#feeling like writing something nice

[vivicantstudy]

When the World Feels Quiet

There are moments in life when you find yourself alone, and the silence can feel overwhelming. But being alone doesn’t have to mean being lonely. This quiet is an opportunity—a chance to listen to yourself, to grow, and to find peace in your own company.

Rather than feeling desperate or sad, embrace this time as a season of self-discovery. Learn to enjoy your own presence, to pursue what makes you happy, and to create a life that fulfills you. Solitude isn’t an absence—it’s a gift, a chance to reconnect with the most important person in your life: you.

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[lilislegacy]

*percy seen from a far, wearing a suit*

piper: do my eyes deceive me or is percy jackson wearing formal clothes? since when does he have the ability to look like a domesticated human being?

frank: how come HE, percy of all people, king of untidiness, can wear a cream linen suit and look like a celebrity, but when i tried one on i looked like a man-child going to a high school dance?

hazel: sweetie it’s just because it’s such a casual suit, and you’re much more elegant than percy is!

annabeth, turning to them: um okay, hi percy’s best friends? can you guys compliment him without insulting him?

leo: his ass looks incredible.

grover: has he been working out?

annabeth, side eyeing them:

annabeth: okay, you have all now either insulted him or hit on him. how about from now on, you do neither?

rachel: how about we do both? because i’ve actually just perfected doing them at the same time

[neil-perrys-suicidal-tendencies]

REBLOG POSTS❗❗ COMMENT ON FICS❗❗COMPLIMENT FANART ❗❗LEAVE LITTLE NOTES IN THE TAGS❗❗ BOOKMARK FICS YOU LIKE❗❗ TELL AUTHORS WHAT YOU LIKED ABOUT THEIR FICS❗❗COMMENT ON DECADE OLD FICS ❗❗ADD YOUR OWN ANALYSIS IN LONG POSTS❗❗ENGAGE❗❗ INTERACT❗❗ BUILD A COMMUNITY ❗❗

While people don't post for engagement, it certainly doesn't do any harm..

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[wandixx]

Phantom, the Young Justice member part 4(-ish, I think) they're unconnected, don't wory

Post TUE, but like, right after

“Recognized: Phantom B-08”

Zatanna and Artemis disengaged from the spar, turning to Zeta-Tubes almost in tandem with the rest of the Team. Wally caught himself preparing to the fight.

There was simultaneously a lot and very little Team knew about Phantom. They knew his favorite constellation, his favorite level in Doomed and his typical fast-food order and which parts were better or worse than Nasty Burger in every fast food place they visited. They didn't know whether he was ghost or meta or something else, they didn't know his non-hero name or if he had one at all.

There were things falling somewhere in between on this spectrum.

But they knew for the fact that he wasn't supposed to come in today and that he didn't use Zeta-Tubes unless situation was really dire. Yet even then it usually required a lot of convincing, as seen during whole Klarion-two-Earths debacle. At some point during it, Wally considered how faster would it be if he just asked Phantom to stack up on high- calory food and run to pick him up instead. In the end he didn't say anything, because ghost agreed, sounding like he was just sentenced to the gallows. Understandable, considering his... everything around portals in general, but especially ones that feel like they're taking someone apart. But! The point was, hearing Zeta-Tube call out Phantom was not normal nor a good sign. Fact that they didn't know what was going on or expecting him was unprecedented.

Wally sprinted out to get fire blanket. They owned actual weighted blanket, carefully washed and [wietrzony] to make sure it wasn’t smelling bad to anyone with enhanced senses, but for some reason fire blanket worked on the ghost the best.

He was back before other boy fully settled against wall of the Zeta-Tube, tugging at his hair like he did when he needed to calm down. It’s not like slowly breathing really did anything for him. Wally wrapped him up, making sure it was tight enough that hands he put down would not have room to do any real damage. It tended to happen when he was like this.

Wally very carefully didn’t think about the fact that Phantom didn’t even have enough energy or presence of mind to leave Zeta-Tube even though it was always first thing he did. Even, or maybe especially, when he forgot where he was for a moment.

Rest of the Team crowded around them, talking soft encouragements, rubbing his back and hair, tapping rhythm for him to… just overall ground him, Zatanna made up some ice too. Phantom seemed to shrink away from they’re touch, as much as he could when they were everywhere. Black Canary sharply told them to back away.

They all took few steps back, because something was really wrong and they weren’t helping but they had to try and–

Light erupted from somewhere under the blanket and traveled up and down Phantom’s body. Everyone, including Black Canary, lunged towards the boy, because what was that? What was that? Was Phantom dying in front of all of them?

Tired blue eyes blinked at them from under the shock of black hair. It was still undeniably Phantom, he stood in the same place and looked the same, except of eyes and hair color and lack of general air of otherness, but-

“My name is Danny Fenton, I'm a halfa, half ghost half human hybrid created in specific lab accident and no matter what, if my family ever dies you can't let Vlad Masters become my legal guardian. Doesn't matter if it means court case, kidnapping or murder,” he rushed out, words tumbling over each other, like he made this little formula and learned it by heart and wanted to get it out before he forgot any part of it.

Everyone just… froze for a moment.

And then Phantom started hyperventilating, swaying were he stood, so they jumped back to action, dragging him out of machine and onto some chair M’gann moved in. Black Canary ran him through breathing exercise (Phantom was breathing, Phantom was breathing, Phantom was breathing and it was so wrong Wally felt hair standing on the back of his neck). With mutual effort from Robin, Kaldur and Zatanna, there was a bag of ice in ghost’s (halfa’s?) hands, to help ground him. Artemis tapped on his shoulder in tandem with Canary’s instructions, while Conner run off somewhere. There was fifty/fifty chance he went to get something or just needed to get away. M’gann flew away muttering something about making a tea.

Wally felt really lost but also overwhelmed by the need to do something, so he tried singing (or humming, at least) some songs that you’re supposed to play when resuscitating someone. Then it hit him, that it felt too fast, maybe because his main thing was being fast and he was a bit too wrung out to focus on being slower, maybe because song itself was too fast, he didn’t know. He sang something slower anyway.

He could almost see the moment when Phantom, or Danny, he said his name was Danny, calmed down enough to understand where he was.

“Hello Danny”

The boy slumped a bit and refused to make eye contact with anyone.

“Hi Black Canary”

“Are you quite alright?”

“Who is attacking?” Wally blurted out without really thinking. They needed to know and, honestly, he was known to be the guy who never thought before he spoke.

Pha-nny whipped to look at him, visibly startled, which was not a good look considering he wasn't really epitome of calm even before.

“No one I know about, why would they?” he asked, sounding way too clueless about it.

“You used very quick mode of transportation, that is also really triggering to you,” Kaldur explained patiently, “one that you usually only travel through in case of emergencies—”

“And had panic attack as soon as you showed up which had not happened after first three times, meaning you were already pretty shaken before going in,” Robin interrupted.

“We want to know happened to make you use it this time?”

There was another slow blink.

“No one is attacking anymore. I won. I won. I saved them. I won,” he said, descending into panicked mutter. Black Canary motioned them to move away again, because clearly, crowd was not helping him.

“Hey, breathing is constant demand, don't forget about it,” Artemis snapped.

“Who did you win with? Who did you save?”

Phantom just glanced at Black Canary and got back to staring into middle distance, technically present in mind and body but clearly not fully. Wally didn’t want to know what horrors made him crash so hard. There were few things that could make him stop joking, even less that could do this.

“Would you…” Phantom whispered and then his breath hitched. Ghost just stared at all of them for a moment, jumping from person to person like terrified rabbit, wide eyed and terrified. Something glass or ceramic shattered behind them.

“Oh, Danny”

“M’gann what’s going on?”

“We’re alive Danny,” she said with conviction surprisingly strong with how soft she sounded before “We’re alive and well and whatever you saw or think you saw, it was a lie. We’re alive and well”

“But-”

“He didn’t kill us”

Artemis pushed her way back to the ghost and shook him by his shoulders.

