Title: Christmas fallen angels
Author: Aline
Author Email: alinereinhard@hotmail.com Category: Angst, Alternate Universe, Drama Rating: NC-17

Summary: Toby's in a perilous situation between Vern's hands. Will he listen to Chris' advice and make the right choice?

No beta.

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~ Christmas fallen angels ~

Day was already fading when he left his wife, kissed her, kissed their kids. "It's unfair," Gen sighed, "that you have to go; you know what Christmas means to the children." "I know; I'll be back on Tuesday, we'll have a second Christmas then, just you and I," he said, kissing her again, "I love you."

Two hours later, night had swallowed the day and he was following Vern Schillinger into an apartment on the 19th floor of a luxurious building in the center of the city, near the park. "You never came here," Vern said, "it's a beautiful place, I bought it for my wife before she died." Toby gave a look around and snorted.

"No Christmas tree? I'm disappointed, Vern, from a man of you calibre I expected the whole traditional stuff."

Schillinger's gaze narrowed, "Don't test me, Beecher," he said as they crossed a white marbled hall and entered what probably was a living room -leather couches facing a huge window, a long mahogany table just behind and bookshelves running along the walls -statues, some of them probably stolen from European cathedrals, Schillinger was known for hiring the best treasure hunters to get what he wanted; rare books, old records, mostly Wagner. Somewhere, probably locked in a safe place, the copy of Mein Kampf Hitler himself had dedicated to his grand-father; Schillinger was an obsessive collector; the dangerous kind, the kind who put the things he loved far above any human being.

And in front of the fireplace, a horizontal St Andrews cross, leather armchairs arranged around it, made him shiver and look away.

"Come on," Schillinger said, opening a door, stepping inside a bedroom where a man was standing in front of the window, watching the streets down below, the constant stream of cars, red lights trailing through the darkness; tall, muscular man, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and tight worn jeans; he turned to them, hard face, blue eyes. Handsome in some dangerous and fierce way.

" Chris," Schillinger said, "this is Tobias Beecher." No hand shake, the cold dark gaze just assessed him from head to toes and the man let out a slight sigh, a nod.

"Get him ready for tonight," Schillinger added, "you know what to do." "Yeah."
"See you later, then."

The door closed and the two men stood face to face, motionless until Tobias Beecher took off his coat and ran a hand through his hair.

"You know the drill?" Chris asked, "did it already?" "Yes, twice."

Chris listened to the educated voice and diction, looked at the man more closely, took in the elegant suit, the blond hair, the bold look.

/They're gonna take you down hard, rich guy. /

"OK. Listen, 5 men are here tonight, Vern included. They are... no matter who they are, they're here to discuss new contracts, lot of money at stake," he paused to make sure Beecher was listening, "after that, nice dinner in a dining room upstairs, cigars, alcohol. Then around eleven, you."

Beecher took off his glasses, he had beautiful blue eyes.

"Christmas gift from Vern to his friends."

Beecher lowered his eyes for a second and sighed. "What?" Chris asked, "if you got something on your mind you'd better tell me now." "Nothing. Just... It's the first time I spend Christmas without my wife and my kids, feels strange."

Chris took a step forward, coming closer, cruel look, unpleasant smile, like a tiger moving for the kill. "Poor baby," he whispered, "I'm so sorry." Beecher gaze hardened and Chris went on. "I wonder if Kathy Rockwell's parents bought a tree, this year; how they'll manage their first Christmas without their daughter."

Blue eyes widened, Beecher seemed to cave in and Chris thought he heard a painful moan.

"It was an accident," Beecher said, wary, not quite sure he believed it. "Yeah, sure. Who fucking cares, anyway? You're free; happy you."

He brushed his fingers against Beecher's cheek, smiling, claws drawn in now that he'd made his point.

"Yeah. Happy me."
"Are we done with the complaints, now?" "We're done."
"Good. Now show me; strip."

How did I become this, Beecher wondered, how did I sink that low; become a whore between this nazi's hand, let unknown men touch me, fuck me, hurt me?

But he knew; he'd killed a little girl and run away; then Vern Schillinger had come to his office and made him an offer; he'd save his sorry ass and Beecher would be his. At the time, between the frightening idea of prison and the prospect of belonging to someone else, the choice had been easy; he was terrified and ashamed; he didn't want to go to prison, throw his family into disgrace and grief; he wasn't sure Gen would be able to stand it and he still loved her, wanted to spare her, stay with her. Prison... Jesus, anything was better than prison, even this, he thought, starting under Chris' cold fingers.

