#The Dreamscape Demon (Lanky) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ask-soul-bendy · 3 years

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BatIM questionnaire

Decided to do one of these again, this time including all of my Bendy’s. And Lanky is officially mine now I guess. >> At least his dreamscape form, which is the one I drew. Anyway, I would put this up on DA, but it’s not loading for some reason, so to Tumblr it goes. :U

And hopefully Parry’s voice text isn’t too tricky to read. ^^;

Hello and thank you for choosing to partake in my questionnaire correlating to the BatIM universe! Me being DemonSheyd500025 (on DA) and Ask-Soul-Bendy (on Tumblr) for reference~

We'll start by detailing your AU, or multiple AUs if you have more than one, then we'll get on with interrogating your characters. :b However, if you don't actually have a fully fleshed AU for your characters to call home, then you can skip the AU detailing. I know there are some Bendy's and Henry's and Sammy's who basically just wander the multiverse on their own. X3

1) So first, a quick summary of your AU, plz~ What's it called?

The two AUs I'll be going with are the Soul-Bound AU, and the Paradox AU.

2) What time period and location is it set in?

Both AUs are closer to modern times, but the locations are undisclosed. >>

3) Does it take place before, during, or after the events of the game?

Soul-Bound is after the events of the game, while Paradox is kind of during the events for now. Though there will be a conclusion, then it'll be mostly open for other things to happen. :b

4) How is it different to the game?

Funnily enough, Soul-Bound was created at the recent time of ch.2, so its ending is nothing like the game's. Alice had no interaction with Henry, nor the other named characters other than Bendy and Boris of course, and there are some monsters that don't exist in game, such as an ink version of a hydra from the game Prototype, and of course the ink eater. There's also multiple Bendy's that I couldn't help but make up and give a home, so Beta and Donut share the AU as canon titular Bendy's. Of course they were implimented after the events of the game, but still. >> While Paradox is undergoing its course via RP with a friend of mine, basically it follows the game's scripts but "Bendy's" heart was [DATA EXPUNGED]. I like my characters to have some semblance of soul, so even though game Bendy is literally a soulless creature, my "Bendy" had a spark of innocence, and that was [REDACTED] for reasons I won't elaborate too much here. >w> Also a different kind of demon resides there too, a fog demon who dons the guise of Bendy as well, named Whiteout, and he's made friends with "Bendy" and Parry. Furthermore, Henry is a 10yr old child in this one, just to switch things up a bit.

5) Is there, or was there, a time loop involved?

In Soul-Bound, no, but in Paradox there actually is, but not for Henry and his friend Corr. There's a bit of lore for this studio that will be explored as the RP advances. ;b

6) And lastly, are all the named characters of BatIM still alive?

For Soul-Bound they kind of are, as monsters known as phantoms, which are designed after said creature from the game Prey with a few customizations from me. As for Paradox, I plan on the fates of most of the cast being the same as the game, so... >3>

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Alright, with all that established, we can proceed with getting to know the characters. :D

1) First things first, if there are multiple AUs and multiple characters here, which AU does each character belong to?

All my Bendy's will be present, so Soul, Donut, Beta, and Lanky belong to the Soul-Bound AU, while Parry, "Bendy", and Whiteout belong to the Paradox AU.

2) Salutations, what is your name/alias and gender?

Soul: The designations for us is Soul for me, Donut for the smol boi, *points to the smallest toon* Beta for the big teddy bear, *glances at the larger prototype Bendy* and the melting mess is Lanky.

Donut: *waves happily* {"Yup! And we're all boys, I'm pretty sure."}

Beta: *nods with a smile*

Lanky: *leans against a wall in a creepy posture. He's very evil, so don't expect him to be cutesy X3*

Parry: ι gσ ву ραяяу, αη∂ нє'ѕ ωнιтєσυт, *points his tail at the limbless fog demon* ωнιℓє ωє α¢тυαℓℓу нανєη'т тнσυgнт σƒ α ƒιттιηg ηαмє ƒσя "вєη∂у" уєт, ѕσ ιт'ѕ נυѕт тнαт ƒσя ησω. *glances at the demon looking similar to Lanky*

"Bendy": *just stands in place, equally as unsettling as aforementioned monster*

Whiteout: *waves a hand as greeting*

3) Are you human or ink creature? Or something else for some reason?

Soul: We're all Bendy's, so ink creatures.

Donut: {"I'm actually not an ink creature, just a toon."} *rubs his head nervously of the ink*

Parry: *nods* вυт ωнιтєσυт'ѕ ησт α¢тυαℓℓу мα∂є σƒ ιηк єιтнєя, нєη¢є нє'ѕ α ƒσg ∂ємση яαтнєя тнαη ιηк ∂ємση ℓιкє тнє яєѕт σƒ υѕ.

Donut: {"Er, well, Beta's not really a demon either. More like a searcher closest resembling Bendy."}

Beta: *nods; he's pretty much the opposite of a demon anyway*

Lanky: *spreads his arms a bit, letting lots of ink melt off of him to the floor. Obviously an ink creature*

"Bendy": *does the same as Lanky*

Whiteout: *points at himself and shakes his head, he's neither human or ink creature, like Parry said*

4) How old are you?

Soul: So my body's around 30yrs old, right, but my true being is far older. We don't need to elaborate though~

Donut: {"I'm little over 40yrs in terms of conception, but around 30yrs as actually being alive and sentient."}

Beta: *points at Soul and Donut, being around their age, or more in between them*

Lanky: *groans lowly in thought, before pointing at the other Bendy's he's correlated to, indicating he's around their age*

Parry: ωєℓℓ ι'м σηℓу α ƒєω ∂αуѕ σℓ∂ α¢тυαℓℓу, вυт "вєη∂у" ιѕ ωαу σℓ∂єя. ι ωση'т ℓєт ѕσмє ѕє¢яєтѕ ѕℓιρ тнσυgн~ ;b

Whiteout: *points at "Bendy" to gesture he's around his age as well*

5) How big are you? Height & weight plz~

Soul: *holds his chin in thought* Hmm, well I'm only 3ft tall, and probably around... 40lbs or so?

Donut: {"Heh, I'm definitely the smallest here at 1'04", and maybe just a few pounds."} *shrugs with a grin*

Soul: While Beta is over 7ft tall, and probably well over a hundred pounds. Maybe even over 500 or more if I had to guesstimate. A mass of ink is pretty dang heavy after all.

Beta: *nods in agreeing, though he seems able to hold himself up well enough*

Soul: And Lanky is around 9ft tall, and would probably be slightly lighter than Beta.

Lanky: *gazes down at him with a shrug*

Parry: ωєℓℓ, ι'м ѕσυℓ'ѕ ѕιzє αη∂ ωєιgнт, ωнιℓє "вєη∂у" ιѕ яιgнт αяσυη∂ 8ƒт тαℓℓ, αη∂ мαувє α вιт ℓιgнтєя тнαη ℓαηку, ιƒ σηℓу вє¢αυѕє нє'ѕ α ℓιттℓє вιт ѕмαℓℓєя.

Whiteout: *holds his hands up like a scale, and forms fog into numbers, in one hand saying "2ft 4in" and the other hand saying "1lb". So he's actually lighter than Donut, lel*

6) Do you have friends?

Soul: Plenty! *grins widely*

Donut: {"Of course I do!"} :D

Beta: *nods with a happy gurgle*

Parry: ωєєєℓℓℓ, ι ∂υηησ ιƒ ωє'яє ƒяιєη∂ѕ qυιтє уєт, вυт ωιтн нєηяу αη∂ ¢σяя, ι тнιηк ιѕ тнє ¢ℓσѕєѕт тнєяє ιѕ ƒσя мє тнυѕ ƒαя. >>

Lanky: *simply shakes his head*

"Bendy": *doesn't respond for a moment, before also shaking his head*

Whiteout: *sets his fists on where hips would be with an "oh really?" expression, before pointing to the two sepia-colored demons, indicating that he's friends with them*

Soul: *snickers and laughs at that* Hahahahahahaa! Heh so did you forget that you're Whiteout's friends, or what~?

Parry: *blinks in a dumbfounded manner, before smirking sheepishly at the fog demon* яιgнт~ ѕσяяу, ι вяαιη ƒαятє∂~ уєαн, мє αη∂ "вєη∂у" αяє ωнιтєσυт'ѕ ƒяιєη∂ѕ.

7) Are you friendly?

Soul: I am most of the time.

Donut: {"All the time!"}

Beta: *nods again*

Lanky: *glances down at his viscous and dangerous appearance; does he look like he's a friendly creature?*

Parry: *shrugs* ι ¢αη вє, вυт ιη α ωσяℓ∂ ωнєяє кιη∂ηєѕѕ gєтѕ уσυ ηєχт тσ ησтнιηg, ι ωσυℓ∂η'т ¢σηѕι∂єя муѕєℓƒ ραятι¢υℓαяℓу ƒяιєη∂ℓу.

"Bendy": *shakes his head, a straight up no*

Whiteout: *scratches his cheek in some thought, before shrugging with a shake of his head, pretty much same as Parry*

8) Are your friends friendly?

Soul: Most of them are.

Donut: {"I would hope that my friends are friendly."} *smirks sheepishly*

Beta: *points at the smol toon, same as Donut*

Lanky: *scoffs and shakes his head. He has no friends to say so*

Parry: му σηℓу яєαℓ ƒяιєη∂ ιѕ αѕ ƒяιєη∂ℓу αѕ мє, ѕσ ησт νєяу мυ¢н. >>

Whiteout: *nods in agreement*

"Bendy": *points down at Parry, what he said. Though he's even less friendly than the imp, but still*

9) How do you spend your idle time?

Soul: *shrugs* Usually just play video games or watch TV, sometimes draw stuff. When I'm not partaking in shenanigans, I'm pretty lazy~

Donut: {"Eheh, well I like to draw pictures and explore stuff on the internet, since I can't really do a lot in the 3D plane."} *shrugs in an "oh well" manner*

Beta: *pokes his chin in thought, before gesturing to the pool in the backyard, liking to lounge out there when he's got nothing else to do*

Lanky: *shrugs, basically just kinda reside in his secret room plotting what to do to Henry*

Parry: му ι∂ℓє тιмє ιѕ υѕυαℓℓу ѕρєηт мєѕѕιηg ωιтн тσуѕ αη∂ ѕтυƒƒ, σя єχαмιηιηg тнιηgѕ тнαт ¢αт¢н му ιηтєяєѕт. *shrugs also*

"Bendy": *shakes his head, as though implying that he doesn't really consider his time doing anything as idle time*

Whiteout: *forms a mass of fog into the shape of a plant, implying that he likes to tend to the few plants that grow around in parts of the studio*

10) What building structure do you call home?

