#Inkwell the Monster

[mollish-art]

Just finished binge-listening to Rusty Quill's "Neon Inkwell: Of That Colossal Wreck" today! Absolutely loved the audio design of the Whistlers and wanted to make a creature design to go along with it!

[jangelorum]

An OC meme, seeing my old AU Link drawn to my current skill got me in the heart fr.

Instagram @jangelorum

[judathians-art]

Hey it's this guy again

[anistarrose]

I'd like to propose a dark horse candidate for the most interesting line in The Book of Bill. And it's this near-unreadable, seemingly one-off joke from the "Skin" page:

[ID: tiny text reading: "Help! This is not Bill Cipher. My name is Grebley Hemberdreck of Zimtrex 5. I'm one of thousands of beings Bill has devoured over trillions of years whose souls are now trapped inside him. You have to free me! It's horrible in here. He just keeps playing the song "Good Vibrations" by Marky Mark on an endless loop. Please, please, this is not a joke! The Zimtrexians were once a proud and mighty people, but now our spirits long for release from this..." End ID.]

Okay, so Bill devours souls who then live out a horrible existence inside him. That's just some typical and expected Bill behavior, right? Nothing to be shocked by? Maybe not, but one thing jumps out at me... and of all things, it's the way that Bill keeps playing that Beach Boys parody (correction provided by @fexalted: no, not in fact a Smiley Smile parody, but a real song!) on loop.

Because in The Book of Bill, there's a recurring motif of characters playing music for a very specific reason: to repel an unwanted presence inside their head. This is what Elias Inkwell, and later Ford, did with the "It's A Small World" parody — they tried to keep Bill out of their brains. Or, metaphorically... to drown out his voice.

[ID: a Journal 3 page with a cassette taped inside. It's titled: "The World Is Small Ever After for Always." Ford writes: "If it's war you want, it's war you'll get! If you want to torture me? I'll torture you back!" End ID.]

That doesn't necessarily mean that Bill finds the voices of devoured souls to be troubling, let alone downright haunting, does it? Well... not quite on its own. But there's a "color" code on the page about TV static that says a lot:

[ID: a code consisting of colorful squares, translated to letters that spell out: "he never sleeps he never dreams but somehow still he hears their screams." End ID] (screenshot courtesy of @fexiled)

The context of the page implies these "screams" come to Bill especially when he listens to TV static, and the broader context of the book implies that these are the screams of his destroyed home dimension, Euclydia. Therefore, not necessarily those of the souls he devoured, from Zimtrex 5 and possibly other dimensions.

Except... do those two things really have to be mutually exclusive?

The beings that Bill devoured were accumulated over "trillions" of years, plural, according to Grebley. In Weirdmageddon 1, Bill claims to have resided in the Nightmare Realm for precisely "one trillion" years. So the "devouring" habit probably extends back even further than his time in the Nightmare Realm...

Enter @acetyzias, pointing out a very conspicuous word — and one of the only uncensored words — from Bill's description of destroying his home dimension:

[ID: the word "mandibles". End ID.]

Oh, and how does Bill describe the "monster" that destroyed his home to Ford, when Ford asks about revenge?

[ID: Journal excerpt reading: "Sixer, it would eat you alive." End ID.]

For a long time, Bill's destruction of his home has been associated with fire, even when the story's told by Bill himself. But through the way the book characterizes Bill's guilt — and characterizes how the consequences of what he's done remain lurking deep inside him — I think The Book of Bill lays out the hints for another motif: devouring.

And, well, when it comes to how Bill destroys things... it wouldn't be without precedent.

[ID: screenshot of Bill in Weirdmageddon 3, taking a bite out of the Earth. End ID.]

[possamble]

