Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Day 1: Feral Pet Play

Horror/Cross/Killer; mentions of blood & gore, pet play (except they're treating Cross like a rabid dog (affectionate)), dirty talk, anal, spitroasting, semi-public sex, praise, degradation 

Day 2: SOULbond sex

Cross/Nightmare; emotional sex, service top Cross, blowjob 

Day 3: Blaster sex

Cross/Dust + Cross' blaster; cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, coming untouched, praise kink

Day 4: Bondage

(fem) Killer/Cross; t4t, fingering, praise kink

Day 5: Ectoswap

Cross/Dust; magical bodyswap alternative, vaginal, SOULbond sex, praise kink, body worship

Day 6: Collars

Killer/Dust (mentions of one-sided(?) Red/Dust); bondage, blowjob, praise, degradation, blindfolds

Day 7: Squirting

(fem) Cross/Dust; first time, vaginal, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, praise

Day 8: Bloodplay

Dust/(vamp)Cross (mentions of past Horror/Dust); mild d/s, desperation, biting, blowjob, frottage, degradation

Day 9: Subdrop

BSP; (aftermath of) free use, vaginal, cumflation, plugs; oops all aftercare

Day 10: Sounding

Horror/Dust; edging, overstimulation, crying

Day 11: Praise

Red/Dust; crying

Chapter Text

The acrid tang of ozone and scorched earth hung thick in the air, a choking miasma that did nothing to mask the raw, metallic scent of marrow.

Cross stood panting, chest heaving, knuckles bruised and dripping purple onto the packed dirt beneath his boots. His usually pristine uniform was torn, smeared with grime and gore. His breath came in ragged, animalistic gasps, sockets wide and unfocused, pupils dilated with a primal fury that still vibrated through his bones.

He hadn't meant to lose it. Not like that. The Stars ambushing them had been a surprise. Unexpected. He almost didn't think they'd had it in them, to use such 'underhanded' techniques. He’d fought with his usual cold precision at first, parrying, countering, a lethal dance of bone and blade. But then Horror had taken a glancing blow from Ink's brush that sent him stumbling, a choked gasp escaping him, and something inside Cross had snapped.

The cool, detached strategist he tried so hard to be vanished, replaced by a whirlwind of snarling, snapping violence. He hadn't just fought; he’d torn. He’d used his fucking teeth, his claws, his very skull as a battering ram, a feral beast unleashed upon those who threatened his pack. He’d ripped through Ink so thoroughly he'd been left in a heap, with a savagery that left even Killer momentarily stunned.

Now, the silence after Dream had herded his beaten comrades away was deafening, broken only by his harsh breathing and the faint crackle of overcharged magic. He shook, trembled, but not from exhaustion. From the aftershocks of the rage that had consumed him like a damned inferno.

Shame warred with the lingering adrenaline, a sickening churn in his metaphorical gut. He prided himself on control, on his composure being his shield and weapon. It was the one good thing he had leftover from his training, from his universe, from his old life. Losing it… felt like a fundamental failure.

He stared at his bloodied hands, the tremor running up his arms, disgust slowly overtaking the terrifying thrill that still hummed beneath the surface of his bones.

Then Killer’s low, appreciative whistle cut through the stillness. "Well, fuck me sideways," he drawled, stepping over a sprawling blue puddle, his usual smirk edged into something sharp and hungry. He circled Cross slowly, like a predator assessing its prize. "Look at you. Absolutely fucking feral." Then his voice dropped, thick with undisguised lust, like he was getting off on Cross' turmoil. "Didn't know you had that in you, pretty boy. Saw red, didn't ya?"

"Ripped 'em apart," Horror grunted from the side, his single eye fixed on Cross with unnerving intensity. He was fine, he was fine, and he'd taken worse, and really, Cross shouldn't have lost it over barely a scrape, Horror was fine. "Like a damn... guard dog." The words were rough, yet they landed with the force of a physical blow. "Good fucking dog."

Cross flinched. The words – feral guard dog – should have been insulting. Degrading. But the sheer, raw approval in Killer’s voice, the possessive heat in Horror’s gaze… it sent an electric jolt straight to his core.

His praise kink wasn't a secret, that deep-seated, shameful craving he tried so hard to bury beneath layers of politeness. It roared to life, warring violently with the nausea at his own loss of control, and it shouldn't have. It wasn't praise, they shouldn't like him losing his cool. It could've ended badly. It could've— 

He wanted to protest, to snarl that he wasn't an animal, that he wasn't theirs to praise like some pet. But the words died in his throat, choked by the visceral memory of tearing into bones, and the undeniable heat pooling low in his belly at their blatant admiration because his body was a damn traitor.

"Shut up," he managed eventually, voice rough, ragged. Barely a whisper, really. He tried to straighten, to pull the tattered remnants of his composure around him like a cloak to hide in. It wasn't working. "I... I lost control. It was... reckless. Stupid."

"Stupid?" Killer echoed with a laugh. He closed the distance in two strides, invading Cross’ personal space until their chests were almost touching. He reached out, not quite gently, and ran a thumb through the marrow smeared on Cross’ cheekbone. He shuddered, unable to pull away. "Looked like fucking perfection to me. Seeing you go apeshit?" Killer leaned in even further, his breath hot against Cross’ aural canal. "Fuck, Cross. Seeing you lose that pretty little mind? Best damn thing I've seen all week. Maybe all year." His hand slid down, gripping the back of Cross’ neck possessively. "Our good fucking guard dog."

Horror didn't speak, apparently agreeing with Killer's ramblings, and reached out with a large, scarred hand to grip Cross’ hip, pulling him back flush against his broad chest. The contact was electric, overwhelming. Cross gasped, his head falling back against Horror’s shoulder, his carefully maintained posture crumbling completely. Horror’s other hand came up, calloused fingers tracing the line of Cross’ jaw, forcing his head to turn towards Killer. "Did good," he rumbled, his voice gravelly against Cross’ skull, "Protected us... Good dog."

The goading was nice. It was fucking intoxicating. To be seen in that state, not with disgust, but with raw, unadulterated hunger? To be claimed, praised, wanted for the very thing he feared?

"Fuck you both," Cross breathed, but there was no heat in it, only a desperate, trembling need. His eyelights met Killer’s gaze. "I'm not... I'm not a dog."

Killer’s grin was predatory, triumphant, like he knew Cross' SOUL wasn't in it. He leaned in fully, capturing his mouth in a brutal, claiming kiss. It was all teeth and tongue, a mirror of the violence Cross had just unleashed. "Coulda fooled me, sweetsoul," he growled against Cross' mouth, biting down on his tongue hard enough to draw a sharp gasp. "You barked. You bit. You tore. And now?" Killer’s hand slid down, fumbling with the fastenings of Cross’ ruined shorts. "Now you heel."

Horror’s grip tightened, holding Cross immobile as Killer worked. One massive hand slid beneath Cross’ torn shirt, rough fingers scraping over ribs, drawing a choked moan. The other hand dipped lower, following Killer’s lead, large fingers pushing past fabric to find the hot, straining length of Cross’ cock which he hadn't even realized was summoned. He was so gross! How were they into this? "Mmhm," Horror hummed, his breath hot on the back of Cross’ neck as he began to stroke, a slow, deliberate drag that made Cross’ knees buckle. It was a lucky thing the bigger skeleton was holding him up, or he would've toppled over.

Cross cried out, the sound ripped from his throat as Killer finally yanked the shorts down to pool at his ankles, cool air hitting his heated magic a moment before Killer’s mouth descended. There was no finesse this time, only greedy, wet heat, swallowing him down with a groan that vibrated through Cross’ entire body. He arched, pinned between Horror’s solid bulk and Killer’s mouth, the world spinning around him. Horror’s fingers on his chest dipped between the ribs, scraping deliciously; his other hand, huge and relentless, held his cock in place for Killer to suck.

"Let it out again, puppy," Horror breathed directly into Cross’s aural canal, the nickname a deliberate, degrading provocation that sent a jolt straight down Cross’ spine. He hooked his chin over Cross' shoulder, staring down at Killer working him over. "Just a little growl for us. Show us those teeth."

They wanted the beast. They praised the loss of control. It was perverse. It was dangerous.

Cross was coming undone, not just physically, but fundamentally. The control he valued, the posture he maintained, the calculated calm — it was dust on the wind by now, and he was, bit by bit, not even mad about it.

"Look at him," Killer gasped, pulling off for a moment, saliva and precum glistening on his chin and teeth. He looked up at Cross with a blazing stare. "Fucking wrecked. Lost it completely, didn't ya? Just a beast. Our beast." He licked a stripe up the length of Cross’ cock, made it twitch violently in Horror's hold. "Such a good fucking dog."

Horror growled, a sound that seemed to originate deep in his chest cavity, vibrating against Cross’ back. He shifted his grip, one arm banding like steel across Cross’ chest, holding him upright. The other hand left Cross’ cock, only to be replaced by the thick, blunt pressure of Horror’s own arousal pressing against the cleft of his ass through layers of fabric. "Wanna fuck our good dog," he rumbled, the words rough, "Right here. Where he fought."

Killer’s grin was feral. "Yeah. Mark the territory he defended." He surged up, kissing Cross again, deep and filthy, sharing the taste of him. "Gonna fuck you right on the marrow-stains of the Stars you tore apart, Cross. Gonna make you howl."

Cross could only moan, a broken, desperate sound. He tried squeezing his sockets closed, but it wasn't helping. The praise, the degradation, the sheer possession in their words and actions… it fed some ravenous thing inside him that they liked, apparently. The part that wanted to be feral, that craved their approval of his savagery.

Killer’s fingers, slick with spit and precum after he sucked on them for barely a moment, pressed against his entrance, probing, one of them stretching him with ruthless efficiency. Cross cried out, head thrown back against the crook of Horror’s neck, his body arching into the invasive touch even as his mind screamed wrong, too vulnerable, too open.

"See?" Killer murmured, working a second finger in, scissoring roughly. "He wants it. Wants to be our good, feral dog. Wants us to fuck him stupid right where he went apeshit." He crooked his fingers, finding one of the spots inside that made Cross’ vision whiten. "Don't you, puppy?"

Cross’ response was a guttural, wordless keen. He was beyond speech, beyond thought. The moral dilemma was a distant echo, drowned out by the roar of his own marrow and their relentless, intoxicating goading. Horror’s cock, freed from his own shorts at some point, pressed insistently against him, replacing Killer’s fingers. The stretch was immense, burning, forcing a ragged sob from Cross’ throat. Horror didn’t pause, didn’t even try to gentle his movements. He pushed in with a single, powerful thrust that stole Cross’ breath, burying himself to the hilt in the tight, trembling heat.

"Fuck," Horror groaned, a sound of pure satisfaction. He held still for a moment, letting Cross feel the sheer, overwhelming fullness, his body stretched impossibly wide around his girth. "Tight. Our good dog takes it good."

Then Killer was there, in front of him, his own cock hard and leaking. He gripped Cross’ skull, forcing his head down along with his spine. "Open up, guard dog," he commanded, his voice rough with need, "Earn your fucking praise."

Cross obeyed, mindlessly, his mouth opening for Killer’s cock even as Horror began to move behind him. The dual penetration was brutal, overwhelming. Killer thrust deep into his throat, fucking his mouth with the same relentless pace Horror set behind him, like they were coordinating. Cross was pinned, impaled, used. He gagged around Killer’s length, tears stinging his sockets, but the sounds he made were muffled moans of nothing but pleasure. Horror’s thrusts were deep, driving into him with a force that rocked his entire body, each impact jolting him forward onto Killer’s cock. Killer’s hands stayed right there, on the sides of his skull, digging in and holding him in place as he grunted with each thrust.

He thought, momentarily, about using his teeth, hesitant before remembering Killer would've liked that. So he did; stopped being careful about them and was rewarded with a hissed moan.

The world around them faded. The only sounds were the wet slap of skin on skin, Horror’s low groans, Killer’s sharp gasps, and Cross' own choked, rhythmic gagging and whimpering moans. Their voices cut through the haze, low and dirty, flooding his skull with words he shouldn’t crave but did.

"Take it, yeah... just like that... good dog," Killer murmured, his tone teasing but warm, like he was enjoying every second of this.

"Gotta let you off the leash... more often.... Heh."

"Mm, yeah. Dusty would've loved seeing you. Would've begged you to fuck him like this. Yeah... To fuckin' tear into him."

"Mmhm, our good little guard dog."

It was a feedback loop of degradation and adoration, each word stoking the fire in Cross’ gut. He whined wantonly around Killer's cock.

Horror’s pace grew frantic eventually, his grip on Cross' hips bruising. Killer’s thrusts became erratic, his groans louder. Cross felt himself hurtling towards the edge, the tension coiling unbearably tight in his core, fed by the knowledge they were close, too, that they were enjoying this so much.

Horror came first, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he slammed deep, flooding Cross's insides with heat. The sudden, intense pulse inside him, combined with Killer’s cock throbbing against the back of his throat, was the final trigger. Cross convulsed, sockets squeezed shut around the tears and a silent scream tearing through him as his own orgasm ripped through his body, violent and all-consuming. He spilled over the ground in hot, pulsing jets, his body clamping down hard on Horror’s still-spurting cock, his throat working frantically around Killer’s as the other skeleton reached his own climax, filling his mouth with bitter salt and electric magic.

For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing. Cross hung limp between them, utterly spent, trembling with aftershocks. Horror’s arms were the only thing keeping him upright.

Killer slowly pulled out of his mouth, a strand of viscous fluid connecting them for a moment before snapping. He looked down at Cross, his expression so fucking fond it made Cross' SOUL squeeze in his chest.

