Work Text:
When Ink opens his eye sockets, he sees nothing but gold.
There was nothing. And, then, there was something. There is color.
There is ink.
"Huh- Wuh?" Ink mumbles, as he's pulled into a desperate embrace. He's being held on to like a lifeline: He's being held like if he's let go of, he'll escape back down into oblivion. Ink won't though. Because here, Ink is safe. Here, Ink is known. Ink is loved.
The touch of a creator; He exists once again.
"Never do that again," Dream says, already sobbing like a fresh downpour of rain. He pulls Ink closer. Like moth to light, Ink reaches out and anchors himself in the contact.
Ink is in the Doodlesphere. Ink is in Dream's arm. Ink is alive.
"I make zero promises," Ink rasps, attempting a smile. He coughs- ink droplets splattering on to his fist as he hastily attempts to contain himself. Dream wipes away the remnants, touch almost incomprehensibly gentle: it's as if he's handling an age worn masterpiece, in awe at its beauty and devoted to its survival.
Dream tries to frown. Tries, being the important modifier. As, with the gentle light escaping into this basement, basking Dream in a sunlight halo: He can look nothing but angelic. He looks tired, scared, and worn; He has been haunted by his actions, by what he could have done- what he didn't: what he did. And yet, despite the trembling of his mouth, the tears staining his cheeks; The sunshine on his back, and the body in his arms: He is still the most perfect thing that Ink has ever seen.
Ink settles a hand against Dream's cheek. "Hey," he says, voice low. He smirks. "Is that really you? Or, am I just daydreaming?"
Dream turns his face into his shoulder, embarrassed. And yet, he smiles: warm. The blush that creeps across his cheeks is a reward enough. But still, he leans down, pressing a kiss against Ink's forehead. "I'm here," he says. A promise. "It's me."
A Guardian.
Ink's gaze trails the scene of his basement. Twelve buckets: all knocked over, ink mixing together like the Starry Night; That is where Ink had been pulled from.
His magic runs freely, creativity thrumming like blood to heart. He looks at his wrist- the inhibitor is missing. Deus ex machina? Perhaps. Ink smiles. He looks up once again.
The basement shelves- they're full to the brim with ink: jars and buckets and vials. All organized. All neatly labeled in Dream's chicken scratch handwriting. Creation had returned; Ink had succeeded. How? He doesn't know. There is no memory. And yet, Ink does not find himself without.
"How long was I dead?" Ink asks, relaxing where his head lays in Dream's lap. It almost always took some time. There was variance, though. Days, weeks, months- it depended. From the looks of things... Dream had been collecting for a while.
Dream grimaces, midnight blue. There's still tears, falling down his face: staining his worried smile. He breathes. "... Three months?" He lays a hand against Ink's sternum, a gentle comfort. "I didn't know if you were coming back, Ink."
Oh.
Ink makes an attempt to sit up. It really is an attempt, as he fails almost immediately. Dream catches him, pulling him tight against his chest once more. Ink lets his skull connect with Dream's ribs; He basks in the gentle warmth- the beating of his soul. A reminder.
"Don't tell me you moved on already? Left me for another- Gasp! You were only with me for my inheritance, weren't you-"
Ink is interrupted by Dream's loud, golden laughter. He hiccups: catching his breath as he wipes away the last of his tears. "No- No!" he giggles, sunny. "I- Actually? You know what? Sure. I did. I left you for Cross. We have... twelve children. Thirteen." Dream's nose crinkles from how hard he smiles. And yet, still, there is the undercurrent of winter-lake blue sadness.
Cross? Ink blinks. He reaches for his neck- desperate for a reminder. But, there is nothing: only finding the soft fabric of his shirt. So, Ink asks, "Uh. Who's Cross?"
There's a beat of silence. Dream's brows knit themselves together. He settles a hand against Ink's cheek, loving. "I was joking- Oh," he hums, thinking. Realization dawns upon him like a morning sunrise. "There is... a lot to catch you up on." Dream moves to stand up, carefully tucking Ink against himself with ease: strength flowing like an endless river.
"What exactly does your inheritance include?" Dream asks as he walks up the basement stairs.
Ink's arms feel like they belong, strung around Dream's neck. He can't help but kick his feet as he settles into the weightlessness: a bright joyful mix of gold, orange, and pink paint the marrow of his bones.
"Hmm... Dreamy, are you familiar with the wonders of methamphetamine?"
Dream snorts. He's about to open the door- the one that leads to Ink's living room. But, Ink stops him: pulling him into a kiss.
It's a little inconvenient- Dream has to hoist Ink up, settling him higher in his arms. But, still, it works. It's not perfect- It won't ever be perfect. And, that's what makes it worth it. Ink kisses Dream; Ink knows there will always be time to kiss again.
"Of course," Dream says, opening the door and walking into Ink's living room. Ink takes the chance to look around- it looks practically unchanged, from what he remembers. Maybe a bit more tidy? In any case, for however long Dream has been here, he had respected its natural state. "I watched that show with you- remember?" Ink takes the chance to press another kiss to Dream's mouth. And then another.
"'That show'- really?" Ink chuckles. "I swear, for months all you wanted to talk about was the tragedy of Jesse Pinkman."
Dream turns his head, blush warm. Still, he smiles. "It- It was a good show- Anyway. What else does your inheritance include, besides copious amounts of methamphetamine?"
There's light shining through the windows. That was the one thing that Dream had changed- he had thrown all the curtains open, letting in the natural brightness of the Doodlesphere creep into the corners of Ink's cottage. He had embraced where he was. What Ink was.
The door to Ink's bedroom creaks open, and Dream walks inside. "Hmm," Ink hums, indulging in yet another kiss. He had a lot of missed time to make up for- a lot of lost experiences. Stories and arcs: he yearned to explore them all. "Gold. Art supplies- all of your pens, actually. Stolen. Sooooooo stolen. I'll tell ya the rest if you tell me who the hell Cross is."
