#my favorite fics of mine

[vodkassassin]

:3c Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love❤

1.

and i’m reminded of the simple life (where I work and just be used) (SVSSS) Shang Qinghua

It’s my Shang Qinghua superwhump fic with an overlaying plot that evolved from a one shot I had written one morning over coffee before work a few years ago. I never anticipated it growing into something of this scale. Through this fic, I’ve been able to explore certain characters and their motivations and behaviors in ways I wouldn’t in other stories. It’s great fun for me <3

2.

Shakespeare in the Park (Skyrim) Dominic Moriah (OC)

My good old insert-OC Dominic and his adventures in Skyrim, transmigration gamer style. This one is a story I’ve been working off and on for YEARS and I still have so much planned for it. I’ve barely even started m. The fact i have gotten so many comments on this fic along the lines of “I don’t even go here (skyrim) but I love this story” is mind boggling. I hope my writing was able to inspire someone to play the game at least once 👀

Plus, Dominic as a character is just so much fun to write. And, gratifyingly, I have been told he’s also very fun to read.

3.

Ear to the Wall (Naruto) Hatake Kakashi

Ah, my baby. One of my most successful fics ever. Topping the charts of my statistics. Raking in the bread (I wish lmao).

The fact that this story, too, started from just a one shot of a vague idea I had one day and somehow snowballed into this absolute monstrosity that so many people love is what I live for as a writer. So many people nuts enjoy reading about sick baby Kakashi tumbling blindly through his own time travel fix-it, and it breathes life into me every day.

4.

above, and beyond, and below (MDZS) Su She (OC-Insert)

Genuinely I am so proud of the way I’ve written this story. I can reread it and come across barely any points in which I feel like rewriting, which is rare! The pacing, the emotion, the character voices, the implications of future plot points… I wanna chef kiss myself with tongue for the great job I’ve been doing with this story.

Plus, the amount of people who have raged at me for making them cry with this one specifically is how I survive in this cold and cruel world 💖

5.

bundle up tight (American Dragon Jake Long) Jake

Listen, this fandom could use some new blood. Not people, I mean, just stories — I mean, the world building potential alone! It deserves more attention. The sandbox is unlimited and there’s room for more people to build castles next to my small and humble home.

I’ll come back myself and read this one, and it always brings me joy. Nostalgia paired with my own ideas in writing it just makes me feel cozy.

Honorable mentions:

Pelsitheos (Percy Jackson) Percy [time travel, canon overhaul, character motivation focus, collecting adoptable characters] WIP

cornered animals bear their teeth (SVSSS) Shang Qinghua [throat tearing, badass SQH, infatuated MBJ, just 😏] COMPLETE

Attempt #2 (Trash of the Count’s Family) Cale Henituse|Kim Rok Soo [protective papa Eruhaben, best big brother Alberu, Cale Henituse Protection Squad] COMPLETE

[steddieme]

in most fics i've read robin is grossed out when steve talks about his sex life, which is probably far more in character for her, but hear me out

imagine them discussing literally everything. like having no boundaries whatsoever.

one day robin mentions she's never seen a dick and she's curious what all the fuss is about.

robin: you have one

steve: yeah...?

robin: so show me

steve: ??

steve: sure, why not

when steve pulls down his pants, robin just stares at him with a blank face

robin: that's... it?

steve: what do you mean that's it??

robin: it looks sad

steve: ??? well, it's not hard rn, obviously???

robin: ugh, boring

steve: you want me to show you my hard dick?? is that what's happening rn?

robin: i mean yeah?

steve: your judgemental face is forever burned into my mind. i don't think i'll ever be able to get hard again.

then robin bursts into his room like a week later

robin: steve, you're a slut-

steve: hey!

robin: so you know your way around a vagina, right?? i need you to tell me if i have a rash or not

steve: do you not own a handheld mirror?

robin: i'm freaking out so much, i can't make a sound observation rn

steve: *sigh* alright

turns out robin does indeed have a rash and steve takes her to the doctor

at one point they lose all shame. steve regularly air dries while robin hangs out in his room. robin makes steve do her monthly breast self-exam. they check each other for ticks.

when steve and eddie start dating steve tells robin literally everything. robin knows way too much about eddie and she loves it.

robin comes over for movie night, eddie is already there

robin: how was your day?

steve: we slept in, then eddie fucked me, it was great-

eddie: *chokes*

steve: then we cooked lunch, there are some leftovers in the fridge, go ahead and eat. yours?

eddie: ???

robin: ugh, don't get me started-

eddie: wait wait wait, how did you just say that so casually?

stobin: ???

eddie: that i fucked you??

steve: i tell robin everything. i told you that. you said that's fine.

eddie: i didn't know that included our sex life?

steve: why wouldn't it? ... wait, oh no, are you not okay with that?? i'm sorry, i thought you knew??

eddie: oh no, it's fine! it just surprised me is all. y'all are real freaks, carry on

stobin: okay then

robin freaks out before her first date with a girl

robin: what if my vagina looks weird???

steve: are you planning to fuck her on the first date, buckley? and how many times do i have to tell you your vagina looks absolutely normal??

robin: no, i'm not, but it's still a valid concern!!! what if my vagina looks hideous to girls??

eddie, the silent observer: lol

steve: what are you even talking about... a vagina is a vagina, vagina lovers love all vaginas

robin: stop saying vagina

steve: vagina vagina vagina-

robin tackles him and they end up wrestling until steve yields

steve: okay okay,, as someone who's seen his fair share of coochies

robin: that's even worse

steve: yours looks perfectly fine.

eddie: wait, you've seen it?

stobin, staring at him: ...

eddie: right, dumb question

[blanc-ci]

I KNOW his ass is hitting the

“ is it hot in here or is that just you? “

Where are his two beautiful boys to help make sure he gets home safe?

I wrote a silly drabble for this and your warnings are: not explicit, McCoy is drunk and horny, and this is pre-established mcspirk so there’s quite a bit of un-spoken understanding about the consent around that.

—

In the after-party of a frankly excessive diplomatic wedding, Jim had one of McCoy’s arms slung over his shoulder and was attempting to drag him out of the reception hall. With Spock two steps ahead, leading the way. Bones was humming drunkenly, or mumbling something, it was kind of hard to tell over all the noise, but the vibrations against his side were distinct and endearing.

"I think we should let him drink champagne more often, never seen him cut so loose,” he half-shouted at Spock’s back and, as if to prove his point, Bones started giggling from his spot pressed into Jim’s side.

"Would cut loose be referring to when he began stripping or when he nearly climbed on stage to join the dancers?” Spock called back over his shoulder, not looking for an answer and not slowing his pace as he neatly parted the sea of bodies.

Jim pursed his lips, honestly considering it, in the right context he doesn't really think he'd mind either of those things. Though stripping is a little exaggerated, it was just the outer layers really. But, fine, he’ll concede, to the cultured eye McCoy’s rolled sleeves were not unlike lingerie. He’d rag on Spock for that if he wasn’t already having trouble keeping pace with him.

