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Prompt requests open for December!

This time I’m doing a 500 word limit challenge to practice effective storytelling and characterization so if you’d like to send a request please leave a comment or send an ask like this:

[Character] + [headcannon] + (optional) [canon-verse or AU]

If you don’t have a preference for the setting, I might play around with AUs or maybe different aspects of the canonverse 

I’m gonna limit this to MHA for now but that’s still a pretty wide range of characters so please don’t hesitate to request something! I'd really love to hear your headcanons! As always, please only sfw requests

Here’s one i wrote for practice as an example but i hope i get much better with practice (fic below the cut!)

500 words | Katsuki Bakugou + afraid of frogs + AU: no quirks (and this is part of a larger au of mine where aizawa/present mic are bakugou’s guardians)

"You!" Katsuki shouted, socked feet planted on top of the dining room table and Aizawa's heaviest textbook held threateningly above his head. 

Aizawa paused with his hand still resting on the doorknob of their home, blinking slowly. The bag on his shoulder was heavy with ungraded essays. 

"Me," he agreed flatly. "What are you doing on the table?"

"I've fucking told you not to leave the backdoor open!"

Aizawa hummed, pulling off his shoes and setting down his things in the entranceway. Vaguely, he remembered stepping onto the back patio with a cup of coffee early this morning, though he couldn't remember opening the door at all, let alone sliding it shut. 

"How many frogs are in the house?" Aizawa asked, stepping around the table to warm up the kettle. He could feel Katsuki's glare doing its best to burn a hole through the back of his head. 

"Four," Katsuki seethed. 

Aizawa kept a careful ear out while he opened the cupboard above the stove, debating between the cat mug he'd found at a yardsale and the orange one Hizashi had made for him last christmas. Faint croaking carried over from the living room. And maybe the staircase. 

"Didn't you fucking hear me?" Katsuki demanded, his reflection blob-like in the silver kettle. 

"Four frogs," Aizawa repeated, though he suspected there were only three.  

"Four pests," Katsuki shot back through gritted teeth. 

"I believe the neighbor's call them 'beloved pets', and I'm not willing to cover up another murder like I did with Rafael."

Katsuki scoffed, though the sound was reedy with unease. The croaking had grown louder. 

"Stupid thing shouldn't have jumped at me while I was using the blowtorch."

"Do you hear that, frogs?" Aizawa called out, flicking off the stove. "Beware of blowtorches in the hands of teenaged boys who should not have had them in the first place." 

Aizawa spared a backwards glance to find the textbook finally drooping, though Katsuki's grip on the pages remained white-knuckled. 

"Are you ever gonna let that go?"

Aizawa leaned his back against the cold countertop, cradling the orange mug between his hands and blowing lightly at the steam. "Not in your lifetime." He could see a frog resting on the third stair. "Why don't you call your friend already so she can catch them?"

Katsuki's left eyebrow twitched- temptation, Aizawa was certain- before drawing low. 

"Fuck no! Frog Face is my second mortal enemy!" Then he crossed his arms. "Besides, I saw some exposed wiring on their house yesterday."

"You cannot blow up their house," Aizawa sighed. He could still remember a six year old Tsuyu returning a handmade eviction notice to their door, Rafael poking out of her shirt. 

"He spelled eviction wrong," she'd said before skipping away, unbothered. 

Aizawa tipped his head to the side. "But at least your tactics have evolved."  

Katsuki glowered. “You're not. Helping.”

"Fine," Aizawa said, pulling their butterfly net from its place on the wall. "I'll play hero."

"Bastard," Katsuki hissed. “Hurry up.”

Are you caught up on MHA? If so, could you write something with Katsuki and Izuku talking some more after the war (follow up to their conversation in CH424)?

Yes, I'm all caught up! Sorry this one took so long, but I hope you enjoy it!

Author's note: it starts a little mushy but this could be read as platonic bakugou & izuku or pre-slash bkdk, whatever you fancy. there's nothing explicitly romantic but they are very important to each other and i find that so charming! lol anyways, 1,866 words, mha manga spoilers ahead. happy reading!

Izuku could recognize Kacchan in the dark. He knew the shape of his voice, the scent of his sweat, the spark-crackle-pop of his quirk. Izuku knew the feel of Kacchan’s hands on his shoulder. In his hair. On his back. 

Izuku knew him bloodied and unmoving on the ground.

It’s a relief, Izuku thinks, to know him now by the sound of a rolling IV stand. 

“The nurse told you not to walk around so much, Kacchan.”

The rolling in the hallway slams to a sudden halt and Izuku imagines that Kacchan is annoyed at being caught. Then it starts up again at a slightly faster pace and Izuku hardly has the time to smile before Kacchan’s scowling figure passes through the doorway to Izuku’s hospital room. 

“You put a fucking tracking chip on me or something?” he complains. 

“Kacchan,” Izuku protests- weakly, he’ll admit- joy and relief jumping to take control of his brain at the sight of Kacchan, alive- but it’s the attempt that counts. 

“‘S not even that fuckin far,” Kacchan replies, the tinny chik-chik-chik of squeaky wheels on tile following him across the floor before he settles himself in the visitor’s chair beside Izuku’s cot. “The view’s better in here, anyway.”

Izuku hums, turning his gaze beyond Kacchan’s swaying IV bag to All Might’s empty cot. The retired hero goes to physical therapy on Thursday afternoons, now, and every time the doctors take off one of his casts or bandages, Izuku feels like he can breathe a little easier. 

“That’s true.”

Izuku doesn’t think the sight of All Might will ever not be comforting to him. 

Kacchan clicks his tongue in annoyance and presses one finger against Izuku’s unbandaged cheek, turning his head. 

“I’m talking about the fucking window, fanboy.”

Izuku startles, a small laugh falling from his lips as he obligingly turns towards the window instead. A few tree branches gently brush against the glass and in the distance he can make out the big silver fountain that rests in the middle of the hospital’s courtyard.  

“Oh, yeah that’s nice, too,” Izuku agrees absentmindedly. He’s not sure what Kacchan can see from his own hospital room but he’s pretty sure it’s not much different from this one. 

Kacchan shifts like he wants to cross his arms, then scowls and starts tapping his nails against the armrest instead with a huff.

Izuku watches the steady rise and fall of Kacchan’s chest, unsure if he should say anything. Unsure why Kacchan keeps coming to his room in the first place. 

Two days ago, Kacchan had muttered something about how being in Izuku’s room made it harder for his mom to track him down and nag him and the week before it was because he had beef with the nurse on duty and wanted to make her life difficult.

But even after a lifetime of analyzing Kacchan, all Izuku can really discern now is that there’s something more pulling Kacchan to the plastic chair by Izuku’s bedside. 

Izuku hates the not-knowing. He thinks he’d hate it more, though, if Kacchan got what he needed and stopped sneaking out to visit him, so he stays quiet. 

Childishly, he wants to poke Kacchan back but both of his arms are still mummified and unusable so he contents himself with imagining it. 

“The fuck are you smiling about?”

“Nothing,” Izuku lies, gazing happily at Kacchan’s familiar scowl. “You’ll get wrinkles, Kacchan.”

Kacchan narrows his eyes. 

“You’ll get a fist in your face.”

“You’ll get knuckle pain.”

Kacchan scoffs. “Think your face is made of steel or something? When did you start acting like hot shit, huh?”

“Probably since they started pumping me full of pain meds,” Izuku admits, grinning. “Makes me feel steel-y.”

Kacchan rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

“It’s not as strong as the stuff they had to put All Might on, though,” Izuku continues seriously. “After his surgery, he told me the same story about fighting an American villain with David Shield seven times in a row.”

Kacchan smirks. “And I bet you ate that shit up.”

Izuku flushes and turns his gaze towards the ceiling. “Sometimes the details would change,” he defends. 

When Kacchan doesn’t respond, Izuku shifts his gaze back and watches on as Kacchan wrestles with his inability to cross his arms again. Izuku really doesn’t want Kacchan to leave, but…

“Kacchan, if you’re in pain maybe you should-”

“Shitty Hair said we should talk,” Kacchan interrupts. 

Izuku fights to sit up straighter in his cot, confused. “Kirishima did?”

He’s grateful when Kacchan doesn’t rush to help him. Doesn’t help him at all, actually, which soothes the constant drone of quirkless-helpless-quirkless that Izuku’s been trying to drown in his subconscious lately. 

Izuku hesitates before he bites the bullet. 

“...talk about what?”

Izuku’s not sure if it’s a good sign or a bad one that Kacchan seems equally, if not more, uncomfortable. 

“...our conversation,” Kacchan finally spits out. “The one we had here.”

These past few weeks, they’ve had a lot of conversations in Izuku and All Might’s shared little hospital room. Most of them pointless. Some of them sweet. 

It doesn’t take a genius to know what Kacchan’s referring to, though, and it’s exactly the thing that Izuku would rather leave buried and brushed past so he focuses on Kacchan’s forehead instead of his bullshit-piercing eyes and says, 

“Yeah, it was really nice to be recognized by All Might, right? Like, next level awesome. I don’t think I’ll ever emotionally recover from that, actually. I think I was smiling in my sleep that whole-”

“Izuku,” Kacchan says, and it cuts through him like a knife. 

“Hm?”

