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TW: Explicit violence, mention of drug use and attempted rape, death
This one-shot has been written as a complement to "A Step into the Night" by @alexandra1405 and myself. Feel free to leave any comments you may have on this.
This one-shot has been written as a complement to "A Step into the Night" by @alexandra1405 and myself. Feel free to leave any comments you may have on this.
Whirlwinds of barely dressed bodies pulsing in time with the reigning, thumping rhythm of the dark and dirty electro music were nothing but a blur to his eyes. Generous chests rested heavy in the narrow embrace of lace tops, the hem of tattered shorts climbed up thighs and rested just above the crest of perky ass cheeks, leather pants were unbuckled and peeled off in a hurry as a group climbed up the stairs, offering everyone the sight of rising excitement. Where his gaze would’ve hungrily travelled across the crowd until he found someone to spend some quality time with, he now stared into the abyss of nothingness.
Historically, “Blind date” night had been one of his favourites, catering to a handful of his kinks all at once. He’d spent it on both ends of the deal and found that both were equally as alluring. Initially, he’d taken on the role of Visitor, walking into rooms and choosing whether or not to have his way with the person eagerly waiting for someone to take them up on their silent offer. There was a certain thrill that came with knowing that these people had no idea they were getting fucked hard and nasty by the club owner, and that they would never really know about it. Hidden behind the veil of anonymity, there was nothing else but pure physical euphoria; appearances meant nothing and no attempts to impress were made. He’d had his first experience as a Host the previous year, his naked body on display on the large couch in one of the upstairs rooms. At first, he’d found the vulnerability unsettling, an unknown he’d never really had to face previously. But as hungry mouths and grinding hips came to meet him, he grew to relish in the sensation. One particularly cruel Visitor had spent at least an hour and a half on him, using practiced techniques and a tireless wrist to bring him over the edge time and time again. By the end of the torture, his quivering manhood would shudder at the lightest of breeze – something the Visitor had enjoyed seeing as they’d made sure to softly blow on moist, reddened skin more than once. And though not all came with a dribble of milky white pearls, all seven of his orgasms had been memorable. That person, whoever they might’ve been, had brought a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘Kill them with kindness'.
There was none of that eagerness that night.
He couldn't get her out of his mind. The way she'd cowered away behind the washroom door, the pleading tones of her voice trying to pierce through layers of others, deeply seated screams deafening her mind. The struggle he'd heard through the phone was something he knew he would never forget and, most importantly, would never forgive. He'd never forgive himself for having left her behind following one of his idiotic temper tantrums, and he would forever carry with him the rancor and grudge he felt towards the repugnant pig that had done this to her. And after all that had happened, he'd still let her be taken away; he'd trusted Eiric outright but now, as he went over every second of the evening in his mind, he couldn't believe he'd let him steal her from him. All of this stemming from his inability to handle that his shoulders and upper back had been immortalized in a steely display and hung on a wall for curious eyes to scrutinize. The piece itself had been beautiful and rugged, and he'd done strictly nothing to prove himself worthy of it.
Jack and Coke nestled into the dip of his palm and fingers wrapped around the sweating glass, Phillip quietly roamed the main floor of the Club, his shape limber as he avoided bumping into clients. Despite the numerous glasses of Champagne he'd had earlier at the art exhibition and this being his second drink of the night at the bar, the man was painfully sober. The quick fix he'd had when coming back to the Smoke & Sin hadn't had much of an effect on him and whatever had occurred inside his bloodstream had already passed, leaving him on the verge of discomfort and withdrawal.
“…should’ve seen that bitch’s fucking face when I dialed him." A cocky, moronic laugh. "I would’ve showed her who she belonged to if it hadn’t been for how feisty she is. I’ll get her, though, I know I will. It’s just a matter of time until she lets her guard down, yeah?"
Lungs choked on silence as the Universe suffocated him.
Pulsing qaves of white-hot rage befell his shoulders, anger wrapping its blistering tendrils around the girth of his neck, slithering inside nostrils through short jagged breaths, and oozing down his esophagus, reaching deep enough to twist his stomach with nausea. The sudden impulse dug deeper still until there was nowhere else to go, coils of fury settling as quickly as they'd come and making way for an unnaturally calm demeanor. Something is going to happen tonight. Something dark, something terrible, something necessary. It's unavoidable. Just let it happen. Let it carry you, let it do the talking, let it take over and make things right. You owe it to her; now isn't the time to be a fucking disappointment. That's not too much to ask of yourself, is it?
Trembling breath slipped from barely parted lips and, after the contents of his glass had been swiftly swallowed, the Londoner walked towards the bar where Ellie and Siobhan were hard at work. Catching on to her colleague's movements, the chocolate-hair Scot finished pouring top-shelf vodka in ten shot glasses and took a few steps towards where Phillip met her. The man leaned over the bartop, face close to hers as to be heard over the thumping of the music, and spoke.
