R E N E G A D E

He was frightening, but if he was fair to look upon, it was only as a Saint Michael done in the manner of the general populace, the Archangel after the church had been raided with most of his wings sold for the marble.

[sunrisejared]

[lvl25humanoid-deactivated201603]

[bluehh-deactivated20141006]

He smells like cigarettes and mistakes.

(via caelestispunk)

[movedto-kohlweis]

we tracked in something ugly last night. muffled by the downpour, washed away by the undercurrent. were we supposed to share that? that humming forever, tucked away between sweaty sheets headed for the wash. is that another big bang tapping on the window or is it just breakfast? is that ticking heart yours or mine? and what about the trembling thighs, the stiff wrists? overuse. setting bushes alight all night to hear the voice of god. you sweat through your favorite borrowed t-shirt and laughed until your skinned knees started to sting - blood and gravel and a bandaid promise, and you began to hum. you and your gentle hands, me and my chattering teeth, heralding in the coming of the rains. before the plane but after the desert, i roll down the window and hand you a promise. i whisper “soft boy” and you reply “we’re all out of bandaids”

skinned knees, or gravity as it relates to the fusion and fission of two separate lives // (a.e.)

[carelessdean]

And that’s okay. (x)

[deanwinchestsr]

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

it’s green eyes and a deep red line - still marking the place where skin had split and been repaired.  it’s a slight look of trepidation ( walking into the lions den no less - but wasn’t that one of the lessons?  you can be scared, as long as you don’t show it.  you can feel bone numbing, gripping fear, as long as you don’t let it consume you, control you… )

[falcie5]

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

To Question Repentance - Future!verse Self Para

Where John kills for the first time since Xiomara.

Pure.

That is how he feels in the ring, when the screaming and the noise filter down into a wash of meaningless sound. He takes mediation as it comes, as we all do, some with a deeper contemplation than the mere physical but he isn’t complaining. He feels in tune with himself and understanding of himself in that moment in a way that he never could outside of it – this sacred space where he is transformed, and there is nothing he cares for, not truly even victory. He’s there for that single space of clarity that comes with motion and response, and although there is strategy, it is a strategy that has formed out of something close to instinct built out of dozens of repeated fights – the reading of an opponent’s body in full eloquence, the lack of avoidance and hesitation that could be understandable if there was anything he feared once he crossed that threshold.

It is a strange thing, as he feels at peace in violence. Perhaps he felt at peace in violence all along, and that there had been more than simple altruism that had driven him to adapt without horror at the chaos that surrounded them, that had prompted genteel vigilantism all those years ago. There is something in him that thrills to danger – that needs danger – to feel completed, and so, despite at first, glassy eyes and uncertainties, there could be said to be a feeling of relief – that he no longer has to hold back.

He doesn’t even feel the pain – doesn’t feel the trickling from wounds, blinks the stinging substance from his eyes. He isn’t exultant, the rage that had rushed through him, triggered the defense, has all but dissipated, but he’s still shuddering with adrenaline, clothing soaked with rain and mud and blood, ignored, unconsciously and briefly shivering. He feels – calm. Strangely calm – in a way that he didn’t anticipate, almost dissociated from the crumpled body that lies before him. It’s still – but it shouldn’t be – and he shakes off the first, small feelings of uncertainty that begin to creep in, to strangle a fast-beating heart.

John drops to his knees as if he repents, and he isn’t sure that he does. There is a stirring of nausea that doesn’t belong in the face of that calm, an intrusion into meditation, a dirtying of what was meant to be pure. There’s no pride, as he turns the body over, checks the pulse to feel nothing, and for a moment, he freezes. The righteous anger that had filled him evaporates and he is left staring foolishly, red-tipped fingers still pressed to grime-slicked skin, hands shaking from their exertion, pain radiating harsh from knuckles.

This is also a transformation. A grappling for control, although he didn’t think it through as that. A life taken to save a life, a stranger’s paid for the life of someone he loved, a life that he had taken without hesitation, as if an automaton, body shifting with the deadly, perfect grace of a honed weapon. He has tilted the balance of a universe that had always taken from him, but not this time – it was this time that he had taken from another, and the power in that feels staggering, feels too easily won. He doesn’t feel worthy of it. He doesn’t feel like he should have the ability to take something as complex with a series of blow. He isn’t a – god – and he never meant to be, but that arrogance is quietly, implicitly, a part of him as well, and always had been – the belief that the power to right wrongs rested in his hands. Now – he has meted out judgment.

He doesn’t feel – righteous. He feels frozen, blood caked and drying onto once-gentle hands that had only once wanted to build – or perhaps, that had been a lie as well.

He is not worthy of this responsibility, to carry a soul, without even knowing its name.

“I’m burying him.”

It’s all he says.