“Cut the crap,” Kacchan says, his glare fading into something softer and more uncertain. “We have shit we have to talk about.”

Izuku gnaws on his bottom lip, uncertain enough to harden his resolve and force out a nervous laugh. The nerves are genuine, anyway.

“I don’t know what you’re-”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Kacchan demands, quietly dangerous. Then he rises from his chair with a scoff. “This is fucking stupid! Why won’t you-?” Kacchan starts to shout, before letting his anger fall from him with one, deep exhale, leaving behind only weariness and a shadow of what looks like resignation.

It looks wrong on Kacchan’s face. 

“Fine,” Kacchan sighs. “Whatever. If that’s how you’re gonna be then I’m fucking outta here.”

“I-” Izuku catches one glimpse of Kacchan’s back and his hardened resolve collapses like a child's toy tower. “Wait, wait no! Kacchan, I’m sorry! I’m- I’m sorry. We can talk about…it. About what you want, just please don’t...”

“Wasn’t gonna leave forever,” Kacchan mutters, not quite facing Izuku but not walking towards the door, either. 

Izuku tastes salt on his lips before he even realizes he’s crying. “Promise?”

Kacchan’s head whips around so quickly Izuku can’t help but imagine that he’d pulled on some invisible string. 

“I’m not fucking leaving you,” Kacchan says, voice angry and honest in a way that soothes the awful pang in Izuku’s chest that the doctors have assured him isn’t physical. “This is why we need to talk, you stupid nerd.”

Izuku hiccups and nods, releasing slow streams of breath from his mouth until he feels he has his voice under control.

Kacchan moves back into the chair, alternating between watching him and the monitors still hooked up to Izuku’s vitals.

“I’m…I’m okay,” Izuku finally says. 

“I’m not,” Kacchan replies bluntly. “Lie to me again and I’ll break your stupid skull.”

Izuku freezes, then lets himself sink morosely into the pillow behind him. “Sorry,” he whispers. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Kacchan scolds. “Be honest.”

Izuku darts a considering glance towards Kacchan, but he seems sincere, so Izuku murmurs, “You sound kind of like a preschool teacher right now.”

Kacchan jolts under the observation, clearly not expecting it. Then he regains his bearings and jabs a finger in front of Izuku’s nose. “Then stop acting like a guilty little snot-nosed runt!”   

“...Okay.”

“Okay.”

“What…now?” Izuku asks.

Kacchan sighs deeply through his nose, slumping back in his chair as he thinks it over. 

“Now…I apologize,” he finally says. 

Izuku frowns. “But you already-”

“I know,” Kacchan interrupts stiffly, belatedly scratching at his nose, brow furrowing uncomfortably while he peers past Izuku and towards the silver fountain in the distance. “But I…” Kacchan starts, before his eyes suddenly jump back to Izuku. “And I’m only gonna say it once, understand?”

Izuku nods. “I have my listening ears on, Kacchan.”

“Your-” he starts to repeat, incredulous, before scoffing and turning back towards the window. The hint of a smile Izuku had managed to coax out turns down again, drawing out the unhappy wrinkles in Kacchan’s forehead.  

“When the doc said I might not be able to use my arm again and that half of my quirk, I…fuck. I thought about how you never had one to start with and how it never slowed you down so like hell was I gonna chop the damn limb off and not do rehab. I’d kick rehab’s ass. Of course I could, full quirk or no, because you could.”

Izuku’s breath catches in his throat. 

“And that’s…that’s something you gave to me.”

Kacchan’s eyes slowly find Izuku’s, searing through him, blood and bone, with their intensity. 

“That’s something I took from you.”

“Kacchan-”

“I’m sorry, Izuku.”

Izuku rapidly shakes his head. “No, Kacchan you…you gave me a symbol of victory.”

Kacchan’s mouth twists. “You’ve said.”

“But you don’t get it. I…” Izuku squeezes his eyes shut tight, face already growing warm. “It’s…you have no idea how much of my heroism was just…yours. Yours that you gave me and that I relied on when I didn’t have time to think.” Izuku lets out a shaky laugh. “I always wanted to save people with a smile because of All Might, but…the smile I wore when it mattered was yours, Kacchan.” 

Izuku tentatively peeks one eye open, surprised to find Kacchan so stunned. Surprised that he didn’t already know, but…

Maybe they have a lot more to learn about each other, after all. 

“I became a hero because of you.”

Kacchan frowns. 

“And in spite of you,” Izuku concedes. “It’s all…mixed up. In my head. But I don’t…I wouldn’t have traded a second of it.”

Kacchan startles under the declaration, peering back at Izuku with wide, searching, crimson eyes that Izuku thinks he’s seeing more clearly than he ever has before. 

“You wouldn’t?” Kacchan asks. 

Izuku shakes his head earnestly. “No, of course not,” he murmurs. “Kacchan’s amazing.”

Kacchan blinks. Hard. Tears well up in his waterline. 

“Izuku’s amazing, too,” he says, scrubbing pointlessly at his face. “Even though he’s a fucking stupid sap who’s always saying embarrassing shit.”

Izuku laughs brightly, even though he’s crying too. 

“I’ll kick rehab’s ass before you’re even outta that damn cot!” Kacchan announces. 

“Nuh uh,” Izuku shoots back happily. “I’ll be so Plus Ultra once these casts are off, you won’t even believe it!”

Kacchan stops wiping his eyes and peers back at Izuku through his fingertips, a genuine smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“I’d believe it,” he says. 

And Izuku? He feels a little bit put-together, after that.

found my draft based on this headcannon and finally got around to finishing it today! the story ended up taking on a life of its own but i sincerely hope you enjoy and thanks again for allowing me to use your idea!!

@m-nerd44 hope you like it too

ao3 link here -> still-beating, second-chance heart

Hori please give me Izuku having to take notes for Katsuki because his arms are fucked up and Izuku is the only one he trusts to take down all the notes. And then pls add in something like Izuku rambling in his notes or adding doodles that make Katsuki absolutely melt.

i watched that hallmark movie "three wise men and a baby" with my mom tonight and had this little bkdk brain worm. please enjoy.

bkdk meet cute (but really it's a meet awkward) (they make it work)

“I cannot fucking believe you’re doing this to me.” 

“Doing what?” Denki replied glibly, palming through a handful of bills as he checked and rechecked the cash register in front of him. 

Katsuki leaned forward, bracing his hands on the thin stretch of countertop separating them, gratified to notice Denki taking a small step backward.  

“Ruining my fucking life.”

Denki sighed, lowering his hands as he finally turned to meet Katsuki’s gaze. “It’s just for the day,” he promised, “and you lost rock paper scissors fair and square!”

“I didn’t know the stakes!” Katsuki shot back. 

Denki rolled his eyes as he pushed the cash register closed and ducked behind the counter, returning with the source of the awful squawking that had been invading Katsuki’s eardrums since the second he set foot in Denki’s stupid bookstore. 

“Sir Papolapodous isn’t even that much work.”

“Sir what?”

“Welcome in!” Denki called, responding to the chime of the front door while Katsuki continued to stare down the bright yellow monstrosity being carted off on him for the afternoon. 

As if sensing its imminent doom, the bird began messing with the door to its cage.  

“Just watch out,” Denki continued, “sometimes he likes to-”

Katsuki ducked as the bird launched itself out of the cage. 

“...escape.”

“What the fuck?” Katsuki shouted, pressing his knuckles to his cheek where the damn thing had scratched him. His fingers came back bloody. “Oi, I’m not watching your stupid flying machete for-” 

“Here!” Denki said, hastily rifling into another bag sitting on the countertop and retrieving some sort of pellet thing that he balanced on Katsuki’s shoulder. “He’ll come to you! Watch!”

Katsuki froze. “Hey, I don’t want that thing anywhere near-”

“Sir Papolapodous!” Denki cheered happily, eyes somewhere beyond Katsuki’s right shoulder. Katsuki tensed. 

The demon landed easily on his shoulder, snatching up the pellet and chirping loudly in Katsuki’s ear. Like a threat. Right beside Katsuki’s vulnerable, jugular-having throat. 

“Aw,” Denki cooed. “He likes you!”

“I’ll roast him,” Katsuki warned. “Don’t you leave me with it.” 

Denki gently pushed the bag from earlier towards Katsuki. “I left you instructions.”

“Stab. Pluck. Spin over fire.”

The bird nudged Katsuki’s cheek and Katsuki flinched away, jerking his shoulder to dislodge the pest. 

The bird ignored his efforts. 

“Seriously, Katsuki,” Denki whined, pressing his palms together, “I need to go to the dentist but I’ll be back before close and- hey, maybe some of the customers will get a kick out of seeing him!”

“Yeah, if they like their books covered in shit,” Katsuki complained. 

“No, no, he’s cage-trained,” Denki promised, untying his worker’s apron and hanging it up behind the counter. “Take good care of my son please!”

Katsuki made a face of utter disbelief. “Hey, I agreed to watch your stupid store, loser. Not to become a fucking Wild Kratt!”

Denki quickly hopped over the counter and out of Katsuki’s reach. 

“Two in one package!”

The bell rang loudly in Katsuki’s ears as Denki completed his cowardly retreat. 

“Fucking asshole,” Katsuki muttered. “Cavity-ridden, dead-brain, no-good, ass-”

“Excuse me?” someone said politely. 

