Rico Dredd (malicious white boy) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
judgementcrime) wrote2000-08-20 11:21 am
judgementcrime) wrote2000-08-20 11:21 am
[from here]
But I get results, that's the difference between me and them. They play it safe and back off when it gets too hot. I always get my man.
Hell, my arrest rates are higher than some Judges twice my age! 2.45% seems like a fair trade off to me.
[Even if those serious injuries, statistically speaking, have ticked up towards happening after the line's decommissioning. But hey - correlation isn't causation.]
But I get results, that's the difference between me and them. They play it safe and back off when it gets too hot. I always get my man.
Hell, my arrest rates are higher than some Judges twice my age! 2.45% seems like a fair trade off to me.
[Even if those serious injuries, statistically speaking, have ticked up towards happening after the line's decommissioning. But hey - correlation isn't causation.]
B-2101.6, buddy, it almost sounds like you’d actually give a damn if I kick it.
[from here]
[ooc: also did they bang at the lucky 38 or another room at the strip because this is important for a future tag (ominous)]
You think that badly of me? A man could feel hurt by that, Len.
Depends on if you’re coming back before I finish this bottle. And then all over your sheets.
[Again.]
[ooc: also did they bang at the lucky 38 or another room at the strip because this is important for a future tag (ominous)]
You think that badly of me? A man could feel hurt by that, Len.
Depends on if you’re coming back before I finish this bottle. And then all over your sheets.
[Again.]
[ooc: Probably at The Tops, I'd say Len has definitely already killed Benny and taken his suite but hasn't yet dealt with House.]
[ Fuck's sake, he already had to burn the sheets when he got the place, don't make him do it again. ]
Nurse that bottle, I'll be back in half an hour.
[ Fuck's sake, he already had to burn the sheets when he got the place, don't make him do it again. ]
Nurse that bottle, I'll be back in half an hour.
[Half an hour for a mile, huh? The hell is he doing, sauntering? Not nearly good enough. Plenty of time for Rico to drunkenly stew in some bad good ideas.
Rico's leaning half-out of the thirteenth floor suite window by the time Len arrives near the entrance of the Tops, looking down with a mostly-finished cigarette in one hand and a bottle dangling from the other. And as soon as he sees him reach the right spot, he takes one last drag from the cigarette then flicks it down in an act of casual littering. It bounces off the ground, and it rolls to a stop several feet in front of Len.
Did that get his attention? If Len looks up, he's treated to the sight of Rico tipping the bottle back to his mouth one last time, screwing it shut, then hurling it at him. Rico’s aim is impeccable, even from this many stories up and from a hand that’s more than tipsy. The bottle explodes as it hits the ground into glass shrapnel and a spray of alcohol, missing his boots by bare inches. Lucky there isn't anyone else there, other than a couple of Securitrons.
There’s a little shred of a label facing up amongst the mess. If it was expensive, rare, sentimental, gifted, saved for a special occasion, otherwise normal-looking but placed on a shelf in a way that caught Rico's eye, whatever - it’s soaking the concrete now. Regardless of the reaction, he disappears back inside. Then a second later;]
That’s your share, slowpoke. Express delivery ;) You can lap it up from the fucking ground.
Rico's leaning half-out of the thirteenth floor suite window by the time Len arrives near the entrance of the Tops, looking down with a mostly-finished cigarette in one hand and a bottle dangling from the other. And as soon as he sees him reach the right spot, he takes one last drag from the cigarette then flicks it down in an act of casual littering. It bounces off the ground, and it rolls to a stop several feet in front of Len.
Did that get his attention? If Len looks up, he's treated to the sight of Rico tipping the bottle back to his mouth one last time, screwing it shut, then hurling it at him. Rico’s aim is impeccable, even from this many stories up and from a hand that’s more than tipsy. The bottle explodes as it hits the ground into glass shrapnel and a spray of alcohol, missing his boots by bare inches. Lucky there isn't anyone else there, other than a couple of Securitrons.
There’s a little shred of a label facing up amongst the mess. If it was expensive, rare, sentimental, gifted, saved for a special occasion, otherwise normal-looking but placed on a shelf in a way that caught Rico's eye, whatever - it’s soaking the concrete now. Regardless of the reaction, he disappears back inside. Then a second later;]
That’s your share, slowpoke. Express delivery ;) You can lap it up from the fucking ground.
[ Half an hour because he's finishing up something over in Freeside with the Followers, and God forbid Arcade Gannon not get what he wants when it comes to medical equipment. Len doesn't mind the errands so much and he'll probably have to do a run with the good doctor somewhere soon, but it does mean that - as with many of the requests he receives - he's torn between here and there.
Unfortunately, being here means he gets nearly pelted with a cigarette butt, which does have him glancing up in anticipation of more. Hard to mistake his own window and the person leaning out of it, a dark shadow with a bottle that glints in the morning sunlight. It's enough of a warning that he actively takes a half-step back when it sails down and shatters at his feet, spattering his jeans with what smells like whiskey and the pavement with shards of glass. ]
Fuckin' Hell.
[ Petty asshole move, that. Isn't as though Len could claim to expect any better from Rico, but this early and in front of the women advertising their assets outside the Gomorrah? He picks a piece of glass from his jacket and flicks it away as he steps inside, ignoring the ping on his Pip-Boy until he's safe from further assaults.
The elevator ride feels interminable and once he reaches the thirteenth floor he half expects another hit when the doors open, taking a beat before stepping out and spotting Rico in the lounge area. Len removes his hat and sets it aside on the bar top, rumpling his hair, delivery dry and crisp when he says: ]
You done? Get it all outta your system?
