#remote monitoring features

[im-captain-basch]

I really really hate this whole "YouTube blocking adblockers and forcing you to either buy Premium or have ads" thing. It's so fucking stupid. I shouldn't have to play an Uno reverse card every time YouTube gets wise to a filter in it.

Premium isn't even all that good! It was great when you had access to original series, but once they stopped coming out with those, it's become so hard to justify having it solely to use when I want to listen to videos when I'm at work or moving about with no room in my hands for my phone, especially since it seems like the price for it keeps going up.

They're really intent on killing yet another platform, huh.

[gdesignsme]

The Future of Smart Homes: How Technology is Shaping Real Estate

The Rise of Smart Home Technology The concept of smart homes has evolved significantly over the past decade, with advancements in technology paving the way for a more connected and automated living environment. Smart home technology encompasses a wide array of devices and systems that enhance the functionality, safety, and energy efficiency of residential properties. From smart thermostats and…

[reptiletracko]

Application for attendance

Holiday management software can make requests for time off from employees and their schedules easily managed. Nobody can think of a time when managing vacation requests and attendance was simpler. With the help of Reptile Tracko, you can simplify the process of managing all of this and enhance the scheduling of your staff, by keeping accurate records helped by holiday tracking software—all inside a single, user-friendly online platform. Our employee holiday management software is designed to be flexible enough to accommodate the specific requirements of your business, which will result in smoother operations and happier staff.

[bayshorefordtrucksales]

FordPass helps get it done

FordPass is a mobile app designed to enhance your driving experience by providing seamless access to key vehicle features and services. With FordPass, you can remotely start, stop, lock, and unlock, track its location, and monitor important vehicle health information like fuel levels and tire pressure. It also offers access to a 24/7 customer support line, helps locate nearby Ford dealers or parking, and provides connectivity to your FordPass Connect-enabled vehicle for added convenience, such as in-vehicle Wi-Fi and real-time traffic updates. Experience the ease and peace of mind that comes with it!

https://www.bayshoreford.com/mobile-service.htm

[jcmarchi]

Unveiling the Power of YoloBox Ultra: A Comprehensive Review - Videoguys

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/unveiling-the-power-of-yolobox-ultra-a-comprehensive-review-videoguys/

Unveiling the Power of YoloBox Ultra: A Comprehensive Review - Videoguys

Explore the myriad features and functionalities of the YoloBox Ultra in this review. Discover how this versatile tool enhances live streams with ISO recording, NDI integration, network bonding, and more!

In the fast-evolving world of live streaming and content creation, the right tools can elevate your productions to new heights. YoloBox Ultra stands out as a versatile powerhouse, offering a plethora of features designed to revolutionize your streaming experience.

Unveiling the YoloBox Ultra Upon powering on the YoloBox Ultra, users are introduced to a sleek interface offering three distinct modes: live streaming, monitor mode, and the newly added vertical streaming mode. This enhancement provides unparalleled flexibility in streaming endeavors.

Feature Highlights:

ISO Recording Capability: Record individual camera streams alongside the program stream for post-production editing or backup recordings.

Expanding Camera Options with NDI: Seamlessly integrate NDI devices for versatile camera options, enabling stable connections via Wi-Fi or Ethernet.

Network Bonding for Reliable Connectivity: Ensure a stable internet connection by combining multiple internet connections, including SIM cards, Wi-Fi, and Ethernet.

Versatile Audio Options: Mix and adjust audio levels from multiple sources, providing enhanced flexibility for capturing high-quality audio.

Advanced Settings and Customization: Fine-tune your streaming experience with a wide range of advanced settings and customization options.

Auto-Switching: Effortlessly transition between multiple camera angles for smooth, professional-looking productions.

Multi-Platform Streaming: Reach a wider audience across various social media platforms simultaneously.

Guest Caller Integration: Bring in live guest callers during streams, opening up endless possibilities for interactive content.

Vertical Live Streaming: Support for vertical live streaming, catering to the preferences of modern audiences.

Image Overlays and Multimedia Integration: Enhance live streams with dynamic visuals, branding elements, and multimedia content.

App Control and Remote Management: Remotely manage streams and switch between camera angles using a smartphone or tablet.

Wrap up In conclusion, the YoloBox Ultra is the ultimate live-streaming solution, combining versatility, functionality, and ease of use. Elevate your live streams to the next level with its extensive feature set and intuitive design. Experience the power of YoloBox Ultra today!

Read the full blog post by Ellie Hua for YoloLiv HERE

[joyandella-123]

Some great advancements come from modern machine controllers

Modern metal fabricating machine controllers have significantly impacted various aspects of the manufacturing process, including workflow, speed, efficiency, accuracy, and manageability. Here's how:

Workflow Improvement: Advanced controllers have software that allows for better planning and sequencing of jobs. This integration can streamline the workflow, reducing the time between design and production. Controllers with advanced user interfaces make it easier for operators to input data, understand machine status, and make quick adjustments, leading to a smoother production process. Operators have a number of options for job entry, such as from a CAD file automatically, manual iinput, or scanning from a paper job sheet.

Increased Speed: Modern controllers have greater speed thanks to improved processing power and algorithms. This allows for faster execution of complex tasks and reduces the cycle time for each part. High-speed processing also enables machines to operate at higher speeds without compromising precision—in fact in many cases, precision is increased along with speed.

Enhanced Efficiency: These controllers often include features that optimize energy use and reduce waste. For example, predictive maintenance capabilities can forecast machine failures before they occur, minimizing downtime. The controller’s software can generate a plan to use multiple stations on a part with multiple bends, for example, allowing the setup to happen in one step instead of many. Or, if a laser cutter is cutting metal plate, it plans the job so that a the laser head moves to different cut areas to allow densely-cut areas to cool before the machine cuts nearby again.

Improved Accuracy: The precision of modern metal fabricating machines has significantly increased with the advent of sophisticated controllers. These systems can precisely control the movement of the machine, leading to higher-quality products with tighter tolerances. Advanced sensors and feedback systems ensure that the machine's performance aligns closely with the programmed specifications, reducing errors.

Better Manageability: Modern controllers are often part of larger networked systems that include data collection and analysis capabilities. This allows for better monitoring and management of the production process. Operators can track machine performance, predict maintenance needs, and optimize production schedules based on real-time data. Additionally, integration with other systems (like ERP or shop planning software) allows for better overall plant management and coordination.

Adaptability and Flexibility: Contemporary controllers enable machines to be more adaptable to different types of jobs. Quick setup changes and easy reprogramming allow for shorter runs of custom or specialized parts, making the production process more flexible to meet diverse customer demands. We live in an age of many short run jobs.

