered. minjeong exhaled slowly, eyes on karina’s back. “she’s annoying.”

you didn’t say anything. because you were too busy thinking about how the smell of her perfume still lingered in the air like a ghost.

“don’t say it.” minjeong warned but it was too late.

“i still want her.”

minjeong looked at you like she wanted to throw something — but then her face softened. “okay. then we’ll figure it out. together.” you looked down the hallway again.

you knew better. but you still wanted her anyway. and that was the worst part.

  ──────────౨ৎ───────────

lunch felt like detention. you and minjeong sat at her usual table near the back where the sunlight filtered through the trees and made everything feel a little too pretty for how awful your insides felt.

your tray was untouched. you picked at your food but mostly just peeled the label off your water bottle.  minjeong was halfway through a fruit cup, watching you like you were going to die at any moment.

“okay.” she said finally, chewing slow. “what’s going on in that head of yours?” you didn’t answer right away. just stared out across the lawn where karina sat with ning and aeri. she had her sunglasses pushed up on her head and was sipping from a little matcha bottle. 

you wanted to scream. or cry. or maybe just lie down with your face in the grass.

instead, you spoke. “i want to talk to her.”

minjeong paused mid bite. “no.”

“just for a second.”

“no.”

“i just want to—”

“no.”

you tore your eyes away from karina to look at her. “you don’t even know what i was gonna say.”

“you were gonna walk over there and say something stupid like ‘can we talk?’ or ‘was any of it real?’ or ‘why are you acting like i’m invisible?’ and then she was gonna stare up at you with those bambi eyes and say something cryptic that makes you feel like you’re insane.”

you stared. “okay, that’s… exactly what I was gonna do.”

“i know.” minjeong muttered. “because i did it. twice. and both times i ended up crying in the art room and texting my ex from eighth grade.” you dropped your head onto your folded arms and groaned into your hoodie sleeve. “why is she like this?”

“because she doesn’t know how to just like someone.” you turned your head to look at her. “it’s not even that i want her to explain. i just— i don’t know. i just want her to look at me. like i matter. like i’m not some phase she already grew out of.”

minjeong’s face softened. “you do matter.”

“not to her.”

“that’s not true.”

“the  why hasn’t she said anything? why is she pretending i don’t exist?”

minjeong looked down at her tray for a second. “because she’s scared.”

“of what? me? i’m literally the one crying into my lunch.”

“she’s scared that if she looks at you, it’ll undo her. and she’s spent years building a version of herself that doesn’t fall apart for anyone.”

gou sat back up, arms wrapped around yourself. “so what? i’m just supposed to sit here and wait for her to be brave?”

“i’m not saying wait. i’m saying… don’t walk into the lion’s den. with raw meat.”

you frowned. “what if i don’t care anymore? what if i’d rather be hurt than ignored?”

minjeong shook her head slowly. “that’s not power, y/n. that’s a slow motion heartbreak.”

you didn’t respond. your eyes wandered again, almost involuntarily, back to karina. she was laughing at something that aeri said. her hand rested loosely on her knee. she hasn’t looked your way once.

“i miss her so much i feel sick.” you whispered.

“i know.”

you didn’t speak for a while after that. the wind moved gently through the trees, scattering cherry blossom petals onto your table.

“i think she misses you too.” minjeong added after a long pause.

you looked at her. “then why won’t she say it?”

“because if she does, she’ll have to admit she messed up. and yu jimin doesn’t apologize. she rewrites the narrative.”

you pressed your lips together. “i want her to miss me. but not like this.” you said.

minjeong reached across the table and squeezed your hand. “remember. don’t go to her yet.”

you hesitated. swallowed down everything desperate sitting in your throat.

“okay.” you whispered.

but when karina stood up a minute later, tossing her hair back and laughing at something that ning said, your eyes followed her all the way across the courtyard.

and when she didn’t look back? it hurt anyway.

the day dragged. it felt like being underwater. every class was a blur of muffled voices and moving people, and you were just floating through it. you kept checking your phone even though you knew there’d be nothing from her.

you were used to the intensity. the eye contact that burned, the touches that lingered, the possessive glances from across the room. even when she was being cold, it was calculated. a push and pull. a game.

but now it was absence. silence so loud that it made you ache. she hasn’t looked at you once. not in the hallways. not in any period. not when she passed by your locker with aeri, close enough that you could smell her perfume.

not once.

you caught yourself turning around too quick when you thought you heard her laugh. you stopped breathing every time someone said her name in passing. you wanted to hate her. but really, you just miss her.

by the time the final bell rang, your chest felt hollow.

you stayed in your seat after class, pretending to dig through your backpack just so you wouldn’t have to walk into the hallway crowd yet. just so you wouldn’t have to see her leaving without even looking back. again.

eventually, you forced yourself up and wandered down the hall with your head low and hoodie up. your phone buzzed once in your pocket, but it was nothing that mattered.

minjeong found you by the benches out front, sitting on the concrete with your arms around your knees like a sulking child. she didn’t say anything at first. just plopped down beside you with a loud sigh.

“is she still pretending you’re air?” you nodded. the two of you sat in silence for a while, watching cars pull in and students walk out. the sky was starting to go gold at the edges, the sun bleeding into soft pink. you used to love this hour. now it just made your stomach hurt.

“i thought maybe she would chase me. or at least try.” you admitted. “she will. but only when she realizes she doesn’t know how to win without you.” minjeong said.

you swallowed. “and what if she doesn’t?”

“then that’s not someone you want to spend your heart on.”

that sentence settled between you both. it was heavy and real. you nodded slowly. “okay.”

minjeong stood up and held out her hand. “come on. let’s get food before you start crying.”

you let her pull you up. you didn’t feel better. not really. but at least you weren’t sitting alone anymore. at least someone still looked at you like you mattered. you take one last glance toward the student lot. karina wasn’t there.

she left without you. again. and it still hurt. even though you knew it would.

two days. forty eight hours. one hundred and forty four thousand seconds. you weren’t counting or anything. it was terrifying how quickly pain could become routine. you walked into school with minjeong like nothing was wrong. like it was just another day. like the ghost of someone you used to mean something to wasn’t standing ten feet away, laughing at something ning whispered to her.

the worst part? you were still trying to get her attention.

you shouldn’t have put this outfit on. you told yourself that like three times in the mirror before leaving the house. you told yourself that it didn’t matter. that she wouldn’t care. that she wouldn’t look.

but you still wore it. your top was a little shorter than usual, hem brushing just above your waistband. your hair was done and you even had on makeup. it wasn’t full revenge dress level, but it was enough to make your pulse quicken when you walked past a window.

minjeong didn’t say anything at first when she saw you that morning. she just raised an eyebrow. “you tryna be subtle, or…?”

“shut up. i didn’t even think about it.” you muttered, cheeks already warning. she gave you a look. “mhm.”

karina looked good. of course she did. she always did when you didn’t want her to.

minjeong’s hand brushed yours as you froze halfway through the doorway. “keep walking.”

“i wasn’t gonna stop.” you muttered but your voice sounded fragile.

“uh huh.”

you forced your feet to move.

“she didn’t look at me.” you said once you passed by, low enough that only minjeong could hear.

“she hasn’t looked at you in two days.” she replied. it wasn’t unkind. 

“yeah. well… it still sucks.”

minjeong didn’t say anything for a moment. you could feel her glancing at you sideways, but you didn’t meet her eyes.

minjeong finally spoke, voice softer now. “you know this isn’t really about you, right?”

“what?”

“she’s not ignoring you because you did something wrong. well— i know for a fact she’s ignoring you because she’s trying not to fall apart in front of you.”

“then why does she look so fine?” you snapped, louder than you meant to.

a freshman walking by gave you a weird look. you bit your tongue.

minjeong touched your arm gently. “because that’s her thing. she controls the narrative.”

you stopped at your locker. “well she’s doing a damn good job.”

