#i wrote one sentence

[toadstool32]

Sorry teach I couldn't finish my thesis I was busy nurturing my blog and putting cool jpegs on my website. Oh ummm u wanna see it. Uh. Sorry. It. Blew up. Yeah like right now. Yeah, sorry it's all gone now

[bird1e-painty]

oops accidentally procrastinated on my schoolwork again haha so sorry it will happen again

[lonesome-dreamsss]

his handprint may be burned into your skin but it's still the gentlest touch you've ever received.

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ seven word prompts for seven sentence fics 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ “really? i never knew that about you.”

²⁾ “come on, don’t pretend for my sake.”

³⁾ “looks like they left in a hurry.”

⁴⁾ “who’s calling you this late at night?”

⁵⁾ “seriously, were you dropped as a baby?!”

⁶⁾ “i could eat a horse.” “please don’t.”

⁷⁾ “ice cream? at three in the morning?”

⁸⁾ “get your ass here, right fucking now!”

⁹⁾ “i really did care about you, y’know.”

¹⁰⁾ “you’re not going home, you need stitches!”

¹¹⁾ “we need to get you warm, fast.”

¹²⁾ “how long have we been driving for?”

¹³⁾ “[name]- “ “don’t start. [boss]’s already deafened me.”¹⁾

¹⁴⁾ “what’s a single bed between three friends?”

¹⁵⁾ “why are you in just a towel?!”

¹⁶⁾ “i’m your bodyguard, not your damn friend.”

¹⁷⁾ “swallow your pride.” “i’d rather swallow concrete.”

¹⁸⁾ “you look really good in my money.”

¹⁹⁾ “i said i’d help. didn’t say how.”

²⁰⁾ “come, sit. i made you some dinner.”

²¹⁾ “hide! they’re coming your way, and fast!”

²²⁾ “i knew you had feelings for them.”

²³⁾ “you’re exhausted, pet. let me mind you.”

²⁴⁾ “[name]’s in the hospital. it’s not good.”

²⁵⁾ “but you promised it’d all be okay!”

²⁶⁾ “their cover’s been blown- get them out!”

²⁷⁾ “who’d buying you flowers that isn’t me?”

²⁸⁾ “i was stupid enough to believe you.”

²⁹⁾ “isn’t paying for dinner a date thing?”

³⁰⁾ “for you, i’d do anything.” “i know.”

[ghost-proofbaby]

15 with Eddie? :)

i woke up this morning, rolled over, and immediately wrote this all on my phone. wasn't even 8 am and i was already all mushy and horny for this man. enjoy whatever this is (morning sex. it's morning sex and being in love) <3

15. "I had a very nice dream that started like this."

warnings: smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), afab reader but no pronouns used, a lot of religious imagery idk why it just... worked?, not edited, 18+ so minors do not interact

pairings: eddie munson x afab!reader

wc: 2.9k+

join the smutty party! send me one of these smut dialogue prompts with a character

The sun hadn’t even rose yet. The sky simply lighter, a gentle omniscient light peaking through the curtains, holding little to no warmth yet when you first awoke. The room is shades of grey with hints of violet, soft pinks just on the horizon but not quite painting the scene. 

It’s nice — it’s serene.

You can feel him breathing behind you. Still there, still warm, still holding you with one strong arm around your waist as his nose brushes at the nape of your neck, his snore rustling your hair ever so carefully. It’s almost enough to soothe you back to sleep; counting his deep intakes of air, exhaling in time with him, sinking deeper into bed sheets that are stained with the smell of his cologne and shampoo. Almost.

But when you first awake, you have a different idea in mind.

It starts off innocent enough. Small movements as you press yourself further back into Eddie, minuscule wiggles to just be close to him. You’re still half asleep and yet, every atom in your body is desperate to melt into him. You need every inch of his skin pressed tightly into yours. Your vision still blurry, but the instinct to burrow more tightly into your boy impossible to miss.

“I know you’re awake,” he suddenly murmurs into your neck, voice muffled and rough with his rest.

You hadn’t even noticed the change in his breathing. More focused on the ache between your thighs that you had woken up with. 

“Sh,” you jokingly whisper, smiling as you force your eyes back closed. He can’t even see your face, but it feels right to put on an act, “You’re gonna ruin it, Munson.” 