Dream blinks, standing still in front of Ink's bed. "Oh," he says. "He showed up while you were, erm, gone. The first time. I can introduce you two, later."
"Wow, introducing me to the mistress?" Ink clicks his tongue. "Brash- bold. But I'll admit- interesting. I've taught you well, Dreamland."
Dream smiles, at that. He walks forward and sets Ink down upon his bed. Ink relaxes, in the softness. He stretches out- letting himself starfish as far as he can. The sheets still smell like paint, and the covers have remained pleasantly comfortable; With a bit of concentration, Ink can feel the gentle warmth of Dream's magic. When Ink finally melts into the mattress, he feels his arm connect with something wooden. Ink turns his head, inspecting.
"Broomie!" Ink cries out, pulling Broomie tight into his arms. Oh- how long had it been! He nuzzles into the wood, gold dancing in his mind. Dream is smiling bright, from where he's standing. He tucks his hands behind his back, posture straight: pride. He seems to weigh a choice: taking a step forward, and then taking a step back. The corner of his mouth pulls to the side. He takes another step back.
"I am... I am so glad you're safe, Ink. I am glad you're alive."
Ink narrows his brows. He watches as Dream takes another step back, turning to look at the door. He waits, pondering.
Is... Is he seriously thinking about leaving? Seriously? After everything? Ink feels the hot flush of red burning within him like a newly lit flame.
"Daydream. If you don't get in here right now, I am doxxing you. Full legal name. Address. Allergies- that fanfiction I know you've written. The fact you've killed me. Twice. All online, for all the Undernet to see."
Dream jumps. In less than a moment, he's walking over and crawling into bed beside Ink: cyan shame evident on his face. "I thought-" Dream mumbles, interrupted as Ink pulls Dream on top of him. Ink kisses him; Hard and desperate, hands trailing the back of Dream's skull: it tastes of raspberries and almost-too-sweet jam- Victory.
"I thought I told you to refrain from using that name," Dream murmurs, sockets half lidded and smile wide. Ink reaches out to feel the golden blush that has painted Dream's cheeks- it's just as warm as he expected. Warmer, actually.
Ink kisses him again. It's slower, this time. Softer. Ink sighs when Dream's tongue swipes across his. This is what he'd missed. This is what had been taken from him- driven by his own actions, or not. It's nice, the burning heat of Dream. It's not like he can be burned. So, he'll let himself be swallowed by the fire. It's not like you can be an Icarus, without any wings. Ink is safe.
"Aren't we gonna be married?" Ink pulls away, panting. He presses a kiss to Dream's jaw- the cusp of his cheek. Dream blinks, and Ink takes the chance to press a sloppy kiss to the top of his eye socket. "Does it really matter?"
For a moment, there is silence. Dream stares at him.
"Don't..." Ink trails off, violets blooming in his chest. "Don't tell me you forgot? Really- Sunshine, really?"
The proposal- it had been so sweet. Ink's memory is hazy, but at the very least he can remember that. Pressed against a wall: kissed like a last goodbye. It- It had been so smooth! So perfect! A wonderful way to end an arc: to open a new page. And- Dream had forgotten it? Really? Ink frowns, blue coating the inside of his mouth.
Dream looks at him with wide eye-sockets, clear embarrassment and concern clouding his expression. "N-No," he's quick to correct. He kisses Ink: firm and sweet, an apology. "No- I did not. I..." he mumbles, resting his forehead against Ink's. He sighs. "There was... quite a bit, going on. You weren't exactly in the best of states. I... I didn't want to assume, that your answer would remain the same, under better circumstances."
Ink cradles Dream's face in his hands, gentle. "Dream," he says, squeezing his cheeks. "You're stupid." He licks the bridge of Dream's nose, nectar-orange triumphant in his mind as Dream scrunches up his face: laughing. "I'm afraid it's terminal."
The kiss that Ink pulls into is sunshine-sweet. Wonderful. "You have thirty seconds, actually," he says, blowing a raspberry against Dream's mouth. Dream laughs again: bright and beautiful. "Before you die- of stupid. Stupid idiot disease. It will be painful, I'm warning you."
"Okay," Dream says, plopping his head against Ink's shoulder. "It has, erm, been nice knowing you."
Ink blows another raspberry against the top of Dream's skull. "Actually I just cured it- you're stuck with me forever. We're gonna be toxic yaoi husbands and we're going to have a complex, intricately written alterous relationship that the fandom will boil down as either irredeemably abusive or 'just two fluffy little gay boys'. No in-between. And we're gonna kiss. A lot. No takebacksies."
How Dream looks at him- it's genuine. It's nearly frightening. Under this golden gaze, Ink is known.
"Whatever you wish, Ink," Dream says, smiling.
"Um," Ink says, following the gentle curve of Dream's mouth. He traces it with the pad of his thumb, admiring the line of action. "What were we talking about?"
The pillow feels nice against Ink's head, as Dream pulls himself forward once more: pinning Ink down.
"I don't know," Dream says, kissing Ink like they have all the time in the Multiverse. Dream kisses Ink like Ink deserves it- like he's worthy of this love, this knowledge. Dream kisses Ink like they have a happy ending.
And, here in each other's arms, they do.
“Oh,” Ink sighs. Dream has trailed his way down to Ink’s neck, mouth sunshine-hot against his bone. He places a kiss at the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his vertebrae: slowly working down until he meets the line of Ink’s collar. And there, he stays; Tongue following code markings like directions on a map. The sheets feel nice, bunched in Ink’s hands. He has to anchor himself to something or- well, Ink doesn’t actually know. What he does know is that he can’t stop himself from bucking his hips, when Dream sucks on just the right spot.
