#currently working two jobs... technically?

[asterzratz02]

This is how I feel about every job I have ever had. I've come to the conclusion that I can never have a normal job.

[crossbackpoke-check]

snapshots:

(1) rks (2) park near the pitch (3) accidental find (4) bloodless (5) don’t ask how many times i’ve seen hippo campus (6) sunlit interior (7) nolan patrick i liked mt. joy first and i have receipts

[lookwhatyoumademelou]

.

[seilon]

“group interview” occurred. not sure how it went really but I guess that tends to be how these things go

[daddy-socrates]

i've sent my thesis poster and zoom link to two of my undergrad professors, hoping they have a forwarding email for the retired professor whom i blame for my whole second degree in this shit

[e77y]

I never updated on this but um. I applied and got rejected from all three 🥲 I really hope I get a graduate assistantship next semester. I need a JOB 🙏

Okay actually a couple library branches are hiring, but they’re all like 30 mins away from me. Which is fine but would be annoying daily in combination with my class schedule… BUT The requirements aren’t crazy (1 year customer service, which I TTTEEECCCHNICALLY have on paper) so I feel like I could totally apply despite having no library experience…. Should I

[seospicybin]

DOUBLE FEATURE.

CHAPTER ONE

Lee Know x reader.

DOUBLE FEATURE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: After a strange accident on movie set, you and a stunt actor, Minho, wake up in each other’s bodies. The two of you are forced to live one another’s lives while searching for answers. But the longer both of you are stuck, the more both of you begin to see each other differently. (19,3k words)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s way out of your league.

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

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

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

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

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

-

Minho wakes up before the sun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stops you for a second. “Wet?”

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

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

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

“Minho.”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

“Cut!” someone yells.

Cheers follow. A few claps. A PA whistles.

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

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

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

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

“Nice fall, Minho,” they say.

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t look at you. “Hmm?”

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

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

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

You swallow air. “Which prop?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“Minho?” a voice calls.

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho frowns. “This thing looks haunted.”

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

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

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

“Yeah. Looks fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That was weird,” he says finally.

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

“Or we’re just exhausted.”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scene 57 – Tank drop + underwater hold

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scene 12 – voiceover cuts in mid-sentence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

Something feels… off.

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

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

“What the—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where to?” the driver asks.

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

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

-

Minho groans softly, shifting under the blanket.

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

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

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

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

What the hell?

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

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

“Holy—”

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

"No. No no no no—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he hangs up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is real, right?” you whisper.

Minho nods grimly. “Yeah. Too real.”

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

“Agreed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho’s jaw drops. “What?”

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

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

You nod seriously.

“That’s your big idea.”

You nod again.

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

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

“This is so stupid,” Minho mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You make it sound so easy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tell him.

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

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

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

He mutters something under his breath.

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

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

“Rule two: don’t quit my job.”

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

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

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

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

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

You hold out your—his—hand. “Deal?”

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

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

This is going to be such a disaster.

-

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

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

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

You nod slowly. “Copy that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widen. “What about it?”

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

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

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

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

“Good plan,” Minho mutters.

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

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

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

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

-

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

“There you are!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Okay. So far, so good.

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

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

“Wanna run some practice rolls?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Easy," he says.

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, hey!” he greets warmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One…”

You swallow.

“Two…”

Your fingers hover a breath away from the glass.

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scowls. “Fine.”

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

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

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

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

Please, let this work.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

You hesitate, but shuffle closer, visibly trembling. Minho crouches down and picks up the padding gear someone must’ve dumped in the corner earlier. “Arms up.”

You obey, albeit reluctantly, and Minho begins fastening the elbow pads, strapping them tightly around your joints with practiced hands. He tries to focus on the motions—secure, align, tighten—but it is hard when you are radiating so much panic that he can practically feel it buzzing in the air between you.

“I’ve never jumped off anything in my life,” you mutter as he move to your knees. “Not even a pool diving board. And now I have to—what—leap off a parking building?! I’m going to die. I’m going to die and they’re going to say it’s your fault and everyone will hate you and—”

“Hey.” He doesn't snap, not this time. He straightens up and catches your shoulders before your thoughts can spiral further. “You’re not going to die.”

You give him a skeptical look that mirrors his own expressions so well it is eerie. He let out a sigh and reaches for your chin, tilting your head up until your eyes met his.

It is surreal—seeing his own face like this. Pale. Anxious. Lips quivering, jaw tight. It hit him then: he’s never seen himself afraid. Not really. Not until now.

“You’re safe,” Minho says, firmly but with something softer beneath the surface. “You’ve got padding in all the right places, the rig guys triple-check everything, and the mat down there is like landing on a bed. You’re going to be fine.”

You stare at him, not entirely convinced so Minho moves his fingers to your jaw, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “All you have to do is jump. That’s it. Just one jump. You don’t even have to look down.”

“But—”

“And once it’s over,” he cut in, gently but firmly, “we’ll figure this out. The mirror, the curse, whatever it is. We’ll fix it. I promise.”

You bite your lip—his lip—and nod slowly. Minho sees it in your eyes, the fear still clinging to every thought, but also something else: trust.

His lips quirks, a small smile just for you. “See? You’ve got this.”

The walkie-talkie on his hip crackles again, Mr. Kim’s voice barking for the third time, increasingly annoyed. Minho doesn’t even bother responding this time. He flips the switch and turns it off with a pointed click. He isn’t leaving. Not yet. Not until you're ready.

-

You stand just off set, fully padded and jittery, the building looming behind you like a threat. You try not to look up at the ledge where you’re about to leap from, even though it’s all you can think about. Your heartbeat is a loud, erratic drum in your chest.

The only thing keeping you from bolting is the thought Minho planted in your head: the sooner you finish this, the sooner you can fix this. That’s it. That’s the only thing keeping your legs from locking up.

You’ve rehearsed it. You’ve gone over every step with Minho, run through the motion a dozen times on flat ground. The scene is straightforward. You just have to sprint and jump. You’ve watched Minho do stunts before—this one is small compared to the usual—but it feels colossal now that you’re the one doing it.

You stand on your mark and wait for the instruction.

“Action!”

You don’t think. You just run. The wind cuts past your ears, and the edge of the building rushes up on you faster than you expect. You hit the mark, your foot bouncing off the tape, and you leap.

Air whooshes past your face as the world tilts. Your stomach flips, your body tenses, and a sound you don’t mean to make escapes your lips. And then—impact. Soft, pillowy, like crashing into a giant marshmallow.

You lie there, limbs splayed, your eyes shut, breathing hard. It’s quiet except for your heart pounding and the distant sound of crew members moving around. You don’t move. You feel like your soul is still clinging to the top of that building.

Then you hear your voice. “Hey.”

You open your eyes and see Minho—your body—standing beside you with a hand extended. You take it, letting him pull you up.

“Oh, my God!” You gasp in disbelief, chest still rising and falling. “I can’t believe I actually did that.”

Minho scratches the back of your—his—head, lips pressing into a flat line. “Yeah, but… you’re gonna have to do it again.”

Your smile drops. “What? Why?”

He steps in closer and lowers his voice. “You screamed. You’re not supposed to scream during the jump.”

You blink, horrified. “I didn’t mean to. It just—it just came out!”

Minho doesn’t scold you. He just sighs and gives you a small, understanding nod. “It’s okay. Just do it again. Don’t think about it too much this time. Remember what I told you: shoulders relaxed, don’t lock your knees when you land, and breathe. You’ve got this.”

He crouches beside you, helping you adjust your padding again, tightening a loose strap on your elbow guard. You nod slowly, drawing in a deep breath. You have to do this. One more time. Then maybe—just maybe—you’ll be one step closer to waking up in your own skin again.

-

By the seventh take, you finally get the hang of it. Your knees don’t wobble as much, and your scream stays buried in your throat where it belongs. You land right on the mat, smooth and silent, and when you get up, the director gives a loud, satisfied “Cut! That’s the one!” You can hardly believe it. Relief floods through your body like a warm rush, and you’re already looking around for Minho—to tell him you survived, to ask if he saw it, but he’s not there.

Instead, Mr. Kim walks toward you, and your stomach sinks. His expression is unreadable at first, firm as usual, like he’s about to throw more instructions your way. You stiffen.

“Come with me,” he says, not unkindly. “We need to talk.”

You hesitate, then follow him, nerves crawling all over your skin. He still thinks you’re Minho. You have no idea what kind of relationship Minho has with this man, what you’re expected to say, or how to behave. You can only follow and pray you don’t blow your cover.

Mr. Kim leads you behind one of the trailers, where it’s quiet and out of view. He turns to face you, and when he does, something changes in his face. His features soften, his brows furrow—not in frustration, but in concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You straighten up and force a small nod. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t buy it. His hand comes up gently, resting on your shoulder, and he makes you look at him. His voice is lower now, careful. “Minho. Are you really okay?”

Your breath catches. His eyes are sharp, too sharp. You’re afraid he’ll see right through the lie, right through you—and you can’t afford that. So you take a risk.

“I… don’t feel like myself today,” you say quietly.

It’s not a lie. Just not the whole truth. Mr. Kim studies you for a moment longer, then slowly lowers his hand from your shoulder. Something settles in his eyes—understanding. He nods once, firm but kind. “Take a day off tomorrow.”

“Oh?” You blink, surprised. “Thank you.”

But before you can fully exhale, he adds, “I’m giving it to you because I want you to go to your appointment.”

Your heart skips. Appointment? You nod quickly, masking your confusion. “Right. Of course. I’ll go.”

“Good,” Mr. Kim says. He gives your shoulder two reassuring pats before turning and walking away, leaving you behind the trailer with a dry mouth and a thousand new questions.

Once he’s gone, you let out a long, shaky sigh and run a hand down your face. What appointment? And what exactly is going on in Minho’s life that you’ve just walked into?

-

Minho feels like every inch of your body is about to shut down.

The second he finishes logging the last of the day’s call sheets and returns the borrowed walkie to the charging dock, he slumps against the nearest wall in the hallway. The ache in your lower back is sharp, and his legs—your legs—feel like they’ve been walking for ten hours straight, which, unfortunately, they have.

He hates this job— your job. Not because it’s hard—he’s used to hard. But because it’s the kind of hard that goes unnoticed, thankless. And worse, he can’t understand how you do it. How you put up with the never-ending orders, the too-long hours, the bosses who treat you like a personal assistant rather than a professional. He wonders how much you bite your tongue each day. How often you do someone else’s job because no one else will. And most of all, he really wonders how you put up with that damn AD.

Minho groans as he pushes himself off the wall and trudges toward the storage room. The mirror is still there, tucked behind shelves and crates, hidden under the dusty tarp. He yanks it back and looks at the frame, eyes narrowing. There’s still no answer. No inscription. No symbols. Nothing magical about it except the wrong person staring back at him when he looks.

However, he has a plan now. He figures if he brings it home, you and him can test it in a more controlled setting. Try again without the rush, without worrying about being caught. He can set it up, maybe even try using different lighting, mirrors in movies always need the right light, right?

With that in mind, Minho wedges his hands underneath the frame and lifts, or tries to as your arms give out halfway through.

The mirror barely rises off the floor before his grip slips, and it lands back with a dull thud. He exhales a string of curses under his breath. Your body just isn’t strong enough to carry this alone. His body could, no problem. But your frame is smaller, and your muscles are clearly not used to hauling heavy things. He huffs and pulls out your phone.

Minho scrolls through the recent calls and presses his own number—your number, technically. When you pick up, he doesn’t waste time.

“Storage room. Now. I need your help carrying this damn mirror.”

As he waits, he leans against the shelf, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the storage room door and the mirror beside him. The minutes tick by slower than he wants, and just when he considers calling again, the door creaks open and you stumble in, panting.

He frowns as he takes you in. “What took you so long?”

You open your mouth to respond, but Minho catches the glint of something white on your upper lip. His brows knit together, and without thinking, he reaches out and swipes his thumb over your skin.

“What is this?” he mutters, holding it up for inspection. Icing sugar.

You blink at him before replying, “I got hungry. Like starving. The second the adrenaline wore off, it just hit me, so I raided the craft table.”

Minho sighs sharply. “Great. So now you’re feeding my body garbage.”

You scoff, clearly offended. “Excuse me? Are you saying I’m not allowed to eat?”

“I didn’t say that,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “Just… don’t ruin my metabolism.”

You shoot him a glare, but before the back-and-forth can spiral, he jerks his chin toward the mirror. “Help me carry it. We’re taking it.”

You blink. “Taking it where?”

“Home. Somewhere private. We need to inspect it properly and figure things out.”

You pause, then nod, surprisingly quick to get behind the plan. Together, the two of you peek out into the hallway. No one’s there. Minho grabs one side of the mirror, you take the other, and you both move in sync, quietly sneaking the thing across the back corridors of the set and out the emergency exit that leads to the parking lot. It takes some maneuvering to fit the mirror in the back of your car, but you manage it—barely—without cracking the glass or your patience. Minho exhales deeply, wiping his hands on his pants when it’s finally secure.

You straighten up beside him and say, “We should stay at my place too.”

He gives you a look. “Why?”

You shrug like it’s obvious. “Didn’t you say we need to figure this out together? Kind of hard to do that if we’re in two different places.”

Minho groans under his breath, then rakes a hand through his—your—hair. “Fine. But I swear, if I find out you’re feeding my body more sugar—”

“You’ll what? Body slam me with your fragile little arms?” you tease.

He throws dagger with his eyes but then sighs. “Just get in the car.”

-

You and Minho struggle a little getting the mirror through your front door, the frame bumping against the hallway walls before it finally lands in your living room with a soft thud. As soon as it’s upright against the wall, you sigh and wipe your forehead with the back of your hand.

Without saying anything, you bolt toward the kitchen.

Minho’s voice follows you, sharp and scolding. “Are you seriously eating again?”

“I’m hungry,” you grumble back, flinging the fridge open and pulling out whatever looks remotely edible. After the day you’ve had—stunts, screaming, and the stress from this soul-swapping thing—you feel like you’ve earned a sandwich. Maybe two.