“‘M not ruining anything, baby,” he nearly slurs. His arm tightens around you, encouraging all your squirming, pulling your hips back to be flush with his a little more urgently.

He’s hard against your lower back. His flimsy boxers do nothing to hide his excitement. It isn’t particularly surprising — most mornings he wakes up hard as it is — but it does cause a soft stirring within you. Encourages your hips to swivel once more, action a bit more pointed, just enough pressure to cause a low groan to slip almost inaudible from between his lips.

“Careful,” he warns, voice a bit louder now. His tone is still gravely, scratching an itch of the farthest reaches of your mind. Somewhere between a cat’s purr and the sound of tires on dirt roads when your favorite person is returning home. Comforting. Serene. 

You press into him further, shamelessly grinding now, eyes still shut, “What? ‘M not doing anything.”

He doesn’t need to see your voice to hear that sleepy grin.

It doesn’t happen quickly — there’s no rush as he slowly tugs at your body, encouraging you to rotate so that he’s no longer spooning you. Your back digs into the mattress holding the warmth of his body from the entire night, wrapping you up in a bliss that’s impossible to replicate. His smell, his warmth, his presence. You don’t think you’ll ever tire of mornings like this, especially not when you finally open your eyes to find him propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes and a half-smile that accentuates  his left dimple. 

He’s fucking beautiful. It takes your breath away.

“What’s got you so excited this morning, hm?” 

The light has grown ever so slightly brighter, just enough as though it whispers, look at him. The room is still grey, but your boy is a vision of colors. Dark russet eyes with streaks of gold that the sun couldn’t compare to, chestnut hair that sticks up in all the wrong places from his slumber, skin that washes out in the pale winter morning and only makes the contrast of the soft fuchsias and violets blooming along his neck from the evening before more apparent. He’s softer than any sunrise, more relaxing than any bath he’s ever drawn for you, more calming than hearing your favorite song strummed out on muted guitar strings. 

You love him. And that only really fuels your flames.

“I had a very nice dream,” you mumble, squinting up at him, bringing a hand up to his cheek. Your touch is delicate as you trace over his stubble, painting mindless patterns briefly before cupping the full side of his face and threading your fingertips into the edges of his hairline, “A very nice dream that started just like this.” 

He rolls his hips against your side, peering down at you as he does so, letting you guide him closer until his lips barely brush yours. 

You can hear birds chirping outside. There’s the rumble of a truck engine. The creak of a nearby front door opening and shutting.

The world is beginning to wake up, but you’re not quite yet ready to share the day with anyone but him. 

“You did, did you?” he’s awake enough now to tease you, body slowly inching its way over yours, arms on either side of your head to hold his weight. The plush comforter slips down, exposing his bare shoulders as his torso serves as your new blanket, “Tell me ‘bout it, baby.” 

Your legs fall open instinctively, making a home for him and only him. A space between your thighs perfectly carved out for the shape and weight of him as he slips into place, hips digging into yours, a homely and familiar position you’ve found yourself in a hundred times before. 

It never gets old. It never elicits any less of a reaction from you, always pulling the softest of gasps from your throat as he leans his head down to trail his lips down your exposed neck. 

The sound has him pulling you into him a bit more urgently, but his pace never quickens. He’s taking his time. You two have all the time.

A car alarm, distant as could be, sounds off. A voice of a neighbor echos across the trailer park. 

Maybe it’s an adoring husband wishing goodbye to his wife for the day. Or a mother, rushing her children for school. There’s a million and one scenarios, thousands of strangers beginning their dreary week, but you only care about the warm welcome of the day that he offers you. 

Anything but dreary, even in tired morning light.

“You were kissing my neck,” you say, careful to be as silent as can be, even if it were just the two of you in the room. The world doesn’t need to know you’re awake yet; it doesn’t deserve your attention like he does yet.

His teeth graze unintentionally against the soft spot below your ear, “Like this?”

“Just like that.”

For emphasis, you lift your hips, seeking out his with ease. You can feel him, pronounced as he presses against the thin fabric of your underwear. There’s too many layers between the two of you, too much cotton and linen in the shapes of his t-shirt you’d worn to bed and his damn boxers, but they’ll come off eventually. 