“she’s watching you, you know. she just waits until you’re not looking.”

you laughed bitterly. “i am looking. constantly.”

minjeong smiled. “i know.”

you didn’t say anything. you just leaned your forehead against the locker, trying not to feel every emotion pressing against your body.

“she’s ignoring me like i never meant anything. i feel invisible.”

minjeong’s voice dropped. “you’re not.” you pulled your books out and closed the locker too fast. the bang made you flinch.

“i just want her to talk to me. even if it’s just to say she hates me for walking away.” you said quietly, but minjeong didn’t respond. you walked toward first period with the girl you couldn’t stop chasing ignoring you like it was her job.

  ──────────౨ৎ───────────

first period was the same as yesterday. 

you wanted her to look at you so bad it hurt. you wanted her to lean over and whisper some sarcastic comment under her breath. you wanted her to bump your shoulder again and let it linger. you wanted anything. but she gave you nothing.

and when the bell finally rang, she stood up smooth and fast, like she was escaping a crime scene or something. she walked out without a single glance back. and you sat there wondering how the hell you were supposed to keep surviving this.

you didn’t even wait for the bell to stop echoing. the second the door opened, you were on your feet, grabbing your bag and slipping into the hallway like you could outrun the ache sitting in your chest.

but of course minjeong was already waiting outside, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed and that quiet concern all over her face.

you didn’t even say anything. just walked straight into her side and sighed so hard it felt like your lungs gave up. she straightened a little. “that bad?”

you blinked at the ceiling. “she didn’t even blink.” minjeong nodded slowly then nudged your elbow. “wanna walk?”

you did. so you walked, blending into the current of students flowing through the hallway. you were pretending your stomach wasn’t doing somersaults every time someone passed by who even vaguely looked like her. it was stupid. but everything felt kind of stupid now.

you cleared your throat. “i’m even starting to miss ning and aeri.” minjeong laughed. “you hated ning. she scared the hell out of you.”

“she still does. but at least she talked to me.” you said. minjeong raised her eyebrows like she was trying not to laugh again. “talked to you or tormented you?”

you cracked a weak smile. “same difference.” there was a moment of silence for a while before you spoke again. “i don’t know. i just… i miss them. like, their weird dynamic. the whole table. it was dramatic and terrifying, but it felt like something. and now it’s just gone.”

“because karina made herself the center of it. and she’s decided to disappear, so that means everyone around her does too.” minjeong said. you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. because she was right.

karina wasn’t just ignoring you. she was deleting herself. from your days, your space, and your routine. like she was trying to leave a karina shaped hole behind just to see how long it would take you to collapse into it. and it was working.

the warning bell rang and you both slowed in front of your lockers. minjeong opened hers and looked over at you. “do you wanna skip lunch? just us. outside. behind the gym or something.” you looked down the hallway.

somewhere, karina was laughing at something ning said. walking too close with aeri. replacing you like it was nothing. and still, some part of you wanted to chase her down the hall and just ask her why.

“no. i think i wanna be here she can see me.” you said. minjeong looked at you for a second. “you sure?”

“no.” you admitted. but part of you still had hope. 

but now, walking into the cafeteria beside her, that hope felt heavier. especially when you caught sight of them. her table. karina was already there, leaning back in her seat like she owned the air. one arm was hanging lazily across the backrest, fingers tapping against the table in some rhythm. ning was mid story like always. karina didn’t look at you. but ning did.

her eyes flicked over your outfit, brows rising with an amused kinda interest. she leaned toward karina to say something, and you saw karina’s fingers still for half a second. her jaw twitched. but she didn’t turn. she didn’t look. you hated that it still got to you.

“she saw you.” minjeong said under her breath, walking just a step behind you now. “she didn’t.”

“she did. i know her. she noticed you the second you walked in.” minjeong insisted. you kept your eyes on the empty table near the windows. “then why won’t she look?”

“because looking at you would mean admitting you still have that effect.” you didn’t respond. just sank into the seat and tried not to look back. tried not to give in to that aching part of you that wanted to know if karina was still leaning back or if she had shifted forward. if her arms were still folded or if she crossed her legs like she always did when something made her tense.

you picked at the edge of your tray, your food untouched. minjeong watched you for a long moment before sighing. “y/n.”

“what?”

“you look hot. like hot hot.” you stared. “okay?”

“and you’re sitting here acting like the world ended.” you cracked a small smile. “it kind of did.”

minjeong didn’t answer. but a moment later, her foot tapped yours under the table.

“she’s gonna break. i don’t know when, but she will.” she said. you nodded like you believed her but your eyes drifted back towards karina anyway. just for a second. that was enough. because she still wasn’t looking. and you still couldn’t stop hoping she would.

lunch went on without her. without them. without ning’s loud laugh echoing off the walls or aeri’s sarcastic commentary. without karina’s voice saying your name like it was always supposed to be hers. you hated that you noticed the difference. that the silence at your table felt too huge in contrast. you hated that you were still hoping she would look over.

you saw karina shift in your peripheral. she was standing now. her tray was picked up and ning was still talking while aeri followed behind. karina walked slowly as if she had all the time in the world. as if you weren’t holding your breath without meaning to.

she passed by your table. and for a second — a millisecond — her shoulder barely angled toward you. you could’ve sworn that she hesitated. that her fingers clenched around the tray just slightly. but she didn’t stop. didn’t look. minjeong kicked you lightly under the table. “you okay?”

“i’m fine.” you whispered. you weren’t.

you waited five more minutes after they left before standing up, pretending to throw your trash away. minjeong followed and you both drifted towards the side hallway that led to the vending machines. and that’s where it happened. you turned the corner too fast. so did she. 

karina. it was just you and her. 

she froze a step too late, nearly walking straight into you. her tray was gone now. she had a bottle of water in her hand and a blank expression on her face, but her eyes finally landed on yours for the first time in days and everything stopped.

you felt your heart slam hard against your chest, like it forgot how to beat without her. like you weren’t just pretending to be okay minutes ago.

she didn’t say anything. but you didn’t either. you could hear minjeong’s footsteps slow behind you, like she was giving you space but not too much.

karina looked at you. not past you. not around you. at you. and you, pathetic, hopeful, and still down bad, looked right back. it was silent between you two. you opened your mouth, not even knowing what to say but just knowing that you needed to say something.

but she was already moving again. her shoulder passed yours like nothing happened and her perfume hit a moment later.

you didn’t turn around. minjeong caught up, her voice low. “y/n…” you just shook your head, barely breathing. “i’m fine.” you weren’t.

you stood there for a few seconds longer, staring down the hallway. “i literally can’t take another day of this.”

the final bell rang like an afterthought. you didn’t move at first. you just sat there, staring at the front of the classroom as people scraped chairs and zipped backpacks and sprinted into the hallway with that end of day energy. it all felt far away, like you were watching a movie of your own life, stuck in the scene where nothing really happens. minjeong gave your arm a light nudge. “you good?”

you nodded, too quickly. “yeah. yeah, i’m fine.” you stood up, legs a little too heavy, spending the entire day dragging around a version of yourself. one that still thought karina might look your way. one that still thought maybe you would brush hands in the hallway. or maybe that she would stop pretending. she didn’t.

not during first period, not in the hallway, and not at lunch — especially not at lunch when you almost walked straight into her and she barely blinked. and still, your heart jumped at the memory.

you hated how badly you wanted her attention. how you still checked the hallways for her. how you still remembered exactly how she looked leaning against your locker two weeks ago like she owned the air you breathed. now she didn’t even want to share it with you.

the walk through the hall felt slower than usual. you followed minjeong silently, walking on your usual route home until you both ended up outside on the bleachers behind the school. it was quiet out there.

you dropped your bag and sat down while minjeong sat beside you, breaking the silence first. “she’s trying so hard not to break. but she’s close. i’ve seen her like this before.” you hugged your knees to your chest. “why is she even doing this? i’m the one who should be mad.”

