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pbaz7 · 30 days ago

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SOFT SPOT: CHAPTER 6

paige x azzi

warning: sexual content

word count: 12k

a/n: this was originally like 8k words but the wings made me stress write for the rest of my saturday so we made it to 12k lmao. this chapter is just the rest of their lil cabin trip so enjoy 🤭. let me know what you think of the chapter if you can and feel free to let me know anything you’d like to see or if there’s any typos <3

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Azzi blinked once, twice, five too many times against the morning light that seemed to be blinding her from the cabin windows. The spot next to her was empty and the only evidence that Paige had even been there was the faint scent she left behind on her pillows. It felt way too early to be awake on an off day so Azzi laid there for a few extra moments absently trailing her fingers over the space Paige had occupied however long ago. With real rest finally behind her, Azzi could understand what she felt last night more clearly. She had a gnawing ache in her chest, an uneasy flutter in her stomach every time Paige so much as looked at her.

She’d been in flings before, very casual relationships that never asked for much more than a familiar person to sleep with. But whatever the hell she felt for Paige lived under her skin, in the small crevices of her brain. Paige had a way of setting her pulse off rhythm by just existing, of showing up in her thoughts when Azzi was doing something as simple as drinking a smoothie. These thoughts had a way of making her throat feel like sandpaper and gave her a hollow ache behind her eyes because she knew they weren’t anything…technically. Not yet at least.

She was sure Paige felt something for her. She just didn’t know if it was a simple attraction, if she was lining up to be in another casual relationship because trying to read Paige was like trying to catch a reflection in moving water.

Eventually after growing tired of her own thoughts, she rolled out of the bed with a soft groan, grabbing her sweater on the way out of Paige’s room. She walked quietly back to the guest room she was supposed to sleep in, brushing her teeth and pulling her slightly tangled curls into a low bun.

When she made her way downstairs, the living room and kitchen were empty with no sign of Paige.

Azzi grabbed a banana from the counter before slipping out the back door, the crisp morning air nipping at her exposed legs as she made her way around the side of the cabin. When she reached the gym she heard what was becoming a familiar sound of Paige hitting a bag.

She pushed the door open and sure enough Paige was standing in front of a hanging bag as she moved through precise movements. All of them were thrown with the kind of control that reflected just how much time she put into her craft.

Azzi leaned silently against the doorframe as she ate her banana, letting her eyes wander over the scene. Paige’s hair was pulled up haphazardly, a few damp strands clinging to her neck, her shirt clinging to her torso. She moved like the world faded away when she was training, like her and the bag were the only things in existence.

When she was done with her banana Azzi tossed it in the nearby trash can and pushed off the doorframe. “Weren’t we just here less than twelve hours ago?”

Paige glanced over with her breath coming steadily but a little heavy, sweat trailing down her temple. She gave a small shrug in response, letting her knuckles connect with the bag again.

Azzi tilted her head. “You good?”

“Mmm,” was all Paige offered, her gaze drifting back to the bag as if it held answers she still needed to knock loose.

Azzi stepped closer moving around to the far side of the bag. She placed her hands on it, steadying it as Paige was about to throw another combo.

“I wouldn’t suggest that,” Paige said, pausing mid-motion.

Azzi raised her eyebrow, keeping her hands where they were. “What, am I gonna mess up your rhythm or something?”

Paige shook her head, a small chuckle escaping her. “Not tryna hurt you.”

“How would I get hurt just holdin—”

Paige stepped forward slightly, pressing her hand against the bag so it pushed into Azzi’s hands. Her gaze dipped, nodding toward Azzi’s shooting hand.

Azzi glanced down, noticing how her wrist was bending awkwardly under the pressure.

“If I throw a hard elbow into the bag, like I was about to,” Paige said, her eyes still on Azzi’s wrist, “it’ll fuck that up real quick. You’ll feel it in your elbow too.”

Azzi slowly pulled her hands back, lifting them in surrender, and Paige gave a small smile before turning back to the heavy bag. The sound of her hits continued immediately after.

Azzi watched her for a moment before asking, “Why are you in here so early?”

“I fought like shit.”

Azzi leaned against the wall, folding her arms across her chest . “How so?”

Paige’s fist sank into the bag.“They knew I watched tape,” she said between strikes. “So they made the fight unpredictable. Switched up every round. Took me too long to find a rhythm.” Her right leg snapped up into a sharp kick. “My footwork was slow. Escape time was off. I wasn’t reading her tells quick enough and got a fuckin concussion cause of it.”

Each of her sentences was punctuated by a harder connection to the bag—frustration dripping into every maneuver. Azzi pushed off the wall, a little unease growing in her chest as she approached.

“I wasn’t sharp,” Paige said, her voice low this time, almost like she was just speaking to herself. “I should’ve seen it coming.”

Azzi stepped behind the bag again, gently placing her hands on both sides, hoping Paige would register her in time. She caught the subtle flicker in Paige’s eyes just before her next punch landed as she halted mid-swing, breathing hard, eyes moving up to meet Azzi’s. “Azzi, I just told you not to do that.”

Azzi made sure her voice was soft when she spoke. “You know there’s no such thing as perfect, right?”

Paige stared at her for a moment with sweat glistening along her eyebrows. Her jaw was tight, her knuckles most likely red underneath her gloves.

Azzi tilted her head to the side slightly. “You’re allowed to mess up. You’re allowed to be human.”

Paige exhaled through her nose, shaking out her hands. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I’m not saying you should,” Azzi said, keeping her voice soft. “I’m just saying don’t beat yourself up for not winning every second. That’s not what makes great people great.”

Paige looked away for a moment, wiping her neck on the towel nearby with her jaw tight. She didn’t respond to Azzi’s words, her breath still coming out in short, controlled bursts.

Azzi smiled as she watched Paige process her words. To soften the moment she added, “You look kinda good when you’re brooding and all that, though. But that’s beside the point.”

That earned a huff from Paige. “That so?”

Azzi shrugged. “I make it a point not to lie to people who can knock my head off.”

Paige cracked a faint smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She tilted her head a few times, still trying to bring herself down from the frustration humming in her muscles. When it didn’t work she sighed quietly. “Can you move for me?” she asked, not unkindly but edged with a slight tension. “I gotta let it out or Imma tweak eventually, and I’m not tryna do that.”

Azzi didn’t move right away, but she gave her a soft look. “You’re not as bad as you think Paige.”

Paige chuckled. “You haven’t seen me pissed off.”

Azzi’s gaze lingered on her, watching the way Paige’s hands flexed at her sides, itching to hit something again. Slowly, she stepped aside. “Okay,” she said softly. “Do what you gotta do.”

Azzi turned to walk away, but before she could take more than a few steps, Paige reached out, her fingers wrapping gently around Azzi’s wrist.

“Thank you,” Paige said, making her voice more sincere than before. “For checking. I’ll come back inside in a lil bit.”

Azzi gave her a small nod, her fingers giving Paige’s forearm a soft squeeze, lingering longer than she needed to. “Don’t stay out too long,” she said before turning and walking back inside.

…

Paige came in about 45 minutes later, her shirt clinging to her skin and her grey shorts noticeably damp with her sweat. She didn’t say anything to announce her presence, just wiped her face with the towel around her neck and made her way into the kitchen. Azzi, who was stretched out on the couch, lifted her head watching her move.

Paige started grabbing ingredients: frozen fruit, almond milk, protein powder. “You want one?”

Azzi nodded, pushing herself up a bit more on the couch. “Yeah, sure.” She stayed where she was, watching the way Paige moved around the kitchen. Eventually, she slid off the couch and wandered into the kitchen, leaning against the counter just a few steps away. Paige didn’t look at her, just kept blending until the machine whirred to a stop.

“Feel better?”

Paige shrugged, pouring the smoothie into two cups. “Well enough,” she mumbled. Her voice was a little horse, like she hadn’t used it at all since Azzi left the gym—potentially letting out a few frustrated yells.

She handed one of the cups to Azzi and finally looked at her. With the way Azzi was leaning on the counter, Paige’s frame loomed a little bit over hers naturally. Azzi took a sip, her eyes on Paige as she tried the drink. She pulled back with a slight smile and a shrug. “It’s alright.”

Paige shook her head, letting out a scoff. “Aight bro.”

Azzi reached out to stop her from moving away, her fingertips brushing against Paige’s stomach only to immediately recoil with a scrunched nose. “You’re sweaty.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, laughing a little. “Observation of the year,” she said before taking a sip of her smoothie. “I just came out the gym, what you expect?”

Azzi wiped her hand on her thigh exaggeratedly. “A towel, maybe? A rinse? Courtesy?”

Paige stepped a little closer, crowding Azzi just enough to make her lean back against the counter again. “You knew what this was, you came in the kitchen on your own.”

Azzi gave her a playful glare. “I came in here for a smoothie.”

“You’re still standin’ here.”

Azzi paused, eyes moving between Paige’s eyes and lips before saying, “That’s your fault.”

Paige’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “How?”

Azzi nodded toward the small space between them, then motioned subtly between their bodies. “This.”

Paige shifted, about to step back, but Azzi’s fingers grabbed her shirt, stopping her.

“Thought I was sweaty,” Paige said, smiling a little.

Azzi’s hand slid under Paige’s shirt slightly, her fingertips resting against damp skin. “You are,” she said. “But now I don’t care.”

Paige's eyes moved down to where Azzi’s hand was resting under her shirt. “Little bipolar, no?”

“Or a woman who’s allowed to change her mind.”

Paige’s lips twitched into a half-smirk. “Fair.”

She looked down at Azzi, her bottom lip tucked in between her teeth a little.

Azzi shifted under her gaze. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m not lookin’ at you like anything,” Paige said. “Just usin’ my eyes.”

Azzi arched her eyebrow. “Exactly.”

Paige grinned, then closed her eyes dramatically, lifting her hands in a phoney surrender.

Azzi snorted, giving her a light shove in the chest. “You’re so stupid.”

Paige stepped back with the push, laughing under her breath. “Assaulting me in my own kitchen for just lookin’ at you is crazy.”

Azzi leaned against the counter again, sipping her smoothie trying to hide that she was a little flustered. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Paige shook her head, wiping a bit of sweat from her temple with the towel still around her neck. “You started it.”

“No, you started it. Walking in here all...” she gestured vaguely at Paige’s body, “...like that.”

Paige looked shocked. “So what, I’m the problem now?”

Azzi met her eyes, holding the stare. “I never am.”

They stood there with the tension increasing between them. Paige leaned in a little, her eyes drifting to Azzi’s lips purposefully.

“You gonna keep lookin’ at me, or do something?”

Paige swallowed once, then smiled. “You keep tellin’ me I’m sweaty so I should prolly go handle that.”

Azzi took a small step forward, close enough that their chests were touching. “I already said I didn’t care.”

Another small moment passed before Paige took a step back with a grin, heading for the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

Paige looked over her shoulder. “Gotta go shower. Not tryna drench you with my sweat.”

Azzi laughed before mumbling to herself, “Bit late for that.”

…

The rest of the day was comfortably slow. Exactly what both of them needed.

They started with a couple of movies, laying on the couch with Paige’s legs stretched out in front of her and Azzi’s legs thrown over her lap despite the side-eye Paige gave her when she initially did it. Azzi was in charge of picking the first movie and without saying anything put on a romance movie. Paige once again gave her the biggest side-eye known to man, barely holding back a groan as the soft piano music kicked in. She only made it ten minutes in before glancing at Azzi and saying, “This for real what we’re watching?”

Azzi didn’t even look at her. “Shh. Let your heart grow a few sizes.”

An hour later, Paige had to physically bite her lip to stop herself from laughing when she noticed Azzi wiping her eyes. “Yo you crying?”

Azzi sniffled dramatically. “Mind your business.”

Lunch was simple, mostly because Azzi insisted on making it and Paige insisted on doubting it. The moment Azzi put the plate in front of her, Paige squinted at the meal.

“You made me leaves?”

Azzi gave her a look. “It’s arugula, actually.”

Paige poked it with her fork a few times like it might fight back. “Tastes like grass.”

“Keep talking and I’ll go back and add kale.”

Despite the back and forth, Paige ended up clearing her plate, mumbling something about it not being "terrible" after the third bite. Azzi only rolled her eyes and stole a piece of chicken off Paige’s plate.

After that the rest of the afternoon passed with small conversation, a second movie (this one more tolerable by Paige’s standards), and a few hours of simply existing in each other’s space for the first time.

Eventually, as the evening started to creep in, it was time to get ready. Paige had been downstairs for 30 minutes, dressed in simple black pants and a light button-up, her hair pulled into a bun. She was sitting on the couch with her phone, trying to act casual but checking the stairs every few minutes like clockwork.

When Azzi finally walked down the stairs she had on a simple black dress, her naturally curly hair falling around her shoulders, and a subtle glow to her skin from the soft makeup she put on.

Paige did a double take from the couch. Her hand that was draped over the backrest, tensed as her eyes tracked Azzi’s every step.

Azzi noticed her stare almost immediately and raised her eyebrow. “What?”

Paige blinked once then let her eyes roam a little more deliberately the second time. “You’re gonna make us late.”

Azzi glanced at the time on her phone. “I’m right on time.”

Paige finally pulled her eyes away saying, “Not what I meant.”

Azzi caught on, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, okay.”

Paige stood up, brushing her palms over her pants to smooth out any creases. Azzi’s eyes take a slow pass over her, appreciating the fit of Paige’s outfit, the way her button-up hugged her frame, and how that bun had her thinking unspeakable things.

“You clean up alright.”

Paige scoffed. “Alright?”

Azzi just smiled, walking past her toward the door. Paige followed, shaking her head as she reached for the door, holding it open for Azzi to step through, her hand brushing against Paige’s as she passed.

“Not bad at the chivalry thing either,” she whispered, half to herself.

The drive to the restaurant was pretty quiet. Azzi was starting to realize that Paige had her moments. Times when she was more open and willing to talk, and others where she just…wasn’t. This seemed to be one of the quieter ones, so Azzi didn’t press for a conversation. She just leaned into the silence, watching the trees pass.

Every now and then, she’d feel Paige’s eyes on her. It was just quick glances at first, then longer ones once they got off the highway, like she was studying her. Azzi didn’t say anything about it, just tucked the observation away for later.

When Paige finally pulled to a stop they were outside of a small restaurant near the water. The sky was starting to streak in soft pinks and oranges, taking on a sort of quiet glow that made everything feel a little slower, a little softer.

“You been here before?” Azzi asked with her eyes still trained on the building and the stretch of a beach behind it.

Paige nodded, keeping her gaze ahead. “Yeah a few times. Usually during breakfast or lunch when it’s more casual though.”

Azzi hummed at that as a small smile grew. “So you’re really showing me all your spots hm?”

Paige gave a subtle shrug, like it was no big deal that she was taking Azzi to one of her favorite places to go when the world seemed too big. “Just figured you deserved something decent to eat.”

Before Azzi could give a sarcastic response, Paige was already stepping out of the car. A few seconds later, the passenger door opened and Paige was offering Azzi her hand to help her step out. Azzi didn’t need to know that Paige had never done any of this for anyone else. That she actually used to clown Ben when she would see him doing shit like this for Cam.

Azzi took her hand as she stepped out with a smile on her face that she didn’t even try to hide. “You’re committed to this chivalry thing, huh?”

Paige just shook her head before letting their hands drop and walking with her toward the entrance.

The inside of the restaurant was warm and elegant with dim lighting. After checking in with the hostess, they were led through the main dining area and out toward the back. The outdoor patio opened up to an incredible view of the beach and the eventual sunset, the sound of the water soft in the background.

Azzi glanced around as she settled into her seat. “Okay, this is kinda perfect.”

Paige leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting out toward the water. “Told you I’m not a bum.”

Azzi smiled across the table, her fingers toying with the edge of her menu. “So…what do you usually get when you come here?”

Paige met her eyes. “You ordering what I get now?”

Azzi smiled. “I’m just trying to understand you.”

Paige lifted an eyebrow. “Good luck with that.”

The restaurant patio had a dreamlike quality to it. There were soft amber string lights that twinkled overhead, tangled with ivy vines that framed the white wooden beams. A breeze rolled in from the water, lifting the edge of the linen tablecloths slightly and carrying the scent of salt that mixed with the jasmine candle that was lit at the table.

Paige sat comfortably with her elbow resting on the arm of her chair, fingers lightly tapping the stem of her glass. She didn’t say much to start, just watched Azzi; her curls blowing slightly when there was wind, her eyes shifting across the menu.

When Azzi looked up she caught Paige looking but didn’t say anything. “I’m torn. Do I want the salmon or the pasta with—”

“Pasta.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes playfully. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“You were about to say shrimp pasta. I could feel it.”

Azzi laughed quietly. “Okay, maybe I was.”

“I just saved you some time princess . You’re welcome.”

Azzi rolled her eyes at the comment but ended up ordering the salmon anyway. Paige stuck with the pasta.

As the food and drinks came—just sparkling water tonight . Their conversation grew steadier.

“You said you came here a few times before. You ever just…sit out there?” Azzi asked, gesturing toward the shoreline.

Paige leaned back a little, eyes squinting at the horizon because she didn’t have on her glasses or contacts. “Not as much as I’d prolly like to. When I come here it’s usually quick. Food and go.”

“So never the romantic beach walk?”

Paige gave her a side glance at the subtle question. “A romantic beach walk with myself?”

Azzi smiled but didn’t say anything else on the topic.

They talked about random things. Azzi told Paige how she used to daydream about being a chef when she was younger but couldn’t commit to anything that required her to chop onions everyday without crying. Paige admitted that she tried to learn the guitar but gave up after a few weeks because her fingers hurt.

“You quit because of a little finger pain?”

“My fingertips felt like I was slicing them in half after an hour of practicing.”

“Yeah, but imagine you serenading me today if you stuck with it?”

“No chance,” Paige said, and Azzi laughed, throwing her balled up straw paper at Paige.

Halfway through the meal, Azzi leaned forward looking a little suspicious. “Yours smells better.”

“Because it is,” Paige said flatly as she chewed on her food.

Azzi stared, then leaned forward further, extending her fork toward Paige’s plate.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Just one bite.”

“That’s how it starts.”

Azzi pouted, giving Paige her full brown eyes. “Please?”

Paige stared at her for a few seconds, fighting a smile, then slowly pushed her plate toward her. “One.”

Azzi tried the pasta and her eyes closed blissfully and a huge grin overcame her face.

Before she could even ask Paige sighed and grabbed Azzi’s plate before pushing hers toward the curly haired girl.

Azzi thanked her and did a little dance in her seat before she started to eat again.

They kept talking throughout the meal and at one point Azzi said something under her breath that was dry and completely unexpected from her and Paige let out a laugh that surprised herself. Not a short snort. Not a chuckle. An actual laugh that sounded completely genuine.

Azzi’s eyes lingered on her after that. “You should laugh more.”

Paige looked at her, still amused and now a little flustered. “Yeah?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. It sounds pretty and it looks good on you.”

Paige sucked her teeth as she chuckled. “You’re really pushing it tonight.”

“I mean,” Azzi said, leaning back in her chair and sipping her drink, “I’m calling a spade a spade.”

The sky darkened until only the soft amber bulbs and the fire of the candlelight on the table kept them illuminated. The patio started to thin out as other couples finished their meals, but Paige and Azzi lingered just talking.

By the time the plates were cleared, Paige had moved her chair slightly and sat with her body turned slightly toward Azzi. Azzi mirrored her with her chin resting on the palm of her hand.

They ordered one dessert to share because Azzi didn’t want to eat it alone. It was some sort of lemon tart Azzi picked and they took turns taking bites until it was gone. Paige’s favorite part was watching Azzi close her eyes after the first taste and she told herself Azzi didn’t need to know that she didn’t even like lemon cake that much.

Paige eventually stood and pulled her wallet out, brushing off Azzi’s attempt to split the bill with a shake of her head mumbling about not being stupid.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be?”

“Pretty much,” Paige said.

Azzi shook her head, standing to go back through the restaurant to the parking lot, but Paige reached out and gently caught her by the wrist nodding her head toward the beach.

The smile on Azzi’s face was impossible to hide. “Seriously?”

Paige gave a small shrug. “Figured you mentioned that walk on the beach for a reason earlier.”

Azzi smiled at that and Paige crouched slightly, motioning for her to step out of her heels. Azzi placed her hands on Paige’s shoulders for balance, stepping out one foot at a time. Paige put both of the shoes in one hand and helped Azzi step off of the patio.

“You’re romantic,” Azzi said as they started walking along the shore.

Paige chuckled. “Am I?”

Azzi nodded, slipping her hand into Paige’s and lacing their fingers together.

Paige glanced down at their hands, raising an eyebrow like she was about to make a comment about it but decided against it. Instead, she let her thumb gently graze the side of Azzi’s hand as they walked.

The beach was quiet at this hour, only a few scattered lights from distant houses and the moon casting a shimmer on the waves.

“So what do you usually do after a date?” Azzi asked.

“I don’t usually do dates.”

Azzi looked over, genuinely surprised. “Really?”

Paige side-eyed her, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Why do you sound surprised? Have you met me?”

Azzi laughed, thinking about it. “Fair,” she conceded. Then, a little quieter, “You’re just…you. So it’s a little surprising.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Azzi shook her head, grinning. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

“Whatever,” Paige mumbled, but she was smiling as they walked along the sand, the silence between them easy.

A minute passed, filled by the sounds of the waves. Then Azzi asked out of nowhere, “What’s the hardest you’ve ever been hit?”

Almost instantly Paige's brain rewound to the moment. “Shit,” she said, shaking her head laughing a little. “I was out with Cam and them. I feel like I’m always getting into some shit when I go out with them… Anyway I don’t even remember what had me pissed off that night. Just one of those nights where somebody blinking at me was pissing me off.”

Azzi’s eyebrows lifted at this information.

“I was tryna stay to myself, just vibe,” Paige went on, “but this dude kept talkin’ shit. Just chirpin’ in my ear, So of course, I get up.”

“Of course,” Azzi echoed, biting back a smile as Paige tells the story.

Paige gestured with her hand holding Azzi’s heels like she was reenacting it. “I didn’t even get to him. Bro met me halfway and rocked my shit. I mean, like, fully body weight rocked my shit. I barely saw it. Whole night turned sideways after that.”

Paige shook her head as she thought about it. “I blacked out after that…not like passed out, but I just tweaked. Next thing I know, Cam and Rae are dragging me off him and Cam’s yelling in my ear about how I’m going to get arrested.”

Azzi burst out laughing. “You beat his ass?”

“Unfortunately,” Paige said. “I don’t even remember connecting the first hit, just remember how quiet it got after.”

Azzi leaned into her a little bit, still laughing. “I’m so glad I’m on your good side.”

Paige gave her a look. “Are you?”

Azzi glanced down at their linked hands, then back up at her with her eyebrows raised.

Paige shook her head at that, laughing a little. “I got hit with a lawsuit after that night, though.”

Azzi’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

“Mmhm.” Paige nodded. “I settled before it went too far though. Dude didn’t want his face all over social media”

Azzi tilted her head. “How much?”

