Crossmare/BSP Oneshots

(f)Kross Pillowtalk

Killer doesn't have the heart to say what he means. But saying things in a way nobody else can understand is a talent of his.

Enjoy, you floofy little coffee beans!
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Killer's claws clutch at the warmth of their blankets, as though he can pull them up any further over them. He doesn't really need it, given that Cross vents heat like an oven, but he likes the warmth it all gives him. Cross must notice, because he slides an arm around Killer's waist and pulls him in, until his soul risks brushing the other's ribs. Killer doesn't really mind the thought, though, Cross did just change the sheets. A round three is unlikely.

Cross' multicolored eyes wander the planes of his face like he's committing something to memory, reading off lines to be long remembered. His expression is soft, caring, and that in and of itself is something Killer does not at all deserve. Some part of him feels guilty. His soul shaken by the thought of taking his warmth after Cross has given him so much tonight, everything he asked for and then some. He just gives, and gives, and gives, like an insurmountable supply of loving and concern.

Killer wonders if it's really all for him. Or if Cross is just that diligent. He's that way about everything, though. His fighting, his appearance, his work, his art, everything he does is diligent and executed with care. Killer wonders where it all comes from, what it's all for. He almost can't fathom putting his everything into something—into someone— it almost seems impossible. Vaguely, he thinks that Cross doesn't deserve something half-assed like that. Not when he puts so much into everything he does.

"Kils, you look like you're putting something stupid together in your head right now... What're you thinking?" Not when he puts so much into him.

"Just about your awesome cock, babes, don't worry about it," Killer purrs, knocking his skull against Cross' collarbone.

"My cock is awesome, but nice try. You're staring off into space looking dejected as shit. What's up? Talk to me," Cross encourages.

Killer feels a gentle, comforting purr start up in Cross' ribs as he talks. This is exactly what he's talking about Cross cares so much it hurts sometimes. He just wants... Well, he doesn't know what he wants. Scratch that, Killer knows exactly what he wants. He wants to be able to love Cross like that. To put everything into him the way he does with all the things he loves, even the things he doesn't. Still, he knows he can't.

"Just... Nothin'."

Cross' brows furrow and he holds Killer a little more carefully as his expression gets serious, "Killer, was it something about earlier? Was something bad? You can tell me, it's alright. I want to know, I never ever wanna make you feel hurt or upset—"

He cuts Cross off right there, "the sex was great and I loved how you fucked me, you're fine. Really, it's just... Soul shit."

"Is it hurting?"

Killer grins a little too humorously, "yeah."

He glances down at the dim red glow of his soul through the blankets, seeming thoughtful. "Anything I can do? Should we get you to Night soon?" Cross asks, as considerate as ever.

"Such a gentleman... But No, nothing you can do... Nothing he can do either, Different kinda hurt."

Cross frowns a little, before offering a gentle, mellow expression. "Do you, wanna talk about it?"

Killer's grin falters and he can feel his soul wobble. Yeah, he wants to talk about how much he's in love with the idiot trying to make him feel better right now. The stupidly considerate lover that really, wholeheartedly just asked him if he got a little banged up in their dick down session, like it was anything more than a dick down session. This is stupid, this is stupid.

Still, he says it, and in Cross' ever-so quiet room it feels loud, "أنا أحبك."

Cross stares at him for a long moment, blinking at him dumbly, "that was not english," Cross says mildly surprised "what language even— was that Arabic???" He asks, "dude, I'm good at decoding your obscure shit, but I have no clue what that means."

Killer smiles a little, grins like a little shit, actually. "It's better that way."

"Well, if talking about your problems in a language I don't know makes you feel better, go for it," Cross sighs. Killer's soul flutters a little at that, just the idea that Cross would listen to him, even if the words didn't mean a thing to him. Even if none of it even made sense. "Besides, apparently you sound pretty hot speaking another language," Cross adds casually.

Killer would be lying if he said that didn't make him choke on air and cough for at least a minute. Cross pats his back, laughing a little. Come to think of it, he doesn't think Cross has heard him speak any Arabic. They've spoken Spanish together plenty of times, Killer knows enough to get by in conversation, but Cross really wouldn't have any reason to have heard it. Dust has, Nightmare has, Horror once or twice. He speaks Arabic frequently, to Nightmare, the god knows plenty of mortal languages and that happens to be one of them. Dust just likes hearing him talk, about anything, in any language. Especially when he's out of his mind and tired.

But Cross probably hasn't heard him speak his first language once. Maybe he needs to speak it a little more often, then.

"Seriously, what language was that?"

"Arabic, you got a good ear, considering you don't have any."

"Oh— thanks," Cross says, snickering. "Offer still stands, if you wanna talk about it."

"Hm... Just one thing I wanna say, أحبك كما أحب النجوم," Killer murmurs. It makes his soul pound to say it, even if he knows Cross can't understand a word.

Cross smiles at him, pressing a kiss to his skull, "if you're sure."

"Yeah, I'm sure." Things are perfect like this. Today, Killer has no justification for ruining something beautiful.

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Remember to attain an appropriate amount of human sustenance, and good hydration. Don't forget to have a wonderful day, either! Much love from a mothy friend. This is it for my time with you today, But I do hope you enjoyed this chapter you silly little butterflies.

- Arca