“she’s scared.” minjeong shrugged. “scared that she let you in and showed you too much.” you went quiet. then you let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“you warned me.”

“i did. but i also get it in a way.” she said gently. suddenly, you felt stupid for expecting it to be easier for you.

“you think she ever really meant it?” you asked. “all of it? the way she held my hand and the late night texts. the stuff she said on the rooftop…” minjeong was quiet again. then she nodded. “i think she meant every word. i also think she’s terrified of meaning anything. so when it gets too real, she either pulls you in harder or pushes you away.” she added.

you swallowed the lump in your throat. “feels like she chose the second one.”

minjeong nudged her shoulder against yours. “she always chooses both. just never at the same time.” you didn’t respond. because even if that was true, it still wasn’t enough. you were still waiting for her to prove it.

you were so tired. not just sleepy tired. not just i stayed up too late tired either. you felt like your body was dragging itself through the morning on autopilot while your mind somewhere far behind. you barely remembered what you picked to wear. just that it was comfortable. not cute. not for her.

you made it through your front door and into the school building without looking around. no scanning the halls. no pausing at the entrance to see who was by the lockers. you didn’t want to see her today. well maybe you did, but not like this. not with your heart willingly cracked open and your face obviously drained.

minjeong found you by your locker. she didn’t say anything at first. just leaned beside you. “did you sleep?” she asked eventually, quiet enough that only you could hear. you shook your head in response. “kinda. not really.” minjeong studied your face. “you look like you’ve been thinking too hard.”

“i’ve been trying not to think about her.” you muttered. “i’m not even mad anymore. i just miss her. and that feels worse than being ignored.” you added.

minjeong leaned her head back against the locker, staring at the ceiling tiles. “missing someone who’s still around is the worst kind of heartbreak.”

the hall was slowly filling up. you didn’t look for karina. you told yourself not to, repeated it like a mantra. but your eyes still drifted down the hallway anyway. she wasn’t there. and that was somehow worse.

you sighed. “i feel like i’m dying a little.”

“don’t say that.” she nudged your side. “come on. we have first period.”

you stood up straighter, grabbing your stuff. the ache in your chest didn’t shrink, but it felt a little less harsh with minjeong beside you. you didn’t know how today would go. if karina would look at you or not. but for now, you followed minjeong down the hallway. and you didn’t look back, even though you wanted to.

first period felt like a joke the universe was playing on you. you walked into class a little later than usual and you didn’t even realize how much hope you still had until it immediately deflated the second you saw her already in her seat.

same posture. same blank face. same casual lean in her chair like nothing was different. she didn’t look up. you moved to your seat beside her, careful not to bump anything or make a sound, like she was a deer and you didn’t want to scare her. not that she was scared of you. she just didn’t seem to care anymore.

you sat down. your bag hit the floor and your elbow barely brushed the edge of her desk as you settled in, and there was nothing. she just stared ahead while waiting for the teacher, perfectly unaffected.

“alright. pair up. group work today.” your teacher said, clapping his hands once like it would inject energy into a room full of barely awake teenagers.

you didn’t even process the assignment. didn’t really care what the topic was. all your brain registered was pair up and the panic that immediately followed. because she was right next to you. because of course you’ll be paired with her. that’s how the seats worked. you’ve been next to each other for weeks. you’ve been sharing pens, stealing glances, breathing in sync. you kissed her. you slept in her bed. and now you couldn’t even ask her what page you were supposed to be on.

you glanced over. she was already turning towards you like she had been prepared for this. her expression was unreadable. it was blank, smooth, and calm. the kind of mask she wore when she didn’t want you to know what she was thinking. you hated how much you still found it pretty.

you sat up straighter, trying to match her energy. “page sixty four.” she said flatly, not looking at you as she flipped open the book. her voice hit you harder than you expected. you haven’t heard it in days. at least not directed at you, and not this close.

you tried not to react. “okay.” you said, as flat. just as empty. she slid her copy between the two of you without asking. your eyes flicked to her hand, resting on the edge of the page. her nails were painted the same shade they were the last time she touched your face.

the assignment was something about literary analysis, metaphors or whatever, but you couldn’t concentrate. you were still waiting for her to break. to say something. but she stayed quiet, jotting notes neatly in the margin of her textbook. you stared at the same sentence for a full minute.

“i can handle the first half.” she said without looking at you. you nodded slowly, even though she wasn’t looking to see it. “i’ll finish the second.”

it was silent again. the clock ticked too loud. your heart ticked louder. you leaned your cheek against your hand, slouching a little. it wasn’t fully because you were tired. you just didn’t want her to see the look on your face. you didn’t want her to see how much you missed her. 

you peeked at her one more time. and for the smallest second, she was already looking. your eyes locked. it wasn’t long. half a second, maybe. but it was enough.

enough to make your pulse trip. enough to see the tiniest crack in her expression before she looked away, jaw tightening. you stared at for her a moment longer, wishing she would do it again. wishing she would speak. but she didn’t. just kept writing like it meant nothing. like you were nothing.

so you turned back to your own notes.

  ──────────౨ৎ───────────

you didn’t even wait for the bell to finish ringing. the second class ended, you slammed your laptop shut and shoved it into your bag before grabbing it. minjeong was already waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with that soft  look of concern she wore just for you now. you barely reached her before it all started spilling out.

“she literally looked me in the eyes for and a second. half a second, minjeong. and then nothing. just—cold air. like i’m delusional. like i imagined it.” minjeong started walking beside you, already nodding. “i figured. you looked like you were about to die.”

“i was about to die.” you huffed, crossing your arms. “she spoke to me once. one singular time. just to say the page number like we’re coworkers or something. she doesn’t even call me by my name anymore.”

minjeong side eyed you. “you want her to call you what? baby?”

you shoved her arm lightly but it didn’t wipe the frustrated look from your face. “i want her to stop acting like we weren’t all over eachother two weeks ago. like i didn’t— like we didn’t— god.”

“i’m going insane. i would literally take crumbs. a nod. anything.” you tugged on your sleeve. she didn’t say anything, but you knew what she wanted to say. you couldn’t survive on crumbs. but you still looked for them. you still watched the cafeteria doors just in case karina walked through first. you still wanted to be noticed.

you nodded along to whatever minjeong was saying now, but your eyes kept flicking to the door like they had a mind of their own. it was automatic and you hated that you were still hoping she would look for you too. then the doors swung open like some movie cue.

karina stepped through, light from outside catching on her hair, making it glow. ning and aeri trailed behind her laughing about something you couldn’t hear. karina didn’t laugh, but her lip twitched enough to tell you she was in it. existing fully in a world that did not include you. minjeong slowed down like she was bracing for it before it happened.

karina looked up and saw you. just for a second. a single second. her eyes flicked up and locked onto yours.

your breath caught. it was nothing but everything. she didn’t look surprised. she didn’t look angry. she didn’t look away. but she didn’t smile either. she just blinked and then turned. ning glanced at you mid laugh then quickly looked away.

“she saw me.” you said quietly, voice barely audible over the cafeteria noise. “i know.” minjeong replied just as quiet. you blinked hard and sat down before your legs gave out. you had no appetite and no energy to fake it. your heartbeat felt like it lived in your throat. you swallowed once. then again. “i thought maybe today…” you started and then shook your head. “doesn’t matter.” but you kept looking and karina never turned back.

first period felt louder than usual. the classroom was rowdy and your teacher was over it before 8:10. he vaguely waved a hand and told you all to “be productive.”

she didn’t look up when you sat beside her. just kept typing something on her laptop, hair tucked behind one ear and the sleeves of her sweatshirt pushed up to her elbows. her expression didn’t change. not even when your knees knocked gently under the desk.