Unfortunately, being here means he gets nearly pelted with a cigarette butt, which does have him glancing up in anticipation of more. Hard to mistake his own window and the person leaning out of it, a dark shadow with a bottle that glints in the morning sunlight. It's enough of a warning that he actively takes a half-step back when it sails down and shatters at his feet, spattering his jeans with what smells like whiskey and the pavement with shards of glass. ]
Fuckin' Hell.
[ Petty asshole move, that. Isn't as though Len could claim to expect any better from Rico, but this early and in front of the women advertising their assets outside the Gomorrah? He picks a piece of glass from his jacket and flicks it away as he steps inside, ignoring the ping on his Pip-Boy until he's safe from further assaults.
The elevator ride feels interminable and once he reaches the thirteenth floor he half expects another hit when the doors open, taking a beat before stepping out and spotting Rico in the lounge area. Len removes his hat and sets it aside on the bar top, rumpling his hair, delivery dry and crisp when he says: ]
You done? Get it all outta your system?
jealous bottle hurling from 13 stories up (and missing) is how you know rico likes you
judgementcrime
2022-09-18 07:21 pm (UTC)(link)
[Yeah, it's never getting out of his system because Len's got his hooks in Rico's brain and it's not letting go. Petty assholery doesn’t have set hours, sweetheart. This is a 'always simmering underneath the surface, could erupt at any moment and usually when you least expect it' kind of deal.
Seems like Len knows Rico pretty well by now, because it was a genuine fifty-fifty toss up on whether he would be right to think that. And looks like he's landed on the better end of that coin flip, because Rico's leaning back against the pool table instead, twisting the cap off another bottle as he watches Len come in.
He's managed to get his clothes on at least, even if his rumpled tank top looks like it's just been tossed on. His pants aren't even zipped up all the way, barely hanging on to his hips. His pose looks nothing but casual, but his white-knuckled grip betrays just how casual the thoughts running through his head really are. He pretends to give his answer some thought as he stops to take a drink straight from the bottle without looking away from Len. Twice-drunk, on the comedown from chems, and feeling just a teeny tiny bit slighted. Not the best combination.]
It was just a little joke, Len. Don't get your panties in a twist.
[is all he comes out with when he lowers the bottle, smiling unrepentantly. But it doesn't reach his eyes. Where Len's delivery is dry and crisp, Rico's words are starting to slur together.]
Made you jump, didn't it? Since you didn't hop to it and all, figured you needed some incentive.
Seems like Len knows Rico pretty well by now, because it was a genuine fifty-fifty toss up on whether he would be right to think that. And looks like he's landed on the better end of that coin flip, because Rico's leaning back against the pool table instead, twisting the cap off another bottle as he watches Len come in.
He's managed to get his clothes on at least, even if his rumpled tank top looks like it's just been tossed on. His pants aren't even zipped up all the way, barely hanging on to his hips. His pose looks nothing but casual, but his white-knuckled grip betrays just how casual the thoughts running through his head really are. He pretends to give his answer some thought as he stops to take a drink straight from the bottle without looking away from Len. Twice-drunk, on the comedown from chems, and feeling just a teeny tiny bit slighted. Not the best combination.]
It was just a little joke, Len. Don't get your panties in a twist.
[is all he comes out with when he lowers the bottle, smiling unrepentantly. But it doesn't reach his eyes. Where Len's delivery is dry and crisp, Rico's words are starting to slur together.]
Made you jump, didn't it? Since you didn't hop to it and all, figured you needed some incentive.
RIP is it too late for Len to unsubscribe from all these issues
lonedanger
2022-09-19 01:51 am (UTC)(link)
[ To a less observant person Rico might paint the picture of a casual John: his posture relaxed, his expression open and inviting, his clothes disheveled in that "I just had sex" kind of way. It's a pity that death grip on the bottle gives him away, or he might actually be mistaken for a man who has his shit together. Angel smile with a devil's teeth. Vicious and possessive in a way Len should have perhaps predicted, like a nightstalker with a bone. People vie for the Courier's attention all the time, Rico just needs to learn to share.
Even as the thought floats past Len doesn't bother entertaining it seriously, because men like this don't change. Already tipsy, maybe a little Day Tripper wearing off, no doubt feeling particularly proud of himself for his impeccable aim and irritatingly good-looking, to boot. ]
I told you before. [ He says with unadulterated calm, trigger finger suddenly, inexplicably twitching. ] I got busy.
[ His pack, his gun belt, Len leaves draped over a chair to prevent temptation from getting the better of him, closing the distance deliberately slow. He stops just short of a foot or so away and makes no bones about looking Rico down and up again, impassive. The relative cool of the suite lifts the sweat-slick curls from the back of his neck, a reprieve from the heat outside and the heat this motherfucker always seems to stoke. ]
Now, if I didn't know any better, Rico, I'd say you were jealous.
Even as the thought floats past Len doesn't bother entertaining it seriously, because men like this don't change. Already tipsy, maybe a little Day Tripper wearing off, no doubt feeling particularly proud of himself for his impeccable aim and irritatingly good-looking, to boot. ]
I told you before. [ He says with unadulterated calm, trigger finger suddenly, inexplicably twitching. ] I got busy.
[ His pack, his gun belt, Len leaves draped over a chair to prevent temptation from getting the better of him, closing the distance deliberately slow. He stops just short of a foot or so away and makes no bones about looking Rico down and up again, impassive. The relative cool of the suite lifts the sweat-slick curls from the back of his neck, a reprieve from the heat outside and the heat this motherfucker always seems to stoke. ]
Now, if I didn't know any better, Rico, I'd say you were jealous.
free trial period is over, it’s a lifetime subscription now (menacing)
judgementcrime
2022-09-19 05:33 am (UTC)(link)
And if I didn't know any better, I'd say that you caught that bottle with your head.
