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On bad days, Killer can still taste blood in his mouth, and sometimes he's sure there's a band of scar tissue woven into the false flesh of his tongue. On worse days, he can smell the metal of the witch's bridle under his nose, the contraption's scent sharp and the pain of it digging into his skull even sharper.
The witch's bridle was a barbaric, muzzle-like device. It was made of rusty metal, shaped like a crude birdcage with a screw at the back to tighten it around one's head. The rusted edges would scrape against Killer's skull even if he wasn't struggling against the handlers. The bit was sharp on all sides, but the bottom, with its spike that would press into his summoned tongue, was the sharpest. That spike was the only bit they took care of — he could taste the grit of the sandpaper they used to buff it as it pierced his tongue.
It left his mouth unavailable to them, but it didn't really matter — sometimes he'd just bite them instead. He'd gotten plenty of time in solitary for that type of behavior, but the one time he'd nearly ripped off a nobleman's cock with his teeth had been worth it.
(And even when his teeth were the danger, sometimes they'd just cut out his tongue instead. All those sick fucks wanted was a hole anyway, and whether it was his eye socket or a tongueless mouth full of teeth, they would take what they wanted.)
He thinks it was actually called the branks, but they always called it the witch's bridle when they used it on any of them. The Seafoam Grove had always been associated with magic, but Killer thinks they'd all been surprised by how much Tempo demonized it. Not everyone believed in spirits, and they had the odd coven of witches in the hinterlands, but he hadn't realized just how hateful and afraid people could be of such little things.
It had pained Dust the most. The spirits were all he had left of his grandmother, and prior to her death, his brother had been killed by a witch. To be reminded of it when they decided to use the witch's bridle on him, rather than the usual muzzle he was often made to wear, was a cruelty as sharp as the point that would dig into his tongue.
A witch's bridle for a witch, Killer can still hear Tempo sneer as two handlers struggled to wrestle the thing around Dust's skull. It would have been comical, sometimes, how much trouble Dust could give the handlers even with his hands shackled high above him. Comical if it hadn't been real, if it hadn't been happening to them.
They don't talk about it, but Killer wonders if Dust ever has the same heavy feeling in his tongue. Like the damn thing was still in his mouth, piercing his tongue, leaving a thick scar in its wake.
He's never seen the witch's bridle used on Horror or Dream, and unless they aren't telling him something, they'd never been subjected to it out of his sight, either. There were probably a few reasons for that, but chief among them being that neither of them were prone to kicking and screaming and biting to get away. Dream fawned or froze, and Horror, when he couldn't fight, froze too.
There were plenty of worse things that had been done to the two of them, so it was hardly a victory, barely even a small one. Killer thinks that perhaps it would have been preferable to have them subjected only to the witch's bridle, rather than the three years of rape and abuse they'd endured instead.
But it was the past, so it didn't matter now.
(How he wished it actually worked that way.)
Snug next to Nightmare, he clucks his tongue a few times, just to make sure it still moves. It feels heavy in his mouth, almost swollen, but he knows nothing is wrong with it. He'd prodded at it earlier, looked at the reflection of his mouth on the glass of the window, summoned and unsummoned it.
It was just another reminder of what he'd been through. Another traumatic memory.
He sticks his tongue out as far as it will go, trying to feel for scar tissue he knows isn't there, and then startles at the feeling of cold, tasteless slime on his tongue. It's one of Nightmare tentacles, and when he turns to look, his mate levels a thoroughly unimpressed look at him.
"What are you doing, Killer?" he asks, although there's an underlying note of concern in his voice.
"...Making sure my tongue still works," Killer says after a moment. Nightmare pauses, but doesn't say anything further.
(Artwork by Coffee)
There had been a few awful times that they had put the witch's bridle on Nightmare, just to see how it mutilated his tongue. Tempo's favorite use for it had been to leave it on Nightmare for hours, letting patrons jerk his skull this way and that, and then taking it off to let the clientele ooh and ahh over the messy hole left in the beautiful cerulean flesh of his false tongue.
Most of the time, they would fuck his mouth after, or worse, make him suck them off or eat them out. At least if they fucked his mouth, he could sit back and dissociate. It was painful to watch, for Killer, but he knew from experience that dissociating made it all easier to deal with, no matter how much it tore at his soul to watch Nightmare's eyes glaze over.
