Week Four:

found an iori-centric i7 wip in my files today that i'd like to finish up. id love to post what i have now but there's no good place to chop it into two parts so here's a snippet instead! the fic is called let it sink in

iori/riku pre-slash, self-discovery, angst & hurt/comfort

Iori ran his finger along the thin skin beside his nail bed, tempted to pick at it but far too restrained to give into the impulse. “Meeting Yuki-san helped you figure out who you were?” Was that just the alcohol talking?  Iori had been under the impression that those sorts of answers could only come from some secret place inside. One that Iori was still struggling to gain access to.  “Mhmm!” Momo-san agreed brightly. “He was just so…” he sighed wistfully, rocking up onto his toes for a moment before settling back onto his heels and staring up at the moon. “And then I kept coming back. And back. And back. To see him and Ban-san. Like he was drawing me in.” Iori gently bit the inside of his cheek. “That sounds…familiar,” he admitted.  Momo-san grinned brightly, excitedly leaning closer to Iori. “I thought so!” Iori could smell the alcohol on his breath and took a subtle step back.  “It’s the same for you and Riku, right?” Momo-san’s expectant gaze shimmered despite the wan lighting, oddly intense, and Iori turned his gaze to the moon to avoid meeting it.  Iori wasn’t drunk but Momo-san was, so… “I think so,” Iori murmured softly. “It’s…I feel,” he tried, unsure how to end the sentence. Iori looked down towards his tightly clasped hands. “It’s weird,” he settled on.  A complete non-answer if Iori’s ever heard one, but that was all Iori seemed to have lately and Momo-san supposedly had the key to his own lockbox so maybe Iori could learn something if the man simply talked long enough.  

for the last prompt:

“Don’t touch those books, sweetie. They have souls.”

Miranda hesitated with her fingers poised over a golden spine. 

“Excuse me?” she asked, wide-eyed and more than a little fearful. 

The librarian simply rolled her eyes, adjusting the hem of her coffee-colored sweater. “Did you not read the danger signs we passed?” 

Slowly, Miranda lowered her hands and laced them behind her back. “Thought that was another of Dougie’s pranks,” she murmured quietly. 

The librarian sighed.

“Miss Pickery-"

“I still don’t know why you hired my brother,” Miranda interrupted, eyes slipping back to the shiny, golden book she had been tempted to pull off the shelf. “He’s not exactly…bookish. Or terribly employable.”

“Well, he doesn’t attempt to touch the books with souls, for one,” the librarian replied. 

Miranda pressed her lips together firmly, attention slipping guiltily to the carpeted floor and catching on an oblong stain that the librarian gestured to with the toe of her heeled boot.

“And he doesn’t suffer the consequences of such misbehavior like my previous apprentice, Ronald.”

Miranda couldn’t help the startled gasp that left her as she drew her arms closer to the center of her body, head whipping back and forth in the narrow aisle to ensure no part of her was near any part of these…these murdering, soul-having books.  

Seriously, if Miranda had known about Ronald the Oblong Stain when she’d received her brother’s stupid email about checking out his “cool new job”, Miranda would have deleted it without a second thought. Unread, unreplied to, and un…un-in danger, Miranda thought sternly. 

The librarian frowned back at her, all sharp featured and unimpressed, like she was privy to Miranda’s imaginary word making.  

“U-um, so where is Dougie, anyway, Miss?”

“Late,” the librarian replied. She raised her right wrist to peer at a square watch wrapped over her sweater sleeve, the arms curved like octopus tentacles and spinning far faster than the plain, round one on Miranda’s own wrist. “Or perhaps early, depending.”

“Depending on what?”

“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be conversing with Ronald, instead,” the librarian murmured to herself, causing a deep frown to appear over Miranda’s face. 

Oblong Stain-Man, one. Miranda, zero. 

“Well, he invited me here,” Miranda petulantly reminded the woman. “I’m still not sure why, but I doubt it was to kill me so is it possible for us to wait for him in a different section of the library? Maybe one without, you know, danger signs?”

The librarian gave Miranda a swift once-over, then peered up at the ceiling, expression unchanging. 

“No. Here will do.”

“Oh, okay,” Miranda whispered shakily. “I’ll just stay here and try not to turn into goo, then.”

“Oh, pish posh,” the librarian dismissed, waving her hand in the air. “That Evelyn has much more flare than that. She would have ignited you, most definitely.”

“E-Evelyn?” Miranda repeated, peering behind herself for other, potentially-murderous library patrons. Perhaps one carrying a blowtorch.

“The book you were going to touch,” the librarian explained. “She has quite a flair for the dramatic, that girl. Your death would have been very phoenix-like.”

Miranda eyed the golden-spined book with far more wariness than before. 

“Phoenix-like…” she echoed. “Like…as in I’d come back to life?”

The librarian’s nose scrunched. “As in you’d go up in a spark of flames and crumble to ash before you could say-”

“Mimi!” Dougie called out happily, appearing in a cart-like contraption over their heads. Dougie tugged gently on a hanging rope within his cart and the whole thing slowed to a squeaky stop.