"Fuck," he breathed, wiping his cockhead on Cross’ cheek, smearing the mess all around, "Definitely a good fucking guard dog. Lost your cool, tore shit apart, took your reward like a champ." His grin was sharp. "Maybe losing that precious control ain't so bad, huh, pretty boy?"

Horror grunted in agreement, slowly pulling out, making Cross whimper at the sudden emptiness. The larger skeleton shifted, turning Cross in his arms to face him. Horror’s gaze was intense, possessive, no less fond than Killer's and no easier to see. He ran a thumb over Cross’ kiss-swollen, bruised mouth, then down to trace the bite marks he'd left on his neck. "Mmhm, good boy."

Cross shuddered. "Fuck you two," he mumbled, voice hoarse and throat achy.

"Yeah, yeah," Killer smirked, stepping back and stretching lazily, like he hadn’t just wrecked Cross from both ends. "You say that now, but look at you. Still shaking like a damn leaf. Bet you’d do it all over again if we asked nicely."

He even winked, the asshole. Cross didn’t even need to look.

Horror just chuckled, deep and rumbling, his hand still resting possessively on Cross’ hip. "He would." His voice was matter-of-fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Good dog listens."

Cross groaned, burying his face in Horror’s chest. "I hate you both."

Chapter Text

Cross’ trembling fingers dig into Nightmare’s thighs as he chokes out, “Please— let me— I can feel it, the want—”

“Yeah— Yeah, go on.”

Nightmare arches beneath him, a gasp tearing from his throat not just from the slick heat of Cross’ mouth swallowing down his length, but from the deluge pouring through their recent SOULbond.

It’s no longer just the raw, jagged edges of Cross’ need he feels usually — the ache of arousal, of pleasure, satisfaction, sometimes worry. Now, beneath that surface hunger, Nightmare drowns in the crystalline purity of why. Why Cross feels those things.

Wanting to service him.

The thought isn’t abstract anymore; it’s a physical pulse against Nightmare’s awareness, bright and fervent. Cross’ entire being is focused, laser-sharp, on the act of giving pleasure. Not taking. Not even receiving. Giving.

The desperation Nightmare feels vibrating through Cross’ body isn’t hunger for release, it’s the frantic, almost painful yearning to be good. To perform this one act perfectly. To make Nightmare feel good.

He'd always felt emotions, one of the few powers bestowed upon him by Mother, but it was... almost clinical, in comparison. Knowing what one felt, extrapolating what they might've thought, what might've brought those emotions on. But now, there's another layer to it. To feel not just the surface emotion, but the intricate, beautiful scaffolding of intent and meaning and thought that built it, the why of all of them…

Cross' desperate desire to serve blossoming into the radiant joy of having succeeded… It's almost too much. It's like staring directly into the sun after a lifetime of shadows.

The SOULbond is a new development, and Nightmare hadn't expected it to make this much of a difference. Monsters do say they can feel each other, especially if their SOULs are out and close, but neither of theirs are out now. No, Nightmare just... knows exactly what's going on in Cross' mind now, and it's...

“Fuck, Cross—” he rasps, hand settling between the vertebrae at the nape of Cross’ neck, not pushing, just holding. His tentacles flick incessantly, out of control. The contact sends another shockwave through the bond. Cross whimpers, the vibration against Nightmare’s cock a physical echo of the mental cry ringing through Nightmare’s skull: Let me do this right, please, let me be good for him, let him feel how much I want this—

It’s overwhelming. Intoxicating.

Nightmare’s hips jerk involuntarily. “You— you are good,” he grunts, the words thick, almost clumsy in their urgency, because how dare Cross think himself anything less, “So fucking good, Cross.”

The reaction is instantaneous, and devastating. Cross’ entire body shudders, a sob catching in his throat. But it’s the flood through the bond that steals Nightmare’s breath. Relief, yes, sharp and sweet like a gasp of air after drowning. But layered over it, through it, drenching it — pure, unadulterated joy. The fierce, bright pride of a task accomplished. The dizzying, almost childlike happiness of pleasing. It should feel scorching, like all positive things, but it's Cross, and it doesn't.

Nightmare feels the mental equivalent of Cross beaming, tears prickling behind his sockets, the thought a radiant sunburst: He said I’m good! I make him feel good. I did it! I pleased him!!

“Oh stars,” Nightmare breathes, overwhelmed.

He feels Cross’ desperate suction, the eager slide of his tongue, the physical act. But it’s all the context that’s heady, almost too much. He doesn’t just feel Cross’ pleasure, as un-self-centered as it is; he feels the source of it. The profound satisfaction not just in receiving, but in giving. In being useful. In being good for Nightmare.

“Fuck…!”

Cross pulls back slightly, panting, tongue out and glistening. His sockets, wide and dark in the low light, eyelights brighter than the moon outside, search Nightmare’s face, for a sign of admonishment, or adversely, for confirmation. Did he do well? Is Nightmare pleased? Why'd he cry out? The hope shining through the bond is almost painful in its intensity.

He’d always fed on negativity, but this… this is like ambrosia laced with lightning. “You’re…” Nightmare started, his own breath catching, hand moving so his thumb can brush Cross’ cheekbone, feeling the slight dampness there. “Stars, Cross. You’re so good. So good for me.”

The radiant joy that explodes within Cross, within the bond, is brighter than any physical sensation. Nightmare understands it now, completely. The desperation isn’t just a need, it’s devotion. The happiness isn’t just relief, it’s the ecstasy of purpose fulfilled. It’s not just feeling Cross’ emotions anymore. It’s knowing his lover’s SOUL.

And that's terrifying.

And perfect.

“Go on, love,” Nightmare commands, voice rough, pulling Cross back down, because Cross wants him to feel good and he's not strong enough to argue that. “Show me how good you can be.”

The eager, grateful whimper against his magic is accompanied by a fresh wave of pure, focused intent: Yes. I will. I’ll be so good. I’ll make you feel so good.

And he does.

Chapter Text

Dust had never really realized just how big blasters really were. Most of the time, his own were behind him, out of the line of sight, and his enemies' were too far to judge properly.

But with one between his legs, spreading them wide over the heat of Cross' thighs, it was impossible not to notice. She was big, big enough for the strain of his own thighs to burn just the barest amount.

There was a hint of trepidation, for a moment, the mental connection of blasters used primarily in battle making the proximity unnerving, until she tilted to the side, nuzzling against the meat of his thigh and looking up at him with big, bright eyelights. Her bow was crooked, like always, because Cross never fixed it, and it made her look goofy. Maybe she liked it that way.

"You ready?" Cross asked, nuzzling the side of his neck in just the same way. Equally goofy, really.

This was supposed to be really intimate, somewhere on the same level as baring your SOUL to your mate. To let their attack construct this close to you, close enough to kill but knowing it wouldn't. A... trust exercise, basically.

With an unconscious, half-nervous chuckle, Dust craned his neck to give him more space. "Yeah, I'm good. Go for it, girl."

The blaster seemed to beam at that, and she needed no further encouragement. She surged forward, her tongue — boiling heat, the same shade as Cross' magic — laving broad stripes up Dust’s slit. Dust cried out, spine bowing against Cross' front as pleasure bloomed low in his pelvis.

Cross held him firm, whispering praises into the hollow of his neck. "Look at you… taking her so beautifully. She loves you so fucking much. My perfect, lovely boy." His own arousal twitched against the small of Dust’s back, but he kept still, focused entirely on watching the blaster taking Dust apart bit by bit.

She worked with relentless adoration, her tongue plunging deep before flicking over Dust’s swollen clit. He sobbed, grinding down against her snout as the pleasure ripped through him — a white-hot burst that left him shuddering. She got fixated on that for a moment, lapping eagerly at the nub to bring on more of Dust's choked, high-pitched sounds.

"Beautiful," Cross growled, his own voice roughened with arousal. He pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Dust’s temple, down the side of his face, his neck, licking between the vertebrae at the heated leylines. "Absolutely wrecked for her already. And she’s barely started." He ran a claw along the edge of Dust’s mandible. "Look at her, baby. See how happy she is?"

Dust forced his heavy sockets open, not even sure when he'd screwed them shut, vision swimming. The blaster’s large eyelights were fixed on him, glowing bright. They were trained on his face, watching all the miniscule changes in his expressions. She did look… happy. Excited. Reverent.

"She adores you," Cross murmured into his neck. "...just like me."

"Sappy," Dust shot back, heat bursting up to his skull and painting his cheeks.

"Yeah... She's ecstatic you're letting her do this."

The blaster whined high and eager, doubling her efforts, tongue plunging deep before curling upward to stroke along the top walls of Dust's clenching cunt. He cried out as the sudden coil of pressure, magic gushing over the blaster’s snout.

"Fuck, that’s it, baby," Cross praised, teeth worrying at the edge of his clavicle, nosing the edge of his hood aside to get at more. "She loves how you taste. Your magic is so fucking electric."

The blaster’s tongue quickened, flicking, thrusting, coiling, not giving him a single moment's reprieve, as Dust thrashed, overstimulated and keening. "T-Too much—! Hold on— Gimme a sec—"

"Not yet," Cross soothed, one hand splayed over Dust’s sternum, pinning him gently. "She’s barely started."

The blaster rumbled agreement, magic flaring brighter as her tongue kept going, drinking him down greedily. Dust convulsed, another orgasm ripping through him, SOUL blazing violet under his ribs, flickering through the fabric of his shirt under Cross' hand.

Cross couldn't help but laugh, strained and rough. From how hard he felt against Dust's backside, this seemed to be doing a whole lot for him. "She’s ravenous for you."

Dust laughed with him, the sound breathy and broken. He couldn't catch his breath. "Yeah, well… tell her to ease up a bit. I’m not… I’m not gonna last much longer a-and it'll start hurting."

The blaster let out a soft whine, her eyelights flicking up to meet Dust’s. She slowed just a little, like she was checking in, making sure he was okay.

Dust managed a weak smile, reaching out to pat her snout. "Thank you girl. Just gimme a second."

Cross hummed, clearly amused, but the blaster seemed to get the memo. Her tongue moved slower now, more deliberate, almost teasing. She licked up his slit once more time, not as frantic as before, but still with that same adoration, and then pulled away. Dust sighed, tension easing as he leaned back into Cross’ hold.

"Good girl," Cross murmured, his breath hot against Dust’s neck, "See? She’s got manners. Sometimes."

Dust snorted. "Yeah, sure. When she feels like it."

The blaster whined softly, nuzzling Dust’s thigh like a puppy asking for a treat. Her eyelights flicked between the two of them, just waiting for the signal to keep going.

A minute stretched into two, Dust finally managing to catch his breath, somewhat, even though she kept whining louder and longer, downright pouting, like a kid told they'd get a treat, later.

Finally, once he felt less strung-up, Dust relented, "Alright, alright. You win. Keep going, girl."

She practically wriggled with excitement, her tongue darting out to lap at Dust’s slit again, slow and deliberate this time. It was still overwhelming, but in a good way — like sinking into a hot bath after a long day. Dust’s sockets fluttered shut, a soft moan slipping out as he relaxed into the sensation.

And then she started purring, the sound loud and unmistakable, vibrations ratcheting through Dust's whole lower half. It had his hips jumping, a breathless gasp escaping him, almost quiet enough to be drowned out by the purr.

The blaster seemed to redouble her efforts at that, purr deepening into a growl of pure satisfaction. Her tongue plunged inside, deeper, the part that wouldn't fit curling upwards, applying relentless pressure directly to Dust’s clit. His cry this time was sharp, ragged, tearing from his throat unbidden. His spine snapped taut, legs locking around her skull before he managed to spread them again, with a little help from Cross' hands holding them steady.

"S-such a perfect girl," he choked out, voice raw, "M-making me… hngh… feel so full—"

He didn't expect his words to do much of anything, but the effect of them was instantaneous and surprising. The blaster’s entire frame convulsed, a shuddering keen tearing from her and interrupting her purring as her eyelights flickered wildly. Cross groaned behind him, low and ragged, his claws digging convulsively into Dust's thighs. He felt Cross's cock jerk violently against his back, heard the choked moan as his hips bucked upwards once, twice. Hot wetness soaked through the fabric separating them.

"Stars," Cross hissed, stiff fingers prying themselves from the ecto, leaving behind marks that Dust felt all-too-proud of.

The blaster whined again, tongue still working frantically even as her body trembled with aftershocks. She nudged insistently against Dust’s thigh with the side of her mandible, leaving smears of saliva mixed with Dust’s own slick.

Cross laughed breathlessly, manically giddy, pressing his forehead between Dust’s shoulder blades. "See what you do to us? One sweet word from you… and we’re both gone."

The blaster, oblivious — or maybe just too focused — kept going, her purr coming back and growing louder as she worked, her eyelights locked on Dust’s face. She looked… content. Like she was exactly where she wanted to be. And honestly, Dust couldn’t complain.

Cross nudged his head to the side with one hand, gentle on his chin, and kissed him desperately. "Tell her again. Tell her how good she is," he all but begged.

Dust was starting to get dazed from the pleasure again, but happily turned his head towards the blaster. Her sockets were wide, expectant, utterly focused on him. 

"G-good girl…" he whispered, voice trembling but sincere, "S-so good… makin’ me feel… oh!"

She surged closer, her tongue plunging deeper with renewed fervor and teeth pressing insistently into the plus ecto-flesh around, drawing another ragged gasp from Dust. Her purr became a deafening roar of pure bliss.

"Fuck, that's it," Cross muttered, "She adores you."

Dust nodded weakly, too far gone to argue. The blaster’s purr was a steady thrum in his magic, his bones, her touch electric as she brought him closer and closer to the edge once more. His fingers gripped Cross’ forearm, claws bunching and digging into the fabric as he tried to anchor himself.

