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He's fucking...

 

... her: after all those sessions where he had to sit still under her needle - silently accepting the pain for the greater good - he is finally the one making her body still under his rhythmic tattoo.

 

... him:  the words Allen bolt hollowly echoing in his brain and he knows he's not only in for an inch but a lot more than a mile.

 

... her: his casual tones, smiles and subtle advances... all essential jigsaw pieces to the biggest mind fuck yet.

 

... him: he wants a different body, craves another taste, a deeper kind of timbre - more familiar - but this is all that he can get and access easily enough.

 

... him: apparently that man is able to extend the idea of proper propagation beyond the popsicle stick limits of Indian shrines and its better to not owe one or be owned, though he's not sure if either applies any longer.

 

... her: his guilt for that night still not overcome, but long hours in cell 40 produce the strangest of daydreams and this time he has no phone call distracting him and saving him from himself.

 

... him: it appears to be the only way to distract his freaky cellmate from the secret code on his skin, even though he feels for the first time as if his soul is being torn into shreds like the destroyed sketches littering the cell floor.

 

... her: a deal is a deal and she kinda paid for this... with a credit card, so to speak.

 

... him: just this last time - before everything will fall to pieces, the earth will stop revolving and he'll have to admit his greatest failure - he wants to once more delight in the sweetest loss possible, wants to give everything of himself away, transfer his essence and then witness its final dissolution in a room with no mercy.

 

... her: to get that signature under the papers he would most definitely offer his very soul on a silver platter to her, instead it's just his body on a steel counter of an anonymous hotel kitchen.

 

... him: long before that SONA night in Panama he's already been there, done that in his mind a hundred times, has irrevocably altered the thin line of hunted versus hunter and is slightly surprised how freaking good it actually feels to be prey and yet prey upon.

 

... her: the red flame of her hair licking like fire across his skin and all he wants to do is beg her forgiveness with each violent thrust of his body into the white corpse of her memory that haunts his guilt-ridden nightmares.

 

... her: the fire of disgust in his eyes a vivid contrast to the calm, cold blue of her assumed indifference and even though it feels as if he's pounding her to pieces he's unable to penetrate through even an inch of her armor until he bends his head to kiss away the hate and she splinters into raging beauty underneath.

 

... her: and despite the fact that they're fully dressed and she is tied up to a chair he gets completely out of control when she easily turns his demeanor upside down, starting to push his buttons right, riding him the way she wants to.

 

... them: in the only way he has left to go, by snatching the coveted prize - the one he loves the most, his ultimate legacy - away from that presumptuous agent, the hardened warden, those greedy inmates; a disappearing act, worthy of a Houdini, but this time the last knot does not come loose, and the noose is finally breaking his neck...

 

He is so fucked.

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