Paige shrugged. “Like sixty grand, I think.”

Azzi blinked. “You think?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Have you had any more like that?” Azzi asked.

Paige looked over. “Lawsuits?”

“I was thinking more like…blacking out, but yeah that works.”

Paige hummed, thinking about it. “No more lawsuits, thank God. But blacking out? Maybe a few more times. It’s rare, though. Takes a lot for me to get there.”

Azzi nodded. “What kind of ‘a lot’ are we talkin’?”

Paige exhaled, her eyes narrowing like she was filtering through memories. “It’s usually not just one thing. It builds. Pressure, fatigue, frustration…being misunderstood. Feeling cornered.” Paige pauses for a moment before saying, “I can deal with all the physical shit that comes with fighting but I struggle with the silent stuff that creeps in.”

Azzi let that sit between them, then asked, “So what do you do now, when you feel it…I don’t know…building?”

Paige looked down at their hands again, thumb brushing lazily over Azzi’s knuckles. “I’m still figuring it out. Some days I just hit the bag until I damn near can't feel my hands. When that doesn't work I come here to Minnesota, try to recenter.”

Azzi nodded at that saying, “That's healthy-ish. Well at least the coming to Minnesota part.”

They walked a few steps in silence before Paige nudged Azzi with her shoulder. “You ever black out?”

Azzi grinned. “Emotionally or legally?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Azzi laughed. “Emotionally? I’m sure. Usually when I let things build, kinda the same as you. But legally?” She squinted at Paige. “I’d probably cry if someone sent me a letter with the word ‘lawsuit’ in it.”

Paige bumped her again saying, “Of course you would. We gotta toughen you up, princess.”

Azzi looked appalled at the thought. “Toughen up and princess don’t go together.”

“Yes they do. Ever seen a pissed-off disney princess in one of those sword fights? Shit’s crazy.”

Azzi squinted at her. “You’re comparing me to a Disney character now?”

“Depends,” Paige shrugged. “You more Elsa or Mulan?”

Azzi scoffed. “Mulan, easy.”

Paige gave her a once-over. “I can see it. Definitely got some fight in you but you cry at romance movies, so...”

“That’s called being in tune with my emotions.”

Paige snorted. “That’s called soft.”

Azzi squeezed her hand. “Seems like you like that.”

Paige didn’t respond to that, just looked ahead at the shoreline, before a smile she couldn’t control formed and she looked away shaking her head.

Azzi stopped, tugging Paige gently until they both stood still. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

Paige glanced at her, her blue eyes smiling for her. “You’re welcome.”

There was a softness in the way they looked at each other now, like they were more aware of one another.

“So what happens after this?”

Paige shrugged, like she didn’t want to put too much pressure on it. “Whatever you want to happen.”

Azzi smiled. “What if I just wanna keep walking with you for a little longer?”

Paige tugged Azzi with her saying, “Then we’ll keep walking.”

The two of them walked for what felt like hours, their footsteps slow as they talked about everything and nothing all at once. From favorite albums to childhood nicknames, to the most random hypotheticals Azzi could come up with just to hear Paige’s dry responses. The beach completely emptied and all lights turned off, leaving just the sound of the water and the occasional laugh between them echoing into the dark.

Eventually, they started making their way back toward the car, Paige promising that she knew where they were going and that she wouldn’t get Azzi lost. The breeze had cooled enough for Azzi to fold her arms over herself, though she didn’t say anything about it because she was almost positive that Paige would strip out of her shirt just to warm her slightly.

Halfway through the walk, Azzi groaned. “My feet hurt.”

Paige looked over at her, unimpressed. “Thought you were supposed to be an athlete?”

Azzi shot her a glare. “You didn’t tell me I’d be walking miles on our first date.”

Paige snorted, slowing down her pace. “We’re almost there.”

Azzi stopped in place, lifting one foot out of the sand in dramatic protest to ‘inspect’ it. “Define ‘almost.’”

Paige turned toward her, folding her arms as she looked at her. “You’re capable of walking, Azzi.”

“I’m capable of a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I should have to do them.”

Paige sighed like she was fighting a smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” Azzi said sweetly, extending her arms. “Gimme a piggy back ride.”

“You’re outta your mind.”

Azzi just blinked at her, still holding her arms out.

Paige groaned but turned around, crouching a little. “Get on before I change my mind.”

Azzi lit up, carefully hopping onto Paige’s back, arms wrapping around her shoulders as she smiled. “See? Was that so hard?”

Paige adjusted her grip under Azzi’s legs and made sure she still had her heels secured in her hand before she straightened up. “You’re lucky I think you’re cute.”

Azzi rested her chin on Paige’s shoulder. “I know.”

They walked the rest of the way like that. Azzi’s curls occasionally brushed against Paige’s cheek, and every now and then she’d hum softly under her breath, like she didn’t want the moment to end.

“Hey, Paige?” she said quietly in her ear after a while.

“Mhmm?”

Azzi paused, like she was searching for the right words. Then she decided, “Thanks for tonight.”

Paige gave Azzi’s thigh a gentle squeeze with her hand.

…

By the time they got back to the cabin, the sky was pitch black, scattered with stars, and the wind had grown quieter away from the water.

Inside, the warmth of the cabin was a nice contrast to the outside world. Paige moved on autopilot kicking off her shoes and pulling her hair down from the bun, and heading straight for the shower. Her muscles still ached from being in the gym early in the morning and the hours-long walk, but it was the good kind of tired. The kind that settles in your bones after a day that would be sure to hold memories that you’d look back on.

After washing off the ocean and sand, she tossed on a tank top and boxers. Her voice was already a little horse when she went to go say goodnight to Azzi who was in the middle of taking off her makeup. She offered a soft, “Goodnight,” before going back to her room and falling face first into the mattress.

It was nearly 3 a.m. when the knock came on Paige’s door.

Paige barely opened her eyes this time. Her face was buried deep into the pillows, her limbs felt heavy and unwilling to move so she just yelled out with a hoarse voice. “Come in.”

The door creaked open a second later, quiet footsteps walking across the floor. Paige didn’t lift her head. But she felt Azzi standing there lingering in place.

“What’re you doin’?” Paige asked.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

There was a pause. Paige shifted slightly, patting the empty space beside her without lifting her head. “Don’t stand there like a creep.”

That made Azzi smile as she crossed the rest of the room and slipped under the covers next to her, the mattress dipping under her weight.

They didn’t touch at first. Paige was still on her stomach with her face pressed into the pillows and Azzi laid on her side, watching the curve of Paige’s back rise and fall.

“Long day,” Azzi whispered after a while.

Paige hummed in agreement. “Mhm.”

Azzi starts tossing around for a few minutes restlessly shifting. At first, Paige ignores it, chalking it up to the usual fight to get comfortable after being hot. But when Azzi rolls again, her elbow brushing Paige’s side, Paige groans softly and blindly reaches out, wrapping an arm around Azzi and tugging her back against her chest and tangling their legs.

“Jesus,” she mumbled, her lips moving against Azzi’s shoulder. “You don’t ever stay still?”

Azzi didn’t answer, just exhaled softly. The sound wasn’t so much from her being tired, more so…thoughtful. Her breathing was different from the night before. Less casual. A little heavier.

Paige noticed, vaguely but she was so far gone from exhaustion that her brain wrote it off as nothing.

She kept her arm draped around Azzi, her fingers resting on Azzi’s bare stomach from her only having on a sports bra. Paige’s eyes were already closing again when she felt Azzi subtly pressing herself back into her.

Paige’s eyebrows knit together, even in her half-sleep daze as she tightened her grip on Azzi slightly.

Another few minutes passed. Then Azzi shifted again a little more deliberately this time as she pushed herself back into Paige’s space more firmly. Her hips met Paige’s body with a subtle arch.

Paige blinked a few times, suddenly feeling wide awake.

Her breath got stuck a little. Not in an alarming or surprising way. Just in the sudden rush of clarity. Her arm stayed locked around Azzi’s waist, but her fingers flexed against her stomach slightly.

“…Azzi,” she said softly, her breath warm against the back of Azzi’s neck.

Azzi didn’t say anything right away. She reached down, gently lacing her fingers with Paige’s where they rested on her stomach. Then she whispered a little recklessly, “I thought you were tired.”

Paige swallowed hard, her nose brushing Azzi’s hair. “I was.”

Azzi let her thumb stroke across Paige’s knuckles. “Are you still?”

Paige exhaled through her nose, her eyes were heavy but the rest of her body felt fully awake. She tightened her hold to pull Azzi back into her again, not saying anything but answering.

“I don’t think that’s a no.”

Paige chuckled softly, pressing her forehead against the curve of Azzi’s shoulder. “It’s a ‘don’t start something you not ready to finish.’”

Azzi didn’t answer with words. She reached down and gently guided Paige’s hand beneath the waistband of her pajama shorts. Settling Paige’s hand where her body was screaming for attention. Her core was already warm from the wetness between her legs that Paige felt instantly. Paige’s fingers twitched and Azzi responded by pressing Paige’s fingers through her folds, a soft inhale escaping her lips at the feeling.

Slowly Paige trailed her hand up and used her middle finger to trace small slow circles against Azzi’s clit, each one softer than the last.

Azzi let out a sigh and tilted her head back against Paige’s shoulder. Letting her body melt into her.

Neither of them said anything. There was only the sound of them breathing, Azzi’s having shifted from steady to something heavier. Paige could feel everything, the rise and fall of her chest, the wetness that was growing underneath the pads of her fingers, the tension in Azzi’s body that wasn’t entirely tension but anticipation.

Paige kept her lips close to Azzi’s ear, but didn’t speak. Just allowing her breathing to be another form of stimulation.

Her thumb brushed against Azzi’s thigh as her middle finger continued to move in slow circles learning what got reactions out of Azzi.

Azzi’s breathing deepened and her chest started to rise slower as she took fuller breaths. Each of her inhales drawn out like she was trying to hold it together.

Paige’s hand didn’t move from Azzi’s clit. The way she was moving was patient. The position they were in was intimate in a way that made it hard for Azzi to breathe.

Azzi let out a quiet, broken whisper when Paige added a little more pressure. “That feels good…”

Paige leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss against the crease of Azzi’s jaw. Her lips lingered there, her breath warm on Azzi’s skin as she brushed her nose against Azzi’s neck, before she pulled back.

Azz’s legs somewhat twitched as her fingers clutched the pillow in front of her, then released it, before clutching again.

She shuffled her hips against Paige’s hand trying to feel more of her but Paige kept the same gentle circles against Azzi’s center with the pad of her finger, like she was committed to the rhythm.

Azzi swallowed hard and her breath hitched when Paige’s fingers moved toward her entrance, gathering her wetness before moving back up again. Azzi’s jaw tightened, pushing her thighs together subtly to add more pressure.

Paige felt the tension building in Azzi’s body, felt the way Azzi arched into her hand so she pressed a little more firmly against Azzi’s bud, occasionally grazing her lips against Azzi’s neck and shoulder.

Azzi exhaled shakily. “Fuck Paigie…”

Paige kissed her just under her and whispered, “I know,” dipping her fingers back down causing Azzi to whimper quietly.

Azzi doesn’t know how long Paige circles her clit. Doesn’t know how many times she sucks in a breath when Paige dips her fingers down just to move them back up to perfectly circle her clit again.

The heat initially from Azzi’s chest was lower in her stomach, a pooling sensation that made it hard for her to stay still. Her body kept shifting: her legs tightening together, then relaxing when Paige kissed her skin, her hips pressing forward into Paige’s hand, her breath falling out in uneven, whimpers.

“Shit Paige…” she choked out. The sound made Paige’s lips twitch into a faint smile against her neck as she sucked on the spot gently, tracing it with her tongue.

Azzi let out another whimper, that was louder. She felt flushed and breathless, her thighs were trembling slightly. It only made her wetter when she thought about how close she was to coming undone just from the pad of one of Paige’s fingers.

When Paige saw Azzi’s eyes starting to flutter she pulled her finger away, to cup Azzi’s center with her palm.

Azzi let out a surprised sound at the loss of stimulation her body was aching for “Wait…”

“Trust me,” Paige whispered before pulling her into a slow kiss. Mirroring the way Paige’s fingers were moving, there was nothing rushed about the kiss. Paige kissed her like she knew exactly how to control Azzi’s body, like she was trying to slow down the sensations pulling at her core. Azzi let herself fall into the kiss, let herself breathe through it, even while her center pulsed in Paige’s warm palm.

Paige deepened the kiss, tracing Azzi’s tongue with her own before sucking on it as her hand free hand held Azzi’s jaw in place gently. Azzi moaned against her mouth. Every nerve ending still on the edge Paige left her on, causing every inch of her skin to feel alive.

Their lips stayed tangled for a few minutes that made Azzi feel like she was suspended in time and just when Azzi’s head started to clear, Paige’s fingers moved back to her clit. Starting those same circles with the pads of her fingers.

The contact was barely there to start but somehow it felt more intense than before.

Azzi's breath got stuck in her throat at the reintroduction to the sensation and her entire body reacted like Paige flipped a switch.

“Paige,” she whimpered out as her voice cracked slightly.

“Mhm?”

Azzi tried to swallow a moan by biting her lip as her fingers clutched the sheets. “You’re…so fucking mean.”

Paige chuckled, moving her mouth to brush against Azzi’s ear. “I’m mean?”

Azzi nodded, trying and failing to keep her hips from moving. “Y-Yeah…”

“Mmhmm,” Paige hummed again, her lips grazing the hinge of Azzi’s jaw. “Just from makin you feel good?”

Azzi whimpered at the cockiness she heard in Paige’s voice. Her breath was unsteady, every part of her fighting to stay composed. “You’re not even fucking me—”

“I am fucking you,” Paige whispered, her thumb now circling Azzi as the rest of her fingers dipped down to tease her entrance before moving back up. Azzi moaned at this, trying to press her thighs together subtly.

Paige soothed her by kissing her temple. “You’re doing so good.”

Azzi’s hand reached for Paige’s forearm, squeezing it like she needed it to ground her. Her voice came out desperate as she said, “You’re gonna make me cum before I feel you.”

Paige smiled. “I know. But I got you.”

She kept her same rhythm against Azzi, sometimes with just one finger in small circles, other times she used two, dragging the pads of her fingers loosely, changing the pressure. Each variation pulled something different from Azzi: little gasps, broken breaths, soft moans that Paige accentuated by sucking on her neck gently.

It didn’t take long for Azzi to feel the heat pooling again, this time obviously stronger, her nerves already frayed from the first time. The closer Paige got her to the edge, the more erratic Azzi became, words slipping from her mouth before she could catch them.

“Fuck daddy I—” she whimpered, her voice cracking before she could finish. Her head tipped back against Paige’s chest as she reached behind her to grab at Paige’s head.

“I—” she tried again, the words trailing off again before she finally got them out. “I’m so close—”

Before she could tell her not to stop, Paige’s fingers left her clit again. Her palm cupping Azzi’s center that she felt pulsing beneath her hand.

When this happened Azzi let out a frustrated, helpless sound. Something between a gasp and a whine. Her fingers pulling at Paige’s forearm trying to guide her back, but Paige just kissed the side of her neck gently, her own breathing completely steady.

“Not yet,” Paige whispered, almost apologetically.

Azzi exhaled unevenly before Paige caught her lips in a kiss that deepened far too quickly. Despite the unbearable heat building inside Azzi’s Paige kissed her like they had all the time in the world. She mapped Azzi’s mouth with hers, her tongue sliding every slowly as she controlled the pace of the kiss. She used just enough pressure to keep Azzi on edge without giving her relief.

When Paige pulled back, it was only to drop kisses to Azzi’s jawline, then lower, finding a spot just under her ear that made Azzi squirm. She palmed Azzi’s center with a little more pressure to reward her but she felt the subtleness of Azzi’s thighs pressing together, trying to create any form of friction. Paige knew it was probably involuntary, she could feel the tension radiating off of her body, feel the effort Azzi was making to not fall apart without what seemed to be Paige’s permission

“Stop,” Paige stated simply.

Azzi’s breath hitched. “I—” she started, her voice embarrassingly stuck. “I can’t control it.”

Paige pulled away everything for a second, just long enough for Azzi to feel the complete loss of sensation. Before she lifted her head to brush her nose against Azzi’s cheek. “Yes, you can.”

Azzi whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to control the tremble in her body.

Paige’s lips brushed against her ear, “Promise I got you. Just wait a little longer for me gorgeous.” Azzi took a long shaky breath and nodded before Paige reconnected their lips. After what felt like forever tangled in slow, aching kisses, Paige’s fingers returned to their familiar place on Azzi’s clit. Causing Azzi to exhale a sound that was closer to a moan than a breath.

She whispered Paige’s name and her voice cracking around it. The blonde’s name left her lips again and again, tangled with fragmented words and half-formed pleas that made Paige smile against her neck.

“Mhmm?” Paige whispered, pretending to play innocent as she kept Azzi trapped in that unbearable space just shy of her release. Paige shifted her touch subtly, the circles beginning to take on more shape.

At first, Azzi didn’t catch it, too caught in the haze of feeling Paige touch her. But after Paige whispered, “Focus for me,” she realized Paige was spelling something.

G-O-O-D G-I-R-L

Azzi’s body jerked at the subtle praise as she bit down on her lip hard enough to sting, swallowing the sound that clawed its way up her throat.

Paige chuckled softly, brushing a kiss against her cheek. “You like that?” she whispered as her fingers continued spelling it out in firm lazy strokes.

Azzi nodded, unable to speak.

It only took a few more minutes—just a few slow, devastating minutes of Paige circling her clit before Azzi completely came undone. Paige was still calm behind her like this wasn’t affecting her in the slightest. Like Azzi falling apart in her arms didn’t have her boxers soaked.

Azzi’s head lolled back against Paige’s chest, her dazed eyes blinking slowly as her parted lips released soft sounds without her permission. The pressure in her body was unbearable in that beautiful, addictive way that blurred the lines in her brain between someone she wanted and now needed. She felt hot all everywhere, her nerves were stretched thin, her muscles twitching with every circle Paige made with her fingers.

Her body started to tighten again “Please don’t stop,” Azzi said, barely loud enough for Paige to hear. Her tone was gentler this time. It wasn’t tinged with frustration or impatience, just quiet begging like she couldn’t take another second.

Paige pressed a kiss to her shoulder before moving down and easily curling two of her fingers into Azzi, causing her to shatter. Her legs tightened and trembled, a visible shudder running through her body as her breath caught then spilled out in uneven waves as she moaned out Paige’s name loudly. Words tumbling from her lips again and again. Her entire body felt like it was shaking as pleasure overtook her.

Azzi went limp against Paige’s chest, a mess of heavy breathing and boneless limbs, and Paige kissed the back of her shoulder as she kept moving her fingers inside of Azzi’s entrance, her fingers hitting that spongy spot every time she slid them in.

Azzi’s head tipped back against Paige’s shoulder when she added another finger, trying to form words and trying to catch her breath from what just happened. “Shit P-Paige, I—” Whatever she was trying to say got swallowed by the feeling of Paige speeding her hand up, pushing into Azzi at a faster pace as the bottom of her palm smacked against Azzi’s clit.

The contact had Azzi’s body jolting each time, her hips moving to meet the slaps, completely drawn to the pressure as she fucked herself on Paige’s fingers as her eyes fluttered, glassy and dazed.

The way Paige fucked her so confidently, so naturally, it was like Azzi’s body recognized her before her mind could even process what was happening. Azzi moaned as her fingers curled around Paige’s forearm again to hold onto something.

“Too much?” Paige whispered against her neck, her lips brushing the shell of Azzi’s ear.

Azzi tried to answer to say no, but her brain was fogged over and she suddenly didn’t know how to use her words. Her body felt hypersensitive, and each touch from Paige was magnified tenfold after how long the blonde dragged out the first orgasm.

Paige smiled and sped up, her fingers disappearing into Azzi at a faster pace, smacking the back of her palm against Azzi’s sensitive clit each time she pushed into her.

Her breath was warm against Azzi’s ear as she started whispering shit she would never be caught dead saying outside of this room.

“You hear that shit?” she whispered, referring to the sound of Azzi’s wetness echoing around the room. “You so easy for me.”

Azzi let out a shaky sound, her hand gripping Paige’s forearm again. She was barely able to speak, but still trying. “Y-You’re so,” she started, but it came out cracked and she couldn’t finish initially. “You’re so fucking good.”

Paige smiled at the admission. “I’m fucking you good Azzi?”

Azzi arched into Paige as she nodded, her body acting on its own every time Paige’s fingers curled. She was already unraveling again but trying to ground herself to extend the pleasure. “Fucking me so good I can’t even think straight daddy,” she admitted with a strained voice.

“I can tell it's mine already,” Paige whispered as she nipped at Azzi’s neck before soothing the skin with her tongue.

Azzi wanted to deny it, put Paige in her place a little but the way her chest opened at the words had her falling deeper and spilling out more onto Paige’s hand. She couldn’t do anything but let herself start to unravel again.

Paige slowed down and used her thumb to circle Azzi’s clit as she pushed deeper into her at a slower pace, drawing out the feeling each time she pulled her fingers out.

Azzi’s body tightened again as her hips twitched without any control. She let out a panicked sound as her hand flew to Paige’s wrist attempting to stop her. “W-Wait, wait I—” Azzi gasped, trying to shift away from Paige’s hand. “Paigie, I…I think I have to pee.”

Paige caught her wrist easily with her other hand that was under Azzi pulling it away. “No you don’t,” she whispered over the shell of Azzi’s ear before she tugged on it with her teeth. “Just relax for me. You trust me right?”

Azzi nodded her head faintly, as she tried to relax, but she was too far gone. She was too sensitive, too wound up from the hours Paige spent edging her without giving her a full release until a little bit ago. Her head was still spinning from the first orgasm, her legs started trembling again, and her mouth parted around broken breaths.

Before she could process what was happening, Paige pressed her thumb down in a firm, perfect circle just as she curled into the spongy part inside of her core..

White heat shot through Azzi’s entire body, wave after wave that felt like it would never stop, crashing over her so hard it stole her breath and made her arch into Paige’s chest. Her hands gripped blindly at the sheets, Paige’s thigh, Paige’s hair, anything she could find, as an involuntary scream tore from her throat, louder than anything she'd meant to make tonight.

She barely registered the warm, soaked mess that came from between her legs, or the aftershocks that rolled through her like she was vibrating from the inside out as Paige kissed along her neck and shoulder. She was whispering things Azzi couldn’t fully hear, her voice not fully registering against the ringing in Azzi’s ears.

Paige pulled her fingers out slowly, her palm dripping as she rested her wrist on Azzi’s hip, her wet fingers hanging idly in the air as Azzi fought to catch her breath, as aftershocks spread through her body in Paige’s arms.

They laid there for a few minutes as Azzi came back to earth, to catch her breath while her skin was still humming. When she gathered the strength she reached down and slid off her soaked pajama shorts before she rolled on top of Paige, settling her weight evenly as her hands braced both sides of Paige’s shoulders.

Paige blinked up at her, dazed but still trying to be composed as she processed how good Azzi looked up there. “I’m good…you don’t have to.”