Hoarse voice, rough with unshed tears and still touched with the dwindling burr of savagery. It’s stupid. He’s injured. There are a thousand dangers lurking around the corner, but he looks up to Jericho with those tear-blurred eyes that still carry a quiet ferocity. He will not be deterred. He won’t let a human being be left out like garbage to be stolen from, disturbed, picked over, forgotten. He’ll deal with his own wounds later, in his own way. They’ll heal together, but for now, with emergency behind them, it is time to do penance.

There is nothing else he has to say – only that it feels right, when nothing else feels right in that moment, and when he lifts the body of his enemy in his arms it is heavier than he could have ever imagined.

[jerichofalling]

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

[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.”

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

John smiled.

There was something so relieving about it being said – the nervousness that came out of something good rather than something negative, of wanting something to be a positive experience between them because they cared. Perhaps it was a burden of caring that weighted on already bowed shoulders, but he’d gladly shoulder it to have that golden moment of understanding between them that was raw and honest and real – not blustering or pushing past any natural silences or uncertainties, but breathing into them, embracing them. He glanced away from his task on the stove just long enough to meet hazel eyes with his own which were warm and full of good-natured humor. 

“Yeah, you’re not wrong,” he admitted softly, and felt better for admitting it. “Been a long time since I invited anyone over, and you’re---you’re different, y’know?” John knew the words were opaque, and backtracked a little to, in understanding, make them more explicit --- “Your opinion matters because you matter.” It was a simple statement, but it was enough, heartfelt.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye to where Jericho was fiddling with the couch’s accent pillows and had to suppress a smile. Jericho’s apartment – which had become a second home, in a way, to John – wasn’t full of ostentatious accents, bright spots, pieces that lacked utility. Although everything was functional, however, it wasn’t uncomfortable as some might expect. The training room certainly lacked comforts, but that wasn’t its purpose – the actual living space wasn’t without a few items that made it seem a little bit more like – home. He remembered the smell of freshly ground coffee, and the small details, the book he usually carried in hand when they weren’t training, the lounging space of the couch, which certainly wasn’t uncomfortable, and his bed was very soft. Another smile crept insidiously around the corners of his lips.

“You saying it was a bad idea,” he teased, flipping over the burgers again and pressing them lightly into the pan. He was forever grateful that the fullest extent of that strung-out tension between them, that will-they or won’t-they and the anxiety of potential upset had dissipated between them. They weren’t…just teacher and student any more, but they hadn’t been strictly in those roles for a long time, only propriety holding them back. John carried scars for Jericho on his body, which he had earned in his defense, and was proud to wear. As much as a man might honor his mentor, this was something…different. The utter panic he had felt when he was in danger…that was something different, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He…cared, and not just in the everyday way he cared about sunshine and puppies.

He pulled over the rest of the ingredients he had out on the counter as Jericho continued speaking, amusement etching again at the corners of his lips. “This ain’t the best place for training,” he confirmed, with a light shrug of broad shoulders. “Not enough floor space and while it’s quiet, pretty sure my neighbors would like me to keep it that way.” Falling and stomping on the floor – their ceiling – was unlikely to win him any friends, and then there was having to shut in Morte, who saw any movement as an invitation to play. He had to content himself with tiring the Akita out as much as possible with walks and giving moderate hell to his heavy bag. “But if it was, I wouldn’t be coming over to yours as much as I do, and I like your place.” He turned the heat off the stove and assembled the burgers as he spoke, slicing the lettuce and tomatoes in a way he’d never be comfortable with human flesh. “Mostly because it has you,” he finished, with another soft thread of amusement.

He had just finished the assemblage, when Jericho’s words struck him right in the chest.

I know what you mean.

They didn’t precisely…hurt, but they stayed him where he was, and palms went flat to counter for a moment. He hadn’t forgotten a legacy of subtle judgments, of schoolyard fights, or even the way they had better gotten to know each other – the fear and the unfairness of that fight, the words slung at him, all the more painful because as hurtful as they had been, they hadn’t been all that wrong. He had been faced with so much hatred throughout his life – directly or indirectly – that he had learned to, in a sense, turn that hatred inwards, to wonder what was wrong with him. There were still – marks – under the right light, as he lifted his head, the cut that Jericho had once sewed from that night still showed as less than a scar but more than a memory, a tiny silvery afterthought in lightly tanned skin. John shivered.

As Jericho continued to speak, that hunted look dissipated slowly from his gaze, tension unknotting from his shoulders. Another smile came to his lips, quieter, less radiant than before, but still carrying warmth. “After dinner, c’mon, drop the cushion,” he replied, amused, happy for the diversion from troubling thoughts. Gentle green eyes briefly traced his face, thoughtful and a little sad. He turned, plated the burgers and handed a plate to him, setting his own plate on the island. “You wanna pull up a barstool on the other side?” He always liked hanging at the kitchen island himself to eat; it was much less formal than having to sit at a table. He chucked, turning back to fill two glasses with cold water from the tap and setting them down. “But sure,” he murmured softly, when he met his eyes again.

 “ I’ll teach you how to dance. I want to.”

