Currently Experiencing Yatora Yaguchi Levels Of Artistic Distress And Turmoil ✌️

i7 fake tweets 🫶

Day 10: They put up winter lights at UA heights to boost morale. Kacchan is cold and sleepy😔

MHA 430 spoilers (4)

I love that Dai referred to Bakugou as “Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight” in his head. Like yes, pls use his full government name

That’s a really fun self-Pavlov lol

trying to find the time/energy to write now that the semester has started up again is not going to be as easy peasy as i thought lol

writers, pls reblog with your fav writing rituals/habits! i love getting inspired by seeing what works for other people :)

Prompt: Aang didn't know Zuko was raising a baby dragon

Aang tilts his head. He doesn’t lower his staff, because—because Zuko, but he doesn’t try hitting him again, either. At least, not anywhere near his chestplate, which the other boy is very suddenly defending like there’s a second Avatar inside.

“Do you… have something in there?” Aang asks.

“NO!” shouts Zuko, who definitely has something inside his armor. It makes a kind of scrabbly-paws-on-metal sound and then—

“Do you have a dragon in there?” Aang squeals. 

And maybe in retrospect he should have thought more before bouncing towards the fiery teenager, but in Aang’s defense there is the cutest, tiniest, fluffiest little maned dragon head he’s ever seen trying to peek out of Zuko’s neckline. And anyway, the other boy is way too busy backpedaling and trying to push the dragon’s snout back inside to Capture the Avatar, so. So Aang absolutely shoves a hand at the dragon’s nose for it to smell him, because that’s how you greet them—

—Or is that praying mantis-dogs?—

And then there is a Fire Prince squawking and shoving him away, which is definitely not a bending move, but not before a little lizard tongue tickles Aang’s hand which is so cute.

“Uh,” says Sokka, lowering his club. “I. I am not actually sure how I’m supposed to be reacting, here.”

“We’re fighting,” snarls Zuko, who is cupping protective hands over the dragon, and definitely not fighting. The dragon has wormed one stubby little leg and an adorably oversized wing out, and seems enthusiastically set on more. 

Which is the point where Zuko’s uncle finally catches up to them, at his usual leisurely pace. If he wasn’t with Zuko, Aang would maybe think that the older man wasn’t all that invested in catching him.

“Nephew, do you…” And then he catches sight of the dragon.

Zuko pales.

“Hello, Uncle Backup,” says Sokka, grabbing Aang and Katara’s arms. “And that’s our cue to go go go.”

Zuko chases them. Because he’s Zuko.

Zuko… gets ahead of them. Which is not very chase-y?

Zuko vaults into Appa’s saddle ahead of them and holds his hands up as Katara threatens him with a hovering stream of water. He… doesn’t seem to be leaving, or attacking, and his uncle is running after them way faster than Aang is used to, so. Yip-yip?

Katara and Sokka sit down, once Zuko’s uncle looks very small under them. Zuko keeps his hands up. The baby dragon is flapping its free wing appreciatively in the rushing air. And chirruping really cutely.

“So,” says Sokka, slowly. “You… needed a ride?”

“I don’t—” Zuko starts to shout, before lowering his volume, even if his tone is exactly the same. “I don’t need a ride.”

“Uh-huh,” says Sokka, even more slowly. 

Zuko continues to keep his hands up. His dragon is trying to squirm the rest of the way free, and has decided that gnawing at his chest plate is the way to do this. It’s making pretty good progress against the black and red paint. The metal, not so much.

Aang keeps glancing back from Appa’s head. “You, um,” he says, suddenly realizing that You seemed scared will probably just lead to more shouting. And fire. Which there has been a really noticeable lack of, and Aang kind of wants to encourage that. 

“Did your uncle not know about the dragon?” he asks, instead.

“Uncle is the Dragon of the West,” Zuko says, more quietly than Aang has ever heard him say anything. And also like it’s a full explanation. But judging by the equally confused looks on Katara and Sokka’s faces, this isn’t just another thing he’s missed during the past hundred years. 

The baby dragon huffs at its lack of progress. And flops, like an over-cooked and very dejected noodle, against Zuko’s chest. 

Zuko swallows. And stops glaring at any of them, because he’s no longer meeting their eyes. He lowers his hands, slowly, and works a shoulder strap free. It’s enough for the dragon to puddle limply down into his lap, where it curls into a very alert spring. 

“Do you know how someone gets the title dragon?” Zuko says. “By killing a dragon. Uncle thought he killed the last two. And father was—he was so mad, not that uncle killed the last, but that he killed two. That he didn’t leave some glory for the rest of our family.”