“What happened, Phantom?”

Phantom or well, Danny, looked through her like he was once again recalling something, that shouldn't be in his mind to be recalled.

And then he explained future that won’t happen, with sauce explosions, dead families and court of talking eyes.

And then he made them promise. Wally doubted any of them would be able to keep it, and everyone knew that, but they promised either way.

[willowser]

decode—

geto suguru x f!reader wc: 6.4k+ tags: sci-fi au—tbh i leaned into the cyberpunk futurism thing again i can't help myself 💀, suguru's job is never explicitly mentioned but hopefully you get the gist, he's also a bit scary but i think that's normal ?? idk hehe thank you thank you thank you to dear @rabbbitseason for allowing me to write this ! it's my first time with him 🥹 i hope it's okay ! very grateful for all your support 🥹

ONE

On the night you meet Suguru, an outage swallows the bar in one gulp.

No flicker, just a snap and everything cuts. The holosign outside dies in a whine of static, fans grind to a halt, light collapses, and you're left standing in the dark, holding a tray of warm glasses in hands that suddenly feel too small.

It's disappointing, but nothing new. You’re used to this. Your part of town doesn’t scream when the power goes out—it just sighs.

There’s a rustle near the door. Not the scrambling kind, not like the usual patrons stumbling out to smoke and curse the grid; it’s measured, heavy boots on concrete, too slow to be familiar.

This part of town isn't kind, even to someone it's grown. You step behind the counter in preparation for something—anything.

The figure comes into view in pieces—at first, just a tall silhouette framed by the dim spill of emergency glow leaking in from the street, but then he steps closer, and you see him: all in black, lean and broad-shouldered, his coat trailing like a shadow that's grown too long. The emergency light catches in his eyes, plum; dark and sharp and sweet.

You try not to stare. He probably notices anyway.

"Power out everywhere, or just here?" His voice is low, silk wrapped around steel. Calm in the way that makes you wary.

You shrug, but aren't sure he sees it. "Whole block, I think."

He hums, like that tells him something, and you reach below the counter to fumble for the old lantern. It flickers to life, casting amber light across the counter and his face. He’s handsome—suddenly so—but there’s something else. Something in the way he stands, relaxed but alert, like a man used to being watched.

You clear your throat. "Can still serve you something, if you're not picky. Got a few bottles that don't need cooling."

He smiles, slow and deliberate. One strand of his long black hair has come loose from the tight bun at the back of his head, and it swings slightly as he leans closer.

"Something warm, then," he says, not looking at the bottles. He’s looking at you.

You nod and turn, shoulders rising as you reach for the chipped ceramic pot. The movement’s an excuse to hide, give you a moment to settle the uneven flutter in your chest. You’re not used to being looked at like that. Not with focus. Not with intention.

The power’s out, but the pot’s still warm from before the lights went. You kept it wrapped in a thermal sleeve—old habit from long nights, colder ones. You pour the tea slow, steady, hoping your hands don’t shake as much as they feel they might. The silence thickens around you, too many shadows in too little space.

When he speaks again, his voice is low and steady, curling around edges in the dark. “City’s quieter with the lights out.”

You don’t answer right away, letting the sound of tea against ceramic fill the gap. Letting the heat of the cup chase back the chill climbing your fingers. “It’s always loud,” you say finally. “Just changes the kind.”

He makes a soft sound—agreement, maybe. Or understanding. Or neither. “No neon, no noise,” he says, more to the air than to you. “Funny how much the city depends on its own distractions.”

You slide the cup across the bar. He doesn’t reach for it right away, just watches the steam coil upward, like he’s waiting for something to reveal itself.

“I like it better this way, feels…cleaner, I guess.” You say, and it's true; this part of town isn't kind, no, but without the automated glitz and glamour, there's no need to pretend.

You hear the soft shift of fabric as he leans in—not close enough to touch, but closer than before. His presence hums against the edges of your awareness.

“You’re not scared of the dark?” he asks, voice smooth, teasing. His smile is wide, charming, disarms you in a way that it shouldn't.

You hesitate, trying to bite back your growing timidness. “Only when it’s creepy,” you say, "when it creaks or breathes back at me.”

That makes him huff, amused. Not quite a laugh, but close enough. “So, no ghosts in here?”

“Well, yeah, we have those,” you shrug, “They just mind their business.”

That pulls something out of him, something real and small that feels like a reward. “Interesting bar,” he continues, finally reaching for the tea. “Do you see much traffic here?”

You keep your face still. “Some.”

“Travelers?”

You nod, wary of where this is going, though nothing in his tone gives anything away. Not pushy, not prying. Just drifting. “People passing through,” you say. “They come. They leave. Same as anywhere.”

He sips. There’s something practiced in the way he does it. Measured, like he’s used to watching, used to waiting. “This part of the district,” he says after a beat, “doesn’t get much patrol. No official presence. Doesn’t that bother you?”

You shrug. “They never helped much anyway.”

Another pause. Another small pull of his attention. You realize too late how much you're giving away, when you see the thought behind his eyes, whatever he's cataloging for whatever reason, but he doesn't press it.

“Sometimes the places with the least oversight are the ones that know best how to take care of their own,” he says, almost like a proverb.

You nod. You’ve learned to let silences hold the things you don’t want to voice.

He drinks again, not watching you now, not exactly, but still aware of you. His presence wraps around the room like heat—delicate, thick, hard to ignore. You wonder if he’s just a traveler; surely not, with how handsome he is, how subtly elegant, the way he speaks. You wonder what he’s really looking for.

The thought doesn't go farther than that before a stool screeches from the back of the bar. Not the clean scrape of someone careful, but the lazy sprawl of someone who thinks the world owes him the space and time.

Jogo has been here since before the outage, hunched in the far corner like he’s part of the decor—one of the peeling posters or half-lit neon strips that doesn’t work right anymore. You should’ve made him leave with the others. You didn’t. You never do.

“Still no power?” His voice lurches into the dim, louder than necessary, too smug. “Place like this, surprised it had any to begin with.”

You press your palm flat to the bar. Not in fear—just to keep still. Shame flickers inside of you at the insult, a small flame, ever-burning; no pretending in the dark, no pretending you and your handsome stranger could be from the same world.

Jogo gets up, boots thudding against the composite floor. “Surprised you’re still running this place at all. Must get real lonely in here, huh?”

The sound of his approach stretches the silence thin. You don’t answer. Words feed men like him; it's always best to let them starve.

He stops at the bar, leans in with that breath like rot and synth-spice. “What’s wrong? Cat got your—”

He sees Suguru—who you don't know is Suguru, not yet—still half-sitting, one elbow resting on the counter like he’s got all the time in the world. Jogo must not have noticed him in the shadows before, but now he has, after the air has changed around him, gone colder, thinner. Like the room is holding its breath, too.

Suguru lifts his gaze to Jogo, calm as still water. "She’s busy," he says, voice smooth enough to be polite, but not a bit friendly. "Maybe try saying what you need without spitting."

The smile he wears is soft. Mannered, almost pleasant, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Jogo blinks, tries to laugh. It dies somewhere in his throat. “Didn’t mean anything by it,” he mutters, suddenly smaller. “Gonna smoke.”

He turns on his heel and stumbles out, too fast to be casual, too slow to be brave, and the door hisses shut behind him. The silence returns, heavier than before—but gentle, too. You breathe, slow, and let your hand drift from the counter. Suguru hasn’t moved.

When you risk a glance, he's watching you, eyes like dusk, plum-dark and unreadable, but not cruel, not smug; observant. Like he's measuring the weight of the moment and choosing not to tip it.

“Didn’t mean to bring any problems with me,” he says, voice low, dry with something like an apology.

You shake your head, smiling reflexively. “No problems, just finicky ghosts.”

He smiles, enough to show his teeth, and something sour in you eases, recedes. “That so?”

