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seospicybin · 22 days ago

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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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celestie0 · 7 months ago

Text

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch.5 child's play

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 5/x

ᰔ words. 4.8k

a/n. helloo my ihm friends! long time no see. hope you're all doing well and thank you so much to everyone who sent me kind messages about the whole ihm gojo ex wife thing haha. i really appreciate it :) i feel more confident about my writing decisions now, and that's all thanks to you guys! anyways, i will be posting shorter chapters for ihm going forward, so sorry if some chapters have slightly abrupt endings or stuff like that. i guess my goal is to post shorter chapters but more frequently! we'll see how it works out. anyways, hope you enjoy this chapter and see you at the bottom!!

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Ever since admitting your mother into hospice, things have been calmer inside your mind. After passing the initial wave of agony that came with no longer hearing her voice down the hall or seeing her silhouette in her bedroom as you walked past it, you realized that…a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. No longer setting alarms at the height of every other hour to remind your mother to take her medication, no longer viewing every interaction you had with her as some form of study you needed to jot down in a binder for her neurologist’s records, and no longer driving her to all of her chemotherapy appointments, only to leave them feeling like you purposefully just took your mother to a place where they sucked all the life out of her in exchange for the slim promise of giving it all back to her someday.

Maybe it was evident in the way your shoulders felt less tense as you rolled them back, tilting your neck to the side and no longer feeling the painful strain that tugs a wince onto your face. The other day, you caught yourself humming a song as you drove to work. Your skin, usually feeling cracked and dry from stress and exhaustion, now has a slight plumpness to it like before. A more youthful glow, like the version of yourself you were before your mother became sick. The version of you that so quickly deteriorated, and one you didn’t even know still existed somewhere within you.

There has also been time for hobbies. Rarest of occasions, you find yourself sauteing some yellow and white peaches in a saucepan over medium heat in Gojo’s kitchen, humming that song once again that’s been stuck in your head. The sundress you’re wearing matches the pink of the syrup that pools at the bottom of the pan, and you feel like you’re living your cottage core dreams in this brief moment of reprieve you’ve allowed yourself to fall into.

The sound of slippers tapping down onto the hardwood floor startles you out of your gleeful trance, and you turn your neck to the right to see a pajama-clad messy-haired Gojo shuffling his feet across the open area into the kitchen with a dark black mug in his hand.

“Why aren’t you dressed??” you ask him in a panic.

“I’ll get dressed later,” he tells you dismissively as he grabs the glass pitcher of coffee from where the coffee machine was nestled up against one of the counter corners.

“You’re stressing me out. Your mom told us to be there in two hours,” you say, putting your hands on your hips in disapproval as you hear the sizzle of the peaches in the saucepan.

He entirely ignores you, choosing to instead drag his gaze down the form of your body. “Woooow, twice this month I get to see you in a cute dress,” he comments, pouring coffee into his mug but his eyes are still on you, “lucky me.”

“Oh Shut. Up,” you sneer at him with a harsh roll of your eyes, “your fake flattery might work on the lonely middle-aged women you seduce to make a living, but it won’t work on me.”

His shoulders push back before he slumps them slightly, his brow lifting with confusion. “It’s not fake though? I mean it. You look really nice right now.”

You point an accusatory sugar-syrup coated wooden spatula at him. “You’ve just been conditioned by the patriarchy to get a boner at the sight of a woman in a kitchen.”

“What–...no–...why do you always have to say stuff like that whenever I compliment you? Can’t you just accept it?”

You cross your arms over your chest. “I refuse to be flattered by an insolent man like you.”

He sighs, setting his coffee mug down on the counter, and you watch the way the fringe of his hair hangs over his forehead as he gazes into the contents, swirling it around with a loose grip on the handle. “Is this how it’s going to be everyday? I try to be nice, and you–...well, you know, are you.”

“Well who else should I be?”

His eyes lift up to meet yours, the slightest of a cheeky grin on his face as his eyes wander down the form of you again. “I don’t know. Someone a little…softer? Like, you’ve got this really pretty dress on, and then you’re telling me off about patriarchy-induced boners. It’s a little, uh, contradictory?”

You gasp. “You’re trying to control me. I knew it. You are poisoned by the patriarchy.”

“What?”

Your eyes narrow at him. “You have this image of a perfect and cute little wife, who’s gonna wear pretty dresses all the time, and bake stuff in the kitchen, and get all blushy when you tell her she looks beautiful, and you expect her to have this soft little personality that never argues with you or disagrees with you…ALL BECAUSE OF THE PATRIARCHY!!!”

“...I–...Okay, you’ve lost me.”

You let out a hmph! noise. “Can’t even discern his own brainwashing. Sad.”

“All of this just because I tried to tell you that you look nice?”

“I know what your ulterior motives are, you creep.”

His eyes spark a little at that, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a cheeky grin as he sets the coffee mug down onto the marble counter and he straightens his spine. You blink, watching with confusion as he crosses the distance between the two of you, to where you’re taking a small few steps backwards until your lower back presses against the edge of the island countertop. He cages you into the surface with his frame, followed by the palms of his hands sliding over the marble on both sides of you, and you feel his forearms press against the curve of your waist as he traps you in with no way out.

“S-Satoru,” you stutter, looking up at him with wide eyes, “what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” he says, his voice deeper with a nonchalance that has you shiver, his gaze dropping to your lips when you part them slightly.

“T-The patriar–” you squeak out, but he suddenly dips his head down to kiss you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, eyes immediately closing when he moves his lips against yours, one of his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer to him and your hesitation is something that only lasts a brief second before you find yourself kissing him back. Some noise leaves his throat, deep and raw and sounding pleasantly surprised as he captures your lips more fervidly now, his hands smoothing down to hold your hips and his teeth slightly nip at your bottom lip.

You grab a fistful of his shirt, unsure of whether you want to pull him closer to you or push him away, but the moan that you mumble against his lips only makes his grip on your hips even stronger, fingers digging into the softness through the thin fabric of your dress.

The oven suddenly starts beeping, startling you and you pull away from the kiss with a gasp, eyes rounded as you look up at him, but his are lidded and dilated as his gaze remains glued to your lips.

With a heaving chest, you try to push him away by a weak fist to his sternum but he’s unrelenting.

“You taste sweet,” he says, like some comment he noted in his head but accidentally voiced out loud.

“I–...” you inhale sharply, “I just ate three macerated peaches.”

“Uh-huh,” he barely acknowledges before leaning in to get another taste, but you push him away harsher this time.

His hands let go of your hips entirely, finally breaking out of that kiss-induced trance he was in, but he still remains close to you in proximity, so much so to where you can feel the heat from his body. It’s comforting almost, radiating through the soft cotton of his long sleeve shirt, and you find yourself subconsciously leaning towards him before you snap out of it too, and rock your weight back against the island countertop.

You cross your arms over your chest, hoping the flush to your cheeks isn’t showing. “Oh okay so we just casually kiss now?”

He shoves his hands into his plaid pajama pant pockets, leaning away from you slightly. “For as long as I can get away with it, yeah.”

“You are breaking the rules.”

“You never said no kissing.”

“I said no touching.”

“Ehhh kissing isn’t really touching, though, is it?”

“You sound stupid.”

“I always sound stupid to you.”

The oven starts beeping again, and you realize it’s long been preheated to the setting you had placed earlier. You slip away from him with haste, feeling his gaze on you as you press a button on the oven to turn the alarm off, and you stare at the handle for a moment or two to calm the beating of your heart down.

Your eyes catch sight of something on the side of the fridge. A little magnet made of rubber that has the word London on it as well as the design of the Westminster Cathedral with golden accents. You recall that Gojo went on a trip to London recently, and that he didn’t bring you back any souvenirs from there like he did for your other neighbors. And you want to pretend, you want to shove it down, that incessantly childish feeling that wonders why he didn’t bring you anything back. You want to continue to pretend like it doesn’t hurt your feelings. Something so miniscule and small. But you–...well, you can’t.

You spin around to face him. “Do you hate me?” you bluntly ask.

He blinks at you. “Huh?”

“Do you, what, I don’t know, think I’m annoying or something?”

He shrugs with his hands still in his pockets. “I mean, yeah, I do think you’re annoying sometimes. But in a silly way. Like we’re just pals horsin’ around, y’know?”

You snarl at him, putting your hands on your hips and narrowing your gaze until he’s hardly even visible anymore. “No. I actually find you annoying. Like, wanna-run-you-over-with-a-bus annoying. You just have horrendous social awareness and think that everyone loves you.”

“You actually don’t like me?” he asks, like he can’t even believe that someone wouldn’t.

“Yes,” you say, “now get out of my way.” You make an attempt to push past him, purposefully knocking your shoulder into him to assert dominance but he is unfortunately much bigger than you and so all it does is make you stumble ungracefully from the recoil.

He quickly grabs your arm to steady you, and you glare up at him before yanking yourself away and then step backwards until your back hits the fridge.

He studies your demeanor for a second before taking a deep inhale, and then lets it all go in a heaving sigh. “What do I have to do to get you to lighten up a bit?” he asks.

“You really want to know?” you sneer at him.

“Yes,” he says with a slight hint of frustration in his tone.

You cross your arms. “Pay for the fucking fence.”

He blinks at you, confusion replacing whatever frustration was previously decorating his tone. “What?”

“The fence,” you reiterate with a step forwards towards him, “the one I built six months ago. The one where you laughed in my face when I told you to help pay for it.”

He leans forward. “Yeah. Because I never wanted that fence built. Like I said, it fucked up the roots on my avocado tree. You should’ve asked me before building it. In fact, it’s illegal to build a fence without joint consent of both neighboring property owne–”

“Oh my god, okay, see? This is why I can’t stand you,” you snarl at him and make another move to get past him but he easily steps in front of you to keep you from going anywhere.

With a sigh, he relents. “Fine, I’ll pay for the fence.”

You try to keep the twitching muscles of your face still as you resolutely stare up at him, pressing your lips into a thin line. Through a strained tone, you say, “No. I don’t want you to pay for it anymore.”

He lifts a brow, utterly bewildered at this point. “Huh?”

“Now it just feels like pity. And I don’t want your pity money.”

“Two seconds ago, you did.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. That was two seconds ago.”

“So…let me get this straight, you don’t want me to pitch in?”

“No. I want you to have wanted to pitch in SIX MONTHS AGO.”

“Okay but what the fuck am I supposed to do about that now?”