“Oh, Dream,” he whines. He’s fighting to keep his sockets open- something heavy within his chest pulling them down. Ink tries to focus on the painted mural above his bed; The composition flows, colors blended like ocean waves crashing together. How long had it taken him to create- what paint brushes had he used, and what techniques? It’s pointless to ask himself, as he’s quickly drawn back to the reality at hand: Dream’s mouth on his neck, and Dream’s hands gentle against his rib cage.
It feels good. It feels like rosehip tea down his throat, and burning light against his bones. Ink releases the hold he has on his sheets, feebly grasping for something else to touch. He tries the back of Dream’s cape- but he can’t get a good grip. He needs something. Something more, something hotter: something to quell this churning sunset palette.
Ink just about gets his answer, when Dream finds his way back to his mouth. He meets him with anticipation, mouth open and colors blazing within him. Dream’s tongue traces the outline of Ink’s fangs; It sends a shiver down his spine, jerking his hips up without his permission. And, yet, Ink can’t complain. Just how long had it been, since they had kissed like this? How long had it been since Ink had been touched?
Desire- flowing through his marrow; That is what is driving him. The desire to explore. The desire to be known. The desire to feel.
One of Dream’s hands has found its way under Ink’s shirt, warm and careful. Through memory alone, he traces the lines of Ink’s markings. He touches him like he’s a sculpture: already carved with intent. He doesn’t touch him like he’s fragile- Dream knows that Ink won’t break. But, he touches him like he could feel pain: as if Ink belongs. And some part of him, despite the facts, feels like he does.
Like pencil to paper: ideas revealed, this quiet devotion sparks Ink into action.
Ink pauses, giving a tame bite to Dream’s tongue. Dream whines- pulling away just enough to give Ink a betrayed look. He’s cute; That’s an objective fact, thank you very much. Eye sockets lidded, face dusted with golden-honey blush, and mouth pulled down into a small pout. Ink can’t help but stick his tongue out at him, playful.
Dream starts to retract his hand from Ink’s chest, but Ink stops him just in time. He traps Dream’s hand, guiding the other from Ink’s hip to the hem of Ink’s shirt.
“If we’re gonna raise the rating- I want this off.”
Ink watches as Dream blinks at him, slow. He sits up- stradling Ink’s thigh. He looks down at his hands, and then back up at Ink.
“Hng?” He says, eloquently.
Ink sighs. He lets his head connect with his pillow, firm. The itch of pink pulls him to act. So, Ink sits up and begins to undo Dream’s cape. Dream still stares at him, processing, as Ink throws the clothing item without any care as to where it lands. He’s working on getting Dream’s tunic off his shoulders when he responds with, “The rating, Dream. Were you thinking Mature, or Explicit?”
Again, Dream pauses. He looks at Ink, eye-lights blown wide, hands still shaking where they lay against Ink.
“Is there a rating above that?”
Ink can’t help but snort, smiling as Dream smiles back at him: awkward but oh so adorable.
And then, Dream gets moving. He lets Ink remove his tank top- of which Ink also throws in satisfaction. It lands somewhere on the floor, probably. But, there’s no point in checking, as Dream is finally lifting Ink’s own shirts up and over his head between kiss after kiss.
The cool air feels pleasant against Ink’s rib cage. Even more so, with Dream’s burning hands- glove free- trailing across the bones. He pushes Ink back against his headboard- Ink had carved the wood himself, once upon a time. The etchings mirrored his own: branded across his ribs.
His ribs- Dream’s touch is light against his ribs. Burning. The heat of the sun: burning. Ink is being pushed down again, head colliding with the pillow. Dream settles himself on top of Ink, knee pressed against his pelvis, hips grinding down onto Ink’s thigh. If he concentrates hard enough he can, well, feel that Dream is hard. He presses his leg up and- Yep, definitely hard: ecto shimmering until it disappears down into the line of Dream’s pants. And, unlike previous makeout sessions, Dream lets himself indulge in the contact.
Dream was nervous, about the possibility of sex. That had been made clear to Ink. Ink was curious about the whole thing; It was another act to experience, another way to explore character dynamics. And, from what Ink had gathered, it felt interesting. He trusted Dream, as much as he found himself able to trust. With how they had already ventured into the realm of kissing- passionately, touches wandering; It seemed like an opportunity to have fun.
It seemed… interesting.
And yet, anytime Ink had tried to initiate, Dream would leave: excuses poor and his attempt to hide his clear arousal even poorer.
Eventually, Ink had cornered Dream: forcing a conversation. If they didn’t have sex- that would be fine. Not all story possibilities needed to be explored. Not all story possibilities should be explored. Ink was interested, though: despite what people often claimed of him. Dream had listened to him, sheepish, before admitting that he had no clue how to bring up the topic. They’d try it, sometime. And, if it wasn’t to their liking, it would simply have been an experiment.
“Here,” Ink murmurs, grabbing one of Dream’s hands, guiding it within his thoracic cage. The sharp intake of breath he breathes- it’s simple cause and effect, with how Dream’s touch ghosts over the sensitive bone.
This had been where Dream had laid the final blow: twice. And, Ink would let Dream touch him here any time.
Dream’s phalanges trail across the ribs: stopping at the visceral side of his sternum, rubbing circles into the roughness. “Good,” Ink whispers, sound strained as he tries to keep himself together. He can feel the magic swirling within him- a textured mix of desire and peace: want and joy. Exhilaration. How long had his magic been kept- trapped? It begs to be used. Acknowledged.
Ink throws up.
“Shit,” he says, cyan-apologetic. The magic release doesn’t actually seem to help much. He’s still running on the high of reincarnation- he wouldn’t need a refill of paint for a good while. The heat still burns within him. The need.