You nod once. It feels like the right answer.

He leans back again, and the moment should pass, but it doesn’t. Not really. The bar settles around you both like the world has exhaled, but there’s still something coiled in the space between you, waiting. Watching. Becoming.

TWO

Suguru comes and goes like a rumor—whispers first, then footsteps, then silence.

You don’t know what Suguru does, or what he has to do to come back. He doesn’t tell you, and you don’t ask—not because you don’t care, but because some part of you already knows it’s nothing soft. Whatever world he disappears into when he’s not here, it stains his silence, lingers in the way his eyes avoid yours when he’s too tired to pretend he’s fine. It sits between you like something alive and untouchable, a quiet, clawed thing neither of you dare disturb.

Sometimes he brings strange gifts—tokens you don’t understand, bought in currencies you’re sure you never want to learn. Once or twice, he shows up with that white-haired menace in tow, loud and too tall for your doorway, trying too hard to be funny and laughing like he owns the air.

But most of the time, it’s just Suguru, and the rain.

He comes when he wants to, leaves without warning, watches you too long sometimes, like he’s memorizing the shape of your silence. Like there’s something he wants from you but doesn’t know how to hold without breaking. And still, he never says why he comes, and, still, you never ask him to stay.

But the space between those two things—what you don’t say and what he won’t admit—is shrinking.

In the morning, you stir—bones stiff, muscles whispering their usual complaints—and the city mutters back outside your window, indifferent. Your apartment is still, small, the kind of place that remembers everything you’ve ever done in it, that won't let you forget.

You don’t want to wake up, but your body doesn’t care what you want. You shift, stretch, dreams still clinging to your lashes like cobwebs—and then you hear it: soft, wrong, from the kitchen.

And that easily, you’re no longer alone.

It only takes a breath for your nerves to remember themselves. You already know who it is. No need to ask.

The air has changed. Sweet, smoky, with something metallic curling at the edge; sharp, familiar, a memory you didn't have to invite back in. He’s here, Suguru, and of course he’s made himself at home again, like this place was carved to fit him and not the other way around.

The clock says six. Early, but time doesn’t mean anything to Suguru; he isn’t ruled by it, doesn’t bend to it. He arrives when he wants, leaves when he’s done, and you—you just let him.

The floor is cold beneath your feet. Not just icy—artificial, indifferent, the kind of chill that comes from old synth-tiling, worn thin by time and use. In the corner, your heater clicks to life with a tired hum, flickers once, then settles into its usual half-hearted wheeze. It’s trying, and failing, just like every other morning.

Suguru’s already steeped in the hush of the kitchen, the shadows wrapped around him like old friends. He doesn’t turn, just moves, slow and precise and controlled, the way he always does—tea, window, silence—and your exhaustion finds you again, soft and sudden. You should be used to this—used to him—but surprise has a way of wearing new faces; even the expected can weigh heavy.

His voice cuts through the morning, low and smooth. “Good morning.”

You rub at your eyes, suddenly too aware of yourself. Of the old pajamas clinging to your skin, the sleep still dragging at your limbs, the way your hair’s decided it has a mind of its own. Bare, vulnerable things.

Your words are dry, meant to sound casual. “Back so soon?”

He glances back, just enough. Eyes finding you like they were made to—slow, deliberate, full of something unreadable that still manages to see too much. You catch the shape of his smile in them before it ever touches his mouth.

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

His ease scratches at something inside you. Not longing, not quite, something worse, maybe, that doesn’t have a clean name. The kind that slips into your throat and settles there. Every time he comes like this, unannounced, unbothered, it’s like he leaves part of his shadow stitched into your space when he's gone.

You sigh, slow and shallow, trying to collect your thoughts before they show on your face. “No Gojo this time?”

His name lands heavy in the room: Gojo—noisy, untouchable, always dragging storms in behind him. You already know the answer; if he’d come, it would have been obvious, because the walls would still be vibrating. He’s never hidden the disgust in his mouth when he talks about this place, your dirty little corner of the star-system, as if it's a smudge on Suguru’s reputation. Shame and relief crawl into your chest together and sit there, when Suguru shakes his head.

“He can handle things on his own every now and then.” A pause. A glance. “Don’t tell me you miss him.”

Your laugh breaks out too fast, too sharp. It’s loud and uglier than you want it to be, but real, the way everything Suguru drags out of you is.

He turns fully at the sound and steam curls from the mug in his hand, held like an offering. He doesn’t speak, just smiles—that Suguru smile. The kind that knows too much. The kind that doesn’t need words to press against you. His presence settles like warmth between you—just enough heat to stay. Just enough to forget it will burn when it leaves. You take the mug, fingers brushing his, barely, and he steps aside.

And then you see it.

A package on the counter no larger than your hand, plain brown paper folded with precision, sharp corners and clean edges and neatly tied with a band of thin copper wire.

You eye it warily. It looks expensive. More than that—it looks deliberate. That kind of care—small, quiet, meticulous—is more him than any signature. You feel it in your chest before your brain can catch up. No one else wraps things like that. Not in this city. Not for you.

“What's this?” you ask, already knowing he won’t answer the question directly.

Suguru just slides it toward you quietly.

You pick it up slowly, running your fingers along the cool surface. The band slips off with a soft click, revealing beneath the paper a slim e-journal—compact, beautifully made. The kind sold by back-alley specialists who don’t advertise but somehow always have a waiting list. The kind you’ve lingered near before, just to stare. A soft hum rises from it as the display lights up with a warm, golden pulse. Your name flickers in the top corner, small and elegant.

You blink. “These aren’t easy to get.”

Suguru doesn’t respond right away. His eyes flick to yours, unreadable. “You said your old one was glitching.”

You can’t even remember when you said that. Weeks ago, maybe, in passing. You doubt you even meant for him to hear it.

Your chest tightens, that odd pull of gratitude and disbelief tangling behind your ribs. You press your thumb against the screen, watching it open to a clean interface—blank pages, empty folders, but one tab already labeled: Home.

"Suguru…" you start, voice shaky, barely pushing past your throat.

He just tilts his head slightly, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t mention it.”

The journal hums gently in your hands, in response. It’s light, sleek, and somehow heavier than it should be. A gift like that isn’t about what it is, not with him, it’s about the way he remembers. The way he’s been gone for weeks, and yet, when he returns, he still knows exactly what you need.

You keep your eyes on the journal even after the screen fades to black, the glow slowly dimming beneath your fingertips. It feels like the only thing anchoring you, like if you let go too quickly, the quiet swell of feeling might show on your face.

He’s here. He brought you something. He thought of you.

And you like the way that feels. You don’t hate it—not at all. You’re just shy about the way it wants to spill over. You’re not sure what he’d do if it showed too obviously, but from the way he’s watching you, eyes half-lidded and amused, maybe he already knows.

You squish your lips together, trying to tide back your smile. “You know, I was managing just fine with my ancient, barely-functioning piece of junk.”

Suguru hums, warm and buttery. “Mm. I noticed.”

“I was!”

“You say that, but I watched you slap the screen four times just to open the calendar.”

“It still worked.”

He lifts a shoulder in a slow shrug, like the act of teasing you is something luxurious, a taste he wants to savor. “Barely.”

The air feels lighter already. You’re still holding the journal—still feeling the warmth of its casing, still tracing its smooth edge with your thumb like it might disappear if you let go.

You move to the kettle to keep yourself from lingering too long in your thoughts. The tea’s already ready, still warm in its ceramic pot. You pour him a cup without asking—it’s second nature by now—and the motion steadies you.

When you pass it to him, your fingers brush again. This time, the contact lingers just a little longer than it should, and you pretend not to notice how your breath catches in your throat. You don't dare meet his eyes.

“Thank you,” Suguru says, voice softer now. How many times will you have to say it back before you're even?

You nod once, keeping your arms folded loosely across your chest. “You didn’t have to bring anything, you know that, right?”

