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On the next of his evening visits to Christopher’s apartment, the executive brought wine.
When the young assistant opened his front door, Diego could already see the resignation written plain on his face. It was lovely. “Evening, Christopher,” he greeted, and sauntered into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. Christopher didn’t respond - he had learned not to - and his eyes were a blank slate, upon which Diego fully intended to carve fear. So the executive continued speaking: “Have a seat, Christopher. Let’s talk.”
It was a sign of Christopher’s thorough training that the only indication of apprehension on his face was the slightest muscle twitch in his jaw. Without a word, the assistant took a seat on his own couch. Diego, ever smiling, set the bottle of wine down on the coffee table and himself next to Christopher, so close that their hips were practically touching, and put an arm around his shoulders. Possessive. Suffocating. The boy didn’t move. He knew who he belonged to.
“Christopher,” he purred. He liked the way the boy’s name rolled off his tongue. “Christopher,” he said again.
Christopher waited, obedient.
“How’s the baby, Christopher?”
For a moment, the boy surfaced from the unknown depths of his thoughts. "She- She kicked today,” he said, one hand coming to rest on his slightly-bulging stomach.
Diego couldn’t care less, but he smiled because he knew it would unnerve Christopher. “Is that so?” he asked, adjusting his arm so that the assistant was forced to lean against him. Again, the boy did not protest, nor did he respond. He did this, sometimes - retreated within himself until he seemed to be entirely unaware of the world around him. Diego suspected that it was a defense mechanism - by far Diego’s least favorite. What was the fun in playing with a toy that didn’t reciprocate? But Diego usually managed to break him out of it eventually. “Good. It sounds like she’s coming along fine.”
Nothing.
“Alright,” Diego said. “Moving on, then. I brought you a present.” Still no response from Christopher, undoubtedly because Diego’s “presents” never ended well for him. This one wouldn’t be any different, of course, but the boy could at least pretendto be interested.
With a sigh, Diego grabbed Christopher’s chin and tilted his head towards him, forcing the boy to look him in the eyes. “I said,” his fingers tightened their grip on the boy’s face, “I brought you a present, Christopher.”
“Yes, sir.” Christopher’s gaze was focused somewhere to the right of Diego’s head.
No. Diego had played this scene over and over again in his mind; each time, the boy’s reaction was fearful - trembling, pleading, something other than the empty, trancelike stare the boy was giving him. This was Diego’s game, and Christopher was ruining it.
The slap rang out across the room, the sound of skin hitting skin sending a wave of pleasure straight to Diego’s crotch. “I don’t have the patience for these games tonight, Christopher.”
Blessedly, the blow seemed to have done it - for a moment, Christopher only blinked, disoriented, but when he mumbled out an, “I’m sorry, sir,” Diego saw a bit more life in those dull green eyes.
“Good.” Diego released Christopher and leaned forward to unwrap the wine bottle. It was expensive stuff - aged three decades and imported from Brazil - even though the bottle was only less than a quarter full, but Christopher was worth it. “Since you’ve been such a good boy lately, I’ve decided to bring you a drink. As a reward, you know.”
Christopher stared at the bottle as though struggling to comprehend its existence. “I…”
“Do you have proper wine glasses? I bet you do. Of course you do. Fetch one for me.”
“But I c-”
“Wine glasses, Christopher!” Diego interrupted gleefully. “Quickly. I don’t have all night."
"But I can’t!” Christopher insisted with a tinge of desperation. “I- I’m-” He motioned to the noticeable curve of his abdomen.
Diego pretended not to hear him. “The clock is ticking, Christopher.”
Christopher, finally out of that boring stupor of his, stood up from the couch and faced Diego in a move that was as bold as it was stupid. “I’m pregnant!”
Diego only smiled.
“A few sips of wine never hurt anyone,” he said calmly. “Fetuses have gone through much worse and developed into fine babies.”
Christopher was not to be moved. “I’m not putting her at risk,” he said stubbornly, crossing his arms.
“That wasn’t a suggestion, Christopher,” Diego said, his voice turning significantly less pleasant. It wasn’t a fun game if the boy didn’t play along. “Glass. Now.“
The boy’s next protest died in his throat, his arms falling limply to his sides. Diego’s orders weren’t to be ignored. The consequences for doing so were always unpleasant - even more so, in cases like these, than the consequences of letting Diego do what he wanted. Wordlessly, Christopher turned and walked to the kitchen. Diego settled himself back down on the couch to the sound of shuffling cabinetry. A minute later, Christopher returned to the living room with two wine glasses, just as Diego thought he would.
