six-petaled promise
scott doesn't use salt in his cooking anymore. it all tastes horribly bland. he's never been the best cook anyways.
he had been the one who did that for them. scott still can't say his name, except when he wakes up, calling out for a life long gone.
he misses it. it feels... painfully obvious, to say the least. there had been a future where he didn't have to claw for power, to vie for even a chance of living beyond the competition, and he misses it. he misses thunderstorms. he misses fresh-baked bread. he misses lilies, white, six-petaled. he misses... god, he misses life.
so yes. maybe he is crazy. maybe that's what the others say about him, along with the fact that he's cold and heartless and dead, on the inside and outside both.
(and, well. the heartless part isn't strictly untrue. he has feelings. but, well. necromancy has its ups and downs. there is always a new sacrifice to make.)
scott doesn't use salt in his cooking anymore. he can't remember the last time he ate something for the sake of enjoying it. everything is sustenance, fuel to push onwards.
he has to win. no matter the cost. he knows he's not the only one- he sees the constant blue tinge of pris' face, the way she breathes air like it's not quite natural anymore. he's watched joey, manic, fever higher than any normal person should be able to survive, throwing himself into a block of ice for some relief. he's listened to shelby cry storms at the death of a bee, seen the fresh lightning burns on her hands.
yes. they all lose something. it makes it worth it. it doesn't make it fair. power is power, at the end of the day.
scott pretends that the lichen crawling up his fingers is simply a result of too much magic at one time. that it will go away, slip back down his wrists without a trace. he would make scott scrub it off. scott will do it when he's back.
scott doesn't use salt in his cooking anymore. it burns his tongue, his throat. his arms are mottled with pale scars. oh, the sacrifices he makes for him. it doesn't matter; they'll adapt. they always do.
how does it feel to be a real witch? a real lich? cleo laughs at him. he doesn't think they're actually laughing at him. her eyes are distant, far away as ever. she glows now, in the dark, the lichen budding on her skin.
pinocchio, pinocchio, a real boy at last, they muse, steepling their hands in front of them. tell me, why do you still dance to their puppet strings?
scott doesn't understand. he doesn't understand so many things. that's why he has to practice. he has to get better. be the best.
cleo looks away from him. she looks-
(at you. she looks at you. don't do this to him. it isn't fair. nothing is fair. learn to live with it.)
scott blinks. nothing has happened. nothing has changed. it has always been like this.
go home, scott.
there's no home left to go back to. he says it, nonchalant. if he had a heart, it would be beating in his chest. nevertheless.
then go anywhere.
scott doesn't use salt in his cooking anymore. scott doesn't cook anymore.
(when does the question turn from who am i without you? to who am i at all? where is the line? how do you learn how to stop, to just let go? i don't think any of us know.)
the earth hums beneath his feet. he can feel death, old bones rattling, waiting. there is a graveyard twenty minutes' walk from his house.
there are two graves side by side at an abandoned home. scott thinks there ought to have been a third. he thinks he ought to have carved their names on their graves, let them be remembered. milo. maxwell. really, he ought to have done a lot of things.
(he is the corpse and he is the vulture circling overhead and he is the mycelia beneath and he is and he is and he is-)
he is all that is left.
scott doesn't use salt in his cooking anymore.
111 notes
·
View notes
There was madness in repetition.
Perhaps that was why they had begun experimenting a bit in their methods for killing him.
Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking.
[In which Jaron agrees to get farmed for hearts... and he regrets it.]
AU: Canon compliant
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort
WC: 1,138 words
Relationship: None
Language: English
Status: Finished
Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, major character death, temporary major character death, death loop, heart farming, blood, injury, violence, killing, repetitive killing, slight derealization.
Author’s Note: This is my very first lifesteal fic and my formal offering to enter the fandom (?) I love torturing myself so I started watching from season 1 and I couldn’t get this scene out of my head so here it is! I hope you like it!
12 notes
·
View notes
for october i will be doing an art challenge called get through october where i try to get through october here's the prompt list:
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
survive
10K notes
·
View notes
...at least that's the link order that made most sense to me
[Image ID:
Clownillustrations' Welcome Home fanart. Wally Darling is drawn at an angle slightly from below, lacking his mouth, and the eyes wide open and bright white looking the viewer. In front of him, along his height through the middle of his face, a long stripe made of the blurry Welcome Home website screenshots, glowing. Behind him is a vinyl record with a plain red label.
The background is littered with text, a wall of repeating "Let me in." from top to bottom to the left of the image, Wally's dialogue behind him, and the text on the foreground, slightly corrupted, says "I will help you understand neighbor I will find a way soon"
End ID]
1K notes
·
View notes
anyway. owen with balance issues post-fall.
owen who can never walk in a straight line.
owen hitting the edges of doors every time he passes through them.
owen using a standing walker to avoid injuries in his own house.
owen refusing to use it outside because he's embarrassed.
owen struggling with suddenly being seen as incompetent because he loses balance literally just standing.
owen with perpetually bruised shins, knees, and elbows from hitting things on his way down.
owen's doctor telling him to stop avoiding his mobility aids because he already has brain damage from the fall, he doesn't need to be hitting his head again.
owen whose reaction time isn't always good enough to catch himself.
owen with a cooling gel eye mask on him at all times in case the vertigo gets too bad.
owen having conversations just lying on the floor because the world is spinning.
owen having meltdowns over how overstimulating the dizziness is.
owen relying on his cat to tell if something's wrong because everything always feels off to him.
owen with frequent nausea.
you know?
130 notes
·
View notes