“I know.” He blows gently across the rim of the cup before adding, “but I wanted to.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. The steam from his tea curls upward, catching the low light spilling through the window behind him. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between patient and quietly pleased. And it settles deeper than you expect it to.

“Well,” you say, small this time, “it’s nice. You’ve officially outdone yourself.”

Suguru leans beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he shifts. His presence is always heavy, but now it feels warm, grounding. “I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”

You let out a breathy scoff. “Liar.”

His mouth curves, a small, knowing smile. “Maybe.”

The silence that follows stretches—not tense this time, but gentle. Lived-in. The kind that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. Just... a moment shared. A stillness made from something softer than what this world usually offers.

When you finally look over again, he’s already watching you—eyes dark, but not distant.

This time, you don’t look away so quickly.

And for a second, everything feels suspended: his hand cradling the tea, the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the soft click of the journal as it powers down completely. The hush of the kitchen wraps around you like a secret, and you let yourself stay there just a little longer than you should.

THREE

Something eats away at him.

You don’t notice it at first—he’s always been distant, unreadable in ways that feel deliberate—but something shifts. Subtle at first, then sharp as a crack beneath ice.

Whenever the mask slips, Suguru speaks in riddles. About rot. About weakness. About the way curses cling to people like smoke in their lungs. Suguru never says what he means outright, but you start to understand that what he hunts is no longer just out there: it's in him now, settling deep. You’ve always been afraid to ask where he goes, what he does in the stretch between his visits—but one day, something starts ticking inside you, soft and slow, like a countdown. And you know you have to ask, soon, before the poison spreads.

He comes in just after midnight; a whisper of the stairwell, the slow press of the door, the scent of cold air and blood and rain. The room bends with his presence, drawn to him like gravity to a star, but tonight he is no source of light. Now he swallows it whole.

For a long, terrible moment, he simply stands there, tall, broad-shouldered, soaked through the folds of his coat. Hair down, black and heavy, falling like a curtain, hiding more than it shows. You don't speak. You don't want to fill up any more of the space than you have to.

Suguru crosses the room like a man half-remembering the shape of it, as though he’s not really here, not yet. His eyes skim the walls, the ceiling, the half-empty cup on the counter like it’s all unfamiliar, like he’s unsure whether he’s still dreaming.

He finds the edge of your bed—an altar he has never bowed to—and sits slow, deliberate. The same way someone eases into the bath after a long battle.

The silence feels brittle, glass under pressure. His hands are braced on his knees, fingers twitching, opening and closing like he’s trying to hold something he can’t quite name.

“Did you eat?” you ask, because you don’t know what else to say.

His gaze flicks to you. Something unreadable in the dark plum of his eyes, bruised purple, shadowed and strange.

“No,” he says. Then adds, almost like an afterthought: “I'm not hungry.”

You don't care if that's true or not. You have to do something with your hands, offer comfort made just for him, even if it's instant and simple and comes from a packet—but before you can leave the room, he asks:

"Do you think people are born evil?"

He’s not looking at you. Just at the floor, at the space between his boots, like the question fell out of him without permission.

“I don’t know,” you say softly, and it's true—you don't.

You never had time to wonder about things like good and evil, never had the luxury. Your choices were simpler, narrower. How to keep the lights on. How to make enough for the next meal. How to stay whole in a place that’s always trying to carve pieces from you.

But this—this is a crack in his armor, and through it you see the shape of his world. A world built on consequences, on lines drawn and crossed again. You wonder who you’d be if your life asked those kinds of questions, if every choice you made had to hold up under the weight of whether it was right or simply necessary.

Suguru looks up—and in that moment, he’s someone else. A snake in the grass, coiled so tight you hadn’t noticed his presence until too late. He remains seated on the edge of the bed, and you’re still standing, but the distance between you feels like a black hole, sucking you in; it doesn’t give you control, doesn’t make you feel safe.

“What if I told you they were evil? Would you believe me?”

The question hangs in the air, sharp and unsettling. You don’t like the way he asks—don’t like any part of it, truthfully, but this, especially, settles under your skin like a stain that won’t wash out. It makes you wonder if he’s lied to you. If he’s been playing you all along, smiling just long enough to hide the knife in his hand, to keep you from seeing the truth.

Suguru has always unnerved you, in ways you never quite could face. From when he stepped into your bar, drifting in from the dark street outside, bathed in the emergency lighting. Like a warning you were blind to.

Since he walked into your apartment tonight, his attention has been scattered, drifting through the room like smoke, but now it’s all on you. You thought you wanted it, thought you could handle it, but now, under the weight of his gaze, you feel like prey. His focus presses on you, slow and deliberate, until every breath feels too shallow. When he rises from the edge of your bed, you step back, head bumping into the wall of your cramped room. The space between you disappears with one swift motion, and suddenly, he’s right there—close, too close.

"Would you kill them if I told you to?"

The question hits you before you’ve even had a chance to form an answer. You shake your head, words bubbling out in a rush, helpless. "I don't know."

"If I told you they were born wrong, would you kill them?"

You don’t know. The answer drips out, thick and slow, but it's the truth. "I don't know."

"If I told you they were little demons, twisted and demented, brought nothing but death and ruin—would you kill them? Even if they were young?"

You can’t answer anymore. The question feels unceasing, endless, like it’s reaching beyond you. His eyes, once dark and intense, have gone empty—hollow like a well. You don’t know if he’s even still looking at you, if he sees you at all.

Then, you notice it—blood. Slowly seeping through the chest of his white shirt, dark and damp, spreading like ink across the fabric. The realization hits you harder than anything he’s said, because there’s truth in it: something has collapsed inside him, something broken that you couldn’t stop.

“Y—you’re bleeding.” The words sound too small, too stupid, leaving your mouth like an afterthought, but he's still so close, close enough that you could count the long, dark lashes of his closed eyes when he blinks—and something flickers across his face. A snap, and then everything cuts.

His expression barely changes from that haunted look, but his voice is steady when he says, “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” The words leave you with more force than you expect, anger flickering beneath the surface of your worry. You latch onto it, grounding yourself with it, needing something to steady you against the unease crawling up your spine. “You’re hurt and you didn’t tell me.”

Suguru straightens, settling back onto his feet, back into his bones. It should be terrifying, how familiar he seems in that moment, how quickly he slips back into himself, but you're so desperate to get him away from that horror that you don't care.

His voice is sharper now, edged with something close to irritation. “Was I meant to?”

“You could’ve said you were bleeding.”

“It’s not new.”

“It’s new to me.”

That stops him. The space between now and the last time you saw him flickers behind his eyes—not like before, not like a wound he couldn’t name, but something else. A fact. A shared recognition: That was then. This is now. He is not whoever he was then. Not here. Not with you.

He closes his eyes, eventually. Breathes out a quiet sound, almost a hum. “It is,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

But he doesn’t step back. Doesn’t give you the space to go. There’s no hand on your wrist, no body blocking your path—but you know, with a kind of terrible clarity, that you couldn’t pull away from him right now, even if you tried.

It can’t be life-threatening, you realize, now that your heart isn’t pounding so loudly in your ears. Not a picked scab, but not a torn stitch either; the blood looks worse than it is, startling against the clean white of his shirt, thin and vibrant where it crosses in straight, resolute lines. In better lighting, you might have been able to see through the soaked fabric. You’re not sure that would do either of you any good.

The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, something so profoundly unlike him it feels like a slip in character, and the pale glimpse of his collarbones is distracting, delicate in a way you hadn't expected. You shouldn't be looking, but it's hard not to. Enticing in a way that pulls gently at your attention, makes your breath catch for reasons you don't want to examine, not with him so close. You almost can’t stop staring, can’t help but wonder what else you’re missing—until the corner of his mouth twitches. Barely, but enough.

You clear your throat and press your spine against the wall, like it might make more space between you. It doesn't. "How recent is ‘not new’?”