Thankfully, the air was getting cooler, and the crowd thinner. Soon Spock was ushering them out of the venue and into the brisk other-worldly night. Jim glanced around. Definitely not the main entrance, i.e. they'd have to walk the perimeter for Spock-knows how long to get back to the hovercar- but he did appreciate the lack of people.

He took the chance to readjust McCoy’s body against his and, equally, their good doctor took the chance to lean into the crook of his neck. Mumbling something giddily against Jim’s collar. He shivered and gave a sidelong smirk down at the man,

“Hm? What was that?”

“Should’ve let me dance,” Bones lolled his head up to look at him, and then across towards Spock, sloppy grin and dropped lashes making him look particularly debauched,

“I could’ve given you one helluva show~”

Spock turned and stepped in close, tidying the disarrayed mess of hair clinging to McCoy’s forehead,

“if you wish to dance for us, you can do it someplace with much less of an audience.”

McCoy gasped, glittering,

“a private show? Spock, you sly dog.”

“That is not-“

“Oh it definitely was, let’s get to the car, then I can-“

They bickered in flirtatious circles, though Jim could see McCoy was definitely more checked into his own fantasy than their actual conversation. He feels warm and pleasantly exasperated,

“Bones, you had like four glasses, I’m a bit more worried about that impending hangover you have to look forward to.”

Than any other impending issues.

“Hmm- It might’ve been more,” McCoy tilted his head back looking up at the night, after a distracted pause he turned back to them, scowling- more like pouting,

“Can’t I take advantage of our time before the massive impending hangover?”

Before he could even reply, Jim watched the man consider his own words, and start giggling all over again,

“Or.. can’t you take advantage of my time?”

McCoy’s fingers moved to try and re-start their much earlier work of undoing his top buttons. Pretty unsuccessfully. Jim continued to watch, entertained, as Spock huffed and lightly smacked Bones’ hand aside, fastening the buttons all the way back up. More chaste than ever but still undeterred, McCoy leaned in suddenly, jostling Jim out of his adoring, doe-y eyed revelry.

Bones began whispering heatedly into Spock’s ear, and though Jim couldn't hear every detail, the not-really minute reactions Spock gave were enough of a clue. He cleared his throat,

“Back to the hotel then?”

When they parted Spock raised a brow and said nothing, turning to walk- presumably- in the direction of the car park. Jim followed, making interested half-noises to Bones’ continued horny rambling.

It was dark, but if he squinted could just make out the lovely deep green flush gracing their vulcan’s ears.

[tragedy-machine]

Listen, listen, listen, imagine Charles making a grand romantic gesture to confess to Edwin, he makes it really special, VERY obviously romantic

They're talking, they're bantering, and eventually, Charles sees his chance and tells Edwin, "I love you"

Edwin blushes and naturally says it back

And Charles is super happy, like "Yes! I finally did it, we're finally dating!" ...meanwhile, Edwin did not get that it was a date and a romantic confession

So we see them go about their days and solve cases while Charles thinks they're together and assumes Edwin is too shy to kiss him, but he's waiting for an opportunity to do it one day because he really wants to, but he can be patient for Edwin

And Edwin is just like, "Charles’s been more affectionate with his touch recently, I don't know what that's about, but it's nice"

[ghostbsuter]

John Constantine was in prison.

No, not a normal, mortal prison. Those wouldn't be able to hold him like this one does.

No, he's imprisoned in the Infinity Realm.

The warden of the establishment is Walker, someone whose blood sings Witch Hunter.

If that wasn't bad enough, with every second, it gets worse. Angels decided to interfere in a realm not in possession of their God.

Who's idea was it to go against the Infintiy Realm? Are they nuts?

"John Constantine," One of the messangers steps forward. There is no weapon in sight, yet.

"Under the scrutiny of Heaven, we were sent to retrieve you for a trial." Their voice clipped, blond hair shimmering a soft green and John is sweating buckets.

"Your deals with various demon folk and such shall be judged unter gods court and—"

A loud bang echoes through the hall, Walker's men are surrounding the beings of heaven and particular brave soul steps forward.

The lad is young, can't be older than Bat's Robin. He walks with an air of authority, white hair floating against gravity's rules and towering before the flock of messangers.

"How dare—"

The boy, the godling– growls.

He blocks their view of Constantine, staring them down.

Some of the angels fall back, wings arched and ready for a fight, weapons still not in sight however.

"I am Phantom, King of God's of the Infinity Realm." The child with a title too much for such small shoulders bear, introduces himself.

It sends the flock into mild panic. Constantine is just a bit satisfied at the change.

"Returns to your god and tell him this, every Constantine bearing the title Laughing Magician is under my protection."

For such a small stature, his voice is booming, the command thinly veiled as a threat and icicles forming around him.

"Tell him that if he ever dares to breach my territory once more, I will not hesitate to call war upon heaven."

The main angel of the flock, the one that had read out Constantines sentence, hesitated only for a moment before urging the others to leave.

Posture stiff and movements jerky.

They didn't expect to be told off like this, John muses.

He only slightly dreads when phantoms attention drifts to him finally, a light knock on the metal bars and the whole wall was gone.

"Follow me, John Constantine."

And John does.

He'll sweet talk himself out of this on the way to his doom. Like always.

—

("Unpopular belief, but I actually quite like you." Danny had stated once in the garden, sitting on a table and drinking tea. John hadn't touched his cup nor desert at all, cannot trust those of the infinite after all.)

(A rip into the green before them had created a portal, a gateway.

"Leave, Laughing Magician. Hold onto that necklace, it will ward off anyone with the intent to harm and deals as a warning to those working for the immortal."

And as John steps forward, his eyes meet toxic green.

"We will see one another again, sooner or later. Farewell, Jester."

The portal spat him out in his apartment in New York, if it wasn't for the protection charm, Constantine would have believed it to be a mere dream. A warning.)

[shoplifting]

Your silent protagonist doesn't have to use sign language btw. They don't have to write things down, either. They don't have to use language at all. Not every single person who doesn't talk can use words the same as you, or use them at all, so your favorite silent character shouldn't have to use what you consider a grammatical language to communicate in your fanart and fics. AAC exists. Drawing exists. Gestures and body language exist. Btw.

[wildsaltair]

Nightmare

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff)

Word Count: 2.3k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted

Author’s Note: Up until now I've never posted any Maximus fanfiction because it's always just sort of been something I did for my own enjoyment, but this is one that I don't mind sharing :) @streets-in-paradise inspired me by sharing some Maximus love with me, so this is dedicated to her (and all you other wonderful people who have made Tumblr a place where I can share my passion for this wonderful man)! There's a lot of love poured into this fic, so I hope y'all enjoy it :)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

You are not surprised to learn that Maximus has nightmares. The details of his past are something you can only guess at, though he has alluded to the terrible battles and bloody escapades that haunt his memories. You also know that his refuge in your home is the first peace he has known since he was a child.

But you are not prepared for the sheer forcefulness of his first nightmare. He’s asleep next to you in bed, pale blue moonlight filtering through the window of your room, but you are awakened by his movements in the middle of the night. He’s jerking back and forth, his face twisted in a look of concentration, agony, and terror. You can’t help the fear that rises in your throat at the sight.

He makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat, one hand gripping the sheets tightly enough that his knuckles turn white. Blinking yourself into consciousness, your heart tightens at the sight. Even all these miles and months away from battle, still his past pursues him in dreams.

His next convulsion shakes the bed, and you instinctively reach out to him, hoping to wake him from the nightmare. It proves to be a mistake the second your hand presses onto his shoulder to shake him awake.

His eyes fly open at your touch, but it’s abundantly obvious that he is not awake, still seeing visions of whatever memory he was in a few moments ago. The look in his eyes is one of pure survival instinct, of a desperation that breaks your heart.

A split second later, you’re flat on your back, and the full weight of his body is pinning you down against the bed. You barely have time to register the shock of his swift movement before you realize that you did not wake him up. Blinded by memory, all he can see is his opponent, and the thought drives you to panic and try to wriggle out from under him.

Grinding his teeth, he grips both your wrists in his left hand and restrains them above your head effortlessly, despite your struggling. You call out his name softly, then more loudly, but still he is lost in the nightmare.

You thought you had tasted his strength before, when he’s made love to you and demonstrated how easily he can hold you in whatever position he chooses, but this situation gives you an entirely new perspective of his strength. A second after flipping you over, his right hand is around your throat, his thumb pressing into your jugular with enough force to crush it.

You’ve never been afraid of him once, but in this moment, without a single hint of recognition in his eyes and all his power focused on choking you, you are so terrified you can barely react. You can’t even use your hands to try to push him away.

Knowing that you may only have a few seconds to react, you gasp out his name as loudly as you can, the word immediately drowned out by the pressure on your throat. Your vision is fading to black a moment later, all the feeling in your hands gone from his vise-like grip.

But your strangled cry reaches past the fog of his nightmare somehow. The pressure on your throat releases, and his eyes widen suddenly, letting you know that he’s finally awake and realizing what he has been doing.

You can never forget the look in his eyes at that moment. All the terrifying forcefulness, the single-minded fierceness, the brute strength that made him such a force of nature on the battlefield — it all vanishes in a split second, dissolving into a gaze of such horror and regret that it shatters your heart instantly. You know that from this moment forward, he may never truly trust himself with you again, a thought that devastates you for him.

You can’t move for a moment, still struggling to catch your breath, and the look of horror in his eyes only increases as he pushes himself off you. He seems torn between the need to gather you in his arms and the fear of hurting you as he just did. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

You draw a ragged breath, reaching out one hand toward him desperately. “I’m all right,” is all you can manage. “I’m all right.”

You try to push yourself to a sitting position, but you find that you simply cannot, still so shaken from thinking you were about to be choked to death by the man you love, who you know would rather die than cause you any harm. His hands are trembling wildly when he reaches out to steady you.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he says, his own breathing so erratic that you wonder if he can feel your pain. “I couldn’t see you. I didn’t know it was you.”

He’s repeating himself in absolute shock, his eyes scanning every inch of your face, your neck, your arms to see what damage he’s done to you. His shaking only worsens, but he doesn’t lay a hand on you during his frantic checking over you for injuries, just lets them hover as if he’s afraid to touch you again.

You manage to sit up this time, steadying yourself with a calming breath and trying to give him a relaxed smile. “I know, I know,” you murmur, reaching out to brush your hand over his ruffled hair. He almost recoils at your touch.

“I could have killed you,” he whispers, involuntarily shifting himself to the edge of the bed away from you.

You keep running your hand lightly through his hair, determined to reassure him. “Of course not,” you promise. “You were only dreaming. It was just a dream.”

“It was just a dream,” he echoes, but not in agreement. “A dream of a battle in which I almost died. In which I killed so many men I could never count them.”

You don’t betray a single hint of fear, just scooting forward to close the distance between you. You use both hands now, framing the sides of his face as his eyes search your face desperately.

“I’m perfectly all right,” you assure him with a smile. “See? No harm done at all.”

“You don’t understand,” he insists vehemently, his voice breaking. “I could have killed you. I didn’t know it was you. I only saw my enemy and thought of killing him.”

Seeing how shaken he is, you push forward and clasp your arms around his neck to steady him. He still doesn’t touch you, doesn’t return your embrace. You can feel his whole body quaking in your arms.

“You don’t understand,” he repeats. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I don’t need to know,” you whisper in his ear, stroking his hair rhythmically in the way he always responds to.

He actually pushes you away this time, his hands gentle on your forearms as he puts space between you again. His eyes are blazing, his face as white as your sheets. “You don’t know,” he murmurs again, dropping his hands. “I could snap your neck with one twitch of my wrist. I could break your wrists, your ribs, your spine as easily as I can hold you down.” He holds his hands up in front of you, eyes wide and haunted. “You have no idea what these hands have done.”

“I don’t care what they’ve done,” you argue, seizing his hands with yours before he can pull them away. This time, though, he doesn’t make a move to pull away, freezing in place while he watches you carefully. Slowly, intentionally, you kiss the backs of both his hands, his knuckles, his fingers, to demonstrate your words. “I know you, and I love you, no matter what you’ve done.”

He shakes his head, though his eyes drift closed at the touch of your lips on the base of his palms. “No,” he half-whispers, “no, no.” Your heart tightens seeing him so tortured, knowing that all this anguish lurks beneath his stoic exterior every day, hiding so you can’t see it. “I should never have risked you like this.”

“You’ve never risked me,” you insist. “You’ve never done anything but protect me.”

“Until tonight,” he counters sharply, his eyes flashing open and fixing on yours with his typical intensity magnified. “It only takes one time. I should never have taken the risk.”

You can read the meaning behind his words — that he thinks he can’t trust himself to sleep next to you. The thought of giving him up, especially for this reason, is utterly unacceptable to you.

“I am not afraid of you,” you tell him firmly. Your words seem to affect him, because the tension in his shoulders lessens fractionally. You kiss his hands again and again, then rest your cheek against the roughened skin that you love so much.

“You should be,” he replies softly, the severity in his voice already decreasing. You can see the waves of exhaustion and sorrow washing over him, and you reach out your arms to enfold him again. This time, he accepts your embrace, folding his arms around your waist gently and resting his forehead in the crook of your neck. His skin is burning hot against yours, his arms still trembling.

“I could never be afraid of you,” you whisper. “I could never be afraid of the man who has protected me and cherished me. You have treated me so gently, so tenderly all these months. Never once has it crossed my mind to be frightened of your strength.” You press a kiss to his shoulder, then the side of his neck. “I take pride in having the heart of a man so strong, so capable. I know you would never hurt me.”

He shifts you in his arms, lifting you slightly to align more easily against his body. You can feel the deep, shuddering breath he draws while he thinks about your words. “I would never mean to hurt you,” he replies, “but in a dream, I cannot tell the difference between memory and reality.”

“I believe you would be able to keep yourself from truly hurting me,” you reassure him, threading your fingers into his hair at the base of his neck. He reacts to your touch with a hand sliding up your back to cradle you closer to his chest.