Azzi’s eyebrows lifted, her expression teetering somewhere between confusion and skepticism. “‘You’re good’?” she repeated, her voice a little incredulous even repeating the words. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Paige chuckled under her breath, still trying to play it cool. “I’m just saying you don’t have to…We can just go to bed if you’re—.”

As she started to explain, her voice tapering off when Azzi leaned down and took Paige’s hand. The one that had been lying stiffly beside her because it was still coated in Azzi’s wetness and brought it to her lips.

Paige froze.

Azzi didn’t say anything at first, just held Paige’s gaze as she licked at her knuckles, her tongue feeling soft and warm before she let her lips part, taking three of Paige’s fingers into her mouth, her eyes only leaving hers when she closed them and hummed around Paige’s fingers.

Paige swallowed harshly as she watched completely frozen as she looked at Azzi in complete disbelief. Azzi’s lips dragged over each of her fingers, her tongue tracing each finger gently as she tasted herself, and it was like Paige forgot how to think as she watched.

When Azzi was done she placed Paige’s hand down then leaned closer, her lips brushing Paige’s jaw. “I wanna make you feel good,” she whispered, almost purring. “You can let me do that for you, right?”

Paige barely managed a nod as the tiniest most helpless sound escaped her before she swallowed it back. Her blue eyes locked on Azzi like she couldn’t fully believe what was happening.

Azzi smiled at Paige’s dazed nod, already knowing she had her exactly where she wanted her. Suddenly stripped of all that calm composure, completely folding at the slight display of dominance. Azzi slipped off Paige's boxers without much protest before straddling her again.

She pushed up Paige’s tank top, revealing the toned lines of her abs and let her fingertips ghost over the skin first, feeling the way Paige’s stomach twitched at the contact, before she leaned down and kissed just above her belly button.

She moved her lips slowly like she had all night. She kissed and licked at the skin of Paige’s stomach, soothing it with her tongue every now and then when she bit a little harshly.

When she glanced up to watch Paige struggle to hold it together Paige’s head fell back almost instantly at the eye contact from that angle.

Azzi somehow knew and felt that if she told Paige to move, to shift, to breathe deeper or softer or stop thinking altogether, she would do it with no questions asked. Something about that made Azzi want her more. Something about having somebody like Paige submissive for her went straight to Azzi’s head.

“Move your hands for me,” Azzi whispered softly as her lips were still brushing against Paige’s stomach.

Paige listened, raising her arms above her head and resting them against the pillow without a single question.Her hands twitched above her head when Azzi sucked harshly over one of her abs leaving a bright mark.

Azzi’s mouth curved into a grin when she felt Paige’s breath catch. “Mm,” she hummed before softly adding, “Good girl.”

Paige opened her eyes at this. “Watch your mouth.”

Azzi mumbled, “Yeah, okay,” clearly not sorry, and clearly not planning to stop. With that same confidence, she slid her hand between Paige’s legs and Paige’s body welcomed the touch like she had been waiting for it.

Azzi slowly eased two fingers into Paige until her palm rested flat against her center. She let Paige adjust to the feeling, letting her hand just linger there before starting slow strokes of her fingers.

She kept her eyes on Paige’s face, watching every small reaction: the twitch in her jaw, the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed, the way her hands that were still obediently tucked above her head grabbed at the pillars of the headboard.

“Still good?” Azzi whispered, her fingers never stopping their rhythm.

Paige blinked her eyes open slowly, jaw tightening for a second before she gave the faintest nod and closed her eyes again. “Y-Yeah…good,” she said, even though her voice was more breath than sound.

Azzi grinned again and leaned down to kiss just below her ribs, her fingers pushing just a little more firmly into Paige. “Good.” She shifted her weight, moving up until she was fully hovering above Paige looking down at the blonde saying, “When’s the last time somebody made you feel good?”

Paige’s eyes fluttered open slowly and when they did they were dazed. Her eyebrows furrowed as if she genuinely had to think. “I don’t know,” she mumbled.

Azzi cocked her head to the side slightly, as she increased the pace of her fingers between Paige’s legs. “You don’t know?”

Paige shook her head, struggling to keep her voice steady with the way Azzi’s fingers were curling into her. “ No I—just don’t usually. Hasn’t been good, so I don’t usually—”

She didn’t get to finish because Azzi’s eased in another finger pressing, right into that soft ache she was building in Paige’s stomach, causing her to suck in a sharp breath.

“Am I good?”

Paige choked on a short, surprised laugh, her head tipping back into the pillow.

Azzi waited for an answer.

Paige nodded, trying to catch her breath.

“Use your words,” Azzi whispered, ghosting her lips along Paige’s jaw.

Paige’s eyes squeezed shut as she exhaled, already starting to unravel. “Shit…yeah. Yeah you’re good.”

Azzi leaned down, capturing Paige’s lips in a messy kiss. The shift in her weight caused her to press into Paige more and she against her mouth with a broken sound that Azzi swallowed as she deepened the kiss.

When Azzi pulled away, it wasn’t for long as she started trailing kisses down the slope of Paige’s jaw to her neck, her lips brushing messily over the sensitive skin, licking and tasting the salt of her flushed skin from sweating slightly in her sleep. Paige’s head rolled to the side against the pillow.

“God, Azzi…please,” she moaned, not even sure what she was begging for. Her voice had dropped to something a little rougher showing just how far gone she was.

Azzi smiled against her neck, letting her tongue glide and suck over her pulse.

“I never felt…fuck, I’ve never—” Paige cut herself off with a sharp inhale when Azzi shifted her leg pressing her fingers deeper into her cervix.

Azzi pulled back to look at her. “You like this?” she asked, just to hear how Paige would respond.

Paige gave a short, breathless laugh that cracked halfway through. “Yeah shit. Love it. You don’t even know—” Another gasp. “Shit I don’t even know what I’m tryna say.”

Azzi tilted her head, watching her unravel with a soft hum. “If I knew I just needed to fuck you to get you talking,” she said, her voice a little arrogant, “I would’ve had you in my bed a lot sooner.”

Paige let out a low laugh at Azzi’s comment, before it was replaced with a moan when Azzi pressed against her stomach. “I’m close.”

Azzi just smiled softly, pressing into the same spot on her stomach as her thumb moved in slow circles and her fingers curled perfectly. The sensation of all three movements caused Paige’s fingers to twitch near her head as she bit her bottom lip. It only took a few more strokes before Paige was gone, her body tensing under Azzi as she came undone with a harsh exhale, her back arching off the bed. Her eyes rolled back and her lips parted as another quiet “fuck” slipped out along with a few other words that Azzi couldn’t make out as she helped her ride out her orgasm.

When it seemed like Paige was done Azzi pulled her fingers out slowly and eased next to her. After a few seconds, Paige let out a chuckle.

Azzi, now nestled in her side, glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

Paige turned her head to look at her, mumbling through the remnants of a grin, “You just bitched me.”

Azzi laughed. “That really wasn’t even that bad.”

Paige shook her head, fluttering her eyes closed again. “Mmm. That’s crazy.”

Silence lingered for a moment as the air between them started to cool down despite their warm skin.

Paige broke the silence with a quiet sigh. “You ruined my sheets.”

Azzi didn’t open her eyes to respond. “We’re not talking about that.”

They just shifted to the other side of the bed that was dry, Azzi maneuvering herself so she was laying halfway on top of Paige, her arm draped loosely over Paige’s stomach and one leg hooked around her thigh.

“I’m just throwing it out there,” Azzi added, “You can’t blame me for what happened. You told me to relax.”

Paige grinned. “Didn’t blame you.”

Azzi propped herself up on one elbow, brushing a few strands of hair off Paige’s forehead. “You kinda did. ‘You ruined my sheets,’” she mimicked. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

“Mm. Make sure you color match ‘em.”

“Obviously.” Azzi grinned and rested her head against Paige’s shoulder again. “You know, for someone who fights for a living, you’re kind of easy to fold.”

That got a small snort out of Paige.

Azzi smiled at the sound, quiet for a second before continuing to talk, “You tired?”

Paige nodded, barely opening her eyes. “Exhausted.”

“Me too. But I still have, like, five more things to say.”

Paige cracked one eye open as she looked down at Azzi. “Say ‘em.”

Azzi sighed into Paige’s neck, “Nah…I’ll save some for the morning.”

Paige didn’t answer this time, just decided to run her fingers along Azzi’s spine in slow lines to settle her down. Sure enough Azzi’s eyes fluttered closed a few seconds later, and the room settled into a peaceful quiet, their breaths falling in sync as the birds outside started chirping.

…

A few hours later Azzi’s body naturally started to stir despite only getting a few hours of sleep. She felt the warmness of someone else’s skin and the tangle of their limbs before her eyes even opened. Bright light filtered through the curtains and it took her a few seconds to adjust. She blinked a few times and eventually her vision cleared enough for her to realize she was still draped across Paige, her cheek pressed against her chest.

Paige was already awake with her eyes fixed on the ceiling and when Azzi lifted her head slightly, her weight shifted enough for Paige to notice. Without looking down, Paige said, “Morning.”

Azzi smiled, her voice slightly raspy. “Good morning.”

Paige didn’t move to look at Azzi and her eyebrows were pinched slightly, something far-off in her expression.

Azzi reached up, gently brushing her thumb between Paige’s eyebrows, smoothing out the crease. “What are you thinking about?”

“My fight.”

Azzi’s fingers paused over her skin. “You think about that every morning?”

Paige’s eyes stayed on the ceiling. “The moment I open my eyes honestly.”

Azzi let her hand move to rest lightly on Paige’s cheek, her thumb brushing against the soft skin. She pressed a kiss to Paige’s jaw, whispering, “You’re allowed to have mornings without it, you know.”

Paige didn’t offer a response right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling like she was still thinking about something. Eventually, she said, “I haven’t been able to watch it yet.”

Azzi stayed quiet, letting the words settle as her hand moved slowly, her fingers tracing the line of Paige’s jaw, then brushing lightly over her lower face; her chin, the curve of her mouth, her cheekbone. “Why not?”

Paige let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s bad,” she said, dryly. “Feel like pouring bleach in my eye and never stepping foot in the cage again every time I try,” she offered a little dramatically.

Azzi hummed, her thumb still brushing along the edge of Paige’s mouth. “Well…that wouldn’t be very good,” she said, adding a little humor to the situation.

That got a real laugh out of Paige.

Azzi smiled at the sound. “We can watch when we get back to LA,” she offered. “Tonight after I’m done with practice if you want.” There was a pause before she added, “I’ll make sure you don’t pour bleach in those pretty eyes…promise.”

Paige’s lip twitched at the joke. It wasn’t fully a smile, but it hovered to something close. “We don’t gotta do that.”

“We gotta do something,” Azzi said, her tone changing just enough to make Paige glance at her. “Most people wake up a little more gleeful after sex, and I woke up to Oscar the Grouch.”

That earned an eye roll from Paige, but a smile finally broke through as she mumbled, “Whatever bro.”

They laid there in silence for a while just letting the quiet morning wrap around them. Paige had one arm resting behind her head, while Azzi still laid halfway on top of her, tracing shapes on Paige’s forearm.

“Are you coming to my game?” Azzi eventually asked.

Paige tilted her head to glance down at her. “You want me to?”

Azzi shifted enough to meet her gaze. “Yeah. I do…I mean only if you want to though.”

“I was already coming,” Paige said casually. “Just wanted to hear you say you wanted me there.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You told me you liked that.”

Azzi sat up and swung one of her legs over to straddle Paige’s waist, her hands finding both of Paige’s wrists and pinning them to the bed. “You got a smart mouth this morning.”

“I had a smart mouth last night too,” Paige replied, smirking a little, “somebody was a lil too busy squirting all over my sheets to notice though.”

Azzi gasped, pretending to be offended and went to smack her, but Paige caught her hand easily and rolled them over making Azzi end up beneath her. Azzi let out a surprised squeal as Paige hovered on top of her, pinning both of her wrists above her head with one hand.

“That’s rude,” Azzi mumbled, squirming a little trying to get out. “That’s twice now you’ve manhandled me.”

“You keeping count?,” Paige asked, grinning at her.

Azzi glared, but she couldn’t hide her smile. “You’re so lucky I kinda like you.”

Paige leaned down a little. “Since we’re admitting things. Don’t know if you knew,” she added casually, “but you’re possessive.”

Azzi blinked in confusion because she’s definitely not, she’d never been jealous in her life.“No, I’m not.”

Paige tilted her head to show two dark marks, one under her jaw and the other on the side of neck, then used her free hand to pull her shirt up revealing a constellation of faint bruises and bite marks on her stomach.

“…Okay. Maybe I’m enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic,” Paige repeated. “Sure, let's call it that.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints when I was doing it.”

“I’m not complaining,” Paige said, brushing her nose along Azzi’s jaw. “Just saying next time you wanna mark your territory, maybe let me know so I can stretch my neck first.”

Azzi laughed and let her head fall back into the pillow. “Oh my God, you’re annoying.”

Paige just laughed before flipping them again, not wanting to lay her weight on Azzi. Neither of them wanted to start the day. The bed was warm but Azzi’s phone starting to buzz reminded them that they had to go back to LA.

Azzi was the first to groan and peel herself away from the bed, mumbling something about needing extra time untangle her hair. Paige just hummed as she watched Azzi walk out of the room before letting her eyes flutter shut for a few more minutes before dragging herself to the bathroom.

When Azzi came back, freshly showered and a little more put together, she found Paige in front of the mirror, a toothbrush hanging from her mouth as she looked down at her phone. Her wet hair was down and she had on a sports bra and sweatpants.

Azzi walked over and wrapped her arms around Paige from behind, resting her cheek between her shoulder blades. Azzi closed her eyes and just let herself enjoy the moment before saying, “You gonna be nice to me when we get back?”

Paige leaned forward and spit into the sink before whipping her mouth with a towel. When she was done she turned around, wrapping her arms around Azzi’s waist. When she spoke her voice was low in the way that made Azzi's stomach flutter. “You think I brought you to my family's cabin, walked with you on the beach for hours and carried you back to the car just to turn around and not be nice to you?”

Azzi blinked and her forehead creased as she thought through the logistics. Realizing just how long they'd walked yesterday, and how far back Paige had actually carried her, and how unbothered she’d been about doing it. “Good point.”

Paige smiled at her a little before smacking her ass and kissing her forehead saying, “Alright let’s get outta here.”

#pazzi #paige x azzi #pazzi fics

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seospicybin · 18 days ago

Text

DOUBLE FEATURE.

CHAPTER ONE

Lee Know x reader.

DOUBLE FEATURE MASTERLIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s way out of your league.

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

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

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

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

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

Minho wakes up before the sun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stops you for a second. “Wet?”

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

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

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

“Minho.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cut!” someone yells.

Cheers follow. A few claps. A PA whistles.

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

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

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

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

“Nice fall, Minho,” they say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t look at you. “Hmm?”

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

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

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

You swallow air. “Which prop?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Minho?” a voice calls.

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho frowns. “This thing looks haunted.”

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

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

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

“Yeah. Looks fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That was weird,” he says finally.

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

“Or we’re just exhausted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scene 57 – Tank drop + underwater hold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scene 12 – voiceover cuts in mid-sentence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something feels… off.

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

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

“What the—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where to?” the driver asks.

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

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

Minho groans softly, shifting under the blanket.

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

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

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

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

What the hell?

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

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

“Holy—”

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

"No. No no no no—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he hangs up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is real, right?” you whisper.

Minho nods grimly. “Yeah. Too real.”

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

“Agreed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho’s jaw drops. “What?”

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

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

You nod seriously.

“That’s your big idea.”

You nod again.

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

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

“This is so stupid,” Minho mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You make it sound so easy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tell him.

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

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

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

He mutters something under his breath.

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

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

“Rule two: don’t quit my job.”

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

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

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

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

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

You hold out your—his—hand. “Deal?”

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

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

This is going to be such a disaster.

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

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

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

You nod slowly. “Copy that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widen. “What about it?”

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

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

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

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

“Good plan,” Minho mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

“There you are!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay. So far, so good.

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

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

“Wanna run some practice rolls?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Easy," he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, hey!” he greets warmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One…”

You swallow.

“Two…”

Your fingers hover a breath away from the glass.

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scowls. “Fine.”

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

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

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

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

Please, let this work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stand on your mark and wait for the instruction.

“Action!”

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

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

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

Then you hear your voice. “Hey.”

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

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

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

Your smile drops. “What? Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Taking it where?”

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

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

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

He gives you a look. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

Without saying anything, you bolt toward the kitchen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?” you ask between bites.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Coffee,” you croak.

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

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

“Wait—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Kim: Where are you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Close your eyes first!” you bark instantly.

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

“Can I open my eyes now?” he asks.

You hesitate. “...Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right,” Minho mumbles. “Thanks.”

Felix’s eyes crinkle. “Anytime.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…So what do we do now?”

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

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

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

And you and him are going to find it.

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

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

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thealexchen · 4 months ago

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Why Dontnod's games feel original and inspired (and why Deck Nine's games don't)

So, I've talked at length about how Double Exposure feels much more like a corporate product than a playable piece of art entertainment [My initial thoughts on the DE trailer] [My thoughts on the early access paywall] [My thoughts on the weird marketing].

But now with the release of Lost Records, I feel like I have no choice but to confront the question: were any of Deck Nine's games truly original or inspired in any way? And honestly, I have to say no.

Objectively, I could say it's because Deck Nine literally has not produced any original IP's since their rebrand from Idol Minds in 2017. Their only narrative adventure games are all part of the LiS franchise. But even their most original game, True Colors, pretty obviously follows the first game's narrative formula (young woman with a superpower investigates a sudden disappearance/death in a small town with a dark secret, has two opposite sex love interests, learns about a twist villain, is nearly murdered, and goes through a psychological nightmare in the last episode) to a tee. But oh look, there's also a LARP!

But I believe there's more to it than that, because when I look at Dontnod's games, they are always inspired by other works. Life is Strange 1 plays very clear homage to Twin Peaks with the Pacific Northwest setting and Rachel Amber resembling Laura Palmer. Max Caulfield is named after the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, another novel about the fleeting innocence of childhood and superficiality of society. Life is Strange borrows tropes from Donnie Darko, Groundhog Day, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, Stand By Me, and even Blue is The Warmest Color for its themes and plot points. Just take a look at its "Shout-out" page on TV Tropes. And the result is... something completely original, with riveting plot twists, memorable characters, and an ending that will make you cry.

This shouldn't make sense, right? You'd think this big soup of references would turn into an indistinguishable mess of cliches, but Life is Strange managed to be a synthesis of everything the writers loved and were inspired by, to become something completely new. Why? Because nobody had tried to take Twin Peaks, Donnie Darko, and The Catcher in the Rye and turn it into a video game before! And make it gay!

The point being, Dontnod consistently makes original material because they take creative risks. This is definitely not done lightly, since they still need to be a company that generates profit, but they still prioritize making art over selling out. Their stories feel inspired because they are inspired; when writers love what they're writing about, the result is a passion project that has loving, clever nods to all the works that are woven into it.

So perhaps a way to reword that first question is to then ask, "Have Deck Nine's games ever been inspired by anything?" And unfortunately, the answer is still no. Instead, they just copy what they hope will sell well. And a bland imitation for the sake of generating profit is never going to produce anything that feels original.

This takes me back to Lost Records, which is also clearly inspired by the same works: Twin Peaks, It: Chapter One, The Craft, The Blair Witch Project, The Goonies, Stand By Me. But again, no other game studio besides Dontnod has ever looked at these works and thought, "But what if it starred teenage lesbians instead?" Or, more specifically: "How do we capture the spirit of what made these media great and incorporate that into a new story for a new audience?" And those characters have so much thought and care poured into them too: while I've been disappointed that Double Exposure Max looks airbrushed to hell and back, I love that the Bloom & Rage girls have asymmetrical faces, acne, freckles, body hair, skin discoloration, and diverse body types. Double Exposure is marketed as nostalgia bait for fans, where Max is reduced to a prettied-up, polished-up, representation of nostalgia, not even her own character anymore, in a game that otherwise has no connection to the original. Her quips are reduced to "Hey! Remember our good ol', dad-joke cracking, dorky Max Caulfield??" and her grief is shoved aside for "Hey, look at that appealing new love interest! Because we knoooow y'all love your sapphic romance, right?"

By contrast, Lost Records has only been out for 10 days, but I already feel like the girls are some of the most memorable characters I've come across in gaming for the niche they fill. Swann seems like your typical Max-like dork, except she's also a movie buff and giddy about bugs, horror, and the paranormal; and has clearly been affected by her mother's fatphobic beliefs. Autumn is a level-headed leader who always stuck to her desire to help others, and her Blackness naturally informs her desire to feel valued and not cause trouble in a small, very white, conservative town. Nora intrigues me so much for going from a fun-loving rebel punk teen to a more gender-conforming, capitalist-leaning, influencer businesswoman. And Kat feels like an evolution of Chloe's cynicism, where her scrappy charm belies an almost unsettling obsession with the occult and a deep, tragic chasm of rage at having to confront her mortality far too young. They make sense. They feel carefully written, genuine, and like real people.

But most of all, Dontnod's games have never felt like products. In fact, most of their characters have historically gone against the grain of what traditionally "marketable" characters are. The first LiS took all these aforementioned stories about straight white men and chose to remix and retell it through the eyes of a young, queer, time-traveling girl instead. Tell Me Why is the first AAA game with a trans protagonist, and Tyler is voiced by a trans actor in all the language dubs. Lost Records decided that it would tell its story through four queer teenage girls, with women writers onboard, and fucking own it. As long as Dontnod keeps making games that stick to their creative integrity, I'll keep respecting their vision in whatever they decide to create next. Also, maybe I should finally watch Twin Peaks.

Thank you for reading!

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jasperxkuromi · 1 year ago

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Play ideas for chronically ill, disabled, or otherwise bed bound/low energy littles

Hi all! I am chronically ill. I am not comfortable sharing my specific diagnosis, but I am more than okay with talking about disability in general. Everything below is based on my own personal experiences and activities I like to do while stuck in bed. Everyone's body and experiences are different. I may list some things that just aren't an option for you, and that's okay. You are more than welcome to add on to this post with activities you do too!

🐛 Open the curtains and cloud watch! I like to look for clouds that remind me of animals or characters and day dream a story about them. If the weather is nice, consider opening your window a little bit and letting some fresh air into your room.

🐦 Bird watch! I have a bird feeder outside my window that I painted myself from a kid's kit. There are also bird feeders that have suction cups that can be stuck right on your window. You can also make your own seed ornaments. You could pick yourself up a kids book or two on learning to identify birds.

🌷 Get a window planter. You may need someone's help to set one up, but once they are in place they are fairly easy to care for. I like pansies and marigolds because they remind me of childhood, and they are low maintenance and do well in containers.

📖 Audiobooks are great for middles who want to read chapter books. If you have a library card you can borrow tons of audiobook, ebooks, and comics through hoopla and Libby for free. There are some audiobooks for younger kiddo books, but honestly I think YouTube is better for that.