“Weeks,” Suguru says, casually—so easily it startles you. You’ve never talked about his work before, and you’re still not, not really, but you’re closer now than you’ve ever been, in too many ways. “I’m fine.”

“You’re fine now,” you say, not quite believing it. His smile tightens, enough that it reaches the corners of his eyes, though you wouldn't call it warm.

And then his hand moves. Slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid of startling you. His fingers rise until they hover beside your face, and when they finally make contact—just the backs of his knuckles brushing your cheek—it’s featherlight. Reverent. It’s not possessive, not even asking; it’s a question in the shape of a touch, and somehow you already know the answer is yes. The air between you grows impossibly still, as if the world stopped turning just to see what you'll do next.

Your heart stumbles. You’ve never seen him like this—not the version that walks in shadows, not the one who smiles like a blade—but something else. Something stripped down and aching. It terrifies you how badly you want him to stay.

His eyes don’t leave yours. They could lie, but they don’t. "Yes," he says, "I'm fine now."

FOUR

Not much time passes, surprisingly.

Days, maybe a week or two, though time stretches differently when you're waiting for something—or someone—you’re afraid won’t come back.

Outside, the neon gutters spit their color against the wet pavement. The air smells like ozone, like the sky’s about to split open again. Maybe it will. You wouldn’t mind. Rain makes everything seem farther away. The night is nearly over; you’ve wiped the counters twice, swept the floor even though no one spilled anything, stacked the chairs with a little more force than necessary. You move slower than you need to, hands lingering on small tasks just to stay busy, just to keep from looking at the door.

The place is quiet—finally—and you welcome it.

Suguru left as he always has: without reason. Something has changed, yes, but still, he left you in the same shape he always does—like the world has flipped itself inside out. He never leaves without unmaking something. Every return, every departure, carves a new gap into you. They don’t heal. You don’t even notice they’re there until you're trying to stand still and find you can't—until gravity presses in wrong, sideways, like it's trying to fold you in half.

You've never seen him that way, so unraveled. It's been replaying in your head on repeat, unending: what if I told you they were evil? Would you believe me? Sometimes you think you should’ve said yes. Not because you would believe it, but because maybe—just maybe—he would’ve stayed, but that thought brushes up against something inside of you that’s cold and rotten and not meant to be touched. It makes your stomach twist. You don't like who you are in that version of the story.

You tell yourself, maybe it's for the best that he's done, that he doesn't come back—but the thought feels distant, like it doesn't belong to you. Like it doesn't belong to him, either.

You don’t hear the door open, but you feel it, a shift in pressure, like the world exhaling. You turn just as he steps inside, though it's not quite the same as before; his hair is down again, though only half-way, not the wild ink-spill it was before, and his shoulders seem more relaxed, like he’s shed whatever that unseen weight was. He’s not walking with that same tight, controlled confidence; this is different, lighter, somehow, but there’s still something about him, something sharp behind the soft way he moves.

And he's not alone.

Two little girls are with him, though they haven't moved from the door, haven't commanded the space as he has. They're just watching. One of them has her arms crossed tight like a shield, the other clutches something—maybe a toy, maybe a scrap of cloth—pressed to her chest like it might anchor her. Both of their eyes seem too old for their small, round faces.

It's been playing in your head on repeat, unending: would you kill them? Even if they were young?

You stand there, unsure of what to say. The silence stretches, taut as a wire, until his voice cuts through it.

“It’s quiet tonight,” he says, lightly. Too lightly. Like he’s trying to smooth the air between you, pretend nothing’s changed. Maybe it’s for the girls’ sake. Maybe it’s for yours.

You open your mouth. Close it again. A question rises and flattens against your tongue. You don’t ask. He doesn’t offer. But that’s always been your dance, hasn’t it? The space between what’s said and what’s not.

He follows your gaze, then crosses the bar to stand in front of you. In front of them. “I’m tired,” he says, quiet and sharp. “Of that world, of the filth it feeds on. Of fools who think hurting someone small makes them strong.”

That word—small—lands like a dropped glass; the question you never asked answers itself, shattering quietly between you.

Suguru lifts his hand to your face, like he did the last time—but now the gesture is different. Looser. No tremble at the edges, no hesitation, as if he’s no longer afraid he might break whatever he touches.

His thumb grazes the arch of your brow, traces down to the soft skin beneath your eye. You think—maybe—he’s counting your lashes.

“I want them to live in a world that’s better than ours,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath. “Safer.”

You've always thought Suguru was built from something other. Something finer, sharper, less breakable. A different species from whatever you are, clinging to the bottom rungs in your corner of the world, but now, up close, that divide feels thinner. Imagined.

You don’t know where he came from, not really, but you know where he is now. You’ve seen the edges of it, the pieces he hasn’t named and maybe never will, and they’re ugly. Embedded like grit beneath his fingernails, worn into the quiet lines of his face. Ghosts clinging to the hem of his voice.

You’re not the same. But there’s something unkind that lives in you both. Something heavy, and tired, and human. Something he wants to cut out—for their sake.

You glance back at the girls. They’re clinging to each other now, as if the world might fall out from under them at any moment, and the only thing they trust to hold is each other. Their small hands are tangled in fabric, sleeves bunched in fists, pressed so close they breathe as one. The sight turns something in your gut—sharp, instinctive, like a wire pulled too tight.

The thought that someone, anyone, had wanted to hurt them—had tried—makes your throat close. Your body moves before your mind does and you lean into Suguru’s touch. Maybe it’s deliberate, maybe it’s not, but his hand doesn’t hesitate. His fingers drift into your hair, curling there like a root finding soil, like he belongs.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You don’t have to. The quiet stretches, warm and fragile.

Then, softly—barely above a whisper—you say, “I don’t know where you’re going to find a place like that.”

Because you don’t. You’ve lived your whole life in the dirt of this city, in the cracks of what people like to pretend is order. You’ve never been offworld, never even dreamed of it, but you’ve heard enough to know there’s no such place waiting out there, not one untouched, not one that won’t eat girls like those alive the moment you look away.

Suguru hums, low in his chest. The sound rumbles through his fingers where they rest against your scalp.

“I’m not going to find it,” he says, quiet but certain. “I’m going to make it.”

And when he says it, you believe him. Maybe not in the way of miracles, but in the way storms believe in rain. His hand lingers in your hair a moment longer, then slides down, slow, catching at your jaw, your cheek. He doesn’t move away. You don’t either.

Behind you, one of the girls makes a soft noise on the tile, barely a scuff of her feet, but it tethers everything back to the moment. The realness of it. This isn’t a story. It’s a turning point.

Suguru glances toward them, then back at you. You're not used to seeing him like this, less worn, less closed off. Like the jagged edge he’s always carried has been tucked away for a moment of stillness.

“It's not going to be easy, and I’ll need someone who knows how to build things that last. Someone steady.”

He’s not smiling, but his eyes hold the weight of something close to it. Hopeful, uncertain, wanting. A line cast into a dark sea.

You could laugh, if it didn’t feel like your whole chest was shaking. There’s no question what he means. Not really.

The silence sits between you again, but it’s different now—waiting, watching. Becoming.

And when you speak, your voice is quiet, but it doesn’t tremble. “Someone like me,” you say.

Suguru's thumb brushes your cheek again, soft as a promise. “Exactly like you.”

[vivicantstudy]

Soft but Not Available for Mistreatment

I study with patience, dedication, and heart.

I give myself the grace to learn slowly, to make mistakes, and to grow at my own pace, because real learning takes time.

I am soft enough to be kind to myself, but strong enough to protect my mind from mistreatment.

I refuse to let pressure, comparison, or doubt steal my love for learning.

My goals are not fueled by self-punishment, but by self-respect and quiet resilience.

Every time I sit down to study, I am planting seeds for a future that deserves care, not cruelty.

I am soft — gentle with myself — but I am not available for mistreatment, not even from my own thoughts.