"What part do you play here, exactly?" he asked. "Take care of you and everything, make the evening perfect," Chris said. "And?"
"Some of our guests prefer to watch; Vern loves to watch, so I could be the one doing the work."

Beecher closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, crushed. "Jesus. It's going to be a gang rape." "You made a deal with the devil, Mr Beecher," "Toby."
"Toby, what did you expect? And if you take it easy, it doesn't have to be a rape; you could enjoy some moments." "The moments with you, I suppose?"

He was kissed and explored, Chris' mouth, Chris' skilful fingers gauging the man's potential; then wrapped into a robe and pulled to the bed. "Listen, this is what I'm gonna do to you; shave you completely," Christ, which lie would he tell Gen?
"Make sure you're clean inside and out," "I'll do that!"
"No way, it's my job, don't want to have Vern yelling at me afterwards. Did you eat?" "In the morning, around 11."
"OK, I don't want you to choke to death, it could spoil the pleasure, you know; I'll prepare you, in every necessary way. Give you stuff if you're freaked out."

Chris kissed him again, his hands running over his body under the soft fabric of the robe, arousing him. "Do you think you'll be up to it?"
"I'm good; or so says Vern; don't worry."

Chris' gaze darkened as he pushed him back to the bed, "Then show me how fucking good you are, Toby, give me a glimpse, come on, show me."

Hours later, dizzy with pleasure, as ready as he would ever be, Toby was tied to the cross, his stretched out arms straining the muscles of his chest, his aroused cock trapped in a leather cock ring, his head thrown back revealing a long supple neck, hair curling on his temples, eyes closed. Chris bent over him and kissed him again. "OK?"
"Yes."

He looked scared; Chris stroked his hair softly. "You won't die, this ain't snuff... trust me on that; we'll keep things at an acceptable level." His voice was soft and reassuring, his hands soothing.

The blue eyes caught his and stared, trying to pass the barrier of Chris' dark gaze, look deeper, reach the hidden soul behind; and he said, "I trust you." "Good. Now relax." And Chris threw a cashmere blanket over his naked exposed body to hide it as the door opened.

"Ah, Vern, another surprise," a voice said, "you're spoiling us."

"Happy Christmas Eve," he whispered to himself, hearing the water stop at last and sighing; the comfort part was his own, the day after, the hours he had to help the guy recover, make sure he'd be OK enough, keep his mouth shut, take back his life.

Beecher had been thoroughly abused all night through; physically, sexually, emotionally, fucked, beaten, humiliated, broken; his body, his mind; shattered like Vern loved his preys to be. Chris stubbed his cigarette out and rose as he watched the man -Toby- walk out of the bathroom, tentatively, wrapped in a towel, his hair still damp, looking exhausted.

"Hey come on, get some rest."
"I'd prefer to go out."
"You're not well enough."
"I wanna go home." His voice was trembling, he looked on the verge of panic; and he'd cried; Chris sighed. Here we go. "No way; you know the deal. Anyway you can't go, did you take a look at yourself? You'll need a whole day to stop shaking and be able to behave normally, maybe two."

Toby sighed and collapsed on the bed near him. "I made coffee," Chris said, "and I can get you something to eat." "Coffee will be fine; I'm not very hungry."

Later Chris kissed him lazily, long sensuous kiss that made Toby sigh and stretch like a cat. I'm a slut, he thought; but Chris' embrace felt so good that he kissed him back, seeking oblivion in those arms that held him tight enough to protect him, in this kiss that promised so much, against the hard body pressing against his.

When Chris wanted to remove the towel, though, he stiffened. "Want to unwrap your Christmas gift too? I thought you'd had your share last night." Chris smiled. "Yeah, but it's not about me, this time, come on, let me do it."

Holding Toby naked in his arms, Chris kissed him again, softly parting his swollen dry lips with his tongue, exploring him, tasting him, his mouth wandering over his jaw, his neck, biting the soft skin where the neck and the shoulder met and lower, avoiding the bruises, the welts and the cuts, travelling down to his groin. Chris frowned at the marks on Toby's cock, marks of the whip, scratches from his tormentors' nails. Yeah, he kissed it too and Toby held his breath. Chris' mouth was hot and tender, his tongue licked the pain away, swallowed the shame and soothed the memories, his hands stroking Toby's hips, encouraging him to let go, let go of the night. Long after the last spasms of pleasure had faded away Chris leaned against him, oddly satisfied and said, "You're good, you know that? I think Vern has taken some kind of fancy on you."