“NOTHING!!!” you finally snap at him, the shrill to your voice startling him slightly to where you see his shoulders jump, and his eyes are now rounded blue as he looks at you. “There’s nothing you can do about it, there’s nothing you can do to get me to ‘lighten up’ or ‘act softer’ or whatever the fuck kind of damage control you aim to achieve with me due to your pestering incessant need to be liked by every fucking person you come across. So just deal with the fact that I hate you and let me do it in peace.”

He’s silent for what feels like a long time as he blinks at you, his bottom lip pushing up slightly in a way that suggests he’s almost impressed by your little outburst, then he takes a step forward, and in that one large stride, he’s closed any distance between the two of you. Your back is up against the frigid steel of the fridge, your heels tucked under the warm rubber at the foot of it, and you’re looking up at Gojo as he towers over you, his hands still annoyingly and relaxedly shoved into his pockets.

“Do you think it’s gonna be a problem that I think you’re kinda hot when you’re mad?” he asks you.

A small puff of air leaves your lips, like you just can’t believe the audacity, but also having him this close to you suddenly made it a little harder to breathe. “C–...Can you just be fucking serious for one second?”

His head dips down, the fringe of his hair tickling your forehead, tip of his nose slightly brushing against yours, but his gaze never falls to your lips. “You think I’m not being stupid fuckin’ serious when I say that you’re hot?”

“S–” your breath hitches in your throat, and his gaze finally falls to the lick you pass over your lips, “Satoru–”

Like God himself answered to your (cognitively dissonant) prayers, the bell rings, and Gojo leans himself away from you, straightening his spine so he can glance over his shoulder towards the door, a slight look of irritation on his face through the furrow of his brow.

You blink up at him. “A–...Are you expecting someone?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “No. Don’t think so.” He sighs before shuffling around the kitchen island and across the dining hall towards the entryway of the house, and you peer at the sight from across the hall.

When he opens the door, you see Sana standing outside, dressed in mom jeans and a t-shirt with her black Coach purse slung around her shoulder, arms crossed, and you barely register the fact that she looks pissed.

“Sana?” Gojo says, “what’s up.”

She entirely ignores him when she catches sight of you, pushing right past him and into the family room that you were currently finding solace in.

“You,” she points at you, storming right up to your personal space, “what the hell did you say to Juno when you were babysitting her?!”

“H-Huh??” you squeak out, taking a step backwards. “What are you talking about?”

“You told her to fight kids at school?!” she snarls at you, and your eyes widen.

“What?” you say, your face twisting with confusion, “I–...I never said that. I just said that she should stand up for herself if she needs to.”

Sana inhales deeply with rage, leaning back and jutting her hip out as she crosses her arms again. “Yeah, well, I had to pick her up early from school today because the principal called and told me she shoved a little girl on the playground during recess, and now she’s facing suspension.”

Gojo approaches suddenly from your periphery, standing in front of you as he faces Sana. You stand on your tiptoes to peer at her over his shoulder. “What? Why would Juno do something like that?

You hear Sana start to tap her foot impatiently against the hardwood floor, and then she turns her head away from Gojo as a slight hmph! noise leaves her throat. “The why is irrelevant.”

You poke your head out from behind Gojo and glare at her, but then Gojo turns around suddenly to look at you.

“y/n,” he says, “what’s going on?”

“I–” you start, glancing at Sana again who now has a solemn look on her face with pursed lips. You glance back at Gojo, who’s looking at you with confusion and anticipation. A heat spreads down your neck from the attention of the both of them on you, and you’re not sure what the smart thing to say is, so you figure you’ll just tell the truth as it is. “...I just didn’t want her getting bullied and thinking she can’t stick up for herself.”

At that, you see Gojo’s shoulders stiffen. “Bullied?” he repeats after you, then quickly turns towards Sana, “what does she mean, bullied? Juno’s getting bullied at school?”

Sana faces him full-on, raising a stern pointed finger between the two of them “No. Satoru. Stop. You always do this. This has nothing to do with you, so don’t even start. It’s not a big deal, let’s not make it one.”

“The fuck do you mean it’s not a big deal? She’s getting bullied at school, and you want her to just suck it up?” he asks, venom dripping from his tone.

“It’s for her benefit!” Sana exclaims. “Jun and I have spent months trying to get her into this school! We don’t want her getting kicked out.”

“Y’know, I’m–” you stutter, “I’m gonna–...I’m just gonna go upstairs,” you say, “this seems like a family matter. I think you guys should probably just settle this on your ow–”

“No,” Gojo says, pointing to the couch that you were standing in front of, “sit down.”

You sit.

Gojo turns to face Sana again, and although you can’t see his face, you imagine he’s pissed off from the way Sana’s shoulders drop slightly and her sharp expression is cut into a more sheepish one.

“Who cares if Juno is suspended for sticking up for herself? It’s the teachers’ fault for not making sure she’s safe,” he says.

“Shoving other kids is not the solution.”

“Well if you fuck around, then you find out. Kids are too soft these days.”

“This is not the 90s, Satoru.”

You watch the back and forth between the two of them for the better part of an entire minute, feeling uneasy in the hostile environment of the room, but there’s a sense of underlying familiarity between the two, one that is recognizable amongst family. And you feel rather foreign, but then remember that, technically speaking, now that you’re married to Gojo, this is your family too.

Amongst the arguing of the adults, none of you noticed that Juno had gotten out of the car in the driveway and was now standing in the doorframe of the front entrance. She looks scared and guilty, fidgeting with her fingers in front of her, and you notice her scrapes and bruises that you tended to last week were now mostly healed.

Gojo catches sight of her, and you see his shoulders relax. “Juno, c’mere.”

With the permission, she instantly runs towards him and into his arms from where he was crouched down to the floor in order to welcome her, and then she starts sobbing.

“I’m–hic,” she cries, “I’m so–hic–I’m so sowwyyy Uncle Toru…I’m–hic–I’m sorry mommyyyy.”

You see Sana sigh and she makes a move to brush Juno’s tear-dampened hair out of her face when Gojo pulls her away from his shoulder by a delicate hold of her bony little shoulders.

“Juno. Listen. If people are being mean to you, then you do exactly as your auntie y/n said. You stand up for yourself. And if that doesn’t work, then you cuss at them and threaten to shove their faces into the dirt until they run away with their tails between their legs. Do you understand me?” Gojo tells her.

Sana gives you a pointed look.

“Oh, I–” you put your hands up in front of you, “I didn’t say any of that last part.”

“Do you understand me?” Gojo repeats again, and Juno nods her head slowly before she falls back into him and soaks his shirt with tears. “I’m soowwwwwyyyyyy.”

Gojo pats her back a few times to comfort her, and your heart breaks for the little girl. It’s bad enough to be bullied at school, but then to be reprimanded by your mother the one time you stand up for yourself…you can imagine how emotionally exhausting that would be for a five-year-old.

Juno sniffles, rubbing her snot all over the cotton of Gojo’s shirt, and then pulls her face away to rub at her eye with a weakly closed fist. “I–hic–I just…I just wanted him to feel–hic–the same hurt.”

“Huh? Who?” Gojo asks.

“The boy,” Juno says, “the one that shoved me today.”

“It was a boy?!?!?!” Gojo yells. “Alright. That’s it. I’m grabbing my bat.”

“Satoru.” Sana deadpans.

Sana and Gojo continue to bicker about the ethics of threatening five-year-old boys with baseball bats, going back and forth about how Gojo wasn’t actually going to do anything but just wanted to instill fear (he’s lying), while Sana isn’t exactly sold on a single pacifist thing that he says, and you sigh, because you realize you’ve become invested in one of, what you feel like will become many, of their family quarrels.

Juno sneaks around Gojo’s legs and comes up to you while the arguing is taking place in the background, and she gently taps your knee as you’re seated on the couch. “Auntie y/n,” she whispers.

You rub an eye crustie from her face and then hold her hand in yours. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Mm? For what?”

She smiles at you, her cheeks pink and flush from crying but rounded now in glee. “My mommy and daddy spoke a lot today at home for first time in long time because of me. Because I listen’ded to you. Thank you.”

Your eyes narrow. “What do you mean by that, sweetheart?”

Why wouldn’t Sana and Jun be on normal talking terms? What does Juno mean that it’s been a long time? What exactly was going on at home?

“Juno,” Sana’s voice interrupts your thoughts, her arms crossed across her chest, “c’mon. Let’s go.” She points a stern finger at Gojo. “Seriously. I mean it. No baseball bats or rodent traps involved. I’ll talk to the teachers and sort something out.” She glances at you, that strict look on her face now dissolving into one of pure exhaustion. One you can imagine only a mother can face. “See you later at dinner, you two.”

Juno runs up to her mom and grabs onto her outreached hand, and you see Gojo ruffle her hair as she walks past him, her giggles ringing in the air, and then he sees them out the door.

The air is awkward, at least to you, the second he closes the door, and when he turns around to face you, your body stiffens up.

He leans back onto the front door, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thanks,” he says, “for telling Juno to stick up for herself.”

You blink at him. “Well. I don’t feel too great about it at the moment, to be honest.”

He sighs. “I just think that Jun and Sana are raising her to be…kinda meek. I wish they’d teach her to be more confident and take up space.”

“Mhm,” you nod. Because you agree. Little girls need to learn how to be that way at a young age, because the world is seldom very kind to them.

“Well, what you said to her is what I would’ve said to her anyways,” he says.

You roll your eyes, standing up from the couch and heading back into the kitchen to presume your work on your peach cobbler. “I never told her to shove kids’ faces into the dirt. But, uh, sure, I guess so.”

You see Gojo enter the kitchen too in your periphery, but you don’t give him any glance or look or attention. From what you can see as you stir around your macerated peaches in a Pyrex bowl, he’s leaning against the island counter about three feet away from you, his hands shoved in his pockets, and he’s watching you. A slight warmth radiates in your cheeks, but you attempt to ignore the nerves by being hypnotized by the pink syrup that pools at the bottom of the bowl.

My mommy and daddy spoke a lot today at home for first time in long time because of me. Because I listen’ded to you. Thank you.

An unsettling feeling takes over your senses. It could be the past few years you’ve spent walking on eggshells around your mother, or the way you’ve become so keen to her energy as a way of staying on top of any shift in her symptoms, any single sign of disease progression, any clue that she wasn’t getting better. Any clue that she wasn’t doing okay. And you feel a sense of dread, because that skill, you realize, has now made you aware of similar circumstances in the people around you.

Not to mention, you are a child of divorce. You know what that fear feels like.

You just want to know if Juno feels safe at home.

