t h i r t e e n

[jerichofalling]

dance with the devil || 13 + john [ past para ]

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

He’s reminded in that moment that those slices of Americana he had taken for granted – long droning lectures, kickball at recess and scuffles in the playground – just were not applicable to the man before him. His smile didn’t fully slip, but there was a softening in his gaze had held the only understanding that he could, the understanding that he might never fully understand what made Jericho – 13 – no matter how many details were eventually revealed of that story. It wasn’t that John himself didn’t understand hard times, didn’t know what it was like to test your will against impossible odds, to pull yourself up from the gutter with unshakable determination when the rest of the world seemed intently focused on kicking you back down. It was that their childhoods, their origins, were, intrinsically different. He wished that he could go back, could have met Jericho in a world where they had both grown up and learned in a Brooklyn classroom, wished he could have befriended the shy, quiet kid before he sprouted several inches and learned how to remove a man’s spine with bare hands. He wished he could have been there to offer him a little kindness, but he still, and always, marveled, at how well – considering – Jericho had come out of it. There was a true admiration there that despite the odds, despite the dangers he had faced, he had not only taught himself to survive, but taught himself how to read. He had grown up an intelligent, thoughtful man, and he had done it all himself, without any of John’s help.

His smile turned complex, and then a little sad, but it didn’t lose any of his warmth. A broad palm ran through his own hair, a little good-naturedly sheepish. “It ain’t a smart expression, I’ll admit, but it’s, uh, a figure of speech, I guess. Just meant that you looked a little nervous.” John moved through his home completely at ease in it, relaxed in a way that he was never outside of it, bare feet padding soft on worn wooden floor, turning to glance back at him with those warm, considering green eyes. He watched him as Jericho took in the new surroundings, wondering what he was – so observant always – seeing when he looked at the place, wondering what it said about him. There was a hint of curiosity in his expression as he shook it off and made his way into the kitchen, pulling out a few ingredients from the fridge. “I’m gonna make you a couple of burgers, that okay?” Another small smile etched at the corners of his eyes – it wasn’t high-order French cooking, but then again, he wasn’t a particularly fancy kind of guy. John had always preferred comfort food to anything else, and he hoped that idea might work. As nonchalant as he seemed, he also was a little nervous, playing the host. He wanted Jericho to be comfortable here.

He had gotten a few things together, the meat sizzling easily on the stovetop, when he caught the thanks, and turned his head, amusement sparking in his gaze. “You always sound so formal, you know that,” he murmured, no cruelty in the observation, just a touch of teasing. “You let me over to your place all the time, of course I wanted you to see mine, it ain’t special, but it’s…home, you know?” He shrugged, quiet laughter in his gaze. “Guess everyone’s home is special.”

“Dancing?” It was with a touch of surprise, his eyes averting as he flipped one of the burgers over lightly. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been, just that he hadn’t been in ages, not since Quinton, and not more than once since Sarah died. He used to love to dance, but it was one of those things that you didn’t do much by yourself and couldn’t ask a friend to do, not if you were more into the dance hall crowd than nightclubs. “Yeah, went to one with a guy I was seeing once.” There was a bit of a hesitation over the words, it had been pretty damn recent since he had considered himself the kind of guy who saw other guys. “A few times with a few girlfriends. I—I like dancing, but it ain’t the sort of thing you do by yourself, you know?”

He glanced up and smiled. “Kinda need a boyfriend for that. Boyfriend…sounds stupid, but—you know what I mean?”

[jerichofalling]

it’s harder to read, other than the colours and the lines of these scattered things, the solo feels the urge to - touch.  he’s always been more tactile than cerebral.  understands things like the movement of muscle under skin, the taste of sweat dripping - the tang of blood on his tongue.  understands the shift of air breezes ruffling too long hair, the feel of cool rain, the soaking of water into worn boots when puddles run too deep of the streets.  the firmness of a solid leather bag beneath thrown fist - much akin to the one hanging idly in the corner - looking like it was one of the more used items in the room, cracks and tape, a heavy chain hooked into the top.  those are things he knows...  he wants to touch the walls, smooth and clean, no bare brick on display.  the small cushions, shouting with their vibrant colour laying lazily on the couch, wonders if they’re as soft as they look, whether john has aid his head upon them in rest or thought, or even a moment of passion...

“i’m sorry, i misunderstood.”

another quirk of his head, that curious expression that seemed to perch on the solo’s face making an appearance as he tries to process and understand.  and consider.  he can wind his way into forbidden places and take a life without a bead of sweat making an appearance on his brow.  can cut, shoot, garrotte, exsanguinate, exterminate... without a flicker of doubt or uncertainty.  but here...?

“i am... a little nervous, yes.  this is a new experience for me.”

he would like it to be ‘right’, doesn’t really know the social conventions involved, but whether right or wrong, he wants it to be good - a good experience, for both him and john.  and as the other rakes his hand through his hair once more - something that he’s noticed is often a gesture of uncertainty or frustration, there’s the smallest hint of a smile that touches the corner of his lips.

“though i suspect i’m not the only one?”

a small nod at the suggestion of burgers, he has never been wholly picky about food, tending to stay to the more simplistic side of cuisine - though he doesn’t think that anyone has ever cooked for him before ( aside from buying from street vendors, and paying for the privilege was something entirely different ).

“i would like that very much, thank you.”

and as john makes his way into the kitchen, jericho decides that perhaps, it might be okay to indulge in a little of that curiosity.  padding quietly over to the couch to pick up one of those cushions, fingers sinking into the softness, brushing over the texture of the covering.  though he does look up moving a little closer to where john is turning burgers on the stove, staying at enough of a distance so that any splashes of fat wouldn’t stain the cushion, still in his hands.

“i don’t often have so many opportunities to converse.  though i have heard many mannerisms of speech, john.  some less pleasant than others.”

the gangs.  with their crass, crude speech.  mostly profanity.  threats.  attempting to verbalise where they couldn’t compensate otherwise.  he hadn’t spoken an awful lot when he’d been running for them.  and then there had been marcell.  regimented.  militaristic.  disciplined.  and yes, sometimes the old solo could expound such profanity that would likely shock - but he’d also been quite persistent about there being a dignity in their work.  even where some might think it couldn’t exist in such a place, in people like them...  so he speaks as he was taught.  honestly.  politely.  and with respect.  but knows when to turn such words to the sharper edge of language.  how to tease, taunt, and sometimes, on those rare occasions when there is a rising of anger, the words come harder, heavier, with less thought, with more venom.  he doesn’t always like how he sounds.  

“i can’t say there have not been times when i have spoken -- less pleasantly.  i recall one time, quite recently in fact.  in my basement.  in the training room.  with some guy.  green eyes.  he thought it was a good idea to kiss me...”

because the words then had been heated and harsh, brutal -- but true.  and in the aftermath of them... well, that had been quite the revelation.  and that smile which had been a flicker before turns into a wider grin.  though he doesn’t linger on that slight tease, simply casts a quick glance around --

“your home doesn’t have an empty elevator shaft.  i think, perhaps, if you were to start climbing here, your neighbours may be slightly inconvenienced.  i suppose my home is special in that context at least.”

he knows what the other’s saying, and his own words are spoken on the edge of a smile.  he’s never really thought of it as ‘special’, but he does keep it clean.  treats the minimal environment with respect.  asks the same of others.  so yes - he supposes that it is.  he’s only every really thought of it as practical before... but now that it’s put directly to him, he finds himself agreeing with the sentiment.

“yes... i think that they are.”

he does notice the slight aversion though, thinks perhaps john might be uncomfortable with the topic - though he’s not sure which part of the topic... the dancing, or the slight fluster of words which follow.  and there’s a slight furrowing of brow - because there’s another not so far away event that comes to mind.  a time when some  - not so pleasant words - had been thrown at john.  accusations, disparaging terms, joined with the harsh beat of fists to flesh, cruel taunts, and this man... this bright, determined, caring man... left beaten and broken in the aftermath.  simply because his choices were not the same as theirs.  and there’s an irony in the fact that the solo was rather intolerant of the intolerant.  he wonders if the one with the knife in his thigh is still walking with a limp.  more than likely.

“i know what you mean.” 

it’s spoken a little more quietly.  perhaps with a degree more understanding than he’s often given credit for.  quiet observant eyes sometimes seeing more than might be thought.  he’s not so concerned with terms, labels - though has never really been the kind of person to use them.  things just - are as they are.  but he has seen labels used - things which attached - which ‘stuck’, whether deserving or not.  whether true or not.  and most of them were often only there as a means of judgement by others.  ‘this is the label you have, this is the box that you fit into’.  he doesn’t need john to try to name this.  to label them.  

“i don’t know how to dance.  but if you ever want to dance, john, i will dance with you.”

[jerichofalling]

dance with the devil || 13 + john [ past para ]

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

There’s a tingle of anticipatory excitement in his gut as well, a nervousness in that John hopes that he will like this window into his life, at the fact that this is another step into their growing intimacy. Still, he doesn’t want him to think of it as too formal – doesn’t want him to have to feel as though he must behave any differently, even if this was their first true ‘date.’ He intended to keep the evening casual, simply enjoying each other’s company in a new setting, letting Jericho see a bit more of his life outside their contact, discern a little better as to who he was in every facet. He wanted there to be no secrets between him, and it was with that small tingle of nerves that he showered and dressed, simple, casual, but carefully planned out in dark wash jeans and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt that snugged over his broad chest and shoulders. Barefoot, knowing that Jericho was currently climbing the stairs, he padded around the apartment making last minute adjustments to his settings. Naturally neat for the most part, it only took a few moments of tweaking, before he heard the knock on the door, his heartbeat notching up involuntarily.

When he opened it, he couldn’t help but smile, enough that it felt as though it he might never stop. Jericho had undoubtedly done a little research of his own on ‘dates’ and even if he was far more formal than John expected, he found it heartwarming, endearing that he cared so much to go through all the trouble he had. It was a bit startling seeing him that way – so used to him in blacks, in the simplicity of his daily wear, and the admiration that shone candidly in his gaze, the warmth, was completely genuine. His lips quirked again, and he leaned forward, kissing him as if he was sinking slowly beneath an ocean’s waves. This close, he was all warmth, the fighter rough around the edges even cleaned up as he was, cologne worn and subtle. When he finally pulled back, there was humor dancing in his gaze, but an unmistakable softness too, remaining close. “You look beautiful,” he murmured, and his words were sincere, deep voice carrying quiet admiration, amusement, and fondness. “Maybe I should have dressed up, huh?” He smiled, reaching down to take his hand.

“Come on. We ain’t gonna have you standing out there all day like you’re waiting at the school dance.” 

With that, gently, he tugged him inside.

This was the moment of truth – and he supposed a person’s home was always a reflection of them and who they were, what they were like. John’s own apartment was certainly a reflection of himself. For as much money as he had had in his inheritance and saved over the years, he had surprisingly few possessions on display, the main effect of the apartment warm, open, and homey, but without much pretension despite the obviousness of its cost. The floors were natural wood covered here and there with faded carpets in warm reds and oranges and smoke greys, the plan of the living room and kitchen open. The living room itself held no television set, no obvious signs of technology, save for an alarm system, and in the corner, a record player, next to which a stack of records were, too often in use, and a larger library of them behind. A couple of books sharing the shelves with the records. A heavy bag in the far corner, gloves. A slightly worn but comfortable leather couch, big enough for any one who needed to to crash on – an acoustic guitar leaning against it. It was – above all, despite the little time he spent in it – home. He did share it with an Akita, evidenced by the large dog bed and food bowls, but the dog was being watched by a neighbor - he didn’t need Jericho to have to deal with her excessive friendliness. Morte was a sweetheart, but she wasn’t very subtle or inexcitable. 

John turned to look back at him, another warm smile reaching his lips as he raked his fingers through his own, still-damp hair.

“Can I get you anything? You hungry? Hell, I could cook for you, if you wanted me to, haven’t had an excuse to cook for days.”

[jerichofalling]

john smiles.

there’s a satisfaction in seeing it.  a warmth and a small pride that perhaps the efforts had been enough.  he doesn’t really pay any attention to the mismatch in their apparel.  only to the smile which causes johns eyes to crinkle at the edges, the freckles on his nose to scrunch a little, shifting golden and joyous on his skin.  he enjoys john’s smile... 

