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Hi, my name is Damien
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 | [01-05] Black Widow |
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 4.95 with 19 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-02-03 14:27:22 |
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1.
HE was a dark deity, a black angel. He tainted everything he touched with the skid marks of sin and debauchery, and he loved it. His very kiss was poison, infecting and festering in such beautiful immorality, influencing whomever he touched until only he thrummed through their veins, until he was their only god.
He was the master and the puppeteer, and those foolish and naïve enough where his pretty little dolls. Gender didn’t matter to him, as long as they were pretty and innocent and fun to play with. That was all he needed. He didn’t need the sex, he didn’t need intimacy; he needed complete control over another person. He would prowl through the clubs selecting one lucky doll to become his little toy, and entice them with beautiful ice blue eyes and convince them sweet, deceiving smiles and promises. He was a sadist hidden in the mask of a saviour.
He was quite the fiend.
But this beautiful fiend had grown bored of his dolls. They were too broken to be any fun anymore. The thrill was in the chase, in the teaching and the punishment. As soon as they began to obey, he began to lose interest. After they become the dolls he saw them as, they could only hold his attention for a little while longer. And that was why he was there that evening, in the club.
He sat alone in a booth, attempting to filter out the highly annoying repetitive beat of the irritating music. His smouldering blue eyes skimmed the darkness of the club for his next toy, as his drank from the glass in front of him.
The air of darkness he extruded seemed to affect those dancing nearest to him. They longed for him, desired after him, and he knew it, he could taste it. But they were too afraid to approach him, like little rabbit in awe yet terrified of the big bad wolf.
But they were not what he wanted. Those girls were slxtty, whxres by nature and he abhorred that. He could find little in those shallow, wasted females who dropped to their knees for any half decent man to attract him. They were nothing more then filth to him, not worth his notice. No, he preferred the reserved and the beautiful, the innocent and the quiet and he liked to taint them and mark them and break them like he had so many others, just like he had Andy.
To him, it was better than sex.
“Mr Damien, sir?” the small, almost timid voice was barely audible over the incessant thud, thud, thud of the club music. He didn’t turn to look at the speaker, and instead took a lengthy swallow of his drink.
“Yes…” His voice was soft like music, but the resonance of such a voice demanded complete obedience and Damien hadn’t yet found someone who could resist it for long.
“Er – um –” The eighteen year old appeared lost for words. Damien’s cool eyes observed him for a moment before flicking back to study the sea of gyrating sweaty bodies with a vague sense of distaste. Long before, when he had first started attending the club, the youth had attracted Damien’s attention, but even evil men have guidelines and morals and the boy was a little too young for his tastes.
“I don’t really have the time, Richard,” he drawled slowly, “tick tock…”
“Oh… there was a man looking for you,” the boy stuttered. There was silence between the pair and the boy chewed his lip nervously, his eyes fixed on Damien. Damien himself didn’t move, nor did he make any inclination that he had even heard what the boy had said.
“And did this gentleman have a name?” he asked, although he spoke as if he already knew, had sensed the stranger in the air. The boy shook his head.
“He said you would know who he was.” It could’ve been the light, but young Richard could’ve sworn he saw the ever guarded and emotionless Damien tense a little at the words, swear he saw an infinitesimal waver in his iron clad control he held over himself. There was another elongated pause, before Damien stood in one graceful, sweeping movement. Without even a glance, he brushed past Richard as if he didn’t even realise he was there and cut through the crowds of drunk, perspiring people.
Something in those words had affected the icy beauty and coloured him in cruelty. Richard scampered back behind the safety of the bar and watched with fearfully curious eyes as Damien wove around the clubbers of various ages. He knew that look; he had seen it many times. The hard ice of his eyes was vicious and his smile predatory.
Richard knew Damien was no longer merely looking for a pretty doll to control; Damien was looking a pretty doll to brutalize.
2.
His milky skin had an ethereal glow in the dim light of the kitchen. His silver cross pendant rested against warm skin, exposed to the moonlight as he leant back against the side. The marble of the countertop was cold against his lower back but he paid no mind. His eyes swept the room, seeking out a half empty packet of cigarettes before moving to empty the packet of one more. He put it to his lips before patting down his jean pockets in search of his lighter.
