A tryst

by aruzze

Summary:

The relationship was growing boring, Ink decided. Not for them (Nightmare and he had long since decided that their truce was as entertaining as useful), but rather for Them, and that simply would not do. Wasn't his job to give Them something interesting?

or

Ink tries to keep a nonexistent fight from fading away, taking advantage of the fact that he can stop feeling affection, if needed. Nightmare isn't that interested in the drama.

“—for the rest of the night?”

The view of Nightmare being bored enough to wipe their glasses with a cloth —clean, dry cups— was quite distracting. As such, Ink took his time to look at him, eyeing him just so from where he rested his chin atop his palm. “...Hm?”

Nightmare’s focus wasn’t quite on him yet, however. He left Ink’s glass on the table just to entertain himself with his own, bringing it up to stare at the inside. Clean, of course. He sighed, deep and tired, and pressed his back against the support of the chair before he even thought of looking him in the eye. Thoughtful, he looked towards the window and to the scenery beyond. “Evading my presence, feigning disinterest when I summon you, ignoring me when we're facing one another... This tantrum of yours, over such senseless things. Playing the part of a bleeding heart does not and won’t ever fit you in the way you desire. I’m able to tell.”

Ink snorted, somewhat amused, and yet. He rolled his eyelights, if only to look at the window, the towering buildings that, beneath the dark sky, lighted up the night like fireflies in summer. It was a pretty fancy place; proper for an apology. It wouldn’t have made sense to forgive him until much later at night, however. Or, as he was feeling adventurous, attempt to stretch the whole argument a few days more, if the vials from his sash didn’t urge him too strongly to drink and nurture balanced emotions.

After all, he had gotten past the uncanniness of knowing that he was missing the full weight of his feelings long ago, much more so when he had a goal in his mind. As, regardless of his inclinations —missing someone was such a stupid feeling, he didn’t know why it appeared so strongly the moment his color palette included even a wisp of pink—, his purpose was to entertain Them before anything else. He owed Them some drama. As so, he willed his eyebrows down, and said, “You captured a whole AU two days into our rest, Night.”

“A touched Universe. Tainted, impure. I doubt any fate within remained truly unadulterated after… well. Their meeting with the wider multiverse,” Nightmare argued. If Ink squinted just so, he could see his bitter smile in the glass, right before it morphed into something more of a smirk. “Why, I have been following its development for weeks, even. You are aware that I’m thoughtful enough to consider your… opinions, much more so when they are regarding your dear Alternative Universes. I would have not pursued it had I not known for a fact that you would not mind my intervention, love.”

“An AU is still an AU.” Ink let his hand drop, and allowed his neck to carry the weight of his skull once again. He stretched on site, bringing his arms up to check whether they had numbed beneath his head, and yawned, pressing a palm against his mouth. When he looked down, it was just to feign reading his scarf, and quote, “During the first five days after a— how do you say it? Official date? Neither parts are to touch nor interact with what the other has claimed—”

“I didn’t set a step inside the Universe when those days were still counting. Could that even be called an intervention?”

“The gang being there still counts as your intervention, y’know?” Ink wanted to check whether they’ve argued about this before. He grabbed the circle of his scarf, and pulled. A pout settled its way onto his face once he realized that he couldn’t read in the low light. “Heard they got some stuff on fire, too. Smoke takes forever to get rid of when underground, so you're pretty lucky it already reached a proper pacifist ending. Trying the arson approach sounds pretty stupid when I’m pretty sure you’d rather not have your sad little go-to negativity farm smoked away.”

“I’ve attempted to wean my men from such… impractical ways,” Nightmare admitted; a thoughtful hum. Nonetheless, when Ink raised his chin to look at him, there was still a clear lack of shame in his eye. When he turned away, Ink could only see the cyan slit of his eyelight and nothing much. “And yet, there’s still something to say about their intervention, don’t you think? I may hold their leash, but they’re very much their own people… their decisions are their own, you see. While I may have… approved the rougher treatment, it is only their hands that perform them so.”

“Really? You're getting all philosophical on me now? That approach's so corny.”

“Please,” Nightmare said, scrunching his nose up as if in distaste, even if Ink was able to see the amused twitch of his lips. When he turned towards him again, Ink could contemplate the smirk that settled on his mouth, just a bit off from looking relaxed. “Don’t tell me you’re so dissatisfied with me as to shy away from such topics now, dear.”

“Dissatisfied?” Ink echoed, tasting the word. He straightened up, then slacked back. His fingers twitched, and he had to stop himself from reaching towards the sash that hung from the nearby chair. “Dissatisfied? I’m mad! This whole thing is because— I’m mad! Upset!”

“Oh, please. You are not,” he said, familiar and confident in such a way that Ink wondered whether he had experience with children. Further thought made him realize that this was probably his ‘talking with employed murderers’ voice. “Look at yourself. You may flaunt yourself as a wronged man, but you’ve barely shown any resistance to me. Days of bitterness, but you break with such ease and accept my invitation the moment we’re face to face, regardless of your attitude now… No, you’re aware this is nothing to you, barely an annoyance. Be true. Is it attention what you desire?”

Instead of answering, Ink huffed, unwilling to recognize the way he felt something rise to his cheeks. This wasn’t working. He fought not to react when he noticed Nightmare’s eye was following the way his hand traveled just to fetch a vial from his sash— but he soon found out that, when Nightmare stared at his face again, he couldn’t quite look away. His mouth stretched in a thin line, the angle of it twitching when not even that made him have the courtesy to allow Ink a moment of privacy.

Trapped in the cyan of his eyelight, he realized he couldn’t be upset with him. Not like this, at least. As such, he had to blindly feel for the paint and hope the red was where he thought it’d be, hesitant to trust muscle memory as the sash wasn’t splayed over his chest. Was it the fifth glass, maybe? Fourth, from the bottom up? He could gamble on the fourth.

When Nightmare’s smirk only seemed to widen at how the silence stretched, Ink deadpanned, “...No.”

“Oh, is that so?” he answered, voice tilting up into something like a purr; familiarly smug, it was more than enough to make Ink’s lips twitch up again. “Was I wrong to assume this tantrum of yours was an overreaction, designed to steal my attention away? Was I so shameless as to presume such a thing?”

Instead of answering, Ink dropped the vial over the table, letting it clink over the mantled wood. He willed himself not to look at it, even if he could see the way Nightmare’s eye widened just so at the untold threat of red, the corner of his mouth twitching. “An Alternative Universe that we were going to gamble on battle. One that got claimed on the day when I’m supposed not to worry over you going around and causing drama. Is that an overreaction, Night? That I want— y’know. Peace for the multiverse? That I find it —y’knooow— bad, when I cannot fight for people’s hopes and dreams and all of that jazz?”

“Ah, please. You must think me näive to believe that I would fall for such a statement,” Nightmare argued. Nonetheless, Ink could see the instant where he admitted momentary defeat, an odd expression settling on his face right before he looked away, smiling. His hands on the table curled by the fingers, and Ink couldn’t help but wonder whether he contemplated the idea of attempting to steal one of his paints for himself. Not that he would allow it. “Such a statement from you, that is.”

“Maybe I just want to act like that,” Ink said. “Maybe I got character development. Weren’t you just complaining about the ghosting thing? I could have been going through a whole arc while you were there sulking over being caught not playing by the rules.”

“If you’re upset, it is not because you suddenly acquired a deeper set of compassion— no. You’d feel wronged over your belief that our deal was violated by actions of my own making,” Nightmare said, instead, his fingers tapping on the table just so. Ink could feel the vibration from where his palm was pressed against the mantle. “Which, I must insist, was not.”

“Huh! Well, that, and the fact that I do feel bad for the guys, c’mon. At least gimme that.”

“You want me to act as if you do? Please,” Nightmare said. When he moved his head once more, it was just to gesture with his chin towards the window, the graceful lines of the towering buildings and the shadow of clouds that were just a tone too dark to be stormy. It wasn’t a place Ink was particularly familiar with, although the way everything angled just so made him think— “Isn’t this view beautiful? Why, from this high up… Tainted Surface-unlocked Universes aren’t as sparse as one would once believe, especially when the sky is so lusted after. But this one… why, its air was dark with smoke not so long ago.”

Something inside of Ink clenched in realization— and loosened. A huff, his amusement barely concealed, “Night.”

“You couldn’t even recognize this place, can you?” It was a smirk, then. It crinkled Nightmare’s eye up; a crescent moon. “Be true to yourself, Ink. Talk about your darling Universes as much as you desire, but don't act as if you feel enough for the locals to keep this fable going. There’s a reason why I made a point of choosing this particular place for our tryst.”

It had been hard not to allow his mouth to quirk up the moment it properly dawned on him. Ink brought his hand down, clinging tight to the vial beneath his palm. He had drunk red beforehand, of course; he had unbalanced his intake, even, careful not to let himself be led by the way pink yearned to be raised and drank upon the idea of seeing Nightmare again. But it wasn’t enough, it seemed; foolish, anger never came, but rather displaced by the thrill that came with the fact that Nightmare had to know him enough to be able to tell that this particular trick of his wouldn’t backfire.

The idea of it made him feel— something. He toyed with the glass, the trigger. Regardless of what he thought he was feeling, however, this wasn’t the kind of tale he owed Them. He needed to correct himself, and play his part. Words didn't even have the chance to leave his mouth before Nightmare spoke again:

“I assume you must have realized it already.” He grabbed the empty glass, his thumb toying with the curved edge of its top when Ink just stared. His eye followed it, and he saw it squint when a hint of black stained the crystal. “Do you want me to beg?”

Ink blinked. “...What?”

“You will not take a tainted AU back,” Nightmare said. “So, tell me, what do you think may be a worthy replacement? What is it that you want from me, if I’m to believe your discontentment towards me acquiring this Universe? You have never asked me to free one of my colonies before— it’s only natural to assume this won't be the first. There is, after all, nothing special about this AU. Nothing but the view, perhaps. But once again, you’ve never been a fan of the open sky.”

His chest felt fluttery; it resembled the feeling he had whenever he dreamt that one dream that always woke him up, the one where he kept a drawn soul encased in his chest. Small, eyes squinted, Ink tried to argue, “Hey, I like the sky.”

“You do not, love,” Nightmare said. Something in his eye shifted, and Ink was barely able to move his hand away —vial still trapped in between the curl of his fingers— to evade his own trying to settle over it. When Nightmare realized his attempt to touch him had failed, he huffed, but his eyelight still remained rounded. Thoughtful, as he tried to look for something on Ink’s expression. “I do not resent the idea of begging for your forgiveness, if that's the kind of act that you want of me. It is not desirable, but, as you know, I wouldn’t mind making—”

“Excuse me!”

It sounded suspiciously similar to a bird’s squawk. When they both turned around, they could see the waiter— the only working waiter, it seemed. It was only natural, when the restaurant only had them as its clients; he doubted whether there was a true need for more of them walking around. A quick glance allowed Ink to recognize it as a MTT Resort NPC. And that it, also, wore a chef’s hat. Ink had to wonder if it was the only character there.

The monster pushed a moving trail with its beak, before it spoke again, “Er— Gentlemen! Your food.”

