Work Text:
Dream doesn't come back to himself all at once.
The first thing he feels is weight. Pressure against him, cold and heavy, pinning him in place before he even realizes that he's awake at all. But there's something cold and alive and wet coiled around his wrists and ankles. There's a careful line drawn along his spine that keeps him upright, despite the way his body hangs loose, like a rag doll.
His aura flickers in response, trying to reach out and feel for him where sight wasn't available quite yet. But there's something wrong in the way it struggles, guttering and fighting to take shape—
—and recoils.
There's so much negativity in the air it nearly suffocates him. The air is thick and heavy with darkness and misery. It presses down and against him from every direction, as though he were being held under water. As though submerged somewhere too deep for light to reach. His SOUL feels dimmed, stuttering, and struggling to find a single thread of positivity to hold onto. Struggling to find a way up and out of the darkness. Away.
Instead, amusement rolls over him. Not a sound, but an impression—something conveyed through the ocean of darkness he’s drowning in. Dark delight presses into him, vast and unmistakable, blooming outward until there’s no room left to misread it. It bleeds into his senses, curls around his awareness, seeps deeper, until it feels like it’s inside him.
The presence is enormous. Overwhelming. So large it leaves him feeling submerged, swallowed whole. Architectural, almost—towering and looming, leering down at him with deliberate, focused attention.
Recognition hits him like a spark catching dry tinder.
Nightmare.
His heart jolts and lurches, and his body twitches before he can restrain himself. Relief surges before he can stop it, sharp and stupid and aching. His SOUL sings at the presence, lurching at the nearness of him. He's here. His brother is there. Nighty is right there—
—and then his mind actually catches up, memory stealing any joy right out from under him.
He recalls running. Fleeing as hard and fast as he could. Ink shouting. Blue slipping away.
Fear floods in so fast it makes him dizzy.
Dream opens his sockets and thrashes, gasping, trying to pull free of his confines. The response is immediate, his bindings only tightening in response. They're tendrils—of course they are—and he's drawn back against something else living and breathing with effortless control. He doesn't need to look to know it's Nightmare, but he does so anyway. A single eyelight gleams, bright and delighted. Another tendril draws up, half to support him, half to threaten. It coils around his throat, brushing sensitive vertebrae in a way that makes his whole body jolt.
His amusement deepens.
Nightmare laughs. Not with his mouth, but with his very presence. Dream can feel it reverberating through his aura, the feeling rolling through him and sinking straight into his very SOUL. He could feel something like satisfaction. That Nightmare's emotions were caused by his sheer panic, by the way every struggle went nowhere. The space around them seemed to respond to his upset, pressing deeper into him like a sharp object. Shoving itself impossibly closer. Deeper than before.
Dream realized very slowly that he wasn't on a flat surface. He wasn't on the floor, or even seated on a chair. Or even his brother's throne.
Instead, he was sitting on Nightmare.
Cradled and restrained all at once, held close enough to feel the steady, powerful hum around him. Nightmare’s presence coils around him possessively, invasive and unavoidable, and something traitorous in Dream’s chest aches at how familiar it feels. At how easily his body and SOUL recognizes it.
They’ve never been this close before. Not like this. Not since—
The thought doesn’t get far. Nostalgia barely has time to surface before fear crushes it flat. Raw. Instinctive. Pinning him in place like a butterfly under glass. His SOUL flutters wildly, panicked and frantic, even as it hums with recognition.
With kinship.
“Nightmare—” His voice breaks on the name. Small. Unsteady. He hates it. “Please. Please, let me go.”
The laughter fades.
“Little brother.” The words sink into him, warm and mocking. Nightmare’s voice is close—too close—and Dream feels the vibration of it through his own chest, through the body he’s pinned against. The tendrils flex in time with it, tightening just enough to steal his breath. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Nightmare shifts, barely. The movement is deliberate. His presence presses closer, heavier, as if testing how much Dream will give under the weight of it. A tendril traces the line of his spine again—slow, unhurried—lingering where Dream is most sensitive to the touch. His breath hitches despite himself. Panic flares, sharp and bright, as his body betrays him.
Nightmare feels it immediately.
His amusement deepens, curling inward—possessive. Pleased.
Dream shakes his head, panic bubbling up and spilling over. “My friends,” he blurts, the words tumbling over one another. “Ink—Blue—please, I don’t—did you hurt them?”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry,” Nightmare croons. “My boys had fun with them.”
And then, pointedly, Nightmare’s attention slides past Dream and into the throne room.
Dream follows it before he can stop himself.
There's others here. With them.
The realization hits like cold water. Shapes resolve at the edges of his vision—figures half-lost in shadow, lounging against pillars and walls. Watching. Leering. Their attention is fixed squarely on him. Nightmare’s gang. Henchmen. Followers. Whatever he calls them now.
An audience.
Dream’s breath stutters. He’s hopelessly outnumbered, trapped in a place that leeches his strength with every passing second. Seated in Nightmare’s grasp, restrained by living corruption that answers only to him, he feels the weight of it all settle in at once.