Minho huffs behind you but doesn’t argue. Good. He doesn’t need to know about the six donuts you inhaled earlier in a post-stunt haze.

As you line up slices of bread and pile on meat and cheese like you're building a house, you glance over your shoulder. “So... what’s the plan now?”

Minho doesn’t answer immediately. He’s pacing the living room with purpose, already back in his ‘problem-solving’ mode. “We need to find out where this mirror came from. If we know its origin, maybe we’ll understand what kind of... magic or whatever is tied to it.”

You nod, even though you’re more focused on not cutting your finger with the butter knife. “Okay. Research. Got it.”

You finish assembling your sandwich and take it with you to the couch, plopping down with a content sigh as you sink into the cushions. Minho drops his backpack on the coffee table and unzips it with determination.

“What’s that?” you ask between bites.

“Props files,” he says, pulling out a stack of folders. “I swiped them from the office. Figured they might help us trace where they bought the mirror.”

You raise your eyebrows, impressed despite yourself. “You stole from the production office?”

Minho looks up and deadpans, “It’s not stealing if I’m just borrowing it... for a supernatural emergency.”

You snort and go back to chewing as Minho flips through the files, muttering under his breath and scanning each one. You watch him work while you finish your sandwich in slow, satisfying bites, the mirror quietly looming behind you both like it’s watching.

Two sandwiches later, you lie sprawled out on the sofa, legs hanging off one end, flipping lazily through a folder you’re holding above your face. The files are everywhere—on the floor, coffee table, couch cushions—like paper confetti from a very boring parade. Your eyes burn from the effort of trying to keep them open, skimming row after row of itemized props.

You groan and let the folder rest on your chest. “I’m so tired,” you mumble, the words muffled into the cushion beneath your cheek.

Minho, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his hair messily pushed back and your hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, doesn’t even look up. “Keep looking,” he says, flipping a page with more intensity than necessary. “One of these has to be it.”

You roll over with a heavy sigh to lie on your stomach, dragging the folder with you. “Okay, but… let’s say we do find out where the mirror came from. Then what?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Then we find out who made it, or where it’s been used before. Maybe there’s some sort of curse or enchantment or—hell, even a hidden switch or inscription somewhere. Whatever it is, we investigate it, and we figure out how to reverse whatever happened to us.”

You let out a soft “mmhmm” in response, your cheek now smushed into the armrest. His voice drones on behind you, low and steady and filled with just enough irritation to mean he’s in deep focus, but none of it really lands anymore.

Your lids grow heavier. Your limbs feel like lead. And before you can tell him you’ll take just a five-minute nap, your eyes fall shut.

Minho’s—your—voice keeps talking, but in your world, it’s already faded into a distant hum—like a lullaby, quiet and unintentional.

-

Minho continues sorting through the files, flipping each page with growing impatience. His voice fills the room, steady but tired as he lays out his plan. “Once we find the vendor, maybe we can trace who made the mirror, right? Maybe they know what kind of enchantment it has—if it’s cursed, or activated by something, or if there’s some weird ritual to reverse it…”

He exhales sharply, eyes scanning another line of paperwork. “God, I’m so tired,” he admits quietly. “But we have to figure this out. I need to get back to my body. Soon.”

He pauses as it gets so quiet all of a sudden—so much so that it draws his attention. He looks up and there you are, curled on the sofa, cheek resting on your hand, your breathing soft and even. He watches the way your—his—chest rises and falls slowly, how the tiniest hum of a sigh escapes your lips. You look peaceful. Too peaceful. As if today hadn’t completely knocked the life out of you.

Minho slumps against the end of the sofa and lets out a long sigh. “You’re exhausted,” he murmurs, softer now, more to himself than to you. “Of course you are. That jump today…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it’s just you inside. I know that. But God, I hated seeing that look on my face. That fear. I’ve never seen that before—not like that.”

He lets the vulnerability bleed out of him in the privacy of the quiet room, watching you sleep. “I don’t know what I’m doing either,” he confesses, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m honestly just as scared as you.”

With a sigh, Minho rises from the carpet and walks toward your bedroom. He returns a moment later with your duvet in his arms and gently drapes it over you. His movements are careful, deliberate as if he's afraid that you'll wake up from the slightest of touch.

He stares at you for another beat, his features softening. Then he mutters to himself, “I guess we’ll try again tomorrow,” and grabs a pillow before settling on the floor nearby, finally allowing himself to rest.

-

The shrill ring of your phone splits the quiet of the morning like a blade, jolting Minho awake where he’s curled on the floor. His eyes barely open as he groans, his entire body stiff and sore from sleeping on the carpet. The ringtone is all too familiar now.

He doesn’t even need to look. “Assistant Director from Hell,” he mutters darkly, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Of course.”

From the sofa, your—his—voice muffles out from beneath the pillow. “Make it stop…”

Minho glares at the phone, fighting every urge to hurl it across the room and let it shatter into a hundred blessedly quiet pieces. But instead, he picks it up and answers with a deadpan, “Yeah?”

As expected, the AD starts yelling before Minho even finishes the word. “Where the hell are you?! You were supposed to sign off on the set design changes by now—do you think this movie’s gonna shoot itself?!”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. He stares blankly at the wall and replies flatly, “I’ll get on it,” and then hangs up.

A beat of silence. He glances down at your body sprawled out on the sofa, now cocooned in the duvet, your face still buried.

“Lucky me,” he mutters, hauling himself up from the floor like a man twice his age. “Time to be you again.”

His day hasn’t even started, and Minho already needs a nap. Even so, he drags himself up to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he trudges toward the bathroom. But before he disappears down the hallway, he turns and gives your foot a firm tug where it’s peeking out from under the duvet.

“Get up,” he says, voice still raspy with sleep. “You’ve got work to do too.”

You grumble in protest and curl tighter into the cocoon of blankets. “Mr. Kim told me to take a day off,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the pillow.

Minho stops in his tracks, confused. “What? Why?”

“Something about an appointment,” you say, yawning into the cushion. “Gave me the day off so I could go. Which reminds me—what appointment?”

There’s a pause. Too long of a pause. He stands there stiffly, his back to you, his hand half-lifted to push open the bathroom door. Then, quietly, “It’s nothing. You don’t have to go.”

You peek one eye open at him. “Nothing?”

“Yeah.” He turns just enough to glance at you, then looks away again too quickly. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

You raise an eyebrow but let it go for now, too sleepy to pry. You shrug and flop back into the sofa, pulling the blanket over your head.

But Minho won’t let you stay buried for long. “Still,” he says, straightening up, “you should get up. While I’m out doing your job again, you can go through the rest of the files. Keep looking for anything about that damn mirror.”

You let out a long, dramatic groan as you push yourself upright, eyes still closed, your hair sticking out in every direction. You look like a very reluctant ghost of yourself in Minho’s body.

“Coffee,” you croak.

“You can make that after you start looking,” he replies dryly, already heading down the hall to get dressed. “No slacking off on your day off.”

And before you can argue, he leaves you grumbling and squinting around the living room at the scattered files that await you. Minho is only halfway to the bathroom when your voice rings out from behind him.

“Wait—!”

He stops, hand on the doorframe, and glances back at you with an eyebrow raised. “What now?”

“Are you gonna shower?” you ask, already sitting up straighter on the sofa, suddenly wide awake.

“Yes?” he answers slowly, suspicious of your tone.

“No!” you blurt, pointing at him. “You can’t! That means you’ll—you’ll see my body!”

Minho stares at you, deadpan. “You’re joking, right?”

“No, I’m not,” you say with a scowl. “That’s my body.”

“And I’m in your body,” Minho replies, exasperated. “You’ve already seen mine.”

“Yeah, not by choice!” you shout, standing up in protest.

But then, something shifts in your expression—your eyes widen in alarm as you look down at yourself. Your voice shoots up in pitch. “Wait, wait, wait, wait—what the hell is that?!”

Minho turns around to see what you’re freaking out about, only to find you gaping in horror at the visible bulge under your sweatpants.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “WHAT is happening to me?!”

Minho can’t help it. He bursts out laughing, grabbing the doorframe for support. “That, my friend, is called morning wood.”

You look up at him like he’s just told you you’ve grown a second head. “Why?! What do I do with it?!”

Still laughing, Minho makes an incredibly inappropriate hand gesture and winks. “You release it.”

“Ugh! God!” you groan in disgust, clutching your head in mortification. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Minho finally relents, waving a hand. “Okay, relax. No need to be dramatic. A cold shower will do the trick.”

You nod quickly, taking that piece of information like it’s gospel. “Okay. Cold shower. Right. Cool.”

With that, Minho shakes his head and turns into the bathroom, muttering under his breath. He shuts the door behind him, and as he reaches for the buttons on your blouse, he pauses. He sighs, remembering your earlier freak-out.

“Seriously,” he mutters to himself, eyes shut tight as he starts to undress.

-

You head to the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you start the coffee machine. The warm hum of it fills the quiet morning, and you lean on the counter, arms crossed, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. Your muscles ache slightly from yesterday’s stunt, and you groan quietly, muttering, “Never again.”

Minho’s phone—your phone now—buzzes on the counter. You glance down at the screen and see Mr. Kim’s name lighting it up.

Mr. Kim: Where are you?

You quickly type back, Staying at a friend’s place. Short, simple. Hopefully enough. The phone buzzes again almost immediately.

Mr. Kim: Don’t forget about your appointment today.

You frown, reading the message twice. That appointment again. It’s clearly important, judging from the way Mr. Kim keeps reminding him—almost like he’s worried. You hesitate, thumb hovering above the keyboard, about to ask what the appointment is for when you hear the bathroom door open.

Minho walks out in your bathrobe, hair damp and sticking to your forehead, steam still clinging to your skin. You narrow your eyes the second you see him, arms slowly uncrossing.

“Did you do something weird to my body in the shower?” you ask, suspicious and sharp.

Minho freezes mid-step as he gives you a sly glance and mutter. “I’m not a pervert!”

You squint at him, trying to gauge if he’s lying, but he waves you off in a huff and walks straight past you. “I literally showered with my eyes closed,” he calls over his shoulder, already heading toward the bedroom. “I’m traumatized enough, thanks.”

You watch him disappear into the room with a scowl before glancing down at the phone again. That appointment still lingers at the back of your mind. You chew your bottom lip and sigh, debating whether to ask him about it in person or—

The sound of the coffee machine beeping derail your train of thoughts. You quickly pour yourself a cup of coffee, the scent rich and comforting as it rises with the steam. This—this cup of coffee—is the one thing you’ve earned after surviving a rooftop stunt, hauling a cursed mirror across a film set, and waking up with an entirely different anatomy. You lift the mug toward your lips, practically sighing in anticipation.

“Hey! Come here for a second,” Minho calls from the bedroom.

You stop mid-sip, your brow twitching in irritation as you lower the mug and sigh heavily. “Ugh! What now?”

You walk to the bedroom and push the door open, only to freeze at the scene in front of you. Your eyes widen in absolute horror.

Minho—still in your bathrobe—is standing in front of your open dresser, rummaging through your underwear drawer like he’s looking for spare change. “What are you doing?!” you shriek, rushing in and trying to close the drawer, fumbling to push his hands away.

“I need to get dressed, don’t I?” he says with the exhausted calm of someone who’s already fought a dozen battles this morning. “Unless you want me to wear a towel to set?”

You open your mouth to argue—but nothing comes out. Because, fine. He’s not wrong. Muttering under your breath, you reluctantly let go and take a step back, rubbing your forehead in defeat. “Okay. Just—don’t go digging through my socks or anything.”

Minho grabs a bra from the drawer, holds it up like it’s a complicated puzzle, and asks, “Okay, how do I put this thing on?”

“Close your eyes first!” you bark instantly.

He obeys without question, raising his arms and squeezing his eyes shut. First, you part his bathrobe open until it falls around his waist. You gently take the bra from his hands and guide his arms through the straps, reaching around to clasp it at his back. It’s mechanical, awkward—but you manage.

“Can I open my eyes now?” he asks.

You hesitate. “...Yeah.”

He opens his eyes, looks down at your—his—body clad only in your underwear, and just stands there blinking. You watch him watching himself, and then something changes. You feel it. Biologically, something happens inside Minho’s body, and you realize with growing horror what’s going on.

“Nope. Nope,” you say quickly, backing away and holding up your hands. “I’m out.”

You rush out of the room without another word and return to your coffee. You take a small sip and then mutter, “I just wanted to drink my coffee in peace.”

-

You sit curled up on the couch, fingers wrapped around your mug as you finally get a decent sip of coffee. It’s warm, strong, and blessedly quiet for exactly two minutes.

Then Minho walks out of the bedroom, fully dressed in your clothes—somehow making them look sharper than they ever do on you—with your phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. He’s muttering something to whoever’s on the other end, his tone clipped and on the edge of his patience. You bet it's the AD from hell and you don't know what he says to him, but it’s clearly your job and, honestly, it makes you feel a little bad. He’s doing your work, dealing with your chaos. Still, you don’t exactly envy him either.

The moment he hangs up, he levels a glare your way. “Don’t slack off,” he says. “Get to those files.”

You take a long, pointed sip of coffee. “I’ll get to it once I’ve had my coffee.”

Minho strides toward the kitchen, snatches the car keys off the counter, and tosses them into his palm with the same grace he uses for fight choreography. Just before he steps out the door, he throws another warning over his shoulder. “I mean it. Work on those files.”

You groan dramatically. “I said I’ll do it. You want me to concentrate or not? Stop talking.”

He narrows your eyes at you—his eyes, now—and then finally leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him, and for the first time this morning, you let out a heavy sigh of relief. You sink back into the cushions, holding your coffee like it’s sacred.

“God,” you mutter to yourself, “this better not be my whole week.”

You refill your coffee mug—because there's no way you’re getting through Minho’s cursed stack of files without being fully caffeinated—and settle on the floor where papers are still scattered from last night’s half-hearted search. But one look at the dense text, the endless tables, and supplier lists, and your brain starts to fog like a computer about to crash.

