When Christophe first died, he met a little boy standing at the gate. He ignored him, choosing instead to size up his surroundings. "Zo zhis iz 'ell." He mumbled quietly. "Not much to be afraid of, iz zhere?"
"If I were running this place," The little boy says, speaking up, "Hell would be the fiery pit of despair it's supposed to be, not this pussy-shack." He scowls. "Stupid father refuses to listen. All he ever does is party and have sex."
"Zhat iz very nice, kid. Do you see my shovel?
"I'm not a kid, I'm Damien the Antichrist, fear my power, puny mortal!"
"You talk like a demented Mickey Mouse."
Damien's eyes glow a deadly red and his hand snaps out. "Die!" The flames leap up and head towards him. Christophe fixes his stance and waits for impact. His feet give out and he looks at Damien with surprise as he's pulled out of Hell by the ankles.
It isn't until he arrives again, twenty years later and is thrown into a fucking tower that he understands Damien's little joke, his obsession. Technically, Christophe is "the one that got away". He screams and launches a wooden chair through the window.
Fuck!
Hell was supposed to be punishment for living a sinful life, for indulging in the nature the father of your so-called savior gave you. In the bible, it says God gave us the right to think so we could make decisions for ourselves, but I believe he just likes watching us squirm. He is the spoiled child with the ant farm. He is staring through the glass and he knows there is nothing the ants can do to him. If he decided to kill them all, then they will die. If he decided they weren't following his rules, then they were dead. If God believed in "forgiveness" then why would he allow his subjects to burn in the fiery pit of hell? Why would he allow bad things happen to good people? I don't believe in God. I didn't. But now I know. Now I know there is a god. And the only good thing he has ever done was made the decision that young children are allowed in Heaven. I believe I would have tried to rip off his head if I saw a five year old down here. I had a crappy childhood; I will admit that without a moment's pause. My mother never skipped out on the details of her attempted home abortion. She almost succeeded with the coat hanger only to be sedated by my grandfather and tied up for the remainder of her pregnancy. If she is telling the truth, I was born while she was in a straitjacket.
The thought is oddly pleasing.
But other children, most children, did nothing wrong other than be born. And whose fault is that, theirs or their irresponsible parents? The damn fools should wear a fucking condom. I'm getting off topic. Right now, I am looking out the window, observing as the souls of the damned are tortured and torn apart. I pity the little misbehaving ants and yet I wish I was one of them. It would be better than rotting here for the rest of forever.
From the journal of Christophe James DeLorne .
He closes the damn book and tosses it underneath the bed, snapping the pencil between his fingers and placing the eraser end in his mouth. Not for the first time, he craves a cigarette. He can hear the light patter of footsteps and his hand automatically goes to where his gun used to be. Christophe is well aware that he is in the highest tower in hell, but that doesn't mean he can't be assassinated. "Christophe, Christophe, let down the damn rope!" Damien yells cheerfully.
"Fuck you!"
Fire and brimstone claws up the wall of his tower and the antichrist appears before him. "Did you miss me?" He teases, slipping through the window. He looks him straight in the eye. Most people assume Christophe would be a Satanist, but that's not true. He hates everyone equally. Jesus-freaks or Pig-fuckers. He hates God for being a cocksucker and hates Satan for being a pussy. But most of all he hates Damien for trapping him here.
"Non, I treasured ze momentz you were gone."
"Don't be like that, love. You know, the second you admit you love me you'll be allowed to leave." Damien whispers. His breath is hot against his face and he backs away. The smell of blood leaks from Damien's very presence, the smell of blood and fire. It is something Christophe is far too familiar with.
"You smell awful." Christophe spits.
"That coming from a French man."
You 'ave a problem wit' ze French!" He yells, eye twitching in anger. Where the fuck was his shovel? Oh yeah, on Earth, where he should be.
"No, in fact I have my eye on a pretty French prize right now, I just think they can't say anything about the way I smell when they wear enough perfume for three people."
"Zat is a stereotype. Like antichrists aren't supposed to talk like zat fucking crazy Elmo doll." The French boy mocks him, making his voice high and squeaky. "Death to humans, I am zhe zon of Zatan, fear me and my Mickey Mouse powerz of doom!"
