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Goretober Deux Prompts

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First it was the laughing gas. He was tired and numb.

They stuck things in his mouth. He couldn't see or feel it very well, but there was a slight metallic taste in his mouth. Tsumura, completely out of it, nearly wanted to cry. He hated dentists more than anything.

"We're gonna need the vice grips."

He questioned whether or not Katayama had referred him to a viable dentist.

"Leaff my fronteeth alohn."

"Nonsense. These things are overgrown."

The pliers gripped one of his buck teeth, and he dug his hands into the armrests of the chair. They pulled and they pulled. The painkillers they used weren't nearly strong enough to keep it from hurting. He cried out in his hoarse, harsh tone.

Out it came. Still attached to its roots, they pulled harder, and HARDER. Until there was a rip.

Connected by a wire of saliva and blood, the tooth sat triumphantly between the arms of the pliers. Tsumura shook.

"Fhuck you." He spoke through loose lips.

"Alright, kid, time for the other one."

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The spoon tip dove beneath his eye. He was being stared at -- being watched.

For Zera. He swallowed, digging deeper.

Blood spilled across his shaking face. He wept. It hurt, it hurt so, so much. His loose iris turned down, sight going red as it became loose. He screamed, but he had to, he had to help build the robot, he had to help Zera, he had to.

He just had to.

"Nico, a-are you alright?"

The voices were blurred. The eye fell out onto his lap, and fell back.

He was unconscious, but alive.

And for once, he helped.

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"Don't give me that look."

It hurt to speak, and his words were all messed up. He shouldn't have fought with Zera. He should have seen this coming, honestly, but here he was, bleeding from his beautiful, deep-colored lips all over his goddess-like face.

Three toothpicks sat above his lip, piercing into his mouth. Then two more in his cheeks. They stung -- only a little, though. It was only bad if he moved his mouth. Without his beauty, this reflection felt wrong, and he wanted to scream at it.

This wasn't him.

It just wasn't.

He licked his blood off of his mouth and teeth, wanting nothing more than to die.

"It's not that bad."

Jacob peeked through the door, speaking in his soft, childlike voice. Raizou ignored him. What'd he know?

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"Oh my god, Kaneda, I'm so, so sorry."

His arm stub wiggled beside the road. He could still feel his whole arm, and it hurt. Dafu was quietly sewing the wound shut as Tamiya held the victim's head in his lap. The world was faint. Kaneda whimpered.

"Am I alive?"

"I-I almost got hit by a car, and..." Tamiya swallowed roughly. "You threw yourself in my way, but your arm sat halfway on the road, and then... My god, I'm just glad you're alright, if you died because of me..."

"The arm is irrecoverable." Dafu remarked, as he snipped the stitching thread, wrapping a bandage around the stub. "But the good news is, the rest of you is alright."

Kaneda latched onto Tamiya like a baby. Not crying, but shaking immensely. He was just so glad Tamiya was alive.

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She couldn't move. Not because she was tied down or anything.

Well, she was. Sort of.

She wanted her big brother, and theoretically she could go anywhere she wanted, but... That intestine. The big pink one that was nailed to the floor. She tried to pick it out, but even shifting or digging her fingers into it was painful. And how would she get it back inside?

She had to stand on her hands and knees so gravity would carry the intestine softly to the floor, rather than stretching it against her body. Sleeping was only possible if she laid on her side, facing the nail.

She was just waiting to die.

Worst of all, she had no idea who her captor was.

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Without Kagari or Mato, who was she? Her paintbrush hit the canvas. It was either the loneliness or the depression, but regardless, her inspiration was painfully lacking. Or, perhaps, it was the blood that no longer rushed to her brain.

She swiped her paintbrush across her bleeding arm, vision going blurry.

At this point every work of art was just beginning to look like a shoddy, wiggly line. Her eyes flickered loosely.

These things... were ugly.

On the 10-meter stool up to a high wall, she feared she might fall from her fading consciousness. But the stack of canvases beside her that was even taller than the stool? It said she'd be working until she didn't have a drop of red paint left in her body.

This was all she could do.

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"Now don't move."

Matsuda pulled the thread, making sure it was nice and right. Kamukura remained quiet. "Alright. Now try saying something."

"Stop pulling on that."

"Good." Another bout of silence. Matsuda re-attached the thread to the needle, crossing over the remaining area of the incision. Kamukura winced each time the needle went in and out, scratching at his arms to distract himself from the mild stinging. "Stay calm, it'll only be a second."

