Chapter Text
Dust’s room was a mostly plain. He didn’t feel like he deserved much. The only real luxury was the bed: the mattress sagged under the weight of pillows and blankets stolen from a dozen universes, and on it, Horror sprawled, limbs splayed wide like he’d just lost a prize fight.
Which, in a way, he had.
Dust hovered near the bed, picking at a scab on his knuckle. “You’re leaking,” he said, and pointed to a streak of magic that was working its way down Horror’s humerus.
Horror didn’t move. His eyelight pulsed dully in its socket, the usual maniac gleam replaced by a sheepdog’s patience. “It’s not important,” he said, but his voice was low and off-balance, every syllable a dead weight.
Dust rolled his eyes. “The last time you said that, you lost magic on the kitchen floor and Cross had to staple your femur back together.”
A loose, rattling laugh came out of Horror. “Still the best sandwich I ever had.”
“Eat my ass.” But the words were gentle, for once.
Dust found an old towel, dipped it in water from a cup, and started dabbing at the crack. Horror watched with that fixed, soft expression, like he didn’t quite know what to do with a kindness that wasn’t transactional.
“Sit up,” Dust commanded, but Horror was a mountain, inertia and all. So Dust climbed onto the mattress, straddled Horror’s right thigh, and manhandled his massive arm across his lap. The bone was hard as stone, but the magic—what was left of it—was ragged, grey and paper thin.
Dust wiped away the worst of the magic-blood. The towel was already ruined; he tossed it aside, reached for a bottle of something that burned like hell, and poured it straight into the wound.
Horror hissed, but didn’t flinch. “Didn’t know you cared.”
Dust huffed and pressed a thumb hard into the gash, “I’m not letting you gunk up my sheets. They’re hard to come by.”
“Always so selfish.” Horror’s head lolled sideways, his tongue lolling loose and comical behind rows of jagged teeth. The muzzle—the actual, honest-to-bones muzzle—sat on the nightstand, as if Dust had set it out in anticipation.
Dust saw the look. “Forget it,” he said. “You’re not getting it tonight.”
A beat. Horror’s jaw snapped shut, a sudden return of the old, hungry grin. “Didn’t think I was. You got the lock stuck last time.”
Dust scowled, but his fingers had gone gentle, tracing the line of the wound like he was counting band aid he put on. “You’re a fucking disaster,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.
“Did you miss me?” Horror asked, and for once the question sounded real.
Dust paused. The air thickened; the only sound was their breath, synchronized and ragged.
“Did you?” Horror pressed, voice softer.
Dust looked up, met his gaze. “I thought you were dead,” he said. No sarcasm, no barbs—just the truth, bone-deep and ugly. “Dream had you. Thought he’d.. just like the fucking kid—” Dust’s mouth snapped shut. “Forget it.”
Horror reached up—slow, careful, like a bear trying to cradle a baby bird—and patted the side of Dust’s head. It was the most awkward, tender thing Dust had ever experienced. “Still here,” Horror said.
Dust snorted, but the tension in his shoulders unwound a fraction. He started wrapping the arm in tape, his fingers moving quick and businesslike. But every time his hand brushed Horror’s, a pulse of electricity zinged through both of them.
Dust finished taping, but didn’t move away. Instead he ran his fingers over the thick wrist, testing the range of motion. “You got any feeling left in this thing?”
Horror grinned, flexing his huge fingers. “Can still crush a watermelon.”
“Not the only thing you could crush,” Dust said, unable to keep the smile out of his voice.
Horror’s eyelight flickered. For a second, a different kind of hunger surfaced—something old, something dangerous. But it faded as quick as it came.
Dust noticed, and cocked his head. “You okay?”
“Just tired,” Horror lied.
“Bullshit. You’re never tired.”
A pause. Horror stared at the ceiling, his one working eyelight flickering like a bad bulb. “Magic’s not coming back right,” he admitted, voice so low Dust almost missed it. “Feels… wrong.”
Dust looked down, then up, then all the way into Horror’s face. “Can’t get it up?”
