A Joji Tale
folder
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
3,720
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
3,720
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
The Dynamics of Lust
Chpt 2. The Dynamics of Lust
The wind felt good on his face, he decided.
It was cold, with the hint of the bitterness of winter that helped to cool the burning that Ryuuoko felt as he lept from balcony to balcony, opting for the most direct path back...the most direct path away from the planes of cinnamon flesh that had made that spacious apartment suddenly entirely too small, too cramped, and too hot all at once.
Pull yourself together...
Talking to himself was not seeming to work like it usually did—the razor concentration that characterized him seemed to crumble in flashbacks of the moment when Ryuuoko realized one fatal flaw in his orders to assassinate one Joji Hirazawa—he could not look away.
As inch after tantalizing firm inch came into view, the man seemed to glow with an unknown magnetism that entrapped him. Joji was backlit against the soft white light flowing in from the bathroom, the sound and steam of the shower framing his soft features. And though Ryuuoko has considered himself far and away immune to such considerations, in the glimmering light of that dreamlike scene, this man—this Joji—looked like that of a fallen angel.
He looked like his salvation.
And that was all it took. It was the end of the mission at that point—at least for Ryuuoko. Having been around the block with as many kills under his belt as he had, you learned when to turn in and let the target live another day. He mentally cursed himself for stumbling through another rookie mistake in the space of 20 minutes.
Never look at your target.
Ryuuoko knew this. You never fully look at your target. Of course you see them. You study their moves. You learn their body language, their likes and dislikes, their inner demons. But you never fully look at them. Looking at a mark—seeing them as more than simple flesh, blood, and sinew keeping you from a complete mission, paycheck, and new assignment posed problems for any Yakuza member or assassin in general. Looking at a person meant seeing them. Seeing them meant humanizing them. And humanizing a target meant many years of jail time for low-level marks and a slow, excruciating death by your own organization for the higher ones.
Ryuuoko himself had executed a few of those missions, stripping any friendships, any emotions that may link him to the target on the floor the way that one would strip away a band-aid. Their cries, their entreaties, their screams all white noise in the back of his mind as he set forth with a hacksaw, scalpel, or any of the tools of his trade. He once killed a rogue member with a single look from between a curtain of much too long hair when he was younger.
The man died from fright alone.
But...now he understood how Suzuko felt. The liquid fire, the intense pressure, the desire to break the man in front of him and bend him to his will...the purely animal reaction that he would have him that hit the most primal parts of his anatomy like an amphetamine-laced shot of pure lust.
Now that he analyzed it, his reaction had to be a combination of a number of things...the golden brown skin that glowed as if touched by the sun, the catlike hazel eyes that smouldered with an inner fire, the sweet but masculine smell of spice that permeated the air, the long, supple legs that seemed to go on for days...Ryuuoko imagined how those legs would looked wrapped around his waist or his shoulders while he drove into that tightness again and again and again...
Shimatta.
Ryuuoko's world jerked as he slipped, his foot spinning on the railing that he had just landed on. Reflexes honed from thousands of fights kicked in before he could think, his left hand shooting upwards to wrap around one of the small bars of the railing while his body swung with the outwards force of his fall before crashing into the concrete bunker support beneath the tiny platform. He was halfway to ground level, but considering that his target's apartment was upwards of the fortieth floor, twenty stories was still has a long way to drop.
Apparently thinking about the kid he left upstairs was hazardous to his health.
So much for taking the scenic route.
He smirked and using the centripetal force of his swing, whirled his body 360 degrees into the outdoor patio to land in perfect fighting formation on the edge of a garden seat.
Ryuuoko knew he would scare the daylights out of any target at that moment.
However, he did scare the daylights out of a particularly large tabby cat whose name from what he could tell read on a small leash “Fluffy-chan,” and whose coat seemed to fluff out even more as the startled feline slipped hissing through the slightly open balcony door.