“And if I could not?” he whispers in response, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin of your neck. “If I should wake and find you dead by my hand?”

You shake your head, feeling tears spring to your eyes. Any fear you felt in the moment while he was holding you down is completely gone, lost in the tender embrace he holds you in now. “I do not believe the gods would allow such a thing to happen. Not to you. Not to us.”

He releases a shaky breath, one that glides across the exposed skin of your neck. He ducks his head to press a kiss to your collarbone, letting his lips linger there in a way that makes you shiver in his arms. “I am honored by your trust.”

You smile in response, dragging your fingertips lightly down his sides, over the deep scar that slices down his ribs. “I could never trust another man on earth as I do you,” you reply. “My only fear is that I may drown in the love I see in your eyes every day.”

He kisses your collarbone again in response, then moves upward slowly, pressing his lips to the soft hollow of your throat, then the underside of your jaw at your pulse point. Lifting you up effortlessly with his hands hooked under your arms, he repositions you so that you’re straddling him.

He then rests his fingertips, feather-light this time, against the sides of your neck. He strokes his fingers over each mark they left, then presses the softest of kisses against each one. Goosebumps break over your skin at the intimacy of his actions, of the wordless apology in every touch.

He lowers his forehead against yours, eyes closed as he breathes you in. “I do not know what blind fortune allowed me to find you,” he murmurs, touching his lips softly against the corner of your mouth, “but I thank them every moment for the gift of holding you like this.”

At your affectionate smile, he finally gives you the ghost of one in return, though his eyes are still haunted. You suspect that he will retain that haunted look for some time, no matter how many reassurances you offer.

As the intensity of the last while calms, he shifts you in his arms again, cradling you gently and laying you back against the pillows. He leans up on one arm, facing you, and you reach up a hand to stroke the side of his face. His expression softens again, giving you a look of utter fondness and devotion that makes your heart melt.

He leans forward slowly, as if asking your permission, and you gladly grant it. His lips touch yours with a gentle brush, then a bit more pressure. His tongue slides across yours in the way that always sends shivers up your spine, and one of his hands reaches up to stroke your hair, the other resting lightly on your waist. He kisses you once, twice, three times, each one more tender than the last, then lets his lips linger against yours for a moment more.

“I love you,” he says softly that you barely hear it, but rather feel it against your mouth.

“I love you,” you return, “more than I can say.”

One last kiss, and he finally lays down beside you, his face mere inches from yours and his arm folded across your waist. He takes his time in going back to sleep, choosing instead to gaze at your profile in the soft moonlight, but sleep finally takes him. And when you finally close your eyes, content to sleep peacefully beside him again, it’s to the sound of his even breathing and the warmth of his protective embrace.

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

More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)

[misty-doodles]

Shout out to this dnb art I drew, I have failed to draw anything for them since

[steddiehyperfixation]

don't you forget about me (part six)

(part one)(part two)(part three)(part four)(part five)

Steve allows himself a brief mental breakdown in the shower when he gets home. He lets the water mix with his tears as he curls his arms around himself and wishes with everything he is that they were Eddie’s. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give right now just to be held by him again, just to feel Eddie’s arms around him one more time. All it took was a tiny kiss on the back of his hand for Steve’s skin to remember just how much it missed that feeling. Now Steve’s entire body craves Eddie’s touch, and he shakes in its absence like an addict in withdrawal. 

Then he puts himself back together, gets dressed and styles his hair and heads off to work. 

They’d defeated Vecna before he could split the world into pieces or whatever his diabolical plan had been. So while Steve’s whole world may have been torn apart, while Steve’s whole world lays bruised and bandaged and amnesic in a hospital bed, the rest of the world carries on none the wiser. The rest of the world still rents VHS tapes and has movie nights and date nights and no fucking clue that they were seconds away from being dragged down into a hell dimension a couple weeks ago, so Family Video is still open for them. Fuck that. 

“You’ve gotta handle the customers today because if someone starts asking me stupid questions I can’t promise I won’t snap at them,” Steve tells Robin as he drives them to their shift. 

“Aw, but it’s so funny when you snap at them,” Robin quips. 

“Robin.” He gives her his best I’m so fucking serious look. 

Her humor dries up immediately and she nods solemnly. “Alright, yeah. I got it.” 

Steve sighs, pulling into the parking lot. “Thank you.” 

He busies himself with cataloging and reshelving and rewinding returns while Robin takes over the customer service part of the job. It’s mindless - mind-numbing - the monotony of the tasks exactly what Steve needs to dull out the thoughts in his brain and distract himself from the way the back of his hand still tingles from Eddie’s kiss. 

When the afternoon rush dies down after a few hours and the store is all but empty, Robin sidles up next to him where he’s putting away a stack of fantasy films. “Hey.” 

Her voice cuts through his focus and nearly startles Steve out of his skin. “Jesus! Don’t sneak up on me like that.” 

“Sorry.” She grabs half the stack of tapes and starts helping him shelve. “Just wanted to check in with you, we haven’t gotten much of a chance to talk today. How are things going with Eddie?” 

“It’s fine. He’s fine,” Steve grumbles, glaring down at the tape in his hands. It’s got a dragon on the cover. He thinks Eddie would probably like it. “He still doesn’t remember me, but he’s starting to see me as a friend now at least, so.” Steve shoves the movie into its spot on the shelf. “That’s something, right?” 

Robin raises her eyebrows at the sharp bitterness in his tone and how forcefully he put the tape away. “Okay. Yeah. So I see we’re in the anger stage of grief now,” she comments. 

Steve scoffs. If this is a stage of grief, he thinks he’s been going through them in the wrong order, or maybe all at once - a neverending ebb and flow of denial and anger and depression all swirled together into one fucked up cocktail of grief. “I’m not angry,” he says, rubbing his hands over his face. “I’m just tired- emotionally burnt out, I don’t know. I just miss him and it’s not fair and I’m so fucking sick of feeling like this.” 

“Yeah, that’s anger, Steve,” Robin says, infuriatingly blunt. She slides the last tape in her stack into its place and then leans against the shelf. “Did something else happen to set this off, or are you just generally overwhelmed?” 

Steve sags against the shelf beside her. “Both. I don’t know. It’s stupid, it’s so fucking stupid. He just- he kissed my hand this morning, that’s it, and it wrecked me.” 

“He what?” Robin questions, curiosity widening her eyes. 

“He kissed my hand,” Steve repeats. He sighs and adds context, gives her a full recount of the events of that morning.

“Oh my god?!” Robin practically squawks as she backhands Steve’s arm, which is definitely not the comforting words or touch he needs from her right now. 

“Ow!” he yelps, rubbing his arm. “What the hell was that for?” 

“Dude. He was flirting with you,” she tells him, eyes even wider now like she’s trying to explain to him something obvious. 

“What? No.” Steve shakes his head, looking at her like she’s crazy. “He definitely wasn’t.” 

“Ughhh,” Robin lets out a long, dramatic groan, dragging her hands down her cheeks and pulling down her eyes. “I cannot do this with you two again. He totally was.” She drops her hands from her face so she can use them to illustrate her point as she starts to lists off, “First of all, he literally called you daddy-” 

“As a joke,” Steve interrupts to protest. 