Toby closed his eyes, sick.

"Please. Don't."
But Chris was merciless.
"You should live a bit longer than the others." Toby froze. "What?"
Chris was whispering against his ear in an intimate and dangerous voice. "What do you think? How many times do you think you'll be able to go through this kind of ... party? What do you think will happen when Vern gets tired with you; and he will, don't doubt it. He'll pass you to others, who won't be so careful, and this time, Toby, you'll end dead."

The body next to his tried to come closer and Chris let him, stroking him.

"I ain't no Christmas spirit and I don't have no supernatural power, Toby, but I can show you where you'll be next year at the same time if you go on playing games with Vern Schillinger. I can take you to any cemetery and show you any grave, tell you, 'look, this one's yours'" "Call me Ebenezer Scrooge, then," Toby snorted, but his heart was pounding hard inside his chest and he was scared, more scared than he'd ever been. "What's the alternative?"
"Kill Schillinger," Chris whispered, "looks like the most enjoyable and useful decision but he's got too many friends, allies, supports; we'd end dead before we had a chance to run away." "I don't want to kill anyone, anyway."
"You did already."
"Listen, Chris..."
"No," Chris rose and came closer, towering over him, his look hard, "YOU, listen... There's another possibility, and you know fucking well that's what you've gotta do, Toby."

Eyes closed, motionless, breath shallow, Toby moaned. "No."
"Yes, yes, you must do it. Go to the police tell them about the little girl..." "No!" Toby shouted, "no, I won't, I don't want to go to prison, don't want to..." "Don't wanna what? Do you realize what you're doing, here? The risks you're taking, the way they're gonna kill you in the end? I'm sure you don't," he said, sighing in frustration, "listen, tell you what? I bet it won't be long before the phone rings and Schillinger asks me to get you ready for him again..." "I can't."
"Yeah? Well, hear the news, Tinkerbell, he doesn't give a damn about what you want; the only thing that matters here is what he wants, and you're gonna do as you're told; I'll give you drugs before, drugs after, you'll be fine, you'll even want it."

Toby wanted to scoot away, look angry but he was so tired and the hands holding him were caressing and warm, it wasn't pleasure, wasn't quite bliss, just the delicious feeling of being taken care of.

"Why are you doing this?" Toby asked.
"Maybe I took a fancy on you too," Chris said, "maybe I'm tired of seeing people like you, too dumb to see in what kind of shit they are. When you're dead..." "Stop that!"
"OK."

"Did he fight?"
Schillinger was sitting on the couch, a glass of wine in his hand, distant, calm, dressed in an elegant suit that did nothing to make him look more civilised; Chris pushed Toby forward. "Yeah, like a tiger," he said, laughing, "every step of the way."

Toby heard their distorted voices, their laughter, very far, feeling only Chris' fingers on him; he remembered fighting, refusing to be prepared like some sex toy, biting, scratching, hitting, struggling against the hands that held him, until Chris had sat him on a chair, straddling him, a syringe in his hand, focused; at that moment Toby had moaned, begged, "no, no, no," but Chris had found the right vein and injected the drug. After that, Toby recalled laughing, melting against Chris' body, trying to kiss him, and Chris' smile, sad.

"Come here, Sweetpea," Vern ordered, patting the couch beside him. Toby fell on the couch beside Vern, panting, naked and hard; Vern gave him a deceptive smile and nodded to Chris. "It's OK, Chris; you can go now; I'll call for you when I'm done."

Later it was dawn and he was shaking in Chris' arms. "Don't let him do that again, please, don't." "It's OK, Toby, it's OK, it's over, now you're gonna sleep, eat, tomorrow night I'll take you back to your place, and you'll have Christmas with your kids, just one more day, you can do it."

/Until Schillinger wants you again, and it won't be long. /

"Help me run away."
"Run away from Schillinger?" Chris gave a short laugh, "I can't, my life's at stake here too; I won't do that, not even for you, Toby," he said sadly and added, "and anyway, it's not all about him, is it? As far as you go, there are things you won't be able to escape."