Eventually. There’s no rush.

Your head tilts back in a sigh, and he pauses all his kisses to ask, “What next?”

“Keep going,” you squirm, hips continuing to roll, flames of desire lighting in your gut, dancing as soft as the morning light, “Keep going, please.” 

The night before, he would have teased your desperation. 

But right now, with just you and him and the ghost of sleep, he’s not in the business of taunting. 

He listens, a hand coming down to your hip. Not holding it down to the mattress, but simply holding. He lets his thumb slip beneath the t-shirt, lets a rough callous built up from years of guitar and working on his van brush roughly over your skin with the most sensitive of intentions. 

Slowly. If the morning wasn’t so heavy still on the two of you, weighing down every movement, slowing every reaction and pacing every adoring kiss, this is the part where the two of you might have grown a bit impatient. More nipping, more bruising gripping, more complaints of going further, further, further. 

But today? In this moment? The two of you have time. 

A dream sequence of his wandering hands slipping that old faded tee up until it’s finally bunched at your chest, until he’s finally peeling himself away from your body and he’s lifting it over your head. Every move is brimming with a love you never thought possible. A love to swim in, a love to sink into. One with the capability to drown the two of you, but it only breathes a new life into both of your lungs. 

When his lips wrap around a nipple and your back arches, that love thrums a bit deeper, coiling up your insides and urging your fingers to tangle up into his curls. 

You need him closer.

“So beautiful,” he whispers against your skin as he mouths at it, “So, so fucking beautiful.” 

The back of your skull digs deeper into a pillow engrained with the shape of your head from years of rest, a soft laugh slipping in between your blissful breaths, “Don’t lie. I’m a mess right now.” 

You were. And so was he. In a barely awake, subtle and tired way. Messy hair, messy marks of sleep across cheeks, messy breaths not yet minty from a morning routine the two of you followed like a religion. 

His head lifts, eyes glowing in the limited light, “I like your mess. As a matter of fact, I love your mess.” 

His hand on your hip squeezes for emphasis. 

You look down, wordless as you drink him in. A vision between the pinks dancing through the curtains, a godly presence as the dawn breaks. He’s a salvation, a new beginning and a new ending. He’s everything fairytales had tried to convince you existed in your youth. Prettier than any angel, warmer than any sun. 

And he’s yours. In this moment, and in all the next ones.

“I think I can make an even bigger mess of you, though, if you’ll let me,” a devilish smile finally overtakes his features and both of those dimples you’ve become so unintentionally fond of make an appearance. 

He dips his head, lowers his voice, lets his lips explore. You nearly pray to the Heavens above as you feel his hand slip from its gentle cupping of your hip, moving to slip nimble fingers beneath the band of your panties — but you don’t. Not a single God would care about what’s happening right now.

Just two people, two souls, twisting up in their bed sheets. Finding each other, finding divinity, before the sun even has a chance to stretch its arms fully over the horizon.

When he sinks lower and his face disappears beneath the cloak of the comforter, you hold your breath. When his mouth finds your cunt over fabric, you release it with a moan.

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages, both hands pulling off your underwear, pressing a hard kiss one final time over the cotton before he slips them off, “Keep making those pretty noises for me.” 

Your thighs drape over his shoulders, heels digging into his back as he begins his morning worship. All lips and tongue and finding the right places as fast as possible. Not out of a rush, but out of practice. He knows your body like the back of his hand, and he proves it. 

He knows exactly how hard to suck on your clit once he’s captured it between his lips. He knows exactly where to trace his tongue, circling your hole in lazy circles, not quite teasing but not quite succumbing as he lets you buck your hips in reckless abandon. When to speed up, when to slow down, when to add a finger and when to let the gravel of his voice vibrate against your core — he knows you. Through every little whimper, through every soft chanting of his name, through every tug of his hair. 

And he knows you well enough to know when to stop his ministrations, pulling back only to crawl his way back up your body, his boxers slipping off somewhere in the process. 

You’re still all over his lips as he kisses you fervently, slick and sticky and a little tart as his tongue dives into your mouth.

And just as he knows you, you know him.