Damien growls and he is thrown back against a wall. "Shut up!" he roars. One look into Damien's eyes and Christophe knows he has gone too far. "I gave you everything." He hisses, forked tongue flicking against naturally black lips. "Clothes, immortality, food, everything! The only thing I asked for in return? A chance! A fucking chance! But if you won't give it to me, I'll have to take it." He pins him down by the throat and works a long finger down his shirt. Christophe kicks out, firing a shot into Damien's chest. The flesh disappears before regenerating and Christophe begins to yell, screeching out curses, because this cannot be happening, not this, anything but this. "You escaped me once by a slip of luck. It shall not happen again." His heart is pounding against his ribcage, begging to escape and the hungry look in Damien's eyes grows stronger. "Scream for me." He whispers. "Louder." For the first time, Christophe complies with his orders, clawing at the pale white flesh above him and screaming for help. Abruptly, Damien slaps him and presses a finger to his lips, shushing him. "That's enough. Now, listen well, you can let me finish or agree to go on a date with me. What will it be?" Damien croons. "Either way, whether you like it or not, you will be mine, Christophe," he strokes his cheek gently, "I don't need you to like it, I don't care if you like it. But even if I have to kill you and keep your soul in a bottle, you will be mine." Damien kisses him gently and smirks when he quivers in fear. "Do we understand each other?"
"Yes." He croaks because he does. Damien is insane. Damien is fucking insane. He had understood that even before the first day when he was locked in a tower. The first day Damien came in and watched him look out the window. The room was littered with proof. Presents that Damien destroyed coated his prison cell. Burnt books and charred paintbrushes and paint covered rugs and the bones of many, many pets that crawled over Damien one too many times coated the floor. Christophe always left them there. He searched for a sign of guilt when Damien saw the bleached bones but only saw indifference. The only comment he had ever gotten from Damien about his room was "I don't care if you're a slob." Damien licks up his cheek and nuzzles into his neck, smirking against the warm flesh. Sometimes, it was good to be the prince. He really did care for Christophe, truly he did, but he just made him so mad he could explode. The shivering mass of submission in his arms fascinated him to no end. He wanted to make Christophe afraid, to make him dance along the border of nightmares and embrace the horror, embrace what Damien was inside. He wanted to chop him up into little pieces and inspect them all and let Christophe do the same.
"Good." Damien stands up, brushing off his pants. "Now, let's go." Christophe stares straight ahead, eyes blank. The antichrist takes his hand gently and leads him out the window, giving his ass a little pinch. Christophe's mind is going at the speed of light, wondering what he can do, where he can go, as they walk down the stairs. It's the first time he has been out in months, and he would rather be tortured instead of staying with this pig-fucker. "Isn't it nice?" Damien asks. Christophe slowly nods as the same strange look enters Damien's eyes again. If you get past the ever-burning fire, torture devices and bloodcurdling screams of agony, Hell is quite nice with well-kept parks, happy staff and buildings out of the 60s. Damien wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close, sighing contentedly at the flinch. "I'm glad you like it. After all, you will be spending all eternity here."
Christophe swallows hard and eyes him carefully. "Fuck you, cocksucker."
"Oh, I intend to, darling." He laughs maliciously and stops him underneath a large apple tree. Damien kisses him again and they disappear in a flash of light.
Christophe stumbles and drops to his knees, breathing hard. "What…ze hell…was zhat?" He pants.
"Teleportation, it's easier than walking everywhere. Come."
"Fuck that hurt!" He whimpers, struggling up.
"I'm sorry, Christophe." Damien mocks. "I'm sure to be more careful next time." Damien snatches him up and carries him the rest of the way. His head bangs against the doorframe of the Victorian mansion as Damien hugs him closer. "Welcome to my humble abode, darling. From now on, this house is your universe. You do not leave this property without me. To disobey me is to die." Damien spreads him out lovingly on the couch. "But you won't do that, will you?"
Christophe breaths out shakily and motions for Damien to come closer. Hot air gusts across his face and he wants to vomit. "Damien…" He whispers. The antichrist leans in closer and Christophe smiles weakly. "Fuck you." He hisses, spitting a gob of phlegm into his eyes before falling unconscious. Damien growls and wipes furiously at his face, hissing angrily.