Even half clothed with his chest exposed and his dark trousers still undone, Damien looked no less in control, no less dangerous. He didn’t look vulnerable like most when they were half nude. It was hard to believe Damien could ever have been vulnerable, could ever have been an innocent child.
He inhaled the smoke deeply, moving from the kitchen through to the warmth of the living room, also enveloped into a dim orange glow that cast a deceivingly homely light across the room. He barely batted an eyelid as the bedroom door reopened and a woman appeared in the doorway, her hair damp from a bath. She had been his doll for the evening, the canvas for his need to bring pain. She wasn’t a new doll by any means, but she had been one who believed she was free of Damien only to find – as many did – that you couldn’t escape Damien so easily.
She winced slightly as she moved, undoubtedly feeling the numerous wounds Damien had inflicted earlier, all completely consensual of course. Not that she could’ve said no if she wanted too. Damien was irresistible. He could hear her move around the living room furniture and pausing in front of him, her heels in hand as she stared at him with lxsty hate.
“You are a complete bxstard, do you know that?” she hissed. Damien just smirked and took another long drag of his cigarette before he stood. His spun her around, an arm around her waist as he pressed her back into his chest, effectively trapping her there as he directed her towards the door.
“Yes, Kitten, I do know,” he whispered, teeth grazing her ear in a subtle threat, “but you are a weak unfaithful whxre.” He opened the door and slipped away from her. “Perhaps we should ask your boyfriend which of us is the worse of the two evils, hmmm?” At her horrified expression, Damien took another deep inhale of smoke with a dark smile and kicked the door shut, leaving the female to work out a way home by herself.
Shaking his head, Damien returned to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. He then disappeared into his study, taking his reading glasses from the case on the side and grabbing the few sheets of paperwork he had to work through in relation to his gallery.
He could almost laugh at the females attempt to insult him. Of course he knew he was a bxstard –– how could he not? And he rather liked it. In the world there were two types of people, those who got walked all over and those who did the walking. Once he had been one of those pathetic youths scrambling around in the mud for the amusement of someone else and it had taught him a valuable lesson.
Never would he be so weak. Never would he be like one of his pretty dolls. He wasn’t a mat for anyone, and he had made sure his boots were heavy and spiked as he walked his way to the top.
He would never be someone else’s toy. Not again.
––
Kate sighed as she unpacked her case of make up, awaiting the arrival of the two models the agency had picked out for this particular project. Her employer and friend, Damien sat a few metres away glaring at a fumbling, spotty electrician who – it appeared, at least – was attempting to tell Damien that something had gone wrong. Her heart went out to the guy; Damien didn’t take kindly to set backs in his schedule.
In one sweeping motion Damien was standing, towering over him and was hissing something dangerous in reply, his eyes flashing. Kate sighed. Damien had been like this since he was a child. He always had had a twisted sense of humour and enjoyment.
He was the sinister boy in the back of the class who would snatch a butterfly from the sky and rip off its wings just to watch it struggle and bleed and writhe with a ominous sense of morbid curiosity. Granted, he hadn’t been the control freak he was now back then, but he still harboured dark instincts and a morose fascination with pain and violence.
She watched silently as the electrician nodded fearfully and darted away. Damien watched his hasty retreat with a dark smirk, before, sensing the steady gaze on him, turned to look at his oldest friend –– if he could call her that. She battled to keep her gaze locked on his, but even she –– someone who had grown up with him –– found it difficult to fight the nearly overpowering sense of superiority that he emitted.
“Is something wrong, Caitlyn?” he asked, his voice smooth with a hint of danger lurking at the edges. Kate glanced up, forcing herself to stare into that harsh, unforgiving gaze.
“You know what,” she said, her tone as haughty as she dared to risk. Damien was often forgiving towards her, but only by a little. “You scare everyone shxtless.” Instead of picking her up on her blatant rudeness, Damien just laughed darkly. He obviously found her little statement amusing.