Ink didn't remember ordering, but he decided not to mind it. He stared intently when the monster balanced the first plate on its hatted head, unable to resist to see whether it’d fall to the floor and break. He was pleasantly surprised to see that, despite its apparent nerves, it managed to move seamlessly. Muscle memory taking over, perhaps.

…And that was a lot of pasta, now that he looked at it well enough. He had expected something more holiday-styled, if he had to be honest. Ink smiled —at some point he had started to frown again, when the situation finally started to shift into what it was supposed to be from the start—, and said, “I didn't think you— I mean. Where did you get the recipe from?”

If the waiter minded his question, it didn't show it; when the plate touched the table, it leaned back, and preened ever so slightly, proud. Its hat tipped back, and Ink followed it with his eyes just to see whether it’d fall to the floor. It would have been pretty entertaining. “All of these come from our generational recipe book! Us, the Drakes, have come a far, far way from the Mediterranean. One would think that with the Great Sealing, our traditions would falter—”

“—But they did not.” Ink finished for him, lifting an eyebrow when the monster nodded again, turning relatively smug. It was hard not to lean forward and keep on smiling: it was, after all, a carefully braided theme of Their making. To catch it as it showed on Their characters was always nice. “Pretty neat.”

Its hat almost fell when it nodded once again. Its small wings lifted, showing their full span, before they dropped, dramatic. “Why, yes. We were so lucky Lord Mettaton saw our talent and allowed us to serve him beyond performing standing up comedy. Well, before the rift happened, and… uh…”

“The kingdom fell, and the castle was burnt,” Nightmare interrupted, an amused quirk to his mouth. He pulled the plate towards himself, glancing down just so as he inspected the quality. A minute passed before he looked up at the monster again; head tilted in a way that Ink could only describe as catty. It was weirdly appealing, in the way Ink found Nightmare’s actions often were. “Please, do not be distracted by my companion. I’m aware of his charm, but I would prefer it if you kept your eyes to the work in your wings before other things.”

Ink snorted, side eyeing the way the monster immediately faltered, chastised. He looked back at Nightmare again, when he heard him cough. He could absently recognize the orange flutter that could have burned like scarlet fire in his chest if he just pushed it out; his fingers squeezed around the vial still on hand. “I was interested in the worldbuilding, y’know?”

The second plate came quicker, a thud on the mantle. More pasta, reddish in tone to where Nightmare's own stood in more of a jade-like hue. Different sauces. The monster didn't speak again, now balancing a single bottle in its head— although Ink could see it sweat, both listening yet attempting not to react.

“If there’s information you desire so deeply, I’ll be the one to give it to you.” Nightmare said, grabbing the wine before it touched the table. He brought it up, checking whether it was sealed— and accepted the corkscrew when the waiter offered it to him, shaky and pale. It stabbed the cork not long after, and he screwed it almost fully in. The wine was uncapped— and then used to point at the waiter, who flinched, as if expecting for Nightmare to throw the bottle at him as one would stone a thief. “The dessert if you may, gentleman.”

“It’d— having it so close while eating could ruin your appetite—” the monster tried, visibly swallowing when Nightmare merely stared at it. It was hard for Ink not to watch it happen, lips pursed. “I must— I must insist!”

“You will serve us, and leave,” Nightmare said, the same slow, calm tone that he had seemingly used countless times before. It resembled a threat as much as an order; it wasn't as soothing as it once was, even if Ink could still distinguish the familiar hum on his voice. “I would never expect you to wait for us so late at night, much less so when we could be considered… close friends. I was so gracious as to allow your building to receive what’s now your leading caste, was I not?” Nightmare squinted his eye just so, right before he tilted his head, looking at the background behind the window as if summoning a memory. “How is Crystal faring, nowadays?”

“Excuse me?”

His head remained tilted just so, and Nightmare hummed, thoughtful. Ink could recognize the glint in his eye as he kept looking away, resembling a more of a line in the dramatic angle. “You had to see her leave for the Omega Timeline not so long ago, didn't you? Little Snowy was so downhearted, seeing as he wouldn't be able to see his dear father for such a long time…”

Entertaining. It was so entertaining. For a moment, in his awe, he almost let the paint drop from his hand— the feeling of it about to slip made him remember the fact that this date was supposed to be an attempt of an apology, and that he was to be upset. Before he could think about it twice, he uncapped the glass and brought it up just to take a good chug of it. The fact that he couldn’t stop himself from drinking was a bit odd, but he wasn’t able to hold on to that thought before the squeak of a wheel broke through his haze. They were alone again.

He snorted.

“Awfully persistent, that monster,” Nightmare commented, weirdly peeved. Ink blinked, and looked at him, finally bringing the vial down. He licked his lips after he did so, unwilling to waste any drop of paint. Its aftertaste was pretty comforting; it filled an emptiness he had already been used to, making him feel unnecessarily whole. “Allow me your glass, lest you start missing his presence.”

For a moment, Ink hesitated, —instinctively extending his arm just to offer the half-empty vial— before he reacted, pushing the cup of glass towards him as Nightmare held the bottle more comfortably. He was suddenly startled by the mental image of having been able to see the way in which the armless monster would have served the drink if not shooed away, and something of a snort left him. It was only a matter of time until the harsher red hit, so he didn’t feel particularly bad for getting out of character. He teased, “We could always call him back, y’know?”

“No.” Nightmare’s eye stalked the table, settling on the way Ink still cradled the paint, and he shook his head. “I was under the belief that you were playing the upset type, seeing your unwillingness to talk to me properly. Talking with the service is not something you would expect from someone quite so… displeased, is it not?”

“I’m upset with you.” As he gave him a frown, to complement his words, the gesture felt unfitting. He tried not to think too deeply about it, as the vial got inside his overalls’ pocket instead of his sash to avoid disturbing it from where it was still hanging. When Nightmare finally served him his wine, sliding it to him through the mantled table, he added, “Mad. I’m so mad. But negative emotions can be selective, right?”

Nightmare merely stared at him, his mouth twitching down for a moment before he let it drop. Without allowing his eye to leave his, he reached for the fork that had been left for him, and, once he had it, stabbed. Since his green pasta was noodles only, it looked pretty ineffective. He didn’t even bother to twist the fork, merely holding it there as one would a sword to stone.

…Was he sulking?

“What?” Ink said, unable to help but snort when Nightmare’s mouth went down again, his eyebrows frowning just so. “I just wanted some lore, and he was right there. Selectiveness, Nightmare.”

His fork finally twisted, pasta curling around it in a secure curl before he brought it up to his mouth, an elegant arch of both wrist and elbow. He blew on it, —seeing the way its heat clouded the space over the fork— closing his eyelid in consideration of the food’s quality. Nightmare stopped right before he was about to bite. “Eat your food, Ink.”

Now it seemed like a proper argument. Just to capitalize on the tense atmosphere, one of Ink’s hands reached for the vial he had already used, still safely tucked in his pocket, while the other pulled his own plate towards himself ever so slightly. More paint had never ruined anything permanently, and he doubted this time would be the first. Having that in mind, he took a moment to look down at the heart-cap, wanting to have a mental image of the color his own pasta would display once he spiced it just so with Creator-made acrylics.

…Huh. That was pink.

To avoid puking —and ruining both their appetites—, he inhaled a mouthful of air just to exhale it out, deep. Then, he did it again. And once more. Then, Ink grabbed the wine and took a long sip, even if he was aware that such a small quantity of liquid would be useless against just how much paint he had already drank.The vial got pocketed again as he blankly reached for his paints, —this time, however, making sure to properly count their order— and withdrew what he knew for sure was cyan and purple.

“...Not to your liking?” Nightmare wondered, unaware of the internal fight that was warring within his psyche. “To touch the wine already, and yet…”

“Refilling,” he snapped. That made him shut up, as Nightmare turned his head to the side to avoid talking. His hands clenched down on the glasses, and it took everything in him not to scrunch his nose at the sound of them clinking against one another. He briefly considered the notion of attempting to counter the pink with proper red, but the reminder of how that particular combo reacted whenever Nightmare was around deterred him. Limiting pink hadn’t been his smartest choice, he realized, then, as the sudden recognition of just which emotion he had been missing all along made him—

No red, he forced himself to focus in. No yellow, as Ink knew the way they would compare. Blue meant that longing would turn into guilt, and as such, they were discarded. Green got him too chatty, while orange made him brash. Options limited, he bit his tongue.

That left either cyan or purple. While they weren’t proper nullifiers, as the white paint was, —not counted as an option, as it always had the off chance to overwhelm his current color palette to unfeelingness if he accidentally overdosed— they often made him unwilling to perform as he would have if he let the pink influence him uncontrolled. Without the danger of Nightmare becoming too much of a temptation to stop seeing him as the character he was, he’d be able to leave, and properly continue the arc later, as They deserved.

That sounded like a good plan.

He left the cyan on the table, and opened the purple one to sip at it; just enough to feel its taste, unwilling to commit the same mistake as he did the pink. He shook his head, and, after thinking about it, downed the paint that still stuck to his palette with more wine. Pocketing it once he deemed it a proper dose, now came the cyan—

“Eat,” Nightmare said. The sound of his voice, firm and warm, made something on him unfurl; it made him drop his hand from where it pressed the vial against his lips. Ink’s mouth curled down as he looked at him, —the way his silhouette contrasted the gentle light that couldn’t quite swallow the room properly, the angle of him as he stared down— and Ink shook his head, recognizing the way his thoughts started to curl and twist. “You have not eaten yet, have you? I would never wish to remind you how unwise it’d be to drink without anything else already consumed, however…”

“...Don’t do that.” Even so, he couldn’t help but lean forward just to get the fork, the steel against his gloved hand a somewhat pleasant pressure. Licking his lips, he stabbed one of the cylinder-shaped pasta just to bring it up and taste it. It was soft and tender in his mouth; the tomato sauce giving it a sweet aftertaste as he swallowed. He tried to focus on the flavour as he kept eating, knowing fully well that the moment he let his mind wander for too long he would ruin the tense atmosphere in advantage of something way less climactic.

Meanwhile, satisfied with the way he was finally eating, Nightmare went back to pay attention to his own glass. The way his lips curled just so to avoid the wine dripping down from the edge was too distracting, so Ink made sure to look down at the food and keep his eyes there. Now, it was only a matter of eating the whole plate; a decent event that would leave his decision to leave undiscussed. It wasn’t satisfying by any means, of course, but something was something. He just needed to focus, avoid letting his thoughts wander too much, and not look at Nightmare for too long lest he fooled him into forgetting that the argument itself wasn’t about them, but Them.

He could do it.

His attempt to try and do just that, however, was interrupted by a new plate entering his range of vision. Startled, Ink straightened up— and looked to the side, to where the waiter was already carrying the second plate on its head towards the table. The dessert clunked deafly as it fell on the mantle, but, funnily enough, nothing spilled. Ink realized that it was ice cream when he couldn’t help the need to immediately bring it closer to himself, zealous. It looked round, as one would picture a lone planet encircled in rings of dust. Wonderful.