“Hey, um…” you start, turning slightly to finally face Gojo, your eyes hesitantly flickering up to meet his gaze, “when was the last time you saw your brother-in-law? And with Sana?”

He raises a brow at you. “I just saw them last weekend for one of Juno’s dance recitals.”

“Ah…I see,” you say. You purse your lips together.

Right. Kids say things all the time. They believe in Santa Claus and think that blueberry pancakes are called blubbery pancakes. And they sometimes read too into things, and they sometimes read too little. Surely, things must be okay. Maybe Sana and Jun had had a little argument with some stubbornly thawing cold shoulders, a demeanor that was noticed by their child, and now things have resumed to normal. That was normal. Part of every family. “That’s good to know…”

You turn away from Gojo to stare back down into the bowl of macerated peaches again. With a furrowed brow, you close your eyes tightly to try to shake the chilly feeling in your bones, and you feel better when you open them again. The slightly numb sensation in your hand dissipates and you have enough dexterity to mix the peaches around in the bowl.

“I wonder what news they want to share with us over dinner,” you say, to quell the awkward silence.

“Hm?” Gojo hums, and you see him turn around face the counter now, hovering over the bowl of raw crumble topping you had mixed together, prodding at it with the wooden spoon. “Oh, they’re moving.”

Your head snaps to look at him. “W-What?”

“Yeah,” he nonchalantly affirms, scooping up a spoonful of the crumble. “They wanted to up-size, and move a little closer to the school that Juno’s at. I found them a nice place about an hour from here on the outskirts of the city. They just signed the papers a couple weeks ago.” And then he shoves the spoon into his mouth.

“Oh…wow,” you say. “Okay…”

“Damn,” Gojo says with surprise laced in his tone, "this is really good.” He’s staring into the bowl in awe and then scoops up some more crumble with a spoon.

You blink at him, irritated that he’s eating all your ingredients without even asking, and before you’ve even finished your dessert. It’s like he was born to piss you off.

You walk up to him and yank the bowl away, “Gimme that.” Then you pull it into the divot of your waist possessively and glare at him.

He sighs, and then says something out loud that you’re sure he meant to keep in his head:

“I’ll get used to it.”

[end of chapter 5]

a/n. it feels so strange to post such a short chapter bahaha hopefully the ending isn't too abrupt. but hope you enjoyed! i'm so sorry ab the slow burn in this series aaa but i can try to assure you that it'll all be worth it hopefully lol i'm really excited for what i have planned for this series!! alsooo sorry if there are errors or anything, i'm trying to spend less time editing since it really stalls me n leads to writer's block lol. hope to see you in the next one :) much love! - ellie

➸ take me to chapter six!

🏷️: @tremendousbouquetflower @semra4 @noctuaism @gojonegs @reinam00n

@bloopsstuff @bbyxxm @yungbloode @elloredef @spriteshawtyy

@joemama-2 @luniunia @4y3sh4 @ironhottubstranger @lushafterglow

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note. going foward, i will be tagging only interacts because i want to make sure i'm tagging active readers! so taglist may change every chapter. i'm also getting rid of the extended taglist bc it's too much work for me lol, so only 50 tags per chapter. i'd recommend subscribing to the fic on my ao3 so you can get email notifs :) but as always let me know if/when your taglist preferences change; please do not ask me/pressure me for updates or ask me when i am going to next update (read rules)

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chronicallycouchbound · 10 months ago

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PSA: Please don’t ask participants to do grounding/mindful/somatic/etc practices at your events

Grounding exercises should not be an activity in large group settings, especially unsolicited and without warning, especially if you’re not aware of every single person in the space’s mental health conditions, physical health conditions, and personal relationship to their body.

Practices such as mindfulness, grounding, somatic exercises, breathing techniques, body scans, etc. are very helpful therapeutic tools to help manage stress. They can (and do!) help plenty of people– when taught safely and used effectively!

HOWEVER for people with conditions that cause psychosis and/or dissociative conditions such as depersonalization/derealization, these techniques are contraindicated and can make their symptoms significantly worse. They should only be used with guidance from their mental health team and adapted to their needs. For people with conditions like anxiety and PTSD, being aware of breathing can trigger a trauma response or anxiety attacks.

And for people with conditions that cause chronic pain or other uncomfortable bodily sensations, becoming re-centered with their bodies can cause more awareness of the pain they are in, which a level of (ideally functional) dissociation is actually helpful. For people in wheelchairs and powerchairs, touching the ground beneath their feet isn’t always an option. For people with cardiac and pulmonary conditions, deep breathing can be impossible or can trigger asthma attacks. For disabled people in general, doing body scans can be impossible due to paralysis or limb differences. They can bring awareness to things the person wasn’t aware were wrong to begin with (which is helpful in certain spaces, but not a great ice breaker at a retreat!)

And for trans people, binders and other garments can restrict breathing, and taking repeated deep breaths while binding can cause rib damage (which is why you shouldn't bind at night, while coughing from sickness, while exercising, etc). Becoming centered in a body that makes you dysphoric can be deeply distressing, again, a level of functional dissociation helps.

This also goes for plenty of other people in marginalized bodies, such as people of color, people who use substances, queer people, and more. Becoming grounded in your own marginalized body can be a heavy weight to carry, and needs appropriate and individualized care to be a beneficial experience.

As an alternative, I suggest doing a round of gratitudes instead, it allows for people to choose their level of vulnerability in spaces, while not being generally contraindicated for many people. Doing fun (and appropriate to the setting) icebreakers are great. Ask what brings someone to the space. Check-ins about basic needs such as if people need to use the restroom, eat, drink water, are rested, etc. can be more appropriate body check-ins for folks to do.

I don’t recommend doing these exercises even with a warning beforehand. If I'm in the room while someone is leading a breathing exercise, even if I try to ignore it, I (and most people) would automatically become aware of my breathing. The same goes for any other techniques. These techniques can cause real, life-threatening levels of harm for some people, and can even just be deeply uncomfortable or distressing for others. Dissociation is not inherently evil or bad or harmful. It is the way the body and mind naturally respond to adverse experiences (note: it can also cause distress and at higher levels, can be disordered) it is best to allow people to exist as they are in communal spaces. Let people show up as they are.

Most spaces are not equipped or appropriate to respond to emergencies, difficult feelings, and all the varied responses that can come from folks doing mindfulness in group settings.

I personally do some things before large gatherings and events to feel centered on the activity I’ll be doing, and afterward, I decompress. Encourage participants to lean on their natural supports and offer suggestions for it! Be creative in your caring!

This also doesn’t mean to discourage these practices! If you see someone doing deep breathing, check in with them, offer a space for them to decompress, care for them! Worksheets or posters on techniques like square breathing and 5 senses check-ins are great for a quiet room or spaces where participants can decide if they want/are able to engage with those tools. It should be a fully consensual opt-in, rather than being forced to opt-out. Having to leave a room when a group leader says “We’re going to start a mindful breathing meditation, please feel free to leave if you have psychosis, chronic pain, or are trans” is obviously othering and outs people.

Sincerely, someone who has psychotic symptoms, dissociation, chronic pain, is trans and whose body is marginalized in many ways and is really tired from trying to explain this at every event I go to

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cheol-e-kat · 3 months ago

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𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐢 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲𝐮…

would you buy them? would you be nice to them?

𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐫: 0.6k

pairing: k.mg x f!reader

summary: in an alternate universe where ai bots exist, y/n's friends surprise her with an ai assistant, and she has no clue what to do with this happy, perky, chatty invader who looks and seems like the most understanding person to exist...except he isn't human

genre: sci-fi au, ai!mingyu, human!reader, possessive mingyu

teaser warnings: explicit language, mentioned nudity, mentioned anxiety and depression

𝐚𝐝: 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲𝐮𝐀𝐢 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐀𝐢! 𝐀𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝟏𝟕𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲𝐮𝐀𝐢 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝟗 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟎 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐬! 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲𝐮𝐀𝐢 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐭𝐨 ��𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲𝐮𝐀𝐢 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝟐𝟎% 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲𝐮𝐀𝐢 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐬!

✮⋆˙

y/n knew she was staring, but she was in disbelief. she couldn’t believe what was being unboxed in her foyer. a bot. a fucking ai bot that she certainly didn’t order.

the technician was at work unwrapping the bot and chatting away about the manual, aka a binder that was around 3000 pages of information that y/n would never read.

the only things that really sank in before the technician initiated the ‘wake’ sequence was that there was a case of ai brand water, snacks, and a subscription for the special hair and body wash needed to protect the longevity of the bot’s skin and hair.

y/n wanted to cry - she could barely remember to feed herself, despite the approximately 5,000 reminders she set, and now she needed to feed a bot…an ai bot that probably knew how to take care of itself and an entire family based on what the technician was saying.

she knew joshua had been mentioning a bot for a while, but she had no idea her well-meaning friend would actually order one and have it shipped to her house!

✮⋆˙

she remembered the last time they had coffee, when joshua had told y/n that she looked like shit, with his annoying little smile.

he had gone on, “you know they make them for all kinds of reasons now, even for things like you know, mental health things,” he was trying to be delicate.

y/n had rolled her eyes, “depression and anxiety, are those the things you're talking about? i’m not going to die if you mention them,” she had poked at her pastry in annoyance.

joshua had rolled his eyes in return, “i mean, i don’t know, it might be nice to know that maybe you’ll remember to eat and shower if there’s basically a person there to remind you,” he shrugged, looking a bit frustrated.

y/n had just sat silently until joshua changed the subject to his own life, aka how happy he was.