Softness is not weakness.

Softness is power, patience, and the quiet strength to keep going with heart.

[bluerosefox]

The Trouble With Time Travel Guilt

Danny, due to a nightmare of his future evil self, does what any young hero teen with internet access would do late at night.

Starts a 'AITA' thread asking if it he was an asshole for destroying an entire timeline, even if said timeline population was a wasteland due to said evil version of himself almost destroying all life at the moment, by swearing to never become him (Dan) and locking his evil self away. And should he feel as bad as he does because of everything his no longer future self did??

He... wasn't expecting a lot of other people (some seem to teens his age, he even made friends with some like R3dRobyum~) that may or may not have experienced time travel too and dealing with this odd sense of guilt.

[helixcraft]

the fish that keeps appearing all over my recommended only that he's out of jail and happy

[thedemises]

. . . SAVE A HORSE, GO ON A RIDE WITH THE COWBOY! featuring boothill!

notes! . . . y'know the phrase, “save a horse, ride the cowboy”? well, I decided to-do something about it with boothill... except it's sfw and more like “save a horse, ride with the cowboy” cuz i dont do nsfw here >:/. god give me acceptance for how boothill is so ooc here- 😭😭 idnk how to write his character properly, and does he even have a horse?? I don't remember seeing a horse when his character and banner got leaked, so let's just pretend he does have one for the sake of K'hailreigh for this plot. 💀

imagine returning the horse boothill had been searching for all day after it got the chance to escape through the tall fences the moment they were opened, his eyes widen at the sight of his companion with you guiding alongside it. normally, his horse wouldn't follow after someone else's orders other than him... and it behaves pretty feisty and rough with people who isn't him.

boothill is relieved to see that his trusty horse hadn't been injured, briefly thanking you as he goes over to fuss over his stallion. you can't help your gaze wandering and examining his figure, in awe of the metallic and cyborg parts of the cowboy in front of you. sure you might've seen people having artificial and metal parts attached to them, but this man right here just plainly looks like a robot if it weren't for his humanly head.

boothill notices you eyeing every inch of him, glancing from the lasso that hangs at his hips to the pistols to his arms and to his legs. he glares a wolfishly smile at you, baring the shark-like teeth that you gaze in short surprise at, and asks in a teasingly tone, “like what you see, darlin'?��, observing how you blink owlishly at him. but then, he's becomes sort of surprised when you nod your head and confirm that—yes, you like his appearance and how the color scheme matches altogether, while indirectly  commenting how he's a good-looking cowboy.

boothill, after his turn of blinking at you, grins and narrows his eyes with an intrigued look in them; amused by you and how you don't seem in the slightest.. nervous or terrified in his presence. you perked the cyborg's interest.

finishing the small talk with the man, you mention that you'll be needing to go somewhere for an errand and boothill takes the opportunity to offer a ride there on his horse—as a thanks for retrieving his horse, taking in your surprised expression with a grin as he ends the sentence with a “darlin'”. he insists, even if you refuse, so you decide that it'll be quicker to go in a horse ride with the cowboy than rather walking by foot as you were given no other choice.

with boothill's assistance, you were boosted onto the horse and instructed by him to hold on as he looks back at you, flashing a toothy grin and a finger tilting his hat just slightly for a short moment before you and him rode off towards where you were needed to be at with his horse. startled by the increasing speed his horse was going, you instinctively grasp onto the cyborg cowboy's built body in order to not fall off during the ride accidentally—boothill grins at your expression, his laughter going with the wind, “better hol' on tight for now, sweetheart. this'll be a rough ride! i'll get ya to where yer headin' in no time!”

© thedemises 2024. all rights reserved. please do not repost, copy, or claim as your own. ━━  word count: 508.

[sophsicle]

hi. hello. just cause this is the second time this has happened today. i get being frustrated with me about updates. 4 sure. got that. still rude as hell to comment it on fics tho. like i will write what brings me joy when it brings me joy thoughts and prayers if that is upsetting 4 u.

[vivicantstudy]

This morning, as I opened my eyes, I felt the weight of a blessing so profound it took my breath away. God, in His endless grace, gave me the gift of waking up. It’s not just another day—it’s an invitation, a chance to learn, grow, and fill my mind with wisdom. I feel His hand guiding me as I study, reminding me that every moment is filled with purpose.

The opportunity to fill my mind with knowledge feels like a prayer answered, like a quiet promise between me and Him. Today is a gift, and I carry it with reverence.

As I sit down to study, I can feel God’s quiet encouragement surrounding me. The fact that I’m here, able to open my books, focus my mind, and absorb new knowledge, feels like such a divine gift. Each page I turn, each concept I grasp, is another opportunity He’s given me—a chance to grow not only in wisdom but in gratitude.

It’s in the discipline of learning that I feel closest to Him, like He’s planted this hunger for knowledge in my heart. Studying isn’t just an act of effort, it’s an act of faith, trusting that this path of learning is one He has blessed. Today, I study with purpose, knowing that in each moment, I am honoring the opportunity He’s given me.

[elizabeth-mitchells]

having one of those rare moments at work when i reluctantly go "maybe my job isn't isn't so bad. maybe my degree wasn't entirely useless. maybee it's kind of nice to put it to use, I GUESS 🙄🙄"

[suddencolds]

excavation of habit

hello! i honestly didn't think i still had it in me to thirst-write a fic, but on friday i watched the only 3 aired episodes of To Be He//ro X and had to whump the main character immediately 🫡

if you haven't watched the show yet, i highly recommend it! with that said, this fic can be read w/o any context if you do not mind ep1/ep2 spoilers.

(3.5k words, ft. a secret identity, a cold, a popularity-driven hero society, and a two-way character study)

—

It’s only a sore throat, at first. Barely registers, between the carefully choreographed morning appearances Miss J shepherds him through. 

Something Lin Ling is learning is that she always has something new ready for him. We live in a digital age, she said to him the other day. There is no such thing as privacy. If you want to stay relevant, you need to make yourself seen. He had been puzzled about that, at first. He’d asked her: “Haven’t I already been to enough interviews this week?”

“I’m not talking about interviews,” Miss J had said, and then refused to elaborate.

That’s another thing Lin Ling is learning about her. Despite her curt attitude, she is only non-communicative when she thinks an answer is self-evident. He found out what she meant soon enough. People’s trust, as it turns out, relies just as heavily on Nice’s actions out in the open. He can nail every interview and every game show and every celebrity appearance, and it won’t be enough. This is part of staying relevant, too—that he masquerades himself as just an ordinary citizen from time to time, that he shows himself to be remarkable even in ordinary circumstances.

Last week, he waited in line at a coffee shop downtown for thirty minutes, even though Treeman has more than enough money and resources to get an assistant to get coffee on his behalf, just so he could—with Nice’s strength and superhuman reflexes—1) rescue a cup of scalding hot coffee from being nearly-dropped onto someone’s open laptop, and 2) offer to help the workers haul in a heavy shipment of new machinery.

Compared to normal hero work, these sorts of appearances aren’t really that hard. There was even minor press coverage of it—some girl caught it all on video and posted it to Weibo—and everyone in the coffee shop left charmed.

Well done, Miss J had said, clapping him on the back. The people need to know what Nice is like on a day-to-day basis, you see? If you wait in line for coffee like everyone else, it makes you just that much more relatable. And that had been that.

It does not occur to Lin Ling to ask the question until lunch time, when he swallows again and feels it again: that flash of pain. He reaches for the energy drink on the table—Double VVoltcharge, a brand Nice has recently been sponsored by, which they have excess stock of lying around—and finds that his throat is still hurting when he gulps it down. 

“Miss J,” he says, setting the bottle back on the desk, in the exact corner he got it from. Makes sure his tone comes out sufficiently unassuming. “What was Nice like when he was sick?”

She regards him, scrutinizing. “Why are you asking?”

