Archive of Our Own ^beta

The night market had been meant as nothing more than a lighthearted team outing—a way to unwind, to breathe, to be normal for once. Lanterns swung lazily overhead, casting soft golden light over the bustling street. The air was thick with the mingling aromas of grilled meats, sizzling scallion pancakes, and sweet roasted chestnuts, each scent jostling for dominance in the humid summer night. Voices rose and fell all around them: vendors shouting their wares, couples bickering playfully, tourists laughing too loudly. It was chaotic, but alive.

Yao drifted slightly from the group, her curiosity snagged by a tent draped in crimson and gold, a hand-painted sign outside promising palm readings and whispered fortunes. She scoffed softly, amused—but her feet carried her forward anyway. Inside, the scent of sandalwood smoke curled around her like a ribbon, and she settled into a worn red velvet chair. She tried to keep things light, but a sliver of unease crept into her chest.

The fortune teller sat opposite her—an elderly woman with sharp, glinting eyes that didn’t just look at her, but through her. Yao stiffened as the woman’s gaze pierced something she hadn’t meant to reveal. A cold tingle skated down her spine.

“The tables will turn,” the woman said, voice raspy with certainty. “Wait until they’ve walked a mile in your shoes. Then—only then—they’ll understand.”

Yao blinked, her throat tightening. It took conscious effort to break eye contact, to stand and leave without stumbling. She tossed a few yuan onto the table, muttered a polite thanks, and ducked back out into the night air. The world felt louder now. Too sharp. Off-balance.

When she found her team again, she laughed along with their stories, even shared her own about the eerie tent. But the sensation clung to her—a strange heaviness winding through her blood. She smiled at the right moments, nodded where she was supposed to, but her laughter echoed oddly in her own ears. Fragile. Forced. A paper-thin mask stretched over something she didn’t quite understand.

And no one seemed to notice.

Or maybe they did—and just didn’t care.

Back at base, their return was marked by full stomachs, warm cheeks, and the kind of lazy affection born of one too many drinks. Goodnights were called across hallways and stairwells, fading into the quiet hum of night routines.

Yao trudged up the stairs, going through the motions. She brushed her teeth, fed DaBing and Xiao Cong, and then collapsed into bed with her phone. The latest gossip threads were as unhinged as ever—speculation about her and Sicheng’s relationship blooming like weeds. She scrolled absently, thumb moving without focus.

Beside her, the stuffed bunny waited patiently. She pulled it close, pressing her cheek to its worn fur. A flicker of uncertainty curled in her chest.

Her eyes fluttered shut, breath evening out—but the old woman’s words still lingered, echoing like a distant bell.

Her dreams that night were loud, messy, and strange. Not like her usual quiet imaginings. These dreams ran in color—blazing, unpredictable, disorienting.

And when she woke, she couldn’t quite remember what they were. Only the feeling that something had shifted.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She opens her eyes slowly, groggy and heavy-lidded, each blink a small struggle. Her vision is blurry at first—an unfamiliar ceiling swimming into view. White, plain, boring. Not hers.

She hears snoring—loud, unrestrained, unmistakably Pang.

Wait. What?

Her body lurches upright, or at least it tries to. It feels like someone has filled her limbs with lead and then hit fast-forward and slow-motion at the same time. Her arm flops over to rub the gunk from her eyes—and freezes halfway.

Her fingers.

They’re longer. Thicker. Her nails clipped short in a way she doesn’t remember doing.

Before the thought can fully form, a scream tears from her mouth—except it’s not her voice. It’s deeper. Masculine. And terrifyingly familiar.

She scrambles out of bed with all the grace of a baby giraffe on roller skates, tripping over legs that go on for miles and bouncing off the door jamb on the way down.

“What the—?!”

Still half-panicked, she stumbles out of the room and down the hallway like a baby deer possessed, heading instinctively toward her own door. And that’s when she sees it.

Her.

She’s coming out of her room in her pajamas, rubbing at her temples like she has a hangover. Her own face, squinting at her. Confused. Alarmed.

Then her voice— her voice—calls out. “Yao?”

That’s when it clicks.

She’s in Sicheng’s body. And Sicheng… is in hers.

Her knees nearly buckle again.

Sicheng—currently occupying her five-foot-three frame—narrows her eyes and folds her arms across her chest in that infuriatingly smug way of his. “What the hell did you do?”

She can feel the twitch of the smirk forming on Sicheng’s face. Her face. It’s surreal. She didn’t even know her face could do that.

They just stare at each other in stunned silence, processing. The hallway buzzes with the muffled sounds of the rest of the team beginning to stir. Footsteps. A yawn. A door creaking open.

“Meeting room. Now,” she says sharply—forgetting that it’s Sicheng’s voice coming out of her mouth. It comes out all clipped and commanding, and to her absolute horror, it works. Everyone freezes.

They shuffle down the stairs in various states of confusion and bedhead, pajamas clashing in colorful disarray. Yao brings up the rear, still trying not to knock into the walls with her long legs. Sicheng, of course, moves in her body with unsettling ease, already walking like he owns the place.

They reach the meeting room. Sicheng—still in Yao’s petite frame—takes the head of the table like it’s second nature. The boys glance around awkwardly, unsure why the vibe feels off .

Yao stands behind him like some overgrown guard dog, arms crossed, feeling ridiculous towering over her own body. Was she always this short? Seriously?

Sicheng clears his throat. “Alright. I’m not gonna sugarcoat this. Something’s seriously messed up. Yao and I… switched bodies.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Pang laughs. “Wait, what?”

“Not joking,” Yao cuts in—well, Sicheng , technically, but her tone is dead serious. “This is real. I went to a fortune teller last night at the night market. She said some weird cryptic thing about tables turning and walking a mile in someone else’s shoes. I thought it was just nonsense—until I woke up like this.”