Ink liked ice cream. The fact that he did wasn't exactly surprising, —while Ink had forgotten whether he had tried some things before, such events have never included this particular dessert: he remembered enjoying its taste and texture many times before— but the fact that the feeling clogged his chest until he swore he tasted the pink underneath his tongue was kind of disorienting.

He blurted it out: “Stars, you don’t know how much I love that stuff.”

That made the waiter look at him, its eyes squinted just so. Its expression was well designed, charming in its simplicity. Ink could see the draconian inspiration; although he had seen enough NPCs that wore a similar face to be aware that it was, probably, a choice related to the Template Universe everything branched off. When Ink contemplated the concept of touching its hat —just a closer check of the most visible way it distinguished itself from other monsters of its kind— it was only the hypothetical scenario of it kicking them both from its restaurant in retaliation that stopped him.

He needed more cyan, Ink realized. His hand had already stretched by the time the thought of consequences came to him; it withdrew sharply when he saw the waiter’s hat twitch just so with its feathers’ movement. He was already working on dumping a proper amount of paint inside his wine by the time the waiter decided to leave. Ink turned his head up just to see it scurrying away, soon distracted by the view of Nightmare stalking its steps from his own seat with the sort of predatory focus he’d only seen in Players perfecting a hitless genocide run.

Nightmare turned to look at him again when the doors closed behind the monster’s back and they were lonely once more. His mouth resembled a frown, then a pout, only to finally settle on a thin line that gave nothing away. Ink felt the vibration of his fingers tapping the table beneath his palm. “...What do you want from me, Ink? If it’s an apology you want, I’ll give it to you. If it’s… retribution, it is only natural for you to feel vindicated enough to take it. But of this kind…”

Ink could demand an apology, maybe. They wouldn’t be— would that be enough for Them? For an argument to end without a fight, no struggle? The idea felt unfamiliar to him. A story without a climax was barely a story at all. But, maybe, if he renounced civilities, —pushed just a bit too hard, too quickly— he’d be able to give Them what they surely wanted. He could fool Them into believing that he could properly play the part of a character, and allow a tale to thrive. To be able to make Them feel, the way They made him.

Looking at Nightmare, however, made him unable to say anything out loud. His eye was hypnotizing in both hue and shape, so cyan that it almost looked paper white— or so it seemed before he forced himself to look away, downing the remaining wine to attempt to rebalance himself as much as he could. Ink wanted to give. Instead, as he could feel himself unspooling from the chest out, he refused to speak, grabbing the fork again just to use it and make sure no sound came out. The cooled-down pasta barely held warmth inside his mouth, as he chewed. Swallowing became difficult when he soon noticed that Nightmare wasn’t eating, merely entertaining himself by watching Ink try to let the topic pass.

His face felt a bit warmer when Nightmare stood up just to lean forward; pulling Ink’s glass closer to him just to refill it with wine— and to place the bottle on the ground once his cup was filled. The feeling became worse when Nightmare pushed the glass near his ice cream, his hand tempting Ink with its familiar warmth.

“Why, to believe that you would be such a cruel creature,” Nightmare commented, once the silence stretched enough. “Protector of the Alternative Universes.”

The corners of Ink’s lips twitched up by themselves just for a moment. The gesture itself was enough to startle him enough that looking up and at Nightmare back felt only natural. When he did so, he could see him smiling; lopsided, ever so smug. It was devastatingly charming; the pull of bubbling cyan was the only thing that allowed him enough time to react as to cover his mouth with a lone napkin. “Stars, shut up.”

“Is that what you wanted, then?” Nightmare wondered. He pushed his plate to the side; the hint of white against the mantle made Ink notice that he had finished his own food already. It sounded like a purr again: as Ink lowered his napkin just to drink again, to see if he could drown the pinker hues, he said, “No attention nor apology for me to give you, but to see me react to your shameless rejection, instead?”

He was blushing. Why was he blushing?

Ink tried not to let himself think about it too deeply, finally bringing his glass down. He liked ice cream; he wanted to stare at it until his thoughts blurred to nothing. But Nightmare was still looking at him— he could feel its eye weighing down on him like a blanket. To avoid breaking, he tried to recognize the flavor of his dessert by sight alone. Strawberry was his first thought, noticing its pink tone, but he didn’t want his thoughts to roam further. Was there another kind of ice cream that also shared such a color? Maybe raspberry? Some UnderFell variants had the quirk of all their food having somewhat of a redder tone, but he wasn’t sure if—

“There you are, ignoring me once again,” Nightmare said. However, as a contrast to his tone before, he didn’t sound frustrated; his voice smoothed just so, the satisfaction of a cat with a newly caught mouse. Ink willed himself to think of Their wonderful ideas, ever so fluid and— “Look at me.”

Ink pursed his lips, forcing them to straighten from where they couldn’t stop twitching— and then down. A frown found its way to his face, when he couldn't fight the urge to indulge on his request. When he finally looked up, defeated, he found out that Nightmare resembled the moonshine. Ink needed to remember what he came for; as so, he hissed, “What?”

Instead of answering, Nightmare smiled, pleased. It was a nice expression on him, sitting like snow on grass. He leaned forward just so, tilting his head to the side as if the change of angle would allow him to see Ink as he really was. “You’re adorable.”

He had to lean over the side of his chair to let the paint flow out, pure black staining the porcelain tiles. His eyes remained wide as he looked at the paint still dripping from his chin down, and he was very glad they chose a magic food-only restaurant all of sudden. When Nightmare offered him a napkin from the side, wordless, Ink took it and wiped his mouth— then straightened his back to lean back against the chair.

“Did the wine hit harder than intended?” Nightmare wondered. When he looked up at him, however, there was no true worry in his face. There was still a smile on his lips. “Or was it—?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Ink said, truly. Instead of it bothering Nightmare, as he intended for it to do, it only made his smile widen. His smug expression made him want to puke again, which would have been his desired outcome if not for the fact that it was only because the pink was acting up once more. Nightmare was weirdly endearing, after all. Cute. Charming. To avoid focusing on the way he felt his own mind bending, Ink tried to keep talking, a feverish blabber, “A jerk, a bastard— antagonist-slop, potential man! And— and we're breaking up.”

“Oh, we’re not.”

A sound came out from deep Ink’s throat, and he was devastated to realize that it sounded like a whine. When Nightmare walked by the table, just enough to be able to lean down and grab one of the tails of his scarf, he didn't fight it. He, however, did turn around when Nightmare decided to become worse in all possible aspects bringing the cloth up just to give it a single kiss where it laid palest. Maybe what he needed was a lobotomy— that is, if non HorrorTale-native monsters could have them, even, seeing as a big percentage of them didn't have a proper central nervous system like humans had.

Clinging on that particular thought, and tuning Nightmare’s touch out, —as to avoid letting himself focus too deeply in the way his warmth resembled a siren call— Ink reached down, just to will the spilled paint gather by the shadow of his stretched hand. It was retaken pretty quickly, the echo of his own magic against his palm, and, with it, he willed himself to stand. Nightmare didn’t step back, but he was mindful enough to gentle the hold he had on his scarf, and look at him when Ink met his gaze again. Whatever he was about to say came to a stop when Ink huffed, bothered, “You think you’re so funny.”

“Oh, I don’t believe myself to be,” Nightmare said. However, he didn’t truly let go of him; the tail of his scarf was brought up and he kissed it again, staining it with the dark shade of his negativity. Ink swore he could feel the touch on his own lips, for a moment— he couldn’t help but let out a tense sigh when Nightmare kissed it again, his half-lidded gaze trapping his own on it. “But I am under the belief that you think me entertaining. At least, enough for you to yearn for my…—”

Ink pulled the tail of his scarf back, the cloth easily sliding over and out of Nightmare’s hand without a proper hold to trap it there. He felt all too much and all too little, when Nightmare stepped closer, unbothered by the interruption. He wasn’t cornered, not yet, but his color palette did the job that his position didn’t.

His fingers twitched with the foolish longing to cradle Nightmare’s face and pull him closer, just to see whether his lips would disappear if pressed too harshly against his own. His eyes traced the shape of the room, for a moment— the fall of the curtains, the way the buildings glowed like stars in the dark. It was beautiful; the thought of it made him want to puke until he smoothed all emotions into neutrality. Instead, he started to laugh; he covered his mouth with a single hand when the sound turned into a snort. His head shook by itself when he couldn't deny it verbally.

That didn't seem to convince Nightmare; Ink saw him roll his eye fondly, leaning his torso towards the table just to fetch his own wine and drink. He looked peaceful as he did so, eye closing down as if savoring the taste for a moment or so, just to suddenly open to look at him, then down. As Ink followed the movement of his gaze, he realized that his own hand had already settled on the sharp curve of Nightmare’s hip, his thumb teasing the shape of his upper pelvis. It felt—

More cyan. He definitely needed more cyan. However, fronting one against each other like this, it wasn't an option he was able to take. Instead, Ink leaned closer just so, and his mouth traitorously twitched up when Nightmare did the same. Somewhat bitter, he muttered, more to himself than anything else, “I can’t believe you're pulling this when we're supposed to have a fight going on.”

Nightmare hummed at him, as his glass finally was put down, clean of wine. His hand, however, didn't still, as it went up just to trace the golden rim of Ink’s top with a thumb, wiping off a drop of black paint that hadn't dried quite yet. Then, and, taking advantage of their closeness, he vaguely looped a hand around Ink’s waist, careful not to crumple the clothes towards the emptiness that came with not having any sort of ectobody on.

Ectobody.

The reminder that they could become closer, magic to magic touching, was startling. It made him lean forward just so, to allow Nightmare to loop both arms around him just to ease them closer yet. A small part of him still clung to the idea that he could somewhat salvage this; that he could make this snappy, dynamic, entertaining. But it was difficult to focus on it when Nightmare leaned his head down, just a bit drunk in what he knew well by now was victory.

He tilted his head away when Nightmare tried to give him a kiss, however. His hands fisted on his jacket, he didn't quite separate enough to avoid the second attempt; the gentle press against the corner of his lips. He was smiling. He was already beyond feigning a frown just to avoid letting the expression invade his face. The line of it trembled, however, when Nightmare decided to lick his lips when he didn't kiss him back.

“Hey—”

A huff hit his lips. Nightmare didn't repeat the gesture, however, as he leaned back and down, just to circle his hips more firmly. Ink recognized the motion for what it was right before Nightmare sat him down on the table, somehow managing to avoid both cutlery and plating. His scarf got trapped beneath his weight, for a moment— but Nightmare seemed to have noticed the problem right as he did, as he was quick to pull the cloth out just to let it pool on the mantle like a veil.

They looked at each other, Nightmare’s forehead meeting his own to impede Ink averting his gaze. “Are you done with your little tantrum, now?”

The audacity. Had he been higher on yellow, he would have found it funny. Pink as he was, it felt oddly attractive. Usually, he experienced a tamer mix of the two. It was a bit embarrassing, if he put too much thought into it. Ink leaned back, the line of his mouth twitching when Nightmare followed the movement with his torso. “...No.”