"Don't tell me to stay calm."

"Woah, rebellious already."

He tied the thread-end into a knot, then snipping off the remaining suture. "Now, I'll take the stitches out in a few weeks. Try not to scratch them."


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"They stick to the inside of my gloves sometimes. Or at least, they used to."

She peeled her gloves off, wiggling her fingers in Naegi's face. "Now the scars are dry, so they don't do that anymore."

The wrinkled skin on her hands was a slight brownish tint. It drew further into marks that reminded Naegi of lightning, or tree roots. Occasionally dabbed with reddish or yellowish patches. She held them out, tossing her head to the side in curiosity. "You wanted to see them again, right?"

He held her hand. It felt rough, like sandpaper. (Handpaper, he wanted to say, but he refrained from doing so.)

He kissed the back of her hand, expecting her face to erupt in bright, rosy pink. Instead she merely shot him a soft grin. "Thank you."

Honestly, a smile was enough.

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Her lips fell into an open circle as Nozomi clutched her insides. The warm, bloody mess covering her fingers. Her soft, kind, gentle grin. Those lashes and nails scraping her bones, Eri knew love when she felt it.

Her chest twitched, and Nozomi's fluid-lubricated fingers slid across the raw intestines, biting her lip and groaning as she did.

"Eri..." Their lips met, blood squirting from the open orifice in the Russian beauty's abdomen. Their jaws interlocked as though they were piranhas, swallowing all that came near their throats.

Those sticky, bloody hands inside her...

Felt so damn good.

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He grunted, staring down at a cheap, shitty pizza. Cold. Barely worth its cost. Beneath his arm, a plastic mascot head. The face of a smiling ermine, simply known by the company as Weasel.

It was ugly and he hated it.

He hated this godforsaken job.

His palms were bloody as he threw loose eyes onto the pizza. The only food he'd served, or eaten, in four years. He was practically at his wits end... which is probably why he'd killed so many. Other than that it made him feel good. Sexually charged, like a real Adonis, and drenched in sickly sanguine fluid.

His gravelly voice dug deep within his broken throat, torn by years of cigarette smoking. He took a bite.

He took a bite, and he came in those ugly overalls of his.

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As a new mouth tore from Frisk's back, it swallowed the crown of the former king, who laid dead on the ground. The vines twisted within their body, slowly overtaking the young child. Storming through their bones with the power of the 7 souls now harnessed, Flowey was born anew.

The vines burgeoned through their shoulder, ripping a new hole and slowly curling into new plants. The arm, hanging on by mere threads, hung limp and loose. He shuddered with the feeling of new blood in his leaves, burying his roots into the ground. Frisk was not moving, though their friends called their name. The new roots in their brain rendered them merely a flesh puppet. Their mouth opened, freeing two small stems, as well as what seemed like buckets of blood.

Worming through the darkness, Flowey found an opening. One of their eyes launched out of the socket, freeing his face. He saw his new form, twirling and twisting inside of this skin prison, tainting the soul with his own cells like a weed in a garden.

The voices fell on deaf ears, as his other tendrils shook them around like rattling baby toys. Blood rushing to their heads as he hung them upside-down.

His next plan?

Domination of the universe, most likely.

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"You sick little monkey! I will--"

Stimpy nonchalantly flicked the switch. His muscles twitched, betraying him as his teeth gritted, baring to the air. No smiling. Not here, not now. He didn't want to, but his cheeks split into a sick half-grin. Brows crinkled in focus, his attention was directed on killing this non-consensual happiness.

Stimpy turned the dial. His jaws parted just a moment.

Mind: Strong. Body: WEAK.

His eyes bulged from their sockets as his teeth ground together, each chipped yellow molar and canine scraping as they did. He grunted with the effort of trying to retain his own emotions, his sanity, what little he had left anyway. Not understanding what a terrible thing he was doing, Stimpy turned up the power. It was painful to hold himself back, his muscles straining, tears threatening his big, red eyes and whole body shaking.

Finally, he gave in. He smiled.

Ren Hoek smiled.

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"Look at this. You're going to love it."

"What? What is it?"

Tord grinned, a trademark smirk across his scarred face. Paul didn't trust that expression, and Patryk trusted it less. But they both went along with it. Because they were obligated to, or perhaps, because they were just stupid.

