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Cross was late.
The dark wood of the table stretched before them, its opulent carvings and polished finish blemished by a history of violence. Scratches etched the surface like faded scars, while faint scorch marks bore testament to long-forgotten magical disputes. On Nightmare's side, the stains of Corruption had bled into the grain, darkening the wood as if it bore the weight of his shadow. The table, despite its lavish spread of food, seemed a battlefield in its own right.
Phalanges tapped an uneven rhythm against the marred surface, their tempo faltering, tense. Nightmare’s sharp glare cut across the table, landing on Killer, who met it with his ever-present grin—a defense as hollow as it was confident. The unease in the room coiled around them like smoke, thick and inescapable. Horror shifted in his seat, his discomfort palpable in the slow scrape of chair legs against stone. Even Dust, hooded and withdrawn, muttered curses under his breath, his irritation leaking through in low, grating tones.
They all felt it.
The absence.
Cross was predictable to a fault, his life a clockwork of discipline and order forged during his years as a Guardsman. He clung to the structure it offered, as though routine could shield him from the chaos around them. Every morning, he arrived at the exact same time, neither early nor late, his presence as constant as the rising sun.
But now, the sun was missing from their sky.
Cross was never late.
Though, of course, there were exceptions. It wasn’t as though attendance at the table was mandatory. And yet, his absence hung in the air like a severed connection, a phantom ache where something vital should be. A limb cut; the shock from its suddenness dulling the pain—but only slightly.
The tension was palpable, curling through the room like smoke, heavy and clinging. Conversation faltered, brittle and shallow.
No one would say it aloud, but they were worried.
"I’m going to check on him."
Nightmare’s voice cut through the oppressive quiet, the sound sharp and deliberate, yet carrying an undercurrent of reassurance. He felt the slight shift in the room immediately—the faint taste of relief brushing against his senses, tentative but real.
Without waiting for acknowledgment, Nightmare stepped into the shadows, his form dissolving into the dark tendrils that wove around him. He reappeared outside Cross’ room, solidifying with ease.
The air around the closed door was thick with emotion, like the cloying weight of humidity before a storm. Misery bled through the cracks, seeping through thick stone and pressing against Nightmare’s senses.
The spread was different than usual. It was unexpected—like discovering a festering wound when he had braced himself for a bruise.
In that moment, he felt it—a shift, subtle but striking, in the shape of Cross’ sorrow. It scraped rather than bled, jagged and untempered. Grief, for Cross, was usually a bitter blend: guilt steeped in self-loathing, sorrow patterned in the familiar rhythm of regret. But tonight, it was different. Fevered. Restless. A yearning threaded through the misery like a discordant note, sharp enough to catch.
It wasn't the grief Nightmare expected.
And that alone made something in his SOUL stir—soft with concern, sharp with curiosity.
His tendrils curled low and slow, betraying the shift before he even moved.
He didn’t knock.
Permission was meaningless. Hiding was a mercy Cross no longer had claim to. With a single, purposeful stride he melted through the doorway, slipping through wood and lock as though they were nothing but suggestions.
The moment Nightmare slipped over the threshold, the room struck him with scent. Sandalwood and vanilla pooled in the stagnant air—sweet, viscous, almost chewable—so that every inhalation returned to him steeped in perfume, thick enough to coat the back of his tongue.
To any other monster, the scent would have been utterly debilitating—a seductive cocktail of pheromones crafted to disarm, to compel, to burn logic to ash. It would have left them staggering, their composure shattered under its influence.
But Nightmare was not any other monster, of course.
He simply breathed it in, his mind cataloging the scent with cold precision even as it tried to wrap itself around him. The air hummed with the distinct energy of desire and raw need, volatile and untamed, curling through the space like smoke from a fire too long ignored. The source was unmistakable.
Nightmare’s senses guided him unerringly to the far corner of the room, where Cross sat huddled on the floor, his spine curled against the unyielding stone wall of his quarters.
Cross was crying.
