#┊ ·˚ ༘ ⁭Peculiarities. | ic Norman ┊ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kayuripax · 5 years ago

Text

Mutatink 2

My plot bunny from the Ink Demonth decided to breed. And it spat out over 6000 words. Thanks go to @lost-seal for being a wonderful beta-reader and putting up with my at times horrendous reasoning for some plotholes.

Once again, trigger warnings apply:

TW: Cannibalism, Body Horror, Gore, identity loss, murder, violence

It’s rare that he's actually lucid enough to think over what he is doing. Usually the rage clouds his mind now, and the gaping void in his chest hurts too much to let the rage disappear. Every once in a while, however, the ache lessens and he’s able to actually think. Most often it happens when he gets near the Duplicate of his human form. Oh, how he loathes it. It took his soul, his memories, and his place. But unlike how he used to be, it’s pure ink. And it doesn’t even know.

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Loop chases after loop, the days blur together. How long has it been since he was last lucid? At least five loops ago. This time it comes when he sees the double approaching the boarded off room of the ink machine. He screeches, mid lunge and almost touches it, the ache of being soulless intensifying for a second before leaving in favour of ice-cold awareness when he crashes into the boards. He howls in fury when the duplicate runs.

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He sees the Duplicate again when it runs from Sammy. It runs the second he jumps out of the ink. He gives chase on his malformed legs, doing his best to insure he finally gets his soul back. He almost reaches the Double, but then the door slams close right in front of him. He slams his gloved fist onto the door, and growls loudly. All he hears are ragged breathing and words mumbled in panic. After a final knock, he turns around, the webs trailing along.

The Duplicate is touching him. He had chased it after he discovered it running errands for the Angel, and in its panic it slammed its palm into his face. He lurches to a halt, his arms fall to his sides limply. His breath is ragged, but for the first time in what surely must’ve been years, he had ran normally. He felt whole. It’s… it’s a feeling that almost makes him cry. The only indication however is the intensifying tremble of his grin, that his limbs have a slight tremor, and the ink on his face is running faster. A peculiar sound escapes his throat and the double trembles. The contact breaks suddenly when Boris slowly plods into the area. A lurching feeling, and then he feels empty again. Before anything can happen, Boris inches closer, and pulls him into a hug, pinning his arms to the side. Then, achingly slow, he taps out something in Morse.

H-E-N-R-Y

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Boris remembers. He saw when Henry stopped being Henry and the Double had taken his place. It wasn’t that obvious at first, but it definitely showed when Henry stopped talking about his family. When he is hurt, he partially dissolves into ink. Boris noticed. And now that he sees the Demon and the Double, the latter’s hand on the forehead of the former. He knows what happened to Henry after he was sent into the ink machine during the loop where the ink laid it’s claim. He remembers since that loop. His desire to help Henry overcame whatever stuck them here. When he taps out the name, he feels the skeletal form slump against him, shoulders jerking up in mute sobs. He gently pats the Demon's back.

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He isn’t alone. Boris remembers. Boris remembers. Even without a soul he finally feels something: pure, unadulterated relief. When the Double attempts to take Boris away, the axe raised in trembling hands, he gives off a keening hiss, watching in morbid satisfaction when it jerks back. Now he only needs to get his soul and memories back from it, and then… then he’d finally be whole again.

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He trails after them for hours, the shadow they knew was there. His webs still dance across the walls, positively lethal to the Butchers and the Searchers. Once they fall asleep however, he goes his own way and to her level. He could go there. Usually he didn’t, her twisted but still holy energy managing to make it more difficult than he’d like. Now though? Now it doesn’t matter. Boris remembers. And he’d be damned to an eternity as a soul- and-mindless beast before he’d let her get her hands on Boris. When he approaches, several alarms start blaring, a few searchers jumping up but promptly dissolving under his webs. A roar sounds throughout level nine when she decides to use the metal door to hinder him. Teeth break apart, limbs elongate, becoming more muscled, and it doesn’t stand a chance anymore. Her screams echo throughout the level. When they fall silent, the entire room is coated in ink and no trace of her and him are in sight. The only thing remaining is a piece of a miracle station, the halo on it prominent.

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When he re-joins Boris and the Double not one speck of ink is out of its place, but despite that Boris looks at him with a knowing eye. He decides not to pay attention to it, instead he viciously tears apart the lone searcher that they encounter. His hollow chest aches more today. He doesn’t trust himself, keeps his distance from Boris. That he is lucid for as long as he is is a wonder all of itself. When the Double inches closer to him, fear on its face, he pushes Boris away, screeches and slams the double into a wall. Cracks appear, his webs writhe. It’s too much, too much too soon. He wants to tear it apart, but he knows he can’t. Not yet. He opens a portal and nearly runs through it. His mind is fading.

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Boris watches in worry when Henry throws the Double into a wall and disappears. He isn’t sure how much of Henry still is there under the ink and it’s influence. It does bring out the darkest tendencies a human has. And Henry was in it for so long now... he grunts as he picks the Double up, carrying it to the stairwell to stuff it in a Miracle Station. The other inhabitants of the studio know to stay away from him, he is under the protection of Henry. The Double wasn’t graced with that mercy. The only person in this place who hasn’t listened to Henry’s declaration (it wasn’t a verbal one, but the fact that his webs don’t hurt Boris are a clear sign) was Alice. And she re-joined the ink. Boris felt when her twisted energy disappeared, and he could breathe a bit easier. He isn’t faulting Henry for lashing out like that against her. He is... unstable.

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Every creature inside the studio cowers when the ire of the Ink Demon swamps the studio. The webs are everywhere, the ink is full of agonized voices that have just lost their physical form and the stream of them is not ebbing the least. He is angry and not himself, the agony and overwhelming anger back in full force, worse than ever before. Nobody is safe. His mindless slaughter continues for quite some time, the miracle stations are crammed, creatures stacking on top of each other to escape him. Then a deafening scream cuts through the dusty air, a harsh and blinding light robbing him of what little remains of his sight. A fist with monstrous strength hits his face, and he can feel his teeth break apart from the force. The back of his skull hits wood, and he feels the inky mass cave in, the feeling strangely clearing his mind from the haze of agony. A second scream shrills, thin but strong hands closing in on his neck, suspending him mid-air. Norman always was strong, even when the studio was still running. Surprisingly so for a man of that age, but that came back to bite him now. He forgot the Projectionist sometimes abandons Level 14 to roam. The harsh light shines directly into his face now, and he hears the projector whirring. Bits and pieces of the inky remains of his skull clatter to the ground, the strange clarity not disappearing, the agony of soulless-ness ebbing in favor of the pain of broken bones. A pain he honestly likes more, because it reminds him that he used to be human. Then, his shrivelled and black husk of a heart stops, when a horribly crackling word escapes the speaker in the Projectionist’s chest.

