#all incomplete wips

[purefandomsalt]

Just like I’ll read the same premise over and over again, I will follow this same habit in writing ✍️

few things more humbling than the realization that you really do write the same fic(s) over and over again

[anbaisai]

Dug up a sketch from last year I never finished (and probably won't) so I added some colours as a humble offering to my Ruggie enjoyer followers

[themoonstonechronicler]

oooooh he watchin'

[noirrelite]

The many ways I've drawn Sierra's eyes since Feb 2022, in rough chronological order (oldest to newest)

[impishtubist]

Sometimes writing is like pulling teeth because you just need to step away for a bit and rest and recharge

and sometimes writing is like pulling teeth because you've written your way through the hyperfixation and there's nothing more to say and you want to move on to other things

and sometimes it's easy to tell the difference and sometimes it isn't.

[zhengzi]

i need an outlet for the disco elysium evangelion/pacific rim mashup au or i’ll explode so imma just word vomit my ideas for it here

so instead of police, the RCM is an experimental mecha pilot program in Revachol under the Coalition of Nations. Revachol seems to have been the epicenter of attacks by the Halos, extra-elysian beings that scientists theorize as having some kind of connection to the encroaching Pale. 

The RCM operate mechs known as Pale Divers (not sold on this name yet, but i just wanted a placeholder) with two types, the Innocentric line and the Plasm line (again some of the names are just placeholders). The Plasm line are older designs and a holdover from the Revolution when the communists built these particular mechs to harness the plasm’s power when multiple operators sync up in revolutionary union. They succeeded in engineering models that operate with two pilots in sync but their future plans for additional pilots failed when the Revolution fell and the first Halo attacked Revachol soon after, allowing for the Coalition to take over in the moment of crisis. With the Coalition in power and dealing with Halo attacks, they soon created the Innocentric line of mechs, which utilize only one pilot for maximum efficiency and the mechs rely on biological fusion with the pilot for optimal performance (ala how Evas work). However the RCM still finds use for the Plasm models as they’re more affordable to produce even though they’re perceived as less reliable to combat the Halo threats.

The RCM being an experimental program, it relied on volunteers who were willing to sacrifice their lives in order to become pilots. Harry volunteered, wanting to prove himself for Dora. He first operated an Innocentric model and quickly became a top pilot. However operating the mech took severe toll on his body as it’s heavily reliant on Harry’s biology to achieve optimal performance and Harry resorted to drugs and alcohol to sustain himself. Dora eventually left him as he sunk deeper deeper into dysfunction, which broke him and culminated in an event where he loses his memories (could be the same as the game, but i might try to rejig it to a different cause for his amnesia). His body has deteriorated to the point where he is completely unfit to operate the Innocentric model and thus was ‘downgraded’ to operating a Plasm model alongside Kim as his new partner. Homoerotic mecha training montage ensues.

[armulyn]

Four months ago, listening to dark and epic songs such as I See Fire and Battle Scars and with the Wingfeather Saga on the mind, I opened a doc and wrote, as you do, just to let off some steam. What came out was a weird amalgation of different AUs of the saga that I'd plow through five pages of each and then switch tacks.

None of them are complete, seeing as the Wingfeather Saga is so wonderfully (and infuratingly) written that any attempts to make things better usually end in the utter decimation of the plot, characters, and/or themes of the saga.

Now, a month and a half post my last edit to them, I decided quite elegantly and maturely, what the heck? and decided to try letting one out.

So, what if Artham actually did find the way back into the Deeps after finding the water from the First Well?

Fun fact, this is the 'The Warden and the Bear King' WIP from that ask game a while back.

[SPOILERS ABOUND. THROUGH BOOK 3 I THINK.]

Artham finds the cavern back into the deeps of Throg about two months after exiting, and rushes in without hesitation. Maybe it's the same one he left from, maybe it isn't, but either way it's twisting, unwieldy, and difficult to get the seed-husk of water from the First Well through unspilt. Hours he winds through passages, through burrows, and through endless doubts and shrieking voices warning him to go back.

He makes it to the dungeon eventually, and he freezes at the sight of it. Music is playing nearby— he'd thought he'd heard it ten minutes ago, but he'd told himself he was imagining it!— Sing the song the voices start, and against his will his lips start to move a bit... Terrified, he flees like mad, and he might have reached the surface once more had not a clatter from behind startled him.