[It's fucking hilarious to see Len like this. His manner placid and impassive, acting all unruffled when his trigger finger's twitching right there. Dishonesty in action, and twice as funny on a man who likes to appear easy-going. Rico's smile widens by a fraction when he clocks that, and it only gets more satisfied when he sees the way Len closes the distance, looks him up and down. It lets the irritation simmer down. Somewhat.]
You’ve been spending a lot of time with that Follower lately. You know the one. Tall, blonde, and mouthy. Got the glasses, too.
[He says this in an easy, breezy tone, but it's very much like the kind of breeze that blows through the Mohave. In theory it should be welcoming, but it's hot, prickly, and unpleasant. Enough to induce the sweats. The grip on the bottle doesn't lessen, and his knuckles flex. But he does screw the cap back on. Not that it's really any better.]
'Cause I got to thinking, and correct me if I'm wrong - just under a mile away...
[Rico makes a thoughtful noise from the back of his throat, but it's pretty damn clear that it's an affectation. And it's just as clear what he's been thinking about as he's been waiting for Len to join him.]
The Fort, maybe? Is that where you went and got busy?
[It's fucking hilarious to see Len like this. His manner placid and impassive, acting all unruffled when his trigger finger's twitching right there. Dishonesty in action, and twice as funny on a man who likes to appear easy-going. Rico's smile widens by a fraction when he clocks that, and it only gets more satisfied when he sees the way Len closes the distance, looks him up and down. It lets the irritation simmer down. Somewhat.]
You’ve been spending a lot of time with that Follower lately. You know the one. Tall, blonde, and mouthy. Got the glasses, too.
[He says this in an easy, breezy tone, but it's very much like the kind of breeze that blows through the Mohave. In theory it should be welcoming, but it's hot, prickly, and unpleasant. Enough to induce the sweats. The grip on the bottle doesn't lessen, and his knuckles flex. But he does screw the cap back on. Not that it's really any better.]
'Cause I got to thinking, and correct me if I'm wrong - just under a mile away...
[Rico makes a thoughtful noise from the back of his throat, but it's pretty damn clear that it's an affectation. And it's just as clear what he's been thinking about as he's been waiting for Len to join him.]
The Fort, maybe? Is that where you went and got busy?
[ Len likes Arcade. Would spend less than platonic time with him if given the opportunity, but the man plays everything so close and tight to the vest. Told Len once that lovers make for poor confidantes, and when it comes down to it Len would prefer them to be intellectually amicable over physical. He's smart, has a weird sense of humor, probably has a list of high standards about a mile long - most high-maintenance man in the Mojave. There are plenty of bachelors in the wasteland who would jump at the chance to be with him.
So he doesn't bother maintaining any kind of poker face at the assertion that they're fooling around. Arcade is more in love with his pithy little Latin phrases and broc flowers than the idea of ending up in Courier Six's amorous crosshairs, and that's just fine by Len so long as he's safe. ]
Is that what this is about?
[ What Len doesn't like in the least is the way Rico's smug fucking face looks, bringing this up. Like he's itching to make Len regret the association, like he's trying to catch him in a lie. As if Len has the energy to spare for roundabout bullshit when he could just get to the point. He's seen Rico shoot men for lesser crimes than being a mild annoyance and wouldn't put it past him to disappear somebody he didn't like. ]
You sat here for half an hour doin' what, exactly? Imagining me blowing the guy? I delivered a bundle of Med-X to Farkas and some sterile equipment to Arcade. Shoot straight if you got a problem with what I do with my time, slick, 'cause I simply do not have the hours in the day to try to read your mind.
So he doesn't bother maintaining any kind of poker face at the assertion that they're fooling around. Arcade is more in love with his pithy little Latin phrases and broc flowers than the idea of ending up in Courier Six's amorous crosshairs, and that's just fine by Len so long as he's safe. ]
Is that what this is about?
[ What Len doesn't like in the least is the way Rico's smug fucking face looks, bringing this up. Like he's itching to make Len regret the association, like he's trying to catch him in a lie. As if Len has the energy to spare for roundabout bullshit when he could just get to the point. He's seen Rico shoot men for lesser crimes than being a mild annoyance and wouldn't put it past him to disappear somebody he didn't like. ]
You sat here for half an hour doin' what, exactly? Imagining me blowing the guy? I delivered a bundle of Med-X to Farkas and some sterile equipment to Arcade. Shoot straight if you got a problem with what I do with my time, slick, 'cause I simply do not have the hours in the day to try to read your mind.
[It’s an answer that’s not good enough, judging by the way that pleasant smile doesn’t budge. But honestly? Very few answers would have likely been good enough, once this man gets an idea in his head.
Rico’s fingers twitch away from the bottle and it falls from his hand as he pushes off from the pool table in the same motion. It lands on the threadbare carpet with a dull thud, rolling away. He plants his feet more firmly onto the floor and takes half a step to close that gap between them provocatively, in both senses of the word as his pants ride down another inch to show that’s all he’s wearing.
At least he hasn’t thrown the bottle at him again. That’s a promising sign.]
Alright, Lenny. How’s this for shooting straight?
[Rico says, reaching up to flick Len’s collar in a sloppy gesture. Then he brushes the back of his knuckles down his front, holding Len’s jacket still in one hand as he idly picks out a few small glass shards of where they’re trapped in the folds with the other, like pulling weeds. Then he speaks up again in that playful, hypothetical tone of his.]
If you ambled your ass down to Freeside tomorrow morning and you didn’t see Arcade where you last left him…
[If Len realizes where this sentence is going well before it finishes, there’s a sharp shard of glass between Rico’s fingers digging into the underside of Len’s jaw, held so tightly in his grasp that there’s blood trickling between his knuckles. And with a grin that’s much more teeth than smile;]
You think you’d hurry on back to bed a little goddamn quicker?