“Ugh, nope,” you mutter, pushing the papers away. “Shower first.”

You shuffle to the bathroom, tugging your clothes off with a resigned sigh, already dreading the experience. Showering in Minho’s body still feels deeply wrong. You keep your eyes fixed on the tiles the entire time, navigating like a blindfolded ninja. Soap, rinse, shampoo—speed run version.

Steam clings to the bathroom walls as you step out of the shower, towel slung low on your hips, hair damp and dripping. You do everything you can not to look down—not out of modesty but from sheer avoidance. It's still his body, after all. But as you stand in front of the sink, reaching for your toothbrush, your eyes betray you. You glance up.

And there he is—Minho—reflected back at you. Broad shoulders, strong arms, water glistening along defined muscles. A sculpted chest and abs that clearly didn’t come easy. He looks—you look—like someone who’s fought to keep this form, someone who’s worked for it.

Then you notice them. Faint scars—one along his ribs, another just above his knee. A small one on his shoulder blade. They’re not glaring or grotesque, just quiet marks of something endured. You run your fingers across one near the hipbone, wondering what stunt led to it, how bad it hurt, whether he told anyone.

You’ve seen him take hits on set before. Smiled through pain. Brushed it off like it was nothing. But now you know it wasn’t nothing.

And suddenly, standing there with your hand hovering over his skin, something shifts. You’ve always thought of him as the cocky, good-looking type. Too confident. A little too smug. But this—this body—isn’t just something to admire. It’s something he’s earned.

It’s strange, really, how much a little scar can say about someone. You pull the towel tighter around your waist and step away from the mirror, heart unexpectedly full of respect you never thought you’d feel.

Minho might be a pain in the ass—but damn. He’s tough.

“Yeah, okay,” you mutter to your reflection. “You’ve got a hot body. Big deal.”

You turn away before you start spiraling, muttering about how unfair genetics are and how you’re going to absolutely lecture him about humility when you’re back in your own body.

…Eventually. First, you really need to put on some clothes.

-

Minho’s day is already testing every last ounce of his patience. Your job, he’s learned, is a never-ending cycle of chasing people down, answering too many questions at once, and carrying clipboards that magically multiply every hour. By the time noon rolls around, he’s already sweaty, cranky, and dangerously close to quitting on your behalf.

He’s jogging across the set, trying to catch someone from the lighting team when he steps on a coil of cable lying across the floor. His foot catches and suddenly, everything tilts. His arms flail out—too late—and he braces for the hard, public humiliation of falling face-first in front of the crew when a strong pair of arms suddenly wrap around him.

“Whoa—careful there,” comes a soft, familiar voice.

Minho blinks, finding himself pressed against Felix’s chest, the younger man holding him steady by the waist. Felix is smiling, sunshine-soft and warm despite the startled tension in his brows.

“You okay?” Felix asks, concern flickering in his eyes.

Minho’s body—your body—nods stiffly. He can feel the flush rising to his cheeks, which makes it worse. “Yeah. Just—there was a cable. I wasn’t looking.”

“Don’t rush around so much,” Felix says gently. “You’ll trip over something worse next time and I won't be there.”

Minho opens his mouth to respond, but it’s hard to focus with Felix’s hands still lightly gripping his sides, grounding him. Felix doesn’t even seem to realize it—like it’s the most natural thing in the world to hold him this close.

“Right,” Minho mumbles. “Thanks.”

Felix’s eyes crinkle. “Anytime.”

And just like that, he lets go—too soon, and too slowly—and jogs off toward his own mark, leaving Minho standing there with his heart doing something it shouldn’t in your chest.

He clears his throat, straightens the clipboard in his hands, and mutters under his breath, “This body has too many feelings.”

As Minho continues half jogging across the movie set, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t even check the screen—he already knows it’s you. He answers with a curt, “What?”

“I found it,” you say, breathless. “The mirror. It’s from a thrift store not far from here. It was listed on a prop receipt under a generic ‘vintage décor’ tag, but I matched the item number to an archived invoice. I’m texting you the address.”

Minho’s grip tightens on the phone. “I’ll meet you there.”

He hangs up and spins on his heel, already halfway out when the assistant director steps directly into his path.

“Hey—where do you think you’re going?” the AD barks, waving a clipboard like some divine staff of authority. “You still haven’t checked in with the location team, and the equipment truck needs unloading, and—”

That's it. Minho’s had enough. He doesn’t even pretend to smile this time. “Do you ever do your job?” he snaps. “Because all week, I’ve been doing mine and yours—running around like a lunatic while you stand around barking orders and acting like you’re too important to say please or thank you.”

The AD's face tightens in disbelief, clearly not used to being confronted.

Minho steps closer, lowering his voice but not the bite. “If you keep pawning off your work on me and treating the crew like they’re beneath you, I’ll personally go to Flickerman and make sure he knows exactly what kind of a useless jackass you are. And I promise you, I’ll make it sound worse than it is.”

A few nearby crew members glance over, eyes wide. The AD falters. His mouth opens, then closes, face flushing deep red—less from anger, more from embarrassment.

Minho adjusts the strap of the walkie on his shoulder and says coolly, “I’m going on my lunch break and I'll only continue working when I get back, you understand?”

And without waiting for a response, he walks off the lot, phone in hand, already pulling up the map to the thrift store you texted.

-

Minho pulls into the cracked asphalt parking lot of the thrift store, the car rattling slightly as he parks. The store looks as old as its inventory—paint peeling off the signage, windows cluttered with mismatched furniture and vintage knickknacks. He kills the engine, takes a breath, and gets out.

Inside, the air smells faintly of old books and dust. The store is dim, lit by humming fluorescent lights, and he spots you almost immediately at the back of the shop. You’re standing by the counter, wringing your—his—hands as you speak to an older man with thick glasses and a skeptical look on his face.

Minho walks over, calm and composed. He catches the way your eyes immediately flit to him, anxious, as if silently pleading for help.

“Hi,” Minho says, smoothly stepping in. “We were hoping to get a bit more information about a mirror we found here.”

The owner pushes his glasses up his nose and shrugs. “You’re talking about that tall one with the weird brass frame? Look, I told your friend already, we don’t keep formal inventory on where every piece comes from. People drop off stuff, I price it, and that’s that.”

Minho bites the inside of his cheek. “No paperwork? No names? Nothing?”

The man shakes his head. “I don’t ask questions. Most folks just want to unload junk. That mirror’s been sitting in the back for months before it even sold. Could’ve been here for a year, maybe more.”

A dull throb pulses behind Minho’s eyes, but he doesn’t let his irritation show. Not yet.

“What about security footage?” he asks, nodding to a camera bolted near the front register. “Do you keep your recordings?”

“Three months, tops,” the owner says. “After that, the system wipes itself. That mirror was here way before then.”

Minho exhales slowly, disappointment settling in like heavy fog. Another dead end. He turns to look at you—and sure enough, you're fidgeting again, lower lip caught between your teeth, eyes darting around the room like you're bracing for something worse.

Minho runs a hand through his—your—hair, gaze dropping to the dusty linoleum floor. “Alright,” he says under his breath. “So this mirror really came from nowhere.”

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the cracked parking lot as Minho walks beside you in silence. The thrift store sits behind you both like a monument to disappointment, the door swinging shut with a hollow clang that echoes louder than it should.

Your footsteps are too fast, too jittery, and Minho can tell from the corner of his eye that you’re unraveling again. You’ve been trying to hold it together all day, but he hears it in your voice when you ask, “So… what do we do now?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s still thinking—still trying to stay ahead of it all, to stay calm, to fix this before it slips too far. But then he hears you sniffle, a choked sound, and he stops walking.

When he turns to face you, your—his—eyes are red and wet. You’re crying.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he snaps, too sharp. He grips your arm, not gently. “You’re crying in my body!”

“What? I can’t even get upset now?!” you shout back, voice cracking as you stomp your foot against the hot asphalt. “I don’t even get that?!”

He freezes, mouth half open, and as much as he wants to scold you again, the words don’t come. Because he gets it. He feels it too.

Every hour in your body feels like falling—like standing at the edge of something deep and unknowable and wondering if this is it. If this will be forever. And worse—so much worse—is seeing his own face twisted in panic, lips trembling, tears clinging to lashes.

Minho swallows the lump in his throat and softens. He takes a careful step toward you, places both hands on your shoulders, grounding.

“Hey,” he says again, but this time it’s soft. Softer than he’s ever let himself sound. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

You stare at him for a long second. Then you nod quickly and swipe at your face, embarrassed. When your eyes finally meet his again, steadier now, you ask, quietly:

“…So what do we do now?”

Minho’s jaw clenches. He looks past you, toward the car. Toward the horizon. Then back at you. He lets out a slow breath, and answers, like it’s the only truth he has left—

“I don’t know yet,” he honestly admits. “But we’ll figure it out.”

And as Minho pulls out of the parking lot, he tells himself tomorrow, you and him will try a different angle. Find a new lead. Dig deeper. Because if the mirror really did this… then something out there has the answers.

And you and him are going to find it.

-

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

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[mercy-burning]

R & R

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: A week away from work has you and Spencer trying new things... Category: SMUT (18+) Content: Strong language, cockwarming, piss kink. unprotected p in v sex, pure filth with a little domestic fluff sprinkled in Word Count: 1.6k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: Don't know what came over me this afternoon... Not proofread, probably not my best work, but I had a vision and I needed to put it to words. Enjoy :)

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

A day off—a true day off—from working at the BAU is extremely rare, especially considering all the little things that pop up in between cases, like requests from other departments and endless piles of paperwork. Even when you technically have a day or even a weekend off, there's always someone calling to ask for a second opinion on something or for a confirmation that you sent in a report of some kind. Bottom line: There's always something.

So, when the only 'something' is an official request from the Bureau to do 'nothing' for a week, you take it, albeit warily.

The first two days, it was hard not to keep anxiously waiting for the phone to ring, but now that there's been four of uninterrupted FBI-mandated rest & relaxation, you're starting to consider yourself spoiled.

The mornings are slow and lazy, but then you and Spencer are out of bed and rummaging through the apartment by noon, making food and making each other laugh and tidying things as they come along. And then the afternoon creeps in before you know it, and the natural thing to do is settle down with a book or a movie or a couple episodes of some mindless television.

The undercurrent of worry that your job might call you in is still there, hiding in wait under blankets and wandering hands and in the low hum of the box-fan in the corner of the living room, but it remains unspoken between you.

By the time nightfall rolls around, it's a sort of relief; To know that another day has really gone by without having to answer the call of responsibility.

You celebrate by wrapping yourselves up in each other. Whether it's in the shower or on the couch or back in bed, or sometimes all three in one night, this little part of your routine feels the most like a luxury. It's uninterrupted, thorough, and utterly indulgent.

Currently it's the morning of the fifth day, and something about Spencer's touch and the way you're leaning into him feels less indulgent and more hedonistic. The phone could ring and you would simply silence it, your pleasure preserving importance over literally anything else—even your job. You're convinced a hurricane could swoop on through the city and you still wouldn't give up your spot in this bed unless you were forcibly removed.

A spark lights up in your chest as you feel Spencer wake beside you, his hand sliding and draping itself over your hip to pull you impossibly closer. Memories of the night prior dance around in the air between you, until you feel yourself becoming squirmy. Needy.

You can sense his need too, in the way his fingers grip your body and in the beating of his heart against your back. His breath is hot on your neck, and then his dick is hardening against you.

"I want you inside me, but I think I'm still too lazy to do anything about it," you admit cheekily, warming at the way he laughs in response.

"Well, good morning to you, too..."

Still, he doesn't protest. His hands are lazy but gentle, guiding you around so you're straddling him, chest to chest. You take a moment to look down at him, grinning as he takes your face in his hands and grins back.

"Hi."

"Hi," you giggle back through a kiss, laughter dissolving into a soft whimper as he expertly slips a hand between you and helps himself slide right into you.

"Fuck, you're wet already," he sighs against your lips.

You slump your weight forward and rest your forehead to his, welcoming the fullness below you. "Always wet for you..."

He hums, low and guttural, and you feel like you're sinking further down. You snuggle close, burying your face into his neck. He lays there under you, unmoving aside from his hands as they trace the dips and swells of your body. Your back, your hips, your thighs—anywhere he can reach.

Your breathing becomes one, and it's the most intimate form of indulgence you could possibly dream of.

You never want it to end.

Occasionally you'll squeeze or shift your hips, and Spencer will whine, and after the fourth time, you can't help but laugh.

"What's the problem, pretty boy? I've never known you to be impatient in the morning..."

"It's not that," he chokes out quickly. You lift your head to meet his eyes, and the movement of your bodies together causes him to make another sound. You raise an eyebrow and he knows he's caught. He surrenders, sighing out with an incredulous laugh to the ceiling. "I've really gotta pee."

The sentence coming from him makes you laugh again, and your body moving on top of him is enough to make him hiss out as he grips your hips to keep you still.

Something about it, the desperation in his face as he squints, chin jutted up to the air as he tries so hard to refrain, sends a jolt of a thrill through you.

"Well, I don't wanna get up..."

It's his turn to laugh now. You can see the sensation is making it harder on him, but still he doesn't make any quick efforts to move. You use that to your advantage, dropping your voice and leaning down to gently lap at his throat with the tip your tongue.

"And you don't seem like you want to get up, either..."

You punctuate your words with a tight squeeze around his cock, and he actually moans, his grip on your hips tightening enough to leave marks from his nails.

"Fuck, you're killing me," he whines, the sound of his desperate voice lighting you up from the inside out.

You can't take it anymore, unable to keep your hips from rolling into his. Despite your protests to get up, you manage to sit upright, putting in the work to slowly ride him.

Spencer cries out, throwing an arm over his forehead. You can tell by his expression and the sweat forming over his bare chest, that he's trying not to let go yet.

"It's okay," you tell him, gently pressing your hands just below his hips, using his body as an anchor instead of the mattress while you ride him. "You don't have to fight it, baby..."

He cries out again, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan. Your name and a string of curses are next, the syllables a beautiful, desperate warning.

