Please Please Please Please Reblog If You’re A Writer And Have At Some Point Felt Like Your Writing

Ohhhh the plans I have for you…

Y’all don’t make use of subtle/weird traits in fics enough.

Dudes—

Bakugou literally has hyperhidrosis. Make him switch shirts constantly, or constantly wiping his hands, or outright refusing to touch things because nitroglycerin is a volatile substance.

Midoriya is constantly chewing on his lips or thumb while in thought. Either his lips are SO chapped or he’s a skin picker and the skin around his finger tips are super rough.

Uraraka is a poor kid. She would absolutely have some kind of financial anxiety. Make her be extremely frugal OOOORRR BETTER YET make her absolutely awful with money.

Aizawa is a hypersomniac. Give the man a nightmare disorder or something. We can be more imaginative than just always kinda tired.

Kirishima has/had really bad quirk envy. Please I need to see this addressed more. Even at the best hero school, in the top class, he talks down on his quirk.

Todoroki really doesn’t think very much. He acts quickly but very thoughtlessly. Coming to incorrect conclusions and moving too fast without knowing what to do next.

“Good. It reminds me that I am…”

I trail off, hesitant to say alive. If there is no death, is there really life? A breath no longer holds the same weight to me that I once did. Not after gaining this immortal stretch, this breath of eternity. A breath is simply a creature comfort to me now, I could live without it and simply bask in the aching, screaming burn of lungs without the air that was once so vital for survival, but I opt to breathe both out of habit and for comfortability.

She shakes her head at me, frowning. I know that it scalds her, ruffles her, that her “gift” to me has been met with such an abundance of bitterness. But she stole me away, forced me to watch all the people I loved slowly age and slip away. She stole my golden years, trapped eternally in the body of a young adult may seem like a gift, but jobs begin to be difficult to attain when your resume doesn’t match your face. To say the least about the pain of immortality.

As the child grows, I bask in their light and their warmth, loving them as if they are my own. Their life, 98 years, was a lengthy stretch of time for most humans, but for me, it felt like a blink. Over far too soon, and like all the other losses, this one destroys me. My heart torn out, my lungs aching, and again, she returns.

“I told you this would hurt.”

“Please.” All I need to say, she knows what I’m begging for.

Scoffing, she leaves me, crumbled at the rubble of the alter of my place of worship. The alter to my God that I was raised in. The God that she ripped me away from, barring me from the eternity that I had longed for. She took my family, took my faith, and gave me no hope of escape from this agonizing existence, and expects me to grovel and worship her every breath as if I was given a gift, not punished for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So the cycle begins again, spiting her with my every thought. Every fiber of my being dedicated to being an eternal thorn and embarrassment. I find the weak, the helpless, the fearful, the abandoned, and I love them. Help them, protect them, and when she warns me of my impending pain, I spit at her warnings. I dive in and love just as much and as unwaveringly as I did when I was human, like I haven’t felt the agony of the impending loss a million times.

For every time she has chosen to be a harbinger of agony, of suffering and pain, I chose to be one of love, of happiness and hope. I will until the world rots around us and the gods and forsaken immortals are all that remain, or until she decides to unmake me, going back to my conception and unraveling my DNA as it begins its formation, so that my handprint can never mark history.

Her fierce and evil face contorts in fury each time I smile in anyone’s direction. But it’s only natural. Only natural for us to be at odds, for her to hate me so.

Her hideous name is Hate, and I have and will always worship at the alter of love.

The abandoned child you’ve taken in sleeps on your lap as the god who gave you immortality softly warns you. “This will hurt.”

The best description of fannon Harry I’ve ever seen lmfaoooo

The two voices in Harry's head, at all times:

mutuals furiously booping back and forth within seconds like

I wish there was a counter for how many times you’ve booped someone, how am I supposed to make sure it’s the sex number, weed number or evil number

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

i did this instead of writing

Weighted blankets aren't enough I need to be crushed in a hydraulic press

This applies for just about always. Except maybe *maybe* spooky szn.

Reblog to let your followers know that they’re safe from jumpscares/screamers/etc from you on April 1st but they are NOT safe from getting boop’d like an idiot amen

This isn’t a fix-it fic, but I started to decorate my door for st. Patty’s today! I got interrupted by class buttttt…

It will look better when it’s done, expo markers are just the bane of my existence.

Edit 1: if you recognize this, no you don’t. 🩷

Edit 2: Update!!

Rip my black expo marker. Let’s hope my neighbors don’t erase this one!! Happy (early) St. Patrick’s day!!