Rico’s fingers twitch away from the bottle and it falls from his hand as he pushes off from the pool table in the same motion. It lands on the threadbare carpet with a dull thud, rolling away. He plants his feet more firmly onto the floor and takes half a step to close that gap between them provocatively, in both senses of the word as his pants ride down another inch to show that’s all he’s wearing.
At least he hasn’t thrown the bottle at him again. That’s a promising sign.]
Alright, Lenny. How’s this for shooting straight?
[Rico says, reaching up to flick Len’s collar in a sloppy gesture. Then he brushes the back of his knuckles down his front, holding Len’s jacket still in one hand as he idly picks out a few small glass shards of where they’re trapped in the folds with the other, like pulling weeds. Then he speaks up again in that playful, hypothetical tone of his.]
If you ambled your ass down to Freeside tomorrow morning and you didn’t see Arcade where you last left him…
[If Len realizes where this sentence is going well before it finishes, there’s a sharp shard of glass between Rico’s fingers digging into the underside of Len’s jaw, held so tightly in his grasp that there’s blood trickling between his knuckles. And with a grin that’s much more teeth than smile;]
You think you’d hurry on back to bed a little goddamn quicker?
[ Inches away it's even more apparent how tall Rico is, coolly confident and flirting with the idea of being mildly unhinged at the edges of his smile. He smells like liquor and Len's hand-rolled cigarettes, freshly laundered sheets, the sticky-salt musk he exudes like pheromones that were lab-designed explicitly to spike Len's blood pressure. A fist with scuffed knuckles wraps itself in the denim of his jacket and he reads the gesture for what it is: a thinly-veiled strategy to get him close, cut to the quick. The glass doesn't surprise him; one of the most reliable things about Rico is that he's opportunistically volatile, and Len lifts his chin on instinct.
It isn't an empty threat. Rico can turn on a dime and Len knew that getting into this, knows his own tendency to be a reactionary shit and maybe the man is counting on that. Ever since he got shot twice in the head he's felt as though he came back all wrong, pieces of himself in different places, sorting through memories and empty static alike. Hard to find balance when he shouldn't be alive in the first place. ]
I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear you call me Lenny, because I...hate...when people call me Lenny.
[ He begins softly, conscious of the powder keg he's courting. As it turns out black isn't really Rico's color, running greener than Joshua Tree in the springtime. His hands, previously hanging at his sides, slip over the belt loops of Rico's pants, curling in them as his thumbs press firmly into the juts of his bare hips. ]
And I'd like to remind you that I keep business and pleasure separate for a reason. I ain't going anywhere and I don't need the incentive, so don't fuck with my people or you will find me much less friendly to your sugar-sweet advances.
[ One palms skims the line of Rico's side, under his shirt and over his ribs as Len maintains unflinching eye contact. ]
I came back, didn't I?
It isn't an empty threat. Rico can turn on a dime and Len knew that getting into this, knows his own tendency to be a reactionary shit and maybe the man is counting on that. Ever since he got shot twice in the head he's felt as though he came back all wrong, pieces of himself in different places, sorting through memories and empty static alike. Hard to find balance when he shouldn't be alive in the first place. ]
I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear you call me Lenny, because I...hate...when people call me Lenny.
[ He begins softly, conscious of the powder keg he's courting. As it turns out black isn't really Rico's color, running greener than Joshua Tree in the springtime. His hands, previously hanging at his sides, slip over the belt loops of Rico's pants, curling in them as his thumbs press firmly into the juts of his bare hips. ]
And I'd like to remind you that I keep business and pleasure separate for a reason. I ain't going anywhere and I don't need the incentive, so don't fuck with my people or you will find me much less friendly to your sugar-sweet advances.
[ One palms skims the line of Rico's side, under his shirt and over his ribs as Len maintains unflinching eye contact. ]
I came back, didn't I?
["I ain't going anywhere", the newly-nicknamed Lenny says. And maybe that's what Rico really wanted to hear, because he tilts his head slightly at that. He's clearly loving the hands at his hips, the touch running up under his shirt.]
Huh. How about that?
[He says faux-thoughtfully, as if just realizing he's made a great point, the words coming from a perfectly pleased rumble in his chest in that sugar-sweet tone. Then he leans down, locking gazes with him, still holding that prickling threat at Len's throat. It’s easier to dig under his skin with an unwelcome nickname and a smile, but it sure doesn’t hurt.]
Guess you did, hotshot. I've got nothing to complain about now.
[What Rico smells like, really, is Len’s things. His cigarettes, his liquor, his sheets. The things he’s taken with entitlement because he's pissed off, because he tends to move on quick with his flavors of the month but only when he's done with them, not when they're done with him. And he wears it all like a challenge he's shoving in Len's face, daring him to do something about it and find out just what Rico really could truly and honestly do if pushed just a bit too... far.
Rico yanks him in with a tight-fisted grip in his jacket, jerking him closer to give him a taste of that malt whiskey splashing Len's boots. Just as promised. But at the same time he does, the rough pull causes a small jagged gash to cut across Len's skin from where Rico's holding the flashing glint of glass, running along the underside of his jaw. Something he doesn't acknowledge in favor of biting his way into Len's mouth as he holds him close, feeling blood start to drip over his hand where the sharp edge is pressed even harder right up against his throat, shaking with possessive fury and mingling with his own.]
Huh. How about that?
[He says faux-thoughtfully, as if just realizing he's made a great point, the words coming from a perfectly pleased rumble in his chest in that sugar-sweet tone. Then he leans down, locking gazes with him, still holding that prickling threat at Len's throat. It’s easier to dig under his skin with an unwelcome nickname and a smile, but it sure doesn’t hurt.]