“Yeah, a flirtatious one,” Robin retorts. She continues, “Then he said you have a magic touch, and then his heart literally started racing for no reason-”

“Because I was stressing him out!” 

“Only after his heart rate went up in the first place, which, as I was saying, was for no reason other than the fact that you were smiling at him and holding his hand-” 

“That literally doesn’t-” 

“And then, he kissed your hand - pressed his lips to your skin - and told you that you were his good luck charm,” Robin finishes, looking smug like she’s said something novel and not just completely reiterated exactly what Steve had just told her only with more emphasis. 

He sighs wearily. “Your point?” 

“He likes you, dingus,” she says, whacking his arm again. “Don’t you get it? His mind may not remember still, but his heart is starting to.”

Steve doesn’t know what to do with that. A lump rises in his throat, a rush of jumbled emotions chafing against his already frayed edges. “Don’t say that. You don’t know that.”

“I think you should tell him what you were to each other,” Robin suggests. 

“Right, yeah, okay, sure,” Steve scoffs, somewhere between sarcastic and hysterical. “And while we’re at it, I think you should tell Vickie that you like her. Because telling people things like that is so easy, isn’t it?” 

Robin gives him a withering stare. “That is not the same thing at all, and you know it.”

“No, yeah, you’re right,” he agrees. “Because I know Eddie, and he would not take that news well. He already gets a little weird whenever I seem to know too much about him - if I tell him I know him biblically too-” 

“Ew, don’t tell him like that!” 

“Doesn’t matter if I tell him like that; I say we’ve been together for 9 months, he’s going to assume we’ve-” 

“God, okay, I get it!”

“See? It would freak him out,” Steve concludes, crossing his arms. “Even if he does…like me again or whatever, he definitely wouldn’t anymore and it would just generally make him uncomfortable. So I can’t tell him. I just have to keep waiting for him to remember on his own, even though it’s fucking killing me,” he says, his voice harsh as he tries to keep it from breaking. “It’s what’s best for Eddie.” 

“Steve-” Robin starts, frowning like she’s only just beginning to realize she may have pushed him too far, but whatever it is she was going to say is cut off by the ringing of the bell that announces the front door being open. 

“Customers.” Steve points his chin towards the couple who just walked in, a bitter jealousy boiling in his stomach as he watches them walk hand in hand towards the romance aisle. It’s not fucking fair. He shoves himself away from the shelves and mutters, “I’m taking my break.”

He stalks to the breakroom, closes the door, and sinks to the floor with his back against it. The tears in his eyes feel like they’re made of acid, like they would carve tracks into his skin if they were to spill down his cheeks. He wraps his arms around himself again. The thoughts in his head are made of acid too, bitter and burning and cursing everyone who gets to enjoy their lover's touch while he suffers without his. 

Steve’s brain feels corroded, corrupted. “He likes you,” Robin’s words echo there too, “his mind may not remember still, but his heart is starting to.” Would Eddie touch him now if he asked? Would he trace his fingers across Steve’s skin, kiss more than just the back of his hand? Steve digs his own fingers into his sides. He feels gross, he feels rotten. It wouldn’t be right to ask that of Eddie without him knowing the truth, to take advantage of him like that. It wouldn’t be the same, anyways. The superficial touch of a boy with the beginnings of a crush is not the tender lover’s caress that Steve craves. 

That is if Robin is even right about Eddie redeveloping feelings. Which she probably isn’t.

Steve’s just being stupid and selfish again. He wants to remove his brain from his skull so he can stop thinking, tear his heart from his chest so he can stop feeling; both so burned and decayed he thinks if he held them in his hands they would dissolve and crumble to dust and ash and sludge between his fingers. 

Fifteen minutes pass, and Steve forces himself to be fine. He peels himself off the breakroom floor and returns to work, continues the tedious tasks that he hopes will numb him out again. 

Robin catches his eye from across the room where she’s sorting a customer’s cash at the register. I’m sorry, her expression says, I didn’t mean to make you upset. 

Steve gives a tiny shake of his head and a small smile. It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault, his own expression reassures her. You meant well. I’m not mad at you. 

They don’t talk about Eddie again that day. The next time there’s a lull in customers and they’re able to chat again, Steve tells Robin he honestly just needs a distraction right now, and he lets her ramble on about Vickie and band and school and her impending graduation and the movie she watched last night and whatever other random thoughts are bouncing around that hyperactive head of hers. Her voice fills in the cracks in Steve’s brain, keeps it from falling apart completely. She’s always been good at that, and he’s grateful for it. 

Then he drops Robin off after work and he drives away alone in silence because all the songs on the radio are love songs, and he drives back to the hospital - back to the source of his grief again and again like some sort of fucking masochist - because Eddie needs him. Because Steve loves him.

~

Eddie cannot help the way his face all but beams the second Steve walks back into his room that evening. “There you are, Stevie! How was work?”

Steve returns the smile, genuine, but there’s a tiredness to it. “It was alright. Bit boring, really, uneventful. How are you doing?” 

“I’m good,” Eddie says, adding with a jaunty grin, “All the better now that you’re back.” 

It comes out a bit more flirtatious than he intended, but thankfully Steve just laughs it off. “Alright, smoothtalker,” he scoffs through a chuckle as he takes his usual seat by the bed. “It’s nice to see you again too.”

“Oh, the actual doctor came in to talk to me today. Good news, don’t worry,” Eddie tells him, the last bit tacked on quickly before that concerned crease can appear between Steve’s brows. “She says I’m healing up nicely, and I might be able to be discharged soon. A few more days’ observation and then they're gonna see how well I can actually move since, you know, the bats chewed through half the muscles in one of my legs. But, yeah, I could be out of here by the end of next week.” 

“That’s great, Eddie!” Steve brightens. 

“Yeah.” Eddie smiles. “I can’t wait to be somewhere familiar, feel normal again. Or, well,” he amends, smile falling a little as he realizes, “as normal as I can feel given that I’ll probably be walking with a limp for the rest of my life and be covered in nasty scars all over.” 

A strange expression crosses Steve’s face then, something happy and sad and sympathetic all at once, and his voice is soft as he says, “We’ll match.” 

Eddie blinks at him. “What?”

“The scars,” Steve clarifies. “The bats got me too, you know. I was lucky, it wasn’t as bad for me as it was for you, but, uh- yeah, we’ll match. See?” He stands and pulls his shirt up a bit. 

Eddie’s heart rate immediately kicks up again, blood growing warm, as his eyes snap to Steve’s stomach, to skin and muscle and body hair and- oh. Two giant, jagged red scabs cover Steve’s sides, the edges fading into skin bumpy and pink and white with the beginnings of scarring. The bite on Eddie’s own side twinges in sympathy. “That’s-” He swallows back the word hot, and breathes out instead, “Holy shit.” Without really thinking, he finds himself reaching out to skim his fingers over the ridges of Steve’s scars. 

