Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

Acts and Omissions	By : quietladybirman Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1144 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Acts and Omissions
- 1
Acts and Omissions

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by laila

________
Standard Copyright Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz, it’s characters, indices and all the rest of it remain the property of Kyoko Tsuchiya, Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiss, TV Tokyo, Movic, whichever company perpetrated the US dub, and any other individuals or companies whom I may have inadvertently left out. This is, quite obviously, a fan work from which no profit is being made or will be made, written for the amusement of anyone who may wish to read it and of course myself, as it’s author.
Author’s Notes: Written in a response to a prompt on toxictattoo’s Weiss Kreuz Kink Meme, I’m finally coming out of the closet and admitting, much to my shame, to being the one responsible for writing this ridiculously warped little thing. The prompt in question? ‘Omi/anybody except Nagi. Slavery. Dubious consent or non-consensual fine. Bonus points for multiple slaves. Prefer a canon derived AU to a transplant AU.’ Needless to say, being as I am who I am, things got kind of out of control and the whole story very quickly got very dark and twisted indeed. This is not a story I would ever have written without the prompt, so thanks to whoever it was who requested it.
While this can be read as a stand-alone work, I have vague ideas for how to continue this story and, some day, may even get round to doing. My plot brain can’t, in good conscience, leave these guys in this situation – but, as I currently lack brilliant ideas on how to resolve this to my satisfaction, for now this is all there is. Maybe one day I’ll carry on.
Warnings: Um. Sexual slavery, bondage, humiliation, toys, rape... yeah, it’s a right old laundry list. Adult readers only, please.

________
"Hell is paved with good intentions, not with bad ones. All men mean well."

George Bernard Shaw
i. our needs bear no relation to our desires
Omi had kissed him, when nobody was looking: Ken hadn't pulled away. When he thought about it, which he tried not to do because to think about it was to make it real, that must have been when they first stepped over the line – when Omi had taken his hand and, ready or not, led him across.
He hadn’t been ready, but Omi hadn’t asked.
He still didn’t ask. That was just the way things were between them.
It was becoming routine, almost second nature. Omi invented some pretext – homework or research, or a study group, or anything at all as long as it let him get away – and slipped from the store: this evening, murmuring something about a mission, he headed for the basement. Ken gave him half an hour, then followed. It didn’t much matter what half-truth he told the others or even whether or not they should believe him, just as long as he left. It didn’t much matter whether he wanted to leave or not; it didn’t much matter if he wanted to wait. What Ken might have wanted simply wasn’t an issue.
Half an hour. Ken could do nothing but sit and wait and watch the hands crawl round the face of the clock, wishing time would pass, willing it to drag. There was nothing to do but to think, and try not to think about what might be coming, and try with all he had to keep himself together, just keep breathing. He’d once made the mistake of asking why the wait—
“I think,” Ken said, keeping his voice light, his words casual, “I’ll go see how Omi’s doing.”

Youji smiled. “Sure you will, Kenken. Just don’t distract him too much, hey?”

“Youji! I’m not going to—”