It’s a trap. She’s trying to gauge if anything is off, so he pretends not to notice. “Oh, you know, just—all this conversation about what he’s like as a normal person, like, what his coffee order is and everything, and I was like, huh, it’s strange that Nice drinks coffee. Like, since he’s so perfect and everything, I wouldn’t have been that surprised if I found out he never got tired.”

“Everyone gets tired,” Miss J says, rolling her eyes. “Even heroes.”

“Yeah, I guess so, or maybe he just liked the taste?” Lin-Ling-as-Nice shrugs. “Just wondering if he ever got sick, too, or if the public’s trust in him willed that away.”

“Of course he got sick,” Miss J says. “He’s not some kind of robot.”

“So what was he like? If I’m supposed to be him, shouldn’t I know these kinds of things?”

“Hmm.” Miss J seems to consider this for a moment, worrying at her lower lip. Lin Ling wonders if he’s happened upon a touchy subject.

He’s about to provide more justification—shouldn’t she be happy that he’s taking interest in Nice’s habits?—when she responds.

“...Excessively polite,” she says. “You know, always wearing a mask, coughing into his elbow, apologizing about it, that kind of thing. Sometimes he would even wear gloves or bring disinfectant spray around with him, if he really had to be somewhere. Though mostly he would stay in.”

“Ah,” Lin Ling says. “Okay. I guessed as much.” That doesn’t sound too difficult to emulate, on the off-chance that he is getting sick. The disinfectant makes sense, considering Nice’s borderline-obsession with neatness and cleanliness—the same tendencies Lin Ling feels as a static buzz at the edge of his consciousness more often than not, these days, whenever there’s clutter on the table or a cup is in the wrong place.

“You aren’t asking for any particular reason, are you?” Miss J says.

“Of course not!” Lin Ling says. “Just making conversation, is all.” He downs the rest of the energy drink, makes sure he doesn’t let the wince show on his face as it goes down.

—

The sore throat doesn’t get any better.

If anything, it gets worse. By the time dinner rolls around, Lin Ling finds that his nose is running, too, and even though he’s cleared his throat about a hundred times, it’s starting to take on a slight rasp. It’s strange and disconcerting to hear Nice’s smooth, low baritone marred by anything at all.

At the very least, he has confirmation now that Nice did get sick, even as a hero. The fact that Lin Ling is coming down with something now is not going to be the thing that exposes him as a fraud. That alone is a small comfort.

But the comfort ends there. Despite Miss J’s earlier descriptions, Lin Ling has no idea what kind of person Nice was when he was sick, aside from the usual obsession with cleanliness, and he has no idea how much the public knows about it either.

He isn’t sure how he’s going to break the news to Miss J. He’s never been—well, blatantly unfit for work before, ever since he took up Nice’s identity. Up until now, he’d like to think he’s been pretty good at taking up whatever she’s thrown at him. He still isn’t quite sure what her response to this might be. 

There was one time, a couple years back in December, when he’d come down with something when he was still working the advertising job. The heat had gone out in his apartment, and he had picked up this bug he couldn’t quite shake, had just about lost his voice with all the coughing. He’d finally worked up the courage to ask, meekly, for time off work.

His old boss had said, Do you think that just because you’re sick, Nice doesn’t need any more advertisements? And then, The proposal for next weeks’ advert needs to be emailed to me by 7am tomorrow morning. If it’s even a minute late, consider yourself fired.

In the end, Lin Ling—well, Lin Ling had apologized, put his head down, and gotten back to work. The week passed, and the week after that. That was just the life he led, then.

Things are different, now that he’s Nice. Now that he’s someone the public cares about, someone the public might miss. Nice’s public persona is damn near spotless, which makes sense at the surface, seeing how Miss J keeps virtually everything about Nice’s life squared away under lock and key. She probably has a collection of all of Nice’s favorite things, listed alphabetically, for God’s sake; she probably picks out his damn cologne for him based on market trends. But Lin Ling knows, deep down, that part of it has nothing to do with Miss J at all.

Part of it is this: Nice was Nice before he was a hero, too. Before he earned the trust of the people, before he was taken under Treeman’s wing, he was probably good at all of this: at appearing effortlessly charming and likable, which are things that Lin Ling has never been in his entire life. These days, he thinks he’s just one misstep away from having the entire foundation to his fake identity crumble under his feet.

“Not to your liking?” one of the agents says, casting a pointed glance towards the braised pork and steamed eggplant in front of him. Like all of the other agents, he’s dressed in all black and wearing sunglasses.

“Ah… sorry,” Lin Ling says, tightening his grip around his chopsticks. “I was just lost in thought. It’s delicious.” 

The agent nods, gruffly but not unkindly. “Then eat up.”

This, too, is foreign—having the agency be responsible for all of his meals, or even beyond that, having someone who cares whether something is to his taste. Lin Ling isn’t sure if it’s something he’ll ever get used to. He doesn’t have much of an appetite, but he makes himself eat, nonetheless.

The steam makes something shift in his sinuses, prickling, like the static edge of noise on the radio. He sniffles, leans forward to take a bite. Then the static edge sharpens into something he can no longer ignore.

“hh-hEh—!”

Remembering suddenly Miss j’s description of Nice, he ducks into an elbow. “—’IKkTSH’iIEw!—iihhh!”

The sneeze, when it finally comes, is surprisingly vocal. It’s the kind of sneeze you can hear the ending in, all high-pitched at the end, and it scrapes at his throat in a way that makes him want to cough afterwards. It sounds… well, markedly different from how Lin Ling is used to sounding when he sneezes. Then again, his voice has sounded different—less like his, and more like Nice’s, low and honeyed—ever since he made his first public appearance under the new identity. If he thinks about it, it isn’t all that strange that his sneeze sounds different, too.

He looks up, a little anxiously, to see if anyone’s noticed. Thankfully, the agent who stopped by earlier is on the other side of the room now, and none of them have so much as looked up at him. 

He resumes eating. The rice is steaming hot, and he’s been cold all day, though he’s only known the agency to set the thermostat at reasonable temperatures. He wonders distantly if Nice was ever susceptible to the cold.

Aside from Miss J, there’s only one person who might know.

—

Lin Ling texts Xiao Yueqing after dinner, from the privacy of his room on the tenth floor. After the incident at the wedding, he’d resigned himself to never speaking to Xiao Yueqing again—he didn’t know where she was anymore, and she’d changed her number—Miss J was very clear about not leaving behind any digital evidence. There was no reason for him to contact him again.

But it turns out that she had Nice’s phone number memorized. She texted him from a new number a week later, with a photograph of a tropical white sand beach, the line of water blue and sparkling from a distance, and followed it up a cheery: weather’s rly nice here ✌️u should come visit sometime, when you’re not so busy :p

He knew it was her immediately. The relief he’d felt, receiving that text, was nearly crushing.

They’ve been talking on-and-off ever since: Xiao Yueqing sending him pictures she’s snapped of the different cities she’s been to, accompanied by offhanded comments on what she’s seen, what she’s found surprising, and what she’d like to see; Lin Ling texting her whenever anything particularly amusing happens on the job.

Now, he sends off the text with no small amount of self-consciousness.

LL: Quick question, if you aren’t busy

These days, he never quite knows which country she’s in, so he doesn’t know what time it is for her, though she’s usually pretty good at responding if she’s awake and if he’s asked her a question. This time, Xiao Yueqing responds almost immediately.

MOON 🌺: ?

Lin Ling pulls the tissue box a little closer to him and extricates one carefully—he’d nabbed one from the agency storage room right before Miss J had driven him back to the Hero Tower. That is proving to be a wise decision now, considering that he’s gone through nearly a quarter of the box already.

LL: What was Nice like when he was sick?

MOON 🌺: wdym?