✮⋆˙

and now y/n was looking at a bot. a thing that she personally found ethically fraught - the existence of bots disturbed her. she refused to have any in her house outside of her phone and a few speakers.

she did tend to ask her phone a lot of things. but it wasn’t like she was holding a conversation with her phone. she wasn’t sitting down with her phone and asking it deep questions. she worried her lower lip as she saw more and more bubble wrap and foam being pulled away from the bot.

she hated that she noticed how the bot looked - she noticed his high cheekbones and the pretty shape of his lips. she glanced away quickly, feeling like a creep, like she was intruding on its privacy. she turned away completely when she realized that the bot hadn’t come clothed.

but she made the mistake of glancing back to respond to the technician about something, just in time to see the bot’s ample, flaccid cock, surrounded by downy pubic hair. she flushed in embarrassment and wished she could go hide in her room. she knew there were bots specifically for sex, but did one meant for mental health really need to be that fully equipped, she wondered.

everything about this made her uncomfortable. she had already sent joshua a long string of text messages, mostly along the lines of ‘what the fuck is happening?’, but joshua was ignoring her.

she sighed but didn’t dare turn back around. instead, she slunk over to the living room sofa and plopped onto the cushions. she made sure her robe was tightly around her, so she could lie there, pretending that she could blend in with the sofa until this was over.

unfortunately, she heard the technician’s chirpy voice announce that the bot was ready for her review. y/n groaned and shifted to stand slowly - she glanced quickly to be sure the bot was at least dressed. luckily, it was.

she made her way over to the bot. all boxes and packing materials were gone.

the technician smiled brightly, “so are you ready to meet him?”

yea, idk i love ai aus - sooo hopefully you all will like this too - yay possessive mingyu (in the future - you don't know about that yet ^^)

♡ kat

p.s. he is gluten free tho >.<

in the meantime

⋆.˚ my [master list] if you want to read more

⋆.˚ if you want to be tagged in my posts, go [here]

[ taglist ] ☁︎ @syluslittlecrows [e] ☁︎ @gyuguys [e] ☁︎ @tinyelfperson [e] ☁︎ @unlikelysublimekryptonite [e] ☁︎ @livelaughloveseventeen [e] ☁︎ @codeinebelle [e] ☁︎ @ateez-atiny380 [e] ☁︎ @mingcouper [e] ☁︎ @hanniebub [e] ☁︎ @perfectiondazesworld [e] ☁︎ @scoupshawty [e] ☁︎ @peachytokki [e] ☁︎

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flippinpancakes64 · 10 months ago

Note

Hello, I absolutely love your work. iv re read your stuff so many times that it's getting concerning.

Can I request the cullens x artist reader who made a painting of them I just think that would be cute

The Cullens with an Artist! Reader

Thank you?!?! I suggest seeking mental help for rereading my bad stories tho

Thank you for requesting and I hope you enjoy!

Edward:

We all know that he is an artist too

He made Bella a whole song on the piano

As someone who can play the piano, that’s not easy

So he definitely loves that you’re also artistic

For you, he’s a muse

I mean, how could he not be

Literally the definition of perfect

So obvs you sketch him a lot

When he finds an almost finished painting one day of him, he is floored

He can never seem to wrap his mind around the fact that you are just as obsessed with him as he is with you

He hangs it up

Even if it’s not finished

If you insist on finishing it, he will begrudgingly take it down and give it back

But as soon as it’s done it’s all his

Alice:

She’s also an artist

But more with fashion

And design

She’s not so well-versed with the classical arts like painting or sketching

So she always loves seeing your paintings

She’s a coexistence girly

She loves to just be doing something while you’re painting

You know just sort of existing in the same space at the same time

The day you give her the painting, she is so surprised

It was so difficult for you to hide this from her

Especially with her gift

She absolutely loves it

She hangs it in the main room of the Cullen house

She wants absolutely everyone to see it and acknowledge how talented her s/o is

Jasper:

He loves the arts

They’re relaxing to him

Some of his favorite classes he’s ever taken in all of the schools they’ve been at have been art classes

He’s not good by any means, but he loves it anyway

Art dates with him are a must

He would love that tiktok trend where you and your partner trade paintings every couple of minutes

Never misses an opportunity to tell you that he loves your work

He honestly almost started crying when you showed him your painting of him

You made him look so happy, so peaceful

He’s used to being perceived as a monster

Definitely hangs it up

But only in his room

He wants to be the only one to see it

Rosalie:

She’s more of a technical, sciencey person

Not to say she doesn’t like art

Just that she doesn’t necessarily enjoy making it

She can definitely appreciate good work tho

And she loves everything you make

She buys you new supplies all of the time

If just one pen ran out of ink in your favorite set, she would buy you a whole new set

When you give her that first painting though, she’s obsessed

She wants at least 20 more by tomorrow

But actually, she knows that she’s beautiful

But something about the way you capture her is just so different she loves it

Emmett:

He’s not an art person either

He’s a bit of a meathead

But he can appreciate art

Probably not as deeply as other people can

But he know when it looks good

And he genuinely thinks you’re the best artist ever

He will gladly put all of your little doodles in the clear pockets of his binders

And hang them on his locker

When you give him the painting of him he’s actually dumbfounded

Like awestruck

What do you mean the best artist in the world just made a painting of him?

Get ready to be cuddled for the rest of the night

Esme:

Resident artist

We already knew that tho

I’m pretty sure it’s said that she’s the one who made the grad cap piece?

Idk

Either way she loves art

Pottery dates, painting picnics, date nights at the art museum

She loves it

So if you were to ever paint her and give it to her?

Yeah she’s gonna start crying

She just loves art, she loves you, and you put them together and she’s so in love

She hangs it in the main room

It doesn’t matter if the colors clash

And it’s never coming down

Carlisle:

Another appreciater of the arts

I mean, he probably knew Da Vinci on a personal level this guy is so old

So it’s no shock

Whenever he’s home and hanging out with you, he loves to watch you paint or draw

Especially if he’s doing some paperwork

I just feel like he would like the company while he’s working

Now I don’t see Carlisle as the type of guy to necessarily enjoy pictures or paintings of himself

The only portraits he has in his office are either him in a crowd or family photos

So when you give him a portrait of himself, he’s a little shocked at first

He doesn’t want to seem narcissistic, but damn you made him look good

He hangs it up in your shared bedroom

Even though he knows he will likely never have guests who would see it, he wants to make sure it’s hidden

He just doesn’t want people to think he’s vain

But he secretly loves it so much

Vampire! Bella:

I think I’ve talked about it before but this girl would have loved deviantart

Rip Bella you would have loved fan art of your favorite characters

But she totally had an artsy phase

I don’t think she’s necessarily good or bad

She just prefers to look at art rather than make it

So that’s where you come in

She loves just watching you work

Every once in a while she paints with you

But she always feels inferior when she looks at what you made vs what she made

So she usually just sticks to admiring

The first time you give her a portrait of herself, she doesn’t even know what to do

She’s still getting used to actually perceiving herself as beautiful

And then you capture her like she’s a goddess?

She needs to lie down

She loves it tho

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rangerbarbz · 11 months ago

Text

Study Sessions

“Study Sessions”

Author’s Note: Had some time to start another blurb! (After reading Book of Bill I’m thinking about writing about Ford possessed by Bill idk) I hope y’all enjoy this one! Let me know what you think lovelies <3 EDIT: OH MY GOODNESS I DID NOT SEE ALL THE INBOX REPLIES I HAD I AM SO SORRRYYYY I HAVE SOME REQUEST IDEAS IN THERE I’D LOVE TO DO

You had conquered every single class at Backupsmore with either an A or a B as your final grade. You wouldn’t say you were a genius by any means, but you took pride in your schoolwork and wished to graduate as soon as possible. This changed when you began taking physics. You had never been so stumped by a subject. The equations, the laws, and the Godforsaken labs were the bane of your existence.

Your determined nature refused to let you fail, so you decided to ask your professor for help. He began doting on his star student Stanford Pines who had taken his class the previous semester and was excelling through the upper level classes. Your professor suggested reaching out to him because he had recently become a S.I. for the introductory physics and chemistry courses. He handed you a Post-It note with his name and the hours when he was going to be in the library.

After your last class of the day, you strolled over to the library on campus, nervous for your first session. He was so smart and you were afraid that he would get frustrated with how little you understood this subject. You made your way to the S.I. lab on campus and tapped your knuckle on the wooden door that was open. There was no one at any of the tables, but there were scattered notebook paper scribbled on and a textbook open.

“Hello?” you called, looking around for a sign of anyone. Suddenly, a head popped up from underneath the table. He had ruffled brown hair and black, square glasses.

“Hello!” the man replied, getting up from the floor. “Sorry about that. I had dropped my pen before you walked in.” He then sat on the rolling chair and scooted it closer to the table. “I’m Stanford, but you can call me Ford. I assume you’re here for physics help?”

You smiled. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you, Ford. Yes, I am here for physics. My professor recommended you to me.” You placed your backpack on the floor and sat in the chair beside him. “I just want to go ahead and warn you, I’ve had trouble in this class. I hope I don’t frustrate you too much.”

Ford chuckled. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I know you’re a smart girl. Do you have any homework that needs to be completed?” You felt your face become warm. Smart girl. You enjoyed him calling you that. There was nothing quite like academic praise to a scholar.

“Uh, yes I do actually,” you answered, not letting your train of thought derail. You pulled your binder from the first pocket of your backpack and set it on the table in front of you two. “It’s ten problems, so if I miss more than three of them that means I have a D,” you continued as you removed the worksheet from the rings. “I am shooting for at least a C in the class overall.”

He grinned at you like he was happy about doing physics. “Well, I believe you’re going to get no less than an A in that class.” You laughed at his confidence in you.

“I don’t know about that, but I appreciate it, Ford,” you replied, twirling your pencil between your fingers. You gazed into his eyes; the sunlight from the window brought out hints of gold in his dark brown irises. Wow, they were so pretty.

He then cocked his head to the side. “Pardon? Did you just say ‘pretty?’” he asked with a smile tugging at his lips.

Your face immediately became hot. Oh my God you spoke out loud not meaning to. Okay how do you save this conversation. You laughed nervously. “Pretty excited to start learning that is! Ha! Let’s get started, please. I can’t wait!” you exclaimed, all in one breath.

Ford nodded. “What a great attitude to have, Y/N!” He then picked up his pencil and began to explain the first problem to you. He was so good at going into detail about every little thing. He was patient with you as well which was good because he kept on distracting you.

The more you focused on him, the more features you noticed. His glasses had scratches on the wire rims, he had a prominent, square jaw, and he had unkempt sideburns. He was so damn good looking it made you want to study thermodynamics forever if it meant you got to look at him.

You had actually gone through the homework quicker than you thought you would, so Ford asked if you would want to practice some extra problems on the blackboard. Of course you agreed. You walked up to the board ready to write whatever he threw at you but feeling self-conscious about being the center of his attention like this. He was still sitting at the table reciting the equation back to you while you stood out in the open. You then pushed your insecurity to the side in order to show him you had actually learned something today. He carefully observed you as you wrote, watching the cogs in your brain turn. He also was watching the way your face contorted in concentration and the way your fingers tapped against the chalk tray.

“Alright. I think I’m done, Ford.” You moved to the side so he could see your final answer.

He smiled at you, putting his hands on his knees to get up. “Let’s see what ya got,” he responded, walking over to stand beside you. You didn’t realize when he was sitting how tall he was compared to you or how broad his chest was. He began to mumble under his breath, making sure there were no mistakes present. “Everything looks good Y/N!” He then turned toward you, his eyes meeting yours.