Terror blooms, bright and helpless.
Nightmare feels it immediately.
He croons, delighted, the sound vibrating through Dream’s frame through sheer proximity this time. The tendrils shift again. Its not to restrain more tightly, but to touch. A slow brush along his arms. A deliberate curl at his ankle. That cold, stinging sensation tracing his spine in a way that makes it hard to think.
Dream’s focus splinters.
He’s still worried about his friends—deeply and desperately so—but he struggled and failed to hold onto anything when Nightmare is everywhere at once. His brother is in the air he breathes. In the pressure against his back. In the steady, overwhelming thrum of his presence.
The air in the throne room tastes like iron and ash, thick enough to coat the tongue. Nightmare’s voice curls around him again, low and syrupy. “Look at them, little brother. They’ve been waiting.”
Dream doesn’t want to look. He really doesn’t. But the tendrils holding his chin lift it gently, insistently, forcing his gaze to expand into the darkness.
He looks and he finds Killer, with his perpetual grin stretched too wide, eager, leaning against a shadowed pillar like he's savoring a private joke. Dust beside him, hood pulled low, face not visible but Dream still felt a hungry gaze from him. Horror looming further back, massive and unyielding, his cracked skull tilted as if appraising a meal. And Cross, off to the side, arms crossed tight over his chest, looking anywhere but here, his face a mask of discomfort that doesn't quite hide the flush creeping up his bones.
They've fought him before. Chased him across AUs, cornered him in ruins, laughed as they drew his blood. He knows their styles, their taunts, the way they move as a pack under Nightmare's command. And now they're here, watching him like prey finally snared.
They're all watching him. Waiting.
Humiliation burns through Dream like acid.
He squirms in Nightmare’s grasp, frantic and useless, but the tendrils hold fast—cold, slick, inescapable. Every movement only reminds him how trapped he is. How exposed. The weight of eyes on him feels physical, like brands pressed into his bones, judging every tremor, every failed attempt to pull free.
Nightmare presses closer.
His presence swells, vast and suffocating, closing in until there’s no space left for Dream to breathe without feeling it. One tendril traces the curve of his skull, almost gentle. Another coils tighter around his waist, drawing him back, pulling him flush against the throne’s occupant as if to emphasize exactly where he belongs.
Dream’s breath stutters.
Cold air brushes the back of his neck as Nightmare leans in, deliberate, unhurried. His voice follows—low, intimate, meant for Dream alone.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Trembling already.”
The tendrils tighten, not enough to hurt. Enough to hold.
“I can’t wait to eat you properly, little brother,” Nightmare continues softly. “To bite down and swallow you whole.”
The words land like a blow.
Dream’s SOUL seizes, terror flooding him so fast his vision blurs at the edges. Eat him. That’s it, then. He’s dead. The multiverse will rot without its guardian, positivity bleeding out until nothing remains. Or an even worse fate could take hold—the multiverse collapsing in on itself entirely. His breath comes in shallow, panicked gasps. His body goes rigid against the tendrils. “No,” he whispers, the word breaking apart as it leaves him. “Please. Nighty, don’t—”
Nightmare laughs, the sound vibrating through Dream's bones. "Oh, don't worry. I'm going to savor you." His tone dips lower, almost affectionate, laced with that cruel edge. "Draw it out. Enjoy every drop of your suffering. Why rush when breaking you will be so much sweeter?"
And his laughter proceeds to fade into something quieter, more intimate. A hush falls over the throne room—not silence, exactly, but the kind of stillness that makes every small sound louder: the slow drip of corruption, the faint rasp of breathing, the wet slide of tendrils against bone.
Dream still feels himself trembling when Nightmare’s hand cups the side of his skull. Despite the situation, his touch is gentle, fingers cradling the back of his skull like it's something precious. Dream’s breath catches. He doesn’t understand. He expects cruelty. Mockery. Violence. Torture. Not this.
Nightmare tilts Dream’s face up.
Their mouths meet without warning.
It isn’t gentle. It isn’t the careful, stolen press of mouths they once shared beneath the tree, when the world was smaller and softer and theirs alone. Those kisses had been hesitant things—brief, trembling, tasting of apples and sunlight and the quiet thrill of doing something forbidden.
This is nothing like that.
Nightmare kisses like he wants to consume him. His mouth is cold against him. Dream’s teeth part on a startled gasp, and Nightmare takes the opening without hesitation.The taste is bitter—dark and acrid, like ink and fermentation—and yet Dream’s tongue moves instinctively toward it, chasing the flavor even as his mind recoils in terror. He doesn’t understand why. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t.
A long, serpentine tongue slides past his teeth.
It is slick. Invasive. Longer than it has any right to be. It curls against the roof of Dream’s mouth, explores the edges of his teeth, presses deep enough that Dream chokes on the sensation. He tries to pull back, but Nightmare’s hand keeps him pinned in place, fingers digging just hard enough to bruise. The kiss is hungry. Desperate. Full of a want so raw it feels like rage.