Sicheng exhales through Yao’s nose—soft and irritated. “We have no clue how it happened or how to undo it. But for now, we adapt.”

He turns toward the group, straightening Yao’s posture like it’s second nature. “Here’s the plan: we’re swapping training roles. I’ll be working Mid. Yao will take ADC. We need to stay sharp without drawing attention. Synergy’s still intact, but muscle memory’s going to be a pain in the ass.”

“No kidding,” Yao mutters, cracking Sicheng’s knuckles absently—and then wincing. “How do your joints sound like a popcorn machine?”

Ignoring her, Sicheng continues. “The rest of today, we’re figuring out how to move, walk, function without falling over or causing suspicion. Starting tomorrow, it’s business as usual.”

He waves a hand. “That means for the rest of you—surprise day off. Go nap or something.”

The room erupts into a tangle of half-formed questions and exclamations.

“Are you cursed?”
“Do you think it’s contagious?”
“Can I go to the fortune teller and ask for a better KDA?”

Sicheng glares—well, Yao glares, technically—but the result is still effective. The room quiets.

Yao leans over and mutters low into her own ear—“This is going to be a nightmare.”

Her face quirks into a grin that’s all Sicheng. “Speak for yourself. I get to be tall for once.”

Yao felt her—well, his —larger hand suddenly grasped by a much smaller one. The size difference made the moment feel lopsided, foreign. Without a word, Sicheng—still in her body—tugged her down the hallway toward his office.

Once the door shut behind them, the awkward silence hit like a wall.

They stood in front of each other, arms crossed in mirrored postures, neither quite sure where to start.

Finally, Yao cleared her throat. “Okay, look. I need to tell you something before it sneaks up on you.” She grimaced, shifting her weight on legs that still felt far too long. “I’m due to start my period in, like, two days.”

Her words hung in the air like a slap.

Sicheng—currently trapped in her body—froze.

His— her —face flushed instantly, a deep red that traveled all the way to the tips of her ears. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” Yao muttered, rubbing the back of her—his—neck. “It’s going to feel like your insides are being squeezed by a thousand angry fists. You’ll want a heating pad. And chocolate. Or murder.”

Sicheng pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “I hate this.”

“I know. ” Yao crossed her arms. “But if we’re doing this body-swap nightmare properly, we have to talk logistics.”

So they did. With the forced diplomacy of rival nations negotiating a truce, they began laying out the basics—routines, quirks, things to avoid.

Yao rattled off things like skincare, hair care, how to handle cramps in public without alarming anyone, and how to deal with overly personal questions from overly invested netizens.

Sicheng, recovering faster than she expected, launched into a checklist of things Yao would need to remember: morning training schedule, caffeine limits (two shots of espresso, not three), his posture when walking through doors, how to throw off trash talk with a look, and never let Pang touch his keyboard.

Yao raised an eyebrow. “Do you always clench your jaw that much when you’re thinking?”

Sicheng countered without missing a beat. “Do you always bounce your leg when you’re annoyed?”

They paused, then both sighed in tandem.

“This isn’t going to go smoothly, is it?” Yao muttered.

Sicheng shook his— her —head. “Absolutely not.”

She watched him pacing in her body, one hand gesturing, the other resting on his hip in a way she never thought she did. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“We’ll be lucky if we don’t get kicked from the league,” Yao said dryly.

Sicheng paused and gave her an odd look. “We’re you. We can’t kick us out.”

“Touché.”

There was another beat of silence.

“…You better not mess up my skincare routine,” Yao warned, squinting at him.

Sicheng scoffed. “Please. You’re lucky I’m in there. Your posture needs saving.”

She blinked. “My what ?”

“You slouch like you’re carrying the weight of ten seasons of trauma.”

They stared at each other.

Then—unexpectedly—they both laughed. Not loud, but real. Short, startled, and genuine.

It didn’t solve anything. But for a brief moment, the chaos felt survivable.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The base was quiet. Too quiet.

Then came the unmistakable sound of gagging from the bathroom, followed by a string of muffled curses that grew increasingly unhinged.

Yao didn’t bother getting up. She was sprawled across her bed—technically Sicheng’s bed now, in this twisted alternate reality—with her feet propped on the headboard and her phone held above her head. She waited.

Right on cue, the bathroom door slammed open.

“I’m dying,” Sicheng announced hoarsely.

Yao didn’t even flinch. “No, you’re not.”

He shuffled into the room wearing one of her - his? -  hoodies—it hung halfway down his thighs—and thick socks that made his already small frame look even more pitiful. His expression was stricken, as if he’d witnessed war. He clutched a hot water bottle like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“I am dying,” he repeated, slower this time, as though that might make it more convincing. “There’s blood. Everywhere . My spine’s trying to fold in on itself. My uterus— your uterus—is staging a coup. I think I blacked out.”

Yao finally glanced up, arching a brow. “It’s called menstruation. Welcome to the full experience of being me.”

He blinked at her like she’d just cursed his bloodline. “How are you all not rioting in the streets? Every month? This is inhumane.”

She rolled her eyes, tossing her phone aside. “You’ll live. You’re not special. Grab your ginger tea and get over here.”

Still looking personally betrayed by biology, Sicheng shuffled to the bed and collapsed next to her in a dramatic heap. The hot water bottle slid off his stomach, and he made a distressed sound, fumbling to press it back into place.

Yao reached over and nudged it into position for him. “Lower. Right there. Yeah. That’s the sweet spot.”

He exhaled like he’d been handed the cure to all life’s problems. “God. This sucks.”

“You’re telling me.” She smirked, folding her arms behind her head. “Try shot-calling an entire match while your lower abdomen’s trying to implode.”

He blinked at the ceiling for a long beat. Then, quietly: “I’m so sorry for every time I said you were cranky for no reason.”