Sokka clears his throat, after the obligatory awkward silence. “Your family is… kind of messed up, huh?” 

“What was your first clue,” says the Fire Prince, his scarred face deadpan.

His very prominently scarred face.

Oh. 

Katara crosses her arms. Which makes her look grumpier, but she’s not able to bend as quickly like that, so Aang knows she’s feeling less going-to-waterwhip-you grumpy and more prove-me-wrong grumpy. 

“If killing it would be so glorious,” she asks, “why haven’t you?”

“It— She— She’s just a child. It wouldn’t be honorable,” Zuko says, straightening his back.

“Uh-huh,” says Sokka.

But Aang. Aang grins. “Hey! I’m a child, too!”

The Fire Prince groans, and drops his face into his knees. His dragon climbs up onto his head and, using his ponytail approximately like a tree branch, stretches both her wings out, and lifts her little nose to the wind.

(You can also read this and other prompts on AO3.)

bus ride

sometimes I look back on my past writing and think it’s the worst thing ever written but occasionally there will be a killer line hidden in there that saves me from the depths of despair

like, yeah I wouldn’t write it that away again if given the chance but that one line?? etch it in stone, my guy

sponsored by this line from a merthur s1 ep03 re-write I wrote ages ago (you can find it here if you’d like)

“All he could see was Merlin walking peacefully from the room, his stupid neckerchief flowerless and hanging from his throat like a poor man’s noose.

When his father adjourned the council, Arthur was still trying to figure out where in the folds of that tattered fabric a part of himself was hidden because he had ceased to be whole the second his manservant disappeared around the corner.”

so excited to start working on requests!!

Idolish7 fanfic- Morning (1,210 words)

a friend showed me this clip of Idolish7 and i've been binging the show ever since

this is my contribution to the fandom lol

--

“Iorin,” Tamaki whined, slumping into the doorframe of their dorm bathroom, still dressed in his pajamas. “Where’s my toothbrush?”

Iori continued straightening his school tie in the mirror, sparing an irritated glance towards his team member. “I’m not your mother.”

Tamaki’s head slumped lower on the frame. “But Iorin, it’s not there.”

“Where else would it be?” Iori shot back, thankful that Tamaki’s closed eyes allowed him to stealthily tally up the toothbrushes scattered around the sink. 

Iori’s toothbrush was resting upright in the cup meant for toothbrushes, as was Sogo-san’s and Yamato-san’s. Nagi-san’s- an obnoxiously pink, wand-shaped thing- was beside the cup at least, and Mitsuki’s was balanced on the tiny line of counter ledge the same way he’d done since they were young, and Nanase-san’s was in the shower like a heathen. 

Tamaki’s toothbrush was not there. 

“King pudding,” Tamaki mumbled. 

Iori stomped on his foot and Tamaki jerked to attention with a cry. “Don’t you dare fall asleep!” Iori chastised. 

“But-”

“Either go find it or go buy a new one, but if you’re late getting back I will leave for school without you.”

Tamaki yawned. “I’ll just have a mint.”

Iori frowned. “That’s unsanitary.”

“Then I’ll ask the manager for one.”

“That’s rude.” Iori pushed past Tamaki to exit the bathroom. “She’s way too busy already to go running errands for you.”

Tamaki groaned, letting Iori’s small nudge of his shoulder turn into a slow-motion pantomime of being shoved to the ground. “I just won’t go to school then,” he said, curling up on the hallway’s dirty carpet. 

Iori huffed and stepped over Tamaki’s limp body to make his way towards the kitchen where Sogo-san, predictably, sat at the table nursing a warm cup of tea. 

The mug was halfway to his lips when he noticed Iori’s approach and he paused, smiling. “Oh, Iori-kun. Good mo-”

“Tamaki’s on the ground because he’s lazy and can’t find his toothbrush and won’t go buy a new one and if he tries to leave the house with me without cleaning his mouth I might kill him.”

Sogo-san hardly blinked while Iori explained the situation, and only after a long sip of tea that had Iori tapping his foot on the ground in impatience did he finally say, “You’re not really a morning person, are you, Iori-kun?”

Iori frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Sogo-san smiled gently. “You’re just normally a lot more…level-headed.”

“I’m being level-headed,” Iori huffed, “I went and got you, didn’t I?’