Dream’s body jerks hard against the restraints.
The response is immediate. Tendrils slide lower, slick and purposeful, adjusting to his movement like they’d been waiting for it. One coils at the base of his spine and drags upward in a slow, deliberate pass that makes his whole frame shudder despite himself. Another slips between his thighs, pressing firm against the front of his pelvis—right where his magic is already starting to gather, unwanted and humiliating.
He can’t think past the heat. It crawls under his ribs, pools low in his belly, makes his bones feel soft and unreal. The tendrils refuse to let him close his legs. Refuse to let him hide. They keep him open and vulnerable, while Nightmare’s presence presses in at his back—a heavy shadow, warm where the corruption is cold, cold where the shame burns.
Dream has never summoned ecto-flesh before. He's never had reason to. The heat pooling low in his belly is foreign, confusing, a pressure he doesn’t know how to name. It builds too fast, too sharp, and when the tendril curls tighter and strokes once—firm, insistent—Dream’s hips buck upward without his permission.
Nightmare feels the tremor that runs through him. Feels it and savors it. The tendrils pause their slow torment between his thighs, but only so the others can take over—sliding higher, colder, slipping beneath the edges of fabric with deliberate carelessness.
Dream’s breath catches when he realizes what’s happening.
The first tear is small. A single claw catches the hem of the yellow cape—the one Nightmare gave him years ago, back when storms still scared him and the world hadn’t yet split them apart. Back when Nightmare’s hands were gentle and the cape was a shield. Dream had clutched it around himself during thunder so loud it shook the Tree, buried his face in the fabric, and Nightmare had wrapped an arm around him and murmured that nothing would ever hurt him while he wore it.
Now the same hands hook the edge and tear.
The sound is sharp and violent. Cloth ripping in a long, ragged line. The cape splits down the back like paper, golden threads fraying and fluttering to the stone floor in ruined scraps. Dream’s chest seizes. Something inside him cracks open, small and quiet and irreparable. That was the last thing left. The last piece of before.
Nightmare doesn’t pause.
His hands catch on the teal tunic, soft and worn, the color of shallow sea and open sky. Claws hook into the neckline and pull. Fabric gives with a low, ugly rip, seams tearing along the shoulders, down the chest. Cool air rushes over Dream’s ribs, his sternum, the fragile golden glow of his SOUL flickering beneath bone like a trapped star.
The tunic hangs in ruins, caught uselessly at his arms. Nightmare yanks the sleeves free without ceremony, tearing through the last threads and leaving Dream bare.
A small, wounded sound slips out of him—thin, almost lost in the heavy air. His arms twitch toward his chest on instinct, a reflexive attempt to cover himself, but the tendrils are already there. They coil around his wrists and draw them back hard, forcing his spine to arch, forcing his ribs to rise and fall in shallow, panicked breaths.
The blue pants are last.
Nightmare’s tendrils slide beneath the waistband—slow this time, almost thoughtful. They hook the fabric at his hips and pull downward in a single, relentless drag. The material bunches and tears at the seams, ripping along the outer thighs in jagged lines that expose pale bone inch by inch. Dream’s legs tremble as the pants are stripped away completely, torn scraps falling to pool at his ankles like shed skin. The tendrils lift his feet one at a time, careless, and shake the ruined cloth free until there is nothing left.
Nothing.
He is bare. Completely. The throne room air is cold against his exposed magic, his newly formed length flushed gold and aching, still glistening from the earlier torment. His SOUL pulses hard behind his ribs, light spilling through the gaps in his bones, making every tremor visible.
A soft, mortified sound escapes him, muffled against Nightmare’s unrelenting mouth.
Nightmare pulls back just enough to let him breathe, mouth still brushing Dream’s as he murmurs, “There you are.” His voice is thick with satisfaction. “Look at you. Already so eager.”
Dream shakes his head, frantic, tears stinging at the corners of his sockets. “No—I didn’t—I don’t—”
But the sound dies in his throat because the tendril between his legs moves again, dragging slow and deliberate across the sensitive swell of magic that has formed despite his terror. The friction is overwhelming. Dream’s thighs tremble, trying to close, but the restraints keep them parted. Exposed.
Killer’s murmur slithers through the heavy air, too quiet for Dream to catch the words, but the effect on Cross is immediate and unmistakable. Cross’s shoulders lock tight, his arms still crossed hard over his chest like a shield that’s on the verge of giving. The flush on his bones deepens—dull violet bleeding into royal purple—and his gaze, which had been darting desperately anywhere else, snags and sticks. Fixed. Hungry. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe for a long second. The shame is there, carved into the tight line of his mouth, the way his phalanges dig into his own arms hard enough to leave marks, but it doesn’t win. Not against the way his sockets dilate, dark and wide, drinking in the sight of Dream trembling in Nightmare’s lap.
Killer notices. Of course he does.
