#//lemme know if im missing a tw tag--

[quirkle2]

ms paint with mouse time

[fivemonsturzzzwowz]

five minute break to remember weather exists

[rat-beanie]

[quackshley]

Clown(?) bnuyy

[kiwibirdlafayette]

Horror warning for the first image!

and for a full 180 from my last art post, a bit of sketch concept work for some other designs in Aitheaca LMAO ft. ideas for Merina’s eldritch form and an early draft of Mianite, the keeper of the refuge and Dianite, the banished god :D

+ Bonus initial sketches for Mer! I feel like I can be looser with pencil than in digital so a lot of my design work usually starts off on paper before i do a digital version. The main thing I wanted to get was the many eyes motif I see in a lot of the watcher!grian designs i was inspired by, and I landed on the notion that maybe the scales turn into eyes? Idk

[mythoughtsbutimscared]

This is a vent, heads up for me complaining about my parents.

I'm scheduled to get top surgery in two months which is awesome!! I just got the call just a few days ago and I am beyond overjoyed. I have been waiting for what seems like years at this point (I mean it has).

But it seems like my parents are not excited for me at all. I called my mom immediately after getting it scheduled and all I got was a "That's great sweetie" and like nothing else. In the most monotone was possible. Even my dad was the same.

Compared to the reactions i got from literally everyone else, like even people i barely new, hell my professors even, it was so disappointing. I wanted them to be excited and cheer me on but they just seem so out of it. At every point during my transition they just seemed so unhappy almost? like they're not unsupportive, my mom is a very active ally. I guess just not when its their own kid?

Its just making me feel a little less excited for the surgery, which is depressing since I've been waiting for literal ages. At least i got my friends and my partner who will be losing their minds (in a good way!)

[theworldofotps]

Letter From The Road

Superstar: Anyone your lil heart desires Word Count: 402 ~A series in which I write letters from superstars to their partner or friend back home while they’re touring.~

Hello my loves, I haven’t had any desire or motivation to write lately. It’s been like this for a few months now. But I managed to pop this out. Personally things haven’t been going well for me mentally lately and I just felt like this was a nice way to let a little of it out.

TW: This letter is a bit depressing and mentions depression so please be careful reading. _________ Tag list: @omg-im-such-a-masochist @melissahausen @new-zealand-chic @writtingrose @sjwrites22 @sassymox @mrsacklesevansmgk @xladyxfatex @biforrollynch @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @demonqueen29 @itsicantbelievethis666 @lilred91 @xbreezymeadowsmunsonx @rebellious-desires @thiccc-rider-mcintyre @letsgivethisonemoreshot @mcreignsera @ava-valerie @shortyiceheart @serpantscorpio8497 @thatpanpal @thatnerdwriter @wrestlersownmyheart @vebner37 @auburnwrites @aews-four-pillars @seeingstarks @whenimakeitshine1234 @cherrytheeredheadmamaclaymore @blaquekitty @ironshamelessyouth @melblacc @alliwant456 @elevennbloom @cuzimacomedian

If you wanna be added to the list lemme know. ________

To my dearest Y/n, I’m sure that you getting this letter was the last thing you expected. Given the fact we text and talk on the phone as often as we can. Which I love, but for some reason I just feel it’s better to write this all out. I know I don’t do it often apart from the notes I leave you around the house. But it’s comfortable writing to you, and honestly I'm still debating on whether or not I’ll send this. There’s just somethings that are better written out at least for me so I can have all of my thoughts in one place.

I find myself not wanting to get out of bed. I barely find the motivation to get up for work. I’ve missed two house shows already because I just couldn’t be bothered to leave my hotel room. I’m tired babe, feel so overwhelmed and lost. Like I’m not going to find my way back to shore again. Sometimes the days just blur together and it takes everything in me to figure out the date.

I keep trying to remember what you’ve told me. Take each day one at a time, even getting out of bed long enough to do a walk around my room. I’m trying. Doing my best to not let this heavy feeling weigh me down but some days are harder then others. Facing it by myself is more difficult without you here, I miss you. Miss having someone to remind me it’s going to be okay. Remind me that I’m more than my depression. That even on days when it seems like things will never get better for me, you know they will.

I’ve felt lost for a long time, these feelings come and go more times then not they stick around. But knowing I have you, knowing you’re always cheering me on helps. I love you and I’m going to do my best to keep hanging on. I just have to keep trying.                                    I’ll see you soon                                        Love yours.

[transgenderdragons]

mushroom sly backstory!!!!!!! tw for general gross fungi shit, kinda body horror-y, etc

Some Guy, in ye olden times, is just fuckin around with fungi and makes this crazy powerful fungi! the ultimate life form!

it eats him

(not really lol)

it takes over his body and uses him as a vessel to spread to lots of other people

(since obvi no one at this time has special healing powers like sly, the fungi reaches the Brain Controlling point pretty fast)

the fungi basically decimates the town

a few brave survivors manage to kill everyone who was infected, the fungi on them kinda just. dissolves away

except the originally infected guy. idk why maybe bc he was the first one to be taken by the fungi so its like,,,, hardier or something

(hes basically dead but the fungi still seems healthy)

they smash his head into a pulp and bury him

"Phew! Thank goodness that's over with" they say! "No one will ever be infected by this thing again!"

BA DUM TSS

cue mr beewell. obviously hes only tryna dig up graves with mellified people in them so. i think there somethin weird about Some Guy's grave

maybe the soil looks weird or theres faint glowing mycellium or smthn idk im not the fungi expert. either way sly digs this guy up

the guy is completely covered in the fungi, but it looks very dead even tho it prob still has a faint glow

sly, being the genius he is, decides to partake in exactly Zero extra safety precautions and load this bad boy into his truck

because this thing looks weird and is potentially magic!

he takes the guy back to home base, unloads it somewhere, prob pokes and prods it a little before he hits the fucken hay

since the fungi needs about an hour of contact to spread, im saying he was just Sciencing long enough to catch the fungi. or he took a bite

however im also saying that since the fungi was mostly dead, there was no actual physical evidence of him catching it before he went ta sleep.