Nightmare smirked at him, smug, and Ink wasn't able to fight the kiss that came right after. Nor the ones that followed, before Ink had to turn his head away to avoid letting himself dizzy on the way the affection never showed signs to stop. However, even as he did so, Nightmare kept on kissing— lips pressed against his jaw when Ink couldn't lend him his lips. He had a feeling he would have gone down had Ink not pushed his face away with a huff.

“...Night, c’mon— What if someone sees us like—?” He murmured, before a quick glance to Nightmare's face allowed him to see the slightest hint of a pout. To say the truth, the excuse was more of an attempt to let the cyan parts of him set root; the purple would do the rest once he felt himself convinced enough. But it would do nothing without the proper thought already instilled. “Y’know. Maybe we’ll get water thrown at us. Boiling water.”

“Oh, please. I hold everyone and everything inside this place hostage, no one would dare.” Nightmare leaned closer again, a frown clouding what would have been a smug expression. His hands squeezed from where they laid on Ink’s hips, right before they decided to entertain themselves with the curve of his spine. “Unless you're worried about letting your little in-code friend see us like this?”

That was way too ominous. He tried to grasp for a character— anyone. “...Snowy’s dad?”

“I saw the way you tried to caress him by the feathers,” Nightmare said, insisting even when Ink tilted his head, confused. They frowned at each other. “Forgetting yourself, uncaring that I am witness to your shamelessness…”

“...I think I went more for the hat?” Ink tried, the same traitorous heat sneaking into his cheeks again when Nightmare’s forehead met his temple. To avoid tiring his arms by holding all his weight on them in the odd posture, he brought them up just to hug Nightmare's neck. Like this, he could fool himself into believing they were sharing anatomy. The thought of it made him annoyed, fuzzy. “You’re making me sound like a jerk. I’d be decent enough to give him time to get the uniform off.”

“How curious, seeing as I’ve never minded the presence of any uniform during my own pursuits.” One of Nightmare's hands got underneath his top; it warmed the space between white shirt and brown cloth, stretching it just so he felt the pressure against his ribs. Nightmare kissed his cheek, biting sharp as he didn't have the will to close his mouth properly. “No response to me commenting on the fact that I, your legitimate owner, was there?”

“Already trying to sneak in some brainwashing?” Ink said instead, struggling not to snort when Nightmare didn't fight him on that. The smile that creeped on his face twitched just so when he kept on kissing, however; wet and warm. He felt as if he could die. He tried to force himself to frown as to slow down the process. “You suck.”

“Isn't it within my right?” Nightmare said. “To question your… actions. To know what you desire of me, and know what you're willing to do to get it.” He leaned closer yet, his voice disarmingly warm, “Including how far you’ll go.”

“You suck,” Ink repeated, even if he started to grow dizzy with the way his words curled and looped. He could feel his magic already reacting; the spark of his chest as a non-existing soul tried to summon ectobody. Ink didn't allow it to happen, but he could feel himself squirming on the table when he remembered the sensation of dark hands on a waist he didn't wear just yet. He tried to look away, arms still around Nightmare's neck. “You’re— you are—!”

“A jerk,” Nightmare said. When Ink looked at him, he could see him smiling at him with his eye. The line of his mouth, however, looked like the edge that separated sky and sea. He insisted, “A bastard, if you don't mind me quoting your passionate statements of before.”

It was hard to say anything at all, seeing the way that pleased expression framed Nightmare's face so suitingly. He wanted him. His vision was tinted pink by the edges; the hint of color made everything look shadowed by sunset. The room felt quiet, and he forced himself to speak, somewhat louder than before, “I mean— I mean, yeah, that's what you are. A bastard, a jerk, and evil. Awful.”

“All those things, yet no dog for you to reprimand,” Nightmare added, just as Ink leaned in when he couldn't quite suppress the urge to keep on touching, nuzzling his black cheek with his own. Even as his tone somewhat shifted, however, he didn't shy away from Ink finally having his retribution. If Ink leaned in just so, he could smell something sweet that was just his to breathe; it resembled rotten apple and burnt sugar. “No pet for you to train, either. Next time you need something, you’ll talk to me properly. We are beyond such situations, and I won't accept such shameful efforts so easily."

“Yeah? Well, screw you.”

Undeterred by his tone, Nightmare snorted. Ink recognized the tease in his tone, as he brought himself closer. “Oh, screw me? Is that what you are thinking of, now?”

“...Maybe.” It sounded like a plea in that position; his breath went strained, voice soft, and it felt only natural to arch his back just to feel Nightmare's hand follow the movement. For a moment, he felt unsynchronized: mind and body off-tune as he couldn’t quite recognize his own actions. But then, the cyan finally hit, and he remembered the fact that the mouth that he was moving was his own. His head dropped forward with the realization of imminent defeat.

“...Hm?”

As Nightmare pulled him closer, Ink didn’t fight the way everything of them pressed together— everything but the unsummoned ecto, that is. Nightmare allowed him the mercy to hide on him, even if Ink could feel and listen to the amused chuckle that didn’t fully leave his throat.

It sounded like a cat’s purr when he murmured, warm and soothing against his skull, “So, that's what you were desiring?”

“...Hm? I don’t remember,” Ink lied, unwilling to lean back and face the expression Nightmare was now making. He nuzzled into the side of his head, however— breathing deeply, just to see if he could lose his mind in the scent of him. It was to no avail, however; he soon found out that the more he attempted to separate himself from the way the plot had derailed, the more he felt like he wasn’t just a spectator but a character inside. It felt real. They felt real. It was that sensation that willed him not to let go.

Even with that in mind, however, he couldn’t stay like that; Nightmare wrapped his hand around both tails of his scarf, and pulled. He fought against it just for a moment before he let himself go. As he separated, he could see the way he looked down at him, eye half-lidded and smug. “Then let me remind you.”

They kissed— Ink’s mouth receiving Nightmare’s when he leaned forward just so, his lips opening in instinctual response when the pressure against them proved too much. His hands settled on his shoulders, tight, before he let himself be pulled in by the way they moved against each other. It felt like hot water when Nightmare sneaked his tongue inside; the warmth of his magic burnt his palate when he dared to allow him to taste as he desired. When Ink tried to answer back, to taste Nightmare’s mouth, he felt the way he bit down on his tongue, repelling the effort before it even truly began.

Ink leaned back, frown already settled on his brows. It didn’t do much to counter the way he still felt himself blushing, however. “Night.”

“It wasn't a fight,” Nightmare said. He clenched on tighter; Ink felt his scarf being pulled back by the hold of his closed hand, and huffed, resembling something of a strangled whine in the momentary silence of the room. “Such a thing needs to be two-sided, yes? I would rather call it a tantrum of yours, seeing as it apparently began when you didn’t feel brave enough to admit that you want me.”

They kissed again; this time, however, Ink allowed him to lead, the fuzziness of his swirling magic stealing his attention away, even if just for a moment. He moaned against the pressure of Nightmare’s lips on his own, the way the contact alone was enough for his ectobody to finally turn on; Nightmare’s hand leaving his ribs when the warmth of it was enough to tell him that Ink hadn’t been strong enough to fend off his need for more of him.

Nightmare had felt the ectobody turn on underneath his hands.

The realization itself gave Ink enough strength to pull himself back, harshly breathing to recapture air he did not need. It felt cold, dry inside his mouth. He tried to look away, just to avoid the cocky, satisfied look that possessed Nightmare's face, but it was the heavy look of his eyelid what made him unable to do so. Staring at his pleased smile, he huffed, “Y’know it was… it is a fight.”

Nightmare just smiled at him. The view of it allowed him enough spitefulness to push his face away with a hand. The feeling of vindication, however, was countered when he felt a thrill down his abdomen: instead of upsetting him, as Ink had thought, it only made his smirk widen, and push himself closer to him, moth to lamp. He chose not to think too deeply about the way he instinctively pressed back against him in response, slotting himself against the shape of him all too naturally.

Regardless of that, Ink insisted, “Night, it is a fight. We’re fighting.”

“You turned your ectobody on, this was never a fight,” Nightmare stated, instead. Ink pushed his face away once more, flustered and annoyed in equal measure, and he heard the way he clicked his tongue in response. “Unless this is the way you usually fight your battles?”

“Jeez, don't you dare start.” Like wet paint, laughter threatened to spill out of his mouth. Ink tried to will the corner of his mouth into a straight line, —aiding himself with the way his brows downed so easily— and shook his head, brisk and decisive when he felt the pink soon complementing the way he just couldn't stop himself from touching Nightmare's shoulders and jaw. “You know what I mean.”

Instead of answering, Nightmare leaned in again; stealing a kiss, then, a touch of tongues against one another. Ink breathed into it, when he separated just so, and brought his hands down to the table when he felt like the contact was enough to unbalance him. His legs felt warm, energetic; it took all of him not to link them around Nightmare's hips, especially when they were pressed so close and tight together. But then, he pulled him back by the scarf once again and Ink allowed himself to fall back into the table and not care of whatever was happening but Nightmare and him alone.

The sound of glass breaking made him sit up, however. He straightened up just to look downwards, something ugly and bulky curling in his chest when he realized that it was the tinted shards of his wine on the floor.

It was a crash when the purple finally dropped, as he had to lean to the side and down to the edge of the table to puke it out, narrowly missing the chairs. Nightmare kept on holding him; at some point, his hand on his scarf became more of a gentle hold than anything truly forceful, while his other hand had settled on his waist, cradling the angle of it when Ink kept on heaving. Nightmare brought him straight up again once he was finally down, gasping for air.

One of his hands touched Ink’s cheek, when he instinctively tried to go down to fix the mess of shards and paint. As he couldn't help but look up, Nightmare's eyelight met his own, his brows furrowed. “Ink.”

“...Y’know what? I’ll just paint that right up. It's nothing,” Ink said, withdrawing his hand just so he could make sure they were not to touch anything else. Hunched over his lap, it was hard not to grab and clench at the flap of his wrongly worn overall and squish it until the cooling feeling in his phalanges disappeared. His mouth still tasted of paint, metallic; its lips pressed against the palm of Nightmare's hand when Ink couldn't resist the foolish need to keep on nuzzling. He knew Nightmare didn't mind, and yet, he could only help but wonder— he could use this. This could be the spark to reignite the story that Ink had long set to die. He could— “My bad.”

“Ink,” Nightmare repeated, a sigh. Whatever he was about to say went unneeded, as he felt the gentle pressure of Nightmare's lips on his cheek not long after. Both cheeks, one after the other. “It’s glass. I can acquire glass anywhere.”

“...Pf, please. Don't tell me you're offering.” A well placed kiss underneath his eye made Ink shiver; it made his sigh strange, all too clear and heavy as it left his chest. He shook his head, when Nightmare tried to give the same attention to the other side, chasing symmetry. His mouth was wiped by his own hand, when he suddenly felt unsure whether the corners of it still kept the stain of his feelings. “You’d get so— so out of character, and it'd be gross.”

“You’d enjoy it,” Nightmare said. Ink didn't have the required strength to lie, so he merely tilted his head to the side, feigning confusion. Nightmare wasn't intimidated, however— he crowned the angle of Ink’s jaw with his open hand, annoyingly warm. “You must be aware by now that I can see the heart.”

