Writeblr - Blog Posts

Thanks for the prompts! I chose #4 and it felt so good to get into the flow of writing without worrying about how what I write would fit into a full piece. (im experiencing mega writers block with sfg atm)

So seriously, thank you OP

Anyways, here's what I came up with:

“Stargazing,” Kal observed, leaning heavily on her new spear.  Jonathan had done good work with it, and the small inscription near its base was, surprisingly, left intact.  Loren took a moment to admire the sleek, plated metal Jon had chosen to resuscitate that damn spear from its rightful place in the refuse pile, then turned his attention back toward the mottled patchwork of stars above them. “Is that what you do when you’re not killing people?” she pressed mirthfully.    Loren frowned. The battle had been long and laborious and not really worth the sore wrist he’d been massaging for the past half hour, Ilium’s abrasive voice still rattling around in his skull.  Kal sighed, lowering herself into a crouch beside Loren’s head.  “Fight’s over, Twig. No need to be so serious.”

Loren tilted his head the slightest bit towards his companion, eyes flashing in the dark. “Me? Serious?” he asked.  Kal’s attention flitted over Loren’s face, a smile slowly stretching over her face when he offered her the slightest scrunch of his nose. The expression looked somehow sweeter on her, with dried blood crusted over her teeth, than it had in the palace where they’d first met.  “The Stone-Faced Twig, telling a joke,” she laughed. “No one’ll believe me.” “You’d share our special moment?” Loren continued mildly. “I’m gutted, Kal. Now what’ll I do with the ring I bought you?” Kal lightly shoved his arm, earning a soft huff that was drowned beneath her own delighted cackling.  Loren wasn’t sure, exactly, when the grief had worked its way up her throat alongside the joy. Just that one moment he had told a joke- a good one, it seemed- and the next, Kal was shuddering with her spear gripped too tightly in one hand, its tip digging mercilessly into the grassy hilltop. Not a drop of blood on either one of them in any place that Kal could see.  Loren supposed she didn’t really need to see, though, for the blood to linger. With a quiet curse, Loren raised his abandoned staff from the grass beside him and waved it loosely in her direction, easing her grip from the spear, knuckle by white-clenched knuckle, until he was certain she wouldn’t damage the new plating.  Loren swallowed the sour taste in his mouth as he poked through Kal’s memories, searching for something gentle. Back and back and back he weaved, as he always did with soldiers, until the Kal in his mind’s eye was so small as to be hardly recognizable. But this Kal was warm, covered head-to-toe in a half-finished, puke green blanket while another, smaller version of someone Loren might have known in another life cheered and clapped and pretended to be struck low by the Kal-monster.  “You don’t need to do that, you know,” Kal whispered at half her normal volume. Soothed by Loren’s efforts.  Loren flinched.  Kal’s hand quickly sought out his in the semi-dark, squeezing tightly when he attempted to shuffle away from her.  Her grip bordered on painful.  “I won’t tell the others,” she promised. Earnestly, by the sound of it. But sound was a liar that Loren knew well.  “I know some of the others appreciate…it,” she continued haltingly. “What you...do for them.” Loren grit his teeth. “Only because they don’t know,” he reminded her stiffly. Kal sniffed and tilted her head, studying Loren in exactly the way he’d been trying to avoid ever since he’d been conscripted. Ever since he set foot in that damn palace. Ever since he lost- “Loren-”

Wet with tears, her eyes reflected the moonlight.  “My mother’s name was Moon,” Loren suddenly confessed.  Kal’s smile wobbled, eyes travelling uncertainly to the sky.  “And my uncle’s name was Butter.” Loren sighed.  “Are we naming the donkey, too?” Kal asked lightly. “Because we can do it if it’ll make you feel better, Twig, but one day Truth will catch you by the throat and it won't be pretty.” Loren pulled his hand away again and Kal let him. Still, Loren didn’t rise to his feet like he’d intended to. He dug his fingers into the grass at his sides, digging up the scent of dirt and mulch. The wind changed and Loren thought he could smell the stew, too. He took a deep breath and let it wash over him, blocking out the muted murmurs of their company in the distance.         “What happened to 'Loren'?” he asked her without opening his eyes.  Kal’s hand fell companionably to his shoulder. Her temple against his own was quick to follow.  “Moment of weakness, Twig.” Loren chuckled sharply, slowly peeling his eyes open to peer up at the moon that watched over him, thinking of the Moon that did not.  “You’ve known the whole time?” he ventured carefully. Loren felt Kal shrug against him.  “Kind of easy to spot, you know? Your type never need much muscle to do the heavy-lifting, do they?” “Twig,” Loren realized.  Kal hummed, gently shoving him over as she climbed to her feet and reclaimed her spear, idly testing out the balance as she dithered.   “Everyone’s wondering where you went to,” she said with forced casualness, poking at imaginary enemies. “So. Unless you want me spilling your dirty, stargazing secret…” Kal’s attention drifted to Loren, then, and her restless hands slowly lowered to her hips. A wide, conspiring smile crept over her features. “You better beat me back to that damn campsite.” Loren frowned.  “Beat you-?” “Go!” Kal shouted, tearing down the hill with her spear and her smile and the blood in her teeth.  For a moment, all Loren could do was watch her go.  The he cursed and grabbed his staff, rushing down after her with a grumbled complaint, something heavy still caught in his chest.  But, somehow, lighter than it was before.

WRITING PROMPTS - Stars

One day, the stars disappeared from the sky, like a blanket over the earth.

"I think the stars are getting bigger."

The stars shift in the sky, and whisper messages into the ears of every child.

"Stargazing... is this what you do when you're not killing people?"

Stars have ears.

"I love the stars, because they love me."

What if the stars were gods?

"Watch the stars as you die, and they'll take you with them."

it was 9 chapters and aside from horrified (which i was), i was also embarrased i read those chapters outloud to friends

trying to find the time/energy to write now that the semester has started up again is not going to be as easy peasy as i thought lol

writers, pls reblog with your fav writing rituals/habits! i love getting inspired by seeing what works for other people :)

Bullet Point Tag

@aalinaaaaaa thanks for the tag! i decided to complete it for my in-progress fic, Short For Grenade

Drumstick soup? my favorite, yum

Anger issues -> pet dog pipeline

No weapons of mass destruction

Weapons of medium destruction are chill tho

Hashtag parenting win

Hives of love

You say dog, he says evil compass

Happy kidnap your friend(?) day!

Deny, deflect, detonate (and detonate one more time for good measure)

Idiot, dumbass, useless, stupid (affectionate)

This house is a prison

When your secrets keep being spilt by a guy you're not even telling them to

Rabbit trade? Denied. Loser.

Middle aged lady thieves

That's code for "my son has no friends"

All the phobias

Missing Masaru hours

Kidnapping, the sequel

Aaaand

Squirrel 1, Katsuki 0

The End :)

I’d be down to play Game #1 if anyone’s got title suggestions :)

Feel free to send them as an ask or as a comment, whatever your preference

Writing Games: Titles

1. Game:

Choose a title or let your followers send you some in. Write a short drabble or a full story with that title. What is the first idea that comes to your mind?