“Good,” he replied a moment later, his eyes glittering. “That’s how I prefer it. It gets work done to the standard I wish it to be.” Kate bit her tongue to refrain from retorting something that wouldn’t be looked over as easily as her previous rudeness.
Damien observed her a little longer, and, when satisfied she wasn’t going to push her luck, he fished out his cigarette packet from his pocket and lit one. Kat eyed him with distaste.
“I thought you’d quit,” she said, the accusatory tone in her voice unmistakable. “You shouldn’t be smoking.” His blue eyes didn’t slide to meet hers. Instead, he just blew out a stream of blue–grey smoke before replying in soft tone that could almost be affectionate, “Know when to stop, Caitlyn.”
Kate faltered, studying Damien fearfully, but, strangely, he kept his eyes ahead and carried on smoking. Perhaps he was in a rare forgiving mood? Whatever the reason for her limited chastisement, Kate wasn’t about to question it. She had more than one been on the receiving end of Damien’s anger and it never had been pretty. He was cruel and swift with his retribution.
The sound of the door opening and the ruckus from outside was enough to distract both Damien and Kate from whatever was going through their minds. Damien glanced at the people who streamed in recognised two of them to be the models he had been told about. He crushed the cigarette butt on the table and prowled over.
“You’re late,” he said, his eyes skimming over the models and their manager. The manager started to reel of his excuses but Damien impatiently waved him silent. “I care little for your excuses,” he admonished threateningly. “When you work with me, you work to my schedule. I don’t care if you suffered through traffic or if one of the precious commodities,” he nodded to the models standing behind the stocky manager, “broke a nail. You get here on time. Do I make myself clear?”
The manager was speechless, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. When Damien’s expression darkened further at being kept waiting for a response, he hastily nodded and muttered his humble apologies. Not that Damien paid enough attention to hear them.
“You two,” he said over the top of the still apologising manager, pointing to the models, “go over there to the changing rooms, you’re outfits are ready. And make it quick,” he added with a hint of warning.
It wasn’t long before the female was ready and the male model was sitting through his make up. He observed Damien working with interest, noting the way everyone was almost fearful to approach him and followed his very command to the letter. He also noticed how they jumped immediately to follow such requests. He watched as he commanded the female model –– Heather –– to do what he wanted, noticed how his tone was soft but tinged with something darker. He noticed how Damien’s movements were so very graceful, his expression controlled. He noticed the sly touches he bestowed on Heather, touches that seemed to make her melt and bend to his every whim willingly.
It was fascinating.
“There goes another one,” the make up muttered, her gaze also straying to where Damien stood, talking to the female model. Jay, the male model, looked up but said nothing to indicate that he had heard the girls’ comment.
“So that’s Damien Hart, is it?” he mused quietly, sounding a little admiring. “He is quite good looking…” The make up girl paused in applying his base make up and drew back, eyeing the boy cautiously.
“Don’t even go there, boy,” she warned, her dark eyes sweeping over Damien’s form before returning to the boy sitting on front of her. “If you know what’s good for you, you will stay well away.”
Jay frowned, staring at Kate enquiringly. “I thought you were his friend?”
“I am,” she agreed with a nod, “which is exactly why I am in the perfect position to tell you to keep away. He is dangerous.”
“Why?”
The make up girl sighed, putting down the foundation and staring at the younger fellow. “I suppose I better give you a small explanation of Damien,” she said finally, “As you will hardly be exempt from his attention.” There was another elongated pause as Kate elected the right, the appropriate words to describe Damien. “He is rather like… a male black widow,” she started. “He has a fascination with pain and a need for control. He is brutal and violent. He uses his beauty to his advantage. He is charming yes, but that disappears as soon as he has you in his web so to speak.”
“May I ask about the black widow reference?” The model questioned, finding that this description, obviously intent to warn him off was actually intriguing him further.
Kate’s expression was serious and she took a moment before she answered. She shrugged, saying simply, “He completely destroys anyone and everyone he has been with.” She regarded the model gravely. “If you value your sanity you will heed my advice.” At that moment both pairs of eyes –– one navy blue, the other fiery amber –– both flicked up to meet Damien’s as he prowled back across the studio towards his camera. He caught both their looks, and, as if he knew exactly what had passed between them, he smirked.