His view drifted to the side by themselves, suddenly very interested in the texture of the wall and the few lines of stable code he could read if he squinted his eyes just so. “It— y’know that it could mean anything, right?”

“The heart,” Nightmare repeated, dry. “The very same heart that your eyelight has shaped itself after for the past hour.”

He felt somewhat inhibited, the corners of his mouth twitching up and down when he felt undecided on just where his emotions settled. Reflexively, he blinked a few times, trying to see whether he could will the human-soul shape away. Although, as he had no way to look at himself, it was more of a vague hope than anything truly productive. “Welp! Sorry to give you bad news, but the heart stands for hatred and violence.”

“Hm? It's pink.”

“You’re pink,” Ink scoffed, willing himself to look at Nightmare again, to where he still cradled the shape of Ink’s face, as one would cup a flower to catch its scent. Nightmare didn't even look confused; he still wore the same cute, slightly mocking smile. It still woke up on him something like yearning, although he didn't stop blaming the paint for that. “And it's— it's nothing. The pink means nothing. You mean… You mean nothing to me.”

“Now, you're blushing,” Nightmare stated, almost clinically. They kissed again, Nightmare leading their mouths to kiss when his eye followed the curve of Ink’s smile. Barely a peck, before he murmured, “And you receive me well enough to know that you do not dislike it, nor me. Is it wrong for me to assume you don't loathe it?”

“...I mean, there's definitely a big jump between hating it and loving it,” Ink said. Regardless of what he said, he merely sighed, shaky, when Nightmare kissed the angle of his jaw, chasing the differences between their anatomies. As he attempted to go even lower yet and mouth his neck, Ink let out a sound that resembled both growl and whine. Even so, he didn't fight Nightmare's hand dropping the tails of his scarf just to blindly busy itself on its knot, unmaking. “It's— y’know.”

The scarf came undone; the length of it made the process particularly long. Even so, it was far too practical to ignore the fact that it was something done many, many times before. “Oh, I know.”

When Nightmare leaned down again, threatening, Ink moved back. It didn't do much, however, when Nightmare decided to hug his waist, and lay himself tighter, heavy against the front of them. The feeling of it was enough to make him hug him back, both arms instinctively pulling him closer. As Nightmare kissed his jaw again, he didn't fight it. Instead, Ink sighed, and revealed his neck to him when the way the night would surely end dawned on him for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

His hands moved, fisting the cloth of Nightmare's jacket as it seemed only natural to want them to be closer yet. He felt the hint of a bite over the cloth of his turtleneck, for a moment— the edge of Nightmare's teeth blunted by his clothing until it could only resemble the pressure of a hand. Nonetheless, the feeling of it was enough to make him whine, sounding shaky and high-pitched in the silence of the room. Ink breathed, “Gross.”

Nightmare leaned back, just enough to allow him to see the way his eye rolled. They kissed again, then, and he didn't let go; when their mouths met, open, he tasted of wine and the sizzle of magic that characterized magic food. The pressure of his pelvic bone against soft ecto was less so, yet Ink couldn't find it in himself to complain about it when Nightmare grinded against him, unable to remember what was so bad about it. The bite on his tongue didn't quite have the same effect, however, and he remembered himself enough to cling tighter around him in response.

The warm annoyance that came with lengthening the kisses so much never came; naturally, that meant that the hand Nightmare sneaked behind his neck didn't serve much of a function. It never bothered him, if he was balanced enough: the idea of Nightmare needing him so much as to attempt to restrict him had always amused him. But there was a difference in the way that his fingers spread just so, holding him as if he could never have enough of him, that made it significantly less amusing. Ink barely recognized the feeling as it was, high in the ribcage. Maybe it was fondness?

He felt the shift of Nightmare's other hand before the weight of it pressed against the juncture of his thighs, and squeezed. A whine left his lips, as Nightmare separated before Ink could even come up with the idea of muffling himself into his mouth. Nonetheless, he realized that the impulse never quite came as Nightmare leaned back in, and kissed the corner of his mouth, wet and warm enough to make him keen again.

Nightmare’s palm slotted itself tight and plain against the in-between of his thighs, bone against clothing. The brush of his finger against his ecto, covered as it was yet, made something on him fold and curl. The pressure of his mouth against his jaw felt particularly insistent, heavy in its roughness. He couldn't help but wonder whether it'd hurt if he was less drunk in his presence. “You’re mine. Everything of you belongs to me.”

A breathless laughter came out of his lips. When Ink looked up at him, he found him frowning, pupil round and attentive all the same. He tried to lean back to admire the way it framed his face, but it was futile. To look at each other so clearly was impossible; after all, the hold Nightmare still had on his neck made him unable to move far, while his own around Nightmare's ribs could only pull both of them closer. Ink felt startled with the knowledge that he wanted to try it regardless. He heaved, “You’re still hung-up about that Hotel NPC?”

Nightmare squinted his eye at him, frown still shaping his expression. His forehead met his own, when Ink stared, and it pushed Ink’s own in a headbutt when he never bit the bait and kissed him. It felt the closest thing to a response he could get out of him, as he caught Ink’s lips with his own when the lack of contact became enough of a problem for him to ignore.

It didn't deepen, not enough. Even so, Nightmare breathed heavily when he separated, withdrawing both hands just to fumble with Ink’s top. When he raised his arms, Nightmare took the cloth off just to kiss him again, bracing his hands on Ink’s hips. He could feel the tremor of his growl against his mouth, and it felt only proper to do it back, nipping at Nightmare's tongue when he dared sneaking inside. The pain didn't ward him off, but rather seduced him into forcing his way ever closer to Ink, uncaring in the way he could only summon when drowning in the moment.

When they slotted together again, it was clothed ecto against clothed ecto. It felt like victory, when Ink wasn't the first to yield to the pull of both of their magics and grind. He still sat on the table, so much movement wasn't quite possible as he was, but it didn't deter him from claiming the achievement. Natural; the pressure of Nightmare's ecto, already hard and hot, weighed considerably more in his mind than the concept of ensuring nuance.

Nightmare's mouth left his own to kiss the newly discovered plane of his neck, and that only cemented it. The way he didn't wait long to bite made Ink hiss, although the sound was quickly hushed into a sigh by a lap of his tongue. Hot and wet, it was hard not to lean onto its shape, to the way it turned bifid by the end as a snake’s would.

“Definitely not over it at all,” Ink murmured, more to himself than anything else; a sigh left his lips when Nightmare nipped him as an answer nonetheless. Not the same spot, thankfully, but Ink had to wonder just what type of strength he was using if he could feel the imprint of his teeth so clearly. “You’re awful. We talked like, what, three minutes?”

“It felt like more,” Nightmare huffed against his vertebrae. He didn't lean away from him, nuzzling against the curve of his neck when Ink managed not to whine at a new bite. “Lean down.”

Ink didn't move, pleasantly distracted by the way he could feel the roundness of Nightmare's cheek against the angle of his vertebrae. Soon, he learned that he did not need to follow through the petition, as —after Nightmare wiped the table with a lone tentacle, pushing most dishes to the side— he was forced down onto the table by a heavy hand, the presence of Nightmare's tendril behind his head muffing the impact of his forced fall. Regardless of that, however, the sudden shift in position made him grateful for the fact that he wasn’t the type to get dizzy for this kind of rough play.

Nightmare's hand felt hot over his ribs. Nonetheless, he still felt like he deserved to complain about it. “...You really, really suck. Are you gonna kill me in your jealousy, Night? Is that how we're playing now?”

“Oh, no. Farther from that.” His eye trailed from Ink’s own, down to his neck and the give of his abdomen. When his sight reached his hips, so did his free hand, squeezing the ecto beneath. Nightmare properly looked down at him, when Ink couldn't help but settle his palms over his own. “You gave me a reason, did you not? I will take care of your desires until the idea of seeking attention elsewhere sickens you.”

That was kind of hot, Ink noted. The thought settled low in his ectobody, not quite emotion, but far too heated to be pain. “Still sounds like murder.”

Nightmare huffed, but didn't deny it. Instead, his tentacle curled from where it sat beneath Ink's head to wrap around his neck, useless if not for how the mere pressure of it was enough to deter him from moving. He resembled the moon in front of the sun, an eclipse during twilight. Further contemplation would have made Ink realize that it was probably a result of him blocking the warm light of the ceiling; instead, he had discarded the line of thought and reached up towards the shadow of him, and the illusion broke when Nightmare’s hand left his chest to grasp his wrist. The cyan of his eyelight was hypnotic, the threat of it keeping him unable to look away.

The back of Ink's hand touched the mantle, Nightmare's fingers being replaced by the weight and curl of a tentacle soon after. It felt like a proper trap, unlike the occasions in which Error truly thought some well placed string could keep him still. The look on Nightmare's face held much less murderous rage, however.

“...Don’t smile at me like that,” Nightmare said. Ink couldn’t; not when he didn't know why, nor when he started doing so. Regardless of his words, he could see Nightmare making what he assumed to be a similar expression, brows furrowed in frustration yet the line of his mouth curling up all the same. It was cute. Before he could attempt to touch Nightmare's smile with his free hand, it had already touched the mantle. His eye thinned just so, the lid hiding the roundness of its light. “Ink.”

The feeling of liquid negativity over his ectobody was familiar to him by now, but it still made him shiver. Ink dared not to look down, recognizing the gesture for what it was as Nightmare leaned back just so to allow his overalls to be disrobed. “Are you— really? In front of my salad?”

“We never ordered salad,” Nightmare said. Ink felt the cloth of his legs leave his hips, and that was that. When Nightmare cupped his ecto, his fingers almost felt cold against the intense warmth of his magic’s core. Bone against faux skin. He clicked his tongue. “Open your legs more for me, love. Don't tell me you’ve suddenly grown a penchant for modesty, hm?”

Ink had not, so he did it, his brain barely able to follow the way in which his body moved by itself, prey to a silent dance. The scene complemented his palette too well. He licked his lips, as he tried to find a void in his feelings. If it felt too real, he could almost fool himself into believing they were two equal characters facing one another. He blamed the imbalance of his paints on how it was hard to try and peer on just what was so wrong about the notion.

“If you did—” Nightmare continued, his palm leaving the intimacy of him to test the smoothness of Ink’s inner thigh, his free hand soon joining it, “—remember that you’ll never show yourself like this to anyone but me.”

His legs were pushed further apart by two steady hands, slow. From his position, he could see the shadow of Nightmare's figure lower. He jerked at the sudden realization of what was to happen, but Nightmare kept him open, tentacle still trapping his wrists while his hands forbid him from hiding. It felt cold, where they didn't touch; the contrast of it made the contrarian warmth of Nightmare's hands more jarring. Ink wanted him to touch, and to burn his handprints onto his ectobody, charring his blues and pinks black. He wanted—

As he felt his thighs be freed, twin arms pressing down on the ectobodies of them to support themselves, Ink felt the heat of Nightmare's tongue on the give of his abdomen, and shuddered. He didn't quite make the same reaction when he received a kiss there, then, but he answered anyway, the hitch of his breath evening into something like a whine. In response, Nightmare pressed his cold forehead to his stomach, and breathed.