“You know, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Look at what you accomplished in just this short amount of time! If you keep on coming to my sessions, I know you can get through this class without worry.” Ford paused and looked back at the board, hands held behind his back. “It would make me happy to see you succeed.”

You beamed back at him. Would it be inappropriate to kiss him right now?

You (obviously) continued going to Ford’s S.I. sessions because your grade improved with each one you went to. You had also spent some time outside of the library together by doing some photography of the wildlife around campus while Ford doodled in his sketchbook. People usually clocked him as an introvert, but he was not like that with you. He had opened up quite a bit to you about his past and what he wanted to do in the future.

Today, you had met Ford on a bench outside his dormitory after your physics class had let out to share some good news with him. “Ford!” you called out. He looked up to see you waving a paper marked with an A+ in red ink. “Guess who got the highest grade in the class on the test last week?” you squealed.

“Yes!” Ford said triumphantly, standing up quickly to pump his fists in the air. His sketchbook fell to the ground with some of the loose papers coming out. “I’m so proud of you!” You put your hands on his strong shoulders and jumped up and down.

“Thank you thank you thank you! I’m just tickled pink right now,” you responded happily, bending down to pick up his drawings before the wind caught them. Ford’s face suddenly fell.

“Oh here I’ll get that,” he started, kneeling down on the concrete beside you. He was trying to pick up the papers that fell out as fast as possible, but you were faster.

Your eyes grew wide as you picked up a paper with drawings of a woman reading a textbook, in a tree taking a picture of a bird, and one where she was just laughing. They were all you. Your breath hitched in your throat as you looked at them. They were so beautiful.

“Y/N I’m so sorry. I- I can explain,” Ford stammered. “I- I have…liked you for a while now. You just are always on my mind, so I end up drawing you sometimes.”

“I like you too,” you cut him off.

His face was flushed beyond belief. “I, well, uh-”

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you stated. Ford’s eyebrows lifted as you closed the gap between you with a sweet kiss. He let out the tiniest sigh at the contact, his eyes fluttering close. You held his face in your hands and separated your lips from his to see his reaction. He was still blushing with a goofy smile on his lipstick stained face.

“That was nice. Should’ve done that sooner,” he joked. You giggled and began to kiss him rapidly on his cheeks and forehead. You had left red stains of your lips with each smooch you gave him.

“Yeah, you should have, smart guy.” He rolled his eyes and held your chin between his thumb and index finger to pull you in for another kiss. You smiled against his lips.

“I can’t wait to tell Fiddleford about this,” Ford murmured.

“ And I can’t wait to see Fiddleford’s reaction to my assault on your face,” you laughed.

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beehunterkisser · 1 month ago

Note

What do you think the PnF kids get up to during the non-summer months?

THIS IS A FUN ONE. Since it's not summer I'm assuming you mean like school 'nd stuff so here's my musings from the perspective of someone who only knows Ireland School

Phineas and Ferb def strike me as kids who have relatively good attendance at school but that doesn't mean they like it all that much. obviously whenever it'd be shown in the show they have to be good examples so they'd love it But Phineas in particular strikes me as someone who would get REALLY bored in a class setting. frustrating teachers worldwide by not doing homework doodling during class but getting insanely good results no matter what. Ferb seems more diligent in that regard so he'd probably do just fine but their hearts aren't rlly in it yk. Outside of that I can imagine their 'big ideas' during the non-summer months are a lot less common since they just get the weekend and the occasional seasonal holiday to make anything.

Isabella I think is probably also a good student and takes it a lot more seriously than PNF. I don't really know much about how girl scout troops work cause they're like non existent here unless ur in a city apparently so I can't really think about that too much. You know she LOVES extracurriculars though. she's in sports teams for sure I drew her in a GAA jersey in one of my doodle pages this is so real to me. Head of a bunch of the girl teams and everything I literally cannot imagine a situation where Isabella would Not lead a group it's just in her blood.

Baljeet has had perfect attendance since he began learning anything. Not a single day missed every single piece of work done to perfection and then some. he's crazy. He's def a teacher's pet type too you know they all love him. they had to pull him aside and be like You gotta let the other kids answer things every so often and he was just like 😐 Ok ..... He also totally does like really advanced after school classes. he's got a rigorous schedule if you wanna hang out during the school season you ask weeks in advance. Colour coded binders and detailed journals and completely neat intricate notes. he has it all down to a T he's an academic force to be reckoned with. And sometimes he even gets 6 hrs of sleep on a good day!!!!!

Buford. Does not gaf. Busted ass bag ruined books etc he's the opposite of Baljeet. The school calls Biffany and they're like ur son hasn't been going to school for the past 2 weeks and she's like Yea ik he's right here he's carrying in my groceries for me. he just doesn't go and she doesn't care either cause she's def the type of mother to just be like in the morning . do u wanna go. And if he says No she's just like Ok. Whenever he does come in obviously hes terrorizing Nerds/His Nerd all day so he has his reputation he's also just winning the idgaf war on the side. He probably spends his time like being a mild nuisance to retail workers/trying to convince his friends to mitch too and trespassing into people's fields. Probably when he's older and actually important exams come up he crams everything in the car on the way there and actually does decently well. Buford wins by doing nothing.

#words #I didnt mean to write so kuch lol #Im just a yappadoodle

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hoardingpuffin · 2 months ago

Text

Trans Elwood Thinky-Thoughts

[I almost called them headcanons y'all. This is in fact my own guy though. I decide what's canon. Wtf]

- dysphoric Elwood is gruuuuumpyyyyy

- we saw this a tiny bit in canon, but Elwood when dysphoric is gonna bundle up in a sweater and hide under his blankets and pretend the world doesn't exist [unless forcibly pulled out if his state of dysphoric cocooning]

- he also gets snappy when dysphoric - more so than usual. He's way too aware of their body and voice when dysphoric and it's overwhelming, so any small thing can set them off

- El wooouuuuld be on Bird-T I think, but not regularily, I guess? Since I am thinking HRT in the Islands is hard to come by and so he'd probably hoard it and try to stretch it if possible? In the New World... no idea, but I'll assume he'd be able to access T more accessibly in the New World at soooome point? After a while, once the people have banded together and set up communities and towns and such, at least

- having long hair does not make El feel dysphoric - they actually feel more comfortable as their hair grows longer. I don't think the orphanage caretakers had time to enforce ideas of gendered haircuts on the kids so to him it's a purely sensory-based thing, and they prefer the sensory of the weight and texture of their long hair

- I'd like to say Elwood binds responsibly but... canon says otherwise. Man's canonically not taken off their binder after wearing it for several days in a row, and wore a more-broken-than-not binder that was mended about a hundred times soooo... yeah. Maybe he gets better about it in the New World though?

#bound smp #skybound smp #bound smp elwood #boundsmp #elwood kirchhof #trans character #canon trans character

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sleepwithgiggli · 2 months ago

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An Important message from Reddit

Hey loves,

I just wanna drop something real here, because I know a lot of us are out here surviving conversations with people who say they support us, but then hit us with the emotional equivalent of a wet sock to the face. You know the type:

“I support you… but you’ll always be my [deadname/brother/sister/whatever].”

“I’m here if you want to talk… but I just can’t call you that name.”

“It’s just hard for me to see you like this.”

Babes, let me be real: support without respect is just noise. And we’re not here for noise; we’re here for truth, joy, power, healing, and absolutely zero tolerance for soft bigotry wrapped in family dinner smiles.

Let me be even more real: You are valid. You are real. You are becoming. And it is fking beautiful.

So, how do we deal with this mess?

Let’s talk boundaries. That sexy, magical spell that protects your peace without you having to explain your existence for the 900th time.

Setting boundaries doesn’t mean you’re mean. It means you’re a damn adult who values your mental health.

Here are some easy lines that say “I love myself” without starting a war:

“I’m not having this conversation again. Either you respect me or we don’t talk about it.”

“You don’t have to understand me to treat me with basic decency.”

“If you keep misgendering me, I’m leaving this conversation. Every time.”

“You don’t get to ‘support’ me halfway. This isn’t a build-your-own sandwich.”

Boundaries are hot. Boundaries are queer. Boundaries are survival.

But what if they’re “family”?

Cool. And? Blood doesn’t mean unlimited access to your life. You’re allowed to choose distance over disrespect. You’re allowed to say, “I love you, but I won’t tolerate this.” You’re allowed to walk away. And if that feels heavy? Baby, community will catch you.

Okay, now give me the goods. Where can I go for help, freebies, or just a damn break?

Here’s a mini treasure chest of resources (US-focused with some global):

Therapy & Mental Health • Open Path Collective – low-cost therapy: https://openpathcollective.org/ • Inclusive Therapists – find therapists who get it: https://www.inclusivetherapists.com/ • Trans Lifeline – call or text for peer support: https://translifeline.org/ • 7 Cups – free support chats when you need to talk: https://www.7cups.com/

Freebies & Essentials • Point of Pride – free binders, gaffs, electrolysis, HRT support, and surgery grants: https://www.pointofpride.org/ • Transgender Map – literally a guide for everything from ID changes to coming out: https://www.transgendermap.com/ • FLAVNT Streetwear Binder Program – get help paying for your binder: https://flavnt.com/ • Local LGBTQ+ centers often have clothing swaps, hygiene kits, and community support. Check CenterLink to find one near you. https://www.lgbtqcenters.org/LGBTCenters

Legal Help • TLDEF Name Change Project – legal name change help in several states: https://transequality.org/name-change-project • GLAD – for legal rights info and help across New England and beyond: https://www.gladlaw.org/ • Lambda Legal – national legal organization for LGBTQIA+ rights: https://lambdalegal.org/

Finally, to anyone struggling:

You are not “too much.” You’re not a burden. You’re not asking for too much by wanting to be respected as who you are. You’re asking for bare minimum humanity—and you deserve so much more than the bare minimum.

If the people around you can’t rise to meet you? Baby, step over them in your cutest boots and keep walking. Chosen family is real. We are out here. And we see you.

You are a masterpiece in motion. You are the main character. And anyone who refuses to get with the program can choke on their pronouns.

Stay soft. Stay fierce. Drink water. Block transphobes.

Love, Alessia

A loud trans babe who’s done shrinking

------------------------

Since there's been some confusion, I didn't write this - it just spoke to me and I wanted to share it. The writer was Alessia on reddit, there should be a link to the source below.

