#always wip

[gimlilithegreat]

Me reading a fic that hasn’t been updated in 1 year plus: huh, what a shame, looks like it’s abandoned.

Someone commenting on my fic that hasn’t been updated in 2 years: such a shame this is abandoned.

Me: IT’S NOT ABANDONED IF IM STILL THINKING ABOUT IT. HOW DARE—

[aha-my-villainous-thoughts]

I... I just closed a window without saving the last two hours of work.

I ignored the prompt because I thought I was closing a reference image.

I will not emotionally recover from this for a week.

[doctorpariahdax]

practicepracticepracticepracticepaecarticiecaptareaticeaptairace. :P

[mac-a08]

[cherrycola27]

wip snippet game (because there’s always a wip snippet game) because there's always a wip 💕

post your latest line & tag as many people as there are words (not happening) - thanks for the tag @roosterforme

"Depends"

"On what?" Rooster asks. "On if you can beat me at pool." She challenges.

"Deal." Rooster states as the two of them hop off their bar stools and make their way over to an open table.

Tagging: @thedroneranger @youlightmeupfinn @dreamingathighaltitude

[solruthis]

Mmm I've a moment to do something by myself but I can't choose between continuing to paint my little TS or sketch this one drawing idea I just got

[zombies-and-plushies]

Let me be.

How do you find a place In your brain, a small space Where you can be ok Be ok with you. I wish I could tell my thoughts In a small voice Let me be Let me be Let me be. This brain of mine Keeps me awake all the time I wish it would quiet Just for a moment I wish I could tell the world In a small voice Let me be Let me be Let me be. The noise It gets louder Louder LOUDER. Never goes Only flows Like the tide Of a raging sea. Louder. Violent. Quiet. Deception. I wish I could tell that sea In a small voice Let me be Let me be Let me be.

[sovereign-chuami]

[timeline - origin]

  As five year old Chuami lay face down in the sand, filthy, exhausted to a point that would have been terminal for any other child, a single thought repeated, even as her awareness faded.                           "I should be home by now. Someone will come for me."   The dress she wore was soaking, torn and bloody from deep bites left by sahagins and all manner of other sea-fiends. The sand had gotten into her hair, all she could see was black and grit covering her face as she lay and waited, because there was nothing else she could do, even as her right arm screamed agony; possibly the only thing keeping her concious. The sound of the sea mingled with the semi-conscious white noise in her head and she lost track of time.   She heard laughter somewhere ahead of her and tried to move, to call out. She failed. In the darkness, she looked like a pile of discarded rags. By a turn of fate, however, by some random chance that she would never consider less than a miracle, one of the group of men she heard split off to investigate the washed-up bundle. "What is that...? Hey wait. I'm gonna check." By the light of the stars and a small flashlight, Isa knelt down and tried to pick up a layer of fabric. When it didn't come off, when it contoured to the shape of a child's body, he dropped the flashlight and pulled her onto her back, his heart in his throat. She was dead. She had to be. Nothing could live in this state.   Her eyelids fluttered, then opened, just enough for him to make out the movement. With his free hand, he picked up the flashlight and shone it on her face. "Can you hear me?" Nothing. But... her eyes... blue, or...? No. Lavender. Chuami...? "Pris... where is she?" Chuami used the last of her waking strength to turn her head back toward the ocean. Isa bit back tears.   Isa kept the tiny stranger with him through the night. He travelled back with her in the morning to the small excavation settlement on the west coast of Bikanel Island that he and his son called home, and when he arrived, his son was there to meet him. Sacha was seven, small for his age, with his father's dirty blonde hair. He didn't share Isa's golden-hazel eyes, instead inheriting his Mariana's brown ones, the Al Bhed spiral hardly visible in their darkness. "Vydran! You're late, you-- What's that? ... Is that... the docks brat?" Isa carried the girl on one hip. Her head lay against him, her eyes dull. She hadn't yet spoken. Sacha knew her as "the docks brat" because that was who she was - a mischievous salvage captain's daughter, no home to speak of. You could only ever guarantee a sighting of her at the docks between trips. "Don't talk about your sister that way, Sacha." Isa sighed and walked by the boy who now gaped like a fish. "Sister?!"   Sacha followed at his father's heel as the strange girl was put in an empty bedroom. Isa put her into bed and pressed a hand to her forehead. Her breathing barely registered, she was feverish and her injuries, though healing rapidly, were still clearly a drain on her. Most worrying was that arm. It was close to melted, shoulder to elbow, and even this remarkably paced ability to heal wasn't going to prevent terrible scarring.  "That's what I said." "But-- but she's--!" "I leave her in your care, Sacha."   Sacha protested. For weeks, the girl didn't speak, move, eat, drink, despite Sacha taking meals to her that she never ate, water she never drank. Isa had understood the second he saw her eyes flicker open. It was a while before Sacha came to the same understanding. This girl was already dead. It was important no one else knew; the reasons escaped him, but it didn't matter. He felt the importance of it. Though she had come into their house and stolen his father's attention from him, Sacha felt an attachment to her, a sympathy that was passed down from Isa himself. So he kept to Isa's order and did his best to look after her. Eventually, he stopped forcing himself to glare at her when he entered the room. She only ever looked back at him with a solemn expectancy, as though she were waiting to be Sent. In hindsight, it seemed likely that she was.    It was common knowledge that the girl had surviving family on the island. Before she ran away, Pris had a house that was paid for by her evermore estranged father. Chuami knew this too, in that accepting way that young children know things they will not comprehend for many years. Word reached Home that she was alive; Isa knew it, because his friends' wives sent him care packages for her and their best wishes, praising him for his willingness to take in an orphan. If they knew how he felt for Pris, however long ago it was, they might not have considered it so selfless.   If Chuami's grandpa had heard the news, then he did not want her.   Three weeks into her silent recovery, Sacha took her a bowl of poorly made sand worm soup. Setting it down next to her bed, he hesitated, then gave her a poke. "Where's your mom?" Nothing. "Did she die too?" Still nothing. "So did mine. Sin killed her. Did Sin kill your mom too?" ... Sacha sighed, picked the bowl back up and out to her. "You should cry. It made me feel better." He didn't think she would move - but she rose like a broken puppet and took it from him, eyes never leaving his.   Later that night, she found she could cry at last. Passing by her door, Isa almost stopped and went inside to comfort her - but a low voice coming from within told him that Sacha was already taking care of it.