That Boy is a Monster (Painto Fest fic)
Title: That Boy is a Monster
Author: therumjournals
Fandom: Star Trek RPF
Pairing: Chris/Zach
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2500
Description: Written for Painto Fest, so needless to say, Zach gets the crap beaten out of him. Chris directs, listens, and picks up the pieces.
Warnings: violence, manipulation, mention of suicidal thoughts, brief mention of attempted rape
A/N: I honestly have no idea what is going on in this story. Or, for that matter, in my mind.
Static crackled in his earpiece and Chris sat up on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, waiting.
“We have visual. He’s leaving the club now.”
“Is he with someone?”
“Yeah. Some guy. Blonde hair-“
“I don’t give a shit what he looks like, Marcos. Are they touching?”
“Hold on.” Chris heard him shifting around to get a better view from the van window. “Not really. Wait, Quinto just touched the guy’s arm. Yeah, he’s got his hand on his arm, that’s all I can see.”
“Can you tell where they’re going?”
“Still heading down the street. Wait. Shit, they’re going into a building.”
“What?!” Chris sat up straighter, alert now. “What kind of building?”
“Motel, it looks like. Real seedy.”
Chris rolled his eyes. No shit. They weren’t exactly opening up luxury hotels in that part of town. Still, this was kind of ruining his plan. And what the fuck? Zach liked fast, sloppy blowjobs in back alleys - loved the thrill of it, the possibility of being caught. He’d never been one for dirty motel rooms where the only possibility was catching a bad case of bedbugs. Chris scowled at the kink in his plan, but no worries. He could adapt. He pressed the button on the walkie-talkie. “Alright Marcos. Sit tight, I’ll get him out of there. Be ready.”
“Okay, boss.”
Chris dropped the walkie and pulled out his cell phone, dialed Zach’s number.
“Hi, Chris! What’s up?” Zach said, false cheerfulness practically oozing from the phone.
Chris stood, shook out his shoulders, paced. Had to get in character. “Oh, uh, hey Zach,” he said, letting his words come in a rush. “You finish your meeting?”
“Yeah, yeah, we wrapped up, but, uh, we’re actually headed to dinner now, so I may be a while longer still. Why, what’s up?”
“I just…I’m feeling kinda on edge here, Zach, man, I don’t know. I’m just…feeling kinda twitchy, you know?”
“Chris…”
Chris laughed, ran a hand through his hair. “It’s weird, ya know? Like I’m in the bathroom right now, and I’m like staring at this bottle of pills thinking, fuck, you know? I could just take this whole thing right now.”
“Chris, come on, don’t do this.”
“Do what? Don’t worry, it’s nothing, you know how I get.”
“Yeah, I know. Do you want me to come home?”
“Nah, no, it’s fine. It’s just…”
“What? Just what, Chris, tell me.”
“Just, I found this razor blade….” Chris leaned against the windowsill, staring across the rooftops, letting a manic grin spread across his face. He pretended to twirl a razor blade in his fingers to get the full effect.
“Chris, put it down, okay? I’m coming home right now. Just…don’t do anything. We can talk when I get home, we can do whatever you want, just wait for me, okay?”
Chris sighed, let his forehead thunk against the cool windowpane. “I don’t know…”
“Chris, god, shit, look, do you want me to call someone? Here, stay on the phone with me, talk to me okay?”
“No, it’s okay. Just, come home to me, Zach. Come home.”
“I’ll be right there.”
**
Chris grinned and hung up the phone, pictured Zach throwing on his jacket, making excuses to that douche he was with, running down the stairs trying not to touch the germ-infested railing. He went back to his seat on the couch, slipped the earpiece back into his ear, and picked up the walkie.
“Okay, Marcos. He should be coming at you any second now.”
Another crackle of static, then, “Got him, boss. He’s out of the building, looking…okay, he’s headed down the sidewalk.”
“Toward you or away from you.”
“Right toward us.”
“Perfect. Remember, no permanent damage, watch his head on the pavement, but don’t be gentle with him. And give him a black eye, okay?”
“What about scars?”
Chris chewed his bottom lip. “Yeah. Just one though, and not on the face. And I swear to god, Marcos, don’t you dare break his fucking jaw, or I will kill you myself.”
He heard Marcos chuckle. “Right, boss.”
“Good. Do it.”
For a minute, Chris heard only the sound of his own breathing, then a sharp sound in his ear - the van door sliding open - and he sat back to get comfortable. Now, it was time to listen.
