#tb fics

[arriettyspin]

I just finished chapter 8 of we moved into a real house

Tf

Count your days Tobias Kiramman

Also, here's some fanart of the latest chapter from twitter!

[sacredpoolsoftears]

Looking at the sambucky tag in a03 right now

bucky and thunderbolts stans STOP slandering/villainizing/turning sam into your white man caretaker challenge

[spacizia]

when you need to unravel a mystery but the only other 2 adults are too busy dealing with their domestic drama

[arriettyspin]

I'm going to write those Timebomb from-the-perspective-of-the-firelights one-shots so if anyone has any firelight OCs you don't mind being included please lmk through asks

[a-slut-for-leon-kennedy]

Give me more Vampire!Arthur fics. We literally hunt down clues to a vampire and then TAKE DOWN THE VAMPIRE. Like!! That’s prime biting time baby!!!

And like I get making him a werewolf in fics cause he’s rough and rugged but that’s John’s thing!! John gets mauled by wolves!!! Let him be the werewolf and Arthur the vampire!!!

Not all vampires have to be super sophisticated and fancy!! Make Arthur a rugged cowboy vampire!! GIVE ME VAMPY ARTHUR FICS

[a-still-small-vox]

My kingdom for people drawing Newt with long hair like in the book

[arriettyspin]

@littlebitofhaze13 ‼️

“Jinx laughed at something Ekko said, tilting her head back, and Ekko was just looking at her…”

Does anyone else read wmriah or is it just me. Bc this last chapter was fucking crazy.

[velveteenoutlaw]

it’s always been just you and me

[777bae]

OUT OF REACH EMIL LILLEBERG

Summary :: Emil always forgets you’re not as tall as him, constantly putting things on the top shelf just out of reach. After a few failed attempts to grab a box of pasta, you call for help—only for him to tease you as he effortlessly grabs it down. Despite the frustration, you can’t help but appreciate his charm… even if he’s a walking kitchen disaster.

Warnings :: reader is quite a bit shorter than him (Emil is like 6’2)

Word count :: 2.0k

The kitchen feels unusually cramped tonight, the space shrinking with every stretch of your arm. The air is thick with the mix of frustration and determination that’s building up inside you. Every inch you gain feels like an impossibility—like the pasta box is playing some cruel game, just barely within reach but always slipping further back when you think you’re close. You tiptoe higher, your breath catching as you stretch even more, fingertips brushing the edge, but not quite making contact.

The box of pasta taunts you with its proximity, daring you to reach it, daring you to be taller, to be more clever, to be anything but the person you are right now—straining, balancing on the balls of your feet, your entire body bending and twisting to meet its challenge. Your fingertips graze the corner of the box, but the moment you think you’ve got it, the damn thing slides away like it’s mocking your efforts.

You step back, exhaling a huff of frustration. Your arm aches from the stretch, muscles burning, yet you can’t help but feel compelled to keep trying. You’ve been at this for what feels like an eternity, and all you want is that stupid box, just a simple task, but it’s like the shelf is an enemy in some poorly scripted battle you’re never going to win.

You’ve already tried everything. The edge of the counter, the tiptoeing, even the desperate stretches with your spine curved in ways it shouldn’t be. You’ve jumped a few times too, almost knocking over the spice rack in the process. But nothing works. The top shelf remains just out of your reach, and it’s becoming an endless loop of failure. You feel a surge of irritation wash over you, the kind that turns even small tasks into mountains you can’t climb.

Just then, you hear Emil’s voice from the living room—soft, almost muffled by the low hum of the TV. It’s a lazy kind of sound, his usual drawl that lets you know he’s not really doing anything, just existing. He’s probably sprawled out on the couch, wrapped in the warmth of his own quiet, effortlessly relaxed state, while you’re here, fighting an invisible war against a shelf.

You glance back toward the living room, almost as if you’re expecting him to materialize at any moment, like he might suddenly walk in, notice your struggle, and offer some sort of unsolicited advice or assistance. But no—he’s probably lost in the game, or checking his phone, or just… completely unaware of your ongoing battle.

You can almost picture it—his easy posture, the way he probably doesn’t even realize how long you’ve been at this. He wouldn’t know what it’s like to fight with something that’s supposed to be easy, to have something just out of reach, no matter how hard you try. His world is probably so effortlessly simple, and here you are—on your tiptoes, straining with a dumb box of pasta like it’s the most important thing in the world.