(no little mushrooms no weird patches etc)

so hes oblivious until he wakes up

he wakes up. notices some weird textures on his skin. turns on the lights and finds a mirror

what the fuck

theres patches of mycellium shit everywhere! and some baby mushrooms also

hes probably freaked out, he tries all the obvious methods of removing stuff, etc

calls up taylor eventually

[CUE CROWD CHEERING]

taylor time!!!!!!!!!! he also has no idea what to do. if this au intersects with mothboy au(prob not because its just. a Lot at once but its a cute idea) then they figure out eventually that t cant catch it. if its just Normal T then he just. wears gloves, probably a mask as well just in case of spores

they probably do some research, maybe t takes some samples for a lab, etc

at some point, maybe later in the day or the next day, sly is probably not having a great time bc those mushrooms are getting bigger and the patches have prob shifted a bit

GOOP TIME

as ive mentioned, the goops is kinda triggered by strong emotions. so hes just kinda secreting it rn.

gross

tub time!!!!!!!!!! hes like WHAT THE FUCK

probably calls t again

idk they just spend a lot of time researching and isolating. together #lovewins #slay

and at some point. evil grin. goodbye eyeball

prob starts with a film over slys right eye. kinda weird, a little concerning cuz it doesnt seeme to be coming off but. the mycellium patches always kinda shift around anyways + hes literally had Goop secreting out of his eyes before so.

hes in denial mode bc its Fine, actually, and also there's no good way to remove it other than shaving off any growth around the eye as best as he can

he wakes up in the middle of the night bc something feels wrong

everything looks kinda weird. a little off, like somethings missing

there is a giant clump of mushrooms growing out of his eye.

[LAUGH TRACK]

ok i think thats all for tonight folks!!!!!!!!!!!! uhh if any of this seems lacking in context any other info can be found in my mushroom sly tag 👍if u have any input/think this is out of character/etc lemme know ^_^

[sunnsfighter]

PINNED post!! I update as needed- i redid it for a more simple format

The basics:

23|Bisexual/Omnisexual(im using both identities fuck da rules)|Polyam|AFAB demigal NB/Androgyne (these are the basics label wise- its a bit more complex) Taken × 1 and looking

This is a account where i say most my of my things and draw my art, but dont really get into nsfw topics in case of minors

Caregiver type- Introverted , Part Mute, Tv/anime and art nerd- i get overwelmed and in my head easy !

Dont interact if ya hate my relationship style or would generally be in a DNI ! Please lemme know if ya a minor before interacting/asking to be muts- idm mentor type stuff or small talk but i dont want you feeling unsafe.. i seperate my main storylines and nsfw for that reason

Story Alts [for any fandom/significant storyline]

Buddysunns- my buddyfight AU and vanguard/TCG anime ramble blog

Sungemmed- home to my gem storyline

Miss-sunndiego -My carmen sandeigo AU blog(possibly repurposed for all oc storylines)

I will eventually have one NSFW alt for chatting/interacting resharing more adult stuff and one for Nsfw art and headcannons across all stories - youll have to find me on the former and ask on the latter tho

Intrests:

Doll collecting/old tv shows/animanga

Faves:

Buddyfight/vanguard/Jem and the holograms/Carmen Sandiego (90s and 2019 cartoon)/Jojo/the promised neverland/chainsaw man/YGO/Pokemon/Digimon/Splatoon/monster high/TCG animes

Secondhand faves (like making ocs and/or seeing fan content but doesnt interact)

SU (watched as a kid , holds nostalgic value but i like the world more) /Ladybug/MLP/OSC(i just own ocs ngl)

Communities I run:

A future card buddyfight and vg community will be here soon!

Tags :

mutuals get personal TW tags- i tag basic triggers only

Sunns rambles- my general talkin tag

Sunns presents: gemblooded- my su AU tag

Sunnsclipse: vent tag (rare)

[xynchronicity]

Enjoy this moment, few get so close. || The Trickster

Ji-Woon Hak (Korean: 학지운) or "The Trickster"