(It wasn't often he had time to just watch anyway — if he did, he'd make it everyone's problem, so he was always being used and raped and tortured.)
The worst was when they'd bring Nightmare over to wherever Killer was — tied to a chair, shackled to a wall. They knew they could control him with Nightmare, so once they brought him out, they knew Killer would be at least semi-cooperative. Nightmare would be shoved between his legs, and made to eat him out, nevermind the ragged hole in tongue.
It was hellish, to have that sort of pleasure forced on him. The chill of Nightmare's mana dripping out of his mouth as he licked at Killer's cunt, the exhausted look in his lover's eye as they were jeered at. It was almost worse that no one grabbed or fondled them, content to force them to pleasure each other and watch Nightmare's mana pool on the floor with Killer's drug-induced slick.
He would have rather been tortured than to have their relationship used against them like that.
With a sigh, Killer leans more heavily into Nightmare, his arms folding in front of him in a facsimile of a hug, a clandestine method of self-soothing. Without looking at him, Nightmare wraps a tendril around him, cold and smooth on his bones, always able to tell what Killer needed without them having to communicate at all.
"...I think about the bridle a lot," Killer says eventually.
"You got the brunt of that one, I think," Nightmare murmurs. His eye slides to Killer's face, glancing imperceptibly about him to pick up any covert body language that his mate instinctively hid.
"Watching them use it on you was worse." He doesn't add that the aftermath of it being used on Nightmare was, quite possibly, the worst part. Nightmare likely knows already, and even if he doesn't, he probably agrees implicitly.
"It's not a competition," Nightmare says eventually. "We all suffered." A stray tendril drapes across Killer's lap, weaves around his bare ankle, like a shackle to ensure he stays beside his mate. An unneeded shackle — he would follow Nightmare to hell, had followed him to hell.
It was a cruel joke, really, that Tempo's parlor was located in the desert of Hell's Pass. He could probably laugh about it now, perhaps a bit bitterly, because it fit so damn well. Three years of hell, in a place called Hell's Pass.
The stars had always had it out for him, from the moment his mother abandoned him. He wasn't meant for good things like his mates, like the forgiveness of the prince who had no reason to excuse his cruel behavior, like the second chance he'd been granted when he didn't deserve to have it.
He doesn't respond to Nightmare, instead idly tracing meaningless shapes in the shining, oily surface of the tentacle laid across his lap. He loves how healthy Nightmare's form has become, the corruption coating him now viscous and glossy instead of dull and dripping, his eyelight bright and piercing instead of dull and dim.
The stronger Nightmare became, the more he reminded Killer of the strong, stern prince he had fallen in love with during their youth. He was recovering, taking back his power.
Killer wants to do that, too, but he doesn't even know where to start. How does he claw his life back together when he couldn't even haul himself out of rock bottom without Cross's help?
At least he doesn't have to do it alone.
The memory of the witch's bridle sits heavy in his mind for days. He wishes he could take it and rend it into rusty shards of metal and drive them into Tempo. He wants to destroy the cage of its frame and drive the spike of its bit into the forehead of Nightmare and Dream's father. He wants to carve through Neil's skull with the spike that had mangled Nightmare's tongue until the magical matrix within his cranium has fallen to bits, and he wants to watch the mana drip from his foramen magnum down his vertebrae.
He wants to stop smelling the rusty, metallic scent of the bridle beneath his nose, stop tasting the sickly sweetness of his own mana pooling in his mouth, stop feeling the mixture of drool and mana pool onto his bare breasts.
He wants his control back, and he doesn't know how to get it. It leaves him restless and agitated, too on edge with the memory of being controlled to settle down.
"Are you alright, Killer?" Cross asks, patiently enduring the movement of Killer shifting beside him for the umpteenth time. He's too on edge to do much else but cling to the nearest body, and today Cross is his unlucky anchor.
Killer says nothing for a moment, clinging to Cross's upper arm perhaps more fiercely than needed. Finally, knowing he can trust the prince, the man who kept him from Falling Down and fully dusting, he admits, "I feel really powerless lately."
"That's to be expected," Cross notes, shifting so Killer can lean more heavily against his chest. "You were a prisoner for years. It's hard to take power back after something like that."
"I hate feeling weak."
"I know," Cross responds, turning his head to press a kiss to the top of Killer's skull. "You're much stronger than you think, though."
"I don't feel strong," Killer mutters petulantly. "Not when memories are enough to hold me back."