You’d lied, of course. You hadn’t really had a dream just like this. You can’t even remember how you’d awoken with such want, but all that mattered is you had. You’d woken up to an all-consuming need, even if your half-conscious state, and you’d woken up to him.

Your hand reaches down between the two of you, wrapping around him carefully. Your skin is still cooler than his, it’s always cooler than his in the dead of night, and he hisses at the content.

“I love you, you know?” you quietly confess to your lover, as though it might be a sin, as though it might be the greatest secret to ever be held on a patient tongue. 

His skin is nearly velvet under your touch, pliant in your palm as you stroke him. Each movement and twist of your wrist begins to unravel him, his head dropping to the juncture between your shoulder and your neck. Every pant of his breath brushes skin just as his snores had. 

Gold litters the shade of sunrise entering the room, but the only warm colors you care to entertain are the ones in his eyes as he finally looks at you and tugs your hand away.

“I love you more.” 

You could argue. You could fight him on it, start to rattle off your list of all the things you adore about him, prove that no one has ever loved another person in this lifetime the way that you’ve loved him. The freckle below his right eye, the chip in on of his canines from an accident in his youth, the scar on his left knuckles from the first time he’d tried to do a trick with a butterfly knife at nine years old. The jokes he interrupts your day so kindly with, breaking up the mundane with laughter that seemingly fuels you to carry on with your time until you’ve returned home to just him. The passion that flows inside of him until it pours out over everything sacred to him — his music, his interests, his friends, you. A passionate and devoted man, yours to have and yours to hold.

But you don’t argue the point. You just smile as he kisses you, deep and searching, as he lines himself up with your entrance.

He loves you more, you love him most. He’ll figure it out — eventually. 

The stretch of him is pleasurable, just like it always is. Filling you, warming you, making that closer you crave so ardently nearly tangible. Every roll of his hips has him reaching spots inside of you to elicit stars to cloud your vision. The morning light, the white hot pleasure — you don’t care what makes your vision blue. You only care that it does, all your mews and all his groans entangling up in the air. 

Your palms slide over the back of his shoulders, your fingers dig into soft skin that you’ll spend the rest of your days memorizing.

Eddie. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

No prayer has ever been repeated with such need or belief as his name from your lips. 

And he returns the favor. Gasping out your name, somehow finding himself just enough in his right mind to continue to whisper sweet nothings against your ear, timing them with his leisurely thrusts.

“So fucking tight and so fucking good to me,” he manages to gasp, digging his hips in a little harsher, “Could stay here forever. Kind of want to stay here forever.” 

You don’t know how he’s coherent; you can’t form a single response, eyes rolling, hands clinging to him tighter. 

“Look at me when you cum.” 

He knows you. He knows you very well. You hadn’t even noticed that coiling in your stomach or the fluttering of your walls when he calls you out, forehead pressing to yours as your eyes open to find his. 

It’s not world-shattering when the waves come — it doesn’t have to be. It’s something to wrap around your entire essence, something to soothe and something to coax you into oblivion. Something to get lost in as his movements stutter and his own eyes grow heavy.

He doesn’t close his eyes, and neither do you. Lost in that pleasure, and lost in each other. 

You’re still rhythmically clenching around him when he comes, filling you up with warmth, burying deep in you and holding there as his mouth falls open and you're quick to pepper his outstretched neck with kisses. The smallest reminders of all the love you have for him. The gentlest of devotions, sprinkled across the skin of a man who will always know an affection like no other. Not everyone in the world will be so lucky as to know the fondness you offer him, and as far as you’re concerned, that’s how it should be. 

Curses spill as his movements slow, before finally stilling. He drops his weight onto you, exhaustion finding its way back into his bones. 

There’s things to do, a day to begin. Work and people waiting on you two, responsibilities to worry about and daily mundane accomplishments to achieve. But for now, it’s just the two of you. Awake with the rest of the world, but completely separate as you cradle him and he holds you. 