The frustration builds again, and you let out a long, exasperated sigh, as if the air itself is feeling the weight of your irritation. You can’t just give up—not after everything.

You stretch again, pushing your body higher, giving a little hop in a last-ditch effort to finally grasp the elusive box of pasta. It’s no use. The box taunts you, stubbornly staying just beyond your reach. Your fingertips graze the bottom corner again, but it slides away, like it’s playing its own game with you. Frustration builds in your chest, and your breath comes in short, sharp bursts as your muscles scream in protest. This was supposed to be easy.

You stand there for a moment, frozen in a mix of disbelief and irritation, your arm still outstretched, hovering in the air. The feeling of helplessness gnaws at you—how can something so simple be so maddening? The corner of the shelf, so close yet so far. Your gaze flickers to the rest of the kitchen, but the air feels too heavy, and you just need to let it out.

With a dramatic sigh, you drop your arm, the sense of defeat hanging over you. You turn to face the empty space behind you, shaking your head. This is absurd. He had to put it there, didn’t he? The box of pasta. The one thing you can’t reach.

You throw your hands up in exasperation. “Emil!” you call, the words coming out louder than you intended, a mixture of frustration and resignation in your voice. The name cuts through the silence of the kitchen, a sharp cry for help. You wait, your pulse still racing as you let the annoyance settle in.

You hear the familiar sound of Emil shifting on the couch—his casual movement, a shift of weight on the cushions—before his voice drifts toward you, muffled and unconcerned. “Yeah?”

A second later, your irritation creeps up again, this time spilling out in an exaggerated tone, the kind of thing you didn’t mean but can’t hold back now. “Can you come in here for a second?” you call out again, the words dripping with the kind of annoyance you usually try to suppress, but tonight, it’s all spilling over. You don’t even try to hold it in; you’re done. You need help, but you’re going to let him know how ridiculous it all feels.

The sound of him standing reaches you next, the soft shuffle of footsteps that tell you he’s not rushing. A few moments pass before he appears in the doorway, moving with the same laid-back ease that’s practically his trademark. His hands are casually shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants, his posture relaxed as he leans against the doorframe, eyeing you with a faint glint of amusement already tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes flick up to the top shelf—your target—and then back to you, still standing there on your tiptoes, arms stretched up, straining for the box of pasta that’s just out of your grasp.

He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk. “You still trying to get that?” he asks, the teasing lilt in his voice impossible to ignore. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you, like he knows exactly what’s going on. And maybe he does—maybe he’s been watching you struggle from the living room, quietly enjoying the show.

You roll your eyes dramatically, letting out a long exhale as you throw your hands up in mock surrender. “Yes, and I swear, if that pasta box is laughing at me right now, I’m going to lose it,” you say, your voice a mixture of exasperation and playful exaggeration. The frustration still pulses under your words, but you know you can’t take it too seriously—after all, it’s just pasta. Right?

Emil chuckles at your theatrics, his chest vibrating with amusement. He uncrosses his arms and steps forward, a slow, deliberate movement that only adds to the easy confidence he exudes. His arms fold back into his chest as he leans against the counter, watching you with a half-amused, half-sympathetic expression. “You know,” he starts, his voice light but with a teasing edge, “if you just asked, I’d grab it for you.”

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes as you give him an exaggerated, dramatic pout, trying to mirror his smugness. “I’m trying to maintain some dignity here,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. You take a small step back, waving your arms theatrically as you turn your attention back to the shelf. “But you—” you pause, making sure to emphasize the point—“keep putting things on the top shelf like you’re trying to make me lose my mind.”

He doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his smirk only deepens, that knowing look in his eyes never leaving. Without another word, he steps forward and reaches up to grab the box from the shelf. He does it so effortlessly that it seems almost cruel. The motion is fluid, practiced, like he’s done this a hundred times before, and he’s only half-paying attention.

He pulls the box down in a single, smooth motion, not breaking a sweat. His eyes flick back to you, a playful grin stretching across his face. “It’s not my fault you’re not as vertically gifted as me,” he teases, his tone light, but there’s that underlying sense of mischief you know too well. His words are almost too perfect, a reminder of how, in this moment, you’re not the one winning.

