I'll Make You Mine

Mind Sickness: Dream

(Content warnings: Referenced tortured, referenced abuse, inaccurate medical procedures, very brainwashed Ink, nearly 10k word chapter. I need to stop torturing Dream so much in an Ink-centric whump story.)

Dream's joy and happiness faded as soon as he slammed into a wall of black paint. They fell onto the broken road, rubbing their head and staring at its height. The wall shook and splashed over him, Fresh, and Epic like a waterfall.

Dream spit the thin bitter paint out of his mouth. He resembled his twin more than he liked. He looked up with shock. "Wha- what was that for?"

Ink broke into laughter, except . . . it was all wrong. Not just because he played a cruel joke, but his laugh didn't sound like his. Ink should have snorted and sounded carefree. Instead, he had a quiet giggle and he hid it behind his hand. Laying on the ground, Dream started to notice other strange things.

Ink showed no signs of being in pain. No limping, no bandages, no bruises, no scars, not even fear of his captor. He appeared more uneasy about Epic, Fresh, and him.

Even with his positive aura, something else was amiss. He was too healthy with the circumstances. He also looked more diminutive than Dream remembered, at least with a thinner waist. Was he shorter or was Nightmare taller? Ink stood in perfect ballerina stance with an uncanny smile that never faded. In fact, his entire face was too round and soft. And the artist's outfit . . . Nightmare had to have forced him into it. Ink would never wear those lavender bows and that lacey white dress unironically. Dream didn't process it at first since all he saw was his best's friends face. Only one person in the multiverse had that cheek mark. Maybe Ink had scars and bruises under the white fabric. He had to be hurting somewhere.

Then he saw the worst of it. His eye lights. The lilac hearts and white pupils replaced them. Lilac, pink, bows, the bows around his waist and on his head.

Wait, bows . . . oh stars. Bow. Bow.

Dream went cold and he felt like an idiot. Everything clicked into place. It was like working on a puzzle but not knowing what the picture is until you find the last piece. Core warned them about this not long ago. Killer lied and faked Ink's death, he was with them all along. But yet, he was left with more questions. Most began with Why?

He turned to Epic for his input, but he disappeared. Fresh was as stunned as he was, hiss aura was almost heartbroken. Dream prayed to the Creators that Epic had some common sense and ran through the portal. The guardians should handle this, not a mortal who isn't experienced. He looked back at Nightmare and Ink. Nightmare crossed his arms and a smug smile plastered across his face. Dream scowled at his vanity and cruelty toward Ink.

Dream blinked to make sure he didn't imagine this. "Ink, your clothes. . ."

The artist looked hurt, picking at his frilly sleeves. His voice sounded different too, higher-pitched and soft, it was adorable. "Is something wrong with them?"

"Of course not, my little doll." Nightmare reassured. He ran a hand down his skull. Ink closed his eye sockets in ecstasy, leaning into the touch. Dream cringed. "You look adorable. Dream is just dense and doesn't understand the new you. Nor what we have."

"New . . ." The Guardian of Positivity trailed off. He refused to believe what the last sentence implied. Fear filled his mind, shutting down all logic. He barely held his anger back. "Nightmare, what have you done? What did you do to him? WHAT DID YOU DO TO INK?"

Ink answered for him. "He fixed me!" His smile didn't match his words, as if his twin did a good thing. Dream went nauseous. The sleep deprivation had to be affecting him. Yes, this had to be a bad dream. This couldn't be the real Ink. He couldn't be in love with Nightmare. He couldn't have killed for him. He took him prisoner!