S͏̞̝̯̤̰̖̙̱͙̬̮̭̲̺̖̖̞͠ͅͅT̶̢̻̰̺̦̞̳͖͎̖̠̹̫͔͉̻͜͟O̢̕͘͏̞̣̜̱P͍̘̹̞͟͠ͅ

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Norman is lucid. It’s rare, but it happens. How, he has no idea. His head was replaced by a projector, for God’s sake. It isn’t a feeling he likes. Even the aches of old age are something he prefers to this. And then there is the speaker lodged in his chest. It hurts. Hurts too much for him to be conscious still, but somehow, he can’t fall asleep and become unconscious. Norman resents the ink for making him go through this endless cycle of mindless beast and horrified man. And then there was Henry. Poor, old Henry. Nice bloke when he still worked with them. And now just as trapped as them. Trapped and tainted. He remembers his last lucid moments. Henry had been mid-transformation, and at that point Norman had stopped attacking. He couldn’t attack his former co-worker, not with the knowledge that it would only speed it up and turn it even more pain filled. The small bout of being lucid had disappeared fast, and then he could only remember small bouts. ‘Bendy’ attacking him, beheading him. Blessed rest in the ink. And then, suddenly, it was as if someone rewound the reel. He could feel how everything went backwards, and suddenly he was back to being mindless. However, he comes to his senses more often now. Small moments, ones he uses to rest outside the ink. And then the Ink Demon started rampaging. The webs are everywhere, creatures, former co-workers, scream and disappear back into the ink, some souls snuffing out permanently. Norman encounters the Demon on Level 11, the ink on it even more runny than usual. And for the first time, the always quivering grin is showing something else than malice. There’s panic there, anger and despair. And then Norman punches it, and suddenly a volley of emotions and a sense of being crashes in on him. That thing was Henry. That thing was Henry. He gathers his strength and bellows out a word.

S͏̞̝̯̤̰̖̙̱͙̬̮̭̲̺̖̖̞͠ͅͅT̶̢̻̰̺̦̞̳͖͎̖̠̹̫͔͉̻͜͟O̢̕͘͏̞̣̜̱P͍̘̹̞͟͠ͅ

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Deafening silence in the halls. The webs are frozen on the walls, and no one moves an inch. Only the soft pat of the ink dripping out from the fractured skull are audible, and it’s unbelievably loud. He slowly moves his head, the fingers still around his neck still holding him in place. The trembling of his grin lessens, then it goes still. The broken teeth don’t fit together anymore, not like they do when he becomes even more of a beast. This time they’re truly broken and shattered, small pieces missing and on the ground. The harsh light of Norman’s lens comes closer, the heat from it giving his cold, mangled frame a bit of sorely needed comfort. Then the fingers around his neck disappear, instead grasping under his arms, and he is pulled up. Staticy crackling escapes Norman’s speaker as the Projectionist shoves him to the elevator, almost punching in the call button and jamming it. As if the surprises weren’t enough this day and loop, his former co-worker’s speaker crackled again, the word escaping it almost... soft. It was his name. His shriveled heart stops again. Then they hear the hum of the elevator, and Norman slinks away in the dark, flickering light disappearing. A second later the elevator dings, and both Boris and the Double are greeted by the sight of an even more mangled form. The Double starts retching at the sight of him. Boris howls.

Level S. Silent, dusty, and yet oh so loud. Only for him and Boris, the Double horribly ignorant to the screams still haunting the accountants office, not just the one caught on tape. Grant is still there, barely coherent. Screaming, always screaming. He would almost pity the accountant, but he is barely capable of caring about Boris and there is no room left. He slinks closer to the desk when the Double gets the valve, and gazes down on the quivering puddle. His webs cover the writings on the wall, and a quick change of intent silences the screams. Boris shoots him a glance, one that holds no judgment. The accountant had been screaming for over fifteen years. He deserved to be brought into the puddles so he could rest.

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Lost ones. Helpful in one loop, enemy in so many others. He sees how they flinch when people near them move, how their skin glistens in the murky lights. He gets... hungry at the sight. He hungers for the humanity they still hold. For the ink they hold, ink that would repair the remainder of the damage Norman wrought. His ragged breathing gets louder, inky saliva building up behind his teeth. Before he starts to act on his urges however, Boris gloved hand clamps down on his arm, a miniscule shaking of the head accompanying the motion. He growls, but doesn’t yank his arm away. Instead he opens up an inky portal, just like he did on the chasm, and goes to the room the vent system opens to. He trusts the double to go to the correct exit and not the one he always blocks. The trust is justified, it appears twenty minutes afterwards.

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He stares down at the carnival games with a head tilt. The remaining fractures in his skull grate against each other with the motion. The mutterings of the Double, that you were supposed to throw the bottles over, is ignored. He know how it works. He wasn’t thinking about that. He worries more about the upcoming meeting with Allison and Tom. Anger builds up at the thought, the webs writhing a bit more. He grasps one of the balls, agonizingly slow, and stares at it. Then, with speed he shouldn’t have, he throws it at the bottles. They shatter and fall over. It doesn’t calm him down completely, but the sound is still music to his ears. He repeats it for the other stacks. The shooting game is taken care of by the Double. He grins wider, mockingly so, when he notices that it can’t shoot at all even though it has his memories on doing so. The door to the room with the costumes grates open, the metal shrieking. Then he and Boris hear the double shriek at the sight of the costumes. He gives off a raspy, grating laugh. Soon.

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The Butchers in this area huddle together when they feel the opressive ink webs. When the demon comes out of the wall, fingers lengthened to claws, they feel fear for the first time. The slightly cracked teeth break apart, sharpening and growing wider. Then they clamp down and garbled screams sound. The Demon is hungry, not for violence. He hungers for life. So he takes. When the warm, sluggish ink fills his maw, he feels the cracks mending, filling in with ink. The chattering of teeth fills his ears when he turns around and he sees the Striker huddling close to the barrel. It’s stitches are torn and it’s able to open its mouth, revealing toony fangs. He leans closer, his breathing slightly gurgling because of the fresh ink still coating his throat. The nearby Piper groans loudly, and tries to smack him with its wrench. He whirls around, spearing it on his claws. It still flails when he swallows, quickly dissolving and assimilating into his ink. It’s a perversely good feeling, his aches disappearing under the influx of life and ink. The only remaining Butcher is the Striker, who is close to climbing under the barrel out of fear. It shivers at the feeling of the hungry gaze and curls together. It doesn’t want to die. It just got out of the puddles! A croon reaches it ears, and it feels the ghosting of claws on its skin. Claws that become blunt fingers that seize it’s arm and pull it away from the barrel and up in the air. When it dares to look, the trembling grin is back to normal and right in front of it. It squeaks in fear. Then the metal doors grate open, and the demon looks at the intruders. Nothing happens for a second. Then the Demon holds it up like it was a teddy bear, and croons. Boris facepalms.