farcille postcanon characterization warmup that got way out of hand. beware, here be spoilers, dragoncock, and bottoming as an extreme sport.

~~~

Marcille has always loved Falin’s voice. Soft, high, airy and girlish—it was always as gentle as the rest of her, even in the midst of pitched combat. When things went to hell in a handbasket, it was always Falin’s whispery incantations that kept Marcille grounded as blood and monster guts sailed through the air. 

And that hasn’t changed. No amount of dragon could really change that, Marcille thinks. Yes, she she has moments when her voice becomes rough and ragged and guttural, mostly when she’s swinging her mace or her fists, or gritting her teeth through a monster claw stuck into her side. But maybe that urge to growl was always there, and she’s just finally able to voice it now. Marcille finds that she’s loud at times she would have been silent before—grunting with exertion when she would have grimaced quietly, singing some nonsense melody over a mundane task when she would have hummed it under her breath—and that’s a good thing.

But otherwise, nothing has changed. Falin’s voice is as delicate as ever, chiming in a lilting giggle behind a dainty gesture of her hand. Rustling like pages of well-loved books as she casts her protective wards, or ponders over how to cook a new monster, or murmurs right into Marcille’s ear while she…

Well. While she’s got Marcille bent over her own desk with her nightgown pooled at her ankles. Marcille’s not sure if it’s rude or considerate that she didn’t get a chance to dress herself before she had a girthy cock shoved up her cunt first thing in the morning. 

“Marcille,” Falin whispers, unfairly shaky as if she’s the one getting fucked within an inch of her life. She’s mouthing at Marcille’s neck, draped over her and pressing as close as possible in every way, gripping Marcille’s hands tight and keening like she’s found heaven between her legs. “Marcille, Marcille…” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she gets to do that, that she gets to sound like that—with that sweet voice she’s always had, now making obscene little noises that are still whispery fine and almost ethereal coming from her mouth. These quiet, barely voiced sighs that puff against Marcille’s ear, the dulcet moans that thrum against her skin, and that demure little gasp when she thrusts a little harder and somehow finds even more space inside Marcille to bottom out in—

“Marcille…” she whimpers like she’s in pain, on the verge of tears, fingers tight between Marcille’s as they grip the edge of the rattling desk together. “You feel—so good, oh… You’re”—another moan buried just behind her ear—"so wet, so good…” 

It’s not like Marcille got the chance to be anything else right now, did she? Not when Falin fell upon her just as she was sorting through her documents, pressed against her back and already unfastening the clasps of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders. She was fully naked before she even got a playful good morning whispered into her ear—it’s a miracle she had the forethought to push her papers out of the way just before Falin had her wrapped around her finger in the most literal sense. 

Well. Fingers in the plural, really, since she always starts with two. Usually while pawing at Marcille’s tit with her other hand until her stupid knees give out and she ends up buckling over whatever surface is nearby—in this case, her desk, mercifully free of any uncapped inkwells at the moment. Now slathered with sweat that makes her tits slip and slide along the wooden varnish, of course, but otherwise non-disastrous. 

Hopefully her nightgown is catching most of the mess running down her thighs, or she’s going to have to make the most humiliating request to the castle staff about her carpets for the third time this month—

“Yes…!” Falin digs her heels in and fucks her even harder, taken with some kind of mindless momentum all of a sudden. “I love you,” she pants in that stupid—feathery, daisy-light tone that has no business being this sweet while she’s ravaging Marcille like this— “you’re perfect, you’re perfect—” 

Marcille’s going to die like this. This is how she’s going to go: Bleating like an animal with her cheek stuck to her desk with drool, eyes just permanently rolled back in her head, toes barely touching the floor as Falin keeps fucking her further onto the desk. She hasn’t said a single coherent word since her second orgasm however many minutes ago, just broken into an endless stream of guttural noises as her cunt slobbers and squelches around Falin’s cock almost as loudly as she’s wailing. 

“Marcille,” Falin keens, sounding like a bashful princess ravished to breathlessness—just something straight out of a high-minded erotica novel—all while hammering Marcille into the desk at a shallow, breakneck pace. “You feel—feel s–o good, you’re perfect, oh—oh, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—” 

For the love of—fuck. Marcille can distantly hear herself scream, can feel the desk digging into her as she flails, her grasp on sanity getting thinner and thinner with each word that tumbles out of Falin’s mouth and shoots straight through her nerves. She’s—good god, she’s not usually this talkative. It’s almost always Marcille begging and blabbering about how much she wants Falin’s cock, how good it feels, how she wants it harder and faster and more, screaming and crying Falin’s name over and over—