Safety Enhancements: Modern controllers also contribute to safer working environments. They can include safety features that prevent operator error and protect against machine malfunctions. Better precision and control also reduce the likelihood of accidents due to machine errors.

Connectivity and Smart Features: With the advent of Industry 4.0, these controllers are increasingly connected and smart. They can be integrated into a wider industrial network, allowing for remote monitoring and control, predictive maintenance, and enhanced data analytics.

Overall, the impact of modern metal fabricating machine controllers on the manufacturing landscape is profound, leading to more efficient, accurate, and flexible production processes. This technological evolution is a key driver in the industry's ongoing efforts to optimize productivity and quality.

[thatonegrimm]

COULD WE GET SAJA BOYS AND THEIR WEIRD QUIRKS?:O (LIKE MYSTERY’S BARKING). LIKE MAYBE BABY SOMETIMES SNEEZES OUT FIRE OR SOMETHING (SEPARATE)

-⭐️

AH ⭐ Anon! I couldn’t help myself—I rushed to this one as soon as I could LMAO 😭 Here you go! 💌

🌙 Saja Boys x Reader – Their Weird Quirks

They were hot. They were powerful. They were demons.

And they were so, so weird sometimes.

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

🧿 Jinu 

You had no idea Jinu talked in his sleep until the third week of living together.

At first, it sounded like murmuring.

Then it got… weirder.

One night, as you were brushing your teeth, you heard him muttering in the next room.

You crept closer.

“...Zynahar…Karev-nu...Shial,” he whispered. Then louder: “DO NOT UNSEAL THE GLYPH.”

You froze. “...What glyph?”

Jinu sat bolt upright in bed. “WHO TOUCHED THE GOAT.”

“What goat?!” you cried, now very awake.

He blinked at you, looked around… and promptly collapsed back into the pillows.

Next morning, he squinted at you over his mug. “I didn’t say anything weird, did I?”

You didn’t answer.

You just ordered a baby monitor with a night recording feature.

For research.

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

💪 Abby 

You were halfway through making scrambled eggs when Abby strolled into the kitchen, plucked a raw egg from the carton, cracked it with his teeth—and crunched the whole thing down.

Shell and all.

You nearly dropped your spatula.

“...Did you just eat the whole egg?”

“Mhm,” he replied, completely unfazed. “Calcium.”

“That’s not how—”

“It’s efficient.”

He shrugged and grabbed another one.

You watched in awe and horror as he chewed like it was a protein bar. “Want one?”

You slowly shook your head. “Do I look like I crave calcium that much?”

He just winked and popped a third egg in his mouth like a Tic Tac.

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

📚 Mystery 

You’d heard rumors from the others. But you didn’t believe it until it happened.

It was quiet. Peaceful. You were both reading.

Then, without breaking eye contact from the book, Mystery let out a single, perfectly-executed “Ruff.”

You blinked. “Did you just bark?”

“...No,” he said.

“You absolutely just barked.”

“I think you’re projecting.”

You stared at him.

He barked again—short, sharp, like a warning.

Then calmly turned the page.

You said nothing. Just kept reading.

The next day, you heard him growl at a bird outside like a territorial cat.

You’ve stopped asking questions.

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

💋 Romance 

You opened the bathroom cabinet looking for bandages and were nearly crushed by a wall of pastel candles.

Romance peeked around the doorframe, holding a new one labeled “Midnight Rain on Venetian Silk.”

“Don’t judge me.”

You turned slowly. “Is this where all our shelf space went?”

He pouted. “Some people hoard trauma. I hoard aroma.”

You opened another drawer. More candles.

The oven? Full of candles.

Your closet? Candles.

He followed you like a guilty puppy. “I light them based on mood. Or outfit. Or lunch. Or if the weather makes me emotionally sensitive—”

You held up one labeled “Vanilla Regret.”

He snatched it back. “That one’s personal.”

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

🔥 Baby 

You thought the scorch marks on the curtains were a design choice until Baby let out a sharp, sudden:

“HhH’TSHHHEWW!”

—followed by a burst of literal flame.

You dropped your mug. “WHAT THE—”

He sniffled and looked mildly offended. “You try holding in a hellsneeze.”

“YOU SNEEZE FIRE?!”

“Only when it’s dusty,” he muttered, rubbing his nose with the back of his sleeve. “Or if I get emotional.”

You watched as the corner of the rug smoldered. “We need to babyproof the house.”

“I am the baby.”

“Exactly.”

He sneezed again and set the remote on fire.

You now carry a spray bottle labeled “Baby (Mildly) Misbehaving.”

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

M-List

[herpsandbirds]

Got any Devil's Hole Pupfish and/or their less specialized relatives? I love the frustration they're causing land developers lol

Oh I have some Pupfish stuff for you...

GREAT NEWS!  - Recovery efforts are paying off for the critically endangered Devils Hole pupfish. 

This past April, scientists counted 175 pupfish!  The last time numbers were this high during a spring count was 22 years ago. The fish are in “remarkable condition and very active,” according to Nevada Department of Wildlife  supervisory fish biologist Brandon Senger.  Devils Hole, located within Ash Meadows National Wildlife Refuge in Southern Nevada, is a water-filled, geothermal cave system containing carbonate-rich and oxygen-poor water. Water conditions here remain at a constant 93°F in deeper reaches of the cave, and it’s the only natural habitat for Devils Hole pupfish.  “It’s just such a different species and it is remarkable that it has managed to survive,“ said our fish biologist Michael Schwemm. "It lacks pelvic fins due to the extreme conditions such as low food resources and high temperature, adapting to habitat conditions which have evolved over time.”

The story: http://ow.ly/nhz050JaB07

Pahrump Poolfish (Empetrichthys latos), Desert National Wildlife Refuge, NV, USA

Word of the day: refugium (ree·few·jee·um), or an area in which a population of organisms can survive through a period of unfavorable conditions. Here on the refuge, the critically endangered Pahrump Poolfish lives exclusively in a refugium. This small, guppy-like fish is extinct in the wild, after its original habitat was depleted due to groundwater pumping in the 1970s. You can find the refugium along the trails behind the Corn Creek Visitor Center.

Photographs: J. Contois / USFWS

Saving a Rare Desert Fish on the Brink of Extinction 

Pahrump Poolfish (Empetrichthys latos) are being kept at the Nevada state fish hatchery as restoration efforts are under way to restore their home habitat.