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The Striker becomes an addition to the group. It stays far away from him though. He doesn’t fault it. He just ate its siblings after all. However, he is intrigued by it. Never before have the stitches torn apart, never before has it produced anything other than the normal garbled sounds. He wants to know what will happen next. It’s new. And new can be helpful. Or dangerous beyond belief. He knows that. Still, he plants it by the corpse of its brethren when they get close to Bertrum. The ride was dangerous. And he wanted to watch his new plaything a bit longer. After the ride starts up, he screeches right in its face, raking the claws over dead, bloated flesh that comes out of the seams of the ride. How he never noticed before is beyond him, but he doesn’t care. This way he gets soul scraps. Little pieces of humanity he wouldn’t be able to feel otherwise. They will carry him over for a while. Just long enough until he can snatch his soul back. Before he will be able to do that, he has some things to do first though. He screeches once more, and the machine goes silent and limp. The Double sits in a corner, axe in front of it, fear, disgust and horror on its face when it takes some in the damage he wrought. His grin trembles a bit more, the agonizing ache slowly seeping in. He turns, slams down the lever, and opens a portal on the nearest wall. He can’t lose it now, when Boris is in the same room. The toon jerks its head, a small but sad smile on his face. He understood what was going on. After Boris ushers the Double and the Striker out, he strides troughs the portal, appearing in the Lobby. Time to destroy The End before the Double got to it and would be able to set him back.

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The Vault is eerie when he tears it apart in his search, his soulless state becoming more obvious, cold and pain creeping in his body. Anger already clouds his vision. After a while he finally rips the right box open and holds the reel in his claws. It burns, even when it isn’t in terms projector. He snarls. Joey coated it in holy water. Given what he is, it’s no surprise that he feels pain. He drops the reel after a second, then sinks down next to it. He is tired. So, so tired...

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He comes to a bit later. The reel has left burn marks in his ink, and he relishes in the pain for a bit. He feels alive for the barest second, then the feeling is swallowed up by the cold. A low whine escapes him as he stands up. He had a plaything to observe. He had to protect Boris. Even with the Angel out of the picture there were enough hazards. And the canid toon never knew how to stay away from trouble. The inky portal opens up, he limps through. When he arrives, he sees the Projectionist approach a Miracle Station. He spreads his webs, grins wider when the flickering light swivels to face him. That grating screech that was Norman’s signature in this inky hell sounds, and suddenly they are fighting. His ink pounds in his ears, the grin trembles even more. For the first time he isn’t experiencing this fight in a mindless rage but lucid. Adrenalin pumps through him, lets him ignore the pain in his leg, his ink filled lungs. When he hoists Norman up at the throat, he hisses in amusement. Norman is struggling against the grip, unable to free himself. A second screech fills the air, then the light starts to flicker more, as if it was dying. He lifts his five fingered hand, runs it over the side of the projector. Then he grips the machine and pulls. The light flickers once more, then goes out. The Projectionist is down for the count.

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Allison and Tom freeze when they see him, the latter unconsciously lifting his hackles. It’s so doglike that Henry wonders if the man is even there anymore, or if the instincts simply take over when face to face with the biggest predator the studio has to offer. He hopes it is the latter. The smell of fear is sharp and distinct, and it’s an almost perverse pleasure to see the man who tormented him and deprived him of food so often be so afraid. Logically he knew that Tom had had no reason to trust him all these loops ago, but it makes him angry every time he thinks about it. The man turned toon could’ve starved him to death. Three times in his whole prison sentence he was able to eat. And always only when Tom was away. He takes pleasure in the flinch and backwards stumble when he limps closer.

The duo refuses to go to their hideout with him near. He laughs, the sound almost like nails on a chalkboard. Everyone flinches, the Striker that still tags along huddles into a ball. At that motion he simply grins wider, picks the creature up by the scruff of its neck and thrusts it in the arms of the Double. He looms over it for a second, then turns around. His small nap from earlier wasn’t enough, he could feel the tiredness in his aching limbs. He limps through the wall, back to the vault. Once there, he sends his webs out once more, destroying the one searcher that thought of sleeping inside the cardboard boxes. With trembling limbs he opens one of them up, grinning genuinely when he finds the old radio. Oh so carefully he puts it on, then lies down. The music lulls him to sleep.

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Commotion above wakes him up. He grabs the reel, and promptly goes through a portal to see what is going on. Sammy. The man has pulled himself out of the puddles, madder than ever before. Accusations fly from his lips, ink coats the axe he holds, and Boris is missing one hand, the Double trying it’s best to shield both itself and the toon. The Striker lies between them, already halfway dissolved. It was the first one to be hit. Sammy always has been peculiar amongst the ink creatures. Just like him the musician can sense souls trapped by the ink. And the crazed man is the only one in the studio able to punt souls out of his reach. Not even the Angel could do it. And the man is trying his hardest to punt his soul out of reach. Anger overwhelms him as he claws his way out of the wall, his webs promptly flooding the entire area. He roars at the man, loud enough to rattle windows. Teeth break, legs shrivel, arms elongate, claws grow. A deadly dance, no one backing down. His soul was his to take. Not Sammy’s. Not the Angel’s. Nobody’s. Only his. Claws find inky flesh, sink in. The screams of the musician are music to his ears, more so than any tunes the man ever composed. When the body starts to go slack, he doesn’t let it fall, he knows the man is like a cockroach. Only when the ink making up the body starts to dissolve he allows it to slide of his claws. A horrified gasp reaches his ears and he turns. Tom and Allison stare at him and he bares his teeth even more. They flinch.

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Allison can barely bear to look at the giant Demon in front of them. She is too scared, way, way too scared of it and the power she knows it holds. When the thing turns around to look at the Boris, she grips her sword tighter, ready to jump in despite herself. But instead of skewering the toon, the Demon croons unhappily. It’s an unnatural thing, warbling and layered with sounds no throat should ever produce. Not even the throat of the Ink Demon. She inches closer to Tom.

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Boris is injured. Boris is injured. A hand is severed cleanly, the offending appendage already dissolved in the ink. The stump bleeds sluggish, congealing ink dripping to the cavern floor. They all watch how he becomes smaller, turns back into his usual state. The almost silent breathing of the Demon unsettles the others, more so than any other moves he makes. The breathing always sounds, you always know where the Demon is. That it goes silent now does not bode well for anyone. Allison starts fearing for her life.

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He is hyperaware of his surroundings, of Tom and Allison nearby. He’s aching, angry and hungry, always hungry, but he isn’t attacking. He knows the Congregation is moving. They felt their leader dying and they’re angry. But the anger won’t help them against his anger. His anger topples walls and kills in swathes. When the first of the puddles starts bubbling, he gets up, slouching and shuffling to the dead center of the cave. The second the Lost One leaves the puddles he tears into it with energy he hardly shows, tearing it open in a matter of seconds. Hot ink spills on the ground, the soul doesn’t even start to fade before he gobbles it up. It doesn’t help. It isn’t his soul. He needs his own. But he can’t get to it with the machine on. The next soul joins the ink again, the miners hat clattering on the ground noisily. He screeches and his webs dance. Screams sound out, audible to everyone but the Double, blissfully ignorant of everything but his rampage. Searcher after Searcher, Lost One after Lost One, they all fall to his webs. It’s a massacre and he doesn’t care; the ache is too much. He wants it to stop.

