how many wips do i actually have?
known also as: i post a line or two from each one with no context no matter how long it's been since i worked on it last.
An instant passes, wherein Ike ponders (not for the first time) the feasibility of escaping Sienne undetected in the dead of the night. Instead he indulges in a petulant grumble of, “Wits and words,” and drains the rest of his tea in one long gulp. It’s still so hot that he regrets it seconds later. Sanaki just laughs.
Cid’s inspiration comes in gales that rip apart whatever semblance of organized his office manages between events, leaving sprawls of crinkled papers and furniture displaced in all corners. Madness left untouched that one facet of him—exacerbated it, if anything. Val used to call it his ‘struck-match’ moment: the muse’s spark, the mind it possessed and consumed for tinder. The place could use a fire, is Ffamran’s first and strongest thought, if only for the light that it would bring.
On paths that, to Therion, appear as they are needed, Cobbleston eventually forms out of late afternoon light and inevitability.
He looks shockingly delicate, and if Kazuma had heard him described such any earlier in life he’d have questioned the sanity of the person with that opinion. Now, a little buzzed and feeling floaty in this late-evening limbo where nothing seems real, the acceptance of it fits with strange ease between his ribs.
“Thank you,” says Yamato, before he finishes thinking it. / “Wh’for?” / “For being here. For being you. For… being. ” / Ace looks at him like he’s been struck.
Grimmjow has always been smaller, and that has not changed; has always been so, so much stronger than Nakim, and that has not changed either.
Moonlight skims the curve of a horn, the hair danced loose from behind his ear. He rolls a tokkuri’s neck between pensive fingers. From his place on the wall perpendicular, puddled with good wine like the rest of the country is, he seems to Sanji like a monument.
He eyes the perfectly straight slash across Guts's chest, allowing it to lead him to an arm, cut short. He thinks again of punishment, and how much he does not know.
MJOLNIR separative syndrome, he knows—never makes it any easier. Spend too long in armor and it becomes your skin.
Sanji thumbs at the wet dip between Zoro’s collarbones, and you don’t know how to ask why. You are still new at being human. Everyone’s affections present differently.
When Gohan was younger, Vegeta’s eyes were inhospitable wastes in his nightmares; they held nothing, only the promise of cold, cosmic death to those who dared them.
Your friends are and always have been smart, clever, and capable people who know how to pick their battles. You, conversely, are strung like a goddamn tennis racket, and had been even before deciding that it’d be just fucking neato to have your thought processes in stereo.
She couldn’t go hand to hand with them like Gohan could, but even she could spite them by living, and not just surviving.
After five minutes of Bellamy fidgeting with his corner—straightening pots, reordering fabric, picking at lint that isn’t there—Ingram comes at him with a stirring pole.
Puberty hits Law like every other disaster in his life so far: suddenly, mercilessly, and with extreme prejudice.
It’s so fond it makes Zoro want to run away, but there’s nowhere to run, and the hands guiding him through these waltz-steps may as well be chains for all the power he has to resist them.
He’d looked at you before going to his death—looked at all of his friends, yes, but he counted you among them, even then. You’d reduced yourself and Buu to dust and dreams before you had time to feel anything about it.
The distinction between harmless and safe is as insignificant as it is irreconcilable.
The thunk her forehead makes hitting the tabletop sounds a bit like a gavel—which is only fitting, when she considers she’s just been cosmically sentenced to giving a grade-school-level health lecture to a very prickly, very powerful alien, because their goddamned genetics spared them from the monthly bane of women the world over. All her genius—all the genius on the planet—won’t be able to stop the next few minutes from ruining her day anymore.
(She heard, secondhand, about the vow he’d made to Luffy while she had been absent in pursuit of salvation; how, with his chest split to bare his heart and his life pouring into the sea, he had offered the white sword to his captain and the endless blue sky, and wept. Usopp is the only one who saw. This is how she knows it’s true.)
You learned to swim before you learned to walk or talk, and almost before you learned to crawl. Your earliest memories are of Cal, Cal and the water. After that, Cal and your home, and nothing in between to explain how either of you got from A to B. You’ve decided it’s best to not look too closely at those blank spots.
He doesn’t hear Namek’s last gasp. Sound doesn’t travel in vacuum. He knows it happens, anyway. When the core finally collapses and the planet blows itself apart, he just knows—he couldn’t say how.