Soul: Henry's house, along with Donut and Beta. *grins happily*

Donut: {"Yup!"}

Beta: *nods with a smile, they're all safe and sound away from the studio*

Lanky: *downcasts his gaze, still trapped in the Joey Drew Studio; it's the only place he can call home*

Parry: ωє αℓℓ ℓινє ιη тнє ѕтυ∂ισ. ι'νє нєαя∂ σƒ α ωσяℓ∂ συтѕι∂є тнє ρℓα¢є, вυт ι ∂ση'т тнιηк ιт'ѕ ωєℓ¢σмє тσ ¢яєαтυяєѕ ℓιкє υѕ...

"Bendy": *nods in agreeing*

Whiteout: *nods too*

11) If an ink creature, can you handle water?

Soul: I can for a while, but no matter how solidly I can hold myself together, ink is still liable to dilute and fall apart.

Donut: {"I'm not made of ink, so I can touch water just fine. But Beta might fall apart very easily, since he's not as well held together as Lord Bendy..."} *gives a sad look to the viscous prototype*

Beta: *nods with a disheartened frown, not sure if he'd be hurt from it, but definitely can't swim in it*

Lanky: *shakes his head, he probably wouldn't be able to handle water very well either*

Parry: нмм, ησт ѕυяє. вυт ιƒ тнєм тαℓкιηg ℓιкє ιηк ιѕ ρяєтту ѕσℓυвℓє ιмρℓιєѕ αηутнιηg ѕєяισυѕ, тнєη ι ρяσвαвℓу ωσυℓ∂η'т ƒαιя ѕσ ωєℓℓ тσυ¢нιηg ωαтєя єιтнєя.

"Bendy": *nods to Parry, taking the others' word for it that water wouldn't be a good idea to try messing with*

Whiteout: *pokes his chin in thought, and moves a hand to whisk around some fog; said vapor is pretty much water, so essentially he's okay with it. Also he's not made of ink, so that helps*

12) Do you have any special powers?

Soul: Hmm, well aside from basically having telekinetic control over ink, and access to Hell magic, there's not a lot of crazy stuff I tend to do.

Donut: {"Unless you count cartoon physics as a special power too, which I can perform as well."} *gets a nod from Soul*

Beta: *shakes his head, he doesn't really have any powers*

Lanky: *seems to smile more as he turns to climb up the wall he's been leaning on like a spider, like an ability to defy gravity as some demons are able to do*

Soul: Oh yeah, I can do that too! :V

Parry: нυн... *watches the melting ink demon cling to the ceiling all creepy-like* ωєℓℓ уєαн, ι ¢αη ¢σηтяσℓ тнє ιηк αѕ ωєℓℓ, вυт тнαт'ѕ αвσυт ιт ƒσя мє.

"Bendy": *nods agreeing with Parry*

Whiteout: *waves a hand in the fog, showing that he can control that and dissolve into it, so that's about it*

13) What is your pain tolerance?

Soul: Pretty high. I only really am hurt from stuff like acetone and holy energy, so if any form of forceful contact to me doesn't have those qualities, then I don't really feel any pain.

Donut: {"Hmm, well no one likes getting hurt, right? So for me, I'd rather not let a lot of physical abuse land on me..."}

Beta: *nods agreeing with Donut. He probably doesn't feel pain per se from forceful contact, but getting hit would be hurtful all the same*

Lanky: *hisses lowly, also having a pretty high tolerance for pain, judging by his ability to recover quickly from injuries*

Parry: ι мєαη, ι нανєη'т яєαℓℓу gσттєη нυят мυ¢н уєт, ѕσ ¢αη'т яєαℓℓу ѕαу нσω ѕтяσηg ιт мιgнт вє. *shrugs*

"Bendy": *gestures at Lanky, agreeing with his degree of pain tolerance*

Whiteout: *points at Soul, pretty much also not really able to feel pain*

14) Would you accept hugs?

Soul: Absolutely! *grins with welcoming open arms*

Donut: {"Me too!"} :D

Beta: *grunts in a friendly way as he offers his arms to hug*

Lanky: *grins darkly as he spreads his arms, though with those large claws, would you really want to hug him?*

Parry: єн, ησт вιg ση ρнуѕι¢αℓ ¢σηтα¢т.

"Bendy": *shakes his head, he'd rather kill you than hug you*

Whiteout: *shrugs as an "it depends" gesture*

15) Time for favorites~

-color

-sound

-food

-drink

-movie

-game

-animal

-possession

-music/song

-word

Soul: Ooh, so my favorite color is red, favorite sound is a slide whistle, favorite food is chicken, favorite drink is soda, favorite movie, hmm... I'd say Godzilla: King of the Monsters, favorite game is Hide and Seek, favorite animal is the dragon, favorite possession... Hmm, I don't really have anything I always carry around, but I guess the Bendy dolls are really nice to always have. Favorite music, I'd say spooky and ominous stuff, but favorite song would have to be Dance Like the Devil from Rockit Gaming~ And my favorite word is 'crud'. :b

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Donut: {"Heh, well my favorite color is yellow, favorite sound is a beep, I love terriyaki chow mein, and uh, I guess soda is a favorite. Haven't really tried many kinds of drinks yet. But favorite movie..."} *rubs his chin in thought* {"Hmm... I'm not sure actually."} *shrugs with a sheepish grin* {"I don't think I have one yet~ But anyway, favorite game I think is Charades. Then my favorite animal is little birds, my favorite possession... Hmm..."} *smiles and pulls out a little snow globe* {"This here little trinket of mine! It was a gift from Corr and Henry this past Christmas!"} <3 *puts it back* {"But anyway, so my favorite music is old classic stuff, favorite song is one from a TV show called My Little Pony, I think it's called Smile, or at least that's what it says a lot. It's so happy and bouncy!"} :D {"And finally I think my favorite word is, um... Gee, don't think I have a favorite word~"} *rubs his head sheepishly and shrugs*

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Beta: *pokes his chin in thought; how is he gonna tell all this stuff? He can't talk... Well, he points at where eyes would be, gesturing that he can't really see colors, so having a favorite color doesn't apply, and then points outside at some birds, liking to hear their noises. He then lets out a grunt as he points at his mouth, not really keen on opening it, so he doesn't really eat. But what he has tasted is bacon soup, which he pulls out from nowhere, pointing to it implying that it's really the only thing he's ever consumed. He also tilts it like a glass of drink to basically say that said soup can technically be drank as well, so pretty much it's his favorite food & drink, with a shrug. He puts it away then, and shakes his head at the movie one. He can't see anything that isn't touching the ink he's in, so he'd only be able to listen to movies, which kinda defeats the point of a movie. He grunts with a smile as he pokes his own hand to imply Tag as one of his favorite games, alongside Hide and Seek. He pokes his chin in thought, but those are two games, is that allowed? He shakes his head and moves on, grunting pointing back at the birds as his favorite animal, and then points at the two pools that were made for him as his favorite possessions, a large one in the back yard, and an inflatable one in Henry's basement so he can be inside. And favorite music, well pretty much the only music he's been able to enjoy for so many years is all that was played in the studio, so that's all he's accustomed to, but admittedly his favorite song is Soul's siren song. It's kind of captivating to any ink creature, so... He then shakes his head as he doesn't really have a favorite word*

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Lanky: *hisses lowly in thought. He can't really see color, but he does enjoy the sounds of pain and torment. He doesn't eat or drink, and can't watch movies, though he loves playing Tag, albeit in a predatory and rather sadistic way... Animals don't really exist in the studio, so can't say on that one, but he pulls out a particular Bendy plushy with a glowing red pentagram on its belly. He uses this to communicate with his previous pet, Corr... That is to say this is his favorite possession. He then looks down some as he remembers what kind of music he did used to fancy, which was Jazz actually, and like Beta, he'd say his favorite song is admittedly Soul's siren song. And as for a favorite word, he hisses liking to be referred to as 'Master'...*

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Parry: נєєzє, ѕσ мυ¢н тσ тнιηк σƒ. *scratches his head at what his favorites could be* нмм, ωєℓℓ ι gυєѕѕ му ƒανσяιтє ¢σℓσя ωσυℓ∂ нανє тσ вє яє∂, αη∂ ωнαт ¢συℓ∂ му ƒανσяιтє ѕσυη∂ вє... *rubs his chin in thought. To be fair he's only a few days old, he hasn't had much time or opportunity to really apply personal value to anything* ι gυєѕѕ тнє ѕσυη∂ѕ σƒ ιηк ∂яιρριηg ƒяσм ρℓα¢єѕ αη∂ ƒℓσωιηg тняσυgн ριρєѕ. ιт'ѕ кιη∂α ηι¢є тσ ℓιѕтєη тσ. *shrugs* αη∂ ι нανєη'т єαтєη σя ∂яυηкєη αηутнιηg, ѕσ ¢αη'т ѕαу ση тнαт σηє. нανєη'т яєαℓℓу ωαт¢нє∂ αηу мσνιєѕ σя ρℓαує∂ αηу gαмєѕ єιтнєя. αη∂ тнєяє'ѕ ησт яєαℓℓу αηу αηιмαℓѕ ιη тнє ѕтυ∂ισ тσ ρι¢к αѕ α ƒανσяιтє, ѕσ тнαт'ѕ α вυѕт. ι ∂ση'т нανє αηу ρєяѕσηαℓ ρσѕѕєѕѕισηѕ, ѕσ ησтнιηg ƒσя тнαт... *snaps his fingers with a smirk* Gσттα ѕαу тнє ¢ℓαѕѕι¢ мυѕι¢ ιѕ ρяєтту ѕηαzzу тнσυgн~ αη∂ υн, ∂υηησ αвσυт α ραятι¢υℓαя ѕσηg, ησя α ƒανσяιтє ωσя∂, ѕσ... *shrugs with a more sheepish grin* тнαт'ѕ αℓℓ ι gσт.