“hey.” you offered quietly. “morning.” she replied without looking. it was already more than you got the day before. pathetic how you counted that as progress. she was still karina, though. you watched her scroll through a shared doc and for a second, your brain was like, this is the same girl who kissed you with her hand around your neck three weeks ago.

around the room, your classmates were already giving up on focus. someone was blasting tiktoks at full volume. someone else was recording them. karina finally spoke. “we should move.” you turned. “what?”

“it’s loud in here. let’s go the library.” she said simply, still not looking at you. you nodded. maybe a little too fast. “okay.”

she shut her laptop and slid it into her bag and you followed her out of the room without saying a word. the walk down the hallway was quiet. tension crackled between you like static, unspoken and unbearable. karina moved ahead of you and for a second you wondered if she was doing it on purpose. staying far enough that your shoulder couldn’t brush hers. you hated how much you wanted it to brush hers.

the library was half empty and you picked a table in the back, out of sight, tucked behind a bookshelf. she sat across from you and pulled out her laptop again like this was any other day. like she wasn’t breaking your heart in silence.

you opened your laptop and stared at it. karina didn’t say anything for a while. eventually, you broke. “i can’t focus when you’re like this.” her fingers paused on the keyboard then resumed. “like what?”

you looked at her. her face was unreadable, perfectly neutral, but her jaw was tight. “like nothing happened.”

karina didn’t meet your eyes. “we have a project.”

“karina.” that was when she sighed, finally glancing at you. her voice was soft but cool. “what do you want me to do?”

“i don’t know. look at me like you used to?” you whispered. her lips parted for half a second and then they closed. she leaned back slightly, watching you now. “i’m trying not to.” she admitted.

“why?”

“because if i start, i won’t stop.” the air stilled. her voice was too calm. like she was keeping herself from revealing everything she’s been hiding for the past five days. you stared at her, voice barely audible. “is that a threat or a promise?”

karina exhaled sharply. it was almost a scoff. but it wasn’t mean, it was just tired. “don’t tempt me right now.” and for a second, it was like the old current ran between you. electric, familiar, and addicting. you looked away first. she leaned forward, fingers tapping back at the trackpad like nothing had happened. “we need to finish the outline.”

you nodded, swallowing down everything else you wanted to say. but beneath the table, your feet brushed. and this time, she didn’t pull away.

this wasn’t fair. because she shouldn’t have been able to sit across from you like this, calm and composed, while your insides were on fire. she shouldn’t have been able to pretend like none of this was a big deal, like she didn’t know exactly how to get under your skin with one look. “i hate this.” you blurted again before you could stop yourself. karina tilted her head. “hate what?”

“you. this. the whole ‘barely speaking, but sitting two feet apart’ thing. i—” you stopped yourself, rubbing your temple like it might smooth over the emotional blowout. “it’s driving me insane.” her expression didn’t change right away, but something in her posture softened just slightly. her hand stopped hovering over the keyboard. “you think it’s easy for me?” she said quietly and you looked at her, annoyed now. “you’re the one acting like none of it mattered.”

“it mattered. that’s the problem.” she said, voice steady but low. she closed her laptop slowly, folding her arms on the table. “forget me and move on.“

“i don’t want to move on.” you whispered. she finally held your gaze and that was the end of it for you. you pushed your notebook aside and stood up before your thoughts could catch up. she looked up at you, confused for half a second until you came around the table and sat next to her. closer than you needed to. closer than you should’ve. her breath hitched. just a little.

“i know i shouldn’t.” you said almost to yourself. karina didn’t move. “then don’t.”

“i miss you.” you said and she closed her eyes for a moment, jaw tight. then she opened them slowly, eyes scanning your face like she was trying to memorize it. “you’re really not making this easy.”

“you were never easy.” you said and when she let out the softest laugh, you felt yourself fall all over again. you didn’t kiss her. but you wanted to. your knee pressed into hers beneath the table. and now, neither of you pulled away.

──────────౨ৎ───────────

you didn’t say much as the final bell rang. just packed up your things and let the weight of everything settle over your shoulders. outside of the classroom, minjeong was already waiting, leaning against the wall like she had been there for a while. she raised an eyebrow when she saw your face. you both stepped out into the afternoon sun, squinting a little. the light was too golden and too soft for how tired you felt.

the air was warm in that almost summer way, cicadas were humming in the distance, and minjeong nudged your elbow lightly. “you look like you just got hit by a truck.” she said, falling into step beside you. you scoffed under your breath. “it was more of an emotional car crash, actually.”

she laughed. “let me guess. she said one thing and now you’re freaking out.”

“she cares. she told me not to move on.” you said and minjeong made a face. “that’s so karina coded. saying just enough to keep you around, but not enough to actually say anything.” you knew she was right, but still. you couldn’t stop replaying the look in karina’s eyes when she said it. it wasn’t manipulative. it was like she really meant it.

you didn’t realize you were smiling like an idiot until minjeong groaned beside you. “oh my god. you’re literally happy about crumbs. like— dust. emotional lint. she gave you a vague ass sentence and you’re glowing.”

“i’m not glowing.”

“you’re glowing pathetically.” you elbowed her. “shut up.” but the truth was that you were glowing. just a little. it was embarrassing how much you missed her. how her silence felt like a punishment and a safety net at the same time. how the smallest bit of softness from her made you feel like maybe you weren’t crazy after all. you were halfway across the parking lot when you heard someone call your name.

“y/n!” you turned, blinking into the sunlight. it was sunghoon. he was standing off to the side near the bike racks, leaning casually against the metal frame like this was a totally casual encounter. he was obviously waiting. “hey.” you said in an uncertain tone, slowing your pace.

minjeong instinctively stayed close, watching him with an unreadable expression. he pushed off the bike rack, shoving his hands into his pockets. “i was hoping i would see you today.”

“oh?”

he shrugged. “yeah. i, uh… i’ve been meaning to talk to you.” you raised an eyebrow and minjeong shifted slightly beside you, silent but very much tuned in. “i just— look, this might be a little random… but i always thought you were cute. since, like… the first week.” he said, suddenly less smooth than usual. that made you pause. “what?”

“i mean, i didn’t say anything because karina was… you know. karina. she was clealy on you. i figured i didn’t stand a chance.” he smiled, but there was a flicker of hesitation in it. your pulse jumped. not because of him, but because you could feel eyes on you. you didn’t even have to look to know who it was. you felt the shift in gravity.

karina. you glanced over your shoulder, and there she was. across the lot, standing by her car with her keys dangling in her hand. aeri was saying something to her, probably teasing or talking about weekend plans, but karina wasn’t listening. she was locked onto you. not just looking — watching. like a lion behind glass. composed but far from calm.

sunghoon kept talking, oblivious. “anyway. i just figured… i don’t know, maybe things were different now. with you and her. are they?” he asked it so casually. but it echoed like a gunshot in your head. are they?

you didn’t answer right away. you could say no. you could say yes. you could pretend like this didn’t mean anything at all. but karina was still staring and your heart was beating in your throat. it made something inside you want to do something stupid inside you wanted to make her feel it. so you tilted your head before smiling. just barely.

“maybe.” you said softly. minjeong shifted beside you. sunghoon smiled like he just scored. but your eyes never left karina and hers never left you.

the hallway buzzed with post lunch noise. you were walking between sunghoon and minjeong and you could feel karina watching. you didn’t even have to look to know she was. sunghoon was saying something stupid about the vending machines always stealing his change and minjeong hummed beside you, arms crossed and suspiciously quiet. you tried to laugh along, nodding at the right times but your eyes kept flickering across the hallway.

she was leaning against the lockers, arms crossed and black sleeves pushed to her elbows. one ankle was crossed over the other. her eyes were unreadable from this distance, but you didn’t need to see them to feel the burn of her gaze.

so when she pushed off the wall and started walking — towards you — you genuinely thought she might just pass you by again. but instead, she stopped right in front of you. sunghoon faltered beside you, brows rising slightly. minjeong stiffened. “y/n.” karina said, like it wasn’t the first time she said your name a thousand different ways in her head.

