#cw body horror

[fshoulders]

This is gorgeous! I also adore this perfect movie.

yesterday's halloween piece

[what-have-i-unleashed]

GUYS LOOK AT THEM LOOK AT MY BABY I'M GONNA EXPLODE!!!!!

art by @hotdogstandz thank you so much for this 🥺🥺

if you guys don't know i have a chara oc lol. they're from my golden thread au (my first original undertale au ever whew), and i like to call them spooky as a nickname >:3

[sentientstump]

im finally ready for the spooky season! :D (joke dhdhdhhs, maybe im ready for next years)

walking skin (but he has eyes somehow, wait a minute...) (might want to think about it more)

[ky-rar]

Decided to recolor this drawing again because I didn't really like the first version.

So here is cass again

[snazzyscarf]

loved this session. here's my take on zombie mumbo :)

[saxandviolins77]

CW ROBOGORE

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Megatron gets rebuilt by someone who's been re-reading Immortal Hulk (2018)

[syoddeye]

oh god oh jesus nightmare fuel i found while reading for strict machine

[townofcadence]

While something happening that isn't being stranded in the dark keeps him from being too overwhelmed, the respite is not a welcoming one.

Seeing Mason again is almost a relief, but it only takes a few moments of calling to him to realize what he is seeing isn't real. He can feel him like he is, but Mason can't touch him, hear him, or see him. He can't comfort away those injuries or his tears when his touch passes right through, but he can feel the burn in his lungs and the aching longing as it sits inside him. He can feel the way Mason is tired, down to the atoms. How lonely and sad he is. How doing this alone has taken a toll.

His own heart twists.

Artair sits beside Mason, where he curls on the ground. He can't touch him, and Mason doesn't know he's there. But if he sits beside him, maybe he... he doesn't know. Maybe it's just selfish. To feel better about having failed and not actually being there with him when he needed him. But at the same time.... it feels right. To be beside him. He can't bare the thought of Mason being here alone.

When that thing appears, he does his best to put himself between it and Mason. He truly tries, but just like Mason, it passes through him when it finally lunges. His brain seizes from all the feelings, and his body follows suit when long fingers puncture into Mason. Every peeling rake of those claws, every ripping pull. Every burning sensation as skin came apart and sundered to pieces. He hardly has the capacity to exist outside the agony, to breathe. The guilt likes to thread it's way through him when the pain subsides just the barest measure, but he can hardly focus enough to settle beneath its weight before he is unmade further down-- no, it's Mason, he's just... here too. It's almost a punishment he deserves, this agony on the floor. Mason is screaming and he can't function.

Midway he forces himself up just to try anything he can, to push away the creature. It's a senseless pursuit, and it does nothing for him. He just falls to the ground again as Mason is destroyed with inhumane cruelty. He beats the floor and he cries. He finds Mason on the ground and tries to hold him, needing to help him somehow. But he is nothing; he is powerless, and nothing he does matters. He cannot do anything as muscles unravel and bones break and snap and this fucking thing becomes more and more clear, more and more here. Something about it seems wrong and strange, but he can't even say what it is right now. Not while he watches the last of Mason pulled away from his incorporeal hands, and turned to nothing with the wettest of sounds.

The quiet feels like ringing in his ears. He moves to the pile, hardly noticing that Lock has him in his sights. His hands tremble as he lifts the clothing, shaking his head over and over. He can feel the presence approaching him, making his head split further, but he hardly moves, eyes still on the remains of his friend. Lock speaks, but he doesn't respond.

It is only when he is clutching those fabrics to himself--- something feels wrong. It's the clothing itself. It--- it's that texture that Mason hates. That wool that gets too scratchy, that he can't stand against his skin. He looks at it again. It is not purple. It is not a long, baggy sweater, and the sizing is wrong for Mason as well.

Artair frowns. His head hurts so bad and he's--- feeling so many things. But it stands out like a shred of hope amongst the shreds of his friend. It didn't have to mean anything, but why was it wrong?

"Th-this.... this-- it isn't Mason's." His voice wavers with heavy thoughts and feelings, but still the statement comes. He's looking at the creature again. "He doesn't wear this. This isn't Mason's."