Sogo-san blinked. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

Iori, maturely, resisted the urge to groan aloud and walked (not stomped) to the fridge instead to pour himself a glass of orange juice. As he watched the glass fill with bright pulpy liquid, he mentally recited, it’s good for you, there are antioxidants, it helps your gut and when he felt marginally more relaxed he turned to Sogo-san. Calmly. 

“You manage him for Mezzo, don’t you?”

Sogo-san made a so-so gesture with his head, mouth twisting with uncertainty and what were probably thoughts he wouldn’t dare let escape his polite mouth. 

“So manage him,” Iori demanded, downing his glass in one go and depositing it in the sink where it belonged. He wrinkled his nose at the myriad of cups still littering the counter from yesterday. 

Iori lived with a horde of pigs. 

Sogo-san continued to drink his tea, lightly tapping out the melody to one of their most recent songs on the tabletop with the soft pad of his fingertip.

The clock continued to tick away. 

Iori marched to the chair directly opposite him and stared- maturely and unflinchingly. 

Ten seconds, Iori predicted. 

Sogo-san’s tapping turned more forced, his gaze darting anywhere but Iori. 

Eight…

“He’s not my responsibility, you know.”

Iori lightly tipped his head in acknowledgement, then let his gaze track pointedly over all the empty chairs surrounding them. 

Six…

“Tamaki-kun needs to learn to do things for himself,” Sogo-san pointed out. “This could be a learning experience!”

Iori raised his eyebrow. 

Sogo-san’s mouth twisted. 

Four…

“This isn’t even Mezzo related. Not really.”

Iori scoffed. 

Three…

“Maybe…maybe he’s already gone looking for his toothbrush?” he suggested hopefully. 

Two…

Iori discreetly held his breath, hoping to punctuate the perfect silence permeating the dorms. There was absolutely no toothbrush-related ruffling. 

One. 

“Oh, fine,” Sogo-san sighed, rising unhappily from the table and pointing a finger towards Iori, “but I’m not his keeper.”

“Uh-huh,” Iori agreed lightly. 

“I’m not,” Sogo-san repeated, denial thick on his tongue as he walked toward the bathroom, tea still in hand. 

“And I don’t have a thing for idiots,” Iori murmured under his breath. 

There were still fifteen minutes before he and Tamaki needed to leave for school so maybe he could just shut his eyes for a-

Nanase-san suddenly pulled out the chair beside Iori and shot him a grin far too sunny for the early morning hour, placing two plates of toast down. “You don’t have a what?” he asked pleasantly, sliding one toward Iori. 

Iori squinted in the face of such brightness, then cleared his throat.

“Nothing. Is this all you know how to make?”

Nanase-san’s bright smile melted into a frown. “I told you I’ve never lived on my own before,” he complained. 

Iori took a bite of the offering, pleased. 

“You’re pathetic.”

“I am not,” Nanase-san denied halfheartedly, too used to this particular insult to rise to the bait like he had when they had first formed Idolish7. 

Iori would just have to try harder, then. 

“You didn’t even make anything at all! How’re you gonna stay healthy for the group if you’re skipping meals, huh?”

Iori spared a glance at Nanase’s overly sincere expression to ensure he wasn’t making things up but no, Nanase’s best rebuttal was an earnest appeal to Iori’s health. 

How cute. 

Iori cleared his throat. “How could I cook with Tamaki-kun making such a fuss?”

“What? Tamaki’s still asleep in the hallway.”

A spike of irritation shot through Iori. After he’d gone through all that effort to get Sogo-san to solve the problem, too. 

“He better not be. I’ll kill him.”

Nanase-san laughed, unfairly awake and amused at such an early hour. His right hand rested comfortably on the back of Iori’s chair. “You’re not much of a morning person, are you?”

Iori was…not sure what kind of a person he was, yet. 

Still, he knew he found delight in giving Nanase-san a hard time and, mature as he was, Iori couldn’t see a reason to give that up when it made him feel so pleasantly warm. 

Iori shrugged carelessly, tucking away any hint of the smile he felt growing in his chest. “Maybe I’d be cheerier if you didn’t burn my toast.”

“What?” Nanase-san exclaimed. “No way! I didn’t burn anything!”

Iori stared at him blanky until Nanase-san began to fidget, his cheeks taking on a bit of the color Iori worked so hard to see everyday. 

“Well,” Nanase-san mumbled, eyes darting away, “you ate it anyway so it couldn’t have been that bad.”

Iori rose from the table and placed his empty plate in the sink, where it belonged, lips curling upward only with Nanase-san at his back. 

“I’m very polite, Nanase-san.”

“Polite my ass.”