She gave a mock gasp. “Is that an apology , from the great Lu Sicheng?”

He groaned. “I didn’t say it was a good apology.”

They sat in silence for a while, side by side in the tangle of her blankets, the quiet punctuated only by Sicheng’s occasional sigh of discomfort and the ticking of the clock.

Eventually, he muttered, “You think the fortune teller planned this? Like, specifically?”

Yao grinned. “Feels personal, doesn’t it?”

Sicheng let out another dramatic groan and pulled the blanket up over his head.

“Wake me when science fixes this body swap,” he mumbled.

Yao leaned back against the pillows, smile softening just a little. “Sure. In the meantime... enjoy the ride.”

She didn’t say it aloud, but seeing him like this—awkward, humbled, and wrapped up in her pain—made the chaos just a little easier to bear.

She left not long after, offering a quiet goodnight and received a look she couldn’t quite decipher. Once the door clicked shut behind her, the room felt heavier. Still. Too quiet. But the adrenaline that had carried her through the day—caring for him through this rough time—had finally begun to drain from her system.

And with it went everything else.

She didn’t remember lying down. Only the way her limbs suddenly refused to move, her mind fogging over, her body sinking beneath the weight of exhaustion. No overthinking. No spirals. Just the blur of sleep pulling her under like a wave.

By morning, reality had returned—sharper than before.

Yao sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on her thighs, staring down at the still very present and very unwelcome evidence of her… situation.

The dream still clung to her like static—fragments of breathless moans, flushed skin, the exact weight of Sicheng’s hand (her hand) curling around her waist as he’d pulled her closer. It had felt too real . Too good . And now she was left with the consequences.

She shifted uncomfortably. Her body— his body—ached with it, pulsing with a tight, low need that refused to be ignored.

She could take care of it. That was what people did , right? It was biology. A normal response. It wasn’t like she hadn’t… before. Just not in this body. And not because of him .

Except it was because of him.

And that was the problem.

Yao exhaled shakily and dragged a hand through Sicheng’s messy hair, her fingers tangling at the nape of her neck. The motion felt familiar and not. She flexed her fingers, testing the weight of his palms, the strength in his arms, the heat beneath the skin.

Her gaze drifted downward again. Still hard. Still aching.

She swallowed.

Slowly, hesitantly, she let one hand trail lower. Just the barest graze over the waistband of his boxers. Her breath hitched at the contact—not even from the sensation, but from the wrongness of it.

This wasn’t hers. This wasn’t her body. And this wasn’t just some faceless dream-fantasy—it was Sicheng . The real Sicheng. Her teammate. The one person who got under her skin in the worst and best ways, who always knew what she was thinking before she did, who looked at her like she was more than she let herself be.

The guilt hit like a wave.

Her hand jerked back instantly.

“Shit,” she whispered, curling forward, elbows on knees, face in her palms.

This wasn’t about desire—not really. It was about him . The way he made her feel without even trying. The way she could never quite figure out where the line was between rivalry and something deeper. The way being in his body was forcing her to confront all the things she’d spent so long pretending weren’t there.

She couldn’t do it. Not like this.

Not while wearing his skin.

Not while thinking about him with that kind of want curling low in her gut.

Her hands clenched, then unclenched. The ache didn’t go away, but the edge dulled under the weight of shame and confusion.

This wasn’t just lust. That would’ve been easier.

This was something else.

Yao stood up, ignoring the insistent throb still lingering as she made her way toward the bathroom.

Cold shower. Definitely.

And maybe, if she was lucky, the guilt would rinse off too.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that night…

They sat on the balcony, the lights of the city flickering like distant stars below them. A mug of hot tea rested between Sicheng’s palms—Yao’s palms, technically—and he was staring into it like it held answers. Yao sat beside him in his body, elbows on knees, her expression tight with something she hadn’t quite named yet.

They hadn’t spoken much all day. Too many close calls. Too many lingering looks that neither of them had the bandwidth to unpack.

But now, under the hum of the city and the veil of night, the silence had grown too heavy to ignore.

Sicheng spoke first, his voice quiet. Measured. Her voice. “I keep waiting for this to wear off. For us to wake up and everything’s back to normal.”

Yao let out a dry laugh, low and rough in his throat. “Define normal.”

He glanced at her. “Fair.”

They sat in silence again. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, but wasn’t easy, either.

Then Sicheng said, slowly, “Something’s… shifted, hasn’t it?”

Yao didn’t answer right away.

Because yes, it had. Something had shifted. And it wasn’t just the body swap or the awkward morning wood or the way her skin still burned with the phantom heat of that dream.

It was how this forced closeness—this blurring of lines and limbs—was making it impossible to lie to herself anymore.

“Yeah,” she said at last, voice low. “It has.”

Sicheng’s hands tightened slightly around the mug. “I keep thinking about you.”

Yao’s heart stuttered in her chest.

“I mean—not just like you you,” he added quickly, then grimaced. “Okay, no, actually. Exactly you.”

She let out a short laugh, more nerves than humor. “Same.”

His eyes flicked toward her again, searching. “Is this… just the body swap messing with our heads? Like, proximity and hormones and weird dream leakage? Or was it already there?”

She looked at him then, really looked—at herself, sitting there with his expression, his wary eyes, his voice trembling around the edges of vulnerability.

“I think,” she said carefully, “that I’ve been feeling something for a while. I just didn’t know what to call it. And now it’s kind of impossible to ignore.”

His jaw tensed. “What are we supposed to do with that?”

Yao inhaled, steadying herself. “I don’t know. But pretending it’s not there isn’t helping.”

He gave a quiet nod, his gaze dropping to the steam rising from the tea. “I keep thinking… if we go back to normal tomorrow, what then? Do we forget this happened? Go back to being teammates with unresolved tension and mutual denial?”