3.
The club always held the same people; desperate, slxtty whxres who would open their legs for any male and then the bigheaded males who thought they could get any of those whxres he wanted. Damien often wondered why he bothered coming back here.
The music thudded and roared, the strobe lighting flashed and danced, illuminating the sheen of sweat coating the dancers’ bodies as they twisted and moved suggestively against each other in a desperate bid to gain attention of someone, anyone.
How pathetic, Damien thought, turning his gaze away to his work mobile that had started ringing. Without even glancing at the caller ID, he hung up. He wasn’t in the mood to converse with whoever had the audacity to contact his work phone after hours. He stood, slipping out from the booth and towards the lightened bar for another drink. All he had to do was catch young Richards’ eye and his drink would materialise before him in a matter of moments.
He paid no attention to those around him as he fished out his cigarettes. He pulled one out of the box just as Richard appeared with his drink, waiting nervously patient for the money. And Damien took his time, lighting his cigarette and inhaling like it was air before passing a few coins into Richards’ hand.
There was movement beside him as someone sat down. Damien didn’t bother to look. He had more important things to be thinking about then what idiot ignored the keep-away-or-else vibes he was sending off.
“And there was me thinking that I could get you a drink.” It was a familiar voice, but Damien still didn’t spare a glance in the speakers’ direction. He wasn’t in the mood for his usual games.
“Look, Kitten,” he said, knowing who was addressing him but not brothering to confirm. “Don’t play with the big boys.” He exhaled a plume of smoke. “Only fools don’t listen to perfectly good advice and I dislike fools. They are more trouble than they are worth.” Only now did he allow his eyes to skim the figure next to him, using the glance to punctuate his point. He also took that momentary look to fully evaluate the man beside him.
He was younger than Damien by a few years, making him about 22 to 24. He was a little taller then him too, something that aided him in his model career, no doubt. His face was chiselled, defined, the perfect definition of handsome. Dark amber eyes gazed at Damien from under a messy blonde fringe, a slight smile playing on pale pink lips.
Damien crushed the cigarette in the glass ashtray. “You are the perfect example of a stereotypical model; pretty on the eyes but not too smart,” Damien continued, taking a sip of his drink. “It’s a shame, if you were a little less annoying I might have considered it.”
“You know what Kate said to me?”
Damien smirked. “You are not the first she has warned, and you are not the first to ignore her. Caitlyn takes it upon herself to protect helpless little lambs like you from me.” Damien spoke with a sense of twisted pride, as if he enjoyed being seen as a dangerous predator.
“She said you were friends.”
“For lack for a better word.” Damien was finding this conversation tiresome. He had only come here for one reason, a reason he would never admit to himself or out loud, but a reason nonetheless and that reason had nothing to do with the model beside him. He was here to feed his own curiosity, to seek answers to his questions and to quieten his suspicion. But, as he had figured, the mysterious man calling after him had not yet returned and probably wouldn’t.
If it really was who Damien suspected it to be, he wouldn’t turn up. The man liked his little games, games that had probably shaped Damien, games he had fallen for years ago. But he was wiser now, and the master of his own twisted little games. He smirked darkly into his drink.
He turned back to the model beside him. “Go and play with the other kids, Kitten,” he purred sweetly with an underlying danger, “I have no need for lapdogs.” As jay struggled to find his voice again, Damien stood with a graceful sweeping movement that one would expect from an aristocrat and wove between the crowds. He watched as Damien was swallowed by the crowds of sweating bodies, his drink abandoned on the side and frowned. Damien was still an enigma, and despite the ‘perfectly good advice,’ Jay’s curious nature wouldn’t allow such a fascinating mystery to remain unsolved.
Damien shook his head at the kids’ audacity, moving silently through the heaving club to his previous booth. When he sat down, he found noticed nothing out of the ordinary. It was only after dismissing some drunk, hopeful female that he noticed it. Lying quietly on the black leather sofa was a deep red rose, silently waiting to be noticed and its’ subliminal meaning to be realised.