You huff, frustration still bubbling in your chest, and snatch the pasta box from Emil’s outstretched hand. Your fingers brush his briefly, and you can’t ignore the warmth of his touch, even if it’s just for a moment. You give him a playful shove, the kind you’ve given him a hundred times before when he’s pushed your buttons just enough. “Can you stop putting things on the top shelf like you’re some sort of kitchen god?” you ask, your voice half-mocking, half-exasperated. “I swear, it’s like you’re doing it on purpose!”

Emil’s laughter is instant, his deep chuckle rumbling in the air between you two. He leans back against the doorframe, arms still casually crossed over his chest. His eyes gleam with amusement, a mischievous twinkle you know all too well. “You’re welcome for my assistance,” he says, his tone light and teasing. “But seriously, you’d be better off just asking next time.”

You hold the pasta box up, waving it in front of him like a prize you’ve just won—an exaggerated, triumphant gesture that only makes your frustration more ridiculous. “Oh, I’ll ask next time,” you reply, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “But only if you promise to never, ever put the cereal up there again.” You give the box a little shake for emphasis, almost like you’re bargaining. “I’ll start hiding your snacks if you do.”

Emil’s grin widens, and he tilts his head slightly, as if considering your offer, but you can see the glint of mischief in his eyes. “If you do that, I’ll just move all the snacks to the highest shelf of the pantry,” he says, feigning seriousness, though you know he’s enjoying this playful back-and-forth. “You’re not winning this battle.”

You narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms in a mock display of defiance. You give him a playful side-eye, your lips curling upward despite your best efforts to appear stern. “You just wait,” you say, a quiet promise hanging in your words. “I’ll find a way to get back at you for this.”

Emil just shakes his head, his smile broadening even more. The laughter still lingers in his voice as he pushes off from the doorframe, but he’s clearly not done with the teasing. “You’re lucky I’m around to help,” he says with a playful sigh, the words drawing out a little more than necessary as if he’s giving you some rare gift of his presence. “Where would you be without me?”

You roll your eyes in exaggerated disbelief but can’t help the smile creeping onto your face despite yourself. There’s something about him—something about the way he teases, so effortlessly, without even trying—that softens your irritation every time. “Probably managing just fine, actually,” you mutter, trying to keep up the act, but the grin that you can’t suppress says otherwise. “But it’s good to know you’ll always be there when I need you to—what was it? Rescue me from the shelf?”

“Exactly,” he says with a wink, his voice dripping with mock-heroism, and you can almost hear the dramatic music playing behind his words. He turns to head back toward the living room, the casualness of his steps belying the smugness in his grin. “It’s a full-time job, you know. I’m basically a hero around here.”

You can’t help but laugh at his antics, the sound escaping you before you can even think to hide it. You watch him saunter back into the other room, shoulders relaxed, a confident air about him. You stand there for a moment, the faintest smile still tugging at your lips as you shake your head, knowing full well that maybe, just maybe, you secretly appreciate having him around—even if his brand of “help” involves ridiculously high shelves and pasta-box placement strategies.

“Hero,” you mutter under your breath, still smiling as you shake your head, half in disbelief, half in fondness. “Yeah, sure.” But you both know the truth—you’d never trade him for anything else.

[arriettyspin]

love is a distant star that guides us

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64225144/chapters/164833684

but lover, you're the one to blame, can you hear the violence?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64203004/chapters/164768548

whoever came up with true damage ekko x fangirl jinx i owe you my LIFE

btw if anyone has fic recs i will literally be grateful to u forever ty!!!!! (especially fics that include isha or where jinx is a former fangirl and her soul leaves her body when she sees ekko)

[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.

[metalbvcky]

Can you believe it's almost been five years since I started writing Steve/Bucky? Half a decade! I started out writing fluff and T-rated only, then the smut gods told me to switch gears, and now here I am with over 60 works, amassing 350k+ words. There hasn't been a day I haven't thought about these two in some way, shape, or form.

I recently made a spreadsheet to track my WIPs, which is unlike me because usually (USUALLY) I write one at a time. Wealp, not this year. I guess 2025 is the year I finally have more than one multi-chap WIP 😂 The good news is the last two I'm not posting until they're completely finished. The bad news is that Dr. Steve and Dark Steve will be neglected for a bit as other muses fight for dominance. I kinda needed a break with Dr. Steve actually, since I got to the point where I always get burnt out on a longfic (around the 30k mark). Either way, just look at all the words I'm writing!