She smirked. “You make it sound so romantic.”

A breath of amusement passed between them—small, but real.

Then she added, more serious, “I don’t want to forget. Even if this all goes back to how it was. I don’t want to pretend this didn’t mean something.”

Sicheng was quiet for a long moment. Then he set down the mug, turned to face her fully, and said, “Okay. Then let’s not pretend. Let’s deal with it. Together.”

Yao blinked. “You sure?”

“No,” he admitted. “But if I’m going to lose my mind over someone, it might as well be you.”

She laughed—really laughed—and something in her chest cracked open.

“Same, Lu Sicheng,” she said, bumping his shoulder with hers. “Same.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning...

Practice started off normally—until it didn’t .

Halfway through scrims, Sicheng (in Yao’s body) leaned over to adjust Yao’s headset for her—except Yao was in his body—and the touch lingered just a second too long. Their eyes met. It wasn’t even a big moment. Barely a beat.

But it was enough.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on,” Pang said, chair squeaking as he spun around. “Was that foreplay? During draft?”

Yue snorted into his water bottle. “Nah, they’ve been making eyes all morning. I thought they’d at least wait until after bans to start dry-humping each other.”

Yao nearly choked on air. “ What? ”

Ming didn’t even look up from his clipboard. “You two have been acting weird ever since you switched bodies. We figured it was hormones at first—like maybe the estrogen was confusing Sicheng or something. But now?”

“Now it’s giving slow descent into public foreplay, ” K added, flipping a pen between his fingers. “You basically moaned when she landed that skillshot earlier.”

“I did not, ” Sicheng snapped from across the room, voice tight—but slightly higher-pitched in Yao’s body, which didn’t help his credibility at all.

“You kind of did, bro,” Yue said, grinning. “It was like—‘mmm, clean execution.’ You sounded like a fucking food critic watching her pull off a triple kill.”

Lao Mao leaned forward, hands clasped like a talk show host. “So? Are you two banging or not? Because I need to know if I have to start knocking before entering the analysis room.”

“We’re not— ” Yao began.

“We’re not yet, ” Pang cut in, waggling his eyebrows. “But if those ‘shared glances’ get any more loaded, we’re gonna have to start offering you two a private channel on Discord.”

Ming raised a hand. “Also—Yao, no offense, but you in Sicheng’s body are like... way too comfortable being tall around him. That was basically a dominance display during team meeting this morning.”

“I think I saw her look at herself in the mirror and bite her lip,” Yue added.

Yao made a strangled sound. “That is not what happened.”

“Girl, you had a whole moment,” Pang said, cackling. “Meanwhile, Sicheng’s walking around in your body like he just found out what boobs are.”

Sicheng rubbed his temples. “Please stop talking.”

“ Please stop lying to yourselves, ” K corrected.

Yao tried to change the subject. “Can we just get back to practice?”

Lao Mao folded his arms. “Not until you admit you’re halfway to fucking each other silly and pretending it’s just ‘team bonding.’”

“You know what,” Yue said, tossing a stress ball in the air, “if you two are gonna start handling feelings, at least don’t do it during scrims. Or let us watch. I’d settle for either.”

“We are not —” Yao began.

“You will be, ” Pang said cheerfully.

Ming gave a slow, sarcastic clap. “God bless body swapping. Best sexual awakening arc we’ve had in years.”

Even K grinned, finally looking up from his screen. “Just don’t get caught rubbing one out in each other’s beds. And please wipe the keyboard after.”

Sicheng looked skyward, like maybe the gods would strike him down and spare him from this conversation. “Why do we keep you people employed?”

Yao slumped in her chair, face red and furious. “I hate everyone in this room.”

Pang beamed. “That’s love, baby.”

They didn’t get much practice done that morning.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

That night...

They didn’t speak much after scrims.

The teasing had rattled them more than they wanted to admit—not because it wasn’t true, but because it was . Every word, every smirk, every sarcastic jab from the team had hit too close to something raw and real they hadn’t fully dared to name.

So they waited.

And after the others had retreated to their rooms, the house finally quiet, Yao found herself knocking on Sicheng’s door—technically her own door now—and stepping inside without waiting for a reply.

He was sitting on the bed, arms folded, eyes shadowed by the low glow of the lamp. Her body looked small like that. Still. Guarded.

Yao—still in his taller frame—closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a beat, arms crossed, chest tight. “You okay?”

Sicheng looked up. Her face—his face now—was unreadable.

“Are you?” he asked, voice softer than she’d expected.

She exhaled. “I don’t know.”

He scooted over, just slightly, a silent invitation.

She moved to sit beside him. Close. But not touching.

The silence stretched for a moment, neither one of them knowing how to start. It wasn’t like before—when it was just confusion or hormones or instinct. Now it was something heavier.

Something real.

“I keep thinking,” she said finally, “that I should be more freaked out by all this. By being in your body. By… everything.”

Sicheng looked over at her, something flickering in his expression. “You’re handling it better than I would.”

Yao gave a humorless laugh. “You literally cried at that shampoo ad.”

“It had a good arc,” he muttered.

She smiled, then let it fade. “But really… I’m scared.”

His eyes softened. “Of what?”

“Of what happens if this doesn’t go away. Or if it does.” Her voice faltered. “Either way… things aren’t the same. Not with you. Not anymore.”

Sicheng didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said, quietly, “They weren’t the same before this.”

Her breath caught.

“I’ve been… feeling things,” he admitted. “For a while now. You probably knew. You’re too smart not to.”

“I didn’t want to believe it,” she said. “Because I didn’t know what to do with it. Because we’re teammates. Because I didn’t want to want you the way I do.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

And this time, when he reached out, it wasn’t tentative. His fingers brushed her jaw—his own jaw—and her breath stilled.