Steve gasps - full body shudders - at the touch, and Eddie instantly pulls his hand back, afraid he’s hurt him. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“No, it’s fine,” Steve manages, though it sounds a bit shaky. “You didn’t hurt me, I just- I wasn’t expecting it.” 

Eddie tentatively starts to reach back out; Steve nods. He slowly traces the outline of the wound again, every uneven edge, feeling the evidence of hurt and the evidence of healing and the ripple of each breath Steve takes - breaths that echo in the quiet that falls between them. Eddie doesn’t realize just how intimate this silence has become as he runs his hands across Steve’s skin, until he glances up to find Steve just…watching him. It’s impossible to tell exactly what emotion is behind his eyes, but it’s intense and it’s devastating, and Eddie suddenly feels like he can’t breathe. 

“Uh-” A nervous laugh stutters out of him. He rescinds his touch. “Twin scars, huh?” he remarks, cracking a crooked smile and attempting to change this strange, suffocating energy with a joke. “Hell of a matching tattoo. Next time let’s just exchange friendship bracelets like normal people do, yeah?”

Steve huffs, a short burst of laughter that escapes from his chest like it’s been punched out of him. “Since when have you ever done anything like a normal person?” he teases in return as he pulls his shirt back down.

Just like that, blown away by Steve’s playful smile, the weird tension lifts. Eddie grins back. “Alright, fair point.” He adds, “Those are gonna be some pretty metal scars, Stevie.”

“Not as metal as yours,” Steve says warmly, settling back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “You’re the one that literally survived death, Ed. It doesn’t get any more metal than that.” 

“Now who’s the smoothtalker?” Eddie smirks, and he hopes he isn’t blushing. Steve Harrington calling him metal with so much pride and affection in his voice is doing numbers on his heart. Curse this stupid fucking crush.

Steve eyes divert briefly to the heart monitor, which has not once calmed down since the second he’d lifted up his shirt, and Eddie is so sure that he knows then, that he’s finally made the connection between what’s got Eddie’s heart racing, but he doesn’t say anything, just laughs it off again, smiling like everything’s completely normal as he looks back at Eddie and rolls his eyes and mutters in return, “Shut up.” 

“Make me,” Eddie mumbles, not quick enough to bite back the words before they fall from his mouth, only managing to lower his voice enough that maybe Steve didn’t hear him. 

“What?” 

“TV?” Eddie grabs the remote, pretends like that’s what he’d said in the first place. Real smooth. 

“Oh, sure.” Steve shrugs. If he noticed Eddie’s slip, he gives no indication of it. 

Eddie turns on the TV and they spend the next hour or so laughing and making fun of the bad acting on the show that’s playing. Easy, normal, platonic. Eddie’s heart rate stabilizes, remaining even so long as he doesn’t look too long at Steve’s smile. 

When sleep starts lapping at Eddie’s consciousness, he doesn’t fear it anymore. Silently, he holds out his hand, and Steve takes it, wrapping him in the warmth and protection that allows Eddie to let himself drift off undaunted. 

And in his dreams his hands skate across Steve’s skin again.

(part seven)

taglist (CLOSED): @romanticdestruction @daydreamsandcrashingwaves @paintsplatteredandimperfect @hallucinatedjosten @mugloversonly @estrellami-1 @alongcomesaspider @thatonebadideapanda @tell-me-a-secret-a-nice-one @dragonmama76 @wxrmland @nuggies4life @sirsnacksalot @myguiltyartpleasure @lolawonsstuff @marklee-blackmore @vinteraltus @sebastiansstanswhore @0happyeverafter0 @scarlet-malfoy @hotluncheddie @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @emsgoodthinkin @alyelf @warlordess @stevesbipanic @lil-gremlin-things @rockandrolodex @badcaseofcasey @bat-outta-hel @fandomcartographer @manda-panda-monium @littlewildflowerkitten @giopandaonice @mightbeasleep @queenie-ofthe-void @krazyperson @worldofshea @marvel-ous-m @tartarusknight @a-little-unsteddie @xenon-demon @goodolefashionedloverboi @xxsky-shockxx @mc-i-r @bookbinderbitch @aspenshade88 @slowandsteddie @thedragonsaunt @daydreaming-mood @space-invading-pigeon @irregular-child @a-lovely-craziness (taglist continued in replies; please lmk if you'd like to be removed from this list. if you didn't make the taglist but still wanna follow along, you can follow the tag #dyfamsteddiefic to keep up with new updates!)

[obliviouskara]

”You luthors are all the same!”

lena: I take offence at that. I still have all my hair.

hdkskdjd i love this fic and i love how lena’s portrayed in this fic

[dollopheadedmerlin]

I am humbly requesting Merlin fics where Merlin is sick/injured/enchanted and Arthur has to help him travel home/to a destination with aid whilst keeping Merlin alive/awake/safe please and thank you

[lixel-5]

i have this headcanon where long story short stanley gains consciousness but the narrator hasn’t, and once stanley does something stupid (goes so far out of bounds the narrator is left to his own devices to get him back in bounds lol) it knocks the narrator into consciousness

and when he resets and realizes he’s not being dictated by code anymore the narrator is PISSED

like how DARE you make it so i’m having actual thoughts. i can remember more than 20 seconds ago and ITS ALL YOUR FAULT. now i have to deal with wants and desires instead of just following a script for eternity! kys!!!!!!!!

[idiotsinkdaisies]

wrote my 10th buddie fic and i'm particularly proud of this one <3

too far from the sun (read on ao3)

Where Eddie Diaz spends time in El Paso, and handles it fine. Buck is back in Los Angeles, and Eddie does not feel the hundreds of miles between them like a physical ache. (He might be lying to himself.)

tags: mature, hurt/comfort, angst, feelings realization, getting together, love confessions, literary references & allusions

[lupine-trees]

go on & step on me

[ boys attending springtime parties & stepping on each others’ toes. for the @drarrymicrofic march song prompt “Step on Me” by The Cardigans. ]

drarry | ~1,050 words | rating: t | warnings: n/a

_ _ _

“Watch your fucking feet, Potter,” Draco snapped, pulling his brogue from beneath the offending trainer and slanting to the side, his face flush, smile sharp, grin and grimace intertwined.

Harry laughed, unable to help it, his arm looped briefly through Draco’s and then gone again. “Sorry,” he puffed, giddy, “I’m sorry.”

Luna’s Spring equinox party had pulled them all together again— she and Ginny and Neville and Padma and Hannah and Dean and Seamus and Parvati and Lavender and Hermione and Ron and Pansy and Blaise and Greg (and and and).

And Harry. And Draco.

It wouldn’t have worked so well— that is, Harry wouldn’t have liked it so much, except that she’d held it outside. Plenty of room for folks to meander about, taking in the splendor and ambiance of she and her father’s garden. Enough space to come and go as they pleased. Room to breathe.

It had been an unseasonably warm March, and the suggestion of green was everywhere. Following a hearty dinner, they’d sprawled over the lawn, colorful quilts beneath them, chatting and drinking and altogether making merry. The sun was mostly set, but the last long rays of light stretched easy over the horizon.

