Dream Top Anthology

dream x cross inglish

How do I look?"
Cross lifts his gauze to Dream and feels like all the air has been punched out of him. It takes him a fumbling moment to regather his scattered thoughts of him enough to blurt out, Amnazing."
Dream beams, smoothing down the ornate overrobe that drapes regally around his slender form.
Oasistale's style of clothing suits him well. The richly colored fabrics are as bright and saturated as a sunset in glorious hues of red and yellow, with a few elegant undertones of indigo and blue like the creeping edges of twilight. The beaded belt at his waist tinkles pleasantly as he moves, drawing Cross's rapt attention to the graceful sway of his hips. He feels dumbstruck as Dream approaches him, looking ethereal and beautiful as a desert mirage.
Though the fantastical, untouchable image he presents is mitigated by the mischievous curl of his smile on her face and the delighted puff of laughter that spills out of him as he takes on Cross's expression on her face. "You really like it."
It's a statement, not a question, and Cross nods with frantic eagerness. He can't help the way his gauze from him roams over the unfamiliar garments, already planning on how he'll unravel Dream from his clothing later. Maybe the overrobe can stay on while he worshipfully strips the rest of the Guardian bare beneath its billowing folds, leaving only the embellishment of the rings and bracelets on his hands so Cross can enjoy the way they chime melodiously against the bone.
A gentle touch to his checkbone brings Cross's attention back to the present. His spine instinctively straightens as he looks up at Dream's prompting. "Thank you for waiting. Are you ready to get dressed?
Cross nods agreeably but can feel the pulse of his soul from him picking up. He's already stripped and ready, like an unsheathed blade awaiting Dream's inspection. Dream had insisted on choosing his attire from him, and Cross simultaneously touched by the gesture and nervous at the prospect. He suspects Dream has something very different in mind from Cross's usual preference for monochrome colors and bulky layers. The possibility of something gauzy and sparse like the flimsy outfits of the palace's inhabitants has dominated his imagination. The thought of being almost as bare as he is now, his role as Dream's lover and servant made abundantly clear to the entire court, is mortifying but not wholly unappealing.
He doesn't let his anticipation show in his posture, forcing himself to wait patiently as Dream moves to the enormous dresser and opens the drawer. At first Cross can't see what Dream has chosen; he can onl hear the subtle slither of it being gathered up, the rasp unidentifiable but familiar enough to send a jolt down Cross's spine. It takes all his self-control from him not to squirm in place, his pelvis growing hot in an uncontrollable pavlovian response, though it's only when Dream turns back to him that he realises the trigger.
His smile is sly and knowing as he winds the coil of rope around his hands, letting the fibers creak as he gives them a testing tug. "Stand up."
Cross instantly obeys the snap of command that's sO unlike Dream's usual manner, but has been honed a smooth purr that shows itself only in their private moments. Without needing further direction, Cross dutifully extends his arms from his sides, giving Dream unfettered access to his body. "You're always so good for me," Dream murmurs, radiating an appreciation that Cross can take pride in
He holds steady as Dream's arms circle around his neck, fastening the first loop of the rope around his nape. The pressure of it remaining there is like the reassuring weight of Dream's hand from him, and what little apprehension Cross still held melts away. He feels his body relax, going pliant even as Dream skillfully weaves the rope in a restrictive harness around Cross's ribs.

The rope is a soft braid of fine threads that might be spider's silk, smooth to the touch, but in Dream's hands the knots and loops are tightened to a pinching pressure. It constricts around her spine, forcing his posture straighter than it already is and ensuring that each breath has to be carefully measured and shallow to save the cord from chafing between her intercostal spaces. It's not painful, not yet, but too much movement will rub him raw over the course of the all-night celebration. He flexes carefully, testing the range of m fmovement for drawing one of his knives from her only for Dream to give him a reprimanding smack against his bound sternum from her. "You're not to be on duty tonight," Dream says firmly. "I want you to relax. I'll take care of everything"
Cross squirms in place, conflicted. Though there's little risk of danger tonight-so much positive intent and merriment is better than a barrier at keeping Nightmare away Cross dislikes the thought of being barred from his duties. He likes to serve, likes the assurance of knowing he's taking care of Dream, whether to watch his back from her or bringing him drinks that have been properly checked for tampering.
Dream's sockets narrow, and with one swift movement he yanks on the harness so Cross is forced to bend down to his eye-level him. "Cross." "Yes!" Cross blurts in response, immediate and contrite. "I'm...not on duty. I promise."
Like e every Sans, his promises of his are n't given lightly, and Dream's stern gauze softens as he resettles the rope he tugged out of place and takes up the loose ends to continue extending the harness.
I don't want you thinking of threats or protocol," Dream tells him with gentleness, but there's nothing soft in the way he ties the next knot in a tight band of tension around Cross's pubic symphysis. I only want you to think of me ."
The rope trembles like a living creature, meek and obedient in Dream's grip even as it quivers with the powerful hum of his intent. The coils seem to burn against C Cross's bones with an insistent chant; mine, mine, mine. The rare selfish possessiveness from Dream makes Cross feel warm and tender. "of course," he assures fervently. "Only you."
His reward from him is Dream's radiant smile: equal parts comforting and fierce, like midday unlight. "Good," Dream purrs, rubbing his fingers across the knot bound over Cross's pubic mound. It's an anchor point for the harness across his ribs of him, the ropes drawn taut so that any movement at the waist will draw pressure across his pubic symphysis of him. His hand lingers there thoughtfully for a moment before he unexpectedly announces, "I want you to give me your cock."
It's always startling to hear any sort of crudeness out of Dream's mouth from him. Cross makes a flustered sound, stuttering, "N-now? But the celebration" "We won't be late," Dream assures him.
He sounds completely confident even as he knees, watching with embarrassingly keen interest as Cross's magie swirls and shapes itself according to his Dream's command. By habit, Cross resists the tempting undercurrent of want he's already feeling and summons his length of it in its softened state. Dream's stated often and emphatically that he enjoys the act of bringing Cross to hardness, the eager and honest way his magic of it swells with arousal. Cross's breath hisses his teeth when Dream's elegant fingers curl around his shaft of him, but instead of moving to stroke him, the Guardian expertly guides Cross's magic into a
Small, metal-wrought cage that slides up to lock against his pelvis. "Oh fuck" Cross breathes, the curse slipping out thoughtlessly as his sockets go wide. he's familiar