[isabellel0velace]

My aesthetics: Dauntless | Chaotic Good

[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?”

[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]

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.”

[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.”

the pit || 13 & john

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

jerichofalling:

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If anyone might have told John that he would have this privilege, the ability to reach out and hold someone that he loves with such fierce completion, he might not have believed it – certainly not believed it in years prior when all that had seemed real and true had been a baptism of alcohol on his tongue, the sting of battered knuckles under antiseptic, the hard press of brick against a falling back. He might not have thought that he would have deserved it, might have clung to the expected misery that came with his self-believed failures and sins – but there was no thought to deserving, not here – he was too wrapped up in watching the solo beneath him come to life, his beauty staggering, his trust even, perhaps, more so. With every voiced breath of ardor, he can feel his heartbeat pound, feel his mind lost to a haze that was somewhere between gentility and desperation, memorizing the curve of muscles, the salt and water taste of his skin, the breathless moments between them – patiently shaping him beneath attentive and loving hands that touched him with a knowledge of him completely, as a musician may known the instrument upon which his life is made. He lives for these moments – when that solidity of stoicism falls away, and what is left is open, raw, and pure – no barriers between them, nothing separating them, nothing compelling them forward in their lust that didn’t leave room for such perfect observations – no twitch, no moan, no gasp of word uncaptured, untasted. He could feel the thrum of his pulse beneath his tongue.

The curve of strong hands mapping his spine, drawing him closer, a heavy weight that grounds them both, that keeps them tethered to the reality of their communion. Darkened green eyes meet hazel – pupils widened, desire standing within them and giving them a savage cast that only emphasize his purity. He gazes at him with an entire, unrelenting focus, as if the rest of the world had fallen away and this was the only truth that he knows – the only thing that mattered, and that he wanted, stretched out before him. It is overwhelming, this gift. It is overwhelming, this allowance. He speaks, and reality shudders around him, deep whisper holding only passion and longing and something else – something near indefinable that did not speak merely to physical passion – something that spoke of humility, honesty, a gentleness that still surprises him no matter how often he experiences it. 

For a long time – John does not answer, the silence between them, the softness that filters into his gaze an answer within itself. There is a wonder painted in every line of him – as if he can’t quite believe that he exists – that he is something to be touched. That wonder does not dissipate when he kisses him, soft, and slow, laced with passion, a gift of a distraction when the practiced friction briefly stops, a spilling of those kisses from his lips, down the curve of his jaw. He drowns him again and again in kisses, as slicked fingers reach down, press and then circle gently against sensitive skin – shuddering at his heat as he presses inside – first one digit, thrusting slowly, and then after a moment, two – letting his lips divert to mark the skin of his throat, a curve and a thrust of fingers within that tightness to seek out the place that would bring him most ecstasy. He would chase every remnant of thought from his head – chase any remnants of words from his lips, find him there and follow him with utter devotion – until the only thing left in existence was the presence of the other.

When he at last shifts, withdraws from that slow, aching opening – watching him with those darkened eyes that held lust and care mingled, he does take a moment to slick himself and to– hold him. To adjust long strong legs to set around the brawler’s narrow hips, claiming his mouth as he slowly thrusts forward – shudderingly, gasping against his lips – a whispered curse hovering on the edge of a moan that he is helpless to prevent – his entire world narrowing to the press of his body below his, to the heat and the tightness around him that drives all breath from his lungs as he presses forward only to still – to give them that moment when they join in breathless understanding. “God ---“ A blasphemy. His voice is wrecked, deep, laced with the need that burns through him like a wildfire, satin drawn tight over gravel, as hips drew slowly, back and then forward – deep, shudderingly perfect, as though to memorize every detail of him, not to conquer him, but to shape him beneath him – to claim the prize that for that single, shining moment, he feels deserving of. Worthy of.

I love you.

It is in the way he holds him, rough-skinned hands gripping carefully. It is in the way he angles himself, adjusting himself and his pace to reaction, focused only on bringing him pleasure. It is in the way he kisses him, as if he might drown upon air were he to stop. It was in the worship of his body – and the beat of his heart. When he does speak again, it is a growl upon his lips, soft in his throat, soft in his ear – a claiming that is so much more than animalistic impulse. It is an acceptance of him, in every way imaginable.

“Mine.”

[reddneckromeo]

[dgct2-deactivated20181231]

The Courage Or The Fall - Civil Twilight 

Final Song in #Arrow 3x02 “ Sara " 

LYRICS Men wasn’t made to live alone that’s why I have my enemies whenever I close my eyes they’re all I can see Every man needs his saviour. Every saviour needs his task But which one am I? The man or the one behind the mask? What comes first the courage or the fall? (…) Is that a saviour outside my window? Or is that a reflection of me?

[natsayala]

Smart don’t come out of books. Smart is making the right decision at the right time.

Stick-Daredevil (via natsayala)

[demondetoxmanual]

A study in eyelashes.