Cross hums in acknowledgement — or maybe agreement; Killer doesn't know. They’ve spoken about nightmares and flashbacks before, a horrible combination experienced by war princes and prisoners alike. Eventually, Cross says, "Is there anything we could do to help you take back the agency you lost?"
Killer thinks on that for a bit. He's already allowed to wear less skimpy clothing, or even trousers, and he isn't required to have his false flesh summoned at all times. Even when he did summon it, he didn't have to ensure his magic formed breasts, or even feminine genitalia. He can kiss his lovers in the comfort of their quarters, and their prince doesn't bat an eye.
"I'm not sure," Killer admits finally.
"Well, if you think of anything, be sure to let me know," Cross says. Against his chest, Killer nods, already trying to mull over ideas.
Murder is, unfortunately, out of the question for now. One day, Cross and Epic would rain hell on those who had harmed Killer and his mates, and Killer would follow them into the bloodshed with his own weapon. It's a daydream for another time.
He just wants to be in control.
…It occurs to him that the one thing he hasn't fully taken control of since before Neil's betrayal is sex.
He'd plied his lovers with sweet kisses and gentle touches, of course, made love to them softly, to make up for the three years of hardship he couldn't save them from. He's lain with Cross a few times, often tender from the odd connection they'd formed when Cross had saved his life, sometimes playful. But it's been years since he was fully in charge, in control of another.
He used to be good at that sort of thing, and he had been an expert at weaving. Teasing his partners by weaving soft cords through their bones was a specialty of his, but it's now something he hasn't done in years. He's not sure he could do it well anymore.
…He could start small. Traditionally, a weaving was done over a partner's body, but there were smaller patterns that could be worked into accessories.
"Cross?"
The prince looks up from his book, a little startled at the sudden interruption since Killer had lapsed into silence. "Yes?"
Killer swallows, a bit nervous. "Could you get me a metal ring? About this big?" He uses his hands to show a size that looks like it would fit in a mouth.
"...You're not going to put it, er… on your body, are you?" Cross asks, somewhat uncomfortable.
"If I wanted a cock ring, I'd ask for something more flexible than metal," Killer snorts, rolling his eyes. His eyelights aren't summoned at the moment — it's easier to leave them dim after everything — so he has to exaggerate it a bit to make sure Cross gets his point.
"Just checking," Cross murmurs with a chuckle of his own, leaning close to nuzzle his skull against Killer's. "I'll find one for you."
It's Epic who brings him the ring he requested. He's near silent as he steps onto Cross's balcony, though Killer appreciates that he let the door make a sound as he opened it. He holds the little metal ring up wordlessly, dangling it between thumb and forefinger, when Killer meets his gaze.
"I hope you're not planning to use this as a cock ring," he deadpans.
"My!" Killer pretends to be offended. "You and that prince of ours have quite the dirty minds!"
Epic chuckles and hands over the ring, and Killer promptly shoves three fingers through the center. It's a thin, metal thing, and the opening just barely fits his knuckles. The spymaster watches quizzically without saying anything as Killer grins and removes his fingers, whisking the ring away into the liminal space of his inventory.
"I'm going to do a weaving on it," Killer explains. "It needs to be able to fit in a mouth."
"A weaving?" Epic asks with a wry smile. "You don't strike me as the type."
Killer rolls his eyes. "Weaving is —" he breaks off, corrects himself, and ignores Epic's wince, "— was a tradition in the Seafoam Grove. Oftentimes it was done over a lover's body, but I'm out of practice, so I'm starting small."
"I see," Epic says. "And who's the unlucky bastard being subjected to whatever you're planning?"
"I'd say more of a lucky bastard, considering," Killer snorts. "Cross did tell me to let him know if I thought of a way to feel more in control."
Epic chuckles and claps a hand on his shoulder. "I have no doubt he'll enjoy whatever tricks you pull, little knife."
He's grateful that Epic chooses that moment to take his leave from the balcony, because it means that he doesn't need to try to formulate a reply to that. He can feel how his soul has shifted — uncomfortable, but no longer sharp and painful — in response to Epic's parting remark.
He'll enjoy whatever tricks you pull.
Not too long ago, that would have sounded like a taunt. His tricks had been cruel attempts to make Cross show what Killer had assumed to be his true demeanor, and they had caused irreparable harm. He still struggles to look at Cross's face some days, or at his back when he went shirtless. The scars there went down to the bone, and he still felt immense guilt for being the cause of them.
