BY : MikoNoHoshi
Category: Weiß Kreuz > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 4283
Disclaimer: I get no money from writing these fics, nor I don't own Weiss. In fact, I'm not even allowed to touch the pretty least not in any of their special places...

Chapter Ten: Drown Me

The door closed quietly behind him, and Aya waited for the unfriendly click of a lock. There was none, a sliver of room left between the door and the frame to remind him that it could easily be opened. And the lock was on the inside.

Carefully, with attention not to stir the casual arrangement of bottles and brushes there, he set the loose bundle of clothes along with his towel on the vanity and found himself unexpectedly reflected in a large mirror.

He stood, for the first time in what seemed forever, in a room that was strikingly normal, a quality his life with Crawford had been purposefully deprived of. But here were things—oddly familiar, like relics from a country visited in childhood—that exuded common, daily life. The man, his owner, was obviously not normal. He was a killer. But here three toothbrushes in a plastic holder specked with toothpaste, a wrinkled hand towel with a floral pattern, and a green bath mat beneath his hare feet—so normal.

And the mirror. In anything was out of place, it was the man reflected there.

He hadn’t seen it before, not beyond a passing glance in some reflective surface. It was a thin, ragged version of himself that wore the thick, black collar with its silver ring. The skin he ran his fingers across was too pale, worse than before, making the circles beneath his eyes stark in their darkness. The eyes themselves, a feature he had once taken stupid pride in, were changed, darkened, though made more prominent by his cheekbones (these made strikingly visible by his thinness) they weren’t as bright. The hair, too—it was longer than before around his face, the long tails of red sweeping well past his chin in sharp comparison to the back. He had cut that with Farfarello’s knife when he had been left too long when assumed unconscious after the pale man had used the long tail to bang Aya’s head into the stone wall. It was chopped, uneven; all of it was dull, like his eyes, suffering from lack of care and more basic deprivation of nutrition. Aya thought he was lucky it hadn’t fallen out.

A sardonic smile pulled at his lips.


That was a fucking joke,

He shoved away from the sink. Quickly he made use of the toilet, intensely grateful for his temporary solitude. He flushed and rinsed his hands before turning on the water in the tub, testing it with his fingers before switching on the shower.

The collar he fingered for a moment; it would be heavy after being wet, but if Schuldig came . . . no, such trivial discomforts were not worth the risk.

Behind the sliding door of frosted glass, Aya momentarily found heaven. There was no sound except the water on ceramic, no touch save for its warm spill over his skin. There were no hands, no hurts, no anything except the comfortable deprivation of the shower.

His brain tried to calculate how long it had been since he had cleaned himself without his captors’ help or, on more than one occasion, leering attention, but he didn’t know exactly. Months, certainly, had passed, probably not more than a year. What month was it now? What day? Perhaps his owner would let him see a calendar—

He cut off the foolish thought quickly, shoving his soaked bangs from his eyes. He mustn’t make assumptions. Initial kindnesses were no guarantees of later allowances and could very well be some kind of test of his loyalty and submission. He couldn’t afford a misstep like this morning, being caught without his collar, stumbling over his words. Aya couldn’t afford to be so stupid. The man, Yohji, had proven himself very capable of violent retribution, a skill which Aya had no doubt would later be scored into his skin.

He shuddered at the thought of sharp circles of wire tightening around his body.

No matter. He would work hard to please his owner, not for his own bodily sake (that hardly mattered now) but for hers. Schuldig had threatened to watch, to check, and to report; he would not find dissatisfaction in Aya’s owner’s mind.

Resolved, Aya set his sore muscles to their task. Carefully picking at the tape, he removed the gauze and slowly unwrapped the wet bandages from his chest and thighs, sliding open the shower door to drop them outside in a damp pile of white. Closing it again, he lifted the washcloth his owner had provided and started to clean himself thoroughly. The textured cloth swiped across his face, down his neck, then returned to get behind his ears. Weary of touching unauthorized items like soap or shampoo, he scrubbed roughly at his hair with just the cloth. Likewise, with just water he moved to his body, over his shoulders and down his arms then across his chest, ignoring the tinge of pain the harsh moves evoked from his nipples which were still sore from Crawford’s harsh play several days before. Avoiding his back, Aya worked down his legs and back up before carefully cleaning his more tender areas. These stung, but it was worth the discomfort to remove at least a little of the dirt.