Ji-Woon Hak thrived under the attention of others, energized by every eye that watched him and every tongue that spoke his name. Amidst the prestige, he had only one desire: more. Even as a child he found ways to draw crowds. Working at his family's restaurant, he attracted business with spectacles he performed using throwing knives. Gullible tourists believed this was a traditional South Korean experience, gladly parting with their money to witness it. Ji-Woon's father spent the restaurant's earnings on dancing and vocal lessons for his son, pushing him to attain the fame he never could. Ji-Woon did not disappoint. After years showcasing his abilities to nobodies at talent shows, he hit the track to stardom. Yun-Jin Lee, a producer at Mightee One Entertainment, recruited Ji-Woon into her training program. He transferred to a dormitory in Seoul where, for fourteen hours a day, he was crafted into a star, taught how to move and sing, how to carry himself with the right balance of confidence and modesty. Draining as the process was, it worked. Yun-Jin selected Ji-Woon to join the band NO SPIN, bringing a raw energy to their tracks. Fame was almost immediate. Ji-Woon lived in a daze of interviews and adoration, and though the frenzied schedule exhausted his bandmates, he was invigorated. Each day was an affirmation that he was greater than the mediocrity society spewed out. But over time, the champagne grew stale. When he looked at his fans, he saw their joy and envy split five ways, thinned out between each band member. The validation that had surged through him left a desperate yearning for more. Ji-Woon kept up impressions, mimicking a charm long buried under loathing. He recorded the latest NO SPIN album with his bandmates, never missing a beat. After a lengthy lunch break, he returned to the studio to discover fate had granted him a gift. The scent of burning wires was unmistakable. He rushed to the control room, finding the door blocked by fallen speakers. On the other side, his bandmates pounded on the door, their cries accompanied by the crackling of flames. Ji-Woon called to them, dashing to the speakers, grabbing one and—stopping. He froze. Each breath was a conscious, deliberate process requiring all his attention, the nearby cries hardly audible until, slowly, he backed away. And then he heard it. They were screaming his name as they burnt. Screaming for him to save them. Ji-Woon! Ji-Woon! Ji-Woon Hak! It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. When the fire crew arrived, his tears were genuine. Ji-Woon was celebrated as a tragic figure, a hero who did all he could in a futile attempt to save his friends. Yun-Jin paraded him through interviews until it was time to rebrand. He was reborn as The Trickster, a solo artist who produced his own songs, sporting a soft heart beneath a wild exterior. But, away from concert set-ups and television stages, something darker grew. He targeted those who lived alone, coming to them in the night. The first was a college student with a fire escape that led to her living room window. Ji-Woon woke her with a baseball bat to the skull, binding her arms and legs, gagging her with a rag duct taped into her mouth. He tortured her for hours, dissecting her alive. Yet there was something missing—a connection. He wanted to hear her pleading as he cut her belly open, but all he received was muffled cries through a rag. He learned and adjusted. Victims had to be abducted, driven to an abandoned building where he could let their voices carry unrestrained emotion. He made music from them, prodding in the right places to evoke different types of shrieks and howls. Stabbing the quadratus lumborum elicited a long, guttural wail, while slashing the carotid artery created a sound similar to a cat being strangled. There was honesty in their suffering. Ji-Woon recorded each session, synthesizing and working them into his songs, hiding them behind layers of melodies. He was elated with his work. He left hints for police, arranging a mink boa from a recent photoshoot around a victim's slashed throat. For his next killing, he removed the teeth from a man that a boxer in one of his music videos was without. During a particularly audacious plea for attention, he killed a fan he had met during a VIP meet-up, replacing her eyes with his diamond cufflinks and writing I HAVE SEEN GOD in blood across her chest. Each scene was a dazzling spectacle. Between music and murder, Ji-Woon's work was discussed globally. However, as violence became his preferred art style, his music career took a hit. Revenue was down and Mightee One executives pointed their fingers at him. Yun-Jin, with professional fury, came to his defense, but she was outnumbered. It was decided that Ji-Woon could no longer self-produce his songs. The decision was devastating. His tracks fused genuine humanity into music, yet executives rejected anything that wasn't generic and expected. And so be it. If they couldn't understand his art, he would incorporate them into it until they did. He had three months until he was to perform a private show for Mightee One's board members; three months to plan his magnum opus. He transferred obscene amounts of money to a veterinarian in exchange for cannisters of nitrous oxide, then bribed the stage technician of Mightee One's private theatre for access to the room. His celebrity granted him a benefit of the doubt no regular person could conceive. When the show was ready, gas seeped into the room as executives and stagehands awaited Ji-Woon, conveniently running behind schedule. When he arrived, half-conscious bodies were splayed in their seats and crawling across the floor. He worked quickly, binding everyone, pausing only when he came to Yun-Jin—the woman who had plucked him from a mudhole and set him on the path he deserved. She would be rewarded, granted special access to the coming display of wonder. Even under sedation, she fought, a raging storm within her, far stronger than the others. He propped her up as the lone audience member, prying her eyes open. The others, sniveling and sobbing, were brought on stage to perform their final act. With a contemptable sneer, he slapped makeup onto their faces and shone stage lights upon them. They became his instruments. To the sound of self-produced melodies, he tortured them, gracefully dashing from one body to another, conducting an operatic crescendo from their wailings. They shouted, whimpered, screamed, cried for their loved ones, cried for their mothers. It was a magnificent outpouring of emotion, of what it meant to be human, and they did it with eyes fixed on Ji-Woon. Viscera drained from the stage until, with the toss of his throwing knife, the final human instrument fell silent and the music stopped. Covered in sweat and blood, an exhausted Ji-Woon looked to Yun-Jin and bowed. Curtain call. He had attained perfection. With blade in hand, he made his way to Yun-Jin, prepared to tie up loose ends before the credits rolled. But as he reached her— The Fog. From where, he didn't know, but it billowed around them, damp, cool... comfortable. He saw the grand stage: hospitals and temples, forests and slaughterhouses—an eternal plane adorned with rusted hooks, sustained by the million eyes that would watch him, run from him, experience him. All he had to do was accept, become an implement of The Fog and, most importantly, make them scream. Encore!

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

There’s a little green something in the cracks of the road. Grian stares at it, and then he looks at Scar, who is humming cheerfully while he rummages in his bag, and then Grian looks back to the little plant.

Grian looks at Scar again. He takes a step closer to the plant. Scar, blissfully, does not notice.

Something fungal bubbles at the back of Grian’s throat.

He crouches, inconspicuous, next to the plant. He knows it isn’t grass, that it’s probably a weed, but he doesn’t know anything more. He doesn’t care to know anything more, really, and it won’t matter in a moment anyway. He reaches and-

A dull pain pings bright on his arm. He startles upright, wings flaring out, and Scar shoots him several more times with the Nerf gun. The little foam darts bounce harmlessly off of Grian’s chest.

“Bad Grian!” Scar scolds him cheerfully. “No plant killing! Bad!”

“But it’s a small one!” Grian protests immediately, startled and indignant at the embarrassment of being caught. Another foam dart hits him.

“Nuh-uh!”

“Ow- Scar, come on, it’s itsy bitsy,” Grian tries, wheedling now. “It won’t hurt anything.”

“Well, you know that’s not true. It’ll hurt the plant,” Scar answers reasonably. He waves his toy gun threateningly at Grian. “You know the deal, G. No pestulating in the Hoe-ly Spaces.” He uses his dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. He always uses the dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. Grian wants to punt Hoe-ly Spaces and all associated dramatisms into the sun.

“That’s not a word, Scar,” Grian says petulantly. He ruffles his wings and sits on the larger half of a broken concrete barrier. The vines that had been wrapped around the barrier writhe away from the spores that fall from his wings, so Grian vindictively shakes his wings more. This, at least, Scar does not scold him for.

“What? Sure it is.” Scar has gone back to rifling through his bag again. He keeps pulling out strangely shaped bottles of bright colours with baffling smells. Grian would be more alarmed, but he knows Scar has a weird thing with taking labels off of bottles. How the man ever remembers what goes where, though, he has no idea.

(He has some idea. Scar’s tongue is too many different colours, always, and he’s been almost poisoned thrice. By Grian’s count, the man should be dead.)

“Pestulate is not a word,” Grian says, doubling down.

“Then what is it?” Scar asks innocently. He pulls out a jug of blood and lugs it into the centre of the clearing.

“A nonsense.” Grian shakes his wings again. There’s now a full circle of empty asphalt and concrete around him, free of plant matter. His spores won’t root without living tissue, but he feels a little vindicated by every twitch of the green things moving away from him. “Are you done yet?”

“Grian, Grian, Grian, you can’t rush a good blood ritual” Scar exclaims. “Do you know what happened to the last guy to rush a blood ritual?”

