Nightmare really couldn't remember a certain time when Ink had started showing up at his castle. Whether he say it was a few months ago or just last week. He was good with time, seeing as how he still knew exactly how old he was after many years, but Ink's visits always confused him.

You see, the hyperactive, chaotic skeleton usually only truly appeared when he wanted too. Sometimes Nightmare thought he'd see his layered, small figure passing in the halls or he thought he was the one who would've spooked one of his men with a silly prank from time to time. Or, hell, sometimes he'd sit in his throne room and have a rather deep conservation with the squid on a matter of something rather mature compared to Ink's actual vocabulary.

Nightmare had a theory that Ink was just pretending to be a stupid lunatic. Though the inkblot didn't have a large vocabulary like he did, he still could speak rather properly if he wanted to. Literally about anything. Once Ink had explained his thoughts about something as vague as playing the flute or painting. Sometimes he'd talk about how much he hated watercolors or markers because of how light and dark they were.

And other times, Ink would talk about his day and repeat the same thing over and over only a few minutes after already saying it. Nightmare guessed Ink's memory was the only true thing about him, really. Though, through these little conversations they had from time to time, he'd started to catch tiny feeling for this Squid. Feelings he'd call... different in a sense.

He'd find himself laughing at his jokes or getting very concentrated on whenever Ink played the flute. He'd pretend to read while he'd watch Ink paint or sketch from the corner of his eye.

Though, only recently when he'd found himself subconsciously touching himself to the mere thought of it being the squid, he knew he had a bit of a problem. Nightmare had shot awake that night, fingers inside himself, his body ready and summoned. And by the feel of how abnormally wet he was, he had a feeling he'd came more than once.

"Damnit..." Nightmare slowly let his four fingers leave his soaked cunt. Ink, what had you done to him? Looking over to his digital clock, he could see it was only two in the morning. Great... he'd went to bed at ten like usual. So that was... four hours of masturbation. Should he be proud of that new record? Of course not.

He couldn't help it. Well, his body couldn't help it. His body yearned for him. Nightmare yearned for him. Nightmare let a soft whimper escape his throat, his thoughts starting to wander.

Ink's skillful hands traveled over Nightmare's sides, being sure to caress and squeeze whenever he wanted to. His tongue letting warm travel over Nightmare's nipples and breasts, down his chest to his clitoris.

Nightmare gasped at the feeling of Ink's tongue entering him, his tight walls squeezing around that skillful, ecto- appendage. He felt tears prick at his eyes when he felt Ink's four fingers slip inside of his soaking core one by one, making sure to stretch him farther and farther each time.

"Ink!" Nightmare moaned aloud, not caring for who heard him. He was on cloud 9 as Ink didn't hold back to make him cum. Now it was time for the main event.

Letting his thick, long cock rub against Nightmare, he carelessly thrusted rather hard inside of him. Nightmare's slick walls easily working as a lubricant. As Nightmare's body rocked against the bed for every thrust the squid had made, he let out a sweet noise with it.

Ink leaned in close, saying these simple yet amazing words to him: "You are mine."

Nightmare came easily with a loud cry. His back arched and his toes curled... body trembling and his form shaking... his body completely becoming limp. Nightmare panted softly. "Ink... stars, Ink.." Opening his eyes, he couldn't help but feel a bit embarrassed, disgusted and maybe a tiny bit annoyed that nobody was there with him.

Letting out a loud groan in anger, he rolled onto his stomach. He pitied himself. What would his men think of him? Masturbating to the sheer thought of their sworn enemy? What would Dream think of him? Getting off to his bestfriend's mental image. Stars, what would Ink think of him? He couldn't feel. He had no soul. And the thought of Ink carelessly fucking him into the mattress was already making his ecto spark right back up again.

This would be a long night.