"Fucker." He snarls, glaring down at the sleeping French boy. He slaps his cheek as hard as he can and growls when it does nothing. Christophe is stuck in a deep faint. "You will learn to do as you are told, or you will learn to survive without limbs." The boy shivers as if he can still hear his words and Damien smiles. "Dog!" He calls "Come here!" Nails clatter against the hardwood as a jack terrier pads into the room, tail in-between its legs. "Hello, Jackie-boy," He taunts, "Where you good while I was gone?" The dog stares up at him fearfully; eyes darting to the unconscious boy sprawled on the couch. "I thought so." He mused. "Christophe is going to be staying with us from now on. You will be my goodwill gift to him. So stop acting like you're being beaten or you will be tossed into a pit of eternal fire. Understood?" The dog nods slowly, sitting on its haunches. "Good dog." Damien throws Christophe over his shoulder and stands up. "Let's go." The two walk up the stairs and Damien observes each room before choosing one facing the ocean of fire. Christophe lets out a groan of pain and rolls over in the antichrist's arms. Letting out a soft whine, the dog nudges at a limp hand with its nose, recognizing who it is. "He'll be fine, just a little shocked."
"Ugh." He moaned. "Where ze fuck am I?" Damien places him on the bed and flees the room, muttering something about dinner. Silently, the dog climbs into the French boy's lap and waits. Brown eyes crack open and stare down at the little creature. "What zhe hell is this?" A hand wraps around his middle and yanks him so they are face to face. "I cannot tell eef theeze ez supposed to make me feel better or if you are just Damien in dizguise." Slowly, the dog's tail begins to wag and his tongue lolls out. Christophe chuckles and cuddles it under his chin. "Most certainly not Damien."
"Arf." The dog agrees seriously. The creature flips its ears to the side as if Christophe's remark had offended him personally, still managing to look dignified as it scratched happily at its rump.
"Now, what eez your name, leetle one?" He searches for a collar and shrugs. "No, fine zen. I shall call you Jack." Its ears drooped. He looked into Christophe's eyes pleadingly. "What? Do you deeslike zeese name?" Jack whined sadly. Those eyes, Christophe thought to himself, they did not belong on a dog. They were too large, too round, too blue. A memory struck at the back of his mind, a boy in an orange button-up with those same blue eyes smirking at him triumphantly. He hissed and gently pets the blond fur, staring deep into those same eyes. "Gregory?" He whispers.
The dog whines and his eyes brighten. "Arf."
"What the fuck is going on here?" Christophe asks. "Why are you a dog?" Gregory motions out the window with his nose. His eyes scan the wall of fire and his expression hardens. "Damien." He hisses angrily. "Damien did this." He stands up, cradling the little dog to his chest. "We're getting out of here." Gregory nuzzles into Christophe's neck and closes his eyes, feeling safe at last. Christophe slips off his shoes and leaves them by the doorway, padding out the room in a black pair of socks. The manor was large with twisting staircases that went up but led down and doors that opened to a wall. He nearly fell out the house when he opened a large wooden window, (yes window) that led into a pit of fire. One staircase went straight out the ceiling and overlooked a large garden. Christophe squinted and leaned forward. He must be hallucinating because if he was wrong, those men were painting the roses red! He shakes his head and goes back inside. The house was starting to get to him, he decided, or he was just going stark raving mad. Either was a possibility by now. Gregory jumps out of his arms and motions towards a portrait covered wall. The picture pans to the ceiling and stretches down a hallway for what could be miles.
It is a picnic. Mothers cutting cake and fathers chatting, children running and chasing each other. Animals slink into baskets to steal food and birds rest in trees. Expressions of fear are frozen onto their faces, their mouths shut and little cuts are visible on the women's fingers from where their trembling fingers made them cut themselves. The sky is black and ominous. It takes Christophe a minute to realize there is fire in the background and a familiar figure is sprawled out, sleeping, underneath a large oak tree. Damien. A picnic in hell, too afraid to laugh, too anxious to flee. Damien's eyes flutter open. A slow, sleepy smile stretches across his face. He winks at the shocked Christophe and reaches forward. For a moment Gregory is human and staring him horrified, for a moment he is in the painting. He smells fire and feels grass brush against his feet and the long forgotten sun against his face before he is thrown out.
"Fucker!" Christophe shouts as he slides against the polished floor. He stands up, legs stinging and gasps. The room is circular, with a curved ceiling and floor, leading to a stage. Three people dance, a ballerina, a flamingo dancer and a gypsy. Their faces are hidden by black cloth masks and they move with the ease of someone who has done this too many times before. There is no music except for the echoing of their footsteps. The colors of their uniforms stick out against the pure white of the room, clothed in blood red, bright orange, dark purples and deep blues. "Hello." He says cautiously. He does not expect an answer and is surprised when the gypsy stops to reply.
"Hello." It begins moving again.
"What are you doing?"
The ballerina scoffs and pirouettes. "What does it look like we're doing?"
"There's no music, you don't have to dance."