I don't think I'll ever get tired of Stucky 💙🖤

[starry-nights12]

Since Heaven has heterochromia her right eye is pink while the other is brown. She inherited shimmer from Jinx and gained super speed.

It activates when she's excited or her adrenaline is high- she likes causing trouble, so getting chased is a thrill for her.

She knows both of her eyes are pretty. She thinks it's really cool how her pink eye glows like Jinx. Sometimes she likes close the door in the bathroom to look at it in the mirror.

One day, in the Firelights Base:Jinx and Heaven are playing tag when their shimmer kicked in.

There was blur of pink and blue as they chase each other. Heaving is screaming excitedly and they're both laughing.

Ekko watching them play and has him feeling a mixture of emotions: Love,happiness, and an odd sense of fasicnation.

When Heaven is playing with kids,she's really fast compared to them. With Jinx,even with the shimmer, her legs are still little and can't catch up to her yet.

The irony isn't lost on how he hated shimmer and what it did to people. He created the Firelights in order to try and stop the flow of the drug: Only for it to resurrect his wife and be passed on to their daughter.

He doesn't hate their eyes nor disgusted by them. He doesn't lay awake at night tossing and turning at night agonizing about it.

It's just sometimes he thinks that if he was able to save Jinx then her and Heaven's eyes would have been blue instead.

[arriettyspin]

Timebomb fics published between season 1 and 2 hit DIFFERENTLY I swear.

While there are some incredible fics published post-season 2, too many of them fall into the same pit traps the show did (Jinx's mental illness being downplayed, Ekko having no personality or relationships outside of Jinx, the Firelights being ignored etc).

Whereas post-season 1 fics are more likely to nail their dynamic.

Just listening to Ma Meilleure Ennemie while reading doomed timebomb fics from season 1 where they let their walls down for a moment to show their love, knowing they’ll return to being enemies. Highly recommend.

[necrotic-nephilim]

for the ask game (1)

au where bruce is attracted to his robins and batgirls. he tries not to think about it or act on it, but it's getting more difficult with every new member of his team he acquires. does anyone know? do the robins and batgirls notice his weird behavior? what do they do about it? do they ever find out the truth? who would think it's terrible and who would find it strangely hot/comforting/nice? does bruce ever act on his feelings?

for the ask game!

oh my GOD do i have thoughts for AUs like this, i love this shit so dearly, dirtybadwrong Bruce who's trying to keep a lid on it my beloved.

i think the fun of this AU is if characters would notice Bruce lusting for themselves vs would they notice Bruce lusting for a different Robin/Batgirl. like does Dick pick up on it when it's just him and Bruce? no, because it's just. him and Bruce. he and Bruce are weird and complicated and hold endless bounds of nuance. that's just How Bruce Is, and Dick is the "test run", in a sense. he knows Bruce is new to this whole sidekick/family thing and is giving Bruce grace for being rough around the edges. but when Bruce starts looking at Jason or Tim or Cass that way, that's when Dick starts to notice. it's never enough of a suspicion he feels justified to bring it up, but the thought lingers. he's hyperaware and grows less and less comfortable with leaving them alone with Bruce. it's a weird game of chicken, Dick and Bruce staring each other down when Bruce's touch lingers too long. each waiting for the other to say something first. if Bruce ever broke and actually acted on his feelings, Dick would be eaten alive by the guilt of knowing something was up, but never saying something until it was too late.

obviously, Cass would know. there's no world where Cass *doesn't* know, the nature of who and what she is would immediately clock it. but the issue is, Cass doesn't have a good framework of what family looks like. she doesn't really understand familial vs romantic love bc she has no firsthand experience of what a parent's love should even look like. so she never calls it out. she just watches. i'm a fan of Cass believing this is normal and believing she too can express and act on attraction that's vaguely incestuous. maybe it's with Babs, maybe it's with Dick or Tim or Bruce himself. but she recognizes this as Normal and Accepted within the Batfamily, so it severely fucks up her understanding of familial love and i just. man it's my favorite thing about Cass in Batcest honestly, is how you can play with her lack of experience with love, boundaries, and sexuality.

