WIP MEME - Writing
So, I saw this meme posted by Vixen, and I think it'd be good, since I have so many WIP stories that I can't even count them anymore. I also tag all writers following me (especially you riuto1), I think it's really interesting to see the little parts of ideas and stories.
These ones are all currently Bleach fics, I haven't even named some of these... oh well Directions: post a snippet from each of your current WIPs
1. How It Hurts (Three Times Dead) Urahara/Aizen Another agonising scream tears the sky and, in time, silence reigns once more...
Metal. Crimson. Rain. Each was a siege, a consuming flood that drowned and dimmed his senses further and harder than the blood pounding in his corrupted head. Bitter, vengeful red smeared the lenses with which he viewed the world that had long since bled away, mere drips through fingers, escaping like smoke into the howling monsoon. The world slipped in and out of reach, thick vertigo chaining his limbs that trembled so viciously. All he felt, pain, unbearable, like fire, flickers of untameable flames held far too close to the torn flesh he wore, draped so clumsily over thin, hollowed bones.
2. Scarlet Letters (I Want to Play A Game) Chains were tightened across his arms, grinding, tearing into his flesh and drawing crimson liquid that trickled down his frail limbs as he struggled. Low mumbles and talking echoed from every direction yet he could see nothing, feel nothing, the unsettling numbness giving rise to reckless abandon, his hands now laced with blood from his pathetic attempts at grasping freedom.Sharp wires protruded from his chest while even sharper eyes watched on in silence. He didn't even cry out when they placed the warped, melted iron against his raw flesh.
His eyes refused to open, to endure the horror of his form. The lights disappeared, not a single sound dared reach his ears.Silence. It was a bitter, vengeful friend. 3. Vertigo - Urahara/Aizen and hinted Urahara/Yoruichi
He had arrived back, the air thick with ash and flames as he watched the ambulances roll in, three unmarked body bags were being carried away and a fourth one was already in the midnight black vehicle. He remembered it with aching clarity, the sirens still sounding in the back of his mind to this day, the scent of death and burning drilled in deep, making him fall sick each time he sensed something even close to it.
4. To Breathe Again
Fate was a cruel master. Like a breath of wind, exhaled, gone and forgotten.
That was simply how he lived. A mere shadow to the world of neon that swirled through muck laden alleyways, always knee high with alcoholic rapture and sickness. The heavy downpour spread thin strands of blond across his face, the trickling drops crawling and creeping across his icy flesh like a spider. It was then his stomach decided to make its presence known.
How long had it been since he had eaten? Days and weeks bled into each other forming a haze of pain and ravenous starvation. Neither with a pinpoint beginning nor an end. The sky lashed the earth harder, the bullets of rain like razors that kicked up the once settled dust with each pounding drop. He could merely sigh as he passed the barely illuminated streets. A soft flicker in the rain drew his iced grey gaze to the curtain of downpour before him, a silhouette carved out of the chilling liquid, watching him.
5. In Water
How quickly white entwines with crimson as the garnet drops fall free... Broken ribs and an even more bruised soul, his skin now marred with murky purple scars and cracked blood patches. His ribs writhed with pain, bent within their cages at angles unknown and so harsh they shattered. Mattered hair glued to his sweat stricken forehead. How far must one fall? The higher you are, the longer the freefall before you hit the earth he mused internally between the ringing siren calls in his muffled ears.
6. Un-named Muse
The bonds seemed to be harder to remove when submersed in the freezing liquid, the panic beginning to set in no matter how much he tried to deny it. Neither of the ropes would move and inch and his thoughts were already starting to cloud over, slowly setting his lungs alight with desperation. Darkness had begun to steal his vision, it were like a thick fog had settled in his mind and slowly drained all visibility.
Aizen could barely make out the ship now, it became nothing more than a inked silhouette upon a raging surface. His breath finally escaped past numb lips as a rush of bubbles as he begun to slip back into unconsciousness. Slowly his eyes began to close as more figures sunk around him. Each was falling to the same fate. Crimson swirls escaped from their throats like trails of flame from burning planes, plummeting towards the ocean floor.
The truth was, those bodies never hit the ground.
7. Infected - A Rose's Thorns (Chapter 14)
Burnt orange leaked into the alleyway in soft blurred hues, the fading sunlight held no torch to the biting cold that drove deep and stole any warmth. It held no warmth at all to him, only the cold, icy surroundings registered in his mind as panic continued to drown his thoughts. This was it, the end, no distance remained between him and the swarm of corpses.
I won't die here.
8. Steady Decay
They had taken everything away. The walls spoke empty words, he could hear the taunting laughter ringing in his ears. The sweet warm breath against his neck in the past winter, the feeling of a deep embrace. The cries stripped the fabric of lies away as he wrapped his arms around himself to defend from the cold that seeped into old wounds and scars.
They said everything heals with time.
9. Un-named Artist AU
The colours splayed intricately amongst the immaculate white emptiness, they dipped and curved into the surface, each stroke countered and balanced with surgical precision and a steady hand. Frigid whites smear against a sapphire seascape that hides under the coat and shadow of an overhanging cliff. Deep scarlet and burnt orange bleed from the fine bristles into the longing sky that slowly fills with the essence of mixed hues, every shade from ink black shadows to the highest reaches of heavenly gold.
Wiping a few strands of hair from his brow, his stormy grey eyes lit with amusement and determination, glistening like silver in the pale sunlight that crept across his face. His nimble, careful hands lay his weapon of choice to rest amongst a palette of stray drops of colour. His painting mimics the very world itself, to the town he is a mere artist, to the canvas he is a god, the one to erase the consuming emptiness and blaze trails of beauty across its pale surface. ------