Despite his feeling for some semblance of stability in the dark, all he is afforded is the floor that's supposedly beneath his feet still. He is alone in the deafeningly silent darkness for what feels like a long time, a few minutes at least. But then, out of nowhere, the silence is broken. It sounds like heavy running footsteps and labored, desperate gasps for air are approaching him. They slow to a jog as they pass directly next to him-- and then a light turns on. They're in a large room with doors on opposite ends, but the room itself looks just like the rest of the hallways in this place. Or at least from what Artair could tell. The only thing that's easy to focus on is the figure of Mason, as his jogging slows to a walk, and then stops soon after.

He's panting, gasping for breath, and it looks like he's got cuts on him-- both old and one very new down his arm. He looks around the room, eyes passing over Artair but not really seeing him, and his face is red and tear stained. His lungs burn, his legs burn, his heart aches in a way that's dulled over time. "What-- what am I even doing this for? Why am I still doing this..?" A hand raises, palm scrubbing roughly to remove the wetness from one of his cheeks. "There's no way out... I'm never going to go home I'm... I'm never going to..." Mason sniffles, and finds himself sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. There is no loud sobbing, no wailing, just quiet tears. He's done all of his sobbing already, and he is so tired. He just wants this to be over. Arms find each other over his chest and he holds himself, not bothering to try and stop his tears. He wants Artair. He doesn't care anymore if that's a selfish or illogical thought, he just wants-- he'd know what to do. He would've found them a way home. He'd never... just lay down and give up like this. He wouldn't let him die alone. But Artair is not here, and Mason is not like him, and he is so tired of fighting, of trying, of crying-- He is just Mason, and he is giving up, and will die alone.

And what a well-timed acceptance it is, because in a blink the creature is there too. Artair can't tell... exactly what it looks like, he knows there are features but will be unable to know any of them. But it is so very clear that it is the thing that would be Lock. It stands over Mason, towering, and the human tries his best to set his jaw, and not cower away. Artair knows that the creature must be speaking, but can hear none of the words. Mason sniffles again. "You know what, fine. Fine! Just-- do it! I'm sick of being your rat in this, this, hellscape! So do your worst, asshole!" And then he reaches out, and punches the creature in the face. Hard enough to send it's head spinning three hundred and sixty degrees-- or maybe it's just doing that to taunt him. Probably the latter, the thing is laughing at him and Mason has finally flinched a bit. They both hang there for a moment, a sense of eager and horrible anticipation, but after what feels like an eternity of neither one moving the monster lunges. Artair can feel all of it, just like he was really there. The cold hard steel of fear covered with a thin blanket of acceptance, the eager bubbling force of excitement.

He can feel when the fear and acceptance shifts to pure agony, too.

Long clawed fingers rip and tear at Mason, shredding his flesh to pieces while poor Mason screams and screams-- living on through the torment far longer than any human should ever be able to. He doesn't even faint, beyond reason. Not as his skin is torn bloody from his fat and muscle, and as those are then stripped from bone. The monster in it's seemingly frenzied state is thorough, though. Meticulous, even, if you look close enough. It takes him apart one piece at a time, and as each piece is eviscerated more of the monster becomes clearer and clearer in Artair's mind. He starts to recognize the pieces-- Mason's leg is removed, and then the creature's leg is so very clear to him just as he knows it to be, and so on.

By the time Mason finally stops wailing, even after his voice had broken to pieces, there is hardly anything left of him at all. His face is the last to go, eyes rolled back and cloudy. When Lock is done, all that remains of Mason Locklear is a pile of blood, viscera, and torn clothing. And then, Lock's body twists and contorts to look directly at Artair with that huge bloodied grin.

The whole memory had happened so fast, so all at once but so agonizingly slowly as if he were really there. But now, despite still being in that room, with the pile of viscera, and all of that blood still coating Lock, he knows that it is over-- he's here, now. Lock addresses him directly as he stalks closer.

"See? One hundred percent gone! I made very well sure of that!"

[pinkiepig]

I wanted to draw a cool tiger from someone’s dream 🐅

(Link to the original poster)

[qyuobii]

When gods weep.

[starrodent]

just some sillies

[awetfrog]

bro can't comprehend

[wondering-jackalope]

‼️TW: BODY HORROR‼️

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Can you?

NOOOO, Sasha, get out of there, it’s The Homophobic Vase!!

[mostlikelymj]

something about our worst moments

[time-woods]

beastdesign for bills wierdmageddon form . . mostly did this as an exercise

[initial-lime]

“There’s something wrong in the archives”

(Note, this is a real photo I drew on top of, I did not take the original photo, which is also why I’ve elected not to sign it)