“You think I haven’t wanted you?” he asked, low and rough. “I’ve wanted you so bad it scared me.”

Her pulse throbbed in her throat. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin us.”

“And now?” she whispered.

Sicheng swallowed hard. “Now I think not saying anything is ruining us.”

She reached up, her larger hand cupping the side of her own face—his cheek—and let her thumb drag over the skin there. It was dizzying, touching him like this. Being him. Wanting him.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she murmured. “But I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel it anymore.”

He nodded, eyes locked on hers. “Then don’t.”

The first kiss was slow. Careful. Almost reverent. Lips met lips—her mouth on her own—but it didn’t feel like self-indulgence. It felt like relief. Like confession. Like something unspoken finally being allowed into the light.

It deepened without meaning to, without planning. Just need. Pent-up frustration. Weeks of tension sparking between them.

He tugged her closer—her body curling into his, the heat between them suddenly unbearable.

Hands wandered, tentative at first, then firmer. Familiar in ways that were utterly foreign.

Yao gasped when his palm slid under her shirt— his shirt—finding new curves and soft skin she hadn’t even dared to think about before.

She pulled back, breathing hard. “Are we really doing this?”

Sicheng looked wrecked. Lips parted, cheeks flushed. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to stop.”

Neither did she.

The second kiss left them breathless.

There was no more pretending. No more brushing it off as hormones or instinct or stress. This wasn’t about biology—it was about them .

And now, tangled up in limbs they weren’t born into, they were finally letting themselves want.

Yao leaned back slightly, watching Sicheng—watching herself —with parted lips and flushed cheeks. It was dizzying. Her body had never looked like that from the outside before: skin pinked with arousal, eyes heavy-lidded, hair mussed from her touch. Seeing Sicheng like that inside her skin made something coil tight in her stomach.

“You okay?” she murmured, her voice—his voice—low and unfamiliar in her own ears.

Sicheng nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Just… weird. But good. Really good.”

She leaned down and kissed him again, slower this time. Her hands explored carefully—hesitant at first, fingertips brushing along her collarbone, down the swell of her breast, tentative until she felt Sicheng melt into the touch with a quiet gasp.

“Fuck,” he whispered, arching into her hand. “That feels…”

“Different?” Yao asked, her voice husky. “Too much?”

He shook his head quickly. “ Not enough. ”

That was all the permission she needed.

Yao kissed down the line of her own throat, her lips ghosting over Sicheng’s pulse, and reveled in the tremble she felt beneath her hands. Her hands— his hands—were large and steady, and it felt surreal using them to map out every soft edge of the body she knew so well, but only in fragments. Only ever in glances and proximity.

Now she had access to everything.

And she took her time.

Sicheng’s breath hitched as Yao’s hands slid under the hem of the shirt and pushed it up, revealing more bare skin. Her stomach fluttered. The sensation of touching someone else, but also herself , was head-spinning.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he breathed, his voice soft and wrecked.

Yao chuckled lowly, brushing her thumb over the curve of her breast. “Me neither. You’re… beautiful like this.”

That made Sicheng go still—just for a second.

No quip. No sarcasm.

Just a sharp inhale, and then he pulled her down into another kiss—urgent this time. Needy. His fingers tangled in the fabric of her shirt, dragging it up as if he needed to see her, all of her.

And she let him.

They moved together awkwardly at first, laughter slipping out between kisses, their touches careful, exploratory. Every brush of skin was a question, every glance a quiet answer. It was new all over again—new hands, new angles, new hesitations. But underneath the caution was something deeper. Something aching to be expressed.

Not hunger. Not lust. Recognition.

She climbed over him slowly, straddling his waist, her thighs trembling—not from fear, but from the weight of the moment. The cool air kissed her bare skin, and for the first time in weeks, it was her skin. The reality of it made her breath catch.

Sicheng reached up to touch her, his fingers reverent as they slid along her hips, her waist, the curve of her stomach. But when his hand drifted lower, she caught his wrist gently.

He stilled.

“I want to be close to you,” she said softly, “but not this way. Not with me . It wouldn’t feel right.” Her fingers grazed his cheek with a tenderness that held no shame, only care. “Let me give you everything else instead.”

His gaze softened instantly, the tension in his arms releasing. “Okay,” he murmured, like a promise.

She kissed him—slow, grateful—and guided his legs around her waist, settling between them, her hands braced on either side of his ribs. She moved against him with deliberate rhythm—just skin, just friction, just closeness. Nothing more than their bodies sliding together, nothing less than everything they had been aching for.

Sicheng moaned, head falling back into the pillow, hands finding her hips, then her face, then her chest like he didn’t know where to hold her—only that he had to. Her motions were tender but certain, driven not by instinct but by care. By devotion.

“Yao—” he gasped, thighs trembling around her.

She kissed his throat, her breath hot against his ear. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “Just feel me.”

His hips bucked up into hers, messy and desperate, and her hands slid up to tangle in his hair as she rocked harder, faster. Not to claim—but to give. She brought him closer with every movement, watched his body unravel under hers, felt the heat and sweat and pressure build in both of them.

They burned together like that—shivering, gasping, wordless.

“Please,” he choked out. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” she promised, voice raw. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

And when he came, it wasn’t with shame or restraint. It was a release—not just of pleasure, but of everything they had held inside for too long.

She followed a heartbeat later, burying her face against his shoulder, her body trembling with the intensity of it all.

They didn’t speak for a long time. Just lay tangled, hearts racing, skin damp, hands holding fast.

Because even without crossing that final threshold, they had given each other everything they could.

And it was enough.

More than enough.

It was theirs.

They stayed like that for a long time—tangled up, sweating and trembling, breathing in the scent of each other on unfamiliar skin.

Sicheng pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “This is going to mess us up, isn’t it?”