“That was one Hell of a way to wake up, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your skin, and you only throw your head back in a laugh.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog @vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria @loveryanax @stylexrepp @princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

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[kit-screams-into-the-future]

POV: you roll up to your boyfriend's house to take that sweet new truck of his up to the lake on a trip you've been planning for a while but then his old scientist friend shows up out of nowhere in a delorean and the strangest fit ever and tells you two to get in and then the thing starts flying(??) and travels 30 years into the future(???) where supposedly your boyfriend and you are married now(??) and then you black out and wake up in your house but it's definitely not YOUR house and you can't leave because there's no HANDLES on the FREAKING DOORS and then you get greeted by your future son(???) (who looks exactly like your boyfriend by the way) (and so does your daughter?) (where the fuck did your genes go??? are his just that strong?? did we clone him???) (also you have a daughter by the way) and learn that your boyfriend (husband?) gets into this terrible accident that causes him to give up his lifelong passion and then you witness him commit fraud and get fired via two dozen fax machines and then when you finally get to escape you immediately run into yourself 30 years older(??????) and it's so shocking that you black out AGAIN and when your boyfriend wakes you up he's dressed like a cowboy for some reason(??) and then you almost get into that accident you learned about earlier but it's fine because your boyfriend received some character growth along with that odd cowboy fit of his apparently and he takes you to the train tracks to show you the wreckage of the flying delorean you got into earlier (and yes, it WAS a time machine and all of that was DEFINITELY REAL and NOT A DREAM) and now the weird cowboy fit makes a lot more sense, and then all of a sudden there's a flying train now too(??) and your boyfriend's old scientist friend pops out with an entire new family(???) and when you ask him about the fax you nicked from the future because like, he's the one who made the damn machine surely he has answers, he ends up telling you a really inspirational piece of advice, actually, and then his flying time machine train takes off in the blink of an eye and THEN suddenly your boyfriend has the worst adrenaline crash anyone has ever experienced ever and now you're standing in an empty railroad among the wreckage of a car-turned-time-machine with your boyfriend in your arms and absolutely no clue what decisions you made in your life could have possibly led up to this. your name is jennifer parker and you have just experienced the weirdest, most absurd hour of consciousness in your entire life.

loosely inspired by this fic i read! please check it out :] and while you're at it check out the rest of this author's fics :] im a big fan of the one where marty is a ghost

[evilkaeya]

I think about this every single day

[lizardmonet]

too many christians these days talk a lot about Christ’s death but only acknowledge His resurrection like it’s an afterthought. as if that’s some how less important than the fact that He died? yes He died to forgive our sins but it would be meaningless without the resurrection. He came back from the dead and inaugurated the Kingdom of God here on earth. He kicked off the new redeemed humanity. He defeated death.

quit leaving Jesus on the cross.

[enjoythesilentworld]

Wilmon + He just wants to be good.

oh hello :) did somebody say praise kink?

He just wants to be good.

He wants to hear those delicious words fall from Simon’s perfect, red-bitten lips — So good and My Wille and Look how pretty you are — the ones that make Wille’s knees buckle, make his nerves flare with fire, make him see nothing but blinding white light as he’s coaxed— shoved over the edge.

Like maybe, just now, if he can open his mouth a little wider, tilt his head a little further, he’ll be rewarded with another hit of that addicting praise, better than any heated glance across a room or hand around his throat. 

So he does, and his jaw aches, and it’s delicious, and he looks up at Simon through his eyelashes, pleading, and Simon knows. Head nodding slowly, hips snapping quickly, he says, “Perfect, doing such a good job for me.”

That alone could almost be enough for Wille, and he moans, tears streaming down his face and fingers pressing bruises into Simon’s thighs, because there’s nothing more in this world that he wants than to just be good.

[pastelaspirations]

I’ll never forget you babes 😭💔😔🥺

I finally come back to tumblr and t h i s is what I see. That's it, I'm done, I'm uninstalling tumblr. Bye everyone, it's Honey's fault-

[mortemain]

Costas Mandylor being adorable in Scent of Murder (2002)