Ink reaches out a hand, attempting to wipe away the ink now staining the Dream’s chest, dripping between his ribs. Had this been what Dream looked like- covered in his blood? Mourning his death- vowing vengeance? Dream blinks, eye-lights fixed on the splatter. For a moment, he seems to consider; head tilted, fingers still pressed into Ink’s ribs. He looks back at Ink. He looks back down at his chest. And, surprising the both of them, he takes the pad of his thumb, swipes some of the ink off of his sternum, and pops it into his mouth.
Dream raises a brow- disgusted? Indifferent? Pleased? Ink looks on in excited horror as Dream pauses, reaching down to take another test.
“Not bad,” he says, surprised at his own words. He looks at Ink, smile tinged with cyan- embarrassment. Ink can’t help but continue to stare with bright marigold surprise. He’s still reeling from the scene, when Dream leans back down to kiss him. He tastes of honey and… ink. Dream is right- not bad. Ink nuzzles against Dream’s cheek, as he presses kiss after kiss to the corner of his mouth. He nearly whimpers, when Dream pulls away. Nearly.
“So,” Dream starts, continuing to work gentle circles into the underside of Ink’s sternum, “This feels… pleasurable, for you?” He looks at Ink, expression painted with gentle curiosity.
Ink blinks. “Um,” Ink says, fighting back a breathy sigh. Once more, his eye sockets threaten to slip shut. He fights to keep them open- he wants to see the golden tint that has taken over the entirety of Dream’s face. “Yeah? Is that not normal?”
Ribs- they’re supposed to be sensitive, from what Ink has seen. What he’d read.
Dream hums, touch still rhythmic. Nice. “I wouldn’t say that,” he pauses, thinking. “It would be… too sensitive, for most- the underside.”
“What feels good for you?” Ink asks, purely curious.
A pause. And then, Dream removes his hand. Ink’s about to complain, but soon enough he’s entranced by the motions that Dream is drawing across his own bones.
“Here,” Dream says, touch ghosting over the edges of his ribs- where ecto met bone. Ink reaches out his own hand, following his trajectory. It’s nice, how Dream melts into the touch: letting out a little pleased noise. Cute. Dream lets his hand settle over his own sternum. He doesn’t keep it there long, though, letting it fall down by Ink’s side. His breath hitches- perhaps a little surprised, when Ink rests his hand where Dream’s had just laid.
“Your soul.”
Dream nods- is that embarrassment? His expression is tinted cyan, gaze slightly averted.
“Can I see it?”
There’s a decent pause. Silence. And, within this silence- this prolonged, devastating silence- Ink believes he’s fucked up. He’s fucked up- he’s ruined the moment. Ruined this scene. He had asked for too much. Of course, Dream wouldn’t want to show him his soul. That was too vulnerable. Too much, too soon.
“Yes,” Dream says, quiet and tentative. The word- it knocks the breath out of Ink, despite the lack of need. Dream smiles at him. Waiting. Eventually, Ink nods again: confirmation.
Ink blinks, as Dream guides his hands out. He squeezes Ink’s hands: loving and soft. Kind. He brings them up to his mouth, pressing gentle kisses to the tips of his phalanxes, slow and careful. He smiles at Ink, when he’s done. Gentle. Sunshine-gold. And then, he’s pulling out his soul. “You may.”
In Ink’s hands is a little ball of flame, golden against his fingers.
Huh.
“I thought it was an apple?” Ink asks, plain in his curiosity. He stares at the little ball of light- in awe. This was Dream. All of Dream. It was like holding all the words of a book- all the brushstrokes that made up a painting. More than that, though- the concept itself. The creation.
Dream laughs at that, bright and clear. Ink can feel it against his chest- where Dream had laid his head against his rib cage. He smiles, down at Ink, sockets still half lidded. Dream presses a quick kiss to one of his true ribs.
“I absorbed the apple. My soul is, well. My soul.”
“Oh.”
Well, the majority of Dream/Reader fanfiction that Ink had read just got proven wrong. Not a loss, though. As this is more interesting.
Experimentally, Ink trails the pad of this thumb across the soul: careful. It looks like flame, but it behaves like acrylic against his touch. Interesting. The flame- it parts against his touch, flowing back together the moment it is allowed. It beats a steady rhythm, alive in his hands.
This seems to draw a sharp breath from Dream- his sockets have slid shut, mouth trembling. He moans, when Ink presses a kiss into his soul: slow and sweet. Curious. It sends a shiver of static through his mouth. For a moment, Ink thinks he tastes a hint of apple. For just a moment, though.
When Ink licks it? That rewards Ink with a breathy little, “Fuck.” Perfect. Delectable, even.
“If I bite this, will you kill me again?” Ink asks, still in awe at how a single caress can have Dream trembling. He presses a kiss into Dream’s soul- and then another. It’s warm. Burning hot, actually. If you told Ink it was a little sun, he might believe you, if only for a moment. A star.
“I- Ah,” Dream moans. He sucks in another breath- hard. Ink drags his tongue across the heat. Dream jerks at that, hand clenching where it lays at Ink’s side. He fumbles, for a moment. And then, he grasps at Ink’s ribs, hooking his fingers into the gaps. A lifeline. Ink rewards this behavior with another kiss. “Do as you wish, I-” Ink sucks, where he has his mouth resting on the soul. He laps at the area, tongue working circles into the magic. “Please, I- fuck.”
Ink bites down.
Well, he lets his fangs connect with Dream’s soul. He doesn’t want to kill Dream, here. Not after everything they’ve been through. So, he grazes his canines across the magic; A controlled bite, if you will.
It’s rewarding all the same.
“Ink,” Dream breathes the name through closed teeth. The hold he has on Ink’s ribs is tight- painful, if Ink could feel pain. But, he can’t, so it simply leaves Ink feeling satisfied. Dream has his head buried into Ink’s chest, nuzzling into the bone. Ink wishes he could see his expression, when he licks the new bite marks, tongue wide and soft. Ink will have to live with Dream’s shuddering form, hands still grasping onto him like an anchor.