"If Damien sees we stopped, he'll be very angry." The flamingo dancer says softly.
"Why? It eez stupid for you to continue dancing when zhere iz no one around."
"It's Damien," Says the ballerina. "He's not known for being logical." The flamingo dancer drops him into an elegant dip.
Christophe eyes their feet. "You are bleeding." The gypsy smiles and twists its hips, leaving smears of blood behind.
"We can't feel anything." It assures him. "Don't worry about it, Christophe."
"Damien made sure of that." A lock of curly red hair escapes his tight bun and he brushes it away angrily.
"Be still," The flamingo dancer says softly. "Thank you for caring."
"Damien really isn't that bad if you just stay on his good side." Gypsy assures.
"You know my name."
It's not a question.
"Yes. Damien has been coming in a lot more often lately. He says watching us calms him down. He talks about you a lot." Gypsy responds, bloody feet slithering up and down the planks.
"You know my name, but I don't know yours."
"You don't remember us, Chris? I'm hurt." Says the ballerina.
"I can't zee your vaces."
"We're not allowed to take our masks off." Flamingo says softly, clicking their heels.
"You don't want to see what's underneath." The ballerina says bitterly.
"But I need names for you."
"Tweek." The flamingo dancer says finally. "My name is Tweek."
"Kyle and Pip." The gypsy smiles.
"Christophe. Do you know 'ow I can get out of 'ere?"
"Back the way you came of course."
"But I don't know 'ow I got 'ere, I was looking at a portrait and Damien wuz zere and he pulled me in."
"What do you mean he pulled you in?" Kyle asks sharply.
"'E wuz een ze stupeed picture! He woke up and pulled me in!"
"Shit." Tweek says. "He knows you're here."
"You have to go." Pip commands urgently. "You have to go now!" The three leap down from the stage and grab him by the arms. Tweek stumbles against the slippery floor and winces. He isn't used to the slippery floor and the blood dripping from his toes doesn't make walking easier.
"Come on. Let's go, big boy." Kyle grunts pushing him onto a wall. Christophe opens his mouth to protest but falls through the plaster.
"Sheet! People need to stop doing zhat!" He growls, sitting up. Gregory barks furiously and runs a wet tongue up his cheek. "Ew! Get off me you breetesh beetch!" His hand reaches up to wipe his face and something flutters to the ground. It's a dark blue scrap of material. It's filmy and Christophe realizes it's a piece of veil from Pip's outfit. The fabric is cold as ice and smells like blood and flowers. He presses it to his eyes and blinks in surprise. The room is glowing different colors. A swarming mass is pushing against Gregory's insides in a fairly humanoid shape. "Gross." He mumbles finally. "Gregory, why are you pregnant?" The dog growls and rolls his eyes. Red smoke leaks in from the doorway and Christophe felt his heart sink. His danger senses are screaming at him.
Damien…
He crams the material down his shirt and bends over as if he is examining Gregory. "Christophe." The antichrist says sharply. "What are you doing here?"
"Gregory got something stuck in his paw." He replies. Gregory lets out a well timed whine.
"Gregory? The dog? Why Gregory?"Damien sounds nervous.
"Because he reminds me of a friend I use to have." Christophe doesn't look up and gently pets Gregory's head. It is good to finally see his childhood friend again, even if he can't speak.
"That's fine I guess, I'm glad you like him. Come, I need to speak to you." Christophe stands and Gregory trots at his heel's pausing to nip his ankles whenever he starts to move too quickly. Damien wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close. "I need your opinion."
"What eez eet?"
"Let us say there were three people. Those people had pets that they loved very much. One day, those pets got taken away from them but not by their own fault. Do they deserve a chance to win them back?"
"Of course. Zhey could not help zhere pets being taken, and if zhey were willing to try and take zhem back zhen zhey deserve a chance." Damien smiles and nods approvingly.
"Thank you Christophe."
He shrugs nonchalantly. "Eet wuz no problem."
"How do you like your room?"
"Eet has an…interesting view."
"Is that a bad thing? Because there are plenty other rooms." Damien honestly seemed concerned with how he felt. Christophe gave him a weary look. He did not trust the antichrist. He was dangerous and more than possibly insane. One bad mood swing and he was as good as dead. The boundaries were unclear and he would rather not die today. Maybe tomorrow…
"Zhey are fine. Zhank you."
"Your accent is getting stronger." Damien notes.
"Eet doez zhat."
"Why?"
"I am not sure. Eet never mattered to me so I never looked into eet."