“It’s okay,” Youji said with a chuckle: he thought he understood why Ken should blush. He thought he had the pair of them all figured out and he didn’t know a thing. “Store’s dead anyway. You go help Omi, Aya and I’ll handle the rest.”
Youji nodded toward the break-room doors and gave him a slow, sleepy, older-brother’s grin and just the sight of it made Ken’s heart sink. From time to time, when he had nothing better to occupy him and Youji’s attention was safely caught elsewhere, he sat and watched his friend’s turned back, his gaze wistful, a sad little betrayal of a smile caught upon his lips. Sometimes Ken thought he could tell Youji everything: sometimes, he even allowed himself to pretend that if he did, Youji would be able to help, would keep him safe and whole…
It was a nice game. Ken knew that Youji would help, if he were only to ask for it – but he couldn’t tell Youji anything. It would destroy Omi, utterly. Destroy all of them. Ken would not let himself become the thing that tore Weiss apart.
(And Youji’s face as he confessed: he couldn’t have borne looking into Youji’s eyes, and seeing pity there.)
He couldn’t tell, and couldn’t leave Omi waiting. (You already tried that one, Kenken.) Ken could do nothing but go to him. He forced himself to smile at Youji, murmuring something even he didn’t quite catch as he turned to the door. For God’s sake, Youji, help me.
Tell him. End this—Ken didn’t speak. He only walked down to the basement, hesitating at the foot of the spiral stairs with one hand on the balustrade. It was cool in the basement, cool and dark and far too much of both: Omi sat in the alcove by the computer, bathed in the light from the screen, a single desk lamp craning its neck toward him like a curious little creature, eager to see what he was up to. Ken thought he might almost have called the atmosphere intimate, and tried and failed to suppress a shudder. For a long moment Ken simply watched as Omi worked, his head bowed, fingers flying over the keys in a flurry of soft clicks – ignore the lowered lighting and it could have been six months ago. It could have been normal.
Normal. Omi was good at that, looking normal… Ken stripped quickly, glancing anxiously back over his shoulder to check that Youji hadn’t followed him down: he hardly knew if he was grateful or not to see the staircase empty. His clothes he abandoned where they fell, leaving a crumpled, forlorn little pile by the foot of the stairs. He was shivering when he stepped away, a blush blooming paradoxically hot upon his cheeks, and stark naked save for the heavy leather collar clasped about his throat.
Just don’t think, Ken. Don’t think about what you’re doing, and it might still be all right.
Omi had left some – some things: toys, Omi called them, but Ken thought the term frighteningly inaccurate – laid out neatly upon the table for him to find. A plug, heavy and conical and bulbous, the weight of it betraying the presence of battery; a pair of small clamps connected by a slender length of chain; a half-empty bottle of lubricant. Ken didn’t need to be told what he was supposed to do with them. He didn’t even need to wonder: it was, almost, a blessing.
The clamps pinched at his nipples, the sensation as they gripped his flesh hesitating uncomfortably on the outside edge of pain. Stepping into the light Ken lay on the floor, parted his legs like a porn star posing for the cameras, and (just don’t think about it) forced the plug, cool and slick with lubricant, inside himself. It hurt, but nowhere near as much as the indignity of it, and of knowing that Omi was watching. Knowing he did this to himself for the benefit of a boy he’d once thought of as a brother, and still considered a friend – he still thought that! Oh, God, it’s wrong, it’s so wrong: Ken winced as he pushed the plug in up to its hilt, the breath hissing in sharp between his clenched teeth.
Another rung. Slipping gradually downwards, Ken only wished he knew how much further he had yet to fall.
He sat, crawled over to Omi’s side, the plug shifting inside him as he moved – Ken held his hands out, his head bowed. Omi tapped him beneath the chin, look at me, and bent to kiss him hard and forceful, snapping a pair of leather cuffs onto his wrists. The kiss tore the breath from Ken. It left him panting, lips moist and bruised and slightly parted: he was almost surprised when, drawing away, Omi simply pushed him backward, drawing his chair a little closer to his computer. (Later; Ken-kun.) Ken fell back heavily onto his knees, the movement uncomfortably jarring the plug buried inside him, and it was all he could do to bite back a yelp.
It was an afterthought, almost: Omi found a small remote half-hidden beneath an open book, and absentmindedly flicked it on. Ken gasped, sharp and sudden and fractured as the plug shuddered into life, starting to vibrate gentle and teasing and Omi didn’t even look at him. The boy’s attention was already back on the screen, displaying a set of delivery rosters.
“Will you be okay to wait a bit?” It wasn’t a question. “I really need to finish this up.”