Horror laughed, loud and long and echoing, but the edge of it was frayed. “Not for lack of trying,” he said. “Not with you climbing all over me.”
Dust looked at him for a long moment. Then, with surgical precision, he stabbed a finger into Horror’s side, right below the ribcage. Then bent it to caressed the inside of the rib.
Horror let out a yelp. “Fuck, what was that for?”
“Wanted to see if the rest of you was working,” Dust said, deadpan.
Horror was still laughing, but there was a thread of relief in it now—like maybe he’d been worried he’d never feel that again.
They sat like that for a minute: Dust perched on Horror’s leg, hands resting on his wrist, the two of them caught in the gravity of their own survival.
“Missed you too,” Dust finally said, so soft it might have been mistaken for an exhale.
Horror didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. The way his huge frame curled around Dust, the way his hand trembled when it touched Dust’s back, the way he let himself be tended to, all of it said enough.
Dust rolled off, landing on the mattress beside him. He reached over, grabbed the old, familiar muzzle, and set it between them.
“Maybe later,” Dust said, with a sideways glance. “If you behave.”
Horror’s grin was a sunrise. “You know I never do.”
Dust grinned right back, and for the first time in days, he let himself relax.
Maybe things wouldn’t be okay. Dust gave it a minute, letting the comfortable silence swell in the cramped, dark room. He flicked his tongue over a broken tooth, feeling the familiar edge of adrenaline that always came before they got down to business. Horror was stretched out, easy and open, but there was a tension in the way he watched Dust—waiting, hoping, maybe even begging for the next thing to happen.
“Don’t stress yourself,” Dust said, voice low and certain. “I’ll take care of ya.”
The words drew Horror’s gaze, sharp and hot. For a guy who could turn most monsters to pulp with one hand, Horror looked almost childlike in that moment—hungry for direction, desperate for touch.
Dust reached for the muzzle. The thing was a relic: battered steel mesh with supple black leather, custom-fitted to Horror’s ruined jaw. He held it up, waggled it at Horror with a smirk. “Ready for the good stuff?”
Horror opened wide, tongue lolling, and let Dust guide the muzzle home. It clicked into place like it had never left, the straps hugging tight behind his massive skull. The instant it latched, Horror’s entire demeanor changed: his posture softened, eyelight hazing out, the snarl on his face smoothing into a dopey, blissful calm.
“Good boy,” Dust said, and the effect was electric.
Next, the bag. Dust kept it stashed in the bottom drawer, triple-locked. He dumped it on the mattress, half for show, half because he liked seeing Horror’s eyes track every toy as it tumbled out: vibrators first—wand, bullet, air-suction, g-spot, finger—but also a full arsenal of dildos, anal beads, strokers, cock rings, pumps, clamps, kegel balls, and a butt plug so big Cross once swore it could double as a table leg. He tossed the heavier toys to the side; without ecto, some of them would be useless, and Dust hated wasting a perfectly good mood.
He slung the rope onto the foot of the bed. Didn’t need it yet, but Horror’s gaze followed it like a hound on a scent.
From the pile, Dust selected the flogger—a soft, suede number with just enough weight to leave a mark but not enough to break anything important. He draped it over his wrist, then fished out a spool of scarlet lace. The sight of it made Horror’s eyelight flare.
“Lie down,” Dust ordered. Horror obeyed, rolling onto his chest, arms folded under his chin, ass tilted up in a way that made Dust’s fingers itch. Even splayed out, Horror was a fortress: broad, battered, unbreakable. But he trembled, just a bit, at the thought of what came next.
Dust climbed onto Horror’s back, straddling the ridge of his spine. He grabbed a handful of vertebrae for leverage and leaned in close, voice a near-whisper in the shell of Horror’s skull. “You know the drill,” he said. “You tell me if it’s too much.”
A muffled sound came from the muzzle, halfway between a growl and a whine. It was all the consent Dust needed.