He'd dropped the seed-husk.

Sprinting back, he frantically picks it back up, but nearly all the water has drained away, only a few drops left. He paws at it, trying to push the trickle of water back into the husk, the useless talons scraping awfully on the stone like nails on a blackboard. It's hopeless, so eventually he gathers his strength and tattered courage and presses on with what few drops he has left. He has to find Esben now, he tells himself, refusing the voices that press upon him at the name, for it is only a matter of time before he loses the rest of the water, the only thing that stands between him and utterly failing the High King yet again.

Back into the dungeon, closing his ears forcefully against the pulsing music, ducking behind cages when a Fang wanders through, searching for Esben. When he finds him, the king is in a newly reinforced cage, further back from the exit than it had been before. They've taken precautions, but precautions are nothing to a properly motivated Throne Warden, and the cage door cracks open within seconds.

"Esben," he chokes, and his brother starts. Esben's face is as he remembers it— bearded with fur, grey bubbled skin breaking out in patches, dazed pain in his eyes— but a wonder in them as well. "You... came back." he croaks, and Artham has to dash away tears to see the chains properly. He'll break them in a moment but first— "Aye," he says, "Now drink this."

He holds the battered seed husk gently to Esben's mouth. He watches carefully as his brother drinks the few drops eagerly— they probably haven't given him water for days, he fumes— and then leans back against the cage wall, exhausted by this small exertion. But there isn't time for rest or to wait until the water takes effect, and Artham hauls him to his feet. They stumble together from the cage, through the dungeon, Artham supporting almost all of Esben's weight, and thinking that if they happen to trip and fall then they would never manage to get up again. He prays with breath he can't spare that they won't trip.

Artham has always been tall, and his strength had been renowned in years past, but he has languished in a dungeon for— years, surely. He is stronger than Esben, but two months of frantic wandering, eating whatever he can and constantly moving hasn't improved his strength so much as his endurance. Thankfully, by the time the dungeon turns back into winding caverns and tunnels, Esben seems stronger, and can walk on his own. Neither of them speak in the pitch darkness, each moving as if in a dream with only each other to remind them they aren't. Artham holds tight to Esben's hand with his left arm, and the other wraps around Esben's side, even if his brother doesn't need his support any more. He doesn't want to imagine losing hold of his brother, here in the darkness. They stumble past a patch of blooming flowers and vibrant grass sprung from the cold rock where Artham had dropped the water from the First Well.

Under a pitch-black sky they stumble from pitted stone onto night-darkened grass.

They spend perhaps a week in the Blackwood, journeying west at a stumbling pace. They grow stronger, with daylight, food, water, and companionship. Sometimes other cloven shamble past them, but always wild and untamed. Artham and Esben don't have any water from the First Well left, nor anything else to envy, and so they're left alone for the most part. In the bright sunlight, Artham can see what he'd missed in the dark of the deeps. Throughout their steady trek, the water was working upon Esben, and his face seems clearer, the grey mottled skin gone and the patchy fur a golden-brown color that matches his hair. He looks a little odd, a little bulkier and more bear-like than before, but he has come back to himself, he is Artham's little brother, and he is not broken but healed.

The brothers have a lot of time to talk on their westward journey.

At first, Artham has trouble keeping back the high-pitched gibbering his voice and words keep trying to become, especially when Esben is quiet or contemplative or otherwise not talking. Esben is alarmed when it starts, which sets Artham off even more, which turns Esben’s alarm to worry, and it all ends in a mess of I’m sorrys and heart to hearts and confessions.

Once the brothers lose each other for an entire six hours.

Artham had gotten panicked, and in his sleep-deprived state he’d run away from the familiar man who called him by name with the blue eyes that filled with pain and memories at times— his fault, it was his fault—

Esben trails him at first, tracking his brother’s panicked flight through the loamy soil, but it isn’t safe to journey alone in the Blackwood, even in broad daylight, and soon he stops to consider his options, perched high in a tree where he had fled from the reach of a toothy cow. Artham would calm down soon, and probably panic and retrace his path. Esben was on said path, and if he kept shouting his name from the tree where the many creatures of the wood couldn’t reach him…

Artham refuses to stray more than ten feet from his little brother’s side for the rest of the Blackwood.

In the original story, Artham had stowed away on a Fang ship to Skree, following a tiny pinprick of light that told him the children of the king were there. He had nearly starved in the hold, but made it to Glipwood only five years after the fall of the Shining Isle. Now, with his little brother at his side, he has more to think of than himself.