His grin stretches wider, all sharp edges and delight, and he presses closer until his shoulder bumps Cross’s. The hand on his own shorts doesn’t stop moving—slow, deliberate rubs that make the violet glow flare brighter, obscene in the dim light. He leans in again, mouth brushing the side of Cross’s hood.
“See that?” Killer breathes, voice pitched low but carrying just enough for Dream to hear the shape of it. “Look at him squirm. Little guardian’s dripping already. Bet he’s never even touched himself before. Virgin magic, all shiny and new. You want a taste, Crossy? Or you gonna keep pretending you’re above it?”
Cross makes a small, choked sound—half protest, half something darker. His hips shift forward involuntarily, a tiny, helpless rock that he tries to hide by leaning harder against the pillar. It doesn’t work. Killer laughs under his breath, soft and mean, and lets his free hand drift over, fingertips grazing the front of Cross’s pelvis in a lazy tease.
Cross flinches again, but he doesn’t pull away.
Nightmare hums, pleased. Dream can feel the vibration through his kiss. When he finally lets him go, lets him breathe, one clawed hand slides down Dream’s sternum, pressing flat over his ribcage as if to feel the frantic flutter of his SOUL beneath.
Dream’s face burns. Hot and raw, shame crawling up his neck until he feels like it’s etched into him. He wants to fold in on himself, make himself smaller, hide, but there’s nowhere to go. No space left that isn’t already taken. Nowhere that he is permitted to move at all without Nightmare's strict allowance.
Nightmare is solid at his back. Unmoving. The tendrils are everywhere, touching, holding, hemming him in from all sides. The pressure between his legs won’t stop. It coils tighter, drags insistently, pulls him toward something he doesn’t have words for. Something he doesn’t want.
He can’t make it stop. He doesn’t know how.
His hips jerk again, helpless, chasing the touch even as tears slide down his face.
A low, pleased hum vibrates through his ribcage and into Dream’s spine. One clawed hand slides down from Dream’s sternum, slow and deliberate, until it cups the front of his pelvis where the magic has gathered into a hot, swollen ache. Nightmare’s palm presses flat—cold, unyielding—and then he curls his fingers around the newly formed length that Dream didn’t even know he could summon.
Male ecto. Thin and wiry. His cock is flushed gold, glistening at the tip already. It throbs in Nightmare’s grip, betraying him instantly.
Dream’s breath stutters into a broken gasp. He looks down in horror, sees his own body answering, hardening, leaking under Nightmare’s touch, and the humiliation crashes over him like ice water.
He’s never done this. Never felt this shape between his thighs. Never let himself imagine it. And now it’s there, exposed, obscene, held in his brother’s hand like something owned.
Nightmare’s grip tightens—not gentle, not tentative. Cruel and sure. He strokes once, slow and hard, from base to tip, dragging his palm over the sensitive head with deliberate pressure that makes Dream’s whole body seize.
A choked cry rips out of him.
“That’s right,” Nightmare murmurs against the side of his skull, voice thick with dark satisfaction. “Look how eager you are, little brother. Summoning this for me without even being asked. So desperate to be touched.”
Dream shakes his head frantically, tears spilling faster. “I—I didn’t mean—stop, please—”
But Nightmare doesn’t stop.
He strokes again—faster this time, rougher—twisting the head just enough to make Dream’s hips snap forward into the fist. The friction is overwhelming. Too much. Not enough. Dream’s thighs tremble violently, trying to close, but the tendrils keep them spread wide, knees hooked high, pelvis tilted up in perfect display for the watching eyes.
Nightmare’s thumb drags over the slit, smearing the slick that’s already beading there, and Dream keens. The noise is high and shattered, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
“Listen to him,” Nightmare says, loud enough for the room. “Crying already and I’ve barely started. My poor, sensitive little brother. So unused to pleasure. So unused to being wanted like this.”
Another hard stroke. Another twist. Nightmare’s grip is punishing—too tight, too fast, forcing Dream’s body to chase the edge whether he wants to or not. The heat builds too quickly, coiling low and tight in Dream’s belly, unfamiliar and terrifying. His SOUL flutters wildly behind his ribs, golden light flickering in time with the strokes.
Dream tries to pull away, tries to close his legs, tries anything. It doesn't matter; the tendrils hold him open, hold him still, and Nightmare’s hand never falters. Cruel. Forceful. Humiliating.
“Look at them watching,” Nightmare orders, teeth brushing the side of Dream’s skull.
And Dream can only listen to his brother’s commands. And he sees it.
Killer has gotten into Cross’s shorts at some point when Dream wasn’t looking—when the haze of sensation made everything blur. One gloved hand is buried deep inside the fabric, moving in slow, deliberate strokes that make Cross’s hips twitch forward in helpless little jerks. Killer is pressed against Cross’s side, grinning wide and wicked, chin hooked over Cross’s shoulder as he works him with practiced ease. His other arm loops around Cross’s waist, holding him steady, keeping him from pulling back even if he wanted to.
Dust stands close on Cross’s other side, hood low, mismatched eyelights glowing faintly in the shadow. He’s murmuring something low and filthy against the side of Cross’s skull—words too quiet for Dream to catch fully, but the tone is unmistakable: cold, clinical, cruel in its detachment.