Leaping forward with the grace of an athlete, Ryyuoko walked through the open balcony door and made a b-line for the apartment entrance. Living on the twentieth floor in a tony tower in the middle of one of the safest cities in the world gave many a feeling of false security that always made civilian executions particularly easy. Glancing at the photos of a little girl and happy couple, he decided that a small reminder that locks were built for a reason was in order. Ryuuoko grabbed a crayon left carelessly out on the kitchen table, wrote a quick note, and plastered it on the refrigerator door in bold, block letters before exiting.
FEED FLUFFY-CHAN LESS.
It only took him ten more minutes to get to his car, a smoky, hellishly black bulletproof number that was surprisingly nondescript in its outwards appearance. The sun was just starting to reach its peak, and full rush hour was slowly seeping into Tokyo's cramped corridors—there was no way he was going to make it back across town in time to wake “The Asshole” and give him the report, especially since it was a report that he would not at all like. He'd just have to crash at one of the side pads he used for business in the city, at least until the rush hour ended. He knew that would give him roughly 4 hours of much needed time to sleep, rest, and think of exactly how he was going to explain this “situation.”
That this was the one and only mission that he had ever failed to perfectly execute in all of his 28 years would mean nothing to Suzuko, and could possibly get around and cause him more trouble down the road. Suzuko would never stoop so low as to disclose this weakness, but the man had a nearly instiable appetite for sadism. He would gloat over having a reason to informally “punish” him. Even when they were kids, Suzuko would barely repress a smug smile whenever Ryuuoko was beaten within an inch of his life—often for taking the blame for shit Suzuko had done in the first place. But given Ryuuoko's track record, and the severing of many of his nerve endings from said beatings, Ryuuoko felt that ultimately his punishment would probably be light.
Don't fucking kid yourself.
Light, his ass. Oldest friend and boss though he was, Suzuko Taraki did not become the head of two Yakuza families because he was anywhere near the definition of “adverse” when it came to the subject of murder, torture, or...well torture pretty well covered it. And now he was going to learn all of Ryuuoko's newest weakness.
Shit...
He was going to have his balls for this.
***
TBC
The wind felt good on his face, he decided.
It was cold, with the hint of the bitterness of winter that helped to cool the burning that Ryuuoko felt as he lept from balcony to balcony, opting for the most direct path back...the most direct path away from the planes of cinnamon flesh that had made that spacious apartment suddenly entirely too small, too cramped, and too hot all at once.
Pull yourself together...
Talking to himself was not seeming to work like it usually did—the razor concentration that characterized him seemed to crumble in flashbacks of the moment when Ryuuoko realized one fatal flaw in his orders to assassinate one Joji Hirazawa—he could not look away.
As inch after tantalizing firm inch came into view, the man seemed to glow with an unknown magnetism that entrapped him. Joji was backlit against the soft white light flowing in from the bathroom, the sound and steam of the shower framing his soft features. And though Ryuuoko has considered himself far and away immune to such considerations, in the glimmering light of that dreamlike scene, this man—this Joji—looked like that of a fallen angel.
He looked like his salvation.
And that was all it took. It was the end of the mission at that point—at least for Ryuuoko. Having been around the block with as many kills under his belt as he had, you learned when to turn in and let the target live another day. He mentally cursed himself for stumbling through another rookie mistake in the space of 20 minutes.
Never look at your target.
Ryuuoko knew this. You never fully look at your target. Of course you see them. You study their moves. You learn their body language, their likes and dislikes, their inner demons. But you never fully look at them. Looking at a mark—seeing them as more than simple flesh, blood, and sinew keeping you from a complete mission, paycheck, and new assignment posed problems for any Yakuza member or assassin in general. Looking at a person meant seeing them. Seeing them meant humanizing them. And humanizing a target meant many years of jail time for low-level marks and a slow, excruciating death by your own organization for the higher ones.
