Work Text:
One evening.
One evening of peace and quiet is all Cross wants. But fairly, that’s pretty much impossible with Killer in the castle.
“Damn,” the infuriating skeleton all but whistles. Stars, he doesn’t want a running commentary to go with his snack, “How many is that today? Your bones’ll be too big to fit that ridiculous get-up.”
Cross pokes the straw into his little box of chocolate milk and makes a point of sucking on it in the loudest possible way, hoping Killer will take it as the cue he’s not up to the usual bullshit that it is. Alas.
“Speakin’ of, why d’ya keep wearin’ the whole damn thing in here? Castle too chilling for your tastes?” Killer continues. The milk box makes an awful, ear-canal-grating sound as he sucks out the last few drops from the bottom. So much for that plan.
“What the hell’s your obsession with my clothes anyway?” he bites out, only half-seriously. It’s hard not to play along with Killer’s ramblings, but he just never seems to grow bored of it, much to everyone’s (but especially Cross’) chagrin.
“Tryin’ to figure out how y’even take it off. I mean, like, it’s gotta take at least half an hour,” Killer laughs. He’s leaning on the edge of the table like an asshole, folded arms and all. Cross wants the table to give way, because he knows Killer’s heading somewhere with that. “If you get in the mood, your cock’s gonna dissipate before y’even get to it.”
Of course.
Cross bristles, crumpling the box in his hand. “Why do you have to be such a hot asshole all the damn time?!”
It takes a moment, but Cross’ brain catches up to what he’d just said. His sockets go wide. And so do Killer’s.
Cross expects him to throw another jab back, or laugh him out, or— or something! But he just stays still and quiet like a statue, genuinely too shell-shocked to offer a rebuttal. A faint dusting of red blooms on his face. It’s mostly covered by the ever-present tar, but Cross notices it anyway.
Cross would find it hilarious, if only he wasn’t mortified at himself. He hadn’t been wrong, per se, but to just blurt it out like that? He begs the universe to smite him down where he stands.
But instead of the universe heeding his (humble) request, Dust waltzes into the kitchen and starts digging through the fridge. “Just fuck already,” he groans, rolling his eyelights at the both of them and turning right back from where he’d come from, this time with cold, leftover pizza in hand. The rest of his mumblings are quiet and not aimed at anyone (or at least, not anyone alive), but still all-too-audible, “Seriously, you’d think they’d figure it out by now. Fucking idiots.”
And then he’s gone, and Cross and Killer go from staring at the doorway back to staring at each other. Cross is still mortified. Maybe he’s more mortified now. Killer, however, breaks out into a wide, lopsided smirk. He seems to catch onto the fact that Cross hadn’t meant to blurt that out.
Suddenly back in his element, he pushes himself off of the table and steps up to Cross, who’s still frozen.
He gets a front row seat to the shit-eating, infuriating, sexy smirk bisecting his face, and Killer gets an eyesocketful of Cross’ burning blush. It’s almost too easy for him to push Cross back and against the wall, wrenching the empty, crumpled box out of his fingers and tossing it into the direction of the trashcan.
Then he presses a hand to Cross’ sternum to hold him right there. “Only when you,” he purrs, his voice lowered and husky, “stop bein’ a hot mess.”
Cross definitely isn’t one of those damsels in those romance novels that Nightmare definitely doesn’t read, but there’s no other way to describe it than the cliche: he gasps, and then he melts under the touch on his chest, SOUL pounding a mile an hour.
“Fuck,” Killer’s down for this. He’s actually down for this. Cross hadn’t thought his little crush — again, the damsels in not-Nightmare’s novels come to mind — would ever be reciprocated.
“Oh, we’re gonna,” Killer chuffs with a laugh that’s just shy of being a cackle. Cross shivers.
He doesn’t think it’s a game anymore. He finds himself in the possession of a summoned tongue, and very much tongue-tied.
Suggestively, Killer leans in, mere inches separating their faces. Cross can feel his breath on his skull, hot and bothered, can see the light reflecting off of the tar-like hate rolling down Killer’s cheeks. He’s the one to close the rest of the distance, clicking their teeth together rather loudly.