Katsuki spun on his heel- perhaps a shade too quickly, or perhaps with too much bird launching off his shoulder because the customer fell flat on their ass with a startled shout, leaving Katsuki awkwardly looming over them. 

“Ow.”

Belatedly, Katsuki leaned down to offer his hand. 

The demon watched them from atop the nearest shelf of books. 

“I- I’m so sorry,” the guy stammered out, straightening his wire-rim glasses and reaching gratefully for Katsuki’s hand. “I- I really wasn’t expecting that.”

“‘S no problem,” Katsuki replied, curiously shelving the guy’s meekness next to his solid, heavy build as he hauled him up. His hands were incredibly scarred and calloused for someone who jumped at the sight of house pets- demonic or not- but Katsuki supposed he’d give him a pass, considering Katsuki’s own near-death experience was still dripping down his face. “Don’t think anybody expects to get dive bombed by a parakeet on a Sunday morning. Unless you’re a fucking vet or something, I guess.”

“That- that’s true,” the guy said, stumbling a bit as Katsuki righted him, one hand landing briefly on Katsuki’s chest. 

With his head ducked in embarrassment, the guy only came up to Katsuki’s chin but even so, he looked like he could give Katsuki a run for his money on the sparring mat. Katsuki was just about to ask what kind of workouts the did when the guy murmured, 

“Pecs.”

Katsuki blinked. “Pecks?”

The guy’s head snapped up towards Katsuki’s, wide-eyed and pale in his freckled face. 

“God dammit, did that thing fucking peck you?” Katsuki groaned, turning to glare at the preening beast. “‘Cause I can give you a fucking discount on whatever you came in here for before I string him up by his stupid little talons.”

“Wha-? Ah, no! No, no, no,” the guy assured, frantically waving his hands in front of himself. 

Large hands, Katsuki noticed. One of which had been resting warmly over Katsuki’s shirt a moment ago. 

“That won’t be necessary!” 

“Then why’d you-?”

“Pet!” the guy corrected, freckles now washed out by a steady shade of pink. “I’m a…pet…” His eyes darted nervously to the left before snapping back to Katsuki. “...therapist.”

His eyes were a very fucking bright shade of green. 

Katsuki blinked slowly as he registered the words that had come out of Greenie’s mouth- taking in the embarrassed tilt to the guy’s lips. His fitted T-shirt. His obnoxiously bright red shoes. Frankly, he looked like he got dressed in the dark. 

Katsuki wet his lips. “A pet therapist,” he repeated blandly. 

“Ah..mhm,” the guy said, nodding. “So, um, so the dive bombings really aren’t that odd,” he added, tacking on an airy laugh. 

Katsuki continued to stare at him, because clearly one of them had taken on major brain damage in the past five minutes, and considering that this guy’s shirt said tuxedo and had a growing hole along the shoulder seam, Katsuki really hoped it wasn’t himself. 

The man gestured vaguely to the shelf behind him. “That’s really a lovely bird you’ve got there, um…?”

“Katsuki,” he supplied. 

“Izuku,” the man smiled, offering out his hand. “Izuku Midoriya.”

Warily, Katsuki shook it. “...Pet therapist,” he repeated. 

“Yup!” Izuku said in a high voice, smiling wider. “That’s me. Therapizing the pets.” 

“Right,” Katsuki replied, because what the fuck was even happening, “well, if you’re looking for a book, we uh…have them.”

Internally, Katsuki cringed. Then he sent a seething, telepathic complaint to Denki because Katsuki had been fired from his one and only customer service job at fifteen and the universe had never made the mistake of putting him in that position ever again for a reason.

Fucking rock paper scissors. 

“Right,” Izuku mimicked, his thousand-watt smile pressing flat with amusement. His stupid green eyes were practically dancing with mirth and Katsuki suddenly felt very warm in the face- alone in a bookstore with a yellow, dive-bombing demon and a man with a fake-sounding job and no sense of color coordination and a very firm handshake. 

Katsuki crossed his arms over his chest, ever so slightly jutting out his chin. He could still feel the outline of a hand where the guy had caught himself against Katsuki. 

“What kinda book does a pet therapist need, anyway?”

The guy continued to blink up at Katsuki for a moment before coming to his senses with a startled, “Oh! I was wondering if you had any comics, actually. All Might, specifically.”

Katsuki raised an interested brow, looking between something-Midoriya, the demon from hell, and then Midoriya again. 

Katsuki had absolutely zero idea what sorts of books Denki had in stock, let alone if he carried the single most greatest graphic novel series of Katsuki’s youth. 

Still, he clicked his tongue. “Let’s find out.”

Since Re:vale was very poor during the start of their career, can you do an ff where Momo and Yuki can't afford heating so they cuddle to sleep (or even if the heat is on, it's still very cold.) I attempted it myself and let's just say it turned out very sad (and they did not cuddle. I can't seem to write happy things.) The themes are fluff with sad feelings.

It's only a request so please do it if you feel comfortable.

ofc! thanks so much for the request :) fic under the cut

author's note: this ended up being a lot longer than i planned but i really enjoyed the challenge of balancing fluff and angst. apologies if it's not quite sad enough. there's some handwavy canon stuff about yuki's past that i invented to suit the story but otherwise i tried to keep it universe-accurate and toyed with how the married couple routine they use might create some mental/emotional distance between re:vale despite their physical closeness (overall its still pretty mushy though lol). i sincerely hope you enjoy it @iamokay13 !

Yuki stirred when he heard the front door click open, awkwardly dragging the heavy blankets he’d cocooned himself in away from his face. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. 

“Who’s there?”

Momo responded with a breathy laugh, struggling audibly with the door. 

“Who do you think?”  

Groggily, Yuki heaved himself onto his elbows to peek over the back of the couch, chin pillowed on the scratchy cushion. He spied at least three plastic bags hanging from Momo’s arms, their contents swinging wildly as he attempted to pull the door shut with his foot, hands busy balancing a tower of mismatched tupperware that promised them warm dinners throughout the week. The only thing indicating it was Momo at all was the hint of blue hair poking out over the top. 

“Hello sentient tupperware,” Yuki murmured, slumping back down onto the couch. 

The door clicked shut. 

“Yes!”

Yuki blinked despondently up at the popcorn ceiling. 

“The heater’s still broken. Landlord won’t fix it until next week.”

“No!” Momo cried, followed by the sound of what must be twenty plastic containers tumbling out of his arms and onto their kitchen counter. “Can’t you, I don’t know, seduce him or something to get it fixed faster?”

Yuki raised a pale eyebrow, aware that Momo wouldn’t be able to see it from this angle and confident that he’d sense it all the same. 

“The only person that would work on is you.”

“But you’re so handsome!”

Yuki pulled the blankets back over his face. Muffled, he asked, “Any luck with your savings? He might call maintenance sooner if we can pay half.”

Momo laughed awkwardly, their fridge humming open and shut. 

“If by savings you mean my old piggy bank, then we’re 2700 yen richer.”

Yuki sighed. 

“I think my mom’s decided that we’re starving artists-”

“We are starving artists,” Yuki interrupted bluntly. 

“-so she sent me home with like, the whole kitchen. You weren’t even there and she was all Yuki darling is too skinny these days, practically skin and very handsome bones, he really ought to be eating more, and then I was all-”

“She calls me darling, too?”

“No, I’m exaggerating for effect, darling. Now shh.” 

With a soft gasp, Yuki suddenly bolted up from the couch. “Did you hear that?”

Momo froze with wide eyes, one hand on the handle of their most-intact cabinet. “Hear wha-”

“Shh!” Yuki insisted, draping himself partly over the back of the couch to ensure Momo remained still and quiet while his eyes darted suspiciously over the apartment. 

“Do you think it’s a ghost?” Momo whispered fearfully. 

“Maybe,” Yuki whispered back, holding a finger over his lips. “Listen.”

Without the hum of the heating unit permeating the small space, the apartment was chillingly silent. In fact, if Yuki focused, he could almost make out the fearful thud of Momo’s heart as he stood frozen, poised in anticipation and ready to-

“Ah,” Yuki sighed, smiling slightly and dragging his blankets further up his shoulders. “The sound of peace and quiet.”

Momo practically sagged in relief, even as he grabbed their kitchen towel and hurled it towards Yuki where they both watched it flutter harmlessly to the ground. 

“You handsome jerk!” 

Momo’s sister’s initials were still sewn into the corner, right next to the burn mark Yuki had caused attempting to soften butter in their microwave. The mark she didn’t know about, and wouldn’t ever I’d Yuki had anything to say about it. 

Slowly, Yuki asked, “Is this what the tabloids would call a lover’s quarrel?” 

“Hmph!” Momo complained, turning his head away with a performative frown. 

Blankets dragging behind himself, Yuki moved to sit across from Momo at the kitchen island, falling easily into the back and forth they were developing for their stage personas. 

“The next time Mr. Shimooka-san invites us for an interview, I’m gonna tell the whole world you keep trying to give me heart attacks,” Momo declared, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. 

Yuki braced his elbow on the countertop, prepared to pillow his chin on his palm with a suggestive smile and a heart-pounding innuendo, when he jerked away from the cold sensation instead, flailing his blanket cape to keep from falling off the stool entirely. 

“No you won’t,” Yuki said instead once he’d regained his balance, pulling a corner of the fabric over his heat-stained cheeks. 