Toby fell asleep and dreamed; he was in a little house in the suburbs, he saw a nice room, a woman and a man watching outside, smiling; in a corner of the room was an illuminated Christmas tree, music playing, torn up wrapping paper, ribbons hastily discarded in the thrill of the moment; they were holding hands, watching outside; on the street just in front of the house a little girl was riding a bike and laughing, her face red with cold and excitement. Toby started and moaned; in his dream, he heard Chris' soothing voice and tried to wake up but couldn't, strong arms locked around him keeping him still, forcing him to stay there and watch; he wanted to turn his head to see who was holding him and couldn't; then suddenly the scene changed, the room darkened, the tree was no longer shining, no more music, the only noise he could here was coming from the kitchen; heartbreaking sobs. Toby went there, dreading what he was going to face, the hands on his back pushing him forward. Sitting at the table, head in hands, hair untied and tangled, the little girl's mother was crying, tears running endlessly down her face, and Toby had to glance away for a moment but something forced him to look back, look at the man standing beside the woman, a hand on his shoulder, patting awkwardly; on his face was the same expression of misery, but his tearful eyes were dark and angry too and he was looking outside, seeing nothing; on the table, pictures of the little girl who'd been there a year ago, now dead, and the man who'd killed her would never be punished.

He woke up yelling, terrified, panicked, Chris shaking him to drag him back to reality and he sagged against him, eyes wide open, shaking, panting. "I dreamed... It was a nightmare, you were there with me, I think... I saw her parents..." "Whose parents, what the fuck are you talking about, Toby?" "Kathy Rockwell. I saw her, she was on the bike," Toby said, his eyes haunted, "the bike had been last year's Christmas gift."

Chris remained silent, stroking the silky hair, the curls on the nape of Toby's neck, damp with sweat, his hands roaming over the muscled shoulders, trying to stop the shaking.

After a while he sighed and kissed him because he was so hungry that he couldn't hold back; and anything that resembled tenderness looked like love to Toby; he gave himself up easily. Chris used a lot of lube, entered him carefully, his eyes never leaving Toby's face, his fingers stroking him into ecstasy, Toby arching his body to increase the pleasure, moaning, urging Chris to move, slowly, carefully and Chris wanting no pain, no fear, just bliss and tenderness, but thrusting faster when Toby began to move back, gripping his hips to push deeper, harder, coming just after Toby, their bodies joined in an earth shattering pleasure.

Toby was asleep now, exhausted, and Chris spent a moment just watching him, kissing his neck, his shoulders, stroking his hair, combing back the wet strands from his sweaty face before rising, leaving the room, locking the door behind him.

Vern was working in his office upstairs when Chris walked inside without knocking, collapsed in the wide armchair and began to go through everything he could find on the desk, stretching his legs, tilting his head on one side, teasing. Vern said nothing, his reptilian face frozen in a diffident mask.

"What is it about you reading all those fucking books in German? Makes you look a little vain, Vern..." "Fuck you, Chris. What do you want?"
Chris shifted, smiled, lazy. "Did you watch our little show in the bedroom? I mean, Beecher and I fucking? Did you like it? I'd turned the camera on." "Yes, that was nice." Vern's cold smile giving nothing away; and Chris rose, coming nearer, resting his arms on Vern's shoulder, his mouth against his ear, whispering, "I'm bored, Vern. Why don't we play some game?"

They'd been together for so long, on and off for 18 years; there was nothing much left to hide or disguise between them, and Vern pushed Chris away carefully, aware that the demon that had been sleeping inside Chris for years now could wake up at any moment and strike, careless about the consequences; he could see black shadows play in the blue eyes, darkening them, but Chris' lips were soft and compliant; he kissed him, was kissed back eagerly, felt the hard body stumble against his and had to fight the urge to fuck him right here on the red and blue Persian carpet.

"A game? What kind of game?"
"A game about Beecher."
"Ah, Chris... I thought we had an agreement about that, about the guys..." "I know; just him."
This time Schillinger pushed Chris away.

"OK, tell me now... Why do you want to save him? I mean why him among all the others?"

Chris sighed.
"I don't know."
"You'll fail."
"Maybe, maybe not. Wanna bet? 1000 bucks on the guy."