...he also enjoys johns lips especially the warmth of them in a kiss.  the way they seem to fit perfectly against his own.  the way he thinks he can feel the smile still hinting at the edges, imagines that he tastes slightly sweeter because of it.  

the slightly uncomfortable suit, the constricting tie, -- it was worth it if that was the kind of reaction it garnered.  and he considers that the purchase was proving to be something worth rather more than the money he paid for it.  perhaps he should pay more attention to how he dresses... if john enjoys it, then it’s certainly worth consideration.  and he does appreciate the softness of the t-shirt covering the other as one hand lands gently at his waist, savouring that kiss... that smile... even as it slips away.

there is a small tilt of his head though, a furrow of brow in slight confusion.  his lips still feel the lingering heat of that kiss and as he allows john to take his hand and lead him into his - home - following quite dutifully, there’s a moment where he shuffles, toe to heel to slip off his shoes and nudge them into an empty spot by the door.  then he corrects --

“i didn’t go to -- school, john.”

there were no playground bullies, no parents evenings, no reports winding their way home -- no... dances.  there was no teaching by any kind of ‘educator’... only the streets and the running, tracking parcel from point a to point b.  there hadn’t been a teacher, other than his own wit and will to survive, until marcell.  and those were not lessons that would be ‘taught’ in any kind of classroom.

“so i didn’t wait and i didn’t dance.”

the lightly teasing term rather passes over his head, taking it in a far more literal manner than might have been intended.  he doesn’t know - that a tuxedo is a symbol of the passage of youth, of marking of that particular occasion.  a slice of a world he was never a part of.  and this?  this is another world.  this is -- john’s world.  his own space away from the bleak greys and whites and blacks, bare brick and cold tile.  this is a place that smells like him, that has his hands and breath touching every object.  carefully chosen to grace a shelf, to bring colour, comfort...  it’s... warmer.  both physically and... perhaps also spiritually.  peaceful.  calming to the mind.  up here, there aren’t so many sounds.  no traffic on the streets.  no people walking by.  he likes the oranges.  they remind him of a daylight that he sees little of.  less frequent glimpses of sunrise, sunset.  walking home at those slivers of day where it blended into night.  

he probably looks a little strange, standing there in an urban apartment.  the comforts of home spread out like a book - something to read - and jericho does love to read.  this is a book without words.  a little harder to translate perhaps.  more of a story of sense - sight, scent, texture, colour...

“yes please.  i’m hungry.”

and answer to a question after a pause.  pulling himself back from absorption in the new.

“your home is very lovely, john.  thank you - for inviting me.  do you -- uh... dance?”

a small nod to the array of musical paraphernalia.  as close as he gets to music is the single station which sometimes picks up when the police channels switch.  a little crackly, but it sometimes pulls through a whole song.

“or go to... dances.  is... is that a thing that people... do?”

[runner-dex]

Mind of a Beast | 13 & Dex

[runner-dex]

    Not caring, it seemed like a pitiful excuse in the grand scheme of things, if the solo hadn’t cared then why stir up a scene, why dismiss and revolt against him for feeling a shred of remorse for his own actions. Because it was impossible not to feel. Dex wasn’t a machine, contrary to the beliefs of others, the intertwining of electronics into his skeleton, his laced down his spine like the hostility that etched deep into every word incidentally. Here and now he lingered somewhere between, he could never be soft, the soulless abyss had seen to that, but he wasn’t heartless either. Not the monster they’d paint him to be.

   He’s struggling, and it’s evident in the way his chest rises and falls erratically, too sharp, too shallow and with a terrible rattle. Still he forges on until the wire pulls taut and he can come closer no more. There’s still a void between them, a no man’s land, and he expects before the solo disappear out the door more shots would be fired across it. But he was sick, sick of fighting. All he’d wanted as a moments peace, someone to talk with quietly and unravel the weight of his sins, to let them fall apart so that he could understand them a little better, understand that he was still him. Dionysus hadn’t been lost in that explosion of debris and fire. “All I needed is—was to talk, that was all.”

  Beneath the weight of the machine, of the solo’s capricious nature, he’s exhausted, it creeps into the already too dark rings beneath his eyes. Thin hands open and close in a reflex that mimics the fast sequence of fingers toying for a cyberdeck, the muscle memory embedded deep enough that he could recall the pattern for his personalized Hellhound program without looking. Not useful here and now, not useful in any sort of conversation that didn’t revolve around the net, when had it all become so difficult out here? Poignantly when had his interactions spilled out into the real world?

  “I can’t decide who you are.” It’s a fractured whisper, an admission of sorts but a realization, that although he can hope for 13 to understand the weight of his stress that that wasn’t the level of friendship or otherwise they possessed. Whatever this was, it was superficial, it glimmered closer to a work relationship, and he’d forgotten. Allowed himself to be spoilt by the friendship offered by John, by others and had drowned himself in them too deeply, now that his wings had burned off he was falling back to reality, and fast. Crashing and burning. Short nails dug in, deep enough to leave reddened crescent moon indents into his palms. “You know what I wanted,” and it wasn’t an accusation, he’s speaks with that exhausted tone, but with eyes that remain fixated on the solo. Unwavering in their solidarity.

  “You might not care but I do, their lives, mouse’s life, they meant something. To someone. It was different, it wasn’t a job, it wasn’t self-defense. But it was necessary.” There had been no other way out of there. He had worked meticulously on that plan for weeks, and weeks, until the blueprints of the precinct had burnt his dreams. Consumed every waking thought until he was sick of it. “And it’s going to happen again. The city isn’t stable and it never has been.” They were kidding themselves if a city built on a criminal empire could ever be stable, could ever be a picturesque utopia. “It’s been that way long before the riots. And that wasn’t because of me, mouse or any of the others.”

  There’s a pause, a long one, and it fills the warehouse with static. Friends go to arcades together, eat ice-cream and too many sweets. It’s a naïve childish whim, but there’s still a part of him that hasn’t totally grown up. “Friends talk, don’t they?”

  “No more favours, but thank you—for everything.”

[jerichofalling]

he’s not one for asking pointless or impotent questions.  but apparently even with them voiced, the runner is still under the impression - somehow - that the solo is of a mind to see the chaos of the man in front of him.  

and while 13 can be -- infinitely p a t i e n t. there are times when he has limits. and the runner manages to press him - with those words, with that persistence to the edge of his.  and perhaps, it is a dangerous place to be.  because this is not a limit which has been tested before.  this is not a challenge that he normally faces.  it’s not life or death on the curve of his skill.  this is tempting those foreign things to the fore. a heat under his skin which is part frustration, part exasperation, part anger... none of which seem to overwhelm the other - just mixing and churning until his gut is taut and his skin feels paper thin.

and the sound which rumbles from his chest, head lowering, gaze locking on the runner is one that sounds more feral than human.  a growl which snaps out, and he has had -- 

“E N O U G H.”

one word which follows the sound with a snarl of it’s own.  something stark and clear enough to split the air asunder.  and he is turning fully, shoulders squaring.  bearing up to his not inconsiderable full height.  towering over the frail form of the other.  moving with purpose and intent.  

one hand reaches out and snatches up dexter, it’s an extension of arm that circles his waist ( putting no pressure on those lungs ) a literal steel band as grafted muscle locks around slender waist and lifts.  no pause still moving as the other hand plucks up the machine from the floor by the metal pole which the main box of the thing stood upon, wheels spinning in the air.  and he strides back to the small clamour of belongings gathered.  and the runner is deposited backonto the mattress, with no small amount of care, but with enough precise determination - and even if he thought dex had the strength in him to struggle back to his feet, 13 would put him down - again.  and again.  and as many times as it took.  because this is how lessons were learned in the real world.  they were hard and they were brutal and they were unforgiving.

“you want to talk?  FINE.  how about you try listening too?  because i am not your enemy.  i don’t know if i am your friend dio-- dexter.  but do not make the mistake of thinking that i have - friends.  if i do?  you are it.  you are the only one.  which is why i asked you.  what you want.  which is why i asked you.  if this is what friends do.  because i don’t know.  in the thirty years of life in my bones i have never known - a friend.”

“yes - be honest with me but accept honesty from me.  but do not - ever - take my honesty as an implication that i do not care --- for you...”

oh.

it’s out now.  you might as well continue. you’re on a roll, big guy.  why take your foot off the gas now?

i care?

well, duh?  why else would you have worried enough to go to his house?

so i care.  what difference does it make?

look at you?  you’re a mess.  you’re sweating and tense and disgusting.  how’re you feeling right now?  any clue?  because i sure as hell don’t have one.  see?  this is what ‘friends’ do to you.  i warned you.  they dig their way beneath your skin.  the poke and peel and sink themselves in deep, and every step you take, every turn and twist of fate, they pull at your being - tear just a little bit more of you apart.

“you might want to fight the world, but this is not the world you know.  this is not a line of code or a hack or a viral plant that you can use to crack through into some secret space.  this is reality and it is different here and it will not go gentle upon you.”

he thinks that perhaps there are delusions there.  a martyr to the masses, a salvation for the hopeless, the downtrodden.  and 13 knows well enough, than no man can find your salvation for you.  perhaps it’s a manifestation of the sickness.

he wasn’t sick when he bombed the police hq.  wasn’t sick when you thought john was dead.

he wouldn’t hurt john.

are you sure of that?

...

“so with all of that standing against you.  with this place and this life as much of a hardship as it can be - why do you wish to - fight - me?”

really though, you could just unscrew his head.

it was contextual.  not literal.  

you could though.  it would be easy.  snap his neck.  one quick -- twist -- it might stop your hands from shaking.

my... hands?

mmmhm,

he looks down then.  clenched fists, white knuckled, a visible tremble from that built up, pent up, strange storm of emotion bleeding out into the physical.  and the solo purposefully flexes his fingers.  tries to ease out some of that thickly strung tension.  it doesn’t seem to want to go away.

“should i have left you then?  in that small room?  should i have stayed away?  should i have come back to make sure you were okay?  should i have dismissed the call to come here tonight?  should i walk away now?”

again.  not rhetorical.  genuine in the asking.

walk away.  or kill him.  either works.

i am not going to do either.  i want answers.  i want to know whether i was wrong.  about all of this.

oh, you were wrong alright.  wrong to ever get involved.  really, this is why you don’t do this. why you don’t have ‘friends’.  because ‘caring’ means ‘emotion’ means shit that you just can’t handle, kiddo.  things that scrape and cut and bruise in places where a stitch or a bandaid just can’t reach.

but what if i was right?

he takes a deep breath and the shaking eases a little.  moves to bring himself closer.  sits on the edge of the mattress, knees bent almost to his chin, hands wrapping around his bent legs, if only so he can clasp his hands together and keep them solidly - inert.  and that tightness to his chest, his gut, the stretch of his skin seems all the more prominent now.  and there is no heat in his voice.  theres a rub of one thumb over the back of his hand, an almost soothing movement, and his eyes remain focussed on the floor at his feet.  swirls of dirt at the toes of his boots and dust motes hovering in the air from disturbance and movement.  there’s a long pause, and 13 turns his head - looks over at the boy in the mask, because now, surely, he looks like a boy.  perhaps older around the eyes, but still someone alone.  stuck in a world that would cut him to pieces.  that wouldn’t - care.  that would leave him here in this pitiful place on a dirty mattress in a cold, forgotten corner of a town that wouldn’t blink for the loss of him.

sometimes all it took was one person.

“no riots.  no net.  no city.  no politics.  no corps or contracts.  no guns... no death.  just you - and me.  tell me what this is?  tell me what -- are we?”

[jerichofalling]

Wanting people to listen, you can’t just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer, and then you’ll notice you’ve got their strict attention.