He heard a scuffle of feet, Zach’s voice, “What the fuck? What are you - ooof,” as the wind was knocked out of him. Chris closed his eyes, pictured the options. Had they hit him in the stomach, knocked him straight to the ground without ceremony? Or were they playing with him, maybe Marcos was yanking Zach’s arms, twisting them behind his back while Ivan punched him the chest, the face. God he hoped they gave him a black eye. Chris pressed his palm against the bulge in his jeans, but he didn’t unzip them, not yet. He heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh, a fist slamming into Zach, the stomach, maybe? Then silence for a second as Zach fought to get his breath back, another grunting punch.
“Talk to me, Marcos,” Chris growled into the walkie. “What’s going on? Is he fighting back?”
“No. Just taking it.”
In the background, he could hear Zach saying something, “why are you doing this?” probably, and then, “fuck you” and Chris felt a twinge of pride that it was Zach’s voice. He heard another punch, winced. That would have been a hard one. Ivan didn’t like being talked to that way.
“Shit,” Marcos grunted into the walkie, and Chris heard a loud clatter as it fell to the ground. He leaned forward, straining to hear, scuffling sounds, then Marcos’ panting breaths as he got back on the walkie. “He tried to get away.”
Chris grinned and shook his head. Oh Zach. “You didn’t let that happen, I assume?”
“Hell no. Ivan grabbed his ankle, and I gave him a little kick in the ribs. He ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Marcos wore steel-toed boots. Chris leaned back and unzipped his jeans.
“What’s happening now?”
“Ivan’s got him on the ground, workin’ him over.”
“Let me listen.”
Marcos must have taken a few steps closer, as the dull thud of fists got louder, and he could just make out Zach’s grunts over Ivan’s heavy breathing. He slid a hand inside his boxers, stroked himself loosely. The thuds stopped, and he heard Zach cough weakly and groan, and he tightened his grip. It started to feel good, hot, dry friction on his cock, and he needed more. He stifled a moan in his fist, scrabbled for the walkie.
“Punch him, Marcos.”
“Can’t. Ivan’s got him.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Straddling him. Looks like he’s gonna shove his dick in his face or some shit.”
Chris sat up abruptly, as heat flushed his face and he forgot about his cock completely. “Don’t touch him!” he yelled. He didn’t care how loud it was in Marcos’s ear. “Get him OFF, Marcos, I swear to GOD!”
He heard a struggle, pictured Marcos hauling Ivan off of Zach by his shoulders, pushing him away with a snarled command. “Sorry, boss.”
“Jesus fuck. Fuck!” Chris ran a hand through his hair, stood up, held his pants up with a hand as he strode to the window. He took a few deep breaths, waited until his heart had stopped pounding. “Did you cut him yet?” he asked, his voice quiet, serious.
“Not yet.”
“Do it.”
He pictured Marcos dropping to his knees beside Zach, sliding the sharp, wicked knife out of the leather case on his hip. “Where do you want it?”
Chris thought about it for second. “On the chest. Four or five inches, no more. Not too deep.”
Marcos didn’t respond. He must be pushing Zach’s shirt up, probably didn’t even need to hold him down anymore, not if his ribs were bruised, or broken even, shit. Chris leaned against the wall, hard again, and he pushed his boxers down to rub at his cock with a sweaty palm. Was Marcos touching the tip of the blade to Zach’s chest? Was Zach watching, scared, or was he looking away, closing his eyes against it. He shouldn’t close his eyes. That would make it worse.
“AHHHHHH, god, FUCK!” Zach was screaming, cursing in pain as Marcos sliced into his skin. Chris pumped at his dick, bit his lip and opened his mouth wide so the sound of his breath wouldn’t block out the sound of Zach’s cries. He was close, he could feel it in his spine and in his stomach and he imagined a line of blood across Zach’s chest, a drop sliding down, fuck.
“Marcos,” Chris panted. “Let me hear him.”
He listened as Marcos held the walkie up to Zach’s face, must have been inches from his bleeding lips. Quiet breathing, almost nothing and then Zach drew in a harsh breath and let out a strangled sob, and Chris dropped the walkie and came hard into the palm of his hand. He slid his fist over his cock until he was spent and flushed, with a handful of jizz that he smeared lazily across his stomach and chest, up under his t-shirt. His skin tingled and he tipped his head back and laughed, giddy and dizzy with it all. A few seconds passed before he tucked himself in, still leaning against the wall, not sure if he could trust himself yet to stand. He wiped the rapidly cooling sweat from his forehead and leaned down to pick up the walkie.