#hope #trans

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cccakessslicemeee · 2 months ago

Text

I genuinely wanna see Riz not do save the world shit. Like it's great he does that. Love that about him. But I also wanna see him chill the fuck out and enjoy the breeze. I know it's not in his nature to chill the fuck out but like maybe he gets some work that's less intense?

Shenanigans. Maybe senior year and just the whole rouge bullshit class in general give him a bunch of time. The clubs don't happen until after school hours anyway so he's got time.

Maybe he gets into photography? He was already kinda doing that with evidence anyway at least to some degree. Or like someone comes up to him and is like... Hey my grandma's recipes have been lost in a fire and I know you are not the guy for cooking but you solve mysteries so please? I'll pay you?

Riz is like okay... Sure why not let's figure this out.

And spends a lot of time researching food and ingredients. This is a really long and time consuming "mission" because maybe it was a whole ass cook book that was a family heir look for a halfing family that owned a lil bed and breakfast or cafe in Bastion city and they caught fire bc [literally anything could fucking happen in magical fantasy blah blah blah land but I specifically DO NOT WANT IT TO BE INSURANCE FRAUD bc that's already been done and I want Riz to focus on the food bullshit because it's significantly less stressful...although he'd stress about it]

His clue board is revamped and it looks like one of those Pinterest boards with the cute as hell foods all over it and missing ingredients. Riz has to figure out the differences between onions and butters and different types of salt and brown sugar vs. white. Just like the prettiest clue board ever. Food is bizarrely complex.

Sklonda and probably Gorthalax coming back from work and the house smells a bakery. There's cookies and cakes and eggs and just a shit ton of food that Riz is trying to find the right flavor and spices for. The bad kids are hanging around eating his "mistakes"

Fabian is like "The Ball, you can cook???"

Riz shouts from the kitchen "ITS A BASIC LIFE SKILL FABIAN. EVERYONE CAN COOK."

Fabian would disagree after his mother's debacle with the cantaloupe.

Adine and Fig assuring Riz is very well done and happily eating everything he cooks. He's gotten so much better and Riz is like "yeah it's good but it's too spicy and this is a halfing recipe from like... Before the court of stars existed they wouldn't have-" and bla bla blah. He is looking for specifics.

I feel like Riz would bar everyone from the kitchen while he's working. Because God forbid Kristen come in there and poke her fingers in the dough. She so would. I'm pretty sure everyone would be tempted. Plus he can't have his walkway to the oven crowded.

I like to imagine that he has a kitchen area set up in the cooking club that people leave the fuck alone and also his home. Like it's hard work sure and his shoulders get fucked up from mixing batter all the time but like nobody is dying or fighting so it's kinda nice that way.

I can't say he'd love this or this would be enough to make him love cooking/baking. It's a toss up between hating it all entirely or finding that repetition and the making a plan/ the recipe. He'd pour his heart and soul into every dish he makes.

Also like personal preference and the distinctions between dishes that make them so different. I think it's funny if he makes a dish and Fabian tries it and he's all like "Mm. The last one you made was significantly better this is bland."

And riz is all like "oh? Really? Perfect."

"You were going for bland??"

"it's not bland Fabian it's just not seasoned with pepper and I used a shallot-"

"Oh? The weakest of the onions?"

Shit like that

He makes a whole binder. Maybe because Fabian always has something to say he slips in a couple of suggestion recipes or updates for a modern tongue.

The half ling who requested help is over the moon. Maybe the Pinterest clue board becomes a part of the menu. It would absolutely have the "stats" of all the food and where it came from, shit like calories and allergies. Just a wildly detailed thing

Also maybe he can take his mom out for dinner at the restaurant he kinda helped save. That would be cute.

#d20 fantasy high #riz gukgak #sklonda gukgak #the bad kids #fig faeth #adine abernant #gorthalax the insatiable #kristen applebees #fabian seacaster #gorgug thistlespring

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dervampireprince · 5 months ago

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youtube

ASMR | Castlevania - Alucard x Listener SFW Comforting Alucard After A Nightmare

[M4A] [Set soon after the finale of Castlevania Season 4 (there are no Nocturne spoilers here)] [Established romantic relationship] [Reverse nightmare comfort] [TW mentions of death, murder, very brief mention of Alucard's sexual assault that happens in season 3, death of parents and grieving]

Didn't realise season 2 of Nocturne was releasing so soon and I wasn't sure if I'd get around to watching it, saw one picture of Olrox, and whoops watched the entire season in one evening. This audio was requested before season 2 came out and was scheduled for later but I brought it forwards since hopefully there will be some want for Alucard right now. I got too inot this one and how much I need Vlad and Lisa to have told Adrian that they're still alive that while pretending to cry in this audio I actually started crying oops. It's a shame the Castlevania shows aren't more popular. I always see such a lack of fanworks compared to other shows like Arcane. I know there is more horror and violence in Castlevania than Arcane, but Castlevania and Nocturne are such wonderful shows, well-written, beautifully animated, and nice representation on top of all of that.

A non-spoilery thing that got me with season 2 is how often Mizrak was allowed to cry, not just a little welling of tears in his eyes, this big stereotypically macho masculine man was allowed to just sob over and over, in front of other men, and he was never shamed for it, never embarrassed by doing it. And that shouldn't be so groundbreaking to me in 2024, but sadly I think there still isn't enough of male characters being allowed to show intense emotions that aren't anger. I've also loved in the Castlevania shows how gay/queer relationships are normalised. Striga and Morana, Alucard being bisexual, Olrox and Mizrak... there's never any homophobia thrown at them by other characters. Mizrak might have internalise-homophobia, but his inner conflict seems to more be because Olrox is a vampire not that he's a man. And I don't care whether that's historically accurate, I personally like seeing historical and fantasy settings where they just decide homophobia/transphobia don't exist. I don't think that's erasure, I think it can be an enjoyable fantasy for queer people to enjoy a period drama where queer people can exist in the open with the understanding that this is a fantasy piece and not a historical documentary. I don't know, maybe that's just me who loves historical settings who would love to see and read stories about gay and trans characters being able to be out in the 1800s and what that would look like, what a 1700s binder could have looked like, what 1920s advertisements for shaving razors aimed at trans fems could have looked like, things like that. I don't know, maybe that's just me, I just think it's fun to think about. Sorry that this ramble ended up in an audio description.

Anyway I'm glad I got an Alucard request, I love him very much. And I love his Nocturne design. I've seen some complain about it but they frankly sound like borderline transphobia when they're complaining that he 'looks to feminine'. I think he looks beautiful, and it's definitely giving the same aesthetics as Ayami Kojima's original illustrations and concept for Castlevania where frankly most of the men she draws look more androgynous than typically 'masculine'.

Old public spicy audios on sound gasm (link in pinned post). 2 Exclusive spicy audios on Patreon every month. I also stream on Twitch every week @ dervampireprince . [minors + ageless blogs dni. this blog is for 18+ only.] [do not repost/reupload/edit any of my content]

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illyrian-dreamer · 2 years ago

Text

Our girl – Part 6

Azriel x Cassian x fem reader angst

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Violence, character death

<<< Part 5

“Y/N, we are ready for you,” Thesan said with a soft smile.

You swallowed as you entered the decadent marble room, the binder under your arm almost bursting with hundreds of papers of research you collated.

Several powerful sets of eyes fell on you, and you forced your own forward, fighting the instinct to cast them low in respect. You were doing this for Prythian, for all fae – they should feel honoured for the opportunity, not you.

With smiles from Tarquin and Tamlin, you took the seat Thesan withdrew for you – the tall, regal shape foreign as it pressed to your back.

Rhysand and Feyre sat opposite, their eyes warm beneath their gaze. But you were too preoccupied to meet it.

“And since when are we in the business of inviting commoners to these meetings? I won't share my table with court-crossing whores.”

You let out a tired breath, your patience for the male ego completely diminished over the past years.

“I suppose you’ve excused that every time one of your sons has sat for these meetings, Beron?”

The words had left your mouth before you could stop them.

Beron’s eyes widened, his face flushing red, and a few snorts and stifled laughs could be heard across the table.

Fuck – you could kiss Autumn’s allegiance goodbye. You would have to be a lot less impulsive if you were to make it out of this meeting alive.

"I will not–" Beron began, his hands curling into fists.

“Oh calm yourself Beron, you had no right to insult her in the first place.” Tarquin was grinning at you – ever the loyal friend. You gave him a tight smile to say thanks.

“And if you’re wondering who invited her here, you can steer your anger towards me,” Tamlin spoke smoothly, intertwining his fingers as he placed his solid arms on the table, meeting Beron’s glare with confidence.

“I for one, would like to hear what Y/N has to say,” Feyre added, with a confident nod to you.

It seemed you had an alliance at play all along.

With clear of your throat, you opened your binder, rolling out a detailed map of Prythian and with it months of research on each of the courts. You took a breath, and began the proposal you and your team had spent weeks perfecting.

“You may have heard of aid work spreading across Spring in light of the aftermath of the war. My team and I have worked tirelessly to support vulnerable communities across the court, providing food, medicine and shelter for those devastated by Hybern.”

“Spring Court only suffered devastation because of its alliance with Hybern in the first place,” Kallias interrupted, followed by a murmur of agreements.

Tamlin straightened. “I acknowledge my court was left at Hybern's mercy due to my decisions. But Y/N has worked despite of that �� and it’s what makes her work so important.”

“In what way?” Thesan asked.

“A courtless ambition,” you affirmed. “A team of volunteers – made from all courts, for all courts. Resources provided from across Prythian, shared equally to help those in need despite what throne they serve.”

There was a moment of silence, before Beron sounded a loud snort.

“Don't trust her for one second,” he scoffed, pointing a finger at you. “She’s been hauled up in Spring Court for over a year now. No doubt this is a ruse to have us open our borders. She’ll be free to rob our people and lands, all the while fucking her handsome High Lord.”

“Watch how you speak of her,” Rhysand growled, night crawling across the table, the purple in his eyes all but gone.

You had to interject before this meeting finished as quickly as it started. “I assure you, this mission has no binding to Spring Court. It is to exist without borders so we may help anyone in need, and travel with ease to provide urgent care.”

Beron ignored Rhysand and instead cold eyes to you, his lips curling with distaste. “And you believe we need your help?” he spat. “The fae of Spring are weak. My subjects are well cared for, and my court is thriving.”

Gods, you could see where Eris got it from.

“According to my research, inflation in your court is a second close to Spring, and displacement is rising with little access to healers after you centralised them during the war.”