But Epic had been jovial. Killer had seen him at his lowest, leaning hard into the iciness of his LV, and he could confidently say that Epic was in good cheer today. Plus, if he had meant to be cruel, he would have made sure there was no mistaking it in his tone.
Killer drapes his arms over the edge of the balcony, smiling to himself. He'll have to see if the spymaster wants to volunteer for a weaving at some point, too.
On the night that he'd decided on, Killer slips through Cross's rooms silently, excited at the prospect of having the prince beneath him. He's nervous, too, but he's trying to ignore it. Even shoving all of the anxious thoughts to the back of his mind can't keep him from rolling up his tongue in his mouth, though he resists the urge to feel for scars with his fingers.
He almost wants to take out the gag he's woven, just to fidget with it, but the creak of a door stops him. It's the door that separates the harem's rooms from Cross's, he thinks, and when he pokes his head through Cross's bedroom door, he's just in time to see Nightmare crossing the threshold and closing the door behind him.
"Night, I've got plans," Killer whines.
"I know," Nightmare replies. "That's why I'm here."
Killer frowns, hoping he doesn't look like a pouting child. Nightmare had supervised almost all of the sex he and Cross had — partially possessive and partially worried about leaving two high-LV, hot-headed monsters alone in bed together. Usually, Killer just resigns himself to dealing with Nightmare's worry. Still, he's already on edge — has been on edge for days — and Nightmare's continued attention makes him feel like an untrained dog, expected to chew on the carpeting or furniture if left alone.
"I'm not a child," he says petulantly, though he's so resigned to being treated with distrust even after all this time that there's barely any venom in it. "I don't need to be watched all the time. I'm not going to fall into the lake if you turn your back for five seconds."
Nightmare stills, chewing on his words for a moment. "I'm not… It's not that I don't trust you. I'm afraid to let you out of my sight still, most days."
"Getting fucked isn't gonna kill me," Killer snips.
"Maybe not," Nightmare replies wryly. "But I still worry when you're out of my sight. And…" he steps closer, reaching for him, and Killer is helpless to take him. "Isn't this to reclaim some power?"
"Yeah. Which is why I'm a little miffed you still feel the need to supervise me, considering Cross and I have been fine and we're not gonna hurt each other," Killer grumbles, though he supposes it must seem less threatening given Nightmare is snug and safe in his arms.
"Haven't you considered that I might just be quite excited by the idea of you in control of our prince?" Nightmare says, cocking his head. His bright eyelight watches Killer keenly, but he doesn't respond immediately.
"Doesn't make me feel so powerful if I have to be watched like a dog that'll piss on the carpet if you turn your back," Killer mutters. He bites his tongue to keep from saying worse things, things he won't actually mean but can't help spitting out.
Nightmare says nothing for a moment. Finally, he says, "I didn't know you felt that way."
"It's just —" Killer breaks off, growling in frustration, unable to get the correct words out. His tongue still feels leaden. "I don't know! I just want to be in control for once and not feel like I'm being scrutinized. I know I fucked up before, and I know that isn't the reason you're sticking so close, but my mind still thinks that that is the reason!" With a huff, he finishes, "I just want it to shut up for one night, Night."
"Oh, Killer," Nightmare murmurs, stepping close and wrapping Killer up in his arms. "I'm sorry, I… I know you're still struggling. My following you comes from a place of support, I promise, but I know it… might not seem that way."
Muffled by Nightmare's shoulder, Killer says, "Feels like I'm still being watched to make sure I don't fuck up."
"I think you've long since earned our trust back in that respect." Nightmare pulls away with a sigh, though his hands don't leave Killer. His cyan eyelight flickers as he watches Killer, his gaze searching. "Promise you'll call if you need me."
"Of course," Killer replies, letting out a breath that he didn't realize he was holding. For all that Cross is his prince on paper, Nightmare is still his prince in all else. "...I think I might skip it tonight, though."
"I'm sorry," Nightmare repeats. "Perhaps we can use the prince as a personal bonfire instead. I think you've earned it."
"And tomorrow I'll fuck him good," Killer grins, slightly forced, "and tell you all about it."
Nightmare smiles, and the genuineness of it makes Killer's own smile come easier. "I look forward to it."