Momo continued to move around the kitchen, pulling things down from various cabinets and drawers and fiddling with the microwave with his back turned, humming a popular song about karma. 

Yuki could hear the smile in his voice. 

“No I won’t,” Momo agreed softly, spinning on his heel a few moments later and placing a warm plate of curry in front of Yuki. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Ye-”

“Ah, ah, ah!” Momo interrupted, waving his finger in front of Yuki’s face. “Don’t forget I know what your lying face looks like, darling! Your eyes get all sneaky.”

Yuki frowned, readjusting the blanket around himself while he poked at his food, only belatedly realizing that he had been hungry. 

“I thought my eyes were handsome?”

Where Yuki expected a wide smile to bloom over Momo’s face and gushing compliments to follow, he found only guilt when he glanced upward. 

Yuki tensed. “Why are you-”

“Yuki I forgot to tell you I wiretapped the apartment for a TV show,” Momo admitted in a rush. 

“You what?” Yuki exclaimed, jumping off of the stool, face burning as he looked frantically around the room. “When did you-?”

Momo laughed, rounding the counter to place an obnoxious kiss to Yuki’s still-burning cheek. “Got you back, Yu-ki.”

“You..” Yuki made an incoherent sound of relief, coated with surprise and displeasure both as he melted to the ground, thumb subtly brushing warmth over the skin Momo’s lips had pressed against. It was just an act, Yuki reminded himself. In spite of the closed doors, it was still just an act. 

“I’m so embarrassed,” Yuki whispered, burying his face in his hands. 

“Cheer up, darling!” Momo cooed, flopping onto the couch and gathering Yuki’s other, abandoned blankets around himself. “Finish your meal so we can be warm together.”

“I think I’ll die.”

“But how could I go on living without your handsome eyes to look at?” Momo complained. 

Yuki sighed, deciding to remain crouched on the ground for a few moments longer while he looked around the sorry state of their apartment- shared, for the sake of rent, and still their fridge was only full of borrowed tupperware and little else. A few of their cabinets wouldn’t shut properly, the hot water never lasted for more than ten minutes at a time, and the only reason they had furniture in the first place, threadbare as it was, is because the previous renter had left it all behind. 

And now the heater was broken in the middle of winter. 

“At this rate, neither of us is gonna last too long.” 

Momo’s voice was quieter when he asked how their ticket pre-sale was going. 

“We’ve filled maybe a tenth of the seats,” Yuki replied, rising slowly to return to his plate of curry, determined to fill his gut with warmth instead of dread. 

“But we go on this Saturday,” Momo pointed out, his head popping up over the back of the couch with concern. “And that’s…how much would that pay us?”

Yuki shrugged, moving around his food with the spoon as he ran sums in his head. “About enough to pay for the venue, I think. Maybe pocket change for us.”

Momo collapsed back onto the couch with a soft, wheezing thud, and Yuki thought he probably had his hands cupped over his face. Momo always did that when he was stressed. 

“Was it…was it this hard when you and Ban-san started out?” Momo asked in a small voice and Yuki took a moment to consider the question. 

“Yes and no,” he finally answered, poking at his plate. “For some of that first year, I was still connected to my parents bank account and I lived at home so there was no food or rent to pay for. However, drawing a crowd is always difficult in the beginning.” Yuki shrugged, tightening the blanket around his shoulders. “The music speaks for itself, but it takes time for people to listen. There’s a lot of noise in the world.”

“Right,” Momo murmured quietly. “Right,” he repeated, seemingly more to himself than to Yuki. “It’s just time.”

Yuki frowned. “Why do you sound so-?”

“Maybe I should get a job!” Momo interrupted, the sudden cheer in his voice throwing Yuki off kilter. 

“What?” Yuki asked. “But you have a job. It’s…us. We’re the job.”

“No, Yuki darling. A part-time one. I’ve…I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately but the place I was working at during college isn’t hiring at the moment so I circled a few of the listings in the paper to check out.”

“You what?”

Yuki set his spoon down in favor of spinning yesterday’s newspaper towards himself and flipping towards the section for job listings, finding Momo’s signature scrawl all over the place- dotted with frowny face notes for places that had already managed to fill the positions they were advertising for. Question marks and clumsy stars were littered near the others. 

“You’ve already started calling,” Yuki realized. 

“Mm,” Momo said. “It makes the most sense, doesn’t it?”

Yuki swatted the newspaper to the counter, shifting on the barstool to glare accusingly at the couch blocking Momo from view. 

“I could've talked to-”

“I know,” Momo interrupted, voice soothing and sure of himself. “But you’re the one who writes all the music, Yuki. I don’t know a lot about it like Ban-san, so the best I can do is make you tea while you work and…” Momo cut himself off with a light chuckle, something self-deprecating in the sticky sweetness of it. “Well, it just makes more sense for me to be the one to work, y’know?”

“I-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Momo scolded again, but without the polished finger waved in Yuki’s face and the usual pleased amusement behind the sound, it grated against Yuki’s ears. “Don’t lie, darling. You’re too handsome for that.”

Yuki huffed unhappily and reached for the sharpie Momo had left out on the counter, quickly scanning through the circled listings and crossing out all of the ones that would have Momo working late hours or doing a lot of manual labor. If Momo was going to twist Yuki’s arm about this, there was no way he’d allow Momo to work a job he’d hate. 

When Yuki finished, he found the listings Momo had been okay with slashed in nearly an even half. 

“Stupid,” Yuki muttered beneath his breath.

“Cold,” Momo corrected from the couch. 

Sighing like he’d been asked to take a thirty minute drive for Momo’s favorite gingerbread muffins, Yuki rose from his seat with his blanket billowing behind him and wandered toward Momo, whose lips were ticking up at the corners. 

Yuki frowned in retaliation, well aware that he probably looked ridiculous, before collapsing face-first into his outstretched, waiting arms. 

Momo sighed in contentment as he rearranged the blankets around the both of them to seal in what little body heat they produced, squeezing Yuki close to his chest once he was satisfied. 

Yuki allowed it, content to pretend that he hadn’t intended for them to end up like this in the first place by strategically waiting for Momo on the couch. 

“So cozy,” Momo cooed, running his hand up and down Yuki’s back- smoothing and rucking up the fabric in slow, even strokes. “We even have a fireplace.”

Yuki raised his head skeptically. 

“Is the cold getting to your head? Because-”  

Grinning wide, Momo’s eyes flicked to the wobbly coffee table beside them. 

Yuki followed his gaze and let out an amused scoff, eyes rolling, because Momo’s phone was propped against Yuki’s stack of songwriting folders, showing a bright, burning fireplace. 

“You’re stupid,” Yuki murmured lightly, tucking his face against Momo’s neck where his growing smile wouldn’t be found, pressing the cold tip of his nose to his partner’s racing pulsepoint.  

“I’m your stupid,” Momo whispered back, tightening the clasp of his arms around Yuki’s back. 

Momo’s body was soft and warm underneath him, the lingering unease in Yuki’s stomach lulled into peacefulness where it was pressed against his partner’s like the first, cautious snow against the ground. 

Yuki closed his eyes. 

He could be happy like this, Yuki thought. Even with the heater broken. Even with the apartment slowly falling to ribbons around them while they sang to empty venues. Even with the act reminding Yuki what they were not to each other, as long as Momo was here.

With him.

“Sleep, darling.”

As long as Momo would- 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Momo promised quietly, twining a tentative hand into Yuki’s hair like he could scoop the errant thought from his head and, despite himself, Yuki felt himself relax.

the last 500 words of in the palm of your hand for the ask meme!

I'm putting it all under a "Read More" because it's a little long. This is the fic, for reference, and this is the ask meme. Thank you so so much for the ask!!!

“So,” he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks so Deku won’t see how fucking sweaty they are. “You’ll have it ready by lunch tomorrow?”  Deku takes the laptop and tilts his head. “Uh. Yeah, I will. In fact, I can get it to you earlier than that-” “I’ll be busy for the rest of the day,” Katsuki lies. All his incident reports are done, and he’s got the night shift on patrol tomorrow. “You’re done by 2 tomorrow, right?” 

This passage was basically Bakugou trying to secure a lunch date with the IT nerd of his dreams and being painfully obvious about it- and he knows he’s being obvious about it, and he’s kind of freaking out because he’s never been in a situation like this. Personally, the nature of Bakugou’s quirk leads me to believe that he’s a really sweaty guy, and that it gets worse when he’s stressed - which makes sense in the context of battle, but is woefully inconvenient anywhere else. Like his palms are wet. 

“...Yes?” “Great. Look, I have to stop at that fucking- crepe place, down the street, right,” he says, praying to every God there is that he looks cool and casual and not like a ‘Deranged Goblin Man’, as the Hero Times described him a few months ago. “So. When you get off work you should meet me there. At the crepe place. Tomorrow. At two pm.” He doesn’t know what’s worse- the fact that he’s really doing this, being reduced to the same sort of emotional sap he would have made fun of only five years ago; or the fact that Present Mic’s lessons on subtlety and hidden meanings in text were actually good for something.  Look at him, effortlessly weaving together words to create sentences with underlying motives. He’s like a modern-day Shakespeare. He’s golden. He’s killing it. Bakugou Katsuki, master of words. He’s on cloud-fucking-nine. He’s- …aaaaand Deku isn’t responding. 