🖼️ Scrapbooks and journals! Being penpals with another little is also an option, but I do recommend using basic internet safety and common sense. (I don't think you should do this if you are under 18). You could always scan/take pictures of your letter and send it digitally to your penpal instead.

🛏️ If you spend a lot of time in bed, and have the money to do so, I really recommend getting items to make your time in bed more comfortable. Extra pillows, or even a reading pillow can be helpful. Lap desks or bed tables can give you space to color or set up play scenes with small toys.

🌟 You can also decorate the area around your bed to make it more child like! Fairy lights, glow in the dark stars, bed canopies, posters, and the like.

🪑 I have a floor chair I use for times I am playing outside of my bed. Being close to the floor helps me feel small, but not having back support hurts after a short while. I have an adjustable one that I can lay flat on the floor as a sleeping mat. Very helpful for the times when I need a quick nap after playtime.

🎨 Check the seasonal and kids sections at dollar stores and Five Below. I usually find fun craft kits that can keep me occupied for a bit for really cheap.

🧶 Do your own crafts! I like the knit and crochet. Some people can do them in bed, but I find it difficult to find a comfortable way to do that. However making friendship bracelets in bed works out pretty well. They make great gifts, even for non little friends. Or you could make matching ones for you and your CG or favorite plushie!

🪀 Make your own sensory bin! You can find tons of tutorials and ideas online. Bonus is you can get most of the items you would use at the dollar store. There are tons of other DIY sensory toys you can make as well if you look around. Glitter/shaker bottles are pretty popular too.

🐇 Cuddle with your stuffed animals. Tell them stories. Play pretend. Read to them. They will appreciate all of it.

🎮 If you have an old 3DS stuffed away in a drawer somewhere, pull it back out. 3DS are fairly easy to install homebrew and there are toooons of kiddo friendly games you could get (check 3ds.hacks.guide for this, do not follow tutorials on YouTube or random websites as they very well could be outdated)

💊 Decorate your medicine organizers with stickers. If you use mobility aids you can decorate them as well! Fake flowers are great for decorating mobility aids and there are tons of ideas you can find online.

🍼 I have stomach problems that makes it hard for me to eat enough. I often drink Ensure to make sure I am getting enough calories/nutrients. I get the strawberry flavor and sometimes put it in my sippy cup and pretend it is strawberry milk 😋

😴 If you need rest, rest! You deserve to get as much sleep as your body needs. Babies and toddlers take naps all the time! Trying to just exist with chronic health issues is difficult enough. You don't need to push yourself.

#age regression #age regressor #agere #sfw agere #age dreamer #agere blog #agere community #age dreaming #chronic illness #chronically ill #disability #disabled #sfw interaction only #sfw regression #sfw little community #sfw littlespace #agere little #safe agere

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meleeyz · 7 months ago

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┈﹒ ꒰ 𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗨𝗡𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗘!𝗘𝗞𝗞𝗢 𝗪𝗘𝗗𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦 ꒱

ekko 𝒙 fem!reader

୨୧ English is not my first language, so I regret in advance if something reads weird or is misspelled

୨୧ These are headcanons of the other Ekko, before the canon Ekko from the show "takes" his place… I hope you understand...

୨୧ I'm still writing for the fic, but the last chapters is taking longer than I thought, I hope you understand, in the meantime I have some things in drafts that I will publish so you don't run out of content.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

another universe!ekko who was really nervous about proposing to you knowing how big of a step that is...

Ekko had always been a confident guy. He was innovator, someone who could fix almost anything. But when it came to you, he found himself feeling like a bumbling preteenager all over again. He wanted everything to be perfect—down to the handmade ring he was crafting for the proposal. Using scraps of precious metals and stones he collected over the years, he poured hours of focus into shaping it into something that represented your story together. Benzo would catch him hunched over his workstation at odd hours, muttering about the alignment or polish. "You know, kid, it’s not like she’s gonna turn you down if it’s a millimeter off," Benzo teased, ruffling Ekko’s hair. Ekko would just grin sheepishly but double his efforts anyway.

another universe!ekko who practiced his proposal speech a dozen times, only to get caught mid-rehearsal...

He was standing in the middle of The Last Drop, the roof their unofficial safe haven for years. “So, um, I’ve been thinking…” he started, pacing back and forth. “No, no, that sounds dumb. Okay—‘you’re the light of my life, and I can’t imagine—’ ugh, that’s so cheesy.” Behind him, Powder crept up the stairs, barely containing her giggles. “Keep going,” she whispered, trying not to laugh. Ekko whipped around, his face flaming red. “How long have you been there?!” “Long enough to know you’re terrible at this,” she teased, doubling over with laughter. “You’re lucky she already loves you.”

another universe!ekko who had no idea you were planning your own big announcement...

While Ekko was caught up in his grand proposal plans, you were busy with plans of your own. The test results sat folded in your pocket for days, and your hands hovered over them more times than you could count. You were going to be a mother. It was Powder who figured it out first, being too observant for her own good. “You’ve been glowing,” she said one afternoon while helping you sort supplies at the community center. “Also, you cried over Mylo spilling coffee, so I kinda put two and two together.” You blinked at her, stunned. “Powder, you cannot tell anyone yet!” She held up her hands. “Cross my heart! But seriously, I’m gonna be the best godmother ever!” You couldn’t help but laugh, though your nerves stayed. You wondered how Ekko would react, if he’d be overwhelmed or excited—or both.

another universe!ekko who proposed on the roof of the last drop, the place where your story began...

Ekko had chosen the roof where he had first kissed you as the spot to ask you to be his forever. He had strung up soft, glowing lights and set up a little table with flowers and your favorite dessert. When you stepped onto the roof and saw him standing there, his hands fidgeting nervously as he smiled at you, your heart swelled with affection. He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. "So, uh… I’ve been thinking about this moment for a long time." You stepped closer, your smile encouraging him to continue. "Being with you has been the greatest adventure of my life," he said, his voice gaining confidence. "And I can’t imagine spending another day without knowing that you’ll always be by my side. So..." He dropped to one knee and pulled out the handmade ring, holding it up with a hopeful look. "Will you marry me?" Tears filled your eyes as you nodded, unable to find your voice at first. "Yes, Ekko. Of course, I’ll marry you." The joy on his face was priceless as he slipped the ring onto your finger, pulling you into a tight embrace.

another universe!ekko who fainted when you told him you were pregnant moments later...

But before he could say another word, you decided it was time to share your own surprise. “I have something to tell you too,” you said, your hand trembling as you guided his to your stomach. “You’re going to be a dad.” His grin froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Wait, what—?” And then he hit the floor. Powder’s shriek of laughter carried from the rooftop stairs. "I knew he’d do that!"

another universe!ekko who woke up to find you fanning him, looking both amused and concerned...

"You okay?" you asked, trying not to laugh. He blinked up at you, groaning. "Wait… did you just say…?" "Yes, Ekko," you said softly. "You’re going to be a dad." For a moment, he was silent, then a wide grin broke across his face. "I’m gonna be a dad," he repeated, awe in his voice.

another universe!everyone who was overjoyed by the double news…

Vander insisted on hosting an engagement party at The Last Drop, which quickly turned into a celebration for the baby too. Silco was the first to congratulate you both, "You’ll be a wonderful mother," he said quietly. Claggor and Mylo, meanwhile, started a heated argument over who would be the better uncle. "I’m obviously the fun uncle," Mylo declared, crossing his arms. Claggor rolled his eyes. "The kid needs someone responsible. That’s me." Powder, sitting nearby, added fuel to the fire. "Don’t worry, guys. The baby’s gonna love me more anyway. I’m the godmother!" Benzo couldn’t resist teasing Ekko. "Didn’t want to wait, huh?" he joked, clapping him on the back. Ekko just laughed, unashamed. "When you know, you know."

another universe!ekko who became the most attentive fiancé and father-to-be anyone had ever seen…

Ekko went into full-on protective mode. He insisted on carrying anything remotely heavy for you, making sure you got enough rest, and preparing meals that he claimed were "good for the baby." "Ekko, it’s just a broom," you said one afternoon, trying to sweep the living room. "Doesn’t matter," he replied, gently taking it from your hands. "You’re not lifting a finger while I’m around."

another universe!ekko who is absolutely excited about his baby

Ekko transformed into the ultimate caretaker. He made sure you were comfortable at all times, fussing over pillows, blankets, and cravings. He’d often disappear for errands and come back with baby clothes, stuffed animals, or tiny shoes. "You know it’s too early to shop, right?" you teased one evening. "Yeah, but look at these little boots!" he said, holding them up proudly.

another universe!ekko who spent hours talking to your belly...

He would lean close, resting his head against you as he spoke softly. “Hey, little one. It’s your dad. I just wanted to say I love you already—whether you’re a boy or a girl, doesn’t matter.” Your laughter filled the room. “You’re gonna spoil them before they’re even born.” “Damn right,” he said, grinning.

another universe!silco who became unexpectedly protective of you during your pregnancy…

"Must I remind you," Silco said one day, his piercing gaze locking onto yours, "that you’re carrying a very important member of this family?" "I was just reaching for a book," you replied, amused. "It starts with books, and ends with unnecessary strain."

another universe!powder who was the maid of honor and made sure your dress was perfect...

Powder was practically vibrating with excitement as she helped you into your gown. “You look like a queen,” she declared, fluffing the skirt. “No, a goddess. Ekko’s gonna cry when he sees you.” “Let’s hope he doesn’t faint again,” you teased, earning a snort of laughter.

another universe!benzo who secretly cried at ekko’s wedding...

As you walked down the aisle, arm in arm with Vander, Benzo dabbed at his eyes. When Ekko teased him later, he grumbled, “Shut it, kid. It’s allergies.”

another universe!ekko whose wedding was the event of the year...

The Last Drop was transformed into a breathtaking venue, with twinkling lights and decorations. Vander had insisted on non-alcoholic cocktails, much to the delight of you and the other guests. Ekko couldn’t take his eyes off you as you exchanged vows, his voice steady despite the overwhelming emotions. “You’re my everything,” he said, slipping the ring onto your finger. "I promise to love you, protect you, and be the best partner and dad I can be—for you and for our family."

another universe!ekko who ended the night on the roof where it all began...

After the reception, Ekko led you back to the roof where it all began. The city lights shimmered below, the quiet hum of Zaun wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Ekko knelt in front of you, resting his head gently against your rounded belly. "I’ll be the best dad," he murmured, his hands cradling your bump. "You already are," you assured him, running your fingers through his hair. He looked up at you, his brown eyes shining with love. "And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it."

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

#ekko fluff #arcane season two #arcane x reader #ekko x reader #dad!ekko #ekko imagines #arcane ekko x reader

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idkwhylou · 19 days ago

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𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬

Summary : Torn from your coastal homeland to seal an imperial alliance, in a wedding crafted for power, not love, you vow to fulfill your duty and perhaps find something more. But on your wedding night, you discover a colder truth: Marcus’s body is yours, but his heart is somewhere else. Still, you are determined to prove your worth, to decode his silence, and to uncover the man behind the armor.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n

Words : 5,8K

A/N : alright first part of the request ! Thanks again @negrita2345 for your excellent idea, hope you'll like it. Kind of anxious bcs I hope it’s good, I mean in the way you imagined it. Anyway if you have a better title, I'll take it lol. Anyway not much of angst but we need to start slow and setting the context

masterlist | next chapter

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The olive groves whispered like priests in prayers, swaying beneath the salt-heavy breeze that rose from the sea. From your terrace, the horizon gleamed, a stretch of molten silver where sky met water, endless and unreachable. White sails drifted across it like wandering souls: merchants, imperial messengers, galleys bearing soldiers with polished helmets and unseen orders.

But today, the wind carried no peace. It was too quiet. Something had shifted, you could feel it long before anyone spoke it aloud.

The household moved with unnatural quiet, servants murmured behind closed doors and hurried theirs steps as though silence might shield them from whatever was coming. Your father had not touched his breakfast. And you mother—your serene and inscrutable mother—sat rigid at the head of the table, her fingers endlessly smoothing the same fold in her silk robe, over and over, as of the repetition might erase the tremble in her hands.

When a servant found you in the gardens and bowed deeply, announcing with careful reverence that your presence was requested in the atrium, your feet already knew where to carry you. The click of your sandals echoed off sun-warmed stone as you passed under the colonnade. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and old parchment, your father’s scent, the scent of duty and legacy.

Then you saw them, your father stood as though carved from granite: arms behind his back, posture impeccable, chin lifted with imperial resolve. His face was unreadable, but not empty, no. There was something behind his eyes, calculation, or maybe regret. Your mother was seated beside him, her back stiff but her gaze soft, resting not on you, but the floor.

Two imperial envoys flanked the far pillars. Strangers in gleaming bronze, with helms tucked beneath their arms and scroll slung at their side. Their armor shone like mirrors, catching shards of sunlight that danced across the walls. One of the scrolls had a seal on, a red wax pressed with the mark of an eagle glinted like fresh blood.

Your heart stuttered once in your chest. Not fear, not quite. Just the cold certainty that your life was about to be unmade. You stepped forward, voice calm and practiced. The same voice you would use at your father’s side while translating foreign decrees and entertaining Roman governors at the harvest feasts.

“You summoned me, Father ?”

He did not look at you right away, instead, he dismissed the nearby servants with a flick of his fingers. Only when the last one bowed out the room, did he extend one hand toward the envoy. The scroll was handed over in a heavy silence, consuming a part of your soul.

You watched the wax break under your father’s thumb, a clean sound, like a lock opening. He read aloud, his voice loud and clear, “By order of the Roman Emperor, and with the blessing of the Senate, a marriage is hereby decreed…” He continued, but the words grew distant. Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood.

A marriage ?

You felt the floor tilt slightly under your feet, your stomach tightening as though braced for an all and your head spinning. Your breath snagged in your chest as you looked around for something—your mother’s eyes, the sea, anything steady—but the stone walls began to feel too close.

Still, you did not speak. You took a breath, deep like diving into cold water, and moved to your mother’s side. Her hand reached instinctively for yours, but you remained still.

Your father’s voice dropped in tone, “You have been chosen.”

You had always known this day would eventually come. But you never imagined it would happen like this…. Not so early.

Your knees bent beneath you, and you let yourself fall beside your mother. You looked straight ahead, heart beating heavily, like a drum echoing down a long and empty corridor. You let the silence stretch until you had the strength to speak.

“To whom ?” you dared to ask because not asking would have felt like a surrender.

Your father eyes finally met yours, “General Marcus Acacius,” he read, “a man held in highest favor by the Emperor himself.”

Each word struck with brutal precision. Marcus Acacius. A name carved into the bones of the Empire. You had heard it before, whispered with reverence by soldiers passing through your father’s court. Stories of battlefield valor, of loyalty, of a man more iron than flesh. You had never seen his face, but now his name felt heavier than gold.

Your throat tightened. Rome. You were being sent to Rome. Your lips parted, but no sound emerged. You pressed them together again, holding in the cry that threatened to escape, just a crack in something old and unspoken.

Your mother stood then, as if stirred by some silent storm. “Aretas,” she said, her voice urgent. “The General-”

“-is a man of honor”, your father interrupted sharply, giving her a warning look. “And this is not a request.”

“Aretas,” your mother hissed, stepping toward him, voice sharp with fear and something dangerously close to rage “You would send your own daughter like a sacrifice ? Offering her like some- some tribute to the Gods of war ?!”

Your father turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “Mind your words.”

“She is too young !” your mother snapped, the tremble in her voice now pushed aside by fury. “She still walks barefoot in the garden. Still sleeps with the shutters open to hear the sea. You promised she would have a say, that there would be time-”

“-I promised,” your father cut in, louder now, “that she would be protected. That she would have a future.”

“She is not livestock to be bargained for land and influence !”

“She is the daughter of this house !” Aretas barked, the echo of his voice crashing against the walls, as one of the envoys shifted uncomfortably, “She bears my name and my blood. And that blood will mean something in Rome. Do you think I have not considered what this will cost her ?” he turned away as if the sight of you was too much. “what it will cost me ?!”

Your mother pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging them as she tries to steady herself. Then she looked at him again, her voice aching. “She was meant to be more than this…” she whispered as a cried escape her throat, “meant to choose who she loved.”

“She was born into a world where we do not get to choose,” your father replied calmer now, but his voice sounded like a man bearing the weight of a boulder no one else could see. “Not you. Not I. And not her.”

Your mother’s voice cracked, “You would give her to a man she has never met.”

“I would give her to a man who commands the loyalty of Rome. A man the Emperor trusts himself.” He glanced at you finally, “A man who will keep her alive and safe.”

“And what of her heart ?! What of her joy ?”

“Mother-” you tried to calm her down.

Your father looked away. “She will learn without it.”

She turned back to you and grasped your hand tightly, and this time, you let her. Her fingers trembled. “You do not have to accept this,” she whispered. “You are not a piece on the board.”

But you were. You had always been. And you knew it.

You rose slowly, gently letting go of her hand, and walked to the terrace again. The sea stretched before you, wide and glittering and full of vanished sails, the scent of salt stung your nose. A warm wind lifted the hem of your gown. You remembered running through those olive trees, chasing shadows between the rows. You remembered laughing, barefoot and free, before anyone asked anything of you.

You closed your eyes and then you nodded. “I will go,” you simply said.

Your mother gasped loudly, like something inside her had crumpled. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.

You stood still, facing the horizon. “I will do my duty,” you whispered.

That was the beginning. The moment the Empire reached across the water and placed its claim upon your life.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The marriage was held beneath a sky as blue as tempered steel, Rome’s finest stage set for politics disguised as ceremony. Marble gods stared down from their pedestals, unmoved by the day’s union. Senators stood in rings of gold-threaded togas, murmuring among themselves like old crows. Red petals were scattered over the flagstones, crushed underfoot like drops of blood. Every detail had been carved and calculated with purpose.

Not for love, but for the Empire.

The Forum itself had been cleared, roped off by imperial guard. Lictors lined the periphery, their fasces polished, gleaming in the sun. A choir of flutes and lyres played from the steps of the temple, slow and solemn, not joyful but dignified, like the funeral of your freedom.

And yet, when you looked down the aisle, past the priests and the marble gods, you saw only him. He stood like he had been carved into place by fate, a figure of stoic poise and discipline. He wore the ceremonial breastplate of a General; gold and leather laced over his chest like armor made for myth. A dark crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped with the mark of the Emperor’s seal.

He was taller than you had imagined, broader too. There was a steadiness to him that unnerved you. Not exactly stillness but what seems to be contained power. His face was carved from shadow and sunlight, jaw squared, and eyes the cold color of rain-smoothed stone. A thin scar curved along the left side of his jaw, not disfiguring, but sharp, like a signature. And those eyes, when they finally found yours, held no flicker of joy, no welcome. They were grounded, unreadable—everything but empty.

You had expected indifference, arrogance, perhaps. But what you found was something far more dangerous. Intrigue. He inclined his head in a silent greeting, a soldier’s nod; respectful and impossibly formal. Not a smile, not a spark. But not disdain either. Your breath caught when he looked at you, like a man preparing for a siege. And yet, something in you shifted. Not in fear, not even in disappointment, maybe… fascination ?

Your gown swept the marble behind you; white silk, embroidered with silver and copper threads in the style of your homeland, a small rebellion your mother had insisted on preserving. The veil shimmered behind you like mist, long and soft. At your side, your father walked stiffly, his expressions carved into diplomacy. He held your arm like he held his blade, firmly, not quite gently. Then, he had to leave you, let go of your arm and give you to the stranger you were about to marry. The man that would now take care of you.

The altar was lined with fresh-cut laurel and pomegranate. The priest chanted the sacred rites. Your name, and his, spoken aloud and you did not even know the sound of his voice. Yet, your fingers touched when the rings were passed, and that single brush of skin sent a whisper of something electric up your spine.

His palm was cold. Yours trembled once. He did not look at you, not directly. But you saw his jaw tighten, like he had felt it too, and did not know what to do with all that knowledge. You wondered, absurdly, if he was nervous. The rings were slipped on, and the oaths exchanged, a scribe to the side of the altar wrote everything down on a parchment.

And then, it was done. The General slowly bowed his head to you, like a man offering deference. As if you were a queen or at least something close enough to one. You barely breathed and then, without ceremony he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was not a kiss of a lover, nor even a husband. It was warm, brief, controlled, a brush of lips against your mouth—soft as breath and gone before your body could register it fully. It felt more like a vow than anything spoken aloud, enough to give the impression of a real kiss to anyone in the room. A promise, you told yourself, or at least, the possibility of one.

When he pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse caught and something in your chest uncoiled, just slightly.

He offered you his arm and you took it, not because you had to, but because in that moment you wanted to. The applause rose behind you, Rome roaring her approval. The marriage had ended not in intimacy but in spectacle. Trumpets blared, laurel wreaths were raised, a sea of dignitaries, senators, Generals and foreign envoys surged toward the newlyweds like waves crashing. Rome really knew how to honor herself with grandeur.

You followed the General—now your husband—through the ceremony’s afterbirth, your arm still looped lightly around his. His pace faltered, but he did not speak, not a word since the vow. He only nodded to those who saluted him, eyes scanning the crowd like a commander in unfamiliar terrain; polite, present but unreachable.

He escorted you up the steps of the banquet hall, a domed, opulent chamber overflowing with gold-threaded cushions and garlands of flame-colored flowers. Long tables were set with silver bowls of figs and honey-glazed. Musicians played a slow, elegant melody that failed to cover the growing thrum of conversation and political hunger. You were sat beside him on the raised dais. He poured your wine without being asked, a gesture so rehearsed it barely felt real.

“Is everything alright ?” he asked at last. His voice was low and measured, like someone asking after a guest, not their wife.

You looked at him, studying the face everyone in Rome revered; hard lines, eyes like winter stone, no warmth and no cruelty. He had done nothing wrong, but he also had done nothing at all.

“I am fine.”

He gave you a short nod, then returned to scanning the room. You sat in silence for another few minutes, listening to the rustle of silk, the laughter of people who knew how to perform joy. Rome was a chorus of masks, and you had not yet found your own. Suddenly you could not breathe under the weight of it all, the crowd, the wine, the stifling future curling around your throat like incense.

“I need a moment.” You murmured.

The General turned slightly, “Do you want me to come with you ?”

You hesitated when you thought you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, until you realized it was more impatience. As if he was waiting for you to leave in a hurry and that you will not ask him to follow you. His question, actually, was not a question, just an illusion of goodwill. “No. I will manage alone.”

You slipped away down one of the side corridors, grateful no one stopped you. The quiet found you quickly, pressed between the walls and the cool hush of shadow. You exhaled as your footsteps slowed. And then, you saw her. She stood beside a bronze basin, one hand lightly skimming the water’s surface, she had the posture of someone who belonged to every palace she ever entered. The low torchlight painted her in gold and shadow. The gown she wore was violet—not just beautiful, but deliberate. Imperial.

You had never seen her face before, even not during the ceremony, or at least you thought so. There were so many people today, that, you had not even been able to talk to your own mother since the ring around your finger sealed your future. The woman was older than you and impossibly poised, the kind of woman whose presence made others instinctively stand straighter. A circlet of hammered gold rested in her hair.