"It's okay," you whisper, and you sit down hard, staying there and grinding your hips in small, slow circles as he stutters his final warning—an, "Oh God..." to the morning air.

He still tries to hold back at first, small bursts of warmth filling you deep from within. But you smile and lift up slightly just to fall back down, encouraging him with a gentle pleasureful flutter of your eyes to the back of your head. "Yes, yes, yes," you whisper, sucking in your breath and circling your clit with your fingers. "That feels so good..."

The pressure builds inside you, between your muscles clenching and your orgasm impending... And of course, there's the warmth that literally fills you to the brim and cascades down your thighs. Spencer's warmth.

You feel him physically relaxing as he continues to release, his hands finally coming up to caress your skin once more, roaming your thighs and your hips, and then what he can reach of your breasts.

He manages to sit up once the flood has subsided, his new prime focus on getting you to fall over the edge. You shift, losing momentum for just a moment before you finally settle into a new rhythm, his body rocking up to meet yours and keep you from falling over. You're riding him with frenzy now, fully awake and alert and so damn close to Heaven, you can practically taste it.

The sounds your bodies are making are wet and lewd, and as Spencer pulls away slightly to reach down and massage your clit, you manage to catch a tiny glimpse of the mess he's made, the visual of dark spots in the navy sheets—a vivid manifestation of his pleasure and desperation—sending you over the edge.

You kiss him through it, swallowing every groan and every breath until you feel him still and come inside you soon after—a different, more familiar warmth, and still just as exciting.

You could never not feel anything but excitement when being with him in any capacity.

The two of you are collapsing not long after, and while you're content, you're also a little worried that you might have pushed him a little too far out of his comfort zone; He's usually quiet after sex, but not this quiet. He hasn't said a word.

Spencer seems to sense this worry, his arms holding you close in a reassuring hug. "You learn something new every day," he muses, not judging but embracing as he kisses your temple.

You can't help but smile, especially when he continues with that occasional irresistible sass in his tone that suggests you've inconvenienced him, but not enough to be entirely pissed. With incompetent law enforcement it's serious and incredibly sexy, and he knows how you feel about it. So, with you, he makes it playful. Loving, even.

The thought is enough to make you shed any sort of worry and settle yourself deeper into his embrace. You let the words light you up and make you laugh, reveling in them even though you know it's a not-so-subtle nudge in the direction of actually getting out of bed and starting the day.

"Guess it's a good thing we were gonna do laundry today, huh?"

[seellove]

Could You Stay a Little Longer // drug dealer!sukuna x reader

Masterlist

Chapter 1 // (7.9k words) // Explicit - 18+

\|/ AO3 - Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 >>

You're pursuing a master degree across the country, but are currently back in your hometown housesitting for your parents. They've told you all about their undesirable new neighbor, but when you start to get to know said neighbor, you realize he isn't all that bad. Your controlling boyfriend won't let up on you and you grapple with enjoying the company of this drug dealing neighbor boy, Sukuna. Nothing about this is going the way you planned, but is it so bad to let yourself be treated well for a change?

The cultural setting for this is technically economically depressed, rural USA where good paying jobs are hard to come by and there's not many opportunities in small towns, but it could really be anywhere that meets this criteria!

Content Tags/Warnings Throughout Work: Reader and Sukuna are mid 20s, mentions of recreational drug use and drug dealing, mentions of abusive/controlling/manipulative relationship (not Sukuna), could possibly be considered cheating depending on your interpretation (not Sukuna), angst, smut, fluff, time skip, prison time, happy ending trust!

Flight attendants prepare for landing.

The pilot's voice over the intercom combined with the lights all coming on at once rouses you from your sorry attempt at a nap once and for all. In your groggy state you observe the flight attendants moving up and down the aisles collecting trash and doing whatever it is they do.

You always sucked at sleeping on planes and this time was no different, catching minutes of what could only be described as light dozing. Hopefully you could crash immediately once you got to your childhood bed at your parent’s house. Flying across the country was so tiring.

About twenty minutes later, you are on the ground and making your way down the aisle to the jet bridge, and out into your hometown airport.

Airport is a generous term as it’s one gate with two flights a day to the same city. At least the journey to the arrivals area was just up an escalator and about a football field length of walking down a hallway. 

In the year you’ve been gone, things haven’t changed at all. Tourism banners adorn the back pickup area, giving the impression that the area had something to offer to visitors. The large university in town did draw visiting families after all, so it did indeed have a target audience.

Not you though, you’ve been here your whole life so most of the advertised offerings were old news to you. Growing up in an area often makes one take such things for granted however, so you idly walk by without much of a glance.

While a small airport was nice for getting in and out, you always beat the bag to baggage claim, so you linger around waiting until the carousel starts moving and bags begin to trickle out. 

The humid air hits you in the face as you exit the airport, already feeling like your hair has frizzed up to twice its size. Definitely did not miss this at all. The mountains in the distance are a welcome sight however. You’ve always been the outdoorsy type, so the hiking, fishing, kayaking, and all other things of that nature your area had to offer were always appealing no matter how much time passed.

Your parents’ familiar car rounds the bend and pulls up to the curb with your mom waving from the passenger side. You wave in response, excited to see them both for the first time in a year. It would be brief though as the real reason you were here was to house sit while they went on a cruise for their 30th wedding anniversary. You were on break for your masters degree anyways, so you didn’t mind so they could treat themselves. 

They get out, giving you a big hug before helping toss your bags into the trunk and heading home. They still lived in the house you grew up in about 30 minutes away from the airport in a more rural area.

After stopping to get your favorite greasy gas station food, you all settle in to catch up.

“So anything new happening around here?” you ask from the back seat.

“Oh you know, still continuing to build apartments and townhomes like crazy. New shops and restaurants too,” your dad responds. With the university in town expanding rapidly, so in turn was the surrounding area. Not a bad thing in your eyes. The unfortunate thing was that it was an expensive private university, which meant most locals were priced out. 

“Oh you remember the young man across the street from us we told you about? His name is Sukuna,” your mom asks.

“Kind of,” you reply. They’d mentioned him a few times when you’d talk on the phone. Something about drugs and the police coming by all the time. The longtime neighbor who’d lived there as long as you could remember passed away and a young guy had moved in shortly afterwards.

Your parents' neighborhood demographic could only be described as…boring. A mix of retired people and families with stay at home parents made up the bulk of it, which left plenty of time for people to get into each other's business. Throw an unmarried young man into the mix and you stick out like a sore thumb. Cause even a slight disruption and you might as well stick a target on your back for nosey neighbors for eternity.

“The police came by last night because he was doing donuts in his yard at 2 AM,” your mom says. 

“Wow that is definitely not the place to be doing that,” you laugh, “does he ever give you any trouble?”

“Personally, no we never have a problem with him. He really is a nice boy whenever we’ve talked to him. We can certainly do without his loudness and him speeding through the neighborhood. It’s a family neighborhood and there are kids playing outside! It’s just dangerous and irresponsible!” your mom rambles on with one of her long winded monologues. 

“And he must be selling drugs, he has to be! People coming over and leaving at all hours of the day and night. Who knows what kind of riff raff is coming into the neighborhood,” she continues. 

“Do the police do anything?” you ask with curiosity.

“Besides pulling him over for speeding and reprimanding him for breaking the noise ordinance, no there’s really nothing they can get him on. Can’t arrest someone for being a nuisance on their own property and with no neighborhood HOA, no one can say anything if he wants to tear up his yard. They’ve gotten him for reckless driving and I’m pretty sure he has a suspended license though. Like I said though, he’s a nice kid, he just seems to keep making poor choices and digging himself into a deeper hole.” your mom continues, but you start to tune her out. The woman loves to hear herself talk. You’re only here for a week and a half so you doubt you’ll have to worry about any of this. 

When you get to their house your parents walk you through their cat’s and dog’s routines, should be simple enough. You say good night to them and goodbye as they are leaving for the airport well before dawn tomorrow. Exhausted beyond reason, you immediately pass out. 

***

The next morning you are woken up by their dog, Macy. She’s super cute and super smart, so you have no issues with taking care of her. You let Macy out into the front yard, clipping her to an outdoor leash to let her roam around. 

You notice the gardens up near the road are looking a little overgrown, so you make a note to go investigate and clean them up a little after breakfast. Macy joins you on a walk to the mailbox to grab the newspaper. You can’t even remember the last time you’ve touched a newspaper, but you figure you’ll tab through it while here to help pass the time.

You glance across the street and see the evidence of what your parents were referring to. While everyone else had a nice manicured lawn, across the street the grass was torn to shreds and nothing but a muddy mess roughly in the shape of a circle. Beer cans were scattered about near the front porch. 

They weren’t kidding. Certainly quite the sight for a neighborhood like this. This was the type of behavior you’d expect from teenagers out in the country, not in a stuck up area like this. 

You head inside to unpack your suitcase and whip yourself up a quick breakfast. You’ll need to run to the store either today or tomorrow to go get yourself some groceries, making another mental note. 

Morning chores of bringing the paper in, letting Macy out, and feeding the cats are complete. After watching some TV and scrolling on your phone, you prepare to go check out the garden before it gets too unbearably hot. 

As you start to scope it out, you do notice a few cars come and go from across the street, never staying more than a few minutes at a time. Alright, maybe your parents weren’t exaggerating about that. 

You begin to rake the leaves out from the shrubs, trying to keep the metal from getting caught on the roots. After a while you start to have a decent pile when a tap on your shoulder scares the absolute shit out of you considering you had headphones in. 

You turn around and are met with some tall ass guy with a mess of pink hair. Markings on his face that you quickly realize are tattoos scrunch up as he peers down at you with a curious look on his face. 

Is this him? The neighbor boy? 

“Can I help you?” you take one earbud out and wipe your hand across your sweat caked forehead. 

“Who’re you? You’re not the middle aged yapper that's usually out here,” he responds with a deep voice that makes your eyes flick up in surprise. You are met by a pair of sunglasses, a backwards hat, and it’s impossible to miss the obvious stomach and chest muscles straining at the white t-shirt he has on. 

Hmm neighbor boy is kinda attractive. 

“I’m watching the house while they are away,” you say vaguely, the less interaction the better. 

“Oh so you’re a housekeeper?” he clicks his tongue, leaning back a little with his hands in his pockets.

“No, I'm not a housekeeper!” you say a little too defensively which has him chuckling in response.

“Then once again, like I said earlier, who are you?” he pulls his sunglasses off revealing the deepest crimson eyes, eyes that suck you in, trapping your gaze in his. “If you just answered the first time you wouldn’t be making a fool of yourself right now.”

The nerve of this guy, does he think he’s the neighborhood watch or something? If anything you should be the one interrogating him for disrupting the whole street. 

You quickly introduce yourself before explaining. 

“I’m house sitting for my parents while they are on a cruise for their wedding anniversary. Watching their pets, keeping the place tidy, you know, typical shit like that,” you huff, trying to use him to shield yourself from the harsh sun. Might as well be useful for something.

“Oh, you’re the daughter?” he muses, nudging at your leaf pile with his foot. 

“I am, can you not do that? I worked hard clearing all that out,” you prod at his foot with your rake. 

“It’s fucking leaves, who cares where they go now, they’re out of the garden,” he counters, choosing to wind up and kick the pile instead. The leaves scatter around as he looks at you expectantly, clearly trying to get a reaction out of you. Which you want to give him so badly, but you’re not playing into his game.

“I hope you aren’t giving me landscaping advice judging by the pathetic state of your yard over there,” you scoff, gesturing at the torn up lawn.

“It’s my yard, I’ll do what I want with it,” he narrows his eyes at you before suddenly ripping the rake out of your hand and piling them back up. 

“There, better?” he leans down to stare you in the eyes, those long eyelashes fluttering in just the way to make you want to crack a smile. 

“Yeah, I guess, thanks for putting them back,” you mutter. You start to turn back around to continue your work, but you realize he’s not going away.

“Are these tomatoes?” he asks as he stands right where you are trying to work, pointing at what are obviously tomatoes on the vine. 

“No they’re bananas,” you retort sarcastically. Who the fuck doesn’t know what a tomato is, everyone and their mother grows them in this area. 

He turns around silently, brows furrowing with a frown, making you feel a little guilty for being like that. 

“You’re kinda mean you know that? Your parents are really nice to me, I hope they’ll be home soon. You didn’t even ask my name all this time.”

Okay mister sensitive all of a sudden. 

“Look, I’m sorry. I got in late last night and I might be a little tired and grumpy,” you give him a weak smile. He tries to keep a straight, serious face, but ultimately he fails, cracking into a boyish grin instead.

“I’m just giving you a hard time…kinda, you have to admit you were being a liiiiiitle harsh though. But anyways, I’m Ryomen Sukuna, I moved to this house a year ago, I’m 24 years old, and I grew up around here,” he declares with a smile. 

“Oh really? So did I,” you perk up a little. The name and looks don’t seem familiar.

“Yeah I’m from one county over. My parents actually bought me this place. I was getting into some trouble and they said a family oriented neighborhood should make me act better.”

“Oh? How’s that working out for you?” 

“Eh, there’s ups and downs,” he looks away as he speaks.

Interesting. Now the real question.

“What do you do for work? Feel like most people are gone at this time of day.”

“Oh I just do odd jobs here and there. No real career job, still figuring out what I wanna do, you know how it is,” he skirts the question as he pulls out a vape and inhales deeply. 

This guy definitely is into some suspicious shit. It’s a common situation for a certain subset of young guys around here. They start to mess around with drugs in high school, nothing too serious, just a way to get some extra money because a minimum wage job doesn’t pay shit. Plus it usually gets you in with the popular crowd..

Then you graduate, enroll in the local community college or if your parents are well off, you go to one of the big state universities.  More often than not, people end up back here either by dropping out or graduating and coming back. Considering his parents bought him a house, he seems to be one of the dropouts.

Eventually they realize nothing in this economically depressed area will pay even close to what moving drugs will, so they settle into a lifestyle with their fellow high school buddies whose parents aren’t cold enough to kick them off their credit cards.  