Guess you did, hotshot. I've got nothing to complain about now.
[What Rico smells like, really, is Len’s things. His cigarettes, his liquor, his sheets. The things he’s taken with entitlement because he's pissed off, because he tends to move on quick with his flavors of the month but only when he's done with them, not when they're done with him. And he wears it all like a challenge he's shoving in Len's face, daring him to do something about it and find out just what Rico really could truly and honestly do if pushed just a bit too... far.
Rico yanks him in with a tight-fisted grip in his jacket, jerking him closer to give him a taste of that malt whiskey splashing Len's boots. Just as promised. But at the same time he does, the rough pull causes a small jagged gash to cut across Len's skin from where Rico's holding the flashing glint of glass, running along the underside of his jaw. Something he doesn't acknowledge in favor of biting his way into Len's mouth as he holds him close, feeling blood start to drip over his hand where the sharp edge is pressed even harder right up against his throat, shaking with possessive fury and mingling with his own.]
[ What Len understands about Rico is that he's fickle. Finds an intense subject for his attention, an obsession, and clings to it until he's wrung every last molecule of personal pleasure from it before discarding it like a wet rag. Surely it's the same with people. Maintaining not so much relationships as it is juggling interest, the luster gone once he gets to know them too well, sees their tells, loses that thrill of not knowing and gets tired. Bored. It's a high he'll be chasing interminably and one that Len does not envy.
The kiss hits him like a train and he's only barely ready for it, fingers tightening in Rico's skin with a vicious hunger that flares low and deep in his gut. That gasp is accompanied by pain: ripped open along the line of his jaw, Rico's knuckles brushing his throat and he immediately knows it's the glass. Len meets him teeth for teeth, morning breath and malt whiskey, ignoring the dull throb, the hot blood he can feel dripping off of Rico's hand and onto his own chest.
He smells iron and tastes that smoky burn, shocking all the way down into his lungs as the other man tries to pull handfuls of him that he refuses to give. Rico needs to work harder than that.
Len wraps a fist in his tank and shoves him back against the pool table, riled and wild-eyed with some nascent frustration brewing about the fucking nerve of this guy. Like taking a hit of something strong it bowls him over all over again, the sharpness of his attraction honed to a razor's edge, the familiar sensation of agonized relief that someone doesn't treat him like the Mojave's savior. His hands make short work of Rico's half-undone fly, a sly grin stretching across his face when he reaches down to palm him firmly, deliberately, and says: ]
Bullshit. You always find somethin' to complain about.
The kiss hits him like a train and he's only barely ready for it, fingers tightening in Rico's skin with a vicious hunger that flares low and deep in his gut. That gasp is accompanied by pain: ripped open along the line of his jaw, Rico's knuckles brushing his throat and he immediately knows it's the glass. Len meets him teeth for teeth, morning breath and malt whiskey, ignoring the dull throb, the hot blood he can feel dripping off of Rico's hand and onto his own chest.
He smells iron and tastes that smoky burn, shocking all the way down into his lungs as the other man tries to pull handfuls of him that he refuses to give. Rico needs to work harder than that.
Len wraps a fist in his tank and shoves him back against the pool table, riled and wild-eyed with some nascent frustration brewing about the fucking nerve of this guy. Like taking a hit of something strong it bowls him over all over again, the sharpness of his attraction honed to a razor's edge, the familiar sensation of agonized relief that someone doesn't treat him like the Mojave's savior. His hands make short work of Rico's half-undone fly, a sly grin stretching across his face when he reaches down to palm him firmly, deliberately, and says: ]
Bullshit. You always find somethin' to complain about.
[Rico's well aware of this little habit of his, and he can feel it starting to happen every time, the beginning of the end - that little film slowly peeling away at the edges when he wakes up every morning with a little more of that burnt-out taste of restlessness in the back of his mind. Hates it, and he sometimes claws too deep trying to stave it off. But the luster on the man underneath his hands won't wear off for a while yet, because he makes him fucking work for it and Rico relishes a challenge. It still tickles him pink to dig under Len’s skin, see what other hidden noises and impulses he can pry out of him along with the blood.
The rumpled clothes really are just window dressing to that broad-shouldered frame. He graciously allows Len to shove him back as his ass hits the pool table, lets him know that by looking just as sly and twice as smug. Also: it's plenty true what Len says.]
Hard to think of something right now when you've got your hand down my pants, but if you’re asking... You smell like booze. You been drinking?
[Rico laughs, as if it’s not obviously the goddamn whiskey bomb he just threw at Len. It gives him such a fucking kick to watch for that wild, vaguely pissed-off glint in Len's eyes, know that he's got him hooked on something only Rico can give him. For another day at least, and his full attention for the next hour. Not that Rico’s had very many inhibitions to lose in the first place, but the warm heat in his gut mingles well with arousal and Len’s palm over his cock only stokes it hotter.
Anger, adrenaline, arousal... Hell, one's as much of a rush as the other, interchangeable and indistinguishable. Exchange your chips at the counter, it's all the same to the guy standing behind it. The blood pounding in his ears, emotion surging up so high it leaves him running eager and hot, every instinct in his body pointed in the same direction and humming with a single-minded intensity. Rico knows he has some wires crossed in his brain, tangled all up together by being forced to tread that path too often. He knows that, and Len knows that, but he's still not changing.
Rico's grip on his jacket slides upwards - he winds his hand though Len’s hair and yanks his head back, baring more of his vulnerable throat and showing off that blood-slicked cut. With just a twist of his hand, he could slash him wide open, leave him on his knees and gagging on his blood. As a reminder, he plays at being careless as he grinds down into Len's hand, that sharp point lifting just a fraction, tapping at his jaw. He turns his face to the side as he smiles, hot breath over that stinging cut -]
What do you think, Lenny? Should I give you another one so Arcade can kiss it better? Or would you prefer it'd be me?
