#Part One: Few Scars Many Kits and Endless Prey

[bi-ressler]

ii. love the dead (Resslington)

My apologies (srsly), but @skiesfallithurts requested a Thing and who am I to disobey (even though it took me a month... o dear.)... Anyway, pre-canon setting again ‘cause apparently I’m useless at anythung else. Enjoy! (Or something.)

Word count: 2,625  //  read HERE on ao3.

TW: Major Character Death, Necrophilia || EXPLICIT, minors keep away!!!

_______________________________________________________________ It was as refreshing a sight as it was unnerving. Never in the last four years that the young agent was on Reddington’s heels has he been so – still. Quiet. Like the calm after the storm, when the waves were finally settling after the big uproar and the sea was overcome with peace. 

Reddington hadn’t known Agent Ressler all too well. He’d seen him here and there – an annoying brat that made his life just a tad harder – relentlessly and tirelessly hunting the criminal, and Red really had to give him that: he hadn’t expected Ressler to get as far as he did. In fact, he’d laughed it off whenever Dembe had tried to warn him. 

And now this. 

Reddington had been looking forward to getting to know the young agent. As irritating as his presence was and his character seemed to be (smug, arrogant, patriotic... what a fool), as much did it intrigue him – if only for playing around. In the end, those alpha-males were always the easiest and most fun to be manipulated; so self-focussed and convinced of their own strength. 

But he wouldn’t get the chance. 

How the agent had found Reddington’s safe house just outside the city of Valencia, he didn’t know. Someone must have talked, and he’d be damned if he let them go. But right now, there were more urgent matters at hand, more urgent questions to answer as he contemplated the dead body on his couch. Who had killed Donald Ressler?  And why? To do Reddington a favour? To – get rid of a rival? To frame Reddington? As a present? Many reasons came to mind.

He’d sent Dembe out to see a few contacts as soon as they’d moved the body from the couch to the living room table. He had a lot of questions and the agent’s body might just be the only way to get some decent answers.

Pulling on a pair of disposable gloves, he looked at the body before him. “Such a pretty face.”

Refreshing. Unnerving. For once not overambitiously chasing after Reddington. For once just... resting. How peacefully he lay there, like no storm could disturb him, like no nightmare could be cruel enough to wake him from his endless dreams. And what a pretty face he had. 

“What a pity”, Reddington mumbled. With swift, clinical hands, he unbottened the agent’s shirt, undid his tie, stripped him bare. He still had his badge and gun and there wasn’t any blood; neither shot nor stabbed, nor were there any signs of a fight on the flawless, pale skin. 

Out of reflex Reddington wet his lips. This felt strange – it wasn’t that Red hasn’t done an autopsy before; he knew what to do. Not as good as Mr. Kaplan or an actual M.E., but he knew his way around. But Ressler’s body was still a little warm and looked like it could open its cold, dead eyes any moment, and Red almost felt like this whole setting was far too intimate for the two of them. 

When Ressler had still been alive, it had been all cold and callous between them; behind every interaction lay badly-concealed hate, and the only thing Reddington had ever seen in Ressler’s eyes (apart from the obvious vanity and arrogance, no, this lay deeper) was untamed anger.

And now, the agent’s freckled skin felt really tender unter Reddington’s gloved fingers. Cutting him open would be such a shame. But first, he wanted to look for punctures; any signs of injection. 

He started at the most obvious places. 

First the neck. Slim and strong, and Red could just imagine the way it must have looked when Ressler threw his head back in ecstasy, inviting whoever fucked him to bite down on the delicate skin, taste the sweat, feel the moan or scream reverberate on their tongue. It was an appealing thought; and when he lowered his head he didn’t stop himself from smelling the dead skin. There were faint hints of a sweet after-shave (not what Reddington had expected, but who was he not to appreciate such a pleasant surprise?), and the stronger scent of dried sweat. His lips brushed against Ressler’s adam’s apple and Reddington sighed.

He knew he should get going. With a last sniff over the point where Ressler’s pulse should have been he got back to work, examining the soft skin. His fingers trailed down the sides of the agent’s neck, almost caressing, but not quite; Reddington didn’t want to give in to the urge to stroke the flesh and feel the decreasing warmth of this beautiful body. 