The next night finds Killer pacing Cross's sitting room, trying to decide how to broach his idea. His mates have long since left, wishing him luck before closing the connecting door to their quarters behind them, and Cross had left them even before that to finish up some reports in his office. He's still there now; Killer can hear the scratching of his quill through the ajar door.
Steeling himself with a deep breath, he pushes through the door, trying to seem calm. He thinks he's succeeded, considering Cross perks up and looks happy to see him, rather than worried.
"Killer," the prince practically chirps. "Did you need something? I'm almost done with this."
"Don't rush, but…" Killer chews on his words, but Cross is looking more concerned by the second. "Do you remember when you said to just ask if I thought of any way to feel more in control?"
"Yes." Cross sits back in his chair, and the wood creaks slightly. "Did you think of something?"
"Two things, technically." He hesitates a moment, and then climbs into the now-open space of Cross's lap, dangling his legs over the side of the chair. Cross is warm, as he always is, and a slight flush rises to his cheeks despite his outwardly aloof expression. "It's been a really long time since… since I was fully in control of anyone in terms of sex. And I don't think any of the others would feel safe enough to do that with me. Not yet, anyway."
"You would feel safe enough to do that with me?" Cross asks, somehow surprised. Killer, for all his prickly behavior, literally owed his life to Cross, but somehow it still surprised him that Killer felt that way.
"Well, I'd be the one in control," Killer replies with a smirk. "So it's more like you feeling safe with me."
"Of course I feel safe with you," is the immediate reply. Killer has to avert his eyes; Cross looks far too earnest and fond, and that paired with his innate trust is too much to bear at the moment. "What's the second thing?"
Killer takes out the gag from his inventory. The metal ring that Epic had given him is nearly unrecognizable now; the entire thing has been covered with red rope, and the center of it holds a spirograph-like shape woven with the same bright rope. On either side, the tails of the rope trail freely, long enough to tie around someone's head and secure the gag in their mouth. Cross cocks his head slightly at it.
"It's a gag," Killer says in response to his unanswered question. "We don't… we don't have to use it. There's just something that's been on my mind lately, that I thought maybe being in control with someone gagged would be… I don't know, cathartic?"
Gingerly, Cross reaches out to take the gag. He handles it carefully, gentle with the woven center. It's certainly not Killer's best work, but it's still better than he'd expected for his first in over three years.
"Weaving was a tradition in the Seafoam Grove," Killer explains quietly, watching Cross run his thumbs over the covered metal. "It's traditionally done over someone's body — and skeletons are perfect for it, for the record — but I thought I should start small, since it's been so long since I've done it…"
"This is beautiful," Cross replies. He holds it out in front of him. "It matches your soul."
A purposeful choice, but Killer can't help but preen at Cross's acknowledgement of it. His next question is a little hard to stomach, though: "Why a gag?"
Killer frowns, leaning heavily on Cross's chest. Gently, Cross places the gag on his desk, before wrapping his arms around Killer and holding him close.
"Have you ever heard of a witch's bridle?" Killer asks. "Or, uh, the branks?"
"No, but I'm sure whatever it is, it's barbaric and another thing to hold against Tempo."
He can't help the cackle that bursts out of him at Cross's deadpan statement. "You're not wrong," Killer giggles. Cross gives him a sort of half-smile, wary of whatever is he's going to be told.
"It's basically this horrible metal contraption, like a muzzle, it… It goes over your head like a cage, and it has a bit with a spike on it. When they tighten it, the bit pierces your tongue, or worse…" Killer curls in on himself a bit, and Cross squeezes his shoulder. "For me it was usually a punishment, and on Dusty, too, but you can probably guess how they used it on Nightmare."
Cross's growl tells him that he was right in thinking that Cross would be able to easily imagine it. He was kind of hoping that would be the case, because he thinks trying to verbally describe what it was like to see the ragged hole in Nightmare's tongue, or what it was like to feel it on his body, would send him into hysterics. Even describing the bridle itself is making him more flighty than he expected.
"I just… I just think being in control of someone like that would be cathartic," Killer says nervously, fidgeting in Cross's arms. "Maybe get me to stop thinking about it…"
Cross leans forward, resting his jaw on Killer's skull and practically encapsulating Killer's body with his. Killer can't help but relax a little, warm and protected. Carefully, Cross murmurs, "If you think it will help, we can give it a try. But… maybe not tonight."
"Why not?" Killer whines.