“Oh,” she said, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile, a kind expression on her face as she turned to see you. “You needed a moment too ?”

You paused, just outside the doorway, unsure if you were intruding. “Yes,” you said. “The hall is... a storm.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “That is a generous word for it.”

Her voice was soft but assured—a voice trained in courtrooms, or perhaps something even older. She stepped slightly away from the basin and folded her hands loosely before her. “I watched you, during the ceremony,” she continued gently. “You carried yourself well. I remember my own wedding…my knees would not stop shaking.” She adds with a chuckle. There was no bitterness in her tone. Only memory.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice more honest than you had expected. “I had no training in how to marry a stranger.”

She tilted her head. “No one has. Not really.”

There was a quiet, companionable moment. And in it, something settled. Her gaze on you, curious, thoughtful, without a hint of superiority. Just as you began to ask something—anything, out of instinct more than strategy—footsteps clicked at the far end of the corridor. A servant appeared in a rush, breath shallow, eyes darting between you both.

“Domina—” the girl began, before catching herself. “Mar— the banquet awaits your return.”

You turned your head, but not before seeing her expression falter, just for a flicker. Not shame, just the lightning-fast reflex of someone used to secrecy.

Her smile then returned effortlessly. “Of course,” she said, with a nod. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and backed away quickly. The still unknown woman looked at you again, her voice calm. “It is never truly your night, is it ? Not in Rome. Every moment belongs to someone else.”

You did not know what to say. Her eyes searched yours, not intrusively, but with a strange gentleness. “I hope,” she said softly, “that he will be kind to you.”

And then she turned, leaving you in silence, the scent of myrrh and rose trailing after her like a veil. You stood alone for a long minute, your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The villa was quiet now, the revelers long since departed. Torchlight flickered along the walls of your new chambers. Servants had come and gone, laying out fruit, wine, flowers. Silk robed folded neatly, oils on the table and perfumed water in basins in which you had bathed and dried your hair with trembling fingers.

The door closed behind him without a sound. You had been sitting by the window—watching the night spill over the city like ink. The moon hung heavy and indifferent as its rays reflected off your skin, a strange shade of blue—the silk robe clinging to your skin still damp from the bath, the scent of rose oil ghosting over your collarbones. You did not look up at first, you had imagined this moment so many ways that the real thing felt too fragile to meet head-on.

But when you turned, you saw him.

He stood there in the glow of the fire, freshly changed into a dark linen tunic. His formal armor was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, though the presence he carried made the room feel no less like a battlefield. He was… handsome, yes—striking, even. The sculpted kind of man you only ever saw carved into stone. His brows furrowed as if in thought, or perhaps weariness, and his eyes watched you like a soldier scanning a map before a march.

Still, you could not help the way your heart stuttered when he finally stepped closer. “My lord,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

At that, he tilted his head slightly. A single dark brow lifted, not unkindly, more like curiosity. “You may call me Marcus,” he said, his voice low and even. “We are husband and wife now. No need for titles in private.”

There was a careful courtesy in the way he said it. Not warm. Not cold. Like a gate held half open, daring you to enter but offering no welcome.

You nodded once, unsure it that was kindness or obligation. “Marcus,” you repeated, tasting the name.

He crossed the room with military precision as you rose to your feet slowly, smoothing the folds of your robe with shaking hands. And for a long moment, silence stretched between you like a blade unsheathed but not yet used. He wasted no time in catching your eye and slipped into the sheets of the—your sharing bed.

“You are not what I expected,” you murmured before you could stop yourself, moving unconsciously in his direction.

That made him pause. “No ?”

You shook your head. “You are… quieter.”

A breath of something like amusement crossed his face, not quite a smile, but the ghost of it. “Most Generals are quieter after the wedding than before it,” he said dryly.

That startled a soft laugh from you; small, nervous. He turned his face then, as if your reaction had caught him off guard. He looked at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at you.

You studied him.

There was something about the way he carried himself. The way his fingers flexed once at his sides and then stilled again, that felt like he could control fire. And it drew you. Even now, even as you knew this was not a love story, maybe not yet, or maybe never—but you were drawn to him.

After this evening at his side, you had expected nothing from a man like him. Still, as you sat across from him at the imperial banquet—smiling politely, answering questions from governors and senators who barely remembered your name—you could not help glancing at him in those small, unguarded moments.

Marcus Acacius was every inch the legend you had heard of: carved from silence, shaped by discipline. His posture never faltered, even when seated, and his replies were devoid of warmth. But what struck you most was the restraint in his gaze, like there was something caged behind those irises. And yet, when his eyes landed on you, even briefly, something changed.

A flicker, gone before it could fully become a thought. A hesitation, as if there was a war behind those eyes that had nothing to do with you. You did not flatter yourself into thinking he was pleased by the match. No one truly was. This was not a marriage woven of love or even desire. It was strategy, diplomacy, obedience. A bargain between Empires, in which you were the treaty dressed in white.

But you were determined to be more than that. You had promised yourself—there, on the terrace of your homeland, when the sails of your old life disappeared behind you—that you would not enter this marriage meekly. You would do your duty, yes. But more than that: you would try to love. You would give this cold stone the warmth of yours hands, even if it never warmed in return.

He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony. A bow. A glance. He had offered his arm but not his voice. You watched him, not as an infatuated girl—you were not that foolish—but as a woman determined to understand the man she had been given to.

There was something in him, you were sure of it. A kind of tension, as if every movement was measured to avoid some fault. And it made you wonder what lay buried under all that discipline ? Even the greatest Generals were made of flesh, even marble could cracked under pressure.

You wanted—needed—to know who he was when the armor came off. And tonight, in the hush that followed the ceremony… you would begin to try.

“I will not force you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “If you would prefer to wait, I-”

“I do not want to wait,” you said, before you could give yourself time to retreat. “This is our wedding night. I would rather… not be alone.”

He looked at you then. “Very well,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet, leaving just enough space between you to preserve modesty, and just enough closeness to feel the tension like a thread drawn taut between your bodies. The room was dim, lit only by candles flickering near the carved columns. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians still played for the last drunk guests, but their music had thinned, like it was too hesitating.

For a moment he grimaces, a faint tightening around his eyes, as if settling into something that did not quite fit. You turned your face fully toward him now, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence would offend or comfort. When he adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his gaze slid toward you again, and then, down.

Your robe clung faintly to your skin in places that left much to the imagination, thin and delicate, the firelight made suggestions of the shape beneath it. You had not meant it to be seductive, but you had not stopped it either. His eyes lingered, no longer guarded. After all he was a General, not a monk.

A muscle in his jaw tightened, his hand curled, crumpling the sheet at his side. You bit your lower lip, almost without realizing it, heart thudding. You had imagined wanting from him, but it was just a thought. Maybe something you could use to reach him.

Just for a breath, he looked at you not as duty, but as a woman.

And something flickered across is expression, as if torn between distance and desire—no, worse; as if he had fought the feeling and already lost.

You took a breath that trembled in your chest and let the courage carry you forward. Slowly—almost reverently—you crawled across the sheets, each movement delicate. The soft rustle of fabric beneath your knees was the only sound as you were now on all fours, looking at him directly in the eye. You kept your hungry eyes fixed on him, searching his face for any kind of reaction. He was statuesque in the low light, his expression unreadable once again, though his body seemed to betray him as you could feel his already hard cock beneath the sheets, which made you smirk.

A flush of warmth spread through your chest as you did not know how to begin. You straddled him gently, your thighs sliding over his, your breath hitching as your bodies aligned. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something there—not desire, not affection, but… permission. And, you could work with that.

You stood over him with your arms embedded in the mattress, you leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth—a quiet echo of the one he had given you at the altar, but his lips did not move, they did not even flinched.

Undeterred, you continued. A kiss on his cheek, then another along the edge of his jaw, yet another just below his ear, a trail down the column of his throat. You felt him shift beneath you, a ripple of muscle and restraint. A sound escaped him, almost a sigh, but muted. His hands came hesitantly to your hips, trying to push you away carefully. But, you rocked your hips once, lightly—testing, and his grip tightened—more by instinct, like a simple reflex but—pressed your body a little closer to his.

You smiled faintly and rose, looking only at him with a burning desire, slowly peeling back the sheet between you. His eyes snapped open with surprise, maybe a quiet resistance ? His hands slid over your thighs and he closed once again his eyes, taking a deep breath. You did not pause anyway. Your hands moved with a confidence you did not quite feel, lifting the hem of your robe and slipping it over your head. Revealing your warm and naked body to him, as the air kissed your bare nipples. You saw his gaze moving over you, and for a breathless heartbeat, you felt seen.

But then, suddenly, it was gone. His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused and his jaw clenched. You tried not to falter.

He leaned back against the headboard as you settled atop him again, you took advantage of this moment to lift yourself gently and removed the covers that had separated your bodies until then. He looked at you with intrigue, certainly not expecting such gesture and ardor from you. Then, lifting the edge of his tunic to free him, you licked your lips impatiently. His cock was rock hard—thick and ready—but he barely reacted to your touch. No smirk, no words, no heat in his eyes.

Still, you guided his fat cock to your entrance, offering a last glance—a silent plea to meet you there, even if it is just for a moment. You sank down, gasping at the stretch, your body trembling as he filled you completely. Slowly you took him inch by inch, your breath breaking into gasps as your body stretched to accommodate him. Just too much at once, a new world splitting open inside you and your moan broke the silence like a confession.

He grunted softly beneath you, but you moved anyway, riding slowly. As he spread your walls, you let out a loud moan, scrunching up your face from the slight pain. Your hands braced on his broad shoulders and your breath mingled with the scent of his skin. You bit your lip, letting soft sounds escape, trying to give yourself fully. He was so deep inside you, you could feel his cock in your stomach, and the sensation was just delicious, you could not stop yourself anymore.

He let out a few careless whimpers, as your hands found support on his broad shoulders, allowing you to keep your balance and find a rhythm that suited your desires. You bit your lower lip and moaned once more, his hands shyly roaming your body as you surrendered yourself completely to him, leaving no room for hesitation. Suddenly he frowned and sighed through his nostrils, then look at you—properly—just once, a long and unreadable gaze.

Your hands clenched at his shoulders, as he made no move to guide you through it. So you set another rhythm, slower—rolling your hips to feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands found his chest to steady yourself, and your thighs trembled with the effort. His hands left your body and found the sheets beside him. You let go and tried to make him want you again, but it was as if he had barricaded himself in, letting you use his body as you pleased. You leaned in, trying to draw him back, but he moved his head slightly, preventing you from kissing him or even making contact with his skin.

The warmth between your legs grew and you began to ride him with growing confidence, chasing something unspoken between you. You tried to catch his eyes, but he was not looking at you anymore. His head tilted back; eyes closed, lips parted slightly in some imagined reverie. Your fingers traced along his collarbone, but he did not stir. It was as if he was unable to face the sight of your body on his.

Still straddling him, your movements reduced to a fragile rhythm. Not for pleasure anymore, but for your dignity. To convince yourself there was still something happening between your bodies. But he was limp beneath your touch, his body remains inside yours, but something in him was… gone. You looked down at him, pleading, and saw the furrow between his brows, the ways his lips seemed to mouth something you could not decipher.

You slow to a stop and stay still atop him, your breathing uneven and shallow from the thrum of something colder uncoiling inside you. The rise and fall of his chest beneath you were distant, absent. His hands no longer held you, his eyes had closed again, retreating into some private place far from where your skin met his.

And then, the question tumbled from your lips before you could bury it. “Am I…” you paused, voice tight, “not doing it right ?”

The words hung in the air between you like a mist that refused to lift. He opened his eyes and looked directly at you. Not at your body, your mouth or your hands, even less the place where you were joined. But at your eyes, like a man stepping into a memory he had not meant to find.

There was no irritation in his expression, no hunger. Just softness, and what seems like pity. And that, somehow, was worse. His voice was almost careful when he responded, “No. You are alright.”

But he did not say what it was. Your fingers, unsure, rested on his chest where his heartbeat barely stirred beneath your palm. You leaned forward slightly, a whisper of movement, your voice fragile now. “I can try something else, if you want.” A thread of hope knotted tight in your chest. “If you tell me what pleases you, I-I can try…”

For a moment, silence. Then a quiet breath and a small shake of his head. “I am just tired,” he murmured. “That is all.”

Just tired.

That simple.

That final.

You stayed there, frozen in that moment, as if stillness might hold something together—whatever this was supposed to be. But the thread between you had already slackened. A tender, desperate intimacy folded into something formal. As though your body had become just another offering to be endured.

He shifted, gently—not urgently—adjusting the blanket, reaching for the edge of the sheet. You took the silent cue, sliding off him with grace you barely possessed in that moment, pulling the cover over yourself in one practiced motion. You turned away so he would not see your face, because you were not sure what expression you wore.

Marcus settled back into the mattress with the weary composure of a soldier finished with duty. His arm fell across his chest and his eyes shut again, for good this time. You lay beside him a long while, watching the gold-leafed ceiling flicker with candlelight. Somewhere beyond the walls, music still played.

You slipped from the bed, eventually, quiet as the dying flame of the candle next to you, and walked barefoot to the far end of the room. You wrapped yourself in the nearest robe, not for modesty, but for armor. You settled back into bed beside him, leaving as much distance as possible before closing your eyes. And just as you felt yourself drift off into a deep sleep, a solitary tear escaped your eye.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

masterlist | next chapter

#pedro pascal #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #gladiator ll #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #general marcus acacius #arranged marriage #pedro pascal characters

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nihilityuniverse · 11 months ago

Text

𝟎𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐱 𝐅𝐄𝐌! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ 𝗦𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿 ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇʏᴠᴀᴛ 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗕𝗼𝘀𝘀.

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MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

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Story inspired by Acheron's Lore, Power, and Personality...

ENG is not my First language

I do not own Genshin Impact or any of the pictures used.

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Chapter 0 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

𝐋𝐢𝐲𝐮𝐞, 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞

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It had been three days since the funeral...

You sat on a couch, draped in a silky nightgown, your gaze wandering around your bedroom.

You couldn't help but wonder why, all of a sudden, maids and servants were bustling about your room and home, while Fatui Guards patrolled your residence.

You had always lived alone, cherishing the quiet and stillness of your home atop a hill in Snezhnaya. The solitude was your sanctuary, a place where you could exist without intrusion.

So... what had changed? You had never requested such an absurd arrangement.

And then your eyes fell on the huge pile of expensive-looking gifts stacked neatly on your coffee table.

'Why in Teyvat would someone send you so many gifts?!' you thought, annoyance bubbling up inside you. Slowly, you felt your patience waning, your eye twitching in irritation.

"Lady Innamorati," a maid's voice called out, breaking your thoughts. You turned to see a row of maids lined up, each bowing respectfully as your gaze met theirs before they knelt. The one who spoke wore slightly different attire, suggesting she was the Head Maid.

"We were sent by Pantalone," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "We are here to assist you in any way and to guard you."

"Why were you all sent?" you asked, your quiet and cold tone sending shivers down their spines.

"A-as compensation, Lady Innamorati," the Head Maid stammered in fear. "Pantalone learned that the escorts ran away the moment they saw you. He sent these gifts, along with maids and guards, as a form of apology."

When you remained silent, the Head Maid quickly added, "If this is a problem, we can leave immediately!"

You sighed, exasperated by the unnecessary fuss. "...I don't care," you muttered, dismissing the situation with a wave of your hand.

The other maids exchanged nervous glances before one of them, hands trembling, stepped forward holding one of the many gifts. "L-Lady Innamorati, would you like to open a gift from Pantalone?" she asked hesitantly.

You noticed her hands shaking and asked, "Are you cold?" Your gaze moved from her face to the others, who seemed equally uneasy.

"N-no, Lady Innamorati!" she shook her head quickly.

You sighed, realizing their fear. "You don't need to be afraid of me," you said in a gentler tone. "I don't bite, nor do I kill innocent people out of nowhere, despite what the rumors say."

Her face flushed with embarrassment, and the Head Maid stepped forward. "I must apologize for our behavior—"

"There's no need for an apology," you interrupted softly.

The maids exchanged relieved smiles, and the maid handed you the gift.

The gift was elegantly wrapped in luxurious paper, adorned with intricate designs and topped with a satin ribbon. You pulled on the ribbon, and the wrapping fell away to reveal a dark wooden box. Its surface was smooth and polished to a high sheen. You ran your finger over it, appreciating its fine craftsmanship before opening it.

Inside, nestled in velvet lining, was an exquisitely crafted set of red lipstick and eyeliner. The lipstick was encased in a gold-plated tube with delicate engravings, and the eyeliner's sleek design spoke of its high value.

Your eyes widened as memories from your past came flooding back. These items looked remarkably similar to those you had once cherished.

A rare smile broke across your face, a smile so uncommon that it felt almost foreign. In that moment, you might have remembered what it felt like to smile genuinely.

"Please convey my kind regards to Pantalone. I like this gift very much," you said with a light and soft tone, so gentle that the tension in the room dissipated. The maids visibly relaxed, their expressions softening.

"Yes, I will immediately relay your regards," the Head Maid replied, bowing deeply before exiting your bedroom.

"The makeup will surely suit you well, my Lady!" one maid said with an excited voice, her smile radiant.

"Then how about pairing it with these?" another maid suggested, presenting an incredibly high-quality box. Inside, nestled in plush velvet, lay an exquisite set of earrings and a necklace crafted from diamonds and crystals. The craftsmanship was impeccable, each gem catching the light and sparkling brilliantly.

"Another gift from Pantalone?" you asked, your eyes fixated on the pair of dazzling accessories.

"Yes!" the maid replied eagerly. "He wanted to ensure your happiness."

You examined the jewelry, appreciating the intricate design and the flawless cut of each gem. It was clear that no expense had been spared. The diamonds and crystals were of the highest quality, their brilliance unmatched. The necklace was elegant and refined, the earrings delicate yet striking.

"Such beautiful pieces," you murmured, tracing a finger over the diamonds. "Pantalone has truly outdone himself."

The maids exchanged pleased glances, their faces lighting up with pride at your approval. They had never seen you so engaged, and their excitement was palpable.

"Shall we assist you in trying them on, my Lady?" the Maid offered, her voice filled with anticipation.

You nodded, allowing them to help you with the delicate jewelry. As they fastened the necklace around your neck and secured the earrings, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The makeup and jewelry complemented each other perfectly, enhancing your natural beauty in a way that made you look even more ethereal.

"Thank you," you said softly, a rare smile gracing your lips once more. The maids beamed, their efforts rewarded by your approval.

As you sat back down, you couldn't help but feel a slight warmth in your heart. Despite the loneliness and the icy reputation you carried, there was a small comfort in knowing that someone, even someone as calculating as Pantalone, cared enough to send such thoughtful gifts.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open, and a Fatui Skirmisher barged in, holding an important-looking letter aloft. "Lady Innamorati...." He trailed off, his gaze fixated on your silky nightgown, which clung elegantly to your beautiful form.

"Hey! Don't look!" one maid shouted. "How dare you!" another maid scolded, rushing to shield you from his prying eyes. The skirmisher's face flushed bright red, and he quickly bowed.

"I apologize for barging in, my Lady! But an urgent letter from Her Royal Highness, the Tsaritsa, has arrived for you," he stammered, holding out the letter. One of the maids swiftly snatched it from his hand and ushered the skirmisher out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

She handed you the letter with a bow, and you took it, breaking the wax seal to reveal its contents. As you read, your eyes scanned over the elegant script:

'Dear Innamorati,

I deeply regret the incident involving Childe. Please accept my sincerest apologies on his behalf.

Your presence is required in Liyue. Your mission is to capture Osial, dead or alive, and deliver him to Dottore for experimentation. This task is of utmost importance. Failure is not an option.

Remember, Innamorati, the fate of our plans rests upon your shoulders.

Her Royal Highness, Tsaritsa'

Your smile faded as you read the letter. "Liyue... The Land of Contracts," you murmured, the name conjuring up a flood of fragmented memories.

Your expression grew distant. Liyue was a place you had avoided for a long time, a place associated with pain and loss.

The memories were always hazy, shrouded in the fog of time, yet the underlying emotions were unmistakable. Something terrible had happened there, something you had been trying to forget.

The maids noticed your change in demeanor, their faces filled with concern. "My Lady, is everything alright?" the maid asked softly.

You took a deep breath, regaining your composure. "I will prepare for the journey to Liyue. Please ensure everything is in order."

The maids nodded, already moving to assist you in changing into more appropriate attire for travel. They brought forth a luxurious yet practical ensemble, suitable for the journey ahead and the potential battles to come.

Once ready, you stood before the mirror, your appearance now befitting the formidable 0th Harbinger. The makeup and jewelry from Pantalone added an air of grace and power, while your new attire showcased your readiness for the mission.

With a final glance around your room, you felt a mix of determination and resignation. The journey ahead would be perilous, but failure was not an option.

As you stepped out into the cold, snowy landscape, your mind focused on the task at hand. The fate of the Fatui's plans and the will of the Tsaritsa rested upon your success.

"Osial," you whispered to yourself, the name echoing in the frigid air.

"I will not fail."

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You stopped at the edge of the hill, gazing down at the city below, bathed in a sea of lights and floating paper lanterns.

The Lantern Festival was in full swing, painting the night with a warm, ethereal glow. Each lantern, carefully crafted and illuminated from within, drifted upwards like a myriad of tiny stars, carrying the hopes and wishes of the people of Liyue Harbor.

The city was alive with a joyful buzz, music and laughter echoing through the streets, creating a stark contrast to the cold stillness of your perch.

You didn't want to go. You knew that within the vibrant heart of this city lay the seeds of your deepest anguish.

A past marked by betrayal and suffering that made you question the worth of gods and mortals alike. Stepping into the city would mean unraveling the painful memories piece by piece, a torment you weren't sure you were ready to face.

Your right hand rested on the hilt of your sword, the cold metal a comforting reminder of your power. You could erase this land from existence with a single strike, rendering its pain and betrayal into nothingness.

"The land of betrayal and pain..." you whispered to the breeze, your voice cold and detached. Your gaze, icy and unwavering, locked onto the heart of the festival below.

The lanterns, symbols of hope and renewal, floated gently upwards, oblivious to the dark thoughts they illuminated. The streets of Liyue Harbor were a tapestry of vibrant colors, filled with stalls selling traditional foods, children chasing each other with sparklers, and performers enchanting the crowds with their skills. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the sound of festive music, creating a sensory symphony that seemed almost otherworldly.

But to you, it was all a cruel mockery.

This land, with its beauty and its light, held the shadows of your past. Each step you took towards it felt like a step into the abyss, where every smile and every laugh could trigger the painful memories you had buried deep within.

With one last look at the glowing city and the floating lanterns, you began your descent toward Liyue Harbor, your heart a battleground of emotions. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with memories and challenges, but you knew you could not turn back. The echoes of your past would follow you, but so would the faint hope of redemption.

Your right hand tightened around the hilt of your scabbard, and you moved forward, ready to face whatever awaited you in the land of Contracts.

