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DevilsTemptation & SavageBunny CONTENT WARNING: Contains graphic violence, nonconsensual themes, mental and physical abuse, etc. |
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Тот, кто захочет власть, должен быть готов отдать за неё душу.
На вершине власти человек одинок. Russian Proverb ──────────────── ◉ ──────────────── Character Cast Threadmark 1 || Threadmark 2 || Threadmark 3 |
Khalil Gaines Adonis || Адонис |
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What was it that elicited the thought of home out of a person? A warm bed? The familiar scent of a favorite meal? Heirlooms, photographs, belongings? The smiling face of a mother or a father? Or... 
... Or, at the very least, it appeared as one. There were distinct differences that ensured that it was hardly a proper cage fight. The blatant absence of a referee had been the most telling of all the 'issues' of that cage fight... no one remained in the ring to mediate between the two men staring down each other and that much was obvious by the sheer quantity of blood splattered and dried along the walls and floor of the ring. Cut, bruised lips and swollen cheeks - harsh bruises that had almost certainly swollen past the point of being able to recover in a heathy manner. One of the men had been looking far worse than the other, a stockier shorter male with a buzzcut and a face so swollen that his eyes could barely be seen past the protrusion of flesh. Despite the attempt to hold a stance, his knees had been shaking and he could barely stand straight. Standing opposite him, his opponent was hardly untouched himself. Towering height of nearly half a foot on his opponent, the utter beast of a man had sparse bruises and cuts on his cheeks and arms but none that had swollen to a bruise nor did he look nearly as out of it as his opponent. Tight, towering stance with both elbows tucked to his chest while glaring forward at his opponent like he was a piece of meat to tear into. A proper fight would have been called off minutes ago. This? This was a blood sport hidden under the guise of a cage match. While most of the on-lookers appeared to be normal individuals you could pluck off the streets, booths were set up higher up in private rooms at the very top of the venue with elites spectating the outcome of the fight. Mobsters. Criminals. This was their playground and the men below were their toys to pit against one another, like a pair of bulldogs sent to rip out one another's throat for the gleeful, sadistic pleasure of their owners. This was the place where their de facto cold wars occurred, to gamble and wager upon the outcome of these battles with their own selected champions... massive sums of money, political arrangements, even turf exchanges were not uncommon to be hanging over the heads of those who went into the ring. Everything had been gambled upon. Who would win, how they would win, if there would be two walking out alive or just one - the two were not people. Just entertainment and high-stakes gambling chips. Some might have cursed an existence like this, nothing more than a marionette being danced in front of a crowd... some - not all. Boring. The fight was fucking boring. Not for the countless individuals who were thrilled at every drop of blood that splattered when Khalil's knuckles squeezed and smashed forward against another platform of flesh - it was fucking boring for the man doing the striking. Every day in the ring could have been his last and yet he always returned. Khalil hardly needed the lucrative sums of money that the Russian mob had been offering him for every fight - each of his battles had gone the same, some mouthy mobster from the Kardanov-Syndicate would show up in his room throwing around cash describing to Khalil the exact way he needed to win a fight and who he was fighting. Some fighters were unaffiliated with a mob backing them - those were the best, they fought for nothing but their own interests. "Listen, Адонис... you go in there and you fucking break him, понял?" Same bullshit spiel Khalil always listened to half-interested in his waiting room. Always had to try and play the card of the cold-blooded, tough mobster. He hardly gave a fuck for all that, he just wished the theatrics weren't so damn abundant. "You don't stop until he's begging. No mercy. Только боль." A drag out of the cigarette in his mouth as he described how the match was inevitably going to end. "...Then when he is down, splatter his fucking мозг in front of everyone. Make a mess." Some matches would end with a knockout. Some with a broken arm or leg. And then there were some that were executions. The words played back in Khalil's mind right at the tail end of that fight where even a breeze felt like it could cause his opponent to topple over. Sweat drenched both, blood drooled down the man's chest, music drowned out any moans of pain or aches... but in that moment, Khalil was calm. This was his home. He was an animal that needed to bare his fangs. This was a fucking disappointment. It was boring. Weak. Cheap. He was done with the man. One lurch forward hand his right forearm shooting up to guard his face before a left hook smashed against his opponent's cheek one final time with a painful crunch of a dislocating jaw and with it his brain had been rattled enough to send him crashing and half-convulsing to the ground. Planting his foot on the back of the man's head, he looked up at the crowd. Blood-thirsty frenzy telling him to make his last moments fucking hurt. Savages. All of them. A