Yao let out a soft laugh. “Probably.”

“But I don’t regret it,” he whispered.

“Me neither.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning…

Practice started like usual.

Mostly.

Yao sat at Sicheng’s usual spot, headset on, trying to focus on last-hitting in the warm-up match. Her fingers twitched on the mouse—slightly too fast, slightly too unsure. Across the room, Sicheng sat curled in her smaller frame, quiet and far too still, trying not to make eye contact.

Nobody said anything for the first ten minutes. But the tension was obvious.

Too obvious.

“You good?” K asked finally, glancing between the two of them.

“Fine,” Sicheng replied quickly. Too quickly.

Yao grunted in agreement, eyes glued to her screen.

Yue, however, wasn’t having it. “You two are playing like you just walked out of a confession booth after sinning for four hours straight.”

Lao Mao snorted. “Or like you haven’t slept.”

“We have slept,” Yao muttered. “It’s just been... a weird couple of days.”

“You mean the kind of weird where your soul leaves your body mid-scrim?” Pang offered lightly. “Because that’s what this is looking like.”

Sicheng visibly winced when he missed a skillshot—something he never did. He didn’t offer an excuse. He just sighed.

Yao lost track of her mana pool and had to recall early. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay calm, to stay present —but her mind kept flickering back to the way he’d touched her the night before. The way she had touched him. The way none of it had felt wrong.

The way it still didn’t.

“Okay,” K said gently, not unkindly, “you two clearly have some stuff to sort out.”

“We’re fine,” Yao said automatically.

“Not judging,” Yue added, hands behind his head. “Just saying—it’s hard to concentrate when you’re both moving like NPCs in a cutscene.”

Yao didn’t respond. Neither did Sicheng.

The silence stretched a little too long.

Eventually, Sicheng murmured, “We’re gonna have to talk about it, aren’t we?”

Yao nodded slowly. “Yeah. But not in comms. And not while Yue’s suggesting soundtrack playlists for our ‘sexual awakening montage.’”

Yue gave her a casual thumbs-up, not missing a beat. “Already made one. Shared folder. You’re welcome.”

That earned a few laughs, lightening the mood.

Even Sicheng cracked a small, reluctant smile.

Practice resumed after that, but nothing quite went back to normal. The plays were cleaner, sure—but quieter. More focused, yet somehow emotionally louder. Every glance between them seemed heavier, every ping delayed by thought.

But they got through it.

And when the final match ended and the others began to peel away one by one, Yao didn’t move. Neither did Sicheng.

They stayed in their chairs, headsets off, letting the quiet settle around them.

“Later,” Yao said softly. “We’ll talk.”

Sicheng nodded. “Yeah.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that night...

The base was quiet again.

Lights dimmed, doors shut, the buzz of scrims replaced by the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards. Everyone else had gone to bed—or at least disappeared into their rooms, pretending not to be curious.

Yao sat at the kitchen table, legs too long and body still unfamiliar, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that wasn’t hers but now somehow was . She stared into the steam, waiting.

Sicheng entered quietly.

Still in her frame, still dressed in one of her oversized hoodies, hair slightly messy from running his hands through it. He moved slower than usual. Cautious. Like something inside him might break if he stepped wrong.

He didn’t speak. Just pulled out the chair across from her and sat down, mirroring her posture, hands folded around a glass of water.

The silence stretched between them.

Then Yao said softly, “I’ve been trying to figure out what to say.”

“Same,” Sicheng murmured, watching her— his face, so strangely vulnerable on someone else. “There’s not exactly a script for this.”

She gave a soft laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“I keep going over last night in my head,” she admitted. “Not just the... physical stuff. But all of it. The way it felt. The way it didn’t feel wrong.”

“It didn’t,” he said quickly. Quietly. “Not even for a second.”

She looked up at him. “I thought I’d regret it. That it would feel like a mistake after. But it doesn’t.”

“Me neither.” He hesitated. “I’ve been wanting to cross that line for a while now. The body swap just... stripped everything else away. No more excuses. No more distance.”

Yao nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around the mug. “It was easier to say things when we weren’t in our own skin.”

“Yeah.” A pause. “But I still meant them.”

Her gaze flicked to him, sharp and searching. “Even the part where you said I was beautiful?”

He smiled faintly. “Especially that part.”

The warmth in her chest caught her off guard. She looked down, trying to breathe through it.

“This is complicated,” she said after a long moment. “We’re still swapped. We don’t know how long this’ll last. And the team already suspects everything.”

“They know ,” he corrected with a soft groan. “Yue’s playlist has sound effects. ”

That made her laugh, a real one this time. The tension between them broke for just a moment.

Then she added, more seriously, “When we switch back—if we switch back—I don’t want to lose this. Whatever this is.”

“You won’t,” he said. There was no hesitation in his voice. Just quiet certainty. “We figure it out. Even if it’s messy. Even if it takes time.”

Her eyes softened.

“And what about... us?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He reached across the table, took her hand—his hand—in his. His thumb brushed over her knuckles with careful reverence.

“This doesn’t feel like something I want to undo,” he said. “Not the connection. Not the closeness. I don’t know what comes next, but I know I want it to be with you.”

She stared at their joined hands. “It’s so strange, looking at myself and feeling something for you inside it.”

“But it’s still you,” he said gently. “No matter what body you’re in. I know you. And that’s who I want.”

Yao swallowed hard, blinking past the tightness in her throat. “I want that too.”

They sat like that for a while, hands intertwined, not needing to say much more.

The swap hadn’t just blurred lines—it had broken them open. And in the wreckage, they’d found something honest. Something raw.

Something worth holding onto.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mid-Match Break — ZGDX vs DQ5

They were up one game. Barely.