"I'll be in the back. I shouldn't be long, but call if you need me."
The woman nodded, her eyes quietly attempting to witness the true nature of his intentions, but was quickly yanked back to work by a customer's demanding tone. As Phillip continued to make his way to the back end of the Club, stepping further and further away from the crowd and closer to the gloom of darkened corners, he crossed paths with one of the security guards; Russell had always been his favourite. The blonde man, whose usually friendly disposition was hidden beneath a mask of obstinance and severity, kept track of his boss' movement with a curious expression on his face. Much like he'd spoken to Elizabeth not a minute prior, the man walked towards his employee and, chin lowered slightly and thumb subtly pointing behind him, he said; "See that cunt over there?" Russell's icy blue eyes followed the direction the Londoner had indicated and focused on the man who was still boasting obnoxiously loudly; he nodded. "Bring him to me in ten. I'll be out by the employee entrance." The other man blinked but knew better than the question the words coming out of Phillip's mouth. "Alright, boss. You let me know if you need anything else, yeah?" His southern American drawl flowed smooth like bourbon. Astute gazes met and, once they knew they'd understood each other, separated.
While the previous night had been cool, his and Aislinn's walk to her studio having been long enough to bring about reddened cheeks and cold noses, this one was cold. Perhaps had this been exacerbated by the humid, sticky heat of the room he'd just left, but the freezing nip of the autumn night was undeniable. Despite this, rough fingertips caught on to the tab of the zipper resting atop his broad chest and pulled down, revealing the simple dark grey t-shirt he'd worn underneath. Shoulders shimmied out from under the plaid fabric, the muscular dip of clavicles peeking from the neckline of the garment, and leather sleeves were peeled away from gently bronzed skin. Jacket was placed in the hook of Phillip's arm and, in slow, deliberate motions, the man stole a cigarette from the metal case he always had in his pocket and placed it between chapped lips. He tucked into himself and, shielding his face from the frigid breeze, lit the tip of the cigarette with a flick of his lighter. Once the first deep inhale of nicotine had been taken, only to be released into the air in ribbons of pale smoke, the jacket was discarded and thrown over a pile of empty cardboard boxes by the dumpster. He didn't want to ruin it, after all.
The Londoner had been checking that the tall iron gates on either side of the backstreet were shut and locked when he overhead protesting grunts coming from the other side of the door he'd recently walked out of. Shortly after, metal hinges creaked loudly, dragged down by the weight of the thick slab of metal hanging off it. The sound of stumbling feet scuffing over gravel followed.
"Dude, what the fuck? What's going on?"
Already, the sound of Darcy's voice grated him to his very core. Could the idiot not shut up? Maybe he needed help with that. Maybe he'd just have to make him. His shouts of indignation were met with the cacophonous bang of a shut - and, shortly after, locked - door.
"What the fuck was that abo—"
"Hello Darcy."
The other man turned around, startled, an inkling of fear subtly crawling up his spine. While he'd hoped he'd been taken to the back for a surprise blowjob, the odds of that being the case were unlikely. Upon seeing Phillip standing a few feet behind him, he understood, puffing his chest up proudly, closed fists resting on his hips as if to appear imposing.
It didn't work.
"Have you called me here to thank me, Harker? She's a good-for-nothing whore and you know it," he stated confidently.
Though Darcy's face barely hid the concern that started to burrow its way in his mind, the tone of his voice seemed to keep up the futile charade. Maybe if he sounded self-assured, Harker would believe him and be dissuaded to pursue whatever motive had made him drag him out there.
"Mm, no, not quite."
Before the man had time to think so some witty comeback, Phillip started walking in his direction, cigarette rolling between the pulp of thumb and index.
"You know, it takes a special kind of stupid to come back here after what you've done."
Darcy scoffed. "What did I do, exactly? I didn't hurt her. I just wanted to scare her a little, make her realize I'm all she has."
"Oh, is that it? That was your intent, wasn't it? Your goal?"
Weathered lips were licked - predatorial - before another long drag of toxic smoke was inhaled deep into bronchi, the Londoner's steps taking him closer still to the man that had dared lay wounding hands on Aislinn.
"Yeah, it was. If she'd only just done—"
"Don't." A twitch. A fissure. A crack along the rocky cliff. Most of all, a warning.
Darcy's smile widened; wicked, insulting.
"If she'd only just done as she was told, she wouldn't have needed to be reminded of her place."
Jasper eyes shone an ebony brimstone, the man's gaze cast from below as a concerning yet accepting resolve painted on harsh lines of faciès. Know that whatever happens to you tonight, Darcy, you deserve every painful second of it. And though the other man read the message that had silently been sent his way with flawless accuracy, he once again ignored it, ripping through limits and unspoken boundaries that none had dared cross before.
"She needs to learn to shut up and submit."