They take refuge in an abandoned cottage a few hours from the edge of the Blackwood, shifting through debris for anything useful. Artham finds an intact glass vial in the kitchen, but the last of the precious water had gone toward Esben’s healing, and so he tucks it, empty, among their scant belongings in the hope it might be useful.

-

Esben had decided, in the first clear-minded rest after their exit from the deeps, that he was not going to ask Artham about what happened to Nia and the children. He barely remembered anything about that day, beside sitting down to lunch to the sound of Nia’s laughter as she tried to coax little Kalmar to eat. Janner had been excitedly relating some epic adventure from his day to his Uncle Artham, whose strained face of the past week eased somewhat while he listened.

Then the Fangs had come.

After Esben had been taken captive, ripped away from the room of the Fane of Fire and force-marched to the dungeon, he had caught sight of Artham being shoved into one of Rysen’s well-kept cells. Seeing the fear in his brother’s eyes, the Throne Warden had shaken his head, mouthing they’re safe. That was the extent to which they had communicated for the four years of captivity in the deeps of Throg, for Esben had not been bound for the cells but rather to an interrogation room, and they were kept separate on the march to Throg. In the deeps, they had not spoken at all, both consumed by the dreadful music and their own demons.

Esben had been given a front-row seat to his brother’s breaking, though they had only glimpsed each other once in a blue moon. He could hear the Stone Keeper taunting Artham with food, with freedom, with a snatch of sunlight. He could hear his brother shouting his name, and receiving no answer. He could hear his brother muttering in his sleep, in his waking hours, mumbling and shrieking as if the voices in his mind had taken over his speech.

Artham was the one they focused on, for they knew they could count on the king to break. What had the king ever done, besides rule from the protecting shadow of the Warden? What had the king ever done to protect the kingdom, while the Warden waged wars with his own strength and the strength of those loyal to him? What had Esben ever done, besides falling to the Fangs the moment he tried to fight without his brother by his side?

The Stone Keeper came and went from Artham’s side like a scuttling shadow, but she never paused by Esben, for which he was shamefully grateful. The dark of his cell and the silence was never broken save by what peeked in from without, as the days turned and his brother went mad and Esben began to think he was forgotten by even his captors. His only companion was the music that echoed in the dungeons and crept into every forgotten corner, and filled his head to chase away the silence.

His brother, Esben decides, has gone through enough. He isn’t going to ask and possibly bring back bad memories. He isn’t going to ask about the tears that had watered Artham’s fierce eyes even as he was shoved into a cell, even as he mouthed they’re safe. He isn’t.

Sitting at the dilapidated table of the abandoned cottage, Artham tells him anyway.

[euthymiya]

This Ayato phase and this bnha rewatch has deviated my attention for the time being but do not get it twisted. This blog is a wriothesley shrine first and foremost and that will never change. We will be back to our regularly scheduled program after this short intermission

[mimicteruyo]

Day 1 of Camp NaNoWriMo: I have made a terrible mistake.

[pondslime]

⚠️ WIP’S??? FIVE OF THEM??? FROM ME??? UNPRECEDENTED 💀  

This is by no means all of the WIP’s that are lurking around my fic folder......but these are the only ones that have been plotted out to such a degree that I KNOW they’ll eventually be fully fledged fics. (Other, ephemeral fic ideas revolve around The Driller Killer from SPM2 and Lady D from RE8.....but......we shall see......)

If you peek under the cut, there are a handful of excerpts (of varying lengths) from all five of these! All of these are NSFW fics, but not every excerpt is smutty!

⚠️ mentions of animal death/slaughterhouse conditions

The killing served a purpose. It was the only way to get back to his table where he could sink into the movement and the cutting and the blades.

All you have to be is useful, Tommy.

If you’ve been useful then you’ve done enough. There’s nothing more you had to do. There was only one way to go when you stood on the ramp, and it was here. The cattle never understood that. They came because they had to.

For the first five years, there were always new faces to replace the old ones, new hands to help hoist the meat off the hooks. Snatches of conversation in his ears, the metal slam of lunch pails. People were always talking about how things changed, but it all seemed the same as it ever was. You just had to be willing to work, even when it was hard. Not everyone could do that.

Things only die if you let them—beyond that was dust and dirt and sky.