“He di-”

“He died!” Scar presses a hand against his heart. “The plants swooped up and ate him! I found his bones, Grian! His bones!”

“We could just leave,” Grian suggests. “This is- what, the fifth blood ritual? We’re fine without them, Scar. I bet the Kingmaker doesn’t even notice.”

“Oh, pish-posh.” Scar holds out the jug and pours the blood straight down over the smallest unbloomed flower in the clearing. The jug makes awful noises as the blood chugs and glugs out of it, because Scar doesn’t care for any silly thing like fluid dynamics. The jug convulses like its gasping for air and it makes sounds that Grian thinks Scar would make if he were ever simultaneously choked and drowned. The red blood splashes across the green, seeps through the cracks in the asphalt, and gets all over Scar’s shoes. Grian draws his own feet up in distaste, but he’s far enough that no blood touches him. “You know that’s not his name.”

“He doesn’t get a name,” Grian says. “I’m mad at him.”

“Careful, Grian!” Scar says cheerfully. “That almost sounds like rebellion.”

Grian scoffs, loud, but he doesn’t say anything. Scar continues with his stupid blood ritual. Which is to say that Scar goes back to his bag, grabs a canteen, and returns to the plant. Without ceremony, Scar upends that jug over the plant too.

“Scar!” Grian squawks, scrabbling to his feet. “Scar, that’s all our water! Scar!”

“Oops!” Scar says cheerful.

“You only used a few drops for the other rituals!” Grian wails. “We just got that!”

“Oops!” Scar says again. He has no remorse. Grian snatches the nerf gun from where Scar had left it on the ground and shoots him with it. “Ow!”

“You’re the worst,” Grian says.

“Love you, too, G,” Scar says. He shakes the canteen to get the last few drops of water out. Grian watches them fall with despair. The water washes away the blood, dilutes it across the asphalt and towards the ring of vines and green things that surround them. Scar gives the little twice-baptised bloom a loving pat, and it opens in his palm. The petals are a different colour in each Hoe-ly Space, and the same holds true for here. These petals are unnaturally white, unsettlingly perfect, and-

“Is there another flower in there?” Grian demands.

Scar doesn’t lift his gaze. “Yeah,” he says. He touches a scarred hand gently to the second bloom, which shivers at the contact but doesn’t open. “Huh.”

“...Huh?” Grian echoes. “Scar?”

“It’s okay, G,” Scar says too fast. “Let’s just go shopping, yeah? All done here.” He steps back from the plant. He sees the look Grian is giving him and tries to give a bright smile in return. “Seriously, Grian, it’s fine.”

Grian has always had a knack for knowing when Scar is lying.

“...If you say so.” Grian watches Scar pack up his bag, holster the nerf gun, and throw the plant a two-fingered salute. He’s too quick. They haven’t been here for even twenty minutes, maybe, and normally Scar stretches the ritual to last an hour. Grian guesses that he’s not surprised that the blood-jug and the water are the only necessary components. The steps for the other rituals had been sporadically changed each time. “Ready to go?”

“Can we get ice cream on the way?” Scar asks, even though he knows that all the ice cream in the world has already melted.

“Sure,” Grian says, even though he knows that the corpses of the ice cream shop workers are ripe in their rot.

Scar steps up onto the concrete barrier, almost loses his balance then helps Grian up and almost sends them both toppling over. Grian doesn’t comment on it. Scar keeps casting glances to the weird plants, but stops when Grian opens his arms. Scar grabs onto him, tightly, and Grian holds tight in return. Grain’s wings start to flap (Scar sneezes at the spraying spores) and they step off the concrete barrier together. Soon, they’re in the air.

(Scar has cracked a Superman joke at least once every time Grian has flown him somewhere. This time he’s nothing but silent, and he keeps trying to peek back at the plant-filled bridge they’d left behind. Grian flies a little faster.)

—---

Scar lets Grian kill whatever he wants, most days. He doesn’t like mushrooms, or fungus, or mycelia-filled goo, but he doesn’t complain too much. It’s a good deal for both of them, Grian figures. Scar helps Grian with his whole ending-an-apocalypse-by-causing-a-different-apocalypse deal, and he’s good company in a world full of decomposing things that used to be people, and he lets Grian know when he’s getting too close to the rebellion line. The plants destroy anything that oppose them, and the last thing Grian wants is to openly oppose them.

Mushrooms are better. They’re kinder. Almost plant, almost animal, and there’s so much for them to eat. Much better than the violence of true plants.

Honestly? Grian shouldn’t even be alive. It’s pure luck that he found the mycelia before the plants could burrow into him, it’s luck that it Chose him, and it’s luck that it wants the world to end again.

(Sometimes, late at night, he wonders if he’d be happier if he’d been the first harbinger of end-times rather than the second. But, then again, mushrooms are components of decay. Scavengers rather than hunters- it makes sense, maybe, that the fungal spread occurs after the flora’s feast.)

Grian thinks he’s almost done. He used to be human, but now mushrooms sprout around him when he sleeps, and spores spread on the wind from his wings. He leaves large fields of fungus in his wake. Soon enough, he’ll have to actively hunt for the green and force it to recede. Soon enough, the old apocalypse will be ended, and the new ending can truly begin. That’s why Grian doesn’t mind carting Scar around to the last green places so much- Scar gets a free travelling companion, and Grian gets lead right to the green sources that Scar doesn’t want him to hurt. Grian doesn’t hurt them because then Scar will stop showing him where they are, and Grian is smart enough to bide his time. One day, maybe, Scar will die, and Grian will be free to kill as many green spaces as he wants.

(Grian shouldn’t have to kill him. The plants should have killed him. The fungus should have rotted him. Grian sometimes wonders what it means that he’s still alive. He licks poison and blood and shiny things that should give him tetanus, but he’s still alive.)

(Grian thinks about leaving, sometimes, but he never does. He’s always been too curious for his own good.)

“What’s that for?” Grian asks.

Scar freezes like a statue, weedkiller clutched tight in his hands. Slowly, as if Grian is a predator with poor eyesight, he hides it behind his back. Grian tries, unsuccessfully, to stifle his laughter.

“Scar. You know I can see you, don’t you?”