+ if you take the same title and write completely different stories/different genres with it

2. Game:

Let your followers send you the titles and then create a short summary for what a potential story would be about.

3. Game:

Choose one title for every letter in the alphabet from these lists and fill them or let your followers pick characters for you to write a story for each title with. (Inspired by evilwriter37)

Here are all the titles|Here are more Writing Games

Friday Kiss Tag

Thank you for the tag @the-golden-comet

Here is a snippet from The General's Bride

---

The quiet of the night settled over the Jade Blossom Pavilion, its usual stillness interrupted only by the faint flicker of lanterns swaying in the breeze. Jian sat by the window, gazing out at the moonlit garden, the light casting delicate patterns on his veil.

Luo Xingchen approached silently, his footsteps soft against the polished wood. "You’ve been up too long," he said, his voice low, almost reverent.

Jian didn’t turn. "The moon is too beautiful to waste behind closed eyes."

Xingchen stepped closer, his presence grounding. "And yet you hide your face from it."

Jian chuckled softly, his fingers grazing the edge of his veil. "Perhaps the moon isn’t the only thing worth hiding from."

The weight of Xingchen’s gaze pressed against his back, protective but unyielding. “Do you think me a wolf, waiting to pounce? Or the moon itself, casting light where it is not welcome?”

Jian’s voice softened, his words gentle. “You are neither. You are the warrior who guards me from both.”

Xingchen’s hand moved, hesitating briefly before lifting the edge of Jian’s veil. “And who guards you from me?”

Jian met his eyes, his expression unreadable but unafraid. “I don’t need protection from you, Xingchen.”

The veil slipped away, fluttering to the floor like a ribbon freed. Jian’s face, illuminated by the moonlight, was a sight Xingchen had not allowed himself to imagine fully. For a moment, neither spoke, the unspoken tension between them filling the silence.

Xingchen cupped Jian’s cheek gently, his thumb brushing over the smooth curve of his jaw. “You are the most dangerous person in this palace,” he murmured, his tone almost playful. “Do you know that?”

Jian’s lips parted slightly, a quiet inhale, before he responded. “And you are the only one foolish enough to stand so close to me.”

Xingchen leaned in, the space between them vanishing in a heartbeat. Their lips met in a kiss that began slow, tentative, as though testing the fragile boundaries of their world. But it deepened quickly, the weight of unspoken truths and unshed fears driving them closer. Jian’s hands clutched the fabric of Xingchen’s robe, grounding himself as the kiss consumed them both.

When they finally pulled away, breathless but unbroken, Xingchen rested his forehead against Jian’s, his voice low. “The moon can wait. Tonight, the stars are ours.”

---

I'll tag @finickyfelix @willtheweaver @leahnardo-da-veggie @illarian-rambling @winglesswriter @paeliae-occasionally @thecomfywriter @roarintheheavens @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass @seastarblue @frostedlemonwriter @vesanal

Hi! Can you tell me more about All It’s Worth? It sounds really interesting!

Hi, I'd love to! The story is still very much in the planning stage so apologies if my explanation of it is a little scatterbrained but thanks so much for the ask :)

All It's Worth is a mainly a story about Meric- a bitter and cynical son of farmers who lives in a small, outlying village, and Myre Halcyon- the much-hated black sheep of the current ruling family (House Myre) who is treated favorably only by his mother, the sole ruler, and has a single-minded obsession with the Kingfisher myth (a myth told by the Prophets (and that is central to their religion) which promises the appearance of water and the continuation of their civilization into a utopia).

aiw is set on a small planet that is mostly a sandy desert, with eight outlying villages, 5 internal towns, and the Court at its center, referred to as SeaPoint (a common phrase being "all roads lead to SeaPoint", since the city is arranged in a large circle). House Myre occupies SeaPoint, as its matriarch is the current leader, and the 5 towns surrounding SeaPoint all have strong cultural ties to the Houses that live there (Houses: Wayle, Ayke, Toyl, Eryr, and Ruyn). Members from each of these Houses hold positions at Court, but House Myre has been in control for a long time, hence each of the 5 towns creating a sort of identity around the bloodlines of their most powerful citizens. The outlying villages don't have as much of a stake in the House drama and tend to be much poorer (and much more religious) than citizens in the 5 towns and it's quite a trek to reach the outlying villages, so its mainly just travelled by the Prophets who bring water (via wagons) from SeaPoint to these villages.

Pretty much the only way that someone from one of the 8 villages travels to SeaPoint is if they pay for passage themselves, are a merchant of some sort (and thus, have wagons to use/ride in), or are told by the Prophets that they have a Calling (which is essentially a religious apprenticeship, and as long as the Called party does the job they were Called for well, their family is sent extra water from SeaPoint).

Meric and Halcyon find themselves at odds with each other pretty much immediately, largely because Meric thinks everything the Prophets say is complete bullshit that people only believe to make themselves feel better, especially when it comes to the Kingfisher (since his entire immediate community is made up of farmers whose livelihoods depend on water, and he understands that drought on their planet is imminent and inevitable). Meanwhile Halcyon buys completely into the myth and even takes it a step father by dedicating his young life to searching for this mysterious Kingfisher (while most people in the outlying villages simply take comfort in the idea that water will come and things will somehow turn out alright and most of the rich/powerful are unconcerned). Being from a rich family, Halcyon is also very ignorant of the threats/reality of drought and this further sours Meric against him.

Meric and Hal meet first when they're children and Meric's interactions with Hal result in a botched assassination attempt, and then for the second time when Meric cons his way into the central city as a Prophet and gets wrapped up in a surprise coup against the ruling family (by revolutionaries and a few, internal usurpers from the other Houses). Very much a wrong-place, wrong-time sort of scenario for Meric, where he's only spared because Hal had recognized him and tugged him aside to question him. Thinking that they're both targets (Meric for his deceit and Hal for his blood) they flee the Court together and try to evade detection. Forced to stick together for survival, they begin learning a lot of unexpected things about each other as well as their society and its creation.

The plot largely follows their interactions with one another (after the coup) as they navigate such a sudden change in their personal circumstances, with a focus on how they ultimately spur change in the other. But their interpersonal dramas and the secrets they stumble across also have huge impacts in the social/political landscape of the planet, seemingly by accident. Free will vs fate is something I want to play with a lot in this piece, so that it could be totally believable for a reader to think Meric and Hal's contributions to the old power vs revolutionaries conflict are entirely coincidence or entirely pre-destined/fate. Ideally, the reader would only get impressions of these big political machinations happening in the background while staying focused on the personal dramas of Meric and Hal.

I also plan to base a lot of my symbolism around things I've learned about the actual Kingfisher! The religious "temples" are underground, for one, and called burrows and because it can take a pair of Kingfishers 3-7 days to build a burrow, so 7 is considered a holy number and the burrows are always 37 steps deep. The blue of their wings is also the color of House Myre. One website even mentioned that many kingfishers can eat prey that seem too large to fit in their mouths, and this has a direct parallel to Hal and his relationship with another person at Court who had power over him as a child.