bunch of fucking animals. And he? He was right at home with all of them. The fight was boring but the aftermath had at least a little bit of a thrill in that toxic, overwhelming dominance of snuffing a man's life out right in plain view of everyone else. The raise of his foot... and then the sudden CRUNCH down of striking against the back of the man's skull. His face would flatten against the floor further, eyes, nose, lips smothering like a paste under the weight of Khalil's foot... just for him to raise again and bash his skull in harsher with a second kick, and then finally a third that had a grisly, shattering sensation splattering a bloody mess over the sole of his foot and the ground around him. Bits of gore and blood clung to his foot before he dismissively turned away from the now corpse to make his way to the entrance of the ring. Door opened and grinning goon awaiting him with a brief - "Congratulations on the win, Адонис. Could have made him squeal like a pig a little longer, but the boss is very pleased. Anything you want as a reward other than the cash?" Just for a sharp reply to hit him - "Unless you're some Russian bitch with her lips wrapped around my cock, there isn't shit I want from you or the syndicate. Give me a better fight. I ask it every time. Now get the fuck out of my way before your brains joins my left fucking heel." Harsh snap of that low, growling snarl - most of the men in that ring were doped up and so it was hardly a smart thing to argue against them regardless of how disrespectful they were... much more so when they were a 'prized possession' of one of the most powerful syndicates to fund that ring. Raising his hands up in surrender, the man would just take a step back and allow Khalil to trudge off, leaving a trail of blood along the ground with his foot as he did. The 'Ring' was just one part of a larger collection of facilities merely referred to as 'the Underground' - black markets, brothels, illegal gambling rings... it was somewhat of a middle ground for various crime organizations to meet and operate to settle disputes peacefully... or more peacefully than they otherwise would have. The Black Swan was one such brothel, protected and sponsored by the Kardanov-Syndicate, that had risen above the rest to become the peak of depravity in the Underground. A place of sexual fantasies incarnate but also abundant information, like some sort of artery of all varieties of men and women converging in one place. Post-match, the boxer had taken his time to scrub the mess of that fight off his body. Copious time spent in the shower to rinse off every hint of grime, sweat, and grease... but especially the mess left along his foot. Dressing himself in a darker sweater top that hugged skin-tight to his thicker pectorals and bulky upper body, a pair of gray trousers with a dark belt would work to hide most of his quite meager injuries and tattoos to give off the vibe of a man no different than anyone else. A single gold chain hanging around his neck was the only symbol of wealth that the man bothered to show off before helping himself into the front door of that facility. Operating as no different than a high-end restaurant from the front, all it took was a few steps into the back room to step into a mess of prostitution, human trafficking, and drug-infused orgies. "Oh! Welcome, you could have called ahead we would have had whatever ready for you -" Chiming up suddenly, a well-dressed maître d' - a young woman with chestnut brown hair and freckles splashed across her nose - Elena would receive him warmly at the front of the lobby. Soft tint of a midwestern American accent and a warmer aura that completely disguised what the contents of the facility were really for. "Nah, don't worry about that, baby. Business looking good? I just want some time with Anastasiya. She in? Not a big deal if she ain't." Night and day from what he was in the ring, his tone was practically honey sweet with that deeper, gentler rumble against Elena's ear while he affectionately grazed a hand over her shoulder with a pat. Polite, calm, and utterly accommodating... as if he hadn't just bashed in a man's skull a mere few moments ago with just his foot. "Business has been very good, Mr. Khalil... and of course, Sir. The mistress always has time open in her schedule for VIPs. Shall I set up a meeting right now?" Beaming a grin from cheek to cheek with that faint hint of prettier dimples showing themselves off, the woman would offer him a meeting to which he gave a nod and just stepped back to sit down on a chair in the lobby while he waited. Slung over his shoulder had been a backpack filled with... something. Most of the time, men and women were checked before going into a place this high end but just as Elena had casually mentioned - he was a VIP. He came here often enough to not concern them with anything... though not usually for a whore. Passing by him every so often had been a variety of women, some dressed well and others scantily clad. Variety of shapes, sizes, ethnicities... some with different demeanors but most that were eager to flash a flirtatious smile and a faint flicker of cleavage to passing eyes. Elena had spent only two minutes on phone before gesturing back to Khalil. "Please go right up, Sir. The Mistress is waiting for you." Eloquent, polite gesture of a bow and then a motion to the elevator behind her. "Thank you, Elena." Likewise briefly polite before he stepped past her and into the elevator, pressing the button for the penthouse office suite at the very top of the Black Swan. One minute