"I look forward to learning about it."
Damien stops outside a paper door. "What are we doing 'ere?"
"Christophe, I need you to promise me something."
Christophe shrank back and looked at Damien warily. "What?" The antichrist placed a hand reassuringly on his shoulder.
"No matter what, you cannot speak. Even if they insult you, or make you angry, you must not talk. No gasps, hums, sighs, remain silent. Do not look these people in the eye. Do not acknowledge their existence. All right?"
He breaths out shakily, fear gripping his heart.
Fuck.
Fuck you, he thinks.
Fuck his life while we're at it.
"Yes, Damien."
"Thank you." The door creaks open and Christophe braces himself for demons and or monsters. Instead, he comes face to face with three red-eyed boys. Their eyes are red from crying, not from being a satanic creature. They look tired, hungry and ready to drop dead. Christophe recognizes them from his few days in La Resistance. Token Black, Craig Tucker and Stan Marsh stare at him and he avoids their gaze. "Welcome, so glad you could make it." Damien says elegantly.
"Shove it, Damien." Craig says coldly, observing Christophe.
He digs his fingernails into his palm to keep from laughing as Damien huffs. "Now, now, now, that is no way to treat your host."
"You know what we came here for, so give up the damn mind games and give it to us." Christophe can feel Damien stiffening beside him and he mentally winces.
Wrong move, Tucker.
"Of course. Right away." Damien comments smoothly. He leads Christophe to the back table. "Sit, darling, this is going to take awhile." Christophe complies and crosses his ankles, propping Gregory into his lap. The material brushes against his stomach and he relaxes slightly. Damien kisses him on the head and smirks. "Here are the facts, gentleman, thanks to this lovely man here; I am going to give you a chance instead of simply destroying you and turning your souls into cheese. I have what you want, and I will give you a chance to retrieve it." He snaps and the three dancers appear. They stand stock still, heads bowed. "Are they who you seek?"
"Pip?" Token questions.
From behind, Christophe notices the gypsy start to quiver. "Uh-uh," Damien scolds. "You can get what you lost, only if you choose the right one."
"We can't see their faces." Stan says, looking over each dancer quietly. Their masks have been upgraded to full blown hoods and only their mouths are visible. Gregory whimpers sadly but stays where he is, giving the three boys a pitying look.
"That's the point. Your friends have chosen their own dance. It is up to you to decide which one is yours." Damien sits next to Christophe and smiles evilly. "That, or option number two, I kill you and let you work here, at my palace, with them, for the rest of eternity. If you deny and once you die for real, your friends will arrive at my palace once more and you will be thrown into the pits of torture."
Craig takes a deep breath and looks at his friends. "We'll play you for their souls."
Damien raises an eyebrow. Christophe stares straight ahead, petting Gregory's ears and thankful for the comfort. "How so?"
Token pulls something from his pocket, a little black book. "Pip's diary." He says coolly. "Page 84, Damien can't resist a challenge; bet or gamble. It's his only weakness that I can see. We'll play you for their souls, you choose the game." The antichrist looks delighted.
"I love games! What do you think, darling?" Christophe winces and looks at Damien from the corner of his eye. Craig gives him a pleading look. Stan crosses his fingers.
He takes a deep breath. "Let the games begin…dear."
Cocksucking faggot ass bitch fucker!
"Very well." A pack of black cards appear. "Deal them for us, would you, darling?"
"Yes, Damien." The boys, including the dancers, sit down at the grand table, the dancers sitting to Christophe's left and Damien taking his right. Christophe places the cards face down, glancing at them before an idea forms. Slowly, fluttering his shirt as if he was too warm, Christophe let the piece of Pip's hood slide to the floor. "What game is it?"
Damien smiles delightedly. "Calamity Poker."
"We don't know how to play that." Token says sharply. The French boy peels off his sock, surprised that Damien hadn't noticed he was barefoot yet.
"All the more fun for me, isn't it? 13 card each, love. Now, what are the terms?"
"If you win, we stay, if we win, we get our boys back."
"Done, Damien."
The antichrist picks up his deck and smiles indulgently. He throws down a picture of Wendy being strangled. Gregory whines and claws at the table. She bangs against the card and opens her mouth in a wordless scream. "Wendy!" Stan exclaims.
"Very good, Stan. Each card shows the fate of a loved one."
"What kind of fucked up game is this?" Craig snarls.