Each year, the drought held Fuller in her cracked, bleeding palm. She was the determined sort and the town fit so well in her grip. The crowds around the tables thinned, the timecards on the wall grew scattered and few. Throughout all those years, the fifth slot from the top remained empty.

Ten years is a long time to go without rain.

⚠️ voyeurism, stupid deep thotz from goofy dumb frog man

You’re alone out here—at least, you think you are. It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? Comforting, warm—not unlike all the buttery yellow light spilling out of your wide-open windows.

You’re off the beaten path and there’s nothing to fear out here, no one to hide from. Nothing but the dark to watch as you reach up to fish in the cupboards, your shirt riding up your stomach. And the dark does watch you—it, and everything in it.

A woman alone in a house in the middle of the night. They’ve been telling stories about you for years. People have seen it countless times, stuffed into air-conditioned theaters, watching imaginary versions of this scene a thousand times over. If they exited the theater they could find her on the newsstand—she splatters the headlines, her name cried out over police sirens. They stay in the theater because reality isn’t what they want, not now. They want her. You, she, the woman past the glass—an unknowing siren. Mythic. The audience knows she isn’t really alone. They grip onto their popcorn buckets with greasy hands, the air thick with the imagined tension. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, hums along with the jingle on the television.

She’s beautiful. She’s innocent. She’s on the edge of so much danger. It’s sitting out there in the dark, staring at her through the window.

Maybe, through the lens of the pimply teenage boy, his hand fishing lecherously into his popcorn bucket, you like it. The woman in the house keeps her windows open as if she knows she has an audience, like she wants them to see her. They want to look in and she obliges. Maybe. There’s truth in that, truth in every adolescent fantasy.

You wander around your empty house, waiting for a man who won’t come. His appearance has been…interrupted.

Leslie peers around the tree, knocking his sickle against the wood in anticipation.

⚠️ references to canon violence/trauma

“What are you going to school for?”

“Um. I’m not sure anymore.” She sips at her coffee. “It was Marketing and Advertising, but I don’t know if I’m still doing that.”

“Not your thing anymore?”

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head, huffing out a bemused hiss of breath, squinting out at the square. She sits with the words in her mouth for a second. “Sometimes I feel like it is, like, it really is, still. And then, like, I don’t. Like, I used to make all kinds of things. And I just…can’t, anymore. And when I do, it’s…different. It doesn’t feel like me anymore.”

“What changed?”

I lost some people. I put off a lot of stuff. I told her to tell him the truth, but I never managed to do that myself. Little hypocritical, Carly.

My finger’s gone. They never found it.

His pockets had been empty.

“I’ve had a weird year.” She looks over at you, staring at the buttons on your coat. “Like, really weird.”

“I’ve had weird years.”

“Yeah, but…uh.” She smiles at your hands. Your nails are a deep blue today. “Mine…was definitely weirder.”

⚠️🔥tiny snippet of smut, mommy kink + light puppy play

“Hold on.” Tiffany pulls back, pursing her lips. Tilting your chin up, her forehead wrinkles as she scans your face. She snorts out an incredulous giggle. “Is that my lipstick?”

“You, uh. You left it in my car. I…borrowed it.”

“You little thief!” She grins, her eyes alight with manic glee. “Always acting like you’re so innocent! Who knows what else you’ve snatched?”

Giggling, she drags her thumb down your lips, smearing the lipstick onto your chin. You gaze up at her, swallowing nervously.

“Oh god, you’re a mess, baby.” She clicks her tongue against her teeth, shaking her head. "You stealing my panties too? Taking ‘em home to rub that nasty little pussy on?”

"Uh—”

She grinds down on your lap, beaming. Holding onto your chin, she mashes your lips together, moving your head up and down in an affirmative nod.

“Yep, princess! I know you are.” She cackles, the tip of her tongue peeking from between her teeth. “That’s pathetic.”

“Mommy—”

“Watch it, pipsqueak.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder, regarding you with twinkling eyes. “Anyway, puppies don’t talk, right?“

You nod enthusiastically, blinking up at her.

⚠️🔥tiny snippet of smut, light degradation, depersonalization + lost autonomy

The discomfort crests over and suddenly you feel loose and pliant, eagerly rocking back against the thickness of his fingers. It’s just another thing you were made for, just something else to give to him over and over.

