#implied gore

[for-the-ouchies]

Whumper giving whumpee an anatomy lesson. Describing the function of each organ- and what will happen without them -as said organs are extracted.

[empanadastheresurrection]

doodling w this one tweet in mind

bonus doodle of before making his jaw take a vacation

[mateo-samuel]

Together forever

[mateo-samuel]

She got him

[joycarver]

The perished lay scattered across the halls, many partially absorbed in the pink substance coating the laboratories' lower levels. Some are splayed out on the ground while others have gotten stuck to ceilings and walls and pulled in between split crevices. Strung along by the Gel crawling under the fabric of their skins, they rise ever so slowly towards the upper floors. None of them have anything resembling the sapience they once held, just as much a thing as the hard surfaces they are merged onto.

All of them do, however, retain a certain vitality lacking in the many other corpses found inside the facility. No rot, no stench, no liquified organs mixed with stuffing. Nothing foul hidden beneath plastic. A freshness that is somehow more wrong than what one would expect from dead flesh.

Every so often, the Ichor ignites something from within, mending twitching muscles and tightening throats until they gasp, regaining just enough to perform a hint of their lost functions, but never enough to make them return to the world as they were.

... If one doesn't know better, they'd feel watched.

"... -- llo?"

Static. A voice.

"Hell--ll... -- ll--lo? Hell--llo?"

Coming from a wall.

"Hellh.. H-hehh..."

Something lightly undulates inside a glob of the Gel. A faded brown thing, its matted fur plits open at the seams, pink tendrils creeping and curling outward as though they have a mind of their own. It's... A toy. Its pendant adorned zipper is forced open by the spilling of its own entrails. Tangled together veins, viscera and roots blossom outward, spreading the Critter's midsection apart.

A long stem rises from its center, ending in a large crimson flower. Its four petals pulse occasionally with what seems to be a faint heartbeat, but the actual toy appears unresponsive. Its head dips and its limbs hang, its body pinned, no, rooted into the wall. There is no trace of life behind its eyes... Is there?

"... Hello?"

It's not breathing.

(Hi, I don't know if you remember, but a while ago I sent you a short ask about a Bobby Bearhug Critter growing a Poppy flower inside itself as a gift for Scarv. I'm sending you this to show you what happened to it after a few months passed by. I hope you like this!)

MANY, have entered... no, BODY, leaves.

Too shapeless are they now, living a life barely hanging beyond a vegetative state.

The stains, puddles, patches of flesh of a familiar ilk. Even with minds long lost... though they are, dead, they're not gone.

Ichor remembers. It hears... and listens.

But these floors are frigid, dark, hollow.

And it couldn't take that welder's heat for long, like this... old doors scraped apart, airing out the smolders of metalwork and personal exhausts of combustion tanks.

Dutiful talons are always ensured not to tread on that unprotected biomass, tips and hooks alike mindful of every bubble that breathed... and each pulsating vein.

Hardly had it intended to take any longer routes through here, rather than simply making a few rounds through pleasantly cooler passages where nothing worked or followed. At least, it liked to think so.

Thickly swallowing dry, stale air to even just try and wash that foul memory of a taste in the bottom of their throat cables he carried on... both arms tightly folded over its chassis to recount each rise and fall. Still breathing means still alive, still awake, conscious- still able, to carry on.

Until- in a moment, every moving piece was perfectly still- bells strangling their chime in a curt halt. Silenced... to listen.

"... WHY... are you still, here?" A reprimand. With it they crept quieter now, following source of the noise. One servo lifting, to tap needles against the smooth walls in some tricky cross between a warning, a greeting and a threat... Watching their six.

[joycarver]

(With a light push, the blind follower timidly nudges along, assisted not by delusion, but a caring touch. Its stiff grimace softens and its suffering lungs breathe easy, knowing that soon it will join its fellows.)

(Music and noise fills its mind and a singing hotness spills across its frayed nerves. Heart fluttering, it bows its head once more and dutifully presses that content, eyeless smile face-first into the turning mechanism --

CRACK

-- Immediately releasing it of its consciousness, the rest of it soon following.)

(Willingly.)

*Sorry about the late response, I was busy all day! Lovely portrayal of this monster of a character, thanks for playing along!

And- finally... doors of bone swung shut.

The noises that followed were dreadful.

The pain within, was no better- A foreign object, lodged in the mechanism... teeth fighting the obstruction to act out their purpose, to crush, to savor- and to silence.

Stitches are torn apart... inner pressure, merciless- as gelatinous tissue bubbled through the ripping seams- its old form lost, pulled asunder, bone chewed through.

Thick stains of deep red and stringy pink are all that's left, trickling between gaps.

Until... that abomination folded over itself.

Shivers rocked through his hideous frame, while the BURN within ever slowly abated.

A festering, wound... temporarily, hidden.

Get up. That... that'll take his mind off of it.

No rest for those like you. Hide yourself.

To make it right. Still repairs to be done.

[joycarver]

(The wrongside outimal stands, something heavy forming in its throat. It had almost betrayed the Newmaker, unable to show them the pure, unwavering faith they require. Wretched thing that it is, too frightful to accept the Offer. And yet. And yet...)

(The God of Playtime loomed patiently, oh so kindly. Their open embrace. Their caring, waiting, predatory gaze...)

No...

(The toy's shimmering eyes dart, panic rising. No! It had to prove its worth willingly. But the light hurts. The sight terrifies. Safe, it's safe. The spinning teeth won't hurt. It's just a vision.)

Wait

(... From where the smoke swirls and the heat paints the inside of the machine, once again, that grinding, groaning sound hums with the Savior's tender melody. It's the hushed beckoning of the Redeemed.)

(The music. Trust the music.)

(The outimal's hands rise. Stubby, rough fingers wrap tightly around the tender flesh of its eyeballs...)

(It clenches --

-- and pulls!)

(Sight is lost in an instant, plucked away by a single, painful snap. No visions to stop it, nothing to take away its conviction.)

(It is ready now.)

For what difference would it have made.

This way, or another... naught remained, but dreams, of umber... and ashen slumber.

This way, or another... they'd have been merely reduced to a heap of ribbons and bile all the same. And... yet, here they ARE.

"Know... you stand freed, now. Of fear, of shame, of your punishment. It all ends, here."

For of course- the Martyrium didn't even bother trying to stop them. Fewer pieces there are to get caught up between the gears, the better. Instead it reached forth- somethings frayed and soft, TOO tender for fur or wired bone- grasping towards it, tentatively brushing, guiding... holding.

A warm, living- loving embrace. Come here.

No need to run.

[mainmoenmomentmaybe]

Nothing wrong with me