A dry, short laugh fled from between the Londoner's tightened teeth, the pulse of a strong jaw visible from under rippling skin. Closer and closer he inched until he stood right before the other man.
There's nothing special about him. There's nothing he could do to make the world better. Not a soul he could heal, not a problem he could fix. All he cares about is himself. He's a waste of oxygen and resources.
Meat.
That's all he is.
Flesh, blood, muscle, sinew, organs.
Meat.
Cigarette was brought to his mouth again. Inhale. Hold it. Tendrils of dense fog slipped from the corners of his parted tiers as he whispered, his voice a low growl:
"You're fucked."
Exhale.
The thick cloud of smoke that burst forth from Phillip's mouth crashed into the other man's face, forcing its way into his unexpecting lungs and causing him to start coughing. He'd been distracted enough that he did not see the Londoner's hand reach forward, its presence only known to him when the burning tip of the lit cigarette was pressed hard into the side of his neck, tearing a sharp yelp from his throat. Embers had left their mark in Darcy's skin and as he bent forward, one hand trying to cover the lesion, he unknowingly offered his rival a golden opportunity. And he took it.
Calloused fingers viciously gripped at short, dark strands of hair, pulling a handful of it nearly to the point of tearing it out, before Phillip sharply forced the other man's head down and onto his surging knee. He cried out in pain, though this was drowned out by the distinctive sound of cartilage breaking, his wet breathing and hiccuping sobs indicating that bone had also been shattered. In a feeble attempt to trigger his 'fight' response, Darcy tried to throw a punch at his assailant but a quick dodge and a poor aim resulted in him only managing to bump Phillip's cheekbone with the blunt of his closed fist, epidermis splitting under the pressure and flesh swelling red just under his eye. He paid no mind to the fine trickle of ruby pearling down his face, his pain being dealt with through a muted groan, and he tightened his grip on the back of the man's neck to force him back up to a standing position. Dark amber eyes took in the sight of crooked nose and blood-soaked mouth, Darcy's dazed gaze fluttering up to his in an attempt to save his own skin. As his trembling lips parted, a plea stuck on the tip of his tongue, Phillip's other hand forced its way into the damp cavity, digits firmly pressing down on writhing muscle and thumb hooked harshly on the outside of his chin and digging deep into skin.
"I'm a slippery little fucker, " he assured, his deep voice a merciless hiss, reminiscent of the words the other man had used to describe Aislinn some hours earlier.
Darcy attempted to bite down on the imposing hand despite the flesh of his own lower lip being trapped between palm and teeth and fits of uncontrollable gagging, but only succeeded in hurting himself more before the junkie's fist crashed into the side of his face. The crack of splintered mandible echoed in the dark as loudly as the anguished howl that followed, reverberating against brick and thick sheets of metal until it reached the seed of fury that had lodged itself into Phillip's core.
It bloomed into something terrible; putrid petals and deadly nectar.
The other man limply fell on the ground when pushed off his feet, and as Phillip threw himself on top of him, hips straddling his chest and knees holding weakly flailing arms against worn concrete, he felt the edges of his vision and consciousness blur. A moment later, it had faded to black. Aching fists grew numb as they pummeled hard against Darcy's face, halting the man's attempts to scream with every pounding motion. As his agonizing shouts were forcibly hushed, the Londoner's own vicious grunts became thunderous roars, noisy explosions of rage cresting in lethal harmony with the rhythm of his strikes. But he barely heard himself, the savage drumming of his heart against its bony cage a deafening war song.
Thuds became viscous squelches as fists had succeeded in turning skin to a mess of gore, each additional hit causing more hematic fluid to spatter on Phillip's own face and chest and where he'd previously felt laboured breaths breach out of a mutilated maw was the quiet stillness of oblivion.
You can stop now. He's gone. Look at him. Look at what's left of his face. You fucking destroyed him. It's done, he's dead.
Quaking, bloodstained hands jerked away from Darcy's head and found their grip on the ground as he helped himself up despite his knees threatening to fail him. He stood over the body he'd left lifeless and, as a final, ultimate insult, he spat on the corpse, a glob of saliva trickling down a half-intact brow.
How does it feel, hm? To have someone else's blood on your hands - this time literally? Are you proud, Phillip? Are you ashamed? Are those sleepless nights of yours going to get better or worse? He deserved punishment, of course he did. But did he deserve death? Did he deserve to have his head bashed into the ground, burst ocular orbs leaking into the carnage? Ask yourself.
Crimson hands were wiped over maroon-stained t-shirt and, digits jittering from strain and concern, Phillip pulled his phone out from his back pocket, scrolled through his contact and tapped on an inconspicuous name; "Cleaning".
Ring. Ring. Click. Silence.
He breathed in deep, a shaky sigh preceding his words.
“I need a favour. Now."
I have a lot of love for this character, even if his darker moments, and I like that I can convey that.