Redrew my two slimes ✨
Mochi the Pink Slime, she’s a jester
(new art left - old art right)
And her Slime brother Gucamola the Slime monk
(new art left - old art right)
And added them as friends of Gumbi my slime mage ✨
57 notes
·
View notes
Whitestone High's wrestling team was known for its victories and its peculiar traditions. Losing a debut match was rare, but when it happened, the penalty was legendary: a session in the gunging tank.
Jason, after his shocking defeat, found himself at the center of this tradition. His teammates led him, anticipation evident in their grins, to the old gymnasium. A large transparent tank awaited, and the faint scent of something sweet and artificial hung in the air.
As Jason hesitantly stepped into the tank, he heard the soft murmur of machinery above. Then, a cold, viscous sensation began at the crown of his head. The gunge was slow, teasing its arrival with an oozy drizzle. It felt like cold honey, thick and stubborn. It clung to his hair, then trickled slowly down his forehead, sneaking its way into every crevice.
The sound was unexpectedly intimate: a soft, squelching noise, like wet mud underfoot. As the flow increased, the gunge slithered its way down his neck, wrapping around him like a second skin. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of cold, wet, and sticky. It oozed over his shoulders and down his back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
His white tank top became saturated, the fabric growing heavy and clinging to his torso. The gunge enveloped him, seeping under his clothes, chilling his skin and making him shiver. Every movement sent fresh waves of slime sliding in new directions.
The sound of laughter echoed in the gymnasium, but all Jason could focus on was the relentless, enveloping cascade of gunge. It felt like time had slowed, each second filled with the sensation of the goo creeping further, claiming more of him.
When the flow finally stopped, Jason stood there, a statue coated in bright green. He took a moment to regain his senses, then slowly reached up to wipe away the thick layer covering his face. Beneath the goo, a grin formed.
It was a moment of pure, unadulterated embarrassment, but also one of camaraderie. Jason had faced the gunging tank and emerged, not defeated, but more determined than ever.
59 notes
·
View notes
“Fear death, for it will seek you out even as you read these words.” The Gates of Death are guarded by two life-size iron gargoyles that belch forth green slime (C Bradford Gorby, from “The Crypt of Istaris,” Richard Fichera’s AD&D Dungeon module insert in Dragon magazine 155, March 1990)
230 notes
·
View notes