Beron’s face flushed an even deeper red than before, his eyes turning to a murderous cold and your stomach twisted with both fear and delight.

“There is not one court here that is in a position to refuse this kind of offer,” Tarquin said with sweeping calm, silencing Beron before he could bubble over. “We would do well to not let our pride stop an ambition of this size.”

“Y/N,” he added, turning to you. “I admire the work you have done in Spring, Tamlin has testified and frankly sung much high praise. If you might show me your plans of what role Summer Court could play in your mission, I would be happy to come to an agreement to provide volunteers and resources.”

You swallowed, your heart swelling. You had no doubt Tarquin would offer his allegiance, but it was a milestone all the same. “Thank you, Tarquin.”

“My mate and I would like to offer the allegiance of the Night Court. We would be honoured for your help,” Feyre’s face strong and stern, but you knew them well enough to feel the waves of pride from both her and Rhys.

“Consider Day Court an ally too,” Hellion beamed, trusting of Feyre’s alliance to now make his own. “We have some of the oldest practicing healers – if you can help spread their knowledge across our lands, it will help us to grow stronger as a continent, and perhaps more resistant should we face another invasion in future.”

“Thank you,” you said, bowing your head gratefully to the High Lords and Lady around you.

“You’re all fools,” Beron spat, pushing up from his chair. “And I won't stand to watch you place the fate of our lands in the hands of a traitor, let alone a woman.”

A series of snarls sounded as claws of all kinds shot out. Tamlin’s hands shook as he gripped the tables edge, Tarquin’s scraped at his chair, and Rhys’s tapped with threatening impatience.

“Your mind betrays you, Beron,” Feyre spoke coldly, a cruel smile at play on her lips. “Because despite countless centuries in this world, you and your seven sons couldn't hope to accomplish as much as this female has in just a few years. You’re embarrassed. You feel she emasculates you.”

You didn't have a moment to gawk before Beron launched at you, his fist in your hair as he ripped you backwards in your chair. Droplets of his disgusting spit landing their mark as he snarled down at you. “You mark my words you sly bitch. You may have everyone wrapped around you finger, but step one foot in my court and I’ll–”

Guards had pulled Beron from you before he could finish his sentence. They hardly had to escort him as he shook their grip, storming from the room and slamming the doors behind him.

With red cheeks and a slight shake of your hands, you took Tarquins offer to help you stand.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

You offered a single nod, too stunned to know truly. Was this how the High Lords settled business?

You straightened your skirts and took your seat once again.

“I do hate it when he gets like that,” Tarquin said more loudly, feigning a bored sigh and hiding a comforting hand on your thigh beneath the table.

“For your knowledge Y/N, there are rules that we must not to lay hands on another High Lord or Lady, not without consequence. I suppose that’s why he launched at you,” Thesan explained, willing a glass of water in front of you and giving you a sorry smile.

You took a shaky sip, barely having a moment to register the silent exchange between Tamlin, Feyre and Rhys. Whatever their stern expressions meant, you knew Beron was in deep, deep shit.

The rest of the meeting went smoothly – you convinced Thesan and Kallias to consider your proposal, and agreed to meet with them in future after they took some time to study your plans in more detail. In total you had four courts agree, two remained uncertain, and one definite no. It was overwhelming result, and you were riddled with both excitement and anxiousness at the thought of expanding your mission to not just one, but three new courts.

As the meeting adjourned, you found yourself thinking of Eris, and couldn't help but feel empathetic. You may have an unwelcome bond binding you to the two males who broke your heart, but at least your future wasn't dictated by someone as hideous as Beron. Eris would never be that free.

You spent your evening writing to the other volunteers and your uncle, and preparing plans and strategies to begin work in Summer. It would be beneficial to start there, to have more experienced healers on board.

There was a soft rap at your door, and Feyre’s blossom-like scent floated through the gaps.

Quill now mid-air, your heart fastened with momentary worry. But you took a breath - it was just a conversation, you could grant her that. After all, there were many more meetings with her and Rhys to come if you hoped to expand to the Nigh Court successfully. You'd also likely need to return to the Night Court yourself…

Stopping your spiral of thoughts, you cleared your throat. “Come in,” you called, placing your quill down and turning in your seat.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No no. Please, come in,” you gestured.

She strode with confidence, dark drapes of her dress flowing behind as they sparkled like the Velarian sky you hadn't realised you longed for. “I won't stay long, I just wanted to tell you that you were incredible today.” Those grey eyes pinned you with sincerity, before fluttering with a sideways glance. “And perhaps I’m also here to see how you’re fairing after the meeting. I’m sorry, I didn't think Beron…"

You huffed humorously, your head cocking down as you let out sound of exasperation. “Gods, he truly is as awful as they say.”

“Yes,” Feyre said with a stifled grin, her head shaking. “He really is.”

“Thank you, for defending me. Your response to him… it was–"

“Too much, probably.”

“Insidiously epic.” You were grinning.

Feyre laughed now, swinging one leg over the other before fingering a nearby trinket. “You know I can't resist the opportunity to toy with a male like that.”

You matched her smile, warmed by the mischievous look. The exchange was genuine and comfortable, fun even – exactly how your friendship had been for so many years.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Feyre.”

Feyre’s eyes softened, a small but sad smile finding her lips. “Of course.”

You looked at your hands then, fidgeting with them in your lap. You had to ask, you just had to.

“How are they?”

Feyre didn't falter. “Well enough. Cassian has been training a new generation of Illyrians to regrow our army, and Azriel has been busy with his work in Hybern.”

Your eyes were distant as you thought about them, separated by work. Azriel was still undertaking missions in Hybern? Was there truly more secrets to unravel there? Gods, the thought alone made you wince in pain, that whole damned continent a waking reminder of Meryl and everything you had lost. You knew Azriel would be tortured by the same cycle of thoughts on those lands.

“They work hard,” you offered with pulled brows, not really knowing what else to say.

“Just like someone else I know.” Feyre’s pained smile soft yet full of suggestion. She might as well have said it – they’re not the only ones burying their pain in work. You supposed she was right, you had set a stellar example at that.

“But they’re doing better, really,” she added, resuming natural movement and surrendering you from her gaze. “They’re healthier, and they look after one another.”

Your lips pulled into a small smile. “I’m glad.” And you meant it.

Feyre had matured over the past year – you could see it in her poise, hear it in her voice. It was a nice thing to see, to watch a fellow immortal grow in such ways.

“I will leave you to your planning.” She stood then, her incredible dress sweeping the floor once more.

Pausing by the doorway, Feyre turned to you. “Rhys and I are so honoured to have your work come to our court, even with the challenges to be faced with the Council. You should be proud, Y/N. We certainly are.”

You nodded, your lips pulling in a smile that twitched, and you swallowed the lump in your throat. “Thank you. I’ll send a letter to meet soon, and we can discuss plans then.”

“We look forward to it.” Feyre’s smile was warm and true.

“As do I.” And so was your own.

————

“Are you sure you wouldn't like to wait a few more days? We could journey back together.”

You rolled your eyes, securing your bag to Podie as Tamlin fussed behind you, tightening the knots.

“I must get back and help the team start the expansion. I don't have a few days to spare.”

“I know, I just… worry for you.”

You snorted then, hauling yourself to your horse. “I journeyed here myself, you know.”

Tamlin sighed, reaching to stroke Podie’s mane. “I know. I just, I’m not sure, I have a feeling–“

“You’re fussing.”

“No, I have a feeling.”

“A feeling of fussing?”

Tamlin pinched his nose then. “I don't know why I try,” he muttered.

You grinned. “I’ll see you in two weeks time, Tam.” With a gentle nudge to Podie’s sides, you started the long journey home.

Never mind that Tamlin had found you shortly after Feyre left your room last night. Never mind that he searched you over for any signs of injury that Beron might have left, or that he distracted you jokes and conversation and stiff drink on your balcony that lead to welcomed sleep. You would certainly not think about the way his deep hushed voice soothed you until your eyes closed, or that he knew exactly how to stroke your hair as he comforted you after the things Beron had said, long after you had stopped responding.

When you had woken he was gone, so this time apart would serve you well to clear your head and re-establish those murky lines of love and friendship, desire and lust.

“Take safe routes,” he called out, waving you off as the castle of Dawn Court disappeared behind the trees.

You forced yourself not to look back.

————

The journey from Dawn to Spring would take six days of travel. With no ability to winnow or fly, it was a pace you were not accustomed to.

But you would bare it with higher spirits than ever, because you got what you came for, what you’d wanted your entire life. You were making the world a better place, and only just getting started.

Forgoing the coastal scenery you had indulged in on your journey up, you chose a route close to the inner border with Autumn, avoiding the congestion of the capital and heading through the most direct route. By your third morning you had already reached Summer, forgoing rest and carving your journey time to start your eager plans once home.

As the sun began to set that evening, Podie began fussing with fatigue.

“I know boy, I know,” you soothed, patting at his neck. “We’re almost there.”

And sure enough, the bustle of the town you had marked on your map sounded in the distance, smoke trails rising above the tree tops as signs of life revealed themselves. You had marked this town for its inn, where both you and Podie could rest properly for the night.

But rest would have to wait, as your ears pricked at a young voice. Turning, you saw wild auburn hair on a thin and ashy body, large eyes pleading to whoever walked past.

“Please, ma’am, sir, someone help!”

But the other fae continued to look past her, offering mumbled apologies and averting their gaze. Disheartened, you tutted under your breath. The child was from Autumn, that much was clear, and you knew the other fae ignored her for it. This was exactly the kind of mentality you were trying to amend.

Having just secured Podie’s reigns at the stables next to the inn, you wiped your hands on your pants, approaching the girl. “What’s wrong youngling?”

The little girl all but crumpled. “Please, my mother, she-she can’t, I don’t-"

Crouching down, you soothed the young girl with a hand on each of her shoulders. “Is she unwell?”

Dirty hands rubbed the tears spilling from her eyes, and a nod was all she could offer.

Your eyes flicked to your satchel still strung on Podie. There were vessels of Geranium in there, samples you had shown to the High Lords.

“Can she walk?”

The little girl trembled, locks bouncing as she shook her head. Gods, those locks, so similar to Meryl's…

A fresh batch of tears poured from her eyes then, as she pointed behind her. “There are no healers in our town. I didn't know where to go!”

“It’ll be alright, I have some medicine in my bag. Can you take me to her?”

She girl’s lip quivered. “But it’s over the border,” she whispered.

You gave her a sorry smile. “I thought as much. Never mind, let me grab my bag, and you lead the way.”