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"Bendy": *moans lowly in thought. Probably favorite color is red, favorite sound is pain & torment like Lanky, of course, favorite food & drink are non-applicable, nor is a favorite movie, but safe to say he may enjoy Hide and Seek to a more dangerous degree... He'd sooner kill any animals than find intrigue in any of them, he doesn't have any possessions of sentimental value, he doesn't really bother familiarizing himself with music, and words are nothing to him :/*

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Whiteout: *pokes his chin in thought, not quite sure how to say his favorites without the ability to speak. He decides to point at his hand that's a desaturated bluish color, so perhaps blue is his favorite color. He then holds his chin in some more thought; coming up with a bunch of favorites is a little more tricky than he assumed. Oh, of course! With a snap of his fingers, he forms the fog into the shape of a heart, pulsing rhythmically. That's his favorite sound, yes! Heh, so long without hearing it, he'd almost forgotten that such a nice sound existed. But anyway, he doesn't eat or drink anything, there aren't really any movies in the studio to watch, but he does enjoy playing Hide and Seek. It's a pretty fun game, especially when he's the seeker~ And favorite animal would probably have to be fish, they're cute and nice to watch. He shakes his head at the possessions one, not really having anything to call a favorite. As for music, probably more ambient and spooky stuff, but no particular song. And finally, eh... Nothing really on words, he shrugs*

16) What was the best dream you've had? And the worst nightmare you've had?

Soul: Hoo boy, alright, now that the favorites are out of the way, we can carry on~ Heh, well let's see... Best dream I've had was... Huh, I dunno, can't really think of one. *shrugs with a sheepish smirk* But definitely the worst nightmare I've had was one where this giant monster kept chasing me and killing me, and I couldn't do anything to it... *frowns with confusion, and some unease* It felt so real, but it seems to be gone now. >>;

Donut: {"Huh, well I think my best dream was when I was flying through the sky with the birds, not even in a plane or anything. It felt so amazing!"} :D *he then frowns thinking of nightmares* {"And uh, as for nightmares, I think the worst I've had was when I touched the ink and just kinda melted into it. Then it felt like I was just in oblivion, I couldn't sense anything..."} *twiddles his thumbs nervously*

Beta: *groans sympathetically at the little toon, but as for himself, he actually doesn't really dream, so he may have been spared from any subconscious activities*

Lanky: *shakes his head, he doesn't really dream either*

Parry: нмм, ησтнιηg ι яє¢αℓℓ нσηєѕтℓу. *shrugs*

"Bendy": *shakes his head, also having no dreams*

Whiteout: *shrugs as well, having no dreams or nightmares to recall either*

17) Does cartoon logic apply to you?

Soul: For the most part. *nods*

Donut: {"Completely!"} :D

Beta: *hums in thought, before shrugging. Maybe a little, but he's more grounded in reality. The only cartoon ability he's able to utilize is hammerspace, but not to a substantial degree*

Lanky: *points at Beta, also only able to use some degree of cartoon logic. If anything his abilities are more akin to dream logic, even though the two are pretty similar anyway*

Parry: нмм, ι'∂ ѕαу ιт ∂σєѕ αρρℓу тσ мє, ι נυѕт ∂ση'т υѕє ιт αℓℓ тσσ σƒтєη.

"Bendy": *shakes his head, it doesn't really apply to him all that much*

Whiteout: *also shakes his head*

18) Can you play an instrument?

Soul: Eh, not really.

Donut: {"I can actually play the piano a little, just small ones though."} *rubs his head with a kiddish grin*

Beta: *shakes his head. Even if he could, he wouldn't physically be able to handle any instruments*

Lanky: *shakes his head, nope*

Parry: ηαн.

"Bendy": *shakes his head too*

Whiteout: *also declines*

19) Is there anything you hate?

Soul: *holds his chin in thought* Hmm... Well, I do hate when my cutouts are messed with in the studio. I also don't tolerate disobedience. And I think that's about it.

Donut: {"Golly, I don't think I can hate anything."} *shrugs meekly*

Beta: *grunts and points at Donut, same as him*

Lanky: *hisses and points at Soul, pretty much same as him*

Parry: ωєℓℓ, ι ∂ση'т тнιηк ι нανє αηутнιηg тσ яєαℓℓу нαтє уєт, ѕσ...

"Bendy": *shakes his head, hatred is really just an emotion that can get in the way*

Whiteout: *shakes his head, also not having anything worth hating*

20) Here's a 4th wall breaker for ya, are there any other AUs you're familiar with, or have interacted with?

Soul: Weeelll... I am familiar with the 2D AU. >> And I have interacted with residents of other AUs, but that's about the extent of my crossover adventures. :b

Donut: {"Unfortunately I haven't met any other AUs yet. If a lot of them are friendly though, I'd like to meet some of their residents."} :3

Beta: *pokes his chin in thought, grinning some recalling having visited one known as the Modern AU. The titular Bendy known as Prowler is pretty interesting, though he was looking worse for wear last he saw the demon*

Soul: Oh! And speaking of the Modern AU, which I'm well acquainted with as well, I sometimes bring Donut there and we meet up with other characters from various AUs, or wanderers. Though, not necessarily to the AU per se, but a place called the Multiverse that's more or less hosted by the Modern AU where pretty much everyone can go to meet up with friends, and lots of crazy stuff happens. :D

Donut: {"Yeah, it can be fun, but for me, eh... There tends to be a lot of scary stuff there too."} >~>;

Soul: Ah, even some of the scary stuff can be alright when it's settled down. *waves a hand discerningly*

Lanky: *watches the two for a moment, before shaking his head, he hasn't interacted with other AUs. No doubt he wouldn't be welcome given his evil nature*

Parry: ηαн, му αυ'ѕ тнє σηℓу ρℓα¢є ι кησω.

"Bendy": *nods at Parry and Lanky, same*

Whiteout: *shakes his head*

Soul: I mean, to be fair the only way for us to be together is by taking these here quizzes, but it's not really an official crossover, sooo~ >w>

#BatIM #Bendy #Soul #Parry #Donut #Beta #Whiteout #Lanky #Ink demons #Bendy and the Ink Machine #Soul-Bound AU #Paradox AU #BatIM questionnaire

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floweringscrubs · 5 years

Text

If You Said You’d Be Mine

The coffee mug is warm against his palm, the bitterness on his tongue grounding as he listens for the angel, somewhere out of view.

Coiled to strike as he comes around the corner-- fuzzy and glowing white around the edges-- a lunge turns to a mere slither at the sight of red and purple, splotched on creamy skin.

Soft hands fiddle with the tartan bow and his eyes are drawn there, remembering the feel of that warm skin under his lips, his tongue, his teeth, even. Remembering the scent of parchment and lavender, the taste of sweat, the rumble of moans and little whines against his cheeks.

He eyes those marks as he slips an arm around a soft waist, pulling close, possessively. Chin grazing a padded shoulder, the thoughts of ‘you’re mine’ and ‘stay forever’ wrapped up in a simple, breathed, “g’morning angel.”

(Continued below the cut or over on AO3)

____________________________________

Dawnlight slips into the room around heavy curtains, the noise of traffic and humanity barely a low drone yet as Crowley stirs awake, slow and easily. It’s rare that he awakens anything less than abruptly, dragged from sleep by pools of sulphur and the stench of brimstone. And so he allows himself a few more moments of imagination, of this dreamscape that feels too much like home, not daring to open his eyes quite yet.

The vision of Aziraphale swims back into view-- prim and proper, standing in his kitchen and flushing under his heavy, dilated gaze. The bruises from his lips stand in stark relief on the angel’s pale neck and jaw as he pulls him close, breathing in the scent of him and trying his best to be suave. He knows the angel would see right through that, if dreams were reality, but he allows a smile to creep onto his face, small and hopeful, before opening his eyes to the actual morning and grimacing at the ceiling.

He flings his legs out of the sheet and slinks into a sitting position, his spine popping with a bit of reptilian protest. The bed shifts behind him, causing the demon to stifle in the middle of a stretch, and he turns around slowly with the knowledge that this must be too good to be true.

But there, even more real than he’d imagined, lies Aziraphale-- sound asleep and curled neatly around a pillow, wearing only his shorts, his suit and tie draped carefully over a chair back in the far corner of the room.

Crowley remembers the night before-- of course he does-- but now, vivid images of the angel float back into his vision-- his shock white hair in view as he pressed his face between the demon’s thighs, kneeling over him as he flung lanky legs one by one over his broad shoulders, their hands twined together as he pushed inside, his face as he--

Ochre eyes blink hard at that memory, and he swallows harshly, mouth suddenly dry. Pushing those thoughts out of his mind temporarily, he turns back towards the angel, rather intent on kissing him awake.

He slips the sheet downwards some, off his shoulders, pressing his lips just ever so lightly behind Aziraphale’s ear. The angel doesn’t stir so he continues, leaving a second and third kiss in his hairline before moving downwards.

Its then he sees it, there in between his shoulder blades. Small and unassuming along the angel’s spine, is the image of a snake, black and red and twisted around itself in a complicated S.

Frozen in disbelief, just inches from the Aziraphale’s skin, Crowley’s own face stings as his eyes trace the pattern over and over-- his own sigil emblazoned on the porcelain skin of the angel.

He’s reeling then, scrambling off the bed, the white-hot burn of his cheek overpowering his vision, blood he doesn’t need pounding in his ears as he dashes from the bedroom.

He stumbles down the hall, palming blindly at the walls and tripping over himself, never more a serpent on stilts than in this moment. His breath is coming in aborted gasps with sweat dripping down his face, and before he knows it he’s falling to his knees, retching over the toilet despite not having eaten in weeks.

The bile that wrings itself forth from his throat looks too much like sulphur against the white ceramic and he throws himself backwards, arms behind him supporting his weight in a heap in the middle of the floor.

He’s shaking with a hell-wrought fear, the image of his mark on Aziraphale’s skin dancing before his eyes. He’d dreamt of it, but not like this, never like this.

He knows he has to get a grip on himself, knows the angel won’t be asleep much longer, even after last night-- love confessions made in hasty whispered voices, desperate clawing at clothes and souls for release, for reciprocation, skin on skin and the reality of six thousand years of hiding, coming together finally, consummating, consecrating….

It’s those thoughts, just as he’s climbing to his feet, his white knuckled grip bruising the granite counter, that hit him like a wave-- a torrent of holy water come to drag him to the depths. He hadn’t just marked the angel with his lips last night, in the throes of each other. He’d crossed an invisible line. He’d given in to his own temptations, the only sin he’d ever cared to confess.

In loving him, he’d damned the angel. Aziraphale, crying out in ecstasy, pulling Crowley to his chest, had fallen as he’d come, wings burning as muscles contracted. And now he was permanently marked that of a demon, branded with the irrevocable knowledge that he’d not only fallen from grace, but it was Crowley’s fault alone.