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Silence weighs heavily on them, the only sound his ragged breathing, the soft pittering of the ink on his claws splattering on the ground. He trembles, his claws twitch. He wants them to find their mark, to pull out his soul. He wants it desperately. He doesn’t want it. He… He doesn’t… He doesn’t know anymore. He wants to be whole again. He wants this miserable existence, an existence filled with aches and mindless rages to stop. And yet he… and yet he can’t. He’d have to murder himself for it. Even if it was a copy. A damn Duplicate. One that took his entire life, leaving him with the barest dredges of himself. He shivers, a lump in his throat builds up as a small sliver of warmth forms on his face. He lifts his head, stares directly in the small bit of sunlight shining through the cavern roof. He wants to cry at the little bit of warmth, so different from the one he feels when devouring shards of humanity. He wants to cry but can’t. He’s too inhuman. Too soulless. Too tired. He wants it to end.

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Allison stabs him. She stabs him to get at the reel he still clutches in his hand. He feels like simultaneously crying, laughing and tearing her apart for that insolence. He ruled the studio. How dare she? The webs writhe on the wall, he sees her expression become pained. A grim satisfaction grows in his stomach. She should be afraid. But instead of tearing her apart like he wants, he simply growls at her, takes in her shock when the wound simply closes before her eyes. He breathes louder, inches closer to her. Her hands shake, then the sword clatters to the ground. She can feel his breath on her cheek, shivers. It reeks of old ink and blood. A gurgling laugh, too quiet for the Double, Tom and Boris to hear. She starts to regret that move even more than she already does. He raises a claw, traces it over her face, stops at the left side. He could make her look like the Angel he already killed. It would take barely more than the touch he already initiated. It would be satisfying. But it would also remind Boris of how often he died at the hands of the Angel. He pulls back. The toon had become the sole reason that holds him back from these overly violent responses. It should concern him that he isn’t capable of doing so on his own.

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He clutches the reel tightly, ignores the burn of the Holy energy still clinging to it. He needs it. He won’t give it to the Double. He’d be set back to the beginning, mindless once more. He refuses. He won’t become that again. ( He already is, his oh so traitorous mind whispers ) They reach the board that breaks, the sound of the Double hitting the ground music to him. It’s pained groans even more so. Just for the slight thrill of it he jumps down as well, hitting the ground right next to the double. He sees it shiver when he breathes down its neck. It smells of paper, ink and bacon soup. A horrible smell, really. The bacon soup, that is. The stuff had already been there when he worked at the studio. That it’s still there, after 30 years, and is still eaten is... disconcerting. That he ate it himself when he still had his memories is something he expertly ignores.

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The Double shivers with every step he takes, every rattling breath. He would laugh at its fear, but he is occupied with stalking the resident Butcher’s that reappeared. His webs dance, the garbled cries sound through the maze. He takes great joy in ransacking Joey’s office, drowns it in the foul ink of the Butcher’s. The old man would never see it, but it still fills him with a vicious sense of righteousness. The audio log on the desk is another thing he destroys with vigor, this one to prevent the Double from making Joey’s voice ring out. It’s enough he has to hear it in a while, in the Machine. He hisses lowly when the Double gets near. It’s stench disgusts him.

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The vault is eerie as usual, but the remainders of his frenzied search for The End, the reel he still clutches to his chest, are still visible. Claw marks on the walls, the door ripped off its hinges. He almost laughs at the panicked expression of the Double when it sees the reel in his gloved hand. The realization that he controls this loop seems to horrify it. He finally relents and let’s out a long chuckle, the sound like sandpaper on glass shards. Tom and Allison, both just arriving, flinch at the sound. Boris just flattens his ears, not really intimidated. After the ensuing silence he shows them the reel, exaggerated motions making it clear he knows they can’t harm him. When Tom lashes out to get the reel, he screeches louder than ever, the sound turning into a blood-curdling roar, teeth becoming sharper already. The amputee wolf jowls in fright, jerks back. The axe clutters to the ground, the handle breaks. The urge to rip the pesky wolf apart gets stronger every second, and he leers down at Tom, inky saliva drips from the slowly separating teeth and onto the mechanical arm. It’s his turn to jerk when he suddenly feels Boris’ gloved hand on his bony shoulders. He swivels around, the keening growl dying in his throat at the disappointed look on the canines face. He hisses angrily, rage all over his mind, but turns around and opens a corridor to his lair. He snatches Boris’ arm, pulls him along. The panicked scream of the remaining three make him shiver in anticipation and glee. His soul was nearer than ever, it won’t be long now and he’d be finally whole again.

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He slumps on the throne a minute or so after closing the portal. Boris is looking around, both in awe and dread. This is the place where Henry died and turned into the Demon next to him, the soul snatched up by the Double. The look that currently lies on the Demons face however bodes well for him, and, in a way so unlike himself, a vicious grin that matches Henry’s grows on Boris’ face. The man deserves to become himself again, both in body and mind.

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The sound of steps on metal alert them both to the arrival of the Double. Boris anxiously looks at him, but he grins at him, the expression not nearly as stretched as usual. It seems to calm the toon down. When he gives him the reel, he gives a conspiring shush, then turns to the throne and shoves the toon in the seat. Assuming his beastly form is easier than ever, the few soul shards resting in his ink fueling the monstrous body beyond the usual limit. This time the legs bulk up too, leaving him semi-quadrupedal and even larger than usual. The change makes him more confident, and he prowls around the throne, finally lying down in front of Boris like an overgrown panther. When the Double comes in and seems them, it freezes and starts shivering. He grins even wider. The second it takes a step forward, he lashes out and pins it under his massive hand. One wrong move by it would cause it to bleed out or get crushed underneath the inky appendage. He growls as he leans in, inhales the scent of the Double. His saliva drops on the floor, the metal hisses from the slightly acidic fluid. The smell of fear is a sharp and welcome contrast to the ever present ink. He shifts his hand slightly to reveal the chest of the Double, and raises is other hand, then promptly plunges it down. The squelch of his claws sinking into the flesh is hypnotizing. Slowly he pulls the fingers apart, revealing the inky insides of the Double, a glowing and pulsing orb invisible to human eyes smack dab in the middle. He leans in some more, looks at the orb, his soul. It glows a soft blue, the ever present sepia not even attempting to mix in. Oh so gently he lifts it out, cradles it gingerly, as if it might break apart any second. He holds it close to his chest, releases the Double. A second of agonizingly hot pain laces through him. And then he can feel.