Scar deflates, shoulders slumping forwards as he pulls the weedkiller out again. “Okay, okay, you caught me, G,” he says. “I’m just… looking for a drink.”

“That’s weedkiller.”

“So?”

“...Okay, you’re not even trying now,” Grian says. “What’s with the weedkiller, Scar?”

Scar shuffles his feet and bites his lip, then huffs out a breath. “Are we alone?”

Grian, still smiling, raises his brows and looks around the store. Most of the shelves have been raided, several of them knocked over, and the only people in the vicinity haven’t been people in a long time.

“The plants, G,” Scar says impatiently.

“Oh, no, those are gone,” Grian says. “The mycelium works fast, you know that.”

“Right,” Scar says, and he goes quiet.

Grian eyes him, then gestures to a currently-indoor outdoor furniture set that doesn’t even have any blood on it. “Do you want to sit down?” he offers.

Scar makes a beeline for the furniture set, weedkiller still clutched tight in his grasp. Grian has barely figured out how to sit without crushing his wings when Scar blurts out, “The King’s called a meeting.”

Grian almost falls out of his seat. “What?”

“Yeah,” Scar says. “And I have to go, or, you know.” He jerks his head towards the nearest corpse. There are vines wrapped around its neck. “I was hoping you could give me a ride?”

Grian gapes at him. He feels his mental gears spinning frantically, completely tractionless. “Okay- wait.” He runs his hand through his hair and ignores the mushrooms that brush against his hand. “The King called a meeting- why? He hasn’t done that before- do you think he knows you’re working with me? This is probably a trap, Scar. You know this is probably a trap.”

Scar looks at the weedkiller on his lap. “Yeah.”

Grian stares. “Oh.”

Scar grimace-smiles. “I figured- you’ve been a good friend, Grian. I have… loyalty, to the crown, but I won’t let them kill you.”

“Oh.”

Scar shrugs a little self-consciously. “It’s the least I can do, you know?”

Grian doesn’t want to say it. He likes Scar, though, and he would feel guilty if he didn’t point out, “What’s stopping me from killing them, then? You know what my goals are.”

“Rebellion, Grian,” Scar says automatically. Grian winces and raises his hands in apology, and Scar continues. “I figured- well, maybe you won’t if I ask you really nicely?”

“That can’t be it.”

Scar shrugs. “You haven’t touched the spaces,” he explains. “And all I did there is ask you nicely.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Grian fumbles for a second. “That’s- it’s- like- chopping off a head will kill a body?” he tries. “Like- the spaces are the hands, and the King is the head, so that’s- yeah.”

“Are you going to chop his head off?”

Grian is quiet.

“Please, Grian, don’t kill him,” Scar says. He holds the weedkiller carefully, and his fingers keep nervously tapping at its sides. “Neither of them. None of them. Just- keep being your mushroomy, birdy self, okay? You don’t even have to talk to them if you don’t want to.”

Grian is silent.

“Please?”

Grian caves. Mournfully, he thinks of the Hoe-ly Spaces, and he thinks of the quiet rule he has to kill those whenever Scar dies. It feels wrong to delegate something like killing the King to that same rule, but- Scar is right. Beheading the King sounds like it comes too close to rebelling, anyway. “Okay.”

Scar lets out a breath, then gives Grian a winning smile. “Okay!” he says. “Okay, perfect! Hey, I think I saw some chocolate earlier, maybe it won’t be expired.”

“It’s definitely expired,” Grian says, but he stands and offers Scar a hand to help him up.

Scar takes the hand and pulls himself up to his feet. “It’s always good to have hope, G,” he says brightly, and they continue to ravage the store.

—---

The place Scar takes him to isn’t green at all. It’s white and red and brown, like old and new blood on white petals. Well, Grian shouldn’t be thinking in similes here- there is literally old and new blood staining old petals almost everywhere he looks.

The border of the Tree’s territory is made of wood, or whatever it is that roots are made of. They drip red onto the white flowers that make up the groundcover. It had been relatively easy to get past the border- it opened up when Scar approached, peacefully allowing him through. The roots shuddered furiously when Grian approached, but they didn’t kill him when he tucked his wings in and pretended to be demure, so he thinks that means he’s basically Scar’s unwelcomely welcomed plus one. He’s not sure if court people even get to have plus ones, but he’s not skewered by evil plant matter so he thinks that he gets to count as a plus one.

He’s maybe a little nervous.

The interior of the Tree’s territory doesn’t make him feel any more at ease, either. This, too, is a place that is blindingly white. The Tree itself sits in the very centre, painfully pale and looming. The King’s Spire sits to its right, a building of previously-white colours that has now been overgrown with green. Moss and vines, Grian thinks, but he can’t distinguish anything else. Beneath the Tree are several small figures that cause something fungal to gurgle in his throat when he looks at them too hard. Grian stays close to Scar and tries to turn his eyes to the ground.

It’s hard not to acknowledge the Tree, though. They approach it together, slowly engulfed by the leaf cover overhead and hidden from the sun. It’s almost dark. Grian feels very small. The last time he’d felt so small was when his human self had accepted the blessings of the mycelium. He’d been welcome, then, but there is no welcome for him here.

Scar, of course, seems unaffected.

“You’re late.” Grian chances a glance upwards to see a woman with dead eyes and red flowers sprouting from her hair. The fungal thing tries to crawl out of his mouth. He swallows hard and ducks his head. He’s suddenly questioning the might of Scar’s weedkiller against all of this. He understands a little, maybe, the might that would have been needed to bring the first apocalypse.

“I’m right on time,” Scar disagrees. “You’re just early.”

“Everyone else has gone.” The woman sounds unimpressed. “And who do you have with you? You know he wants these audiences to be one-on-one.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Scar dismisses. “Sym- synergy. We’re really synergetic. I couldn’t have gotten here at all without Grian.”

“Your funeral.”

“Ha,” Scar says. “As if.”

Grian is startled enough by this statement to look up at Scar, but Scar grabs him by the arm and ushers him towards the trunk of the Tree. “Hey, wait- what do you mean?” Grian hisses. It occurs to him for the first time that this could be a trap for him.

“Not now, G,” Scar mumbles to him. “Ask me later.”