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nanenna · 4 months ago

Text

This Conversation is Exactly as it Should've Been

Sleepy King AU Masterpost

Slight change in chapter title because with this brand new POV we finally have someone being reasonable!

🌟✨💖✨🌟

Duke was in the middle of his midday patrol when he got B's alert. “Come to the Watchtower, O will brief.”

Ominous, but not overly so. Nothing about the message said it was super urgent, so Duke turned back but kept an eye on the streets below as he switched to Oracle's channel.

“Hey O, what's the sitch?”

“Oh boy, do I have a story for you!”

Two attempted muggings and one long explanation later…

“So B wants me up there… to be the Ghost King's welcoming committee?”

“You guessed it!”

“What.”

“B thinks Danny will be more comfortable with another teenager, once you're up there just guide him to the hangar and wave as he and whoever's on the craft leave.”

Duke switched out his helmet for a domino, it would help not hide his age, and got into the zeta tube, “And where is this guy?”

“Let me patch you into the team's channel.”

Duke set his comms to listening only, he knew how B operated.

“Kal,” came B's deep voice, “where is Danny right now?”

“Why?” Superman asked.

“So we can have someone nearby to guide Danny.”

“Wouldn't I be the best option?”

“No.”

There was an awkward moment of silence before some else spoke up. “Danny did run from you.”

“I have contacted an associate closer to his age, he's ready to go meet Danny.”

Superman sighed, “Of course you did. Anti-possession charm?”

“It's part of our standard equipment.”

That was news to Duke, he should ask about that later. Superman rattled off a floor number and directions to a storage room. Duke obligingly followed the directions.

“Danny spotted, he's out of the closet.”

Duke couldn't help snorting at O's joke. “Good for him!”

“Shush, he's heading towards you, just keep heading down the hall. And remember, play dumb.”

Duke could do that. He rounded a corner to see a brightly glowing mass of shadows shambling down the hall. The figure themself was a slightly greenish white, like a glacier put through a color filter, hair face and all. Their eyes were two neon green flashlights, like the Lazarus pits or kryptonite. Their whole body glowed, like they'd been dipped in glow-in-the-dark paint. Their aura was dark shadows, writhing around them. There was a jagged blackhole floating over their head.

Duke blinked and instead found a pale teenager with black hair, intensely blue eyes, and wrapped up in Batman's cape with pale fingers clutching it closed.

“Oh I was not the best choice for this,” he muttered under his breath. He shook his head to finish clearing his vision, then smiled at the guy now standing a couple yards away, eyeing Duke warily. He pasted on a bright smile and waved, “Hi, I'm Signal.”

“Signal?”

“Yeah, I work out of Gotham. And from the looks of it so will you.”

“Huh?” The guy, presumably Danny, looked down to where his slippered feet were poking out the front of the cape where it parted to drag behind him on the floor.

“Batman's cape, looks like the adoption craze has struck again. B keeps bringing home new kids, there's like half a dozen of us.” Duke laughed along with the polite titters on his comms. Then he stepped closer to Danny and stage whispered, “Half of us have black hair and blue eyes, so you'll fit right in.”

Danny looked at Duke skeptically, “Do you?”

“Sure do.”

Danny didn't seem to know how to react to that.

“So, where you heading? I know the Watchtower can be pretty confusing at first.”

Danny's eyes grew big as saucers, “I'm on the Watchtower?!”

“Yeah, want a tour?”

“I… I …” Danny nodded eagerly, then hesitated. “My ride’s here.”

“Oh cool, where they at?”

“The uh… the hangar?”

“I can show you where it is.” Duke started walking, Danny fell into step next to him, still clutching B's cape. Duke let the silence sit for a minute because…

“Marvel, Danny’s parents are ghost hunters,” B’s voice came over comms. Duke had no idea what was going on on Marvel’s end, O likely had him separated on that front.

“Are we sure sending the Ghost King home with ghost hunters is a wise idea?” Wonder Woman asked, trust her to ask the real questions.

“Yes!” Someone else said with heavy exasperation.

“They seem to have recently had a change in heart, they’ve denounced all their old work as flawed and outdated.” There was typing to go with O’s voice, likely showing everyone else said announcement.

It seemed the peanut gallery was calming down, so Duke turned his attention back to Danny. “So, you an orphan too?”

“No!” Danny sounded aghast.

“Ah, not as much a requirement as one might think. My sister, Orphan, still has both her parents, ironically enough. So does Spoiler and Batwing and Robin.”

Danny looked confused again. “Um… I'm pretty sure my ride is actually my parents.”

“That's cool, it's good to have supportive parents.”

Danny flushed, super obvious against his pale skin, but smiled happily. “Yeah.”

Danny seemed content to let the silence sit as they entered an elevator that would take them directly to the hangar. Duke wasn't done teasing yet. “So I told you my name, what's yours?”

“Oh um…” Danny looked down, “Danny.”

Duke raised an eyebrow, “Not got a code name yet,”

“No, I d- uh…” Danny's lips thinned. “Nope, just Danny. I'm not doing the whole,” a hand extended from the cape to gesture up and down Duke, “costume thing.”

Well that was an odd response, maybe Danny was the one steering the body after all. Then again, they had very little idea what Phantom looked like, and whether he considered himself a hero or was just being territorial.

“Well you don't have to if you don't want to. Lots of people with powers just lead normal lives.”

“Who said I have powers?” Danny asked defensively.

“Sorry, I shouldn't have assumed. It's still true though, as metas become more common it's going to be less common for them to go into cape work.”

“Yeah well, I don't even wear a cape.” Danny looked away with another blush.

Interesting.

Duke nudged Danny with his elbow, “You're wearing a cape eight now.”

Danny looked down and blushed all the more. “Fine, I guess I am.”

“But good choice, I don’t wear a cape either. Capes are cringe.”

Danny cringed at that, the blush coming back. So Danny does have a code name, is wearing a costume, and that included a cape at least for a little while.

The elevator slowed to a stop with a ding. The door opened into the hangar, where a small, unfamiliar craft sat in the middle of the otherwise cleared off runway. There was Captain Marvel and some people Duke didn't recognize standing near the craft. The strangers, one of whom was waving around a safety green baseball bat, seemed to be scolding Marvel, who had his hands up in surrender. Danny let out a relieved sigh as he stepped out of the elevator, quickly heading for the group.

“Danny!” One of the group said. Everyone’s attention turned to him, most of them smiling.

“Danno!” A large man in bright orange grinned and waved cheerfully. “We’ve been worried about you!”

“Hi, Dad, Mom, Jazz, Sam, Tuck,” Danny said in quick succession. “Sorry about that, I have no idea what’s going on or how I got here.”

The woman in teal turned her attention to Marvel, “Well someone was about to explain the whole situation to us, weren’t you mister champion of magic?”

Marvel grinned sheepishly, “Of course, ma’am.”

#nenna writes #fanfic #fanfiction #dpxdc #dc x dp #danny phantom #dc comics #justice league #justice league dark #for someone who's never read a signal comic i sure do love our sunshine boy #i almost had it be tim #but i felt like this fit duke better #so not ALL of the misconceptions are going to be cleared up #because team phantom CANNOT be told about the god egg #but we're just about done with this portion #still considering how danny finds out about the whole king thing though

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reilemon · 7 months ago

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♥︎Amore Immortale♥︎ Ch. 2

Chapter Title ♥︎ Curiosity and Comfort ♥︎ ch.1 𓂂 ch.3

♡︎synopsis: Unable to fall asleep after overhearing an argument, you unexpectedly find comfort in Xavier's presence.

♡︎pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus x fem!reader (separately and together)

♡︎tags: vampire au, slow burn (-ish), eventual romance, eventual smut, eventual polyamory

♡︎word count: 4.4k

♡︎a/n: I rewrote this chapter like five times.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @cafekitsune

The cool silk of the nightgown drapes softly over your skin as you sink into the bed, the lingering warmth from the bath helping you relax. The bed is welcoming you with fresh linens and warmth from the fireplace across the room. You reach out to the small stack of books left on the bedside table, probably picked out by Xavier. Your gaze shifts to the teapot and a single teacup resting on the table beside you, reminding you of Zayne’s presence. He’d only been here minutes before, setting the tray with steady hands and explaining, without offering any details, that they’d be away for a few hours tonight.

Your eyes drift to the crystal vase next to the tray, brimming with vivid autumn flowers. The petals bring a comforting warmth to the room, a reminder of how attentive they’ve been since the moment you arrived. It’s only your third night in this mansion, a place so remote you feel like you’re in an entirely different world, surrounded by complete strangers who, somehow, feel anything but strange.

Yesterday has passed in a haze, the fever pinning you to the bed, and the men had gone out of their way to make you feel comforted and tended to. Sylus and Rafayel had brought you the nightgowns and dresses you found in your wardrobe, pieces finer and softer than anything you’d ever worn. Xavier had kept you company, reading aloud in a gentle voice when your own eyes felt too heavy to make it past the first few words on a page. And Zayne—his meticulous care in crafting light meals, tea, and tinctures had left you feeling as if you’d been restored from within. Now, save for the faintest hint of the bruise above your brow, it was as though nothing had happened to you at all.

They’d insisted, though—Zayne especially—that you stay at least a night or two more to ensure your full recovery. The thought of leaving made you feel odd. Relieved that your health improved so fast, yet – you felt reluctance. You understand completely why you don’t want to leave, but you know you’re only an injured house guest here.

You open the book, letting your fingers glide over the thick, slightly worn pages, continuing where Xavier left off. As your eyes scan the first few lines, a smile tugs at your lips, and you nearly chuckle to yourself. You remember that first hazy night here, tucked in the same bed and looking at these high ceilings, with only the eerie silence for company. In your fevered state, a wild thought crossed your mind—that perhaps these men could be something other than human. Vampires – of all things.

Now, you couldn’t imagine how such a thought had crossed your mind. The household might seem unusual—Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, and Rafayel all clearly different, probably not related, living in this mansion hidden far from everything—but they’d shown you nothing but kindness. Their attentiveness, their patience, the constant tending to your well-being—it made you feel almost guilty for the thought. Perhaps the head injury, the fever, had sent your mind spiraling into those strange corners, blurring logic with fantasy.

But still, there was something undeniably unusual about this household and the way it worked. You blink, the page turning slightly out of focus as your thoughts drift. Odd, you think, that four young men live here without any...

Your eyes flutter shut, the unfinished thought slipping away as sleep settles over you, the book settling on your chest.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The creak of the staircase pulls you from sleep, and you blink, momentarily disoriented. The book lies half-open on your chest, its pages ruffled from where you drifted off. You stir, your ears picking up low voices from somewhere downstairs and heavy footsteps. They ascend the stairs, not toward your room, but past it, fading into the distance.

As you blink away the fog of sleep, you realize that the men must have returned. But there’s something… off. You listen as multiple voices overlap in muffled conversation from downstairs. Their tones, hushed yet tense, are different than the warm and comforting voices that you’ve come to know.

You turn onto your side, clutching the duvet, trying to will yourself back to sleep. But the restlessness simmering within you refuses to let you drift off again. You catch some snippets of movement—a few footsteps pacing, a chair scraping, low murmurs —and an unbearable curiosity pushes you to sit up. You hesitate, but the need to know gnaws at you, compelling you out of bed. Moving slowly, you slide out from under the covers, careful to let your feet touch the floor without a sound. Tiptoeing across the room, you reach the door and press your ear to the wood.

You hear footsteps again, and you freeze, barely breathing as they descend the staircase just outside your room. They stop midway for a moment, and then continue downward, finally reaching the ground floor where probably the rest of them are conversing.

Zayne’s voice cuts through first. “Next time, we can’t afford any more slip-ups. We were... lucky tonight.”

Sylus’s deep, annoyed tone follows. “If you’d let me handle it, we’d have been done hours ago. But no—”

Then comes Rafayel, his voice clear and firm. “Stop. It’s useless to argue now.”

The conversation dips for a moment, a brief silence settling over them. You almost step away, but then Xavier’s soft voice reaches you, quieter than the others. “I’m fine,” he murmurs, almost as though he’s trying to reassure someone. “It’s nothing, really…”

You strain to hear more, but their voices have softened, losing the edge they held only moments ago.

With a last attempt to catch any final word, you step away from the door. Your first instinct is to pace around the room, to shake off the tension coursing through you. But you force yourself to stay still, wary of letting them know you’re awake. Instead, you settle back into bed, pulling the duvet up around your shoulders, but your mind refuses to quiet. When Zayne mentioned they’d be out for the evening, you’d imagined something lighthearted—a celebration, perhaps, or an event in some nearby town.

Curiosity gnaws at you, making you toss and turn, urging you to find out more. Still, you feel a reluctance to pry - they’d taken you in, a stranger, letting you stay without hesitation, and the last thing you want is to betray their trust. But beyond curiosity, there’s a lingering need to do more. It feels maybe naive, but there’s an urge to comfort them, to offer something back for the kindness they’ve shown you.

Yet…how could you, without admitting you’d been listening?

As you turn again, your eyes settle on the empty teacup resting on the table beside you, as you wait for the sound of footsteps outside your door. This is your third night here, and last night, Zayne had quietly come in to take the empty cup, and relight the fire in the hearth. His presence had felt comforting, his voice a warm murmur as he asked if you needed anything else before he left.

But tonight, the room remains silent, the warmth from the fire has dwindled to a faint glow. Zayne doesn’t appear, at least not in the next few minutes while you wait. You sit up, feeling a surge of determination wash over your hesitation. You reach for the tray with the empty teacup, hoping it will serve as an innocent excuse for stepping outside.

The door creaks softly as you ease it open, and just as you step into the hallway, Zayne appears, making you flinch and the porcelain clink. He stops, his gaze landing on the tray in your hands, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“You should be resting,” he says softly. He reaches out, taking the tray from your hands, his fingertips brushing yours briefly before he steps past you into the room.

You linger in the doorway, watching as he sets the tray down and moves toward the fireplace, kneeling to stoke the coals back into a steady flame. He doesn’t look at you right away, his expression focused, brow faintly furrowed. You want to ask him if he’s alright, but the words catch in your throat.

After a moment, he stands and turns back to you, his expression softening as he studies your face. Without a word, he reaches out, the back of his hand cool as it presses lightly to your forehead. His eyes meet yours, the faintest hint of a smile lifting his lips. “You’re nearly back to yourself.”

You open your mouth, ready to ask this time, but his gaze shifts.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks gently.

You shake your head, offering a soft “thank you” as Zayne picks up the tray, his lips lifting in a faint, reassuring smile. “Good night,” he murmurs, and with a gentle click, he closes the door behind him.

As soon as he’s gone, a heavy sigh escapes your lips. The warmth of his kindness is there, but tonight he is more reserved. You sit down on the edge of the bed, your mind racing to find another way to get closer to whatever they’re keeping hidden. But every option seems flimsy. With a restless sigh, you reach for the book on your bedside table, flicking through its pages, the words slipping past your eyes without meaning. Minutes crawl by, but the unease hasn’t faded. Closing the book with a quiet thud, you set it aside, steeling yourself as you stand.

A harmless excuse… sweets. You know it’s thin, and that Zayne had just asked if you needed anything, but at this point, any excuse to step out feels better than staying in this restless haze. Taking a deep breath, you ease the door open once more.

The door creaks, louder than you’d like, and you wince at the sound, pausing mid-step. But the moment you step out, movement catches your eye. You turn to see Xavier down the hallway, wearing pajamas and a silk robe. His gaze shifts toward you, his hand just on the handle of what you assume must be his bedroom door. His eyes meet yours, his expression softening as he takes a step closer.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, his voice warm.

You part your lips, ready to give your hastily-prepared excuse, but your words falter the moment your eyes trace over a thin scratch on his cheek. Your heart skips, a pang of worry tightening your chest. And then you see his hand—bandaged.

“What happened?” you ask, your voice almost too loud in the quiet of the hall.

Xavier’s gaze flickers down at his hand. He brushes it off with a light shrug, as if the wound were nothing but a scrape. “Nothing serious,” he murmurs. His eyes meet yours again, calm and sweet, as they always are.

Xavier smiles softly as he takes in your concerned gaze. “But why aren’t you in bed?”

You open your mouth to press him further, hoping for something, anything, but you know it’s futile. Resigned, you settle on your flimsy excuse. “I… I wanted to get some sweets,” you murmur.

A slight smirk touches his lips, and he tilts his head. “Sweets? You probably shouldn’t eat those before bed,” he teases, his eyes catching yours with a playful glint.

You shift under his gaze, feeling the faintest blush creep onto your cheeks. “I just… I can’t sleep,” you mumble, lowering your gaze.

Xavier’s gaze shifts to your bedroom door. For a second, you think he might suggest that you return to your bed after all. But then, with a small sigh, he glances back at you and says, “I’d offer to take you to the library, but it’s a bit of a mess at the moment.”

Your eyes light up, and before you can stop yourself, you’re nodding eagerly. “I don’t mind at all! I’d love to see it!”

Xavier raises an eyebrow, surprised by your sudden enthusiasm. He blinks once, and then chuckles. “Well now I can’t say no.” he murmurs, unable to mask the warmth in his gaze as he takes in the lively gleam in your eyes. “Follow me.”

He turns, guiding you down the dimly lit hallway. The quiet between you feels comfortable. Though he is injured, he seems to be doing fine, with his familiar calm expression and steady walk. Maybe nothing serious happened after all. Being confined in between four walls may be the cause of your overactive imagination.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

As Xavier pushes open the library doors, a faint scent of wood, old leather, and parchment fills the air, enveloping you in that unmistakable fragrance of long-forgotten books. Your eyes adjust to the darkness in the room, noting immediately that Xavier wasn’t exaggerating. Piles upon piles of books are stacked in nearly every corner, most of the shelves are still dusty and empty. The room itself isn’t vast, but it’s larger than the bookstore back in your village, with high ceilings and walls lined with rich, dark wood paneling. While you’re captivated by the room’s potential, Xavier quietly moves across the room, opening the heavy curtains, letting the moonlight illuminate the room. Then he moves towards the center of the room, crouching down to light the fire in the large stone fireplace. It takes only a few moments before the first crackling flames rise, casting a warm, golden glow.

“Come over here,” he calls softly, gesturing for you to join him.

You wrap your silk robe a little tighter around you, shivering slightly, and step toward him. As you reach his side, you notice that this corner has been carefully arranged. Thick blankets and oversized pillows are gathered in a cozy nook by the hearth, creating a warm nest. Xavier watches you with a smile, his gaze attentive as you take in the inviting corner. You settle beside him on the fuzzy blanket, the fire’s warmth radiating through the corner as Xavier gently pulls another blanket around your shoulders. The fabric is thick and soft, warding off the lingering chill of the room.

“Have you noticed the ceiling?” he asks.

Curious, you look up, and a small gasp escapes your lips. Above you, stretching across the high ceiling, is a stunning, intricately painted night sky. Swirls of deep blue and violet mix with specks of gold and white, forming constellations and stars. Each star glints in tandem with the shadows, giving the illusion that the night sky itself watches over you. Xavier observes your reaction with a soft, knowing smile, the faintest hint of pride in his eyes as he watches you take it all in. “It’s beautiful,” you breathe.

Your eyes gaze over the ceiling, over the tall windows, towards the empty shelves that line the walls. Even in its disarray, the library feels timeless. As you pull the blanket tighter, a thought crosses your mind, and you glance over at him. “Did you all just move here?” you ask, your voice soft.

He shifts, his gaze falling to the fire. “We’re still settling in, you could say.” His answer leaves you with more questions than before.

You catch yourself before pressing further. Instead, your gaze wanders around the room, over the books scattered and stacked in every corner, the empty shelves waiting to be filled. “Well,” you say with a light chuckle, “if it’s just you, it’ll take you weeks—maybe months—to sort all of this.”

He nods in agreement. “You’re right,” he replies, a faint, tired smile ghosting his lips. “It can feel tedious at times. Zayne helps here and there, but even with two of us, it’s an endless task.”

Before you can second-guess yourself, the words are already out. “I could help you with it.”

His attention shifts back to you, studying your face with a spark of intrigue, waiting for you to say more.

“I… work in a bookstore,” you explain, almost shyly. “It’s nothing grand, but I know my way around organizing stacks of books. And, well, I’d like to return your kindness for taking care of me.” You finish with a small shrug.

Xavier’s eyes brighten. “A bookstore…” he murmurs thoughtfully. Xavier’s gaze softens as he considers your offer. “I appreciate the offer,” he says “But for now, your task is to rest and get back to full strength.”

You nod in agreement. Then, Xavier leans to the side, plucking out a book from a small pile on the floor. It’s the one he’d read to you the day before. He turns, holding up the book. “Would you like to stay here, or would you rather go back to your room?”

You look around the cozy corner, the thick blankets and cushions strewn around you. You glance up at him, meeting his patient gaze. “Could we stay here?”

He nods with a quiet smile. “Of course,”

You settle in, sinking into the soft pillows and pulling the warm blankets snug around you. He sits beside you, close enough that you can feel the faint brush of his shoulder when he shifts. The fire crackles softly, its glow casting flickering shadows across the room, and the warmth wraps around you like a comforting embrace. As he begins to read the lines, it feels like the rest of the world has disappeared, leaving only the two of you.

The flickering firelight bathes his face in soft, golden hues, highlighting the bridge of his nose and the curve of his lips. Your eyes linger on his soft lips a moment too long, and when you glance up, your breath catches—he’s looking at you, his lips curling into the faintest, knowing smile, before turning the page and continuing. Your cheeks are burning, and you steel your gaze to the fireplace.

The story takes a lighter turn, the characters exchanging playful banter, and you can’t help but laugh softly at one of the lines. Xavier glances at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he chuckles along. As he continues reading, the restlessness from before is finally drifting away. Your blinks grow slower, each one a little heavier than the last. You try to fight it, not wanting the moment to end, but your body has other plans. Your eyes flutter closed briefly.

After a quiet moment, he closes the book with a soft thud. “You’ll be more comfortable in your bed.”

You shake your head with a sleepy smile. “No, I’m fine here,” you protest, your voice barely above a murmur.

Xavier chuckles softly. “Comfortable, maybe,” he says, leaning closer, “but it’s too cold to sleep here all night. You’ll catch a cold.”

You start to protest, something about being perfectly fine, but the words catch in your throat when you feel his arms slide under you, the blanket still wrapped snugly around your form. Before you can register what’s happening, he lifts you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest.

“Xavier,” you murmur, heat rushing to your face. “I—I can walk, you know.”

“I know,” he says simply, a soft smile tugging at his lips as his arms tighten slightly around you.

Your head rests naturally on his shoulder, your face close to the crook of his neck. His scent, subtle and clean, fills your senses. His footsteps echo softly against the wooden floors as he carries you down the dimly lit hallway. Every so often, you feel his thumb brush lightly against your shoulder, a comforting gesture that sends a soft flutter through your chest.