Dust’s hand rests lightly on Cross’s hip, not helping Killer, just claiming space, reminding Cross he’s surrounded. Cross’s face is flushed dark violet. His sockets were wide and glassy, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He hasn’t looked away once. Not from Dream’s length in Nightmare’s grip. Not from the way gold beads and drips down Nightmare’s knuckles. Not from the way Dream’s thighs tremble with every forced thrust.
Further back, Horror has finally given in to his own need. One massive hand is braced against a pillar, the other wrapped around the thick base of his own cock; crimson and heavy, already leaking. Monsterously large. He strokes himself slowly, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to savor the sight. His breathing is deep, rumbling, the sound carrying across the stone floor.
Every time Dream makes a broken sound, Horror’s grip tightens, thumb dragging over the thick head in lazy circles.
Dream feels a fresh streak of shame burn through him—hotter than the pleasure, sharper than the humiliation.
They’re all getting off to this. To him. To his tears, his helpless bucking, the way his body betrays him over and over. Cross’s gaze is the worst: heavy with guilt and hunger and something that looks almost like grief, but he still doesn’t look away. His hips rock shallowly into Killer’s fist, matching the rhythm Nightmare sets on Dream.
Dream sobs, quiet and wrecked. His hips buck again uncontrollably and thrusting into Nightmare’s fist like he’s begging for it. He hates it. He hates himself for it.
The pressure is unbearable. Yet, the friction too good, and Nightmare knows exactly how to push him.
Nightmare’s thumb presses hard against the underside, right where the magic is most sensitive, and drags upward in one long, punishing pull. Dream’s whole body seizes, a high, shattered whine spilling from his throat. The heat coils tighter, vicious and inevitable, building so fast he can’t breathe around it.
One more hard pull, thumb pressing ruthlessly against the underside, and Dream breaks.
Magic floods out of him in thick, golden pulses—hot, shameful spurts that coat Nightmare’s hand and drip down his own thighs. His whole body locks up, spine arching hard against Nightmare’s chest, a raw, helpless cry tearing from his throat as he comes apart in front of them all.
Nightmare doesn’t stop stroking. He milks every last pulse out of him, dragging it out until Dream is shaking, oversensitive—whimpering with every pass of that cruel hand.
When he finally releases, Dream slumps forward, boneless, tears streaming, magic still leaking in weak little dribbles. Nightmare lifts his hand, coated thick in gold, and brings it to Dream’s mouth.
“Clean it,” he orders, soft and deadly. There’s no room to argue, even if Dream could speak.
The command sinks into Dream like cold lead. His teeth part on instinct—trembling, reluctant—and Nightmare’s fingers slide past them without hesitation. Two thick digits, slick and warm with his own golden magic, press against his tongue. The taste hits immediately: sweet-sharp, bright like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. It’s him. All of it is him. And now it’s coating the inside of his mouth, thick on his tongue, clinging to the roof as Nightmare pushes deeper.
Dream gags softly, reflexively, but the tendrils coiled around his wrists keep his arms pinned, keep his body arched and helpless. He can’t pull away. Can’t close his jaw. Nightmare’s other hand cups the back of his skull, steady and unyielding, holding him in place as he works his fingers in slow, deliberate strokes—dragging them along the flat of Dream’s tongue, smearing more of the release across it, forcing him to taste every drop.
“Look at you,” Nightmare murmurs, his voice low and intimate, meant for Dream alone even as the room listens. “My sweet little brother. Learning to be grateful.”
Dream’s sockets squeeze shut. Tears spill faster, hot tracks down his cheeks, but they don’t stop the flush that burns across his face, don’t stop the way his tongue moves—small, helpless licks against Nightmare’s fingers because there’s nowhere else for it to go. The flavor is overwhelming. It's far too sweet, too much of himself, and yet his body still betrays him. The magic between his thighs twitches again, spent but sensitive, leaking weakly as if the humiliation alone is enough to coax him back to hardness.
The magic between his thighs twitches again, spent but sensitive, leaking weakly as if the humiliation alone is enough to coax him back to hardness.
Dream’s mouth is still full of the taste of his own release—sweet, bright, humiliating—when Nightmare finally withdraws his fingers with a slow, deliberate drag. The slick strands of gold cling to them, stretching briefly before snapping. Nightmare hums in approval, wiping the excess across Dream’s chin like he’s painting it there, marking him.
Dream’s head lolls forward, too heavy, too wrecked. His thighs tremble from the aftershocks, magic still leaking in weak, shameful pulses down the inside of his femurs. He can’t close his legs. Can’t hide. The tendrils keep him spread, keep him displayed, and the room feels hotter now, thicker, every breath laced with the sharp scent of arousal from the others.
“My boys were very helpful tonight,” he continues, conversational, as though he isn’t currently grinding Dream against the slick coil of corruption between his thighs. “Chased you so beautifully. Kept your little friends busy. They deserve a reward, don’t you think?”