[updownlately]

midnight comes (and i go looking for you)

ficlet masterlist

~~~

It’s the sound of your phone ringing, and ringing, and ringing, you sat slumped in your living room as the clock nears twelve, the lights turned off, and your tear stained cheeks your only company.

It’s you waiting patiently for her to pick up, a second passing, then nearly a minute.

And just when you think it’s about to go to voicemail, just when you’re about to lose hope, lose your sanity, do you hear the familiar click, Leah’s confused ‘hello’ on the other end easing your aching heart just with her voice.

Your words are strained, just barely spoken, you holding back the tears that are threatening to fall as you're miles away from her- the blonde someone you once were able to call yours, now nothing more than a memory you cherished dearly, yet had no right to long for anymore.

“I- I miss you…”

[writing-for-whoever-listens]

Random Prompts 10

"When the voices tell me to do something, nine times out of ten I'm gonna do it. I don't know why you think I won't."

"This is ridiculous." "I totally agree. What sort of gala has someone dressed like that?"

"Does this seem like too much for a raiding party or?" "That is an evening gown." "I know, I've never been invited to one of these before, so I'm asking for advice."

"Do you really need seventeen copies of the same dagger?" "Yes. I get a new one each time I kill someone."

"Why do I have to be the decoy?" "Because you're hot. All decoys are hot." "... Did you just call me attractive?" "Was I not supposed to?"

"I think we bit off more than we could chew with this one." "Oh, really? Did the voices tell you that too?"

"Spending a night behind bars before my execution was not how I planned my evening going." "Shame for your new plans of moping until you're dead, because that won't be happening."

"Did you have to destroy everything on the way out?" "I'm sending a message!" "What message? 'Hey we broke out, fuck you'?"

"Are you still mad at me?" "You are a thief and a crook and almost got me killed last night." "So... that's a maybe?"

"Next time, we'll plan better. That was kinda sketchy." "Next time?"

[sealrock]

01. steer

cw: graphics depictions of injury and death word court: 744 words

The droning blare of the car horn seeped into the darkness of his waking mind. Slowly, the boy registered intense, blooming pain throughout his body. His left eye, or what remained of it, was nothing more than an orifice for free-flowing blood, the sticky warmth caking onto his mangled, cold face.

His tongue was heavy, the taste of copper staining his teeth. A shard of glass, most likely from the windshield, flew directly at him during impact, his jerking frame landing sideways for the shard to strike him on the left side of his face, embedding itself within his young flesh. The boy could only cry out in pain the more he wiggled about, unable to free himself from this prison of metal and burning ceruleum.

It was freezing outside, the silent snowfall of the night drifting into the gaps of what was once the humble and somewhat rickety family car, a "fine piece of homemade Garlean steel," his father once quipped, meaning it was all he could afford on his meager salary. Where was he going… He couldn't remember. His nose picked up a scent of growing decay, and the boy realized he wasn't alone. In the dimly lit interior, thanks to the soft glow of blue flames from the engine, he could see silhouettes of his mother and father—their bodies frozen in place. His father, once a tall and proud man who loved to carry him atop his shoulders, lay wrapped around the steering wheel, his torso halfway through the windshield. The boy smelt the tinge of burning hair. His mother's crumpled body was stuck on the dashboard, her unbound russet locks stiff like she was.

Try as he might, the boy couldn't manage a single word that wasn't choked with pain. The right side door was busted, the lock jammed and he had not the strength to force it open. With great effort, he wriggled out of his seatbelt, not taking a moment to realize he was crawling on top of the bloodied corpse of his younger brother, the weight of his hand pressing into his pale face decorated with cuts and bruises. He looked as if he was sleeping, his dark hair tousled and spattered with blood.

His ears were ringing. His ears were bleeding. He couldn't breathe. His neck hurt. He was partially blind. He had no feeling in his legs. How long did he stay there unconscious? Why was he the only one to survive?

Falling out of the car door, the snow-covered ditch met his bruised hands first as he braced himself. Images flashed through his head then: panicked screams from his parents, the screech of the car tires as they braced for impact, the sight of the large oak tree in front of the headlights, and the explosion of glass and the sickening crunch of metal before he blacked out came rushing back to him.