"You traveled to Hell. You broke the rules. For your misdeeds against the order of things, anyone you have ever been in contact with, including yourselves and the very souls you came to save, is cursed. They will die in horrible, painful ways early in their lives. The only way to stop it is to put down an Angel card, worth up to 11 points. The first one to reach 100 points wins their soul and stops the deaths done so far, along with getting your friend back. So let's say you put down a good card, Wendy's life would be saved, just hers though and you still have decks worth of people dying. Understood?" His smile widens. "The first one to lose their sanity dies." Craig swallows and tosses down a random card. A teenage girl struggles at the bottom of pool, bubbles escaping from her mouth. Her bathing suit is tangles in a filter.
"Ruby." He gasps.
"Christophe, refill their decks." He glances at the cards as he deals them. A gypsy, smiling coyly, is given to Craig, an angel one to Damien. When he is sure no one is looking, Christophe inspects the deck. The cards are blank, pure black but quiver when he touches them. One card transforms into a picture of a shovel when he picks it up. He slips it into the middle and leaves them alone for the rest of the round. Craig draws a card and closes his eyes. Stan, Clyde, Wendy, Ruby, Mrs. Tucker, Pip, Jimmy, Thomas and Heidi lay on the table, dying. He drops the card and cracks open his eyes. A woman dances for him, slithering and writhing to a tune he cannot hear as the cards below her fade and turn black. "11 points for Craig." Damien sings. Token glances at the dancers and stares at the gypsy. Its mouth curls up into a breathless chuckle. Giving a little wave, it smiles brightly at him. Christophe grasps the material between his toes and draws his foot up. He rests it in Token's lap and drops it before going back to dealing. Token shoots him a look and his fingers clutch at the cloth. Christophe motions towards Pip and nods. His eyes light up.
The game goes by slowly and Damien begins to build up on points until there is only one card left in the deck. The antichrist has 102 points and the others lag behind by at least thirty. Christophe picks up the final card and blinks. "Damien…"
"Give the card to whomever you like, babe, it won't help them now." He cackles.
Christophe looks at each of the boys carefully.
He hands it to Damien. The antichrist smiles and kisses his temple before throwing it down. Christophe looks curiously over the same staircase he had been on earlier, the one with the view of the garden. The wall of fire drew up higher and licked at the wood hungrily. The French boy smiled and took a running leap of the platform. He flies through the air and begins to sink into the flames, a relieved look on his face. Damien's eyes narrow at the scene and he turns to face Christophe. Damien snaps and the dancers appear on the other side of the table. Token makes a move to grab Pip but his fingers slip through his body like he's pure air. Damien stretches and stands up. His smile is cruel. "You lose." He picks up each card and shuffles the deck, pausing to rip Christophe's in two. "Christophe, take them to their rooms. I will be back to deal with you later."
"Yes, Damien." The antichrist disappears in a puff of smoke. "Cocksucker." He growls quietly. Gregory yawns sleepily and pads away, tail between his legs. Christophe doesn't try to talk to the group but leads them to the nearest room. Pip, Tweek and Kyle follow quietly, their steps quick and light. "Do you want to sleep zeparately or togezer?" He asks, staring at the freckle on Token's cheek.
"Together, I don't trust Damien to not kill us when we're asleep." Craig growls.
Christophe smiles bitterly. "You are smart, zhen."
"Wait," Stan says, looking past Christophe. "Wait, before you go, can we please see your faces?"
"No." Kyle says sharply.
"Please?" He begs. "Just once, I know you're Kyle, I just need to make sure."
Token and Craig nod hopefully. "You won't like what you see." Pip warns.
"We don't care." Craig says, looking at Tweek. "You're Tweek, aren't you?" He exhales. "Just…just let me see…please."
The dancers finger their hoods. "You won't love us when you see us." Tweek says shyly.
"I'll love you no matter what." Craig promises.
"No," Kyle mumbles. "You won't."
"Kyle, you're being ridiculous." Stan says. "Nothing you can do will ever make me stop loving you. Whatever happened is not your fault."
Kyle snarls and throws down his hood. Pip and Kyle follow suit. It's bad. But Christophe has seen worse. Their eyes have been gouged out and the blood is dry and crusted over their cheeks. A pentagram is branded into their temple, shiny pink scars forming the symbol. Kyle's hair flows over his shoulders, still slick from the gel and matted with sweat. "Hm." Christophe says finally. "I didn't theenk zhe pentagram was zhe devil's symbol. Wasn't eet zhe upside down cross thingy?"
Pip smiles gently. "Damien thought this looked more bad ass."