A wretched sob heaves out of Crowley’s chest and he falls to the floor again, scrambling backwards until his back presses into the wall. He pulls his knees up and buries his face, rocking and barely breathing.

And that’s how Aziraphale finds him, moments later, strolling groggily into the bathroom for a shower and stopping dead in his tracks at the threshold when he lays eyes on the demon, curled up in the corner, shaking and reeking of bile and sweat.

“Crowley!” he practically yelps, rushing across the room and dropping to his knees beside him.

Hands fluttering for a moment, unsure of where to begin, Aziraphale touches Crowley’s bare back and the demon lunges, hissing harshly and glaring at the angel, eyes fully yellow and fangs bared.

To his credit, Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, just sits back on his haunches and withdraws his hand, worry etching hard lines around his eyes.

He fights to keep his voice level, speaking barely above a whisper as Crowley curls in on himself again, shame and fear whittling away at his form. “Crowley love, are you hurt? What’s wrong?”

“Let me see them,” the demon answers, unmoving, the words sounding hollow and far away.

“See what dear?”

He looks up again, completely ragged, and points accusingly. “I saw it, Aziraphale! I know, okay?!? Just… just tell me the truth. Please… let me see them!”

Bewildered, Aziraphale turns and sits down next to Crowley, slowly sliding an arm around his shoulders.

He doesn’t want to succumb to it, knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he leans into the warmth of Aziraphale anyway, letting himself slump against his side and be held, just for a few moments.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He whines, still trembling, “I was always afraid that I’d… that you would… oh God I’m so sorry Aziraphale… I’m so--”

“Crowley.” The word is stern, cutting off the demon’s tearful apologies as Aziraphale shifts some to look him in the face. “I will tell you anything you want to know, darling, anything. But you have to let me into what you’re going on about.”

Crowley stares back open mouthed, eyes flitting up and down Aziraphale’s body for a moment before he pulls away, wrapping his arms back around himself. “Your wings. Let me see them, angel.”

The endearment sounds like a curse on his tongue now and he wishes he could take it back the moment it slips past his lips. He watches Aziraphale’s face carefully, looking for any sign of pain or hurt.

Only confusion is writ across it, but after a moment he shrugs slightly, rolling his shoulders and allowing his wings to fade into reality slowly, flickering some and stretching wide before settling comfortably about his back.

Aziraphale regards the feathers over his shoulders, tutting as he takes them in. “I do suppose they could use a bit of grooming but I haven’t exactly had the time with his whole Armageddon business, dear what--”

With a gasp, Crowley lurches forward, burying his hands in the feathers and bowling Aziraphale over onto his back.

Strong arms come to encircle his waist-- Aziraphale in complete acceptance of the sudden change in position and simply choosing to hold the demon who is now draped on top of him.

Tears stream down Crowley’s cheeks with the realization that the downy, dusty, disheveled feathers between his fingers are still-- by God-- pure white.

“Crowley, Crowley, love, please…” Aziraphale babbles some, stroking copper hair and gathering the demon to his chest, tucking his face into the crook of his neck and allowing the gasps which wrack through Crowley’s lanky body for another few moments.

They lay like that, an awkward diagonal across the bathroom floor, and when he’s finally still, Aziraphale snaps his fingers quietly behind the demon’s back, and suddenly they’re back in bed, Crowley clinging desperately to the angel’s arms now that his wings have folded away.

Aziraphale gently rolls to the side, depositing Crowley onto the sheets and pulling back to look at him.

“Whatever is going on dear?”

The worry lacing the angel’s voice makes Crowley cringe, realizing he’s made quite the scene of this morning. “I thought… I thought you… I thought I’d made you…”

Not finding the words, he reaches over Aziraphales shoulder and slides his hand down his spine, tracing the sigil with a blunt fingernail.

The angel shivers involuntarily and his eyes widen in sudden understanding-- Crowley would never have seen the small inscription before, probably not even in a mirror while inhabiting his body and certainly not the night before, pinned as he had been on his back between the angel’s thighs.

“I saw it this morning and I thought… I thought you’d fallen,” Crowley admits, quietly, dejected. “I thought I’d made you fall, Angel, I couldn’t live with myself if….”

Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, shushing him gently and sighing.

“Crowley I-- I’m not afraid of that. And I have thought about it. I know it’s taken me an awful long time but I’ve chosen this, my dear. Us. If it really came to that-- and I doubt it would but--”

“No, angel, you can’t, I…” It’s a hoarse, obligate whisper and it trails off, all of the fight leaving the demon as Aziraphale shushes him again.

“I choose you, Crowley. I love you.”

It is most definitely not with another sob that Crowley responds to those words, surely not, but the angel pulls him close again anyway, stroking his hair and holding him tight.

When the tension begins melting out of Crowley’s body, Aziraphale shifts, turning his head to press a kiss to the snake below his ear.

“I’ll tell you where it came from,” he starts, murmuring against the demon’s cheek, “if you promise not to make fun of me.”

He nods and the angel smiles, practically nuzzling before he speaks again.

“It’s just a tattoo, completely human,” Aziraphale explains, smirking to himself at the next bit. “I got a bit drunk when the Berlin Wall fell… everyone was celebrating then, all of those people back on the same side, no arbitrary barriers between them and I just.. I got caught up in it all, I suppose.”

For a moment Aziraphale thinks Crowley is crying again, shaking, his face still pressed up against the angels neck. But then the sound bubbles out and over his harsh edges-- bright and clear-- the demon laughs.

The angel smiles wide in spite of himself, watching his companion come apart at the seams with right giggles, rolling away to clutch at his sides.

“You… you… I can’t believe…” he chokes out words between breaths, pulling Aziraphale onto his stomach to look at the tattoo again.

“Why not just on your ass angel? A tramp-stamp of my fucking sigil! I can’t believe you!”

Aziraphale flushes hard, batting at Crowley half-heartedly and trying to look indignant.

“Maybe I should get something to go with it, huh? Little angel wings in the same spot? How does that sound?”

“Crowley!”

Before he can protest the goading further, Crowley crashes his lips into Aziraphale’s, giggling into the kiss and then deepening it, pushing his own love towards the angel and trying to believe that he really can do this now, that they’re really here.

When he pulls back, Crowley rests his forehead against the angel’s, squeezing his eyes shut and cupping Aziraphale’s face.

“I don’t want to ruin you, angel,” he whispers, a prayer to a god he no longer believes in.

“Oh, love,” Aziraphale starts, biting back tears of his own. “If your love is my ruin, I’d burn the wings myself.”

#my fic #my writing #good omens fic #good omens #fanfiction #crowley #aziraphale #crowley and aziraphale #a little bit of angst #over on ao3 i tagged a warning for #vomiting #im a nurse i forget that people find things gross #im posting like this this time just to see #does amber know how to format a read more?#guess we'll be finding out

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fantazeerps · 4 years

Text

Bon did not sleep much nowadays, not when there was work to be done. Things to be researched. New knowledge to be slipped into the ever-widening cracks that have begun forming in his psyche, not to mention chisels to be wielded to cause the cracks in the first place. Every profane glyph his eyes roved over carved let more of the useless base of Bon there was, either uncovering the truly perfect sculpture beneath, or creating a fissure into which he poured the molten gold that was knowledge.

Bit by bit, he made himself anew every day. But knowledge was not all that was wiggling its way into the wounds in his psyche.

Bon’s eyes opened to brightly lit darkness. A foggy room, circular, no more than 30ft in diameter, surrounded on all sides by infinite, impenetrable black from which a strange light shone, illuminating the area. A dream, he concluded immediately, but before he have another thought in the same vein, he heard a familiar sound: the bow of a violin raking across its strings, effortlessly forming a melody.

“I get eight hours of sleep a week and I have to spend them here with you.” Bon remarked, appearing on his feet in this dreamscape.

“It’s good to see you again too, Bon.” Said the spirit of the lanky jester that stood opposite to the diminutive goblin, his back to the dreamer whose consciousness he had invaded as he played a simple, flowing song.

“Uh-huh. So what is this? Are you projecting into my dream?” Bon asked as he paced the room, finding out that he could go no closer or further from Rey, and no matter which direction he traveled in, Rey always stayed at the opposite side of the room. He didn’t move but to play his tune.

“Not quite. I’m casting Dream.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, some pride as well. Though his back was to Bon, he could still see the goblin’s eyebrows raise in surprise. His stonefaced demeanor did not follow him into the dream world.

“That’s not how that works. When you enter the Shadowfell, your strengths get stripped away.” Bon stated, as though magic could not do the impossible anyway. “You don’t keep anything but your memories.” ... Right?

“HAH! Bon, any nobody from nowhere who dies with a grudge can become a bonified poltergeist if their emotions were strong enough!” The violin suddenly screeched, howling as though it could feel pain, “And mine were... very potent when I died. It’s only natural.” Plus, Rey mused to himself as he settled back into his slow song, it’s fitting that I be a few steps above some simple ghost. It’s what I deserve.

Bon held his chin in thought, mind chewing on this. That knowledge he worked so hard to cram into his head was proving frustratingly incomplete here; there was a precedent for especially hateful souls to cling to the Material Plane, but Rey did not. As far as he knew, the jester was still condemned to the Shadowfell. ... Wait. The Shadowfell. Could--

“So how is everyone?” Rey’s voice was a knife severing the threads he had just been trying to connect. The answer to the riddle danced off the edge of his mind and into oblivion, despite his attempts to drag it back. Dammit.

“Recovering. After the wasteland mishap, everyone wanted a vacation. Everyone’s still on edge, because the first vacation went to hell.” Bon had a good time at the hot springs, but no one else did, especially not Vastalin. The man blessed by the Tengeriin... Another curiosity to study. Another book to read on the mountainous pile he had already assembled.

“Really? What happened?” More amused curiosity, the tune stopping briefly as Rey’s head turned ever so slightly towards his captive audience.

“Ask them. I’m not a storybook.” The goblin lied, his papery form fluttering lightly from an unseen breeze as if to call him out on it. He would have told Rey everything, as is his nature, but he had more burning questions in line first. “Why are you even here?”

“A few reasons. One, to see if I could, and I can.” The violin resumes, “Two, to check in on everyone. I don’t know if I can reach them just yet; your mind is the most familiar one to me, so I went with you first.” It was his turn to lie that time. How hard he had tried to reach Celos, only to be blocked by his divine connection... But with Bon, the doors were open. Inviting. “And three, I had a proposal for you.”

Silence. Even in the dream, Rey could feel Bon’s eyes burning into his back, as they always did in life. Now, though, it was a literal heat. Go on, his intense stare said, you have my attention.