“Marcos. You’re done.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
“Put him in a cab and send him to the Emergency Room.”
“Sure thing.”
**
Thirty agonizing minutes later, he got the call from Zach. Some guys had beaten the shit out of him on the street, for no fucking reason that he could discern, and he was somewhere…at some hospital, he thought and hold on a sec. Chris heard him ask someone, and he was in a cab before Zach was back on, reciting the address into the phone.
Chris pushed through the double doors into the triage section of the Emergency Room, and stopped short at the sight of Zach sitting up on the edge of a bed. He sucked in a breath as Zach looked up at him - dark bruises surrounded both of his eyes, and it was the most beautiful thing that Chris had ever seen. And the look Zach was giving him - pain and fear and helplessness and fucking gratitude of all things, and he moved toward Zach to pull him into his arms and to hide his erection behind the crumpled sheets of the hospital bed.
The doctors must have just gotten to Zach. His ribs were bound in white bandages, and a five-inch rectangle of gauze was taped to his chest just below his right nipple. Chris’s eyes fluttered shut at the sight and he buried his face in Zach’s neck.
“Are you okay, baby?” Chris murmured, giving a squeeze that had Zach grunting in pain.
“Ow. My ribs…the doctor said a couple of them are cracked.”
“Fuck,” Chris breathed, and he would have said more, but Zach was gripping his jaw, pulling his face up to look at him.
“Are you okay, Chris? I’m so sorry I didn’t come home…”
“Zach, I’m fine. I’m fine, don’t worry about me, okay? It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t do anything, I wouldn’t…” He let his voice falter as he ran his fingers along Zach’s stubbled jaw, pressing lightly. No hiss of pain. Good. Marcos had listened. Chris pressed a kiss to Zach’s mouth, licked over the split on his lower lip until a warm, coppery taste flooded his tongue. Then Zach did hiss, pulling away and touching his fingers to his lips, giving Chris an apologetic glance from under his eyelids.
“It’s okay,” Chris said, touching his fingers, wiping the blood off of them with the pad of his thumb. He stepped back abruptly and pulled a digital camera out of his pocket, snapped three quick photos of Zach’s bruised face.
“Why are you taking pictures?” Zach asked, flinching away.
Because you’re a fucking work of art, Chris thought. Because I’m an artist. Because I’ll be getting off to these pictures for weeks, long after the bruises have faded, as long as I can until it just isn’t enough anymore.
Instead, Chris reached forward, grabbed his chin to hold him steady as he snapped a close-up, and said, “In case you want to press charges.” He slid his hand down Zach’s bruised chest to the bandage there, and ripped it off in one smooth motion.
“OW!”
“Sorry,” Chris breathed. He couldn’t take his eyes off the cut, a perfect line, so thin and sharp. They’d cleaned it up, but he could picture it still, open, dripping. He’d have to do something about that. A playful, forgetful punch to the chest in a few hours should do it, he mused, as he took another picture and smoothed the bandage back on.
He slipped the camera back in his pocket. “Do you know who did this to you?”
Zach shook his head. “Two guys. They were…talking to someone else? Taking orders or something, they kept calling the guy ‘boss’. Do you think the mob is after me or something?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
Chris chuckled. “Yeah, Zach. The mob has a hit out on Zachary Quinto. They’ve been tracking your every movement.” He took Zach’s face in his hands, whispered, “No offense, baby, but I don’t think the mob really gives a shit about you.”
Zach smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. He shrugged and flinched as pain spasmed through his ribs. Chris placed gentle arms around him, let him rest his forehead on Chris’s shoulder. “Chris…one of them….I think he was going to…to rape me or something.” He took a shaky breath, and Chris felt a hot tear splash onto his t-shirt.
“Shhhhh,” he said soothingly, rubbing gently at Zach’s back. “I would never let that happen to you.”
“You weren’t there,” Zach whispered, his voice cracking.
“Well, you’ll just have to bring me with you next time, won’t you?” Chris asked. He felt Zach nod against his shoulder. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you home.”
“Don’t leave me, Chris,” Zach pleaded softly, his hands coming up to fist Chris’s t-shirt.
“I won’t.”
“I’m scared.” Zach’s voice broke and Chris’s cock throbbed and violent images flashed through his mind of pushing Zach to his knees, yanking at a handful of his hair, pressing his dick so far down his throat that he choked on it - things that he would never do, would never even ask of Zach, because then Zach would know…
Chris pressed his lips to Zach’s temple and closed his eyes and whispered a promise that he would someday break. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Author: therumjournals
Fandom: Star Trek RPF
Pairing: Chris/Zach
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2500
Description: Written for Painto Fest, so needless to say, Zach gets the crap beaten out of him. Chris directs, listens, and picks up the pieces.