“yeah?”

her voice was calm. a little too calm. “you wanna go to the library?” youstared at her for a second too long.

“right now?”

“yeah.” she paused. “for the project.” you glanced over at minjeong who just blinked once. it was one that said don’t look at me. sunghoon shifted beside you, awkward now.

“…sure.” you said. too quickly. karina nodded once. no thanks, no smile. just turned and started walking like she already knew you’d follow. and of course you did. you trailed behind her as the hallways noise faded behind you, the distance between you and the other two widening with each step. you didn’t say anything. you couldn’t. your heart was loud in your ears and karina’s silence felt heavier than anything you’ve ever carried.

she didn’t lead you toward the library.

you noticed the detour around the back staircase instantly, but you still followed. the moment you saw the door to the rooftop ahead, something in you twisted. “karina.” you said softly.

she didn’t look at you. she just opened the door and slipped through like this wasn’t completely, obviously not the library. you hesitated then stepped through.

the door clicked shut behind you, city buzzing quietly below. the rooftop was empty and the sky was a wash of soft blue and silver clouds. karina stood by the railing, facing away. her hands were gripping the edge. you didn’t speak. for a long minute, neither of you did.

you swallowed hard. “why are we here?” you asked finally. your voice sounded too small and you almost frowned when she didn’t turn. “because i couldn’t do it anymore.”

“…do what?” your fingers tightened on the railing. “pretend i don’t care.” she said, but her voice was shaky around the edges. the silence that followed was sharp and you couldn’t help but step closer. “then why did you?”

she was still facing away from you. “because i care too much.”

“i don’t know what you do to me, y/n, but you’re the only person who makes me feel like i don’t have control. everything is just a reflex with you and i— i don’t trust what i’ll do next.” you could see her posture shifting slightly, crossing her arms. your teeth found the inside of your jaw and pulled. 

“and seeing you with sunghoon? god, i really wanted to text his coach. i don’t know if he thought i was joking when i warned him the first time.” your eyes widened slightly. that’s what that one day was about. you tugged on your bottom lip.

“but i knew you wouldn’t have liked it and i didn’t wanna mess this up even more. not when i’m aching to hear your laugh again. and not just now, even when i’m trying not to. even when i’m lying in bed, forcing myself not to text you. even when i know i don’t deserve it.” she admitted and your throat burned.

you wanted to search her face — for guilt, for games, for anything that would make this feel safer. “i’ve never felt like this. i’ve never wanted someone like this. it’s terrifying. i think about you more than i think about anything else.” she said.

you exhaled shakily. “that’s not normal.”

“i know. but it’s you.” she said and your hands curled into fists at your sides. “why now?”

“because if i don’t say it now, i might see you with him again. i might lose someone who makes me feel something again. and i can’t.”

you looked down, overwhelmed. “karina…”

“i know i don’t deserve to ask you for anything. but i’m still going to.” she said, stepping closer. you looked up and her eyes met yours like it hurt her.

“come back. let me try again. let me do it right this time.” she whispered. she looked at you then and you didn’t think anyone has ever looked at you like that. like she was seeing something she’s been searching for in other people for years but never quite found until you. you wanted to believe her so bad. so bad that it hurt.

so you did, and she waited. not for a dramatic moment. not for control. just for you. and when you didn’t step back, didn’t say no, didn’t leave shut the door behind you and walk away, she smiled. slow and sure. 

“i win.” she whispered. your heart stopped. 

“what?”

“whatever game you think we’re playing.”

taglist — @saysirhc @m00nqvv @yuyuy90 (@spidrgamer @sh1ba100 @1800hotnfunn @hopeless-y)

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for being Tony Stark’s child

Tony Stark x child!reader

warnings: alcohol ment,

a/n: so i just really think that the concept of tony having the party kid as opposed to nerdy avenger kid would be a really cool idea to explore teehee. most of this does actually take place pre-avengers tho!!

prompt:

you were quite the exhausting kid

“is this really how it felt to raise me?” -tony

many of nights he’d find your bed empty, you’d snuck out to go have your fun as teenagers do

“yeah, boss, i imagine it was” -happy

you always showed back up in one piece (like him) and besides a little slap on the wrist you didn’t get much discipline

actually, it usually went like:

“so, where did you go off to last night?” -tony

“a party” -you

“really? didn’t want to loop me in before you snuck out…again?”

“last time i told you about a party you showed up!”

“uh—yeah, but it’s not like i went all dad on you and dragged you away or anything”

“yeah, you joined the party and offered to buy teenagers more booze”

“hey, they all loved you after that! and they couldn’t get enough of my classic dance moves” -tony, jokingly doing the sprinkler with one arm “but seriously, let me know next time”

“we’ll see about that” -you

^the above conversion went about the same every time

sometimes for entertainment purposes you’d try a little harder, throw a few pillows under the covers to make it look like you were still home to put a smile on tony’s face

“aw, y/n reminds me so much of me” -tony

tony was still partying at this point so you’d flip the script on him from time to time

“you were out late” -you

“what are you, a cop? leave me alone. actually, can you get me some aspirin and water?” -tony

“sure, one or two” -you

“make it three” -tony

he would nurse your occasional hangovers (what a great dad!)

okay, he didn’t always know when you were gone. he was busy a lot of the time with his own business and extracurriculars so you guys did just kinda do your own thing for certain stretches of time

honestly you could be a bit of a klepto in the best of ways

but only to tony and only for fun

“oh, great, where’s my car?” -tony

“which one?” -pepper

“the black one!” -tony

“be more specific” -pepper

“the only one missing from my garage!” -tony

“yeah, i know, just wanted to give you some more time to think about it” -pepper

“i changed the code on the lockbox like, five times this week. did they hotwire it?” -tony

“we are talking about your kid, right? pretty sure they just hacked it” -pepper

“i am…so proud” -tony

you MAY have gotten a few close calls with authorities, but nothing tony couldn’t handle

and up until tony’s accident, the phrase “you’re going to give me a heart attack” was silly and endearing

“you might actually give me a heart attack, y/n, give a guy some warning or just say please for god’s sake” -tony, now comes with an arc reactor in his chest

“sorry” -you

“what—huh—didn’t hear ya, wanna say that a little louder?” -tony, very sarcastically

i tell ya when he got that armor u couldn’t tell if u were gonna flip out at him or invite him to a party

or steal it for…you didn’t even know what

but tony was 3 steps ahead of you when all this came to be

and you weren’t very interested in weapons, still just parties and dumb fun for you

“dad, i dont wanna be a nerd, will you just let me go out?” -you

“come on! just help me in the lab a few hours, what’s it gonna hurt?” -tony

“my social status” -you

“might i remind you you’re a stark? i think you’ll live if you miss one party” -tony

“you’d be surprised” -you

“hey, i almost died! give your old man a break” -tony

once tony got involved with SHIELD and the avengers he got even busier really

and in came the parenting advice from fury, clint, nat, steve

“hey, i don’t see you raising a teenager, back off” -tony

*clint side eye*

steve once tried to give you a good talking to, but you reminded him a great bit of your father with your stubbornness

“you done? i dont think you should be giving out any parenting tips fresh off the ice” -you

tony was kind of proud of you for sticking to your guns

especially around such powerful people

but you had a knack for that and could do it to practically anyone

mostly because you felt like an invincible teenager since you were raised by tony, who also thought himself an invincible teenager at one point

u tried to tone down giving tony grief when he started having panic attacks

since u accidentally caused a few by pushing boundaries and staying out for several nights in a row

cuz as tony gained more enemies, he thought you’d be in more danger

which was true

“happy, you’re y/n’s personal bodyguard” -tony

“no!” -you

“uh, cool? any fun parties planned tonight? i’ll be the designated driver. god knows i’ve been tony’s too many times” -happy

taglist: @alwaysananglophile // @locke-writes // @sweetheartlizzie07 // @queen-destenie // @johnmurphyisqueer // @captainshazamerica // @ravenmoore14 // @canarypoint // @procrastinatingsapphictrash // @swanimagines // @randomfandomimagine // @petersgroupie // @summersimmerus // @scarthefangirl // @bad4amficideas // @sheridans-dynamos // @simsrecs // @prettysbliss // @skdkdkckfk // @simp-legend // @wild-rose-35 // @nekoannie-chan // @evilcr0ne // @v0idl1nq // @ruvaakke // @thedarkqueenofavalon // @amirahiddleston // @beth-gallagher22 // @brutal-out-here // @rqmanoff // @elenavampire21 // @mymelodymia // @pheonixfire777 // @deanzboyfriend //

[cupidsworstcrime]

Jason Todd x dom f!reader

inspo - for the anonnie that asked so nicely

this is a random collection of sub!jason scenes ive written. cause im bored

contains spanking & mommy kink (sub jason is such a mamas boy and im taking that to my grave, you can pry needy boy jason out of my cold dead hands)

He pretended to fight it.

