#ur exp

Perfect blue dust … Blue Perfect dust.

OH BLUE PERFECT DUST [BPD] ?…Borderline personality disorder

So this could be a profile comic.

Give him a Romantic-blue

Shackles of the Nightmare [1.1]

Amidst the bone chilling-void of a collapsed Undertale timeline, a howling wind whipped through the air, carrying a thick cloud of fine white dust... Those ashes were not snow, but the shattered remnants of every single monster's life in this realm. In this world of origin, nothing now remained except a lone skeleton in a blood-stained hoodie, sitting and hugging his knees in absolute isolation.

Dust sat drowned in the loudest silence of his life. He was trapped in a cage of his own mind, haunted by the phantoms of his brother and friends whom he had slaughtered with his own hands. The whispers of his sins stabbed so deeply into his psyche that he was on the very brink of losing his sanity. Yet, just as his mind was about to shatter into pieces, a silhouette began to crawl out from the enveloping darkness.

A thick, pitch-black fluid coalesced into a physical form, radiating a suffocating aura of despair that heavy-handedly crushed the surrounding air. Nightmare stood towering before the broken skeleton, his single, glowing cyan eye fixing upon the murderer with a malicious, twisted grin.

Nightmare: "Look at you... what a beautiful, yet utterly pathetic masterpiece," Nightmare’s voice rumbled, deep and echoing like a nightmare whispering directly into the ear. "You slaughtered everyone in your pursuit of power, but in the end, all you gained was an eternity of torment."

Dust: didn’t look up. His arms remained tightly wrapped around himself, his body trembling with dread. "Get out... leave me alone..." he whispered, his voice hoarse and strained.

Nightmare: "I am here to offer you a mercy," Nightmare stepped closer, the black tentacles behind him swaying in a menacing, predatory rhythm. "Join me. Become my tool... and I shall grant you what you desire most: peace of mind. I will silence these phantoms, quiet these whispers, and strip away all of your agony."

Those words made Dust freeze. His glowing red-and-cyan eye sockets flickered unevenly. Peace? No longer seeing Papyrus’s ghost? It was an offer so sweet it was terrifying. But nothing ever came without a price.

Dust: "And... what do I have to give up in return?" Dust spat through gritted teeth.

Nightmare: "Your life," Nightmare’s grin widened, sharp and predatory. "Your soul, your body, and your very breath will belong to me, and me alone. You will become my weaponn executioner who will spread despair across other dimensions in my name."

Dust: let out a hollow, self-deprecating laugh. He knew all too well that accepting this meant becoming a living corpse. "Ridiculous..." he snapped, his voice hardening. "I’d rather rot in this hell of my own memories than become your lapdog!"

Nightmare: "Oh... did you mistake this for a negotiation? I did not come here to beg."

The atmosphere instantly turned crushing, suffocating the air right out of Dust's ribs. Jet-black tentacles shot forward, tightly binding his body. The immense pressure caused his bones to crack. Dust's eyes widened in sheer panic; he knew he stood absolutely no chance against power of this magnitude. In a final, desperate act of defiance, his survival instinct commanded him to end this nightmare on his own terms.

Summoning the absolute last reserves of his magic, Dust forced sharp bone attacks to erupt from the ground, aiming their lethal points directly at his own chest. He chose to shatter his own soul rather than become someone else's puppet!

Nightmare: "Futile."

Nightmare’s voice boomed as absolute darkness struck. The black ooze lunged forward, instantly enveloping his wounds and invading Dust's very soul. The power of the nightmare forcibly seized his fading life, subverting his agony and swallowing his free will whole. The magic bones meant to end his life dissolved into harmless particles, vanishing into thin air.

Dust’s eyes widened in horror. His body convulsed violently under the agonizing weight of the possession. The suffocating taste of Nightmare's fear and despair flooded his skull. It was pure torture... but at the same time, the maddening phantoms and the screaming voices that had relentlessly stalked his mind were gradually consumed by the darkness, fading into a dead silence.

The light in Dust's eyes grew dim. His body stopped resisting, slumping limply under the control of the black slime.

Nightmare retracted his tentacles, letting Dust’s body collapse onto the floor. He looked down at his "new tool" with supreme satisfaction

————

The Twisted Serenity [1.2]

Nightmare’s castle was the very manifestation of a bleak abyss. Its towering, charcoal-stone structures were perpetually shrouded in a suffocating thick miasma, reeking so heavily of terror and despair that any ordinary monster would perish from fear just by stepping inside. Yet for Dust, this place held no terror. His sharp, hollow eyes had always been naturally adapted to navigating the pitch-black dark. To him, these bleak, silent corridors quickly became a familiar, almost comforting sanctuary.

But what was truly terrifying…and deeply ironic…was that he was actually beginning to enjoy this temporary peace.