The rumpled clothes really are just window dressing to that broad-shouldered frame. He graciously allows Len to shove him back as his ass hits the pool table, lets him know that by looking just as sly and twice as smug. Also: it's plenty true what Len says.]
Hard to think of something right now when you've got your hand down my pants, but if you’re asking... You smell like booze. You been drinking?
[Rico laughs, as if it’s not obviously the goddamn whiskey bomb he just threw at Len. It gives him such a fucking kick to watch for that wild, vaguely pissed-off glint in Len's eyes, know that he's got him hooked on something only Rico can give him. For another day at least, and his full attention for the next hour. Not that Rico’s had very many inhibitions to lose in the first place, but the warm heat in his gut mingles well with arousal and Len’s palm over his cock only stokes it hotter.
Anger, adrenaline, arousal... Hell, one's as much of a rush as the other, interchangeable and indistinguishable. Exchange your chips at the counter, it's all the same to the guy standing behind it. The blood pounding in his ears, emotion surging up so high it leaves him running eager and hot, every instinct in his body pointed in the same direction and humming with a single-minded intensity. Rico knows he has some wires crossed in his brain, tangled all up together by being forced to tread that path too often. He knows that, and Len knows that, but he's still not changing.
Rico's grip on his jacket slides upwards - he winds his hand though Len’s hair and yanks his head back, baring more of his vulnerable throat and showing off that blood-slicked cut. With just a twist of his hand, he could slash him wide open, leave him on his knees and gagging on his blood. As a reminder, he plays at being careless as he grinds down into Len's hand, that sharp point lifting just a fraction, tapping at his jaw. He turns his face to the side as he smiles, hot breath over that stinging cut -]
What do you think, Lenny? Should I give you another one so Arcade can kiss it better? Or would you prefer it'd be me?
[ It's obvious how much Rico likes seeing him like this, likes pushing him until he's close to snapping. Conscious of his own past - what he can fucking remember of it, anyway - and knowing the kind of personality he has, Len makes considerable efforts toward not indulging that side of himself. The hazy days of his twenties were rife with exactly the kind of ultra-violence Rico craves, succumbing to every base desire, leaning into the grain instead of pushing against it. Every now and again he plays with that kind of fire once more, reminding himself why he worked so hard to leave it behind in the first place.
Mornings like these, it's difficult to parse between good and bad habits. Sometimes he just doesn't care. Rico's not the only one with wires crossed and something truly tragic happened the day Len died and came back again, and it wasn't just the way they left him bleeding under a shallow layer of dirt and sand. He does good because it's asked of him, because he's singularly talented in doing it when a person actually needs help, but he doesn't know how much of that is contrived and how much is sincere. Play enough poker and you believe your own bluffs.
A hand twists into his hair and grips it firmly, pulling his head back and Len hisses in response, half-hating the delicious shudder that runs down his spine like an electrical current. The stinging tug of torn skin is barely recognizable like this, stretched long and lean as his fingers tighten around Rico's cock and it pulses against his palm. Len rubs his thumb into the slit, slicking the head and recalling with sharp clarity the way Rico had smiled last night when Len fit his mouth over his dick with obvious relish.
The threat is still there, tippy-tapping along the edge of his jawline and Len refuses to capitulate, flirting with danger like always as his free hand wanders to his own belt. ]
I think you should be careful, playin' with sharp things.
[ The blade of his hunting knife presses through Rico's tank, drawing a prick of blood from his side, between the bones. Fastest way to a man's heart is through his ribcage. ]
You're liable to get cut.
Mornings like these, it's difficult to parse between good and bad habits. Sometimes he just doesn't care. Rico's not the only one with wires crossed and something truly tragic happened the day Len died and came back again, and it wasn't just the way they left him bleeding under a shallow layer of dirt and sand. He does good because it's asked of him, because he's singularly talented in doing it when a person actually needs help, but he doesn't know how much of that is contrived and how much is sincere. Play enough poker and you believe your own bluffs.
A hand twists into his hair and grips it firmly, pulling his head back and Len hisses in response, half-hating the delicious shudder that runs down his spine like an electrical current. The stinging tug of torn skin is barely recognizable like this, stretched long and lean as his fingers tighten around Rico's cock and it pulses against his palm. Len rubs his thumb into the slit, slicking the head and recalling with sharp clarity the way Rico had smiled last night when Len fit his mouth over his dick with obvious relish.
The threat is still there, tippy-tapping along the edge of his jawline and Len refuses to capitulate, flirting with danger like always as his free hand wanders to his own belt. ]
I think you should be careful, playin' with sharp things.
[ The blade of his hunting knife presses through Rico's tank, drawing a prick of blood from his side, between the bones. Fastest way to a man's heart is through his ribcage. ]
You're liable to get cut.
[from here]
You think all I know how to do is wave a gun around and rattle off judicial code? I could do fine print contractual language in my sleep. Which is great, because it sends me straight drokking to it.
Despite what you think, Judges don’t just boot down doors and crack heads. Sure, we do that a lot and I happen to look great doing it, but we also deal with corporate law, tax evasion, divorce proceedings, small claims, immigration… we’re trained to handle it all.
You think all I know how to do is wave a gun around and rattle off judicial code? I could do fine print contractual language in my sleep. Which is great, because it sends me straight drokking to it.
Despite what you think, Judges don’t just boot down doors and crack heads. Sure, we do that a lot and I happen to look great doing it, but we also deal with corporate law, tax evasion, divorce proceedings, small claims, immigration… we’re trained to handle it all.
Right, and if I were negotiating contract - or looking for a loophole in contract - and wanted a second opinion, I'd trust you for it. I don't doubt your abilities.
