Bendy the Dancing Demon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
figmentpigment) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
middaeg2019-07-17 09:02 pm
figmentpigment) wrote in middaeg2019-07-17 09:02 pm
Entry tags:
No Survival Kit (closed)
Who: Bendy and Monika
When: July 14-15
Where: various locations
What: a dangerous encounter, turned to a grim understanding of one another
Warnings: violence, potential suicidal ideation
It's easy to lose track of time when it's never meant anything before. How long is a month? Is it longer than an hour? When does a night become a morning? It's all been rather pointless technicalities, until recently. It takes some time to recognize that things... well, that they take time, now.
The point is, Bendy forgot how soon the Full Moons would come.
Out and patting down a snowman (he'd lined the street with them, starting with the classic design but as the week wore on his sculptures turned to full frozen scenes of snowpeople; this one leaned over to take a bite out of the side of another snow-victim, whose mouth had been scooped out in a yell of frozen terror), Bendy dismissed the crawling sensation on his skin as shivers of cold. The sky began to dim overhead as the gnawing vibe of wrongness grew, and Bendy thought maybe he was getting tired. Though, if he was so cold that his skin felt like it was practically writhing, why was he sweating so badly--
Bendy leaned heavily against the frozen violence he'd sculpted, his head beginning to throb. In the deepening dusk, he could see dark stains spreading over the snow where he touched. Oh. Oh that was bad. Oh he made a bad mistake. His back pops, creaks, and he digs his fingers into the snow, claws cutting deeper into the ice than they should.
It hadn't been like this before, not in the dream, not even the last time the moons were out, he hadn't felt it happen like this before. It didn't hurt, precisely, not even the spines distending down his back with sickening cracks of bone or the stretching of his ribs against oozing skin--the discomfort was there, certainly, but muted and distant. It all felt distant, now: the cold, the fear, the shame of its mistake. All it felt was the moonlight on its ink-slicked fur.
When: July 14-15
Where: various locations
What: a dangerous encounter, turned to a grim understanding of one another
Warnings: violence, potential suicidal ideation
It's easy to lose track of time when it's never meant anything before. How long is a month? Is it longer than an hour? When does a night become a morning? It's all been rather pointless technicalities, until recently. It takes some time to recognize that things... well, that they take time, now.
The point is, Bendy forgot how soon the Full Moons would come.
Out and patting down a snowman (he'd lined the street with them, starting with the classic design but as the week wore on his sculptures turned to full frozen scenes of snowpeople; this one leaned over to take a bite out of the side of another snow-victim, whose mouth had been scooped out in a yell of frozen terror), Bendy dismissed the crawling sensation on his skin as shivers of cold. The sky began to dim overhead as the gnawing vibe of wrongness grew, and Bendy thought maybe he was getting tired. Though, if he was so cold that his skin felt like it was practically writhing, why was he sweating so badly--
Bendy leaned heavily against the frozen violence he'd sculpted, his head beginning to throb. In the deepening dusk, he could see dark stains spreading over the snow where he touched. Oh. Oh that was bad. Oh he made a bad mistake. His back pops, creaks, and he digs his fingers into the snow, claws cutting deeper into the ice than they should.
It hadn't been like this before, not in the dream, not even the last time the moons were out, he hadn't felt it happen like this before. It didn't hurt, precisely, not even the spines distending down his back with sickening cracks of bone or the stretching of his ribs against oozing skin--the discomfort was there, certainly, but muted and distant. It all felt distant, now: the cold, the fear, the shame of its mistake. All it felt was the moonlight on its ink-slicked fur.