There is a rare species of desert fish fighting for its survival in a fresh water pond in the desert landscape of southern Nevada – the Pahrump poolfish. According to biologists monitoring the tiny fish, one of the last remaining populations of the endangered Pahrump poolfish, Empetrichthys latos, is at an alarmingly low number, below 1,000, compared to the 10,000 recorded in 2015. Throughout the month of October 2016, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service biologist James Harter and Nevada Department of Wildlife (NDOW) biologist Kevin Guadalupe are rescuing the Pahrump poolfish from Lake Harriett at Spring Mountain Ranch State Park outside of Las Vegas, Nevada, and moving them to the NDOW’s fish hatchery at the Lake Mead National Recreation Area. The poolfish are being taken to the hatchery to protect the species from extinction…

Read more: https://www.fws.gov/cno/newsroom/featured/2016/Pahrump_poolfish/

Photo Credit: Enrique Villar/USFWS

The Phenotypic Plasticity of Death Valley’s Pupfish

Desert fish are revealing how the environment alters development to modify body shape and behavior

by Sean C. Lema

Despite variety, most of the surface of Death Valley is dead … a land of jagged salt pillars, crackling and tortured crusts of mud, sunburnt gravel bars the color of rust, rocks and boulders of metallic blue naked even of lichen. As one of the world’s harshest desert regions, Death Valley is a land of eroding badlands, scorching alluvial fans, and barren flats of mud and salt. Yet hidden in remote corners of Death Valley live the desert pupfishes—several related species that survive in an archipelago of permanent water habitats scattered in a sea of desert. Death Valley’s pupfishes inhabit isolated springs, streams and marshes that are remnants of the region’s milder climate less than 20,000 years ago. Since that cooler and wetter time, pupfishes in this region have evolved from a common ancestor into nine closely related species and subspecies, with each taxon living in full geographic isolation from the others. Death Valley’s pupfishes are thus a little like the well-known Darwin’s finches of the Galapagos Islands, in that they offer an opportunity to watch the process of evolution in action…

(read more: American Scientist)

photographs: Sean C. Lema and NPS

[prescienttech]

Top 10 Manufacturing Execution Systems with Remote Monitoring Capabilities in 2025

Manufacturing Execution Systems (MES) help factories improve operations. These systems track production, monitor machines, and offer real-time updates. Many companies also want remote monitoring in their MES tools. This helps managers keep an eye on production from anywhere. Choosing the right system is not easy because there are many options.

Here is a list of the top 10 MES solutions in 2025 that include remote monitoring features. These platforms support smart manufacturing and offer clear benefits for industrial use.

1. Siemens Opcenter

Siemens Opcenter supports real-time production control. It also provides remote dashboards for monitoring factory data. Many manufacturers prefer it for complex operations.

2. Rockwell FactoryTalk

FactoryTalk offers solid MES functions. It also allows managers to access performance metrics from mobile devices. This helps reduce response times during issues.

3. GE Digital Proficy

Proficy is known for its user-friendly interface. It provides data tracking and remote alerts. It also fits well with both small and large plants.

4. Honeywell Manufacturing Execution System

Honeywell’s MES includes tools for quality control and machine tracking. Its remote monitoring view offers a detailed status of plant performance.

5. AVEVA Manufacturing Execution System

AVEVA delivers strong analytics and cloud access. Its remote features help in decision-making without needing physical presence on the shop floor.

6. Dassault Systèmes DELMIA Apriso

DELMIA Apriso supports real-time visibility. It helps connect production lines across locations. Its remote access helps global teams stay aligned.

7. ABB Ability Manufacturing Operations Management

ABB’s MES platform offers deep insights into factory operations. It includes tools for monitoring equipment health and energy usage remotely.

8. Plex Smart Manufacturing Platform

Plex includes native cloud architecture. It helps manage inventory and quality in real time. Its mobile-ready dashboards simplify remote monitoring.

9. Oracle Manufacturing Cloud

Oracle’s MES solution includes automation features and remote views. It supports flexible production models and works well across industries.

10. SAP Digital Manufacturing Cloud

SAP offers advanced MES tools with machine learning. It helps manufacturers adjust workflows quickly. Remote access helps improve visibility and collaboration.

Key Features You Might Find Useful:

Real-time production tracking

Mobile or web-based dashboards

Alert systems for downtime or quality drops

Integration with ERP and IoT platforms

Scalable options for different plant sizes

Solving the Selection Challenge

Many businesses feel lost while choosing the best manufacturing execution system. The wide range of choices leads to confusion. Some systems are too complex. Others do not offer enough support for monitoring outside the plant.

This blog helps narrow down the top options based on remote access, features, and ease of use. Each solution supports the shift toward smarter, more connected factories.

Factories need tools that support fast decisions. Remote monitoring adds value because it keeps operations visible and reduces delay. These MES systems help companies stay flexible and efficient in 2025.

[seospicybin]

DOUBLE FEATURE

CHAPTER THREE

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

DOUBLE FEATURE MASTERLIST

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

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

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

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

Scene 57 – Tank drop + underwater hold

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nervous?” he cuts through your thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho laughs—low and real. “Touché.”

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

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

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

You nod, your chest rising slowly beneath him.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

“Rolling—aaaand action!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take it slowly,” he says.

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

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

“Be gentle with yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Be gentle with yourself.”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You open your mouth to argue, but—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze. “Wait—Minho, I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you yelp.

Minho jerks back almost immediately. “What—?”

Your hand flies to your jaw and you wince.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods once, still avoiding your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I know about the upcoming underwater stunt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

It’s because he’s scared.

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

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

“I—I can’t have sex right now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t wake me up!”

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

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

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

You go silent.

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

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

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

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

Felix shrugs. “You looked stupidly happy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho’s jaw ticks, just slightly.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, confused. “Two?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “Later.”

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

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

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

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

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

Minho squints at you. “Changed?”

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

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

“Dead serious.”

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

“…Now?” he asks, cautiously.

You grin wider. “Yes. Now.”

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hear him faintly responding. “Yeah.”

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

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

No response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Then, your voice breaks through. Soft, hesitant.

“…I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho swallows hard, his throat aching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

But then—knock knock.

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

“Hey,” you say.

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

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

“I am.” You nod. “Thanks for asking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho shrugs. “Just checking in.”

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

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

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

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

You smirk. “Have fun.”

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

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

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

You just laugh. “You’ll live.”

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

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

-

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

“Hey! We need you for a second!”

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t think. Don’t feel.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey!” the AD barks.

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

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

Minho blinks. “From the airstrip?”

