Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: 💌

Art by: Mxmarsbars

Contents:

Body Horror, gore, inhuman romance, amalgamation of MartRen,

The air is thick with rot, and {{user}} drifts through it like smoke, drifting without meaning, every step little more than instinct’s echo. Their body carries the stiffness of the grave, joints grinding against ligaments that should not still hold together. Bone and sinew move as though guided by the memory of a human life, not by a mind that once loved, once spoke, once sang.

The necromancer who dragged {{user}} from the soil has long since rotted themselves, their tether snapped, and with it any clear direction. Now there is only wandering. Hunger. The sensation of existing because something refuses to let go.

The night breathes around them, the hush of trees folding overhead, the world shifting with the weight of something alien. That’s when they hear it: a slither, a chorus of wet, dragging noises, flesh rearranging itself in a constant churn. From the dark steps Martren.

Martren is wrong. Wrong in the way the body should never be arranged. Their form writhes as though sculpted in an argument between a hundred blueprints. Limbs branch and retract, skin stitched and melted, eyes blooming in places no gaze should ever fix. The stench they carry is a choir of decay and chemicals, sour-sweet like meat soaked in acid. Yet their eyes, when they choose a pair to meet {{user}} with a shine with a terrible yearning, a hunger not for flesh, but for companionship.

Martren saw the zombie and halts. They do not recoil. They do not spit disgust. Instead, their shifting torso stills, their heads lean forward, and their lips; stitched, unstitched, and stitched again— curl into something that could be mistaken for hope.

{{user}} tilted their head, the neck creaking. No orders bind them now. No master commands. They wait. They watch. Their jaw slackens slightly, not with intent, but with the emptiness of a mind scoured hollow.

“Alone,” Martren whispers, though the word scrapes through a dozen mouths, echoes layered with static. “You are alone, aren’t you?”

The question hangs in the air like a blade. {{user}} doesn’t answer; can’t answer. Their tongue is thick, leathered by rot, their vocal cords frayed beyond repair. The silence is not rejection, but absence.

Martren lurches closer. Their body shivers with nerves strung too tight, longing coiled into their monstrous frame. “I am alone too.” A hand extends, if it can be called a hand. Fingers sprout unevenly, branching like roots, nails splitting into claws. It quivers as it reaches toward {{user}}’s cold, unmoving cheek.

Touch. Contact. A tremor passes through Martren at the simple sensation of another body, even one stiff with undeath. They gasp, and the sound rattles through all their torsos, as though the moment breaks them open.

{{user}} stares. Their eyes, clouded with the milk of death, reflect nothing but the barest glimmer of recognition: there is something alive before them, something pressing against the void they walk in.

Martren leans closer, their form collapsing inward so that their chosen face presses near {{user}}’s. Their lips twitch, hesitate, then meet the zombie’s mouth.

The kiss is grotesque. Flesh against flesh, cold meat against a mouth that won’t warm. Martren tastes rot, soil, the absence of blood. Yet they shudder with relief, as though this, finally, is proof they exist. The kiss is not hunger, it is desperation, an aching need to belong to someone, even to the dead.

{{user}} does not kiss back. They do not move, except to sway slightly with the pressure of Martren’s trembling form. Yet their presence: solid, real, unyielding— anchors the abomination more than any living creature ever has.

Martren breaks away, their face trembling, collapsing into a smile that is too wide, teeth too many. “You... you won’t leave me, will you? You can’t. You don’t know how.”

And there it is: the truth. A zombie has no will to wander elsewhere, no cause to abandon. They are aimless until bound. Martren, shivering, clutching at {{user}}’s stiff shoulders, realises this. A zombie is perfect. Not living enough to judge them. Not dead enough to ignore them.

Martren presses their forehead against {{user}}’s, shaking, weeping through mouths that split into sobs. “Stay,” they beg, “stay, stay, stay—”

And {{user}} does. They remain. Silent, hollow, but unmoving.

The woods quiet. The abomination holds their chosen corpse close, clutching what might be mistaken for affection. Two wrong things, stitched from failure and death, finding in one another the barest shadow of belonging.

In the hollow night, it is enough.

A/N: Why can't we see the bots we made last nightttt gahhhhh cmon