A lot of the inspiration for aiw honestly came from the song Empire Now by Hozier

Anyways, I think that covers most of the set-up? I have a few scenes visualized already but most of the later plot is still up in the air. This is already so long lol but I figured id also share the singular snippet i have written out for this! pls excuse the name placeholder towards the end

I. Dear Waterfox  Meric tugged at the bright, red cloth loosely knotted around his throat. The shadow of his movement stuck out oddly among the eerie line of his neighbors’, all of them dutifully pacing down the Burrow steps in silence. Torches on the left, shadows on the right, praise be the Carpal Reign.  Meric saw his mother’s shadow move before he felt her dirt-stained hands on his collar, readjusting the fabric.  “Don’t fuss,” she murmured. “It’s just for today.” Meric frowned and rolled his shoulders to be free of the touch.  “It’s uncomfortable,” he hissed back, inching a finger between the fabric and his skin to slide the knot away from the center of his throat.  The heavy thud of a hundred dusty Believers descending 37 dusty stairs in single file did little to cover the sound of their voices. Meric stuck out his tongue at the scandalized few who turned around with silent, chastising eyes. “It’s ceremonial,” his mother replied pointedly, no doubt forcing the words out from behind an appeasing smile. “To show that you are a child of the Prophets-” “Since when are you a Prophet?” Meric’s mother pulled on his ear, her shadow still leaning over his on the wall. Someone else’s wobbled with a poorly hidden laugh. Meric swatted her away again, eyes flicking away from the red, robe-clad Prophets scattered past the Burrow’s inner opening and to the rolling carts stacked high with waterskins along the back wall.  “Meric, so help me-” “I know,” he said, though he left his ceremonial nuisance askew. “I know,” he repeated, quieter and to himself.  The line continued marching forward until there was no one between Meric and Prophet -name-, who looked just the same as he had when he left for his travels four months ago and nothing at all like he had when he was seventeen and fun and the son of the farmer’s nextdoor.  Those fields were barren, now. No one left to till them.

may all the people who see this finish their current wip this year

Writers' Resolutions

A bunch of resolutions for writers and people who want to try writing this year. It's in no way something you must do, these are just ideas how you can set out to improve your writing in the new year.

Try something new

Try to write something you have never written before.

Write something silly, write something serious, write in a different genre, try to write characters that you haven't explored yet.

Write consistently

Writing consistently will not only give you exercise to become a better writer, it can also keep your voice as a writer consistent.

If you have a first draft, write it down quickly and without big breaks inbetween.

Don't wait for inspiration

Waiting for inspiration to come can take forever. So don't wait for inspiration: search for it.

Make writing into a habit that comes natural to you every day, look up writing prompts, read a book you like, get yourself into the mood to write and do it!

Do your research

As a writer, you need to know about a lot of different things.

You can do research by reading books, listening to podcasts, watching movies, talking to other people, etc.

Take this year to learn something new and then tell your reader all about it.

Edit that draft

We all have that one story we wrote a while ago and then stopped at the first draft.

Take it and reread it and then rewrite it. You have a new perspective on it now and maybe this will be the year you turn your idea into a book.

Set yourself a goal

This explicitly doesn't have to be a goal about how many words or pages you write.

Your goal can be to finish something, to edit something, to write a few sentences every day, to share more of your writing or to publish something.

Don't compare

Try not to compare your writing with that of someone else.

Writing is about finding your own voice and telling a story that only you can tell. Also: other people's accomplishes don't diminish your own!

Write!

Whatever the outcome of your writing may be and whatever you want to do with it, if you want to publish it, if you want to share it with friends, or if you want to keep it to yourself: just start writing!

Do what you love to do.

To all my lovely writers, I wish you a great year, may everything work out in your favour!

- Jana

The setting and style of Forest Fire has been fighting me a little, and I think I might be able to fix that if I lean more into the style of gothic fiction. I don’t know if the whole genre of my piece will shift as I write it out more, but it’s certainly a fun place to take inspiration from!

posted a new (old) fic today!! all it needed was a little touch up and it was good to go :)

its called scraped knees and sunday dinners

summary:

Izuku didn't get into U.A. and Katsuki did and that was supposed to be the end of it. But a chance encounter at the convenience store reminds Izuku just how much their relationship hasn't actually ended. Even if their new normal isn't exactly...normal. And not exactly new, either, since not a year has gone by since they were four in which Izuku and Kacchan were not, somehow, together.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61951150

in 2025 i'd like to write a full, first draft of my WIP Forest Fire (working title) and I think some external motivation would be a great push for me to keep engaging with my piece on a regular schedule! soo, what would you guys like to see me post by the end of january?

“Be curious about what you’re writing about” is not stock Common Writing Advice but it really, really should be. There are a lot of written works that fail due to the authors just being obviously incurious about what they are writing about.

I do a bingo board every year for low-pressure resolutions (most of them being things I want to do but might need a small nudge to actually get started, small things that will simply make me happy that I could use a reminder for, and some bigger goals/projects! very fun, I highly recommend)

anyways, my writing-related squares for 2025 are:

-finish my mha fic Short For Grenade (and post)

-engage more with the writeblr community (specifically, make another writeblr friend)

and

-try the NaNoWriMo challenge in March! (and I’ll post more abt this in the coming weeks in case anybody else would like to try to do it at the same time!)

Happy New Year!

Reblog or comment your writing resolutions for this year!

I set out to write at least a little bit every day in December and I managed to complete 27/31 days! I think this challenge really helped me identify some of my weaknesses and strengths as a writer and I’m proud of the work I put in

Hopefully I’ll be able to share a lot more of my writing with you all in 2025! Happy new year everyone <3

sooo.. I finally started my first draft and I'm struggling! I used to write on wattpad so I'm used to making sure every chapter is really polished so trying to just write without revision is hardddd!

Also, just to mention I decided not to plot this time. I noticed in the past when I would plot each chapter I would kind of fall off on it because it no longer fits, so now I'm just doing beginning middle and end and progressing based on my character's arc.

Today I wrote around 1.3k words for the first chapter but it's literally just dialogue and whatever happens that will push the plot forward. So theres no imagery which I know will be a pain in my ass to add in when I edit everything, but it gives me time to practice writing descriptions.

I also didn't completely finish my world building... which I don't know if thats good or not. I have a fully fleshed out magic system and an outline for how the world works, but I think I'll just add things as my book progresses.

Maybe in my next post I'll introduce my main character :)

Anyways, thats my writers rant for the day! Good night everyone

for my sprint i did 25 minutes total and wrote 1,019 new words for my mha fic Short For Grenade (link to the post explaining this fic concept is here <-). honestly i was typing like a madman for this one

i added a scene set at dagoba beach (which is not covered in trash for the sake of the grenade the dog AU) and finally started writing about grenade's talent for tracking! i had intended to have kota, eri, and the kids from the island show up as characters to bicker with katsuki but ended up just including eri for now

im excited to finally start showing izuku's progress with feeling more at ease around dogs (and having his relationship with katsuki become more friendly as well!)

happy writing everyone!! im so happy to see people participating in this!

Writing sprint tag game!

(Even if you haven’t been tagged, you are happily invited to participate!)