The blaster nuzzled harder, her eyelights gleaming with satisfaction. She seemed to know exactly how to push him, her tongue moving faster now, relentless. Dust’s hips jerked, a broken cry spilling from him as the pressure coiled tighter, too much, too good.

"M'close," he whined. "Y-yes! Oh god, yes! Like that! Don't stop!" He was babbling, his voice climbing in pitch. His whole body was trembling violently now, held upright only by Cross's iron grip.

The blaster’s purr deepened, somehow, her tongue curling impossibly deeper, flicking over the back of his passage, and that was it. Dust’s spine arched, a raw, ragged sound tearing from him as he came again, magic spilling over the blaster’s snout.

She worked him through it, lapping him clean with a low, satisfied rumble. He slumped back against Cross, boneless and breathless, his SOUL fluttering weakly.

"Good girl," Cross told the blaster, his voice warm, "You did amazing."

The blaster preened at the praise, her eyelights gleaming as she pulled back, licking her own snout clean.

Cross chuckled at her, running a hand down Dust’s arm as he came down from his high. "You’re a mess," he teased, smitten.

Dust groaned, burrowing further into Cross’ chest. "Shut up. You’re one to talk. I felt you cumming earlier."

"Hey, it’s hard not to, watching her go at you like that," Cross shot back, pretending to be indignantly offended. He pressed a kiss to Dust’s shoulder. "You’re just too damn irresistible."

The blaster let out a soft whine, nudging Dust’s thigh again to grab his attention. Her eyelights were big, wobbly and expectant, like she was waiting for more praise.

Dust laughed weakly, patting her snout. "Yeah, yeah. You’re the best girl. Happy now?"

"Relax, girl," Cross added, reaching over to join the patting session. "You did good. Now let the poor guy recover, yeah?"

Chapter Text

"You really didn't know what these were for?" Killer laughed, twirling the end of Cross' new scarf in her hand. The thing was long enough that even though she was holding the end and stood a few feet away from the other, the whole thing was still dragging on the floor between them.

Cross' face downright glowed, an embarrassed flush that spread down her neck and all the way to her shoulders, even.

Okay then, time to dial the teasing back a little, or she was risking Cross crying, which was not the point. Poor gal didn't know much about the female customs, probably thanks to a combination of a militant universe and the fact that she was, in fact, not a woman for all that long. Killer didn't want her feeling bad about it. She remembered that one time they'd found out Cross had been doing her eyeliner with a Sharpie because she just didn't know much about make-up. That had already been a shit-show.

"Hey, s'fine," she placated, running a hand over Cross' shoulder. "You picked a really nice one, I don't mind showing you."

And it was, a really nice cream color, with stripes of dark brown, making it look very similar to the black-and-white one Cross preferred usually. Silky-soft, too, Killer knew immediately it wouldn't chafe at all. And long enough for most types of binding, too, even though she'd probably have to start simple.

They'd all been more than a little surprised when Cross showed it to them, because she liked to show off new things she got, especially new girly things. And, well, who'd say no to a nice little fashion show from their girlfriend, right? Dust'd laughed, saying she hadn't known Cross was into bondage.

And Cross' earnest confusion at that had clued them all in that yeah, nope, Cross had no idea she'd just bought a scarf specifically to be used as fashion bondage. She'd thought it was so long because it was formal, explaining (with sudden mortification) that she'd wanted to put it up into twintails with some long gown if they ever went to a fancy place, so the bits would trail the floor behind her. Honestly, the mental image was very pretty, but that was neither here nor there.

Now it was tied up on Cross' skull in a single tail, but unlike usual in the middle and not to the side, perfect for Killer to work with. She stepped closer, clicking a hopefully-reassuring kiss to Cross' bare shoulder.

"Okay, how about you tilt your head back, pretty girl?"

Cross shivered, like she always did when called pretty, or even a girl, and Killer knew the burst of joy at such a simple assurance of self first-hand. She craned her neck back, as far as it would go, and Killer tutted, pushing at the back of her skull just a little.

"Not all the way, just enough for it not to hurt. You're gonna be like this for a while and it'd start hurting real fast otherwise," she explained, so Cross relaxed a smidge. "Keep it there, sweetsoul. Just like that."

The scarf slithered over Cross’ collarbones, cool and heavy. Killer looped it once, twice around her throat, snug but not choking, the fabric kissing her vertebrae as it crossed between her shoulderblades. Cross whimpered, hips shifting restlessly.

"Arms behind you," Killer ordered, voice low and warm. Cross obeyed instantly, more than used to the soldier's pose, forearms pressing together at the small of her back. The scarf wove around them next, cinching tight in a series of intricate knots that locked elbows flush against ribs. Each of Killer's deliberate tugs drew a gasp — not pain, but the sudden feeling of constriction, more and more each time.

There was still a good bit of the scarf leftover, prime for more tying, but once she had Cross' forearms all wrapped up, Killer stepped back, admiring her work. Cross was arched back like a bowstring, throat bared, chest jutting forward and arms bound flush against her spine with the taut pressure of the scarf's tail. Immobile. Vulnerable. Perfect.

"Look at you," Killer breathed, tracing a claw down Cross’ spine, between her straining shoulderblades, "So fucking pretty."

Cross shuddered, sockets wide. Killer didn’t wait. She flicked a thumb over Cross’ right nipple, hard and peaked, and grinned as Cross cried out, spine bowing further into the scarf’s hold for a moment before relaxing again.

"Got you riled up already? Didn't even do much yet." She pinched lightly, rolling the nub between her fingers until Cross sobbed, hips jerking against empty air. Then lower. Killer dropped to her knees behind her, nuzzling the soft plush of Cross’ ass. Her tongue swiped a hot stripe through slick folds. Cross screamed, thighs straining to clamp shut, but Killer had other ideas.

She pushed Cross forward until she toppled over the edge of the bed, shoulders catching her on the sheets and legs barely keeping her lower half upright for Killer to keep going.

Knocking her legs farther apart, Killer licked deeper, sucking Cross' clit with filthy, wet pulls. Every flick, every scrape of teeth made Cross writhe, the scarf biting into her throat as she fought the pleasure. "K-Killer—!"

"C'mon, lemme play a little, yeah?"

She hooked two fingers inside her, curling downwards. Cross’ back arched violently, a strangled moan tearing free as Killer's fingers fucked her fast and deep, tongue lapping at the welling wetness in a languid counterpoint. The scarf held her still on the bed, not letting her get any leverage to buck or twist away.

She probed inside, fingertips finding that yielding bit of tissue, spongier and giving, and pressed on it, drinking down the whimpering cries spilling breathlessly from Cross, the heat clenching down on her fingers erratically.

"You gonna come just from my fingers, sweetsoul?"

Cross shook her head frantically, as much as she could, tears pricking her sockets. "N-no—!"

"Liar." Killer fucked her faster, thumb circling her clit in tight, relentless flicks. The scarf bit into Cross’ throat as she thrashed, the pressure only heightening the dizzying rush of sensation. "Come on. Let go. Be a good girl for me."

It was a dirty move, because Cross thrived on being good, would do damn near anything for it. So she sobbed, squeezing her sockets shut, and tried her best to relax, to lean into all the sensation, to not fight it as her thighs trembled.

The orgasm, eventually, ripped through her like a lightning strike — silent for one breathless second before her mind caught up, a raw, broken scream tearing loose as her cunt clenched violently around Killer’s fingers, toes curling into the carpet. Killer held her through it, fingers buried deep, thumb relentless, until Cross slumped bonelessly against the restraints, sobbing.

"Beautiful," Killer murmured, withdrawing her slick fingers and sucking them clean. "Such a beautiful girl. Such a good girl."

She leaned back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Cross was still trembling, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The scarf held her in place, her body still thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure, and Killer took the selfish moment to watch her.

"Alright, gorgeous," she said eventually, when Cross looked close to falling asleep, standing up and brushing herself off. "Let’s get you untangled, yeah?"

Cross nodded weakly, her voice barely a whisper. "Mmhm."

Killer rubbed a warm trail up her arms, feeling the strained, tired muscles. Her fingers made quick work of undoing the knots she’d tied just moments ago. The scarf loosened, and Cross’ arms fell to her sides, still shaky. She gently guided her up, to sit on the edge of the bed proper instead of bending over, her hands warm and steady on Cross’ shoulders because she was making these small, adorable content noises.

"That’s my girl. You did so good."

"Yaay," Cross mumbled back, tired and sleepy, but with that edge of almost childlike elation, and Killer's SOUL gave a painful, loving pang.

She pressed a kiss to Cross' forehead and tugged the too-long end of the scarf away from her, in hopes that it wouldn't get tangled. "It looks great on you, by the way," she hummed, folding bits over and over and tucking them behind Cross' skull like an extra pillow.

"Yaay," Cross repeated. Killer's SOUL didn't care that she'd heard that same sound just a minute ago, because it gave another heavy pang. "M'gonna buy more of them."

Killer chuffed a laugh. "You do that, sweetsoul. There's plenty of binds to try out, anyway."

Chapter Text

Dust didn't know where Cross had come across such an idea, but he was entirely too soft for the ex-guardsman, something his brother was always all too happy to remind him of, and for him, Dust was willing to try anything at least once.

Well, almost anything, he wasn't stupid. Dumb, maybe, but not stupid.

Paps had been more than inclined to call him easy, to point out how little convincing he'd needed, but a handful of open-mouthed kisses Cross had distracted him with had Dust ignoring the watery, vitriolic words. When he'd glanced to the right, to the spot in his periphery that his brother's phantom had — and almost always did — occupied, he was no longer there.

Maybe this only worked because they had a great control over their magics, because they could manipulate it to a sickening degree. Or maybe it only worked because they shared a SOUL, because their magics reacted to each other's leylines.

He wasn't sure, and, in the end, it probably didn't matter all that much. It worked, and it was an indescribable feeling.

He focused so hard, trying to make sure the construct that was his body wouldn't simply fizz out the next second, so much so that he almost missed Cross' shaky inhale. His eyelights cut up to his mate's face, taking in the squeezed-shut eyesockets, the parted teeth, the barely there trembling. But stars was Cross beautiful.

Dust simply stared for a moment, allowing himself the privilege he was usually too self-conscious to indulge in. Cross not looking back at him made it easier.

His body didn't dissipate, even with the distraction, which, when he realized, he was a bit proud of. It was one thing to have it summoned, it was another to have it summoned unattached to himself.

A moment later, Cross' sockets were opening back up, looking at him like he'd hung the stars in the skies personally, by hand. The look was intense, maybe more than intense; it made him want to curl up and hide, if only to escape it. And yet it also had warmth pooling in the bottom of his ribcage, like his insides were swelling with it.

"That's..." Cross muttered, though he didn't finish. He couldn't; it was obvious he had no idea what adjective to use to describe the feeling of Dust's body clinging to his bones. Instead, he shook his head gently, leaned down to kiss him. The shift of ecto had both of them shivering. "My turn now."

Dust steeled himself, unsure of what to expect, but no amount of preparation could make him not jump. He didn't get far, not with Cross holding his new hips to keep him from springing up and off the bed. His purple hips, right beneath his new six pack.

Stars, was it a doozy to see Cross' body on himself, see all the muscles tensing and twitching from what was always Cross' own view. It felt different, too; not like having his body summoned, or a body, more like all of Cross was wrapped around him, which was, strictly speaking, true. He felt closer to his mate than ever before.

It was no wonder Cross hadn't been able to find a suitable word to describe it, Dust couldn't find one either. Instead, he let out a keen in lieu of all the words. His arms shot out to wrap around Cross' neck before he could consciously think about it, pulling him closer still, pressing their bodies together.

It felt the same as always, and yet so different, like he was split apart, feeling his fake skin touching himself and yet touching Cross at the same time.

"Fuck, I..." He what? He himself wasn't sure.

But Cross understood, nodding against the side of his neck with a breathy exhale of a chuckle. "Yeah," he agreed, and there was a tremor in his voice. At least Dust wasn't the only one out of his element.

Their cocks rubbed against each with every unconscious twitch and shift, something they couldn't really control. But why try to control it when it felt so damn nice? At least that was Dust's thought process, and he bucked up against Cross' groin, grinding against him more properly, but he didn't even get to make a handful of thrusts before Cross pulled away, adjusting his legs where he sat between Dust's.

The smaller skeleton whined, since Cross took away all that delicious friction with him, as well as the closeness he was very much enjoying, thank you oh so much.

"Ah— here," Cross muttered, as if going for a half-apology, half-explanation. He pulled Dust's hand forward, guiding him to take his own cock in hand as he fisted his own between Dust's legs for a few strokes. "Can you feel it?" he asked, as if he didn't know the answer already.

He could feel it, every single touch. Of course he could, it was still his body.

But there was an element of dissonance; he was touching himself, but the angles were all unfamiliar, it felt like it was someone else entirely.

"You see how beautiful you are?" Cross chuckled. It was surreal to feel the vibrations from his shifting bones and see his own stomach move.

And... he could. He wanted to look up and watch Cross' face and the downright lovestruck expressions, but his gaze kept drifting down to look at his own body. The rolls of fake fat jiggled and the soft ecto sunk beneath his fingers, the colors of his magic shifting and mixing under the surface, truly resembling a thunderstorm as the crackles sparked all over.

He really was attractive to look at, he could appreciate the show even if he still hated the LV that changed the magic so much.

Maybe he could see what his mate saw in him, a little bit.

He realized he hadn't answered Cross' question, wasn't even sure if it was a real question or a rhetorical one, but Cross' affectionate smile told him he knew the answer. Still, face ablaze, he nodded, the world's smallest nod of all time.

Cross leaned up and pressed their teeth together in a soft kiss.

"This is what I see every time," he said, skirting a hand down his sternum and over Dust's stomach until he reached one of Dust's hands to take it and lace their fingers. To lather the affection on even thicker, he brought them up to his face and pressed a kiss to Dust's knuckles.