He unspooled the lace, ran it between his fingers. The holes in Horror’s sacrum were perfectly spaced, little magic portholes. He threaded the lace through the first pair, slow and deliberate, pulling it snug until the magic pinched tight around the edges.
Horror shivered, eyelight going half-lidded.
Dust kept at it, working his way up, each tug drawing a soft, helpless sound from Horror’s throat. When he reached the top, Dust tied it off in a neat, brutal bow, then reached for the flogger.
He trailed the suede tassels along the line of Horror’s spine, teasing, testing, seeing how much sensation he could drag out with the lightest touch. Horror arched into it, desperate for more.
Dust grinned, leaned over, and pressed a kiss to the nape of Horror’s back—just above the lacing, just soft enough to be mean.
“Didn’t forget a thing about you,” Dust whispered.
Horror’s eyelight went wide, then fluttered closed. The noise he made was pure gratitude.
Dust sat back, surveyed his work. The lace gleamed red against Horror’s battered off-white bone; the flogger left faint marks, soft and promising. Dust was never sentimental—at least, not the way normal monsters were. His idea of romance was a perfectly sharpened bone-blade or the way Horror’s laugh could shake the foundation of a room. But there was something close to tenderness in the way he handled Horror’s frame: reverent, almost hungry. It was the kind of worship that came from understanding how easy it was to lose something forever.
He started at the coccyx. The bone was thick and gnarled, the result of a dozen timelines’ worth of trauma, but Dust cradled it in both hands like it was a relic. He ran the tip of his thumb along the ridge, feeling every nick and groove, every place a story had been written in marrow. He leaned down, teeth brushing the base of Horror’s spine, and exhaled hot breath across the still-fresh lacing.
Horror’s whole body shuddered. The noise he made was nearly a sob.
“Easy,” Dust murmured, but his own hands were shaking now, just a little.
He plucked each binding tightening. Each pass drew the two halves of the sacrum closer together, cinching Horror up tight. By the time Dust retied off the end, the magic around the bone was flushed, Horror’s eyelight were delirious, half-lidded glow.
Dust gave the finished bow a tug. “Looks good on you,” he said, gruff, almost embarrassed.
Horror tried to say something, but the muzzle swallowed it whole. Dust patted his flank, then reached for the first toy: a finger vibrator, shaped to curve just right along the notches in Horror’s pelvis. He clicked it on, the little motor whining to life.
The effect was immediate. Horror’s hips jerked, the vibration running up his spine and down his enormous thighs. Dust mapped the path with the tip of the toy, tracing circles around the base of the coccyx, teasing the magic-packed nerves that lay just under the surface.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Dust said, and pressed harder.
Horror’s eyelight flickered, wild and unfocused. His hands—big enough to snap Dust in half—were balled into tight fists, knuckles white against the bedsheets.
Dust grinned, riding the line between mercy and cruelty. He moved the toy up, over the laced sacrum, then back down, pressing into the hollow at the tailbone. The vibrations made Horror twitch, then buck, and Dust had to use his free hand to keep him from rattling off the mattress entirely.
“Greedy,” Dust said. “Didn’t think you’d last this long.”
Horror groaned, deep and guttural. Even through the muzzle, the sound hit Dust straight in the ribs.
He turned the toy to max and caressed the inside of Horror’s pubis. The movement was slow, unhurried. Each second stretched out, every sensation magnified by the raw nerves and the depleted magic.
“Magic still giving you trouble?” Dust asked, lips ghosting over the laced spine.
Horror nodded, jaw working uselessly against the muzzle.
“Shame,” Dust said, but there was no venom in it. He put the toy aside, wiped his hands on the sheets, and leaned in close. “Guess I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.”
He reached under Horror, wrapping his fingers around the thick, ruined pelvis, and pulled him up so the whole body arched. With his other hand, Dust kneaded the magic at the base of the spine, digging his fingers in with the care of a craftsman, until he felt the tension break under his touch.
Horror bucked, once, twice, then started to tremble in earnest. His whole frame vibrated, eyelight rolling up to the ceiling. Dust held him steady, pressed his cheek bone to the small of Horror’s back, and waited for the tremor to crest.