A warming charm hung light over the property, the stone walkways and the surrounding fields, and several dozen vinyl hospital gloves drifted daintily in the air, suspended and glowing softly like fairy lights. (“Did you know they’re surprisingly magically porous?” Luna had shared.) The cottage’s kitchen window had been thrown open, the wireless turned out toward them, and Xenophilius Lovegood sat in a chair beneath the sash, casting the music further, louder, out to where it would reach them proper.

Luna had pulled them upright, one by one, leading them into a waltz, and then in turn, releasing them with a spin into some sort of lopsided quadrille.

And so, they were dancing. Or— something like dancing.

It was evident enough that at least three-quarters of them had never danced a quadrille, or anyway hadn’t since maybe third year, McGonagall keeping time and intoning instruction to the gaggle of adolescents.

Now, Luna kept them moving, conducting them in little loops and pairs, spinning and shuffling, though it looked less and less quadrille-like. There were too many of them, or else there weren’t enough of them, but it hardly seemed to matter. The dancing was poor, but the mood was light, and they were spinning and jaunting, all laughter, bright eyes, rosy cheeks.

Harry spun Hannah, then bowed to Padma, twirled Hermione, made a lively loop with Dean, as Draco took careful steps with Luna, Pansy, Ron, Greg.

Harry’s orbit circled back to Draco, their palms rising, briefly meeting, and before he could spin away again, Draco took him by the waist, the hand. Harry’s fingers clasped easily around his, his other hand falling firmly on Draco’s chest, near the neat juncture of neck and shoulder.

His eyes flickered between Draco’s and their feet, the steps steady but stunted, his footfalls heavy. Laughter bubbled out of Harry, and Draco felt the lovely haziness of the elf wine cottoning everything. The music had slowed, and they were swaying, their friends fallen into pairs, or otherwise into disarray upon the blankets.

“Ach,” Draco hissed, his hand crumpling the side of Harry’s cotton T-shirt. “My toes, if you please,” he said, pulling from beneath Harry’s shoes once more.

“Oops,” Harry answered, in a sleepy, unrepentant sort of way, hardly moving, hand curling into Draco’s jumper, his heartbeat thrumming underneath.

“I’ll be bruised in the morning,” Draco complained into the small space between them.

Harry hummed, his eyes falling unsubtle to the pale stretch of Draco’s throat.

Draco stepped on Harry’s foot.

“Ow!” Harry cried, listing forward into Draco, off-balance, his arms rising round his shoulders. “You did that on purpose,” he said, low, his nose bumping Draco’s chin as he turned to glare up at him.

Draco’s own arms were looped loosely, helplessly around Harry, half-holding him upright. “Now, why would I do that?” he murmured, plaintive, glancing down to Harry’s heated gaze.

Harry studied him another moment, green eyes squinting behind the frames of his glasses. “Because you’re mean,” he decided, grin slicing wicked over his otherwise soft features.

Draco huffed a laugh. “Mean?” And Harry nodded, his head lolling to Draco’s shoulder. “I’m not entirely convinced,” Draco whispered, heart hammering beneath the cool facade, “that you don’t like that.”

Harry’s head pulled back abruptly, eyes snapping to eyes, to lips, to eyes, but before he could reply—

“Get a room,” Seamus groaned up from a quilt, Dean and Ginny snickering at his sides.

The music had stopped.

Draco wondered absently how long they’d been swaying, the only two still standing, his face warming exponentially. Harry untangled unsteadily, turned to look down witheringly at the trio.

“Rich, coming from you,” he replied plainly, prodding, gesturing to the three of them, collapsed side-by-side-by-side.

“Oi!” Ginny answered, sitting bolt upright, Dean’s hands covering his face with a cough-concealed-laugh, Seamus’ mouth falling agape.

“Oh, look!” Luna said then, airily, rising to her bare feet, finger pointed up towards the night. Everyone’s eyes cast skyward. “Arcturus! I’m sure Spica is around here somewhere,” she said, turning in a small circle.

“This way,” she said, wandering further into the field, the others tumbling from their blankets to the ground with giggles and grunts as she summoned the line of linens out from beneath them to follow behind her, a neat conga line. Slowly, they all picked themselves up and trailed after, eyes searching the stars for constellations.

“You know,” Luna was saying, the sound of her voice retreating, “Snorkacks are meant to be especially fond of Spring constellations.”

Harry turned back to Draco. Stuck out his hand. “Shall we?”

Draco studied him— the tousled hair, frumpy jeans, dimpled cheek, outstretched hand. Suppressed an embarrassing wave of fondness. “Are you any better at stargazing than dancing?”

Harry shrugged a bit. “Maybe. You could find out.” He smiled. “Might still step on your toes.” His hand began to drift downward, falling back to his side.

“Yes, well,” Draco said, his hand darting out and snagging Harry’s, intertwining their fingers before they could go too far. “I suppose I’ll manage.”

They wandered then, further afield, their shoulders knocking easily into one another. The crickets were singing, softly.

The stars were, too.

[spacegirlsgang]

"Charlize stared up at her through half-lowered lashes. “Fuck. Told you you’re a bloody goddess.”

“You may have mentioned something of the sort, yes.”

“Let me worship you, then?” Charlize chose that moment to take Edith’s hands in hers, bringing them up to her mouth to layer lingering kisses along their length." // Charlize and Edith from @tumblerislovetumblerislife 's wonderful amazing beautiful fic so bite me on the shoulder (let me touch you where i want to)

[studioeisa]

some version of you ꩜ changmin x reader.

── .✦ 💌 reader uses she/her pronouns. includes: idol!changmin, reincarnation, soulmates, high school sweethearts, past lives, inspired by Goblin (TV), tbz ensemble. tw: mentions of death.

── .✦ 🚏 title is a reference to noah kahan's stick season. self-indulgent and inspired by a specific quote from Goblin: The Lonely and Great God! cross-posted from ao3.

── .✦ 📟 wc: 1,700+

When her friends take her to a The Boyz concert, she feels so inexplicably unwell the moment they step on stage. The nausea hits her with full force when her eyes land on the main dancer.

Before, when she was getting into the group, her heart would seize up at the sight of him. She never figured out why. But it was much more overwhelming now, unbearably so. 

She figures she just has to go to the bathroom. She’s breaking away from her friends, fighting through the crowd, when she looks over her shoulder and takes one more look towards the stage. The audience had broken into applause; the number was done and the boys were taking conservative sips of water. 

Their eyes meet.

She misses the look of recognition that passes his face, because her knees buckle and it all goes black. 

The concert screeches to a temporary halt as the medics usher out the poor girl that passed out. Later on, the boys talk about it backstage, mumbling things about crowd crush and dehydration. Changmin slips away to the bathroom where he splashes his face with water. 

He looks up in the mirror and sees himself in the school uniform of his past life. He blinks, and suddenly he’s back in the leather jacket of his present life. 

He never thought he’d find her. He had tried so hard to look for her, too, and all of it was useless. He had hoped and prayed that being part of a K-Pop group would make it easier for her to find her way to him. But not like this. Never like this.

He gets asked if he’s okay when he returns to everyone else. “I’m worried about the girl who fainted,” he answers. It’s a half-truth. He turns to their manager. “Can we find out who she is?” 