“Can I help?” Predictable as sunrise, and exactly what Omi was hoping for. Ken didn’t want to ask, or to know where Omi was taking this, but what Ken wanted long ago ceased to matter.
Omi paused as if for thought then turned to the desktop, littered with the evening’s diligent clutter. He shuffled through a sheaf of printouts and slipped them into a plastic wallet then, leaning forward, he hung them on the chain strung taut between Ken's nipples, the weight of the papers tugging gently at the clamps. A bubble of soft, hysterical laughter surged its way up Ken's throat: it cost him a visible effort to bite it back. He caught himself thinking, well, that’s pretty creative. Creative? It was damn near surreal! It was on the tip of his tongue to say, why don’t you buy a folder? Six months ago he would have said it and damn the consequences, but six months ago there would have been no consequences, and none of this would have happened…
“Could you hold this?” The boy’s smile was warm and benign as a summer day.
That’s the road less traveled, Ken. The kiss, unasked-for and unwanted, had been where it all began: he should have pushed Omi away. I’m not like that, Omi. I’m sorry—but he’d smiled like an idiot and told his friend it was all right. He’d meant it, then.
I’m sorry, Omi had said. I’m sorry, Ken-kun. It won’t happen again…
And, back then, Ken had believed him.
Now he knelt by Omi’s side, the chill of the basement raising gooseflesh along his naked back, his head bowed as if in prayer and a familiar ache building inside him – flushed, furious, and quietly and desperately humiliated. He knew it had gone too far, it went too far long ago and too late now to step away. Much too much too late and yet to step away was all he wanted, he was so tired of it. Ken was tired of living on the other side of the line. He was sick of the deception, the little games, the playful teasing which was no tease at all. Sick of the sex that left him used-up and stained, too ashamed to meet his own eyes in the mirror. The plug purred contentedly inside of him, the collar felt tight about his throat.
Ken wanted his friend back. They had been friends, once. Once it had been enough to be together, nothing else needed but themselves. Omi had been happy to sit and talk about trivialities, school and his classmates and how his day went, or even not to talk at all… Closing his eyes, Ken listened to the ragged sound of his own breaths, the staccato rattle of the keys as Omi’s fingers darted across them.
What did it say about him that Omi should prefer him this way?
Leaning over, Omi clipped another wallet of newly-printed documents to the chain. Ken shifted uncomfortably, shivering slightly at the sensation of the boy’s slender, nimble fingers brushing playfully against his chest. Unwillingly responsive, but responding all the same – and Omi simply sighed, a weary teacher faced with an infuriatingly slow pupil who, after months of careful and diligent explanation, still couldn’t tell him his eight times four.
“Ken-kun,” Omi said, “you really shouldn’t be so impatient.” All he meant was, haven’t we gone over this? He reached for the little remote, stabbing down with one finger and cutting off the vibration.
Ken hissed in a breath, told himself he was grateful for it. “Impatient?” he echoed: he might have sounded indignant, if he hadn’t sounded so hopelessly lost.
Omi reached for a small silver ring, incongruous amongst the files and discs and papers, resting casually next to his keyboard: bending to Ken and nudging his thighs apart with one slippered foot, Omi – stop this – reached for him, slowly pressing the ring down until it fit snugly about him. The metal was cold, and the touch of the boy’s fingers, tracing slow and sure against him, was deliberately tormenting. It made Ken curse, then struggle to bite it back, a shiver running down the length of his spine.
“I’ve got to get this done, Ken-kun. Can you wait a little longer?” And Omi almost sounded apologetic. He added, half to himself, “This would all be so much easier if I had some more help… maybe I should go get Youji-kun, I could really do with a second opinion here.”
Ken looked up, his eyes wide, almost fearful. Youji. He can’t mean that—!
(And if he knew, Youji would help him – and if only it were worth the price.)
Of course he didn’t mean a word of it. Omi was no fool; Omi was teasing. I’m sorry, Ken-kun – Omi had told him that, once, as if it explained everything. I really don’t mean to scare you, but you’re just too cute when you’re anxious. Who are you calling cute, he might have said once—