"Oh, no, no, Christopher.” The smugness in Diego’s voice was almost tangible. “Justone glass.” In answer to the boy’s wrinkled brow and wordless question, he murmured, in the same gloating tone, “The drink is for you. I won’t be having any.”
Christopher paled slightly, realization dawning as he looked from Diego to the bottle. Faintly, the sound of tapping fingers reached Diego’s ears, and the executive’s grin turned triumphant, augmented by the way the assistant stumbled backwards, looking at the bottle as though it was going to lash out and bite him.
Oh, how Diego loved these games.
“Something wrong, Christopher?” Diego inquired, his brow furrowing in mock concern. “Those hormones must be a bitch. Why don’t you sit down, pour yourself a drink? To settle the nerves, you know”
Christopher shook his head frantically, still backing away. His nerves, clearly, were anything but settled.
Diego kept talking. “Sit, Christopher.” He was still smirking, but the words were unmistakably a command. Without taking his eyes off of the bottle, Christopher sat. “Good boy.” Diego let him stew in his fear for a minute longer before he spoke again. “Now, drink.” When Christopher hesitated, Diego grinned wider. “Go on. Just a few sips.” And then, because he so loved watching Christopher tremble, he added, “That’s all you’ll need.”
That seemed to do it. Christopher leaned back against the couch, crossed his arms over his chest, and shook his head. “N-No.” It was quiet and shaky, but there it was - resistance.
Diego quirked an eyebrow. “No?”
Christopher once again shook his head, closing his eyes. “Ellie-”
Diego threw his head back and groaned. "Oh, for Smiling God’s sake. The fucking baby? You’re so boring. Is that all you think about?“
"I’m not putting her at risk,” Christopher repeated.
Exasperated, Diego huffed out a breath and turned towards Christopher, resting his right elbow on the couch’s headrest. “Oh, Christopher, you underestimate me.” The boy lifted his head, curiosity seeming to overpower whatever usual fear kept him from looking into Diego’s eyes. “If I wanted to destroy that thing -” he nodded at Christopher’s stomach “- there are so many more creative and entertaining ways to do it than by poisoning you. Honestly, Christopher - give me some credit.”
Oddly, this seemed to provide Christopher with some measure of comfort, despite the fact that Diego had never said that he hadn’t put anything in the drink. Still, it got Christopher to sit up, which Diego took as a sign of compliance. Taking both the wine bottle and glass, Diego filled the cup halfway, placing it into the assistant’s shaking hands. He leaned back and watched, with some amusement, as Christopher raised the glass to his lips, closed his eyes, and downed its entire contents - quite a bit more than Diego had anticipated, but the executive wasn’t complaining.
There were a few seconds of silence, during which Diego watched Christopher wait - for what, Diego didn’t know, but the look of anxious expectation on the boy’s face was truly charming.
“There, was that so hard?” Diego asked after a time.
Christopher was quiet for so long that Diego stopped expecting a response. But then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Christopher said, “Don’t… Don’t hurt her."
Surprised, Diego didn’t respond immediately. So Christopher turned to him and, more urgently, said, "Promise me you won’t hurt her. Please, Diego.”
Diego didn’t understand - was the boy really that worried about the child? Christopher wasn’t the slightest bit concerned for his own well-being; it was all about the damn fetus. “You’re so boring,” he spat. “Do you really value yourself so little that that…thing takes priority over your own safety?” He was trying to provoke Christopher - to get him to do something besides sit there and stare at him with those wide, pathetic eyes - but the stubborn whore just started crying, begging Diego not to hurt his precious baby. Diego was going to be sick. “Fine. fine! Smiling God, I never planned on hurting the damn thing. Now stop-” he waved his hands at Christopher, who was busy wiping tears away from red, swollen eyes. “that. Stop doing that.”
“S-Sorry,” Christopher sniffled, calming himself down with a few last, shaky breaths.
Diego gave a disapproving grunt, but he was, for the most part, mollified. He wasn’t going to let a few tears ruin his perfect evening.