“Tell me, Ink,” he murmured, his voice warm with the threat of intimacy, “Would you oppose me having a taste of you?”

The question was so vague he would have laughed at any other occasion. Instead, he felt the tone of a whine leave his mouth, light and fragile like a spiderweb. A word discerned itself from the noise as he felt himself breathe, barely a proper answer, “Please.”

“You beg,” Nightmare murmured. Ink tensed as he felt another kiss pepper the low of his abdomen, chaste, before the threat of a bite paradoxically allowed him to sigh in relief. “You beg, but for what? Tell me.”

His thighs would have clenched down in his skull until it heard it crack, in another life. In this one, however, they shook when Nightmare's palms pried them open again, revealing the damp heat of his sex. When he tried to close them in reflex, to avoid the warmth being stolen by the air of the room, Nightmare’s hands traveled to his knees instead, to where he felt his strength leave him. Nightmare peered up at him when he admitted defeat, growing pliant once more.

He was smirking. “Is the prospect of me in between your legs so unappealing?”

“Stars, you’re so annoying,” Ink breathed. Even so, he couldn't stop looking at the circle of Nightmare's pupil, ever so appealing. He felt his own eyes wide, their roundness only natural with how much he felt himself burn. The idea of Nightmare as he was, so close to him, didn't disgust him. Instead, it awakened in him a feeling like seeing a gray cloud before rain fell. Ink bit his cheek. “You have me over the table, just get to it already.”

His breath was so close to where he wanted him. He would have whined again, if not for how a single lick trailed through the seam of one of his lips. The edge of his tongue caressed the hood of his clit, and Ink exhaled, clumsy in his abruptness. The gust of air followed through even as Nightmare turned his head, nuzzling against one of his thighs. Nightmare purred, amused, “Hm? In front of your salad?”

Ink didn't have the chance to answer, as a slow lap of Nightmare's tongue trailed his core again, the tip of it threatening entrance against him before it finally eased its way in. It felt like he was being forced open, Nightmare's tongue curling just so, teasing its position, before it withdrew. It was replaced by a finger as it left him, however, Nightmare leaning back just to press himself against the thigh that closed in without his hand stopping it. The middle finger, Ink realized, his mouth shaping a silent whine when it bended, firm against the inner side of his pubic bone.

Nightmare pressed himself closer again, his tongue following the trail of his sex before slithering over his clit, barely a whisper of a feeling. The laps that came by its side were firmer, however, the sensation echoing in the wholeness of his ectobody. Then, the second finger entered him, annular, and Nightmare’s lips trapped his clit in between them as he started to suck gently.

“Oh, you—”

To hide from the feeling, then, only felt natural. Instead of following through with his initial instinct of doing so, however, he brought his thigh closer to himself, unwilling to see himself closing off against the feeling. A hum around him was all the acknowledgement he got for the attempt, Nightmare's tongue trailing the underside of his clit until it reached the peak, where it started its movement once again. It was static, the way his magic reacted to Nightmare's own, building up heat just below his faux skin until it felt like it would burn him. But it never did, and he could only sigh a moan when Nightmare withdrew his hand just so the curl of his fingers felt like a new touch again.

His mouth separated, a small break, just to breathe warm air against him. Ink didn't know when he closed his eyes, but he opened them, then, just to see Nightmare looking up at him, his eye lidded in a way that could only be smug. His tongue trailed Ink’s sex again, from bottom upwards, eased wide to feel the most of him. It stopped when he reached his clit, however, as something like a whine left Ink’s mouth, his hips bucking up just to feel it alive against him again. Instead of fulfilling its purpose, however, the movement only made Nightmare lean back, the same look in his eye as he licked his lips. The tentacle around his neck tightened ever so slightly, and Ink saw his head tilt, lazy, as he let him breathe while the rising feeling died.

Not yet.

Ink might have started to have made a face, then, smiling sharply as his eye blurried just so with the darkening of his eyelights to black. It was dropped, however, the moment Nightmare's fingers bent again, insistent against the inner face of his pubic bone. His eyes closed as he writhed, already forgetting whatever half attempted threat he had on his lips. A long whimper left him instead, the sound hitching higher whenever Nightmare touched just right, the pads of his phalanges knowing and familiar inside his ectobody. He swore he could see the shape of the world beneath his eyelids, for a moment, before Nightmare's fingers left him with a wet sound. He was panting.

“...Hm? My apologies. Were you trying to intimidate me?” Nightmare purred. There was the noise of his shoes against the floor, his hand shifting to press against the top of Ink’s thigh, searing sharp. The thing that truly stole his attention, however, was how suddenly Nightmare pressed himself against his naked ecto, the cloth of his pants the only cover against his cock, already hardened fully. A groan. When Ink opened his eyes, he saw him licking his fingers clean, his eyelight following the turn of Ink’s face. “How impolite, I hope you're aware.”

One of Nightmare's hands cupped his cheek, the tentacle behind Ink’s skull lapped his neck from where it was still holding it before it dropped to the small of his back to make him sit straighter. His arms were still trapped, although any urge he might have had was culled by the tentacles pressing themselves against his palms, unbothered by the way he squeezed. Nightmare leaned down just so, his nasal bone brushing against Ink’s own as he let himself take in the way he fought to even his breath. Ink's thighs clamped around his hips, meanwhile, the only movement he could really make without widening the distance between them both.

“Although, I must admit,” Nightmare murmured, kissing the corner of Ink’s lips before going down, chasing his angled jaw just to fall against the curve of his neck, damp and hot, “the way you're acting so ill-mannered certainly has its charm. You always make me want you with such… strength.”

“It's not…” the sound of Nightmare's pants, slowly being unzipped, was startling enough to make his words catch on his breath. It sounded loud in the room, with just the two of them existing. He refused to look down at the way Nightmare's hand slowly moved so close to his sex, focusing instead on the way the other left his cheek just to settle over the table. Then, his tongue trailed his vertebrae, and Ink moaned, small, “Night.”

The sound of his name seemed to be enough to trigger a reaction again. They kissed again, hungry. A fight, not by name alone, but rather for the way in which they matched so closely, every moment mirrored. There was no winner as Nightmare’s tongue brushed his open mouth, his teeth, the way in which they lost sharpness when Nightmare pushed just so. Ink let himself be selfish, and he took and took, careless, breathing harshly when they separated even as neither of them truly needed air. Nightmare caught his lips again, if just for a moment, biting down on the gentleness of their silhouette before he stepped back with a growl.

Ink had to watch, after that. Nightmare's pants were lowered by both his hands, and underwear soon after. Clothes down to the knees, he leaned back, eyelight following the way his own fingers curled around himself, giving a rushed stroke to his hard cock before wiping the precum off the head with a swipe of thumb. His eyelid closed, his mouth shaping a quiet ‘o’ for a moment before he licked his lips. The cyan of his pupil was revealed to him again, just for a moment, before Ink couldn't help but tilt his head back, a heady whine, as Nightmare's tip brushed against his clit.

“You’re so cheeky,” Nightmare huffed, angling his hips back and leaning down just so, the head of his cock trailing down to properly find him. His free hand pushed Ink down to the table again, and Ink knew he could take him. His skull against the mantle, he felt so wet. He was so wet. “I should know better than to reward such behavior from you. And yet…”

He stopped right before he eased his way inside, his tip pressing against Ink’s core, threatening entrance. Ink whined, as the seconds stretched, his hips moving by themselves to try and catch more of him —rubbing himself against the lively hardness of his cock— before Nightmare’s tentacles tightened around him, threatening. The back of his head couldn’t even meet the table properly, a well placed tentacle the only obstacle between himself and the comforting hardness of the surface.

“And yet—” Nightmare repeated, his hand moving down from his ribs to settle just lower than his faux abdomen, his thumb toying against the skin below his bellybutton just to press down, thoughtful. Then, he smirked, and leaned forward just so, his hips sliding closer. The feeling of it was enough to make Ink stop breathing, Nightmare’s cock, painfully slow, easing its way in with a smooth glide. Nightmare breathed out a harsh sigh, his fingers clenching down as both his hands settled over the side of his hips. “—here we are. You just wanted to be reminded of your place, didn’t you? You’re so wet. It's clear that you wanted this. That you want this.”

A whine abandoned his mouth; he felt the way his magic pooled down on his stomach, liquid emotion. Their hips couldn’t become closer once they finally touched, but Nightmare still made the attempt, the low of his pelvis grinding insistently against Ink’s own as if he believed that the effort could melt them together. The movement made him noisy, his long whimper turning into short, breathy whines whenever Nightmare threatened a proper thrust just to merely press against him instead, wet and hot. His thighs pressed against Nightmare's hips, uncomfortably hot.

“Moony,” Ink breathed, unsurprised by the needy tone of his own voice. He played it up, sometimes; letting himself falter and weaken if it just meant more of him. Of them. Selfish, he kept the same high tone, drowning on how he always seemed to need more air, “Fuck me.”

A hum. Nightmare's hand, the one on his hip, moved down, tracing the silhouette of Ink’s ecto with slow reverence, as if they have never touched each other before in the darker lights nor in any other. The arc of his pelvis, his thigh— and then, his clit, the pad of Nightmare's thumb pressing firmly against it no matter how much Ink tried to squirm. It sounded like a purr when Nightmare spoke, undeniably pleased, “Moony, is it? Not so abrasive now, are you, Ink?”

There was a moment, where Nightmare leaned back; his hips separating from Ink’s own, as if threatening to part. The gesture didn't go unfought, Ink’s voice hitching into a whine, the one he knew that Nightmare found more than endearing. As if in response, Nightmare growled, and, his thumb absently tracing the shape of Ink’s clit, slammed his way back with a sudden thrust, dirty. Bottomed out fully, barely an instant.

His pelvis angled just so, Ink was able to feel the chill of their magic touching one another, rippling in between his hips up to the emptiness of his chest like rain on roof. His vision blurred, for a moment, his eyes lidding as he fought and lost not to let himself drown in the early feeling before it pushed him fully.

“Fuck,” Ink breathed, whiny. He bit his lower lip, for a moment, before Nightmare's hand left his hip just to pry his mouth open. He would have bitten, had he been less distracted by feeling, both paint and body, but just as he attempted to do so Nightmare’s hips moved again, parting from his just to jerk back. It hit just right, —Nightmare had practice fucking him, he reminded himself, dizzy and lost in the notion of being so familiar— anything but lucky guess making it so Ink had to take a moment just to remember to breathe, a second or so after he realized that the moan that echoed the room was his own.

Nightmare's thumb continued moving, as did his hips; not the same strength of before, forceful and quick like the stab of a knife, but something more tender. The sound of his own wetness made him want to hide, purple and weak cyan reacting to the notion of Nightmare listening in how much he was enjoying himself —how much he had let the story derail from what should have been a fresher, more interesting plot— but then his thumb entered his mouth, fearless of the threat of his bite, and Ink whined, allowing it to press against the iridescent plane of his tongue and leaning his head to the side just to get it deeper, his lips inevitably wrapping around it just to suck before Nightmare eased his mouth open again.