Token looks like he's about to vomit. "He did this to you?"
"Of course."
"That bastard!"
"Een case you 'aven't noticed, Damien eez fucking inzane." Christophe points out.
"But this…this is just sick!"
"Like I zaid; insane." He repeats.
Stan strokes Kyle's hair gently. "We came all this way to get you out of here and we failed. I'm sorry, Kyle."
The Jew smiles and hugs him, fingers slipping through his back. "No problem, dude, at least we're all here together for now."
"I feel like I'm intruding, should I give you separate rooms after all?" Christophe muses.
"It's not like we can do anything Christophe." Pip's hand goes through Token's chest like it's made of air. "We're basically ghosts." Craig winces and shrugs it off quickly.
"We'll figure something out, we always do." He says confidently. Christophe smiles at the scene and his eyes widen when a hand clamps over his mouth. He lets out a muffled scream as he is dragged away.
"Chris, oh my God!" Kyle screeches. "Stan! Help him!" The living boys rush forward and grab at him before he disappears. Christophe gasps as he is thrown on a silk covered bed, crying out when a heavier body collapses on top of him.
"Hello, love." Damien purrs. "Did you have a nice time with your friends? I even wrote a whole fake diary and kidnapped those boys so you could have company here."
"Let me go!" Christophe threatens because he really is getting too familiar with this position. Damien kisses his neck lovingly and smiles.
"Insane? Really, Christophe? I can show you insane you, you know." He purrs, working the buttons on his pants.
Christophe tilts his head back in screams out in fear but this time he knew there would be no denying the inevitable. Piece by piece, their clothing is peeled off until they are left completely naked, pressed against each other. Damien smiles at the beautiful image and kisses away the tears streaming down his cheeks. "Please." Christophe begs and he hates how his voice cracks. "Don't do this."
"I tried being nice, Christophe." Damien reminds him mildly, flipping him over and growling with lust. "Don't make me the bad guy here." He presses in and Christophe screams. He begs that cock sucking faggot of a God to send help but of course he doesn't and soon there is nothing but pain and Damien's grunts. He screams and claws at Damien's face and everything he can reach, blood coating his fingertips from when he scratched to deep. He digs the digit into the wound and screeches as loud as he can into the antichrist's ear, feeling his insanity fray. Damien is inside him, he is everywhere, creeping into his thoughts and hugging his mind. Pain creeps up his leg like fire and consumes him.
Finally, after what could be eternity, Christophe gives into it. He gives into the pain and the horror but most of all, he gives into Damien. He goes lax and accepts it. He accepts the thrusts and grunts and accepts his seed when it is spilled deep inside of him. Christophe curls into a ball and shuts his eyes. He can feel the hot come leaking from him and he rolls out of the bed and vomits, crying. Damien whispers promises into his ear and rubs his back soothingly. He struggles away from the touch and stumbles up. Semen trickles down his thigh and he throws up the remainder of what is in stomach onto his feet, screaming when it burns his throat. Damien picks him up and carries him to the bathroom delicately. Water rushes up from the tub like a fountain, steam quickly filling the room and Christophe keeps screaming. Slowly, he is lowered in and Damien follows suit, splashing quietly and clamping his mouth closed. A pale hand rubs soap into his hair and he closes his eyes. There is no use resisting. There is nothing Damien can do to him now that will be worse then what he has already done. The shampoo smells wonderful and it is so good to bathe again Christophe almost cries but he cannot forget what the hands washing him have done. He cannot bring himself to relax and he remains shaking, trying to stay as far away from the touch as possible. Damien trails a wet rag down Christophe's back and rubs away the dirt, kissing his shoulder blades gently. He tastes fresh and clean and Damien craves more, more, more.
The French boy finally goes limp and he realizes it's because he has fallen asleep. Christophe looks innocent and calm, lightly snoring and chest heaving with sleepy sobs. Damien licks his lips and steals a kiss, loving the unintentional submission. He somewhat regrets what he did. He rushed Christophe and now the boy will never love him. But the part of him that is pure demon protests that Christophe deserved it, that he challenged Damien and resisted him and had to be put in his place. It was the boy's fault, Damien decided. But his as well. Christophe had been rude, but that was his personality. Damien should have understood that and taught the boy better before forcing himself on him. It didn't matter, Christophe would love him, no matter what it took. Christophe would just have to learn to love him. And Damien would have to make himself worthy of Christophe's love.