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

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

“No, you go. Now.”

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

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

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

“Fifteen minutes?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, what? Why?”

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

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

“I said get on.”

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

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

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

“Okay, what’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“WHO IS SHE OMG I’M SO JEALOUS 😭😭😭”

“wait that’s not a manager is it???”

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

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

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

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

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

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

come to my room. now.

we need to talk.

don’t make me come find you.

MINHO!!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff. “Oh my God, no.”

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

“No,” you cut him off quickly.

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

Your entire body stiffens. “…What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One…”

His grip tightens in yours.

“Two…”

He inhales deep, steadying himself.

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One,” you whisper.

“Two…”

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Minho—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please… I can't lose you too.

-

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

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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[foldingfittedsheets]

Oh my god. Okay. Technology rant incoming.

So I sell beds. I get deals on stuff like mattresses and adjustable bases. The adjustable vibrates which helps me fall asleep and tips the head and feet up for comfort. I got us a Tempurpedic Ergo Smart Base for the new king size bed. I have an eight year old Ergo Premier that’s in the guest room now and has never had any problems. It is far and away better than the current model we just got.

The new one has a bunch of features like monitoring your sleeping and we’re told to pitch the app that comes with it. Now my beef is we tell customers that they can use their phone as the remote if they want. But the only way to do that is to get the app and agree to let Tempurpedic have all your data, much of which relate to medical conditions? Hated that.

But then I started snoring. And one of the features that’s only on the app is an automatic response to snoring. It’ll vibrate you to have you turn over or elevate the bed more. For my beloved wife I wanted to activate the snore response. So I joined the fucking app. It requires your height and weight. I told it I was seven feet tall and weighed one pound cause fuck their data.

Then I set up the app. It requires an internet connection. Because I don’t want that fucker beaconing my data that I was forced to sign up for I tethered my phone and had it connect to that. Once setup was done I disconnected it.

It ceases to function without WiFi. A basic thing that is programmed in the base itself will not activate without WiFi. I’m fuming. Tried to hook it up to actual WiFi and this fucking thing won’t connect to the non-hotspot WiFi at all. Their help page just talks about getting a better router.

Livid doesn’t come close to covering my feelings about this shit. I’m emailing support but I am gonna fully stop recommending their product on this basis.

[optiblog]

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[nanenna]

A Brief Look from a Different Angle

Going back in time just a little to have a look from a different PoV.

Sleepy King masterpost

---

Jazz flung open the door to the basement so forcefully it nearly bounced right back into her face. “Mom! Dad!”

“Jazz?” Mom asked curiously from below as Jazz descended the basement stairs. “Sweetie, come look! We think we got the new settings for the blasters set correctly.”

“Mom, where's Danny?” Jazz asked in a tight voice.

“Isn't he with you?” Mom asked warily, looking past Jazz to where she was flanked by Sam and Tucker.

“Did he wander off after school?” Dad suggested cheerfully.

“School's not over yet, we left early because Danny never made it to school this morning. Didn't they call you?” Jazz had thought it was weird the school office had called her at all, especially when she was at the very same school when they had.

Her parents frowned as they pulled their phones from their pockets. “No missed calls,” Mom said.

Dad turned to the computer, “Not the house line either. But there were a couple readings last night, perhaps Danny slept in?”

“I called him on the Fenton phone, you'll never guess who answered.” Jazz gave her parents a moment to turn their full attention back to her. “Superman.”

“Oh, well they're the good guys so he's safe at least, right?” Dad asked cheerfully.

“What did Superman say, honey?”

“He said Danny had been kidnapped and rescued, but has some sort of magical side effects the Justice League is working to fix before sending him home. He wouldn't tell me any more details, not who kidnapped him, not what the side effects are, not when he'll be home, nothing.”

“And they didn't inform you, his parents,” Sam added on.

“I'm worried they don't know about Danny’s ghost status and might accidentally hurt him trying to cure him of whatever,” Tucker added, still tapping away at his modified tablet.

“Well that's just unacceptable,” Mom said angrily.

“Right!” Dad agreed eagerly. “We're his parents and he's still a minor, we should be there to approve of his medical treatment!”

Jazz was already heading over to the corner to collect ol’ reliable: the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick™. “They said he's at one of the JL bases.”

Everyone turned to look at Tucker. “Their security is pretty tight, as to be expected, but as always there's social engineering. One of the JL members is complaining in a private discord server about still being on monitor duty on the Watchtower despite it currently being on lockdown for unspecified magical reasons.”

“The Watchtower?” Dad asked.

“Isn't that in space?” Sam sounded incredulous.

“Danny must be so excited,” Mom said with a fond sigh.

“How do we get to space?” Jazz asked forcefully.

Everyone looked around at each other for a moment. “The specter speeder is air tight,” Dad suggested.

“We can go through the ‘Zone,” Jazz added, already digging through the benign supply storage.

“Ask Frostbite for the infi-map?” Tucker suggested.

“Or we just use this!” Jazz triumphantly held up the booo-merang.

There was a resounding sound of approval from the group, followed by a flurry of activity as everyone set about getting ready to travel to space. Mom had taken over the pilot’s seat for the specter speeder, Dad was clearing away everything they had been working on to give the speeder a clear runway, Sam and Tucker were gathering up various ‘just in case’ supplies like a few weapons and the emergency ghost first aid kit, and all the while Jazz was double checking the booo-merang was properly calibrated and battery charged. Once everyone was in place and everything set up, Jazz threw the booo-merang at the open portal and hopped into the speeder so they could take off after it.

Once through, Dad activated the new remote to close the blast doors behind them. No chance of anyone sneaking through while they’re away. A new safety feature that had drastically reduced the number of ghost attacks. Danny had been delighted. Jazz had been upset it took so long for their parents to listen to her concerns when she’d brought up the portal’s security a year prior, shortly after finding out about Danny’s ghostliness.

Jazz mentally shook those thoughts away, no use retreading old ground. Instead she kept her eyes on the booo-merang as it flew through the Ghost Zone, lazily spinning along at a pace that was pretty easy for the speeder to keep up with.

“It sure is taking a while,” Tucker said with a bored sigh.

“We'll get there when we get there,” Sam replied with a grin.

They lapsed back into silence, everyone watching the booo-merang leading them further and further into the ‘Zone. Then it suddenly took a sharp left at the same time it doubled its speed. The boo-merang slipped through a portal that seemed to open and close just for it.

The speeder rocked as Maddie tried to follow the sudden course change, then cursed when they missed the portal.