The final phase is usually getting locked up or getting a girl pregnant that makes them drop the habit once and for all. Or they just become a deadbeat dad because there’s plenty of those around here too. Something for everyone.

You’ll just play along while you’re here and soon it’ll all be out of your hands.

Macy comes trotting up the driveway and goes straight to Sukuna.

“Hi Macy,” he surprises you with a high pitched voice, reaching down to rub all over her as she wags her tail. 

“Oh you and Macy know each other?” 

“Yeah when your dad walks her and I’m outside he’ll let me pet her sometimes. She’s real cute.”

Your heart skips the slightest beat, just barely perceptible, but you notice and it surprises you. Something about guys being kind to animals…

“Well I better get back over there, let you get back to it,” Sukuna stretches, shirt hitching up revealing his toned stomach and what appears to be more ink. Your curiosity makes your mind race with thoughts of what other tattoos he’s got hiding under there…among other things.

Stop, you’ve got a partner back home. Well, maybe that’s giving him too much credit, but he does exist when he feels like it. You shake the thought away quickly, taking a few steps towards him walking away.

“Wait, do you want some of them? The tomatoes I mean? The ripe ones will go bad before my parents get back and I don’t really like them.” 

He turns around, eyes widening in surprise. 

“Sure, I’ll take them.”

You cut them off and place them in his large hand, noticing another set of tattooed rings of some sort on his wrist. Distracted by the ink, your hand brushes his by accident. It’s softer than you imagined, causing tingles to run through your wrist and up your forearm. 

“Whoops, sorry,” you utter, feeling yourself heat up from your clumsiness. 

“You’re good. Thank you, I’ll see you around. Lemme know if you need anything while you’re here,” he waves before turning around and going back across the street. 

What an…interesting guy. Maybe your parents were spot on about him after all. He seemed kind with a hint of boyish immaturity about him, nothing obviously malicious from that first interaction. If he wants to sell shit out of his house and mind his own business, you didn’t really have an issue with that. 

Plus dogs should be able to tell if someone is bad news right?

***

While walking Macy that evening, you run into a group of women you’ve known since you were younger. You stop to catch up and talk to them and realize they are talking about none other than Sukuna.

“He’s across the street from you dear, have you noticed anything off since you’ve been here?” Mrs Yates asked you as you approached.

“Um, not really, he briefly waved to me while I was in the garden, but that’s it,” you tell a white lie, not really wanting to get into it, giving him the benefit of the doubt. 

“Your poor parents having to live across from that scum, he’s only going to make their home value go down. I wish the police would hurry up already and lock him up again,” another woman you don’t recognize chimes in.

“Wait, again?” you press, surprised to hear that.

“Oh yeah hun, he’s got a rap sheet of charges. Nothing too bad, but go run a search online when you get home. If you see anything questionable, you’d best report it to the police, they should be doing patrols so the more we complain the more likely they’ll actually come by.” 

The more you listen to them, the more it sounds like it’s Sukuna versus the neighborhood. You don’t have allegiance one way or another, so you just shrug and continue your walk with Macy. You’d plan to look up his charges when you get home this evening. 

Day 2

“Goddammit!” you slam your hand on the dashboard of your dads car. You were trying to go to the grocery store but lo and behold, the battery was dead. Because of course it was. 

You pulled out your phone, trying to google how to start a car by yourself, which is stupid because you knew you needed cables and another car. You’re met with a text from your partner instead which surprises you. What doesn’t surprise you is how it’s berating and belittling, very typical for him. 

He’d had a fit when you said you were going to your parents, he didn’t like it very much at all whenever you did something without him, claiming you were likely hanging out with other guys. This was rich coming from him considering he was always gas lighting you about how you were being manipulative and controlling when you would call him out on his cheating and sexting random girls. 

You kept going back to him though, he’d give you those sweet, loving apologies, saying how it won’t happen again, you were the one he really loved, not to give up on him because he’s getting better. 

This time he was commenting on how you were being sketchy by turning your location sharing off, likely going out with ex boyfriends while you were in town. You just could never win with him, one step forward three steps back every time. 

As you pounded the dash, your anger morphed into shedding tears. Tears from being overwhelmed in the moment. It was devastating not having someone you could lean on. Instead of having someone tell you they loved you and missed you, instead you got accused of being a whore, slut, easy, all of the above. It was just so draining at this point.

And all you wanted was to go to the goddamn store, but no that can’t be easy either. Then you remember Sukuna’s words from yesterday, “lemme know if you need anything.”

Well, time to put your money where your mouth is neighbor boy. You make your way across his yard towards his front porch, kicking a beer can as hard as you could in the process, nailing the front step with a satisfying crash.

As you knock on the door, you realize there are a few cars in his driveway. If he has company he might blow you off. This might have been a mistake…

“Oi, ‘sup tomato girl?” you hear his deep voice call out from the second story window. 

“Can you come help me with my car?” you yell up to him, also what the fuck is that nickname?

“What’s wrong with it?” he’s leaning out the window, shirtless, with a cigarette hanging out his mouth, hair looking absolutely disheveled. What the fuck is he even doing?

You hear a muffled voice from inside but you can’t make out what it says, only Sukuna’s response. 

“No dipshit, it’s my neighbor’s daughter.” 

“Oh you fucked her yet?” 

Christ alive, you’re about to just turn around and get away from this freak show. As you start to do just that, Sukuna yells at you again.

“I asked what’s wrong with it? Where are you going? Hey!” 

You just ignore him and head back towards the street, you’ll ask someone else for help since he can’t be mature for more than five seconds. 

You make it halfway across his yard and that’s when you hear the screen door behind you slam and loud footsteps bounding across the yard. His strong grip lands on your wrist, whipping you around to face him. His shorts are baggy and laying low on his hips, exposing his boxers which are hanging on sharp V lines. And lord have mercy his body is absolutely shredded…and tatted. Your mouth is suddenly dry in the damp morning air. 

“What’s your deal? I’m trying to help you,” he cocks his head, staring down at you through his wide, red eyes. 

“I wasn’t going to stand there and be talked about like a piece of meat like that,” you raise your voice at him, but your facade cracks and the tears start to fall again.

“I didn’t say that though! My stupid ass friend did,” he argues back, squeezing your hand with his when he realizes what’s happening. 

“Oh god, look I’m sorry, I promise that’s not how I feel about you, I’ll whoop his ass when I get back over there.”

“It’s-sniff-fine, it’s not you, just already been a bad morning and this car issue isn’t helping,” you rasp out, the words of your boyfriend weighing heavy on you right now as you start hyperventilating.

“Are you okay?” Sukuna’s red eyes widen with a hint of softness, pulling you toward a tree in his yard to get you both into the shade. He presses you into his chest and you just dig your nails into his bare skin, body shaking as the panicked moment tears through you,

How much do you even want to divulge to a man you barely know? Not much, especially because you already feel embarrassed enough that you can’t seem to get out of this relationship. 

“I’m fine, just personal stuff from back home,” your breathing is starting to come under control, him restraining you seemed to help ground yourself. You both stay like this for a while, the birds chirping in the morning air and the breeze making the leaves whisper in the wind.

“Thanks, I feel a little better now,” you finally exhale, noticing his rock hard torso under your fingers that you’d been oblivious to moments ago and a hint of cigarette smell lingering on his skin.

“Sure?” 

“Mhmm”

“Okay good, now what’s wrong with your car? I’m good with cars, I work on mine all the time,” he says with gentle words.

“It won’t start, I think it just needs a jump, it shouldn’t take long at all.”

“Okay, was that so hard? Damn girl. Go over there and I’ll meet you in your driveway,” he smirks before turning around. 

You watch him walk away, noticing tattoos also snaking down broad shoulders to his prominent back dimples. 

He’s hot, there’s no other way to put it. You wouldn’t be upset if he came over half naked to help you out. Hell you’d be content to just set up a chair in the driveway and watch him fuck around with your car, let’s be real.

Unfortunately for you, he returns with a shirt on. It’s a cut off tank top, so his muscular, inked up arms are still visible. At least he’s nice to look at.

His car is also a sharp looking red sports car with what looks like numerous aftermarket upgrades. You don’t know shit about cars, but it looks way more expensive and flashy than anything else in this neighborhood and it's questionable whether or not it's street legal. 

He pops the hood, hooking the jumper cables up to your battery and his. He inspects under the hood before turning back around.

“Your oil needs changing and you’re out of wiper fluid,” he says matter of factly, “lemme get this started then I’ll fix that other stuff for you.”

“Oh you don’t need to do that, I can take it to a shop-“

“Nonsense, allow me. A thank you for the tomatoes, then we’re even. Why don’t you go inside where it’s cool and let me deal with this.” 

He slicks his pink hair back, holding out his hand for your keys. It is hot as fuck out and you feel bad leaving him out here, but he seems to not be taking no for an answer. 

“Okay, come get me when you’re done. I was trying to go to the store.” 

He nods in response and you take your leave. About an hour later he barges in the front door, startling you from reading on the couch. 

“Knock much?” you laugh at him, only partially joking. He’s dripping sweat and you immediately jump up, moving to the kitchen to get him something to drink.

“Sorry, I probably should, young girl being home alone and all,” he grins sheepishly, “can I wash my hands?” he holds them out and you realize they are covered in oil and grime.

“Oh yeah, bathroom is the first door on the right upstairs.”

By the time he’s back downstairs, you’ve got a glass of cold lemonade waiting for him complete with a straw.

“Oh my god I’m going to destroy that,” he takes it and chugs it in about three sips. 

You burst out laughing as his eyes almost roll back with a loud sigh. 

“Best damn thing I’ve ever tasted,” he exhales, “oh AND a bendy straw! You’re spoiling me,” he exclaims with excitement to which you laugh in amusement.

“Hold on I’ll get you more, actually, why don’t you just take the pitcher home with you, you need it more than me.” 

“I'd rather drink it here,” he responds, collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table, “it’ll get hot transporting it back to my place. Also your tires needed air, so I used my compressor to top them off. Lame for your dad to leave you with a car in this state.”

“Oh geez, I didn’t even know, thank you for that. I don’t know shit about cars so I’d never have noticed.” 

“No worries tomato girl, can’t have you getting stuck on the side of the road now can we? The cell service around here is too shit for that.”

“Did you just leave your friends over there alone?” you ask as you top off his glass.

“They’re fine, they’re helping me with something, I don’t need to be there,” he says between sips. 

“Can I get a ride with you to the store?” he blurts out after downing another glass.

“Ummm sure? Why?” you ask cautiously. You really don’t know him at all.

“I can’t drive right now,” he responds, fidgeting with the glass in his hands, averting his gaze. 

“You just drove across the street.”

“Yeaaaaaah I shouldn’t have done that though. My license is suspended right now,” he says bluntly.

Oh my. That’s…something. 

“It’s suspended?” 

“Yeah, I got too many tickets, it’s suspended until my court date.” 

Your mind goes back to the list of offenses you’d looked up on the county police department website last night. There had been a slew of high speed tickets that were considered reckless driving charges, underage drinking, drunk in public, drug possession charges, driving with a suspended license, vandalism, trespassing, and breaking and entering. Nothing too terrible, but a long list nonetheless.

All that and here he was at the kitchen table looking cute as fuck sipping lemonade out of a pink cup with a bendy straw. 

“So what do ya say? Can I come with?” he presses. He’s a demanding thing, also a little impulsive, which might explain his record.

“Sure why not, let’s leave in a half hour.”

“Hell yeaaaaaah! It’ll be fun. I’ll go shower and meet you back over here,” he flashes that boyish grin at you again as he dashes out the door. 

While he’s gone, you finish tidying up. You are in the hallway as you hear the front door open again, but it quickly shuts. Instead you hear a knock at the door, making you chuckle under your breath, knowing damn well Sukuna tried to come in without asking. 

“It’s open,” you yell down to him.

“What’s the point of knocking if you don’t even come down to see who it is?”

“I already know who it is, I said we were leaving in 30 minutes.” 

“I could have been a criminal or a rapist!” he scoffs as he throws himself onto the living room couch, pulling out his phone to text. He’s got a gold hoop in his ear and a gold chain around his neck along with a backwards hat. It’s honestly giving drug dealer because there’s no jobs around here that pay enough to buy shit like that. A pair of shorts and a red shirt pull it all together.

“Aren’t you already a criminal though?” you say before thinking, unable to help yourself.

“Ha ha, very funny tomato girl,” he rolls his eyes as you approach him. 

“Sorry that was a low blow.”

“It’s fine, it’s all public record. I assume you already know my history.” 

“I do, I got curious. So what kind of drug possession was it?” you tease.

“Why? You buying?” he winks at you and flashes that cocky grin again. A grin that is starting to stir up butterflies in your stomach whenever you see it. 

“Depends.” 

He arches an eyebrow in surprise. 

“Nothing you should be using,” he shakes his head, sitting up and staring intently at you. Those crimson pools are threatening to suck you in again, each time you stare into them, the closer you get to drowning in them all together.

“Oh, the hard stuff huh?”

“Mhmm, I don’t use my own stuff. Just smoke weed but nothing more than that. Sometimes I have to test the product, but that’s for business purposes.” 

“Fascinating, let’s go now,” you hold out your hand to pull him up off the couch. 

He grabs your hand, thinking he’s going to pull himself up, but instead he yanks his arm back so you lose your balance, falling into him on the couch instead. Your face crashes into his rock hard chest and you end up straddling his thigh.

“Oh my, tomato girl, did seeing a man work on your car get you all hot and bothered?” he smirks, looking down at you with lidded eyes.

You smack his chest as you sit up. “What the fuck is your problem? You petulant child!”

“Um I was trying to get up and I slipped,” he teases, holding his arms back away from you, “besides, I’m not touching you, see?”

You scoff and quickly get up, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks in embarrassment. 

“No more lemonade for you, now go get in the car before I change my mind!” 

“Yes ma’am,” he jumps up and holds the front door for you. He then proceeds to open the driver side door for you, shutting it before circling around to the passenger side. 

He slides a pair of expensive looking sunglasses on and slouches down in the seat next to you. 