Damien stood, holding the rose by its stem, ignoring the slight prxcks of the thorns into his palm and stared at it for a moment. He then looked up, eyes skimming the sea of bodies for one particular face from his past, one particular figure he couldn’t block out and forget like he had everyone else. He flicked his hair from his eyes, eyes narrowing darkly.
Swallowing down something nasty and slowly threading his control about himself, Damien’s hand curled around the soft rose head and squeezed. The petals were crushed under his hand as he allowed a certain amount of anger bleed through his fist and destroy the beautiful flower with a knowing smirk. He exhaled slowly and allowed the remainder of the rose to fall amongst the ruins of its blossom, before turning and walking from the booth, from the club, hoping that whoever had left the rose had witnessed his reaction.
5.
“So, just tell me about him.” Kate rolled her eyes over her Bacardi and coke, fixing Jay with a bemused glare.
“Curiosity killed the cat, Jay…” she sang, her words slightly slurred from the alcohol.
“I’m no cat,” Jay shot back with a grin, raising the bottle of beer to his lips. “Come on. You know the ice bxtch, you knew him as a kid. Spill the beans, what was the King of Control like as a young ‘un.”
Kate giggled into her hand –– at what, Jay couldn’t be sure however. “You really want to know?” Jay nodded, shifting to face her more easily. There was a long silence before Kate shook her head. “I’m not drunk enough to risk life and limb by betraying Damien,” she said, her tone surprisingly serious. “You have no idea what he is capable of. He is practically dead inside…” She trailed off thoughtfully, eyes glassy with memories. “He’s always been cruel, he was the type of kid who fried ants under a magnifying glass and pulled the wings off those gross Daddy-Long-Leg things. He was a bully as well. He was, all in all, the twisted psycho in the back of the class who even the big kids wouldn’t go near for fear he’d whip out a knife or something…
“But he was also kind of…nice. To his friends. Demanding, and stroppy and selfish and mean but he…it’s hard to explain what Damien was like when he was younger.” She cut off, distracted as a man wondered by on his way to the toilet. The air stunk of tobacco and beer, the type of smell you could only find in a pub.
Jay had his head tilted pensively, considering Kate’s words. Then she was continuing, “Damien loves inflicting pain and fear and has to be in control. It’s almost a compulsion.” Her eyes closed briefly. “If you let any of this slip, I swear to God I will not make life easy for you ––” her gaze darkened alarmingly–– “I learnt from the best, remember. Anyway, Damien has to have control; he has to be the one in charge. He has to be the one inflicting pain and giving orders. He needs it like he needs air. And it’s not some thing he was born with, not to this extent, it something he was shaped into.
“Because Damien seems cool and in control and detached, but really, beneath that rather fxcking gorgeously icy exterior, he is essentially running a past that is about to catch up with him.”
––
Damien’s gallery was a hot bed for young overdressed self-proclaimed ‘gothic’ teens with a similar interest in the taboo and the sinfully debauched. It was also a great selling point for masked rich folk who took a keen interest in his works, often purchasing such works under a pseudonym or through proxy for fear their interest be found out. Not that Damien minded the latter, they were often willing to pay high prices, and those who came without mask or proxy, were willing to pay even more for Damien’s discretion.
It was after the gallery had closed and Damien had shooed out those annoying idiots he had employed to keep watch over his gallery as he work, that Damien sat in the office up the stairs near the back of the gallery, glasses sitting on his nose and he thumbed through various bills and statement and transactions and other pesky little pieces of paperwork he had fallen behind on. A glass of red wine was sitting to his side, the bottle itself fresh and only just opened.
Damien worked with the intent to distract himself. What he wouldn’t admit to himself was what he was distracting himself from, from the tendrils of unease that were oozing out of the box he had kept it locked in for as long as he could remember. Of course, he wouldn’t admit it. Such weakness was not shown nor acknowledged by him. He didn’t tolerate such things.
He shifted through the paperwork, signing where he must and noted what he should. The façade was annoying. Never, never in six years had he had a problem with his emotions and he wasn’t about to start now.