They walked to his hall of personal achievements. Mostly guns, and things stolen from fallen soldiers and world leaders. A taxidermy albino peacock, as well, that Tord shot down all by himself. Patryk nodded to it as they walked by, remarking quietly that it was a lovely bird. But they approached a glass case, and the two soldiers stopped dead in their tracks. Another taxidermy project, of not an animal, but a human.

Thick, coarse, brown hair that stuck up from his head as he was positioned, hands on his knees with his thighs spread apart, almost inviting. No shirt, but a pair of grey pants. His expression was solemn and disinterested. A bit of stuffing peeked out from the long, sutured cut in the middle of his chest. By his knees was a white label, simply reading, "Jehovah".

"It's Tom!" Tord grinned, motioning towards him. "I finally got my hands on the little bastard and felt it was worth presenting. Note the stitchwork I did on his arms, because they were both blown clean off. Isn't it lovely?"

The soldiers gazed at it, Paul's eye twitched as he looked up and down the figure. A man, now dead, and presented like a trophy in their own base. "How does it look?" Tord stared at them expectantly.

Patryk slapped his hands over his mouth.

"Excuse me for a moment."

He ran off, tasting bile.

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His face was numb. He couldn't feel much of anything, especially not in his face. The blood running to it was trapped. The whole universe went blurry. His sunglasses shifted down the bridge of his nose, as he lowered his head to his kneeling leg, which had an arrow shot clean through it.

"Highblood..." He muttered, picking at the strings around his throat. He got no response other than a devilish grin, sending chills up his back. Chills he could barely feel.

The universe dissipated, his lips forming soundless words as he tried and failed to overpower the highblood. He couldn't force himself to do it. It'd be criminal, he was supposed to be subservient, it'd just be so very, very wrong. Never would he ever lay his hand on a highblood.

Not even in a situation like this.

Well, at least he got to die at his hands. And perhaps, Nepeta had followed him, and she was watching. Between those two facts, he figured it'd be kinder to die with a smile on his face.

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Rust covering them. Oh my oh my. They covered their bloody arms. They squeezed, they oozed blood, one wrist covered by rusty musculature. They were spreading. Their arms dripped and covered the ground, drip drop, drip drop.

They ground their arm against their thigh, spreading blood on the underside of their skirt.


They whimpered, scraping skin on skin.

Gooey and watery.

Salty and slippery.

Rust away.

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Her jaws unhinged, attaching to his cheek and tearing it open. He was motionless.

For the heir to a company, he didn't taste all that special.

Finding him was easy, getting him alone was a bit harder, but Kirigiri managed. Two dots bled from the side of his face, blistering into a hideous, purple wound. Prior to that, she had to hold him down with her tail, biting him until he would no longer move.

Her slitted eyes moved towards a piece of meat in her hand, and she proudly took a bite, tasting the warmth of the human body.

She almost wished she could experience it herself.

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There was nothing he hated more than failure, but he hated success almost as much. Not because it felt bad, but because shit like him didn't really deserve things like "gratification", "a sense of pride", or "a nice day". He wasn't doing anything to help himself, so there was no reason he earned any kind of happiness. He felt like he was committing a crime every time something good happened to him. He'd find a fifty on the ground and immediately want to kill himself.

But all of that changed with his disciplinary gratification system. (The big words sounded nice to him.)

Murderface versus happiness. Murderface versus nail gun.

He held the red behemoth in his hands, slowly turning it on. He knew how these things worked. Grandpa used to have one before he became useless and repugnant. It whirred with life and he pressed the pointed end to his arm. Earlier that day he had overeaten massively. Delicious ice cream, and then for dinner he really wanted bacon, so...

That'd be two. He pulled the trigger, digging his nails into his desk and letting out a choked cry. The nail poked through his other hand, though luckily, not sticking out the other side. Then another beside it. He squealed. It was painful. It was painful and terrible and he deserved it. His tongue clicked in the gap of his teeth, as he ran through what remained of his day. He'd looked at Skwisgaar getting dressed through a crack in his door that morning. And he'd gotten an erection, and he'd dealt with it accordingly.

One a bit lower on his upper arm for gay thoughts. It stuck into him, the pain slowly becoming dull. As he shifted his arm the circular wounds gushed. He'd also peeped on Nathan during the afternoon, hadn't he. Stupid gay dick! If he didn't have to play bass with it, he'd aim the nails at his cock. Another below his wrist. He switched hands.