“I want to come back.”

“Celos still has your remains--” Bon couldn’t even finish before Rey held up a hand to halt his sentence.

“Not like that. Not in that way. I can’t come back in that body. In that... shape. Not when I could be so much more.” The music began to get a bit more frantic, as Bon noted the hand Rey held up was not either of the hands he was using to play. “And especially not with them still around.”

Ziskudar and Ramona. Especially Ramona.

“I’m pretty sure if you asked, Celos, Iska, and Neea would gut them on the spot to get you back.” 20% sure, really. “Scooter might actually do it herself.” Powerful body, but fragile mind. Another book to study, that one. To have channeled a demigod--it was all he could do to restrain himself from pulling out her soul and examining the changes personally. He settled for looking over what samples she allowed from her blood and body, seeing just how twisted she had become inside and out.

Rey laughed him off, “Maybe. But I won’t ask that of hi--of them. Not unless I get desperate.” The music has not slowed.

“Suit yourself. So. Coming back. How do you plan on that?”

“With your help, of course.” Another silent stare, urging him to continue. “And with a bit of help from our old friend.” Another hand raised. The music did not stop.

Four arms, but only two were his. The threads pulled back together, seizing the puzzle piece from oblivion and dragging it into place, the riddle solved the moment Bon saw the spines, the claws, the wisps of shadow.

“Mar’rak.” Bon had gotten a very, very good look at the arms of the demon prince during the battle on the tower. Arms that now sprouted from the jester’s shoulders, thinned to the point of being sticks to match the rest of him. “How did--”

“These secrets and more can be yours...” The arms moved as though the joints were backwards, holding up a single finger to the back of Rey’s head as though shushing Bon, a shadowy smile spreading from the finger outwards. Rey slowly began turning himself to face Bon, letting the goblin see just why he had been facing away in the first place. “For the low, low price of helping me reach the Feywilds from here.”

The hook set, baited, dangling before him. Knowledge. Information. More chisels to carve him into his perfect self.

All he needed to do was help carve Rey into his.

“... Alright. I’ll see what I can find out.”

#About Bon #About Rey #Story Time

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junker-town · 4 years

Text

The secret life of Floyd Lippencott Jr.

Jere Alhadeff

To hide his career from his father, drag racer Bob Muravez assumed the name Floyd Lippencott Jr. But he couldn’t outrun the truth.

BURBANK, California — The old drag racer is huddled inside his cozy backyard garage, the place where he has long spun his wrenches on carburetors and crankshafts.

For Bob Muravez, it’s a messy laboratory of sorts. He has spent years there, under autopsy-room-bright lights, grease trapped deep down inside his fingernails, modifying versions of the dragsters that once ruled the racetrack.

His walls are a photographic record of his best checkered-flag memories. Long-wheel-based dragsters hurtle along straightaways in a blur of motion, their fat racing slicks furiously spinning, raising smoke and dust like demons incarnate.

The photos depict a world of super-fast cars and cocky young men hungry for speed, where winners and losers were separated by fractions of seconds, at speeds so fast racers needed parachutes to slow down. Before he retired in 1971, Muravez won more than 600 sanctioned drag racing events across the U.S., becoming one of the most recognizable names in his burgeoning sport. In Muravez’s fastest run of his career, he reached 249.59 mph in just 5.89 seconds.

Yet at age 82, the old drag racer is most famous not for his speed, but for his secret.

For five long years, between 1962 and 1967, Muravez protected perhaps the most closely-guarded mystery in modern sports: An alter-ego who took full credit for his thriving racing career.

Every time he hopped behind the wheel for another wicked-fast run down the track, the wiry 140-pound Muravez became Floyd Lippencott Jr., the name he assumed to hide his real identity from an unlikely foil: His own father.

Ralph Muravez was a Czechoslovakian immigrant and self-made businessman with a third-grade education, a demanding taskmaster who founded a local washing-machine empire. Along with his Maytag repair shop in Burbank, he owned 5,000 washing machines in apartments across Southern California.

In 1958, as part of his retirement strategy, Ralph handed over majority control of the operation to his sons, Bob and older brother Ralph Jr., known as Bud. Ralph wanted to spend his retirement years enjoying the good life, visiting the world’s exotic ports aboard his 42-foot motorized sailboat.

He was his own Sinbad the Sailor, Bob recalled. But when it came to his son’s racing, he was more like Captain Bly. The last thing he wanted was to lose his rebellious younger son to a fatal dragster wreck. “In his eyes,” Muravaez recalled, “he was building something good for the family and he didn’t want to come home to find that one of his only two sons had died on some racetrack.”

The father issued his son an ultimatum: Quit racing or leave the family business.

Muravez devised a solution that would be unthinkable in today’s hyper-connected world of smartphone cameras and competitive press. With the aid and consent of reporters, photographers, publicists and even drag racing officials, Bob Muravez invented an entirely new identity.

Photographers never took his picture without his face being covered with a helmet and mask. Floyd never did interviews. Bob did those later. Joked Muravez: “Floyd did the driving and Bob did the talking.”

The National Hot Rod Association even issued Muravez a professional driver’s license in Lippencott’s name, the only one without a picture. In the winner’s circle, friends-turned-imposters donned his protective fire suit and kissed the trophy girl while a smirking Muravez stood in the background.

Left: Muravez collection, Right: L&M Films

Decades later, wearing a white T-shirt, blue jeans and a thick mop of hair, Muravez could still be mistaken for one of those lanky car-crazy kids racing as a teenage rite of passage. Yet the need for speed has dissipated for Muravez, like air seeping from a leaky tire. He hasn’t had a speeding ticket in 40 years.

Now he uses the garage to relieve the stress of running the Maytag repair business his father started during World War II. He’s more often concentrating on honey-do projects than fixing dragster engines.

But Floyd Lippencott Jr. motors on. Both Muravez and Lippencott were inducted into the International Drag Racing Hall of Fame. And Muravez scribbles down two names whenever he’s asked to sign his autograph.

While Muravez no longer races, his mind still lives in the cockpit. He’s nervous by nature, hands fidgety, bolting his food like he’s rushing to start another race. “I’m a drag racer,” he said. “I’m either idling or going full throttle.”

The years have brought Muravez perspective, but some feelings never pass. To keep both his racing career and his alter-ego alive, the old drag racer admits that he paid a steep price.

Muravez came of age in the 1950s, a lifestyle captured by the film American Graffiti, when he and his buddies lived for their street rods. They’d cruise around the parking lot of Bob’s Big Boy, attracting looks from both the popular girls and less-popular cops, both of whom hounded them incessantly.

Muravez loved both cars and women. Before he was married in the 1970s, he was engaged seven times, and bought seven rings.

And yet, while he nurtured a James Dean persona on the street, his home life followed a different script. There, his demanding immigrant father called the shots. Ralph wasn’t a drinker, he was just mean, unvarnished. He was also a respected businessman.

In the Muravez household, Bob was relegated to second-son status behind Bud, a golden-haired boy who excelled in school and was his father’s favorite. As a child, Bob spent years confined to a sanitarium while suffering from tuberculosis, which also afflicted his mother Edith. He also struggled with dyslexia, a yet-to-be diagnosed condition that confused his hard-charging father.

Family friend John Moore calls “Uncle Ralph” a product of his time. “Ralph was hard-nosed. Lots of men of his era were like that,” he said. “I think Bobby felt overlooked as a boy. His father was busy building his business and he had one healthy son — there just didn’t seem to be time for Bob.”

Ralph lost his own father at a young age. One of five children, he entered the U.S. through Ellis Island in 1908. Not long afterward, his alcoholic father went out one night to play poker and never came home.

Relatives say the experience hardened Ralph towards his own two sons. “He mistreated those boys,” recalled cousin Glenn Clifford, now 84. “He could be cruel.”

To survive the Depression, Ralph sold Hoover vacuum cleaners door to door in Beverly Hills. In 1944, he opened a Maytag sales and service shop in Burbank. An old photograph shows him posing jauntily, leaning against the last in a line of retired washing machines. A sign reads “Keep Out. WASHING MACHINE GRAVEYARD. Let them rest in pieces.”

Muravez collection

Ralph loved boats. He built them and took them out on ocean trips, often with Bob in tow. Whenever the boy became seasick, the disgruntled father would drop him off at the nearest point onshore and order him to walk back to the harbor.

Bob worked in the repair shop from age 10. Ralph’s brand of you’ll-do-as-you’re-told discipline was stifling. “My father would always say, ‘When I tell you to do something, you start doing it before I even finish,’” Muravez recalled.

Bob would accompany his father on service calls, carrying the tool box with its hoses, screwdrivers and pliers, learning the washing machine repair trade. Wearing his Maytag hat, Ralph imposed rules that were Depression-era tough. “He’d say, ‘Don’t ever let me hear you say, ‘I can’t.’ If you tell me you don’t want to do something, fine, but never tell me you can’t.’”

In 1954, when Bob was 16, the old man asked if he wanted his own car. Here was a wide-eyed teen growing up in post-war Southern California, at the time of Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers, when politicians dreamed of going to the moon. The automobile had begun to dominate American life. Seemingly every new product featured sleek aerodynamics, from lamps and toasters, to bullet bras and cars with snazzy hood ornaments and elongated rear fins.

You bet he wanted his own ride.

Ralph called a Hollywood automotive dealer, who told him about a used car for sale. Days later, father and son pulled up outside the Beverly Hills estate of actress Betty Grable.

In the garage they marveled at the sort of car that might frequent a teenage boy’s dreamscape: a white, six-cylinder 1953 Corvette convertible with red interior and a mere 1,800 miles on the odometer.

The kid saw it this way: His father never hugged him. There were no parental pats on the back. That just wasn’t Ralph.

The Corvette was as giving as the old man would ever be. And it was perhaps the greatest gift anyone could give Muravez — a chance to go fast, a chance at status.

Of course he’d take it.

Muravez had just died and gone to automobile heaven.

That Corvette changed everything.

It took an awkward kid forever on the periphery and put him centerstage, behind the wheel of a sleek, sexy performance car.

The Corvette became Muravez’s calling card. He show-boated around town, and joined a local car club called the Road Kings, where members paid dues and worked on race cars.

Muravez also street raced.

He settled grudge matches mostly at night, on lonely River Road near the Forest Lawn cemetery, or on the gritty concrete bed of the LA River beneath the Sixth Street bridge. Those quarter-mile contests were replete with kids giving the go-signal at the starting line, and onlookers ready with buckets of water to douse engine fires.