The antichrist stands and picks the other boy out of the tub, wrapping him in a fluffy towel. "Nana." He hisses, "Come here." A woman appears with a pop. She clamps her hands behind her back and speaks with a posh British accent.
"Yes, Damien? What do you need?"
"There are boys wandering my home, six to be exact, three newcomers and my dancers, put the dancers back behind the painting and put the newcomers in the basement. They will be staying here from now on, get them fit for worker uniforms but leave them there. Alive, if you please, Nana."
She smiles and eyes Christophe. "Another one, Damien?" She sounds fondly exasperated like a mother whose son brought in a stray cat. "You already have a full harem, do you need more boys?" Her voice takes on a sad tone. "First Pip, then Tweek then Gregory and Kyle. Really, why can't you just let them go when you're done?"
"I did my dancers a favor and Gregory was getting too close to Christophe, he was never part of my "harem" as you so nicely put it." Damien growls. "I hate that British bastard."
"Don't take that tone with me, young man, you may be the antichrist but that doesn't mean I can't bend you over my knee and whack some sense into you right now." She huffs, disappearing in a puff of smoke. Damien snarls and looks down only to see Christophe staring up at him blankly. He drawls the towel closer over his quivering shoulders. "Hello, Christophe." Damien greets. "You should go back to sleep. I'm afraid you might be a little worn out."
"Clothes?" He croaks.
"Can't you just sleep naked?" Christophe closes his eyes and sobs angrily.
"Fuck you."
"No need to get violent." Damien soothes. "I'll get you your clothes." He presses him into the semen soaked mattress and revels in the inviting smell before hurrying off. Christophe is asleep once more and slowly, Damien presses skinny limbs through the sleeves of his favorite black sweater and smiles at the way Christophe's hair is tussled. He is too small from so many years in the tower, but Damien doubted that after indulging his princess fetish that he could ever put Christophe back. No, he would just have to hide him in the manor from now on. No one is allowed to see Christophe except for him. He would get a mask made for him like the ones his dancers wore. The staff knew of Christophe, but only what they overheard. He would not risk a chance of his boy being seen. Christophe was his and his alone. After shaking away the pleasing thought, he slides a pair of white boxers up his legs and sighs at the loss of his perfect view. All at once, he realizes he is still very naked and still dripping wet. Damien knows Christophe will mostly have a relapse when he wakes up but can't bring himself to get dressed. He wraps his arms around Christophe and tangles them together, kissing his lips softly. "Tell me you love me." The antichrist begs to the sleeping boy. "You don't have to mean it but please, just say it." The only response he gets is a soft cry when he squeezes too hard on a perfect thigh. Christophe's eyes dart back and forth behind his eyelids and Damien silently hopes they'll open. "My belle, Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble, Très bien ensemble." He mumbles quietly.
"Gregory, shut zhe fuck up." Christophe growls, "I'm trying to sleep, dick-face."
Damien tilts his back and laughs throatily, giving a feral smile when he realizes Christophe is not going to wake for a while. A certain part of his anatomy stirs in interest. Damien licks a trail down Christophe's cheek and sucks gently on his collarbone, leaving a light purple mark. He slides Christophe's legs open and places himself between toned thighs, growling at the jolt of pleasure. He thrusts up, beginning slowly and counting to ten before doing it again. Christophe moans and struggles softly, still asleep. "Shh, love, shh, it is okay." Damien gasps out, giving another, harder, thrust.
"Fuck!" He's teetering on the edge, hanging on until the last second when Christophe's eyes burst open. At the sight of the fearful, surprised gaze, Damien explodes, thrusting through his climax. "Mine!" He roars. "Mine!" Christophe opens his mouth to scream and Damien sinks his teeth into the pale column of his neck. Blood bursts into his mouth and he smiles evilly. It tastes like death and fire and sin, running black down into the sweater. He thrusts against Christophe like an animal, growling and snarling through a mouthful of flesh. "Say it!" He demands. "Say you're mine!" Christophe remains silent and Damien bites down hard on his shoulder until he screams and blood begins soaking into his hair.
"Yours!" Christophe promises.
"For always?"
"Always and forever!"
Damien lets go and smiles at his handiwork. Christophe looks up at him, resistance gone. There is only fear in his eyes and Damien loves it. Covered in come and blood, Damien peels the sweater off, suckling the semen off a perky nipple. Christophe is his now. He is finally broken and he will never leave. "Good," He purrs, lapping at the wound on the French boy's neck. "Now, why don't you go back to sleep? You're going to be here for a long while." He smiles predatorily. "I can wait."