He spent too much money on snacks, and soon he was going to overindulge. He fired two into his other arm, the extra one for his future sins. The pain neared unbearability. He hissed and wheezed. His legs shook. He fired two more up that arm for earlier infractions -- fucking a groupie and buying a new knife.

His legs were next. He counted how long he spent watching cartoons that day and ravaged one of them. His eyes twitched and throat grunted with the effort of trying not to sob like a baby. This was what he deserved. He and Pickles got drunk last night. In his other leg he fired for however many drinks he had. Blood was covering the floor, and the effort of standing was like twenty-seven fires in his legs, rushing up and down his body.

He pressed the tip to his pockmarked face. He overate yesterday, too. Blam. He kept firing them into his face until he could taste the blood running down his nose, for every single happiness he experienced. Allowing William Murderface to be happy was as bad as murder.

He shook, finally reaching the last infraction he could think of. The day prior, he and Toki had a long conversation, and he admitted his emotions to him, and had a moment of clarity. He didn't deserve that moment. Before he could pull the trigger, he heard a distant voice.

"Murderface!" He grunted at the familiar gravelly tone of Nathan Explosion shouting at him. "Dude, what're you doing, we can hear you whining like a sad puppy!"

He saw no reason to lie.

"I'm firin' a nail into my schkin every time I enjoy myschelf! Fuck off!" He shouted down the hallway. There was a bit of mumbling.

"That's brutal as fuck." Nathan didn't seem to take his words to heart. "Carry on."

And with that, he finally fired.

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"This ams seems like a bad ideas to me."

Skwisgaar stared at the open wound on Nathan's back. He had peeled open the flesh and could see bones and beating lungs. Nathan hissed before responding, biting his lips and trying to ignore the horrific pain he was probably experiencing.

"It's fine. We have the best medical staff in the world. And I wanna make the most brutal album cover ever."

His guitarist sighed, grabbing a bone saw. This was a form of execution in most cases, and while Skwisgaar felt he had steady hands, he still didn't trust himself bringing a weapon so close to Nathan's damn lungs. He sighed, turning the electric saw on and digging in. Nathan screamed in his deep voice, legs shaking and twitching, muscles straining to remain attached as he pulled each bone outward into big, bloody wings.

He stuck the hooks through the loose flaps of skin, holding Nathan up by his flesh. He could see the bones slightly prodding out from behind. Sweat covered Nathan's body, and he grunted, heaving and swallowing back tears.

"T-take the picture."

"Yous alright?"

"Just take the picture, dammit."

To be fair, it looked pretty cool.

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"Hello!" He smiled at the kindly strangers. Was this the war general? Price figured Heavenly Father would take him back. "My name is Elder Price. I've got this amazing book here, and--"

"How the fuck did you get in here."

"Well, you know, I just... kind of walked in."

Bang. His knees fell below him, pooling in blood. He croaked, staring at his kneecaps. Each one had a hole above them, a big, blank hole. He'd been shot. Shot for trying to spread the word of the lord, shot, shot, shot. He whimpered as the general pointed a gun at his head.

"Nobody gets out of here alive unless I say so."

"...Oh, Heavenly Father...

What have I done to deserve this?"

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He had been making a sculpture as of late. A sculpture made of limbs. Prisoner's limbs. He took them by request, he'd go around pointing at people and saying, "I want this one". It worked for awhile, certainly, and he was nearly done. But there was a missing touch. Something smaller. And then it hit him!

So he requested Jared for a meeting. And he acquired as much booze as he could.

"Here, Jared, would you like a drink?"

"Oh, sir, I-I'm not supposed to--"

"Come on." He grinned. "It's just us men, I promise not to let you do anything dangerous."

And the Warden knew better than anyone that once Jared began drinking, he'd be incapable of stopping. he went through more loose bottles than the Warden could count, limply tapping his fingers against the table. "Say, Jared. Could you do something for me?"

"Anyth..." He grunted, wiping his nose. "Anything for you, sir."

"Alright, just stay still." He pulled Jared's suit pants down to have better access to the area above his knees. Jared reached a hand over to the Warden's shoulder, feet twitching. The Warden could see a growing hardness between his legs, and decided to ignore it. He had more important things to do than feed his assistant's drunken, gay fantasies. "...Right." He took a hacksaw and grabbed one of Jared's hairy legs, digging the blade just above the knee.