Miranda eyed the small cylinder of metal attaching the cart to the track embedded in the ceiling with open skepticism. 

“Took ya long enough,” he said, smiling. 

“Took me-?!” Miranda began to sputter, only to be silenced by a hand from the librarian. 

“Douglas,” she greeted calmly. “Anything to report?”

Dougie’s smile turned slightly bashful, and he scratched the back of his head. “Not yes, Miss. But with Mimi here, things should be fixed in a snap!” 

“I fucking hate that name,” Miranda muttered darkly beneath her breath.

“Quit whining, girl,” the librarian said, not unkindly. “It’s time to go.” 

“Please,” Miranda agreed, quickly ascending the thin, metal stairs that had stretched out from Dougie’s cart like a particularly slow accordion. She would happily go anywhere to get away from Evelyn and Ronald and who knows who else. 

The librarian followed quickly after. 

“Where are we going?” Miranda asked, cringing at the grating noise emanating from the ceiling as the cart rocked jerkily back into motion. “To lunch?”

Dougie’s email had promised lunch. 

“Uhhh, not to lunch,” Dougie admitted, ignoring Miranda’s heavily disappointed sigh. “We need you to fix something, actually.”

“And it’s not a sandwich?” Miranda pressed hopefully. 

“Sorry, sis,” Dougie laughed. “It’s…uh, well it’s a little bit bigger than that.”

“These swinging death cages, then?” she tried next. Because they could use some serious oiling, but otherwise seemed mostly stable. Even if the eccentric design didn’t invite anything but distrust. 

Dougie pulled on the rope again as they entered a new room and Miranda brought her hands up to cover her ears while she peered curiously over the edge of the cart, still hoping in vain for a cafe or a bistro. 

What she saw instead was a massive, boiler-looking thing, with moving arms on just about every square inch of its rusting, bronze surface, rounded caps lifting periodically to release hissing trails of white steam. 

What really caught her attention, though, was the small door built into its base, boasting a massive dent and an odd array of talon-like scratches along its surface. And one scrawled out word. 

Miranda Pickery. 

“...well,” Miranda said slowly, hands falling to her hips as she quietly examined the structure. “Surely I’m not the only Miranda Pickery in the area. Total coincidence, really.”

The librarian’s wrinkly hand landed on Miranda’s shoulder, her other pointing towards the far end of the boiler room. 

Miranda followed her gaze to a large, hand-painted mural spanning the entire length of the flaking wall. The figures were all done in black, or perhaps a very deep blue, and nearly impossible to make out in the dim space. The orange light from the boiler only illuminated the lowest section, where there were rows and rows of what looked like people, carrying stacks of what looked like books, and a few, hanging, claw-like feet that suggested an array of birds above their heads. 

The librarian clapped and the space flooded with blue light. Hovering orbs lined the room like street lamps- above the boiler but below the cart- revealing a concerning amount of bookshelves lining this room, too. 

A concerning amount of bookshelves and Miranda’s likeness, that is, painted in the very center of the mural with such detail that any hopes of pawning off this mystery onto some other hapless sod immediately wilted and died within her heart. 

“Oh,” Miranda said dumbly. 

“Oh,” the librarian agreed. 

“So…” Dougie started, awkwardly clapping his hands together. “Lunch, anyone?”

WRITING PROMPTS - Library

A 24/7 library has no staff, but those who enter never think to steal.

"We can't make out! This is a library!"

A magical university has a library that changes its contents entirely whenever it hits midnight.

"Shh! Reading time."

A library is the only building unaffected by a massive earthquake.

"Where did you get that book?"

A group of academics decide they want to be buried alive in the cursed library that the government are burying.

"Don't touch those books, sweetie. They have souls."

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.

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.

More surfer Izuku and lifeguard Katsuki

The expectations vs realities of the meet-cute

The reality is not based around my own surfing experiences whaaaaat

You have quickly become one of my favourite MHA accounts just for the fake tweets- absolutely criminal that these don't have more notes holy shit

Will now be stalking you on here and ao3 <33

Ahhh tysm!!! <33 I’m super flattered

making fake tweets is so fun so I’m glad you enjoy mine! also your art is super impressive!!

committed myself to writing a bakugou&izuku coraline AU this month (wish me luck!)

bk=coraline, izuku=wybie, aizawa=the cat

Katsuki's father patted his shoulder before walking up to the front door. “It’ll feel like home in no time,” he promised. Katsuki turned his gaze to the pink monstrosity he was being forced to live in, the paint peeling off the sides like someone had taken a potato peeler to it twenty years ago and paused halfway through. Even from here, Katsuki could see that one of the upstairs windows was broken and past the rusted railing on the top story there was some grimy old man doing stretches in what was definitely not enough clothing. The sharp cry of yipping dogs- small, annoying ones by the sound of it- echoed up from the basement level. “Home,” Katsuki echoed. “Yeah, that’s a fucking joke.”

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

"this lasting pain"

Chilchuck and Marcille are so sibling-coded in this scene lmao

Chilchuck, embodying the well-known rage of being forced into an apology by your mom only to get a smartass response:

That is the face of a man who swallowed his pride and then choked on it