LL: Like 

LL: When he had a cold? assuming he did at least once when you were living together

LL: Idk did he act any differently or 

MOON 🌺: ohh

MOON 🌺: haha. yea i think he did get sick a couple times

A beat. Xiao Yueqing’s typing indicator vanishes on the screen—probably she’s been pulled away to talk to someone in real life. Then, after a moment, it pops up again.

MOON 🌺: he was toooootally

Lin Ling waits with bated breath.

MOON 🌺: insufferable :/

He very nearly falls out of his chair.

Nice, insufferable? The very Nice who Miss J described as excessively polite, the very Nice who couldn’t seem to make anyone hate him, even if he tried? That Nice? Insufferable?

LL: Come again???

LL: You’re going to have to elaborate, I’m not following

MOON 🌺: well u alrdy know nice was like a bit of a neat freak

MOON 🌺: when he got sick it was like cranked up to 200%. he was soo fussy abt everything

MOON 🌺: brought him tea once out of pity and he nearly bit my head off bc i made the water 15 degrees too hot for the type of tea or smth??? like there’s no way u can even taste the difference when ur congested???

LL: Oh

Lin Ling doesn’t quite know what to make of this information. He’d never thought that Nice might be anything other than pleasant, especially to Xiao Yueqing. Even learning that his entire relationship with her had been scripted hadn’t changed that.

LL: Maybe it was too bitter for him?

MOON 🌺: extremely rude

MOON 🌺: dont start taking his side now

LL: Sorry, sorry, it was nice of you to make him tea

MOON 🌺: ur on thin ice 🫵

LL: I’m sure it was delicious

LL: Please go on

MOON 🌺: this other time i caught him rearranging all the medicine in the agency cabinet 

MOON 🌺: like some crazy organization system based on strength and symptoms targeted and duration and wtvr

MOON 🌺: he was at it for like an hour. and when i asked him why he was there it turned out he was looking for

MOON 🌺: cough syrup and he just got distracted. but he got annoyed at me and insisted they had to be sorted for some reason and so i left him alone 

LL: That’s heroic

LL:Do you think he was delirious?

MOON 🌺: honestly that would be giving him too much credit

MOON 🌺: hey

MOON 🌺: why r u asking abt this anyways =.=;;

He freezes. He isn’t quite sure how to justify himself, other than the fact that it’s natural that he’s curious about the very person he’s supposed to be replacing. But she’s right—usually, he would go to Miss J with questions like this. Not Xiao Yueqing, who he’s learning seems to be happiest when she’s avoiding thinking about the old Nice altogether. 

LL: No particular reason 

MOON 🌺: hmmm~

MOON 🌺: you just happened to be curious abt nice for no particular reason?

LL: He seemed so put together all the time

LL: I just wondered

LL: Wasn’t sure if he could even get sick in the first place 

For a long moment, she doesn’t respond again. He lets himself think that maybe she’s gone for real, now, offline to haggle with some vendor or book some kind of ticket, or maybe she’s found someone to have lunch-or-dinner-or-whatever-meal-lines-up-with-her-timezone with. His head feels heavy. He’s more tired than he usually is at this time of night. Maybe he should call it a night early.

Then his phone vibrates in his hands. Onscreen, in bright white characters: INCOMING CALL.

He scrambles to pick up the call, nearly drops his phone in the process.

“You are not a very good liar,” is the first thing Xiao Yueqing says.

It’s his first time hearing her voice in weeks. It sounds a little tinny through the speakers, the higher frequencies a little harsher than the crystal-clear recording quality he’s used to from her advertising livestreams. He holds onto it like it’s a lifeline.

“Sorry?”

“I said what I said. Are you going to tell me how long you’ve been sick?”

For a second, Lin Ling feels a flash of anxiousness in his chest—could she tell, just from that one word of his? Did she know, even before he picked up this call? “...I don’t recall ever saying that I was.”

“Uh huh. So you’re just studying what Nice was like when he was sick for fun,” Xiao Yueqing says. “Just as a trivia question, nothing more.”

Lin Ling bristles. “I’m supposed to be him,” he says. Winces when he can hear the congestion in his—Nice’s—voice. “Learning about him is part of the job.”

“Yeah, so that’s why you texted me to ask about it. That’s the only reason.”

“I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t— s-seriously missing the mark…” Lin Ling really doesn’t want to be interrupted. His nose has other plans. This time, the action of turning to shield the sneeze with his elbow comes reflexively, even though there’s no one else here. “hH… Hhii-HH-GZSCHh-Hiiew! -hhIh… Snf-! IIh—!!!’KKTSHh-EwW!—-iiih…”

His face feels like it’s aflame. The phone speaker is right there, he berates himself. He really should have moved it away, who knows how loud those were on her end, who knows how close she was holding her phone to her ear, who knows what she might be thinking now—

“Bless you!” Xiao Yueqing says breezily, sounding utterly unfazed. Her voice has taken on a different turn, now—something closer to concern. “Man, you sound pretty rough. How are you holding up?”

“I’m not—” Lin Ling starts, and then breaks off into an undignified cough. “It’s just—”

His voice cracks on the syllable. As if there could be anything more embarrassing.

“You can say, you know,” Xiao Yueqing says, a little softer now. “However you’re feeling, you can say. It’s like I said. I’ve seen Nice sick a handful of times already. It’s not anything new to me.”

Lin Ling considers this for a long moment.

“...In that case,” he says, with another sniffle. “I’m–I’m probably getting a cold. I didn’t mean to bother you at—ahh, I don’t know what time it is there. I don’t even feel that siIIhh… iIhh’ii’DSHhH-EEew!—hh… snf… hhEh…!”

“Bless you again! Times two?”

“—-G’KTTSSHh—IiEEw! ugh… thanks.” He takes a tissue out from the tissue box, folds it in half, buries his face into it. “I’m sorry I’ve been doing that so much. It’s probably right next to your ear.”

“You sneeze differently from him,” Xiao Yueqing says, with a breathless little laugh that makes something tighten in Lin Ling’s chest. He can’t help but feel like he’s making a fool out of himself in front of his longtime—well, crush is probably the right word for it, just going off of definitions, but it seems laughably inadequate in the face of everything.

“Oh,” Lin Ling says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I can fix that. How did he sneeze?”

“Don’t fix it,” Xiao Yueqing says, sounding gleeful. “I think it sounds cute.”

He definitely heard her wrong there. “Cute?”

“The more ways in which you differ from Nice, the better.”

He shakes his head, despairing. “I can’t accept that. If I happen to sneeze in public—”

“No one will notice any difference,” she says. “It’s just a sneeze. You’re so concerned about acting in character, but have you stopped at all to think about how you’re feeling? Like even once? Did your own health ever once factor into your concerns?”

The defensiveness he feels—the defensiveness he’s felt, this entire conversation—gives way for something else, something like resignation.

“...I don’t know why it would,” Lin Ling says, honestly. It’s more than he means to admit.

Xiao Yueqing makes a noise that’s somewhere between exasperation and understanding. There’s another moment of silence. Lin Ling wonders how it’s possible to feel so strangely exposed over a phone call, even though she can’t see him, even though this is their first time talking in weeks.

“I called to tell you there’s this herbal tea in the kitchen of your flat, in the third drawer from the right side,” she says. “It’ll work wonders on your throat, if it’s hurting. You’re still early into this cold, so it probably is, right?” Lin Ling doesn’t have the time to process how she knows this. “Oh, and there are extra blankets in the storage closet, to the opposite side of the elevators. Three, I think, but the yellow one with white stripes is the warmest. Text me if you can’t find them.”

He blinks, a little overwhelmed. “How do you know all this?”

“I did live there for years, whether I liked it or not. Oh, and Lin Ling?”

“Yes?”

“Take care,” Xiao Yueqing says, sounding sincere. The call goes dead. 

Lin Ling sits there for awhile, his phone dark in his hands, contemplating the feeling in his chest, the strange weight to it.

Then he gets up to head to the kitchen in search of tea.

[madaqueue]

HEY …. if i did a little selfship event ….. would you guys participate :3