Se7en (1995) Dir. David Fincher

[jerichofalling]

dance with the devil || 13 + john [ past para ]

there is a small knot of apprehension. this is not something he is familiar with.  and as feet tread the streets he knows so well, he feels almost like everything is foreign.  perhaps a tinge of nervous anticipation then.  not something he’s - felt - for a long time.  nothing to creep beneath his skin and turn his stomach into a tumbling mass of butterflies.  he remembers something similar, but then it had been attached to dread, to things which bore no manner of ‘good’ - to those harsh lessons learned and learned quickly.  this?

this is different.

it’s not a foreboding that overwhelms senses.  nothing that settles into his bones with a cold dread.  this is an anxiousness perhaps borne of a worry of propriety.  it’s new and it’s something that people... ‘people’ ( not jericho... certainly not 13 ) do.  so he could probably do this.  there are things which were necessitated and he has been very careful to abide by those things which were classed as ‘societal norms’.  in fact, he’s been rather meticulous about it.  he really doesn’t want to get it wrong.

there’s a crackle over the intercom as the door is buzzed open.  13 pausing in the wide hallway, taking in his surroundings - so vastly different from the basic simplicity of the basement.  it was... plush.  modern.  sleek and stylish.  there was colour instead of just grey.  a splash of softness in a few sparse furnishings, and he wonders if john’s apartment is like this.  thinks perhaps that his own -- home -- is rather paler by comparison.  it’s clean.  functional.  nothing more.  there’s a small twist of lips as he passes the elevator and takes the stairs ( something he has more of a tendency to do by instinct rather than conscious thought ) begins to climb...  mind flickering to the challenge john had overcome... how he had - climbed - the red string seized from the empty elevator shaft, pulled from cables, held in clenched hand trembling with effort, skinned and bloodied, defiance and victory chasing the light in his gaze as 13 had laid down the next challenge - that fire which burned brightly even in the throes of exhaustion... perhaps then, this was john’s challenge to him.  an invitation into his life - one which was... so very, very... different.  a lesson to learn.

long legs take the stairs two at a time.  though he’s not late.  he is - never - late.  he is on time.  it’s four minutes to the hour.  and as he reaches the top floor, only roof access above, a door is pushed open into another wide hallway.  and he takes thirty seconds of those four minutes to pause, hand running through his hair - combed back and wrestled from it’s usual unruly state.  presses hands down the front of his shirt, immaculately white, not a crease or a blemish to the surface.  freshly shaven, skin smelling of soap and vanilla, no blood beneath his fingernails...

three minutes now, and his hand raises to knock against the door with the number he was given.  maybe the preparation wasn’t enough - perhaps there was something he’d missed, though he had planned this since the invitation had been extended - there’s no time for further thought or adjustment as the door swings open... perhaps it would be enough.

“hello, john.”

[jerichofalling]

the pit || 13 & john

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

Keep reading

[jerichofalling]

head angles and he returns the gaze as john seems to linger.  one of those unspoken questions.  but he also knows the virtue of patience.  so he waits, motionless.  only the slight rise and fall of his chest with slow, steady breaths - though perhaps the heart within, that awakened heart.  one which didn’t just beat through simple means of biology - necessitating function to his body, no longer a simple, inert organ - but one that now thrived, fluttered, beat with a purpose and presence... --beat a little faster in this presence.  

he can see clearer now, with the slight of time - the darker purpling of bruises that pepper john’s skin.  smooth skin that curves over honed muscle.  older scars mapped among fresher ones, marks of a live lived, and one survived this far.  and he thinks, perhaps, that heart in his chest swells a little more -- for if he has a sin, then it is, pride.  he’s proud of what john has done, of his unwavering dedication, of the way his focus dials down to the a singularity and he moves toward it with that unstoppable momentum... all of that work, was john’s doing - not the solo’s.  perhaps a little nudge in one direction or the other, but he had done this - himself.

and now, there is another of those singularities.  and the solo feels a flush of heat at being the point of that focus.  as though johns gaze carries with it it’s own heat, it’s own crackle of something like electricity.  and there’s no touch, no immediate proximity, only that small, still moment - but it still somehow manages to feel physical.  though as john does move, 13 is of a mind that he is watching a predator - a stalking sinuous shift of muscle in a slow rhythmic dance.  

the kiss... is nothing other than sublime.

he has read of the word - rapture - before.  in those holy tomes, tucked into the back of churches.  and he had thought that such a thing was only meant for the pure and the penitent ( of which he was... neither... not even close ).  but as john’s lips meet his, he thinks that this might be it.  because he can’t think of anything that could be more - rapturous - than this.  and he lets his hands tangle in the sheets.  not reaching for the other man, revels in his touch, his lips, surrenders to the... winner... in totality.  tonight, he is johns prize.  tonight.  and every night.

a sound rumbles deep, spills free into john’s mouth, curls around his tongue and lingers on his breath.  a deep sound of satisfaction.  a ‘yes’ and a ‘please’ and a ‘more’ in one low, succinct moan.

perhaps it’s an invitation, perhaps john already has a means to this in his mind - but as those lips trail over skin, jericho shifts, tilts his head, exposes more skin.  feels the swipe and nip of tongue and teeth.  wonders if john can feel the racing pulse in the vein that his lips pass over.  and while he might be mindful that in this he is john’s for the taking, there’s no disallowance of reaction.  a tense and flex of solid muscle as teeth press harder against his skin - another of those decadent moans spilling freely from his lips - a hiss and twitch as john moves lower and teases at sensitive nipple.  slight shifts, squirming as his body reacts to the touches, each one sending decadent heat swirling into his gut, tying him in knots, ones that would steadily unravel beneath those attentive, skilled hands.

hands which, no doubt, feel the heat radiating from his skin.  the slide of hands over his thighs cause his aching cock to jump at the proximity, a hint of a promise - one that’s right there, and lingering on the periphery.  and he lifts his head enough to watch as john’s head dips.  sees that wickedness in his gaze - but it’s still not enough to prepare him for the sudden heated swipe of tongue.  not enough to stop his hips jumping, tension locking into those long legs.  tension which doesn’t give, even as john wraps slicked fingers around heated, hardened flesh.  the solo’s head dropping back onto the pillow, eyes rolling back into his head at the much needed, desired friction.  

a low murmur of ‘fuck’ snaps free.  and he’s already moving, meeting the strokes with his own rhythm.  hips pressing himself up into the grip of johns hand with a sharp shudder of pleasure.  and it’s only then that the surrender breaks, those words breathed like sin and temptation into his ear.  hands untangle from where they’re gripping the sheets, find johns skin.  pulls him closer.  and he turn his head, ever so slightly - the broad span of large palms mapping the curve in the other’s spine. 

“i want you, john.  i want you to take me.  make me yours.”

and the next word isn’t the heat of passion, but the thrum of emotion, something that is heartfelt and soft.  almost a murmur against skin.  it’s something gentle, not lacking in warmth or sincerity.  not tagged on as an afterthought, but something genuine... honest...

“...please?”

[samwesson]

he wears the smell of blood and death like a perfume there is fire in his eyes and ice in his veins but you love him anyway for he is a star burning with the light of a thousand suns (and your world is dark without him) [x]

[better-classofcriminal]

The Crack in the Lens - Matteo and 13

[better-classofcriminal]

It is nearing six o’ clock and the evening light is still bright, here, in the old age of summer. It glints with barbaric purity against chrome and mellow lightness against artfully crumbling brick, the novel and the ancient housed side by side, as was the tendency of the wealthy. There must always be an eye to the future and the past, the finest gadgets housed alongside paintings whose artists had starved to produce them – both present out of more of a show than any true technical or aesthetic sense. The pageantry of the coarsest thing of them all – money. Money – Matteo knew – was important. He knew it was important in a way that no man would who had been born into it. He knew of its importance as a man who knows every last cent and credit in his bank accounts, because he too, has one foot in the past, and one foot in the future, and it is not for show. There was a time when a waylaid cent could have meant the different between sleeping under a roof or out in the rain, between dinner or a growling belly, between life or death. He understands the essentialities of money in a way that no person who has ever not survived a life of desperation will, and he does not detest it.

There are the rich, and there are the poor. The rich will always trample the poor. All he can do is what he can, and he is not a Robin Hood. He is kind to those he can be kind to, without fearing for an appearance of weakness. He has climbed – slowly, brutally, painstakingly, from where he was – a boy with only a name and a haunting face – to who he is now. None of that story is heroic. Nothing in it speaks of selflessness to the greater world at large. He has done what he does for the protection of himself and his inner circle. He has killed – yes, but it was never for pleasure, but only out of necessity. He too, has perhaps, sold his soul, or tarnished it, or whatever the popular descriptor might be, but he has done it simply because that is who he now. That is his means of survival. Deaths – indirect, and direct, flow from his hands, and while they bother him, while they always bother him, they do not and cannot stop him. He does not want to die himself, which is the truth of it. He has survived for what seems to him to be a long time – he has no true idea of what the future holds, although he can sense the instability of his business will destroy him before long if he cannot plan an exit.

He now has – money.

He now has – power.

What he does not have is a life free from that what he has made. He does not have safety, and he perhaps never will. He will always have to be cautious. He will always have to come face to face with the worst traits of himself, whether or not it was looking in a mirror, or wielding a knife. He has – nearly every thing he has ever wanted, save a life that was so foreign to himself as to be almost incomprehensible, glimpsed at in a surgeon’s practice, over a cup of tea. A life that was worth more than all the hundreds of thousands stored safely away – that would weather and fade were his life taken.

It does make him think, as he sits in his car – blank and nondescript – on that lovely, sunny street that does not know that a man has been murdered. His fingers tap on the wheel lightly, but his eyes do not glance back to the phone, which has been silent since that last message had lit it up, the soft beep heralding it. He only shifts his head when the movement past his car stills in his periphery, gaze sliding to his wristwatch  - noting the time. Eyes slide upwards, and they regard the giant for a moment, without glee, without any manner of joy, perhaps a little with relief, perhaps a little more tired than they were previously. He has not slept as well as he thinks he does, at night.

No immediate reply, but a single, dexterous finger does press down, does lower the window, a soft whine of gears working. The young man’s face is blank – what many who work with him call his ‘working’ face, albeit it is the only one they usually see. It looks as though it has been carved in Renaissance marble – not by an emotive Bernini but an idealizing Michelangelo - all angles and austerity, thin lips set. Only the eyes - large, liquid, and dark – seem to betray the inherent humanity, and to an outsider, if an outsider cared to glimpse, it could have been a striking moment. A David and Goliath, perhaps, albeit engaged in civilized conversation. They are not enemies. Matteo doesn’t, to his knowledge, have enemies. The ones he knows of are dead.

“It’s done.”

A blink at that, and a tilt of his head at this confirmation.

“I believe you.”

“It was - interesting.”

“I am glad.”

There is a flicker of something more than that simple, dark neutrality that he regarded him with before at the next question. The temptation to keep conversation short and efficient is strong. Matteo does take the time it takes to hand him the second case containing his payment as he thinks – a few extra seconds allowing him to formulate his words.

“How does it feel for you, when you do it?”

Odd words, and at that, he is like a boy again. He is curious – because he wants to know if he is alone in being haunted, or perhaps, is searching for a sign that he is unsuited, or perhaps, simply is interested.

It is not a confession, but it is the truth. It is what he feels – although not after, when he tosses and turns in nightmares he has little control over -  it is not what he used to feel when he was a child, and when he was unused to such things and afraid – afraid of what a piece of metal and a trigger could do.

His dark eyes meet his, and there is a serenity to the young man, a peacefulness, that is perhaps less genuine as it is the anesthetizing of a man so he is able to do what he must, each and every day, so he can be inured to the horrors that flow from his hands when they must. Peacefulness, but also that troubling intellect, that quiet knowledge that seeks to do war with his numbness, to force him to feel once more, to drag him into inefficiencies and second guessing – weakness.

“I have not felt anything for a long time.”

[jerichofalling]

‘How does it feel for you, when you do it?’

he doesn’t know.  in the moment, there’s a stark clarity.  something crystal and pure.  something cold.  impervious to the screams ( should any be allowed to happen ) unmoved by any words, any begging, any manner of sentimental plea ( should there be an opportunity for the mark to speak ).  he becomes, wholly and completely, a weapon.  

he isn’t even human.  he’s not sure if it’s even possible for him to feel.  to claw any semblance of jericho to the surface, past the beast that is 13, with his head thrown back, roaring at the world, claiming his kill with all of the ferocity he can muster.  drinking down every ounce of the visceral, the violent, the elegant death that is bestowed with graciousness and gratitude.  for their death undoubtedly spares others - keeps that trembling horror at bay - in control ( as much as he is ever in control of ‘it’ - but it hasn’t completely escaped him... yet ).

so he gives the most honest answer he can.

“i don’t -- feel --”

he just - doesn’t.  there is no ‘emotion’ involved.  emotion, as he has been told, is attachment, and he is not - attached.  wholly detached.  and lately, he has come to know the explosive colours of emotion, the world shimmering into a vibrant kaleidoscope where before it had been... muted.  has only recently experienced true emotion, strong enough to move him - body, mind and deeply tainted soul.  there is none of that.  and he wouldn’t want there to be.  like this, it is clean, simple.  

he takes the bag through the open window.  wonders why it is that the young man might feel more secure behind that flimsy metal barrier - or perhaps he just wishes to depart as soon as possible - as soon as he has his answer.  and as it’s slipped up onto one shoulder in the same manner as before, he takes the time to look.  always time.  always patient.  can more easily glean the curiosity that sits in the glassy darkness of those eyes - more difficult to discern an expression perhaps, because of the shade therein.  maybe there is a little more he can offer, because even with the honesty of that response - a specific reply, to a specific question, that’s not all there is to it.

but in the aftermath - there is, perhaps... more.   in the peace and calm of completion.  something which allows him to maintain.  to continue.  to be either jericho, or 13, and not simply that weapon, that augment of flesh and tech, that tentative, ticking, constant time-bomb - slowed... quieted... seconds stretching out.  

