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No Mercy	By : Blythe Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 2071 -:- 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.

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Title: No Mercy

Author: Blythe

Archived:
AdultFanFiction.net, MediaMiner.org, YxA ML, for now.

Disclaimer:
I assure you that, were they mine, I would not be sharing. This is a work of fanfiction and is not for profit.

Rating:
NC-17, for language and future lemons

Pairing:
Aya/Yohji, implied OC/Yohji

A/N: I’m
so sorry that it has taken so long for me to update! I’ve been battling some serious writer’s
block, but have finally managed to beat the muse into submission. A very special thank you to KD Sarge, who
listened to me whine and loaned me weapons of muse destruction to help me
obliterate the block. Moimoi-chan for
sending me hug everyday, I thank you. I
appreciate all of the feedback I’ve received and always welcome more. Thanks for sticking this one out with me
everyone!

Chapter 1: Say
Goodnight and Go

Yohji stood in the kitchen, supporting himself with arms
braced on the countertop, forehead resting against the cabinet door. His hair fell forward to create a curtain,
blocking out the feeble light from the window.
He was practically asleep on his feet.
It was way too damn early to be up.

The sweet aroma drifting up from the coffee maker coaxed his
eyes open and a tiny smile to his lips.
He poured some into a mug, wrapping both hands around it and bringing it
close to his face to let the steam wash over him. With the first swallow of the scalding,
precious liquid he felt the haze of sleep and dreams burn away, like the
morning fog with the dawn.

He moved to stand in front of the window, waiting for the
sun to rise and suffuse the world with color again. He hated this gray half-light before
dawn. It made him feel as though he was
still caught up in one of his dreams; that it couldn’t possibly be real because
real life had color and depth, sharpness and clarity. These wee small hours of the morning were
chill, blunted by shadows, wan, almost achromatic. He knew, now, why most people slept through
them.

He genuinely wished he could be one the blissfully
slumbering, but lately, that was not his lot.
Every night, he closed his eyes and slept, physically exhausted from the
evening’s activities and mentally exhausted from… everything else. Regardless of his physical and mental
complaints, however, sleep never stayed with him for long. Like a fickle lover, he was graced with her
presence for three or four hours, at best, and then left to his own devices
again.

It was often the dreams that woke him. Sometimes, they were beautiful dreams. Dreams of open fields, of endless sky and
ocean, of mountaintops kissed by clouds, of golden beaches and the sun warm on
his face. Sometimes, he dreamt of a
different kind of beauty. The kind where
he could finish his classes, take entrance exams, hang out with kids his own
age, leave the house unescorted.
Sometimes, they weren’t dreams at all, but nightmares, if they could
even be called that. It seemed
inaccurate to call them that. Nightmare
implied, somehow, that the events weren’t real or tangible, but they were. They were more like memories, glimpses of
moments spent at this man’s hands, mental scar tissue making itself known in
sleep, reminding him that he’d never have those beautiful dreams. He woke the same way, no matter what dream it
was. Shaking, cold, tears in eyes
stifling his crying lest he wake the sleeper next to him. He cried for what he’d lost, for what’d never
had. For what he would never have, so
long as he continued to be owned by Keiji Hanajima.

So lost in his reverie, he’d failed to register the presence
of another in the kitchen. Someday, he’d
have better instincts, better reflexes, and a better mask. For today, however, he couldn’t suppress the
shudder, the telltale clenching of every muscle in his body as strong arms
wrapped around him from behind.

“You know I don’t like waking up alone, Chocho,” a deep
voice grated over his ear.

Chocho.
Butterfly. Endearment and insult
in one.

Keiji didn’t know that Yohji understood. He often underestimated his charge. Someday, he’d regret that.

The nickname was a reference to Madame Butterfly, the Puccini opera. Butterfly is the epitome of the traditional
Japanese wife. Quiet, demure, devoted,
beautiful, obedient. She is purchased
for a few cents by an American sailor who already has a wife at home. She gives herself to him fully and when the
war is over, he leaves to return to America. She bears him a child and waits, everyday,
for him to return. She believes in
him. She is faithful.

Quiet. Demure. Devoted.
Beautiful. Obedient. Butterfly is everything that Keiji had
trained Yohji to be. Except
beautiful. Yohji had achieved that all
on his own. It was the reason Keiji had
taken him in, in the first place.

It had been a day like any other. Yohji had gone to class, rushed to the
library to do his homework as soon as school let out. Then, he’d dashed off to stow his books and
uniform in the condemned tenement where’d been squatting. Once changed into his street clothes, he’d
headed out to see if he couldn’t manage to scrounge up some dinner.

The Tokyo
night had already fallen by then and the wind was chill. He didn’t let it show. He walked down the street, looking for all
the world like he was just another disenfranchised youth, with his blonde hair,
low slung jeans, and too tight top. But,
to the discerning eye, he was on the prowl.

Honestly, he’d thought he could maybe pick a pocket or two –
he was already frighteningly good at being silent – or perhaps let some
businessman fuck him in a dark alley.
Either way, it would get him his dinner.
If he was really lucky, he’d get picked up someone willing to spring for
a hotel room and he could get a hot shower out of it. Those nights were rare, but appreciated.

