ALSO Could I Potentially Ask How You Make The Fake Twitter Posts? :0

hi!!! you already know how much i love love love ur mha twitter series (and if not, i will remedy this IMMDEDIATELY bc i always have so much fun reading them) so i have to ask: is there any character you have the most fun writing/portraying? hope ur having a nice day!!!

hi!!!! this is a super hard one to answer bc I love the class 1-a cast sm in general, so it’s really fun to write for all of them, but I think the Bakusquad might be my fav group to portray interacting with each other and as far as individuals…I’d prob have to go with denki, deku, and ochako! maaaybe koda as a bonus, too

Tysm for the ask, ant! Hope you’re having a nice day as well <333 (just for u I started making some halloween tweets that should be up later today/tomorrow)

MHA tweets pt.24

Guess who just discovered how to make fake tweets 😁

(I’m about to become insufferable)

MHA tweets pt.26

This is my first time participating in flash fiction friday but I had a lot of fun, thanks so much for the prompt! @flashfictionfridayofficial

Content Warning: suggestive content

Title: Slip | WC: 591

The moon is bright when Margaret's hand draws me into wakefulness.

Her cold fingertips press against my arm like piano keys- tap, tap, tapping a scale that brings goosebumps to the surface and bores her the second my skin grows used to the touch.

She smiles, a finger raised to her lips, and I remember that Margaret has the prettiest teeth I've ever seen. Pearly and straight and not at all afraid to bear down until I bruise. The memory blooms before my eyes as I watch her sway around the room, picking up her hairbrush, then a headband. The echo of her perfect press of lips will linger in the days to come like a love letter and ache in all the ways that I do when she's not around.

"It's late," I murmur, sparing a glance towards my alarm clock.

Margaret continues to dance like I hadn't said a thing and I continue to watch her, content to swallow down the sentiment.

What did late matter when Margaret was drawing closer with those eyes, leaning down to pluck the observation from behind my teeth like sweet oranges in the summertime? What was the hour compared to the way Margaret crept out of the room with my breath still caught in her lungs?

The floor creaks under my weight when I slip from the bed- a clumsy cat to Margaret's graceful creeping- and I follow her humming out of the bedroom.

Here, the moon peers in like a voyeur and bathes Margaret, elbow to hip, in her soft and hazy glow. Margaret's slip is practically sheer. Pathetically mesmerizing.

My pajamas are threadbare, but they cling to her echoing touch in all the right ways and I can't help but take a few steps forward, hand outstretched and hesitating half an inch before her hip.

"Marg," I say, then I stop. Swallow. "Margaret," I try again.

"That's my name," she whispers back.

My fingers catch in the hole against my own hip, instead.

Don't wear it out, I think. But I don't think a name like Margaret could ever be worn out when it's used for a girl like her.

"Margaret," I croon slowly.

She rolls her eyes with another, secretive, almost-smile, eyes glinting in the low light. I'm close enough to see the way the moon colors her eyelashes silver.

She waltzes into the kitchen and I get the feeling I'm supposed to wait, so I do. I pick up humming the tune Margaret had begun, drifting toward the window to play with the curtain hem, unable to put together a picture based on the sounds she's leaving behind.

I imagine the curtain is Margaret's slip, instead. They're almost the same color.

"Is this what you wanted, Beth?" Margaret calls out, voice cutting through the empty space between us like she's right beside me.

I drift forward toward the kitchen, smiling, still rubbing the sleep from my eye, and the expression wobbles like a figure skater on the ice- spinning, spinning, spinning.

The eggs are on the floor. The ones that she bought.

Margaret's coat is gone from the rack.

"I really tried, you know?"

Yolks spill slowly out of their fragile shells, bathed in a refrigerator halo, trembling under the weight of the front door- closed, firmly.

Unlocked.

Margaret's key is still hanging by the door.

Spinning...spinning...spinning...

Something wobbles, something burns, and I'm crouched down beside the eggs, my father's voice in my head and Margaret's perfume on my skin, already fading.

Don't wear it out, I think again.

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

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

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

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

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

sth sth roomates... sth sth rest of our lives...

i have the “Umino Iruka Adopts Naruto Uzumaki” tag favorited on ao3, it honestly brings me so much comfort

love to see them happy :)

Sometimes a calm afternoon with your adopted son is what you might need

Ciao!

Io sono interessato a scorprire le amicizia italiani per parlare con mentre imparo la lingua! Il mio blog è in inglese ma io parlo di scrivere e l’anime (sopratutto my hero academia).

Mi mandi un messaggio se interessa o se hai una raccomanda italiana per i film/le serie, musica, o i libri :)