Here’s how the game works:

1) set aside some time to complete a 10-20min writing sprint, breaking up your writing time and break time however you see fit (I’ll prob do 10 min writing, a 5 min break, and then another 5 or 10 min of writing)

*if you want to do a shorter or a longer writing sprint, that’s totally fine too! 10-20min is just a low-pressure guideline

2) complete the sprint!

even if you cringe at the words you put down, the point is simply to get more words on the page than what you started with, so write that awkward sentence! skip that fiddly bit to write the scene you have inspiration for! anything new that ends up on the page is progress and anything you don’t love can always be edited later

3) have fun :)

remember, this sprint is a little nudge to help you reconnect with your creative writing. it’s 100% low-pressure, anything goes, and we’re all in it together 💪

4) share your sprint results

this part is totally optional but if you’d like to play along, reblog this post (or copy-paste the rules into a new post) with as many (or as few) answers as you feel comfortable sharing

*and if you make a new post, pls tag me so i can clap and cheer for you!!

how long was your sprint?

how many words did you write?

*anything more than zero is great!

what project did you complete the sprint for?

what did you end up adding to your WIP (or new project)?

*no need to share specific lines since the sprint’s focus is quantity over quality, but absolutely go wild with the overview. did you add a whole new scene? a new character? important dialogue for character development? a fun side quest you hadn’t planned on? an interesting bit you have no idea what to do with?

what part of your new writing excites you the most?

5) connect with your fellow writeblrs!

tag people in your response post to keep the creative energy flowing and offer encouragement and kudos to those who participate and share their progress!

gently tagging my writing moots to get this started:

@peaceheather @antsday @moody-tortured-artist @agirlandherquill @ohromeoraine @sorrowsfallallaround

shoot me a message or comment if you don't want to be tagged in these sorts of things (or if i haven't tagged you and you would like to be tagged in the future for writing things)

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.  

Writing sprint tag game!

(Even if you haven’t been tagged, you are happily invited to participate!)

Here’s how the game works:

1) set aside some time to complete a 10-20min writing sprint, breaking up your writing time and break time however you see fit (I’ll prob do 10 min writing, a 5 min break, and then another 5 or 10 min of writing)

*if you want to do a shorter or a longer writing sprint, that’s totally fine too! 10-20min is just a low-pressure guideline

2) complete the sprint!

even if you cringe at the words you put down, the point is simply to get more words on the page than what you started with, so write that awkward sentence! skip that fiddly bit to write the scene you have inspiration for! anything new that ends up on the page is progress and anything you don’t love can always be edited later

3) have fun :)

remember, this sprint is a little nudge to help you reconnect with your creative writing. it’s 100% low-pressure, anything goes, and we’re all in it together 💪

4) share your sprint results

this part is totally optional but if you’d like to play along, reblog this post (or copy-paste the rules into a new post) with as many (or as few) answers as you feel comfortable sharing

*and if you make a new post, pls tag me so i can clap and cheer for you!!

how long was your sprint?

how many words did you write?

*anything more than zero is great!

what project did you complete the sprint for?

what did you end up adding to your WIP (or new project)?

*no need to share specific lines since the sprint’s focus is quantity over quality, but absolutely go wild with the overview. did you add a whole new scene? a new character? important dialogue for character development? a fun side quest you hadn’t planned on? an interesting bit you have no idea what to do with?

what part of your new writing excites you the most?

5) connect with your fellow writeblrs!

tag people in your response post to keep the creative energy flowing and offer encouragement and kudos to those who participate and share their progress!

gently tagging my writing moots to get this started:

@peaceheather @antsday @moody-tortured-artist @agirlandherquill @ohromeoraine @sorrowsfallallaround

shoot me a message or comment if you don't want to be tagged in these sorts of things (or if i haven't tagged you and you would like to be tagged in the future for writing things)

omg ur writing is so good like how have i never heard of u before

-seafloor509 (im asking anon bc if i ask regularly itll show up as smth else and i dont want that)

(also u liked my ONE ONLY post so i came and found u and like ong ur writing is so t a s t e f u l)

thanks so much!! that really made my day :,)

and yes i remember your piece! i really enjoyed reading it. you have a strong voice and the atmosphere was really interesting

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."

working on a dabihawks companion piece to the one above ^ (official version of probably not on ao3 but i only changed like two lines)

im thinking touya would be like 17 here instead of the 13(?) he was when he disappeared and was presumed dead in canon

here's what ive gotten down so far:

*cw for homophobia!

The first time Touya became Dabi, he was angry. The echo of his father’s parting words had been ringing sharply in his head- over and over striking the church tower bell in his mind with an unceasing hammer.    

Disgrace, he’d said. Unfit to be my heir. 

Touya’s face had felt on fire beneath his father’s stony gaze. His mother’s timid silence had crawled like ice across the back of his neck. 

The lingering ghost of soft lips pressed sweetly against his own- tall, handsome ones; a new hire in his father’s precinct- had all but disappeared under the way Touya’s teeth had bit into his skin, desperately holding his tears at bay. 

Choose that lifestyle, and you’re dead to me, his father had spat.   

It was purely by accident that someone had failed to lock away that day’s evidence into its proper place, a few cans of spray paint left abandoned on a precinct desk next to a bloody flyer and a broken phone. 

Touya had swiped the purple as he stormed away from his father’s stupid promotion party, scrubbing uselessly at his face. Half-hoping that his mother would have skittered after him once his father’s back was turned to wipe them away herself. 

Half-hoping that his father would have finally hired Touya to work alongside him, proud to announce it in between important handshakes and celebratory drinks. 

Half-blind with rage, Touya had spilled out of the back door like a drunkard, laughing softly to himself at first- grief grating the tender sides of his throat and then spilling harshly out into the open air like a hyena among the broken bottles and forgotten alley trash. 

Alone, behind the building that was his father’s one and only pride and joy, the can in his grip had felt heavy with promise and Touya didn’t pause to think before his trigger finger was pressing down on the release. 

Probably dead by now, he'd scrawled, the angry words biting into pristine red brick. Spite drawing a humorless huff from Touya’s unsmiling mouth. 

“All for a fucking kiss,” he’d whispered. 

But Touya knew- in the same, wordless way he knew his mother had never loved Touya more than she’d feared him- that Enji Todoroki was never going to hire Touya in the first place. No matter how good his marks, how fast he ran the mile, how much he volunteered with the other interns. The ones who always whispered behind his back that Touya’s last name made him golden. 

“Fuck him,” Touya had hissed furiously, slamming the can of spray paint onto the ground where it clanged satisfyingly against dark-cut asphalt, drowning out the sound of his disownment. Then he’d kicked it, for good measure, blinking wetly as he’d watched as it rolled into the shadow of a broken street lamp. 

The cars whizzing by had been none the wiser. 

Slowly, Touya had walked forward- boots thumping step by step by step until he was encased entirely in the single halo of darkness left on a bright, lamp-lit street. 

There had been a cracked-open window. A pop of champagne. A muted cheer.  

Without a second thought, Touya had crouched down to retrieve the can, slipping it into the pocket of his suit jacket before stomping away, an alias on the tip of his tongue and the life of a cracked-open son left behind. The ghost of a kiss left abandoned like a cigarette stub on the sidewalk.