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Henry cries. It’s an ugly thing, but he still enjoys every second. He feels again. He still is an inky beast, but he can feel. He finally is himself again. He shivers and wills his ink back to his normal form, but instead of the lanky, misshapen form of the Ink Demon he looks down on his human hands. He howls again, tears of joy roll down his face. He... he really is Henry again. He slowly turns to Boris, pulls his friend into a hug, one that mirrors the one the toon gave him back when he was still the Demon. Boris slowly pats his shoulders, smiling widely. Henry is himself again, he even looks the part! After a while, Henry extracts himself from the hug and takes the reel.

“Let’s end this loop, once and for all. This time there is no Demon to destroy. The End won’t force me back to the ink.” Boris nods takes one end of the reel. They look at each other, and put the reel in. Henry grabs Boris’ hand. And then...

E v e r y t h i n g

G o e s

W h i t e

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Henry awakes to the familiar whistled tune. He growls at the sound, presses his eyelids tighter together. Then he notices the additional weight with him on the bed. He slowly cracks open one eye, and a wide grin overtakes his face when he sees Boris lying on the rickety old bed with him. The wolf grumbles when Henry moves, unwilling to wake up. They managed it. They got out of the studio. And probably broke the loop too, never before had anyone bedside him left the inky abyss of the studio. Gently prodding the wolf causes the toon to slowly open his eyes. After a minute of comically looking around, Henry is crushed in a bear hug and has a sobbing canine on his lap. Slowly, he pats his companions back, then gets off the bed. Boris follows, now smiling.

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The apartment is as ratty as usual, the half eaten omelette still lies on the table. Boris takes one look at it, and promptly swallows it whole. All Henry does in response to it is a headshake, a miniscule smirk playing on his lips. When Boris takes a closer look at all the letters and knickknacks on the corkboard, Henry turns to the storyboards. Had Joey known what the ink had done to him? If he did, had he planned it intentionally? That thought makes Henry growl quietly, a tremor runs troughs his limbs. His teeth ache. The trembling doesn’t lessen. The edges of his vision turn black. Boris looks at him in concern, the low hissing sound that comes out between Henry’s teeth reminds him of the studio. And then he sees it. The ink dripping from the man’s hairline. The slowly widening smile, a mad slash on the pale face. The way the shadows on the walls flicker and dance. You can take the man ( Demon, Boris’ mind whispers ) out of the studio, but you can’t take the studio out of the man.

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Joey flinches violently when he hears the hissing and sees the shadows flicker and dance. The plate he still holds slips out between his fingers and shatters on the floor. When he whirls around at the sound of splintering wood, he comes face to face with Henry looming over him, face a crude mockery of a human one. The smile was way too wide, looked more like the one the Demon he inadvertently created wears. The ink dripping from his old friends hairline adds to the similarities. And then he sees the way Henry’s skin slowly is overtaken by ink, how lanky he looks, how unnatural the angles of his body are. No sound escapes Joey Drew’s throat, but the old man’s heart hammers louder and louder, top fast for his body to handle. The last thing the old man sees when he slumps to the ground and feels the shards of the plate dig into his skin is a pale hand coated in ink shooting out and snatching something out of his chest.

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He swallows the old soul and gags at the taste of bacon soup coating it. He slumps down next to to the lifeless body of Joey, stares at the ink receding into his skin. He isn’t human anymore. He is whole, but he isn’t human. This episode proves it. And yet... he can’t feel sorry for Joey, t he man deserved it. A gloved hand invades Henry’s field of vision. Boris. He slowly grasps the hand and gets up, a small smile on his lips at the prospect of being free from the countless loops. When they reach the front door and it opens to the outside world, not the studio, Henry looks at Boris.

“Come on, Buddy. Let’s get outta here.”

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #BATIM #Henry Stein #boris the wolf #tom boris #Bendy #the ink demon #TW: Gore #TW:Murder #tw: violence #tw: cannibalism #tw. death #tw: mental health

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oscopelabs · 5 years ago

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Telling Lies In America 1985-1995: The Joe Eszterhas Era by Jessica Kiang

“Written by Joe Eszterhas” is a phrase that has not had much of a workout on US cinema screens in over twenty years—and it’s arguable whether the 1997, 19-screen nationwide release of certifiable shitshow Burn Hollywood Burn: An Alan Smithee Film exactly qualifies as “a workout.” But for those of us who had the parental training wheels come off our theatrical filmgoing in the late ‘80s or early ‘90s, there were few individuals more central to our cinematic coming-of-age. And with perhaps the sole exception of Shane Black, a different animal in any case, none of the others—the Spielbergs, Camerons, Tarantinos—were exclusively screenwriters. For over a decade, the Hungarian-born, Hollywood-minted superstar writer of Basic Instinct bestrode the adult-oriented commercial screenwriting mainstream like a smirking colossus in a tight dress wearing no underwear. And given that Hollywood is primarily how the USA, the most loudly, proudly self-created of nations, expresses itself to itself and to the rest of the world, by the man’s own bombastic standards it’s only a slight exaggeration to suggest that America, between the years of 1985 and 1995, was written by Joe Eszterhas.

But for all the dominance he exerted, the rules he rewrote and the sheer money he made, examining Eszterhas’ heyday today feels like an act of paleontology, even for those of us who lived through it. 1992 is not so very distant; in a variety of ways it is still with us. It was the year Quentin Tarantino, whose latest film is in theaters right now, broke out with his first, Reservoir Dogs. It was the year the current loathsome, racist, tinpot President of the United States made a cameo appearance in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, back when he was merely a loathsome, racist, tinpot property tycoon. It was the year that the number one box office spot was taken by Disney’s animated Aladdin, which felt close enough in time that the live-action remake which—and I’ve checked my notes on this, apparently was a thing that happened to us in 2019—felt entirely too soon.

But it was also the year of Paul Verhoeven’s Basic Instinct, the sine qua non of Eszterhas-penned films. And if Sharon Stone’s lascivious leg-cross (Verhoeven’s invention, incidentally, not Eszterhas’) provided posterity with the most iconic upskirt of a blonde in a white dress since Marilyn Monroe’s encounter with a subway grate, that is largely all that remains to us of it today. Well, that and the instantly forgotten sequel (sans Eszterhasian involvement) that already seemed wildly anachronistic in 2006. The original film, its writer, the erotic thriller genre it exemplified, the dunderheaded sexual politics it upheld while attempting to subvert, the whole idea of a mainstream screenwriter having a brand at all (even one as loosely defined as “writer of films you don’t tell your parents you snuck into”), all seem like ancient relics. These are the artifacts not only of a bygone age but of an extinct genus, a whole evolutionary branch that was nipped in the bud so comprehensively that even now scientists might argue over how closely the skeletons of certain bird species resemble the bones of Basic Instinct.