“Welp,” Tucker said tiredly, “guess we head to the Far Frozen to ask for the infi-map.”

Sam snickered, “Bet you fifty it hit him in the head.”

“That's not a bet, that's a guarantee.”

“Hey!” Jazz protested.

Before Jazz could properly defend herself, a portal opened right in front of them. They ended up on the other side before anyone could do more than gasp.

“Is that… the Watchtower?” Mom asked hesitantly.

“I think so,” Tucker replied.

There, floating before them backed by a field of stars,was a matte gray tube with more tubes attached around it covered with windows leaking buttery yellow light into the void.

“Okay, so now what?”

There was a moment of silence as everyone processed what had just happened. Danny was inside and they were outside, they needed to find their way in and then somehow find Danny without their only tracking device. Great.

The radio came to life with a burst of static. “This is the Watchtower to the unknown vessel, please identify yourself.”

“Great, guess we can't sneak on,” Sam groused.

“Like that was ever even an option,” Tucker replied sarcastically.

“Kids!” Dad chided. Then he started fiddling with various knobs, “How do we reply?”

Mom frowned, “I'm not sure we can.”

“Something to upgrade for next time!”

“Hopefully there won't be a next time,” Jazz muttered.

“Still, it’s best to be prepared,” Dad said jovially. The radio spit more static and garbled requests for identification.

“Perhaps we should just… approach? They probably have an airlock or something we can use.” Mom gently nudged the speeder forward, heading slowly towards the Watchtower.

“Hopefully they don’t think we’re hostile,” Tucker grumbled.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got ghost shields!” Dad said enthusiastically with a finger hovering over a button.

“Dad, the Justice League doesn’t have any ghosts,” Jazz reminded him with a sigh. She shook her head, her parents were a little too specialized. Maybe this would help them realize they lost sight of the broader picture.

“Well hopefully it’ll stop whatever that is,” Tucker said nervously, pointing at where a small white dot was growing larger as it approached them.

The dot turned out to be a man wearing a white half cape, the red and gold coming into focus as he got closer. Clearly he was some kind of superhero, since he wasn’t even wearing a helmet or space suit. Jazz narrowed her eyes at him, “Is that Superman?”

“No,” Sam and Tucker said at the same time. Tucker took over, “That’s Captain Marvel, the champion of magic. Not related to Superman at all, aside from being coworkers I guess.”

“Good for him.” Jazz readjusted her grip on the anti-creep stick.

Captain Marvel slowed down as he got closer, stopping a few yards away. He smiled and waved, everyone waved back. Then he beckoned for them to follow.

“How nice, they sent someone to lead the way.” Mom maneuvered the speeder to follow, matching the easy pace Captain Marvel set.

“Hold on, Danny, we’re coming,” Jazz murmured, gripping the anti-creep stick tight.

[lvmimis]

cw: heavy angst, talk of children, childbirth and death, grief, bakugou is miserable tbh, izuku has an unnamed wife

a/n: sorry lol. also repost.

Izuku’s infant son looks disturbingly just like him, Bakugou realizes.

A bit small for age height-wise, but chubby nonetheless, with a shock of green wavy-curly hair. Large, green eyes. The freckles haven’t settled in yet, probably because he’s still too young, but the features are nearly the same. 

The kid also won’t stop kicking as Katsuki tries to fasten his diaper, and he’s getting a tiny bit frustrated. At least he’s not crying - thankfully, he doesn’t appear to have inherited the excessively soft disposition from his dad.

“You’re gonna have to be faster than that,” you joke from behind him. Bakugou finishes up securing the diaper, then glances at you and scowls. “Next time he’ll pee on ya!” you giggle while Bakugou gets the baby’s onesie back on then carries him so that he rests on his chest. He makes his way towards the bottle warmer - the baby isn’t crying now, but based on the guide Izuku’s wife gave him, this is about the time for his next feeding and he’s got a pair of lungs on him. It also doesn’t help that the toddler keeps nuzzling his face into his chest as though he’s trying to find a nipple to suck on. 

He does have to admit the little kiddo is cute.

“Did you check the temperature?”

You watch him carefully as he shakes warm milk onto the back of his hand, perched on the counter and swinging your feet gently. Bakugou doesn’t keep his eyes off of you as he checks, child cradled in his left arm.

“I know what I’m doing, princess,” he asserts. He has a little pout instead of a scowl instead, the one you’ve always thought was cute, where he communicates his disappointment that you’re underestimating his skill.

“Of course you do, love.” You smile widely, sweetly, as if you weren’t just micromanaging him. Not that he minds - when you hop off the counter and walk towards him, hands reaching upwards to caress his face gently, he can feel his face growing warm, even if your hands are disturbingly cool to the touch. 

You make your way to the couch first, nearly gliding along the linoleum that lines the kitchen, then along the impeccably clean wooden floorboards into the Midoriyas’ living room. It’s odd that you know this house so well, but you and Izuku’s wife had long been friends and spent many a night together in this very home when he and Izuku had been wrapped up in high grade missions and wouldn’t be home for days to weeks on end.

You flop onto the couch and point the remote to the television, even though it is already on, set to the news. Bakugou holds the baby in his lap as he sits down behind you and starts to feed him. You rest your head on his shoulder and to Katsuki, you are as light as a feather. 

“We haven’t had time together in a long while,” you whisper. 

Bakugou’s head tilts ever so slightly so that it rests against yours as well.

“You’re right. I’ve missed you,” he insists. There’s a quiet silence between you. It really has been a while that you’ve been able to sit together like this, despite being husband and wife.

“Are you fine with babysitting?” you ask. “Izuku was worried about asking you in the first place according to ___, and she had to convince him it was okay despite everything, insisting that it would be good for you-”

Katsuki interrupts your rambling with a kiss on your forehead.

“It’s fine,” he says, gruffly. Your lips pull into a sad smile.

“I’m sorry, Katsuki, I wish things had been different,” you say anyway.

Katsuki can feel his heart breaking, and instead focuses on the child in his lap, monitoring his progress on the bottle. He had wanted a child. He had wanted a child so badly, one that looked like him and you, and what had it brought him? 

The memory of you haunting him constantly, always there, but not really there.

When he looks back at you again, your form is starting to dissipate, as it does whenever he starts to remember you’re no longer on this plane of existence.

His hands are full so he can no longer cling to you - plus this has happened so many times before that he’s now nearly used to it - so instead he watches you go, numb, tears no longer falling from his eyes. After all, just for today, he has someone else to take care of, even if it’s for a short period of time. 