Amethyst tears trailed down the planes of his skull, carving shimmering lines through the fevered flush that stained his bones. His entire frame shook, bones rattling with violent tremors. His hands clawed at his own form, sharp phalanges leaving angry gouges along his ribs and arms.
The scratches wept violet like open wounds, and still, Cross didn’t stop—his distress consumed him utterly. He didn’t even register Nightmare’s arrival, too lost in the storm of his own torment.
This was unlike him. Terribly, glaringly unlike him. Another crimson banner waving high in a sea of warning signs.
For a fleeting moment, Nightmare considered indulging. The despair saturating the room was exquisite—rich, heady, and irresistible in its purity. It called to him, a siren song of misery that begged to be savored. A part of him longed to let it wash over him, to serve as an intoxicating balm to his darker inclinations.
Perhaps, once, he might have indulged.
There had been a time when he was younger, hungrier, and untempered by the weight of bonds or the restraint that time had carved into him. Back then, he would have reveled in it, allowed himself to steep in the anguish until it was etched into his very marrow.
But he was no longer that man.
Instead, dark tendrils surged forward, coiling around Cross’ limbs like living shadows. The touch elicited a startled cry, sharp and raw, as Cross jolted to awareness. His eyes snapped to Nightmare, wide and disoriented, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic bursts.
His eyelights were glassy, unfocused pinpricks of light floating within cavernous sockets. Fever radiated from him in waves, his bones glinting with the faint sheen of rising heat. Each shallow breath shuddered through his frame, erratic and unsteady, as though even the act of existing had become a battle.
The signs were unmistakable. Fevered. Overcome to the point of delirium. Every shiver, every labored breath, spoke of a body caught in the throes of a Heat so consuming that control had become a distant, unreachable goal.
For most monsters, this would have been ordinary—expected, even. An inconvenience of biology that, while inconvenient, was hardly unusual.
But this was Cross.
And therein lay the anomaly that hung in the air, thick and accusatory, like a question that demanded an answer.
"How curious," Nightmare murmured, his voice slipping into the room like a serpent through grass, low and smooth, almost inviting. His gaze never wavered, sharp and calculating as it swept over the trembling figure before him. "And here I thought you didn’t suffer Heats."
The words weren’t a statement. They were a hook, sharp and deliberate, cast out to snare an explanation from the soldier’s teeth.
The atmosphere grew heavier with each passing moment, the oppressive weight of despair mingled with the acrid tang of self-disgust, bleeding into every crevice of the room. It hung thick in the air, clinging to Nightmare like a second skin—familiar and almost intoxicating in its raw intensity.
It dared him to linger, to drink it in and let it settle deep in his marrow, but his focus never wavered. This was not a moment for indulgence but for control.
His tendrils, dark and serpentine, tightened ever so slightly, their grip firm but unyielding. Cross shuddered beneath the touch, his trembling form unable to resist the pull of the shadows that bound him. The quiet sound of his labored breathing, punctuated by involuntary gasps, filled the space, and Nightmare’s gaze remained steady, sharp as a predator’s.
Cross was taut with tension, his frame straining against the inescapable pull of both the dark tendrils that held him and the instincts clawing at his resolve. His sockets gleamed with glassy, feverish light, his struggle as raw as it was futile.
Nightmare let the silence stretch like a taut wire, allowing each second to ache beneath the weight of uncertainty. He watched Cross wrestle with the forces roiling inside him—shame, guilt, and the faintest thread of desperate hope.
The hush in the room was so deep it seemed to swallow every breath, yet Nightmare remained still, his gaze unwavering, expectant.
Finally, Cross spoke.
"...'M not allowed," Cross rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper, fractured and raw. It was a sound so faint it might have been swallowed by the oppressive silence of the room—if it weren’t for Nightmare’s acute senses, long accustomed to deciphering Dust’s cryptic mutterings.
The words were enough to ignite a ripple of curiosity and unease.
Shame and embarrassment rolled off Cross in thick, oppressive waves, curling through the air and invading Nightmare’s senses. It clung to the soldier like a second skin, stark against the heat radiating from him.