Art- that’s what that is. The art of undoing. The art of experience. And Ink, the artist: skilled in his craft: open to learning.
On what seems to be a whim, Dream pushes himself up and practically lunges at Ink. Ink is quick to return his kiss, though. It feels like Dream is trying to worm his way into his bones- into the ink that has created him, birthed him anew; And, Ink doesn’t mind. Not one bit.
“Ink,” Dream moans again. A plea- a prayer? Maybe something more, considering all the weird fae cliches that Dream has going on. Ink has let go of the soul- enjoying the warmth from where it sits against his chest. Ink pulls him closer, hand anchored against his spine, trailing the vertebrae covered by his sunshine-hot ecto. “Ink,” Dream breathes, again. He trails kisses down Ink’s jaw, to his neck: sucking and biting all the way. Ink nuzzles against the top of Dream’s skull, breathing hard despite the lack of need: it feels good all the same.
And then, Dream is trailing back up to Ink’s mouth: just as hot, and just as sweet.
There’s something burning, within Ink’s chest. Something bright. Something golden. He feels it, brewing within him: a falling asteroid, a burning crash site. It feels too good to be true; Too good to be real.
Creation.
Ink opens his sockets. Dream has fallen into the crook of his neck, panting. Ink trails a hand across the back of his skull; He presses a kiss against the top of his head, well deserved.
His gaze trails the mural above his bed; A calm, serene scene of endless buttercups and peaceful trees. He looks at Dream: burning bright, golden. And he looks down at his chest. Just the same.
Oh.
“Huh,” Ink says, staring at Dream’s soul, sitting within his chest.
It must have gotten caught- while they were making out. It sits, pressed against the sensitive vast underside of Ink’s ribs. That’s why everything was feeling so good. So golden. So warm.
So that’s what it would look like, if Ink had a soul.
If Ink had always belonged.
Dream seems to have caught on to the fact that something was amiss. He sits up, wobbly in his movements- drunk on affection. Finally, his gaze settles on Ink’s rib cage. He pauses.
“Shit- I, sorry- Um-,” Dream tries to pull away, which in turn pulls Ink with him: soul caught against his sternum.
Ink can’t help but moan, as it presses into his sensitivity.
That’s panic, etched across Dream’s face, as he attempts to figure out just how to untangle them. Ink is too busy staring at the shining within his chest to say, or do much, though. He settles a hand across his chest. It feels like burning.
It feels good.
“Hold on,” Ink mumbles. He’s moved his hands to Dream’s bare shoulders, holding himself up. He breathes. The soul burns hot. Powerful. Worried. He stares at Dream’s own chest: still ink stained from earlier. He looks down, taking in the honey-gold of Dream’s ecto. His magic. He stares at his own chest, bright from the pure light within him. Sunlight.
Ink meets Dream’s gaze. “Stay,” he whispers, voice unusually unsteady.
And so, Dream stays.
Ink can feel the steady beat of Dream’s soul. The life.
“Okay,” Dream murmurs, as Ink leans forward, capturing the vertebrae of Dream’s neck in a kiss. He licks at the bone, tongue working like it had been on Dream’s soul. And, Ink can feel the jump in Dream’s soul, at the pleasure. Golden. He sucks. There- another jump of pleasure; It vibrates against his own sensitivity. “Okay,” Dream repeats. A statement. He melts into the kisses that Ink trails across his neck. Soothed like a good cup of chamomile tea.
There’s nothing but sunflowers and cherry blossoms in Ink’s mind, as Dream begins to fiddle with the hem of Ink’s overalls. “Your pseudocorpus,” Dream breathes, pulling the fabric down around Ink’s hips. The air feels cold- pleasant, against his pelvis and femurs. Ink can feel how Dream’s soul beats faster, as he traces the arc of his iliac crest. Ink bucks his hips forward into the touch. “Do you wish to use it?”
Ink blinks. “My ecto?” he clarifies, helping Dream pull his overalls all the way off. He moves to his socks; Meanwhile, Ink focuses on ripping off his gloves. And then- there. He’s naked. Nude, if you will.
“Yeah, sure,” Ink adds, focused on trying to get Dream’s pants off. His magic has been begging- pleading to be formed. So, with a breath, he finally listens to it.
It’s cute, feeling how Dream’s soul beats faster as his gaze travels from where his soul is now trapped within Ink’s rib cage, down to the rainbow swirl of his stomach: down further. He reaches out a hand, trailing his thumb across the dip of his hip. His touch is calculated- careful. “Pretty,” he murmurs, quiet. As if it’s to himself. He leans forward and gives Ink a kiss. It’s slow and sweet. Lilies and marigolds.
After what feels like an eternity, Ink is able to pull Dream’s pants down over his hips. Dream kicks them off the rest of the way.
“Wow, uh,” Ink trails off, staring at the golden length of Dream’s dick. There’s a nice gentle upwards action line- that’s gonna feel nice, if what Ink has read holds any accuracy. He reaches out and pulls down the forming precome; This pulls out maybe the cutest breathy sigh from Dream, which in turn ignites a trill of pleasure through Ink: Dream’s soul beating fast. “Nice dick you’ve got there, pal.” Ink’s being honest. This is an artistic dick. A dick he’s going to draw. A lot.
Dream has tucked his head into his shoulder, blush hot and smile trembling. He sighs again, as Ink teases another stroke. “You, uh, got a license for it?” Ink asks.
Before he knows it, Ink is being pushed back down onto the mattress. The kisses- they’re nice. Better than nice, actually. As, Dream has begun to trace circles onto his clit. Who knew that Dream would be a tease? Ink nearly squeaks, when Dream drags his fingers down the length of his cunt. The noise it makes- it’s dirty. But, most good art is.
And, the way that Dream is straddling his thigh- he can feel the arousal- the precome leaking down onto his magic. It makes Ink feel… something. The colors are too mixed to tell. It’s beautiful all the same.