Tim is the fun one for me. because my favorite flavor of BruTim is when Tim knows, as he agrees to be Robin, that there's a non-zero chance that Bruce is going to be Weird and agrees anyway because he's decided it's an acceptable risk. so Tim knows from the get-go because he's expecting it. if Bruce acts on his attraction, i think it's either with Tim or Cass first, because they're the most likely to confront him about it in a way that isn't entirely negative. Tim has accepted it's a possibility and Cass just seeks being loved and touched so. it leads to the first time someone's ever confronted Bruce about it. and the thing is, Bruce really doesn't like confrontation about his flaws. the first time Tim tries to imply he's okay with it, Bruce would lash out at the idea, tell Tim how inappropriate that is and benches Tim for a week. it'd probably take a united front from Cass and Tim to get Bruce to even *admit* to the attraction. still Bruce wouldn't allow it to happen and he brushes them off until finally, the dam breaks. it's fun if there's a cause like sex pollen, but i think it's *more* fun if it's just. a random fucking Tuesday and finally Bruce is at his limit. he has no real reason, there's nothing particularly different about that day's routine. he just sees Tim or Cass striping armor and sighs and gives in.

i don't think Steph, Jason, or Babs would notice until anything substantial happened. not because they're not wicked smart, but just because none of them were looking for it. Jason put Bruce on a pedestal when he was alive, and when he came back from the dead he wasn't close enough to be noticing Bruce's interpersonal dynamics outside of his narrow scope. Steph has no real framework for what healthy fatherhood looks like, so if Bruce's touches linger, if he stares too long, she just shrugs and assumes it's how it is. and Babs was just never quite close enough to Bruce to notice. if and when she notices, is when actual sexual things start to happen between Cass and Bruce. because Cass would see no reason to hide it. Babs would be pissed, but it'd be tricky to navigate. Cass would be an adult, even if she's only 18/19, so technically, she's old enough to be consenting. if nothing else, Bruce is a careful man. even when he breaks and gives in to his desires, he covers his tracks well. he makes sure he has enthusiastic consent and there's no legal recourse that could be taken. age of consent and all that. there's not much Babs can *do* other than try to tell Cass (and/or Tim) that this isn't normal or okay. not that it gets her anywhere, but god would she try.

by the time Duke comes along (if we venture out of the pre-Flashpoint era) i think it's a sort of. open secret, in the Batfamily. talked about in nothing but hushed whispers and knowing glances. at some point, they've all had sex with Bruce, caving all for different reasons. some more than others. Tim sees it as a duty, Cass sees it as a way of seeking comfort, Steph sees it as getting Bruce's approval for once, etc. it's never forced on them, but eventually, they all come to Bruce sooner or later. and that's the fun irony of it, i think. they try to convince the others not to, but would go to Bruce on their own well. because complicated reasons they can't put into words. sometimes, Bruce is just a messy man who doesn't realize how prized his Attention to for the rest of the Batfamily. that weird duality of not liking him, but also wanting desperately for him to like you. all of them have dealt with it, at some point. so for Duke, it takes a while for him to understand this... whole dynamic. it's Cass who tries to explain it to him, and he's a little horrified, a lot confused. especially when Bruce starts staring at him a little too long as well. i think he'd only want to watch first but well. they all cave eventually.

also fun bonus if we venture into the Dark Knight Returns universe for my bestest girl Carrie Kelley: there's such a like, "i'm fucking around and i'm finding out" vibe to Carrie. like Tim, she's very proactive in just. deciding she's going to be Robin and she's ready for whatever that entails. (IMO canon Carrie is closer to fanon Tim than canon Tim is but *that* deserves its own post-) like she takes one look at the old man that is Batman and goes yup. he's never fucking getting rid of me now. if Bruce started having weird feelings about her, i think she'd have *fun* with it. she's decided she's in it for the long haul and for whatever being Robin means so. she's almost teasing about it, seeing how hard she can push before Bruce snaps. since it's an older, gruffer Bruce, i think he'd express open annoyance at it first, almost a sort of banter about how Carrie behave. but of course he caves and Carrie leans into it, because there's a fun in having all of Bruce's attention to herself. in the main timeline, Bruce is pretty split with so many Robins and Batgirls, but during their era, it's *just* her and him and she's very proud she's got him all to herself.