“Don’t you fucking dare—”

But the second you grabbed his wrist and sat on the edge of the bed with that look in your eyes, Jason Todd—the Red Hood himself—stumbled straight into obedience.

Because you weren’t playing. Not really.

You tugged him forward.

He grumbled. Bitched. Rolled his eyes.

But when you bent him over your lap, he didn’t resist.

His face hit the blanket with a sigh he tried to cover as a groan. His hips were tense, his hands fisting the sheets.

“You really think this’ll do something for me?” he muttered.

You smoothed a hand over the curve of his ass—grinning as he twitched.

“You tell me.”

Smack.

The first one was gentle. Barely more than a firm tap.

He jerked anyway.

“You—!”

Smack.

A little harder. You watched his shoulder blades shift, a low breath slipping from his lips.

“Jason,” you cooed. “Still wanna act like this isn’t getting to you?”

He didn’t answer. But his hips shifted just enough for you to see the outline in his sweats. Obvious. Wanting.

So you kept going.

Soft spanks between harder ones. Your hand soothing, then striking. He gasped. Swore under his breath. Gritted his teeth. But never told you to stop.

“Color me surprised,” you murmured, scratching your nails along the reddened skin. “You’re really into this, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled.

But it was weak* Shaky. His ears were pink. His thighs tensed with every slow touch between swats.

You leaned close to his ear.

“Say ‘please.’”

He groaned, full-body, low and wrecked. His pride dangled by a thread, and when he finally whispered:

“Please…”

"Please what, baby?"

"...Please ma'am...."

You swore you felt his cock twitch against your thigh.

You let him up when he was panting—chest rising, face flushed, lips parted.

He couldn’t look at you. Wouldn’t. Just flopped beside you and buried his face in the blanket.

“Shut up,” he mumbled again.

You didn’t say a word.

Just ran your fingers through his hair while he came down from it—melting under your touch, his ego scattered in the sheets behind him.

And he’d never admit it.

But he hoped you'd do it again.

Maybe harder.

Maybe next time… he'd call you something filthier than “ma’am.”

He starts off strong. Confident. Pushes you down on the bed with a smirk like he didn’t melt over your lap last time.

“Yeah? You like being bossy, sweetheart?” he grins. “Let’s see how you like it when I take the reins.”

He climbs over you, muscles tense, eyes dark—but not angry. Hungry. His hands skim your waist, his voice drops.

“Gonna make you beg, baby.”

But two minutes in?

Your fingers dig into his hips, your mouth brushes his throat, and he shudders. His pace stutters. You roll your hips just right and suddenly—

“Fuck—wait—don’t—ah—”

His words are breathy. Loose. Falling apart.

And then you're teasing again.

“You sure you’re the one in charge, baby?”

He growls. Tries to flip the script. Tightens his grip on your wrists like it helps.

But then you say:

“You gonna beg again, pretty boy?”

And his whole body reacts.

His breath catches. His eyes flutter. He whines—actually whines—and buries his face in your neck.

You grin.

“Poor thing,” you whisper. “You’re so easy to ruin now.”

And he is. Because when you wrap your legs around him and pull, his strength is nothing next to how bad he wants it—how much he craves you. Not just the sex, but the way you see him, the way you touch him like he's precious and yours.

“Fuck—please,” he pants, rutting into you, voice high, desperate. “Don’t stop, just—please—"

He doesn't even realize he's begging until it's too late.

And he hates how much he loves it.

Afterward, he lays there—boneless, panting, wrecked—his forehead against your chest and his ego shattered into stardust.

You run your nails up his spine and kiss his hairline.

“Still think you’re the one in control?”

He groans.

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

No. No, you’re not.

And he’s never been more in love.

It started as a joke. A throwaway comment.

“What’s the matter, baby? Need Mommy to take care of you?”

He froze.

A beat. A shiver. Then the quietest:

“…yeah.”

And that was it.

At first, he’s holding on—tense arms, furrowed brow, trying to act like he’s in control. But the second you start cooing at him, fingers tight in his hair, praising him just so sweetly?

He’s done.

“Such a good boy, my sweet boy,”

“Look at you, taking Mommy so well,”

“You don’t need to think, baby, let me do it for you.”

And he whimpers.

He’s not speaking in sentences anymore. Just broken little sounds—gasps and moans, half-formed pleas.

He says “Mommy” once with a sob in his voice and it flips something in you. So you lean down and purr it back.

“That’s right, baby. Say it again.”

And he does. Again and again—until it’s not even full words anymore.

“M-Ma—Mama—please, I can’t—”

You stroke his flushed cheeks with your knuckles, praise spilling from your lips like holy water while his eyes glass over. He’s trembling—beautiful and desperate, hips rocking mindlessly as you guide him toward the edge.

“Shh, shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s got you. You’re perfect, you’re doing so good—such a good boy.”

Tears slip down his face. He’s not even embarrassed. Just holding you tight, breathing you in like air, nodding with wide eyes and wet lashes.

"Love you, love you, need you, Mama—”

And when he finally breaks? It’s with your name in a gasp and a sob, clinging to you like you’re the only thing holding him together.

Later, when he’s curled up against you, totally wrecked, you whisper:

“Didn’t know you were such a little Mommy’s boy.”

He grumbles, hiding his face in your chest. But his hips twitch.

“…fuck you.”

“You did, baby. So well.”

And he melts again.

He tries to pretend it’s fine. That it was a one-time thing. That he didn’t come undone in your hands, babbling and begging with tears in his eyes.

But the minute you scratch the back of his neck or kiss the hinge of his jaw just right? His whole body tenses.

And he goes quiet.

Not brooding Jason quiet—bratty, needy Jason quiet.

The kind where his eyes are heavy, cheeks pink, and you know he’s already spiraling.

“You okay, baby?”

“…m’fine.”

Liar.

The second you tug him into your lap—yes, lap, this man is heavy but obedient—and whisper a soft “Good boy,” he melts. One hand in his hair and the other stroking his thigh, and he’s sinking into it like a fucking prayer.

He doesn’t even notice he’s whispering it until it slips out again—

“…Mama…”

You feel him freeze against you, like he could claw his soul back into his body if he tries hard enough.

“You said it again.”

“…no I didn’t.”

“Oh, baby. You did.”

You tilt his chin up, and he whines. Pink all the way to his ears.

You could ruin him right there again, and he knows it.

Later, when you're tangled together in bed, he’s curled up in your chest, hands possessively clutching your hips.

“Didn’t even know I could feel like that,” he mumbles. “Didn’t know I wanted to.”

And you just stroke his hair, murmuring,

“That’s okay, baby. Mama knows what you need.”

He shivers. Bites his lip.

But he doesn’t deny it this time.

You’re lying together, the soft glow of moonlight spilling over the bed, the hum of the city just outside your window. He’s been asleep for about an hour, still tangled in your sheets, body pressed up against yours.