Sicheng had barely said a word during the huddle. Yao’s body was still humming with adrenaline, her breath coming too fast, the heat of the stage lights still trapped under her jersey. His palms were sweaty— her palms—and his headset had left an indent on her jaw.

Everything felt wrong.

Too tight. Too visible. Like someone was watching him even now.

So he slipped away for a minute. Just to breathe.

The hallway backstage was dim, lined with crates and rigging cables. Staff wandered back and forth, but no one paid him any mind. He pressed a hand against the cool wall, trying to ground himself.

Then he heard the voice.

“Running off for a touch-up, princess?”

Xu Tailun.

Sicheng turned, slowly. Tailun stood a few feet down the corridor, sipping from a water bottle, one eyebrow raised, smirking like the break was just another game he was already winning.

Sicheng straightened. “Fuck off.”

Tailun clicked his tongue. “Is that any way to talk to an old friend?” He stepped closer. “Or is that just how you act now that you’ve got Sicheng’s leash wrapped around your little finger?”

Sicheng’s jaw tensed.

Tailun's eyes flicked over her body—his body now—and his grin widened.

“You know, you move differently now. All stiff and skittish. You sure you’re still the same player? Or did all that cute packaging finally get to your head?”

Sicheng turned to leave—but Tailun moved fast.

He shoved her back.

Yao’s body hit the wall hard, breath catching. Tailun pressed in close, one arm pinning her in place, the other resting just a little too close to her hip.

“I wonder,” Tailun murmured, voice low and mocking. “Do you get tired of pretending you're one of us? Of pretending that you can handle it?”

Sicheng’s body froze.

For a heartbeat, his instincts screamed to shove him off. To fight.

But his muscles didn’t move.

Because this wasn’t his body. These weren’t his limbs. And the fear curling in his chest—tight, sharp, humiliating —wasn’t fear of losing the game.

It was fear of being seen as nothing.

Tailun leaned closer, his breath ghosting against her neck.

“You wear that jersey, but we both know what they really see when they look at you.”

And Sicheng snapped .

He tried to twist enough to break free, shoving Tailun back with a sharp elbow - but he wasn't strong enough. He bit his arm in a last ditch effort as his mind went blank in panic, needing to get away. His hands were shaking. His heart thudded in his ears as he walked—no, ran —back down the corridor, head down, fists clenched so hard his nails bit into Yao’s skin.

He made it to the stairwell before his knees buckled. He could taste bile at the back of his throat.

There, between the pipes and the backstage rigging, he collapsed to the ground, chest heaving, forehead pressed against the concrete wall.

He’d always thought he understood pressure.

He hadn’t understood this.

The leering. The cornering. The humiliation disguised as mind games. The constant tension in your shoulders, waiting for someone to cross a line you weren’t even allowed to name.

And Yao had lived with this. For years.

Alone.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking.

He didn’t hear her approach.

But then there she was— he was—Yao, in his body, crouching down beside him, her expression unreadable but her hands steady.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

Sicheng didn’t look up. Just nodded once.

“He pinned me,” he rasped. “Like I was… like I didn’t matter.”

Yao was quiet for a moment.

Then she said, “He’s tried that with me before. Never during a match. But yeah. That’s what it’s like.”

Sicheng’s eyes burned. “How did you not break?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly: “I did. Just not where anyone could see.”

That undid him.

The tears came suddenly—hot, furious, silent. He didn’t sob. Didn’t make a sound. Just shook, shoulders trembling as he buried his face in her hands—his hands now.

And she held him.

In the dim stairwell, surrounded by echoes and shadows, she held him while he broke apart in the very skin that had kept her locked inside for years.

“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore,” he whispered, his voice ragged.

Yao rested her forehead against his. “I never wanted to. I just didn’t think anyone would believe me.”

“I believe you now.”

And she knew he meant it.

Not because he’d heard it.

But because he’d felt it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Next Morning

Yao woke up to silence.

No background comms chatter. No scrim alarms. No rumble of Pang rifling through the cereal cabinet.

Just the soft press of morning light against her eyelids and the steady rhythm of her own breath — hers . Not Sicheng’s deeper one. Not his weight. Not his limbs.

Hers.

She bolted upright in bed, eyes wide. Hands flew to her face. Slim fingers. Narrow wrists.

She leapt out of bed, nearly stumbling, heart hammering. Her legs were shorter again. Her center of gravity familiar. She didn’t even need a mirror. She knew.

She was back.

And from the knock on her door a second later, she knew she wasn’t the only one.

She opened it to find Sicheng standing there, still in his hoodie, hair rumpled, blinking down at her.

His body.

His eyes.

Quiet.

“You too?” she asked.

He nodded. Didn’t speak.

They stared at each other for a moment—like strangers meeting for the first time after lifetimes apart.

Then, cautiously, she said, “We’re back.”

Sicheng’s hand flexed at his side, like he didn’t know what to do with it. “Yeah. We are.”

They sat at the kitchen table minutes later, both with steaming mugs they hadn’t touched, the silence thick but not tense. Just... full. Weighted.

Yao looked down at her hands, twisting the ceramic between them. “Feels weird.”

“I thought I’d be relieved,” he admitted, voice low. “And I am. But also…”

He trailed off.

Yao looked up. “But also it’s not that simple.”

“No.” His throat bobbed. “It’s not.”

The silence stretched again. But this time, it was safe. Shared.

Eventually, he said, “I keep thinking about the hallway.”

She didn’t have to ask which one. She knew.

“I’ll never forget what that felt like,” he said. “Being looked at like that. Trapped in that body, with no power . I’ve played through pressure, bad matches, injuries… but that? That was the first time I felt scared. ”

Yao didn’t interrupt.

“And I only had to deal with it for a few weeks,” he added. “You’ve done it for years. Alone. ”

She set her mug down carefully. “I wasn’t alone. I had the team. I had fans. But it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

He nodded. “I know that now.”

