I'll Make You Mine

Make Me Your Masterpiece: Ink

(Content warnings: Self harm, creepy/intimate bathing, starvation, humiliation, forced crossdressing, Nightmare continuing to be a creepy shit biscuit. Also, happy 1 day late birthday to him and Dream.)

Ink stared at the wall as still as a rock, not even blinking. That way, he could daydream about colors and scenery, keeping him out of the white space. Also because he couldn't move. Yep, he ran out of emotions for too long and lay as a paralyzed husk.

At first, after he screamed and cried, he killed time by pacing and drawing invisible designs on the floor. He punched the wall once in a while, which might have not even been the one he came in. They all looked the same and all it did was hurt his knuckles. Even though he never saw them, he knew someone was checking in on him. Someone was feeding him water and unseasoned white rice. On a white plate of course. It cost too much in the budget to give him color. It gave him energy, but the amount was always too small to satisfy his hunger.

Ink was so sick of white. He was sick of the silence and the loneliness. He wanted someone to hug him or hold his hand. He wanted to talk to someone, anyone, or at least give his bored mind something to do. You could only talk to yourself in so many different voices before you run out of conversation ideas. Then he remembered the mud from the fall, still stuck to his bones. Brown!

Unfortunately, the dirt and grime from his fall were so caked on that he couldn't scrape it off. The artist's desperation for any other color drove him to scratch his arms until they bled. It hurt but also felt good in a weird way. The black blood was a relieving change. Ink used it as paint to make pictures. He drew a messy version of the Doodlesphere's islands. Damn, he missed it. It was so colorful, unlike his stupid cell. Once he ran out of pigment and didn't want to destroy his arms anymore, he started daydreaming. Since getting paralyzed, he was stuck right next to a puddle of his sticky black blood. He couldn't even teleport through the liquid. His escape was so close, but he couldn't move a nonexistent muscle.

How long has it been? Hours? Days? Months? It wasn't like he had a calendar or a clock. Nope, don't think too hard about that. He used up his panic and only felt numb.

Ugh. None of this would be happening if he just did as he was told! It would have been so easy too. It was his fault he was in here. At least, that's what Nightmare said. His words kept replaying in his head.

You don't think anyone cares if you're missing, do you?

Even if I did love you, that doesn't mean you can do whatever your selfish empty heart desires.

You're an easy puppet.

They were all he could think about. He might never see the sun again because of his stupidity. Worthlessness. Pride. Immaturity.

He deserved this, didn't he?

The artist knew people didn't like him. Error, Cross, Fell, and the countless other souls he's pissed off over the years. Even the original Sans didn't like him. He always brushed them aside as being jealous. Usually, he would rant to one of his friends and get their opinion, but they weren't around. Not like they cared, he doubted it.

He should've been angry. Nightmare was the guy who threw him in here after all, but he wasn't. Ink was mad at himself, or he would be if he could feel anything. He was lucky to be with Nightmare and he screwed it up.

Like you screw up everything else?

Shut up!

Ink groaned. Great. He was hollow, hungry, bored, and hating himself. No one has checked on him since he lost his emotions. Maybe he wasn't useful anymore and was left to starve to death. Was it even possible for him to starve to death? Who cares. He just wanted to get out of and stay out of this room. He'd trade anything for it. Even if he had to sell his nonexistent soul to be a servant or something. Unknown to him, he did.