Nightmare tilted his head, letting the whispered confession echo in his mind, each word turning over like a coin in his grasp, its weight demanding scrutiny.
“And how,” he asked, his voice soft yet insistent, “did you come to this conclusion?”
"...Tools aren’t allowed that sort of thi—ng, haah..."
The final syllable splintered on Cross’ tongue, unravelling into a ragged gasp that broke sharp and breathless through the hush of his private quarters.One of Nightmare’s tendrils shifted—subtle, deliberate—curling tighter around his quivering frame. In the motion, it had brushed against the bare curve of his neck, just where the spine met the skull, exposed and achingly vulnerable.
The effect was visceral.
Cross’ entire body spasmed, his spine curving in an unwilling arch as if every bone had caught fire. A broken, needy whimper escaped him, filled with torment he fought desperately to contain. Each desperate inhale fed the growing swell of his shame, his self-revulsion pouring off him in waves so thick they might as well have been tangible. To Nightmare’s eye, they almost shimmered in the air.
Nightmare watched him unravel right before his eye. Every tremor, every breathless twitch of restraint played out beneath his gaze like a private performance—one meant for him alone. Cross’s fists clenched so fiercely his phalanges groaned, jaw locked in a vise that should have splintered, and still—still—he refused to yield.
Desire rolled off him in palpable waves; his hips jerked of their own accord. His body desperately begging to rut into the tendrils that anchored him.
But even as he was drowning in that fever-bright hunger, Cross clung to composure as if it were a lifeline. For Nightmare. Out of reverence, perhaps. Out of fear. Or maybe something deeper still—something tangled and unspoken.
It was pathetic. Admirable. Endearing.
And so very tempting.
Nightmare felt it, a pull so visceral it thrummed in his core. The urge to press harder, to probe every frayed edge of Cross’ fragile restraint, to coax him toward the edge and tip him over it, piece by trembling piece. To watch him break—completely, utterly—under Nightmare’s hand. It was a temptation so sweet it stung, forbidden fruit ripened and ready, begging to be bitten into.
The temptation sang to him, coaxing him to push just a little further, to witness the precise moment when Cross would unravel entirely—when his resolve would crumble into trembling breaths and broken pleas, laid bare before him. Stripped bare for Nightmare’s eyes alone.
But not yet.
Not now.
There would be time for that later.
Time to savor the slow, deliberate breaking of him—to drink in every trembling surrender, every stuttered confession torn from his throat like prayer.
Now, however, there was something far more pressing. Cross’ state was volatile—his magic dangerously unbalanced, his body barely tethered to reason. If Nightmare allowed this to spiral any further, the consequences could be permanent.
“And who told you that you were merely a tool, Cross?” Nightmare inquired, his voice deliberately measured, every syllable threaded with a quiet tension.
Something in his tone must have betrayed his displeasure. Cross immediately averted his gaze, shrinking in on himself as though retreating from a blow. He swallowed hard before speaking, the words catching in his throat. “I… that’s how I was raised, sir. That’s what I was born to be.”
X-Gaster, then.
Nightmare didn’t need elaboration. The name echoed in his mind like a cold, familiar chord, striking in all the ways he’d anticipated but still despised. He had hoped—futilely, perhaps—that this belief had been self-imposed, born of Cross’ own relentless discipline rather than the venomous whispers of his creator. But the pieces fit too cleanly, too seamlessly with the fragments Cross had shared about X-Gaster’s nature.
It made perfect sense.
The knowledge burned, searing hot and unwelcome. Nightmare forced himself to swallow his ire, knowing full well the cost of unleashing it now. His anger, no matter how justified, would only destabilize the fragile balance in the room. Cross, already raw and fevered, would instinctively take it as a personal slight. It would derail everything—lead to reassurances and reassurances of reassurances, time wasted soothing Cross’ fractured mind instead of addressing the rot at its core.
Still, restraint came at a cost.
The tendrils at Nightmare’s back snapped and thrashed, lashing against the air like coiled serpents seeking prey. The motion was instinctive, a desperate outlet for the fury he could not yet release.