Warnings: violence, manipulation, mention of suicidal thoughts, brief mention of attempted rape
A/N: I honestly have no idea what is going on in this story. Or, for that matter, in my mind.
Static crackled in his earpiece and Chris sat up on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, waiting.
“We have visual. He’s leaving the club now.”
“Is he with someone?”
“Yeah. Some guy. Blonde hair-“
“I don’t give a shit what he looks like, Marcos. Are they touching?”
“Hold on.” Chris heard him shifting around to get a better view from the van window. “Not really. Wait, Quinto just touched the guy’s arm. Yeah, he’s got his hand on his arm, that’s all I can see.”
“Can you tell where they’re going?”
“Still heading down the street. Wait. Shit, they’re going into a building.”
“What?!” Chris sat up straighter, alert now. “What kind of building?”
“Motel, it looks like. Real seedy.”
Chris rolled his eyes. No shit. They weren’t exactly opening up luxury hotels in that part of town. Still, this was kind of ruining his plan. And what the fuck? Zach liked fast, sloppy blowjobs in back alleys - loved the thrill of it, the possibility of being caught. He’d never been one for dirty motel rooms where the only possibility was catching a bad case of bedbugs. Chris scowled at the kink in his plan, but no worries. He could adapt. He pressed the button on the walkie-talkie. “Alright Marcos. Sit tight, I’ll get him out of there. Be ready.”
“Okay, boss.”
Chris dropped the walkie and pulled out his cell phone, dialed Zach’s number.
“Hi, Chris! What’s up?” Zach said, false cheerfulness practically oozing from the phone.
Chris stood, shook out his shoulders, paced. Had to get in character. “Oh, uh, hey Zach,” he said, letting his words come in a rush. “You finish your meeting?”
“Yeah, yeah, we wrapped up, but, uh, we’re actually headed to dinner now, so I may be a while longer still. Why, what’s up?”
“I just…I’m feeling kinda on edge here, Zach, man, I don’t know. I’m just…feeling kinda twitchy, you know?”
“Chris…”
Chris laughed, ran a hand through his hair. “It’s weird, ya know? Like I’m in the bathroom right now, and I’m like staring at this bottle of pills thinking, fuck, you know? I could just take this whole thing right now.”
“Chris, come on, don’t do this.”
“Do what? Don’t worry, it’s nothing, you know how I get.”
“Yeah, I know. Do you want me to come home?”
“Nah, no, it’s fine. It’s just…”
“What? Just what, Chris, tell me.”
“Just, I found this razor blade….” Chris leaned against the windowsill, staring across the rooftops, letting a manic grin spread across his face. He pretended to twirl a razor blade in his fingers to get the full effect.
“Chris, put it down, okay? I’m coming home right now. Just…don’t do anything. We can talk when I get home, we can do whatever you want, just wait for me, okay?”
Chris sighed, let his forehead thunk against the cool windowpane. “I don’t know…”
“Chris, god, shit, look, do you want me to call someone? Here, stay on the phone with me, talk to me okay?”
“No, it’s okay. Just, come home to me, Zach. Come home.”
“I’ll be right there.”
**
Chris grinned and hung up the phone, pictured Zach throwing on his jacket, making excuses to that douche he was with, running down the stairs trying not to touch the germ-infested railing. He went back to his seat on the couch, slipped the earpiece back into his ear, and picked up the walkie.
“Okay, Marcos. He should be coming at you any second now.”
Another crackle of static, then, “Got him, boss. He’s out of the building, looking…okay, he’s headed down the sidewalk.”
“Toward you or away from you.”
“Right toward us.”
“Perfect. Remember, no permanent damage, watch his head on the pavement, but don’t be gentle with him. And give him a black eye, okay?”
“What about scars?”
Chris chewed his bottom lip. “Yeah. Just one though, and not on the face. And I swear to god, Marcos, don’t you dare break his fucking jaw, or I will kill you myself.”
He heard Marcos chuckle. “Right, boss.”
“Good. Do it.”
For a minute, Chris heard only the sound of his own breathing, then a sharp sound in his ear - the van door sliding open - and he sat back to get comfortable. Now, it was time to listen.