No puncture at the neck. The arms were next.  Strong arms – freckled, too. Almost automatically his fingers traced veins and sinews and muscles; from the shoulder (where he could see the scar of a shot wound and, wondering if he was responsible for it, his breath hitched), over the strong biceps to the elbow, down his forearm, stroking the fine hair along his way, and finally resting on Ressler’s fingers.  He sighed. There was no time to play around now. Looking closely, he was unable to find any signs of injection. But the longer he kept looking at the pale skin, the soft muscles, the longer his fingers kept working on it, the more could he feel his arousal against the fabric of his light grey trousers. There was no denying it – he was undoubtedly attracted to the dead man. Maybe he could allow himself to take a closer look; appreciate the naked form before him.  A blood test, his mind helpfully chimed in, and quick. 

Work first. Amusement second.  He took out a syringe from the medical kit, and pushing the needle into a vein in the crook of Ressler’s arm, he drew blood. Enough to determine whether this boy had been poisoned or not.  Laying the syringe aside and putting the blood probe into the freezer until he could give it to his contact in toxicology, he narrowed his eyes to take in the sight in front of him. Like a predator over its prey; like a hungry God swallowing entire star systems; like Tantalus dying of parching thirst, his salvation so close. 

A soft but strong body; full of edges and curves, scars and freckles like galaxies, and Reddington wanted to breathe him in and devour this boy, pressing his arousal into the side of the table to relieve pressure while his hand rested on Ressler’s chest, feeling the complete stillness there. His thumb brushed up over a cold nipple. His heartbeat sped up. He got rid of the medical gloves, needed to feel skin on skin.

His gaze wandered downwards, south, always south, to where Ressler’s limp cock lay against his thigh.  “Not just a pretty face”, Reddington mused as his hands followed down the same trail his eyes had burnt into the milky skin. Warm fingers brushing against the softened abdomen; Reddington could just imagine how those muscles must have clenched and contracted with every movement and effort, during a workout or a fight. A lazy smile tugged at his lips and he let his hands wander lower. 

An involuntary wetting of parted lips. A snake’s eyes taking in each squarecentimetre of the body. Lust coming up, rushing though his veins, making him feel so alive, so truly alive! 

He stroked Ressler’s cock like it was his own, while his other hand found its way to his own belt, opening it in a swift motion. The thought that he probably shouldn’t do this only crossed his mind for half a second of hesitation, and then the beast took over. 

His left hand firmly around his own hard cock, massaging, being mirrored by the right hand around Ressler’s shaft, and he let out a long sigh. But as much as he was working against the pressure inside of him, it just wasn’t enough to watch the soft, cold flesh under his fingers. 

His mouth worked better. He was closer now, tasted Donald and smelled him – not like before at his neck, no, far more intimate and so much more fulfilling – and yes, sucking a hard cock was easier (more familiar, too) but the way Reddington could do whatever he pleased with this beautiful boy without getting a reaction in any way – no moan, no shifting of muscles, no hardening of his cock – that did things to him. 

Things that made his right hand pick up its pace in need. 

He was greedy in business, and he was greedy as a lover. Right now, especially, as his tongue slid over the backside of the limp cock and his teeth painfully scraped the sensitive skin. No. Not painfully. Donald couldn’t feel it. It didn’t matter – Red could just snap his jaws shut and bite that pretty cock off. He’d always wondered how that would feel. 

He didn’t, though, not now. He needed more. More than his left hand digging into Donald’s thigh (strong muscles there, but all limp, and forever so) and his right one pumping his own cock. Giving Ressler’s dick a last deep suck, he slowly released it from his mouth, savouring the taste on his wet lips and tongue. 

“Good boy”, he drawled. “Such a good boy.”

Getting Donald into a position to fuck him proved to be easier than he would have thought. He just had to pull his body half off the table – in such a way that his ass was right on the edge and he just had to keep the legs up and spread. Reaching over to the mayo stand beside the table, he grabbed the scalpel and, dragging the cold steel across Donald’s cheek without cutting skin, said: “I really wish you’d live to feel this, darling boy. All the fun times we could have had. It’s a real shame.” 

Guiding the scalpel to Donald’s abdomen, he looked into the dead, blue eyes as he made the cut. As if Reddington expected a flinch, a visible sign of pain or pleasure; any reaction at all. But there was only emptiness written across that lovely, white face. Hollow emptiness like an abandoned seashell. 