Too late for that now, too. Omi turned back to the computer, and seemed to forget him. The keys clattered, the printer rumbled and shivered and spat out a handful of pages: Omi cast his eyes across them and reached for a highlighter, uncapping it with his teeth. The clock ticked soft and regular, time beating slowly onward, and it would have annoyed Ken, once upon a time, to be ignored like this. Now? Now he was only grateful, and the understanding that it couldn’t and wouldn’t last was an uneasy one. Omi sighed, and toyed with his little remote, and got to his feet – Ken raised his head, fighting down a sudden surge of anxiety, but the boy breezed past him as if he didn’t exist, returning a few minutes later with a mug of coffee, which sat and cooled unregarded by his elbow as he worked on.
Ken thought he understood how it felt. Then he thought, I’m sympathizing with a fucking coffee cup. I must be going mad.
The silence shattered as Omi sighed – a weary sound. Casually casting the folder down on the desk and leaning back precariously on his seat, he yawned, stretching his arms up above his head unselfconscious as a sleepy cat. Reaching over, he unclipped the clamps from Ken's nipples (Ken exhaled, the breath catching slightly in his throat), taking the documents from their chain easy as if he’d lifted them from a binder and shuffling his papers back together. Far too good at looking normal and what right did he have, to do that?
“I think I’m gonna have to come back to this,” he said. “I’m not getting anywhere. Why does everyone always think I can do everything by myself?”
I don’t think that, Omi, Ken wanted to say. But then, he thought, and the thought felt small and miserable, I suppose I don’t really count any more.
He didn’t speak: Ken knew that he should have, six months ago he would have, but there were no words any more. He didn’t even try to look. Omi stood, and Ken stood with him when a single preemptory gesture suggested he ought to, the plug shifting uncomfortably inside him. Taking him by the upper arm, ignoring his flinch, Omi led him over to the couch; the contact, fingers against skin, made him gasp soft and sharp, and shiver. Ken knelt only because Omi had told him to, watching out of the corner of his eyes as the boy settled down on the couch, shifting slightly as if he couldn’t quite get comfortable and he could have been any teenager anywhere taking a break from his homework.
He said, he actually said, “Thanks for waiting.”
As if there’d been any choice. As if Ken had even wanted the wait to be over – God knew what it might mean that it was.
And you know what it means, Ken. Omi was watching him through a fall of honey-blonde hair and his eyes were wide and blue as cornflowers, and his smile was sweet and there was nothing, absolutely nothing innocent about that look. A slight quirk to the corner of the lips and a look in his eyes that, six months ago, Ken never would have believed he could ever have surprised on Omi’s face: if anyone had told him he would have been the cause of it, he would have laughed. Laughed and shaken his head, and said, don’t be stupid.
Just keep breathing. Just don’t think. Ken lowered his eyes, bowed his head; a picture of submission, yet wary, somehow quietly watchful. Watching as Omi shifted on the couch, reaching into the bulging pocket of his shorts and tugging out something that was all buckles and heavy leather straps, attached to what looked like a small red rubber ball. At first Ken couldn’t even work out what he was looking at – realization dawned only too quickly, and when it had he could almost have wished it hadn’t, that he could look again and see nothing but a tangle of leather pointlessly entrapping a rubber ball. Mary mother of God, Ken thought, he’s going to gag me: it wasn’t even anything new.
(On his back again, legs spread and eyes screwed shut as Omi moved over him, his own hands pinned above his head, Omi’s hand pressing down hard over his mouth – could have bitten, but he couldn’t bite. I don’t want to hurt him. Even now, he didn’t want that. You’re noisy, Ken-kun, Omi said reproachfully—)
“I’m going to need you to open your mouth.” Again, he sounded almost apologetic.
You understand why I’m doing this, don’t you, Ken-kun? If I could trust you to stay silent that would be one thing, but… Ken turned away, jaw set, teeth tightly clenched. Fighting back had come down to this: to hesitancy, and small acts of defiance Omi wouldn’t even think it worth remarking upon because what else could he expect, from Ken? Goddamn pathetic, really. Honestly, Hidaka, the things you cling to – and it was only so he could pretend, just for a moment, that he hadn’t given in and lost himself completely. Just don’t open your mouth.
He hadn’t expected to get away with it. Leaning forward, Omi teased him with the tip of one finger, running it slow and playfully light against him. Ken let his head fall backward, his teeth clenched, eyes screwed shut. That touch burned, it left him breathless and I don’t like this, Omi—
“Jesus!”