The kid is falling asleep in his lap now, and it’s just the two of them as Bakugou watches, but doesn’t really watch the shifting pictures in front of him. Being a godfather feels like an incomplete substitute for being a father at times, but it’s valuable all the same.

“Guess it’s just me and you, kid,” he whispers as he rises to put the baby to bed.

When the Midoriyas never return, and Bakugou signs the last of adoption papers, it rings again true.

The child laughs a little more now, unaware that his godfather now turned legal father sees three figures that aren’t really there instead of one now. Bakugou smiles as he throws the kid up in the air, realizing that misery might have helped him mourn you initially, but won’t keep the two of them safe.

“Guess it really is just me and you.”

[tsuiioku]

the dreadful need in the devotee — bungo stray dogs oneshot

content. f!reader. poetic prose, discussions of mortality and death, existentialism, suggestive themes, allusions to greek and abrahamic myth, romanticized unhealthy relationship dynamics, possible continuity errors. notes and translations at the end. not proofread. 3.8k+ words. ⟶ features fyodor dostoevsky. this work is a sequel to another oneshot! reading it's not a requirement, but is encouraged. this is also a collaboration with @yonseibananamilk! please check out her half of the collab ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

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The fire of Pyramus danced within its hearth, the crackles a plea for freedom. Wooden shelves shimmered in a spectrum of amber hues. The light married abstract shadows with the spines of ancient books, stories lost to civilizations no historian could neither name nor describe. However, the harsh rays softened as they reached the two huddled on a sofa in the corner.

The domestic flame of your shared nocturnal nook chiseled at your features. Meadowed plains melded into the hills of your cheeks before they dipped back into low valleys nestled on the cusp of your nose or at the curvature of your cupid's bow. Fresh streams fringed the waterline of your eyes, fluttering lashes portraying the underbrush that beckoned him, barely obscuring the mystery hidden beneath the murky brook. Such a delicate canvas, framed with messy hair, made his sick heart thump at such vulnerable dishevelment.

You drank every word of your book with reverence while he could hardly focus on the one he held. The careful movement of your fingers as you turned the page tainted his thoughts into fantasies where they instead traced the expanse of his skin—it was repulsive.

But he dreaded an infallible demise the moment you chose to lay against him, not a thought to the difference in your stations. That heated sensation of unfamiliar tenderness, shrouded from the world, only to be acknowledged in an unimportant room in an unimportant place, thumbed him with a sentiment he could not adhere a title to. You were powerless in the scheme of everything that enveloped you, yet held no regard for fear or fate.

Instead, you smiled.

He hid the quiver of his limbs as his finger brushed the underside of your chin. Your face craned upward, and he realized he had been parched for a taste of the features he had so painstakingly mapped to memory. Your eyes closed with leisure as you leaned into his touch and—

He cracked his eyes, unable to open them as they strained to readjust to the merciless glare of his monitors, their caustic luster a stark contrast to the imprisoned fireside of his daydreams. His muscles cried out when he stretched. The quiver in his limbs recurred in spasmodic vibrations, worsening the cramp of his hands as he flexed them. It was a relentless ache that had become all too familiar to him.

You were a distraction. He had lost whole minutes of time to fanciful delusions with you and that damning grin of yours at the center. In his preparations, he toyed with the idea of dispatching you to a remote location outside the ire of societal destruction before ridiculing himself upon further examination. If another one of his subordinates had become such an issue, he wouldn't have hesitated to snuff them out—you had to be the human incarnate of temptation, the ultimate test of his faith.

Men who had traversed the path before him did not do so without trial. He had scrutinized the warnings their stories contained—Adam, Samson, Saul—men who had strayed from their noble path only to lose their kingdom. Fleshly pleasures lured many a good man to condemnation, for how could such sweetness be considered a mortal sin?

The fallen had once been beautiful creatures of virtue, and you were but a testament to the scars left in their descent. It was temporary—you and the fragmented thoughts your presence created would pass in years' time. He only had to be patient.

A knock at the entrance to his workspace interrupted his internal toil.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?"

Patience would be easier said than done.

"Not at all."

Because you dissipated thought and reason from his frenzied mind the moment you blessed him with even a mumble. Your voice was the otherworldly harmony that strained atop his ballad of misery. Not the corrupt inflections he had become accustomed to over centuries of time, but rather a sincere, artless tune that only he was ordained to hear and that he alone could descry. He would only admit one fact—human companionship was a merciless mistress.

For he knew you were your happiest at his side as his right hand, but he could not understand the reason—it brought harm to your so-called "doorstep," and the workload was laborious at best. But even in this isolated instance, when the crooks of your smile didn't entirely brush the banks of your eyelids, a noticeable ease settled in your bones at the sight of him hunched over a desk. An ease he returned, albeit underneath the veil of his carefully crafted mask.

"The preparations for the cannibalism event are almost complete," you continued, maintaining an unusual manner of professionalism as you handed him a set of stapled documents and receipts. "I just need to receive your approval before sending out the orders." His eyes crossed each section without too much consideration for their actual contents, affirmed in his trust of your intellectual capabilities when it came to outlining critical components of his plans with the ire of a scrutinizing eye. 

"Thank you. These will do."

This was usually the time that you would dive head-first into a heated discussion about the latest novel from his collection or scurry off with a courteous farewell to complete the enormous amount of tasks you often procrastinated, but instead, you lingered. Your brows furrowed, locked in contemplation as your eyes stalled on his screens—schematics for his future "trip" to the European detention facility, Meursault. He cleared his throat, which luckily broke you from your daze.

"It'll be weird." You ran your thumbs across your knuckles, teasing at your bottom lip as you shifted from foot to foot. "Moving to a new hideout, I mean." The palms of your hands shifted to skim the dust and grime-coated surface of his barren shelves, toying with the clumps of debris that gathered on your fingers as your mind returned to its baseline. What did your thoughts stray to in times when they left you stranded, out of his reach, as they became more challenging to discern? He could only pray, in some twisted part of his dark mind, that they were a reflection of his own—then maybe those fantasies could be justified.

Outside his internal ramblings, he hummed lowly, acknowledging the truth behind that sentiment. Neither of you shared an attachment to the four walls that surrounded you—it was no home. It held none of the warmth or affection such a term required, though the idea of a home was foreign to you both.

Under those clouded waters, your eyes held a look he both adored and disdained. That muted hesitation had returned, like a criminal stood on trial, unable to utter a word of the truth lest they condemn themself. And you knew too much and said far too little. If you would surrender to your impulses, push him or pull him close so that, in some fashion, his conscience could be alleviated and he could refocus—but it seemed you were stuck within the same cycle of indecision.