later, he would depart off the elevator into the luxurious red-carpet lined hallway leading to a single lone room at the end. Two guards had been stationed outside, completely unresponsive to Khalil who just walked past them without so much as a single word to knock against the door and then finally help himself into the office of the woman who was behind the Empire that was the Black Swan. "Yo, Ana. You watched the fight?" Overly familiar tone, the towering man taking a few steps over to plant his hand over her desk and grasp against her jawline to press a kiss right onto her cheek. When had she not? It was one of her favorite pastimes from what he had known, watching him force a man to beg for mercy. Setting the backpack down on the table, he dragged the zipper open to reveal tens of thousands of dollars. Hundreds banded together in neat intervals of one hundred. She was the real reason he often frequented the Black Swan. While they certainly had quite a bit more... intimate reasons with their on and off chemistry, she was his information broker. The one person in the entirety of the Underground that knew even before the Syndicate as to who might have ended up in the ring before him. Anastasiya had been there when he was just starting out and Khalil had been there when she had just begun herself as little more than a prostitute with a pretty face and an undeniably magnetic aura. Now, here they were... a king and a queen in their own respective fields. "Should be enough. Dakarai was a disappointment. I hear the yakuza is getting new blood in and something about an old veteran with the Italian mob returning. Anyone worth a shit that's going to end up in the ring with me?" Sitting down comfortably on the cushioned seat across her desk, he leisurely draped his ankle over his knee and wrapped one of those thicker biceps behind his head while he eyed her down. "Don't bother trying to decline the money either. You know it pisses me off. There's a hundred things you can use it for and none that I need it for." Khalil had his own habit of paying more than what that information was worth, more so because she could have the money and not necessarily because he felt the cash was worth it. There were... messier biases between the two of them, after all. "Or, if you want to be fussy... how about I take out this much -" Grabbing exactly three bands out of the ten in the bag, he would place them down on the table between them before giving a dismissive wave of his palm. "- and you clear your schedule so we can use this thirty-grand to go on an expensive date where we get all types of fucked up and end up all over each other?" Sharp, playful grin that exposed sharper canines and his eyes flashing that mixture of lust and warmer attraction he always eyed her up with. Gorgeous women all around and he was always pushy with her in particular for some damn reason... |
Anastasiya Pokryshina Чёрный Лебяж || The Black Swan |
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Violence was a beautiful thing. Anastasiya's life was more often than not rather...complicated. Subtle. Rumours, whispers. The wrong words to the right ears, half-hearted promises, dirty little secrets, inconsequential little favours...Gentle tugs on the invisible strings that kept their hidden little world together. Small things that, through some wondrous magic, managed to move big men. She felt comfortable in that world, settled into her own little place. But occasionally it could get...exhausting. And events like this were a wonderful way to relax and to put things into perspective again. All this smoke and mirrors, unwritten rules and unspoken laws that people believed in... If they were to be stripped away there was just one kind of power and one kind of currency. Blood. And the ability to spill it at your discretion. Violence was honest. Pure, almost. The one thing left, when everything else was stripped away. Anastasiya made people...uncomfortable. Most couldn't quite pin down why, which just irritated them more. Maybe it was something about her cold, blue eyes. Maybe it was the slight smile, that seemed to always play around her lips, as if all the world was one ongoing and very complicated joke, the punchline of which only she was privy to. Maybe it was the way the girls under her employ recoiled from her touch. In the end, it was just the casual confidence with which she moved among the most dangerous and violent men of the city. This confidence made people uncomfortable, because they couldn't figure out where it came from. Fear of the Unknown. Men like Khalil elicitetd a different kind of fear. A more tangible, simpler one. He walked into the room and it was immediately apparent, what he was capable of. People saw him and knew exactly what would happen, if they crossed this man. He would break every bone in their body. End of story. Anastasiya didn't make it as easy for them. They knew -or at least they thought they knew- that she had to be capable of something. Where else was this confidence coming from? But they could for the love of their lives not figure out what. So their minds got to work and tried to fill out the blanks. And like in a game of poker, most folded. Some justified it later, that messing with her just wasn't worth the (potential) trouble. But in the end, they were just scared. Not of Anastasiya, but of the idea they had of her. Because like in a game of poker, it didn't really matter what your hand really was. It only mattered, what your opponents thought your hand was. And Anastasiya found this extremely entertaining. 