"You're shaking."
He blinks owlishly, slowly processing the soft rattling noise that's been accompanying their conversation since Cross asked about the gag. He's become very good at tuning things out over the past few years — an unfortunate necessity of surviving Tempo's. He'll still be up like a shot for a noise from any of his lovers, or a suspicious sound that could be a handler or client, but when he's nervous, everything else is tuned out — and that apparently includes his own rattling.
(Sarah had called it a dissociative response to trauma, and said it was completely normal for someone in his situation.)
"Okay," Killer agrees easily, perhaps a testament to how anxious just thinking of the bridle had made him. Behind him, Cross purrs, satisfied at his easy capitulation to caring for himself.
"Tomorrow, maybe," Cross promises. "Certainly soon. But not tonight."
"Okay," Killer says again, acquiescing to the night of soft purring and cuddling he'll surely be subjected to now.
It takes them a week to agree on a night, between Killer's anxieties, Cross's anxieties about Killer's anxieties, and last minute meetings scheduled by Cross's father that Killer believes were solely intended as a cockblock. He practically vibrates with nerves through the day, restless and fidgeting and unable to sit still for long.
He feels silly about it now, safely ensconced in Cross's arms, nearly swallowed by the soft pillows messily pushed against the headboard. It's not quite what he imagined — he had pictured himself in control, Cross beneath him and perhaps smiling up at him placidly…
Familiarity is good, though. He feels safe retracing the same steps over and over, trailing his fingers over the planes of Cross's body, the nicks and scars in his bones that he could pick out in the dark, in his sleep. He's warm and happy, and the room is mostly silent, absent of the horrendous noises that were commonplace at the parlor.
Without a word, he loops his arms behind Cross's cervical spine, feeling the soft buzz of his horns against his bones when his hands pass over them. With that leverage, he sits up and flips them. It's a slow, quiet process; Cross chuckles softly, and Killer grunts when he lands upright on Cross's belly, but beyond that, it's wordless. Killer's hands have shifted from their loose loop around Cross's neck and shoulders to his sharp jaw and round cheeks.
Cross takes advantage of that, meeting Killer's eyes before turning his head slightly and pressing his mouth to the palm of Killer's hand. Like everything else about the prince, it's warm, and though it's simply a touch of teeth to metacarpals, Killer still feels himself flush down past the high halter-style neckline of his tank top.
"How do you want me?" Cross asks. His fond smirk is doing things to Killer, and it takes him a moment to respond.
"Like this, obviously," Killer scoffs, trying to save face. It's true, though; he wouldn't have flipped them if it hadn't been part of how he'd pictured their night going. He pulls the gag out of his inventory, fiddling with it with one hand. He prefers a knife to fidget with, but it will do for now.
After a moment, he shifts off of Cross's body, dragging his leg across his prince's chest purposefully rather than carefully stepping over as he normally would. "Get undressed," he says, watching as Cross processes the order. He can tell the moment it hits him; his expression doesn't change too much, but his sockets crinkle fondly, and a purple flush springs across his cheeks and nasal ridge.
Quickly, the prince sits up, already wrestling with his light undershirt as he steps off the bed. He tosses the shirt aside at the same time he kicks his pants down. Killer can't help but be impressed with his speed and efficiency — he chalks it up to experience, given that trying to have a late-night rendezvous during a war must really put the quick in quickie.
Most people look smaller without their clothes on, but not Cross. The musculature of his false flesh easily explains how bulky he is when he wears his layers for court and meetings, but it also speaks of the strength he'd gained outside such political games. Killer had been muscled once too, but he had never looked so strong. There was an advantage to looking small and weak without being those things, of course, but it was a much different advantage than the one that came with looking and being strong.
With Cross bare but for his undershorts, Killer gestures back at the bed. His prince is quick to retake his previous place, lying at the head of the bed against the pillows. Killer straddles him once more, and then grins. There's a noticeable hardness pressing against his rear, right where it rests above Cross's pelvis.
"Have you somehow managed to hide your sword in your shorts," Killer purrs, rolling his hips back onto Cross's noticeable bulge, "Or are you just happy to see me?"
"If you know how one can hide a sword while mostly naked, I would love to hear your technique," Cross responds, his own voice a pleased rumble as his hands find their way to Killer's hips. They're big and warm, and Killer rolls his hips back into them just as much as into Cross's hard-on. They're a nice reminder that he's valued enough that people still want to put their hands on him.