But now, in the absence of Marcille’s pathetic yapping—after she’s already fucked the words out of Marcille so thoroughly—Falin’s taken it upon herself to murmur a stream of honeyed nonsense into her ear, her frail and gentle voice breaking with desperation—and fuck, it’s not fair.

“Yes, yes, oh—” Falin sobs into her neck. “I love it—I love it when you sound like this, I love you—you’re so good, so good for me, my Marcille—” 

No, no, no, she can’t do that, she can’t do that—she can’t say that, in that voice, while her cock is so deep in Marcille there’s hardly room for anything else, battering all her nerve endings and rearranging her so that there’s nothing left but her, Falin, Falin—

“Ah!” Falin cries out, like she’s the one getting reamed against her stupid fucking desk so hard she can barely breathe— “Yes, please, please—please say my name again!” 

Well. She can beg all she fucking wants, but it’s not going to be pretty and she has no one to blame but herself—it’s her fault Marcille can hardly speak, it’s her fault her name is only coming in rough wails with both syllables separated with heaving, crying breaths. Marcille gives it her all, scrapes whatever intelligence she has left to speak, and sounds like a dying animal in a way that can’t possibly be anything but hideous to listen to—

And still, Falin sobs, as if in utter ecstasy as she fucks Marcille so hard the desk starts scraping along the floor in harsh jumps. 

“Yes, yes—ah—” Her voice, not so whispery gentle now but still so melodious and clear, sounding out from deep in her chest— “I—love—you—” she weeps, punctuated by the hard slams of the desk against the floor as she drops the rapid pace in favor of mercilessly hard thrusts— “Beautiful—perfect—mine!” 

Then she finally, finally comes—not that it stops her, not with how she thrusts with every spurt. Like she’s not just satisfied with letting it spill out, like she needs to fuck it into Marcille with all her strength, once, twice, then one last time, stuffing her cunt absolutely full with searing heat—

And Marcille doesn’t even realize she’s coming until she’s unceremoniously ejected out the other side of the high, that telltale swoop of vertigo rushing through her veins. The orgasm doesn't even have the grace to let her go limp with afterglow, of course, and she’s left there convulsing and twitching like a drowning fish. With her jaw pressed to the desk, she can actually hear her teeth chatter from how hard she’s shaking, Falin’s warm weight on her be damned. 

(One day. One day, she’ll stop embarrassing herself like this—one day she’ll finish like a normal person during sex, instead of going off like a cheap firework every half hour and wringing an orgasm out of herself as soon as she feels Falin finish inside her, whether or not she even had one left in her to begin with.) 

“M-Marcille,” Falin stammers, her voice breathless but now shy and girlish again as she slowly untangles their hands. “Are you—are you okay?” 

The gall. To ask her that, when she’s nothing but a sweaty carcass slung over her desk, still twitching erratically. To be so gentle as she straightens up and kisses the back of her neck, tenderly brushing her hair to the side as she pulls out ever so slowly—

And still. Not. Slowly. Enough—apparently! Not with the sparks that explode in Marcille’s eyes again, utterly unclear if this is another orgasm or just a particularly brutal aftershock! She just goes squeaking and shaking and sliding off the desk onto her knees, hands clapped over her cunt like they’re going to protect her from the lightning racing up and down her spine. She doesn’t even know where she landed, really, convulsing and closing her thighs around her hand as cum and slick drools into her palms, falling forward and— and smacking her head against the edge of her desk.

“Oh!” Feathered arms clasp around her before she can slide past the wood with her sweaty forehead and land on her face. “Careful—are you okay?” 

The gall. The audacity. The—something, or whatever, fuck, Marcille doesn’t even care anymore. Her head throbs with an oncoming bruise, she can’t feel her legs, she can feel her pussy way too much, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen apart on the spot—

“Okay… let’s…” There’s some maneuvering going on, but hell if Marcille can actually tell what Falin’s doing. “Here, let’s take a bath—I’ll go draw some water.” 

Marcille whines, because no—she doesn’t know where she is, she just twists until her face finds feathers and buries herself there. She even manages to bring one cum-covered hand to grip at the quils, because this mess is Falin’s fault and if she doesn't like it then she can wash it off herself—but she’s not allowed to leave. 

A little chuckle under her breath—and it’s so fucking cute and girlish like she hasn’t just demolished a full grown woman to the brink of unconsciousness, but Marcille can’t even find it in herself to be mad. Falin can ask her whatever the hell she wants, do whatever the hell she wants, so long as she doesn’t let go. 

“I’m bringing you with me, I promise,” Falin whispers so tenderly, pressing a kiss to Marcille’s head. There’s arms tightening around her back and under her knees, and she feels herself being lifted. “I wouldn’t leave you like that…” 