On this desolate stretch of road, cloaked in darkness and blanketed in white, the boy could only stand there in shock, gripping onto his torn overcoat gifted to him by his mother as a lifeline. He caught a glimpse of his father's lacerated face, a snapshot of terror in his final moments. Eyes wide and unblinking, his jaw locked open in a perpetual scream, arms splayed atop the hood of the car. The boy couldn't look away. He wanted to. But he couldn't. Something compelled him to continue staring at the last remnants of his family, knowing that he'd never see them whole and hale again. No boy his age, just ten winters old, should witness this.

His ears picked up sounds from the main road, shuffling footsteps crunching the gravel above and the slam of car doors. Torches shone down on the wreckage, blinding his one good eye as he tried to gain his bearings. Shielding his face, he could only see outlines of bodies covered with insulated coats, the light obscuring their faces. One made his way down the ditch with little effort, and the boy could see he was a soldier. What would the military be doing out here?

Without warning, the man grabbed his arm and began leading him back to the others. Unable to form words, panicked shouts and whines fell from his mouth. He walked into the light, but it had no warmth. It wasn't gentle, it was harsh and judging. He came to fear the light since then, for all he experienced was pain.

[imavikingo]

[the-solar-system52]

INK DEMON AND BENDY THEORY

So Bendy's official Instagram account just posted something very interesting, and I want to theorise about it!

For awhile the social media account for Bendy have been doing these posts where Bendy takes a photo of a location from BATDR and steals an item from that location, and people have to guess what he took. I thought it was just an unimportant game to give the social media managers something to do, like Steelwool's 'Guess The Sketch', but now it's actually important.

The picture shows that Bendy built all his stolen items in the shape of his Ink Demon form, with an interesting caption. Some fans have took this post to mean that Ink Demon ordered small Bendy to make a statue of him, but I don't think that's true.

I'm a big fan of the "Bendy is the Ink Demon with the mind of a child, and they are NOT seperate people" theory, and I don't think this post disproves that.

So if you know my past TPOH and FNAF theories, then you know its time for another round of:

SOLAR NEEDLESSLY OVERANALYZING THE GRAMATICAL STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES TO MAKE A THEORY EVEN THOUGH MOST PEOPLE DON'T PAY THAT MUCH ATTENTION TO HOW THEY PHRASE THINGS

Lets dissect this single sentence like a frog!!

"His inner Ink Demon is always on his mind-"

If Joey Drew Studios had phrased this as "IN his mind", then I see how this would be more literal. Meaning that the Ink Demon is a separate entity to Bendy and is literally living IN his mind.

But they didn't, they said "ON his mind". This phrase is usually used more metaphorically. If I'm hungry, I can say that dinner is 'on my mind', but that doesn't mean my dinner is actuallly INSIDE my brain. All this means is that Bendy has been thinking about his memories of his Ink Demon form, and therefore made a statue of him when he looked like that. Possibly to try and communicate his complicated feelings through art, or maybe he collected those specific items almost subconsciously.

Second of all, if the Ink Demon really was ordering Bendy around from inside his mind to make that statue for him, then I don't think it looks right. In BATIM, there are multiple shrines made by followers of the Ink Demon like Sammy, that look more demonic. As you can see, Bendy's statue doesn't look anything like that. Not a candle or pentagram in site! I feel like if this was made by the request of the Ink Demon, it would look way more like the ones from BATIM. But it doesn't! Instead, I think it looks more like it was made by Bendy on his own accord, like a children's drawing.

"His inner Ink Demon-"

Again, Joey Drew Studios decided to take the less-literal more-metaphorical route of this phrasing. If they just said "THE ink demon" then it would imply the Ink Demon as his own separate entity. But saying "inner" when referring to a buried memory of someone's past is not uncommon to do for regular use as well. For example, if I draw cats a certain way then I can say it's my "inner warrior cats fan" coming out. That doesn't mean there's actually a warrior cats fan inside my brain ordering me around, it's symbolic.

"on his mind, searching for an exit."

This also doesn't disprove my theory. The Keepers technology is preventing him from turning into his Ink Demom form. This means he can't use his powers and is weaker and smaller. It's clear he at least vaguely remembers what the Keepers did to him because of how scared he is of the GENT building.

Since he is in an incredibly hostile environment, it's no surprise he'd be thinking of a time where he wasn't as vulnerable. And he would also be trying to find a way to be strong again, in his own child-like way. Which explains the statue.

Personally, I find this all way more interesting then "rrr ink demon scary rrr", but to each their own.

I have more evidence for my "Bendy is the Ink Demon with the mind of a child, and they are NOT seperate people" theory outside of this instagram description, but I've already written enough for this post. I may make another post about it but we'll see. Please comment if you have anything else to add ^^