For now, his voice remained calm, steady, a thin veneer over the simmering storm. “X-Gaster,” he murmured, the name an invocation of bitterness. “Of course.”
He shifted closer, looming but deliberate, his movements slow enough to avoid further spooking the trembling soldier before him.
“Cross,” he said again, his voice dipping into something almost tender, though the undercurrent of steel remained unmistakable. “You recall the nature of your contract, don’t you? That you are my property? That so long as your SOUL beats, it belongs to me ?”
The words were not posed as a question, yet Nightmare waited, his silence demanding acknowledgment.
“Y-yes, Boss,” Cross rasped, his voice cracking under the weight of the statement.
“Then you understand,” Nightmare continued, his tendrils shifting subtly, curling tighter around Cross’ trembling form. They moved with an almost languid grace, granting him a fleeting brush of pleasure he had been starving himself of—an offering and a reminder both. “That your Creator’s doctrine is moot. I am the one who decides what you are, Cross. The shape you make. Your very purpose. You are mine.”
Cross gasped—a sound raw and unbidden, wrenched from the depths of his chest. His body shuddered violently, caught in the sudden spark of pleasure that coursed through him, undeniable and sharp, mingling with the friction teasing at his pelvis.
Nightmare didn’t miss it—the way Cross reacted, the way his SOUL seemed to quiver at the mere weight of his words. He had always known how much Cross craved to be owned. It was a subtle thing at first, a sweetness that bled into the air when Cross was commended for a job well done, looking at him for praise. Looking at him for orders and praise to direct his efforts. But over time, Nightmare had learned to recognize it for what it truly was: arousal, pure and visceral, a need that burned beneath the soldier’s disciplined exterior.
And now, finally, the moment presented itself to use it.
It felt good—better than it should have, perhaps—to watch Cross unravel under the touch of his words, to take full advantage of that craving for approval, that hunger to be seen and acknowledged. The way Cross trembled, caught between shame and pleasure, was intoxicating.
Nightmare didn’t relent, an unmistakable note of possessive warmth beneath the sharp edge of his words, a promise and a claim in one. “Whatever that man decided you were—whatever lies he inscribed into your being—became irrelevant the moment you accepted my deal. My word is your doctrine.”
He used a tendril to nudge Cross’ mandible back, forcing him to remain focused on Nightmare. “Do you understand, Cross?”
He tried to speak, his jaw working soundlessly for a moment, but hesitation clung to him like a shroud.
Nightmare tilted his head, his tone cooling to something sharper, more pointed. “Then you’ll deny me?” he murmured, the words dripping with calculated displeasure. He let the question hang for the briefest of moments before pressing further, his voice laced with a dangerous softness. “You’ll break our deal, then? Shall I return you to where I found you—like this?”
The threat, as subtle as it was cruel, hit its mark.
Cross crumbled, the fragile framework of his resistance collapsing under the unbearable weight of Nightmare’s words. The mere thought of being abandoned, cast aside, was too much—too raw—to endure. His mate leaving him? Taking him back to that white hell that his Alternate Universe had become? It was unthinkable, unbearable.
It was dirty pool. But then, Nightmare had never claimed to play fair.
“No, no, never—” Cross babbled, the words tumbling out in a panicked rush, trembling and fevered, raw with desperation. “I’m yours. I’m yours. I’ll do anything—anything—” His voice cracked, frantic and unfiltered, each syllable a plea, an offering. As though by saying them, he could cement himself more firmly within Nightmare’s grasp.
The sound of it—so raw, so broken—was intoxicating. Nightmare let the frantic babbling wash over him, savoring the way Cross laid himself bare, offering his devotion like a prayer to an unyielding god.
And Nightmare rewarded loyalty.
“That’s it,” Nightmare crooned, his voice dipping into something rich and velvety, curling around Cross like a second set of tendrils. “That’s what I want to hear, Cross. You’re mine. You don’t need those lies anymore. No pretense, no penance. Just me.”