And with that, disgust turned to interest, and, with a slowly growing grin, Diego eyed the helpless boy sitting next to him. “It’s quite alright, Christopher.” He turned where he sat, placing his arms on the cushion and the headrest on either side of the assistant. “I forgive you.” Closer, closer, until he was leaning over the now slightly bleary-looking boy, his eyes hungry. “But really, Christopher, there’s nothing for you to cry about. In fact, you should be thankful. You’ll barely notice the pain until tomorrow, and even then, you won’t remember any of it. If anything, I’m being merciful.” He now had Christopher pinned to the couch, the boy’s hands held in place by Diego’s own, the executive’s blood-scented breath gently blowing into his ear. The extent of the contact between them was such that Diego could feel Christopher’s heartbeat - far slower than normal - against his chest.
He breathed in the luxurious scent of fear and cigarette smoke. This was how he liked it.
Christopher stirred slightly under him and yawned. Diego smothered the yawn with a kiss, gentle at first on soft, pliant lips, and then increasingly rougher as his hunger grew increasingly ravenous. The boy seemed to grow more and more relaxed under him, tension draining from his body.
“Can’t move,” he mumbled, grinning.
As a test, Diego released his hands. Christopher didn’t try to move. His head lolled to the side.
Excellent.
Diego climbed off of Christopher, but kept his arms wrapped around the boy’s waist, lifting him ever-so-slightly from the couch, forcing his back to arch and his head to fall back, as though he had already lost consciousness. “We’re going to go to the bedroom, Christopher,” Diego murmured into his prize’s ear.
Christopher tried to shake his head, but it really came out as more of a vague head flop. “Wanna stay here. ‘N sleep.”
“Of course,” Diego purred, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. This was just too delicious. “We’re going to go to sleep, Christopher. Come to the bedroom, and you can sleep all you’d like.” And really, it didn’t matter to Diego whether or not the boy fell asleep once he was properly positioned on the bed - he was already nearly comatose, and Diego bet that Christopher would look just as delectable naked and unconscious. (In fact, with that image in mind, Diego might prefer it.)
Diego’s fantasy was interrupted by a loud thump and the sudden absence of weight in his arms. A quick glance downwards told him what happened - Christopher had apparently tried to get up from the couch and ended up rolling out of Diego’s arms and onto the floor.
“Oops,” Christopher said, and giggled.
Diego raised his eyebrows. “Well, I suppose I’m going to have to carry you, aren’t I?”
Christopher didn’t respond, seemingly entranced by something incredibly fascinating on the ceiling.
“Right,” Diego said, and picked Christopher up, bridal-style, relishing how willingly the boy he so hated slipped into his arms.
The next morning, Christopher Rose awoke in pain.
He was lying nude on his own bed, uncovered by any sheets. Someone was lying next to him, fast asleep, their form obscured by Christopher’s bedding. He didn’t move.
Slowly, memories of the previous night began to return to him, his heart sinking further and further as with each rediscovery. He inhaled once, shakily. Look at the facts. Facts were impersonal. Facts couldn’t harm him. That was what he did, wasn’t it? He compartmentalized.
The man next to him must be Diego, then. Unless the executive invited someone else so the both of them could do god-knows-what to him-
Compartmentalize.
Another breath. The first thing he needed to do was assess his injuries, but he found himself unable to look down. He’d save that for later.
Task #2: What was the last thing he remembered? He recalled drinking the wine, the taste sickeningly untainted by whatever drug Diego had put in it. He remembered being scared, so scared, of something, and Diego talking to him; about what, he didn’t know, but he had a feeling it was important…
Ellie. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins. Diego had been… No. Oh god, no. Not Ellie. Not his baby.
It hurt to move, but Christopher sat up as much as he was able, hoping beyond hope that Diego hadn’t…hadn’t…
Oddly enough, his abdomen seemed to be the only place left unmarked. Christopher barely registered this as he scanned his stomach for cuts, bruises, anything that might mean that his baby girl was hurt. And then, just as he was mentally scheduling an emergency ultrasound, he felt - very slight, but unmistakably - a kick.
He released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. His baby was alive. He would still go to the doctor when he found the time, but Ellie was safe - for now, at least.
