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yooooooo I've decided it'd be easier and less cluttered if I moved everything to a main blog instead if a side blog, so find me over @like-as-fixed for all new work (whenever that actually decides to come out)

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THIS IS AN IMPORTANT ONE! Don’t ignore this in your writing!

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Imagine Your OTP

Person A: (Walks up to Person B) “Um, s-so Person B, I presume a lot of people tell you they get lost in your eyes, b-but I only find all of my love for you.”

Person B: (blushes with wide eyes) “Well thank you!” 

Person A: “I-I’m sorry, I-What!”

Person B: (then smiles charmingly and says) “Hmm, has anyone ever told you how the brightest star can’t compare to light you bring to my life.”

Person A: (Blushes even more) “Oh really, I-I-um (ha), Thank you!”

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“I think you need to taste this for me,” the monarch said. They shoved the exquisite cake in their guard’s direction.

Their guard blinked. “Um.” 

“What, you’d rather your monarch be poisoned?”

Of course not. The guard hesitantly took a mouthful, only to practically melt in satisfaction. “Oh my god.” It was amazing. They caught themselves. “I - er - I think it’s fine.” 

“You should try a sip of the wine too,” the monarch said. “Just to be safe. Sit, sit.” 

It took the guard slightly too long to realize that it was practically a date, with the monarch feeding them delicacies off their plate. 

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It’s both a blessing and a curse to Remember you so vividly. I remember the way your hair hung across your forehead before you cut it, or the way you ran your hands through it when you didn’t know what to say. I remember how you smelled and just how intoxicating it was. Every now and then I’ll pass someone wearing your cologne and I’m ashamed to admit when I do, I’m searching for your face, but like a dog chasing cars, I wouldn’t know what to do if I found it.

april-all-over, writing prompt #17: Write about moving on (via wnq-writers)

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“I’m [name].”

They stared. Completely distracted, flustered, awed. “I’m so gay.” Then they realised what they’d said. “Oh, god. I mean-”

The other’s lip curled, a flicker of all too gorgeous amusement on their face. “You know, I can’t ask you out on a date before you tell me your name, I’m so gay.” 

They were screwed. Officially screwed.

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Adverbs aren’t evil; said isn’t dead Please stop hitting the wall with your head Active is grand but not always the best Sometimes it’s passive that passes the test Some write with style, others write plain Let’s all agree that writing’s a pain The ‘rules’ can be broken, twisted, or bent All that matters is that you are content Make your own story and write your own way This has been a writer’s PSA

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[Image description: Drawing of an orange and blue whale saying “Your writing doesn’t have to be popular to be good. Your writing doesn’t have to be popular to matter. Your writing doesn’t have to be popular to be worth writing, but it’s still okay to want your writing to be popular. You put a lot of effort into it and it’s okay to want your effort to be appreciated.” in a blue speech bubble.]

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“You’re my roommate who’s super cute and it’s the middle of the night and you’re cramming for your exams in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and it’s becoming increasingly hard for me not to kiss you” AU

- (@origami-teacup)

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Fanfic Author Gothic

-You always have ideas. When you open a document, they disappear.

-You have a file full of ideas. It is lost. You open all your files and find hints of ideas mixed in between the lines. None of them connect. You follow them forever, deeper into the folders, until you can’t remember what you were looking for anymore. You end up reading fanfic until 4 AM.

-You’re not a torturer by profession. It’s merely a hobby. The sadism is a natural skill.

-Your fingers and wrists hurt from typing when you’re on a roll. You swear you’re not a masochist, but it hurts so good.

-Readers accuse you of causing them pain. You say you’re sorry, but you’re not. You comfort them while not-so-subtly digging for what caused them the most harm, eager to repeat the trick.

-Your friends enable you and laugh at your yelling. When you blame them, they claim they didn’t do anything. They never do anything. You no longer remember who started it, only that you’re halfway through the fic and still writing.

-You have a WIP. You swear you’re going to finish it next. It’s always next. There’s always another fic that has to be written first.

-Anonymous messages are sent to you, asking you not to acknowledge them publically. You know if you answer they’ll disappear from your inbox. Tumblr has eaten the Ask. Was it ever there in the first place?

-Someone comments on your fic. You have no idea who they are, but their username looks familiar. Every username looks familiar. You think you know them. They know you. It’s flattering, but you can’t shake the feeling that you should be alarmed by your poor memory.

-You reblog a writing prompt meme. It’s the same meme you reblogged yesterday. There are symbols instead of numbers, and you hope people will find them more interesting and send you more prompts this time.

-Promoting your own work is okay. You tell yourself this as you reblog yesterday’s fic post, tensely waiting for a rebuke that never comes.

-People laugh at something you wrote. You can’t figure out what. When you ask, nobody responds. They never laughed in the first place. You’re not sure you wrote anything.

-The fic is 50 hours long and 7000 words long; no one cares. A 10 minute speedwrite is reblogged into eternity.

-The kudos stack up. They are a solid block of names. You can’t read who left them. When you blink and look again, only 10 Guests have left kudos.

-Your inbox is full. There’s a comment on your fic. It has been edited 17 times. Six more emails come in as you read the initial comment. The numbers in your inbox climb and climb. You can’t find what’s been changed in the comment, but you can’t stop obsessively comparing each message.

-This comment is a book report. Glee and fear fill you in equal amounts.

-Someone apologizes for leaving a comment on an old fic. You can’t find who started the absurd rumor that authors don’t like comments on old fics. You plan their murder anyway.

-You eye your old username and associated fics. You pray that no one ever finds them. You resist the urge to tell people where to look.

-The fic is finished. You are dead. You are sick of it. You’ve never been so tired in your life. You hate the world. You force yourself to post it, absolutely exhausted, and suddenly can’t sleep for refreshing your inbox.

-The words multiply. You can’t control them. They eat your brain and come out your eyes. When people try to talk to you, you speak in snatches of character dialogue and narrate unconnected events. They keep talking to you, encouraging you to say more. The words own you now.

-No one believes you when you say the story is writing itself. You stare in despair at the screen. Why won’t anyone help you?

-You’ve misspelled ‘the.’ Autocorrect is wonderful until it’s not.

-Sleep is for the weak. You dream you’re still writing.

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Feed a person vampire blood, you get a ghoul. Feed an animal vampire blood, you get a hellhound. Water a plant in vampire blood, you get a mandrake. Fill up your car with vampire blood? Probably good things, let’s try it.

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I cherish small intimacies. A head resting against a shoulder, lips brushing against a nose, a kiss on the neck, a hand reaching out for my own

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“What the hell is that?”

“Vegetables, what’s with the overreaction?”

“You never eat vegetables, in fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat anything green apart from lime flavoured sweets.”

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“You killed me!”

“Don’t take it personally, I killed everyone!”

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“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“No, don’t say that please. Look we can fix this, I’ll do anything. Just tell me what I need to do.”

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“Say one more word and I swear I’m gonna punch you in the face!”

“You’re 5'4, you can’t even reach my face with your fist.”