They stared at each other like fighters, and suddenly Vern nodded, "Ah, OK," with a fugitive smile, same he would've given to a skittish child, shrugging. "Let's write it down," Chris said, "I don't want you to fuck me in the ass when I win." "You won't win and come on Christopher, don't you have a little faith in me, after all this time?" "No."
Vern shook his head and took a sheet of paper, "Anyway," he said, "the contract means nothing, you know that." "The devil himself wouldn't break a written agreement. I'll write it with my fucking blood if I need to." "You'll sign it with your blood and I'll sign it with mine, what about that?"

The day after was Christmas, Toby woke around noon. He'd had a hard night again, Vern breaking into the room around midnight, wanting to celebrate Christmas fittingly, which seemed to mean more fucking, more humiliation.

When Toby opened his eyes, the room was dark, the blinds shut and in front of the bed was a Christmas tree, lit with candles, the soft scent of melted wax filling the room, shy golden light casting shadows on the walls, flooding the place, dancing upon glassy decorations, golden angels hanging from the branches and the smell, god, it smelled of winter and Christmas and childhood and long forgotten dreams and Toby just stayed motionless, mesmerized, wide eyes taking in the miracle, then slowly turning to the still silhouette standing by the door. "Happy Christmas, Toby," Chris said softly." "When... When did you do this?"
"While you were asleep." He walked up to him, alluring in jeans and a black sleeveless shirt, and sat beside Toby, slid an arm around Toby's shoulders, hugging him; and they sat like that for a while, watching the candles burn, the flickering lights, Toby wrapped in Chris' warm embrace.

"Will Schillinger come back?"
"No, today it's just you and me, and tomorrow you'll be back to your ordinary life." Until next time, he thought silently, kissing Toby's temple tenderly, feeling him slip down on the bed and dragg him into a breathless kiss, moaning against his mouth until Chris was so hard he began thrusting against Toby, seeking for release, and then they came, too fast, Toby looking very pale, suddenly, exhausted by last night's ordeal, his body aching and Chris cradled him in his arms to comfort him.

They fell asleep in the golden light and Toby had the dream again, woke up sweating but said nothing. They drank coffee, ate waffles, Chris feeding Toby like a child, then they showered and walked up to the main room, collapsed together on the luxurious red couch in front of the window, watching the silent city sprawled in front of them in a snowy Christmas day. Toby rested his head on Chris' lap, Chris' fingers combing his hair in a soothing motion.

"I can't," he said suddenly, and Chris didn't have to ask what Toby was talking about, he knew, he'd felt it coming from deep into Toby's complicated mind. "You can submit to Vern's wicked games, but you can't face your own fault, go to the police and confess? Come on, Toby, what are you afraid of? Going to prison? Afraid you can't go through it?" Toby closed his eyes, burying his face in Chris' groin. "Yes, that and I don't want my family to know, I don't want to lose my kids..." "You'll lose much more than your kids if you die, and you can rely on dear old Vern to let them know about you then, dishonour you, taint everything about you. He's good at that." "I don't wanna lose you, I just found you." Chris' hand stilled in the wet strands, Toby heard a sigh, and a weary voice, "don't be stupid, Toby, I'm not worth it. I may like you but in the end, I'll do what Vern asks." "Even kill me?"
"Vern won't ask me; he never does. But I'll let you go, lose you and you'll lose me. And he'll have you killed." "Shut up!" Toby jumped on his feet, surprisingly nimble in spite of the bruises and the wounds and the marks left by the belts, and the burns of the cigarette, "shut up! I don't wanna listen," he still yelled, collapsing on his knees in front of the window, his body racked with sobs, his forehead against the cold glass.

Chris slid down from the couch to come near him, hug him, comfort him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'd love to see you safe, I quite like you, come on, dry your tears, baby, it's OK."

But in spite of that, the cold grip on Toby's heart wouldn't loosen and no matter how tender Chris' look, Chris' kisses, Chris' voice were, Toby spent the whole day in a state of terrified stupor until he felt so weary he would've surrendered to anything, absolutely anything. They spent the night fucking, in spite of the pain, Toby biting his lips to stop himself from crying every time Chris thrust inside him, keeping still because he knew if he spoke up, Chris would stop, and he didn't want it to stop, he wanted Chris to hold him through the night, and finally he let the pleasure swallow him, drown him, shoot him down. It was dawn when Chris fell asleep and noon again when he woke up; but then Toby was gone.

Tbc...