He didn’t cut too deep, nor too wide; the blood came pooling from the wound and Reddington relished the tepid, thick feeling of it against his fingers. He wanted to dive all in, reach around Ressler’s heart with his very hands or hold his breath and drink him out – tear the cut wide open and maybe, down there somewhere, between organs and blood and torn muscle, he’d find traces of the abundance of Donald’s humanity, and he would swallow it all to make up for his own bestiality. 

He reached two fingers in; could feel the abdominal wall giving in, the layer of skin and muscle parting. His fingers coated in blood, he pulled them out again, resisting the temptation to lick it right off; instead, he coated his cock with it. Pants around his ankles, he positioned himself between Donald’s legs, pulling them up and resting them on his shoulders so the agent’s hole was bare and nice on display.

A smirk spread on Reddington’s face – the hole didn’t look as virgin and unused as he’d assumed. “Naughty boy”, he drawled, “but do not worry, Donald, I won’t tell Audrey.” (Truth to be told – he didn’t even know if they were still engaged; with all the time Ressler spent abroad it would have been fairly likely for her to leave him out of frustration and loneliness. Maybe that was part of the reason why the agent had seemed more determined to catch him during the last couple of weeks.)

Preparation wasn’t neccessary. What for? He couldn’t hurt Donald; could only imagine the pained gasps of pleasure the younger man would surely have given were he alive. He could be as selfish as he wanted with this boy, taking what he needed without giving a damn about his partner’s feelings, desires and boundaries – something he’d never do with a living person. Pleasure, he believed, was to be shared between the consenting partners, after all. 

But Donald couldn’t share his pleasure as he was slowly pushing in, feeling the friction of the unmoving flesh. Not a flinch, not a quiver, not a twitch. Certainly unfamiliar, but not unpleasant – almost like fucking a whore. Unyielding and cool, indifferent and practised. 

He adjusted his hold of Donald’s right leg. Didn’t want it to fall. And then he was all in, right to the base. And dear Lord, that felt good! So much better than his own hand or someone else’s mouth, and he started thrusting, not going all the way in anymore – he needed more, and faster, and his fingers dug deep into the cold skin of Donald’s legs, and he looked at what he had done. 

The pale, gorgeous seashell face with those empty, blue eyes that stared far beyond anyone’s comprehension, that have seen so much hurt and violence in their wake – “Yeah, rest, my boy, oh -” – and the deep cut right under Donald’s ribcage; blood spilling out (he thrust harder), running onto the table and ruining the white tablecloth (not that he minded). 

“Look at you”, he mumbled under his flat breath, “I don’t think you intended to end like this when you joined the FBI, hm?”

What a waste of a young, bright man. Another naive, wide-eyed boy hunting for something bigger than him, some meaning to his life. But hasn’t anybody told him that there was no such thing? That there was only darkness and depravity out there, waiting to catch him, too? 

He pushed in harder, his breath coming in greedy gasps, and he pulled the legs closer to him, slightly changing the angle of his thrusts, and pounded in again and again and again – 

The tablecloth was all red by now, at least where Donald’s torso lay, but the blood didn’t cease to ooze out of the abdominal wound. It was almost hypnotising, the way the incoming light gently trembled on the deep red liquid, spilling over the edge of the layer of skin and muscle with almost each thrust. 

“We’re nearly there”, he panted, “just a little more, Donald – yeah, yeah, you’re doing good –”

He could feel the familiar pressure building up, pressing his hips further forward onto the abused hole, and he knew – only a few more thrusts, very few, and he’d tumble over the edge, drunk and high and untamed. His grip around Donald’s legs tightened; his breath a low groan caught in his throat. And then his gaze fell on Donald’s cock that lay against his stomach, moving along with each of Reddington’s thrusts. Some blood had found its way down there, making the trimmed pubic hair sticky and red, and the few drops that ran down the limp shaft almost looked like precum. 

With a raw moan his hip snapped and blissful release flooded his veins – and Donald’s ass. All his muscles clenched, fingers painfully deep in Ressler’s flesh, and he thrust once again, and again, until he was spent and with a sigh, his face relaxed and he could let go of Donald’s legs, pulling out of him. A mixture of semen and blood dripped from the agent’s hole and Reddington sunk to his knees, unable to stand for the moment; he felt like a rye field during a summer storm. 

The heat of Spain in mid-August came back to Reddington’s consciousness and he wiped the sheet of sweat off his forehead.

He sighed again. Time to call Mr. Kaplan, get rid of this mess.