@probabydeadbynow i saw your user (though im now realizing i misread it, lol) and it sparked this short fic idea so i wanted to share it with you before i post to ao3 (bnha, no quirk AU)

There was a piece of graffiti Izuku always saw around town. Sometimes it’d be done in white, other times blue, but most of the time it was purple- each letter looped and sprawling and bleeding into the next. 

Probably dead by now, it always said. 

Izuku didn’t know why he liked it so much. It felt odd to smile at those words when he saw them spray painted underneath the Musutafu bridge but, then again, he remembered seeing those same exact words when he was being driven home from the hospital after breaking his arm for the first time, a lollipop between his lips and a new All Might plush under his arm. And then again the morning his Dad came home for Christmas, surprising Izuku at the door. And then again the day of Kacchan’s 10th birthday party. The one with the All Might impersonator that had carried them both around on his shoulders for a while, their sweaty hands linked behind his head for no other reason except that they were happy. 

White then blue then white again. Purple today. 

Probably dead by now, it always said. 

Probably not, Izuku thought back, peering out of the passenger window with a growing smile. 

Izuku had never seen the artist. Never even caught a glimpse, but their handwriting was paint-splattered over so many of Izuku’s brightest memories. 

“What’s got you so smiley, huh?” Kacchan asked. 

Izuku turned away from the window, watching the way Kacchan’s sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel like his life depended on it. He’d only had his license for a few weeks now. 

“I think something good’s going to happen today,” Izuku replied.

Privately, he was pretty sure it already had. 

Kacchan hadn’t invited Izuku anywhere since that 10th birthday party at the arcade and now they were on their way to tour a newly built school together. 

Kacchan scoffed lightly. “What’s so good about college?” he shot back. 

“I don’t know,” Izuku replied honestly, idly flicking through the UA pamphlet resting on his lap. “Maybe…” Izuku glanced towards Kacchan. Quieter, he said, “Maybe we’ll end up going there together. You know, like old times?” 

Really old times, anyway. When Izuku would trade his apple slices for Kacchan’s potato chips at lunchtime and they’d walk home together in their baby blue smocks, hands clasped firmly together.

Not like the way they’d make passing eye contact in the halls of their high school, always in opposite motion even if Izuku’s eyes would sometimes trail after Kacchan's back. 

Even if sometimes he caught Kacchan looking, too. 

Kacchan was quiet for a few moments, the careful tick of the turn signal a feeble echo of Izuku’s hammering pulse.  

Izuku was pretty sure he remembered seeing that same graffiti- purple, and nearly washed out by a recent rainstorm- the day Kacchan threw Izuku’s notebook from a third story window in junior high. 

“Just don’t expect me to fucking hold your hand,” Kacchan eventually bit out, eyes averted- his focus too intense on the empty road for it mean anything other than embarrassment. 

His tone too light for it to even feel like a denial. 

Izuku quickly turned his gaze to his knees, smothering a smile. The UA pamphlet creased beneath his fingers. 

Probably dead by now.  

Purple. Scribbled across the window of an empty storefront. 

Kacchan had grabbed Izuku’s hand two blocks later and shoved that same pamphlet at him, holding on for a beat too long. 

“You dropped that,” he’d lied. 

His hand had been warm. 

“My dad and I were gonna tour it this weekend but he’s got a work thing.”

Izuku’s eyes had been wide and curious. He’d held his breath while Kacchan scratched the back of his neck and scuffed the toe of his shoe on the ground, casting around for the right words to say. 

“I guess you could take his spot or whatever,” he’d continued with a shrug. “If you pay for gas. ‘Cause I’m going whether you catch a ride or not.”

Izuku had thought that Kacchan would probably leave him in the dust by the time it came to go to college. Or not go, he supposed, but…

Izuku lifted his head again, listening to the way Kacchan hummed softly along with the radio. His sunglasses were All Might themed- a custom release with a subtle design that Izuku hadn’t been able to afford. 

There was a second pair, just like it, shoved towards Izuku’s chest when he first climbed into Kacchan’s car, along with a muttered comment about how Kacchan didn’t want to hear any crybaby complaints about the sun. 

They rested comfortably on Izuku’s head now. 

Probably dead by now, it always said.  

Izuku pulled them down until everything in his field of vision was tinged a soft yellow. 

Life was funny that way, he thought.

looking for fellow writers!! togachako writing game edition

interested in writing a second part to a short togachako fic i wrote?

i dont really plan on doing anything with this piece so i think it'd be really fun to see people's takes on how to continue it! like a super low pressure writing game

if you do participate, pls tag me or reblog so i can see your contribution!! even if its just a few lines!

the fic is a loose play on frankenstein with some adam & eve elements thrown in (and the unnamed girl is ochako)

have at it! :)

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Toga was a bloodied thing, she knew. 

She was born with cold metal kissing her bare skin and electricity shrieking down her spine. Her first breath- a choking, cut-off scream- was not even her own, the memory too tightly braided with the boom of Dr. Garaki's laughter in his small laboratory. 

I made you, he had explained, pain still ringing oddly in her skull. 

She had been made, not born, and no one loved to remind her of this fact more than Dr. Garaki himself. 

Pet, he called her, grinning indulgently in his tall, wingback office chair. The reflection of his glasses shone like fire. Like the spark that had jolted her alive. 

I made you, he’d say. I made you. 

But what am I? Toga would ask, twin pinpricks of too-sharp teeth digging into her too-wide lips while she fumbled out the words, warmth dribbling from her rosy smile. 

Dr. Garaki did not like this image, nor the question. 

You are my creation, he’d snap, the floor rumbling with the force of his rise from the wingback chair. Do you not trust me, pet? 

Toga would watch the sky flash outside the dark windows of the laboratory and nod, nod, nod because she did not know what she was but she knew punishment well. 

All Toga knew was punishment and Inside. 

The Inside of the laboratory, which smelled faintly of the coins that slipped between uneven couch cushions, and the Inside of Toga- drawn from her own disordered lips- red as plush velvet and twice as sweet. 

Good, Dr. Garaki would say from behind his wide, unbreachable desk. Now behave. 

Behave, behave, behave. 

This word buzzed around Toga’s head like the constant drone of heavy machinery in the lab. It followed her when she closed her fists around home-smelling coins, retrieved from their hiding places late at night, and when she draped her goose-bumped body in the off-limits, grass-green curtains, and, louder still, when she peered out of small, dirt-smeared windows, asking after the word for grass.

Red had leaked from her cheek, then, bursting forth from the skin by the rings adorning Dr. Garaki’s punishing hand. But the word had slipped out as he’d shouted. 

Toga’s tongue had darted to the corner of her mouth and she’d imagined the word blooming over her tongue- swallowed and safe within herself. 

Yes, Toga knew of Inside well. She craved the taste of Outside, now. 

Outside she saw a girl with red flowers in her hand, picked from the border of Dr. Garaki’s property, and high on her cheeks laid a dusting of soft-petalled blush. 

Toga had never known the color red could be so gentle.

Toga longed to be picked from the laboratory like the thorned stems in the girl’s steady hands. To be lifted up. To be held. 