But if he's to be in control of Cross… Killer smirks. "As much as I like your hands on me, I want them up by your head tonight, my prince."
Cross squeezes his hipbones once more before lacing his fingers together behind his skull. He manages to look relaxed despite his position and the very prominent erection that Killer can feel straining behind him, both of which shock Killer, perhaps more than they should.
To be trusted and wanted is still so foreign to him after those three years. Especially by Cross, whom he scarred in more ways than one, but who still saved his life afterwards. There are feelings wrapped up within feelings like a nesting doll, and Killer still isn't prepared to look at them beyond acknowledging that his love for Cross is contained within the convoluted mess of it all.
"Right…" Killer takes the gag in both hands, a circle of red that mirrors his soul. Cross looks at him expectantly, and after a moment, Killer finally says, "What do you do if you don't like it?"
It's more for his own peace of mind than Cross's — they both know Cross could throw him off if he wanted to, so just getting a gag off would be no trouble. Killer knows all too well, though, that a mind can shut down and throw all logical thought out the window very, very quickly. He'd seen it many times, and he's shut down like that more times than he can count.
"Knock on the headboard," Cross says easily. "Killer, are you sure about this?"
He's not asking for himself, which pisses Killer off, but he takes a few breaths to keep himself from answering too snippily. "Yeah," he replies. "I'll tell you if I need to stop."
Killer isn't quite sure if he believes himself, but it seems to be enough for Cross. He rationalizes that Cross knows him well enough now to see if he's started dissociating or panicking. "Alright," he says, bringing the gag up from where his hands have fallen to his lap. "Open up, pretty boy."
Cross's brow furrows like he wants to ask about that nickname, but he doesn't. Instead, he diligently opens his mouth. Killer leans forward and sets the gag into his open maw, setting the spirograph of it against the prince's fangs. The long ends of the rope hang down his cheeks, and Killer grabs them, tying them behind Cross's temporomandibular joints.
Again, Killer regards how similar the gag looks to his own soul; it makes it seem like Cross is swallowing the construct. And not only is the gag in his mouth a near-match for Killer's magic, it's also nearly the same shade as Cross's right eye and its accompanying scar.
Killer can't help but smile down at him. "You look good like this."
Unable to reply coherently, Cross just snorts and rolls his eyes. Killer catches the soft flush on his cheeks despite its faintness, though, and reiterates, "You do. Maybe one day I can do a real weaving on you, tie you up all prettily in a color that makes your magic pop… Make you come all over my hand."
Given the way his cock twitches against Killer's ass, he seems to really like that idea. Killer files it away for later, idly considering what color rope would look best against the soft violet of Cross's body.
Then, he shelves that thought and reaches behind him to give Cross's erection a squeeze. Cross's hips jolt beneath him, and Killer has a front-row seat to watching how his expression contorts in response to the brief pressure of Killer's hand. His sockets squeeze shut momentarily, and his jaw flexes with a wordless groan.
It's intoxicating, and Killer feels powerful watching how such small movements on his part make Cross react visibly. They're small reactions, so far, because Killer is only grabbing clumsily at his clothed cock — closed eye sockets, tense jaw, tipped back skull, purple down to where his ecto meets bone at his clavicles… All little things that make Killer feel sexy and wanted and powerful again.
He almost feels bad when he removes his hand and sits up straighter, taking all the pressure off of Cross's cock. The movement causes Cross to glare at him, though there's no heat behind it. That expression doesn't last long on the prince's face anyway, because Killer's next move is to clumsily rid himself of his pants. At the same time, he pulls a little bottle of oil from his inventory, stowed there weeks before in preparation for tonight.
Cross watches him carefully the entire time, as if he's trying to burn through Killer's shirt with his gaze. It's especially noticeable as Killer shifts himself to be kneeling on the bed beside Cross's hip, rather than on top of him as he had been. In response, Killer stares right back at him as he takes Cross's shorts by the waistband, yanking them down to expose his cock.
He can't help but grin when Cross averts his eyes quickly, though whether it's out of embarrassment or arousal, Killer isn't sure. It's definitely pleasure-related when Killer slicks up a hand and strokes him roughly. The muffled groan that Cross lets out makes Killer want to groan himself.