Dream’s breath hitches. Panic spikes fresh and bright. Dream shakes his head, small and frantic. Golden tears spill hot down his face. “Please… don’t…”
Nightmare’s smile is audible in his voice. It’s not kind. “Oh, but I insist.”
He shifts Dream slightly in his lap—easy, careless, like rearranging a doll—and the tendrils adjust with him, spreading Dream’s thighs impossibly wider. Exposing him completely.
Dream makes a helpless sound in response.
“Be good for them, little brother,” he murmurs against bone. “They’ve earned it.”
Killer’s grin stretches impossibly further. He’s pushing Cross forward, one gloved hand firm on the small of Cross’s back.
The ex-guardsman stumbles a single step, boots scuffing stone, and tries to dig in his heels—but Killer’s grip is unrelenting, playful in the way a predator plays with something already caught.
Dust moves at the same time, silent and sure, his hand closing around the thick of Horror’s arm and tugging the giant forward. Horror goes without resistance, massive frame shifting with a low, hungry rumble in his chest, single socket fixed on Dream like he’s already measuring how much will fit.
They close in together. Dream’s whole body locks in terror.
Nightmare only laughs, soft and dark, and presses another slow kiss to the side of Dream’s throat.
The first to reach him is Killer.
He drops to one knee, fast and eager, hands sliding up the insides of Dream’s thighs with deliberate slowness. Leather gloves drag over sensitive ecto-flesh, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows where pelvis should meet femur, spreading him even wider.
Dream’s magic is still flushed and swollen from Nightmare’s earlier cruelty, golden and slick, twitching under the open air. Killer’s breath ghosts over it, hot and deliberate, and Dream makes a small, strangled noise—half sob, half plea.
“Shhh,” Killer croons, voice syrupy with mock sympathy. “Don’t cry yet, sunshine. We’re just getting started.”
His tongue flicks out and laps once, slow and obscene, from base to tip. Dream’s hips jerk hard, a broken whine tearing from his throat. The sensation is too much, too sharp, too wet. Killer’s mouth is on him, sucking lightly at the head like he’s tasting something rare and expensive.
Cross watches from a half-step behind, frozen. His hands are clenched at his sides, phalanges white-knuckled, but his gaze is locked on the way Dream’s thighs tremble, the way the gold of his magic glistens under Killer’s tongue.
He swallows hard, the sound audible.
Killer pulls off with a wet pop, grinning up at Nightmare over Dream’s shoulder. “Boss, he tastes like fucking honey. You sure we gotta share?”
Nightmare’s tendrils tighten in answer, coiling around Dream’s wrists and pulling his arms up and back, arching his chest outward, forcing him to present more fully. “Generosity is a virtue,” he says mildly. “And there are a lot of things I’ll supply, but virtue is hardly one of them.”
The words land light, almost playful, but the tone beneath them is velvet over steel. Dream’s shoulders strain against the pull, ribs flaring with every shallow breath, his newly bared SOUL flickering wildly behind bone like a candle in the wind. The position forces his head to tip back against Nightmare’s shoulder, throat exposed, golden magic still glistening wetly between his thighs from Killer’s tongue. Every tremor is visible now—every helpless twitch of his hips and tremble of his thighs.
Killer laughs, low and delighted, the sound scraping against the stone walls. He wipes his mouth with the back of one glove, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving Dream’s flushed length.
“Fair enough, boss.” He rocks back on his heels, still kneeling, then glances sideways at Cross. “C’mon, Crossy. You’re staring. Don’t make me drag you.”
Cross flinches at his name but doesn’t move. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles bleached white, phalanges creaking under the strain. His gaze is locked—fixed on the slow rise and fall of Dream’s chest, the way his thighs quiver, the obscene shine of gold smeared across his pelvis. The flush on his face has deepened to something feverish, scarlet bleeding into the edges of his sockets. He swallows again, throat bobbing visibly, the sound loud in the quiet.
Killer’s grin sharpens. He reaches back without looking, grabs Cross by the front of his scarf, and yanks.
Cross stumbles forward, boots scraping as he catches himself on the arm of the throne. He’s too close now. Close enough that Dream feels the heat of him, the tension radiating off his frame. Cross’s fingers brush Dream’s knee by accident, a fleeting contact that still makes Dream flinch, a small, broken sound slipping free before he can stop it.
Cross freezes again. His sockets widen, dark and guilty, and for a SOULbeat he looks like he might bolt—might turn and run despite everything.
But Killer’s hand is still fisted in his scarf, holding him in place, and Nightmare’s presence is everywhere, heavy and unyielding.
Dust steps up behind Cross then. One gloved hand settles on Cross’s shoulder and pushes him forward another half-step until Cross is bracketed between Dream’s spread thighs right next to Killer. Dust leans in, hood low, voice a low murmur against the side of Cross’s skull.
“You’re shaking worse than he is,” Dust observes, flat and quiet. “Afraid you’ll like it too much? Or afraid you already do?”