With a whine from Ink, Dream sits back. His face is the color of fresh honey, his sockets half lidded: posture relaxed and comfortable. Ink can feel the beat of his soul- the satisfaction, as Dream says, “I don’t believe one is necessary, unless you have any objections?”
That bastard.
“Dreamy,” Ink says, pulling Dream back down on top of him. He kisses him- long and slow. Hand settled on the back of Dream’s skull, the other on his lower back: he pulls him closer. He wraps his legs around Dream’s waist, satisfied when he feels Dream’s dick brush against his cunt. “Dreamboat. Sunshine. Sunflower. Honey,” Ink mumbles, moaning as Dream ruts against him. The pressure against his clit- the kiss hot against his mouth, and the steady beat of the soul inside him: It’s nearly too much. Nearly. “As your fiancé- Your future husband.” He whines as Dream rocks against them. They’re so close. So close. Just a little adjustment- that’s all they need. “I need you. Now.”
Dream- as he’s always proven himself to be- is a good listener.
“As you wish,” Dream says.
Dream lines himself up, takes a breath, and fucks into Ink.
Well. There goes any capability of thought.
Ink moans low and deep, as Dream drags his hips back. The soul- it’s hot and beating; It jumps, as Dream rocks back in. Ink pushes himself closer, chasing after the devastatingly slow rhythm that Dream has set.
“Dream,” Ink breathes. This heat- this burning, golden, sunlit heat- had this always been a possibility? It churns within him, basking every other color in a gentle all powerful light. “Dream,” he groans, again. Dream has got one hand on his thigh, and the other anchored by his head. Ink rests his hand over Dream’s; Dream, on instinct, interlocks their fingers. “Fuck,” he whimpers, breathy.
It’s a fight, to keep his eye sockets open. When he closes them he’s met with an infinite swirl of color: a field of sunflowers, tulips, and honeycomb. And, when he opens his eyes, he’s met with Dream, smiling.
Ink can’t help but reach out, and swiping the pad of his thumb across Dream’s cheek. Dream crinkles his nose at him: golden. His breathy sigh is reward enough.
The drag of Dream’s hips- how his cock buries itself inside of him: filling him whole. It’s good. Too good. How can something feel this good? Is this- is this what it’s like- Dream’s aura? The encompassing warmth and passion;The love and desire. Cherry pink, bronze gold. Or- is this just for Ink? A self-indulgent masterpiece- created just for him? Loving hands painting careful brushstrokes, thought put into every line, color, and finish. Creator and creation: experience.
“Need you,” Ink whines, pulling himself closer once more. Dream is more than receptive; It’s fast and hard, now. Just what Ink wants.
When Ink opens his sockets, he finds that Dream is looking at him like he’s hung the stars himself. Like he is a star itself; A sun: his sun. Ink knows that Dream will be there when he finally succumbs to his true supernova death, taking everything in his demise. He will burn; Created. There will be nothing. There will be everything. As it should be; As it was.
The pull of his orgasm starts in his chest; Dream’s soul guides the way.
Ink is still shaking, when he’s able to get out a, “Hold on- need a moment.” Dream stops, letting Ink wrap his arms tight around his waist. They stay there; Ink’s mind settling into a more typical palette, Dream breathing hard into his shoulder.
“Are you done?” Dream asks, cradling Ink’s face. He presses a kiss to Ink’s ink blot, sweet.
Ink shakes his head.
“Not until you fill me up like one of those cream pastries, so. Uh. Flip me over and get bakin’. Capisce?”
Dream blinks, grimacing. As he flips Ink over- pulling Ink’s hips up to meet his, he responds with a defeated, “I ask of you, please do not ever phrase it like that again.”
“What-?” Ink laughs, breath hitching when Dream enters him once more. He buries his face into his arms, focusing on his breath- the beating of the soul still within him. “This is who I am. And you love me.”
Dream sighs. His hand is warm, where it’s resting against his thigh. He pulls them closer; He pushes himself deeper. “Yes,” he says, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice. “I do.”
It’s good. This is good. Ink’s mind is a little clearer, now: like varnish over painting. He’s still wracked with pleasure; It’s hard not to be, when you’re getting fucked by your soon to be husband after defeating death itself, saving the Multiverse with only your wit as a weapon. It’s interesting, is what it really is. These sensations. These colors.
“What’s it feel like?” Ink muses aloud, voice tinted with honest-green curiosity.
He is genuinely wondering. And, it’s fun, how Dream’s voice hitches as he fights to find an answer.
“Um- ah,” Dream says, pulling Ink’s hips even closer- somehow. “Nice?”
“Just ‘nice’?”
Dream answers with another snap of his hips. Ink can’t help but cry out into his arm: muffled. For a moment, a brief moment, he sinks his fangs into the bone- steeling himself. And then, there’s the shockwave of pleasure throughout his rib cage.
Oh. Nice.
“Cool,” Ink responds, shaky.
And, to Ink’s surprise, Dream continues.
“I can, um, f-feel you,” Dream mutters, managing to keep up the pace. He squeezes Ink’s thigh, tracing circles with his thumb. “Your pleasure- not literally. But-” He moans, low, as Ink pushes back his hips. There is no soul, for Dream to feel. No aura. Ink closes his eye sockets and lets Dream’s voice wash over him, despite. “I can feel how you react. How you respond- your noises. Your, ah, tremors. You feel… alive.”
“Burning,” he adds, with a devastating drag of his hips. “I know you’re happy, when you smile at me with your nose crinkled. You shake- when you’re sad. When you’re concentrating, you poke out your tongue to the left, like you can taste your own ideas. You’re easy to read, Ink- it just- it just takes the required time and effort.”
The time and effort that Dream had put in.
“Fuck,” Ink whimpers, head fully buried into the softness of his mattress. “Daydream,” he adds, unable to stop himself.