It wasn’t long before an unwanted observer began to appear in the racers’ rearview mirror: a Burbank cop the boys knew only as Officer Stanley. On weekends, he’d lurk in the gas station parking lot across from Bob’s Big Boy, in the heart of a two-mile teenage cruising stretch.

“He’d write you up for anything, even a bad lightbulb on your license plate,” Muravez recalled. “We didn’t like his attitude.”

When he was 19, Maravez joined fellow Road Kings member and future drag-racing star Tommy Ivo in a teenage prank to spite the dreaded policeman. Muravez snuck beneath Stanley’s patrol car and tied a rope around the rear axle, affixing the other end to a nearby pole.

Then they hopped inside Ivo’s T-bucket roadster, revved the engine and took off past the gas station. Stanley gave chase, but not for long. The pole stopped the cop car dead, and Officer Stanley lurched forward, breaking the steering wheel. “We hid Tommy’s car in the garage,” Muravez recalled. “And we didn’t bring it out for a very long time.”

Left: Steve Reyes, Right: Jere Alhadeff

But by then, those Burbank glory days were nearing their end. One night, Muravez ducked into a back alley to ditch a pursuing black-and-white. The cop later stopped him, warning that the next time he ran, he’d shoot. “That scared me,” Muravez said.

By that time, Muravez had amassed an astounding 28 speeding tickets. His license was suspended for a year. His father took away the Corvette.

At home, tensions mounted. By the summer of 1957, Bud was married and Ralph was fixated on his younger son, who had graduated high school the year before. “We butted heads,” Muravez recalled. “He didn’t think I had any direction. I didn’t like him telling me what to do.”

Eventually, Muravez moved out. He slept inside his hand-me-down 1956 Chevy Belair convertible, and later sold the car to afford living expenses that included $8 a week to rent a room over a friend’s garage.

He got a job working at a buddy’s family machine shop and was doing well. He’d even gotten a few raises. Nearly a year after Muravez left home, Ralph approached him about coming back to the Maytag shop. They reconciled in part because they recognized a shared flaw: Their stubborness.

“He realized where I was coming from and I realized where he was coming from,” Muravez recalled.

Still, Muravez never fully returned home. He only saw Ralph when he showed up at the repair business. And while the young Muravez no longer had a car, the kid still had an incurable adrenaline addiction.

Those days, along with a lot of other Burbank kids with hot cars, Muravez hung out at Ivo’s garage, where he performed grunt work like wiping down tires, washing engine parts and polishing cars.

“He was a footloose and fancy-free kid who tripped over his own feet when he walked,’ recalled Ivo, now 83, famous for his light-hearted putdowns. “But he loved cars.”

Muravez went to the racetrack as Ivo’s gofer. He’d run his Corvette there before, but now he was ready to launch a new chapter of his racing career in earnest.

His relationship with his father was seemingly mended. Ralph had come to terms with his son’s wild side.

That peace would not last long.

Muravez loved the drag strip scene, with its camaraderie and testosterone-laden competition, being able to put pedal to metal without a cop car in sight. Racers were a colorful, braggadocious crowd, boasting nicknames like Sneaky Pete, Wobbly Wheels, Snake, Mongoose, Zookeeper and The Hunter.

Soon, Muravez built his own dragster and started winning races.

Then he got lucky.

In 1961, he began driving for John Peters and Nye Frank, a Santa Monica, California, team that owned the sport’s top racing car. In the years before, they’d developed a twin-engine dragster later known as the Freight Train for its sheer ferocity and the way it belched locomotive-like smoke while crossing the finish line.

What followed catapulted Muravez’s racing career: Peters took a foolhardy kid and helped turn him into a professional driver. Said Peters: “We won a lot of races.”

One old photo offers a closeup view of Muravez in the Freight Train’s cockpit, looking as much like an aerospace test pilot, or cosseted Hazmat worker, as an ambitious risk-taker seeking new speed records.

He wore circular goggles, a dual-cylinder breathing apparatus and facial heat shield to protect him from the spatter of hot oil thrown off the up-front engines by the brutal G-forces. And that helmet? Well, that wasn’t going to protect him much in the event the good Lord decided that he’d flirted with nearly-inhuman speed too many times. If that unfortunate eventuality occurred — if the engine exploded, or he flipped that dragster — nothing could save him.

Back then, as the saying went, drag racing rules were written in blood. “Gee, another guy got killed?” a driver would say. “Sorry to hear that. When’s the next race?”

In the late 1950s and 1960s, the mounting death toll in the sport led car builders to innovate, like adding a parachute when they learned mere brakes could no longer slow down a speeding dragster, and shoulder and lap harnesses to keep drivers from being thrown out of tumbling cars.

While Muravez was serving as one of drag racing’s guinea pigs, he still worked five days a week at the Maytag shop, racing on nights and weekends. Ralph barely took an interest in his son’s career, and never once saw him race.

Leslie Lovett, National Hot Rod Association

Then in March 1962, Muravez won his first major championship race in the so-called Top Gas category — in which dragsters used the same gas as street cars — at the Bakersfield Fuel and Gas Championships.

Well, that got Ralph’s attention.

By then, Ralph had given each of his sons a 40 percent share of the business and dreamed of sailing on his boat, stopping just long enough to cash his profit-sharing check.

A dead son would ruin that dream.

Within days of Muravez’s first major racing victory, Ralph approached his 24-year-old son and gave him a choice: Either quit racing or lose his share of ownership in the family business.

Choose family over dreams.

Appease the father.

So Muravez made one of the most difficult choices of his life. In June 1962, he abandoned his passion. He continued to go the races as part of the team, but served only as a crewmember, not as a driver.

For the next five months, without Muravez behind the wheel, the Freight Train did not qualify for a single race, despite being piloted by such famous names as Mickey Thompson, Tom “the Mongoose” McEwen and Craig Breedlove. Several drivers complained that the powerful race car pulled dangerously to one side, and there was talk of scrapping the dragster altogether.

Muravez begged to differ. One night after the Freight Train failed to qualify at Lions drag strip in Long Beach, Muravez accepted a dare from driver “Wild Bill” Alexander to slip behind the wheel himself. He took the dragster for what he called “a nice easy pass” down the quarter-mile track.

Seconds later, when the run was done, he heard the distant roar of the crowd. He lit a cigarette from the dragster’s glowing disc brake. Back at the pit, he learned that he’d set a new world speed record of 185 miles per hour.

That settled it: Muravez would go back behind the wheel, against his father’s wishes. He soon captured the National Hot Rod Association’s 1963 Winter Nationals trophy, under the name “John Peters.” The Freight Train was the No. 1-rated Top Gas dragster in the nation.

A drag racing legend was born.

One day, a young sportswriter named Steve Gibbs was filing a story for the weekly racing publication Drag News on the race results at the San Gabriel track.

Muravez asked that he not use his real name. “When he won the race, I thought, ‘I’ve got to make up a name,’” recalled Gibbs, who later became competition director of the National Hot Rod Association.

The author of one of his college textbooks came to mind — Lippencott. Gibbs couldn’t recall the first name, so he improvised — Floyd. In a final flourish, he added a Jr. “I had no idea the name would become a major piece of drag-racing trivia,” he said.

Muravez immediately ran with the alias, even adding a middle initial “J,” later explaining that it stood for “genuine.” “I was a lousy speller,” he laughed.

Convincing people to keep his secret wasn’t as difficult as Muravez — Lippencott — imagined.

He often bought pictures from moonlighting photographers, so they were eager to keep him happy.

And frankly, he added, racing officials didn’t care what name he used, as long as he continued to draw fans to the track.

Just to be safe, Muravez made sure there were no cameras around when he slid behind the wheel of his dragster. After races, he did interviews with his helmet and facemask still on.

In February 1963, Muravez won the Winternationals in Pomona, California, his very first race since returning to the sport as a driver. With Muravez in the game, The Freight Train was finally back.

In the winner’s circle, his roommate, Rex Slinkard, donned Muravez’s leather racing jacket and stepped up to accept the top award, his arm around the trophy girl. The real driver laughed in the background, knowing his secret was safe for yet another race.

Floyd J. Lippencott Jr. continued to win races, hundreds of them. But perhaps one too many.

In May 1967, after winning the Springnationals competition in Bristol, Tennessee, Muravez made a mistake: Flush with victory, sitting inside The Freight Train’s cockpit with his helmet and facemask off, he was approached by reporter Keith Jackson from ABC’s Wide World of Sports. “You’re really popular,” Jackson said, thrusting a microphone in his face.

“Yeah, we have a lot of fans in the South,” Muravez answered.

On the long drive home, he realized what he’d done. While his father was not a regular viewer of the show, Muravez had nonetheless put his face on national television. There was still a chance Ralph would somehow see it on the boat’s TV while out on a weekend fishing trip.

Left: Eric Ricman, Hot Rod Magazaine; Right: Muravez collection

“I thought, ‘What am I gonna do?’” Muravez knew the segment wouldn’t air for a week, so he hatched a plan. He borrowed the TV from Ralph’s boat — saying his was broken — so his father wouldn’t catch the Saturday sports show while out on the water. Not only was Muravez’s racing career now in jeopardy, but so was the tenuous relationship between father and son.

But Muravez couldn’t control every factor. Ralph liked to relax after a fishing trip with a few boilermakers at Burbank’s Elks Club bar, where a drinking pal broke the news that his son Bob had actually been racing as a professional driver for six years — all behind his back.

At first, the old man wouldn’t believe it, until the friend returned with an Orange County Raceway program that pictured his son.

The next day, Ralph stormed inside the Maytag repair shop showroom, surrounded by two dozen new washers and dryers.

It was early in the day and there were no customers. Just Ralph and his two sons.

The old man was furious. He was already going through a painful divorce, and now this. He thrust the racing program at his younger son, after making an X with a pen like it was Exhibit A in a trial.

There was Floyd Lippencott Jr. — Muravez — staring up from the page.

Ralph and Bob faced each other.

“Have you been driving all these years?” the father asked.

“Yes, I have,” the son replied.

“You’ve been lying to me,” Ralph said. “You’re no son of mine.”

When Bud spoke up in his brother’s defense, their father banished both from the business. He threw a hammer through a window and reached for another before both sons stopped him.

A neighboring merchant called the police. It was a messy scene. Ralph finally roared off in his 1959 El Camino, but not before threatening both boys.

“I built this business,” he said. “And I can destroy it.”

He vowed to never speak to either one for as long as he lived.

He kept his word.

What happened next was a family car wreck.