Cross makes a small, choked noise—half denial, half surrender. His free hand lifts, hesitant, and hovers over Dream’s hip. He doesn’t touch. Not yet. But his fingers tremble so badly the air between them seems to vibrate.
Killer rolls his eyes, amused, and leans forward again. His tongue flicks out once more, dragging a slow, deliberate line up the underside of Dream’s length—teasing, not satisfying. As if showing Cross what to do. Dream’s hips snap forward without permission, a sharp gasp tearing from him, and the motion forces Cross’s hovering hand to make contact. Bone meets faux flesh.
Cross inhales sharply, like he’s been burned.
Killer chuckles against Dream’s ecto. “There we go. Feel that, Cross? He wants it so bad he’s trembling. Bet he’d take you so sweetly if you just stopped pretending you’re the good guy here.”
Cross’s hand tightens on Dream’s hip, reflexive, desperate, and Dream whimpers, the sound small and wrecked. The pressure is too much. The eyes on him are too many. The memories of the torn cape still burn behind his sockets, and now Cross—Cross, who once fought beside him, who once looked at him with something like hope—is touching him like this.
He feels dirty and awful and dizzy, and just wishes this would stop.
Nightmare’s voice curls through the air, soft and intimate, meant only for Dream’s acoustic meatus even though everyone hears.
“See how they want you, little brother?” His tongue traces the edge of Dream’s skull, cold and serpentine. “Even the one who tried to save you. Even him.”
Cross’s breath hitches. Killer pulls back, giving Cross further space to work instead. His hand slides higher—slow, guilty—until his fingers curl around the base of Dream’s length, right where it’s still slick from Killer’s mouth. He doesn’t stroke. Not yet. He just holds, trembling, as if testing whether Dream will flinch away.
Dream doesn’t. He can’t. The tendrils keep him open, keep him arched, keep him displayed. Pinned like a butterfly.
And when Cross finally moves. Its just one tentative, shuddering stroke, but Dream’s whole body seizes with a broken sob. He’s so sensitive that it borders on painful.
Killer grins wider.
“That’s it,” he purrs. “Give him what he needs, Crossy. We’ve got all night.”
Dust’s hand shoves Cross forward, and in the same movement pulls Killer back with blue magic to give Cross more room to situate between Dream’s knees.
“You run your mouth so much,” Dream can finally hear Dust at this distance. His voice is filled with disdain. “Come here and put that shit to work. Wait your fucking turn.” He snaps.
Killer laughs at the violent move, breathless. He doesn’t protest, “If you wanted my attention Dusty, all you had to do was ask.”
“I don’t fucking need you. Go help Horror.”
The banter continues, low and sharp-edged, motion shifting behind Cross—but all Dream can see is Cross. All he can feel is his hand, so warm in contrast to Nightmare, wrapped around the base of Dream’s length. The heat of Cross’s palm seeps into bone, steady and trembling at once, and every small shift of his fingers drags another soft, involuntary sound from Dream’s throat—small, helpless whimpers that he can’t swallow back.
He can feel Nightmare smiling against his skull when his tongue pulls back, the curve of it slow and satisfied, the cold press of teeth lingering like a promise.
“Don’t be shy, Cross,” Nightmare murmurs, voice curling through the air like smoke. “Take him, if that’s what you desire.”
Cross makes a face—want painting his expression violently, raw and unguarded. His sockets are dark, pupils blown wide, the flush on his bones so deep it looks painful. “…Are you sure…?” He croaks out, hesitant. As though Nightmare is going to punish him for doing so.
“It will crush him even more,” Nightmare answers, sickly sweet. “I’ll allow it, my little traitor.” He croons the word like endearment, letting it drip. “Go ahead. Take your reward.”
Cross looks ashamed and wanton all at once—guilt carved into the tight line of his mouth, hunger burning in the way his hand tightens reflexively. His breath shudders out, ragged, and he leans forward.
One hand stays on Dream’s hip, steadying him, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks. The other guides himself—violet, thick, already slick with precome—to press against the untouched entrance of Dream’s magic. The first contact is searing, blunt pressure that makes Dream’s whole body lock, a sharp inhale tearing from him.
Cross pauses, trembling. His voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
But he doesn’t stop.
He pushes forward—slow, inexorable, inch by careful inch.
The stretch is immediate, overwhelming. Dream’s magic yields around him, tight and unpracticed, and the burn is white-hot, sharp enough to make his vision blur. He cries out—raw, broken, the sound echoing off the stone—and his hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to escape, trying to take more, he doesn’t know anymore. Tears spill fresh down his face, hot and endless.
Cross sinks deeper, shuddering with every slow thrust, until he’s buried to the hilt. The heat of him fills Dream completely—thick, pulsing, wrong in the best and worst way. Cross’s forehead drops to Dream’s shoulder, breath coming in harsh pants against bone.
“Fuck,” Cross chokes out, voice wrecked. “You’re so tight.”
