It still fascinated Fenris. How he, a brothel baby, born on dirty linen sheets and failed abortion attempts, could end up here. The Ace of Heart's establishment was surprisingly luxuriant, given the dingy, heady air of the Red Light District. It should not have surprised him - sex trafficking was lucrative, and the Hearts boasted a hidden wealth that Fenris believed surpassed that even of the Diamonds.
For once, Fenris felt of some importance. Dressed in a navy suit, velvet lapels winking under chandelier lights, and that fat ring stuck on his pinky, his most expensive possession. He figured he should look nicely, given this was the first event he'd been invited to, hosted by the Ace of Hearts, a birthday party for some high level Hearts member that Fenris would never, in his lowly station, met otherwise. New faces greeted him, showcasing the beauty and savviness of the upper echelon of the gang's ranks. It shouldn't have surprised Fenris - but these people felt like an entirely different race to Fenris than the Hearts members he had grown up with. With their hair brushed, faces polished and painted. There was still an air of promiscuity, impurity, that would have never permitted them to blend into the crowds of the Inner Citadel, but this was the closest Fenris had come to nobility.
His fingers were clasped around the stem of a cocktail glass as he tried to navigate the party guests that approached him. He was never good at party talk - always preferred the direct and primal, where his size and demeanor did all the speaking for him. But these Hearts were used to dealing with grunts like him - knew how to play them, manipulate muscled arms to their advantage. That's what the Hearts were known for - naked seduction, poisoned promises.
His one anchor was Puck. Puck, who despite his popularity as the Ace, stole glances at him. Puck, who piloted the room so efficiently it felt he had all the party goers tied to his fingers by strings, playing them as the marionette. He was so competent, so domineering in his charisma - and yet, in private, Fenris had seen him naked and vulnerable and begging.
This was the one time where Fenris wished he could tame his excitement.
The night, and its people, became less polished as it went on, that veneer of the upper class slipping to reveal the Heart's true depravity. Fenris started to hear some familiar sounds - lurid and carnal and reminding him of the upper level of the Doghouse.
It was oddly familiar, and Fenris felt himself relax. Until he glanced over to Puck, and nearly broke the glass he was holding onto. A man was writhing on top of him. Puck had a slew of lovers and admirers, and given the nature of their work, jealousy was inappropriate. But Fenris could not stop that sick feeling, that urge to pull the man back and feel the back of his throat against his knuckles.
You're just being jealous. Don't fuck this up.
Fenris knocked back the rest of his alcohol. He expected to see Puck there, glazed eyes against the man's sweating hands - but he was gone.
Puck is a man. A damn bad ass of a man. Ace of Hearts. He can take care of himself.
These thoughts raced through his head as his feet brought him across the room. The few party-goers that weren't under the influence of some narcotic glared as Fenris shoved them aside. But he had to get there. Had to stop those thoughts roiling in his head, had to know that Puck was safe.
The rest was a blur. He was not sure when he crossed the distance in the hall, to where Puck and the stranger were engaged. Was not sure when he gripped the back of the man's shirt, yanked his collar back so hard the collar of it dug into his throat and he emitted a grotesque choking sound. Fenris was large, but so was the stranger. A flash of pain burst from his flank, as the man half-turned and drove his fist into Fenris' stomach.
Something lit up in Fenris, a sleeping instinct prodded awake. He did not claw his way up the gang with honeyed words and skilled fingers. No - Fenris got there through intimidation, violence, the survival instinct of a man with little to lose. He took the punch with little less than a stagger and socked the stranger on the side of his head as he was off balance. It knocked the stranger to the ground, where Fenris drove the steel tip of his boot into his ribs.
He should've stopped there. The stranger was dazed and groaning and didn't look like he would get up anytime soon. But Fenris didn't. The hunger demanded more. He kicked and stomped until he saw the stranger cough up blood. Until he felt ribs crack, bones dislocate. Until the stranger's face bruised and swelled, and he look less human than Infected.
A Dark Knight Can Be A White Knight To
Posted 01-29-2024, 09:26 PM