At first, he’s calm—silent in his slumber. But then, in the stillness of the night, you hear it. Just a whisper.

“Mama…”

Your breath catches. He’s not awake, not fully. It’s just a soft, murmured confession, but it’s so full of need, so full of him, that you can’t ignore it.

You smile softly, rubbing your hand through his hair, playing with the ends. You could ruin him again, could wake him up and pull him back into that desperate little boy he’s trying to deny, but instead, you let him sleep.

But you can’t help yourself. You press a kiss to his forehead.

“I’ve got you, baby.”

His face twitches, a sigh slipping from his lips, and his hand instinctively wraps around you tighter, like he’s afraid you might disappear. It’s adorable—your tough, broken Red Hood, shivering in his sleep at the thought of losing you. You think, maybe, if he did wake up, he’d be too ashamed to admit it.

But right now, he’s safe. And that’s all that matters.

The next day, it’s like nothing happened. He’s still the same, stubborn, cocky Jason Todd you know—sarcastic quips and teasing jabs thrown in your direction like they’re second nature. He’s acting all tough again, but there’s a subtle edge to it.

He can’t hide the way he’s looking at you—his eyes softer, not quite as guarded, as if he knows he doesn’t have to pretend. And you notice—his hand keeps brushing against yours whenever you’re near, like he’s testing the waters, waiting for you to remind him who’s really in charge.

He doesn’t expect it when you tease him.

“You’re acting so bratty today,” you murmur with a sly grin, catching his eyes.

He smirks back, though there’s a nervous edge to his smile.

“I’m not—what are you talking about?”

But you can tell by the way his hands are fidgeting, by the way his jaw clenches, that he’s not as calm as he wants you to think.

So you step forward, so close he can feel the heat of your body.

“Do I need to put my good boy in his place?” you purr, your voice low, teasing.

His whole body freezes. His eyes flicker to yours, and for a moment, you can see that war raging inside him—half of him wants to throw a smart comment back, but the other half? The other half is aching, desperate for you to take control again.

His hands ball into fists, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t even try.

“You’re—goddammit,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. He’s already gone, undone by just a few words.

You can see the tension coil in him, his breath hitching slightly. You’ve got him right where you want him. But you decide to push a little further.

“You need me to remind you who’s in charge, baby?”

He breathes out slowly, eyes dark, but this time, he doesn’t pull away. He swallows hard.

“…Yeah,” he whispers.

And that’s all you need. You step closer, running your hand over his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath your touch. You lean in, just a breath away from his lips, and whisper one last thing:

“Good boy.”

And just like that? He’s lost again. You’ve undone him—completely.

That night, when he’s curled against you, you hear it again.

“Mama…”

But this time, it’s not a whisper. He’s awake now, groggy, blinking at you through the dark, eyes glazed over with sleep and want.

You press your lips to his forehead, your thumb tracing over his cheek.

“I’ve got you, baby,” you murmur, soothing him back to sleep.

And this time, he doesn’t fight it. He nuzzles against your chest, his hand wrapped tightly around you as if you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He’s not even embarrassed anymore. It’s just you and him.

“I love you, Mama,” he mumbles softly, his voice thick with sleep.

Your heart swells. He’s yours. Completely.

You press one last kiss to his head and whisper softly, “I love you too, baby.”

And as he drifts back into sleep, you both know it’s only a matter of time before the cycle starts again. The teasing, the control, the sweet surrender.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

He was quiet at first—staring at you with that unreadable expression, hands fisted in the sheets.

But his body? His body betrayed him.

You could feel the tension in his shoulders. The heat in his chest. He wasn’t fighting anymore. He wanted this, needed this.

You watched him closely. His movements slower now, like he was afraid that one wrong move would have you pulling away.

“You’re going to follow every single command I give you tonight, aren’t you?” you asked softly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.

He didn’t hesitate this time.

“Yes,” he breathed. Quiet. Almost too quiet, like the confession itself was a secret, something too intimate to voice.

You smiled. That’s what you wanted to hear. So you slid closer to him, brushing your fingers along his jawline, letting the weight of your touch sink in.

“Good boy.”

He exhaled sharply—like he couldn’t believe it was happening. Like he’d been dying for you to say those words for far too long.

But you weren’t done yet.

You placed your hand on his chest, making sure he was looking right at you. His gaze met yours, intense, vulnerable.

“Take off your shirt. Slowly.”

Jason swallowed, a slight tremor in his hands as he obeyed. His body was perfect—strong, scarred, but perfect. He was so fucking beautiful, and the way he took his time, like he was savoring every second of your attention, made you ache with the need to claim him.

He never once looked away, not even when his hands fumbled at the waistband of his pants. He wanted you to guide him. To tell him how to do it. How to strip for you.

You whispered, “Good boy, Jason. Now. Pants off. All the way.”

And like the obedient puppy he’d become, he did exactly what you said. He took off his jeans, laid out before you, chest heaving as his face flushed. His cock was already hard, his body responding eagerly to your commands.

You smirked at him, that familiar power creeping back, the knowledge that you had him exactly where you wanted him.

He couldn’t even look you in the eyes anymore. His gaze drifted to the floor, face burning with embarrassment, but his cock stayed hard, aching for your touch.

“Touch yourself,” you ordered, voice low and controlled. “I want to see you touch yourself.”

He hesitated just a moment—his usual resistance slipping away.

Then, with a shaky breath, Jason obeyed. His hand wrapped around his cock, starting slow. His breath hitched, but he didn’t stop.

You watched him carefully, every twitch in his body making your pulse race.

“Good boy,” you whispered. “Just like that.”

He shuddered, his hand speeding up, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

He was desperate.

And you were the one who had broken him. Completely.

“Please, mama,” he gasped, eyes searching yours. “Tell me what to do next.”

Your heart skipped a beat. This was the side of Jason that he never let anyone see—the side of him that was completely at your mercy.

“Don’t stop,” you commanded gently. “Make yourself cum for me. Don’t hold back.”

The words were barely out of your mouth when his body stiffened. His breath caught, and his hips bucked involuntarily, his hand moving in a blur as he got closer.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I’m—”

But you cut him off with a firm command.

“Cum for me, baby.”

That was all it took.

His back arched, a deep groan escaping his lips as he came undone. You could see the way his whole body trembled, his fingers gripping the sheets beneath him for stability.

And even after he was done, his breathing ragged and shaky, he didn't stop.

He looked at you—desperate. That familiar cocky grin was long gone, replaced with nothing but adoration. He wanted to please you more. Wanted to feel you take control, wanted to hear more of your voice, more of your praise.

“Good boy,” you murmured, brushing a hand through his hair as he collapsed against the pillows, completely undone.

Jason didn’t say anything for a while—just let the feeling wash over him.

He didn’t need to say it. You could see it in the way he held you after. The way he kissed you slow and deep, like he was claiming you in the quiet moments afterward.

And you both knew—it wasn’t over.

He wanted more. More of you. More of your control. More of being broken and put back together, piece by desperate piece.

[mariasont]

hiii! I read your last spencer one shot AND I LOVED IT! IT WAS SO SWEET AND YOU'RE SO TALENTED!! Would you write something about post prison reid and shy reader? I was thinking of her as the media liaison (in my mind she is old-fashioned in music and clothes I'd wear skirts everyday, her emotional intelligence makes her good at her job, despite her shyness). Maybe she's clumsy, especially when she gets nervous and more especially (I don't even know if that's grammatically correct) when she's around Spencer.

Thank you so much for reading this, you're doing an EXCELLENT job, your works are a masterpiece!! 💕💖💝💓💓💖💞💕💖💓

Make a Wish - S.R

a/n: eekkkkkk post-prison spencer reid has me in a CHOKEHOLD! thank you so much for requesting, i'm so sorry for the delay! i hope i did your request justice!! I LOVE LOVE YOU!

masterlist

pairings: post prison!spencer reid x shy!reader

wc: 0.9k

You had been meaning to give the reports fastened in your hands to Spencer for give-or-take two hours now. Each time you gathered the courage to approach him, just one glance, one simple stupid glance from those piercing eyes set your nerves on fire and sent your brain in overdrive.