“later, perhaps... sated.”

he doesn’t know if the other is aware of where the moniker originates.  if perhaps he thinks it’s a reference to those streams of chance, which play out of favour - unlucky for some.  though it rather refers to the totality of those non-human elements carefully concealed within.

“this is my profession.  it is also my catharsis.”

perhaps that is enough.  perhaps he will just sound like a cold-hearted, bloodthirsty killer.  he doubts very much that the pale smooth skinned youth desires a full description or explanation.  and he’s not entirely sure that he’s wholly comfortable saying much more than that to a stranger.

‘I have not felt anything for a long time.’

he has no context for that.  not felt anything in totality?  is rather something the solo can relate to.  at least - until recently.  and there’s a small tilt of his head, a quirk which implies a question is in the offing, carefully meshing words together in the only way he knows how.  and he’s not sure if the other expects a response, or whether it was simply a statement.  but he offers one anyway - ignoring that the evening has become dulled, with septic looking clouds, a light drizzle beginning to fall.

“depending on the situation, emotion is a blessing or a curse.  i can’t say that it is good to feel, or not to.  but i know that it is a bleaker, blander, colder world with the absence of them in totality.  i have existed in that world.”

he doesn’t any longer.  but he has.  and he chooses that word, most carefully.  existence as opposed to ‘living’.  and now, he can see the difference between the two.  but it is only with the comparison that it’s clearer - with the revelation that he can see those differences.  knows the danger of it, and has felt the worst of emotion in that moment when he’d thought he’d lost -- everything... has felt the best of it too.  and yes, it was worth it.  

but that thread of curiosity ran in more than one direction -- wondering, perhaps, why it might matter to the other.  why would someone who was apparently no stranger to killing, or to having others killed, wonder about the emotion involved - no less from one who had been simply hired to perform the task.  

“why do you ask?”  

[jerichofalling]

the pit || 13 & john

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

Keep reading

[jerichofalling]

when john turns, jericho just lets his hands slide free.  not falling away completely, maintaining contact on that water slick skin, sliding carefully around his waist, large hands splayed out, trailing with lazy, but still lustful intent.  john has the capacity to do that to him.  the smallest of things, the simplest of things, to stoke those embers of passion, to stir a flame of want in his gut.  to warm his skin and a hundred other sensations that aren’t just ‘sex’, but a mixture of foreign emotions that he still doesn’t quite understand.  perhaps he isn’t supposed to.  something that feels indulgent, something that feels new and brings with it a different kind of excitement.  which can make his stomach flip in the strangest of ways, but not an unpleasant sensation. perhaps this - this strange sensation, one which so easily stirs both body and mind - is the thing that they call love?  he would like to think that it is.  

it’s what he feels when john kisses him.

that nervous flutter of excitement, the sheer immersion in johns lips on his own, the touch of his hands on his skin, tangling in those too long locks of hair ( that slender red thread still woven through a small chunk to the back ).  and where john was previously the one to voice his arousal in those delicately wanton moans, now it’s the turn of the solo - a deep hum of pleasure, moving closer as john does so their bodies are flush, even where gooseflesh rises ( a mixture of his own reaction to those touches more than the cooling of water on his skin ).  he wonders how much of this john has learned from knowing him, and how much of it is simply instinct, but he does seem to know exactly where to touch, and perhaps, how to tease even if he is not mindful of the response it stirs.

‘you gonna let me have you?’

“yes.”

his lips betray him in that moment, a light twitch of a smile.  he does not ‘give’ easily.  and most of the time he does not ‘give’ at all.  and that giving is of himself.  of jericho - while others may see 13, he doesn’t remember anyone other than marcell who might have perhaps even seen a glimmer of the other.  until john.  and he finds that beneath johns gaze, he does want to be seen.  he does want to give.  anything that might be asked of him.  or anything he can think that might be accepted.  and in this moment, he does give.  he gives john his whole attention, he gives him his time, his smile, his body ( very willingly ) his thoughts.  he doesn’t think that he can give him his heart - that part was surrendered to him already, some time ago.

though those thoughts are rather put on -- pause -- by the fighters next action.  jericho’s eyes fluttering shut, his jaw loose, lips parted to pull in a sharp breath.  but he moves, ducks his head quickly enough to catch johns lips the moment he hears it - drinks down that delicious sound, pulls the moan into his mouth, catches it behind his teeth.  however much john might be self conscious about the sounds he makes, jericho is just eager to hear the next, and the next, and the next...

one hand does move then, raising and sliding along john’s jaw, moving slightly until their foreheads are pressed together and the remnants of the water run away.

“poets do not always use things lyrical to proclaim their sonnets.  artists do not always use paint to create their masterpieces.  sometimes, a sonnet is simply in the honesty of the words.  and art is by the clumsy, unskilled hand, but becomes something astoundingly beautiful in it’s creation...”

he does step back then, a small sound at the unwanted space between them.  but his hands remain on skin, long arms reaching easily and guiding the other towards him, even as he steps back.  most of the blood and sweat is gone, and there are just two, slightly tender bodies, which will most certainly find their relief, their healing, their sanctuary in the arms of the other.  mindful of the floor, not to slip, it’s only then that he does turn away, making sure that he has one hand linked with the others, moving quietly from the bathroom to the bedroom.  and he doesn’t care if the sheets become damp, doesn’t mind if there are blood stains from uncovered wounds, still tender and fragile.  these are only ‘things’, and they don’t matter.  unabashed as he finally lets go and settles the long length of his body on top of the sheets.  

“then take care of me, john.  unmake me and recreate me.  turn me into something as beautiful beneath your hands as you are beneath mine.”

[better-classofcriminal]

The Crack in the Lens - Matteo and 13

[better-classofcriminal]

He’s parked his car at the specified area, fingers still lightly lingering on the wheel. It’s a place to park that he must pay for the privilege, here, among the relatively elite, but he blends in quite well. Many would think that men in his position, rising inexorably from not having so much as a roof over his head or enough food to nourish a growing body to having more money than he quite frankly knows what to do with, would go out of their way to spend it on all the trappings. In fact, the opposite is often true, especially with young entrepreneurs that are too successful and busy to much care what people thought of them. These young men and women, like Matteo, certainly did live in nice homes, in high-rise apartments, in modern lofts, but there’s modernity to them, a lack of showiness that underscores their expense. They drive several year old cars from good manufactures that are dependable, but not always incredibly flashy. When a person is serious – not about a quick rich scheme, but about building something long-term, when a person crafts an empire out of something more than simple, dumb luck, there has to be a kind of money sense.

Matteo fits the profile in a sense, and even his extreme pallor doesn’t separate him from the tech moguls and the geniuses who stay up long nights in front of their computer. He could easily pass as a young entrepreneur – a youth manufacturer of an in-demand product, and in a sense, he is. His product, for which he still gets calls for when his schedule allows, used to be mainly high-grade and innovative weaponry, but now that product has changed into something a little more direct and a little more simple. He manufacturers fear, devotion, and occasionally, when either or both of those things fall short, he manufactures corpses. A side effect of all of this is that it makes him a wealthy man as well as an unstable one. If he had the choice in life, he would have certainly shunned harming fellow human beings and perhaps invested in something safer, like software, but he had made his choices with the information available at the time, and he would not waste his own time lamenting a hand dealt.   It doesn’t make him jealous to sit here in his conspicuously boring model of car, that he has had to build his life in a less conventional way. He’s built a life. That’s enough.

That life has also been built on a series of careful gambles, challengingly, upon people. He’s not skilled at reading other human beings well, apart from the basic necessities needed to do his job, and so a lot of those choices are based upon reputation. They are based upon raking through the muck with laser focus, piecing through the exaggerated, the downright lies, until a certain average of story is found, the common denominator expounded by the masses. The reason he’s chosen the solo isn’t just because of skill, extolled as it was, it’s because of a certain dependability, confidentiality, and the self control evident in that he’s highly augmented by street-word and is still ticking respectably along. He thinks that he might like a challenge – the challenge presented in the problem, he expects that 13 has enough money if his skills and his dependability were true to reputation. Matteo certainly would, he thinks, if he was in this explicit line of work. He thinks he may say yes, but he doesn’t know. Waits patiently, with a hope that he will, but with interest regardless to see if he’ll arrive.

He sees him. Precisely on time, and rolls down the window, gazing up at him with a quiet curiosity, before he unravels long legs and climbs out of the vehicle to speak with him. He leans narrow shoulders against the car, hands pressed in his pockets, dark eyes thoughtful. It doesn’t show explicitly on his face, but he’s pleased. There’s a nod. It’s an appropriate length of time for something of this difficulty. “I am glad you find it so. It is certainly something that will require meticulousness and creativity. “

It’s unspoken that that is why he’s reached out to him in the first place.

He’s already shifting to lean back into the car to begin the transaction, when the question takes him by surprise, makes him straighten. Technically, he’s under no obligation to tell him anything, although he can appreciation the interest – and perhaps caution. There’s a moment of silence as he puts together the words, organizes them. In a second language and with a stranger, eloquence is far more difficult for him to execute than efficiency.

“As I mentioned, I usually do these things myself.” His tone was quiet, even, his words honest. There’s no bragging, if anything, it’s understated, simple, just the facts. “As someone in your profession knows, there’s an intimacy to such an action. “ There was – oftentimes, a tremendous intimacy, witnessing last moments, causing last moments. In a certain way, it had driven him to try to make his own weaponry designs more efficient, effective, to minimize pain. Murder was never something that he objected to – save for a few, moral objections, not in the same way torture made him far more sickened than he’d be comfortable admitting. He is not a saint, but he does have his own brand of morality, and of preferences, based upon experiences.

“I think that setting up requires more than a simple text message or phone call. I am not ordering a pizza. I am not divorced from what I am asking. I take responsibility for these actions – whether or not it is my hands that undertake them. That is why I wanted to meet you. Common or not.”

It is far more personal than he expected to get, but he’s not against being honest if asked.

With that, he leans back into the car and gives him the money – not in a stereotypical shiny briefcase, but in a modified laptop case that will sling over a shoulder – far more inconspicuous within this part of town. Every bill has been meticulously organized by denomination inside it, and he’s checked the amount personally, carefully. Half - the rest on completion.

“Contact me when the contract is complete. We will meet again.”

A confirmation to his question. Dark eyes flicker up to the solo’s again, and there’s a nod, before he turns to open the car door. His words are soft.

“Until then, 13.”

[jerichofalling]

it takes him exactly four days, three hours and twenty seven minutes to complete the contract.  complete, when he is assured that the mark is dead, glassy lifeless eyes staring up at his ceiling.  and this ceiling is not that of a luxurious penthouse apartment.  not a place replete with those trappings of the rich and paranoid.  here, it’s squalid, a place far from the intense personal security the man had swathed himself in.  a place where ash and dirt were more common than even asphalt.  far, far away from that life the man had - mistakenly - thought could not be touched.

gloved hands place the body just so, in the back of his limousine.  letting some of that dirt purposefully fall onto leather and pristine plush carpeted floor.  lets it slump a little, leaning over a table with cut crystal of the finest kind, a bottle of liqueur, likely paid for with more money than most in night city would see in a year.  one finger idly nudges the top, tipping the decanter so those contents flood out.  expensive cigars.  a small clipped case of the newest and most extravagant chems.  a man who lived for money.  and died because of it.  because one slender youth had handed the solo a backpack, money that had been taken in return for services rendered - and now earned.  there are no bodyguards here.  no cameras.  nothing to record the deed.  this was simply another of those mysterious murders that might linger on the books of night city’s police department, before slipping away into an archive, long forgotten and of no import.  a man who was deemed ‘important’ by his own standards, now suddenly rendered - inert.

and that limousine is left.  perhaps to be picked clean by street rats or wayward chem-heads.  parked in an abandoned warehouse.  graffiti scrawled on the walls.  the scent of age and dirt and poverty wringing through the corners.  no man of power or influence would come here by choice.  no man of wealth or standing would stoop so low.  so in the end, to be laid to rest in a coffin of luxury surrounded by the poor and filthy and lowly.  it was rather the delicate irony.

wealth cannot.  will not.  save you. all of the security that money can buy, will never be secure enough. there is not a system that cannot be hacked. a head that cannot be turned. a - crack - that cannot be found... or at least... manufactured.

and he takes a step back.  lets that tension slip from his shoulders.  breathing in, breathing out.  words murmured in another language, ones he learned by rote, the meaning of which are well known to him.  the last rites of a mortal soul.

some might think it another irony, that a murderer could think to do such a thing.  perhaps a blasphemy from the unordained.  but he is a priest of a different kind.  and those words are as much for his own benefit as they are the still warm corpse.  they are a ritual in kind.  a signal to himself that this is - over.  to lull the beast, now sated, the blood price paid once more.  another stain to his own soul, perhaps to show mercy unto others.  but that ritual is his, and he performs it, feels the heated hunger subsiding.  the coarse adrenalin ebbing ( though none of the augments would be fully abandoned until he was clear of the site, no traces left behind, no scraps of evidence, no footprints in the dirt, not a hair, not a blemish ).

it’s not the money.  not the sense of name ( though he has made one for himself ) it’s this. this moment when - in the aftermath - he feels... at peace.

it’s another forty three minutes before he has returned to the basement and sent a brief message to the coded contact.  just one word.

