Title: Animalistic

Pairing: Allen/Kanda, Kanda/Allen

Rating: M for language and borderline? smut. Slash. Unbeta'd.

Summary: They don't do it because it's love.

A/N: Don't ask where this came from. I literally had the idea strike me randomly, and when I wouldn't write it, it kept coming to the forefront of my mind until I got it down. My DGM muse has been faltering lately, but this was literally a burst of creativity that brought me right back to the beginning of my muse. It's the first fic I've ever written that's rated M, with good reason because I don't do smut and I probably won't ever do this again. So go easy, 'k? It's not meant to be perfect or love or anything. This is angst and humanity in its rawest form. With that said, go on at your own risk and… enjoy? Feedback is appreciated.

Standard disclaimer applies.


They don't meet in the midst of a darkened corridor because they 'love' each other or because they want to be 'entwined' like storybook lovers.

Hell, they don't even really meet.

They don't smash up against the stone wall with increased force because they need each other (in that sense).

They definitely don't do it because their time is running out and they don't want words to go unspoken.

They're damned and they know it. So when the rough edges of grey concrete dig into his pale flesh that's becoming freed from any type of cloth, it's not because there is a mutual love shared when neither really know the meaning of the word. God, no, he doesn't dare think that because it's not right, they can't get caught up in the tangled mess that is 'love' and 'affection' and fuck common sense, he reasons, when there's a warm mouth pressed against his throat.

He moans; guttural, raw, filled with pent up frustration and anger and desperation.

Allen isn't sure when it started. One night, he and Kanda returned from a (brutal, total bloodshed and it was in his hair, clothes, skin, getitoff) assignment, silence shrouding them in a blanket of cold, cold comfort. They made it halfway down the hallway, light barely flickering from the candles, when Allen collapsed and soon they were meshed, pressing against one another as if their life depended on it.

(And maybe it did.)

God, he thought he went insane after he felt the first release, the first real inkling of slipping reality. Sliding down the wall with heavy breaths, his skin slick with fresh sweat and old blood.

Fuck, it hurt like a sonovabitch. And he swore he'd never, ever, ever cross that bridge again. Of course, two weeks later, it does happen again and Allen doesn't have the heart to stop it nor the physical capacity or mental stability to want to.

His train of thought is cut of when Kanda rubs that one way, the way that makes Allen want to lose all self-control and just fall to the floor right then and there, not caring that he's half naked or that it's Kanda or that, God forbid, someone actually finds them. Instead, Allen settles for wrapping his legs around the other's waist, his back scratching against the brick, and he can feel the blood running down in rivulets.

(And when someone finds red smears later, Allen thinks, he won't care.)

He tugs at the shawl that's covering Kanda's shoulders before tossing it to the ground beside them, joining Allen's shawl and black shirt. He blearily realizes that his socks and shoes have been discarded while Kanda is still wearing the majority of his clothes and if not for the dark strands being released from their ponytail—with Allen's teeth, no less—he'd be angry that Kanda's getting off easy, no pun intended. Instead, he arches his back, breathes deeply, relishing the scent of body, blood, hunger. Kanda nibbles on a sensitive spot on his throat that he claimed their sixth time around, Allen's eyes flutter.

It takes all his willpower to remove his legs from their position and pin Kanda to the wall, and he notes he's not that much shorter than the samurai anymore. He bites the older man's right ear, smirking at the very low, very animalistic sound that rises from Kanda's throat.

No, they don't do this for love.

Allen's hands maneuver up the slim body against him, tugging off the shirt to reveal milky, scarred flesh and black, jagged lines. They roam Kanda's chest, his stomach; Allen's mouth moves harshly against Kanda's and they aren't sure who's breathing more. But it feels real, it's not death that's wrapping around their skin and souls and suffocating them until they can't taste air anymore and when Allen sees Kanda coming undone, it's riveting.

Allen finds something snapping in his core every time Kanda's skilled and calloused fingers slip past the waistband of both his black battle pants and his boxers, the former falling in the growing heap. When he feels a warmth grasp his humanity, that something shatters and it isn't until they are moving together that the pieces, the remnants coalesce once again in a disturbed heap of emptiness. They try to keep silent when they're together (apart) in the abandoned corridor because at any moment, a Finder or fellow Exorcist could catch them in one of the most primitive forms of sex.

Allen doesn't think when the heat entraps him. He doesn't breathe when he begins to reach the climax. And he doesn't say those very words that are frantic to be spoken, to be heard, to be noticed because he doesn't know how long he can keep the façade in place when he's wearing oh so many masks to begin with.

A moan escapes his lips anyways and it vaguely sounds like 'Kanda' though neither react to that particular feat just yet.

God, they're both trapped in a spiral of self-loathing and despite the closeness of flesh, they've never felt so alone.

Allen can feel a wetness pool in his eyes, slicing down his cheek and scar with smooth effort. Kanda laps up the salty tears but doesn't ask why he's crying at all because he knows, he knows it's wrong and he knows that every time they 'meet' a part of him dies a little more inside.

Kanda loses first for the fourth time since they started, and he tries to slow his racing pulse as he continues his ministrations on Allen, urging the younger of the two to allow himself the small ounce of pleasure. Kanda is not supportive, he is not loving, affectionate, generally well rounded. He's rough, angry, reserved but in these moments he shows a side that Allen thrives on. Before the latter can finish, Kanda switches their position so Allen is back against the wall and Kanda has better access. He's silent (but breathing, always breathing) as he pushes Allen to the precipice, the edge of no return, of no going back and of staring into the abyss until it stares back.

When they're both exhausted and settle against the floor, Allen lays his head against Kanda's shoulder (straightening his clothes because at least if they're somewhat clothed, people don't—won't—question) and closes his eyes.

He wonders, briefly, if this is what it feels like to be alive, to feel raw.

It's the twenty-seventh time he's wondered that, and he knows Kanda is keeping track too.

(Because they don't do it for love. It'll never be for love.)