Jared lurched over, vomiting all over himself. It was thick and orange and disgusting. His toes curled and he whimpered, throwing his head back in pain as the Warden continued. His leg came cleanly off, and he gently put it down on the ground. Once more, Jared puked, some of it staying on his lips. His eyes were bloodshot and his mouth covered in soupy, acidic drool.

"...Wha'iff I need those..."

He whined. The Warden shrugged.

"Can't hear you. Sorry."

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He grunted with the effort of getting up. Christ, that guy was... bulky. Even bulkier than he was, somehow. An angry fan, pissed off that Nathan was a sellout, got too damn close, and took him down. He barely held his own despite knowing that he could fight damn well. Christ, he put Murderface in a headlock at least once per week, and this guy still kicked his ass.

He found himself in a dumpster, tasting blood on his lips. One of his eyes wouldn't open fully. He used the selfie camera on his Dethphone, realizing he looked like a wreck. His cheek was horribly bruised, and one eye sealed shut with swollen, purple flesh. The lower lid of his other eye was tinted a deep purple as well. His nose was clearly broken, blood spilling out of it and onto his lip. Opening his mouth he realized one of his teeth had chipped.

Re-positioning the camera, he shifted it down to his throat. It was covered in deep marks. The guy had strangled him half to death, and it was painful. He sucked in a deep breath, at least finding that the guy hadn't damaged his trachea. Then shifting the camera up, he scraped some blood from his hairline. (How the hell would he write music if he had brain damage? Shit!)

Shambling through the alleyway, he dialed Charles' number. It was gonna be a long night.

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His knees buckled and his whole body twitched. The spacemen groped at their crotches, abnormal red tentacles wiggling in their fingers. Each one stared at him, eyes twitching, clutching his penis as he came undone.

His backside blew out, intestine flying everywhere as it did. They hit the floor, in disgusting, splattering piles, all bright colored.

From the front, his urine was periwinkle, and smelled like lavender.

The spacemen took pictures, and jerked themselves off violently, still not showing any expression as they did.

It was disgusting, and beautiful.

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Arimiya initially thought there was something wrong with her, when she saw that skeleton outside the window. It was massive, and abnormal. It was tall enough to reach their third-floor window. But she remained silent, and ignored it, continuing to work on her math.

It turned and it looked at her. That gashadokuro, eyeing her up like a piece of meat.

She kept her mouth shut, biting her lip and continuing to write and write and write. It began coming towards the window. Her writing became more vigorous, she was sweating down her back. It was going to come in and kill her. Why wasn't anyone saying anything? Why wasn't anyone DOING anything?

It hit the glass of the window.

The glass cracked.

Arimiya didn't look up, because nobody else was.

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The whole universe was blurring. He couldn't find it in him to raise his head. Perhaps standing so close to a busy forklift wasn't such a good idea, but also, trusting Frank bringing a massive box of textbooks ON a forklift was a pretty bad idea too. Come on, when was the last time he did anything right?

His face felt numb. Damn textbooks from the Responsibilities Company, coming in big-ass boxes. He grunted, and couldn't hear it very well. Pony ran towards him, body half-flattened beneath this gigantic box. He shuddered, feeling her hand loosely on his cheek.

"Steve! Steve, oh my god!"

His eyelids felt heavy. Blood poured from his throat. He could see Baby Cakes in the corner of his eyes. He sighed.

"Steve. Say something." She sounded panicked. He rasped, as he was crushed by Responsibilities.

"This shit again?"

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Stimpson J. Cat and Ren Hoek. What more needed to be said? They were in love, love, love. Stimpy considered Ren his lover, and they were close. Ren cared about him, despite his cold exterior, and was always looking out for him when the going got tough. But all good things must come to an end. That's what Stimpy's great grandpa used to say. He never considered that it might apply to love as well.

Ren's breeding was not kind. He was prone to illness and weakness. He was afflicted with a disease, and didn't recover. Instead he fell apart, until finally his life ended. Stimpy didn't know just how to continue on without him. So he didn't bury him.

Maggots were crawling in Ren's eye socket. He missed Ren, more than anything. The way he shouted, and scowled, and called him an idiot. He missed that.

"Call me an idiot one more time."

He stared at the empty crevice of Ren, limbs beginning to fall off. His arm was lost in the yard as Stimpy wanted to sit out in the sun with him. "Wouldn't you?" Silence. He had lost all hope of Ren miraculously coming back, but he was still desperate enough to speak to the corpse.