Nightmare’s tendrils moved with deliberate grace, curling and uncurling in unhurried, serpentine motions. One trailed along the sculpted ridge of Cross’ cheekbone, while another brushed the trembling plane of his collarbone. More of those cirri joined the careful exploration, easing scraps of fabric away with practiced ease, each soft tear lost to the sound of Cross’ ragged, uneven breaths.
The remnants of his clothing surrendered piece by piece, baring Cross to the cool air and the full weight of Nightmare’s watchful gaze. His bones glistened with sweat and marrow, thin rivulets of violet tracing the aftermath of self-inflicted scratches. Yet Cross scarcely seemed aware of them. His eyelights blurred into shaky smears of luminescence, magic flickering volatile and feverish near his pubic symphysis. He leaned into every caress, following each subtle shift of the tendrils as though they were the only tether he had left, the only thing keeping him from spiraling further.
As endearing as it was to watch him fight—so desperate to retain control, to uphold some sense of dignity—it was ultimately a detriment. Nightmare’s sharp gaze flicked over the evidence etched into Cross’ form: the glistening violet sweat, the volatile magic threatening to spiral out of control, the shallow rise and fall of his ribcage. Every moment he left himself unattended only heightened the risk of permanent damage, the kind that couldn’t be undone with mere magic.
If Cross had been suppressing this for some time—ignoring the signs, forcing himself to work through it, as though denying his biology would make it disappear—it only made his actions more foolish.
Nightmare’s jaw tightened at the thought, his irritation tempered only by the flicker of possessive affection that accompanied it.
As if he, of all beings, would see Cross as anything less than his, no matter the state he found himself in. And as if the others wouldn’t attend to him in a heartbeat, should they learn of his condition. He had no reason to hide, no reason to suffer alone.
“Ah, my foolish little soldier,” Nightmare murmured, every syllable steeped in a dark, velvet tenderness—as though soothing a wounded thing he never meant to break. The title fell between them with quiet finality. Not cruel, not kind; only honest. Threaded through with possession, with the inescapable bond they bore: one forged in pain, in purpose, in the ruins of what should have been mercy.
He moved like an eclipse swallowing the horizon—slow, inescapable—claiming the space between breath and bone
Cross didn’t resist. He couldn’t.
His mouth met Nightmare’s with a desperation so raw it stripped the act of any grace. He kissed like someone drowning, guided not by experience but by instinct—clumsy, breathless, aching for something he could not name. His mouth trembled beneath Nightmare’s, warm and unsteady, and each trembling exhale felt like a plea : don’t stop, don’t let go, don’t make me feel this alone again.
Nightmare allowed it. No—he welcomed it, parting Cross' mouth with deliberate ease, drinking in the soldier’s need like wine long forbidden. He let him cling, let him falter, let him pour all that repressed longing into the press of teeth and heat. There was something precious in it, in the way Cross yielded, not in surrender but in trust—even if he didn’t yet recognize it as such.
And then—
A tendril, slick and sure, slid between them, lower.
It found Cross’ cock with unerring precision, coiling around it in a firm, deliberate grip. Not cruel—yet—but not gentle either. It was a claiming, a statement of intent delivered in movement rather than word, as the appendage began to move, slow and maddeningly controlled.
Each stroke was a whisper of friction, coaxing Cross to the edge with the same care one might give to winding a clock or tuning a string just short of snapping.
Cross gasped into the kiss, the sound lost in the crush of mouths, his hips twitching as instinct surged past discipline. His shame bloomed again, fierce and blinding, but Nightmare felt only satisfaction as the soldier trembled. Touched, undone, and held.
Nightmare didn’t break the kiss.
He kept Cross right there—panting into his mouth, breath catching on every stroke of the tendril around his cock. The sounds he made were soft, bitten-off things, like he was trying not to give too much away, still clinging to some scrap of control even as his body betrayed him.
This wasn’t just indulgence—it was a lesson, an assertion of ownership. Cross belonged here, in Nightmare’s grip, vulnerable and pliant, his control surrendered to hands that knew exactly how to shape him.