Better not, Marcille grumbles to herself. Not sure if it made it past her mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Falin’s going to take responsibility for turning her morning into—into this, even if it means having to draw some bathwater with an elf clinging to her the entire time. She’s going to be the one to wash her off, bring her their missed breakfast, and tell everyone why she wasn’t there at the morning meeting—

Maybe not that last part. 

“I’m sorry,” she hears, in that soft and whispery tone she’s loved for so many years. That voice that didn’t change, even with everything that happened—everything that Marcille did to her, and it’s—

It would be so, incredibly stupid if she started crying out of nowhere. 

“Liar,” she whines, digging the indignant annoyance back up to pout like a spoiled brat. “You liked… every second…” 

Another giggle that so infuriatingly lovely. “I did.” The sound of a squeaky valve turning, then rushing water that slaps against stone. “Did you?” 

Marcille just grumbles again and clings even tighter. Falin just laughs a little louder and strokes her hair, too kind to demand an answer in so many words—or, perhaps, impishly content to let Marcille incriminate herself with her silence, as she so often does.

[bettyfrommars]

Dr. Munson & The Monster

mad scientist!Eddie x The Monster x fem!Reader

Based on a sweet ask I got about how Reader's boyfriend cheats on us, and then we get revenge with his dad. I'm sure this was not what they had in mind 👀 my apologies. wc: 1.7k

18+Only, mature content, smut, cheating, mention of monster sex, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), creampie, breeding!kink, mention of being forced to live at the castle, mention of male impotence. Frankie and Reader are 25+, doctor!Eddie is 40+.

Things with you and your boyfriend Frankie were complicated.  When he first put you over his shoulder and carried you back to the castle, determined to be your mate, you wondered if it would work out.  But, you’d grown to love that zipper-neck lothario, and the enormous cock attached to him.  Munson’s Monster was famous by that time for being the first reanimated human, and he had so many women throwing their panties at him, it was intimidating for you at first.  

“Baby,  where are you going?” You called to him from the bed where you were in one of your sexiest nightgowns, draped perfectly to expose the curve of your hip that drove him bonkers.

“Out!” But he didn’t actually say it, he just grunted it, stomping off toward the balcony on stiff legs.  He liked to use the thick vines on the side of the building to climb down.

He flung the terrace doors wide open, and you watched him make his clumsy descent with a shake of your head.  “You’ll break your neck again one of these days, you know that baby? Just use the front door next time!”

He was too busy banking on his arm strength to hold his substantial weight to look up at you, but he did offer a growl and a grunt, and by the time he dropped to the ground in a crouch, there were tears glistening on your lash line.

The first few months together had been so rich with discovery and the promise of new  love. Frankie mated you from sunup to sundown, stretching you out and chasing his release with animalistic passion, the likes of which you’d never experienced before. After a few weeks, you were confessing your love; there was even talk of planning an October wedding.

But, the honeymoon phase was over, as they say, and word had made its way back to you that Frankie was getting in bed with every village woman within arms reach.  They all snickered and laughed behind your back when they saw you in town.

You watched him stumble into the night, and then you peeled yourself away from the balcony and wiped your eyes.  

You didn’t want to be alone again.  The only people who lived in the castle besides you and Frankie were Dr. Munson, his assistant Igor, and a housekeeper named Frau Blucher.  You put your silky robe on and brought a candelabra downstairs with you, following the golden glow of light coming from under the door of Dr. Munson’s library.

You knocked first, because he was a very private man, and you were paranoid that he hated you for whatever reason.  Maybe he didn’t think you were good enough for his creation?

“Enter,” a gruff voice bellowed from inside.

Edward Munson, brilliant surgeon and mad scientist, was hunched over his desk, fingers flying from inkwell to paper as he scribbled notes in his journal.  Long, dark curly hair wild around his shoulders, with a touch of gray at the sides, and fingertips stained black from the ink.

“What do you want?” He grumbled, never looking up from the paper.

He knew it was you.  He recognized the way your footsteps sounded on the floor above, the cadence of your knock, the way his heart jumped into his throat whenever you were near.

You shut the door behind you, pushing it until it clicked.  A cozy fire roared in the hearth, the air smelled of old books, pipe tobacco, and leather. You intertwined your fingers in front of you and went to take a seat by the fire.

Eddie finally glanced up, your silence making him curious.  That was when he saw your puffy face and the tears in your bloodshot eyes.  The horrible way his “son” treated you was no secret among the house, and sometimes his thoughts found their way to wondering how it would’ve worked out if he’d found you first, and not Frankie. 