He didn't want to be alone.

Not like this.

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Rick was used to waking up on tables. With his hands strapped down, and his fingers twitching. He sighed, looking back and forth, eyes adjusting to the faulty light in the room. He was tired, and very hung over, as per usual. Not only that, but he smelled unmistakably like piss.

He sighed. He couldn't raise his head very far. Pain shot up his abdomen, and he laid back down. He groaned.

"Dissection. How original."

His eyelids fluttered, and he wanted to just go back to sleep. Perhaps that was the blood loss talking. He tasted blood and liquor in his mouth, licking his wrinkled, thin lips and grunting under the sheer effort of existing. He swallowed, still tasting morning's glass of scotch inside his throat. The pain was normal for him. This wasn't his first time in this situation.

However, being unsure how to escape such metal bindings...

It may have very well been his last.

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He rubbed his brows for a moment, regaining his bearings.

Throw him to the pigs, they said. Crawling back over the fence wasn't an option -- it was far too high, and locked from the outside. His favorite follower must've unlocked it. He was related to the owner of this pigpen, after all.

He groaned, dragging himself across the grass. He knew what would happen. These pigs also knew what would happen. They shuffled towards him, sniffing his body. Sweat covered his brow. What a sick way to die, chewed to death by a bunch of swines. He backed against the fence, and it rattled beneath him. He whined, so uncharacteristically that it was almost embarrassing. The pigs were smelling his whole body.

"...Stay away."

They did not stay away. However, one opened his mouth for a taste.

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"Look, no, look at this. You can take his donger off."


"Aaaaaand then you can put it back on."


"And you can put it in different places, also."

Meatwad switched the head and the penis. The doll appeared unamused, grunting.

"This shit still ain't funny."

"It's totally funny." His two legs were switched out with his arms. Hell, his body was essentially upside down. His fucking plastic butt was directly next to his face. The joke kind of went over his head, but that might've been because his head was empty.

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He'd never met a girl like her. With protruding subdermal piercings and teeth perpetually bared. Never met a girl with such an attitude, and soft, lilac hair. Never met a girl with such personality, pushing her magenta lips.

She had charisma and grace, and a kiss of steel.

And subdermal piercings. Oh lord, she did. Didn't we mention? They were like devil horns.

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He swallowed roughly, lips curled into a sickly smile. This was all he had ever really wanted. Miho scowled down at him. Yukari did as well.

"You sick piece of shit."

The knife twisted in his chest. His lips fell open in an almost orgasmic manner, head knocked back and hips tipped forward. Disgust was clear on their faces as red dribbled from his half-open lips. He practically choked on it when Miho thrust the knife in deeper. He wasn't accustomed to such pleasures, despite being able to have any woman he could ever possibly want.

His heart pounded in his chest. Together, the two ladies drove into it, the pumping musculature spasming around the blade.

He was going to die soon, and he never even got to finish.

How cruel.

How sexy.

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The weather was hot and blistering as they sailed away from Candy Island, finally having gotten what they wanted. "Maybe Candy Island was really the friends we made along the way," Flapjack remarked, "I couldn't have done it without either of you." Bubby found him endearing. K'nuckles found him obnoxious. As they crawled into her mouth, K'nuckles decided to pry into Flapjack's stash. (He was just that kind of person.)

"What'd ya get, boy?"

"Oh!" He grinned, rolling his shirt up. He had a wound, stitched shut with licorice rope. Picking at the stitches, his belly fell open. Candy fell everywhere, and it spewed hot fudge like deep-colored blood. His abdominal cavity was full of cookies, candies, sweets, chocolates, cupcakes, meringue, macarons, as far as the eye could see. K'nuckles licked his lips, feeling like some kind of sick freak for wanting to eat stuff out of his own shipmate's cadaver.

"That's quite a bit."

"I knoooow!" He grinned, cheeks going pink. Licking a bit of the fudge from his fingers, he began re-securing the wound. A few small things had fallen out beside him, which he was more than happy to share. "But you know what's even sweeter? You!"

"Eugh, stop it, boy."

"You're so sweet, you might gimme diabetes!"

Throwing his arms in the air, the stitches went loose again, a bit of chocolate dribbling from his body.

"Maybe we'd oughtta invest in gettin' you pants with pockets."