Blood

from the Wild series
by scribblemoose

Ken leaned against the door to Crawford's office, his heart thudding in his chest. He could smell blood; even though he'd changed out of his mission clothes, showered, washed and scrubbed every inch of himself, he could still smell blood.

"You're late." Crawford looked over the top of his glasses at him, a hint of a smile on his face.

"How can I be late? You always know when I'm coming. I can't be late."

"Your word is still important."

That should have bothered him. His word? His honesty? Like the honesty with which he'd slunk away from the mobile shop, told Yohji he was going out on the bike to blow off some steam?

It didn't bother him, at all. None of it did.

"Come here."

Even as he bristled at the command, Ken obeyed it. Crossed the room to Crawford's desk in easy strides, and stood there, waiting, only the barest twitch of the fingers of his left hand against his thigh revealing impatience.

"It's not getting any easier, is it?" Crawford's voice was soft, but not exactly reassuring. Which was fine. If Ken had wanted reassuring, he would've gone to Omi.

"It doesn't matter."

"We can help you. What you're experiencing... it's nothing to be afraid of."

Ken looked up at him, defiance burning bright but all to briefly in his chest. "I'm not afraid."

A smile that almost became a laugh, and Crawford was pushing his glasses up his nose, running long fingers through his hair. "Of course not," he said.

"I... it's... I want-"

"What do you want, Hidaka Ken?" Crawford pulled himself to his feet, and began to move things carefully from his desktop into a drawer.

"They don't get it. They don't understand, they think killing can be... right." Ken's breath was coming faster now, his heart fluttering like a bird, palms sweaty. "They don't see the difference."

"They will. When you're ready, you can show them."

Ken knew that what Crawford meant by that might have felt like betrayal, once. Not any more.

The smell of blood was fading now.

Crawford was standing close to him, close enough that Ken could feel the warmth of the other man's body through his immaculately tailored suit. He raised his hand, and instinctively Ken's own shot up to block it; he was surprised for a moment when his skin met skin, to think he'd actually managed to do so. But of course, Crawford wasn't attacking him.

That's not what he came here for. Not anymore.

He lowered his hand, and let Crawford touch his face. Drawing fingers cleanly across his cheekbones and down the line of his jaw, sliding through hair to cradle his skull. Crawford leaned in and kissed him, his other hand in the small of Ken's back, pulling him in close. Ken let his eyes slide shut, and his mouth soften, and accepted the wet tip of Crawford's tongue into his mouth.

"On the desk," Crawford breathed into his ear, and his hands melted away, leaving Ken bereft.

He hitched himself up onto polished mahogany, nibbling on his lower lip as Crawford deftly found and undid the belt of his jeans, pulled the denim off his legs in one smooth move. He removed the boxers underneath more slowly, pausing to stroke the insides of Ken's thighs, tracing the muscle and sinew of athletic limbs before wrapping his cock in a firm grip. Already hard, hard since he first came in the room, stiff and big with blood and wanting. Ken shut his eyes and let his head drop back, gasping as Crawford pumped him once or twice. Bereft when the touch was stolen from him. By the time he lifted his head Crawford had his own pants open, his own long, pink-headed cock sticking out from the curtain of his shirt, twitching and wet at the tip. Ken watched as Crawford poured lube carefully onto two fingers, lifted Ken's balls and gently patted and probed around his hole. Found himself short of breath as Crawford slicked them both, before he took hold of Ken's hips and tugged him down, til cock touched ass. Ken cried out and arched, knowing it would hurt, however careful Crawford was - and he was always careful - but wanting it. Wanting it to hurt. Wanting to feel it, pushing inside of him, taking him over.

Even so, it didn't hurt for long.

Crawford was pressing on his hips, willing him to relax, and his body moved with incredible care, knowing what Ken would feel before he felt it, knowing what Ken wanted before the need had taken shape in his head. He glided into Ken's body and out again, in and out, each retreating thrust leaving Ken empty and hungry for more.

"It doesn't matter," Crawford whispered to him. "None of it matters. So why not enjoy it? Why not do it because you want to and not," - a long thrust, deeper than before - "because you have to?"

Ken's lips parted; he licked them and whispered: "yes!" And came in a rush all over Crawford's hand and his own flat belly, clenching tight against the thick life inside of him as Crawford fucked him to oblivion.

He blanked out for a moment, delicious white nothing, and came to to find Crawford cleaning him. Fastidiously; lovingly, after a fashion. Rearranging him so that he was neat and tidy and ready to go back to Weiß.

The smell of blood was gone.

Ken missed it already.