“Please open your mouth,” Omi said, quiet and polite and with all the force of an order. “Ken-kun.”
Reluctantly, Ken complied.
Smiling, Omi gently pressed the ball of the gag between Ken's parted lips, tugging the straps tightly behind his head as Ken instinctually struggled to force it, heavy and alien and foul-tasting, from his mouth. Slim fingers further tousled his already untidy hair, metal clicked softly against metal as Omi fastened the buckles, securing the gag in place then slipping one finger beneath the straps at his cheeks, freeing a hank of trapped hair.
“Thank you,” he said. Gave Ken's cheek a soft, yet somehow proprietorial caress, then collapsed heavily back onto the couch. Sometimes, Ken wondered what Omi told himself he did this for. He hoped at least one of them was enjoying this.
Omi (and you could stop him, easily: why don’t you stop him, Ken?) told him to stand, so Ken stood, and just to look in his eyes betrayed how lost he was feeling. Bound and collared, unable to so much as cry out, and unwillingly coaxed to arousal – he hardly wanted to know what he must have looked like and Omi liked him like this. He wanted Ken reduced to little more than pornographic graffiti, a scrawl on a bathroom wall. Ashamed, he dropped his gaze, concentrating only on breathing and no, Omi said, please don’t look away—so Ken didn’t look away either, and it hardly mattered that he felt like screaming. The gag pressed down hard against his tongue.
(I could stop him – but how, when I don’t want to hurt him?)
Just don’t think, and you might still make it through. Hang in there.
He didn’t look away. Not at the rasp, grating and overloud in the sudden charged and heavy silence of the still before the storm, as Omi unfastened his zip, fought to free himself of his clothing and how strange, now he was blushing, too, smiling awkwardly up at Ken as if this were nothing more than an innocent flirtation. Not when Omi ordered him over, had Ken kneel astride him, cuffed hands resting on his shoulders. Ken closed his eyes when Omi reached between his legs, absently toying with the head of the plug before – Ken breathed in sharp and sudden and harsh, oh God it wasn’t right it wasn’t – slowly tugging it free.
Left him panting into the gag as Omi reached for him, placing his hands – the touch made him tremble – warm and heavy and callused, either side of the base of Ken’s spine. Tugging him downward. Ken gasped, his eyes snapping open.
Omi watched him in that moment, muscles taut, his head thrown back and his eyes wide and dark with shock. Watched the breath hitch in Ken’s chest, his flushed features tight with something that wasn’t quite pain. (Oh God, oh Jesus – I don’t want this, I don’t want to do this—) He fought it, of course, hips bucking as he tried and failed to pull away, fight free, his fingers tightening reflexively on Omi's shoulders, nails scraping painfully against skin even through the fabric of his tee-shirt. (Don’t make me do this, Omi. I’m begging you. Stop. Please.)
Felt Omi pushing up into him, the boy’s body shuddering under him. Felt Omi’s own hands tautening about his waist, holding him steady, holding him still. Shocked, trembling, Ken gazed down into Omi’s eyes and saw nothing kind there. Still Omi was smiling.
Smiling, Omi lifted the hand from Ken's bare hip and closed it about him, his grasp tight and possessive.
Move, Ken-kun. Move.
Moved. Ken pushed back against the couch, make it stop, and Omi’s grasp tightened upon his hip, nails dragging against skin hard enough to leave a mark, no, Ken-kun, that’s quite far enough. Fingers about him, drawing him slowly back down and Omi pressing back up inside him: a small, soft sound trapped in Ken’s throat, caught midway between a gasp and a half-stifled sob. Didn’t want to want this and it didn’t matter. Omi pressed his lips to the sweat-damp flesh of his exposed throat, nipping lightly at his skin and Ken shivered sinuously; he let his head fall back, arching his neck in an unspoken invitation to Omi to continue and I don’t want this, I don’t, what the Hell is wrong with you, Hidaka?
Omi’s fingers dragged against him, a slow, teasing caress. Working Ken until he was gasping for breath, arching up into the touch of his tormentor’s hand. Conscious of nothing but oh jesus touch me – no, God damn it! No, that wasn’t it at all, get it together Ken, you don’t—
(Don’t want this.) It should never have started; he never wanted it to stop. Omi pressing up into him, Omi’s palm against him, stroking and teasing and coaxing until Ken thought it would drive him mad, and him moving with him, hips flexing and back arching, clutching desperately at Omi’s shoulders as if he were the only thing in the world he could still be sure of and all the other people who’d hurt him like this were dead.
Still he couldn’t have hurt him. Omi was murmuring – something – something soft and angry and urgent, a curse or a plea or nothing at all, his fingers twitching against Ken, hips pressing up hard and urgent as he drove forward into him. Nipping at Ken’s neck, his shoulders: leaving him marked, staking his claim.
(Okay, Omi, you win.) And he’d won long ago. (I’m yours.)