[la-gotica-fantasma]

No Epitaph for Your Beloved (Part One)

part one ~ part two

characters - Newt x Male!Reader

setting - The Death Cure

word count - 1,3k

contains - Genuine psychosis (hallucinations,), unhealthy reliance, massacre, suicide, an arguably 'bad' ending

request - I had a really good idea so like think, Newt x male reader, and reader practically worships the ground he walks on, buuut reader is a bit… psychotic in a sense (not everyone needs the flare to go insane yk) and Newt is basically his lifeline to humanity, keeping him connected to any sanity he has. So when Newt dies reader loses it and kinda goes on a rampage. Deciding he blames WCKD for everything so he decides to kill a bunch of them as revenge (Like Achilles) and he doesn’t hold back either. I don’t want to overwhelm you with requests so just think of these like idea you can take your time on - 🪶anon Can’t remember if i mentioned this in my ask but after reader goes on a rampage and shit, if you’re comfortable with it you can make it to where reader decides to end his own life. -🪶anon

authors notes - When I tell you I was EAGER to write this (cue mosquito-like hand rubbing again), you do not understand how crazy into psychology I am, sooo if you meant psychosis in a not actual psychosis way... I'm sorry that's not what you're getting—you're getting psychosis. ALSO I'm so sorry this took so long I've been tutoring people </3 - Again, I apologize for any mistakes, English isn't my first language and I have not fixed my phone yet </3 - Over all, this is a deeply macabre themed fanfic, not 'yandere' though

The warm air stuck to [Name]'s skin like a glue that was impossible to peel. The winding trail that was their momentary home drew long and humid as he walked down the hallway toward the dark metallic door, the faux harsh taste of metal dissolved upon his tongue at the sight. He bit his tongue at the taste, wishing the intrusive hallucination away. His hand fondled at the doorknob he knew Newt sat behind. Fiddling with the frigid material, he twisted and pushed the door open, only to see Newt hunched over himself staring beyond him. It felt like [Name]'s mind had cleared, like a wave of lucidity washed over him, at Newt's breathing figure.

"Not speaking doesn't mean I don't know you're there," The smirk was evident in Newt's voice, a glimpse of a reminder that Newt was still there for [Name].

[Name] crept up behind him, swiping his legs over the edge. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on the stone, their legs dangling off above the dead scenery. "I'd never have known," [Name] chuckled, a smirk growing on his own face.

Newt turned, his smile faltering with remembrance. "Oh, yeah," he said quietly, "I guess I can't hide this anymore," Newt drew his sleeves up, showing the twist of purple veins that began to crawl across his forearm.

Waves of ideas crashed over [Name], his breath stopped. His hands set in front of his chest, the feeling of a warm liquid dripping from them down his arms made him look down to his hands. There sat a heart, its torn and squelching sheath paling directly in front of him.

Newt's soft voice broke through [Name]'s thoughts with an unmatched urgency, "[Name]!" he shouted, "[Name], you're okay," The hallucination disappeared the second time [Name] looked, tears welling up in his eyes.

[Name] switched between nodding and shaking his head, the tears he held falling down his face. He repeated it back to Newt, gripping his bicep, "You're okay, you're okay," he muttered distantly, continuing to mindlessly bob his head every-which-way. He mentally maimed himself into believing Newt wasn't ill—it had just been his mind playing cruel tricks, of course. It had to be.

A slow nod was Newt's response, placing his warm hand atop [Name]'s excruciatingly frigid one, his thumb stroked against the back of his hand. "You're okay." Newt repeated, with a fragment of force. [Name] merely nodded.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Madness rained down upon the ruins of the Last City, the fire leaving ashes in it's wake as an echo of what once was. [Name] gazed over the fire. He watched closely as it swayed with the rhythm of the air—the same air that could kill it. He found security in the flame that danced with its demise.

His downtime to suck in all his surroundings was cut short by a frustrated, animalistic screech. Newt. [Name] rose to his feet hastily, rushing down the war-torn alley, toward the scratchy flow of noises. The lining of his boots had abrased his socks, leaving [Name] to feel the rough leather against the heel of his foot. He sprinted down the decrepit alleys, swerving down corners until he was met with Newt's face. He was paled, with dark purple veins crawling across his face from his neck. His eyes were pure black, and his stature was craggy.

