Ink never had wings, but he always admired them. He used his powers of creation to design his own wings almost every single day — changing their color, size, and texture to his own liking. Whether it was an eagle's, a hummingbird's, another Sans', or just his own imagination, he could never settle with just one pair.
However, he never felt connected to them. They moved mechanically, if at all, like a prop on his back — which, in a way, they were. They were not attached to him, physically or spiritually. He had to really focus to move even a feather.
He knew why this was, of course. He had no wings, and fake wings could never mimic the real ones. The most he could do was animate them or wear them like a cosplay. Play pretend. Like always.
Pretend to have feelings. Pretend to have feathers. Pretend to have some kind of life flowing through these sturdy bones. Pretending was all he could do. And true wings are not something he could have. After all...
...wings are an extension of a monster's soul.