With the pen still in his hand, he sat back in his seat.  “I’m sorry this keeps happening. You deserve much better than this.”

You snapped a look at him.  He was always so grumpy with you, this was the first time he’d ever offered you any semblance of comfort.

The nightgown under your robe was so tight to your skin that he could see the outline of your breasts and the way you weren’t wearing any undergarments.  He cast his eyes back down at his desk, ashamed for even allowing himself to dream.

Pausing in the middle of the room, on your way to the couch by the fire, you were struck with a sudden epiphany: Dr. Munson was attracted to you.  How had you never noticed it previously?   The way the light from the fire danced on his skin, making his dark eyes sparkle.

Driven by loneliness and a sudden, rabid burst of horny, you slinked over to the big oak desk, hitching your ample hip out to rest it at the edge.  The muscles in Eddie’s jaw flexed, eyes anchoring to yours, refusing to let them roam your body like they wanted to.

“What do you want from me?” His tone was tight, his cock twitching in his pants at how close you were.  “You should go back to your room.”

What you wanted was to get back at your neglectful, cheating boyfriend.  He got to have his fun several nights a week with whoever he wanted.  Why couldn’t you have the same?

You came around the desk to be closer, now your leg was touching his.  You let your hand graze up along your inner thigh over your nightgown, lips parted as you watched him from under hooded eyes.  “I want you to touch me, doctor.”

Dr. Munson hasn’t been with a woman intimately for years.  Mostly because he was a recluse who had no patience for the small talk required for getting to know someone, but also—he’d been harboring a secret crush on you since that first day Frankie brought you home.

His eyes flicked from the outline of your cunt to your face.  “Show me,” he told you, pushing the sleeves up on his shirt.

Eager to please him, you ran your hands up your thighs to shimmy the silky skirt up around your hips, giving him the perfect view of your kitten.  

Eddie’s mouth went dry at the sight, his brows knitting together.  He inched forward to brace one hand on your thigh while the other worked a finger along your slit, hissing at your wetness.  You yanked down the front of your nightgown to play with your nipples.

“Get on the desk,” he demanded, unbuttoning his shirt.

You had your knees bent, feet on his shoulders, quivering as his fingers spread you, his tongue seeking out the special nub that Frankie could never find.  The scientist that he was, he had studied a woman’s anatomy extensively, and wanted to use his gathered knowledge to please you.

“Your mouth feels so good, doctor,” you whimpered.   

He pulled away, chin dripping with a mix of saliva and your arousal, and then he worked a finger down, slipping in one, two, and then three.  You were all the way back on the desk now, knocking things over as you writhed, spilling the inkwell.  

He got to his feet, pushing his pants down to expose a generous pink length. You propped on your elbows to lick your lips and watch as he rubbed the tip along your slit with a groan, frowning in concentration.  

“Is this what you want?” He mumbled, pulling open your lips to watch how well you took his tip.

You sat up to meet his mouth, fingers clawing into his crazy hair as you forced his lips open with your tongue.  “I want you to give me a baby,” you begged. You found each other's eyes then, hovering on the implication of what was being asked. “Because we know Frankie can’t.”

It was true.  As much of a medical miracle and scientific treasure Frankie was, Dr. Munson suspected his sperm was no longer viable. Sometimes he blamed his skill as a surgeon for how Frankie had turned out, but he had to be gentle with himself—that brain Igor found for him was not the organ of an intellectual.  

Locking eyes with you, he sank all the way in, filling you to the base at first thrust, making you both cry out.  He cursed, bracing his hands on the desk for leverage to piston his hips against you.  You held his face between your hands and matched his need with your tongue.

His deft fingers moved from working your nipple to your clit, watching you unravel before his eyes.  It wasn’t until he felt your walls flutter around his cock and heard you whimper his name that he allowed his release.

He grunted, fingers digging into your soft hips. He hadn’t tended to himself in days, and so the potential for seeds to be planted deep in your womb was strong. 

 It took a while for him to finish pumping it all in, and then you stretched back on the huge desk, planting your feet, knees wide.  Maintaining eye contact with him, you used your fingers to push his cum deeper inside of you, tilting your hips up, holding it there, and then rubbing the excess up through your folds, before bringing them to your mouth to suck. 

He kissed your stomach and your breasts, up your throat, sticking his own fingers inside to keep any from leaking out.  “Stay like this until I say you can go,” he mumbled against your mouth.  “And when it starts to drip down your leg, I want you to remember who put it there.”

“Yes, doctor,” you whined, listening to the plop of the tiny ink droplets as they fell from the desk and collected in a puddle on the floor. 

[littlefaeriebottles]