"Y-Yeah..." Dust cleared his throat to help his scratchy voice, thick with emotion, but it didn't help much. "I uh... stars, you're so sappy..."

Cross' smile widened into a grin, bright and wide. "Only for you."

Dust could feel himself grow slicker, shame flooding him for being so easy, but the slick ran down the crease of his ass and down his thighs nonetheless. Automatically, he clenched his thighs together, but all that did was make Cross groan as he pressed against his cock instead of hiding his own leaking cunt.

This was equal parts confusing and so hot. He could see Cross' cock twitching against his stomach and used his free hand to wrap around it, because he might've also been a bit sappy and didn't want to let go of Cross' hand.

It pulled a beautiful noise from Cross, a cross (heh, he wished he was more coherent so he could share in his wonderful thought process pun) between a groan and a whine.

"I could say the same about you," he said. It was his turn to grin at Cross, his teeth quirked up at one side in a lopsided display of satisfaction. Two could play this game, after all.

"No," Cross said sternly, though with how he was all but pouting, it wasn't the most threatening thing. "I don't want to argue over that tonight, we'll be here all night."

"We'll be here all night anyway," Dust pointed out. Or they would if he got his way.

Cross quirked a browbone. "Like we are every night, yes."

He reached down between his own legs and plunged a pair of fingers through the slick of Dust's arousal, making his breath hitch. Dust’s eyelights immediately flickered, unfocusing.

"Fuck, yes… Inside," he pleaded, voice wrecked, "Need you— inside—"

Cross didn’t hesitate. He withdrew his fingers, dripping with Dust’s slick even from the short time, and (while sucking them clean, the fucker) straddled Dust's hips, hovering himself over his own cock. The head pressed against him, blunt and insistent. Dust braced himself, the feeling without any of the control, but nothing could prepare him for the stretch as Cross sheathed himself in one brutal thrust.

"Ah—!" Dust’s fingers squeezed Cross’, scraping bone against bone with a creaking noise just to ground himself. The fullness was agony — his cunt stretched taut, burning where Cross’ cock dragged against oversensitized nerves, and he wasn't the one moving, couldn't adjust any angles.

Cross, helpfully, stilled when he was fully seated, ribcage heaving. "Okay?" he gritted out, sweat beading along his browbone.

Dust nodded frantically, tears spilling from his sockets. "M-move— please—"

Cross shifted his weight, rolling his hips in a slow, deliberate motion that had Dust arching off the bed. "Stars," he gasped, untangling their hands before he would inevitably break Cross' fingers to instead grip his thighs.

"Feel good?" Cross asked, his voice rough but steadier than Dust’s, his movements still slow, almost teasing. Dust could only nod, his teeth clenched, eyelights flickering as he tried to keep up. Cross gave a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through both of them. "You sure? 'Cause you look like you’re about to pass out."

"Shut up," Dust breathed, his voice cracking. He dug his fingers into Cross’ — his own — thighs deeper, claws leaving marks in his own ecto, urging him to move faster.

Cross grinned like he always did whenever Dust told him to shut up, but obliged, picking up the pace just enough to make Dust’s skull fall back against the pillow.

Dust’s breath hitched, his body arching as Cross found just the right rhythm. "Cross—"

"Yeah, I know," Cross interrupted, his grin widening. He leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. "You’re doing so good, Dusty. Just hold on."

"Easy for you to say," Dust managed to choke out, his hands sliding up to grip Cross’ shoulders instead, because at least that meant he wasn't touching his own ecto and adding to the sensation for a moment.

Cross laughed again, the sound warm and familiar. "You’re right. I’ve got the easy part."

Cross kept going for a moment, slowly but surely making Dust's mind go blank, but he did his best to keep a semblance of a composure because a thought sprung to his mind. They were already making it confusing with the whole body-swapping thing, why not make it even more confusing?

"Hey… I know how to make it better," he said, not fully convinced in his own words himself.

Cross looked at him with those big eyelights of his, blown out and hazy and just a little wobbly around the edges, and made a questioning noise.

Not giving himself the time to overthink it and talk himself out of it, he brought a hand up to his own sternum and coaxed his SOUL out through it.

Cross’ sockets went wide, and the speed with which he scrambled to copy the movement would’ve been funny in any other context. He pulled his own SOUL out and let them drift closer, closer, closer—

Their bodies seemed to know what was happening, even if the mind didn't quite catch up yet.

Their SOUL knew what was happening, at least. One SOUL with two bodies, puzzle pieces scattered and reassembled wrong, but it felt so right.

They were one, body and SOUL and mind — even with his sockets closed, he could see himself through Cross' sockets, the sight of his own flushed, puffy face overlaid over the darkness, and when he blinked his sockets open and blinked a couple more times to clear the tears clinging to the rims of them, his own face was overlaid over Cross', his gentle smile and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled with the affectionate way he was watching him. He knew it was an affectionate look, because he could feel the affection like a tidal wave.

It felt familiar in its intensity; it was the same thing he felt towards Cross, but to even think it was aimed back at him was something he couldn't wrap his mind around. He didn't need to, though. Cross made sure he understood, made sure to somehow make his thoughts louder, not that that would've made sense to anyone but the two of them.

'I love you, I adore you, I think you're perfect, I wouldn't change a single damn thing about you. I'm so, so lucky to have met you, to have you, to share this with you, to— to— to be you.'

It felt like it was being screamed straight into his brain. He was powerless to object the extent of Cross' love, to even attempt to argue it.

He didn't know what Cross was hearing from him in turn, but with the amount of tears blurring his sight and dripping down the sides of his face in fat rivulets, he must've known how much Dust loved him back, how much he appreciated hearing that, being powerless to allow his mind to tear the admissions down like it was wont to each and every time. He just hoped Cross couldn't hear his brother now, that he hadn't somehow spread his phantom to him like some sort of a plague.

"Sweetsoul," Cross said, the single word coming in stereo, both falling from Cross' teeth in the softest whisper and echoing in his skull. It would've been disconcerting, if it wasn't so calming. "It's okay. You're overthinking it."

He knew that, he always overthought everything, but it wasn't like he could turn his stupid mind off. 'Not stupid,' Cross corrected, as seamless as if he were part of Dust's thought process, which Dust supposed he was right now. 'Smart. Too smart, sometimes.'

"Would you like to separate? This is a lot," Cross suggested out loud, but the mere thought had Dust's insides twisting up with a deluge of panic.

There was no way Cross didn't feel it, but Dust gasped, reaching out to clumsily grab at his shoulders, scrabbling to find purchase and hold on, to keep Cross close, to not let him pull away. "No! No no no nonono," he babbled, tripping over the syllables in a feat worthy of awe given that it was only one syllable repeated over and over. "Please don't! No!"

Immediately, after the brief little bolt of surprise, Cross held him back, shushing him with soft sounds and soothing feelings pushed through their connection. It felt like a cooling balm to his burning fear, and little by little, Dust's hiccuping sobs calmed down into something resembling normal breathing.

If he were in his normal mindset, if he was alone in his mind, he would've felt ashamed of the outburst, because what the actual fuck, but as it stood, he didn't, if only because he absolutely didn't want to separate yet. This felt correct, this felt right, and he wanted to revel in it for a bit longer. He knew it was a selfish desire, and Cross probably didn't want to be in his broken, messy, stupid mind for longer than necessary—

'I do,' Cross instilled in him, like it was a brand he could sear into Dust's psyche by sheer will alone, 'I love you. I don't want to separate either.'

"Why ask then?" Dust asked him, except his mouth wouldn't cooperate and it came out less like words and more like a long whine. It was okay, because the thought carried and Cross understood.

"It seemed to be a bit overwhelming for you. I didn't mean to make you afraid."

Dust had no idea how the hell Cross was managing to stay so coherent. He was a little envious.

Then, belatedly and accompanied with an undertone of amusement, he realized Cross wasn't. His mouth was hanging open, panting heavily. He hadn't been talking talking, he'd just been talking inside Dust's skull again. That was nice. If only they could do it all the time; it'd be so nice, not to have to blunder his way through trying to explain himself all the time, trying to make Cross understand him and his feelings when he himself didn't understand them half the time.

Cross leaned down and kissed the top of Dust’s head, and the affection was so thick he could practically taste it. He pressed closer, trying to burrow into Cross, like he could escape the warmth flooding him if he just hid enough.

For a while, it was just the two of them, wrapped up in each other, lost in the shared rhythm of their bodies and SOULs, feeling each other. Dust didn’t have the words to describe it, but he didn’t need them. Cross knew. He always knew.

"You good?" Cross asked after a while, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

He nodded, his face still hidden in Cross’ chest. "Yeah," he whispered, "M’good."

Cross hummed, arms tightening around him with just the perfect pressure. "Good. Cause I’m not going anywhere."

"Better not," Dust muttered, his voice muffled but still holding a hint of a threat.

Cross laughed, the sound vibrating through both of them. "Promise."

Chapter Text

Every time Killer clasps the fur-lemmed collar to his neck, Dust can’t help but be reminded of when Red had done the same thing, seemingly so many lifetimes ago.

His fingers had been gentle, almost reverent (just as Killer’s are, now), fastening the simple clasp so the leather would sit snugly against the vertebrae. He’d slipped a pair of fingers underneath it, to ensure it wouldn’t dig into any of the leylines. Killer puts one. Sliding it out is a loss that Dust doesn’t think should be as impactful as it feels.

‘This is so no one ‘round jumps ya,’ Red had told him, but with the way his eyelights were fixated on how the blood-red leather blended in under Pa— his scarf, there was a little more to it. There had been intent entwined into the leather, so subtle one could barely feel it. Dust had known the one that Red’s brother wore, while definitely for the same reason he’d told Dust, was different.

Killer tugs at the o-ring attached and Dust’s spine bends to accommodate the movement, as fluid as water. His sockets fall shut without a second thought.

Sometimes, he feels bad that he thinks of Red at times like these. Red had never put a name to any of the intent he’d gifted Dust with when he stayed mooching off in their universe and house, nor the words or actions done when they were seeking solace in each other’s bodies. He’d never used the collar for anything like this, but Dust had seen the way his gaze would linger, like he wanted to slip those fingers back under the collar and pull, or maybe wrap his hand around it and squeeze, until the collar fused into his neck.

Killer, on the other hand, has no qualms about his ogling, looking Dust over like he is a prize he’d won at a fair, shiny and satisfying to hold. He tugs at the collar again and guides Dust into an open-mouthed kiss.

“Suits ya like always,” he says against Dust’s mandible when he pulls away, dragging a lilac-crimson line of spit over the bone. “Gonna be a good slut?”

Dust takes a breath and denies it being a sharp gasp. He keeps his sockets closed as Killer, somehow, manages to tie a blindfold over them one-handed. He still hasn’t let go of the collar, and it keeps him still just as much as the thin ropes wound between his radii and ulnae, criss-crossed into an intricate weave that looked like knitting to Dust when Killer held a mirror for him to see. As if remembering he has the arms in the first place, Dust flexes his fingers, but the ropes hold tight and his arms stay locked behind his back.

“Yeah,” he says, breathlessly, panting to regain it. Killer hasn’t even touched him yet, but his body already feels like it’s too small for him, like he’ll just shake out of the fake flesh Killer had asked him to summon.

“Good boy.”

It’s stupid, really, just how much hearing such words gets to Dust. He all but melts, leaning towards Killer further, as if he wanted to get closer to the warm feeling blossoming in his ribcage, like rays of sun on the surface.

Killer’s grip on the collar loosens just enough to tilt Dust’s head back, his thumb brushing along the edge of the leather. “Open up,” he says, voice low, almost a purr. Dust’s mandibles part without hesitation, the movement instinctual, like he’d been waiting for the command.

Killer’s free hand moves to the back of Dust’s skull, guiding him down with a firm but gentle pressure. Dust obeys, his movements slow, deliberate, as if savoring the moment. His tongue flicks out, tentative at first, tasting the air before making contact. Killer’s breath hitches, just a little, and Dust feels a small thrill at the sound.

“That’s it,” Killer murmurs, his voice low and encouraging. His grip on the collar tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind Dust of its presence, as if he could forget. “Take your time. I’ve got all day.”

Dust doesn’t need the reminder. He knows his place, knows what’s expected of him. He sinks lower, his teeth parting further, and takes Killer in. The warmth is immediate, almost overwhelming, and Dust moans softly around him — unintentional, but it earns a pleased chuckle from Killer.

“Good boy,” Killer purrs again, his voice dripping with satisfaction. His hand stays on Dust's skull, as if to steady him, thumb rubbing over a patch of bone just under the blindfold. “You’re doing so good for me.”

Dust’s sockets flutter behind the blindfold, his focus narrowing to the task at hand. He moves slowly, each motion deliberate. Killer’s grip on the collar shifts slightly, just enough to tilt Dust’s head back a fraction, and Dust responds instinctively, adjusting to the angle.

Killer’s breaths grow heavier, his fingers curling just so with the pleasure. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice rough. “Such a good slut for me, aren’t you?”

It’s stupid, how much those words mean to him. Stupid, but he can’t help it. He’s always been weak for praise.

Dust doesn’t answer — can’t answer — but he doesn’t need to. The way he moves, the soft sounds he makes, the way he leans into Killer’s touch, it’s all the response Killer needs. And for Dust, the warmth in his ribcage, the praise in Killer’s voice, it’s enough to keep him going, to keep him right where he is.

But for a moment, just a split second, Dust thinks of Red’s hands, of the way they felt against his bones. He wonders if Red would’ve ever tied him up like this, if he would’ve ever whispered those same words. Dust doesn’t think so. Red was different. Kinder, maybe. Wouldn't really call him a slut for being so fixated on a strip of leather around his neck.