Relieved and slightly giddy, Christopher finally relaxed his shoulders. The slight movement stung, and he reflexively glanced down at his torso to see what was hurting.
It took him a few seconds to register that the red splotches on his chest and shoulders were blood. His blood.
His euphoria falling away as suddenly as it had come, Christopher lifted a trembling hand to brush against the neat row of punctures on his collarbone. Bite marks.
With a sort of detached curiosity, he let his eyes wander over the rest of his body. The same marks were everywhere - down his arms, across his hips, his thighs, between his legs-
Christopher turned over and threw up on the floor. There wasn’t much in his stomach - he hadn’t eaten the night before, so it was mostly dry-heaving; all stomach acid and air until there was nothing left to regurgitate. When he finally finished and allowed himself to fall back on the bed, he found Diego staring at him, propped up on the pillows, wide awake, and giving him his signature smirk. Christopher felt another wave of nausea hit him, but he held it back - he wasn’t going to give Diego the pleasure.
“Well, good morning, sleepyhead. How’s my favorite whore this morning?”
Christopher said nothing, just stared at the ceiling.
“Nothing to say? Oh, dear. Don’t tell me the drug gave you permanent brain damage.”
“Fuck you,” Christopher muttered, turning his back to Diego so he didn’t have to look at that sick, delighted grin.
Diego was unperturbed. “Oh, I did,” he said softly, something markedly more sadistic in his tone now. “Three times, to be exact.”
Christopher’s teeth clenched, but he didn’t honor the taunt with a response. To his disgust, he felt Diego press against his back, the executive’s arms holding him in place as Diego spooned around him.
“I really did a number on you, didn’t I?” he crooned, his lips brushing the shell of Christopher ear. “My apologies - I didn’t mean to go that far. I just lost control, you know? You lying there, barely able to move - it just does things to me. And you make the prettiest noises…”
That was it. Christopher jerked out of Diego’s grasp, making a valiant effort to get up from the bed, only to collapse on the floor from the pain and lingering nausea.
From somewhere above him, Diego laughed.
“Go on - go! Crawl away. Escape. Get a wet towel and try to rub away your shame. It’s not going to work. I own you, and you know it. Even when those wounds heal, the marks they left will always be there. And you’ll think of me - you’ll think of this - whenever anyone tries to touch you; whenever anyone tries to run their hands over you the way I did last night - the way I’ve done so many times before. The way I’m going to continue doing until I get bored with you. You can run, Christopher, but you can’t escape me.”
Christopher had curled into the fetal position on the floor, his arms covering his face to hide the tears that were threatening to spill out from behind closed eyes. Diego’s words stung, but their truth hurt more - Diego was right. He had already seen the effects of the torment when Adrian tried to touch him, and it was only going to get worse.
He heard Diego get up from bed, yawn and stretch loudly, and walk over to him. He held his breath, waiting for the blow or the violation or whatever Diego was going to do to him. But nothing happened. Tentatively, Christopher pulled his arms away from his face and lifted his head.
Diego was standing above him, apparently heavily invested in something on his phone. Christopher decided that it was best to remain silent. After a moment, Diego sighed and pocketed the device. “Well, Christopher,” he said with a sigh. “As much as I’d like to stay for breakfast, and emergency came up at work, and I have toskedaddle.”
Christopher didn’t know whether to feel relieved that Diego was finally going to leave him alone or disappointed that he was going to be abandoned after everything that happened. So, once again, he said nothing.
It seemed that Diego had other ideas. “Well?” he said expectantly.
At this point, Christopher had retreated back behind his arms, and he had no intention of changing that. “What?” he mumbled.
He heard the smile in Diego’s voice as the executive said, “Where’s my goodbye kiss?”
Grimacing (and barely resisting the urge to tell Diego just what he could kiss), Christopher climbed to his feet and stumbled into Diego’s arms. “Good boy,” Diego murmured, and pressed his mouth to Christopher’s.
It was a long and incredibly unpleasant kiss, but the PA powered through it, telling himself that the sooner Diego was satisfied, the sooner he would leave. And then, finally, it was over, and Christopher was shoved to the floor, gasping for breath to the sound of victorious laughter.
“Until next time, Christopher,” Diego said cheerfully, and sauntered from the room, whistling.
Christopher didn’t start crying until the front door slammed shut.