He’d not been at all prepared for the sleek black luxury car
that turned into the alleyway he’d been preparing to cross and blocked his
way. He’d been about to mutter some very
unseemly words at the occupant when the dark tinted rear window slid down. He’d certainly not been prepared for the rich
chocolate eyes, the chiseled nose, cheeks, and jaw, the full, wickedly grinning
lips, or the perfect, gleaming teeth that had greeted him.

And then, that gravelly voice had spilled over him. Three simple words and he’d been lost to this
dazzling man.

“Need a ride?”

Assuming the man was too cheap to pay for a hotel and too
rich to fuck in an alley, Yohji went willingly.
It was warmer in the car, after all.

What he didn’t expect was for the man to take him home. Or to feed him. Or to offer his enormous western style tub
fit for a king for Yohji’s use. He
didn’t expect the man to treat him like a rare treasure, a cherished
possession.

He didn’t usually ask names, for obvious reasons. He never offered his and if he asked, he used
a different name every time. At least,
he thought he did. He’d begun to lose
track.

But this man, this man was different. He’d offered his name and glared at Yohji
when he’d volunteered an alias in return.
Once they knew each other’s names, it was more difficult to think of it
as just business. Yohji didn’t like that.

He tried to get up, get dressed, and get out before the man
woke up. He wasn’t so concerned about
the money just then. He’d gotten dinner
and a bath; all in all, it was a very good night. Now, it was time to say goodnight and go.

However, when he tried to sit up, Keiji’s hand closed around
his bicep.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Yohji grinned. “Up
for another round already?”

Keiji said nothing, merely looked at him, hard, an emotion
in his eyes that suddenly made Yohji’s flesh crawl. He wanted another bath.

“H-home,” he finally managed.

“Hn. You are home,”
Keiji gruffly answered, throwing his arm across Yohji’s chest and
pinning him to the bed with it. “Now go
to sleep.”

Yohji looked up and saw fire flare in Keiji’s eyes. At that moment, he knew he’d gotten more than
he bargained for. It wouldn’t take long
to find out just how much more.

Closing his eyes, Yohji drifted into slumber, those
piercing, claiming brown eyes still watching him.

Or were they violet?

*******************************************************************

Yohji woke with a start.
He couldn’t remember the dream, only that it left him feeling exposed
and vulnerable. He was stiff and sore
all over. For a moment, he wondered what
he’d done. Then he realized where he
was.

He rolled his head, trying to relieve some of the tension in
his neck and shoulders. He lifted his
arms, lacing his fingers together, palms up and stretched until he felt both
shoulders pop. Then he stood, arching
his back and roughly massaging the kinks from sore muscles. He could feel an odd crease on his cheek and
he hadn’t quite regained all of the feeling in his legs and feet.

His body was not shy about protesting his recent activities.

Of course, drooling on the keyboard couldn’t be good for the
computer either.

He supposed he should be glad that he was getting any sleep
at all. He was so exhausted that he’d
started dropping off at the worst times in the most uncomfortable places. He’d started a list of bad places to fall asleep
and so far it included, but was not limited to, the front seat of the car
(while on stake-out, no less), the kitchen table (cold Formica not being the
nicest thing to wake up on), and now the computer desk was being added to the
list.

A small, bitter laugh escaped him as he thought about how
much he’d once loved his bed. Now, even
thought of lying in it gave him a small shiver.
Nothing good ever came of it, he’d decided. Looking back, the only things he’d ever found
in his bed were nightmares and false hope.
He’d left that hope behind. All
that was left were the nightmares.

Those, he could do without.

Yohji didn’t like the path his thoughts were heading
down. He could feel the tension that
he’d just worked out creeping back in.
The more he thought, the worse it became. It was the primary reason he’d been trying to
do anything but think for the past seven months. Any and every distraction he could come up
with, he tried.

Why did he need to be distracted? Because the more he allowed himself to
consider his circumstances, the angrier he got.
And Yohji was very angry.

Angry at everyone.
Angry at everything.

Yohji was angry at his father for driving his mother to her
grave and driving his son from his own home.

He was angry at the dark beasts who had stolen Asuka from
him.

He was even angrier at Manx for not letting him die in that
alley.

Except that, really, he did die in that alley, and that made
him angry, too. Angry with the gods for
this mockery of life that he possessed.

He was exceptionally pissed off at Aya for thinking that a
pity fuck would be just the thing to pull Yohji out of his funk.

But most of all, Yohji was absolutely furious with himself
for believing, for even a fraction of a second, that he could be with Aya. That he could really find the mercy he so
desperately sought in his arms. That Aya
could ever actually love him.

There was no mercy.

Not for him. Neither
to give, nor to receive.

Yohji didn’t remember heading toward the shower, but the
searing pain in his hand brought him back to his surroundings.

‘Huh. Another broken
tile.’ That was seven now. Seven semi-rotten shower tiles that had met
their end upon impact with Yohji’s fist.
His bruised and bloodied knuckles could attest to each one.

He turned away from the growing collection of shattered
ceramic and tilted his face into the now warm spray from the showerhead. He let the water wash the blood from his
hands and the sleep from his eyes. He
felt the heat seeping into his tense shoulders and back, slowly releasing each
muscle from its clench. As the pain
drifted with the water to the drain, Yohji wondered how he could achieve the
same effect for his other aches, particularly the one settled suspiciously close
to his heart.

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No Mercy