Honestly, one of the main reasons I wrote this fic to begin with is that I really really enjoy it when Bakugou’s blatantly pathetic- and when other characters think he’s pathetic. It’s so great to me. And I personally enjoy it a lot more than when he’s always put together and effortlessly suave- I feel like that’s how he wants to be perceived, but it’s not really how he comes across even when he’s trying. And he’s really trying here. He really likes Deku, and knows his usual unique charm isn’t going to work in actually getting someone to romantically like him, so he pulls out all the stops. One thing I really like to do and always try to do in my writing is to give hints about other character’s interests and personalities within a separate character’s inner monologue- like here, where I mentioned Present Mic having classes like that. I always like reading little details like that in fics and stories because it always gives the impression that there’s more going on in the world. 

Deku blinks. He opens his mouth. Closes it. He sets the laptop down, staring up at Katsuki intently, and Katsuki starts to sweat.  You are Bakugou Katsuki, he reminds himself. You might be down bad, but you’re not weak. It will not kill you if he rejects you. Well, it’ll kill you a little. But not that much.  “At the crepe pla- to give you the laptop, right?” says Deku slowly. His face is turning bright red. Katsuki goes a little weak in the knees.  “Sure, yeah,” Katsuki says half-heartedly. “Look, if you want, I could. I dunno. Fucking- buy you a crepe or something. As payment.”  He’s so smooth. Eat your fucking heart out, Dunce Face. ‘Zero game’, his ass. 

This might just be me but I always think it’s really funny when characters say one sentence, and then blatantly and immediately do a 180 in like, a sentence after that. It’s especially funny when it’s Bakugou- also kind of sad, though. I feel like his superiority and inferiority complexes were in constant battle in his first year, and he still has moments like that. He really wants Deku to like him back, and while he doesn’t doubt his own capabilities to put in the work, he is doubtful of how that’ll affect Deku. Luckily for him, Deku finds him sorta endearing. 

“Sure,” Deku says, scratching the back of his neck, smile just a tad bit shy. His face is still mildly flushed. Katsuki swoons (and does his best to not let it show on his face). “I- uh. I’d like that. I guess.”  “Cool,” says Katsuki. “Cool. Great. Okay, bye. Be there or else. Bye. See you.” He turns on his heel and power walks out of the room, not once looking back, even when Pigtails nearly crashes into him or when Deku makes a noise suspiciously like he’s slamming his head against the desk. He walks out of the room, into the hallway, back to his own office. The door slams shut behind him. He takes a deep breath. Squeezes his eyes shut. A breathlessly excited grin forces his way onto his face, and he pumps his fists, victorious.  He's got a date.

I am a Deku enjoyer first and foremost, and so everything I write kind of reflects that. In a way I think it’s sweet that Bakugou's so smitten, that he’s being such a disaster and that Deku’s all perfect- even if Deku’s equally, if not slightly more- of a disaster than he is.

All in all, this fic was so sweet and fun to write and I was satisfied with how I ended it, which I rarely ever am. Thank you to everyone who read it, and thank you, anon, again for this lovely ask! If anyone would like to send me a similar ask or anything, please feel free to hmu!

updated intro post 🌱

hi! nice to meet you! my name's bi_focal, im 21, and this blog is a mix of writing and fandom content. asks/comments/DMs are always welcome!

fandom-wise, i mainly post about MHA (main ships including bkdk, togachako, seroroki, and more, though I enjoy platonic readings of shipped pairs as well)

for the writeblr, im always looking to connect with fellow writers so feel free to tag me in games or send asks/DMs to talk about writing things! theres no specific genre i really stick to but i enjoy coming-of-age stories and queer characters quite a bit

fic updates are pretty regular on here but as i spend more time on my original stuff ill prob be able to post more about those WIPs as well. for now ill include a brief overview of them at the bottom of this post (to be updated as i work on them)

for more info abt me/my blog pls check out my caard !

-for easy tag searching-

fulfilled writing requests (and posts about prompt requests being open) can be found under #request, fake tweets under both #fake tweets and #incorrect quotes, and anything writing related under #writeblr :)

-my most recent ao3 fics (w/ links)-

scraped knees and sunday dinners (bakugou & izuku, pre-slash, humor)

probably not (bakugou& izuku, friendship rebuilding)

still-beating, second-chance heart (demiromantic bkdk, post war)

-bi_focal's original WIPs-

Sealed (planning/ first draft stage) | Horror/thriller, mystery, sapphic

A sapphic, coming-of-age story set in a small town where ghosts are reviled, ghost-catcher's are revered, and violent attacks are starting to pile up. An unlucky medium named Nishtha forms an unlikely bond with Veronica, a Catching prodigy, when their secrets are exposed to each other entirely by accident, meanwhile the bond between childhood sweethearts Cherry and Carter is put to the test when Cherry is offered a Catching apprenticeship by her mysterious uncle and the medium cousin who almost killed Carter as a child is released form jail with a story to tell that Carter doesn't want to hear. (Multiple POV)

All It's Worth (planning/ first draft stage) | Sci-fi/fantasy, adventure, queer romance

Set on a dying planet fraught with drought, Meric thinks his life will finally change for the better when the Prophets announce that there are two from his farming town with a Calling. Instead, he accidentally thwarts an assassination attempt on the young heir of House Myre and is forced to watch on as his neighbors pay the price. Ten years later, Meric has finally faked his way into the Priesthood when a chance encounter with the boy he saved so long ago thrusts them both into the heart of a conspiracy far older and far more dangerous than they realize

Forest Fire (planning/ first draft stage) | Mystery, magical realism, new adult fiction

Lincoln was fourteen when he went crazy and got lost in the woods, fourteen when he was rescued from something he still refuses to talk about, and fourteen when he left his town behind without a second glance. It’s at 22, though, when Lincoln falls apart. Forced to bring Peggy, a young girl who can’t get in contact with her father, and Sylas, the little brother he never expected to see again, back to the town where everything went wrong, Lincoln will have to decide if it’s also the place where he can finally set things right or if the ghosts of the past will drag him down with them

Yuuji: ive always wanted a pet! :D

*becomes sukuna's vessel as a 13yo*

Yuuji: i believe this is what the adults call karma

(ao3 link here -> Little Troubles)

I really super wanna write but wait now my grandmas sharpening a knife while making eye contact with me. I have to go cut the cheese into slices 😔

I think that there's a feeling that, if you start writing something and don't finish it, it's a failure.

As someone who has far more unfinished pieces than finished pieces (sorry to anyone who reads my stuff on AO3), here are a few good things about doing this:

First, all writing is practice. Just like there are reasons to sketch and do practice drawings, writing even unfinished pieces builds your skills in drafting sentences, characterization, voice, tone, and even working in a variety of styles. If you start a story in a new style, even if you never finish it, you have some experience in that style now.

It can also tell you what you love or hate about something. Sometimes you don't finish something because you realize you don't like it. That knowledge is also valuable.

Second, you can always go back to unfinished work. The main novel that I'm querying right now is one where I wrote the first couple thousand words and then didn't touch it again for probably at least a year and a half. It's now a finished novel.

Sometimes you need space away from a story to make it work. Sometimes you need to improve your writing skills to be able to accomplish whatever you were trying to accomplish then. Sometimes you need a mental or physical health break or you just need more time in the day before you can finish something.

Third, writing is fun and you shouldn't hold yourself or your sense of success at writing to how many stories you finish. Did you enjoy yourself even for the period of time that you wrote whatever you wrote? Did you end up with something cool, interesting, fun, exciting, weird, or different? Great, that's all a victory.

Writing requests are now open!! I’d like to take on some challenges so until the end of October, hmu with any prompt you’d like to see fulfilled (all sfw pls) and as long as I’m comfortable writing it, I’ll post my responses throughout November !

Fandom-wise, MHA and i7 are what I’m most familiar with atm but feel free to send original requests or ask if I’m involved with a fandom you’d like to see a piece written for :)

I’m excited to see your prompts!!

Sogo held his breath, eyes shut tight as the scissors approached his head.

There was a quiet snip. Then another. Gentle fingers. Falling hair.

Not a single ounce of pain

-from cut away the rot (on ao3)

Find Five Lines tag game

thanks @kaylinalexanderbooks !

Rules: find five lines that each match the given prompts, then change one of the prompts for the next person

A line with funny phrasing

It’s an interesting sight, Sero thinks. A time-traveling, ink-smudged historian in the company of an immortal and a forty-foot goddess clad in ivory and gold. 

A line quickly giving someone's backstory

“It is,” Shouto agrees. “Athens hasn’t seen one this fierce since…” Since Shouto turned eighteen, forty seven years ago, and had to cut his coming-of-age celebration short on account of the way the sea had swirled with rage, threatening to spill over and swallow them all whole. 

A line with someone's hair color

The man, for his part, seems just as shocked by the situation. His hair is dark like raven’s feathers and falls to the top of his slender shoulders, and he boasts a smile far too wide for someone who just had dirty water splashed on them. 

A line where someone discovers something

“What?” Sero asks, because he knows all those words but that can’t be the right translation.  Slower, quieter, Todoroki repeats, “I am twenty and two years old, always. I am cursed,” and it sounds like a confession, whispered into this hidden space away from the eyes and ears of the world.