“Buckle your seatbelt,” you tap his shoulder.

“Yes mom,” he groans.

You’re both silent as you drive down the road, Sukuna engrossed in his phone next to you.

Your phone meanwhile starts blowing up with calls and texts. 

“Damn, miss popular,” Sukuna grabs your phone from the center console before you can.

“Cam sure is being a needy bitch,” Sukuna huffs. Dammit, he must be in one of those moods where he’s blaming you for everything under the sun.

“Yeah he does that,” you don’t elaborate. 

“Who is that?” Sukuna probes.

“He’s my boyfriend, kind of, not really, I don’t really know honestly.”

“Oh. You’ve got a man?” Sukuna hums. 

“Yeah,” you give a short response. The phone rings continuously for the next ten minutes, making you get super embarrassed.

“Listen tomato girl, I’m not an expert on relationships, but either this guy is experiencing a national emergency or he’s acting like a crazy stalker. And based on how quiet you are, I’m leaning towards the latter.” 

“Yeah you’re not wrong. He’s very…intense.”

“Is this normal behavior from sir Cam?” Sukuna throws his phone on the floor to give you his full attention.

Unfortunately.

“Sometimes, yes,” you say quietly, desperate to move onto something else.

“Does he hurt you?” Sukuna’s tone gets deeper, a hint of protectiveness in his words.

“Sukuna we’ve known each other for barely a day, I really don’t think we should be talking about this.”

“Hmm well that’s more telling than any other answer you could have given,” he says through gritted teeth, staring out the front windshield. 

“It’s none of your concern, drop it.”

“Alright, fair enough, still doesn’t mean I don’t care and can’t voice my displeasure, free speech and all,” he mutters.

You grab your phone and opt to just turn it off. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” you change the subject. 

“Nah, I’m more of a fling kind of guy. I mean sometimes I’ll be into one girl for a while, but it’s never serious,” he answers. Seems pretty on brand for him. Drug dealer, in trouble with the law, doesn’t seem like long term relationship material.

“Nothing wrong with that,” you click your tongue in response. The rest of the drive is in silence until you pull into the parking lot.

“Put your number in my phone in case we get separated,” Sukuna says as you walk towards the store which is comical because the store is not even that big compared to ones in the city you live in. You do so anyway and then call yourself from his phone.

“Done.”

“Good.”

“What are you going to get?” you try to make conversation, you’re just so thrown off after talking about Cam in the car. Something about him reaching out triggers that freeze response in you, then Sukuna saying something about it just made you feel bad, like rubbing salt in the wound.

“Gonna get some stuff to make to use those tomatoes,” he hums. 

“Do you like cooking?” 

“Yeah I do, I’ve always been into it.”

“That’s cool. I’m not the best cook,” you laugh.

“Well you make a mean lemonade, if we combine we can make a great overall meal,” he pulls you into his side with one arm. He smells really good, a mix of his body wash and cologne filling your senses. It’s oddly comforting after everything that happened.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad back there,” he leans down to whisper in your ear, one arm still wrapped around you, “I’m sure it’s easier said than done to get out of a shitty situation like that. Just know, you’re too nice and way too damn pretty to be dealing with all that.” 

You feel tears rush to your eyes. That’s the nicest thing someone has said to you in a long time, especially from a man. You can’t be crying in a grocery store parking lot though with a guy you barely know, so you try to suck it up.

“Thanks Sukuna, that’s really nice of you to say.” 

“It’s the truth, I just hope you remember it if you ever hear otherwise, don’t forget it.” 

You end up just following each other through the store, dividing the shopping cart into his and yours. 

“We should get popsicles,” Sukuna exclaims, “it’s so hot outside.”

“That’s such a good idea,” you laugh. 

“Here, let’s get a box of 20, that should last us until you leave, plus a few extra,” Sukuna grins, reaching into the freezer. 

“Think fast,” he presses the box against your bare shoulder, making you shriek from the cold on your skin.

“Oh my god!! You are insane,” you slap his arm playfully, “I’m locking those up in my house and not sharing anymore.”

“Wow there you go being mean again,” he feigns a sad frown.

“And that wasn’t mean?” 

“No, I was just making sure they were cold enough, can’t test it on yourself if you’re expecting it,” he says confidently, that boyish grin making your heart flutter. 

“Yo Sukuna, what’re you doing here?” you hear the voice of a man behind you. You turn to see a man with brown hair and a similar mark as Sukuna on his nose. 

“Choso,” Sukuna’s voice becomes a low growl, his normally playful demeanor has vanished. His eyes are almost black now and he stands up a little straighter.

“Didn’t know you had a girl now boss?” the man says, a hint of shakiness in his voice.

“What the fucks it look like?” he snaps, his voice making your veins feel like ice. 

“I uh, wasn’t sure-“

“You’re still short this month, I better see money for everything you sold or you won’t like the consequences. You wouldn’t want to end up like Toji would you?” he says so low you can barely hear him, but Choso’s eyes and face look like he’s seen a ghost. 

“I, I will, don’t worry boss, it won’t happen again.”

“I know it won’t. There won’t be a second time,” Sukuna’s menacing voice makes you want to get the fuck away from here and whatever this is. 

As soon as it’s begun, it’s over though, Choso dipping out towards the front and Sukuna snapping back into his chipper demeanor again.

“Sorry about that sweets, when duty calls, I must answer,” he hits his vape in the middle of the frozen food section. 

“You’re scary,” you say lowly to him.

“Good, that’s what I was going for,” he smirks at you, “now let’s get this stuff home before it melts yeah?”

***

Sukuna helps you bring all your groceries into your parents house. While you go to the bathroom, he pulls everything out of the bags and groups them based on freezer food, vegetables and fruits, pantry items, and toiletries.

“I wasn’t sure where you wanted to put everything, but hopefully this helps,” he says as he places a box of cereal on the counter.

“Aww thank you, you didn’t have to do that,” you say with a smile. 

“I didn’t, but I wanted to,” he flashes a toothy grin your way. “Do you want to take custody of the popsicles or should I?”

“Probably me, lord knows what goes on in your house and I don’t want to accidentally come up on something trying to get a popsicle,” you laugh.

“Oh hush, it’s not that bad in there,” Sukuna retorts, handing you things to put away as you sort through the cabinets. “You’re probably right though, don’t want you coming across any unsavory characters,” he sighs.

***

Later that evening, you get Macy ready to go on a walk. The heat of the day has lessened significantly and you’re grateful for it. As you reach the street, you notice Sukuna picking up the trash in his yard. 

“Oh hey! Where are you off to?” he strides towards you, tossing some beer cans in the open trash can sitting out in the yard.

“Just taking Macy on her walk, wanna join?” you offer without thinking. What if people see you with him, won’t that cause the rumor mill to fly? 

His face lights up and you immediately dismiss those thoughts. At least he’s someone who seems to enjoy spending time around you, unlike your man back home who is always so quick to complain or put you down. Who cares if he has issues, most all of us do, some are just better at hiding them.

“Gimme like five minutes to finish cleaning up the yard. I’m having people over and don’t wanna give the cops more of a reason to be up my ass.”

“Oh, trying to impress someone special?” you joke. 

“Sure, you could say that,” he shrugs, facing away from you now. 

You chuckle and end up sitting in the grass to wait, rubbing Macy’s belly as she rolls over. Moments later you feel his presence next to you, holding out his hand for you.

“Um I was offering to help Macy up actually,” he teases before pulling you up. He gives Macy a few pets before taking her leash from your hand. 

“Wait, popsicles!” you exclaim.

“Holy shit you’re so right! I’ll hold Macy if you wanna go get them,” he says with serious conviction. 

“What flavor?” 

“Red.”

“Red isn’t a flavor,” you snort.

“You know what I meaaaaaaannn,” he whines.

Soon you are back with popsicles in tow and you begin your walk.

“So what’s a typical day like for you?” Sukuna asks as he falls into step next to you. 

“Hmmm, usually I go to class, teach my undergrad class, try to squeeze lunch in there, go to the lab to work on my research, then get home sometime in the evening to try and wind down.”

“Your boyfriend live with you?”

“Nope, I live alone. Relationship is too volatile for a long term lease,” you laugh. 

“So are you on or off right now?” he asks, words slightly muffled by the popsicle at his lips. 

“I guess on, I don’t know, it’s hard to tell sometimes. Speak of the devil,” you mutter as your phone starts ringing. You don’t answer, but after three more calls Sukuna yanks it out of your hand.

“Sukuna what are-“

“Hello? Who’s this? You’re looking for who? Oh you must mean tomato girl,” he snickers as he puts the phone on speaker.

“She’s busy right now, she has one of my popsicles in her mouth so she can’t talk, it’s pretty big and sticky, her hands can’t touch the phone in their state,” he puts the phone on mute as he busts out laughing and you can’t help but join in. 

“What the fuck, you fucking serious? You better get your hands off my girl,” Cam’s furious voice comes through the phone.

“I’m not touching her, she’s standing like five feet away.”

“What about this popsicle-“

“It’s grape flavored, she seems like she’s really enjoying it. Well I’m going to go now, nice meeting you Chris!” he says sarcastically as he hangs up.

“He is so pissed, bet he’s having a nuclear fallout of a meltdown right now. That felt good though,” you sigh, secretly thankful for that. It’s hard to get payback on him sometimes. 

“Yeah well he’s a piece of shit, better never visit with him or there might be a problem.” 

“Sukuna you’ve known me for two days,” you chuckle.

“So? You’ve been the nicest person to me in this stupid neighborhood, I haven’t and won't forget that.”

You both continue walking in silence, passing a few neighbors who give you a confused look. Suddenly you hear a car behind you, realizing it’s a police car with the lights on. What the fuck.

The officer gets out and approaches the both of you.

“Good evening, got a call about a young girl being followed by a suspicious man, looks like you two.”

What? Someone called the cops on Sukuna for walking with you?

“There must be a misunderstanding, I’m just walking my dog with my neighbor,” you reply.

“Can I see your identification sir?” he turns his attention to Sukuna.

“Look man I’m not doing anything wrong-“

“ID. Now, don’t argue with me boy.”

Sukuna fishes his wallet out, handing the cop his license. 

“Mam do you know he has a record and a suspended license? Is he giving you any trouble?”

You are starting to get irritated, Sukuna did nothing wrong, literally just existing.

“I do know, and no he’s not giving me trouble. I just wanted company walking my dog since it’s starting to get dark.” 

The cop looks between you both, brow furrowing in confusion. 

“With all due respect sir, aren’t there bigger issues in the community than a guy walking down the street?” you state.

“Watch your mouth,” the cop retorts in anger. “If he tries anything, just give us a call. Be careful and have a good night.” 

You both watch as the car hits an illegal U-turn and speeds back towards the main road.

“That was brilliant,” Sukuna smiles at you. 

“It was also stupid, shouldn’t be talking to shit to a cop,” you laugh. “It was just bothering me how they’re obsessing over you when there are bigger issues in the world. You literally can’t drive, but now walking is illegal? Just pisses me off,” you scoff with irritation. 

“Facts,” Sukuna agrees, “if people wanna buy drugs, that’s their choice. If they don’t get it from me, they’ll get it some other way.” 

While you don’t love the whole drug dealer thing, he does have a point. 

You continue your walk without any more incidents, laughing and joking the entire time. Sukuna is quite charming and charismatic, you're starting to realize. Not in a bad way though, he appears to have a genuine kindness about him and despite his questionable actions, seems like a decent person. 

“I’m having people over tonight, you’re welcome to come by if you’d want,” he says as he walks you to your door. It’s almost dark now, the front porch light bathing you both in a soft yellow hue.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass,” you answer. You really aren’t interested in getting involved with all that, also not nearly social enough to go up in a place where you barely know one person. Plus you probably have to do damage control with Cam.

“Sounds good, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Sukuna smirks at you, running his hand through his unruly pink locks. 

“Have a good night, be careful,” you joke and he just snickers in return, rolling his eyes. 

He turns to walk back up the driveway as you lock up for the night. 

Chapter 2 >>

Masterlist

[humanityinahandbag]

I've explored the idea of Eddie being married to Steve without knowing it before in a story before (you can read it here), but in that one, Eddie and Steve have been together for years and Eddie is just so completely blinded by pining that he doesn't know how serious the relationship is.

So now I'd like to put forth a different take on this trope for the steddie court's approval.

Steve, who is so incensed by homophobia for his best friend, Robin, that he decides to protest against Reagan by getting married to Eddie.

The only issue? Eddie has zero clue.

Steve got certified in the mail to be an officiant. Claudia works at city hall and isn't sure why Steve wanted a marriage license, but figured he'd helped Dustin so many times that she could help out with one little favor. And Steve figures that customers in Family Video, while not totally aware, count as witnesses.

So he picks a morning where the sun is shining in an especially Fuck Reagan sort of way, gets dressed in his best polo shirt and jeans, styles his hair, and goes to work.

To be clear; Steve does not think that this is legally binding.

He's thinking that this will be a fun sort of protest souvenir to show Robin. Like "Hey, bestie, soulmate, light of my life! Tack this on the wall! I'm technically gay married to my other best friend, so fuck the haters!"

And to also be clear; he knows Eddie is gay as well. No one told him. But he sees the way Eddie looks at him. He knows Eddie's got a crush (though he doesn't know that said crush has been around since reign as King Steve). Steve knows Love.

He also knows that Eddie unlocked a whole world of bisexuality for him. In fact, he's been putting the moves on Eddie for weeks now.

Eddie is just... so shy and flustered and nervous.

Thankfully, Steve is great at romance. He can seduce. He can use the Harrington Techniques.

And he thinks that a fake marriage license might be just the ice breaker to show Eddie. Proof that he's not homophobic. So much so that he's into dudes. Maybe even get in a good laugh. Get Eddie to chill out and stop acting so skittish and just let Steve kiss him already.

(And maybe, yunno, let Steve do other things to him that probably involve candles and flowers and maybe some smooth jazz).

So to Steve, this is a two for one solution.