But here, above the cheering crowd, she had at least a good view. And a bit less distraction. The surprisingly luxurious booths offered a decent view of the ring, but Anastasiya had stepped out of the satin-covered corner towards the balcony. For a fight like this, a decent view just wasn't enough. She needed a perfect view. Even from the distance, she could tell that it wasn't much of a fight. It was an execution. It was clear, at least for the experienced spectator, that Adonis was playing with his opponent. And not particularly enjoying it. Anastasiya understood the economics behind it, but fixed fights like this one always left a bit of a stale aftertaste. Like a poorly written detective novel, where the murderer gives himself away after a few pages. But even if the outcome was a foregone conclusion, watching the play unfold was well worth her time. Even if it was just to see, how long Khalil would humour the crowd and how exactly his opponent would end. Even through the noise of the crowd, through some quirk of the hall's acoustics, the sharp CRACK that ended the fight echoed up to the balcony. Anastasyia leaned forward, grasping the railing, her mouth slightly open. This. THIS! The simple beauty of violence. The wet, visceral crunch, with which bone and brain gave in, send a warm shiver down her spine. "Ебать! Какое шоу!" Almost reluctantly, Anastasiya turned her attention away from the carnage below, towards the broad-shouldered man next to her. He seemed to be more than pleased with the fight. Unlike the young woman next to him, who seemed both disgusted at the spectacle and by his hands fondling her ass. Keeping the guests of Viktor Kardanov, the pakhan of the syndicate entertained was part of her -occasionally annoying- duties. "Did I promise too much, Andriy?", she asked with a casual smile, like a hostess asking a guest how he liked the food. "Not at all! You sure know how to put on a show down here....Now, if you don't mind, I need to take a piss." Her gaze followed Andriy, as he made his way towards the restrooms, before sliding closer to the woman and placing a hand on gently on her wrist "Smile, Милашка. You'd rather be up here, than down there. Right?" The saccharine tone of her words was somewhat undermined by wolf-like smile and the tightening grip around the blonde's wrist. It was an empty threat, of course. The girl made more money by spreading her legs, than they would ever make with whatever disapointingly short spectacle she would make in the ring. As entertaining as it would be. Empty as it was, the threat worked nonetheless. The prostitute's eyes flicked down to the ring, lingering on the thick red stain, that had just moments ago been a man's head. Her face seemed to grow even paler, although the light made that hard to tell. Her hasty nod and the petrified look in her eyes made clear, that she had recieved the message. Anastasiya was confident, that there would be no complaints from her guest. Gentle little tugs. With a satisfied little smile on her lips, she made her way to the exit. 
After taking a hot shower and donning a black robe, Anastasiya sank into her chair, leaned back let the fight replay in her mind's eye, tuning out the annoying distractions. Just the pure beauty of a man snuffing out the life of another. She closed her eyes and absentmindedly let a finger slide along her thigh. The sharp crack of breaking bones... The cruel ring of her phone dragged her out of her memories and into the here and now. Anastasiya took a deep breath, adjusted her robe and picked up the phone. "Надеюсь, это важно.". Her voice was cold. While she had made a point and a reputation of being available during all times, every know and then she liked to have some time to herself....It was the price she had to pay for her intricate little web. The strings one held could easily tie one down. While Elena explained the reason for her call, Anastasiya licked her wet fingers. Her face lit up. Some disturbances where more interesting than others. "Of course! Please, send him up." The penthouse-suite was rather spartanic. A desk, chairs, a couch, all black leather, steel and polished, dark wood. A door, leading to a functional bathroom...Not nearly as ostentatious as the rest of the Black Swan. Nonetheless, Anastasiya spend a lot of her time here, rather than in her slightly more luxurious apartment. It kept the girls on her feet, to know that she was around. The casually businesslike way in which the slender, raven-haired woman was sitting behind her desk was only slightly undercut by the fact, that she still just wore her robe. "Khalil, Дорогой! Of course! How could I miss it? A beautiful performance." She leaned over the desk for Khalil's deceptively tender greeting. It was always baffling. Not too long ago this man had bashed in another's skull and now he was sitting across her desk, nothing about him, safe maybe his well-covered physique, betraying the killer that he was. That thin veneer of civilization was as easy to apply as it was to scrape off. "Oh, you shouldn't!", Anastasiya protested politely and threw a quick look into the backpack. Usually her information didn't come cheap. Ironically the one man who had gotten whatever he'd wished for free was the only one who paid upfront, generously and without a fuzz. She sank back into her chair, crossed her legs and leaned back, as she went through her mental notes. "Well....I wouldn't hold my breath on the Italians. I think they just want to squeeze some quick bucks out of an old dog." Her tone clearly betrayed her distaste for such a callous attitude. It wasn't so much the disrespect towards their old veteran that didn't sat right with Ana, it was the mercenary attitude. As if these fights were just another business. And like with any art, those who only cared about the bottom line rarely produced great entertainment. "Now, the Yakuza....that's more interesting. They lost quite a lot of money. And they never bet against one of their own. I'll keep my ears open and if I hear more on that front, you'll be the first to know." Anastasiya's lips curled into a mischievious smile, as she threw a look to the bundles of cash and then at Khalil. They had a...special connection. Something that went beyond mere physical attraction, although there were few men who had ever impressed Anastasiya quite like him. "Three grand can get you to some interesting places. Where you thnking about going somewhere nice? Or should I get us a suite here?" With a cat-like elegance, the young woman rose from her chair and walked around her desk. "In other words: Should I get dressed? Or maybe get us some company? That's the only kind of challenge I can provide, I'm afraid." |