A line that displays a character's feelings

His fascination fades quickly to bitterness- quicker and quicker each day, it seems- and he pulls free a roll of cloth to re-wrap his hand. He tries not to notice how his blood leaks from the injuries on his palm in an unnatural hue but he must see, acknowledge, if he wishes to hide it properly.

Each of these lines is from my seroroki time traveler x immortal WIP

Gently tagging my writing moots @antsday @moody-tortured-artist @agirlandherquill @ohromeoraine @sorrowsfallallaround @galacticneighbor

+ anyone else who'd like to participate!!

the dialogue I write in my head as I’m falling asleep is always so great, I wish they’d invent a me who remembers it in the morning

Magical Anime Girl- i7 ficlet

genderqueer questioning nagi, pre-slash nagimitsu, based on that one scene where mitsuki tries to throw out all of nagi's merch (943 words)

still looking for an i7 beta reader, esp if you have a good grasp on the character personalities! and ofc id be more than happy to beta some of your stuff in return (for any fandom or original) so message me if interested!

Nagi had thought he’d confessed something, sitting on his knees while Mitsuki stared down with a blinding vengeance from Nagi’s bed, the both of them surrounded by boxes half-filled with his prized Magical Cocona keepsakes. 

Mitsuki had taken Nagi’s trademark magical stick from its place on the wall and brandished it with all the grace of a valiant knight from the stories Nagi’s father used to tell him as a child. Pointing the barrel of the wand at Nagi’s face like a steel-tipped sword, Mitsuki had said, “I know you’re more than just a womanizing anime nerd.”  

The words I know filled Nagi’s ears like static. 

“More than when you’re with girls or watching anime, when you’re dancing with us you smile the brightest.”

I know, I know, I know. 

“I know because I’ve been watching you,” Mitsuki had said, and Nagi thought that maybe he knew, too. 

Maybe he and Mitsuki were the same. 

Mitsuki set aside his sword- the magical stick returned gently to Nagi’s sheets instead of the box of to-be-thrown-out things- and he kneeled, too, bringing their faces close together. All the animosity from earlier felt washed away like the evening tide and Nagi’s water-worn eyes had shone, reflecting back the sudden gentleness he was faced with. 

No one who’d known had ever been gentle about it. 

Mitsuki smiled. 

“Man, you sure are handsome up close.”

The breath of those words on Mitsuki’s lips tipped Nagi further onto his knees like a young tree caught in the throes of a hurricane. 

I know. 

So Nagi steeled his trembling, windswept body and confessed. He’d confessed that he felt beautiful like the magical girl Cocona. Like elegance in velvet dresses and silk ruffles and perfectly pink princesses locked away in high towers, waiting to be rescued. 

(I must confess…I am beautiful.)

Mitsuki frowned, rising suddenly to make a dumpster shot of one of the Magical Cocona figurines displayed by Nagi’s bedside. 

“I was ready to listen but all you wanted to do was brag?” Mitsuki exclaimed incredulously, the words that had escaped Nagi’s lips too cowardly to confess anything at all. 

“I’m a beautiful man,” Nagi tried again. Beautiful, not handsome, but the hard lines in Mitsuki’s forehead clearly said Nagi’s message wasn’t getting through. Mitsuki didn’t really know so Nagi switched tactics, trying his luck with the other truth Mitsuki might have been referring to. “I’ve had girlfriends, but never boyfriends.”

Nagi had never had this. Japanese boys crowding into his space 24/7 and admiring his face, admiring him aloud, kneeling on his bed like a specter of divine judgment and leaning closer than they’d ever really need to be. 

“You’re my first,” Nagi said, hoping that this was known, at least. These secret feelings, barely beginning to bloom, expressed only in the suggestive asides Nagi’s meager vocabulary could manage.  

Nagi realized too late he’d slipped into the plural you but Mitsuki didn’t hesitate in the slightest before correcting the words Nagi had placed so purposefully at his feet, so perhaps this wasn’t the truth Mitsuki knew, either. 

(You mean, your first friends?) 

And the members of idolish7 were Nagi’s first friends, like Mitsuki assumed, so Nagi hung his head and agreed, grateful that his cowardice and incompetence had at least allowed him to retain his dignity a little while longer. 

Nagi had weathered the crashing wave of anger like he always did, misplaced as it was this time, and Mitsuki had gentled once more. 

Then Mitsuki called him cute and helped Nagi right the storm of his room and he smiled when Nagi began explaining the pure perfection that was the MagiCona series and Nagi felt…warm, in a way he didn’t usually allow himself to. 

He softened his body language until he felt more himself, mimicking the easy femininity of the magical anime girls he so admired, and Mitsuki never blinked. So maybe Nagi could allow himself this wordless honesty. Here, in his room spun with silk and safety that Mitsuki had stayed to help him rebuild even if he didn’t know.  

And at night, after MagiCona had aired and everyone else was asleep, Nagi could allow himself- herself? Perhaps themself- to imagine that Mitsuki had known something else and stayed to help Nagi rebuild all the same. 

*

Manager knew, Nagi thought. Or she at least suspected. 

Somehow girls always did, and that was part of why Nagi liked them so much. Tsumugi Takanashi was a beautiful woman, and Nagi told her so often, but he didn’t desire that sort of connection from her. 

“There’s a Magical Cocona themed planner being released today, isn’t there?” Manager asked as they strolled past the Zero arena. “Should we stop at a bookstore after we visit the salon?”

This connection, though- this easy friendship unafraid to wade away from masculinity was something Nagi wouldn’t trade for the world.  

“Oh, yes!” he cheered. “Magical Cocona! Yay!”

And maybe when Nagi found the words for a real confession, Manager would be the first to hear them, her gentle understanding a lighthouse in the swirling storm Nagi would finally admit existed within his head. 

“Are you okay, Nagi-san? You have an odd expression on your face…”

Nagi extended his hand, fingers curling upward, while the other rested gently on his own chest. Manager carefully placed her hand in Nagi’s and laughed as she was twirled, skirt billowing out in a beautiful circle. 

“I’m fantastic!” 

Nagi lightly squeezed Manager’s hand before letting go. 

“As long as you’re sure,” she said. 

“I am,” Nagi replied, smiling. “We’re going to get Magical Cocona today!”

And the baby steps were important. The magical girl Cocona assured him of this.

writers! favorite line(s) from your current WIP?

mine is: Shouto sits curled up beside the door and waits patiently for the flimsy defense to crumble. When it finally does so, it is not with the same fury and righteousness that Shouto had imagined, but carefully pushed- the creak an askance rather than a condemnation- with hardened hands more suited for holding children than tearing unholy beings apart. The only thing that rains down upon him from the open doorway is water.

currently looking for someone to beta-read some of my i7 stuff, so lmk if you’re interested!

I have a few short fics posted here under the #i7 tag and the #writeblr tag for reference

i feel like my writing has been on a steady decline lately, so pls enjoy this offering from a writing class that i took last spring (when i felt my writing was getting a lot better). it was one of the first, serious original writing pieces i worked on and i definitely leaned on bakugou katsuki's personality to help inform how i wrote Tony lol, but i was pleasantly surprised with the outcome!

i'd love to hear your thoughts (and if anyone's interested in beta-ing my i7 work, pls message me!)

it never got a title but i suppose ill call it...

In Ten Year's Time (1,737 words, original one-shot)

The bus was late.

Tony slumped further in his seat, trying to tune out the chattering next to him while the hard metal rungs of the bench dug further into his back. Tony didn't care if Maria's youngest child had finally started kindergarten or if the acne-ridden line cook sitting in between them was saving up to go to flight school. He did care that their conversation was making the words of his essay prompt swim on the page, 'night shift' and 'empty nest' burrowing an unwanted space between 'where do you see yourself in ten years?'.

Hopefully by then he'd be done waiting at this stupid bus stop.

Maria cackled loudly at something Acne Face had said and Tony took a deep breath through his nose, bouncing his left leg and focusing more intently on the notebook balanced on his right.

In ten years I will be, he wrote, pencil jerking when one of them- Maria, probably- began playing a video clip that started out like an air raid siren. Old people never knew how to fucking lower their volume in public. Tony didn't bother erasing the jagged line that streaked across his page or the one knitting his eyebrows together.

...in anger management, he finished wryly. Or jail.

Maria's shiny clump of necklaces caught the light as she leaned forward and Tony made the mistake of glancing up to investigate, caught in the headlights of her searching gaze while the large man in between them tried to respectfully shrink into nothingness.

"I'm sorry honey," she said apologetically, the remnant of a laugh still caught in her throat. "Are we being too loud?"

Tony grit his teeth against his instinctual, biting response. As much as she was getting on his nerves now, Maria was unbearably nice to him and always dropped off an apple pie during the holidays.

"A bit," he forced out, along with his best half-smile.

Her pleasant expression- endlessly patient while he searched his vocabulary for words that wouldn't sting- turned apologetic and Tony's stomach soured. "It's- it's whatever," he amended, turning away. "I was gonna wrap it up anyways. Bus should be here soon."

"Still," she said softly, followed by an awkward apology from the line cook that might have been the result of an expectant look from Maria. Tony couldn't be sure, eyes locked on an uninteresting pebble.

He rolled it around beneath the sole of his show for the five seconds it took for him to become bored, then kicked it and watched the rock skate clumsily over the curb and into the empty space beyond. Where the bus should be.