‘C O M P L E T E’.

he showers.  dresses in clean clothes.  runs his hands through his hair.  checks for messages.  same place.  same time.

and he arrives once more.  at one minute before the hour.  

that same precision carried through, even in the meeting of his - client.  this is a job.  and there is no other time when the solo has more focus.  more of that intrinsic, hard honed nature bleeding through.  even with all of those augments now dormant, or not in active use, there’s still a ‘hum’ from the background, in his body.  in his mind.  an idling engine... 

“it’s done.”

that simple.  he doesn’t offer anything other.  there’s no ‘proof’ ( other than the body would be found and word would spread both about the death, perhaps -- it already had, though he doesn’t concern himself with such details ) - he doesn’t carry any and won’t offer any.  it’s simple enough, if he hadn’t managed to do the job, he would have returned the money as promised.  he might be a killer, but he does not - steal.  

“it was - interesting.”

he had to manufacture the opportunity. but for one who was quite used to doing so, it had just taken more of that patience and careful planning.  and a note about the - ‘intimacy’ - mentioned before, so he does pose another question to the other.

“is there anything else that you wish to know?”

for one who usually did his own killing, he wonders if there’s any manner of curiosity there, or just a simple acceptance.

[runner-dex]

Mind of a Beast | 13 & Dex

[runner-dex]

  His jaw clenched, breath sharp and rasping in his chest, if there was ever an appropriate word for the present moment in time it wouldn’t be a pleasant one. Dark brows knitted together in his confusion, he had not meant to insult and there was a part of him that was quietly hurt, though he wouldn’t admit it. One shaking hand pressed the mask to his face once more, breathing in sweet relief, he didn’t argue in return as the flurry of sharp bitter words fly. Certainly not with the cold metal pressed against his skin, he could feel the sharp outline of the barrel and yet it was his words that stole the focus.

  Scapegoat.

  Lilt of confusion and then, it clicked into place, the solo thought that his actions had been his only intent, that regardless of whether John was locked in a cell he would’ve committed them. That now he wished to place his reasoning at John’s feet as if he had caused him to jump to such extremes. In that moment, he realised that the solo didn’t know him at all.

  Not in the slightest.

  And in that moment, he realised he is alone. Which, is a far colder concept than any the gun cocked to his head. His own morality didn’t scare him, not like it should, but there was a bitter grief that it might be him to pull the trigger. 

  The silence falls in the wake of the solo and it settles into his bones, into the very core of him, he trembles and then grasping the machine he relies so readily on he goes after him. Not fast nor strong but he wasn’t silent either. His pursuit couldn’t be ignored and even if he doesn’t reach him before he reaches the door, the difference in stride is striking, he utters. “Wait—” Breathless from the exertion, he’d largely forgotten what it was like to move.

  He struggles to keep the storm of emotions in check, the distress and emptiness that settled swiftly into his chest buried deep. But, if one knew Dion well enough they’d be evident. Few did, and so it went unnoticed most of the time. His held isn’t held high but his gaze doesn’t linger on his shoes, somewhere in the middle, humble.

  “I didn’t—I didn’t mean offence.” He was afraid and he had been alone, foolishly he’d reached for help. The months disappear backwards as if time has stood still, the netrunner reverting back to short sentences, stumbled over and hesitant. John had been the first to believe in him again, that he was capable of something more than strung together codes, and it was that part of him that’d been mortified by his incarceration. Freed him as a result of an unspoken favour, a kindness that John had showed him, so he’d returned it but the effect was not that same. He apparently was lacking the intrinsic altruism that John so easily possessed. “I wanted to help, I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not good at being a friend.” He is earnest in his confession and he doesn’t expect him to stay. But he hopes that amends could perhaps be made.

[jerichofalling]

he kills for money.  

not for passion or emotion.  not for a cause.  not for any other reason than a contract presented.  and he only hopes that the next one will test his skill to the limit.  will have the beast snarling in his belly, hungry for blood, for the death that will surely come to that name - handed on a slip of paper or whispered in quiet tones.  he has never killed for any other reason ( though recently, very recently, he has come close.  has tasted the red mist of anger, cold, stark and hard.  colder than he’d ever been before.  though that blade had been halted by a presence he thought had ceased to exist.  words.  a slap... yes, he remembers that.  a sharp jolt which spoke to him more than what he’d thought to have been a phantom.

perhaps they - the ‘they’ that make up the populace, the ‘they’ of night city - would think his killing ‘dirty’, callous, wretched in kind.  but he doesn’t.  there’s something pure about a detached kill.  something clean about that anonymity.  about knowing that the name was a marked man, or woman, and that perhaps they were - lucky - that their enemy had chosen him to dispatch them, remove them of the mortal coil.  because he has never failed.  there’s no mess.  no chaos ( unless it’s a specific engineered ‘exact’ chaos as part of the contract itself ).  they had been marked.  and they would die.  he is simply, the tool of their removal.  he just doesn’t understand, at least, not completely, those other drivers, which cause a person to pick up arms and wage war.

if you didn’t mean offence, then do not be offensive.  

the solo had taken the runners words as the belittling tirade they had been.  insinuation,  accusation, that jericho had done - nothing - to extricate john from that incarceration.  he.  hadn’t.  known.

“i did not come here for any other reason than you asked me to.”

words returned as feet still, though he does not turn back to face the other.  hears the scrape and rattle of the machine as it’s pulled across the floor.  it would not have been necessary - if that suit had been used for the purpose intended.  not to turn the other into a weapon, but to heal him.  to help him.  exactly the same intent as the solo had when he’d come here.  but both, it seemed - had become twisted.

he had thought that there might have been something.  he had killed for him, yes, it had been a contract, but he had accepted...  he had sought him out in the static of silence.  had summoned the medic.  had tried.  he still... doesn’t know what a friend is supposed to be.  his actions had been of someone, perhaps, trying to find out.  perhaps it would just be another of those things -- something else he didn’t... would never understand.  

“i do not care that you killed those people.”

perhaps, if this conversation had taken another turn, then jericho might even have thanked the other for manufacturing a means of freedom for john.  as it stands... he won’t do that.  

“i do not know what you want from me.  because if it is - friendship - then i cannot see it.  is this what friends do?”

he’s asking, not out of anything else than an honest enquiry.  he simply doesn’t know.  

“i had thought...”

there’s a tension which doesn’t ease.  something that still rings taut in his frame as the words trail into silence, eyes lifting to the dark ceiling of the warehouse - almost as though searching for some manner of divine inspiration, a glimmer of sudden understanding.

“i don’t want you to kill for me.  i’m more than competent.  i do not want favour from you.  i do not want anything.”

“i came here.  because.  you.  asked.  me.”

“so what do you want from me?  someone to simply agree with you?  someone to tell you what you wish to hear?  someone to ask favour of?  or did you want to talk - honestly - to a friend?  to someone who comes when you call without question.  decide what it is you think i am, dex.  what it is you want.  please - tell me?  because i don’t know.”

[jerichofalling]

the pit || 13 & john

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

There’s a joy to water for him in addition to the often-quoted properties of purification. For John – there’s memories buried far back of carefree summers, the dancing of sunlight against flat waves pushed up by gleefully splashing bodies. It’s been years since he’s tried to swim, but the memories are still there – summer camps and roughed-up elbows and knees and hands from too-aggressive rounds of flag football or soccer, the stinging and the soothing sensation of water against wounds. Those memories are bright, treasured – complex and simple as the taste of cherry shaved ice on a hot July day – and they seem almost to belong to someone else. That gaily laughing little boy, freed from the concrete jungle of New York City, with his only concern being about the cute little girl with the pigtails sitting next to him in mess hall.

He would have hoped that that kid would have been proud of him rather than horrified by him – seen past the liberal scarring over a chest that had turned over the years from narrow to broad and muscular, the adult cynicism that has touched upon a joy that was already being tainted, even back then, on those summer days that seemed to last forever. He wondered what that child would think if he knew that this was the man he would become – and he did, feel, a twinge of nostalgia for that sweet innocence – the innocence of one who didn’t know that his life would change so quickly after, and with little of it under his control.

The ache he feels in his body is not from skinned knees from too much capture the flag, but it’s soothing all the same to have the water wash over him, sink into his body, and warm to his bones. It’s rare that he lets himself luxuriate so long as he does now – much more used to efficient, quick showers, often chose them cold to wake him up after a drowsy start – but it’s nice to take the few creature comforts that seem to matter to him now. It felt good to take a few moments to unknot the tension from his muscles, to stand under the steady fall of water and simply feel it run over his skin, breathe out, and in, hands pressing light to tile, eyes closing for just a moment, feeling himself soothe, calm, center.

Keep reading

[jerichofalling]

the water runs red when he joins john, loosening a little from the surface of those neatly stitched cuts, swirling around their feet, running slowly pink and then clear.  the remnants of the fight flowing away with the water, leaving only those lasting bruises and cuts, things which would fade with time, would heal.  as all things did - eventually.  some would leave scars, some would disappear without trace, but all would remain in one way or another, even if they were there as a memory.  and this is a - good - memory.  for all they’re beaten, blooded, they are not - broken.  for all they are wounded and injured, they are not - hurt.  not in those truer, deeper, senses.  if anything, the complete opposite is the case.  a notion of joy, of happiness, of warmth and comfort in those small words, bold touches.

it seems though, as though jericho is not the only one who’s been paying attention.  for all of the things john has been through, no less the challenges that had been set for him by the solo in the first iteration of their meetings, that mentor-student setting where tasks had been set and completed... perhaps john has realised, that running at the wall is not the only way to get around it.  that there is always a crack.  always a small part, if you stop, wait, breathe, observe... which is the weak point, the leverage, the place at which to begin.  so perhaps now john has found his.  and the lips which are still pressed to that thick corded muscle slip into a smile, over the new redness in his skin - a mark put there by 13 which would remain alongside the other bruises, the cuts, the beaten and broken - as a reminder as they healed... that not everything had to be done as a means of violence.  ( and yes, he’d much rather have been the one to put those marks to john’s skin by these means.  but he also understands the need for john to have his escape, his release, his way of putting to the test all of those lessons learned.  honing skill from the unfamiliar, the unexpected, rather than the familiar ).  so yes... paying attention, and the realisation is this;  john is the crack in jericho’s wall.  

“all you have to do... all you ever had to do, john --”

and here’s the part where he’d been paying attention.   no less for that second task set.  to retrieve the string from jericho’s hair.  one which had been a success with but a few words ‘why don’t you just marry me then?’ -- yes.  the answer was yes.  a simple question.  and it had been given ( a lot more than the string, but that none the less ).

“...is ask me.”

he aches, but the water is helping to soothe thick, heavy muscle.  to loosen off what threatened to seize.  and movement does too.  the gentle working of those tired limbs, the careful motions of his body, so as not to tear any of those meticulous stitches.  and it’s a little snug, in the shower ( thankfully it’s amply big enough for the solo, which means that two do fit if they stand close ), but he does manage to lean forward, to catch the corner of john’s lips with his own, to press a soft kiss there.

there is another small smile.  something of self amusement in johns next words. 

‘if you want me’.

he does.  he has, since they began those tentative sessions together.  the solo observing the other, but controlling that - want - for the sake of their professional relationship.  it wasn’t ‘professional’, at least not in that sense - not anymore.  not since those boundaries had trembled, crumbled beneath the weight of his want for john, and perhaps john’s for him.  a building tension, something in the end, which had ended in an explosion of lust.  and then this.  those moments of care.  of a softness from the solo not shown to the world.  of a vulnerability from john that was carefully concealed.  small breaths of something that was perhaps as close to freedom as either of them would find.

“i want you john.”

pressing more of those kisses along the heavy blade of john’s shoulder.

“i want your hands.”

moving his own, still seated above johns, manouvering him slowly.

“your lips.  your body.  your sex.”

around and down until he can guide johns fingers to a more intimate place, the grip he takes is john’s hand around his own cock, and jerichos linked, knitted between his own fingers.