Ryuuoko himself had executed a few of those missions, stripping any friendships, any emotions that may link him to the target on the floor the way that one would strip away a band-aid. Their cries, their entreaties, their screams all white noise in the back of his mind as he set forth with a hacksaw, scalpel, or any of the tools of his trade. He once killed a rogue member with a single look from between a curtain of much too long hair when he was younger.
The man died from fright alone.
But...now he understood how Suzuko felt. The liquid fire, the intense pressure, the desire to break the man in front of him and bend him to his will...the purely animal reaction that he would have him that hit the most primal parts of his anatomy like an amphetamine-laced shot of pure lust.
Now that he analyzed it, his reaction had to be a combination of a number of things...the golden brown skin that glowed as if touched by the sun, the catlike hazel eyes that smouldered with an inner fire, the sweet but masculine smell of spice that permeated the air, the long, supple legs that seemed to go on for days...Ryuuoko imagined how those legs would looked wrapped around his waist or his shoulders while he drove into that tightness again and again and again...
Shimatta.
Ryuuoko's world jerked as he slipped, his foot spinning on the railing that he had just landed on. Reflexes honed from thousands of fights kicked in before he could think, his left hand shooting upwards to wrap around one of the small bars of the railing while his body swung with the outwards force of his fall before crashing into the concrete bunker support beneath the tiny platform. He was halfway to ground level, but considering that his target's apartment was upwards of the fortieth floor, twenty stories was still has a long way to drop.
Apparently thinking about the kid he left upstairs was hazardous to his health.
So much for taking the scenic route.
He smirked and using the centripetal force of his swing, whirled his body 360 degrees into the outdoor patio to land in perfect fighting formation on the edge of a garden seat.
Ryuuoko knew he would scare the daylights out of any target at that moment.
However, he did scare the daylights out of a particularly large tabby cat whose name from what he could tell read on a small leash “Fluffy-chan,” and whose coat seemed to fluff out even more as the startled feline slipped hissing through the slightly open balcony door.
Leaping forward with the grace of an athlete, Ryyuoko walked through the open balcony door and made a b-line for the apartment entrance. Living on the twentieth floor in a tony tower in the middle of one of the safest cities in the world gave many a feeling of false security that always made civilian executions particularly easy. Glancing at the photos of a little girl and happy couple, he decided that a small reminder that locks were built for a reason was in order. Ryuuoko grabbed a crayon left carelessly out on the kitchen table, wrote a quick note, and plastered it on the refrigerator door in bold, block letters before exiting.
FEED FLUFFY-CHAN LESS.
It only took him ten more minutes to get to his car, a smoky, hellishly black bulletproof number that was surprisingly nondescript in its outwards appearance. The sun was just starting to reach its peak, and full rush hour was slowly seeping into Tokyo's cramped corridors—there was no way he was going to make it back across town in time to wake “The Asshole” and give him the report, especially since it was a report that he would not at all like. He'd just have to crash at one of the side pads he used for business in the city, at least until the rush hour ended. He knew that would give him roughly 4 hours of much needed time to sleep, rest, and think of exactly how he was going to explain this “situation.”
That this was the one and only mission that he had ever failed to perfectly execute in all of his 28 years would mean nothing to Suzuko, and could possibly get around and cause him more trouble down the road. Suzuko would never stoop so low as to disclose this weakness, but the man had a nearly instiable appetite for sadism. He would gloat over having a reason to informally “punish” him. Even when they were kids, Suzuko would barely repress a smug smile whenever Ryuuoko was beaten within an inch of his life—often for taking the blame for shit Suzuko had done in the first place. But given Ryuuoko's track record, and the severing of many of his nerve endings from said beatings, Ryuuoko felt that ultimately his punishment would probably be light.
Don't fucking kid yourself.
Light, his ass. Oldest friend and boss though he was, Suzuko Taraki did not become the head of two Yakuza families because he was anywhere near the definition of “adverse” when it came to the subject of murder, torture, or...well torture pretty well covered it. And now he was going to learn all of Ryuuoko's newest weakness.
Shit...
He was going to have his balls for this.
***
TBC