"Tory's not picking you up, today?" Maria continued pleasantly.

Tony shook his head, biting down a mean grin while imagining the way his mother's face would scrunch up at the nickname. "Nah."

"Well," Maria replied, the sigh and shifting fabric letting him know that she'd given up on eye contact, "might still be faster if she gets you from here."

"What?" Tony asked, turning his head only to be met with a pale, tattooed bicep. With a barely audible huff, he leaned forward to see around the line cook. "But the bus is supposed to come at four," he insisted.

The line cook chuckled and Tony scowled at him, unencumbered by apple-pie shaped shackles.

The man reigned himself in with an awkward cough. "I don't know where you heard that," he said, "but this bus never shows up earlier than five."

Tony stared at him, then Maria, then the line cook again. The man offered him a shrug.

"Five," Tony repeated blandly.

"Five," they agreed.

Tony clenched his fists, silently burying himself in his backpack to escape their sympathetic grimaces but he could still feel their eyes on the back of his neck like a rash. He rifled carelessly through notebooks and folders and textbooks, crumpling half of them in his wake before coming back up with a fresh sheet of paper and the stub of a pencil.

The stubs were harder to snap.

Tony chewed on the inside of his cheek and tuned out the tentative chatter starting up again on his right.

Where do you see yourself in ten years?

Tony scribbled his name on the top of the page, first and last. Then the date. Then the name of his homeroom teacher just for the hell of it, trying to at least look like he was busy and not avoiding the rest of the page.

"College applications, huh?" the line cook commented.

Tony's nostrils flared. Apparently he didn't look busy enough.

"Oh, Angelica had such an awful time with hers," Maria lamented. Tony had already chosen his prompt but he leaned further over his paper to write down the other two. "Something about who you'd want to have dinner with? Honestly, how a college can pick you based on your dinner guests makes no sense to me," she complained, huffing, "and if Mother Teresa isn't good enough for them then they're not good enough for my daughter."

The line cook whistled appreciatively, a bit of mirth slipping out in the shade of his voice. "You tell 'em."

Tony slowly uncurled from his hunched over position, not quite turning his head to face them.

"Angelica got rejected?"

"Mm," Maria agreed solemnly. "Three times." Then she shrugged, the bitterness alighting from her shoulders like birds on a wire. "But she'd happy where she is."

Tony tapped his pencil stub against his knee, retreating from the conversation once more.

Angelica was two years older than him and he only ever really saw her at church or the odd Christmas party but he knew for a fact she had ranked first in her year. Hell, he'd overheard her reciting her valedictorian speech instead of prayer during communion too many times to count.

Tony pulled out his phone, tapping until he found the right screen.

He held his breath.

S. Antonio, 42

And kept holding it, idly wishing that he could just pass out and not have to deal with college applications anymore. He imagined a puppet doctor in a crisp white lab coat saying, Sorry ma'am, turns out your kid's terminally ill and needs to be exempt from college applications. Bed rest only.

His little wooden limbs would jangle as he shrugged.

Then he imagined his puppet mother pointing in the doctor's face, demanding that they heal him because Tony wasn't allowed to die before becoming a doctor himself and the puppet doctor would droop like his strings had been cut and do as he was told because Tony's mother controlled the universe.

"Uh...hey, kid? Everything alright over there?"

Tony's head snapped up to the line cook, blinking away his daydream and the black spots while he heaved in a lungful of air as subtly as possible. "I'm fine," he spat on the exhale.

Tony's pencil stub lay on the ground between his feet, having slipped from his shaky hands. The sheet of paper, still mostly blank, lay plastered to his thigh.

"Essay that hard?" the line cook asked lightly, lips quirked up in a careful smile.

Tony sneered in the face of it, bristling. "No," he snapped. Heart pounding and lungs still trembling, Tony sat up straighter and gave the man a onceover. "I know damn well where I don't want to be in ten years."

The man's eyes widened but a chuckle was quick to follow. "On your way home to the love of your life after a good day at work?"

Tony's mouth fell open, letting loose a weak, "I-"

"Antonio!" his mother called, her sleek gray car pulling into the space in front of the bench. Right where the bus should be. "Get in, what're you waiting around for?"

Tony scrambled to shove his things back into his bag, staunchly avoiding eye contact and standing before he was finished, nearly tripping for his efforts. The back of his neck burned.

"Nice to see you, Tory," Maria called.

Victoria's mouth pursed, then smoothed out into what she probably thought was polite neutrality, fingers tapping the steering wheel at regular intervals. "You too," she said, voice so falsely sweet it could rot your teeth. Tony wondered if they could tell. "How's Angelica doing? I heard she moved back home?"

Tony paused, hand on the open frame of the passenger side door. His mother's interest might not have been genuine but Tony knew as soon as he was inside the car she'd be off without waiting for the answer. He stepped away to load his bag in the backseat, instead.

"She's happy," Maria replied, the serene smile audible in her voice. "Rediscovering her passions." Tony's mother offered a noncommittal hum, sharp eyes darting to her son's hesitating form. "And your children?" Maria inquired.

"Oh, they're wonderful," Tony's mother replied. "Brock's nearly finished with law school now. Columbia. And of course, Antonio here's getting ready to apply to all the best schools in the country." She smiled, polished teeth flashing. "A little doctor in the making."

Tony kept his eyes low as he slipped into the passenger seat and his mother hardly waited for the door to shut behind him before pulling away. For a few, long moments neither of them said anything, letting the quiet hum of the engine permeate the empty space the way other families listened to the radio. Tony's leg bounced silently.

"Maria's nice," he finally said, the statement hanging in the air like a reprimand.

His mother's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Mhmm."

Tony rolled the words around behind his teeth, weighing the risks, before adding a careful, "So's her wife."

"Did I say anything unsavory?" his mother snapped. Tony shook his head, shifting in his seat to stare determinedly out the window, cursing his inability to disappear or turn back time or sew his mouth shut.

"Well?" she pressed.

Tony wished he hadn't said anything at all. "No."

"That's what I thought," she said shortly. Then she sighed. "I don't know why you always have to paint me as the villain, Antonio."

"Sorry," Tony muttered quietly.

In his head, he wrote, In ten years, I do not want to be like my mother.

In his head, he wrote, Maybe I'll sit on a bus bench with a friend after a good day of work and won't daydream about dying.

Maybe I won't even mind if the bus is late.

Fool Me Once, 793 words, Riku x Iori, i7 shenanigans

“I swear to god,” Iori groaned, rubbing his temples as Riku followed him into the dorm’s common space, “every time you describe your brother as kind, an angel loses its wings.”

“What?” Riku exclaimed, his kicked-puppy expression glued to Iori and not the five other i7 members shooting him varying looks of concern and dismay. “But Tenn-nii is kind!”

A sudden, metallic crash drew their attention to the kitchen, where Nagi-san was flailing dramatically to the floor.

“My wings!” he cried, clutching his chest as he fell. “Riku, how could you do this to me?”

Iori and Sogo-san sighed in unison.

“Nagi-kun, we need that pan for dinner,” Sogo-san gently chastised.

Still lying on the ground with his eyes closed, Nagi-san picked up the pan and offered it in Sogo-san’s general direction.

Seriously, Iori thought to himself, how is this guy my senior?

“I-it’s not that bad! Really!” Riku defended. “He’s nice!”

Yotsuba-san groaned and fell to the floor.

Riku flushed a deep red.

“In his own way he is!”

“Oh no,” Yamato-san replied in monotone, slowly lowering himself to a horizontal position on the couch while he continued to flip through his magazine. “My wings.”

“Guys,” Riku complained.

“As a big brother myself,” Mitsuki began, ignoring Iori’s eyeroll, “I’m seriously concerned about your standard of niceness.”

“Didn’t you try to sell me, once?” Iori interjected bluntly.

Mitsuki waved away the protest. “I was like, three then. But now when my dear baby brother is upset, I- a superior big brother- make him pancakes in the shape of cute bunnies.”

“How come you only make the rest of us regular pancakes?” Yotsuba-san complained from his wingless position on the carpet.

“Now what does "Tenn-nii" do?” Mitsuki continued pointedly, heedless of the interruption.

“I know this one,” Sogo-san announced proudly before clearing his throat and drawing his features into something poorly resembling Kujo-san’s cold stare. “Nanase, who?”

“But-“

“And what does dear Iori-kun say?” Mitsuki prompted next, grinning widely.

“What?” Iori replied, narrowing his eyes in the face of so many sudden, teasing grins in the room. This felt like a trap. “We’re talking about-“

“Nanase-san,” Yamato-san said in a poor affectation of Iori’s voice, “I’ll make you a superstar!”

Mitsuki pretended to swoon into Yamato’s arms, effectively crushing the man and his magazine into the couch.

Iori frowned, ears burning. “That was-“

“Nanase-san, let me control you,” Nagi said next, reaching his hand out in front of himself like he was on the cover of a shoujo manga.

“You heard that?” Iori exclaimed.

Yotsuba-san laughed. “You said what, Iorin?”

Sogo-san began fanning his face. "Oh my."

“Nanase-san,” Mitsuki picked up next, rising off of Yamato-san to mimic Nagi-san's overtly romantic gesture. “You’re so cute. Ahem, I mean. You’re so stupid.”

