#Part One: Few Scars Many Kits and Endless Prey

[growingstoriesandgardens]

Under The Arbor

Part One: Few Scars, Many Kits and Endless Prey

Fall Leaf puts her nose to the dirt and climbs the stones where she can overlook the clearing beyond it. The golden field had been cleared by a human noise maker, leaving the space open and empty. Calling her above anything else. 

This is a lookout point she's climbed and even gone far outside of countless times before. Even venturing out regularly now when the humans living within sight across the field were far away. But the urge is different as the sun peeks through the trees this time. This time, no part of her felt the tug to return down the slope again, not as it had before. There is a part of her somewhere in her chest that tells her she won't be coming back this time, drawing her far away. Her pointed ears stand upright, and her tail waves excitedly behind her. 

Like every fox did, as her mother explained so early in her life, she felt the calling. The burning drive to leave the den she was raised in and become her own hunter, den builder, and protector. A fox cub's parents fill those roles until the kits are old enough to do these things for themselves. Independence from their parent's food, shelter, and protection marks the beginning of a fox cub becoming a grown adult. 

As a cub, it had terrified her.

"One day you won't need me, little leaf. You will do all I do for you on your own." The warm voice of mother whispered as she snuggled into her belly. Ignoring her brother's paws digging into her side to get closer to hide deeper into the vixen's fur.

"But what if I can't!" Fall Leaf had squeaked, curling closer to her mother.

"You will. I am sure." She laughs, licking her cheek, 

With a tail wrapped tightly around them, her mother silently sends them into a deep sleep. With a full belly, warmth, and safety, Fall Leaf hadn't let her mind dwell on it long.

Now, all Fall Leaf wants to do is leap onto the other side of the ridge and go. 

Confidence wells in her, remembering her mother's words. A season after that moment, deep in a den with her mother, Fall Leaf has provided her own food for what feels like forever. She's fought off crows and helped her mother build a new spring den. As the cold of autumn sets in, her whole body, from nose to tail tip, screams that she is ready. 

There would be good hunting, Fall Leaf knew, beyond this field and several over. There, she has seen thick woods- not unlike the ones that sheltered them now. The crows, the kind ones who patiently waited for what her family left behind instead of rushing them for the leftovers, promised her so. It would be plenty to help her through the winter, she knows, which will set in once all the vibrant colors currently on the trees fall to the ground, and the last of the color dies and sleeps till spring, as her mother explained. 

There was little to no fox scent there the last time she visited (because, of course she visited), nor that of wolves of any kind. While that didn't promise a lack of confrontation, it seemed a safe start. That place would be her goal. 

Staying with her mother was always an option, and the vixen knows that well. But she didn't intend on helping her mother raise a litter of siblings, as safe an option as it would be. No, not when the chance was so wide open before her under the gleaming gold of the sun pushing through the trees as it rises. 

The ground is slowly being warmed by the rays, but soon, the earth will begin to freeze overnight. Lightly, a coating of frost at first, then deeply, making everything ice before snow. The thought of trying to get her paws into frozen earth makes her have to shake off an extended look over the area around her mother's den. 

Now. The time was now, or else she might never leave. 

Looking back a last time into the shaded drop into the ravine where she grew up, Fall Leaf's dark-furred chest deflated, still. Sunrise is crouching at the bottom of the stones. The sunny orange ears of her littermate are pinned to his head, and he doesn't look up at her with his long muzzle close to his white paws. Undoubtedly, he knows where her mind is already, and if his tail tucking itself around his body is any indication, he is less than happy about what she is planning to do. It's nearly enough to break her resolve to move on today.  

"Stay!" He cries out to her, lifting his face from the ground and taking a few steps to place a single foot on the first stone. For a moment, she thinks it is a shame for his bright orange coat to be sullied by the dirt. 

Her ears pin, and her tail drops close to the ground at the sound. 

"Come with me!" She screams excitedly at him. Playfully, she jumps down and intentionally nudges him before leaping back up. A failed attempt at convincing him with a bit of play. They aren't kits any longer, but Sunrise always loved wrestling. 

Sunrise shrinks back into the den at it this time, and Fall Leaf stops and sighs sadly. Her brother isn't ready, not yet. It simply wasn't his time now. Despite knowing that that was a good thing, that it would make her smaller sibling more ready for what the both of them would be facing, a twinge came over her heart temporarily, and she slowly made her way down the stones again. Closing the distance and nuzzling his lighter fur. Would he be happier here, helping their parents with next season's litter? Would he leave this winter before that?

The first bit of grief comes over her, knowing she might never really find out.  

"I love you, brother," She whimpers despite the sound coming out heavy, "I wish you the best life if we never cross paths again."

"I wish you the best life, too, Fall Leaf. With few scars, many kits, and endless prey," Sunrise whimpers back as he returns her affectionate nuzzle before they pull apart. 

Turning though, she comes face to face with her mother's unmistakable white mask, looking down at her with gentle hazel eyes. Otherwise, she looks much like her sibling, a lighter color than her fiery red pelt. The steady gaze is the one that had watched her learn to walk, to pounce, to track. There is sadness in them, though. While she had grown more distant the last few turns of the moon and had visited them less and less, the love, even with her presence, wraps itself as tightly around her as her own pelt. 

"Thank you," She squeaks. "I want to be as good to my kits as you were to me, Mother." 

White Mask steps forward and nuzzles her shoulder before pulling away and nodding. "I have no doubt you will do that and more, my little one. That said, I came to be sure that you're ready. Are you ready, to feed yourself alone, to protect a terrority? Make a den?" 

She is taken aback by that by the hesitancy in her voice. "You were the one who told me I could, even as a kit." She says firmly. 

"And I stand by that. It's just that you may not understand how much you still have to learn." White Mask replies with the same unwavering tone she raised them with. "I only love you and worry, daughter."

"I can do this; I know it. No matter how much I still have to learn." Fall Leaf says back, unfazed and matching the immovable belief in her words that White Mask had used. 

White Mask's eyes seem to grow proud when she steps away, making her heart feel full. Sunrise, while still not filled with zeal about seeing her go, still manages to be excited as they watch her take her first steps as a grown, free fox. They believed in her, and if Fall Leaf didn't believe in herself, that would be enough to fill her up with confidence in what she was doing in spite of anything. With a large deep breath, she turns. This time, she reminded herself to not look back. 

Bursting with the energy loosed from finally taking the first steps, Fall Leaf climbs the stones for the truly last time like the wind rushes, fluidly jumping down over the other side. As she takes full strides through empty fields, the vixen is careful to avoid the sharp stubs left by the human monster claws when they cut these fields. A handful of birds take wing. Sunrise and their mother let out exuberant farewell calls to her from behind her. Which she returns for as long as the sound of their voice echoes.

Likely for the last time. No more stashes of food from her mother or sharing warmth with Sunrise. No more strolls in the territory with her father, whom she hadn't seen in days and days. 

It makes her choke on her grief while she passes through one field, a second one, and then a third. Practically bouncing as she avoids the sharp, dry stubs left behind. The pangs melt away when her hazel eyes take in the tree line, lit up by the rising sun, and the sounds of life within make her ears lift towards it. Her whole body falls into the same pull without her consciously directing it. 

[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.