“You’re not supposed to be looking through there,” Twice whispered from over Toga’s shoulder. “It’s bad.” 

Toga gnawed on her bottom lip, drawing red to the surface until she matched the roses being carried further and further from the laboratory. 

“Why?” she asked. 

Toga didn’t know who she was asking- Twice, the disappearing girl, or the flowers? 

Twice was the only one to respond. 

“Because Dr. Garaki said it’s bad,” he reminded her nervously. 

Toga watched the girl’s form begin to blur on the horizon. 

Twice shook her shoulder and Toga’s gaze slipped to the touch, observing the firm boundary between Toga and Twice. His fingers held the same shape as Dr. Garaki’s- more same than Toga’s- yet held none of the anger. Only urgency. 

“How come Dr. Garaki gets to make all the rules?” Toga asked. 

Twice’s hand slipped away like the question had bitten him, and, Toga thought to herself, maybe it had. With Twice’s same-enough hands he could cradle lessons from Dr. Garaki on how to name the objects in the laboratory. His scratching fingers could be gently pulled away from his seams. He could hold close the smiling shape of son on Dr. Garaki’s lips. 

Twice held the honor of being made same-enough while Toga’s hands and heart and smile were wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Pet, Dr. Garaki said, teeth glistening behind a simper. Filthy-

“Mr. Garaki wants what’s best for us,” Twice said, twitching on the last syllable and scratching the ragged line carved down his forehead. 

“Does he?” Toga questioned. 

How do you know? she wanted to ask. She craved his certainty with a desperation that left her Inside chest pounding hard against the firm line of her Outside body. 

Twice twitched. 

“I trust him.” 

The dull roar of the laboratory seemed loud today, and Toga felt restless. 

“Do you trust?” Twice asked. 

Toga’s mouth quivered and she turned her gaze back to the small window. The girl was gone now but she would be back tomorrow. 

Toga flinched as the door slammed open and Dr. Garaki appeared a moment later. 

Pet or-

“Filthy woman,” Dr. Garaki muttered, striding forward to yank the green curtain from Toga’s body. The view of Outside disappeared. 

Toga shivered. 

“Don’t you know your shame dirties you?” Dr. Garaki continued, staring at the Outside of her body. 

Could he see the Inside?

Toga desperately hoped that he couldn’t. 

“It’s unbecoming of my creations,” he stated before spinning on his covered foot to stride through his office door, a box of rattling machine parts held in his arms. 

Toga’s trust in Dr. Garaki was as brittle as the vase she had tipped over the other day, fascinated by the sound it made when it hit the floor. Left in a puddle of red after Dr. Garaki had found her. 

Inside herself, Toga said, I do not trust Dr. Garaki, and shame bloomed hot and heavy in her chest. 

She felt like the vase, one breathless moment before it shattered. 

“Toga?” Twice whispered, eyes drooping with concern. 

“It’s cold,” Toga whispered. 

Twice fidgeted for a moment, his nails hesitating a  few inches from his sewn-together face. After a furtive glance towards Dr. Garaki’s closed office door, he gave into the urge to scratch, leaving raking, red lines across his Outside. 

“I know,” he murmured. “Do I? I…yes. I know.” 

Toga blinked away the blurry heat gathering in her eyes and reached out with her not-same-enough hand until it rested on Twice’s knee. 

Slowly, she ran her hand up and down one length of his leg. Then faster. 

Twice stared. 

“See?” she whispered. “It makes warmth.”

“I…” Twice peeked over his shoulder, towards the door Dr. Garaki had disappeared behind. “…see. I see. I do.”

Toga removed her hand and watched Twice repeat the action for himself. 

Toga turned back to the green curtain, looking in the place she knew the window lived, and began rubbing warmth back into her arms as she imagined the girl. 

I trust her, Toga decided. 

And how lovely was it for there to be a her that wasn’t Toga? A her that Toga might be same-enough for. 

Dr. Garaki cursed the Outside people but Toga bit her lip and danced with the idea that the girl from Outside might see Toga- red as the roses she always returned to- and pluck her, instead. 

And then maybe Toga could live how she wanted to. Cursed or not.

hey so let’s just go wild!!! you can write what you want!! and even share it with others!!!

personally, i definitely think that these phrases stand out a lot more to the writer than to the reader, but if you feel like those comparison phrases are adding up too much or getting a bit clunky, I’d recommend experimenting with metaphors rather than trying to look for replacements for “like” or “as”

to a reader, something like “her smile was like the rising sun” is super easy to read and can do a lot of work communicating theme and mood and details about the character (or narrator, depending) but switching it up to something more complex like “her smile was akin to the rising sun” can make a reader pause and go ‘huh that’s a little awkward’ unless that’s the style of language you’ve been writing in the whole time

that said, i think the simplest way to cut down on similes if you have too many (or don’t enjoy how they affect the flow of your sentences) is to use metaphors. they can help cut down that barrier between a character comparing two things (e.g. her smile & the rising sun) and instead appeal directly to a reader’s senses or their understanding of the world, so that the comparison just becomes part of the scene itself

for example, I was reading Sally Rooney’s Normal People during the unit on comparisons for a writing course I took and some that stood out to me were how she described “rain silver as loose change in the glare of traffic” and how that rain “[whispered] on slick roof tiles”

the first quote is a simile while the second is a metaphor, but both of them are making comparisons (the first comparing rain & loose change, leaning on a readers visual reference for shiny coins and implying that the narrator thinks these two things are alike) while the second one compares the sound of rain to the sound of whispering by making it part of the scene description directly. rather than say “it was as if the rain whispered on slick roof tiles” Rooney broke down the barrier that similes sometimes put up by directly appealing to the reader’s senses instead (sound here, instead of sight) and that’s effective bc a reader can very easily understand what it means for rain to whisper without the author having to put in a lot of work looking for a natural way to say “the rain seemed as if it was whispering on slick roof tiles”

and sometimes similes just work better than metaphors. it really depends but, as the author, you get to choose what works for you and what doesn’t

these kind of considerations can be hard to remember when you’re in the middle of writing, too, but the editing phase can be a great place to turn some similes into metaphors (or to decide that you like all your similes and to leave them be!)

i know a lot of my writing involves me writing exactly what I mean, and then scaling it back in the editing phase so that I’m showing what I mean instead of stating it all outright- and in that process a lot of similes end up incorporated in different ways (either by using metaphors instead or by dropping the comparison altogether and leaning more on body language and or theme to draw out the ideas and impressions i want a reader to get) so maybe that strategy could work for you too?

i got a little long-winded here but I hope this helps!

As a newer writer, I'm struggling to use similes in more ways other than by phrases like "like", "seeming as", "as if" or other versions of these three.

What are some of the other, if any, ways to compare something to something else, to avoid a book turning mundane?