Killer chuckles against him, curling a hand around the back of his skull and angling himself a little. He guides Cross into something that’s less teeth, and much more tongue, their magic sparking as they tangle the fake muscles. There’s no need to breathe for either of them, but Cross’ ribcage feels tight and he pulls away after a while of the addictive taste to gulp down air like he’s suffocating.
“Yeah,” he gasps out, ragged. His skull is flushed all the way down to his neck, the purple glow disappearing under the collar of his shirt.
Impossibly, Killer’s grin gets even wider, his sockets narrowing impishly. “Your wish is my command,” he states, and then he drags Cross through a shortcut and straight into his room. The bed isn’t made, but it’s more than big enough for the two of them.
Killer steers him towards it and Cross lets him, going along more than willingly. Once they’re both on the… tar-stained (ew) bed, Killer takes hold of his hoodie and pulls him into another kiss, no less heated than the last one.
“But seriously,” he says against Cross’ teeth, “How the hell d’you take this shit off?”
Cross huffs and pushes him away. “Stars, you’re insufferable! I’ll show you!”
Killer makes a show of leaning back against the pillows. His sockets trained on Cross, and is that a flash of white he spies in one of them? “I’ll never say no to a striptease.”
Cross groans, though his blush only worsens. “That’s— not what I meant and you know it!”
“Does that mean no striptease?”
Cross swears under his breath and reaches for the clasp on his back, holding the straps. He’s not sure how well he’ll perform, given that he’d never performed a striptease before, but if Killer wants one… fuck it, right?
He pulls the straps off of his shoulders and drops them unceremoniously, though he catches himself halfway and attempts to make it look seductive. Flicking his wrist counts, right? Right.
He shucks his hoodie off behind his back, deliberately making the movement as slow as possible. Killer’s full attention is on him and he doesn’t even need eyelights to tell he’s following the line of his turtleneck, down to where it rides up and exposes one or two of his spinal vertebrae.
Deciding to give him something to really look at, Cross focuses his magic and summons his body. Muscles and curves fill out his clothes, noticeable especially as his shirt hugs over the toned stomach instead of limply hanging around the empty space all of a sudden. He can see the effect it has on Killer; his SOUL flickers for a moment, and then its circular shape morphs to resemble the usual SOUL shape, if only vaguely. Cross had never seen it do that, so hopefully it’s a good sign.
He pulls at the hem of his turtleneck next, revealing inch after inch of violet ecto-flesh. Killer’s gaze is hungry, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. There’s a crimson glow visible through his shorts, just as there is a purple one underneath Cross’. He bites back his voice as he pulls the shirt over his head.
And that’s when Killer all but pounces on him, hands everywhere on the exposed flesh and bone. Cross gasps out a sound, half-startled and half-pleased, as Killer traces along the swell of ecto-flesh filling out one of his intercostal places.
“What happened to giving you a striptease?” he laughs, though he doesn’t pull away or make any move to stop Killer’s wandering hands. He shivers as they slip down his sides and hook under the waistband of his shorts.
“Next time,” Killer rasps out, voice thick with need, “Couldn’t wait t’get my hands on ya.”
Cross’ breath hitches, but whether it’s from the fact that Killer actually got too impatient, the premise of another time (and isn’t that a wild thought?), or Killer’s teeth nibbling on the side of his neck, digging in enough to draw marrow, is anyone’s guess. Maybe it’s a combination of all three of those things. He shifts when Killer pulls the shorts down to his knees and shuffles out of them, kicking his shoes and socks off as he goes.
“God damn,” Killer exhales, soft and sounding like he’s looking at a piece of art, “You've been holdin’ out on me, Crossy.”
Cross huffs out a laugh. He’s not sure how exactly he’d been holding out, but Killer’s very obviously into his cunt, immediately dipping a hand between his legs and ghosting over the folds. His fingers come away covered in slick, which he unabashedly licks off.
“God damn,” he echoes himself, and pushes Cross backwards until he’s flat on the bed on his back. “Man, I’d love y’eat ya out, but if I don’t get my cock in ya, I’m just gonna cum in my pants.”
It’s said as a joke, obviously, but too heavy (and desperate) not to hold a note of truth. Killer reaches down and shoves his shorts down enough to expose himself, growling when the fabric gets stuck. After half a second, there’s the noise of it tearing, and Killer’s cock is at Cross’ cunt, head rubbing over his folds.