He gags when Killer hits the back of his throat. His nasal cavity floods with the scent of sweat and sex. He forces himself lax, pliant, letting Killer fuck his mouth in sharp, shallow jerks. Killer’s grip on the collar loosens slightly, but Dust doesn’t move. He stays right where he is, his breath shallow, his sockets still shut behind the blindfold.

Killer treats him like a well-used toy, cherished precisely because he’s already cracked.

Killer’s rhythm falters, his grip on the collar tightening as he groans low in his throat. Dust feels his cock twitch, the taste flooding his mouth as Killer spills down his throat. He swallows reflexively, the act almost automatic, though the bitter tang of magic lingers. Killer’s hand stays on the back of his skull, holding him there for a moment longer before letting him pull back for a breath he doesn't really need.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse but intent soft, almost tender. His thumb strokes the edge of Dust’s cheekbone, right under the blindfold. “You take it so good, don’t you?”

Dust shifts slightly, the ropes still holding his arms in place. His jaw aches from the work, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head a little, like he’s waiting for what’s next.

Killer chuckles, low and rough. “C’mon, say something. Don’t tell me I broke ya already.”

Dust cracks a small smile, though it’s hard to tell with the blindfold, without seeing his sockets slant like usual. “Not yet,” he murmurs, his voice a little hoarse, “You’d know if you did.”

Killer grins, sharp and playful. “Good to know.” He hums, a little contemplative, still cradling Dust's cheek. It almost feels like a reward, warm and nice. “You’re way too good at this. Makes me wonder who taught ya.”

The comment hangs in the air for a second, heavy but not enough to ruin the mood. Dust doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he leans into Killer’s touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Guess I’m just a fast learner,” he says, his tone light, teasing.

Killer matches the energy. "Guess so."

Chapter Text

Cross' cock filled her, stretched her in the most perfect way, each thrust hitting that deep, sweet spot that made stars burst behind Dust's eyelights. She was so big, she hit all the spots, all the time, really.  The mattress springs whined under their frantic rhythm, a nice, complementing backdrop to Dust's choked gasps. Her fingers dug into Cross' sweat-slicked shoulders, claws leaving faint crescents on the unyielding bone of her scapulae.

"F-fuck, Cross," she panted, arching her back to take her deeper, somehow, "right there, yes, please, please—"

Cross, lost in the tight, wet heat of her, groaned deep into her chest, face smushed against Dust's heaving tits. "Stars, Dusty, you feel… so fucking good…" Her thrusts grew erratic, desperate, and... Dust knew that tell.

She braced herself, the sweet pleasure already souring with anticipation of the end. Then Cross stiffened, a guttural cry ripped from her throat as she buried herself to the hilt, pulsing hotly inside Dust. Dust's string of pleas dissolved into a wordless cry as she felt the unmistakable heat of being filled up, leaving her trembling and clenching around Cross, as if milking her for all her worth.

Cross collapsed forward, breath ragged, pressing a damp kiss to the crook of Dust's shoulder and neck. "Mmmph… love you…" she mumbled, already starting to soften within her.

Okay, so maybe Dust's experiences before hadn't really been with people she'd been... you know, dating, or whatever Cross was gunning for with her here, and maybe they'd all been men because that was easier to distance herself from (and seduce, because yeah, it was always laughably easy and she never wanted to put in effort if she didn't have to), but she'd kind of thought that dating, or, again, whatever they were doing, would make the whole thing... better? Somehow?

Would make Cross make her cum, too?

She felt a ridiculous sting behind her sockets, a wave of crushing disappointment washing over the lingering physical pleasure. It had been so perfect, so much more than she’d ever had before, granted. Why would it have to stop now? Why couldn’t they just… keep going? The thought felt greedy, childish, and frankly, utterly embarrassing, and also brought on a faint taste of bile to the back of her dry throat.

Cross had been incredible, as far as she was concerned. Asking for more felt like spitting on a gift.

She wriggled slightly, trying to disengage, her movements stiff. She couldn't meet Cross' eyelights. "Love you too," she mumbled, her voice thick and not in it, even to her own metaphorical ears. She reached for the tissues on the nightstand, her hand trembling slightly. The wetness between her thighs felt like a taunt now.

Cross, however, didn't just roll away. She propped herself up on an elbow, browbones furrowed, instantly alert to the shift in the air, because of course she was. Dust’s withdrawal, the sudden tension in her body, the averted gaze — it screamed wrongness, and she was too perceptive, even when Dust didn't want her to.

"Dusty?" Her voice was soft, laced with immediate concern, cutting through her own post-coital haze. She gently touched Dust's cheek, trying to turn her face. "Hey… what’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Did something—?"

The tenderness, the worry, undid Dust completely, because honestly, how dare Cross. What a one-eighty all of a sudden. A hot tear escaped, tracing a path down her temple into the pillow. She flinched away from Cross’ touch, mortified.

"No! No, you didn’t… it was perfect, Cross, it was so good," she choked out, the words tumbling over each other. She wasn't the best with words, she knew that, but there was no reason to make the both of them feel like shit. She squeezed her sockets shut, humiliation burning her cheeks more than any previous flush. "I just… I don’t…" She swallowed hard, the confession feeling impossibly stupid. Maybe she could somehow weasel out of the whole feelings-talk, try again next time. Cross was bound to make her cum at some point if they kept having sex together, yeah? "I didn't really wanna stop. I was really close."

She... froze. She hadn't wanted to say that — in fact, she'd wanted to say anything else! Why the fuck was she like this?

Cross blinked, processing. The confused worry on her face melted into dawning realization, then indignation, but only for a moment, before her whole face fell. "Oh, Dusty," she breathed, her voice thick with sudden tenderness and a hint of self-reproach, which Dust didn't allow herself to dwell on. "Oh, love. Why'd you think we're done? Of course we can keep going!" She brushed the teartrack away with her thumb, her touch infinitely gentle. And yet it just made Dust want to cry more. "Stars, sweetsoul, that's... that's what you were worried about?"

Dust waved a hand absently, with that low, 'ehh' sound that meant 'yeah, but like, nbd! haha!' "Didn’t wanna sound… I dunno. Needy."

"Needy?" Cross raised a browbone, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "You’re worried about being needy with me? Dusty, have you met me? I’m literally the queen of being needy." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a playful whisper, as if she were pretending to be Killer for a moment, "I’d have you screaming my name all night if I could."

Dust’s face flushed again, but a small, reluctant laugh escaped her. Cross was ridiculous. She loved her. "Shut up."

"Make me," Cross teased, her grin widening. She shifted, propping herself up on one arm to half-hover over Dust while her other hand trailed down her side, light and teasing on the swell of her ecto. "So, what’ll it be? Round two? Or do you wanna take a breather first?"

Dust hesitated, her eyelights flicking to Cross’ face. "You’re not… annoyed." It was supposed to be a question, but seeing nothing remotely negative on her girlfriend's face made it into more of an observation.

"Annoyed? I'm gonna need names," Cross chuffed a laugh, her tone incredulous. "Dusty, honestly, I’m kinda kicking myself for not realizing you haven't fucking cum. A tragedy. I'm the worst lover ever. This needs to be remedied, post-haste."

That pulled another laugh out of her. She was a master of poker-facing through her own jokes, because really, saying something ridiculous with a straight face made it that much more hilarious, but it seemed she was rubbing off on Cross. "Pfft, sure."

"Alright, let’s fix this, then. You just lie back and let me take care of you, yeah?"

Dust rolled her eyelights good-naturedly. "Like you weren’t already doing that."

"Oh, I was," Cross said, wagging a finger, "But now I’m gonna do it better." Her hand slid down Dust’s trembling belly and between her legs, fingers trailing lightly through the slick mess they’d made. "My beautiful, perfect girl. You deserve everything." Her fingers found Dust’s swollen clit, rubbing under the hood and circling it with feather-light pressure that instantly drew a sharp gasp.

Dust whimpered, her hips lifting involuntarily off the mattress. "Y-yes… Cross, please…"

"I’ve got you," Cross murmured, her voice a low, soothing rumble. She shifted lower, settling between Dust’s thighs. "Let me taste you, love. Let me feel you." 

And then her mouth was on Dust, hot and wet and perfect. Her tongue was relentless, swirling over her clit, dipping into her entrance, lapping up her own cum and Dust's slick with hungry, worshipful sounds. Simultaneously, two of her fingers slid deep inside Dust, curling expertly, finding that good spot again with unerring accuracy.

The dual assault was overwhelming. Dust cried out, her hands flying to tangle in Cross’ white scarf. Not to push her away, but to hold her closer, to ground herself. "Oh fuck! Cross! Fuck! Right there, right there! Yesssss..."

"That’s it, sweetsoul," Cross praised, her voice vibrating against Dust’s sensitive flesh, "So good for me. So wet, so perfect. Come for me. Let me feel you." She sucked hard on Dust’s clit, her fingers pumping steadily, relentlessly.

Dust wasn't really used to edging, because usually, she just gave up if she didn't get to cum. So she was almost surprised how fast Cross was managing to work her up again. The pleasure was leaving her gasping and arching off the bed and Cross wasn't even trying to hold her hips down or anything. "Cross! I'm— I'm close! Ahh!"

Cross moaned against her, as if she was the one being eaten out, drinking her in, her fingers never stopping, never slowing as Dust writhed on the sheets. "Yes! That’s my girl. So beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Give it to me." 

And even as the tremors slowly subsided and Dust just laid there whining, Cross didn’t pause. She kept licking, kept fingering, the pace shifting, exploring, finding new rhythms, new pressures. 

"More?" she asked, her voice thick with desire and devotion. "You can take more, can't you, my perfect love? You feel so incredible."

Dust could only nod frantically, her body already coiling tight again under the expert, loving attention. The sensation was different now — deeper, more sustained, less frantic but no less intense, on the edge of overstimulation. Cross alternated between broad, flat strokes of her tongue, pinpoint flicks on Dust’s clit and sucking at it, her fingers sometimes curling deep, sometimes scissoring gently, sometimes just resting inside her, letting Dust feel the fullness while her tongue did the work. The praise was a constant, soothing murmur against her heat, breath puffing over her clit to make up for the momentary lapse in tongue movement.

"You’re doing so well, Dusty. Taking me so beautifully. You feel divine. My perfect, gorgeous girl. I could do this forever. Just feel you, taste you, watch you come apart for me." Cross lifted her head for a moment, her chin glistening, her eyelights darkened with lust and profound affection. "Tell me you want more, still, yeah?"

"Yeah," Dust gasped, her voice ragged, "Please, Cross… more… don’t stop…"

Cross smiled, a feral, wild thing, and dove back in. She added a third finger, stretching Dust deliciously, the slight burn only intensifying the pleasure. Her tongue focused ruthlessly on Dust’s clit, flicking rapidly, then sucking hard, teeth scraping the nub just barely. The pressure built again, different this time — fuller, somehow, centered low in Dust’s belly. It felt… inevitable. Unstoppable. It felt good.

"Crossy… I… fuck!" Dust’s thighs clamped around Cross’ head, her back arching impossibly high off the bed, like she'd just gotten electrocuted. A gush of warm fluid surged out of her, soaking Cross’ chin, her fingers, the sheets beneath them. She cried out, a long, broken sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, her body convulsing uncontrollably.

Cross moaned in triumph, lapping eagerly, drinking her down, her fingers still buried deep, massaging the sensitive, clenching walls gently as the powerful contractions wracked Dust’s body. "Yes! Yes, Dust! Look at you! Squirting for me, my perfect, beautiful girl. Soaking me. Stars, fuck, you’re incredible. So good. So fucking good."

She kept her mouth pressed firmly against Dust, gentling her strokes but not stopping, drawing out the exquisite aftershocks until Dust finally collapsed back onto the bed, utterly boneless, gasping for air, her entire body humming with satisfaction.

Only then did Cross slowly, carefully withdraw her fingers and lift her head. She crawled up Dust’s trembling body, leaving a trail of kisses on her stomach, between her heaving breasts, the hollow of her vertebrae. She gathered Dust into her arms, holding her close, pressing soft kisses to her sweat-damp temple. Dust nestled into the embrace, a deep, contented sigh escaping her.

"Okay?" Cross whispered, brushing the damp fabric of her scarf away to see her better. "Did we remedy my blunder?"

Dust managed a weak, utterly blissed-out smile, nuzzling back into Cross’ neck. "Yeah," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "You definitely… remedied it." She let out a soft, drowsy laugh, her body still tingling with the aftershocks. Cross chuckled right with her, pulling her closer and nuzzling the top of her skull.

"Good," Cross said, her tone smug but warm. "But, uh, for the record, you should’ve said something sooner. Like, right after ‘wow, Cross, you’re the best lover ever.’ I would’ve been on it sooner."

Dust snorted, swatting her arm weakly. "Shut up. You’re not that good." 

She was. But there was no way Dust was saying that.

Cross gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like she’d been shot. "Ouch. Betrayed. By my own girlfriend. Who just came screaming my name three times."

"You counting now? It was two, actually."

Cross smirked, her eyelights glowing with mischief. "Fine, two. But I’ll make it three next time. Just you wait."

Chapter Text

Cross knew he didn't have to do this. He knew he didn't have to starve himself anymore, didn't have to hold himself back, that Dust would give him his magic anytime.

He'd abstained out of some misplaced guilt at the beginning, some weird by-product of the immediate crush he'd developed towards the poor little widower who stumbled upon their manor escaping hunters. He’d abstained because he saw what the others' feedings had done to the little monster, the way he was barely there after Killer was done with him, a walking husk that would retreat to hover over his kid for hours, unreceptive to anyone and anything else.