He gets to protest homophobia with a fake marriage license for his best friend Robin, and he gets to show the guy he likes (and who likes him back) that he's totally into him with a cute little down with Reagan ice breaker.

It's a win win for everyone.

So one day, when Eddie comes into Family Video, the poor metalhead very nearly dies on the spot when Steve, smile bright enough to light a room, pushes a paper towards him and asks him to sign.

And Eddie, lovestruck and beside himself, doesn't even register what Steve is saying. Steve is perfect and wonderful and funny and smart, and he's asking Eddie to sign something, and Eddie barely even looks down at the document before he's scribbling his name.

Steve does explain. Of course he does.

Eddie just... isn't really listening.

He does however listen when Steve asks Eddie out at the end of his shift and Steve gets to watch the other boy turn pink as a summer sky when he says yes.

And that's that.

Steve has a first date to look forward to and a fake marriage certificate to turn in. He gives the paper back to Claudia and asks if she can stamp it. Make it look real. He'll frame it when he gets it back.

The issue is, Claudia is really good at her job. And Hawkins is currently experiencing the aftermath of a Diet Apocalypse and doesn't notice the fine details of everything moving through their local government. So the paperwork processes; laws be damned.

It's definitely a fun surprise when Steve opens the mail one day (before he's even gotten to take Eddie out), and finds out that he's somehow, legally, the first gay marriage in Indiana. Or most of the United States, really.

Which is... definitely something.

But Steve loves Love. And so he processes the news pretty quick and then walks into work with the energy of an especially confused but cheerful golden retriever. "Hey, Robin!" he'd say, reading through the letter again. "You remember how I made that marriage license for you?"

She laughs fondly. "Yeah, dingus. It was sweet."

"Anything for you," he says, sincerely. And then; "You remember how I'm going to take Eddie out? And you agree? You think he likes me back?"

She snorts. "He's totally obsessed with you. I'm pretty sure we've skipped a few stages over like and moved right onto love."

Which is great. Because when Steve falls, he falls hard. He's a guy who loves Love. It's great to find someone who loves him back the way he wants!

"Awesome," beams Steve. "So do you think I should tell him we're actually legally married before or after I take him to the movies?"

[yaseraphine]

pick a card 3 - something you need to hear right now.

Last day where the Sun is in Scorpio. First day where the Sun enters Sagittarius.

The month of November is always a tough month for everyone. This pick a card is aimed to give some guidance through these dark times. Scorpio energy can be sometimes overwhelmingly intense and gloomy, but it holds great power. Use this energy to die peacefully, and shed your old skin. Like a phoenix, we will all rise from our ashes.

Words of encouragement, healing messages and a tiny bit of reality checks are what this reading will bring you. Hope it resonates.

Pile 1 

The World, 2 of Wands, Knight of Wands, Page of Swords, 10 of Swords (Rx), Queen of Pentacles (Rx?)

Top of the deck : 8 of Cups

Bottom of the deck : 2 of Swords

Life path 7 / Life path 11

“You don’t drown by falling in the water, you drown by staying there.”

“Do what makes you fucking happy”

additional quote : “Do what makes your soul shine <3”

Right off the bat, there is a sense of urgency in walking away from something and making a firm decision. I think you have been in denial about something in your life, avoiding it by trying to live a “normal life”. You’ve been focusing on your day to day tasks as a distraction but something has been at the back of your mind for a while now. And when I say for a while, I mean at least two years, or one year. It is something that you have, overtime, subconsciously suppressed because at the time this thing, career, job, creative endeavor,.. was important to you, but you did not have (or thought you didn’t have) enough knowledge and resources to take methodical practical steps towards it. I am picking up that this might have been something that happened slightly before or during the pandemic (2019/2020). The World fell out of the deck, and this card indicates the completion of a cycle, an ending. After it, the 2 of Wands fell, which indicates future planning, progress, decision and discovery. I feel like the message you need to hear is that now is the perfect time to start this project of yours, or at least plan the practical actions you need to take over the course of the next few months to accomplish it. Don’t overthink over certain details and possible technical issues. There is a fire inside of you that you consistently turned off, thinking and hoping that the embers would eventually die out. The problem you are currently facing is that they never did. You might have an Aries North node. Being assertive and independent doesn’t come easy to you. Starting projects and following your instincts without second guessing yourself is hard. You tried to manage your truest and deepest desires but I feel like this past year, the desire to let it all out, probably influenced by the Lunar nodes being in the sign of Aries and Libra, urging you to just go for it, intensified to the point of suffocation. 

Your spirit guides are urging you to take this leap of faith, to walk confidently towards that goal like The Fool, without worrying if you run the risk of falling from a ravine in the process.

They’re telling you to start slow, to take a step by step approach while still keeping a strong mindset. You will come out victorious only if you’re able to keep pushing through the obstacles. What awaits you is a slow and steady marathon and growth. You can do it !

Oracle cards from the Green With Oracle pulled for you : 

16 - Memory / Rosemary => Leo energy

“Deeper levels of connection with people, concepts and plans are all areas that Rosemary works with. You are reminded to ensure you are in touch with your inner wisdom, paying heed to the past, and have cleared what needs to be released. Listen to your intuition as it is calling to you at present, but be wary of gossip or becoming tactless or too forceful.”

5 - Grounding / Potato => Virgo energy

“Explore the deepest, innermost areas of yourself and situations, as potatoes indicate energies that are calling you to look again at what you may have once missed and will help to bring stability. If you are looking for an answer, try pulling back a little to let things settle on their own first. Challenges at the moment may include ignorance, self-centeredness and forgetfulness, so make sure you are compassionate and focused.

You are called to use all the knowledge you acquired overtime to finally take action. You’re currently ending a cycle. You have enough wisdom to make a plan that will lead you closer and closer to tangible success. Trust your intuition and inner guidance. Don’t make rash decisions, but be decisive.

Just realized these two cards have the same message in the guide book ! This is a crazy coincidence. I used it many times and never paid attention. I didn’t even know two cards could have the same message. This is crazy lol.  Let me share the quote with you : 

 “When the world wearies and society fails to satisfy, there is always the garden”

Pile 2 

2 of cups, 3 of Pentacles, Queen of Wands, Ace of Wands, The Star, 2 of Swords, Page of Pentacles 10 of Pentacles

“The same light you see in others is shining within you too.”

(there are a lot of references to light, stars,shining,;. throughout the reading. Are you drawn to space ? or the galaxy ? You’re probably a huge astrology, and/or astronomy nerd. You are probably also a huge dreamer. Maybe drawn to the idea of being a starseed. You might have strong aquarius placements, or a populated 11th house. Pluto finally going in Aquarius this week is going to grant you so much luck and recognition ! You are about to step into your power for the next 20 years. Like a rocket, you are about to fly towards the stars. Are you ready for the take off ?  

“Don’t let the ugliness of others kill the beauty in you”

Something you need to hear is that you are about to be blessed by the universe ! Shooting Star by XG just started playing !

“Babe, if I give it my all, will it pay off?

Workin' overtime, no days off

All these shootin' stars in the dark (Yeah)

All these shootin' stars in the dark, make a wish (Yeah)

Takin' off from the ground, it's amazin'

So outta this world, I'm in space

Now I'm goin' up, headin' to the stars

Wouldn't trade it out for another life, no

Yeah, we ridin', ridin', ridin' on up (Woo)

So shinin', shinin', shinin' for sure

Ooh, ah, I'm lookin' so lavish (Shinin', shinin', yeah)

Ooh, ah, put in work like it's a habit (I'm lookin' so lavish)

It's a big move, every day's like a dream

Makin' big moves as I should 'cause I'm a queen (Ooh)

Ooh, ah, I'm lookin' so lavish

Ooh, ah, yeah, I bet you can't imagine (Oh yeah)”

You are shining on your way towards the stars. You are currently in your Queen of Wands and Ace of Wands energy, (Million Dollar Baby just started playing, you’re really sure of yourself and goal oriented right now).

You are bursting with confidence and assertiveness. You are determined towards your goals. You are in a “work hard, play hard” type of energy. If it’s not currently happening, you are about to have a huge burst of popularity on whatever you’re currently working on. Could be any project, a youtube channel, a business : there are a few people that are well respected in the industry you're aiming for that are eyeing you right now and that are about to offer you a contract/ a deal/ a collaboration. They have been probably on a hunt for someone like you for a while now and they were probably starting to lose hope until they came across your page/work/profile. They see you as a Star, you’re unique and like The Star in the tarot, you represent hope and faith to them/to their business/ association/school/company. They see your raw potential and they are going to help you refine it. 

Right now, you’re probably more focused on your work/ career/ school and nurturing your friendships, going out. You’re basically active in your social circles and this is benefiting you a lot ! 

An additional message you need to know is that you’re attracting a soulmate! It’s not necessarily a romantic soulmate, could be a friendship, a mentor.. Whatever the nature of this relationship is, it is going to fill you up with even more joy and hope! Your spirit guides are so proud of you and of all the work you have been putting in lately. Even though it was hard, you stayed patient and worked diligently towards your goals and desired reality. You did a lot of shadow work, tried your best to let go of the limiting beliefs that were holding you back. The Universe wants to tell you they are about to reward you.

Oracle card from the Green With Oracle pulled for you : 

40 - Positivity / Marigold : Leo energy (again you are shining and radiating confidence! Your solar plexus chakra and sacral chakra might be in overdrive currently! You are the main character in the play that is your life.)

 “A better understanding is indicated and a reason to be more optimistic about outcomes and the roads to get there. There are opportunities for nurturing encounters and a general aura of happiness pervades. Marigolds help us focus on the positive aspects of even the most difficult events. Your inner child may need to come out for a play, and be sure to take creative invitations. Be wary of not having all the facts and of emotional blockages.”

Pile 3

TW : this pile is a bit sad and angsty.

Before I pulled any cards for you, I already felt your energy overlapping in Pile 2’s reading. Your energy was really intense, deep and melancholic. Sad songs started playing, which completely contradicted pile 2’s energy (which was overwhelmingly positive). You are probably going through a really tough period right now and your soul is desperately crying for help, praying for a hand to come and save you. You have been having really painful realizations regarding your past, especially your childhood. You’ve recently realized that the child inside of you was buried alive. You’ve recently realized that you lost your essence. While growing up, you accommodated to the world around you, what people expected of you, what was “normal”, what was acceptable. By bowing down to other people’s expectations, you let your true self die slowly. You’ve been on autopilot for a while now, completely numb and empty. There is a bit of mirroring between this pile and pile 1 of suppressing one's authentic self and desires. 

Right now, you feel that your heart has been almost rotting inside. You lost all of your passion and your spark of life. But, don’t worry, what you need to hear now is that this painful realization is what is going to set you free. It is the first step towards a really deeply healing period where you are going to reconnect with your inner child. I heard : “The truth will set you free, but first, it will piss you off”. Did you read my last reading by any chance ? I am getting the energy that you chose pile 2 and 3, both or just one, or that you would resonate with those two piles for some reason. Don’t hesitate to check it out, you might find some comforting messages I heard ! 

Now, let me pull some cards for you. I don’t know why, but I felt drawn to use different decks than the ones I used for the first two piles. So, your pile will have different messages (no message from the Green Witch oracle for you)

 [took a little break before going to your pile. You probably need to slow down on your day to day tasks. I know it’s really hard in the productivity obsessed capitalist world we live in, and it is a huge privilege to be able to have enough time and energy to spiritually reconnect with ourselves, but this is what your spirit guides are urging you to do. You’ve got this.]

For you, I used the Occult Tarot and the Heavenly Bodies Astrology deck.

I only pulled 2 cards, one per deck (it was supposed to be like that but more cards sneaked in while shuffling haha) I feel like you need just a simple check up.

Cardinal - Instigation, Bravery and A pioneering spirit => your lost spark and childlike innocence will soon be reignited by a deep healing period. A new beginning is coming for you, but it will take some hibernating time before it comes. 

Sagittarius - Optimism, Exploration and Freedom

Trine - Angelic Support, Harmony and Perfect Flow

Reconnect to your higher self and spiritual side. Disconnect from the direct, yet understandable, dissatisfaction you feel towards life. Your embers that were slowly dying will relive, just trust the process, enter the deepest parts of yourself and keep exploring with positivity : your angels will guide you. There is a team of spirit guides and angels that are proud of your progress. Even if you don’t see it, they do and they want to tell you : There is light at the end of the tunnel, keep on walking.

The Hermit and the Ace of Swords :  The truth about your past came out, now is the time to meditate on those realizations and integrate them. Alchemize the pain in wisdom. You are about to come out stronger than ever. Isolate yourself, or at least try to keep your peace and have a lot of alone time (without completely stopping socializing altogether, humans are social creatures, connecting with people is important for our wellbeing) to ponder, analyze, decrypt all the patterns that you’ve been repeating. Reconnect with your inner child, look at photos of yourself when you were younger, delve deep into your childhood and childhood wounds. Maybe try to find what your attachment style is, anything that stems from your childhood that has been making you stuck in a rut these past years. Maybe, if you can, try to heal the relationship you had with your parents/parent or primary caregiver. Try to understand the nature of you guys’ relationship to see how it affects your self worth now. You've got this, trust me.

here is a link to my ko-fi.

[random2908]

In my field there are two business models that startups can follow.

Model 1: what's called an "employee-owned" company, although the degree to which employees actually own it is highly variable. (The last company I worked at was 80% owned by the two founders and 20% was set aside to distribute to employees. The current company I work at is something like 50% owned by four or five founders and the rest is split among the employees.) These companies build revenue through grants, contracts, and prototype sales (for customers who are so desperate for your product that they're willing to deal with unfinished versions that only half-work). They almost always get stuck in TRL 5-7 limbo forever because they're always just barely scraping by trying to pay everyone's salaries, so they may have enough money for creative innovation--a product that sounds really cool--but never have enough money to refine the products to a reliability point where they can actually sell them to the general public. (Not that the general public will have much way to know these companies exist, anyway, because they have 0 marketing budget.) Consequently, these companies never make a profit.