Since it was his first days in the castle, Nightmare had not yet given him any orders or sent him out to spill blood. The Lord of Nightmares simply wished to observe the potential of his new asset, keeping a vigilant, unseen eye on him from the shadows at all times. And because of that constant proximity, Nightmare’s passive magic which fed upon and suppressed negative emotions was working at full capacity.

In that dead silence, Dust turned his gaze to his side. The phantom of Papyrus was still there, but it had changed completely.

The apparition of his brother no longer screamed in agony, no longer spat curses, and no longer condemned him for the atrocities he had committed. Instead, the phantom of dust and bone hovered there, radiating a bizarre sense of joy and approval that Dust had never seen before. The hallucination of Papyrus was smiling... smiling at this fabricated peace.

Dust: ‘How sickeningly paradoxical...’ Dust thought, a wave of internal madness brushing against his mind.

He knew right well that he did not deserve this solace. He was a merciless killer who had slaughtered his own world; he was supposed to rot in the burning hell of his own guilt forever. Dust desperately tried to drag up the horrific memories of his sins, forcing himself to self-deprecate, begging for the familiar pain to return. But it was entirely futile. Nightmare’s emotional dampening magic worked too well. It ruthlessly drained away his fear, his sorrow, and his self-hatred, leaving behind nothing but an eerie, weightless emptiness.

The paranoia and vigilance that had dictated his life for so long simply withered away.

Slowly, Dust sank onto a long stone bench within the castle hall. His skeletal hands, which used to tremble ceaselessly, reached up to grab the edge of his blood-stained blue hood the very shroud he had used to hide from the world and pulled it down. He exposed his bare skull to the biting chill of the castle air. His eye sockets dimmed as he leaned his head back against the stone, completely still, surrendering himself to this twisted serenity while the darkness watched his every move from the depths of the shadows.

_____

The Blood Pact and the Newcomer [1.3]

However, Dust was not the only broken soul caged within the dark god’s domain. In another secluded wing of the freezing stone fortress, a rift in dimensions had dragged in another version of Sans from a distant, bleak timeline... Horror Sans, from the starving, feral wasteland of Horrortale.

Horror had walked into this nightmare driven by a bargain signed in blood and tears. His world had been ravaged by a famine so severe that monsters resorted to the unthinkable just to survive. Desperate, he had bowed to Nightmare for the ability to cross into other worlds, strictly to bring back food and meat to sustain his brother and his people. But the price of his compliance was the very safety of Horrortale, and a cursed, bottomless hunger that the dark lord had carved deep into his magic.

Even now, Horror remembered the day he tried to defy an monstrous order the day he realized he had been utterly cheated by the master of deception.

Nightmare: “Are you refusing me, Horror?” Nightmare’s low, rumbling voice from that day still echoed in his skull, accompanied by the memory of a black appendage crushing his windpipe until his neck bones creaked. “Our pact was simple. You receive sustenance, so long as you 'hunt' for me.”

Horror: “But you said... only humans!” Horror had snarled back then, his single crimson eye widening with raw fury and terror. “You said I’d only have to hunt humans from other worlds! You never said anything about slaughtering monsters! They have nothing to do with this!”

Nightmare: had widened his grin, cold and remorseless. “My contracts alter at my whim. If you refuse to lift your axe against the monsters of foreign worlds, I will simply redirect my focus. I shall send my forces to turn your precious Horrortale into a slaughterhouse instead. How does that sound?”

That ruthless blackmail left Horror utterly paralyzed. He had to swallow his pride and his guilt, transforming into a bloodthirsty butcher who slaughtered indiscriminately, all just to keep his dying world safe.

...Until today.

As Horror dragged his weary, perpetually starved body through one of the castle corridors, he caught the hushed whispers of Nightmare’s lesser servants passing by. ‘Did you hear? Lord Nightmare brought in a new one... some murderous skeleton from a collapsed timeline.’ Those words made Horror pause, his crimson eye flashing in the gloom.

Driven by a grim curiosity, he slung his massive, rusted axe over his shoulder and crept through the silent stone halls, until his gaze landed on a solitary bench in the distance.

There, sitting on the stone, was a skeleton in a blue hoodie stained with dust and dried blood. His hood was pulled down, his face exposing a bizarrely serene expression that completely contradicted the aura of death surrounding him. For the very first time, Horror's crimson eye locked onto Dust another victim caught in the very same shackles of the nightmare.

___

The Unfamiliar Touch and Ordinary Silence [1.4]

As Dust allowed his mind to drift deeper into that fabricated, hollow void, a sudden, blunt sensation tapped against the side of his skull.

Bonk!

It wasn't forceful enough to cause pain, but it possessed just enough momentum to tilt his head slightly to one side. Dust flinched in sheer surprise, his killer instincts instantly flaring up, ready to strike. Yet, as he whipped his head around, he was met with the sight of a skeleton with a massive, jagged hole split across his skull. The stranger was casually leaning the back of his head against the stone bench. His single, crimson eye socket stared back, entirely devoid of malice, hostility, or any intent to harm.