A few rough sketches of my original characters that will appear in my Debtors of Inkwell comic! OCs won't have too much of a role in my AU but I thought it'd be fun to share them anyway. Also, these designs might change very slightly when they appear in the comic.

---

Baron Biscotti and Baroness Beignet VonBonBon, the kind and regal rulers of the fief of Sugarland, and parents of Baroness Brioche BonBon.

Winona Warbles, wife to Wally Warbles and mother to Willy Warbles, who gets bored of domestic bliss and leaves the nest.

Barnaby Bailley, the eccentric ringmaster of the Traveling Inkwell Circus and Beppi's mentor and father figure.

Olga Berg is Hilda Berg's grandmother, renowned mage who was one of the founders of Hexenwerks Magierakademie (Academy of Magic).

The Primordial Ooze is a manifestation of hate that haunts Goopy Le Grande and fills him with self-doubt.

Gourdy 'O Hallow is a down on his luck bum who helps The Root Pack get back on their feet.

Nikos the Goatherd knew The Legendary Chalice and the Calix Amini hundreds of years ago.

Scylla and Charybdis, the two aunts of Cala Maria, who teach her about the world dividing men and monsters.

Nefurrtiti is an ancient deity that Djimmi The Great befriends on his travels.

The Patient is an ill-fated figure that is a passenger on The Phantom Express.

Privates Fidget and Hodgepodge are two of Werner's fellow soldiers drafted into the Inkwell fighting forces.

Sir Chaucer Canterbury is a knight who has found his own calling and befriends Grim Matchstick.

Gustavo the Gardenia, Pascal the Pansy, and Bailey the Bluebell are flowers that live in the garden with Cagney.

Vespa Flaxenjacket is a wasp from the other side of the island who has her eyes on Rumor's hive and empire.

Shep Hyde, who's determined to make his client, Sally, a star and might be a wolf in sheep's clothing.

"JugORum" Bellows, father of Ribby and Croaks, who has ties to the Moonshine Mob.

---

There's a few others I haven't illustrated yet, and then there will be several NPCs from the game that will be important (I'll be drawing some of them too!), as well as the Debtors/bosses themselves being the main characters! I'm really excited to start working on this AU again! Hope you like em!

[rq-producerperson]

very important question, for an American producer working with British Voice Actors:

Can any of the various RQ casts do a convincing american accent? (any region or dialect)

what do you think of Jonny’s ‘southern’ US accent? I love the mechanism’s song hellfire but I wonder how it sounds to you!

also, I’ve visited Boston, New York, Colorado and Arizona - if there would be one part or place to visit in Texas, where would you recommend? 😁

Howdy!

1. Yes actually! Shahan is a good example and was recently cast as an American in the upcoming Broken Hearted Monsters for Neon Inkwell (Billie also just recently told me she did an American role but I haven’t heard her accent yet)

2. 😬 I’ve not really listened to the Mechanisms but I have heard Jonny’s southern accent, it’s not bad but it’s difficult for me to say it’s “good” because with both Jonny and Alex it just sounds like them putting in an accent to me. I’ve been around them for so long now that the British accent is actually very neutral and whenever I hear any American accent it makes me short circuit a little

3. Anyone who visits Texas just to visit should go to San Antonio, it’s one of my favorite places but I havent been in … [mumbles in over a decade] there’s a lot of history and like VERY Texan culture there. Though it gets touristy, it’s worth it imo

[nonepizzaleftgirl]

Zenith of Justice - Chapter 4

[Image Description: Martlet looking over a table with her “elbow” parts of her wings resting on it. The room is dim, with the main light coming from the yellow SOUL in Martlet’s chest as well as from a set of matches lit in her left hand. Her head is rested on her right palm, and her eyes are intensely focused on the matches. Art by @jakearison.]

Martlet had never been a particularly superstitious monster. Even so, the first thing she did after getting acquainted with King Asgore’s sparsely-decorated guest room and lying down on the soft bed for a bit (a bit of an effort given that she had to curl up lest her talons were hanging in mid-air) was to ask for some letter writing paper. And a few minutes after returning to the room, Asgore politely knocked on the door and handed her a few sheets as well as an envelope with the Delta Rune printed onto it. So. Letter writing. Martlet suspiciously eyed the empty paper and inkwell on her desk. It had been a while since she’d written her last letter—being able to fly places made the UGPS a bit less necessary than for your usual monster. Even so, she’d always been excited by the process of putting the ink on the paper. With a somewhat practiced motion she plucked a quill from her right wing and contorted herself so she could make a series of cuts with her talons to turn it into a proper pen. The quill felt heavier in her grip than she was used to. Of course it did, given how much larger it was. Maybe she had expected it to feel normal given how much she herself had grown? Martlet wasn’t sure. She held the quill steadily in her grasp, breathing heavily to get a feel for it, concentrating, focusing, only shaken out of it when a teardrop landed on the page. With an inconsolable feeling of shame, Martlet wound up asking Asgore for one of his pens instead. A colorful floral pattern stretched across it, each of the individual flowers grinning at Martlet. She couldn’t help but feel herself be judged by the firm plastic of the pen.