His warmth and scent make you flustered and now you’re wide awake by the time you reach your bedroom. He nudges the door open with his shoulder and crosses the threshold, moving carefully until he’s at the edge of your bed. As Xavier gently sets you down on the bed, you feel yourself start to sink comfortably into the mattress. But when he begins to lift the blanket off, it is simply not budging - in your half-asleep state, you’ve somehow managed to wrap yourself up so thoroughly that you’re practically cocooned. The fabric has twisted around your legs and tangled around your arms. Xavier laughs softly at the cozy mess you’ve created.

“Snug as a bug in a rug.” he teases, lightly tugging on one corner.

You can’t help but laugh as you try to wriggle out of the fabric. With mutual efforts, the fabric begins detangling around your limbs.

Finally, after a last tug, he manages to pull the blanket completely. You exhale in relief as the laughter subsides, and you sit up, adjusting the silk robe that had gotten a little loose.

Xavier tosses the blanket on the chair near your bed, and turns to you with the amusement already faded from his expression.

“You’re really okay?” he asks quietly.

The question catches you off guard. You nod. “I am,” you whisper. “Thanks to all of you.”

His lips curve into a faint smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good.”

The stillness stretches, the room is quiet except for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. You swallow, hesitating for a moment, unsure if you should say anything at all. But - “Could you…” you start softly, your hands fidgeting in your lap. “Maybe stay? Just—just to sleep.”

His eyes widen just slightly. He searches your face, as if making sure he’s understood you. “You want me to stay?”

You nod. “I just – I would like some company.” Your voice falters slightly, a faint blush creeping up your cheeks as you speak, but you don’t look away.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, his gaze holding yours. With an almost imperceptible nod, he says, “Okay.”

Relief floods through you, though the calm is short lived as both of you discard the robes and slip under the duvet, making your heart pick up the pace. You’re clad in nothing but a silk nightgown and undergarments, only inches away from one of the - from a man that gives you butterflies.

“Better?” he asks softly.

You nod, swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat. “Yeah… much better,” you murmur, but you barely register your words, distracted by the way his eyes linger on yours, then on your lips. Your heart pounds as the moment stretches, and then slowly, you’re leaning in, testing the waters. You close the distance just a fraction, your lips close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. Your heart races, the anticipation nearly unbearable. After a moment he mirrors your movement, his face inching closer, until you’re just a breath apart. Xavier pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours one last time. You don’t pull away. Instead, you lean in just a bit more, and that’s all the encouragement he needs.

His lips meet yours, gentle and warm. You return the kiss, your breath hitching at the softness of his lips, the way they tenderly move against yours, making you feel those butterflies again. Xavier’s fingers graze your jaw, his touch feather-light at first, before he cups your cheek in his hand, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, his lips pressing more firmly against yours. You let out a soft sigh, as your hands instinctively move to grip the fabric of his shirt.

Suddenly, breathless, he pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes search yours, “Is this okay?” he asks.

You can barely form words, your heart pounding in your chest. “More than okay,” you manage to whisper, your lips still tingling from the kiss.

Before you can say anything more, his mouth is on yours again. His lips moving hungrily against yours, his hand holding the back of your head as he pulls you closer. Your fingers find purchase in his hair - his soft, fluffy hair – every graze of his lips stealing your breath away. All you can feel is him—the way his hands trace down your back, pressing you flush against him, his scent, his warm breath and the taste of his lips.

Xavier’s hands slide along your side, his fingertips grazing the thin fabric of your nightgown. He shifts his weight, and you sink back onto the mattress, his body following until he hovers over you, his hands resting on either side of your head. Your legs part instinctively, and he accepts the invitation without a second thought. The soft fabric of your nightgown rides up, bunching around your hips as his body presses flush against yours, eliciting a soft gasp from your lips. The only barriers between you are the thin fabric of his pajama pants and your undergarments, and they’re doing nothing to dull the dizzying feeling of his hard length perfectly pressed against your clothed slit.

Xavier groans softly, the sound vibrating against your lips as he kisses you deeply, his tongue teasing yours in a way that makes your toes curl. His hands find your waist, his fingers digging into your skin as he rolls his hips against yours. His hard length grinds against your wet folds, and your back arches instinctively, seeking more of him.

He pulls away slightly, taking in the sight of your beautiful face as you moan under him. Then his lips trail over your jawline to your neck. His warm breath fans over your skin, and when his teeth graze the sensitive, thin skin on the side of your neck, a small whimper escapes you at the sensation. His tongue follows, soothing it, and you shiver beneath him, your hands clutching his shoulders, pulling him even closer. His hips grind harder now, the friction against your clit making you soak through the fabric of your underwear. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as his lips return to yours, his kiss hungry, desperate. Every sensation is driving you closer to the edge, your hips moving in tandem with his, both of you chasing the pleasure.

But then, he stills, his forehead pressing against yours as he catches his breath.

“We should slow down,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks.

You blink up at him, dazed, your body still thrumming from his touch. “Why?”

He swallows hard, “You’re still recovering,” he says gently, his thumb brushing your cheek.

You want to protest, but the words get lost in your throat, and you can only nod. It’s frustratingly true—you’re not fully back to your strength, and he’s injured. He gives you a tender kiss, before lying back on the mattress. He pulls you into a soothing embrace, your head resting against his chest, your eyelids growing heavy at the sound of his heartbeat.

#love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #xavier smut #zayne smut #sylus smut #rafayel smut #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader

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super-lovely-star · 9 months ago

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🍁Fall Activities and Stuff for Middle Regressors🍁

Go outdoors and stomp in some crunchy, dry leaves. Bonus points if it’s at an empty playground!

Pick out a spooky movie and have a movie night. It doesn’t have to be horror, there are plenty of cartoon/kids show Halloween specials that aren’t too scary! It’s even more fun when you have pizza or some other nostalgic food to snack on.

If you go to school/classes, you can pick out fun stationary like folders with characters on them, cute notebooks, and scented pencils.

If you don’t go to school but would still like a back to school experience, you can set up a little classroom for your plushies and read chapter books with them

Think of fun Halloween costumes to make. It doesn’t have to be expensive. A pair of animal ears for your favorite animal has never failed me.

If you don’t want to dress up personally but still want to make a costume, you can make some for your favorite plushies out of materials like craft felt or construction paper.

If there’s a farm near you, they might have apple/pumpkin picking!

Another outdoors activity is taking a nature walk! The trees look so pretty during fall, so make sure to bring some plushies so they can see them too! You can take pictures of them in the fallen leaves.

Speaking of leaves, you can find the most perfect ones and press them in a book. Just make sure they aren’t completely brittle or they’ll break!

You can go camping, for real or for pretend. I don’t like real camping, so I make a fort out of blankets and use an LED lantern and make s’mores in the microwave lol.

Go check out a thrift store for cozy sweaters and other stylish fall clothing. If you go close to Halloween, they’ll have interesting stuff that you can make costumes out of!

For some reason I find going to the library very nostalgic around this time of year, so I recommend doing that! Most libraries have middle grade chapter books.

Set up a cozy corner in your room with lots of blankets and pillows and plushies, for reading or gaming in!

Plant some seeds or bulbs for the summer. This generally works best outdoors, but if you don’t have a yard you can probably still have luck planting it in a flower pot.

Research the seasonal behaviors of your local wildlife! You can watch squirrels burying acorns, and birds migrating. Just be sure to do so from a safe distance,

Make something tasty, like candy apples or a sweet with lots of cinnamon! Make sure you have supervision if you need it.

Happy Fall and have fun!

#nostalgia #sfw middle regression #sfw agere #middle regression #agere blog #agere #sfw agedre #age regression #agedre #sfw age regression #agere textpost #agere list #agere activities #fall #autumn #activities

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cuinaminute229 · 25 days ago

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Tremble, little lion

pairing: Agatha x Rio x reader

summary: A request from Death herself can change so many things. A path already set is altered when Rio comes to you with words that make it so hard to refuse her.

a/n: I'm alive! This has been in my drafts forever and I keep rewriting the first chapter so I just decided I'm going to just post it. So here ya go :)

part 2

...

“I would like for you to look after someone for me.”

Rio comes to you with this request as the sun kisses the treetops. It’s a cloudy afternoon. You’ve just returned from a nearby river, a basket full of berries and a book in one hand.

You frown at her request. “Where are you going?”

As far as you know there’s no one Rio trusts that much, let alone you. Especially you. You’re just a witch, a coven-less witch at that. Why would she ask this of you?

It’s only your peculiar use of the craft that lets you see her and it’s only Rio herself that stays long enough to be known.

She doesn’t look away at your question, she doesn’t back down. She clears her throat and when she responds, her voice is steady. “There is someone waiting for me. I promised him an adventure. I don’t know how long we are going to be gone.”

Rio moves her hands behind her back as she waits. Her cloak is the deep color of the forest at dusk and her hood is down. She watches you with a guarded look and would almost worry you if you didn't know who Rio is.

“You trust me that much?” You ask her after a moment. You haven't seen Rio in months which you know is no time for her but it's not the same for you. You're used to being alone, used to her spontaneous comings and goings but this feels like a request too big for you.

“I trust you enough.” She gives you a nod and yet she still doesn't move. “I wouldn't ask if I didn't feel this would be necessary.”

You look her over for just a moment and then you set your basket and book down into the grass and take a step closer to her.

She looks exactly the same which doesn't startle you, you know Rio. You know who she is. But this request, it's new and strange.

“Are you okay?” That is all you will allow yourself to ask. Because Rio doesn't let anyone pry, she barely gives either way and yet you've learned to read her in ways that words do not say.

She gives you a small nod but no smile. No words. She looks distant and tired. Rio looks like she doesn't want to be on this plane or existence.

You make a choice that's full chance. You walk over to her, closing the distance with small steps. The moment you are close enough to reach out and touch her, you wait.

You don't ask what's happened, it's not your place. But you know Rio. You've known her for years. She's a phenomenal green witch, she's an interesting mentor, and you would even consider her a friend.

“Tell me the truth and I will agree.”

Rio, since showing up, finally smiles. She tilts her head and lets her shoulders relax. “He is special. The one waiting for me. He is young and bright and his mother is a force to be reckoned with.” She glances away, towards the tree line and shakes her head.

When she steps towards you, you listen. You wait for her.

“I walk through death like it's home. I see families, empires and kingdoms all die. There are rules to what I do.” Rio glances back at you and her eyes are as dark as the night sky without stars. “But this, I can't break any more rules. I can't bend or stretch, I can't do anything. I feel helpless.”

She takes a breath that is unnecessary and closes her eyes for just a moment. And this time you do move, you step up right in front of her and you pull her into a hug that you know she needs.

Rio's touch is like a dip in a freezing lake and still you pull her closer. She buries her face into your neck and clings to you with a strength you always forget she has.

He's special. That's what she said. You can only guess how special from what she’s just told you. Rules, broken and bent.

Rio doesn't break the rules. She's a stickler for rules. He must be incredibly special. You don't say anything as you hold her, no words can make whatever happened better, you know this.

Rio doesn't cry. You've never seen her cry. But now, you hear her as she fights with emotions that are too complex for you to understand. And still you hold her steady, a silent anchor.

When she pulls back, a small sniffle makes her nose scrunch up and you find yourself brushing your fingers under her eyes to wipe at her tears. She does not protest, she doesn't move away.

Rio closes her eyes and just breathes.

It's as your hands brush to cradle her jaw, her fingers digging into your waist and brows furrowed, do you wonder if she has no more tears to cry. “Whatever you need. I am here.” You tell her with a whisper.

“You are too good.” She steps back and opens her eyes as your touch falls away. Rio's eyes are like liquid coal, so dark.

You know she wants to leave, gather her footing away from you. The small tilt of her head towards the l forest is a subtle tell you know well. But there's a tugging at your chest that tells you not to let her leave. Not like this.

“Rio,” Her name on your lips is barely a whisper, almost a plea and she turns back to you with a frown. You want to reach for her, you want to take her hands into yours and let your touch ground her. “Stay, just for tonight.”

When she glances past your shoulder you know she's looking at the cabin. The place Rio helped build.

Her touch is everywhere. The flowerbed that sits on either side of the stairs, the two rocking chairs that sit on the porch, even the small table that usually holds carving tools and whatever project Rio was working on at the time.

It's been months since you’ve seen her and yet she's everywhere in the place you call home.

“I can make you some tea.” You add when she is quiet for too long. Then a thought comes to mind and you smile. Rio waits for you to say what you're thinking. “You have to meet Tom. You're going to love him.”

The name causes her to look back at the cabin, eyes searching for something. You know she can easily find him, using her magic to find his life force. But when she repeats his name, a whisper of curiosity, you think she's going to follow you.

It takes a moment, a long drawn out moment that feels like purgatory before she gives in with a small nod.

You step back to grab your basket and book before holding out your hand for Rio. She lets you lead her to the door and her voice is soft when you move to open the door handle. “I missed you.”

The words make you stop short for just a moment before you glance back at her as you push open the door. You give her a small smirk and whisper back, “You just missed my cooking."

That pulls a genuine smile from Rio and you close the door behind the two of you.

Rio glances around for a moment as you walk off towards the kitchen, leaving the basket and book on the table. She has nothing to worry about, everything is the same as when she stopped visiting but that's not what seems to irk her.

She glances over at you and when you look up from grabbing the tea bags, it seems the time for tears is over. Rio is watching you and you raise an eyebrow at her when silence crawls across the room.

“Are you judging the decor because I remember you wanting to add certain things that I thought were questionable.”

That makes her smile and you decide if Rio is done with showing her grief then you will act as if things are normal.

“You've butchered my decorative bone sculpture.”

Now that stops you in your tracks and you almost drop your favorite mug. You look at Rio like she's lost her mind and glance over at the sculpture that's definitely not butchered, it just had a hat on its head.

But then she's smirking and you glare at her, shaking your head with a sigh. “You are the worst.”

“You should have seen your face.” She chuckles to herself and goes back to looking around the living room. “If you would have let someone else in here while I was gone I would feel left out.”

You shake your head in response, a small smile on your lips. You let her look because that's always the fun part.

Making tea requires little magic, just a touch to warm the water and then you can continue without it. The mundane motion is a comfort that's easy to get lost in.

It doesn't take long. You're actually surprised it took this long before he made himself known.

A soft meow fills the silence and you glance behind you with a small smile. Rio's attention has shifted, she's glancing around in confusion and determination.

You turn back to the tea and let her find him on her own. There is no urgency to your movements, no distrust at her being so close to something so special. You had wanted it to be a surprise, and this is as good as any.

“His name is Tom?” She looks up as you carry two cups of steaming hot tea out of the kitchen. You place them on the wooden coffee table that sits in front of the couch and take a seat next to her.

Rio is holding the little black cat in her lap, her nails scratching lightly at the back of his head. You can hear his purrs at the attention.

You give her a nod and she turns her attention back to the feline. “I found him a few weeks ago. He was caught in a hunter's trap.”

Rio glances up at you with a frown. “There are no hunter traps near here. Where did you go?”

With the excuse of your tea you take a sip and shrug, and then you get up from the couch and walk over to the bookcase. The spines of the books are bare, a safekeep of knowledge if anyone got past your wards and tried to steal from you. With a whispered spell, fingers dancing over a row of books, the names come to the surface.

While Rio is gone you were left with no studies, no mentor so you took to traveling with spells that could get you in more trouble than worth. But the need for knowledge, for understanding is something you inherited from your mother.

So you traveled and still you always came back, hoping you would see any signs that Rio returned. And while traveling, in the middle of a rumored haunted forest behind a small village, you found Tom. And a book.

You grab the book and walk back over to Rio, holding out the book for her to take. “I found this when I found him. I thought you would find it interesting.”

Rio looks at the book for a long moment before reaching for it and placing it on the table. Her attention goes back to Tom and you smile. Of course he's stolen her from you.

“How did you come up with his name? Because I remember us talking about familiar names before and Tom wasn't on the list.”

“I specifically remember you putting Thackery on the list.” You raise an eyebrow at her and Rio smirks as she scratches Tom's chin.

“You remember correctly.” Rio says and you shake your head with a smile.

To be honest you didn't even have time to think before starting the ritual. You didn't even know if it was going to work. It was adrenaline and panic that pushed you and the first name that escaped was Tom.

Besides, what can you say? A witch and a cat familiar is as stereotypical as it gets and still the entire process was as impulsive as it could have gotten. You love Tom, he's an extension of who you are now.

Tom turns to you with a meow and your fondness only grows. Of course he likes her, she's giving him many pets.

“You said the first name you could think of, didn't you?” Rio glances at you with a knowing smirk.

You think about defending yourself but she's right. The first name that came to mind was Tom. “I was a little preoccupied trying to save his life.”

“Well I think it's perfect, right Tom?” Rio turns back to the black cat, scrunching her nose playfully when he reaches a paw out to her face. Her touch is gentle as her fingers drag lines through his fur, and Tom is basking in the attention.

You had refused to let him outside earlier because he loves to mess up the flowers and you've grown tired of walking by just to see them ruined again. Rio would love to know that little detail, that Tom loves to chew on her flowers but you'll let him have this, just for now.

“I think he likes you.” You tell Rio after a moment of just watching the two. Tom's eyes are closed and his purrs are loud as Rio gives him all the attention. You might even think that she's going to become his favorite.

The small tilt of her head, the fall of her hair as she turns to look at you, even the darkness of her eyes makes you want to hug her again.

“I like him too. You picked a good one.”

It's when you nudge the tea towards her does Rio finally reach for it, she holds it close and closes her eyes as she smells the mint. The small upturn of her lips makes you look away.

The fire burns bright against the dying wood, flames dancing with a rhythm that's exceptionally hard to find and still you stare. The sight is a relief, it's comforting.

It's only with a tilt of your head, a twitch of a finger, does the fire come alive in a different way. The burning edges take the form a dog, it runs around with a wagging tail and it makes you smile.

The soft hum of amusement draws your attention back to Rio, she's watching the illusion. “My turn.”

The competitive glint in her eyes when she glances at you then back at the fire calms your nerves.

As you turn back to the fire, the dog is now chasing a bird. It runs around and jumps to try and catch it but the bird is always faster.

It flaps its fiery wings and swoops around like it's showing off, and yet the dog never gives up the chase. It's tail wags and it bounces to try and reach the bird, failing every time.

The very moment the bird flies out of the fireplace, its fiery body soaring through the air a few times before crashing back into the fire, you turn to Rio with narrowed eyes and the hint of a smile.

“Show off.” You mutter but your words have no bite. Her smile is small and you don't want to break it. So when she turns her attention back to Tom, brushing her fingers through his soft fur, whispering words you can not hear, you let her be. Even for a moment.

Because sometimes words are too much. Sometimes all it takes to feel better is holding a small animal in your hands and knowing that it trusts you. And Tom, you can tell without a doubt trust her. Not as death, but as Rio.

You watch them with a soft expression. Tom, in her lap purring loudly, looking entirely content. Rio, brushing her fingers through his fur, scratching under his chin, leaning down to touch her nose with his. It feels special and vulnerable.

“You know he's going to live as long as you.” Rio finally speaks after a long moment. She tilts her head just a bit to look over at you.

You try to pretend you weren't watching them but it feels impossible not to look away. You hum softly in response, shrugging just a bit. “I know.”

Rio smiles. Turning her attention back to your familiar, green wisps of magic dance at her fingertips as she brushes over his fur and you watch, curious and suspicious.

You feel it. The instance whatever Rio’s done has settled into the bond. You narrow your eyes at her and debate on saying anything. But she beats you to it, with a playful glint in her eyes and a small smirk that tells you she knows exactly what you feel.

“He's fine. You can breathe.” She teases you softly and you look between Tom and her, and he does seem fine. Perfectly okay.

“What did you do?”

Rio says nothing, just gives you a private smile as she continues brushing her fingers through Tom's fur.

“If you want to leave I won't stop you.” The words are soft, a whisper really. A reminder that this is still her choice.

And still Rio gives you a half smile before turning back to Tom who is currently rolled over and playing with her hand. Teeth and claws can't hurt her and yet you know he's not trying to.

And she stays.

She drinks the tea and helps you make dinner, and she even tells you some old joke she's been carrying around for the right moment, which it seems is now. Rio doesn't cry again. She doesn't explain or vent. She's just here, in the moment. With you and Tom.

And when morning comes. When the sun shines through open windows and the sound of birdsong echoes through the woods, Rio is still here.

“Let me make you breakfast.” You haven't made her breakfast in months. You miss it, the quiet moments, soft words and normalcy of it. And you want to see what it’s like to have her in your kitchen again, what it’s like to have this with her. “Please.”

As Rio looks back at you, smile turned soft; she lets you have this. “Only because you said please.”

“Thank you.” You grin and she reaches out to brush your hair back, her finger traces your ear and you don't breathe as she leans closer to you. Her lips are soft as she kisses your cheek and the touch is so intimate that you think your control is going to break.

To kiss Rio, to be kissed by Rio, that’s an urge you won’t ever let become words.

“You're too good.” She whispers but you disagree, you shake your head and take her hand in your own. She's warm under your touch.

The truth is so simple it should be easy. But you know she overlooks things when it comes to herself and still you don't mind having to remind her. “You deserve it.”

It’s when Rio leaves, a promise to return and Tom perched on her shoulders you let yourself almost believe you could get used to this. She said she wanted to get him some pheasant this morning as a treat and there was no way you would deny her.

The cabin is silent as you make breakfast but you don't feel alone. You know she won't stay but you missed this. Having her here with you.

As the front door opens some time later you look up to see her again. She has her hood up and somehow Tom is still on her shoulders, a bird feather between his teeth as his bright eyes look for you. He perks up at the smell of bacon and crawls out of Rio’s hood to jump on the floor and trot towards you.

He places the feather at your feet and meows, flicking his tail back and forth as he waits for his treat. You shake your head and tear a piece of bacon and set it on the floor as you take the feather.

“I think he likes you more than me.” You chuckle and look back to Rio. She’s lowered her hood and her eyes are on the two plates in front of you. She walks over slowly and sits down across from you.

“Blueberries?” She asks, picks up a blueberry and looks at you with a raised eyebrow. You nod in response, place the feather down next to your plate and take a sip of your tea.

“Special treat.” You shrug as you tear apart your bacon and nibble on one piece.

Rio loves blueberries. It was one of the first things you learned about her. It was the berries in your basket the other day.

When Tom jumps on the table to grab another piece of bacon you shoo him away with a soft wave of green magic, he floats in place for a moment before dropping to the floor. His angry meow and hiss makes you shake your head with a smile.

Rio laughs but she’s far more giving when it comes to her bacon. She sneaks a few pieces off her place as she eats and you know she’s dropping them to Tom who’s probably sitting on the floor right next to her but you don't have it in you to scold her. It’s adorable.

It’s later when the sun is high in the sky and the two of you are walking down a path that leads to the nearest lake, you know that this is goodbye.

“Are you ready for this?” You ask her once the two of you reach the lake. There’s a group of ducks swimming in the middle of the water and a deer is drinking on the farside. Rio nods after a long moment. She takes a breath that relaxes her shoulders and nods again.

“I have to be.”

“Okay,” You move to stand in front of her and she watches you with curiosity. Rio reaches for your hands and you let her fingers dance against your palm before she takes your hand into her own. “Now, who is it you would like me to look after?”