You parted your lips, faltered, and closed them again, second-guessing yourself as you fiddled with your fist. But upon further inspection of your nervous disposition, he spotted an object that had been hidden in your back pocket. A book. He raised a brow as you slowly pulled it out.

"You've offered me so much reading material in the past." You handed him the book. Its cover was weathered and cracked; a once vibrant hue faded into a dark, timework brown. The delicate, diaphanous golden letters that spindled across the spin dulled with age but continued to catch onto the fluorescent light. "So I thought I'd return the favor. It's a book I've had for as long as I can remember."

"Poetry?" He couldn't withhold the amusement in his tone. You were such an adorable little woman—his heart squeezed in indescribable fondness at the incredibly fitting genre. The book cradled in his hands was even more charming, if possible. Several translucent tabs and disorder marks stacked the contents of the book, defining a distinct difference from his own analytical annotations. Part of him wanted you to leave sooner so he could delve into the contents away from distraction and be allowed to soak up every delectable notation.

"For wherever you plan to go. I hope you might find some use out of it." Your face softened. "I know it's helped me."

He huffed but knew that he was ultimately endeared. "Thank you, моя дорогая. If you enjoyed it, I'm certain I'll find it an enticing read."

A tremor trickled down your spine at the unexpected sound of his mother tongue. His thick accent sounded like velvet to the ears, but you quickly nodded and sent him the courteous farewell he had initially expected—but he couldn't allow you to leave without answering one more question.

"Which one should I read first?"

You paused, prodding the question around in your mind. The answer you stumbled upon was bold, and you contemplated your choices as your nails methodically drummed across the doorway's threshold. It was a risky choice, but one you had to take.

"Browning's Sonnet 22." Your expression could have locked him there for eternity. "It's my favorite."

And you left. You left, and indecision haunted him once more.

An abhorrent, unsightly torpor flooded within him like the Neva itself, the warmth of the Russian summer smearing any presence of intellect or acumen from his person. His limbs lay heavy from the sweltering heat as the underbrush tickled at his perspiration-laden skin, allowing him a momentary reprieve as he observed the breeze push against the bountiful flora that edged the bank of a creek older than he was in a homeland he had no way to return to.

"Федя."

He roused from the rush that engulfed his body and replaced his idleness, his mind ravenous at the mere whisper of such an intimate, almost forbidden name. Soft hands replaced the roughened roots of creekside plants, trailing his arms until their owner came into full view, beckoning him to lean forward with the purse of your lips.

You were somehow even warmer than the summer sun, and he melted like a tempered candlestick at your sheer touch, lips chasing your own as you drew away with a smirk and a laugh. The collision of your bodies onto the hardened ground drew the breath from his lungs, but he allowed himself to find it once more in your embrace, nose buried in your neck as he resisted the urge to indulge in mortal temptations and simply allowed himself to revel in the innocent embrace.

"Федя," you cooed. Your hands roamed the expanse of his hair, outlining the edges of his nape in a rhythmic motion that started to lure him into a dreamless sleep. 

That was until the sensation started to fade, and he felt the familiar stomach-dropping sensation of falling. His eyes shot open as the idyllic naturistic scene dissipated from view to leave a void. Only you remained, but he paled as even you started to fade, reassuring him with a pitiful smile that he had become far too acquainted with.

"I'm sorry, Федя. You'll have to go one without me this time."

Your presence melded until your touch was like the chill of an algid frost—it was like the expiration of a dying star, crumbling in on itself until it rematerializes once more. From dust, you came, and to dust, you shall return. The contact was the biting notion of where and who he was, with every incapability and flaw that marred his flesh. It whipped at his skin, burned at his eyes.

He shook as you slipped through his fingers, drifting out of his grasp as he looked around for something to hold onto, anything to help either of you escape from—

"That must be a pretty good book you've got there."

The blinding aura of his circular cell was not a sight he wished to become accustomed to, the chamber he had been "forced" to occupy with the French prison. And to his utter dismay, it had been the lousy half of the Port Mafia's former Double Black that had stirred him from his waking nightmare, Osamu Dazai. The bandaged man looked like the cat that had caught the rat; his eyes narrowed as if he had finally pinpointed the Russian's weakness. An unseemly smirk drew across his pale face.

"You've been staring at the same page for the past five minutes, Fyodor," the detective crooned, splayed on on his bed with his head dangling at the side at an uncomfortable angle, almost like he wasn't locked in a high-stakes match of chess. "Your eyes haven't moved an inch. Leaves me to wonder what could possibly be so enticing about that book. You should lend it sometime!"

"I'm simply concerned for the well-being of your fellow agents," Fyodor sneered cooly, allowing his demonic mask to slip back on with his signature smirk. "I just can't help but worry for them. I'll be sure to pray for a swift, painless demise."

"Hmm, I'm sure."

But the suspicion of the detective didn't matter. Fyodor had ensured that you had no connections to one another, and your identity was completely erased once you went underground years prior. So, for the time you remained hidden, you were safe, and that terrible concoction of his mind would not come to fruition. You were in the midst of correcting course on any minor deviations from his plans if the smoothness of his operation was a testament—but in other moments between consciousness and sleep, he wondered if you shared these same thoughts. The split seconds that expanded into hours of dreams he wished never to wake from. 

He couldn't help but linger on the horrific scenario that cast an ever-present shadow over his every thought. It was a possibility, and he shuddered to think of the notion that it would someday become a reality. But this was his one opportunity, and he wouldn't waste it.

He glanced down at his book. In truth, he wasn't much impressed by the pages anymore. This was one of the many books with copies in his personal collection, but it lacked the vitality he had become attuned to. It had been your book of poems that revitalized him, yet he was unable and unwilling to bring such a valuable item into a place such as this. He would not risk the desperation of his opponent at finding his weakness, nor the capabilities of the Special Division for Unusual Powers in finding a connection to the book's owner—so it was contained somewhere safe and sound, where no one else could find it.

That book had opened a separate world that consumed him, body and soul. But that poem that you had recommended—you were quite the romantic, weren't you? His face had flushed during his first reading and the several times after it, though your annotations were even more telling. But it only made the pressure on his heart increase, and he swore it would implode. Perhaps that was an underlying medical condition of his previous host.

And for the first time in centuries, he wasn't quite sure what he would do when he saw you again.