He heard a scuffle of feet, Zach’s voice, “What the fuck? What are you - ooof,” as the wind was knocked out of him. Chris closed his eyes, pictured the options. Had they hit him in the stomach, knocked him straight to the ground without ceremony? Or were they playing with him, maybe Marcos was yanking Zach’s arms, twisting them behind his back while Ivan punched him the chest, the face. God he hoped they gave him a black eye. Chris pressed his palm against the bulge in his jeans, but he didn’t unzip them, not yet. He heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh, a fist slamming into Zach, the stomach, maybe? Then silence for a second as Zach fought to get his breath back, another grunting punch.
“Talk to me, Marcos,” Chris growled into the walkie. “What’s going on? Is he fighting back?”
“No. Just taking it.”
In the background, he could hear Zach saying something, “why are you doing this?” probably, and then, “fuck you” and Chris felt a twinge of pride that it was Zach’s voice. He heard another punch, winced. That would have been a hard one. Ivan didn’t like being talked to that way.
“Shit,” Marcos grunted into the walkie, and Chris heard a loud clatter as it fell to the ground. He leaned forward, straining to hear, scuffling sounds, then Marcos’ panting breaths as he got back on the walkie. “He tried to get away.”
Chris grinned and shook his head. Oh Zach. “You didn’t let that happen, I assume?”
“Hell no. Ivan grabbed his ankle, and I gave him a little kick in the ribs. He ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Marcos wore steel-toed boots. Chris leaned back and unzipped his jeans.
“What’s happening now?”
“Ivan’s got him on the ground, workin’ him over.”
“Let me listen.”
Marcos must have taken a few steps closer, as the dull thud of fists got louder, and he could just make out Zach’s grunts over Ivan’s heavy breathing. He slid a hand inside his boxers, stroked himself loosely. The thuds stopped, and he heard Zach cough weakly and groan, and he tightened his grip. It started to feel good, hot, dry friction on his cock, and he needed more. He stifled a moan in his fist, scrabbled for the walkie.
“Punch him, Marcos.”
“Can’t. Ivan’s got him.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Straddling him. Looks like he’s gonna shove his dick in his face or some shit.”
Chris sat up abruptly, as heat flushed his face and he forgot about his cock completely. “Don’t touch him!” he yelled. He didn’t care how loud it was in Marcos’s ear. “Get him OFF, Marcos, I swear to GOD!”
He heard a struggle, pictured Marcos hauling Ivan off of Zach by his shoulders, pushing him away with a snarled command. “Sorry, boss.”
“Jesus fuck. Fuck!” Chris ran a hand through his hair, stood up, held his pants up with a hand as he strode to the window. He took a few deep breaths, waited until his heart had stopped pounding. “Did you cut him yet?” he asked, his voice quiet, serious.
“Not yet.”
“Do it.”
He pictured Marcos dropping to his knees beside Zach, sliding the sharp, wicked knife out of the leather case on his hip. “Where do you want it?”
Chris thought about it for second. “On the chest. Four or five inches, no more. Not too deep.”
Marcos didn’t respond. He must be pushing Zach’s shirt up, probably didn’t even need to hold him down anymore, not if his ribs were bruised, or broken even, shit. Chris leaned against the wall, hard again, and he pushed his boxers down to rub at his cock with a sweaty palm. Was Marcos touching the tip of the blade to Zach’s chest? Was Zach watching, scared, or was he looking away, closing his eyes against it. He shouldn’t close his eyes. That would make it worse.
“AHHHHHH, god, FUCK!” Zach was screaming, cursing in pain as Marcos sliced into his skin. Chris pumped at his dick, bit his lip and opened his mouth wide so the sound of his breath wouldn’t block out the sound of Zach’s cries. He was close, he could feel it in his spine and in his stomach and he imagined a line of blood across Zach’s chest, a drop sliding down, fuck.
“Marcos,” Chris panted. “Let me hear him.”
He listened as Marcos held the walkie up to Zach’s face, must have been inches from his bleeding lips. Quiet breathing, almost nothing and then Zach drew in a harsh breath and let out a strangled sob, and Chris dropped the walkie and came hard into the palm of his hand. He slid his fist over his cock until he was spent and flushed, with a handful of jizz that he smeared lazily across his stomach and chest, up under his t-shirt. His skin tingled and he tipped his head back and laughed, giddy and dizzy with it all. A few seconds passed before he tucked himself in, still leaning against the wall, not sure if he could trust himself yet to stand. He wiped the rapidly cooling sweat from his forehead and leaned down to pick up the walkie.