Grian, ruffled, unruffles a little bit at that. After all, there wouldn’t be a “later” if Scar was going to kill him now, right? Grian is beginning to realize that Scar is wrapped up tighter in whatever- whatever this is a lot more than Grian had first assumed, and he does not like it. Not one bit. He hates this, actually, and he hates it more when Scar knocks on the trunk and the wood creaks as it twists and bends out of their way.

A voice from within calls, “Welcome, Goodtimes, to my most private of areas.” And Grian hates that most of all.

They enter the Tree. The Tree creaks and groans and it closes behind them. Trapping them inside. And Grian hates this so much.

He finds even more to hate as they delve deeper into the almost-room that’s waiting for them. The King sits on a throne in the centre, drooping like a wilted flower. He’s dead. Grian can tell that immediately- he wants to spread his wings and spread the spores, but Scar asked him not to, and-

Wait. What?

Grian looks again. The King continues to be dead. The crown sits golden on his head, shining and perfect. The King is undecayed, unblemished, but his eyes are flat, and he isn’t breathing, and Grian can almost hear the creaking as he scowls.

“What have you brought me?”

“Presents,” Scar promises. “Just as you’ve asked. They’re for you, too, Bdubs.”

Grian again begins to wonder if this is a trap. Before he can continue that train of thought, however, there’s more creaking as the Tree shudders around them. The walls shiver, and lichen sloughs downwards until there’s just a human-shaped lump of green left against the wall. The human lump turns around and looks right at Grian with its impossibly large eyes.

Grian almost bares his teeth. He knows that look. This is competition.

(Competiton for what? There’s so much to fight over, probably, if he really thinks hard about it.)

“Why is the bed made of dirt?” Grian asks.

Scar balks, the King pauses, and the lichen-man stares.

“I mean, not to ruffle any feathers,” Grian rushes, valiantly not ruffling any of his. “I guess I was just expecting…”

“What?” The dead King asks.

“More?” Grian says. “Pillows? Blankets? Uh. More gold, I guess, but I know people don’t really carry that around these days. Didn’t.”

“The crown is gold,” the lichen man says.

“Aye, but tis a tiny crown,” the King concedes.

“And the bed is made of dirt,” Grian says.

“It’s a plant apocalypse,” the lichen-man -Bdubs- says. “Of course the bed is made of dirt. It’s not like he actually needs any sleep.”

“I like to nap,” the dead King protests. “Royal naps are very important, Bdubs.”

“Of course, your highness, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “But the dirt is fine, right?”

“I mean,” the King says. “A dirt nap is mighty thematic, all considering, but… You there, Goodtimes! Have you brought your king a pillow?”

“Uh- no, no.” Scar laughs a little, startled. “No, I didn’t.”

“Shame,” the King says. The Tree rumbles. “Then you have failed me. Goodbye, Goodtimes. You served me well.”

“Whuh-” Grian starts.

“Woahwoahwoa-” Scar babbles.

“WAIT!” Bdubs shouts.

The Tree stops rumbling.

“Yes?” the King asks.

Bdubs looks at the King, then he looks at Scar, then he looks to Grian, then he looks back to the King. “Scar - Goodtimes has displeased you mightily, my liege,” he hazards. The dead King nods wisely. “Right-right- but he has displayed his loyalty quite mightily, too! The blood sacrifices are always pleasing, aren’t they?”

“You would have me grant mercy?” The King sounds displeased. Grian shuffles. He wonders if it’s even possible to kill a dead guy. He wonders if his mushrooms can kill. He hasn’t had much practice spreading them on purpose, but maybe if he can get them in the eyes?

“No, no, no, no mercy,” Bdubs amends hastily. “Just- inconvenience.” He leans in and whispers loudly. “My lord, he has a friend with him. The oncoming rot? I’m just saying- two birds with one stone here.”

“Oh?” The King looks closer at Grian. Grian lifts his wings a little in a threat display. The King nods slowly. “I see, I see… Goodtimes, I offer you a choice.”

“I don’t want to make a choice,” Scar says, more weakly than Grian has ever heard him.

“Nonetheless you have it!” the King booms. “Goodtimes- you may spare your own life, or the life of the oncoming rot. You have-”

“To give you your gifts first,” Scar says loudly.

The King pauses. “You interrupt me?”

“For presents,” Scar says quickly. He pulls of his bag and rifles through it quickly. Bdubs shuffles over and Scar hands over several unlabelled bottles. Salvation. Hope rises within Grian until, alarmingly, he realizes that none of the jugs are the weedkiller.

“Scar,” Grian says quietly.

“It’s okay, G,” Scar replies quickly.

Bdubs opens each jug and sniffs it in turn, then brings them to the King and pours them at the base of the throne. With each bottle the King’s body twitches, making noises like an ancient rocking chair, and- it takes Grian a moment to notice, but each bottle emptied at his feet brings life back to the King’s features. He grins, wide and sharp-toothed, and Grian wonders if he’s lost his chance to escape.

“Now, the choice,” the King begins.

“No,” Grian says, and he lets loose.

He’s on the ground three seconds later.

Lichen fills his mouth, vines around his wrist and wings, bark already growing quickly over his legs to trap him in place. Bdubs wipes a stray mushroom off of his sleeve in disgust, and Scar stares with wide, despairing eyes.

Do something! Grian tries to yell back with his own eyes. Scar doesn’t do anything except let out a breath, and then start to smile.

Scar says, “Phew! That took you forever, Bdubs.”

“Huh?” Bdubs says.

“I started thinking you weren’t going to stop him at all,” Scar remarks, and Grian’s heart drops into his stomach.

“OH,” Bdubs says loudly. His eyes sparkle. “Oh, so this- oh, phew! You got me worried there, Scar! Really worried! ‘Why is he hanging out with the oncoming rot,’ I said.”

“I said that,” the King argues.

“Of course, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “Anyway, I said ‘wow, I wonder why Scar is hanging out with the oncoming rot!’ But you just needed a bit of help with this one, didn’t you?”

Scar smiles widely. He rummages through his bag again. “Right on, Bdubs,” he says. “Can’t kill a fungus surrounded by fungus, right? It’ll just grow right back!” The two of them chortle together and Scar brings another jug out of his backpack.

In fragile hope, Grian’s heart begins to beat again because he recognizes that jug. It’s the weedkiller. Label torn off. Scar opens it, takes a sip, and doesn’t flinch.

Grian feels several emotions all at once.