He feels drunk on power, watching the warlord squirm under his ministrations. Cross's cock is hot and heavy in his grip, slick with both precum and the liberal amount of oil that Killer had spilled onto his hand. At the head of the bed, Cross's is pinched with pleasure. His breath puffs through the gag, the center of the spirograph darkened from the dampness of his panting.
It makes Killer want that wet mouth and damp breath on him. It's not possible with the gag, but it's another fantasy to keep in his back pocket.
With Cross's expression in mind, he considers his next move. He could finger himself and watch Cross eye him like a starving dog staring down a piece of steak… or he could just add a little more oil to Cross's cock and sit himself down on it. He's turned on enough that, between the oil and his own wetness, he should be fine.
And part of him… part of him kind of wants it to hurt. He's reclaiming some power, giving himself something new to think about rather than the pain of the witch's bridle. Why shouldn't he take it a little rough while he's in control of the situation? It's been years since he was fucked roughly and liked it, and with the trauma they all have, it's unlikely that any of his partners would give or receive it. Even he doesn't know if he could receive it if Cross weren't in this position, supine and gagged and restrained by words.
Cross might not be a fan of it for safety reasons, but he'd said he'd try to support Killer retaking his power if he could. Besides, it's unlikely that Killer would tear himself open or anything. Cross is big, but not that big.
His internal debate settled, Killer hauls himself to his knees and throws a leg over Cross's waist. Cross's eyelights are immediately on him, focused if a bit fuzzed. Killer smiles at him as if he isn't about to take him balls-deep, and then he shifts his weight and does exactly that.
Cross is hot inside him, and there's definitely a burn around his entrance, but it feels a hell of a lot better than even some smaller patrons at Tempo's had. Below him, Cross gasps through the gag, his purple tongue visible through the red cage of the central spirograph. He's tossed his head back again, and his hips cant up beneath Killer when he squeezes around Cross.
He feels good, and he feels powerful and in control. His thoughts of the witch's bridle have been shoved into some dark and cobwebbed recess of his mind, replaced by the vivid image of Cross panting behind the red spirograph of the woven gag. It will haunt his memories or dreams again, of course, but for now, it's a distant memory, and he can focus on riding his warlord prince into the mattress.
Cross groans as Killer grinds down against him, and Killer presses him down by his shoulders, both for leverage and to keep him from moving too much. He can't help but wiggle a bit, searching for a good angle, but when he finds it, Cross is history. His warlord prince may have a lot of stamina, but he still comes awfully quick sometimes. Thankfully, his refractory period tends to be even quicker.
Killer grunts in time with his movements, raising and lowering himself clumsily onto Cross's cock. Mixed with Cross's stifled moans and matching muffled grunts, the room is a cacophony of coital noises that Killer mostly tunes out in search of his end. He can see Cross's arms twitching behind his head, probably itching to help Killer in his frenzied humping, but Killer is pleased to see that he's being good.
It all goes out the window when Cross cums, though. Somehow, it's hotter than the rest of him, leaving Killer gasping breathily as his rhythm gets interrupted by Cross's twitching hips. Cross, ever the gentleman, takes the opportunity to ignore Killer's order about his hands. He unfolds them from behind his skull, using one to hold Killer mostly still, and the other insinuates itself between their bodies, rubbing at Killer's untouched clit.
Despite his grateful moans, Killer glares at him, though he doesn't remove Cross's hand in favor of grinding against his distals. It doesn't take long at all for him to hunch over, hips still twitching minutely on Cross's hand. He huffs and puffs for a moment before finally stilling.
"You were a good boy until you moved your hands without permission," Killer pants out. He leans forward, pulling on the knot securing the gag. It falls away easily, and Cross closes and opens his mouth a few times to moisten it again.
"I'm not a good boy for making you cum?" he questions teasingly. His voice is a little rough from his mouth having been held open, and Killer isn't ashamed to think it's hot.
"That's the only mitigating factor," Killer replies, as if it's a serious discussion. He stows the used gag back into his inventory, before unceremoniously slipping off Cross and flopping onto the bed beside him.
They ignore the growing mess, and Cross bundles Killer right up against himself. "Was it good?" he asks. "Being in control again?"
"Amazing," Killer responds with a pleased sigh. "But we might need to go again soon… just to be sure it's really helpful."
Cross sighs fondly, but makes no argument against it. Killer snuggles into him, as close as he can get, and dozes. For the first time in weeks, he sleeps without nightmares.