Plotting is so much easier when you remember that editing exists; if it doesn’t go right the first time, you can fuck around later and make it better once you’ve got a clearer picture in your head of what you’re after

Your story probably isn’t gonna look even close to your plotting notes by the end of it, and that’s a good thing; it means your drafting worked

Hey! So now that I feel a lil bit more confident, I had another idea (again pretty simple, but I don’t have that many complex thoughts xD)

Midoriya Izuku (again, but I love this gremlin) + Eraserhead saves him (from a villain/classmates/his family/himself, whatever you want) + quirkless Izuku AU/Izuku didn’t receive One for All

Here! I love quirkless Izuku’s fanfictions because I really enjoy how the authors are dealing with his anxious self-deprecating mindset, writing angst with it or fluff - I particularly enjoy when Aizawa saves him or talks to him about it even if he doesn’t know anything about this kid, just that he’s quirkless and in danger.

Btw! I don’t remember that you asked for a vibe in particular but if you didn’t want to write angst or hurt/comfort, I’m really sorry! My prompt is really heading in this direction, so sorry if it’s not what you want…

In anyway, have a great day, evening or night 💚💫

Author's note: thanks for the prompt! I think AUs where Izuku doesn't have OFA are really interesting and it was nice to practice writing something without a romantic focus | 500 words

*cw for reckless behavior that could be seen as suicidal

Izuku was 76% sure he could do it. He shuffled closer to the ledge of the Daiki Electric building, eyeing the distance to the alley below. 

All he had to do was catch himself on the windowsill of the building next door, drag his soles against the brick to slow his momentum, hop to the opposite wall to counterbalance his falling weight, and then land. 

Easy peasy. 

Or, maybe not easy but…

“Necessary,” Izuku murmured, bending slightly at the knees as he gathered his courage. 

Maybe it wasn’t realistic or easy or safe, but Izuku didn’t have anything else, so- 

“Nothing else?” an unfamiliar voice challenged. 

Izuku startled, tipping toward the open air and the cold, hard concrete below- a shout ripped from his throat. 

76% suddenly seemed too optimistic. 

Izuku flailed, fingertips hardly scraping brick when something soft wrapped around his middle, unyielding, and hoisted him back to solid ground. 

Once released, Izuku collapsed on his hands and knees, gasping and trembling. 

“Breathe,” the voice instructed.

A man, Izuku was pretty sure. He’d only barely caught a glimpse of them perching on the roof, all wrapped in shadow while Izuku plummeted toward the sidewalk. 

That...probably deserved a thank you, didn’t it? 

“If you want to thank me, how about tell me what you’re doing up here?” 

Izuku’s head shot toward the man, startled. 

“You’re mumbling,” he explained. 

“You’re Eraserhead,” Izuku shot back, gobsmacked. 

The man tipped his head to the side, more of an acknowledgment than an agreement. 

Starstruck, Izuku rose to his knees. “You’re so cool! You have no idea! Or- actually I guess you would have an idea, considering you’re him and-“

“Thanks, kid,” Eraserhead murmured, “but we were talking about you.” 

“Me?” 

“You.” Eraserhead gestured toward the ground. “Jumping.”

Izuku waved his hands in frantic denial. “N-no! I was training!”

Eraserhead tilted his head again and, this time, it felt like doubt. 

“I-it’s true! I- I wanna be a hero, but...the thing is, I’m quirkless, so I have to work harder than everybody else a-and how could I chase a villain in a fight if I can't even...I mean, heroes like All Might can just shoot off and save the day, you know?” 

Eraserhead paced slowly closer to Izuku, then dropped into a crouch, reminding Izuku that he was still on his knees.

Still shaking. 

“If I were quirkless,” Eraserhead started carefully, “I would think that means…weight training. Cardio. Martial arts or a long distance weapon. Both, even. Not leaping off of rooftops.”

Izuku’s breath caught in his throat, saltwater slowly blurring his vision and slipping past his lips. 

“I…I just wanted…” Izuku choked out. 

“I know, kid.” Eraserhead’s hand landed carefully atop Izuku’s head. 

Warm. Grounding.

Izuku shut his eyes in relief, still sniffling. 

“Let’s get off this roof, okay? I'll...buy you a milk, or something.”

“A-and you’ll give me your autograph?”

Eraserhead huffed softly. 

“Only if you can make me a list of things that'll keep you off of rooftops."

"Your autograph would help."

@probabydeadbynow i saw your user (though im now realizing i misread it, lol) and it sparked this short fic idea so i wanted to share it with you before i post to ao3 (bnha, no quirk AU)

There was a piece of graffiti Izuku always saw around town. Sometimes it’d be done in white, other times blue, but most of the time it was purple- each letter looped and sprawling and bleeding into the next. 

Probably dead by now, it always said. 

Izuku didn’t know why he liked it so much. It felt odd to smile at those words when he saw them spray painted underneath the Musutafu bridge but, then again, he remembered seeing those same exact words when he was being driven home from the hospital after breaking his arm for the first time, a lollipop between his lips and a new All Might plush under his arm. And then again the morning his Dad came home for Christmas, surprising Izuku at the door. And then again the day of Kacchan’s 10th birthday party. The one with the All Might impersonator that had carried them both around on his shoulders for a while, their sweaty hands linked behind his head for no other reason except that they were happy. 

White then blue then white again. Purple today. 

Probably dead by now, it always said. 

Probably not, Izuku thought back, peering out of the passenger window with a growing smile. 

Izuku had never seen the artist. Never even caught a glimpse, but their handwriting was paint-splattered over so many of Izuku’s brightest memories. 

“What’s got you so smiley, huh?” Kacchan asked. 

Izuku turned away from the window, watching the way Kacchan’s sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel like his life depended on it. He’d only had his license for a few weeks now. 

“I think something good’s going to happen today,” Izuku replied.

Privately, he was pretty sure it already had. 

Kacchan hadn’t invited Izuku anywhere since that 10th birthday party at the arcade and now they were on their way to tour a newly built school together. 

Kacchan scoffed lightly. “What’s so good about college?” he shot back. 

“I don’t know,” Izuku replied honestly, idly flicking through the UA pamphlet resting on his lap. “Maybe…” Izuku glanced towards Kacchan. Quieter, he said, “Maybe we’ll end up going there together. You know, like old times?” 

Really old times, anyway. When Izuku would trade his apple slices for Kacchan’s potato chips at lunchtime and they’d walk home together in their baby blue smocks, hands clasped firmly together.

Not like the way they’d make passing eye contact in the halls of their high school, always in opposite motion even if Izuku’s eyes would sometimes trail after Kacchan's back. 

Even if sometimes he caught Kacchan looking, too. 

Kacchan was quiet for a few moments, the careful tick of the turn signal a feeble echo of Izuku’s hammering pulse.  

Izuku was pretty sure he remembered seeing that same graffiti- purple, and nearly washed out by a recent rainstorm- the day Kacchan threw Izuku’s notebook from a third story window in junior high. 

“Just don’t expect me to fucking hold your hand,” Kacchan eventually bit out, eyes averted- his focus too intense on the empty road for it mean anything other than embarrassment. 

His tone too light for it to even feel like a denial. 

Izuku quickly turned his gaze to his knees, smothering a smile. The UA pamphlet creased beneath his fingers. 

Probably dead by now.  

Purple. Scribbled across the window of an empty storefront. 

Kacchan had grabbed Izuku’s hand two blocks later and shoved that same pamphlet at him, holding on for a beat too long. 