Lips against skin and his oh god his tongue rasping gently against Ken’s neck and down, down, dragging slow and ticklish along the planes of his chest, leaving a warm, wet trail that quickly cooled – the boy’s tongue flickered quickly across one of his nipples, already almost painfully sensitized, and Ken heard himself yelp into the gag. Body rocked by the force of Omi’s thrusts, sweat pearled up across Ken’s shoulders, his back; his heart was beating too hard, too fast; his hair was in his face. Desire there, heated and furious as flame, and Ken could taste copper, his throat felt painfully tight. Tears in his eyes.
Caught on the edge of awareness: Omi. The boy’s hands tautened about Ken, and he cried out harsh and sudden, eyes closed, body quaking beneath him. There—
And hands on his chest as Omi thrust him from him; Ken heard himself cry out, or try to. Landed heavily upon his back, flushed and gasping, his legs splayed wide. The floor felt cool against his heated skin. Saw Omi smile, saw him stand and, briefly pausing to fuss fastidiously with his clothes, follow him down and oh fuck, Ken thought, what now?
Bending over him, Omi’s hands brushed across his chest, tracing lazy patterns with his fingertips as they gradually trailed down along his abdomen and down, finally reaching between his legs to remove the ring – his touch was a truly elegant torture. Scrambling ungracefully to his feet, Omi slumped heavily back against the couch, agreeably spent. Smiling still, but sleepily now, languidly contented as a basking cat, leaving Ken with nothing but the ghost of his hands dragging against too-sensitive skin, and he moaned into his gag in wordless, plaintive protest. Touch me. (I don’t want this.) Oh God, touch me.
“Spread your legs, please,” Omi said. “You can finish yourself off.” It sounded like he was offering him a present.
Dazed, aware of nothing but aching, white-hot need, Ken didn’t even think of protesting. (I don’t want this – and he couldn’t even make himself believe it.) He sat up, turned to face Omi and obediently spread his legs wide, his knees bent and raised, his hands closing about himself. Just the touch of his hands was enough to have him shivering, muttering a blasphemy the gag only barely stifled. His grip was too taut, his motions rushed and erratic and it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, just the play of his fingers against sensitive flesh, his bound hands working against himself. Ken closed his eyes and thought of nothing, let go of who he was, and why this was happening. Let himself drown in sensation.
For a single exquisite moment, he forgot to care.
Legs bent and splayed, hands still wrapped loosely about himself, Ken slumped back against the table, flushed and trembling and utterly exhausted. Opened his eyes on nothing but the basement, and his own clothing in a pile by the stairway, and on Omi, looking down at him in undisguised dismay.
Omi. Though he understood that he probably should have done, Ken couldn’t hate him: he wasn’t even angry. He was only ashamed. How could he hate him, when all he was to Omi now was an addiction?
Sometimes Ken wondered what the point was, when Omi didn’t seem to be having fun either. The boy simply stared, pale and apprehensive as if, for the first time this evening, he truly saw Ken: his friend, bound and naked and violated. The crazy wave he’d been cresting – the rush of release, or the thrill of the power, or whatever the Hell it was Omi told himself he did this for – had broken over him, dragged him under: now, dazed and coughing, he surfaced in the shallows, bleary-eyed and out of breath and amazed to find himself whole again, and at what he’d just done. God knew what Omi had been feeling but whatever it was it was gone now. It was gone and he was sorry and it meant nothing, except as another part of the same tired routine.
Omi stared, and he apologized. He always did that, too, and the worst part was it meant nothing, and yet he meant every word. There was sincerity in his voice, horror and desperate revulsion trapped in his eyes as he unbuckled the handcuffs and removed the gag, guided Ken, shaking and unsteady on his feet, back to the couch. He really was sorry – somehow, Ken thought it might almost have been easier to bear if he wasn’t, if Omi only taunted. Omi meant it, but what good did sorrow do when it changed nothing? Soft words break no chains.
Ken used to believe him. He couldn’t remember when he stopped. Omi wouldn’t stop, though – not until he stopped believing himself and he would never stop that, because it would mean losing control, losing everything. Losing Ken.
“I’m sorry,” Omi murmured. “It won’t happen again, I promise. I’m sorry, Ken-kun. Say it’s okay.”

“It’s okay.”
(Open your mouth, Ken-kun. Spread your legs and jack yourself off and tell me it’s okay.)
That right there, Omi, was the true price of submission. Ken would tell you anything you liked; you could only never be sure if he meant it. Omi smiled all the same, make-believing that Ken’s words might still count for anything. Ken took Omi in his arms, let the boy curl up against his chest. He was sorry and he meant it, and he hated himself for surrendering to his desires: tomorrow, Omi would do it all again, only worse. Another rung and God knew where they were descending. Another step along the road to Hell—
Ken knew he should have stopped it, stopped him, but the price would be too high: it had gone too far even for regrets. He couldn’t pull away.
He just couldn’t pull away.
-continue?-
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Acts and Omissions