This containment, however, is what makes looking back at the Eszterhas era so fascinating. His brief Hollywood hegemony is a microcosmic event in cinematic history, one with a beginning, middle, and an end (barring some late-breaking epilogue, or a post fade-to-black pan down to an ice pick under the bed). And it didn’t start with his first produced screenplay, for the leaden Sylvester Stallone truckers-union drama F.I.S.T. (Norman Jewison, 1978), although the glimmer of future feats of financial alchemy was already present in the reported $400,000 he received for the novelization. Dawn really broke for Eszterhas, as it did for three of the only other people who could legitimately be termed his peers as purveyors of massively popular, high-concept, low-brow ‘80s sensationalism (producers Don Simpson and Jerry Bruckheimer, director Adrian Lyne), with 1983’s Flashdance.

It was an improbable success, less a film than an aerobics video occasionally interrupted by some awkward sassy banter and Jennifer Beals’ popping-flashbulb smile. Its vanishingly thin story, which Eszterhas co-wrote, is of an 18-year-old welder in a steel mill, who moonlights as an exotic dancer while aspiring to become a ballerina—a logline that sounds like a hoot of derision even as an unadorned description—and is full of Eszterhasian hallmarks. There’s the high degree of preposterousness. There’s the gym scene, during which the ladies of the cast grimace and lift weights in full makeup, and while here the frictionless unreality of Lyne’s TV-commerical aesthetic makes the sequence abstract, the peculiar faith in the erotic potential of a workout would recur in the squash sequence in Jagged Edge (Richard Marqund, 1985) and the ludicrous gym date in Sliver (Phillip Noyce, 1993).

And Flashdance also prefigures almost the entire Eszterhas oeuvre in being a story that centers on a woman’s experience and that laudably—if here laughably—positions her career ambitions as at least equal to her romantic aspirations in the mechanism of the plot. But, as elsewhere, it’s a view of women constructed by a proudly unreconstructed man, directed and photographed by men. (Eszterhas’ hard-drinking, womanizing, hellraising, Hunter S. Thompson-of-the-movies persona is enjoyably self-mythologized in his memoir Hollywood Animal.) If anything, what comes across most strongly in Eszterhas’ conception of a “strong woman” is his bafflement when tasked with imagining what such a woman might have going on inside her brain. His filmography may be full of female-fronted titles, and may contain the most famous mons venus in film history, but most of Eszterhas’ work could not be more male gaze-y f it were written from the point of view of an actual phallus, like the closing chapter of his 2000 book American Rhapsody, which is narrated by Bill Clinton's penis, Willard (I am not making this up).

This powerfully eroticized dissociation, this sexualized incomprehension of women as people with interior lives, is the animating idea behind the most Eszterhasian of Eszterhas scripts. But it’s a blank space in which directors, and especially actresses, could sometimes find room to create for themselves. Sharon Stone is genuinely, in-on-the-joke fantastic in Basic Instinct—who else could have delivered “What are you going to do, charge me with smoking?” as if it were an unreturnable Wildean riposte? Costa-Gavras’ Music Box (1989) is by some distance the sturdiest and least dated of Eszterhas movies, a lot due to its comparative sexlessness, but also because of a great, warm, real performance from an Oscar-nominated Jessica Lange. Debra Winger just about wins out in her more thankless role in Costa-Gavras’ first Eszterhas collaboration, Betrayed (1988). And Glenn Close imbues the heroine of the superior thriller Jagged Edge with such shrewdness that it’s almost a liability to the believability of the central deception.

But live by the sword, die by the sword, and when the director/actress combo fails to operate in similar sympathy we get Stone horribly miscast as a… sexy wallflower?… in Sliver, or Linda Fiorentino visibly flailing as a… downtrodden femme fatale?… in Jade, or poor Elizabeth Berkley thrashing wildly about in the neon-lit swimming pool of kitsch that is Showgirls. In these failures, the writer’s almost panicky vision of women as vast, dangerous cognitive black holes is best revealed. But then, mistrust of the opposite sex is only one aspect of the wider mystery that underpins even Eszterhas’ outlier titles: his entire output is preoccupied with how little any of us can ever know anyone.

In Eszterhas’ semi-autobiographical Telling Lies In America (Guy Ferland, 1997), a teenage Hungarian immigrant (Brad Renfro) is dazzled by Kevin Bacon's smooth-talking DJ, but blindly unable to work out if he is friend or fiend. Music Box details a lawyer’s dawning disillusionment over her adored father's murderous past—eerily mirroring Eszterhas’ discovery of his own father’s collaboration with the Hungarian Nazi regime. Betrayed has Winger’s FBI agent falling for Tom Berenger’s farmer only to discover he is, in fact, the neo-Nazi she insisted to her bosses he was not, in similar vein to Jagged Edge, in which Close’s lawyer discovers that the lover she successfully defended actually dunnit after all.

Oftentimes, the credulity-stretching ambivalence of these characters is all that powers the suspense, as in the is-she-gonna-kill-him-or-is-she-just-orgasming moments in Basic Instinct. In the misbegotten Nowhere to Run (Robert Harmon, 1993) Jean-Claude Van Damme plays a ruthless ex-con turned valiant protector, his blockish inertia apparently meant to signal that inner ambiguity. More often, it leads to final-act fake-out twists so unmoored to anything like recognizable motivation that they become weirdly weightless, as in Sliver when Stone’s Carly does not know if she’s killed the right man until the final four seconds of the film, and where, had the coin-flip gone the other way, it would still be equally (un)believable.

If it’s part of the egotistical remit of the writer to believe they have an insight into human psychology, it’s remarkable how much of Eszterhas’ oeuvre pivots around how fundamentally unknowable people are to one another. And while that schtick, by which you can’t tell if someone cares for you or is simply a talented sociopathic mimic, resonated briefly at the exact moment when the grasping, solipsistic ‘80s were segueing into the untrustworthy, PR-managed ‘90s, it proved not to have much long-game sustain. Critics had always been sniffy about Eszterhas, who clearly mopped up his tears with massive wads of 100 dollar bills. But when audiences started staying away, like in the Showgirls and Jade-blighted annus horribilis of 1995, the inflationary bubble that allowed Eszterhas to command millions for two-page outlines scribbled, one suspects, on the back of strip club napkins, abruptly burst. The idea of screenwriter-as-auteur, or rather as reliable bellwether of commercial success, proved a fallacy, an expensive experiment that began and ended with Joe Eszterhas, its earliest progenitor, luckiest beneficiary, and biggest casualty.

Glossy, vacuous, adult-themed thrillers were not the only thing going on in Hollywood, and Eszterhas was not the only big-name screenwriter. Shane Black, writer of Lethal Weapon, also commanded astronomical sums for his early ‘90s scripts, but the key difference is that Black wrote in the register of the franchise-able action-spectacular blockbuster that would eventually trounce all others as the Hollywood model for the future. Black has gone on to become part of the Marvel machine as a writer and director, while aside from one Hungarian-language period film, Children of Glory (Krisztina Goda, 2006), Eszterhas’ contribution to the pop cultural landscape post-2000 has been in the form of self-aggrandizing memoirs, or highly public fallings-out with celebrities, like Mel Gibson, of a similarly corked vintage.