Chapter 4 of Zenith of Justice is out! Took a bit but I hope the art I commissioned for it makes it worth it :p Expect new chapters to come out roughly weekly from now on. Maybe sooner if I can get a stable backlog built.

[ask-cupbros-parents]

Introduction of The Legacy of Inkwell Isles AU world

Locations:

Intergovernmental international organization:

Characters: 

King of Games (The King's leap), Baroness von bon bon, Rumor Honeybottoms, Mayor of Inkwell Isles..., etc.

The major societies :

Characters: 

Sally stageplay, Dr. Kahl, Hilda Berg, Captain Brineybeard, Beppi the Clown (Maybe ?) , etc.

Characters: 

Chalice (Charlotte the loving cup), Walter Watterson, Utena Teacup, E. Kettle, Saltbaker,  Ludwig, Wolfgang, Silverworth(Forkington?), Tipsy Troop, Chips Bettigan, Mr. Wheezy, Pip and Dot, Pirouletta, Mangosteen, etc.

Characters: 

Ribby and Croaks, Grim Matchstick, Wally Warbles, Werner Werman, Cala Maria ( Mermaid/sea monster), Hopus Pocus, Phear Lap, The Howling Aces, Esther Winchester, Porkrind, etc

Characters: 

Cagney carnation, Deadly Daisy, Murderous Mushroom, Terrible Tulip, Toothy Terror, Aggravating Acorn, The Root Pack, cactus girl,  etc.

--------------------------------------------

*Some of the Inkwell Isles bosses that I haven't shown, are from other societies (smaller than the major four ).

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Support me on Patreon ( I got wips and exclusive designs over there ~~~)

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

The Tragedy of Love, Death and Maggots part 6

Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

We were at the border to the cultists' territory when Mrin stopped us. “Athena was here,” she told us. “Look at the markings on the wall.”

Indeed, there were nasty little marks on the off-white walls, in the shape of rather inappropriate and anatomical figures. The only person who would have the immaturity to do such a thing, as well as the guts to do it in the heart of the cultists' lair, would be that damned girl.

I sighed. “Of course it's her. Who else would draw dicks on the walls of hell?” I shook my head. “Fool child. Do you have any idea how long ago she passed through here?” For all that she had one eye, Mrin's sight served her better than the rest of ours combined. If anyone could figure it out, it would be her. 

“What am I, your blood hound? I can't tell-” she stopped and took a closer look at the markings. “Oh. She was here not long ago. Look, the ink on the wall hasn't dried yet.” 

“Oh, thank the heavens! We might be able to catch her if me hurry,” Brett exclaimed. “Come on, come on! We've gotta get to her before something else does.” His breath hitched, and that sunny smile of his cracked. “If- if ‘thena got hurt, I wouldn't be able to forgive myself!”

Ah, the follies and passions of youth. I shook my head and gave Mrin my signature grin, the one we used to exchange two years ago, back when it was the two of us and she had two eyes. She returned it, hesitantly, showing off yellowing, chipped teeth. 

Before anything could pass between us, Brett put his hands on our shoulders and pushed, sending me careening down the hall. “Hurry up,” he demanded. There was a wildness in his eyes, like an animal being chased down. “There's not much time left.”

Mrin sighed. “There's never any time, Brett. I know you're worried about her, but we can't afford to rush in. The cultists are dangerous, and if we get caught unprepared, we'll be unable to save ourselves, let alone Athena.” 

I nodded in agreement. “Besides, we don't even know where she's gone. Sure, she's here, but here can be in the congregation hall of the cultists or in some random corner, and we need time to work out which exactly it is.”

He held that look of cornered terror for a moment longer, begging us to change our minds. Then he gave up and nodded. “Alright. I take it we're scouting the lair first? Knowing her, that's where she'll be.” 

“Yeah, sure.” I started forward again, keeping up with Brett as we made our way towards the home of the greatest monsters in our little hell.

Taglist:

@coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch

@tragedycoded, @finickyfelix, @urnumber1star, @ratedn, @ramwritblr

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west, @differentnighttale

@evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms, @xenascribbles

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou, @dimitrakies, @beloveddawn-blog

@riveriafalll, @the-golden-comet, @rascaronii, @trippingpossum, @real-fragments

@unrepentantcheeseaddict, @the-inkwell-variable

(Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[mintythecup]

announcement

Who ever made an ai of chai or ANYONES OC WITHOUT PERMISSION

TAKE THEM DOWN OR PUT THEM ON PRIVATE AND NEVER PUT THEM UP AGAIN

Doing that doesn't make us feel honored or happy or even glad you do that. Doing that without permission makes us feel upset. ESPECIALLY WITHOUT PERMISSION. it's not nice. It's a shitty move

I know I may come off as childish but it makes me upset knowing people are doing that KNOWING that oc isn't yours to do anything to for shit, don't do that to an oc that you obviously do not own

Its not honoring

Its not nice

It doesn't make us feel happy