The orgasm was silent—no spurt, no mess, just a violent, shuddering convulsion that rippled up from the base of Horror’s soul. Dust felt the magic arc out, raw and uncontrolled, a burst of red-white that left the air smelling of ozone and burnt sugar. Horror collapsed, face mashed into the mattress, breath coming in ragged, grateful gasps.
Dust exhaled, let his own body relax for the first time all night. His hands had gone numb from holding on, but he didn’t care.
He sat back on his haunches, surveying the aftermath: Horror’s body sprawled, the lacing perfect and cruel, the muzzle glistening with drool. Dust’s own arousal throbbed, insistent and ignored until now. He slid a hand down, found himself dripping. Horror like to fill up Dust, but that wasn’t happening tonight and with a little growl of his own, ground his pelvis against Horror’s femur.
It was a familiar motion. He used the ridged bone as leverage, rutting against it while his other hand gripped the curve of Horror’s hip. There was no art to it, just raw need, and when Dust came, he bit down on his own wrist to muffle the noise.
He lay there, panting, until the sweat dried on his skull.
After a while, Horror stirred, rolling onto his side. The muzzle hung askew, and he looked up at Dust with an expression so open it almost hurt.
Dust grunted. “You still alive?”
Horror nodded, eyelight slow and satisfied.
“Good,” Dust said. He reached over and fixed the muzzle, tightening it with a practiced snap. “Wouldn’t want to break my favorite toy on the first night back.”
Horror made a noise—a purr, maybe—and nuzzled Dust’s shoulder.
They stayed that way, tangled and sticky, until the moon vanished and the world spun around to morning.
The hours bled together in a tangle of sweat and haze. When Dust woke, it was to the sensation of something huge and heavy looming above him—a shadow, then a hand, then Horror’s wide, jagged skull eclipsing the room’s pale light.
Horror’s eyelight was back at full burn, seething with a hunger so raw it looked radioactive. He didn’t speak. Instead, he pressed his palm to the mattress on either side of Dust’s head and just stared, letting a thin line of drool leak from the muzzle and splatter on the pillow.
“You get off on being a creep?” Dust muttered, voice thick.
Horror nodded, slow and deliberate. He lowered himself so their skulls nearly touched, then inhaled deeply, the sound rattling out like a sigh. The muzzle dampened it, but the intent was clear: he wanted Dust, needed him, would crack him open and drink every drop.
Dust tensed, but Horror was a freight train—too strong, too practiced, too eager. He grabbed Dust by the waist and flipped him onto his stomach with a single, practiced movement. The mattress groaned under the force.
Dust’s arms were yanked up, wrists pressed flat to the headboard. He barely had time to process before the cold bite of rope cut into his bone, winding around each wrist and through the iron rails. Horror tied the knots tight, then checked them, tugging until the bedframe rattled.
“Bit much,” Dust said, but his hips arched up, betraying him.
Horror made a noise—approval, probably—and ran a finger down Dust’s spine, from the nape of his neck all the way to the base of his tailbone. The touch was surprisingly gentle, but it set every nerve in Dust’s body on fire.
With both hands free, Horror went to work. He found the hem of Dust’s shirt and tore it away in strips, baring pale, scarred bone to the air. He did the same with the pants, slicing them open with a claw, careful not to nick the magic underneath.
Dust was exposed now, hips up, legs spread. His ass was bare, and between his thighs, the summoned female sex—a slit, wet and swollen, already glistening with slick. The scent hit the air immediately: sweet, powdery, floral, like a bouquet of irises left to rot in the dark. It was humiliating how badly he needed it, how obvious it was.
Horror leaned down, muzzle pressing into the curve of Dust’s ass. He licked at the skin, slobbering all over, then nuzzled into the crease, coating it in spit. The sensation was obscene, sticky and cool, but Dust couldn’t stop himself from rocking back into the touch.
“You’re disgusting,” Dust groaned.