Cross doesn’t feel bad in the slightest for enjoying Killer’s impatience and, dare he say, neediness, as much as he does. It’s a stroke to his ego as it is a stroke to his core, his thighs flexing where Killer had pulled them around his hips. The teasing glide of his cock against him is just that, teasing, and Cross craves real friction.
He tries to convey that to Killer with a buck of his hips and, when that doesn’t seem to work, with his words, “C’mon, I’m not gonna beg. Stop teasing.”
For a split second, Killer looks like he’s going to keep teasing, just because Cross had said that, but he’d already reached past the threshold of his patience ages ago. He pushes into Cross in one smooth thrust, filling him up to the brim. Cross moans with no shame, finally getting what he’d wanted.
“Shit—” Killer bites out, hips twitching even as he’s buried in Cross’ tight heat to the hilt, “Fuck, you’re so wet—!”
“That’s… what happens when you’re turned on, dumbass,” Cross mumbles, but any and all snark in the words is drowned out by the following moans.
Killer nuzzles his neck, almost tenderly, and then bites down on the bones, creating another indent of his teeth next to the one already there. It almost feels like he’s marking Cross up. Mine, mine, his intent screams. “So what you’re sayin’ is I turn ya on.”
“That’s what you get out of that?” Cross asks, incredulous. He gasps as Killer starts to move, dragging over his walls in the best of ways. He decides the perfect payback is being honest: “Yeah, you do.”
He… didn’t think it through too well.
His words seem to catch Killer off guard and just as Cross is getting into it, he pauses. Cross whines, low and long, and digs his claws into Killer’s back.
“Fuck,” Killer whispers against his neck, near inaudible, and then starts moving. There’s no gradual speed up; one second Killer is till and the next one he’s pounding into Cross hard and fast, hips slapping against Cross’ loud enough to drown out the wet squelches as slick drips down between them, looking more and more magenta after a while.
Killer would boast about his stamina, making jokes that no one could keep up with him, but he’s already close. Something about Cross’ moans, the way he’d admitted his affection, the way he’s digging into Killer’s spine with his fingers, sure to leave scratches all over, the way his legs tremble, falling even further apart, the way he looks, blissful and debauched. It’s a lot, and Killer doesn’t want it to end just yet.
But he only has so much restraint, and so he dips a hand between them, keeping it steady over Cross’ tensing abdomen, and rubs over his clit with his thumb.
Cross keens, arching into his sharply, torso twisting this way and that way from the pleasure.
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Killer growls out. The tip of his cock hits the back of Cross’ magic with each violent thrust and the magic spasms around him in turn, like a velvety vice. “Y’gonna cum for me?”
“Fuck! Kill—Killer,” Cross moans, and if hearing his name in that breathless voice isn’t the hottest thing, Killer doesn’t know what is. He presses down on Cross’ clit, grinding his phalanx into it, and Cross gives him an encore, sockets screwed shut as he comes, tightening up even more than Killer thought possible.
He swears, snapping his hips into the welcoming heat once, twice more before he’s coming as well, filling Cross’ stomach up with ropes of red magic.
They stay like that for a while, panting as they climb down from their highs. Cum leaks out of Cross’ hole, the sight obscene and the only thing Killer can look at for a long time. Or at least it feels like a long time.
Cross has relaxed against the pillows, tired and sated. There’s traces of marrow stuck to his claws, Killer looks forward to taking a shower in the morning and seeing all the scratches he’d left behind.
“So, I guess I finally know how y’take the clothes off,” he says, when he finds himself able to.
Cross scoffs, but he doesn’t even bother opening his sockets, instead opting to kick Killer’s side with his foot. Or gently tapping it, as it turns out.
“Was it worth it, asshole?” he asks, without snark to the intent.
Killer can only grin. “Oh yeah. Maybe I can learn how y’put ‘em on, too.”
“You throwing me out?” Cross asks, cracking an eyesocket open to give Killer the most incredulous look and earning himself a chuckle.
“Nah, I meant more like in the mornin’.”
Cross settles back down and doesn’t shy away when Killer slips behind him and wraps his arms around him. “Maybe,” he promises.
The smirk Killer hides into his neck is obvious.