Scar hands the weedkiller over to Bdubs just as the King says, “What are you waiting for, Goodtimes?”

“You still have my bow, King,” Scar says.

“I thought we gave that back…?” The King looks questioningly to Bdubs.

“You took it away again after Scar failed to provide appropriate subservience, my lord.”

“Oh, well have it back, then, Goodtimes.” The King waves his hand and more of the tree creaks and moans. A real and true bow and quiver are revealed when the floor pulls back. Grian wriggles frantically, fear spiking again. Scar still hasn’t wavered. Grian is starting to doubt the contents of the weedkiller jug. He tries to flap his wings but the bark has grown over the edges. He tries to let the fungus out but his throat is clogged by lichen. The wood around him dies and tries to rot but it’s just grown over and living again in less than a second.

Scar strides over, playing with the quiver. He kneels next to Grian, then pulls out an arrow. Grian stares up at him, making his eyes as wide and pleading as he can. Scar doesn’t look at him. “Long live the King,” Scar says, raising his arrow. Bdubs raises the jug to him, but doesn’t drink.

Consternation flashes over Scar’s face, and Grian feels another rush of emotion he doesn’t know how to parse. Then Scar’s expression hardens and he brings the arrow down.

It hurts. Grian yells against the lichen in his mouth. There isn’t any blood- Grian isn’t human anymore. Of course there isn’t blood. There is an arrow in him and there isn’t any blood and Scar raises his fist with a cheer, and the King raises both arms with a cheer, and Bdubs drinks the weedkiller.

The Tree shudders.

The King collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.

Bdubs shrieks. The weedkiller drops. It sprays over the floor. The Tree screams. Grian thinks he’s also screaming. Scar isn’t screaming. Scar is frozen, false smile plastered across his face, and Grian realizes with dizzying clarity that he has no fucking clue when Scar is or isn’t lying. That’s a weird thing to realize in the worst moment of Grian’s after-apocalypse life and it’s so silly he just starts to laugh. He stops laughing when a branch spears through Scar’s chest.

“Traitor!” Bdubs yells. Three more branches strike Scar through. He gasps at each one, but he doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t try to get away. He doesn’t stop smiling. He doesn’t start bleeding. “The King trusted you!”

“The King is dead, Bdubs,” Scar says. “And your apocalypse has been ending. The oncoming rot hasn’t been oncoming for a long time- it’s been here-” he gestures wildly to Grian, who has yet another flurry of unregistered emotions “-the whole time, and you’ve let it!”

“The plants-”

“Kill those who oppose,” Scar says. “But your court has been opposing you since the moment you raised them. You failed your own apocalypse.”

Grian feels dizzy. He isn’t bleeding, but he is dying.

Why isn’t Scar bleeding?

“...What are you?” Bdubs asks. He’s breathing heavily. Grian’s vision is swimming, but he thinks Bdubs has sunk down to the floor. “Why-“ another branch spears Scar through “- aren’t-” another “-you-” another “-dead?”

“I’unno,” Scar says. “It never sticks.” The Tree rumbles overhead. Grain can feel it through the floor. “How about you? Are you dead yet, Bdubs?”

There’s silence. “Bdubs?”

The Tree stops rumbling.

“I don’t think poision is supposed to work like that,” Scar says. Or he says something like it. Grian isn’t sure. He’s really tired.

There’s something warm pressed against his face. “I didn’t lie to you,” Scar says quietly. Grian makes a little noise. “I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t let them kill you. I didn’t say anything about me. Doesn’t that mean something, G?” Grian doesn’t answer. “Yeah, yeah…”

Grian breathes out, slow, through his nose.

“You’d hate it the other way around,” Scar promises quietly. “But you did it, Grian. Bdubs wouldn’t have drank that without you. That was you, alright? You did it, you won. New apocalypse, new you. That’s the way it goes. The King died, and now it’s you, and- and it won’t be like this. It’ll be better. I don’t like mushrooms, but I’ll learn to like them when they’re you, okay?”

Grian can’t reply.

“I’ll see you soon, Grian,” Scar mumbles, and he sounds so far away.

And Grian goes to sleep.

And Mother Spore wakes up.

---

written for the @pinchhitsfromthevoid event and for the @ghastspidergwen person! this got. wildly out of hand basically the second i started to write it. unfortunately i suffer from "cannot write a normal apocalypse au" disease but eyyy that just means its a two-apocalypse package deal, which was really fun to write. hopefully it's just as fun to read!

(also on ao3)

[yutito]

HYOJIN ★ 'WE MUST LOVE' (2019)

[spamsandsuch]

i cant believe i almost didnt post these mikes i drew today

[carnation-damnation]

Now wake up, Puppet Boy!

[sherrysfang]

Task I. Sherry recounts her experiences with her ghost.

You’re not breathing when you first notice the figure at the edge of your bed. You don’t think you can. Almost as if it’s very presence has managed to silence you, pressing down on your throat, constricting you. You can’t move either. Your body just a heavy weight against your bed. You know what this is, you know that you’re just asleep but you can’t-you can’t feel anything besides the beating of your own heart and it beats like it’s coming right out of your chest.

 You want to scream, to writhe in your sheets and call for somebody-anybody. But you know that you’re all alone. That your efforts would be futile. Nevermind the fact that you still could not swallow down a breath. You had still imagined it in your head. Perhaps, that was why he had made his presence known. Now, that you were all alone. Defenseless. You would argue that that made him a coward but you knew it just made him smart. Smarter than you. You hadn’t even known he was there, until he wanted you to. 

That was not your first night of sleep paralysis. But it was the first where he had visited you. After that, you couldn’t get a night’s rest that wasn’t complete without a visit from your own personal boogeyman. 

He starts to follow you in the day too. Though you’re inclined to believe that he had always been there, lurking around you, stalking you. It still didn't help you in feeling uneasy about it. You found no comfort in knowing that he was watching you. At all hours of the day. Like he had promised to keep a close eye on you, honoring you with every step you took ( he followed ). You did not think of yourself to be a particularly sought after woman, not with your demeanor. But you were not unaware of how high in demand you had become in recent years. Though you chalked it up to the fascination people often held with your line of work. The less they understood, the better. It kept things interesting. 