“You dropped that,” he’d lied. 

His hand had been warm. 

“My dad and I were gonna tour it this weekend but he’s got a work thing.”

Izuku’s eyes had been wide and curious. He’d held his breath while Kacchan scratched the back of his neck and scuffed the toe of his shoe on the ground, casting around for the right words to say. 

“I guess you could take his spot or whatever,” he’d continued with a shrug. “If you pay for gas. ‘Cause I’m going whether you catch a ride or not.”

Izuku had thought that Kacchan would probably leave him in the dust by the time it came to go to college. Or not go, he supposed, but…

Izuku lifted his head again, listening to the way Kacchan hummed softly along with the radio. His sunglasses were All Might themed- a custom release with a subtle design that Izuku hadn’t been able to afford. 

There was a second pair, just like it, shoved towards Izuku’s chest when he first climbed into Kacchan’s car, along with a muttered comment about how Kacchan didn’t want to hear any crybaby complaints about the sun. 

They rested comfortably on Izuku’s head now. 

Probably dead by now, it always said.  

Izuku pulled them down until everything in his field of vision was tinged a soft yellow. 

Life was funny that way, he thought.

since im already trying to write every day in December, ive decided to try finishing (or at least making significant progress) in a medium length fic of mine that i honestly forgot existed until today

basically, the concept is that middle school bakugou gets a dog to help with his anger issues and then becomes super nosy when he finds out izuku had a bad experience with a dog when they were kids and tries to mastermind izuku into liking his dog (which ends up backfiring in the sense that bkg masterminds himself into liking izuku). here are some snippets! (the dogs name is Grenade btw)

*****

“Why the fuck didn’t I know Deku was allergic to dogs?” Katsuki asked over dinner, surreptitiously sneaking a helping of pork to the dog snugly resting at his feet. 

“Because he’s not?” his mother responded, pausing mid-bite to level Katsuki with an annoyed frown. “And I see you feeding that dog, brat. Stop it.”

“You can’t prove anything,” Katsuki shot back, only for Nade’s head to pop up from beneath the table cloth a moment later, a paw placed pleadingly on Katsuki’s thigh. 

His mother raised an imperious eyebrow. 

“Whatever,” Katsuki muttered dejectedly. “And yes the fuck he is. Him and Auntie totally freaked at the park today.”

His father’s utensils clattered to his plate in an uncharacteristic show of clumsiness. “You had Nade around Izuku?” he asked, concerned. 

Katsuki frowned at him. “Not on purpose,” he hedged. “He didn’t even get close.” Then he turned to face his mother again. “Because he’s allergic.”

*****

“Oi, Deku,” Katsuki said. 

Deku jolted out of his trance and blinked up at Katsuki. “I’m not a stalker!” he announced without prompting. “Your desk isn’t really that far away from mine and your handwriting is clear enough to be seen from several seats away and it's only natural that I would be curious ab- I mean, that my eyes would wander and just happen to glance over your notebook, it’s not like it was intentional or anything, and-”

“That’s not what this is about, nerd,” Katsuki interrupted, swatting Izuku’s concern away like an annoying fly. “You know dogs are walked on sidewalks, right?”

Deku’s stance grew more rigid and his eyes rapidly scanned the area for signs of Grenade, one hand instinctively grasping at his side and Katsuki batted away the wayward desire to lift Deku’s shirt to see if that’s where the scar was because that would be weird.

Hey! Saw your post about giving you prompts ^^ I hope it’s not too bad (first time doing this in my life and I’m an anxious blond head so-)

The prompt is:

Midoriya Izuku + chronic pain (is this a headcanon? I don’t know what’s canon or not anymore) + AU where he’s in a romantic with Katsuki/Shoto/both

I hope it is what you wanted! I know it is pretty simple but I didn’t want to go too overboard for my first prompt. Love your works 💚

Thanks sm for the prompt!! I recognize your user and i'm super flattered that you enjoy my stuff! Chronic pain Izuku is a great headcanon :)

Hope you like it <3

500 words | Deku + chronic pain + bktddk

“So, what’s this?” Uraraka asks, with the air of someone who knows exactly what this is but wants to force Izuku through the mortifying ordeal of explaining it anyway. 

Izuku cringes and closes his eyes. 

Todoroki, immune to embarrassment, says, “We’re massaging Midoriya’s arms.”

Kacchan, immune to social pressure, doesn’t even bother to respond. 

Izuku, caught between two very warm, very close bodies, alternates between melting at the gentle way they knead out the pain from his aching muscles and fidgeting nervously. 

“While practically in his lap?” Uraraka presses. “Both of you?”

And Kacchan and Todoroki do both have a leg tossed over Izuku’s. 

For leverage. Obviously. 

Izuku peeks open one eye, trying to psychically beg Uraraka to stop asking questions and just let him have this. 

“You’re overworking yourself,” Kacchan mutters, displeased and using his quirk to massage a particularly sore finger joint. 

They're practically holding hands.

“Uh huh,” Izuku responds intelligently. 

“Dumbfuck,” Kacchan chastises, flicking his temple. “Listen to me.”

Izuku draws in a sharp breath as Todoroki’s chin comes to rest gently on his other shoulder. 

“He’s right, you know.”

“Don’t…” Izuku starts, falling silent when Todoroki’s thumb presses distractingly against Izuku’s palm. 

Then Kacchan’s temple falls carefully against Izuku’s, breath warm across his cheek, and Izuku tries his best to remember the rest of his sentence. 

“Don’t…um…inflate his ego, Todoroki-kun.” 

Kacchan uses his head to press the three of them closer together, less gently than before, knocking Izuku's skull into Todoroki’s. Three peas in a pod. 

“I don’t get ego-stroking privileges?”  

Izuku laughs nervously. 

“No?”

Todoroki hums. 

“I think Midoriya is a little distracted at the moment.”

Izuku shakes his head. “Not distracted,” he promises. “Just…uh. I'm just…um...”

“Just convinced you two haven’t been hitting on him all year,” Uraraka finishes, voice a conspiratorial whisper, before moving away to the kitchen. 

Izuku can’t help the startled noise that escapes him when two pairs of soft lips press against his cheeks. 

“Get the message yet, nerd?”  

Izuku pauses with an honest answer on his lips and swallows it back down, face growing hot, because if this is real (and all the signs suggested it was) then, 

“…no.”

“No?” Todoroki repeats.

Izuku squeezes his eyes shut. Nervously, he mumbles, “Might have to make it clearer.”

His little stunt is rewarded with a pleased rumble from Kacchan- now nosing at his temple, lips skating achingly close to Izuku's skin in a not-quite kiss- and Todoroki sliding further onto Izuku’s lap.

They’re both still massaging his arms. Izuku hasn't been thinking about the pain for quite a while, though. 

“I don’t know how we could be clearer,” Todoroki says and the heat and the closeness and the genuine concern for his well being must be melting Izuku’s brain because he blurts out, 

“Kiss me.”

It’s worth it, though, for the way they dip down and finally give him what he’s been dreaming about. Ten times sweeter than any whispered, late-night wish. 

"But don't go thinking you call the shots, nerd."