As the new media liaison from the narcotics unit, you were warned about the BAU's intimidating figures, particularly Rossi and Emily. However, no warning came regarding Spencer Reid. They mentioned his tendencies for long-winded explanations and awkward social interactions but not the aura of intensity he exuded. Whenever he entered a room, you instinctively started looking for an exit, not because of his criminal record, but because you found yourself hopelessly mesmerized by him.

He was perfect in every sense of the word—brilliant, compassionate, selfless, and an exceptional agent. At least, this is what you had observed from afar. A part of you was scared that any real interaction with him would shatter the idyllic image you had crafted in your head, and you weren't confident you were prepared for such disillusionment. However, you needed to give him these damn papers, dreading the alternative, which was getting summoned to Emily's office.

"Hi."

You did it, okay, first step complete. You opened your mouth, determined to get out the next part you had practiced a little over twenty times in your head, but the words seemed to dissipate into a misty fog in your brain.

"Um, these are for you," you said, rocking back onto the balls of your mary janes, placing the report on his desk. "It's the Henderson lie detector test transcript?"

"Is it?"

You realized you had said it like a question.

You paused, the part of your brain stuttering for a second, trying to flip over the thousands of scenarios you had rehearsed in your head for this interaction. None of them had included those words.

Just a little off script and you felt your fight or flight kick in—nails digging into your palms as you avoided eye contact.

"Yes." A little more confident this time, not by much, and it quickly deflated as you second guessed yourself, stepping closer to peer over his shoulder at the document. "At least I think."

"I'm just messing with you, it is." He said, eyes flickering down to the document, then to you. "You okay?"

"M-Me? Okay? Yeah, of course." The words were stumbling out of your mouth at a rate that was hard to keep up with. "Do I not look okay?"

"No, of course you look okay," he responded, brows knitting together as his gaze traveled down your body, no doubt dissecting your every thought. "You just seem... a bit nervous."

You opened your mouth, aiming to articulate a coherent thought, but it fell short and was quickly interrupted by Spencer.

He suddenly leaned in, his eyes narrowing. "Wait, hold still; you have an eyelash."

He was so close, you swore you feel his breath on your cheeks, instantly warming them. Your body was in overdrive, trying to recalibrate as his finger grazed the area under your right eye. You closed your eyes, almost unwillingly, relishing in the unexpected touch.

This was weird. Every nerve in your body was on high alert, and you balled your hand into a fist, attempting to mask the way you were shaking.

The sound of your name snapped you out of your daze. Your eyes followed suit, meeting Spencer's prying eyes. His finger was raised, your eyelash perched on the tip. Your face could have been a furnace, flames of heat spreading from your neck to your nose.

"Do you want to make a wish?"

He looked at you expectantly, eyes darting from your face to his raised pointer finger.

"Okay."

You closed your eyes, forming the wish in your mind before blowing on the lash. You watched it float to the ground, settling gently on the toe of Spencer's shoe. 

"What did you wish for?"

"I feel like I'm not supposed to tell you that," you say, pulling at the ends of your hair.

He was undeniably good-looking. It wasn't like you were just realizing it; you had eyes and you were only human. But up close, you could see every detail—the dark circles under his eyes, the rough stubble under his jaw.

"I think you're right."

The sudden intimacy of the moment made your heart skip a beat. You stepped back, nodding at his words and also nothing in particular.

"Anyway, yeah, those are the papers—," you began, turning to walk away. As you did, you bumped your hip into the desk beside you, hissing under your breath in response.

"Christ, are you okay?" His hand was on your hip as the words came out of his mouth.

The touch only seemed to intensify your embarrassment. You stepped out of his grip, dropping your phone as you did which you quickly bent down to pick up.

"Sorry, yeah, I'm fine, just forgot I have a meeting with Emily, so I'm just gonna—," you pointed towards her office, quickly making your escape from Spencer as you tried to catch your breath.

Once you were a distance you deemed safe enough, you allowed yourself a quick glance back at him. He was smirking, and you felt that all familiar heat rising into your chest once again.

You really hoped that wish would kick in soon.

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[valeisaslut]

thinking about collide ellie and reader on snl…

NO BECAUSE I 100% thought of writing Ellie and reader on SNL but there was already SO much happening in the fic that I was like okay Val. breathe. you do NOT need to write an entire season of sketch comedy in the middle of your lesbian slow burn.

BUT IN MY HEART (and in the AU) THEY WENT. They 100% went.

SO, FOR MY NATION: ROCKSTAR!ELLIE X POPSTAR!READER ON SNL.

The episode aired like two weeks after the Grammys, and the SNL writers were frothing at the mouth to recreate the chaos. So obviously, you and Ellie did a full sketch reenacting the Grammy moment—THE “nah. you look too fucking hot right now.” THE “i love you.” The pause that followed. Beat for beat. There was dramatic slow motion. Ellie fake-mic-dropped. You dramatically collapsed to the floor like you’d been shot. The audience BLACKED OUT.

BUT WAIT. There was also that cursed SNL music sketch where you're both singers from different planets. You were a glittery Y2K alien who only sang in autotuned adlibs. Ellie was a country cowboy who doesn’t believe in music unless it’s played on a busted banjo. It made ZERO sense and somehow ended with an animatronic horse doing the dougie. At one point, Ellie LASSOED you and made a kinky joke that wasn't in the script at all. Twitter hasn’t recovered.

Weekend Update?? A disaster. You showed up, said four words, and went “ok i’m too hot for this” and just left. Ellie stayed behind and gave a fake PSA about “dating your popstar girlfriend responsibly” and how you should “not accidentally make out on live TV unless it’s for the bit.” It got 70 million views.

AND THEN. THEN. The cheerleader skit. You and Ellie were rival high school cheer captains. Seeing Ellie’s masc ass in a cheer uniform nearly ended humanity. She was PISSED about it but after shooting she begged the costume department to let her keep it. The skit escalated immediately—normal flips turned into Ellie back handspringing off the desk, you pulled a megaphone from thin air and screamed “L FOR LESBIAN.” A marching band materialized out of nowhere playing She. And then, inexplicably, it ended with the two of you slow-dancing in cheer uniforms under falling confetti while Pedro Pascal (as the school principal) screamed “THIS IS A SCHOOL ASSEMBLY.”

OKAY BUT YOU’RE NOT EVEN READY FOR THE "LESBIAN QUIET LUXURY" SKIT. Like. You and Ellie played these absolutely feral rich girls who inherited old money from their great-great-grandmothers (who were, quote, “roommates”), and now live in a haunted countryside manor in Vermont where they “just do pottery, collect oil paintings of women with secrets, and make eye contact with ghosts.”

It was shot like a Vogue mini-doc. You wore a floor-length linen nightgown, held a glass of wine, and whispered “I only speak in lowercase now. Capital letters are performative.” Ellie was doing an interview in a library and said, completely straight-faced, “we don’t have a television, we just recite Sappho to each other while our oat milk steams.”

Then it CUT to you two at a farmers market arguing with an old man about whether figs have feminine energy. Ellie was like “you don’t get it. figs are bisexual.” And the old man just left. He walked off the set. That wasn’t scripted.

The sketch ended with both of you holding a single candle, standing barefoot in a field at dusk, and solemnly saying “quiet luxury is loving your partner so hard it echoes through generations.” And then you made out behind a hedge while a harpist played Phoebe Bridgers.

That sketch is on every sapphic aesthetic moodboard.

The cast was breaking so bad the cameras were shaking. Cecily Strong had to walk off set. It was the exact brand of unhinged chaotic lesbian television we DESERVE.

Anyway yeah. You were on SNL. Sorry for not writing it in the fic. I might still. Don’t tempt me.