This has been in my drafts for months and I've been working to get it done the past week or so, and oh my goodness. It's. It's something. It sure is.
10.7k words!! Help.
Please read the tags lmao <3
https://archiveofourown.org/works/82770096
The title of this in my heart is "This is not Bloodletting, it's Bloodloss because they both lose."
This fic about two guys arguing for 10k words goes out to my horrible roommates who argue for hours on end right outside my door. I am a machine that turns misery into whatever the hell this is.
New fic! I am still in the vsmp trenches. This was written for the MCYT Alphabet Challenge!! My prompt was E for Ending, and that somehow led me here lol. Post-canon Apo centric fic <3
Just some sketches! Playing with some ideas for a life series fic I've been chipping away at, and trying to get back into the swing of drawing silly things and not. *Stares into the middle distance* Architectural diagrams.
Snippet? Maybe? We'll see if I keep this but check under the cut lol
“It’s over, Scar.”
Scar didn’t turn around. He didn’t dare.
“You’ve won.”
He didn’t move. He knew that. He knew that he had won.
“Scar, please.”
He tightened his grip on his shovel. The sunset dripped off of its dull iron make, warming his hands, just so, as he plunged it into the topsoil again.
“Scar!”
He twisted the shovel, and levered out another clump of dirt. He pointedly kept his eyes on the shovel’s head. Away from the body at the foot of the hill.
Sunflowers face the sun. They live by its warmth, its light. They track it for their survival, for their sun is life, and to shun it is to die. Sunflowers faced the sun, their golden, green-tipped hearts aglow, enraptured by the skies, twisting after the sun's procession.
Scar’s sunflowers did not face the sun.
They instead, followed it.
It was a formless thing; darker than night, and just barely confined to limbs and small movements that made it seem human enough.
Scar knew it wasn’t human. Whatever it was, it was not human. But the sunflowers chased it anyway.
It was a formless thing, with no face, and no voice of its own. It spoke, of course, but that voice was not its to use. That voice belonged to someone else. It was a formless thing, but when you looked at it, you would see the sun itself, writhing with heat, arching away from its core in brilliant, burning filaments. The sun itself, drowning in shadow, in a silence that just barely manifested as a silhouette. It was shrouded in an inky, formless smog that clung to the light and heat that should’ve radiated from it, that should have boiled Scar alive, that should have been deafening; a shrieking tempest of combustion. Of so much sound, it would cause the world itself to crumble. Of so much, but with no medium for it to pass through.