“Marcos. You’re done.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
“Put him in a cab and send him to the Emergency Room.”
“Sure thing.”
**
Thirty agonizing minutes later, he got the call from Zach. Some guys had beaten the shit out of him on the street, for no fucking reason that he could discern, and he was somewhere…at some hospital, he thought and hold on a sec. Chris heard him ask someone, and he was in a cab before Zach was back on, reciting the address into the phone.
Chris pushed through the double doors into the triage section of the Emergency Room, and stopped short at the sight of Zach sitting up on the edge of a bed. He sucked in a breath as Zach looked up at him - dark bruises surrounded both of his eyes, and it was the most beautiful thing that Chris had ever seen. And the look Zach was giving him - pain and fear and helplessness and fucking gratitude of all things, and he moved toward Zach to pull him into his arms and to hide his erection behind the crumpled sheets of the hospital bed.
The doctors must have just gotten to Zach. His ribs were bound in white bandages, and a five-inch rectangle of gauze was taped to his chest just below his right nipple. Chris’s eyes fluttered shut at the sight and he buried his face in Zach’s neck.
“Are you okay, baby?” Chris murmured, giving a squeeze that had Zach grunting in pain.
“Ow. My ribs…the doctor said a couple of them are cracked.”
“Fuck,” Chris breathed, and he would have said more, but Zach was gripping his jaw, pulling his face up to look at him.
“Are you okay, Chris? I’m so sorry I didn’t come home…”
“Zach, I’m fine. I’m fine, don’t worry about me, okay? It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t do anything, I wouldn’t…” He let his voice falter as he ran his fingers along Zach’s stubbled jaw, pressing lightly. No hiss of pain. Good. Marcos had listened. Chris pressed a kiss to Zach’s mouth, licked over the split on his lower lip until a warm, coppery taste flooded his tongue. Then Zach did hiss, pulling away and touching his fingers to his lips, giving Chris an apologetic glance from under his eyelids.
“It’s okay,” Chris said, touching his fingers, wiping the blood off of them with the pad of his thumb. He stepped back abruptly and pulled a digital camera out of his pocket, snapped three quick photos of Zach’s bruised face.
“Why are you taking pictures?” Zach asked, flinching away.
Because you’re a fucking work of art, Chris thought. Because I’m an artist. Because I’ll be getting off to these pictures for weeks, long after the bruises have faded, as long as I can until it just isn’t enough anymore.
Instead, Chris reached forward, grabbed his chin to hold him steady as he snapped a close-up, and said, “In case you want to press charges.” He slid his hand down Zach’s bruised chest to the bandage there, and ripped it off in one smooth motion.
“OW!”
“Sorry,” Chris breathed. He couldn’t take his eyes off the cut, a perfect line, so thin and sharp. They’d cleaned it up, but he could picture it still, open, dripping. He’d have to do something about that. A playful, forgetful punch to the chest in a few hours should do it, he mused, as he took another picture and smoothed the bandage back on.
He slipped the camera back in his pocket. “Do you know who did this to you?”
Zach shook his head. “Two guys. They were…talking to someone else? Taking orders or something, they kept calling the guy ‘boss’. Do you think the mob is after me or something?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
Chris chuckled. “Yeah, Zach. The mob has a hit out on Zachary Quinto. They’ve been tracking your every movement.” He took Zach’s face in his hands, whispered, “No offense, baby, but I don’t think the mob really gives a shit about you.”
Zach smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. He shrugged and flinched as pain spasmed through his ribs. Chris placed gentle arms around him, let him rest his forehead on Chris’s shoulder. “Chris…one of them….I think he was going to…to rape me or something.” He took a shaky breath, and Chris felt a hot tear splash onto his t-shirt.
“Shhhhh,” he said soothingly, rubbing gently at Zach’s back. “I would never let that happen to you.”
“You weren’t there,” Zach whispered, his voice cracking.
“Well, you’ll just have to bring me with you next time, won’t you?” Chris asked. He felt Zach nod against his shoulder. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you home.”
“Don’t leave me, Chris,” Zach pleaded softly, his hands coming up to fist Chris’s t-shirt.
“I won’t.”
“I’m scared.” Zach’s voice broke and Chris’s cock throbbed and violent images flashed through his mind of pushing Zach to his knees, yanking at a handful of his hair, pressing his dick so far down his throat that he choked on it - things that he would never do, would never even ask of Zach, because then Zach would know…
Chris pressed his lips to Zach’s temple and closed his eyes and whispered a promise that he would someday break. “I’ll keep you safe.”