Horror’s response was to chomp his teeth, the muzzle making it a safe, hollow snap. He lingered there, drool soaking the cleft, then moved his attention down to the exposed cunt, nosing it, inhaling the scent, letting his eyelight flicker and dim as he took it all in.
The stare was the worst part. Horror just watched, unblinking, for what felt like forever. Dust felt himself clench around nothing, desperate for stimulation, for pain, for anything.
He squirmed, but the rope held fast.
Finally, Horror straightened. He reached for the bag on the nightstand and fished out a toy—something big, black, and ribbed like a spine. He twirled it in his fingers, then held it up for Dust to see.
Dust’s jaw clenched. “You’re not gonna—”
Horror silenced him with a finger to the lips, then set the toy aside. He reached instead for a smaller, bullet-shaped vibrator and rolled it along the inside of Dust’s thigh, then up to the opening. The touch was maddening, all tease and no relief.
Horror’s other hand massaged Dust’s hips, spreading him open, thumbs pressing into the muscle with just enough force to bruise. The juxtaposition—gentle and brutal—made Dust’s head spin.
The vibrator buzzed against Dust’s clit, sending little shocks of pleasure up his spine. He moaned, bit down on his tongue, and tried not to buck. Horror was patient, letting the toy work its magic, but never giving enough to let Dust tip over the edge.
The smell of iris blooming filled the room. Dust’s body betrayed him, slick dripping down his thighs, soaking the sheets. Every magic-muscle in his body ached, every nerve ending on fire.
When Dust finally looked up, Horror was still staring, still drooling, the hunger in his eyes now almost sympathetic.
He leaned in, muzzle pressing against Dust’s ear, and whispered, “Mine.”
Dust shivered, the word lighting up something deep and desperate inside him.
The rope held him tight. The hands, the toys, the gaze—none of it relented.
Dust was utterly, perfectly helpless.
And he wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Dust's vision went blurry at the edges, every nerve in his body pulling the world taut and sharp.
Then it stopped. The sudden absence of vibration left Dust's magic prickling, every nerve standing on end.
Horror didn’t waste time.
He rummaged through the bag, hands trembling with anticipation, until he found what he wanted: the set of anal beads. Not just any beads—these were monsters, each orb bigger than Dust’s knuckles, strung on a cord that looked more like a towline than a sex toy. Horror turned the beads over in his palm, letting the light glint off their glossy surface.
He dipped a finger into Dust’s slick, coated the first bead, and pressed it to Dust’s ass. The sensation was immediate: cold, invasive, perfect. Dust whimpered, hips straining against the Horror hand that pressed him flat to the mattress.
“One at a time,” Horror grunted, voice muffled by the muzzle.
He worked the first bead in, slow and steady. Dust gasped, the stretch sending sparks up his spine. Horror paused, let Dust adjust, then slid in the next bead, twisting it as it popped past the ring of magic muscle.
By the third, Dust was shaking, tears running down his face.
Horror’s touch gentled for a moment. He stroked the cleft of Dust’s ass, thumb circling the opening, easing the way for the next bead.
“Can’t,” Dust hissed, but his body told a different story. He wanted it, needed it.
“Can,” Horror corrected, and pushed the fourth bead in with a force that made Dust’s vision white out.
He kept going until the whole string was buried inside, only the loop at the end sticking out, black against pale purple-ish magic. Horror gave it a tug, just to see Dust squirm.
Dust moaned, the sound guttural, desperate.
Horror wasn’t done. He leaned over, hands roaming up Dust’s torso to the summoned breasts. They were small, barely more than swollen nubs, but Horror treated them like treasure, cupping, kneading, pinching the nipples until they hardened into tight peaks.
He tried to bite them, muzzle clacking uselessly against the Dust.
Frustrated, Horror drooled all over Dust’s chest, the saliva running down to his sternum. Dust tried to shy away, but the grip on his waist was iron.
“Fucking drool monster,” Dust managed, but there was no heat to it.