He hadn't wanted to be another cause of that, not really. He understood Killer's angle, sure, and the envy that was clear in him that he took out on Dust before they all finally mellowed out, but he hadn't liked it.

He didn't have to anymore. Somehow he'd managed to woo Dust, and they were dating (even if Cross never felt like he could quite fill Horror's shoes), and Dust had told him to 'go ahead and feed whenever.' It didn't get more green-light-y than that.

But.

But Cross also saw the way Dust looked at him whenever he did go too long without feeding. Saw the way he looked almost excited. Dust loved the occasions when Cross fasted, loved how desperate and needy it made the vampire. He would curl up against Dust in the evenings, his bones growing colder by the day. "I don't feel the cold," Cross had told him once, "But I miss the warmth."

And Cross— Cross liked the way Dust would get a little mean about it. Not too mean, not really, just enough that Cross realized Dust realized he'd be desperate enough to do damn-near anything, and he could take the reins, tease him and take the small power rush before inevitably giving Cross what he needed, because again, he wasn't really mean about it. (Even if he could've been.)

(That's why Cross liked it, too.)

His fangs ached, throbbing in time with the frantic pulse of what marrow he had left in him. He’d starved for eight days. Eight days of cold bones, eight nights spent curled against Dust’s warmth like a dying man clutching a furnace. All for this. For the sharp, hungry glint in Dust’s eyelights when he realized just how far gone Cross was.

"Look at you," Dust murmured, voice low and rough. He didn’t move, didn’t offer his wrist or his neck — just watched as Cross trembled before him, knees digging into the mattress between Dust's spread, bare legs. "So pretty when you’re desperate."

The scent of Dust’s latent magic, of his summoned ecto — ozone and old paper and something almost like a wet dog, remnants of Horror — was thick enough to choke on.

Cross’ hands shook where they braced against the mattress. He could hear Dust’s SOULbeat, a frantic drumbeat beneath the thin barrier of his ribs, and the sound hollowed him out. Feed, his own SOUL screamed, demanded. Take.

Dust’s grin was a knife’s edge. "Choose," he said, the word a low purr, "My cock, or my marrow first?"

"M-Mar—" Cross’ voice shattered, dry as a desert. He swallowed, tried again. "Marrow. Please."

"Please," Dust echoed, mocking, tender. He lifted his left wrist to his face, the bone stark and smooth.

Cross watched, transfixed, as Dust’s teeth — monster-blunt, but sharpened with intent — pierced his own bones. Marrow welled, dark crimson, beading along the puncture wounds. Cross wasn't prepared for how sinfully hot the sight was, something within him feeling punched from the display.

But Dust didn’t offer his wrist. Not for Cross to feed from, anyway.

Instead, Dust angled the bleeding wrist downward. Marrow fell in thick, glistening ropes onto the swell of his own cock, pooling in the dip of his pelvis, smearing across the summoned ecto that pulsed faintly, casting the white of bone into a pale purple. The metallic tang sharpened, laced now with Dust’s magic, and Cross was starving.

"There’s your marrow, sweetsoul," Dust breathed, voice roughened. "Come and get it."

Cross lunged. Not for the wrist. For the mess glistening on Dust’s lower belly, on the hard line of his cock. His tongue, cold and desperate, swiped a broad stripe through the spill. The taste detonated across his tastebuds, coppery, rich and warm, deep and earthy and alive. A groan tore from him, raw and ragged, as he lapped, frantic, at the mess, his hips grinding mindlessly against Dust’s shin. The friction was a spark on tinder. He rutted harder, the rough drag of his cock catching on Dust’s smooth bone.

Dust hissed, arching into the contact. "Fuck— greedy boy," he gasped, but his hand settled on the back of Cross’ neck, holding him down, grinding his face into the sticky heat. It felt like approval. Like hunger echoing his own.

He sucked, licked, devoured the marrow-smeared ecto, the desperate movements of his tongue coaxing a low, thrumming vibration from Dust’s core.

Cross moaned into the mess, the vibration earning a sharp gasp from above.

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His tongue lapped frantically, his cold mouth seeking every glistening smear on Dust’s lower belly, the hard ridge of his cock. The marrow was already singing in his veins like a struck bell, warming the icy hollows of his bones. Only when the fake skin beneath his mouth was clean, gleaming faintly with spit, did Dust relent. A sharp tug on his neck hauled Cross upward.

Dust’s eyelights were blown wide, bright circles of color in the dark sockets. His grin was predatory, satisfied, but in a still-hungry way. "Better? No?" he murmured, tilting his head, baring the smooth column of his cervical vertebrae. "Go on then. Get what you need, Crossy. Properly."

Cross lunged, scrambling further between Dust's legs. His fangs sank into one of Dust’s vertebrae with a soft, wet crunch, the bone yielding beneath his teeth like tissue paper. He always went for the right side of Dust's neck, because the left one carried the faint mating scar from Horror. Killer had always chosen that side in particular, covering it all over with his own bites like he was disrespecting the claim, but Cross liked the other side. His own bites didn't even have enough intent to scar, anyway, because he could never get himself to ask.

Dust arched beneath him, a choked gasp escaping as marrow flooded Cross’ mouth proper, bursting with flavor and power. It was ecstasy. It was annihilation.

Cross drank deep, gulping down the warmth, the life, the dizzying liquid that made him feel alive again. His hips moved on their own, rutting against Dust’s cock.

Dust’s breath hitched, his fingers digging into Cross’ shoulder blades. "Fuck— yes," he hissed, his own hips lifting off the mattress, meeting Cross’ frantic thrusts, chased the drag of their cocks against one another. "Your teeth… ah… Use me. Use me, you starved fucking thing—"

Cross moaned around the bite, the vibration making Dust shudder. He fed and fucked against Dust in ragged, uncoordinated thrusts, lost in the dual sensations — the hot rush of marrow down his throat, the brutal friction against his cock. It wasn’t enough. He needed more.

His free hand scrambled down, fingers trembling as they closed around Dust’s cock. It was hard as a rock, still slick with his saliva, pulsing faintly. Cross shifted until his own was close enough to get included in the tight half-circle of his clumsy fingers, jerking them both in an uneven, frantic rhythm.

Dust cried out, a sharp, broken sound. His magic flared — pure ozone, sharp and electric, so close, he must've been getting so close — as Cross’ palm squeezed them together, their cocks sliding against each other in his grip. The pace was broken, Cross’ grip slipping from all the slick, barely holding a rhythm from how high-strung he felt. His thumb swiped over Dust’s tip, spreading beads of precome, making the glide slick and filthy. Dust’s claws scraped down his back, drawing phantom lines of fire down his bones.

"Close," Dust gasped, hips bucking up into Cross’ fist, "Cross— fuck—!"

Cross felt it too, the coil in his gut tightening, threatening to snap. He bit down harder, swallowing another gulp of marrow as Dust’s cock pulsed violently in his hand. Dust came with a shattered groan, cum splattering hot and thick over Cross’ fingers, his belly, the friction smearing the mess around between them.

The sight, the scent, the taste of Dust unraveling tipped Cross over the edge. He spilled between them with a guttural groan, adding more to the mess, stripes of violet streaking Dust’s ribs as he milked himself through it, hips stuttering against Dust’s.

He finally released Dust’s neck with a wet drag, panting, forehead pressed to Dust’s sternum. He felt full, sated and satisfied, breathing through the aftershocks.

"Eight days, huh," Dust murmured, equally breathless. His thumb traced the curve of Cross’ mouth, wiping away a stray smear of red. "Worth the wait?"

Cross lifted his head. Dust’s neck was marked, punctures oozing slow, dark beads. His ribs were a canvas of come and spit and marrow. He looked wrecked. Beautiful. He looked like Cross felt.

"Always," Cross rasped. He licked his teeth, still tasting Dust’s ruin. "Always."

Chapter Text

Dust felt like he was floating.

His mind was blessedly calm, for once, voices tamped down by exhaustion. He was tired, barely aware of his surroundings by now.

His mates had passed him around all day, back and forth, and he'd been more than happy to let them — it was nice, helped to curb down all the extra magic he kept accumulating all the time, and left his mind blessedly quiet. It wasn't the first time he'd been their toy all day, and it most definitely wasn't going to be the last. His bones ached, in a similar way they always did after a good fight, and the thick silicone plug nestled deep inside him was a constant, heavy reminder of the weight filling him up whenever he even shifted.

And for hours, it had been perfect. The noise in his skull, the static of his own fractured thoughts and the whispers always goading him, had been drowned out by the sheer, obliterating force of pleasure.

Killer and Cross had been last, or so he thought at least. Most of the rounds were blurred together. But they'd moved, left him sprawled on the bed in a pool of sweat and cum stains, draped one of the blankets over him to chase away the chill. One of them had said something, but Dust hadn't really processed the words.

All he knew was that he was alone on the bed, thoughts sluggish but catching up, and the blanket wasn't helping with the settling chill in his bones and damp ecto anymore. Where'd they go? The question echoed in the newly-hollow space of his mind. He strained his hearing, but the usual ambient sounds of the castle were muffled, distant. Had they left the room? He'd have heard the door, or the distinctive crackle of a shortcut. Wait, would he have? His skull felt stuffed with cotton wool, his thoughts thick like tar. The chill deepened, settling into his marrow. He pulled the blanket tighter, but it was useless against the cold blooming from within him.

His head throbbed, not quite with pain, but with the absence of the noise that had been drowned out all day. Now, the quiet was deafening. Worse. It left room for the whispers to creep back in, slithering through the cracks in his exhaustion.

Look at you. Used up. Dripping. Pathetic.

He didn't know that voice, feminine and haughty, but it echoed in his mind loud and clear, like all the other voices of the people he'd slaughtered over his years.

He squeezed his sockets shut, but the tears came anyway, hot and shameful, tracking through the mess on his face. A choked sob escaped him, raw and ugly in the stillness of the bedroom. He felt… discarded. Like a toy left broken on the floor after the game was over.

A sound cut through the haze — a burst of laughter from the corridor outside the bedroom door. Killer's distinctive, slightly-manic cackle.

How utterly pathetic. A joke. You're a joke to them now that they've had their fun.

Logically, he knew, he knew Killer must've laughed at something else, a joke, or— or something. It was normal. But in Dust's hypersensitive, plummeting state, the sound warped. It wasn't just laughter, it was a jagged shard of glass scraping down his spine. It wasn't at something innocuous; it was at him, and it hurt.

He curled in on himself, pulling his knees up despite the protest of sore bones and the shifting pressure deep inside, burying his face as deep into his chest as he could. A low, shuddering sob escaped him, muffled against the sheets. Sticky. Smelled like sex and salt.

The door creaked open. Horror's heavy footsteps paused just inside. Which was good, because it meant Dust could hear again, because he knew what Horror's steps sounded like.

"Hey, Dusty," he murmured, his voice impossibly soft and closer all of a sudden. "Deep breaths, yeah? Let's get you sorted."

Dust flinched. Sorted. Like garbage. 

He doesn't want to be here, Dust's mind supplied, They made him come in. They're all sick of me. I'm useless now the fun's over. He tried to pull away, curling tighter.

"M'fine," he mumbled, voice thick and raw, slurring the words. "Go 'way. I can... I can clean up, gimme a minute. You don't gotta…"

Horror didn't budge. "You're shakin'. An' cryin'. That ain't fine." He knelt, the bed dipping under his weight. His single eye glowed faintly in the dim light, scanning Dust's face. "What happened? You were purrin' like a kitten when Killer had you pinned not an hour ago. Lookit me, lamby."

He wasn't sure if Horror was matching his word-slurring on purpose, but it made him feel a little better about it. Better enough to peek a socket out, even if he was still sniffling.

"There ya are," Horror murmured, "Now tell me. What happened? Ya were floating all day, Dusty. Smilin'. Taking everything we gave ya, beggin' for more. Then… this." He gestured vaguely at Dust's trembling form, the tear-streaked skull, the evidence of his distress. "Hit the ground hard, didn't ya? What tripped ya up?"

The gentle insistence, the lack of judgment in Horror's tone, was worse than anger. It felt like pity. Dust squeezed his eyesockets shut again, tighter, fresh tears welling. "S'stupid," he whispered, voice thick with self-loathing.

"Doubt it," Horror rumbled, seemingly unperturbed, "Drops make sense t'the one dropping. Even if it seems sideways to everyone else. Tell me."

Dust took a shuddering breath. The words felt like shards of glass in his throat. "Heard… heard Killer laughin'. After. When they left. Sounded… like he was laughin' at me. Look at the stupid slut, all filled up an' cryin'. Pathetic." He spat the last word, hating himself for voicing the whispers. "An'… an' you're only here ‘cause no one else wants t'deal with the mess, right? S'always you. ‘Cause they don't wanna touch the used-up toy once it's broken." He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "Jus'… jus' leave me alone. M'gross."

"Killer," Horror stated, his voice losing none of its gentleness but gaining a layer of absolute certainty, "was laughin' at Cross. He tried t'shortcut outta here an' instead walked straight into the doorframe. Nearly knocked himself out. Again. Wasn't about you. Not one bit."

Dust froze. The image was so ludicrously Cross — the usually-precise soldier fumbling in post-coital haze — that a startled, wet hiccup escaped him instead of a sob.

"An' as for me bein' the only one doin' aftercare?" Horror continued, his thumb rubbing a slow circle near the back of Dust's skull. "That's ‘cause I like it, Dusty. Like seein' ya all warm an' quiet after a good fuck. Like knowin' I helped get ya there. Like makin' sure you're safe an' cared for. Ain't no obligation. It's… it's my favorite part." He paused. "An' yer not broken. Yer overwhelmed. Big difference. Now, are y'gonna let me help ya, or am I gonna have t'pick ya up an' carry ya t'the bathroom like a sack o' potatoes? ‘Cause I will. Don't mind a bit."