“How eager,” Nightmare commented, although he made no show of disliking it. Instead, he kept Ink’s mouth open and pliant, cradling his jaw as the pad of his finger remained in place, insistent and annoyingly confident in how Ink would let it just be there. It was not particularly wrong. When Ink moaned with the next swaying of his hips, loud sound barely muffled by his thumb in his mouth, his hips stuttered, grinding against a bruising spot inside Ink’s walls until he could barely distinguish his own existence in between the feeling. A smirk; it remained so even as a strained hiss left him, “Were you picturing this when we first entered the room, love? My cock inside you as your chosen apology?”

The particular memory escaped him, so he didn't feel guilty about his half-lie: a well timed whimper against Nightmare's finger just as he was withdrawing his hips. Like a charm, it made him stutter for a second —a pleased growl over him, on him— before thrusting again, sharp and sudden. It felt like pure electricity, the pleasure rising until Ink could feel it fluttering inside his ribs— and spread like melting ice, when Nightmare kept on thrusting, bluntly brushing Ink’s clit with his thumb until he felt as if the edges of himself were starting to blur together with the background.

“Making— making a fool out of me.” The tentacles around Ink’s wrists tightened up to keep him still. His voice was rough, the effort of his movements catching to him as his head dropped, a growl leaving his lips as he learned forward just so. He looked pretty like this, Ink noticed, as he finally managed to open his eyes again and look past the static that clouded his vision. Nightmare, shadowed by the room light, his eye barely open. The way he couldn't keep on frowning even if he tried, his expression slack and pleasure stricken. The silhouette of his free tentacles, swaying and curling, as if reacting to every thrust, behind his back. His bitten lip, before he groaned, breathy, “You’re mine. Everything of you is mine. Your— fuck.”

Nightmare's hands withdrew, both mouth and clit suddenly exposed to the air again. The loss was enough to make him whine, the feeling only accentuated when the thrusts slowed, Nightmare's back straightening just for him to sink his cock all the way inside, the noise of Ink’s cunt giving in wet and dirty for both of them to hear, and he looked down, feeling unmade at how they seemed to fit even while undisguised by the lack of motion.

Ink panted, the sound echoing Nightmare's own heavy breaths. Stretched, wide open for Nightmare alone, he just wanted it to continue. He wanted to finish, for this to never end, to bite, to be bitten, and to never let go. The electricity, alive as if stolen from wire, never seemed to die; the strength of it making Ink squirm and grind around Nightmare's cock until he heard him groan again.

His hands touched him again, if just to push his white shirt up, revealing his tinted chest and the rest of his faux abdomen to the coldness of the room. Ink’s eyes looked up, beyond the ceiling, as Nightmare made a point of tracing his ribs, —fingers sinking just so at the shallow etches on them that he didn't remember making— his hips gaining torturous momentum once more.

“Creators,” Ink heaved, more of an involuntary movement of the tongue than anything truly conscious. His arms felt sore, pinned down still; his hands clenching down on the tentacles that trapped him yet were merciful enough to ground him to existence. He swallowed a new whine as Nightmare's hands moved again, heavy and purposeful against his anatomy. Nightmare knew him, like this, weak against his own selfishness yet too stern to accept his mixture of paints as proper emotion. He would have kissed him by now, his cock inside him and Ink's mind melting. Even now, his mouth looked so inviting. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes, please.”

Nightmare licked his lips, not quite able to disguise the way he kept glancing at Ink’s eyes before his mouth. His hands were brought down again, grabbing the small of his waist, and pulled Ink closer to the edge, forcing their hips to slot snugly against one another with a wet thud. There, he teased the stimulation, the skin above his cock pressing against Ink’s clit, tormenting him with the memory of a touch that no longer was. Slightly lifted off the table, back bent, Ink felt dizzy. Nightmare's eye met his own, and Ink noticed that he had leaned down, even closer.

“You want more?” A breathy purr, echoing in the empty air. Nightmare's still hands held him in position, tight and safe, palms startlingly hot against the give of his ectobody. Slick, his hips withdrew just to fuck into him, teasingly light. “More of me? Use your words, or you won't have it.”

“Please.”

“Don't be difficult,” Nightmare said, amused and self-satisfied. The drag of his hips remained lazy, and Ink knew that Nightmare could tell that it was killing him. It settled something low in his faux body, but not enough by far. Ink brought his thighs higher, closer to himself, just to see if Nightmare would follow his untold request and take. He did not. “Just say you want me to fuck you properly. Tell me just how much you love feeling me so deep inside you, how you're willing to lie just to get a taste of me. Or is that too much for your needy little mouth, hm? Beg.”

Something made him shiver, —the tone, the words themselves, the way Nightmare grabbed him tighter to still his squirming hips— as if cold was something he could truly feel, and, unasked for, he moaned, not quite so far from a whine. Nightmare didn't relent, though, merely watching him as he bit his lower lip, his head shaking as if trying to shoo the reaction away. “Fuck—”

“Love.” In his voice there was a certain tone that Ink could not describe by word. Then, he realized that it was something like heated fondness. “Tell me what I want to hear and I’ll make sure you’re properly satisfied.”

“Please, fuck me. I want you.” Like blood from a wound, Ink couldn't keep himself from leaking, his voice dragging through a whine when Nightmare gave a thrust with sudden strength. His head went back, his skull flat against the mantled table. He could still see Nightmare over him, up until his eyes closed tight with the next jerk of Nightmare's hips. Could hear the growl in his breath, determined. The sound of his own voice spiked up, his voice hitching, “Creators, I want you so bad. I— It's so bad. I love you.”

“Oh, and you're sorry?” He breathed, although he did reward Ink’s confession with a firm pull of his hands, tugging him close just to force his cock deeper yet inside him. Ink keened when he did so, paint pooling at the back of his throat before he swallowed it back down. “You’re sorry for making me do this?”

Ink lied, a whine, “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”

There was a moment of tension, —barely an instant of stillness— where he thought Nightmare would call him out on the overtly needy tone of his voice, the way he sweetened it just a bit off from being believable. Instead, Nightmare tightened his grips on his waist, firm and snug, and rocked his hips back, teasing Ink with the threat of emptiness. Before he could follow through it, however, he gritted his teeth and slammed forward, heavy and powerful. Suddenly full, Ink couldn't indulge in the feeling of being taken so completely before Nightmare repeated the motion, the sparking feeling that followed enough to make him keen, needy.

“Greedy,” Nightmare hissed, a sharp thrust of his hips emphasizing the single word. Inside, Ink felt as if it was branded, the electricity that came with every rocking of his hips threatening to light him on fire from the inside out. His hands clenched tightly around Nightmare's tentacles, their tips easy to reach, just to avoid the very real possibility of himself being lost in the sensation. Ink tried to heave and pant to no avail, unable to quiet the desperate whimpers that resonated in the warm air. “You’re so greedy.”

There was no answer he could give back. Nightmare's hips quicked, rough, his hands keeping Ink still and unable to move away from the way he made sure to never miss the spot that had his voice wavering in pure sensation. Nightmare groaned, over him, the hold he had on his waist tightening as he fought to keep the rhythm, his breath hitching whenever he fully bottomed in and Ink didn't want them to part. His tentacles, in turn, loosened, but Ink could not find the want on him to brush them off now that their wrap was weak around his wrists.

He didn't have the strength to do so, anyway, as with every spark of feeling he felt himself falter and melt with the wholeness of the sensation engorging his empty chest and everything underneath. His eyes couldn't stay open, but he still could see; shapes and colors twisting and curling with every intense thrust, barely straying away from deep pink. A monochrome. Ink could only breathe out the color itself in moans; all the while, his ectobody warm and electric with how his magic was reacting so well to Nightmare's own inside him, fucking him, unmaking him. It was easy, then, to forget everything else but the feeling of Nightmare’s cock plunging into him so easily, insistently, determined. Everything else blurred, and he felt himself clench— a gasp became a sound, uncoordinated, as Ink felt himself come.

Nightmare’s thrusts started to get sloppy, his thrusts following through Ink’s orgasm no matter how he bent and tensed with pleasure, One of his hands left Ink’s sore waist just to press against the table, forcing his own position to stand, and Ink knew he was close.

He wanted him to come inside.

There was no need for him to say it, however. Nightmare let out a groan as he bottomed out, as far as he could reach, just to go still when Ink’s ectobody clenched tight around his cock, beckoning him even deeper. Tense, and, with his open mouth unbreathing, Nightmare released inside him, his hips twitching with the effort of doing so. Burning hot, Ink could barely distinguish his own wetness from his come as he felt the way it started to leak down his cunt and to the mantle. Deafened by the intense feeling, he could taste the cyan and purple bubbling up in his chest before Nightmare properly silenced them with a new surge of his pelvis.

It felt like nonexistence, as they laid there for however long they were. But then, Ink blinked, and he finally recognized the sound of his own breathing, quick and shallow. He stared up at the ceiling, recognizing the color of it as a pale cream. Satisfied, he couldn’t think of anything to say as he attempted to gather his own mind together. Absently, he could tell Nightmare was doing the same, panting harshly over him. When Ink moved his hands to help him bring his torso up, there was no resistance. His elbows and forearms on the table, he straightened his head, still misty and unfocused.

Nightmare kissed him the moment he was able, his mouth pressing clumsily against the corner of his mouth. Something in the gesture still read as pink, so Ink kissed him back, this time properly on the lips. He couldn’t quite gather his words yet, so they breathe each other’s air before Ink forced himself to talk;

“...Inside? Really?” The fact that he wanted it was better off not mentioned. Nightmare looked down at him, eye round and entertainingly warm. “It’s— Really?”

“I wouldn’t… You wouldn’t want it to be on the floor, would you not?” Nightmare argued, already smirking at him. Nonetheless, he moved his hand down from his waist, palm tracing Ink’s hips before grabbing his thigh, pushing it up. His hips withdrew, and both Ink and him let out a sounded sigh when his cock slipped out of Ink’s sex, softened by his release. Ectobody took time to turn off, once stimulated, so Ink could look at him as he took a napkin just to clean himself off. He snorted, and Nightmare stared up at him again. He licked his lips, and said, “You’re leaking.”

“And whose fault is that?” Ink said, his hand unconsciously moving up to wipe the corner of his mouth, half-expecting paint to be drooling from its corners. There was nothing, so he looked back up at the ceiling and willed the purple to lighten its heat in his face. It never felt quite like this, the other times, but he did suppose that he had been messing way too much with his paint dose to really be able to tell. “Gross. You’re gross.”

He heard a snort. It was barely a warning for the feeling of Nightmare’s fingers trailing his puffy lips again, down to where he still felt himself relaxed and open up to the sensitive peak of his clit. “Please. It is not that bad.”

His head moved back down to look at him, just to catch the vision of Nightmare’s fingers, paled by his own release, being licked clean by his own tongue. Ink shivered, and looked back up, although the sound of Nightmare laughing almost startled him enough to consider staring back.