Fuck Beron – fuck his senseless borders and militant court. Someone was in need of healing, so you would help them, plain and simple.

The girl was still thanking you by the time you returned with your satchel. You hoped you had enough Geranium to heal her mother to to a capacity until a trained healer could see to her.

The young thing all but sprinted, and you maintained a steady jog to the Autumn border. Green blended with red here, the breeze already cooler as dried leaves danced with live ones.

“My town is down this trail,” she pointed to a winding path. “It’s not far.”

You nodded, taking your first step in Autumn without a second thought. And when you reached the winding path, where the trees now hid the backs of Summer Court and the life that called there, the girl stopped in her path, turning with an eery slowness.

You jumped back at the white film that now filled her eyes, her mouth downturned and sad. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her head lolling sideways.

You hadn’t a moment to process the horror of it before hands pinned your arms and smothered your mouth.

Fumes swarmed your senses, burning your nose and throat before you were overcome with poisonous haze, your cry swallowed in cloth as the world turned black.

————

Rhysand handed the last of his bags to the door man, giving his guest room at Dawn one final sweep.

Feyre had left a few days earlier to be with Nyx, but many of the High Lords had stayed to use the mutual meeting grounds and have much needed discussions after the war. But his business was done and he would finally return home, his heart aching for Velaris.

Even his brothers would be there this time, having returned from their own missions. He was eager to unwind and be surrounded by the laughter and company of his family together again. Well, almost all of them.

Tamlin’s scent pricked his nose, and Rhys resisted the urge to roll his eyes. With the complicated and bloody history they shared, forcing himself to be civil with Tamlin would always draining, and right now he just wanted to get home.

Night magic flung the doors open, revealing the distraught High Lord, one hand raised to knock, the other clutching a letter.

“Whatever can I do you for, Tamlin?” Rhys mused, before finally turning to face him. With one look at his expression, he flicked his eyes to the letter in Tamlin's hand, his stomach sinking immediately.

“What’s happened?” Rhys asked quickly.

“Y/N – she was due back in Spring three days ago. Her uncle has written to say she hasn't come home.”

Rhys could feel the violet draining from his eyes. “Perhaps she took a few more days to herself?”

“She wouldn't do that.” Tamlin said firmly.

Rhys nodded, his lips pressing into a tight line as worry brewed even further. He was right.

“There’s more.”

Rhys quirked his brow.

“Podie was found stranded at an inn in Summer, east of the capital.”

“Podie? Who-"

“Her horse Rhysand! They found her damned horse, left there for days!”

Rhys swallowed, his mind narrowing to a steely focus – the way it did before battle.

“You said east?”

Tamlin swallowed thickly, a knowing worry pulling at his features as he nodded. “Just shy of the border.”

Black flooded the little violet left in Rhys’s eyes. “Fuck.”

Tamlin stalked towards Rhys, forcing the letter into his hand. “Call for her mates, immediately.”

But Rhys already was, his mind screaming out to his brothers, to Feyre, to anyone who could find her first.

“Is it done?” Tamlin asked, green eyes desperately scanning the lucid male in front of him.

Rhys was quiet for a moment, before sucking in a sharp sudden breath. He faltered then, grasping the bed post with a wince as his magic recoiled within.

Because somewhere in Velaris, across the mountains and seas and stretch of land the separated y/n from her mates, a panic so deep and rage so violent consumed any magic in reach, even the most powerful High Lords.

Rhys wasn't there to witness Cassian and Azriel’s siphons shattering, to see the way red and blue power - now freed from their bounds - instead consumed them, filling their veins and pulsing against muscle.

Rhys nodded once at Tamlin, confirming what they both knew.

There would be a war to retrieve Y/N alive. And Beron was as good as dead.

————

Beron took a leather parcel from the last of his guards, before ushering him from your cell.

You had been here for days – or so you thought. Time was a difficult thing to grasp in your haze, and there was no light here. It was quite too, the only sound of dripping dampness, and the occasional screams and pleas from a women. That voice was so far away, you weren’t certain it was real, or that it wasn't your own.

Beron had visited you the day you were taken, his dark eyes glowing with hideous intent at the sight of you bound in his dungeon. He hadn’t said much, only promising with sickening glee that he’d be back soon.

You half expected him to beat you, to hurt and punish you for humiliating him at the High lords meeting. Gods, you even anticipated death. But the High Lord kept you hydrated and healthy enough, all be it drugged and weak. Which meant a different fate awaited you, perhaps one worse than you could imagine.

You cursed at the sight of the weapon he unfurled from the leather pouch. It was a rapier of kinds – too large to be a knife, too small to be an ordinary sword. But it was the ungodly glow of the thing - the churning ribbons of deadly silver turning in on itself - that terrified you most.

“What is that?” you panted, your eyes wide as Beron’s grin grew.

“You have no idea the lengths I’ve gone to find such a tool, Y/N.” He angled it this way and that, eyes glowing with admiration as silver danced in them. “The terrible things I had to do to have this made, to even hold it in my bare hands.”

It was pointless to press further into the metal slab you were bound to, cuffs digging at your ankles and wrists as you reopened the same wounds you had fought against for days.

Beron was drawing closer, the rest of the room darkening as the rapier glowed so bright, commanding your attention. The air grew colder, as if those lethal ribbons were consuming the warmth for itself.

“I think we’re alike, you and I.” Beron eyed you with a sickly smile before he began to pace, moving his sword with him.

Your chest heaved with panic, your eyes trailing him as you begged for anyone to find you. Your mates, that tether, perhaps they would hear you? But the bond had weakened since left unacknowledged, and as you fished for it within you could feel how it had thinned.

“I don't like having my things taken from me, Y/N. And I’m certain you don't either. That’s why you were alone, wasn’t it? Without your mates, hm? They took something of yours, and you didn't like it one bit.”

Your eyes snapped to Beron the moment he mentioned them. Fuck. Fuck. Eris, that kniving worm, had told him exactly what he needed to know.

“I’ve had something of mine taken from me over and over again for almost a century. The one thing that was promised to me – sworn to me by oath, bound to me by a ring.”

What nonsense was he spitting? Unless… oh gods.

“You see there’s a particular High Lord who seems to think he can help himself to what is mine. And apparently, my whore of a wife agrees.”

The Lady of Autumn. What Feyre had shared with you about Lucien, about his mother and Helion – it was all true. And Beron knew.

You gulped, your stomach churning as you forced your voice past the strain in your throat. “What in gods name does that have to do with me, you twisted senseless fuck.”

Fear seeped from you, and you knew he could scent it.

Beron chuckled, shaking his head before crazed eyes found yours. “Do you know what my wife said to me when I confronted her, Y/N? Do you know what she claimed, what she threw in my face, after centuries of marriage, of sharing my home and my court and six fucking sons?”

You were wise enough not to answer.

Beron shifted, easing back into lethal calm. “She tells me of a bond. Bound by the cauldron, she claims. She says that she’s sorry, to please not hurt her, to please not hurt him. And then she begs me to let her go.”

Bile rose to your throat. “What have you done to her?” you gritted, fighting against your cuffs once more. “Have you- did you-”

“Kill her?” Beron finished, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Of course not. I am no monster.” He paused then, halting his pace. “I love her.”

It was almost convincing.

“But so began my journey, sweet Y/N, to help my dear wife from her delusions. I keep her here, a few cells over. She’s very eager to receive her treatment and rejoin the throne again as my loyal wife.”

You had to blink through your nausea. The begging, those screams – they were real. It was her.

“By no means was it an easy task to find a tool like this – something so magnificent, crafted straight from death itself. But I do it for her.”

Your stomach dropped. He had harnessed death itself? This was beyond insidious - Beron had been driven insane by his jealousy.

Beron’s eyes flicked from the weapon to you, noting the way you stiffened.

“Ah yes, death. Not an easy thing to befriend, certainly not an easy thing to yield. It took a life to harness it’s power, life from my very own family.”

Beron’s words were becoming harder to hear as your heart pounded in your ears. And then it clicked, and you could have sworn that time stood still as his words played in your head. He had mentioned six sons, not seven.

You had not known a fear like the one you felt now, a sickening tremble overtaking as you knew what he would say next.

“Please,” you begged, twisting in your restraints. “Please! Don't say it!”

“Although I suppose Lucien wasn't truly my family, not really.”

A scream ripped from you, your eyes clenched shut as your mind reeled at the horror. Lucien – Tamlin’s friend, Feyre’s friend, your friend too. Killed as a sacrifice for this insidious narcissist he had thought was his father.

“Oh none of that, Y/N. You act as if I enjoyed it. Lucien was my son in many ways. But a power this great,” he said, casting the sword before his eyes. “Well, it demands an equally great sacrifice.”

Anguished sobs escaped you, tear tracks gleaming from the glow of death before you.

“How could you?” you screamed, writhing against your chains. “He trusted you!”

Beron’s eyes darkened. “It’s as I said,” he growled. “I will not have my things taken from me. For decades I was humiliated and lied to while she slinked from MY COURT to have an affair with another High Lord. Years spent playing me a fool, lying to my face and CLAIMING a SON as my OWN!”

You trembled at the hate in Beron’s voice, walls rumbling as he beheld other-worldly power from the weapon in his hand. You knew his words had hit their mark, and faint wails could be heard outside your cell. The Lady of Autumn could hear it all – Beron was punishing her, forcing her to listen.

He was quiet then, watching you fail to stifle your own sobs.

He moved closer, raising a hand to stroke at your hair. “Shh, shh. Now now, dear Y/N. I may hate you, but I’m a man of reason. I don't believe in spilt blood.”

You jerked under his touch, squeezing your eyes shut and begging to the Mother to not let you die at the hands of this deranged murderer.

“I haven't bought you here to kill you. You’re valuable to me, you see.”

You forced your eyes open.

“I merely want to break your bond.”

There was a ringing in your ears as a panic burst through your veins so quickly you felt you would simply combust.

“And I suppose I don't care should you survive this or not.” Beron said with a shrug, before pointing that ungodly sword at your heart, and a bloodcurdling scream ripped from your chest.

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Part 7>>>

A/N: Hi. Hiiiii. Are you... are you ok? Hoping Lucien's death didn't hurt too bad. ❤️ Thank you always for your patience on this chapter, I so hope you liked it (or at least made you feel the feels). I cannot wait to explore feral Cass and Az, and probably Rhys and Feyre and Tamlin too lol Drop a comment or an ask any time, I looooooove hearing your thoughts on the fic, it makes my day each and every time <3 Thank you, and I love you. MWA! ❤️

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