He would make him fall apart slowly. Delicately.
And Cross would thank him for it.
Cross’s body jolted under Nightmare’s touch, every bone set alight. His breath came in ragged bursts, sharp and uneven, each one catching in his throat like it hurt to pull in air. The tendril worked him with ruthless precision—steady, relentless, exact—and Cross could do nothing but buck helplessly into it, chasing the friction even as shame flared hot under his bones.
He didn’t want to give in. He didn’t want to fall apart like this.
But he’d held back too long. All that heat, all that want, finally burst free, crashing over him in one blinding wave that left him gasping, helpless, and reeling.
Cross let out a strangled cry, his back arching as his body betrayed him. He came with a force that left him trembling, hot release spilling over the dark tendril that held him, the sheer intensity wringing a whimper from his teeth.
It hit fast. Too fast. He barely had time to breathe through it before the aftermath caught up to him—shame clawing its way in just as the rush faded. His breath came in shallow gasps, ribs heaving as the last flickers of pleasure bled into mortification. His sockets glowed dimly, eyelights skittering away from Nightmare’s face like he could outrun the weight of being seen.
Nightmare tilted his head, a slow, knowing smirk curling across his teeth. “Embarrassed, are we?” he murmured, his voice rich with indulgence.
A sob caught in Cross’s throat—small, broken. He couldn’t speak. Could barely move. He just trembled there, breath hitching again, the sensation still alive in his bones. He couldn’t hide from it, not with Nightmare watching him like that. Not with every inch of him still bare, still reacting, still his.
The tendrils didn’t stop.
They didn't relent—instead, their movements slowed, drawing out each stroke with meticulous care, deliberate and achingly gentle. One slipped lazily through the slick aftermath, teasing softly against oversensitive ecto-flesh, pulling startled gasps and breathless shudders from Cross’s trembling form.
Another tendril coiled higher, curling around his chest with a touch so featherlight it was maddening—tracing the lines of his ribs, the dip of his sternum, until it circled just beneath his jaw. It lingered there, pulsing with the faintest warmth, not restraining but reminding—of who held him, of who still held him.
It tilted his head with maddening care, guiding his gaze upward—not forceful, but inescapable. Cross tried to resist, to keep his eyes lowered, but the tendril held fast, insistent. He was made to look.
Made to see the coy curl of Nightmare’s grin—the molten weight behind it, simmering with intent.
“It’s going to take more than one to get your magic stable again,” Nightmare purred, voice dripping with indulgent cruelty. “Until your SOUL no longer feels like it’s about to burst, I won’t stop.” The words curled around Cross like smoke, sweet and dangerous, darkly reassuring. “I can’t.”
Cross didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was too busy panting, shaking, trying to stay grounded while his bones burned from the inside out. Staying present felt impossible; his vision blurred at the edges, body trembling on the verge of another uncontrolled spike of magic.
Nightmare moved slowly, deliberately. One hand braced behind him, steady and casual, while the other slipped low, fingers curling around Cross’ hips with firm intent. He guided him forward—not gently, not roughly, but with a certainty that allowed no room for hesitation.
And Cross followed. Of course he did.
Nightmare parted his thighs just enough; an unmistakable invitation. The slick head of Cross’s cock slid along sensitive skin, catching on Nightmare’s entrance in a hungry, needy press. That first contact burned—a flash of overstimulation that almost sent Cross reeling—but the need to push deeper overrode the sting. He flexed forward, helpless, desperate, rutting for any friction he could claim.
His pulse hammered so hard it felt like his SOUL might crack. Breed him. Fill him. The imperative roared through his veins, drowning everything else.
Nightmare’s grip tightened, guiding the next grind with patient control. “There you go,” he murmured, voice a dark hum of approval against Cross’s acoustic meatus. The sound made a flash of heat course through him. “Take what you need.”
He couldn’t stop himself if he tried.
