Ronald Durgin was a powerful man. He controlled over seventy percent of the cocaine market in Jieve, Halsting and cocaine to Jieve was water to a fish. Every broken city needed her diabolic salvation. The mayor, the comptroller, the first, second and third richest men all listened to the tycoon, whose magnificent presence was only contrasted by his small stature.
Today, he had a guest.
His guest was a well-dressed and equally well-mannered young male in his early twenties, soft footfall not matching the hard lines of his face or the smug, superior way the man stood. Ronald frowned but remained otherwise secured in his position of power. His office, the most expensive and best guarded forty by fifty span of space in the entire city, slotted nicely into his image and Ronald wasn’t going to be challenged by a child half his age in home base.
“How much did you pay for ten minutes of my time?” Ronald was all about getting things done quickly. He was in charge here and there must have been something right in his tone because his guest deflated quickly, ego shrinking. Must have been enough to feed a small family for months, Ronald concluded.
The monopolist smiled, pleased. Good boy. Onto sunnier topics, then. “Sources tell me you have something for me.”
Instead of answering, his apparently taciturn guest gave him a folder, something the monopolist regarded with disdain for a full minute before resigning another minute of his time to pull it closer and turn the cover. The first page was enough to capture his attention in full. Printed in size 10 Roman Numeral font was a full page of a conversation between Hassan and Oliver.
Hassan was the man who held every speck of business that wasn’t in Ronald’s hand.
Oliver was the only politician righteous (Ronald read ignoramus) enough to not support his cause.
If these hacked files were reliable, both could go down in one night.
“How much?” Ronald didn’t look beyond the first page. The point was clear and he’d been in the business too long to look as if he didn’t know exactly how things went. The excitement in his body grew exponentially, twisting his intestines, gnawing his guts. “And why should I trust you?”
Ronald could foresee all the responses. The boy might be smug, might even be cheeky enough to acknowledge his newfound edge over the tycoon. Maybe the boy was smart enough to be grateful that Ronald offered to compensate him. Or perhaps his guest will be strictly business, logically listing numbers and reason. Ronald sat back in anticipation, lifting his gaze from the ebony and white print straight into the barrel of a stainless, silenced .32 S&W.
Some men said the last thing you saw in your life was forever etched in your eyes.
Outside, on streets lightly covered by a since-ceased flurry of snow, a man stood shoeless, staring up at an apartment window. In the frigid weather, where the cold was sharp enough to chill a grown man to the bones, anyone outside in this hour was either homeless or lunatic. Derrick was only one and he was not the latter.
Staring up at the well lit window of an obviously expensively furnished residence, he could see two shadows. Both male, and seemingly youthful. One shadow was aggravated, hands thrown into the air, shoulders rigid. The other was standing with forced casualness, whole body calm but tense. They were talking. For now. Derrick watched as the aggravated, larger shadow reached across and backhanded the smaller, calmer figure. The smaller figure stumbled just a centimeter before he righted himself, only to be backhanded again. And again.
The glass must be expensive kind, Derrick mused. Nothing broke as the larger, imposing figure slammed the smaller against it, driving his wrist and body into the clear glass repeatedly. Finally, skin gave away and Derrick saw the beginning splatters of red.
The homeless man turned away, shuffling to search for his next meal in the garbage can across the block.
The room was stuffy, heavy with the linger stench of perspiration, blood and sex. Shawn was calming down after three hours of rough release for his pent up anger. His broad chest rose and fall with every labored breath, warm air hitting the pale, bruised skin of his partner before he finally lifted his head.
First motion went to pushing back his hair. Shawn took his time catching his breath, returning from the post-orgasmic high of aggressive sex. He wanted the moment to last, but too much of a good thing lessened the pleasure of capturing something elusive. Shawn couldn’t resist the swell of possessive thrill as he directed his gaze down, slowly pulling loose a makeshift gag.
There went a thousand dollar tie.
Shawn couldn’t think of a better way to lose a thousand dollars.
Slowly, he leaned down to kiss the blonde, reward the session. Any other plans went straight south as Shawn found himself once again captivated by the pretty pink lips. Soft like rose petals, with just a hint of blood. His partner moaned softly and Shawn was never surer about the fact that he could definitely spare another thirty minutes.
“Release me, or I’ll release myself.” His captive was given a chance to speak when Shawn moved downwards, brushing his lips against the eloquent curve of Jyzal’s neck. Shook away from the moment, Shawn pulled up to glare at the blonde, gaze pulled toward the shirt he’d used to secure bloody wrists to the headboard.
How peculiar, that hours of struggling hadn’t dislodge any of Shawn’s knots, but a few seemingly innocent and gentle shifts of his assassin’s hand and all the restraints were undone. Slippery little ********. A dangerous smile curved on Shawn’s lips. Oh, they were back to this, weren’t they?
“I wonder where’s your breaking point.” Shawn pushed himself up from the bed, taking a wet towel nearby to wipe off any blood on his body. None of it his own and there were only two people in the room.
“They used to wonder where’s the end of the world,” his lover responded. He seemed unbothered by the scratches and bruises that made him scream earlier, moving as if he was immune to pain in general. Not answering the statement, Shawn's smile only grew as the blonde stood and more of his body was revealed. The mangled scarred over 'slut' on his lover's thigh, ruined skin glistening in the white light. Turn a little and Shawn could see the still red burn on his lover's back. Whore. His whore. His pretty, little blonde whore. Lips partly hotly, begging in between screams, bloody racing sweat down his broken skin. In addition to that impossible tightness that begged to be broken into again and again.
Shawn'd like to believe he found the end of the world. If not, he would happily provide one for askers.
Despite the multiple and obviously stares he’d directed at his blonde, Shawn dressed himself faster than Jyzal, hands flying over the buttons on his shirt, smoothing over any wrinkles and cricks he found. Six minutes and he finished, looking as if he stepped out of a proper meeting rather than a sinful night.
He was headed to one, rather.
“I need to know who killed Ronald. He was my sole contact in east Halsting. Without him, Regime and his little bitches can do whatever they want in the east and no one can stop them.” Shawn hissed. There went the topic that’d sent him raving and ranting into one of Jyzal’s residence, head in hot air. “Top security, state of art technology, five levels of clearance, not counting how impossible it is to meet the man. Which little ******** has matching brain and balls of steel to do commit the crime?”
“Wouldn’t you want to know,” came the response. Shawn stared at his partner, eyes narrowed. Couldn’t be Jyzal, he thought. It was just a Jyzal thing, answering with non answers if just to have the last words. His little blonde had a rock solid alibi, watched in person under maximum coverage by some of Shawn’s most trusted underlings while the murder took place.
“For the ******** record, I do,” Shawn snarled before he left, only pausing to slam the door. Hard.
As soon as the prince left, his men filed in, not bothered by the obvious scenes of suggestive violence. The prince’s orders were clear, as clear as they’d been the last three months. Watch the prisoner, guard the prisoner, make sure the prisoner remained a prisoner.
So far, no problem.
By the time Shawn’s men were in place, guns ready to use as they watched over the now dressed blonde, Jyzal was nonchalantly polishing a silver gun, fingers carefully pushing any barest of trace of dirt off his .32 S&W.
A Journey Out of Sanity
Just logs of things I'll like to read about and occasionally remember. Also contains stories, oneshots and drabbles revolving around RPs I'm in.