That seems to do something for Dream. He pulls Ink closer- closer than should be possible; Pushing Ink down, he pulls himself fully on top of him: trailing kisses down his neck.
“I love you,” he whispers, body warm against Ink’s back. “I love you,” he repeats, again; A prayer, an apology. He sneaks his hand across Ink’s chest. It burns like sunshine. “I love you.”
The rock of Dream’s hips- it’s intoxicating. Deep. Ink can only whine, face pressed deep into the softness. His hand finds its way on top of Dream’s. He presses it closer; He traces a sun, with all the willpower he has left.
Ink doesn’t know how long they stay there. He only knows when Dream’s thrusts get erratic, when his breathing gets strained, and when his soul skips a beat: burning desperate against the underside of Ink’s ribs; The release.
Dream collapses on top of Ink. Well, as much as he can, when he was already pressed fully against him. But, Ink can feel him relax: the tension in his bones dissipate.
“That was fun,” he says, trying his best to roll onto his back. He feels the excess magic begin to drip out of him. Sticky. So sticky. Kinda like paint? But not. No. Not like paint. He grimaces. “A good way to celebrate, y’know, not being dead anymore- I deserve a shirt actually: ‘I died, but I got better’.” Dream hums, at that, nuzzling into Ink’s ribcage. The soul still beats steady within him. “I need to bathe, Sunshine. Desperately. Please. It’s been actual months.”
Dream pushes himself up onto his arms, slow blinking at Ink like an adoring cat. He presses another kiss against his sternum. “I’ll run you a bath.” His eye-lights flicker down to the sheets. He frowns. “And, uh, change the bedding. And get you something to eat?”
Perfect. Ink leans forward and brushes their foreheads together.
“Can you walk?” Dream asks, pushing himself up further onto his shins. He stretches with a yawn- arching his back: catlike. In this light, Ink can see that he’s, well… rainbow- his blush, his eye-lights, his general hue. All of it. Magic mix at its finest, it seems.
Ink looks down. He snorts; His magic is completely gold.
“What do you think?”
Dream blinks before nodding, embarrassed. His gaze catches on Ink’s chest: it softens.
His soul. Right. He’d need that back.
“Here,” Ink says, pulling the soul from his rib cage. “I think this belongs to you.”
Dream takes his soul back with careful hands. He settles it back within his own chest; Safe and sound.
“I trust you, Ink. With all of me. I hope you know that.”
Well, obviously. And yet, Ink still finds himself blushing: mind a racing picture of a pastel sunset. He coughs into his fist.
Dream leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead.
“I love you. I will be right back.”
And, Ink trusts him.
-
Later that day, after Ink had been showered, fed, kissed, and more, he finds himself back in bed; Dream's head laid solid in his lap, the perfect table for Ink's sketchbook: pencil flying across paper with practiced movements.
"So," Ink starts, tongue peaking out of his mouth as he concentrates. It's been too long since he's drawn. He puts down another line- confident in how it's beginning to shape up. "You're not joshing me here- Bluebell really quit?"
Dream hums. He's being a good drawing surface- as usual. The only complaint Ink has is he keeps lovingly sighing and squeezing Ink's available foot. Like a weirdo. But, Ink will deal with it. Everyone has flaws.
"Yes," he says. Ink can't see it from here, but he's imagining that Dream is frowning: a misty melancholic cyan. "He did. He, ah- it seems like he was overworked for awhile now. He's staying back in Underswap- he said he'd reevaluate in a year, and take it from there."
Ink hums, processing. It's a little... well, blue, seeing this chapter of the story close. The team had been a way to explore new character dynamics- force himself to build new relationships. It had been how he had met Dream, after all. There was new content up ahead, though. New things to explore; New things to experience. They'd survive without the team. They'd be better for it.
"Is that why you've been squatting at my house- did he kick everyone out?"
Dream pauses- it's clear he's rolling his eye-lights. "No," he says, rolling over to face Ink. Ink lifts a brow, as he raises his sketchbook. He puts it back down when Dream is settled again. "The base remains in the Underground. And- I've only been here to check on things and restock, for you. It was simple luck that I was there when I was."
Fate, perhaps. Or, convenient writing. Either works.
"Dreamy," Ink finishes off another line: decent. "My bed reeks of you. Wanna tell me what that's all about?" Ink smirks, relishing in how Dream shrinks in embarrassment. He sighs.
"I may have slept here a few times." He clears his throat. "Maybe."
With only a bit of reluctance, Ink sets his sketchbook and pencil down on his nightstand- next to where his typical outfit is neatly folded. The oversized t-shirt and sweatpants he's wearing right now are comfortable. He'd stolen them from Dream years ago now, if he's remembering right. Long enough that Dream hadn't realized that they were ever his in the first place.
There's something that Ink is forgetting. He hovers, hand by his nightstand. Without thinking, he reaches into the pocket of his overalls- And, there. He is rewarded.
"Give me your hand. I have a gift."
Dream sits up. He regards Ink with a practiced suspicion, as he holds out his open palm.
"If it is somehow a bug, I am divorcing you," Dream says, earnest. Ink can only smile.
"Oh."
Dream stares at the cigarette that Ink had placed in his hand. He raises a brow: not displeased, simply curious.
Ink shrugs. "Dunno how I got it. But, it's yours now."
It's cute, how Dream looks at the stick with as much longing as a wife waiting for her soldier husband to return from war. He rolls it around in his hand, considering. "Uh," he says. Embarrassed, maybe? "Would you mind if I went and smoked this? I'd make it quick."
"Yes," Ink says, laying himself down. Dream shuffles over to make room, resting a hand on the side of Ink's skull as he settles. Ink takes the chance to use Dream's lap as a pillow- pulling the covers up to his chin. Perfect. "Smoke it here. Hotbox the room, for all I care."