Though that still did not explain the heavy breathing down your neck, or the echoing footsteps behind you everywhere you walked. The ones that only you seemed to be aware of. He was not subtle enough, you think, to be a stalker. Yet it was only known to you, that there was a man following you. You don’t know when you’d started to feel crazy but you didn’t like the feeling.

You started to notice bruising around your neck, in the mornings, you know that it’s him. After all, the night before, you had been watching him. His long fingers, almost comically so, as they graze your neck. Teasing you, it seemed. Watching the rise and fall of your chest, the confusion in your eyes as they changed into panic, like he enjoyed it. Until he grasped you suddenly. Knocking the breath out of you. You struggled, of course, but he could not be stopped. It was not enough to kill you. After all, it was just a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.

You’d once seen a man so beautiful, that in his death, he had given himself to you. Spared you the burden of fear, and instead gifted you with the ability to see through a man. Because if you could see them for who they truly were, surely you could stop another from becoming him. Perhaps you could if you had the will. But he had broken you down far too much for you to even give a damn.

This gift had not fared you well, for here you were, kicking and screaming. In a pool of blood that was not your own, and yet, you had been the one to spill it…Or had you? After all, it was just a dream. He had told you, on that night  (you don’t know when one night became the next, they all started to blend together after the third) that he could make you see whatever he wanted. That he could make you see God if he truly wished. You didn’t want to find out what he meant by that. 

You stopped sleeping after a while, only in intervals, the whole night wasn’t worth the trouble no longer. You’d found prayer was enough to tide you over. Something about the resilience of Jesus was enough to convince you that you could do it, you could live like this, you could survive like this. Normally, you would ignore it. But it was all you had in the dead of the night. It was all you had to get that dark figure at the edge of your bed to retreat back into the shadows. 

“Lord give me strength to live.” You muttered under your breath, hands pressed together as you kneeled by the side of your bed. You pleaded with him, more than you prayed. For you had stopped asking for forgiveness long ago, now, no now you were asking for his salvation. For you could not do this on your own. You needed something divine, something that was larger than you, to save you from this madness. 

You did not think you could go on with a conscience that was stained red.

[sleepless-in-starbucks]

It was an Accident

Ao3 Link

Summary: It was an accident Prompt from @phantom-moonfire​ Content: Killing in self-defense, robbery, guns, stabbing, blood, nb!logan Pairings: None ( @badthingshappenbingo​ )

    It was an accident.

    That’s what Logan kept telling themself, over and over and over again.

    It was an accident.

    They had gone out with their friends, to a nice restaurant. They were celebrating… something. Logan couldn’t recall what it was anymore. Something important, probably. They hadn’t really wanted to come, but the importance and the fond pestering of their friends forced their hand.

    Their friends said it would be worth it, promised Logan would have more fun with them then at home and working. So Logan had relented.

    It was an accident.

    Things had all been fine at first. Logan had ordered something the waiter recommended. It had chicken, they were fairly certain. It had sounded good, that’s all Logan really retained.

    Logan had spent the time waiting for their food to arrive talking to their friends, enjoying the casual conversation. For all they told their friends they were fine, Logan knew they did have the tendency to overwork themself. The break was good for them, even if Logan would never admit it directly to them.

    The table Logan and their friends were seated at was near to the doors, so when another group entered, Logan saw them immediately. The first thing they noticed about the new group was their attire. Logan felt they were justified in that- ski masks weren’t that common where they were.

    It was an accident.

    Neither were the guns they pulled out of their burlap sacks. Logan was the only one who noticed them, at first. They didn’t know what to do. And before they could figure it out, there was a warning shot in the ceiling and the entire restaurant was on their feet.

    One of them stayed by the doors, guarding the exit. The other two began to round the room, going to tables and demanding the jewels and wallets off the patrons.

    Logan glanced at their table. One of their friends had a nice necklace, two had money, unable to decide who would pay the bill before they left home. They didn’t have much to lose.

    They glanced to another table, seeing the stacks of wallets and handfuls of gems being dropped in sacks. They didn’t have much to lose. Did the criminals know that?

    It was an accident.

    Logan forfeited their watch. It was made to shine like gold, and Logan found it doubtful the criminals would notice it wasn’t really until they were long gone.

    Their friend with a necklace unhooked it without a thought, their friends with money emptied their pockets dutifully. Their friend with nothing of value to give tried to offer their pleas instead.

    The criminals deemed their pleas lacking in significant value.

    It wasn’t every day you watched a person shove a gun in your friend’s face and demand they offer something or be made an example of, Logan considered as they watched that exact scene play out. That was probably for the best.

    It also wasn’t every day you shouted at the person shoving a gun in your friend’s face and drawing that aim onto yourself, Logan considered as they did that exact thing. That was probably also for the best. But in the moment, Logan wasn’t sure they had another course of action they felt comfortable taking.

    It was an accident.

    That’s what Logan told the officers arriving at the scene in the aftermath. It was an accident. The gun in their face, the heat of the moment, the autonomic nervous system fight-or-flight reaction. Nothing they could control.

    They said they had thought they reached for a plate on the table. Said they thought they were grabbing a spoon when they felt the handle. The knife was on the other side, they said. They attacked in fear, in surprise, didn’t realize they’d hit the heart with their knife, didn’t realize they’d kill the criminal in a moment. And the rest was a blur, they said too. Tunnel vision. Logan only knew that one moment they were in danger and the next they weren’t.

    The officers filled them in. Something about their action distracting the remaining criminals and giving the restaurant a chance to make their own strike. Shots were fired, but no one else was hurt.

    They let Logan off the hook fairly easy. Told them to go home, get some rest, make sure not to ignore any follow-up calls they might get but not worry about it too much either. It was a simple case of in-the-moment self-defense, open and shut.

    Logan just nodded numbly. Clenched their hands together and tried to ignore the sticky feel of blood rubbing against them. Closed their eyes when the gurney with a white cloth pulled over it rolled by only to see the moment the cloth became necessary playing out on the backs of their eyelids.

    Tried to ignore the fact they knew it was a knife, not a spoon, that they had never been reaching for a plate in the first place. Tried to ignore the fact that they had known exactly where their weapon was going to land in the criminal’s chest. Tried to ignore the fact that for everything they couldn’t remember about the day, the moment Logan buried their blade in the center of the criminal’s heart was frighteningly crystal clear.

    It was an accident.