Dream can’t answer. He can only sob—quiet, shattered—his body trembling around the intrusion. Every small shift of Cross inside him sends sparks up his spine, pleasure tangled so viciously with pain that he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Nightmare’s tendrils flex, keeping him arched, keeping him open. One curls lazily around the base of Cross’s spine, urging him deeper, holding him there.
“Move,” Nightmare orders, soft and commanding. “Let him feel how much you wanted this.”
Cross hesitates for one more heartbeat—then pulls back, slow, and thrusts forward again.
Dream keens, high and helpless, hips rocking despite himself. The rhythm builds—tentative at first, then deeper, harder, Cross’s hands gripping his hips like anchors as he finds a pace. Each thrust drags a new sound from Dream—whimpers turning to moans he can’t stifle, body betraying him with every stroke.
Behind them, Killer has already moved to Horror—hand wrapped around the giant’s thick length, stroking in time with Cross’s movements, grinning all the while. Dust watches, silent, eyelights glowing brighter, one hand lazily palming himself through his shorts.
Cross’s pace falters, hips stuttering. His breath is ragged against Dream’s spine—hot, uneven, scraping over vertebrae like a confession he can’t take back. He’s close enough to taste Nightmare’s breath, to feel the slow, satisfied exhale that curls from Nightmare’s mouth against the side of Dream’s skull. He can see the pleased curve of Nightmare’s teeth in the dim light, the way his single visible socket glows with lazy, possessive delight at the display. That ruins him.
“I’m—stars, I’m so close—”
The confession cracks out of him, raw and helpless, voice frayed to threads.
“Come on, Crossy,” he drawls, low and taunting, voice dripping with glee. “Don’t you fucking dare pull out. Fill him up. Make him feel every drop. You’ve been dreaming about this for how long?” He provokes him, “don’t waste it now.”
Cross shudders, a low groan scraping out of his throat. His hips jerk forward once, hard and erratic, burying himself impossibly deeper. Dream’s back arches off Nightmare’s chest with a sharp, broken cry, the sudden thrust punching the air from his chest. His thighs tremble violently, magic clenching around Cross in helpless pulses.
Dust’s voice follows, quieter, colder, but no less vicious. He’s stepped closer now, close enough that his shadow falls across both of them. One gloved hand still rubs himself lazily through the fabric, but his pinpricks are fixed on Cross’s face.
“Stop fighting it,” Dust mutters, tone flat and unforgiving. “You’re already inside him. Already ruining him. Might as well finish the job. Breed him like the little traitor you are. He’ll take it. He’s already taking everything.”
The words hit Cross like a physical blow. His grip tightens on Dream’s hips—hard enough to bruise—and he slams forward again, once, twice, losing the careful rhythm entirely. His breath comes in harsh, desperate pants against Dream’s neck.
“I’m—fuck—I’m sorry—” Cross chokes out, the apology mangled by the edge of his own release.
Killer laughs, bright and cruel. “Sorry? Stars, you’re so funny. Just come already. Paint him from the inside. Make him leak you for days.”
The words ruin him.
Cross’s hips snap forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt. He comes with a low, guttural groan that vibrates against Dream’s collarbone, violet magic flooding in thick, hot pulses. The sensation is overwhelming—searing, claiming, filling Dream until he feels swollen with it, until every shallow breath makes him clench and leak around the intrusion.
Dream sobs through it, high and wrecked, his own untouched length twitching and spilling weak dribbles of gold across his belly as the pressure tips him over again. His body locks tight, milking Cross instinctively, drawing out every shuddering wave.
Cross stays buried deep, trembling, forehead pressed hard to Dream’s shoulder. His hands shake where they clutch Dream’s hips—guilty, possessive, desperate. Violet drips slowly from where they’re joined, trailing down Dream’s thighs in glistening streaks.
Nightmare’s laughter is soft, dark, a rumble that travels through Dream’s bones. His aura sings with sick delight, but nothing Dream can sustain from.
Cross finally pulls out—slow, reluctant—the wet slide of it loud and filthy in the heavy silence. More violet spills free, pooling beneath Dream on Nightmare’s lap, mixing with the gold still smeared across his thighs. Dream shivers violently, empty and aching, body twitching with aftershocks, fresh tears sliding down his face in silent streams.
Killer releases Horror with a final, teasing squeeze, wiping his hand on his shorts as he steps closer. His grin is feral, eyes gleaming.
“My turn?” he asks, voice light but edged with hunger.
Nightmare tilts Dream’s chin up with one tendril, forcing his tear-streaked face into view for the others. The golden glow in Dream’s sockets is dazed, fractured, beautiful. A delightful buffet of misery in his grasp.
It’s what he’s been waiting for so long. It’s just as wonderful as he’d been wanting.
Nightmare’s tendril lingers under Dream’s chin, slow and possessive, thumbing the soft hollow there as though savoring the way Dream’s throat works around another quiet sob. The others stare. Hungry. Patient. The throne room is thick with the scent of magic and salt and shame.
“Soon,” Nightmare says. “But first… let him catch his breath. He’s going to need it.”