"That's not-" Dream starts, before sighing. Defeat. It doesn't take long for the warmth of smoke to fill the room. Ink closes his sockets; He basks in the familiarity.
"I got an apartment, in the Omega Timeline," Dream says, which comes as a slight surprise to Ink. He breathes. There would be changes- Change was okay. Change would be good. Ink lets the silence hang in the air, focusing on how the smoke billows in front of him: hypnotic. Dream rests a hand against Ink's cheek. With the pad of his thumb, he begins to trace an outline of a sun. "I'm not fully moved in yet. But, it's nice- the privacy."
Things really were changing. How long had Dream been living in that little spare bedroom? Ink remembers when he'd first moved in- how he had stood on Dream's all too firm bed, and painted little glow in the dark stars on the ceiling: Blue watching in fascination by the sidelines. Would Dream take those stars? Or, would Ink be given the privilege of painting them again?
"That's, uh. Nice"
Silence hangs in the air once more. Ink lets it crawl through his bones.
"You'll always be welcome, Ink."
When Ink opens his sockets and looks up at Dream, he finds that Dream is considering him like one considers a masterpiece; With incredible care, he traces the trajectory of his ink blot: a fallen comet, its crash site. He smiles.
To be known. To be thought of.
"How's the Multiverse?" Ink muses.
"... It's better. It's not the same, but it appears healthy. Balanced."
It wouldn't be the same- no. But, again, Ink would deal with it. He would learn.
"... Has Error been giving ya trouble?"
Another pause. Dream takes a lengthy drag from his cigarette. "No," he finally answers, sounding a little confused at his own words. "He's been relatively silent."
That... That probably wouldn't be the case for long. The moment that Error caught wind of Ink being alive.... Well, he'd be on his ass about that promise. Ink was a talker, though. He could stall. That was his specialty, actually.
"And, uh, how's Nightmare?"
Ink's voice catches on the name. The memories are faint- foggy. Blurred like smeared paint. And yet, he still feels the chill of lavender mist creeping up his spine. Ink watches as Dream's expression sours. He turns his head, staring at the burning stick in his hand: corners of his mouth dipping. He looks conflicted- blurry, a photograph out of focus.
"He, ah," Dream murmurs. He sighs, stretching. He takes another puff. "I blinded him during the last fight. Fully."
"What?" Ink can't help but say. He blinks, rapid. "You- How?" His questions are pure- apricot-curious. Still, Dream averts his gaze, body language tinted a shameful cyan. He brings his free hand to his face. He sets it back down. He takes another drag from his cigarette.
"I, um," he murmurs. "I put an arrow through his eye socket. He's lost about ninety percent of his remaining vision, from what I've heard."
"Damn," Ink responds. He would've given anything in the Multiverse to be able to see that. Dream- covered in his blood, on a warpath for vengeance. He probably looked hot. No- Ink knows he looked hot. Maybe... Ink would draw that scene, later. For his personal archives.
Once more, there is silence. Peace. The cigarette is burned to its edge, and Dream hesitates for a moment, before throwing the remains in the bedside trash. He pauses. And then, he lays himself beside Ink.
"Did you know that my brother was dating June?" Dream asks, having pulled the covers up over himself as well. He keeps a hand on Ink's cheek, warm. The question could sound like an accusation- but Ink takes it for the conversation starter he knows it is.
"Gasp! Really?" Ink cries out in mock horror. He blinks. "Who's June?"
Dream rests his forehead against Ink's. His cheeks- they're tinted rainbow. Maybe a little more than tinted, actually. It's physical evidence of how close they've been: how their magic has mixed; Finally, in each other's arms once again.
"Oh," Dream says. He narrows his sockets in thought, choosing his next words with care. "Our friend- the one who runs a shop in the Omega Timeline. The one who loves rubber ducks? He goes by June, now."
"Cool," Ink says, clicking his tongue. "And... he's dating Nightmare?"
Welp. There goes the plausible canon-compliant nature of all his Errormare fanworks.
"Apparently," Dream whispers, hushed. He's got this excited look about him- just how long had it been, since they got to gossip together? One of the earliest markers of their friendship had been Dream catching Ink up on all the on goings of the Omega Timeline: sipping on a nearly forgotten cup of tea while Ink painted, smiling. "They've been together for a few months? It seems? June is taking care of Night while he, uh, heals. It was how I was able to get Broomie back, actually. June is easy to negotiate with."
Broomie is currently laid on the couch, comfortable. Relaxing as it deserves.
The way that Dream traces the code markings on Ink's neck- it sends a shiver down his spine. There's an urge to jerk away, to hide from the fact he's being seen and known. But, Ink fights it. Ink lets himself be cared for. He sighs. "I tried to get your scarf back," Dream murmurs. His voice is tinted with sky-blue regret. "No one could find it. I looked myself. But... I'm sorry."
It is disappointing. Ink yearns for the familiar weight. The smell- the comfort. Ink had a spare, somewhere. That would have to do; He would survive. Nausea twists in his chest, despite.
Ink leans forward and presses a kiss to the cusp of Dream's cheekbone. He stays there, indulging in the warmth of Dream's breath against his bone.
"I'm sorry, Ink," Dream says, an afterimage of his previous words. Ink settles himself even closer, resting a hand against Dream's sternum. He focuses on the heat of his soul: the rhythmic beat. He closes his sockets; This is peace. "For everything- how I jumped to conclusions, how I spoke to you, how I hurt you. I'm sorry."
"I love you."
The words come easy. As, it is nothing but the truth.
Ink loves the Multiverse. Ink loves the Creators. And, Ink loves Dream.
Here, in the quiet colorful peace of Dream's arms, Ink knows that this is understood.
Ink knows that he is known.
Ink lets the cool weight of sleep pull him down under. When he wakes up, once more, he will see nothing but gold.
Sunshine.