"You're okay," [Name] assured himself in a whisper directed at Newt.

[Name] clenched his eyes, scrunching his face and holding his breath. "You're okay," he repeated in a sigh, this time to himself.

An explosion flooded through [Name]'s ears. His eyes shot open, staring at Newt. His face was reunited with color, the veins were gone, and his terrible black eyes were replaced with his rich brown ones. [Name] sighed in relief, before Newt jumped forward, Thomas chasing after him.

[Name] stood stiffly as Newt and Thomas scrounged on the floor. Images of Newt's mangled body directly in front of him flashed through [Name]'s head. But [Name] didn't move.

His thoughts continued to interrupt one another, a pirouette of disorganized voices. For each voice that told him Newt was to die, there was another that preached otherwise.

With the sound of distant gurgling, [Name] was brought back to their reality. Thomas's face reflected shock, distraught, and regret. [Name] followed Thomas's line of vision, now staring down at the lifeless Newt. He lie on the rough concrete, his body cold, his mouth spilling black liquid, his hair wound chaotically, and his ribs with a knife wedged in them.

Tears crept down [Name]'s face, taking the layers of dirt with it. "You're okay." he reassured authoritatively, staring down at Newt with fallen brows and a disgusted frown. He looked back to Thomas, who had not moved but a centimeter since Newt's tumble down to death. Thomas shook his head with remorse and solemnity, before turning and running. Minho walked past [Name], dropping down to his knees before his lifeless best friend.

[Name] ran, disregarding the falling grime and debris, disregarding the torn shouts behind him, and disregarding the lives of hundreds, for he has lost his own. The gun resting in his holster chafed against his ripped cargo pants, reminding him of its existence. Without halting his movements; he slipped his fingers around the cold weapon, pulling it free from its restraints.

His thoughts were going as fast as he ran down the debris swarmed streets. Avenge him. was reoccurring, practically screaming the instruction at him. [Name] knew Newt wouldn't want him to listen, but he also knew that Newt would be there to tell him not to listen, had his life not been cut short with premeditated precision.

His chest felt like caving in and his legs felt feeble. And yet, he did not stop running. The bright lights, the animalistic screeching, the screams and yells of the masses, the raging flames, the smell of death, the taste of iron on his tongue. He sprinted past the buildings that used to inhabit livelihood, that used to inhabit lives.

[Name] stopped abruptly, standing before the W.I.C.K.E.D. building. It's fluorescent lights bringing a claw-like migraine to the disheveled boy. He stared up at it, one thing on his mind. "You waged this war." he warned to nobody in particular. He ripped the door away from the frame, letting it slam back behind him as a head-start for any who heard.

Scurrying down each and every hallway he could track, bullets left the chamber at each face he was met with. [Name] left no room for discussion; details were to be sparred, none of them cared about the lives they ripped from children's hands—why should he care about the lives he took from them? Tile became blood, and life became death.

Thirty-one dead.

A hand wrapped around [Name]'s grip on the gun, imploring him to turn. The arm led back to Newt. Newt's chest rose and fell, his face eerily clean and calm.

"No, you're not really here." [Name] stumbled over his words, the feeling of warm tears rushing down his face coming back to him. "You're not," he brokenly mumbled while shaking his head. Newt dissolved into the thick humid air that enveloped [Name] so uncomfortably.

"[Name]!" a voice greeted sarcastically from behind him. Their tone was manlike and mocking, beknownst of all that happens in this place. Janson.

[Name] turned, his blood no longer meeting his fingers at the relentless grip he held the gun with. "Janson."

Janson's eyes slipped down to the gun, he nodded his head in recognition. "You want to shoot me?" he said teasingly.

"More than anything," [Name] raised the gun at Janson's head. "And I will."

Janson's last words were nothing but a click of the tongue, a mere transcript of his disbelief that he could ever die.

With burning calves and requited death, [Name] sprinted down the hallway. As he watched the building crumble, he stood in the rubble it left. He brought his gun to his temple—the same temple Newt had kissed—and clenched his eyes, his tongue pressed harshly against his front teeth.

The bullet zipped through his skull. He heard the shell clank against the white tiled floor.

[Name] had a bullet in his brain. He didn't understand why he was still alive.