Dust hesitated, the vicious spiral of his thoughts momentarily stalled by Horror's words. The laughter… hadn't been about him? And Horror… wanted to be here? What a wild concept. He uncurled slightly, peeking one tear-blurred eyelight back up at the larger skeleton. Horror's expression was open, patient, concerned. No pity there.

"…Not a sack o' potatoes," Dust mumbled, his voice small.

Horror chuckled, a warm, deep sound. "Okay, good. Now, stay put." He rose from the edge of the bed with surprising grace for his size. Dust watched, still trembling but the panic receding slightly, as Horror moved to the bedroom door. He didn't open it fully, just leaned his head out into the hallway.

"HEY!" His bellow was startlingly loud after the quiet murmurs, making Dust jump. "GET YER LAZY ASSES IN HERE! NOW! DUST NEEDS US!"

Dust's SOUL gave a frantic flutter. "Horror, no! I don't— I'm not—" he tried to protest, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, suddenly acutely aware of his messy, tear-streaked state. He didn't want them all to see him like this, a sniveling wreck.

But it was too late. The sound of hurried footsteps, a muttered curse (definitely Cross), and the soft crackle of a shortcut announced the arrival of the others. Nightmare appeared first, tentacles lashing as if ready for a fight. Cross was next, rubbing his skull where a fresh, faint bruise was forming near his temple, and Killer stumbled in last, looking slightly dazed but alert.

"What's wrong?" Nightmare asked.

"Drop," Horror stated simply, like it was that simple, moving back to the bed. "Bad one. Got stuck thinkin' we were laughin' at him. Thinkin' he's just a used-up toy none of us wanna touch anymore." He fixed Killer with a look. "Told him about the doorframe."

Killer blinked, then winced, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh. Shit. Dusty! Yeah, no! That laugh was 'cause Cross face-planted! Had nothing to do with you, promise!" He moved closer to the bed, hovering unsurely. "You were amazing today. Total champ. Took everything we threw at ya."

Cross flushed slightly, looking embarrassed. "Sorry… I was uh... out of it. Felt good?" He finished lamely, and then stepped forward, his movements careful. "Are you injured? Overstimulated?"

Dust shrank back under the sudden attention, overwhelmed again but in a different way. The sheer presence of them, the immediate shift to focused caregivers, was disorienting. He couldn't find words, just shook his head mutely, tears threatening again.

"A'ight, enough hoverin'," Horror commanded, taking charge instead. Dust was glad. "Killer, grab the big fluffy towels from the linen closet. Cross, get the electric blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed an' plug it in. Nighty, y've got more hands, go heat up that bone broth in the kitchen, an' bring some snacks. An' water. Lotsa water."

They moved instantly, not even thinking of arguing for once, which was weird. It was weird, right? Dust fidgeted with his hands, feeling off-kilter.

Killer vanished and reappeared moments later, arms laden with thick, soft towels. Cross rushed to retrieve the blanket, fighting with the large thing. Nightmare gave Dust's shoulder a brief, reassuring squeeze with a tentacle before melting through the floor to the kitchen.

Horror turned back to him. "Okay, sweet thing. Time t'get ya clean, yeah?" He carefully peeled the damp, stained blanket away. Dust whimpered, trying to curl in on himself again, exposed and messy. "Shhh. S'alright. Just us. Nothin' here we ain't seen before, or put there ourselves," he soothed.

He took one of the towels Killer offered as well as the damp washcloth he must have grabbed along the way and gently started wiping Dust's face with it, clearing away tears and sweat with infinite care.

"Gonna get the plug out now. Might feel weird. Just breathe."

Dust nodded, focusing on Horror's deep, even breathing, trying to match it. He felt Horror's large fingers find the base of the plug. There was a soft, slick sound, a strange internal shifting, and then a sudden release of pressure as the thick silicone was slowly, carefully withdrawn. Dust gasped, a mix of relief and a strange, fleeting emptiness as the cum started to flood out.

Horror immediately pressed a clean part of the towel against him, stemming the flow. It soaked the white fabric almost immediately, and he had to take another one when it was beyond saving. "Good. Real good. See? Not so bad."

Cross returned, spreading the electric blanket over the bottom half of the bed. He plugged it in, and a gentle warmth immediately began to radiate upwards. Killer hovered, holding the rest of the towels. "Need anything else, H?"

Horror shook his head, focus entirely on Dust. So, Dust held out his arms, feeling like a babybones, but Killer scrambled up the bed to sit next to him and pull him against his front more than happily. Horror cleaned him meticulously, tenderly, wiping away the sweat, the drying cum, the evidence of the day's use. He paid attention to the faint bruises, the sensitive spots, his touch never hurried, never rough. Dust slowly began to unclench, the trembling subsiding under the relentless, gentle attention. The whispers in his skull were still there, but quieter, drowned out by the soft sounds of movement.

Nightmare returned after a while, carrying a steaming mug, a large glass of water and a plate of cookies. He handed the mug to Horror. The rich, savory scent of bone broth filled the air. Horror held the mug to Dust's mouth, almost like he really was a babybones. It didn't even feel bad like it usually would've, instead making him feel small, but... in a good way? "Small sips. Warm ya up from the inside."

Dust obeyed, the hot liquid soothing his raw throat. It was good. Nourishing. Had all of Horror's caring intent, and a twinge of Nightmare's, too, from when he'd warmed it up. He took another sip, then another, and soon enough there was no more broth to be had, and he was a bit disappointed about that. He could've drank more of it.

Horror finished cleaning him, then bundled him up efficiently in one of the leftover large towels, even pulling it up over his skull in a facsimile of his hood (fuck, Dust loved him — loved all of them — so much), then carefully maneuvered him onto the warmed section of the bed, tucking the electric blanket securely under and around him.

He took the water glass from Nightmare and held it to Dust's mouth. "Water now. Important."

Dust drank, the cool water a contrast to the broth but equally welcome. The frantic pounding of his SOUL had slowed to a steady thrum. The chill in his bones was fading, replaced by the physical warmth of the blanket and the deeper warmth of their care.

"Sorry… about… all that."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Killer chimed in immediately. "Drops happen. We got ya."

"Feelin' any better?" Horror asked softly, because he knew asking if he was okay would've been pointless.

Dust nodded slowly, his voice still a little shaky but clearer. "Yeah. S'better. M'still feelin' stupid. Freakin' out over a laugh."

"Yeah, after a whole day of getting fucked left right and center," Cross deadpanned. Point... taken.

"...Thought you left," Dust mumbled finally, because the others deserved an explanation, at least now that he could sort most of his thoughts. "Heard the laugh... sounded mean. An' cold. An' then... quiet. Quiet’s worse sometimes. Lets 'em in." He didn’t need to specify who them was. They all knew the ghosts that lived rent-free in his brain.

Killer shifted, pressing his nasal ridge against the top of Dust’s towel-covered skull. "Nah, Dust-bunny. We were just grabbing big guy and giving ya space to float a bit after... y'know." He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "Cross' faceplant kinda broke the mood though. Seriously, dude," he snorted, aiming a grin at Cross, "you got the spatial awareness of a concussed badger sometimes."

Cross groaned, rubbing his temple again. "Okay, okay, I get it. I’m clumsy. Can we move on now?"

Dust managed a small smile. "…yeah. Kinda wish I'd seen it, actually. In retrospect."

"Yeah, kinda wish you'd seen it too," Killer chuckled, leaning back and pulling Dust along to make space for Nightmare to scoot closer. "Cross flailing like a drunk bird? Priceless."

Cross shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. "Oh, shut up. Like you've never messed up a shortcut."

"Not into a doorframe, I haven’t," Killer shot back, grin widening. He nudged the side of Dust's ribs playfully. "I’ll make him re-enact it for you sometime. Full performance."

"Alright, enough with tha'. Now, lamby. Ya warmin’ up proper?"

Dust nodded, snuggling deeper into the towel and, consequentially, into Killer. The shivering had stopped completely. The electric blanket hummed softly beneath him. "Mmhm. Warm."

"Hungry?" Nightmare asked, gesturing towards the plate of untouched cookies.

Dust considered. The bone broth had settled warmly in his non-existent stomach, but… "Maybe… one cookie?"

Killer snatched the plate from Nightmare's tentacle instantly, holding it out. "Take two! You earned ‘em, bunny."

Dust took the cookie, nibbling at it slowly. It was sweet, just the way he liked it. And it had more of Horror's intent, which was always nice.

"Alright, we’re all good now, yeah? Dusty’s doing better, Cross has a new bruise to show off, and I’m officially the funniest person here. Night’s going great."

That earned a chuffed laugh from Dust (a relief), even if it had crumbs going down his whole front. Cross reached over to pick them off for him.

"Want another one?" he asked, but Dust shook his head. Plus, it wasn't like they'd disappear before the morning.

"Nah. M’good."

"Good," Horror said, his voice warm. "Now, everyone better stay put. This pile’s not goin’ anywhere tonight."

Chapter Text

Not a lot of things they did got to Dust, not really. Oh, he enjoyed them all (maybe except that one time they tried fisting, because sure, the little guy was a size king, but that was just a little too much even for him), and he always made sure Horror knew he enjoyed them, but...

But Horror loved to see him truly break, loved to see him truly lose his composure. And, well, there were only two things that accomplished that — either overstimulation, or edging.

Overstimulation was lovely; the nights when Horror got to fuck him over and over, toying with him until he had him crying, shaking and whining. But it was a soft kind of a break, left Dust tired and pliant and handsy, and that was lovely! Horror loved that, loved when Dust was so out of his mind he let himself be manhandled and cooed over.

But edging was just as good, and exactly what Horror craved today.

Dust's magic was vast by nature, all that LV stored in his SOUL and making it volatile, overcharged on a bad day. Coming was a good way to tamp it down, and conversely, the moment Horror didn't let him have that release, it ratcheted up inside Dust. Made him go crazy with need, frantic and thrashing and loud. It had him begging so pretty, had him desperate and damn near feral, if Horror pushed a bit too much.

And that's exactly what he wanted today, to enjoy the sight of Dust losing himself to the need. To watch him try and not straight up attack him, because Dust wouldn't hurt him, but that instinct would be there, and he wouldn't act on it no matter what Horror did, and that was just exquisite. That's what he wanted. To hear him beg, to see him cry, to see him shivering and shaking afterwards, just as ready to be held and cooed over as all the other times.

And this time, he had a little helping tool, to make it easier. He'd picked up a set of sounds the last time he'd been in a lustverse, and hiding them had been a pain, but so, so worth it, because he had them now, ready to be picked from and used to plug Dust up just right so he wouldn't be able to come until Horror decided he could.

Horror pinned him against the mattress, one massive hand wrapped around the base of Dust's cock, the other tracing nonsensical patterns on his shifting stomach, where his shirt rode up.

"Fuck, H—" Dust managed, hips jerking uselessly against the iron grip. "C'mon, lemme—"

Horror silenced him with a kiss, deep and claiming, swallowing the rest of the plea. Dust melted into it, a low groan vibrating against Horror’s mouth, his fingers scrabbling weakly at Horror’s broad shoulders. The kiss broke, leaving Dust panting, eyelights hazy and unfocused.

Horror didn’t let him recover. He scraped his teeth along the sensitive column of Dust’s neck, biting down just hard enough to make Dust arch off the bed with a sharp cry.

"Ngh! Y-yeah, there, do that—"

Horror chuckled, the sound a low rumble against Dust’s cervical vertebrae, and licked across the mark he'd made. His hand on Dust’s cock tightened fractionally, a warning squeeze that had Dust whimpering.

"Patience, lambchop," Horror murmured, enjoying every single moment of Dust's babbled nonsense. He shifted, his free hand reaching towards the bedside table to grab one of the rods. The glint of polished metal caught the dim light, capturing Dust's attention immediately. Horror held it up, letting him see it properly.

"Got a little surprise. Remember those sounds I mentioned?"

Dust’s eyelights snapped into sharp focus, flicking between Horror’s face and the toy. A shudder ran through him, anticipation coiling in him from the idea alone along with the need. His magic flared, a visible pulse of violet light under his ribs, through the cotton of the shirt.

"Y-yeah," he breathed, voice rough, dry, "Gonna use it?"

"Mmhm. Gonna plug you up nice and tight," Horror confirmed, his thumb rubbing slow, maddening circles just below the head of Dust’s cock, smearing pre-cum. "Keep all that pretty magic locked right inside you." He leaned down, nipping at Dust’s jawline. "Gonna make you scream for it."

Dust moaned, long and low, his head thumping back against the pillow. He spread his legs wider in silent invitation, his cock twitching eagerly in Horror’s grasp. "Do it. Please, Horror, do it."

Horror didn’t need telling twice. He coated the sound liberally with lube, the slick sheen dripping. Each little patter made Dust jolt from the cold. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, savoring Dust’s ragged breathing, the way his hips gave tiny, involuntary thrusts into the air, chasing friction that wasn't there.

He lined the tip up with Dust’s slit.

Dust tensed, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth as the cool, smooth metal pressed inward. It was an intense, invasive sensation — a strange, deep pressure that wasn't quite pain but wasn't entirely comfortable either. Then Horror pushed, slow and steady, and the discomfort melted away, replaced by a shocking, electric jolt of pleasure as the sound slid deeper, stretching the sensitive inner passage.

"Fuck!" he gasped out, back arching off the bed. His fingers dug into Horror’s arm. "Oh stars, yes—"

The sound seated fully, a slight pressure at the base of his cock where the flared end rested. Horror gave a gentle twist, and Dust cried out again, a full-body shudder wracking him. It felt incredible — a constant, deep thrum of stimulation right at the core of his need, amplified tenfold by the magic buzzing violently under his bones, seeking release that was now physically blocked.