They tell him they’ll update him. “Please do,” he says, heart in his throat. The wait is the hardest part. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait much longer. 

Changmin insists that he can be the one to go to wherever she is, to make it easier for her. So they meet in some obscure cafe in her province, in Anseong. She can’t fathom why he’d go out of his way. She doesn’t know he’s traveled much farther in search of her. 

When she sees him, she feels the palpitations again. This can’t be normal, she thinks, but then he looks up from his coffee and the world goes quiet. 

It’s her, Changmin thinks. It’s really her. 

He always wondered what his first words would be to her after all the time and space. It turns out to be, “Please don’t faint this time.” 

She laughs, sits across from him. “I’ll try,” she says, and all Changmin can think is he’s home. He’s finally, finally home. 

There are archived newspaper articles and television reports about the incident that took their lives. The lives where they met, that is.

The one where he was Ji Changmin, class clown, no plans yet for college. She was the student council president with several scholarships to her name. 

Somehow, they made it work. Their relationship amused their peers, but Changmin was better because of it, Changmin was better for it. He was young, but he knew in his heart of hearts that he would marry this girl someday. And, by the looks of it, she thought the same. 

They had just decided to both aim for Yonsei University when the annual field trip happened, and the bus carrying their entire class careened off a cliff, and not a single soul aboard survived. 32 dead in Gyeongsang. 

Changmin and her were found side-by-side, their fingers intertwined. They had been sharing a pair of earphones just before the crash. She was half-asleep on his shoulder. It happened too suddenly, too fast for him to do anything but hold her hand. 

At the threshold of reincarnation, the two share a cup of tea with each other. 

They’re told that humans have four lives: A life of planting seeds, a life of watering the seeds, a life of harvesting, and a life of cherishing the harvests.

She has three more lives ahead of her. He has one left.

“Find me,” he begs. He doesn’t say, You are what I cherish. You are all I want. 

Her eyes sparkle with tears. She promises him, “I’ll find you.” 

When she goes ahead, he waits until his drink has gone cold. The Grim Reaper, taking pity on this forlorn boy, sneaks him the gift of memory. 

Ji Changmin is reborn in Cheongju-si. He knows the Grim Reaper meant well, but memory turns out to be more of a curse.

He spends half of his life avoiding buses and wondering where he’ll find her. 

It’s common knowledge that Changmin doesn’t need glasses. Fans find it endearing that his specs have no medical grade; sometimes even no lenses, just frames. 

Changmin the idol doesn’t need glasses, but the Changmin of Changnyeong Daeseong High School did. 

And so Changmin wore them on stage and in photos, in hopes that it would make him more familiar to her. If she ever saw a picture of him. If she ever looked him up.

Even when they reconnect, he cheats a bit by keeping them on around her, hoping it will jog her memory, if he looked exactly like the boy she once fell in love with. 

It gives her headaches and takes the wind out of her. Something inside of her screams every time they’re together, and she can never quite place why she’s so affected by him. 

On their fourth or so ‘date,’ she finally asks, “What are you doing here?” 

He’s booked and busy. He’s performing stages on music program broadcasts, preparing for a world tour. And yet. And yet here he is, sitting across from her in middle-of-nowhere Anseong, over 70 kilometers away from where he’s expected to be. 

Changmin shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “What do you mean?” 

“If you’re just here to check in on me because I passed out at that show—” 

“This—” He clears his throat and lowers his voice. “This has never been about that.” 

“Then what is this about, Q? What are you doing here?” 

He gives her a look, then, one that is inexplicably expectant and sad all at once. He looks like he wants to say something. He seems to decide against it at the last minute.

(In fact, all he wanted to say was that she should call him Changmin. Not Q. He didn't want to be Q, not to her.)

He settles on, “I like you. Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

It’s not.

She leaves first, then, refusing his offers to walk her home. The throbbing in her head subsides with each step away that she takes. Maybe this is for the best, she thinks to herself. Someone like Ji Changmin is bound to find someone else, someone better. 

Except he knows he won’t. Changmin gets himself so messed up that Sangyeon and Juyeon have to pry the bottles of soju out of his hands. They’re worried, they tell him. But they can’t help if they don’t know what’s going on. 

Changmin drunkenly blabbers on about reincarnation and the Grim Reaper, sufficiently spooking Chanhee and Sunwoo. They all eventually pick out the core of his issue: There’s a girl. There’s a girl who doesn’t like him back and he’s taking it hard. 

When they go on tour, they all try different approaches at helping Changmin heal. Sunwoo points out attractive fans. Sangyeon sits with Changmin and listens. None of it helps.

After the months-long trip overseas, Changmin gets over his fear of buses and shuttles straight to her. He had walked her home once or twice, so he knows which neighborhood to head for. He stands outside her gate for a couple of minutes before ringing the doorbell.

And when she emerges, wide-eyed with surprise, looking every bit as the girl he didn’t get enough time with, Changmin knows there is no someone else. There is no someone better. 

All he manages to say is, “Please.” What goes unsaid: I lost you once. I can’t bear to lose you again.

She’s staring at him like he’s insane. But then she sighs, steps aside, opens her door a little wider.

“Come in,” she says. “It’s cold outside.” 

It takes four months for her to be comfortable with him, and another six months for her to concede that she cares for him romantically. When she eventually tells him, he smiles so brightly that it almost hurts to look at him. 

The headaches never really go away. She brought them up to him, once, and he fell into contemplative silence before asking, “Do you want me to leave?” 

She thought about it for a moment. “No,” she decided. “I want you to stay.” 

Stay, he did. They go back and forth from Seoul and Anseong, though Changmin is keen on shouldering her expensive cab rides to his dorm instead of having her take the bus.

He likes sharing music with her and going on dates that are reminiscent of high school— afternoons in arcades, evenings along Han River. She finds it endearing; she indulges his every whim.

One day, she falls sick and he rearranges his plans to tend to her. He’s dabbing a damp handkerchief on her forehead when she reaches up and holds his wrist, her fingers pressing into his skin.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, panicked and worried. 

“Changmin,” she says in a voice that’s barely a gasp. 

“Yeah?” 

“Changmin.” 

He sees it, then. The recognition. The ghost of a memory. It might have been the delirium speaking, the illness taking over, but Changmin’s throat closes and he strokes her hair as he holds back tears. He’s not even sure if she’ll remember this in the morning, once the fever has passed, but it doesn't matter.

“Right. Hi. It’s me,” he stutters. His words fail him spectacularly.

She’s openly crying now. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t think you ever would.” 

“You waited… For so long.” 

“And I’d do it again,” he says fiercely. “Hey, listen. I’d do it again. You found me. That’s what matters.” 

“I found you.” 

“You found me,” Changmin repeats.

In the distance, the radio is playing the song of some Western folk artist. And I'll dream each night of some version of you that I might not have, but I did not lose, the singer croons. 

Changmin is done dreaming. Changmin is done losing. 

“You found me,” he says, again. He presses a light kiss on her lips. Their first one in this lifetime.

She never has another headache again after that.