The tastemaker point of view has historically been to consider Eszterhas among the worst things that ever happened to Hollywood—so much so that disdain-dripping sarcasm seems to be the fallback for critics summarizing his impact. But while no one is going to make the case for the man’s filmography as some sort of artistic landmark, the Eszterhas era did represent one of the last gasps of a Hollywood that believed, however misguidedly, in personality over product, when the idiosyncrasies, idiocies and ideologies of a single person—a writer at that—could, with studio backing and a 1,500 theater release strategy, influence the cinematic development of an entire generation. That might not have seemed like a good thing but retrospect, like cocaine, is a helluva drug and in 2019, with blandly anonymous, market-tested content churned out by mega-corporations bi-weekly to siphon your hard-earneds away, the kind of salacious tackiness Eszterhas represented feels oddly adorable, even quaint. Now that singular talents—even the obnoxious and objectionable ones—who could make decent returns on mid-budget, adult-oriented mainstream fare, have been steamrollered by infantilizing, monolithic billion-dollar mega-franchises, it’s hard not to be a little nostalgic for the vanished hiccup of time when Hollywood briefly uncrossed its legs for Joe Eszterhas, and Joe Eszterhas told us all what he saw.

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picwew · 4 years ago

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Ok, so, first post on the blog features my demon siblings who are based on the Eeveelutions (+ Eevee), so the nifty thing about them is that despite being siblings, they all have different elemental alignments.

Picrew used is here!

From top to bottom, we have:

Norman: Norman is the eldest brother, but honestly, he looks like the youngest. (His one solace is that Sweets, the actual youngest, still usually gets clocked as younger than him.) Being the representation of Eevee, he has no elemental alignment, and is actually pretty terrible at magic in general. He can make use of unaligned spells, such as transportation magics, but aside from that, he’s a real klutz. Fortunately, this doesn’t bother him; he prefers politics to magic anyway.

Trix: Trix is the second eldest, and his elemental alignment is electricity. As you can imagine, he’s the family’s wild child. Due to his fascination with music, rock n’ roll in particular, he brute forced his way to learning technomancy. He spends most of his time in the mortal realm, since demons aren’t exactly as technologically advanced as he’d prefer, but always makes time for his siblings.

Levi: Levi’s alignment is water, but it comes with a peculiar price. He was born with physical manifestations of his alignment, unlike any of his siblings, so in order to walk on land, he has to wear a bubble of water around his head, or else he won’t be able to breathe. This means that he was a bit more isolated than his siblings as a child, before he’d mastered his magic, and this has made him quite reclusive as an adult.

Blitz: Blitz’s element is fire, and he has the temper to match. He’s not a bad fellow, once you get to know him, but he tends to guard his heart. One too many nasty break-ups have left him jaded. However, he has a gentle soul underneath the scowl; he’s a romantic, a lover of the arts, and a clever conversationalist. Among his siblings, he’s considered one of the most beautiful--hence his struggles with love.

Umbra: Umbra is the embodiment of darkness. They are strongest during Walpurgisnacht and Halloween, as these are dates significant to demonkind, as well as on the solstices. Although their native magic is purely demonic, their strong connection to dark spirits has allowed them to branch out into many forms of witchcraft, shadowmancy, and even the necromantic arts. They are quiet, keeping largely to themselves, but not unfriendly if approached.

Myst: Myst, on the other hand, is extremely unfriendly, and he would like for you to leave. He will let you know this by projecting his desires into your mind via horrifically powerful psychic abilities. You will have a headache for days, and he will not feel sorry for you. This one is, er, best left to his own devices, as he prefers the company of books to that of other demons.

Florin: Finally, another friendly face; this family has a few too many introverts. Florin’s element is nature--flora, fauna, even the weather, if they concentrate. They have a deep and abiding love for all life, and have taken a vow of pacifism. That’s a good thing for us, because they may just be the strongest of their siblings. You’ll find them to be lively, impulsive company, charmingly mischievous and delightfully playful. If you enjoy long walks through the woods, they’re the friend for you.

Yule: Yule is almost as friendly as his twin, but much like winter, his is a quiet comfort. He speaks softly, barely above a whisper, and only ever if he has something kind to say. There is a sort of bashfulness to him, easily flustered as he is, but he’s always eager to meet his sibling’s new friends. Due to his alignment being ice, he struggles to keep warm, and laments that he is so cold to the touch.

Sweets: The youngest of the siblings, Sweets’ alignment is almost unprecedented among their kin. Rarely has a demon been born with such a strong connection to the faefolk and their unusual magics, for the two peoples have long despised one another. How Sweets came to possess such a connection, none can say--but it has granted them access to a vast variety of magics, from shape-shifting, to illusory magic, to healing. This diversity would normally make them top dog ‘round the homestead, but their frivolous disposition ensures that they never put their abilities to any good use.

#picrew #male ocs #agender ocs #genderfluid ocs

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heimwee2456 · 6 years ago

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I’ve surpassed many obstacles to be able to publish this article since I had to visit all the supermarkets available in the Netherlands to collect all the goodies (you know I never leave things unfinished) worth of mentioning!

This post is going to be concerned about wide range of treats (from sweet to savoury) that can all be called “stereotypically Dutch” and that you just can’t miss when you’re visiting the country since they’re all perfectly representing the Dutch culture. Well, at least most of them, but knowing these terms you’ll be able to understand their culture and way of living a little bit more than before. So let’s begin!

I’ll be ordering items by particular supermarkets.

LIDL

1 – Vla is a Dutch dairy product made from fresh milk. The word ‘vla’ was first documented in the 13th century and originally referred to any custard-like substance covering cakes or other baked goods. Nowadays it has a very thin and pudding-like substance and comes in numerous different flavours.

2 – Pap is a traditional porridge/polenta made from mielie-meal (coarsely ground maize). It comes in various flavours as well and it may taste a little savoury at first, but I’m sure you’ll like it in the end!

3 – Appeltaart is the most typical Dutch cake. It differentiates from the common American apple pie a little bit, since the basis of Dutch apple pie is a crust on the bottom and around the edges. This crust is then filled with pieces or slices of apple, usually a crisp and mildly tart variety such as Goudreinet or Elstar. Cinnamon and sugar are generally mixed in with the apple filling. You’ll most likely find the pre-prepared mixture in every shop around the country.

4 – Pannenkoeken (pancakes) are also quite popular. Pannenkoeken are usually larger (up to a foot in diameter) and much thinner than their American or Scotch pancake counterparts, but not as thin as crêpes. They may incorporate slices of bacon, apples, cheese, or raisins. Plain ones are often eaten with treacle (syrup made of sugar beets), appelstroop (an unspiced Dutch variety of apple butter) or (powdered) sugar and are sometimes rolled up to be eaten by hand or with cutlery. You’ll find pancake mixes and syrups of various kinds everywhere as well.