He slipped in with a choked gasp, dragged into heat so soft, so impossibly welcoming it forced the breath from his lungs. His hips jolted, the fit overwhelming, and a quiet, blissed-out sound spilled from his throat.
Cross moved like a creature possessed—slow at first, stuttering, as though he still couldn't believe he was allowed this. But each inch of Nightmare's heat dragged him deeper into instinct, into need, into the raw ache that had been clawing at his insides since the moment his Heat took hold.
He thrust again, harder this time. Nightmare let him, cooing as Cross sobbed in relief and bliss.
The soft slick sounds filled the room, shameful and obscene, but Cross couldn't care—didn’t have it in him to care. Not when it felt like this. Not when Nightmare was so hot around him, so tight, gripping him like he belonged there.
“Fuck,” Cross gasped, burying himself as deep as he could go, grinding into the tight press of Nightmare’s body like it would cure him, like it would save him.
His fingers clutched Nightmare’s hips hard enough to leave dents, needing the leverage, needing the connection. If he slipped free now, he’d shatter—combust from the inside out. His body was already trembling, too much heat building with nowhere to go.
“I need to—” His voice cracked, barely more than a sob. “Boss—please—I need —”
He felt himself bottom out, his cock pressed tight against Nightmare’s womb—felt it pulse and hiss with heat, begging him to empty himself there. The urge burned hotter than anything he’d ever felt, primal and consuming. He needed to fill him, flood his walls, paint him with seed until Nightmare was dripping, overflowing, his.
He shouldn’t dare. Couldn’t. But Nightmare’s hands tightened, urging him forward, encouraging him deeper with each desperate thrust. Nightmare wanted him to—needed him to lose control, to claim him like this. Nightmare had begged for it, coaxed it from him, pushed him into feral desperation with each slow grind of his hips.
And Cross couldn’t fight it anymore.
Cross whimpered, buried deeper, trembling against him. “Boss—” he sobbed again, “please let me— I wanna—I need to come inside—” His words unravelled, broken and frantic. “I wanna fill you—I have to—”
Nightmare held him there, savoring every fractured plea, every helpless, trembling breath Cross spilled against him. He allowed the silence to stretch, deliberate and merciless, letting Cross squirm in it—just long enough to feel the edges of panic, just enough to taste how badly he needed it.
Then, finally, he tilted Cross’ jaw up, forcing those glazed, desperate eyelights to meet his gaze.
“Go ahead,” Nightmare purred, voice dark and indulgent, granting permission like an act of mercy. “Fill me. Show me how much you need it.”
The moment permission was given, it was over.
Whatever scraps of control Cross clung to shattered clean through. He snapped his hips forward with a strangled moan, desperation turning frantic, every thrust a wordless cry— please, please, take it, keep it, mine.
Heat coiled low, unbearably tight—and then broke. He came hard, trembling, a ragged sob tearing from his throat as he emptied himself inside. The rush was hot, unrelenting, thick pulses spilling deep until he could feel it start to drip back out, slick and obscene between them.
Nightmare groaned low, the sound dark and full of satisfaction—possessive and pleased in a way that only made Cross whimper. It rolled through him like another command, leaving him shaking as he kept moving, slower now, grinding through the aftershocks. Each sluggish push pressed his release deeper, the excess warming his thighs.
Only then did Nightmare loosen his grip, palms gliding up Cross’s spine in slow, steady strokes. Calming. Claiming.
“ Good boy. ”
The words nearly undid him again. Cross shuddered under the praise, teeth clenched, breath stuttering. He was still hard. Still leaking. Still desperate. Throbbing from his praise.
The click of the door swinging wider sent a jolt through him—but not enough to stop. He didn’t have it in him to stop.
Killer leaned lazily against the door frame, arms crossed, grin sharp enough to cut. “Told Horror I’d find our missing soldier,” he drawled, eyes trailing over where they were still locked together—slick, spent, and far from done. “Need a hand, Boss?”
Nightmare didn’t spare him a glance. He simply crooked a finger—silent command—while dark tendrils kept stroking Cross in slow, grounding passes.
“About time. Come here.”