He was annoyed with himself. How could he, Damien, let himself get irate about something so meagre? He sat back in his chair, pulling off his glasses and sipping the bittersweet red wine, his cold eyes dark and scheming.
He was drawn out of his thoughts a moment later by the sound of the gallery door opening and closing. He glanced at his watch, figuring it must be the cleaner, Anna, come to do her nightly service. He downed the rest of his wine, shutting the bottle into the cabinet behind him and slipped from the study, grabbing his coat on the way out.
He was going to stay here. He needed, deep down, to reassert himself, to assure himself, although such needs he would never confess, even within the confines of his own mind. Ellis hadn’t been enough. Ellis hadn’t satisfied him, because Ellis wanted the pain, he craved it, loved it and that wasn’t what Damien needed. Damien needed someone with a little more fight and a little more spite that he could slowly snap into a thousand pieces.
He pulled on his coat, reaching the bottom of the stairs. He paused by the bin, his back to the main room of the gallery as his fingers sought out his cigarettes, emptied it of his last one and threw the crumpled cardboard packet into the bin. He then lit it with a click of his lighter, that sharp sound being the only one in the gallery. He took one long drag before he eventually turned, meaning to tell Anna to close up after she had done with the spare key he had given her for when he worked overtime and couldn’t return to the gallery.
He opened his mouth to speak, his eyes glancing up to face the figure in front of him before he faltered.
Yes, Damien Hart, the King of control, of pain and domination, faltered.
He recovered quickly, smoking casually as his eyes took in the ruggedly familiar appearance. But to someone who knew Damien well, to the visitor standing in front of him with a knowing smirk, the falter had been unmistakable.
There was a pregnant silence, as the visitors eyes skimmed up and down Damien’s body in a way that could only be describe as lecherous.
“Good evening Damien.” The voice was horribly familiar, yet Damien didn’t even blink, he just continued to smoke, ignoring the smirk he remembered loathing and ignoring the way those deep green eyes continued to leer at him like he was some kind of prize. “You have done well for yourself, haven’t you Princess?” Damien fought the clawing shudder threatening to creep up his spine at the nickname, with limited success.
He blew out a plume of smoke. “Better than you, I would hazard a guess,” he replied coolly, earning himself another dark smirk to be thrown in his direction.
“You’ve grown a backbone, I see.”
Damien ignored the comment, flicking ash into the bin, before fixing flaming blue eyes on the figure in front of him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your appearance, Gabriel?” he asked, his voice dark.
“Aren’t I allowed to check up on my favourite… student?” Damien didn’t miss how he stressed the word student and sneered in disgust, refusing to dignify such a question with an answer. Not that Gabriel appeared to want one as his eyes had returned to their lewd exploration of Damien’s body. “You look good.” He smirked, now moving to meet Damien’s cold gaze. “Better than before.” Damien crushed the cigarette and tossed the still smoking butt into the bin. When Gabriel realised Damien was waiting for him to continue, to explain his visitation, he continued, “Princess, don’t you know it’s wrong not to show gratitude when presented with a gift?”
“Ah yes,” Damien purred softly, but with his usual venom. “You are a great enforcer of rules, aren’t you? And someone so into discipline as yourself, shouldn’t you be aware that turning up uninvited is also very bad manners?”
“Feisty,” Gabriel commented, with a smirk that was almost of approval before he stepped forward. Damien refused to show submission by stepping back and instead looked his visitor straight in the eyes as the other man came up to him, pressed his hand to his stomach and attempted to shove him backward into the wall. Damien was sure shock would filtered through Gabriel’s gaze, if was any more in touch with his emotions as Damien.
Damien then pushed the hand away, gripping it at the wrist as he spoke. “I’m not who I used to be,” he informed Gabriel matter-of-factly. His grip was then tightening, a warning before he back off completely and he released the hand completely. “Now leave. You have outstayed your welcome.”
The smirk of approval was still firmly in place as Gabriel stepped back, hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Good night,” he called as he moved towards the door. With a hand on the handle, Gabriel paused, threw another one of his coarse smirks’ in Damien’s direction before saying, “Sweet dreams Princess,” and then throwing open the door and melting into the night. |
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