But how much do you know about Tradeliner code? I've memorised the thing, I know it backwards, and I know what'll hold up as reasonable interpretation and what any captain will come down heavy on even if maybe it's within code if you squint enough, because of custom and precedent. It'd be like if one of your citizens made an insightful, logically coherent taxation-is-theft argument to you - it'd be accepted immediately out in my sector, but you'd still want to make them pay up, wouldn't you?
But how much do you know about Tradeliner code? I've memorised the thing, I know it backwards, and I know what'll hold up as reasonable interpretation and what any captain will come down heavy on even if maybe it's within code if you squint enough, because of custom and precedent. It'd be like if one of your citizens made an insightful, logically coherent taxation-is-theft argument to you - it'd be accepted immediately out in my sector, but you'd still want to make them pay up, wouldn't you?
[from here]
[Backing down from a fight goes against every instinct in his body and he's well past the point of being able to, even if he wanted. Rico has options, too. He could trigger the shock collar, that’d shake the fucker right up and teach him a lesson about reaching in when he’s not allowed to. His thumb hovers over the control switch, this close to doing it, but what stops him is watching the blood cascade from Crius’ face as he sinks his grip deeper into him, like he doesn't know or care it's happening.
Electricity isn’t a subtle tool - it’d drop him in an instant, but he can't risk making the damage worse to whatever neurons are firing off, make his soulmate more of an actual brain dead fucking idiot than he already is. Crius is hurting himself right now cracking Rico open, a thought fueled by agitation and uneasiness with every fresh wave of blood that he sees pouring out, and it makes him think of blood vessels and brain bleeds from dead and dying things with the jarring impact from his boot caving in their skulls. He needs to stop, they both need to stop. Rico can't, and the solution that comes to mind distracts him for a second, and that’s all Crius needs to pry him open the rest of the way. And the recent memory he finds there, the reason for all this:
Cold drink in hand, pleasantly buzzed with his crew until somebody makes a joke and it's not so pleasant anymore - "...first time I've seen a soulmate being made to stick around", "..you're a real catch, Captain...", "...taking bets for when that thing comes off? I'll start with ten seconds, and that's if soldier boy stops to grab his things on the way out-". He laughs along, ha ha ha, fury and embarrassment mounting, still pressing on his thoughts long after the topic changes, turning into something about how Crius is counting down the seconds, laughing at him in secret as if this fucked-up thing could ever lead to more, angered into impulsive action, fueled by insecurity-
In reality, Rico’s fists uncurl. He wraps his right hand around his index finger of his left hand.
He can't risk hurting Crius physically. But what he can do is make him feel it. This has gone on long enough.
There's a perfectly calm, crystal clear moment in his mind as he braces himself, and that's the only warning Crius gets before he wrenches it back as far as it can go. There's a sharp crack, and he howls out loud. White-hot pain radiates from the break, and Rico gags in pain as he squeezes down tighter on it and grinds the edges of the broken bones against each other. Humiliation, resentment, violation-
GET. OUT. NOW.]
[Backing down from a fight goes against every instinct in his body and he's well past the point of being able to, even if he wanted. Rico has options, too. He could trigger the shock collar, that’d shake the fucker right up and teach him a lesson about reaching in when he’s not allowed to. His thumb hovers over the control switch, this close to doing it, but what stops him is watching the blood cascade from Crius’ face as he sinks his grip deeper into him, like he doesn't know or care it's happening.
Electricity isn’t a subtle tool - it’d drop him in an instant, but he can't risk making the damage worse to whatever neurons are firing off, make his soulmate more of an actual brain dead fucking idiot than he already is. Crius is hurting himself right now cracking Rico open, a thought fueled by agitation and uneasiness with every fresh wave of blood that he sees pouring out, and it makes him think of blood vessels and brain bleeds from dead and dying things with the jarring impact from his boot caving in their skulls. He needs to stop, they both need to stop. Rico can't, and the solution that comes to mind distracts him for a second, and that’s all Crius needs to pry him open the rest of the way. And the recent memory he finds there, the reason for all this:
Cold drink in hand, pleasantly buzzed with his crew until somebody makes a joke and it's not so pleasant anymore - "...first time I've seen a soulmate being made to stick around", "..you're a real catch, Captain...", "...taking bets for when that thing comes off? I'll start with ten seconds, and that's if soldier boy stops to grab his things on the way out-". He laughs along, ha ha ha, fury and embarrassment mounting, still pressing on his thoughts long after the topic changes, turning into something about how Crius is counting down the seconds, laughing at him in secret as if this fucked-up thing could ever lead to more, angered into impulsive action, fueled by insecurity-
In reality, Rico’s fists uncurl. He wraps his right hand around his index finger of his left hand.
He can't risk hurting Crius physically. But what he can do is make him feel it. This has gone on long enough.
There's a perfectly calm, crystal clear moment in his mind as he braces himself, and that's the only warning Crius gets before he wrenches it back as far as it can go. There's a sharp crack, and he howls out loud. White-hot pain radiates from the break, and Rico gags in pain as he squeezes down tighter on it and grinds the edges of the broken bones against each other. Humiliation, resentment, violation-
GET. OUT. NOW.]
You're really going to make me do this?
How long is the entirety of Tradeliner code? Start to end, give me a rough estimate. I've got a new pet project.
How long is the entirety of Tradeliner code? Start to end, give me a rough estimate. I've got a new pet project.
Me? I'm not making you do anything, all I'm saying is that as a Tradeliner I know our system better than you do. If you had a copy of the code and a couple of years shipside to see the implementation, you'd do just as well.
If you really want to, though? It's four thousand words, give or take. That's for the core of it. Don't worry about the appendices, they're full of departmental regulations about procedure and paperwork, and they will put you to sleep.