Horror immediately wrapped his hand back around Dust’s shaft, now stretched taut around the embedded sound. He began to stroke, firm and relentless, his thumb flicking over the tip, right around where the sound emerged. Dust’s world narrowed to that touch, that impossible pressure, that maddening fullness inside him.

“Oh, fuck,” Dust sobbed, tears welling. “Horror— it’s too much—!”

Horror slid the sound out just the barest amount, before letting it slip back in, sealing him. Dust’s cock throbbed, aching and impossibly hard, but the path was blocked. The magic had nowhere to go. It coiled inside him, a live wire sparking against his soul.

He writhed, a broken litany of 'no, no, no, yes, please, please' tumbling from him. Tears streaked down his cheekbones. He clawed at Horror’s arm, not to push away, but to anchor himself as pleasure mounted with no outlet, a tsunami held back by a dam. His magic lashed the room — books tumbled from shelves, the lamp flickered violently.

The pleasure crashed over him in relentless waves, each stroke ratcheting the tension higher and higher. He could feel the orgasm building, a steady pressure in his pelvis, screaming to be unleashed. He bucked, trying to force it, chasing the edge with frantic desperation. But the sound held. It was an unyielding plug, a physical barrier denying him the release his body and magic screamed for.

The pressure built past the point of pleasure, into a realm of agonizing, overwhelming intensity. Dust’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. Tears welled in his sockets, blurring his vision. A high-pitched whine escaped him, torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

"H-Horror... please... please..." he begged, his voice cracking. "Too much... s'too much... can't... need to come... please, let me... take it out... please..."

He was trembling violently now, sweat beading on his skull. His magic crackled erratically, violet sparks dancing along his bones. He looked utterly wrecked — eyelights wide and desperate, tears streaking down his cheekbones, body taut as a bowstring under Horror’s relentless touch. He was begging, not just with words, but with his entire being, raw and exposed.

Horror watched him, his own eye blazing with satisfaction. He saw the feral, near-panicked edge in Dust’s gaze, the instinctive need to take what he needed, battling with the bone-deep knowledge that he couldn’t. That restraint, pushed to its absolute limit, was intoxicating.

“Look at you,” Horror murmured, awed. He bent, licking a tear from Dust’s cheekbone. “So pretty. Begging so sweetly.”

“Take it out!” Dust screamed, voice raw. His body convulsed, hips pistoning uselessly against Horror’s grip. “Let me come! I can’t— I’ll die— please, Horror, I need it, need to come so bad—”

Horror watched him unravel for another heartbeat — the frantic shudders, the choked sobs, the raw, animalistic need in Dust’s flickering eyelights. Perfect.

Dust wailed, a sound ripped from the depths of his soul. “Out—take it out— I’ll do anything, Horror, please—!!”

“Since you asked so nice.”

Slowly, savoring the moment, Horror grasped the end of the sound. He pulled.

The slide was agony and ecstasy combined — a searing, full-body shock as the metal withdrew. Dust screamed, back bowing off the bed, magic detonating outward in a visible flash.

Release slammed into him like a freight train. Come pulsed in thick, shuddering ropes across his stomach and Horror’s hand, the force of it wracking his frame with violent tremors.

He sobbed openly now, tears mingling with sweat, utterly spent and full of leftover manic energy.

Horror was there instantly, gathering him up, pulling the shuddering skeleton against his broad chest. He wrapped his arms around him, tight and secure, one hand cradling the back of Dust’s skull, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles on his spine. Dust buried his face against Horror’s collarbone, his sobs muffled against bone, his hands fisting weakly in Horror’s shirt.

“Shhh, shhh, I got you,” Horror murmured, his voice a low, resonant rumble against Dust’s skull. He pressed kisses to the top of Dust’s head, his temple, the curve of his jaw where tears still tracked. “You did so good. So damn good for me. Let it out, sweetsoul. I got you.”

He held Dust through the aftershocks, the tremors gradually subsiding into exhausted shivers, the desperate cries softening into hitched breaths and sniffles, small spurts leaking from his twitching, oversensitive cock.

“You okay, lambchop?” Horror asked when he stopped crying, his voice low and rough, but gentle.

Dust nodded against his chest, still not trusting his voice. He felt raw, but sated and safe.

Horror tilted Dust’s chin up, just enough to meet his gaze. His eyelights were dim, still a little foggy, but Horror could see the satisfaction in his expression. He smiled, a small, genuine one, and brushed a thumb under Dust’s eyesocket, catching a drying teartrack.

“Yeah, you’re okay,” he murmured, his voice low but soft, almost like a lullaby to Dust's tired mind, “I got you, lambchop.”

Dust sniffed, his breath still shaky, but he nodded again. His hands loosened their grip on Horror’s shirt, fingers curling instead into something softer, less desperate.

“Was… a lot,” Dust managed, his voice hoarse but quiet.

“Yeah,” Horror agreed, a small chuckle rumbling in his chest, through them both, “You handled it like a champ though. Made a hell of a mess too.”

Dust huffed a laugh. “Asshole. I'm not cleaning it.”

Horror grinned at him, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Dust’s skull. “Didn't think so, no.”

That got a snort out of Dust, and Horror counted that as a win. He held him a little tighter, just for a moment, before easing back enough to look at him again, just in case.

“Need anything? Water? Maybe a blanket?”

Dust shook his head, his sockets half-lidded and still a little hazy. “Just… you’re good. Stay.”

Horror’s grin softened, something warm and fond in his gaze and SOUL, heating him up from the inside out. “Alright. I ain’t going nowhere.”

He shifted them both, carefully, until they were lying down, Dust still tucked against his chest. Horror pulled the blanket over them, making sure Dust was covered before settling back.

“Sleep if you need to. I’ll be here when you wake up,” he said, his voice low and steady, to not jar Dust out of his hazy floating. He didn't get to float very often, but the lack of magic must've been helping.

Dust nodded, already half-asleep, his breathing evening out against Horror’s sternum. Horror watched him for a moment, his thumb brushing over the curve of Dust’s jawline, before letting himself relax too.

Chapter Text

Red’s palm settled warm and heavy on the small of Dust’s back, fingers splaying possessively over the dip of his spine. Dust tensed — a brittle, coiled thing beneath the touch.

"Easy," Red murmured, the word a low vibration against Dust’s shoulder blade as he pressed a kiss there. His other hand traced idle, hypnotic circles over Dust’s flank. "Just breathe into it, sweetheart. S'just me, yeah?"

"I am breathing," Dust muttered, face half-buried in the pillow. The fabric muffled his voice, but not the familiar edge of defensiveness.

Red chuckled softly, more than familiar with his mannerisms. He just couldn't let himself enjoy a simple thing, his body always primed and ready for violence. Not that Red couldn't understand. "Yeah, like a spooked rabbit." His thumb found the knot of tension at the base of Dust’s skull, usually hidden away but shown to him, and kneaded gently. "Turn over for me. Lemme see you."

Reluctance radiated from Dust, but he shifted onto his back after a moment. His gaze flickered away from Red’s, fixing instead on the water stain on the ceiling — something safe, neutral, distant. Red, however, didn’t allow the evasion. He cradled Dust’s jaw, turning his face back gently but firmly.

"Those pretty eyelights," Red breathed, leaning down to brush his mouth over Dust’s cheek, "Always trying to hide the prettiest things, so rude."

A flush crept up Dust’s neck. "Stop that." It was barely a whisper.

"Why?" Red’s hand slid lower, fingertips tracing the jut of Dust’s hipbone before dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. Dust gasped, hips jerking involuntarily. "Because you don’t like hearing it?" Red’s fingers teased lower, tracing the crease where thigh met groin, feather-light, so close and so far from where Dust wanted them, which was on his dick, thank you very much. "Or because you don’t believe it?"

"Both," Dust choked out in an uncharacteristic moment of honesty, arching off the mattress as Red’s middle finger pressed firmly against his entrance, circling without entering. The friction was maddening, deliberate.

"Too bad, sweetheart." He pulled away, just a smidge, to shuck Dust's boxers off into some random corner of the room.

He got lube from somewhere — probably from under the pillow, the sly bastard — and drenched his fingers with it, so when he finally came back and pressed them back against Dust's ass, they dripped all over his ecto and the sheets alike.

Two of them pressed inside, once Dust got his body to get with the program and relax from the automatic tension.

"Look at you," Red murmured, his voice a low, reverent rumble against the side of his skull. He pressed a kiss there, lingering, before pulling back to watch Dust’s face. "So fucking beautiful like this. Taking me so well. Perfect." His other thumb swiped over the slick head of Dust’s cock, gathering precum and spreading it down the shaft.

Dust squeezed his eyes shut, a ragged laugh escaping him, brittle and thin. "Shut up," he panted, hips jerking helplessly against Red’s hand. "Beautiful? Fuck, Red, I’m a sweaty mess, can’t even— ah!" His protest dissolved into a choked moan as Red crooked his fingers just so, sending electric shocks up his spine.

Red didn’t take the obvious bait. "Yeah, you are. Sweaty and desperate and mine. And that makes you the most stunnin' thing I’ve ever seen." He punctuated the declaration with another deliberate stroke, his fingers still working deep, stretching, preparing.

Dust shuddered, turning his face into the pillow. "Shut up," he mumbled, the words muffled but edged with that familiar, brittle defensiveness he was too stubborn to let go of. He always made Red work for the surrender, always rebuffed him at every turn, no matter what he said. It was a good thing Red liked working for it. "Just… don’t." His hips still bucked involuntarily into Red’s touch, betraying him.

Red leaned down, nipped gently at the flushed bone of Dust’s shoulder. "Why? I'm havin' fun," he said, his breath hot. He slowed his hand on Dust’s cock, just to feel the desperate twitch, the soft whine it pulled from Dust’s throat. "Because you are beautiful. Look at this magic…" He trailed his mouth down Dust’s chest, clicking kisses to each rib as he went. "Like moonlight on a bloody river." His fingers inside Dust pressed harder, deeper.

"Moonlight on— fuck!" Dust gasped, his body bowing. "Stars, Red, that’s… that’s ridiculous. A river? Seriously?" He tried to laugh, but it caught, dissolved into a moan as Red’s thumb swiped over the head of his cock. "Stop talking nonsense."

Red shifted, withdrawing his fingers slowly, drawing a low groan from Dust. He positioned himself, the thick head of his cock nudging against Dust’s stretched, glistening entrance. He leaned over his mate, caging him with his arms, his chest pressing against Dust’s.

"It’s not nonsense, not to me, sweetheart." He pushed in, just the tip, a slow, burning stretch. Dust’s breath hitched, fingers clawing at the sheets. "I love ya so much, wish you’d see yourself like I do, sometimes." He pushed deeper, a relentless, claiming slide until he was fully sheathed, their hips flush together. Dust cried out for him, a raw, broken sound.

He stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt, just so he wouldn't blow his load immediately. To distract himself, he dropped his mouth to Dust’s neck, sucking a mark there. 

"So good," he breathed against the damp bones. "So fucking good for me, darlin'. Taking me like this, so pliant and pretty for me." He began to move, a slow, deep roll of his hips, knees digging into the mattress. "Feels good, yeah? Y'deserve to feel good."

Dust shook his head frantically, his voice tight, choked like he was two seconds away from crying. "Stop it. Please. Don’t—" His protest was cut off as Red pulled almost all the way out and then slammed back in, hard. Dust arched into him, a strangled cry escaping him in lieu of words.

"Tell me," Red commanded, voice rough with his own restraint. "Tell me you feel how much I want you. How wanted y'are."

Dust’s breath hitched. He tried to turn his face away again, but Red held him fast. "Red… please…"

"Tell me."

A whimper. "I… I do."

"Good boy." Dust’s hands scrabbled at the sheets, his back bowing off the mattress. "Feel how perfect you are?" Red groaned, bottoming out and staying like that for a moment, hips flush against Dust’s ass, let him feel the fullness. "Taking me so deep… so perfectly."

He felt the tremors starting deep within Dust, the telltale tightening. He slowed his thrusts, gentled his hand, drawing it out.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice rough from his own impending release.

Dust turned his head, his sockets wide, eyelights bright and hazy around the edges, like they could barely hold their shape. Tears tracked rivulets down his cheeks, and he looked exquisite.

Red held his gaze, trying to etch every last little detail into his memory, preserve the perfect picture on the backs of his socketlids. "C'mon, Dusty. Lemme give you this. You. Are. Worthy," he said, each word a deliberate hammer blow. "Of this." He thrusted deep, grinding against Dust's prostate. "Of me." He stroked his cock firmly, thumb pressing the sensitive slit, weeping liberally. "Of everything good."

Dust’s mouth opened in a silent scream for the single moment it took him to process that, then a raw, guttural cry ripped free as he came, hard, pulsing stripes of purple painting his stomach and Red’s hand. His body clenched violently around Red’s cock, pulling him over the edge with him. He buried his face in Dust’s neck, groaning his name like a prayer as he spilled deep inside, hips stuttering through the pulses of his release.

They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and fading magic, and he grappled for the blanket to tug over them. Dust trembled, like always, small aftershocks wracking him, so Red gathered him close, pressing kisses to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his lax mouth.

Dust didn't pull away. He burrowed closer instead, his face hidden against Red’s chest, his breathing still shaky.

Red stroked his back, tracing the knobs of his spine and pressing between them to ease the tension of his leylines. "See? I love ya, Dusty" he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction (and maybe sleepiness, he could go for a nap), "Y'believe me?"

A long moment passed. Dust’s voice, when it came, was muffled, hoarse, but he didn't try to make it into a joke this time. "…maybe."

Red smiled to himself, holding him tighter. He’d take a 'maybe.'

For now. He had all night. And he could just spend every minute of it proving it again.