5 – Dutch markets are full of pre-prepared cake mixtures of all kinds. This is only one example.

6,7 – Fishes! Herrings (haring) and mackerels (makreel) are pretty common in here, they come in various sorts and flavours.

8 – Pindakaas is a food paste or spread made from ground dry-roasted peanuts, therefore it’s basically a classic peanut butter. In the Netherlands peanut butter is called pindakaas (literally “peanut cheese”) rather than pindaboter (“peanut butter”) because the word butter was a legally protected term for products that contain actual butter, prompting Calvé, the company which first marketed it in the country in 1948, to use kaas instead.

9 – Veggie snacks – I know this is not typically Dutch, but since I haven’t seen such variety of vegetarian and vegan products anywhere around Europe I’ve been to yet, I decided to classify it here.

10 – Pepermunt ballen are as common in the Netherlands as chewing gums in other countries. You’ll find these tiny gum-like candies in all sizes and shapes everywhere.

11 – Another type of herrings.

12 – Hagelslag is Dutch people’s answer to sprinkles. But don’t be fooled – these are a different kind of sprinkles than you are used to. In North America sprinkles are primarily reserved for ice-cream and cakes and normally for the likes of children, but here in the Netherlands, it is apparently perfectly normal behaviour for an adult to merrily sprinkle some fruit or chocolate flavoured sprinkles on their bread at mealtime, particularly breakfast. Now, hagelslag comes in many varieties; you can have chocolate hagelslag, fruit flavoured hagelslag or most perplexing of all – anise seed (licorice seed) hagelslag.

13 – Speculaas or speculoos is a type of spiced shortcrust biscuit, traditionally baked for consumption on or just before St Nicholas’ day in the Netherlands, Just like other countries have Nutella, the Dutch have speculoos. It tastes unbelievably good!

14,15 – The Dutch truly love their licorice or drop as it is known in the Netherlands. You can find it in nearly everywhere. There is a flavour or type of drop for every taste from sweet to salty, hard to soft. Drop comes in many shapes and sizes from small Groente Erwten (green peas) to large Muntdrop chewy coins.

16 – Oh, I almost forgot to mention, that the Dutch prefer baking their own pastry at home, therefore sometimes you maybe won’t able to find anything in the supermarkets except these pre-baked packages!

17 – Peanut butter is a main ingredient in literally everything – even most of the sweets taste like it! Here you can see a brief example, the pindarotsjes.

JUMBO

1 – I’ve already mentioned one pre-baked cake mixture before, now you can see how many of them are to be found in this supermarket.

2 – Another types of drop.

3 – Amstel is among Heineken the leading beer brand in the Netherlands. You’ll find numerous types of beer everywhere, all sorts and flavours.

4 – Boerencake refers to a type of cake traditionally made with a pound of each of four ingredients: flour, butter, eggs, and sugar. Such pound cakes are generally baked in either a loaf pan or a Bundt mold, and served either dusted with powdered sugar, lightly glazed, or sometimes with a coat of icing.

5 – Speculoos hagelslag, my most favourite snack ever!

6 – Pindakaas again.

7 – Chocomel is a Dutch brand of chocolate-flavoured milk, produced by Campina in Amersfoort, the Netherlands. It’s so popular, that it’s even easier to get Chocomel than water. You’ll find it even on the McDonalds menu!

8 – (we’ll get to stroopwafels later). Now this cake really caught my eye since it’s a combination of a super easy pre-baked cake with my favourite type of sweets, the Dutch stroopwafels!

9 – Reuze mergpijp is a Swedish small cylindrical pastry covered with green marzipan with the ends dipped in chocolate, with an interior consisting of a mix of crushed biscuits, butter, and cocoa, flavoured with punsch liqueur. Though it’s more popular in the Netherlands I’d say.

10 – Galetten wafeltjes – Galette from the Norman word gale meaning flat cake is a term used in French cuisine to designate various types of flat round or freeform crusty cakes. And that’s exactly what these are, the tiny flat sweet wafels.

11 – Roze koek is a typical Dutch pastry. It consists of a small flat cake with a layer of pink fondant icing. The best-known brand is Glacé.

12 – A couple of another types of vla.

13 – Speculoos cookies!

14 – Gevulde koek is an almond cookie made of dough and butter with a sweet filling. Almond paste is the most common filler.

15 – Luikse wafels are a variety of waffle with a lighter batter, larger squares, and deeper pockets than ordinary American waffles. These waffles were originally leavened with yeast, but baking powder is now often used. They are often eaten as a breakfast food; toppings vary from whipped cream, hagelslag, confectioners sugar, soft fruit, and chocolate spread, to syrup and butter or margarine. They may also be served with vanilla ice cream and fresh fruit (such as strawberries) as a dessert.

16,17 – When it comes to dairy and yoghurts, I rarely find in markets anything but mousse and this Crème brûlée-like dessert. Both these products come in various flavours and toppings, I’d recommend you to try them as well.

HEMA

1 – Kruidnoten are small, round, cookie-like confectioneries with a crispy texture, traditionally associated with the early December Sinterklaas festivities in the Netherlands. The term kruidnoten is often confused with pepernoten although they’re nothing alike since pepernoten contain mostly mint and kruidnoten other kinds of spices.

2 – Musketflikken are flat mint chocolate circles covered in small sweet sprinkles.

3 – Kokos rochers are simple yet quick French pastries made with dried grated coconut.

4,5 – Stroopwafel is a waffle made from two thin layers of baked dough with a caramel syrup filling in the middle. Stroopwafels are the most popular treats in the Netherlands, and were first made in the city of Gouda.

6 – Mini speculoos cookies.

7 – Again a few other types of drop candies.

8 – Salmiakmix – this is a really peculiar type of drop, since these candies are made of salty liquorice.

9 – Kersenstokjes (cherry sticks) and kaneelkussentjes (cinnamon pillows) are also very popular between the Dutch.

10 – Just to show you in how many shapes the speculoos cookies occur.

11 – Stevige verwendrop – supposedly verwendrop differentiates from basic drop, however – I do not find any differences. Do you know any? This verwendrop can be found in three different flavours here in Hema: salty, sweet and bay leaf.

Fine, that is supposed to be it, I hope I really did mention everything worthy your attention!

If you’ve ever been to the Netherlands – what are your favourite market snacks, and if you’re considering a trip – what has caught your eye? Let me know!

Have a great day!

Treats You Can’t Miss in The Netherlands!

Treats You Can’t Miss in The Netherlands! I’ve surpassed many obstacles to be able to publish this article since I had to visit all the supermarkets available in the Netherlands to collect all the goodies (you know I never leave things unfinished) worth of mentioning!

#cuisine #Dutch #food #Holland #market #Netherlands #photo #photography #The Netherlands #travel #traveling

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