If you really want to, though? It's four thousand words, give or take. That's for the core of it. Don't worry about the appendices, they're full of departmental regulations about procedure and paperwork, and they will put you to sleep.
AAAAGH!
[Out he does indeed get, Crius' hold on Rico's thoughts and the connection both snapping like a brittle branch. And even with him completely separated from the other, the finger on Crius' corresponding hand throbs red hot in sympathy with Rico's own injury. As it fades, his own woes start becoming apparent and the nausea he was experiencing comes back full force.
He stumbles to his feet and to the bathroom, only just making it in time not to evacuate his stomach all over the floor. He finishes with a groan and flushes, then leans his head back against the bulkhead. With his system cleared out he feels more sober than he was before, but not so clear that the hungover aftereffect of overexerting himself doesn't mix with the queasiness of the liqour.
Why did he do this again?
Right, Rico. He sighs and pounds- more knocks, really- his fist against the floor.]
Morus.
[Foolish. Idiot. And he includes himself in that statement as much as he does one Captain Rico Dredd. They just went head to head- quite literally- over Rico's insecurity. And as much as he wants to place all the blame on Rico, he could have figured a way out of the room and dealt with consequences later, or he could have been patient and waited for Dredd to come to him. Instead he chose to be just as childish and pick a fight.]
We really were made for each other, weren't we?
[The words are accompanied with a short laugh, and after a minute he gets up. He can still feel the nosebleed going but he does nothing to stem it or clean it up, instead opting to find his communicator. He could simply reinstate the bond, but with his pounding head he isn't sure it's a good idea. Instead, he finds where Rico is on his very limited contact list and sends out another message.]
Get your finger fixed.
[Then, a minute later.]
I would not simply leave like that.
[Out he does indeed get, Crius' hold on Rico's thoughts and the connection both snapping like a brittle branch. And even with him completely separated from the other, the finger on Crius' corresponding hand throbs red hot in sympathy with Rico's own injury. As it fades, his own woes start becoming apparent and the nausea he was experiencing comes back full force.
He stumbles to his feet and to the bathroom, only just making it in time not to evacuate his stomach all over the floor. He finishes with a groan and flushes, then leans his head back against the bulkhead. With his system cleared out he feels more sober than he was before, but not so clear that the hungover aftereffect of overexerting himself doesn't mix with the queasiness of the liqour.
Why did he do this again?
Right, Rico. He sighs and pounds- more knocks, really- his fist against the floor.]
Morus.
[Foolish. Idiot. And he includes himself in that statement as much as he does one Captain Rico Dredd. They just went head to head- quite literally- over Rico's insecurity. And as much as he wants to place all the blame on Rico, he could have figured a way out of the room and dealt with consequences later, or he could have been patient and waited for Dredd to come to him. Instead he chose to be just as childish and pick a fight.]
We really were made for each other, weren't we?
[The words are accompanied with a short laugh, and after a minute he gets up. He can still feel the nosebleed going but he does nothing to stem it or clean it up, instead opting to find his communicator. He could simply reinstate the bond, but with his pounding head he isn't sure it's a good idea. Instead, he finds where Rico is on his very limited contact list and sends out another message.]
Get your finger fixed.
[Then, a minute later.]
I would not simply leave like that.
[It drags a sound from Rico's throat, and he thrusts lazily into Len's hand as his breath quickens. There's that sting of sensation between his ribs, and he doesn't have to look down to know exactly what that means.
The other man could take his other hand away and wrap it over the butt of the knife's handle - drive it in hard in at the right angle, sink it into his chest and take a good fucking bite of his heart. Isn’t that what he’s playing at threatening? Ha ha ha. Bullshit.
He deliberately leans into the point, letting Len's arm feel how he's shoving his weight into it as he holds it up. More than he intends - the way his head spins makes it easy to fall into it, barely feeling the point work deeper into his skin and only registering the vaguely warm, wet sensation of his shirt sticking to it.]
Am I supposed to be impressed by a little prick?
[A dick joke. Classy. Rico laughs, louder and harder than it really warrants, pleased as punch at his own joke.]
How the hell am I getting off from that?
[He closes the short distance between his eager mouth to Len's exposed neck, undeterred. Calling out his bluff, daring him to follow the line of logic right through from the edge of the hunting knife. Rico will kiss the cut better, alright. He'll do that fucking plenty. He keeps him still by that tight grip on his hair as he drags his blunt teeth over the cut under his wiry beard, presses the flat of his tongue against it and bites. It’ll be fun to make him jump. His cock gives a twitch, suddenly achingly hard at the taste filling his mouth.]
The other man could take his other hand away and wrap it over the butt of the knife's handle - drive it in hard in at the right angle, sink it into his chest and take a good fucking bite of his heart. Isn’t that what he’s playing at threatening? Ha ha ha. Bullshit.
He deliberately leans into the point, letting Len's arm feel how he's shoving his weight into it as he holds it up. More than he intends - the way his head spins makes it easy to fall into it, barely feeling the point work deeper into his skin and only registering the vaguely warm, wet sensation of his shirt sticking to it.]
Am I supposed to be impressed by a little prick?
[A dick joke. Classy. Rico laughs, louder and harder than it really warrants, pleased as punch at his own joke.]
How the hell am I getting off from that?
[He closes the short distance between his eager mouth to Len's exposed neck, undeterred. Calling out his bluff, daring him to follow the line of logic right through from the edge of the hunting knife. Rico will kiss the cut better, alright. He'll do that fucking plenty. He keeps him still by that tight grip on his hair as he drags his blunt teeth over the cut under his wiry beard, presses the flat of his tongue against it and bites. It’ll be fun to make him jump. His cock gives a twitch, suddenly achingly hard at the taste filling his mouth.]
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