Their eyes met across the table.

“Do you regret it?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “The swap. What happened between us?”

“No,” he said instantly. “I regret not seeing it sooner. You. Everything you carry. Everything I dismissed. I regret that.”

Her eyes stung, but she didn’t look away.

“And the rest?” she asked, meaning last night. The closeness. The mess. The intimacy neither of them had dared before the walls fell.

Sicheng stood slowly, walked around the table, and crouched beside her chair.

His voice was quiet but steady. “I meant it. Every part of it. Even if I was in your body. Even if it was messy. It was real. ”

Her breath hitched. “So what now?”

He reached up and took her hand—her small , familiar hand—in his.

“Now we move forward,” he said. “As us. In the right bodies. No more hiding.”

Yao squeezed his fingers, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Good. Because I think I missed you. Even when you were right there.”

Sicheng leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against hers. “I missed me too.”

She closed her eyes, letting his breath brush against her face, warm and steady. His forehead rested lightly against hers, anchoring them both. It should have felt familiar. And in some ways, it did—but in others, it didn’t. Not entirely.

They stayed like that for a moment, not rushing, not pretending.

Just them. Back where they belonged.

Together.

His hand moved, tentative at first, as though unsure if he was still allowed. He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, then pulled back just slightly to search her face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter than usual.

Yao nodded—but it took a second longer than either of them expected. “Yeah. Just… weird, I guess.”

Sicheng let out a short breath of a laugh. “Yeah. I keep thinking I’ll reach for something and—wrong height, wrong hands.”

“Wrong hips,” she added, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “I bumped into a table today. With my hip. My hip, Sicheng.”

His grin widened, and for a moment, the tension eased. But then the silence returned—this time not heavy, just... hesitant.

They had touched before. Slept side by side. Watched each other bleed, and laugh, and break. But now that they were back in their own skin, the weight of everything they hadn’t said seemed to press closer.

She looked up at him. “Do you still—?”
“Yes.” His answer came too fast, too earnest. He cleared his throat, softer now. “I do.”

He leaned in and kissed her, and this time it wasn’t polished or perfect. It was slightly off-center, slightly breathless. Her teeth bumped his. Their noses got in the way. But neither of them pulled back.

Yao laughed against his mouth. “You forgot how to kiss?”

“You try doing it without your mouth for six weeks,” he murmured, smiling even as he leaned in again.

The second kiss was better—still shy, still new, but with more ease. When their bodies pressed together, it was careful. Experimental. His hand hovered at her waist before resting there, fingers light like he was afraid of pushing too far.

She touched his chest, then paused. Her thumb traced along the collarbone she hadn’t seen in weeks. “You’re really you again.”

He nodded. “And so are you.”

Undressing was awkward—arms tangled in shirts, socks stubborn, laughter bubbling up between kisses that broke from clumsy angles and uncertain hands. But underneath it all was tenderness. A quiet reverence.

They made it to the bed, breathless from nerves more than heat. He lay beside her first, eyes scanning her like he didn’t know where to start.

Yao rolled onto her side to face him. “You can touch me,” she whispered. “I’m not going to break.”

His hand found her hip, then her waist, then up to cup her face. “You feel different.”

She nodded. “So do you. But not in a bad way.”

They moved slowly, cautiously—like tracing a familiar melody on an unfamiliar instrument. His hands lingered at her waist, eyes locked on hers, searching one last time for any flicker of doubt.

There was none.

With a breath that hitched in her throat, Yao guided him in, her fingers clutching his shoulders as though bracing herself for the moment everything would change. Her body tensed as he entered her—not from fear, but from the raw jolt of newness. The unfamiliar ache wasn’t pain so much as realization—of being opened, of being known so completely, for the first time, in her own skin.

Her gasp was sharp, but she didn’t pull away. He stilled, trembling above her.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he murmured, voice hoarse, nearly breaking.

She shook her head, eyes shining. “No. Don’t stop. I want this.”

So he moved—slowly, reverently—each motion threaded with care, his mouth brushing her temple, her cheek, her lips like he could soften the stretch with his love alone.

The rhythm at first was hesitant. They kissed more than they moved, and breathed more than they spoke. Her fingers fumbled at his back; his nose bumped hers. Their bodies searched for alignment, for ease. But even when it was awkward, it was theirs.

And then—somewhere between a shared laugh and a quiet moan—they found it.

Their rhythm smoothed. Her body, once tight around him, began to open, to yield. Bit by bit. Breath by breath. The sting gave way to fullness, the unfamiliar to something rich and grounding. She tilted her hips to meet him; he adjusted his angle with a groan that came from somewhere deep.

The effort faded. All that remained was surrender.

Each thrust became more assured, less careful. Less about navigating and more about knowing. The nerves melted into something hotter, more urgent. Her moans slipped free without shame, his name falling from her lips like a vow. His hands found her body with the certainty of devotion—not claiming, just holding, worshipping.

And when release came, it wasn’t timid or restrained. It tore through them in waves—her with a cry into his neck, him with a tremble that shook his whole frame. A rush. A reckoning. A return.

After, they stayed wrapped around each other, bodies warm and damp, limbs tangled like they’d been made to fit that way. She lay beneath him, heart still thudding, her fingers sliding up and down his spine in slow, even strokes until they both came back to themselves.

He kissed her shoulder—soft, lingering. She pressed her lips to his chest, just over the place where his heart beat strongest.

And in the hush that followed, he whispered into her hair, “I’ll never forget what it felt like to be inside your skin.”

She smiled against him. “And I’ll never forget what it felt like to be safe in yours.”

They didn’t need to say more.

Because now they knew—fully, wordlessly—what it meant to give themselves completely.

And what it meant to choose each other. Not just in closeness, but in trust. In truth. In return.