“your touch.  your thoughts.  your words... and those beautiful sounds you make.”

“did you know...?”

heated words spoken with lustful intent just by the shell of his ear, making sure that his hand moves slow, teasing the other’s arousal, feeling him harden beneath their joined hands.

“that when you fight, you make the same sounds as when you fuck?”

he’s teasing with more than just touches now.  using crude language - but nothing that sounds foreign or strange from his lips.  an incendiary tone that manages to be lazily lustful, decadently sinful, but he’s still smiling as he say’s it.  a little sharpness around the edges of his grin.

“so fight me, john.  fuck me, john.  or just -- ask me.”

[better-classofcriminal]

The Crack in the Lens - Matteo and 13

[better-classofcriminal]

As the solo regards him, the young man regards him in return and such analysis was tentative and exploratory, built upon only the most preliminary data. He’s stretched out his feelers into the city, he’s employed his men to ask discrete questions surrounding potential outsider hire, and has heard only a few names given back to him with any consistency. The dazzling array of assassins available, a veritable villain’s cove (although, as always, depending on one’s personal perspective) rivaled any other product on the market, and a removal of a person was a – service, in its way, a product. Marketed with care, some leaning on exoticism, some on strength, some on dependency, but all vying to be considered in their own way – but he has long learned to appreciate subtlety in people. The voice that clamors the loudest often has the least amount of value to say, and those men and women who need the most marketing the least likely to be hired enough that such things begin to become an unwanted imposition on time when more important things could be sought. Matteo ignored the shouts and searched for the whispers, searched for consistency, and the mention of discretion.

He doesn’t quite know why he’s summoned 13 here, apart from honest curiosity, as it isn’t always the appearance of a man that gives any clue as to who he really is. Although the solo – muscular and intimidating by his very size – looks fully physically capable of killing a man without even the use of weapons, the young man is far more impressed with his thoughtfulness. He never gets the sense that he isn’t being appraised just as strenuously, does not get the sense that any response is ill-chosen or rushed. Above all, he does not get the sense of showy arrogance – merely a calm and businesslike competence that appealed to his own. Appearances were deceiving – wasn’t that the old chestnut – but the manner of a person was a little more difficult to hide. He doesn’t – know – him, apart from ‘word on the street’, and he’s seen how accurate that is – some report the fixer himself as a sadistic butcher or a rent boy or a hell fiend of some description, and none of those things are fully or even partially accurate – but he’s duly impressed.

There’s a nod, just a subtle dip of chin in acknowledgement at the correction. Perhaps another flicker of curiosity, but he doesn’t contest him on that point, simply acknowledges a very logical mistake. Listens to his responses in silence, and there is a respect for the caution, for each word weighed. He is – well, not happy, happy was the wrong word in conjunction with murder – but he is pleased that they have a tentative arrangement. “All specifications are on the drive, but if you have any other questions, you are welcome to contact me. My contact information is there as well. That does sound reasonable.”

There’s a tilt of his head at the ‘what’, and it does surprise him in his own subtle way. The solo may be offering a service, but essentially, Matteo wasn’t hiring him simply for the act of killing a man, he’s hiring him on the basis of what seems to be a dependable quality. Time will tell if he’s made an error, but he must work with what he has in the present.

“Who.”

It’s his turn to make a quiet correction, dark eyes flicking up to the solo’s, curious. It is true that he would complete the job himself, and while he is fairly effective at killing, he’s no trained assassin, and is certainly not trained to murder people in their own, heavily guarded apartments. Putting the fear of God – or perhaps more accurately the Devil – into a bunch of half-cowed street thugs who have been behind on their fealties to the gang was child’s play in comparison. This target is a highly intelligent, highly prepared, and highly paranoid corporate snitch, funded by the obscenely wealthy and far too well guarded for even a determined youth to be able to reach him. He’s driven, but he’s also aware of his own physical limitations.

He hands him the drive.

“I’m pleased to hear that you’re tentatively interested. I’ll be waiting at approximately six tonight  at the corner of 14th to pay you your half before, if you are still interested after you see the full requirements. “ It’s actually quite a well off portion of Night City, which is why he’s chosen it. It’s perhaps the last place one might expect such deals to occur, when abandoned lots and empty train stations – the exchange on park benches – seemed to be so much more traditional, than a brief walk past a car parked like any other car in front of expensive townhouses.

“I hope you find it….interesting.”

[jerichofalling]

he leaves a small note for john, just something quick and non-explicit.  he knows that john doesn’t agree with his ‘work’.  but it was his, and it was the thing that had led him to survive this long.  not just financially, but the skills learned, honed, and rather useful when resident in night city.  it simply says ‘meeting client, back in a few hours’.  the meeting with the dark haired, pale skinned youth wouldn’t - shouldn’t - take that long, but he does take into account any time for unforeseen eventualities.  there shouldn’t be any.  he’s not specifically working a job now.  not going to take a life.  this is simply the second part in a three part deal.  the first, that tentative acceptance ( barring anything on the drive that might cause him to decline ), the second, a meeting to confirm and collect the first half of payment as agreed.  the third -- on completion.

and he does admit, that the job is a challenging one.  details on the drive gave enough information for the solo to discern that no, it wouldn’t be anything straight forward.  would require planning, observation, timing, patience.  and that wasn’t something possessed by all.  the most common mistake - jumping the gun, getting over anxious or over eager to complete the job.  stepping out too soon, making the wrong move at the wrong time... it ended up -- messy -- usually for all involved, often, particularly for the contractor.  though there was enough additional information there that 13 would know where to look, when, what to take note of.  schedules, habits, security... the data was thorough.  he just needed to use it to create his own window of opportunity.  a moment where the subject would be vulnerable.  would be exposed.  enough to manufacture his removal in the way desired.

as he walks to the destination mentioned, there’s no manner of discomfort.  he has frequented this place often enough.  he knows all of the city streets - three decades of learning them, by this very means, very, very rarely in a vehicle, always on foot.  he walks them, runs them, feels the air change around him, smells the scents of street vendors, less here, in the upperclass, more luxurious areas - where the streets are more brightly lit.  where trash is not so spread on the streets.  where cars and gadgets and holoboards all advertise the affluence of the people that reside hereabouts.  he’s visited this area before...  for ‘work’.  there are a lot of ‘corporate’.  and a lot of ‘non-corporate’ who have the connections and the leverage and the finance to appear, legitimate, even if they weren’t.  ( not that he considers corps legit, not in the slightest, but those who make a hefty contribution to city taxes tended to be classed as ‘legit’ ).

he is, on time.  5:59pm.

and he does wonder why the young man decided to say ‘who’ rather than ‘what’.  in this, he’s simply a tool.  something to be used to perform a task.  he’s not often a ‘person’ ( not often?  never ) to those who decide to purchase his services.  sometimes he’s a knife.  sometimes a gun.  sometimes ( depending on the manor of demise specified ) the gloved hands, vice like, around a supple, struggling throat.  and a slender neck like that of the young man, sinew and tendon, no heavy layer of muscle, would likely succumb to that delicately applied pressure in the most deliciously visceral of ways.  

there’s something about moments like this.  the slow, calm, steady build of anticipation.  he’s not a ‘killer’ indiscriminately, but he wasn’t lying to john when he said that it helped to - sate - the beast which lingered within.  that hunger that gnawed away inside.  all of the modifications, the tech, the augments, grating at sanity, clawing it’s way closer to the surface -- until the next contract.

“i will take the contract.  it will be complete within seven days.”

it’s an absolute.  there’s no ‘might’ or ‘possibly’ or ‘maybe’ about it.  it’s a confidence that’s unwaverable, unshakeable and is necessary.  not something bolstered by ego, but one doesn’t set out to kill someone with a glimmer of doubt in their mind.

“it is -- interesting.”

as much as he’ll admit to the challenge of it.  it would be difficult.  but not necessarily impossible.  there was always a crack in the wall... 

“though it’s not common for someone to wish to meet me in person.  not just once, but twice.  and should i assume a third on completion?  i would like to ask - why?”

[better-classofcriminal]

The Crack in the Lens - Matteo and 13

[better-classofcriminal]

The milkshake is almost gone – a frothy pink confection that is significantly removed from a cow, but is still in its own way – comforting. He’s usually indifferent about most foods – blessed or cursed with rather lackadaisical taste buds, but even so, it appears that he’s hung onto a bit of a sweet tooth regardless. It also gives him something to focus on, idly swirls the straw to make nonsense patterns in the liquid left in the glass, helps him drown out the clashing mess of sensory stimuli that surrounds him, jolting and disjointed and ever-present conflicting messages of sight and smell and sound. He stands firm against the onslaught, the banal chatter, and despite his discomfort, he doesn’t harbor regrets. This is a good place for their purposes – busy, kinetic, unremarkable in every way, where very little would be noticed even if they were unwise enough to be overt, which he highly doubts from the other man’s reputation, and the most essential calling card of all – that he has been allegedly in this business for quite some time without being removed.

It’s his calling card as well – proof that use outweighs potential risk or inconvenience, and it sets him at ease, in a sense, as much as Matteo is ever at ease. He isn’t swayed or impressed by exaggerations of prowess or appearance – although there is a slight tilt of his head as the tall stranger approaches him, dark eyes regarding him with steady, shielded curiosity. There’s very little doubt that this man is the wrong person – Matteo’s introversion rarely serves as an attractor for gregarious types, and the stranger matches all of the less wild descriptors. He’s a big man. Possibly the biggest he’s seen, and it should be intimidating, but it is not so much intimidating as noted. Intimidation usually only inspires fear if a person seeks to tempt a dangerous person’s discomfort, and he has entirely no intention of doing such thing. He’s not cowed, then, and he has no reason to be frightened, but he is – interested, in his own way. Observes him in return with no judgment in that dark, steady gaze, subtle in all things, and perhaps there is a small appreciation at the discretion of his introduction, tilt of head easing back to center.

There’s no – drama. No attempt to – drunk with power – imitate the media, shroud the hard, cold, brutality of the proposition with layers of words to protect morality. Matteo certainly does have his own version of morality, but the crux of the morality is tied very closely to an understanding that men do what they must to survive. He is attempting to do the same, to protect himself and the organization that he is still – dispassionately – tied to. It is not a question of if the intended victim deserved it, although he had acted in ways that were a breach of agreement. It is a question of what he must do in order to do what he himself has promised – and in order to grow a little older, live a little longer. Not philosophically profound, perhaps, but pure, and yes – dispassionate, but not cold. He knows what he is asking. There is no quailing, no signs that he’d end the night drowned in alcohol or regrets. He does not particularly like the idea that he is indirectly executing another’s death, but he still offers as much respect to the fact that a human being is going to lose his life as he can – and that is to be fully and completely present in the transaction of it, and fully complicit and understanding of his own choices.

In the end, the young man responds simply, his eyes still remaining on the other’s face across from him. “Yes,” he states quietly, voice calm and he is rather – soft-spoken – steady tenor just loud enough to be heard above the chatter of the café. “I am interested.” In economy of speech, there is no mention of what the ‘service’ is, as they both have largely agreed and understood, just enough information imparted. He doesn’t try to justify his choice, doesn’t try to soften the truth of what he is proposing. He does not need someone ‘removed’ or ‘disposed of’ or ‘dealt with,’ or any other of a series of ridiculous euphemisms.

He needs someone killed.

A slender hand with elegant, dexterous fingers – fingers that perhaps should have belonged to a surgeon or piano player rather than a gangster – reaches into his pocket slowly – nonthreateningly – only to pull out a small computer drive, no larger than a stick of gum. With that same quiet, unshowy, delicacy of movement, he shows it to the stranger. He respects his time as a competent professional, and doesn’t want to mince words, and although there is no praise verbally given, implicit praise exists in the fact that he was interested in hiring him at all. Matteo was careful in that, choosing among many before he reached out to gauge his interest, as he is careful in nearly all things.

“It has all the information you would need.” Name. Address. Combinations to dislodge security in his apartment – hard won by an undercover man who suffered through five months of pet sitting tropical fish. Notes as well – instructions to make the death appear accidental, what would constitute proof of completed work . The dark eyes flicker up, meeting his briefly, observing. “ The password to use it is your alias, for convenience’s sake, and it will initiate an encryption after first use that will render the data unusable. When the drive is first initiated it has a timer. All you will have to do is commit what little information it contains to memory before the timer runs out. “  His words are quiet, efficient, and simple. He does think that even if it is overly cautious, that information on an encrypting drive is far safer than speaking out loud certain details or –god forbid – scribbling it on paper.  