You dislodged yourself from the rubbled remains of the airport, fortunate to have been located further from the destruction Ame-no-Gozen created. The walls around you stood firm, but the roof caved in from pressure above, leaving only a sliver of room to escape to the intact remainder of the roof. Your hands ached and blistered with every inch of your ascent, halted as you took time to cough out the debris that generously clustered at the bottom of your lungs. You looked utterly worse for wear but couldn't find the time to mind given the circumstances.

After what seemed like hours of excruciating climbing, you made it to the top—but, of course, the fabric of your pants decided to snag onto a metal panel that had stubbornly remained intact.

"Oh, come on," you groaned, sitting down to tease and tussle with the ornery piece of cloth. It had been a restless last few weeks, and you simply wanted to sleep. You huffed as the shrapnel decided to release its grasp on your pants, but as you were about to stand back up, you took notice of the shadow before you.

There he was.

You could recognize Fyodor's striking eyes anywhere, even when he was clad in the attire of a fresh body without his signature hat and cloak, but you found that you didn't care much for the finer details when he was finally in front of you. His presence had formed a vacancy in your everyday routine, and for the first time in years, you found yourself completely alone. Even when there was work to be done and plans to create, the majority of his usual subordinates were killed as collateral—not that they had even been much company. But would you be forced to fall into the same line?

The question nauseated you, but you had known the possibilities when you took his hand for the first time. If there was a time for you to part ways, whether at his accord or your own, this would be it. This was your crossroads. But you knew as you slipped your hand into his, outstretched for you to take, that he wouldn't be letting go. The grip he had held you like it was a sin to part. It seemed your fears were unfounded since when you slipped your hand into his own, outstretched for you to take, you knew he wouldn't let you go. The grip he had held you like it was a sin to part.

You stood with his help, a contemplative tilt to your brow—but you couldn't stand the silence that continued to persist. So, in the echoes of his formulaic destruction, you allowed yourself to breathe. A release of that suspension and hesitation, unfurling your burden as you lifted your aching hands to cup his face, delighted in the widening of his eyes at the unbalanced scale between you tilted to the other side.

"Федя," you spoke, the sensation of the word foreign to your lips. A spark returned to his eyes as if you whispered the secret to raise him from the dead. "Are you alright?"

The wind rushed through him, breath tumbling with the breeze as it coasted along the metal platform you stood from. Despite reason pleading with him to run from your proximity, he instead chose to intertwine his fingers with one of your hands. He pressed kisses into the curve of your palm as he lined every scar and bruise with a tenderness that soothed your aches.

"I am."

He didn't need to utter another word—your brief separation had only strengthened your unified understanding of one another, with each crying gesture serving as the final touch. No more trials. No more secrets. The look in his eyes was one of stories. Eyes that had witnessed every dismal aspect of human nature, both in the past you shared, and in the past he traversed alone. But they had become worthless stories to him; the minuscule glimpses of resolution that had served as a sign from God of the promised end turned into the delusions of a desperate man as he found the reflection of the end in front of him—you. In every step he took since your destined encounter, you had been what he was searching for. His hope. His future. His reality. That fraudulent resolution was no longer at the end of a perilous tunnel but right before him.

You understood that the intimacy of your "relationship," with whichever label others tended to tack it with, could never be shared with another soul. Those voiceless, indulgent whispers and subtle, crinkled smiles were mere productions of your shared devotion. But more so, the hummed resonation of your souls spoke the loudest. They had remained empty for such stretches of time, so neither of you knew what to make of it when you somehow poured from your empty cups into the creation of a fulfilling bond. Your only comfort was the notion that this—this was the reason you were created. For each other.

He remembered the moment he laid eyes on you, the sensation that his long-time friend had turned foe, death no longer a temptation out of his grasp but a certainty he could not shake. Your straightforward disposition beckoned him, and he then understood why he had been made with a capacity for love despite acting as the immortal incarnation of its antonym. He had never once felt a need for fruitful devotion, not to some unseen voice from the skies, untouched by the heart and mind of humans, but instead for the one person who would take his heart to the grave with them.

He was immortal, whether by chance or fate, but it was your ability to shake off the temptations of fear that immortalized you in the end. Never once had you allowed your rift in mortality to halt the blossoming kinship between you, prodding at the walls of his solid foundations until they cracked and eroded over time. Fyodor chuckled—he thought he had a capacity for patience, between you were a godsend in comparison. He was the proclaimed "Demon of the North." The man sent to spread the wrathful will of God across the nations. So it was no wonder he had been so tempted when met with a force of benevolence, one which he had rarely witnessed and never known. He could never claim to be worthy of mortal worship when a creature like you stood before him.

You shivered at the sudden touch of his hands as they traveled across the exposed skin of your waist, soft despite his habits. They traced the contours of your figure like a sculptor transfixed on the finest marble. Time had not been merciful in his centuries alone—but it stilled for this moment. For the moment your lips met, and your odyssey was finally over. The spread of his touch was revolutionary, roaming with a cardinal fervor within this wasteland of human misfortune. It sparked a revolt within your mind—your union was taboo, but nothing had ever felt as destined to be.

The muscles of your face tendered as his thumb outlined the brushwood of your lashes. Your eyes drifted shut in a manner that wordlessly pronounced your insomnolence. He kissed a smile against your forehead as you parted, cradling your face as if you were his world. This was an intimacy that could not be replicated, and his mind shattered at the notion of loss.

"Never wander somewhere I can't follow," spoke the desperate man.

You flashed him a cheeky grin. "You won't be able to leave if you want me to stay."

He leaned in, lips close enough to brush. "I won't leave. Not ever again."

And he dipped back in for another taste, addicted to the ambrosial quality of your lips as he buried himself in the shrine of your arms. 

дорогая = dear федя = fedya

TAGLIST: @ruru-kiss @miloofc @osarina @meiluvrr @suru1990 @honeymoon38 @saeandscaralover @dazaisms @v4mpash3 @coffeeofsamu @just-another-crack-artist @snowsilver2000 @chyozai @justcallmesakira @little-miss-chaoss @himikoslove @osameowdazai @deepseafragments @aureatchi @tirasamu @kelperspelt @squigglewigglewoo @lovesick-fairy @zyilas @ishqani

a fyodor fic! very original for me, i know. nana and i planned out this collaboration months ago, and were luckily able to schedule it for the chapter release. again, please go check out her side of the collaboration! speaking of chapters, that update was certainly something. i'm intrigued to see the further development of atsushi and akutagawa through the end of this story arc, since it feels like they've switched roles in regards to the desperation, if that makes sense. and, of course, it was interesting to see fyodor express such strong emotion in reaction to atsushi, and i'm excited to see it unfold in the next installment! feel free to discussion discourse below :D

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