Ken's nuzzling at the back of Chikusa's neck, tongue dragging roughly over the bite mark he left there - more or less lapping up the blood. It's hard to tell if he enjoys the taste of the blood, or if he enjoys the taste of Chikusa's blood specifically, or if there's some deeper, more primal meaning to it that even he couldn't put into words. Or whether it's just feral first aid. With Ken, it could be anything.

He's making a low, contented sound in his throat. With anyone else, it'd be a hum. With Ken, it feels more like a purr. He's barely holding them up, his weight heavy on Chikusa's back; conveniently, though, that puts enough pressure on Chikusa's arms, bracing him against the wall, that hopefully Chikusa's arms will lock and keep them both steady.

Ken's always at his happiest - his most stable, his most sated, his most calm - after sex. It's hard to know, of course, if that has as much to do with the physical act as it has to do with who he's with, considering that the only people he has sex with are the two who mean the most to him in the world.