Ralph and Edith finalized their divorce. He wanted to keep sailing. She wanted to stay close to her family. The boys battled for control of the family washing machine business while the father made threats. He eventually remarried a woman half his age and moved into the bungalow the family had kept for years on Catalina Island. He later became Avalon’s assistant harbormaster.

He started to get drunk regularly.

“He was tired of it all,” Muravez recalled. “His world was crashing in around him and that’s how he dealt with it.”

Bob��s wife Sharon is more harsh. “Ralph was a bastard,” she said.

Without Ralph’s looming shadow, Muravez kept racing, but he did not retire Floyd Lippencott Jr. He even added the letter “e” at the end of the name to make it look fancier, more French. Years later, he played along with humorous public campaigns sponsored by racing cronies that promoted Lippencott as a candidate for California governor and U.S. president.

At the track, Muravez liked to taunt competitors. “Have a good race,” he’d say. “But if you beat Floyd, you beat nobody. He doesn’t even exist.”

Muravez retired from drag racing in 1971 when the National Hot Rod Association discontinued the Top Gas class of competition. He briefly returned to take part in exhibitions over the coming decades, but the final flag had fallen on his racing days.

He married Sharon in 1974 and raised two sons, Michael and Peter. He was always careful not to be overbearing like his own father, to let them pursue their own lives.

After his brother sold his share of the business to pursue an equestrian career, Muravez continued to run the shop under its original name, “Ralph’s Electric.”

Muravez spotted his father a few times over the years. When his paternal grandmother died in 1975, Muravez saw Ralph at the funeral, but kept his distance.

One day, Bud passed his father on the Avalon boat dock.

“Hi Dad,” he said.

Ralph ignored him.

In the early 1980s, a possible truce loomed. A drinking pal of Ralph’s walked into the Maytag repair shop, saying the old man would like to see his sons. So Sharon sent Ralph a letter with a picture of baby Michael. “It was a very welcoming letter,” she recalled. “I went into detail, extending an olive branch.”

A week later, they got their response — a handwritten letter. “It was full of hate, saying ‘I no longer have a son and therefore I have no grandchildren,’” Sharon said. It included a copy of a letter Bud’s wife had sent after having the couple’s first child, with the same invective response.

Sharon Muravez

“I thought, ‘You bastard! How dare you?’” Sharon said. “I threw the letter at Bob. I was upset, but he kept things inside. He just accepted it.”

The two rarely, if ever, mentioned the letter again.

Ralph died in 1993. Muravez was never told of the funeral. He doesn’t even know where his father is buried. Both Bud and Edith are gone, too.

Now, there’s just Bob. And Floyd.

“Ralph died a bitter, lonely, broken, miserable person, alone in his motorhome or camper or whatever the hell it was,” Sharon said. “There was nobody around him, nobody who cared about him. Bob could have been there.”

These days, when Muravez talks to groups, the audience gasps when it hears how Ralph disowned his own son. But Muravez slowly came to terms with the pain through stoicism.

He understood that old family stubbornness. Amid that last faceoff in the Maytag shop, before Ralph threw the hammer through the window, Muravez knew something very important had come to an end. “I realized at that moment that there was nothing I could have done or said to bring back my father’s final words to me.”

They hurt, of course, but Muravez also felt a sense of liberation. He no longer had to do something he truly loved in secret.

The lies were finished for good. Ralph could control his son no more.

While the father never forgave the son, the son has forgiven the father.

“I carry my father right here,” Muravez said, pointing to his head. “I understood him. I was the second-born son and I knew what that meant to him. He believed that the father was the ruler of the family, no matter what.”

Inside the garage where he bonds with friends like a teenage gear head, Muravez still quotes Ralph’s homilies. He considered what was left unsaid with his father.

He likened the loss to seeing colleagues die in dragster crashes. “The racetrack is like a war zone,” he said. “You tell a friend, ‘Be safe,’ and he goes out and dies. You wish you could have said something.”

For years, Muravez has kept a slip of paper inside his wallet, which he consults whenever he is overcome with a sense of loss — of long-ago racing friends, and Ralph.

“The clock of life is wound just once,” it reads in part. “And no man has the power to tell just when the hands will stop, at late or early hour.”

There are also words Muravez tries to forget. For years, he kept Ralph’s spiteful last letter in his office safe.

So where is it now?

Inside the garage, he moves his hands as though crumpling an imaginary piece of paper, and tosses it over his shoulder.

He flashes a look of hurt and sadness. “You only have one father in life,” he says.

Suddenly, he has to go. There is work to do.

Those machines aren’t going to fix themselves.

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ask-the-friendly-ink-demon · 2 years

Photo

someday i’ll make an proper cover for this AU, but never the less, it’s a big improvement from my older versions of the cover of This AU but yeah, here’s a brand new version of the cover of my AU, including some dark revival characters into the mix, still need to design some of them.

#The Creator (Henry Jarvis Stein)#The Man Behind The Monster (Joey Snazzy Drew)#The Friendly Ink Demon (Bendy Prowler Stein)#The Former Ink Demon (Alpha Bens Stein)#The Dreamscape Demon (Lanky)#An Good Boy (Buddy Boris)#Corrupted Angel (Twisted Alice/Susie Campbell)#Beautiful Angel (Alice Susie Angel)#Veteran Survivor (Allison Angel)#Deadly Wolf (Tom Boris)#Custodian Of The Ink (Wilson)#Demon With No Name (Nomad)#Corrupted Form (Faded)#New Owner? (Nathan Arch)#The CycleBreaker (Audrey Drew)#Terrors Of The Inky Past AU #My Art #My Drawings

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ask-the-friendly-ink-demon · 2 years

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Hello!! I'm Elaine. Nice to meet you!! How are you Inky and Bendy :D

"just- prowler. only my close friends and family can call me Bendy... also again. inky? there's no ink demon next to me." he says, grunting at the whispers he was feeling in his mind, those voices. it all felt so familiar. elsewhere in the studios, Lanky kept silent as the lady kept walking, oddly quiet and almost. upset? the lady in violet didn't seem to notice as she keeps on walking

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ask-the-friendly-ink-demon · 2 years

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Shut up Lanky, no one was talking to you. *Sprays the bastard with rubbing alcohol in the face.*

The Dreamscape Demon stops, hissing lightly as he glanced over fully, his grip almost loosening on the greyface "ý̴̫ỏ̵͓u̸̯̔ ̶̖͠h̴̜̽à̴̜v̴̢̌ė̷̗?̵̧̿" he asks as the lady in violet hums lightly, smiling a bit, she looked different than from the photo Cuphead and mugman had showed past viewers, older, her clothing more were down with stains of ink, her hair now a inky stained black, and yet, her face was still concealed by the shadows, a red glint being the only thing seen from her... it was almost unnerving. "yes. i have. now. do you wish to keep playing with that lowlife?" she said, gesturing to the greyface that he had in his grip. "or. do you want to fulfill your part of the bargin. after all, you are nearly almost whole." she says, crossing her arms slightly as the other grumbles and sighs, hissing as it easily tore the grey-face in half, letting the body drop to the floor, the red stuff vanishing on his body as he turns around, his plastered melted grin twitching slightly "w̵̱͂h̷͇̄e̶̞̐ṛ̴̉ę̵̈ ̷̳̓ḯ̴͚s̸̰̅ ̷̹̑ȋ̶̲ṯ̶͘ ̸̭̆ṱ̶̈́h̸̦̆ě̴͔n̴̬̈́.̴̱̉"

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ask-the-friendly-ink-demon · 2 years

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*Twerks into view.* Hey how fast are you and your friends?

"H̶͔̒O̶̹͑W̵͖͝ ̴̟̚F̷̢̓A̷̠̓S̴͓̓T̸̖͛ ̴̱̌Ẹ̶̈X̴̺̃A̴̋͜C̵̯̃T̸̖͆L̶̨͑Ý̸̧ ̸͙̊Ḁ̸͒R̴̭̊E̸̯͋ ̵͖̾Y̸̫̽ ̵͖͌Ỏ̶̗ ̸̩̀Ủ̸͎ ̷̖̇R̷̤̀Ẽ̶͎A̵͉͋L̶̹̋L̵̪̽Y̴̝̾?̵͚̽" the dreamscape demon said, the 'markings' on parts of it's body having an oddly similar color to the same markings on prowler's body.

#The Dreamscape Demon (Lanky)#The False King; Former Chosen One (Alder)#The Outsider (Alrun)#Shadows Of The Past (Joey Drew Studios)#Broken Company (Sillyvision)#Attempted Grand Reopening (Arch Gate Studios)#Roll Call! (Answered Asks)#You've Got Mail! (Asks)#Memory Loss (New Arc)#Freedom But At What Cost? (Aftermath Verse)#My Art #My Drawings #Still working on some kind of Finalized Design For Lanky #both this one and the one in the main storyline before the events of the blog

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ask-the-friendly-ink-demon · 2 years

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cheese

"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU TWO LITTLE SHITS! GGGGGGGGGRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" "OH FUCK- OH SHIT- RUN- RUN MUGS-" "IM FUCKING RUNNING!" well. they aren't having a good time after that one, you all proud of yourselves?

#My Art #My Drawings #cheese moment #The Dreamscape Demon (Lanky)#The False King (Alder)#Eldritch Beast (False Projector Demon)#Dealing With Demons On A Daily Basic (Cuphead)#The Brother Of The Demon Hunter (Mugman)#Shadows Of The Past (Joey Drew Studios)#Attempted Grand Reopening (Arch Gate Studios)#Memory Loss (New Arc)#Roll Call! (Answered Asks)#You've Got Mail! (Asks)#well that wasn't fun-#for the cup brothers anyway #not to self #never throw cheese at lanky #you will not like the outcome #Freedom But At What Cost? (Aftermath Verse)

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ask-the-friendly-ink-demon · 4 years

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Who was prowler's toughest enemy that he ever faced?

buddy stopped as he reached the entrance to the town, steaming lightly as he thinks. he was about to say something else. before he just... thought about it some more, frowning lightly

“i was gonna say someone else but... as of now probably lanky.... he did nearly killed him..... i think he actually did die for a moment too...” he says, frowning as ink slowly dripped down onto his face before his eye kept on glowing red as he glared, he normally wouldn’t go out alone to face something like lanky but he wasn’t exactly... himself at the moment, the others inside him were whispering ideas and plans to him as he kept on walking, advoiding any survivors and cutting down any infected creatures that were being controlled by lanky “but. it’s time to show that prick his place...” he says, growling lightly as he kept walking forward. meanwhile down in a deeper parts of the town, in a den of a destroyed house, the false king was resting, before his eyes slowly opened, with a purplish pink silt forming in place of the pupil as it hears it’s subjects in pain, a low rumbling growl erupted slowly....