Realizing that his methodic cleaning had taken undue time, Aya reluctantly shut off the water and climbed out, feeling better than he had in a long time and simultaneously imagining the punishments that would follow upon such a condition. Surely his owner would not let such self-indulgence continue.

He used the edge of the towel to clean his teeth as best he could, refusing the miss Schuldig’s brushings during which he was leashed to a chair while the redhead carried out the process like Aya was a rather pampered pet. He would soon find out how such necessities were handled here, but Aya could make do for the time being. Dressing with care, he cast a last, nervous glance at the mirror to adjust the wet collar around his neck.


After a cigarette and a quick shower, Yohji dressed in the steam-filled bathroom and rushed through the basic requirement of making himself presentable to the world. Somewhere between mouthwash and leave-in conditioner, it occurred to him that his guest might use such an extended absence to stage an escape. While part of his mind insisted that this would be an easy out, the vast majority demanded he hurry the fuck up and make sure the boy was still there.

His fears were unfounded.

Trying not to be obvious in his rush, Yohji lingered in his own doorway for a second, unnecessarily adjusting the low waistband of his jeans and pushing his sunglasses onto his forehead to better observe the other.

He looked better, or at least a little calmer. Damp red hair, obviously brushed with fingers alone, hung around his face which was (until he noticed Yohji looking) lifted to stare out the window. His features were quickly hidden away as he bowed his head towards the floor. This brought Yohji’s eyes to the boy’s frame, amazingly little to wear his own jeans (a bit loose around his hips and turned up once at the ankles) and for that t-shirt (the blue, long-sleeved one that hugged the blonde’s chest so nicely) to hang a little on his shoulders and over his ribs which, Yohji knew, might be felt through the material.

The leather collar hovered above shirt’s rounded neckline line some heavy accessory.

It was the only heavy thing about him. The boy was a fascinatingly exotic creature, made more fey-like by his slightness, though Yohji had no delusions that it was a purposeful cultivation. He might be naturally thin, but the kid had been deprived. Even now, he had deposited himself on the floor, shunning not only the two comfortable chairs but even the rug, to kneel on the hardwood floor with his bare feet and trim legs tucked under him.

Nicotine craving met, Yohji found himself ready for an upcoming trial, but he wasn’t quite ready to take on the tangled mess of issues before him. Collar, floor, or no name besides princess—he chose the latter. Once more, he dropped onto the floor in an attempt to achieve at least minimal eye contact (marking it as another antisocial behavior he’s try to work on if Omi let him keep the boy, of course).

“Yo,” he scooted in towards the boy’s side. “Good shower?”

“Yes. Thank you, Master.”

Again, Yohji felt the slight hesitation over the appellation, but the quiet appreciation seemed genuine.

“Yohji,” he corrected only the name. “Listen. We gotta go downstairs and see the guys.”

Tension flooded into the boy’s body; his hands, previously resting on his thighs, fisted there. Yohji could only guess what he was thinking, his latest social introduction having been via Kaimo who had nearly raped him as Yohji watched.

“Hey, look here.” Nothing. “Look at me, Princess.”

Aya did, and there was dread in the eyes, deep, but there.

“Not like that,” Yohji tried to smile but got nothing in return. “They’re not gonna do anything to you. They might hang me, but you’re safe here. Understand?”

It was like dealing with an abused puppy, and Yohji prayed that once he got that collar off, he would stop having such an urge to reach out and pet the boy in comfort.

Yohji sighed, “I don’t think introducing you as ‘Princess,’” or, his mind supplied silently, my pretty little love slave, “will help this go any smoother. Agree?”

Another small nod.

“What do you want to be called?”


Yohji held up a hand and the boy stopped immediately, tensing more and jerking backwards almost imperceptibly. Quickly, Yohji put the hand away and smiled in what he hoped was a soothing manner. Taking a breath, he tried a different tactic.

“Tell me your name,” he stated directly.


Okay, so he felt like a heel for utilizing the boy’s, uh, Aya’s slave training, but for the moment it was the only thing working to his advantage.

“Good. Thank you, Aya.”


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