Do not do that as it isn't a good move for anyone

you have been caught.

Take them down now.

@whosectype @shortcakelils @mimuo-no @potatoreak

@creator-of-monsters @lunarshadow04 @lucasdeez @mouse-brained @carlarosenakilah

@cupid-shortcake @4ce-of-2pades-inkwell

[jangelorum]

Shapeshifter Rizz

Some dumb sketch of my ocs I needed to cheer myself up in these trying times

💀

Commissions are open

[judathians-art]

I haven't drawn Inkwell body horror in ages

[zoetic-tome]

Prompt 6: The Shape of Paradise

Prompt: Halcyon - FFXIV Write 2024  Characters:  Marcelloix Bontensont, Tythelie Content Warning: None

We continued our travels inland over the next few moons, traversing a landscape still jagged with towering pillars of ice that had yet to thaw. It was never so bad as the journey across the sea had been. Tythelie was a steadfast companion during that time, and I still wonder if she had any more inkling at the edges of civilization that awaited us on those distant shores.

She was with me when I found the hourglass. Had she had been given the same dreams of the future when we touched it. An idyllic society where no frost battered all and sundry to scavengers on glacial ice while we prayed for survival. Where robed men and women strolled streets and lived lives of abundance and plenty. 

The longer that I have lived, the more I’ve wondered if that vision was indeed the future, as we thought, or instead some remnant of a very distant past. I continue to still search for the answer to that question, though time has rendered me no true answer which might satisfy me. Whatever it’s origin had been, we both walked away from that moment changed. 

She, by what she had seen, and I, by what remained in my possession. Neither of us understood the significance of the hourglass or what it would demand. And yet no matter what it pressed me to do, she remained at my side. Perhaps that’s why I think of her now, more than any other that has been in my life. That singular dream became something she clung to with fervor. Life would one day be better. For us. For our people. For all people. 

Eventually, the world would be a place where we did not have to struggle so endlessly. Where we might work to ease the pain of one another for no other reason than we believed no one need suffer in vain. She was a good woman, Tythelie. A better one than I deserved, I think. The hourglass left me changed the more time that passed. It was gradual. The change, I mean. And yet… 

She loved me, as I became what most would think of as a monster. When my body began to reject food. When blood became the sweetest drink to cross my lips. When traveling beneath the sun ached so badly I could barely stand it. When one unexpected sunrise over the edge of the sea became the last one we could ever watch together.

In return, I loved her as we settled ourselves into the land that would become Lesalia. For her boundless faith in me, I loved her as the passage of time began to slowly widen the gap between us. I loved her until her hand in mine had grown frail beyond measure. And when she was tired, when she no longer wished to be burdened with her life, I embraced her to me and under a sky that burned no more than the ache in my heart, I let her become one with the sands of the hourglass. 

Life was emptier without her, and as life in Lesalia became better and more idyllic, I missed her all the more. She, far more so than I, deserved that halcyon…

The writing smudged as a knock sounded on the front door of his shop. For someone so intricately tied to time, he often let it take him unawares. The quill was placed back into its inkwell and the pages of the book closed as Marcel stood and smoothed down the vest he wore, stepping from the back room of his shop into the front to greet the individual waiting patiently at his doorstep.

[scarlet-cookie]

Ink Demonth 2024 Day 1 : Nostalgia

Nostalgia

A gloomy silence washed over the strange yet homely world of sepia and black over and over again. Occasionally, Henry would hear the scream of a monster being torn apart by another, or the careless laughter of another entity erupting from deep within their madness.

He stared at the world that was once in his control.

The lines he drew, the meticulousness that went into drawing each and every frame, the expressions he made for each character.

Everything was breathing around him now.

He simulated the feeling of drawing in a long breath once again, even though he was already aware that he could never truly ‘breathe’.

Bendy.

It was the work that ignited a spark to a dream, a dream of such a long, long time ago.

Henry glanced over to a scene slowly materializing itself into the space. It was of his old desk, the rickety chair that accompanied it, and the unfinished frame of ‘Tombstone Picnic’ next to a small inkwell.

He watched as the inkwell, without any force nor interference, toppled itself over, spilling ink everywhere but the paper on the desk.

The scene slowly faded away.

“How nostalgic, isn’t it?” 

The mysterious figure opposite to him waved their hand, as if to brush away that scene he just saw.

Henry narrowed his eyes at the figure.

The figure seemed to move its lips in a bid to smile, but the unnatural construct of its being simply made it look like some sort of jarring, weird movement instead.

“Now, can you recall something?” 

Bendy : The Untrusted AU - Final Reminiscence (Part 5/5)