Bo laughs. You can hear the grin that’s plastered across his face.

“Oh, she likes it.” His voice pulls another moan from your mouth. “This ain’t natural, baby.”

Of course it isn’t. None of this is. Wax carrots, stores full of beetles and rot. Everything in this town was the idea of something else. Things that used to be other things, left to decay and waste away behind glass. And you’re one of those things—you always were.

“You ‘member when I met ya’, darlin?”

The rest of the world keeps moving, thundering away. At least, it must be. The people that come to town and never leave came from somewhere, didn’t they? The stripped corpses of cars on the side of the street are reminders that life exists outside of this place.

There are cars in other towns, parked on different streets. There are places without dust. There are always other futures. Sometimes you turn down the wrong road, and sometimes you die. Sometimes you don’t. That’s just the way these things go.

Here, who are you?

Another person at the wrong place at the wrong time—the wrong face, the wrong mouth. Something just wrong enough about you that you can’t leave. For how long, you’re not entirely sure. You’re running on borrowed time, and everything ends here eventually.

There, what were you?

The world keeps turning without you. It wasn’t going to stop. It doesn’t know of this place. It doesn’t know about you. It used to, maybe. But it forgot.

Does it matter?

To be kept forever, preserved here. It’s better to be something than nothing, isn’t it? When they touch you, you’re an idea. You’re a dream. Dead to the world, fucking yourself back on his fingers. It feels good, it feels bad. Something that is nothing that is something again. That’s the point.

“Don’t you be selfish, now!” Bo’s voice cuts through the haze of your brain. He grabs onto your hair, tugging your head up. “Thought we were showin’ Vincent a good time, darlin’?”

[pinkfey]

I'm not sure how many you've read but maybe top 5 interactive fictions? 👀💕 That you've read and/or want to read?

ask me my top five anything!!

ooooo this is such a good one!! i’ve only played a handful of IFs but…..

MIND BLIND. ofc <3 where would i be without audra and saskia <3 and kent is easily in my top ten fictional boyfriends

FALLEN HERO. i got into fh SO late so i missed the craze and i think that changed my experience of it a lot but i still enjoyed it!! i love my sidestep sm and i’m very due for a replay.

THE NORTHERN PASSAGE. i only played this one once so my memory is hazy but the immersion blew me away. clem was my choice of paramour nd i should definitely revisit it <3

SCOUT: AN APOCALYPSE STORY. another one i played maybe twice?? but i fell in love with ezra and had an oc addy for a wee stint. i haven’t kept up with it unfortunately ://

THE NAMELESS. i didn't make it past the first chapter because my brain is mush 😔 but i do adore the premise and i did start to make an oc for it !! another one i should revisit

i would luv some recommendations <3 i also played ofna and twc but ofna lost its pizzazz and twc is like a whole other can of worms hdjdndjsndnvd

[tintinology]

💎 🌗 📒 from fanfic writer ask game (by the way "Hi" 👋!)

Hi!! :)

🌗 fluff or angst?

As much as I love reading angst, I'm unfortunately really bad at writing it so I usually stick to fluff :')

💎 fave trope to write?

Mutual pining and oblivious to others' feelings because they have great comedic potential and there's a million ways to write them

📒any fics planned?

Already answered :)

[maverickcalf]

On another note, I uhhh really don't want to work today.

(Please read the tags)

[ilovemylawyer]

finally got around to watching tazza (2006) and it sparked an evilive related inquiry in my mind...

you know in ep3 how ohjae holds his mic in a lil funny upright style?

well peep this gamblingrelated gangster's eerily similar pose in tazza (2006)

so my question is: is ohjae's stance a reference to this? is it a coincidence? is it referencing something even older that i haven't gotten to yet? are these two going up against each other in a 1v1 rap battle?

[sorryiwasasleep]

ive written myself into a corner with literally all of multi-chapter work-in-progress fics rn and lady inspiration refuses to visit :( so I can’t rely on her to power me through and ugh because I want to update my fics but my brain won’t cooperate :/

[olberic]

just read some of my old posted fic and wow. im an awesome writer. i forget they have like hundreds of kudos. and rereading old comments is wild like damn i really influenced some ppls entire perception of a character dynamic. like my works have been translated and put in fic rec lists. plus like ppl talk abt not liking ur own work bc u know the flaws about it but man giving it a couple of years is the solution to that. i dont remember the problems theyre just really good fic