Horror lapped at the nipples, then finally gave up on biting and reached for the clamps. He pinched a nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolled it until Dust cried out, then fastened the clamp with a quick snap.
Dust thrashed, the pain shooting straight to his core.
Horror did the same to the other nipple, then joined the clamps with a length of chain. He tugged it once, watched Dust’s whole body buck, then tugged again for good measure.
The sight made Horror’s eyelight dim, then flare back up, pupils blown wide.
He slid his hand down Dust’s stomach, fingers tracing a path, stopping at the base where the beads were hidden. He grabbed the loop and pulled, not enough to yank them out, just enough to make Dust’s ass clench around the string.
With his other hand, Horror reached around and slipped two thick fingers into Dust’s cunt. The entrance was tight, slick, pulsing with need. He scissored his fingers, stretching Dust open, then pumped them in and out with brutal, relentless force.
Every time Dust got close to coming, Horror yanked the chain on the clamps, sending a fresh bolt of pain through his chest. It kept him teetering on the brink, unable to fall over the edge.
“Please,” Dust begged, voice raw.
Horror responded by adding a third finger. The stretch was too much, and Dust’s body shook with the effort of holding on.
“You want it?” Horror growled, barely fathomable.
“Yes,” Dust said, sobbing now. “Yes, just—fuck, please—”
Horror withdrew his hand, leaving Dust empty and trembling. He grabbed the strap-on from the bag—the biggest one, black and ridged, modeled after his own missing anatomy. He buckled it on, the straps creaking under the pressure of his bones, and lined it up with Dust’s cunt.
He pushed in, slow at first, letting Dust feel every inch. The stretch hurt, but the pain was everything. Dust arched, fingers clawing at the bedframe, mouth open in a silent scream.
Horror set a brutal pace, hips slamming into Dust with enough force to rattle the bed against the wall. Each thrust drove the beads deeper, every impact sending aftershocks through Dust’s body. The clamps pulled, the nipples blazed in pain, the ass stretched to its absolute limit.
Dust was gone. He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could only moan and sob and take everything Horror gave him.
The first orgasm ripped through him without warning, a shattering wave that left his vision spotty and his limbs numb. He collapsed, but Horror didn’t stop. He kept pounding, kept fucking, kept pushing Dust through orgasm after orgasm until his whole body was a single, quivering nerve.
At the end, Horror grabbed the loop of the beads, and with a single, savage pull, yanked them out.
The sensation detonated in Dust’s core, a blast of pain and pleasure so intense it fried every circuit. He came again, harder than any of the other times, and this time everything went dark.
He blacked out, blissed out, empty and full and utterly destroyed.
Dust woke to the feeling of strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him close but not suffocating. For a second, he didn’t know where he was—the world a blur of light and heat and the faint, lingering ache of everywhere.
Then he realized: he was on top of Horror, curled up against that ridiculous, immovable chest. The ropes were gone, every knot undone with care. Someone had wiped away the sweat and tears, even the drool. The sheets were fresh, the air sweet and still.
Horror hadn’t moved, not really. He lay there, one hand spread across Dust’s back, the other gently petting Dust’s skull. The muzzle was still on, but the hunger in his eyes was gone, replaced by a sleepy, satisfied glow.
“You’re a freak,” Dust said, voice barely a whisper.
Horror shrugged, the movement a tidal wave under Dust’s body. “You like it,” he said, words muffled.
Dust grinned, not bothering to argue.
For a while, they just lay there. The room was quiet, the only sound their breathing, soft and in sync. Dust felt… okay. Not just okay—safe. Like nothing bad could get to him while Horror was here.
He reached up, undid the latch on the muzzle, and slid it off. Horror blinked, caught off guard, but didn’t say a word as Dust leaned in and pressed a kiss to his jaw.
“Don’t go getting sentimental,” Dust warned.
Horror smiled, wide and full of teeth, and nuzzled into the touch.
They stayed like that, tangled together, the world outside their room irrelevant and distant.
Dust let his eyes drift closed again. If the universe wanted to collapse, it could wait until morning.
For now, he had everything he needed.