(One of my coworkers and I have a running joke that we work for a non-profit, because any profit we do make gets funneled back into development and covering contract overruns, rather than paid out as dividends. I.e. it's literally run on an explicitly non-profit model, even though it's a for-profit company. Every year the share holders are allowed to vote to stop doing this and start actually keeping profits, but every year we don't vote that way because the company is employee-owned and there's more job security if we cycle our profits back in. Better to keep making a salary for several more years than get a small payout now but risk a layoff next year.)

Model 2: venture capitalist funding. The venture capitalists come in and they fund a) a marketing department, so people might actually ever learn your product exists, and 2) if it ever gets that far--if it wasn't just vaporware in the first place--they fund the engineering to get over the reliability hill that most companies get stuck at, so you can actually ship a product. In exchange, they have a controlling share of the company. But they're, you know, venture capitalists. So what they do with that control is they shut down creative side-projects they're uninterested in, shut down creativity and innovation as much as they can in favor of pushing their one key product to market, because once you have a product envisioned, further creativity is a waste of resources. So the product ultimately works but isn't as interesting or useful as it could have been, and the company is a one-trick pony.

At that point, the venture capitalists get their return on investment by selling the company--whether to a larger company or by IPO. The company founders get a payout, too, and maybe the engineers do as well, but the founders also almost always get fired from their jobs either right after the sale goes through, or about a year before in preparation for the sale. (My little sister used to work at a startup where the venture capitalists told the founder it was time for her to resign, and she said no, and they said in that case they were going to pull all their funding. At that point, everyone, including my sister, got laid off.) Once the company has been sold, all bets are off on whether or not the new buyers will continue to offer the product, keep any of the engineering staff, etc.

Obviously, if you're using a product from a startup, and it's a product complicated enough that a company of more than 2-5 employees made it (i.e. not just a family business), it almost certainly was produced under model 2.

specifically hate the startup model:

take a shitload of VC money in exchange for voting shares and influence over the company

build a thing that gets users

set money on fire to get more users

get all the users. capture the market before a competitor can steal your thunder

start monetizing and working towards profitability

get acquired, early engineers who made the product cash out and leave

the new owner company either dissolves the team or does workforce reduction

the product gets worse

it's so frustrating. why build something so great that captures an entire market when you know the long term strategy is to let them down?

[girllblogging777]

TOTAL RECALL ౨ৎ

IN WHICH you get to know your coworker spencer, and try to take him off guard with questions

“alright, we got a new case in LA,” you spoke up, entering the briefing room where the rest of the team was already sitting. the sound of your voice made them all look up, and you tried to appear as confident as you could, despite the way your hands were holding tightly onto some documents.

today was your first day as the communications liaison of the BAU, and as much time as you’d spent training with JJ before she went on maternity leave, handling your first case by yourself was quite pressuring.

especially when you were surrounded by people whose job is to decode body language. remembering this, you immediately tilted your head upwards and shoulders back, before beginning to explain the case.

“four girls under the age of 25 have been abducted in the past two months. including two this week,” you spoke, walking around the table to hand the files to all of your new colleagues.

one of the agents, a brown haired boy you’d previously seen around, asked as he took the documents from you.

“are they under or over 21 ? because the statistics are entirely different within this range,” he explained, the rest of the team not even budging as he began rambling.

“three years ago, women over 21 represented about 65 thousands of missing persons files - 64 thousands nine hundred and fifty six to be exact…”

the man sitting next to the technical analyst smirked at you when he noticed the look of bewilderment on your face. “don’t mind the pretty boy,” he chuckled “he’s our walking encyclopaedia”

⋆˚࿔

about an hour later, after some more debriefing, you and the rest of the team boarded the jet. you sat down next to the window, fingers drumming against your thigh before a voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

“do you mind ?” the brunette (whose name you’d discovered was actually spencer) spoke, fingers pointing at the seat next to yours.

you shook your head, motioning for him to sit down next to you which he did, careful not to disturb your personal space.

the others were all busy talking to eachother, or reviewing the case while the plane took off, and you focused on the steady humming of the engine to distract you from the boy next to you.

“so, walking encyclopaedia, huh ?” you joked, echoing morgan’s words in attempt to get to know him a bit more. you were going to have to work together for a while, after all.

he turned to face you, his expression a bit sheepish.

“i just uh, have an… eidetic memory ?” he suggested, weighing each of his words, assuming that just like everyone else, you’d simply characterise him as a nerd and move on with it.

realising they were not joking about the extent of his intellect, you tilted your head. that was going to be interesting.

“oh, total recall ?”

“basically, yes.” he answered, and you noticed the slightest hint of a smile creeping up on his, now that you thought about it, very pretty face. “but unlike photographic memory, it includes auditory memories and other sensory aspects.”

“woah… so could ask you anything and you’d just know ?”

he wanted to tell you that this was not how it worked, that he could only remember things if he’d ever actually learnt them before. but the way you were leaning towards him and seemed genuinely interested made him want to keep appearing smart to you.

eventually, he realised that the conversation was taking a turn, and becoming a quizz. but spencer couldn’t blame you, that’s what people were usually prone to doing when they learnt about his memory. except this time, he actually was having fun.

“so, do you know like…” you looked around, trying to think of something to ask before your gaze dropped to the cereal bar in your bag. “how many granola bars are consumed every year ?”

a second. his lips pursed.

“about 808.5 million units. the global average of cereal bars consumers is 37%.”

your jaw almost dropped, you had to ask something else.

“and the current population of new zealand ?”

“5 millions two hundred and twenty three… that was two years ago” he answered so quickly that you almost wondered if you should look for an “off” button on his forehead.

“okay, that’s super impressive…” you said, shifting in your seat so you could face him. “i know it’s probably tough though, knowing everyone expects you to know everything and having to live up to their expectations…”

at that, his eyes darted down. he didn’t expect you to say that, especially since you were simply getting to know him. and yet, it felt like you saw right through him already.

“it can get a bit rough sometimes… especially when i feel like i’m not able to use my knowledge properly for a case and it just feels like… like i’m failing everyone.” he said, feeling strangely comfortable admitting this to you, even if you were the newest member here.

you simply nodded, wanting him to know you agreed.

“come on, you’re human. you may be smart, but of course you’re going to be taken off guard at some point.” your voice was light, and reassuring.

“it’s not like you’re gonna know the name of… i don’t know, the deadliest jellyfish in the world”

a chuckle escaped his lips and his chocolate eyes locked with yours. “chironex fleckeri ? commonly known as the sea wasp, or the box jellyfish,” he stated, “the venom can cause death within minutes”

yeah, you obviously still had a lot to learn about him. and about jellyfishes too, apparently.

[foldingfittedsheets]

This is a reminder to you that if you currently have two working arms that you need to take a moment to appreciate it. Appreciate ittttt.

I currently have one working arm and one useless noodle arm full of tetanus molecules or something. Here’s a list of daily tasks I am currently struggling with as a result of my horrid floppy pain arm. One is doable, five is excruciating.

Using a towel: 3, surprisingly difficult.

Brushing my hair: 5, impossible actually.

Putting my hair in a ponytail: 4, but technically achievable after I used my right arm to prop my left elbow on a shelf and then leaned in.

Putting on a bra: 5, achieved it but at what cost. Would have skipped that step altogether except my boobs are full of hormones and I needed the compression.

Putting on a shirt: 2, kinda surprised that didn’t hurt more.

Making breakfast: 1, got through that okay.

Reading a book: 1 with a brief catapult into 5 when Leeloo stepped on my arm.

Putting on a coat: 4, honestly didn’t expect this one to hurt so much more than shirt and towel.

Putting on a seatbelt: 3, that sure sucked.

Driving a car: 3, I am basically just hooking my thumb into the wheel and letting my right arm do everything.

Opening a door: unknown, too scared to cry in public.

Carrying the precious cat food I roused myself to go get: 1, basically being the kid in a group project taking all the credit while doing none of the work.

Taking coat off: 2, how? You had one job and it was to not move.

Feeding the cats: 1, basically got to just sit back and dangle.

Seeing the cats shove their fuzzy faces into fresh kibble: priceless.

[voodoo-tofu]

Steve Harrington needed hearing aids.

He wasn't born needing them. In fact, he was just about as healthy as a young man in his social class could be. But numerous head injuries eventually led to gradually worsening hearing loss, leading him to needing mostly useless hearing aids.

His damage was so severe he actually needed cochlear implants but his parents kicked him out of their house and off of their insurance plan when he got caught kissing his teammate back in high school. With his minimum wage job and splitting rent with his roommate Robin, he currently did not make enough money for such a luxury.

So he did the next best thing: he learned ASL.

It was free, other than his time invested, and Robin was the one to suggest it. After all, she was already fluent in five languages and had been in band for twelve years. If anyone could teach herself and a hard of hearing person to sign, it was Robin Buckley.

The only bad part was, they were the only two who seemed to know the damn language, leaving Steve to strain to hear or read lips lest he get (mostly) silently yelled at by some deranged customer.

So when he spotted a guy around his age with long, dark curly hair and perfectly round black glasses with side shields, he knew he had to act.

He knew what it was like to have people gloss over the fact that you exist, or even berate you for it; so he took a page out of Robin's book.

He learned braille.

Sure, technically Steve could still speak to the boy, but wouldn't it be more special if he could read what Steve wanted to say?

So he practiced and practiced until he was happy, bringing the card to work where his crush appeared to be a regular.

As Steve sees him walk in, he knows today's the day.

⠓⠊ ⠊ ⠁⠍ ⠎⠞⠑⠧⠑ ⠎⠕⠗⠗⠽ ⠊⠋ ⠞⠓⠊⠎ ⠊⠎ ⠺⠑⠊⠗⠙ ⠃⠥⠞ ⠊ ⠚⠥⠎⠞ ⠺⠁⠝⠞⠑⠙ ⠞⠕ ⠎⠁⠽ ⠽⠕⠥ ⠁⠗⠑ ��⠑⠁⠇⠇⠽ ⠉⠥⠞⠑ ⠁⠝⠙ ⠊ ⠺⠕⠥⠇⠙ ⠇⠊⠅⠑ ⠞⠕ ⠁⠎⠅ ⠽⠕⠥ ⠕⠥⠞ ⠕⠝ ⠁ ⠙⠁⠞⠑

Hi I am Steve sorry if this is weird but I just wanted to say you are really cute and I would like to ask you out on a date

Steve is giddy when he wanders over to the boy in dark clothes. He had on black jeans that are ripped at the knees, a Metallica band tee, a leather jacket, and a denim battle vest. He's perfect. He's hot.

Steve's footsteps must be louder than he expects because the object of his affection immediately turns in his direction.

"Hi," Steve greets as he presses the thick stock paper into his hands.

The boy angles his head down with a frown as he traces an index finger over the raised dots, before looking right at Steve behind those dark frames.

He takes them off, and Steve learns after so long that his eyes are brown.

"I'm sorry," his crush says, Steve recognizing those syllables easy enough, "But I can't read this. What is it you're trying to say?"

But now that response is too much, Steve can't keep up. All he knows is the card he worked so carefully punching little holes in with a special tool he had to buy was now being pushed back into his hands.

Steve doesn't try to answer, he just wants to get the hell away before his tears spill over, but a hand on his shoulder stops him in his tracks.

He tenses, squeezes his eyes shut and braces for impact, but when a familiar hit doesn't land on his face, he cautiously opens his teary eyes to find him staring right at Steve.

"Are you okay?" He asks, but Steve can't be quite sure if he's checking on him or asking if he's gay.

Steve's own frown appears on his face as he points to his ears.

"Can't hear too good."

His mouth drops open, rushing to spiel something Steve doesn't catch. He must realize this because he's taking Steve's card back from him now as he mimics writing something with raised eyebrows.

Steve nods his head, more confused that the guy he thought was blind seemed to be understanding him perfectly.

He fishes out the little pad of paper and pen he keeps with him for moments not quite like this, passing the two items over.

He scribbles for a moment before letting Steve read what he's written in big loopy letters.

Hi, I'm Eddie. Sorry, I can't read braille. What did you say?

Steve furrows his brows.

I thought you might know it. Aren't you blind?

Eddie shakes his head with a little smile.

The glasses? I have killer migraines. Never go anywhere without them.

Steve smacks himself in the face. He's been such a fool!

Eddie taps him to gain his attention once more before handing him the notepad and pen.

What did you say? I'd like to know :)

Steve worries his bottom lip.

Hi I'm Steve. Sorry if this is weird but I just wanted to say you're really cute and I would like to ask you out on a date

He's nervous as he hands it back, but Eddie's wide grin and eager nod does wonders to knock back those worries.

I thought you'd never ask, Steve.

[lilacgaby]

racer!katsuki x pitcrew!reader

was this relationship inappropriate? yes. would you lose your job if you were found out? also yes, but did you care as he was making out with you in his private room, caging you into the walls? no.

you were sat on the edge of his driver's room bed, sat on his lap. you were both in your work suits and you were definitely not allowed to be back in your, technically boss's, room.

this had become a normal thing for the two of you, he said that doing this was 'good luck' and 'didn't you want him to win?'

it first happened the day you accidentally ran into his room, he was shirtless as he eyed you suspiciously. 'fuck're ya doing here?' your eyes were wide as you tried to look into his.. but your eyes tended to wander and you were just a girl at heart.

he couldn't help but let a smirk come over his face, he'd seen you without your helmet a couple times, and he thought you were gorgeous. great at your job too, averaging two seconds above your teammates. did he make you nervous? no, he couldn't be.

he walked over to you, grabbing your hand as he caged you in the wall, putting his face directly in front of yours.

'so, see sum' ya like pretty?' he said condescendingly, a mischievous expression overtaking his face. 'i have some time so, tell me what's interesting you so much.'

his hour of preparation was spent wisely, with his tongue down your throat.

and that lead you back to today, after a 20 race win-streak, everyone couldn't help but question what had suddenly changed in bakugo's life to warrant such a huge improvement in his career.

so interested in fact, they had barged into his room where you both were currently french-kissing, your eyes wide as he cursed them out and shoved you off him, trying to get you out of view.

secrets out, i guess.