I'll Make You Mine

Perfect Backup: Nightmare

Nightmare was in the mood to destroy something, but he took a deep breath to keep his temper in check. He was more mature and collected than that. Instead, he read a book in his library. But it failed to stop his thoughts.

He didn't keep track of how long ago he locked Ink in the white room, but it was at least over two weeks. He didn't care. He was sick of that arrogant, over-excited artist. Nightmare expected Ink to question him by this point. Even after months of careful stalking and planning, he was more lovesick than he imagined. He distracted himself with planning, spending almost the entire day in his office.

Yet despite the lack of suspicion, the skeleton still wouldn't break. He thought he would at least. Nightmare knew he needed to destroy Ink's pride to make him obey, but his methods weren't working. Pressuring him into admitting secrets, overworking him in battle, degrading him, it wasn't working.

The love potion was working well up until he reduced the amount. Ink was so well-behaved until then, at least by staying and listening. Of course it was the one day he decided to reduce the amount of paint, of course it was. His attitude and behaviors were annoying. Nightmare had a few ideas for new plans. An amnesia spell, memory replacements, or mind control.

But, as did the love potion, all these had problems. With Ink's forgetfulness, amnesia might take away his basic functions. Nightmare didn't want to bother teaching him how to learn those again, as beneficial as it could be in theory. He's seen it happen. The more complicated spells to adjust memories required power not even he possessed. He wasn't strong enough. And there was no fun in plain mind control. It was like putting a bandage on an infected wound. It was tempting to kill him at this point.

If Ink wouldn't do what he wanted out of love, he'd do it out of fear. Pain was an excellent motivator. Ink seemed to react more to physical pain than emotional, taking from when he hit him. Nightmare needed to try something else . . .

Nightmare flipped the page of the book he was reading. He sat in a large crimson armchair, sipping on a cup of coffee and trying to get his mind off the weapon in the dungeon. The old pages and cover hanging by only a few threads, fair given it was almost two hundred years old. His angry thoughts were stronger. Perhaps . . . it wouldn't hurt to destroy one thing of Ink's, a drawing, a photograph. Nightmare sighed and bookmarked his place, standing up.

The white room had been silent for days. Ink must have run out of paint. Good, he was getting annoying. The screaming and crying were so loud it could serve as its own form of torture. He could almost hear it from the second floor. Despite knowing of Ink's leukophobia, he didn't expect it to be this severe. His fear of the color white was as severe if not worse than Error's fear of touch.

Ink hadn't even eaten since he went silent. The only reason he was provided with food at all was that Horror insisted. He said starvation was too far. Nightmare still only gave Ink the barest minimum so he wouldn't die on him. Hm, starvation. That could work as another way to convince him to listen . . . the starving could be useful. Not having enough food and energy in his body would mess up his thinking. That was his plan and theory.

Nightmare opened Ink's door with one tendril. A cold gust blew through, dark on the inside. Nightmare turned one the light. No one dared to enter Ink's room since he was locked away. He looked around for something to try and destroy. His gaze eventually settled on Ink's scarf lying on his bed.

His eye widened a bit and he took it. His fingers ran down the fabric, tracing over the writing on it. He picked it up and held it with his tendrils. Most of the scarf was brown, but the ends faded into a lighter cream color. It was covered in drawings and notes. Nightmare cocked his head and took a notepad and pen out of one of Ink's drawers.