He gazes at him again – thoughtfully, although it perhaps doesn’t fully register in his expression, that calmness and deliberateness in complete contrast to his rather indifferent teenage uniform. “As for payment – I intend to pay you 40% additional to your typical rate in reflection of the likely difficulty. After this conversation, if you agree to take this assignment, I will pay you half in cash before, and half after. Let me know if this sounds reasonable.”

There’s – for the first time – a flicker of true personality, a honesty, a sign of youth returning. A barest quirk of something at the corners of his lips.

“I have always done these things without assistance before, but I know well when I need some. Even if you change your mind, I would like to thank you for taking the time to arrive in person.”

[jerichofalling]

he doesn’t have anything to occupy his hands.  no glass nor straw and he doesn’t need one.  there is nothing that would imply that the solo needed to ‘fidget’.  he’s comfortable in his own skin (along with the mass of things that lay hidden within) and in most environments.  he’s never really anywhere too long that it would become problematic or a discomfort.  and if it did, he’d either change said environment to suit himself, or he’d leave.  it’s probably a strange way of looking at the world.  a series of capsules.  of incidents.  of occurrences.  each of which could be viewed from an internal and external perspective.  and it’s not uncommon for him to do both at the same time.  however, his attention in this moment is dedicated to the young man who had called him here.  a tentative connection in lieu of something - more.  in these moments, perhaps the other is taking a measure of the man he’s decided he might employ.  perhaps he’s relying on some word turned in darker moments of a need and a subsequent offering of a possible solution with a name.  or... in this case -- a number.  and he can’t imagine that anyone who might seek him out was altogether unfamiliar with that.  weights and measures.  of the swing of a pendulum, hoping that when it passed over your head, that it was not graced with a blade.  more likely, the people who did seek his services, were the hand that pushed the pendulum into motion in the first place.

still a manner of careful observance as the youth reaches for the data drive - and it’s not as though he’s unfamiliar with such things.  most often (in his own youth) he’d transported them from one hand to another.  from a pickup to a drop off.  a courier of secrets, and that information transmission, transported, was often worth far more than the lift of the thin, quick teen that had carried them.  most often, never seeing or knowing what it was.  the packages had, after all, not been for him.  but this one... this one is.  at least, he presumes if he indicates that he is agreeable.  there is a sliver of interest though, his own curiosity piqued at the terms.  and he does wonder at what perceived difficulties might lie ahead.  what manner of complications had been foreseen to warrant such a - generous - uplift to the not inconsiderable original fee.  and to the solo... to the assassin... who has no small sense of pride in his work -- perhaps that’s the hook that might have caught him if the deal had otherwise seemed less than favourable (not that it seemed to be at present, but who knew what snippets of information might be nestled within that small, inert object seated in the hand of the other).

“my name.”

it’s a small correction.  one he makes in quiet voice, eyes flicking from the data stick up to the youth’s face.  he does have another name.  but ‘13′ was no kind of alias.  it was a name for the person he was in these moments (jericho very far from present here).  to refer to him... to 13... to that entity in any other way didn’t quite sit right.  also, for all the young man knew - that was his name and he had no other.  but jericho didn’t live in this world.  he was something aside.  something seated in a new found warmth, the tumult of fresh emotion, tumbling along on a crescendo of bright, intense experiences, curious and loving and caring and compassionate.  happy and awakened in the wake of something found and cherished.  13 could not afford to be any of those things.

“it sounds reasonable.  and in principle, agreeable.”

in principle.  because he does not yet know what might be revealed on reviewing the information.  there have been rare occasions when he has declined a job.  for while he might have little morality as far as others may be concerned.  he does still have some.  and it’s his.  something that he’s not prepared to compromise on, no matter the inflated monetary value (and in all reality, that was an aside - something of non-import for the solo, for while he still lived quite simply - by choice and necessity, with no extravagances, there was a sufficient ‘nest egg’ there to see him through to enviable old age (not that he considers he’ll ever get that far) with a reasonable degree of opulence).

“if there are any other assurances you need, then please ask me now.  if not, then you will know that the job has been completed as per whatever specifics or requirements i assume are on that stick.  if i find, for whatever reason, that i will not be able to complete the request, then i will let you know at the earliest possible opportunity and return any finances in full at that time.”

he’s never been able to ‘not’ complete a request because of any other reason than that very thin sliver of morality.  there hasn’t been a job, no individual’s name on a piece of paper, whispered across a table, or encrypted into a data stick that he has not yet managed to ‘remove’ once a job was accepted.  again -- rather a note of professional pride to the solo.

“does that sound reasonable to you?”

and he lets one of those large, scarred palms settle on the table.  a more recent cut across the flesh visible in a pinkish tinge - something that had been left as a little gift from his fight with mantis, a sliver of a cut.  a night that was firmly seared onto his mind, less from the manner of his own fight, but from the one he had observed.  still, while jericho might be smiling within, 13 is still the composed, quiet, unwavering wall...   but the gesture, the hand is offered to take the drive from the other, if those things were agreeable, then he’d take the device and proceed with this curious assignment.

“no thanks are necessary... i have the time.  you are not the first to want to - see - what they were hiring.”

what... rather than ‘who’.  it makes it a little less personal.  he finds that most prefer it that way.  not that a visual interpretation would give much of an indication of the capacity or skill of an individual.  that was usually something that had to be witnessed.  and thus far, no one had ‘witnessed’ 13 go about his work.  no one had ever seen a contracted execution by his hand.  not even marcell.  it’s not exactly a ‘spectator sport’.

though there is the slightest flicker - a small lift of one eyebrow at the notion that the wiry youth had performed his own executions in the past.  though it’s neither something that surprises 13, nor something that he disbelieves... he was likely younger than the other is now when he had taken his first life.  but again, it’s another hook from the dark eyes, pale skinned youth.  something he might well have done himself before, but complications, difficulties, perhaps other things which prevented him from doing so....

“then perhaps, this will be an... interesting task to pursue...”

[better-classofcriminal]

The Crack in the Lens - Matteo and 13

He – doesn’t normally do this.

Albeit, that could apply to most things in his life at the current moment. Doesn’t usually befriend others, certainly doesn’t fall in love, doesn’t let the outside world (bright, loud, unpredictable) sink its claws in more than absolutely necessary. While some intellectuals may attempt to reframe isolation as a gift when it is a difficulty at times, treat it as the removal of impurities from truth and knowledge, Matteo, despite his intelligence, tends far more to the side of practicality. He knows that his aversion to that brightness, his tendency to become overwhelmed with sight and sound, his unorthodox background, is a weakness. He has compensated it for as much as he can, he improves every day, and he certainly has skills that are extraordinary in their own way, and counts himself lucky for those in return.

 However, he also knows his weaknesses – knows that this caution, this tending towards the counting of minutia, is less simply the ‘way he does things’ and more resultant of fear. He has never had the opportunity to fail without consequence, and although he has learned some – very hard lessons – those same hard lessons have singed him. It does trouble him – the loud, the bright, the teeming mass of people, all with their expressions, emotions, independent lives as colorful as his own and unknown – each the protagonist of their own story. He’s an illiterate trapped in a library, learning to read a language that isn’t his own, and the young man, still technically in his adolescence, finds himself like a child again.

His guns are real – and games of cops and robbers end with blood in the streets, and his enemies are not neighborhood bullies that can be befriended or overwhelmed with heartwarming teamwork. He doesn’t trust in the underdog – he doesn’t much trust in anything outside a handful of people and his own ability to innovate and adapt. As frightening as this world is – he is patient, and although many may not see it in that quiet, stolid stillness, he is in his own way, quite brave. Matteo – so easily overlooked, forever in the shadows unless he must step forward, his reputation a mix of misunderstanding for things he cannot change, and a measure of self-imposed truth for his own protection. 

Forever the face of logic, forever the soft words of cautious reminder or clipped, steady action – the boy-man with those steady, unreadable eyes that often intimidated without even meaning, simply because they were more subtly expressive than expected. It is easy to forget that he is just as human as everyone else, and is prone also to youthful mistakes. It is one thing to be very clever, and another to be wise. He’s still learning, he’s still simply trying to survive in a dangerous position with the waves and the stakes growing ever higher – and if he knew the person in question that he is hoping to contact, he might have been able to draw certain comparisons. Both live by the death of others – not out of passion, or ambition, but simply (mainly) for the fact of survival.

There is no tech embedded beneath his skin. All that he has is his mind and his choices, and his ability to adapt – and perhaps, it is this idea of overcoming fear that he has asked – for the first time – for a serious measure of help. He doesn’t think he can kill this corporate snitch on his own, and is worried that he is beginning to be seen –for the first time in his life, if not in physical body than in name. When he originally started to understand the safety in a reputation, he didn’t realize the restrictions that such things would bring. Some men – Marcello, being one of them – didn’t seem to care if certain actions were traced back directly, but Matteo, naturally cautious – was hesitant in building too much of an aggressive reputation. It was one thing to be – feared – and another to be feared to the extent that common sense dictated removal, that boldness overcame terror. This particular corporate snitch was just enough known that it was better if his ‘removal’ wasn’t directly traced back to the Mafia, but implications were allowed to stand. Matteo couldn’t afford to be caught at a crime scene if something went wrong.

It’s that reason that he contacts – him. He doesn’t know much about him except for what he’s heard. He knows Dion knows him, and that he has helped him once, but he’s not asking for any favor and does not intend to bring that connection up. What he is after is a job – simple, clean. He’s dependable with payment and respectful to those who are competent, and he does believe that he is – competent, believes the sources enough to cautiously gamble. It is perhaps this new found edging out into the world that drives him to ask him if he’d meet discreetly in person, which might make him feel a little more secure. Offers up a small café in a quiet corner, already has a neat package of information ready in the form of a self-encrypting drive and a laptop out of his backpack. Although Matteo hasn’t heard back if he’ll agree to meet in person, he hopes he will, and he shows up in case. Already had ordered a milkshake and is tucked into a neat corner.

And Matteo – doesn’t look as though he belongs in the Mafia, at least as stereotypically portrayed in the media. He’s not wearing the slim dark suits he wears for work, and instead has chosen things that are a bit more comforting – perhaps subconsciously attempting to set himself more at ease – soft hoodie over T-shirt, slightly worn jeans. With his outfit and the obvious pallor of his skin, he’s indistinguishable from many teenagers who stay up quite a bit past their bedtime, and he looks younger than he is, focusing into the bright florescent lighting of the place and mentally coping with the background thrum of chatter.

In his mind, there lingers a single number – unlucky to some, and while his life may consist of ‘reading’ a language that is not his own, he is quite decent at sums. He hopes that this number does not turn up unlucky for him. He hopes that it goes well, and in his own strange way, he’d like to meet him, if he can. If not – well, he supposes technology exists for a reason.

And - he doesn’t look brave, slouched a little, blinking into the bright light of this alien world, but he is doing his best.  He is – trying.

Sometimes, patience is all one can have. 

That, and a number.

[jerichofalling]

it’s not unusual for someone to find his number, to be handed it along shadowed trails where things were (usually) done out of necessity, rather than any other generic need or want...  handed to people who were of the type to make decisions which would prove to be lasting, or, in the case of hiring the solo - decidedly and ultimately - final.  and in this he is the anti-priest, the reaper.  he’s the scythe that swings (though not necessary the hand that wields it) a weapon, a tool of destruction to be used where they deemed him so necessary.  and this - is a new hand to the hilt, a new wielder (at least from the solo’s perspective, for all he knows the - client - is a killer himself, or has had similar work done by other hands in the past - and that this, may well not be the first time he has called for such a thing to take place).  and for men, women, anyone to talk about death in such a manner - a transactional process rather than anything else - required one of no fickle or fragile constitution.

but this is something that feels - at least to the solo - normal.  something that is as common to him as eating or sleeping or breathing.  it’s not an act that is askew from his daily life - nothing set aside in the realm of the immoral or the horrific or the unbelievable.  this is just - his life.  and even this has a feel of normalcy about it.  after recent events... the explosion, the experience of losing someone (even though he hadn’t lost him, he had still experienced it, for however mercifully brief a time), the fractious abrasive meeting with dionysis...  all of those things jostling and pushing and shoving - because there were now ‘people’ in his life.  people who had carved themselves into his heart, into his mind, had become just as essential a part of him as anything physical.  and while he is growing used to it.  to thoughts that lingered on a face, or a name, or a touch, or a moment, it’s still relatively new - at least by comparison.  so yes.  it’s almost a relief to have something that he is used to - something he knows implicitly.  

which is why he has come.  the job seems as though it is work that he would do.  no young children, nothing that would otherwise make the solo question his rather threadbare morality - the usual story.  someone who had become - problematic ( how and why, he doesn’t know, only that they are and have become so to a person who is of significant enough fortitude to make a decision to remove them from any given situation ).  a person who had requested that the details of this job in particular were exchanged in person.  he doesn’t mind.  some people were more comfortable with face-to-face interactions.  removing, perhaps, the chance of a trace, of something solid in the way of evidence that could connect them to the ‘incident’ - not that there would be any kind of lead from 13′s end - meticulous in those actions and careful not to leave anything damning - unless, of course, it was a request as part of the particular means of ‘disposal’.  some liked to frame the scene.  to make an implication, or to send a message... again, nothing he particularly concerns himself with - it’s just another facet of this job.  so he does attend.  a public place.  less likely to be anything of a set up ( though those who would bear a grudge against the solo himself were few ), the same, bright coffee shop where he’d first come face to face with the runner dex, only a short time ago.  it smells the same.  the scents of fried food and bitter coffee.  of sweet things lingering above in lighter, more tempting notes.  but he does move directly to the table mentioned in the request...

