✔️Ink Bendy x Reader - Alone Within the Ink #Wattys2019

To Seal Oneself Away

5/14/19, Edited 7/30/19

To say reality was starting to conform with the onslaught of rising insanity would be a huge understatement. The darkness was creeping forward, shadows beginning to leap from the corners. A spiral of madness was brewing, victims falling downward into mangled despair. The studio as everyone once knew it was rocking on its hinges, all the same for those that dwelled inside its walls.

Coming forth from the ink were hordes of Searches by the masses. Each day it seemed like a dozen more came clawing out of the black wells of suffering and loneliness. They held no purpose other than serving their ink master, scouring the halls in search of a long lost feminine creature. The wave of oncoming Searchers bore no end.

As the inky creatures of darkness arose, there was another being who was spiraling into unconditioned madness. Turned from humanoid ink creature to an amoral monster of ink, you could always hear the music director's voice carrying throughout the studio.

His psychotic cackles bounced off the walls, the ominous strumming of his banjo screeching from below the floorboards. The poor man had been slowly pushed to the brink of insanity. Sammy Lawrence, his name, was almost all he could remember by that point. He knew nothing more than his name, his savior, and what he was meant to do for said savior.

Kindness and friendship were now unknown to the old director. Months had passed since his savior's girl had gone missing after a fateful encounter with the angel. Since that day, his savior had done nothing but harp on him about how he broke his promises and was worthless in the matter. How he did everything wrong, how he couldn't do anything at all, how he constantly failed supposedly the simplest of tasks.

His life was nonexistent now. He was but a shell of a man, of the ink creature he used to be. He had no life, seemingly no consciousness. All he cared about was his savior. Help his savior, appease the savior, so that he may be freed from his cursed body of ink. Kill the workers, find the girl, so that he may help his savior, appease the savior. All the while he would chant his eerie tune throughout the day and well into the night, "Sheep, sheep, sheep. It's time for sleep. Rest your head, it's time for bed. In the morning, you may wake. Or in the morning, you'll be dead."

The savior hated that song. He hated that man. The music director who held relentlessly failed him so many times without fail, the music director who had broken his promises to the darling. The man of ink who tried to persuade that the darling was finally dead, the man of ink who swore that her absence was not of his fault, but the savior's himself.

Oh, how the savior had changed. The ink demon had undergone such a drastic change in those many months. He no longer walked with a rounded, wholesome body. He now had a mangled, disfigured shape that had never been seen of him before. His round, oval torso was no more, and in its place was his ribcage well defined with a skinny stomach. It slowly curved out into sharp, jagged hips of uneven proportions. He bore a huge limp due to such, and it was only worsened by his asymmetrical legs, uneven footing, and unnaturally curved spine that was even more defined than his ribcage. His horns had elongated and more ink covered his face. His eternal smile was the most jittery and unstable as it had ever been, and it held a new psychotic twist.

But it was all in his head, that's where the true insanity and distortion lied. His thoughts constantly plagued with his darling, always left to wonder whether she truly was okay or not, always left to hope that he truly was correct and not the music director in the matter. Consumed by madness and blinded with darkness, the only light to be seen by him was that of the flame of hope he held, the one that desperately tried to reassure him that his darling was still alive.

She poisoned his thoughts, she clawed at the heart he wished to believe he had. She always claimed he had one, if not where was his love to come? But even now, he had no way of knowing the truth or not. Whether he is truly himself or not is certainly a nice debate, but he no longer knows who he is nor recognizes what he once was. Everything was the same, all in inky black and white. There was almost no difference to him, just an ink demon with an important piece missing to the picture.

Yet even after all this time, and paying no mind to the endless loop of psychotic madness that coursed through his frame of ink, he continued to scour the halls of the studio from top to bottom. The cutouts were his friends, the Searchers his extra eyes. The ink become more of him as they slowly began to merge into one, allowing him to see further into the darkness of the studio than ever before, allowing him to hear further into the screaming well of voices residing within the dark abysses. He prayed for the day he would finally see her in the dark, the day he would finally hear her through the buzzing voices.

But it was all on repeat. She was never found, almost never to be found. Not a sight, not a sound. Never to be back in his embrace and never again to glimpse her beautiful face. How ironic to happen all again, how she broke her promise of never coming back and was now the source of extinguish for his hopeful flame shortly reignited.

He didn't blame her, though. Never. He blamed everything else. The angel, the Searchers, the music director. Himself, the one with the biggest burdens resting on his bony shoulders. He should've listened to her, should've helped her properly with the love she deserved. He should've gotten to her quicker, should've caught her. But Sammy should've been more watchful and careful of his promises. The Searchers shouldn't be as incompetent and blank as they are. The angel should've never been created and shouldn't have dared to lay a finger on his darling.

It was all a mess, a tangled web of lies and deceit, sadness and pain, insanity and psychopathy. Nothing was clear anymore, the visions of reality were all blurred and distorted within the stretching and overbearing reach of the inky chasms. The studio was no longer a home, yet it wasn't a hell nor a trap. It just existed, just as much as it both should and shouldn't.

But the ink demon knew one thing down in that abyss. His light was fading once more. Albeit painful and destructive, he knew it all too well. He could never forget that day when his sights came to set upon the ripped corpse of his wolf friend. He was all alone then, left with thoughts of wandering loneliness for eternity.

His darling rekindled that flame. No longer alone in the abandoned studio, he was given unprecedented love, kindness, and compassion from she who held a face of grace and a heart of gold. Almost like a light in the darkness herself, she became his and he became hers as she began to light his long forgotten path.

But now she was gone with not a trace. Unlike Boris, he had no clue as to whether she was alive or not. No screams to be heard, so no proof to either side. No sight of her face, so no proof yet again. Her silence was unnerving, leaving him to wonder whether she truly had left him to insane eternity. Yet also, he wished to find promise that she was alive and waiting somewhere within that silence.

But as those months dragged on and a new approached, he couldn't help it as the flame had disappeared once more. The familiar darkness came flooding back and the familiar loneliness coursed through him. After all this time, there was just no way. His darling couldn't possibly be alive anymore. It had been far too long.

The ink demon was devastated, more so than the first time his light had gone out. He had given up, finally gave in to the defeat of losing his darling. And so, the burdens heavier in his shoulders, he slowly retreated.

He sulked back into his lair within the deepest depths of his gargantuan ink machine. His throne freshly built sat tauntingly in the middle, welcoming his tired soul with open arms and claws. The ink demon couldn't bear the thought of living in a world without his darling, it truly was as unbearable as he had believed.

And so, as he refused to walk any longer, he plopped down into the cushioned seat of his throne. He stuck his legs in the massive puddle of ink at the throne's base, letting the substance slowly overpower him and take control for the first time since his creation. His light now extinguished, his hope long gone, he slowly began to disappear within the ink as he allowed the doors of the ink machine to close, sealing himself away for the rest of eternity. Leaving himself, one last time, to be alone within the ink.