“So you can give, but not take?” Nightmare teased, huffing when Ink kept his eyes up to the ceiling. “I seem to recall times in which you’ve been rather fond of tasting—”

“Where's the ice cream?” Ink said instead, shaking the feeling off to finally sit, and tried not to think too deeply on how he was definitely dirtying the table. Nightmare was still smirking when he looked at him again. “I need the magic boost.”

“...Hm. Behind you, love.” For a moment, it looked like Nightmare would reach it for him, his tentacles rising once more— but then, they stuttered, clumsy, and it was not so clear. They were tucked back onto his back, as Nightmare leaned down just to busy himself with his pants. His ecto was obscured once more as he tucked himself in; readjusting his jacket as he did so. As he smoothed the few wrinkles it had, he added, “Remember that the mint-flavoured one belongs to me.”

“Mint-flavoured? What, not brave enough to try toothpaste?” It was a shame. He liked mint, too. Ink twisted his upper body to the side, and reached for his bowl and a nearby spoon, trying out what he was now pretty sure was strawberry ice cream inside his mouth. It couldn’t melt —as it was magic food— but it still dissolved nicely on his tongue. Not as sweet as he had thought, but it was still pleasant. “C’mere.”

Nightmare rolled his eye, but let him indulge, opening his mouth just to receive a single spoonful. If he particularly disliked it, he didn’t show it, much more focused on fetching Ink’s clothes over the chair. When he offered him his own overalls, Ink snorted, but allowed him to clothe him all the same. He chose to ignore how he was probably going to leak with Nightmare’s come the moment he stood up, the liquid dampening his pants and making walking much more uncomfortable than it should. Much more importantly, he decided not to recognize the way that thought made a shiver pass through his spine.

“Is this like— one of your weird power kink things? Like— dressing up a pet or something?” He wondered, putting the bowl down just to move himself up to let Nightmare fully get his overalls around his ectobody. It fitted a bit tighter, with the ectobody on, but it was a feeling he was already used to by now. When he tried to stand, Nightmare pushed him back with a huff, keeping his hand on Ink’s torso when he insisted on getting up.

They stared at each other. Ink said, “What?”

“There’s broken glass,” Nightmare said, brushing some of the shards away with a sweep of his foot. He brought himself closer, walking to Ink’s side just to loop an arm around his back. “Allow me.”

A squeak left his throat when Nightmare scooped his knees with his other arm and picked him up. It was barely a moment, but his arms had moved by themselves to hug his neck, keeping himself upright. It was hard to let go even as Nightmare walked to the side, far from the table, and put him down. Notably, Nightmare didn’t complain about it, although a lingering hand still pressed against his waist while his back stayed bent. He kept the position even as Ink leaned back to give him a kiss.

“...Y’know I don’t feel pain like that,” he reminded him. Nightmare looked at him, unimpressed, and his forehead leaned down against his temple. “I bet I wouldn’t have even realized I got cut at all.”

“I would have.”

Ink snorted, but didn’t deny it. He let him go, and brushed his own clothes smoother, his legs pressing together as he tried very strongly to avoid the consequences of his own actions. His leave was inevitable, and as so, he started to look around for Broomie— hesitating when it was nowhere to be found. He was going to mention it right as Nightmare handed him his top. As he put it on, Nightmare handed him his sash, and Ink had to contain a quirk of his mouth as he noticed the way some colors were visibly missing.

Then, he was handed his scarf. It was a bit more difficult to tie on —cloth long and untamed— so Ink filled the silence as he could while he struggled with the task; “Think we can steal the bowls?”

“I was already planning on it,” Nightmare said, eyeing the way Ink’s hands moved across his scarf. He seemed to realize what he was doing, and looked away, suddenly too aware of what he resembled as he had stared. “Although… well. To think you were worried about the glasses, earlier. I should have known you would have performed thievery and other lower crimes if given the chance.”

“Huh? Asshole.” Ink snorted when he saw Nightmare turn back at him, somewhat scandalized. He didn’t delay on him any longer, however, and his eyes searched around for the familiar sight of wood and golden rim. He stopped when he saw some spots of black on the floor instead. A sigh; he recalled the dead paint with a movement of his palm. When the drops finally reached his hand, he clenched them inside a fist before letting go. Not a full magic rush, as pure magic would have given him, but it was enough to make him feel slightly chipper. “...What glasses?”

“I do not think that’s important at this moment.”

Ink believed him. He turned around, anyway, just to keep looking for his paintbrush, his efforts obscured by the low light that barely permeated the room. He clicked his tongue, and kept on looking even as Nightmare stepped closer just to press a cold bowl against his chest. Ink picked it up, and Nightmare set a hand on his hip. It reminded him of what they just did, body to body, and he saw cyan peppering the darkness of his eyelids when he closed his eyes. “Where’s Broomie?”

“Outside.” When Ink turned to look back at him, he was already leaning in for a kiss. A peck, before Ink separated just to get another spoonful of his dessert. Nightmare just stared at him, all the while, even if he cradled his own bowl of mint-flavoured ice cream near his chest. His hand remained a comfortable weight on his hip. “You desire to leave, love? So soon, after our reconciliation?”

“I’m leaking jizz and it’s yours.”

Nightmare snorted. He looked down just so, and Ink’s mouth twitched when he realized he was staring at his overalls. He licked his lips, before looking up at him once again. Pink and purple peppered the range where he couldn’t focus his eyes. “...Well. Is that concept so unappealing?"

“You’re such a freak,” he said, unable to help but look away when Nightmare didn’t deny it. His smile wasn't quite smooth; it was hard not to think of a beginner merely tracing lines without much thought behind. “I wanna get it off. It’s gross, and I don’t like it.”

“Oh, is that so?” Nightmare purred. His voice had a playful lilt, as if he didn’t believe him. Regardless, he didn’t push it. Instead, his hand separated from Ink’s torso with a hum, allowing him the illusion of distance for the moment in which he resisted turning around. When he finally broke, glancing to take a glimpse of Nightmare’s expression, he saw him eating a spoonful of his own ice cream. Ink blinked. It was mint. “I had to wonder whether you still held… unfair emotions towards my men’s actions. Whether you still had the desire to overtake this Alternative Universe, and its future.“

Ink didn’t answer him, much more preoccupied with the way his scarf suddenly felt stuffy and heavy. As he fixed it up, Nightmare added, “I may have lied to you, before. This universe, although permanently tainted by my influence… it does not hold much meaning to me. If you want it, I’ll give it to you. I’ll dispose of the leaders I’ve installed, as well as their dogmas. This world will never be the same, but it will heal.”

Nightmare’s hand met his chin, as he brought Ink’s face up to meet his own. They stared at each other, and he felt his mouth twitch upwards.

“Just say the word, Ink. Whatever you want, you’ll have.”

A snort. Ink shook his head away, easily freeing the angle of his chin from his thumb and index. Nightmare didn’t consider the gesture as refusal, however, his hand soon falling to cradle the small of his back. As his palm felt warm against his clothed ecto, Ink allowed it to remain there, light and sure. He looked back at Nightmare, for a moment— just to stare at the way the circle of his eyelight said so much with so little. And then, he turned his head away. Ink felt the curve of his own smile, orange bitter.

“...No, you were right, before. I don’t care about it, I don't care about them. This universe is useless to me,” Ink admitted, something like cyan tainting his tongue. He clicked it. “It’s… it’s as if they’re part of an abandoned play. Characters without a role to exist in are barely characters at all. It’s boring. This universe is boring. It just has the remains of what should have been if it didn't get spoiled. I don’t think I’d mind that much if it disappeared.”

Did that make him—?

“How pragmatic,” Nightmare commented, something like amusement in his voice. Ink turned to look back at him, and he saw him smiling, eye squinted up in a crescent moon. When he leaned down just so, it felt only fair to look up and kiss him. Mouths pressed against one another, it was only natural for their tongues to meet. But the heat never came, Nightmare separating just to kiss the corner of his lips with soothing coldness. Mint. “What a tricky thing you are. Although I suppose it’s part of your charm, is it not? Know that my offer still stands, nonetheless.”

“You’re so corny.” He licked his lips, just to see if he could taste his flavor. He didn't know why it felt like relief. “I’ll see you at yours tomorrow night. I missed you.”

Nightmare’s smile widened, smug, and Ink kissed him again. The shape of his mouth made it clumsy, so he felt just as uncoordinated as he stepped back and fixed his clothes for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Nightmare didn’t let him go too far, the weight of his hand still on his back. “It is only fair for me to wait for you, then. Until then, however… I hope you’re not too opposed to the idea of me escorting you outside?”

Ink was not. “Maybe.”

He snorted, but didn’t say anything regarding Ink’s answer. He pushed him towards the door, and they walked together. Nightmare only let him go to open the closed door, and Ink stepped outside. Tables, like before, opened windows— he stopped when he noticed the fact someone was standing beside the door, close to Broomie’s shape as it laid crossed over a leather seat. For what seemed like the tenth time that night, Ink bent down and let himself choke out paint and feeling to the shiny floor. Straightening up didn’t become any less harder, as usual, but he started to dread a world in which it would.

After cleaning his hands on his overalls —maneuvering his ice cream from arm to arm—, picked Broomie up with a single hand. It felt welcoming in his arms, light and gentle with sleep.

“...Good seeing ya, C.”

“Likewise,” Cross said, faltering. He evaded his eyes, light lavender peppering his cheeks. Ink thought about saying something more, but his mouth closed by itself by the moment Cross added, a cough: “...Yeah. Good.”

Nightmare’s palm met his back again, and Ink turned to look at him. For a moment, it felt as if they would kiss, Nightmare’s eye lidded just so. But then, he looked away and let him go, his hand dropping just to hang by his hips. He nodded at Cross, and he straightened his back to adopt a guarding position once again. “As always, it was a pleasure to converse with you, Protector of the Alternative Universes.”

“You’re funny,” Ink agreed. He tried not to think too deeply on how Cross wasn’t looking at either of them and toyed with Broomie’s handle, testing its weight. He made a sweep with its bristles, pointing to the floor, and the paint that leaked made a link between a universe and something more. Without looking back, he let himself drop inside, and felt the gap close above his head as he fell down.

Gravity adjusted to his presence, and the ceiling became the floor. He plopped down to the ground, suddenly all too tired. Hugging Broomie closer to himself, he nuzzled its bristles, and brushed them back in place with his fingers afterward. Its handle leaned over his lap, and he looked up, taunting himself with how the Doodlesphere extended wide and tall, almost terrifyingly so, yet reassuring in its familiarity.

For the first time in some time, he felt the weight of loneliness. Low on pink as he used to be, the feeling of it had been way easier to ignore, shallower. Ink didn’t care much about that, however. Instead, he let himself breathe onto it, welcoming the negativity of his own emotions. It wasn't sadness, but rather something like bittersweet longing instead.

Thinking about it, he brought the ice cream closer, and he took a spoonful from it just to remember its taste, sweet like fruit in summer.

He couldn't wait.

Notes:

Hiii hope you liked it!! I wrote this. For months...!! (aka wrote an itty bit in between weeks. And weeks) As tagged, I didn't have a beta read this time, but I hope it still reads well!! I appreciate any comments, if you ever want to give one!! Thank you for reading:]]]]

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 7 of There are other means of deceit