You don’t expect her to frown, and yet you should have. You don’t rush her though, there is no need. Rio recovers quickly, she squeezes your hand and you return the gesture. “Her name is Agatha Harkness.”

“Agatha,” You mutter the name because it sounds familiar. You don’t notice Rio watching you carefully, waiting for your response, waiting to see what you do.

Agatha. Harkness. Suddenly the recognition sparks to life like a wildfire. Agatha Harkness. The witch killer.

You look back at Rio in utter shock. Her expression is guarded and you know if you say the wrong thing she’s going to pull away, she’s going to hide under her apathy.

“She could kill me.” That is not what you meant to say.

But Rio doesn’t move away. She shakes her head, steps closer and holds your face in her hands so you look at her when she speaks next.

Her eyes are so rich in color you think you could drown in them, if it weren’t for the predicament of this entire situation. “She won’t. She can’t. I promise you she can’t. Agatha’s powers are unique.”

Yeah, her powers kill other witches, you would call that unique and terrifying. Even if every word is just rumor you still would not like to run into her.

“If you don’t blast her, if you don’t harm her with your magic she can’t steal yours.” Rio explains gently. She brushes the pad of her thumb over your lower lip and sighs. “You do not have to do this if you do not want to.”

You shake your head, close your eyes and breathe. You grab at her wrists and you can feel her exhale against your face.

Rio came to you with this request. You have already agreed. You clear your throat and nod, open your eyes and look at her. “Where is she?”

She licks her lips before she responds and you're too weak right now. Your eyes fall to her lips and you exhale softly. “North. You have time.”

“What do I even say if she asks why I’m following her?”

Rio hums softly before she responds, her index finger traces the line of your jaw. “Agatha's thirst for knowledge fuels her curiosity, if you dangle something she wants right in front of her she will let you stay close by. She's like you in that regard.” She smirks and you glare at her.

“I’m a way better cook.” You grumble and she smiles, her laugh is light and teasing.

“Yes, your pancakes are to die for.” Rio teases you and you want to kiss that expression off her face.

“How long will you be gone?” You ask her, voice a whisper.

“I promised him an adventure.” She doesn't explain more and you know that is answer enough. You won't see her for a while.

“Okay, okay.” You let out a soft breath and give her a small nod. You can do this for her.

“Thank you.” Her whisper tickles your lips and you have to close your eyes so you don’t give into that urge.

“Whatever you need.” You tell her softly. You don’t know if it's relief or regret that you feel when she finally steps away. You open your eyes and watch as she reaches for something hidden in her cloak.

What she pulls out is a bracelet. It looks like it’s woven together with straw, it looks like a child's creation. You glance up at Rio and she looks down at the bracelet, holding it in her hands. She runs a finger over the design and smiles sadly. “Trust me. You will find her with this.”

#rio vidal x reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x rio vidal #agatha all along #agathario #agatha x rio x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #rio vidal x fem!reader #cu:mine

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uzumaki-rebellion · 2 months ago

Text

Choose One (Chapter 4) by Uzumaki Rebellion

Characters: Elijah "Smoke" Moore and Elias "Stack" Moore (characters in the Michael B. Jordan movie "Sinners"). Lena Blackwell (OC).

Warning(s): Mentions of Hoodoo, Explicit Sex, Supernatural Elements, Romance, Some Violence, Polyamory, and Angst. Pre-Sinners movie.

Summary: Lena Blackwell works in an illegal after-hours Black & Tan club in Bronzeville where she seduces twin brothers Smoke and Stack. Each brother has qualities she likes and she embarks on an illicit affair with both. All is well until one of the twins starts catching feelings.

Word Count: 4.1K

Masterlist HERE.

youtube

"See-line woman (see-line)

She drink coffee (see-line)

She drink tea (see-line)"

Nina Simone - "See-Line Woman"

Fucking two dangerous twins at the same time, and them not knowing, wasn't an easy task.

Lena remained cool under the pressure.

Smoke had no problem keeping their interactions in the Sunset Café prim and proper. Professional.

He never smiled at anyone or presented himself as overly friendly. His stoicism created distance. It was easy to maneuver in front of him without the slightest hint of impropriety between them.

But Stack?

Because they'd created a romantic liaison, he started moving funny, and it was noticeable. He rarely flirted or interacted with other women in the joint. Even his regular female fans that flocked to the club were shut down if they tried any amorous advances with him.

Stack could maintain regular work-related conversations at the bar, but his eyes gave away his open desire for her, and it was difficult to maintain indifference on her end. He turned her on in the worst way with that slick mouth.

Sometimes lust got the better of them and he'd jam her up in the supply room and fuck her against a wall, ejaculating so much cum in her throughout the night that she had to bring extra underwear and washrags to work. He became a nightly cooze demon. It took some extraordinary acting on her part to get fucked by Stack, and to scamper off immediately to make Smoke his drinks and set them in front of him looking unbothered with his brother's jizz soaking her panties.

Sometimes… Smoke was no better.

Whenever Stack was preoccupied with Ernie out in the streets or in the gambling room, Smoke summoned her during breaks to his table, where he finger fucked her. She'd get worried if he tried to do that after Stack filled her with semen, and often prevented him from doing so by stroking his dick instead. They had to be discreet because Caroline lurked nearby to be at Smoke's beck and call. Lena and Smoke would pretend to hold a conversation while she slid her hand up and down, using her thumb and finger to spread his sticky pre-cum all over his shaft. He hissed whenever she gave slow twists to the thick ridge of skin under the head. That frenulum was his sweet spot.

"I wish I could put my mouth on it," she'd whisper.

He'd squeeze his eyes shut and groan, trying hard not to lift her onto his dick. Grabbing a linen napkin from the table, she'd listen to him bite down on making any more suggestive sounds while he came in her hand. Cleaning him up quickly, she departed from his side and rinsed the semen off the napkin.

While juggling her twin lovers, she discerned changes in their work routines. Even their clothing.

Smoke favored the short newsboy caps of the Irish and his suits copied their sartorial choices, too. Gray or brown tweed overcoats and vests, with cool blues and greens for his shirts. Rarely any ties. In the club, his clothes had crisp lines with structured jackets of high quality. Stack, on the other hand…tailored Italian high-waist trousers, pinstripes and fancy silk ties that matched the color of his wide-brim fedoras. His jackets were crafted in heavier fabrics with mixed patterns. The shirts high-grade silk. He loved expensive shoes imported from Italy. Red became his signature color.

Something was going down between them.

Smoke had moved out of the twins' shared apartment. He rarely showed up to the Sunset, and when he did, it was only for a couple of hours and he dipped. She no longer interacted with both of them at the club at the same time anymore.

After a couple of weeks, Smoke had dropped off the radar. He snuck over to her apartment at least once a week for their trysts. But he never told her where he lived exactly. Just said his new location was on the north side.

Lena knew better than to ask Smoke or Stack about their work or personal dealings. She was privy to stories and first-hand experiences of gang molls being murdered for spying or getting too comfortable with men's business. Once Smoke left the Black syndicate, and running the club, she breathed easier about either twin finding out about the other.

Outside of her club shifts, she continued her other work for Death. Her assignments appeared under her door or under the counter at the Sunset. Death stayed busy in Chicago with the gang wars. So did Lena.

Carrying souls to glory was an honorable service on behalf of humans. Her share of the task picked up considerably once Smoke left. The north side stayed violent daily, and then the south side got buck wild with Smoke somewhere near the center of it. Lena had her suspicions that prior to Smoke leaving, Stack kept Smoke even-keeled by fast-talking folks through troubling encounters before his twin escalated to murder. Without Stack's presence, Smoke injured and dropped men within gun smoke every week since his absence. She watched him kill a man while driving her home. They pulled up to a stop at a busy street, and Smoke glanced to his right, then stepped out of the roadster squeezing triggers in both hands, blasting some Italian wanna-be gangsters in their territory, right on the sidewalk in front of a horrified crowd.

No one came forward to finger Smoke for the dead. The syndicate fattened the pockets of the cops, and the Italians received the hint loud and clear. Ernie and Stack did the same to the Irish mobsters. Unaffiliated goons weren't allowed to roam in Black areas without Ernie's permission.

Lena witnessed Stack punching and stabbing two Irish thugs inside the Sunset when they thought they could intimidate Ernie. Another gangster struggled to keep his slippery intestines from sliding through his fingers when Stack sliced him during a skirmish outside the club. As much violence as she worked around, she never worried about Smoke or Stack getting seriously hurt. They were the menaces of Chicago, north and south.

She figured they were plotting something with their separation.

Whenever some shenanigans happened among the Irish gangsters, some form of retaliation occurred within the Italian ranks immediately. Tit for tat.

The streets weren't safe, but that didn't stop people from going out at night. Lena wiped down the bar counter and stacked clean glasses. Max and Frank helped train a new bartender. The Sunset Café experienced a surge of new patrons. Ernie had to limit the amount of people coming in, which gave the club an exclusive feel that brought even more patrons scrambling to get inside. A new exotic dancer from New York also titillated their customers with her scarf and feather dancing, bringing illicit nudity. Even their chorus girls wore pasties for a few dance numbers. To handle the increased volume, the club hired a new bartender and three servers.

Bobby was a quick learner at the bar. Fresh-faced, attractive, and energetic, he brought a vitality that perked up the work of mixing drinks. The ladies loved him, and Lena enjoyed his banter with Max. She hadn't seen Smoke or Stack for two weeks and needed the distraction of a pretty boy to keep her mind occupied.

"Whatcha think?" Max asked, watching Bobby stack a serving tray with wine for Bernice.

"He's good."

Lena bobbed her head to the music playing. It had a bite to it that made her want to hit the floor and shimmy. Sweat her curls out. Make her dress stick to her back. The packed club already increased the body heat everywhere, and she had to fan herself with a dinner menu every few minutes.

"He'll do," Frank added.

Max checked out the crowd. His eyebrows furrowed.

"Something feels off," Max said.

"Off how?"

Lena posted herself next to him and surveyed the room herself.

"Feels like trouble," he said.

Max used a cobbler shaker to mix cocktails for Ernie's table. He had a full house of thick-necked toughs cornering the real estate on the far left of the room closest to the hidden door that led to the gambling room. Extra security patrolled the floor. People danced, ate, and chattered away, oblivious to the tension carried by the slick gangsters surrounding them.

"You read the papers today? Since Capone got locked up last month, these mobsters have lost they damn minds. This gang warfare ain't good for business. I'm thinking about getting a new job."

"No one is taking out bartenders," she said.

"Yet," Max emphasized, thumbing through his dream book quickly.

Lena prepared a tray of drinks and helped a server deliver the order for a large group seated in the front. She took a moment to watch the dancing and nearly squealed when Stack strolled in, handing his maroon fedora and overcoat to the coat check. He fixed his gaze on the bar. Scanned for a glimpse of her and his lips twisted in a pout when he didn't see her. He strode over to Max and he pointed her out in the crowd.

The way Stack's face lit up when he spotted her put a swarm of fireflies inside her belly. He moved with purposeful strides toward her, forgetting all pretense of being mere associates. She sauntered off in another direction, seeking the storage room for privacy.

He swept in behind her and lifted her high. Her feet dangled.

"Baby," he hummed into her mouth before kissing her.

"Stack."

She kissed him tenderly, and he twirled her around before placing her back on her heels. He looked her over and kept stroking her arms up and down, squeezing her in places like he had to make sure she was real and in front of him. His eyes shined like newly minted coins, and he couldn't stop smiling while staring at her.

"You stayed on my mind every day," he said.

"Where ya been?"

"Taking care of business. You know how I do. Let's get outta here…go to your place."

"It's real busy tonight, Stack. Ernie needs me."

"I need you. Been thinking 'bout you riding this dick like you do…wanna eat your pussy so bad…"

He smothered her lips and caressed her backside.

"Come with me so you can sit on my face," he begged.

Lena's pussy started clenching already, anticipating a good stretching of her walls from the lack of regular sex. Her back used to get blown out almost every day from either twin before their disappearance.

Stack unzipped his pants and fished out his dick.

"Got me like a brick, Lena…"

She dropped to her knees and sucked on the head, bringing desperate moans out of him.

"Oh…suck that dick…yesss…suck it harder…"

He pressed both hands on her head and packed her throat with so much dick that she gagged and became teary-eyed.

Her warm saliva created a frothy coating on his tip. She spit on it and he seemed mesmerized as another long strand of spit fell all over his deep slit. Lena stuck the tip of her tongue in the hole, tickling the sensitive nerve endings inside the fat glans. Licking, spitting, and sliding her lips along the sides of his dick put him in a trance. His pre-cum leaked all across her lips and dripped down her chin. The noises she made weakened his knees. She worked her neck and Stack started talking his shit to her.

"You dirty little bitch…keep doing that…spit on it again…ooh I like that shit, baby. You could've made me a heap of cash had I put you on the stroll."

Lena slapped his stomach. He grinned and licked his lips.

"I'm playin', baby. You ain't made for them grimy streets. You made to be with me."

He caressed her face on one side. She pulled her lips from his tip, letting saliva spill from the corners of her ravenous mouth.

"I like when you act like a dirty little whore. On your knees without me telling you. Good little bitch…"

He slid his tongue across the gold on his teeth.

"Open your mouth…wide…," he commanded.

She did.

"Stick your tongue out."

She did that, too.

"Gonna fill your mouth up…"

Lena stood.

"Whatchu doin'?"

She sat down on a chair the staff used to reach for things higher on the storage shelves.

"Come lick this pussy," she said.

The shine in his eyes gleamed a little brighter. His lips curled into a devilish smirk.

Lena lifted her dress, revealing her garters and the peach color of her thin, lacy tap pants. Stack dropped to his knees and shoved his nose into her underwear and sniffed. He licked her through the material and his warm saliva wet the crotch. He pulled them off one leg, and she spread her vulva, the soft pubic hairs glistening as much as her labia.

"You smell so good…" he murmured.

Stack smacked his lips and licked his tongue up and down the center, spreading the wings of her inner labia that puffed out with the engorgement of arousal. He sucked on her clit and her legs shook. She drew shapes in his hair with a finger, and he ate her out like she had prepared a lavish feast before him.

"Such a good boy," she hummed.

He groaned and plunged his tongue inside her cooze so far that she lifted her ass from the chair. Stack grabbed the hem of her dress and prevented her from moving. Staring up at her, his narrow eyes gave a warning.

"Why you runnin'?"

He gripped her dress tight and continued his meal.

"Oh, fuck…oh fuck…Stack…"

He moaned into her vulva and teased her clit until it was plump and on the verge of sending her over the edge. Stack jumped up then and lowered his trousers. He pulled her from the chair and planted himself there instead.

"Sit on this dick," he ordered.

Lena threw her legs across his lap, and he held his erection to help guide her down. They groaned together once she was snug on that meat.

She bounced like a madwoman.

Two weeks without some Moore dick was sacrilegious at that point.

Stack lifted her up and down and she rode him like the Kentucky Derby, jockeying for an orgasm. Rocking on his hips, she gripped his shoulders tight and nibbled on his earlobe.

"Lena!"

Stack tensed up, and his dick swelled. She gasped, feeling the hot cum shoot into her. Her body fell back to earth as if she'd flown into a whirlpool of sensations that triggered her clit to release an endless throbbing that made her walls yank on his dick, causing him to shout her name again. He crushed her body against his.

Panting, clothes all in disarray, and sweat dampening their foreheads, they both savored the aftershocks of their quick fuck.

He kissed her lips with a controlled ardor that calmed her body.

"I'll wait for you after your shift," he whispered in her ear.

She nodded and lifted away from him.

Stack fixed his clothes, and she pulled up her panties.

"You go out first," he said.

She left him alone and hastened toward the restroom. Splashing water on her face, she cleaned up, changed underwear, and fixed her make-up.

The club was full, and she immediately began working, ensuring a steady flow of drinks and entertaining customers with her jokes. She glanced at Ernie's table, but people standing to watch the dancing blocked it before the Baltimore headliner appeared. Lena loaned Max a dime to give to the numbers man, and she corrected a mistake Bobby made with an order. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Stack headed her way, and she grinned, knowing he was antsy about her finishing so he could eat her pussy all night.

The grin froze in place when she realized he didn't have on a tie. It was Smoke.

Shit.

The thrill of recognizing him tugged on her heartstrings, and yet she understood the tense expression.

He wanted her.

The single crease in his forehead matched the rigid look of his jawline when he needed sex. She turned away to act like she didn't see him.

He tapped his finger on the counter and she spun around cheerfully, putting on a helluva show for customer service.

"Mr. Moore, what can I get for you, sir?" she said.

Her teeth felt crowded in her mouth, trying to get her tongue to work properly, like his brother's cum wasn't painting her walls all fresh.

"Bring me the usual to the other room," he said.

That was their code for, "Bring that pussy to me."

She nodded and poured dark rum for him.

"Taking my break," she told Frank.

"I thought you just took your break," Frank said.

"No, I was busy with the floor," she tossed over her shoulder.

Max knew better and rolled his eyes.

"Dancing with the devil will trip you up. Two will have you sprawled on your ass," Max huffed in her ear as she passed him.

Lena carried the tray and added an extra drink on it for herself. She traversed the dense throng of gyrating bodies and discreetly placed herself in front of the secret door hidden by elaborate wall drapes. Four knocks and two taps gave her access. A gangster guarding the entrance slid a panel open, and she stepped through.

"Smoke?" she asked.

The guard pointed to the back.

Lena passed by tough guys playing cards and throwing dice. She tapped on another door and Smoke opened it.

"Your drink," she said.

Smoke looked over her shoulder and closed the door. He locked it and took the rum. She studied his face. He lacked the smile lines of Stack, and his serious countenance always kept her wondering what he would do. His unpredictable nature with her always excited Lena.

Smoke took his drink and sipped it. His eyes stayed on her face. She lifted the second glass and drank to settle her nerves. Could he smell Stack's cologne on her?

He dropped the empty glass on the tray. She put hers there too and rested it on a desk.

He touched her hair first.

Then her lips.

"Are you upset with me?" he asked.

"Upset? Why would you think that?"

"You turned your back on me when you saw me coming for you."

"This place is so busy, I didn't even see you…I was in the middle of an order…"

He caressed her chin.

"It's okay to be mad at me. I haven't contacted you for a long time. Why don't you ever get upset when I ignore you? Most women wanna bite my head off."

"I know who you are. What you do. Why get upset with a gangster? If I wanted attention all the time, I could get any square out here."

"You got it like that?"

"I do. I don't have to be up under you to know we're still good."

"Is that right?"

"Yes."

"For all you know, I could be seeing someone else."

"But you ain't. That's why you called me in here. You want me."

He dropped his gaze to her hands.

"I do want you."

"Then take me—"

His lips swallowed her words. So gentle. So soft.

He slanted his head, and she circled her hands around his neck and stroked the bottom of his hairline. Breaking away for a second, he sighed, and she painted kisses up his neck until she could slide her tongue in his right ear. She nibbled the top of it and he sank into himself, lost in the pleasure of tongue and teeth.

"I'm so glad you're back," she whispered.

He swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing and his eyes half-lidded with arousal.

He fondled her backside and soon lifted the back of her dress to her hips. He slipped his fingers past the elastic of her underwear and stuck them inside her pussy from behind. Lena panted and kissed him, indulging in the sucking she gave his tongue, teasing him with what she would do to that big dick once they could have true privacy away from the club.

He moved her onto the desk and hiked up her dress further, yanking her fresh pair of lace tap pants down. Positioning himself between her thighs, he unfastened his pants and pulled out a rock hard erection.

He sank into her, and Lena rocked her hips against him. Smoke held her legs up and pumped that dick into her until she was squirting all over him. Stack already had her revved up from earlier and Smoke pulled out the second wind in her. Her wetness and Stack's cum gave Smoke an easy time to enjoy himself. He slang that dick against her walls and she squeaked with pleasure. Her pussy squelched, and she floated in ecstasy. To get dicked down by two men in under two hours was insane. But Lena stayed being a greedy lover, and these two humans were a treat. Many men and women had plowed, licked, and sucked between her legs for centuries. However, nothing was as pleasurable as the Smokestack twins. She hoarded their lovemaking like it was going out of twentieth century style.

"Fuck me, Smoke!"

He grunted and humped her good. Put his back into it. Oh, if she could only have them both at the same time!

Her rapacity for their flesh forced her to claw at Smoke's shoulder, needing him deeper. When he hit the bottom of her pussy with that thick hot dick, she hollered loud enough for the gamblers to hear. The friction on her clit seized her up, and she broke apart on Smoke's dick. His heavy spurts joined her climax, and he grunted into her neck with that dick pulsing and filling her up with even more semen.

He pulled away and a rope of creamy white cum shot out on her dress.

"Fuck, Lena…"

He grabbed his balls and squeezed. More cum dribbled from his slit. She bent over and sucked the rest out, cleaning his dick with her mouth. He touched her head gently.

"Get back to the bar. I gotta speak with Ernie and my brother," he said.

Lena wiped the sides of her lips and pulled her underwear on. She grabbed the tray and hurried back to the bar.

All the bartenders hustled. It gave Lena time to discover a dilemma.

Who would take her home?

The headliner took the stage and the bar traffic slowed down.

Stack settled onto a stool in front of her. Lena's stomach knotted. She had to figure out a way to maneuver the twins. The mouthy redhead that stalked him before pranced over decked out in diamonds and furs.

"Stack!"

Drunk and loud, she grabbed onto Stack's sleeve and pulled him off his seat. He shoved her hand away, and the woman whined about him dumping her. Smoke wandered over, and the afterglow of their union surrounded her with giddiness. He must've felt it, too, because his cheeks and jaw loosened up and he…smiled.

Stack caught it.

He looked at his older twin brother showing dimples, and then his eyes narrowed when he observed Lena beaming back at the man.

"The fuck!" Stack yelled at Smoke.

He yanked his arm one last time from the redhead.

"Get the fuck away from me," he barked.

The redhead burst into tears and ran off. The majority Black crowd snickered and turned away from Stack's glare.

"Smoke?"

Stack's question hung in the air as an accusatory statement.

Smoke turned his head.

The brothers faced off.

Stack's lower lip trembled like he wanted to say something. Smoke remained silent, taking in his younger brother's tone, understanding the situation quickly.

Lena skulked off to the other end of the counter, the heat on her cheeks nearly melting her face away. Had Smoke never smiled, Stack wouldn't have guessed there was something between them.

"Can I get two shots of your best whiskey?"

A broad-chested brown-skinned man in a three-piece suit held out a dollar bill. Lena took it. She quickly poured the man his shots and slid them to him.

He didn't take the shot glasses.

Instead, he whipped out a Tommy Gun and blasted loud explosive rounds toward Smoke and Stack.

Chapter 5 HERE

If you want to read some similar stories featuring MBJ while you wait for the next chapter, check out my Geechee!Erik Killmonger AU's set in the same period and same Black supernatural world HERE.

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#sinners fanfiction #Smoke x Black OC #Stack x Black OC #sinners smut #smoke and stack #sinners movie #smokestack twins #uzumaki rebellion

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