#The Projector Demon..? (Buddy 'Azix' Pendle Conner)#Roll Call! (Asks)#Fan Mail (Answered Asks)#Strange Neighborhood (The Town)#The True Events (Canon)#Freedom But At What Cost? (Aftermath)#False King (Lanky The Dreamscape Demon)#A Cure For The Demon (Reincarnation ARC)#Finding Someone Lost (Reunited ARC)#Back From The Dead (Prowler's Revenge Arc)

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ask-the-friendly-ink-demon · 4 years

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can you control anything?

Prowler steams at that question, steaming heavily as he growled in anger, nearly turned into his unholy form as he growled and hisses, steaming heavily as alpha and seeker stared in a bit of worry and fear

the demon snarls and growls, steaming heavily as he slammed his own claws into his head “I DON’T KNOW I DON’T KNOW. YES I CAN. I CAN C..CONTROL...” he steams heavily, alpha and seeker stepping away as prowler suddenly looks up, all ounce of his sanity gone as he growled, grinning heavily “I KNOW HOW TO DEFEAT LANKY! BY PLAYING FIRE WITH FIRE!” he says, his entire body glowing purple. alpha and seeker’s eyes widened “Oh No....” he says as he steps away, seeker clutched his sword as the unholy demon roars loudly, before he went to his purple outburst mode again, before he charges towards the two, before a bright burst of light and such engulfed the entire area, followed by a distorted roar. Lanky perked up, resting at a cave as he had the lurker and gaia with him, though. inside him, steaming heavily as he also had strange robotic parts around him too. along with robotic like bunny ears... what kind of creature did he find as a new vessel? the false king snorts, resting on the ground before he yelps when a bright burst of energy destroyed his den. along with forcing gaia and lurker out of him, as another huge burst of energy erupted. causing the dreamscape demon to crash away, groaning softly before he makes a grunt, before hearing a distorted roar, he blinks, before glancing up and freezing in shock at what he saw, followed by that loud booming roar

the outcast demon had been complete, now having alpha, seeker, gaia and the lurker fused into it. the demonic abomination lets out a booming deafening roar as a grin formed onto it’s face “HEY THERE BLANKY!~ REMEMBER ME YA PIECE OF SHIT?!” it said. it’s voice a horrible mixture of prowler’s and alpha’s and seeker’s as lanky’s many eyes widened, before they all flared up, he nearly roared loudly in anger and fear “YOU?! I- I FUCKING KILLED YOU! HOW CAN YOU STILL BE ALIVE?!?!?!” he says, the outcast demon laughing a bit, grinning madly as his entire body glowed purple “CANT KILL WHAT’S ALREADY BEEN KILLED! IM TAKING BACK MY DAMN CROWN YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” he says, roaring before lanky steams, nearly transforming to his deity form, his three heads roaring loudly in anger “UUURGH! I KILLED YOU ONCE! I CAN DO IT AGAIN!” he says, before the two roared loudly at eachother before charging at eachother as the entire ground shook and bursted with a bright light and energy.....

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ask-the-friendly-ink-demon · 4 years

Photo

something i made for my friend @sammys-sanctuary since their batim oc, Buddy now has their ‘bendy’ azix’s demonic energy and souls- i came to the soultion that he can pretty much turn into the projector demon fusion of him and azix at will. think of it like a beast bendy sort of form- this is one of the possible body takes it could take- when against this stinky ass bitch that is called Blanky owo

#i predict that enraged buddy is a edritch horror monster #fite me sammy #Art For Friend #Gift For Friend #Discord Art #Buddy Pendle Conner #The Dreamscape Demon (Lanky Or Blanky)#Detailed Art #The Projector Demon #Buddy Be Angy

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ask-the-friendly-ink-demon · 4 years

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What's Going on with Lanky right now?

“ASK NOT FOR WHOM THE BELLS TOLLS FOR”

“IT TOLLS FOR THEE. ENJOY THE RESULTS OF YOU STUPID FUCKS SUMMONING LANKY BACK~ HEHE~”

“Oh fOr THe LoVE of... PleAse DOn’t MenTIon lANky... ThAT’s THe LAsT THing We NeEd. hIM fiGUrIng Out THat prOWleR is STiLl alIve... sPEaKing Of thAt...” he grunts, huffing a bit as he and susan walked over to the melting body of the large demon, glancing over to that lump of ink that was torn out, he blinked, seeing that it was the bodies of the animatronic Bendy, The Demon that was once ‘Wally’ And... oh... that’s something, it was a strange fusion of prowler’s sammy with a couple of other variants of the prophet.... though he huffs, he knows the actual soul of their sammy was in prowler... he snorts, but picks up the passed out ‘false’ prophet anyway. since he does remember the fella. he also picks up the animatronic and ‘wally’ too, snorting a bit as he looks at susan “How’s THe BIg GUy hOldING uP GIrl?”

susan barks and huffs, making a thumbs up, glancing at the demon was halfway melted away to ‘normal’ she perked up as she and alpha looked over to see the ink wyvern landing near them, with prowliz getting off as she rushes over, her eyes wide “is he okay?! what happened are you all alright?!” she said, panting as lizzie snorted, gently nudging her back as alpha blinks, glancing to susan “y...yeAh wE’rE okAy... bUT aS foR pROwLER wE doN’T.....” he glances over, seeing the demon was no longer as large as he was before, alpha walks over to the messy pile, cleaning it up and going to stabilize it- before stepping back as his eye widened in shock “oH jEsUS chRIsT Kid....”

prowler’s entire body was messed up to the bone, he’d somehow has pieces of other demons stuck and lodged into him, even sporting alu’s wings, hinting that he may of found alu earlier on after what had happened to him... but either way. the demon himself was a mess. damaged and broken but. still alive but barely. prowliz’s eyes were wide with shock, rushing over and tightly hugging prowler, nearly sobbing as the demon was barely responsive. he was exhausted as hell. his body was pale and cracking, exposing parts of his soulless state, twitching as he coughs, dripping out a purplish liquid. alpha places the bodies he was holding onto lizzie, as susan snorts, scrambling onto her as the former ink demon went over to prowliz, gently patting her shoulder “HeY... COme On... We’Ll fiX hIM Up BacK At THe loDge aLrIGht?” he said to prowliz, the demoness sniffling as she nodded, before hiccuping as she gently places prowler onto lizzie, with her and alpha getting on last, making sure the others were on there tightly “AlRigHT lIZzIe... LeT’s GO hOme” he says, the wyvern snorting and sprouting her wings while flying off, unaware that the large amounts of excess ink left by prowler was finding it’s way towards the immoblized body of the gigantic lurker tyrant

Alpha Sighs as he and the others were on the large wyvern, humming to himself as he looked around, frowning a bit as prowliz glances over “why couldn’t things go back to normal? we were all finally having a chance to relax when lanky came around and ruined it....” she said, sighing as alpha frowns a bit “BeCaUSe... liFe ISN’t FaIR lIke THaT lIZ... eVEn thoUgh i wAnt HiM GOne Just As MUcH As thE NExT PeRsOn. We’Re STuCK wiTH hIS anNoyING aSs foR thE tiME BeiNG...” he said, sighing a bit as she frowned, rubbing her eyes “i wish things were normal again....” she said, looking down as alpha frowns, reaching out to pat her back “I kNo-” lizzie suddenly reared up and screeches, a plasma beam was shot nearly pass her, the others quickly becoming alarmed, before another beam hits the wyvern, causing her to fall and crash, the others screaming as they fell into the forest, with the ink wyvern screeching as she crashes into the more deader parts of the forest with the three bodies in hold. while prowliz, alpha, susan, and the worn out destroyed body of prowler fell onto the harsh ground, though alpha caught the other before anything else could be broken “JeSUs FucKing CHriSt WHat THe hELl wAs thAt?!” he says, growling and steaming as he looks around, prowliz groaning as she stumbles up, wincing as she holds her shoulder groaning “o-owwww.... alpha i think my s-sh-” she screeches as she was suddenly smacked towards tree, her hoodie being torn up a bit, revealing bandages underneath as she groaned, holding her side as she slid off the wood, susan barking as she rushes over to check up on her. alpha staring eye widely. before hearing a familiar cackling, he frowned and growled, slowly turning around to glare as he hears a very familiar voice

“W̷͉̚E̵͕͆Ĺ̷̤L̸̮̆ ̸̘͂W̸̮̔E̸̢͑L̷͔̑L̷͎̄ ̷͚̎W̷̫͝E̷̙̍L̷̰̃L̶̰̃.̶̣́.̴̱̌.̴̮͑.̷̩͂ ̴̳͘H̵̩̑E̷̱̚Ľ̸̪L̶̙͝O̶̧͗ ̶̩̄T̸̲̔H̵̲̀Ẻ̵͚R̵̟̔E̷̳̎ ̵̤̄Ä̵́͜G̶̃ͅÁ̴͉Į̸̀N̶̢͂.̷̢͝.̴͔̐.̴̥̄ ̴̪̃Ȋ̴̖T̷͍́'̸̪̄Ș̸̈́ ̵̝͒Ḅ̸͋E̶͉͊Ḛ̵̀Ǹ̵̬ ̸̧̕A̸̮͂ ̴̯̀Ẅ̶̹́H̸̹̆I̶̹͗L̶̮̔E̶͖͐.̸̹͋.̸̻͌.̵̜̓ ̸̣͋B̵̘͝E̵͐ͅN̵͕̆S̵̭̕~̷̣̐”

#God Of Chaos (LATIOS)#The Dreamscape Demon (Lanky Or Blanky)#The False Prophet (Samuel)#The Sister Of The Demon (Prowliz)#The Forgotten (The Outcast Demon)#Modern Reflection; Little Devil Darling (Bendy Prowler Devil)#The Ink Wyvern (Lizzie)#A Robotic Demon (William Benton And Bertrum Piedmont)#The New Ink Demon ('Wally' Franks)#The Dinosaur (Susan The Trex Toon)#Back From The Dead (Prowler's Revenge ARC)#A Quiet Place (The Plains)#Nature's Rein (The Forest)#Roll Call! (Asks)#Fan Mail (Answered Asks)#YOU SUMMONED HIM #ARE YOU PROUD OF YOURSELF?#The True Events (Canon)#latios is bitch bastard mentos man asmr

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