...he takes a moment.  always with the careful observations.  not for any other means than his own information, filling gaps in his knowledge with face and form.  he doesn’t do it to judge ( not part of the job ) wouldn’t really have anything to compare to - the people who contracted 13 were most often very, very, unique.  different in a myriad ways.  but all with that single commonality.  they chose to hire him.

the shadow of an eclipse that he casts over the table, blocking out the lights in that moment, eases to one side - the moon slipping out from behind a cloud as he slides into the seat opposite without waiting for invitation.  he does not believe he has the wrong person.  

“my name is 13.  i believe you may be interested in contracting a service.”

it’s brief but to the point.  nothing particularly overt.  nothing that would give any further implication as to the purpose of the meeting, but should be clear enough to the one who had requested it.  all he needs is a confirmation.   though from experience, it wasn’t always as immediately forthcoming.  people liked to dance around - to play word games.  to speak in subtle tongue - perhaps it helped to keep their conscience clear.  but he waits then - patiently.  he is - good - at being patient.  and takes the time to study the youth.  for he certainly is - younger.  dressed in nothing outlandish, nothing remarkable.  sharp features to pale skin.  wiry in build ( but so was the solo in his younger days, before life had rather imbued him with a mass that was often useful - even before the augments had been added ).  perhaps then, this is the remarkable thing about the young man.  that there is - nothing remarkable.  nothing that screams into the senses, or tries to be ‘more’ than it is.  something which he could probably point out on every other individual in the diner.  cleverly done, perhaps... an individual so carefully constructed into a ‘null’ point.

...interesting.

[jerichofalling]

the pit || 13 & john

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

There’s warmth that settles in his chest, comfortable and familiar, and likewise burns a little in his cheeks, heating skin and darkening them with a subtle flush that has nothing to do with exertion. He will never completely understand the use and the good of what he does naturally- finds them such humdrum, instinctive things. The need to keep safe, and despite the potential strength and the danger inherent in a muscular body in its prime, trained to highest ability, there’s a natural inclination to – take care. John would never call it nurturing, would shrug it off if mentioned with a sheepish expression or a flat out denial, but there is always that inclination to watch out for the people he cares for. There are only a few of them now, but it’s a trait that followed him from childhood, and it isn’t always showy, isn’t always manifested in acts of heroism or in material gifts. What John gives – unreservedly and without any hesitation – is often quite a bit simpler than that.

It’s a smile to those who seem to need it, or a step in the path of an altercation. It’s sometimes as slight as a memory of things that were spoken before, effortless kindness that is sometimes buried in that sheepish roughness, and sometimes open and sweet as raw honey, speaking kind works if only because sometimes people need to hear them. It is likely why he gets along so well with Vincent – they both have their masks to obscure that vulnerability – one aloofness and the other machismo – but that kindness exists all the same. It’s been a part of him for so long, he doesn’t think about it save to intuitively understand that it isn’t something often given to some. When love is mixed into this natural tendency, it turns instead into a kind of quiet devotion, where he may not understand, may not support in all things when he believes certain things to cross a line, but it is unconditional, all the same. He can separate acts from human beings – and it is his natural empathy that leads him to that shielding gruffness, the only means he has to effectively protect himself. Here – where he knows it is safe – it’s less prevalent. He has room to show a little more of that softness, and a little more of that pride and there is – pride.

He’s proud of him – proud of him for surviving, and for enduring, admires his confidence and adherence to his own ideals of right and wrong – but that doesn’t mean that he supports him in all things. John is sorry that he didn’t tell Jericho about his incarceration, but he doesn’t truly regret doing so. What he had done felt as killing – he cannot think of it in any other way but killing, warranted or not – Xio. It ached at his heart, tore at it, but there is some peace to be found in knowing that he made the right decision. He believes – as terrible as that fall out was for Jericho, and as much guilt as he has buried – that he had made the right call after seeing his reaction to his ‘death.’ Jericho had the right to make his own decisions, but John also had the right to make his own. He did not intend to keep secrets – save, with one preamble, and that was when the needs of the many would likely outweigh the needs of the few. They were partners, however, first and foremost, and there would be many difficult choices ahead. He hopes that they will – he wants them to – make them together. He wants to understand him as much as he can, to learn about everything he’ll tell him, and it does – help, to start to piece together for each other the pieces of their pasts. To share fully and without hesitation their present – and to savor the complexity of the individual.

Not hard, not soft, not killer, not savior, but many things. Human – above all, messy, imperfect, and here – honest. It is hard to worry about the future when Jericho’s hand is so firm in his own. It’s hard to think about the past when he’s pressed up against the wall – and for now, he doesn’t fight – just looks up at him with green eyes that flash humor and challenge, a spark flickering behind good nature, a tease of a smile at his lips. That warmth floods through him again, but it is different from the easy affection he shares with him – almost uncomfortable, a tingle of something he doesn’t really have a name for apart from desire – straightforward and unadorned. That straightforward desire darkens at the grip to his jaw – that sudden flash of pain as tender bruise is compressed, and there’s an equal flash of fire in his gaze, a snarl and tilt of his chin in thoughtless reaction. That touch of humor hasn’t completely faded – but his mouth is dry, his voice lower and a little rougher around the edges, teasing. “It’s a good one – you jealous?”

His smile is bright and easy – touching in his eyes that focus on him until Jericho moves too close – bodies together and hands instinctively moving to the taller man’s shoulders, digging in a little as his head is turned – the touch of wetness against his skin. He wonders if he could feel the notch up of his pulse there – strong, steady, and without any manner of hiding – but the humor is still there, a little dark, to match the deep, slow burn of the fire in his eyes. It’s a complex expression from a man who is often considered anything but – dancing amusement, genuine affection, and something biting around the edges that’s almost predatory – a mixture of all three as he runs a gentle finger alongside his handiwork, not touching the wound but close enough to call attention to it. “You tear my stitches, I ain’t pulling my punches,” John teases in that low growl, that affection and aggression equally prevalent, and equally effortless – the twin sides of his make.

Keep reading

[jerichofalling]

is he jealous?

yes and no... it would be far more satisfying to know that the marks on john’s skin had been placed there by him and him alone.  so he’s jealous of the fact that someone else has marred that body... but not jealous of the means with which they were given.  he’d much rather sink bruises into johns flesh with teeth and tongue, with the hard press of fingers driven from lustful touches, driven by passion...

hm...

“would you like me to be?”

he supposed, if he has to give an answer ( at least within the context of leaving pleasurable marks ) then yes... he is jealous.  it’s something to become so enraptured with another soul, that you would shudder to think of someone else placing lips where your lips should sit, hands where your fingertips should be... and while he has no opposition to the bruises john acquired during the fight, there is still a little - hint - of something that stirs in his chest at the thought of any other laying hands on john... whether through a means of voluntary violence or otherwise tenderness... 

he does loosen his grip though... lets fingers brush gently along that marked skin before letting his hand drop... a slight twitch of muscle as john traces close enough to recent wound to make him pay attention.  it’s tender - but the worst of the pain has eased... though any direct pressure on any of the cuts would certainly serve as a reminder to the solo that - there was still enough ‘human’ about him for him to feel it.  not flawless ( certainly not that, and never under any kind of mistaken impression ), not impenetrable, impermeable, infallible... just - a person.  one that can be weary and ache, one that feels pain... and love... and the stirring of desire...

“yes... i am.”

and perhaps john hasn’t seen it yet.  but he does hold himself a little more carefully - does move a little slower.  the words are still heated, confident, and the touches are still as sure as ever, but the fight has taken a toll -- and if he is honest with himself - the challenge laid down, is one that john has a very good chance of winning...  or... perhaps the solo might even surprise him yet, and submit.  it’s entirely a possibility.  

...and he gives the other just a fraction more space which is closed down again - john’s kiss pulling a small ‘mmm’ to his lips, a note of distinct pleasure and approval, the raising of gooseflesh beneath gently trailing fingertips.  but when john peels off his shirt, there’s a fraction of lowering of his brow, knitting together - more bruises visible, darkening skin, time enough passed for them to show in vivid, raw colours.  and he looks this time, one hand lifting to touch, but waiting... hovering just above... watching as john frees himself from the remainder of his clothes ( well, 13′s clothes, but he’s not exactly taking stock here, okay? ) and manages to restrain, doesn’t touch, doesn’t move... only that careful, silent, acute observation.

and he see’s a lot... he is careful about it.  he saw the pain that flashed across johns face as he’d pressed against the bruise - the way it had caused his eyes to flare fierce - no animosity there, but that ever present, barely slumbering fighter, resting just beneath the surface and ready to spring forth at any given moment.  he watches the way his lips curve, a fraction here and there, amused at jericho, or amused at his own thoughts, the way they slide unbidden, those thoughts carving his face into something lighter, darker, more wicked, with the most delicate and fractional pull of muscle. 

these little things - things that help him to know more... subtleties and intricacies that might well have gone unnoticed.  he takes the time to look - to see... to learn. he’s memorized the shape of johns eyes - thinks that he knows what colour they are, but somehow, he can still be surprised by them.  he knows the splash of freckles across his nose, scattered over the rest of his skin, but can still find new ones, pieces of skin which have not been given sufficient attention.  is starting to understand what actions or words can bring a flush to his cheeks - or make him duck his head, a shyer man, a private man, one who does not hear praise lightly and has trouble when jericho sometimes speaks of such things.

‘Just don’t take it easy on me. Where’s the fun in that?’

“i won’t.”

it’s an assurance, but as john slips by and into the bathroom, there’s a moment when the solo takes advantage of that space left behind.  one arm rests on the wall, the faintest trace of warmth still there - taking a few steady breaths and testing his steadiness.  an ache... a quick twinge of pain, though brief and sharp, it’s nothing too bad as he twists and feels the stretch in those stitches.  not much give and his skin would get tighter... though the water would help.

and there’s something far more enticing waiting beneath the hiss of water he can hear, within the steam that begins to curl around the door.

so he slips out of the soft jersey trousers, blood stained and abandoned, peels away his underwear and leaves them in the same place.  straightens up, a small smile still pressed to his lips at johns words of challenge and seeks out the other...

...it’s not long enough that the bathroom has become totally steamed, and there’s a small window, to the back, near the top of the wall which acts as a vent, lets in fresh air.  it’s a contrast in cool breeze and hot steam, both easing over his skin - but neither even close to the comparison of satisfaction at the hard, warm touch when pressed up against john.  white tile stands in stark contrast to tanned skin as he lets his gaze sweep appreciatively over muscled shoulders ( less marks to johns back than his front, and from here it would be hard to tell that he’s been in a fight at all ).  watches the flex and strain and slide, water running in chaotic rivulets across his skin, finding it’s way around the shape of the man... a shape which 13 has memorised with eyes, lips, fingertips, tongue... though he would like to - remind himself - of the taste of him... the touch.

so he moves quietly, slips in behind john, lets breath challenge steam as he lingers, lips just above the back of his neck... but his hands move first, and they slide with such ease down arms, around so that his palms press down over firm forearms, keep going until he finds johns hands - the weapons he relies on - split knuckles and raw skin, lets his own interlace, jerichos palm to the back of john’s hands... it’s - effective.  neutralize the threat ( weapons ), press his body against the other... nuzzle into the back of wet hair with another of those contented hums.

“so how do you intend to claim victory, john?”

teasing rumble of words, keeping up the game.

“i wouldn’t want to put a dent in your winning streak.”

only then setting lips to skin, parting them over the thick corded muscle that ran from neck to shoulder... letting his teeth sink in a little harder, claiming his own victory... ...making his own mark.

[lemondropsonice]

And bow my head keep my heart slow - SN: 08x22