Yotsuba-san gasped and pointed. “Iorin’s a tsundere!”

“I am not!” Iori howled. “And I don’t have to stand here and take this. Nanase-san-"

Riku turned toward Iori with wide eyes, his face only a few shades lighter than his hair, and Iori suddenly had no idea why his instinct had been to turn to him in the first place.

“Cat got your tongue?” Yamato-san teased.

“I’m leaving!” Iori declared, retrieving his keys from the shared bowl near the front door. The rainbow keychain he’d given Riku stared back at him mockingly.

“We’re making bunny pancakes for dinner!” Mitsuki reminded him.

“I’ll be back!” Iori huffed angrily, slamming the door behind himself.

Within the dorm, Riku stood frozen.

Tamaki wandered over to lightly fan his burning face.

“S-so…”

“Yay!” Nagi cheered, popping up from the kitchen floor. “Moment of realization!”

“So Iori-kun’s…a better brother to me?” Riku asked haltingly.

Nagi wailed and collapsed back onto the ground, various noises of exasperation and disappointment from the other members following suit.

Riku had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at them. Discreetly, he pulled out his phone.

Iori <3: are they done yet?

Riku: pretty sure, yeah

Riku: “brother” heh

Iori <3: gross. pls don’t make that a thing

Riku: it got them off the trail at least

Riku: tho idk why ur so set on telling ur parents first, obvi they can all tell already

Riku: and Mitsuki's literally ur brother

Iori <3: it’s called respect

Iori <3: and my brother deserves none. he finds out last. or perhaps never.

Riku: whatever u say, bunny <3

Iori <3: agahsjskdk

Iori <3: make sure they don’t eat all the cute pancakes before I get back

Iori <3: honey

Iori <3: ew wait no I don’t like it.

Iori <3: give me a do-over.

Riku: call me riku tomorrow and I’ll call it even, bunny

Riku: especially after u ABANDONED ur dear and loving boyfriend to the WOLVES

Iori <3: …fine. deal

Iori <3: riku

i’ve been writing a lot of i7 drabbles/ficlets lately, and I’m open to requests! (someone save me from the stress of college pls)

the two I’ve finished so far are Ringing Hearts and Morning if you wanna check ‘em out :)

Idolish7 fanfic- Ringing Hearts <3

-Nagi x Mitsuki, introspective Mitsuki, fluff, slight angst-

Mitsuki lay on his side in bed, idly swiping through his phone. The only light left on in the room was the small square being projected onto his weary face. Mitsuki should be sleeping at this hour but he couldn’t bring himself to settle, allowing the soft music pouring from the speaker to create a more melancholic atmosphere than the day deserved.

Mitsuki was glad to be getting so much MC work lately. Really, he was.  

It was just difficult to set aside the fact that their fans thought he talked too much, knowing that Mitsuki had only made it onto i7 as part of a package deal. 

But Mitsuki knew better to dwell on that, so he swiped.   

Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.

-David Foster Wallace   

Mitsuki lingered on this slide long enough for the music in the background to loop, then he laughed quietly.  

How odd was it to go seeking a distraction and stumble across a mirror, instead?

Mitsuki held the moderation Yamato had given him close to his heart, but this- this desperation to keep a white-knuckled grip on the things he held dear- was something written into the very marrow of Mitsuki’s bones. 

It was what kept him signing up for auditions- always reaching, even if it meant his hand might be slapped mercilessly away, again and again. It’s what kept him up at night when he ached from the brutal sting of rejection. It’s what had spurred Iori to glue them together in the first place, if only to spare Mitsuki the pain. 

Gratitude and insecurity were glued in equal measure to that memory, but now that they were here Mitsuki knew he would never let go of i7 without engraving his desperate desire for their success beneath his fingernails, first. 

The thought of ever being dragged away from the group was an uneasy one, though, so Mitsuki swiped again.  

Achilles did not slur my name, as people often did, running it together as if in a hurry to be rid of it. Instead, he rang each syllable:

Pa-tro-clus.

-Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller

Again, Mitsuki paused. An image of Nagi’s shining face poked its way into his thoughts, unbidden, whining for Mitsuki to watch Magical Cocona with him. 

Mit-su-ki, Nagi always said. Drawing the syllables out so the shape of Mitsuki’s name lingered on his lips. 

Thoughtful, Mitsuki raised a finger to his own lips and pressed down. 

Mitsuki was used to people wanting to be rid of him. Used to people batting away his outstretched hand in search of something more. Something better. 

No one had ever lingered on Mitsuki, before. 

The thought brought warmth to Mitsuki’s face and he slammed his phone down on the bed, throwing his room into a sudden, searing darkness.

Mitsuki’s heart pounded against his chest- a wild, fluttering thing- and he felt stripped bare, his racing thoughts thrown into sharp relief without the soft haze of the phone screen to blur them.

It was so warm, all of a sudden.  

Had someone messed with the thermostat? 

Surely that’s all it was, and not…

Mitsuki carefully grasped his phone, tilting the screen back towards himself. 

he rang each syllable, it said. Pa-tro-clus. 

A nervous smile tugged at Mitsuki’s burning cheeks, a gentle weightlessness skittering through his stomach. 

Mit-su-ki, Nagi always said. 

Mit-su-ki. 

Surely Nagi knew the emphasis didn’t belong in the middle of his name, and yet…

And yet, he rang each syllable. 

Mitsuki pressed his face into his pillow, carefully cradling the belltower resonance that had been struck each time his name was spoken with such care, building and building and building until the brass echo brought blood rushing to the surface of Mitsuki’s smile.

Mit-su-ki, Nagi always said- sparkling and golden and princelike. 

“Nagi Rokuya,” Mitsuki whispered into his pillow. “Na-gi.”

The music on Mitsuki’s phone looped gently again. 

Mitsuki carefully rang each syllable.

“Ro-ku-ya.”

Delighted laughter bubbled past his lips, swallowed by the walls keeping watch over Mitsuki's feelings. 

Maybe…maybe that’s what Iori had meant the other day. When Mitsuki was sitting on the couch with Nagi, watching the man far more than the anime, and he’d placed a hand on Mitsuki’s shoulder, leaning down to whisper, It’s okay, onii-san. 

Maybe it would be, Mitsuki thought. 

Maybe Nagi Rokuya was another one of those things Mitsuki wouldn’t let go of without a fight.

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.”

“But my writing’s not good like-” Comparison is the thief of joy. Comparison is the thief of joy. Comparison is the thief of joy.

hi!

i figured it was about time I do a blog intro, so hello! its so lovely to have you here! I'm bi_focal on ao3 and this blog is a mix of writing content, fandom, and fake tweets :)

Writing content can be found under the #writeblr tag (which includes fanfic updates) and my most recent fics are:

-Little Troubles (Itadori & Sukuna, WIP)

-summer daze (katsuki-centric Coraline AU, WIP)

-this rabbit has fainted (bkdk, complete)

The fandoms I'm mostly active in rn are MHA, idolish7, & JJK but there are plenty more that will probably make appearances as well

The fake tweets I make are for MHA and i7 (mostly MHA) and they’re under both #fake tweets and #incorrect quotes (*and these are rated teen for language and occasional innuendos!)

I'd love to interact with you, especially about writing things, so feel free to send me an ask!!

So summer daze (my MHA Coraline au) is literally kicking my ass rn and I cannot comprehend why but I had a fic idea yesterday and managed to crank out 8k words in nearly one sitting. And I know it’s me doing these things but somehow it feels like someone else is pulling the levers -_-

Lever 1: really developed idea but no writing

Lever 2: silly little whim and lots of writing

God/the voices: pull them both! muahahaha!

do you ever feel like an awful writer who shouldn’t pursue the craft and then you take a breath and walk away, drink some water, take a shower, sing your heart out, and come back thinking ‘yeah this is scary but it’s mine’ ?

The other day I made some progress on my WIP Cat-suki (quirk accident where Bakugou turns into a cat when stressed/anxious) and this is how it started:

“Stop poking me,” Bakugou told Recovery Girl.

“Stop getting hurt,” Recovery Girl shot back, tapping Bakugou’s knee with a small hammer to test his reflexes.

Bakugou used the opportunity to try and kick Recovery Girl’s shin.

And this is where it went:

“Why the fuck are you doing this?” Bakugou asked, the bluster in his voice not enough to distract from the quickened pace of his breathing.

“Because you are in my care.” Aizawa answered, rising from his chair.

Bakugou’s head shot up from where he’d been stubbornly focused on his knees.

“Because you are safe,” Aizawa continued, taking a measured seat at the farthest end of Bakugou’s cot.

Beyond the window they both faced, the sun was beginning to settle over Heights Alliance. Midoriya’s flustered voice carried over from the dorms.

Aizawa let loose a slow sigh and he let Bakugou hear the weariness in his tone.

“Because we all struggle with something.”

currently experiencing Yatora Yaguchi levels of artistic distress and turmoil ✌️

but don’t they all look so lovely <3 <3

My grandma: oh, you’re working on your laptop?

Me, writing bkdk being silly and in love: yes…working…

(in related news i just posted my 20th fic! <--)

I’m trying to work on this bnha Coraline AU and I severely underestimated my desire to make the Baku-family sweet and wholesome and happy lol

any suggestions for details you’d like to see in later chapters?