Such a blank, dazed demeanor left Dust feeling utterly exasperated. ‘Does this guy have a death wish or something?’ Dust thought. He aggressively yanked his blue hood back over his skull, shielding his face once more, before letting out a low, menacing growl intended to instill terror.

Dust: "Who the hell are you... do you want to be turned to dust? Back off if you value your life," Dust threatened, his voice dropping into a dangerous octave as his magic eye flared.

But instead of fleeing or showing fear, the broken-headed skeleton simply tilted his head. His naturally macabre, permanent grin remained completely unmoved. To Horror, Dust’s threat didn't hold an ounce of dread. In fact, Horror privately reasoned that if they were judging strictly by appearances, he with a crater in his skull and clothes stained with the remnants of fresh flesh was by far the more terrifying one.

In Horror’s eyes, he didn't see Dust as a formidable, ruthless murderer at all.

What he saw sitting on that bench was merely a skeleton who mirrored his own past self a soul utterly broken, pitiable, and completely lost in the cage of his own tormenting memories.

Without uttering a single word, Horror walked around the bench and plopped himself down right next to Dust.

The sudden action caused Dust’s eye sockets to widen, his entire skeletal frame freezing rigid in panic and sheer disbelief. Normally, anyone who crossed paths with him would either flee, shriek in horror, or tremble before the heavy sins he bore. Yet, this fractured skeleton sat beside him as cool as a cucumber, looking at him as if Dust were just an ordinary, regular person who happened to share the same bench.

A profound silence enveloped the two of them. Dust, still stiff as a board and unsure of how to react, could only steal glances at the stranger who sat beside him in absolute comfort. The suffocating weight of the nightmare around them seemed to shift, giving way to a bizarre, unspoken solace that neither of them had felt in a very, very long time.

_____

Fake Stars and the Shadowed Conversation

After a long while, the stubborn silence was finally broken by the fractured skeleton. Horror didn’t turn to look at Dust directly; instead, he leaned his weight back against the stone, tilting his skull back to gaze at the ceiling above. His crimson eye caught a faint, shimmering reflection hidden within the high shadows of the hall.

Horror: "Heh... funny, isn't it?" Horror murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Even though that guy's castle is as bleak and pitch-black as hell itself... there are actually stars up there on the brick ceiling. Even if they're just fakes."

Those words piqued Dust’s curiosity. His gaze reluctantly drifted upward, following the direction of Horror’s skeletal finger. There, etched into the soaring, charcoal-gray stone ceiling, were tiny, magical particles twinkling softly, mimicking a starry night sky from the surface world. It was a small, fragile piece of beauty hidden in the heart of despair. Deep down, Dust felt a strange sense of comfort wash over him. Yet, his stubborn pride and defensive walls forced him to instantly mask it with a cold, aloof demeanor.

Dust: "Hmph... It's decent, I guess," Dust grunted, keeping his tone as flat and indifferent as possible.

Horror: let out a low, amused chuckle. He then slapped his hand against his knee as if suddenly remembering something. "Ah... my bad. Completely forgot to introduce myself. The name's Sans."

Dust snapped his head around, his eye sockets widening slightly in confusion. ‘Sans? Well, obviously... I'm Sans too.’

Horror: Before Dust could even open his mouth to question it, Horror cut in with a dazed, knowing grin. "But hey... usually, when we’re from different timelines, people prefer to use our universe tags. For me... you can just call me Horror. What about you? Where're you from?"

Dust: went quiet for a heartbeat, his vigilance slowly eroding against the stranger's disarmingly blunt honesty. "I'm from Dusttale..." he muttered, his voice softening a fraction before he looked away. "You can just call me Dust."

Hearing that name brought a genuine spark to Horror's crimson eye. A profound sense of kinship and warmth instantly settled in his chest. He felt incredibly relieved that the newcomer had chosen to open up to him. For the longest time, Horror had been isolated, deeply craving the simple comfort of talking to another version of 'himself' who was actually lucid and sane, rather than the mindless, screaming abominations he usually crossed paths with.

With the ice officially broken, the suffocating awkwardness vanished. The two began to casually drift from one topic to another. Horror, growing more comfortable, started poking fun at their grim surroundings.

Horror: "Honestly, Dust... don't you think this edgy nightmare fortress feels more like an ice castle?" Horror grumbled, tugging the fur collar of his jacket tighter. "It's so freezing in here my ribs are practically rattling."

Dust: "Heh... glad I'm not the only one who thought so," Dust replied, a faint, genuine smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth. "All we're missing is some snow queen running around singing a song."

They continued to banter, making light of the oppressive darkness and the biting chill of the castle. Yet, throughout it all, an unspoken agreement hung between them. Neither of them uttered a single word about the horrific pasts they carried, the atrocities they had committed, or the dark bargains that had bound them to this place. They left their tragedies in the dark, choosing instead to let this shared, fleeting moment be their only sanctuary.

_____

Sometimes I draw before I write, but I prefer writing over drawing